He saw Big Lefty�s cruel black eyes, and he remembered: �When it�s the devil�s dice� Death is the only winner!�

I held the dice cup high and rattled it loudly so all could see and hear, then sent the cubes hurtling against the backstop to watch them come up seven, as I knew they would. It was my seventh pass in a row and I had gathered in better than twelve hundred dollars in the past few minutes. It was now time to quit.

The prearranged idea now was for Little Manuel, who was near the backstop, to scoop up the dice in suspicious anger, examine them closely to see if they were loaded � which they were � make a fast switch and throw the new and legitimate pair against the backstop, as though testing them for their authenticity as he pocketed mine, the crooked ones I had been using.

He was to do this after the seventh pass, and he did so. The dice he threw out cropped up a four and everyone seemed satisfied that they were not crooked. Of course, they could not know that I had a thing going with Little Manuel.

Somebody tossed me the dice and said, �Your game, yet, Pal.�

The eager and apprehensive faces surrounding the table looked at me to see what I was going to shoot this time. I had been betting fairly heavy the last few passes and some of the boys had dropped a considerable bundle. It was now time for the trouble.

I pushed the dice away and shook my head.

�I�ve had it, boys,� I said. �I�m cutting out for tonight.�

A heavy silence came over the group. They peered at me as though I were some kind of disease.

A meaningful voice nearby said quietly, �Oh, no, you�re not,� It was Lefty Syl. �You�re not leaving right now,� he said. �Not when you�re so hot and you took in so much dough.�

I singled him out. He was just a few feet away. I stepped up to him and said in his face, �Yes, I am. And I don�t think there is anybody here that can stop me.� I opened my jacket to display the thirty-eight I had stuck in my belt.

Lefty sneered at it.

�That pea shooter don�t scare me,� he snorted. He opened his own jacket to show his weapon. It was a forty-five automatic. He caressed the butt of the rod with his fingers. �There are a lot of guys laying around in the graveyard,� he said, �that would tell you about this piece of ordinance. When this baby hits them��

Lefty Syl shrugged.

I looked around at the other men present. Their faces were all tense, but they just stood about as though nothing was going on. Little Manuel purposely ignored me: he did not want to give himself away. According to the plan, we were to split my winnings later. If anyone tumbled to him now, we would both be dead ducks.

Turning my attention back to the cold-eyed Lefty, I said, �Just one fine minute, my friend.� I made my voice gruff. �I�m beginning to get the idea that you are trying to threaten me.�

He stuck his ugly puss in mine.

�I want to tell you something, pal,� he said, �I don�t threaten nobody. When I make a threat it is not considered a threat. It is considered a statement of fact!�

Solomn Sol, the guy who had promoted the loft we were playing in, stepped in between us and pushed us apart.

�Listen, you guys,� said Sol, �I don�t want any fireworks in here. What do you want to do, jam it up for everybody?�

He looked us each sternly in the eye. �I know both you boys happen to be tough cookies, but if you louse up this joint with a shooting you�re going to bring the law pounding on the door. A thing like that would get back to the syndicate and the big boys would become very unhappy. And the survivor of this little fracas will find himself in some very hot water, immediately.�

Lefty Syl seemed to cool off a bit, but he still kept his hand on his gun.

�All right,� he said to Sol. �But this punk�s got to give us another chance to get even, or at least a chance to get some of our dough back.�

Solomn Sol looked at me to see how I took it.

I said, �I resent being called a punk; but if I am one, all I can say is it takes one to know one.�

Sol stepped between us again just as Lefty was going through the motion of drawing his cannon. �Now I�m going to tell you fellows again, I don�t want no noise up here. Go ten blocks away and settle it. Go anywhere and settle it. But don�t bring any heat by settling it here!�

I glared at Lefty.

He glared at me.

Finally, he looked around at everyone and said, �I make a motion that he shoots one more time for high stakes and then he can go to hell whether he wins or loses. Do I hear anybody second the motion?�

There was a mumbling throughout the group as they considered the proposition! Eventually, all heads save Little Manuel�s nodded yes.

�Wait a minute,� I protested hotly. �I never seen no crap game conducted by rules like this. What�s with this motion bit?�

�We just took a vote,� said Lefty. �You�re going to shoot one more time, and you�re going to shoot high.�

I looked around again at all the mugs. Their faces were hard, all except Little Manuel�s. His had a hopeless expression on it. I gave him a reassuring glance, as if to say, �If I lose this time, we can do it again later in another game.� He seemed to get the idea and gave an almost imperceptible shrug of his narrow shoulders.

I took out my roll of bills and tossed them on the table. There was fourteen hundred dollars there.

Lefty scooped up the dice and handed them to me. I put them in the cup and made a few tentative shakes.

�Wait a minute,� Lefty shouted. �I want to make sure all bets are down!�

My money was covered immediately. The beady-eyed Lefty was betting like crazy on the side that I would crap out. He was getting tremendous odds. He claimed that the delay in my shooting had made my luck defunct. I looked at him disgustedly. I knew Little Manuel would have given me anything to slip me the crooked dice then, but there wasn�t a prayer.

Finally, all bets were settled. There was a lot of cash riding on my next throw, and you could almost sense the electricity in the smoky atmosphere.

Okay. Once more I raised the cup high and shook it loudly for all to see and hear. I also made sure they seen the scowl on my face, but these guys couldn�t care less. So I smirked and cast the galloping dominoes so hard against the backboard that they bounded back within my reach.

And came up snake eyes! I had crapped out!

Lefty was jumping jubilantly up and down as he collected his money. From where I stood, it looked like quite a bit, what with all the odds he got on my crapping out. As a matter of fact, it broke up the game. Lefty had just about cleaned everyone out. Nobody was able to fade the outrageous sums he wanted to shoot. So the game broke up.

I had picked up the errant snake-eyes and said I wanted the damn things for a souvenir. I slipped them in my pocket, their beady eyes still glowering at me.

We all filed downstairs, hearing Lefty bragging at the top of his voice to Solomn Sol. A lot of those boys hated Lefty then as they trundled down the steep steps from the loft. Personally, I had my own opinion.

Downstairs, in the dark street I talked to Little Manuel.

�Next time,� I told him, �I�ll announce that I am going to quit on the sixth pass. Then, when they yelp, I�ll tell them that I�ll shoot one more time, win, lose or whatever. You palm the dice after that last throw and then we got it made. There won�t be any sore losers. They won�t be claiming that they didn�t have a chance to redeem their money.�

Little Manuel�s face said that it was a better idea than we had in the first place, and why in the hell didn�t we think of it before?

I left him on the corner and took a cab.

In the back seat of the taxi I took out the dice I had thrown craps with and idly tossed them on the seat covers. Each time they came up snake-eyes. Lefty Syl was as good a switch man as Little Manuel.

When I met. Lefty a little while later at our rendezvous, he wanted to know if I thought Little Manuel would ever get wise.

Before I answered him I put my half of the take in my pocket.

�No, I don�t think so, Lefty,� I said; �At any rate, I�m going to use him in a legitimate little game I got set up next week. Suckers like him are hard to find.�

The inspector glared at me, at my cape and magnifying glass and my two-way hat. �Who�s this kook?� he demanded. �My name is Sherlock Holmes,� I said modestly...

I said, �My name is Sherlock Holmes.�

The two detectives looked at one another.

�Come again?� one of them said.

I puffed my black clay pipe.

�Sherlock Holmes,� I said distinctly. �Now would you be so kind as to remove that light from my eyes?�

The tall, thin detective lowered his flashlight. �Just what are you doing back here?�

�Looking for clues,� I said.

�How�s that?�

�Clues, my good man, clues.� I took my magnifying glass from the pocket of my waistcoat and peered at the red brick of the warehouse wall. �Hmm,� I said. �Interesting, don�t y�know?�

�A nut, Charley,� the short, pudgy detective whispered behind me. �Look at the outfit he�s wearing.�

The other one said, �Inspector Morris is going to want a word with him, just the same.� Then, in a louder tone, �Come along with us, pal.�

�I will not,� I said irritably, whirling to face him. I jabbed a finger at his nose. �How will I be able to unearth any clues if I come with you. Run along, now, like good fellows.�

They exchanged glances again.

�Look, pal,� the one named Charley said, �there�s a man inside named Inspector Morris; and he�s in charge here. You know what�s good for you, you�ll come in and tell your story to him. Capici?�

�He is from the Yard, I presume?�

�The Yard?�

�Scotland Yard,� I said.

�Scotland Yard?� the pudgy detective repeated.

I adjusted my gray cloak.

�I am always most happy to assist Scotland Yard,� I said. �Proceed, gentlemen.�

After a third exchange of looks between the two detectives, I was led down the darkened alleyway and through a side door into the warehouse. To the left was a small, glass-enclosed office, brightly lit. Inside was a graying man in a blue business suit, and an elderly, stooped citizen wearing a brown khaki uniform.

I preceded the two detectives into the office. The graying man had been seated on the edge of a scarred, unfinished wooden desk. He turned as we entered.

I watched his eyes widen as he saw me. He looked at the detectives. �Who the hell is this?�

�Sherlock Holmes,� the pudgy detective said.

The graying man glared at him. �Bad jokes I don�t need, Fred.�

�Ask him,� Fred said, shrugging.

�Who are you, mister?� the graying man asked me.

�Sherlock Holmes,� I said. �At your service. And who might you be, sir?�

�Inspector Morris,� he said, scowling. �And I�ll ask the questions here. You just do the answering.�

�Bah,� I said.

�What?�

�You are impertinent, sir,� I said. �The name of your superior, please?�

�My what?�

�Your superior,� I said. �I shall report you presently.�

�I suppose you know the chief?�

�I have many acquaintances at the Yard,� I said stiffly.

Inspector Morris looked at the two detectives. �Where did you find this kook?�

�Out back,� Charley said.

�Looking for clues,� Fred said.

�Clues?�

�With a magnifying glass,� Fred said.

�As if I ain�t got enough troubles,� Inspector Morris said, �now I got to contend with kooks. Get him out of here.�

�Maybe we ought to search him first,� Charley said.

�What for?�

�Well, he was out back there.�

�It was two men robbed this place,� Inspector Morris said. He glanced at the elderly man who was sitting in a chair to one side of the desk.

�Did you ever see this character before, Mr. Bennett?�

Mr. Bennett was staring at me. He shook his head.

�You got a good look at the two guys who slugged you?�

�Oh, sure,� Mr. Bennett said. �He ain�t one of them.�

�You positive?�

�Do you think I�d forget a face like his?�

�I beg your pardon?� I said.

�You know, he does sort of look like Sherlock Holmes,� Mr. Bennett said.

�Sherlock Holmes ain�t a real person,� Fred said.

�I mean the guy who played him in the pictures.�

�Basil Rathbone?� Fred offered.

�Yeah, that�s the one.�

�Who is Basil Rathbone?� I asked.

�I still think we ought to search him,� Charley said.

�What the hell for?� Inspector Morris said.

�He could be an accomplice.�

�Accomplice, indeed!� I said indignantly.

�So all right, search him,� Inspector Morris said. �My God!�

Charley came forward.

�Now see here!� I said. �I will not tolerate��

Charley began to pat the pockets of my waistcoat. I raised my walking stick.

�Unhand me, sir!� I shouted, menacing the stick.

Charley stepped back and drew his revolver.

�Put that damned thing away!� Inspector Morris yelled.

�He�s trying to hide something,� Charley said, holstering the revolver.

�I have nothing to hide,� I said.

�Yeah?� Charley said.

�Bah,� I said.

�Say,� Mr. Bennett said, laughing, �if you�re Sherlock Holmes, where�s Dr. Watson?�

I lowered my head and took off my checked cloth cap. I held it over my heart.

�Passed on,� I said sadly. �Gone to his reward. Heart attack, don�t y�know? All quite sudden.�

�Empty your pockets, Holmes,� Charley said, glaring at me.

�For what reason, sir?�

�I want to see what you�re carrying.�

�I am carrying nothing but my magnifying lens and a tin of throat lozenges.�

�We�ll see about that.� Charley rushed forward, catching me unprepared, and quickly ran his hands over my clothing. Then he stepped back. �He�s clean.� His voice held disappointment.

�Of course I�m clean,� I said crossly. �I bathe regularly, you know.�

Mr. Bennett snickered.

Charley said angrily, �Let�s see your wallet.�

�I have, no wallet,� I told him.

�Where do you live, Holmes?� Fred put in.

�Two-twenty-one on B Baker Street,� I said.

�This city?�

�London.�

�Where you living here?�

I told him the location of my rented room.

�What are you doing in this country?� Charley asked.

�I am here on confidential business.�

�Yeah?� Charley said. �Well, maybe when we get you downtown you�ll��

�All right!� Morris yelled. �Now that�s enough! Now that is just about all I can take. What the hell�s the matter with all of you? We got a robbery to investigate. Six thousand dollars was stolen from the safe and Mr. Bennett here was knocked over the head. And what do you do? Waste time with this bat-head who thinks he�s Sherlock Holmes?�

�But I am Sherlock Holmes,� I said.

