Dan Seller lounged in the big chair and listened as Police Inspector Phil Brame recounted the circumstances of the crime for the edification of the small group of cronies who frequented the choice corner of the club.

�Just a plain case of murder,� Inspector Brame was saying, �and a bit of strawberry jam is going to send the guy to the chair.

�I don�t think Dan Higgins intended to commit murder when he broke into the place. Mrs Morelay, paralyzed from the hips down, was in the living room, seated in her wheelchair, going over a bunch of account books. Higgins broke in to get some food. Mrs Morelay heard him moving around in the kitchen. There was a telephone attached to her wheelchair. She called police headquarters and reported someone in her kitchen, stealing food.

�Higgins heard her telephoning. It sent him into a furious rage. The man was a hungry. He dashed into the room and split the woman�s head open with a hatchet he had picked up in the kitchen. Then he helped himself to food. He spread some homemade strawberry jam on a slice of bread and ate it. He spilled some jam on his necktie without knowing it. He had gone less than a block from the place when the police radio car came along.

�Higgins looked like just the type who would be stealing food � a half-starved chap with clothes that were pretty much the worse for wear. Our men stopped and picked him up on suspicion and then went to the house and found that murder had been committed. Higgins denied he�d been near the house, and he�d evidently learned his lesson about fingerprints, because there were no fingerprints on any of the stuff in the kitchen. The police found a pair of dirty gloves in his pocket. Evidently he�d worn those while he was eating. But there was strawberry jam on his tie. The jam was analyzed. The amount of sugar it contained was carefully noted by the police-chemists, and then an analysis was made of the strawberry jam in the jar in the sink. The jam on the tie Higgins was wearing at the time of his arrest came from that jar of homemade jam.�

�Wasn�t there someone who saw him leaving the house?� Renfroe, the banker, asked.

�Yes,� Brame said. �Walter Stagg, the man who acts as manager for Mrs Morelay, drove up to the house in his automobile. He arrived there almost at the same time that the police did. He was just coming up the cement walk when the police car rounded the corner. He said that he had seen Higgins coming around the back of the house, as though he had either slipped out of a window, or had been snooping around the house. Stagg said he intended to unlock the front door � which was always kept on a night latch � and see if anything was wrong. If anything was missing, he was determined to jump into his car and follow the man until he could notify a policeman. Stagg was unarmed so he didn�t want to encounter an armed crook unless he had an officer handy.�

Bill Pope, the explorer, stared steadily at the curling smoke of a cigarette.

�It seems strange,� he said, �that a man would have gone ahead and eaten heartily after having committed a murder, particularly the murder of a helpless old woman who had done nothing to injure him.�

�She telephoned for the police,� Inspector Brame said. �Don�t forget that.�

�But,� Dan Seller pointed out, �if that was the motive for the crime and the man knew she had telephoned for the police, he�d have been doubly foolish to have murdered her and then gone on eating, knowing that the police were on their way in a radio car.�

Inspector Brame�s face flushed.

�More of your amateur detective stuff,� he said. �It�s an easy thing for you wealthy young coupon-clippers to construct theories proving that the police are always wrong. Doubtless, an attorney for the defence will try to bamboozle a jury into believing the police got the wrong man. But he won�t be able to � not with that strawberry jam on the man�s necktie.�

�Was there,� asked Bill Pope, �robbery as well?�

�Apparently not. Higgins had nothing in his possession when he was arrested. He might have taken something from the body and buried it somewhere in the vicinity. She was supposed to have a large sum of cash money which she always kept on hand, but there wasn�t any money found on her body.

�Higgins was wise. He didn�t leave a single fingerprint. We fingerprinted everything about the body, and didn�t find a thing. The books that were open in front of her didn�t have a single fingerprint on the page other than the prints of Walter Stagg, the manager, who kept all the books and submitted them to Mrs Morelay for examination.�

�Perhaps a draught of wind might have blown one of the pages,� Dan Seller said. �Did your men take prints on the other pages to see if that had happened?�

�As it happens, my bright young man,� the inspector said, �we did that very thing, although we didn�t need to, because when the woman�s skull was split open, blood spattered upon the pages of the open account book, and we had no difficulty in telling what page was in front of her at the time.�

�Very clever detective work, inspector,� Renfroe, the banker, said. �Undoubtedly the man will go to the chair on the strength of that strawberry jam.�

�Mrs Morelay was wealthy?�

�Quite wealthy. She leaves no will. The property goes to a niece, Tess Copley. She�s the only surviving relative.�

�Live here in the city?� Renfroe asked.

�Yes.�

�They found the weapon with which the crime was committed?� Bill Pope inquired.

�Oh, yes, of course. It was there in the room. There could be no question about it. A blood-stained hatchet that had been taken from the kitchen.�

Bill Pope�s clear eyes surveyed Inspector Brame.

�You should feel pretty happy, inspector,� he said, �but you seem to be down in the dumps.�

Inspector Brame sighed.

�It�s that damned Patent Leather Kid,� he said.

�What about him?� asked the explorer.

�He�s been meddling again. The man is a crook, a gangster, a public enemy. And yet, he appeals to the public. He tries to pull some of this Robin Hood stuff, and the people fall for it. Slowly but surely he�s becoming a public hero, and he�s making the police appear ridiculous.�

�Why don�t you catch him,� asked the banker, �and put him away?�

�Have you,� asked Bill Pope, �got anything definite on him? His methods are irregular, perhaps illegal, but can you get him on any specific felony and make it stick?�

Inspector Brame�s voice was ominous.

�Listen,� he said, �when we get that guy, we�ll make something stick. Don�t worry about that. I wouldn�t want to be quoted publicly on the thing, you understand, but that fellow has been a thorn in the side of the Police Department long enough. It wouldn�t take very much framing to pin a good murder case on him.�

�Don�t you think framing him for murder is pretty steep?� the explorer asked.

�Well, perhaps not for murder,� Inspector Brame said. �I was speaking impulsively. But I can promise you this, that if we ever get our fingers on The Patent Leather Kid, he�ll go away for a long, long time.�

Dan Seller arose, yawned, and took a cigarette from a hammered silver case.

�Referring to that murder case once more, inspector,� he said, �didn�t Walter Stagg agree to notify Tess Copley, and fail to do so?�

�Notify her of what?� the police inspector asked.

�Of her aunt�s death.�

�He promised to go and get her, but he had some trouble starting his car. His battery was weak, and in the end the police telephoned and had a messenger sent to her. Tess Copley was working in a place where the girls weren�t allowed to receive telephone calls.�

�Then,� Dan Seller said, �her aunt didn�t part with any money while she was alive.�

�I�ll say she didn�t,� Inspector Brame said. �She was as tight as the bark on a tree � one of those misers who salted money away in gold coin. She�d been collecting gold for some time.�

�And hadn�t turned it in?�

�No.�

�What was the amount of the money?�

�I don�t know exactly. No one does. She had been collecting it for years.�

Dan Seller lit his cigarette, nodded casually to the small group. �Well,� he said, �I�ll be seeing you later.�

Bill Pope, the explorer, followed Dan Seller with quizzical, speculative eyes, but said nothing.

The process by which Dan Seller, the wealthy club man, became The Patent Leather Kid, spectacular figure of the city�s underworld, was tedious and complicated. However, it left no back trail, and when The Patent Leather Kid entered the apartment hotel where he maintained a penthouse, he might as well have appeared from thin air for all the trail he had left.

The manager greeted The Kid with deference.

Gertie, the telephone operator, flashed him a glance from eyes that were starry, as she reached for the switchboard to notify Bill Brakey that The Kid was on his way up.

The Kid�s private elevator whisked him directly to the roof. Bill Brakey, ensconced behind bullet-proof doors, made certain that The Kid was alone, and that there was no trap laid by police or gangster enemies before he opened the door.

Bill Brakey�s face never showed the slightest nervousness. Only his hands and his eyes betrayed the everlasting watchfulness, the readiness to explode into instant action.

�You made a short trip this time, Kid,� he said.

�Yes,� The Kid told him. �Let�s go in where we can have a drink and talk. I�ve got something on my mind.�

The Kid dropped into a chair, stretched out his feet and sighed.

�Seems good to be back, Bill,� he said.

Bill Brakey brought out a bottle of Scotch, drew the cork and poured out whiskey and ginger ale.

�What�s on your mind, Kid?�

Brakey�s eyes were not fastened upon The Patent Leather Kid, but were slithering about in a nervous survey of the windows and doors. It made no difference that he knew no one could get through the roof without a warning coming over the telephone, without an automatic alarm shrilling a strident warning should the only elevator which communicated with the penthouse start on its way without The Kid�s key having first unlocked an electrical contact.

Bill Brakey�s watchfulness was purely mechanical, purely a matter of long habit.

�I�m interested,� The Patent Leather Kid said, �in the murder of Mrs Fannie Morelay.�

�Inside stuff is,� Brakey said, �that Higgins is going to the chair because he had some strawberry jam spilled on his necktie. He didn�t leave any fingerprints, but it looks as though it was a dead open and shut case.�

�Except for one thing,� The Patent Leather Kid said, slowly.

�What�s that?� asked the bodyguard.

�This fellow, Stagg.�

�You mean the manager?�

�Yes.�

�He�s okay,� Bill Brakey said. �The police looked him up just to make sure. He�s got the highest references. He�s been with Mrs Morelay for years. He handled all of her business affairs. You see, she couldn�t get around at all by herself, and she had quite a bunch of business interests. She was worth over a million dollars. Nobody knows just how much more.�

�Stagg was just coming up to the house when the police came. He�d just driven up in his car, and saw Dan Higgins moving about as though he�d been prowling around the house.�

Bill Brakey flashed The Kid a sharp glance.

�Even if he was lying about that,� he said, �the strawberry jam on Higgins� necktie is enough to send him to the chair. Higgins says he wasn�t near the house. The chemists can absolutely identify that jam. No two batches of homemade jam are made according to the same actual recipe. There are minor variations of sugar content, and that sort of stuff, and��

�That�s all right,� The Patent Leather Kid remarked, �but when Walter Stagg wanted to notify Tess Copley, the niece, of what had happened, his car didn�t start, the battery was weak.�

�Well,� said Brakey, �what about that?�

�If he had just driven up to the house,� The Kid said, �his car would have been warm. And, what�s more, the battery would have been freshly generated from a run. It would have turned over a warm motor. The fact that it didn�t turn over the motor indicates that the motor was cold. It�s more probable that Stagg had left the house and was running towards the car, trying to make a getaway, when he heard the police car coming, and, knowing that he couldn�t get away, turned and started back towards the house, pulling out his key to open the front door as he did so.�

There was an interval of silence. The Kid sipped his highball thoughtfully.

�Of course,� Brakey said, �that doesn�t prove anything. It�s a suspicious circumstance � that�s all.�

�That�s why I didn�t call it to the attention of the police,� The Kid said. �It�s something that we�ve got to run down.�

Bill Brakey nodded.

�When do you want to start, Kid?� he asked.

�Sometime tonight,� The Kid told him. Brakey�s poker face did not change.

�There�s a police guard at the place?�

�I presume so. I don�t know. I can find out.�

The Kid let smoke stream from his nostrils.

�Better slip out there this afternoon. Bill,� he said. �Look the ground over and make a report. I�ll get a little sleep and get caught up on some of my reading. As soon as you come back with the report, we�ll have dinner and then proceed to look the premises over.�

Bill Brakey nodded.

�I�ll have all the low-down on it,� he said.

�Another thing,� The Patent Leather Kid muttered, hesitatingly, �that doesn�t check, is the fingerprints on the book of accounts. They found the fingerprints of Walter Stagg on those books. No other print.�

�Higgins was wearing gloves,� Brakey said.

�I know,� The Kid said, �but if this woman had been checking over the books of account, it�s almost a cinch that her fingerprints would have been on the books somewhere.�

�That�s so,� Brakey agreed.

�Apparently they weren�t. Just Stagg�s prints.�

�What do you make of that, Kid?�

The Patent Leather Kid shrugged his shoulders so slightly that the action was all but imperceptible.

�That,� he said, �is something which remains to be determined.�

�They were the books she was working on, all right,� Brakey said, �because there were bloodstains on the leaves. They were the books she was working on when she was murdered, regardless of who did the murder.�

�Then why weren�t her fingerprints on the pages, Bill?� The Patent Leather Kid pointed out.

�Gosh, Kid, I don�t know,� Brakey confessed.

�That�s something we�re going to find out,� The Kid said. �There is a theory that might work out.�

�Okay, Kid. You win.�

The Patent Leather Kid adjusted the black patent leather mask which covered the upper half of his features. He worked his hands into soft, pliable leather gloves, nodded to Bill Brakey.

�Ready, Bill,� he said.

Bill Brakey jimmied the window.

The Patent Leather Kid was the first one through. He paused for a tense moment while he listened, then muttered to Bill Brakey: �Okay, Bill, let�s go.�

Brakey slid noiselessly after him.

The place was musty, with a peculiar suggestion of death.

The Kid produced a flashlight.

�This the window he came through, Bill?� he asked.

�This is it.�

�And the murder took place in this next room?�

�Yes. On the other side of that swinging door.�

The men moved upon silent feet. The Kid pushed open the swinging door and gazed upon the room in which the crime had been committed.

Inasmuch as Tess Copley, the sole beneficiary of the estate, did not care to occupy the house, the police had left the room just as it had been found when the crime was discovered. All that had been removed was the corpse of the victim. For the rest the furniture remained undisturbed. The shades were drawn so as to shut out any light, and The Patent Leather Kid let his flashlight flicker around the room, taking in the various details.

�There�s a guard in front, Bill?� he asked.

�Yes. A harness bull that was taken off his beat. He doesn�t take it very seriously. He�s probably dozing off right now. For some reason, the district attorney wants to keep the room just as it was so that he can show it to the jury. In order to do that, he�ll have it appear that the place was guarded by an officer who will testify he was there to see nothing was disturbed.�

The flashlight centred upon a lacquered box.

�What�s the box, Bill?�

�That�s a lock-box they found in the room. There was nothing in it. There was a file of papers by the side of it that probably were taken from the box.�

The Kid knelt by the box. It was unlocked. He lifted back the lid and stared at the interior.

�Notice the way the enamel is chipped on the inside, Bill,� he said. �That wouldn�t have been done by papers.�

He pulled the lid of the box back and looked at the metal handle.

�Notice the bulge in the top of the box,� he said. �It looks as though it had been filled with something very heavy and lifted repeatedly.�

�Gold?� asked Bill Brakey.

�Looks like it.�

�Where was the manager�s office, Bill?� asked The Kid. �Did he have one here in the building?�

�Yes, he had one way in the front.�

�Let�s take a look.�

They traversed a corridor, went through a bedroom, and came to another room in the front of the house, which had evidently been designed as a bedroom, but which had been used as an office.

�Take it easy,� whispered Bill Brakey. �The cops are right outside there on the walk.�

�The curtains aren�t down here,� The Kid observed, in a whisper. �Why would they have the shades drawn in the rest of the house and not have them drawn here?�

�Looks as though the manager had been working here,� Brakey said.

�You�ve got a plan of Stagg�s house?�

�It ain�t a house. It�s a flat.�

�Has he got the lower or upper flat?� The Kid asked.

�Upper. It�s a three-story flat. He�s on the top floor.�

�An attic above him?�

�Probably. I haven�t been in the place. I was waiting for you.�

�Okay,� The Kid said, �I�ve seen enough here. Let�s go take a look at this man Stagg. I�d like to talk with him.�

�You�re the boss,� Bill Brakey said.

The men left the place as silently as they had entered it. They slipped through the window, oozed through the darkness to the alley, followed the alley to a side street, and there picked up their car.

They listened to the mumbling noise of the conversation, conversation which became audible as the door opened. At the slightest break in the rhythmic flow of that conversation, The Kid would have flung the door open and crouched. Bill Brakey, a gun in either hand, would have stood in the doorway, commanding the situation.

But there was no break. The door was in a dark corner of the room; the illumination came from floor lamps. The men who occupied the room were far too engrossed in what they were saying to pay attention to the shadows of the room.

�...kidnapping is a serious business,� said the deep, booming voice of Pug Morrison. �I don�t go in for it.�

�You go in for making money, don�t you?� asked the higher-pitched, nervous voice of Walter Stagg.

�Sure I do, but I don�t go in for death penalties and life sentences.�

�Oh, bosh and nonsense,� Stagg said. �You go in for murder.�

�Who says so?� asked Morrison, with sudden menace in his voice.

�Don�t take offence,� Stagg said, �I�m telling you what everyone says. I�m not talking about any specific killing. I�m talking about the reputation you�ve got. Remember, I�m not trying to frame you with anything. I�m in this thing just as deep as you are.�

Pug Morrison laughed.

�The idea,� he said, �of a guy like you trying to frame me! I could tell you what�s on your mind right now. You�ve been manager for Mrs Morelay. She was murdered. It looks like a dead open and shut case against this guy Higgins, but I�m not so certain that you ain�t mixed up in it now. You�ve been handling all the gravy for the old woman and, now that she�s croaked there�s going to be an administrator appointed and you�ve got to make accounting. There�s probably a will some place that you�re holding out. It provides that the niece takes all the property, unless she should die first; and then it all goes to you. Something like that. Therefore, you want us to snatch the kid and bump her off. You�ll come into the big coin. You�d better get your cards on the table, buddy. If you�re playing around with the big coin, we want to know it. You can�t hold out on us anyway. We�d keep coming back and shaking you down from time to time until we got a fair split, so you�d better give us a break.�

Stagg�s voice lost much of its assurance, but maintained its nervous, almost hysterical, rapidity of articulation.

�Now, look here,� he said, �you know as well as I do, that if it�s just a matter of getting somebody bumped off, I can find lots of people who are willing to do it for a thousand dollars.�

Pug Morrison laughed, a laugh that contained no mirth, but plenty of scorn.

�Sucker,� he said. �You�d pay a grand to have a bump-off and you�d get bled white for the rest of your life. You deal with me and you�re going to pay and you�re going to pay plenty. But if you�re on the square, you�re going to pay once and that�s going to be all. You know that, and you know I can�t afford to get mixed into this thing any more than you can, so you figure we�re going to shoot square with each other. Now, go ahead and give me the lowdown.�

�Well,� Stagg said, �there was some cash in the estate. Not liquid cash, you understand, but cash in the bank. It�s stuff that I can�t touch without a court order, see?�

�No, I don�t see,� Pug told him. �Cash in the bank doesn�t mean anything to me. It�s cash in my right fist that talks music.�

�That�s just the point,� Stagg went on hurriedly. �I�ve got that kind of cash, too.�

�Oh, you have, have you?�

�That is, I know where I can put my hand on it.�

�Go ahead,� the gangster said, �and get to the point.�

�I figured that you could snatch this girl and make a demand on the estate for seventy thousand dollars� ransom.�

Morrison�s tone showed sudden interest.

�Why seventy grand?� he asked.

�Because,� Stagg told him, �that�s the amount I could raise, and that�s about the amount on deposit in the bank.�

�Go ahead,� Morrison said, with a voice that had lost much of its mocking scorn, and was almost respectful.

�The snatching job,� Stagg said, �wouldn�t look like it was done by any professional gang, but it would look like it was done by a bunch of amateurs. You�d make it look that way in your ransom notes.�

�That�s old stuff,� Pug Morrison said. �That doesn�t fool anybody. All regular snatchers try to make their stuff look like the work of cranks and amateurs.�

�But, this would be different,� Stagg went on. �You�d be snatching a woman that you couldn�t get any money out of. In other words, you�d make a demand for seventy thousand dollars, the amount of money that Fannie Morelay left in the bank. Then, no matter how badly any executor of the estate wanted to pay it, he couldn�t pay it under the law. The girl would have the money coming to her, but only after the estate had gone through probate. So you�d really have snatched a girl who didn�t have any money or any opportunity of getting any immediate cash. There wouldn�t he any relative who could pay. The newspapers would play it up big. It would be the work of blundering amateurs.�

�Go ahead,� Morrison said. �Maybe you�ve got something in your bean after all.�

�Then, of course, having snatched the girl and not being able to get any money, you�d murder her. That would account for a motive. If I had the girl killed without having some other motive for the murder, someone might start suspecting me. It would look as though I might be in a position to profit by the killing.�

�I see,� Morrison said, musingly.

�Now, you get your letters ready. You take the girl. You get seventy thousand dollars, and you kill the girl.�

�Listen,� Morrison said, thoughtfully, �how do we know we ain�t going to double-cross one another?�

�You can�t double-cross me,� Stagg said, �because I�ve thought it all out in advance. I�m not going to double-cross you, but I�m going to show you how you can keep me from giving you anything that looks like a double-cross.�

�Go ahead,� Morrison said, �show me. I�m listening.�

�You take the girl,� Stagg said. �And when you take the girl, you take seventy thousand dollars at the same time. And at the same time you take the money, you deliver the letters demanding payment of a ransom.�

�You mean we get the cash at the same time we make the snatch?� asked the gangster.

�That�s right.�

�Well,� Morrison said, slowly, �that�s jake with me, but how about you. You said you�d done some figuring on your own account. Let�s have it.�

�I�m figuring this way,� Stagg said. �It�s got to be a genuine snatch. Therefore, as soon as you make the demand, you�re in the kidnapping racket. You don�t dare to turn the girl loose then because she could identify your men and you�d be on the dodge. You�ve got to kill her once she finds out what she�s up against.�

�How are we going to work this?� Morrison asked.

�I�m going to tell you where you can contact with the girl. She�s going to hire a detective.�

�The hell she is!� Morrison exclaimed.

�Yes, she�s going to go to the Victoria Hotel and register as Ethel Mason. She has an appointment for a detective to meet her there at eleven thirty tonight.�

�So what?� asked Morrison.

�So,� Stagg said, �you go there about an hour earlier � about ten thirty. The girl will be there. You tell her that you�re the detective, that you got rid of the case you were working on earlier than you had expected. And that you�re there to talk with her. She�s going to tell you some stuff about the killing of her aunt. She�s a little bit suspicious about it. You tell her you want to see the premises. You get her in your car and drive her out to the Morelay house. But don�t stop. Tell her you�re going on past. There�s a drug store about two blocks down the street. Tell her you�ve seen as much of the house as you want from the outside. Stop in front of the drug store and tell her that you want to see specimens of her aunt�s signature; that it�s important that you see them; that you would like to see some cancelled cheques.�

�Go on,� Morrison said.

�The only way she can get those is by telephoning me,� Stagg said. �She�ll telephone me and ask me to send her some cheques and documents that are specimens of her aunt�s signature. She�ll make some sort of an excuse. I�ll put seventy thousand dollars in currency in a black bag and send it by a messenger the girl knows. I�ll try and use a girl friend of hers. You take the bag, open it, look in it, find that there�s seventy thousand bucks there, and then give the messenger a note to open after she�s gone five blocks from the place. That note will be a demand for ransom.

�You get out of the car when you accept the bag, and you have a mask on your face. Do you get the sketch? If you aren�t wearing the mask, you don�t get the bag with the seventy grand. If you are wearing the mask and make the demand for ransom, you get the bag.

�The newspapers make a big hullabaloo about it, and then some wise guy finds out that the money couldn�t be paid, no matter how badly Tess Copley might want it paid. The snatching is branded as the work of amateurs. The newspapers give you the horse-laugh. You retaliate by bumping the kid off and dumping the body by the side of the road somewhere. That�s all there is to it.�

There was a moment of silence.

Pug Morrison�s voice was low and thoughtful.

�Buddy,� he said, �you�ve got a brain on your shoulders. We need you in our gang. You�ve got something that we need.�

�You can�t get it,� Stagg rasped. �I�m a business man. I�ve got affairs of my own to consider.�

The gangster�s voice was once more filled with respect.

�You made out a fake set of books,� he said. �You�d been waiting for an opportunity to substitute them. You heard the old woman telephoning for the cops when the guy got in the kitchen. You recognised that as your opportunity. You waited until the bird sneaked out of the window, and then you stuck the fake books in front of the woman, slammed the hatchet in her head, ducked out, and tried to make a getaway. But the cops came around the corner just as you were getting to your machine. So you pretended you were getting out of your automobile instead of getting in, and started up to the house as though nothing had happened.�

�Suppose I did,� said Stagg, �what of it?�

�Nothing,� said Morrison, �except that you used your noodle to make maybe a couple of million dollars for yourself, to say nothing of covering up any little shortages that might exist in your affairs.�

�What makes you think there are shortages?� asked Stagg.

Pug Morrison�s laugh was ironical.

�Seventy thousand bucks,� he said, slowly, �seventy thousand bucks that you can �put your hands on�. And don�t bother about all that elaborate program, because you ain�t going to cross me � not with a murder rap I can pin on you.

�You just send out the jane with the bag. Have seventy grand in the bag unless you want to go to the chair. We�ll make the snatch. You kick through with your end.�

The Patent Leather Kid turned to Bill Brakey, and nodded his head.

Brakey turned and tiptoed across the floor of the bathroom. The Patent Leather Kid was at his heels. As noiselessly as two shadows, they slipped to the back of the house, found a back door, opened it and flitted like silent shadows downstairs to a back yard which opened on an alley.

Pug Morrison was driving away as the pair reached the cross street.

�What a sweet little playmate that guy is!� Bill Brakey said.

�Playmate is right,� The Patent Leather Kid told him, �because we�re going to play with him.�

Pug Morrison was too smart to make the contact himself. The Patent Leather Kid, lounging in the lobby of the Victoria Hotel, had left word with the telephone operator that he was to be signalled when a call was put through to the room of �Ethel Mason�. The flash of a detective�s badge and a five-dollar tip had been all that was necessary to secure her cooperation.

When The Kid got the signal, he carefully studied the man who was at the telephone desk over which appeared the sign, �TELEPHONES TO GUESTS� ROOMS�.

The man was very smooth-shaven. His hands were well manicured. His clothes bore the stamp of expensive workmanship. His shoes fitted like gloves. There was an assurance about the manner in which he held his head, a quick restlessness about his hands that was reminiscent of Bill Brakey�s long, tapering hands.

The man hung up the telephone, moved with quick, nervous steps to the elevator, and was whisked up.

The Patent Leather Kid smoked in contemplative silence.

Twenty minutes elapsed before the man returned. This time there was a young woman at his side. She was wrapped in a heavy cloth coat with a wide fur collar. She wore a light-fitting black hat trimmed with white. Her eyes were large and black. Her lips had been carefully applied so that they were quite crimson. The Kid could not see too much of her figure because of the heavy coat, but he gathered that she was slim-waisted, and she carried her head with a little tilt to one side which indicated something of the vibrant individuality which seemed to radiate from her.

The Kid got to his feet, stretched, yawned, tossed away the end of his cigarette and nodded to Bill Brakey, who was standing near the door.

The man and the young woman left the hotel, went directly to a shining closed car which was drawn up in front of the kerb. Bill Brakey, getting The Kid�s signal, had placed himself in a position of vantage, where he could see the interior of the car. The Kid, standing in the doorway of the hotel, stretched and yawned, as though debating just how to spend the evening.

There was a moment while introductions were performed, and The Kid knew from the introductions that there was only one other man in the car. That man, of course, would be Pug Morrison himself. Morrison wouldn�t make a contact in a public hotel with a young woman who was subsequently to be murdered. On the other hand, he would not delegate the receipt of seventy thousand dollars in cash money to any of his subordinates.

The young woman entered the car. The door slammed. The car purred away, Tess Copley occupying the front seat with the driver, who, The Kid surmised, would be Pug Morrison. The contact man occupied the rear of the car.

The car purred into smooth motion and rounded the corner. The Patent Leather Kid nodded to Bill Brakey. Bill Brakey moved over to the place where The Kid�s high-powered machine was parked against the kerb. He slid in behind the wheel and had the motor started by the time The Kid jumped into the seat and said, �Step on it, Bill. I think they�re going to the Morelay house, but there�s no use taking chances. We�ll keep them in sight until we make sure that�s the way they�re heading.�

They swung around the corner. Bill Brakey snapped the car into high gear. They accelerated into swift speed, and within three blocks picked up the tail light of the big sedan.

�Okay,� The Kid said. �Let�s drop behind now.�

They followed for four blocks, and then The Kid nodded.

�They�re headed for the Morelay place. We can cut through on the side streets and get there a little before they do.�

The Kid sat back against the cushions while Bill Brakey piloted the car with deft skill. They passed the location of the grim tragedy where Mrs Morelay had been done to death, swung up a side street, and parked the car.

The Patent Leather Kid got out.

�Let�s look it over, Bill,� he said.

They moved as silently as shadows down the side street to the corner, waited until they heard the sound of a car, them peered out at the headlights that showed first as two gleaming eyes of white fire, then purred past, giving them a glimpse of the big sedan as it slid smoothly to a halt, exactly as Walter Stagg had planned.

The big sedan waited, the motor running. After a few minutes, the motor was shut off. A woman crossed to the drug store and returned.

The Kid nodded to Bill Brakey.

�Looks,� he said, �as though it�s going through according to schedule.�

A man emerged from the car as automobile headlights came in sight down the street. The man paused to adjust a mask about the upper part of his face. From the interior of the big sedan came the sound of a woman�s scream, a scream that was promptly suppressed.

The masked man moved to the rear of the car, flung a cloth over the rear licence plate. The man in the driver�s neat started the car. The purring sound of the running motor was audible to the waiting pair.

�Better start our car, Bill,� The Patent Leather Kid said.

Bill Brakey started the powerful motor, settled down behind the steering wheel, opened the door opposite him so that The Kid could jump in without the loss of a moment.

The headlights of the other car showed more plainly, then a taxicab rattled past. A girl sat in the rear of the cab. The cab slid to a stop by the side of the big sedan. The cab driver picked up a small suitcase from the floorboards, started to step from the cab. The young woman was fumbling with the door catch.

The masked man stepped forward, so that the headlights of the taxicab showed not only his mask, but the blued-steel of the automatic which he held in his right hand. There was the sound of a scream from the girl. The taxicab driver slowly elevated his hands. The bag dropped to the street. The masked man shoved an envelope in through the partially opened window of the taxicab, motioned with his gun. The cab driver slid back to his place behind the wheel. The cab rattled into slow motion. The masked figure raised his gun and fired twice, deliberately shooting out both front and rear tyre on the right hand side. Then he scooped up the bag, turned and ran to the sedan. The sedan almost instantly glided into swift motion.

The Patent Leather Kid raised his arm in a beckoning gesture and gave a shrill whistle. Instantly, Bill Brakey shot the powerful car into motion. It slid to a stop beside The Kid. The Kid climbed the running board on the side near the wheel.

�It�s going to be a gun fight, Bill,� he said. �I�ll take the wheel.�

Bill Brakey slid over to the other seat and snapped the door closed. The Patent Leather Kid adjusted himself behind the wheel. His patent leather shoe pressed down on the throttle. The car shot ahead.

As The Kid sent the car into a turn at the corner, he snapped the band of the black patent leather mask about his forehead, adjusted the mask so that his eyes fitted the eye-holes. The car was continually accelerating its speed.

They passed the crippled taxicab and, as they passed, The Kid snapped the gearshift into the overdrive. His car swept ahead with the grace of a seagull swooping down to skim the surface of ocean waves. The big sedan rounded a corner. The Kid swung wide, skidded his car into a turn, stepped on the throttle.

�They know we�re on their tail, Bill,� he said. �They�re going to run for it.�

The sedan swung wide, swayed far over on two wheels as it took a corner. The Kid, grinning, swung his car at the same corner, keeping all four screaming wheels on the pavement. Bill Brakey slipped a heavy calibre gun from its shoulder holster, nestled it in his right hand.

�Don�t shoot until they do,� The Kid told him, shifting gears us he spoke.

The cars roared down a paved side street devoid of traffic, travelling at a mad pace. The Kid�s car gained.

The driver of the sedan tried one more turn, not realising that The Kid�s low-hung car was far less top-heavy. The driver lost control of the sedan. It ran on two wheels, came back to four wheels with a terrific jolt which swayed the big body on its springs.

A hand knocked out the rear window. A gun spatted viciously. A bullet struck the side of the windshield support on The Kid�s car and ricocheted off into the night.

�Try for the driver, Bill,� said The Patent Leather Kid calmly, and swung his car wide so that Bill Brakey would have a clear shot around the side of the windshield.

Brakey�s gun crashed twice. The dark hulk of the driver�s body jerked and swayed. The big sedan screamed into a skid, whipped entirely around, crashed against a kerb, hung balanced for a moment, and then toppled to its side with a roar of breaking glass and the sound of grinding steel.

Bill Brakey flung open the door of the car, jumped to the ground. The Patent Leather Kid was out from behind the wheel and on the ground ahead of him. Together, they raced towards the big sedan.

�Look out!� yelled The Kid suddenly. �They�ve got a cover-car!�

Headlights came into view as a car skidded around the corner.

�Quick!� shouted The Patent Leather Kid. �I�ll get the girl and the bag. You hold the car.�

Bill Brakey dropped behind a fire hydrant. His gun crashed once. The headlights of the approaching car wobbled. The car screamed as the driver applied brakes and skidded in close to the kerb. Little flashes of gunfire spurted into the night. The Patent Leather Kid tugged at the jammed door of the sedan, finally wrenched it open.

A young woman stared at him from wide black eyes. As she caught sight of the black mask which covered the upper half of The Patent Leather Kid�s face, she screamed.

�It�s all right, Miss Copley,� The Kid said. �I came to get you.�

He leaned forward and pulled her through the doorway.

Pug Morrison was lying unconscious, his head badly gashed. The man who had been in the rear seat was making futile motions, clawing with his fingers at the upholstery on the back of the seat.

�Your friends will be here in a minute, buddy,� The Kid said. �In the meantime, fork over that bag. Walter Stagg said we�d find seventy grand in it.�

He caught sight of the bag, lurched towards it, and then grinned at the girl.

�We�ve got to make a run for it,� he said. �There�s a battle going on.�

The street echoed and re-echoed to the sound of shots. Men had jumped out of the cover-car, taken refuge behind such protection as they could find and were directing a cross-fire at Bill Brakey.

The Kid sprinted to the car. Someone shot at the pair, but the bullets were wide of the mark. The Kid flung the girl into the seat.

�Bend over low,� he said.

He jumped in behind the wheel and tooted the horn, signal to Bill Brakey.

Bill Brakey suddenly stood erect. His guns roared in a pealing crescendo of rapid fire, a fire of such scathing accuracy that it drove his enemies to cover, and in the moment when they were ducking to cover, Bill Brakey sprinted for the car.

The Kid had it in second gear. The car gave a terrific lurch and then snarled into speed.

Behind them came a burst of fire. The bullet-proof body in the rear of the car deflected half a dozen bullets that thudded into the steel.

�They�ll try the gasoline tank and the tyres,� Bill Brakey said, slipping a fresh clip of cartridges into his gun. �I�ll give them something to keep their minds occupied.�

He fired four or five well-directed shots, then slid in beside the girl.

�Here they come,� he said.

�We�ll make a run for it,� The Kid told him. The car by this time was in high gear. The Kid waited until it was going fifty-five miles an hour before he flung in the overdrive. The car swept into instant response, screaming down the pavement at better than sixty miles an hour, a sixty which soon became seventy, eighty-five. The speedometer needle quivered around ninety miles an hour.

A car came out of a side street.

There was a moment of tense silence, but The Kid swung his car in a deft skidding turn, so that he swept past the obstructing car, the driver of which had lost his head and left the car in such a position that it blocked the intersection.

The pursuing car tried a similar swerving turn. The driver was not skilled enough. The car went out of control, swung completely around in a circle, and then crashed into an ornamental lamp post.

�Okay, Kid,� said Bill Brakey, �slow down and let�s introduce ourselves to Miss Copley.�

Walter Stagg was nervously pacing the floor, cracking the knuckles of his right hand against the extended palm of his left hand. From time to time he glanced nervously at the clock on the wall.

The doorbell rang. Stagg did not wait to work the electric buzzer, but dashed madly down the stairs to open the door.

A white-faced young woman staggered in through the opening and handed him an envelope.

�Tess!� she screamed. �She�s been kidnapped!�

Walter Stagg ripped open the envelope with trembling fingers and stared at the demand for ransom.

�What happened?� he asked. �Tell me about it.�

�I took the papers out in a cab,� the young woman said. �A man was waiting. He had a mask. He drew a gun on us and took the papers. Then he gave us this demand and told us we�d never see Tess alive again unless we did just as we were instructed.�

Walter Stagg heaved a great sigh of relief. �Take this to the police at once,� he said.

�But they were going to kill her if we went to the police.�

�Don�t be a fool!� he said. �We�ve got no money. The money is all tied up in the estate. We couldn�t pay any ransom. We�ve got to go to the police. Did you get a description of the man?�

�He was masked,� she said. �He was a big man with a black suit � I saw that much.�

�Take this letter,� Walter Stagg said, �and go to the police.�

She hesitated a moment, looking at him in white-faced anguish.

�Tess was with them,� she said, �in the car � and��

�Go to the police,� Walter Stagg told her, �otherwise you�ll be compounding a felony. It�s up to the police to handle the case. We can give publicity to it. The newspaper can feature the fact that none of the money can be paid out except on an order of the court, and a court can�t order moneys paid from an estate.�

The girl took the envelope, turned and ran to a taxicab which was waiting with the motor running. Walter Stagg stood in the doorway for a moment, watching her, then slammed and bolted the door. He walked back up two flights of stairs, and a smile of serene satisfaction twisted his lips.

He entered the living room on the front of the flat, turned and locked the door behind him, then suddenly gave a convulsive start.

A man was stooping over the wall safe, and, as Stagg looked, the lock clicked and the man pulled the door of the safe open.

Walter Stagg�s hand shot to his hip. The gun at which he tugged caught for a moment in the lining of his hip pocket. Then, as he freed it, he became conscious of another figure which was seated comfortably in one of the overstuffed chairs, holding a blued-steel gun levelled steadily at him.

�Better drop it,� said the voice of Bill Brakey.

Hobart Sickler grinned broadly at his wife. But Helene Sickler did not manage her usual smile in return. It was a bit beyond her this morning.

�Scotch,� Hobey stated in a placid voice, �is a bad drink for women of your type, Pinky.�

Pinky was Hobart�s pet name for his wife. She possessed such cute little toes, and there had been a time, two years ago, when he had delighted in sitting on the edge of her bed and playing with them. Pinky had come, somehow, out of this habit.

�My type?� Helene�s voice was a trifle weary. �Why my type in particular?�

Hobey chuckled. He was rather inclined towards a definite stoutness, and it seemed to Helene that in the last year he had dropped back into his old ways � before marriage ways.

�You�re too temperamental,� he stated lazily. �It affects you too much.�

Helene remained silent. Her head was splitting, and she felt completely exhausted. And then, in spite of these facts, she remembered that tonight Jimmy Weare was giving a party at the Romany Inn. She smiled.

�Run along to your business, Hobey,� she returned sarcastically. �You are late as it is � and with the weather bad it will take you an hour to get in.�

Her husband smiled. �Shall I return tonight,� he asked casually, �so that I may write a few cheques for you, dear?�

But Helene was not up to his jocular mood, and she missed completely the heavy undertone of his words. Hobart Sickler was near the edge � and his wife did not notice it.

He rose leisurely from his chair at the table in the breakfast-room. Thirty-five, a trifle flabby, too good-natured, Hobart was not a particularly imposing human. But he was not as stupid as his wife imagined. For a year now he had been observing Pinky in the process of breaking loose, and had not interfered. But now�

�Leave me the closed car,� she was saying in her morning-weary tone. �Delatante�s coming over later. He�s found an old farmhouse somewhere on the Island � and he wants to show me some antiques.�

Hobey frowned. �Antiques?� he said slowly. �Are they so rare in these parts?�

His implication was obvious, but Helene disregarded it with a sigh. Delatante dabbled in art, painted a bit � it was even rumoured that one of his oils had been exhibited in Boston. He was tall, dark and handsome � and quite consistently broke.

But that never seemed to matter. He travelled with the exclusive, lively element of Long Island. He borrowed a limousine here or there; somehow he always managed to get everywhere. Better still, Delatante was interesting.

Hobey gestured impatiently with his hands. He moved slowly towards the threshold of the sun-parlour. But suddenly he stopped, faced his wife.

�Pinky,� he said slowly and quietly, �you�ve got to cut it out. I�m getting pretty tired of this business. I was talking with Sam yesterday, and he feels the same way about Tiny. It�s got to stop.�

Pinky was staring at her husband in utter amazement. Was it possible that Hobey meant what he was saying?

Tiny Fenwick was her best friend, her best woman friend, at least. And Hobey had been talking to her husband, Sam. That was simply disgusting!

�Why, Hobey,� she managed to say, her eyes upon his, �you�re talking foolishly. What do you expect me to do all day while you�re in the city? Sit and read the latest philosophical books, have no social life whatever?�

Her husband grunted. �Sit and read the latest scandals among your friends, you mean,� he returned. �As for �social life� � I guess you have plenty of it.�

�I do,� she admitted, �because I won�t allow myself to grow old.�

�Meaning that I am allowing myself to grow old?� Hobey asked.

Helene�s eyes narrowed. �Exactly,� she replied.

Her husband muttered something under his breath that she did not catch. There was a grim smile on his face.

�All right!� he said decisively. �If I�m growing old it�s worry about you that�s causing it. I�ve a business to attend to, and plenty to think about. I don�t object to your playing around with women � and there are some decent men around here, too. But I�m getting pretty sick of this fast, noisy nightclub crowd that you and Tiny are running with. Sam�s getting sick of it, too. You can go a bit too far, you know � and it�s our money that you�re spending.�

�Hobart!� Pinky got to her feet, her eyes flashing. She was rather stunning in her dark, Oriental way, and anger gave her a hot, quick beauty that her husband was not accustomed to seeing.

�It�s true,� he went on. �Night after night. Parties here, parties there. The same old thing. Delatante and that Italian, Grutti, George Standing, Louis Fenway. Rotters � all of them!�

�They are not rotters!� she protested hotly. �You know they are not!�

�I know nothing of the sort!� Her husband had raised his voice. Pinky was surprised to see such an exhibition of his temper; her husband was usually a very calm man. But he continued to talk now, his words booming out into the room:

�But I do know that this business must come to an end. I want you to stay away from Romany Inn, from that section of the Island. It�s getting to be a joke � for those who aren�t mixed up in it. Do you know what the columnists are calling that section?�

Pinky shook her head. She was terribly angry, and her eyes showed the fact.

��Sinners� Paradise�,� her husband informed her �That�s what they call it.�

Pinky threw back her dark-crowned head and commenced to laugh. Her laughter was silvery, and considered by many quite beautiful, but it was evident that her husband would have disagreed at this moment. Finally she stopped. There were tears of mirth in her eyes. She stared at her husband.

��Sinners� Paradise�,� she repeated, still chuckling. �Oh, Hobey � that�s too good!�

�It is,� he agreed, in a hard tone, �but not the way you mean it. It�s too good, too airy a title to give that bunch of night clubs. �Fools� Paradise� would have been better. But that�s aside from the point. I warn you, Pinky � you must keep clear of cafe society. If you do not��

He broke off abruptly, dropping his hands at the sides of his immaculate grey business suit.

Pinky drew herself straight. Her husband was threatening her! Actually threatening!

�If I don�t keep away � what then?� Her voice was sharp, pregnant with anger.

Hobart Sickler shrugged his shoulders.

�Then I�m through with you,� he said, and walked out through the sun-parlour. Five minutes later, Pinky thoroughly astounded, heard a machine move away from the elaborate drive.

In the back seat was her husband, already reading the morning paper and � worst of all � he had taken the limousine!

�It�s ridiculous, absurd! Just because some of the newspaper columnists term that little neck of land in the Sound �Sinners� Paradise�, because some �blurb� writer has to earn his salary � Hobey tells me I must drop out of things.� Pinky curled kittenishly on her divan, glared at Tiny Fenwick.

�Don�t get so angry at me, Pinky,� Tiny retorted. �Haven�t I just been through the same thing? I tell you, sure as the dickens, your Hobey and my Sam have gotten together and decided to make us safe for democracy � or something like that. It�s utterly silly!�

Tiny Fenwick was small and blonde. Her husband was a rather big fellow, and Pinky had always thought them thoroughly unsuited. But she liked Tiny, and they were almost always together. Pinky had cultivated Delatante, while Tiny had shown a strong liking for Louis Fenway.

They were not in love with Delatante and Fenway � but Sam and Hobey were businessmen. Business was a bore, particularly when it tired husbands so that they did not care to run about at night. What were the gay lights of Romany Inn, the Halfway House, Scarabin�s, to tired husbands? They were certainly not a lure. Hobey and Sam detested them.

And they both had plenty of money. Of course, Pinky and Tiny spent considerable of their incomes, but neither believed that it was necessary for her husband to devote so much time and so much serious thought to business.

�The thing is,� Tiny continued, stretching herself beside Pinky on the divan, �what are we going to do about it? I know Sam will be furious, wild � if I go to Jimmy Weare�s party at Romany Inn tonight. And Lou�s coming for me at nine. Sam�s off for Chicago. But it�s a masquerade � and how will anyone know?�

�Know what?� Pinky reached for cigarettes, and they both lighted up.

�Know that I�m there,� Tiny replied. �You are supposed to be going with Delatante. Are you?�

Pinky hesitated. �I don�t know,� she said slowly. �Hobey was awfully angry when he left � and he�s a good sport in a way. But he�s lots older, of course, and he doesn�t like running around. I wouldn�t want to break with him.�

�Bah!� Tiny blew a cloud of smoke above her yellow hair. �He�ll never know you�ve gone, if you do as I�m going to do.�

Pinky�s dark eyes were upon Tiny�s. She saw that her friend had made up her mind that she was going to Jimmy�s party.

�What are you going to do, Tiny?� she asked.

�I�m going!� her friend replied. �In spite of the fact that Sam said he was sick of my running around, and would move his office to Chicago and leave me here � if I went tonight.�

She chuckled. �But Sam�s never going to know that I went,� she stated, winking. �And after this party I�m going to be a good little girl for a while. Stay home and work crossword puzzles. Read whoever�s in style��

�How are you going to do it?� Pinky interrupted. She had heard Tiny tell of reforming plans before.

�Going to reverse the procedure,� Tiny stated triumphantly. �I said a minute ago that Lou was coming for me. He�s not, actually � I�m going for him.�

�Going for him?� Pinky echoed.

�Just that,� Tiny returned, chuckling again. �I�m going to drive over for him in the roadster, picking him up at Charlie Carlyle�s place. My maid hasn�t seen my costume, and I�ll dress alone. It�s a simple one, thank the Lord!�

Pinky smiled. �It sounds great,� she agreed. �I�m going as a pirate � or I was going as a pirate. Ninette hasn�t seen the costume because it hasn�t arrived yet from the city.�

�Fine!� Tiny chuckled. �You can work it the same way, Pinky. Can�t you pretend you�re sick, and sneak away from that husband of yours?�

Helene Sickler frowned. Suddenly she jumped from the divan.

�Oh, Tiny!� she exclaimed. �I forgot. Hobey has a banquet at the club. I remember now � he told me yesterday that he�d be out for dinner. He�s going to change at the club!�

�Exquisite!� Tiny breathed. �Perfectly marvellous, dear! We�ll run away together. You get Delatante to go over to Charlie�s place. I�ll stop here, noiselessly, for you at about eight-thirty. Get Ninette away. Your butler won�t say a word. That�s the beauty of them. And in your pirate costume no one can be sure, positive, of your identity. Delatante and Lou will be the only ones who actually know.�

�Yes, but�� Pinky broke off abruptly.

�But what?� Tiny demanded. She tapped the ashes from her cigarette with a graceful motion of her little hands.

