It was a hot, still, August day. Out in the suburbs it was probably sunny, but you couldn�t tell in town. St. Cecilia doesn�t have an anti-smoke ordinance, and the factories burn soft coal. When there is no breeze, the pall of smoke hanging over the city shuts out any sunlight there might be.

Carl Lincoln and I were playing gin in the squadroom. We�re both members of the Vice, Gambling and Narcotics Division, and at the moment we were working the prostitution detail out of the Vice Squad. We were supposed to be out trying to get picked up by streetwalkers, but had decided it was too hot and gritty a day for the girls to be working. This was only an excuse, of course. What we really meant was it was too hot and gritty a day for us to be working. It was so uncomfortable, we weren�t even up to the effort of keeping score. Instead of counting points, we were simply playing fifty cents to the low man, or a dollar for gin, and paying off after each hand.

A tall, lantern-jawed man of about forty came into the squadroom. He wore a two-hundred-dollar suit and an angry expression. Striding over to the table where we sat, he looked down at us belligerently.

Carl drew a card, spread his hand and said, �Gin.� Then he looked up at the man and said, �Yes, sir?�

The man said, �Is this where you come to report whores?�

We both regarded him thoughtfully. Carl scooped up the cards, tapped them together and slipped them into their box.

Finally I said, �This is the Vice Squad. I�m Sergeant Rudd and my partner here is Corporal Lincoln.�

Actually, my name is Mateusz Rudowski, but I go by the name of Mathew Rudd. I�m not ashamed of my real name and I�m proud of my Polish ancestry, but people always ask me to spell it when I introduce myself as Mateusz Rudowski. They just nod when I say Matt Rudd.

The lean man curtly nodded to both of us and said, �I�m Harold Warner, president of the Wallgood Tile Company of Houston. I�m up here for the annual Tile and Plastic Manufacturers� Convention.�

Pointing to a chair, I said, �Sit down, Mr. Warner.�

Harold Warner pulled out a chair and sat erect with his hands on his knees. In a decisive voice he said, �I was rolled for five hundred dollars last night, gentlemen. I don�t know how you run this town, but it isn�t a very good advertisement to have your whores roll visiting convention delegates.�

Carl and I looked at each other. Clearing his throat, Carl said, �The police department doesn�t run St. Cecilia�s cat houses, mister. As a matter of fact, we try to put them out of business. We have very little control over the business ethics of those who manage to operate in spite of us.�

�I�m not suggesting that you set the standards for local whores,� Warner said impatiently. �I�m merely reporting a crime. It didn�t happen at a cat house anyway. It happened in my room.�

Carl�s expression suggested that he didn�t care much for Harold Warner. He said a little gruffly, �It�s a misdemeanor to patronize prostitutes in this town, mister. So I guess you�re confessing to a crime too.�

Warner raised his eyebrows. �Is that how you run things here? You protect your whores by threatening complainants?�

I said, �We don�t protect anybody. It is a misdemeanor to patronize a prostitute, but I never heard of it being enforced. You don�t have to worry about being booked for reporting a crime, Mr. Warner. Get a complaint form, Carl.�

Carl looked at me and I gazed back at him steadily. I didn�t feel any more liking for Harold Warner than he did, but I wasn�t about to let a visiting fireman walk out with a poor impression of our police department.

Carl got the silent order to pull in his horns. Rising, he went over to the supply cabinet against the wall and returned with a complaint form. Sitting down again, he wrote, �Harold Warner,� on the line where it said: �Name of complainant.�

The he asked mildly, �Local address?�

�The Hotel Leland. Room 318.�

Carl wrote that down and looked at me for the next question. I said, �Now just what happened, Mr. Warner?�

Warner said, �The girl came to my room about eleven-thirty last night. She said her name was Kitty, but she didn�t give a last name. She was about twenty-five, five feet four, around a hundred and fifteen pounds. She had dark hair and eyes, a very pretty face and was built like a Coca-Cola bottle. I gave her fifty dollars to spend the night.�

�Any distinguishing marks?�

�Yes, one. She had a small tattoo in the shape of a heart on her left hip.�

Carl said sourly, �You left the light on, huh?�

Warner looked at him with an expression suggesting that he didn�t find Carl any more charming than Carl found him. He said curtly, �I got my fifty dollars worth. It�s the five hundred I�m complaining about.� He turned back to me. �At four in the morning I woke to find her gone. I checked my wallet and found all my money gone too.�

I said, �This was around five hundred dollars?�

�Exactly five hundred. I counted it shortly before she arrived. I had nine fifties, three twenties, three tens and two fives.�

�That�s five-fifty,� Carl said.

Warner gave him an irritated glance. �I gave the girl one of the fifties. That left exactly five hundred in the wallet. There was a little over a dollar in change lying on my dresser, but she didn�t bother with that.�

I asked, �How�d you get in contact with this girl?�

�Through one of the bellhops.�

�Know his name or number?�

Warner shook his head. �They all look alike to me. I phoned the desk about eleven P.M. and asked for a bellhop. When he showed, I asked if he could arrange for a woman. He said sure, and about a half-hour later Kitty showed up.�

I waited until Carl had this all written down, then asked, �Anything more you can tell us?�

After thinking for a moment, Warner said, �I guess that�s the whole story. You think you can locate this girl?�

�We�ll do our best. How long you expect to be in town?�

�Tonight and tomorrow night.�

I said, �If we find her at all, it should be by then. We�ll ring you at the hotel as soon as we learn anything.�

Carl pushed the complaint form before Warner and laid his pen next to it. �Just sign the bottom line, please.�

The man looked at him as though he thought Carl were nuts. �I�m not affixing my signature to anything, Sergeant.�

Carl frowned at him. �It�s Corporal, mister. And why not? We can�t prosecute this girl without a signed complaint.�

Warner took his hands off his knees and rose to his feet. �Who wants her prosecuted? I�m a married man, Corporal, and have considerable social position in Houston. You think I want my name in the paper as complainant against a common whore? All I want is my money back.�

Carl said, �The theft of five hundred dollars is grand larceny, and that�s a felony. Once you report a crime, it isn�t your decision as to whether or not the suspect will be prosecuted.�

�You mean you�d force me to testify in court?�

He was getting a bad opinion of us again. I poured oil by saying. �We won�t inconvenience you any more than necessary, Mr. Warner. We try to be co-operative with out-of-town visitors. If we find the girl, I think we can settle things quietly.�

He looked mollified. �That�s more like it. If one of your local businessmen got rolled by a whore in Houston, I�m sure the Houston police wouldn�t embarrass him by dragging him into court and making him publicly admit he�d paid her to go to bed with him. They�d just get his money back.�

�We�re just as friendly as the Houston police,� I assured him. �Don�t worry about it.�

�Of course, it really isn�t the money itself I�m concerned about,� he said. �It�s the principle of the thing.�

Carl made a grunting noise.

Warner glanced at him, then back at me, deciding to ignore Carl. �I know that�s a trite comment, but it happens to be true. I happen to be pretty well off, and five hundred dollars means very little to me. But I hate to be made a sucker. I feel much the same way about this as I do about nuisance suits.�

I said, �I don�t think I follow you.�

�My company pioneered in plastic wall and floor tiles,� he explained. �Any time a large company comes out with a new product or a new technique, you can depend on a few nuisance suits from crackpots who claim their ideas were stolen. The simplest way to dispose of these is to settle out of court for a few hundred dollars. But I�ve always refused to be cheated. I�ve always fought nuisance suits, even when the legal costs ran several times what out-of-court settlements would have cost. I feel the same way about this girl. It isn�t that I want the money back so much as that I don�t want her to have it. Can you understand that?�

�I guess,� I said doubtfully.

�It took a good deal of courage to come in here and make a report. I suppose most men in a circumstance such as this would quietly take the loss rather than embarrass themselves by admitting they patronized a whore.�

�We don�t get many such complaints,� I admitted. �But I imagine you aren�t the first one to get rolled.�

�Exactly,� he said. �I�m just the first one with guts enough to do something about it. You�ll phone me at the hotel then, Corporal, as soon as you find this woman?�

�Sergeant,� I said. �Yeah, we�ll phone you.�

When he had left, Carl said, �You certainly bent over backward to be nice to that creep. What�s the matter with you?�

�I�m bucking for lieutenant,� I said. �What would it get us to send him back to Houston with a grudge against the department? It doesn�t cost anything to be nice.�

�Now you�re sounding like Captain Spangler. You must be bucking for a promotion.�

Captain Maurice Spangler headed the Vice, Gambling and Narcotics Division. He was a good cop, but he was also a wily politician. You have to be to make captain in St. Cecilia. He was widely known in the department for his ability to pat the right backs and avoid stepping on the wrong toes.

I growled, �You�re bucking for a poke in the nose.�

Carl grinned at me. �That�s more like your old self. You owe me a dollar for that gin.�

Harold Warner�s interruption of the game had made me forget that, but I might have known Carl wouldn�t. He only forgets when I win. Drawing out my wallet, I tossed him a dollar bill and rose from my seat.

�Time to go to work,� I said. �Let�s roll over to the Hotel Leland.�

The Leland is St. Cecilia�s top hotel. On a cop�s salary you don�t get into such places often, but the previous fall I had spent a week there at city expense on an undercover assignment, so I knew the place fairly well. The day bell captain, whose name was Ernie, remembered me.

�How are you, Mr. Rudd?� he said politely when we stopped at his desk. �Nice to see you back.�

My former tenancy at the hotel had been merely part of a front I was putting on to impress a female member of the marijuana set, and hadn�t involved the hotel itself. Apparently the employees were still under the impression that I was a New York playboy. I disillusioned Ernie by showing him my badge.

�You�re a cop?� he said with his mouth open.

�Uh-huh. Like to look at your log for last night.�

�You are Mr. Rudd, aren�t you?� he asked, puzzled.

�Sergeant Rudd of the Vice Squad. I don�t feel like going into a lot of explanations, Ernie. Just get the log.�

Still looking amazed, he pushed a loose-leaf notebook toward me. �Be my guest, Sergeant.�

The pages of the loose-leaf notebook were divided into three columns. The first showed time of day, the second room number and the third the number assigned to the bellhop who had answered the call. The previous night�s log showed that bellhop number three had been sent to room 318 at 11:03 P.M.

�Who�s number three?� I asked.

Ernie wasn�t familiar with the night crew assignments and had to look it up in a card file. �Henry Poole,� he announced.

�Got his address on that card?�

�Sure,� he said with a grin. �The Hotel Leland, room 102.� He pointed. �Right down the hall.� Then his grin faded. �Is he in some kind of trouble the management ought to know about?�

I said, �If he is, we�ll let the management know. Don�t run to tell tales. Okay?�

He shrugged. �If that�s the way you want it.�

�That�s the way we want it,� I assured him.

As we started down the indicated hall, Carl said, �You�re a nicer guy than I am.�

�How you figure?�

�I wouldn�t worry about a bellhop who runs whores on the side being called on the carpet to explain why cops are looking him up. I�d figure that�s a hazard of his sideline.�

�I�m not any nicer than you are,� I said, �just smarter. I want something to hold over the bellhop�s head in case he doesn�t feel like talking. He probably wouldn�t give us the time of day if he thought he was going to lose his job anyway.�

We stopped in front of room 102 and I rapped on the door. A few moments passed before it was opened by a little guy with tousled red hair and a sleepy expression. He wore a robe over pajamas. I didn�t remember him, and if he remembered me, as a former guest of the hotel, it didn�t show in his expression.

�You Henry Poole?� I inquired.

�Uh-huh.� He rubbed his eyes. �You know it�s only ten A.M. and I work nights? You woke me up.�

This wasn�t literally true, because he was still only half awake. I showed him my badge, which woke him up the rest of the way. A wary expression came over his face.

�Want to invite us in?� I asked.

�Sure,� he said, hurriedly stepping back from the door.

We walked in and he shut the door behind us. Apparently the rooms along this hall were reserved for hotel employees, for this one wasn�t nearly as elaborate or big as the one I had occupied at city expense. It was clean enough, but it was about the size of a large closet and was furnished with nothing but a single bed, a wooden chair and a small dresser.

Henry Poole waved vaguely in the direction of the unmade bed and the chair next to it. �Sit down, officers.�

�We�ll stand,� I said. �According to the bell captain�s log, you took a call from room 318 just after eleven last night.�

Poole�s expression turned even more wary. �I might have. I don�t remember all the calls I take.�

�You remember this one,� I assured him. �The guy wanted a woman. You sent him one named Kitty.�

A patently phony look of amazement crossed his face. �Me? The Leland don�t allow that kind of stuff.�

I said in a bored tone, �We know they don�t allow it. We also know you�re out of a job if they find out.�

He ran his fingers through his tousled red hair. In a rueful voice he said, �Maybe I�m already out of a job. You get my name from Ernie, the bell captain?�

�Uh-huh.�

�You might as well have gone to the manager. Ernie will be in his office now, passing the word that a couple of cops are in my room. I�ll be in the front office trying to explain it as soon as you leave.�

I shook my head. �Ernie�s been instructed to keep his mouth shut.�

�Yeah?� he said with raised brows. �That was nice of you.�

�No, it wasn�t,� I told him. �We weren�t trying to be nice. We just wanted a weapon to hold over your head. We�re not going to fool around with you, Poole. Give us a hard time and we�ll get you fired by reporting to the manager that you�re procuring on the side. Co-operate and we won�t have to talk to him. Provided you weren�t an accessory.�

�Accessory to what?�

�This Kitty rolled her client for five hundred clams.�

His eyes widened. �Why the dirty little... Listen, officer, you don�t think I�d set up a thing like that, do you?�

�You tell us.�

�I was just trying to do the guy a favor,� he said in an earnest voice. �I don�t even get a kickback for furnishing girls. It�s just a little extra service all us bellhops give male guests. Hell, the management knows we do it. As long as we handle things quiet, they look the other way. But if you turned me in, I�d get canned because they�re not about to admit to a cop they know what�s going on. How about a break?�

Carl said in a bored tone that matched mine, �Don�t try to con a couple of old pros, Poole. You get a commission on every girl you bring into the hotel. But we�re not after procurers today. We want Kitty. Come up with her last name and her address.�

He ran his fingers through his hair again. �I don�t know who they sent. I just phoned in the room number. I never even saw the girl.�

�Phoned in to who?� I asked.

He hesitated, then said reluctantly, �A guy named Artie Nowak.�

Carl and I looked at each other. If Little Artie Nowak had furnished the girl who rolled Harold Warner, it changed the whole complexion of the case � Artie was a little man with big political connections.

St. Cecilia�s police department isn�t graft-ridden, despite what the general public thinks. But it is subject to pretty heavy political influence, because the police board is politically appointed. In most areas of law enforcement the department functions honestly and efficiently. There aren�t any �protected� rackets in the sense that police officials receive pay-offs to let them alone, but there are certain rackets we overlook because of the political influence of the racketeers.

Little Artie Nowak�s call-girl operation was such a racket. The Vice Squad regularly arrested streetwalkers and raided independent cat houses, but we left Little Artie�s girls strictly alone. Pulling in one of them could get you demoted and transferred to a beat in the sticks.

The bellhop caught our exchange of glances and it gave him courage. He said, �I guess you know the name, huh?�

�We know it,� I said.

�Then you know how much pull he�s got. Little Artie don�t like his boys pushed around.�

Carl said, �You�re not one of his boys. You�re just a two-bit punk with a phone number to call. He probably doesn�t even know you�re alive. How�d you like a bat between the horns?�

�I didn�t mean nothing,� Poole said hurriedly. �I�m co-operating, ain�t I?�

I said, �What do you know about this Kitty?�

�Nothing. I told you I never even saw her.�

�You must know the name. Don�t push your luck, Poole, or I�ll drag you right across the lobby in your pajamas to the manager�s office.�

�Honest,� he said earnestly. �I don�t know any of the girls either by name or sight. I just phone in the room numbers of guys who ask for women. I wouldn�t hold back on you.�

I looked at Carl and he shrugged. I said, �Anything else you want to ask him?�

Carl shook his head.

I pulled open the door, then turned back to the bellhop. �You want us to come back and see you again?�

He examined me dubiously, shook his head. �Not particularly.�

�Then I�ll give you a tip. Pick up a phone to let Little Artie know about our conversation, and we�ll be back for more conversation.�

�I�m not planning any phone calls,� he assured me.

�You�re brighter than I thought,� I said.

I continued on out of the room. Carl followed, pulling the door shut behind him.

Out in front of the hotel Carl settled his lanky frame behind the wheel of the car and asked, �What now?�

�Drive down to Little Artie�s place.�

Carl looked at me with raised brows. �You tired of being a sergeant?�

�I�ve been working under Captain Spangler for years,� I said. �Some of his tact has rubbed off. I�ll be so diplomatic, it will turn your stomach.�

With a shrug Carl shifted into drive and pulled away from the curb.

Little Artie Nowak ran a tavern down in the Polish section, only a couple of blocks from where I was born and where my parents and sister Julie still lived. The tavern was the least of his various interests. He ran a drag poker game in his basement, he headed the local call-girl operation and he was a ward committeeman. His political influence extended far beyond his own ward, though, because he was also the right-hand man of Nick Bartkowiak, who politically controlled all thirteen wards on the south side.

Artie�s tavern was a workingman�s joint, patronized mainly by factory workers and floozies looking for pickups. Not hustlers, because Artie didn�t allow them in his bar, even though he was a procurer himself. They were just lonely amateurs out for romance any way they could get it, willing to trade their favors for a few free drinks. I don�t know if all factory towns are like St. Cecilia, but there are so many of the amateur type in our city, it�s a wonder the professionals can make a living.

At this time of morning the tavern was deserted except for one old man at a corner table with a beer before him. Jake Stark, Artie�s bull-necked flunky, was behind the bar. Jake was a sort of general all-around assistant of the ward committeeman. He acted as part-time bartender during off hours, he supervised the basement poker game, he worked as a bouncer on nights the tavern was crowded, and he acted as Artie�s strong-arm man whenever the little man felt someone needed pushing around.

I asked Jake if Artie was around.

Jake yelled in a booming bass, �Hey, Artie!�

Little Artie Nowak appeared from the kitchen with a cup of coffee in his hand. He was a diminutive man, no more than five feet four and weighing about a hundred and thirty. But he had a face like a bulldog and he walked with an Edward G. Robinson swagger. In his youth he�d fought in the lightweight class, and it was a tribute to his skill that he didn�t have a mark on his face. I saw him fight a couple of times, years back. He had both speed and a punch, but the racket boys got to him early and he quit the ring in disgust when he found he had to win or lose on order. I always thought he might have eventually gone for the title if he had been under cleaner management.

Artie was in shirt sleeves with no tie, but he still managed to create an impression of immaculate dress, probably because he wore hundred-dollar slacks, a fifty-dollar silk shirt and shoes with a glittering shine.

Coming over to the end of the bar about ten feet from us, he set down his coffee cup and said, �Hi, Matt.� Then he looked at Carl.

�This is my partner, Carl Lincoln,� I said. �You know Artie, Carl?�

Carl said, �I�ve seen him around.� Artie merely nodded.

Jake Stark said, �You guys want something to drink?�

I shook my head. �We�re on duty.�

Artie hiked his eyebrows. �This ain�t just a social call?�

�Not exactly. We�re looking for a girl.�

Artie took a sip of his coffee. �You won�t find any here now. Come back about ten tonight and you can take your pick.�

�We�re looking for a specific one,� I said. �A call girl named Kitty. Dark eyes and hair, about twenty-five, five feet four, a hundred and fifteen pounds. She has a small heart-shaped tattoo on her left hip.�

Artie�s eyes narrowed. �What makes you think I�d know anything about call girls?�

�Nothing,� I said easily. �Her profession is incidental. We have information she lives in this ward. You know everybody in the ward, so we thought we�d ask.�

�Oh.� His expression was still wary, but his eyes were no longer narrowed. �What�s she done?�

�She rolled an out-of-town businessman at the Leland last night. It�s bad advertising for the city.�

The little man frowned. �She rolled him for how much?�

�Five hundred. On top of a fifty-dollar fee. The guy didn�t object to the fee. It was the fringe benefits she collected that made him mad.�

I had figured that Little Artie wouldn�t like the idea of one of his girls rolling a customer, and his expression indicated I had figured right. His face grew cold. �This John put in an official beef?�

If I hadn�t already known he was up to his ears in the call-girl racket, this question would have tipped me off. The gray world of prostitution has a vocabulary all its own. To prostitutes and procurers, customers are always Johns, but I�ve never heard anyone outside of the profession use the term.

I said, �Uh-huh.�

�That is kind of bad advertising,� Artie said. �We wouldn�t want visiting firemen spreading the word that St. Cecilia is a clip town. I don�t know this girl, but I�ll inquire around and let you hear what I find out. How long�s this John going to be in town?�

�Through tomorrow night.�

�He want her prosecuted for theft?�

I shook my head. �All he wants is his money back. He doesn�t want any part of a courtroom, because he�s a married man and he doesn�t want to advertise his sins. And all we�re interested in is sending him back to Houston with a better impression of the town than he has right now.�

I was being about as subtle as a sledge hammer, but I wanted to leave no doubt in Artie�s mind that we weren�t interfering in his call-girl operation; our only interest was in one girl who had stepped out of line.

The little man mused for a moment, then said to Jake Stark, �You know this girl they�re talking about, Jake?�

Jake gave his head a definite shake. �Not me.�

�Wasn�t there a little brunette named Kitty in here one night a while back?�

Jake, realizing his employer wanted him to remember the girl, let an enlightened expression grow on his face. �Yeah, now that I think of it. Couple of weeks ago. She was a hustler too. I heard her proposition some guy and threw her out.� To Carl and me he said righteously, �We don�t allow that kind of stuff around here.�

The old man in the corner said in a high voice, �I don�t remember you throwing no girl out, Jake.�

Jake said, �You wasn�t here, Dinny.�

�I�m always here,� the old man said. �I ain�t missed a night in three years, except that time I was in the hospital.�

�You probably was in the can, Dinny,� Artie said in an affable tone. �You spend half your time there. Why don�t you go to the can now?�

�Just went a while back.�

�Then shut up and drink your beer.� Artie turned back to Jake. �Know where this Kitty lives?�

The bartender, not sure how he was supposed to answer this, hedged. �I can find out easy. Half a dozen customers seemed to know her.�

Little Artie pulled a thick roll of bills from his side pocket. �How much exactly did she roll this John for?�

�Five hundred on the nose,� I said. �He claims he counted what he had just before she arrived, and there were nine fifties, three twenties, three tens and two fives in his wallet. He paid her a fifty-dollar bill, so that left an even five hundred.�

Peeling off four hundreds and two fifties, Artie laid them on the bar. �I guess we got her tabbed, Matt. You pay off this John and I�ll collect from her.�

Moving up to the end of the bar, I picked up the money. �Sure you�ll be able to collect from her?�

�I�ll collect,� he assured me. �This way you won�t be bothered having to talk to her.�

That was his polite way of telling me he preferred to handle the matter without further police interference. I felt a little sorry for the girl. She had violated the rules and probably was in for a beating. But it had been the only way to handle the matter without being called on the carpet by the police commissioner for treading on powerful political toes.

I said, �I�ll get a receipt from the guy and mail it to you.�

�Don�t bother,� Artie told me. �I know you�re honest.�

�I�ll get it anyway,� I said. �See you around.�

�Sure. Drop in any time. Nice to have met you, Lincoln.�

Carl gave him a meaningless smile.

Outside in the car again, Carl gave me a look of mock admiration and said, �You are bucking for lieutenant. That performance was as slippery as anything the old man ever pulled.�

�Head back to the Leland,� I told him.

It was eleven-thirty when we got back to the hotel. Harold Warner didn�t answer when we had the desk ring his room. I had noticed a sign in the center of the lobby listing the agenda for the Tile and Plastic Manufacturers� Convention, and we went back to check that. There was a meeting in the Rose Room from 10:30 to 11:30 A.M., then a luncheon scheduled for noon in the dining room.

I said to Carl, �We ought to be able to catch him between events,� then led the way to the Rose Room.

The meeting was just breaking up and delegates were streaming from the Rose Room in the direction of the bar. About sixty men passed us as we stood to one side, but Harold Warner wasn�t among them. When they stopped coming from the Rose Room, I peeked in the door. The room was empty except for a cleaning woman emptying ash trays.

Assuming that Warner must have been among the first out, and that we had missed him, we checked the barroom. He wasn�t there either.

�Maybe he went up to his room for a minute before lunch,� Carl suggested.

We had the desk ring his room again, but there was still no answer. Giving up, I left a note in his box asking him to phone me at headquarters.

Outside, Carl looked up at the soot-gray sky and said, �Maybe she rolled him for transportation out of this stinking town. Seems a shame to louse her up if she did.�

�Don�t disparage my birthplace,� I said.

�Mine too. You know I�ve heard that when an autopsy is performed on a St. Cecilia native, the lungs are gray instead of pink.�

�You�ll feel better after lunch,� I told him. �We�ll go somewhere that has air conditioning.�

We took our lunch hour en route back to headquarters, and didn�t get back until one P.M. There was a note in the message book that Captain Spangler wanted to see me.

Captain Maurice Spangler is a square-bodied, grizzled man near sixty. With him in his office was a plump, round-faced man of about fifty with drooping eyelids and a button nose.

The captain said in his crisp voice, �You know Mr. Bartkowiak, don�t you, Rudowski?� He always calls me Rudowski instead of Rudd.

I nodded to the south-side politician. �Sure. How are you, Nick?�

Nick Bartkowiak exposed even white teeth in a vote-getting smile. �Fine, Matt. How�s your mom and pop coming along?�

�Okay.�

�And your sister Julie?�

�Still fighting off the wolves.�

�Pretty girl, Julie. Let�s see now, she�s about ten years younger than you, so she must be around twenty, huh?�

Part of Nick Bartkowiak�s talent for gathering votes lay in his ability to remember the vital statistics of practically every Polish family on the south side. He always solicitously inquired after every member of the family by name when he encountered a voter. But he was wasting his charm on me. I didn�t live in his district any more.

I said, �Yeah, she�s twenty now.�

Bartkowiak turned to the captain. �I�ve knowed Matt and his family since he was a kid. We�re old friends, ain�t we, Matt?�

�Bosom pals. But you don�t have to butter me up, Nick. I don�t vote down that way any more. I�ve got an apartment uptown in the sixth district.�

I put a grin on my face to let him know I was joking, and he chuckled as though the joke were hilarious. Captain Spangler frowned. He didn�t approve of the hired help joshing influential politicians.

The captain said, �Mr. Bartkowiak hasn�t told me what he wants, Rudowski. He just said he wanted to talk to the officer in charge of the prostitution detail.� He looked at the politician expectantly.

Bartkowiak said, �Mind if I talk to Matt in private, Captain?�

Spangler flushed slightly, but he wasn�t about to refuse the request of anyone with Bartkowiak�s influence. He said a little stiffly, �Want to use my office?�

I saved myself a later bawling out by suggesting we use a corner of the squadroom. Bartkowiak was agreeable to that. Politely thanking the captain for his time, he followed me out of the office.

No one was in the squadroom except Carl Lincoln, who was reading a newspaper in one corner. We took seats at a table in the opposite corner. Carl glanced our way, but when I shook my head, he went back to reading his paper.

Bartkowiak said, �Matt, you been getting any reports of call girls rolling customers?�

I took out a cigarette, rolled it around in my fingers and put it back in the pack again in order to stall for time. I needed a little time to figure out what brought on this odd question. When no sensible reason for it occurred to me, I said, �Why?�

He raised a pudgy hand in a rueful gesture. �I�ve got kind of a delicate problem, Matt. It makes it easier, you being the cop in charge of the cat detail. Frankly I forgot you was on the force until you walked in the captain�s office. I was figuring on having to get across what I wanted by telling a couple of lies to some cop I didn�t know personally. But you being from the old neighborhood, I can level with you without it going no further, can�t I?�

I let him think he could without actually committing myself. Giving him a friendly smile, I said, �What�s your problem?�

�Well, you know the setup down in the Polish section. And you know Artie Nowak.�

�Uh-huh.�

�There ain�t no use beating around the bush. You and everybody else in the know is aware that Artie runs a little call-girl operation. I never exactly gave him the go-ahead on that, but I never made no kick. It don�t hurt nobody to let guys have a girl when they want one. Maybe it prevents a lot of rapes even. Long as it was a quiet, no-trouble operation, I didn�t care about it.�

He was warping the truth a little. Knowing Nick Bartkowiak, I was reasonably certain he got a cut from every racket run in his district. But if he wanted to pretend his only interest in the call-girl operation was a humanitarian desire to prevent nice girls from being raped on the streets, I wasn�t going to call him a liar.