�Oh, hell,� Inspector Morris said tiredly. �Look, what are you doing here anyway?�

�The same as you, I expect,� I said.

�The robbery?�

�Precisely.�

He scowled. �How did you know about it?�

�I have a short-wave radio,� I told him.

�Sherlock Holmes never had no short-wave radio,� Mr. Bennett said.

�Progress, my good man,� I said off-handedly.

�You figured out who the guilty parties is yet?� Mr. Bennett said, smiling.

�Of course.�

�Oh?� Inspector Morris said, interested. �Who are they?�

�The Red-Headed League, of course.�

�Who?�

�The Red-Headed League,� I repeated. �Led by the infamous Professor Moriarty, no doubt.�

�Red-Headed League?� Inspector Morris said. �Professor Moriarty?�

�Arch villains,� I said. �Been battling them all my life. I�ll get them in the end. Justice shall be done.�

�Oh, Lord,� Inspector Morris said. He looked at Charley and Fred. �Get him out of here. Right now!�

Before I could respond, I was roughly grasped by each arm and propelled through the warehouse to the front door, where I was unceremoniously pushed outside.

�Damned nut,� Charley said from the doorway.

�Bah,� I said.

The door slammed.

I returned to the rooming house where I had rented a room upon my arrival in town some two weeks before. The landlady, Mrs. Loughery, was cooling herself on the front stoop.

�Evening, Mr. Holmes,� she said guardedly.

�Good evening,� I answered brusquely.

�Did you have a nice walk?�

�No!� I snapped. �Blasted Scotland Yard. Professor Moriarty escaped again.�

�That�s too bad.�

�Indeed.�

I went to my room, drank a cup of coffee, and promptly fell sound asleep in the chair.

While hundreds watched, powerless to move or stop it, four men were machine gunned to death in a crowded Kansas City Station. With a ruthless shocking suddenness that horrified a nation, Pretty Boy Floyd and his comrades of death had struck again! You�ll read all about it in�

When the violence erupted, it came with a ruthless and shocking suddenness that sliced with a razor�s edge through a nation already accustomed to bloody underworld killings. But none quite like this � not carried out so boldly, in broad daylight � before hundreds of milling men, women and children, and with a deadly machine gun.

The killings, which blasted open an unbelievable web of crime and corruption in Kansas City, Missouri, resulted from an obscure event some thirty months earlier.

On October 19, 1930, a notorious bank robber named Frank �Jelly� Nash escaped from the federal penitentiary in Leavenworth, Kansas.

The escape was routine, a walk-away by a trusty who never should have been allowed the freedom he gained through scheming and conniving. He was a career criminal with connections in every major city from coast to coast, a thug, hoodlum, gunman, burglar, murderer, and Jack-of-all-underworld-trades.

Nash was permitted to go outside the walls of the penitentiary on various duties but still within the area of the institution. One day, when he went out the last gate he just kept on going, and where he went led him to a tempestuous death, an end which also brought about the murder of two police officers, a police chief, and an agent for the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

The simultaneous killings were wantonly carried out by Charles �Pretty Boy� Floyd, who had been hired to aid Nash.

�Pretty Boy� was so named by a two-buck prostitute on 14th Street in Kansas City.

He wasn�t pretty. He had a hard, cruel face and the cold eyes of a shark. The young harlot Floyd selected in the house recognized him and was terrified. Eager to please him lest he turn on her, she flattered him.

�Come along, Pretty Boy,� she said, taking hold of his hand.

Adam Richetti, Floyd�s pal, who was with him in the parlor, let out a whoop. �Pretty Boy! Wow!�

The girl, slender, curved, with auburn hair and blue eyes, and still in possession of a youthful glow, turned to Richetti. �He is too pretty. Much prettier than you.�

�Sure, sure, Honey,� Richetti replied. �But watch him. He�s liable to steal your pants.�

Floyd glowered at his partner. �You�re a real funny guy, Banana Face. Keep your tongue still or you�ll wake up some day without it.�

Richetti grinned back good-naturedly. �Take him upstairs, Honey. He�s got a hot temper and needs to get rid of it. I�m sure you�re the gal to do it.�

The girl may have guessed at the truth of Richetti�s words, but what she didn�t know was that Floyd was a maniacal killer, a bum without compassion, mercy, or the slightest regard for human life. He robbed and killed, killed senselessly.

Charles Arthur Floyd was born and grew up on a small farm around Sallisaw, Oklahoma, one of seven children. The family was poor, sharecroppers, like all the others in that section. At sixteen, he quit school, or was tossed out, having completed the sixth grade only because each previous teacher wanted to get rid of him and so passed him on.

He worked on his father�s farm until he was eighteen, when his father kicked him out. The old man was sick and tired of feeding him and of his constant drinking. A share-crop arrangement was made and Floyd became a part of the beaten group of farmers who barely eked out an existence. At that time he also took a bride, a young sixteen-year-old-girl he had known since childhood named Ruby Cranley.

Ruby became pregnant shortly after and did not relish the prospects of abject poverty for her child. She began to needle Floyd to do something about bettering their condition.

�What do you want me to do, rob a bank?� Floyd threw at her.

�I don�t give a damn what you do,� Ruby retorted, �but my baby ain�t gonna live in no pig sty. And he ain�t gonna be no sharecropper like all the folks around here, who live no better than mongrel dogs scrounging in garbage cans for their grits. You got some gumption in your damn dirty frame, then show it or get out! I�ll do better by myself, hear?�

Floyd was silent a long time then drifted slowly toward the door of the ramshackle hut. �I got more gumption in my little finger than all the damn fools in this whole territory got in their bellies. I�ll show you!�

�Talk, talk, talk!� Ruby shot back. �I�m tired of your damn talk. And I�m tired of your drinkin� too. We get a dollar and you run into the hills for likker. You ain�t nothin� but a bum, hear?�

Floyd stalked out and slammed the door behind him.

It was the spring of 1925. He was gone for six months, and when he returned he had a pocket full of money, expensive clothes, and a powerful car.

Ruby was delighted. She had never seen more than ten dollars in her entire young life so the hundreds Floyd poured in her lap threw her into fits of ecstasy.

Clutching the money in her hands, she wrapped her arms around her husband and kissed him passionately. �I�ll be good to you, Charlie, I�ll do anything you want me to do to make you happy. Our baby will have a start to go on with this money, Charlie. I�ll put it away. My God, Charlie, there just ain�t words to tell you how happy I am. There must be nigh a thousand dollars here.�

Floyd was pleased with himself. �There�s more where that came from, Ruby baby. A lot more.�

�Get it, honey. We�ll move away from here and buy a good farm and hire hands and become something.� She kissed him again, over and over again.

The sheriff of the county soon learned that Floyd was a bad boy. The �wanted� circulars on his desk informed him that Charles Arthur Floyd was wanted for engaging in a little $15,000 payroll robbery in St. Louis. He arrested Floyd and took him away, amid the screams and curses of Ruby, who saw all her dreams of wealth and security break up.

Floyd was convicted of complicity in the robbery and received a sentence of five years in the Missouri State Penitentiary. He was then only twenty years old. It had taken him four years to earn a degree in robbery and the title of ex-convict. But then, when he was graduated from the sixth grade he did so �Stupid Cum Laude.�

He was released in 1928, went back to Sallisaw and found that Ruby had no more use for him than she did for a hole in her pants.

�You ain�t nothin� but a ignorant ex-convict, Charlie. I got me a good man. He does for me like a man should. I don�t need you, so git.�

�Is that all you got to say to me?� Floyd asked sarcastically.

�That�s all. Just git!�

�To hell with you. I can find better than you in cribs. And you ain�t no better than any of them. I�ll git and be glad!�

Floyd beat his way to Ohio. There he teamed up with two cronies he had known in prison, Jim Bradley and Jack �Gunner� Atkins. They taught him the use of the machine gun, which only a few months earlier had found its way into the hands of underworld characters.

The trio set out on bank-robbing forays. They knocked off bank after bank, first in the south then in the north, then in the west, and then in the east. Authorities knew they were up against a professional trio and were frankly baffled as to how to nab them because they had no knowledge of their modus operandi or where they would strike next.

A year after the trio had teamed up, in 1929, they drove into Akron, Ohio and passed a red light. H. F. Mennes, the traffic officer on duty, tried to arrest them. Bradley shot him dead. A wild chase followed. Jack Atkins got away, but Floyd was caught, along with Bradley. After a sensational trial both were convicted. Bradley got the chair for the killing. Floyd was sentenced to fifteen years. While he was being transported to prison he leaped out the train window and escaped.

Floyd ran day and night, a mile at a time, a hunted shadow who cringed with hatred in his heart in dark corners, hungry and cold, and fearful of the cell that awaited him. He vowed that he would �hold court in the street� � shoot it out with any cop who tried to arrest him. And then he realized that he had no gun.

A gun. That�s what he needed. In a small town in Michigan, just outside the city limits of Detroit, he broke into a sporting goods store, grabbed two guns and a couple of boxes of ammunition, rifled the cash drawer of a little over a hundred dollars and beat his way to Kansas City.

At this time, in 1933, Kansas City belonged to Johnny Lazia, the right-hand of one of the most powerful political figures in the United States, surely the most powerful politician in Missouri.

Singapore, Casablanca, Algiers, Port Said, and Paris had nothing on Kansas City when it came to vice, crime, and murder. The red light district on 14th Street ran openly. The girls walked the streets, posed in the doorways or the windows of the dreary flats and either called to prospective customers or tried to attract their attention by tapping on windows with coins.

Gambling joints ran in the same wide-open fashion, and these were as crooked as the proverbial corkscrews. If a citizen complained to the police that he had been cheated in a gambling joint he was locked up as a drunk and charged with disturbing the peace. No one on the police force wanted to buck the Lazia Syndicate because Lazia made appointments to the police department!

If a criminal was hot he made his way to Kansas City and Johnny Lazia. All Johnny Lazia had to say was �lay off� and no one bothered the fugitive. You could reach into the FBI files for the name of every wanted man of the time and you could be certain that he had been hidden out while he was hot by Lazia. The term �hidden out� is a misnomer because the fugitive walked the streets as if he owned them.

The Reno Club, the Chesterfield Club, and other similar dives and deadfalls featured gambling, booze, and girls. The waitresses moved from table to table wearing high heels and Chanel No. 5, and nothing else, not even a G-string. The usual high-spending customers included such illustrious characters as Buggsy Siegel, Lucky Luciano, Jack McGurn, Charlie �Cherry-Nose� Gioe, Jack Dragna, Verne Miller, a notorious bank robber, and dozens of other top hoods. They wandered in and out of Kansas City like locusts.

Such was Lazia�s power as boss of the First Ward that he could offer two of the most wanted men in the country immunity from arrest in one of the largest metropolitan cities in the nation. This weak-eyed goon, a pronounced egomaniac, ex-con and highway robber, a man without morals, scruples or conscience, a dandified dresser who wore spats and a cane, held Kansas City in the palm of his blood-soiled hand as much as Al Capone had held Chicago.

�I�m hotter than the inside of hell,� Floyd told Johnny Lazia. �I need help.�

�How hot?� Lazia asked.

�I got a fifteen-year rap hanging over my head in Ohio. I lammed from the coppers who were taking me to the pen.�

�Well, that ain�t too bad. You�ll be okay here if you keep your nose clean. Don�t do anything in this town; you get it? The big boss don�t like heat.�

�I won�t. I promise you.�

�You got any money?�

�About seven dollars.�

Lazia drew out a roll of bills, peeled off several. �Here�s a couple of hundred. I want you to kick it back, with a little bit of honey when you make a score. If you need more, I�ll stake you, on the same terms. There�s a guy in town named Bert Miller. You and he should make a nice team. I�ll introduce you. Be here tomorrow afternoon at three. In the meantime, you can move around. Here�s my card. Go to this address��

Lazia wrote an address on the back of the card. �Say that I sent you. It�s a rooming house. They ask no questions.�

Miller was glad to team up with Floyd. The grapevine said Floyd was an expert at taking money from banks.

�We don�t have to move right away,� Miller said. �I think you had better lie low for a while until most of the heat is off you. Then we�ll move. Meanwhile, I got a nice chick for you, to kind of keep your mind off your troubles. I go with her sister.�

Floyd and Beulah Baird hit it off right away. She was a busty babe with no morals and a lust for everything that a buck would buy. A bank robber was right up her alley. Moreover, she was street wise, could drink with Floyd, glass for glass, and had no scruples about �helping out in any way, if you need me, honey.�

Floyd patted her on the rump. �It�s man�s work, baby. You�re built for other things.�

�I can drive as good as any man,� Beulah declared.