�When we unmask,� Pinky said slowly. �Everyone will know us then.�

�Don�t be silly,� Tiny returned. �You don�t think I want to lose my happy home, either, do you? Sam�s all right. But nothing doing on the unmasking, Pinky. The answer is simple � we don�t unmask!�

Tiny laughed in her silvery voice. �Jimmy says the party will be fast and furious and he wants to make it a real party. Things have been a bit slow, he thinks. No one unmasks until two o�clock � and we shove off at a quarter of the fatal hour. How�s that?�

Pinky smiled. �Sounds cheerful enough,� she agreed, �and I�m all for it. I�d like to fool Hobey, he made me pretty mad this morning. But I��

�Another �but�!� Tiny interrupted, in an impatient tone. �What now?�

�Hobey�s not in Chicago, you know,� Helene responded. �And the chances are that he�d return from New York before two. I�d be caught getting in, of course. He always kisses me goodnight.�

�Good Lord! Does he do that?� Tiny grimaced. �He�s worse than Sam, then.� She shook her adorable head. �These old-fashioned men!�

They both laughed. But Tiny was serious again. For several moments there was silence.

�I have it!� Sam�s wife suddenly declared. �What could be sweeter? You are lonely � so you phone your Hobey at the office, and tell him that you are going over to my place. You suggest that he stay in at the club for the night � you�re feeling miserable and think you�ll stay with me.�

�But won�t he be suspicious?� Pinky questioned.

�Of course he will,� Tiny replied. �But what of it? He�ll call up the house, most likely, and if it�s before I�ve left I�ll say that you�re lying down, resting � that you�re going to stay all night with me. If he calls up after � well I have Koti to say that we�re both retired children, and that he would hate to disturb us. He�s really my boy, you know, although Sam doesn�t know that. I�ll say I�ve given Koti enough dough.�

Pinky was smiling. �It�s a chance we�re taking,� she said slowly, �but I do want one big party before I settle down. And I have an idea that Jimmy Weare�s will be lively.�

�Lively? That�s not the word,� Tiny contradicted. �Terrific � that�s more like it. Then you�ll go, Pinky?�

Helene Sickler nodded her head. �I�ll go,� she said quietly.

�Wonderful!� Tiny did a rumba in front of the divan. �We�ll have a perfectly marvellous time. Call up your husband now � see how he takes it. Remember, my place for the night. You�re sick and lonely. But don�t let him rush back to you.�

�Rush back?� Pinky laughed. �Do they do that these days outside of the movies? He was rushing away the last I saw of him. But I�ll call him.�

They walked into the reception hall, and Helene picked up the telephone. While she was calling the number, Tiny was executing a continuation of her dance. But she broke off suddenly.

�Don�t talk too light-heartedly, Pinky,� she warned Helene. �Remember, you�re sick.�

Pinky nodded. She heard Hobart�s heavy voice over the wire.

�This is Pinky,� she said, in a weary tone. �I feel terrible, dear � and I�m going over to Tiny�s. I�m so lonely.�

She heard him grunt something unintelligible, and continued. �I think I�ll stay with her tonight, Hobey. You might stay in at the club. Your banquet won�t be over till late � and I expect to climb into bed with Tiny very early.�

�All right,� he replied, with astonishing brevity. �If you�d cut out the parties, you might feel better. I�ll stay in. See you tomorrow night.�

�All right, dear,� she replied. �Bye, bye.�

�Bye,� he muttered gruffly, and hung up. She guessed that her husband was still furious over the morning scene.

Tiny was still dancing her jig as Pinky hung up. Her face was framed in one gorgeous smile. She caught Pinky by the arm, and they both danced a few quiet steps.

�All set!� Tiny stated happily. �What�s that name the newspapers have given our party neck-of-woods?�

��Sinners� Paradise�,� Pinky returned, laughing. Now that the way was clear, she felt vastly pleased.

��Sinners� Paradise�,� Tiny mimicked. �I do hope there�s lots of little sinners at Romany Inn tonight!�

�Me too,� Pinky agreed. �It may be our last chance to sin with the rest of the bunch!�

Delatante helped Helene back into Tiny�s closed car. They had just arrived at Charlie�s place, and had picked up Lou Fenway and Del. Charlie was shoving off later, and they did not see him.

Everything had gone splendidly. Koti had definite instructions. Pinky had driven her machine over to Tiny�s at seven, taking a small bag containing her costume. She would spend the night with Tiny, of course.

Both Pinky and Tiny were already masked. Their fur coats hid the costumes beneath. Delatante was attired as a devil. Lou as a slender and quite ferocious cannibal.

He jerked the machine into action, with Tiny sitting close beside him. Delatante produced a flask from his overcoat pocket, and at the same time a sinister object flashed to the car�s floor-rug.

�Del!� Pinky saw that it was a revolver, but Delatante quickly stuck it back in his pocket and resumed the process of unscrewing the top.

�No use taking any chances,� he whispered to Pinky. �There�s been quite a few hold-ups around here lately, and I usually carry it with me.�

Helene nodded. After all, there was no harm in Del�s having a gun. Neither Tiny nor she was wearing any jewels, but there had been several motor hold-ups in the vicinity of the neck of land on which were scattered many road houses.

�What�s Tiny supposed to be?� Del questioned, steadying himself as he poured the liquor into the unscrewed cup-cover. �I know you�re a pirate bold; she told me.�

�Bold is right,� Pinky returned. �And remember, Del � you must never breathe a word of this to anybody.�

�Not a word, Pinky,� Delatante replied. He looked quite handsome in his diabolical make-up. �Again what is Tiny supposed to be?�

�A nymph,� Pinky returned, smiling. �And a summer, warm-weather nymph, at that.�

�Not so much in the way of costume, eh?� Del grinned, and handed her the cup-top of the flask. �Just a starter. Pinky. Jimmy�s the one who is supposed to have the real stuff.�

Pinky swallowed the contents, made a face and laughed. And then she made another face.

�As bad as that?� Del questioned. He poured out another drink for Tiny, who was pretending to howl for it.

�Worse,� replied Pinky, but she shook her head. �No, I guess it�s not bad,� she told him. �I�m not a drinker, you know � and I can�t get used to it.�

�You don�t want to get used to it,� Delatante stated seriously, as he handed the cup to Tiny. �When you get used to it there�s not so much fun. I�m used to it, and I don�t get half the kick I got in the old days.�

There was a general laugh. Tiny drank, made no comment, and Del poured out a brinker for the driver. Lou was in great humour.

He drank with practice and ease, and then half turned his head towards Pinky.

�Say,� he demanded, �didn�t I meet you in St Louis?�

There was a groan at this, but ancient as Pinky knew the thing was going to be, she went through with her part.

�Not I,� she replied seriously. �I�ve never been in St Louis.�

�That�s right,� Lou shot back. �Neither have I. It must have been two other�� A chorus of groans drowned his anticipated ending.

�That�s as old as Jimmy says his liquor is guaranteed to be,� Del remarked, getting down the last drink of the first round.

�Listen,� Tiny stated slowly. �This is going to be Pinky�s and my last party for a while. We don�t want it to drag, but you two must stay sober. We�ve got to leave before the unmasking. Remember!�

�Can�t we get under the weather a bit � and then sober up in time?� Lou pleaded in such a serious, grieved voice that Tiny relented.

�It�s all right � if you sober up in time,� she stated. �You�re taking a chance, too. If our husbands learn about our being at the Romany, they�ll probably start after both of you. So it�s up to you to protect yourselves.�

�We leave at quarter of two � and, we leave sober!� Delatante spoke convincingly. �I�m not anxious to be shot at by angry husbands.�

Pinky laughed. The machine was streaking over the Long Island road, but it rode smoothly. Del commenced to pour the second round.

A cluster of lights flashed behind, as Pinky lifted her voice in song.

�Scarabin�s,� Lou shouted. �We�re on the Neck now. Fifteen minutes and we�ll be at the Romany.�

�For I�m a pirate bo... ld, so bo... ld!� Pinky was feeling fine, her red lips parted. The mask over the upper portion of her face made her more alluring than ever. The others joined in the chorus. They sped on, bound for Romany Inn, and Jimmy Weare�s party. Both Tiny and Pinky had forgotten their husbands. Why not? It was to be their farewell party.

A yellow spotlight streaked down upon the long, narrow dance floor of the Romany Inn. The dance floor was crowded; costumes were striking, gorgeous in colour and line. The spotlight became purple. Music from the Southern orchestra flared out from the raised platform at one end. Dancers swayed to it, bent with it, jerked with it.

Pinky, held tightly in the arms of Delatante, was enjoying herself hugely. Del was a magnificent dancer, and the music was wonderful. She felt herself gripped by the spirit of the carnival, the spirit of jazz music � and adventure.

��Lo, Jimmy!� Del called out, as a short, stocky figure danced close to them. There was no possibility of Jimmy Weare disguising himself. His friends were many, and in spite of his depressing, gloom-costume of the much-caricatured curfew maker, he was hailed from all sides. His mask was no mask for Jimmy.

He waved back. �Who is she?� he howled in his deep voice, making no attempt to disguise it.

Del shook his head, and Pinky smiled. She did not travel, had not travelled, in spite of what her husband thought, so much with Jimmy Weare�s set. They could not penetrate her disguise. She was slim and of medium height, and there were many other women of similar build on the dance floor.

And yet she was having all the fun she could desire. Twisting her head, she caught a glimpse of Tiny, dancing with Lou. Tiny was having a great old time, and her costume was one of the sensations of the party.

�Feel lively enough?� Del spoke a bit thickly, but he was able to dance in his excellent manner.

�I feel like what I�m made up to be � a pirate,� Pinky returned.

�You�ve already stolen my heart � and made my conscience walk the plank,� Del returned, laughing.

�Oh, Del � not that!� Pinky rolled her eyes roguishly.

Delatante groaned. �Not that,� he muttered. �Don�t look at me that way, Pinky. I feel as though I want to rip that mask from your face and kiss you on those laughing lips of yours.�

�Don�t!� she warned. �That would give the whole thing away.�

�I know.� He grinned at her. �I was simply telling you how I felt. By the way, you�ve the next dance with Haverstraw. He fell in love with your costume and persuaded me into giving you up for a whole dance.�

The music crashed into a dynamic finale. It was the third encore of the piece, and the dancers walked slowly from the floor.

�Haverstraw?� Pinky repeated the name. �Isn�t he the man who has just figured in the papers in the Denton shooting?�

�The same and only gentleman,� Del replied suavely. �He�s nice, though, and you are only dancing with him, you know.�

Pinky laughed. �Oh, I don�t mind that,� she stated. �He�ll be interesting. I don�t often have the chance of dancing with a murderer.�

Del looked startled. Even his mask failed to hide the expression in his eyes, the thin line of his lips.

�Not necessarily a murderer, Pinky,� he returned. �That�s a bit harsh � pretty heavy. He had some reasons for shooting Denton � and he didn�t shoot to kill, you see.�

Pinky laughed again. �I�ll be careful, Del,� she returned. �I won�t accuse the dear fellow of being such a person.�

�That�s it,� her companion replied, as they neared the table at which Tiny and Louis Fenway were already seated. �Keep away from the subject, and you�ll have a good time. Haverstraw�s a good enough fellow, and he�s clever, too.�

�Greetings, demon and pirate-maid! Join us in the gulping festivities � or don�t either of you care to indulge?�

Lou smiled at them as they dropped into their chairs. A babble of voices filled the long room; it seemed hardly less silent now than when the orchestra was playing.

Clowns and athletes, porters and columbines, strikingly costumed males and females strode about the tables, crossed the dance floor. Laughter was the chief voice of the party, and some of it was becoming quite unrestrained now.

Suddenly the lights were dimmed. The long room was plunged into absolute darkness. Giggles, a few oaths of surprise and a good deal of laughter rose from those seated about the table.

A brilliantly yellow spotlight shone down upon the centre of the dance floor. A saxophone wailed. Into the spotlight rushed a feminine figure. Pinky suppressed a gasp of surprise. There were �Ohs!� and �Ahs!� from the tables.

The figure was clad only in a thin veil of scarlet material. She was very beautiful, and she commenced a dance that was thoroughly charming. The spotlight followed her; it was the only splash of colour in the room.

The music was working itself up into a whirl of passion. It raged, sent notes into the comparative silence in a perfect fury of sound. But the dancer kept pace with it. She was whirling now in the centre of the polished floor. Her hair was golden and long. It swirled out behind her, and then, as she reversed, covered her face.

But she was kept whirling � and the orchestra kept raging. Del leaned towards Pinky. Their table was almost in a corner at the far end of the room. She felt herself jerked towards him; her lips were being pressed against his before she realized what was happening.

The lights flashed on; there was a burst of applause. She twisted herself away from Delatante amid the laughter of the few who had witnessed what little the lights had shown.

She was furious, so furious that she could not speak. Del was grinning sheepishly. She raised her fingers to her mask. It had slipped down a little but had not, fortunately, exposed her face.

Finally she spoke. Tiny was slapping Lou on the back as if the whole thing was a tremendous joke.

�Don�t you dare to do that again, Del!� she warned. �If you do � I�ll walk right out of here, do you understand?�

Her sharp tone of voice sobered him. �I�m sorry, Pinky,� he said, in a low tone. �It was the music and the lights being out. It won�t happen again, dear.�

�Don�t call me �dear�!� she commanded. She was very angry. If Hobey should ever hear of the thing � if it should ever become known that she was the pirate-maid whom several persons had seen being kissed by a well-garbed devil � well, there would be plenty of explaining to do.

Tiny shoved a drink towards her. �Come on, Pinky,� she shrilled. �Don�t go dead on the party. Remember, this is our farewell��

�Not so loud,� Pinky ordered. �And don�t call me Pinky if you have to yell. There are probably enough people here now who suspect who we are. We don�t want them to know it.�

�That�s right,� Del agreed. �Let�s tone down a bit. I�m not dancing the next one � I�ll go out and have a smoke. We�ve got an hour yet � it�s only a quarter of one.�

�My next dance is with Ulysses,� Tiny announced, laughing. �At least he�s wearing a lot of armour.�

Lou chuckled. �You�ll be all bruises tomorrow,� he grinned. �I have an idea that Ulysses doesn�t even know he�s away from Troy or Ithaca � or wherever he used to hang out.�

The music flared into being again, as a tall man, attired in the patched costume of a tramp, touched Pinky on the shoulder.

�Hello, Stella,� he said, rather eagerly. �Knew you the first time. My dance, eh?�

Pinky shook her head, amid the laughter of her three companions. �I�m not Stella,� she said slowly, disguising her voice by speaking in a drawl. �And the next dance is taken.�

The new arrival grinned down at her from beneath a red mask. �You win,� he replied, in a light tone. �Stella never said that little at one time in her life. Sorry, she was supposed to be Peter Pan.�

Tiny was screaming with laughter.

�She�s not Peter Pan,� she informed the tramp. �She�s a pirate bold.�

The tramp stared at Pinky and then joined in their laughter. �My mistake,� he apologised, as he moved away. �I left my glasses on the library table.�

Tiny vanished with a careless �Adios!� Her Ulysses was soberer than Lou had evidently given him credit for being.

Del had risen and was introducing Pinky to a finely attired gentleman of the French aristocracy. His powdered wig was slightly slanted on his rather large head, but it detracted little from the dignity of his whole appearance.

�A pirate bold � oh, Duke!� Del laughed, and Haverstraw led her out into the swirl of the dance floor.

�The evening is a merry one,� she stated. She found herself anxious to hear what sort of a voice the murderer of Richard Denton possessed. He had only bowed when introduced.

�The morning gives promise of being gay,� he corrected, in a rich, baritone drawl.

�It is morning,� she agreed. �And time all good little pirates were in bed.�

He swung her to the left quickly, in order to avoid collision with a college professor who was trying something too intricate in the way of dance steps with a Pandora who had evidently not lost many things besides hope.

�And time good little wives should be in bed, too,� he supplemented.

Pinky felt a quick twist of fear strike within her. Did he recognise her? But how could he? She had never met him before. She decided that he was simply trying to be clever.

�And good little husbands?� she questioned archly. �Shouldn�t they be in bed, too?�

He laughed pleasantly. It was difficult to think of him as a man who had shot down Denton. But probably, she thought, it was as Del had said. He was not, inherently, a murderer.

�Husbands,� he said quietly, �should be allowed certain privileges their wives can�t enjoy.�

�That seems to be the general opinion � of the husbands,� Pinky returned, smiling. �But the wives do not always agree.�

�So I notice,� Haverstraw returned, and the tone of his voice sent a little shiver through Helene Sickler.

There was a conversational silence for several minutes. The floor was fearfully crowded, and there was an atmosphere of freedom in the place. Haverstraw danced fairly well, but without particular fervour.

�And your husband?� he suddenly said. �Where is he tonight?�

Pinky held herself in control. �It�s hard to say,� she commented. �There are five clowns here � and three of them look very much like my clown.�

Haverstraw laughed. �Nice,� he commented, �but you should give him credit. It�s likely he knew there would be many in clown costume � and simply made it more difficult for you to keep track of him.�

�He�s not that wise,� Pinky returned.

�Don�t you believe it,� her partner stated. �All husbands are wise � some of them so much so that they make their wives think they are stupid.�

Pinky felt another queer little stab of fear inside of her. Haverstraw was talking in riddles but they were vaguely annoying � and she wondered just why.

�You should know,� she shot back, quite obviously.

She felt Haverstraw tighten his grip upon her. The music was playing softly, and with the perfect beat of the super-jazz orchestra.

�I do know,� he replied grimly. �And it cost me something to find out.�

�In money?� she persisted.

He laughed. �A wise little pirate was she,� he said, in a quoting manner. �I see my table is unoccupied. Would you care to sit and drink this out � and listen to a story in which I feel you are interested?�

Pinky was about to decline, but she was interested in the Denton case, and she felt that Haverstraw would tell her something about it. And, too, she was a trifle tired. A drink would help.

�I�d love to!� she replied recklessly.

He smiled, and led her from the floor. His table was at the opposite end of the room from the one at which Pinky had been seated. And there was champagne. Jimmy Weare was a good friend of Haverstraw�s, she remembered. He had testified for him at the trial.

They seated themselves, and Haverstraw pulled his chair close to Pinky�s. The champagne was excellent, fairly seemed to sparkle her into a more vivid awareness of the gaiety of her surroundings. The place was a flare of colour, noise, excitement.

Haverstraw took her hand. �Pretty,� he commented. �Shall I start at the beginning?�

�Do!� Pinky urged, making a slight effort to pull her hand away. But she did want to hear his story � so she let him hold her hand. He commenced to talk, his face close to hers. She was beginning to feel just a bit dizzy.

Balloons were floating down from the balcony that surrounded the room. They were blue and gold and red. Pinky blinked at them. Haverstraw was still talking in a monotonous drone. But he had not told her what she had wanted to know, had come to hear. He was, perhaps, a little beyond that.

She felt a desire to get back to their own table, to Tiny and Del and Lou. And she was also commencing to feel a swift regret. She and Tiny should never have come to this party.

The crowd was too lively, too fast � in the first place. In the second place, it was very likely that their husbands would be incapable of understanding. Hobey, she thought, would be rather doubtful, even if she told the truth � told him that it was a farewell party, and that Tiny had urged her to go.

She could not distinguish Haverstraw�s words, but was suddenly aware that both of his arms were around her. Somehow, she got to her feet. Balloons were drifting everywhere; she brushed one away from her face.

�What�s the matter?� she heard Haverstraw saying. �Thought you wanted��

She turned away from him. They were dancing, and she was bumped several times as she walked, with a fair degree of steadiness, towards the opposite end of the room.

Suddenly, just as she had reached the end of the polished floor, she felt herself jerked about by Haverstraw.

�What�s the rush?� he said casually. �I�m not through telling��

�Let me go!� she ordered. �I�m going away from this place. I�m sick of it � sick of all the noise and the people. Let me go!�

He laughed shortly. She could hear him more clearly now; they were farther away from the orchestra.

�It took you quite a while to get sick of it,� he reminded. �And quite a bit of my champagne, my dear.�

She tried to get away from him, but he held her tightly. �One more dance,� he begged, �and then you can go. Be a bold, brave pirate.�

Pinky was aware of the fact that he was mocking her, but that did not matter. She twisted violently, but he held her. They were attracting attention. She saw Delatante coming towards her.

A swift panic gripped her. Del had a gun; he had probably brought it with him. And Haverstraw was quick-tempered � and a murderer!

�Please let me go,� she begged. �I don�t feel like dancing.�

�That�s all right,� Haverstraw commenced. �Let me see who you are? Kind of like you, bold pirate.�

He made a motion as though to lift her mask, but she evaded him... She caught a glimpse of the red cloth of Del�s Satanic costume.

�Make him let me go, Del,� she begged. �He�s had too much to drink � doesn�t know what he�s doing.�

There was a sharp crack; she felt her wrist free of Haverstraw�s grip. Turning around, she saw Haverstraw stretched on the floor. Delatante was standing over him, his fists clenched.

She started to run towards the table and Tiny, but the staccato crackle of a revolver jerked her about. She caught the gleam of a gun in Haverstraw�s right hand, and saw Delatante sway above him.

Haverstraw had fired from the floor! The place was in a wild turmoil. There were screams, hoarse cries. Men rushed towards the prostrate Haverstraw and the swaying Delatarite, obscuring Pinky�s vision.

She started once more towards the table. Stumbling, her eyes wide, she reached Tiny�s side. Lou was not present.

�They�ve killed Del!� she sobbed hysterically. But curiously enough she was not thinking as much about Del as she was about the publicity � and Hobey�s ultimate discovery of the fact that she had lied to him, and had come to the place.

�They? Who?� Tiny was holding her by the shoulders. �I heard the shot � what happened, Pinky?�

Helene sobbed the story incoherently. �We�ve got to get away,� she urged. �They�ll take care of Del � there�s nothing we can do. Lou can get a taxi outside. They always wait there � a few of them. Oh, Tiny � I wish we�d never come. I wish we��

She broke off abruptly. Tiny was dragging her away from the table, towards the retiring room. She got a glimpse of the crowd, still gathered about Del, she supposed. The costumes seemed an incongruous blending of colour now, an irony.

She wondered if Delatante had been killed. Haverstraw was a good shot. That had been brought up at the trial. The chances were that�

�Where is Lou?� Tiny was demanding, interrupting her train of thought. �I haven�t seen him since you left with Haverstraw and I with Ulysses.�

�I don�t know,� Pinky returned. �But we can�t wait, Tiny � we must get away from here. What if Del talks? Tells who we are?�

�He won�t,� Tiny returned. �He�ll be too careful of himself. Brace up, Pinky. We�ll be home in half hour.�

Pinky stared into the mirror. The maid brought her coat, helped her into it. She felt years older than when she had come in. There was a faint buzzing in her ears. She could not distinguish Tiny�s voice from the maid�s but she could hear their words, as though from a distance.

�Come on,� she urged, as Tiny jammed on her hat. �Hurry, Tiny � we must get away.�

�But I must put this hat on,� Tiny remonstrated, �and my eyes are none too clear.�

Pinky jerked her away from the mirror. Her own eyes seemed staring at things through a thin blur.

�We should never have come,� she muttered, as they moved out of the room, their costumes hidden beneath the long coats. �If Del or Lou talk��

�They won�t,� Tiny replied. �I tell you, they�re too careful of themselves.�

�But Del may be dying,� Pinky returned, �and he�d tell the police � or somebody.�

She shivered as they went out through a side door towards the parking place. The night was chilly.

A form loomed up in front of them. Tiny cried out.

�Lou! We were looking for you. You�ve got to get us away. Del�s been��

He nodded his head and led the way towards Tiny�s car. Through a blur, Pinky saw that he had his overcoat on, and his hat. And, evidently, he knew that Del had been shot. His mask was still on, and his blacking for the cannibalistic makeup.

�We�ll both ride in the back seat,� Tiny exclaimed, helping Pinky in before her. Pinky sank down in the soft cushions. She felt as though she were about to faint. And Del was lying back on the polished floor.

A vision of Haverstraw � with the gun in his hand � flared before her eyes. She shuddered, and Tiny held her tightly with both arms.

�Why don�t we start?� she asked Lou.

He did not reply, but Tiny soothed her. �He jumped off the running-board as he was getting in,� she said. �I suppose he forgot something.�

Pinky was sobbing as though her heart would break. Again and again she reproached herself and Tiny for having come. �Del may be dead!� she repeated over and over.

�He may be,� Tiny agreed, �but it isn�t likely. The chances are that Haverstraw had been drinking too much to be able to aim very straight.�

A figure lurched up to the car, and jerked open the door. It was garbed as a tramp, but looked somewhat the worse for wear.

�That Stella in there?� the man demanded. �She�s got on a Peter Pan costume, and you dropped this.�

He offered Tiny Pinky�s small turban, which she had dropped on the way out.

�Been looking mos� everywhere for Stella,� he went on, blinking nervously from behind his mask.

�You keep right on looking,� Tiny advised. �This is part of our pirate costume. Your Stella�s probably inside.�

�Inside?� The tramp shook his head. �Never find her in there. Too much excitement. Fellow just got killed.�

�Killed?� Pinky jerked herself upright, staring at the tramp.

�Killed dead!� the fellow repeated solemnly.

�You run along,� Tiny advised. �This isn�t Peter Pan, and I haven�t the slightest idea where she is.�

The tramp bowed, muttered something that sounded like an apology, and closed the machine door, walking towards the inn.

�Killed!� Pinky repeated. �Oh, why doesn�t Lou come? Can�t you drive, Tiny? I want to get away from here.�

Tiny patted her hands. �I wouldn�t want to try driving,� she replied. �Although I feel pretty good. But we can�t run off without Lou very well, and that fellow probably didn�t know what he was talking about.�

�He said he was killed,� Pinky groaned.

�He said he was �killed dead�,� Tiny corrected, �and that means that he didn�t know what he was saying.�

More figures moved beside the car, the front-seat door was opened. Lou climbed in, squeezed himself behind the wheel.

Pinky straightened in her seat; her body became rigid. Delatante had climbed in after him. She saw that he was handling his left arm with care. He did not speak.

The machine moved slowly from the parking place; the lights of Romany Inn faded behind them.

Pinky leaned forward. �Del,� she questioned, �are you hurt? Did he shoot you?�

He shook his head, but did not turn in the seat. Tiny soothed her, turning the collar of her coat up about her neck.

�There,� she cheered. �I told you that fool couldn�t shoot straight. He had been drinking too much, Pinky. And besides, you can�t kill Del � he�s too tough.�

�But they�ll talk,� Pinky returned, recovering somewhat from her astonishment. �They�ll find out, in some way, who I am. I know they will.�

She was silent for several minutes as the machine sped along the smooth road.

�I think I�ll go to Hobey, Tiny � and tell him the whole truth,� she said suddenly. �He may believe me � and I�m sick and disgusted at the thought of what we�ve done.�

�He may believe, is correct,� Tiny returned. �And then again � he may not.�

There was another silence. Both men sat motionless in the front seat. It was evident that they were too disgusted with events to speak.

�I don�t care,� Pinky finally said, with determination. �I�m going to tell my husband. He may not believe � but he�s going to know the truth. I�m through!�

�Pinky!� Tiny was staring at her. �You mustn�t. I�d like to tell mine, too � but we can�t. Don�t you see?�

�I don�t see � and I�m going to tell!� Pinky was sitting straight. She felt better, having made the decision. �I lied � and I�m sorry.�

The machine slowly jerked to a stop. Del moved his head around, lifted his hands to his mask. Pinky screamed. It was not Del � it was Hobey, her own husband!

Tiny was speechless. The driver faced her, his mask down. Sam Fenwick!

Hobey chuckled. �Well,� he demanded. �Glad to see your husbands? We got you out of a nasty mess, didn�t we?�

Both women were unable to speak. Pinky felt as though her throat were paralysed. Tiny was still staring at Sam, who was grinning.

�You don�t know as much about valets as you think you do,� Sam stated impassively. �He gave me the details and I called Hobey, who sort of figured Pinky was up to something. A phone from Chicago prevented my leaving � meeting postponed.�

�But how�� Pinky, staring at her husband, was able only to manage the two words. But he seemed to understand.

�We mixed in � after we got hold of your escorts, who were outside, bragging about their achievements. They were easily convinced that it would be wise to lend us their masks and clothes. Mine�s a rather tight fit, but you didn�t notice it, Pinky.� Hobey grinned. �Sam had to borrow some blacking.

�Haverstraw never hit me. The bullet landed in the ceiling. And that crowd never did find out who I was. Had some trouble getting out, but here we are. Nice party, eh?�

�Oh, Hobey,� Pinky sobbed. �I never want to go on another. I�ll stay��

�You�re darned right you will!� Hobey grinned. �Right by the radio and fireside. If we hadn�t heard you � both you and Tiny � tell us how you stood, well, things might have been different. But this time we�ll let you off easily, eh, Sam?�

�Guess we�ll have to,� Sam replied. �They had enough tonight to last for a while.�

�Forever!� Pinky and Tiny chorused.

�Let�s shift,� Hobey suggested. He changed seats with Tiny. The machine started. But Sam drove slowly � and with one hand. A cluster of lights went slowly behind.

�The end of the Neck,� Hobey whispered to his wife. �Will you be good now?�

Pinky sighed. �The end of �Sinners� Paradise�,� she said in a low voice. �You just bet I will, Hobey!�

The January wind was blowing fiercely as he put the key into the unfamiliar door lock and then twisted it to the right with no results. He turned it to the left, and the door opened, and he pushed it wide into the motel room, and then stepped aside for her to enter before him. She was wearing a short beige car coat, the collar of which she held closed about her throat with one gloved hand. Her skirt, showing below the hem of the coat, was a deeper tan. She was wearing dark brown leather boots, almost the colour of her shoulder-length hair. Her eyes were browner than the boots, and she lowered them as she stepped past him into the room. There was an air of shy nervousness about her.

Fumbling to extricate the key from the lock, Frank almost lost his homburg to a fresh gust of wind. He clasped it to his head with his free hand, struggled with the damn key again, and finally pulled it free of the lock. Putting the key into the pocket of his overcoat, he went into the room, closed the door behind him, and said immediately, �I hope you won�t misinterpret this.�

�Why should I?� she asked.

�Well, a motel has connotations. But I couldn�t think of any other way.�

�We�re both adults, Frank,� she said. �I don�t see why it shouldn�t be possible for two adults to take a room and...�

�That was precisely my reasoning,� he said.

�So please don�t apologise.�

They stood just inside the entrance doorway, as though each were reluctant to take the steps that would propel them deeper into the room. There were two easy chairs on their right, in front of the windows facing the courtyard outside. A table with a lamp on it rested between the two chairs. On the wall immediately to their left, there was a dresser with a mirror over it, another lamp on one end of it. An air-conditioning unit was recessed into a window on the wall opposite the door. The bed was covered with a floral-patterned spread that matched the drapes. Its headboard was against the wall opposite the dresser. A framed print of a landscape hung over it.

�Millie,� he said, �I honestly do want you to see this film.�

�Oh, I honestly want to see it,� she said.

�We talked about it so often on the train that it just seemed ridiculous not to show it to you.�

�Of course,� she said.

�Which is why I mentioned it at lunch today, and suggested that maybe we could take a room someplace, for just a few minutes, a half-hour maybe, so I could show you the film. Still, I don�t want you to think the only reason I asked you to lunch was to show you the film.� He grinned suddenly. �Though I am very proud of it.�

�I�m dying to see it,� she said.

�I�ll just be a minute, okay?� he said, and went to the door, and opened it, and stepped outside into the windblown courtyard, leaving the door open. She debated closing the door behind him, and decided against it. She also debated taking off her gloves, and decided against that as well. Outside, she heard the sound of the automobile trunk being slammed shut. A moment later, he came into the room carrying a motion picture projector.

�I was wondering how you were going to show it,� Millie said.

�I had this in the trunk,� he said, and put it down on the floor.

�Do you always carry a movie projector in the trunk?�

Smiling, he said, �Well, I can�t pretend I didn�t plan on showing you the film.� He took a small reel of film from his coat pocket, held it up for her to see, and then put it on the dresser top. Taking off his coat, he went to the rack in one corner of the room, and hung it on a wire hanger. He took off the homburg and placed that on the shelf over the rack. He was wearing a dark, almost black, shadow-striped business suit.

�Did your wife say anything?� she asked.

�About the projector? Why would she say anything?�

�I guess she wouldn�t,� Millie said. �I guess lots of men take movie projectors to work in the morning.�

�Actually, she didn�t see it,� Frank said. �I put it in the car last night.� He looked around the room. �I was hoping the walls would be white,� he said. �Well, maybe the towels are white.�

�Did you plan to take a bath first?� she asked.

�No, no,� he said, walking towards the bathroom door. �I just want to make a screen.� From the bathroom, he said, �Ah, good,� and was back an instant later carrying a large white towel. �Let�s see now,� he said, �I guess I can hang this over the mirror, uh? Move the table there, and set my projector on it. Uh-huh.� As she watched, he went to the dresser, reached up over it, and tucked the towel over the top edge of the mirror, covering it. She had not moved from where she was standing just inside the door. Turning to her, he said, �Wouldn�t you like to take off your coat?�

�Well... is it a very long film?� she asked.

�Sixty seconds, to be exact.�

�Oh, well, all right then.�

She took off her gloves and her coat. She was wearing a smart, simple suit and a pale green blouse. As she carried the coat to the rack, Frank took the lamp off the table, moved the table, set the projector down and plugged it into a wall socket.

�Isn�t sixty seconds very short?� she asked.

�No, that�s the usual length. Some are even shorter. Thirty seconds, some of them.� He looked up from where he was threading the film. �You don�t have to hurry back or anything, do you?�

�No, no,� she said. �As long as I�m back before dinner.�

�What time is that, usually?�

�Seven-thirty, usually. But I have to be back before then. My husband gets home at seven, you see. And he likes to have a drink first. So I should be home around six-thirty, seven. Not that I have to account for my time or anything, you understand.�

�Well, even if you did,� Frank said, �there�s nothing wrong with two adults having lunch together.�

�If I thought there was anything wrong with it, I wouldn�t have accepted.�

�In fact, it seems entirely prejudicial that a man and a woman can�t enjoy each other�s company simply because they happen to be married to other people � you didn�t tell your husband, did you?� he asked.

�No. Did you tell your wife?�

�No,� he said. �I never even told her I�d met you on the train.�

�It�s really silly, isn�t it?�

�It certainly is,� he said. �But you know, the truth of it is that most people just wouldn�t understand. If I told my wife... or anyone, for that matter... that I�d taken you to lunch...�

�And to a motel later...�

�To show you a film...�

�Who�d believe it?�

�There,� he said. �Let me just close these drapes.� He pulled them across the rod, darkening the room, and then snapped on the projector. As the leader came on, he adjusted the throw and the focus, and framed the film on the centre of the towel. �Here goes,� he said, just as a heraldic blast of trumpets sounded from the projector�s speaker. The film appeared on the towel. There were two ten-year-old children in the film. The children were singing.

�Hot buttered popcorn,� they sang,

�We like it, you like it.

�Hot buttered popcorn

�From Pike, it�s

�Great!�

The children were digging into a box of popcorn now. One of the children asked, �Do you like popcorn?�

�I love popcorn,� the other child said.

�Me, too.�

The children fell silent. On the screen, there were close shots of their hands digging into the box of popcorn, other close shots of the popcorn being transferred to their mouths. The camera pulled back to show their beaming faces.

�Good, huh?� the first child asked.

�Delicious,� the second child said.

�What is it?�

�Popcorn. What do you think it is?�

�Yeah, but what kind of popcorn?�

�Hot buttered popcorn.�

�I mean, the name.�

�Oh. I dunno.�

�Is this it here on the box?�

�Yeah, maybe.�

The camera panned down to the front of the popcorn box, and the words PIKE�S POPCORN printed on it.

�Pike�s!� one of the children shouted. �That�s the name!�

Together, they began singing again.

�Hot buttered popcorn,

�We like it, you like it.

�Hot buttered popcorn

�From Pike, it�s

�Great!�

The screen went blank. Frank snapped off the projector, and then turned on the room light. Millie was silent for what seemed an inordinately long time. Then she said, �I didn�t realise it would be in colour.�

�Yes, we shoot everything in colour nowadays,� he said. �What�d you think of it?�

�I don�t know what to say,� she said. �Did you write the song, too?�

�No, just the dialogue. Between the kids.�

�Oh,� Millie said.

�It was very easy and natural for me,� he said. �I have three kids of my own, you know.�

�Yes, you told me that. On the train. Two boys and a girl.�

�No, two girls and a boy,� he said.

�Yes. How old are they?�

�The boy�s nineteen. The girls are fifteen and thirteen.�

�That�s older than my girls,� Millie said. �Mine are eight and six.�

They looked at each other silently. The silence lengthened. And then, into the silence, the telephone suddenly shrilled, startling them both. He moved towards the phone, and then stopped dead in his tracks. The phone kept ringing. Finally he went to it, and warily lifted the receiver.

�Hello?� he said. �Who? No, there�s no Mr. ... oh, yes! Yes, this is Mr Mclntyre. The what? Yes, the Mercury is mine. In what? In the parking space for seventeen? Oh, yes, certainly, I�ll move it. Thank you.� He hung up, and looked at Millie. �I parked the car in the wrong space,� he said.

�Is that the name you used? Mclntyre?�

�Yes, well, I figured...�

�Oh, certainly, what�s the sense of...?�

�That�s what I figured. I�d better move the car. It�s supposed to be in sixteen.�

As he started for the door, she said, �Maybe we just ought to leave.�

�What?� he said.

�Well... you�ve shown me the film already. And since you have to move the car, anyway...�

�Yes, but we haven�t discussed it yet,� he said. �The film. In depth, I mean.�

�That�s true. But we could discuss it in depth in the car on the way back to the city.�

�Yes, I guess we could do that,� he said. �Is that what you�d like to do?�

�What would you like to do?�

�Well, I thought I�d move the car to number sixteen, and then maybe we could discuss the film afterwards. In depth. If that�s what you�d like to do.�

�Well, whatever you want to do.�

�Well, fine then.�

�Fine.�

�I�ll move the car,� he said quickly, and went out, and closed the door behind him. She debated sitting on the bed, and decided against it. She debated sitting in one of the chairs near the windows, and decided against that as well. She settled for leaning on the dresser. She was leaning on it when he came back into the room, blowing on his hands.

�Whoo, it�s cold out there,� he said. �I can�t remember a January this cold, can you?�

�You should have put on your coat.�

�Well, I figured just to move the car...�

�Did you move it?�

�Yep,� he said, �all taken care of. Room sixteen in space sixteen.�

�What kind of car was it?�

�Mine? Oh, you mean room seventeen. A big black Caddy. With a fat old man behind the wheel.�

�Alone?�

�No, he had a girl with him. A frumpy blonde.�

�Probably has a film he wants to show her,� Millie said, and smiled.

�Probably,� he said, and returned the smile. �So... what�d you think of it?� Without waiting for her answer, he said, �I got quite a bit of praise for it. In fact, the Head of Creation called me personally to...�

�God?�

�No, Hope. Hope Cromwell. She�s the agency�s creative head. That�s her official title.�

�What�s your official title?�

�Me? I�m just a copywriter, that�s all.�

�Well, I wouldn�t say just a copywriter.�

�Well, Hope�s a vice president, you see. I�m just...� He shrugged. �Just a copywriter.�

�Michael�s a vice president, too,� she said. �My husband. He�s a stockbroker, did I tell you that?� She paused, and then said, �Is Hope attractive?�

�No, no. Well, yes, I suppose so. I suppose you could call her attractive. I suppose you could call her a beautiful redhead.�

�Oh,� Millie said. �Is she a nice person, though?�

�Actually, she�s a pain sometimes.�

�So�s Michael,� Millie said. �Especially when he starts discussing futures. Are you, for example, interested in soy beans?�

�No, but men like to discuss their work, you know. I guess he...�

�Oh, I understand that. But I�ve never even seen a soy bean, have you?�

�I�ve seen soy bean sauce,� Frank said.

�But have you ever seen a soy bean itself?�

�Never.�

�So why should I be interested in something I�ve never seen in my entire life?�

�You shouldn�t.�

�Or its future,� Millie said. �Of course, Michael�s interesting in other ways. He has a mathematical turn of mind, you see. I�m a scatterbrain, but Michael...�

�I wouldn�t say that.�

�I am, believe me. If it weren�t for Michael, I wouldn�t know how to set the alarm clock. Well, I�m exaggerating, but you know what I mean. He has this very logical firm grasp on everything, whereas I just flit in and out and hardly know what I�m doing half the time. I�m very impulsive. I do things impulsively.�

�Like coming to lunch today,� Frank said.

�Yes. And like coming here to the motel.�

�That was impulsive for me, too,� he said.

�Well, it wasn�t as impulsive for you as it was for me. Because, after all, you did put the projector in your car last night.�

�That�s right,� Frank said. �Yes, in that respect, it wasn�t as impulsive, you�re right.�

�What would you have said if your wife saw you putting the projector in the car?�

�I guess I�d have said I was bringing it in for repair or something.�

�Would she have believed that? Does she trust you?�

�Oh, sure. I�ve never given her reason not to trust me. Why shouldn�t she trust me?�

�Well, if you go around sneaking movie projectors into your car...�

�I didn�t sneak it in. I just carried it out. She wasn�t even home, in fact.�

�Where was she?�

�At the shop. Mae owns a little antiques shop in Mamaroneck.�

�Oh? What�s it called?�

�Something Old.�

�Really?� Millie said. �That�s a darling shop! Does your wife really own it? I�ve been in there several times. Which one is your wife?�

�Well, there are only two of them in the shop, and one of them�s sixty years old. My wife�s the other one.�

�The little brunette? She�s very attractive. I bought an ironstone pitcher from her last month. What�d you say her name was?�

�Mae.�

�That�s a pretty name. Very springlike.�

�Yes. Well, it�s M-A-E, you understand.�

�Oh, not M-A-Y?�

�No, M-A-E,� he said, and they both fell silent.

�Well,� she said.

�Well,� he said.

�Did you register as Mr and Mrs Mclntyre?� she asked.

�Yes. Well, I couldn�t very well register as Mr and Mrs Di Santangelo, could I?�

�Why not?�

�I�d still be up there signing the card,� he said, and laughed. �Di Santangelo�s an unusually long name, you see.�

�My maiden name was longer. Are you ashamed of being Italian?� she asked abruptly.

�Ashamed? No, no, why should I be ashamed?�

�It just seems strange to me that you�d choose a Wasp name like Mclntyre...�

�It�s not a Wasp name.�

�Did you choose it last night? When you were putting the projector in the car?�

�No, I chose it when I was registering.�

�My mother would die on the spot if she knew I was in a motel room with a Wasp named Mclntyre.�

�It�s not Wasp, it�s Roman Catholic.�

�Worse yet,� Millie said. �Is your wife Italian, too?�

�She�s Scotch.�

�Do you think we can get something to drink?� Millie asked.

�As a matter of fact, I have a bottle in the car,� Frank said.

�My, you�re very well appointed, aren�t you?� she said, and smiled. �A projector in the trunk...�

�Well, I figured...�

�But maybe we just ought to leave,� she said. �Find a bar on the way back.�

�Oh, sure, we can do that, if you want to.�

�Is that what you want to do?�

�Well, this is a nice comfortable room, we might just as well... would you like a drink, Millie?�

�I would love a drink,� she said, and he rose instantly and started for the door. �But not if it�s any trouble.�

�No trouble at all,� he said, and went outside again.

She debated taking off her boots, and decided against it.

She sat on the edge of the bed instead. There was a Magic Fingers box on the side of the bed. She read the instructions silently, took off the boots after all, inserted a quarter into the box, and lay back on the bed. The bed was still vibrating when Frank came back into the room. He was carrying a brown paper bag.

�Are you having a massage?� he asked.

�It said �soothing and relaxing.��

�Is it?�

�It�s soothing,� she said. �I don�t know how relaxing it is.� The machine suddenly stopped, the bed stopped vibrating. �Ooo,� she said. �Now I miss it.�

�Shall I put another quarter in?�

�No, I think a drink might be more relaxing,� she said, and sat up. �I don�t ordinarily drink, you know. Michael�s the big drinker. Do you have a drink when you get home at night?�

�Oh, yes.�

�How many drinks do you have?�

�One or two. Usually two.�

�Michael also has one or two, but usually three. For a fellow who�s on such a strict diet, he sure knows how to put away his whiskey. Jewish men aren�t supposed to be big drinkers, you know. There are statistics on that sort of thing.� She smiled and said, �I probably married the only Jew in Larchmont who has three glasses of whiskey before dinner. Big glasses, too.�

�Are you from Larchmont originally?� Frank asked.

�No, the Bronx. Michael was born in Larchmont, though. We met at a dance. He used to play alto saxophone in a band. Would you like to hear something strange? The first time he took me out, he told me he was going to marry me. Don�t you think that�s strange?�

�No, that�s what I told Mae the first time I dated her.�

�Really?�

�Mm-huh. Let me get some glasses and ice,� he said, and went into the bathroom.

�Is there a little instruction booklet or something?� Millie asked.

�No, just the ice machine,� he said. �Under the sink here.�

�I mean, that you fellows consult before dating a girl for the first time. I think it�s extraordinary that you and Michael would have used the same line on two separate girls. Don�t you think that�s extraordinary?�

�No,� he said, coming out of the bathroom. �In fact, it wasn�t a line with me. I really meant it.� He walked to the dresser, and poured Scotch into both glasses. �I knew immediately that I wanted to marry her. Did you want water in this?�

�No, thanks,� she said.

Frank handed her one of the glasses. �Well... cheers,� he said, and clinked his glass against hers.

�Cheers,� Millie said, and drank. �Wow!� she said.

�Too strong? I can...�

�No, no, it�s fine,� she said, gasping. �Before you got married...?�

�Yes?�

�Did you go to bed with your wife? I don�t mean to be personal.�

�No, no, that�s a perfectly legitimate question. We�re both adults, after all, and if we�re going to be honest with each other, we should be entirely honest.�

�Precisely,� Millie said. �Did you go to bed with her?�

�Yes.�

�A lot?�

�Every now and then,� Frank said. �We were at school together, you see. The University of Pennsylvania. It was very convenient.�

�It was very convenient for Michael and me, too.�

�It�s even more convenient for the kids nowadays. My son, for example...�

�How old did you say he was?�

�Nineteen. He�s a sophomore at Yale.�

�Does he have a beard?�

�A moustache.�

�Michael has a moustache, too.�

�I was saying that the kids don�t give a second thought to it nowadays. It�s all very natural and casual with them.�

�Natural maybe,� Millie said, �but I don�t think casual.�

�Well, it should be a very natural thing, you know. Sex, I mean.�

�Yes, but not casual. I don�t think it should be casual, do you? Sex, I mean.�

�No. But I do think it should be natural. Would you like to take off your jacket or something?�

�It is warm in here, isn�t it?� She took off the suit jacket, and tossed it to the foot of the bed. �You were saying about your wife...�

�My wife?�

�About sleeping with her all the time.�

�Well, not all the time. But we were on the same campus for four years.�

�That�s a long time to be sleeping with somebody.�

�Especially if her father is a Methodist minister,� Frank said.

�My father runs a Buick agency in the Bronx,� Millie said. �Did you deliberately set out to marry a Wasp? I mean, because you�re ashamed of being Italian and all?�

�Hey, come on,� Frank said, laughing, �I�m not ashamed of being Italian. And besides, I don�t think of Mae as a Wasp.�

�What do you think of her as?�

�A woman,� he said, and shrugged. �My wife. Whom I happen to love very much.�

�I happen to love Michael very much, too,� she said, �though he is a pain sometimes. This is very good, this Scotch. No wonder Michael belts it down every night. Could I have just a teeny little bit more?�

He took the bottle of Scotch from the dresser and went to her, and poured more of it into her glass, and then sat on the edge of the bed beside her.

�Thank you,� she said.

�You�re welcome,� he said.

�That must have been very nice,� she said, �going to an out-of-town college, I mean. I went to N.Y.U. I used to commute from the Bronx every day.�

�When did you graduate?�

�Ten years ago. In fact, Michael and I went to a reunion just before Christmas. It was ghastly. Everyone looked so old.�

�How old are you, Millie?�

�Thirty-two,� she said.

�Do you realise that when I started at the University of Pennsylvania you were still being pushed around in a baby carriage?�

�You�re how old? Forty-six?�

�Four.�

�That�s only twelve years older than I am,� she said, and shrugged.

