She might have been forty-five, but how can you tell? Her hair was dyed a deep mahogany, she could have had a facial rejuvenation job that took out the little lines and tightened the skin. A good brassiere, an expensive girdle � they can fool you. She might have been fifty-five, even fifty-seven or fifty-eight.

She had never been too attractive a woman. Short, on the plumpish side, her eyes were too close together, her nose too generous, her teeth too large. She could have had men in her younger years, if she had been generous with her favors, but in more recent times she would have had to work pretty hard at it.

However, all of that was over now. Julia Joliet had answered her last fan letter.

She was dead.

It hadn�t been a good death. Her murderer had struck her some savage blows in the face, one of which could have knocked her unconscious. It was probably then that he had ripped out her brassiere and released the more than ample breasts. He had gone even further. He had pulled up her dress, jerked down the too-tight girdle. Only partly, however.

The bullet had entered her left breast. Death had been instantaneous and there was very little blood. It had been a small caliber bullet. A .32.

She had not been raped.

Sam Harbin was probably no better and certainly no worse than fifty other police sergeants. He was forty, had been on the force for fourteen years and had been a Sergeant for eight. He was a big man, beginning to turn a bit fleshy. He would become a lieutenant in the near future and that was probably as high as he would go. He was not a good politician.

He said to Tom Alder: �She�s got eighteen hundred dollars in a savings account, less than five hundred in her checking. You could probably get five hundred for her personal belongings. Her entire estate won�t go three thousand. Not enough to interest you.�

Alder shrugged. �I spent three months on a case once and it earned me two hundred dollars. That�s the chance you take.�

�You don�t take them very often,� Harbin said. �You like the big ones. Estates worth a hundred thousand, a half million.�

�You get one of those in a lifetime,� said Alder. �It�s the ten, twenty thousand dollar ones that keep you going. The heirs of the big ones know they�re heirs. They�re waiting for the rich uncle or aunt to kick off. They�re in there yelling for their shares before the corpse is cold.�

�I�ve heard them,� agreed Sergeant Sam Harbin. �Everybody�s got a relative somewhere, some place... and they don�t mind giving a slice of their unexpected windfall to the man who brings them the good news. You�ve done all right as a �missing heirs� finder, Tom, but this Julia Joliet one beats me. Even if you got the maximum � 25 per cent � you wouldn�t make out with enough to pay your expenses for a month. You live well in that bachelor house of yours.�

�You can�t win them all,� Alder said. �I wish you�d give me a note to the morgue. I�d like to take a look at the body.�

Harbin screwed up his mouth, studied Alder through narrowed eyes, then shrugged in surrender. �It�s a murder case, Alder. You dig up anything, I want your promise you�ll give it to me.�

�Promise.�

At the last moment, Harbin decided to go with Alder to the morgue. He was known there and the attendant took them into the cold room and pulled out the slab on which lay the sheet-covered remains of Julia Joliet.

She had been unattractive in life and in death she was positively ugly.

Alder looked at Harbin across the remains of the woman who had basked in the outer fringe of the movie stars� dubious light. �How old would you say she was?�

�You guess,� said Harbin. �Her bank application, when she opened her checking account seven years ago, said thirty-nine.�

�That would make her forty-six.�

�If she told the truth. A lot of women stay thirty-nine for ten years. Sometimes they never get past it.�

�They don�t make themselves older very often.�

�Never.�

�A woman of thirty-one wouldn�t claim she was thirty-nine?�

�You�ve got something in mind?�

Alder shook his head. �No.�

�She look anything like you expected?�

�I never heard of Julia Joliet until today. I never saw her.�

�Then you don�t think she�s � Doris Delaney?�

�Doris Delaney?�

�Something got you interested in this case, Alder,� said Harbin. �I thought it might have been the mention of the Doris Delaney clippings.�

�It mean anything?�

�If there�s anyone in this country over the age of twelve who hasn�t heard of Doris Delaney he, she, or it, is blind, deaf, and dumb. Dorothy Arnold, Judge Crater, Doris Delaney � the three great mysteries of the twentieth century. Let�s see, one of the clippings in Julia�s apartment � it was from one of the papers of last month. The cause of it was the twenty-second anniversary of the disappearance of the wealthy young heiress, Doris Delaney.�

Harbin half-closed his eyes and began to speak in an oratorical voice. �Doris Delaney, the girl with everything to live for, walked out of Miss Tabitha Tubbs�s School for Girls, one afternoon and disappeared into the void that is New York City. Doris, aged sixteen, the only child of the wealthy Jonathan and Eleanora Delaney, told her closest friend and confidante that she was going to get an ice cream soda at the Malt Shoppe, a block from Miss Tubbs�s school. She never got to the store and her grief-stricken parents spent three-quarters of a million dollars during the next ten years searching for her. They hired the most expensive attorneys and private investigators. They advertised for her in virtually every newspaper in the land. They appealed to the police departments of every city in the country. The F.B.I. has never given up its search for the young heiress. They have a file in Washington, marked Delaney, Doris, Unsolved.� Harbin regarded Alder thoughtfully. �That about cover it?�

�You could add to it,� said Alder. �Any man that would try to find Doris Delaney, after twenty-two years, is a fool.�

�Are you a fool, Alder?�

Alder shook his head. Gently he raised the clammy sheet so that it covered the waxy features of the late Julia Joliet.

Leroy Dane was one of the film colony�s most eligible bachelors, if you don�t mind calling a man a bachelor who has been married three, four, or five times. He was thirty-four, according to his studio�s press releases. According to the same releases he was six feet two and had been raised on a ranch in West Texas. He had played football in college, had been captain of the boxing team and had won eight letters in athletics.

His war record was excellent. He had served in General Omar Bradley�s tank corps and had twice been recommended for bravery in action. In 1946 he had come to Hollywood, where a talent scout accosted him in Schwab�s drugstore and later got him a one-scene part in a service picture. The teenage fans discovered him in that small part and he had been catapulted to stardom.

He was the biggest star on the World Wide lot � and the most disliked by the studio executives. Dane never wore a hat. Some of his enemies said he wanted to show off his wavy locks, but the truth of the matter was that the hat shops simply did not make hats big enough for the size head that topped Leroy Dane�s manly shoulders.

Dane liked to sit at the bar in The Tuilleries. The mirror behind the bar was unadorned and in it Dane could see himself as he smiled, frowned, and smirked at his reflection. He wasn�t a heavy drinker. Two-three martinis of an evening, sometimes a screwdriver to top them off. Some evenings he drank beer. That was when he had to work the next day and he liked to keep his eyes clear. They had a tendency to be bloodshot after martinis.

Leroy Dane was a strikingly handsome man. Tom Alder conceded that as he sat down on the bar stool next to the idol of millions of feminine motion picture fans.

�You�re Leroy Dane,� he said after he had ordered a bourbon-on-the-rocks.

Dane regarded him coolly. �Yes?� There was an inquiry in the monosyllable.

Alder grinned. �I�m not selling insurance. I haven�t got a subpoena for you and I�m not going to ask you for your autograph. I�m just making conversation.�

�About what?�

Alder shook his head. �I guess a man in your position has to keep his guard up all the time. Leaves him open for a stiff one in the stomach.�

�You a fighter?� the movie idol countered.

�Only in barrooms,� said Alder.

Dane sized him up. �You�re about my size. A little older, maybe.�

�Maybe.�

�You look like a man who�s put in some time in the army.�

�The usual.�

�ETO?�

�Pacific.�

�European Theater myself,� Dane said. �I was with General Omar Bradley�s Tank Corps. Came out with silver bars. Man, those tin buggies were rough. And anybody says those Krauts weren�t good fighters don�t know what he�s talking about. �Member, when they broke through there in the Bulge? Those Mark Three�s kept a-comin� and a-comin�. They had our Shermans all beat to hell. Armor plate three inches thick. Our .75�s bounced right off em. You see that picture, Tank Brigade, a while ago? Fella wrote that never saw a tank. Taking money under false pretenses. Studio gave me a script yesterday. Never read such crap in my life. Man gets two thousand a week, you�d think he�d know his trade. Last picture I made I had to practically ad-lib the whole thing. Words... words, that�s all. No rhyme or reason. Holes in the story you could drive a truck through��

�Or, a Mark Three tank!�

�What? Yeah, I get it. A tank. I was saying, these Hollywood writers are taking money under false pretenses. Lazy, every mother�s son of them. You think an actor�s got an easy life? Making faces is the easiest part of it. Rewriting your dialogue, making sense out of the hogwash that�s thrown at you. Watching the camera angles, the setups. Half the time you got a crew that�s never worked together. You have to tell them how to light a set, where to put the camera. Then you take these new actors, with their Stanislavsky method. Eatin� all the time, scratchin� themselves. Mumblin� like they had mush in their mouths.�

�Lover!� cried the blonde, as she swooped down on Leroy Dane.

Dane grinned. It was almost a sheepish grin and might have been on another man, as the blonde threw her arms about him, kissed him soundly on the left cheek, on the right cheek, on the forehead and then crushed her lips against his. It was a noisy kiss, for she moaned and slobbered and smacked her lips and kissed and kissed. Then she dragged Dane away, toward one of the darker booths at the side of the lounge.

Alder�s eyes followed them, followed them and started to return. And then they met � and held � the eyes of the tawny one at the little table for four. There was recognition in the eyes that met his. Recognition, speculation � and decision. The owner of the eyes said a few words to the man on her right, then got up from the table and came toward Alder.

She said, when she reached him, �You weren�t going to make the move, were you?�

�No,� Alder said evenly.

�That�s what I thought. Tom � it�s been a long time.�

�They don�t show on you � the years.�

�You�re exactly the way I thought you�d be. Handsome, distinguished-looking, strong. You hate me, don�t you, Tom?�

�Why should I hate you?�

�Because of what I did to you.�

�That was a long time ago.�

�And you�ve gotten over it? You met a girl and married her. You�ve got children?�

�No.�

�No children? But you are married? Some woman must have laid a trap for you. I hate her.�

�There�s no one to hate. I�m not married.�

�Neither am I � now.� She half looked over her shoulder in the general direction of the table she had left. �I�m with some friends, Tom. I�ve got an idea. Why don�t you join us? Harris won�t mind � and if he does, I don�t care.�

�I�m sorry, Linda. I�ve got to be going. I just stopped in for a quick one.�

�Wasn�t that Leroy Dane, the movie star, you were with? Harris knows him. Plays golf at the same club. He�s a stockbroker � Harris, I mean. And you, Tom, what do you do? You were going to be a lawyer.�

�I gave that up.�

She drew back and looked searchingly into his eyes. Her voice became throaty. �It hurt you terribly, I know. It�s made you � bitter.�

He shook his head. �I�m not bitter. Oh, I won�t say it didn�t hurt at the time. It did. It hurt like hell. But I had a lot of company. Half the men in my outfit got Dear John letters. We passed them around.�

�You didn�t!�

�It helped. We made jokes about the letters.�

�Oh, Tom!�

He looked at her inquiringly. �What happened to the man you married? What was his name � Newcomer?�

�It didn�t work out. And his name was Newcombe, Glen Newcombe. Tom, I�ve got to talk to you. Later. Harris is beginning to pout. And Nikki seems annoyed. Beautiful, isn�t she?�

Alder looked at the table where Linda�s friends were. Striking was a better word than beautiful. A brunette, in her early thirties. Nikki... the name had a foreign ring and she could have been a Central European. At a distance, she had a regal quality. Her skin seemed flawless, although somewhat on the pale side. Her coiffure was beautifully done, piled high and to the rear of her head.

�Nikki,� Linda repeated. �Nikki Collinson. That�s her husband with her. Walter Collinson. You�ve heard of him!�

Yes. Walter Collinson. He was money � big money. And Linda Foster � if that was the name she was using now � was moving in those circles. Very good. She had progressed from the innocuous, anaemic assistant bank cashier, for whom she had sent Tom Alder the Dear John letter.

He nodded. �We�ll have lunch sometime. I�ll give you a call.�

�How can you? You don�t know where to reach me. You weren�t even going to ask me. I�ll call you.�

She went off, then, rejoining her friends. And she had not asked him for his telephone number.

Mrs. Woodson managed the El Toro Court for an owner who had a half dozen similar courts, or worse, scattered about town. Not to mention one in Pasadena. For her services, Mrs. Woodson received her rent and an infinitesimally small salary. The bill Tom Alder extended to her equaled one-sixth of her annual salary. So she led him to the door of Apartment C and unlocked it with her passkey.

�The police spent most of the day here. They took out boxes and boxes of letters and things.�

�I�m not going to take out anything,� Alder said. �I just want to look around. Alone.�

She didn�t like the last word, but she�d taken his money. �You won�t be too long?�

He shook his head and she went out. Alder looked around. The room was a small one, a combination living room and bedroom, a davenport serving the latter function. There was the tiniest of kitchenettes and a bathroom, which contained a toilet, a washbowl, and a stall shower. A small desk held a vintage Woodstock typewriter. Cartons and boxes were piled high everywhere.

On the floor was a chalked outline of the late fan secretary�s body. Here she had fallen and here she had been found.

Alder went to the desk. It had been thoroughly ransacked by the police and possibly, before them, by the murderer. It contained bills, receipts, memorandums, letters. Letters from fans of Leroy Dane, Georgia Gale, Tim Greedy. Pictures of all of them. Everything perfectly normal.

No personal letters to Julia Joliet.

No clippings.

The cartons contained fan letters. Hundreds, thousands of them. Many had not been answered, were tied in bundles with post-office twine.

The boxes contained envelopes, form letters, fan club bulletins. Pictures. Big, glossy eight by ten prints, but mostly smaller four by five reductions of the larger prints. Alder appropriated one of the four by fives, hesitated, then folded one of the mimeographed fan bulletins. He put them into his pocket.

He spent twenty minutes in the tiny apartment, took nothing else, found nothing else of interest.

He left the apartment.

That was the first time he saw the big man. He was an enormous man, easily six feet four and weighing a good two hundred and forty pounds. Alder would have guessed him to be in his late fifties. He was quite bald, although a heavy fringe of curling hair kept him from having an egg head. Oddly, he reminded Alder of the pictures he had seen of William Jennings Bryan.

He was coming toward Apartment C, but stopped. �I beg your pardon,� he said in a smooth, mellifluous voice, �could you direct me to, ah, Mr. Klinger�s apartment?�

�I don�t live here,� Alder replied. �Try the manager�s apartment.� He indicated the first door just inside the court.

�Thank you, sir. You�re very kind.�

The door of Mrs. Woodson�s apartment popped open. �There�s no Klinger lives here,� Mrs. Woodson chirped, conceding that she had been listening by a partly opened door.

The big man was concerned. �Why, he told me himself that he lived at the Grecco Apartments. This is the Grecco Apartments?�

�No, �tain�t, it�s the El Toro. The Grecco�s two streets over.�

�My word! How could I have made such a mistake? I�m so sorry to have troubled you, Madam.� The big man actually bowed low to Mrs. Woodson and not so low to Alder. He walked toward the street, an enormous, dignified man.

Alder looked after him. �Always people comin� in and out,� said Mrs. Woodson. �One of the reasons poor Julia kept her door locked. She was afraid of strangers.�

�Always?� Alder asked almost absently.

�Lately, anyways. You... you�re finished?�

�Yes, thank you, Mrs. Woodson.�

�You... didn�t take anything? Nothing that the...� She did not like to say the word, �police�.

Alder shook his head.

It was three o�clock when she left and then he could not sleep. He turned on the bedroom lights and going to his coat, took out the picture of Leroy Dane. He studied it for a moment, then returned it to his coat. Slipping out the folded, mimeographed fan bulletin he returned to bed.

There were twelve pages of news and tidbits about Leroy Dane. It was sheer drivel. Much of it was culled from fan letters, the views and opinions of teenagers, all females, suggestions as to the types of pictures and roles they wanted him to do.

Scattered throughout were items, apparently written by the editor of the fan magazine, the late Julia Joliet. These were chiefly anecdotes about Leroy Dane. Some pertained to his background, his life before he became an actor.

Alder read these carefully. Dane�s war record was touched upon, his life on the West Texas ranch, his athletic prowess in college. The college was not named, however. His age was given � thirty-four. His marriages were glossed over. �They did not work out,� was the way Julia Joliet dismissed them.

The facts of Dane�s life, when Alder summed them up, were copious enough. Yet astonishingly meager. Trivialities were embellished, vital statistics glossed over or ignored.

His age � thirty-four. That would have made him nineteen in 1945. Yet he had come out of the war a first lieutenant. It had taken Alder two years to reach that rank. Dane could have been in the ROTC at college and entered the army as a second lieutenant. No, he would have had to be a senior in college, a junior at the very least. And if he were commanding tanks in the Battle of the Bulge... no, not at eighteen.

Dane was cheating about his age. Either that, or he had been a child prodigy, had entered college at the age of thirteen or fourteen, been graduated at seventeen or eighteen, and then turned out also to be a military genius.

Leroy Dane had not impressed Alder as being either a child prodigy or a military genius. Neither. Alder did have the impression that Dane was a pompous blowhard, an inveterate liar.

Alder looked at his bedside clock. It was 3:40, twenty minutes to seven in the East. He picked up the phone and dialed 110.

�I want to put in a call to Chevy Chase, Maryland,� he told the operator. �That�s a suburb of Washington. Charles C. Mattock...�

Inside of two minutes a voice exclaimed, �For the love of Patrick Henry, it�s the middle of the night!�

�It is here,� said Alder. �Where you are, it�s morning. Time to get up and go to work. Chuck, listen, I need the service record of Leroy Dane. Yep, the movie star. The delight of American womanhood. I want to know when he entered the army, the date of his discharge. His age, home address when he was inducted, occupation, everything there is on him.�

�That�s all you want?� Charles Mattock asked sarcastically. �Sure you don�t want to know what he eats for breakfast, what color pajamas he wears?�

�He eats steak for breakfast,� replied Alder. �It says so in his fan club magazine. And he never wears pajama tops.�

�It�s important, Tom?�

�Yes. Phone me when you get it. Collect.�

Alder talked a moment more, then hung up. He switched off the bedside lamp and fell asleep almost immediately.

The ringing of the phone awakened him. It was daylight in the room and Alder noted that it was five minutes after seven.

Charles Mattock was on the phone.

�What army, Tom?� he said.

�He didn�t serve?�

�Lots of Danes, a number of Leroys, but no Leroy Dane served in the American army. Or marines � or navy. You want me to try the coast guard or merchant marine?�

�No,� said Alder. �It never occurred to me � Leroy Dane may not be his real name. Lots of actors change their names.�

�Well, get me his real name and I�ll try again. But get it during the day � not in the middle of the night.�

�I�ll try. How�s the wife, Chuck � and the kids?�

�Great, all of them. When�re you coming East?�

�Today,� Alder said on impulse. �I may call you from New York.�

�Run down, if you get that near.�

�I�ll try, General!�

Alder hung up and went into the bathroom. He was lathering his face when the phone rang again. He went into the bedroom.

�Darling,� purred Linda�s voice, �I couldn�t sleep.�

�Neither could I,� said Alder. �I was going to call you as soon as it was a decent time.�

�It�s decent now.�

�I�m not decent. I�m in shorts and I�ve got lather on my face.�

�It�s... it�s all right between us, Tom? I have to know.�

�Last night was good, Linda. But the sun�s up now. Let�s look at it in broad daylight.�

�Morning, noon, and night, darling. In the rain, in the sun � it�s got to be all right. You�re not going to slip back into that shell. I won�t let you. I�m going to get dressed right now and come out.�

�No � don�t!�

�We�ve got to settle it, once and for all.�

�I can�t now. I�m in the middle of something.�

�That grave-robbing job of yours?� she exclaimed poignantly. �I�m sorry, darling, really sorry. I shouldn�t have said that. I don�t want to interfere with your work. Lunch?�

�I�ll call you.�

�No, don�t put me off like that. Lunch � the Beverly Hills Brown Derby.�

He hesitated. �All right.� It was the simplest way.

He finished shaving, then telephoned the International Airport. Forty minutes later he left the house, carrying a large aluminum air traveling case. It was touch and go at the airport, but he boarded the four-motor plane with a minute and a half to spare.

The stewardess led him to the only vacant chair, an aisle seat in the center of the plane. A woman, who had apparently also just boarded the plane, was settling down, adjusting her seat belt. She was a strikingly beautiful woman. In her expensive gray suit, she seemed different from the person Alder had seen the night before at The Tuilleries.

He seated himself beside her. �You�re Nikki Collinson...�

She regarded him steadily a moment before replying. Then: �Yes.�

�My name is Tom Alder. I was at The Tuilleries last night.�

�I know. You�re Linda Foster�s�� the faintest crinkle of a smile creased the smooth lines of her lips, ��friend.�

The stewardess� voice came over the speaker. �Fasten your seat belts, please.�

The plane was racing across the long runway before Alder spoke to his seat companion again. �I seem to have a feeling that we�ve met before.�

�We didn�t exactly meet last night.�

�I was thinking it was before last night.�

�I don�t think that�s possible. I don�t live in Los Angeles.�

�You visit Los Angeles often?�

�Yesterday was the first time. We live in Burlingame. My husband�s interests take him to New York more often than to Los Angeles.�

�You�re going to New York, then?�

There was the slightest hesitation before she replied, �I get off at Chicago.�

There was a magazine on her lap. She picked it up. She did not open it but her handling of the magazine itself was an indication to Alder that she preferred not to strike up a lengthy conversation. She had responded to his greeting, had replied to the obvious questions. She was aloof, a fellow passenger on a fairly short, rather routine trip. That was as much as she wanted it to be.

The plane was flying smoothly at twenty thousand feet, nearing the mountains, before she spoke.

�I didn�t mean to be short with you, Mr. Alder. Linda and I are very good friends. I know all about you.�

Did she know about last night? It suddenly became important to Alder to know.

He said, �Until last night, I had not seen Linda since 1942.�

�I know.�

�Just how much do you know?�

The faint smile again played over her mouth. �I know that she developed a migraine headache last night. Harris was quite annoyed.�

�And?�

�She got over the headache, didn�t she?�

�Yes.�

�I thought so. Harris had a nightcap with us at the hotel. He phoned Linda � and didn�t get her.� She looked at him sideways. �Harris and my husband were roommates at Princeton.�

�That�s how you met Linda � through him?�

She nodded. �Linda�s a real beauty. Of course, you know that.�

He looked at her fully. �Yes, she�s beautiful � but, tell me, have you looked into a mirror lately?�

The blunt flattery did not produce coyness on her part and it pleased him, because he hadn�t expected that it would.

She said, �Of course I know how I look. But let�s not talk about it. Let me guess your profession. Lawyer?�

�You had help on that one from Linda. No, I never became a lawyer.�

�You�re not a stockbroker, because Harris would have known your name. You were at the bar talking to a motion picture actor?�

�Leroy Dane.�

�I�m not much of a moviegoer, but of course I�ve seen him on the screen. He�s very good.�

�Also a very handsome man, which he knows.�

�You have something to do with the picture business?�

�You�re getting cold.� Alder grinned.

�That leaves out television. Business � no, I don�t think you�re a businessman.�

�Why not?�

�You just don�t look like a businessman.�

�And how does a businessman look?�

�All right, I give up. What do you do?�

�Linda called me a ghoul.�

�What?�

�I find missing heirs.�

She turned in her seat and her clear hazel eyes looked into his. �You�re a... a detective?�

�Not exactly. I have no license, but in a way, I am an investigator. A free lance. I look for missing heirs.�

The faintest cloud dimmed the lustre of her eyes. �You earn a living doing that?�

He nodded. �Essentially, I�m a lazy man. I work only when I have to � when a case is interesting.�

She pursed up her lips. �You didn�t become a lawyer, although you were a law student. You�re still a bachelor, and you search for missing heirs, because it gives you much leisure � to think about Linda. To feel sorry for yourself. No, sorry�s not the right word.�

�To cry in my beer.�

�Bluntly put, but yes � to cry in your beer.�

He grinned again. �Got me nicely catalogued, eh? Well, let�s dissect you for a moment.�

�No!�

�You�re married to one of the rich men of the country. There�s a very high fence all around you, and you think you like it inside the fence because it�s so safe. So very safe and quiet. You�re afraid of what�s outside the fence because � well, you tell me why.�

�You couldn�t be more wrong. There are doors in my fence. The doors aren�t padlocked. I can go in and out. I�m out now. I live behind that fence because I like it that way. I happen to love my husband and our way of life.�

�There are fires behind those beautiful eyes!�

�No fires. I�m not afraid.�

�Did I say you were afraid?�

�You were going to.�

�No. One thing you�re not is afraid. You�re not afraid of anything. Cautious, perhaps. You don�t want to � to disturb what you have. Like one of your husband�s ships. It can weather any typhoon in the Pacific, but the captain prefers smooth waters.�

�Mr. Alder,� Nikki Collinson said firmly, �what good books have you read lately?�

He smiled crookedly. �Very well, we�ll discuss literature � if you call me Tom, not Mr. Alder.�

�I prefer the mister.�

�All right, but I�ve never known a girl named Nikki and I was hoping to try it out. Mrs. Collinson, I�ve just read John O�Hara�s new book. What did you think of it?�

They discussed O�Hara then. And Hemingway and F. Scott Fitzgerald. Neither cared for Faulkner. She touched on Robert Wilder. And then she mentioned television. Surprisingly, she knew it well. Her taste in programs was catholic. She liked an occasional Western. She was an ardent fan of mysteries. She did not especially care for the panel shows. She sometimes watched the �late� movies when her husband was away on a business trip.

Their conversation wandered into other channels and a sudden twinge of near-panic assailed Alder when the stewardess� voice came over the speaker. �Fasten your seat belts, please. We�re preparing to land.�

It was Chicago and she was leaving the flight. There was a half-hour stopover, but she obviously did not plan to spend it with him. As the plane taxied across the field she gave him her hand. Her clear eyes looked into his.

�I feel a little sorry � for Linda.�

He did not reply to that. He felt strain, so he said: �It�s been a pleasure � Nikki.�

She knew that the name was not a slip and she smiled.

Then she was unfastening her seat belt. He stood up to let her out from the window seat, but he remained on the plane. Through the window he saw her as she walked away.

She did not look back. Alder thought of that and it gave him a measure of comfort. If she had not been thinking of him she could not have resisted looking back at the plane. She was deliberately, consciously, not turning her head.

It was three hours to New York. The picture of Nikki Collinson was in his mind all the way. Her face was more vivid than that of Linda Foster. Yet Linda was available and Nikki was not. Not by at least fifty million dollars.

By the time he got to the hotel from the airport it was seven o�clock. He took a shower, put on a black mohair suit and had a sandwich in the hotel coffee shop. A taxicab took him to the huge building that housed the newspaper on 39th Street, just off Seventh Avenue. Consulting the directory, he rode up to the fourteenth floor. The mustiness of years of old newsprint assailed his nostrils as he entered an office.

An elderly man got up from a desk.

�I�d like to see a file of your old papers,� Alder said. �The early part of nineteen thirty-eight.�

The oldster nodded and went into one of the narrow passages that contained the file bins.

Alder took out a twenty-dollar bill and laid it on the counter. The man returned carrying three huge bound volumes.

