Original publication:Flynn�s, January 31, 1925, titled �Traitor�s Hands�; first collected under its ultimate, more familiar, title in The Hound of Death and Other Stories by Agatha Christie (London, Collins, 1933)

Mr. Mayherne adjusted his pince-nez and cleared his throat with a little dry-as-dust cough that was wholly typical of him. Then he looked again at the man opposite him, the man charged with wilful murder.

Mr. Mayherne was a small man precise in manner, neatly, not to say foppishly dressed, with a pair of very shrewd and piercing grey eyes. By no means a fool. Indeed, as a solicitor, Mr. Mayherne�s reputation stood very high. His voice, when he spoke to his client, was dry but not unsympathetic.

�I must impress upon you again that you are in very grave danger, and that the utmost frankness is necessary.�

Leonard Vole, who had been staring in a dazed fashion at the blank wall in front of him, transferred his glance to the solicitor.

�I know,� he said hopelessly. �You keep telling me so. But I can�t seem to realize yet that I�m charged with murder � murder. And such a dastardly crime too.�

Mr. Mayherne was practical, not emotional. He coughed again, took off his pince-nez, polished them carefully, and replaced them on his nose. Then he said:

�Yes, yes, yes. Now, my dear Mr. Vole, we�re going to make a determined effort to get you off � and we shall succeed � we shall succeed. But I must have all the facts. I must know just how damaging the case against you is likely to be. Then we can fix upon the best line of defence.�

Still the young man looked at him in the same dazed, hopeless fashion. To Mr. Mayherne the case had seemed black enough, and the guilt of the prisoner assured. Now, for the first time, he felt a doubt.

�You think I�m guilty,� said Leonard Vole, in a low voice. �But, by God, I swear I�m not! It looks pretty black against me, I know that. I�m like a man caught in a net � the meshes of it all round me, entangling me whichever way I turn. But I didn�t do it, Mr. Mayherne, I didn�t do it!�

In such a position a man was bound to protest his innocence. Mr. Mayherne knew that. Yet, in spite of himself, he was impressed. It might be, after all, that Leonard Vole was innocent.

�You are right, Mr. Vole,� he said gravely. �The case does look very black against you. Nevertheless, I accept your assurance. Now, let us get to facts. I want you to tell me in your own words exactly how you came to make the acquaintance of Miss Emily French.�

�It was one day in Oxford Street. I saw an elderly lady crossing the road. She was carrying a lot of parcels. In the middle of the street she dropped them, tried to recover them, found a bus was almost on top of her and just managed to reach the kerb safely, dazed and bewildered by people having shouted at her. I recovered the parcels, wiped the mud off them as best I could, retied the string of one, and returned them to her.�

�There was no question of your having saved her life?�

�Oh! dear me, no. All I did was to perform a common act of courtesy. She was extremely grateful, thanked me warmly, and said something about my manners not being those of most of the younger generation � I can�t remember the exact words. Then I lifted my hat and went on. I never expected to see her again. But life is full of coincidences. That very evening I came across her at a party at a friend�s house. She recognized me at once and asked that I should be introduced to her. I then found out that she was a Miss Emily French and that she lived at Cricklewood. I talked to her for some time. She was, I imagine, an old lady who took sudden violent fancies to people. She took one to me on the strength of a perfectly simple action which anyone might have performed. On leaving, she shook me warmly by the hand, and asked me to come and see her. I replied, of course, that I should be very pleased to do so, and she then urged me to name a day. I did not want particularly to go, but it would have seemed churlish to refuse, so I fixed on the following Saturday. After she had gone, I learned something about her from my friends. That she was rich, eccentric, lived alone with one maid, and owned no less than eight cats.�

�I see,� said Mr. Mayherne. �The question of her being well off came up as early as that?�

�If you mean that I inquired�� began Leonard Vole hotly, but Mr. Mayherne stilled him with a gesture.

�I have to look at the case as it will be presented by the other side. An ordinary observer would not have supposed Miss French to be a lady of means. She lived poorly, almost humbly. Unless you had been told the contrary, you would in all probability have considered her to be in poor circumstances � at any rate to begin with. Who was it exactly who told you that she was well off?�

�My friend, George Harvey, at whose house the party took place.�

�Is he likely to remember having done so?�

�I really don�t know. Of course it is some time ago now.�

�Quite so, Mr. Vole. You see, the first aim of the prosecution will be to establish that you were in low water financially � that is true, is it not?�

Leonard Vole flushed.

�Yes,� he said, in a low voice. �I�d been having a run of infernal bad luck just then.�

�Quite so,� said Mr. Mayherne again. �That being, as I say, in low water financially, you met this rich old lady and cultivated her acquaintance assiduously. Now if we are in a position to say that you had no idea she was well off, and that you visited her out of pure kindness of heart��

�Which is the case.�

�I dare say. I am not disputing the point. I am looking at it from the outside point of view. A great deal depends on the memory of Mr. Harvey. Is he likely to remember that conversation or is he not? Could he be confused by counsel into believing that it took place later?�

Leonard Vole reflected for some minutes. Then he said steadily enough, but with a rather paler face:

�I do not think that that line would be successful, Mr. Mayherne. Several of those present heard his remark, and one or two of them chaffed me about my conquest of a rich old lady.�

The solicitor endeavoured to hide his disappointment with a wave of the hand.

�Unfortunately,� he said. �But I congratulate you upon your plain speaking, Mr. Vole. It is to you I look to guide me. Your judgement is quite right. To persist in the line I spoke of would have been disastrous. We must leave that point. You made the acquaintance of Miss French, you called upon her, the acquaintanceship progressed. We want a clear reason for all this. Why did you, a young man of thirty-three, good-looking, fond of sport, popular with your friends, devote so much time to an elderly woman with whom you could hardly have anything in common?�

Leonard Vole flung out his hands in a nervous gesture.

�I can�t tell you � I really can�t tell you. After the first visit, she pressed me to come again, spoke of being lonely and unhappy. She made it difficult for me to refuse. She showed so plainly her fondness and affection for me that I was placed in an awkward position. You see, Mr. Mayherne, I�ve got a weak nature � I drift � I�m one of those people who can�t say �No.� And believe me or not, as you like, after the third or fourth visit I paid her I found myself getting genuinely fond of the old thing. My mother died when I was young, an aunt brought me up, and she too died before I was fifteen. If I told you that I genuinely enjoyed being mothered and pampered, I dare say you�d only laugh.�

Mr. Mayherne did not laugh. Instead he took off his pince-nez again and polished them, always a sign with him that he was thinking deeply.

�I accept your explanation, Mr. Vole,� he said at last. �I believe it to be psychologically probable. Whether a jury would take that view of it is another matter. Please continue your narrative. When was it that Miss French first asked you to look into her business affairs?�

�After my third or fourth visit to her. She understood very little of money matters, and was worried about some investments.�

Mr. Mayherne looked up sharply.

�Be careful, Mr. Vole. The maid, Janet Mackenzie, declares that her mistress was a good woman of business and transacted all her own affairs, and this is borne out by the testimony of her bankers.�

�I can�t help that,� said Vole earnestly. �That�s what she said to me.�

Mr. Mayherne looked at him for a moment or two in silence. Though he had no intention of saying so, his belief in Leonard Vole�s innocence was at that moment strengthened. He knew something of the mentality of elderly ladies. He saw Miss French, infatuated with the good-looking young man, hunting about for pretexts that should bring him to the house. What more likely than that she should plead ignorance of business, and beg him to help her with her money affairs? She was enough of a woman of the world to realize that any man is slightly flattered by such an admission of his superiority. Leonard Vole had been flattered. Perhaps, too, she had not been averse to letting this young man know that she was wealthy. Emily French had been a strong-willed old woman, willing to pay her price for what she wanted. All this passed rapidly through Mr. Mayherne�s mind, but he gave no indication of it, and asked instead a further question.

�And you did handle her affairs for her at her request?�

�I did.�

�Mr. Vole,� said the solicitor, �I am going to ask you a very serious question, and one to which it is vital I should have a truthful answer. You were in low water financially. You had the handling of an old lady�s affairs � an old lady who, according to her own statement, knew little or nothing of business. Did you at any time, or in any manner, convert to your own use the securities which you handled? Did you engage in any transaction for your own pecuniary advantage which will not bear the light of day?� He quelled the other�s response. �Wait a minute before you answer. There are two courses open to us. Either we can make a feature of your probity and honesty in conducting her affairs whilst pointing out how unlikely it is that you would commit murder to obtain money which you might have obtained by such infinitely easier means. If, on the other hand, there is anything in your dealings which the prosecution will get hold of � if, to put it baldly, it can be proved that you swindled the old lady in any way, we must take the line that you had no motive for the murder, since she was already a profitable source of income to you. You perceive the distinction. Now, I beg of you, take your time before you reply.�

But Leonard Vole took no time at all.

�My dealings with Miss French�s affairs are all perfectly fair and aboveboard. I acted for her interests to the very best of my ability, as anyone will find who looks into the matter.�

�Thank you,� said Mr. Mayherne. �You relieve my mind very much. I pay you the compliment of believing that you are far too clever to lie to me over such an important matter.�

�Surely,� said Vole eagerly, �the strongest point in my favour is the lack of motive. Granted that I cultivated the acquaintanceship of a rich old lady in the hope of getting money out of her � that, I gather, is the substance of what you have been saying � surely her death frustrates all my hopes?�

The solicitor looked at him steadily. Then, very deliberately, he repeated his unconscious trick with his pince-nez. It was not until they were firmly replaced on his nose that he spoke.

�Are you not aware, Mr. Vole, Miss French left a will under which you are the principal beneficiary?�

�What?� The prisoner sprang to his feet. His dismay was obvious and unforced. �My God! What are you saying? She left her money to me?�

Mr. Mayherne nodded slowly. Vole sank down again, his head in his hands.

�You pretend you know nothing of this will?�

�Pretend? There�s no pretence about it. I knew nothing about it.�

�What would you say if I told you that the maid, Janet Mackenzie, swears that you did know? That her mistress told her distinctly that she had consulted you in the matter, and told you of her intentions?�

�Say? That she�s lying! No, I go too fast. Janet is an elderly woman. She was a faithful watchdog to her mistress, and she didn�t like me. She was jealous and suspicious. I should say that Miss French confided her intentions to Janet, and that Janet either mistook something she said, or else was convinced in her own mind that I had persuaded the old lady into doing it. I dare say that she believes herself now that Miss French actually told her so.�

�You don�t think she dislikes you enough to lie deliberately about the matter?�

Leonard Vole looked shocked and startled.

�No, indeed! Why should she?�

�I don�t know,� said Mr. Mayherne thoughtfully. �But she�s very bitter against you.�

The wretched young man groaned again.

�I�m beginning to see,� he muttered. �It�s frightful. I made up to her, that�s what they�ll say, I got her to make a will leaving her money to me, and then I go there that night, and there�s nobody in the house � they find her the next day � oh! my God, it�s awful!�

�You are wrong about there being nobody in the house,� said Mr. Mayherne. �Janet, as you remember, was to go out for the evening. She went, but about half past nine she returned to fetch the pattern of a blouse sleeve which she had promised to a friend. She let herself in by the back door, went upstairs and fetched it, and went out again. She heard voices in the sitting room, though she could not distinguish what they said, but she will swear that one of them was Miss French�s and one was a man�s.�

�At half past nine,� said Leonard Vole. �At half past nine...� He sprang to his feet. �But then I�m saved � saved��

�What do you mean, saved?� cried Mr. Mayherne, astonished.

�By half past nine I was at home again! My wife can prove that. I left Miss French about five minutes to nine. I arrived home about twenty past nine. My wife was there waiting for me. Oh! thank God � thank God! And bless Janet Mackenzie�s sleeve pattern.�

In his exuberance, he hardly noticed that the grave expression of the solicitor�s face had not altered. But the latter�s words brought him down to earth with a bump.

�Who, then, in your opinion, murdered Miss French?�

�Why, a burglar, of course, as was thought at first. The window was forced, you remember. She was killed with a heavy blow from a crowbar, and the crowbar was found lying on the floor beside the body. And several articles were missing. But for Janet�s absurd suspicions and dislike of me, the police would never have swerved from the right track.�

�That will hardly do, Mr. Vole,� said the solicitor. �The things that were missing were mere trifles of no value, taken as a blind. And the marks on the window were not all conclusive. Besides, think for yourself. You say you were no longer in the house by half past nine. Who, then, was the man Janet heard talking to Miss French in the sitting room? She would hardly be having an amicable conversation with a burglar?�

�No,� said Vole. �No�� He looked puzzled and discouraged. �But anyway,� he added with reviving spirit, �it lets me out. I�ve got an alibi. You must see Romaine � my wife � at once.�

�Certainly,� acquiesced the lawyer. �I should already have seen Mrs. Vole but for her being absent when you were arrested. I wired to Scotland at once, and I understand that she arrives back tonight. I am going to call upon her immediately I leave here.�

Vole nodded, a great expression of satisfaction settling down over his face.

�Yes, Romaine will tell you. My God! It�s a lucky chance that.�

�Excuse me, Mr. Vole, but you are very fond of your wife?�

�Of course.�

�And she of you?�

�Romaine is devoted to me. She�d do anything in the world for me.�

He spoke enthusiastically, but the solicitor�s heart sank a little lower. The testimony of a devoted wife � would it gain credence?

�Was there anyone else who saw you return at nine twenty? A maid, for instance?�

�We have no maid.�

�Did you meet anyone in the street on the way back?�

�Nobody I knew. I rode part of the way in a bus. The conductor might remember.�

Mr. Mayherne shook his head doubtfully.

�There is no one, then, who can confirm your wife�s testimony?�

�No. But it isn�t necessary, surely?�

�I dare say not. I dare say not,� said Mr. Mayherne hastily. �Now there�s just one thing more. Did Miss French know that you were a married man?�

�Oh, yes.�

�Yet you never took your wife to see her. Why was that?�

For the first time, Leonard Vole�s answer came halting and uncertain.

�Well � I don�t know.�

�Are you aware that Janet Mackenzie says her mistress believed you to be single, and contemplated marrying you in the future?�

Vole laughed.

�Absurd! There was forty years� difference in age between us.�

�It has been done,� said the solicitor drily. �The fact remains. Your wife never met Miss French?�

�No�� Again the constraint.

�You will permit me to say,� said the lawyer, �that I hardly understand your attitude in the matter.�

Vole flushed, hesitated, and then spoke.

�I�ll make a clean breast of it. I was hard up, as you know. I hoped that Miss French might lend me some money. She was fond of me, but she wasn�t at all interested in the struggles of a young couple. Early on, I found that she had taken it for granted that my wife and I didn�t get on � were living apart. Mr. Mayherne � I wanted the money � for Romaine�s sake. I said nothing, and allowed the old lady to think what she chose. She spoke of my being an adopted son for her. There was never any question of marriage � that must be just Janet�s imagination.�

�And that is all?�

�Yes � that is all.�

Was there just a shade of hesitation in the words? The lawyer fancied so. He rose and held out his hand.

�Goodbye, Mr. Vole.� He looked into the haggard young face and spoke with an unusual impulse. �I believe in your innocence in spite of the multitude of facts arrayed against you. I hope to prove it and vindicate you completely.�

Vole smiled back at him.

�You�ll find the alibi is all right,� he said cheerfully.

Again he hardly noticed that the other did not respond.

�The whole thing hinges a good deal on the testimony of Janet Mackenzie,� said Mr. Mayherne. �She hates you. That much is clear.�

�She can hardly hate me,� protested the young man.

The solicitor shook his head as he went out.

�Now for Mrs. Vole,� he said to himself.

He was seriously disturbed by the way the thing was shaping.

The Voles lived in a small shabby house near Paddington Green. It was to this house that Mr. Mayherne went.

In answer to his ring, a big slatternly woman, obviously a charwoman, answered the door.

�Mrs. Vole? Has she returned yet?�

�Got back an hour ago. But I dunno if you can see her.�

�If you will take my card to her,� said Mr. Mayherne quietly, �I am quite sure that she will do so.�

The woman looked at him doubtfully, wiped her hand on her apron and took the card. Then she closed the door in his face and left him on the step outside.

In a few minutes, however, she returned with a slightly altered manner.

�Come inside, please.�

She ushered him into a tiny drawing room. Mr. Mayherne, examining a drawing on the wall, stared up suddenly to face a tall pale woman who had entered so quietly that he had not heard her.

�Mr. Mayherne? You are my husband�s solicitor, are you not? You have come from him? Will you please sit down?�

Until she spoke he had not realized that she was not English. Now, observing her more closely, he noticed the high cheekbones, the dense blue-black of the hair, and an occasional very slight movement of the hands that was distinctly foreign. A strange woman, very quiet. So quiet as to make one uneasy. From the very first Mr. Mayherne was conscious that he was up against something that he did not understand.

�Now, my dear Mrs. Vole,� he began, �you must not give way��

He stopped. It was so very obvious that Romaine Vole had not the slightest intention of giving way. She was perfectly calm and composed.

�Will you please tell me all about it?� she said. �I must know everything. Do not think to spare me. I want to know the worst.� She hesitated, then repeated in a lower tone, with a curious emphasis which the lawyer did not understand: �I want to know the worst.�

Mr. Mayherne went over his interview with Leonard Vole. She listened attentively, nodding her head now and then.

�I see,� she said, when he had finished. �He wants me to say that he came in at twenty minutes past nine that night?�

�He did come in at that time?� said Mr. Mayherne sharply.

�That is not the point,� she said coldly. �Will my saying so acquit him? Will they believe me?�

Mr. Mayherne was taken aback. She had gone so quickly to the core of the matter.

�That is what I want to know,� she said. �Will it be enough? Is there anyone else who can support my evidence?�

There was a suppressed eagerness in her manner that made him vaguely uneasy.

�So far there is no one else,� he said reluctantly.

�I see,� said Romaine Vole.

She sat for a minute or two perfectly still. A little smile played over her lips.

The lawyer�s feeling of alarm grew stronger and stronger.

�Mrs. Vole�� he began. �I know what you must feel��

�Do you?� she said. �I wonder.�

�In the circumstances��

�In the circumstances � I intend to play a lone hand.�

He looked at her in dismay.

�But, my dear Mrs. Vole � you are overwrought. Being so devoted to your husband��

�I beg your pardon?�

The sharpness of her voice made him start. He repeated in a hesitating manner:

�Being so devoted to your husband��

Romaine Vole nodded slowly, the same strange smile on her lips.

�Did he tell you that I was devoted to him?� she asked softly. �Ah! yes, I can see he did. How stupid men are! Stupid � stupid � stupid��

She rose suddenly to her feet. All the intense emotion that the lawyer had been conscious of in the atmosphere was now concentrated in her tone.

�I hate him, I tell you! I hate him. I hate him, I hate him! I would like to see him hanged by the neck till he is dead.�

The lawyer recoiled before her and the smouldering passion in her eyes.

She advanced a step nearer, and continued vehemently:

�Perhaps I shall see it. Supposing I tell you that he did not come in that night at twenty past nine, but at twenty past ten? You say that he tells you he knew nothing about the money coming to him. Supposing I tell you he knew all about it, and counted on it, and committed murder to get it? Supposing I tell you that he admitted to me that night when he came in what he had done? That there was blood on his coat? What then? Supposing that I stand up in court and say all these things?�

Her eyes seemed to challenge him. With an effort, he concealed his growing dismay, and endeavoured to speak in a rational tone.

�You cannot be asked to give evidence against your own husband��

�He is not my husband!�

The words came out so quickly that he fancied he had misunderstood her.

�I beg your pardon? I��

�He is not my husband.�

The silence was so intense that you could have heard a pin drop.

�I was an actress in Vienna. My husband is alive but in a madhouse. So we could not marry. I am glad now.�

She nodded defiantly.

�I should like you to tell me one thing,� said Mr. Mayherne. He contrived to appear as cool and unemotional as ever. �Why are you so bitter against Leonard Vole?�

She shook her head, smiling a little.

�Yes, you would like to know. But I shall not tell you. I will keep my secret...�

Mr. Mayherne gave his dry little cough and rose.

�There seems no point in prolonging this interview,� he remarked. �You will hear from me again after I have communicated with my client.�

She came closer to him, looking into his eyes with her own wonderful dark ones.

�Tell me,� she said, �did you believe � honestly � that he was innocent when you came here today?�

�I did,� said Mr. Mayherne.

�You poor little man,� she laughed.

�And I believe so still,� finished the lawyer. �Good evening, madam.�

He went out of the room, taking with him the memory of her startled face.

�This is going to be the devil of a business,� said Mr. Mayherne to himself as he strode along the street.

Extraordinary, the whole thing. An extraordinary woman. A very dangerous woman. Women were the devil when they got their knife into you.

What was to be done? That wretched young man hadn�t a leg to stand upon. Of course, possibly he did commit the crime...

�No,� said Mr. Mayherne to himself. �No � there�s almost too much evidence against him. I don�t believe this woman. She was trumping up the whole story. But she�ll never bring it into court.�

He wished he felt more conviction on the point.

Original publication:Ellery Queen�s Mystery Magazine, May 1951; first collected in The Albatross by Charlotte Armstrong (New York, Coward-McCann, 1957)

They sat late at the lunch table and afterwards moved through the dim, cool, high-ceilinged rooms to the judge�s library where, in their quiet talk, the old man�s past and the young man�s future seemed to telescope and touch. But at twenty minutes after three, on that hot, bright, June Saturday afternoon, the present tense erupted. Out in the quiet street arose the sound of trouble.

Judge Kittinger adjusted his pince-nez, rose, and led the way to his old-fashioned veranda from which they could overlook the tree-roofed intersection of Greenwood Lane and Hannibal Street. Near the steps to the corner house, opposite, there was a surging knot of children and one man. Now, from the house on the judge�s left, a woman in a blue house dress ran diagonally toward the excitement. And a police car slipped up Hannibal Street, gliding to the curb. One tall officer plunged into the group and threw restraining arms around a screaming boy.

Mike Russell, saying to his host, �Excuse me, sir,� went rapidly across the street. Trouble�s center was the boy, ten or eleven years old, a tow-headed boy with tawny-lashed blue eyes, a straight nose, a fine brow. He was beside himself, writhing in the policeman�s grasp. The woman in the blue dress was yammering at him. �Freddy! Freddy! Freddy!� Her voice simply did not reach his ears.

�You ole stinker! You rotten ole stinker! You ole nut!� All the boy�s heart was in the epithets.

�Now, listen...� The cop shook the boy who, helpless in those powerful hands, yet blazed. His fury had stung to crimson the face of the grown man at whom it was directed.

This man, who stood with his back to the house as one besieged, was plump, half-bald, with eyes much magnified by glasses. �Attacked me!� he cried in a high whine. �Rang my bell and absolutely leaped on me!�

Out of the seven or eight small boys clustered around them came overlapping fragments of shrill sentences. It was clear only that they opposed the man. A small woman in a print dress, a man in shorts, whose bare chest was winter-white, stood a little apart, hesitant and distressed. Up on the veranda of the house the screen door was half open, and a woman seated in a wheel chair peered forth anxiously.

On the green grass, in the shade perhaps thirty feet away, there lay in death a small brown-and-white dog.

The judge�s luncheon guest observed all this. When the judge drew near, there was a lessening of the noise. Judge Kittinger said, �This is Freddy Titus, isn�t it? Mr. Matlin? What�s happened?�

The man�s head jerked. �I,� he said, �did nothing to the dog. Why would I trouble to hurt the boy�s dog? I try � you know this, Judge � I try to live in peace here. But these kids are terrors! They�ve made this block a perfect hell for me and my family.� The man�s voice shook. �My wife, who is not strong... My step-daughter, who is a cripple... These kids are no better than a slum gang. They are vicious! That boy rang my bell and attacked...! I�ll have him up for assault! I...�

The judge�s face was old ivory and he was aloof behind it.

On the porch a girl pushed past the woman in the chair, a girl who walked with a lurching gait.

Mike Russell asked, quietly, �Why do the boys say it was you, Mr. Matlin, who hurt the dog?�

The kids chorused. �He�s an ole mean...� �He�s a nut...� �Just because...� �...took Clive�s hat and...� �...chases us...� �...tries to put everything on us.� �...told my mother lies...� �...just because...�

He is our enemy, they were saying; he is our enemy.

�They...� began Matlin, his throat thick with anger.

�Hold it a minute.� The second cop, the thin one, walked toward where the dog was lying.

�Somebody,� said Mike Russell in a low voice, �must do something for the boy.�

The judge looked down at the frantic child. He said, gently, �I am as sorry as I can be, Freddy.� But in his old heart there was too much known, and too many little dogs he remembered that had already died, and even if he were as sorry as he could be, he couldn�t be sorry enough. The boy�s eyes turned, rejected, returned. To the enemy.

Russell moved near the woman in blue, who pertained to this boy somehow. �His mother?�

�His folks are away. I�m there to take care of him,� she snapped, as if she felt herself put upon by a crisis she had not contracted to face.

�Can they be reached?�

�No,� she said decisively.

The young man put his stranger�s hand on the boy�s rigid little shoulder. But he too was rejected. Freddy�s eyes, brilliant with hatred, clung to the enemy. Hatred doesn�t cry.

�Listen,� said the tall cop, �if you could hang onto him for a minute��

�Not I,� said Russell.

The thin cop came back. �Looks like the dog got poison. When was he found?�

�Just now,� the kids said.

�Where? There?�

�Up Hannibal Street. Right on the edge of ole Matlin�s back lot.�

�Edge of my lot!� Matlin�s color freshened again. �On the sidewalk, why don�t you say? Why don�t you tell the truth?�

�We are! We don�t tell lies!�

�Quiet, you guys,� the cop said. �Pipe down, now.�

�Heaven�s my witness, I wasn�t even here!� cried Matlin. �I played nine holes of golf today. I didn�t get home until... May?� he called over his shoulder. �What time did I come in?�

The girl on the porch came slowly down, moving awkwardly on her uneven legs. She was in her twenties, no child. Nor was she a woman. She said in a blurting manner, �About three o�clock, Daddy Earl. But the dog was dead.�

�What�s that, miss?�

�This is my step-daughter.�

�The dog was dead,� the girl said, �before he came home. I saw it from upstairs, before three o�clock. Lying by the sidewalk.�

�You drove in from Hannibal Street, Mr. Matlin? Looks like you�d have seen the dog.�

Matlin said with nervous thoughtfulness, �I don�t know. My mind... Yes, I...�

�He�s telling a lie!�

�Freddy!�

�Listen to that,� said May Matlin, �will you?�

�She�s a liar, too!�

The cop shook Freddy. Mr. Matlin made a sound of helpless exasperation. He said to the girl, �Go keep your mother inside, May.� He raised his arm as if to wave. �It�s all right, honey,� he called to the woman in the chair, with a false cheeriness that grated on the ear. �There�s nothing to worry about now.�

Freddy�s jaw shifted and young Russell�s watching eyes winced. The girl began to lurch back to the house.

�It was my wife who put in the call,� Matlin said. �After all, they were on me like a pack of wolves. Now, I... I understand that the boy�s upset. But all the same, he cannot... He must learn... I will not have... I have enough to contend with, without this malice, this unwarranted antagonism, this persecution.�

Freddy�s eyes were unwinking.

