Murder was Johnny Ford�s business and he knew it was nothing to fool around with. Amateurs always get burned if they attempt to correct the script of a slay sequence.

Merriam tilted his head at me. �Have you ever heard of the Paradise Broadcasting Company?�

�That�s the radio station about ten blocks from here, isn�t it?�

Merriam nodded. �I acquired it a few years ago along with a number of other properties. I didn�t want to own a radio station but I was forced to take it in order to avoid losing quite a large sum of money.� He paused and arranged his words.

�I know absolutely nothing about radio and despise the things but in my opinion the station is not making as much money as it should. I have checked our rates against those offered by other local stations and ours are in line with theirs. I have forced myself to listen to the radio for hours on end to compare the quality of our programs with others. Frankly, they are terrible but so are those of the other stations. And finally, I am satisfied that we carry as much advertising as the other stations.� He shook his head. �The books balance but I simply sense that something is wrong.�

�Have you considered having the books audited privately?�

�A very good local firm has been auditing the books semiannually since I acquired the station. The firm is above reproach and they apparently haven�t noticed anything out of the way. In spite of that, I have the feeling that everything is not as it should be.�

�Do you suspect anything or anybody in particular? The station manager, for instance?�

�Watson Hardy is quite mad, as most radio people are, but he seems to be honest. He has the virus of radio in his blood, not money.�

�What about the sales manager?�

Merriam�s eyes told me this was the question I was supposed to ask. �The station doesn�t have a sales manager at present. Good ones are hard to get. Hardy has been acting as general overseer and he has a young announcer, rather a virtuoso I hear, handling a good bit of the selling end. While Mr. Weir doesn�t actually run the sales force, he comes as close to being in charge as anybody with the exception of Hardy. I�m told he has a flair for selling as he does for broadcasting. He seems to be very clever and I�ve begun to wonder about him.�

�Why?�

�Perhaps you will think I�m making a mountain out of a molehill � but here you have a young man who started at the bottom of the announcer�s list less than a year ago and in that space of time has risen to a position second only to Hardy in control of the station�s affairs. During my infrequent visits to the studio I always make it a point to chat informally with the employees who happen to be on duty. Not once in the past year, Mr. Ford, has any employee evidenced any signs of either envy or admiration or respect for Frank Weir. Rather an odd situation, don�t you think, considering his rapid rise?�

I shrugged. �Sometimes a pat on the head isn�t enough to make an employee open up with his life story.�

Merriam smiled. �Every successful businessman must be something of an amateur psychologist. To me, this lack of emotion on the part of Weir�s fellow workers indicates dislike � dislike based on something more than mere envy. Aside from Weir�s above-average ability at the microphone and his obvious sales ability, there must be personal traits that do not call for either envy or admiring imitation from the rest of the staff.�

�Is Weir Island-born?�

�No. He arrived in Honolulu about a year ago.�

�You want me to get in touch with a mainland agency and check into his background?�

�I�m not particularly interested in that,� Merriam said slowly. �What I want is a complete report on his present activities � who his companions are, how much money he spends � that sort of thing. I�d like to know the background of the people he sees and what sort of pastimes he engages in.�

�What does Weir look like?�

�Rather dark complexion, very dark hair, blue eyes.�

�Tall or short?�

�Tall, about your height.�

�Age?�

�About thirty-five.�

�Heavy, medium-build, slender?�

�On the heavy side.�

�How much time are you allowing me?�

�Enough to make a complete report,� he smiled, �and I want the report to point out what lines your investigation has followed in order that I may be certain that the � research � has been complete.�

�Any special angle you�d like me to begin on?�

�I leave that entirely in your hands.� He pulled out his wallet. �There is the question of fees and you will want a retainer.�

�Twenty-five a day and expenses. A hundred retainer.�

He laid two crisp fifties on the desk, stood up and offered his hand. �I think we understand each other, Mr. Ford.�

I wasn�t so sure but I nodded anyway.

He paused in the doorway. �You understand, Mr. Ford, when I say I want to know who his acquaintances are, and something about them, I mean everybody he sees � everybody.� He turned and walked through the anteroom and let himself out quietly.

I put the two bills in my wallet, sat down and stared at the closed door. I was fairly certain that he really was Robert Merriam, that he did own the Paradise Broadcasting Company and that he wanted a tail on Frank Weir. As far as the rest of his story went, I didn�t think there was much truth in it.

Lieutenant Walter Chun came in first, a slender, broad-shouldered Chinese in the middle thirties, with shining patent leather hair and hard, intelligent eyes that glistened like black enamel. Following practically on his heels was a stocky, powerfully built man with a round head and blue jowls, and a trim brunette who seemed to be all eyes. A uniformed cop came in last and stood against the door.

Bluejowls bustled over to me.

�What�s going on here? Who are you?�

�Mr. Ford put through the call,� Chun said and nodded toward the pair. �Mr. Watson Hardy, station manager, and Mrs. Hardy. Where is it, Johnny?�

�In the control room.�

Chun motioned the uniformed cop to remain at the door and went down the corridor with the three of us trailing. In the control room Hardy pushed past him, stopped abruptly.

�My God!�

Mrs. Hardy brought the back of her hand up to her mouth. Her eyes held some emotion more complex than simple shock. The telephone was still ringing. Chun picked it up and listened. He grunted and slammed the receiver down. The phone rang again. Chun followed the cord to the switchboard and pulled out the plug.

Hardy noticed the loudspeaker on the wall for the first time. He stared at it and rushed over to the long-carriage typewriter standing beside the control desk. �My Lord! The studio has been off the air since eight twenty-three!�

I looked over his shoulder with Chun. Inserted in the typewriter was a standard radio station log sheet, space and columns for sponsor, announcer, type show, musical selection, length of commercial, and so on. The last entry was Night and Day � 8:23. I looked at Chun.

�That�s going to save the coroner a lot of trouble. The record was about three minutes long, which puts his killing between eight twenty-three and approximately eight twenty-six.�

Chun nodded as Hardy ran to the transmitter phone and dialed. He got my old pal on the phone, told him to keep the music going and hung up and tossed us a harried look.

�I�ve got to get Rex MacAvoy up here to take over the broadcasting. If you want me, I�ll be in my office, Come on, Helen!�

Helen Hardy had been standing just inside the door, staring fixedly at Frank Weir�s bowed figure. She turned, cast an enigmatic glance over her shoulder and followed her husband down the hall to his office.

Chun turned to me. �Give.�

�You ever heard of Robert Merriam?�

�He owns this place, doesn�t he?�

I said he did and gave him the whole story from the beginning. Chun didn�t ask any questions after I finished. He stared tentatively at the body, shrugged and said: �Let�s go see Hardy.�

I knew what the irritated shrug meant. The law in Hawaii says nobody can touch the body of the deceased until the coroner has made his examination. And since the law doesn�t make any exceptions, it applies to cops too. I said: �You going to let a little thing like a law stop you from frisking him?�

Chun grinned. �Never break a law, Johnny, unless it�s absolutely necessary. In this case, it�s not. Let�s go.�

Helen Hardy was seated on the low green sofa watching her husband sweat on the telephone.

�...Yes, Mr. Lecky... We�re going to run your announcement at a later time tonight... I know you contracted for the eight-thirty time... Of course you won�t have to pay for it. Furthermore, we�ll extend your contract for another week at no extra charge... Rewrite it? Well... More class, huh? Perhaps you�re right. Suppose you come in to my office say, at two tomorrow afternoon and we�ll work it out. O.K.?... That�s fine, Mr. Lecky. See you at two, Mr. Lecky. Goodbye, Mr. Lecky.� He hung up, got out his handkerchief and mopped his face.