�That�s good to know. It�s a little insurance, just in case.�

In due time, Floyd and Miller pulled a series of bank jobs. The robberies went on for several months and the quartet lived high. And then, in Bowling Green, Ohio, the jinx State for Floyd, the law trapped them. Caught in a roadblock, Bert Miller was killed in the vicious gun battle that ensued. Rose Baird surrendered, leaping out of the riddled car and screaming wildly for mercy. Beulah was seriously wounded. Floyd saved himself. He jumped from the car when it roared to a stop, and with the deadly machine gun in his hands shot his way to freedom.

He might have taken Beulah along with him, but he left her for the cops, the unforgiveable sin in the underworld. Beulah cursed after him as he ran.

�You filthy rat! You lousy, double-crossing bastard! I�ll get you! I�ll get you!�

Shortly after, police received a tip that Floyd was drinking it up in a bootleg joint in Kansas City. The cops raided the joint, and in the shooting affray Floyd killed a police officer and a civilian. With every police authority in the country on the alert for him, and searching the known hangouts he frequented, the cunning killer made his way to Sallisaw and the Cookson Hills.

Once there Floyd spread money around to the poverty-stricken share-croppers and thus bought the protection of silence. Police could learn nothing in their questioning of the Sallisaw residents. Charles Arthur Floyd? Pretty Boy Floyd? Nope. Ain�t never heard tell of the feller.

Floyd then met Adam Richetti, and the two set out on a series of bank jobs. They robbed bank after bank in the small towns of Oklahoma, and then Floyd foolishly decided to visit Ruby and to effect a temporary reconciliation. Ruby was emphatically against the idea and when Floyd was dozing she notified Sheriff Erv Kelley of McIntosh County.

Sheriff Kelley made the mistake of trying to talk Floyd into a surrender, a silly and futile error.

�Charlie,� Sheriff Kelley called out, �I want you to come out and give yourself up. I�ll see you get a fair trial. Come out with your hands up.�

Floyd came out. But not with his hands up. Instead, he had the ever-present machine gun in his hands, and when he emerged from the house he aimed the gun at Sheriff Kelley and cut him in two.

This was the evil, vicious, human devil the attractive young prostitute had feared, and rightly so, and in her nervous fright to placate him in every way she could, named �Pretty-Boy�. The name stuck because Adam Richetti spread the story around.

When Frank �Jelly� Nash walked away from the federal prison in Leavenworth he was met a short distance away by two Chicago hoods who picked him up and drove him straight to the Windy City, to the O. P. Inn, operated by �Doc� Stacey.

Stacey, a cutie, financed bank jobs, jewel heists, and other sundry capers for hoods, gunmen, and killers for a ten per cent split of the take. He was delighted to see Nash.

�How�re you, Boy?� he greeted Nash. �Wonderful to see you.� He patted him on the back enthusiastically. �Had the boys right there to pick you up, didn�t I?� He laughed with glee. �You should have done this long ago. All you�d had to do was get in touch with me.�

�I know, I know,� Nash replied, �but the time wasnt� ripe. I had to wait for the right time.�

�Sure, sure, I know. Come on, let�s go into my office and talk it over. I got some real good boys waiting in there who want to meet you.�

�Anybody I know? I�m a little touchy about meeting people I don�t know, especially right now. You understand?�

Stacey took him by the arm. �I wouldn�t steer you wrong for the world, Frank. Come on. These are good boys. The best.�

�Let�s wait a minute, Doc. I want to know a little about these guys. I�m hotter than a piece of burning dynamite, with a big reward over my head; Tell me a little about these guys.�

Stacey gave him a run-down. All four men waiting in his office were top-notch professional heist-men and gunmen, and all were just as hot as he was. They were guys who were connected all over the country.

�I�m telling you, Frank, you�re moving in with the best there is. They feel the same way about you as you do about them, right now. They�ve got a lot of heat on them too. They aren�t anxious to let just any guy come in.�

�But who are they? Can�t you tell me?�

Stacey smiled. �Come on. Come in and meet them and see for yourself. Isn�t that the best way?�

Stacey hooked his arm in Nash�s and urged him toward the back, where the office was situated.

Nash held back a moment and Stacey saw why. Nash was staring at the attractive and svelte brunette behind the bar.

�You like her?� Stacey asked.

�Yeah. Very much. She�s a looker.�

Stacey smiled. �I�ll introduce you. She�s on the loose, so you can get home free. I�ll tell you one thing though, Frank. She�s not a bum, so take your time with her.�

�Let�s go.�

�No, Frank. Business first. She�ll wait.�

In Stacey�s office were four men � Alvin �Creepy� Karpis, Harvey Bailey, Freddie Barker, son of the notorious Ma Barker, and Earl Christman.

�Boys,� Stacey said, �here he is, the one and only Frank �Jelly� Nash, late of Uncle Sam�s College. He left without taking his diploma.�

�I�ve heard of you,� Karpis said to Nash. �You still got your guts with you?�

Nash grinned. �I�ve heard of you too. The grapevine said you guys got the bank in Fort Scott. I understand you got a chunk but left a bigger chunk.� He looked down at his shoes, and then at each of the four men. �I don�t leave anything but empty drawers. As for my guts, try me.�

Freddy Barker said, �He�s okay with me. Bald head and all.�

�Okay with me too,� Christman said. �Come on. Let�s talk turkey.�

Bailey nodded agreement.

�We�ve got the Cloud County Bank in Concordia, Kansas cased,� Karpis said. �We�re counting you in on it. On Stacey�s okay. The rest is up to you.� Karpis� eyes narrowed. �I hope you�re as good as he says you are.�

�Take my word for it, Al,� Stacey said. �I�ve never given you a bum steer yet, have I?�

�Okay,� Karpis said, �you keep in touch with Stacey. When we�re ready to move he�ll tell you where to meet us.�

The men shook hands all around. And so the gang was formed, five of the most lethal gunmen and bank-robbers in the history of American crime. Not even Dillinger�s gang could have matched it in efficiency and violence.

Doc Stacey staked Nash to a thousand dollars while the wait began, and Stacey introduced him to Frances Luce, the girl he wanted to meet. He wined and dined her, spent extravagantly, and then proposed. She accepted him without hesitation.

�I�ve got a little business to take care of first,� he told her, �and then we�ll get married.� Nash forgot to tell Frances he had a wife somewhere, still legally married to him. That little matter didn�t bother Nash at all. Besides, he didn�t use his right name anyway.

In due time the gang pulled off the Concordia robbery and made away with a little over $250,000. Nash returned to Chicago, picked up Frances and the two went to Joplin, Missouri, to the home of Herbert Farmer, who had done time with Nash in Oklahoma.

Farmer greeted his old prison buddy with open arms.

�I heard you pulled off a neat trick in Concordia,� Farmer said.

Nash grinned. �It was pretty neat. The guys I�m working with know their stuff. Creepy Karpis, Harvey Bailey, a guy named Earl Christman, and Freddie Barker, Doc Barker�s kid brother. You know some of them?�

Farmer nodded. �All of them. Karpis and Freddie did time together in the Kansas State Pen. That�s where they met. That Karpis is a rough boy. Francis Albin Karpavicz. A real tough Hunky. Don�t cross him, Frankie. He�ll kill in a minute. That Freddie Barker is okay but a little on the dumb side. Christman used to be a con-man. Harvey Bailey is sharp, rough and tough too. You really tied in with a hot bunch. You remember Doc Barker, don�t you?�

�Sure. He and Volney Davis still in the Oklahoma State Pen?�

�Yeah, but Ma Barker is trying to spring him.�

�But he�s doing a life bit.�

�Heavy dough would spring Judas in Oklahoma. I don�t think you�ll last too long with this mob. When Doc and Volney Davis get out Doc will take over. That means you�ll be out.� Here Farmer paused and looked meaningly at Nash. �You will know a lot about the mob by then. Maybe too much. Get it?�

Frances turned pale. �You mean they would kill Frankie?�

Nash patted her arm. �Don�t worry, honey. I can take care of myself. I�ll do a couple more jobs with the boys and get out before Doc and Volney Davis hit the bricks from the pen. I should have enough green then to keep us going for a long time.�

In the next month the gang pulled two more bank heists, each robbery netting them six figure amounts.

Nash, a guy who loved a good time and the best of everything, went wild. The toupee he wore gave him all the disguise he needed and he looked very little like the man on the WANTED posters that hung in every post office and police station in the country.

Confident of his disguise, he moved about the country freely, checked into the best hotels, ate in the finest restaurants, bought the most expensive clothes money could buy for himself and Frances. A smart cookie, he was aware of the fact that in a pinch he would heed friends, so he dropped off money to Herbie Farmer and paid his debts to Doc Stacey.

And then Doc Barker and Volney Davis got out of the Oklahoma State Penitentiary. Doc Barker sent for Frank Nash through Doc Stacey.

Barker got his nickname of �Doc� through his work as an orderly in the prison hospital. All he did to earn the cognomen was to remove bed pans from patients. Medically, he couldn�t tell the difference between an aspirin and a cough drop. He was just a little short of illiterate and thought a verb was something you put into soup to flavor it. But what he lacked in formal education he made up for in innate cunning. In cruelty and viciousness he matched Pretty Boy Floyd, and both were deaf to all entreaties for mercy, however impassioned.

Doc Stacey earned his nickname by virtue of the fact that he greeted everyone with �Whatta yah say, Doc?�

Stacey was sure he knew why Doc Barker wanted to see Nash and tried to convince Barker that Nash was okay.

Barker snarled back, �I didn�t say he wasn�t okay. I said I wanted to see him. All you gotta do is get in� touch with him and set up a meet. You got that?�

�Sure, sure, Doc. Anything you say. I�ll get in touch with him as soon as I can.�

While Stacey waited for Nash to call him, Harvey Bailey was picked up by G-Men for the Fort Scott bank job. Employees in the Fort Scott bank identified the pictures of Bailey as one of the men who had stuck up the jug. News of the pinch hit the papers.

That was when Nash called Stacey in Chicago.

�Am I hot?� Nash asked.

�Not for the Fort Scott job, but you are for the others. That�s the way I hear it. I�m going to give it to you straight, Frank. Doc Barker wants to see you. If I were you, I would pass up that meet. He�s a crazy bastard and he�s got Volney Davis with him. The way I look at it, they don�t want you in any more and because they know of the jobs you were in on they want to put you out of the way. I�d lay low if I were you.�

�You got any ideas about where I can go?�

�Yeah. Go to Hot Springs. To the White Front Pool Hall. It�s run by Dick Galatas. Tell him I sent you. He�s got the town in his hip pocket and you�ll be safe there.�

�Okay, Doc. Thanks a lot. I�ll keep in touch. And if anything breaks, you get in touch with me, eh?�

�Sure thing, Frankie.�

Richard Tallman Galatas, as Stacey said, had Hot Springs, Arkansas, in his hip pocket. His protection in Hot Springs was Dutch Akers, Chief of Detectives, to whom he paid off and with whom he ran an assortment of rackets, from bookmaking to extortion.

Nash didn�t go straight to Hot Springs. Instead, he went to Hollywood, where he checked into a plush hotel and made it known that he was a big-money man from the East interested in investing heavily in a motion picture production. The sharpies who operated along Poverty Row where the �quickies� were turned out like sausages in a machine beat a path to his suite. They brought along some has-beens who had been big names at one time, and Frances was ecstatic by the way they fawned over her.

While Nash and Frances cut a wide swath in Hollywood, Doc Barker and the mob were busy trying to spring Bailey. They engaged Earl Smith, an experienced trial lawyer, to defend him. Smith was certain he could win an acquittal for Bailey, and the gang plunked down an enormous fee for his services.

Smith blew the case � a case he didn�t have a chance to win � and he signed his death warrant in doing it. The gang lured Smith to a secluded side-road about fifteen miles north of Tulsa and shot him dead.

While they were in Tulsa, Doc Barker ran into Pretty Boy Floyd and Adam Richetti, who were hiding out in Claremore, a small town of about six thousand population.

�I�m looking for a guy named Frank �Jelly� Nash,� Doc told Floyd and Richetti. �You hear anything about him?�

�I�ve heard about him,� Floyd said, �but I ain�t seen him. Why�re you looking for him?�

�He knows too much.�

�I hear he�s solid. When did he change?�

�When I hit the bricks. Soon as Davis and I got out the G-Men suddenly get a lot of information. I figure he tipped them about Bailey.�

�Whatta yah want me to do?�

�What I�d do for you if you asked me the same thing.�

Floyd shrugged. �It ain�t nothin�. If Adam and I see him we�ll do you that little favor.�

�Thanks. If you want to get in touch with me for anything, you can call a guy named Doc Stacey at the O. P. Inn in Chi. He�s solid and will know where we are. Just in case.�

�Doc Stacey. O. P. Inn. Chi. I got it,� Floyd said.

The demented urge to knock off Nash, an urge founded solely on suspicion, characterized Doc Barker. His accidental meeting with Pretty Boy Floyd set the stage for what was to follow in a chain of the most unbelievable coincidences.