�It has got to stop!� said Matlin almost hysterically.

�Yes,� murmured Mike Russell, �I should think so.� Judge Kittinger�s white head, nodding, agreed.

�We�ve heard about quite a few dog-poisoning cases over the line in Redfern,� said the thin cop with professional calm. �None here.�

The man in the shorts hitched them up, looking shocked. �Who�d do a thing like that?�

A boy said, boldly, �Ole Matlin would.� He had an underslung jaw and wore spectacles on his snug nose. �I�m Phil Bourchard,� he said to the cop. He had courage.

�We jist know,� said another. �I�m Ernie Allen.� Partisanship radiated from his whole thin body. �Ole Matlin doesn�t want anybody on his ole property.�

�Sure.� �He doesn�t want anybody on his ole property.� �It was ole Matlin.�

�It was. It was,� said Freddy Titus.

�Freddy,� said the housekeeper in blue, �now, you better be still. I�ll tell your Dad.� It was a meaningless fumble for control. The boy didn�t even hear it.

Judge Kittinger tried, patiently. �You can�t accuse without cause, Freddy.�

�Bones didn�t hurt his ole property. Bones wouldn�t hurt anything. Ole Matlin did it.�

�You lying little devil!�

�He�s a liar!�

The cop gave Freddy another shake. �You kids found him, eh?�

�We were up at Bourchard�s and were going down to the Titus house.�

�And he was dead,� said Freddy.

�I know nothing about it,� said Matlin icily. �Nothing at all.�

The cop, standing between, said wearily, �Any of you people see what coulda happened?�

�I was sitting in my backyard,� said the man in shorts. �I�m Daugherty, next door, up Hannibal Street. Didn�t see a thing.�

The small woman in a print dress spoke up. �I am Mrs. Page. I live across on the corner, Officer. I believe I did see a strange man go into Mr. Matlin�s driveway this morning.�

�When was this, ma�am?�

�About eleven o�clock. He was poorly dressed. He walked up the drive and around the garage.�

�Didn�t go to the house?�

�No. He was only there a minute. I believe he was carrying something. He was rather furtive. And very poorly dressed, almost like a tramp.�

There was a certain relaxing among the elders. �Ah, the tramp,� said Mike Russell. �The good old reliable tramp. Are you sure, Mrs. Page? It�s very unlikely.�

But she bristled. �Do you think I am lying?�

Russell�s lips parted, but he felt the judge�s hand on his arm. �This is my guest, Mr. Russell... Freddy.� The judge�s voice was gentle. �Let him go, Officer. I�m sure he understands, now. Mr. Matlin was not even at home, Freddy. It�s possible that this � er � stranger... Or it may have been an accident.�

�Wasn�t a tramp. Wasn�t an accident.�

�You can�t know that, boy,� said the judge, somewhat sharply. Freddy said nothing. As the officer slowly released his grasp, the boy took a free step backwards, and the other boys surged to surround him. There stood the enemy, the monster who killed and lied, and the grownups with their reasonable doubts were on the monster�s side. But the boys knew what Freddy knew. They stood together.

�Somebody,� murmured the judge�s guest, �somebody�s got to help the boy.� And the judge sighed.

The cops went up Hannibal Street towards Matlin�s back lot, with Mr. Daugherty. Matlin lingered at the corner talking to Mrs. Page. In the front window of Matlin�s house the curtain fell across the glass.

Mike Russell sidled up to the housekeeper. �Any uncles or aunts here in town? A grandmother?�

�No,� she said, shortly.

�Brothers or sisters, Mrs...?�

�Miz Somers. No, he�s the only one. Only reason they didn�t take him along was it�s the last week of school and he didn�t want to miss.�

Mike Russell�s brown eyes suggested the soft texture of velvet, and they were deeply distressed. She slid away from their appeal. �He�ll just have to take it, I guess, like everybody else,� Mrs. Somers said. �These things happen.�

He was listening intently. �Don�t you care for dogs?�

�I don�t mind a dog,� she said. She arched her neck. She was going to call to the boy.

�Wait. Tell me, does the family go to church? Is there a pastor or a priest who knows the boy?�

�They don�t go, far as I ever saw.� She looked at him as if he were an eccentric.

�Then school. He has a teacher. What grade?�

�Sixth grade,� she said. �Miss Dana. Oh, he�ll be okay.� Her voice grew loud, to reach the boy and hint to him. �He�s a big boy.�

Russell said, desperately, �Is there no way to telephone his parents?�

�They�re on the road. They�ll be in some time tomorrow. That�s all I know.� She was annoyed. �I�ll take care of him. That�s why I�m here.� She raised her voice and this time it was arch and seductive. �Freddy, better come wash your face. I know where there�s some chocolate cookies.�

The velvet left the young man�s eyes. Hard as buttons, they gazed for a moment at the woman. Then he whipped around and left her. He walked over to where the kids had drifted, near the little dead creature on the grass. He said softly, �Bones had his own doctor, Freddy? Tell me his name?� The boy�s eyes flickered. �We must know what it was that he took. A doctor can tell. I think his own doctor would be best, don�t you?�

The boy nodded, mumbled a name, an address. That Russell mastered the name and the numbers, asking for no repetition, was a sign of his concern. Besides, it was this young man�s quality � that he listened. �May I take him, Freddy? I have a car. We ought to have a blanket,� he added softly, �a soft, clean blanket.�

�I got one, Freddy...� �My mother�d let me...�

�I can get one,� Freddy said brusquely. They wheeled, almost in formation.

Mrs. Somers frowned. �You must let them take a blanket,� Russell warned her, and his eyes were cold.

�I will explain to Mrs. Titus,� said the judge quickly.

�Quite a fuss,� she said, and tossed her head and crossed the road.

Russell gave the judge a quick, nervous grin. He walked to the returning cops. �You�ll want to run tests, I suppose? Can the dog�s own vet do it?�

�Certainly. Humane officer will have to be in charge. But that�s what the vet�ll want.�

�I�ll take the dog, then. Any traces up there?�

�Not a thing.�

�Will you explain to the boy that you are investigating?�

�Well, you know how these things go.� The cop�s feet shuffled. �Humane officer does what he can. Probably Monday, after we identify the poison, he�ll check the drug stores. Usually, if it is a cranky neighbor, he has already put in a complaint about the dog. This Matlin says he never did. The humane officer will get on it Monday. He�s out of town today. The devil of these cases, we can�t prove a thing, usually. You get an idea who it was, maybe you can scare him. It�s a misdemeanor all right. Never heard of a conviction myself.�

�But will you explain to the boy...?� Russell stopped, chewed his lip, and the judge sighed.

�Yeah, it�s tough on a kid,� the cop said.

Original publication:Detective Fiction Weekly, March 12, 1938, as by William Irish; first collected in I Wouldn�t Be In Your Shoes by William Irish (Philadelphia, Lippincott, 1943)

It started in low and rolling each time, like a tea-kettle simmering, or a car-engine turning over, or a guy gargling mouthwash. Then it went high. Higher than the highest scream. Higher than a nail scratching glass. Higher than human nerves could stand. Eeeee-yow. Then it wound up in a vicious reptilian hiss, with a salivary explosion for a finale. Hah-tutt! Then it started all over again.

Tom Quinn pulled the bedcovers from his ears at the sound of the window-sash slamming down. His face was steaming from the ineffective sound-proofing that had only managed to smother him without toning down the performance any.

�How we going to sleep on a hot night like this with the window closed?� he said irritably.

�Well, how we going to sleep with that going on?� his wife demanded, not unreasonably. �Are they making love, or are they sore at each other, or are they just suffering down there?�

The floodgates of his pent-up wrath burst at that. It had been going on ever since they�d retired. He reared up with the violence of an earthquake, scattering the bedding all over the floor. He snatched up something from the floor, took two quick, slapping, barefooted steps over to the window, jerked it up, wound up his right arm like a big league pitcher, let fly into the obscured backyard five stories below.

His wife didn�t see what the object was in time to stop him. There was a complete lack of any answering impact or thud from below to show that the missile had found a mark. There was not even a hitch in the caterwauling. To Quinn�s inflamed ears it even seemed to take on an added derisive note, as though the felines were razzing him.

��cats!� he panted hoarsely. He jumped back to the bed again, stooped for the mate to what he�d flung the first time, returned to the window, and again wound up.

This time she saw what it was, tried to catch his arm in time, just missed as he let go.

�Tom!� she wailed. �Not your shoes! What�s the matter with you?�

There was as complete a lack of results as the first time. The heavy-soled object might have taken wings, gone up into the air instead of down, for all the sound of striking that reached them. The vocal pyrotechnics went on unabated.

�Well, that was a smart stunt!� his wife commented acidly. �How are you going to work tomorrow? In your stocking feet?�

His anger had turned to sheepishness, the way it does when a man has made a fool of himself. �I got another pair in the closet, haven�t I?� he defended himself.

�I don�t care, you�re not throwing a perfectly good pair of shoes out of the window like that! They cost ten dollars, with those special built-in arches for your flat feet! You go down there and bring them back.�

�At this hour?�

�You march down there and get them before one of the janitors picks them up in the morning!� she insisted.

He thrust a moth-eaten robe around him unwillingly, found a pair of carpet slippers, and started out, mumbling: �Didn�t even hear them hit anything. I�ve got an aim like a��

It was a full quarter of an hour before he came back. When he did, he looked more crestfallen, sheepish, than ever. His wife didn�t need to be told. She could see that his hands were empty. �I thought so!� she said scathingly. �Couldn�t find them, now could you?�

�I looked all around in both yards, ours and the next one over,� he said shamefacedly. �Not a sign of them anywhere.�

�They must be down there somewhere!� she insisted. �There hasn�t been anyone else down there. I�ve been watching from the window the whole time. Why didn�t you take that flashlight with you?�

�I lit matches,� he said. �I went over every square inch of those two yards, even climbed over the fence in my robe. They must have gone in somebody�s open window on one of the lower floors, on that side facing us.�

�Well then, why didn�t you ring their doorbells, find out for sure?�

�Wake people up at this hour, asking for my shoes? What kind of a sap d�you think I want them to take me for? They�d laugh in my face!� It was true; it was one of those things that the average man finds it strangely difficult to bring himself to do. He doesn�t mind appearing ridiculous to his wife, but with outsiders it�s a different matter.

�Well, don�t expect me to go down there and ask for them back for you,� she said. �You were the one threw them � now you can do without them! We�re so well off we can�t get away out of this awful heat, like most of the people that live around us, but you can afford to throw ten-dollar shoes out of the window.�

Tom Quinn was back in bed again. He looped the clothing around his upturned ear once more, not against the cats this time but against his wife�s reproaches � which he had a sneaking suspicion were well-earned.

He heard a good deal about it the next morning, more than he cared to. He went off to his work still tingling all over from her verbal thrusts and jabs. He expected to hear a good deal about it that evening when he returned, too, and in fact for several days to come. It would be a week before he heard the end of it. Not that Mrs. Quinn was a nagger � quite the opposite. She was cheerful and easy to get along with as a rule. The heat, which had been unabated for three weeks now, was probably telling on her. And then outside of that, he could see her point in this case. They were not well off, quite the reverse. Things had been getting worse for several years now with him, instead of better. His shoes, because of his arch deformity, were one of the largest items of expense they had. Unlike most couples, he paid twice as much for his as she did for hers. And the more he thought about the way he had thrown them away, the more childish and stupid he had to admit he�d been. So childish and stupid that it became doubly impossible for him to go around to the flats on the next street and make inquiries about them, or even have the janitor of his own building do it for him. The way the people were in this neighborhood, whoever had them would probably deny finding them, keep them � he tried to console himself. But it was no use.

He even toyed with the idea of buying himself a new pair, rubbing a little dust on them, and pretending to his wife that they were his former ones returned, to avoid being subjected to her sarcasm, but he found it impossible to do that because he didn�t have the necessary ten dollars to spare.

However, when he returned from work that evening expecting to hear quite a good deal more about those shoes and none of it complimentary, he found her opening remarks bewildering. She seemed to have no further complaint to make.

�Well,� she said admiringly, �I�m glad you had spunk enough to go around and demand them back, like I told you to. I really didn�t think you would.�

She pointed, and he saw the shoes there side by side on the floor, on a sheet of newspaper they�d been wrapped in.

She took it for granted it was his doing that they had been restored. �Guess you didn�t have time to come back upstairs with them yourself this morning, did you? You were late for work as it was,� she went on, answering her own question.

�Oh, then you didn�t see who brought them?� Quinn pumped.

�No, I found them standing out there at the door, wrapped up in paper, when I went out at noon. Funny they didn�t ring the bell and hand them over personally. Still, it was nice of them to go to all the trouble of climbing those four flights of stairs. Who had them?�

Quinn decided he might as well bask in her good opinion, even if he hadn�t earned it. The shoes were back, so what difference did it make? If he admitted it hadn�t been through him they were returned, she might start in criticizing him all over again. �Somebody across the way,� he said vaguely. That was undoubtedly the truth of the matter anyway, since they certainly hadn�t been able to do a boomerang loop in the air and fly in some window on this same side of the court.

She didn�t press him for further details.

He picked the shoes up and looked them over curiously, but they looked no different to his untrained eye than they had when he had taken them off last night and parked them under his bed. They needed a shine, but they had then too; he decided he�d celebrate their return by blowing them to one. He got about one shine a year, as a rule.

At the same time he was wondering how the mysterious person had known which flat to return them to. She�d turned on the light in the bedroom, he remembered, when he went down to look for them, and he supposed the finder had judged by that. But then why hadn�t they rung the bell when they were returning them and waited a minute to make sure they had the right party? Or for that matter, if they�d been awake at the time and seen the tell-tale lighted window, why hadn�t they called out to him then and there, while he was down there in the yard looking? Why wait until today?

The only explanation he could find for that was that they had been awake and had seen the window light up, but didn�t discover that the shoes were in the same room with them until today, in the daylight. Maybe they didn�t sleep in the room the shoes had landed in, therefore didn�t hear them tumble. Or if they did (and most people�s bedrooms were at the back in these flats), maybe the shoes had landed on a carpeted floor or in the seat of an overstuffed sofa. It was certainly uncanny that they had both passed through one and the same window, and avoided smashing the pane.

In any case, Quinn felt, the whole thing was too trivial, too unimportant one way or the other, to waste time wondering about. He�d miraculously gotten his shoes back, and that was all that mattered. By the following morning he and his wife had both practically forgotten the episode. By the following evening they definitely had. By the second morning after it was so completely erased that only direct mention of it could have brought it back into their minds, and they were the only ones who knew about it, so who else was to mention it to them?

Original publication:Argosy, March 1, 1941, as by William Irish; first collected in I Wouldn�t Be In Your Shoes by William Irish (Philadelphia, Lippincott, 1943). Note: The story was retitled �Nightmare� for its first book publication.

First all I could see was this beautiful face, this beautiful girl�s face; like a white, slightly luminous mask swimming detachedly against enfolding darkness. As if a little private spotlight of its own was trained on it from below. It was so beautiful and so false, and I seemed to know it so well, and my heart was wrung.

There was no danger yet, just this separate, shell-like face-mask standing out. But there was danger somewhere around, I knew that already; and I knew that I couldn�t escape it. I knew that everything I was about to do, I had to do, I couldn�t avoid doing. And yet, oh, I didn�t want to do it. I wanted to turn and flee, I wanted to get out of wherever this was.

I even turned and tried to, but I couldn�t any more. There had been only one door when I slipped in just now. It had been simple enough. Now when I turned, the place was nothing but doors; an octagon of doors, set frame to frame with no free wall-space inbetween. I tried one, another, a third; they were the wrong ones, I couldn�t get out.

And by doing this, I had unleashed the latent menace that was lurking there around me all the time; I had brought on all the sooner the very thing I had tried to escape from. Though I didn�t know what it was yet.

The flickering white mask lost its cameo-like placidity; slowly, before my horrified eyes, became malign, vindictive. It spoke, it snarled: �There he is right behind you, get him!� The eyes snapped like fuses, the teeth glistened in a grinning bite.

The light became more diffused, as if a stage-electrician were controlling the scene by a trick switch. It was a murky, bluish green now, the kind of light there would be underwater. And in it danger, my doom, slowly reared its head, with typical underwater movements too; sluggish and held back, with a terrible inevitability about them.

It was male, of course; menace is always male.

First it � he � was just a black huddle, an inchoate lumpy mass, say like solidified smoke, at the feet of this opalescent, revengeful mask. Then it slowly uncoiled, rose, lengthened and at the same time narrowed, until it loomed there before me upright. It was still anonymous, a hulk, an outline against the dark blue background, as though the light that had played-up the mask until now, were coming from somewhere on the other side of it.

It came toward me, toward me, toward me, with cataleptic slowness. I wanted to get out, I wanted to turn and run, in the minute, the half-minute that was all there was left now. I couldn�t move, I couldn�t lift a foot, it was as though I was set into a concrete block. I just wavered back and forth, on a rigid base.

Why I wanted to get out, what It was going to do to me, wasn�t clear, I didn�t know. Only that there was soul-shriveling fear in it. And horror, more than the mind could contemplate.

The pace was beginning to accelerate now as it neared its climax, the way they always do.

He came on, using up the small remaining distance between us. His outline was still indistinct, clotted, like something daubed with mud, like a lumpy clay image. I could see the arms come up from the sides, and couldn�t avoid their lobster-like conjunction. I could feel the pressure of his hands upon my neck. He held it at the sides rather than in front, as if trying to break it rather than strangle me. The gouge of his thumbs, in particular, was excruciating, digging into the straining cords right under the ears, pressing into the tender slack of flesh right beside and under the jawbone.

I went down in a sort of spiral, around and around, following my head and neck around as he sought to wrench them out of true with my spinal column. I had to keep it from snapping.

I clawed at the merciless hands, trying to pull them off. I pried one off at last, but it wrenched itself free of my restraint again, trailing a nail-scratch on my forearm just across the knob of the wristbone. Fire was in the slight laceration, even in the midst of the total extinction threatening me. The hand clamped itself back where it had been, with the irresistibility of a suction-cup.

I beat at his arched body from underneath, then as my resistance weakened, only pushed at it, at last only grasped at it with the instinctive clutch of a drowning man. A button came off loose in my hand and I hung onto it with the senseless tenacity of the dying.

And then I was so long dying, my neck was so long breaking, he tired of the slower surer way. His voice sounded, he spoke to the macabre mask. I heard every word with Delphic clarity � like you do in those things. �Hand me that bore, that sharp-pointed bore lying over there, or this�ll go on all night.�

I raised mutely protesting hands, out and past him, and something was put into one of them. I could feel the short transverse handle. A thought flashed through my mind � and even one�s thoughts are so distinct in those things � �She�s put it into my hand instead of his!� I fixed my hand on it more securely, poised it high, and drove it into him from in back. The shock of its going in seemed to be transmitted to my own body, we were so inextricably intertwined. But, for all that, it seemed to go in effortlessly, like a skewer into butter. I could even feel myself withdraw it again, and it came out harder than it went in.

He went with it, or after it, and toppled back. After a moment, I drew near to him again, on hands and knees. And now that it was too late his face became visible at last, as if a wanly-flickering light were playing over it, and he was suddenly no formless mud-clotted monster but a man just like I was. Harmless, helpless, inoffensive. The face looked reproachfully up at me, as if to say �Why did you have to do that?� I couldn�t stand that, and I leaned over him, tentatively feeling for the position of his heart. Not for purposes of succor, but to make that face stop looking at me so accusingly. Then when I�d located it, I suddenly drove the metal implement in with ungovernable swiftness from straight overhead, and jumped back as I did so.

The mask, still present in the background, gave a horrid scream like something undone, foiled, and whisked away, like something drawn on wires.

I heard a door close and I quickly turned, to see which way she had gone, so that I might remember and find my own way out. But, as always in those things, I was too late. She was gone by the time I turned, and all the doors looked alike again.

I went to them and tried them one by one, and each one was the wrong one, wouldn�t open, and now I couldn�t get out of here, I was trapped, shut in with what was lying there on the floor, that still held fear and menace for me, greater even than when it had moved, attacked me. For the dread and horror that had been latent throughout, far from being expiated, was now more imminent than ever, seemed to gather itself to a head over me, about to burst and inundate me.

Its source, its focal point, was what lay there on the floor. I had to hide it, I had to shut it away. It was one of those compulsions, all the more inescapable for being illogical.

I threw open one of the many doors that had baffled me so repeatedly throughout. And behind it, in the sapphire pall that still shrouded the scene, I now saw a shallow closet. It was as though it hadn�t been there until now, it was as though it had just formed itself for my purpose. I picked up what lay on the floor, and I could seem to do it easily, it had become light, as easy to shoulder as a rolled-up rug or mat; I propped it up behind the closet door; there was not depth enough behind it to do anything else.

Then I closed the door upon it, and pressed it here and there with the flats of my hands, up and down the frame that bordered the mirror, as if to make it hold tighter. But danger still seemed to exude through it, like a vapor. I knew that wasn�t enough, I must do more than that, or it would surely open again.

Then I looked down, and below the knob there was a key-head sticking out. It was shaped a little like a three-leaf clover, and the inner rim of each of the three scooped-out �leaves� was fretted with scrollwork and tracery. It was of some yellowish metal, either brass or iron gilded-over. A key such as is no longer made or used.

I turned it in the keyhole and I drew it slowly out. I was surprised at how long a stem it had, it seemed to keep coming forever. Then at last it ended, in two odd little teeth, each one doubled back on itself, like the single arm of a swastika.

After I had extricated it at last, I pocketed it, and then the knob started turning from the inside, the door started to open anyway. Very slowly but remorselessly, and in another minute I was going to see something unspeakably awful on the other side of it. Revelation, the thing the whole long mental-film had been building to, was upon me.

And then I woke up.

I�d lost the pillow to the floor, and my head was halfway down after it, was dangling partly over the side of the bed, and my face was studded with oozing sweatdrops. I righted it and propped myself up on one elbow and blew out my breath harrowedly. I mumbled, �Gee I�m glad that�s over with!� and drew the back of my pajama sleeve across my forehead to dry it. I brushed the edge of my hand across my mouth, as if to remove a bad taste. I shook my head to clear the last clinging mists of the thing out of it. I looked at the clock, and it was time to get up anyway, but even if it hadn�t been, who would have risked going back to sleep after such a thing? It might have re-formed and started in again, for all I knew.

I flung my legs out of the ravaged coverings, sat on the edge of the bed, picked up a sock and turned it inside-out preparatory to shuffling it on.

Dreams were funny things. Where�d they come from? Where�d they go?

The basinful of stinging cold water in the bathroom cleared away the last lingering vestiges of it, and from this point on everything was on a different plane, normal, rational and reassuringly familiar. The friendly bite of the comb. The winding of the little stem of my wristwatch, the looping-together of the two strap-ends around my�

They fell open and dangled down straight again, still unattached, and stayed that way. I had to rivet my free hand to the little dial to keep it from sliding off my wrist.

I stared at the thing for minutes on end.

I had to let my cuff slide back in place and cover it at last. I couldn�t stand there staring at it forever. That didn�t answer anything. What should it tell me? It was a scratch, that was all.

�Talk about your realistic dreams!� I thought. �I guess I must have done that to myself, with my other hand, in the throes of it. That was why the detail entered into the dream-fabric.�

It couldn�t, naturally, be the other way around, because the other way around meant: transference from the dream into the actuality of leaving a red scratch across my wristbone.

I went ahead. The familiar plane, the rational everyday plane. The blue tie today. Not that I changed them every day, I wasn�t that much of a dude, but every second day I varied them. I threw up my collar, drew the tie-length through, folded it down again�

My hands stayed on it, holding it down flat on each side of my neck, as though afraid it would fly away, although it was a shirt-attached collar. Part of my mind was getting ready to get frightened, fly off the handle, and the rest of my mind wouldn�t let it, held it steady just like I held the collar.

But I hadn�t had those bruises, those brownish-purple discolorations, faintly not vividly, visible at the side of my neck, as from the constriction of a powerful grip, the pressure of cruel fingers, last night when I undressed.

Well all right, but I hadn�t yet had the dream last night when I undressed either. Why look for spooks in this? The same explanation that covered the wrist-scratch still held good for this too. I must have done it to myself, seized my own throat in trying to ward off the traumal attack passing through my mind just then.

I even stood there and tried to reconstruct the posture, to see if it were physically feasible. It was, but the result was almost grotesquely distorted. It resulted in crossing the arms over the chest and gripping the left side of the neck with the right hand, the right with the left. I didn�t know; maybe troubled sleepers did get into those positions. I wasn�t as convinced as I would have liked to be. One thing was certain, the marks had been made by two hands, not one; there were as many on one side as on the other, and the four fingers always go opposite to the thumb in a one-hand grip.

But more disturbing than their visibility, there was pain in them, soreness when I prodded them with my own fingertips, stiffness when I turned my neck acutely. It shouldn�t have, but it seemed to weaken the theory of self-infliction. How was it I hadn�t awakened myself, exerting that much pressure? To which the immediate and welcome corollary was: but if it had been exerted by someone else, I would have been apt to awaken even more quickly, wouldn�t I?

I forced myself back to the everyday plane again. Buttoned the collar around the bruises, partly but not entirely concealing them, knotted the tie, shrugged on vest and coat. I was about ready to go now.

The last thing I did was what I always did last of all, one of those ineradicable little habits. I reached into my pocket to make sure I had enough change available for my meal and transportation, without having to stop and change a bill on the way. I brought up a palmful of it, and then I lost a good deal of it between my suddenly stiff, outspread fingers. Only one or two pieces stayed on, around the button. The large and central button. I let them roll, I didn�t stoop to pick them up. I couldn�t; my spine wouldn�t have bent right then.

It was a strange button. Somehow I knew that even before I compared it. I knew I was going to check it with every article of clothing I owned, but I already knew it wasn�t from one of my own things. Something about the shape, the color, told me; my fingers had never twisted it through a buttonhole, or they would have remembered it. That may sound far-fetched; but buttons can become personalized to nearly as great an extent as neckties.

And when I closed my hand over it � as I did now � it took up as much room inside my folded palm, it had the same feel, as it had had a little while ago in that thing.

It was the button from the dream.

I threw open the closet-door so fast and frightenedly it swung all the way around flush with the wall, and rebounded off it, and started slowly back again with the recoil. There wasn�t anything hanging up in there that I didn�t hold it against, even where there was no button missing, even where its size and type utterly precluded its having been attached. Vests and jackets, a cardigan, a raincoat, a lumberjacket, a topcoat, bathing trunks, a bathrobe. Every stitch I owned.

It wasn�t from anything of mine, it didn�t belong anywhere.

This time I couldn�t get back on the naturalistic plane, I was left dangling in mid-air. This time I couldn�t say: �I did it to myself in the throes of that thing.� It came from somewhere. It had four center holes, it even had a wisp or two of black tailor�s-thread still entwined in them. It was solid, not a phantom.