I said, �And now you think it isn�t a no-trouble operation?�

�I know it ain�t,� he said grimly. �It�s developing big trouble.�

I took out the same cigarette again, and this time I lit it. Nick Bartkowiak watched moodily until I had it going. �I�m listening,� I said.

�I got ears all over town, Matt. I hear things even the cops don�t. And rumors keep seeping down to me about guys getting rolled by call girls. Not just no-account punks. Prominent businessmen.�

So Kitty of the heart-shaped tattoo hadn�t been an isolated incident, I thought. It was a regular racket.

I blew out a perfect smoke ring, watched it climb and expand until it finally disintegrated. I didn�t say anything.

�You know what that kind of thing can start?� Bartkowiak demanded.

�What?�

�A citizens� reform league. Naturally these guys ain�t going to report to the police they was rolled. Most of them is married. But it leaves them sore. One of these days some character with a lot of influence is going to get sore enough to start yammering for an investigation of the call-girl racket. And every other influential man who has been rolled is going to fall right in behind him. You ever see an aroused group of prominent businessmen and civic leaders go after local rackets?�

I shook my head.

�Well, I have.� He gave a slight shudder. �About thirty years ago, right around when you was born, a bunch of do-gooders split this town wide open. You can defeat reform office seekers at the polls and you can buy off un-cooperative officials who do get into office, but there�s not one damn thing you can do about a bunch of crusading private citizens except sweat it out. These guys thirty years ago had money, social prominence and connections reaching right into the governor�s mansion. They hired their own investigators, they prodded the newspapers into an anti-vice campaign and they stirred up the grand jury by dumping evidence into its lap until it turned into a runaway grand jury. When the dust settled, half the city officials were in prison and the other half had left town. The political organization was a shambles. It took us ten years to get back on our feet again.�

I vaguely remembered hearing of the reform explosion a generation back, but I didn�t know many of the details. I said dryly, �Maybe another reform movement would be good for the town.�

�It ain�t funny, Matt,� he said a shade testily. �This really ain�t a bad town, you know.�

�Isn�t it?�

�Well, you know what I mean. Sure there�s a few rackets. But not as bad as a lot of big cities. You don�t find protection rackets, where goons go around shaking down merchants and dropping bombs in places that refuse to pay off. And there�s no dope racket. At least none with any political protection. A few bookies, some small-time gambling joints, some policy and a few hustlers. Just entertainment-furnishing really. It ain�t a syndicate controlled town. You�re gonna have some rackets, no matter who�s in the driver�s seat. St. Cecilia�s pretty clean. How long�s it been since you remember a gang killing?�

�I guess the powers that be draw the line at murder,� I admitted.

�They draw the line at anything that might get out of hand. You�re never gonna have a cleaner town than you�ve got right now, no matter who�s running things. I�d hate to see some citizens� league shake things apart and leave the city wide open for maybe somebody like the syndicate to move in.�

I said, �You think a few guys getting rolled might bring things to that point?�

�I ain�t about to find out,� he assured me. �Even a crusade just against the call-girl racket would be bad enough. The general public don�t think much of guys who dabble in woman traffic. If the papers got on Artie�s back, it would ruin him on the south side. And it might ruin me by association, because everybody knows he�s my right-hand.�

�Have you spoken to Artie about this?�

�A while back. He said it wasn�t his girls, that it must be independents pulling it. But there ain�t no independents in the call-girl racket. Streetwalkers, sure, and a few cat houses, but not call girls. Artie�s a good organizer and he don�t like competition. It�s his girls all right, and I kept hearing about the rollings even after I spoke to him. All I can think is he�s deliberately instructing them to roll customers, strictly against my orders.�

I was becoming more puzzled by the minute. In the first place, what Bartkowiak was saying didn�t quite jell with Little Artie�s performance that morning. I had gotten the impression that he was both surprised and irritated to learn that one of his girls had rolled a customer. Of course it was possible he was merely a better actor than I had suspected.

In the second place, I couldn�t understand why Nick Bartkowiak was so frankly baring his innermost secrets to a cop, even though he regarded me as an old friend.

I asked bluntly, �What do you expect me to do about all this, Nick?�

�Your job is to arrest prostitutes, ain�t it?�

After examining his face, I slowly nodded.

�Well, go out and arrest some.�

�You mean break up the operation?�

�I don�t mean pin anything on Artie. He�s a key man in the district and he�d be too hard to replace. Anyway, any dirt you threw at him, some is bound to spatter on me. I just want him rocked back on his heels so he�ll behave in the future.�

I was silent for a few moments, mulling this over. And finally I thought I understood it. I had always known Nick Bartkowiak had a devious mind, but until now I hadn�t known just how devious. He wasn�t of the old school of racketeer who punished insubordination with a gun, or the threat of a gun. Little Artie Nowak was too valuable to him merely to cancel out, but at the same time Bartkowiak wasn�t going to put up with lack of discipline. He meant to bring Artie back into line simply by withdrawing his protection for a time and allowing the police to harass his operation. But he had made it clear he didn�t want Artie himself touched. Undoubtedly he meant to sit back and wait until Artie Nowak came squawking to him that the police were arresting his girls, and then calmly inform the little man that he had withdrawn his protection. When Artie wanted to know why, Bartkowiak would tell him that when the rolling stopped, the harassment would stop.

I felt like batting him for his effrontery in expecting the police department to help him discipline his underlings. But that would only have gotten me batted off the force. I kept my mouth shut.

Bartkowiak rose to his feet. �Of course I expect the background of all this to stay between you and me, Matt. I wouldn�t have given any other cop such a detailed fill-in. I would have had to let some strange cop know it was okay to go after the girls, and just take a chance that I could shut it off before they got to Artie. This way�s better, because now you know just exactly how far you can go. But you can keep that under your hat. All you have to tell the captain is there won�t be any beefs to the commissioner if you start knocking off Artie�s girls.�

�I get it,� I said dourly.

I was tempted to forget the whole thing and not even mention the matter to the captain, because I resented a racketeer-politician maneuvering the police department as though he owned it. Then I decided I had to tell the captain. In the first place, he was going to want to know what Bartkowiak had on his mind, and I�d have to tell him something. In the second place, I was going to end up on Bartkowiak�s blacklist if I sat on my hands. And that was equivalent to asking for a demotion back to uniform.

When the politician walked out, I signaled to Carl and we went in together to see Captain Spangler.

The captain was still a bit piqued that Bartkowiak had chosen to confide in a mere sergeant instead of in him, but he tried not to show it. With exaggerated politeness he asked both of us to have seats.

When we were seated, I said, �Nick just gave me the go-ahead to move in on Little Artie Nowak�s call-girl operation.�

Spangler looked startled. �You sure you heard him right?�

�He has reasons,� I said. �I�m not supposed to tell you the whole background, but I take orders from you, not Nick Bartkowiak.�

Whereupon I repeated my conversation with the politician word-for-word and added my theory as to his motive.

When I finished, Captain Spangler was frowning and Carl Lincoln looked incredulous.

�Who the hell does this cheap hood think he is?� Carl inquired. �Does he think he can walk in here and use the police department to straighten out his hired help?�

�He knows he can,� I informed him. �A word from Nick and the police commissioner could put us all back in harness.�

Captain Spangler�s frown deepened. He didn�t like the situation any better than Carl or I did, but he wasn�t constituted to fight City Hall. He also disliked having it baldly brought out in the open that the department was subject to political pressure. Although he was about as wily a back-rubber as there was on the force, he preferred to pretend that no one ever received preferential treatment from the police for political reasons.

He said somewhat defensively, �Of course it isn�t as though Mr. Bartkowiak is asking us to do anything illegal. He�s merely requesting us to enforce the law, which is any citizen�s privilege.�

�Enforce it within limits,� Carl said. �Arrest the girls, but let Little Artie alone.�

�That�s more than we�ve been able to do up to now,� the captain said reasonably. �Why look a gift horse in the mouth?�

Carl said, �I vote that we forget the whole thing.�

Spangler examined him sourly. I could almost see his mental processes working. In principle he agreed with Carl, but he was forming a mental image of Nick Bartkowiak phoning his political crony, Commissioner Baldy Mason, to complain about the efficiency of the Vice Squad in following up complaints.

He said dryly, �Fortunately this division doesn�t operate on a democratic basis, Corporal Lincoln, so your vote doesn�t count.� His tone became decisive. �Both of you had better shift to night duty and nail as many of these girls as you can before Bartkowiak suggests we stop.�

Carl grunted and rose to his feet. I got up too. The captain examined our faces.

�It is your job to arrest prostitutes,� he said.

I didn�t say anything. I just walked out of the office. Carl trailed behind me.

Outside in the squadroom Carl said disgustedly, �Why do we put up with this crap, Matt? Why don�t we quit and move to some town where cops are allowed to be cops?�

�You couldn�t breath air without soot in it,� I told him. �If we�re going to have to work tonight, let�s log out and take the rest of the day off.�

We logged out at two P.M. We were moving toward the door when the phone rang. I turned back to get it.

�Vice, Gambling and Narcotics,� I said. �Sergeant Rudd.�

�Hi, Sergeant,� a slightly thick voice said in my ear. �I just found a note here to phone you.�

�Mr. Warner?�

�That�s right. Sorry I didn�t call sooner, but I just got your message from the desk. We were having an after-luncheon party in the cocktail lounge.� He emitted a little giggle.

I said, �We got your money back, Mr. Warner.�

�You did?� he said in a surprised voice.

�Uh-huh. You going to be around for a while?�

He was silent for a moment. Then he said, �How�d you get it back?�

�We traced the girl through the bellhop. How long will you be there?� There was another period of silence. Finally I said, �You still on the line, Mr. Warner?�

�Yeah,� he said. �I was just thinking. I�m due in a meeting right now. I�ll be tied up right to six o�clock, then we have a dinner at seven. You want me to run over there between six and seven?�

�I won�t be here,� I told him. �I�ll drop by the hotel about six-thirty.�

�Fine, Sergeant. I�ll meet you in the bar.�

Carl was waiting for me at the door. He said, �Warner?�

�Uh-huh. He�ll be in the Leland bar at six-thirty. You may as well meet me there too, and we�ll have dinner somewhere before we start to work. You got a better suit than the one you�re wearing?�

�What�s wrong with this one?� he asked in an offended tone.

�For one thing, you must have been using it for pajamas. You look like you�re on relief. You�re supposed to look like you can afford fifty-dollar call girls. A girl would spot you as a cop the minute she looked at you.�

�In this town a cop�s salary is the next thing to being on relief,� he said. �I�ll get a press job if you�re ashamed of me.�

I didn�t have Carl�s clothes problem. The forty-nine-fifty suit I routinely wear to work isn�t any dressier than his, but I have a reserve wardrobe for special occasions. I acquired it at the time I was working the undercover job at the Leland, though not at city expense. A private citizen, who was sore at the marijuana set for involving his daughter, had footed the bill as a bonus for getting her off the hook. So when necessary I can dress quite respectably.

At six-thirty P.M. I walked into the Leland all dressed up in a two-hundred-dollar suit. I found Carl already waiting for me in the lobby. He wore the same suit he had that afternoon, but it was freshly pressed and his shoes were shined. With his long, knobby build, he looked like his namesake Abe Lincoln, all dressed up to attend a square dance.

He flushed slightly when I looked him up and down. �Do I meet your excellency�s approval?� he growled.

�You�ll never pass as a business executive,� I told him. �Better pose as a rich eccentric.�

He made an unflattering noise.

We found Harold Warner in the bar with some fellow convention delegates having a cocktail before the scheduled dinner meeting he had mentioned. Calling him aside, I gave him the five hundred.

�I certainly appreciate this,� he said. �How�d you ever manage it?� Apparently he had sobered up during the afternoon, for his tongue was no longer thick.

I said, �I told you over the phone.�

�Oh yeah.� His voice became a little apologetic. �I was kind of stoned this afternoon. Something about the bellhop, wasn�t it?�

�Uh-huh.�

�The girl give you any trouble?�

I shook my head. I didn�t see any point in telling him we had never even seen the girl, but had recovered the money from her procurer. That would have sounded as though the police had some kind of business arrangement with the procurer. �She was happy to avoid a prostitution rap. We couldn�t have charged her anyway, of course, without your signature on the complaint, but she didn�t know you wouldn�t sign.�

He laughed a trifle self-consciously. �I must say your department goes all out to make a good impression on visitors. You�ve made a fine one on me. May I buy you and your partner a drink?�

Before I could answer, Carl said in a sour tone, �We�re in a hurry.�

Warner gave him a brief glance suggesting he still didn�t like him. He said to me, �Can I offer you a reward, then?�

�Just tell your friends in Houston what a nice town we have,� I said. �That�s reward enough. I would like a receipt for that money, though.�

He looked surprised, but he didn�t question the request. Taking a pen and a small notebook from his pocket, he jotted down the date, then wrote: �Received from Sergeant Rudd recovered stolen property in the amount of five hundred dollars ($500.00) in cash. Harold Warner.�

Tearing out the sheet, he handed it to me. �Okay, Sergeant?�

�Just fine.� I stuffed it into my pocket. �Good-by, Mr. Warner.�

As Carl and I walked back through the lobby, he said in a mimicking voice, �Just tell your friends what a nice town we have. You dumb Polack. We might have split a fifty-dollar bill.�

�That would put me in a higher income-tax bracket,� I told him. �You bring your car?�

�Uh-huh. It�s on the hotel lot.�

�So�s mine. You can follow me. We�ll need both cars, because we�re going to work separately.�

�Lead on,� Carl said, �and head for the nearest restaurant. I�m getting hungry.�

The standard procedure used in police drives against call girls is pretty simple. A cop registers in a hotel room and asks the bellhop to send him a woman. When she arrives, he asks the fee, pays it and makes the arrest as soon as she accepts the money.

During dinner, Carl and I discussed tactics and decided to start with the Grove Hotel. We checked in a little after eight P.M., registering separately and acting as though we were unacquainted.

We registered under our own names, but I listed Houston as my home town and Carl listed Chicago. I was assigned room 426 and Carl drew 614. Both of us had brought along suitcases as stage props. We went up on the same elevator, with different bellhops carrying our respective bags, not speaking or looking at each other.

When my bellhop had set down my suitcase inside my room and stood waiting for a tip, I said, �What�s the woman situation in this town, buddy?�

He raised his eyebrows. �There�s no shortage.�

�I mean pros,� I said. �Is it possible for a fellow to get a cozy roommate?�

�Sure,� he said with a grin, �but it runs kind of steep.�

�Like what?�

�Fifty bucks for all night.�

�Hmm. Is it worth it?�

�We furnish only top shelf. Young and built like this.� He drew a curvaceous figure in the air with his hands. �It�ll take about forty-five minutes to get a girl here. We don�t stock them in the hotel.�

�I guess I can hold out for that long,� I said. �Send one around. And send room service up with some ice and soda.� I gave him a dollar tip.

When he left, I turned on the room�s TV set, then took off my coat and tie and hung them in the closet. The tail end of a western was playing on TV. I got a bottle of bourbon from my suitcase and set it on the dresser.

The phone rang.

Picking it up, I said, �Hello.�

�All alone?� Carl�s voice asked.

�Uh-huh.�

�I�ve got one on the way. How about you?�

�Ditto.�

�If she�s nice, do I put the arm on her as soon as she accepts the money, or after the carnal act?�

�Read your regulations,� I told him.

�I have,� he said in a mournful tone. �What a lousy way to make a living.�

�See you at the booking desk,� I said, and hung up.

There was a rap at the door. It was a white-coated boy from room service with a tray containing a bottle of soda, an ice bucket and a couple of glasses. I signed the check, parted with another buck and he went away again.

I mixed myself a highball and sat down to watch television while I was waiting. The eight-thirty news was just coming on.

The national and international news came first. Then, after a commercial, the newscaster got around to local news.

The first item was: �A local young woman was murdered today by an unknown assailant. Katherine Desmond, age twenty-four, of 125 Ormond Place, was discovered dead in the apartment she shared with another girl when her apartment-mate returned from a shopping trip at three P.M.�

The newscaster�s face faded out as another camera focused on the picture of a pretty young brunette. The voice went on: �The young victim had been severely beaten and then strangled. Police have ruled out robbery as a motive, as the victim�s purse containing more than two hundred dollars lay in plain sight on a dresser in the bedroom where the body was found. There was no evidence of criminal assault, but the police theorize the crime was committed by a psychopath. Delores Fermer, the apartment-mate, said that both she and Miss Desmond were actresses by profession. Further developments in the case will be reported on the nine-thirty news.�

The girl�s picture disappeared and the newscaster�s face returned to the screen. As he went on with other local items, I wondered idly where two young girls found acting jobs in a city where there was no legitimate stage and no movie or television production companies.

Then it occurred to me that �actress� was the common profession given by prostitutes when their names appear in the news. They don�t want to say �whore,� and most other job designations involve explaining where they work. Since an actress can always be �temporarily at liberty,� it�s a convenient way for prostitutes to explain how they make a living. The Actor�s Guild hates them for it, but there�s no law against claiming you�re an actress, even if your total stage experience consists of a walk-on part in a grammar-school play when you were eight years old.

I was taking a sip of my drink when another thought struck me. Katherine Desmond had been the murder victim�s name. Kitty was a common nickname for Katherine. Harold Warner�s Kitty had been a pretty brunette, just like the girl whose picture had appeared on the television screen. And the ages matched. A cold chill ran along my spine.

Getting up, I set my drink on the dresser, picked up the phone and asked the switchboard operator for an outside line. When I got it, I dialed Homicide.

A sad voice said in my ear, �Homicide, Sergeant Carter.�

Hank Carter always sounded sad, because he had to work with Lieutenant Robert Wynn, and that was enough to sadden anyone. Wynn is the most irascible, regulation-conscious man on the force.

I said, �This is Matt Rudd, Hank. Who has the Katherine Desmond case down there?�

�Oh, hi, Matt. Anderson and Cole of the day trick took the squeal. Wynn and I have the follow-up.�

�Good. Have you viewed the body?�

�Me? What the hell for? Anderson and Cole saw it and it�s description is in the case record. Plus photographs both at the scene and on a slab. I see enough bodies without trooping down to the morgue to look at one that�s already been identified.�

�Then do me a favor. Look in the case record and see if she had any identifying marks.�

�I already have. I told you we�ve got the follow-up. She had a small heart-shaped tattoo on her left hip.�

My stomach suddenly felt as though I had swallowed a pound of lead. It gives you a sick feeling to think you might have caused a young woman�s death, even indirectly.

I asked, �What have you got on the case so far?�

�Nothing, except time of death. The M.E. placed that between eleven A.M. and four P.M., but we were able to narrow it down a little closer than that. Delores Fermer, the apartment-mate, says she was alive when she left the apartment about eleven-thirty. She returned at three and found her dead. The apartment-mate claims she had no enemies and no boy friends. We figure a psycho killed her. It wasn�t a sex job, though. She was fully clothed and her clothing wasn�t disturbed. She still had her panties on.�

�How�d the killer get in?�

�The Fenner girl says the door was unlocked when she got home. She says they seldom locked it in the daytime when one or the other was there. I guess he just walked in. He sure made a mess of her. Beat her half to death before he strangled her. She must have screamed bloody murder, but it�s only a four-unit apartment house and none of the other tenants happened to be home, so there was nobody to hear her.�

�Any fingerprints?�

�Just the two girls�. The Fenner girl said they never had company, so no odd prints were around. The only prints on the front doorknob were the Fenner girl�s. We figure that had been wiped clean by the killer when he left, and she put her�s there when she returned from shopping and discovered the body. What�s your interest in the case, Matt?�

I said, �I think maybe I was indirectly responsible for getting her killed.�

Carter was silent for a time. Presently he said, �Come again?�

�I�m about to hand you a real hot potato, Hank. Did you know the victim was a call girl?�

�We guessed she was some kind of hustler. The Fermer girl too. They always say they�re actresses, and the Fermer girl couldn�t name any shows either had ever worked in. Then too, never having any company was a sign. They get enough of men during working hours, so usually they live pretty quiet home lives. It all added up. What�s the hot potato?�

�She was one of Little Artie Nowak�s girls.�

He was silent again. Then he said, �So?�

�So last night she rolled a visiting fireman at the Leland. The guy came to headquarters with a beef. Lincoln and I called on Artie this morning and diplomatically suggested that that kind of stuff gave the city a bad name. Artie came up with the money like a little lamb and said he�d collect it from the girl. I figured he�d belt her around a little, but that�s a risk girls like that take when they violate the rules. It never even occurred to me he might kill her.�

There was a third period of silence. Finally he said, �Wow! That is a hot potato.�

�Not if you pin it on him. Even our beloved bald-headed commissioner doesn�t expect us to overlook murder.�

�Sure, if we can prove it,� Carter said sadly. �But if we stir Nowak up by pulling him in for questioning and it turns out he didn�t do it, Wynn and I can both head for the border.�

�You�d better move easy,� I advised him. �There�s a peculiar angle to this I�d better tell you about.�

�What?�

�Well, the minute I heard about the murder over the air, I decided Artie must have done it. But I had a confidential talk with Nick Bartkowiak today, and he�s concerned about Artie�s girls rolling customers. Seems it�s become a regular habit, and Nick thinks they�re doing it with Artie�s approval.�

In a surprised voice Carter said, �You�re close enough to Bartkowiak for him to unload his problems on you?�

�He was my childhood neighbor. Besides, he had an angle I won�t go into because it doesn�t have any bearing on the case. The point is, if Artie has been instructing his girls to roll customers, why would he kill one for following orders?�

�Maybe just because she got caught,� Carter said dubiously.

�That hardly seems likely. Seems more probable the girls have been rolling customers on their own, and Artie was as concerned about it as Bartkowiak. Maybe he just meant to beat the girl up as an object lesson, and things got out of hand.�

�I guess we�ll have to look him up,� Carter said reluctantly. �Wish us luck.�

�You�ve got my moral support,� I told him.

�Thanks,� he said morosely, and hung up.

I had hardly resumed my seat in front of the television set when there was a soft rap at the door. Rising again, I went to open it.

A buxom blonde of about twenty-one or two stood in the hall. She wore a simple but tasteful print dress and carried a small white bag. She was buxom only through the torso and hips, her arms and legs were becomingly slim and her waist was small enough to encircle with my hands. I doubt that I could have gotten both arms all the way around her at chest level, though. She had a pretty, round, smooth-skinned face and there was a tentative smile on it.

�You�ve got the right room,� I said. �Come on in.�

She moved past me and I closed and locked the door. After a glance around, she turned to face me and exposed even white teeth in a friendly grin.

�You�re nice,� she said. �I like big men. I�m Jolly.�

�I�m pretty jolly myself,� I said.

She emitted a little giggle. �That�s my name, silly � Jolly. What�s yours?�

�Matt.�

�Urn. That�s a fine masculine name. I like virile names for men, not sissy names such as Lyle and Leslie and Ethelbert.�

I was a little bemused. As a rule prostitutes, even the aristocrats of the trade, the call girls, don�t have very extensive vocabularies. �Virile� is hardly a pedantic word, but it was surprising to hear a hustler use it.

I said, �How about Mateusz?�

�Mateusz? Is that what it is? What are you? A Russian?�

�Polack.�

�Well,� she said, pleased, �my mother was Polish.�

�You speak the language?�

She shook her head. �We never spoke it around the house, because my father was Irish. That�s why I didn�t recognize Mateusz as a Polish name. You�re certainly a big one. How much do you weigh?�

�Around two-ten.�

�Urn. And no fat on you. Where�d you ever get such big brown eyes?�

My eyes are the cross I have to bear. At some point of acquaintance every new woman I meet feels impelled to make some crack about my eyes. I�ve examined them in the mirror and they just look like eyes to me, but women seem to find something in them I can�t. When they make cracks in front of the boys, I take a squadroom riding for days. I was glad we were alone.

I said, �I had a deer mother.�

Her face assumed a look of mock pain. �Don�t you know a pun is the lowest form of humor? Samuel Johnson said that.�

�You must read more books than I do,� I said. �I thought it was Mark Twain. Want a drink?�

�Let�s get the business part over with first, shall we? Then we can relax.�

�Oh, yeah,� I said, taking out my wallet. �What�s the fee?�

�For all night, or just a quickie?�

�I�m a hog. All night.�

�Fifty dollars.�

I took out a marked fifty-dollar bill and handed it to her. Tucking it into her bag, she laid the bag on the dresser and smiled at me brightly. �Now I�ll have that drink.�

This was the point where I was supposed to flash my badge and inform her she was under arrest. But I had been doing some thinking since she entered the room. It was now nine-twenty, the television set was still on, and a newscast was due in ten minutes. There was a good probability that Jolly knew Kitty Desmond, since they were colleagues, and most call girls� friendships are restricted to other call girls, pimps and procurers. If she didn�t already know Kitty was dead, the shock of hearing it on the air might jolt some information out of her. Homicide wasn�t my business, but I felt a personal interest in this case, and the murder seemed more important than the routine arrest of a call girl.

I mixed her a drink and refilled my own glass.

While I was making drinks, Jolly reached around to the middle of her back and pulled down her dress zipper. Opening another zipper at the side of her dress, she untied the slim black velvet rope which served as a belt and casually slipped the dress off over her head. Opening the closet door, she carefully put the dress on a hanger and replaced the hanger in the closet.

Despite her profession, Jolly hadn�t been dressed to inspire passion. Call girls seldom are because they have to look respectable when crossing hotel lobbies. If a call girl slithered into a lobby wearing a low-cut gown and made up like a burlesque queen, she would be stopped by the house dick before she ever reached the elevator. With her dress on Jolly had merely looked like a stylishly smart young woman. And beneath it she wore the full quota of undergarments.

Pulling a slip off over her head, she placed that on another hanger and put it in the closet. Still in brassiere, panties, stockings and shoes, she moved to the dresser and picked up her bag. Taking out a comb, she looked in the mirror and rearranged her hair where pulling the garments off over her head had slightly mussed it.

Meantime I had finished mixing the drinks and could give my undivided attention to her performance.

Satisfied that her hair was properly groomed, Jolly returned the comb to the bag. Reaching behind her back again, this time with both hands, she unhooked her brassiere. She watched me with a slight smile on her face as she slowly removed it, folded it in half and laid it on the dresser. Then she arched her back to make her breasts jut out and waited for my approval.

She merited it. You would have expected some sag in a bust of that dimension, for it must have measured forty inches. But with all that weight, her breasts stood out as straight and firm as a teen-ager�s.

I brought my palms together in a silent gesture of applause.

Grinning at me, she kicked off her shoes and bent to un-snap her nylons. Gracefully peeling them off, she draped them across the dresser top, then pulled off pink panties and laid them atop the folded brassiere. That left her wearing nothing but a slim garter belt, and a moment later that was on the dresser top too.

For an instant she stood facing me, her back arched to push out her magnificent breasts, then did a pirouette and picked up her drink. Carrying it to the easy chair facing the television set, she sat, tucked her bare feet beneath her and gave me a chummy smile.

I pulled a straight-backed chair over next to the easy-chair, picked up my own drink and sat down. A private eye thing was playing on television, but I didn�t look at it. You can see those any night, but how often do you see a bare forty-inch bust that doesn�t require support?

�Cheers,� she said, elevating her glass.

I raised mine too, and we drank.

�I�m glad you�re not a hurry-up Joe,� she confided.

�What�s a hurry-up Joe?�

�A fellow who can�t wait, and starts pawing the minute you walk in. I like to get acquainted a little first, so it�s not like you�re doing it with an utter stranger. Don�t you think it�s nicer to start a little slow and gradually build up momentum?�

There was another word outside the average call girl�s vocabulary � �momentum.� Again it was an ordinary enough word, but hustlers seldom converse in words of more than one syllable. Most of them would have said �speed.�

�I guess it�s a little less commercial,� I allowed.

�Yes, that�s what I mean. This may sound funny to you, but sometimes I like to forget there�s any money involved. With some fellows you can�t. It�s just a matter of getting the unpleasantness over with as soon as possible. But when I like a man, I feel like taking my time and getting some enjoyment myself. I�ve got an idea you can make me squeal.�

�Um,� I said noncommittally.

�Are you a straight lover?�

�What�s a straight lover?� I inquired.

�You know. Some fellows have odd ideas.�

�Oh,� I said. �Sorry. I�m the old-fashioned type.� I made my voice apologetic.