�First three months of 1938,� he said, putting the volumes on the counter. �Anything special you want?�

Alder shook his head. The custodian picked up the twenty-dollar bill. �What�s this?�

�Somebody must have left it.�

The man fingered the bill, then folded it up. �Thank ye kindly.�

Alder began with January 1. He merely looked at the front pages of each edition, turning rapidly to each day�s paper. He went through the first volume quickly, started on February.

On February 16 there was a subhead across the front page. �Millionaire�s Daughter Kidnaped � Police Claim.�

He turned back three days of newspapers, went carefully through the entire issue. Nothing. The next paper he searched closely. In the Personal column he found the first mention, a carefully worded ad: �DORIS � PLEASE TELEPHONE. WE LOVE YOU. DAD.�

At this point they had obviously reported it to the police because they thought the girl had run away.

The next day, February 16, there was the headline and a compact story on page 12. It gave only the bare details. Doris Delaney had left Miss Tabitha Tubbs�s School for Girls on February 13. She had confided in her closest friend, Sally Weaver, that she was going to the malt shop a block away. She had not returned. It was not until late evening that the school learned of her disappearance. Her frightened chum, confronted by the headmistress, revealed that Doris had slipped out a number of times but had always returned within an hour or two. This occasion, Sally declared, was no different from any other. She was certain that Doris had no other objective than the forbidden trip to the malt shop. She had not changed her clothes � the school middy blouse and blue skirt. Yes, she had taken a coat because it was cold outside.

The parents, when notified of her disappearance, had come to the school. They had gone to the malt shop. They knew Doris there, but whether she had come in that afternoon was not certain. The proprietor, one Salvatore Genualdi, said no. His wife, Carmelita, thought she had. Under questioning she became uncertain. It could have been the day before, February 12. A school holiday. A number of the girls had come into the shop that day.

Mr. and Mrs. Delaney had asked the school to keep it out of the papers. A child�s escapade. She would show up, contrite and penitent, the next day.

Doris did not return. The next day the frightened parents inserted the newspaper ads. The school insisted that the girls be given only a modest allowance. Doris could not have had more than a dollar or two. If she had gone to the movies, eaten a meal or two away from the school, she would have been without funds.

After the second night away, the Delaneys called the police.

Doris was not a wayward girl. She was devoted to her parents. The reason she had been enrolled in the boarding school � when her home was only a few blocks away � was because her parents did not want to spoil their only child with too much attention. She went home for the weekends.

The police questioned Sally Weaver. Doris had not complained to her about her parents. She was attached to them. She did not hate the school, or its discipline. She was a straight A student in everything but algebra, and in that subject she had a strong B.

Boys?

Oh, she danced and perhaps flirted with those who came to the school cotillions. She occasionally dated a boy on weekends. The police refused to reveal the identity of the boy because of his age. The boy, however, was well known to the family and the dating had had the approval of the parents. The father of the boy was a business associate of Jonathan Delaney.

There was a two-column picture of Doris Delaney above the story. It showed a very pretty girl in a middy blouse. A light blonde girl, almost a towhead. A slight girl. She was partly turned when the picture had been snapped and Alder noted her immaturity � there was only a very slight curve of the youthful breast. The article called the girl sixteen, but a later reference said that she was born February 28, 1922, which would have made her fifteen actually at the time of her disappearance.

In the picture the girl seemed even younger than sixteen. A young sixteen, or perhaps only fourteen or fifteen. A child.

Alder turned to the February 17 issue of the newspaper. No subhead now, but a screaming 72-point streamer across the page: DORIS DELANEY BELIEVED KIDNAPED. The story was on page 1 and carried over to page 2.

No word had been received from Doris. The family had received no ransom notes, but the F.B.I.�� under the Lindbergh Law � had entered the case. In spite of them, Jonathan Delaney told the newspaper�s ace crime reporter that he stood ready to deal with the kidnapers. The police had questioned attendants at the major railroad terminals, the airports. No girl answering Doris Delaney�s description had boarded any train or plane. Or been seen in bus depots. The picture of Doris Delaney, in two columns the day before, had been blown up to four columns. A headline over it read: HAVE YOU SEEN THIS GIRL?

On February 18, a subhead on page 1 read: POLICE BAFFLED BY MYSTERY OF DORIS DELANEY. The story was a rehash of the main facts, conceding that no clues had been unearthed. The efforts of the F.B.I. were not revealed. They rebuffed all questioners.

Alder turned the pages to the classified section. Under the Personal column, with an inch of white space below and above it, was the announcement:

As he studied the advertisement an idle thought struck Alder. He turned back the pages to Section 2, Page 4. In leafing quickly to the classified section an irregularity in the newspaper had imprinted itself in his mind. He found it now. A gap in the third column, a gap of one column and about three inches in depth. Below the gap was a short filler article, pertaining to a festival being held in Yorkville by a German Bund Verein. Above was a two-inch item. It had a lower-case, two-line heading.

Alder looked up from the newspaper. His eyes met those of the morgue attendant. �Somebody�s cut a piece out of this file copy.�

The custodian came over. �Beats all. They�ll steal �em, mutilate �em, do anything...� He turned the binder around. �Important?�

Alder took out a packet of bills, skimmed off another twenty and dropped it on the counter.

�Wait,� said the old man.

He went off to his files. He was gone a good three minutes, then returned with a bound volume, much more dusty than the one already on the counter.

�Let�s see, February 18, 1938.� He opened the volume and turned pages. Suddenly he exclaimed.

�Be damned!�

Alder leaned forward. Same date, same page, same gap. A neatly cut-out rectangle.

�Now I�ve seen everything,� said the old man. �Who�d cut out two pieces of the same newspaper?�

�Do you have a third file?�

�Two�s all. Oh, might be some old copies in the storeroom. There�s about fifty tons of newspapers there. We clean out a few tons, whenever we need more space, but seems to me I saw some papers there awhile ago around this date. Maybe a few years later.� He frowned. �Take a month of Sundays to search. Couldn�t do it myself because I�ve got to stay here in the room.� He looked at the paper�s date. �February 18, 1938. Bout the time of the Doris Delaney case.�

�You remember the case?� Alder asked.

�Remember it? I worked on it � used to be in the slot. Rewrite.�

�Then you know the man who covered it, Desmond Slocum?�

��Course I know Des. A real two-bottle man. Drank himself outta the business. Not a newspaper in town�d give him a job.�

�But he�s still alive?�

�Was two-three months ago. Sneaked in here, put the bite on me.�

�Sneaked?�

�They won�t let him in the city room any more. Helluva way to treat a man. In his time Desmond was the best police reporter in the city, maybe in the country. He covered them all, the Lindbergh kidnaping, the Judge Crater case, Doris Delaney.�

�What�s your theory about Judge Crater?�

�He was a Tammany man, wasn�t he? I�d say he�s down at the bottom of the East River wearing a concrete overcoat.�

�And Doris Delaney, what�s your opinion about her?�

The former rewrite man rubbed his stubbled chin with the back of a thumb. �That one beats me. Just didn�t make sense. I�d a said she run off with a man. But that�s twenty years.�

�Twenty, plus two.�

�Yeah, twenty-two years. She run off with a man she�d have come back sometime. Especially when her pa died and left her five million. No man�s worth five million, not after all that time. Anyway, she couldda picked up the five million and still kept her man if she wanted. She didn�t.�

�You think she may have been murdered?�

�Your guess is as good as anybody�s. Come to think of it, I used to talk to Desmond about it. He had some theories, but dammed if I can remember them now. Everybody had a theory and you get my age, you just remember � but you can�t remember how you got it, or when. Maybe from reading the pieces I wrote myself. I dunno.�

�You said Desmond touched you for money only a short time ago. He happened to mention where he was living?�

�The Bowery, probably. No... no, Desmond never liked the Bowery. He used to do his drinking up on Third Avenue � around Yorkville, seems to me. Yeah, remember one time, I stopped in to get a glass of lager. He was there. Got into a fight with a customer and they threw him out. When he was top dog on the paper, nobody threw out Desmond Slocum. Nobody. He knew all the precinct boys, knew where the bodies was buried.�

�Thank you, old-timer,� Alder said.

�It�s a pleasure to talk with a gentleman,� declared the custodian as he creased the second twenty-dollar bill and stowed it away in a vest pocket.

On Seventh Avenue, Alder waited for a taxicab. Twenty minutes later, after bucking some heavy cross-town traffic, the cab deposited him at 86th Street and Third Avenue.

Alder stood on the corner and looked down the cross street at the signs of the German Bierstuben and turner halls. They were tourist places. A man like Desmond Slocum would not be patronizing them. He started down Third Avenue, on the west side, north of 86th Street. There were three taverns in the block. He went into all of them, had two glasses of beer and studied the customers. All orderly, all normal.

He crossed the street, went into the single tavern in the middle of the block. Two tipsy sailors were singing with a man in civilian clothes, but the civilian was too young to be Desmond Slocum.

He crossed 86th Street, entered two taverns and without ordering anything looked around. He shook his head, continued to 85th Street, then worked back up the west side of the street. Three more taverns. In one was a bleary-eyed man of about sixty. He sat at the bar, his head propped up on his cupped hand, the elbow of which was resting on the bar.

�Your name Desmond Slocum?� Alder asked.

The man�s eyes blinked stupidly.

�Desmond Slocum?� Alder repeated.

�Don�t mind if I do,� mumbled the man.

The bartender came up

�You payin� for it?� he asked Alder.

Alder put out a five-dollar bill. �Have one with us.�

The bartender shrugged, got a glass and a bottle and two glasses. He poured the whisky, reached to the backbar for a cigar. �I�ll smoke one, if you don�t mind.�

�It�s all right.� Alder shoved the change of the five dollars toward the bartender, then turned to the old boozer. �Drink up, Desmond.�

�Desmond?� asked the bartender.

�Sure, Desmond Slocum?�

�This rummy? Nah.�

�You know Desmond Slocum?�

The bartender grimaced. �The boss won�t let him come in any more, but I sure do know him. When he had it he spent it. A great man � in his time.�

�Know where he lives?�

�If you�re a bill collector,� said the bartender, �you�re working for the exercise. Slocum hasn�t had a piece of paper money in the Lord knows when. You�ll have one helluva time squeezing anything out of him.�

�I�m not going to squeeze him. He�s a friend of a friend, newspaper man I know in Los Angeles. Said Slocum taught him the business. Wanted me to look him up and say thanks.�

�Next block,� said the bartender. �The Wise Owl or the Third Avenue Grotto. More likely the Grotto. Heard he dirtied up the Owl awhile ago.�

The Grotto was between 85th and 84th Streets. The sour smell of stale beer caused Alder to grimace. There were eight or ten patrons in the place. Desmond Slocum sat at the near end of the bar.

He hadn�t shaved in two weeks. His shirt had not been washed in as long. He wore a hat that was well ventilated. He looked seventy, but was probably younger. He had the shakes and there was spittle, or spilled whisky, on his whiskered chin.

Alder took the stool next to Slocum.

�Mr. Slocum,� he said, �I�d like to buy you a drink.�

�G�way,� mumbled the old newspaper man. �I got a drink.�

�Have another.�

The rumpot turned his bleary eyes on Alder. �I don�t need no patronizing bastard to buy me a drink. Not today I don�t. I got me my four dollars from the blood bank and it�ll carry me through tonight. Look me up tomorrow and I�ll be glad to kiss your ass for the price of a drink. But not tonight, buster. G�wan, get lost.�

Alder spread out a twenty-dollar bill beside Slocum�s shaking hand. The broken-down newspaper man stared at it.

�I want to talk to you,� said Alder, �about the Doris Delaney case.�

�Oh, no, not again! I know, you�re one of them goddamn true detective story writers. All of you bastards got to write the Doris Delaney case. Ain�t there no goddamn sex murders no more? Hell, I�ll go out myself and kill a broad for you bastards. I�ll tear off her clothes and I�ll carve my initials on her.�

�I�m not a writer,� said Alder. �I�m not interested in sex murders or even plain murders. I�m interested in the Doris Delaney case, that�s all.�

�Why? What�s your angle? And don�t tell me there ain�t no angle. You wouldn�t be slipping me no twenty if there wasn�t.�

�I�m trying to find her.�

�Now I�ve heard everything! The cops couldn�t find her. The F.B.I. never even got a whiff of her. A hundred private eyes and lawyers spent a million bucks of old man Delaney�s money and now, twenty years after the spoor is colder�n Clancy�s balls, you come along and think you can find her � for a lousy twenty bucks!�

�Have a drink, Slocum.�

�Slocum? It was Mister Slocum a minute ago.�

�Mister Slocum.�

�Don�t you forget. Was a time the Police Commissioner called me Mister Slocum. Yeah, Delaney, too. �Mister Slocum,� he says to me, �my daughter is not pregnant and if you so much as even hint such a thing I�ll sue you for libel and slander!��

�I�ve read your articles,� Alder said. �There was no slightest suggestion of pregnancy.�

�I just told you, didn�t I? The old man had ten million bucks. That�s an awful lot of weight. The doe backed down on the identification.�

�Of Doris Delaney?�

�Who�re we talkin� about? Judge Crater? I could tell you some things about that case.�

�I�m only interested in Doris Delaney.�

�Then stick to the subject. I�m wearing myself out talking. Felipe! The bottle! I got a pigeon, a twenty-dollar pigeon! Like I said, I visited every goddam pedia-pediatrician on the East Side and a few on the West. A hundred of �em and I nailed him. Dr. Drucker. She�d been in and she was pregnant. �She�s a child � impossible!� screams old Jonathan. �Not my baby!� yells Mama. Baby! She was sixteen! There�re babies of fourteen have theirselves kids. You take these Dagoes and Polacks in the cold-water flats, they�re nursin� one day, havin� kids of their own the next. �But it�s impossible,� howls Delaney. �she isn�t that kind of a girl!� They�re all that kind of girl. That�s your mystery of Doris Delaney. Mystery � blah! Kid gets herself hooked. Afraid to face Papa. She does a Brodie.�

�Brodie?�

�Off the Brooklyn Bridge!�

Alder shook his head. �Her body was never found.�

�How do you know? What�s a corpse look like after it�s been in the water two weeks? You wouldn�t know your grandmother from a salted mackerel. They fish �em out of the water every day. Sure, sure, I covered the case until it wore itself out. I wrote a million words on it. Hogwash. I could write as much on the love life of a guppy if I had enough booze to carry me over. For twenty bucks more, I�ll solve the Dorothy Arnold case for you, even if it was before my time.�

�This boy friend of Doris Delaney�s,� Alder prodded. �The one she dated?�

�Huh? Wasn�t any I know of. Guy made her pregnant, he�s the real mystery man.�

�Reference is made to the son of a business associate of Jonathan Delaney�s. She went out with his son on weekends.�

�Oh, the Gillis kid. Nothing. I checked him out. Dance parties � dansants, they called �em. Gillis wasn�t interested in Doris Delaney. If she�d been a boy, yeah!�

�Drink up,� said Alder heavily.

�What the hell you want for twenty bucks?� snarled Desmond Slocum.

Alder walked to 86th Street and stepped into a taxi. He paid the tab at the hotel, got his key, and went up to his room on the eighteenth floor. The lights were on. A man sat in an easy chair facing the door.

It was the enormous man Alder had met the night before... at the El Toro Court in Hollywood. The man who had inquired for a Mr. Klinger. �You�re surprised, Mr. Alder!� the man said.

Alder moved into the room. �Who are you?�

�A name, yes, of course. You want a name. Very well, I�ll give you one. Winterbotham? Van Landingham? You�d like something less pretentious? Smith? Jones?�

�You�ve got one minute,� said Alder.

�Then you�ll call the gendarmes? No, you�re one of the strong ones. You�ll throw me out yourself. But observe, my dear fellow. There is a bulge under the left breast of my jacket. An automatic pistol? No � it isn�t a wallet � that�s on my right side. Let me show it to you.�

Gingerly he thrust his hand under his right coat lapel. Using only two fingers, he extracted a pigskin wallet. �Rather slender, you are thinking. Ah yes, but potent.� He slipped a single bill out of the wallet.

�I�d like your opinion of this specimen, my dear chap. I�ll wager you�ve never handled one. Hundreds, yes; you�ve probably one or two in your pocket right now. But a thousand-dollar bill! They�re very rare. Beautiful and rare. And it�s yours, Mr. Alder.�

�Why?�

�For what reason do you receive stipends? Your services. I wish to retain them.�

�No,� said Alder.

�You haven�t heard me out, sir. You cannot refuse my employment until you know the nature of it. The nature and the extent of the remuneration. Both will interest you, of that I am certain. This thousand-dollar bill, my good sir � it is only one of ten that I possess and all ten can be yours for a modicum of your time, time that you know how to use so well. I want you to find a man for me.�

�Who�

�Again you want a name! This man has had many names. I can only give you the one he bore when he was a youth. It is the same as mine, for he is my brother. Yes, Mr. Alder, it is my brother I want you to find. My long-lost, missing brother... Auguste Pleschette. I, sir, am Jacques Pleschette, at your service. I am of French extraction.� He leaned back in his chair and put his hands together, the fingertips touching, the wrists separated. �You accept, Mr. Alder? You will undertake my commission?�

Alder shook his head. �You want a private detective.�

�But, sir, that is why I have come to you!�

�I�m not a detective.�

�I talked to your colleague in San Francisco, Mr. Stark.�

Alder exclaimed, �Joe Stark!�

�The very same. Believe me, I gave him one of these beautiful treasury certificates for a dossier on you, Mr. Alder. Your complete history, the record of your accomplishments � everything. And Mr. Stark�s recommendation? He said you were the best. He told me of the Wilbur Marriner case, the splendid work you did in locating the heirs of Henrietta Kretzmyer. Beautiful, Mr. Alder, magnificent! You have a talent for that sort of thing, an acumen, a sixth sense. Your logic, Mr. Stark told me � and I concur most heartily � is a wonder to behold. A mathematician knows that two and two are four. He does not look behind the figure. It is a truth to him and he does not examine. But you, sir, you know that two and two equal four, but you are not always satisfied with that fact. You look at it from the top, the bottom, from the side, and from behind and you see what the mathematician cannot see because he accepts his figures.�

�All right,� said Alder, �tell me what your interest is in the Julia Joliet murder?�

�You see?� exclaimed the man who called himself Pleschette. �That is precisely what I have been saying. Your brain is rapier-sharp. And like the rapier, you are inexorable, merciless. You cannot be distracted, you will not be diverted.�

�Keep talking,� said Alder grimly, �and when you get all through I�m still going to ask you what you know about Julia Joliet.�

�I�ll give it to you, sir. My answer shall be direct and succinct. You ask what I know of Julia � Joliet, is it? Nothing, Mr. Alder, absolutely nothing. I do not know Miss Joliet. I never met her. I know nothing about her.�

�Why were you at her place last night?�

�I knew that would be your next question. I anticipated it. And I shall answer you just as precisely as I answered your other question. Mr. Alder, I was there because of you. I followed you. I wanted to observe you in action, so to speak. Your technique. I had already decided to seek your aid, engage your services. But I am a cautious man. When you left your home yesterday morning, Mr. Alder, I was behind you. I followed you to the police station, then back to your home and then, in the evening, to The Tuilleries. It was magnificent, Mr. Alder, the way you worked. You got the salient facts from the police and then you went right to the suspect the, ah, the motion picture man, Mr. Dane. You struck up an acquaintance with him, gulled him beautifully. You got a lead from him and then you went direct to the, ah, the scene of the crime. You persuaded the court manager to give you entry to Miss Joliet�s premises. You searched them � thoroughly, I assure you, because I saw you � through the window. You observed things, you found clues that the police overlooked.�

�Did I? What were they?�

�Oh, that I do not know, Mr. Alder. I am not an expert in such things, but there were clues, little things that others overlooked, that perhaps meant nothing to their crass minds, but to your superior intellect � I am sure the things you found caused you to come here, to New York, where you will no doubt find the remaining answers to the problem.�

�What problem am I trying to solve?�

�How should I know, Mr. Alder? I am not a mind reader. You seek the murderer of Julia Joliet, I presume.�

�She lived in Hollywood, she was murdered there. Why would I come to New York to find her murderer?�

�My dear sir, I don�t know. I am not in your confidence. I have not seen your clues, I do not know their significance. If I were to hazard a guess��

�Go ahead, hazard.�

�I am a simple man. Miss Joliet, according to the papers, was employed by Mr. Dane, the motion picture person. You sought him out, tricked him into revealing something damaging. Yes, I would hazard the guess that Mr. Dane is your man. He murdered Miss Joliet. You know it, but you cannot prove it. You are seeking proof here, in New York. Something in Mr. Dane�s past, or Miss Joliet�s.�

�Not bad,� said Alder, �not bad at all. Now let me hazard a guess. Miss Joliet is of French extraction and so are you.�

�Oh, that�s good, very good. You are already forming a connection between us. I see how your mind works. Unfortunately, you are wrong. The fact that Miss Joliet is � was � of French extraction and that I bear a French name is a coincidence, a mere coincidence. It has no significance. I am not interested in Miss Joliet.�

�Leroy Dane?�

�Nothing, Mr. Alder. No interest whatever. I know nothing of motion picture people. Mr. Dane is the first one I ever saw. I never spoke to him, I have never spoken to anyone connected with the cinema. I have no interest in Mr. Dane, none in. the late Miss Joliet. Believe me, Mr. Alder, the only thing I want is for you to locate my dear, long-lost brother.�

�Whose name is Auguste Pleschette � or something else?�

�Alas, yes.�

�And his last known address?�

�Alas, again. I am barren of information. I have no clues to his whereabouts.�

�How long has he been missing?�

�A long time, a terribly long time.�

�How long?�

�The truth of the matter, Mr. Alder, I have never seen my brother.�

�What?�

�A tragedy, isn�t it? To have a brother and never to have seen him. The truth of the matter, Mr. Alder, is that my brother is fifteen years younger than I am. He was born after, ah, after I left home.�

�How long ago is that?�

�I have just told you. Auguste is fifteen years my junior � fifteen years and three months. He was born exactly three months after I went out into the world to seek my fortune, so to speak.�

�You never went home?�

�How could I? I was young, I was learning my trade. Auguste wrote me a letter once. I still have it � somewhere. He was fifteen years old then, precisely the age I had been when I went out to make my way. He, too, was about to spread his wings � he asked me if I could give him any advice. Advice, Mr. Alder, is what he asked me for. Advice, not money. I wrote to him, suggested that he might be happier where he was, in his own comfortable little nest. I never heard from him. But Mother � dear Mother! She wrote to me, as she was dying, on her very deathbed. She said Auguste had not heeded my advice. He had, ah, run away from home. He had never written, had never sent them any money. Alas, Mr. Alder, I will not prolong the dismal story of my shortcomings. I did not try to help my poor young brother. I gave him fatuous advice instead of help. I wrote him platitudes when I should have sent him cold, hard cash. I acted very badly toward my own flesh and blood and I have lived to regret it. I want to find my brother now. I want to help him, give him some of the good things I have acquired in this life.�

�Some of the thousand-dollar bills?�

�Ah yes, the treasury certificates. The beautiful thousand dollar bills. I am not a rich man, but I have been careful. I put these away for a rainy day and now, sir, the heavens have opened and it is raining. I am fifty-nine, well, if you must have it straight, sixty-two years of age. I do not have too many years left and I want to help my kinfolk. Mother is dead. Father � Father does not want, or need my aid. There is only Auguste, Auguste whom I have never seen in all my life. I want to find him. I want you to find him.�

�For ten thousand dollars?�

�If need be, ten thousand � yes, ten thousand dollars.�

�You�ve told me all you know of your brother?�

�All, sir, all.�

Alder shook his head. �The letter he wrote you when he was fifteen. To what address did he send it?�

The big man hesitated. �Is that necessary? My residence at the time can be of no help.�

�I�d like to have it.�

�You embarrass me.�

�Why? Why would a thirty-two-year-old address embarrass you?�

�Because I was at the time dear Auguste wrote to me in a rather peculiar situation. Very well, sir, if you must know, the address was Ossining, New York.�

�Sing Sing?�

�Alas, yes.�

�You served time?�

�I have served a great deal of time. I am an erudite person. Where did I acquire such erudition? I had very little formal education. I left home at the tender age of fifteen. In prison, Mr. Alder, there is time for study. They have excellent libraries in the better state prisons. There is time � time.�

�How long were you up?�

�The first time? A mere jaunt � three years.�

�The second time?�

�I�ll spare you, Mr. Alder. I am sixty-two years of age. I have spent a total of twenty-six years in prisons.� He shook his head. �They gave me a life sentence the last time, a habitual criminal, the judge called me. I spent sixteen consecutive years in durance. I am a criminal, Mr. Alder, alas, but a successful one. My last, ah, haul, netted me in excess of one hundred thousand dollars � one hundred and ten thousand, to be exact. My rainy day nest egg. My attorneys knew that I had it safely tucked away and they never ceased their efforts on my behalf. And their own, you might say, inasmuch as I promised them one-half of all my worldly goods. I have paid them, Mr. Alder, and I am again at liberty, breathing the fresh, untainted air of freedom. My nest egg is smaller, but I am a man of modest desires.�

�Pleschette,� said Alder. �Big Frenchy, the king of the confidence men. Only it isn�t Pleschette, is it?�

�Pleschette is my real name. I would not sully that name, sir, when I engaged in crime. I assumed an, ah, nom de plume. Philippe Fanchon.� The big man became earnest again. �Mr. Alder, you will not let my, ah, my true identity and character stand in the way of our little deal? You will find my brother for me?�

�I don�t know, Frenchy, I don�t know.�

�Sleep on it. We will talk tomorrow. But please, I detest the ah, the monicker � Frenchy, Big Frenchy. Let us keep it on a higher level � one gentleman to another. Mr. Pleschette, Mr. Alder. Yes?�

The big man got to his feet. Then suddenly he stooped and laid the crisp thousand-dollar bill on the coffee table. �Keep it there overnight. Look at it. Let it tempt you.�

�I can be tempted by a thousand-dollar bill without looking at it. Take it along.�

�My little mission will not interfere with your other work, Mr. Alder. You can do it at the same time. Please, consider it carefully. And give me your answer in the morning?�

After Pleschette had gone, Alder waited fifteen seconds and opened the door. The big man was just turning a corner of the corridor, going toward the elevators. Alder closed the door again and got the Manhattan telephone directory.

He searched for a number, then got the hotel operator. A moment later a male voice said, �Detectives, Incorporated.�

�Jim Honsinger,� Alder said.

�Call back in the morning for Mr. Honsinger,� said the voice on the phone.