Nash finally tired of his masquerade in Hollywood and headed for Hot Springs with Frances. Arriving in town, he went straight to the White Front Pool Hall and sought out Dick Galatas.

�I�m Frank Nash,� he told Galatas. �Doc Stacey sent me.�

�I know,� Galatas replied. �Stacey called me. Where�ve you been? I�ve been expecting you.�

Nash grinned. �I thought I was a little hot there for a while so I stayed away. I think the heat�s off me a little.�

Galatas grunted. �Not much. You�re hotter than hell. You�ll be okay here, but don�t pull anything in town. And don�t make yourself too conspicuous. As long as you follow orders you�ll have nothing to worry about, My friend is the chief of detectives. He�ll keep me posted about you, in time for you to move fast if you have to. Okay?�

�Whatever you say.�

�Good. Have you checked in any place yet?�

�Not yet.�

�Well, you go to a summer home run by a friend of mine. It�s on the outskirts of town. Very fancy place. You�ll be safe there, and no questions asked. Just say I sent you.� Galatas scribbled an address on a piece of paper and handed it to Nash. �Wait here. I�ll get one of my boys to take you there in my car.�

For several months Nash and. Frances were happy. They moved about freely, visited all the restaurants and hot spots, walked through the town like any legitimate citizens. There was no need for Nash to pull any heist because he still had a lot of money left as his share of the loot taken in the banks he had helped rob. He was sure he would be safe from now on.

Then the roof fell in.

The FBI, relentless as the most determined of avengers, followed Nash�s trail across the country and finally got a tip that he was in Hot Springs.

On June 16, 1933, two FBI Agents, F. J. Lackey and Frank Smith, strode into the White Front Pool Hall, spotted Nash and confronted him.

�You�re under arrest, Nash,� Lackey said sharply.

�Who the hell are you?� Nash challenged.

�We�re Special Agents of the FBI,� Lackey answered, and showed Nash his credentials. �Let�s go, Nash. The ball game is over.�

�I�m not going anywhere,� Nash retorted. �Those credentials look phony as hell to me. And so do you guys.�

Lackey reached out to take hold of Nash�s lapels but Nash slugged him. Lackey slugged back, several vicious punches to Nash�s belly, and then Smith hit him with a couple of solid shots to the jaw. While Nash was dazed the two FBI agents slipped the cuffs on his wrists and hustled him out the door, shoved him into the back seat of their car and sped away.

Dick Galatas went into action as soon as the trio were out the door. He called Frances and told her what had happened. She hurried over to Galatas� house and there the two went into swift conference; Dick Galatas decided to call Dutch Akers.

Dutch Akers was a wise cop, which is to say that he was a good cop when he had to be. He knew whose money to take and how much. He was willing to give the proper service for payment received, and he didn�t double-cross anyone. That made him a wise cop, until the blow fell, and then he was a lousy cop and a dimwit.

Akers listened to Galatas and said he would see what he could do. He looked at Frances. �This is going to cost you a little, Mrs. Nash. I�ll have to pay off down the line.�

�How much?� Frances asked.

�I�d say about five thousand. I think that�s cheap enough, don�t you?�

Galatas stood by silently, allowing Akers to practice his shakedown on Frances Nash. No matter what happened to Nash, his bread and butter was here in Hot Springs, and how he earned it depended on Akers. Even if Galatas disapproved, he still had to allow the shake.

�I�ll pay it,� Frances answered. �I�ll get the money to you right away. Only get Frank back. As quickly as possible.�

�I�ll do my best,� Akers promised.

�We�ve got to stop those agents before they reach Leavenworth, Dutch,� Dick Galatas said. �Once they get Nash behind bars it will be too late.�

�I�ll do everything I can,� Akers said. �Now, Dick, you do what you can.�

Meanwhile, Smith and Lackey had picked up Chief of Police Otto Reed of McAlester, Oklahoma as a reinforcement and the three, together with Nash, reached Benton, Arkansas. Their car was stopped by Benton police officers who approached them with guns drawn.

�We�ve received word a man has been kidnaped in Hot Springs,� one of the police officers said. �What about it? Who are you guys?�

Lackey told him. �We�re taking this man back to Leavenworth. He�s an escaped prisoner, among other things. He�s also wanted for bank robbery.�

The police officers were satisfied and permitted the car to proceed. They were stopped again in Little Rock. At Fort Smith, Lackey, Smith and Reed held a conference. It was decided to telephone the FBI office in Kansas City and explain what had happened. They were advised to put their prisoner aboard the Missouri Pacific train at Fort Smith for Kansas City.

�We�ll have some men waiting to assist you when you arrive,� the K.C. officer said.

Galatas all this time had been busier than a one-legged cat chasing a speedy mouse. He called Chicago, Joplin, Missouri, and Kansas City.

The people he contacted got busy, and the underworld wires burned as plans to rescue Nash from his captors were made.

The frenzied attempts to free Nash were all out of true proportion to his importance. He was just a lucky bank robber. However, he had become a link in a chain which now stretched from Hot Springs to Kansas City to Chicago, and the men who had agreed to help were important and could get things done, and that was the extent of Nash�s influence, forged by the fact of Galatas� intervention.

The hoods who had agreed to help had close contacts with people in high places, in politics, in police departments, in an underworld circle which encompassed the sphere of influence of conniving men who took crooked dollars and were willing to close their eyes to any underworld schemes.

At this moment, a coincidence occurred that forged the chain of circumstances which led to the bloody and shocking event scheduled to take place, an event that brought about the downfall of some of the most powerful men in the nation. It all centered around the attempt to rescue a convicted felon, a thief, robber, and murderer from his legitimate and lawful captors.

About the same time that Nash was picked up by Agents Smith and Lackey, Sheriff Jack Killingsworth of Bolivar, Missouri, was in a public garage when he encountered Pretty Boy Floyd and Adam Richetti, although he didn�t know who they were at the time. They looked suspicious to Killingsworth and he started to question them.

Adam Richetti, standing behind Floyd, kept his eyes locked on Killingsworth while he was questioning Floyd, who answered in terse, snarling tones.

�Let me see your driver�s license,� Killingsworth demanded.

�Go to hell, Copper,� Floyd retorted. �You want to see my driver�s license, try to take it from me!�

Killingsworth went for his gun but Richetti beat him to the draw, overpowered him, marched him out of the garage, put him in his car and made him drive them out of town. The car broke down and Floyd held up a salesman and forced him to drive the party to Kansas City. There Floyd and Richetti released the sheriff and the salesman on a lonely side road. They never knew until later how lucky they had been to leave alive.

Pretty Boy Floyd and Adam Richetti reported to Johnny Lazia.

�You guys are real hot,� Lazia told them. �I got the word a while back, and a couple of hours ago about your caper this morning. I�ll help you. But remember one thing; don�t do anything in this town unless you talk to me about it first. Understood? Floyd, you can go to the same place, but don�t fly too high for a while.�

It was Johnny Lazia, criminal Boss of the first ward in Kansas City, whom Fate selected to set up the terror-ridden murders that were to take place the next day.

Lazia got urgent calls from Stacey in Chicago, Galatas in Hot Springs, and Herbie Farmer in Joplin. Then he knew what to do; he sent for Pretty Boy Floyd and Adam Richetti.

�The feds are bringing in a guy named Frank Nash from Hot Springs to return him to Leavenworth. Some friends of mine want him sprung. Can you handle it?�

Pretty Boy Floyd raised astonished eyebrows. �Nash? Jelly Nash?�

�Yeah. You know him?�

�Only by his rep. I know he heisted some jugs with Freddie Barker, Creepy Karpis, Earl Christman, and Harvey Bailey.�

�That�s him. Look, this may be a little tough, so I�m going to send along a pal of mine, Verne Miller, to give you guys a hand. How�re you fixed for heavy arms?�

�I�ve got a Tommy, some sawed-offs, and pistols.�

�Good. That�s all you�ll need. I don�t think you�ll have any trouble if you get the drop on the feds because they don�t carry any heat. The train pulls in at seven in the morning. You better be there a little earlier. Come right here after the caper. I want Nash brought to me.�

When Floyd and Richetti left Lazia, Floyd said, �This is real rich, handing this guy over to us on a silver platter. I guess this will make Doc Barker real happy.�

�But what about Lazia? He might not like it. He wants Nash.�

�Ah, the hell with him. We can say it was an accident, that Nash got in the way when we started blasting.�

�We going that route?� Richetti asked.

�Why not? They�re coppers.�

At seven o�clock in the morning, on that June 17, 1933, the Missouri Pacific train pulled into the Union Station in Kansas City.

It was a warm, clear day, tinted with sunshine and rimmed with a bright morning gold. The spacious plaza outside the station was a scene of lazy activity as crowds moved toward the entrances. There were smiles on the faces of the men and women, and some of them laughed lightly as they spoke to each other. Many of these were vacationers, looking ahead to a week or two of relaxation and fun. None of them envisioned the guttural rise of violence that was to sweep across the plaza in the next few minutes; none of them believed a scene of such maddening slaughter could be possible outside a field of battle.

Yet it was to come, swiftly, without any warning, and it froze them speechless for timeless seconds.

The Missouri Pacific, carrying Frank �Jelly� Nash, Chief of Police Otto Reed, and Special Agents F. J. Lackey and Frank Smith, was met by Special Agent Raymond Caffrey and two Kansas City detectives, W. J. Grooms and Frank Hermanson. In a car outside the station, two more special agents of the FBI waited. These were the reinforcements promised Lackey and Smith. The group moved through the crowded station toward the east exit where Caffrey had parked his car.

In front of Caffrey�s car the special agent said, �All right, Nash. Get into the front seat.�

The manacled Nash looked around the street, a vague hope in his eyes. Caffrey pushed him and again ordered him to get into the car. Nash got into the front seat, and then Chief Reed and two FBI agents climbed into the rear seat. Grooms and Hermanson, and another agent were standing beside the car while Caffrey walked around the automobile and put his hand on the handle of the door on the driver�s side. He opened the door and prepared to slide under the wheel.

Then it happened.

The light, shape, and tone of the morning was suddenly shattered, ripped apart by the dissonant roar of savage violence.

Three men, two of them armed with Thompson submachine guns, the other with heavy caliber pistols, approached the car, and one of them shouted, �Up! Up! Get �em up!�

The crowds in the plaza hurrying toward the entrances to the Union Station, and those coming out of it, had not yet become aware of what was happening.

Nash turned his head and looked at the men with the machine guns. For a fleeting instant a look of hope flashed in his eyes, and at the same time Detective W. J. Grooms, courageous but foolish, swung his gun up and around and fired. The slug hit one of the men holding a machine gun, but only in the shoulder, and he cursed.

�Let �em have it!� the wounded gunman yelled. �Let the bastards have it! Kill! Kill!�

�Don�t shoot! Don�t shoot!� Nash yelled back.

His warning words mattered little to the three men. The slow, grey ash of time and death, the payment in the coin of the realm, came to him with panic-driven swiftness. Slug after slug hit him and he slumped over the steering wheel.

The machine guns moved to and fro, and the man with pistols fired, too, and the crowds in the plaza stopped and turned their heads and looked, horror in their eyes and on their faces. They saw Detectives Hermanson and Grooms fall, and Special Agent Raymond J. Caffrey, and they saw the blood spurt from their bodies.

A woman screamed. Another fainted and a man caught her. There were more shots, then a brief pause. A moment of silence, and one of the gunmen spoke, calmly, as if he were inspecting a coat he intended to buy, and his words were harsh and sullen and cast a sickness over the area where he stood.

�They�re all dead here,� the gunman said. �Let�s go.�

The three killers hurried to their car, got in and sped away. It was all over in less than a minute. Sixty seconds of blazing death for five men � Chief of Police Otto Reed, Officers Grooms and Hermanson. Agent Raymond J. Caffrey, and Frank �Jelly� Nash.

The news of the killings in the plaza of the Union Station was headlined in newspapers all over the country, and a nation read and wondered how such a thing could happen, in a public square, in broad daylight.

Boss Tom Pendergast called in. Johnny Lazia and demanded to know who was behind the massacre.

�I want the names of every one of those damned killers, and I want them before the sun sets today. Understand? Today, not tomorrow. I know damned well that you know them. I�m going to give you enough time to get your bloody house in order, and then I want those names.�

Lazia tried to bluff his way through. �I don�t know them, Boss. They must have been guys who sneaked in here.�

�You�re a damned liar, Lazia. You know who they were. You know it and I know it. So bring those names to me today. I told you over and over again that I wanted no violence in this town. I told you that violence brings heat I can�t stand. This thing is liable to ruin me. You understand?� He punched at the air and then pounded his desk. �Ruin me, you dumb bastard!�

They were prophetic words;

Special agents swarmed into Kansas City, and with the aid of the local police, who now had their hands free, began digging into the facts of the massacre. Day after day the agents and special detectives from the Homicide Division kept digging with fierce intensity. Names began to come into the office of the FBI, searched out, dug out, hammered out.