�Silly,� she said, making a face at me. �I wasn�t suggesting anything. I was just asking. I�m the old-fashioned type myself, but you�d be surprised at how mixed up some perfectly normal looking men are.�

�Like how?�

�Well, for instance, some of them don�t even take their clothes off and don�t even want to touch a girl. They just want her to parade around in front of them.�

�Voyeurs,� I said.

She gave me a delighted smile. �You do too read as many books as I do. I read a lot, you know, and I like intelligent, well-read men. I�ve done a lot of reading on abnormal psychology. Do you know much about it?�

�Some,� I said. �What else do you run into?�

�Well, there are the masochiste, who like to be whipped. Not many, but every so often one turns up. And the sadists, who like to whip girls.�

I raised my eyebrows. �Do you put up with that?�

She lifted bare shoulders in a graceful shrug. �Not with a leather belt. Did you notice the belt on my dress?�

�Uh-huh. Black velvet.�

�Yes, with no buckle. Most of the girls wear something like that, just in case. It hardly hurts at all. Just stings a little and doesn�t leave any welts. If they won�t settle for that, it�s no go. I just leave. Usually they will, though. One of the most prominent businessmen in this town is a whipper.�

And I had thought being a cop was a hell of a way to make a living. �Don�t these cuckoos ever give you trouble?� I inquired.

�Oh, no. I know how to handle myself when things get out of hand. I�ve only run into one psycho. He wanted to burn me with cigarettes, and he got insistent. I clipped him on the jaw and knocked him colder than a carp.�

The girl�s frank, cheerful attitude toward her profession began to get to me. She had the moral outlook of an alley cat, but there was an odd mixture of callousness and na�vet� about her which was strangely appealing. Despite my low opinion of whores in general, I found myself beginning to like her.

The private eye drama on television ended at that moment and a commercial came on. �I want to catch the news,� I said. �Like another drink before it starts?�

�Sure.� She drained her glass and handed it to me.

Rising, I carried both glasses over to the dresser. Mine was still half full, so I added only about a half ounce of bourbon and filled the glass with soda and ice. I made her a full drink. The news had started when I returned to my chair and handed back her glass. We watched and listened in silence through the national and international news. When that ended and another commercial came on, she hoisted her glass.

�Cheers again,� she said. �Don�t you think we�re acquainted enough now?�

I gave her an inquiring look.

�I mean there�s such a thing as being too slow,� she said. �Those psychologists have it all wrong.�

�What psychologists?� I asked, lost.

�The ones who write books about call girls. They sit in their dusty offices and make up a lot of stuff about how we live and how we feel.�

�Oh,� I said. �Those psychologists.�

�In every book I�ve read about call girls, they say they�re all frigid, that they do it just for the money. Not even for the money, really, because subconsciously they think it�s dirty money, so they throw it all away on pimps as fast as they earn it. They make me so mad.�

I gave her a sympathetic smile.

�I don�t throw my money away. You should see my bank account. I�m saving to open a lingerie shop. And I�m not frigid either. Sometimes I�d just as soon sit out the whole night. But you kind of appeal to me. It makes me all goose pimply to sit here bare naked with you looking at me from those big brown eyes. I�m getting kind of warm.�

I grinned at her. �Soon as the local news is over. Can you hold out five more minutes?�

Her shoulders lifted in another shrug and she took a long pull of her drink.

The commercial ended and the local news came on.

Apparently there hadn�t been any further developments in the Katherine Desmond case, for the report was an exact replica of the one on the eight-thirty newscast. I kept my eyes on Jolly�s face as the newscaster spoke. There was no reaction to his first sentence, which merely announced that a local young woman had been murdered by an unknown assailant. But when he mentioned the name Katherine Desmond, Jolly�s eyes popped wide open. As the newscaster�s voice droned on, her mouth formed a little round O and she grew paler and paler.

When the item ended and the announcer went on to other news, Jolly pulled her feet from beneath her, set them on the floor and stared at me white-faced.

�What�s the matter?� I inquired.

�That was Kitty,� she whispered. �One of my best girl friends.�

�The murdered girl?� I asked with raised brows.

�Yes. I just talked to her on the phone at eleven-thirty this morning. She�d just returned from an all-night date.�

�Oh, she was a colleague of yours?�

Her head moved up and down in a jerky nod. �She must have been killed not more than an hour or two after I talked to her. The man said Doll walked in at three. Maybe it was only minutes after I talked to her.�

�Doll?�

�Her apartment-mate, Delores. We call her Doll.�

�Oh. She�s in the business too?�

�Just recently. She�s brand new, only been on a couple of dates. Kitty got her lined up with � with the referral agency, and had her move in with her only about a week ago. Kitty asked me to share her apartment first, but I like to live alone. Just think. If I had taken her up, I would have been the one to walk in and find her.�

Shuddering slightly, she drained her glass and held it out. �I need another drink. Straight, on the ice.�

Walking over to the dresser, I set down my own glass, which was hardly touched, threw a little more ice into hers and poured about four ounces of whisky over it. When I handed back the glass, she greedily knocked off about half of it in one gulp.

The raw whisky made her gasp. Closing her eyes, she shook herself like a puppy, making her oversized breasts jiggle like twin balloons full of Jello. When she opened her eyes again, a little color had returned to her face.

�I think I�m going to cry,� she announced.

I probably looked alarmed, because crying women upset me. �Drink the rest of your drink,� I urged hurriedly.

Her face had begun to screw up for tears, but my suggestion distracted her attention to the glass in her hand. Raising it, she drained it completely, closed her eyes and shook herself again, with the same interesting effect.

After a moment she opened her eyes and thrust the glass at me. �I�ll be all right now. Thanks.�

�More?� I inquired.

She shook her head. �I�d pass out.�

Setting her glass on the dresser next to mine, I walked over to switch off the TV set, then turned to gaze down at her.

�Do you have any idea who could have killed your friend?� I asked.

She started to shake her head, abruptly stopped as something occurred to her. �I told her she was playing with dynamite,� she said, as though speaking aloud to herself.

�How was that?� I asked.

Her eyes focused on me as though she had momentarily forgotten I was there. Her face had become quite flushed, and I realized she was becoming slightly drunk.

�Nothing,� she said. �I�d rather not talk about it any more.�

�It might make you feel better to talk things out. I�m a good listener.�

�No. I don�t even want to think about it. Poor Kitty.� Her face started to screw up again.

I came to a decision. �Jolly!� I said sharply.

She gave me a startled look.

�I�ve got another shock for you, Jolly.�

�What do you mean, Matt?�

Producing my wallet, I walked forward and thrust my badge under her nose. �I�m a cop. Sergeant Matt Rudd of the prostitution detail.�

When she recovered from the first shock of my announcement, the girl underwent a typically feminine reaction. She clasped her arms protectively across the bare bosom I had been gazing at for more than fifteen minutes.

Looking up at me reproachfully, she said, �And I thought you were nice!�

�I am,� I assured her. �Want to put on your clothes?�

Jumping up, she hurriedly dressed with her back to me. This offered just as pleasant a view as her front. She was a trifle plump in the rear, but it was an attractive plumpness.

When she was fully clothed, she turned to stare at me defiantly.

�Take a look at that fifty I gave you,� I suggested.

Picking up her bag, she removed the bill and studied it. In a rueful voice she said, �It�s initialed M.R. Matt Rudd, huh?� The alcohol was no longer effecting her voice. The discovery that I was a cop had shocked away the mild glow she had been getting.

Moving forward, I took the bill from her hand and replaced it in my wallet. �Now there�s no evidence,� I said. �I guess I can�t arrest you.�

She examined me warily. �What is this?�

�Sit down again,� I invited.

Her eyes narrowed. �If this is some kind of a shakedown, I never carry more than five dollars on a date.�

I put a pained expression on my face. �Do I look like a crooked cop?�

�You�re beginning to sound like one.�

�Look,� I said. �I�m not going to arrest you and I�m not going to shake you down. Before you arrived, I meant to run you in as soon as the financial transaction was completed. But I changed my mind a couple of minutes after you got here.�

She said with mocking disbelief, �You mean my charm made you forget your duty?�

�Your charm had nothing to do with it,� I said irritably, beginning to tire of the exchange. �You�re a rather charming gal, but I�ve got a cold-blooded sense of duty. I�d arrest my own grandmother if I thought she deserved it. I�ll give you a choice. Sit down long enough to listen to me, or I�ll upend you and fix you so you won�t want to sit down for a week.�

After eyeing me for a moment, she decided I meant it. Returning to the easy chair, she sat primly erect with her hands clasped in her lap.

�I�m listening,� she said.

I stood directly in front of the chair, looking down at the girl.

�I want to tell you a story,� I said. �This morning a man from Houston who�s staying at the Hotel Leland came in to report he�d been rolled by a call girl named Kitty. I won�t bore you with the details of the investigation my partner and I made, but we established that Kitty was one of Little Artie Nowak�s girls. I assume you are too.�

She blinked, but said nothing.

�I suppose you girls know you�re pretty well protected. Artie must have informed you that you don�t have to worry about being picked up by the law. Right?�

She said cautiously, �We�ve always understood there was some kind of fix in at police headquarters.�

�You understood wrong,� I told her. �It was a political fix, and it ended today. That�s why we started after you girls tonight. But this morning the fix was still in and we couldn�t touch Kitty without risking displeasure from a pretty influential political figure. So we just visited Little Artie, explained what had happened and suggested it would be nice to get the Houston man�s money back. Artie seemed a little sore at Kitty for rolling a customer. He paid what she had stolen out of his own pocket and said he�d collect from her later. I passed on the money to the Houston man and forgot about it until eight-thirty tonight. Then I heard on television that Kitty had been murdered.�

Jolly�s eyes grew round. �You think Little Artie...� It trailed off and she licked her lips.

�I don�t know,� I said. �But if he did, I caused it. I didn�t know Kitty personally, but I hate to think I condemned a young girl to death for stealing a lousy five hundred dollars. That�s why I changed my mind about you. I�m not a homicide cop, so her murder is really none of my business. But she�s on my conscience. I figured nailing her murderer was more important than booking you for prostitution. So I deliberately used you. I had an idea you might know her, and hearing about her murder on television might jolt some information out of you. Does that make you sore?�

She licked her lips again. �It was a kind of dirty trick, but I guess it�s better than being arrested.�

�Would you like to see her killer nailed?�

�Of course. She was about my best friend.�

�Then we�re on the same side in this. Maybe between us we can nail him. Want to forget that I brought you here under false pretenses, start over and be friends?�

She studied my face, mulling it over.

�I suppose you�re a cop hater,� I said. �Most girls in your business are. But forget that and think about your friend Kitty.�

�Why should I be a cop hater?� she asked. �I�ve never been arrested. I�ve never worked for anyone but Artie, and until tonight Artie�s girls never got arrested. I admit I don�t have a high regard for cops, but I don�t hate them. You fellows have to make a living too, I suppose.�

�That�s tolerant of you,� I said dryly. �Then why are you hesitating?�

In a slow voice she said, �I was thinking that I wouldn�t want what happened to Kitty to happen to me.�

I frowned at her. �Why should it?�

�I mean if I talked out of turn, and it got back to � to whoever killed Kitty, I�d be in real trouble.�

�You don�t have to be so delicate,� I said. �There�s nobody here but us. You mean if it got back to Artie.�

�Well, yes.�

�I�m a human clam,� I assured her. �Whatever you tell me is strictly between us.�

�How do I know? I�ve never known any cops, but the girls all say never trust one. You might go right down to headquarters and tell the homicide cops. Then they�d drag me in and ask all sorts of questions, and it would be all over the newspapers that I�d talked.�

I said grimly, �I�ve got one girl�s death on my conscience now, Jolly. Believe me, I�ll make sure nothing happens to you on my account.�

After examining me for several seconds, she gave me a wan smile. �I do believe you, Matt. I guess I�ll forgive you for being a cop. I suppose you don�t have any more respect for my profession than I have for yours, so we start out even.�

�All right,� I said with a smile. �We�re friends then?�

�If you�re willing to meet me halfway. I�ll forget you�re a cop if you�ll forget I�m a whore.�

�Forget the last part yourself,� I said gruffly. �I already have.�

�It�s not easy to forget,� she said in a low voice. �I have to look in the mirror every day.�

This left a good opening to suggest she get out of the racket if it depressed her so much, but I�m neither a reformer nor a psychoanalyst. She was old enough to straighten out her own life if she wanted to badly enough.

I said, �You�re a big girl. You must know what you�re doing.�

�Oh, I went into it with my eyes wide open. I can�t blame anyone but myself. Except I thought I could quit whenever I wanted to. I had it all figured out that I�d save enough money to open some legitimate business.�

�Sure. But you always decide to go for one more grand, huh?�

She shook her head. �It isn�t that at all. I have more than I need now, and I have a little lingerie shop all picked out. It�s Artie.�

�You mean he won�t let you quit?�

She gave a little shudder. �Artie�s girls quit when they stop making money. He gave me a sample of what happens to girls who want to retire without his permission.�

�You mean he beat you?�

�He put me in bed for three days. He�s so little, I thought I could handle him. I don�t think he outweighs me more than five pounds. But he�s fast as lightning and he can hit like a sledge hammer. He was very methodical about it. He didn�t mark my face at all, because that would have been bad for business. But I was black and blue from my neck to my hips. I�ve never taken such a beating in my life.�

�The son of a bitch,� I growled.

She lifted her shoulders in a tired shrug. �It convinced me. That was six months ago, and I�ve never mentioned retirement since.�

�If he takes a fall for murder, you�ll be off the hook,� I said. �Let�s get back on the subject. A few minutes ago you said something about warning Kitty that she was playing with dynamite. What did you mean?�

�She was rolling Johns. I guess several of the girls were, because it got back to Artie a while ago. He called us all together and warned us that if he caught any girl rolling a John in the future, he�d beat hell out of her. But Kitty went on rolling them anyway. She wanted me to come in on the deal, but I wouldn�t have any part of it. One beating from Artie is all I ever want. I warned her that if she got caught, he�d do exactly as he said.�

�What do you mean, come in on the deal?�

�Kitty said she had protection in the event Artie did get rough. She was paying a percentage of the take for it. I don�t know who he was, but I gathered he�d put Kitty and the other girls up to rolling Johns, and it wasn�t their own idea.�

So Nick Bartkowiak had been wrong in thinking the girls were rolling clients on Artie�s order, I thought. It seemed that Little Artie had been as concerned about the practice as Nick.

I said, �If Kitty was such a close confidante of yours, how come she didn�t tell you who this protector was?�

�I didn�t want to know. I made it quite clear that I wanted no part of the deal and I particularly didn�t want to know her protector�s name. I was thinking of Artie, you see. I didn�t want him coming around to beat information out of me, and the best way to avoid it was not to have any information.�

No wonder she had been reluctant to talk, I thought. If we could put her on the stand to testify to the warning Little Artie had given the girls, my testimony on top of hers would build a pretty sound circumstantial case for premeditated murder. The trouble was that I had guaranteed her evidence would go no further than me. She could be subpoenaed and forced to testify, but that involved going back on my word. And I wasn�t going to violate her confidence even to convict a murderer. I could try to talk her into co-operating, however.

I said, �Are you convinced in your own mind that Artie killed Kitty?�

She looked surprised. �Who else could have, Matt? He warned us all that any girl caught rolling a John would catch a beating. You told him about Kitty, and a few hours later she was beaten to death.�

�It takes evidence in court to get a conviction,� I said. �Would you be willing to repeat on the stand what you�ve told me?�

Her eyes grew big and she looked scared to death. �He�d kill me, Matt. You promised that what I told you would stay between us.�

�It will unless you release me from my promise,� I assured her. �But he couldn�t kill you if he was in jail. And there�s no bond set for first-degree murderers.�

�He could still have me killed. Jake Stark wouldn�t be in jail, and he�s Artie�s hatchet man.�

�You�d be furnished police protection, Jolly.�

�Oh, fine. Suppose he beat the rap? After the trial the protection would be dropped and Artie could take his revenge at his leisure.�

�He won�t beat it if he�s guilty. Racketeers like Artie get away with a lot in this town, but nobody gets protected for murder.�

She gave her head a determined shake. �Even if he went to the chair, there�d still be Jake Stark and Artie�s other boys. I know what happens to squealers in this racket. You gave me your word nobody but you would know I talked.�

�All right,� I said soothingly. �Don�t get excited. I�m not going to get you in trouble. We�ll go after him some other way.�

She looked relieved. �I�m sorry, Matt, but you can�t ask me to testify in court. I�d be too scared.�

�Okay. We�ll try something else. Maybe Kitty�s apartment-mate knows something she hasn�t told the police.�

Jolly said dubiously, �She wouldn�t be any more likely to tell you than the homicide cops. You�re a cop too.�

�She wouldn�t have to know that. She might talk in front of a friend of yours she thought was in the rackets. She doesn�t know much about you, does she?�

�We�ve only known each other a couple of weeks. I don�t know much about her either. But we�re friendly enough. She�s a pretty nice kid.�

�Then suppose you introduce me as your boy friend?�

Jolly gave me a peculiar look. �You know what kind of boy friends girls in the profession have?�

I must have looked blank, because she smiled in self-mockery. �You think any nice, normal man wants a girl friend who makes her living the way we do? I don�t know a single girl in the business whose boy friend, if she has one, isn�t a kept man. Do you want to pose as a pimp?�

That hadn�t occurred to me when I made the suggestion, though I had enough knowledge about the prostitution racket to know what she said was true. She used the word �pimp� in its narrowest esoteric sense. To the general public �pimp� and �procurer� are synonymous, but the words have entirely separate meanings in the vocabulary of a prostitute. A pimp has no practical function in her profession. He arranges no dates, he doesn�t bail her out when she�s arrested, he offers no protection. He is simply her kept man.

The idea of posing as a pimp didn�t appeal to me much. �Suppose I just be a friend?� I suggested. �Not a boy friend.�

An amused expression grew on her face. �Maybe it would be more convincing if you did pose as my pimp. She�d be more likely to talk in front of you. The girls are in the habit of confiding as freely in pimps as they do in each other.�

I scowled at her. �We�ll keep me just a male friend.�

�All right,� she said agreeably, but she still looked amused. �When do you want to go see her?�

I glanced at my watch. It was just ten o�clock. �You think it�s too late to drop in tonight?�

She looked surprised. �It�s early. We girls all live nocturnal lives and sleep days. I doubt that she�d be out on a date, with Kitty just dead. She�s probably sitting at home alone mooning. We could drop in and pretend it�s a sympathy visit.�

�Then let�s go,� I said. Then I had a thought. �Do you keep a pimp, Jolly?�

She gave her head a scornful shake. �I haven�t sunk that low. I prefer to be lonely.�

Before we left the room, I phoned room 614, but there was no answer. I asked for an outside line and dialed headquarters. I caught Carl Lincoln at the booking desk.

When he came to the phone, he said, �Where the devil you been? I�ve got my first one all booked and am ready to start out again.�

�Something came up,� I said. �You�ll have to carry on alone for the rest of the night.�

There was a moment of silence. Then he said, �She�s that nice?�

�Oh, go soak your head,� I told him. �Have you caught any television newscasts tonight?�

�I�ve been working, not watching TV.�

�Well, that girl we sicked Little Artie on was beaten and strangled to death this afternoon. I�ve got a lead on it, and I�m following it up.�

There was another silence before he said, �Why don�t you turn it over to Homicide? It�s their job.�

�I feel a personal interest, since I sicked Artie on her. Cover for me tonight, and I�ll see you tomorrow.�

�All right,� he said reluctantly. �But be careful how you stick your neck out.�

�I always am,� I told him, and hung up.

Getting my coat and tie from the closet, I put both on. Jolly looked me over with approval.

�You wear pretty good clothes for a cop,� she said. �You could pass for my pimp.�

I said, �As I understand it, one of the functions a pimp performs is periodically beating up his girl. Want me to start acting like your pimp?�

�Maybe we�d better go,� she suggested.

One twenty-five Ormond Place was a four-unit apartment building in a respectable residential district on the edge of the south side. Katherine Desmond and Delores Fermer were listed on a lobby mailbox card as occupying the upper right-hand unit. We climbed the stairs and rang the bell.

The door was opened by a slim, redheaded girl of no more than twenty. She had flawless features and milk-white skin which brought out the deep green color of her eyes and made them glow like polished jade. She wore black lounging pajamas which clung tightly enough to outline a particularly shapely figure; on her feet she had little, pointed, golden slippers. For no reason I could define, I got the instant impression that under ordinary circumstances she would have a vivacious personality, but at the moment her expression was the listless one of fresh grief.

�Oh, hi, Jolly,� she said in a tired voice. She glanced at me with a touch of curiosity. �Come on in.�

We walked into a well-furnished front room and the girl shut the door behind us. A hall off the front room led to a kitchen at the far end of the apartment, and between it and us there were several doors. It seemed to be at least a two-bedroom apartment.

Jolly said, �We only heard about Kitty on the nine-thirty news, Doll. I�m terribly sorry.�

�I appreciate your dropping in,� the redhead said in a sad voice. �It was a terrible thing. You can�t imagine how terrible. She had been so pretty.�

Apparently this was a reference to what Kitty had looked like when she found her dead, for a tremor shook her body.

Jolly said, �I don�t think you ever met my boy friend, Matt. This is Doll, honey.�

I gave Jolly a murderous look, but she only smiled at me sweetly. She must have had a perverted sense of humor, for she was deliberately creating the impression that I was her pimp, even after I had vetoed the idea. There was nothing I could do about it either, without making Doll suspicious.

Doll said, �How do you do?� and examined me with professional detachment.

Giving her a nod, I muttered something polite.

�Sit down,� Doll invited. �May I get you drinks?�

�Not me,� Jolly said. �I�ve already had my quota for today.�

I didn�t particularly want a drink, but I figured Doll would probably have to go to the kitchen to mix one, and it would afford an opportunity to give Jolly a piece of my mind in private. �I�d like a bourbon and soda,� I said.

I had guessed right. Our hostess headed for the kitchen. But Jolly crossed me up. She followed right along with an offer to help. I made a motion indicating I wanted to speak to her alone, but she only threw me a bright smile and continued after the redhead.

They must have had quite a lot of woman talk in the kitchen, for I smoked two cigarettes while they were mixing two drinks. When they finally returned, Doll was carrying her own and Jolly had mine.

�Here you are, darling,� she said, handing it to me.

I gave her a cold look. �Thanks.�

I seated myself on the sofa and Jolly sat next to me, one knee chummily pressed against mine. Doll took a chair facing both of us.

Doll was looking me over with considerable interest, which led me to the conclusion that I had been the subject of conversation in the kitchen. I was wondering what tapestry of lies Jolly had woven about our relationship when the little minx let me know.

�I was telling Doll about the Jaguar I just bought you, hon. Don�t you just love it?�

I smiled from the teeth out. �It�s a beaut. But you shouldn�t have done it. All that time on your back, just so I can ride around in style.�

Jolly emitted an indulgent little laugh. �Hasn�t he a wonderful sense of humor, Doll? He says things like that all the time. That�s one of the reasons I love to spoil him.� She turned back to me. �Darling, you really ought to have some new clothes to go with the new car. Why don�t you run down to Al Swartz�s tomorrow and charge a couple of new suits to my account?� Alfred Swartz was the most exclusive and most expensive tailor in town. As a matter of fact the suit I had on had come from there.

Doll looked impressed. I caught Jolly throwing a side glance at her to see how she was taking our conversation, and suddenly realized that indulging her sense of humor was only part of the reason she was passing me off as her kept man. She was also parading me as a possession in order to impress the other girl.

My work has brought me into contact with enough prostitutes to learn something about their peculiar psychological attitudes and their unique social life. Normal women can tell their friends about their husband�s or boy friend�s promotions and show off the gifts they�ve been given. But what can you tell about your pimp when all your friends know he�s living on you? So I suppose some sort of transference takes place, and a call girl�s prestige among her colleagues rests to some extent on how much her pimp costs her. I realized that Jolly was simply showing off her supposed generosity before her friend.

All at once I stopped being mad at her and felt infinitely sorry for her. It was a pretty drab romantic life for a girl to have when the only brag she could make about her prince charming was how much she spent on him.

I decided to let her have her fun, but I also decided to end the subject.

I said to Doll, �Have the cops gotten anywhere at all with Kitty�s murder yet?�

She shook her head and the saddened expression returned to her face.

I was wondering how delicately to work the conversation around to Doll�s theory about the murder, when Jolly steered things in the right direction by asking a blunt question.

�Do you think Artie killed her, Doll?�

The redhead looked upset at the question, but she didn�t look surprised. �I don�t know. It�s occurred to me. Do you think it might have been him?�

�Well, you know he warned everybody about rolling Johns. Of course that was before you came to work for him, but Kitty probably told you about it.�

Doll nodded. �Kitty wanted me to go in on that racket, but I�m hardly even used to going to strange men�s rooms yet. It would terrify me to try stealing money from them. I asked her once what she�d do if she got caught, but she just laughed.�

She was speaking unreservedly, as though I were another call girl instead of a strange man she had just met. Jolly had been right � my introduction as a pimp made me an insider.

Jolly said, �Maybe she did get caught. And Artie heard about it.�

Doll shook her head. �Until last night, she hadn�t rolled anyone since I moved in here eight days ago. I know, because she always told me everything that happened on a date. She did roll a John for five hundred last night, but she didn�t get caught at it. She showed me the money when she came in about two A.M.�

Jolly�s face registered surprise. �Two A.M.? When I phoned her at eleven-thirty this morning, she said she�d just gotten home.�

�I know. I was here when you phoned, and she had. She went out on a second date last night. After she came in, she phoned Artie at the tavern. The place stays open until two-thirty with daylight saving in effect. She told him she was available again. He�d just had a call for a girl, so he gave her the assignment and she went back out.�

�You were here at eleven-thirty this morning?� I said. �When did you leave?�

�I was just leaving then. I stopped at the door when the phone rang, to see if it were for me. Kitty called that it was just Jolly, so I continued on out.�

�See anyone hanging around?� I inquired.

She shook her head again. �No, but there was a funny thing. I thought I heard footsteps going down the stairs. It sounded like whoever it was wanted to make as little noise as possible; sort of like he was stepping on tiptoe. At the time I thought it was probably one of the other tenants, but when I got outside no one was in sight. I didn�t think of it when the police were questioning me, but later I got to wondering if that might not have been the killer. I already had the door open when the phone rang, then I waited to see who it was. The killer might have been coming upstairs just then, and turned around and went back down when he heard the door open. He could have ducked under the stairway, where the basement entrance is, and I wouldn�t have seen him as I went out.�

�That sounds possible,� I said.

She sighed. �Poor Kitty. If I hadn�t gone out, maybe it would never have happened.�

�Or maybe you would have gotten it too,� I said.

She gave a little shudder.

Jolly said, �If it was Artie, her so-called protection wasn�t functioning very well.�

�I guess not. And Kitty used to brag that she didn�t have to worry about Artie, because Jake would take care of her if Artie tried to get rough.�

�Jake?� I said.

�Jake Stark. He works for Artie.�

That was interesting. So Jake had initiated the little side racket with the girls right under his employer�s nose. He was the mysterious protector who, for a percentage of the take, was supposed to prevent Artie from taking disciplinary action against any girl who might be caught.

I wondered why Jake Stark would take such a risk when he must have known Little Artie�s reaction would be violent if he ever discovered his right-hand man was deliberately undermining his operation. Then I realized he was in a unique position to get away with it. He would know of any complaints about the girls as soon as Artie received them, because he was constantly with the little man. He was in a position to soothe Artie�s wrath, and even physically restrain him from harming the girls, ostensibly for Artie�s own good. And undoubtedly, he had issued the girls strict instructions never to mention his name to Artie � no matter what happened.

Suddenly another thought occurred to me. Jake had been present when I told Artie about Kitty rolling her out-of-town client. Up to then it was probable that the only information reaching Artie about the rollings had been when Nick Bartkowiak approached him concerning the rumors he had heard. Those must have been vague rumors which didn�t identify by name any of the girls involved, or Artie certainly would have stepped on the actual offenders instead of merely issuing a general warning to all his girls. It was probable that mine was the first definite complaint to reach him about a specific girl.

Jake Stark might have been afraid that Kitty would tell Artie who encouraged her to roll clients. And he might have taken action to shut her up before Artie got to her.

While I was thinking these thoughts, Doll and Jolly were still discussing the murder. But the subject had veered to Doll�s discovery of it and her horrified reaction. There didn�t seem to be any more pertinent information we could get from her. Finishing my drink, I suggested to Jolly that we leave. At the door I said, �Nice to have met you, Doll. Thanks for the drink.�

�Any time,� she said. �Drop in again.�

The words were merely polite, but she looked directly into my face as she spoke and there was a subdued challenge in her eyes. Jolly noticed that the invitation was addressed to me only. But her expression was only amused instead of irked. Probably she would have bridled in feminine resentment if I had actually been her boy friend. But it only tickled her sense of humor to hear Doll wasting the oblique invitation on a cop.