Helen grinned maliciously. �Was that Mr. Lecky?�

He threw her an angry glance, looked at us and gestured with the handkerchief. �Can you beat it? He runs a drive-in barbecue stand. He buys a fifty-word spot announcement to run once a night and he thinks he owns the station. He listens every night for the damn thing. He can hardly speak English and he wants to write his own commercials � he wants more class!�

Chun said: �Anybody supposed to be working here tonight besides Weir?�

Hardy picked up a mimeographed program schedule from his desk. �No. MacAvoy had it until eight. Weir was on until closing and MacAvoy comes on again at six in the morning.� He shook his head. �I hated to call the boy back again tonight but what can I do? My other two announcers are in Hilo.�

�How come?�

�Vacation. It looked like an easy period and Rex and Weir were willing to do double duty so I let the other two go. It never fails. If I had any brains, I�d get out of radio!�

�What about this MacAvoy?� Chun interrupted. �What kind of a guy is he?�

�A good clean-cut personality. The most dependable man I�ve got.�

�Would he hang around after Weir relieved him?�

�Sometimes they do. Not MacAvoy tonight, though. His wife is home with the flu. He probably had his hat and coat on when Weir came in.�

�What kind of a guy was Weir?�

Hardy threw up his hands. �A problem! He had more natural ability than all the rest of the boys put together � a born showman and a born salesman � but undependable. Always something.�

�Any trouble about money?�

�All the time. He was always in debt. Once he hit me for five hundred dollars. I gave it to him in a weak moment.� Hardy was struck with a sudden thought. �He still owes it to me!�

�Did Weir run around much?�

�You mean women?�

�Women,� said Chun patiently.

Hardy shrugged. �I suppose so. Though what women saw in him I wouldn�t know. A smooth-talking character with no more principle than a tomcat.� His eyes rested momentarily on his wife.

�You happen to know of anybody in particular?�

Hardy hesitated. �No, I don�t think so, not anybody in particular.�

I asked: �Did he see a lot of Mrs. Merriam?�

I felt rather than saw Helen Hardy�s narrow-eyed concentration. Hardy looked startled. �Margo Merriam? She wouldn�t fool around with� Say! You�re not going to bring Robert Merriam into this, are you?�

�Why?� Chun asked.

�If Merriam didn�t like it, he could close down the station and never miss it. It would ruin me!�

�Why should he want to do that?� I asked.

�I didn�t say he wanted to. But he could � he owns the station. Besides,� he sneered, �if Margo is seeing too much of anybody, it�s Paul Cooper.�

�Watson!� Helen Hardy�s voice cracked out like a whip.

�Is that the Paul Cooper who manages Dray�s Department Store?� Chun asked.

Hardy glared at his wife. �That�s the one � the eligible bachelor,� he glowered. �A real gentleman.� He checked himself apologetically. �Cooper�s all right, I guess � besides, Dray�s is one of our best accounts.�

�Did Weir know Cooper?�

�He handled the Dray�s account. Only a couple of day�s ago Cooper called up and gave me hell about him.�

�Why?� Chun grunted.

�Weir had worked out a sort of quiz show � he was the master of ceremonies and he got four prominent people around town to sit on a panel and answer questions the listeners wrote in. Not a new idea but it went over well. It was sustaining and Dray�s had decided to buy it beginning next month. Weir spent a lot of time in the store getting ideas for commercials. Then Cooper called up and said Dray�s had a competent department to work out advertising methods and would I please tell Weir to stay the hell off the premises except when he was sent for. Cooper was all wet and I told him so in a nice way but he got nasty and threatened to cancel the show, so I backed down and smoothed it over.�

�What did Weir say?�

�He just laughed��

When I awoke at six the next morning, rain was pouring down in bucketsful out of a blackly scowling sky. I padded out to get the paper and wondered why I made the effort to get up. In spite of the rain the air was close and I left the front door open and locked the screen.

There was less than a quarter-column on page two about Frank Weir�s death. The announcer had died suddenly at the broadcasting studio and I was an unidentified person who had discovered the body. There was no background stuff and Weir could have died from beriberi or old age. Police Lieutenant Walter Chun was withholding a full statement until he received the coroner�s report.

I put coffee on and shaved and showered and went into the bedroom to dress. I got as far as trousers and shoes when the rain momentarily let up in its fury and I heard the coffee pot rattle. I decided I had Underestimated it again and started through the living room toward the kitchen. I stopped and stared.

There was a tiny puddle of water on the floor inside the screen door. Drops left a trail to the kitchen. I went back to the bedroom and chose a pocket .32 from under the pile of shirts in the bureau. I slipped off the safety catch, came back to the living room and took a deep breath and slammed open the kitchen door.

Margo Merriam was seated at the kitchen table in the act of raising a cup of coffee to her lips. She was wearing a pale green slack suit, a white open-neck blouse and white leather rain-splotched wedgees. A white rain cape was thrown across the table. She peered over the coffee cup at the gun and then at the skivvie shirt.

�Enter the menace � muscles and all.�

�How did you get in here?�

She picked up the keyring on the table beside her and waved a gold penknife. �Used my key.�

�You get in many apartments this way?�

�I smelled coffee and heard the shower running. I didn�t want to disturb your bath.�

�What do you want?�

She eyed the gun and the biceps again, mostly the latter. �Put some clothes on, Johnny Ford. I won�t bite you.�

I gave up and went back to the bedroom and finished dressing. When I returned to the kitchen she was starting on a second cup of coffee. She reached for the bottle on the table and I winced. She had discovered my only bottle of cognac. She smiled sweetly.

�Makes a nice cup of coffee.�

I made bacon and eggs and ate in silence. Margo smoked and had a third brandy and coffee. I held the dishes under the tap and went out to the living room sofa. When Margo sat beside me, I got up and moved to a chair across the room.

�Still afraid I�ll bite, Johnny?�

I got a cigarette out of the battered pack. �I�m afraid to strike a match near you, Mrs. Merriam.�

�Call me Margo.� She got up and went into the kitchen and I heard the bottle rattle against the cup and she came back again. �I�m going to give up drinking as soon as I can think of a good reason.�

�Am I supposed to give you a reason?�

She stirred the coffee. �What an odd thing to ask.�

�You weren�t lured up here by my dashing charm.�

She grinned. �How can you be sure?�

�What do you want, Mrs. Merriam?�

�Margo.�

�Margo.�

She nodded. �You were following Frank last night.�

�You could be wrong.�

She shook her head. �Not after I learned you discovered his body � and were alone at the time.�

�You get around.�

She rested the cup on the end table. �That wasn�t funny when you used different words to say it last night.�

�Last night you walked out.�

�Let�s get something understood, Johnny,� she said flatly. �At present, all I�m interested in is a little information.�

�What do you want to know?�

Her look told me I ought not to lean over backwards. �You are a private detective.�

�It�s a legal occupation.�

�I know you couldn�t have anything against Frank, personally. I�ve got to know who hired you to kill him.�

I laughed out loud. �That�s a new approach.�

She gave me the smile again. �Don�t tell me the police have overlooked that possibility?�

�They considered it and they threw it out.�

She looked puzzled.

�Anybody who uses a .22 is either dumb or very, very good, sweetheart. The cops know I never rely on anything that small for my murders. What we ought to consider is a third possibility, to wit: small caliber guns fit nicely into women�s handbags.�

The wheels spun slowly. �You think Miss Gardas�?�

�Not necessarily�� I stared at her. �You do get around, don�t you?�

�If you say that again, I�m going to throw something at you.�

I drove back to Waikiki, parked near the Outrigger Arcade and went up on the terrace and had lunch. The surfboard riders were out in full force and I stalled around watching them until shortly before two o�clock. Then I went into the pay telephone and dialed the radio station.

�I�m calling about Mr. Lecky�s appointment with Mr. Hardy.�

�Who is calling, please?�

I repeated what I had said before.

�Mr. Lecky is with Mr. Hardy now. Which one did you want?�

�Oh, he�s with Mr. Hardy now? Then it�s all right, thank you.� I hung up. I found Hardy�s home address in the directory and headed for Portlock Road.

It was a low, California-style house with a long lanai overlooking the bay. It was expensively furnished and had the everything-has-its-place look that the homes of childless couples usually have. A Japanese maid dawdled in the kitchen, trying to find something to do.