�Exactly my point. When I was twenty-two...�

�Why�d you start college so late?�

�I was in the Army. My point is that when I was starting college... did you want some more of this?�

�Just a drop, please,� she said, and held out her glass again. He poured liberally into it, and she raised her eyebrows and said, �That�s like one of Michael�s drops.�

�Anyway, when I was starting college, you were only ten years old.�

�Yes, but that�s not in a baby carriage.�

�No, but it�s very young.�

Sipping at her drink, she said, �Is that why you want to make love to me?�

�What?� he said.

�Make love,� she said. �To me,� she said. �Because I�m twelve years younger than you are?�

�Well, who... well, who said anything about...?�

�Well, you do want to make love to me, don�t you?�

�Well, yes, but...�

�Well, is that the reason?�

�Well, that�s part of it, yes.�

�What�s the other part? That I�m Jewish?�

�No. What�s that got to do with...?�

�If that�s part of it, I really don�t mind,� she said. �A lot of Gentiles find Jewish girls terribly attractive. And vice versa. Jewish girls, I mean. Finding Italian men attractive.�

She looked at him steadily over the rim of her glass. She rose then, and walked to the dresser, and put her glass down, and began unbuttoning her blouse.

The motel courtyard was washed with sunshine, the trees were in full leaf. It was April, and Millie was wearing a bright cotton dress that echoed the blues, greens, and yellows of the season. Frank was wearing a business suit, but the tie he wore seemed geared to spring as well � a riot of daisies rampant on a pale green field. He unlocked the door knowledgeably, and removed the key with familiar dexterity. Millie entered the room first. She went swiftly to the dresser and put down her bag. As Frank locked the door from the inside, she went quickly to the drapes and pulled them closed across the windows. Frank threw the slip bolt and was turning away from the door, when Millie rushed into his arms. She kissed him passionately, and then moved out of his arms and disappeared into the bathroom.

Frank went to one of the easy chairs. He turned on the lamp between the chairs, and then began taking off his shoes and socks. Millie came out of the bathroom, carrying a facial tissue. She went to the mirror and began wiping off her lipstick. Frank took off his jacket. Millie slipped out of her pumps. Frank carried his jacket to the clothes rack, and hung it neatly on a wire hanger. Millie padded over to him barefooted, turned her back to him, lifted her hair from the nape of her neck and waited for him to lower the zipper on her dress.

�What�s the use?� he said.

�Huh?� she said, and turned to look at him, puzzled.

�What�s the use, what�s the use?� he said despairingly, and went to one of the chairs, and sat in it, and began wringing his hands. �How am I supposed to put my heart in this when my mind�s a hundred miles away? She�s driving me crazy, Millie. If she doesn�t stop, I�ll just have to leave, that�s all.�

�Leave?� Millie asked, surprised.

�Leave, leave, right,� he said, and rose and began pacing in front of the dresser. �I�ve warned her. I�ve told her a hundred times. She can�t treat me this way, damn it. I�m not some adolescent kid fresh out of college.�

�You�ve told her?� Millie said, and her eyes opened wide.

�A hundred times. More often than that. Repeatedly. Over and over again. A thousand times. Then today...�

Alarmed, Millie said, �What happened today?�

�What�s today?�

�Tuesday. You know it�s Tuesday. We meet every Tuesday.�

�I mean the date. What�s the date?�

�April sixth.�

�Right. So that means she was five days late to begin with. So what�s she jumping all over me for?�

�Five days late?�

�Right. And she yells at me about it. When she�s really the one to blame.�

�Frank, I thought we agreed a long time ago that we wouldn�t discuss anything like this.�

�Like what?�

�Like Mae or Michael.�

�Who�s discussing Mae or Michael? I�m talking about Hope. Hope Cromwell. She came in first thing this morning and said, �Where is it?� So I reminded her that she�d only told me about the damn thing Friday, five days after it was due, and she said it seemed to her it shouldn�t take that long to do a thirty-second spot when I knew the client was waiting for a presentation, and maybe I�d get the material in on time if I didn�t take such long lunch hours every Tuesday. So I told her to take a look at her own lunch hour, which starts at eleven in the morning and ends at three, so don�t talk to me about long lunch hours, baby.�

�Did you really say that?�

�I certainly did.�

�You called her �baby�?�

�No, no, I wouldn�t call her �baby�. The point is I don�t like being bawled out for something that�s not my fault. And anyway, if I want to take a long lunch hour every Tuesday, so what? I�ve got half a mind to tell her what she can do with the job.�

�Why don�t you?�

�Huh?�

�Why don�t you call her and tell her what she can do with the job?�

�Tell Hope, you mean?�

�Sure.�

�Well, she�s probably out to lunch right now.�

�Let�s try her,� Millie said, and went to the phone.

�Well, perhaps it�s best not to act too impulsively,� he said. �There are millions of copy writers in New York, all of them just as good as I am.�

�I doubt that very much,� Millie said. She lifted the receiver and handed it to him. �Call her.�

�Just a second, Mil,� he said. �Let me think about this a minute, okay?�

�What�s there to think about? Just tell her, that�s all.�

�I�ll tell her when I get back to the office.�

�Do you promise?�

�I promise.�

Millie put the receiver back onto the cradle, and turned her back to him again. Lifting the hair from the nape of her neck, she lowered her head and waited for him to unzip her dress. �You don�t have to take that kind of abuse, Frank,� she said. �You�re a very good copywriter.�

�Yeah,� he said, and lowered the zipper.

�So tell her.�

�I will,� he said, �don�t worry.� He unknotted his tie and threw it onto the seat of the closest chair. Unbuttoning his shirt, he said, �I�ll tell her I don�t have to take that kind of abuse.�

�Right.�

�I�ll tell her I don�t like to be blamed for something that�s not my fault. She should have told me about the presentation earlier.�

�That�s right, she should have.�

�Damn right, she should have,� Frank said. �I�ll tell her there are millions of copywriters in this city, but not many of them are as good as I am. And if she continues to hand out the kind of abuse she did this morning, I�ll just head over to one of the other agencies where they won�t treat me like an adolescent.�

�Good,� Millie said, �tell her.� In bra, half-slip and panties, she padded to the clothes rack and hung up her dress.

�As for the lunch hour,� he said, gathering steam, �I�ll tell her to stop behaving as if it�s a banquet! It isn�t a banquet, it�s just an ordinary long lunch hour, and that�s that.� He nodded, took off his shirt, and draped it over the back of one of the chairs. Millie was silent for what seemed like a long time.

�Frank, have you ever done anything like this before?� she asked suddenly.

�With another woman, do you mean?�

�Yes, with another woman.�

�Besides Mae, do you mean?�

�Yes, besides Mae.�

�Never,� he said. �Why? Have you?�

Millie walked to the air conditioner. �Do you think this thing works?� she asked, and stabbed at a button on its face. �There,� she said, and went to the bed, and neatly folded back the spread, and then carried it to one of the chairs.

�Millie?� he said. �You haven�t answered my question. Have you ever?�

�Have I ever what?�

�Done this?�

�With another man, do you mean?�

�Yes, with another man.�

�Besides Michael, do you mean?�

�Yes, besides Michael.�

�Do you want an honest answer?�

�Of course I want an honest answer.�

�Yes,� she said.

�Jesus!� he said.

�You wanted to know.�

�Who was it?�

�Another man.�

�I know that! Who?�

�You don�t know him. His name is Paul.�

�Where�d you meet him?�

�In the Chock Full O�Nuts on Sheridan Square.�

�Having a nice long lunch, was he?�

�No, he was eating a cream cheese sandwich on toasted raisin bread.�

�I don�t want to know anything else about him,� Frank said. �In fact, I think we�d better get dressed.�

�Why?�

�Because I want to leave.� He went to the chair and picked up his shirt. He started to put it on, but one of the sleeves was pulled inside out. Angrily, he shoved at the sleeve, and finally managed to get his arm through it.

�He�s a sculptor,� Millie said.

�I don�t care what he is.�

�I posed for him once. Just my belly button.�

�Your what?� Frank said.

�He does belly buttons. Not always, you understand. That was his project at the time. When I met him. He was doing these enormous sculptures of belly buttons. It was really quite fascinating. I mean, things take on a completely different perspective when you see them larger than...�

�I don�t want to hear about your goddamn sculptor and his belly buttons!� Frank shouted. Calming himself, he said, �Get dressed, please,� and began buttoning his shirt.

�He filled a very important need in my life,� Millie said softly.

�I�m sure he did.�

�And I could hardly have known at the time that I was going to meet you on the eight forty-six from Larchmont. Besides, I stopped seeing him right after I met you. In February.�

�That�s not right after you met me,� Frank said. �That�s a full month after you met me.�

�Well, it takes time to end things,� she said.

�More time than it takes to begin them, I�m sure.�

�Now you sound like Michael.�

�Oh, did you tell him about your sculptor, too?�

�Of course not.�

�How come I�m so privileged?�

�I thought you�d understand.�

�I don�t. Put on your clothes, and let�s get out of here.�

�I wasn�t looking for anything, Frank, I hope you realise that. It just happened.�

�How? What�d you do, show him your navel in the middle of Chock Full O�Nuts?�

�I didn�t do anything of the sort.�

�Then how�d he know he wanted to sculpt your navel? There are six million women in the city of New York, how�d he happen to pick your navel?�

�He picked a lot of navels,� Millie said. �Not only mine.�

�How many?�

�At least fifty of them.�

�Now that�s sordid, that�s positively sordid,� Frank said.

�It wasn�t sordid at all.�

�Where�d you pose for him?�

�He has a big loft in Greenwich Village. There. But not the same day.�

�Oh, that makes an enormous difference. When did he sculpt you, if you�ll pardon the expression?�

�A month later. On October sixth.�

�You remember the exact date, huh?� Frank said. �That really is sordid, Millie, remembering the exact date.�

�Only because it was his birthday,� she said.

�What�d you do? Drop in on the loft, strip down and yell �Happy Birthday, Paul!��

�Not Paul�s birthday. Michael�s.�

�Oh, Jesus!� Frank said.

�And I didn�t just go there. Paul called and asked me to come.�

�Oh, you gave him your number, did you?�

�He looked it up, the same as you.�

�He seems to have done a lot of things the same as me,� Frank said. �Will you for God�s sake get dressed?�

�It was just like open heart surgery,� Millie said.

�What was?� Frank asked.

�Doing my navel. I didn�t have to expose any other part of me. He had me all covered up with a sheet, except for my navel. It was very professional.�

�When did it start getting unprofessional?� Frank said, and whipped his tie from the seat of the chair, and walked angrily to the mirror.

�After he cast it in bronze.�

�Did he put it on the living room table?� Frank asked, and lifted his collar and slid the tie under it, and then began knotting the tie, and had to start all over again because somehow he�d forgotten how to knot a tie. �I think that would�ve been touching,� he said. �A bronze belly button instead of a pair of baby shoes.�

�It would�ve been too big to put on a table, anyway,� Millie said. �I told you, the whole idea of the project was...�

�The whole idea of the project,� Frank said, �was to get fifty stupid housewives into bed with him!�

�We weren�t all housewives,� Millie said.

Calming himself again, carefully knotting his tie, Frank said, �In any case, Millie, I think we should leave. I don�t know how to sculpt, you see. I wouldn�t know how to sculpt a goddamn navel. Or how to pick up a goddamn lady in the Chock Full O�Nuts on Sheridan Square.�

�You did fine on the eight forty-six from Larchmont,� she said.

�Oh, I did. I see. I�m the one who seduced the innocent little housewife, led her down the garden...�

�Well, I certainly didn�t have the movie projector in my trunk!�

The telephone rang, shocking them into silence. They both turned to look at it, but neither made a move for it. The phone kept ringing.

�Why don�t you get it?� Frank said. �Maybe it�s Paul. Maybe he�s doing buttocks this week.�

Millie did not answer him. With great dignity, she padded to the phone, and lifted the receiver. �Hello?� she said. �Who? Yes, just a moment, please.� She held out the receiver to Frank. �It�s the manager. He wants to talk to Mr Mclntyre.�

Frank took the receiver from her. �Hello?� he said. �Yes? The what�s too loud?� He looked across the room at the television set. �It isn�t even on,� he said, �so how can it be on too loud? Well, you just tell the man in seventeen that perhaps the television on the other side of him is on. In eighteen, that�s right. Tell him it is not on in sixteen. Goodbye,� he said, and banged down the receiver. �Stupid ass,� he said. �Good thing we won�t be coming back here anymore.�

In a very tiny voice, Millie said, �Won�t we?�

They looked at each other silently.

�I didn�t know you�d get so angry,� she said. �I�m sorry.�

�Then why�d you tell me, Millie?�

�I had to.�

�Why?�

�Because of what you said.�

�When?�

�Just a little while ago.�

�What did I say?�

�You said this wasn�t a banquet.�

�Huh?�

�You said it was just an ordinary long lunch hour. Well, to me it�s a banquet. And if it�s just an ordinary long lunch hour to you, then you can go to hell. If you�re in the habit of taking lots of women to a motel in New Jersey...�

�I have never...�

�Putting a projector in your trunk...�

�I have never...�

�And showing them your lousy sixty-second commercial...�

�I thought you liked my commercial,� he said.

�Not if it�s been seen by every stupid housewife in the city of New York!�

�It�s been seen by stupid housewives all over America,� Frank said. �It�s been aired approximately two hundred and twenty times. Listen, Millie, how did you suddenly become the injured party? I�m the injured party here. I�m the one who�s been betrayed.�

�Betrayed?� she said. �Oh my God, you sound just like Michael.�

�Leave Michael out of this, if you don�t mind. Let�s get back to Paul.�

�Why? Paul was nothing but an ordinary long lunch hour.�

�A little while ago, you said he filled a very important need in your life.�

�That�s right, he did.�

�You can�t have it both ways, Millie. Either he was meaningful or he was a cream cheese sandwich on wholewheat.�

�Toasted raisin.�

�Whatever.�

�He was both.�

�Perhaps you�d like to explain that.�

�Perhaps I wouldn�t.�

�Fine. Let�s get dressed.�

�Fine,� she said.

She walked angrily to the rack, took her dress off its wire hanger, and slipped it over her head. �I thought you�d understand, but apparently you�ve never been neglected in your own home.� He did not answer. �Apparently Mae adores you completely,� she said, walking to him. She turned her back to him, and he zipped up her dress. �Thank you,� she said. �Apparently Mae never treated you in a way that might force you to consider addressing a stranger in Chock Full O�Nuts. But when someone is concerned solely with Puts and Takes and selling short, then perhaps a woman may feel the need for conversation...�

�Conversation!� Frank said. �Jesus!�

�Yes, with someone whose interests extend beyond commodities. With someone who doesn�t think of a woman as just another commodity. Paul thought of me...�

�As just another navel,� Frank said.

She stared at him icily, and then said, �Paul thought of me as a very exciting individual. That�s how he filled a need in my life. And that�s why I�ll always be grateful to him.�

�Fine,� Frank said, and put on his jacket. �Are you ready?�

�Not quite,� Millie said. �Which isn�t to say that I didn�t enjoy the other aspect as well.�

�Millie,� he said, �you have said it all, you have really said it all. Now let�s just get out of here, okay?�

�I�m not dressed yet,� she said, and sat and put on her pumps, and then walked to the dresser and rummaged in her bag for her lipstick. �Haven�t you ever felt like going to bed with somebody?�

�I have,� he said.

�Not Mae, I mean.�

�Not Mae.�

�Who?�

�Hope.�

�Hope? The Head of Creation?�

�Yes.�

�Hope!�

�That�s right.�

�That�s disgusting,� Millie said. �She�s your boss!�

�She�s also a beautiful redhead.�

�And a Wasp besides,� Millie said.

�She happens to be an atheist.�

�Has Mae ever met her?�

�She has.�

�Does she like her?�

�Not particularly.�

�Good,� Millie said, and capped the lipstick and dropped it into her bag. �I�m ready,� she said.

�Let�s go then.�

�Let�s go,� she said, and started for the door, and then suddenly stopped, and turned back to look into the room.

�Got everything?� he asked.

She hesitated.

�What�d you leave?�

�Nothing, I guess,� she said, and shook her head. At the door, she hesitated again, and then said, �Frank, there�s just one thing I�d like to know. Why do you find Paul so threatening?�

�I do not find him in the least threatening,� he said.

�Then why are you so angry?�

�I am not in the slightest bit angry,� he said.

�I was stupid to tell you,� she said, and shook her head again. �Michael�s right. Stupid is stupid, that�s all.� She sighed, and then said, �Let�s go.�

�What do you mean, Michael�s right?�

�He�s right, that�s all. He thinks I�m stupid, and I am.�

�You are definitely not stupid,� Frank said.

�Michael thinks so. Maybe that�s because he�s so smart.�

�Has he ever actually said he thinks you�re stupid?�

�Not in so many words. But what he does is, I�ll make a suggestion about something, you know, and he�ll say, Thank you, Millicent,� with just the proper inflection and tone, you know, to make me feel like an absolute moron. As far as he�s concerned, if I keep my mouth shut and dress the girls properly and help him watch his damn calories, that�s enough. Do you want to know something, Frank? I�ve known you for only four months, and I feel closer to you than I do to my own husband. What do you think of that?�

He did not answer.

�Well, it�s true,� she said. �Which is why I can�t understand why you feel threatened about something that happened...�

�I don�t feel threatened.�

�You all feel threatened,� she said. �If I�d ever told Michael about even posing for Paul, he�d probably have hit me or something.�

�What do you mean? Are you trying to tell me he beats you?�

�Don�t be silly, he�s Jewish.�

�So was Louis Lepke,� Frank said.

�Yes, but he got mixed up with a lot of Italians. Now don�t get offended.�

�I�m not offended.�

�You do find it threatening, don�t you?�

�No, I don�t find it threatening,� he said. �In fact, I find it lovely. In fact I find it delightful that you picked up a belly-button sculptor, and posed for him, and went to bed with him, and can still remember the exact date, October eighth...�

�Sixth,� she corrected.

�Yes, I find that all perfectly damn wonderful,� he said, his voice rising. �I thought we were, for Christ�s sake, supposed to be in love with each other! I thought we were supposed to be able to trust each other and...�

There was a sudden hammering on the wall opposite the bed. Frank stopped mid-sentence, and turned to look at the wall.

�The black Cadillac,� Millie whispered.

There was more hammering now, louder this time.

�Stop that banging!� Frank shouted, and it stopped immediately. �Fat bastard,� he said, and Millie giggled. �Thinks he owns the place. Move the car, lower the television, bang, bang, bang with his goddamn fist!� He glared at the wall. Millie was still giggling. �Go ahead!� he shouted. �I dare you to hit that wall one more goddamn time!�

There was no further hammering. Frank turned from the wall. Millie had stopped giggling. She was watching him steadily.

�Are we supposed to be in love with each other?� she asked.

�That was my understanding,� he said quietly.

�That was my understanding, too,� she said. She walked to him, and turned her back to him, and lifted the hair from the nape of her neck. He reached for the zipper at the back of her dress, and gently lowered it.

It was October outside, but the drapes were drawn, and in the room it might have been any season. The bedclothes were rumpled, and a pillow was on the carpeted floor. Millie, in lavender tights and brassiere was applying lipstick at the mirror. In the bathroom, Frank was singing loudly. He sang badly off-key, and she could not recognise the tune.

�Frank?� she said.

�Mm?�

�Don�t you think you should call her?�

Frank came out of the bathroom, a towel around his waist, his hair wet. He had been growing a moustache for the past month, and he wore it with supreme confidence.

�What, honey?� he said.

�Don�t you think you should call Hope?�

�What for?�

�It�s pretty late. She...�

�Hell with her,� he said, and picked up his shorts and trousers, and went back into the bathroom again.

Millie put the cap on her lipstick, dropped it into the bag, and then picked up her hairbrush. Brushing out her hair, she said, �You still haven�t told me why Mae closed the shop so suddenly?�

�I guess she just got tired of it,� he said.

�Maybe she took a lover,� Millie said.

�What?� Frank said, and came out of the bathroom in his shorts.

�I said maybe she...�

�I doubt that sincerely,� Frank said.

�It�s a possibility,� Millie said, and shrugged.

�I doubt it.�

�You forgot to say sincerely.�

�I think she just got bored with selling antiques, that�s all,� he said, and stepped into his trousers and zipped up the fly.

�Probably the pitcher that did it,� Millie said. �My returning the ironstone pitcher. Michael says that stores operating on a small volume...�

�Mae�s shop wasn�t Bloomingdale�s,� Frank said, �but I�m sure a refund on a pitcher that cost fifteen dollars...�

�Seventeen dollars.�

�...wouldn�t drive her out of business. Anyway, why�d you return it?�

�I didn�t like having a pitcher belonging to another woman.�

�It didn�t belong to her. The moment you bought it, it became yours.�

�It still seemed like hers.� Brushing her hair, evenly stroking it, she said, �Would you like to know why she sold the shop? I can tell you, if you�d like to know.�

�Why�d she sell it?�

�Because of your trip last month.�

�My trip?�

�Mmm. Your second honeymoon,� Millie said.

�You mean the trip to Antigua?�

�Well, where else did you go last month?�

�That was not a second honeymoon,� he said. �Have you seen my shirt? Where�d my shirt disappear to?�

�I meant to tell you, by the way, that September is the hurricane season down there. Why anyone would go to Antigua in September is beyond me.�

Frank lifted the bedspread from one of the chairs; his shirt was not under it. �We had beautiful weather,� he said.

�Then why didn�t you come back with a tan? All you came back with was a moustache.�

�I also came back with a tan. Now where the hell is that shirt?�

�Not a very good tan, Frank. Would you like to know why? Because it was a second honeymoon, that�s why. It�s a little difficult to get a tan when you�re up in the room all day long.�

�We were not up in the room all day long,� he said, and got down on his knees and looked under the bed. �Now how did it get there?� he said, and reached under the bed.

�Then where were you?� Millie asked.

�In the water, most of the time.�

�Suppose a shark had bitten off your leg?�

�There were no sharks,� he said, and stood up, and shook out the shirt.

�A barracuda then. How could you have driven here to New Jersey with only one leg?�

�I�m back,� he said, putting on the shirt, �and I still have both my legs, so obviously...�

�Yes, but you never once gave it a minute�s thought, did you? When you were scuba-diving down there.�

�I was snorkelling.�

�What�s the difference?�

�Snorkelling is recreational. That�s the only reason I do it. For recreation.�

�Why�d you have to go all the way to Antigua to do it?�

�Mae wanted to go to Antigua.�

�So naturally, you went. Never mind me.�

�Millie, I was only gone for a lousy three weeks!�

�Twenty-four days, if we choose to be precise. And you never called me once,� she said, and threw the hairbrush into her bag, and crossed the room to the clothes rack, and took her blouse from a wire hanger.

�I couldn�t phone,� he said. �We were on the beach most of the day.�

�Didn�t you ever come off the beach?� Millie asked, and put on the blouse.

�We came off the beach, yes,� Frank said. �But there wasn�t a phone in the room. The only phone was in the lobby.�

�Then why didn�t you go up to the lobby and call from there?� she said, buttoning the blouse.

�Because it took hours to get through to the States.�

�Oh, then you did call the States,� she said, and turned to face him.

�Yes, I called the office once to see how the new campaign was shaping up.�

�But you couldn�t call me,� she said.

�Millie, this was a very isolated little hotel, with these small cottages on the beach, and...�

�Honeymoon cottages,� she said.

�Suppose Mae had seen me making a phone call?�

�You could have told her you were calling the office to check on your brilliant campaign.�

�I�d already called the office, and they�d told me my brilliant campaign was shaping up fine.�

�I still think you could have called me, Frank. If you hadn�t been so busy growing a moustache...�

�A man isn�t busy growing a moustache. It grows all by itself.�

�Yes, and there�s a very definite connection, too. Between a moustache and sexuality.�

�Take Michael, for example.�

�Don�t change the subject. If you hadn�t been so involved with Mae, if you hadn�t been enjoying your second honeymoon so much...�

�Millie, it was not...�

�Which, of course, is why she sold the damn shop ten minutes after you got back. She simply didn�t need it any more. She found her husband again.�

�Millie, it was not a second honeymoon. And I don�t think the Antigua trip was the reason Mae sold the shop. And I would have called you if it was at all possible; but it wasn�t. Would you hand me my tie, please?�

�I still think you could have called,� Millie said, and handed him the tie, and then said, �I went to bed with Paul while you were gone.�

�What!� he said, dropping the tie. �Why the hell did you do that?�

�Oh, for recreation,� she said airily.

He stared at her silently, and then picked up the tie, and turned to the mirror.

�I figured...�

�I�m not interested,� he said.

�That�s exactly what I figured. A man goes away for three weeks...�

�Twenty-four days.�

�Yes, and doesn�t even call the woman he professes to love so madly...�

�Yes, so the woman runs back to a two-bit sculptor she used to screw every Tuesday!� Frank shouted.

�Right!� she shouted back, and suddenly there was a hammering on the wall.

�Oh, hell!� Frank said. The hammering stopped. �You know what he does in there?� he asked Millie. �He�s not at all interested in that frumpy little blonde he brings here every week. All he does is sit in there and wait for us to raise our voices so he can jump up on the bed and bang on the wall. You hear that, you fat bastard?� he shouted. The man next door immediately hammered on the wall again. Frank went to the wall and began banging on it himself. The hammering on the other side stopped at once. Satisfied, he went back to the mirror and began knotting his tie.

�It was awful with Paul,� Millie said.

�Good.�

�Do you know what he�s into these days? Sculpting, I mean.�

�Nipples, I would imagine,� Frank said.

�Ears. His whole studio is full of these giant-sized ears.�

�Let me know when he gets to the good part, will you?�

�These huge ears all over the place.� She shook her head in wonder. �All the while we were making love, I had the feeling somebody was listening to us.� She went to the clothes rack, took down her skirt, and stepped into it. �I don�t know why I went there,� she said. �Maybe I sensed what was about to happen.�

The telephone rang. Frank went to it instantly, and picked up the receiver. �Hello?� he said. �Yes, this is Mr Mclntyre. Really?� he said. �Banging on the wall?

No, I don�t think so. Just a minute, please.� He turned to Millie, and said, �Darling, were you banging on the wall?� Then, into the phone again, he said, �No, nobody here was banging on the wall. Maybe it�s the plumbing. Have you had the plumbing checked lately? Well, that�s what I would suggest. Goodbye.� He hung up, went to the dresser again, scooped his change, keys, and wallet off the top of it, and put them into his pockets.

�Frank?� she said. �Do you think we�re finished?�

�No,� he said immediately.

�I think we are,� she said.

�Millie,� he said, �let�s get a couple of things straight, okay?�

�Okay.�

�Number one, the trip to Antigua was not a second honeymoon. The situation between Mae and me has not changed an iota.�

�What�s the situation?�

�Mae and I love each other, but we are not in love with each other.�

�You�re comfortable with each other, right?�

�Right.�

�Just a pair of comfortable old bedroom slippers tucked under the bed, right?�

�Right.�

�Then why didn�t you come back with a tan?� Millie said.

�Millie, let�s get a couple of things straight, okay?� he said.

�We already got the first thing straight,� she said, �so what�s the second thing?�

�The second thing is that I still feel the same way about you. I�ll always feel the same way about you, in fact.�

�That�s very nice,� she said. �How do you feel about me?�

�I�m in love with you.�

�But you don�t love me.�

�It�s the same thing, Millie. Being in love with someone and loving someone...�

�How come with me it�s the same thing, but with Mae it�s a totally different thing? A minute ago you were a pair of old bedroom slippers...�

�I�ve known Mae for twenty-two years,� he said. �I�ve only known you for ten months.�

�And twelve days.�

�Who�s counting?� Frank said.

�I am, damn it!� Millie said.

�I don�t think you understand what I�m trying to...�

�I understand fine,� Millie said, and walked to where she�d left her pumps near one of the easy chairs. Sitting, she said, �Mae�s your wife, and I�m your Tuesday afternoon roll-in-the-hay.�

�Millie, that isn�t...�

�Look, Frank, you�re Italian and you�ve got all these romantic notions about being in love, but actually I think what you really enjoy most about coming here is the idea that I�m some kind of whore or something.�

�I have never thought of you as...�

�Have you ever thought of me as a mother, Frank?�

�A mother!�

�I have two children, you know. I have two adorable little girls that I made. Me. Personally.�

�With a little help from Michael, I assume.�

�What would you do if, with a little help from Michael, I got pregnant again? I can just imagine how that would sit with you. Big fat belly marching in here every week, what would that do to the image of the bimbo on the Via Margherita?�

�The what?�

�The Via Margherita. That�s where Italian men keep their little pastries.�

�I�m not an Italian man, I�m an American man.�

�Right, you�re Mr Mclntyre, right?�

�I�m Mr Di Santangelo, but I don�t have a bimbo on the Via Margherita, wherever the hell that may be. As a matter of fact, I don�t have a bimbo anywhere.�

�As a matter of fact, you have one right here in New Jersey,� Millie said. She reached down for one of her pumps, and without looking up at him, slipped her foot into it and said, �Michael wants to have another baby.� She put on the other shoe and only then looked up at him.

�What should I do?� she asked.

�That�s up to you and Michael, isn�t it?�

�It�s also up to you,� she said.

�Why don�t we arrange a meeting then? Three of us can discuss it, decide what we...�

�Do you want me to have a baby, Frank?�

�No,� he said flatly.

�Why not?�

�I hate babies,� he said.

�It wouldn�t be your baby.�

�I hate anybody�s babies.�

�How can a man who hates babies write a popcorn commercial with two little kids...?�

�That has nothing to do with it. I hate popcorn, too.�

�You�d never even see this baby,� Millie said. �All I�m trying to find out is whether you like the idea of me having one, that�s all.�

�No, I don�t like the idea.�

�Why not?�

�I don�t like the idea of your having another man�s baby.�

�Another man? He�s my husband!�

�Anyway, what is this, a conspiracy or something? Is everybody in the whole world having a baby all of a sudden?�

�What?�

�Nothing,� he said, and went immediately to the clothes rack, and took his jacket from its hanger.

�Who�s having a baby all of a sudden?� she asked.

�Millions of women,� Frank said. �Chinese women are having them right in the fields. As they plant the rice seedlings, they...�

�Never mind Chinese women, how many American women are having babies that you know of?�

�Right this minute, do you mean?�

�No, I mean nine months from last month when you and Mae were in Antigua working so hard on your suntans.�

�Mae, do you mean?�

�Is Mae pregnant?�

�Who? Mae?�

�Mae. Is she?�

�Yes,� he said.

�Which is why she ran out instantly to sell her little shop, right?�

�I don�t know why...�

�Probably at Bloomingdale�s this very minute, picking out a bassinette.�

�Millie...�

�Knitting little booties in her spare time,� she said, her voice rising, �papering the guest room with pictures of funny little animals! How could you do this to me, Frank?�

�To you?�

�Yes, to me!� she shouted. �Who the hell do you think?...�

�Please lower your voice,� he said. �If he bangs on the wall one more time, he�ll put a hole through it.�

Whispering, Millie said, �Didn�t you once consider the possibility that...�

�What? Now I can�t hear you at all.�

In her normal speaking voice, but enunciating each and every word clearly and distinctly, Millie said, �Didn�t you once consider the possibility that the thought of Mae having a baby might prove distressing to your lady friend on the Via Margherita?�

�Oh, cut it out with that Via Margherita stuff.�

�Didn�t you?�

�Do you know what you sound like, Millie?�

�What do I sound like?�

�A jealous wife.�

�I suppose I do,� she said. �But I�m not your wife, am I? I�m no more your wife than she is.� She gestured towards the wall and the room next door. �To him, I mean. The man who bangs on the wall.�

�Millie, I don�t think you need equate us with a frumpy blonde and a fat old man.�

�To him, she isn�t a frumpy blonde,� Millie said. �To him, she�s all perfume and lace, the girl on the Via Margherita. All right to open these drapes now?� she asked.

�Sure,� he said.

She pulled the drapes back on their rod. Sunlight splashed into the room. The day outside was clear and bright, the courtyard lined with the brilliant reds and oranges of autumn. She turned from the window, the sunlight behind her.

Frank looked at his watch. �We�d better get going,� he said. �Hope�s got a meeting scheduled for...�

�Just a few minutes more, Frank,� she said. �I gave you plenty of time on the train, when we were just beginning. I think you can give me a few minutes now... when we�re about to end.�

�End?�

�Yes, what do you think we�re talking about here?�

�Not ending, Millie.�

�No? Then what?�

�I don�t know. But two people can�t simply end something after ten months together.� He looked at his watch again. �Millie, really, we�ve got to go now, really. We�ll talk about it tomorrow, okay? I�ll call you in the morning...�

The telephone rang.

He looked at the phone, and then he looked at his watch again. The phone kept ringing, but he made no move to answer it. Millie went to it, and lifted the receiver, and said, �Hello?� and then listened, and then said, �No, I�m sorry, Mr Mclntyre isn�t here.� Gently, she replaced the receiver on the cradle. �The manager,� she said.

�What did he want?�

�I don�t know. The television�s off, and neither of us is yelling, and no one�s banging on the wall.� She shrugged. �Maybe he just felt lonely, Frank, and wanted to say hello.� She went to him. �The way we did, Frank.�

They looked at each other. It seemed for a moment as though they would move again into each other�s arms. But Millie turned away, and went to the dresser and picked up her bag.

�I think I�ll tell Michael okay,� she said.

�I think you already have,� he said.

�Maybe so,� she said.

She went to the door and threw back the slip bolt and opened the door wide. He came to her, and they paused before stepping out into the sunshine, and turned, and stared back into the room. Then, gently, he took her hand, and together they left the room, closing the door behind them.

It was a street of crooked turnings and twisted doorways and sagging roofs. It was a crooked street walked by crooked people and watched over by crooked devils in the sky. A brooding and evil darkness stood guard above it, shutting off the light of the heavens.

Many men had come down this twisting, narrow, tortuous lane and had never come back. It was a street of lost souls, a street of barter where the costliest memories were traded for the cheapest coin. The roadway to hell, this street.

Last-Mile Lane, Greenwich Village, Manhattan.

Five minutes from Times Square. Five minutes from the crystalline splendour of Rockefeller Centre. Five minutes from eternity.

A man stood on a corner of the winding lane, staring up at the street sign. It was pitch black and heavy clouds hung under the moon, squatting over the upended, sagging eaves of the ageing structures.

The man was tall and lean and he stood there with an air of anxiety. He was a man who had read the end of a grim, grisly story on the grey etchings of a tombstone, and who must now trace through that unhappy history from its sordid beginning to its tragic end.

He snapped his thumb across a match and the flame leaped out into the darkness. The yellow-red glow painted his face bright and fine against the dancing, grotesque shadows about him. The letters of the sign burned black in the night � Last-Mile Lane.

His eyes were wide and deep set, and his forehead was high and pale. His hair, even in the flickering, shimmering match-light, was carroty red, stiff, wiry. His eyes glittered in the glowing illumination, green as the shattered glass of a beer bottle. His face was pale cream, dumped with teenage freckles that would never fade away.

Robert Sands. Red Sands.

Red Sands had a clown�s face with quirks in the corners of the mouth and deep lines etched in the forehead. He also had the capacity, like any clown, of carrying an angry, determined man�s spirit in a laughing, devil-may-care man�s body.

Lighting the cigarette there in the dancing, inky blackness, Red Sands had the look of a lobo on the stalk, a hunter on the trail, a searcher for the lost in a barren, destroyed universe. The cold, crisp wind from down the crooked alleyway crawled along the ground, licking like a hungry puppy at the cuffs and sleeves of his suit.

And then suddenly Sands waved the match out with a desperate, almost terrified flick of the wrist. The cigarette glowed crimson in the black air. Sands sucked in air tightly to his backbone, and his hand crept into his jacket pocket. The smooth, reassuring barrel of his .38 Police Positive leaped into his shaking fingers.

Sands melted into the ebon shadows of an unpainted store front. With the sweat oozing out clammily onto his body, he pulled himself flat to the wall, listening. His heart beats slowed, his nerves tingled.

Yes. Faintly, imperceptibly, he could hear the sound down the crooked, twisting lane � the slow, measured movement of cat feet.

They had picked up his trail again. They or he. He or it. Whatever had tracked Red Sands unseen through the brilliant light of day, through the black shadows of night, through the swirling fog of morning. It had followed him here, too. Whatever it was that meant to keep Red Sands from finding the hide-out of the fugitive girl called Jennie Gomez whose sanctuary was here in the twisting wilderness of Greenwich Village. It had picked up his trail again; it was out to finish him off.

Two misses were enough. Once in the subway station in the dead of morning � a hurtling dark form coming out of a corner, stumbling into Sands, shoving him forward towards the tracks in front of the onrushing express. Again in a darkened, mist-shrouded alleyway � a violently swung wooden crate slammed into Sands�s hip, sprawling him helplessly in the path of an onrushing taxi.

Two tries within the three nights of his search for Jennie Gomez.

The breath of fear crawled along the sweaty backbone of Red Sands, and he listened again. Slithering like a snake through the tar-like opaque night, the thing came towards him along the bent, broken street. Sands slid out the .38 Colt and flicked the safety. The click of the metal rattled like the devil�s bones in the silence about him.

No air stirred. Blackness closed down over him like ink-soaked cotton. His eyes burnt, his chest throbbed, his soles itched. Involuntarily, Sands�s mouth dropped open and a gasp grated out of his constricted throat.

The motion stopped. The monster paused. The thing considered, puckered up its brows � if it had any � and uncoiled from its unseen, imagined shape.

Suddenly, whimpering like a sickened puppy, Sands blasted away desperately in the darkness with the Colt, once, twice, three times. The blinding, infra-red mushroom of gun flame smeared the darkness with a glowing smoky paint. A towering and twisted form loomed over him. Shadow? Mass? Human?

A tremendous force like the crash of a falling building tore at his hand. The gun sailed out into the darkness, and he heard it clatter angrily down the sign: Last-Mile Lane. It lay still, the gun � a useless pawn in this strange, eerie game of death.

An exploding, destructive horror tore at Sands�s body � a smashing, paralysing force � and he was enmeshed in its trance-like, helpless terror. His arms flailed at the thing, his hands beat at the shapeless mass of strength, his knees gouged into the monster.

The shape was not human. They were not hands coming at him. They were strange taloned tentacles � hard, brittle, horned at the ends. A viscid, almost puffy mass breathed into his face, and the breath was stale. Grunts of exhaustion and fatigue came from the strange shape, but still Sands could see nothing.

They struggled there in the dark, two half-maddened beasts � neither one able to see the other distinctly. The monster and the hunter. The hunter raged blindly, fanning his arms like windmills, smashing his tough, wiry knuckles into the monster�s face, chest, stomach. Panting, terrified, hysterical with dread, Sands fought insanely, like a madman, like a wounded bobcat that would not die.

He fought desperately, crazily, fearlessly, until the blackness came, and even after he was past the realm of knowledge he was pummelling the beast entwining him with its sinewy tentacles.

Crying out suddenly with a weird coyote-like call in the night, the monster backed up, panting, breathing heavily, whimpering, and without a further attempt at assault, it slithered down the black alleyway, limping, hitching itself along like a broken-backed vertebrate.

Sands lay there in a pool of his own blood.

Jennie Gomez was a dark, handsome girl with black eyes and black hair and a black past. She was built from head to toe with the loving care of a master craftsman. If he earned the last dollar in the world for his work he came away underpaid. She was long and graceful, and her arms were smooth and cream-coloured. Her eyes smouldered with savage fire, and her mouth was full and strong and dusky.

Inside her gnawed a futile, knowing sadness � she had too much life to live and too little time to live it in. Happiness was a fragile thing and it broke to pieces in her hands, no matter how carefully she handled it.

She was standing behind the door when she opened it for Red Sands, and he could feel the terrible jolting shock deep in his guts as he faced her and moved into the room towards her. Instinctively he knew that she felt the same thing for him.

He stepped inside and closed the door.

�Jen,� he said. �You double-crossing little rat. Hello, baby.�

She untied her smock and smoothed her dress as she moved away from him. She turned in the middle of the room and smiled at him.

�Sucker,� she said. �So you found me after all. The big red-headed chump. Think you can bring home the bacon this time? I�ll deadbeat you again, Red, I swear I will. The deck is stacked against you.�

She came over to him. The smile on her face seemed pasted there. She held out one hand to him, but she did not touch him.

Sands talked and his mouth had dry flour in it. �You string along with me, Jen, and there�ll be no trouble at all. I won�t even stick a .38 Colt in your back if you hand over those Hamlin Bell pictures.� He moved over and slowly sat on the couch, gripping the .38 tightly.

She sat down beside him, watching him. Then she turned away and leaned back luxuriously into the depths of the couch.

He went on talking. �Just between you and me and that Jennie Gomez painting there on the floor, one wrong peep, and it�ll be the last. Baby, I and this .38 Special of mine ain�t playing.�

�Danny took all the pictures with him the last time he went to Italy. Didn�t you know he was killed over there?�

He stared at her steadily. �That�s a lie,� he said from the troubled, hard pit of his stomach. His eyes were glassy and his jaw was built out of cement. He saw her through the tight glaze of his eyes. It was impossible that this lovely lady had sold him down the river once before. It was impossible that Red Sands was in practically the same unenviable position as before, tracking down the only girl he had ever loved, for a rich man with a penchant for the primitive oils of Gomez.

�You�ve got those pictures,� he said huskily. �Let�s stop beating around the mulberry bush. Let�s get down to brass monkeys.�

She smiled and shook her head. Her face was close to his and her eyes were turned up into his pleadingly. They were warm and steady and her lips were vibrant and smooth.

Cursing raspingly, he ground out the words. �I�ve got to get them, Jen. I�ll kill you if you try to stop me! You hear? I�ll kill you this time.�

She leaped back and her hand touched his. She was shaking her head slowly, sadly. �No, Red,� she said. �I don�t have them.�

He turned to her, the flames of rage boiling up inside him. He took her shoulder in his hand.

�Oh, Red,� she said. Her hand came up to his cheek.

Anger surged up in him and he wanted to cry out: �This is it, you black-haired Judas! You double-dealing Delilah! Get me those pictures or I�ll blast you to hell and gone!�

He reached out his other hand and took her in his arms and kissed her, cursing to himself that it should be so, burning with a helpless anger. But he could do nothing but hold her tightly and kiss her again.

He lifted one feeble hand to his jacket pocket for the .38 Colt, but the moment his fingers touched the cold steel he knew it was no use.

He knew again that she had beaten him, that this time was the last time anyone could defeat him, that he was finished, that he was no longer a man but a beaten, trampled-on hulk, that he would never again walk with his head high.

Her soft, gentle voice came to him like silk in his ears.

�Jen,� he whispered, and all the love in the world was in that one word. Inside his heart cold hate chewed and gnawed at him for the memory of the man that had been, once...

He came out of it with a violent start. For a long moment he could remember nothing, and the room rocked and pitched dizzily about him. It was a tall room with an infinite blue space stretching along one entire wall. His eyes focused hazily.

A long endless sheet of glass stretched from the floor to the ceiling along one end of the room. The panes of glass were embedded in the frame of the wall with strips of lead. Through the glass he could see blue-black sky, stars by the millions, high buildings in the distance, and dark trees below.

Washington Square. Manhattan. Midnight.

He remembered the girl and he remembered the wine they had finished off � wine out of a French bottle. Rhenish wine. And that was all he could remember. That old Rhenish wine had been vin � la Finn Mickey � and that was the fiery, deadly liquid that had drawn the curtain of lethe over him.

Damn her. A Mickey Finn! She�d knocked him out and made off with those pictures!

He tensed to tear himself up out of the chair where he was slumped. But as he did so the sound came to him again. Startled, he realised that the rustling movement in the next room must have been the thing that had roused him in the first place.

Cold dread rinsed through him. A twisted, cockeyed picture of a darkened, crooked lane, and the hideous phantom shape that had loomed above him in the pitch black of night came back to him. The sound in the other room was the cat-like movement of that same misshapen monster.

Sands slid onto the floor and moved along the rug soundlessly. He reached for his gun, but his hand came out of his jacket empty. Cursing, he slid his hands through his other pockets. No rod.

The sound slithered closer to the door and Sands pressed himself against the wall. Jennie Gomez? Where was Jennie? Besides the clear-cut vision of her sitting across from him, sipping the lovely, killable Rhenish wine, he could bring back no other memory of her.

Creaking, the door opened a slit. Sands slid along the wall, grasping desperately for a chair that stood in his path.

It was too dark to see well, but Sands could make out the moving mass of flesh slipping into the studio room from the bedroom. With a flying lunge, Sands threw the chair down over the head, and the whole thing splintered with a tearing, ripping sound that smashed about between the tight walls of the studio. A sudden grunt, and then a low-pitched laugh from the creature filled the room.

Sands hurtled himself for the beast, but it moved swiftly across the room to the door. Sands grasped one foot, and the bare flesh trembled under his palm. The thing hitched, stumbled and smashed head first into the wall.

Guttering forth cries of pain and anguish, the creature pulled itself into a knotted, hunched ball and withdrew from Sands�s groping hands. Sands jumped to his feet and dived at the crouched shape. The shape hissed and spluttered and suddenly lashed out at Sands.

A force like a speeding subway crashed into him. Sands sprawled back across the hard oak floor, skidding along on his shoulder and spine. The hot sting of scraped flesh shot tremors through his body. Through the flashing, shattered red and black shimmering before his eyes, he could see the shape draw itself up.

Tearing open the hall doorway, the thing threw itself out into the blackened walk-up and disappeared. Sands ran into the companionway, stumbling and gasping. Dazedly he leaned far out over the balustrade. There was no movement at all in the stair well. The darkness of endless night had swallowed the creature up.

Trembling there, Sands stood, clinging to the stair rail, listening desperately for any sound. He heard nothing.

After a long, fruitless moment, Sands moved back into the studio room, and tiny prickles of fear wormed along his spine. Jennie. Where was Jennie Gomez? Maybe she was not the one who had doped that wine. Maybe the beast had lain in wait for both of them. Maybe the thing was trying not only to kill Sands, but Jennie Gomez as well. Maybe...

Hastily he stepped across the room and tore open her door. Her light was on, projecting its yellow rays in a cone-like shape over her bed. He saw her all right. She was sprawled out across the bed, the covers dragged halfway with her towards the floor. The sheets were twisted about her sliding body, as if she had tried vainly to struggle out of the bed of death half unconscious, half fainting. Blood was smeared in clotting streaks.

Sands gasped and turned away, gripping the door in his hands, digging his nails into the soft wood. He steadied himself and then moved into the room. Yes, of course, he thought drearily. His .38 Colt was there, plain to see, lying in the centre of the rug.

He stooped over to pick it up.

What was the use now? The bullet would match the barrel of the gun. Even a blind ballistics expert could tell that. If he got rid of the gun they still have it on record in the New York files. He had a perfect motive. Jennie Gomez had suckered him out of the FBI. He�d found her again, they�d fought, he�d killed her.

Bell would never back him to help him out of this mess.

Bell had hired him to get pictures, not to knock off a human being.

Somebody had built a beautiful frame around him. In the shake of a dead lamb�s tail they�d have that frame hanging from a scaffolding somewhere. Sands too.

I killed her all right. I killed her without pulling the trigger on a gun. I killed her by following her and getting mixed up in this damned mess.

But, he thought, I�ll be damned if I�ll burn for her!..

She was slim and neat as TNT, this one was. Her eyes were brown pools of arsenic and old French wine. She wore her blonde hair feathery and fluffy, and a thin line of dark brown tufts showed in the part. Perched on the back of her head at a jaunty angle was a go-to-hell French beret.

But she was no phoney, Sands could see at a glance. She had a pallet on her lap, a brush in her right hand, and a loaded .22 Colt Woodsman in her left. She had the paint-smeared brush aimed at the canvas on the easel, the Colt aimed at Sands�s guts. The safety was off, and the lady�s dainty little hands were itchy with artistic inspiration.