But rationality wouldn�t give in, tried to rush into the breach, and I was on its side for all I was worth. �No, no. I picked this up on the street, and I don�t remember doing it.� That simply wasn�t so; I�d never picked up a stray button in my life. �Or the last tailor I sent this suit out to left it in the pocket from someone else�s clothing by mistake.� But they always return dry-cleaned garments to you with the pocket-linings inside-out, I�d noticed that a dozen times.

That was the best rationalization could do, and it was none too good. �It just shows you what a thing like that will do to your nerves!� I took out a fresh handkerchief for the day, but I didn�t just spade it into my pocket this time, I furtively touched my temples with it before I did � and it came away darkening with damp. �I better get out of here. I need a cup of coffee. I�ve got the jitters.�

I shrugged into my coat fast, threw open my room door, poised it to close it after me. And the last gesture of all, before leaving each morning, came to me instinctively; feeling, to make sure I had my key and wouldn�t be locked out when I returned that evening.

It came up across the pads of my fingers, but it was only visible at both ends, the middle part was bisected, obscured by something lying across it. My lips parted spasmodically, as when a sudden thrust is received, and refused to come together again.

It had a head � this topmost one � a little like a three-leaf clover and the inner rim of each of the three �leaves� was fretted with scrollwork and tracery. It had a stem disproportionately long for the size of its head, and it ended in two odd little teeth bent back on themselves, like the quarter-part of a swastika. It was of some yellowish composition, either brass or iron gilded-over. A key such as is no longer made or used.

It lay lengthwise in the hollow of my hand, and I kept touching it repeatedly with the thumb of that same hand. That was the only part of me that moved for a long time, that foolish flexing thumb.

I didn�t leave right then, for all my preparations. I went back into the room and closed the door after me on the inside, and staggered dazedly around for a moment or two. Once I dropped down limply on the edge of the bed, then turned around and noticed what it was, and got hastily up again, more frightened than ever. Another time, I remember, I thrust my face close to the mirror in the dresser, drew down my lower lid with one finger, stared intently at the white of my eyeball. Even as I did it, I didn�t know what I meant by it myself, didn�t know what it was to tell me. It didn�t tell me anything.

And still another time, I looked out of the window, as if to see if the outside world was still there. It was. The houses across the way looked just like they�d looked last night. The lady on the third floor had her bedding airing over the windowsill, just like every morning. An iceman was gouging a partition across a cake of ice with one point of his tongs preparatory to picking it in two. A little boy was swinging his books on his way to school, killing as much time as he could by walking along spanning the curb, one foot up, one foot down.

There was nothing the matter out there. It was in here, with me.

I decided I�d better go to work maybe that would exorcise me. I fled from the room almost as though it were haunted. It was too late to stop off at a breakfast-counter now. I didn�t want any, anyway. My stomach kept giving little quivers. In the end I didn�t go to work either. I couldn�t, I wouldn�t have been any good. I telephoned in that I was too ill to come, and it was no idle excuse, even though I was upright on my two legs.

I roamed around the rest of the day in the sunshine. Wherever the sunshine was the brightest, I sought and stayed in that place, and when it moved on I moved with it. I couldn�t get it bright enough or strong enough. I avoided the shade, I edged away from it, even the slight shade of an awning or of a tree.

And yet the sunshine didn�t warm me. Where others mopped their brows and moved out of it, I stayed � and remained cold inside. And the shade was winning the battle as the hours lengthened. It outlasted the sun. The sun weakened and died; the shade deepened and spread. Night was coming on, the time of dreams, the enemy.

I went to Cliff�s house late. My mind had been made up to go there for hours past, but I went there late on purpose. The first time I got there they were still at the table, I could see them through the front window. I walked around the block repeatedly, until Lil had gotten up from the table and taken all the dishes with her, and Cliff had moved to another chair and was sitting there alone. I did all this so she wouldn�t ask me to sit down at the table with them, I couldn�t have stood it.

I rang the bell and she opened the door, dried her hands, and said heartily: �Hello stranger. I was just saying to Cliff only tonight, it�s about time you showed up around here.�

I wanted to detach him from her, but first I had to sit through about ten minutes of her. She was my sister, but you don�t tell women things like I wanted to tell him. I don�t know why, but you don�t. You tell them the things you have under control; the things that you�re frightened of, you tell other men if you tell anyone.

Finally she said, �I�ll just finish up the dishes, and then I�ll be back.�

The minute the doorway was empty I whispered urgently, �Get your hat and take a walk with me outside. I want to tell you something � alone.�

On our way out he called in to the kitchen, �Vince and I are going out to stretch our legs, we�ll be back in a couple of minutes.�

She called back immediately and warningly: �Now Cliff, only beer � if that�s what you�re going for.�

It put the idea in his head, if nothing else, but I said: �No, I want to be able to tell you this clearly, it�s going to sound hazy enough as it is; let�s stay out in the open.�

We strolled slowly along the sidewalk; he was on his feet a lot and it was no treat to him, I suppose, but he was a good-natured sort of fellow, didn�t complain. He was a detective. I probably would have gone to him about it anyway even if he hadn�t been, but the fact that he was, of course, made it the inevitable thing to do.

He had to prompt me, because I didn�t know where to begin. �So what�s the grief, boy friend?�

�Cliff, last night I dreamed I killed a fellow. I don�t know who he was or where it was supposed to be. His nail creased my wrist, his fingers bruised the sides of my neck, and a button came off him somewhere and got locked in my hand. And finally, after I�d done it, I locked the door of a closet I�d propped him up in, put the key away in my pocket. And when I woke up � well, look.�

We had stopped under a street light. I turned to face him. I drew back my cuff to show him. �Can you see it?� He said he could. I dragged down my collar with both hands, first on one side, then on the other. �Can you see them? Can you see the faint purplish marks there? They�re turning a little black now.�

He said he could.

�And the button, the same shape and size and everything, was in my trouser-pocket along with my change. It�s on the dresser back in my own room now. If you want to come over, you can see it for yourself. And last of all, the key turned up on me, next to my own key, in the pocket where I always keep it. I�ve got it right here, I�ll show it to you. I�ve been carrying it around with me all day.�

It took me a little while to get it out, my hand was shaking so. It had shaken like that all day, every time I brought it near the thing to feel if it was still on me. And I had felt to see if it was still on me every five minutes on the minute. The lining caught around it and I had to free it, but finally I got it out.

He took it from me and examined it, curiously but noncommittally.

�That�s just the way it looked in � when I saw it when I was asleep,� I quavered. �The same shape, the same color, the same design. It even weighs the same, it even��

He lowered his head a trifle, looked at me intently from under his brows, when he heard how my voice sounded. �You�re all in pieces, aren�t you?� he confirmed. He put his hand on my shoulder for a minute to steady it. �Don�t take it that way, don�t let it get you.�

That didn�t help. Sympathy wasn�t what I wanted, I wanted explanation. �Cliff, you�ve got to help me. You don�t know what I�ve been through all day, I�ve been turned inside-out.�

He weighed the key up and down. �Where�d you get this from, Vince? I mean, where�d you first get it from, before you dreamed about it?�

I grabbed his one arm with both hands. �But don�t you understand what I�ve just been telling you? I didn�t have it before I dreamt about it. I never saw it before then. And then I wake up, and it turns real!�

�And that goes for the button too?�

I quirked my head.

�You�re in bad shape over this, aren�t you? Well what is it that�s really got you going? It�s not the key and button and scratch, is it? Are you afraid the dream really happened, is that it?�

By that I could see that he hadn�t understood until now, hadn�t really gotten me. Naturally it wasn�t just the tokens carried-over from the dream that had the life frightened out of me. It was the implication behind them. If it was just a key turned up in my pocket after I dreamed about it, why would I go to him? The hell with it. But if the key turned up real, then there was a mirrored closet-door somewhere to go with it. And if there was a closet to match it, then there was a body crammed inside it. Also real. Real dead. A body that had scratched me and tried to wring my neck before I killed it.

I tried to tell him that. I was too weak to shake him, but I went through the motions. �Don�t you understand? There�s a door somewhere in this city right at this very minute, that this key belongs to! There�s a man propped up dead behind it! And I don�t know where; my God, I don�t know where, nor who he is, nor how or why it happened � only that � that I must have been there, I must have done it � or why would it come to my mind like that in my sleep?�

�You�re in a bad way.� He gave a short whistle through his clenched teeth. �Do you need a drink, Lil or no Lil! Come on, we�ll go someplace and get this thing out of your system.� He clutched me peremptorily by the arm.

�But only coffee,� I faltered. �Let�s go where the lights are good and bright.�

We went where there was so much gleam and so much dazzle even the flies walking around on the table cast long shadows.

�Now we�ll go at this my way,� he said, licking the beer-foam off his upper lip. �Tell me the dream over again.�

I told it.

�I can�t get anything out of that.� He shook his head baffledly. �Did you know this girl, or face, or whatever it was?�

I pressed the point of one finger down hard on the table. �No, now I don�t, but in the dream I did, and it made me broken-hearted to see her. Like she had double-crossed me or something.�

�Well in the dream who was she, then?�

�I don�t know; I knew her then, but now I don�t.�

�Jese!� he said, swallowing more beer fast. �I should have made this whiskey with tabasco sauce! Well was she some actress you�ve seen on the screen lately, maybe? Or some picture you�ve seen in a magazine? Or maybe even some passing face you glimpsed in a crowd? All those things could happen.�

�I don�t know, I don�t know. I seemed to know her better than that; it hurt me to see her, to have her hate me. But I can�t carry her over into � now.�

�And the man, the fellow or whoever he was?�

�No, I couldn�t seem to see his face through the whole thing. I only saw it at the very end, after it was already too late. And then when the door started to open again, after I�d locked him in, it seemed as though I was going to find out something horrible � about him, I guess. But I woke up before there was time.�

�And last of all, the place. You say nothing but doors all around you. Have you been in a place like that lately? Have you ever seen one? In a magazine illustration, in a story you read, in a movie?�

�No. No. No.�

�Well then let�s get away from the dream. Let�s leave it alone.� He flung his hand back and forth relievedly, as if clearing the air. �It was starting to get me myself. Now what�d you do last night � before this whole thing came up?�

�Nothing. Just what I do every night. I left work at the usual time, had my meal at the usual place��

�Sure it wasn�t a welsh rarebit?�

I answered his smile, but not light-heartedly. �A welsh rarebit is not responsible for that key. A locksmith is. Drop it on the table and hear it clash! Bite it between your teeth and chip them! And I didn�t have it when I went to bed last night.�

He leaned toward me. �Now listen, Vince. There�s a very simple explanation for that key. There has to be. And whatever it is, it didn�t come to you in a dream. Either you were walking along, you noticed that key, picked it up because of its peculiar��

I semaphored both hands before my face. �No, I tried to sell myself that this morning; it won�t work. I have absolutely no recollection of ever having done that, at any time. I�d remember the key itself, even if I didn�t remember the incident of finding it.�

�Are you sitting there trying to say you�ve never in your life forgotten a single object, once you�ve seen it the first time?�

�No,� I said unwillingly.

�You�d better not. Particularly a nondescript thing like a key��

�This isn�t a nondescript key, it�s a unique key. And I do say I never saw it before, never picked it up; it�s a strange key to me.�

He spread his hands permissively. �All right, it don�t have to be that explanation. There�s a dozen-and-one other ways it could have gotten into your pocket without your knowledge. You might have hung the coat up under some shelf the key was lying on, and it dropped off and the open pocket caught it��

�The pockets of my topcoat have flaps. What�d it do, make a U-turn to get in under them?�

�The flaps might have been left accidentally tucked-in, from the last time your hands were in your pockets. Or it may have fallen out of someone else�s coat hung up next to yours in a cloakroom, and been lying there on the floor, and someone came along, thought it belonged in your coat, put it back in��

�I shoved my hands in and out of those pockets a dozen times yesterday. And the day before. And the day before that. Where was it then? It wasn�t in the pocket! But it was this morning. After I saw it clear as a photograph in my sleep during the night!�

�Suppose it was in the pocket and your hand missed it � yesterday and the day-before and so on � until this morning? That would be physically possible, wouldn�t it?�

I gave him a no on this; I had a right to. �It came up over my own key, it was the top one of the two, when I got them both out this morning. So if it was already in there last night, how could I have got my own key out � as I did when I came home � without bringing it up too? And last night I didn�t bring it up.�

He waived that point. Maybe because I had him, maybe not. �All right, have it your way, let�s say that it wasn�t in your pocket last night. That still don�t prove that the dream itself was real.�

�No?� I shrilled. �It gives it a damn good foundation-in-fact as far as I�m concerned!�

�Listen, Vince, there�s no halfway business about these things. It�s either one thing or the other. Either you dream a thing or you don�t dream it, it really happens. You�re twenty-six years old, you�re not a kid. Don�t worry, you�d know it and you�d remember it damn plainly afterwards if you ever came to grips with a guy and he had you by the throat, like in this dream, and you rammed something into his back. I don�t take any stock in this stuff about people walking in their sleep and doing things without knowing it. They can walk a little ways off from their beds, maybe, but the minute anyone touches them or does something to stop them, they wake right up. They can�t be manhandled and go right on sleeping through it��

�I couldn�t have walked in my sleep, anyway. It was drizzling when I went to bed last night; the streets were only starting to dry off when I first got up this morning. I don�t own rubbers, and the soles of both my shoes were perfectly dry when I put them on.�

�Don�t try to get away from the main point at issue. Have you any recollection at all, no matter how faint, of being out of your room last night, of grappling with a guy, of ramming something into him?�

�No, all I have is a perfectly clear recollection of going to bed, dreaming I did all those things, and then waking up again.�

He cut his hand short at me, to keep the button, key, and bruises from showing up again, I guess. �Then that�s all there is to it. Then it didn�t happen.� And he repeated stubbornly: �You either dream �em or you do �em. No two ways about it.�

I ridged my forehead dissatisfiedly. �You haven�t helped me a bit, not a dime�s worth.�

He was a little put out, maybe because he hadn�t. �Naturally not, not if you expected me to arrest you for murdering a guy in a dream. The arrest would have to take place in a dream too, and the trial and all the rest of it. And I�m off-duty when I�m dreaming. What do you think I am, a witch-doctor?�

�How much?� I asked the counterman disgruntledly.

�Seventeen cups of coffee�� he tabulated. It was two o�clock in the morning.

�I�m going to sleep in the living-room at your place tonight,� I said to him on the way over. �I�m not going back to that room of mine till broad daylight! Don�t say anything to Lil about it, will you, Cliff?�

�I should say not,� he agreed. �D�you think I want her to take you for bugs? You�ll get over this, Vince.�

�First I�ll get to the bottom of it, then I�ll get over it,� I concurred sombrely.

Original publication:The American Magazine, January 1947

Honda sprawls between the bluff and the railroad tracks. The tracks, four strips of steel, bright in the sunlight, fence the endless Southwestern plain from the false fronts of the town. The plain is Honda�s only view; from behind the buildings the bluff, a huge, red-brown mound, roughly shaped like the crown of an enormous sombrero, rises to the sky. Against the bluff�s ancient mass the houses of Honda�s single street are garish and new, in spite of peeling paint and battered tin signs. The glaring sunshine has baked everything, thoroughly, into one color � sepia. Even the dust that swirls up as the Streamliner passes is the same thinned-out, tired brown.

The long red and silver fatly curved Streamliner streaks past Honda, heading west, three mornings a week. Eastbound, it rattles by in the night, a sound, sudden and fleeting. But on the mornings when it is seen, its length alive with glints from the ever-present sunlight, the Streamliner is an event to Honda, a glimpse of the sleekness and wealth, the silver-chromium speed, that belong to other places.

That is why the morning the Streamliner stopped it was more than an event; it was a shock. It was wrong, not normal. The whole town felt it; the range, when it heard, felt it. And even then, that morning, the feeling was that this happening would mean a bad time for Honda.

Original publication:Mystery Book Magazine, March 1947; first collected in Dead Man Blues by William Irish (Philadelphia, Lippincott, 1948). Note: The title was changed to �Fire Escape� for its first book publication.

The kid was twelve, and his name was Buddy. His real name wasn�t that, it was Charlie, but they called him Buddy.

He was small for his age. The world he lived in was small, too. Or rather, one of them was. He lived in two worlds at once. One of them was a small, drab, confined world � just two squalid rooms in the rear of a six-story tenement, 20 Holt Street; stifling in summer, freezing in winter. Just two grown-ups in that world � Mom and Pop. And a handful of other kids, like himself, that he knew from school and from playing on the streets.

The other world had no boundaries, no limits. You could do anything in it. You could go anywhere. All you had to do was just sit still and think hard. Make it up as you went along. The world of the imagination. He did a lot of that. But he was learning to keep it to himself. They told him he was getting too big now for that stuff. They swatted him, and called it lies. The last time he�d tried telling them about it, Pop had threatened:

�I�m going to wallop you good next time you make up any more of them fancy lies of yours!�

�It comes from them Saturday afternoon movies he�s been seeing,� Mom said. �I told him he can�t go any more.�

And then this night came along. It felt like it was made of boiling tar, poured all over you. July was hot everywhere, but on Holt Street it was hell. He kept trying to sleep but it wouldn�t work. The bedding on his cot got all soggy and streaked with perspiration. Pop wasn�t home; he worked nights.

The two rooms were like the chambers of an oven, with all the gas-burners left on full-tilt. He took his pillow with him, finally, and climbed out the window onto the fire escape landing and tried it out there.

It wasn�t the first time. He�d done it often on hot nights. You couldn�t fall off because the landing was protected by an iron railing. Well, you could if you were unlucky, but it hadn�t happened yet. He sort of locked his arm through the rail uprights, and that kept him from rolling in his sleep.

It didn�t take him long to find out it was just as bad on the fire escape. It was still like an oven, only now with the burners out. He decided maybe it would be better if he tried it a little higher up. Sometimes there was a faint stirring of breeze skimming along at roof level. It couldn�t bend and get down in here behind the tenements. He picked up the pillow and went up the iron slats one flight, to the sixth-floor landing, and tried it there.

It wasn�t very much better, but it had to do. You couldn�t go up any higher than that. He�d learned by experience you couldn�t sleep on the roof itself because it was covered with gravel, and that got into you and hurt. And underneath it was tar-surfaced, and in the hot weather that got soft and stuck to you all over.

He wriggled around a little on the hard-bitten iron slats, with empty spaces in between � it was like sleeping on a grill � and then finally he dozed off, the way you can even on a fire escape when you�re only twelve.

Morning came awfully fast. It seemed to get light only a minute later. The shine tickled his eyelids and he opened them. Then he saw that it wasn�t coming down from above, from the sky, the way light should. It was still dark, it was still night up there.

It was coming in a thin bar, down low, even with his eyes, running along the bottom of the window beside him, on a level with the fire escape landing he was on. If he�d been standing up instead of stretched out flat, it would have run over his feet instead of across his eyes.

It was only about an inch high, for a dark shade was unrolled nearly to the bottom. But that had slipped back, maybe half a turn on its roller, allowing this narrow strip of light to escape. Now, with his eyes up close against the sill like they were, it was nearly as good as the whole window being lit up. He could see the whole inside of the room.

There were two people in it, a man and a woman. Buddy would have closed his eyes again and gone right back to sleep � what did he care about watching grown-ups?�� except for the funny, sneaky way they were both acting. That made him keep on watching, wondering what they were up to.

The man was asleep on a chair, by a table. He�d been drinking or something. There was a bottle and two glasses on the table in front of him. His head was down on the table, and his hand was in front of his eyes, to protect them from the light.

The woman was moving around on tiptoes, trying not to make any noise. She was carrying the man�s coat in her hands, as if she�d just taken it off the back of the chair, where he�d hung it before he fell asleep. She had a lot of red and white stuff all over her face, but Buddy didn�t think she looked very pretty.

When she reached the far side of the table she stopped, and started to dip her hand in and out of all the pockets of the coat. She kept her back to the man while she was doing it. But Buddy could see her very well from the side.

That was the first sneaky thing he saw that made him keep on watching them. And the second was, he saw the fingers of the man�s hand � the one that was lying in front of his eyes � split open, and the man stole a look through them at what she was doing.

Then, when she turned her head to make sure he was asleep, he quickly closed his fingers together again.

She turned her head the other way again and resumed her searching.

She came up with a big wad of money from the coat, all rolled up tight. She threw the coat aside, bent her head close, and started to count it. Her eyes grew very bright, and Buddy could see her licking her lips while she was doing it.

All of a sudden he held his breath. The man�s arm was starting to crawl along the top of the table toward her, to reach for her and grab her. It moved very slowly, very quietly, like a big thick snake writhing along after somebody, and she never noticed it.

Then, when it was out straight and nearly touching her, the man started to come up off his chair after it and crouch over toward her, and she never heard that either. He was smiling, but it wasn�t a very pleasant smile.

Buddy�s heart was pounding.

He thought, �You better look around, lady!� But she didn�t. She was too busy counting the money.

Suddenly the man jumped and grabbed her. His chair went over flat, and the table nearly did, too, but it recovered and stayed upright. His big hand, the one that had been reaching out all along, caught her around the back of the neck, and held on tight, and he started to shake her from head to foot. His other hand grabbed the wrist that was holding the money. She tried to jam it down the front of her dress, but she wasn�t quick enough; he started to twist her wrist slowly around, to make her let go of it.

She gave a funny little squeak like a mouse, but not very loud; at least it didn�t have much volume when it reached the boy on the fire escape.

�No you don�t!� Buddy heard the man growl. �I figured something like this was coming! You gotta get up pretty early in the morning to put anything like that over on me!�

�Take your hands off me!� she panted. �Let go of me!�

He started to swing her around from side to side.

�You won�t ever try anything like this again, by the time I get through with you!� Buddy heard the man grunt.

All of a sudden she screamed, �Joe! Hurry up in here! I can�t handle him any longer by myself!� But she didn�t scream it out loud � just in a sort of smothered way, as if she didn�t want her words to carry too far.

The door flew open, and a second man showed up. He must have been standing right outside it waiting the whole time, to be able to rush in that fast. He ran up behind the man who was being robbed. The woman held on tight and kept the first man from turning around.

The newcomer waited until the other man�s head was in the right position, and then he locked his own hands together in a double fist, and smashed them down with all his might on the back of the fellow�s neck.

The victim dropped to the floor like a stone and lay there quietly for a minute.

Original publication:Cosmopolitan, July 1956; later expanded to a full-length novel (New York, Dell, 1957)

Lying in the darkness, uncomfortable as always in a strange bed and room, I heard the snap of a light switch, then the click of high heels in the hall just outside the thin wood of my door. And in my mind I could see the sleek nyloned legs that were making this sound only a few feet from my bed, the delicate fine-boned ankles. A switch clicked in the bedroom we�d decided would be hers, and I tried to picture the girl�s face as it had looked when we�d met this morning, and I couldn�t. I could see her hair, very heavy and long, with the yellow, mixed with darker, strands that only genuinely blonde hair has. But her face... Then suddenly I saw it again, the prominent cheekbones, the pale magnificent complexion, and the gray intelligent eyes that revealed Ruth Gehlmann�s personality.

The heels clicked toward me again, then stepped onto the tile in the bathroom. I heard the medicine cabinet open, and then the door close, and I was intensely aware of all these sounds and of the girl, living under this roof with me now, who made them; and I tried to ignore them, and think of something else. But the door opened again, the steps sounded once more on the wooden hall floor, then stopped. There was a moment�s complete silence; then I heard them approaching. A very light tapping sounded on my door; it opened quietly, and the girl�s handsome figure stood sharply silhouetted against the hall light. �Asleep?� she whispered.

�No,� I said quietly.

She hesitated, then said, �Ben? Do you ever � are you at all � frightened?�

�Oh,� I said. �I don�t know. Yeah, a little. Why? Are you frightened?�

Original publication:The Saturday Evening Post, June 13, 1953

Sam Wagner was dreaming when the telephone rang. He was sitting in a blind in duck heaven and the mallards were coming in, settling over the decoys, when the shrill ringing called him home to the bedroom on Montgomery Street. He pawed blindly at the bedside table and found the telephone.

�Yeah,� he said; �Wagner here.�

�Sergeant Baxer, Sam. You awake?�

Sam Wagner threw the covers back and put his feet on the floor. He peered at the luminous face of the clock. Two A.M.

�Now I�m awake,� he said. �Go ahead.�

�Leon Poole took a walk,� Baxer said. �The chief thought you ought to know. He told me to call you.�

�Leon Poole,� Sam Wagner said. �How�d he do it?�

�He was a trusty on the honor farm. One of the guards took him along as a helper on a truck, late this afternoon. The truck never got to town. Took �em a while to find it.�

�The guard?�

�Dead. Poole put a knife in his throat.�

After a moment, Sam said, �Any sign of Poole?�

�Not yet. He ditched the truck fifteen miles this side of Winston. The state and county boys are out in force. They want him bad, Sam. That guard was a cold-blooded piece of work.�

�Anything I can do?�

�No. Chief wanted you to know, that�s all. You put Poole in the pen. Sit tight, he says. Keep a sharp eye.�

�O.K.,� Sam said. �Thanks for calling.�

He sat on the edge of the bed, listening to the wind rip through the fir trees that stood behind the house. Rain slashed at the windows. The storm the papers had been talking about had finally arrived.

�Sam,� Lila said, �who was that?�

The telephone had awakened her. Sam rubbed the back of his neck and shuffled his feet on the cold floor. He thought if Don Ameche had had a wife like Lila � nervous and a fretful sleeper � he would never have invented the telephone. For Lila, a ring in the night always signaled a major calamity.

�Sergeant Baxer,� he said. �A trusty got loose from the state honor farm. The chief thought I ought to know.�

�Why?�

�Because I�m a cop,� Sam said. �It�s part of my work to know about things like that. Tomorrow�s work.� He swung his feet back into bed, leaned over, found her nose, and twisted it gently. �Remember your condition,� he told her. �Plenty of rest, the doc says. Now turn it off and go back to sleep.�

He put his head on the pillow. Beside him, Lila moved restlessly. Lila was good people, his one true love � ten years of married life had sold him on that a million times. But she was a worry bird, first class. Give her a big item like what dress to wear and she could fret herself into a pink tizzy. Give her a cop for a husband and she really�

She sat up beside him. �Sam, I�m hungry.�

�You had a big dinner.�

�I don�t care,� she said. �I�m hungry again.� When he didn�t respond, she said, �We�re hungry.�

�Unfair tactics,� he said. �You�re ganging up on me.�

�Would you deny your son nourishment?�

�Five months before he gets here,� Sam said, �and he�s already got an appetite like a horse. Better send him back. I don�t think I�m gonna be able to afford him.�

�Sam,� she said, �we�re hungry.�

He threw the covers back. �Hot chocolate and cinnamon toast,� he said. �Comin� up.� He found his robe and slippers and went through the house to the kitchen. He put a pan of milk on the stove. He covered slices of bread with butter, sugar, and cinnamon and put them in the oven.

�What a gal,� he said.

He was thirty-five, an even six feet tall, hardfleshed and lean. His hair was close-cropped. He had big, rough hands and rangy shoulders. His face was not a gentle face. His cheekbones were prominent, his jaw was taut and narrow, his heavy brows grew almost solidly over his blue eyes. But there was kindness in his eyes. Now worry pulled at the corners of his mouth. He turned to find Lila in the doorway.