Herbie Farmer of Joplin. Doc Stacey of Chicago. Verne Miller, gunman, bank robber, and professional killer, a man who looked effeminate. But his looks belied the granite-like hardness inside of him. Agents checked out each name, gathered information on them, tied them in with one man after another until they were tied to each other and the picture began to take a little form.

Boss Pendergast meanwhile rode Johnny Lazia�s tail. Lazia continued to deny knowledge of the men involved in the murders, and for a good reason. He feared that if he spilled his guts it would make him an accessory, or worse yet, a principal in the murders and so put him in the gas chamber.

�Lazia,� Pendergast said, �you�re a stupid, idiotic fool. You know I could get you immunity if you talked. But you won�t. Okay, have it your way. But get this � I�m washing my hands of you. You brought me heat I told you repeatedly I couldn�t and didn�t want. You double-crossed me. Now you stand alone. Get out. Get the hell out of my sight.�

Lazia tried desperately to placate Pendergast but all his pleas fell on deaf ears. Pendergast was adamant. Politician that he was, he knew he no longer could stand behind Lazia, that sooner or later the finger would point at the man and then it would be all over. He had no alternative, and as a matter of expedience and self-defense, to dismiss Lazia from his favor.

Word of Johnny Lazia�s fall from grace leaked almost immediately.

The FBI learned then that Herbie Farmer was an old buddy of Frank Nash, had once served a stretch with him. They learned, too, that Farmer knew Verne Miller, and that Miller had done business with Doc Stacey, and that Stacey was connected in Kansas City and Hot Springs, as well as other cities across the nation, with top hoods. Johnny Lazia�s name bounced into the picture, not a clear-cut picture yet but very evident in outline.

Word came then that the massacre had been committed by out-of-town hoods, professional killers. No names. Just the term out-of-town talent.

The FBI refused to accept the statements. Somebody in Kansas City was connected with the killings. An agent had been killed in cold blood. They wouldn�t be satisfied until they saw the killers dead, one way or another.

For a solid year the FBI agents assigned to solve the Union Station massacre were all over Kansas City, masquerading as hoods, junkies, bank robbers, ex-cons, under every guise imaginable. But it availed them nothing. They had run into a brick wall of silence.

It became more and more obvious to the FBI that somebody important in the underworld had been involved in the crime or the stool-pigeons and informers would not have clammed up so tightly. But who? Who was it that the underworld feared so much that not a single scrap of information could be forthcoming?

The bureau was desperate. Despite all its efforts, its threats and promises, nobody would talk. The trail got colder and colder, and it seemed that the case never would be solved. At this point, a determined and tenacious lawyer named Maurice Milligan was appointed United States District Attorney.

One of the first things Milligan, to whom the law was a sacred thing, did after taking office was to ask that he be briefed on the progress of the investigation into the Union Station massacre. He made an exhaustive study of each facet of the crime, went over each clue with minute care. He was stymied.

There were some pertinent questions in his mind, however. Who had ordered Agents Lackey and Smith stopped when they were transporting Nash from Hot Springs? Who was it that had telephoned police authorities in Benton and Little Rock to say that a man had been kidnaped?

The key to the whole puzzle seemed to lie in, the answers to those questions. He sent FBI agents into Hot Springs to check with the telephone company.

Records of the telephone company in Hot Springs revealed that on June 16, 1933, calls had been made from that city to Little Rock, Arkansas; Joplin, Missouri; and to Chicago. It was further revealed by agents working in Chicago and Kansas City that Doc Stacey had made a call to Kansas City from his O. P. Inn, and that Verne Miller had made a call from Kansas City to the O. P. Inn. Things were getting hot.

Milligan wanted to talk to Dick Galatas but Galatas and his wife had left Hot Springs. Herbie Farmer had left Joplin. Frances Nash had disappeared. Verne Miller had taken his mistress, Vivian Mathias, and gone to parts unknown. Why would all these men and women suddenly take it on the lam unless they were involved, unless they wanted to avoid questioning? Maurice Milligan was certain now that he was on the right track.

Agents now learned that immediately after the massacre, Verne Miller had moved all his household goods to the home of Fritz Mulloy, an underworld character. And no one knew where Mulloy had gone or why he was mixed up in the entire affair. In the basement of Verne Miller�s abandoned bungalow agents found several empty beer bottles. They picked these up, on the bare chance they might contain fingerprints which would reveal other names, perhaps the names of the killers.

Maurice Milligan learned then of Sheriff Jack Killingsworth�s encounter with Pretty Boy Floyd and Adam Richetti. Then he came across Mrs. Lottie West, the woman in charge of the Traveler�s Aid desk at the entrance to the Union Station.

Mrs. West prided herself on her memory and ability to read faces. The morning of the massacre she had noticed a man sitting on a bench a few feet away from her desk. He kept watching the gates where passengers came from arriving trains.

�I told myself,� she said to Milligan, �that this man had a particularly cruel face. However, I didn�t wish to condemn him solely on my own judgment.�

�Okay, Mrs. West. What else did you notice or see?�

�Well, I tried a couple of times to engage this man in conversation but he wouldn�t answer any of my questions. I thought he might need help of some kind, information as to where he wanted to stay or something, but he just wouldn�t say a word to me. He wouldn�t even admit it was a nice day.�

�Yes, yes, Mrs. West. What else? Did you see anything more of this man?�

�Yes, I did. The next time I saw him he and two other men were near the automobile of that poor man who was killed. Oh, it was awful, simply awful. I saw the whole thing, you know.�

�What did you see? Tell me everything you saw. Don�t omit a thing.�

�Well, when I saw those poor men shot I started to scream, and then I ran to look for a policeman and I found Officer Fanning and shouted to him to shoot those men who had killed all those people. He did shoot at them but missed them. I�m really ashamed of my feelings, you know � to have wanted someone killed � but I just couldn�t let those men get away. Those awful murderers!�

�Yes, I know, Mrs. West. I�m going to show you some mugs, some photographs. See if you can pick out the men you saw on that morning.�

Milligan took a folder of mug shots from his desk and told Mrs. West to go through them. She turned page after page until she came to a picture of Pretty Boy Floyd.

�That�s him!� she cried. �That�s the man I saw on that morning!�

Milligan wasn�t excited. He showed her a photo of Adam Richetti but she couldn�t identify him as one of the men she had seen near the car. He and the agents in the room were a little skeptical.

They already had experienced a score or more of �positive� identifications made by men and women who claimed they were eye witnesses to the killings. They had picked out photographs of Wilbur Underhill and Robert Brady, and these were the men charged with the crime in the first indictment returned. The charges were dismissed, however, when investigation revealed that neither of the two men could have been mixed up in the murders.

Milligan thanked Mrs. West for her information. �You have been very helpful. If we need you again we�ll get in touch with you.�

�Yes, sir. I�ll be glad to help all I can. I certainly hope you get those men.�

�Yes, Mrs. West. So do we.� And Milligan muttered a silent and solemn �Amen.�

She was little, helpless, an unwilling partner in a murder which would send her soon to ruin. But a certain type of lady doesn�t die easy. There was one last chance, and she had to take it...

Albert brown settled the car in a parking space, then swivelled around urgently to his companion. �You�d better go in there and get him out.�

�I suppose so,� Laura Dermody agreed nervously, darting a hand through her jet-black hair and down the back of her long, graceful neck. She closed the car door softly and looked around at the roadhouse fifty yards away. Her face glowed from the mechanical reflection of the neon sign: Punchinello�s. Dine. Dance.

There was the sound of laughter when she opened the outside door a couple of minutes afterwards and when she opened it again later on. A man was next to her in the lighted doorway. Two pairs of footsteps came along a gravel pathway then, and over to the parking lot.

Tom Ulric stood in front of Brown�s car and moved back and forth as if he were drunk. His blond hair fell halfway down to his deep-set, burning eyes. He was breathing heavily.

�You want your money back!� He grinned, slurring the words together. �Laura and Bert want their money back.�

�Miss Dermody put up fifty thousand dollars, and I did, too, because we were certain that you�d invest it properly for us. You took it for yourself. Now Miss Dermody wants her shares back and I want mine.�

�That�s tough on her,� Ulric grinned. �And you.�

Brown lunged out of his car and practically pushed Ulric towards it, Ulric protesting much more than Brown�s impact against him made necessary. Laura, her blue dress crinkling as she leaned forward in the dimness, said, �Go easy on him, Mr. Brown. Please don�t hurt him.�

Brown finally pushed Ulric into the seat next to the one he�d be taking, and slammed the door shut. He walked around noisily to the driver�s door, then opened and closed it with savage fury. The car started with a teeth-gritting mesh of gears.

�Home, James,� Ulric said in that drunken tone he was using too broadly. He belched loudly and unnecessarily.

Brown drove along a wide road past the outskirts of town. Ulric stopped singing to ask loudly, �Where you taking me?�

�To a quiet place where we�ll talk,� Brown said grimly.

�Talk? You sound like you�re going to try and beat the money out of me. Let me get away from here!�

�Don�t try anything,� Brown said. �I can knock you out if I have to, and I�ve given Miss Dermody a gun that she�s carrying in her pocketbook, and she won�t hesitate to use it.�

Ulric laughed. �She�ll never hurt me, never, never.�

�She will when fifty thousand dollars are concerned,� Brown told him. �And if you think I�m going to let an old friendship stand in the way of the fifty thousand you took from me, then you�re mistaken about that, too.�

�I want out of here,� Ulric bellowed.

The shifting weight of his body signaled that he was going to make a grab toward the car�s wheel. Brown was given more than enough time to stop at the side of the road and turn to meet Ulric�s body with his own. He raised a fist and grunted before letting it travel towards Ulric, who pulled back and called out loudly just the same when he was touched by the tip of it.

Ulric reached both hands around Brown�s neck. The pressure was a shade harder than Brown would have expected; Tom Ulric generally annoyed him by making things a little too realistic.

Ulric�s weight was on him, and the two men were grunting and swearing. Brown raised his head and called to Laura, �The gun, the gun.�

Laura Dermody�s fear showed in her, despair curling her lips. She pulled the gleaming .25 out of her pocketbook and pointed it wildly.

�Get away from him,� she called. �Don�t fight with him, please.�

Brown called out, �The gun. Shoot!�

Laura Dermody quavered as she said, �I�ll shoot, Tom. I swear I�ll shoot.�

Brown�s gurgle could hardly be made out, even by Brown himself, because Ulric was shouting hoarsely: �I�ll fix you good.�

And he sounded as if he meant it. The pressure on Brown was increased; not dangerously, of course.

But Ulric was throwing himself into the part even more vigorously than usual. Brown could hardly hide his anger.

Laura fired at last. Tom Ulric gasped loudly, almost deafening Brown for seconds. Then Ulric arched his back and clasped a hand across his chest. A red stain that looked like anything but ketchup appeared on the shirt-front. Ulric became quiet.

Laura asked, �Did I... did I��

Brown was careful to let her watch him feel the pulse on Ulric�s wrist. �He�s dead, and there goes our hundred thousand dollars.�

�Is that all you can think of at a time like this?� Laura Dermody asked shakily.

�Each of us gave him fifty thousand in cash, and I didn�t Care about anything else. How... well, you were seen coming to get him in that night spot.�

Laura Dermody gasped, then dropped the gun with blanks in it and put both hands to her mouth to keep from screaming!

�I was probably seen threatening him at the parking place and pushing him into the car,� Brown went on. �There�s only one way to help ourselves and I don�t like it any more than you will. But there�s no choice.�

�You mean, go back to that night club and act as if nothing happened?�

�No, of course not,� Brown said in real alarm. �But I�ve got some winter equipment in the car and this won�t take long to arrange.�

He got out of the car, opened the trunk and took out a shovel. Then he walked away and past a line of gaunt trees. When he knew that she couldn�t see him any longer, Brown shovelled enough earth to get the implement dirty. He walked back to the car.

Laura Dermody glanced down at the shovel, and kept herself from crying out. �Are you going to � to bury him?�

�There�s no choice, like I said.� Brown noticed that Ulric lay back with eyes open, and made a point out of closing them. �Give me a few minutes and I�ll be right back.�

He lifted Ulric onto a shoulder and carried him past the line of trees. Ulric caught his balance as soon as he was dropped to his feet and glanced around disapprovingly at the various small holes � he had told Brown more than once that things would look more realistic at this stage of a swindle if his partner dug an actual grave.

But he extended a hand for the handshake that had always been part of the team�s ritual at this point, and Brown turned away without accepting it. As Ulric walked off silently, Brown purposely ran back to the car.

�I�m planning to forget my fifty thousand and beat it out of this town,� he told the girl as soon as he had rejoined her. �I�d advice you to do exactly the same thing.�

Somewhere in that darkened theater a desperate man waited to make his last kill. No one could stop him. Unless...