Helen Hardy seemed surprised and somewhat pleased to see me. She also turned out to be something of a chatterbox. She insisted on making gin fizzes and I insisted on helping. She insisted I call her �Helen� and I agreed as long as she called me �Johnny.�

It was peaceful in the cool shade of the lanai. I settled comfortably in a rattan lounge chair and watched the rays of the afternoon sun play over the ripples on the water. It was the first moment of silence Helen had permitted. After a polite interval she said: �This isn�t exactly a social visit, is it, Johnny?�

�Not exactly, no.�

�You want me to talk about Frank Weir, is that it?�

�I�d like to get your slant on it. Did he have any actual enemies that you know of?�

She played with her glass. �Frank could be irritating enough, but I don�t know of anyone who disliked him enough to kill him.�

�Where was he from?�

�I don�t know, really. Just after the war he sent a transcribed audition to the radio station. Watson liked his voice and sent him an offer. I believe he was at some station in the midwest at that time but he never replied to Watson�s letter. Then, about a year ago, he turned up in Honolulu. It so happened that Watson needed another announcer and was delighted to give him the job.� She stared out at the water. �He was rather sweet at first and we more or less sponsored him among our friends. He was a bit older than the average station announcer and he had traveled a lot. It was nice to have an extra man around � for parties and things.� She looked to see if I had misinterpreted her.

I let her see that my thoughts were innocent. �By the way, you and Mr. Hardy can account for your movements last night, I suppose?�

She attempted a look of surprise.

I grinned. �If Chun hasn�t asked you yet, it�s because he hasn�t gotten around to it. It might save some embarrassment if you got it squared away in your mind.�

She had tensed but it could be a perfectly natural reaction. �We had dinner at the Outrigger Canoe Club.� She paused and studied my face. �And in case you�re remembering that the Outrigger is only a few blocks from the station. I can swear that no one left the table for more than five minutes. Then we came straight to the station. The first we knew of Frank�s death was when we met Lieutenant Chun outside.�

I finished my drink and rested it on the floor beside my chair. �You were saying that Weir changed after you got to know him?�

Helen pulled her mind back with effort. �I don�t think he really changed. It was just that at first he was concerned with creating a good impression.�

�He did act differently later?�

She shrugged. �He gradually drifted away from our little group. He found more excitement, I suppose, and gayer parties.� There was a hint of bitterness in her voice. �He drank an awful lot and he began to have trouble about money. I suppose he needed more money to keep up with his faster set.�

�Meaning Margo Merriam?�

Two white patches appeared at the sides of her nostrils. Her mouth was tight. �He had met Margo by that time, yes.�

�I gather you don�t care for Margo.�

Her nostrils quivered and the patches grew whiter. �I think she�s flashy and common and a man-chaser.�

�In short, you don�t approve of her.�

�In short, she�s a five-letter word.�

�Your husband said something about Margo and Paul Cooper.�

�Paul Cooper wouldn�t marry her in a million years,� Helen said with relish.

�You still talking about Margo?�

She nodded.

�What about the husband she�s already got?�

�People get divorces, Johnny.�

I must have looked incredulous.

Helen grinned. �I ran into her in the powder room at the Royal a few months ago. She was quite stinko and she said she had a confession to make. Why she picked on me, I�ll never know. We aren�t friends. She said she was going to divorce Robert Merriam and marry Paul. She even said they already had their silver pattern picked out. I didn�t believe a word of it but you never can tell.�

�But nothing happened?�

�Nothing. She just stares right through me when she sees me now. But Paul would never marry her.�

�Why not?�

�Paul gets around. He knows how to handle his women.� There was a glint of admiration and perhaps a touch of longing in her eyes.

�What�s Cooper like?�

�Lots of charm. A perfect gentleman.�

�You mean he sends flowers and always lights your cigarette for you?�

She laughed. �You sound like Watson. Yes, he is very thoughtful. But he�s not a professional hand-kisser. I know what you�re thinking. Most men of that sort make a career out of it to hide their stupidity or to hide the fact that they�re not such great shakes as men. But Paul is not like that. He�s sophisticated and intelligent. And he does give exquisite dinner parties and he�s a beautiful dancer. Watson doesn�t like to dance,� she said sadly.

I decided it was time to change the subject. �What about young MacAvoy? Did he have any particular reason to hate Weir?�

�Good heavens, no! I don�t think he approved of Frank�s private life but he admired his work tremendously. As a matter of fact, Frank took a liking to Rex and used to coach him in little tricks of the trade. Frank had his good side when he wasn�t thinking about himself.�

�Do you know Robert Merriam?�

�I�ve only seen him a few times. He�s a sweet person. Very shy, though, and much too good for that creature he married.�

I grinned and got up. �Thanks for everything. Helen. I�d better be getting along before that husband of yours comes home and thinks this is a rendezvous.�

She was disappointed. �I wish you didn�t have to go.� Then she brightened. �But now that we�ve become acquainted you�ll have to come out for dinner soon and tell us all about your interesting work.�

I gritted my teeth inwardly and said I would be delighted.

She called to me as I was getting in the car: �Maybe we�ll see you at the broadcast tonight. You�ll surely be there?�

I nodded and waved and rolled out of the driveway.

Through the tall tops of the cane, stars twinkled in rhythm to the throbbing in my head. I remembered where I was and decided it would be a good idea to lie here until they harvested the cane. I could spend a week walking in circles within a few yards of the road and never see it. Besides, I wasn�t feeling very well.

A heavy truck rumbled by on my left. I got up and limped in the direction of the sound. The car was where I had left it and there was no sign of Big-ears or Shorty. I climbed in and headed for a hot bath and some adhesive tape. My face felt as though it had been over-matched with a meat grinder.

The broadcast was under way when I arrived at the station and the big Studio-A was packed with a grinning audience seated on folding chairs. MacAvoy was in the control room and the four guest stars were seated at a long table at the far end of the studio. Watson Hardy sat at a small table on the left, wisecracking in his rapid-fire, high-pitched voice.

I looked the guest stars over. Margo was wearing Chinese pajamas; wide black velvet trousers, pink brocade coat that flared stiffly at the hips, long earrings and a black velvet turban effect on her blonde hair. Fred Fisher, the correspondent, was a big, jolly, gross-looking man with unruly blond hair. He was wearing gray flannels, a corn-colored sport shirt and a horse blanket sport coat. He rarely took his eyes off Margo, even when he was answering questions. Paul Cooper sat upright and casual in a white dinner jacket. I eyed it enviously and made a mental note to find out the name of his tailor. The fourth member of the quartet, Professor Snowden, was a bright little woman in her sixties. Her humor was dry and witty and she was having the time of her life. When she wanted to answer a question her eyes popped, her lips pursed and she waved her hand as energetically as any fifth grader.

I saw that Hardy had splurged on promotion. Everybody on the program was wearing an expensive, fragrant, white ginger lei. Even the members of the studio audience had each been handed a three-strand pikake lei. I spotted Lieutenant Chun in the crowd of standees and moved over beside him. He stared at my face.

�Where you been?� he whispered. �Diving on the reef?�

�Doing your work for you,� I whispered back. �Anything new?�

�So far, we make Weir short almost three thousand in his accounts.�

I leered at him. �Is that all you got, Lieutenant?�

He leered right back. �Merriam�s Lincoln was parked in front of the studio after eight o�clock last night. Cop on the beat identified it.�

I bit my sore lip and winced. I remembered pulling in behind a departing Lincoln last night.

Now I remembered it.

Chun said: �We�re going to have a session in Hardy�s office after the broadcast. You want to sit in?�

�What do you think? Have you seen Merriam around?�

�Back in Hardy�s office with Mrs. Hardy. They�re listening on the radio in there.�

I eased through the crowd, went out to the front entrance and spoke long and repetitiously to Nixon, the cop stationed at the door. Then I went back to wait with my client and Mrs. Hardy.

We crowded into Hardy�s office � MacAvoy, Helen and Watson Hardy, Chun, Cooper, Margo and Robert Merriam. Hardy grabbed off the place of honor behind his desk and waved us all to seats.

�Well, here we are,� he intoned, �a council of war to get at the facts, to pool our resources�� He stopped abruptly when he saw Chun eyeing him clinically. �Ah, perhaps you�d better take over, Lieutenant, now that we�re all here.�

Chun thrust his hands down in his pockets and allowed his eyes to run over the watchful, guarded faces around the room.

�Three of you,� he began quietly, �acting without knowledge of each other�s efforts, have exerted what influence you could to kill publicity in this case and to have the police investigation follow any lead that would take it away from the group here tonight. Those three are Mr. Merriam, Mr. Cooper and Mr. Hardy.