�Hold damned still,� she said to Sands. �I want this to look just like you. I�d hate for them to get the wrong man.�

Sands opened his mouth to growl at her, but the pain stabbed through him like quick lime. He groaned and leaned wearily back. His hands were shackled to the chair back and his feet were tied to the legs.

Slowly his vision cleared and he turned his aching eyes to the canvas. The sweat that had been waiting inside him beaded out on his forehead. She was the one, this lovely, rose-lipped gal. The canvas portrait she was using to paint his own face over was the smiling, dark-eyed likeness of Jennie Gomez.

Dead Jennie Gomez.

Painfully Sands moved in the chair, but the shackles bit into his wrists. He groaned suddenly and eased himself back into the chair again. The wide expense of light from the side of the room came through a big window slanted up to the sun. It was similar to the window in the studio of Jennie Gomez.

But this studio was not the one Jennie Gomez had lived in. This one was bigger, and none of Jennie Gomez�s pictures were piled in the corner. No. There was only one Gomez picture in the room. That was the painting on the easel. The painting that was being done over with his own face.

The girl turned again, and her taffy-tinted hair glinted in the sudden sunlight. Her brown eyes sparkled viciously at him, and he could see her little fist tighten around the .22 in her left hand.

�Steady, boy,� she purred, and her voice would have matched that of any cougar with active ulcers. �Hold real still.�

�How can I look my prettiest when I�m chained in, kid?� Sands asked, grinning.

�I�m no damned kid, boy. Call me Taffy. That�s my name. Get it, Red? Taffy.�

�Taffy with strychnine,� shrugged Sands. �What the hell. They�ll do anything these days to trap an honest gee.�

�To trap rats!� snapped the girl, her bright eyes flashing and her crimson lips thrust out belligerently. �Now hold still! Damn it, I�ll club your face in!�

�Temper, temper,� grinned Red Sands, biting down the pain in him at the quick movement of the bracelets about his hands. �What�s your racket, kid? You work for Old Hawk Nose himself? Old Money Bags?�

The girl bristled and golden sparks shot from her eyes. �I don�t know what you�re talking about. Now hold still.�

�You�re a lousy little painter, or you�d have that thing finished already. I�ve been chained here for a couple hours.�

�You shut up and don�t bother me.�

She clamped her lips together and grimly went on slashing strokes of oil down the canvas. The picture was coming along neatly, slickly, evenly. It was a professional job, well done, realistic, but not powerful. A good commercial job.

It looked just like Red Sands. It showed a clown�s face, with the querulous quirks at the corners of the mouth, the amused sea-green eyes, the ocean of freckles smeared over the pale thin face.

�Where�d you get the portrait of the girl?� Sands asked after a moment of painful silence. The damned bracelets were tight and they wouldn�t budge. No amount of slipping or sliding would shuck them off.

The girl turned her fiery little face to him, and her brown eyes were hot with excitement, and her taffy hair shot out electric voltage. Her little chin came up and her tongue lashed out at him. �It�s none of your damned business, mister. I got it. I�m using it. It wasn�t yours. And who the hell cares?�

Sands grinned. �Me. Listen, kid, give me a break. What happened to me? How did I get here? I wake up and I�m shackled to a chair. Last thing I knew I was talking to a friend of mine.� His own eyes narrowed, and his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. No use telling too much. No telling how much this chick knew. Maybe nothing. Maybe everything.

She smiled brightly. �I got you. You were sent here, COD. I paid the man the two-bits and he gave me you. I was told to paint you. I was given the canvas to use. And that�s all there is to know. Now shut up and hold still.�

�Look, kid. What�s the score? Why are you using that portrait to paint over? Can�t you buy canvas any more? What�s the gimmick? I don�t get it at all.�

She dashed some more lines onto the canvas and turned to him brightly. �You�ll find out pretty soon.�

Sands chewed on his teeth a few minutes and then he lapsed into moody silence. What the hell else could he do?

Taffy held up the portrait in front of her and smiled at it happily. She thrust it off from her and moved around to get it into the best light. She moved it to her and looked it over carefully from one end to the other.

�It�s finished,� she said.

Sands groaned. �So am I. Get me out of this chair, kid.�

Taffy frowned and walked over to him. She leaned over. �Taffy,� she said solemnly, �not kid.�

�Taffy,� snapped Sands. �Okay, Taffy. Undo me.�

Taffy laughed. She said, �I�ve got the gun, Sands. Yours and mine too. Now don�t try to get away when I do untie you. Don�t try to play any funny tricks, either, or I�ll smash in your freckled face. Got that?�

Sands stared at the tough little chick in front of him from the flaming top of her taffy head to the bottom of her miniature clod-hoppers of bright red leather, and he found himself grinning. �Okay, kitten.�

She pulled out a long exaggerated chain from her pocket and a bunch of keys dangled from the end. She looked like a jailer in an Old Western jail house. She selected one small key and inserted it in the manacles. She snapped it to the right, then the left, and the iron hoops loosened on Sands�s wrists.

Sands stood up, rubbing his wrists gingerly. They were red and sore and bruised. She slit the ropes about his ankles with a knife.

The noon sun shone bright and gay on the world of Washington Square. It was spring and the earth basked in the clean air like a happy bride. Bright colours and flamboyant dresses glowed in the sunshine. Groups of passers-by stood in front of the oil paintings on exhibit and an air of peace and contentment and good cheer hung over the world.

In the same brilliant sunlight Red Sands toiled with a sliding window high on the top floor of the studio building. His face was covered with perspiration and it was twisted in rage and fury at the sticking, balking window.

Then suddenly the window gave and slid upwards. Furtively Sands climbed out onto the fire escape and crouched there a moment, panting. He felt inside his coat pocket and nodded briefly. With an air of intent listening, he craned towards the inside of the room. Apparently hearing just what he wanted to, he leaped carefully along the fire escape ladder. Only instead of climbing down it towards the street he climbed up.

He climbed hand over hand and made the roof in a few moments. From the roof he paused a moment, leaning down, looking at the window he had just left. Then he disappeared and darted across the roof of the building. He felt inside his coat again as he moved swiftly across the roof.

A moment later two heads peered out the open window next to the fire escape. The two heads � one fat and bullish and red as a slab of raw beef, the other narrow and pinched and wearing thick glasses � turned to each other and bobbed up and down in conversation. The man with the big face and the big body to match clambered laboriously out onto the fire escape platform and began climbing too.

The big man climbed downwards. He climbed painfully from one step to the next, every step he took a torture. His feet were tired and his face was puffed and red with exertion. He climbed down from floor to floor in his fruitless quest.

The thin face with the thick glasses watched a moment and then disappeared inside the room. And then there was no more motion for the interested sun to watch. Greenwich Village settled back into the same gay, listless, lazy existence as before. Nothing ever happened there. It was an island set off from the rest of the world � an island devoted to art and beauty and culture.

Sands had found his .38 lying on the kitchen table. Quite possibly Taffy Bell had meant for him to find it there after she had gone. Now he patted it gently where it rested inside his jacket pocket. He crouched for an instant by the door opening on the roof, and then he soundlessly opened the door. The brilliant light cut down into the stair well, painting his shadow big and black along the casement.

Sands descended cautiously. One man climbing down the fire escape. The other searching an apartment, suspicious of the obviously open window and the fluttering drapes. And Sands, the fugitive, laughing to himself, creeping down the stairs inside, floor by floor, quietly making the street without any interruption.

As Sands disappeared swiftly down the glaring bright street where anything could be seen and nothing was, he saw out of the tail of his eye the big man with the florid face moving sheepishly around front from in back of the apartment...

It was cool and dark and restful in the Thackeray Room and he felt safe again. It was like old home week. He sat up on the big stool and hooked his heel over the brass rail familiarly. The amber-eyed, barrel-chested man sauntered over, his eyes watching Sands closely.

�You�re starting in early today,� commented the bar-keep, his eyes veiled and impersonal.

�Yeah,� said Sands. �How about a cheese sandwich to glue down my rye and water, pal?�

�Why not?� said the barkeep, picking up a glass and wiping it. �Cheese on white,� he said over his shoulder into the dark, secret innards of the bar. �You want that rye straight, don�t you, pal? Seems I remember it that way.�

�Seems your memory is functioning one hundred proof,� Sands said. �Water on the side.�

�Sure,� said the barkeep, and he got the rye and water. Sands had the uneasy impression that the amber-eyed man was watching him narrowly as he worked.

�I see the oil painting of the girl is gone,� Sands said offhandedly. �Sell it?�

�Yeah. Blonde kid came and bought it. She paints herself. Liked the style � said something about savages and primitive urges, or something. Me, I don�t mess around none with that art and beauty stuff, but I kind of went for the style of the particular dame in the painting. Dark. Fresh. You know. Nice snazzy gal.�

�Yeah,� said Sands, lifting the rye to the heavens. �Well, here�s to dames � snazzy and otherwise.� He tossed it down.

�Too bad that kind has to die so hard, ain�t it, pal?�

The amber-eyed man�s face was too close to Sands. It was insolent and the grin was twisted, and the cow-catcher chin was jutting into Sands�s face. Sands moved back.

�I don�t get you, pal.� He touched the gun in his jacket pocket absently as he spoke.

�Dame in the picture was bumped off last night. Funny, ain�t it, that you was popping questions about her just before she got bumped?�

Sands set the rye shot glass down with a hard slam. �Bud, if you�re trying to say something, come on out right now and say it. Otherwise, brood to yourself. It keeps the air quieter and the atmosphere cleaner.�

But the amber-eyed man leaned forward further, and his bulging muscular body poised on the mahogany bar as if he were ready to fling himself over it at Sands�s throat.

�I ain�t suggesting and I ain�t insinuating. I�m saying it right out loud, pal. You shouldn�t of come back here. I�m no friend and I ain�t no enemy. They�re on your tail, pal. They�ve been coming in here. The cops.�

Sands leaned back, his face white. �Who?�

�Dame came in here this morning and flashed a badge on me.�

�What kind of badge?�

The barkeep frowned, his big thick eyebrows moving down over his face like a screen. �What do you mean? There�s different kinds?�

Sands rubbed his upper lip. �Forget it. Then what?�

�It�s the dame bought the picture. Said she seen the picture from outside in the street, and would I sell it. I said, that�s my racket, and I wrapped it up and gave it to her.�

Sands stared at the big man. �Why you telling me this, pal?�

The barkeep rubbed his nose enthusiastically. �There�s a bit more pal, and for a bit more interest on your part � that special kind of a green-type salad interest � I might be willing to unburden my festering soul.�

Sands pulled out a ten-dollar bill. �Yeah,� Sands said. �Try this on your subconscious. I never did think you guys made a living selling that rotten liquor. I figured you had angles.�

It was just one of those things. A fact of life. I was naked. Naked and alone. I didn�t hold it against Mama for locking me up naked and leaving me alone. Wasn�t her fault there wasn�t no money for no babysitter... That�s just the way it was... Like being black, being poor, being six years old and not knowing your daddy, being locked up naked and alone was just one of those things...

I understood why she locked me up. Understood she had to go to work. Understood she didn�t want me hanging out on the block while she was off at work. Understood she had to lock my clothes in the closet so I wouldn�t get dressed and run out into the halls and get in trouble again. So I wouldn�t kiss pretty little Shamika and feel her baby pea breasts under the stairwell. So I wouldn�t bounce dumb onion-head Horace�s onion head off the wall a hundred times for calling Mama a crackhead ho, for calling me �crack baby�. It was just one of those things...

Just like Mama had to put on the starched white maid�s uniform and the spotless ugly cracked white shoes I carefully polished for her... Just like Mama had to take three crowded smelly old buses � sometimes standing all the way � cross town to where the rich white folk lived in a rich white palace... Just like Mama had to smile for those rich white folk, smile until her face hurt and speak only when spoken to, carry heavy silver trays of fancy food out to the big table, hold those heavy silver trays still and stand there frozen like a statue while each individual white folk studied the shape and size of each individual slice of meat before choosing, each individual soggy boiled vegetable, each individual cherry drowning in brandy, each individual part of Mama�s pretty slim brown body in the starched white uniform and white stockings and spotless ugly cracked white shoes I polished for her... Just like gunshots and drugs and dead bodies on the street below, just like sirens and screams and dogs howling in the night, just like televisions blasting and cats screeching and doors slamming and toilets flushing... Just like big folk arguing and babies crying and radiators hissing... Just like crackheads piping up in the halls and rats scrambling in the walls and cockroaches crawling on your face and eating the spit off your lips when you was sleeping... Just like my daddy being sent to penitentiary for killing a man before I was born, born small as a baked potato with the crack addiction running hot like fever in my blood... Just like me rubbing Mama�s aching swollen feet at the end of the night, being naked and alone was just one of those things...

Like the time she brought me to the big white palace when she couldn�t find no babysitter � before the white folk cut her nights down and she stopped being able to afford a babysitter. How I played with little golden-headed Mary. How I ran all over the big white palace with little golden Mary. Little Mary who changed dresses every fifteen minutes... The long halls, the big rooms, the carpeted stairs, the closets... How we hid in a closet, me and Mary, a closet near as big as me and Mama�s whole apartment, a closet with lights and carpets even, a closet full of bright soft clothes and pair after pair of bright shiny uncracked shoes... How little golden Mary found some candy hidden there and told me to eat the candy. How she giggled when I put the candy in my mouth. The big white ball of candy that tasted so bad, the candy I didn�t want to eat, was about to spit out when Mary touched my arm and promised with big blue serious eyes cold and clear as the sky that if I chewed it and swallowed it she�d kiss me. How I chewed the horrible candy and fought the sickness and waited for my golden kiss. How little Mary laughed at me then, laughed at me instead of kissing me. Laughed and ran away, ran down the hall, down the stairs, me following, holding my stomach... How Mary skipped into the dinner party, me following feeling so sick... How Mary announced with a big smile to the big people at the big table that Frankie Lawrence had eaten a mothball. How the big white folk laughed and laughed. How Mary laughed and laughed and then ran off to change her dress. How Mama marched me into the kitchen and made me throw up, sticking a long thin brown finger with a cracked fake fingernail down my throat until the mothball and the cheese sandwich on white bread I�d eaten at home came up, until the tears came down, flowing free and easy and hot... Just one of those things.

Like the next time I went with Mama to the big white palace and just like Mama told me I ignored Mary. Didn�t pay her no mind. Lay there on the green grass in the big green garden off the big shiny kitchen, lay there in the cool tickly green grass as the big orange ball of late afternoon sun rolled sleepy behind the big green trees, lay there in the cool tickly green grass playing with a caterpillar I called Vincent. I wouldn�t look at Mary, no way, wouldn�t answer her, no way. Even when she begged me to say something, no way. How she begged and begged and said she was sorry about the mothball and promised with those clear blue eyes that if I spoke to her she would kiss me and show me her pee-pee. How finally I spoke to her, told her to leave me and my friend Vincent alone, that I didn�t want to see her dumb old pee-pee. How she bent down and kissed me then with her cold cherry lips and then raised her skirt to show me her pee-pee. How the big white lady walked out the back door right that moment and saw Mary showing me her pee-pee. How the big white lady turned bright pink like a giant pencil eraser and pulled me away from little golden Mary by the ear and almost yanked my little cookie ear off and dragged me by the ear, me going �ow ow ow ow ow� all the way across the lawn into the kitchen and told Mama not to bring me any more. How Mama looked mad enough to snatch the big white lady baldheaded but instead just said, �Yes, Ma�am� and slapped me upside the head two or three times, then sighed and muttered and drank a big glass of cooking wine fast, then poured me some milk and broke out some cookies and made me sit in the corner of the kitchen all night long... How I kept looking out the window, wondering where Vincent was... How tired Mama was at the end of that day. That day, every day. How poor we were. How tired Mama was. That day, every day. How lonely Mama was. How lonely I was. How hard life was. That day, every day... How Mama kept writing to Daddy in prison and how the letters were never answered... How one time Mama and me took that long smelly bus ride upstate to surprise-visit Daddy and bring him oranges. How when we got to the big penitentiary with the high walls and the men with guns Daddy wouldn�t come out to see us. How Mama busted out crying then, cried as we walked down the street, cried as we was waiting there in the cold for the bus home, cried all the long smelly bus ride home, me hugging her, the small towns and moonlit forests outside the windows, the bag of oranges untouched on her lap, telling her it was okay, Mama, it was okay, it was just one of those things... How we never did eat those oranges, those bad-luck oranges shrivelling brown and dry and lifeless in the back of the fridge... How Mama sat there on the ratty old chair the nights she didn�t work � sat there on the ratty old chair in her ratty old robe, drinking a whole jug of wine, looking over all those old newspaper clippings she kept about Daddy�s trial, sat there talking to herself, laughing crazy and singing along to sad sad songs on the radio... She knew all the words... How one time I woke up in the night to go pee-pee and there was a naked man in bed with Mama and Mama was naked too, and she was smoking crack like the crackheads in the halls and the man winked at me and laughed nasty and said, �So that�s the pup...� And Mama giggled and said, �Frankie, baby, you�re dreaming, go back to sleep...� How sleep never did come back that night as I listened to them laugh and cough and grunt, the bedsprings singing, the sharp smell of the burning crack making me feel so sick...

I understood. I understood. I understood � didn�t I? Mama was just trying to keep me out of trouble by keeping me in the apartment � dumb onion-head Horace with his dumb eyes like a dead sheep in the Muslim butcher�s, little Shamika and her nice warm lips and Chinese eyes and baby pea breasts under the stairwell, Malik and Jamal and all those other boys running wild and free, getting in trouble. Trouble... So Mama had to lock me up, lock me up naked, lock that front door from the outside. It was the only way she could be sure I wouldn�t hang out in the streets and work for the bigger boys out on the corner who worked for the older men with the fine cars and fine clothes � was that what my daddy looked like? Mama laughed. There were no cars in prison, Mama said, no fine clothes. Only hard men who�d made hard choices, hard men learning hard lessons, hard men with hard eyes, hard men who�d once been little boys. Little boys like me who�d become bigger boys like the ones on the street, the ones with the hungry eyes, the ones who paid me to look out for the Man... I knew it was all about drugs � I wasn�t no dummy � drugs and money... Ten-dollar bags of heroin that turned folk into snaggle-toothed grey scarecrows with wobbly heads and dead eyes, their bodies split open with crusty scabs and running sores, scratching all over like flea-bit dogs, dreaming in their vomit, waking long enough to beg change and stumble into traffic... And the crack, the little white five-dollar chunks of instant heaven in the little clear plastic bottles that turned folk into bright-eyed skeletons, that made them jabber like monkeys, made them rob and shoot and scream and stab you bloody, stare at you with such bright hate... Mama hated the crackheads, hated the crack dealers, said it was the devil�s drug, that it had almost gotten her, gotten me, taken us both down for the long count... But there was money out there, out on the street. Money that Mama needed to pay for light, to pay for food, to pay for heat, to pay for clothes... But when I came back that time with twenty dollars after working lookout for a big boy, Mama didn�t want the money, dirty money she called it, and she beat me then, beat me till the snot bubbled out my nose, said she was beating the devil out of me, and then she marched me back downstairs and made me point out the boy who�d paid me and made me give the money back. And the boy just laughed at Mama, laughed at Mama and winked at me and walked off to talk with one of the hard men in one of the fine cars... But we were so poor. It was so tough on Mama. Mama alone... So I understood why I was naked. Locked up naked. My clothes behind lock and key. I understood being locked up naked and alone was for my own good, like Mama said. I understood. That�s just the way it was. A fact of life. Like not knowing your daddy. Like having no brothers and sisters because Mama had been hurt something awful when I was born, born the size of a baked potato and screaming for lack of crack from the git-go, spending my first four months in the hospital baking under a hot light in a glass incubator box... Like having no cousins or uncles or aunts or grannies or grampas because Marna had come up an orphan in foster care with bad people who beat on her like a drum, she said. Like death and drugs and the bills that kept coming and the letters from my daddy that never came, being locked up naked and alone was just one of those things, a fact of life, the way it was. And the way it was was the way it was. And the way it was? That�s just the way it was.

As advertised, Juvenile Hall was a bad place. Bad food, bad beds, bad smells, bad sounds, bad vibes � a bad life for bad boys who�d done bad things... And as a consequence of all that badness � shit � I grew up bad.

But not at first. No. Those first few weeks I was as good as Mama told me to be. Good as a little angel... Break out the harps and the hallelujahs, I was all sweetness and fear... I�d been sentenced to the maximum � Malik�s uncle was a cop and he fixed it so the juvenile court judge sentenced me to the max.

�This was no accident,� said the old bald white judge, hair snaking out of his nose, his ears. �This is a case of vicious, malicious, premeditated murder. And given Mrs Lawrence�s history of drugs and the lack of supervision in the home...�

He didn�t throw the book at me, nuh-uh, that old clown threw the whole twenty-volume encyclopaedia. The Zoo was gonna be my home sweet home till I turned eighteen, what they called a �full-term baby�.

But I wasn�t bad, nuh-uh. Not yet. With me, badness didn�t come slow, no, it didn�t come limping slow and loud like some fat old asthmatic club-foot thief in the night, it didn�t germinate inside of me like some nasty little seed of evil, no, with me badness flowered forth instantly � like a bullet in the brain, like a thunderbolt, like death driving a Lamborghini � like true motherfucking love...

But I wasn�t bad, nuh-uh. Not yet. Those first few weeks in the Zoo I wasn�t no animal. I was still Mama�s little boy, little Mr Innocent... I�d walk around those gloomy green-painted halls with big dark eyes full of fear � listening to the barbells clanking, the radios blasting, the basketballs bouncing, the sneakers squeaking, the laughter echoing � shivering at all the badness coming at me from every which way, all the hatred, all the despair, all the confusion, all those young twisted hearts and ancient evil souls stuck in young fresh bodies, and I�d lower my eyes and say, �Yes, sir,� to anyone older than me � and that was everyone, since I was the youngest dude there. And every night as I lay there in the dark on the battered old mattress, listening to the snores and sex noises and laughs and farts, breathing the nasty night cloud of farts and sex and cigarettes, waiting for the healing grace of sleep, as I lay there on the ancient lumpy mattress mapped with the misery of a parade of pissing and weeping and drooling boys, every night I�d add a few thousand of my own hot salt tears to that mattress, every single night I�d cry myself to sleep...

During the daylight hours I�d go to the school rooms and I�d stare at the walls, looking for exit signs in the peeling green paint, and I�d listen to the sad desperate laughter echoing out in the gloomy green halls that smelled of chemical cherry disinfectant, the sad desperate laughter of all the sad lost boys, and the laughter would sound like the winter wind � like a bunch of evil deformed babies, like a pack of fallen angels... I was so scared. So so scared and so so alone.

But I wasn�t bad. Nuh-uh. Not yet.

�Happy birthday to me,� I said to Mama�s good little brown-skinned boy brushing his teeth in the mirror one morning.

It was my birthday, my seventh birthday. Just a week into my incarceration incarnation and I was turning seven. Eleven years to go till I hit eighteen. Eleven years � count them � eleven years of three-hundred-sixty-five days of twenty-four hours of sixty minutes of sixty seconds till I was out. I�d never make it, I thought. The Zoo would eat me alive and wouldn�t even burp. I didn�t have what it took to ride the storm. I wasn�t hard, I wasn�t cold, I couldn�t laugh crazy in the face of fear. I wasn�t bad... Not yet I wasn�t.

January twenty-ninth was the day. There was a cake at dinner in the cafeteria. A special visit from Mama earlier. A new, bigger pair of Spiderman pyjamas. I�d cried and hugged her. She�d cried and shushed me, told me to be brave, to be good, that she loved me and I had to stay brave and good. She read me from the Bible and told me to be brave and good, that if some boy messed with me to just give him my other cheek, like you-know-who. I cried and cried and Mama cried and cried and when our time was up I had to be dragged off.

And now the cake. I listened to the old school standard sung by those evil-eyed bad boys. Those dudes could sing, sweet as a chorus of fallen angels.

�Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, you look like a monkey and you smell like one too...�

I blew the candles out. I sliced the cake with a plastic knife. I ate my slice of cake, washed it down with a few gulps of fear and milk. I was alone. Alone and scared. But I wasn�t bad. Not yet I wasn�t.

And Mama kept coming. She�d finished her studies and become a nurse. Traded one white uniform for another...

And then one week she came with somebody, some lean muscular nobody, an older black dude. Like a carpet that�s been stepped on for years, like a dog with the mange, the old dude was all used-up.

�Frankie,� the man said. He was old.

�Do I know you?� I asked. But I knew him.

The man looked into my eyes, never giving an inch. Dude had some coldness in him. But old. An old man. Must have been thirty-four.

�Do you know me?� The man raising his eyebrows.

�You hard of hearing on top of bald and ugly, old dude?�

�Frankie,� Mama said. �Talk nice. This is your father.�

And I just laughed and laughed. I could see the other visitors cringing at the laughter. Crazy laughter cold and bad as the winter wind.

�Mama, that ain�t my father,� I said, looking with contempt at the old dude�s cheap new clothes, straight out of some K-Mart clearance sale. �My father don�t dress like a goddamn out-of-work garbageman! My father in prison! Double L doin� twenty to life for murder one!�

�I�m out,� said the old dude. �Did fifteen years hard time. I got parole.�

�Shit, nigga, my daddy�s parole officer ain�t even been born yet.�

�I�m out,� the old dude said with a sigh. �That�s a fact. And I�m here to make amends. I never called or wrote �cause I wanted your mama to divorce me and find someone else. But she�s stubborn.�

�Like you, Frankie.� Mama took the old fuck�s hand. �I�m stubborn like you.�

She looked at the veiny-armed jailhouse nigga with smiling love.

�Mama, you ain�t fallin� for this old nigga�s game?�

�I want to be in your life now, Frankie,� old dude said. �Make up for lost time. Be a father to you.�

�You trippin�? My father cold, he bad, he tried to take Ronny Dewitt down, he took five caps... You ain�t him.�

�Frankie,� said Mama, sharp. �Don�t talk to your father like that. You don�t know what he done for us.�

�Praise God, son, I�ve turned my life around.�

�Old nigga, you better turn your ass around and walk it out of here while you still can.�

I waved him off.

�Mama, you get that money order I sent you?�

I�d sent her another five hundred dollars that week.

Mama looked at the old dude and then pulled the money order out of her purse. She handed it to me.

�Yes, baby,� Mama said with a sigh. �But Mama can�t accept the money any more.�

�Say what?�

The old dude put his hard hand on mine.

�Boy, no money comin� out of here is clean. Your mama don�t want no dirty money.�

�Man,� I said, pulling my hand away. �Who the fuck are you showin� up outta the clear-blue motherfuckin� nowhere and tellin� folks how to live? Who the fuck you think you are?�

�Just a man,� said the man with a sigh. �A man like the next man. Strong in some places, weak in others. But here�s the deal: your mother and I are makin� a go of it. You don�t have to like it, hard case, but that�s the way it is.�

�I don�t hear nothin�, old nigga, �cept maybe a rat goin� �cheap-cheap-cheap�. Mama, send this cheap old fool back to the boneyard.�

And Mama just sighed. She got up to go.

And the next time she came, she came alone. Old Larry Lawrence never visited again.

The Zoo never changed. Just a parade of miserable boys walking the one-way road to hell. In the old-school days they were mostly white, now they were mostly black. But always, till the end of time, regardless of colour, the Zoo would be hard and cold. A stewpot of old misery, a breeding ground for fresh misery. A warehouse of badness, sadness, gloom and doom. A hard cold factory that produced hard eyes and hard bodies, cold eyes and cold hearts � un-softened by the feminine touch � hard with maleness, with macho, with attitude and anger and fear. A rumble could break out anywhere � spontaneous explosions of turbulence, testosterone, terror � even the cafeteria. Shit, especially the cafeteria. Never bother a dog when it�s eating... The cafeteria... That�s where the only females in the whole of Juvenile Hall worked, the cafeteria.

Hundreds of dog-mafockas and three females? Not a good idea, nuh-uh, but the females who worked the cafeteria, cooking and serving and locking away the knives between meals, a guard present at all times, the kitchen locked overnight, they musta had to show their menopause papers to get hired. Those females were way too used-up to cop even a second banana role in any teenage horndog fantasy � overweight and overworked � just your typical sad sweet old black ladies that life had been shitting on for about four hundred years, about as sexy as a bag of turkey necks rotting in the noonday sun or a hippopotamus�s asshole with a wad of toilet paper hanging off it... One even had a full flowing Pancho Villa moustache and chin whiskers. The motherly types? More like the grandmotherly types. Hell, more like the great-great grandmotherly types...

And then one day � I was sixteen now, only two years till bust-out time, sixteen and riding high � I show for dinner and there was a hum in the line. Like a live electric wire there was a hum.

I went to the head of the line as always, as befits the king, and when I got to the front I saw what was makin� the niggaz jump.

She.

She was beautiful.

Ayesha was her name, said so on her nameplate. And she wasn�t the grandmother type, no, not even the mother type, except for those fine big wholesome breasts that�d make any little baby nursing at its mama�s titty bite his old lady�s nipple off so she�d drop him and he could land like a cat and crawl over to Ayesha and hop into her arms and nuzzle at hers. She was soft and curvy and beautiful, a bubblicious twenty-five-year-old caramel princess in a white uniform that showed more than was fair for all that swingin� dick energy... The hormones in the place were hoppin� wild and electric like a bunch of hungry fleas on a rabid dog.

�Shut up, you knuckleheads,� I said, showing Ayesha my lovely pearly whites, noting her cheap gold wedding band. �Any of these sorry mafockas bother you, Ma�am, tell �em you know Frankie Lawrence.�

�If you say so, Mister Slim, but reality says I don�t know any Frankie Lawrence.�

�You do now. My name is Frankie Lawrence, honey, and I�d like some mashed potatoes.� I smiled at her and she smiled back. And that wasn�t any grandmotherly smile, I knew. No way no how. And as I walked off hard and cool, something soft and warm and distantly familiar was working in my guts. Like a foreign language you knew in another lifetime... Frankie Lawrence was in love.

She was there only until her grandma Hortense got out of the hospital. We all knew it was for a short time. We all knew she was married � shit, she wore that big gold ring like a goddamn advertisement for marital bliss. We all knew she was a dream princess come to grace us with her beauty... We all knew she was generous with the starch. One day it was potatoes, the next it was rice, the next it was spaghetti. She piled it on... But every day, between me and Princess Ayesha, on top of the starch, it was smiles and respect � an exchange � it was attraction.

I had eyes and ears everywhere in the joint. I heard the mafockas dreaming, heard them scheming...

Piss sat on the end of my bed, broadcasting the CNN as Black Jimmy braided my hair. My boy Piss was huge now. Six foot seven, tippin� the scales at two-hundred-forty pounds of pure muscle. No weights or steroids, just a big damn motherfucker. He�d refused a glass eye, said it looked dumb, and now, with that black eye patch and his shoulder-length dreadlocks and his size and natural coldness, he commanded instant respect. Shit, motherfucking Arnold Swatchanigga would pinch a musclebound log in his diapers he run into Piss. Huge and bad, his black eye patch embroidered with a red skull and cross bones, the fine stitch-work done by his ex-bitch Jewel � Rafael to his Mexican mama and daddy � Piss was almost eighteen, about to graduate and hit the streets. Pity the poor mafockin streets. And unlike me the motherfucker had a heart. He�d cried the day he caught that little taco-loco bitch Jewel in the shower takin� some fat nigga up the Hershey highway. Yup, he�d cried, cried with his one good eye then thrown Jewel headfirst into the shower wall. Cried some more as he kicked the shit out of the soapy nigga who�d been bangin� Jewel. Cried and then stomped that broken-neck paraplegic Jewel in the family jewels and said, �Adios, bitch.�

�Word up, Cannibal. Shaq and his crew are fixin� to jump your honey freaky tomorrow night.�

�She ain�t my honey, brother.�

�Yo, whoever she is or isn�t, they plannin� a pony party. They talkin� they gonna rock that fine puddy into the next life.�

I sent for Shaquille. Him and me hated each other, had never made it up since the day I saved Piss from his spit bath.

�Whussup, nigga?� I asked that cold motherfucker. Piss stood by, tall. Black Jimmy was done with my hair and was finishing up my manicure, buffing my nails mirror-bright.

�Me, always.� He grabbed his business.

�Whoop-de-damn-do for you... Lookee here, bitch, whuss this shit I hear �bout you and Money Johnson and Claude DeVeaux bein� all geeked up about a certain female?�

�Don�t believe the lyin�-ass niggaz.�

�Listen up, lame-ass � you get within spittin� distance of Miss Lovely and I�ll personally chop your sorry mafockin� steroid-shrunk Johnson off and put it in a bun and sell it as a midget goddamn hot dog � hold the motherfuckin� mustard. Know what I�m sayin�?�

�Why you always frontin� on me, man?� Shaq wasn�t bending over easy. �Why don�tcha back off and take care of you own business?�

�This is my business, nigga.�

�You think you bad?�

�No, sucker,� I said. �I know it.�

�I ain�t one of your dumb little Zoo Crew niggaz, Frankie. I don�t scare like a pussy-ass mafocka. You can�t just order me around.�

�I just did. You just too dumb to know it. You liftin� weights and shit but your brain still the size of a mothball.

Consider your gorilla ass warned. Now remove your stank out of my presence and lemme watch the paint peel.�

I waved him away with a flash of polished nails. Piss smiled and growled.

Later on Piss and Popeye and Gangstahlove sat on my bed. We smoked a blunt full of sweet coke and sensemilla.

�I want Shaq and his niggaz shadowed.�

�Toyota,� said Piss, echoing an ancient ad. �You asked for it you got it, Toyota.�

�Burger King,� said Popeye, echoing another ancient ad. �Have it your way.�

�And if they try some shit...� I smiled, drawing deep on the blunt.

�Nike, my brother,� said G-love, echoing another ancient ad. �Just do it.�

�Truth,� I said. �Just do it.�

The Zookeeper stood at the podium in the auditorium next morning. He was gripping the old wood hard.

�Gentlemen,� he was a big old black man. Old-school dude. Old and tired, but strong. He�d seen boys come and go and come and die � he was the parade marshal checking off names as motherfuckers marched the one-way road to hell. Nothing seemed to rattle his cage. But today he was off his game.

�Gentlemen,� he said. �And I use that form of address reluctantly. Last night while most of you were in this room watching Harrison Ford make the world safe for democracy, we lost a boy. This morning Mrs Wills opened up the steam table to put in the oatmeal and eggs and what did she find? Shaquille Clark in the water. His penis and testicles stuffed in his mouth. Dead? You can�t get much deader... Now, I assure you, the hoodlums who perpetrated this monstrosity will not get off...�

Shit, I thought. There was no way we were gonna get busted. Not with Cisco and Egbert already in the Zoo Crew, each happy and high on some killer smoke, each with a stash of pills to sell, each of them having given thumbs-up to Harrison Ford... They were my niggaz now. They knew what happened to Shaquille. How he begged. How he exited soft. How he paid for fucking with Frankie Lawrence. Ain�t no one was gonna drop a dime on us. Hell, no, we weren�t gonna get popped... Not in this life, anyway.

�Adios, motherfucker,� I said to Juvenile Hall from the back seat of the armoured black Benz as we rounded the corner, putting the old cold walls behind us.

G-love was driving. Piss was with me in back. Between us on the fresh baby-butt-soft black leather that smelled of new money, a bright butterscotch-skinned honey named Kali. My dress was hiked up around my waist and Kali�s silky semi-pro grill was working overtime. Wet and wild. Liquid lickability factor through the roof. Maybe sixteen years old.

�Happy birthday to you, Frankie,� she said, coming up for air, planting a kiss on my lovestick.

�Yeah,� I said. �Blow that candle for me, baby.�

It was January the twenty-ninth. I was eighteen. Eighteen and free. Eighteen and free on the back seat of a silent black Benz with smoked windows. A butterscotch honey named Kali blowing my candle... And here�s the CNN: freedom air didn�t taste no damn different than Zoo air. No different. I felt exactly the same as an hour earlier back when the Zookeeper was spilling me the canned adios lecture about accepting responsibility... You see, geography, walls, those bitches just an illusion. There�s no real inside and no real outside. That�s a fact. The road to hell is in your head. And if you walkin� that road, you walkin� that road. Just follow your feet. No detour from the facts. And when destiny calls, that nasty third-class ho calls collect... And it ain�t like you got a choice, nigga just gots to accept the charges... Now that�s responsibility.

I�d told Mama not to pick me up and not to expect me living back home. I�d visit the old lady � pretend I was kickin� it there if any authorities checked up on me � but I wasn�t gonna actually put my head on no pillow there. Not while whatever-that-motherfucker�s-name-was was with her...

We drove the city. That fly gangstah bitch Kali now high in the saddle, getting busy, working me with that slippery slidy velvet crotch glove, thumping and bumping and grinding, riding the pony to Paradise as I looked out the window and smoked a cigarette...

The hood hadn�t modified a fraction since I�d been inside. Nothing but poor folk and wild dogs. Desperation and the wind. Winos and junkies and homeless motherfuckers waiting for gold or death to fall out of the sky. Candy wrappers and losing lottery tickets and empty heroin bags blowing dead in the cold wind. Paper sailboats in a sea of dust and grey decay... Grey sky, grey buildings, grey faces. Colour and life sucked out of faces by the wind. Empty crack vials and dead syringes glittering like false promises in the gutters... The geography of poverty. Hopelessness reigned supreme.

There were things I wanted. A whole shopping list of things I wanted. I wanted power, I wanted money. I wanted folk to know my name. I wanted people to beg me for favours, for drugs. For rock, for heroin... I wanted females, females of every colour and shape. I wanted to eat them, to fuck them, to make them laugh and shiver and whine with pleasure. I wanted to blow my nose in their hair and make them cry and sigh and whisper my name with love and fear. I wanted to pop my nut a million times in a million different pussies. I wanted your wife, your girlfriend, your sister � I wanted your mother if she was fine... I wanted cars, cars of every make and model. I wanted to drive fast, fast as the motherfucking wind. I wanted cars, I wanted girls. I wanted fine champagne and uncut cocaine, Hawaiian herb and big screen TVs. I wanted toasted bread and clean mattresses. I wanted silk sheets and silk bitches. I wanted...

�You find her?� I asked as Kali pogoed up and down, sweat on her brow, making freaky yipping noises.

�Easy,� said Piss. �Ayesha got a baby now. Her husband work in a damn supermarket. Stockboy.�

�She happy?� I asked, squeezing a ripe Kali chest mango.

�She poor,� Piss said. �Poor can�t be truly happy.�

�Tell me somethin� I don�t know.�

�Word,� said Gangstahlove as we passed two scabby winos playin� tug-of-war over the dregs in a bottle. The loser crashed to the ground and watched the winner upend the bottle, two final drops hittin� the nigga�s dry grey tongue.

I looked out the back window as that gymnastic Kali drew the major gush out of me. The loser was swinging a piece of wood at the winner�s head. And as I popped, the winner�s head popped red... Winner now the loser...

I�ll tell you what it was I really wanted. All that other shit was just shits and grins, magazines in a wating room...

You know what I wanted. I wanted Ayesha.

It�s just one of those things. A fact of life. I�m naked. Naked and alone. I don�t hold it against Mama for locking me up naked and leaving me alone. Ain�t her fault I�m in a cage on death row, headed for the chair... That�s just the way it is... Being locked up naked and alone is just one of those things...

And the winter wind keeps on blowing... I waived all my appeals. I laughed at the priest. I ate my Big Mac. I�m writing these words... There ain�t no windows here in this coffin, but the winter wind keeps on blowing...

When the SWAT team busted into Ronny�s crib and found me there, sitting on the floor, Mama blown into chunks, Larry Lawrence dead, Ronny dead without a face, me eating that thing I was eating, one of those hard sharpshootin� armoured robots actually puked behind his Darth Vader mask. Had to take the damn thing off he was puking so hard and heavy.

I laughed.

�What�s the matter?� I asked. �Ain�t you never saw a boy eatin� his mama�s heart?�

I laughed and laughed and chewed it good, just like Mama always told me...

So here I am, naked and alone. Naked and alone. Naked and alone. Just like the old days, locked up naked and alone. And the winter wind keeps on blowing...

�You done good,� the wind just say in my brain. �You exceeded all my expectations. You gave me value for my entertainment dollar. Frankie, baby, you one bad motherfucker...�

�Shut up, motherfuckin� devil,� I say. �You push my ass, push my ass, push my ass, and now you got me where you want me, huh? Naked and alone...�

�I love you, Frankie,� say the wind. �I love you. You my own very special little nigga.�

�I don�t love you,� I say. �I love Ayesha. That�s the way it is. Just one of those things. I don�t love you.�

�We�ll see about that,� say the wind, blowing cold. �You�ll love me when you down in hell. You�ll love me. You�ll love me and beg me for some cold wind then... They�re coming...�

I can hear them, the jailers. I can hear them, the other death-row niggaz rattling their cups against their bars. Frankie�s gonna die today, they say. The Cannibal�s going down... But shit, Frankie can�t die... Man ain�t never been alive can�t die... You see, Frankie born dead. Born dead into a dead world... But shit, nigga, I had a helluva run for a dead man in a dead world...

I�m puttin� on the red dress. Red dress keep me safe. Mafockin� wind can�t touch me. That devil wind can talk all the shit it wants, but the mafocka can�t touch me...

Yeah, I be seein� you niggaz around the block. I be seein� you niggaz in the bank. I be seein� you down in hell... But remember this: When you start feelin� all safe and shit and you think the time is ripe and you can let your guard down and have a motherfuckin� laugh at my expense, that�s when I reach out and teach you sorry-ass niggaz a lesson about respect... One laugh per customer, that�s all you get...

Adios, motherfucker...

Lincoln Street was deserted. The big clock in Park Street Church, uptown, had finished tolling midnight. In front of the Surety Building at Lincoln and West, Mr Loring Everett Newton leaned forward on the rear seat of his enormous car and nervously tapped his chauffeur between the shoulders, then clung to the upholstery as the car nosed towards the kerb.

The machine purred to a stop and with the assistance of the chauffeur Newton gingerly got out. �Better go home now, Andrews,� he said. �And remember � if my son or daughter should ask where I am, you drove me to the club.�

Loring Everett Newton was senior partner in the insurance firm of Newton, Hackler and Fern. Bony hands shaking and watery eyes wide in his white face, he let himself into the Surety Building and wearily climbed the stairs to the fourth floor, which was devoted in its entirety to the offices of the firm over which he presided.

He lit a light and left his topcoat and hat in the outer office. Thumbing a second light-switch in his own private sanctum, he closed the door and lowered his frail body into the chair behind the desk.

He was here to keep a midnight tryst with a woman who had died three months before, and he was quite unaware that his every movement was being observed by the keen grey eyes of Mr Martin Lane, investigator of the occult and supernatural.

For more than half an hour Martin Lane had been sitting very quietly in a straight-backed chair behind an ungainly, old-fashioned filing cabinet. He was hardly noticeable sitting there, his slender, wiry frame blended so easily with the shadows.

Finding him there, Newton might have thought him merely one of the office clerks who had gone to sleep, perhaps, and forgotten to go home. Newton would probably have made the fatal mistake made so frequently by others � the mistake of classifying Martin Lane as �rather ordinary�.

Only in appearance was Martin Lane ordinary, and only then because he desired to be. That studied colourlessness concealed a cobra-quick alertness, a mind keener than any microscope. That pale, thin face and those slumped shoulders hid hair-trigger muscles more responsive than those of a racing greyhound. Beneath the surface lightly slept a cyclone.

Men looked at Martin Lane, classified him as hardly worth remembering, and accordingly forgot him. That very lack of glitter was his major ace in the hole. It enabled him, time and again, to intrude where angels feared to tread; had helped him to face death without dying. It meant he could come and go without being labelled.

That, when one constantly poked one�s nose into the supernatural, was an accomplishment not to be lightly regarded.

Martin Lane was alert now � and Newton did not discover him.

Bony hands still shaking, Newton produced four rubber-banded packages of bills and placed them on the desk. Then he carefully counted the bills in each package, mumbling the count as he did so.

It was a lot of money. Twenty thousand dollars in all, and in cash. Perspiration gleamed on Newton�s high forehead as he paced nervously into the outer office and extinguished the light.

Returning, he darkened the inner office also, then seated himself at the desk again and waited.

Martin Lane, eyes narrowed and thin lips scowling, remained motionless behind the cabinet and knew that, unless something went wrong, the ghost of a dead woman would soon appear in the shadows.

Yesterday morning the attractive, twenty-two-year-old daughter of Loring Everett Newton had driven to Martin Lane�s Chestnut Hill home and begged Lane�s assistance. It was the first time she had come face to face with the famed investigator of psychic phenomena and she had seemed surprised to find him so utterly unglamorous in appearance.

He had been working in his photographic darkroom, and his hands were streaked with green dye, his slender stoop-shouldered body encased in an old rubber apron. Photography was only one of Martin Lane�s many hobbies.

�I�ve come to you because I�m desperate,� Ruth Newton said, �and because I�ve heard so much about you, Mr Lane. It�s about my father. Possibly you�ve heard of him.�

Most people had heard of her father, Lane told her with a smile. When a man controlled a mammoth insurance company and possessed several million dollars, his name became public property.

�For three months now,� Ruth Newton said, �my father has been acting strangely. We thought at first it was due to mother�s death. She was killed in that horrible accident, you know.�

Lane knew. The wife of Loring Everett Newton had been found dead in the charred wreckage of her foreign-made car at the foot of Baker�s Cliff on the lake road, six months ago.

�We thought he was brooding over her death,� the girl said. �Then he took to going out at night, every night, alone. He talked about mother continually. When Paul and I demanded an explanation, he said that mother had come back to him. Then I began following him when he went out at night.�

Lane, dye-streaked hands flat on his knees, peered at her and waited for the rest of it. The penetrating gaze of the girl�s eyes did not trouble him, nor did her sudden hesitation. He guessed that she was thinking what many another person had thought � that he was somehow too mild, too ordinary, to be equal to his reputation.

She had expected, perhaps, a creature with glittering eyes and a bristling beard, seated cross-legged upon Oriental rugs and gazing into a crystal ball flanked by columns of incense-smoke. Ah, well...

�Night after night my father went to his office,� Ruth Newton said at last, evidently steeling herself to go through with it. �He still goes there, Mr Lane. I can�t stand it! He�s not my father any longer; he�s a total stranger to me and Paul. He is surely going insane!�

�I shall be more than glad to look into the matter,� Lane said quietly.

That had happened yesterday.

Now, in darkness, Loring Everett Newton sat alone in his private sanctum, waiting for the arrival of his dead wife, while Lane watched from his place of hiding.

The office was a large one. In addition to Newton�s huge desk and the filing cabinet, it contained another large cabinet that extended from floor to ceiling on the far side of the room. Newton, rigid in his chair and breathing heavily, expectantly faced that second cabinet.

There had been a great deal of talk, Martin Lane remembered, about the gruesome accident that had claimed Mrs Newton�s life. The disaster had occurred late at night while the woman was returning from a camp near Spring Lake. The newspapers had subtly and suggestively wondered why she was returning from so isolated a place at so late an hour.

Through their scandal columns the papers had done a good deal of wondering about Loring Newton�s wife over a period of years. She seemed to enjoy seeing her name in print, no matter how shady the circumstances. There were rumours, for instance, that she and Mr Arthur Fern, her husband�s junior partner, had been very much more than casual friends.

Martin Lane watched and wondered. Then suddenly he had something more tangible to wonder about.

A creaking sound informed him that the door of the large cabinet had slowly swung open. Other sounds indicated that Loring Newton had stiffened convulsively in his chair and was leaning forwards one hand nervously pawing the edge of the desk.

Near the open door of the cabinet a thin, tenuous light undulated weirdly along the floor!

Martin Lane put his hands hard on his knees but otherwise sat still. The unearthly light wavered, grew larger, and began slowly to assume shape as it gained height. No flashlight was making it, that was certain; the weird glow possessed life and motion of its own. It wavered dimly in the room�s darkness and became an amazingly soft, vaporous glow, swaying sluggishly as it assumed the form of a woman.

Then Lane saw the face.