Snow. Within an hour it had fallen, soft, swirling, spinning its white web about Edmundville and the surrounding countryside until it lay five inches deep on the farmland and in the town streets. But it was Saturday night, and though white flakes still swirled in the bitter cold air, the Royal Theatre, the only theatre in Edmundville was filled to half capacity with almost four hundred people who had paid to see the first local showing of �Safari Love.� One of those people � maybe � was Ray Hatten.

�I tell you it is him!� Off-duty deputy Burt Kline was almost shouting at the sheriff. �I was sittin� almost next to him when I happened to look over and I knew in a flash! He�s on an aisle seat on the right side, five rows from the front. An� he don�t suspect a thing, I swear he don�t!�

Newly elected sheriff Wilson Parker had registered surprise and alarm when Kline first suggested Ray Hatten might be in the Royal Theatre, but now he sat back calmly and tried to assimilate facts from Kline�s torrent of information.

Wilson Parker was no ordinary small town sheriff. Lean and personable, thirty years old and a recent law school graduate, he was a man many people had marked for a political future.

While Kline was talking, Parker reached into the breast pocket of his brown uniform shirt for a cigarette and thoughtfully accepted the flame from the lighter that was in his deputy�s trembling hand.

It was difficult to believe that Ray Hatten, the most wanted criminal in the history of the state, possibly the country, was right here in Edmundville at the old Royal. Hatten, an ex-infantry sharpshooter, had started with a multiple murder in California, then in stolen cars had cut a bloody path eastward, plundering and killing. Including the three in California, his total death count stood at seven and one pending in a hospital in Phoenix. One of those seven was a policeman who had made the mistake of thinking Hatten carried only one gun.

Then had come the murder of a school girl in Cliffordson, which Hatten was strongly suspected of, and an armed robbery east and out of state that suggested Hatten had moved on toward the eastern seaboard. By now he was supposed to be in New York.

�My God, Sheriff,� Kline was saying, his heavy face red with excitement, �what are you gonna do?�

Parker stood and reached for a heavy mackinaw that would cover his sheriff�s badge and revolver. �The only thing to do is go and look the situation over, make sure it�s really Hatten. You get Sandy and as many reserve deputies as you can line up and I�ll meet you at the Royal.�

Kline already had the door open.

�And, Burt,� Parker said, blue eyes serious in his lean face, �don�t do anything rash unless I give the word. Okay?�

�Sure, Sheriff,� Kline said. The door was shut and he was gone.

Few people were on State Highway 47, Edmundville�s main street, as Parker trudged through the snow toward the Royal. In his teens he�d worked as an usher at the old theatre. He was trying to recall every facet of its construction, just in case a plan of action was needed. The Royal was an ancient theatre, dating back to the thirties, and in all that time there had been no major change in its simple, one-story design. Lack of competition had preserved it through the years.

In the empty lobby, Parker explained things to Rog Hopper, the Royal�s manager. Then he casually walked down a side aisle to cross below and in front of the screen, then to walk up the right center aisle past the man Kline said was Hatten. Parker would appear to be a man just getting up to go to the restroom, or to the lobby to smoke a cigarette. Or, if he�d been seen coming down the side aisle, a man searching the darkness for his children or wife.

Parker was careful to glance only once, and swiftly, but in that split second he was sure the man was Hatten. The fugitive looked exactly like his newspaper pictures, broad shouldered and heavy featured, straight black hair over pale eyes in a pale face, eyes that were fixed on, but not looking at, the sunny Amazon jungle scene on the screen. And he was wearing a dark colored windbreaker too thin for the weather outside,

Without looking back, Parker walked slowly up the aisle to the lighted lobby.

�It�s him,� he said to Rog Hopper.

Hopper�s complexion blanched. �Good Lord, does he suspect he�s been spotted?�

�I don�t know,� Parker said. �I don�t think so.� Though the lobby was empty, he kept his voice low.

Hopper lowered his voice in accordance with Parker. �What are we gonna do, Park?�

Parker walked to the glass double doors and peered out at the falling snow. �In a few minutes Sandy, Burt Kline and the rest of the deputies will be here,� he said. �You meet them and tell them to stay in the lobby. Tell them not to make a move until I come back.�

�You want me to keep an eye on Hatten in the meantime?�

�That�s the very last thing I want,� Parker said. �He�s worse than nitroglycerin; you only have to look at him wrong and he�ll explode in there with about four hundred people.�

�But what do I do if Hatten comes up here for a smoke or something?�

�He�s not likely to. He doesn�t want to be spotted. But if he does, you go outside and meet Sandy and the boys and tell them to wait out there out of sight from the front doors.�

�It�s ten above zero out there, Park!�

�I know,� Parker said, �but I�m more interested in keeping people at ninety-eight point six.� He buttoned his heavy mackinaw. �I�m going to the office to contact the State Patrol and the F.B.I. I�ll be back within ten minutes.� He stepped out into the neon lit winter night beyond the doors and disappeared.

When Parker returned to the Royal his chief deputy, Sandy Jackson, and three other deputies were standing in a comer of the lobby. Only Jackson was uniformed.

�He didn�t come up here while you were gone,� Rog Hopper said nervously twisting the large ring on his finger.

�Relax, Rog,� Parker said. He turned to Sandy Jackson. �You know who we got down there?�

Jackson nodded. �Help coming?�

�Both the State Patrol and the F.B.I.,� Parker said. �But it�ll be at least a half hour before anybody � gets here. The roads farther east are covered with almost a foot of snow. That�s probably why Hat-ten�s here. Couldn�t risk traveling in this weather and doubled back toward Cliffordson to confuse the police.�

Parker looked around suddenly. �Where�s Burt Kline?�

Jackson�s barrel chest expanded as he took a deep breath. �I was waiting for you to ask that.� He nodded his tousled head toward the darkened auditorium. �He�s down there a few rows from the back. I don�t know what�s got into him. He says the only thing to do is walk right down to Hatten, put a gun to the back of his head and make him surrender.�

Parker bit his lower lip and his eyes narrowed. He was cursing himself for accepting Kline as a deputy. He�d always known the man was too excitable and unpredictable.

�The damned idiot!� he said. Then he calmed himself. �What�s he waiting for?�

Jackson�s voice was without a sign of the stress showing in his face. �He said he�d wait fifteen minutes so you�d be here to take charge of the prisoner.�

�That was considerate of him,� Parker said. He looked at Rog Hopper. �Go down there, Rog, and tell Kline I said to get his � tell him I said to get back up here in the lobby.�

Hopper walked quickly to the nearest of the four exit arches. Then he stopped, ran halfway back frantically and almost fell on the lobby carpet as he motioned desperately to Parker.

�Kline just stood up.� Hopper yelled in a hoarse whisper. �Quick! He�s walkin� down!�

Parker swallowed dryly and drew his pistol from its leather holster. �Sandy, you�re uniformed, so stay out of sight. Better still, take Garfield and go out and cover the exits.�

To the remaining two deputies he said, �Each of you stand at the head of one of the end aisles. I�ll take the right center aisle. Keep your revolvers ready but out of sight and when Kline puts that gun to Hatten�s head, move down there quick and settle that crowd.�

He was walking across the lobby. �And for God�s sake,� he said over his shoulder, �don�t use those guns unless I fire a shot!�

His heart pounding, Parker stood with his mackinaw buttoned, his revolver held losely behind his leg, and watched Kline�s dumpy figure walk slowly down the right center aisle toward Hatten. He was halfway down, using a box of popcorn as an innocent looking prop. His right hand was in his suitcoat pocket, and Parker was sure the deputy�s finger would be on the trigger.

When Kline was about ten rows behind Hatten, the fugitive�s head turned momentarily and Kline�s steps faltered. Parker looked quickly at his two deputies and saw that they too had seen what had happened. He�s on to him, Wilson Parker thought, his heart skipping a beat. But Hatten was again watching the screen and Kline was walking forward, as if nothing had happened.

Suddenly Hatten twisted in his seat, leaning his body almost casually out into the aisle, and a gunshot barked.

Kline fell stiffly, straight backward onto the carpeted, slanted aisle, popcorn scattering over the chest of his tweed suitcoat, inanely reminding Parker of grotesque funeral spray petals.

Parker and the theatre audience snapped out of their shock at the same time. They were snapped out of it by a screaming voice from the narrow stage in front of the screen.

�Cool it everybody! Back down in your seats!�

Parker was astonished to see Ray Hatten standing boldly before the screen with a nickel-plated revolver in each hand. And suddenly one of those guns was pointed at Parker.

�You three guys!� Hatten yelled. �I know you�re fuzz and I know you got the exits blocked! Now do what I say or I�ll fire into the audience! Drop those guns you got behind you, back into the lobby and shut them doors! Only leave those doors on the left exit open.�

�Do it!� Parker yelled. He dropped his own gun in the center of the aisle, where Hatten could see it, backed up three steps and swung the two wooden doors shut across the exit arch.

There were alarmed murmurs from the audience. The projectionist cut the sound of the movie and the wail of a baby cut through everyone�s vibrating nerves. Then the baby was silent.

The whole theatre beyond the closed doors was silent.

�Good Lord,� Rog Hopper said. �What a damn crazy thing to do!�

�A damn smart thing to do,� Parker said bitterly. �If he�d done anything else he�d have been dead by now.�

Hearing the gunfire and shouting, Sandy Jackson had left Garfield to cover the side exits and rushed back into the lobby.

�Why didn�t he want those end doors shut?� he asked, his voice still amazingly calm.

�That side door in the corner beyond them leads to the stairs to the projectionist�s booth,� Parker said. �The booth is the one place we might be able to get a shot at him from, but now he�s got it cut off.�

�You mean Hatten cased this place?� one of the deputies asked incredulously.

�He�s been on the run for over a month,� Parker said. �He�s no idiot.�

�Is anybody up there now?� Sandy Jackson asked.

�Old Ed, the projectionist,� Hopper said breathlessly. �He doesn�t have a gun though.�

�Good,� Parker said. �I don�t think the light from the projector is bright enough to keep Hatten from seeing someone taking aim at him anyway. And if someone did get a shot away from the projection booth it would have to be perfect. Even dying, Hatten could empty those revolvers into the audience.�

�What about Kline?� one of the deputies asked.

�I think he�s dead,� Parker said bluntly. �But if he is only wounded, we still can�t make a deal that will turn that maniac loose on society again.�

They stood in thoughtful silence while Parker tried to recall some way to conceal himself in the auditorium, some small bit of cover that would enable a man to take careful aim without being seen. But he could think of none. The Royal was a simple rectangular building without alcoves or protruding fancy trim.

�Ed!� Rog Hopper shouted suddenly in near hysteria. He pointed a trembling finger. �Ed, get back!�

Parker looked to see Ed Noonan, the old projectionist of the Royal, opening the door to the projection booth stairs. His white hair was unruly and he looked puzzled. As he took his first step across the lobby he began to ask something, but a bullet in the head interrupted him. He took three wobbly, staggering steps away from the deadly open doors to the auditorium and fell forward.

Parker and a deputy ran to the old man and pulled him toward the center of the lobby.

�He�s still breathing,� Parker said, amazed that it was so with the amount of blood soaking into the lobby carpet. He turned to Sandy Jackson. �Call an ambulance.�

Then Parker heard a sound that chilled him. The audience, like one huge, frightened animal, was murmuring and moaning in fear, the sound of dozens of sobbing women underlying the buzz of prayers and frightened conversation. Parker was suddenly sharply aware that whatever was done to get Hatten must be done in a way that wouldn�t send four hundred people stampeding in fright toward the narrow exits.

Then he heard the faint sound of Hatten yelling.

�Head fuzz!� the fugitive was screaming. �I wanna talk to you!�

Parker straightened and walked slowly to the open doors by the projection booth stairs, motioning everyone else to stay back. Then he stood framed in the doorway, a perfect target, noticing with horror that his left foot was resting in a small puddle of blood.

Hatten was strutting back and forth on the stage. Behind him the newest Hollywood find, Tad Montgomery, was making silent love to a young European actress. Though Hatten was crazed with desperation, Parker saw with amazement that the murderer was actually enjoying his spectacular predicament. Even through his fright, the man�s fantastic ego was making itself seen.

A gleaming revolver was aimed at Parker and Hatten grinned behind it. The grin was strikingly incongruous to the panic in his eyes. �You the sheriff, man?�

�I am.� Parker�s voice was too high.

Hatten�s grin widened, then quickly disappeared. �I�m in a hell of a fix, ain�t I, Fuzz?�

Parker was silent.

�Well, let me tell you, Fuzz, you�re in a hell of a fix yourself. Now this here picture�s over in about fifteen minutes, and you got that much time to do like I say or a lot of these people are gonna die. I guess you noticed I ain�t a bad shot.�

Behind him, Parker could hear the noises of the stretcher bearers working to carry the old man out.