�This is interesting because in the past twenty-four hours I have uncovered what could be a motive for nearly everybody here. In fact, there are so many near-motives that I got you all here tonight to take it up from another angle. I want to warn you, however,� his voice grew deceptively gentle, �if I don�t get what I want, I�m going to dig back into the lives of every one of you from the day you were born. And that goes for the three gentlemen whose names I have mentioned.�

He bowed politely in their direction and turned to Rex MacAvoy.

�How soon did you leave after Weir relieved you?�

Perspiration stood out on MacAvoy�s forehead. �About two minutes, sir.�

�And you say you didn�t see anybody?�

�No, sir, I swear it.�

Chun turned to Merriam. �Then I guess you got here after MacAvoy left the studio.�

Eyes turned on Merriam who straightened tiredly. �Undoubtedly, I did.�

Chun�s face was impassive. �You want to tell the story in your own words, Mr. Merriam?�

�Perhaps that would be best.� He studiously ignored Margo who was watching him curiously.

�I came to see Mr. Weir on a personal matter and I wanted to see him alone. As I started to get out of the car, I saw a man and a woman come down the steps. I sat back and waited until they vanished down the street. I didn�t recognize them but I was too concerned with avoiding their scrutiny to observe very closely. When they were gone, I entered the building and walked down the corridor to where Mr. Weir was broadcasting. I found him � dead. When I saw there was nothing I could do, I left the building as quickly as possible with the hope that no one saw me. As I said, my reason for wanting to see Mr. Weir was personal and I had no desire to have to explain it. I understand now that a policeman saw my car parked in front of the building.� He smiled grimly. �I realize, of course, that the story of a mysterious unidentified couple is an unlikely one, but it happens to be the truth.�

I looked at my watch and eased over to Hardy�s desk. The motion attracted Chun�s attention and he asked quietly: �You like it?�

I nodded. �That couple was the killer and Miss Gardas.�

He examined me thoughtfully and I fought against the temptation to look at my watch again. �Mrs. Merriam?� he asked.

Manville Moon was used to shots � in the arm or elsewhere. But baby-sitting with a dopey eyeful who drew visitors with death in their minds was a chore he wished he�d never taken on after the first kill.

That afternoon, her first outside the house since the treatment started, Vivian obligingly but unknowingly had led me to private detective Joseph Alamado, who maintained his office in a ramshackle building on Second Street. Now, my problem was how to pin the goods on Joe and shove him behind bars, while I was handicapped by not being able to leave Vivian. I still hadn�t solved the problem when I feel asleep.

When I awoke at eight, I shaved and dressed, then tapped on my incompetent charge�s door. When there was no answer, I tapped again, waited a minute, then unlocked the door and walked in.

I thought she was sleeping until I caught the faint purplish cast of her features and saw that her eyes were wide open. For a moment I stood looking down at her, feeling a dull rage mount within me and mix with self-recrimination. Drawing back the covers, I lifted one thin arm and found the fresh needle puncture just above the wrist. Vivian had had her last shot in the arm, and it hadn�t been morphine. It hadn�t been self-administered either, because the syringe was missing.

I tried to tell myself there had been no intimation of danger to Vivian�s life, and even if there had been, keeping her in a locked and barred room was ample protection, but I couldn�t sell myself the alibi. For this was the second murder, and after the first, I should have been on guard. Half-heartedly I told myself Vivian�s mother had been murdered before I took this job, that her killing had apparently been done by a motiveless maniac, that I hadn�t been retained either to solve Mrs. Banner�s murder or prevent Vivian�s, but any way I looked at it, the situation boiled down to one point: I had let a client get murdered right under my nose. And the fact that I thought I could guess the murderer, or at least the instigator, was little consolation to either Vivian or me.

The door to Mrs. Rand�s room stood slightly ajar. I pushed it open, saw the key was in the lock and walked over to the bed, where Vivian�s aunt still lay sleeping. I stood over her long enough to decide from the even rise and fall of her covers that she was all right, then went to the open window. A light gardener�s ladder leaned against the side of the house immediately beneath the window.

Returning to the bed, I shook Mrs. Rand awake. She looked up without surprise, and I was startled by my first glimpse of her eyes unprotected by their heavy eyeglases. Weak and watery and red-ringed, they gave her an appearance of meek frustration, entirely counter to their imperious haughty glint when magnified.

Apparently conscious of my surprise, she shielded her eyes from the light with back of one hand and said: �Hand me my glasses from the dresser, if you please.�

I found the ribboned, thick-lensed spectacles and gave them to her. When she had them adjusted to her nose, she sat up, pulled the sheet protectively across her shoulders and asked: �What�s the matter?�

�You left the key on your dresser again,� I said. �Somebody borrowed it.�

�Has Vivian run away?�

�She�s dead,� I said bluntly.

Behind their thick lenses, her eyes widened.

�How... What happened?�

�Murder. You�d better get up and phone the police. I have to see a man.�

She stared at me as though she had never seen me before. �Where... where are you going?�

�To pick up a guy. Tell the cops to put out a call for Joseph Alamado, a private dick with an office on Second Street. I�m going after him, but he may have holed up. If I find him, I�ll bring him back here and turn him over to the cops. Got the name?�

�Alamado. Joseph Alamado.� Her eyes were wide and frightened. �Did he kill Vivian?�

�Probably. If he didn�t, he knows who did. He�s the peddler who supplied Vivian�s drugs, and yesterday she threatened to turn him over to the police.� I added thoughtfully: �It was probably a hired job. Don�t believe Joe has the guts for murder himself. If I thought he had any guts, I�d have squashed him yesterday and Vivian would still be alive.� I pondered this idea for a moment, then said impatiently: �But I didn�t squash him, and post mortem strategy can�t bring Vivian back to life. I want to use Harry and the Packard.�

�All right,� she said. �I�ll phone Harry to bring it around front.� She reached for her bedside phone.

I said: �I have to get some things from my room. Tell Harry to honk when he�s ready.�

She had the phone to her ear and was pressing the inter-house switch when I pulled her door closed behind me.

Back in my room, I slipped off my suit coat, strapped on my shoulder holster and put the coat back on. From my bag I took a pair of handcuffs and stuffed them in my hip pocket. Then I went down to the kitchen, found Nellie, the housekeeper, pouring herself a cup of coffee and had a cup myself while waiting for Harry to honk.

I came out of the war with only a leg and a half instead of the usual quota of two legs. The cork, aluminum and leather substitute, which the Veterans� Administration furnished to replace the missing portion, is as useful and comfortable as science has yet been able to devise, but it is neither as useful nor comfortable as the original right leg.

I started a blister on the stump by walking the six blocks to Dr. Yoder�s office, and arrived in a sour mood. Having a false leg has restricted my physical activity very little except when I rub a blister, and then it sometimes leaves me a cripple for as long as two weeks.

Dr. James Yoder was a general practitioner of the type commonly called a �society doctor�, which meant his oversized fees were not necessarily a criterion of his training and ability. He was in his sixties � stocky, bland and courteous � with an affability which would have made him a pleasant barroom companion, but which failed to inspire my confidence in his professional ability.

�Normally wouldn�t discuss a patient�s condition with a layman,� the doctor said. �But since Mrs. Rand informs me you�re to act as some kind of guardian or watchdog over Miss Banner during her treatment, suppose that makes you sort of a colleague.�

He showed his teeth in a confidential smile. �Actually, I don�t hold much hope for a cure. Nearly as I can determine, Miss Banner�s been a morphine habitu� since she was twenty, and she�s twenty-four now. Claims she takes but one injection a day, but I suspect she uses at least three, and possibly four or five.� He frowned slightly and pulled at his lower lip. �Trouble with morphine is it acts on that part of the brain controlling moral tendencies. Habitu�s are always such infernal liars, even when there�s no point in it. Especially dreamers.�

�What�s a dreamer?� I asked.

�An addict who takes enough drug to throw himself into a dream state. Morphine affects different people differently, you see. Some get all pepped up and don�t act any different from you or me, except they�re more full of energy. Others pass into a drowsy state and imagine all sorts of things. Have dreams something like opium dreams. Morphine�s an alkaloid of opium, you see. All morphine habitues are liars, but dreamers are the worst, and Miss Banner sometimes drugs herself into a coma lasting hours. Awfully hard to treat a patient who won�t tell the truth, you know.�

He looked at me for sympathy and I nodded my head. Encouraged, he went on.