I said vaguely, �Sure, Doll. Maybe I will.�

As we went down the stairs, Jolly threw a speculative look back over her shoulder at me.

�Have fun?� I growled.

�Well, it was effective, wasn�t it? She opened right up.�

We reached the lobby and she waited for me to open the door. I said, �Just a minute,� and walked back beneath the stairway.

There was a door to the basement well out of sight of the front door. As Doll had suggested, the killer could easily have ducked out of sight there until she left the building.

When I returned to where Jolly was standing, she still had an amused grin on her face. Pulling open the door, I said, �Maybe you won�t think it�s so funny when you get the bill from Swartz.�

She gave me a quick glance. �I don�t have any account there.�

�I�ll open one for you. I have a witness to your offer to buy me a couple of suits.�

With a shrug she preceded me through the door. I let it swing shut behind me and caught up with her in time to hold open the car door for her.

When I rounded the car and climbed in behind the wheel, she said, �You certainly treat me like a lady.�

�Why shouldn�t I?� I asked. �Where do you live?�

She gave me an uptown address not far from my own flat. I started the car and we drove along in silence for a time.

Finally she said, �Would you really like some clothes from Swartz, Matt?�

I threw her a disgusted look. �For cripes sake, Jolly, don�t try to make a real pimp out of me.�

She grinned at me. �Just trying to get under your skin, darling.�

�You�ve succeeded,� I said shortly.

Her grin faded. �Don�t be mad at me, Matt. Haven�t I been helpful?�

�Yeah,� I had to admit.

�You know, in a way I�m glad you turned out to be a cop. Or at least I�m glad you aren�t a John. We�d be out of business if it weren�t for Johns, but a girl can�t build much respect for a man who has to buy his women.�

There didn�t seem to be any appropriate answer to that, so I just let it ride. When we reached her address, I cut the engine, went around to the curb side and held open the door for her. She sat still until I got it open, obviously enjoying the unfamiliar sensation of being treated like a lady.

She lived in an apartment building of about the same class as Doll�s, only larger. I walked her as far as the foyer.

�I�m on the second floor,� she said. �Like to come up for a drink?�

�Not tonight,� I said. �I still have things to do. If you hear any more about Kitty�s murder, will you phone me at the Vice, Gambling and Narcotics Division?�

�All right. If I don�t phone, will I ever see you again?� She looked at me wistfully.

�I might give you a ring. Are you listed?�

�No.� She took a small white card from her bag and handed it to me. �My phone number�s on that.�

I put it in my pocket. �What�s your last name?� I inquired, suddenly realizing I didn�t know it.

�O�Day. Susan O�Day. Jolly is just the name I use for business purposes.�

�Okay, Susan. Thanks for your help.�

�You�re welcome, Matt.� Looking at me, she asked, �Going to kiss me good night?�

�Sure,� I said, tipping up her chin with a forefinger and bending my head.

She gave me a quick, cool kiss on the lips, then instantly turned and ran up the steps without looking back.

It didn�t occur to me until I was back in the car and had driven away that she would probably spend the next hour phoning girls to warn them that the heat was on, and not to accept any dates from clients they hadn�t been with before. Momentarily I thought of turning back to nip this in the bud, then I decided the hell with it. The girls weren�t important anyway. What really counted was the ringleader, and we couldn�t touch Little Artie.

At least we couldn�t touch him on a procuring rap. Maybe I could tag him with a more serious charge which would put him away for good.

It was only eleven P.M. when I dropped Jolly off. I decided to drive down to Little Artie�s tavern and see if I could get a few words alone with Jake Stark.

I parked in front of the place just as two men stepped from the tavern. One was a short, dumpy man of fifty with a cranky expression on his face. The other was a tall, unnaturally thin, sad-looking redhead over six feet tall.

Getting out of the car, I said, �Evening, Lieutenant. Hi, Hank.�

Lieutenant Robert Wynn said sourly, �Hello, Rudd.�

Hank Carter merely said, �Hi.� He was always monosyllabic around Wynn.

Wynn looked me up and down. �You certainly pitched us a curve on the Desmond case, Sergeant. Nowak�s day bartender says Little Artie never once stepped outside the tavern since it opened at nine this morning.�

�Jake Stark?� I asked.

�That�s the guy.�

�Jake is Little Artie�s hatchet-man. You can take that alibi with a grain of salt.�

The lieutenant snapped, �It would stand up in court unless we produced a counter witness placing Artie at the scene of the crime. Nowak is sore about us questioning him. He�ll probably complain to Nick Bartkowiak and Bartkowiak will complain to the commissioner. You got any more bright ideas?�

I thought about telling him that I had learned Little Artie wasn�t responsible for the rolling racket and had warned his girls against it. Then I decided he would only demand to know where I had gotten my information, and I couldn�t tell him without violating my promise to Jolly.

I said, �I�m not paid to have ideas about homicides, Lieutenant, I�m a vice cop.�

�Thank God for that. What are you doing down here?�

�Working.�

�On what?�

I didn�t exactly dislike Wynn, but he wasn�t my favorite lieutenant. He was a little brass-happy, tending to act as though he were the army officer and the police sergeants and below were the enlisted men. Wynn and Hank Carter had been a team for years, but the lieutenant never called his partner anything but Sergeant or Carter, and Hank always called Wynn either Lieutenant or Sir.

I said, �When you get transferred to Vice, Gambling and Narcotics, I�ll tell you about all my cases, Lieutenant.�

His face reddened. �Come on,� he said to Carter, and abruptly walked away.

Hank Carter flashed me an apologetic smile and trailed after his sour-tempered partner. They climbed into an F car parked at the curb.

I continued on into the tavern. The place was packed to the walls and a jukebox was blaring. There were a few coats and ties, but most of the men were in the clothes they wore to their factory jobs. A dozen women, ranging in age from mid-twenty to one who was at least sixty, were next to the bar. They wore either cheap street dresses or skirts and blouses. Probably most of them were employees of the dress factory only two blocks away, out for what they considered an evening of gaiety.

Little Artie wasn�t around, but I saw Jake Stark leaning on the far end of the bar. He was this side of the bar, not behind it, as the regular night bartender was on duty. He was talking to a dumpy brunette of about thirty.

I was working my way through the mob toward Jake when I spotted the old man named Dinny seated at the same table where he had been drinking beer that morning. He was all alone, his back to the corner and a half-full beer glass before him, watching everything going on in the tavern. There was a vacant chair next to him. On a hunch I dropped into it.

�Evening, Dinny,� I said. �Having a ball?�

He grinned at me, exposing a perfect set of false teeth with bright red gums. �I always have a ball.� Then he examined me more closely. �Hey, you�re one of them cops was in here this morning. Artie called you Matt, didn�t he?�

�Uh-huh. Buy you a beer?�

�Sure.� He drained his glass and pushed it toward me. �You have to go after it. There ain�t no table service here.�

�If I pay, you go after it,� I told him. �You can bring me one too.� I pushed back his glass and laid a half dollar next to it.

He emitted a cackle. �I guess that�s fair. Can�t blame a lazy man for trying, through.�

Picking up the half dollar, he carried his glass to the bar and used it as a gavel to attract the barkeep�s attention. Despite the crowd, he got immediate service by keeping up the steady pounding. Ordinarily that sort of thing irks a bartender, but Dinny must have been a pet of the place, for the man behind the bar didn�t seem in the least put out.

The old man returned carrying one goblet-shaped schooner of beer and one seven-ounce glass. The schooner must have held twenty ounces.

Setting the small glass in front of me, he slid back into his seat. �These big specials cost forty cents,� he said. �A regular beer is fifteen, but there was only a dime left for you. I had to settle for a short one.�

�Thanks,� I said dryly.

Lifting the schooner with both hands, he said, �Mud,� and took a long pull.

I took a sip of mine.

�Augh,� he muttered with satisfaction, wiping his lips with the back of his gnarled hand. �They serve good beer here. Not too cold, not too warm, but just right.�

�You spend all your time in here?� I asked.

�Most of it. That was my retirement plan.�

�Come again?�

�I spent forty-three years on the furnace over at Effington Steel. That heat really dries you out. When I retired, I said to myself, �Dinny, you�re gonna spend the rest of your life in a barroom drinking beer.� That�s what I�m doing. I been sitting here day and night since I was sixty-five, and I ain�t had enough of it yet. Know how old I am?�

I examined his seamed face and white hair. He looked about ninety to me. �I don�t know. You just mentioned you�re over sixty-five.�

�Most people guess about sixty. But I already told you I retired at sixty-five, and that was some years back. Go ahead and guess.�

�A hundred and twelve,� I said.

He cackled. �You got some sense of humor. I�m seventy-eight. Would you ever believe it?�

I shook my head. �Not by a dozen years.� I meant he looked a dozen years older, but he assumed I meant it the other way and was pleased.

�Hard work and lots of beer is the formula,� he said. �I broke my back working for forty-three years, never got married and saved my money. I bet I got more in the bank than any ten guys standing at that bar. Plus I got my social security and plant pension.�

�Then you can buy the next drink,� I told him.

He shook his head. �Not me, mister. I�m a cheapskate. That�s why I got money.�

I grinned at him and he grinned back companionably. He said, �This one will last a while, but you can buy me another one later, if you�re still here. Lots of suckers do, just to hear me talk.�

I said, �If we�re going to put it on a commercial basis, I�ll pick the subject of conversation. How long did you stay here after we left this morning?�

�All day. Had my lunch and supper here. Except for a couple of dozen trips to the can, I ain�t been out of this chair since the place opened this morning.�

�Little Artie or Jake Stark leave the place?�

He regarded me thoughtfully. �I won�t be ready for another beer for some time, but a little whisky might go with this one.�

I felt in my pocket for change, found a quarter, two dimes and three nickels. �How much is a shot?�

�Top shelf is six-bits.�

�I wouldn�t want to shock your stomach,� I said. �How much is bar whisky?�

He emitted another cackle. �Forty cents. Sixty-five for a double.�

I don�t think he was really a free-loader. I think he just enjoyed the bargaining. I decided not to spoil his fun by giving in too easily. I shoved forty cents across the table. �Go get yourself a single.�

�I like a cigar when I drink whisky,� he said.

I shoved him another dime. �That�s it, Dinny. If you want some potato chips, dig in your own pocket.�

�I never eat between meals,� he said cheerfully.

Rising from the table, he went to the bar again and rapped for attention, this time using a coin as a gavel. He returned carrying a shot of whisky and a cigar. I held a light to the cigar.

When it was going, he said, �Now what was it you asked me?�

�I asked whether Artie or Jake left here today after my partner and I did.�

He nodded. �Yep. Want to know when and why?�

�Yeah.�

He tossed off his whisky and chased it with a sip of beer. �Augh! It sure is thirsty in here.�

�You get a nightcap when I walk away,� I said. �Not before.�

He lifted narrow shoulders in a philosophic shrug. �A double?�

�As much as you can get for a buck.�

�I guess that would be a triple,� he said. �Okay. Little Artie took over the bar and sent Jake out about one P.M.�

Jackpot, I thought. I said, �Sent him where?�

�To collect that money he paid you from the girl. What was her name? Kitty, wasn�t it?�

�Uh-huh. How long was he gone?�

�About an hour. Come back at two.�

That was interesting, I thought. According to Lieutenant Wynn, Jake had stated that Little Artie hadn�t left the tavern all day. In doing so, he had also provided an alibi for himself. I wondered if Wynn had bothered to ask Artie if Jake had left at any time. It didn�t really matter. I was sure Artie wouldn�t have volunteered the information unasked, and I was reasonably certain he would have lied if asked.

I said, �What�d Jake have to say when he came back?�

The old man shrugged again. �Nothing I heard. He took Artie back in the kitchen to talk. I figured he was giving him the money. But I couldn�t hear what they said. Why you asking me all this?�

Obviously he hadn�t heard the TV report of Katherine Desmond�s murder or, if he had, hadn�t connected her with the girl he overheard us discussing that morning. I didn�t see any point in enlightening him.

I said, �I�m a nosy cop. Where�s Artie right now?�

Looking around, he shrugged. �He was here a while back. Couple of guys come in to talk to him and Jake. They went back in the kitchen, so I didn�t hear what they wanted. There�s Jake over at the end of the bar. Artie must be down cellar.�

He meant in the basement poker game, which probably had started by now, since it was past eleven-thirty. I had never been in Artie�s basement, since cops weren�t very welcome there, but I had heard that Artie and Jake alternated in supervising the game.

Getting out my wallet, I tossed a dollar bill on the table and rose to my feet. �Go get yourself that triple, Dinny.�

�Thanks,� he said, scooping it up and rising also. �Don�t go away until I get it.�

�Why not?�

�I don�t take money from nobody. Only drinks. I don�t want you to think I�d stick this in my pocket and not buy the whisky.�

He had a peculiar set of ethics for a cadger. I humored him by waiting at the table until he returned from the bar with a Coke glass half full of whisky.

When he had slid back into his seat, I said, �Satisfied?�

�Sure. Here�s mud in your eye.� He raised the glass to take a sip, chased it with beer and said, �Augh!�

�Drink hearty,� I said, and turned to work my way through the crowd to where Jake Stark stood at the end of the bar.

Apparently Jake hadn�t seen me come in and hadn�t noticed me talking to the old man, for he looked surprised to see me. He also looked a bit unfriendly.

�You better not let Artie see you around here,� he greeted me. �He�s sore.�

I said, �I want to talk to you alone.�

The dumpy brunette on the bar stool next to him looked me over with interest. �Hi,� she said. �Introduce me to the gentleman, Jake.�

�You wouldn�t like him,� Jake growled. �He�s a cop. I got nothing to say to you in private, Rudd.�

�Then let�s bring Artie in on the conversation too,� I suggested. �He�d probably like to hear how you�ve been picking up extra change.�

He gave me a sharp look. �What�s that supposed to mean?�

�Never mind,� I said. �I�ll go downstairs and talk to Artie.� I started toward the kitchen. Halfway there Stark caught me by the arm.

�You can�t bust downstairs now,� he said. �Artie�s busy.�

�You�re not,� I said. �The kitchen empty?�

He examined me contemplatively. �What was that crack about picking up extra change?�

�You know what I meant, Jake. You want to discuss it here in front of everybody, or have a quiet talk in the kitchen?�

After examining me broodingly for a moment more, he said, �Guys keep passing through the kitchen on their way downstairs. You driving?�

�Uh-huh.�

�Pull around the corner on Clark Street and park near the alley. I�ll be along in five minutes.�

�Why don�t we just walk out together?�

�Because I don�t want to be seen leaving with no cop,� he snapped. �I got a reputation to think of.�

I gave him a humorless grin. �All right, Jake. I�ll wait five minutes. If you don�t show, I�ll be back to talk with Artie.�

Reversing direction, I walked out the front door and climbed into my car. Pulling around the corner, I parked where Stark had told me to.

Jake Stark kept me waiting only four minutes, which led me to believe he was anxious to keep me away from Artie Nowak. The curb-side door opened and he slid in next to me.

�All right,� he growled. �Now what�s on your mind?�

�A number of things,� I said. �We�ll start with your little sideline racket. Does Artie know you�re the guy responsible for his girls rolling customers?�

�You�re nuts,� he said in a voice he tried to make sound indignant, but which had a tremor in it.

�That means he doesn�t know,� I said. �He�ll beat you silly and kick you out in the gutter if he ever finds out. Why�d you ever take a chance like that?�

His voice climbed a notch. �I don�t even know what you�re talking about, Rudd.�

�Oh, can it,� I said disgustedly. �I didn�t come down here to waltz around in circles with you. I�m not just guessing, Jake. I know you talked the girls into rolling customers. You take a cut for promising to protect them against Artie in case they get caught.�

After a moment of silence, he said in a thick voice, �Who talked?�

�So you can give her what you gave Kitty? Not a chance.�

There was another period of silence. Then he said, �What do you mean by that?�

�I�ll keep it simple,� I said. �You and Artie lied to the homicide cops who dropped by the tavern a while back.�

�Huh? You�re off your rocker. The lieutenant asked if Artie had left the place today. I told him no, which was the truth.�

�That isn�t the lie I�m talking about. Didn�t Lieutenant Wynn ask if you had left?�

In the darkness his eyes were studying me narrowly. �He asked it. Artie told him I hadn�t. Which was also the truth.�

I gave my head a slow shake. �Between one and two P.M. you visited 125 Ormond Place. The witness isn�t sure of the exact time, but there isn�t any doubt it was you.�

I was deliberately giving him the impression he had been seen entering Kitty�s apartment house in order to protect Dinny. If he thought my only information was that he was gone from the tavern between one and two that afternoon, he would know the old man was my informant. And I didn�t want to read in the paper that Dinny had been found floating in the river.

�What witness?� he demanded.

�That�s a professional secret. We want the witness to live long enough to testify in court.�

He didn�t say anything for several seconds. Then he said, �You�re bluffing, Rudd. Nobody saw me there because I wasn�t there.�

I said, �Tell you what we�ll do, Jake. We�ll go talk to Artie. When he hears how you�ve been undermining his call-girl operation, I wonder if he�ll still feel like alibiing for you. I�ve got an idea he�ll admit he sent you to collect the five hundred from Kitty.�

Even in the darkness I could see beads of sweat glistening on his upper lip. �Listen, Rudd. I didn�t kill her. Honest to God I didn�t.�

�I�m listening,� I said.

�If I level with you, are you going to tell Artie anyway?�

�Depends on how level you sound.�

He took a deep breath. �I�m gonna take a chance on you being a square guy. Yeah, Artie took over the bar for a while this afternoon and sent me to collect from Kitty. She was dead when I got there.�

I gave him a bleak smile. �Coincidental, wasn�t it?�

�It�s the truth,� he said on a high note. �Why the hell would I want to kill the girl?�

�To shut her up. If she told Artie she was rolling clients on your instructions, you�d be in the soup.�

He made an impatient gesture. �I didn�t have to shut her up, for cripes sake. If Artie hadn�t sent me, I was going to talk him into letting me handle it, so I�d get to her first. I figured I�d collect the five hundred and tell her to keep her mouth shut. Then I�d tell Artie I�d belted her around a little and she promised she wouldn�t pull the stunt any more. Artie wouldn�t have gone after her again, so long as he thought she�d been learned a lesson. He�s got more on his mind than straightening out tarts. That kind of stuff he delegates to the hired help.�

�Not always,� I said. �I happen to know of one girl he beat up.�

�Yeah? Who?�

�Never mind. It still looks to me as though you had a hell of a good motive to kill the girl.�

�If I had, you think I�d admit ever being near the place?� he demanded.

He had a point there. I didn�t think he was either intelligent enough or subtle enough to attempt getting away with a partially true story. If he were guilty, it would be more in character for him to deny everything and squawk for a lawyer. I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt.

�Okay,� I said. �Tentatively I�ll accept your word that you didn�t kill her. What time did you get to her apartment?�

�About a quarter of two. When nobody answered the door, I tried the knob. It was unlocked. I walked in and found her in the bedroom. God, she was a sight! Somebody had beat her face all out of shape before he strangled her. I wiped off the front doorknob where I�d touched it and scrammed out of there fast.�

I examined him in silence for a time. Eventually I said, �Her purse was on the dresser. Did you collect the five hundred?�

He shook his head. �All I wanted was to be gone. I came back to the tavern and told Artie what had happened. It�s only about ten minutes from Kitty�s place to here, so I got back about two. Artie said just to sit tight, and if anybody asked, neither of us left the tavern all day. You going to relay this on to the homicide cops?�

�You don�t think I�d sit on a material witness, do you?�

In an earnest tone he said, �Listen, Rudd, I�ll make you a proposition. Give me twenty-four hours before you turn me in, and maybe we can break the case for you.�

�Who�s we?�

�Me and Artie. If I tell him a witness saw me enter the apartment building, and you�re going to blow my alibi wide open, I know he�ll get to work on it. Cripes, even if he wasn�t interested in protecting me, he won�t want it all over the papers that his chief assistant was arrested as a material witness in the murder of one of his call girls. Because to protect myself, I�d have to tell why I went to Kitty�s place.�

�What the devil can you and Artie do that Homicide Division can�t do better?�

�We�re on the inside. The other call girls are going to tell us things they�d never tell the cops. Artie can get them all together in a group and put on the pressure. The girls all know each other�s business, and if there�s anything at all they know about Kitty which might bear on her murder, we�ll find it out. We�ll have to deliver you the killer in self-defense. And you can take the credit.�

�I�m not interested in credit,� I said. �All I want is the killer to turn over to Homicide. What makes you think Artie won�t work just as hard to get you off the hook if you�re in jail?�

�Why should he? If you pull me in, the whole inside story comes out. I can�t explain why Artie sent me to Kitty�s place without telling that she was one of his call girls. And once the papers tie him into the call-girl racket, he�ll say the hell with it. I know him. He�ll throw me to the wolves. He doesn�t have to worry about being tagged for the murder because he never left the tavern. The only lever you�ve got to make him work on the case is keeping his name out of the papers.�

After musing over this, I decided it made sense. �I�ll give you until this time tomorrow night,� I decided. �If you haven�t come through with anything by then, you can talk to the homicide cops from a cell. And they get the full story, including your little sideline racket with the girls.�

He breathed a sigh of relief. �That�s fair enough. I�ll go talk to Artie right now.�

�You don�t have to wait until the deadline to let me know how you�re doing,� I told him. �The minute you hear anything, phone me either at home or at the Vice, Gambling and Narcotics Division. My home number�s in the book under Mathew Rudd.�

�Sure, Sarge,� he said. Pushing open the door, he climbed out and stood on the sidewalk, looking in at me. �Thanks for the break.�

�I�m not doing you any favors,� I growled at him. �You get twenty-four hours because I think you and Artie really may be able to get farther than Homicide Division. If you don�t come through, I�ll toss you in the can so fast, you�ll still be spinning when the door clangs shut.�

�Okay, okay,� he said soothingly. �We�ll come through.�

He pushed the door shut; I started the engine and drove away. In the rear-view mirror I could see him still standing there gazing after me until I swung left at the next corner.

It was after midnight when I got to headquarters. I found Carl Lincoln in the squadroom taking a coffee break. He eyed me glumly.

�You coming back to work?� he asked. �I just booked my third. All from the same room, using different bellboys. The girls are going to love the bellhops at the Grove Hotel.�

�We�re through for the night,� I said. �Let�s knock off, check out of the Grove and go home.�

�Suits me. What have you been doing?�

I gave him a brief rundown on my night�s activities. When I got to the part where Jake Stark had admitted finding Kitty dead, his eyebrows shot up.

�You turn him over to Homicide?� he asked.

I explained that I had given him a twenty-four-hour grace period, and why. Carl gave his head an unbelieving shake.

�You�ll get yourself boarded and kicked off the force, Matt. Holding back evidence that important almost makes you an accessory.�

�Calculated risk,� I said. �If I do have to pull him in tomorrow night, I wasn�t planning to mention to anyone I gave him twenty-four hours. Let�s get out of here.�

We drove back to the Grove Hotel in our separate cars, checked out and called it a night. I was in bed by one A.M.

Ten minutes later I was drifting off to sleep when my bedside phone rang. The peal jolted me fully awake. Sitting up, I switched on the bedlamp and picked up the phone.

�Hello,� I said.

�Rudd?� a low voice whispered in my ear.

�Uh-huh.�

�This is Jake Stark. I can�t talk too loud, because I�m phoning from a filling station and the guy is listening.�

�All right,� I said. �What�s on your mind?�

�I think I�ve got the answer, but I can�t give it over the phone. Can you meet me somewhere?�

�Tonight?� I asked.

�It can�t wait until morning. By then it will be too late.�

�Okay,� I said. �Where do you want to meet?�

�I�m phoning from a station at Kosciuszko and Talcott. There�s a bar right across the street called Cybulski�s Tavern.�

I knew the place because the flat where I was born and where my parents still lived was on Kosciuszko Street. I suppose every city with a large Polish segment has a Kosciuszko Street, named for the Revolutionary War general who is the favorite hero of Polish-Americans.

�Be there in twenty minutes,� I said.

It took me five minutes to dress and strap on my gun. It was only a little after one fifteen when I climbed in my car.

I don�t have a garage, but the apartment building where I live has a paved parking lot behind it, with a space reserved for each tenant. Backing out of my slot, I pulled into the alley.

In the rear-view mirror I saw a figure rise from the floor of the back seat. Cold metal touched the back of my neck.

A gruff, unfamiliar voice said, �Just keep going east down this alley, mister. As far as it goes.�

I started to slow down. �Who are you and what�s the pitch?�

�I�m the guy who�s going to blow your head off if you don�t do like I say,� he snapped. �Keep both hands on the wheel and keep driving.�

I decided not to argue. I kept driving straight ahead along the alley until I reached the first cross street. I slowed there, crossed the street and entered the alley.

�Bring out your gun with your left hand,� he ordered. �Hold it by the barrel and pass it over your shoulder.�

I don�t claim to be a deductive genius, but it didn�t take genius to deduce there must be some connection between Jake Stark�s phone call and the man in the back seat. Pretty obviously Jake never had any intention of meeting me at Cybulski�s Tavern. The call had been designed merely to get me into my car so that my back-seat companion could take over.

It followed that Jake, either on his own or in conjunction with Little Artie Nowak, had decided there was a simpler way to avoid newspaper publicity than solving the murder of Kitty Desmond. You don�t have cops kidnapped and expect to get away with it if the cop is later around to testify. So there was little doubt in my mind that it wasn�t planned for me to be around later. This had to be a one-way ride.

I had an aversion to co-operating in my own murder. I decided to make things as difficult as possible.

�I�m not carrying a gun,� I said.

�Don�t try to give me that,� he snarled. �Who ever heard of a cop without a gun?�

�I never carry one off duty,� I said.

�The hell you don�t. Cops carry a gun all the time.�

�Not this one,� I said. �Want me to stop so you can shake me down?�

�Cross this next intersection,� he ordered. �Stop halfway between it and the next street. Then keep your hands on the wheel and don�t move a muscle. Understand?�

�I understand,� I said.

Crossing the intersection, I drove another half block along the alley and braked the car. I sat perfectly still with my hands on the wheel.

Except for the brief glimpse when he rose from the floor, I hadn�t been able to see my assailant in the rear-view mirror because he was seated directly behind me. Even that single glimpse had been merely of a shadowy figure. I had no idea of the man�s size or what he looked like.

The gun muzzle pressed tighter against my neck and his left hand patted beneath both arms and at my waist on the left side. Then he transferred the gun to his left hand and patted my right side.

Like all plain-clothes men on the force, I was armed with a snub-nosed thirty-eight caliber detective special. And like most detectives, I carried the holster on my belt. Usually detectives carry their guns either on the left side, butt facing forward for a cross draw, or centered on the right side. I happen to like mine farther back, directly over my right hip pocket. With my back pressed against the seat, it was in a position he couldn�t reach unless I leaned forward.

I hoped he was stupid enough not to order me to lean forward. It wasn�t an exaggerated hope because in my experience most hired guns are incredibly stupid. They have to be close to animal level in order to kill for hire.

This one wasn�t any brighter than I had expected him to be. Shifting his gun back to his right hand again, he growled, �Okay, copper. Start driving again.�

I pulled ahead. After several blocks, still in the alley, I ventured to ask, �Do we have any particular destination?�

�Yeah,� he said. �Straight ahead.�

Finally, as might be expected, we came to a cross street where the alley failed to continue on the other side. Not wanting to disobey orders, I was contemplating driving straight on across the street, over the curb and through the plate-glass window of the furniture store directly in front of us, when he decided to amend the order.

�Right turn here,� he instructed. �Then left at the next corner.�

By now we were well into the third district, which covers three wards on the east side of town along the river front area. The same river runs past the Riverside Country Club west of town, skirts St. Cecilia�s north edge and curves south to form its eastern boundary. There is a vast difference between the west-side water front and the east side, though. Out near the country club there are sand beaches, big estates and summer cottages. On the east side there are docks, warehouses, crummy taverns and cat houses. The population is predominantly Italian, Greek and Puerto Rican, with a smattering of Poles who have infiltrated from the south-side Polish section, which abuts the third district.