�No, I want to talk to him now. Call him at his home. Tell him it�s Tom Alder in from Los Angeles.�

�Hold on.�

Alder kept the phone to his ear. After a full minute, there was a connection and a blustering voice boomed into his ear, �What the hell, Tom, I�m playing bridge!�

�Be dummy long enough to talk to some of your people on the phone. Got a pencil handy?... All right, a woman named Sally Weaver � at least that was her name in 1938, when she attended Miss Tabitha Tubbs�s School for Girls...�

�That name rings a bell, Tom. Mmm, 1938...�

�She was Doris Delaney�s best friend.�

�Holy Hannah! You out of your mind, Tom?�

�Spare me the remarks, Jim. You�ll get paid for everything you do.�

�Sure, sure, but I hate to take the money. I worked on the Delaney thing when I was in the department. All I know of that case for sure I could put on the back of my left thumbnail and have enough room left to write a good book.�

�That�s good, then your mind isn�t cluttered up with theories.�

�Hell, I got those, too.�

�Give me one of them, Jim. What do you think happened to the girl?�

�Kidnaped. The snatchers got scared when the F.B.I. moved in and cut her up into little pieces. She�s dead and gone these twenty years.�

�Twenty-two. Still got your pencil? Dr. Drucker, a pediatrician...�

�Nothing there, Tom, believe me. I talked to him myself. He couldn�t identify the girl.�

�Get me his address. Now, hold on... this next one may give you trouble. The address of Mrs. Delaney, the girl�s mother. And her private telephone number.�

�You�re right, it may be tough. But � next!�

�The February 18th issue of the New York Bulletin page four, section two. I want a photostatic copy of the entire page.�

�You could�ve got that yourself for a dollar. Right from the paper.�

�They have two bound files. Each has been mutilated, a three-inch chunk cut out. That�s what I�m interested in � the piece that�s cut out.�

There was a slight pause on Jim Honsinger�s part. �Who�d cut out a piece from the file copy � both copies?�

�That�s what I�m trying to find out. Now, last but not least � a complete history of Big Frenchy Fanchon, the con man.�

�I can save you time. Frenchy was a blue-sky stock and bond man. He might, in a pinch, sell you the Brooklyn Bridge. Kidnaping, uh-uh � not big Frenchy.�

�I didn�t say he had anything to do with this case. It�s really a different matter. By the way, Big Frenchy�s real name is Jacques Pleschette.� Alder spelled it out. �He has a younger brother, Auguste Pleschette. See if you can get anything on him. He probably changed his name too.�

�Nice people you associate with. I suppose you want all of this by yesterday?�

�Would I have interrupted your bridge game otherwise?�

�Yes, you would!�

�I just thought of something else, Jim � a wild one. A woman named Julia Joliet. In her fifties. And Leroy Dane...�

�The movie actor? My wife�s secret passion. Hey � he mixed in this?�

�Not necessarily. Incidentally, his real name isn�t Leroy Dane, although a lot of people think it is. See if you can get his real name. Okay, Jim?�

�I�ll get the office on it right away. And if you�re not too busy tomorrow, drop by � we�ll have lunch.�

�I�ll try.�

Alder hung up. Before he had time to move away from the telephone, it rang.

�Mr. Alder?� said the hotel phone operator. �We have a long-distance call for you. From Los Angeles...�

�Tom, you louse!� cried Linda Foster. �You ran out on me!�

�You wouldn�t listen,� Alder said. �I tried to tell you I had a job to do...�

�You were afraid of me, weren�t you?�

�Maybe I was. Yes, I guess I was afraid.�

�For once you said the right thing. You didn�t trust yourself. But it�s no good � you�ll be back. Unless you�ve fallen for the gorgeous Nikki � Nikki Collinson, who makes every other beautiful woman look like a hag. It�s a good thing she�s married to a hundred million dollars. If she were in circulation I�d throw acid in her face.�

�She�s the woman who was in your party last night...�

�Whoa-ho!� cried Linda. �You�re not going to try that on me. She�s also the little lady whose hand you tried to hold on the plane all the way to Chicago!�

�Oh,� was all Alder could say, �you know about that!�

�How�d I know where you�d gone? She phoned me from Chicago this afternoon. It took me until now to find your hotel. I had the operators call every hotel in Manhattan.�

Alder settled back in his chair. �What did Nikki have to say?�

�About you? What could she say that I didn�t know already? That I was a fool...�

�She told you that?�

�That�s all I�m going to tell you. Any girl who�d talk to a man about Nikki deserves to wind up an old maid.�

�Just one thing, Linda � what was the occasion of Nikki�s calling you?�

�The occasion? None. She�s visiting her family in Chicago and she called Walt, as soon as she got there. I happened to be with Walt at the time...�

�With Walt � oh, Harris Toomey...�

�Now one moment, Tom � I won�t have you making wild guesses. You and I had a date for lunch at the Beverly Hills Brown Derby. You didn�t show up. At one o�clock, Walt Collinson came in � with his best friend who just happens to be Harris Toomey. One o�clock our time is three o�clock in Chicago and Nikki�s plane landed in Chicago at ten minutes to three. She called from the airport...�

�She called the Brown Derby?�

�Walt told her that was where he�d be for lunch. See, darling, it�s all very simple. That detective brain of yours � never mind that! I should have let you figure it out yourself. Let you worry about it. Also, what I am doing this evening...�

�What are you doing?�

�I�m calling you from The Tuilleries. Sitting beside me is, mmm, Hollywood�s gift to women, Leroy Dane, your movie star friend. Now would you like to call me back � at The Tuilleries and make sure that I am here?�

�Where are you, really?�

�At my hotel, stupid. I�m lying here on the bed, reading a good book. No, I�m talking to you, but when I get through I might, I just might, do some reading. There�s a Gideon Bible in the drawer of the telephone stand. I�ve always wanted to read one � a Bible. And what are you doing, Tom?�

�I�m going to bed in about two minutes.�

�Not in two minutes you aren�t. Well, all right, I�ll let you go. You�re probably pretty tired, the trip � and last night...� Her tantalizing laugh had a wicked note to it. And then she hung up. But not before Alder heard a sound over the wire, a voice speaking on a loudspeaker: �Flight to New York...�

She had muffled the announcement with her laughter. But she was at the airport. She would be in New York in ten hours.

As tired as he was, Alder had difficulty going to sleep. He tossed and twisted until well past two o�clock. His brain would not relax, but he finally fell asleep. And then it seemed only a moment or two before he was awakened.

It was daylight and the phone was ringing. He looked at his watch. It was ten minutes to eight.

The voice on the phone was Jim Honsinger�s. �I�m still at home, Tom, having breakfast, but my night manager just called me with what they were able to get during the night. Sally Weaver first. She�s married. Mrs. Kirby Bokker. Her husband�s in Wall Street. Home address, 881 Fifth Avenue.�

Alder was already writing it down. �Go ahead, Jim. Anything else?�

�The pediatrician, Dr. Drucker, 220 West 72nd. Big Frenchy � I�ve got a report on him as long as your arm. I�ll have the office send it over to you by messenger. Too long to read over the phone. One thing I noticed, though. He couldn�t have had anything to do with the Delaney case. He was doing a stretch in Atlanta at the time. Went in �35, didn�t get out until �42. The same year he went back in � this time to our own little Siberia, Dannemora. The big stretch. Life. But he somehow beat it, because he got out four years ago. Nothing on him since then. Retired, I guess. May dig up something on him during the day.�

�Perhaps not. That pretty much checks with his story.�

�His story?�

�He was here last night. I talked to him � rather I listened, because when Pleschette gets going that�s all you can do � listen. Anything else, Jim?�

�Mrs. Delaney. She�s going to be difficult. She�s become a recluse. No phone listed. I did manage to get her address, however. Madison Avenue, 645. The dope is she won�t talk to anyone about the case � and that anyone means anyone.�

�I�m not surprised, Jim. All right, keep at the rest of it, will you?�

�Lunch?�

�I don�t know yet. It depends. I�ll call you.�

Alder swung out of bed, headed for the bathroom. He took an icy shower, rubbed himself dry and dressed, putting on a suit he had had delivered only the week before.

He had breakfast in a modest place on a side street, then stepped into a taxi and gave the cabby an address on Fifth Avenue.

It was a fairly expensive apartment building, but the doorman was quite willing to let Alder ride up unannounced. For a dollar. Alder pressed the button at the door of Apartment 5D. The door was opened to the length of the chain, about three inches. A black face appeared in the slot.

�We don�t wan� anythin�,� the owner of the face said.

�I�m not selling anything,� Alder replied. �I�d like to talk to Mrs. Bokker.�

��Bout what you wan talk?�

�I�ll tell her. My name is Mister Alder.�

The door was closed. A full minute went by, then the black face appeared in the aperture. �Mis� Bokker say, you leave name, telephone. She don� feel so good.�

A dollar had worked downstairs. Alder tried one now. �I�m from out of town and it would not be convenient to talk later. Tell Mrs. Bokker it�s important � and urgent.�

Another minute went by and the chain was removed from the door. Alder crossed a foyer, went into the living room. Sally Weaver Bokker was propped up on a sofa, pillows behind her back, her feet up on the sofa. But she was fully dressed.

She had to be within a year of Doris Delaney�s age, so she was either thirty-seven, thirty-eight, or thirty-nine. But she looked a good forty-five. She was plump; dumpy would perhaps be a better description. Her hair was short, faded from too much bleaching. Her skin was sallow.

She looked at Alder as he approached. �I don�t believe I know you, Mr. Adler.�

�Alder. I want to talk to you about Doris Delaney.�

The sallow face twitched and a spark came into the dull eyes. �That�s your important business? Good day, Mr. Alder.�

�Please, Mrs. Bokker. Give me three minutes � well, five. I will not be offensive, I will leave whenever you ask me.�

The smoldering in her eyes seemed to fade. She looked him over carefully, then made a gesture to an overstuffed chair. �You�d think I had no life of my own. I�m famous, because, once upon a time, I was Doris Delaney�s best friend, the girl who knew her better than any living person. I hardly remember her. It was so long ago!�

�Yes, it was, Mrs. Bokker. But you were her best friend, weren�t you?�

�We roomed together. You get to know a girl when you live with her five days a week.�

�For how long? I mean, how long did you room together?�

�From September until � well, when it happened.�

�Happened, Mrs. Bokker? You used that word as if it meant something. Wasn�t it rather the lack of something happening? She just went out � disappeared. Never came back.�

Mrs. Bokker was not happy about this. �You � you�re talking like those G-men. They tried to trick me every time. Questioned me over and over. Looked me up and down and jumped on me every time I used the wrong word, or said something they couldn�t understand. Half the time I didn�t know what was happening. You � you�re not one of them, are you?�

�No, Mrs. Bokker. And I�ll try not to talk like that again. I�ll simplify my questions. Did you know � did Doris tell you anything about � well, a boy?�

�You mean did I know she was pregnant?�

Alder nodded. �Was she pregnant?�

�I don�t know, I really don�t. Somebody brought that up and � well, Mrs. Delaney, Doris� mother, got me alone one time. She asked me, but I really didn�t know. If she was pregnant, she never let on, and I was her best friend.�

�Do you have any children, Mrs. Bokker?�

�I don�t see what�� She shook her head. �No, I don�t. Not that I couldn�t have � it�s just, well, my health has never been too good. I had a miscarriage a year after we were married and the doctor said��

�One thing in the reports has always bothered me, Mrs. Bokker,� Alder said. �Why didn�t you go with Doris to the malt shop?�

�We weren�t allowed to. It was against the rules. Mrs. Tubbs�d give us � I mean, she�d make us do all sorts of things, if she caught us breaking the rules.�

�Doris Delaney broke them apparently.�

�She didn�t care. She�d just as soon be sent home as not.�

�Any of the other girls break the rules � the rule about leaving the school, going to the malt shop?�

�Most of them did, at one time or another. I did, too, only I got caught once and after that � besides, I was on a diet at the time. Doris didn�t have to worry about that. She had the kind of a figure � well, she could eat anything and it didn�t show on her. She ate more than I did, but it didn�t bother her.�

�You did go to the malt shop, however. Did you � did you meet any boys there?�

�What do you mean, meet? Sure, there were fellows there sometimes. Lots of time. A good-looking girl like Doris��

�She was good-looking?�

�You must have seen pictures of her. Yes � she was good-looking in a, well, rather a skinny kind of a way.�

�So there were boys at the malt shop. You talked to them sometimes?�

�Kidded around. Teen-age stuff. We weren�t any worse than the kids today. Probably a lot better.�

�Was there anyone, well, any one boy that Doris seemed to have a preference for � at the malt shop, I mean?�

�I answered that question a thousand times, if it was once. I didn�t go across the street that often. I don�t remember anyone any more than any other Doris wasn�t a bad girl � not bad, if that�s what you�re driving at.�

�I�m afraid I was. It was that � the doctor who tentatively identified her once��

�Bosh! He was trying to get his name in the papers. So was everybody else. For months people kept calling the newspapers, the police. They�d seen Doris here, they�d seen her there. Her father sent detectives to all the places. They showed pictures, and it wasn�t ever Doris the people�d seen � just a blonde girl, that�s all.�

�Thank you, Mrs. Bokker. I won�t keep you longer. Just one more question, and I wish you�d think a moment before you answer it. It�s about Doris � her manner, her attitude those last days before she went out and failed to return. Was she � despondent? Worried?�

�I don�t have to take time to think about that one. I answered it before. Doris wasn�t the worrying kind. I was the quiet one then. Not Doris. She talked a blue streak. Her father was a rich man. She didn�t have a worry in the world. She wasn�t afraid of anything. She was rich, she was good-looking and she had a figure.�

�Figure?�

�You know what I mean,� Mrs. Bokker spread out her hands, made a rounding gesture.

�Awhile ago you referred to her as a thin girl. Skinny was the word you used.�

�At first. When we started rooming together. Her � she began developing then and by the time � well, by the time she ran away, she wasn�t skinny. Not that way, anyhow.�

�Her � breasts had developed?�

There was a sudden sting to Mrs. Bokker�s reply. �That�s not exactly a fit subject of conversation between mixed company, Mr. Adler, or Alder.�

�I�m sorry. I meant it as an impersonal thing. Thank you, Mrs. Bokker. Thank you for the time you�ve given me. You�ve been most kind.�

�It�s all right. You � you�ve been polite up to � well, most of the time. But you forgot to mention something. Who are you? I mean, who are you working for � the police?�

�No. I�m not working for anyone, really. It�s just that I�m very much interested in mysteries. Thank you, and goodbye.�

She was frowning, but she let him go. He looked back at her as the maid let him out. She was sitting upright on the sofa looking at him.

The apartment house was just off 83rd Street, one of the older ones. The doorman was old, the elevator operator was well past his prime and had to remain seated in his car. The doorman would give out no information. It was quite obvious that the elevator man would not take Alder beyond the first floor until he had the approval and permission of the doorman.

�Mr. Alder of Los Angeles,� Alder told him in his most formal tone.

The doorman spoke into the house phone, listened and then said, �Thank you.� He turned to Alder. �I�m sorry, sir, but Mrs. Delaney is not receiving.�

�You spoke to her personally?�

�She is not receiving.�

�Will you do one thing � take a written message up to her?�

The elderly doorman pondered that carefully. �There has been no specific instruction against it.�

�Do you have some house stationery about?�

This also was not covered by specific instructions and the doorman weighed it. He decided correctly and went into a little room off the lobby. After a moment he returned with an envelope and a card bearing the monogram of the apartment house.

Alder wrote a single line on the card, inserted it in the envelope, and sealed it. He handed it to the doorman. �It�s for Mrs. Delaney personally. It should not be opened by a servant.�

�I�m afraid I cannot guarantee that,� was the deliberately thought-out protest.

�I�m sure Mrs. Delaney would not want the contents of this note seen by other human eyes.�

The doorman mulled that over. He was not ecstatic about the idea. Alder took a bill from his pocket, folding it carefully so that the denomination (a twenty) showed.

�If you will wait here, I�ll do my best, sir,� the old one finally said.

He stepped into the elevator. The door closed and Alder watched the indicator as it moved to four and stopped. It was at four for a long time. A tenant came into the building, rang for the elevator and it came down to the lobby.

The doorman was not in it. The elevator went up to eight, returned almost to the lobby, then stopped and went back up. It stopped at four. Then it came down.

The doorman stepped out. �You may find Mrs., ah, Mrs. Delaney a bit irregular.�

�Irregular? Peculiar?�

�I would rather not use that word. All right, Theodore.�

Theodore, the other oldster, was the elevator operator. He did not speak to Alder at all. When the elevator stopped at the fourth floor, Alder got out.

A door stood open near-by and he went to it. He could see into the apartment, but there was no one in sight. He pushed the door buzzer. A very old Negro finally appeared. His short, kinky hair was completely white and his face was like ancient, well-dyed Cordoba leather.

He said, �This way, please.�

Through a long hall, a musty old living room furnished in antique furniture, through it to a small sitting room at the front of the building. The shades were down almost to the sills, the Venetian blinds were arranged so that only a modicum of light seeped into the room. The room was virtually airless; the windows had not been raised since their weekly cleaning, which was at least six days ago.

Mrs. Delaney sat in a straight-backed, mohair chair. A heavy cane was in her right hand; it reached out, touched the floor. She did not wear high lace collars because the wearing of such was a generation ahead of her. She did, however, have a lace edging about the neckline of her dark blue dress and there was a cameo brooch at her throat.

She was perhaps sixty-five years of age. Possibly less.

Alder said, as he bowed: �Mrs. Delaney.�

Her eyes searched his face, drifted to his body and back to his face.

Finally she said, �You�re not what I expected.� With the hand that was not holding the cane, she reached to a stand beside her and picked up a small silver bell. She tinkled it.

Feet slithered on the thin carpeting behind Alder. He did not look over his shoulder, but he knew that the Negro had entered the room.

�Tell Hugo he will not be needed,� Mrs. Delaney said.

The Negro left and Mrs. Delaney said to Alder: �Hugo is my chauffeur. His driving does not take up much of his time, but I keep him here because I have felt it necessary to have a man here � Arthur is too feeble.�

�I will keep Hugo in mind,� said Alder.

�That is why I told you about him. Now, then,� she raised the white card from her lap. �If you will explain this.�

�Will you read it, Mrs. Delaney?�

�I have read it. That is why I permitted you into this room. I know that you are a scoundrel and possibly worse. Your handwriting is firm, bold I would even say. It indicates a certain strength of character. My late husband was a very strong man. But there wasn�t a dishonest bone in his body. And you, sir, you are not only a scoundrel, but you are a liar.�

She suddenly flipped the card toward Alder. It fell at his feet. He looked down at it.

�Pick it up!�

He stooped. Straightening, he read from the card: �Your daughter is alive.�

�You know nothing about her. You wanted to see me and you chose that scurvy way of gaining entry.�

�Mrs. Delaney, do you believe that your daughter is alive��

�Of course she�s alive. If she were dead I would know it.�

�You believe in extrasensory perception?�

�A charlatan approached me with that drivel twenty years ago. I am disappointed in you.�

�I do not believe such things myself. I merely asked if you believed?�

�I do not. I know my daughter is alive, because if she were dead I would have heard from her.� Mrs. Delaney snorted, or came as close to snorting as an old woman could. �My daughter may not communicate with me while she is alive, but I am certain that she would leave a note, a message, in her effects that would be forwarded to me after her death. There�s nothing extrasensory about that.� She brought her cane in a few inches, leaned forward and put some of her weight onto it. �I am waiting to hear your excuse for writing what�s on that card!�

�Mrs. Delaney, what do you think happened to your daughter twenty-two years ago?�

�I want your answer!�

�Will you let me tell you in my own way?�

�I have not invited you to sit down because I have not yet decided how long I will permit you to stay.� Mrs. Delaney regarded him fiercely. �Sit down, Mr. Alder!�

Alder moved to the closest chair.

�Bring the chair here. I want to see your face. I shall know if you are lying.�

Alder carried the chair to within four feet of her. He set it down carefully and seated himself. �Thank you, Mrs. Delaney.�

He drew a deep breath.

�Two days ago, in Los Angeles, California, a woman was murdered � no, not your daughter � an older woman. Her name was Julia Joliet. She was a fan mail secretary to motion picture stars. The murder was a rather brutal one and I must go into some, well, rather intimate details.�

�I am old enough to be told of sordid things!�

�Thank you. The woman was savagely beaten. Knocked unconscious. Her brassiere was torn from her body. It was not, however, what the police call a sex murder. She was not attacked.�

�Raped, you mean.�

�Yes. Then why was her brassiere ripped from her body? Because women, some women, use their brassieres as a receptacle for hiding things. It is a natural thing with them. Hide something on the spur of the moment � in the brassiere.�

�You were not mincing words, Mr. Alder, when you said the details would be rather intimate. Go ahead. This woman was murdered because of something she had concealed in her brassiere.�

�That is my belief. Now exactly what she had hidden and what was taken from her, I do not know. Mrs. Joliet handled the fan mail of several actors. Could the thing she was killed for pertain to one of these persons? I do not know, but in her room, which was ransacked thoroughly by the murderer, the police found clippings from a newspaper containing the name of your daughter Doris Delaney.�

The eyes of the woman became mere slits. She did not speak, however. Merely made a sideward movement with her cane for him to continue.

�My occupation, Mrs. Delaney, is searching for missing heirs.� Her eyes opened wider, but she continued to hold her silence. He went on. �The Doris Delaney case is a classic case. I have always been intrigued by such things � the Dorothy Arnold case, the Judge Crater disappearance.�

�You are losing my interest,� Mrs. Delaney said abruptly.

�I will try to regain it. I have a friend on the Los Angeles Police Department. The mention of your daughter Doris had aroused my interest. I discussed it with my policeman friend. I was prepared to drop it, but I could not. A little thing happened. It could have been a coincidence, except that another small coincidence occurred immediately afterward. I do not believe in a sequence of coincidences, trivial though they may be. Julia Joliet was nothing, a miserable woman, eking out a paltry existence. There was no reason for her to be murdered. Robbery was not the motive � at least it did not appear to me that way. Why, then, was such a woman slain � and her person molested? For something she had? Something she knew possibly? An important name was injected into the case. An important name to millions of people who enjoy motion pictures. Had he, this important personage, killed Julia Joliet? I began an investigation of the man.�

�Leroy Dane?�

�Leroy Dane. A very cursory investigation revealed that the man�s facade was built of tissue paper. He was a liar, about virtually everything. And Julia Joliet,� Alder paused. �You knew his name!�

�I still read newspapers, Mr. Alder. A movie star�s name is important here as well as in your California. Go on.�

�The murdered woman was a treasure trove of information � about movie stars. Glamorous people. Why, in addition to her glamor people, should she be interested in Doris Delaney, a girl missing twenty-two years? And if she was interested, why should her murderer then kill her for that information? To get it � to suppress it? It offered interesting possibilities, especially if her murderer should turn out to be the famous motion picture star.�

�Is he the murderer?�

�I have not yet closed the door on that. I came to New York. I had scarcely arrived than I was approached by a man whom I had seen in California, prowling about the premises where Julia Joliet was killed. This man, Mrs. Delaney, is a scoundrel, a man who has spent half of his life in prison. He is interested in Julia Joliet. He is also interested in a missing person � not your daughter, however.�

�There is just one thing I do not like about your story, Mr. Alder,� Mrs. Delaney said. �Your occupation. You say you search for missing heirs. Why?�

�For my livelihood.�

�I repeat, why? A man such as you obviously are��

�Perhaps I am not what I seem to be.�

�That will require an explanation.�

�I meant � I think you know what I meant.�

�You are an intelligent man. You are strong. At least you seem to be. Unless there is a hidden weakness� How old are you, Mr. Alder?�

�Forty-one.�

�And you are engaged in the occupation of finding missing heirs! Isn�t such a vocation somewhat out of character for a man of your talents?�

�Perhaps my talents are precisely what are needed for such an occupation.�

�You are rich, Mr. Alder?�

�Decidedly not.�

�You have no desire to be rich? To be famous? To do important things?�

�I am exceedingly normal, Mrs. Delaney.�

�You are concealing something, but I will not pry. Not now. Mr. Alder, I have listened to you at length.�

�There is only a little more.�

�I will let you finish. But first I am going to tell you some things about myself. My daughter disappeared twenty-two years ago. I loved her very much, so much, in fact, that I was afraid of the love. I loved her more than I did my husband. That is a hard thing to say, but it is true. My life was centered about her. That is the reason I suggested putting her into the boarding school. My daughter had to grow up, find her own place in the world. I did not want to mold her character too strongly, make her life too utterly dependent on me. And then, in one instant my life was shattered. My daughter disappeared, perhaps met a fate so dreadful that knowledge of it would kill me. Oh, I went through all of it, the agony of the search, the dread of hearing � of learning. I am a stern creature today. Why? Because I have shed all the tears a human being can shed. There are none left in me. There is no love in me, no tenderness, nothing but dry, arid life. I maintain a tiny spark of life, enough to respond to the one call that I still exist for � the call of my daughter. I have no other interests. I contemplated suicide many years ago. I did not commit it because I believed that I had to be here, should Doris return.�

�And if she does?�

�I want no hidden nuances, Mr. Alder. Say what you mean.�

�I am sure you have explored and considered many possible reasons why your daughter ran � disappeared?�

�There are none that I have not thought of�

�Then there is nothing you would not forgive?�

�I just bared my soul to you, Mr. Alder. Why do you ask the question?�

�Because I have studied the case, Mrs. Delaney. It has been suggested that your daughter, in spite of her age, might have been...�

�Pregnant?�

�Yes.�

�Jonathan could not bear that suggestion. Yet he would have accepted it. He did accept it here in his home. It was not a... a stumbling block. Or anything worse that your trained mind could suggest.�

�Mrs. Delaney, what do you think happened to your daughter?�

�You made a slip a moment ago. You used the word �ran.� You believe my daughter ran away?�

�It is an opinion.�

�I have always felt that my daughter did precisely that � ran away. I never believed any of the other things � white slavery, kidnaping.�

�Could you make a guess as to the reason she ran away?�

�I never found an answer to that question. I asked it and asked it, and I could not answer it. Not the pregnancy, if she was pregnant. Her reason had to be a stronger one than that. And it is what hurt the most. She had not the trust in me that I had in her. Nothing... nothing she could have done would have caused me to fail her. But she did not know that. She did not know, deep in her heart that she could come to me, at any time, with any trouble, and that I would have loved her and protected her. There is a strange look in your eyes, Mr. Alder. You are a man who has suffered. A woman?�

�Mrs. Delaney,� Alder said harshly, �you�ve told me some things about your daughter that I did not know before. Just one thing more � can you show me some pictures of her?�

�You�ve seen them in the newspapers.�

�I�ve seen one picture. I would like to see others � all that you have.�

Mrs. Delaney pulled out the drawer of the table beside her chair. She took out a small photograph album, a thin one. But she held it on her lap.

�Tell me something, Mr. Alder. Are you going to find my daughter?�

Alder exhaled heavily. �I think so, Mrs. Delaney.�

She handed him the album.

The black album paper was well thumbed. There were three pictures on the first page. The first must have been taken shortly after Doris� birth. She was with her mother, a beautiful woman with a tenderness in her face that was hard to believe if one looked immediately at the woman across from Alder.

In the second picture, Doris was possibly two or three months old. She was alone in the picture, lying on her back, on a big silken pillow. The third picture showed her sitting up, leaning against the same pillow. She was four or five months old.

She progressed in age on the following pages. She was a year old, two. Then three. She was walking now, a Dresden doll of a child with flaxen hair.

At the age of six she was on her father�s lap. Jonathan Delaney had been a big man.

�When did Mr. Delaney die?� Alder asked without looking up from the pictures.

�Fourteen years ago. Shortly after the end of the war. September, 1945.�

�Seven, almost eight years after��

�Yes.�

The pictures continued. Doris at ten, at twelve. She became prettier with each passing year.

Then he came to the famous picture, the one that had been published in almost every newspaper in the land, that had been sent to virtually every organized police department in the United States � and most foreign countries.