It came into view as slowly and weirdly as a photographic face emerging in a darkroom developer-tray. The luminous vapour blurred away from it, sinuously coiling, and the face itself was indistinct, nebulous, with an unearthly beauty that drew Martin Lane�s eyes forward in their sockets.

With a slow gliding motion the woman swayed forward, and then Loring Newton hoarsely whispered her name. �Marguerite!�

�You have brought the money, Loring?�

�I... yes � most of it.� Newton�s voice, issuing from lips that must surely be quivering, was a frightened whisper wandering in the room�s murk. �You don�t seem to realise how hard it is for me to raise more cash. I�ve given you so much!�

�You will give me much more, Loring, before your debt is paid in full.�

Martin Lane could see only the woman; the man was invisible in darkness. He took note of her amazing beauty and recalled that newspaper portraits had invariably revealed Marguerite Newton to be lovely beyond comparison.

But there was something evil in the ethereal, ever-changing luminosity of that lovely face as the woman came closer. Softly she murmured, �Where is the money you have brought for me tonight?�

�You should not ask for more!� Newton groaned. �My God, I told you that the last time! My money is gone, all of it. I�ve had to borrow. I�ve had to steal from my company. Now must I steal from our own children?�

�Would you have them know the manner of my death, Loring?�

�No, no!�

�Would you have me go to them and say, �It was not an accident, my children. When I left the camp that night, your own father was waiting for me and strangled the life from my earthly body while I screamed for mercy. Your own father murdered me and then set fire to the car and���

�No, no! My God, no! I�ll pay you! I�ll pay whatever you demand!�

Soft, mocking laughter answered him. �I have no love for my children, Loring. You knew that, even before you destroyed my earthly form and made me a wanderer in this dark world of death. I want this money because it is theirs. Because they love you, they too must pay for your sin.�

Spectral hands reached forward to the dim black outline of the desk, and Martin Lane guessed they were avidly closing over the bills that lay there. Then, slowly, the woman retreated.

The vaporous contour of her face was blurred again by undulating shadows and began slowly to dissolve. Her unearthly form lost shape, became a wavering, uncertain glow in the darkness. A voice whispered softly, �I shall come again, Loring. Be here tomorrow night...�

The last wavering thread of light vanished. The door of the cabinet creaked shut.

Martin Lane remained where he was, unmoving. For a while the darkness was full of low, throaty sobs emanating from the man at the desk; then the legs of a chair scraped the floor and footsteps were audible. A light-switch clicked under Newton�s groping fingers.

The man looked around him and shuddered, his face drenched with sweat, eyes wide with pure terror. He opened the cabinet door and peered into the murky interior. Finally, still sobbing, he snapped out the light and walked out of the office.

Miss Ruth Newton looked anxiously into Martin Lane�s sombre face the next morning and said falteringly, �Must I answer your question?�

�I assure you I had good reasons for asking it,� Lane murmured.

�Very well then, it is true that Paul and I had no love for our mother. She hated us, and I suppose we also hated her. She was a wicked woman who abused Father terribly. Now will you tell me what happened last night?�

�Your father has told you his version?�

She shook her head. �Andrews drove Father to the club last night and returned here without him at half-past one this morning. That is, he says he drove father to the club. But I know father wasn�t there, because I called to find out. I don�t know where to turn, Mr Lane. I thought I could trust Andrews when he came to us three months ago, but now��

�Andrews returned here at half past one?� Lane asked, scowling.

�Yes.�

�Where is your father now, Miss Newton? At his office?�

�No. He said he had a number of errands to do and would return here for lunch.�

Lane nodded, wondering whether Loring Everett Newton were at this moment endeavouring desperately to raise money to meet the demands made upon him. He looked around him. Here in Newton�s home he had talked for a long while with the son and daughter of the man he was trying to help. It was a pretentious home but an unhappy one. Dread had taken possession.

�What happened last night is of little importance, Miss Newton.� Lane shrugged, rising. �Tonight may tell a different story.�

In the hall he again encountered the girl�s brother, and the young man glared at him without even a nod of greeting. There was something strange here, Lane thought. The girl was almost fanatically anxious to help her father. Paul, on the contrary, seemed bitterly resentful of intrusion by strangers. Less than half an hour ago he had angrily requested Lane not to meddle further in the family�s private affairs.

Lane drove downtown to the Surety Building and got there in ten minutes, took an elevator to the fourth floor and asked for Mr Henry Hackler. �Please tell Mr Hackler,� he said to the girl, �that Dr Philip Washburne wishes to confer with him in the interests of Mrs Newton.�

�Dr Philip Washburne?�

�Yes.�

It was a chance he had to take, a chance he had taken dozens of times before with few disastrous results. At times like this, his facility in self-effacement was invaluable. Men who had met him less than twenty-four hours earlier � men Who thought themselves discerning � frequently accepted him as a total stranger upon encountering him again.

He was ushered with some ceremony into the private office of Newton�s partner and realised presently that one listened a lot and spoke little while in Hackler�s presence.

Big, red-faced Henry Hackler enjoyed the sound of his own booming voice.

�Dr Philip Washburne? I haven�t the honour of knowing you, sir, but if you are here in the interests of our senior partner I�ll do all I can to help. Absolutely all I can, and gladly. Mr Newton has been ill for some time. We�ve noticed it, I assure you. He seems upset, worried, on the verge of a breakdown, I�d say. That mustn�t happen, doctor. That simply must not happen. We need Newton and can�t do without him.�

�Mr Newton is a very taciturn man,� Lane said patiently. �I find it difficult, Mr Hackler, to get inside him and discover just what is worrying him so. Perhaps you can help me.�

Hackler made a business of puffing his cheeks and gusting breath from his generous mouth. �Well, doctor, he began losing his grip on things when Mrs Newton was killed in that ghastly accident. Yes, that started it, I�d say. Wait a minute, though. I�ll get Mr Fern. Our junior partner knew Mrs Newton better than any of us.�

�So I understand,� Lane murmured.

�Eh?�

�I understand they were... ah... very good friends.�

�Oh, that. Newspaper talk, doctor. Nothing to it, I assure you. They were friends, of course, but why not? I�ll get Fern, let you talk to him.�

Arthur Fern was younger and better looking than Hackler. Exceptionally handsome, in fact. He looked Lane over carefully, listened indifferently to Hackler�s elaborate introduction, then sat and took a cigarette from a monogrammed silver case and said with an exhalation of tobacco smoke, �I prefer not to be drawn into a discussion of this sort, doctor.�

With a murmured, �Thank you, gentlemen, thank you,� Lane went out and drove to his own home on Chestnut Hill.

It was an unpretentious home amid trees and shrubbery on a short dead-end street. Woods crowded close on two sides. Neighbours, of whom there were few, never pointed the house out to visitors and said, �There lives Martin Lane.� Driving past, they might possibly notice the slender, uninspiring figure of Martin Lane puttering about in his garden, but they knew little or nothing about the man himself and few had ever set foot over his threshold.

He closed the door behind him now and softly called, �Jonathan!�

From the kitchen at the rear a diminutive English servant came hurrying in response.

�Whisky and soda, please, Jonathan,� Lane requested. �In the living room.�

He strolled into the modestly furnished living room and slumped into his favourite thinking-place � a large club chair near the fireplace. Jonathan appeared quietly with the desired refreshment.

�I want you to call Dominic Corsi,� Lane said, �and ask him to pay me a visit this evening about eight.�

�Yes, sir.� Jonathan turned to walk to the telephone but didn�t get there. A double blast of gunfire smothered the soft whisper of his slow footsteps and sent him spinning backwards like a startled antelope. Martin Lane clapped a hand to one shoulder and groaned, pitching sideways in the big chair.

Outside, visible through an open window, a long-legged figure raced at top speed across the lawn.

The face of the servant was a study in terror as he frantically flung himself forwards and pawed at Lane�s crumpled body. �Are you injured, sir? Are you hurt?� His voice was a high, thin wail.

�I�m all right, I think, Jonathan.� The words came with an effort from the wounded man�s lips. �Get after him, will you? Find out who he is!�

�But you�re wounded, sir!�

�I�m all right, I tell you. Get moving!� Lane struggled to sit up. �If he has a car, take mine and try to follow him!�

Jonathan departed, slamming the door behind him. Martin Lane, groaning, groped erect and stared down at the chair in which he had been sitting. Two shots had been fired through the open window. One bullet had caught him in the left shoulder; the other had tunnelled the chair�s upholstery, missing its human target by the breadth of a hair.

�Out to get me,� Lane muttered. �Second attempt, that was. Next time I might not be so lucky.�

The wound was more painful than serious. Before a full-length mirror in the bedroom he stripped off his bloodstained shirt and undershirt and carefully doctored the gash, using instruments to remove the bullet.

When Jonathan returned an hour later, Martin Lane was again sitting complacently in the big living-room chair.

�The gentleman drove to a large house on the other side of the city, sir,� Jonathan said excitedly. �I noted the address as one-thirteen Eastern Avenue.�

Lane nodded. One-thirteen Eastern Avenue was the address of Mr Loring Everett Newton. �You got a good look at him, Jonathan?�

�Yes indeed, sir.�

�Well?�

Omitting nothing, the competent Jonathan described the man he had trailed.

�Newton himself,� Lane muttered. �I thought as much. Get Miss Ruth Newton on the phone, will you?�

The servant did so. Lane took the instrument, spoke for some time in a low, unruffled voice to the daughter of the man who had attempted to murder him, but did not mention the attempted slaying.

�Eleven o�clock tonight, then,� he said finally. �You�re sure you can make it? That will give us an hour � ample time, I�m sure � to finish our little programme before the other show begins.�

He put the phone down, turned. �You were about to call Dominic Corsi, Jonathan,� he said gently, �when we were interrupted.�

At twenty minutes past ten that night Martin Lane let himself into the insurance company offices on the fourth floor of the Surety Building. With him was Mr Dominic Corsi, a tall, swarthy Italian to whom for the past half hour Lane had been carefully issuing instructions.

Lugging a suitcase, Dominic Corsi entered behind Lane and carefully closed the door which, with master-key and pick-lock, Lane had laboured to open.

At eleven o�clock to the minute, Loring Everett Newton and his daughter climbed the stairs and entered Newton�s private sanctum. They found Lane seated there at the desk.

Newton stopped short with a spine-jarring jerk and stared with eyes that swelled to amazing proportions. �Martin Lane!� he whispered hoarsely.

�And very much alive,� Lane murmured.

Apparently suspecting he had walked into some carefully prepared trap, Newton looked wildly around him.

Lane said softly, �I seldom go to the police with my personal problems, Mr Newton. You�ve nothing to fear. Unless, of course, you repeat your clumsy attempt to kill me.�

�To kill you?� Ruth Newton whispered, horrified.

�This afternoon, through an open window of my home. Just why did you attempt it, Newton?�

Newton�s face, twitching, was the colour of chalk. He knew he was trapped and evidently feared the worst. �I... I was ordered to,� he mumbled. �I had to obey.�

�Last night?�

�No, no. A letter this morning from my � from��

�From your dead wife?�

Newton wearily nodded.

Lane stood up. �Later, I�d very much like to see that letter,� he said. �We haven�t time now before your appointment here. I want you to sit at the desk, Newton, just as you did last night. Ruth, you may sit here.� He pushed a chair against the filing cabinet behind which last night he himself had remained hidden. �And now � let�s have the room in darkness.�

Pacing forwards, he put a hand on the light-switch but turned before snapping it. Newton, rigid at the desk, was bewildered and apparently terrified. His daughter nervously watched Lane�s every movement.

�No matter what happens,� Lane said softly, �I want both of you to sit absolutely still.� He glared at the girl�s father. �If you�ve a gun on you, Newton, leave it in your pocket. I see rather well in the dark and have no intention of being shot, so don�t try it. Just sit still.�

The room was suddenly in darkness. Martin Lane paced to the far side of it, stood flat against the wall, and waited.

A soft creaking sound informed him that the door of the large cabinet was slowly swinging open. A thin, wavering glow materialised near the door and grew larger.

That weirdly undulating luminescence increased in size and assumed human form precisely as it had the night before during the ghostly resurrection of Newton�s dead wife. It became the vague outline of a woman � a gloriously beautiful woman with translucent features, body outlines wavering as if composed of mist.

Loring Newton�s quavering voice rode on wings of terror through the darkness. �Oh, my God, it�s... it�s��

�Yes, it is Marguerite,� the woman answered softly.

Martin Lane, smiling, said triumphantly, �Well done, Dominic. Very well done indeed. Now we�ll have a light and show Mr Newton just how��

The words died to a whisper as Lane�s eyes widened. The woman had turned slowly to face him and was staring straight at him. Something in that sluggish movement was hostile, sinister. About to step forward, Lane held his ground and stood stiff as wood.

�Why have you brought this man here, Loring?� the woman asked harshly. �I told you never to bring a companion! I warned you what would happen!�

Martin Lane waited for no more. As if shot from a sling he hurtled forward, both arms outflung, head lowered like that of a charging ram. He heard Loring Newton wailing an answer to the woman�s threat, heard a shrill scream of abject terror from Newton�s daughter.

Then, too late, Lane saw the outline of a gun in one of those spectral, luminous hands!

He tried to hurl himself sideways but the momentum of his charge was too great. A streak of flame spewed amid reverberations of ear-splitting thunder from the gun�s muzzle. Lane staggered, bent double with agony as the bullet gouged into him.

As he crashed to his knees, the gun-barrel descended with skull-splintering force to the back of his head. A spectral hand stabbed down towards him, fastened in his hair, and dragged him towards the cabinet.

Loring and Ruth Newton, both paralysed with terror, made no move to come to his assistance and the woman from hell, facing them, was saying in a husky voice pregnant with hate, �Before many hours have passed you will pay for this, Loring Newton. You will learn what it means to disobey the commands of those who return from the farther world!�

Then Martin Lane lost consciousness.

He came to � slowly, with a pounding torment in his head and a burning pain in his thigh where the bullet had seared tender flesh. The darkness was black as soot because the tight, agonising weight around his eyes was a blindfold. A gag filled his mouth. His wrists, crossed behind him, were caught in heavy shackles.

Below him a woman�s voice was faintly audible.

Lane listened dully, realising he must be in a room above Loring Newton�s private office. Intuition told him he had been unconscious for a long time; no man could recover immediately from so vicious an assault. The voice of the spectral woman in the room below him spoke words that were grimly significant.

�...at once, Loring, and be sure you are not followed when you come here. You will find Martin Lane in your office, handcuffed to the chair behind your own desk, and this time you must not blunder in performing the task assigned to you. Unless Lane dies within the hour, your son and daughter will be told the truth about my death. Do you quite understand what I mean?�

The woman was evidently using the telephone on Newton�s own desk. Had time enough elapsed, then, for Newton to return to his own home? Probably it had. After Martin Lane�s inexplicable disappearance from the office, Newton and his daughter had undoubtedly fled in terror. Now the man was being told to return here.

�If you disobey me or fail again in carrying out my orders,� Lane heard the woman�s voice softly threaten, �you know what the penalty will be. That is all, Loring. I shall be here waiting.�

The phone clicked into its cradle and Lane heard soft scraping sounds as of someone slowly ascending a short flight of stairs. He feigned unconsciousness again. In a moment strong hands seized his legs and shoulders and raised him from the floor.

The woman�s voice said softly, �You have been asleep a long while, Martin Lane. Death will be easier if you remain that way.�

Lane felt himself being lowered carefully through space into upstretched hands that were waiting to receive him. Again he was carried forward, this time but a short distance before he was dumped onto a chair. The chair, he guessed, was the one behind Loring Newton�s massive desk.

Strong hands held him while others, strangely cold and damp, removed the bracelets from his wrists. His arms were jerked then through the slats of the chair and his wrists secured again with the same steel cuffs.

Then he was left alone, knowing that in a very short while, perhaps less than an hour, Loring Newton would come to murder him.

With grim determination he went to work.

The blindfold received his attention first. Judging from the feel of it, it consisted of a long strip of bandage wound tightly around his head. It could be moved, then, by clever and persistent manipulation of the facial muscles.

He laboured mightily for ten minutes. At the end of that time the bandage was high enough for him to see through a tiny slit beneath it. His head ached fiendishly from the torment of his efforts, and his ridged forehead was sleek with sweat.

The room was dark. He was safe then in continuing his attempts to free himself. But his hands, manacled behind the slats of the chair, were growing numb from lack of circulation.

Every muscle in Martin Lane�s lean body suffered agony as he coiled his legs around one side of the chair and brought one foot within reach of his hands. The pain of it sickened him, and the task required all of fifteen minutes when minutes were terribly precious.

Working slowly, with perspiration dripping like water from his convulsed face, he removed the lace from one shoe. Handcuffs � those of regulation pattern, at least � could sometimes be opened with a strong shoelace if one knew how. The primary requisite was to use both hands with equal dexterity, and Martin Lane was master of his own lean body.

Laboriously he looped the shoestring, forced it into the lock, and coiled it around the end of the screw. A dozen times then he exerted sudden pressure, yanking the string with all his strength while both arms maintained a cramped, nerve-numbing position that produced agony all but unendurable.

When the bolt finally yielded, he had to steel himself against a return of unconsciousness. The ordeal was finished, though. He was free.

Then before he could capitalise on that hard-earned freedom a door lock clicked in the darkness. With horrible abruptness he was aware of the doom-march of advancing footsteps!

Lane sat rigid, wrists still resting in the open shackles behind him. With head tilted back he stared through the thin slit beneath the blindfold. The slow march of footsteps began again as the unseen intruder paced sluggishly towards him.

A light-switch clicked. The sudden glare stabbed Lane�s eyes and momentarily blinded him. When the blindness passed, he saw what had happened. Loring Everett Newton had returned in obedience to the murder-command issued by the veiled woman from the grave!

Standing there against the opposite wall, Newton peered at his intended victim. Terror had brought him here. Terror was apparent in his bulging eyes, in the convulsive twitching of his whole big body. His right hand, holding a small automatic pistol, trembled violently at his side.

Martin Lane sat motionless, feigning unconsciousness.

Newton slowly advanced towards him, never once ceasing to stare. Halfway to the desk he stopped, and a low, liquid sob drained what little determination was left in his warped soul. He looked fearfully at the gun in his trembling fist, raised it, lowered it again, and moaned, �I can�t do it. Oh, God, Marguerite, I can�t do it! It would be cold-blooded murder...�

Martin Lane did not move a muscle.

It would be over in a moment, Lane was certain. The gun in Newton�s fist would wobble into firing position and that trembling trigger-finger would tighten. The man would do it because he was too utterly terrified to disobey the hell-woman�s command. He had already committed murder once � perhaps in good cause � and now his mind was twisted and torn by dealings with the dead. He was on the verge of insanity.

He would come closer to the desk and then take aim. And then Martin Lane would lunge sideways in the chair, leap erect and grapple with him before the gun could again blast out its murderous chant.

But Newton was retreating. Still staring with horribly wide eyes, still mumbling to himself, he paced slowly backwards towards the door. Lane watched every move and saw the man�s left hand reach to the light-switch, saw the right hand, holding the gun, come slowly up for action.

Lacking courage to do the job in a lighted room, Newton was going to plunge the office into darkness and then squeeze the trigger!

With palsied fingers Newton pressed the switch.

Martin Lane went into action.

Shielded by darkness, Lane slid both arms through the slats of his chair, lunged forward, and began crawling. When the gun roared its death chant he was a full ten feet from the desk and slowly straightening to his feet.

The echoes of the blast crashed and jangled around him, choking the office with thunderous reverberations. No need now to creep soundlessly! No need for caution! Loring Newton was lurching forward, sobbing like a frightened child.

Lane leaped with catlike quickness, extended both arms, and slapped a two-foot length of bandage across Newton�s mouth. The bandage had been a blindfold. Now it provided an effective gag and kept the man from screaming.

With one hand Lane held the twisted ends. With the other he wrenched the gun from Newton�s fist, then pushed an upthrust knee into the man�s back and jerked him to the floor. The whole thing was done so swiftly the echoes of the gun-blast were still alive in the room when Lane hurled himself down upon his struggling victim.

A single well-placed blow stifled the terrified man�s attempt to put up a fight. Gun in hand, Lane dragged him across the floor and thrust him behind the filing cabinet. When Martin Lane straightened, the office was once again a sinister abode of silence and darkness.

Swiftly, soundlessly, Lane strode to the cabinet on the opposite side of the room.

He knew what was coming and set himself to wait for it. Only one shot had been fired. To the veiled woman that shot could mean only one thing � that Loring Everett Newton had obeyed her instructions.

Footsteps were audible in the depths of the cabinet. In there someone was cautiously descending a flight of stairs or a ladder. Hidden hands pushed the door open. A crouching shadow-shape stepped into the room.

The gun in Martin Lane�s fist crashed solidly down on the intruder�s stooped head, and without a sound the shape crumpled to the floor at Lane�s feet. In a half crouch Lane pushed the door shut and scratched a match.

The face that gleamed yellow in the flickering light from his cupped hand was the hard face of Andrews, Loring Newton�s chauffeur.

Martin Lane�s lips curled in a thin smile of triumph. He waited a moment, then quietly drew the cabinet door open again. With Newton�s automatic still gripped in his right hand, he groped with his left and felt the shafts of a ladder. Light spilled down through an open trap in the ceiling.

As he slowly ascended, Lane heard voices in the room above.

He gripped the gun harder. A man and woman were doing the talking, and he thought he knew who the man was. Evidently the pair had not expected Andrews to complete his mission for quite some time and were patiently awaiting the chauffeur�s reappearance.

Lane took the last two rungs of the ladder at top speed and telescoped erect on the floor above. A man and a woman whirled to face him.

The woman, young and attractive, was a stranger. The man was Mr Henry Hackler of Newton, Hackler and Fern.

Lane stepped forward, thinking that in his wrinkled blue suit he probably looked like a helpless, middle-aged clerk holding a gun he did not know how to use. It was not to be so easy, though. While anticipating trouble, he was startled by the suddenness of its coming. Obviously he had underestimated Mr Henry Hackler�s potential.

Without a word of warning, Hackler leaped!

The man showed his true character in that leap, or at least demonstrated contempt for his slender, unsmiling adversary. Had his fear of Martin Lane been greater � had he known the dynamite that lay dormant beneath that apparently unimpressive exterior � he might have made for the door and chanced a bullet. With the room but dimly lighted, his chance of escape might even have been a good one.

Instead, he chose to reach for his attractive female companion. His big hands gripped her shoulders and swung her around. She made a good shield.

With a sneer on his lips then, Henry Hackler backed slowly to the door, dragging the girl with him. And when Martin Lane jerked forward to halt him, the big man abruptly changed grips.

His thick right arm coiled around the girl�s throat. His left hand leaped to a pocket of his coat. Lane, halfway across the room, faced failure unless he chose the alternative of shooting through a squirming, terrified target.

�Stop right where you are!� Hackler snarled.

Lane obeyed, even when the gun came out of Hackler�s pocket to menace him. Retreat was impossible, and the chances were about even that Hackler would squeeze the trigger. Even so, with a squirming woman in his grasp Hackler could easily miss.

Twice before, the insurance man had made arrangements to have Lane put out of the way. Of that Lane was certain. Now, though, he evidently felt that Martin Lane was not worth shooting at. Sneering, he said with extreme self-confidence, �You�re quite the meddler, aren�t you? Quite the famous meddler! I ought to kill you, but you�re not worth the effort. I�ll let Andrews do it for me.� Then, savagely: �Walk backwards to the opening in the floor!�

Lane took a slow step backwards, his gaze fixed on the man�s face. His own gun was still gripped in his fist. So far, Hackler had overlooked that. Given time enough, the man would surely thrust some part of his beefy body out from behind his human shield. Then�

But Hackler�s next words annihilated that hope. �Drop the gun!� he snarled.

With no alternative, Lane let his weapon fall to the floor.

�Now do as I told you! Walk backwards to the trap!�

Lane took two more backward steps. Then something unforeseen interrupted Hackler�s grim programme. Behind him the door of a closet clattered open and, like an uncaged wild man, Mr Dominic Corsi stormed from the closet�s depths!

Corsi had been confined for some time in his dark little prison and now was livid with anger. He emerged with his arms flailing the air, his face crimson, his mouth spewing a lurid blast of Sicilian vituperation.

He looked extremely formidable � much more so, of course, than did Lane. Henry Hackler, startled, swung to confront him. �Get back!� Hackler yelled.

Dominic Corsi was far too angry to think of obeying any such command. Cursing, waving his arms, he advanced. The gun did not scare him until he was almost on top of it and Hackler had screamed again, �Get back!�

Unobserved, Martin, Lane stepped forward. In the presence of such an outraged Vesuvius he seemed even less obtrusive, more harmless, than before. A sudden panther-like leap closed the gap between him and Hackler.

Hackler�s right hand, brandishing the gun, was suddenly caught in a grip of steel fingers.

Martin Lane whirled with his knees bent and, with an enormous heave of shoulders more muscular than they seemed, jerked the amazed Hackler off his feet.

Like a flung side of beef the big man�s body hurtled through space. The wall stopped him with a bone-splintering crunch that made Lane wince. Hackler thudded to the floor and lay still.

The girl stood numb with terror as Lane scooped up Hackler�s gun. Turning, Lane took her by one arm and curtly ordered her towards the trap door, while Dominic Corsi stood with mouth agape, torrential outburst of oaths silenced by amazement.

Then abruptly Lane stopped, and the smile of triumph that had begun to form on his lips was suddenly gone again. A man�s head had lurched into view above the trap�s opening, and the snarling face into which Lane stared was one he had forgotten. It belonged to Andrews, the chauffeur.

The gun in Andrews�s big fist was aimed squarely at Lane�s chest and, behind Lane, Corsi shrieked a warning.

One savage thrust of Martin Lane�s arm sent the girl stumbling out of danger. He himself spun sideways as the weapon belched thunder.

Twice within the past few hours the gods of luck had deflected bullets from the vital parts of Lane�s anatomy. This time the potential death that sprayed towards him came in a triple dose as the gun barked three times.

Reeling in a wild sidewise leap, Lane went unhit while his own gun roared its staccato challenge.

Andrews screamed. With a shoulder shattered by Lane�s bullet he staggered on the ladder, clawed for an instant at the edge of the floor and then crashed down into the cabinet. Martin Lane descended after him.

The man was groaning on the cabinet floor when Lane reached him. Roughly Lane jerked him erect, dragged him to the chair behind Newton�s desk, and propped him there.

When Lane reached the top of the ladder a moment later, Dominic Corsi was bending over the sprawled body of Henry Hackler.

�He is shot,� the Italian said.

Lane stared. Two of the three bullets fired by Loring Newton�s chauffeur and intended for Martin Lane had found a final resting place in Hackler�s big body. Either would have been fatal.

�I should call the police?� Corsi asked.

�No.� Lane frowned. �I think not.�

Downstairs in Newton�s private office Lane pushed the girl into a chair and shook Loring Everett Newton out of a terror-induced stupor. �Now listen,� he said softly, �and get this straight, Newton. It may mean a lot to you.�

Newton listened, staring.

�In the beginning,� Lane declared, �Henry Hackler somehow found out the truth about your wife�s death. Have you any idea how he did that?�

Newton was slow in answering. �I... can only guess,� he said finally. �He may have been driving along the road that night, or walking along it, when�� He shuddered. �You see, he owned a cottage on the lake. It is just possible he may have witnessed the... the�� He bogged down again, staring hopelessly at Lane. �You see, my wife went there with Arthur Fern that night, to Fern�s camp.�

�I�m convinced,� Lane said, scowling, �that Fern had nothing to do with what happened after your wife�s death. Hackler played his game alone. He wanted your money and control of the company, and reasoned correctly that you�d be nervous and high-strung enough to be an easy victim for anything that seemed the least bit supernormal. He began by planting Andrews in your home as your chauffeur. Recall how he did that, do you?�

�He... he said Andrews was a deserving fellow out of work.�

�Ha! I can�t swear I�m right, but I believe Andrews is a former professional medium who worked under the name of Swami Sandrana.� Lane turned to the girl. �Is that right?�

She nodded.

�Hackler hired Andrews to put on a show for you,� Lane declared, �and the young lady here was brought into it by Andrews to impersonate your wife. Hackler probably intended to carry it just so far and then wind it up by sending you to jail, Newton, charged with the murder of your wife and perhaps of me as well. He�d have the company under his control then, and your ghost-story alibi wouldn�t have convinced a jury of morons. You were an easy victim because you were scared half to death even before he began working on you. Are you beginning to understand?�

Loring Newton wagged his head up and down slowly but then gazed at the girl and mumbled, �I... don�t know what you mean about this girl and my wife. Surely��

�I�ll show you. Or, rather, Corsi will. Corsi, you see, is a member of the Society of Magicians.�

Dominic Corsi, nodding, went quickly to the room upstairs and returned with a cardboard box which he dumped on the floor.

�This,� said Lane quietly, �is what might be called a property box. I brought equipment of my own tonight when I invaded that upstairs office, but found this stuff already there. With Corsi�s help I intended to duplicate the psychic phenomena you�ve been witnessing night after night in this room. Something�� he gazed ruefully at the Italian ��went wrong with my plans.�

�Something went very wrong indeed!� Corsi corroborated vehemently. �I waited up there for the lights to be turned out in this room. This man Andrews crept up behind me and slugged me, then he and Hackler threw me most ignominiously into a closet while this girl took my place for the performance! They tied me with ropes, but ropes are poor things with which to ensnare a magician, no? What I wish to know, Mr Lane, is why you did not inform me what to expect. Nothing did I know except my instructions. Nothing was I prepared for. Never was I��

Lane put a stopper on the flow of words by saying softly, �I think we know the rest of it, Dominic.� Then, turning to Newton, he said, �The equipment in this box is really rudimentary. It consists of a face-mask and rubber gloves sprayed with a dilution of Balmain�s Luminous Paint, and a robe of finest French bridal veiling, thin as gauze, which has been dyed with the same preparation. After exposure to bright light, this stuff will glow with a soft, weird luminosity in the dark.

�Undoubtedly you investigated that cabinet in daylight, Newton, and found it empty. You explored the floor and walls but neglected to pay much attention to the ceiling, which was less accessible. Through the trap-door in the ceiling Andrews was able to lower a padded ladder by which the young lady could descend into your office.

�She came in darkness. She herself was invisible until after clever manipulation of the luminous gauze fabric she finally draped the veil over herself and appeared in human form.

�So you see, Newton, it was really quite simple. Professional mediums have used that stunt, or variations of it, for years.�

Newton nodded slowly. He was sitting on a chair near the door, and the expression of utter despair on his face indicated the nature of the thoughts crawling in his dazed brain. He was a murderer. He faced the ultimate penalty. Martin Lane, staring at him, felt sorry for him but felt sorrier for the man�s son and daughter, who would bear the brunt of it.

�Well,� Lane said finally, �it�s time to go, Newton. Time to��

He didn�t finish. Andrews, the chauffeur, silent for a long while behind the desk, chose that moment to lurch madly to his feet. He, too, would have a penalty to pay when his fate was weighed on the scales of justice. Evidently he feared it.

With one hand he scooped up the gun that Martin Lane had placed on the desk. It was not Lane�s weapon; it had belonged to Henry Hackler. Lane�s own gun, seized long ago from Newton and retrieved from the floor in the room upstairs where he had dropped it at Hackler�s command, lay now in Martin Lane�s pocket. It came out with alacrity.

But Loring Everett Newton was erect, blocking Andrews�s escape.

The gun in Andrews�s fist whipped high as the fleeing man hurled himself at the door. Newton had no chance.

The girl and Dominic Corsi stumbled out of the way, both screaming. Martin Lane�s trigger finger, ready for action, curled a fraction of a second too late. Not intentionally too late, not deliberately, but at the same time not of necessity. It could perhaps have curled in time. It didn�t.

In that split second Martin Lane�s agile mind had flashed to the only merciful solution of the entire problem. Instinct held his hand.

The gun in Andrews�s fist roared, sending a bullet into Loring Everett Newton�s heart. Then, almost but not quite at the same instant, the gun in Martin Lane�s hand spewed a bullet, and Andrews, leaping wildly for the door, twisted in mid-air, cried out in agony, and fell across the sprawled body of his victim.

Martin Lane strode forward, made a careful examination of the two lifeless bodies, then turned to the girl.

�I�m going to give you an even break,� he said grimly, �even though I personally owe you something for pushing me into an elevator shaft. Undoubtedly you�ve heard a lot, but just as surely you know nothing. You could talk until doomsday and get no one to listen to you. However�� he gazed coldly into the girl�s terrified eyes ��just remember that the charge of extortion is a serious one, and too much talk will bring it crashing down on your head. You�re free to go now. I�ll personally escort you to the nearest railroad station.�

He turned to Corsi and held out his hand. �Thanks, Dominic, for what you�ve done.� Then, gazing at the sprawled body of Loring Everett Newton, he said softly, enigmatically, �For what I�ve done, Newton has a very lovely daughter who will in the end, I�m sure, be much happier. She need never know now that her father was anything less than she believed him to be.�

Changing his course, Barney Chance squeezed himself into the doorway of Klamer�s Dry Goods Store. The store was small, dark, and locked. The doorway was shelter, but not enough. He stood there impatiently, a briefcase in one sun-browned hand, an overnight bag in the other, water trickling off his hat-brim, the wet snow still reaching him.

He paused there only a moment. Barney Chance, as always, was in a hurry. He had certain important matters on his mind. From the overnight bag that had served his needs during a ten-day trip to Chicago, he removed his raincoat. He fought the coat until he had it buttoned on. Then his rangy stride carried him back along the sidewalk, his baggage again gripped tight, his head lowered against the stinging snow, a young man in no mood to let a little unexpected moisture hold him up.

The storm had struck without fair warning while he was heading towards the centre of town from the taxiless Pennswick station, where the 7:40 train had deposited him. Apparently its peak had been waiting for him to arrive. The full moon had greeted him by sneaking behind a black curtain of clouds � a high wind had commenced blowing down Main Street, lashing sleet and snow into huge drifts which piled against the store fronts. Barney looked like an animate snowman after walking the few blocks from the station.

The snowstorm, full-grown in seconds, had become one more minor item in a long list of tribulations that had been ganging up on Barney Chance for months past. But, like his business troubles, which had kept him in his home town of Pennswick much longer than he�d originally planned to stay, this snow had its good points.

It was pretty � fluffy white drifts in front of the lighted drugstore windows, red and violet icicles hanging from the familiar neon sign of the Pennswick Inn. It was ice crystals dancing on the sidewalk, cotton piling in the gutters. It was also like those instantaneous precipitations that had drenched him times without number in New Guinea, except that it was colder, this being southeastern Pennsylvania in early December.

The worst part of it had caught him only a block from his office. He was across State Street now, and it was letting up a little. So far as Barney Chance could see, only one other person had ventured out.

A man was standing at the mailbox just beyond the corner � standing none too steadily, hatless, his coat sagging open. The snow sprinkled on his curly black hair as he held onto the green box with one hand, balancing himself. His other hand held a long brown envelope poised, as if he were uncertain of getting it into the slot.

The man at the mailbox was Guy Farrish, who�d had the law practice of the firm of Lytham & Farrish all to himself since the death of his senior partner two months ago. Having known Guy as long as he�d known anyone, Barney wasn�t too surprised at his evident condition. Guy had always been a conscientious drinker and lately he�d been working at it even harder than usual.

�Take it easy, pal,� said Barney, who rarely took it easy himself.

Guy Farrish didn�t answer, but stood swaying slightly, the envelope still in his hand. Barney grinned back at him, swinging past, still in a hurry. He didn�t see Guy Farrish�s eyes shift slowly and become fixed on him � fixed and brighter, in spite of the weariness and pain in them, nor did he see Guy sprawl in the snow, then painfully pull himself erect again.

The Lytham Building stood halfway between State and Court Streets, an old-fashioned brick structure three storeys high. Its entrance was unlocked and the foyer lights were burning, indicating that someone was staying late in one of the six offices inside.

Barney climbed the wooden stairs to the second floor, passed the door labelled Lytham & Farrish: Attorney�s-at-Law, turned to another on the opposite side of the hallway that said Filmore Electronic Corporation of Chicago: Eastern Representative, and used his key.

Switching on the lights and dropping his bag, he tossed his coat into a chair with his hat. He had a white scar in the tan of his forehead which gave his left eyebrow a quizzical lift. The Jap whose bullet had put it there hadn�t intended to make Barney look distinguished, but that was the effect.

He opened the briefcase at his desk. His big, awkward-looking hands moved decisively as he removed sheaves of memoranda, then a thick, folded mat of blueprints. They were the plans for a branch factory which the Filmore Corporation desired to construct for the postwar production of electronic equipment.

Mr Stewart Filmore, president of the firm, thought this an important project in his programme of expansion. Barney Chance agreed, particularly since it was he who had sold Mr Filmore on Pennswick as the location for the new plant, Pennswick being only two hours from New York City, forty minutes from Philadelphia and nearer still to Barney�s heart. His home town should be delighted to welcome a new industry of such vast potentialities, Barney felt, but to judge from the results he�d obtained so far, you�d never think so.

The site had been bought without a hitch during the first two weeks of Barney�s negotiations, but months had passed since then and still not a spadeful of earth had been broken. Ten days ago, Barney had journeyed back to the Chicago office to explain in detail just why this was. He�d left feeling frustrated, the reasons being obscure and involved, and only his powers of persuasion had postponed Mr Filmore�s decision to abandon Pennswick in favour of a more receptive community.

Having gone this far with it, and not being one to give up, Barney had made it entirely his own responsibility now. Tonight he�d returned to Pennswick, determined to butt his way through to the finish of the job, and, if necessary, to throttle a few short-sighted local bureaucrats with skeins of their own red tape.

As he pored over the plans, footsteps came haltingly to his door. Guy Farrish sidled in. He dropped into the chair facing Barney�s desk and his eyelids drooped heavily as he fumbled for something in his raincoat pocket.

�How�s it working, Guy?� Barney said. �I mean your programme for forgetting Eve. Make lots of money, spend it fast and drink enough, and losing her might not hurt so much. Does it work?�

Out of his coat pocket Guy Farrish pulled a small package wrapped in brown paper and tied with red string. He leaned forward, extending it, his manner earnest.

�Give it to her, Barney,� he said.

Curiously, Barney took it. It bore no postage stamp, but it was addressed. Miss Eve Ranie, 646 East 54th Street, New York City.

�A peace offering?� Barney asked. �But why pass it on to me? Why don�t you mail it to her?�

�Give it to Eve,� Guy said with an effort. �Don�t mail it. She�ll come. You give it to her then. But don�t open it.�

Barney looked up, a little incensed. Guy, drunk or not, should know him better than that. He wasn�t the sort who�d poke into a package that had been entrusted to him, a forlorn gift from a man to the girl who was his fianc�e no longer.

�Of course not, Guy,� Barney said. He put the package aside and reverted to business. �Just before I left for Chicago you told me why I�m having such a hell of a time getting the necessary permits for this new plant.�

Guy leaned back in his chair wearily. He didn�t seem to be listening.

�Did I get it straight?� Barney went on. �I�ve made the mistake of not greasing certain palms, is that it? You said I ought to see Chabbat.� His face showed his deep distaste. �In other words, the permits can be had, but at a price. First I�ve got to butter somebody�s popcorn.�

Holding himself in his chair, Guy seemed about to doze off.

�The hell with that!� Barney said emphatically. �I�ll get this plant built honestly or not at all.�

Guy roused himself and spoke without apparently having heard Barney at all. �And don�t tell anybody.� He was referring anxiously again to the little package. His intent manner said this was more important to him than Barney�s new plant. �Don�t tell anybody about it. Not anybody.�

�I won�t. But about��

�Your word on that?�

Barney wanted to sock him. �I said it, Guy, didn�t I?� He rose impatiently. He�d always liked Guy, without approving of the man�s dog-eat-dog outlook on life, but he had work to do. �I�d better take you home to bed before you pass out cold.�

Guy sighed: �Get a doctor.�

Astonished, Barney rounded the desk. Guy had eased back in his chair, chin down. Barney could smell the liquor on him � it was powerful.

He was bending over Guy when he heard the furtive noise at the door. Turning his head, he saw a shadow on the pane, a faint dark blur cast by the hallway lights. Someone was just outside the office, evidently listening. And at that moment Guy took hold of himself enough to speak again.

�Remember, don�t open it. Don�t tell anybody, not anybody! Just give it to her.�

�Sure,� Barney said. �Sure, Guy.�

The shadow was gone now. Barney moved quietly to the door. When he eased it open, the corridor was empty, but there were sounds below. Someone was hurrying down the stairs.

Barney went to the window at the head of the hallway. A car was parked halfway between the Lytham Building and the corner of Court Street. It had been there a few minutes ago, when he�d come in, Barney remembered. It had been waiting. His bird�s-eye view told him little about the man who was just then ducking into it. Light coat, black hat and shiny shoes. That was all.

The man was inside the car now and the door on its opposite side was opening. A girl slid out. She had a red beanie on her honey-blonde hair, her coat was beige and her shoes black, spike-heeled, with cute, big black bows. She turned back to the man at the wheel, said something, and then, as the car veered from the kerb, she ran along the sidewalk in the opposite direction, from which Barney and Guy had come.

Barney tried to watch both the car and the girl at once. The car swung again at Court Street, heading into the parking space that fronted the inn. Barney couldn�t read its licence number before it passed from sight. Turning his head, he glimpsed the girl again just as she disappeared against the buildings near the State Street end of the block.

He retraced his steps and just inside his office he paused. Guy wasn�t there. The little package still sat on the desk where Barney had put it, but Guy had left.

Barney picked up the box curiously, wondering why Guy wasn�t taking care of it himself. Why had he said, �She�ll come,� meaning Eve Ranie, who hadn�t once visited Pennswick since leaving for New York immediately after breaking off her engagement to Guy? There was something strange about this business of the package, Barney felt, and somehow he didn�t like it.

He liked it still less, distinctly less, the moment he saw the dark spot on the floor.

The spot was directly beneath the chair Guy had occupied. It was wet to Barney�s touch, and red. It had dripped off the hem of Guy�s coat while he�d sat there.

Then Barney saw the other spots, smaller ones, a row of them, a dotted line leading out the door. He followed them diagonally across the hall, unconsciously carrying the little package with him into Guy�s office.

Guy was seated at his desk, his arms crossed on the blotter before him, his head resting on them. The red stuff was still dripping slowly from the hem of his coat. And Guy wasn�t alone here. Alma Remsen lay awkwardly against the wall in the far corner.

Barney hurried first to Alma. In his concern for her he was scarcely aware that he put the little package on the floor beside her. There were two large bruises on the left side of her face, both turning an ugly green-black. Her red hair was matted behind her left temple. The cut in her scalp there had parted its lips � it looked like a small snarling mouth. A steam radiator stood directly behind her. Evidently she�d struck her head against it when falling away from the brutal blows delivered to her face.

She was Guy�s secretary, but she couldn�t have been working with him tonight � she wasn�t dressed for it. Her gown was long and full-skirted, of sea-green tulle, and her satin evening pumps matched it. She had a coronet of gardenias pinned on her red hair � crushed now. The blow behind her left ear might have killed her, but she wasn�t dead. Barney found her pulse, a faint ragged beat.

He turned quickly to Guy, forgetting the package he�d left beside Alma. Guy hadn�t moved. There was no doubt at all about his pulse. He had none. He�d left Barney�s office to come back here to die at his own desk.

Barney peeled Guy�s coat open and found a smear inside it, the blood still dripping from a puncture high in Guy�s left side. Barney felt sick. He�d tried to talk business with a dying man. But then, he hadn�t known, hadn�t had a hint until Guy had asked for a doctor. Even Guy, perhaps sensing that his gunshot wound was fatal, had considered it less important than other things � for example, the little package he wanted Eve to have.

Barney didn�t go back to the package at once. He found his hands trembling and swore at himself for it. He thought he�d grown used to seeing dead men. In the South Pacific he�d seen them die every day. Yet this was different. Guy was an old and good friend, but that wasn�t it. Some of those Joes in New Guinea had been Barney�s friends, too. This was out of place. This wasn�t war. It was a peaceful little town which the war had scarcely touched. Now, suddenly, the terrors Barney had known seemed less far away. He found himself feeling that nowhere on earth was there security from attack and bloodshed and the relentlessness of death.

Because movement always helped his nerves in moments of stress, he circled the office once. He stopped at Guy�s telephone, wanting urgently to call a doctor for Alma, then the police, but he drew back, remembering the matter of fingerprints. He crossed the hall, leaving the little package still lying beside the unconscious girl, forgotten again.

His own telephone was ringing. He was inside his door, still moving fast, before he realised his office lights were out. He glanced around once, uneasily, but lifted the receiver.

�Hello?�

No voice answered him. Instead, he heard music faintly, far away. It wasn�t the jive of a juke-box, as it would have been if this call were coming from a pay-station in a bar. It was solemn, celestial, the strains of an organ. What was the selection? O Promise Me.

�Hello!� Barney said again.

The music was cut off, the connection severed, and no voice had spoken.

Barney stood still, slowly lowering the instrument. Someone was behind him. He�d heard a movement in the darkness and now hard pressure came to the small of his back.

Barney�s reaction was not caution and fear, but swift counteraction. The feeling of a gun poked against his body was intolerable. Months ago, during those black, steamy nights in jungle clearings half a world away, when any sneaking sound or stir of motion might be a prowling Jap, he�d learned to strike first and look into it later. He turned quickly, but he�d lost some of his instinctive alertness during the eight months since his medical discharge. He turned not quite quickly enough.

The blow slashed across the base of his skull. Barney fell into a sort of helpless dream. He wasn�t entirely out, but could feel himself being pulled at and rolled, and he couldn�t do anything about it. After a vague interval, he heard someone running away. It was quiet now, and dark, but still not entirely calm, like a foxhole just after the last hostile plane has passed.

He found his chair, climbed into it and sat holding his head. After a few minutes he groped to the wall-switch. His desk was messed up, his papers scattered. Two of his pockets were hanging inside out. He went to the washbowl behind the screen in the rear corner and was splashing cold water into his numb face when he remembered.

The package! His attacker had come after the little package. There was nothing else here that anyone could possibly want.

Across the hall again, back in Guy�s office, he saw slight changes in the scene. Guy�s desk was also disturbed now. Barney felt the prowling presence that had come and quickly gone, and anger still smouldered in him. But the package was still there, still on the floor beside Alma. Barney gazed on it incredulously and took it up.

His shoulders were stubbornly set. Like all the comparatively less important difficulties he�d found in the way of the new Filmore plant, things were piling up on him without letting him know why. But he recognised there was no way of finding out at once, and this wasn�t helping Alma, who needed help.

Back at his own desk, he first put the package in a drawer and locked it in. Then he twirled the dial on his telephone. He had called Dr Whitlock and was spinning the dial again, when a voice spoke from the doorway.

�You calling the police now?�

Barney hadn�t heard the big man�s approach. The big man stood in the doorway, his head ducked so his hat wouldn�t brush the top of the jamb. He wore his clothes snugly. His face was square and his features blunt, yet peculiarly sensitive. Barney saw subtle, indefinable expressions coming and fading in his blue eyes and around his thin-lipped mouth.

The big man said it almost with a sigh: �Never mind calling. I�m the police.�

Barney turned, still dizzy. �How did you know? Who told you to come here?�

Instead of explaining, the big man identified himself. �Captain Craddock.� And as Barney rose: �You stay put. I�ll be back.�

�But � don�t you want to hear about it?� Barney asked in confusion. �There�s a dead man in the office across the hall, Guy Farrish. He was shot, murdered. Alma Remsen�s there, knocked out.�

Captain Craddock nodded, as if he already knew all that. Subtle glimmers of varying expressions continued to cross his face � hardness and grimness, intermingled with curious little flashes of tenderness. Barney told himself it was impossible to know just what kind of man this was, what his inner feelings were.

�I�m in charge,� Captain Craddock said. �We�ll have a talk about it. You stay right here.�

Barney listened to his slow, measured steps across the hall. The door of Guy�s office closed with a snap, a sharp sound of exclusion. Now Captain Craddock was moving about the dead man�s office, his sounds seeming secretive. There was something about the man, Barney felt � brusqueness, even a capacity for ruthlessness, mixed with a queer, compassionate sort of understanding � something that brought Barney a cold twinge of apprehension.