I didn�t understand why we were heading this way instead of south. It�s not easy to get away with murder in St. Cecilia, because no amount of political influence will get you official protection. So it behooves the potential murderer to plan very carefully to avoid exposure. If Little Artie Nowak had issued the order for my execution, his own bailiwick seemed the safest place to carry it out. For while officialdom wouldn�t stand for murder in St. Cecilia, the average man in the street down in Artie�s ward wouldn�t dream of reporting anything Artie did. In that section he probably could have gunned down the mayor on the street without a single witness coming forward to report having seen it.

But on the east side Little Artie Nowak didn�t carry any more weight than I did. It seemed an odd area for him to have a murder performed.

We were now traveling on Sible Street, which runs clear down to the docks. We passed Fourth, which is the beginning of the warehouse area. From here on there were only dark warehouses and no residences or taverns; the streets were absolutely deserted. We crossed Third Street and I began to wonder if the plan was simply to drive onto the dock, where the man in the back seat would shoot me and dump me in the river.

I might have known the plan wouldn�t be that simple, however. If murder is dangerous in St. Cecilia, the murder of a cop is doubly dangerous. Whoever had planned this wouldn�t want any corpus delicti.

The man in the back seat said, �Turn right at Front Street.�

Front Street edges the dock area. There are no buildings beyond it, only the expanse of the dock and the river. I turned as directed.

A half block later he said, �The second building after this one. Head in to face that truck entrance and peep your horn once.�

The designated building was a two-story warehouse and the truck entrance was in its center. I swung right and braked the car to a halt facing the corrugated iron door.

�Peep your horn,� the man repeated.

No other cars were in sight, but there was always the chance that a cruising squad car might be within hearing distance and would come to investigate a prolonged horn blast. I bore down on the horn button and kept my palm there.

This was a mistake. The gun barrel bounced off the top of my head, making me see constellations. I took my hand off the horn button and let my head reel. After a few seconds the dizziness subsided to a dull throb.

The man in the back seat didn�t say anything. His action had been sufficient to make his point.

The corrugated iron door slid upward and light poured through it into the street. I drove inside and the door immediately came down behind us. We were in a big, barn-like room with a concrete floor. Wooden crates were piled along the walls, but the center area was bare. A single overhead bulb with a green shade lighted the room.

The man in the back seat left the car. �All right,� he said. �You can get out now.�

As I pushed open the car door to climb out, I got my first view of my kidnapper. He was a tall, bulky man of about forty with narrow eyes, a beak nose and a startlingly soft, rosebud mouth. He wore a wrinkled seersucker suit and a Panama hat. I had never seen him before, which rather surprised me. I thought I knew most everyone in town with any sort of underworld connections, at least by sight. If this was one of Artie Nowak�s hoods, he must have been a recent employee.

I was acutely conscious of the gun on my right hip, but it would have been suicide to attempt to draw it as I climbed from the car. The bulky man had backed off to leave a safe amount of room between us and he had a forty-five automatic centered on my stomach.

�Keep your hands in plain sight,� he instructed.

When I was out of the car and had pushed the door shut behind me, he said, �Now you can put your hands on top of your head.�

Out of the corner of my eye I saw two other men approaching from the direction of the overhead sliding door. I told myself that a second, more thorough shakedown was almost certain to be given me, and that if I was going to use my gun at all, now was the time to make the break.

A few months previously everyone on the St. Cecilia force from detective grade on up was put through the F.B.I. gun course. Among other things we were taught was that you can draw and outshoot a man who has you covered by falling sideways as you draw. The theory is that it takes a split second for him to react to the danger and press the trigger, and even if his reaction is fast, he will almost invariably fire without shifting the position of the gun, so that the shot will pass over your head.

Our F.B.I. instructor demonstrated this technique in the classroom by having one of the class members cover him with an unloaded gun. He suddenly fell sideways and drew his own gun, also unloaded. His gun clicked before the man covering him realized what had happened. However, the instructor happened to be the fastest draw in the F.B.I. Later, when he had each of us try our luck against him, we all managed to draw and squeeze the trigger before he did, but I got the uncomfortable feeling that he was co-operating in order to give us confidence, and in an actual situation every one of us would have ended up full of holes.

I tried to steel myself to test the technique now, but with the big bore of that automatic centered on me, I couldn�t quite bring myself to do it. Particularly since my momentary hesitation caused the man�s eyes to narrow warningly.

I put my hands on top of my head and leaned back against the left front car fender, hoping that with my gun pressed against the fender, it might again be overlooked.

The two men who had let us in now joined the group. One was a gaunt, narrow-shouldered man, also about forty, with a flat, somewhat stupid face. He wore unpressed slacks, a dirty cloth jacket and a holstered revolver on his right hip. There was something vaguely familiar about him, but I couldn�t quite place what. He looked a little worried.

The other man was built like a barrel, with wide shoulders, a huge chest and a magnificently bulging stomach. He had a round head with a bulbous, red-veined nose and black, ropelike eyebrows which went straight across his forehead without any division between them. This one I recognized. He was Whisky Joe Glapa, a professional strong-arm man who at some time or other had worked for practically every racketeer in town. I hadn�t known that he was currently one of Little Artie�s boys, if it was Little Artie who had arranged this deal.

Whisky Joe said, �He clean?�

The bulky man said, �I shook him down in the car, but I want to go over him again. Cover him.�

Whisky Joe drew a thirty-eight caliber revolver from beneath his arm and aimed it at me, standing to one side so that his partner wouldn�t be between us when he shook me down.

The bulky man thrust his automatic into a shoulder holster and went through the routine of patting me beneath the arms, then running his hands all the way down my body, including my legs to the knees.

I had very little hope of his missing my gun a second time, but he seemed to be a master of inefficiency. His fingers patted within a half inch of the hip holster, but he didn�t have enough sense to make me stand away from the fender so that he could get his hands around me. I have to concede that the spot where I carry my gun isn�t common, but I�m sure any cop would have found it on the first shakedown. This clown managed to miss it twice.

�Okay,� he said, backing up and drawing his gun again. �You can drop your arms, copper.�

I took my hands from the top of my head and let them drop to my sides.

The gaunt man wearing the holster said, �Copper? What kind of a deal you got me involved in, Ray?�

The bulky man said, �Why should you worry? You get five hundred bucks just for taking a walk. You better take off now, Veech. Stay away at least an hour.�

Veech is short for Vichek, which is Polish for Vincent. The name suddenly caused me to recognize the gaunt man.

�You�re Vichek Czekanski,� I said to him.

He looked at me in surprise. Still leaning against the fender, I crossed my feet and casually hooked thumbs in my belt. No one made any objection.

�I went to grammar school with your kid brother, Stash,� I said. �Don�t you remember me?�

He examined my face doubtfully. �That was eighteen, twenty years ago,� he said. �You would of been just a kid.�

�Uh-huh. Mateusz Rudowski.�

His surprise grew. �I�ll be damned. Little Matt Rudowski. I ain�t seen you since you was ten. How the devil you recognize me?�

It was because he wore the same stupid expression he had at twenty, but I didn�t want to hurt his feelings. I said, �You haven�t changed much.�

�You sure have,� he said, looking me up and down. �You put on a lot of muscle.�

�I hate to break up this old home week,� the bulky man called Ray interrupted. �But we got work to do. Veech, take off.�

I was in no hurry. In order to delay things as long as possible, I said before Veech could answer, �Why are you wearing a gun right out in the open like that, Vichek?�

�I got a permit. I�m the night watchman here.�

I frowned at him. �You let jokers like these use your place as a slaughterhouse?�

�Ray�s my brother-in-law,� he said apologetically. Then he did a double take. �Slaughterhouse? What you got in mind to do, Ray?�

The bulky man said, �Keep him covered,� took Veech by the arm and hustled him toward a street door next to the big sliding door.

Whisky Joe Glapa kept both his gun and a watchful eye on me. I shifted the thumbs hooked in my belt slightly sideways.

At the door Vichek Czekanski was protesting, �This guy�s from my old neighborhood, Ray. What you planning to do?�

�Get out of here,� Ray said. Drawing open a bolt, he pushed the watchman outside. �And stay away a full hour.� Pulling shut the door again, he slammed home the bolt and strode back to us.

�Think you can trust him?� Whisky Joe asked in a worried tone. �Suppose he goes chicken and yells cop?�

�He won�t yell cop,� the bulky man assured him. �And he won�t talk later. If he gives me any argument, I�ll threaten to tell my sister I paid him five hundred bucks. That�ll clam him up. She lets him keep two dollars a week out of his salary. You bring all the necessary stuff?�

�Uh-huh,� Whisky Joe said. �A five-gallon bucket, fifty pounds of plaster of Paris � it�s over in the corner by the water spigot.�

�How about the boat?�

�It�s anchored right in front of the warehouse.�

�Then we might as well get it over with,� the bulky man said, and leveled his gun at me.

I was about to take the outside chance of testing the F.B.I. technique, when Whisky Joe deferred the necessity of it at that precise moment.

�Not here,� he said. �I got papers spread on the floor over in the corner. Follow me.�

Reholstering his gun, so that I was now covered only by one gun, he walked toward a rear corner of the room. The bulky man gestured with his automatic for me to follow.

Once we reached that far corner, I knew it would all be over. With Whisky Joe�s back to us, this was the last opportunity I was going to have. Despite the F.B.I. instructor�s exhibition, I knew I�d never be able to draw and outshoot my opponent unless I could somehow get my hand on my gun butt before he suspected my intention. In desperation I put on a rather silly act.

Straightening away from the fender, I touched a knuckle of my left hand to my nostrils, then looked down at it.

�That whack on the head started my nose bleeding,� I said.

The bulky man gave me a cold grin. �In a minute a little nosebleed won�t make no difference. It�ll be coming out several places.�

Unhurriedly I pushed back my coattail to reach in the direction of my hip pocket. I hoped he would think I was reaching for a handkerchief. Apparently he did, for though his expression indicated he didn�t like me making such motions without permission, it didn�t make him suspicious enough to fire.

My hand closed over my gun butt. I took a deep breath, wondering if it were going to be my last. Then I swept out the gun, pulling back the hammer as I drew. At the same time I threw myself downward and sidewise. I had my gun pointed at him and was squeezing the trigger as I fell. His automatic roared first, my gun a micro-second later.

It didn�t work, I thought with a vast sense of resentment at the F.B.I. I hit the floor vaguely puzzled that I hadn�t felt the impact of his bullet. Rolling, I bounced to my feet and swung to pump out another shot.

I relaxed my finger on the trigger in the nick of time. A second shot wasn�t necessary. The bulky man�s rosebud of a mouth was formed into a surprised pout and blood was gushing from the center of his chest. His gun muzzle drooped downward. He toppled forward slowly, like the last bowling pin of a sloppy but lucky strike.

I spun toward Whisky Joe, then relaxed again.

The F.B.I. technique had worked after all. The bulky man had fired before I had, but as our instructor had told us, he hadn�t shifted the position of his gun. The shot had passed over my head and had caught Whisky Joe Glapa squarely in the back. He lay face down, unmoving.

Both men were dead when I examined them. I walked over to the corner where Whisky Joe Glapa had been heading. Beneath a water spigot there was a large bucket. Next to it, leaning against the wall, was a bag labeled: Plaster of Paris � 50 lbs. Newspapers had been spread over an area of about six feet by six feet in the corner.

It didn�t take much imagination to deduce what Whisky Joe and the bulky Ray had planned. They had intended to plant my feet in plaster of Paris in order to anchor my body firmly to the bottom of the river. This is an ancient device originated during the bootleg gang wars of the twenties, but its age doesn�t make it old-fashioned. Modern mobsters still use it because no one has come up with a quicker, simpler or more effective way to dispose of embarrassing corpses without a lot of elaborate equipment.

It sent a cold chill along my spine just to look at the preparations which had been made for me.

Near the front of the building there was a small office with a glass panel at the top of the door. Through the glass I could see a phone on a desk, but the door was locked. I went outside to hunt for Vichek Czekanski.

I found him seated on an iron mooring post at the river edge, contemplatively smoking a pipe. The street lights along Front Street cast only a dim glow that far; apparently he assumed I was his brother-in-law until I was right on top of him. He looked surprised when he recognized me and saw the gun in my hand.

Motioning him to his feet, I said, �Turn around, Vichek. Hands on top of head.�

He looked offended but he didn�t give me any argument. His pipe was in his right hand when he rose to his feet. Clamping it between his teeth, he put his hands atop his head and turned his back. Removing his pistol from its holster, I dropped it into one of my side pockets and checked him for additional weapons. I did a more thorough job than the bulky man had, but he wasn�t carrying anything else.

�Okay,� I said. �You can drop your hands and turn this way.�

Letting his arms fall to his sides, he faced me. �You didn�t have to take my gun,� he said aggrievedly. �I�m not in on whatever Ray is up to.�

�You just think you weren�t,� I told him. �When a private citizen sits idly by and makes no attempt to prevent the murder of a cop, he�s an accessory.�

�I made an attempt,� he protested. �You heard me beef to Ray.�

�Uh-huh,� I said. �And I suppose you were sitting out here trying to get up energy enough to run to a phone and report my predicament to headquarters.�

He took his pipe from his mouth, knocked it out and dropped it into a jacket pocket. �You don�t look very dead to me. They must of let you go.�

I motioned toward Front Street with my gun muzzle. �Let�s go back to the warehouse,� I suggested.

I walked behind him, keeping him covered. He pushed through the small door next to the truck entrance. I followed him in, closed and bolted the door behind me. Vichek gazed wide eyed at the two bodies lying on the floor.

�Jeepers,� he said. �They dead?�

�Uh-huh. And you�re an accessory to attempted murder. Know what the rap is for that?�

He turned to face me. He had paled and his thin lips trembled. �I didn�t have nothing to do with this, Matt. It was all Ray and his partner.�

�You were accepting five hundred bucks for letting them use the warehouse.�

�I didn�t know what for. I thought they probably just wanted to lean on some guy a little. Somebody in the racket who had stepped out of line. I didn�t know they planned to burn no cop.�

�What racket?� I asked.

He looked disconcerted. �Ray had something to do with policy. I been letting him store the slips in here. They come in by boat.�

�Your employer is going to be pleased to learn how you use his warehouse,� I said. �Who owns this place?�

�Phoenix Wire,� he said reluctantly. �They have to know about it?�

That was such a stupid question, I didn�t feel it deserved an answer. As it seemed unlikely that the Phoenix Wire Company had been involved in the murder plan, I shifted the course of my questioning.

�What was your brother-in-law�s name?� I asked.

�Ray Zek.�

�Who�d he work for?�

Vichek shrugged. �He never said. Who runs policy around here?�

�A number of people in different areas,� I said. �You ever hear him mention Art Nowak?�

�Little Artie? I don�t think so. I�d remember that, because I know Artie from the old neighborhood. He never mentioned nobody. Ray wasn�t one to talk about his business.�

�Where�d he live?�

�In an apartment at Franklin and Garrison.�

That was in the sixth district, where I also lived. The uptown area was a middle-class residential district with a largely independent vote and was relatively free of rackets. At least no one powerful politician controlled it. So Ray Zek�s place of residence didn�t make me any wiser. He could have been working for any of a dozen racketeers in town.

�You know where Whisky Joe lived?� I asked.

�The other guy? I didn�t even know that was his name. Ray just called him Joe.�

�Okay,� I said. �How�d this setup come about? When did your brother-in-law first contact you?�

�He phoned here about twelve-thirty. There�s a phone in the office. The place is locked at night, but I got a key. All he said was he needed a little privacy to work a guy over, and there�d be five hundred in it for me if he could use the warehouse. He said a guy named Joe would be along first, and to let him in and he�d be along later. Joe showed up about twenty minutes later and carried in a bucket and a sack of plaster of Paris. He left his car outside. He asked if I had any old newspapers around. I found him some and he spread them over in the corner.�

It must have been about a quarter of twelve when I left Jake Stark, I thought. Forty-five minutes later, plans for my murder were being put into effect, and forty minutes after that Jake�s phone call to me had come. It hardly seemed likely to me that Stark had arranged things on his own, since he wasn�t big enough in the rackets to be hiring professional killers. I suspected that if Jake had decided on his own to put me out of the way, his speed would have been to wait in the alley behind my apartment house and personally put a bullet in me. It seemed much more logical that Jake had discussed matters with Artie and Artie had ordered the murder.

I said, �Didn�t Whisky Joe�s preparations cause you to suspect he and your brother-in-law had murder in mind?�

Vichek shook his head. �Honest to God, it never occurred to me until you and Ray got here.�

With my gun I motioned toward the door to the office. �Get out your key and open that.�

Preceding me, he brought out a key ring and unlocked the door. I let him enter ahead of me.

�Can�t you give me a break, Matt?� he asked. �I got a couple of kids.�

�You�d like to hide behind them, huh?�

He examined me doubtfully.

�Guys like you make me sick,� I said roughly. �You�re hired to protect the warehouse and you let a policy racketeer use it for everything from storing policy slips to murder. When you get caught, you throw your kids at the cops.�

�You can�t say I was in on the murder plan,� he protested. �I didn�t even know about it until Ray showed up with you.�

�You�re the watchman here. You were wearing a gun. If you were too yellow to use it, you could have gotten to a phone and called headquarters. But you sat down on a mooring post smoking your pipe and waiting for these hoods to finish the job.�

�Hell, Matt, he was my brother-in-law. You can�t expect a guy to yell cop on his own brother-in-law.�

�I guess not, when there�s five hundred bucks in it,� I said dryly. �Sit down over there where I can watch you.�

I pointed to a wooden chair in the far corner. Sitting in it, he took out his empty pipe and nervously began sucking on it. I seated myself behind the desk, laid my gun next to the phone and dialed headquarters.

When the desk answered, I said, �This is Sergeant Rudd of Vice. I�ve got a couple of dead bodies at the Phoenix Wire Company warehouse on Front Street. Send me a radio car and the meat wagon. Better inform Homicide too.�

�These are homicides?� the desk man asked.

�Uh-huh. Justifiable. Suspects killed by a police officer during the commission of a crime.�

�Any emergency situation?�

�Everything�s under control. I�m holding one live suspect. I want the radio car as soon as possible, though. I want to turn over my suspect, because I�ve got somewhere to go.�

�Roger,� the desk man said. �I�ll have one there in a couple of minutes.�

Hanging up, I ordered Vichek to his feet and back out into the main part of the warehouse. Unbolting the front door, I left it open so that the light flowing through it could act as a directional beacon for the radio car. Then we waited.

It only took a few minutes for the squad car to arrive. Two uniformed policemen stepped inside.

Flashing my badge, I said, �Rudd of Vice, Gambling and Narcotics.� Then I pointed to Vichek Czekanski. �Put some cuffs on this guy.�

He would have been cuffed when they got there if I had been carrying a set with me. But I never carry handcuffs off duty. I had told Ray Zek a lie about not wearing a gun off duty. St. Cecilia detectives are required to carry a gun at all times unless specifically excused for some reason such as disability. But they aren�t required to carry handcuffs except on duty.

While the younger officer was cuffing Czekanski, I gave the senior one a brief rundown on the situation. I didn�t fill him in on the background. I only told him the dead men�s names and that I had been kidnapped and brought to the warehouse to be killed. I also explained the night watchman�s minor part in the plot.

�Whisky Joe Glapa mentioned a boat tied to the dock,� I said. �I guess they meant to use it to transport my body to the middle of the river. Better locate it for evidence. When the homicide team gets here, tell them I�ll stop at headquarters later to give them a statement.�

�You�re not going to wait?� he asked.

�I�ve got a call to make,� I told him. �I�m leaving you in charge.�

Walking over to the truck entrance, I pushed the sliding door upward, then moved to my car and climbed in.

�You can close it after me,� I called to the older cop.

Starting the engine, I backed out.

It was twenty-eight minutes after two when I arrived at Little Artie Nowak�s tavern for the second time that night. Even though it was only two minutes until closing time, the customers hadn�t lessened in number nor the noise in volume. The jukebox still blared and conversations were being shouted above it.

This time Jake Stark was nowhere in sight, but Little Artie stood at the end of the bar in the same spot Jake had occupied earlier. That meant that Jake must be downstairs dragging the poker game, as Artie wasn�t likely to leave it unsupervised. The same dumpy brunette who had been talking to Jake was now coyly looking into Artie�s face.

As I wormed my way through the mob toward Artie, I noted that old Dinny still sat at his corner table. He made a cordial gesture for me to join him. Shaking my head, I kept on going.

Little Artie gave me a cold look when I stopped beside him. But there was no sign of surprise on his face, which momentarily threw me for a loss. I had expected him to react as though he were seeing a ghost.

The dumpy brunette said, �The cop with the big brown eyes again. Jake wouldn�t introduce me. Will you, Artie?�

Both Artie and I ignored her. He merely continued to examine me coldly and I stared back with equal coldness.

�Let�s take a walk,� I shouted above the bedlam, jerking a thumb in the direction of the kitchen.

Turning, he swaggered toward the kitchen door, looking for all the world like a strutting bantam rooster. An aisle miraculously opened before him as customers melted to either side. For all his littleness, Artie Nowak drew a lot of respect on his home grounds.

Following behind him, I caught the swinging door in time to prevent it from breaking my nose, pushed on through and let it swing shut again. In here you could still hear the noise from the barroom, but at least it was muted.

Artie leaned against a table and looked at me. �Well, Rudowski?�

His tone suggested he wasn�t pleased with me. Usually he called me Matt. I thought it was a little unreasonable for him to be angry because I wasn�t dead. Walking over to within inches of him, I glowered downward.

�The only reason you�re not flat on your back, Nowak, is I bate to hit pipsqueaks I outweigh by eighty pounds.�

He looked surprised, but not the least frightened. �Try your luck and see who ends on the floor,� he suggested.

I was tempted to, but I controlled the urge. There�s a rule against cops hitting suspects except in self-defense or in overcoming resistence to arrest. �Maybe you�ll resist arrest,� I said hopefully.

His eyes narrowed. �Come again?�

�You�re under arrest for conspiracy to commit murder,� I said.

He looked up at me indignantly. �First you sick those homicide dicks on me, now you�ve got the crust to accuse me yourself. You�ll never pin Kitty�s kill on me, copper. All you�ll do is get yourself back on a beat.�

I bent to put my nose an inch from his. �I�m not talking about Kitty, little man. I�m talking about the two goons you sicked on me. You should have picked more efficient killers. They�re both dead and you�re on your way to the clink.�

He stared up at me, his eyes now reduced to slits. �Maybe you�d better tell me what you�re talking about. We seem to be on two different subjects.�

He sounded as though he really didn�t know what I meant. As a matter of fact, his reactions ever since I had entered the place had been puzzling me because they weren�t those of a guilty man. Straightening up, I examined him contemplatively; doubt was beginning to erode my nice simple theory that Artie was behind the assault on me.

I said, �Maybe we�d both better simmer down long enough to get on the same subject. I�m accusing you of hiring Ray Zek and Whisky Joe Glapa to burn me tonight.�

His face registered absolute astonishment. �You must be off your rocker. Why the hell would I do a thing like that? I�ve got a beef against you, but it isn�t that serious.�

�What beef have you got against me?�

He made an impatient gesture. �I just told you. You sicked those homicide dicks on me. They wanted to know if I�d strangled Kitty for rolling a John. That tip couldn�t have come from anybody but you. I figured you must be tired of being a sergeant.�

I had been getting myself in the mood to discuss things intelligently, but this crack started to make me mad again. I gave him a bleak smile. �Your political influence couldn�t even get me called on the carpet when a murder is involved, Nowak. You know the brass in this town draws the line at murder. Nick Bartkowiak would throw you to the wolves so fast, your head would still be spinning when they strapped you in the chair.�

He glared at me. �Want to test my political influence?�

�Suit yourself,� I said with a shrug. �Of course, if you backed me into a corner, I�d do my damnedest to tag you for the kill whether you pulled it or not. I�d have to in self-defense. I think the brass would listen when I told them that a while back you warned all your girls you�d beat hell out of any of them you caught rolling a client.�

His face grew still. �Who told you that?�

�Never mind. I can prove it on the stand if I have to. Still want to flex your political muscles?�

After staring at me for a moment, he said, �This is a silly argument. Let�s get back to your beef. What makes you think I sent Zek and Glapa after you?�

�Oh, you know them?�

�Sure I know them. I�ve used them for a little strong-arm stuff on occasion. So have a half dozen other guys in town. But I sure as hell didn�t sick them on you tonight. Why should I?�

I said, �So you wouldn�t have to sweat out tomorrow night�s deadline.�

He looked genuinely puzzled. �What deadline?�

�Didn�t Jake tell you about our conversation earlier?�

He gave his head a slow shake. �He never even mentioned talking to you. When was this?�

He wasn�t acting. I was sure of that. There wouldn�t be any point in his pretending not to know what I was talking about, because I could blow apart the pretense simply by dragging Jake into the conference.

�Jake downstairs?� I asked.

Pursing his lips, he examined me doubtfully.

I said, �If you�re worried about admitting your basement poker game to a cop, forget it. I�ve got more important things on my mind. Get him up here.�

He stared at me in silence for a time more, then walked to the swinging door leading to the barroom and opened it. Above the hubbub he yelled, �Hey, Hank!�

Down in this area when Artie Nowak raised his voice, people listened. There was instant silence in the barroom.

�Yeah?� the bartender said.

�You announce last call?�

�Sure. Five minutes ago.�

�Then clear the house and come back here.�

Artie let the door swing shut again. Going to a cupboard, he took out a cup, crossed to the stove and poured from a simmering pot of coffee.

�Coffee?� he inquired.

I shook my head.

He carried the cup to the table, added sugar and cream and stirred. The door from the barroom opened and the aproned night barkeep came in.

�You couldn�t have gotten them out that fast,� Artie said.

�They�re leaving. I told Dinny to leave last and pull the door shut behind him. I set the spring lock and I�ll bolt it later.�

�Okay,� Artie said. �I�ll take care of closing up. Get down cellar and take over dragging the game. I want Jake up here.�

The bartender looked surprised, but he didn�t make any objection. Stripping off his apron, he hung it on a hook, opened the basement door and disappeared downstairs.

A few moments later the basement door reopened, bull-necked Jake Stark stepped out and closed it behind him. He glanced at his employer, then looked at me and did a double take. Slowly his face drained of color.

�Surprised?� I inquired.

Licking his lips, Jake flicked his gaze to his employer, then back to me. He didn�t say anything.

�You wait long at Cybulski�s Tavern?� I asked.

He still didn�t say anything.

Jake Stark was big enough so that it wouldn�t hurt my conscience to push him around. Walking over to him, I gathered a handful of shirt front and slammed his back against the basement door.

�You punk,� I growled at him. �Come up with a fast explanation of why you set me up for a kill.�

�A kill?� he squeaked. �All I did was phone you. I didn�t know it was going to be a kill.�

�You instructed them to be gentle, I suppose.�

�I didn�t instruct nobody to do nothing, Sarge. All I was doing was following...� He came to an abrupt halt and threw a quick sidelong look at Little Artie. Then he continued lamely. �I mean I didn�t know what they was going to do.�

Artie said in an unnaturally quiet voice, �Turn him loose, Matt. I�m as interested in answers as you are, but I think I can get them faster.�

All of a sudden we were back on a first-name basis, I noted. Glancing at the little man, I saw that there was no belligerence in his expression. As a matter of fact, he wasn�t even looking at me. His gaze was fixed on his assistant. Obviously he hadn�t meant his words as an order to turn Stark loose. It was a request.

I decided he probably could get faster answers from Stark. Releasing my grip on the man�s shirt front, I stepped back.

His gaze still fixed on Stark, Artie raised his coffee cup and took a slow sip. When he set it down again, he said quietly, �We�ll start at the beginning, Jake. Matt says he and you had some conversation earlier tonight. What was it about?�

Jake nervously ran a hand over the back of his bull-neck. �He�s got a witness who saw me going into Kitty�s apartment house. He had me cold, so I hadda explain what happened. I convinced him I was telling the truth about finding her already dead when I got there, but he was gonna pull me in as a material witness. I talked him into giving me twenty-four hours to turn up the killer myself. I said I�d get you to gather all the girls together and find out everything we could about Kitty�s private life. I figured we could get more out of them than the cops ever could.�

Artie glanced at me.

�That was about the substance of our conversation,� I said.

Artie turned his attention back to his aide. In a silky voice he said, �But instead of relaying this conversation to me, you decided to handle things yourself, huh?�

�I didn�t want to bother you,� Jake muttered lamely.

Artie gave him a smile that made Jake turn even paler. �That was considerate of you, Jake. Now we�ll move on to the important question. A couple of minutes ago you started to say that when you set Matt up, you were just following orders. I was under the impression you took orders from me, and I sure as hell didn�t instruct you to do anything about Matt. Whose orders were you following?�

Jake rubbed the back of his neck again. �Nobody�s. I didn�t say nothing about orders. What I meant was I was just following these guys� suggestions.�

�What guys?�

Sweat beaded Jake�s upperlip. His face was strained with the effort of heavy concentration as he attempted to come up with a story both of us would swallow. Unfortunately, for him, he didn�t possess enough imagination to swing it.