But there was another picture in the album on the page following the famous portrait.

Alder looked at the picture for a long time. He said, finally, �When was this last picture taken?�

�At Christmastime, just before � before she left.�

�And this one?� He turned back a page.

�Several months before, around Easter of 1937. It was the best picture we ever had of her. Her father�s favorite.�

�Is that why he released it to the police? To the press?�

�It was an excellent likeness of her.�

�No,� said Alder, �it is not as good as the later picture.�

�It is a better picture of her.�

�At the age of fifteen, yes, not at the age of sixteen � less two months.�

�There isn�t enough difference to matter.�

�There is a great deal of difference, Mrs. Delaney. You are her mother, you would not have noted such a difference. Look.� He got up and crossed to her. Laying the open album on her lap, he pointed with his finger. �This is the picture of a child. This�� He turned the page to the last picture. �This is a flower in full bloom.� He touched his finger to the breasts of the girl in the picture, ran the finger gently down in a curve.

�I am surprised, Mr. Alder,� said Mrs. Delaney in a strained voice. �I did not think you had a mind like that.�

�I am a normal man, Mrs. Delaney. I am aware of a woman�s breast. I am aware of a girl�s breast. Very much aware.�

It was a moment before she looked up at him. �That is important to a man!�

�Yes, Mrs. Delaney.�

She began to muse. �A father watching a child grow up � he is proud of the child, but he thinks of her as a child. Unconsciously he might resent her growing up. What would attract him in a grown woman might be resented by him in his own daughter � the mark of maturity.�

Alder nodded. �A girl in a middy blouse, a girl with a beautiful face, but scarcely budding breasts, a child. The face does not change much in a few months, but between fifteen and sixteen � a girl not in a middy blouse, but wearing a sweater � she is not a child any more. The police were searching for a child.�

Mrs. Delaney stared at the last picture of Doris Delaney. Alder moved away and looked down at her.

�I am sorry, Mrs. Delaney,� he said.

�For pointing out a vital fact I had not seen? For talking to me about � about my daughter�s breasts? It is perhaps an indelicate subject. If it were not important. It is important, isn�t it?�

�It might well be the most important thing in all the world � to you.�

She closed the album and looked up at him. �Forty-one,� she said. �You were nineteen in 1938. You know, Mr. Alder, I wish my daughter had met you in 1938.�

�You could not have said a kinder thing, Mrs. Delaney.�

�I meant it. For you � as much as for poor Doris. Perhaps � perhaps if you had met her, there wouldn�t be as much steel in you as there is. There might not have been � the haunted look that there is in your eyes.�

He stepped up to her again, bent and kissed her on the forehead. �Goodbye, Mrs. Delaney,� he said softly.

�Not goodbye, Mr. Alder. I don�t think it is. I believe you will find my daughter.�

He turned away from her. In the next room he saw the aged Negro servant. The man went to the door with him. As Alder went out, the Negro said, �Goodbye, Mr. Alder.�

Outside, Alder walked to the corner of 83rd Street. He entered a drugstore and went into a phone booth. He dialed the number of his hotel and when the operator answered said, �This is Mr. Alder. I am registered in Room 1819. Are there any messages for me?�

�One minute. Yes, Mr. Alder. A man named Plesch � Pleschette telephoned. He said he would call again.�

�Anything else?�

�Call Murray Hill 7-8383. Just Jim. Urgent.�

�That�s all?�

He left the phone booth and the drugstore. Outside he stepped into a waiting taxicab. In less than ten minutes he got off at the comer of 45th and entered a building.

The offices of Detectives, Incorporated were on the seventh floor. He was ushered instantly into Jim Honsinger�s paneled office.

�Tom Alder!� cried the big man behind the tremendous, modernistic desk. He came around it in quick strides, grasped Alder�s hand in a giant fist and virtually crushed his knuckles. Honsinger was in his early fifties, a paunchy giant of a man, who had gone to flesh. In his younger days he had been a famous athlete, a football player, an amateur boxer who loved to work out at Stillman�s Gym with the visiting professionals.

�Sit down, man, sit down! Scotch � bourbon?�

�I�m working.�

�So am I. Working for you, old hoss. Why I don�t know. And I don�t think you know what you�re getting into.�

�I think I do. I�ve just come from Mrs. Delaney�s.�

�Don�t kid me, boy, don�t kid me. Mrs. Delaney hasn�t talked to anyone in ten years. She�s a hermitess � hates the world. She hates cops especially. I called your hotel just a half hour ago.�

�That�s why I�m here. I telephoned in.�

�Got something for you. That little lady in Los Angeles � the little old lady from Los Angeles��

�Julia Joliet�

�Alias Kate Killigan, alias Frieda Friday � always alliterative. She�s a nice little lady � used to be, that is. Two convictions, one fine of a thousand dollars and restitution � one three-year stretch. Badger, badger, who�s got the badger? Blackmail!�

Honsinger scattered papers on his desk, scooped up one. �Fine, suspended sentence, January 14, 1919.�

�Forty-one years ago!�

�Gave her age as twenty-one, could have been older. Nineteen twenty-three, convicted, badger game, sentenced three years. Came out in �25. Arrested again in 1929 in a raid. Posted bail of fifty dollars. Forfeited it. That�s all, but it�s enough. Notice the time in between � 1919, next time 1923. Doesn�t mean she worked it only twice, only twice caught. A sweet little lady.�

�No arrests after 1929.�

�Not here. New pastures, new name probably. Check in California. After �29.�

A light flicked on Honsinger�s desk. He grabbed up one of three telephones. �Yes?... Put him on. Honsinger, Fred. Go ahead... right!... Hold it a sec...� He clapped one hand over the receiver, said to Alder:

�Fred Tamm, in Washington. A very good man. He said there�s a file of the New York Bulletin in the Congressional Library. He had it photographed and is air-mailing it today. Special delivery. We�ll have it tonight.�

�Ask him what�s on the page � page four, section two, column three.�

Honsinger repeated the question. He listened a moment. �A picture, Tom. That�s all. Goes with the article below. Picture of... what�s the name, Fred? Danny Koenig? Good work, Fred. Send me the bill. Wait... anything else you want in Washington, Tom?�

�I have a friend there. Major General Mattock. He was my Colonel during the war. I can get what I want from him.�

�All right, Tom. That�s all, Fred.�

He hung up. �Pentagon stuff, Tom?�

�I�m trying to get the service record of Leroy Dane, the movie man. He was a hero � but not under the name of Dane. By the way, have you gotten his real name yet?�

�Working on it now. Shouldn�t be hard. Lot of crap gets printed about actors, but the real names can be had. Ought to have it for you by night. It�s early, but lunch?�

�I�ll skip it. There�s a lot to do. Keep at things, will you?�

�Don�t worry, we�ll get what you want. Long as I don�t have to figure it out. It doesn�t make sense. A missing picture, a blackmailer in California, Doris Delaney � it couldn�t possibly tie together.�

�I didn�t say it did.�

�But you didn�t say it didn�t.� The big detective chuckled. �Good thing I�m an honest private eye. One of my crooked colleagues would take the information they�d get � never mind, shouldn�t talk that way about my competitors.�

Pleschette took off his Homburg hat, placed it carefully on the coffee table and dropped into the wing chair facing Alder, seated on the couch.

�You�ve had a busy morning, Mr. Alder. You called at 881 Fifth Avenue, and then you spent the longest time at a certain apartment house on Madison Avenue, and then you called at Mr. Honsinger�s offices on lower Madison.�

�You�ve been following me?�

�Of course, sir. And I do hope those calls were on my behalf.�

�They weren�t.�

�That�s why I have been telephoning you, Mr. Alder.� The big Frenchman beamed. �Although I followed you, I still maintained contact with your hotel. I thought you might be telephoning in from time to time and I did so want to keep my name on your mind. You have come to a decision, Mr. Alder?�

�I have. It�s no.�

�But that�s terrible, Mr. Alder! Have you thought of the thousand-dollar bills? The beautiful treasury certificates?�

�They tempted me, Pleschette, but not enough. I don�t want any part of you.�

�But my dear sir, it�s not I � it�s my brother I want you to find. I am an old man, a scoundrel beyond redemption. I have been a thief and a swindler all of my life. But now, in my old age, I do want to do one fine thing � find my long-lost brother and you, Mr. Alder, you reject my commission. Think of it this way. You would not be working for me, but my brother.�

�You�d pay me with money you stole.�

�Money I earned. I paid for that money with sixteen years of my life. I earned the money. Every dollar of it. They do make prisoners work, you know. In my case I was fortunate in being the librarian. Nevertheless, it was work.�

Pleschette suddenly chuckled. �Very well, Mr. Alder. You will not accept tainted money. Excellent! I will not pay you at all. You will find my brother because you are a humanitarian. Filthy lucre shall not contaminate you. You will do it for charity�s sake.�

�I have an agreement with the United Charities,� said Alder. �They do not search for missing heirs and I don�t work for charity.�

�You jest, sir! Very well, we shall be humorous. I laugh. Ha-ha! And now let us get back to business. I will give you a little tidbit � the answer to a question you asked me last night. Why I chanced to be at the El Toro Court in Los Angeles.�

�I know the answer to that.�

�You couldn�t possibly know it.�

�Julia Joliet, alias. Kitty Killigan, alias Frieda Friday. An old friend of yours, an accomplice perhaps from the old days, the good old days.�

�Fantastic, Mr. Alder! Fabulous! That steel-trap mind of yours. That intellect. Like a rapier.�

�You used that one last night.�

�Oh, did I? I am all the more determined to have your services, Mr. Alder.�

�Go to the police. They�re very good at finding missing persons.�

�I cannot deal with the police. They know me as Big Frenchy Fanchon. No, sir, I cannot ask the police for help.�

�Try a private detective.�

�Mr. Honsinger? Your detective agency? They are already working for you. Yes, they could help. While they are asking for information for you, they could just as well probe a bit on my behalf.� Mr. Pleschette�s mouth puckered up. He pushed the pucker out, pulled it in. �Perhaps they are doing that very thing. It was Mr. Honsinger who told you about the late, ah, Julia Joliet? An interesting name. From the great French explorer, Louis Joliet, an ancestor of mine, perhaps.� The pucker came out again. �Mr. Alder, I followed you this morning. You were not aware of it. Did you know, Mr. Alder � and this may shock you � that I was not the only one who was following you?�

�What?�

�Precisely! You are astonished. I am an expert at such things. I was not exactly following you, Mr. Alder. I was following the man who was following you. And he was an expert at it. Would you like to see him?� Pleschette stepped to the door, listened, then signaled to Alder.

Alder walked swiftly to the door.

�Open,� said Pleschette quietly.

Alder opened the door. A lean, tall man stood at a door across the hall and one door away. He was in the act of pressing a door buzzer � or pretending to do so. He did not look toward Alder, but as Alder watched, he turned and walked off toward the cross corridor that led to the elevators. Alder closed the door.

�The truth of the matter, Mr. Alder,� said Pleschette, �is that we can be of service to each other. You have a brilliant mind. Your logic is as inflexible as a warden�s heart. But you have a weakness, a flaw. And you know what a single flaw can do to a machine. The tiniest of wheels, a broken cog in a Univac machine, can render it useless. Your weakness, Mr. Alder, and I deplore it, is that you do not think like a criminal. I, sir, am a criminal. You admire a masterpiece in an art gallery, but I look at a painting and I see the brush stroke of the forger. You go into a bank and you admire the soundness of its protective system, while I note its weaknesses. You watch a parade and you cheer the statesman who is driving by in the open car, while�I am aware only of the anarchist in the throng. I see the bulge under his coat where he has the bomb. An honest man, sir, is not perfect. Neither am I. I decry my weaknesses, but I know my strength. Mr. Alder, together you and I would be invincible. Let me add my talents to yours, augment you. Help me find my brother � and I will help you accomplish your mission.�

�You know what it is?�

�Of course I know. My dear sir, do not disparage my talents that much. You are seeking the long-lost heiress, the famous Doris Delaney.�

�I�m sure, like everyone else, you have a theory about her. How she disappeared. Why?�

�But of course. I have been many years in prisons. My constant associates have been criminals. One knows people, one hears things. In the land of my ancestors, Mr. Alder, there is an old saying: �Cherchez la femme!� Which means��

�Search for the woman!�

�Precisely. Behind every man�s crime, there is a woman. In this case, we merely reverse the process, the truism, so to speak. A woman has committed a crime � �Cherchez l�homme.� Which means, search for the man!�

�Doris Delaney disappeared, then, because of a man?�

�Indubitably. You have gone right to the crux of the matter. As always. Again my compliments to you. Find your man, Mr. Alder, and you will find your woman.�

�I�ll give that right back to you, Pleschette. Find your woman and you will find your man.�

�You find him � her!�

Alder shook his head.

Pleschette cried out like a wounded boar. �Mr. Alder, have I made no impression on you? Has all of my eloquence been in vain? My good man, I sold the entire stock issue of the Cold Star Mines and Metallurgical Corporation with less effort, with less persuasiveness!�

The enormous Frenchman was quivering as he rose to his feet and picked up his Homburg hat.

�Mr. Alder, I am not a man to make threats, but you are aware by now that I am a formidable man. You have seen only my pleasant side, but I assure you, the ogre in his castle atop the beanstalk is no more fearsome a creature than I when my back is to the castle and the enemy is coming at me across the drawbridge. Guard yourself well, Mr. Alder!�

Pleschette went to the door, opened it, and stalked out of the room.

Alder leaned back against the couch, stretched out his legs, and exhaled heavily. Yes, Jacques Pleschette would be a formidable opponent. But he was just as overwhelming an ally. The torrent of words that gushed from him was enough to exhaust a man. He was so gifted, so tricky in his eloquence that it was necessary to listen to him with the utmost alertness, to try to detect the tiny little barb that was always somewhere in the tremendous barrage of speech.

Pleschette had almost glossed it over, almost but not quite. What was it?

��A woman has committed a crime... cherchez l�homme.��

What crime had Doris Delaney committed?

She had run away from home. That was not a crime. She had become pregnant possibly. At the very worst that was not Doris� crime. She had been sixteen years old. Whoever had caused her pregnancy was more likely to be the criminal.

Yet Mrs. Delaney believed that her daughter had run away, not because of pregnancy, but because of something so serious that she had been afraid to go to her parents with it. Why? Because the thing she had done was too heinous for the parental arms to protect her?

Alder reached for the manila envelope that he had received from the message clerk in the lobby, along with the telephone slips. It bore the return address of Detectives, Incorporated and contained the dossier on Jacques Pleschette.

According to his own story, Pleschette had left his native North Dakota at the tender age of fifteen. He was sixty-two now. Of the forty-seven years, since reaching his �maturity� of fifteen, he had served twenty-six years in prison! More than half his adult life.

Alder put the dossier back into its manila envelope. There was only one important fact in it. Pleschette had been in. Atlanta Federal Prison from June, 1935, to June, 1940. He could not possibly have had any connection with the Doris Delaney case.

Yet he had said to Alder: �One knows people, one hears things.�

He had made a positive statement that �the woman,� in this case, Doris Delaney, had committed a crime. Had it been an unwitting remark � or had it been based on assurance he had retained in his memory from something he had heard? From a fellow inmate in one of his prisons?

The clamor of the telephone at his elbow startled him. For long moments he had forgotten � Linda Foster.

The operator said: �We have a long distance call for you, Mr. Alder. Chicago.�

Chicago!

Perhaps!

But it wasn�t. It was Linda.

Her first words jolted Alder. �Tom, I�m worried sick. I�m in Chicago. I didn�t tell you last night, but when Nikki telephoned me she asked me to come to Chicago. She... she made it sound terribly important.�

�Something�s happened to her?� exclaimed Alder.

�I don�t know. That�s what�s wrong. I can�t find her. She told me to come to the Palmer House. I�m there now. She isn�t here � hasn�t even been registered.�

�Linda, wait,� interrupted Alder. �Give it to me from the beginning. You told me last night she telephoned her husband at the Brown Derby. That was when you talked to her.�

�The first time. She called me later. She said she � she had to do something and would I come to Chicago? She didn�t want me to tell Walter. Something � about her family.�

�Her family? You�re sure?�

�N-no, not exactly. But her family lives in Chicago � somewhere in the Middle West. That�s why she was going there, to visit them.�

�She told you she was staying at the Palmer House? Those were her exact words?�

�Darling, you�re confusing me now. I don�t know. I mean, if those were the exact words she used. She said � What did she say�? Yes, for me to come to the Palmer House.�

�But she didn�t say she was staying there?�

�Now that you ask me, no. I... I gathered the impression, however!�

�Linda, please � think. People do not always say things specifically. They say things by inference. Frequently the listener infers that something was said. Try to remember her exact words � not what you inferred she said. She told you specifically that she was in trouble?�

�I didn�t say trouble. I said she said it was important.�

�Important to whom? Her � or you?�

�Her, naturally. I�m not in trouble.�

�You said there was no trouble. Let�s try it again. She said it was important. What was the tone of her voice?�

�You just said not to pay any attention to that. Just repeat her exact words, not the infer��

�Linda, will you listen for one minute?�

�Not if you shout at me, darling. I can�t think of anything when you yell.�

�All right, Linda � listen! She knew when you were arriving in Chicago?�

�Of course. I told her what plane I was taking. It got here at seven o�clock this morning. I went directly to the hotel. I asked for her and they told me she hadn�t registered. I didn�t think much of it at the time. I knew she had relatives here and I assumed she was spending the night with them and would check into the hotel during the morning. But it�s noon now. I haven�t heard a word from her. It isn�t like Nikki. She knows that I... I worry, and she�s the most considerate person in all the world. Always thinking of the other person, instead of herself.�

�I know,� said Alder.

�How would you know, Tom? You�ve only met her the once.�

�It was a platitude, Linda, that�s all. A comment of agreement.�

�I never can tell with you. You... you didn�t make love to her?�

�On the plane? With sixty other passengers?�

�I was only teasing, darling. But I�m really worried about Nikki. What... what should I do?�

�What can you do? Wait, that�s all. She may arrive at any moment.�

�I have a strange feeling about that, Tom. An intuition.�

Alder said, �I don�t believe in intuitions. I�m in New York � you�re in Chicago. I can�t help you.�

�I thought perhaps you could.�

�How?�

�Is your business in New York so terribly important, dear? Couldn�t... couldn�t you come to Chicago?�

Alder had to restrain a sudden impulse to slam the telephone back on the receiver. He said, �My business is important, Linda. I think you�re overly alarmed. Nikki is a sensible woman. She�ll show up.�

�But if she doesn�t?�

�Call her husband.�

�She told me not to � to tell him I was coming to her in Chicago.�

�Call him, Linda. Wait until evening, and if she doesn�t show up, telephone him. He has a right to know if something has really happened to her.�

�I�ll do it. I�ll phone Harris first, have him talk to Walt.�

�Goodbye,� said Alder and hung up.

Harris Toomey. So she was still turning to him.

It was almost five o�clock when Alder entered the Palmer House and picked up the house phone.

�Miss Linda Foster of Los Angeles,� he said.

She answered the phone instantly with a breathless, �Yes?�

�I�m downstairs, Linda.�

�Tom!� she cried. �I�m so glad! Come up.�

�What room?�

�Twenty-one thirty-two, South.�

Her door was open and as he entered, she came into his arms. She was wearing lounging pajamas. She kissed him and she clung to him.

�I missed you so much, darling,� she cried. �I�m never going to let you go again. Not for Nikki, for � anything � or anyone.�

He disengaged himself gently. �The door�s open.�

�The hell with the door!�

But she permitted him to close it. As he turned, she caught him in her arms. �Say it, Tom,� she whispered. �Say that you love me.�

He kissed her warmly. �There�s a time for everything, Linda. Have you heard from Nikki?�

�No, and I don�t � say it, Tom!�

�I love you.�

�Damn you!�

He threw himself on the couch. She stood looking down at him. �If your business in New York was so important��

�I decided that it wasn�t that important.�

�Nikki? You�ve got a crush on her! I wouldn�t blame you, Tom. She�s beautiful, but � she�s cold. And you haven�t got Walt Collinson�s money.�

�I haven�t got Harris Toomey�s��

�Now you�re trying to be nasty. I told you what I thought of Harris� money.�

�No, you didn�t. You told me what you thought of Harris, not his money.�

She crossed swiftly to him, sat down beside him, and took his hand. �You�ve been here one minute and we�re at each other�s throats. We... we mustn�t � we mustn�t quarrel.�

�You called me, Linda. I came here because you wanted me to. All right, let�s talk about it. She hasn�t called. But have you done anything about it? I mean, have you called Collinson?�

She started to shake her head, then stopped. �Yes, Tom, I telephoned. I couldn�t stand it until evening. I... I called at one o�clock.�

�You talked to Collinson?�

�To Harris. Then he... he called me. After Harris talked to him. He�s going to come here. He has a private plane, you know.�

�How�d he take it?�

�Walt? He was very excited. We almost quarreled. He seemed to think I had something to do with it. I mean, her visit here. I gathered that it was a sudden decision, one of those spur-of-the moment decisions. She suddenly decided to leave yesterday morning.�

�Did you ask him about her family? Their address?�

�He doesn�t know.�

�What?�

�That�s what he told me. He�s never met any of her relatives. I think Nikki�s always been a bit ashamed of them. They... they�re foreigners. Nikki�s not one to talk about herself, but once when I asked her, she said that her father was a Czechoslovak, or maybe it�s Yugoslav. Her mother�s Hungarian.�

�Nikki told you her maiden name?�

�If she did, I can�t remember it.�

�Collinson must know it.�

�I don�t think so.�

�That�s the most ridiculous thing I ever heard. A man marrying a woman without knowing her maiden name.�

�I was talking about her real name. Walt knows the one she changed to, of course. She Americanized her name, she told me once.�

�To what?�

�Kovich, Kovacs, something like that.� She suddenly tittered. �I�m not much help to you, am I? You�re so precise about everything, and me � I can�t even get a name straight. I won�t be much good in your � your detective work, will I?�

�No,� he said, �you won�t.�

He got up.

�Where are you going?� she asked in surprise.

�Check in. Get a room.�

�Why?�

�I left my luggage in New York. I haven�t even got a toothbrush. I want to buy some things, clothes. Get a shave. And a room.�

�What�s the matter with this one?�

�No,� he said.

She regarded him steadily. Then suddenly she shrugged. �It might be better. But � you won�t be long? Try to get a room on this floor, will you?�

�I�ll try.�

�Call me as soon as you�ve changed. We can have dinner here, at least. I don�t think we ought to go out. Nikki might call.�

He kissed her and went out.

Alder stepped out of the elevator at the lobby floor and was moving toward the registration desk when he became aware of a surge of people in the direction of the elevators. It was a veritable mob, girls, women, chattering, squealing, semi-hysterical females.

A bellboy grinned at Alder. �They sure go for lover boy.�

�Lover boy?�

�The moom-pitcher star. Hisself, in person, not a picture. The one and only Leroy Dane!�

Alder wheeled. The tide of feminine humanity had swept up to the elevators. But the object of their pursuit had escaped, leaving behind him a hundred disappointed females � teenagers, women who sought his autograph, a touch of his hand, a grab at his clothing, or at the very least, a look at their idol.

Alder shook his head. �What�s he doing here?� he asked of the bellboy.

�We get �em all the time. Plugging a picture, personal appearances. Who knows? That�s the life for you � babes throwin� themselves at you. Ain�t nothing they wouldn�t do, those dames.� He winked meaningfully at Alder.

Alder went on to the desk and registered. �I�ve no luggage,� he told the clerk. �I left New York on the spur of the moment and I�ll have to pick up some things here.�

�I�m sorry, sir, I�ll have to ask you to pay in advance.�

�That�s quite all right. I know the rules. I don�t expect to be here more than a couple of days, so I�ll pay for two days in advance.�

The key that he received had the number 1424-S. He had not asked for a room on Linda Foster�s floor.

He did not go up to the room immediately, but descended to the street level floor where there was an extensive arcade of shops and stores. A half hour�s brisk shopping filled his arms with parcels of various shapes and sizes. He carried them to his room.

He dropped the purchases on the bed and reached for the telephone.

�I want to make a person-to-person call to New York,� he gave a number. �I want Mr. James Honsinger, personally. The number�s an office, but there�ll be somebody there and they�ll know where to reach Mr. Honsinger if he�s gone for the day. Just tell whoever answers the phone that it�s Mr. Alder calling.�

He had less than a minute to wait. Honsinger was still at the office. His voice boomed in Alder�s ear.

�For the love of St. Patrick, Tom! You can�t be in Chicago!�

�I am, Jim. Your friend, Mr. Hartwig, was breathing down my neck. I was afraid there might not be a second warning � just the cement overshoes.�

�Don�t talk like that, Tom. But I�m glad you called. I stayed here just because I�ve been trying to get you since four o�clock. I�ve got some pay dirt for you.�

�I hope it�s about Danny Koenig.�

�You win the cigar! This Koenig was a sweet little guy. Best thing happened was when he got rubbed out. Saved the state an electric bill, if you know what I mean. But that isn�t the news � it�s Koenig�s chum, the lad the police tabbed for killing Koenig. Guess his name?�

�Pleschette?�

Honsinger exclaimed in chagrin. �That was my bomb! This Pleschette lad was made from the same mold as Koenig. Numbers collector, strong-arm stuff, panderer.�

�Panderer?�

�Him and Koenig both. Two nice boys. Only they had a falling out and the police figured it was Pleschette knocked him off. Funny thing, though, they never got him. He took it on the lam, disappeared. They expected to nail him without any trouble, but they never did. Pleschette � he never used the same name twice. Some of the boys called him Little Frenchy, on account of his brother, Big Frenchy, but on the police blotter they�ve got him Nick Fanchon, Johnny Adana, Charles White � half a dozen other names. That reminds me, the photostat from Washington came a half hour ago. It�s a bust � just a snap of Koenig. Only shows about half of his face. Looks like it was taken at the scene of a raid, the crooks coming out, being piled into the Black Maria and the guy trying to hide his face with his hat. He�s handcuffed to someone, but you only see the other man�s arm.�

�Wait, Jim,� cut in Alder. �Somebody thought that picture was recognizable enough so that he went to the Bulletin morgue and cut it out of both the file copies they have there.�

�Oh, it�s recognizable,� said Honsinger. �You can make out the face well enough. But it�s twenty, twenty-five years old. Shows a young punk with slicked-down hair. Looks just like fifty punks who�re picked up every week. Fella�d know himself from the picture. Maybe his friends would, too. You stop to think the pictures in the papers might have been cut out twenty years ago?�

�It�s possible,� said Alder. �You dig up any pictures of Pleschette? Little Frenchy, not his big brother?�

�We�re working on it. Shall I send the photostat of Koenig to Chicago?�

�No,� said Alder. �I�m not even going to give you my address here. I don�t trust your people, Jim��

�Whoa, now!� cried Honsinger.

�I mean it, Jim. Your boys can be bought. I�m almost certain one of them got Hartwig on my neck. I�ll call you and I�ll do it from a pay phone.�

He hung up abruptly. He thought for a moment, frowning, then picked up the telephone again. �I want to put in a call to Major General Charles Mattock, at the Pentagon in Washington, D.C. If he�s not there, try his home in Chevy Chase, Maryland.�

It was ten minutes before the call came through.