�What�s this?� he said. �You don�t like the service?�

�I want to talk, Sam.�

She came into the kitchen, pulling tight the belt of her robe. She was tall and underweight � her pregnancy had yet to add a pound. She had a rather long face and large, hazel-brown eyes. A beautiful woman, a sensitive woman and a devoted wife. Sam knew it well.

He knew she had built her life around him, completely and for good, and he called that fine. But there were times when caring too much meant worrying too much. Take that deal about the gun. A couple of weeks ago, all of a sudden, she�d blown up a storm because he had to carry a gun to earn a living. So now he got in and out of his shoulder rig in the closet where she couldn�t see it.

�Two A.M.�s no time for a talk,� he said.

�It�s Leon Poole, isn�t it?�

�You heard me say so.�

�And while you were out here I remembered who he is. He�s the one � I mean, it was his wife you killed, wasn�t it?�

�That�s the guy,� Sam said.

�I remember seeing him in court.� Her lips tightened. �He�s dangerous, Sam. Very dangerous.�

Sam spread his arms in exasperation. �Dangerous,� he said. �To you, even a bicycle thief is lethal. Why don�t you be sensible? This guy is nobody.�

Lila looked at him steadily. She looked past him, back more than three years, and saw Leon Poole again. In the courtroom. She�d been there because it had been Sam�s case, and a big one. Big in the papers, at least, with the wife killed. She saw Poole whisper to his lawyer, saw the lawyer turn and find her, saw Poole turn and find her.

�He frightened me,� she said.

It was hard to know why. He hadn�t been rough-looking. Soft was the word for him, a fleshy man of medium height, with plump hands and cheeks. Features almost feminine � straight nose, large long-lashed dark eyes, thick dark hair. His eyes, she thought. His eyes were liquid, steady and staring.

�He was a thief,� Sam said. �And not a very good one.�

�He says you killed his wife.�

�She wound up with three bullets in her,� Sam said. �Mine and two others. Which one did it? Nobody knows.�

�He says you did it.�

�Because he�s got to stick it on somebody. Just one man, not three. It was my case. I questioned him, I ran him down. So he chose me for the guy that killed her.�

�He said he�d get even.�

�Quit it!� Sam leaned stiff-armed on the table. �If you think Poole will get a chance to take a shot at me, you�re very mistaken. In the first place, he isn�t going to want to. That �I�ll get you for this, copper!� is a lot of blow. We hear it all the time. Nothing comes of it. Second place, he hasn�t a chance of staying loose.�

�What makes you so sure?�

�Common sense,� Sam said. �He�s wearing prison numbers on his back a foot high. He�s got no dough, no gun, and he�s afoot. Every cop in the state�s looking for him.� Sam took his hands off the table and thrust them into the pockets of his robe. �A lot of big, tough men try to bust out of Winston. Not one in a thousand gets more than a few miles.�

The milk was boiling, the toast was burning. Sam swore, threw it all away and started over. When he turned to Lila, he found her pale, eyes large and dark.

�Hey, cut it out,� he said.

�You know what I�m thinking?�

�I should,� he said. �I�ve seen that look often enough. And I�ve heard the story often enough too. You don�t want to be a cop�s widow. If I loved you as much as you love me, I�d get out of police work.�

�You think I�m being selfish?�

�Just the opposite.� Sam said it earnestly, meaning and believing every word. �You�re gone on me � why I�m that lucky I�ll never know. You�re scared to death something is going to happen to me. I know you can�t any more stop worrying than you can stop breathing. But the answer�s still no. I�m not going to quit police work.�

�What about him, Sam?� Lila asked. �There�s two of us.�

�That�s not a clean punch,� Sam said.

�I think it is.�

Sam put chocolate and toast on the kitchen table. He did not speak again until he had finished the task. Lila, watching him, knew what he would say. His blue eyes were stubborn, his brows were pulled down in a line she knew only too well.

�There are thousands upon thousands of men in police work,� he said. �They live full and satisfying lives � long lives, most of them. Their wives put up with it. Their kids put up with it. You and the lad will have to do the same. I�ll do any reasonable thing for you. This is not reasonable. I won�t do it.�

Lila said, �I�ll ask again.�

Original publication:Black Mask, October 1937, as by William Irish; first collected in Six Nights of Mystery by William Irish (New York, Popular Library, 1950). Note: The title was changed to �One Night in New York� for its first book publication.

I had on my best hat and my warpaint when I dug into her bell. You�ve heard makeup called that a thousand times, but this is one time it rated it; it was just that � warpaint.

I caught Ruby Rose Reading at breakfast time � hers, not mine. Quarter to three in the afternoon. Breakfast was a pink soda-fountain mess, a tomato-and-lettuce � both untouched � and an empty glass of Bromo Seltzer, which had evidently had first claim on her. There were a pair of swell ski slides under her eyes � she was reading Gladys Glad�s beauty column to try to figure out how to get rid of them before she went out that night and got a couple more. A maid had opened the door and given me a yellowed optic. �Yes, ma�am, who do you wish to see?�

�I see her already,� I said, �so skip the Morse code.� I went in up to Ruby Rose�s ten-yard line. �Wheeler�s the name,� I said. �Does it mean anything to you?�

�Should it?� She was dark and Salome-ish. She was mean. She was bad medicine. I could see his finish right there, in her eyes. And it hadn�t been any fun to dance at Texas Guinan�s or Larry Fay�s when I was sixteen, to keep him out of the orphan asylum or the reformatory. I hadn�t spent most of my young girlhood in a tinseled G-string to have her take apart what I�d built up just to see what made him tick.

I said, �I don�t mind coming right out with it in front of your maid � if you don�t.�

But evidently she did.

She hit her with the tomato-and-lettuce in the left eye as preamble to the request: �Whaddo I pay you for, anyway? Take Foo-Too around the block a couple of times.�

�I took him once already, and he was a good boy� was the weather report she got on this.

�Well, take him again. Maybe you can kid him it�s tomorrow already.�

The maid fastened something that looked like the business end of a floor mop to a leash and went out shaking her head. �You sure didn�t enjoy yourself last night. That Stork Club never agrees with you.�

As soon as the gallery was out of the way I said, �You lay off my brother!�

She lit a cigarette and nosed the smoke at me. �Well, Gracie Allen, you�ve come to the wrong place looking for your brother. And, just for the record, what am I supposed to have done to him, cured him of wiping his nose on his sleeve or something?�

�He�s been spending dough like wild, dough that doesn�t come out of his salary.�

�Then where does it come from?� she asked.

�I haven�t found out. I hope his firm never does, either.� I shifted gears, went into low � like when I used to sing �Poor Butterfly� for the customers � but money couldn�t have dragged this performance out of me, it came from the heart, without pay.

�There�s a little girl on our street � oh, not much to look at, thinks twelve o�clock�s the middle of the night and storks leave babies, but she�s ready to take up where I leave off, pinch pennies and squeeze nickels along with him, build him into something, get him somewhere, not spread him all over the landscape. He�s just a man who doesn�t know what�s good for him, doesn�t know his bass from his oboe. I can�t stand by and watch her chew her heart up. Give her a break, and him, and me. Pick on someone your own size, someone who can take it. Have your fun and more power to you � but not with all I�ve got!�

She banged her cigarette to death against a tray. �Okay, is the screen test about over? Now, will you get out of here, you ham actress, and lemme get my massage?�

She went over and got the door ready for me. Gave a traffic-cop signal over her shoulder with one thumb. �I�ve heard of wives pulling this act, and even mothers, and in a pitcher I saw only lately � Camilly, it was called � it was the old man. Now it�s a sister!� She gave the ceiling the once-over. �What�ll they think of next? Send grandma around tomorrow � next week East Lynne. Come on, make it snappy!� she invited, and hitched her elbow at me. If she�d touched me, I think I�d have murdered her.

�If you feel I�m poison, why don�t you put it up to your brother?� she signed off. And very low, just before she walloped the door after me: �And see how far you get!�

Original publication:Black Mask, May 1942, as by William Irish; first collected in Borrowed Crime by William Irish (New York, Avon Murder Mystery Monthly, 1946). Note: The title was changed to �Chance� for its first book publication.

Original publication:Detective Fiction Weekly, February 8, 1941, as by William Irish; first collected in The Dancing Detective by William Irish (Philadelphia, Lippincott, 1946). Note: The story was retitled �Two Fellows in a Furnished Room� for its first book publication.

I can�t say I took a shine to the idea of clearing out and turning the place over to him like that on a Monday night. If it�d been any other night but Monday. Monday I always did my studying-up for the night class I went to once a week, on Tuesday night. He knew that by now. We�d been rooming together long enough.

But he went ahead and asked it anyway. ��And I got a ring from her just before I left work. She said it�s very important, she�s got to see me right tonight, and it�s got to be someplace where we can talk. Now you know I can�t go over to her place on account of the way her family feels about me. So I told her to come up here, and I thought maybe you wouldn�t mind�� And then he ended up, �Just this once. I won�t ask anything like this of you again, Red.�

I thought: Darned right you won�t, because you�ll get turned down flat if you do. But what could I do? Refuse point-blank to his face? That wouldn�t have made for very pleasant living together afterwards. And after all, he did have half-rights in the place.

I wouldn�t have minded so much if it had been a half-decent night. But there was one of those fine needle rains oozing; the kind that doesn�t fall, that you don�t even see in the air, but that just shows by wetting the surface of the street and tickling the back of your neck. It was no use going to the library and doing my stuff there; that closed at nine and I would have been only about half-through by then. I saw where I�d have to let it go altogether tonight, try to cram it all in just before class the following evening. Just roam around for tonight and try to find someplace to hang out in, out of the mist.

�All right,� I gave in, �what time does curfew go into effect?�

�Now you don�t have to dodge meeting her, I don�t mean that,� he protested. �I don�t want you to get the wrong idea about her and me. This isn�t a date, there�s nothing underhanded about it. She said it�s something that concerns both our futures, and it�s just that there isn�t anyplace else we can talk in privacy. And with the three of us around here at the same time, you wouldn�t be able to get your studying done and we wouldn�t be able to talk freely. You don�t have to duck out before she comes; I just thought I�d explain the situation to you ahead of time, to avoid embarrassment. She said she�d be here around eight-thirty or a little after.�

�It�s nearly that now.� I reached for my hat, edged up my coat-collar. �Maybe I can find some kind of a show,� I suggested half-heartedly.

He followed me to the door. �Now don�t be peeved about this, will you, Red?�

What was the use of being a grouch about it? As long as I was doing it I might as well do it obligingly, I figured. My disposition matches my hair; I can get sore, but I can�t hold it. �Forget it,� I squinted at him. He closed and I went down.

I met her coming up. I�d never seen her before, but I�d heard him talk enough about her to know it was she. She had on a raincoat made of green cellophane. I�m quick to judge. She was a nice girl. So nice she could have brought an overnight-case here with her, and you�d know just by looking at her there was nothing shady about it.

I edged over to give her room. She knew who I was too, I guess, from him. She smiled sociably. �I hope he didn�t chase you out on my account?� she said.

I didn�t know if he wanted her to know he had or not, so I said: �No, that�s all right, I was going out anyway.�

There wasn�t very much more than that for us to say; we didn�t know each other after all. �Well, goodnight,� she said, and went on up. �Goodnight,� I said, and tipped my hat and went on down.

I heard him come out to the door and let her in, just before I quitted the bottom of the staircase. She hadn�t knocked or anything, he must have seen her from the window. �Hello, Estelle,� I heard him say. His greeting sounded a little grave, a little troubled, I thought.

I thought about the two of them intermittently during the next few hours, but only because of the inconvenience they were putting me to. I had a hard time of it. Man is a creature of habit. My habit was to study for night class on Monday evenings, and because that had been disrupted I found myself at a complete loss for something to do. I couldn�t find a show that suited me. Then before I could make up my mind, it was already too late for one, so that took care of that. I�m not a solitary drinker, never have been, so that excluded taprooms. I finally compromised by sitting down at a little coffee counter somewhere and poring slowly through a tabloid I�d bought. For the first and last times in my life I found myself doing anagrams and acrostics by the time I�d worked my way to the back of it.

When the clock hands started inching into the last half-hour before midnight, I finally chucked it, started back. I�d given them three hours together. That should have been enough, they should have been able to settle the destiny of the world in three hours. I didn�t feel obliging now any more. If she was still up there chewing the rag with him, then she was going to clear out and give me a chance to get these wet shoes off. On the up-and-up or not, it wouldn�t look right if she stayed very much later than this, and the two of them ought to have sense enough to realize that without being told.

I took a look up at our room windows from the other side of the street first, before I crossed over. They were brightly lit up, and as I looked I saw his shadow flit across one of them. No sign of her, though. �Here I come, ready or not,� I grunted. I�d absorbed so much moisture into my shoes by this time they made a little squirting sound every time I pressed them down.

I crossed over, let myself in the street door, and trudged up the stairs. I took off my hat and beat it out against the rail as I went up, to get the spray off it.

I listened outside the room-door a minute to see if I could still hear her voice in there. Not that I wasn�t going in. I could hear him moving around quite plainly but I couldn�t hear anything said, so she must have left. He sounded very active, almost hurried. In the brief moment I stood there I heard him pass back and forth across the room three times. He might have been just pacing though, not doing anything.

I rapped. There was a sudden silence, movement stopped dead, but he didn�t come over to the door. I had to rap a second time.

He opened it, looked out at me, skin pulled back tight around his eyes. Then it relaxed again. He�d been holding it defensively a minute, at a narrow width. When he saw it was me he opened it wide, but I�d caught the hesitation.

�What�d you do that for?� he said a little sharply, as though it had rattled him. �Didn�t you have your key?�

�What�s matter, you nervous?� I said. �Sure I had my key. Why should I go dredging into my damp pockets, as long as you were in here?� I came in, glanced around. �Girl-friend gone?�

�Yeah, just before you got here.�

�You�re some guy. You mean you let her go alone, didn�t even take her home, on a night like this?�

�I put her in a taxi at the door.� He�d flung himself into a chair which happened to be facing my way. He made the mistake of crossing his ankles out at full leg length from his body. That way the soles of his shoes were tipped-up from the floor. I could see both of them; they were dust white, bone-dry. I�d never yet heard of anyone putting a girl into a taxi by staying back within the shelter of the doorway and letting her cross the wet sidewalk to the curb by herself.

He was lying. He�d made that up on the spur of the moment, because he was ashamed to have me think he hadn�t been more considerate of her. I didn�t call him on it. Why should I have a row with him, it wasn�t any of my business. I had my own lamentable condition to occupy me. I peeled off one sock, then the other, took a twist in them, drops of water oozed out. I meant it as an indirect way of rubbing it in, but he seemed too preoccupied to get the point.

I knew him well enough by now to know something was getting him. No chatter, like when he�d been out with her of an evening and I had to listen to all about how wonderful she was. On the other hand, no fretting and complaining either, like when the mother�s campaign to separate them had first started in. Not a word. His face was a mask of some deep emotion or other, frozen fast, caked on him. I couldn�t name what it was, I�m no soul doctor.

He stayed in that chair where he�d first dropped into when I came in, made no move about getting to bed. Finally, coming to the bedroom-opening and looking out at him, buttoning my pajama coat, I said: �What�s matter, did you have a row?�

He didn�t give me a direct answer. �Why should we have a row?� was the way he put it.

It wasn�t any of my business, I�m no cupid.

He got up suddenly, as though a spring had been uncoiled under him, went over to the cupboard where we usually kept a bottle of liquor in reserve. He brought it out, held it to the light. �This all gone?� he said disappointedly, and let his arm trail down again with it.

I�d been the one had supplied it, and it hadn�t been the last time I�d seen it, so someone must have helped himself to it liberally, fairly recently � maybe within the past hour or so.

�I�m going down to the corner a minute and get a quick one,� he said.

�What d�you want a drink for at this hour?� We weren�t either one of us topers. We weren�t goody-goods that didn�t touch drink, but we usually only went in for it when we were out celebrating on a Saturday night or something like that. This nightcap business was something new. I felt like saying, I was the one was out in the wet, you weren�t, I ought to need one if anyone does. But I let it go by. I noticed he didn�t ask me if I wanted to come with him. But then after all, that might have been because he saw me already half-into my pajamas, I figured. I wouldn�t have gone even if he�d asked me to, anyway.

�I�m going to bed,� I warned him. �Better take your own key with you.�

�I�m coming right back,� he assured me. �I�m going to bed too.�

He closed the door after him and I quit thinking about him.

I had to cross the room in my bare feet to put out the light, which he�d forgotten to do. No sense subsidizing the Edison Company.

Something bit into my unprotected sole, and I snatched it up, held it with both hands for a minute. I looked to see what it was, and it was a little metal clamp or clasp, with a little wisp of green cellophane still thrust through it. His girl-friend had lost one of the fasteners of her raincoat. But it hadn�t just loosened and dropped off, they were patented not to; the tatter of green adhering to it showed it had been torn off bodily. Maybe she had caught it on something. I wondered why she hadn�t taken it with her, to try to have it reattached in some way; they must be hard to match up, if you lost one of them.

I put it aside where it wouldn�t be mislaid and went to bed.

It always took me three complete turns to get in position, about five minutes between each one. And once I was in position I didn�t want to get out of it for anybody.

Just as I got into it, and was set for the night, the phone had to start ringing. I kept my eyes closed and tried to ignore it. I was sure it was a wrong number; what else could it be at this hour of the night? I kept hoping he�d come in just at that minute, and answer it and save me the trouble of getting up. Or else it would quit of its own accord.

Neither thing happened. He didn�t come in, and it kept on. It kept on long after the usual length of signaling, as though the party were urging the operator not to desist. I had to give in finally. I got out of position, put on my bathrobe, and went over to it with a good sour face. I answered it in the dark, I knew where it was by heart.

It was a woman�s voice. It had three elements in it, they were unmistakable from the very opening phrase. Some voices can be eloquent that way. The three tonal components were a deep-seated, cold hostility; the sort of hostility that has been borne over a considerable period of time; and a heated resentment, newer, brought on by the occasion itself, kept in leash only with difficulty; and lastly, less discernible than the other two, there was a thread of fear stitching through it.

The voice didn�t address by name or give any opening salutation. �Will you please put my daughter on?� it began without prelude. �Now she promised me to have a definite understanding with you once and for all, and to come right back. Those were the conditions under which I let her go to see you tonight, and if you think that you�ll get anywhere by trying to influence her until all hours of the�� Then she stopped short and said, �This is Mr. Dixon, isn�t it?� She hated even to have to pronounce the name. I suppose she called him �that young man� to the girl.

I�d been trying to say that it wasn�t all along. �No, this is Stewart Carr, his roommate; I expect him back any minute.�

The cold hostility and the resentment immediately veered off, since they weren�t meant for me personally; only the thread of fear remained. �Oh, I�m sorry,� she said stiffly. �Well I presume she�s left, then. If he was a gentleman, he would have seen to it that she reached home before now, he wouldn�t have kept her there until this hour, on such a rainy night, until I had to phone to remind��

I tried to be reassuring about it. �She left over three-quarters of an hour ago, she ought to be there any minute now, Mrs.�� � I didn�t even know their last name. That should have been about right; I�d been in at least that long myself, and Dixon had said she�d left just before I�

I�d evidently said the wrong thing; fear took over the voice, crowding everything else out. �Three-quarters of an hour ago! Then why isn�t she back here by now? It�s only six blocks to her own door, from there. It shouldn�t take her that long, for such a short distance.�

It shouldn�t have, if that was all it was. And he�d said he�d put her in a cab, which should have cut the time it would take her down to next to nothing. I had sense enough not to mention that detail.

�It would be just like him to keep her loitering along the way, on a wet night like this!� the voice went on bitterly. She was assuming that Dixon was bringing her back, I could see. I didn�t know whether I ought to disabuse her on this point or not. It would probably add fuel to her disquiet, to hear he�d let her make her own way back. And since the girl was bound to reach there any minute, what difference did it make anyway? Let her find out from the girl herself what had caused the delay; why did I have to be roused in the middle of the night about it?

�She�ll probably be there in no time now,� I tried to calm her.

�I sincerely hope so,� she fretted. And then on a note of taut warning, �If she isn�t back here soon I�ll�� She didn�t finish it; she�d hung up.

I did too. I gave the oblivious door a dirty look. Why didn�t he come up here and answer his own tracer-calls? I had to get some sleep, I had to get up in the morning.

I climbed back in and went through the triple gear shift again. I dropped off. Then sleep smashed apart, like an electric-light bulb that you pop, and the damn phone was ringing away again in the middle of the fragments.

I went back to it in a sort of blur, too groggy even to be sore this time. It woke me right up, like a filch of cold water in the face. It was the same woman. You wouldn�t have known it by the voice. The voice was husky this time with out-and-out terror. No more genteel indignation and trepidation. Stark fright, maternal, unreasoning, straining at the leash of self-possession. �I demand to speak with John Dixon! I demand to know what�s become of my daughter!�

�She isn�t back yet?�

My futile surprise went unnoticed. �What has he done with her? Why isn�t she here? My Estelle wouldn�t stay out until this hour of her own accord. I know her better than that! I�ve been pacing the floor here until I can�t stand it any more; I�ve even been down to the corner three times in all the rain to see if I could see her coming� Do you know what time it is?�

I hadn�t until then. I thought maybe this was twenty minutes later. �Just a minute.� I reached for the switch with my free hand, put on the light, looked at the clock. Horrified incredulity sparked from the look. Quarter to three in the morning. He�d been gone himself nearly three hours. She was supposed to have left for home over three-and-a-half hours ago � and she only lived six blocks away.

I didn�t know what to say. �He... he stepped down to the corner and he hasn�t come back yet�� I faltered. But I�d told her that hours ago.

The voice was repressing hysteria only with the greatest difficulty. It was all shredded and coming apart. �Why does he refuse to come to the phone himself and face me like a man? What does he think he�ll gain by avoiding me like this? He can�t do this to me. I warned her, I told her all along if she kept on seeing him, something would happen sooner or later��

I didn�t say anything this time; what was there I could say any more?

The voice was utterly beyond control now, had disintegrated. It was awful to have to stand there and listen to it � harrowing; it went right through you. �I want my little girl back! What�s he done with her? I�m going to notify the police. They�ll help me, they�ll find out why she doesn�t come home��

Suddenly she had hung up, there was silence.

And then, just a minute too late, his key dialed the lock and he came in, looking haunted.

�Well, it�s about time!� I said wrathfully. �Where the hell have you been? You go down for just one drink and you stay down half the night � and let me do your dirty work for you up here!�

Something electric flickered over his face, I couldn�t tell what it was. �What�s up?�

�You�re in trouble, that�s what�s up. Your girl never got home from here tonight. Her mother�s phoned twice since you�ve been gone, and the last time she said she was going to notify the police. You better get over there fast and find out what�s happened��

I waited. He waited too. He just stood there looking at me, without moving.

�Well, don�t you think you�d better at least call her back?�

�She wouldn�t listen to me, she wouldn�t give a chance to� She hates me, she�s been trying to break us up. If anything�s happened � this is my finish.�

�That�s no kind of a reason. The girl was over here and she knows it; at least get in touch with the woman. If you don�t, she�s liable to think the worst.�

�But that�s what I�m trying to tell you; she does already. No matter what I�d do, she�d��

I didn�t know what to do against a line of reasoning like that; it was all haywire. It was going to lead him into trouble, if he wasn�t in it already.

I shut up for awhile and watched him. Didn�t stare at him, I mean, but just studied him offside. He wasn�t drunk. He�d been down drinking for three solid hours � supposedly � and yet he wasn�t drunk. I thought I�d like to find out about that. �Where were you, at McGinnis�s?� I asked offhandedly.

He nodded dully, looking at the floor.

That was the place on our corner. I�d been in there with him often enough. They had bowlfuls of these oyster crackers sitting at each end of the long bar. Unless it was very crowded � and it wouldn�t be at three in the morning on a rainy Monday � you�d take your stand somewhere along the midsection. When you went down for crackers, you�d bring back a few at a time with you, to save yourself making the trip down and back too often. I�d never been in there with him yet but what he hadn�t had a few left over in his pocket when he came away.

He�d hung his coat off the northeast corner of his chair. �Got a cigarette?� I said, and went over to it and reached down into the flap pocket. A solitary oyster cracker came up in my hand.

�You didn�t get much of an edge,� I said, taking one of my own cigarettes instead, without letting him see me. He could have been in there five minutes and still put that cracker in his pocket. Two-and-a-half. And then what had become of the other two hours and fifty-five?

�I didn�t even finish the one drink I bought, just sat there moping. I didn�t realize how time passed. There are times you feel too low even to��

I was standing by the window with my back to him, looking down at the patent-leather finish the rain had given the street. I stiffened my back at one point. That was the only indication to show I was seeing anything. I thought I�d better give it to him ahead of time, though, let him get ready. I said without turning my head: �A cop just got out and came in here. I saw the glint of his visor disk.�

�Red, you�ve got to stick by me.�

This time I did turn my head, fast. �What do you mean I�ve got to stick by you?�

He clutched at the back of his neck, groped for the answer. �If they come here and ask you if � if you saw her leave, tell them you did. Tell them you came along just in time to see me come down to the street door with her and put her in a taxi.�

�But I didn�t.� My tone was flat as an 1890 dime.

�I know you didn�t, but if you�d been five minutes sooner you would have. Don�t you see, the way it is now, no one saw her leave here. She ends here. If I can at least produce someone that�ll say they saw her leave here � That five minutes makes all the difference.�

I remembered the dry soles of his shoes. I had to be sure of what I was doing. I thought: I�ll give him one more chance on that. If he gives me a second wrong answer, he can go to blazes. �But which�ll I be doing?� I said. �Describing something I just missed seeing, or describing something that � didn�t happen for anyone to see? Are you sure you took her down to the door and put her in a cab?�

I don�t know if my steely look warned him off, or he just thought better of it himself. His luck was he gave the right answer this time. �N-no,� he corrected himself, �I didn�t take her down to the door myself. But you can be sure she left here, and you can be sure she left here in a taxi��

�The first time, you told me you took her down and put her in the taxi.�

�I know; it wasn�t this serious yet, it didn�t seem to matter much one way or another then. I was ashamed to let you think I was heel enough not to see her off right. We parted on the outs, she just walked out. Then I heard her whistling up a taxi from the doorway downstairs. I could hear it plainly through the windows. I heard one drive up, she darted out and climbed into it, and��

�Wait a minute. You saw her get into it?�

He gave me a harried look. �I got over to the window a minute too late. Her figure had just crouched in. Her hand was still on the doorcatch, pulling it to after her. What the hell. Who else could it have been? She had just left the room up here a minute before. I stayed on there at the window after the cab drove off, brooding down into the rain for a good five minutes or more, and no one else came out of the house. That must have been she in the cab. Now is it going to hurt you to say you saw that too, from down at the corner? All I�m asking, Red, is��

Before I could answer, the knock had already sounded on the door. The knock we�d both been expecting from one minute to the next, held back like a Chinese water-drop torture. I jerked my thumb toward the sound, as much as to say: �There�s your party now.�

Even then he found time to make his plea once more, in a husky, anxious whisper, as he edged reluctantly across the room: �Are you with me, Red? How about it, are you with me?�

He sure needed moral support bad. I couldn�t help wondering why he should. Why wasn�t his own sense of innocence backing-up enough?