�Actually, I think the place for the girl is a locked ward in a sanitarium. Told the family so, but Mrs. Rand has this room fixed up, and insists on home treatment. Says they�ve tried sanitariums.� He snorted. �The girl�s been in three as a voluntary patient. Damn-fool family refused to commit her, and all she had to do was walk out.� He shrugged. �But it�s their money, and if I don�t treat her, someone else will.�

He glanced at me slyly, as one confederate to another in on a soft touch. I kept my face expressionless.

�Then the treatment�s a phoney?�

�Oh, no,� he protested quickly. �If Miss Banner were actually kept from morphine for several months, she�d probably be cured. But how you going to keep it away from her?� He glowered at me from beneath down-drawn brows. �Judas, man, you don�t know what a morphine addict without drugs is like. Twenty-four hours a day she�ll have only one thing on her mind... Morphine. She�ll do anything for it. And I mean literally anything. She�ll lie, bribe, steal. She may even try to kill you. If you block all that, she�ll try ducking out of your sight. And you can�t possibly keep her in sight for six months.�

I said: �Why not?�

He looked exasperated. �You going to accompany her to the shower bath? You going to sleep in the same room?� One fist pounded softly on his desk. �Watch the door and she�ll be out the window. Watch the window, and she�ll be out the door.�

I stood up. �You take care of your end, Doc, and I�ll take care of mine. She won�t get any dope.�

He said skeptically: �Think not?� Then he shrugged. �All we can do is try. After all, if I don�t treat her, they�ll just go to another doctor, and if you don�t take the case, they�ll just hire another private detective. Might as well be us getting the fees.�

�Sure,� I said. �But just for the record, I�m intending to earn mine.�

In spite of her aunt�s and stepfather�s arguments that Vivian�s treatment be postponed until she got over the shock of her mother�s death, Vivian insisted on going ahead with original arrangements. Her insistence was fanatical rather than merely determined, for she was obviously terrified at the agony she thought she would go through. As the day of the court session drew near, she developed an air of numb fascination resembling that of an early Christian preparing to throw herself in the flames in pursuit of an ideal. I saw her only twice, and both times she was drugged to the eyebrows.

The murder remained a mystery, at least to me. What progress the homicide department was making, I didn�t know, since Warren Day stopped speaking to me after our last session together. And since I was engaged by Mrs. Rand only to keep Vivian away from morphine, and not to solve incidental murders, I made no attempt to check up.

Now that it�s all over, and I can look back at the complete picture in all its details, I can see I might have saved Vivian�s life if I had done something about her mother�s murder. Even if I had merely thought about it seriously, I might have drawn some significance from the casual happenings during the tea party where I met Vivian�s mother. Not enough to solve the case, probably, but perhaps enough to stir an awareness of danger to Vivian and place me on guard.

It bothers me still when I think about it, but actually I had no reason to concern myself. In the first place no one asked me to do anything about Mrs. Banner, and I get in enough trouble sticking my nose where I�m hired to stick it, without prying into murders for free. In the second place no one in the family, including Vivian, who was so completely obsessed by her approaching ordeal that she hadn�t even time for grief, so much as mentioned the matter. And just because you�re a private investigator, you don�t tactlessly choose a murdered relative as a conversational subject when you talk to people, unless somebody pays you to pry.

When I thought about it at all, it was to idly wonder if it had been a lunatic murder, one of those tough ones where a nut with no motive except desire to kill picks a victim he never saw before. Those happen, you know, and happen frequently. And the killer is rarely caught until he butchers two or three.

In any event, I left the investigation of Mrs. Banner�s murder to the homicide squad and continued to spend most of my time on my back waiting for Judge Crawford to get around to convening court in order to consider the competency of the murdered woman�s daughter. The days dragged by one by one and my bank account shrunk to zero, and I started a charge account at my favorite restaurant.

But even Judgment Day will arrive if you wait long enough, and nine days after my conversation with Inspector Day, Judge Crawford held a closed session in his chambers. When Alex Carson, Ms. Rand, Vivian and I left the courtroom together, I bore a document naming me the temporary committee of Miss Vivian Banner, aged 24, declared legally incompetent by court order. The document emphasized in several places that my appointment was temporary, and named a date seven months away at which time the court would again consider evidence of my charge�s competence and take such additional action it deemed appropriate.

Mrs. Rand also carried a document, one carefully prepared by Alex Carson and to which my witnessed signature was affixed. In it I declared that I had been employed by the family for the sole purpose of preventing Vivian Banner from obtaining or taking drugs during the next seven months, that by general family agreement I had been chosen as the proper temporary committee for that purpose only, that I had no interest nor claim in Miss Banner�s estate and, in the event of her death, I waived all rights of inheritance and/or administration of her estate.

Alex, in spite of his recommendation that I was �scrupulously honest,� was taking no chances.

All four of us squeezed into the rear seat of Mrs. Rand�s Packard. I offered to sit with Harry, but Mrs. Rand chilled the suggestion as though it were improper. Alex Carson and I drew small folding seats and rode backward, facing the two women.

During the ride to Mrs. Rand�s home Alex tried to make light conversation. He looked every inch the distinguished barrister as he sat erect but easily on the uncomfortable drop-down seat, his gaunt, intelligent features carefully holding a poised smile. Narrow, snow-white sideburns which merged into dark, gray-flecked hair, added to the effect of mature integrity. �What an honest looking guy,� I thought, feeling to see if I still had my wallet.

Mrs. Rand answered Carson�s conversational attempts with monosyllables, and Vivian and I made no attempt to answer at all.

Once Vivian said to me: �How does it feel to be a father. Daddy?�

I scowled at her, expecting to meet a mocking expression. Her lips smiled, but in her eyes was an almost incredible fright. I let my scowl fade into an encouraging grin.

Dr. Yoder was waiting for us in the drawing room when we arrived at the Rand home. With him was a middle-aged nurse in a starched uniform. Dr. Yoder rose from his chair.

�Good afternoon,� he said affably in all-inclusive greeting. He introduced the nurse as Miss Livingston, then said to Vivian: �Ready to become a patient?�

�Today? Are we going to start today?�

She looked from one to another of us, and I could see a pulse begin to beat in her throat. Nobody said anything.

�I mean, it�s been such a trying day already...� Her voice trailed off and she gave a nervous laugh. �Whatever you think best, Doctor. It�s just that I didn�t expect to start today.�

Mrs. Rand said: �I asked Doctor Yoder to be here when we returned from court. There�s no point in delay.�

The doctor made his voice patronizingly hearty. �Sooner you get to bed, young lady, sooner we�ll have you up. Go on upstairs and Miss Livingston will be up in a minute.�

Long ago I had decided that once Vivian was allowed out of the house, it would be impossible to keep her in sight for six months. The only possible way to keep her from morphine was to give her some rope, locate her sources of drug, and eliminate the sources.

So instead of foolishly waiting outside the women�s room, I ducked out the hotel�s side door, loped to the alley and got the windows of the room under observation. I arrived just in time to see her drop lightly to the ground.

When she turned my way, I pulled back my head and faded into the cigar store located at the alley corner. Through the display window glass I saw her stop in front of the store, look in all directions and enter one of the line of cabs parked at the curb.

As soon as she settled back in its interior, I was out of the cigar store and into the taxi immediately behind hers.

�Keep the guy pulling out in sight,� I told the cabbie. �But don�t make him suspicious.�

He dropped his flag. �Copper?�

I said: �No,� and let a ten flutter into the seat beside him. My expense account was mounting.

At the end of the first block Vivian peered through her cab�s rear window, and I slouched down until my driver�s back cut off my view. Apparently her one look satisfied her, because she didn�t check again.

Our first stop was the Merchant�s National Bank. Vivian�s taxi came to a halt in front of the bank and we pulled in a quarter block behind it. The other cab waited, so I remained in mine until Vivian came out again.

I suspected she wouldn�t be long and she would come out mad. If she were trying to get hold of some money, she was going to discover one of the disadvantages of being declared legally incompetent was that you can�t cash checks on your own account. It took my signature to get any of her money out of the bank.

In about three minutes she came out, and even from a quarter block away I could see her face was dark red. When she slammed shut the cab door, it nearly broke the glass.