He said, �I was worried about admitting to a cop that I�d been to Kitty�s place. So I called this friend of mine and told him about it. He said I should phone the sarge and make a date to meet him somewhere. Then he and his buddy would waylay him and scare him into forgetting what I�d told him.�

This was so patently an invention of the moment, it would have amused me if I hadn�t just come from an attempt on my life.

�Who was this friend you called?� I growled.

He licked his lips. �You wouldn�t know him.�

�I know the two goons who tried to take me, because they�re both in the morgue. Come up with your friend�s name and we�ll see if it matches either of theirs.�

Stark looked from me to Artie and back again with a trapped expression on his face. It was apparent he didn�t have the slightest idea who had waylaid me, which meant he had only been a tool in the plot, and not the instigator of it.

I decided it was time to blast the truth from him by bringing up my reserve guns. I said, �You know, Artie, when you alibied Jake to the homicide cops, I suppose you felt you had a certain obligation to protect him because you had sent him to Kitty�s place. Naturally you believed his story about finding her dead when he arrived because, so far as you knew, he didn�t have a reason in the world to kill her. But actually he had an even better motive to kill her than you did.�

Artie frowned at me. �What motive?�

�To shut her up. He could have been afraid she�d tell you he was the guy who�d been encouraging your girls to roll customers. He gets a percentage of the take for guaranteeing to protect them from you in case they ever got caught.�

Little Artie slowly ran his gaze up and down the burly frame of his right-hand man.

Jake said loudly, �That�s a lie, Artie!�

�You sure of what you�re saying, Matt?� Artie asked in a quiet tone.

�Absolutely certain. I can take you to a girl right now who will verify it.�

�You won�t have to,� Artie said in the same quiet tone. �I believe you. I guess it�s time to stop fooling around and get the answers to everything.�

He started to move toward the larger man. The swagger was gone from his walk and he moved as gracefully as a cat. His face was absolutely blank of emotion and, despite a sixty-pound-weight disadvantage, there was such a lethal air about him, I began to feel sorry for Stark.

Jake Stark must have weighed a hundred and ninety pounds, but he also must have seen the little man in action before because not only his upper lip but his whole face was suddenly drenched with sweat.

�Hold it a minute, Artie,� he said, raising his palm. �You don�t think I�d pull a stunt like that on my own, do you?�

Artie stopped a pace from him. �I�ll listen,� he said carefully.

�Nick told me to do it.�

Little Artie stood perfectly still. �Nick Bartkowiak?� he asked incredulously.

�A long time ago,� Stark said in a rapid voice, eager to get the words in before Artie decided to close the distance between them. �You think I�d cross you on my own? I got better sense than that. But what could I do when Nick gave me the order and told me not to dare mention it to you? Nobody says no to Nick. Would you, if he told you to cross me?�

Artie stood there with an absolutely stupefied expression on his face.

Stark went on in the same rapid voice, �It was Nick I phoned after talking to Rudd tonight. He said not to discuss it with you, that he�d take care of Rudd. Then he said to call him back in a half-hour. When I called back, he told me to start phoning Rudd�s apartment every five minutes until I got an answer. When I did, I was to get him to meet me somewhere. That�s all I had to do with it. I never asked Nick what he planned and he never told me. But I never even thought he meant to have a cop burned.�

This time the man was telling the truth, I knew. My old friend Nick Bartkowiak, who only that afternoon had so solicitously inquired after all the members of my family, had ordered my death. He had calmly picked up the telephone and issued orders so that Ray Zek was staked out somewhere near my apartment house parking lot when I arrived home. The man probably had climbed into the back seat as soon as I was out of sight, then simply waited for Jake�s phone call to send me running back to the car. It all must have been planned as quickly and as casually as the ordinary businessman would plan some legal maneuver to outwit a competitor.

Why would Nick Bartkowiak go to such lengths to protect Jake Stark from arrest, I wondered? Then immediately I realized there could be only one answer. It was vitally important to him that no one discover Jake was secretly operating under his orders. And almost certainly Jake would have told everything he knew under prolonged police interrogation.

All at once I understood the whole pattern of Bartkowiak�s thinking. The knowledge didn�t put me any closer to a solution of Kitty Desmond�s murder, but at least it cleared up what had happened tonight. Despite my outrage at the racketeer politician ordering to have me killed, I suddenly began to laugh. I couldn�t help it. Nick Bartkowiak�s Machiavellian ways struck me as so hilarious, I almost rolled on the floor.

Artie and Stark both stared at me without understanding. I finally got myself under control enough to choke out, �He�s tying a can to your tail, Artie. He�s through with you. He...� I dissolved into laughter again.

Artie waited patiently for me to laugh myself out, his face expressionless but a trifle pale. When I finally recovered and had wiped my eyes, he said with an effort to keep his voice steady, �Want to let us in on the joke, Matt? What do you mean, Nick�s through with me?�

�Don�t you see it?� I said with a grin. �You�re too strongly intrenched just to shove aside without cause. But for some reason he wants to replace you. Maybe you�re getting too big for your boots. I don�t know. It�s hard to figure anybody as devious as Nick.�

�Go on,� he said in his quietest tone.

�You�ve got too many friends in the district for him just to boot you out. He had to have a reason. So he arranged for some of your girls to start rolling customers, then came to you with the story that he�d heard rumors of the rollings and wanted them stopped. They didn�t stop. That made it look as though you were deliberately violating his instructions because everybody in the know is aware of the iron control you have over the girls. Probably he�s been complaining about it all over the district to all the little ward heelers you think you have in your pocket and who would raise hell if he tried to unload you without good cause. At the same time he�s probably been planting the idea that he can�t put up with such insubordination forever.�

I paused to emit a chuckle and Artie said. �How would you know he�s doing all that?�

�I don�t. It�s just an educated guess based on some information you don�t know about.�

�What information?�

�This afternoon he finished lowering the boom on you. He came into headquarters and confided in me all the trouble he was having with you. He gave me the green light to go after your girls, but not to touch you. This was supposed to be a disciplinary action to jerk you back into line, but of course it was nothing of the sort. If we touched you, a lot of people were going to want to know why, but nobody was going to get upset about some of your whores being arrested, except you. And since you�d take your complaint to Nick, he could stall you off. We started pulling in your girls tonight. See what Nick will have accomplished when the arrests are listed in the morning paper?�

�I�m beginning to,� Artie said coldly. �But you tell me.�

�He�ll have the final piece of string to tie a can to your tail. He can spread the story that you�ve gotten so far out of line, even his political influence can�t protect your racket any more, because the police commissioner will only sit still for so much. His story will make sense, because everybody knows old Baldy Mason won�t put up with rackets that start to raise a public protest. He�ll say you�re endangering the whole setup by practically asking for a full-scale police investigation of every racket in the district. And all your little ward-heeling friends, concerned about their own petty rackets, will desert you in droves. They�ll stand aside and cheer when Nick sends you tearing down obscurity alley with a can clanking behind you. Who do you figure your replacement is?�

Little Artie smiled without humor. The color had returned to his face and his eyes were glinting with the sparkle of battle. �Nobody. My tail is allergic to tin cans.�

Jake Stark said in a tentative voice, �Nick�s been grooming Whitey Sysol for something, Artie. Maybe...�

�Shut up, you miserable moron,� Artie said in a cold voice.

Jake gulped and lapsed into silence.

I said to Artie, �You still feel like alibiing Jake for this afternoon?�

The little man looked at me.

I said, �Of course it doesn�t make much difference, since we�ve already established that he was at Kitty�s apartment. But it would round things out to have your testimony that you sent him there.�

Artie glanced at his assistant, who obviously was shortly going to be his ex-assistant. �I sent him over there about one P.M.,� he said curtly. �He got back about two.�

�He left here at one?�

�Around then. Couple of minutes one way or the other.�

I examined Jake thoughtfully. �Earlier this evening you said you walked into Kitty�s place about a quarter of two, stayed only a couple of minutes and got back here by two. If it only took you ten minutes to drive back to the tavern, why�d it take you forty-five to get there?�

Jake said sullenly, �I had a couple of other errands first that Artie gave me to do. They took about thirty minutes.�

I shifted my attention to Artie. I studied him in silence for so long he began to get irked.

�Why the silly look on your face?� he inquired.

�I meant it to be contemplative,� I said. �I was just wondering why you arranged things so that Jake wouldn�t arrive at Kitty�s until forty-five minutes after he left here.�

�What do you mean, arranged things? I had some other places I wanted him to go, and as long as he was going out, I had him do everything at once.�

�Uh-huh. Or did you send Jake to collect the five hundred just to establish that you weren�t going after Kitty yourself? If Jake had a half-hour�s worth of errands to keep him busy before he headed for Kitty�s, you had plenty of time to get there and kill her before he arrived. And you�d have a perfect alibi.�

�Yeah,� Artie agreed sardonically. �Except I never left here from the time Jake took off until he returned.�

�Got any witnesses to that?�

�You got any that I did?�

I thought back to my conversation with Dinny. I remembered asking him if either Jake or Artie had left the tavern that afternoon, but then he had gotten involved in bargaining over how many drinks it was going to cost me to find out. When we finally got back on the subject, he had told me about Jake�s absence from the tavern, but now I couldn�t recall if I had ever specifically asked him again about Artie. It was possible that Artie had left also, and the old man hadn�t mentioned it simply because I hadn�t asked.

Walking over to the swinging door, I pushed it open and looked out into the barroom. Apparently Dinny had followed the bartender�s instructions and had gone home, for the place was empty. I resolved to look him up the next day.

Artie said, �Well? You got any?�

I shrugged. �You can discuss it with the homicide boys. It�s their baby anyway, not mine. No doubt they�ll be by in the morning to talk to you again.� I motioned to Jake. �Hands against the wall, Jake.�

He looked at me blankly. �Huh?�

�For a shakedown,� I explained. �You�re going downtown, and I always shake down mugs before I run them in.�

Jake glanced at Artie for moral support, but the little man simply ignored him. Aggrievedly he turned and placed his hands against the wall. I removed a snub-nosed thirty-eight revolver from a belt holster and dropped it into my right-hand coat pocket to balance the one in my left-hand pocket which I had taken from Vichek Czekanski.

�Got a license for this?� I inquired.

Dropping his hands from the wall, Jake turned to face me again. �Sure,� he said sullenly. �You can�t pin nothing illegal on me.�

�His license will be cancelled tomorrow,� Artie said. �So you can keep the gun.�

Jake gave the little man a forlorn look. Then, at my gesture toward the swinging door, he preceded me out into the barroom.

Artie stopped me in the doorway by asking, �What about Nick, Matt?�

I paused and half turned, holding the swinging door open so that I could keep an eye on Jake, who had stopped just beyond it. �What about him?�

�Well, he tried to get you burned, didn�t he? You just going to forget it?�

�He�ll be pulled in for conspiracy,� I said. �Don�t worry about it.�

�You going after him tonight?�

Even when they conspire to have a cop killed, you don�t go after men as big as Nick Bartkowiak without a legally executed warrant. And it wasn�t likely that anyone at Homicide would care to get the D.A. and a judge out of bed at that time of morning. I didn�t see any point in explaining all that, though.

I said, �It�ll keep till tomorrow.�

�Sure,� Artie said sardonically. �Want to make a bet?�

�What?�

�You won�t hold him for five minutes when you do pull him in. And with both those guns dead, you�ll never bring him to trial.�

�Possibly,� I admitted. �You�d better hope we can make it stick, or you�ll be out in the gutter.�

�I�ll make you another bet on that,� Artie said with a grim smile. �Why do you think he wanted you dead?�

�Why do you?� I countered.

�Because he was scared silly that if you pulled in Jake, I�d find out what he�s been trying to do to me. And he knew better than to let me see a knockout punch coming. His little plan might have worked if I hadn�t known what was happening until it was all over, but it sure as hell won�t work now. Nick�s going to be the one who gets a can tied to his tail.�

�Oh? You got plans?�

�Yeah, I got plans. You�re going to see Little Artie Nowak sitting in Nick�s spot when the dust finally settles.�

I shrugged. �That won�t be any improvement, but I suppose the district won�t be any worse off either. It�d suit me if you both knocked each other out.�

I moved on out into the barroom, letting the door swing shut behind me. I gave Jake Stark a gentle push in the direction of the street door.

When we reached headquarters, I took my prisoner straight to Homicide Division instead of stopping at the booking desk en route. I didn�t mind doing some investigative work for another division, but I wasn�t about to assume any of its purely administrative duties.

The squadroom was empty when we got there, which didn�t surprise me any because Homicide closes down at two A.M. and it was now a quarter after three. Calls to Homicide after two A.M. are taken at the Detective Bureau, and if homicide officers are required, they�re routed out of bed by telephone and told where to report.

I knew this was what had happened when I phoned in from the warehouse. Some team on the night trick would have been called just as they reached home, and ordered to make the investigation. They would shortly be along with the night watchman in tow, so there was nothing to do but wait. I told Jake to make himself comfortable at one of the long tables in the squadroom, and seated myself across the table from him.

It was my luck that the team routed out of bed because of my call-in had to be Lieutenant Robert Wynn and Sergeant Hank Carter. They rolled in about three twenty-five. They had Vichek Czekanski with them, still handcuffed. In deference to the lieutenant�s brass-happiness, I got to my feet as he entered the room.

Before I could open my mouth, Lieutenant Wynn exploded, �What do you mean leaving the scene of a killing before homicide officers arrive, Sergeant?�

�I left word that I�d report here,� I said mildly. �And here I am.�

Pulling the gun from my left-hand pocket, I laid it on the table. �This is Czekanski�s.� I laid the second gun next to it. �This is his.� I pointed to Jake.

The change of subject threw the lieutenant off stride. He wasn�t through bawling me out, but Jake�s presence sidetracked him.

�What�s he doing here?� he demanded. �Is he under arrest?�

�Yes, sir,� I said. �Accessory to attempted murder, also as a material witness in the Desmond case. Or mabye you�ll want to change the last charge to suspicion of murder when you hear what we�ve got against him. I think I�d better explain the charges one at a time.�

�All right. Start explaining.�

While the lieutenant and I were talking, Hank Carter had uncuffed Vichek Czekanski and had seated the night watchman in a corner. Carter came over to listen in, but as usual remained silent.

I said, �I�ll start with the attempt on me tonight. About ten after one Stark here got me out of bed with a phone call. He asked me to meet him at a place called Cybulski�s Tavern down on the south side. He said he had some information about Katherine Desmond�s murder. I dressed and started out to meet him. Ray Zek, one of the men you found dead at the warehouse, was concealed on the back floor of my car. He put a gun in my back and forced me to drive to the warehouse. I guess you know what happened there.�

�The radio patrolmen, who were there when we arrived, relayed your story. I�d prefer it firsthand.�

I took time out to repeat what had happened at the warehouse.

When I finished, the lieutenant grunted. �So then you couldn�t wait at the scene to explain matters. Stark here could have been picked up by other officers. But you felt you had to go after him personally.�

I said, �I assumed Jake had set me up on Artie Nowak�s order, and I wanted to get to Artie before his tavern closed. I only made it with two minutes to spare. Artie, Jake and I had a three-way conference, and it turned out Artie had nothing to do with the attempt on my life.�

Wynn frowned. �How�d he convince you of that?�

�Jake admitted it was Nick Bartkowiak who told him to phone me.�

Lieutenant Wynn looked startled. He turned to stare at Jake, who shuffled his feet and looked uncomfortable.

I said, �There isn�t any doubt that Nick ordered the kill, Lieutenant. I�ll get around to his reason in a minute. First, let�s jump back to the second charge against Jake. Material witness in the Desmond case. Or maybe suspicion of murder, if you see it that way.�

Wynn shifted his attention back to me. �All right. Go on.�

�Jake�s story is that he visited the girl�s apartment about one forty-five P.M. and found her dead.�

The lieutenant stared at Jake again. �So you lied about not leaving the tavern all day, eh?� Then he frowned at me. �What�s your interest in the Desmond case, Sergeant? Don�t you have enough work in your own division?�

�Excuse me, sir,� I said with exaggerated politeness. �I thought a police officer was supposed to arrest criminals even when the crimes were outside his specialty. I�ll take him back where I got him and forget the whole thing.�

�Don�t be an ass, Rudd,� Wynn said testily. �Of course I appreciate your help. Get along with your story.�

Since he had decided to be polite, or at least polite for him, I told him everything I knew, starting with Harold Warner�s visit to the squadroom with his complaint of being rolled. I told him how Little Artie had coughed up the money the girl had stolen, and had said he�d collect it back from her. I told him about Artie�s previous warning that he�d beat any girl he caught rolling a client. But I didn�t say where I�d gotten that information. I left the impression that Artie had admitted it during our kitchen conversation only a short time before. I threw in the story of Nick Bartkowiak�s machinations to unhorse Little Artie, and concluded by having Jake Stark repeat what he had told me about his visit to Kitty�s apartment.

When I finished, Wynn asked in a fascinated voice, �How�d you ever get Artie and this man to admit so much, Rudd?�

�Interrogation technique, Lieutenant,� I said negligently.

This put the scowl back on his face because he and Carter hadn�t gotten to first base with either man. �Why didn�t you bring Nowak in too?� he inquired. �It seems he had both motive and opportunity to murder the girl.�

�? thought I�d leave a little work for Homicide. He�s not likely to run away before morning.�

He emitted another grunt. �I suppose he�d only have his lawyer down here with a writ of habeas corpus anyway,� he conceded. �Then we�d either have to release him or get the D.A. and some judge out of bed. He�ll keep until morning, when all the necessary legal machinery is functioning.�

�Yeah. Bartkowiak too. Will you do me a favor, Lieutenant?�

�What?�

�Leave a note for the day trick that I�d like to go along when they go after Bartkowiak. I think I deserve the privilege of putting the arm on him personally.�

He surprised me by being congenial about it. �I suppose you do, if you want to get up that early. They should be able to get a warrant by nine A.M.�

�I can still sneak in four hours sleep,� I said. �You need me any more?�

�We can take over from here. Thanks for your assist.�

�Don�t mention it,� I said.

Nodding good-by to the silent Hank Carter, who hadn�t opened his mouth since he entered the room, I walked out of the squadroom.

I finally got to bed at four A.M. I set the clock for a quarter of eight, was up, had showered, shaved and dressed by five after eight. I caught coffee and a doughnut on the way to headquarters and logged in at eight-thirty.

Captain Spangler arrived just as I finished logging in.

He looked at me in surprise. �What are you doing here, Rudowski? You working two tricks?�

I said, �I think our night duty is over, Captain. I�ll let Lincoln sleep until twelve and call him back to duty this afternoon.�

Spangler frowned. �What do you mean your night duty is over? Have you decided to make up your own schedules now?�

�No, sir,� I said. �Something happened last night that takes us off the hook with Bartkowiak. Got a minute?�

He nodded. �Come into my office.�

Following him into his office, I took a seat and waited until he was situated behind his desk.

�All right,� he said. �What happened last night that�s so important?�

�A couple of things. First, I discovered that Nick Bartkowiak led us up the garden path when he explained his reason for wanting us to go after Little Artie Nowak�s girls. He�s trying to unload Artie, and he wants to discredit him among his constituents in order to make the unloading easier. Artie�s too strong in the district to kick out without substantial reason.�

�How do you know this?� the captain asked.

I relayed a portion of my conversation with Little Artie and Jake Stark. I left out the part concerning the attempt on my life, wanting to save that until I disposed of this first subject. I merely told him how Nick Bartkowiak had hired Jake to undermine the call-girl operation so that it would seem that Little Artie was deliberately disobeying orders.

When I finished, the captain was frowning deeply. �I�m going to speak to the chief about this, and ask him to speak to the commissioner. I suspect Mr. Mason will take a dim view of Bartkowiak maneuvering the police department to carry out political stratagems.�

�Yeah,� I said. �And he�ll probably take a dimmer view of Nick ordering one of his cops killed.�

�Huh?�

�That was the other thing which happened. Bartkowiak sicked a couple of guns on me last night.� I explained in detail just what had happened.

I had seen the captain mad before, but usually his anger was directed at some underling � sometimes at me. I had never seen him get angry at an influential politician, regardless of what the politician did. He always had a ready excuse for the behavior of anyone who had the commissioner�s ear. But apparently passing at one of his men was more than even such a wily back-rubber as Maurice Spangler was willing to tolerate. His face turned beet red.

�Is this cheap hood under arrest?� he rasped.

�He�s going to be. Lieutenant Wynn didn�t want to get a lot of people out of bed to draw up a warrant. I�m going along with the homicide boys to help serve it.�

�He should have been dragged out of bed and thrown in the clink without a warrant!�

�How long do you think he would have stayed there?� I asked reasonably. �We�ll probably have trouble sticking him even with all the proper legal machinery awake and functioning. The guns he hired are too dead to testify, so the only actual evidence we have that Nick ordered the kill is Jake Stark. And all his evidence amounts to is that Nick told him to phone me and make an appointment to meet him. Can you imagine what Nick�s attorney could do with that?�

This seemed only to infuriate the captain more. �Is there any doubt in your mind that Bartkowiak ordered you killed?� he demanded.

I shook my head. �I�m sure of it.�

�So am I,� he said grimly. �If the commissioner and the D.A. don�t go all out for a conviction on this, I intend to raise so much hell, they�ll hear the squawk all the way to the state capitol.�

It was nice to have the captain fighting on our side for a change, instead of admonishing us for stepping on the toes of vested interest. I very nearly felt proud of him.

I said, �The commissioner will probably feel the same way you do, Chief. You can say one thing for old Baldy...� At the captain�s glare, I quickly changed it to, �I mean Mr. Mason. He may give us hell for arresting privileged citizens on charges less than murder, but he doesn�t like even the most privileged to gun for his cops. Even if we don�t get a conviction, I suspect Nick�s influence with the department will be zero from here on out.�

�His influence with this division will certainly be zero,� Spangler growled. �And I�ll back that up with my job.�

I got to my feet. �I�m going over to Homicide to see if they�ve got a warrant yet. Lincoln and I will log in for regular duty at one P.M.�

He nodded. �Keep me posted on developments concerning Bartkowiak. And take all the time you want to assist Homicide. Under the circumstances I consider Mr. Bartkowiak as much our concern as theirs.�

�Thanks,� I said. �I�ll keep you posted.�

Lieutenant Harry Anderson and Sergeant Max Cole, who had taken the original squeal on the Desmond case, were both in the homicide squadroom. Anderson is a plump, good-natured man in his forties and Cole is a thin, gloomy hypochondriac of about the same age who chronically suffers the symptoms of a dozen imaginary diseases.

Harry Anderson, unlike Lieutenant Robert Wynn, doesn�t care a hoot in Hades about rank. I said, �Morning, Harry. How are you, Max?�

The last was a mistake, because Max Cole is the type of person who takes such questions literally. �Got a touch of my old back trouble again, Matt. And my gall bladder�s been acting up again. I�ve been going to a new doc who...�

�You sure had some excitement last night,� Harry Anderson interrupted. The only way to stop Cole, once he starts to enumerate his symptoms, is to interrupt him.

�Yeah,� I said. �Did Wynn leave a note about my request?�

�Uh-huh. You�re welcome to come along. We�re waiting for a warrant to arrive from the D.A.�s office now. Two warrants, as a matter of fact. We�re also picking up Artie Nowak as a material witness in the Desmond case.�

�It�ll be a pleasure to help you serve that too,� I said. �But why a warrant? He didn�t show any disinclination to cooperate last night.�

�Bob Wynn�s idea,� Anderson said. �According to his notes in the case record, he and Carter questioned Stark half the night, and weren�t able to shake his story of the girl being dead when he arrived at her apartment. They finally quit, convinced he was telling a straight story. Wynn thinks Little Artie must have killed the girl. That business of instructing Stark to run several other errands before he went to Kitty Desmond�s apartment has all the earmarks of deliberately setting up an alibi. Wynn wants him pulled in on some charge strong enough to hold him for a while, so we can do a thorough job of questioning.�

�How the mighty have fallen,� I said. �Earlier last night Wynn was all upset from just having to ask Artie a few polite questions in his own tavern. Now he wants him dragged down to headquarters like a common criminal.�

Anderson grinned. �Thanks to you getting yourself shot at. Little Artie�s protection was Nick Bartkowiak, and today Nick couldn�t get a parking ticket fixed. Not that he�d try to get Artie off the hook anyway, since he seems to be trying to shaft the guy completely out of the organization.�

Max Cole said gloomily, �We�ll never stick Little Artie for the Desmond job unless we can establish he left the tavern while Stark was gone.�

�I think we can establish pretty definitely whether or not he did,� I said.

�Yeah?� Anderson asked with raised brows.

�I�ve got a witness who spent all day in the tavern. I didn�t mention it to Wynn, but that�s how I learned Stark was gone for an hour. After we serve the warrants, I�ll look him up.�

�Who�s the guy?�

�An old fellow who hangs around there.�

Anderson said, �Give us his name and you won�t have to bother with it.�

�No bother,� I said. �Spangler gave me permission to work along with you guys as long as I want.�

Anderson looked surprised. �What�s gotten into him? Usually it�s like prying gold from a miser to get one of his cops assigned to special duty with another division.�

�He�s sore about me being fingered,� I said. �He put on quite an impressive show. He even threatened to speak nastily to Baldy Mason and the D.A. if they don�t go all out to convict Bartkowiak for conspiracy.�

�Spangler?� Anderson asked in disbelief. �He wouldn�t raise his voice to the big brass if he caught one of them picking his pocket.�

Within the division we make jokes about the captain�s tactful handling of higher-ups, but we don�t much like similar comments from outsiders.

�The old man�s as good a cop as anybody you have over here,� I said in a nettled voice.

I think Anderson was prepared to give me an argument, but we were both sidetracked by the entry into the squadroom of a young man in civilian clothes.

�Here comes the messenger from the D.A.�s office,� Max Cole announced. �I guess we�ve got our warrants.�

In addition to his political activities and having a finger in every racket on the south side, Nick Bartkowiak had a legitimate business. He was president of the Falcon Amusement Company, which placed pinball games, shuffle boards, cigarette vendors and jukeboxes in taverns and restaurants on a percentage basis. The percentage was fifty-fifty, which meant, because Falcon had a monopoly on such business, that Nick raked in half of everything dropped into coin machines anywhere in town.

With this gold mine, you would think he wouldn�t need any other interests, but to some extent his legitimate business was dependent on his less legitimate activities. Ordinarily competition in the coin-machine business is pretty keen. Bartkowiak maintained his monopoly partly through political influence, which made it difficult for any other distributor to obtain a license to operate, and partly through his army of goons, who tended to discourage competition by sabotaging rival machines and, sometimes, sabotaging their owners.

Headquarters for all his varied activities was the Falcon Amusement Company offices at Kosiusko and Jerboa, in the heart of the Polish section. We arrived there at nine-thirty A.M.

Since the people whose votes he controlled came here for political favors, Bartkowiak didn�t maintain an elaborate office. In keeping with his pose as a man of the people, he had only a plain, simply furnished waiting room and a small private office, the door to which was always open. There was no receptionist, as the factory workers on the south side would have considered that an affectation. Constituents wandered in and out of his office at will, familiarly addressing him as Nick instead of as Mr. Bartkowiak.

There was usually some guy lounging around the waiting room, however, who performed some of the duties of a receptionist. When Nick was there, he had no apparent function. But as there had to be someone around to tell visitors when Nick might be expected back on the occasions when he was out of the office, Bartkowiak kept one of his goons on duty to perform this service. Today it was Biffy Jagoda, a lean, sleekly dressed man with drooping eyelids and a studiously blank expression.

There were also two other people in the waiting room when we arrived. An old man in overalls and a younger man in a black leather jacket and skin-tight pants sat on opposite sides of the room. I guessed they were constituents waiting to see Bartkowiak for some favor or advice.

Harry Anderson glanced through the open door of Bartkowiak�s private office and asked Biffy, �Where�s Nick?�

Biffy was idly leaning against the wall with his hands in his pockets. �Out,� he said laconically.

�Out where?�

Biffy shrugged. �He didn�t say.�

�When�s he coming back?�

�He didn�t say that either.�

I had known Biffy Jagoda all my life. I hadn�t liked him as a kid, and I liked him less as we grew older. I walked over to within a foot of him and looked at his chin. My expression put a wary look on his face and caused him to take his hands from his pockets.