It was just the curtain raiser, this first time. Just routine, just a uniformed patrolman sent around to check. No question of foul play yet, Missing Persons didn�t even have it yet. Just the complaint of the crazed mother.

For that very reason I couldn�t help wondering, as I saw that shield coming in the door, that openly worn shield that usually forecast little more than a ticket for parking overtime or a warning to �Cut out that noise up here now,� why Dixon should be so ready to expect the worst beforehand, why he should seem so � how�ll I put it?�� ahead of the game. He seemed rushing to meet the worst possible conclusion before anyone else was, including the authorities themselves. Always excepting the mother. And mothers � are they gifted with special foresight or are they blinded by lack of it?

It went off very smoothly, without a hitch. The cop jotted in a notebook, Dixon answered what he asked him. �...About quarter to twelve... No, I offered to, but she wouldn�t let me, she said she had a raincoat, and she�d get a cab right from the door...� (Distorting what he�d told me, that they�d parted �on the outs.�)

That reminded me of something. I looked over at the table where I�d put that ripped-off raincoat clasp I�d trodden on. It wasn�t there any more. I looked at Dixon. He looked down his cheeks.

The cop only asked me one thing. �Were you here?�

I answered the one thing with only one word, �No.� That was the extent of my participation. The problem in ethics Dixon had posed for me hadn�t even come up � yet.

The cop left. We went to bed. It was four by that time. He was still awake when I went to sleep. He was awake again � or yet � when I woke up. We didn�t talk about it. I was in too much of a hurry and too half-slept to be able to give a thought to anything but getting down on time. I tore out of the place without a word, kiting my coat after me by one-quarter of one sleeve length.

He wasn�t there when I got back. Someone else was. I put the key to the door and came in and found a man making himself at home in our easy-chair, pretending to read a newspaper. You could tell he�d just picked it up when he heard me at the door. One edge of the carpet was a little rippled, as though it had been turned over, then flung back.

We�d had the curtain raiser. Now this was the First Act.

I said �What goes on?� without too much cordiality.

He showed a badge, said: �Super let me in to wait for you boys. You Carr? You the other fellow that lives here with Dixon?�

�That�s who.�

�A girl named Estelle Mitchell came here last night, didn�t she?�

�Okay if I sit down? I had to stand all the way home.� I sat.

�Well?�

�Yes,� I said coolly, �there was a girl dropped in here last night, and I believe her name was Mitchell.�

�What time�d she get here?�

�Eight-thirty.�

�You saw her come in?�

�I met her on the stairs, on my way out.�

�What time�d you get back yourself?�

�Close to twelve.�

�Was she still here then?�

�She�d just left.�

�How�d you know she just left? Did your friend tell you that, or did you see her leave?�

The problem in ethics had come up. It wasn�t my own skin I gave a rap about. If I could have been sure of him, Dixon. I would have gladly said I took her back to her own door myself, and the hell with this dick and all other dicks. But I wasn�t as sure of him as � well, as I would have liked to be. �I as good as saw her leave.�

�What d�you mean by that?�

�As I turned the corner and came in sight of the house here, I saw a cab standing waiting to take on someone at the door. I saw a figure run out and get in it, and I saw my friend standing up at the window looking down��

�You�re positive it was she?�

�That isn�t what I said.� I was willing to step as far over the line for him as I possibly could, but not all the way � until I was surer. I have a funny conscience, awfully inelastic, practically no give to it at all. �I�m positive it was a girl. But the night was too murky and I was too far away to be able to recognize her face. When I got upstairs a minute later, he told me she�d just left. Draw your own conclusions.�

�Had you ever seen this Mitchell girl before?�

�No, last night on the stairs was the first time I met her.�

That inclined him to leniency in my favor, I could see. I mean, about this figure-in-the-doorway angle. How could I be expected to recognize her from a distance, in a needle rain? �What time does he get back as a rule?�

He was always back before now other nights. I wasn�t going to give him away on that. �Oh, he�s not very punctual,� I said carelessly. �He may have stopped off at the Mitchells� to see if they�ve had any word.�

�Yeah? Well, I�ll wait,� he said doggedly.

�Is it all right if I step out and feed? I�ve been running on a malted milk since noon.�

He made a reassuring hand pass toward me. �You go ahead, Carr.�

I didn�t like the way that sounded. As much as to say, It�s not you we�re after.

I gave him a look, but I got up and went. I headed for a place around the corner. The tire of a parked car went out with a sharp hiss just before I rounded it. Only it was on the wrong side of me, where there were doorways instead of a roadway. He was standing there in one of them. I stopped short, veered in. �Well, I�ll be blamed! What�re you doing in there, playing hide-and-seek?�

�My shoelace came undone, I had to step in here and fasten it.� Then he said, �Has anyone been around?�

�There�s a dick up there right now waiting to talk to you.�

Even so, he shouldn�t have flinched the way he did. I waited for him to make a move; he didn�t.

�Well, why don�t you go up and get it over with?�

He just looked at me, like I was asking him to go into a den with a man-eating lion.

�Have you been around to the Mitchells�?�

He shook his head, looked down.

�Haven�t you even called up to find out? You mean you haven�t once gotten in touch with them since last night?�

�The old lady hates me, I tell you. She�ll fly off the handle, scream all kinds of things at me. I can�t face it, now less than ever.�

�Look, Dixon,� I tried to point out, �you�re doing all the wrong things, all the way through this. Now don�t start off on the wrong foot, there�s no reason why you should. I know how it is, you�re nervous and jumpy � but you didn�t have anything to do with her disappearance, why should you dodge her mother or the dicks or any guard-dam one else?�

�Even you,� he said bitterly, �you ought to see your eyes when you say that. There�s a sort of steely stare in them, like you weren�t sure yourself.�

I hadn�t meant to let him see that, it must have shown without my knowing it. I figured the best � and kindest � way to cover that up was to ignore the accusation altogether. �You better go on up to the place, Dixon,� I advised him crisply. �Your shoelace is fastened now.�

I walked away thinking, �He�s not the type this should have happened to, he�s going to make a mess of it before he�s through.� If it had happened to me, for instance, me with my red hair, I would have been hanging around Headquarters day and night, getting in their way, cursing them out for not finding her quicker. He seemed to sort of skulk and act suspicious.

I ate and then I went back. He was out again. And this time the dick was too. He came in about forty minutes afterwards. He almost seemed to reel in. He looked all drained of blood; he�d turned so white that it wouldn�t wear off. And when he took off his coat and vest, there was a regular dark stain down the back of his shirt, he�d sweated so.

�They had me down at Headquarters to question me,� he said. He slumped into a chair, pulled the knot of his tie loose as though it were choking him, took a long shuddering breath in different wave lengths. �I thought they weren�t going to let me go, at one time, but in the end they did.�

I pitched up my shoulders. �Why shouldn�t they let you go?�

He didn�t say. �Gee, I can�t stand much more of this.�

�I dunno, you never seemed particularly sensitive until now,� I let him know. �Why should you let it get you like this? They gotta ask questions, don�t they? There�s nothing personal in it��

He gave a bitter laugh. �They made it seem pretty personal, down there just now.�

I thought, �If you acted down there like you�re acting up here, you didn�t do yourself any too much good!� If he wouldn�t help himself, somebody ought to at least try to put an oar in for him, and I supposed that left it up to me. I walked around the room awhile. Finally I stopped by him, laid a hand on his shoulder. �Listen, for your own sake, I want you to do something for me. Call up the mother and at least say something to her, don�t just lie low like this. At least find out if anything�s been heard.�

He shied, right away. �I keep telling you, in her mind I�m already responsible for whatever�s happened, and there�s nothing I can do or say��

I took another few turns around the room. �Did the girl mean anything to you at all?� I spat curtly.

That caught him off guard. �Red, I was crazy about her, I was mad about her, I�da done anything rather than lose her. I�da rather seen her dead than have her go to him�� He realized too late how that sounded, bit it off short.

Everything wrong; he said and did everything wrong.

�Well, that�s a crack I wouldn�t make twice,� I advised astringently. I picked up the phone.

�What�re you going to do?�

�What�s their number? What�s the number of her house?�

He gave it to me. I called it for him. A man answered first. For some reason I got the idea he was a detective, over there talking to them. �Mrs. Mitchell, please.�

�Who is this wants her?�

�Dixon wants to speak to her,� I said noncommittally.

Sure, he must have been a detective. There was too long a wait. They must have been talking it over � Suddenly I heard her say distinctly, within a foot of the phone, to someone else, �You shouldn�t make me, you shouldn�t ask me to.�

I hitched my head at him commandingly. �Come on, I�ve got her for you.� Even now, I could only get him to come halfway toward it; I brought it the other halfway, shoved it into his hands, left it there.

Gee he sounded lame. I couldn�t help thinking that myself while I listened. �Mrs. Mitchell, any word of Estelle yet�?�

That was as far as he got. She cut in with something, I could hear the rasping against the transmitter. His face got as white as though a whip had creased it. He let go of the thing and it hit the floor like a shot.

I picked it up and put it to my own ear. She was uncontrollable. She was just saying one thing over and over. �Murderer!� She spaced it for emphasis. �Mur-derer! MUR-derer!�

I hung up. I didn�t blame him for getting white.

He was taking a drink when I looked around. He�d brought a new bottle in with him when he came back from Headquarters. I couldn�t blame him for that either. I would have wanted something to wash down a word like that myself, if it had been jammed into my craw.

�Now you see?� I expostulated. �If you�da shot straight over there after she phoned last night like I advised you to, the thing wouldn�t have gotten to this stage. Your play was to notify the cops right along with her as soon as you heard the girl hadn�t shown up home; to take part in the thing, not stay out of it and let them turn it against you.�

And even now, if it had been me, I would have gone tearing over there and raised holy cain with her, whether she was grief crazed or not, for having the nerve to � But it wasn�t me, it was he. I was just the fellow he lived with. And far to the back of my mind, there was this suppressed thought struggling to come clear: I would, that is, assuming that I was innocent. If I was guilty, if the shoe fitted, how did I know but what I wouldn�t act just about like � he was?

I kept that thought pushed back. I let it squirm, but I kept it down. I left him up there in the place, went out. I could tell by the way he acted, kept edging up slantwise to the window, that he was worried they�d already posted someone down there to watch him, tail him if he went in or out. For my part, it wouldn�t have surprised me if they had. And it still didn�t have to mean anything much; whether he let it hamper him or not all depended on what was in his own mind.

�You coming back soon?� he asked.

Other nights he didn�t give a rap whether I came back soon or late. I knew what he was dying to ask me � but didn�t have the nerve to: �See if you notice anyone hanging around watching the house.�

�I�ll be back,� I said indefinitely. I had a couple things on my mind I wanted to attend to.

If there was a spotter, the spotter knew his business; I couldn�t spot him for love nor money.

This McGinnis was a monkish-looking Celt with a bald crown; you kept looking for the hood and tasseled girdle, and all you ever got was a big imperfect perfecto. He knew Dixon and me, both, like his right arm. And as I said before, by that I don�t mean we were bar-flies or tanks. But anytime we had stepped in anywhere for a drink, for over eight months now it was to his place.

�Was my pal in here last night?� I wanted to find out about those missing three hours.

�Dixon?� he said. �That he was. And what was the matter with him? He left half his drink behind.�

He�d told me that himself. �I was looking high and low for him,� I said, to cover it up so it wouldn�t sound like a check-up. �How long was he in here, about? Can you remember?�

�He was in here till a good thray o�clock. He held the fort that he did; there wasn�t another soul��

That was just the time he�d got back to the flat. I felt relieved. I even dunked my upper lip into the beer I didn�t want, in order not to offend his professional pride like Dixon had about his drink last night.

�Is he feeling any better today?� he went on.

I thought he meant on account of the unfinished drink, or because he�d been noticeably downcast. I would have let it go at that.

�The best thing to do for an upset stomach is just lave it alone�� he rambled.

I brought my scattered thoughts up short. Upset stomach? He had his symptoms crossed. Or did he? I didn�t ask him. There was only one way he could have arrived at such a mistaken diagnosis.

I waited a minute or two, then I said: �Be with you,� and went back to it and inside. I�d probably been in the washroom once or twice before, but it hadn�t been vital to notice it closely until now. There was just a rather unclean washstand, and then a cabinet behind a slatted half-door. It was very small and very uncertainly lighted.

The window � I remembered that there was one in here only now that I saw it again � was chink-narrow and very long. The glass was of a double opacity, whitewashed, and then filmed with accumulated dust. It was open a little from the top, for ventilation. It seemed humanly impossible for an adult to squeeze out through it. More important still, he�d only come in here to McGinnis�s after. What would he have gained by establishing an alibi after? It wasn�t like me to start suspecting him. Well, dammit, then why didn�t his behavior give me a chance to stand up for him?

I got up on the edge of the washstand with one foot and peered out through the top of the window. Its already prohibitive narrowness was still further bisected by a vertical iron bar. Furthermore, the light coming from behind me mushroomed out against blank brickwork only four feet in front of my face. The window just looked out on an air shaft bored down into the building, no way of getting up, no way of getting down. The iron bar was just gratuitous, or maybe one of the cubed walls was a later addition, sealing up what had until then been a three-sided indentation.

I got down, opened the dust-caked pane from the bottom, not without a good deal of difficulty. I wanted to see if I could make out the bottom of the shaft. I could; it ended only a few feet below the window. I looked at it a very long time, forehead grazing the rust-flaked iron bar. I have very good eyes, and I gave them the workout of their life.

I didn�t take their word for it; I pulled my head in again and gave them a little help. I happened to have a newspaper furled up in my side pocket. I took it out, struck a match, and set the end of it on fire. Then I stuck it, burning, through the window and held it out above the shaft floor. It played it up to a dusky orange, plenty bright enough. I pulled the improvised torch in again before it got out of control, stamped it out on the floor. It had done the trick, shown me what my eyes had only been able to hazard at.

I tried with my arm first, but it couldn�t get anywhere near the shaft floor, the damn perpendicular bar held my shoulder joint too far back. I never chewed gum. I went out there now and bought a penny package from his machine and mashed it up. I didn�t want to have to ask McGinnis for anything, he probably wouldn�t have had anything the right length anyway. He didn�t even notice me come out and then go in again, he�d gotten a batch of new customers just then and was busy taking their orders.

I went to work on one of the slats of the cabinet door, wrenched it out of its socket at both ends and used that. They were all dilapidated and half-loose anyway. It was the same principle kids use in dredging up coins through a sidewalk grating. I stuck the gum on the end of the slat, poked it through the window, stabbed the shaft floor, and each time came back with something I had seen before � and I don�t mean just now winking faintly in the gloom at the shaft bottom either. They were the two mates to the patented raincoat fastener I had trodden on up at our place. And if there was any doubt in my mind that they were mates, the tatter of green cellophane clinging to each one settled that.

That accounted for three of them. Three out of a possible four, at the very most. And to lose that many fasteners, that raincoat had been subjected to the roughest sort of treatment, must have been wrenched-at and pulled around unmercifully (with its wearer inside it). Even so, it wasn�t the patent that had failed to meet the test, the fabric around it was what had given way under the strain.

Even the implication of inordinate violence didn�t make me as creepy as the attempt at concealment. The washroom window must have been open only from the top, as I had found it myself, and perhaps he didn�t realize the floor of the shaft was as accessible to the washroom as it turned out to have been. I held open the cabinet door I had victimized, struck a match, stared intently. There were no traces left. But after all, a fabric like that must be highly combustible. Or if not, it was just a matter of severing it into small enough pieces to pass through the drain. And as for smuggling it in here unseen, how do people who swipe hotel towels for souvenirs, for instance, get away with them? By folding them flat underneath their vests and buttoning their coats over them. A pliable raincoat like that must fold into very nearly handkerchief size.

I didn�t feel so jolly. After I had cleaned the gum off the two fasteners, I wrapped them in a bit of paper, thrust them in my pocket to be retained against further decision. I was in a blue funk when I came out of McGinnis�s. The best I could muster was a half-hearted, �Keep an open mind, now, as long as you can. Don�t jump to too-hasty conclusions. Give the guy the benefit of the doubt, you�d want it given to you in his place.� It was already like swimming upstream.

If I hadn�t known I was going to wind up at the Mitchells� until then, there wasn�t much doubt of it by the time I came out of McGinnis�s with those two raincoat fasteners in my pocket. Where else could I go? Back to him? He�d made the third one I�d already retrieved once at our place disappear a second time. To the police? Not at this stage of the game. Maybe not at any stage of the game. When you watch a guy going down in a quicksand before your eyes � if he doesn�t deserve to � you give him a hand out; if he does, maybe you fold your arms and let him go. But at least you don�t shovel rocks on his head to make him go down faster. I don�t, anyway.

I had to look it up in a phone directory, I had no idea where it was. There was a half-column of Mitchells, but I had no trouble separating the appropriate one, he�d already given me the phone number that paired with it. Mrs. Fanny A. It was only about six blocks from our place, as she�d said last night; almost too short a distance for any anonymous harm to have befallen the girl; it made it seem more likely than ever it had been a personally directed, intentional harm, meant for her alone by someone who knew her.

It was an outworn apartment house, when I got there, that just managed to maintain itself above tenement status, more through its cleanliness than anything else. The mother evidently lived on her income, and a very tenuous one at that. It was on the ground floor, and after I�d already located it I had an attack of last-minute qualms about going in. I wondered if I was being a hypocrite by coming here like this, with two of the very fasteners from her raincoat packaged in my pocket at the moment, and yet no intention of turning them over to them. It was a hell of a thing to do; either I was on their side or I was on his.

I poised my finger toward the doorbell. Then I dropped it again. I started to walk back and forth undecidedly, crosswise across the lobby. This kept carrying me to and fro in front of the elevator-grate. The car itself was somewhere out of sight the whole time, bedded in the basement most likely, as often occurs in those run-down poorly serviced houses. Without being aware of it I was accidentally giving the impression of someone whose business was on one of the upper floors, not down here at all, waiting to be taken up.

I still hadn�t been able to make up my mind, when I heard the street door open, and as I turned my head, two cops came in carrying a sort of hamper between them. They had newspapers spread loosely over the top of it. I heard one ask the other, �Why didn�t they have her come down, instead of us bringing it up here?�

�I dunno, I guess she couldn�t make it or somep�n.�

They started diagonally across the lobby to the door on the left. Then when they got halfway to it the leader said, �Naw, it�s the one on this side,� and abruptly changed directions. They ended up before the one I had just been hesitating outside of myself a moment ago. But the swerve was violent enough to dislodge part of the newspaper covering on top of what they were carrying. It drifted off, and the rear carrier had to stop a minute and replace it.

It was just a fluke that I happened to be standing right there in the same apartment lobby with them at that moment. They didn�t try to hide the momentary glimpse I was afforded of what was in the hamper. They didn�t look twice at me, I was just someone waiting to be taken up to one of the higher floors. They didn�t think the tattered, grimy, green-cellophane raincoat lying spread on top of other maltreated garments would have any particular meaning to me, or that I could transmit the knowledge to the one place they didn�t want it to go until they were ready for it.

I didn�t get out fast enough. I couldn�t bolt right in front of them; I had to wait until they were admitted first. The mother must have been somewhere close at hand near the apartment door. They just about got in with it, took the newspapers off, when her scream slashed through it like a knife through cheesecloth. That was identification, complete, devastating, final � that harried scream that ended in a soft thump on wood.

I got outside to the street fast. The six lengthwise blocks, that were all the margin of lead I had, streamed by under me; I can�t remember now any more whether I actually ran or just hiked fast. I kept thinking, �What�ll I do about this?�

I slowed when I got to our corner. They might have someone watching the place already. They must have. If there was, I couldn�t see him. But then if I could have, he wouldn�t have been any good to them. I only walked slow up to the door. Once inside, I ran up the stairs again. I keyed the door open and closed it behind me again with camera-shutter rapidity.

The room was dark, at first I thought he was out. But he was lying on the bed. Not like you lie on it to sleep on it, the other way, across it from side to side, head down, face buried in a tragic nest he�d made out of his arms. Heartbreak, I suppose; I don�t know. He reared his head when he heard me come in, but I�d already had time to glimpse him the way he was first.

�That you, Red?�

�Yeah, it�s Red.� I stood in the doorway looking at him.

He got up off the bed, slowly, one limb at a time. He tried not to show he could feel me looking at him. Finally he couldn�t help it any more. �What d�you keep looking at me for?�

�You better get ready for a long pull. Your girl�s dead.�

His face shifted gears. I thought he was going to cry, but if he did, it didn�t come to the top. He said, �Are they sure?�

�They were just bringing her things into the flat when I was outside it just now. I recognized the raincoat��

I heard him draw his breath in, deep. Then suddenly he shot past me. I went after him. �I�m going to get out of here,� he said in a smothered voice. The panic was on him. Maybe so; but I was running out of excuses.

I slapped the flat door shut again before he�d gotten it far enough out to get through it. �Now wait a minute, don�t lose your head; you�re doing the worst possible thing.�

�I�m getting out! I saw how they acted about it tonight at Headquarters the first time already. They only let me go because they didn�t have anything on me then.�

He kept trying to get it open, I kept trying to hold it back.

�Did you come back here to hold me for them, so I�d be here when they get here?�

�No � I came back to tip you off ahead of time, I guess�� I took one arm down off the door.

�Then lemme get out. Red, gimme a chance at least!�

�Don�t you see what you�re doing? You�re as good as admitting the fact you did something to her, you�re advertising it.�

He was past reasoning with. �It�s easy for you to talk, isn�t it? It�s not your freedom, is it? It�s not your neck, your life. I should stay here and let them bag me, and never have a fighting chance from then on!�

He couldn�t get out past me, he couldn�t get me out of the way. He had to give up finally, he was all winded and � although we hadn�t come to blows, principally because he�d known enough not to strike the first one � a wrestling match can tire you as much as a fist fight. He flopped back into a chair, stayed there inert, tongue out � metaphorically speaking, anyway. I stayed there by the door, also breathing hard.

�My own friend,� he said finally.

Maybe that did the trick, I don�t know. If he�d kept on trying to edge me aside, force his way out, I suppose I�d have kept blocking him. It was when he quit trying, slumped down like that, that it got to me. �I don�t think you can make it any more,� I side-stepped grudgingly. I took a look from the window. Nothing yet. He didn�t try to make a break for the door, even after I�d left it; maybe I had him cowed, or he was resigned now.

I picked up the coat and hat I�d just had on me, threw them over at him. �All right, there�s your chance, take it if you want it,� I relented. �They�ve seen me in this outfit two or three times already, you may get away with it. You�d better not try the street, they must have been watching it long ago. Go out through the back yard and maybe you can get through to the next one over, like I did that night when that instalment collector was on my tail. And if you do make it, walk like I do, long slouchy strides � not snappy ones like you take. Keep your left hand in your trouser pocket the whole time. That�s me. Wear the hat down forward like I do, almost over the bridge of your nose. Until you get � wherever you�re going.�

He opened the door. I was soft, I was molasses.

�Here, d�you need dough? You better take this with you�� I shoved some into his hand.

He tried to shake mine, but mine wasn�t there any more. �Where�ll I get in touch with you, Red?�

�D�you want to?� I couldn�t help asking pointedly.

�Sure, I... I�ve got to find out what happens � I�ll find some way; it won�t be here or at the place you work.� He turned and went out.

There went a foolish guy. He had to have his chance, I supposed. You�d give a dog his chance. I watched him down the first flight. I couldn�t tell if he looked like me or not, because I couldn�t tell what I looked like. He didn�t look like himself, to me, in that hat and coat, so maybe that was enough.

I listened until he got the rest of the way down. The stairs must have been clear yet, I heard him get the yard door open and go out through there. I rapped once against the wooden doorframe beside me, for luck. His luck. Then I closed the door and went in.

�Now, what�d I do that for?� I wondered, shaking my head.

It took them a little while to make their arrangements, I guess, or maybe they�d had to wait for orders from higher up. They had no inkling that there was any hurry about it, that I�d accidentally tapped a wire, so to speak, or they would have been over a lot sooner. The knock on the door, of course, was an indication in itself that he�d made it.

There were two of them. The man in the lead slanted me aside as if I were just an extension panel on the door, strode through. �Come on out, Dixon, don�t make us go in after you.�

�He�s not in here,� I said innocently.

The other one was the same one had been installed up here when I got home earlier tonight � Hiller I heard his teammate call him. �He�s skipped the gutter, Hiller. Here�s his hat and coat.�

Hiller took a look. He caught on fast. �Where are yours?� he said, coming back to me.

�On the third hook from the left, in the closet,� I stalled.

�You mean he walked out in �em.� He was trying to get me for being an accessory. �Now what were you doing while this was going on?�

�I was in there shaving; how�d I know he was going to take a duster?�

He went in the bathroom, opened the cabinet, and tested the bristle of my brush. Then he dried-off the tips of his fingers on a towel. Even that didn�t satisfy him; he reached up and felt the side of my face. His fingers skidded on it like an ice-skating rink. Sure I�d shaved. I always shaved at nights. I�d had nearly fifteen minutes to shave, between the time Dixon left and they got here.

Hiller narrowed his eyes at me. �Are you sure you weren�t in on this?�

�What would I get out of it either way, whether he stayed or went?�

I had him there so beautifully that he failed to notice I�d answered his question by asking him one of my own. �No use waiting,� he said to his partner. �He won�t be back � not here anyway. You better come down with us, Carr; I think we�d like to ask you a few, this time.�

I had to go without my hat and coat, my friend had mine. Hiller even suggested I put on his. I couldn�t bring myself to do it, for some strange reason; call it superstition if you like, I still wasn�t positive they hadn�t last been worn by someone who had taken a life.

They pegged away at me down there quite a bit, but it didn�t get them anywhere. Whether you�re telling a lie or telling the truth, the whole art of it lies in simplicity; stick to something simple and don�t ball yourself up. I�d seen the figure of a woman get in a cab at my doorway, through the mist; I didn�t claim it was Estelle Mitchell, I never had. That was the whole gist and burden of my story. How could anyone trip on anything as short and uncomplicated as that? Well � detectives like this Hiller get thirty-six-hundred a year, I think. I was now about to find out why.

They didn�t let on that I�d fallen face-flat, so to speak. Hiller just mumbled, �Ask you to go up to Mrs. Mitchell�s with us for a few minutes,� and we were on our way again.

It was a typical early-century interior; gloomy hall going back for miles, with doors opening all the way down it. A man that I at first thought was a teammate of theirs, working at this end, admitted us. He was up in his late thirties, I should say, or even higher than that. Hiller said, �Hello, Tremholt; we�d like Mrs. Mitchell to come out and hear something, a minute.�

He cranked his head kind of dubiously. �The doctor was with her until now; he just about got her quieted down. Go easy, will you, fellows?� But he went down the hall to one of the end doors. So by that I caught on he wasn�t a bureau man but some relative or member of the family. Meanwhile we�d detoured into an old-fashioned parlor, cluttered up with junk. The girl�s late father, in a photographic enlargement, looked down from one wall, the mother from the other. As she had once been.