Her next stop was in front of the Uptown Personal Loan Company. This took ten minutes, but the only result was an even more flushed face and a still harder slam of the cab door.

For the next ten minutes Vivian�s taxi wandered aimlessly, while its occupant apparently thought things over. Then it picked up speed and started decisively in the direction of the water front. It stopped a block from the Mississippi in front of an unsafe looking three story building.

In this neighborhood of sidewalk fruit stands and dilapidated one man shops, a taxi was more noticeable than in the uptown section, so I had my driver roll past her taxi and park in the next side street.

When I rounded the corner on foot the other taxi still waited, but Vivian was not in evidence. Unhurriedly I drew abreast of the cab and, without glancing at the driver, turned into the entrance in front of which he was parked.

The building was old and needed airing. A single naked light bulb hanging from the ceiling lit its windowless foyer, disclosing worn stairs ascending on either side and a variety of cigarette stubs and other litter on the floor. On the wall exactly between the two sets of stairs was a faded building directory.

Glancing over the half-dozen directory names, which included a chiropractor, a job printer, a seed company, two novelty wholesalers and a private detective, I settled on the last.

�Joseph Alamado, bonded investigator, room 209,� the notice read. I had heard of Joe, and he was no credit to the profession.

Taking the left stairs to the second floor, I passed the print shop and two empty offices before I came to 209. Its plain wooden door repeated the directory�s legend. Opening it softly, I pushed into a drab waiting room containing only a black leather sofa, an iron ash stand and a dusty magazine rack. Across the waiting room voices came from behind another plain wooden door on which was painted the single word, �Private.�

Leaving the hall door ajar, I crossed to the inner door and leaned one ear against it.

�You know I�ll pay you,� Vivian Banner was saying in a tone of tight desperation. �I�ll bring the money tomorrow.�

�You can have the stuff tomorrow,� a heavy masculine voice said. After a timed pause, it added: �If you bring the money.� There was no sympathy in the voice, and it definitely disapproved of credit transactions.

�Just a shot, then. One shot to carry me over. Against tomorrow�s order.�

No reply came from the man, but I guessed he had shaken his head. Vivian�s voice grew wheedling. �I�ve always liked you, Joe. I�d be awfully grateful. I�d be so grateful I couldn�t refuse you anything at all.�

Joe�s tone was heavily bored. �I deal in cash, lady. Cold, hard cash. Period.�

For so long there was silence, I thought Vivian was turning to leave, and quietly started to leave myself. But her voice, low and vicious, brought me back.

�You rotten, sneaking vulture,� she said. �I�ve poured thousands into your filthy hands. Listen to me.� Her voice sank till I could barely hear it. �The police would love to know how many thousands � and what it was for!�

A chair scraped back and Joe said sharply: �Just a minute!�

Silence again, until Joe�s heavy voice explained reasonably: �You know I don�t stock it like a grocery store does apples. I buy when my customers order.�

�You�ve got it right in this office!�

�No, lady. I can get it in an hour, but it takes cash.�

�You�re lying! You always had it before.�

�Sure,� Joe agreed. �But I always knew when you were coming. You ain�t been around lately.�

�All right,� Vivian said. �I�ll wait an hour while you go for it. I can pay you tomorrow. Honestly.�

�Sorry, lady. I ain�t got the money to advance. I can�t get credit either, you know.�

Vivian�s voice again sank to a vicious whisper. �Unless I leave here with at least one shot, I�ll go straight to the police from here!�

Neither spoke for a long time. Finally Joe said: �You wouldn�t want to do that. You�d never get any then.�

Vivian�s laugh was slightly hysterical. �I�ll never get it anyway. At least I can pay you back for some of the torture you�ve caused me.�

For a second time her chair scraped back, and for a second time Joe said: �Just a minute!�

A period of silence ensued before Joe said slowly: �I could fix you up tomorrow, lady, but I couldn�t raise you a shot today even if you threatened to phone Edgar Hoover.�

�What time tomorrow?� Vivian asked eagerly.

Joe�s voice grew persuasive. �Listen, lady. You�re well on the way to cure. Why not be smart and stay off the junk?�

�What time tomorrow?� Vivian repeated. Then she said: �How do you know that I�ve been taking treatment lately?�

�I keep track of my clients.�

For a long time neither said anything. Then Vivian asked: �What time tomorrow?�

�Phone me at noon,� Joe said resignedly.

�That�s too late. Make it earlier.�

�Noon.� Joe�s voice was definite.

�All right,� Vivian said crossly. �Noon.�

He heaved himself erect by holding the desk edge in both hands, grasped his cane by the shaft and rounded the desk to bulge over me like an enormous balanced rock. Without speaking, he slammed the heavy crook across my left instep.

If he had not telegraphed the blow, I probably would have shot clear to the ceiling, for the pain was terrific. As it was, even though it felt as though every bone in my foot was broken, I managed a heckling grin.

�You�ll bust your cane,� I said. �That�s aluminum.�

Again he raised the cane and brought it down, this time at my right foot. I jerked back my leg and let the cane head crash to the floor.

�Easy,� I said, not grinning. �That one bruises.�

For a moment he glared down at me, his eyes nearly closed. Then he swung around impatiently and lumbered back to his desk. Leaning back in his oversized swivel chair, he latched hands across his stomach and waited for his color to recede. When it finally did, he revived the benevolent smile.

�A minor point,� he said indifferently. �On the whole, my sources of information were excellent.�

Since this seemed to call for no answer, I just sat and looked at him. Sheridan looked back, and a conversational pause built up and lengthened. Then the silence was burst apart as the phone on his desk uttered a shrill peal.

Sheridan�s body jerked and the gun leaped into his hand, pointed at me.

I laughed aloud. �I make a different noise, fatty. That was the phone.�

His smile was a sickly, self-conscious version of the bland original as he laid the automatic back on the desk. Glancing at Harry to make sure I was still covered, he lifted the instrument from its cradle.

�Yes?�

I strained to hear the other voice, but it must have been pitched unusually low, for only a whisper of unintelligible sound trickled past Sheridan�s ear.

�He�s here and under control,� Sheridan said.

A short dribble of sound issued from the received, and Sheridan said: �Delay is unnecessarily risky. Suppose he escapes?�

Again he listened. �Of course he�s under control. But why delay? What�s the point?�

This time the other party talked a long time while Sheridan frowned into space. Then he said: �It will be no harder to dispose of now than when we finally act.�

I had an uncomfortable feeling he was referring to my body, and silently began to root for the other person to win the argument.

�All right,� he said finally. �I�ll meet you in thirty minutes. Usual place.�

He hung up and glowered at me.

�So I get a reprieve?� I said. �Who was my benefactor?�

His expression relaxed into its habitual smile. �Reprieve? I have no idea what you�re talking about.�

Again placing both hands on the desk edge, he heaved himself upright. �Do you have any rope in the car, Harry?�

�Moon�s got handcuffs in his pocket,� Harry said.

�Mr. Moon, Harry,� I snapped.

Harry wet his lips and shifted his eyes to my feet. Norman Sheridan laughed.

�Harry is being brave, Mr. Moon. Please don�t embarrass him.� He turned his eyes to Harry. �Take his handcuffs.�

Picking up his automatic from the desk top, Sheridan motioned me to rise and turn around. When I complied with his pantomined directions, Harry reached under my coat and removed the cuffs from my pocket.

I turned back to face Sheridan then, and he swept his gun muzzle toward a stairway and followed behind when I started toward it. In single file, Harry bringing up the rear, we went clear to the second floor and stopped at a closed room.

�Open the door and go in,� Sheridan said.

I obeyed his order and we entered a narrow bedroom containing a single bed, a dresser and one chair. The bed had an old-fashioned iron frame.

�Sit on the bed,� Sheridan directed.

I swung around until I sat straight-legged in the center of the mattress. Sheridan tossed the handcuffs at me.

�Clip one link to the center bed rung.�

I snapped the loop in place.

�Clip the other to your leg.�

Automatically I moved my good leg forward and reached for the cuff. Sheridan�s soft chuckle made me look up.

�You�re a very enterprising man, Mr. Moon. Clamp it to your good leg.�

Keeping my face expressionless, I locked the metal band around the ankle of my false right leg.

It was such a dull funeral, even the grave yawned � till the planting party threatened to turn wholesale.