�What do you want?� he asked.

�You,� Hatten said, �handcuffed and walking down that aisle. Then you an� me�ll walk out of here together, get in a patrol car with snow tires and drive out of town.�

Parker, stood clenching and unclenching his hands, knowing that he couldn�t do it, knowing that it was his duty not to do it, and knowing that there were ten bullets left in those ludicrous silver revolvers.

�Let us get Kline, the first man you shot, and I�ll think about it,� Parker said.

�He don�t enter into it,� Hatten said contemptuously. �He�s dead. I don�t miss at that range.� Then he laughed loudly, the laugh of a frightened man. �If it�ll make you feel any better I�ll put another bullet in him to make sure.�

He looked out at the terror stricken audience for some kind of perverse approval and his face became serious again. Then he let one of the pistols suddenly twirl downward around his trigger finger, bringing a gasp from the audience. He toyed with the gun, letting it dangle upside down while he made a slow sweeping motion across the audience with the revolver in his other hand.

�Now back out of here, Fuzz. You ain�t got long to think about what I said.�

�He�s half crazy!� Rog Hopper said as Parker stepped back into the lobby.

�So is the audience,� Parker said.

�Isn�t there any place in there a man could get a good shot at him from?� Sandy asked.

Parker shook his head. �Even if there were, the firing might stampede the audience and take more lives than Hatten could. Anyway, he�d have to be hit perfectly and by complete surprise or he�d get some shots away before he died.�

The sheriff put a hand on Rog Hopper�s shoulder. �When�s this movie over � exactly?�

Hopper looked at his watch. �Ten minutes.�

Parker breathed deeply and wiped a sweat-damp hand across his face.

�Don�t the light from the projector bother him enough to keep him from seeing somebody in the back of the show?� one of the deputies asked.

�You saw how much it bothered him,� Parker said.

He was remembering the times he�d been up on the stage as an usher when he was young. The light from the projector came down from too great an angle to affect the vision of a man on the stage unless he looked directly at it.

�Damn it!� Jackson said. �How about a stage door or something?�

�There�s nothing,� Hopper said hopelessly. �Only some steps at each side of the stage.�

Sandy Jackson glanced at his wrist watch and looked at Parker. �You can�t go with him, you know.� This time his voice betrayed emotion.

�I know,� Parker said. �I don�t intend to.�

Then Wilson Parker was actually smiling.

Hopper wrung his hands. �You gone out of your head, Park? I don�t see anything funny about this.�

Parker�s smile faded to seriousness. �You got a key to that back door?�

�Sure,� Hopper said, �but that�s just an old store room. You can�t get at him from there.�

�Get me the key,� Parker said. He was staring thoughtfully out the theatre�s doors at the still-falling snow. �Sandy, drive over to the office and get me my new repeating rifle. And put a silencer on it.�

�A silencer?�

�Make it as fast as you can,� Parker said. �I�ll meet you around back.�

He began to button his jacket.

The audience at the. Royal Theatre was looking up at Ray Hatten, who was standing with his feet wide, the shining revolvers in his hands at his sides, when suddenly the gunman�s body trembled. His face distorted, he began to jerk about the stage in violent spasms, a marionette gone mad. Then he pitched forward and lay still.

All this happened silently, within the space of a few seconds, leaving the audience more surprised than frightened. They stared numbly as the camera zoomed in for the final close up of Tad Montgomery, noticing that the new star had suddenly developed a bad case of acne.

On the dust-covered wood floor behind the taut, bleached canvas screen, Parker lay with his cheek resting on the hard stock of his rifle. He�d gotten low and aimed at an upward angle, well above the heads of the audience, and then waited for the precise moment when both of Hatten�s hands were down at his sides. Aiming carefully at the dark, bigger than life silhouette, starting at the head and working downward, he�d squeezed off shot after shot until the rifle had jammed.

He�d seen the silhouette jerk about, trying to raise its hands, seen one hand raise only after the gun it was holding had dropped. And then the silhouette had disappeared, the raised hand flying upward in what reminded Wilson Parker of an insane, uncoordinated Nazi salute.

Parker lay still, breathing deep relief, aware of the increasing brightness about him as the projector brightened to close-up intensity. Then he gradually became aware of a softer light as the immense, red-hued letters magically appeared before and above him.

�She is beautiful,� the sheik said. �She is also unfaithful. Find the man. I mil do the rest!�

The big electric fans churned the suffocating desert air down from the smoky blue ceiling onto the three people around the low banquet table below. Sitting on cushions around the feast were the senator, the sheik, and the American girl.

U.S. Senator Brooks U. Banner was a big fat man wearing an old-fashioned, enormously wrinkled white suit. After an inspection of the fighting areas in Viet Nam, he was on his way back home. He had a �standing invite� to drop in on the Iraqi oil sheik. Now there was an added attraction. Six months ago Sheik Ali Sa�ab had married an American girl.

Bernice was tall, blonde, and beautiful, presiding like a perfect hostess over the roast lamb, rice, spices and yoghourt.

At the end of the meal she rose, smiling.

�Hamdullah,� she said dutifully, the way every Moslem, ended a meal. �I will leave you gentlemen to your drinks and chess.�

They watched her walk away, the down-drafts flowing through her soft white garments, until she disappeared like a genie in the wavering haze of the bronze filigree braziers.

The sheik leaned forward, his bearded head muffled in the folds of his keffiyah. He had something more deeply personal on his mind than a chess problem. �She is unfaithful.�

�What�s that?� Banner stared, a Pittsburgh stogie clamped in his teeth. �Who with?�

�I don�t know.� The black eyes, hanging in the wrinkled leathery face, glittered venomously. �I ask you to help me find out.�

�Don�t appeal to my morals.� Banner sipped his cloudy potent arak. �I haven�t any.�

The sheik tasted his bitter tar-black coffee and lit a long Turkish cigarette. �Then let me appeal to your deductive analysis. In the old days I would have been a Caliph and you would be my Grand Vizier. That is no small honor. I would pick the most acute brain in the kingdom.�

Soft soaping me, thought Banner. His frosty little blue eyes watched the dark-skinned face. �What makes you think she�s��

�Anouk, her old serving woman, told me. B�Illah! There�s loyalty! The man is one of the three young Americans I have helping me run my oil company. All three of them work and sleep in the administrative wing. It�s not far from here. Bernice, in a weak moment when she needed a confidant, told Anouk that she was having an intrigue with a man she had known back in the United States before she married me. Under my nose� � it was a sharp proud beak � �they are passing messages back and forth. Meetings in secret places. Only she didn�t tell Anouk with which one.�

Banner said slyly, �So you want me to help you find out. Let me warn you, Ali. I�m all in favor of young romance. What�s an old rummy like you want with a girl like that?�

�I�ve offered her all the delights of the perfumed garden.�

�Fah!� snorted Banner. �Sand and flies! And all this heat!�

�I�ve given her clothing, jewels, motorcars. Even air conditioning. It�s just been installed,� he said enthusiastically. �Tomorrow I will throw the master switch that will cool the whole palace.�

�Maybe old Anouk is jealous,� suggested Banner, �she could be lying.�

The sheik shook his hooded head. �She has watched Bernice. During the hottest part of the day, when everyone else rests and sleeps, Bernice goes down the corridor where the Americans work, stopping off at each office.�

�Are the men there at the time?�

�No,� said the sheik, �the men are absent. Bernice goes into each office for perhaps a few minutes, then emerges. She carries nothing in except her handbag, and nothing out. Yet I am fully convinced that they communicate with each other in one of these offices.�

�Why�re you so sure?�

�No man approaches her. Not during the day. She receives no letters or notes. No telephone calls.�

�What�re these offices like?�

�Very simple. A desk, a chair, a telephone, a typewriter, a filing cabinet. I�ve examined all of these things, even before Bernice has entered, but they reveal nothing.�

�Yet you still feel that there�s writing left there somewhere?�

�I�m positive. But where? I�ve searched and searched. There is nothing written on the walls, floor, or ceiling. Once, after Bernice had returned to her own rooms, Anouk looked through her handbag. The only strange article that she found in it was a piece of chalk.�

�Chalk!� Banner�s fat body gave a forward bounce. �There�s one significance about chalk.�

�What is it?�

�It can be easily rubbed out again.� He peered around mysteriously. �Did you try following her?�

�Impossible! I cast too large a shadow.�

�Hire somebody to do it.�

�I will tell no one about this folly except you. It could become the choice gossip of the bazaars.�

�Suppose I find out which one it is.� Banner shifted the cigar in his mouth. �What�ll you do?�

�I will eliminate him,� said the sheik fiercely.

Banner�s furry black eyebrows juggled. �Eliminate?�

�In the old days he would be drawn and quartered.� Obviously he regretted the passing of the old days. �Now I will have him banished from Iraq. Once he has gone, she will return all her affection to me.�

Wishful thinking indeed, Banner thought. But this was a stickler to solve. He couldn�t resist the challenge. And he had a curious interest in this ghostly young man who was out to steal the old desert hawk�s darling, a young man he had never seen and perhaps never would.

He struggled to his feet. �Okay, Ali, let�s take a look.�

Slowly and thoughtfully they walked through the moonlit garden to the administrative wing of the palace.

�Why don�t you fire all three of �em?� Banner suggested.

The sheik spread out his hands helplessly. �Then I would have no one at all to run my oil business.�

The three offices off the corridor were, as the sheik had described them, small, neat, and almost identical. Banner entered each one, standing there with his fists on his hips, staring around.

They reached the third one. There were twin electric switches just inside the door. The sheik reached in and flicked one.

Banner stared around and up.

�I�ve noticed,� he said, �that there�s something that you can see � yet you can�t see.�

�Invisible writing?�

�In a way. Who uses this office?�

�Gordon Cook.�

�Does he always leave his fan running?�

�Sometimes he is forgetful.� The sheik reached out for the second switch.

�Yes,� drawled Banner. �Turn it off. And look!�

The big four-bladed fan suspended from the ceiling whirred to a stop.

The sheik�s black eyes were on it, staring.

�The fan!� he cried out.

�Chalk writing on the blades. Ali. You can�t see it while the fan�s in motion. All they had to do to reach it was stand up on the desk.�

�B�Illah!� The sheik was straining his eyes up. �What does it say?�

�Air conditioning operative tomorrow. Fan messages will be obsolete. Why stay any longer, love? Meet me at Baghdad Airport for the 10:30 flight out.�

The sheik cried out: �He�s running away with her! I�ll stop them! What time is it?�

Banner hauled out a ponderous pocket watch and held it up.

The sheik looked at it with a frightful groan.

It was already 10:45.

He was ravaged by illness and his hatred, a living dead man. Far too weak, too utterly gone to commit murder. Or � was he?

Old Simon Fullerton sat at the window of his rented Miami apartment and looked out with hatred at the tangle of straggling, tree-high hibiscus and unmown grass which filled the rear yard.

Stifling wet heat blanketed the big old frame house on its unkempt lot. Just across North River Drive a dirty mist smoked the surface of the Miami River and softened the lines of the rotting hulks moored against its banks.

Simon had retired to Florida; but not to a life of luxury.

He sat in his wheel chair and looked out. Constantly, endlessly, he shook with the ravages of the disease which was slowly killing him. Simon was close to the final stages of Parkinson�s disease.

Day and night his limbs and the flesh of his body shook and crawled on his old bones. Only in sleep could he find a little relief. He could only walk a little now. Mostly he rolled the wheel chair.

Worst of all was the endless, remorseless trembling that had almost destroyed the usefulness of his hands. He could no longer write or brush his teeth or manage a button. Most of the time he let Emma feed him, though he could manage a large spoon with concentration and immense effort. Lately he almost never tried to use the hands at all except when he was entirely alone. He had his own reasons.

He was alone now. Emma had gone shopping downtown. The two young couples who rented the first floor apartments were at work. His neighbor across the second floor hall, old Albury, was doubtless asleep at this time of day. He worked as night man at a gas station some place in town. Simon had time to get ready for Emma�s return.

In a way, he knew inside himself, he had been getting ready for this moment all his life. The lonely, ugly child had hated his parents and had had no friends at school. The awkward, grasping young man had envied and hated his bosses. The half-successful business man had had no friends in the dingy, northern industrial town which he called home. The inarticulate, fumbling search for something only half understood which had prompted him to marry Emma had led inevitably to this moment.

He was ready at last. As soon as Emma returned he was going to kill her. It didn�t matter in the least to him that this must be almost his last major act. To his hatred and fear it appeared as an act that would crown and culminate his life.

Simon Fullerton had hated and cheated and hurt his fellows all his life, but he had never yet dared the ultimate act. He had never dared to deliberately kill. In some twisted way which only he could grasp; this killing was a final test to which he must put his strength and cleverness.

He was justified, in his own mind. She kept the money � his small annuity, his government check, and the few thousand she had inherited from her parents � tightly under her own control.