She came in a minute later, on the arm of this Tremholt, and made the picture out a liar. The thing had turned her inside out. Her eyes were lost in deep skull pits. She had a wet compress pasted across her brows, and it adhered of its own saturation. She could only hate now, thirst for vengeance, that was all that was left to her. She hated well. For the first time I could understand Dixon�s peculiar skittishness about facing her.

Tremholt led her to a chair, arm solicitously about her, said, �Sit down, Mom.� I couldn�t figure him the girl�s brother, he must have been a half-brother. Then he stood attentively behind her, hand resting on the back of her chair. I could see it over her shoulder. He�d taken out his own anxiety and grief in a much simpler form: nail-biting. I�d never seen such nails; they were down to the quick, and even past it. The indentations were still left to show how much of them had been gnawed away. A poodle, which had a sort of wistful air, like it missed her too, had trailed into the room after the two of them.

Hiller said, �Now just once more, in Mrs. Mitchell�s presence.�

�Why, simply,� I began uneasily, �that I saw a woman�s figure enter a cab�� I ran through it once again. I could sense something had come up, but couldn�t get what it was. Which is liable to happen when you horse around with detectives.

�I�m not calling you on that,� he said quietly. �What I want to know is, did you hear the signal given, the hail, that brought the cab down the street that far, to your doorway, for her?� And then, for bait, �There must have been one; no cabdriver�s attention could have been attracted if she�d just waved an arm, in that kind of visibility.�

I could sense the trap. He wanted to drive a wedge between my version and Dixon�s, in order to knock the support from Dixon�s, demolish it. I only had a split second in which to make up my mind, with three pairs of eyes boring into me. If I denied hearing her summon the cab, that would shake the credibility of Dixon�s version, wouldn�t it? How had he been able to hear it, through a closed window, if I hadn�t, right out there in the open? There was also a trap within a trap. He was decoying me by using the terms signal, hail. He wasn�t going to trip me up on that. Dixon had said unmistakably that she�d whistled for one. I�d hooked my story onto his. He�d assured me that I wasn�t backstopping a lie, but simply bridging a five-minute time difference; in other words, corroborating something that had actually occurred, only just too soon for me to eye- and ear-witness it. If his whole story was a lie, that was my tough luck. But you can�t corroborate a thing like that in parts, you either corroborate it all the way or not at all.

�There was no hail given,� I said. �There was a whistle given. I heard it.�

No one said anything. They seemed to be waiting for Mrs. Mitchell to speak, as though they already knew something I didn�t. Tremholt looked down at her from behind her chair. Hiller looked across the room at her.

She spoke at last, in a deathly low voice. �My daughter couldn�t whistle. Not a note. It was an absolute limitation, some kink in her tongue maybe. Many�s the time we heard her try it, all she could do was make a soundless breath, like someone blowing soap bubbles. When she had this dog out with her, the only way she could call him was by clicking her tongue or speaking his name.�

She�d been addressing Hiller until now. Now she turned on me, as Tremholt started to lead her out of the room. �So if you heard a woman in your doorway whistling for a cab, it was not my daughter. You did not see my daughter leave that house!� And then from further down the hall, out of sight: �And no one else did either!�

Hiller just sat there looking at me, and I just sat looking at my own innermost thoughts. They were a glowing red, and they kept repeating a single phrase over and over again: �The dirty liar! The dirty liar!� And I didn�t mean the dick, either.

I went back with him to Headquarters from there. I still wasn�t turning stool pigeon. I couldn�t have anyway, even if I�d wanted to, in the only way that would have done them any good. But even if I could have, I knew I wouldn�t have. I didn�t know where he�d gone. And if � and when � I found out, I considered that a little personal matter between him and me. I wasn�t doing their work for them.

They wore out finally. The lieutenant or whoever he was in charge suggested, �Why don�t you boys take him over and let him see for himself what this precious friend of his has done? Then maybe he�ll feel a little differently about it.�

That was the first I knew that the body had been found.

They took me over to the Morgue with them. They drew out a sort of drawer or lateral cupboard they had her in and whisked back the covering. It would have been tough enough to take even without the way they stood around me and rubbed in it.

Her neck had been broken in some God-awful way; I�d never seen anything like it in my life before. The whole head was twisted out of line with the body. As though her neck had been caught under someone�s arm in a viselike grip, and then the killer had twisted his own whole upper body around out of joint, to accomplish the fracture. Even then I still couldn�t understand how anyone of less than abnormal strength could�

They took pains not to leave me in the dark on this point. �Take a good look, Carr. This girl was twenty-two years old, think of that. Do you want to know just what happened to her, with accompanying blueprints? She went to this skunk-friend of yours to tell him they were through; that she was giving in to the old lady and marrying Tremholt��

�Marrying Tremholt?� I�d thought he was her brother until then.

�He�s boarded with the Mitchells for years and he�s been crazy about her ever since she was in grade school. The understanding always was that he was to marry her when she was old enough. He�s practically subsidized the mother for years, she could never repay the amounts she owes him. But that was all right, it was supposed to be all in the family. The girl thought he was pretty swell herself, until Dixon came along. She wasn�t coerced into giving him up; Dixon�s glamor started to wear thin and she finally saw things her mother�s way.

�All right, so she told him that night. The old lady was a fool to let her go there alone, and Tremholt didn�t know about it. The girl gave your pal the brush-off and walked out on him. He got his second wind, ran after her, caught up with her on the next landing, and started to drag her back, throttling her so she couldn�t scream. He didn�t kill her then, but she�d lost consciousness and he thought he had. He lost his head, dragged her on up a flight above his own door, and secreted himself in the incinerator closet on that floor, maybe because he�d heard somebody come out below.

�You know those incinerator closets in your building, Carr. A metal flap that you pull down gives onto the perpendicular chute that carries the refuse down to the basement to be burned. Now listen to this if you can stand it � and remember we can show you the scientific evidence for every one of these steps, it�s not just a theoretical reconstruction. He pulled down the flap and tried to unload her body � and she was still alive, see?�� down the chute, headfirst, toward the basement and eventual incineration. It was just a panic-reflex. The flap opening wasn�t wide enough, any more than the chute backing it would have been; but there was evidently someone coming up or down out on the stairs at that moment and he was crazed. He wedged her in, then when he tried to extricate her again, after the immediate danger had receded and he could think more clearly, the head and the one shoulder that he had managed to insert, jammed. You can see what happened by looking��

�Cut it out,� I said sickly, �cut it out.�

�He finally heaved her out, but in doing so he broke her neck against the angle of the chute, wrenched her head nearly all the way around back to front. The only consolation is she didn�t feel anything, was unconscious at the time. That guy has been sleeping on the same mattress with you, Carr; keying the same door.�

I took out a handkerchief and patted it around my mouth.

�When the coast was clear, he hauled her on up the rest of the way to the roof. He went over the communicating roofs as far as he could � four buildings away, toward Demarest Street, and found a barrel there. They�d recently retarred and regraveled that roof, and the barrel was left over. He put her in that, first emptying the gravel that remained, then covering her lightly with it. The workmen who carried it away got it all the way downstairs before they realized what made it weigh so much and found out what was in it.

�It�s the prettiest case we�ve had in years.� And they didn�t mean pretty.

�Now, d�you still want to go to bat for a guy that did anything like that? Tell us where you think he�s gone, you must have some idea.�

I took the handkerchief away from my mouth, and looked at them a long time, and said slowly, �Gents, I only wish I did have.� And did I mean it!

And on that note they let me go home. They knew I was on ice now, they knew I�d keep. They knew, they could tell just by the look in my eyes.

I didn�t sleep so good that night. I threw the mattress on the floor and slept on the naked bed frame. I kept seeing her before me. She spoke to me like she had on the stairs. �He didn�t chase you out on my account, did he?� Only her head was twisted around so that it practically faced forward across her own shoulder.

She was buried next day. I went to the services. I sent flowers with a card that said: �From someone who should have stayed home.� Meaning it wouldn�t have happened that night if I�d been there. The mother was there, and Tremholt, sitting close to her, looking after her, as usual. It must have been tough on him. He was under a strain, you could see. He kept breaking up wooden matchsticks between his fingers, sitting there in the pew with her. Afterwards, when the few of us filed out, I glanced down and the floor was covered with them around where he�d been sitting.

Monday came around again, and I had to do my studying for my Tuesday night class. I had to change textbooks first, we�d finished Volume One the week before, and were going to start in on Volume Two this time. They were standard textbooks, Dixon knew them well, the way I�d had the first one kicking around the place, on renewels, for about six weeks straight. I�d mentioned to him, I think, that we would be about ready to tackle Volume Two in another week�s time, and I could remember his kidding answer: �My, my, you�re getting to be a big boy now!� He probably thought this self-improvement stuff was the bunk.

Anyway, on my way home from the job, I dropped off at the library, turned in Volume One, and picked up Volume Two, which I�d made sure would be there waiting for me on the shelf. I holed-up for the evening, rolled up my shirt sleeves, sat down at the table with pencil, blank paper and book in front of me, and got ready to cram improvement into my skull.

I didn�t see it until I�d gotten well into the second theorem, and had to turn a page. Somebody�d been working out one of the problems on the margin of the page. People often did that, I�d noticed, with textbooks of this kind, too lazy to get their own scratch paper or somethi�

I thought I was seeing things. It was my own name, or part of it anyway, staring up at me from the page. �Red� Call me from Mallam�s ten sharp night you get this out.� Just a hurried pencil scribble, as cramped as possible in order to be inconspicuous, but I recognized the writing. Dixon � the murderer. He must have slipped into the library sometime earlier in the day, located the reference book he knew I was sure to take out next, and taken a chance on contacting me in this way.

Well, that was his big mistake. I was fresh out of sympathy with lousy girl killers. I closed the book with a sound like a firecracker going off, and I shoved my fists back through the sleeves of my coat � fists this time, not open hands. He didn�t know when he was well-off. I picked up the phone, hesitated, put it down again. No, Hiller and his side-kicks could come and get him from here, take up where they�d left off the night I�d so misguidedly abetted his running out. I�d bring him back to his original starting point alone and unaided. That was the least I could do in the way of making amends.

Mallam�s was a big drugstore we both knew well and often patronized. He hadn�t given any number, so how I was to call him I couldn�t figure, but he�d mentioned an hour, ten sharp, so it behooved me to be at the right place at the right time and leave the method up to him.

The method was simple. I was hanging around by the cigarette-counter when the phone in the middle booth started to ring. The counterman started for it, but I stepped in ahead of him. �That�s probably for me,� I said.

It was. I knew his voice. He�d simply called me, instead of having me call him; a lot safer. �You saw it,� he said.

�Yeah, I saw it.� I tried to keep my voice neutral; I was still at his mercy, he could cut himself off.

�Are you alone there? Are you sure no one�s following you or anything?�

�Dead sure,� I said grimly.

�I gotta see you, I gotta know where I stand; it�s not in the papers any more. You�re the only friend I have, Red�� (Wrong tense, I thought to myself, you should have used the past tense.) ��I don�t know who else to turn to. I�m going crazy � and I�m strapped, I can�t even get out of this place I�m in if I want to��

�I�ll take care of that,� I promised. I wasn�t kidding by a long shot.

He said, speaking quickly, probably to override his own misgivings, �Take the Laurel Avenue bus line, to the Whitegate part of town. Get off at Borough Lane stop. There�s a rooming house there, 305, with a tailor shop below. Go up one flight. Harris is the name.� Then he caught his breath, said, �And whatever you do, if you notice anyone following you��

�They�ve given me up as a hopeless case long ago. Don�t worry, everything�ll be under control.�

He hung up without waiting for any more. That was all right; now I had him.

He looked bad when he finally let me into the place, after all the usual rigamarole of casing the stairs to make sure no one was at my heels. He looked like he hadn�t slept decently since he�d left our own place. It was a cheesy-looking little hole, about the best a guy wanted by the police could hope to get for himself. Judging by the litter, he�d been doing most of his eating out of cracker boxes and tomato cans, and smoking himself to death.

�Yeah, I brought some dough,� I answered his question. I didn�t bother passing it to him, because he wasn�t going to need it anyway.

�Are they still hot for me?�

�I don�t know. The last I saw Hiller was the day of the funeral, standing over in the shadows at the back of the church. I guess he was hoping that � the guy that did it would show up, out of curiosity or something. I didn�t let on I recognized him.�

He took quick steps back and forth, raking at his hair. �It�s not fair! Through no fault of my own, I�m suddenly hunted down like a mad dog � for something I didn�t do! I suddenly find myself in a position where there�s only one guy left that�s still willing to believe I didn�t.�

�No,� I said, quietly but succinctly.

That brought him up short. His lips formed the question without sounding it.

�You better make that unanimous,� I went on. �What do you expect? What choice have I got?� He tottered backward, crumpled onto the sagging, unmade cot, reached down and gripped the mattress edge with one hand as if to steady himself. I went over the whole thing again, step by step, but as much for my own benefit as for his. �I came back that night, and instead of taking it easy reading like other nights, you were rushing around in there, as if you were straightening things up. I heard you through the door.�

�Sure, I was pounding distractedly back and forth; you would be too if you�d just lost your girl.�

�I knocked instead of using my key, and the knock frightened you. You only opened on a crack until you saw who it was��

�That was just a reflex; I didn�t want to see anyone, I had too much on my mind��

�You told me you�d just put her in a taxi at the door. The sidewalk was wet, but the soles of your shoes were dry.�

�Yes, that was an outright lie, but an innocent one. I didn�t want you to think I was heel enough to let her go down by herself.�

�You told me you heard her whistling up a cab, you let me lie to the cops about that. Her mother says she couldn�t whistle a note.�

He looked at me wide-eyed. �I didn�t know that, I didn�t know that.�

The edges of my mouth curled. �She was your girl and you didn�t know she couldn�t whistle?�

�She never happened to tell me; the occasion never arose. I heard someone whistle��

�A little bird, no doubt.� I went ahead. �You left me at twelve, to go down for a quick pick-up. McGinnis told me you didn�t show up in his place until two. What were you doing before you went in there?�

�Walking around in the rain,� he said dully, �like you do when, you�ve lost something.�

�Was this what you lost?� I gave the two raincoat fasteners I�d been carrying around on me all week a careless pitch over toward him. They landed on the cot beside him. �There was a third one, that you overlooked. I stepped on it up at our place, while you were out that night �walking around in the rain.� I put it on the table, and the next I knew it had disappeared; you hid it from that first cop that came around to question you.�

�Yes, I did.� He lowered his head. �She was already missing, it already looked bad enough for me, without him picking a thing like that up. I was starting to get nervous by that time. When she was trying to leave, I�d tried to hang on to her, get her to stay, but not in a murderous way. She had to wrench her raincoat from my pleading grip, and the fasteners came off. I thought it might save me a lot of unnecessary trouble if that cop just didn�t see that third one lying there on the table right as he was checking the description of what she�d been wearing. Sure it was foolish to conceal it, but everyone does foolish things at times, why should mine be made to count so heavily against me?�

�And then you threw the other two � those, over there next to you � out the washroom window at McGinnis�s.�

�That was just a rebellious gesture. I�d lost her, I was hurt and bitter. I did that like a man picks up a pebble or a stick and chucks it away from him, as a vent to his inner feelings. And Red, be logical; if I did it for concealment, why wouldn�t I have done it sooner, the whole two hours I was roaming around in the rain, why did I have to wait until I got in there?�

�Maybe you only recalled you had them on you after you got in there, maybe you didn�t remember them while you were still outside.� I shook my head at him slowly. �It�s no use, Dixon. Do you blame me, after all that, for thinking you did kill her? Would you blame anyone for thinking it?�

�So you�re going back to them now and tell them where I am. Tell them where they can come and find me.�

I shook my head quietly.

�Then where are you going?�

�Just back to our place�� I looked him straight in the eye. �And you�re coming with me.�

�That�s what you think.� His hand, the right, had been clutching the mattress edge all this while. I�d mistakenly thought for balance, for moral support. He withdrew it now, and a gun came slithering out in its grip. He must have bought it in some pawnshop with the money I�d staked him to; he hadn�t taken one with him the night he left. He pointed it square at me and said, lethally, �You�re never going to leave here alive again. I can�t afford it, I�m fighting for my life now. Well if it�s got to be me or you, then it�s going to be you. If you were my own blood-brother standing before me��

�Now at last,� I told him, �you�ve put the finishing touch to your own admission of guilt. A man who�s capable of murdering his own best friend in cold blood, like you�re about to, is certainly capable of murdering his sweetheart. If you didn�t kill her, why would you be so afraid to go back with me�?�

I didn�t know just when he was going to pull the trigger; he was going to any second, I could tell that just by looking at the expression in his eyes. The cot was a decrepit iron affair, one of those so-called portable things with legs that folded back under it. One hadn�t been opened fully, or else had slipped back a little from the repeated vibration of his getting on and off the cot twenty times a day, like he must have. I�d noticed long before this came up that it didn�t hit the floor perpendicular, but leaned in a little, letting the other three do most of the work for it.

I was sitting close enough to it, but that was the trouble � I was so close that any move my foot made was sure to catch his eye. I said, �All right, Johnny, let�s have it and get it over with,� and I clasped my hands at the nape of my neck and leaned my head and shoulders back in the chair, as if at defiant ease. That attracted his dangerously twinkling eyes to the upper part of my body, and the very act of stretching backward from the waist up brought my legs unnoticeably further out in the opposite direction. I felt my shoe graze the cot support. I swung my foot out, like when you tee-off. Then I chopped it back. The support snapped up flat against the frame, and that corner of the cot came down.

The shot was jolted out of him by the sudden slide. It tore straight through at heart level, but the shift over carried it under my left arm pit, and the elbow was up, so it didn�t do anything. I dove over on top of him before another one could come out, slapped the gun hand down against the mattress, and ground my knee into it.

The beating I gave him brought the other cot support down, and we rolled down to the floor together, in a mixture of soiled sheets, gun-smoke, and dust from the mattress. As he�d said, it was him or me, and he had a gun; I didn�t pull my punches, although my usual way of fighting is not to hit a guy when he�s down under you.

I quit when he stopped fighting back, and pocketed the gun. He went out a little from my jaw and face blows. No one seemed to have heard the shot, or if they did, it was the kind of a place where they believed in minding their own business. I threw water in his face to revive him, and before his head had altogether cleared he was already down below on the street with me, rocky but standing on his own legs. I got him into a cab, and before he knew it I had him over at our place, had closed the door on the two of us, and flung him back into his own favorite chair � only from about five yards away.

He just cowered there, didn�t say anything, didn�t move. His eyes kept following me around, mutely pleading. �Don�t look at me like that,� I told him finally, wincing from the touch of the iodine stopped on my open knuckles. I didn�t offer him any because for all I knew he might have swallowed it. �D�you think this is fun for me? D�you think this is my idea of how we should wind up, you and me?� I picked up the phone.

He spoke, for the first and last time since we�d come away from the hide-out. He didn�t call me Red any more. �Carr,� he said, �you�re not human at all!�

�Gimme Police Headquarters,� I answered that.

A whistle sounded somewhere under our windows. A woman�s voice called, �Yoo-hoo! Taxi!� Then the whistle sounded again, a fine full-bodied thing a man needn�t have been ashamed of. Gears meshed faintly somewhere in the distance and a machine came slithering up, braked directly outside. I heard a door crack open.

I put the phone down, open the way it was, streaked across the room, threw the window up. I was just a minute too late. I could see the cab roof, but the whistler had just finished getting in. Her hand reached out, pulled the cab door to with a slam.

I emptied my lungs out. �Driver! Hey you down there! Hold it � stay where you are!�

He looked out and up at me. �I got a fare al��

I backed my lapel at him; all there was behind it was a little dust, but he couldn�t tell from that distance. �Police business!� I said warningly, and hauled my head in.

I put the phone together on an increasingly annoyed voice that was saying: �Police Headquarters! Who is this?� evidently for the fourth or fifth time, with an abrupt �Sorry, wrong number.� I changed the key around to the outside of the door and locked Dixon in behind me. There was no fire escape to our window, so his only other way out was to come down four stories on the top of his head.

The woman in the cab was about thirty-six, very blonde; she stuck her head out at me inquiringly as I came skidding up to the cab door.

�D�you live here in this house?� If she had, I�d never seen her before.

�Yeah, 2-C, second-floor rear. I been a tenant here three weeks now.�

�Last Monday night, that�s a week ago tonight, near twelve, this same time � did you call a cab to this door, by whistling for it like you did just now? It was raining��

�Sure,� she said readily. �I call a cab to the door every night, rain or shine, so I must�ve that night too. It�s the only way I�d get to work on time. I do a specialty at 12:05 each night, at the Carioca Club. And why wouldn�t I whistle for it, that�s my special talent. Leonora, that�s me. I imitate birdcalls. The customers call �em out and I give �em. Anything from an oriole to a��

Then he�d told the truth. He had heard someone whistle for a cab; he had seen one standing below; he had � as I had myself � just missed seeing her get in. And maybe it shouldn�t have, but for some reason that made the whole thing look different. The same facts remained, but I saw them in a different light now. Not bathed in glaring suspicion any more, but just unfortunate coincidences that had damned him. Yes, even to his pitching the raincoat fasteners through the washroom window in the bar; that became just a gesture of frustration, of ill temper at having lost her, such as anyone might have made.

The blonde was saying, �Well, mister, I gotta go, I go on in about ten minutes. If I been disturbing people by whistling for a cab every night, I�ll tone it down��

�No,� I said gratefully, �you haven�t disturbed anyone; you�ve saved a man�s life. I want to see you when you get back from work; Carr, fourth-floor front.�

I went chasing upstairs again. He hadn�t even tried to bust down the locked door with a table or chair or anything while I was gone; he must have been resigned by now.

�You�re in the clear as far as I�m concerned,� I flung at him abruptly when I came in.

He just looked at me dazedly; the change was too sudden for him.

�Hiller told me they�ve established Estelle got as far as the landing below your door, and then someone jumped on her, stifled her cries, choked her senseless then and there. A moment later this Leonora, this professional performer, must have come out on her way to work, a landing below that. The girl wasn�t dead yet, but he thought she was. He lost his head, thought he was trapped, picked her up in his arms and carried her up past this floor to the incinerator closet on the one above this. He actually killed her in there without knowing it, trying to get rid of her. Meanwhile you�d heard the whistle from below, got to the window just too late, mistakenly thought you�d seen Estelle go off in a cab.

�The thing is, who was the guy? It wasn�t just a stray, a loiterer. He would have waited until she got out into the dark street; there was no robbery motive, she didn�t even have her handbag with her. It was someone who knew her, someone who had followed her here to your place, who had been lurking around outside your door the whole time she was in there, who put the worst possible construction on her visit to you.�

He nodded dismally. �She kept saying all the way through that she loved me. Even after she�d already opened the door and wrenched herself away from me by main force, she came back a step and kissed me goodbye and said, �Nobody can ever take your place, Johnny�� �

�Then he heard that; it only added fuel to his smouldering jealousy. He was too yellow to tackle you personally; he waited until you�d gone in, caught up with her on her way down, leaped on her in a jealous rage.�

We didn�t mention anyone�s name; we didn�t need to, now that we�d gone this far. I guess we both had the same name in mind. But knowing was one thing, tacking it on another. We were both stopped for awhile.

I paced around smoking like a chimney. He sat there biting his nails. He�d always been inclined to do that when he was keyed up. After awhile he noticed himself doing it, said mournfully: �I�ve backslid. She�d broken me of this habit, like girls usually try to break the fellows they go around with of little habits they don�t approve of. Here I am doing it again, because she�s not around to see me.� I didn�t say anything. �That was the one thing I ever heard her say in his favor: �Tremholt never bites his, why do you have to bite yours�?� �

I stopped short, whirled on him so suddenly, he edged away from me in the chair. �He doesn�t, huh? I saw his hand, resting on the back of Mrs. Mitchell�s chair, when Hiller took me over there, and he practically had no nails left, they were down to the raw. Then again, at the services, when he was nervous, he didn�t gnaw them, he kept breaking matchsticks instead, I watched him. If he was a nailbiter he would have bitten them then of all times. That shows he wasn�t, Estelle was right. Then why�d he bite them � or more likely file them down to the quick � right around the time she met her death?� I answered that myself. �Because he got something on them. Probably tar from that barrel of gravel on the roof when he finally � I wonder if we could get him on that?�

�How?� he said forlornly. �The nails are gone now � and the tar with them, if that�s what it was.�

�Maybe it wasn�t that.� Something else came to me. �Wait a minute, didn�t I hear the janitor say something about repainting those incinerator closets, around that time? I think I met him in the hall a day or two before, lugging a brush and paint can around with him. I�m going up and take a look. You stay here, someone might recognize you out on the stairs��

I went up by myself and inspected the one she had been dragged into. It was just a little dugout at the end of the hall. As you opened the door a light went on automatically, so the tenants could see where to dump their refuse.

I could tell by the clean look and shiny finish to the walls it had been recently repainted. Those places get pretty crummy in no time at all. He�d done a pretty good job for an amateur. Light-green. The important thing was, had the repainting been done before the night the killer dragged the girl in here, or only afterwards? If it had only been done since, then obviously he couldn�t have gotten fresh paint under his nails.

I took my own thumbnail to it and tested it by scraping a little nick in it. It was pretty fresh; that didn�t look so good. He�d only given it one coat, and my nail dug through that and laid bare the old coat beneath: a faded beige.

I looked him up in the basement and asked him about it. He gave me the answer I�d been hoping he wouldn�t. �Naw, I didn�t get to that one until after it happened. I�d gotten up as high as your floor the day of the murder, that was a Monday. I only had the one on the fifth left, I was going to finish that one up the first thing the next morning. He couldn�t get into the one on the fourth with her, because I�d locked it overnight, to keep the tenants out and give the paint a chance to dry. So he took her to the one above. As a result, I didn�t get a chance to paint that until them cops were all finished with it. They made me leave it like it was until late Wednesday afternoon.�

So whatever the reason was for his destroying his nails, it certainly wasn�t because of the adhesion of fresh paint particles. The paint hadn�t been applied until nearly forty-eight hours after Estelle Mitchell�s death. Probably tar from the rim of the barrel he�d hidden the remains in. And as Dixon had said, as long as the nails were gone anyway, what good was that.

I went back to him in the flat, spread my hands dejectedly. And then suddenly, in the very act of giving up hope like that, a way occurred to me. It comes to you as unexpectedly as that, sometimes. I looked at him narrowly, said, �Can you tell me offhand what color the walls of that closet were before they were repainted?�

�Hell no,� he admitted. �When did I ever go in there?�

�See, and you live right here in the house. I couldn�t have either, until I scraped below the top layer just now. I�m going to try to get him on that! It�s just a trick, but it�s about all we have left now.�

He looked at me puzzled.