Sam Kincheloe dropped behind at the elevator to light a cigarette and I went on down the hall and knocked on the door of Room 717. The door wasn�t locked. It swung open when my knuckles beat on it.

Mal Portman�s back was to me. He raised the window blind, looked over his shoulder and when the look of what shouldn�t have been surprise went away, he turned and came to the door. I whistled softly. The room lights showed up something the lobby lights hadn�t.

Mal Portman�s face had the look of a badly whipped fighter. One eye was almost shut, the other eye had a cut under it and on the opposite cheek bone, a bright mark, the size of a finger looked as if it had been scraped on, or off, by a nutmeg grater.

Portman wiped a thin smear of blood from his puffy lips and the hideous grin I had seen downstairs came to his face.

He said: �Pretty, ain�t I, Barney?�

I didn�t think he would ever be pretty. �You ready to go down to the district attorney�s office now and make your statement?� I asked.

�I didn�t lie to you, Barney,� Portman said. �I was coming back like I promised. I got beat up.� It was one of those self evident statements.

�You explained that part over the phone,� I said. �You ready, now?�

�You couldn�t see your way clear to give me another hour... Maybe two hours?�

�With half of Midwest City looking on?� I retorted. �Let�s go, Mal.�

Mal Portman looked around the room. I followed his weary eyes. His gladstone lay on the bed, open, partly unpacked. His hot eyes rode around the baseboard and back up to mine. �I�d like to get cleaned up a little. Barney.�

The nervous edge began crawling up my insides again. I was getting touchy. �Let�s go!� I snapped. Mal Portman�s eyes darted past my shoulder, back to me and his hand moved, a flash of smooth, bird-like shadow.

The Luger came into his hand, resting there easily, lined up about the level of my collar bone, maybe a little to one side. He just had time to lick the thin thread of blood off his lip with a dart of his tongue and open his eyes wide, clamp his wide mouth tightly shut before I felt the soft brush of the slug push at the fabric of my coat. It moved gently, like the fingers of a timid child.

All this, and death too � before the sound of Sam Kincheloe�s Police .38 rocked its echoes back and forth in the dim hallway � before I saw the slug tear into Mal Portman. It hit his neck and his mouth slacked in surprise. A serene look of contentment flicked on in his eyes. He wore the look of a man who has found peace.

Mal Portman made a noisy exit. The Luger blasted a couple of times from his reflexes, the slugs tearing into the door facing. When he went down, he fell heavily, like any big man falls and the floor shook a little. Across the room, a window pane vibrated faintly from the noise.

Sam Kincheloe pushed me aside and knelt by the body of Mal Portman, safe-cracker and now corpse. When he looked up finally, his face was as white as mine must have been.

�I took one hell of a chance, Barney,� he said. �God, what a chance... Shooting between your arm and your body. It had to be that way or not at all... He had you in the middle.�

I nodded numbly and rubbed a sweaty hand over the fabric of my coat where the slug had ironed across it. Just the thickness of the coat, the shirt and an undershirt away from my ribs.

�Thanks, Sam,� I said. I tried keeping it as simple as possible. �What got into the dumb bunny? It didn�t call for gun-play,� I added bitterly. �Well, Sam, I guess I owe you something. A drink... My life...�

And then the shaking got going in my insides again and I moved over to the wall phone and took down the receiver. The motion was part automatic, part manual. Do something. Call the cops. Do anything, my insides screamed at me. Vomit � or something.

I said into the phone: �Will you please report a shooting in Room 717? Yes, to the police, of course.�

The reaction set in as I hung up. The backwash of shivering set in and I laughed. Sam Kincheloe put a hand on my arm.

�Don�t blow your damn top just because you almost got it shot off,� he said. �You�re too trusting, Barney. You�re a chump for a sucker bet or a sob story. Walk into boys like this with your gun loose, and keep your hands out of your pockets. Well � what the hell, it came out all right, didn�t it?�

Kincheloe calmed me like a veteran catcher cooling down a rookie pitcher with the count three and nothing. I said: �Take it easy, Sam, I�m all right now. I�m back on the beam.�

Kincheloe put his gun away and closed the door. �There will be formal statements to make on this.�

I nodded. �Too bad I couldn�t have taken him back down to the office. He wanted to talk.�

�Which is probably what got him the beating.� Kincheloe said. I looked at Mal Portman�s face. The marks of the beating stood out more clearly now that he was dead. �Next time, Barney, play it smart.�

�We all have our off-days,� I said.

I took off my hat. Zelma didn�t seem to mind one way or the other if I stayed or went, so I went to the door and put my hat back on.

I said: �I didn�t know about Mal and you.�

�You�d have read it in the papers. The reporters took a picture of me, too. Mr. Maness was nice about it and tried to have them keep me out of it, but you know how newspaper photographers are.�

I nodded. I knew a lot of pic men. I said: �I�m the fellow Portman had his gun on, when he was killed.�

�Yes, I know,� she said. �I�ve seen your picture in the papers along with Mr. Frontenac. Do you hound many men to their deaths?�

�Not many. Mal Portman didn�t have to die. He told me he wanted to get going straight. Does that make sense?�

�Yes.� Some of the tears were drying now, leaving little stains on her cheeks. �Yes, that makes sense.�

�I promised to let him go about his business for a couple of hours. He was to surrender to my office. Instead, he went out, got himself beat up. He called me on the phone about that, and asked me to meet him at the Pilgrim Hotel, here next door to your room. So I came for him.�

�Then it wasn�t your men? You didn�t give him the beating � those terrible marks on his face?�

�You saw that? No, it wasn�t my men, nor me. Someone didn�t want Portman to surrender. Don�t you see? The whole thing is senseless. Portman didn�t have to die. I wasn�t even going for my gun... I expected him to come with me peacefully.� I shook my head. �I�d have bet my life � maybe I did � that Portman wanted to go straight.�

�He did.� Her words were cold and bitter. �I am the woman who called you. Mal wanted to make so awfully sure that he could have a couple of hours. I was waiting for him. He was coming back to marry me.�

She stood away from me and scoffed at the hard look of surprise on my face. She held back the tears and waited. It would be a long, long wait. I had no answer for her.

�That was why he was going straight. That was why I was waiting. I�d always have waited.� Her words had a hard, miserable, choking sound. Bitter and hopeless. �Please go away, Mr. Moffatt.�

I kept my hand on the door knob.

She said: �You can laugh, if you like. It is really very funny. Isn�t it funny, Mr. Moffatt?� She laughed a dry little laugh. Sure, it was funny. Funny as hell or an open grave or a slug in your belly.

�I didn�t know,� was the best I could do.

�Mal Portman knew. I knew. Take another good look at me Mr. Moffatt. I�m thirty-two years old. You can�t be too particular when you�re thirty-two, can you?�

Was there any answer to that? I didn�t know. I remembered Frontenac and his redhaired wife and wondered how much she cried for him and when I looked at Zelma again, the tears were gone. Just her cold, tired and weary voice again, asking me to go.

I shook my head and went to the wall phone and called a number I seldom used. It got me two reservations at an uptown restaurant.

�I�m pretty particular,� I said. �First, we�ll have dinner. We�ll talk if you want to, or just sit, or whatever you like. We�ll go over to the fights, afterward at Convention Hall, or if you want to, we�ll just get quietly drunk. None of it will help, but it�ll get you over the hump � the first few bad hours.�

She bit her lip and the sobbing started again. I shook her shoulders gently and when that did no good, I let her cry out the long consuming sobs against my shoulder. Long before she had finished I knew the Portman case hadn�t snapped shut up there in the chief�s office, or ended next door in a four buck a day hotel room with bath � and death thrown in.

I cursed under my breath as the drunk across the hall started the Gene Austin record again and wondered if she was old enough to remember the words.

It wasn�t one of those sordid things. It had a clean, fresh sound to it. Mal Portman had met her here in this joint where she had worked. He had made a few incompleted passes at her. She didn�t dramatize that part. Just that Portman had fallen for her, hard. She loved the guy. And then Portman had found out that he loved her. And how she had gone for a long walk and looked into her heart and her soul and ripped the bracelet from her arm that Portman had given her and thrown it from her, the tears scalding her eyes, because it was a stolen bracelet. And how she had told Portman and they had gone the next day to a little store down in the North End to buy her a real present. She told me about how Portman had never had a chance as a kid and how she had come from a little farm down around Joplin, Missouri, and how she had met Mal Portman.