It was such an ordinary-looking little package. A four-inch cube, it was neither heavy nor light. Its contents rattled softly when Barney shook it, and it gave off a faint and pleasant odour, an Oriental sort of scent. Something exotically perfumed, he reflected, inside common brown paper and common red string � yet something uncommonly important.

Barney�s head ached as he examined it, and he wondered why he�d been slugged.

Before taking up the telephone, Barney listened down the hall. Low voices rumbled. Policemen had gone into Guy�s office, Dr Whitlock next, then two white-coated ambulance men who had carried Alma Remsen out on a litter. Nobody had come to ask Barney any questions. That was another disquieting thing about Captain Craddock. Without making inquiries, he seemed to know.

Barney asked the long-distance operator to get Miss Eve Ranie, at 646 East 54th Street, Manhattan. He heard the connections progress as far as New York exchange, where they were stymied. The operator reported: �There�s no phone listed under that name.�

�Miss Ranie may be staying with friends or renting a room in somebody�s apartment,� Barney said. �Ask the superintendent.�

Minutes later, the operator reported again. �Miss Ranie seems to be out, sir. Shall I leave a message for her to call you?�

�Yes, operator. It�s an emergency.�

He had time to get the package back into the desk drawer before Captain Craddock�s deliberate footfalls reached his door. Craddock was tracing the line of blood drops. One of his hands was covered by a handkerchief and on the flat of it he carried a blue revolver.

�What did Farrish want with you, Mr Chance?�

�It must have happened before I reached the building,� Barney said, disturbed by Captain Craddock�s quiet directness. He told how he�d passed Guy at the mailbox in the street, and how Guy had followed him in. �He asked me to get a doctor, then went across to his office. He didn�t explain anything. I thought��

�But what else did he want with you?�

The package! Guy had said: �Don�t open it. Don�t tell anybody about it, not anybody!� Not even the police? Did Barney�s promise to Guy include the withholding of evidence in a murder case? �Give it to Eve when she comes, but don�t open it. Don�t tell anybody, not anybody!�

And Barney had said: �I won�t.� He hadn�t sworn it on a Bible � he�d simply said it. But that was enough, particularly if Guy had known instinctively he was close to death, as Barney believed.

�She�ll come,� Guy had told him, and he�d meant: �Because I�m going to die.�

Captain Craddock took keen notice of Barney�s hesitation. �You�re holding out.�

�I�m trying to get it straight. Somebody was sneaking around inside this building.� Barney was glad he had this information to add. Craddock�s steady gaze made him feel he was explaining it in too much detail, but it helped him to sidestep the subject of the package. Simultaneously, he conjectured about it � thought that Eve might tell the police about it herself, if she wished, after he�d delivered it to her � while talking about the attack in the dark. �He was gone when I pulled myself back together. I don�t know who he was.�

�Or what he was after?� Captain Craddock didn�t even allow Barney an opportunity to evade the question. �Better sleep on it. It isn�t smart to hold out. You can go now.�

�What the hell!� Finding himself brushed off, and outmatched in the technique of evasion, Barney was full of sudden resentment. �I walked right into the thick of this business, and that�s all you�re going to ask me about?�

Eyeing him astutely and turning back to the door, Craddock paused, reminded of the revolver lying on his handkerchief-covered palm. �Farrish�s. Found it under his desk. Shot with his own gun.� This secretive man was unexpectedly volunteering information, no doubt for purposes of his own. And he added enigmatically, in an edged tone: �If you can�t trust the police, Mr Chance, whom can you trust?�

Behind those last words, Barney sensed mockery.

Locking his office door behind him, Barney saw Marsha Barrow coming up the stairs. The daughter of the late Jonathan Lytham, formerly Guy Farrish�s senior partner, Marsha was married to Lieutenant Commander Wallace Barrow, who was seeing service in Barney�s old battle area. Her hair and eyes were vividly dark. Always blithely carefree, she sang out, �Why, hello, Barney!� and gave him her quick smile as she turned to the door behind which Guy sat dead.

Barney stopped her before she reached it. �What are you doing here, Marsha?�

�Why, Guy phoned me, Barney, dear.� She used terms of affection indiscriminately. They meant nothing more than generous friendliness. �Darling, you look so terribly burned up about something!�

Barney was, but he didn�t take time to explain. �When did Guy call you? What did he say?�

�It was less than an hour ago, and he said he had something for me, but he couldn�t bring it, so he wanted me to come right down. He was very mysterious about it, Barney, dear � wouldn�t tell me what it was, but said I should hurry, and he sounded so out of breath. I couldn�t rush right out, of course. First I had to find a girl who�d come in and sit with the children��

Marsha�s voice faded, sparks of alarm in her dark eyes as she gazed over Barney�s shoulder. Captain Craddock had opened the door. His bulk, physical power and puzzling face were enough, Barney felt, to startle any woman at first glance.

Craddock startled Marsha further by taking her arm without a word and drawing her into the office. There was something overwhelming and uncompromising about his manner. It said she�d made the mistake of talking to the wrong man, and he�d have no more of that. Then the door was closed again and the office beyond was silent except for a throaty moan from Marsha.

To Barney, the legend on the pebbled pane seemed to warn, Keep Out � This Means YOU. Craddock wanted it that way, and Craddock was no man to buck inadvisedly, in Barney�s estimation. He went down the stairs with a frown, the little package now tucked inside his overnight bag.

The snow had almost stopped. Breathing the clean-washed air, Barney paused halfway to the State Street corner. It was here he�d seen the car parked, an unknown man getting in after eavesdropping at Barney�s door, an unknown girl getting out.

Barney picked a black object from the slush near the kerb. It was a bow of suede, apparently lost from one of the girl�s shoes � evidence of a sort, Barney surmised. He had no intention of going back to Craddock with it. Not to Craddock now. It could wait until the captain got around to him again. Barney pushed the suede bow into his raincoat pocket and strode on.

He had an apartment on Sycamore Street, only three blocks from his office. As a boy, he�d lived in this neighbourhood. He liked the reminiscent fragrance of its old gardens in the spring mornings, its midsummer tranquillity, its moon-shade these brisk winter nights. Tonight, however, it seemed unfamiliar and dark, too much like those tropical nights that had concealed stealthy dangers. Barney told himself he�d grown soft � he�d had enough for one night, and he�d rather not believe he was hearing footfalls behind him, quick footfalls trailing him.

He wasn�t sure just when the footsteps had started, but they were coming closer. Glancing back, he sensed rather than saw a figure nearing him, dodging along against the wet hedges.

Barney was keenly conscious of the little package shut inside his overnight bag. His immediate intention was to get it safely out of anyone else�s reach. He turned sharply to the left, ran up the stoop of the house where he lived, got his key out and slipped it into the lock.

He�d drawn the bolt open when he heard a girl�s gasping cry of fright. The footfalls became more distinct and quickened into a rapid tick-tick of high heels. Barney saw the girl halt on the sidewalk just beyond the stoop. She looked around quickly as if in desperate search for shelter, then broke towards him. Suddenly at Barney�s side on the stoop, she pressed herself against him, her eyes white flashes.

�Don�t let him get me!�

�You�re all right,� Barney said.

Necessarily, he lowered his bag, feeling he might need both hands free. He went down the steps and gazed back along the street. The sycamores stirred in the night wind and snow sprinkled off them. He took slow steps along the sidewalk. Presently he paused, shrugging. If someone had been trailing the girl there was no sign of him now.

Barney turned back. The girl was no longer on the stoop. He opened the door of his ground-floor apartment, swung his bag in, snapped the switch and, as he�d expected, rediscovered her. She was huddled against the wall just inside, looking less frightened now.

Her hair was honey-coloured, like that of the girl who had got out of the car in front of the Lytham Building, but in other ways she was different. She wasn�t, for example, wearing a red beanie � she was bare-headed. Her jacket wasn�t tan, but red plaid. Her high-heeled shoes were black suede, but they had no bows.

She gave him a strained smile of thanks, but Barney didn�t smile back. He couldn�t shake the feeling that he�d seen this girl before, earlier tonight, under circumstances that weren�t the sort to smile about.

�Who was he?� Barney asked. �What did he want?�

�I don�t know!� The girl�s eyes widened, very blue eyes trying to be very innocent. �If you hadn�t been here, I... I don�t know what would have happened!�

�Do you live on this street?�

She shook her head, estimating him. �I�ve got a room above Colby�s Market.�

That was four blocks from here. She added no explanation as to what she was doing alone in this neighbourhood. Not that it was dangerous territory, but even though someone else had evidently been following her, she may have been following Barney, and that possibility still troubled him. He turned uneasily to the telephone and as he spun the dial, she quickly came to his side.

�You calling the cops? Oh, please don�t do that!�

He eyed her. �Why not? If someone was after you��

�Please.� She put her hand over the contact bar and held it down tightly. �It wouldn�t do any good.� He couldn�t know exactly what she meant by that, but her voice carried a strange note of sincere concern. �Please don�t.�

The telephone itself settled the argument by ringing at that moment. Lifting it, Barney heard the operator say: �Mr Chance? New York City calling.�

It was Eve Ranie. Barney looked up at the girl, wanting her out of here. �Do you mind?� She bit her lower lip as he indicated the bedroom. After she�d gone in, he noticed she�d left the door ajar. The little witch! He turned from the telephone long enough to pull it shut. What the hell, he wondered, was that girl up to? The package again?

�Barney?� Eve sounded shaken. �Barney, how did it happen?�

�You know already?� Barney had a feeling of events rushing ahead, always a little beyond his reach. �Who told you? How?�

�A Captain Craddock. He found my phone number in Guy�s address book. He wouldn�t tell me very much.� �But why should Craddock choose to call you?� Eve was softly crying. �I�m coming, Barney, of course.�

�Listen,� Barney said urgently. �Guy gave me something for you � a little package. It seems to be damned important, not only to Guy and you, but to others as well.� The ache in the back of his head wouldn�t let him forget that. �Any idea what�s in it?�

�No. Open it, Barney. Tell me now what it is.�

�Guy asked me not to open it,� Barney explained. �I don�t know why. But I told him I wouldn�t and I�ve funny ideas about keeping my word. Nobody else is even to know about it, Guy said. When will you be here, Eve?�

�The first through train in the morning.�

�I�ll meet you and give it to you then.� Despite their broken engagement, Barney knew she�d gone on loving Guy, just as he�d gone on loving her. Barney had never clearly understood what had separated them. �Chin up, Eve.�

Had the bedroom door moved just as Barney disconnected? He wasn�t sure of that, but he was certain he wanted to get rid of the blonde girl. He found her sitting on his bed, her trim feet tucked under her, looking too innocent again. He couldn�t waste time deciding what her game was. �This way, please.�

With a curious sort of obedience she followed him from the bedroom. He said, �Wait here,� took up his overnight bag and went back with it, closing the connecting door. After a quick glance around he decided that the bookcase was as good a hiding-place as any. He concealed Guy�s little package behind several technical works on electronics, then returned to the living room. The girl was waiting for him, puzzled, a pleading look in her eyes.

He took her arm and firmly escorted her out. The snow had stopped. Her steps were quicker than his as they went along the icy street. She gazed up at him questioningly, but let him direct her.

�My name�s Barney Chance,� he informed her, wondering if she didn�t already know. �What�s yours?�

�Dorelle Dale.�

He almost laughed. Dorelle Dale! It couldn�t be anybody�s real name.

�I�m a hostess at the Merry-Go-Round,� she added, seeming to feel herself that the name needed something to back it up.

She wasn�t the hard-skinned, catch-as-catch-can sort, Barney thought, but on the other hand a certain type of sucker would go for her. The Merry-Go-Round catered to war-plant workers with money to spend, and to well-heeled servicemen on furlough. It was a roadhouse located a mile outside of town, a glorified clip-joint operated by one Victor Gartin, as the Big Tent had been.

The recent, early-morning fire that had destroyed the Big Tent had also destroyed the lives of four army men. Charges of manslaughter and failure to maintain adequate fire protection had been brought against Gartin, but only this week the district attorney had dropped the case. It was a noisome affair, smelling to high heaven of hush-hush influences and bribery, overlaid with rumours that Gartin was merely the front man for someone bigger who couldn�t be touched. This might or might not be a power-behind-the-throne politician named Chabbat. By working for such crooks, Barney reflected, Dorelle Dale wasn�t recommending herself to the esteem of decent people.

�Where are you taking me?�

They were in the centre of town now, near the inn, and walking fast. �Home,� Barney said.

She stopped short. �But I can�t go home! I�d be alone there. I�d be scared!�

He eyed her again. �What�ve you got to be afraid of now?�

She didn�t answer, but stamped her foot a little, and seemed about to burst into furious tears. Barney took her arm again, regardless, and again she hurried along beside him, curiously but without resistance. He guided her across the porch of the pre-Revolutionary inn, past a row of empty rocking chairs and into the lobby. It was also deserted. George Sawyer, the proprietor, wasn�t behind the desk. Impatiently, Barney banged the bell on it, facing the girl with a frown.

�Who was with you,� he asked her flatly, �in the car that was parked near the Lytham Building at eight o�clock tonight?�

�Where?� Again her eyes were very large, very blue. �I wasn�t with anybody. I wasn�t there.�

She was pretty. She was lovely � a very lovely little liar, probably, Barney judged.

�Got money enough for a room? You�ll be safe here, won�t you � as safe as anywhere?�

She squinted at him through her eyelashes, her lips pursed. �I�ll be perfectly all right!� Barney couldn�t remember anyone having hated him so intensely on such short acquaintance. �You don�t need to bother about me. I�ll get along fine without any help from you, you big lug!�

�I think so, too,� Barney said, smiling wryly. �Good night,� and he left her.

Captain Craddock was leaving the Lytham Building. Light-footed for one of his bulk, he walked rapidly along Court Street. Barney felt it was his turn to do a little trailing. It would be justified � he was certain Craddock�s purposes were not entirely official. �If you can�t trust the police,� the captain had said sourly, �whom can you trust?� Barney couldn�t trust the captain.

Craddock led him to the Pennswick Hospital. A low brick building sitting behind a broad lawn, most of its lights were out. As soon as Craddock had gone in, Barney crossed the waiting room and looked down the corridor. The captain had disappeared into one of the private rooms. No nurses were moving about. Barney went quietly down the hall, neither liking nor disliking the idea of eavesdropping. He simply couldn�t trust Craddock.

There were subdued voices behind one of the swinging doors. Tall enough to look over it, Barney took one quick glance. Dr Whitlock was still with Alma. She lay on the bed, gauze bandages bound around her red hair. An efficient, resourceful, tireless young woman, her stamina had brought her back quickly. Her eyes were clouded only a little as she gazed at Captain Craddock.

�Suzie�s wedding,� she was whispering. �Poor Suzie. I was going to be my little sister�s maid of honour � and I never got there.�

�Don�t worry about that,� Craddock said brusquely. �Suzie went ahead and married Neal Lytham anyway. They�re on their way here now. Did you stop into Farrish�s office on your way to the church?�

�Mr Farrish phoned me,� Alma Remsen whispered. �Said it was important � take only a few minutes. I thought he must have a wedding present for Suzie and Neal.� After a moment she resumed. �When I went in the office, Mr Farrish was sitting at his desk with a queer look on his face. He didn�t say anything. It scared me. Then all of a sudden the closet door opened � and a man rushed out.�

�Who was that man?�

Alma�s respiration quickened. She was reliving a moment of high emotional stress. Without answering Craddock, she carried it through. �He rushed at me like a wild man and hit me terribly hard.�

�Describe him,� Craddock insisted relentlessly.

She was silent another moment. �He had a handkerchief tied over his face � coat and hat � so I couldn�t see much. He moved like an animal, gliding, but very fast. He was heavy, powerful, big. The bigness of him as he came at me � it was awful.�

Barney straightened, the scar on his forehead giving his left eyebrow a twist of alarmed astonishment. Did Alma realise she was describing, vaguely yet accurately, too, the very man who was questioning her � Captain Craddock?

Someone else was coming into the hospital. Barney retreated along the corridor to the accident ward entrance. Outside, but looking in through a diamond-shaped pane, he saw a party of three hurrying towards Alma�s room. A slender, petulant-faced girl � Alma�s sister Suzie, Barney surmised � came between two men.

The man on her right was Neal Lytham, Marsha�s brother and Suzie�s husband as of tonight. The other was fat, short and pink-jowled � the Benson Chabbat whose name carried such overtones of obscure power in the county, and who was, in addition, Barney remembered now, the uncle of Suzie and Alma Remsen. Both men wore tails. A third man in a tuxedo, whom Barney didn�t recognise, stepped into the corridor behind them.

It was adding up somehow, Barney felt as he turned away, but in indefinable terms. Guy Farrish had been fatally shot, and Alma Remsen had been viciously knocked out, at almost the same time that Alma�s younger sister was marrying Neal Lytham with Ben Chabbat�s blessings. A strange juxtaposition of events, particularly since the wedding had gone on regardless, evidently with a substitute maid of honour. It must have significance, and Barney felt sure this business wasn�t yet finished. He was still mulling over it when he reached his apartment.

Leaving the door wide open, he halted to stare. His living room looked like something left behind by a high wind. The cushions of his couch were tossed about, the drawers of his desk were turned upside down on the floor, the rugs peeled up. In a chair in the midst of this shambles, her ankles bound to a rung, her wrists fixed together behind her and a gag in her mouth sat the girl who had called herself Dorelle Dale.

Dorelle Dale wriggled in her bonds, silently beseeching Barney to get her loose. She wasn�t hurt, he saw. Going past her, he found his bedroom also upset, a window open. A dozen volumes had been swept out of the bookcase. And the amazing thing, the thing that stunned Barney, was that Guy�s little package was still there.

He blinked over it. It was intact. The person, who had ransacked the apartment hadn�t bothered to open it, had shown no interest in it whatever!

In the living room, Dorelle Dale was squealing. Barney went back, wagged his head at her, then untied her. The strips of cloth he unwound had been a pair of his fanciest pyjamas. She glared at him spitefully, as if it were all his fault.

�Why did you come back here, Dorelle? How�d you get yourself into this fix?�

�There wasn�t any vacancy at the inn,� she told him, evidently considering this his fault also, �and somebody�d broken into my own room. I didn�t exactly want to stay there and get murdered in my bed. I had to go somewhere, didn�t I?�

Barney laughed outright. As an explanation it was ridiculous. Surely she had friends who would have taken her in for the night.

�If you think I came back because I like you, you�re crazy,� she said evenly, rubbing her ankles, her eyes flashing at him even more hotly because he�d laughed. �Your front door was locked, but one of the back windows was open, so I climbed in. First thing I knew, somebody grabbed me and did that to me. Holy cats, I was scared!�

Appraising her, Barney felt inclined to believe this much. �There�s a question that�s getting asked a lot tonight,� he said. �Who was that man?�

�My gosh, how should I know?� she flung at him. �It was dark. He used a flashlight and he was careful not to show me his face. After he got me all done up, he just went around, wrecking the place.�

�A big man?� Barney asked quietly.

�No, thin. I could see that much. He was thin, like��

�Like someone you remember?�

�Like anybody who�s thin, for gosh sakes! What�re you staring at me for? What do you think I am anyway?�

�I wish I knew,� Barney said wryly, touching the scar on his forehead. It felt tight. �What about the police now? Don�t you want them in on this either?�

�What could they do about it now? You haven�t lost anything anyway. You�ve still got the package.�

Barney narrowed his eyes at her. �What package?�

She bounced up to face him indignantly. �Guy Farrish gave it to you tonight. I heard you saying so over the telephone. You�re being a perfect fool about it.�

Barney closed one fist.

�You�re a man of honour, aren�t you?� Dorelle said bitterly. �You promised Guy Farrish and you�re going to keep your word even if it kills you.� Now she challenged him. �What difference would it make to a dead man? Instead of being so disgustingly noble about it, you should have told people that Guy Farrish gave you just a little package and nothing else. Then you wouldn�t have girls getting tied up by burglars in your living room!�

It dazed Barney. She seemed to know so much and she was so vehement about it! Her knowing made him feel his trustworthiness was undermined, that somehow he�d failed Guy. This girl seemed to him to be a treacherous little snooper. He strongly desired to sock her on her wagging jaw, but he didn�t.

�It�s strictly none of your damned business,� he said. �You can clear out of here now. And this time stay out!�

She plumped herself down on his couch, gazing at him defiantly, almost tearfully. �I�m not going!�

�Oh, God!� Barney said. She was getting to be more than he wanted to take. �Will you please get the hell out of here?�

�I won�t.� More quietly, appealing to him, she added: �I can�t. I�m afraid to go. I�m in a jam.�

�What kind of a jam?�

�You wouldn�t understand.� She was scornful again. �Nobody�ll come back here. It ought to be safe. I know you wouldn�t touch me with a ten-foot pole, anyway. I�m not leaving and that�s that.�

She kicked her shoes off and tucked her stocking feet under her in a manner of finality. Barney made a gesture of despair. He couldn�t throw her out bodily. However, there was a simpler way of getting her out of his hair. He opened the outer door and left.

The Dutch Colonial house on Elder Street was the home of Marsha Barrow. But it wasn�t Marsha who answered Barney�s ring at the door. Her brother Neal looked out � first expectantly, Barney thought, then with an odd, tight sort of disappointment.

�Come in, Barney.�

Still wearing his white tie and tails, Neal had evidently come directly from the hospital. Rather handsome, he was lithe, sandy-haired and usually easy-mannered. The peculiar thing about Neal Lytham was that his mind seemed forever busy with speculations which he rarely divulged to anyone else.

His bride sat in Marsha�s living room, sobbing childishly. Pretty in a frail way, Suzie had been thoroughly pampered by her older sister, Alma, who had brought her up. Marsha, darkly beautiful and light-hearted as always, was trying to cheer her.

�Alma�s going to be perfectly all right, Suzie, darling. The doctor said she can go home tomorrow.�

�But what about me?� Suzie wailed. �My wonderful wedding all spoiled, and now my honeymoon plans all upset! It isn�t fair!� She went on sobbing, pitying herself.

Marsha turned from Suzie, her glance at Barney commenting that Neal had picked himself a choice little brat for a wife, hadn�t he? Neal himself seemed only slightly concerned for her. He moved about nervously, his mind elsewhere. He seemed to be listening for something.

Certainly Neal could have done better than this, so far as the girl herself went, Barney reflected. Why had Neal married this self-centred little nonentity? Because she was Ben Chabbat�s niece, of course. He had deliberately married into Chabbat�s power. Suzie, however, instead of sobbing her heart out over trifles, should consider herself fortunate. Upon the recent death of their father, Jonathan Lytham, Neal and Marsha had inherited his estate equally. An accruement of generations, it amounted to more than a million dollars for each of them.

Barney asked of Marsha: �What did you find at Guy�s office?�

�Nothing, Barney, dear.�

�He called you down there in a hurry, especially to give you something important, and there was nothing?�

�Not a thing that we could find, darling. I can�t imagine what it might have been.� Marsha gave her agitated brother a puzzled smile. �Queer sort of nuptials you�re having, Neal, dearest. Why on earth don�t you take Suzie somewhere?�

Neal sat. �We�re staying here.�

It precipitated a cross-fire of discussion. Suzie wailed, Marsha protested. Neal answered obdurately. In the midst of it Barney attempted to say good night, but nobody heard. He left with the impression that Neal, in spite of his bride and his sister, would spend his wedding night right here in Marsha�s room, for reasons he wouldn�t explain.

Barney entered his apartment again to find Dorelle curled up on his couch, apparently asleep. Crossing the room, he unintentionally kicked one of her shoes. He picked it up and noticed frayed threads. In an instant he was smouldering. Her coat, he discovered, was reversible � red plaid now, but beige when turned inside-out. From one of its pockets, he pulled a red beanie. Out of the other came a black suede bow exactly like the one he�d found in the street.

He turned on her angrily. She was sitting up now, warily watching him.

�You little liar! You deliberately changed your appearance, even to pulling the bow off your other shoe so nobody�d notice you�d already lost one.�

�I can explain,� Dorelle said contritely.

�I�ll bet you can,� Barney remarked, sounding sour. �You�ll do a beautiful job of explaining.�

�I didn�t want to get mixed up in it, that�s all,� she went on quickly. �Not with Vic.�

�Vic Gartin?�

She nodded, shivering a little. �Vic drove us � Alma and me. Suzie and Neal and Ben Chabbat were already at the church, but Alma had to stop at Guy Farrish�s office on the way. Vic didn�t go in with her. He waited in the car with me and a minute later we heard the shot.�

�The shot fired at Guy,� Barney said.

�We didn�t know what had happened,� Dorelle continued earnestly. �Guy Farrish went out of the building and down to the corner, then came back. We kept waiting for Alma, but she didn�t show up, so Vic went in to look for her.�

So it was Victor Gartin who had prowled in the building, Barney mused.

�Then Vic came out and told me there�d been a shooting, all right � probably Guy Farrish � and Alma looked dead, too. He wanted to get away from there fast. I wouldn�t go with him, wouldn�t leave Alma like that, so I got out of the car and Vic went on�.

�You weren�t too concerned for Alma,� Barney reminded her. �You didn�t go into the building.�

She studied him a moment, inimically, saying nothing. Remembering the organ music he�d heard over the telephone, Barney could fill in the rest of it. Vic Gartin had driven no farther than the inn. From there he�d phoned Ben Chabbat at the church. No doubt Chabbat had given Gartin certain instructions, for next he had returned to the building to search for something. That was why he had invaded Barney�s office, and why Chabbat had called Barney�s phone, expecting Gartin to answer and wanting urgently to learn whether the search had been successful.

If Barney was right about this, it was Gartin who had clipped him � a personal score still to be settled.

�A neat job you�ve done,� Barney said, giving Dorelle a sceptical smile. �It�s a wholesale alibi for Guy�s murder � an alibi for Gartin, Neal, Suzie and yourself, as well.�

She peered at him through her lashes. �That�s why I�m scared. I don�t know who or what�s behind all this. It must be something big and terrible. I�m afraid something else will happen now.�

She sank back on the couch, looking really frightened. �Having you around makes me feel safer somehow, you high-principled mule. We don�t like each other a nickel�s worth, and that helps. So I�m staying here tonight.�

Looking out his bedroom door next morning, Barney didn�t feel too surprised. Dorelle Dale had gone, but he�d rather expected that, and he was glad of it. In a way he was glad. She was nice to look at, but too damned disturbing.

He�d overslept. A glance at a Reading timetable hurried him. He had time to shave, shower and dress, but not breakfast, before Eve Ranie arrived.

The little package in his pocket, he drove into the Pennswick station yard half a minute late. The train had already pulled in. Still in his car, he saw Eve Ranie alighting from a coach � willowy, ash-blonde, photogenic Eve. She�d gone back to modelling after breaking her engagement to Guy. Everywhere she went she was recognised by those who�d seen her smiling from magazine covers and drug store windows, and this morning was no exception.

A man stepped towards her and turned his lapel. A detective, Barney thought, sent by Captain Craddock, of course. A station wagon in front of Barney held him up as he backed into a parking stall, and Eve didn�t hear him call her. The man � narrow-faced and sly-looking, Barney saw � escorted her to a waiting sedan. It swung into the street, accelerated and disappeared.

Barney stared after it with rising alarm. It hadn�t turned towards police headquarters, but had veered off in the opposite direction.

He blared his horn urgently and somehow squeezed through. Once in the street, he sighted the black sedan travelling almost a block ahead. Its licence plate was bright, new. He could make out the number � PD7-604. That much was right; all local police cars carried PD plates. But this one was taking Eve in the wrong direction and travelling too fast.

Suddenly Barney braked. Directly in front of him, a railroad-crossing watchman was wagging a red paddle, a bell was clanging a warning, the barrier was swinging down to close the street. Barney fumed because the other car was past and he glared at the freight train rumbling through endlessly.

Impatiently he U-turned. There was no quick way around the freight, but police headquarters sat on this side of it.

The police department occupied a building which in earlier days had been a fashionable home. Captain Craddock�s office overlooked Main Street from the second floor. The captain wasn�t there.

Pacing, Barney noticed a yellow sheet of paper on Craddock�s desk. It was a carbon copy letter addressed to Benson Chabbat and consisting of one terse sentence: As of this date our relationship as attorney and client is permanently terminated. The late Jonathan Lytham must have written that letter, Barney knew, and Craddock must have removed it from Lytham & Farrish�s files last night. Lytham, although conservative, had possessed an ability to touch pitch without becoming defiled by it, but apparently he�d been unwilling to handle Chabbat�s brand beyond a certain limit.

The date of the letter, August 17 of this year, stirred Barney�s memory. It was also the date of the Big Tent fire, and Jonathan Lytham�s death from chronic myocarditis had occurred only two days thereafter.

Barney heard Craddock�s deliberate footfalls and stepped back. Entering, Craddock immediately slipped the letter into a drawer. Again his face was shadowed by a series of fleeting expressions springing from secret causes.

�Where have you had Eve Ranie taken?� Barney asked bluntly. And as Craddock answered with lifted eyebrows, he insisted: �You sent a man to the station for her. He hasn�t brought her here.�

Those strange expressions flitting across Craddock�s face suggested astonishment, sympathy, ruthlessness. �On the phone last night Miss Ranie told me she�d go to Mrs Barrow�s home,� the captain said. �I�d intended to talk to her there.� He looked over Barney�s shoulder. �What is it, Kelsey?�

A man paused in the doorway. Seeing Barney, he mumbled, �Later,� and began to move off.

�Kelsey!�

Craddock�s hard tone forced the plain-clothesman to confess his embarrassment before a non-official witness. �Lost my badge. Don�t know what became of it. Gone, that�s all.�

Barney stepped closer to the desk. �That tears it. It was someone posing as a detective, using this man�s badge. Now he�s got Eve.�

Craddock�s eyes turned stony as he signalled Kelsey away.

�But he had an official car.� Barney pressed his hands on the desk. �I got the licence number. PD7-604.�

Craddock turned to a file cabinet. He looked at a typewritten list. �Sure you got that number right, Mr Chance?�

�I�m positive. A low-priced, black, two-door sedan, number PD7-604.�

Craddock�s face put a chill into Barney, it was so cold, his eyes so icy. �There�s no such licence number. It doesn�t exist.�

Watching him consulting the telephone directory, Barney felt an almost wild impulse to get out of here, to tackle this emergency on his own. Craddock called Marsha Barrow�s home, asked curt questions, then put the phone down with a thump.

�Miss Ranie isn�t there.� He looked as massive as a monolith and as feelingless, yet his voice sounded compassionate. �I�ll handle this. Don�t make the mistake of underestimating the danger to Miss Ranie. Kidnapping is a capital offence. There�ll be no worse penalty if she�s killed. Outside interference might cause her death. I�ll take care of this.� Then he said it again, with the same mocking twist of his mouth: �If you can�t trust the police, Mr Chance, whom can you trust?�

He trudged from the office, leaving Barney full of fighting resentment, brushed off again.

Barney had left his car parked beside a sign reading, Police Parking Only. He sat in it, the scar itching above his left eyebrow, feeling he�d at least wasted precious time in seeing Craddock, suspecting that the captain meant to accomplish nothing. Minutes later, the right-hand door of his car opened. Dorelle Dale sat herself beside him, smiling too brightly.

�Hello,� she said, as if they were the best of pals.

She wore comfortable-looking moccasins and a red topper over a simple green dress, all of which made her look like a guileless school kid. The effect was calculated � Barney knew very well she was nothing of the sort.

�What do you want?�

�I thought you might drive me down to the Merry-Go-Round. Vic didn�t like the way I ran out on him last night, so I�d better try to square myself.� She added: �That is, if you�ve nothing better to do.�

�I have.� He studied her. �Why are you dogging me? What makes you tick? Whose team are you on?�

She lifted her chin. �I�m minding my own business, believe it or not. Why don�t you mind yours and let the rest alone? Why do you insist upon making it tougher?�

�Make what tougher? Make it tougher for whom? What is your business, Dorelle? Go on, let�s have it.�

�All I want from you,� she said, flicking him with a glance, �is a ride down to the Merry-Go-Round. But my gosh, I can walk.�

He caught her arm as she began to slide out. She didn�t resist � she slid right back in again. For some reason of her own she wanted to stay with him, but without giving him any information about herself. In one way she was like Craddock. He couldn�t decide what she was, whether friend or foe. Hers was a game two could play, however. While she watched him, he could watch her and sound her out.

Not starting the car, he sat in thought, and presently he said: �I need to find a sign painter.�

�A what?�

The question subjected her to a subtle sort of test. Before going on, Barney checked over his reasoning and felt it was sound. Eve Ranie had been spirited away in a car carrying a new licence plate with a non-existent number on it. The plate had to be a fake contrived for the purpose of covering Eve�s kidnapper. It was by no means a crude job. The bright paint and exact lettering indicated professional skill.

�A sign painter,� Barney repeated, alert for Dorelle�s reaction. �Somebody in town.�

�New night-clubs need painters and decorators,� she said thoughtfully. �Vic Gartin always uses the same firm. They sell second-hand bar equipment, too. It�s the Ajax Hotel Supply Company, on lower Ashland Street. Ben Chabbat owns it � through a dummy, of course.�

Barney stared at her. She looked pleased with herself, but slightly scared, too. Without another word, he swung his car from the kerb. On Ashland Street he parked again. The Ajax Hotel Supply Company occupied an old store now used as a warehouse. It�s dusty show-windows were crammed full of bar stools, gilded chairs and pin-ball games.

They watched it without speaking, and ten minutes later a light truck rolled out of the alleyway flanking the building. Barney started after it. Dorelle was curious and jittery, but she asked no questions. The truck turned south at Main Street and continued along the highway until, a mile outside of town, it pulled around to the rear of the Merry-Go-Round.

Barney stopped in the broad parking lot beside the roadhouse. The truck driver began unloading panels of heavy cardboard painted in circus colours.

�This is where I get off,� Dorelle said lightly. �Thanks for the ride.�

She hurried to the Merry-Go-Round�s front entrance. It was a sprawling frame building, old, flimsy of construction, which should have been condemned and razed long ago. Barney noted its few narrow doors, thought of what would happen in case of a panic and knew no crowd should ever be permitted inside it. Just as the Big Tent had been, it was not only sucker-bait but a fire-trap awaiting a spark, a new tragedy in the making, but flagrantly operating regardless.

The truck was emptied now and pulling away. About to start after it, Barney saw Dorelle hurrying back. She climbed in beside him, looking anxious. She kept her fist closed whitely over a little wad of currency, while Barney followed the truck back towards Pennswick.

�I�ve been fired.� She spoke too lightly. �In fact, I�m being run out of town. Vic gave me this money for a railroad ticket. He was very sweet � so sweet he made me shudder. I�d better make myself scarce or else.�

�Or else what?� She didn�t answer and Barney looked hard at her. �When are you leaving?�

�I�m not.� Her voice sounded peculiarly resolute but it shook a little. �I�m sticking around � only I wish I could get over being scared, more scared all the time.�

She meant that. She was really, deeply fearful. But, as before, she wasn�t saying why.

Barney stopped again on lower Ashland Street. The truck had returned to the Ajax storehouse. Empty time passed while Barney thought coldly and blankly of Eve, his hunch having come to nothing at all.

Night had fallen upon a day that had seemed years long. Dorelle had left Barney before noon, with another of her evasive excuses, and he�d doggedly gone on watching the Ajax warehouse. It was so much time lost. Now, aching with nerve-strain, he was again in Craddock�s office. For once the captain�s expression was explicit, a darkly hostile frown.

�This is the fifth time you�ve been in here today, Mr Chance. There�s still no news of Miss Ranie. When I find her I�ll let you know. I�m still trying.�

�Are you?� Barney said tersely. �Pennswick�s a small town. There aren�t many places where she might be hidden.�

�Tell me, Mr Chance.� Craddock�s voice was ugly. �Tell me how to do my job.�

Other voices spoke behind Barney. Two men were leaving an office directly across the hall. One, his uniform decorated with a gold shield, was moon-faced, bald-headed, unctuous in manner. The other was thin, sly-looking, and at sight of him Barney stiffened.

�That�s the man!�

Craddock drawled in a forbidding tone: �What man, Mr Chance?�

The pair in the hallway, having heard, gazed at Barney curiously. He stepped towards them, Craddock following.

�That�s the man who met Eve Ranie at the station this morning!�

�Him?� Craddock said heavily. �Vic Gartin?� He gestured in irritation towards Gartin�s uniformed companion. �Mr Chance, this is Chief of Police Blount.� And to Chief Blount he added: �I�m afraid Mr Chance has gone off half-cocked here.�

�I�m not mistaken.� Barney said it emphatically, but inwardly he was shaken. All day he�d scanned the faces of passers-by, hoping to spot Eve�s snatcher � and now he�d found him in police headquarters, of all places. Victor Gartin! Neither Gartin nor Chief Blount seemed in the least disturbed by Barney�s accusation. �I tell you, this is the man who grabbed Miss Ranie!� but Gartin looked smugly unmoved and Chief Blount blinked stupidly.

�Surprising, very surprising, I must say,� the chief rumbled. �Let�s see now. Miss Ranie arrived on the 9:50, didn�t she, Captain? Now, at 9:50, Mr Gartin, you were... ah��

�At my home, gentlemen.�

This was a new voice, edged and commanding. A third man had stepped from the chief�s office. Benson Chabbat, as always, was expensively-groomed. His deep-set eyes were clouded for a moment, but then he produced his pink-cheeked smile. �At nine o�clock this morning, gentlemen, Mr Gartin came to my home to talk business, and he was there until eleven. This is Mr Chance, isn�t it? What were you saying, Mr Chance?�

�Mr Chance was jumping at conclusions, Mr Chabbat,� Captain Craddock put in quietly. �If Mr Gartin was with you at 9:50 this morning, he was with you, not somewhere else.�

Chief Blount was wagging his shiny ball-like head. �You should try to be more careful, young man. This sort of mistake could be serious. Fortunate, very fortunate indeed, that Mr Chabbat was able to nip it in the bud. I think you owe Mr Gartin an apology.�

Barney boiled. He still felt certain he was right, but even more certain that his position was hopeless. He suspected this incident had been prearranged, boldly and badly staged. He was staggered to find a chief of police glibly accepting an obviously falsified alibi. The police here were not an agency of the law, he told himself, but the instruments of criminals � they were not a bulwark of security, but the tools of predatory menaces.

Barney stood speechless as he watched Chief Blount deferentially escorting Gartin and Chabbat to the stairs, the three of them laughing together over the absurdity of Barney�s accusation. But Captain Craddock did not laugh. His face hinted a callous sort of regret, and inner fierceness.

�Get wise,� he said, his voice a subdued growl. �Keep quiet and get wise.�

Barney turned on his heel. He was overwhelmed with a sense of subtly hostile forces, of obscure and inimical powers, shutting him off from Eve. He felt terror in the realisation that there was no protection from evil here, no support to be found against it, no hope in fighting it.

Chabbat and Gartin had driven off. Barney sat in his car, weighed down by his sense of helplessness and his dark anxiety for Eve. He saw Captain Craddock leaving headquarters. More than ever, Craddock had become the focus of Barney�s suspicions. His mocking hardness, his deep secretiveness had become a challenge that Barney felt impelled to meet.

Craddock trudged purposefully as Barney followed him. He turned into Oak Street, a section of modest homes, and his pace slowed. In the darkness, he seemed to glide � and Barney remembered coldly Alma Remsen�s description of the masked assailant in Guy�s office.

Then Barney realised that Craddock was no longer moving along the shadowed sidewalk, no longer in sight.

Barney paused at the spot where Craddock had vanished. Nearby, a picket gate stood open and a path led to a bungalow that sat forward in a deep lawn. There was still no sign of Craddock, but light shone from a broad front window and Ben Chabbat and Vic Gartin were inside.

While Barney watched them, they talked unpleasantly, with sharp gestures. Gartin broke off the argument to lift his head, and listen, then step through a doorway towards the rear of the house. Chabbat sat alone, frowning, rolling a cigar in his lips. After a moment, not waiting for Gartin to return, Barney went to the front door.

Chabbat answered his knock. Chabbat was poised, calmly but enormously self-confident, not easily surprised. �Mr Chance again,� he said without rancour. �This is my niece�s home, so I suppose you�ve come to call on her?� He allowed Barney to step in. �Alma�s upstairs. I�m afraid she�s not seeing anyone.�

�I don�t know exactly why I�m here,� Barney answered, looking around at tasteful furnishings, at logs burning in the fireplace. �But it�s not to apologise.�

Chabbat chuckled. �That really isn�t necessary. We all make mistakes.� He gestured Barney to a chair, but Barney shook his head. �We haven�t met, Mr Chance, but I�ve heard of you. Building some kind of plant here, aren�t you?�

�Trying to,� Barney said briefly. �Firetraps like the Big Tent and the Merry-Go-Round get their permits without a hitch, but I can�t get them for a modern, fireproof factory.�

�Well... I,� Chabbat said, examining his cigar, �there are certain borough ordinances, Mr Chance. Some of them are out of date and pretty hard to get around. I�m not a holder of public office, you understand, so I wouldn�t know exactly what�s causing your trouble. But perhaps you haven�t gone about it the right way.�

�That�s right,� Barney agreed ironically. �I haven�t shelled it out your way, and I don�t intend to � but I�ll get that plant built.�

The first gunshot came without warning, a flat, slapping noise behind the house. Chabbat started, and Barney heard a sound of alarm from upstairs. The second report followed quickly, then, after an interval, the third.

The echoes hadn�t yet bounced away before Alma Remsen appeared on the stairs. She was barefoot, wearing a black lace nightgown. Bandages still bound the wound behind her left ear. She stared at Chabbat, deathly pale.

�Where�s Vic?�

Barney was first out the back door, with Chabbat close behind him and Alma fearfully trailing them both. The yard was deep and dark. Hurrying past the white garage, Barney heard the rippling of a brook. He came to it, a shallow, spring-fed stream, winding across the rear of the property. They found Vic Gartin sprawled on the bank, both legs immersed.

�Vic!� Alma screeched his name, fell to her knees beside him, tugged at him. �Vic, Vic!�

A single bullet had pierced Gartin�s right temple and the hole was blackly rimmed by a powder-burn. Both his hands clawed at the pain, smearing blood across his cheeks. Then they dropped, limp. Beside him in the wet gravel lay a revolver.

Barney stepped back while Chabbat attempted to pull the hysterical Alma off the dead man. He turned his head, listening. Foliage rustled faintly. Someone was stealing along the brook. Barney moved towards the street. He ran to the picket gate, paused there and saw a man appear on the sidewalk three houses below. It was a big man who glided away rapidly � Captain Craddock.

Barney went after him again. Nearing the lights of Main Street, Craddock slowed to his trudging stride. Swinging only one arm, he pressed the other against his body, as if holding something concealed under his coat. Barney�s sense of stunned incredulity mounted as he watched the captain turning to the entrance of headquarters.

Craddock was at his desk, sealing the flap of an official file envelope, when Barney stepped in. The telephone was ringing. Ignoring Barney, Craddock answered the call at once. He spoke in monosyllables, his face sad, his eyes flinty. Lowering the instrument, he gazed steadily at Barney.

�That was Mr Chabbat,� he said regretfully. �He tells me Vic Gartin is dead.�

�I was there at the house,� Barney said tersely.

�From what Mr Chabbat says, it looks like suicide.�

�There were three shots. I heard three.� Barney leaned over the desk. �But there�s only one hole in Gartin�s head.�

�Two bad tries, then,� Craddock said tonelessly. �It often happens. A man nicks his throat once or twice before he works up enough nerve to make a good cut. In the same way, Mr Gartin must have flinched the first two times.�

Then Craddock did a strange thing. From his hip he brought forwards a pocket holster containing his police gun. Swinging out its cylinder, he ejected the cartridges. There were six, all intact. Next he produced a short cleaning brush and a square of cotton cloth. He pushed the cloth through the bore and it came out white. Quite deliberately, he�d made Barney a witness to the fact that his gun had not been fired.

�Suicide!� Barney scoffed, unconvinced, feeling that this move of Craddock�s was evidence, instead, of shrewd and ruthless trickery. �Why should Vic Gartin kill himself?�

�Who knows?� Craddock returned his holstered gun to his hip. �Suicides don�t talk much about their reasons afterwards.�

His telephone rang again. This time he said only, �Craddock,� listened for several seconds, then hung up. Barney had faintly heard the voice on the wire � a young woman�s. Craddock�s eyes hardened again at him.

�As a business man, Mr Chance, you know the value of advice. You�ve got in my way. Don�t do it again. Keep out of my way, Mr Chance.� He seemed to smile mockingly. �Now if you�ll excuse me, I�m busy. A suicide is a nuisance, but not as much of a nuisance as a murder.�

Leaving Barney standing there, he went out carrying the file envelope. Barney stared after him through the doorway, too dazed for a moment to move. In his mind he called Captain Craddock a killer, a killer behind the law.

This time Craddock turned at Court Street and went past the inn. If he were responding to Chabbat�s call, he was going a block out of his way. He paused beside a parked car, handed the file envelope into it, spoke and listened briefly, then trudged on.

Observing this, Barney also stopped to gaze into that car. Dorelle Dale sat behind the steering wheel. Her eyes lifted to his, startled. Then she hastily slipped something under the seat. Craddock�s envelope, of course. Barney felt sickened. All too plainly, the murderous police officer and this girl were conniving together.

Now she gazed past him, her lashes lowered. �Get in,� she whispered. �Get in!�

Barney looked over his shoulder at a man who was leaving the taproom of the inn. He recognised the truck driver for Ajax. With an exasperated �Oh, holy cats!� Dorelle opened the car door and tugged at his arm. �Will you get in?�

He did, frowning at her, immediately reaching beneath the seat. The envelope contained something flat and inflexible. Barney ripped it open and drew out an automobile licence plate. It felt slightly damp to his fingers. The number PD7-604, bright and new, had been painted over an old number which was embossed in the metal and still discernible on the reverse side. The old number, Barney realised, might be a valuable lead. And the plate somehow lay behind Craddock�s shooting of Vic Gartin.

Dorelle hadn�t attempted to interfere. Her interest was concentrated on the man who had just left the inn.

�I saw him in the A. & P. just before it closed. He was buying canned goods and milk � and candles.� She repeated significantly: �Candles.�

�I�m going to get this straight,� Barney said. �What�s Craddock to you? Why are you��

�There he goes,� Dorelle interrupted, pressing one neat foot against the starter pedal.

The Ajax truck rolled unhurriedly along Court Street, then turned, not towards the warehouse. Dorelle kept her distance without losing sight of it.

�Let�s get this straight, I said,� Barney persisted. �You�re working with professional crooks, including the worst kind of crooked cop. You��

�Oh, shut up!� Dorelle said with stinging vehemence. �You make me tired!�

Just what was there about him that made her �tired�, Barney wondered? The fact that he was actively concerned for a kidnapped young woman, a friend? The fact that he was fulfilling, as best he could, the mission entrusted to him by a dead man? That he was determined to buck a corrupt police department because it was a dangerous evil which he couldn�t decently shrug off?

Barney wished he knew exactly what the hell Dorelle Dale was. She possessed a quality of forthrightness that contradicted the rest of her suspicious makeup. She was lovely, spirited, she had a head on her, and she was full of deceit. At the Merry-Go-Round she�d functioned as sucker-bait for pay. To Barney she might be pure poison. He didn�t want her to be poisonous to him � and as for that, there was something reassuringly earnest and wholesome about her. He would like to figure her out, especially because he felt she really didn�t dislike him as much as she pretended, even though he was getting in her way � and Craddock�s.

She was trailing the Ajax truck skilfully. It was outside the main residential section and still rolling.

�Have you still got that little package?� she asked abruptly. �Of course you haven�t opened it!�

She�d put him on the defensive, made him the one who must explain himself. It angered him.