�Tom,� cried the general. �I thought you were going to New York. Your plane crash in Chicago?�

�I�ve been to New York, Chuck. I may return in a day or two. I�m calling again about the service record of��

�Oh, no!� wailed General Mattock. �You�re making more trouble for me now than you did when we were in the South Pacific.�

�I�m the godfather of your Number One son,� said Alder. �That gives me privileges. Pleschette � P-L-E-S-C-H-E-T-T-E, Auguste, with an �e� at the end. His service record.�

�That�s Leroy Dane under his real name?�

�I don�t know. I don�t think so. I merely want Pleschette�s service record, and another for Daniel Koenig, last known address, New York. Both men have police records.�

�Then they may not have been in the service.�

�Small stuff, Chuck. I don�t think it amounted to enough to keep them out of the army. Not in the last war-to-end-wars. They took everything that could move � even me.�

�All right, Tom, I�ll get at it. But you�re sure going to have to come through with something for your godson. He�s twelve now. Few more years and I�ll send him out to Hollywood and you can fix him up with one of those young starlets.�

�I�ll do my best.�

�One thing more, Tom. Gladys knows that you�re digging up things on Dane. She says you harm one hair of his head you�ll have to answer to her. She loves him madly.�

�So do about a thousand women who just mobbed him down in the hotel lobby. He�s here.�

�Get his autograph, Tom. Get it and Gladys�ll love you for life.�

�I�ll try, General.�

�Very well, Major. On the double!�

�Thank you, Colonel, I mean General, sir.�

General Mattock said a four-letter word and hung up.

Alder chuckled as he replaced A the phone on the prongs. He was reaching for it again, when it rang. He winced as he picked it up.

�Darling,� he said, �in five minutes.�

�You louse,� said Linda. �I�m sitting here waiting and I�m starved.�

�Order and I�ll be up before they bring the food.�

He pushed her door buzzer in ten minutes. She opened the door. She had put on a dress, a blue dress with a frilly skirt and a bodice that did nothing to conceal what she had under the dress.

�Wait�ll we�re married,� she said, biting his ear playfully. �I�ll teach you to keep a lady waiting.�

She had a two-room suite, a bedroom and the sitting room. Her eyes flicked to the bedroom, as he put his arms about her and held her tightly.

�Who the hell wants to eat?� she said.

�I�m hungry. I skipped lunch. A man was giving me a fitting for a cement overcoat and I didn�t get a chance to eat.�

�What in the world are you talking about? A cement overcoat.� Then her eyes widened. �Tom, you�re not � in trouble?�

�It doesn�t hurt,� he said, �only when I laugh.�

That one went over her head.

�I don�t know anything about your work. I put my foot in it the other night. I�m not going to do it again. But is it � dangerous?�

�Coming from the airport, the limousine ran a red light. We could have been killed. You can step off the curb outside the hotel and be hit by a car. My job�s as risky as crossing a street.�

�It is bad! That�s what you�re trying to say in your... your usual way.� She pushed away from him. �I... I cut out a piece from the papers about you, Tom. Away back in �45. When they made you a Captain and gave you the medal. And then � when you were wounded��

�Tarawa,� he said, �that�s where I almost got it. I got your letter on the ship the day before we hit the beach. The Dear John.�

She put the palm of her hand over his mouth. �If you say that again, I�ll scream. We made an agreement the other night � never to talk about that again.�

It takes two to make an agreement, a fact that Linda had overlooked. She had made the pact. He had not spoken at all.

�That dress,� he said, �it�s very attractive. There isn�t a more beautiful woman than you in the hotel. Let�s eat downstairs. I want to see the other women glaring at you.�

�But I�ve ordered, Tom. You said on the phone��

�Call Room Service. Cancel it.�

�They�ll charge.�

�You can afford it.�

She looked at him, stepped forward and crushed her lips to his. Then she moved back. �I�ll get a wrap.� She went into the bedroom. He heard her in the closet, then she returned carrying a mink stole.

�What about Nikki? Suppose she calls?�

�Tell the operator we�ll be in the Persian Room.�

A few minutes later they crossed the lobby and entered the Persian Room. It was early, but there were already a number of patrons in the room. Most of them had been seated around the fringes of the room, but the headwaiter led them to a front and center table. They liked to exhibit the important looking patrons. And the beautiful ones, like Linda Foster.

At the adjoining table, alone, sat Leroy Dane.

His eyes flicked to Linda, then to Alder. �Hey, I know you!� he exclaimed. He snapped his fingers. �Hollywood � The Tuilleries � the other night.�

�That�s right. Miss Foster, a friend of mine, Mr. Leroy Dane.�

The motion picture star pushed back his table, sprang to his feet and clicked his heels together. He took Linda�s hand, bowed over it. �Ma�am, you come out to Hollywood and I�ll guarantee my studio�ll sign you pronto. Ain�t seen a more beautiful woman in a year of Tuesdays.�

Linda said, �Thank you, Mr. Dane. I�m a fan of yours and I believe you know my fi � a friend of mine, who belongs to the same golf club. Harris Toomey.�

�Old Harris? Hey, I sure do know him. Handicap of two. Me�n him made the rounds a couple or three times. Shoots a mighty sharp game.� He looked at Alder.

Alder said, �If you�re not meeting anybody, why don�t you join us?�

�Why, I believe I will. Proud, ma�am.�

He sat down and focused his attention on Linda. �How come, ma�am, I never saw you with old Harris? I get around a little once in a while and I�d sure know if I�d met you before.�

�I�m not the athletic type,� said Linda, �but we almost did meet the other evening. At The Tuilleries, the same time you were talking to � to Mr. Alder.�

�I musta been blinder�n a bat in a sack, if I didn�t see you, ma�am. I musta been.�

�You were with a young lady.�

�I was? Can�t remember� Oh, yeah, come to think of it, I was. Just a little something I picked up in a bar, or some such.� He grinned wickedly. He was very good when he showed his even teeth and he knew it. �Back home in West Texas we brand mavericks like that. So we can tell �em apart from our own stuff. In Hollywood, they let �em run loose. Just turn �em out to pasture, let �em graze wherever the grass is green.�

�You�re a Texan, Mr. Dane?� Alder said.

�Yep. The old Lone Star state�s my home. West of the Pecos, that�s what I used to call my stamping grounds. I was ridin� cayuses before I could walk. I roped broncs and broke �em when I was ten years old. And you know what kinda pictures my studio gives me? Big, technicolor Westerns? Not on your life! War stuff. I�m wearin� uniforms so much I started to salute myself the other day. Air pictures, army pictures, marine pictures � even did a submarine picture. Fire One, Fire Two. Maybe you saw it?�

�You were magnificent in it,� said Linda.

�Nice of you to say it, ma�am. Whup!�

The headwaiter came up with a menu. �Mr. Dane, would you be so good as to sign this for the little lady over there in the corner?�

�My pleasure. When they stop asking me for my autograph, then�s the time to worry. Thank the little lady for me.�

The headwaiter went off with the autographed menu. Dane gave Alder a look then. �You�re an agent in Hollywood, ain�t you? Seems I�ve seen you around.�

Alder shook his head. �I�m not an agent.�

�Business fella?�

�You�re not even warm.�

�I give up.�

�You�ve played scavenger hunt? I�m one of those fellows. I�m a scavenger. I hunt people.�

�Mr. Alder likes to make a joke of everything,� said Linda. �He�s an investigator.�

�Investiga � a detective?�

�No. Nothing as glamorous as that. I search for missing heirs.�

�That�s a job? Missing heirs. I don�t get it.�

�The heirs I find like my work. They collect money.�

�Be damned!� Dane�s eyes flicked back to Linda. �Sorry, ma�am, my worst fault. I swear like a trooper. Habit I had to break when I got out of the Army. Well, I guess I never really did break it.�

�You were in the Air Force, I believe,� said Alder.

�Me a fly-baby? No, sirree. Tanks. Tin buggies. Three years with Omar Bradley�s Tank Corps.�

He was off, but he got only a few sentences further. Two men appeared in the dining room, looked around and came toward the table.

The men were Harris Toomey and Walter Collinson.

Shock froze Linda Foster for an instant. �Darling!� Then she started to get to her feet. She caught herself. Her startled eyes swept to Alder, then back to the approaching Harris Toomey.

�Harris,� she said. �Walt!�

�Linda,� said Walt Collinson.

Harris smiled frostily. �Surprised you.� His eyes went to Leroy Dane. �Mr. Dane��

�Well, if it ain�t Old Harris,� exclaimed Leroy Dane. �We were just talkin� about you.�

�Nothing good, I trust,� said Harris Toomey.

He was about forty-five. A tweed coat man. English woolens. He was big, had broad shoulders and a lean waist. A man who took care of himself and had the time.

Walter Collinson was a little shorter than his Princeton roommate. He was slight of build and was beginning to get just a little heavy around his middle. He wore a wrinkled black mohair suit. His hair was graying at the temples. Not so with Harris Toomey. He wore his dark hair long and wavy.

Harris put his hands on Linda�s shoulders, squeezed them. �Don�t get up, dear.�

�Join us,� said Leroy Dane. �We were just sittin� here, cuttin� up touches.� To Collinson, �I don�t believe we�ve met, sir.�

�I�m Walter Collinson,� said the multimillionaire simply.

�Collinson? The Walter Collinson? Ships � copper� It�s a pleasure, Mr. Collinson. Didn�t know you were a friend of Old Harris.�

He shook hands enthusiastically. That left Alder.

Toomey said to him, �You�re Linda�s old flame. I�m Harris Toomey.� He did not offer to shake hands, but Walter Collinson turned from Dane.

�How are you Mr. Alder?� He extended his hand. �I hope we�re not intruding.�

�You�re not,� said Alder.

�Thank you. When Linda told me about my wife � well, I had to come right away. Didn�t take time to... to get in shape. Linda, have you heard from her?�

�No, I haven�t.�

�Ridiculous!� exclaimed Harris Toomey. �She can�t just disappear.�

�Your wife, Mr. Collinson?� asked Leroy Dane. �Something happen to her?�

�I�m overly alarmed. I�m certain everything will turn out all right. She just gave the wrong hotel, went to sleep, or is spending a day shopping. She always preferred Marshall Field�s to the Coast stores.�

Linda said, �She said the Palmer House. I wasn�t mistaken. She was upset when she called me. I know it.�

�Mr. Collinson,� said Leroy Dane, �I�d like to make a suggestion. Our friend Alder�s a detective. Why don�t we get his opinion?�

�You�re a detective, Alder?� asked Toomey thinly. �How interesting.� To Collinson, �Walt, don�t you think this is just a bit, ah, public? Why don�t we check in � well, talk it over and lay out a plan?�

�I�ll leave,� volunteered Alder.

�You�ll do nothing of the kind,� declared Linda.

�It�s all right,� said Alder. �I�ve a phone call to make.�

�If you go, I go with you!�

�It�s Walt�s feelings I�m considering, Linda,� said Toomey.

Linda pushed back her chair. �Go to hell, old Harris!� She turned, started out of the dining room.

Collinson�s eyes were on Alder as he rose. �I�m sorry, Alder.�

�Look, big boy,� began Harris Toomey.

Alder brushed past him. He followed Linda out of the dining room into the lobby. There he caught her arm. �That�s telling him.�

�I�ll never talk to him again as long as I live,� raged Linda. �He was being deliberately insulting.�

�What do you think I would have done if I�d met Newcombe about the time you and he were��

She stopped.

�What I said to Harris goes for you. To hell with you � in spades!�

She headed for the elevators. Alder grinned. He had never been fonder of Linda than he was at that moment. He walked to the newsstand, looked at the headlines of the papers and bought a News. Then he strolled to the elevators and entered one of the cars.

A few moments later he stepped A out on the eighteenth floor and walked to the door of Linda�s suite. He pressed the door buzzer. She opened the door. Some of the fire was gone from her eyes, but she was not yet ready to surrender.

He walked in and closed the door behind him.

�That actor friend of yours was giving me the eye,� she began.

�Why not? You�re beautiful � and desirable.�

�Is that all that�s on your male mind?�

He took her into his arms and kissed her. She was yielding, warm and soft. She returned his kisses with passion. �I wish there�d never been anyone else, Tom. I wish it was eighteen years ago � when we first met.�

�Twenty,� he said.

�I love you, Tom,� she went on, ignoring his correction. �I love you more now than I ever thought I could love anyone.�

He patted her shoulders and felt her muscles tighten.

�You�re holding back,� she cried. �You won�t give in all the way!�

�I�m not a demonstrative man, Linda. I think you know that.�

�I know it, but I don�t have to like it. I wish�� She kissed him again and clung to him for a moment. �Did I do that much to you? Tom � it isn�t because I�ve... I�ve known other men?�

�No.�

�What, then? How am I lacking? Where am I failing you?�

�You�re not lacking, Linda. You�ve got everything a man could hope for in this world. You�re beautiful, you�re warm��

�But I can�t get through to you. Not all the way. There�s a corner of you that won�t give in. Perhaps it�s your brain. It�s a machine. It runs so smoothly, so efficiently that it rejects any outside force. Like love.�

It wasn�t his brain, Alder knew that. Everything about Linda was right. She had beauty, poise. She was everything in a woman that he wanted. She loved him. She would be right for him. Her past did not matter. That she had been married, that there had been other men, was no hindrance. Not to him. Alder knew himself well enough for that. Those things left no physical disfigurement, no mental scars, not if the woman was Linda and the man was himself.

It was not his brain, for Linda was right when she called it a machine. It was that. Alder knew every cog of it. He was its complete master.

It was his heart.

A corner of it, a tiny piece, was dead. It was not warmed by his pulsing blood. It sent-no impulse to the rest of his heart, to his brain.

He said to Linda, �I love you.�

�Yes,� she agreed. �You love me � as much as you can. I�ll take that much. But I wish it was � all the love you�re capable of.�

The door buzzer whirred. Linda shuddered a little. �Yes?� she called.

The door was opened by Walter Collinson. Harris Toomey stood beside and a little behind him.

Collinson said, �Linda, you know me well enough � I�d cut off my right hand rather than hurt you.�

�You need both hands to count your money,� Linda said and then apologized instantly. �That was beastly of me!�

�It�s all right.� Collinson came into the room. �My apologies to you, Mr. Alder.�

Alder nodded.

Toomey came into the room. There was no contrition in him. The look he sent Alder was a challenge.

�I don�t give in easy, Alder. You�re going to have a fight on your hands.�

�There�s nothing to fight about, Harris,� said Linda. She took Alder�s hand and faced Toomey proudly.

�I�ll lick you, Alder,� said the millionaire sportsman heavily.

�All right, you�ll lick me.�

�Please,� interrupted Collinson. �Let�s have a drink and talk. I�m more than a little worried.�

�So am I,� exclaimed Linda. �I know something terrible has happened to Nikki.�

Alder shook his head. �I think you�re overly alarmed, Linda. Mrs. Collinson can take care of herself.�

�You know Nikki so well?� asked Toomey testily. �You met her casually on the plane yesterday, but you know her better than her friends � or her husband?�

�Harris!� cried Linda angrily.

Alder said evenly, �Relax, Linda. I�ll phone for the drinks.� He went to the phone and said, �Room Service?... Linda... bourbon?�

�Daiquiri,� she said.

It had been her favorite drink in the old days.

�Bourbon straight,� Collinson said.

�On the rocks for me,� growled Toomey.

Alder added a bourbon straight for himself. He put down the phone and seated himself at the window end of the couch. The others sat down near him.

�Mr. Collinson,� Alder began, �how long have you and Mrs. Collinson been married?�

�Ten, almost eleven years. We were married in the spring of 1949.� He smiled wanly. �And my name is Walter, Walt.�

�What has the length of their marriage got to do with this?� Harris Toomey demanded. �Nikki didn�t run out. I can assure you of that. She�s devoted to Walt.�

�Has Mrs. Collinson taken trips without you on other occasions?�

�Of course. Many times.�

�Recently?�

Collinson thought for a moment. �About two months ago was the last time. She came to Chicago then.�

�Mr. Collinson,� Alder said, �please don�t take offense at my next questions. Linda and I discussed this earlier. It seems Linda doesn�t know your wife�s maiden name and she wasn�t sure that you knew it.�

�Now I�ve heard everything!� cried Toomey. �You and Linda discussed it! Is there anything you two haven�t � discussed?�

�Harris,� said Linda, �why don�t you shut up!�

Toomey sprang to his feet. �I�ve had about all I can stand of this. Alder��

Collinson said in a surprisingly harsh voice, �Sit down, Harris. Alder is trying to be of help, and I want his help.�

�I�m not going to listen to him.�

�Shut up, Harris!� snapped Collinson.

Toomey�s mouth opened and closed like a mackerel�s out of water, then he seated himself abruptly. He hunched down on the sofa, resigning himself to the inevitable.

�Mr. Alder,� said Collinson clearly, �the answer to your question is yes... yes, I know Nikki�s maiden name. It�s Kovacs. But no, I have never met any of her family. Nikki felt that it would be awkward; her mother does not speak English very well and she would be too uncomfortable. I�m not proud of that � I should have insisted on meeting them, but I was very much in love with Nikki and did not want to embarrass her. No, embarrass is the wrong word.�

�You did not want to cross your wife.�

�That�s about right. I am not the sort of man to force my opinions on anyone. My father inherited great wealth and he was taught by his father that wealth has responsibilities. One of those responsibilities was not to use that wealth as a weapon or a cudgel to beat down people. I was very fond of my father. When she came back from her last visit, Nikki talked to me about her family. She thought we might visit them this summer.�

�You have their address?�

�Again I have been remiss. Her mother could not write English, her father could not write at all. I should have obtained their address from Nikki if for no other reason than to be able to notify them if... if anything happened to Nikki.�

�You thought something might happen to her?�

�Of course not. That was merely an expression.�

�Kovacs,� said Alder. �It is not too uncommon a name. Hungarian, isn�t it?�

�Yes.�

Alder reached to the phone stand, got the phone directory.

�It�s not Chicago,� Collinson said. �They live out some distance. A small town.� He winced. �I must tell you that I do not even know the name of it. But I do remember Nikki mentioning one time, during a storm, that she had difficulty getting to her family from Chicago.�

�I�m not going to call you names, Walt,� said Linda, �but if you had been my husband�� She left the sentence unfinished.

�You�re quite right,� agreed Collinson. He smiled. �However, if you had been my wife, I would have beaten you.�

�That�s the best offer I�ve had today,� Linda kissed her finger tips and blew the kiss at him.

Collinson�s smile spread to a grin.

He said, �Mr. Alder, something has happened to her? No � don�t spare me. Your attitude indicates your own belief.�

�Not necessarily. I think it has to be considered and prepared for. She did call Linda and she was concerned.� He turned to Linda. �Your turn. Please try to recall the exact words she used to you.�

Linda pursed up her lips, thought for a moment. She said, ��I need your help, Linda. Something � something I can�t handle by myself.� She repeated the something � I�m sure of that. It wasn�t her words that caught me so much as her... her tone. We didn�t joke, there were no light words, not the usual bantering. She got right to the point and said she needed my help.�

Alder said: ��I need your help, Linda. Something... something I can�t handle by myself.� She didn�t identify herself?�

�I recognized her voice, but � damn! She did say: �Linda, this is Nikki. I�m in Chicago!��

��Linda, this is Nikki. I�m in Chicago. I need your help, Linda. Something... something I can�t handle by myself.� What else?�

Linda chose her words carefully. ��Come to the Palmer House. I can�t tell you more now,� and then she added, �please!� and if you�d heard that please, you�d know why I came.�

��Come to the Palmer House,�� repeated Alder. ��I can�t tell you more now � please!��

�That�s it. I�m certain she didn�t say one other word. She hung up.�

Alder looked at Collinson. �You heard. She did not say she was staying here � or anywhere else specifically. She merely told Linda to come here.�

�Naturally I assumed��

�We can�t assume, Linda,� Alder said.

�You�re right, Mr. Alder,� Collinson said, his voice beginning to show strain. �Since she was not staying here, or did not say specifically that she was, do you think she�s out in the country with her family?�

Alder frowned. �Was the call from Chicago, Linda? Did the operator say so?�

�Perhaps not. When I heard it was long distance, I thought of Nikki and I could have assumed that she said Chicago.�

�Telephone calls can be traced,� Toomey said suddenly.

�Yes,� said Alder, �but Mrs. Collinson could have called from a pay phone. Or even here at the hotel. The call was yesterday � she could be a long ways from here.�

�Why?� exclaimed Toomey, getting back into it. �If it was so all-fired important that Linda come all the way from California, why couldn�t she have stayed here until she got here? Or left word?�

�She had trouble,� retorted Linda. �You don�t think things out like that when you�re in trouble. You don�t think of the other person, just yourself.� Then her white teeth bit her lower lip. �Although Nikki always considered you more than she did herself. That�s why I loved her.�

�Thank you, Linda,� said Collinson simply.

The waiter came with the drinks. Collinson signed the check.

Alder took his drink and sipped at it, standing. �If it�s all right with you, Mr. Collinson, I can get things in motion. I�ll trace the phone call and I�ll talk to a man I know here. A private detective.�

�A detective!� exploded Toomey. �Another Sherlock Holmes��

�He�s a discreet man and extremely efficient.�

�If that is what you want to do, Mr. Alder,� said Collinson.

�Walt � you can�t,� cried Toomey. �They�ll crucify you. You know how you dislike publicity.�

�I want to find Nikki,� Collinson turned to Alder. �Do what you think is necessary � regardless of the expense. You don�t have to clear any of that with me.�

�This detective � Miller Hastings � was with G-2 during the war. There will be no publicity � not from Miller�s end of it. Of course if the newspapers, or the police, get wind of it, I can�t guarantee that.�

�I know.�

Alder drank the last of his straight bourbon, set down the glass and moved out.

�Where are you going?� exclaimed Linda, in slight alarm.

�I�ve got to make some phone calls,� said Alder. �I want to make them from my own room.�

�There�s a phone here � use the one in the bedroom.�

�I can work better alone.�

�Thank you,� said Collinson. �I�m going to my room in a few minutes. If you want me, I�ll be there. Room 1401-S.�

�We�re on the same floor.� Alder nodded to Linda. �Good night, Linda.�

She was not happy about it, but she yielded gracefully. �Good night, Tom.�

Harris Toomey did not even nod. He had his glass to his mouth when Alder�s eyes flicked toward him.

Alder rode down to his own room. He got the telephone and dialing the operator, asked for the night supervisor. He gave her the pertinent information on Nikki Collinson�s call to Beverly Hills, California, was transferred to two different departments and eventually got the information.

�The call was made,� said the telephone supervisor, �from the switchboard of the Palmer House.�

Alder called the hotel operator and after a moment got the one who had taken Nikki�s call.

�The party was not registered at the hotel and paid for the call in cash.�

�The party was a woman?�

�Yes, sir.�

Alder thanked her and broke the connection. He held down the prongs a moment, started to call the operator again, then changed his mind. He got the Chicago directory, looked up Miller Hastings� night telephone number. He called it. The answering service replied. �I�ll take your number. Mr. Hastings phones in once or twice of an evening when he is out,� the service girl said. �I�ll take your number.�

�Has he called in this evening yet?�

�No. It should be soon, however.�

It was time enough for a Major General in the Pentagon to have acquired the data Alder had requested. He put in a call to the Chevy Chase, Maryland, number and spent two minutes talking to Gladys Mattock. She sensed his urgency and did not hold him too long. The General was still at the Pentagon.

Alder got him there.

�Bingo!� boomed General Mattock, when he identified Alder. �I got the dope on Koenig. There are about a hundred and sixty Daniel Koenigs, but the old Univac machine got him first crack out of the gears � the police business did it. Minor convictions, two-three months for assault and battery, reduced from assault with a deadly weapon � thirty days for, whoa � pandering! Nice boy. Numerous arrests, no other convictions. One twenty-five-dollar fine, suspicion of � yeah, the same thing � pandering. Why can�t they come right out and say it? Pander. Pimp!�

�That�s a dirty word, General. Mind your language.�

�All right, wash out my mouth with soap. Great service record, this Koenig. Inducted February, 1943, Fargo, North Dakota.�

�North Dakota?�

�N.D., that�s what it says on the Univac machine and Univac machines don�t lie. From February, 1943, to August, 1943, Fort Snelling, Minnesota. Transferred to Luke Airfield in Arizona. Remained there two months. AWOL twenty days. Thirty days guardhouse, then transferred to South Carolina. It�s a wonder we won the war the way they bounced the enlisted personnel around. What difference does it make if a private in the Quartermaster Corps serves at Fort Snelling or Fort Bliss?�

�Quartermaster Corps?�

�All the way, Tom. Right through to August, 1945. He dished out socks, shirts, rifles, ammunition, soap, all through the whole blasted war. Good man, though, made the grade. Inducted as private, private first class, specialist second class, private � and in August, 1945, he rose again to private first class. Another two or three years and he could have made corporal. This Koenig boy, Tom, he isn�t by any chance the great movie��

�Pleschette,� interrupted Alder.

�Zero. Univac couldn�t dig up any Pleschette, Auguste. I hit the machine a lick or two myself. No Pleschette. A draft-dodger. I�ll get the Army on his tail. It�s not too late to pick him up. All right, boy � even without Pleschette?�

�Yes,� said Alder, �but there�s only one thing wrong with Koenig�s service record. It�s the service record of a dead man.�

�So he kicked the gong!�

�Yes, in February, 1938, exactly five years before he was inducted.�

�Hey,� said the General, �maybe that�s why he never made corporal!�

Alder grinned. �I�ll write to my Congressman, Chuck. See if I can�t get you another star.�

He said goodbye and hung up.

The telephone rang instantly. It was Miller Hastings. �In Chicago, Alder? In person, yourself.�

�Yes, Hastings, and I need your help.�

�Shoot. Who�s the heir? Hope it�s a good one.�

�Something else this time, Miller. There�s a family named Kovacs��

�K-o-v-a-c-s, like in Kovacs? I gotcha.�

�They lived out in the suburbs, small town, maybe the country even. My guess is the town is anywhere from twenty to forty miles from Chicago.�

�That makes it easy. Only about two hundred little telephone directories to go through.�

�The pay is good, Miller.�

�Oh, it�s always good, Alder. It�s good money, but not enough of it, that�s all. Kovacs, first name?�

�None.�

Hastings groaned. �It gets better all the time. This is going to cost you.�

�I haven�t complained, have I? All I can tell you about the family is that the father is illiterate. Probably speaks English with a heavy accent. Mother possibly speaks poorer English. She can read, but not English.�

�Father � mother, that means there are children. How many?�

�I�m not sure. Perhaps only one. She would be�� Alder hesitated. How old was Nikki? She looked no more than thirty, possibly thirty-two or three. Yet she was so beautiful, so flawless that she could even have been older � a few years would not tell on her.

�Middle thirties, I guess,� he said into the phone. �Her name is Nikki.�

�That sounds Russian.�

�Hungarian, Miller. But Hungarian may cover a wider range than you would ordinarily believe. Possibly Slavic. That�s all I can give you.�

�No even one more morsel? It�s not much, Alder.�

�I can�t help it. It�s urgent, Miller, important as hell. Put some people on it right now.�

�Will do? I send the bill to your California address?�

�You send it to Walter Collinson of Burlingame, California.�

Hastings whistled softly. �Collinson Steamship Lines. Big stuff. I�m working for him?�

�You�re working for me. All reports to me, bill to him when you�re through. I�ll give you his address later.�

Alder broke the connection and called Room Service for sandwiches and coffee.