�What�s with you, Matt?� he inquired.

�We want to get in touch with Nick,� I said, still looking at his chin. �And we don�t want a lot of smart brush-off answers.�

�Who�s brushing you off?� he asked plaintively. �He walked out forty-five minutes ago without saying where he was going or when he�d be back. These other people are waiting for him too.�

�Make an educated guess as to where he went,� I suggested.

�How should I know? He was with Little Artie Nowak, if that means anything to you.�

My gaze shifted from his chin to his droop-lidded eyes. �He walked out of here with Artie?� I said sharply.

My tone turned his expression even more wary. �Why shouldn�t he if he wants to? They�re pals.�

�Tell me exactly what happened.�

�Why, nothing much,� he said in a puzzled voice. �Nick showed about eight-thirty, as usual. Ten minutes later Artie came in and went into Nick�s office. The door was open, but I didn�t pay no attention to what they was talking about. The both of them came out and left without saying a word to me. A few minutes later the kid and the old man here came in and been waiting ever since.�

�Was that normal behavior for Nick?� I asked. �Doesn�t he usually say where he�s going and how long he�ll be gone when he leaves the office?�

Biffy scratched the back of his neck. �I guess he does usually,� he admitted. �So we can tell people whether to wait or not. What�s this all about?�

�Let me guess how it was,� I said. �Nick came out first with Artie behind him.�

�Yeah,� he agreed, eyeing me with increasing puzzlement.

�Artie have one hand in his pocket?�

His eyes widened. �Yeah, now that you mention it. What�s this all about, Matt?�

I turned away from him disgustedly. �You�re a hell of a bodyguard.�

�Huh?�

I said to the boy and the old man, �You�re wasting your time waiting for Nick. I don�t think he�ll be back today.�

The old man looked at me abashedly, then got up and left the office. The younger man, curious as to what was going on, remained seated. Harry Anderson and Max Cole looked at me inquiringly.

I said, �We�d better get out an A.P.B. on both of them.�

�Think it was a snatch?� Anderson asked.

�It has all the earmarks. I should have thought of that possibility when he announced he intended to take on Nick for a fight to the finish. But it never occurred to me he meant to make it an old-fashioned gang war. I thought he just intended to rally his political strength behind him.�

Biffy Jagoda said, �Hey, what are you guys talking about?�

�Matters over your head,� I told him.

I walked out with Anderson and Cole following me.

We had come in an F car, Max Cole driving. I climbed in the back seat, Anderson in front. The lieutenant picked up the dash mike and said, �F-27 to control one.�

The receiver said, �Go ahead, F-27.�

�Get out an A.P.B. on Nicholas Bartkowiak and Arthur Nowak, alias Little Artie Nowak.� Anderson rattled off descriptions of both men. �Nowak is suspected of kidnapping Bartkowiak at gunpoint from the Falcon Amusement Company, Kosiusko and Jerboa, about eight forty-five A.M. Also, there is a warrant on Bartkowiak for conspiracy to murder and on Nowak as a material witness. Nowak is believed armed, so approach with caution.�

�Description of motor vehicle?� the dispatcher asked.

�Presumably they�re in Nowak�s car, though we don�t know. Check D.M.V. for registration. Ten four.�

�Ten four,� the dispatcher said.

Anderson hung up the mike. �Now what?�

�We might as well hit the tavern,� I said. �I doubt that he�d take him there, but we might get some lead on where he could have taken him.�

�You think maybe he took him out somewhere and bumped him?� Anderson asked.

�How should I know? Yesterday I would have said he wasn�t that stupid, but yesterday I thought he wasn�t stupid enough to pull a snatch either.�

�Where�s the tavern?� Cole asked.

I gave him directions.

En route to the tavern, I wondered if my big mouth had caused Little Artie to kill for a second time. Only this time it didn�t bother my conscience, because I never feel sorry when I hear about racketeers shooting each other up. I�ve always felt they had the right idea back in the gang-warfare days of the twenties, when they used to mow each other down by the score. These modern racketeers� habit of using political pressure instead of guns to dispose of their rivals didn�t kill enough hoods.

Max Cole steered the felony car over to the curb and braked to a stop. �This the place?� he inquired.

�Yeah,� I said, getting out of the car.

Together the three of us entered the tavern.

There was no one in the tavern except Dinny, and he was behind the bar in a white apron. As usual, he had a beer before him.

The three of us lined up at the bar. I said, �When�d you become a bartender?�

He exposed glittering false teeth in a wide grin. �This morning. I guess Jake must be sick. It�s only temporary. Artie drafts me to pinch hit in emergencies every once in a while.�

I said, �This is Lieutenant Anderson and Sergeant Cole, Dinny. What�s your last name, anyway?�

�O�Toole.� He nodded to my companions. �One Irishman in a sea of Polacks. I think I�m the only Mick in the district.�

Anderson and Cole murmured acknowledgment to the introduction.

�Know where Artie is?� I asked.

�Nope.�

�When�d you last see him?�

�Left here about eight-thirty. Come over to my place and got me out of bed about eight. I only live in the next block. Said Jake wasn�t coming in and asked me to take over. Soon as we got back here, he had a double shot of whisky and left. That kind of shook me up.�

�What did?�

�Him having a double shot. He don�t drink nothing but coffee usually. He can�t. The stuff drives him nuttier than a coot.�

�Was he drunk?� I asked.

Dinny shrugged. �With Artie you can�t tell until he�s really got on a load. It hits him all at once. One minute he�s talking and acting dead sober, the next he�s talking thick-tongued and staggering around like he�s ready to fall down. You got to watch him both times, though. He goes so nuts on whisky, he don�t care about nothing.�

�Hmm,� I said. �Mention where he was going or when he�d be back?�

Dinny shook his head. �Never said a word. He did say the regular night bartender would be in at five, so I guess he don�t intend to be back all day.�

�You have any idea where he might be?�

The old man shook his head again.

Anderson asked, �Where�s he live?�

�In the flat upstairs. Only he ain�t there. I seen him drive off in his car.�

�Oh? What kind of car does he have?�

�A Caddy. Brand new one.�

�Sedan?� I asked.

�Uh-huh. White, with a tan top. It�s a real beaut.�

Lieutenant Anderson said to Cole, �Better get that on the air. They�ve probably got the registration from D.M.V. by now, but it won�t hurt anything.�

Cole walked outside to radio the information to the police dispatcher.

Dinny asked, �Has Artie done something that you fellows are looking for him?�

�We just want to talk to him,� I said. �Dinny, remember our conversation last night?�

�Sure,� he said with a grin. �I went home half stewed.�

�You told me about Jake being gone from the tavern for a while yesterday afternoon, but I don�t remember if I specifically asked you if Artie had ever left.�

The old man�s grin widened. �Sure you did. You asked if either one had left. But then we got to talking about beer and whisky, and when we finally got back on the subject, you only asked about Jake. So I told you about Jake.�

�Okay, now I�m asking about Artie. Did he leave the place too?�

Dinny pursed his lips. �That�s an awfully thirsty question.�

�We�re not going to play that game again,� I said definitely. �We�re investigating a murder. I want a straight answer.�

His eyebrows jumped upward. �A murder? Artie bump somebody?�

�Just come up with the answer.�

He pursed his lips again, then shrugged. �I guess a drink wouldn�t mean nothing anyhow. I can have all I want long as I�m behind the bar. Yeah, Artie had me take over the bar and left right after Jake did.�

Bingo, I thought. There went Little Artie�s alibi. �How long was he gone?�

Dinny ruminated, finally said, �Half-hour, about. Come back about one-thirty or a few minutes after.�

Ten minutes to Kitty�s apartment, ten minutes� drive back. That left ten minutes to commit murder. I said, �He mention where he was going?�

�Sure. To the bank.�

�Where�s he bank?�

The old man shrugged. �You got me.� Then his face lit with inspiration and he turned to punch open the cash register. �He put the deposit slip in here.�

Lifting the coin receptacle, he rummaged beneath it and triumphantly brought out a duplicate deposit slip. �Manufacturers� Trust,� he announced.

�Let me see that,� I said.

He passed the slip over. It was dated the previous day and listed a deposit of seven hundred and sixty-two dollars in cash, plus a number of checks.

Max Cole came back in at that moment. He said, �What�s up?�

I showed him the slip. �Artie left here yesterday afternoon right after Jake did and was gone about a half hour. But it seems he still has an alibi. He made a bank deposit at Manufacturers� Trust.�

Cole examined the slip. �Manufacturers� Trust. That�s at Benton and Coyle, right en route to the Desmond girl�s apartment. He could have made both in a half-hour.�

Anderson said dubiously, �He�d have to cut it pretty fine. It�d take the teller at least ten minutes to count up that much money. And usually you have to wait in line for a while.�

�We can settle that easily enough,� I said. �Let�s take a run over to the bank.� I handed the deposit slip back to the old man. �Does Artie always bank on Thursday, Dinny?�

Dinny scratched his head. �No, now that you mention it. Usually he goes on Friday. Thursday�s payday at most of the plants, and he cashes lots of checks Thursday night. So he�s always short of cash on Friday.�

Anderson and I exchanged glances. �Sounds like an excuse to get out of the place, doesn�t it?� the lieutenant said.

�Uh-huh. Let�s see what they say at the bank.�

At the Manufacturers� Trust Company we were referred to an assistant vice president named Norman Tyson. When we had explained what we wanted, Tyson went off to the bookkeeping department to find out which teller had taken Little Artie�s deposit the previous day.

When he came back, he said, �Halliday at window four. I�ll take you over to explain what you want.� Then he cleared his throat and said, �Ah � gentlemen, will it be necessary for all three of you to question him? Couldn�t two of you wait here at my desk?�

Not wanting to disturb the decorum of the bank, we agreed to this. Cole and I waited as Harry Anderson went along with Tyson to be introduced to the teller at window four.

Max Cole glanced at a wall clock, took out a small bottle and popped a couple of pills in his mouth.

�How can you take pills without water?� I asked.

�If you had to take as much medicine as I do, you�d learn,� he said with a martyr-like satisfaction. �You can�t always get at water when a dose is due.�

I was on the verge of asking what these particular pills were for, but decided against it. I was afraid it would bring on a clinical description of whatever disease they were designed to combat.

Tyson and the lieutenant came back. Anderson said, �Sounds good. The teller says Artie came in a few minutes after one. There was no one waiting in line, so he got right to the window. He had the deposit slip, money and checks all in a night-deposit bag. He told the teller he had a couple of errands to perform, and would be back for the slip later. So he didn�t have any wait at all. The teller says he came back and picked up the slip around one-thirty.�

Max Cole said, �There goes his second alibi.�

Thanking Norman Tyson for his time, we left the bank.

Back in the F car, Anderson said, �Looks like Artie is our boy, huh? He set up one alibi, then covered with another in case the first fell down.�

�Well, there�s one other possibility,� I said slowly.

�What?�

�That his trip to the bank was legitimate, and that he just set up the other alibi to avoid trouble after Jake Stark told him Kitty was dead.�

�Yeah,� Cole put in. �Except that old man says he normally banks on Friday.�

�How about running me back to headquarters?� I suggested. �There isn�t anything else we can do until Little Artie and Nick Bartkowiak turn up.�

At headquarters we separated in the hallway where the Homicide squadroom is one way and the Vice squadroom the other.

Harry Anderson said, �Thanks for the assist, Matt. You were a big help.�

�Don�t mention it,� I said. �Don�t take any wooden pills, Max.�

�If you had to pay my medicine bill, you wouldn�t joke,� Max Cole said gloomily.

By the time I got out of Captain Spangler�s office after posting him on developments, it was nearly noon. I decided that it was time to phone Carl Lincoln and give him the news that he had to come back to work that afternoon.

When I called him at home, Carl said he was just having breakfast.

�It must be nice to be a drone,� I told him. �I got four hours sleep and logged in at eight-thirty this morning.�

�You did? What in the devil for?�

I told him what had happened after we separated last night, and brought him up to date on developments that morning.

Carl said, �Whew! The things that happen while I�m quietly sleeping.�

�Yeah,� I said. �But now your vacation is over. You can check in at one P.M.�

�Today?� he objected. �After working so late last night?�

�You only put in four or five hours last night, and you were off in the afternoon.�

�Split shift,� he said. �Some deal. What�s the schedule for this afternoon?�

�I thought we�d work the factory district for streetwalkers.�

�Oh joy,� he said sadly. �See you at one.�

Carl and I spent the early part of the afternoon doing what we were paid to do for a change � looking for streetwalkers. Afternoon may seem a peculiar time to hunt for them, but it isn�t. Unlike call girls, who ply their trade mostly by night, streetwalkers seem to work twenty-four hours a day. Of course they actually don�t; it�s different girls working the same district at different hours which creates the impression they�re on around-the-clock duty.

There are certain sections of town where normally you can find streetwalkers at any time of the day or night. Their technique varies according to the hour, but you can find them if you know where to look. After nightfall they merely stroll along the streets carrying the insignia of their trade, the shoulder-strap bag, and awaiting the beep of car horns. During the day, they are more prone to move from bar to bar, merely glancing in and walking on if there are no male customers, entering and looking over the crop if there are. If the prospects don�t seem very promising, they immediately walk out again; if business is likely, they sit at the bar and sip a beer, awaiting the opportunity to approach the man they have their eye on when the barkeep isn�t looking.

We headed for the factory district, parked our F car and moved in different directions to make a tour of the bars which tolerated hustlers. The weather was just as hot and gritty as the previous day, and it seemed that our excuse for not working yesterday morning had been valid. There were a lot of people in the bars, quite a number of them women. But if any of them were hustlers, they were taking the afternoon off, for neither of us got a single approach. At two-thirty we met back at the car, gave up and returned to headquarters.

I left Carl in the Vice squadroom and went over to Homicide to find out if there had been any result as yet from the all-points bulletin we had put out on Little Artie and Nick Bartkowiak. I met Lieutenant Harry Anderson and Max Cole hurrying out the door.

�What�s up?� I inquired.

They paused and Anderson said, �A squeal just came in that Nick Bartkowiak is back at the Falcon Amusement Company. We�re just going over to look at him.�

�I�ll go along,� I said. Then the oddness of his words struck me. �What do you mean, look at him?�

�He was deposited on the front steps,� Anderson said. �In good old prohibition-day gangland style. He�s full of bullets.�

�I�ll be damned!� I breathed. �Little Artie?�

�Presumably,� Anderson said. �No one witnessed the deposit. Seems Biffy Jagoda stepped out for a breath of air and stumbled over the body.�

Max Cole said, �Little Artie must have gone nuts to pull a stunt like that in this town.�

Obviously the little man had. He must have been insane with rage to do anything so arrogantly reminiscent of the 1920�s gang-warfare days. In St. Cecilia you simply didn�t openly execute racket rivals any more and dare the authorities to do something about it. Because what the authorities did, no matter who you were, was arrange to have you strapped in an electric chair.

Anderson said, �If you�re coming along, let�s get moving.�

�I guess I�ll skip it,� I decided. �I wanted to put the arm on Nick personally, but I�m not much interested in viewing his body. Any word at all on Little Artie�s whereabouts yet?�

Anderson shook his head. �The tavern�s staked out, in case he shows there. Incidentally, I told communications to cut the Vice hot-shot speaker in on the circuit if any word comes in, so you�ll know about it as soon as we do. Let�s roll, Max.�

They hurried on down the hall in the direction of the elevator. I returned to the Vice squadroom, told Carl what had happened, then went in and reported the news to the captain.

Spangler sounded relieved to hear that Nick Bartkowiak was dead. I suspect he had had some second thoughts about his vow to push for the man�s conviction on conspiracy charges, and while he probably would have followed up, it simplified matters that the whole thing was now of merely academic interest.

He said, �Well, now that it�s all over, I guess you can confine yourself to vice-squad duty.�

�We�re still not sure that Little Artie killed Katherine Desmond,� I said. �I�d kind of like to continue working with Homicide until that case is cleared up.�

The captain frowned at me. �They have competent people over there, Rudowski. Bartkowiak�s apprehension and conviction was a legitimate interest of this division because he tried to have you killed. But I can�t see that either this dead girl or Little Artie are any of our concern.�

�If Artie killed her, I was indirectly responsible, Chief. I�d like to follow it.�

�Then do it on your own time,� he said shortly. �After your regular hours.�

I decided if he was going to be so G.I., I�d get technical too.

I said, �I really didn�t have to come in this morning, so I figure I have some time coming. Things are dead anyway. We spent an hour and a half in the factory district this afternoon without turning up a single hustler. All Carl and I are doing is sitting around on standby. Suppose I devote this afternoon to the case?�

�I suppose that would be all right,� he said a trifle testily. �But in case of emergency, you�d better let Lincoln know where to reach you in a hurry.�

Back in the squadroom I sat down to brood for a while. It seemed more and more likely that Little Artie Nowak had killed the Desmond girl, particularly since he had just flamboyantly demonstrated that he wasn�t averse to murder and that he possessed an extremely violent temper. He must have been in an insane rage to pull the Bartkowiak kill in the exhibitionistic manner that he had. His temperament certainly matched that of Kitty Desmond�s killer, because only a man in violent rage could have beaten the girl so unmercifully before strangling her to death.

The trouble was that we didn�t actually know. It was only a strong probability. And I didn�t feel like simply sitting around waiting for the hot-shot speaker to announce that Artie had been apprehended.

Rousing myself from my reverie, I said to Carl, �I�m going out for a while.�

�Where?� he asked.

�I�ll be at 125 Ormond Place, apartment 2-B.�

He frowned at me. �Isn�t that where the Desmond girl was killed?�

�Uh-huh.�

�Are you still stewing about that? I thought you had it all figured out that Little Artie killed her.�

�There are still a couple of loose ends, and we�re only sitting anyway. You can phone me if anything comes up.�

�What�s the number?�

I looked in the book under both Desmond and Fenner, but no number was listed. I might have known the girls wouldn�t have had a listed number, call girls seldom do. I called the telephone company, told who I was and said I needed the number on police business. The company won�t give out an unlisted number to just anybody who calls in. They won�t even give it to the phone subscriber, if he happens to forget his own number and is trying to call home. But they will give it to the police on official business. Even then they make sure it�s not just somebody trying to pull a fast one, though. The woman I talked to said it would take a few minutes to look up, and she would call me back. That was to make certain I wasn�t just some joker pretending to be a cop.

She called back five minutes later and gave me the number. Writing it on a slip of paper, I tossed it to Carl.

�Have fun,� he told me.

I thought this callous remark would offend her enough to change the subject, but I had forgotten the peculiar inverted psychology of the average call girl. They seem to prefer men who are out-and-out leeches.

�I�ll be bringing in twice as much as Jolly, once I get going,� she said. �I�ve only been in the racket a couple of weeks, so I haven�t had time to build up a repeat business. Jolly has a list of clients who ask for her personally when they call in. Mine will build up. You watch. Artie�s promised to throw a lot of new business my way.�

She was in for a disappointment there, because Little Artie wasn�t going to be throwing business anyone�s way. He was going to be too busy trying to keep himself out of the electric chair. I could hardly tell her this, though, for there hadn�t as yet been enough time for Nick Bartkowiak�s murder to be announced over the air, and she would have wondered how I knew of Artie�s troubles.

I said, �When you can afford to buy Jaguars, let me know.�

�Gee, you�re a rat,� she said admiringly. �Would you really leave Jolly for a better offer?�

I shrugged. �A guy would be crazy to turn down an opportunity to improve himself.�

She looked me over speculatively, making me feel somewhat like a side of beef being inspected by a butcher. Apparently she had decided to go all-out for the call girl�s life, and felt that one of the things she had to do for social prestige in her exclusive set was to acquire a pimp. I guessed that it would gratify her ego to take a man away from an established call girl as popular as Jolly.

�Does Jolly have a nice apartment?� she asked. �I�ve never been in it.�

Neither had I, but I could hardly admit that. �Pretty nice.�

�I�ll bet it isn�t as nice as this. Want to see it?�

Her eagerness to sell me on the advantages she had over Jolly amused me. �Sure,� I said agreeably.

Bouncing up from the sofa, she took my hand and led me down the hall to the kitchen. It was large, airy, with all modern appliances. She proudly pointed each out as though she were a landlady trying to rent the place. Then, still holding my hand, she showed me a pink bathroom off the hall. From there we went into a rather small, femininely furnished room.

�This is my bedroom right now,� she said. �But I�m going to move into Kitty�s. It�s bigger.�

She led me across the hall to a wide, much better furnished room with a huge double bed, a dresser and dressing table. She looked up at me, awaiting approval.

�It�s just as nice as Jolly�s,� I conceded. �And a little bigger.�

�I can�t bring myself to move in here just yet,� she said. �I keep remembering walking in and finding Kitty. She was lying right there.� She pointed to a spot on the floor alongside the bed.

This left the opening I had been waiting for. What I wanted to talk about was the murder, but I couldn�t have just walked in and started asking questions like a cop.

�Have you ever decided whether Little Artie killed her or not?� I asked.

She shrugged. �If he did, I�ll bet they never prove it.�

�At least it couldn�t have been robbery. According to the news report, her purse was on the dresser with a couple of hundred bucks in it.�

Doll frowned slightly. �You know, that�s a funny thing, Matt. When she came in the first time at two A.M. the other night, she had a lot more money than that. She had rolled some fellow for five hundred bucks, and she showed me the money. She had about a hundred and fifty in her bag besides that. When she came back the second time at eleven-thirty in the morning, she must have had around seven hundred, because she would have picked up another fifty on her second date. But I�ve searched the whole apartment and I can�t find that five hundred.�

There was the final loose end, I thought. Only Artie Nowak would have taken exactly five hundred after killing her, because he had paid that amount out of his own pocket on her account. Anyone else would either have taken nothing, or would have cleaned out her purse. Little Artie must have been the murderer.

I said, �That is peculiar.�

Doll was still hanging onto my hand, and now she gave it a squeeze. �Let�s not talk about it any more, Matt. I�m trying to forget the whole thing. Do you really like the apartment?�

�Sure. It�s fine.�

�Better than Jolly�s?�

I shrugged. �Just as good.�

�How about me? Do you like me?�

�I think you�re a doll.�

She made a face at me. �That�s a lousy pun. Do you like me better than Jolly?�

�You�re asking an awful lot of questions,� I said.

�I�m getting awfully poor answers. I suppose you couldn�t really tell which of us you liked better until we�d been together.�

�Together?�

�You know. Don�t act so dumb.� She gave my hand another squeeze and looked at me expectantly.

There wasn�t any doubt what she had in mind. She wanted to give me a chance to compare all her assets to Jolly�s. I glanced at the bed, wondering how to slide gracefully out of this situation without completely slipping out of character.

Releasing my hand, she put both hands on my shoulders and looked up into my face. �Why don�t you find out if you really like me?� she suggested.

Obviously there wasn�t going to be any way to slide out of the situation without letting her know I wasn�t what I was pretending to be. Why not, I thought? It was really in line of duty.

I dropped my hands to her hips and her arms immediately went around my neck. Pulling my face down to hers, she met my lips with her mouth wide open. It was about the most passionate kiss I ever had.

Eventually she decided to come up for air. Disengaging herself, she stepped back, put both hands behind her and untied her halter, keeping her eyes fixed on my face all the time. Slipping it off, she stood holding it in her hand, letting me admire her small, pointed, delicately-veined breasts.

The doorbell rang.

�Damn!� Doll said.

She stood listening, a frown on her face. After a moment it rang again.

�Oh, hell,� she said irritably. Replacing the halter across her bosom, she turned her back. �Tie me up.�

Crossing the cords, I tied them in a bow.

�I�ll get rid of whoever it is,� she said. �Stay right here. I�ll be back.�

I waited in the bedroom as she moved up the hall to the front room. I heard her unlock the door and open it.

A male voice said, �Your mail was still in the box, so I brought it up.�

�Thanks,� Doll said in a strangely frigid tone. Then her voice turned sharp. �Nobody invited you in!�

I heard the door click shut and the bolt turn. The man snickered.

�You get out of here!� Doll ordered.

�Aw, don�t high-hat me, baby. I know what you do for a living. Your girl friend was one too. You be nice to me and I won�t tell the landlord what kind of girls he�s been renting to.�

Walking to the bedroom door, I stuck my head out. A big, red-faced man of about my age stood with his back to the front door grinning at Doll. He was dressed in denim trousers, a soiled sport shirt and heavy work shoes. He didn�t see me, because at that moment Doll laid her open palm across the side of his head in a slap that exploded like a pistol shot.

As I moved out into the hallway, he grabbed her wrist, twisted it up behind her back and clamped his free arm around her to crush her to his chest. The letters Doll was holding in her left hand fluttered to the floor. There was a flaming red mark on his left cheek where Doll had slapped him, and his eyes glittered with anger.

�Now you�re going to get it, you little tart,� he growled. �You�re gonna get laid right here on the floor.�

Then he saw me in the doorway from the hall and froze.

�Surprise,� I said pleasantly.

He released the girl and she stumbled backward. As I closed the distance between us, he just stood there licking his lips, too frightened by my sudden appearance even to defend himself. I guess he was only brave against women.

I meant it only to be a light, admonishing rap on the chin, just hard enough to teach him manners. But sometimes my temper gets the best of me. When my fist crashed against his jaw, he dropped with a thud that shook the room. He lay flat on his back, his mouth open, out cold.

�Who the devil is he?� I asked.

�The jerk across the hall,� Doll said. She glared down at him, her breasts heaving. �He�s always nosing around here, angling for an invitation in, but he never pulled anything like this before.�

I studied the prone figure thoughtfully. �Maybe he has,� I said in a slow voice. �Maybe he pulled the same thing on Kitty yesterday.�

There was a quick intake of breath. Doll stared at me.

�What�s his name?� I asked.

�Donald Tupper. He shares his flat with a fellow who works at the same place he does. Snyder�s the other guy�s name. Eugene Snyder.�

Stooping, I rolled the unconscious man over on his stomach and worked a wallet from his hip pocket. Going through it, I found a union membership card for Local 216 of the United Machine-shop Workers. It listed his occupation as lathe operator and his place of employment as Amhurst Products.

Returning the various cards to the wallet, I stuffed it back in his hip pocket and rolled him on his back again. This woke him up, at least partially. He stared up at me blearily.

Reaching down, I grabbed a double handful of shirt front and jerked Donald Tupper to his feet. He raised his hands defensively.

�I�m not going to clip you again,� I growled. �I want you conscious. You make a regular habit of forcing yourself into women�s apartments and mauling them?�

�I didn�t mean nothing, mister,� he said in a thick whine. �I was just trying to be neighborly.�

I shook him until his teeth rattled. �Were you being neighborly yesterday when you beat Kitty to death?�

His jaw dropped and he gazed at me in terror.

�Well?� I said, giving him another shake.

He gulped, �You don�t think...� then his words trailed off.

�Why shouldn�t I think it? You were all set to rape Doll. Yesterday you tried the same stunt on Kitty, didn�t you?�

�I was at work all day,� he squeaked. �I don�t get home until three-thirty. Look what time it is. I�m just getting home now.�

�So you worked today,� I said. �Can you prove you were at work all day yesterday?�

�Ask my buddy if you don�t believe me. He�s right across the hall. He works right alongside of me.�

�We�ll just do that,� I said grimly.

Releasing my double grip on his shirt front, I unlocked and opened the door. Then I grabbed his shoulder and swung him through it with such force, he staggered across the hall and crashed into the door on the other side.

Following after him, I turned the knob, pushed open the door and shoved him inside. He staggered again, righted himself and came to a halt in the center of the front room. I walked in after him, and Doll came as far as the doorway.

A lean, middle-aged man wearing denims, an undershirt and work shoes similar to Donald Tupper�s, came from a center hallway identical to the one in Doll�s apartment.

He said, �Hey, what�s going on?�

�Are you Eugene Snyder?� I inquired.