�Never mind that. I want to know what the devil I�m messed up in. Murder, kidnapping, God knows what else! I didn�t ask for any part of it. All I wanted was to build a factory.�

�You�ll never get it built as long as Chabbat�s running this show � not without paying plenty for the privilege. He won�t come to you! You�ll have to go to him. And don�t think he wants your money for himself. He doesn�t. He makes his in bigger ways. He wants his boys in office to get their cut.�

Barney knew that now, but he was startled to hear Dorelle putting it into words, wisely and earnestly.

�Chabbat�s no novelty in politics,� she went on. �There are thousands like him all over the country � the men who deliver the votes. But he�s smarter than most, he keeps his office-holders happy. For example, your plant would be a big thing for this town, but Chabbat wants it to be a big thing for his boys first. You can�t see it that way, so you�ll keep right on running into one impossible legal tangle after another, as long as Chabbat goes on ruling this roost.�

Gazing at her, Barney asked quietly: �What�s your real name?�

She didn�t answer. The Ajax truck was slowing now, turning into a driveway. It stopped behind a house of pointed stone that stood completely dark against the grove behind it. Barney opened his eyes at the house while Dorelle drove past. Guy Farrish had bought it, intending it to be his and Eve�s home, and it had remained empty ever since.

Dorelle swerved to the shoulder of the road and switched off the headlamps. After a few moments, the truck reappeared, turning in the opposite direction, towards town. Dorelle backed her car quickly, then swung it into the driveway and stopped short behind the house. Barney beside her, she ran to the rear door.

On the steps sat a carton containing groceries, left there by the Ajax driver. The door was locked. Barney thumped his shoulder against it. On the third thrust the old lock snapped. He stepped in and struck a paper match, Dorelle holding her breath at his side. They listened and heard not a sound.

Dust lay thick on the floor, marked by footprints leading to the cellarway. Barney and Dorelle followed them down. The darkness below was almost liquid. Under the rear of the house, and behind a heavy door of oak, there was a windowless, damp, stone-walled room that felt like a cell in a dungeon.

Eve Ranie huddled against a hand-hewn post, her wrists corded together behind it, her eyes flickering whitely in the unsteady shine of Barney�s match.

Shivering Eve shrank down in the seat between Barney and Dorelle. He kept his arm tight around her. She whispered, �I�m all right now, I�m all right,� but she couldn�t stop shivering.

She hadn�t been hurt physically, but she was nervously exhausted and the chill and the terror of that dark underground room clung to her. Dorelle, all solicitude, drove rapidly. Eve sighed with relief when the car stopped in front of Marsha Barrow�s home.

�Marsha�s there,� Barney said. �She�ll fix you up. A hot tub and a stiff drink will help.�

�Thanks... thanks for finding me,� Eve said, pressing one of her cold hands over Barney�s.

�Don�t thank me, Eve. Dorelle did it.�

�I did not!� Dorelle retorted. �You figured out the licence. The rest wasn�t anything.�

She was eager to avoid taking the credit, Barney suspected. What did that fact tell him about her? Had she led him to Eve with inside knowledge, because the purpose behind the kidnapping had then been accomplished or had failed? He intended to get those questions answered in a hurry, but his immediate concern was for Eve.

�Can you tell me about it now?� he asked gently.

Eve shivered again. �He wanted something � something he thought I had. He tried to find it in my hatbox and it wasn�t there. Then he tried to make me tell him what I�d done with it, but I had no idea what he meant.�

�Didn�t he tell you what it was he wanted to get his hands on?�

She shook her head. �But he wanted it desperately. He made me feel he�d stop at nothing to get it.�

�Eve, it couldn�t have been this.� Barney removed the little package from his coat pocket. �At first I thought this was the reason behind everything that�s happened, but now I know it isn�t. Still, it�s important. It was so important to Guy that he had to make sure you�d get it. That�s why it�s been so damned important to me, too.�

Eve gazed at the little package and took it into her hands almost tenderly. Barney and Dorelle watched her as she loosened the red string. The removal of the brown paper disclosed an ordinary small gift-box. Eve�s fingers trembled as she raised the lid. Then her head sank and she closed her eyes on sudden tears.

Dorelle squirmed to peek into the box and Barney stared, a frown darkening his face. First he saw a small cake of soap. That accounted for the scent. The lettering stamped on the cake was blurred, as if it had been used once or twice. Beside it lay one red lollipop. And underneath both was a cheap little heart-shaped greeting card that asked, Will You Be My Valentine?

Barney felt a crazy impulse to laugh, but the laugh wouldn�t come. Sharp bitterness choked it off. He felt Guy had tricked him trivially in the name of friendship, he felt betrayed by a ridiculous whim. This was the solemn trust Guy had placed in him! This was the mission Guy had asked him faithfully to complete, upon his word of honour � to deliver a cake of soap, a lollipop and a valentine!

Getting out of the car, Barney shut the door with an angry slam. Dorelle hurried ahead to the house. The entrance had scarcely opened before Marsha had her arms around Eve. There followed a flurry of anxious �darlings� and �dears� while Marsha rushed Eve upstairs. Barney found no opening to introduce Dorelle, but apparently it wasn�t necessary. Together, Marsha and Dorelle got Eve out of her damp dress, ignoring Barney in the process. In another moment she was wrapped in a warm robe and Marsha was bringing her a drink. She put it aside to gaze again at Guy�s little box, her chin quivering.

�Does it mean anything?� Barney asked, still fuming.

�A great deal, Barney,� Eve said quietly. �A very great deal.� She smiled wanly over the lollipop and valentine. �Guy and I didn�t know each other when we started going to the same school. He was such a bashful little boy, he couldn�t even say hello to me. He�d just smile and shy away, until one day he handed me a soiled envelope, then ran for dear life. Inside was an old valentine and a bright red lollipop � and it was weeks past Valentine�s Day. It was his way of telling me he liked me.�

There were tears in Eve�s eyes. �And much later he proposed to me in just the same way, by giving me a lollipop and a little card asking me to be his valentine for life.� Then she really burst into tears. �I know it�s silly, it�s terribly silly, but I adored it.�

Barney waited until she�d taken hold of herself. He understood now why Guy had wanted no one else to see the contents of the box. It was one of those intimate, closely-guarded bonds, personal and tender, cherished between a man and a woman in love, like a song first heard together, which someone else might injure with ridicule. To Barney it seemed no longer frivolous.

�And this time he was asking you to come back to him?�

�Yes,� Eve spoke softly. �The rest is something I�ve never told anyone before. I don�t like telling it before Marsha.�

�It probably won�t be news to me, Eve, dear,� Marsha said. �To begin with, nobody needs to tell me my darling brother is a stinker, but I�ve never let it bother me much.�

Eve�s eyes widened. She clasped Marsha�s hand and turned to Barney. �You know the kind of a man Guy had become � out for all he could get and not too particular about how he got it. But did you know that Guy�s senior partner, Jonathan Lytham � Marsha�s and Neal�s father � had cut loose from Ben Chabbat? And why? And that immediately after Mr Lytham�s death, Guy took Chabbat back as a client?�

�My father was a grumpy old darling,� Marsha put in. �A stubborn, close-mouthed old bear, but honest as they come. He hated his chiselling clients, Ben Chabbat most of all, and finally the old dear reached the point where he couldn�t stomach Chabbat another day. That was the day of the Big Tent fire.�

Barney listened intently as Eve went on. �I learned all this from Guy. Vic Gartin operated the Big Tent, acting as the owner�s front man. Chabbat wanted the charges against Gartin quashed, of course, and expected Mr Lytham to fix it. Mr Lytham wouldn�t. Then Chabbat tried to put pressure on him by revealing that the real owner of the Big Tent was his own son, Neal.�

Barney�s eyebrows went up. Marsha merely looked at him levelly, not at all surprised.

�That was one straw too many for Father,� she said simply. �He was perfectly furious � ordered Chabbat out and swore he�d never forgive Neal. He died only two days later � the emotional shock did it, I know � still detesting Neal for it.� Marsha added: �I loathe him, too, for using his inheritance for more of the same nasty sort of business. The Merry-Go-Round is only a new beginning. Terribly skunky, that darling brother of mine.�

�Neal�s money plus Chabbat�s influence, you see, Barney,� Eve said, �with Guy pulling the legal wires for them. When Guy took Chabbat back as a client, I considered it unforgivable, a betrayal of his old partner, but Guy just shrugged. Chabbat meant big fees. His first job was to get Vic Gartin off the manslaughter rap, which he later did. It was too much for me to take. I saw Guy heading into more and bigger dirty work, and I couldn�t decently go along with him.�

Eve�s eyes misted over as she gazed into the little box. �I was horribly disappointed in Guy. The showdown came in the apartment I had here. We were in a hopeless clash over it. I told Guy I wouldn�t marry him, and then I stepped into the bathroom, of all places, to cry it out where he wouldn�t see me. He came in anyway and begged me not to break off our engagement. Then I handed him this cake of soap, this same cake. It sounds melodramatic, but we were both worked up. I told Guy I still loved him, but I wouldn�t take him back until he could come to me with clean hands, and that was final. He turned away without another word and left the apartment, taking the cake of soap with him. It was fresh then, unused.�

Barney bounced up. �But now it�s been used. He used it and knew you�d see instantly what it meant. He�d cleaned his hands � for some reason he�d broken with Chabbat.� Barney sat again, overwhelmed by the significance suddenly acquired by this apparently trivial token. �And that�s why he was killed, Eve. Somehow, that�s why Guy was murdered.�

Eve broke then, sobbing unashamedly. Marsha promptly dispensed with Barney and Dorelle. They went down to the living room. There he faced her.

�I�ve got a hold on this thing now,� Barney said. �I�m going to get the right answers, and all of them � from you next.�

His tone, like a dash of cold water, caused her to draw a little gasp. �But telling you won�t do any good. It may do a lot of harm. This thing�s not finished yet, and somebody�s not stopping at murder. But you�ve just got to know regardless, don�t you?�

�I�ve got to know,� Barney said. �Especially about you, Dorelle.�

�That isn�t my name,� she answered, shaking her head very seriously. �It was my mother�s, sort of � her stage name when she was in musical comedy. One of the servicemen killed in the Big Tent fire was Private First Class Johnny Vernon. He was my kid brother. My name�s Jean.�

�Jean Vernon.� Barney liked the sound of it. �That�s much better. I hope the rest is as good.�

Her eyes clouded over. �I had to come here to identify Johnny�s body, and I stayed. Nobody in Pennswick knew me. I simply changed my name and got a job at the Merry-Go-Round because I wanted to learn who was really responsible. Now I�ve found out � the combination of Chabbat and Neal Lytham chiefly, but what can I do about it?�

Barney said quietly: �That�s not all of it. You�re holding something out.�

�Last night I got acquainted with you deliberately, if that�s what you mean,� she went on. �Nobody was following me. I just had to see what you added up to. Later, when I went back to your apartment, I was still trying to find out as much as I could from you. I did learn something was going terribly wrong for Chabbat and his inner circle. It was Vic Gartin who ransacked your place. He fired me from the Merry-Go-Round and warned me to make myself scarce because his finding me at your apartment had told him I was playing a game on my own.�

�You�re still holding out,� Barney insisted. �All this wasn�t your own idea. Somebody�s behind you.�

She pressed her lips together, and at that moment a knock sounded. The door opened at once. Captain Craddock took a gliding step inwards, his face enigmatically hinting a sense of regret which was somehow ominous.

A glance passed between him and the girl. It seemed to Barney to convey a mutual warning. Then Craddock closed the door and came closer. From inside his coat he produced a long brown envelope.

�Do you know what this is, Mr Chance?� he asked.

Barney�s gaze fixed on it. In one corner it bore the printed return address of Lytham and Farrish. Marsha Barrow�s name and address had been scrawled across it, but the ink had been almost entirely washed off while still fresh. There was no postmark. It had been slit open.

�Guy Farrish was mailing a letter like that when I first saw him last night,� Barney said cautiously. �How did you get hold of it?�

�He didn�t mail it,� Craddock said, sounding brusque. �He thought he did, but he missed the slot of the mailbox. It dropped to the wet sidewalk, but he didn�t know that and he left it there.�

�How did you get it?� Barney repeated. �What�s in it?�

�This young lady saw it fall,� the captain continued, while Barney suspected his purpose in revealing this.

�That�s why she left Vic Gartin�s car first chance she found. She went to pick it up. I�ve had it since last night and now I�m going to use it.�

�Use it for what?�

�Mr Chance,� Craddock said wearily but tensely, �we�re in a spot, the three of us. We�ve found out too much at a time when it was never more unhealthy to find out too much. If you and Miss Vernon should turn up dead��

�Suicides?� Barney put in wryly.

�As murder victims,� Craddock went on softly, �the case will stay in the unsolved file � you can bank on that. As for me, one word from Chief Blount can break me. Then I�ll just be another casualty, powerless. In other words, we�d better be smart and careful. Now please get Mrs Barrow down here.�

The note of urgency in Craddock�s voice carried through Barney�s confusion. He called up to Marsha. Craddock approached her at the base of the stairs.

�Eve�s going to sleep now, I think,� she told Barney. �Captain Craddock? What is it?�

�Mrs Barrow, Guy Farrish was the executor of your father�s estate. Did he know the details of the will prior to Mr Lytham�s death?�

�I�m sure he didn�t,� Marsha answered. �He didn�t even know he was to be the executor until a few hours before Father�s death. I remember Guy coming out of Father�s bedroom after hearing about it, and asking me if I knew about the will. I said, no, he�d never talked about it.�

�Did your brother Neal know?�

�Really, Father never mentioned his will to either of us. I�m sure he didn�t tell Neal anything at the last minute. He wouldn�t see Neal. Guy and I were with Father when he died, but Neal was downstairs, excluded, so�� Marsha broke off to ask: �Why are you asking me this?�

�You�ll soon know, Mrs Barrow. Thank you.�

Captain Craddock glanced at Jean Vernon, his darkened eyes commanding her. Both moved towards the door.

�Hold it,� Barney said, going after them. �Captain, you look to me like a man who�s trying his damnedest to hit the jackpot and dreading it. You don�t want me, but I�m in it too deep to get out now. Well? Don�t hang back on my account.�

Barney paused beside Craddock�s car. The captain was at the wheel, Jean Vernon beside him. She was frightened and trying not to show it. Craddock returned Barney�s gaze, tight-nerved.

�You killed Vic Gartin,� Barney said.

�Gartin was a suicide.�

�You killed him and tricked it up.�

Craddock seemed to sigh. �Have it your way. But don�t noise it around. Get in, if you�re coming.�

Despite his cold confusion, Barney felt determined to keep his hold on this thing. He slid onto the seat beside Jean and felt her trembling. Captain Craddock drove ponderously.

�You saw Gartin snatch Miss Ranie,� he said, �but you heard Chabbat alibi Gartin. There was no way around that. No legal way.�

Barney listened.

�Miss Ranie was taken away in a black sedan. Gartin�s own car was a sky-blue convertible. I wondered if he�d borrowed Alma Remsen�s black sedan without her knowledge while she was laid up. He was practically living at her place. That was the hunch I played.�

Craddock turned at a corner, still driving slowly.

�I found the fake licence plate in the brook, where Gartin had thrown it. The new number was painted over an old one registered in Gartin�s own name. He�d heard me prowling around and caught me fishing the plate out of the brook. He had a gun, so I had to jump him. His first shot missed me and the second went into the sky while we wrestled. Then I twisted the gun up to his temple.�

Craddock stopped the car.

�It was much better that way, Mr Chance. A cop doesn�t openly kill one of Chabbat�s boys and get away with it, even in performance of his duty. Suicide settles Gartin�s score and leaves me where I am, on the Force, still able to work at my job as I see it. I doubt that Chabbat�s satisfied, though. That�s why I�m calling the play tonight.�

Barney thought back. When fighting the Japs he hadn�t worried at all about doing it nor had the enemy. When a man is defending his life he doesn�t fret over the niceties of the Marquis of Queensberry rules. Barney could clearly see the parallel in Craddock�s position.

�There are only two ways a cop can crack a case honestly when his chief is a big-shot crook�s dummy, Mr Chance,� the captain added quietly. �One way is crack it so wide open that the whole thing falls apart, which is the hard way, the almost impossible way. The other is to chip away at it under cover. That�s more dangerous, because they can hit back under cover also. Until now it�s been my method. But it�s no good any longer. The covers are coming off.�

He trudged to the door of Alma Remsen�s home. Barney tried to doubt him no longer. It wasn�t easy. Craddock was a shrewd, ruthless man � courageous, admirably and selflessly devoted to his own code, but ruthless nevertheless � a hard man to take on faith.

Barney caught Jean Vernon�s arm and stopped her on the walk. �You�ve helped Craddock all along, beginning with the job he got you to take at the Merry-Go-Round. You sounded me out for him, you�re holding evidence and testimony for against the day when he might use it. But now you�re showing yourself with him here. Why?�

�He told you, Barney. We�ve got to face them openly now,� Jean said, keeping a grip on herself. �This is what we�ve worked for. This is it.�

The door had opened and Neal Lytham was looking out. Barney and Jean followed Craddock into the living room. Chabbat was seated before the warm fireplace with a cigar. He smoked as imperturbably as always, but Neal was inwardly agitated. Astonished, Barney noted a change in Craddock�s manner. The captain became almost apologetic.

�Sorry to disturb Miss Remsen,� Craddock murmured. �Just routine, for the record.�

Neal led them up the stairs, his weakly handsome face pale with apprehension. Alma Remsen was sitting up in bed. Bandages no longer bound her red hair � instead, a patch of gauze covered the wound behind her left ear.

Her sister, Suzie, was there, munching chocolates. Neal signalled Suzie out, and she complied pettishly. He watched from the foot of the bed while Craddock deferentially drew a chair.

�Just routine, Alma,� the captain said again, �and it won�t take long. You were Jonathan Lytham�s secretary until he died, then you became Guy Farrish�s. Tell me all you know about Mr Lytham�s last will.�

�You mean the one he wrote just a couple of days before he died?� Alma said, her greenish eyes becoming thoughtful. �But that one doesn�t even exist any more. Mr Lytham changed his mind again and destroyed it.�

�How do you know he did?�

�Mr Farrish told me Mr Lytham tore up the new one, and that made the old one good again.�

�Go on, Alma,� Captain Craddock encouraged her quietly. �Tell me how it all happened.�

Readily, Alma went back to the beginning. �It was the last day Mr Lytham was ever at the office. He was very upset because he�d had a terrible blow-up with Mr Chabbat that morning. He wasn�t feeling at all well, poor man, but before he left he dictated a new will.�

�One cutting off his son and leaving everything to his daughter?�

�Yes,� Alma said, gazing at Jonathan Lytham�s son. �In it he gave everything to Marsha and cut Neal off with only a dollar.�

Neal gestured disarmingly. �It doesn�t matter now. Alma told you my father had a change of heart and tore up that new will before he died.�

Craddock nodded. �Just for the record, Neal. Go on from there, please. Alma.�

�It was late in the afternoon,� Alma continued, �and the bank was closed. Mr Lytham couldn�t put the new will in his safety deposit box, or take the old one out, so instead he put the new one in the office safe. Then he went home to bed and he never got up again. Two days later he was dead. That was the day when Mr Farrish told me��

She pushed herself higher against the pillows, as if in an effort to get every detail straight. �First Marsha phoned the office, saying Mr Lytham couldn�t live much longer and he wanted Mr Farrish to bring a certain envelope from the safe and come to the house. It was that new will. When Mr Farrish came back, he told me Mr Lytham had changed his mind about it and had torn it up. Then, after Mr Lytham was dead, Mr Farrish got the other one out of the safety deposit box � the old one leaving everything to Neal and Marsha equally. That�s all I can tell you. It�s all right, isn�t it?�

Barney saw Craddock shake his head. �No, Alma, it�s not all right. Farrish lied to you about the new will. Actually, Mr Lytham hadn�t forgiven his son. That�s proved by the fact that he died without allowing Neal to see him again.�

Alma�s lips parted as she gazed at Craddock.

�What Mr Lytham actually told Farrish was that a new will existed and he wanted it to stand. He didn�t destroy it. On the contrary, he gave it to Farrish, his executor, to be acted upon. But Farrish didn�t probate it. Instead, he betrayed the old friend and partner who�d trusted him to honour his dying wishes. Farrish concealed the new will, which gave everything to Marsha, and instead probated the old one, which divided the estate equally between Marsha and Neal. No doubt of it, Alma. You see�� again producing the long brown envelope from his coat, Craddock held it without opening it ��I have the new will right here.�

Barney swallowed, stunned by this revelation of trickery on Guy�s part, and stared at Neal. Neal�s face had turned waxy � he could say nothing.

�It was easy to do,� Craddock went on. �In Pennsylvania, no witnesses to a will are required. Mr Lytham was close-mouthed. He�d told no one about the new will, not even Marsha. Farrish made sure of that, which meant you were the only living person who knew about it, Alma, other than himself. So he simply told you Mr Lytham had torn up the new will, and you naturally believed him.�

�But��

�Easy and simple,� Craddock added, gazing now at Neal, his face stony. �It dropped more than a million dollars into your lap, Neal, money not rightfully yours. Farrish wanted a good cut of it and started getting it. He showed you the new will and warned you he could �find� it and probate it at any time. That would jerk the million right out of your lap again, except for one lone dollar. But as long as he kept the new will under wraps, both of you would collect � you directly, he through you. And that�s the way it went.�

Craddock rose heavily, the unopened envelope still in his hand. �That�s all, Alma, thank you,� and he turned to the stairs.

Barney followed Craddock, revolted and heartsick. Was this the extent of the captain�s purposes � to show that Guy Farrish, now dead, had turned crooked? Barney resented it, despite his conviction that Craddock was right, but when he went into the living room after Craddock he began to see its broader, deeper aspects. Actually, he realised now, the captain was striking at a cabal, at a conspiracy of powers � Neal�s dishonestly acquired wealth, unequalled in Pennswick except by Marsha�s, plus Chabbat�s entrenched influence.

Chabbat still sat comfortably before the burning logs in the fireplace, rolling his cigar in his lips. He must know what Craddock had done, Barney thought coldly, but he was still superbly unperturbed. Neal Lytham, in contrast, was profoundly shaken. Coming in after Jean Vernon, he stared fearfully at Craddock. He didn�t attempt to explain or defend himself � he couldn�t speak at all.

�Wait a minute,� Barney said. �Guy tried to mail the new will to Marsha. That means he was washing his hands of the whole dirty business.� His figure of speech recalled to Barney�s mind that strange but significant token which Guy had wanted Eve to see � the used cake of soap. �Guy was putting the whole thing straight again, and he was killed because somebody wanted to stop him.�

Craddock must know this, he reminded himself, but Craddock said nothing. For reasons of his own the captain was letting Barney take the lead. Barney sensed the danger in that. Chabbat�s silent scrutiny of him was more than ominous. Neal�s inner agitation was growing, threatening to break. In Jean�s widened eyes there was anxiety for Barney. But he couldn�t stop now.

�Why?� he said. �Why did Guy want to put it straight? He�d reached his limit, just as Jonathan Lytham had. Why? He�d got Vic Gartin off the manslaughter charges, in connection with the Big Tent fire. Do you mean that was too much for him to stomach once he�d done it?� Suddenly Barney felt he had the real answer. �The wedding. Neal�s marriage to Suzie. Ben Chabbat�s niece. Chabbat�s power married to Neal�s wealth. The founding of an evil dynasty.�

Craddock dourly permitted Barney to continue.

�And more. Guy must have seen himself becoming its victim. He had to keep the new will, because without it he�d have no hold on Neal, but his hold wasn�t secure. He could be sloughed off, frozen out, eliminated entirely, and he knew Chabbat and Neal would sooner or later do exactly that in order to consolidate and safeguard themselves. And Guy saw it coming.� Barney�s eyes opened wider. �He may even have seen that Neal was set up as a murder victim, because if Neal should die all his money would go to Suzie, a brainless little doll to be manipulated as Chabbat pleased.�

The skin around Neal�s eyes became dead white as he stared at the man seated before the log fire. Barney felt sure that until now Neal hadn�t realised his marriage might be turned into an instrument of treachery. Chabbat smiled faintly and smoked. And still Captain Craddock permitted Barney to hold the dangerous reins.

�Guy decided to strike first, to wreck Chabbat�s plans even while they were forming. He could do that very simply, by revealing the existence of the new will. Perhaps he hoped Marsha would never take legal action against him, but he must have known it would mean his finish at Chabbat�s hands � and he tried to do it anyway.�

Guy had tried and had been killed. Barney gazed from Chabbat to Neal, feeling suddenly at a loss. He remembered a statement of Jean�s which he�d doubted at the time but must believe now, a statement providing an alibi for Gartin, who had been with her when Guy was shot, for Neal and Chabbat � both of whom had been at the church, for�

A crash of glass came sharply. They turned � Barney, Jean, Craddock, Neal, and even Chabbat hoisted himself halfway from his chair, startled out of his complacency � to stare across the room. A figure stood outside the window, visible only from the waist up, looking both threatening and ridiculous. A shapeless felt hat pulled low on its head, a topcoat hung loosely across its thin shoulders and a handkerchief curtained its face, so that only a pair of eyes was visible in the shadow of the hat-brim.

But the gun pointing from its gloved hand was not ridiculous.

They were still until Chabbat sank slowly back into his chair. Jean moved closer to Barney�s side, her hand reaching for his. He saw tense alarm in Neal and knew it was real. Captain Craddock, also seated, turned quietly in his chair to face the figure outside the window.

The gun watched them through the hole broken in the glass. The handkerchief-mask puffed a little as the mouth behind it spoke in a disguised whisper.

�Get his gun.�

The eyes were peering at Barney and the voice meant Craddock. The captain moved a hand towards his hip but a warning exclamation from the window stopped him. Again the shadowed eyes commanded Barney. He complied. Reaching under Craddock�s coat, he removed the pocket-holster.

�Take the shells out.�

This was a preliminary, Barney knew. Something more was coming, but first the captain�s revolver must be made harmless. He told himself it must be the only weapon in the room, but he was forced to go on obeying. He swung out the cylinder and ejected the shells. They rolled on the rug, glittering.

�Fireplace,� the whisper ordered.

Barney looked at Craddock in despair. The captain shrugged slightly, his face picturing resignation mingled with a queer sort of tenacity. The other gun outside the window was shining a threat at Barney and turning on Jean.

Barney tossed Craddock�s revolver. It fell behind the burning logs, into a bed of red embers. In a few moments it would grow too hot to touch.

�Now that envelope.�

Craddock still holding it, didn�t stir.

�Throw it in the fire.�

Jean�s move startled Barney. Reaching to the envelope, she snatched it from Craddock�s fingers. Quickly she drew out and unfolded a single sheet of paper. Her chin lifted in defiance of the figure outside the window. She put it into Barney�s hands.

�Read it, Barney!�

The voice commanded again, hoarsely: �Throw that in the fire!�

�No, Barney, read it!�

Barney stared at the typewritten lines, fearful for Jean. The will was short, the terse pronouncement of an embittered man. �I, Jonathan Lytham, being of sound mind...� Exactly as Craddock had said, it disinherited Neal. Jonathan Lytham�s signature looked decisive, final.

�In the fire!� The voice carried a note of impatience, desperate impatience at the point of breaking. �Now!�

Jean�s next move startled Barney even more. She seized the will again. Turning, she crumpled it into a wad and threw it onto the logs. Before Barney could grasp what she had done, the paper was flaming up. He started towards it in dismay, but Jean tugged him back. Chabbat, smiling faintly again, grasped up the poker and stirred its ashes. Now it was hopelessly lost.

Barney stared at Jean, numbly cold, yet smouldering with a sense of betrayal. She didn�t glance at him, but gazed at the masked figure behind the window.

A new gleam had come into the shadowed eyes. The figure remained there, not moving, the gun steady. It was still purposeful. The realisation struck Barney that the destruction of the will wasn�t enough. Still more was coming. It could be only one thing � the destruction of witnesses in addition. To Barney that meant Jean, Craddock, too, himself, and perhaps Neal as well. The mere thought was incredible to Barney, but it was the purpose in a murderer�s mind, in the mind behind the gun at the window.

�There was a red smear on that will.� Barney heard himself speaking. �Guy�s blood. He was shot before he put it in that envelope.�

Barney wondered crazily why the gun in the window didn�t shoot. It was as if his words were keeping the bullets back. He hurried on, feeling Jean�s hand in his again.

�Guy was shot even before he phoned Marsha. That�s why he sounded so short of breath to her. He had something for her, but he couldn�t take it to her because he had a bullet in his body. She�d have to come down for it, he said. But then he felt his strength failing. Feeling he couldn�t wait any longer, he sealed the will inside an envelope, wrote Marsha�s address, stuck on stamps and actually went down to the mailbox. He thought that would get it safely to her after he was dead.�

A strange fascination seemed to have closed over the figure outside the window.

�Vic Gartin didn�t know that. He overheard Guy talking to me in my office. Guy said, �Give it to her,� meaning the little package he intended for Eve, but Gartin thought he�d given me the will and that meant I should give it to Marsha. That�s why Gartin ransacked my office first, then my apartment � trying to get the will, so it could be destroyed, so Neal could stay dishonestly rich.�

Barney now spoke to Neal.

�But then you learned that Guy had gone about mailing the will. That�s why you stayed at Marsha�s house on your wedding night, Neal. You expected the postman to bring the will there. You meant to get hold of it before Marsha saw it. But it didn�t come. Then you decided Guy must have mailed it to Eve instead, so Eve could plead with Marsha on Guy�s behalf. So Gartin kidnapped her, but she didn�t have the will either. You were at your wits� end, suspecting one another, preparing to back-stab one another for its sake, until just now, when you learned Craddock had it.�

Barney was conscious of a slight movement, not at the window, but behind him. Chabbat was easing forward in his chair. Barney didn�t shift his gaze from the slitted eyes in the shadow.

�The story you told doesn�t hang together, Alma,� he said. �You might have done better if you hadn�t been suffering from shock. Actually there wasn�t any masked man hiding in Guy�s office when you went in. The description was one you faked on the spur of the moment. If there had been such a man, he wouldn�t have left without the will, not with Guy already shot and you knocked unconscious. Guy attempted to mail it after you�d gone in. He decided on that because he couldn�t know how much longer he�d last, and he wanted most of all to keep it out of your hands.�

The handkerchief mask was swaying, moved by a succession of quick breaths.

�After Jonathan Lytham�s death you began suspecting that Guy had concealed the new will, Alma. For one thing, Guy was becoming too prosperous on too few cases. Soon you challenged him on it. A few words from you to the bar association and the income tax people would play hell with him, so he was forced to cut you in. You became one of the dynasty based on Neal�s crooked money � Neal himself, Chabbat, Guy and even Suzie, who was soon to marry Neal. Small wonder Guy wasn�t long reaching the limit of his dishonesty.�

The voice said sharply, recognizable as a young woman�s now: �That�s enough!�

�When Guy called you into his office just before the wedding, it was to give Neal and Suzie a gift, sure enough. The gift was dynamite, enough of it to blow up everything. He gave you fair warning that he meant to turn the new will over to Marsha at once. You had to stop that, Alma. You got Guy�s own gun out of his desk and over it you demanded the will.�

The eyes of Alma Remsen shone as hard as the metal of the weapon she held.

�He refused. The only way you could stop him now was to shoot him. With your bullet in his body, he hit you, knocked you down and took the gun away from you. Then he went on, first calling Marsha. Next, wanting to hurry, he put the will in the envelope. You saw him doing it when you got up off the floor. You tried to get at the gun again, but he knocked you down a second time, hard enough to keep you down. You see, Alma, you�re the only one who could have known of Guy�s intention to mail the will to Marsha, the only one who could have tipped off the others about that. Now we know all of it.�

Now it was coming.

�You, too, Neal,� Barney said. �When she starts shooting she won�t leave you out. Suzie will inherit then. She thinks she�s fairly sure of getting away with the whole thing with Chabbat�s help. She may be wrong on that point. Not even Chabbat can hush up so many murders��

A gasp broke from Jean�s lips. Alma�s gun had swung at Neal. Craddock moved heavily, but in a quick glide, just as its hammer lifted. The report wasn�t loud, but the bullet carried a power that spun Craddock half around. He fell against Neal, holding his left shoulder with his right hand, while Neal braced against the wall, unhurt. Dazed, Barney knew Craddock had done it deliberately, had protected Neal Lytham with his own body.

The second gunshot broke behind Barney. Chabbat was out of his chair. In one hand he held his cigar, balancing a long ash on it, and in the other he held an automatic. Chabbat, the only man in the room who might consider himself safe from Alma�s fire, was turning his own gun on her. Because, as Barney had said, this madness of hers would be more than even he could hush up. Because the death of Alma Remsen, a proved murderess, done in what he would claim to be self-protection, would help him to preserve his power.

He had fired one shot and missed. The masked girl stood rigid outside the window, too stunned by Chabbat�s act to grasp its treacherous meaning. Craddock was heaving himself across the room again when Chabbat fired the second time. Alma screamed and fell away. Craddock took a grip on Chabbat�s automatic. He twisted it free and slashed Chabbat once across the face. Chabbat fell.

Barney found Jean suddenly in his arms. With an impulse of fear and gladness she�d thrown her arms around his neck � gladness because he was unhurt. He felt her body shaking and with equal suddenness she flung herself away.

Barney hurried out the door after her, with Captain Craddock trudging behind him. Neal was at the window now, still speechless, looking down at Alma Remsen.

With his one usable hand Craddock opened her coat. Beneath it she was wearing a nightgown. The stain was on her left side, just below the ribs. She was as unconscious as when Barney had first found her in Guy�s office.

�Bad,� Craddock said, rising with a sigh, �but it doesn�t have to be fatal. She knows Chabbat shot her and why, and she won�t forget it. She�s the hating kind. She�ll get back at him and talk.�

�And you, Neal,� Craddock added to the stricken man at the window. �You�ll talk, too, because you know what her plans for you were. Between the two of you, there�ll be no more Chabbat.�

For the first time Barney saw a smile on the captain�s face, a smile of bitter gratification. �I don�t see how we could have asked for anything better, Barney.� He looked like a man who had won without ever having really hoped to win.

Jean was in Barney�s arms again, her head pressed to his shoulder, sobbing a little.

�You burned the will,� Barney heard himself mumbling. He wasn�t sure of his voice but he was certain he was holding her tightly. �You burned it!�

�But it doesn�t matter, Barney!� She lifted her head, her eyes widened. �Really it doesn�t. You and I can swear to the authenticity of that will. Captain Craddock, too. The writing�s gone, but Jonathan Lytham�s last wish will remain in force. The court will uphold it.�

�How do you know that? You�re talking like a... a��

�A law student? I am one, Barney. There just hasn�t been time for us to get really acquainted with each other, has there?� She put her head back on his shoulder, shivering.

Barney was dizzy. The small task that Guy had entrusted to him had become a mission fulfilled. And Jean. She surprised him endlessly. He wanted her to go on surprising him endlessly, although he knew he�d never get used to it.

�There�ll be time now, darling,� she said, and he freed one hand long enough to grip the strong, comradely hand of Captain Craddock.

It was half past twelve on one of those early September days in Manhattan when the streets are Dutch ovens and a girl who can look crisp is a treasure indeed. I was completing the last draft of the current three-part blast, with Dolly sitting at my elbow noting the changes I wanted.

Miss Riven came in simultaneously with her crisp rap at the door, and said, �Mr Engelborg wishes to see you immediately, Mr Arlin.�

She did a Prussian drill-sergeant�s about-face and went back through the door, shutting it with a crisp clack that only Miss Riven can seem to get out of a door.

�Her!� Dolly said. �Her!� She made it sound like a dirty name.

�She thinks I work here,� I said. During the six weeks that I had been provided with office space and Dolly, she and I had become good friends. �Look, lovely. I can�t see anything more we need. Type it up with three carbons and get one over to the legal eagles for checking.�

I hesitated, decided against my coat, and went down through the offices full of common people to the shrine where Engelborg, the almighty, flings his weight around.

Miss Riven gave me a cool look, glanced at her watch and said, �You may go right in, Mr Arlin.�

I pushed the door open. Engelborg, who looks like a giant blond panda, said, �This is Arlin. Joe, meet Mr Flynn.�

Flynn merely nodded but he stared at me intently. He was a big, sagging man in his late fifties with an executive air about him. There was a bloodhound sadness about his eyes.

�Arlin,� said Mr Engelborg, �is just finishing up a hot series on real estate swindles.�

�It�s all done,� I said. �Ought to be out of the typewriter tomorrow. That is, if the lawyers have no kick.�

�Good,� Engelborg grunted. �I want you to understand, Mr Flynn, that Arlin isn�t a part of this organisation. He works on a freelance basis and this particular job was so hot we wanted him right here so we could coordinate more closely. What are your plans, Joe?�

I didn�t like the sound of that. I said, �I am going to wait until I get page proofs on the first instalment and then I am going to go to Maine.�

�I understand,� Flynn said, �that you�re out of college two years. The University of Wisconsin. You were a Gamma U there?�

�That�s right.� I couldn�t smell which way this was going. Flynn looked at me as though he resented me in a tired way.

�He looks young enough, doesn�t he?� Engelborg said.

Flynn nodded.

That has been a sore point with me. When I was twenty I looked fifteen. Now, at twenty-eight, I look twenty. Professionally that has its limitations. Emotionally it�s all right. I play on their maternal instincts.

�So I look young,� I said. �Gee, thanks.�

�Take it easy, Joe,� Engelborg said. �Real easy. Don�t get upset. How�d you like to go to college?�

�Thanks, I�ve been.�

Flynn spoke heavily. �Let me talk, Arlin. My son is dead. He died last June at the age of nineteen. Everyone says he hung himself. I went down there. He was at West Coast University in Florida. I cannot believe he hung himself. He was a Gamma U. Other boys in that house died last year. In different ways. Automobiles. One drowned. Too many died. I cannot get help from the police. A private investigation firm would be too heavy-handed.

�Mr Engelborg has been my good friend for many years. Last night I talked to him about this. He mentioned you. We discussed it. I want to pay you to go down and register for this fall term which starts very soon. I have certain influence and so does Engelborg. It can be arranged. We have a friend at the University of Wisconsin. The first three years of your credits will be transferred so you can enter as a senior. I know the secretary of the national chapter of Gamma U. There will be no trouble from that end.�

I sat down. I kept my voice as calm and logical as I could. �Mr Flynn, I appreciate your problem. There are many inexplicable suicides among young people.�

�Teddy did not kill himself. I know that. I must have it proven. I have two other boys, younger boys. I don�t want this thing hanging over them.�

�Which would be better? Suicide or murder? If it isn�t one it�s the other.�

�Suicide is a sign of basic weakness. Teddy was not weak. I want you to go down there and live in that house and find out what happened.� He was as positive and undeniable as an avalanche.

I appealed to Mr Engelborg. �Look, that isn�t my line. I find things out to write them up.�

Engelborg said, �You�ve done some very slick investigatory work, Joe. Those dock gangs, the Bermuda dope setup.�

�I�m my own man,� I said. �I do what I please.�

�That�s right, Joe,� Engelborg said.

�I don�t want to go to college. I want to go to Maine. Brother, it�s hot down there now. I�m tired. I want to go fishing.�

�You�ll wonder,� Flynn said, �all the rest of your life. You�ll wonder what kind of a thing you might have uncovered. What kind of a twisted, diseased thing it is that causes the deaths of fine young boys.�

�I won�t do it,� I said.

�You will be paid all expenses, plus a thousand a month plus a bonus of five thousand when it is all over, no matter what your conclusion is.�

�I hate Florida,� I said.

The creative writing deal met once a week for a two-hour session, Friday from ten to twelve. It was taught by a dry but pompous little man who, the year before, had hit one of the book clubs with a novel that had little to recommend it but the incredible size of the heroine from the waist up and the frenzy with which she met all emotional experiences.

Tilly Owen was in the class. I located her at the first session, a tallish dark-haired girl, almost plain. Her face showed nothing and I was disappointed in her. She took notes meekly, her dark head bent over the notebook. But when she walked out, I did a quick revision. The tall body had an independent life of its own. Her face showed a clear and unspectacular intelligence, an aloofness � but the body was devious and complicated and intensely feminine, continually betraying the level eyes. She went off with a few other girls before I could make an intercept.

During the week leading to the next session when I saw her again, I enlarged my circle of friends inside the fraternity. Brad Carroll thawed a great deal, particularly after I had a few of them out to the beach house for cocktails. I began to learn more about the insides of the brethren.

Step Krindall, with the baby blue eyes and the pink head, was as uncomplicated and amiable as a dancing bear. Arthur Marris had too deep a streak of seriousness in him, verging on self-importance. His touch was thus a shade too heavy. The better house president knows when to use a light touch. Every house has its types. Bill Armand, the dark, vital junior, was the house sceptic, the cynic, the scoffer. Ben Charity, the shy blond Georgia boy, was the gullible one, the butt of most practical jokes. The angel-faced red-headed sophomore named Jay Bruce was the house clown. There was the usual sullen, heavy-drinking kid on his way off the rails � one Ralph Schumann, a senior.

The rest of them seemed to merge into one composite type, a bunch of well-washed young men in a stage in their development when clothes, women, snap courses and hard-boiled books had a bit too much importance. They talked easily and well, made perhaps a shade too confident by their acceptance into one of the most socially acceptable groups on the campus. And, in many ways, they were exceedingly silly, as the young of any species is likely to be.

Their silliness pointed up the vast gulf that my two years out of college had opened up. I could see that in their group mind I was becoming rated as one hell of a fellow, a quick guy with a buck, a citizen who could handle his liquor, keep his mouth shut.

I found that I had not lost the study habit. Necessary research during the two intervening years had kept me from losing the knack. The courses were amazingly stimulating. I had expected boredom, but found intellectual excitement.

On Friday came the second writing class. As per instructions, the entire class had done a short-short apiece and dropped it off on the previous Wednesday at the instructor�s office.

He gave us a long beady stare and we became silent. �I should like to read one effort handed in,� he said. He began to read. I flushed as I recognised my own master-work. I had banged one out with an attempt to give him the amateur stuff he expected.

He finished it and put it carefully aside. �I shall not tell you who wrote that. I read it because you should all find it interesting. I do not care to be laughed at. That story had complete professional competence. No doubt of that. And it is a devilishly clever parody of the other stories that were turned in. It is a tongue-in-cheek attempt to cover the entire scope of the errors that beginners make.

�Yet the perpetrator of this � this fraud, could not conceal his ability, his very deft turn of phrase and control of emotion. I am mystified as to why he or she should be taking my course. I suggest to this unnamed person that he or she give me credit, next time, for a bit more intelligence.�

I shot a wary look to either side. No one was watching me. I forced myself to relax. Another dumb stunt like that and I would destroy my purpose, if I hadn�t done so already.

At noon I elbowed my way through the mob and went down the steps behind Tilly Owen. I fell into step beside her and said, �My name is Rod Arlin, Miss Owen.� I gave her the very best smile. �I offer lunch, an afternoon on the beach, early dinner in Tampa, and a few wagers on the canines at Derby Lane.�

She quickened her pace. �Please, no.�

�I come well-recommended. Arthur Marris will vouch for me.�

�I have a date.�

I caught her arm above the elbow and turned her around. Anger flashed clear in her grey eyes.

�And a Mr Flynn in New York considers me to be a bright kid, if that means anything.�

The anger faded abruptly and her eyes narrowed. �If this is some sort of a��

�Come on. My car�s parked over in the lot behind Administration.� I gestured.

She sat demurely beside me in the car. I parked in front of her sorority house. She dropped off her books, changed to a pale green nylon dress beautifully fitted at the waist and across the lyre-shaped flare of her hips, and came back out to the car with swim suit and beach case in an astonishing twenty minutes. She even smiled at me as I held the door for her.

At lunch she said, �Now don�t you think you ought to tell me why...�

�Not yet. Let�s just get acquainted for now.�

She smiled again, and I wondered how I had managed to think of her as plain. I got her talking about herself. She was twenty-two, orphaned when she was eighteen. A trust fund administered by an uncle was paying for the education. During the summer she had gone north to work at a resort hotel. She adored steaks, detested sea food, kept a diary, lived on a budget, hated the movies, adored walking, wore size eight quad A shoes and thought the fraternity and sorority system to be feudal and foul.

She gave me a surprised look. �I don�t talk like this to strangers! Really, I�m usually very quiet. You have quite a knack, Rod. You�re a listener. I never would have thought so to look at you.�

�What do I look like?�

She cocked her head to the side and put one finger on the cleft in her chin. �Hmmm! Pretty self-satisfied. Someone who�d talk about himself rather than listen. And you�re older than I thought. I never noticed until just now those little wrinkles at the corners of your eyes. Quite cold eyes, really. Surprisingly cold.�

�Warm heart.�

�Silly, that goes with hands not eyes.�

We drove out to the beach. She was neither awed by nor indifferent to my layout. �You should be very comfortable here,� she said.

The sun bounced off the white sand with a hard glare. I spread the blanket, fiddled with the portable radio until I found an afternoon jazz concert. The gulf was glassy. It looked as if it had been quieted with a thick coat of blue oil. Porpoise played lazily against the horizon and two cruisers trolled down the shore line. Down by the public beach the water was dotted with heads.

The next to the last was a washout, the same as Toberly. The last was a kid named Harley Reyont. I found him at his room in the dormitory and I took him down the street to a beer joint. I knew he had seen me around the campus so I had to use a different approach with him.

I said, �I�m a transfer and I�ve been thinking of whether or not to hook up with the local chapter of my fraternity. But I don�t like some of the things I�ve seen around there. I thought the smart thing to do would be to find somebody they gave the dirty end of the stick to.�

I saw his hand shake as he reached for his stein. He was a pale, thin, pleasant-looking boy. �What makes you think I got the dirty end of any stick, Arlin?�

�I saw the rush list. They didn�t pledge you and neither did any other group.�

�They did me a favour, that bunch.�

�Just how do you mean that?�

His mouth curled bitterly. �I was just as wide-eyed and eager as any of the rest of them. Hell, I thought I�d die when I wasn�t tapped on pledge night. I thought something was wrong with me, that maybe I was a second-class citizen. I�ve smartened up since that night, believe me. My clothes weren�t right during rush week and my conversation wasn�t smooth enough to suit those snobs. They could see I wasn�t going to be an athlete. So I got passed over in the rush.�

�Was that good?�

�Take a good look at them, Arlin. A good look. Then come back and tell me what you think of their set of values. It�s a damn superficial life, fraternity life. If they�d take me in I�d be like the rest of them now. Cut out of the same pattern.�

�But you resented them at the time. Maybe you still do.�

He frowned down at his stein. �No, I don�t think I still resent them. I feel a little bit sorry for them.�

�Didn�t you want to get even?�

He looked up quickly. �I see what you mean. I suppose so. I sublimated it. I hated them and I had to show them. I turned in straight As for the freshman and sophomore years. I�ll do it again this year. But not because I still resent them � because in the process of acquiring the high grades, I learned that I�m actually pretty bright. I enjoy the work.� Again the bitter smile.

�You could say the brothers helped me find myself.� He sighed. �Hell, Arlin, I guess I still resent it. I�ll resent it all my life. Sour grapes, I suppose. Only I went for a walk along fraternity row during one of the big weekends. I could see them through the windows, dancing with their tall cool women, all wearing that same satisfied smirk. I wanted to bust the windows with rocks. I wanted to be inside there, one of them.

�I wanted to be Brother Reyont, the Big Man on the Campus. I walked back to the dorm and read Kant. He always puts me to sleep in short order. It took twenty pages that night. But I don�t blame Gamma U. Any other house would have done the same thing. I was a pretty dim little freshman, that I can assure you.�

�Thanks for being so frank with me.�

�You�re buying the beer, aren�t you?...�

When I drove in I saw that my lights were on, and I knew that Tilly had used the key I had given her. I parked quietly and stopped and looked through the window. She was in the big chair wearing that green dress I liked. Her legs were tucked up under her and she was reading a news magazine. The lamplight brought out the very fine line of her cheek and throat.

She looked good to me. Having her waiting there for me made me play too many mental games. It wasn�t healthy. On a crap table the wise man plays the field. Anybody who bets all night on the same number loses his shirt.