The door buzzer whirred ten minutes later. Thinking it was the waiter with the food, he got up and opened the door. It was Linda.

�I tucked them to bed,� she said cheerfully. �At least I got rid of them. I suspect that Walter will go to his room and brood and Harris will go downstairs and get drunk and wind up with a floosie. They do have floosies in Chicago, don�t they?�

Alder grinned. �If I wasn�t a gentleman, Linda, I�d call you a floosie. Girls who come to men�s hotel rooms get bad reputations.�

�Give me a bad reputation, Tom! Then you�ve got to marry me.�

She kissed him and tried to pull him down to the couch.

�Behave yourself. I�ve ordered food and the man�s due with it any sec.�

�Food! How can you think of food? I�m lovely, I�m delectable, I might even be willing. Come to think of it, I have always been willing. With you.�

The door buzzer whirred. �Damn,� said Linda.

Alder let the waiter in. �Do you want anything, Linda? I can order for you.�

�I couldn�t eat a thing!�

But when the waiter was gone and Alder took a sandwich, she reached for a half of a chicken sandwich. She nibbled at it.

�Tell me what you really think about Nikki,� she said. �Have she and Walter had a fight?�

�I don�t believe so. On the plane she didn�t look or sound like the kind of woman who was just breaking up with her husband.�

�You got to know her pretty well in those few hours? That puzzles me as much as anything, dear. Nikki wasn�t the kind of girl who talked much. I always felt that she was holding back a great deal more than she said. She... she was, well, I hate to say it, but she was pretty much of a mystery even to me, and she opened up more with me than with anyone else that I know of.�

�How long did you know her?�

�Most of two years. I�ve been living in the Bay area.� She frowned. �I�ve a little money. That bank cashier husband of mine that you hate so much � he bought the vine-covered cottage we lived in for something like thirteen thousand. In �45 we sold it for sixty-five thousand. He invested most of it in undeveloped property out in the desert. Palm Springs. My share of the community property � and maybe a little extra � was two hundred thousand dollars. Of course, I would have gone through that by this time except for Freddie.�

�Freddie?�

�Freddie McIlhaney. My next, after Newcombe, Number One. Freddie was in shipping. It was through him that I met the Collinsons. Freddie was very generous in his settlement.�

Alder shook his head. �You�ve done all right, haven�t you?� He added, with only partial grimness, �Maybe I can give up my little business.�

�Now the sandpaper�s back in your voice, Tom.� She brushed crumbs from her fingers, touched a napkin carefully to her lips and leaned back against the couch. She studied him as he finished his coffee.

After a moment, she said, �You�ve fallen in love with her.�

He turned. �Nikki?�

�You knew who I meant.�

�Who have we been talking about?�

�Nikki.� Her beautiful forehead creased into a frown. �I haven�t been able to put my finger on it, but ever since � well, since the other day, I�ve sensed that there is something missing. In you, darling. But you�re not going to tell me, are you?�

�There isn�t anything to tell.�

�You�ve told me absolutely nothing of yourself since � since 1943. That�s seventeen years, Tom. You haven�t been in a vacuum in all that time.�

�I was in the Pacific until late �45.�

�That�s only two years. I... I know you had a hard time during the war. You were quite severely wounded. But it doesn�t show on you.�

�No, it doesn�t show,� he said.

�There�s still fifteen years.�

�It took a while to settle things, Linda. I drifted around a while. It was two or three years before I settled down to the heir-searching work.�

�Was there � has there been another girl, Tom? I�ve told you about Newcombe and Freddie, although I don�t think I should have. The least you can do is tell me if there is another girl?�

�There has been no one else, Linda. I�ve gone out with girls, of course. A great many. I�m not a hermit and I don�t live in a monastery.�

�You�re still being very cautious, Tom, my lad. You very carefully put in � since the war. What about during the war? Did you meet anyone during the war?�

�There was no other girl, Linda. There has never been anyone else. Not � like you.�

She got to her feet. �It wouldn�t be any good tonight, would it, Tom? I... I�ve put my foot in it somehow.� She smiled ruefully. �Maybe I should have let Harris take a poke at you. I think it would have roused you from that... that coma you�re in. Coma, as far as I�m concerned. He wanted to start a fight pretty badly. He�s � very physical. He might have licked you.�

�He might, at that,� said Alder.

She blew him a kiss and started for the door. �I�ll take you to your room,� he offered.

She opened the door. �I found it down here and I guess I can make it back without a Seeing Eye dog. Good night, Tom. Pleasant dreams, if they�re about me.�

She went out.

He had just finished his snack and pushed the table to one side when the telephone rang.

He crossed to it. �Yes?�

�Tom? Miller Hastings. You said it was urgent, so I ran over. All right if I come up?�

�Yes. Room 1424-S.�

Hastings arrived in a couple of minutes. He had a tall, dark young man with him. He reminded Alder of an old picture of Valentino, the one-time film idol.

�Shake hands with Steve Szabo, Tom,� said Hastings, a heavy-set man who had been a police lieutenant before opening his own private detective agency. �Steve is a Hungarian, besides being a very good operator.� He grinned. �Women like him. Go ahead, Steve.�

�As Mr. Hastings said, I�m a Hungarian. A Magyar. My people are from the old country and if there�s a Hungarian in Chicago my father doesn�t know, he�s keeping it a secret. Some of his friends have a little group living near Elgin. Truck farmers, asparagus, stuff like that. Istvan Kovacs is one of them. Istvan is Stephen, like my own name. The description pretty much fits them. A woman visits them once in awhile. A very beautiful woman, who�s supposed to be married to a big man in California. It could be the Kovacs� daughter. Old Istvan is a close-mouthed man. He�s spent a few hundred-dollar bills in the last few years. One of them was brand new, smelled of perfume. He gave it to Father Benes at St. Stephen�s Church. One of the parish women whispered the story. It came to my mother, who told it to my father.�

�Elgin,� said Alder, �that�s about forty miles from here.� He looked at his watch. �It�s after eight.�

�Can�t it wait until morning?� asked Hastings. �Steve will drive you out.�

�Kovacs lives out in the country a few miles. We�d have to ask directions,� said Szabo.

�I�d like to go now.�

Szabo shrugged. �I get time and a half for overtime.�

�He�s paying for it,� said Miller Hastings.

In twenty minutes, they were clearing the western suburbs of Chicago and then the handsome young private detective opened up the throttle of his little convertible.

�Stepped-up job,� he explained to Alder. �Police don�t like it, give me hell when they catch me. Haven�t been lost on a tail job, though. Not since I fixed up this motor.�

�Like this kind of work?�

Szabo shrugged. �It�s better�n the drugstore. My Dad wanted me to be a pharmacist like himself, but I wouldn�t be any good mixing pills. Make a mistake and somebody�d get theirselves awfully sick. I�m thinking of going into politics. Maybe next year, the year after. Our alderman�s pretty old and the party�s going to dump him. The Hungarians in our ward throw a lot of weight. Jacobs, our ward committeeman likes me. His son and me went to high school together.�

The stepped-up motor whipped the car along the roads and by nine o�clock they were in Elgin. Young Szabo stopped at a gas station, asked a few questions and they were soon rolling along a highway that ran beside the Fox River.

At nine-twenty-two, they cleared a small town and Szabo turned left on a narrow macadam road. He slackened speed and began to watch mailboxes.

�Kovacs,� he said suddenly.

A rural mailbox carried the name. It was in front of a neatly kept white cottage, which adjoined a small truck farm. Fifty feet from the white cottage was its twin, but there was no mailbox outside of this one. Lights were on in both houses.

Alder and Szabo got out by the mailbox. They went down a drive, through a picket fence and up to the porch of the white cottage.

A knock on the door brought Istvan Kovacs to the door. He was about sixty-two or three, a work-worn, slightly stooped man with gnarled hands.

�Mr. Kovacs,� said Alder, �my name is Alder. I am a friend of Mrs. Nikki Collinson.�

�No speak the English,� said Kovacs promptly.

�I believe Mrs. Collinson is your daughter,� Alder persisted. �I am anxious to get some information about her and I have reason to believe...�

�Sorry, no speak Anglis.� The Hungarian truck farmer�s accent became even stronger.

Alder gave Szabo a nod and the young man started over in Hungarian. The truck farmer listened, but the gathering cloud on his face showed that he did not like the trend of Szabo�s remarks.

He spat out an answer and gestured with his hands.

Szabo said, in English, to Alder: �He says he has no daughter. He has only a son who is ashamed to admit that he is of Hungarian descent. His name is Stephen Schneider. Schneider is German for Szabo, which means tailor. Stephen, his son, is the owner of a bowling alley on the North Side of Chicago and seldom visits his mother or his father...�

�Mrs. Collinson,� said Alder. �Ask him if he knows her, if she has visited here.�

�He denies everything. He raises asparagus. People sometimes come here to buy from him, although he prefers to sell wholesale to the vegetable houses.�

He turned again to the farmer, who responded as vehemently as before.

�It�s no use trying to talk to his wife,� Szabo said, shaking his head. �She will not talk, if he does not want her to. The woman I asked him about lives in Elgin. They bought the farm from her, seven or eight years ago, and she comes to collect the payments. That�s a lie, Mr. Alder, but he�s said it and he�s going to stick with it.�

�Ask him,� said Alder, �ask him if the woman he makes the payments to gives him the change in hundred dollar bills. Bills that are perfumed.�

The young detective grinned and rattled off some more Hungarian.

For answer old Kovacs slammed into the house, locking the door on the inside.

�He said, ask next door.�

The lace curtain in the house a short distance away was fluttering. Alder nodded. �We�ve been watched. Let�s go!�

They crossed from Kovacs� house to the identical twin next door. The front door was opened when they approached it. A woman of sixty-five held it. �Come in, gentlemen,� she said heartily. �Come right in.�

She was a big woman, solid, of considerable girth and large breasts. She weighed a good hundred and eighty-five pounds and was tightly corseted. Her hair was black, although not dyed, for a few white hairs showed.

Szabo and Alder entered a living room that was furnished like a Beverly Hills bungalow. �Sit down, boys,� invited the big lady. �Take the load off. I don�t get many visitors. Tea? Or would you prefer something in a glass with a stick in it?�

�Nothing, thank you,� said Alder.

�My brother gave you a bad time, eh? Heard him. He couldn�t talk English and that means he was mad at you. Yep, my brother. A Hunkie. So am I, but my pa brought me over when I was only four. He was two and stayed with ma in the old country. That was � well, never mind, a lady don�t like to reveal her age. Little Stevie didn�t come over until 1926. You�d think he�d learn to speak English in thirty-four years, but no, he sticks around with his crowd. Never gets out in the world. But you don�t want to hear the story of my life, although I�d like to tell it to you if you�ve got the time. What�s the beef?�

�Your brother,� said Alder carefully, �he denies that he has a daughter, but I know that there is a woman who claims that he is her father.�

�That�s it,� said the big woman. �I thought so.� She pointed a finger at Szabo. �You�re a Hunkie!�

�My name is Szabo. Steve, or Istvan, like your brother�s. Yes, I am of Hungarian parentage. I speak it fluently, but I was born in this country.�

�That takes care of you,� snapped the woman. �You, laddy boy!� The finger stabbed at Alder.

�I am a friend of Mrs. Collinson.�

�Don�t give me that. You smell like a John Law.�

�No,� said Alder, �it�s true that I am an investigator of sorts, but that has nothing to do with Mrs. Collinson. It�s just, well, she�s disappeared and her husband has engaged me to find her. She told him that she was going to visit with her parents. Which she has done before.�

�All right, what�s wrong with that?�

�Nothing � if Istvan Kovacs is her father.�

The big woman seated herself on a sofa, crossed her hands in front of her corseted waist and regarded Alder heavily. �You�re one of these smart lads,� she said, after a moment. �Hard as nails, too. You get your teeth into something and fire wouldn�t make you let go. You�re going to worry the hell out of this unless you get what you want. Well my handsome investigator, or what-not, I�m as tough as you are. Tougher, maybe, but I�ll make a deal with you. Get the hell out of here and I�ll think about it. Maybe I�ll give you a jingle on the phone tomorrow and maybe won�t. Either way, it�s all you�ll get.�

�Your name is Kovacs?� asked Alder.

�I said so, didn�t I?� �You could have a married name.�

�Never got married. That�s why I live here now. I wouldn�t trust a man as far as I could throw him. Two-faced double crossers, the lot of you.� She sized up young Szabo. �How old are you, Sonny?�

�Twenty-eight.�

�Too young for me. Your looks, you ought to be in Hollywood. You didn�t make the grade you could always become a gigolo. I hear the ladies are giving up French poodles and going back to men. You�d fit in all right and one of them movie queens might even marry you. You�re a good-looking squirt, even if you are a Hungarian.�

�Thanks,� grinned the young Hungarian. �And I don�t think you�re as old as you�re trying to pretend I�ve known women older than you. I like �em a little older.�

�Damn you,� said the woman who would never see sixty-five again. �You got the gift. If I�m still around in a couple of years by the time you�re say thirty, why, I might give you a little fling.� She shot at Alder: �You�re more my age.�

�Yes,� said Alder.

�How old are you?�

�Forty-one.�

�You don�t look it, but you keep in good shape. California, eh? We meet there?�

�No.�

�Thought we might have. You look familiar.�

�Miss Kovacs,� said Alder, �is it you Nikki visits?�

�Nikki. It�s Nikki now, not Mrs. Collinson.� She studied Alder again. �Mrs. Collinson is a happily married woman.�

�Her husband is very much in love with her. But he is worried.�

�He can always count his money.� Miss Kovacs swore. �You got me saying things I don�t want to say. That�s the Hungarian in me. I�m romantic, see. No, I never married, but that don�t mean I never wanted to. Been busy all my life. Now I�m an old woman. I�m retired and I don�t know what the hell to do with my time. That fool brother of mine, he talked: me into settling down next door to him.�

Suddenly, �Why don�t you leave her alone, Mr. Alder? She�s a fine girl, there�s none better in this whole damn world. If she says she�s visiting her father, her mother, her nephew, if she had one, what difference does it make?�

�I know Mrs. Collinson,� Alder said. �She is possibly the finest woman I have ever met. If I thought my being here would hurt her in the slightest, I would walk out of here. I�d tell Collinson to go to hell.�

Her face became sober, thoughtful.

�Like I said, I�m retired. Used to run a chain of beauty shops in California. She was a customer. I had the best shop on Telegraph Hill and she used to come in��

�She lived in Burlingame,� said Alder.

�Damn you, I had a shop there, too, but she liked the one in town better. I used to do her hair myself, when I only had the one shop. You should have seen her then, Mr. Alder! There wasn�t a woman in the Bay area had her looks, her style. She could have had any rich man she looked at. The hell with Collinson, Mr. Alder. She could lift her finger and men�d fall over each other rushing to kiss her foot and she�d still be too good for them. Collinson, with his nasty mind.�

�You�re getting it wrong, Miss Kovacs.�

�Miss Kovacs, hell. Kitty Kovacs, baptized Katerina in Hungarian. I don�t go for this Miss stuff. Kitty�s good enough.�

�Kitty. Collinson isn�t spying on her. He�s worried. His wife has disappeared. She�s in some sort of trouble. I know that, Miss Kitty. That�s the only reason I�m sitting here questioning you. I�m trying to help her � not hurt her.�

�She can take care of herself. She wants to disappear a while, let her disappear. She�ll come back when she�s good and ready � and she�ll be as good as she�s always been. And don�t get any ideas about that. I�ll crucify you, you say anything about her. So help me.�

�Tell me just one thing, Kitty. Has she been here within the last day or two?�

�If she said she has, she has.�

�She hasn�t said so.�

�I say nothing then. Not no, not yes. Drop it. You sure you don�t want that snifter? I�m going to have me one. A good big stiff drink.�

�We�re going, Miss Kitty,� Alder said, rising.

�All right. Remember, I�ve got a little of the grease to throw around. You harm a hair of her head and you�ll have me on you like a ton of bricks. I don�t think you will, boy. You strike me as a kinda decent fella, in spite of being so damn � so damn smart and tough. Goodbye, Mr. Alder.�

She gave him her hand. She had a strong grip, almost like a man�s. Yet her flesh was soft, warm.

She chucked the young Hungarian under the chin. �Look me up in a couple of years, sonny. If you don�t make it in Hollywood.�

�You can be my hostess,� Szabo grinned. �When I become Mayor of Chicago.�

�Dammit, you�re all right. Mayor, huh? A Hungarian Mayor.�

At eleven o�clock, Alder was in his�hotel room, preparing to go to bed when the phone rang.

He answered, but there was no voice on the other end. Alder was about to speak again impatiently � and then heard the humming on the line. The humming of a long-distance call.

His pulses suddenly pounded. He said, �This is Tom Alder... Hello...?�

There was no reply.

He knew that there was someone at the other � end of the wire, he knew that the person was a long ways off � far from the hotel, from Chicago.

He knew who it was.

�Nikki,� he said softly, �I�m here.�

He waited. He thought he could hear the breathing at the other end, but he knew that he could not hear it.

�I�ll come to you, Nikki,� he said. �I�ll come � wherever you are.�

There was a click on the wire, and the connection was broken. She had hung up.

He knew, though, who it had been. He knew.

He picked up the phone. �You just put through a call to my room,� he said to the operator. �It was a long-distance call. I want to know from where the call came.�

�One moment, please,� said the operator.

It was a full two minutes before the operator returned. �Sir, I�ve been trying to trace the call you inquired about. I have the long distance operator on the lines...�

The long distance operator came on. �What can I do for you, sir?�

�This is Tom Alder,� he said. �I�m occupying Room 1424-S at the Palmer House. A long-distance call just came through to me � less than five minutes ago. I want to know from whom the call was � no, from where it came.�

�One moment, sir!�

Two minutes went by, three. The long distance operator returned. �Regarding the call you asked about, sir. Are you the party to whom it was placed?�

�I am.�

�Your name?�

�Tom Alder � Thomas Alder. I�m registered at the Palmer House.�

�The call you are inquiring about, sir, came from Minneapolis, Minnesota. The Minneapolis operator informs me that it was transmitted from Bismarck, North Dakota � from a pay telephone.�

�What was the number of the phone?� cried Alder.

�The call was placed from 24026, Ring 2.�

�Ring two?�

�A party line. Many of the smaller communities have party lines. They are identified by the letter R, for ring. Ring one, Ring two, sometimes Ring three.�

�Get me the number � the Bismarck number, 24026, Ring 2.�

�I�m sorry, sir, you�ll have to place that in the regular way. Dial your local operator.�

Alder gritted his teeth, but hung up, jiggled the prongs and got the telephone operator. �I want to put in a long distance call,� he said, �to Bismarck, North Dakota. The number is 24026, Ring two.�

�24026. Ring two, you said?�

�Ring two. That�s a party line.�

He waited. He heard the call routed through Minneapolis, Fargo, and Bismarck. Finally the connection was made. The phone rang two, three, four times. There was a click on the phone, but it still continued to ring. After six rings the Bismarck operator said, �I�m sorry, operator, your party does not answer.�

�Somebody answered,� cried Alder. �I heard the receiver taken off.�

�Ring two did not answer. Ring one perhaps picked up the telephone.�

�Sir,� said the hotel operator, �the party you called in Bismarck, North Dakota, does not answer. Shall I try the number again in a half hour?�

�No,� said Alder, �it�s a pay phone and the place where it�is probably closed for the night. Cancel the call.�

He held the phone in his hands. Bismarck, North Dakota.

She had called him � and then had not spoken a word.

Why?

He knew the reason � he hoped that he knew the reason.

He put the telephone to his ear. �Operator, give me your travel desk... I want to make an airplane reservation... Travel, this is Mr. Alder in Room 1424-S. Can you tell me how soon I can get a plane for Bismarck, North Dakota?... I�ll wait.�

He waited. Three minutes.

The travel clerk said then, �I�m sorry, sir, but there�s no direct flight from Chicago to Bismarck. Best I can do is give you a seat to Minneapolis. You�d have to take your chances there on the local fights.�

�Minneapolis,� snapped Alder. �One ticket... how soon?�

�One way or round trip?�

�One way � round trip. It doesn�t matter. How soon?�

�There�s a flight in forty-five, no forty-two minutes. If you could get to the airfield in that time... Would you like me to...�

�No,� said Alder.

He put down the phone, got to his feet. His purchases were scattered on the bed. He had not bought a bag. He shook his head strode to the door and went out.

He punched the elevator button and fumed until the car door opened. He strode swiftly across the lobby and out to the State Street entrance. A cab was unloading at the curb.

Alder thrust a twenty-dollar bill at the cabby. �The airport. I�ve got exactly thirty-nine minutes � and if you make it in thirty-five minutes, you get another ten dollars to pay your speeding ticket.�

�Hang on,� cried the cab driver.

He made it to the airport in thirty minutes, but used up another minute jockeying about to get Alder close to the terminal building.

Alder strode through, stopped at the Information Window. �The flight to Minneapolis��

�Gate seven. Leaves in three minutes.�

He went through the gate to the plane. The co-pilot and stewardess stood at the foot of the stairs.

�I�m sorry,� Alder said. �I didn�t have time to buy a ticket. Do you have a seat � to Minneapolis?�

�Your luggage, sir?� asked the co- pilot.

�I didn�t even have time for that. It�s an emergency. I can pay, however.�

�That�s all it takes to fly with me,� grinned the co-pilot. �Money.�

�This way, sir,� said the stewardess and led the way up the flight steps into the plane.

In the 1920�s it had been a modest hotel for tourists of limited means. As it became older and shabbier it lost its tourist patronage and degenerated into a third-rate hotel for seamen, Chinese, and indigents of all nationalities and shades of color. It acquired a bad reputation. Raids were frequent and police pounded the corridors and the locked doors on many an occasion. Suicides were found in the room. Brawls, knifings were common and even murder was not unknown.

For two years the hotel was closed. Then it was leased by Carrie Goddard. A restaurant was installed on the street floor and the upstairs thoroughly refurbished. No floodlights announced the opening of the business upstairs. There were no advertisements in the Honolulu Advertiser, but prospective patrons knew of it.

It was a good house. There was a distinctively furnished lounge and bar. There were tables and low lights. Food was excellent, the liquor was uncut and champagne was freely bought and freely drunk.

The twenty girls who were with Carrie at the premi�re were all new girls from the mainland, fresh faces and bodies that had not been exposed before in Honolulu.

Carrie knew her trade and her establishment prospered. Girls who deteriorated too rapidly were turned adrift or sent to other islands in the Pacific and replaced from the mainland.

Among the early contingents of girls was Marty Brown. She was only sixteen, a strikingly attractive brunette.

Her flawless white skin, contrasting with her dark hair, gave her the appearance of a European, an exotic beauty from one of the Slavic countries. It was Carrie who suggested to Marty that she change her name to Helga Kossoff. Her fee was raised to twenty-five dollars. Very expensive for prewar Honolulu. In spite of the high fee, she worked as much as any of the cheaper girls.

Helga was aloof. Men bought her and came back. Sometimes too often. They talked about her and they thought about her and sometimes, when they returned, they became savage. They were not satisfied.

Pearl Harbor was attacked and the world changed overnight. Carrie Goddard became exceedingly prosperous. Her clients now wore uniforms. A civilian was a rare sight. Because of her higher prices, the quality of her food, her liquors, her girls, the patronage was largely officers. There was no class barrier, but it cost money to spend an evening at Carrie�s.

Helga Kossoff�s price increased to fifty dollars. In 1944, she was twenty-two. Her beauty was breathtaking.

She came into the lounge one evening and looked around. She wore a satin green gown that was cut very low, but not too low. Her hair was piled high on her head in a coiffure that made her look like � like men wished all women would look. Her hazel eyes were clear and when she looked at a man it seemed to him that she was as much aware of him as he was of her. Her features were classic, her skin as white and flawless as it had been at sixteen.

A full colonel got up from a table and stared at her. Helga returned his look and walked past him. She heard his hoarse breathing. Carrie Goddard, exchanging pleasantries with a navy lieutenant, watched Helga sizing up the colonel. A faint smile flitted across her features as Helga continued on to the bar.

A lean young officer sat on a padded stool. There was a glass of untasted whisky in his hand. He was staring at the backbar mirror, but saw nothing in it. He was no more than twenty-five, but had twin silver bars on each shoulder. Had he been an aviator the rank for one so young would not have been exceptionable, but the young captain wore the crossed rifles of the infantryman on his lapels.

Helga stopped beside the infantry officer. She leaned her back against the bar, let her eyes roam around the room. The full colonel came forward. He had been drinking heavily and his eyes were beady.

�All right, beautiful,� he said, �you�ve got yourself a pigeon.�

�A chicken,� retorted Helga. �A chicken colonel.�

The colonel reached out and gripped her bare arm. �I�ll buy you a drink first.�

�Thank you,� said Helga, �but I�m not available.�

�Reserved, eh? Well, he ain�t here. Time he comes we can be done.�

�A fast man.�

�Fast and good,� said the colonel.

�I�m not available.�

She looked down pointedly at the colonel�s hand gripping her arm. He removed it, but he turned ugly. �Look,� he said, �the lucky man � he�s a soldier?�

�Yes,�

�What�s his rank?�

�Rank? What�s that?�

�He�s a lieutenant, captain � major? I probably out-rank him. I don�t see any generals around here.�

Helga reached out her left hand, placed it on the arm of the captain beside her. He still did not look at her, did not even seem to be aware that she had put her hand on his arm.

The colonel scowled at the captain, who was completely oblivious of him. �A captain, a lousy, goddam captain!�

Helga said, �Get lost, Colonel!�

Perspiration was on the colonel�s face. The veins on his red neck stood out. His mouth opened to make an issue of it. But he was not yet drunk enough. A drink or two more and he would forget that he was a full colonel and a gentleman. He would remember only that he was a colonel. He said hoarsely, �I�ll catch you next time around.�

He reeled away.

Helga said to the captain, �Thank you.�

He made no reply. He continued to stare sightlessly at the backbar mirror.

Helga lifted her hand from his arm, looked at him, then made a pass with the hand in front of his face. He did not blink.

�I heard you,� he said.

�Will you hear me if I ask you to buy me a drink?�

The faintest of sighs escaped his slightly parted lips and his eyes finally came to rest upon her.

�Yes,� he said.

She gestured to the bartender, who was watching. He began to pour into a champagne glass.

�You�re not drunk,� she said to the captain.

�I�d like to be,� he replied.

The bartender brought the champagne glass to her. She picked it up. �Well, shall we get drunk?�

�You can�t � on ginger ale.�

�You�re paying for champagne.�

�But you�re not drinking champagne.�

�Look, Buster,� she said, �or Captain Buster, if you like that better, you know what this place is?�

�I could make an awfully good guess.�

�Let�s go on from there. You came here for one reason only. For someone like me.�

He nodded. �But you just refused the colonel.�

�I haven�t refused you.�

She sipped a little ginger ale, looking at him over the glass. Then she said, �I cost fifty dollars, Captain. I hope you�ve got it.�

His eyes narrowed a little. �I have.�

�But you don�t think I�m worth it? Well, look at me, look at me good!�

He appraised her thoughtfully, unemotionally, and she did not like it.