He knew why. She wanted something for herself when the disease had killed him off. Well, he�d show her. He�d get out of this miserable hole into a comfortable convalescent home.

He�d be tended by a young nurse, and be free of Emma�s grudging, slipshod care. There�d be enough to last the short time till he died. If not, the State would put him somewhere. He�d have had his fling.

Best of all; he�d show her. He�d have the laugh on her and everyone else in the world. Hatred is not logical.

She was coming now. He heard her steps on the broad wooden porch below and in the hall. Silently he wheeled his chair into position facing the door from the front room into the upstairs hall, where she would come in.

The checkered butt of the old fashioned, long barrelled .38 Smith & Wesson revolver was firm in his hand. That was impossible. Everybody but Simon would know it was impossible with the palsy that never let him go. He would not tell his secret � the way that his keen and brilliant mind had found for him.

He waited while she came into the room. As he knew she would, she left the door ajar while she took three steps left to the table and set down the new slip and the paper sack of groceries.

When she turned and really saw him it was too late.

With something close to happiness he saw her eyes widen and her mouth shape to scream.

Simon fired three times. The bullets struck so close together that the entrance wounds could be covered by the palm of a hand. They ripped her heart apart. There was no time to scream. The shock of impact slammed her thin body back against the wall before it crumpled to the worn straw mat on the floor.

Simon had no time to gloat. He had to get the gun wiped clean with the towel that normally draped his trembling neck and shoulders in the heat. Then he dropped it on the body, so it would not thump on the floor, and backed his chair towards the kitchen door.

As he expected, through the partly open door, he heard muffled noises from across the hall as old Albury scrambled out of bed. Then he heard something he hadn�t expected at all. From the back-stair landing at the rear of the hall came a human gasp of fear. Feet pounded down the stairs. The back door rattled, held, rattled again. Then the old iron bolt rasped back and someone scrambled through. Luck was with Simon. Instead of a nameless prowler, Fate had supplied him with a scapegoat.

�Help,� Simon yelled. �Help! Murder! Help!�

He shot his wheel chair backward until he could see out of the rear kitchen window and recognize the man running hard for the tangle of bushes at the rear of the yard. It was, as he had known it would be, the slow-witted Andy who sporadically worked around the yard and house and kept up the property for the owner. Apparently he had been coming in for some minor job which Simon had not known about.

By this time Pop Albury had crossed the hall and run into the apartment. Simon pointed shakily out the window.

�Stop him!� he yelled. �There he goes. Stop him! Murderer!�

Pop was too late to see anything but thrashing shrubbery to mark the man�s passage. �It was Andy. I recognized him. He killed her,� Simon said.

He said the same thing to the policemen from Homicide when they arrived. �He must have followed her in. He had a gun � that one there � and he told her to get all the money she had hid here. She tried to say there wasn�t any, and he got mad. She was scared; so I guess he thought she was going to scream. That�s when he shot her. Just like that. I hope he burns. Poor Emma.�

The big plainclothes detective, Lieutenant Ryan, listened while another man took it all down. When questioned, Pop Albury confirmed that he had heard a man run out of the house, and that, when he reached the kitchen, Simon was in a position where he could have seen anyone in the back yard.

�I don�t think it could have been Andy, though,� Pop went on. �Andy wasn�t real bright, but I�ve gotten to know him pretty well in four years in this house. I could swear he�s no killer. For that matter I don�t think he has any armed robbery in his makeup, either.�

�When we catch him,� Ryan said, �he�d better hope a jury likes him as well as you do. Particularly if this old cannon can be traced to him.�

�It will be,� Simon stated confidently. He knew it wouldn�t, but it couldn�t be traced to him either. He�d bought it thirty-five years before off a traveling man who�d lost money at poker and needed a fast ten bucks. There was no record.

The man who had been dusting the gun spoke up. �No prints at all on this thing.�

Pop Albury looked interested.

�How you coming, Doc?� Ryan asked the coroner�s assistant.

The doctor got up from his knees where he had been examining Emma�s body.

�All done,� he said. �You can take it away, now, boys. By the way, Pop, is this Andy of yours by any chance a midget?�

�He�s taller than I am,� Pop said. �I�d say just about six feet; give or take an inch. Why do you ask.�

�This woman was shot by a gun held below the level of the wound,� the doctor replied. �The slugs ranged upward after entry. I can tell the angle after I do an autopsy, but they do angle up. Usually it�s the other way round with anyone as slight as she is. A man would shoot down to her heart, particularly if he aimed at all.�

�You sure?� Lieutenant Ryan asked.

The coroner�s man put on his coat. �You know I know my job. I just thought I�d mention it seemed funny to me.�

�Lieutenant,� Pop said, �a lot of things seem funny to me. Here�s another one. I heard whoever it was run out the back way. When he got downstairs the door was bolted. It wouldn�t open, and I heard him pull the bolt. Now don�t you think a man who knew this place, and knew he might have to run for it, would have left the bolt off that door? Even Andy would be bright enough to leave the door open.�

Simon spoke up then. �If it wasn�t Andy, it was his twin I saw. Why don�t you catch him and see what kind of alibi he has.�

�We�ll do just that,� Ryan said.

Pop was still troubled. �You sound like you wanted it to be Andy,� he told Simon. �Recollect now, you never did like him. Never liked anybody; now that I think of it. Not even your poor dead wife there that you don�t seem sorry about at all.�

�What do you mean by that, Pop?� Ryan was interested.

�He was always complaining about how tight she was with money and how mean she treated him. Leastwise he was whenever I would listen to him. He wanted her to put him in a private hospital or something.�

He would have gone on, but Simon interrupted. Simon wasn�t scared yet, but he was getting mad. He hated Pop. �You meddling old fool!� he said. �What are you trying to do? Sure I was mad at my wife sometimes. What husband ain�t? But that isn�t a motive for murder.�

�I didn�t say it was.� Ryan said.

Simon pushed his advantage. �Suppose I had a motive � what do you think I could do about it? Do you think I could ever aim a gun or hold the aim for three shots? Do you?�

He sat there in the wheel chair and excitement made him shake even harder than ever. His hands trembled and his face twitched and his limbs jumped spasmodically. The sweat soaked his underwear singlet and the legs of his thin slacks. He was a pitiful figure, and he knew it. The more he tried to hold still, the harder he shook. Even the police hated to watch him.

Pop was obviously affected. He went to the bathroom and got a clean towel for Simon�s neck. He took the old towel and was about to throw it away. Then he put it close to his face for a minute.

�Lieutenant,� Pop said. �Smell this thing a minute.�

Ryan took the wet and filthy rag and held it up to his nose. �Gun oil!� he said. �So that�s why there�s no prints on the gun. But he couldn�t have done the shooting. Those shakes are real. And whoever shot her knew his business. Three shots so close together. He never could have.�

�Oh, yes he could,� Pop insisted. �I see it all now. This towel did more than wipe the gun. It held it steady while he fired. Look at the arm of that wheel chair. It slopes up a little to the front. Wrap a towel around the arm and the gun frame and the barrel will point up a little. The towel holds the gun. He just had to point the chair and fire as often as he wanted to.�

�We can check it,� Ryan said. �We can check the angle of the chair arm, the dead woman�s height, and the angle of the wounds. There should be powder fragments where the towel was around the gun�s cylinder, too.�

�There will be,� Simon shouted. �I hated her, and I killed her. I didn�t think you could ever tell how. I hated her like I hate you.�

�That�s what went wrong,� Pop Albury said. �You hated too much. If you hadn�t tried to hurt Andy and accuse him, I might never have thought this thing through. You would have been able to get rid of the towel or wash it.�

Simon shook and shook. He couldn�t stop. �They�ll never execute a sick man,� he said.

�No, old man,� Lieutenant Ryan said. �They won�t execute you. They won�t have to. I think your own hate did that long ago.�

To know her love, he found, was a thing apart. But to know her name, he was to discover, meant � death!

The phone rang on Captain Meza�s desk. He picked up the instrument, listened and frowned. A matter of grave importance, but the caller refused to discuss the matter with anyone but the chief of police.

�Chief Lopez is busy,� Meza explained. �I am handling all matters for him.�

�Too bad,� said the voice, �for both Lopez and yourself when the newspapers hear what I have to say.�

�Please hold on. I�ll see what I can do. What did you say your name was?�

�I didn�t say.�

�But��

�Captain, I am losing patience.�

It was cool in the office, but when Chief Lopez put down the phone a film of perspiration bathed his face.

�Bad news?� said Detective Victor Fiala.

�An anonymous call. About a murder at the Diaz ranch.� This explained the perspiration and the pallor on Lopez� face: he and Adolpho Diaz were the closest of friends.

�The one who called,� Lopez continued, �claims a body is buried behind the Diaz ranchhouse.�

�Serious business, if it happens to be true,� Fiala said mildly. �Whose body is supposed to be buried there, and who did the burying?�

�The caller didn�t say,� Lopez answered.

A knock sounded on the door. It opened abruptly. Captain Meza stepped in. He had listened in on the call.

�Well,� he said, staring at Lopez.

�I don�t know,� Lopez said, flushing violently. �A body buried behind the Diaz ranchhouse?�

�You think the call was a practical joke?�

�I don�t know what to think.� Lopez� eyes went to Fiala in an appeal for help, but Fiala could give none with Captain Meza smelling blood.

Besides, there was no way out but to verify the call.

Fiala shrugged. �The thing will have to be checked out.�

Lopez merely nodded and looked up at Captain Meza. �You�ll take care of the matter?�

�Personally.� The captain�s heels clicked together; his teeth gleamed in a sudden tight unpleasant smile. Out of the office he hurried, his heels studding the tiled balcony in a rapid tattoo.

�The bloodhound is on the trail,� Fiala remarked dryly, but Lopez did not smile and made no comment.

An hour and a half drive to the Diaz ranch, plus the same for the return drive, plus another hour to dig up the body and a brief investigation � four hours in all and Captain Meza arrived back in Montes.

While his men carried the dead man into the morgue, Meza ran up the balcony stairs and burst into Lopez� office. Sweat gleamed on his tanned face; his teeth shone in an icy smile.

�A cut and dried case,� he said to Lopez.

�You found the body?� Lopez said with a look of pain on his face.

�The body of Justo Garcia.� There was no need to be more explicit with Lopez and Fiala. Both men knew Garcia well for his conflicts with the law. �I arrested Adolpho Diaz for the murder of Justo Garcia.�

�You solved the case very quickly,� Fiala commented dryly.

�Yes, while you were sitting in that comfortable chair,� Captain Meza replied. �Ah, but then you�re not as young as you used to be, my friend.�

�You have youth. I have something else, but that hardly makes us even. You say you arrested Senor Diaz. He admitted killing Garcia?�

�Not yet, but he will.�

�Even if you have to choke it out of him, hey, Captain?� said Fiala.

�That won�t be necessary. We know that Diaz committed the murder.�

�We?� Fiala snorted. �And just how do we know, Captain? What are the facts?�

Captain Meza smiled. �Yes, the facts, of course. A half-dozen people saw Garcia when he went to the ranch yesterday, and no one saw him return.�

�Go on,� said Fiala.

�At the ranch he and Diaz had a violent argument and Diaz threatened to shoot Garcia. That I had from the caretaker at the ranch. Diaz was shot in back of the head. Those are the facts.�

Captain Meza shrugged, turned on his heels and left.

�My best friend,� Chief Lopez groaned. �I don�t understand.�

�What don�t you understand?� asked Fiala.

�Adolpho isn�t the kind to use a gun. I know that. I can�t believe he killed any one.�

�What else don�t you understand?�

Lopez left the question hanging, poured himself a drink, lit a cigarette, looked at Fiala and said, �What was Garcia doing at the ranch? Adolpho wouldn�t spit on the likes of him.�

�Maybe not,� said Fiala. �But Garcia was murdered. It looks bad for Senor Diaz.�

Suddenly Lopez ground out his cigarette and stood up. �Wait here, Victor. I�m going to see Adolpho.�

Ten minutes passed and Lopez returned with his jaw thrust out.

�Adolpho�s innocent,� he declared. �He gave his word that he didn�t kill Garcia and that�s good enough for me.�

�But not good enough to keep him out of prison.�

�I know, I know.� Lopez shook his head. �It looks very bad. He admits to threatening Garcia. Victor, you�ve got to help him. You�ll see him now?�

�Of course.� Fiala arose and went to the door.

�Captain Meza is ready to hang Adolpho,� Lopez said after him.

Fiala looked back and grinned. �Don Quickshot would hang his own grandmother if he got the chance. But let�s not worry about him.�

The door closed softly. A half-minute later Captain Meza looked up from his desk with a sardonic grin on his face. �Ah, the great detective would like to question the prisoner, no doubt?�

�No doubt.�

�A waste of time. We have our man.�

In a world of uncertainties here was a voice that rang with true conviction. How rare and wonderful, but Fiala shrugged.