Mostly, though, it was about the little music box and the little store in the North End. How Mal had picked out the little mahogany box that tinkled when you opened it and played some little tune she didn�t know the name of and the clean laugh as Mal Portman had paid cold, honest dollars for it. And now Mal Portman was gone. The little music box was gone.

�Mal is gone,� she had said softly. �Do a man�s crimes die with him, Barney Moffatt?�

�They ought to,� I had told her and only half believed it.

�Then can�t we just give him a quiet funeral, like anyone else. Wanting to go straight... Didn�t that earn him that much?�

I had flared a little at that. �The whole thing is screwy,� I had said. �Something is missing from the screwy puzzle.� I didn�t re-hash how Mal Portman had his Luger lined up on me when Sam Kincheloe had given me a life by taking Portman�s.

And she had said: �Goodnight, Barney,� very softly and closed the door. If I could have had my way, it would all be forgotten in seventy-two hours. A quiet little funeral. I�d promised her that much. I wondered if the boys who had pushed him around would be there at the funeral to look on the handicraft of their fists and have a look at the corpse.

I stared at my drink and wondered why they hadn�t just slipped a couple of slugs into Portman and left him down there under the Waterworks Bridge where it had happened. Maybe the beating was to scare him out of town. A beating like that might have scared me out of town. Not Mal Portman. With a girl like Zelma Daley waiting for him? I wondered what I would have done and I knew I would have come back, crawling, if necessary.

Sam Kincheloe slapped me on the back and brought me out of the reverie. Maness, the house dick, sat on my right and Kincheloe on my left.

Sam said: �I understand you had a tenner on the brown boy.�

�You don�t miss much, do you Sam?�

�Not a hell of a lot. Remember what I told you this afternoon? Play it smart, I said?� Sam Kincheloe said: �You�re getting smart. Smoky Kinell has won twenty-nine of his last thirty-two fights with KO�s in the sixth.�

I nodded wisely and offered to buy a drink. They both ordered rye and I looked at the small change in front of me and reached in the breast pocket of my coat for the dough Maxie Steck had dropped to me. I separated the two tens and put one on the bar. Then I stiffened.

A square of paper nestled in the fold of the second bill. I put it in a side pocket, paid for the drinks and went to the washroom.

The square of white paper was a standard, Midwest City pawn ticket. It attested that today, a Mr. John Smith, no address, had placed with the Considine Loan Company, one mahogany music box, the same to be collateral against the loan of one dollar, plus interest, payable every ninety days in advance. I put the thing in my billfold and went back to the bar.

As soon as it was decent for a guy buying a drink, I got away from Maness and Kincheloe and went to the Pilgrim�s Hotel. I was spending enough time there now that it would have been a time saver to have just checked into a room.

The door of Room 1912 was slightly ajar. The smell of rye whisky was strong in the room. Maxie Steck was draped over the card table. Some of his blood had run as far as the scattered cards but no farther. There wasn�t enough to run farther.

The hole in his temple still had little pieces of broken glass clinging to the hair and what was left of the larger chunks, including the neck of the broken bottle, lay on the floor.

Maxie Steck, the muddy eyed bellhop was dead. One dead end of a dead end fork in the wrong road.

�You little chump,� I said fiercely. �Didn�t you already have enough? You had the dead man�s liquor and his twenty bucks and his girl�s music box. Did you need the extra buck so awfully damn bad, Maxie?�

Talking to Maxie wouldn�t do any good and the cold rage shut the words off in my throat. I closed the door and went downstairs. When I was up the street a couple of blocks, I went into a drugstore and phoned the cops and told them about Maxie and his problem.

They asked my name. �Smith,� I said wearily, �John Smith.�

Sam Kincheloe said: �We can fix up some sort of story on that too, if it will keep the whole thing quiet.�

�We don�t really think you killed Maxie Steck,� Lynch said. �Looks like a ruckus over a card game.�

�If it all came out,� I said, �we�d have to explain how Mal Portman gave the bracelet to Zelma Daley... How she threw it away when she found out it was stolen... How Sam turned it up in an old gold buyer�s shop?�

�Yes, I guess we would, if it all came out,� Lynch said hesitantly.

�And how Mal Portman, having been beaten up, was leary of what came next and how he passed the pawn ticket to Maxie Steck, in a couple of folded up ten dollar bills. And how Maxie, playing percentages, chumped me into a bet and lost the money to me so he wouldn�t have the pawn ticket on him when he was questioned again.�

Maness said: �You think the pawn ticket was what got you shot at by this �Jennie� character?�

�It makes sense,� I said. �Portman was to be beaten and run out of town so that the five thousand bucks he got from the Gillson safe could be turned up. It wasn�t on him, or he wouldn�t have been allowed to live. Then, when he called me, asked me to pick him up here at the hotel, it must have been that the pawn ticket was right here � maybe it had been rolled up in the curtain down in Room 717.�

�Then you figure he must have got the music box from the girl�s room,� Kincheloe said. �He put the money in it, hocked it and came to you.�

�That�s the only way it makes sense,� I said. �The Daley girl reported it as stolen, to Maness. Maness mentioned that when we were here this afternoon, remember, Sam?�

Sam Kincheloe nodded.

He looked very carefully at Lynch. Lynch said: �Well, there�s Gillson�s money; Stella Frontenac has her bracelet; the district attorney is none the wiser and I guess that wraps up everything. Put that damn shotgun down, Maness, and we�ll all have a drink and get a story ready for the papers.�

I shook my head. Maness held the gun steady.

�What the hell else is there?� Kincheloe said petulantly.

�A matter of opinion,� I said. �Everybody had an opinion on Mal Portman. The clerk said he was a nasty sort of a guy. Maness thought of him as just a man in Room 717. I was going to help him get straight. Lynch, you and Frontenac thought of him as a character who might embarrass the departments. Zelma Daley loved him.�

I paused.

�Well, who else was there to have an opinion?� Lynch barked. He eyed the shotgun again and licked his lips.

�Maxie Steck thought he was a pretty good old guy. Those were his words. He said Portman wanted to make it right with him for hurting his feet. Portman had said: �You carried it down for the cops...� To Jenelli, he was just a guy to get beat up. All in a day�s work.�

I took the shotgun from Maness. �That leaves us a missing cop. Which will it be, gentlemen. You, Lynch, or Sam? I�m going to pay off for Portman, NOW!�

�You�re getting awfully steamed up over Portman,� Sam Kincheloe said. �All right, I�m the lad. I had a chance at a cut of the five grand if we turned it up. I helped Luce Jenelli push Mal Portman around.�

�On his wedding day,� I sneered. �Then you sent Jenelli for me. For the pawn ticket and the music box and the five grand.�

�Wait a minute, Barney,� Sam Kincheloe said. �We�ve got a stopping place. Let�s stop there.�

�Everybody had an opinion of Mal Portman but you, Sam.�

The room got a little chilly quiet feel to it. Like a tomb, or the inside of a dry sewer.

�I don�t get it,� Kincheloe said.

�What was your opinion of him, Sam? Just exactly how did Mal Portman seem to you?�

�Why... I... Portman was...� Kincheloe looked hungrily at the music box again and the five bills. �Do I have to have an opinion?�

�Yeah,� I said. �You do. At least you ought to if you�re going to shoot a man to death. If it�s going to be premeditated murder.�

I almost had to trigger the old twelve-gauge then. Sam Kincheloe surged against the end of it. His eyes blazed. His hand started to his gun, then relaxed.

�Hell,� he said. �You had me fooled for a minute.�

�You were standing behind me,� I said. �Portman went for his gun. He was going to surrender, remember, Sam? You were in the office. You came along. You had to rub Portman the way you did. You dropped back to light a cigarette, letting me get to Portman first. When Mal Portman saw you, he saw you going for your gun. Not for him, Sam. For me. You were going to let me have it in the back because you didn�t know how much Portman had told me. Portman got killed because he was trying to save MY life, not his. You killed Maxie too, because he was a smart boy and couldn�t see the percentage on holding out on you when you questioned him. Did he tell you he had passed the pawn ticket on to me, and just exactly what it was for?