I went in and she came up eagerly out of the chair.

�Aha!� I said. �So you are here about the mortgage! Heh, heh, heh.�

�Please, sire! The night is cold. You will not throw me and my piteous child out into yon snow.�

�Mind your tongue, girl, or I shall feed you both to the wolves.�

We laughed together. Silly people. She stopped suddenly and said, �Oh, Joe, it seems so long since I could laugh like this.�

�Easy, easy,� I said warningly. �Go weepy on me and I�ll turn you over to the dean of women. They�ll hang you for � damn! I�m sorry, Till. Foot in the mouth disease.�

�That�s okay. How did you do?�

�Reyont is off the list. And he�s the last one, that is if you covered your boy. Did you?�

�That�s why I came, Joe. I saw him. He... he�s very odd. He frightens me a little. His name is Luther Keyes.�

�Do you think he�s capable of � what happened?�

�I don�t know. I just don�t know. You�d better talk to him tomorrow. He�s in my nine o�clock class, room fourteen in the Arts Building. I�ll arrange to walk out with him. We�ll come out the west door.

�Done. What did you tell him? What sort of a story did you give him?�

�I played the gossip. I asked him if he thought one of the Gamma U men had been killing his fraternity brothers. You know, dumb innocent questions. Baby stare. I won�t tell you how he reacted. You be the judge of that.� She looked at her watch. �Gosh, it�s late.�

�And a bright moon and a warm breeze. It just so happens that I picked up a suit the other day that ought to fit you.�

She stared hard at me. �No, nonsense, Joe?�

�Promise.�

I waited for her in the living room. She went out first. I turned off the lights. There was a trace of phosphorescence in the waves as they broke against the shore.

At that moment a car drove in. I heard it stop. Till gave me a quick look. I got up out of the chair. Bill Armand, the faintly vulpine junior, and Brad Carroll came around the side of the house, carrying suits and towels. One of Armand�s dark eyebrows went high in surprise as he saw Tilly.

�Why, hello, Tilly!� Brad Carroll said in his careful voice. �Hi, Rod. I didn�t know you two were acquainted. Rod, we decided this was the day to take you up on your standing invite.�

�Hello, Brad,� Tilly said. �And Bill. I met Rod in our writing class. The guy is persuasive.�

�We�ve noticed that,� Bill said. �Tilly, you�re looking wonderful.�

�Thank you,� she said gravely.

There was a moment of awkwardness. I said, �The bar is the kitchen shelf, mates. Select your venom and some for us. Till�s is rum and Coke, and I�m on bourbon and water if you feel industrious. You can change in the bedroom.�

They went inside. Tilly reached over and touched my arm. �Joe, darling. This is going to give them a very choice bit of gossip.�

�Do you really care?�

�Uh uh.�

�That�s my girl.�

They came back out bearing drinks. Bill clowned it, his towel over his arm like a waiter�s napkin. He bowed low as he handed Tilly her drink, murmuring, �Madame.� In trunks he was deeply tanned, whip-lean, with long smooth muscles. Brad was whiter, softer, thickening a bit in the waist, with a small roll of fat over the top of his yellow trunks.

Bill sat on the edge of the terrace turned towards us, with one eyebrow still high enough to give him a knowing look. Brad said, �We didn�t do this right. We should have come armed with charming blondes and a couple of jugs to salve our conscience. We thought you hadn�t had time yet to live dangerously, Rod.�

�I keep telling you that we�re underestimating the guy,� Bill said.

�Where�s Al Siminik, Brad?� I asked. It seemed odd to see Brad without his shadow.

�By the time we see him again, we�ll have forgotten what he looks like. He�s earning his keep, throwing his muscles around,� Bill answered.

I eyed Bill. �What�s your sport, Armand?�

He laughed. �Molly.�

Tilly bristled. �That isn�t a nice thing to say, Bill!�

�Protecting your sisters?� he jeered.

I was amazed at how cold Tilly�s grey eyes could get. �The only thing I have against Molly is that she�s stupid enough to find you attractive, Bill Armand.�

He held up his hands in mock defence and ducked his head. �Hey! Take it easy.�

Talk became more casual. After a while Bill drove to the main road and phoned Molly. He came back and said that Brad�s girl, Laura, was coming out and bringing Molly with her. Shortly after that, Bill and Tilly went in for a swim. Brad moved over into the chair where Tilly had been.

His smile was very engaging. �Rod, you strike me as being a pretty canny guy.�

�Oh, thank you, sir.�

�No gag, Rod. I mean it. You�re smart enough to see how things stand at the chapter. Arthur is one of the best friends I�ve got.� He was working the knife out of the sheath very slowly and I knew why he�d decided to come out. Carroll, the tireless politician.

�But...� I said.

He gave me a quick look. �Oh, you see it too?�

�Better tell me what you see, Brad.�

�I�ll be frank. I wouldn�t want this to go any further. I see a sweet guy who completely lacks the executive touch. He�s too heavy-handed. Now take Harv Lorr. There was a great president. We used to have a penny-ante poker game going on weekends in his room. Will Arthur go for that? Not for a minute. It says in the book no gambling in the house. The boys resent that rule-book attitude, Rod. But a lot of the fellows figure it this way. They say that Arthur was elected and he�ll graduate in June, so why not play along with him.�

�And what do you say?�

�I say that this is a whole year out of our lives. Why let Arthur make it a poor fraternity year? Every member has a vote. Right now, because of some people�s sense of duty, Arthur swings the majority. But if the rest of us who don�t quite agree with some of his measures could consolidate our vote, we could do just about anything we pleased.�

�In other words, let Arthur have the title and let you have the real push.�

�I didn�t say that!� he said in a hurt tone.

�Doesn�t it amount to the same thing?� I asked disarmingly.

He pretended to think it over. �Well, it would be one way to put it, Rod.�

�Let�s get it out in the open. You want me to vote with you.�

�Only if you sincerely believe that it�s the thing to do.�

�Let�s take the gloves off, Brad,� I said. �I�m a transfer. I�m a senior. I�m not living in the house. As I see it, there�s no reason for me to get messed up in local chapter politics. With either you or Arthur running things, the food is going to be good, the lounge is going to be comfortable, the dances are going to be fun. I don�t care about anything else.�

�That,� he said firmly, �is what I consider an irresponsible and selfish attitude.�

�Consider it anything you want to.�

�Then I may take it that you�ll vote with Arthur?�

I saw I had hurt his feelings. Or at least he had decided that should be his attitude. �You may take it this way. I�m not for you or again you. When I attend chapter meetings I�ll refrain from voting. Then you won�t have to worry about a counterbalancing vote.�

His smile was full of satisfaction. �I�m glad to hear you say that. Frankly, a lot of the younger boys would be willing to follow your lead in preference to mine, even. You�ve made quite an impression, Arlin. Quite an impression.�

�Do you want some advice?�

�What do you mean?�

�Take it or leave it. You�re creating tempests in teapots, Carroll. You�re misdirecting a very strong itch for power. Find some new direction for it.�

He dropped all expression. �Am I to judge from that that you consider the fraternity to be unimportant?�

�Take it any way you please.�

�You damn veterans are all alike. Everything is a big joke. Arthur is the only one I ever saw who takes things seriously. Just because you fought a war, you�ve got this superior attitude. Frankly, Arlin, it makes me sick to my stomach.�

�Vote for Carroll!� I said. �Vote for a square deal!�

�Go to hell!�

�Now you�re being stupid. Offend me too much and I�ll get interested enough to bust a few spokes out of your big wheel.�

He chewed that around in his mind for a while. I was rewarded with his most charming smile, an outstretched hand. �Sorry, Rod. I get too worked up.�

�Forget it,� I said, yawning.

He stood up. �I�m glad to see Tilly dating, Rod. Poor girl. She needs a few good times.�

�I�ll tell her you said so.�

He flushed. �You�re damn difficult to talk to sometimes.�

At that point a car stopped behind the house. We heard a girl�s voice over the sound of the surf. They came around the side of the house. Bill and Tilly came out of the water to meet them. Molly had a trim little figure, chestnut hair, a set of large trusting eyes and a vulnerable mouth. Her eyes glowed as she watched Bill Armand walk towards her. Laura was as dark as Tilly, but taller, a shade leaner, with a face so patrician that it looked inbred. Her speech was a finishing-school drawl.

Molly was a giggler. Bill treated Molly with affectionate amusement. Brad treated Laura as a girl who had earned the right to share in his reflected glow as a large wheel around the university. Both girls tried without success to conceal an intense curiosity about Tilly and me and our current status.

Tilly turned feline on me, and in the process she was as cute as a bug. I saw her wondering how to handle the problem. Finally she gave me a meaningless stare and said, �Rod and I are so glad you could come out here. What are you drinking? Rod, fix them up, like a dear, will you?�

Laura gave Molly a meaningful look.

It was a complete essay, that look.

We swam, we loafed in the sun � three couples on a late Saturday afternoon. To any onlooker we were young and carefree and casual. Uncomplicated, I lay with Till sprinkling sand on the back of my arm and thought about us.

One vulnerable little girl heading for heartbreak, one icy maiden as ambitious as her grasping boyfriend, one young cynic complicated by a streak of ruthlessness, one lovely girl who had been persuaded the night before that this was not the time to die � and one pretender, a young man who had thought it possible to come to this place and solve a pretty problem without becoming emotionally involved, and who was slowly finding it impossible.

I cut the History class. Tilly cut her class at the same hour and we drove down Route 19 through Clearwater to Largo and then turned left to Indian Rocks Beach. I found a place where we could park in the shade and watch the placid gulf. On the way I told her of the talk with Cord.

She took my hand, looked into my eyes and said, �For the first time it�s real to you, isn�t it, Joe?�

�That�s one way to put it.�

�It�s been real to me all along. You know how when people go with each other, they talk about everything under the sun. Once Ted and Step were arguing about suicide. It was after Sherman had died. Step couldn�t see that it was wrong � but Ted told us that the only time he could see the remotest justification was when a person was painfully and incurably ill � that the world is too wide and wonderful a place to leave before the time you have is up. He wasn�t just talking, Joe.�

�I think I would have liked him, Till.�

�You would have. I know it. When they told me he�d hung himself, I found out later that I�d screamed that he didn�t do it, that someone had done it to him. I�m still just as certain of that as I was during the first moments. He was incapable of it. They were holding the last meeting of the year, the election of officers for the next year it was. They waited and waited and then they went looking for him.

�Brad cried like a baby. They cut him down and then he was shipped north for the funeral. I couldn�t go to that. I couldn�t even go to the memorial service for him in the chapel at school. I was too sick. They had me in the infirmary. When I got out I went north and took that job.�

�Up until now,� I said, �I�ve been playing an intellectual game. Mental musical chairs. Now it isn�t a game any more.�

�For me it never has been.� She bit her lip. �Joe, you�d better not let anything happen to you. You�d just better not.�

I kissed her then, there in the cool shade with the warm wind touching our faces, and she came alive in my arms in a way I�ve never before experienced. Holding her was holding flame and purpose and a clean, wanting strength. It shook me, and shook her too. We sat apart from each other.

We said very little on the drive back. I left her off at the sorority house. I went to a bar and had a few. I arrived at Gamma U in time for dinner. I talked and I listened politely and the table conversation went over the surface of my mind while below the surface a tallish, faintly awkward girl walked, and her eyes were more than promise...

I woke with a start at dawn. The bedroom had an outside door. I had left it open and latched the screen. A tall figure was silhouetted there.

�Rod,� he said. �Rod, let me in.�

I went to the door. �Oh, Arthur! Man, it�s a little after six. I didn�t know you boys were going to drop in at this time of day.�

I unlatched the door. He brushed by me, walked to the bed and sat down, staring at his big hands. His faintly Lincolnesque appearance was more pronounced. The eyes had sunk deeper into his head. His cheeks were more hollow. I suddenly knew that this was no time for patter and laughter.

�I can�t depend on anybody else,� he said. �You�ve got to help me.�

I sat beside him and reached over and took my cigarettes from the bedside table. I lit both cigarettes with my lighter. �What is it?�

�The most awful mess yet, Rod. The worst. Everybody�s running around like headless chickens. I came out here to talk to somebody with sense. This time it has rattled me.�

�Get to it, Arthur. What happened?�

�The police phoned the house at three this morning. It happened at the Onyx Court.� I barely concealed my start of surprise. That was the court and trailer outfit owned by the Toberlys.

�They said that they had a body tentatively identified as Bradford Carroll. I dressed and went over along with Bill Armand. The place was swarming with police. Brad�s throat had been cut. I told them that it was Brad all right. I still feel sick. There was blood all over...�

�Take it easy, Arthur.�

�They were still questioning Bob Toberly. He�s a student too. We rushed him a couple of years ago and passed him over. He runs the place along with his wife. It�s a sort of crummy place. Toberly said that Brad and his wife, a tall dark girl that he recognised as a student, had registered in at about ten for the night. He said they�d done it many times before. He said that they were secretly married.

�Well, Bill, standing beside me, said �Laura!� They turned on Bill and made him admit that he thought it sounded like Laura Trainor. They got the name of the sorority house and two cops went to pick her up. They�re holding her now. I�ve done all I could. I wired Brad�s parents, and the sorority sisters phoned Laura�s father. I heard he�s on his way down. Rod, it would be bad enough without all that trouble last year, but this is absolutely the worst. I don�t know what�s going to happen.�

I left him sitting there and made him a stiff drink. Laura was one of Tilly�s sorority sisters, along with Molly. So Tilly would know already. I made a second stiff one for myself. He took his glass numbly and drank it as though it were water.

�The razor was right there,� he said. �I saw it. A straight razor. He used them. I guess it was an affectation. I guess he had a kit with him so he could get cleaned up and go directly from the Onyx Court to class.�

�Do you think Laura did it?�

He shuddered. �How do I know what to think? I don�t think she�s capable of a thing like that. But they could have quarrelled.�

�What will happen?�

�It was too late for the morning papers but the afternoon papers will give it a big play. They�ll bring up all that stuff from last year. There were reporters there. Toberly�s wife put on her best dress. To her it was like a party. They�re giving Toberly a bad time. Brad voted against Toberly, of course, two years ago. Most of us did. They�ll twist and turn until they made a motive out of it.�

�How can I help?�

He gave me a tired smile. �You�ve helped by listening. I have to go back now. I have to get everybody together and tell them to keep their damn mouths shut. Then I have to pack Brad�s things. A policeman is going to help me. He�ll be looking for evidence. He�s in the house now, sitting on a chair outside Brad�s room. He was there when I left anyway.�

�What about Brad�s people?�

�They�ll be down, I suppose. I ought to make a reservation for them at the hotel. Look, would you do that for me?�

�Sure thing.�

He stood up and put the glass on the bedside table. �Thanks, Rod. That drink helped a lot.�

�Let me dress. I�ll go in with you.�

�No, I�ll go along. I�ll be at the house. See you there.�

She went in ahead of me and put the lights on, as I put the top of the car up against the dew. The gulf was rough, the waves thundering hard against the beach. We dragged chairs out onto the terrace. I held her tightly against me for a moment. �Hey,� she said, �I want to keep on thinking clearly for a while. Leggo!�

�Chilly woman.�

�Hush!� She sat down and after three tries we got our cigarettes going. �This,� she said, �is probably silly. You�ll have to let me know. Remember when we talked about what the dead boys had in common except the fraternity?�

�I remember.�

�Brad�s death makes the pattern more clear, Joe. Can you guess what they had in common?�

I thought for a time. �No, give.�

�Rex Winniger, Tod Sherman, Ted and Brad were all very positive people. Strong personalities. They had influence in the fraternity. Every house has a certain quota of nonentities. But there was nothing wishy-washy about any one of that four. They had power in the house and on the campus. Is that going to help?�

I felt the excitement. �That is going to help. You are a lovely and intelligent gal. I was so close to it I didn�t even see it. Wait a minute now. Let me think. It doesn�t make motive any stronger from a sane person�s point of view, but it does make it clearer. Jealousy. Lust for power. If the pattern is anything other than accidental, it means we have to look among the membership for our boy. And we said a long time ago that insiders would have the edge by far on opportunity.�

I guess we got it both at the same time. She reached over and held my hand. Her hand was like ice. �It couldn�t be, Joe. It just couldn�t be.�

�Come on inside. I want to read you something.�

We went in and shut the terrace doors against the wind. I found my lecture notes from the abnormal psychology class. They were fragmentary, but I could piece them together.

�Listen, Tilly. One of the types of insanity least vulnerable to any known treatment is the true psychopath. It�s as though the person were born with some essential part missing. Conscience. The psychopath has no understanding of right and wrong. To him, the only thing is not to get caught. Has reasonable-sounding motives for all his actions.

�This type of person, if displeased with service, will set fire to a hotel and think nothing of the consequences as long as he is not apprehended. Entirely blind to the other person�s point of view. Many murderers caught and convicted and sentenced are true psychopaths. Motive for crime often absurdly minor. True psychopath shows high incidence of endowment of brains and charm of manner. Is often outstanding. Often basically arrogant.

�Delights in outwitting others. Capable of carrying on long-range planning. Constantly acts in the presence of others. Often a liar as well, with amazingly intricate and well-conceived fabric of untruth. Society has no good answer as yet to the true psychopath.�

I put the notebook away. She frowned at me. �But Joe! He�s such a sweet guy! Gentle, understanding. He was so nice to me after Ted... died.�

�High endowment of charm of manner. Constantly acts in the presence of others. Delights in outwitting others.�

�But with all he�s got on the ball, he�d be almost as big without... going to such crazy heights.�

�Motive for crime often absurdly minor.�

�But to kill... just for the sake of fraternity house politics. Joe, it�s crazy!�

�A true psychopath is an insane person. He hides among us normal jokers because he looks and acts and talks just like one of us... up to a point.�

�Will the police listen to you?� she finally asked.

�They�d laugh in my face. What proof have I got? We�ve got to show that each murder helped him, even though it helped him in a minor way.�

She crossed the room. �Hold me tight, darling. I�m scared. I don�t want to think about him. I wish it were Bill, or Step, or little Jay Bruce, or even Al Siminik. Anybody except Arthur Marris.�

�We�ve got to get hold of Harv Lorr, the fellow who was president last year. He can help us straighten out the timing on those other deaths. He�s probably in North Dakota or some equally handy place.�

�He�s a Tampa boy. He�s working in the family cigar business. With luck, Joe, we can be talking to him in an hour or so.�

Tilly had stayed up until three, she said, finishing a story for our mutual Friday class. She wanted me to read it. She had brought her carbon with her, in her purse.

�Right here?�

�No. The atmosphere has to be better than this, Joe. Wine, soft music.�

�At my place I can provide the wine and the soft music. Would you okay the background?�

�Look, I�m blushing about the story. I thought it was something I�d never try to put on paper. Maybe I don�t want you to read it.�

It was Friday afternoon. We went out to my place. I put on dark glasses and took the carbon out on the beach.

Tilly said, �One thing I�m not going to do is sit and watch you read it, Joe.� She walked down the beach away from me. I watched her walk away from me. No other girl had such a perfect line of back, concavity of slim waist, with the straightest of lines dropping from the armpits down to the in-curve of waist, then flaring, descending in a slanted curve to the pinched-in place of the knee, then sleekly curving again down the calf to the delicacy of ankle bone and the princess-narrow foot.

She turned and looked back and read my mind. �Hey, read the story,� she said.

I read it. She�d showed me other work and I�d been ruthless about too many adjectives, about stiltedness. This one was simple. A boy and a girl. The awkward poetry of a first love. The boy dies. Something in the girl dies. Forever, she thinks. She wants it to be forever. She never wants to feel again. But as she comes slowly back to life, she fights against it. In vain.

And one day she has flowered again into another love and she cannot fight any more � and then she knows that the bruised heart is the one that can feel the most pain and also the most joy. There was a sting at the corners of my eyes as I finished it.

�Come here,� I called. My voice was hoarse.

She came running. I held her by her sun-warm shoulders and kissed her. We both wept and it was a silly and precious thing.

�I do the writing in this family,� I said. �I thought I did. Now I don�t know. Now I don�t think so.�

�In this family? That is a phrase I leap upon, darling. That is a bone I take in my teeth and run with.�

�Trapped,� I said.

�I release you. I open the trap.�

�Hell, no! I insist on being trapped. I want to be trapped. I am a guy who believed in a multiplicity of women. I still do. You�re all of them. You�ll keep well. You�ll last. How will you look at sixty?�

�At you.�

�I�ll be six years older. I�ll sit in the corner and crack my knuckles.�

�With me on your lap it�ll be tough.�

�We�ll manage.�

�Is it good enough to hand in, my story?�

�Too good. We won�t hand it in. We�ll whip up something else for the class. This one we keep. Maybe someday we�ll sell it.� Something stirred at the back of my mind. She saw then the change in my expression.

�What is it, Joe? What are you thinking about?�

�Let me get organised.� I got up and paced around. She watched me. I came back and sat beside her. �Look. I can�t power Arthur into trying anything. It won�t work. I can�t become dangerous. But there�s another way.�

�How?�

I tapped her story with one finger. �This way.�

�How do you mean?�

�I write it up. Other names, other places, but the same method of death in each case. I�ll twist it a little. I�ll make it a small business concern. The similarity will be like a slap in the face.�

�You�ll have to write an ending to it. How does it end, Joe?�

�I won�t end it. I�ll take it right up to a certain spot.�

�Then what are you going to do with it?�

�Easy, my love. I�m going to leave it in Arthur�s room and wait and see what happens. I am going to have it look like an accident. I am going to do it in such a way that he�s going to have to give some thought to eliminating one Joe Arlin.�

�No, Joe. Please no!�

�I�ve got to finish it off. One way or another.�

She looked at me for a long time. �I suppose you do,� she said quietly.

�Be a good girl. Play in the sand. Build castles. I want to bang this out while it�s hot.�

The sun sank golden towards the gulf and then turned a bank of clouds to a bloody fire that was five thousand miles long. Dusk was an odd stormy yellow, and then a pink-blue and then a deep dusty blue. A cool wind came from the northwest, and we shivered and went in and changed. We were as subdued as children who have been promised punishment.

It was possible that he might listen. As night gathered its dark strength and the sea turned alien, we sat in the brightness in the corner and read silently together from the same book, but even that was not powerful enough to keep us from starting with each small night noise. The wind grew steadily. The Magnum was a hard lump by my leg. She had claimed possession of the .32, stuffing it under the bright woven belt she wore, but it did not look particularly humorous.

When the knock came, firm and steady, we looked at each other for a moment frozen forever in memory. Her face was sun-bronzed, but the healthy colour ran out of it so that around her mouth there was a tiny greenish tint. I squeezed her hand hard and pointed to the closet. I waited until the door was closed so that a thin dark line showed.

�Come on in!� I called. I let my hand rest casually beside me so that in one quick movement I could slap my hand onto the grip inches away.

Arthur Marris came in. The wind caught the door and almost tore it out of his hand. He shut it. The wind had rumpled his hair so that strands fell across his forehead. It gave him a more secretive look.

He smiled. �The night�s getting wild.�

I made myself put the book aside very casually. �Sit down, Arthur. I wrenched my ankle in the surf. If you want a drink, you�ll have to go out into the kitchen and make it yourself. I want to stay off the foot.�

I admired his tailor-made concern. �Oh! Too bad. Can I fix you one too?�

�Sure thing. Bourbon and water. Plain water.�

I sat tensely while he worked in the kitchen. He brought me a drink and I was relieved to see that he had a drink in each hand. I took my drink with my left hand and as I did so I braced myself and moved my fingers closer to the weapon. He turned away and went back to the chair nine feet away. He sat down as though he were very weary.

I lifted the drink to my lips and pretended to sip at it. I set it on the floor by my feet, but I did not take my eyes off him as I set it down. It made me think that this must be the way a trainer acts when he enters the cage for the first time with a new animal. Every motion planned, every muscle ready to respond, so much adrenalin in the blood that the pulse thuds and it is hard to keep breathing slow and steady.

�I�m troubled, Rod,� he said.

�Yes?� Casual and polite.

�This is something I don�t know how to handle.�

�Then it must be pretty important.�

He took the folder copy out of his pocket. �Did you leave this in my room by accident?�

�So that�s what happened to it. No, don�t bother bringing it over. Toss it on the desk. I can see from here that it�s mine.�

�I read it, Rod.�

�Like it?�

�What do you intend to do with it?�

In the game of chess there is move and countermove, gambit and response. The most successful attacks are those, as in war, where power is brought to bear on one point to mask a more devastating attack in another quarter. But before actual attack, the opponents must study each other�s responses to feints and counter-feints.

�It�s an assignment for my Friday class. Due next week.�

�I suppose you realise, Rod, that you�ve patterned your story, so far as it�s gone, on the series of misfortunes we�ve had in the house. You�ve twisted it a bit, but not enough. The method of death and the chronology are the same.�

�I still can�t see how you�re troubled.�

He frowned. �Is that hard? I had two other people in the house read it this afternoon to see if their slant was the same as mine. You can�t hand that in the way it is. Your instructor would really have to be a fool not to tie it up with what has happened, particularly because Brad Carroll�s death is still fresh in everyone�s mind.�

�What if he does?�

�You�ve made an amazingly strong case, Arlin, whether you know it or not. Until I read, your... story, I thought it was absurd to think of what has happened as anything except a series of tragic accidents and coincidences. No one can read your story, Rod, without getting, as I have, a strong suspicion that there is some human agency behind this whole affair. Absurd as the motives may seem, I have been wondering if...� He frowned down at the floor.

�What have you been wondering?�

�I took a long walk this afternoon. I tried to think clearly and without any prejudice. I want to ask you to hold up sending in that assignment for a time. Is the original copy here?�

�In that desk.�

�Are there any other carbons?�

�No. You�ve seen the only one.�

�I�d like to have you come back to the house with me, Rod. Right now. We might be able to clear this up.�

I smiled and shook my head. �Not with this ankle.�

He stood up and came two steps towards me. �I�ll help you, Rod. You see I want you to come back there with me, because even though your reasoning might be right in that story, the conclusion is...�

Marris stopped short and stared at the levelled weapon. He licked his lips. �What�s that for?�

�What do you think it�s for? How do you like the end of the road.�

He smiled crookedly. �Look, Arlin. You can�t possibly believe that I...�

The room was gone as abruptly as though the house had exploded. Too late, I remembered the fuse box on the outside of the house, in typical Florida fashion. We were alone in the sighing darkness, in a night that was utterly black. The outside door banged open and the sea mist blew in, curling through the room, tasting of salt.

I moved to one side, towards the closet, as fast and as quietly as I could go. I took three steps when somebody ran into me hard. A heavy shoulder caught my chest and I slammed back against the closet door, banging it shut. The impact tore the gun out of my hand and I heard it skitter across onto the bare floor beyond the rug. I touched an arm, slid my hand down to the wrist and punched hard where the head should be.

I hit the empty air and the wrist twisted out of my grip. Something hard hit me above the ear and I stumbled, dazed and off balance. I fell and had sense enough to keep rolling until I ran up against a piece of furniture. I had gotten twisted in the darkness. I felt of it and found it was the desk. Tilly screamed at that moment and the scream was far away because of the closed closet door.

Crawling on my hands and knees, I patted the floor ahead of me, looking for the gun. Somebody rolled into me and there was a thick coughing sound. I slid away. There was a thumping noise. The shots came, fast and brittle against the sound of the sea. There was an angry tug at my wrist and then a liquid warmth across my hand.

The terrace doors we had locked splintered open and the white glare of flashlights caught me full in the face as I sat back on my heels.

Two figures tramped towards me and around me. I turned and saw that they had gone towards a moving mass in the centre of the room. One of the figures who had come in towered over the other. I got to my feet and reached the closet door and opened the closet. At that moment the electricity came back on.

Tilly stared up at me and said, �I thought you were... I thought you were...� She leaned against the wall of the closet, closed her eyes and sank slowly towards the floor.

I turned and saw Lieutenant Cord pulling a man off Arthur Marris. Arthur lay on his back. His face was dark and the breath was whistling in his throat. His eyes were closed.

�Back up against that wall,� Cord said quietly to the other man who had risen to his feet.

All this started one spring when I couldn�t find any women. The weather was so beautiful it just made me crazier. I�d lie on my bed in my little apartment, feeling the moonbreezes and would ache, absolutely effing ache, to be with a woman I cared about. I was in one of those periods when I needed to fall ridiculously in love. It wasn�t just that sex would be better � everything would be better. Fifty times a day I�d spot women who seemed likely candidates � they�d be in supermarkets or video stores or walking along the river or getting into their cars. The first thing I did was inspect them quickly for wedding rings. A good number of them were unburdened. But still, meeting them was impossible. If you just walked up to them and introduced yourself, you�d probably look like a rapist. And if you told them how lonely you were, you might not look like a rapist but you�d sure seem pathetic. I tried all the usual places, the bars and the dance clubs and some of the splashier parties, but I didn�t see it in their eyes. They were looking for quick sex or companionship while they tended broken hearts, or simply a warm body at their dinner tables when too many lonely Saturday nights became intolerable. But they weren�t looking for the same thing I was, some kind of spiritual redemption. Not that I didn�t settle some nights for quick sex and companionship, but next morning, I felt just as lonely and disconsolate. I couldn�t settle very often. I wanted my ideal woman, this notion I�ve had in my mind since I was seven or eight years old, this ethereal Madonna I had longed for down the decades.

So of course the night I met Linda I wasn�t even looking for anybody. I just walked into this little coffee shop over by the public library and there she was, sitting alone at the counter drinking coffee.

I wasn�t sure she could rescue me, and I doubt she was sure I could rescue her, but at least the potential was there, so two nights later we started going to bed. Even though we were sort of awkward with each other, we kept trying till we got it right, and then we became pretty good lovers. The only thing that got me down was she was still pretty hung up on this football coach who�d dumped her recently. She kept telling me how it had only been for sex, and how he was an animal six, seven hours a night, which did not exactly fill me with self-confidence. I wasn�t jealous of the guy but I didn�t necessarily want to attend his testimonial dinner every night, either.

The only other thing that bothered me was her two teenaged daughters. They were usually around the house while Linda and I were making love. Linda always laughed when I got uptight. �Hey, what do you think they do in their bedrooms when they bring their boyfriends over here?�

Linda was one of those modern parents. I�m not. My two kids, daughter and son, were raised pretty much the way I was: what your parents don�t know won�t hurt them. One boozy New Year�s Eve I actually heard this teenage girl talking to her mother about how her tenth-grade boyfriend wasn�t any good at oral sex. Linda wasn�t that far gone but she was a lot more liberal with her daughters than I would�ve been. Even when my wife and I split up, we agreed that our kids would be raised properly, at least as we defined �properly�.

I kept wanting Linda to go to my place to make love, but one night she laughed and said, �But your place is such a pit, Dwyer. I�m afraid I�d have cockroaches walking up my thigh.�

Linda was three years divorced from a very prosperous insurance executive. She�d gotten the big house and the big car and the big monthly cheque. She only had to work part-time at a travel agency to make her monthly nut.

So we made love at her place, and even though we both figured out pretty quickly that we weren�t going to rescue each other, the thing we had was better than nothing. So we kept it up, even though I had the sense that she was vaguely ashamed of herself for liking me. Her previous boyfriends had run to MDs and shrinks and business executives. Security guard was a long way down the ladder.

Then one night I went over and she was late getting home from work. And that was the night it happened, with her sixteen-year-old daughter Susan, I mean.

So it was back to the streets for me the rest of the summer. I kept thinking about Molly and how beautiful she was and how otherwise sensible men, young and old alike, seemed to take leave of their senses when they were around her. While I wasn�t looking for virginal fifteen-year-olds, I was looking for the same kind of explosive love affair those men were, one that blinds you to all else, the narcotic that no amount of drugs could ever equal. In a few years, I�d be fifty. There weren�t many such love affairs left for me. I�d had three or four of them in my lifetime, and I wanted one more before the darkness. So I went back to the bars, I became infatuated ten times a day in grocery stores and discount houses and even gas stations when I�d see the backside of a fetching lady bent slightly to put gas in her tank. But mostly my reality was my solitary bed and moonshadow, white curtains whipping ghostly in the rain-smelling wind, my lips silent with a thousand vows of undying love. A drinking buddy tried to make me believe that this was simply an advanced case of horniness but I said if it was, it was spiritual horniness and when I said �spiritual� he gave me a queer look, as if I�d told him that I�d started sending a lot of money to TV preachers or something.

The summer ground on. One of the investigators at Allied Security had to have a heart by-pass so they shifted me from security (which I like) to working divorce cases (which I hated). While I�ve committed my share of adultery, I can�t say that it�s ever pleasant to think about. Betrayal is not exactly a tribute to the human spirit. The men seemed to take a strange kind of pride in what they were doing. They didn�t seem particularly concerned about being secretive, anyway. But the cheating women were all a little furtive and frantic and even sad, as if they were doing this against their will. Maybe they were paying back cheating husbands. Four weeks of this stuff before the investigator came back to Allied. My advertising daughter came to town just as August was starting to punish us. My son drove in from med-school in the east. Their mother had married again, third time a charm or so she said, a man with some means, apparently, whom they liked much better than husband number two, a bank vice-president with great country club aspirations. �You�ve got to find yourself a woman,� my daughter said right before she kissed me goodbye at the airport.

One night in late September, beautiful Indian Summer, I came home and found Linda sitting in my living room.

�Your landlady let me in,� she said. Then: �This is really a depressing place, Dwyer. You think we could go somewhere else?�

She didn�t like any of the bars I recommended. Too downscale, presumably. We ended up in a place where businessmen yelled and whooped it up a lot about the Hawkeyes. The way they shouted and strutted around, you�d think they owned copper mines down in Brazil, where they could make people work for twenty-five cents an hour.

�Did you hear what happened to Molly? It was in the news about three weeks ago.�

�I guess not.�

�Somebody cut her up.�

�Cut her up?�

�Slashed her cheeks. Do you remember a New York model that happened to a few years ago?�

�Yeah. She wasn�t ever able to work again.�

Linda�s eyes glistened with tears. �The plastic surgeon said there�s only so much he can do for Molly. She looks terrible.�

�What�re the police saying?�

She shook her head, sleek and sexy in a white linen suit, her dark hair recently cut short. �No leads.�

�Molly didn�t see her assailant?�

�It was dark. She�d parked her car in the garage and was just walking into the house � through the breezeway, you know � and he was waiting there. I guess this happened before � somebody in the breezeway I mean � but neither Molly nor Susan told me about it. Why should they tell me anything? I�m just their mother.�

�She�s sure it was a �he�?�

�That�s the assumption everybody�s making. That it was a guy, I mean.�

�She doesn�t have any sense of who it might have been?�

Linda sighed. �Maybe.�

�Maybe?�

She nodded. �I think she knows who it was but won�t say.�

�Why would she protect somebody?�

�I�m not sure.� Pause. �I�ve been having terrible thoughts lately.�

�Oh?�

�I�ve been thinking that Susan may have done this.�

�Your daughter?�

�Yes.� Pause. �She�s very, very jealous of Molly. Molly � well, a few of Susan�s boyfriends have fallen in love with Molly over the last year or so. About a month ago, Susan made up with this boy, Paul, the one who�d fallen in love with Molly. But then she came home one night and found Paul drunk in the living room putting the moves on Molly.�

�You really think it�s possible that Susan could do something like this?�

�She�s been upstaged by Molly all her life. Even as a baby, Molly sort of unhinged people. I mean, she�s the most beautiful girl I�ve ever seen. And I think I�m being objective about that.�

�Anybody else who might have done it?�

�The police are talking to one of Molly�s teachers, this Mr Meacham. That�s another thing my girls didn�t tell me until after this happened. It seems this Mr Meacham offered to leave his wife and daughter for Molly. He�s forty-three years old. My God.�

�Anybody else you can think of?�

After another drink was set down in front of her, she said, �I have to tell you something. It�s so ridiculous, it pisses me off to even repeat it.�

I just waited for her to say it.

�Last night, my dear sweet daughter Susan accused me of slashing Molly�s face.�

Calmly as I could, I said, �Why would she say something like that?�

�I�m kind of embarrassed telling you the rest.�

�Maybe it�ll make you feel better.�

�I trashed Molly�s room.�

�When?�

�Late August, I guess.�

�Why?�

�Brad.�

�The guy from the travel agency?�

�Uh-huh. He�d started phoning her � Molly, I mean � when I wasn�t there. Then one night he came right out and asked me. I mean, I suspected something was wrong. He hadn�t touched me in two weeks. Then this one night he said, �Would it really piss you off if I asked Molly out?� I didn�t want to let him know how pissed I was, so I just said that I didn�t think that was such a great idea. But I said it in this real calm voice. I told him that technically she wouldn�t reach the age of consent until October, and he said he�d wait. Then after he left � I sat in the den and got really drunk and then I went upstairs and started screaming at Molly. Then I started trashing her room.�

She started crying. �My own daughter, and I treated her that way.�

I changed the subject quickly. �You mentioned Susan�s ex-boyfriend.�

�Paul.�

�Tell me about him.�

�Right. He calls Molly four times a day. He says he doesn�t care about her face being cut up. He loves her. His parents have called me, they�re so worried about him. He went from As to Ds last semester. They want him to see a shrink. When Molly won�t come to the phone, he gets furious.�

�And you think Molly might know who did it?�

�I think so. Would you talk to her?�

�It�d probably be easier if you went through the agency. Ask them to assign me to you. I don�t really have much time for any freelance on the side.�

�Fine. I�ll call them tomorrow. I really appreciate this, Jack.� Then: �Oh, God.�

�What?�

�It�s almost ten. I�m supposed to meet somebody at ten-fifteen way across town.� She shrugged. �Met somebody new at the agency. He�s a little older than Brad.�

�Sixteen?�

She smiled. �Wise ass.� Then: �I really am sorry. You know, about Brad and everything.�

�I survived.�

�I�d always be willing to see you again.�

�I never take handouts except at Christmas time.�

What the hell, it never hurts to sound dignified once in a while.

The next day, I told her about the breezeway incident. She led me up to the den on the second floor. �She sits in the dark. The blinds are drawn and everything, I mean. You�ll get used to the shadows. She doesn�t want anybody to see her. But I convinced her you only wanted to help her.� Then she went away.

I knocked and a small voice said to come in and I went in and there she sat in a leather recliner by a TV set that was playing a soap opera. Just as I started to sit down in the chair facing her, a commercial came on, the bright colours flashing across the screen illuminating her face.

He�d done a damned good job. If it was a he. Long deep vertical gashes on both checks. The stitches were still on, and that just made her look worse. But even with the stitches gone, her beauty would be forever and profoundly marred.

�Remember me?�

She looked at me with solemn eyes and nodded.

�You think we could turn the TV down a bit?�

She picked up the remote and brought the volume down to a low number.

�Your mom wants me to make sure that you told the police everything, Molly. You understand that?�

Again she nodded. I had the unnerving sense that she�d also been struck mute.

�She told me what Susan said. About hearing somebody run away right after it happened. Is that true?�

Again, she nodded.

�I checked out your breezeway last night, Molly. That�s where it happened, right?�

She said: �I wish I didn�t have to go through this, Jack.�

�I wish you didn�t have to either, sweetheart.�

�I mean your questions.�

�Oh.�

�My mom talked to the principal this morning. I�m going to finish my classes at home this year. So I don�t have to see � anybody. You know, at school.�

�You�re going to sit in this room, huh?�

�Pretty much.�

�With the blinds drawn.�

�I like it when it�s dark. When nobody can see me this way.�

�Can I tell you about the breeze way, Molly?�

�The breezeway?�

�Uh-huh. I came out here last night and checked it out when everybody was asleep. You�ve got an alarm system that kicks on the yard lights whenever anybody approaches the house.�

�I guess so.�

�That means that when the person who did this to you ran off, you had a very good chance to see his face.�

�Oh.�

I waited for her to say more, and when she didn�t, I watched her for a moment � she wore an aqua blouse and jeans and white socks � and then I said, �I think you know who did this to you. And I think that you�re trying to protect him.�

�You keep saying �him,� Jack. Maybe it was a woman.�

�Is that what you�re telling me? That it was a woman?�

�No, but��

�It�ll come out eventually, Molly. One way or the other, the police are going to figure out who did this to you.�

�I just want it to be over with. I�ve accepted it and I just want it to be over with.�

�It was either Paul or Mr Meacham, wasn�t it?�

�I don�t want to talk any more, Jack.�

�Your mother loves you, Molly.�

�I know.�

�And she�s very worried about you.�

�I know that, too.�

�She doesn�t like the idea that whoever did this is still out there running around free.�

�It�s over with, Jack. It happened. And I don�t have any choice but to accept it. People accept things all the time. There was a girl in my class two years ago who lost her legs in a tractor accident. She was staying on her uncle�s farm. She�ll never be able to walk again. People accept things all the time.�

�He should have to pay for doing this, Molly. I don�t know what�s going through your head, but nothing justifies somebody doing this to you. Nothing.�

I stood up.

�Susan is worried about you, too.�

She nodded. �I�d like to watch this show now, if you don�t mind.� But smiled for the first time. Her scars were hideous in the flickering lights of the TV picture tube. �I appreciate you caring about me, Jack. You�re a nice guy. You really are.�

Paul lived in a large Colonial house on a wide suburban street filled with little kids doing stunts on skateboards.

As soon as his mother learned who I was, her polite smile vanished. �You don�t have any right to ask him any questions.�

I was still outside the front door. �The family has asked me to talk to him.�

�He didn�t do it,� she said. �I�ll admit that he�s been pretty � involved with Molly lately. But he�d never hurt her. Ever. And that�s just what we told the police.�

She was a tall, slender woman in black slacks and a red button-down shirt. There was a kind of casual elegance to her movements, as if she might have long ago studied dance.

Behind her, a voice said: �It�s all right, Mom. I�ll talk to him.�

Paul was taller than his mother but slender in the same graceful way. There was a snub-nosed boyishness to the face that the dark eyes belied. There was age and anger in the eyes, as if he�d lived through a bitter experience lately and was not the better for it.

�You sure?� she said to Paul.

�Finish fixing dinner, Mom. I�ll talk to him.�

He wore a Notre Dame football Jersey and ragged Levi cut-offs. His feet were bare. There was an arrogance about him, a certain dismissiveness in the gaze.

His mother gave me a last enigmatic look and then vanished from the doorway.

�I don�t have much time,� he said.

�I just have two questions.�

�The police had a lot more than two.�

�Can you account for your time the night Molly was cut up?�

�If I have to.�

�Meaning what?�

�Meaning I mostly drove around to the usual places.�

�And �the usual places� would be where exactly?�

�The mall and the parking lot next to the Hardee�s out on First Avenue and then out to the mall again.�

�And you can prove that?�

�Sure,� he said. But for the first time his lie became obvious. His gaze evaded mine.

I said: �I saw her.�

He didn�t ask me who �her� was.

�When?�

�A few hours ago.�

�Was she��

�I didn�t get a real good look at her. The room was pretty dark.�

He surprised me, then, as human beings constantly do. His eyes got wet with tears. �The poor kid.�

�She�s a nice girl.�

�She�s a lot more than nice.�

�Susan�s nice, too.�

�Yeah, she is. And I treated her like shit and I�m sorry about it.� He cleared tears from his voice. �I couldn�t help � what I feel for Molly. It just kind of happened.�

�Molly�s mother thinks you�re obsessed with her. In the clinical sense, I mean.�

�I love her. If that�s being obsessed.� He sounded a lot older and a lot wearier than he had just a few minutes ago.

�Her mother also thinks you were the one who cut her.�

He smiled bitterly. �That�s funny. I�ve been thinking it was her mother who did it.�

�Are you serious?�

He nodded. �Hell, yes, I�m serious. Her mother�s got a real problem with Molly. She�s very jealous of her. Molly told me how bitter she was when this Brad started coming after her. She pushed Molly down the stairs, bruised her up pretty bad.�

�She show you the bruises?�

�Yeah.�

�She wasn�t exaggerating?�

�Not at all.�

Somewhere inside, a telephone rang, was picked up on the second ring. His mother called: �Telephone, Paul.�

�Maybe I�d better get that.�

�You can prove where you were when Molly was being cut?�

He surprised me again. �No, I can�t, Mr Dwyer. I can�t. I was alone.�

�How about the mall?�

He shrugged. �I just made it up.�

�Then you were doing what?�

�Just driving around.�

Mother: �Honey, somebody�s waiting on the phone.�

�Just driving around?�

�Thinking about her. Molly. I really have to go, Mr Dwyer.�

�Honey!� his mother called again.

This was the kind of neighbourhood where college professors always lived in the movies of my youth, a couple blocks of brick Tudors set high up on well-landscaped hills. The cars in the driveways ran to Volvos and Saabs, and the music, when you heard it through the occasional open window, ran to Brahms and Mahler. At night, the professors would sit in front of the fireplace, a blanket across their legs, reading Eliot or Frost. Even if life here wasn�t really like this, it was nice to think that even a small part of our world could still be so enviably civilized.

A knock and the door opened almost at once. A heavy woman in a green sweater and a pair of too-snug jeans stood there watching me with obvious displeasure. She wore too much make-up on her fleshy, bitter face. Women who lived in these houses were supposed to look dignified, not like aging dance club babes. �Yes?� she said. Her mouth was small and bitter. She�d sucked on a lot of lemons, at least figurative ones, in her time.

�I�d like to see Bob Meacham.�

She did something odd, then. She smiled with a kind of nasty pleasure. �Oh, God, you�re another cop, aren�t you?�

�Sort of.�

I showed her my licence.

�Well, come in, Mr Dwyer. Would you like some coffee?�

�No, thanks.�

I couldn�t figure out why she was so happy to see me suddenly. Why would the presence of a private detective bring her such pleasure?

She flung an arm to a leather wingback chair that sat, comfortably, near a fireplace. An identical chair sat just across the way.

�I�ll be right back.�

She didn�t go far. The floor creaked a few times and then she said, �So it�s all over, is it, you bastard? Well, guess who�s here to see you? Another cop. Your little girlfriend must think you were the one who cut her up.�

When he appeared, moments later, he kept looking over his shoulder at his wife, as if he was waiting for her to put a knife in his back.

He came over and said, �I�m Bob Meacham.�

�Jack Dwyer. Nice to meet you.�

We shook hands.

�What can I do for you, Mr Dwyer?�

�I wanted to ask you some questions about Molly.�

�Oh. I see.�

His wife, who stood to the side of him, smirked at me. �When we first got married, Mr Dwyer, I used to worry that my husband was secretly gay. I guess I should be happy he just has this nice heterosexual thing for underage girls.�

Meacham obliged her by blushing.

Seeing that she�d scored a direct hit, she said, �I�ll go back to my woman�s work now, and leave you two to discussing the wages of sin.�

�I know what you must think of her,� Meacham said softly after his wife left. �But it�s my fault. I mean, I�ve made her like this. I�ve... I�ve had a lot of affairs over the years. We should�ve gotten divorced a long time ago but � somehow it�s just never happened.�

He didn�t fit the professorial mould, either. He was a little too beefy and a little too rough in the face. He�d probably played football at some point in his life. Or boxed. His nose and jaw had the look of heavy contact with violence. He wore a chambray shirt and jeans. His balding head didn�t make him look any more professorial, either. It just added to the impression of middle-aged toughness. He didn�t belong in a Tudor house with a Volvo in the drive and T.S. Eliot lying open on his knee.

�You said you�ve had some affairs.�

�Yes.�

�Were they with young girls?�

�Youngish.�

�Meaning?�

�Always of consenting age, if that�s what you�re getting at.�

�Molly isn�t of age.�

�Molly�s the first. A fluke. Being that young, I mean.�

�You realise that hustling her has opened you up to several legal charges if the cops want to press them.�

�You may not believe this, Mr Dwyer, but I wasn�t hustling her. We haven�t slept together. I don�t plan to sleep with her till we�re married. I know people laugh at me; I mean, I know I�m not much better than a dirty joke these days, but I don�t give a damn about anything or anybody other than Molly.�

He looked at me.

�You�re smiling, Mr Dwyer.�

�Are you seeing a shrink?�

�No.�

�You should be.