�Yes.�

�Your creep friend here just tried a little forced rape,� I told him. �I think maybe he tried the same thing yesterday.�

Snyder stared at his apartment-mate. �Forced rape?� he said in a shocked voice. Then he looked at me puzzledly. �When was this? We just walked in from work together a few minutes ago.�

�They got the wrong idea, Gene,� Tupper said aggrievedly. �I was just kidding around a little. Now this guy thinks I killed that girl yesterday. Tell him where I was all day.�

The man in the undershirt said, �Why, he was at work. We both work at Amhurst.�

�You sure he was at work all day? How do you know he didn�t sneak home for a while?�

�We work on machines right next to each other. We�re both on the seven A.M. to three trick. We leave together about six-twenty in the morning, drive to work in the same car, punch in and work side by side all day. We even have lunch together and eat out of the same lunch bucket. And when we punch out at three, we come home together.�

I said, �He wasn�t out of your sight all day yesterday?�

He shook his head. �Unless you count about five minutes during our half-hour lunch break, when he went to the John. It�s almost a half-hour drive from the plant to here, so he couldn�t of made it in that time.�

�You vouch for him being in your sight all the rest of the time? You weren�t away from your machine?�

He shook his head again. �Neither of us was away for a minute.�

I said, �The guy who killed the poor girl across the hall is a dangerous maniac. You wouldn�t cover for a guy like that just because he was a friend, would you?�

�I wouldn�t cover my own brother for a thing like that. But Don couldn�t possibly have done it. How come you�re asking all this, anyway? You a cop?�

With Doll standing in the doorway, I didn�t want to give a straight answer to that. I said, �You don�t have to be a cop to hate rapists.� I turned to Doll. �Want me to phone the cops and turn this creep in for attempted rape?�

She looked at Donald Tupper with distaste. �No. I don�t think he�ll bother me again, now that he�s met you. Will you, Casanova?�

Tupper avoided both her gaze and mine. �I didn�t mean nothing,� he muttered.

Eugene Snyder had sounded as though he were telling the truth, and I was pretty well convinced that Tupper could have had nothing to do with Kitty�s death. Nevertheless, under different circumstances I would have clamped handcuffs on the man and run him in for attempted rape, regardless of the girl�s desire. But I couldn�t very well do that without disclosing to Doll that I was a cop. The charge probably wouldn�t have held up anyway, since I hadn�t allowed him to get far enough to classify his assault as a rape attempt. His statement that he intended to lay her on the floor wasn�t sufficient evidence without actual physical aggression, and merely grabbing her around the waist wasn�t the type of aggression the courts classify as carnal assault. Since Doll had slapped him, he could justify grabbing her as self-defense against another expected slap.

I decided to settle for checking to see if he had a record and, if he didn�t, listing him in the sex-offender file so that he would be routinely picked up for questioning in future rape cases.

Walking over to him, I looked squarely into his red face. �Listen carefully, mister, so that you�ll understand the score. Don�t bother to bring Miss Fenner�s mail to her again. Don�t ever punch her doorbell again for any reason. If you meet her on the stairs, walk by without speaking or looking at her. If you ever so much as look at her sideways again, I�ll clean you like a fish. Got it?�

His gaze shifted to his shoes. �I got it,� he muttered.

Doing an about-face, I stalked to the door, took Doll�s elbow and steered her out. To add emphasis to my ultimatum, I let the door bang shut behind me.

Back in the other apartment Doll carefully closed and re-locked the door. �Wasn�t that something?� she said.

�Yeah. But I doubt that he bothers you again.�

�I�m sure he won�t. He�s so scared of you, he wouldn�t dare.� She studied me admiringly. �You can be pretty tough when you want to, can�t you?�

�It�s easy with a slob like that,� I said.

Stooping, I gathered up the mail strewn over the floor and handed it to her. Mechanically she began sorting through the envelopes.

�All for Kitty except one,� she said. �Ads and bills.�

She tossed everything but a plain, square white envelope on an end table and slit that open with a thumb nail. She drew out a card.

�Sympathy card,� she said, opening it. A bill fluttered to the floor.

Stooping, she picked it up and her eyes widened. �A five-hundred-dollar bill! I�ve never even seen one before.� She looked down at the card.

�Isn�t this odd?� she asked. �Listen to this. �Please apply this money to Kitty Desmond�s funeral expenses.� It�s signed, �A friend of Kitty�s.��

�Let me see that,� I said.

She handed me the card. It was a printed sympathy card such as you can buy in any drug store. The message was in ink, printed in even block letters.

I said, �Let me see that envelope.�

Doll gave it to me. It was postmarked four P.M. the day before and had been mailed in town.

�Do you suppose it came from one of Kitty�s Johns?� Doll asked.

I was frowning down at the card and envelope. �Why would a John want to help with her funeral expenses?�

�Who could it have come from, then?�

I said slowly, �You didn�t find her body until three P.M. This is postmarked at four, only an hour after its discovery, and long before the news was ever on the air.�

Doll stared at me.

I said, �It looks to me like conscience money. I think her killer sent it.�

Doll looked shocked. �Little Artie? Do you think he�d do that?�

�I don�t know. He might. I�m beginning to suspect he�s a little nuts. Mind if I keep this card?�

She shrugged. �If you want. But what for?�

�It�s evidence and I have a cop friend. I�ll turn it over to him.� I put the card back in its envelope and thrust the envelope into my inside breast pocket.

Doll smiled at me, then turned her back. �Shall we resume where we left off when we were interrupted? Untie me again.�

Before I could reach for the bow, the phone rang.

�Oh, hell,� she said in a harassed voice. �Is this going to go on all afternoon?�

Crossing to the corner where the phone sat on an end table, she picked it up and said, �Hello?�

Then she said, �Sergeant Rudd? You must have the wrong number.�

�That�s for me,� I said, moving to her and taking the phone from her hand. �Hello?� I said into the phone.

Carl Lincoln�s voice said, �You don�t seem to be very well-known around there.�

Doll said loudly, �What�s this sergeant stuff?�

�Hang on a minute,� I said into the phone. Putting my palm across the mouthpiece, I said, �National Guard business, honey.�

�Oh,� Doll said. �You�re a sergeant in the reserves?�

Giving her a noncommittal smile, I removed my hand from the mouthpiece. �Go ahead, Carl.�

�I thought you�d want to know this,� Lincoln said. �Some dope on Little Artie just came over the hot-shot speaker.�

�Yeah? What?�

�He showed back at his flat above the tavern. The place was staked out, of course, so the stakeout called in and got the place surrounded. Then they went in to arrest him, but he wasn�t having any. He put a slug in one cop�s leg and missed another by inches. He�s holed up in the flat shooting it out.�

�Wow!� I said. �He must have gone completely nuts.�

�Sure sounds like it.�

�I�m going over there,� I said.

�What for? The situation�s under control.�

�He�ll get himself shot, and I want him alive. If you need me, you can have communications contact me at the scene by radio. There�ll be plenty of radio cars there.�

�Okay,� Carl said. �You�re the boss.�

When I hung up, Doll was staring at me aggressively. �You�re no national guardsman,� she said. �You�re a cop.�

I smiled at her.

�How�d that guy get my number?� she demanded. �It�s unlisted.�

�We guardsmen have ways,� I told her.

�Sneaky ways,� she said. �And to think I was all ready to climb in bed with you!�

�You�ve changed your mind?�

She glared at me. �Just get out of my apartment, please, Mr. Policeman.�

�I�m going,� I said, and left.

The street in front of Little Artie�s tavern was packed with vehicles. In addition to a number of squad cars and felony cars, there was an ambulance, a fire emergency truck and a hook-and-ladder. Why the last, I don�t know, but one always seems to show at a shoot-out. Somebody must call for it, or it wouldn�t be there. Maybe the theory is that it may come in handy in getting cops to a roof, but I have yet to see a hook-and-ladder perform any function at the scene when some nut has holed himself up and is shooting at cops.

Police had roped off both ends of the street to hold back spectators. I left my car, showed my badge to a uniformed cop and ducked under the rope.

There was no areaway either side of the building housing Little Artie�s tavern. The buildings all ran together, forming a solid front. Consequently Artie, in the flat over the tavern, could cover only the area directly in front of him, unless he made a target of himself by leaning out of a window. A few cops were crouched behind vehicles in his range of view, but most were in doorways or pressed against the front of buildings either side of the tavern.

Oddly, no firing was going on either from the police or from the windows of the flat.

I worked my way up to the center of activity, keeping well in toward the store fronts. Just this side of the tavern, I found Lieutenant Harry Anderson and Sergeant Max Cole in the recessed doorway of a clothing shop. I slipped into the doorway too.

Harry Anderson said, �Hi, Matt,� and Max Cole merely nodded.

�What�s the situation?� I asked.

Anderson said, �We�ve got the back covered as heavily as out here. And we�ve got a man in the tavern. But the only entrance to the flat is a street door, and it�s locked and bolted. We can�t get a battering ram to it because Artie can see the door from his windows.�

�Weren�t a couple of cops inside once, when they tried to arrest him?�

Anderson shook his head. �The door was bolted then. The action started when they pounded on it. Artie opened up from one of the upstairs windows and got one in the leg. We�ve been trying to talk him out, but he isn�t having any.�

�Who�s been doing the talking?�

�Captain Ward. He�s in a doorway the other side of the tavern with a power megaphone. He hasn�t been getting any answers, unless you call an occasional pot at some cop who shows his head an answer.�

I asked, �How�s Artie armed?�

�So far he hasn�t used anything but a pistol, but there�s no telling what he has up there.�

There was the crack of a pistol shot from above, then the whang of a slug grazing the fender of one of the squad cars across the street and skipping off again. I glanced that way in time to see a visored blue cap hurriedly duck out of sight.

A volley of fire from pistols, carbines and one sub-machine-gun answered the single shot. Bits of glass from the upstairs windows tinkled downward. Then there was silence again.

�What�s the plan?� I asked.

�Captain Ward just ordered tear gas. The guy with the launcher should be working his way into position behind the cars across the street any minute now.�

�I know Artie pretty well,� I said. �Maybe he�d listen to me.�

�Want to try the megaphone?�

�I�ve got a better idea. There must be a phone in the flat.�

Anderson stared at me. �You want to phone him?�

�Why not? If he answers the phone, at least I can get him to listen.�

The lieutenant pursed his lips. �Might be worth a try.� Raising his voice, he called, �Hey, Captain.�

�Yeah?� the voice of the head of the Homicide Division called back from beyond the tavern.

�I�ve got Matt Rudd over here. He knows Nowak personally and wants to try phoning him. Want to hold off on the tear gas long enough to give it a try?�

After a moment of silence, the captain said, �I suppose another five minutes wouldn�t hurt.� Then we could hear him talking in a lower voice, but couldn�t make out the words. I assumed he was speaking into a walkie-talkie, issuing instructions to hold the tear gas until further orders.

�There�s your go-ahead,� Anderson said to me. �Now all you need is a phone.�

�The tavern�s the nearest,� I said.

Sticking my head cautiously out of the doorway, I looked upward. There were three front windows to the upstairs flat, all open a few inches from the bottom. They might as well have been wide open, for only a few shards of glass remained in any.

Slipping out of the doorway, I scooted the few yards to the recessed entrance to the tavern. There was no reaction from above. Either Artie hadn�t seen the maneuver, or I had moved too fast for him to get in a shot.

Dinny O�Toole was still behind the bar and a uniformed officer was looking out the front window. I didn�t recognize the officer, but he seemed to know me, because he said, �Hi, Sarge. Little hot out there, isn�t it?�

�Yeah,� I said. I went over to the bar. �Give me your bar phone, Dinny.�

The old man was taking all the excitement calmly enough. The sparkle in his eyes suggested he was enjoying it.

�Sure,� he said cheerfully, lifting the phone from the back bar and stretching the cord to set it in front of me.

�Know Artie�s number upstairs?�

�Nope.� He heaved the phone book off the back bar and dropped it in front of me.

I found the number and dialed. It rang for so long, I was on the verge of giving up when the ringing suddenly stopped. There was silence on the other end.

�Artie?� I said. �This is Matt Rudowski.�

The silence continued for several seconds. Then a thick voice said, �What the hell you want?�

�What�s the matter with your voice?� I asked. �You been hit?�

There was a slurred chuckle. �Those guys out there can�t even hit the building half the time. I�m drunker�n a skunk is what�sa matter with my voice, Mattie boy. Been drunker�n a skunk all day.�

His irrational behavior suddenly became understandable, in view of what Dinny had said about his drinking habits. I said, �Thought you never drank anything but coffee.�

�Only when I get a real jolt, Mattie boy. Stuff drives me nuts. Guess I really blew it this time, huh?�

�You haven�t been behaving very normally,� I understated.

�Sonovabitch Nick stabbed me in the back. Your best friend stabs you inna back, whataya gonna do? Have a few jolts is whataya gonna do. Only that makes you mad �stead of settling your nerves. Guess I really fixed the sonovabitch, didn�t I?�

�I guess you did, Artie. Now how about calming down instead of making things worse? Why don�t you give it up?�

He emitted a drunken chuckle. �You stupid enough to try to reason with a drunk?�

�What do you hope to accomplish by holding out, Artie? It�s only a matter of time before they take you.�

�What�ll I �complish by giving up?� he countered. �They�ll give me the �lectric chair.�

�You�ll get a fair trial, and you�ve got money enough to hire top attorneys. But no lawyer can defend you against bullets.�

There was a dull, popping explosion from outside, the tinkle of glass from above, then three more popping explosions from outdoors.

�You sonovabitch,� Artie yelled thickly. �You kept me onna phone while they pumped in tear gas shells!�

There was a click and the line went dead.

Slamming down the phone, I strode to the front door and glared outside. A uniformed cop with a tear gas launcher was just pulling back behind the protection of a squad car. Another was draped across the hood of a second car, directing a sub-machine gun at the flat�s windows.

A series of rapid pistol shots sounded from above. Then the machine gun chattered.

Artie must have rushed to one of the windows and stood erect in full view when he fired off those last wild shots, for he pitched forward right through it. His body dropped right in front of me, hitting the sidewalk with a sickening crunch.

I went outside and looked down at all that was left of Little Artie Nowak. Cops began to close in from all sides. The thick figure of Captain Tom Ward was in the foreground.

In my anger I was on the verge of blasting out a superior officer for jumping the gun and not giving me a full chance to talk Artie out alive. Then I decided there was no use in sounding off. Artie would be just as dead, and I�d only get myself in trouble.

I didn�t even speak to Captain Ward. I stalked off up the street, ducked under the rope and climbed into my car.

I had calmed down by the time I got to headquarters. I wasn�t even sore at Tom Ward any more. After all, he had been trying to smoke out a dangerous armed man who had wounded one cop and was shooting at others. And I certainly felt no grief for Little Artie. I began to feel a little ashamed of myself when I realized my pique stemmed solely from Artie having died before I could get a confession out of him for the murder of Kitty Desmond.

Before going upstairs, I stopped at Records on the first floor. There was no file on Donald Tupper. I gave him one by listing him in the sex-offender file as a suspect to be routinely picked up in rape cases where the assailant�s identity was unknown.

It was a quarter of five when I walked into the vice squadroom. Carl Lincoln was still there, and Ritter and Webb of the marijuana detail were also in off the street. They were playing three-handed pinochle.

All three threw me casual greetings. Carl said, �Excitement over already?�

�Yeah,� I said in a weary tone.

�What�s with you?� Carl asked. �You look like you lost your last friend.�

�Not a friend,� I said. �Just a murder suspect. Artie decided to go down with flying colors.� I described what had happened.

Ritter said, �He must have been nuts.�

�Just drunk,� I said. �Seems liquor drove him nuts. You planning to log out at five, Carl?�

�Sure. I�m not about to play pinochle on my own time. It�s your bid, Webb.�

Webb said, �I pass.�

I walked out, took the elevator to the third floor and went down the hall to a door labeled: Handwriting and Document Identification. Big, cumbersome Al Gould was just putting on his hat to go home.

�Want to hold up a minute, Al?� I asked.

�Sure,� he said, hanging up his hat again. �I was jumping the gun by a couple of minutes anyway. What you got?�

I took the sympathy card from my pocket and handed it to him. After examining it, he looked at me inquiringly.

I said, �You got a five-seven for Little Artie Nowak on file?�

A form five-seven was made out by all persons arrested in St. Cecilia except drunks and traffic violators. On the front of the card, in his own handwriting, the suspect wrote his name, address, place and date of birth, occupation, place of employment, name and address of nearest relative and the date he completed the form. On the reverse side there was a section for physical description, then spaces in which he had to both write and print the complete alphabet, first in capitals and then in small letters. There was also a space in which he had to write the numbers one to twenty.

I suspected Artie would have a card on file, because years back, before he fell under the protection of Nick Bartkowiak, he had been pulled in a number of times on gambling and soliciting charges. In St. Cecilia it was the custom for hoods who eventually gained some political influence to quietly arrange for their old criminal records to disappear from the files, but they usually don�t think of anything but the central file. There always remains an odd card or two stored in places outside the records division.

Al Gould went over to the small file drawers covering one side of the room from floor to ceiling, ran his gaze over them and finally pulled out a drawer.

�Yeah, he�s here,� he said, removing a card.

I said, �See if he matches the printing on that sympathy card.�

Gould sat at his desk with both cards before him and studied them through a magnifying glass. It took him about thirty seconds to come to a conclusion.

�Sorry, Matt,� he said with a shake of his head. �Artie didn�t do this printing.�

�You sure, Al?�

He gave me a wounded look. �This is my business, Matt. You want a technical explanation of why he couldn�t have?�

�I trust you,� I said. �I didn�t mean to hurt your feelings. Thanks, Al.�

�Anytime,� he said, putting the sympathy card back into its envelope and handing it to me.

I put it back in my inside breast pocket.

When I got back to the squadroom, Carl Lincoln was logging out and Ritter and Webb had already left.

�Who won?� I inquired.

�Nobody. We didn�t have time to finish the game. We saved the score until next time.�

I said dryly, �What dedicated cops we have around here. You won�t even play pinochle overtime.�

Carl grinned at me. �You can play pinochle in barrooms, where the surroundings are pleasanter. See you tomorrow, buddy boy.�

�Yeah,� I said. �Bring your walking shoes.�

�The factory district again?� he asked in a pained voice.

�Uh-huh. All day long. If we don�t bring in a few streetwalkers soon, the captain is going to start asking sarcastic questions about what our function is around here.�

�Sometimes I wonder myself,� Carl said.

When he had left, I took the sympathy card out of my pocket again and frowned down at it. If Little Artie Nowak hadn�t sent it, who had? I was sure it must have come from the murderer, because no one else could have known Kitty Desmond was dead at the time the card was mailed.

Then, without advance warning, light suddenly struck.

�Of course,� I breathed aloud. �It couldn�t be anyone else.�

Captain Spangler came from his office, looked around and said, �Nobody from the night trick here yet, Rudowski?�

�No, sir,� I said. �I�ll be around a few minutes if you want to leave.�

�Good,� he said. �My wife is expecting me on time tonight. We�re having guests.�

He ducked back into his office and returned wearing his hat. I was left alone in the squadroom.

I looked at the table where Carl had been seated when I left the squadroom earlier that afternoon. The slip on which I had written Doll Fenner�s phone number still lay there. Sitting down, I dialed the number.

Doll�s voice said, �Hello?�

�This is Matt,� I announced.

Her voice turned frigid. �You�ve got a nerve phoning here. And you just wait till I see Jolly. I�ll give her a piece of my mind for foisting off a cop as her boy friend.�

�Cops aren�t necessarily poison,� I said. �Besides, she did it more or less under duress. The masquerade didn�t do you any harm, did it?�

�It made me make a fool of myself.�

�How do you figure? I was all ready to take you up on that offer when we were interrupted.�

�The offer is permanently withdrawn,� she said coldly. �What do you want?�

�You still interested in seeing Kitty�s murderer caught?�

There was a period of silence. Then she said, �I don�t want to do anything that would get Artie after me.�

�Artie didn�t kill her,� I said.

�He didn�t?� she said in a surprised voice. �How do you know?�

Lieutenant Dell Hendricks, the night watch commander, walked into the squadroom. I waved him a greeting as he started to log himself in.

I said, �It�s too long a story to explain. Believe me, he didn�t kill her. I need the answer to just one question. Did Kitty tell you where her date was the other night?�

�Sure. She always told me everything about her dates. She went to the Leland.�

�I mean the second one. When she went out about two A.M.�

Lieutenant Hendricks disappeared into the captain�s office, which was also his office at night. Cutler and Wayne of the night trick arrived and logged in.

Doll said, �That was at the Leland too, only on a different floor. I asked if she wasn�t afraid to go back there after rolling her first date, but she said it was a big hotel and she wouldn�t be anywhere near the first John�s room.�

�Thanks,� I said quietly. �That�s all I wanted to know, Doll.�

�Wait,� she said. �What�s this all about?�

�You�ll read about it in the papers,� I said. �You�ve been a big help.�

I hung up.

According to the sign in the center of the Leland�s lobby, which listed the scheduled events of the Tile and Plastic Manufacturers� Convention, there had been a meeting from four to five P.M., but nothing was scheduled after that until a seven P.M. dinner. It was now five forty-five.

I checked at the desk to make sure the four-to-five meeting hadn�t run overtime, and was told it had broken up promptly at five. I took the elevator to the third floor and knocked at the door of room 318.

Harold Warner was in shirt sleeves when he opened the door. He looked surprised to see me.

�Why hello, Sergeant,� he said. �Come on in.�

I walked into the room and shut the door behind me.

�Drink?� he asked. �I have a little bourbon and I can phone for ice.�

�No thanks,� I said. �I�m on duty.�

�Oh? You mean this is an official visit?�

�Uh-huh. The Katherine Desmond murder. You knew she was dead, of course.�

He looked puzzled. �Katherine Desmond? I�ve never even heard the name.�

�Better known to you as Kitty,� I said. �The call girl who rolled you the night before last.�

His face assumed an expression of shock. �She�s dead?�

�It�s been in the papers and on the air for two days.�

�I haven�t been reading local papers or listening to news reports,� he told me. �I�ve been busy with the convention.�

�Not that busy,� I said. �You missed at least one of the meetings.�

He frowned. �What do you mean by that?�

�My partner and I stopped by here at 11:30 A.M. yesterday to return your money. There was a meeting in the Rose Room from 10:30 to 11:30, but you weren�t at it. You also weren�t in the bar or in your room.�

He flushed slightly. �I don�t know what you�re getting at, Sergeant, but I�m beginning to resent your tone.�

�You�re going to like it less as time goes on,� I informed him. �How did it happen? Did you spot her crossing the lobby just as you were heading for the meeting?�

�How did what happen?�

�She was coming from a second date, in case you wondered,� I said. �She got home from yours at two A.M. and phoned in that she was available again. Her procurer sent her right back to the Leland, to a different room. This date lasted all night, because she didn�t get home until well after eleven A.M. She must have walked across the lobby just about the time you fellows were gathering for your meeting.�

He said in an angry tone, �Would it interest you to know you�re not making the slightest sense?�

�You understand everything I�m saying,� I assured him. �Naturally you couldn�t accost her in the lobby and risk a scene in front of your colleagues. So you followed her home. It was you her apartment-mate heard quietly descending the stairs just as she left.�

He merely looked at me with his lips clamped into a straight line and his nostrils flared.

�It was probably lucky for Doll the phone rang just as she got to the front door. If she hadn�t paused to see if it was for her, she probably would have run smack into you. And in your mood I suppose it wouldn�t have bothered you to knock off one extra woman. As it was, you had time to retreat down the steps and hide beneath the stairs.�

He continued to remain silent.

�This was your mistake,� I said, pulling the sympathy card from my pocket. �You had already recovered the money, because you took it from her bag after you strangled her. When I phoned you at two P.M. and you learned that I�d collected the five hundred too, it bothered you. I suppose that essentially you�re an honest man, even though you are a killer. So you went to a bank, got a five-hundred-dollar bill and mailed it along with this card to Kitty�s apartment-mate. The murder hadn�t even been reported on the air at that time, so I assume you got the girls� names from their lobby mailbox. And of course you knew the address.�

All the time I was speaking, Harold Warner�s gaze remained fixed on the card in my hand. He finally found his tongue. �You�re throwing some awfully wild accusations, Sergeant,� he said thickly. �You�d better be able to back them up. I happen to be one of the biggest men in Houston.�

�We�ll back them up,� I told him. �You amateurs always leave a trail a mile wide behind you. And you were too drunk to be thinking clearly. You were drunker than a skunk when I talked to you on the phone. I suppose you needed a few fast ones to settle your nerves after strangling a woman.�

He said in a tight voice, �You haven�t produced one shred of evidence yet.�

�I�m getting to it. You thought that printing the address and the message on the sympathy card would disguise your hand, but it didn�t fool our handwriting expert.� Producing a slip of paper from my pocket, I threw in a whopping lie. �This is the receipt you gave me when I turned over the money. I just came from the office of Al Gould, our handwriting man. He says you printed the message on that card and he won�t have a bit of trouble proving it in court.�

That jolted him. His face turned pale.

I said, �You probably bought the sympathy card right here in the hotel drug store. The clerk will recall who bought it. And how many people do you think walk into banks and ask for five-hundred-dollar bills? You probably were the only guy in town who bought one from any bank yesterday. We�ll find the bank and the teller won�t have any difficulty remembering you. He�s bound to recall a customer who came up with a request like that.�

He blinked and licked his lips, his gaze shifting from the sympathy card to the receipt. Since they seemed to bother him, I put them back in my pocket.

�Listen, Sergeant,� he said in a suddenly earnest voice. �Couldn�t we adjust this matter in some way?�

�What way did you have in mind?�

�Well, a policeman�s salary can�t be very big. And she was only a whore. A dishonest one at that.�

I smiled at him. �It was the dishonesty that threw you, was it? You hated the idea of her making you a sucker. You wouldn�t have reported it otherwise. Most guys would have been too embarrassed and would just have taken the loss. But you weren�t going to let any call girl make a sucker out of you. You were sore.�

�Can you blame me?� he asked. �I wasn�t going to let some two-bit tramp make a fool of me.�

�You certainly didn�t,� I agreed. �But did you have to beat hell out of her and then kill her?�

His face darkened. �She laughed at me. When I demanded my money back, she told me to go to hell. Then she laughed at me. A lousy little tramp like that.�

�Terrible,� I said. �And you one of the biggest men in Houston. Let�s go.�

�Go? I was just going to write you a check. Say a couple of thousand dollars?�

�Save it for your defense,� I said. �You�ll need it. Stick out your wrists.�

I took out my handcuffs and he glared at them. His voice climbed high with sudden rage. �You�re not taking me anywhere! I�ll kill you first!�

He took a step toward me and lashed out with a right that caught me flush on the chin. It was a pretty hard blow, but I have a pretty hard jaw. It rocked me a little, but I didn�t see stars.

Dropping the handcuffs, I sank a left into his belly, then floored him with a right to the jaw. He lay on his back staring up at me dazedly.

�You�d better stick to fighting girls,� I growled at him. �You�re out of your class with men.�

I put the cuffs on him while he was still lying there.

After so little sleep the night before, I planned to hit the bed early. At a quarter of ten I had just stepped from my second shower that day and was putting on my pajamas when the phone rang. It was Jolly.

�I looked up your number in the book,� she said. �Do you mind?�

�Of course not. How are you?�

�Fine. I just finished listening to the nine-thirty news. I called to congratulate you on catching Kitty�s murderer.�

�Thanks.�

�It was on about Artie and Nick Bartkowiak too. That was the first I�d heard about that, and it kind of shook me up. Wasn�t it terrible the way Artie killed Nick and then got killed himself?�

�It�s two less racketeers in the world.�

She didn�t exactly laugh, but she made a little noise signifying amused agreement. �That�s one point of view, I suppose. So Little Artie didn�t kill Kitty after all. How�d you get onto that man?�

�Luck mostly.�

�You�re being modest. Artie�s death lets me off the hook, Matt.�

�How�s that?�

�I told you about the lingerie shop I�ve had my eye on. Artie wouldn�t let me quit the racket, but there�s nobody to stop me now. Somebody will eventually take over in his place, of course, but it will take some time to reorganize, and this seems a good time to bow out.�

�It probably is,� I agreed.

�Are you glad?�

�Of course. That�s a funny question to ask.�

�Well, I didn�t know whether you�d care one way or the other.�

�I do,� I assured her. �I think it�s a wise move.�

She was silent for a minute, Then she asked tentatively, �Will you phone me sometime, now that I�m reformed?�

�Sure, if you�d like.�

�You never would have, if I had stayed in the racket, would you?�

�Probably not,� I said honestly.

�But now it can be different?� she asked in a wistful voice.

�A lot different. You�ll be a respectable businesswoman.�

She was silent again. Presently she said, �Would you like to see me sometime?�

�I�d like it very much.�

�I�m going to be home tonight. Why don�t you drop over?�

I thought of my bed and how tired I was. Then I thought of Jolly�s figure. �Um,� I said. �I might just do that.�

�Right now?�

�I have to dress. I just put my pajamas on. Soon as I can get there.�

�I have to take a shower,� she said. �I may still be in it when you get here. I�ll leave the latch off the door so you can walk right in. Apartment 2-C.�

�Okay.�

�If you hurry, you can wash my back,� she said softly, and hung up.

I hurried.