�It was still beige the night it happened. Gus, the janitor, wasn�t allowed to do it over until after the cops were through with it. But if this guy didn�t go in there with her that night, he�s not supposed to know that.�

I was at the phone. He looked worried when he heard me say, �Headquarters.� I said, �Not you this time, Dixon.� When I got through to Hiller, I just said, �Will you meet me at the Mitchell place? I�ve got something I want you to hear.� I left Dixon in the apartment, told him to lie low, not put on any lights. �Stay here now, will you? When I come back maybe I�ll have good news for you.�

Outside the Mitchell door I had to talk like a trooper to get Hiller to cooperate with me � even as a test. His mind was already made up and he wasn�t unmaking it, not for any murderer�s ex-roommate. �I don�t ask you to open your mouth and say a word. All I ask you to do is not contradict what you hear me say, act as though it were official. And just listen to what he says. You�re sure he wasn�t allowed in that closet anytime during the following day, while you men were working on it?�

�No one was.�

�That�s all I want you to remember.� I rang the bell, Tremholt came to the door, and the dick and I went in together. I was shaking all over � inside where it couldn�t be detected. It was such a threadlike little thing to hang anything on. Hiller just looked inscrutable. Tremholt looked calm and self-possessed. His nails were starting to grow out again, I noticed, proving that that had been an emergency removal, he wasn�t a chronic biter.

The thing to do was to get him rattled, so he�d lose his head for a minute, wouldn�t be able to think quickly enough. I built up to it carefully, increasing the tempo as I went along. My insinuations became broader every minute, until they�d crossed the line, become outright accusations. �Sure it was you, we�ve all known that all along!� I was scared stiff Hiller would butt in, contradict me. He kept to the agreement, sat there impassive. He was just the audience.

�Yeah, I know you were supposed to be in your room here all evening. What does that amount to? Your room�s down near the front door, Mrs. Mitchell�s is all the way at the back of the hall. You have your own latchkey, you could have slipped in and out unnoticed a dozen times over between the time she first saw you come in at eight and the time she knocked to tell you she was getting worried about the girl not returning!�

I figured he was ripe enough now. Outwardly he was still imperturbable. But he was idly shredding a paper-folder of matches, and that was a giveaway. I gave him the punch-line. �And why did you feel you had to clip or file down your fingernails to the quick?� I didn�t give him time to shock-absorb that one. �I�ll tell you why, Hiller! Because he got pale-blue paint under his nails, from the incinerator closet where he dragged her�!�

He was still calm, derisive � outwardly, anyway. �Listen to that, will you? That�s a good one. The incinerator closet wasn�t even light-blue in the first place, it was tan, so how could I��

I quit talking, I didn�t have to talk any more.

All Hiller said, very softly, almost purringly, was: �You weren�t suppose to know that, baby-boy,� and he started to get up from the chair he�d been in until now.

Original publication:McClure�s Magazine, January 1911

�There he is at last, and I�m glad of it, Ellen. �Tain�t a night you would wish a dog to be out in.�

Mr. Bunting�s voice was full of unmistakable relief. He was close to the fire, sitting back in a deep leather armchair � a clean-shaven, dapper man, still in outward appearance what he had been so long, and now no longer was � a self-respecting butler.

�You needn�t feel so nervous about him; Mr. Sleuth can look out for himself, all right.� Mrs. Bunting spoke in a dry, rather tart tone. She was less emotional, better balanced, than was her husband. On her the marks of past servitude were less apparent, but they were there all the same � especially in her neat black stuff dress and scrupulously clean, plain collar and cuffs. Mrs. Bunting, as a single woman, had been for long years what is known as a useful maid.

�I can�t think why he wants to go out in such weather. He did it in last week�s fog, too,� Bunting went on complainingly.

�Well, it�s none of your business � now, is it?�

�No; that�s true enough. Still, �twould be a very bad thing for us if anything happened to him. This lodger�s the first bit of luck we�ve had for a very long time.�

Mrs. Bunting made no answer to this remark. It was too obviously true to be worth answering. Also she was listening � following in imagination her lodger�s quick, singularly quiet � �stealthy,� she called it to herself � progress through the dark, fog-filled hall and up the staircase.

�It isn�t safe for decent folk to be out in such weather � not unless they have something to do that won�t wait till tomorrow.� Bunting had at last turned round. He was now looking straight into his wife�s narrow, colorless face; he was an obstinate man, and liked to prove himself right. �I read you out the accidents in Lloyd�s yesterday � shocking, they were, and all brought about by the fog! And then, that �orrid monster at his work again��

�Monster?� repeated Mrs. Bunting absently. She was trying to hear the lodger�s footsteps overhead; but her husband went on as if there had been no interruption:

�It wouldn�t be very pleasant to run up against such a party as that in the fog, eh?�

�What stuff you do talk!� she said sharply; and then she got up suddenly. Her husband�s remark had disturbed her. She hated to think of such things as the terrible series of murders that were just then horrifying and exciting the nether world of London. Though she enjoyed pathos and sentiment � Mrs. Bunting would listen with mild amusement to the details of a breach-of-promise action � she shrank from stories of either immorality or physical violence.

Mrs. Bunting got up from the straight-backed chair on which she had been sitting. It would soon be time for supper.

She moved about the sitting-room, flecking off an imperceptible touch of dust here, straightening a piece of furniture there.

Bunting looked around once or twice. He would have liked to ask Ellen to leave off fidgeting, but he was mild and fond of peace, so he refrained. However, she soon gave over what irritated him of her own accord. But even then Mrs. Bunting did not at once go down to the cold kitchen, where everything was in readiness for her simple cooking. Instead, she opened the door leading into the bedroom behind, and there, closing the door quietly, stepped back into the darkness and stood motionless, listening.

At first she heard nothing, but gradually there came the sound of someone moving about in the room just overhead; try as she might, however, it was impossible for her to guess what her lodger was doing. At last she heard him open the door leading out to the landing. That meant that he would spend the rest of the evening in the rather cheerless room above the drawing-room floor � oddly enough, he liked sitting there best, though the only warmth obtainable was from a gas-stove fed by a shilling-in-the-slot arrangement.

It was indeed true that Mr. Sleuth had brought the Buntings luck, for at the time he had taken their rooms it had been touch and go with them.

After having each separately led the sheltered, impersonal, and, above all, the financially easy existence that is the compensation life offers to those men and women who deliberately take upon themselves the yoke of domestic service, these two, butler and useful maid, had suddenly, in middle age, determined to join their fortunes and savings.

Bunting was a widower; he had one pretty daughter, a girl of seventeen, who now lived, as had been the case ever since the death of her mother, with a prosperous aunt. His second wife had been reared in the Foundling Hospital, but she had gradually worked her way up into the higher ranks of the servant class and as a useful maid she had saved quite a tidy sum of money.

Unluckily, misfortune had dogged Mr. and Mrs. Bunting from the very first. The seaside place where they had begun by taking a lodging-house became the scene of an epidemic. Then had followed a business experiment which had proved disastrous. But before going back into service, either together or separately, they had made up their minds to make one last effort, and, with the little money that remained to them, they had taken over the lease of a small house in the Marylebone Road.

Bunting, whose appearance was very good, had retained a connection with old employers and their friends, so he occasionally got a good job as waiter. During this last month his jobs had perceptibly increased in number and in profit; Mrs. Bunting was not superstitious, but it seemed that in this matter, as in everything else, Mr. Sleuth, their new lodger, had brought them luck.

As she stood there, still listening intently in the darkness of the bedroom, she told herself, not for the first time, what Mr. Sleuth�s departure would mean to her and Bunting. It would almost certainly mean ruin.

Luckily, the lodger seemed entirely pleased both with the rooms and with his landlady. There was really no reason why he should ever leave such nice lodgings. Mrs. Bunting shook off her vague sense of apprehension and unease. She turned round, took a step forward, and, feeling for the handle of the door giving into the passage, she opened it, and went down with light, firm steps into the kitchen.

She lit the gas and put a frying-pan on the stove, and then once more her mind reverted, as if in spite of herself, to her lodger, and there came back to Mrs. Bunting, very vividly, the memory of all that had happened the day Mr. Sleuth had taken her rooms.

The date of this excellent lodger�s coming had been the twenty-ninth of December, and the time late afternoon. She and Bunting had been sitting, gloomily enough, over their small banked-up fire. They had dined in the middle of the day � he on a couple of sausages, she on a little cold ham. They were utterly out of heart, each trying to pluck up courage to tell the other that it was no use trying any more. The two had also had a little tiff on that dreary afternoon. A newspaper-seller had come yelling down the Marylebone Road, shouting out, � �Orrible murder in Whitechapel!� and just because Bunting had an old uncle living in the East End he had gone and bought a paper, and at a time, too, when every penny, nay, every half-penny, had its full value! Mrs. Bunting remembered the circumstances because that murder in Whitechapel had been the first of these terrible crimes � there had been four since � which she would never allow Bunting to discuss in her presence, and yet which had of late begun to interest curiously, uncomfortably, even her refined mind.

But, to return to the lodger. It was then, on that dreary afternoon, that suddenly there had come to the front door a tremulous, uncertain double knock.

Bunting ought to have got up, but he had gone on reading the paper; and so Mrs. Bunting, with the woman�s greater courage, had gone out into the passage, turned up the gas, and opened the door to see who it could be. She remembered, as if it were yesterday instead of nigh on a month ago, Mr. Sleuth�s peculiar appearance. Tall, dark, lanky, an old-fashioned top hat concealing his high bald forehead, he had stood there, an odd figure of a man, blinking at her.

�I believe � is it not a fact that you let lodgings?� he had asked in a hesitating, whistling voice, a voice that she had known in a moment to be that of an educated man � of a gentleman. As he had stepped into the hall, she had noticed that in his right hand he held a narrow bag � a quite new bag of strong brown leather.

Everything had been settled in less than a quarter of an hour. Mr. Sleuth had at once �taken� to the drawing-room floor, and then, as Mrs. Bunting eagerly lit the gas in the front room above, he had looked around him and said, rubbing his hands with a nervous movement, �Capital � capital! This is just what I�ve been looking for!�

The sink had specially pleased him � the sink and the gas-stove. �This is quite first-rate!� he had exclaimed, �for I make all sorts of experiments. I am, you must understand, Mrs.�� er � Bunting, a man of science.� Then he had sat down � suddenly. �I�m very tired,� he had said in a low tone, �very tired indeed! I have been walking about all day.�

From the very first the lodger�s manner had been odd, sometimes distant and abrupt, and then, for no reason at all that she could see, confidential and plaintively confiding. But Mrs. Bunting was aware that eccentricity has always been a perquisite, as it were the special luxury, of the well born and well educated. Scholars and such-like are never quite like other people.

And then, this particular gentleman had proved himself so eminently satisfactory as to the one thing that really matters to those who let lodgings. �My name is Sleuth,� he said. �S-l-e-u-t-h. Think of a hound, Mrs. Bunting, and you�ll never forget my name. I could give you references,� he had added, giving her, as she now remembered, a funny sidewise look, �but I prefer to dispense with them. How much did you say? Twenty-three shillings a week, with attendance? Yes, that will suit me perfectly; and I�ll begin by paying my first month�s rent in advance. Now, four times twenty-three shillings is� � he looked at Mrs. Bunting, and for the first time he smiled, a queer, wry smile � �ninety-two shillings.�

He had taken a handful of sovereigns out of his pocket and put them down on the table. �Look here,� he had said, �there�s five pounds; and you can keep the change, for I shall want you to do a little shopping for me tomorrow.�

After he had been in the house about an hour, the bell had rung, and the new lodger had asked Mrs. Bunting if she could oblige him with the loan of a Bible. She brought up to him her best Bible, the one that had been given to her as a wedding present by a lady with whose mother she had lived for several years. This Bible and one other book, of which the odd name was Cruden�s Concordance, formed Mr. Sleuth�s only reading; he spent hours each day poring over the Old Testament and over the volume which Mrs. Bunting had at last decided to be a queer kind of index to the Book.

However, to return to the lodger�s first arrival. He had had no luggage with him, barring the small brown bag, but very soon parcels had begun to arrive addressed to Mr. Sleuth, and it was then that Mrs. Bunting first became curious. These parcels were full of clothes; but it was quite clear to the landlady�s feminine eye that none of those clothes had been made for Mr. Sleuth. They were, in fact, second-hand clothes, bought at good second-hand places, each marked, when marked at all, with a different name. And the really extraordinary thing was that occasionally a complete suit disappeared � became, as it were, obliterated from the lodger�s wardrobe.

As for the bag he had brought with him, Mrs. Bunting had never caught sight of it again. And this also was certainly very strange.

Mrs. Bunting thought a great deal about that bag. She often wondered what had been in it; not a nightshirt and comb and brush, as she had at first supposed, for Mr. Sleuth had asked her to go out and buy him a brush and comb and tooth-brush the morning after his arrival. That fact was specially impressed on her memory, for at the little shop, a barber�s, where she had purchased the brush and comb, the foreigner who had served her had insisted on telling her some of the horrible details of the murder that had taken place the day before in Whitechapel, and it had upset her very much.

As to where the bag was now, it was probably locked up in the lower part of a chiffonnier in the front sitting-room. Mr. Sleuth evidently always carried the key of the little cupboard on his person, for Mrs. Bunting, though she looked well for it, had never been able to find it.

And yet, never was there a more confiding or trusting gentleman. The first four days that he had been with them he had allowed his money � the considerable sum of one hundred and eighty-four pounds in gold � to lie about wrapped up in pieces of paper on his dressing-table. This was a very foolish, indeed a wrong thing to do, as she had allowed herself respectfully to point out to him; but as only answer he had laughed, a loud, discordant shout of laughter.

Mr. Sleuth had many other odd ways; but Mrs. Bunting, a true woman in spite of her prim manner and love of order, had an infinite patience with masculine vagaries.

On the first morning of Mr. Sleuth�s stay in the Buntings� house, while Mrs. Bunting was out buying things for him, the new lodger had turned most of the pictures and photographs hanging in his sitting-room with their faces to the wall! But this queer action on Mr. Sleuth�s part had not surprised Mrs. Bunting as much as it might have done; it recalled an incident of her long-past youth � something that had happened a matter of twenty years ago, at a time when Mrs. Bunting, then the still youthful Ellen Cottrell, had been maid to an old lady. The old lady had a favorite nephew, a bright, jolly young gentleman who had been learning to paint animals in Paris; and it was he who had had the impudence, early one summer morning, to turn to the wall six beautiful engravings of paintings done by the famous Mr. Landseer! The old lady thought the world of these pictures, but her nephew, as the only excuse for the extraordinary thing he had done, had observed that �they put his eye out.�

Mr. Sleuth�s excuse had been much the same; for, when Mrs. Bunting had come into his sitting-room and found all her pictures, or at any rate all those of her pictures that happened to be portraits of ladies, with their faces to the wall, he had offered as only explanation, �Those women�s eyes follow me about.�

Mrs. Bunting had gradually become aware that Mr. Sleuth had a fear and dislike of women. When she was �doing� the staircase and landing, she often heard him reading bits of the Bible aloud to himself, and in the majority of instances the texts he chose contained uncomplimentary reference to her own sex. Only today she had stopped and listened while he uttered threateningly the awful words, �A strange woman is a narrow pit. She also lieth in wait as for a prey, and increaseth the transgressors among men.� There had been a pause, and then had come, in a high singsong, �Her house is the way to hell, going down to the chambers of death.� It had made Mrs. Bunting feel quite queer.

The lodger�s daily habits were also peculiar. He stayed in bed all the morning, and sometimes part of the afternoon, and he never went out before the street lamps were alight. Then, there was his dislike of an open fire; he generally sat in the top front room, and while there he always used the large gas-stove, not only for his experiments, which he carried on at night, but also in the daytime, for warmth.

But there! Where was the use of worrying about the lodger�s funny ways? Of course, Mr. Sleuth was eccentric; if he hadn�t been �just a leetle �touched� upstairs� � as Bunting had once described it � he wouldn�t be their lodger now; he would be living in a quite different sort of way with some of his relations, or with a friend of his own class.

Mrs. Bunting, while these thoughts galloped disconnectedly through her brain, went on with her cooking, doing everything with a certain delicate and cleanly precision.

While in the middle of making the toast on which was to be poured some melted cheese, she suddenly heard a noise, or rather a series of noises. Shuffling, hesitating steps were creaking down the house above. She looked up and listened. Surely Mr. Sleuth was not going out again into the cold, foggy night? But no; for the sounds did not continue down the passage leading to the front door.

The heavy steps were coming slowly down the kitchen stairs. Nearer and nearer came the thudding sounds, and Mrs. Bunting�s heart began to beat as if in response. She put out the gas-stove, unheedful of the fact that the cheese would stiffen and spoil in the cold air; and then she turned and faced the door. There was a fumbling at the handle, and a moment later the door opened and revealed, as she had known it would, her lodger.

Mr. Sleuth was clad in a plaid dressing-gown, and in his hand was a candle. When he saw the lit-up kitchen, and the woman standing in it, he looked inexplicably taken aback, almost aghast.

�Yes, sir? What can I do for you, sir? I hope you didn�t ring, sir?� Mrs. Bunting did not come forward to meet her lodger; instead, she held her ground in front of the stove. Mr. Sleuth had no business to come down like this into her kitchen.

�No, I... I didn�t ring,� he stammered; �I didn�t know you were down here, Mrs. Bunting. Please excuse my costume. The truth is, my gas-stove has gone wrong, or, rather, that shilling-in-the-slot arrangement has done so. I came down to see if you had a gas-stove. I am going to ask leave to use it to-night for an experiment I want to make.�

Mrs. Bunting felt troubled � oddly, unnaturally troubled. Why couldn�t the lodger�s experiment wait till tomorrow? �Oh, certainly, sir; but you will find it very cold down here.� She looked round her dubiously.

�It seems most pleasantly warm,� he observed, �warm and cozy after my cold room upstairs.�

�Won�t you let me make you a fire?� Mrs. Bunting�s housewifely instincts were roused. �Do let me make you a fire in your bedroom, sir; I�m sure you ought to have one there these cold nights.�

�By no means � I mean, I would prefer not. I do not like an open fire, Mrs. Bunting.� He frowned, and still stood, a strange-looking figure, just inside the kitchen door.

�Do you want to use this stove now, sir? Is there anything I can do to help you?�

�No, not now � thank you all the same, Mrs. Bunting. I shall come down later, altogether later � probably after you and your husband have gone to bed. But I should be much obliged if you would see that the gas people come tomorrow and put my stove in order.�

�Perhaps Bunting could put it right for you sir. I�ll ask him to go up.�

�No, no � I don�t want anything of that sort done tonight. Besides, he couldn�t put it right. The cause of the trouble is quite simple. The machine is choked up with shillings: a foolish plan, so I have always felt it to be.�

Mr. Sleuth spoke very pettishly, with far more heat than he was wont to speak; but Mrs. Bunting sympathized with him. She had always suspected those slot-machines to be as dishonest as if they were human. It was dreadful, the way they swallowed up the shillings!

As if he were divining her thoughts, Mr. Sleuth, walking forward, stared up at the kitchen slot-machine. �Is it nearly full?� he asked abruptly. �I expect my experiment will take some time, Mrs. Bunting.�

�Oh, no, sir; there�s plenty of room for shillings there still. We don�t use our stove as much as you do yours, sir. I�m never in the kitchen a minute longer than I can help in this cold weather.�

And then, with him preceding her, Mrs. Bunting and her lodger made a low progress to the ground floor. There Mr. Sleuth courteously bade his landlady good night, and proceeded upstairs to his own apartments.

Mrs. Bunting again went down into her kitchen, again she lit the stove, and again she cooked the toasted cheese. But she felt unnerved, afraid of she knew not what. The place seemed to her alive with alien presences, and once she caught herself listening, which was absurd, for of course she could not hope to hear what her lodger was doing two, if not three, flights upstairs. She had never been able to discover what Mr. Sleuth�s experiments really were; all she knew was that they required a very high degree of heat.

The Buntings went to bed early that night. But Mrs. Bunting intended to stay awake. She wanted to know at what hour of the night her lodger would come down into the kitchen, and, above all, she was anxious as to how long he would stay there. But she had had a long day, and presently she fell asleep.

The church clock hard by struck two in the morning, and suddenly Mrs. Bunting awoke. She felt sharply annoyed with herself. How could she have dropped off like that? Mr. Sleuth must have been down and up again hours ago.

Then, gradually, she became aware of a faint acrid odor; elusive, almost intangible, it yet seemed to encompass her and the snoring man by her side almost as a vapor might have done.

Mrs. Bunting sat up in bed and sniffed; and then, in spite of the cold, she quietly crept out of the nice, warm bedclothes and crawled along to the bottom of the bed. There Mr. Sleuth�s landlady did a very curious thing; she leaned over the brass rail and put her face close to the hinge of the door. Yes, it was from there that this strange, horrible odor was coming; the smell must be very strong in the passage. Mrs. Bunting thought she knew now what became of these suits of clothes of Mr. Sleuth�s that disappeared.

As she crept back, shivering, under the bed-clothes, she longed to give her sleeping husband a good shake, and in fancy she heard herself saying: �Bunting, get up! There is something strange going on downstairs that we ought to know about.�

But Mr. Sleuth�s landlady, as she lay by her husband�s side, listening with painful intentness, knew very well that she would do nothing of the sort. The lodger had a right to destroy his clothes by burning if the fancy took him. What if he did make a certain amount of mess, a certain amount of smell, in her nice kitchen? Was he not � was he not such a good lodger! If they did anything to upset him, where could they ever hope to get another like him?

Three o�clock struck before Mrs. Bunting heard slow, heavy steps creaking up her kitchen stairs. But Mr. Sleuth did not go straight up to his own quarters, as she expected him to do. Instead, he went to the front door, and opening it, put it on the chain. At the end of ten minutes or so he closed the front door, and by that time Mrs. Bunting had divined why the lodger had behaved in this strange fashion � it must have been to get the strong acrid smell of burning wool out of the passage. But Mrs. Bunting felt as if she herself would never get rid of the horrible odor. She felt herself to be all smell.

At last the unhappy woman fell into a deep, troubled sleep; and then she dreamed a most terrible and unnatural dream; hoarse voices seemed to be shouting in her ear, � �Orrible murder off the Edgeware Road!� Then three words, indistinctly uttered, followed by ��at his work again! Awful details!�

Even in her dream Mrs. Bunting felt angered and impatient; she knew so well why she was being disturbed by this horrid nightmare. It was because of Bunting � Bunting, who insisted on talking to her of those frightful murders, in which only morbid, vulgar-minded people took any interest. Why, even now, in her dream, she could hear her husband speaking to her about it.

�Ellen,� � so she heard Bunting say in her ear � �Ellen, my dear, I am just going to get up to get a paper. It�s after seven o�clock.�

Mrs. Bunting sat up in bed. The shouting, nay, worse, the sound of tramping, hurrying feet smote on her ears. It had been no nightmare, then, but something infinitely worse � reality. Why couldn�t Bunting have lain quietly in bed awhile longer, and let his poor wife go on dreaming? The most awful dream would have been easier to bear than this awakening.

She heard her husband go to the front door, and, as he bought the paper, exchange a few excited words with the newspaper boy. Then he came back and began silently moving about the room.

�Well!� she cried. �Why don�t you tell me about it?�

�I thought you�d rather not hear.�

�Of course I like to know what happens close to our own front door!� she snapped out.

And then he read out a piece of the newspaper � only a few lines, after all � telling in brief, unemotional language that the body of woman, apparently done to death in a peculiarly atrocious fashion some hours before, had been found in a passage leading to a disused warehouse off the Marylebone Road.

�It serves that sort of hussy right!� was Mrs. Bunting�s only comment.

When Mrs. Bunting went down into the kitchen, everything there looked just as she had left it, and there was no trace of the acrid smell she had expected to find there. Instead, the cavernous whitewashed room was full of fog, and she noticed that, though the shutters were bolted and barred as she had left them, the windows behind them had been widely opened to the air. She, of course, had left them shut.

She stooped and flung open the oven door of her gas-stove. Yes, it was as she had expected; a fierce heat had been generated there since she had last used the oven and a mass of black, gluey soot had fallen through to the stone floor below.

Mrs. Bunting took the ham and eggs that she had bought the previous day for her own and Bunting�s breakfast, and broiled them over the gas-ring in their sitting-room. Her husband watched her in surprised silence. She had never done such a thing before.

�I couldn�t stay down there,� she said, �it was so cold and foggy. I thought I�d make breakfast up here, just for to-day.�

�Yes,� he said kindly; �that�s quite right, Ellen. I think you�ve done quite right, my dear.�

But, when it came to the point, his wife could not eat any of the nice breakfast she had got ready; she only had another cup of tea.

�Are you ill?� Bunting asked solicitously.

�No,� she said shortly; �of course I�m not ill. Don�t be silly! The thought of that horrible thing happening so close by has upset me. Just hark to them, now!�

Through their closed windows penetrated the sound of scurrying feet and loud, ribald laughter. A crowd, nay, a mob, hastened to and from the scene of the murder.

Mrs. Bunting made her husband lock the front gate. �I don�t want any of those ghouls in here!� she exclaimed angrily. And then, �What a lot of idle people there must be in the world,� she said.

The coming and going went on all day. Mrs. Bunting stayed indoors; Bunting went out. After all, the ex-butler was human � it was natural that he should feel thrilled and excited. All their neighbors were the same. His wife wasn�t reasonable about such things. She quarreled with him when he didn�t tell her anything, and yet he was sure she would have been angry with him if he had said very much about it.

The lodger�s bell rang about two o�clock, and Mrs. Bunting prepared the simple luncheon that was also his breakfast. As she rested the tray a minute on the drawing-room floor landing, she heard Mr. Sleuth�s high, quavering voice reading aloud the words:

�She saith to him, Stolen waters are sweet, and bread eaten in secret is pleasant. But he knoweth not that the dead are there; and that her guests are in the depths of hell.�

The landlady turned the handle of the door and walked in with the tray. Mr. Sleuth was sitting close by the window, and Mrs. Bunting�s Bible lay open before him. As she came in he hastily closed the Bible and looked down at the crowd walking along the Marylebone Road.

�There seem a great many people out today,� he observed, without looking round.

�Yes, sir, there do.� Mrs. Bunting said nothing more, and offered no other explanation; and the lodger, as he at last turned to his landlady, smiled pleasantly. He had acquired a great liking and respect for this well-behaved, taciturn woman; she was the first person for whom he had felt any such feeling for many years past.

He took a half sovereign out of his waistcoat pocket; Mrs. Bunting noticed that it was not the same waistcoat Mr. Sleuth had been wearing the day before. �Will you please accept this half sovereign for the use of your kitchen last night?� he said. �I made as little mess as I could, but I was carrying on a rather elaborate experiment.�

She held out her hand, hesitated, and then took the coin.

As she walked down the stairs, the winter sun, a yellow ball hanging in the smoky sky, glinted in on Mrs. Bunting, and lent blood-red gleams, or so it seemed to her, to the piece of gold she was holding in her hand.