�I get all the screwballs,� she said angrily and set down the glass.

His hand reached out and touched her arm. �All right.�

�You�re sure you can spare the money?�

He said, �Where do we go?�

She searched his face, then suddenly inclined her head in assent. He stepped down from the bar stool and followed her. She went through a door, down a carpeted corridor, then up a staircase, heavily carpeted in a flowery rose pattern.

On the third floor she looked over her shoulder to make sure he was still following and then continued on to the last room on the right. She opened the door and switched on the light inside.

He followed her into the room. She did not notice that he was breathing heavily � and that his face was oddly pale.

It was an attractively furnished room, the bed the chief piece of furniture. There was no spread on it. The covering was a plain sheet turned down. A bathroom was beyond the bed. The door was open.

There were many books in the room, scattered about, piled high on a dresser. There were two fairly high stacks of them in the closet.

She closed the door, shooting the bolt.

He reached into his pocket and brought out a thick packet of bills, which he handed to her. She riffled the bills.

�There�s a lot of money here, Captain.�

�Back pay.�

�Where�ve you been � marooned on a desert island?� She extracted a bill from the packet, stepped to the dresser and dropped the bill on it. Then she turned and gave him back the rest of his money. �Did you hand me this � so I would see how much you had and try for more than the fifty?�

�Let�s go back,� he suggested, �to when you put your hand on my arm downstairs. You wanted to get rid of the colonel, but the way you touched my arm � well, it felt as if you were claiming me.�

She bristled. �He was drunk. Don�t make any more out of it than that.�

�That was the only difference � I was sober?�

She looked at him a moment. �No,� she said, �I saw you when I came in. I liked your looks. Shall I take off my dress?�

�Yes, although it�s a very attractive dress. It looks extremely well on you and you fill it very nicely.� He took her arm and pulled her closer to him.

She did not resist, but did not come willingly. �The price doesn�t include romance. Just � business.�

He released her. �Sorry.�

She reached behind her back, pulled down the zipper and slipped the dress off. She stepped out of it, got a hanger and hung up the dress on the back of the open closet door.

She came back to him. She wore a silken slip but it was obvious that she did not have on a brassiere or panties. Her breasts were beautifully round, in spite of the slenderness of her body.

He said, �You�re a very beautiful woman � girl.�

�I�m a woman.�

�You�re probably all of twenty-one.�

�Twenty-two. And you�re about three years older than I am.�

He nodded.

She went on: �You�re really not very good at this, are you? I guess I should help you.� She came in to him, put her arms about him and raised her face to his. �I shouldn�t have said that � about romance. You can � if you want to.�

He put his arms about her loosely. �Is there a time limit for the fifty dollars?�

She moved away from him, stared into his eyes. A faint glow of color appeared in her cheeks. �Captain, you�re not a�?� She did not use the word.

He shook his head. �I�m tired. I didn�t realize just how tired. Would you mind if I just sat down awhile � and looked at you?�

�I really pick them!� She moved back to the bed and seated herself on the edge of it. �Look... look, fifty dollars� worth.�

He dropped heavily into the armchair, facing her and stretched out his legs. �I�ve been sick.�

�I should have known! Your color��

�I�m still in the hospital.�

She frowned. �Then perhaps you shouldn�t��

�I�m not that sick. I would like to. After a while.�

She got up. �Why don�t you lie down here?�

He thought it over for a moment, then got up. He started to unbutton his jacket. She helped him. He loosened his tie, unbuttoned the top button of his khaki shirt. Then he sat down and slipped off his shoes.

He stretched out on the bed. She looked down at him a moment, then pulled the chair closer to the bed and seated herself. He turned his head so he could see her.

She said, �It�s all right, Captain. Don�t worry about it and � don�t feel ashamed. It... it doesn�t bother me to have you look. You�re rather nice to look at yourself.� She studied him a moment. �Your eyes � they�ve got the look of an eagle in them � the fierceness of an eagle, the defiance, and yet there�s a loneliness, too. I guess an eagle has that loneliness when he looks down from his eyrie.�

�Would you mind,� he said, �lying down beside me?�

She hesitated, then got up. �I think I would like it.�

He moved over a few inches and she stretched out beside him.

He said, �Perhaps there�s some of that eagle in you.�

�The loneliness?�

His left hand moved a little at the same time that her right hand moved. The hands touched � and stopped. He was very much aware of her proximity and she was of his.

His hand closed over hers. She did not try to pull away. They lay absolutely still for a long moment, then his face turned toward hers. She turned her face to his and they looked into each other�s eyes.

There was the tiniest spontaneous hand pressure from each � and his free hand came up, went behind her shoulders. He pulled her to him and their faces touched. She averted her mouth, but she did not try to draw away from him.

He asked, very gently, �You... you don�t mind?�

She replied by kissing him. Her lips were very warm and soft and she did not withdraw them too quickly. Then she said, in a very low tone, �Would you like to take off your clothes? You � you might be more comfortable.�

He kissed her and sat up. He slipped off his olive drab trousers, tossed them over her to the chair. He dropped back.

�What about your shirt?�

�I�ll keep it on.�

She raised up, said half mischievously, �It scratches.� She reached out and started to unbutton the shirt. His hands came up to stop her, but did not. She exclaimed poignantly, �You�ve been wounded!�

He unbuttoned the last two buttons, opened the shirt. She stared at his body. There were scars on his chest, his shoulders and his stomach. There were many, many of them, small scars, large ones. Some were white, where the wounds had completely healed, two or three were still red.

�That�s why you have all that back pay! You�ve been in the hospital for � months?�

He nodded.

�I didn�t know. You... you looked as if you�d been sick, but I didn�t guess � this.�

�I�m all right,� he said. �Actually, I�m leaving the hospital tomorrow. That�s... that�s why I came here tonight. I�m going back.�

�A last fling, a woman��

He put his hand on her mouth, stopping the words. He pulled her to him, put both arms about her. She moved tightly against him. �I�m sorry, I won�t � be sarcastic again. I don�t want to be.�

�Do you mind the scars?�

She gasped a little. �Oh, no!�

His mouth found hers.

Gray dawn was breaking over Bismarck, North Dakota. Below were winking lights and beyond the lights a pattern of them � floodlights, lighting an air strip that seemed far too small to accept the airplane swooping down.

The plane made a bumpy landing. The pilot taxied it toward a flat building and cut off the motors.

�End of the line,� he announced. �Bismarck � General Custer�s old home town.�

�You are wrong, sir,� said Pleschette as he released his tight grip on the seat arms. �General Custer was an Ohioan by birth. He later called Monroe, Michigan, his home, but actually it was his wife�s place of birth.�

�Mister,� said the pilot, �if I didn�t need the two hundred Id give it back to you. You�re worth it. I never heard so much talk in all of my life � talk, talk, talk.�

�Each man to his last,� opined Pleschette, �and that is what you should be doing � sitting at a cobbler�s last, mending shoes. You�re no aviator, sir.�

Bent over, he moved ponderously toward the door. The pilot shook his head at Alder and made a circling movement at his temple.

�Thank you,� said Alder.

�I need the money. You get to Minneapolis again, look me up.�

It was a cold, gray dawn. The terminal building had a single occupant, the night dispatcher, watchman, and general custodian.

He had a pot of coffee on a hot plate. He telephoned for a taxicab, then poured out cups of steaming coffee. A slow drizzle began to fog the windows. By the time the cab came from the city, the drizzle had turned to a steady downpour. It continued throughout the trip to the hotel, The Siouxan.

Bismarck was a small city by Eastern standards. In Dakota it was counted a metropolis. The hotel was seven stories, only a few years old, and ultramodern.

�Shall we continue to share expenses?� Pleschette asked cheerfully as they entered the hotel.

�I owe you one hundred,� said Alder. �I�ll stop there.�

�Then I shall take a room by myself. I will not say goodbye because, of course, we shall meet again. Will it be here � or Papa�s?�

�It won�t be with my back turned,� said Alder darkly.

�Please!�

Alder was sufficiently annoyed when the night clerk gave them rooms on the same floor, the third, only two rooms apart. A bellboy took them upstairs, showed them their rooms.

Alder�s room was a large, airy one, furnished with an Indian motif, for this, of course, was in the heart of the Sioux country.

He undressed, showered, then put on his clothes again. He had no change with him.

It was still dark outside. The dawn he had seen in the sky, as the plane came down, had not materialized into daylight, but had become dark once more. The rain came down heavily. It was only six-thirty. Another half hour before the dining room would open, at least an hour and a half before the places of business opened their doors.

He sat down on the bed and picked up the phone. The night clerk also handled the switchboard. �Please get me 24026, Ring Two.� The man dialed the number. The phone rang for some time, but there was no response.

Alder frowned, then left his room and descended to the lobby. He approached the desk.

�The number I just tried to call,� he said to the clerk. �Would it be possible for you to find out for me the address where the phone is located?�

The man hesitated, then nodded and turned to the small switchboard. �Alice,� he said into the phone, �Dink Stephenson. Who has 24026, Ring Two?� He waited, then nodded. �Thanks, Alice.�

He broke the connection and returned to Alder. �It�s a pay phone at the Brule Lodge and Motel. That�s on Highway 26, a mile or so out of town. Joe Dacey�s place. The phone�s outside and I guess Joe doesn�t answer it at night. Can�t blame him.�

�Thanks. Now, can you tell me where I can find a car rental place?�

The clerk looked toward the door. �In this rain? It may continue for hours.�

�I can�t help the rain. I need a car.�

�Cliff Sawtelle will rent you a car, but if you plan any extensive driving � off the pavement � he�ll want a substantial deposit.�

Alder took the wallet from his pocket and produced his Diners� Club and American Express credit cards.

�Will these do?�

The clerk took the cards. �I don�t know about Cliff, but they�re quite satisfactory with us and we will be glad to charge the car rental to your account.� He went to the phone and dialed. He spoke for a few moments, then returned. �The car will be here in ten minutes.�

�Good. One thing more � do you happen to have a road map handy?�

The clerk rummaged under the counter and found a state road map of the sort given away by gas service stations. Alder sat down in a lobby chair and opened the map.

There was a town named Dumas, he discovered, thirty miles from Bismarck, west eight miles on Highway 26, then north twenty-two miles on Highway 14, then two miles west again on County Road 1. The population of Dumas was given as 515. There were no other towns in that general direction between Dumas and Bismarck.

Alder refolded the map and put it into his pocket. He walked to the door and looked out. It was lightening outside, but the growing light only made the downpour more visible. A car with the lights on pulled up in front of the hotel. A man in a yellow slicker got out and ran for the hotel door.

He came through, rain streaming from his slicker.

�You the fella wants the car?� he asked Alder.

Alder nodded. �Yes.�

�She�s yours � but look � keep off the gumbo roads if this rain keeps on. There�re chains in back, but I�m gonna charge you I hafta go out and haul you in. You pay for the repairs, too.�

�Fair enough,� said Alder. �Is the gas tank full?�

�To the brim.�

The car man continued on to the desk. Alder moved to the door and looked out. He would be soaked merely getting to the car. He ought to wait until the stores were open and buy a raincoat. But a feeling of urgency rested heavily on him. He had eaten only a sandwich the night before. He was not hungry, however. Tired, yes. He wished he could rest or relax, but that was impossible until his mind was clear.

He opened the door and rushed out into the rain. He was soaked to the skin by the time he got into the car. He switched on the ignition. The windshield wiper cleared his vision, but the rain still seemed to be coming down in torrents.

He moved forward to the next intersection and barely made out a marker, 26. He continued on for two blocks and then 26 turned right. A few blocks more and he cleared the city limits. Buildings became more widely separated. He drove at an easy thirty miles an hour, splashing through low spots and intersections that were awash almost to the hub caps.

Suddenly he saw lights. Slowing, he made out a neon sign, BRULE LODGE AND MOTEL. He turned: off the road. There was a series of cottages with carports beside each one. They were built in an inverted U-shape, covering perhaps two acres.

The office building was in front. Under the veranda was a telephone booth. Alder stopped the car as closely to the building as he could. He got out and strode to the phone booth. He opened the door. The number on the phone dial was 24026, R2.

She had telephoned from here.

He moved to a door with a brass plate marked OFFICE. He tried it, found the door was unlocked. He stepped into a room that was a combination office and living room. A man was lying on his back on a couch, his mouth open. A rasping snore came from him.

�Hello,� said Alder.

The snoring stopped but the man�s eyes remained closed. Alder moved a chair. The man�s eyes popped open.

�What the!� He sat up. �You want a cabin?�

�No,� said Alder. �Information.�

�I got cabins. Information I ain�t got.�

�You have, or have had, a woman guest here. A woman in her early thirties. A very beautiful woman. Brunette.�

�Uh-uh.� The man looked listlessly through the window. �Jeez, what weather!�

�Her name may be Collinson... or Kovacs...�

�What you think this is?� grunted the motel man. �We get men sometimes, alone, not women. Your wife, huh?�

�No.� He paused. �This woman used your phone last night to make a long-distance call.�

�The pay phone. I don�t pay any attention to it.� His eyes narrowed. �What time last night?�

�Ten-thirty, a few minutes later.�

�Yeah, I was takin� a party to a cabin. When I came back there was a car parked outside. Party in the phone booth. A woman, but I couldn�t see her good. She was turned away.�

�She isn�t registered here?�

�I told you � I don�t run that kinda joint. People come here, they stay ail night. I don�t cater to the turnover trade. We got a tough sheriff here.�

�I�m glad to hear it,� said Alder.

He went out, crossed quickly through the rain, and got back into the car. He started the motor and shivered a little. He was cold, wet, and clammy. He turned on the heater in the car, but it began to fog the windshield by the time he got back onto the highway.

He turned west and was compelled to open the window a few inches so that the windshield would clear. Rain soaked him anew. After a half mile he closed the window to within an inch of the top. The car sloshed along. There was no traffic either way.

He watched the speedometer and was able to make out Highway 14 when he came to it. It was a narrow macadam road, rough, spotted with chuckholes. He drove on it a mile and swore. The pavement had given out. Ahead it was gravel, a poorly kept up gravel road. There was a pool of water just ahead.

He hit the pool so hard that a spray of water came through the floorboards. The motor coughed. He nursed it and managed to get through the water.

The road turned slightly and started downhill. Alder groaned as he saw the torrent that rushed across the road at the lowest point. He came to it and stopped the car. Then, drawing a deep breath, he shifted into low and started into the torrent. He had to fight the wheel to keep the car turned straight. Water sloshed through the floorboards. In desperation, he gunned the motor. The car lunged forward stopped. The motor was dead � wet.

He turned, looked through the rear window. It was more than a mile to the highway from where he was, eight miles to Bismarck, seven to the Brule Lodge and Motel.

He shook his head, opened the car door and stepped out into the water up to his knees. It made no difference. He was as thoroughly wet inside of a moment as if he had immersed himself completely in the torrent. He worked his way to the higher incline of the road. He turned. A bank of water was sweeping against the car and even as Alder looked, the car was careened over onto its side and swept away.

He put his hands into his soggy pockets and started up the graveled road. By walking on the shoulder, which was grass and weeds, the walking was not too bad. Except that the cold rain seemed to penetrate to his very marrow.

There had to be a house or habitation soon. He trudged along, head bent. A half mile and his teeth were chattering from the cold. He stopped under a roadside tree. Rain seeped through the leafy branches. It was worse than out in the open. The cold penetrated when he stood still.

He was becoming numb.

He started walking again. A half mile, a mile. He could barely move and was hoping that he could again find a tree. The road turned slightly to the west and he suddenly saw, on the left, a building. A house.

He tried to run, tripped and stumbled flat on his face. He groaned as he picked himself up. He plunged forward, was barely aware that there was a car behind the building. His eyes were on the door.

He made the door, pounded on it with his fist. He tried the knob. It turned, but the door did not open. There was weight or pressure on the other side.

�Open up. I�ve got to come in!�

The door was suddenly opened and he plunged into the house. He had one quick glimpse of the room � dilapidated, bare, dusty, unswept. He did not see the person who had opened the door for him. He pitched to the floor on his face.

He was vaguely aware that someone moved to his side. A soft voice said, �Tom,� but it was an instant until the hands touched his face, before the electric impulse shocked his brain. He half turned his face and saw her kneeling beside him.

�You,� he said.

�You�re freezing,� she said. �There�s no stove here, nothing I can make a fire with��

�It�s all right,� he said, trying to keep his teeth from chattering. �Just wanted to get in � I�ll be all right.�

�You�re blue � chilled to the bone. You�re trembling.� She half turned him so that he was almost on his back.

�I�ve a coat here,� she said. �It�s dry � it�ll warm you.� She took it off. It was a powder blue spring coat, woolen, but lightweight.

To put it on his soaked clothing would quickly make it as wet as the clothing he already wore. It would be useless for him, for her.

She said, �You�ll have to undress, Tom. Dry yourself.�

He was shaking violently now, as if with the ague. He tried to sit up and she had to help him. Bracing him up with one hand, she worked his coat off one shoulder, then the other.

He tried to undo his necktie and could not manage it. She did it for him. She unbuttoned his shirt and peeled it off.

She stooped, stepped behind him and worked smoothly, efficiently for an instant. Soft, warm silk was applied to his scarred chest, to his back, his face and hair.

He could not stop shaking, but she dried him reasonably well.

�It�s not enough,� she said. �You�ll have to take off the rest of your clothes.�

She slipped off his shoes, his socks. And then she held her light coat over his shoulders. He worked off his trousers, his shorts. She handed him the already soggy silk and he tried to dry himself. He did not do a good job of it and she dropped the coat over his shoulders, took the wadded silk from his hands. She squeezed it out, then massaged his legs with it. She removed the excess moisture and then tried to wrap the coat about him. It was inadequate, covered him only partially.

She said, �You�ve got to get warm, Tom!�

He nodded dumbly. He had the coat tightly about him, had his arms crossed over the front of it. But he could not stop shaking.

She took off the jacket of her suit, knelt beside him.

�Lie down,� she ordered.

He did as she asked. She twisted the suit coat about his feet and legs. It covered him to his knees. Her light coat almost reached the knees.

She sat down beside him, took his hands and opened the coat. She stretched out beside him. �Put your arms around me.�

He opened up the coat and put his arms around her. She moved close to him, eased the coat down. Underneath it, her arms went around him. Her body tightened against his.

He managed to say, �I came, Nikki��

�I know,� she replied, �but don�t talk now � unless you have to.�

�This... this is all right?�

�You came,� she replied, �so you know it is all right.�

He was icy cold against her, but the warmth of her body gradually won mastery over the cold. He shivered and at times he gasped from the anguish of it, but gradually his shivering became less violent.

She kept her body tightly against his, her face to his, her smooth soft cheek against his cold, unshaven jaw.

He did not speak again and she did not have to. Then, gradually, the tenseness seeped out of his body. His body grew less rigid, as the coldness decreased.

He slept.

His arms relaxed about her, but her own held him close. She felt his breath on her face, warm. She knew he was sleeping. After long minutes she moved her face gently. Her lips touched his, remained lightly on them for a long moment.

�Sleep,� she said so softly it did not disturb him.

She did not move away from him for more than an hour. His body was warm then, relaxed. It was still raining outside, but without the intensity of the early hours.

She put his arms tenderly inside the coat, pulled it together over him and got quietly to her feet. She removed her shoes so the noise of her movements would not disturb him.

She took his clothes, one piece at a time and twisted every possible drop of moisture from them. She stretched out each piece on the floor, worried out the wrinkles as well as she could.

The piece of silk she had taken to dry him was the last to receive her attention.

In her stocking feet she walked to the window then.

It was an old house and had been deserted for a long time. Several of the window panes were broken. Those that remained were so dusty it was hard to see through them.

The rain continued. There would be no travelers on the road until the rain subsided and some of the water had run off.

She turned, leaned her back against the wall and watched him as he slept.

He slept for more than three hours and her eyes were seldom from him. She moved around the cabin now and then, picked up a piece of clothing and fanned it to help it dry faster before spreading it out again. Sometimes she sat on the floor near him and watched him.

When he finally moved she went swiftly to him, seated herself beside him.

A sigh escaped his lips and then his eyes opened.

�Nikki,� he said quietly.

�Yes, Tom.�

�I�m all right � not tired any more.� He did not try to sit up, however. The coat moved a little and one hand came out from under it. Her own hand went to meet it.

�Do you want to talk?� he asked.

�If you wish.�

�I think we should.�

Her hand was relaxed in his, firm. There was utter surrender in it. Not one tiny muscle resisted.

He said, �You know about me � how feel?�

�Of course. I... I knew when I got off the plane in Chicago. I didn�t look back when I started away, but with every step I took, I knew. I knew.�

He was silent a moment. Then, �A hand grenade exploded once less than six feet from me. It was like... like lightning bolts striking me from all sides at once. Before... before I slept I experienced something almost like it. Something exploded in my brain. I must know.�

�What, Tom?�

�Lie down.�

She lay down beside him. He released her hand and put both arms around her, one under her body. He drew her tightly to him.

Their mouths met and kissed. There was no wild passion in it, only understanding. Finally he moved his lips a fraction of an inch from hers.

He said. �It wasn�t a delusion. You are Helga.�

She said, �Oh, my dear, I have been waiting for you to say that. I�ve wanted to hear it. I couldn�t tell you � I couldn�t even hint. You had to know it yourself. You had to remember!�

�I didn�t want to remember. I buried the name Helga and the memory of her. I buried her in a corner of my heart, a corner so remote that I dared not look into it.�

�Yet you almost remembered, on the plane!�

�You knew me then?�

�I knew you the night before at The Tuilleries. You see, my dear, I did not try to forget. I tried to remember. When you left me, in 1944, I had nothing left to live for � except the memory of you. Without it I could not live � and I could not die.�

�You could not die,� said Alder, �because you were Doris Delaney?�

For a long moment she held her breath. Then she let it out, slowly. �When did you know?�

�Today... yesterday. Perhaps, I knew it a long time ago. After I left you in 1944, there were some very long nights on a couple of pretty dismal islands. Then I got wounded again��

�Oh, my dear!� exclaimed Nikki.

�I worked it out while I was in the hospital. That you loved me, I knew. What your secret was I didn�t know. But there had to be one � and it had to be something so dreadful that it meant more than life to you � more than death. It had to be something that you could not tell, even to me. I remember once, when I was reading a magazine � a rehash about famous disappearances. There was quite a lot about you. I got to thinking about the case. Suppose � instead of all the other things that were suggested � suppose Doris Delaney had simply run away? What had she done that she dared not return?�

Nikki was silent a moment. �You know why I couldn�t die? Because I might have been identified after death. My fingerprints. I couldn�t die, for fear of what my death would do � to the living.�

�You thought of it, that night,� said Alder, �that night when you couldn�t answer my questions.�

�Oh, I wanted to tell you, my darling. I wanted to tell you so much. But you were not yet ready. Nor was I.�

�I was ready when I returned to Honolulu after the war. But it was too late. You were gone.�

�I went to the mainland a month after you left.�

�Do you want to tell me, now? We have the time. When the rain stops...�

�How much do you want to know?�

�As much as you want to tell me.�

�I must tell you all of it, but it will take so long.�

�Why don�t I go over it briefly once and we can talk about it and fill in? You know that I will hold nothing back from you.�

�I know.�

Briefly her lips touched his, then she began: �December, 1938. I had met him in the malt shop. I went alone and he was there. We talked and I was very grown up. I was only fifteen � no, I will not hide behind anything. I knew what I was doing.�

�But you had lived in a different world.�

�Yes, I had. He was very handsome, he was charming. He was utterly unlike any of the boys I had ever known. He was a man and the others were children. By comparison with, well, my regular dates at the dances, he was � wonderful. I met him twice in the malt shop and then it was the Christmas vacation. He knew that I would be at home, but I made a date to meet him at the malt shop. He suggested a visit to his friend�s home. He wanted to show me off. We got there and his friend was not there. That is how young I was. I have thought of it a thousand hours and I have justified it. I was a child. He kissed me and we smoked a cigarette. I was not aware of the cigarette either. My life had been a sheltered one.�

�Marijuana!�

�Yes. I let him kiss me � and I kissed him � as much as the cigarette releases inhibitions. But marijuana does not exhilarate enough so that you do not object to a hand on your thigh. I fought him, then, but he struck me with his fist and � and I was suddenly terribly frightened. I stopped struggling and � he had his way. He let me leave after an hour.�

�An hour?�

�He did things to me that none of the girls in our talks late at night had ever even hinted at. Things we did not know about. I did not tell my mother, or my father. That was my mistake. I was too old to tell them, and yet not old enough.

�I went back to school. No one knew. It was all right. Until February. I found that I was pregnant. He had been in the store twice in January. Once I would not go in when I saw him through the window. The second time I tried to pass it off as if there had been nothing. But in February I went there three times to find him. On the 13th he was there. I told him enough in a quick rush of words so that he knew. �What did I expect?� he demanded.

�I told him. I did not know � but he probably did. Where I could get an abortion. He said there was a doctor in his house who could do it.

�I went with him.

�That was my second mistake. I went with him to his room and he said he would bring the doctor to me. It could be done quietly, quickly. He left me there. In ten minutes he returned with the other man.

�The friend looked at me and they began to talk. It was a moment or two before I realized what they were talking about.� Nikki paused for a moment, then went on inexorably, �He wanted a hundred dollars from his friend. The friend did not want to pay that much, so he... he tore my dress to expose me. He told his friend to... to feel my breasts. He did, and then paid the hundred dollars. I tried to run. He struck me savagely in the face. I was not unconscious, but I fell to the floor. He helped to hold me still while his... his friend, his customer.� Nikki�s voice at last began to show a warmth and Alder held her a little tighter. �I must tell you, Tom! You must know everything.�

�Yes, Nikki.�

�Would you rather call me Nikki?�

�It�s a name which has no memories.�

�Then call me Nikki always.�

She kissed him and went on with her story.

�My dear,� she said, �you know that we can cry only so much and then there are no tears left. Perhaps � some day again, but not yet. You must know that, even if I do not cry, I am close to you and love you. Now, please, my love, and then I will tell the rest of it.�

The sun dipped behind the horizon and it became dark. It was almost four hours since the rain had stopped and a brisk wind had sprung up. The water had had a considerable time to run off and the wind helped to dry up the ground.

It was an early moon and when it came up, Alder and Nikki decided to try to get out.

Alder got Nikki�s car onto the graveled road with some difficulty, but once on the road it was all right for a few miles. They hit a low spot then and had to risk it, but made it and came to within sight of the lights of the hamlet of Dumas before they hit another bad spot. The car got through it, however, and they drove to the edge of the little village.

It was very small, one short street, two abbreviated side streets. Perhaps a dozen stores. The general store was still open.

Nikki remained in the car and Alder went inside. The store was of the kind found only in the very small villages and hamlets in the more remote areas. It carried groceries, meats, poultry feed, and remedies, clothing, refrigerators, even a couple of television sets on display.

Alder bought bread, a few packages of cookies, some sliced cold meat, and a cotton blanket.

As he was paying for his purchases, he asked the storekeeper, �By the way, can you direct me to the home of Jacques Pleschette?�

The man looked at him. �You wouldn�t be�� Then he shook his head. �Couldn�t be. Too young.�

�You thought I was one of the Pleschette brothers?�

�Talk is one of �em�s gonna pay the old man a visit. Old Frenchy got a telegram.�

�Old Frenchy?�

�Folks were callin� him that when I was born. Let�s see now. You take the north road. Kinda winds a bit and you want to keep your eyes sharp �cause there�s two-three side roads, but you don�t want to get onto them. Keep on the main road. Two miles, mebbe a bit more. Then you take the left fork. Don�t amount to a goshdarn and you better hope the chuckholes ain�t too deep �cause you�re gonna get bogged down.

�Three miles, more or less. You get down on the flats then. Otter Creek�s on your left, but you stay with the tracks on the right side. You�ll run into the shack.�

Alder carried the purchases to the car. �Nikki,� he said, after he had climbed in, �I thought we would spend the night in the car...�

�I slept in it last night. Then this morning it started to rain and I pulled off the road to that deserted house. What is it, Tom?�

�He�s coming here. The people here know it.�

�He�s dangerous, Tom!�

He nodded.

�Do you think you should have a gun?�

�They sell guns in this store, but they�re expensive, and I don�t have enough cash with me.�

She opened her purse and brought out a packet of bills, all of large denominations. He returned to the store.

There were three shotguns on display, two .22 rifles. Alder bought a repeater and a box of shells and returned to Nikki�s car.

He started the car and turned it onto the south road. He drove a mile along a winding road, found a small clearing on the right side of the road and drove into it. The wheels bumped along until Alder reached the edge of the poplar trees. He eased the car partly among the trees and shut off the ignition.

They made sandwiches and ate the rather stale cookies. They each had a soft drink and then Nikki moved close to him and rested her head on his shoulder.

�Tom,� she said, �if we are wrong��

�I�m certain we aren�t.�

�There is, however, that tiny element of doubt. And if it is so, then � what about me?�

�I will still be with you.�

�That I know, but I was not thinking of myself this time. You and I have our lives and it will he enough for us. I was thinking of��

�Your mother.�

�She has waited twenty-two years.�

�I have thought of it, Nikki, and I think you should go to her.�

�As a woman who killed a man? Can I tell her that, and the circumstances?�

�Your mother will ask you no questions.�

�She will accept me � with twenty-two years missing from my life?�

�If you were your mother, would you, Nikki?�

She thought of that awhile, then nodded. �Yes.�

�Your mother is you.�

She was again quiet for a while, then �Will you tell her � when I am not with you sometime?�

�I have thought of that also. Your mother is a very strong woman, as you are. But I do not think I will tell her. It would make no difference in her outwardly, but it would add a tiny bit of scar tissue to her heart � and I believe she has enough of that. As you have.�

�Tom,� Nikki said, �when this is over, I am not going to be strong. I am going to be the woman you should have, the woman who��

�The woman who loved me in Honolulu, who watched me through the night, who held me when my heart was like ice��

�It was not, Tom. You were ill.�

�Yes, I was. But you knew it.�

�As you knew that I loved you, in spite of � where we were, what I was.�

Later, when the chill of the night seeped into the car, he got the blanket and they put it around themselves, and shared the long night together.

With the dawn, they got out of the car, stretched and walked about for a while. Their breath came from their mouths in white puffs of steam.

They ate again and Alder loaded the shotgun. He drove the car back to the village and took the north road. He followed the storekeeper�s directions and as the sun began to rise over the horizon, the car rolled down to the flats, through which Otter Creek meandered.

Alder saw the smoke of Old Frenchy�s cabin before he saw the cabin itself. It was in a clearing in the center of a thinned out grove of cottonwoods. It was built of poplar logs, from which the bark had long ago been worn. It was no more than twenty by thirty feet, although there was a wing attached to it that was somewhat smaller and was probably a bedroom. A frame attachment to the west side was the kitchen.

There was a barn not too far from the house. It, too, was built of poplar logs. A pole corral was attached to the barn, but there were no animals in it. Chickens scratched in the barnyard. The creek ran past the cabin, a hundred feet from it.

An ancient Ford that had once been red, but was now rusted and battered, was between the cabin and the barn.

The cabin door was open.

Alder killed the motor. �I don�t think he is here.�

Nevertheless, he reached for the shotgun. He got out, looked at Nikki. She nodded and opened the door on her side.

As they turned toward the cabin, the father of Auguste and Jacques Pleschette filled the doorway. He had obviously been an enormous man in his younger years, but now he was stooped. The skin hung from his face and jowls in folds, and his hair was white. He wore overalls with a bib, a flannel shirt, and old work shoes without laces.

He was a very old man, easily eighty-five, but the years had not taken all the fierceness out of his eyes.

�You goddam leave me �lone,� he said, as Alder and Nikki approached.

�We are here because of your sons,� Alder said.

�Me, I got no goddam son,� Old Frenchy spat at him. �You get back in that goddam car.�

�Old man,� said Alder, �your goddams are wasted on me. I�ve met your son, Auguste, and I have met Jacques. I am coming into your house.�

�You step through door, I break your goddam head!�

Alder walked up to Pleschette. �Break!�

The fierce old eyes glared at him a moment, then he backed into the house. Alder followed him closely, giving him very little room. Nikki waited outside a moment, then followed.

The interior of the cabin was about what Alder had expected after seeing the exterior. Old Frenchy had lived alone for many years. The furniture remained from the days when his wife had been alive. It was simple, plain.

Everything had been neglected for years. Old Frenchy may have used a broom on the floor, once every several weeks, but he had never used mop and water. Not since the time of his wife. Torn clothing was littered on chairs. The round table, covered by battered oilcloth, was littered with everything, including dirty dishes and spoiled food. Pots and pans stood on the sheet-iron stove. Near the stove, facing an old-fashioned rocking chair, was the television set. It was a once-handsome 21-inch screen, expensive brand.

A door led to the bedroom, another to the kitchen. Alder could look into both rooms. They were on a par with the living room in which he stood.

He emptied a straight-backed chair by the simple expedient of sweeping off everything with a single motion of his hand. Alder nodded to Nikki to take the chair.

Old Frenchy stood with his back to the stove, glaring at Alder. �You goddam lousy millionaire,� he growled, �you come my goddam house you hold your nose like you come in pigpen.�

The French accent was barely noticeable in his regular speech but he hit the d�s in �goddam� so that they sounded almost like t�s.

Alder said, �Has Auguste been here?�

�Auguste! Who Auguste?�

�Your son.�

�Got no goddam son.�

�You said that outside, but you�re wasting your time, old man. We are going to stay here until we get what we came for. You might as well understand that.�

�I would like to see your photograph album,� Nikki said suddenly. Her eyes were on a Shelf that was attached to the wall behind the television set.

�Got no goddam album,� mumbled the old man.

Alder walked to the shelf, shoved articles aside so that several fell to the floor. He took down the album and carried it to Nikki.

�You leave my goddam t�ing alone!� snarled Old Frenchy. He took a tentative step toward Alder, but stopped as Alder�s cold eyes met his. It was eagle versus eagle, and Alder was the younger eagle.

Nikki opened the volume, turned the brittle pages and looked at the faded old photographs, glued to the pages. Alder stood near her, now looking as she turned the pages, now staring down Old Frenchy.

She came to a page, where she paused a moment, before continuing on.

Old Frenchy spat. �Want burn that goddam thing when the Old Woman die. She say, Jacques, they your son. They come home when they got no other home to go to.�

Nikki stopped at a faded snapshot of a boy of about ten. He wore a patched flannel shirt that seemed to be much too big for him, probably cut down from Old Frenchy�s discard. He wore a bib overall that was faded from much washing. His black hair was long, uncombed. His sullen face reminded Alder of a ferret he had once caught in a trap.

There was one more picture of Auguste Pleschette. This one must have been taken shortly before he too left his home. He was already quite tall. He wore a mail-order suit, a shirt with long lapels, and a knitted tie. His hair was slicked down with Vaseline or axle grease.

He was staring at the camera, his eyes slitted.

Nikki looked up at Alder. �The picture is not��

�I know,� said Alder.

�What you goddam talk about?� rasped Old Frenchy.

�Auguste.�

�I show you Gus,� said Old Frenchy. He started for the kitchen door.

Alder hesitated an instant, then brought up the shotgun and followed. Nikki rose, put the album on the chair and went after them.

The old man led the way through the littered kitchen, out through the back door. Outside, he started toward the barn, but swerved before he reached it and went around the building.

Alder closed up the gap between him and the old man, signaled for Nikki to follow, not too closely.

Fifty feet from the barn were two rectangular mounds. One had a weathered crosspiece stuck into the ground. On it, in faded black paint, was the name: Antoinette. There were only scattered weeds growing on the mound; it had received attention not too many months ago.

The other mound was completely covered with weeds. There was no wooden crosspiece.

�Gus,� said Old Frenchy, pointing down at the grave �They send him here in 1938. I bury him �cause �Toinette want him here. I tell her, goddam, he no son of mine, but she say he is her son if not mine and she want him bury here. Poof!� Old Frenchy spat at the weed-covered grave. �You get shovel, you dig.�

Alder shook his head. Old Frenchy snorted and turned back toward the barn. Nikki touched Alder�s arm briefly, then fell in behind him.

In single file they started back. Old Frenchy again skirted the barn, but walked closer to it. Alder followed. Old Frenchy continued past the front of the barn, continued toward the house without looking to the right or the left.

It was that which gulled Alder. He stepped out from the protection of the barn wall and the poised whippletree swished down at his head. Only the instantaneous, split-second reflex of his arm, thrown up, saved his head from being crushed.

The arm deflected the force. The whippletree struck the very back of his head, ricocheted down his back.

Alder fell forward on his face.

Nikki did not scream. She stooped, looked at the man who had struck down Alder.

Leroy Dane grinned wickedly at her.

�Hello,� he said.

Old Frenchy turned and came back. �You kill him, you bury him.�

Leroy Dane tossed aside the whippletree, scooped up Alder�s shotgun and then worked the toe of his handmade Italian shoe under Alder�s stomach. He raised him on his side, used his heel to roll him over onto his back.

�Now that�s a dead one!� he said.

Nikki came forward. She dropped to her knees and cupped her hands about Alder�s face. She said, �He�s alive!�

�Too damn bad,� said Dane callously. �Move aside.�

He pumped a shell into the breech of the shotgun.

Nikki looked up, over her left shoulder. �Are you going to kill me before or after him?�

�You don�t think I�m going to let you walk away from here and spill your guts? Don�t you know who I am?�

�I know who you are, but�� She stared at him. �You don�t know who I am?�

�Yeah, sure, you�re the Collinson woman. Your soft-headed husband�s got about fifty million, maybe a hundred.� He sized her up. �I like �em younger, but you�re a good-looking piece. You�d come around, I�d have given you a tumble. Might, anyway��

�You gave me a tumble,� said Nikki, �twenty-two years ago.�

He looked at her curiously. Then suddenly shock came into his eyes.

�Doris Delaney,� Nikki said.

�Be goddamned!� cried Leroy Dane thickly. He stared at her. �I saw you the other night in Beverly Hills. I couldn�t place you. So many women chase me. Rich women, too. Hell, they give me diamond rings, watches. They want to pay me. Stud fees, I call em. You looked familiar. No, you didn�t. The kid was a tow-headed punk.� He stared at her again. �Maybe I made a mistake. I thought you�d look like this after twenty-some years. All that money. I couldda done worse. I should have married you.�

�That you could never have done.�

�Hell, I knocked you up. Whatever happened to...?�

�I killed it,� said Nikki. �I didn�t want that filth in me. I killed it, like I thought I killed you.�

�Yeah, that�s right. You shot me with my own gun. Hell, that little hunk a lead bounced off my skull. I was on my feet before you were out of the door.�

�And then you killed the man who called himself Danny Koenig.�

�Seemed like a good idea at the time. I was a punk and your old man had about fifty million dollars. The boss wouldn�t protect his people if he had to go against fifty million dollars. I put my stuff in his pockets and beat it.

�Nobody looked for me. Danny Koenig was a cheap punk. He�d never been seen around a girl named Doris Delaney. The school kids and the people in the ice cream place wouldn�t tie up a hood name of Koenig��

�The paper printed your picture.�

�Only break I ever got in my life. All the rest I had to get for myself. The cops bust in on a bookie joint once. Some photographer took our pictures and some drunk newspaper man mixed up the names. They had me down as Koenig, Koenig as me. Any other little thing you want to know before...?�

�Before your brother gets here?�

Leroy Dane looked down at her for the beat of a second. �My big brother?�

�He�s in Bismarck.�

Leroy�s eyes went to his father. �You know?�

�I don�t know a goddam thing, Gus. I don�t hear from your brother longer�n I hear from you.�

Dane turned back to Nikki. She got to her feet.

�You�re lying.�

�Who sent the clipping to your fan secretary?�

�That blackmailing old hag! She got what she was asking for.�

�She was Big Frenchy�s accomplice,� Nikki said clearly. �From �way back. Her record was blackmail right down the line. Tom told me.�

�This Tom fella was a busy little beaver,� sneered Dane, kicking the unconscious form of Alder. �I got rid of Julia and then he had to stick his nose into it.�

Leroy Dane scowled. His fans would not have recognized it, for he never scowled on the screen or in his pictures. He smiled, he looked into the camera with his honest blue eyes. He smiled when he wasn�t pensive or moody. He never scowled or sneered. Only villains did those things and Dane was a hero.

He said, �I can�t take the chance with that brother of mine. What I�ve heard, he doesn�t think like other people. Drag him in the house, Pop.�

He kicked Alder again.

Alder was aware of the pain in his head before he was aware of where he was or what had happened to him. It was a dull, throbbing pain, but every fourth or fifth throb the pain lanced through his brain, causing excruciating agony.

His eyes opened.

Nikki, watching him, rose swiftly from the chair on which she had been sitting.

�Keep away,� Dane snapped. He was standing by the door, alert, sometimes looking out, sometimes watching those in the room.

Nikki paid no attention to him. She dropped to her knees beside Alder.

�Nikki,� Alder said.

She caressed his face with her hand. �You�ve a bad wound on the back of your head. It ought to be taken care of, but he... he won�t let me.�

�It�s all right,� Alder replied. He grimaced, pushed himself up to a sitting position with Nikki�s help. He touched a hand gingerly to the back of the head. �I�ll live.�

�Not for long,� said Leroy Dane from the door. �Just until my big brother comes.�

�You�ve never met him, have you?� asked Alder. �You�ve a treat in store for you.�

�I�ve heard about him,� retorted Dane. �Spent most of his life in prisons. Big Frenchy � big jerk!�

�Think that,� said Alder, �and you�ll make the greatest mistake of your life.�

�He couldn�t keep out of jails. Me � I�ve done all right. I got a bad start, but I made it. The hard way.�

�You�re a very smart man,� said Alder, �in a stupid sort of a way. Like changing your name. Koenig � German for �king.� Leroy � French for �the King.� And Danny becomes Dane.�

Dane jerked as if an invisible fist had struck him. He came into the room and standing beside Nikki and Alder, looked down at Alder.

�You think I�m stupid? I was a punk with the mob, but I got out of it and I�ve done all right. I make over a million dollars a year. What do you do?�

�I haven�t made a million dollars in my whole life. But then there are a lot of things I�ve never done. I�ve never been a pimp, I�ve never��

Dane�s foot kicked him in the face. Alder�s head snapped back. Dane said ominously, �The little time you got left, you keep your trap shut. You got to say something, you say, Mr. Dane, please...!�

Nikki�s soft palm covered the new bruise on Alder�s face and Alder felt no pain from it.

Dane moved away, back toward the door and Alder got to his feet, Nikki holding his arm, helping him.

�Mister Dane, please,� Alder said, �may I ask you a question?�

�Keep on, Alder,� warned Dane, �and I won�t wait. I don�t think it�s going to make any difference, anyway.�

�What I have to say might.�

Dane regarded him suspiciously. �I don�t think I�d believe you.�

�You might.�

Dane�s eyes slitted. Alder said, �I read your fan club magazine, Mister Dane, please�� He held up his hand. �You served in Omar Bradley�s tank corps. You told me yourself, how you won the Battle of the Bulge.�

�What the hell!�

�My colonel, during the war,� Alder continued, �he also happened to be my very good friend � is named Charles Mattock. He is today Major General Mattock. His office is in the Pentagon.�

�So what? You�re not impressing me,� snapped Dane. �I know generals, admirals, senators, congressmen.�

�The General,� said Alder, �is in a position to look up service records. No one named Auguste Pleschette served in our armed forces during the war.�

�Pleschette, hell, I�ve used a lot of names.�

�That is right,� agreed Alder. �I tried some of them on the General. He came up with the service record of Daniel Koenig.�

�It�s a common name,� Dane�s eyes were a little more open and they smoldered. �I wouldn�t believe a damn thing you said, anyway. I can think up generals� names, too.�

�Follow me, then. �Inducted, February 10, 1943, at Fargo, North Dakota. Basic training, Fort Snelling, Minnesota. August, 1943, transferred to Luke Airfield, Arizona. AWOL twenty days. Thirty days guardhouse. Transferred to South Carolina. Served in Quartermaster Corps until August, 1945. Inducted as private, private first class, when discharged.� Silver bars, lieutenant? Tanks?�

�You said your piece. You won the war, I suppose. All by yourself. You got yourself a trunkful of medals��

�You�re missing the point, Dane,� said Alder. �I talked to General Mattock only two days ago. He knows Leroy Dane is Auguste Pleschette, alias Daniel Koenig.�

Dane�s breath came out of his mouth so heavily it almost became a whistle. �You�re stupider than you look, Alder. The little chance you had you just kicked in the teeth. No reason for me to wait for big brother now.�

�No reason for you to kill me now, Dane. Or anyone else. You�re through.�

�Maybe,� said Dane. �Maybe I am, but I�ll kill you for the fun of it. One more don�t make any difference. Or two�� His eyes went to Nikki. �I got to hand it to you � you�re better looking than any of the babes I�ve knocked off. Even the young ones. Might be fun before I give it to you. Especially if you give me a good tussle like you did the first time, when I��

He broke off as Alder came toward him. �You crazy�!� he gasped.

Alder lunged for the barrel of the shotgun. Dane jerked it aside, just in time. He brought it back, a slashing blow that Alder could not quite break. The stock of the gun crashed against his chin. He reeled, clawed for Dane even as he went down. His hand gripped the stock, clung to it.

Dane fought to get it clear. He whipped Alder back and forth in the savage struggle. Nikki sprang forward, but at that instant Dane got clear. He sprang back into the open doorway.

�That�s it!� he snarled.

He brought the muzzle of the shotgun forward toward Nikki, but then moved it down to where Alder was on his knees, bracing his hands on the dirty floor, trying to win back enough strength to rise and make the supreme attempt of his life.

Old Frenchy cried out: �Gus � a car! I hear it.�

Dane wheeled, half stepped out of the cabin. �Don�t shoot now,� the old man babbled. �He hear shot, get �fraid.�

Dane came back into the cabin, circling Nikki, but lashing out at Alder with his foot. He knocked him over.

�Everybody keep their traps shut,� he snarled.

The droning of the automobile motor was clear now. It was approaching the cabin. Even Alder, getting back to his knees, heard it. He looked up.

�Bash him, old man,� Dane ordered. �Hit him with something to keep him quiet.�

An automobile horn honked outside. It was an incongruous sound, breaking the tenseness of the scene in the cabin.

�Hallo, Papa!� called a voice outside. �It�s me, your long-lost son!�

�Go out,� said Dane. �Set him up.�

Dane pointed the shotgun at Alder. �One peep out of you��

Old Frenchy was loath to go outside, but he went, shuffling through the door.

The car motor was shut off and the voice of Big Frenchy boomed. �Papa, it�s me, Jacques, your first-born son! Your wayward, wandering boy. Ah, the time we will have today and tonight � reminiscing about old times��

A car door slammed and then Dane stepped through the door into the open air.

�Welcome home, big brother!�

�Brother! Of course, my dear, dear younger brother. Auguste.� Big Frenchy�s arms were thrown wide. He was going to enfold his father in his embrace, possibly his brother. Then he saw the shotgun in Dane�s hands.

�What is this? A gun. My dear boy! Is that a way to greet the older brother you have never seen? The oldest son of your father? Dear old papa!�

�I never saw you,� said Dane savagely. �I never wanted to see you, but I heard about you. When I first went to the big town they�d talk about you. I got fed up with hearing about Big Frenchy, the king of the con men. Some people even called me Little Frenchy until I knocked out a few teeth. I changed my name because of you. And I guess I�m here now, holding this gun on you, because of what you did � what you�re trying to do.�

�To you, dear Auguste? I try to do something to you � my very own brother?�

�Shut up, you bag of wind. I�ll do the talking. You and that damn hag that worked for me, you were in cahoots. You put the pieces together, traced me down.�

�I traced you, yes, but��

�I said shut up! You were with her in the shakedown.�

�My dear brother. Shakedown! I abhor the word.�

�Blackmail, then. Call it by its right name. I killed her and you got scared. Enough to run off, but I see it now. It was you sent me the telegram. Not Alder, like I thought.�

�Telegram, my boy?�

�Telegram, I said. I�ll give it to you. �Go to the scene of your youth. Go to the Dakotas, where danger stalks the unwary.� I heard you were a flowery bastard.�

�Bastard, brother!� cried Big Frenchy. �You insult our dear father. Papa, tell him I am no bastard.�

�I say nothing,� growled Old Frenchy, who had spawned these two monsters. �Jacques, you are no son of mine. In forty-five, fifty year, you never send one dollar to me.�

�I�ve been saving it,� cried Big Frenchy. �I have money for you now. Thousand-dollar bills. Look��

His hand went to his breast, but the muzzle of the shotgun was jabbed at him.

�Move that hand out of sight,� snapped Dane, �and I�ll blow your head off.�

Big Frenchy looked at his brother, appalled. �You mean that, too. You are a killer. Alder warned me.�

Alder came out of the cabin. He was twenty feet behind Dane, but Dane heard him. He pivoted so that he could look from Alder to his brother, Big Frenchy. He gestured with the shotgun.

�Get over by him,� he ordered. �I want you both where I can see you.�

Alder started out, circling Dane. Big Frenchy watched him come.

�My dear fellow,� he said, anxiety heavy in his sonorous voice. �I should have listened to you. That razor-sharp brain of yours, it saw to the bottom of this � this man�s character. I could not believe that a man could be so evil. My brother, no less!� He sighed so that his entire body shook.

Old Frenchy said, �T�ousand dollar, you say. Not one piece of silver I ever get from you. Gus, he come home one time. He buy me television set. He give me money.�

Big Frenchy grasped at that straw. �A television set, dear papa! I have ten thousand dollars in my pocket. It is all yours � every one of the ten, beautiful thousand dollar bills. I have saved for you, Papa, it is your money. I want you to��

�You�re a few years too late,� Dane said. �A few bucks before I came along might have helped you. Now��

��Guste!� cried Big Frenchy. �Wait � here is the money! You take it.�

Before it had been his left hand that had reached for his breast pocket. Now it was his right hand and it was darting under the lapel. He saw that he wasn�t going to make it, in that last instant. He bleated and threw himself aside. He missed the main force of the blast, but pellets from the shotgun struck his face and he screamed like a wounded boar.

The flat automatic he had reached for dropped from his fingers. Big Frenchy fell to the ground. His hands beat the ground, and one covered the automatic.

Leroy Dane saw the movement of the man on the ground as he was pumping a second shell into the chamber of the weapon. He cried out hoarsely, snapped the breech shut, and then the automatic in Big Frenchy�s hand exploded sharply. The bullet caught Dane in the face. He reeled back, started to fall, but was so intent on making his second shot that he managed it. The blast caught Big Frenchy full in the head. He kicked but once, lay still.

Dane fell on his back. One hand retained a grip on the gun, but his wound was serious. He could not quite manage to raise the gun.

Alder, moving toward him, stooped swiftly, tore the shotgun from the nerveless hand.

Leroy Dane�s eyes were open. Blood was welling from the wound just below his left eye. Blood was gushing from his mouth.

�Damn you,� he croaked. �Damn you to hell!�

Nikki was coming swiftly from the cabin. Old Frenchy stood, rooted to the ground, a few feet away.

�Die,� said Alder tonelessly.

Dane still had a few moments of life.

�Bitch,� he choked out, �should have��

He never finished the sentence. A jerk went through his entire body, his mouth clamped shut, and then slowly opened.

He was dead.

Nikki came to Alder and stood beside him. They both looked down at Dane.

�He was evil,� said Nikki.

�He was one of the most evil creatures who ever lived,� said Alder. �He should never have been born.�

Then Alder took her hand and turned away.

Old Frenchy still stood where he had been when the shooting began. They walked to him.

�We will notify the Bismarck sheriff,� Alder said.

�Once I have wife,� mumbled Old Frenchy. �She talk too much, she scold too much � but she is good woman. I also have two son. No goddam good. Better I kill them when they babies. I do not and they now kill each other. Soon I die, too.� He blew breath from his mouth, a heavy discharge.

�You don�t tell sheriff nothin�. What he don�t know, don�t bother him. Save trouble. I tell sheriff two son come home, fight � shoot each other. Better all around. I bury them by their mama.�

�There�s ten thousand dollars in Jacques� wallet.�

�If he don�t lie.�

�He didn�t lie � about that. The money�s yours.�

�Sure, he my son. I take money. You go now. I drive town, make call to sheriff.�

In their room at the Siouxan Hotel in Bismarck, that evening, Alder said to Nikki: �If you want more time, Nikki, I will understand, but I think I should make the call. I want to make it.�

�I have thought of it a thousand times,� Nikki said. �I have gone over the words I would say and always they were different words. But we�ve got to call.�

Alder sat down on the bed and picked up the phone. �I want to make a call to New York City to the home of Mrs. Eleanora Delaney at Madison Avenue.�

He put his hand over the mouthpiece. �It will take a minute.�

Nikki seated herself in the chair by the bed and looked at him. Her eyes were clear and steady. There was no faltering in her, no weakness. She said, �What shall I say? It is so long, so many years. I was a child.�

�The words will come, Nikki. Besides, will I criticize what you say? Will your mother?�

�No.�

He took his hand from the mouthpiece. �Yes... thank you. Please!� A moment. �Hello... who is this, please? Arthur? I want to speak with Mrs. Delaney. Tell her that Tom Alder is calling.�

He covered the mouthpiece again. �Nikki, don�t be apprehensive. Your mother is an old woman � but she is you, Nikki. You, as you will be at her age. She has retreated into her world of memories, but this call will bring her back into your world. Our world. She is a strong woman � as you are strong.�

Nikki got up from the chair and sat down beside him. She took his free hand and held it in both of hers.

Mrs. Delaney�s voice said, �I expected you would call, although not as soon as you have. Have you � found her?�

�Yes. She is here beside me. She is very beautiful and what you said to me has come true. We are right for each other.�

�Thank you,� said Mrs. Delaney. �Thank you, my dear.�

He gave the phone to Nikki. She held it in her hand and looked at him. And at last he saw the strain in her eyes. He took her hand and she put the phone to her ear.

�Mother,� she said. �Oh, Mother!�

The tears came at last, the tears that had been many years in the making. Alder saw them and he knew that it was good.

Doris Delaney had come home.

After twenty years, plus two.