Original publication:Epoch, Fall 1966; first collected in Where Are You Going, Where Have You Been? Stories of Young America by Joyce Carol Oates (Greenwich, CT, Fawcett, 1974)

Her name was Connie. She was fifteen and she had a quick, nervous, giggling habit of craning her neck to glance into mirrors or checking other people�s faces to make sure her own was all right. Her mother, who noticed everything and knew everything and who hadn�t much reason any longer to look at her own face, always scolded Connie about it. �Stop gawking at yourself. Who are you? You think you�re so pretty?� she would say. Connie would raise her eyebrows at these familiar old complaints and look right through her mother, into a shadowy vision of herself as she was right at that moment: she knew she was pretty and that was everything. Her mother had been pretty once too, if you could believe those old snapshots in the album, but now her looks were gone and that was why she was always after Connie.

�Why don�t you keep your room clean like your sister? How�ve you got your hair fixed � what the hell stinks? Hair spray? You don�t see your sister using that junk.�

Her sister June was twenty-four and still lived at home. She was a secretary in the high school Connie attended, and if that wasn�t bad enough � with her in the same building � she was so plain and chunky and steady that Connie had to hear her praised all the time by her mother and her mother�s sisters. June did this, June did that, she saved money and helped clean the house and cooked and Connie couldn�t do a thing, her mind was all filled with trashy daydreams. Their father was away at work most of the time and when he came home he wanted supper and he read the newspaper at supper and after supper he went to bed. He didn�t bother talking much to them, but around his bent head Connie�s mother kept picking at her until Connie wished her mother was dead and she herself was dead and it was all over. �She makes me want to throw up sometimes,� she complained to her friends. She had a high, breathless, amused voice that made everything she said sound a little forced, whether it was sincere or not.

There was one good thing: June went places with girlfriends of hers, girls who were just as plain and steady as she, and so when Connie wanted to do that her mother had no objections. The father of Connie�s best girlfriend drove the girls the three miles to town and left them at a shopping plaza so they could walk through the stores or go to a movie, and when he came to pick them up again at eleven he never bothered to ask what they had done.

They must have been familiar sights, walking around the shopping plaza in their shorts and flat ballerina slippers that always scuffed the sidewalk, with charm bracelets jingling on their thin wrists; they would lean together to whisper and laugh secretly if someone passed who amused or interested them. Connie had long dark blond hair that drew anyone�s eye to it, and she wore part of it pulled up on her head and puffed out and the rest of it she let fall down her back. She wore a pull-over jersey blouse that looked one way when she was at home and another way when she was away from home. Everything about her had two sides to it, one for home and one for anywhere that was not home: her walk, which could be childlike and bobbing, or languid enough to make anyone think she was hearing music in her head; her mouth, which was pale and smirking most of the time, but bright and pink on these evenings out; her laugh, which was cynical and drawling at home � �Ha, ha, very funny� � but highpitched and nervous anywhere else, like the jingling of the charms on her bracelet.

Sometimes they did go shopping or to a movie, but sometimes they went across the highway, ducking fast across the busy road, to a drive-in restaurant where older kids hung out. The restaurant was shaped like a big bottle, though squatter than a real bottle, and on its cap was a revolving figure of a grinning boy holding a hamburger aloft. One night in midsummer they ran across, breathless with daring, and right away someone leaned out a car window and invited them over, but it was just a boy from high school they didn�t like. It made them feel good to be able to ignore him. They went up through the maze of parked and cruising cars to the bright-lit, fly-infested restaurant, their faces pleased and expectant as if they were entering a sacred building that loomed up out of the night to give them what haven and blessing they yearned for. They sat at the counter and crossed their legs at the ankles, their thin shoulders rigid with excitement, and listened to the music that made everything so good: the music was always in the background, like music at a church service; it was something to depend upon.

A boy named Eddie came in to talk with them. He sat backwards on his stool, turning himself jerkily around in semicircles and then stopping and turning back again, and after a while he asked Connie if she would like something to eat. She said she would and so she tapped her friend�s arm on her way out � her friend pulled her face up into a brave, droll look � and Connie said she would meet her at eleven, across the way. �I just hate to leave her like that,� Connie said earnestly, but the boy said that she wouldn�t be alone for long. So they went out to his car, and on the way Connie couldn�t help but let her eyes wander over the windshields and faces all around her, her face gleaming with a joy that had nothing to do with Eddie or even this place; it might have been the music. She drew her shoulders up and sucked in her breath with the pure pleasure of being alive, and just at that moment she happened to glance at a face just a few feet from hers. It was a boy with shaggy black hair, in a convertible jalopy painted gold. He stared at her and then his lips widened into a grin. Connie slit her eyes at him and turned away, but she couldn�t help glancing back and there he was, still watching her. He wagged a finger and laughed and said, �Gonna get you, baby,� and Connie turned away again without Eddie noticing anything.

She spent three hours with him, at the restaurant where they ate hamburgers and drank Cokes in wax cups that were always sweating, and then down an alley a mile or so away, and when he left her off at five to eleven only the movie house was still open at the plaza. Her girlfriend was there, talking with a boy. When Connie came up, the two girls smiled at each other and Connie said, �How was the movie?� and the girl said, �You should know.� They rode off with the girl�s father, sleepy and pleased, and Connie couldn�t help but look back at the darkened shopping plaza with its big empty parking lot and its signs that were faded and ghostly now, and over at the drive-in restaurant where cars were still circling tirelessly. She couldn�t hear the music at this distance.

Next morning June asked her how the movie was and Connie said, �So-so.�

She and that girl and occasionally another girl went out several times a week, and the rest of the time Connie spent around the house � it was summer vacation � getting in her mother�s way and thinking, dreaming about the boys she met. But all the boys fell back and dissolved into a single face that was not even a face but an idea, a feeling, mixed up with the urgent insistent pounding of the music and the humid night air of July. Connie�s mother kept dragging her back to the daylight by finding things for her to do or saying suddenly, �What�s this about the Pettinger girl?�

And Connie would say nervously, �Oh, her. That dope.� She always drew thick clear lines between herself and such girls, and her mother was simple and kind enough to believe it. Her mother was so simple, Connie thought, that it was maybe cruel to fool her so much. Her mother went scuffling around the house in old bedroom slippers and complained over the telephone to one sister about the other, then the other called up and the two of them complained about the third one. If June�s name was mentioned her mother�s tone was approving, and if Connie�s name was mentioned it was disapproving. This did not really mean she disliked Connie, and actually Connie thought that her mother preferred her to June just because she was prettier, but the two of them kept up a pretense of exasperation, a sense that they were tugging and struggling over something of little value to either of them. Sometimes, over coffee, they were almost friends, but something would come up � some vexation that was like a fly buzzing suddenly around their heads � and their faces went hard with contempt.

One Sunday Connie got up at eleven � none of them bothered with church � and washed her hair so that it could dry all day long in the sun. Her parents and sister were going to a barbecue at an aunt�s house and Connie said no, she wasn�t interested, rolling her eyes to let her mother know just what she thought of it. �Stay home alone then,� her mother said sharply. Connie sat out back in a lawn chair and watched them drive away, her father quiet and bald, hunched around so that he could back the car out, her mother with a look that was still angry and not at all softened through the windshield, and in the back seat poor old June, all dressed up as if she didn�t know what a barbecue was, with all the running yelling kids and the flies. Connie sat with her eyes closed in the sun, dreaming and dazed with the warmth about her as if this were a kind of love, the caresses of love, and her mind slipped over onto thoughts of the boy she had been with the night before and how nice he had been, how sweet it always was, not the way someone like June would suppose but sweet, gentle, the way it was in movies and promised in songs; and when she opened her eyes she hardly knew where she was, the backyard ran off into weeds and a fence-like line of trees and behind it the sky was perfectly blue and still. The asbestos �ranch house� that was now three years old startled her � it looked small. She shook her head as if to get awake.

It was too hot. She went inside the house and turned on the radio to drown out the quiet. She sat on the edge of her bed, barefoot, and listened for an hour and a half to a program called XYZ Sunday Jamboree, record after record of hard, fast, shrieking songs she sang along with, interspersed by exclamations from �Bobby King�: �An� look here, you girls at Napoleon�s � Son and Charley want you to pay real close attention to this song coming up!�

And Connie paid close attention herself, bathed in a glow of slow-pulsed joy that seemed to rise mysteriously out of the music itself and lay languidly about the airless little room, breathed in and breathed out with each gentle rise and fall of her chest.

After a while she heard a car coming up the drive. She sat up at once, startled, because it couldn�t be her father so soon. The gravel kept crunching all the way in from the road � the driveway was long � and Connie ran to the window. It was a car she didn�t know. It was an open jalopy, painted a bright gold that caught the sunlight opaquely. Her heart began to pound and her fingers snatched at her hair, checking it, and she whispered, �Christ, Christ,� wondering how bad she looked. The car came to a stop at the side door and the horn sounded four short taps, as if this were a signal Connie knew.

She went into the kitchen and approached the door slowly, then hung out the screen door, her bare toes curling down off the step. There were two boys in the car and now she recognized the driver: he had shaggy, shabby black hair that looked crazy as a wig and he was grinning at her.

�I ain�t late, am I?� he said.

�Who the hell do you think you are?� Connie said.

�Toldja I�d be out, didn�t I?�

�I don�t even know who you are.�

She spoke sullenly, careful to show no interest or pleasure, and he spoke in a fast, bright monotone. Connie looked past him to the other boy, taking her time. He had fair brown hair, with a lock that fell onto his forehead. His sideburns gave him a fierce, embarrassed look, but so far he hadn�t even bothered to glance at her. Both boys wore sunglasses. The driver�s glasses were metallic and mirrored everything in miniature.

�You wanta come for a ride?� he said.

Connie smirked and let her hair fall loose over one shoulder.

�Don�tcha like my car? New paint job,� he said. �Hey.�

�What?�

�You�re cute.�

She pretended to fidget, chasing flies away from the door.

�Don�tcha believe me, or what?� he said.

�Look, I don�t even know who you are,� Connie said in disgust.

�Hey, Ellie�s got a radio, see. Mine broke down.� He lifted his friend�s arm and showed her the little transistor radio the boy was holding, and now Connie began to hear the music. It was the same program that was playing inside the house.

�Bobby King?� she said.

�I listen to him all the time. I think he�s great.�

�He�s kind of great,� Connie said reluctantly.

�Listen, that guy�s great. He knows where the action is.�

Connie blushed a little, because the glasses made it impossible for her to see just what this boy was looking at. She couldn�t decide if she liked him or if he was just a jerk, and so she dawdled in the doorway and wouldn�t come down or go back inside. She said, �What�s all that stuff painted on your car?�

�Can�tcha read it?� He opened the door very carefully, as if he were afraid it might fall off. He slid out just as carefully, planting his feet firmly on the ground, the tiny metallic world in his glasses slowing down like gelatin hardening, and in the midst of it Connie�s bright green blouse. �This here is my name, to begin with,� he said. ARNOLD FRIEND was written in tarlike black letters on the side, with a drawing of a round, grinning face that reminded Connie of a pumpkin, except it wore sunglasses. �I wanta introduce myself, I�m Arnold Friend and that�s my real name and I�m gonna be your friend, honey, and inside the car�s Ellie Oscar, he�s kinda shy.� Ellie brought his transistor radio up to his shoulder and balanced it there. �Now, these numbers are a secret code, honey,� Arnold Friend explained. He read off the numbers 33, 19, 17 and raised his eyebrows at her to see what she thought of that, but she didn�t think much of it. The left rear fender had been smashed and around it was written, on the gleaming gold background: DONE BY CRAZY WOMAN DRIVER. Connie had to laugh at that. Arnold Friend was pleased at her laughter and looked up at her. �Around the other side�s a lot more � you wanta come and see them?�

�No.�

�Why not?�

�Why should I?�

�Don�tcha wanta see what�s on the car? Don�tcha wanta go for a ride?�

�I don�t know.�

�Why not?�

�I got things to do.�

�Like what?�

�Things.�

He laughed as if she had said something funny. He slapped his thighs. He was standing in a strange way, leaning back against the car as if he were balancing himself. He wasn�t tall, only an inch or so taller than she would be if she came down to him. Connie liked the way he was dressed, which was the way all of them dressed: tight faded jeans stuffed into black, scuffed boots, a belt that pulled his waist in and showed how lean he was, and a white pull-over shirt that was a little soiled and showed the hard small muscles of his arms and shoulders. He looked as if he probably did hard work, lifting and carrying things. Even his neck looked muscular. And his face was a familiar face, somehow: the jaw and chin and cheeks slightly darkened because he hadn�t shaved for a day or two, and the nose long and hawklike, sniffing as if she were a treat he was going to gobble up and it was all a joke.

�Connie, you ain�t telling the truth. This is your day set aside for a ride with me and you know it,� he said, still laughing. The way he straightened and recovered from his fit of laughing showed that it had been all fake.

�How do you know what my name is?� she said suspiciously.

�It�s Connie.�

�Maybe and maybe not.�

�I know my Connie,� he said, wagging his finger. Now she remembered him even better, back at the restaurant, and her cheeks warmed at the thought of how she had sucked in her breath just at the moment she passed him � how she must have looked to him. And he had remembered her. �Ellie and I come out here especially for you,� he said. �Ellie can sit in back. How about it?�

�Where?�

�Where what?�

�Where�re we going?�

He looked at her. He took off the sunglasses and she saw how pale the skin around his eyes was, like holes that were not in shadow but instead in light. His eyes were like chips of broken glass that catch the light in an amiable way. He smiled. It was as if the idea of going for a ride somewhere, to someplace, was a new idea to him.

�Just for a ride, Connie sweetheart.�

�I never said my name was Connie,� she said.

�But I know what it is. I know your name and all about you, lots of things,� Arnold Friend said. He had not moved yet but stood still leaning back against the side of his jalopy. �I took a special interest in you, such a pretty girl, and found out all about you � like I know your parents and sister are gone somewheres and I know where and how long they�re going to be gone, and I know who you were with last night, and your best girl friend�s name is Betty. Right?�

He spoke in a simple lilting voice, exactly as if he were reciting the words to a song. His smile assured her that everything was fine. In the car Ellie turned up the volume on his radio and did not bother to look around at them.

�Ellie can sit in the back seat,� Arnold Friend said. He indicated his friend with a casual jerk of his chin, as if Ellie did not count and she should not bother with him.

�How�d you find out all that stuff?� Connie said.

�Listen: Betty Schultz and Tony Fitch and Jimmy Pettinger and Nancy Pettinger,� he said in a chant. �Raymond Stanley and Bob Hutter��

�Do you know all those kids?�

�I know everybody.�

�Look, you�re kidding. You�re not from around here.�

�Sure.�

�But � how come we never saw you before?�

�Sure you saw me before,� he said. He looked down at his boots, as if he were a little offended. �You just don�t remember.�

�I guess I�d remember you,� Connie said.

�Yeah?� He looked up at this, beaming. He was pleased. He began to mark time with the music from Ellie�s radio, tapping his fists lightly together. Connie looked away from his smile to the car, which was painted so bright it almost hurt her eyes to look at it. She looked at that name, ARNOLD FRIEND. And up at the front fender was an expression that was familiar � MAN THE FLYING SAUCERS. It was an expression kids had used the year before but didn�t use this year. She looked at it for a while as if the words meant something to her that she did not yet know.

�What�re you thinking about? Huh?� Arnold Friend demanded. �Not worried about your hair blowing around in the car, are you?�

�No.�

�Think I maybe can�t drive good?�

�How do I know?�

�You�re a hard girl to handle. How come?� he said. �Don�t you know I�m your friend? Didn�t you see me put my sign in the air when you walked by?�

�What sign?�

�My sign.� And he drew an X in the air, leaning out toward her. They were maybe ten feet apart. After his hand fell back to his side the X was still in the air, almost visible. Connie let the screen door close and stood perfectly still inside it, listening to the music from her radio and the boy�s blend together. She stared at Arnold Friend. He stood there so stiffly relaxed, pretending to be relaxed, with one hand idly on the door handle as if he were keeping himself up that way and had no intention of ever moving again. She recognized most things about him, the tight jeans that showed his thighs and buttocks and the greasy leather boots and the tight shirt, and even that slippery friendly smile of his, that sleepy dreamy smile that all the boys used to get across ideas they didn�t want to put into words. She recognized all this and also the singsong way he talked, slightly mocking, kidding, but serious and a little melancholy, and she recognized the way he tapped one fist against the other in homage to the perpetual music behind him. But all these things did not come together.

She said suddenly, �Hey, how old are you?�

His smile faded. She could see then that he wasn�t a kid, he was much older � thirty, maybe more. At this knowledge her heart began to pound faster.

�That�s a crazy thing to ask. Can�tcha see I�m your own age?�

�Like hell you are.�

�Or maybe a coupla years older. I�m eighteen.�

�Eighteen?� she said doubtfully.

He grinned to reassure her and lines appeared at the corners of his mouth. His teeth were big and white. He grinned so broadly his eyes became slits and she saw how thick the lashes were, thick and black as if painted with a black tarlike material. Then, abruptly, he seemed to become embarrassed and looked over his shoulder at Ellie. �Him, he�s crazy,� he said. �Ain�t he a riot? He�s a nut, a real character.� Ellie was still listening to the music. His sunglasses told nothing about what he was thinking. He wore a bright orange shirt unbuttoned halfway to show his chest, which was a pale, bluish chest and not muscular like Arnold Friend�s. His shirt collar was turned up all around and the very tips of the collar pointed out past his chin as if they were protecting him. He was pressing the transistor radio up against his ear and sat there in a kind of daze, right in the sun.

�He�s kinda strange,� Connie said.

�Hey, she says you�re kinda strange! Kinda strange!� Arnold Friend cried. He pounded on the car to get Ellie�s attention. Ellie turned for the first time and Connie saw with shock that he wasn�t a kid either � he had a fair, hairless face, cheeks reddened slightly as if the veins grew too close to the surface of his skin, the face of a forty-year-old baby. Connie felt a wave of dizziness rise in her at this sight and she stared at him as if waiting for something to change the shock of the moment, make it all right again. Ellie�s lips kept shaping words, mumbling along with the words blasting in his ear.

�Maybe you two better go away,� Connie said faintly.

�What? How come?� Arnold Friend cried. �We come out here to take you for a ride. It�s Sunday.� He had the voice of the man on the radio now. It was the same voice, Connie thought. �Don�tcha know it�s Sunday all day? And honey, no matter who you were with last night, today you�re with Arnold Friend and don�t you forget it! Maybe you better step out here,� he said, and this last was in a different voice. It was a little flatter, as if the heat was finally getting to him.

�No. I got things to do.�

�Hey.�

�You two better leave.�

�We ain�t leaving until you come with us.�

�Like hell I am��

�Connie, don�t fool around with me. I mean � I mean, don�t fool around,� he said, shaking his head. He laughed incredulously. He placed his sunglasses on top of his head, carefully, as if he were indeed wearing a wig, and brought the stems down behind his ears. Connie stared at him, another wave of dizziness and fear rising in her so that for a moment he wasn�t even in focus but was just a blur standing there against his gold car, and she had the idea that he had driven up the driveway all right but had come from nowhere before that and belonged nowhere and that everything about him and even about the music that was so familiar to her was only half real.

�If my father comes and sees you��

�He ain�t coming. He�s at a barbecue.�

�How do you know that?�

�Aunt Tillie�s. Right now they�re � uh � they�re drinking. Sitting around,� he said vaguely, squinting as if he were staring all the way to town and over to Aunt Tillie�s backyard. Then the vision seemed to get clear and he nodded energetically. �Yeah. Sitting around. There�s your sister in a blue dress, huh? And high heels, the poor sad bitch � nothing like you, sweetheart! And your mother�s helping some fat woman with the corn, they�re cleaning the corn � husking the corn��

�What fat woman?� Connie cried.

�How do I know what fat woman, I don�t know every goddamn fat woman in the world!� Arnold Friend laughed.

�Oh, that�s Mrs. Hornsby... Who invited her?� Connie said. She felt a little lightheaded. Her breath was coming quickly.

�She�s too fat. I don�t like them fat. I like them the way you are, honey,� he said, smiling sleepily at her. They stared at each other for a while through the screen door. He said softly, �Now, what you�re going to do is this: you�re going to come out that door. You�re going to sit up front with me and Ellie�s going to sit in the back, the hell with Ellie, right? This isn�t Ellie�s date. You�re my date. I�m your lover, honey.�

�What? You�re crazy��

�Yes, I�m your lover. You don�t know what that is but you will,� he said. �I know that too. I know all about you. But look: it�s real nice and you couldn�t ask for nobody better than me, or more polite. I always keep my word. I�ll tell you how it is, I�m always nice at first, the first time. I�ll hold you so tight you won�t think you have to try to get away or pretend anything because you�ll know you can�t. And I�ll come inside you where it�s all secret and you�ll give in to me and you�ll love me��

�Shut up! You�re crazy!� Connie said. She backed away from the door. She put her hands up against her ears as if she�d heard something terrible, something not meant for her. �People don�t talk like that, you�re crazy,� she muttered. Her heart was almost too big now for her chest and its pumping made sweat break out all over her. She looked out to see Arnold Friend pause and then take a step toward the porch, lurching. He almost fell. But, like a clever drunken man, he managed to catch his balance. He wobbled in his high boots and grabbed hold of one of the porch posts.

�Honey?� he said. �You still listening?�

�Get the hell out of here!�

�Be nice, honey. Listen.�

�I�m going to call the police��

He wobbled again and out of the side of his mouth came a fast spat curse, an aside not meant for her to hear. But even this �Christ!� sounded forced. Then he began to smile again. She watched this smile come, awkward as if he were smiling from inside a mask. His whole face was a mask, she thought wildly, tanned down to his throat but then running out as if he had plastered make-up on his face but had forgotten about his throat.

�Honey�? Listen, here�s how it is. I always tell the truth and I promise you this: I ain�t coming in that house after you.�

�You better not! I�m going to call the police if you � if you don�t��

�Honey,� he said, talking right through her voice, �honey, I�m not coming in there but you are coming out here. You know why?�

She was panting. The kitchen looked like a place she had never seen before, some room she had run inside but that wasn�t good enough, wasn�t going to help her. The kitchen window had never had a curtain, after three years, and there were dishes in the sink for her to do � probably � and if you ran your hand across the table you�d probably feel something sticky there.

�You listening, honey? Hey?�

��going to call the police��

�Soon as you touch the phone I don�t need to keep my promise and can come inside. You won�t want that.�

She rushed forward and tried to lock the door. Her fingers were shaking. �But why lock it,� Arnold Friend said gently, talking right into her face. �It�s just a screen door. It�s just nothing.� One of his boots was at a strange angle, as if his foot wasn�t in it. It pointed out to the left, bent at the ankle. �I mean, anybody can break through a screen door and glass and wood and iron or anything else if he needs to, anybody at all, and specially Arnold Friend. If the place got lit up with a fire, honey, you�d come runnin� out into my arms, right into my arms an� safe at home � like you knew I was your lover and�d stopped fooling around. I don�t mind a nice shy girl but I don�t like no fooling around.� Part of those words were spoken with a slight rhythmic lilt, and Connie somehow recognized them � the echo of a song from last year, about a girl rushing into her boyfriend�s arms and coming home again�

Connie stood barefoot on the linoleum floor, staring at him. �What do you want?� she whispered.

�I want you,� he said.

�What?�

�Seen you that night and thought, that�s the one, yes sir. I never needed to look anymore.�

�But my father�s coming back. He�s coming to get me. I had to wash my hair first�� She spoke in a dry, rapid voice, hardly raising it for him to hear.

�No, your daddy is not coming and yes, you had to wash your hair and you washed it for me. It�s nice and shining and all for me. I thank you sweetheart,� he said with a mock bow, but again he almost lost his balance. He had to bend and adjust his boots. Evidently his feet did not go all the way down; the boots must have been stuffed with something so that he would seem taller. Connie stared out at him and behind him at Ellie in the car, who seemed to be looking off toward Connie�s right, into nothing. This Ellie said, pulling the words out of the air one after another as if he were just discovering them, �You want me to pull out the phone?�

�Shut your mouth and keep it shut,� Arnold Friend said, his face red from bending over or maybe from embarrassment because Connie had seen his boots. �This ain�t none of your business.�

�What � what are you doing? What do you want?� Connie said. �If I call the police they�ll get you, they�ll arrest you��

�Promise was not to come in unless you touch that phone, and I�ll keep that promise,� he said. He resumed his erect position and tried to force his shoulders back. He sounded like a hero in a movie, declaring something important. But he spoke too loudly and it was as if he were speaking to someone behind Connie. �I ain�t made plans for coming in that house where I don�t belong but just for you to come out to me, the way you should. Don�t you know who I am?�

�You�re crazy,� she whispered. She backed away from the door but did not want to go into another part of the house, as if this would give him permission to come through the door. �What do you... you�re crazy, you...�

�Huh? What�re you saying, honey?�

Her eyes darted everywhere in the kitchen. She could not remember what it was, this room.

�This is how it is, honey: you come out and we�ll drive away, have a nice ride. But if you don�t come out we�re gonna wait till your people come home and then they�re all going to get it.�

�You want that telephone pulled out?� Ellie said. He held the radio away from his ear and grimaced, as if without the radio the air was too much for him.

�I toldja shut up, Ellie,� Arnold Friend said, �you�re deaf, get a hearing aid, right? Fix yourself up. This little girl�s no trouble and�s gonna be nice to me, so Ellie keep to yourself, this ain�t your date � right? Don�t hem in on me, don�t hog, don�t crush, don�t bird dog, don�t trail me,� he said in a rapid, meaningless voice, as if he were running through all the expressions he�d learned but was no longer sure which of them was in style, then rushing on to new ones, making them up with his eyes closed. �Don�t crawl under my fence, don�t squeeze in my chipmunk hole, don�t sniff my glue, suck my popsicle, keep your own greasy fingers on yourself!� He shaded his eyes and peered in at Connie, who was backed against the kitchen table. �Don�t mind him, honey, he�s just a creep. He�s a dope. Right? I�m the boy for you and like I said, you come out here nice like a lady and give me your hand, and nobody else gets hurt, I mean, your nice old bald-headed daddy and your mummy and your sister in her high heels. Because listen: why bring them in this?�

�Leave me alone,� Connie whispered.

�Hey, you know that old woman down the road, the one with the chickens and stuff � you know her?�

�She�s dead!�

�Dead? What? You know her?� Arnold Friend said.

�She�s dead��

�Don�t you like her?�

�She�s dead � she�s � she isn�t here anymore��

�But don�t you like her, I mean, you got something against her? Some grudge or something?� Then his voice dipped as if he were conscious of a rudeness. He touched the sunglasses perched up on top of his head as if to make sure they were still there. �Now, you be a good girl.�

�What are you going to do?�

�Just two things, or maybe three,� Arnold Friend said. �But I promise it won�t last long and you�ll like me the way you get to like people you�re close to. You will. It�s all over for you here, so come on out. You don�t want your people in any trouble, do you?�

She turned and bumped against a chair or something, hurting her leg, but she ran into the back room and picked up the telephone. Something roared in her ear, a tiny roaring, and she was so sick with fear that she could do nothing but listen to it � the telephone was clammy and very heavy and her fingers groped down to the dial but were too weak to touch it. She began to scream into the phone, into the roaring. She cried out, she cried for her mother, she felt her breath start jerking back and forth in her lungs as if it were something Arnold Friend was stabbing her with again and again with no tenderness. A noisy sorrowful wailing rose all about her and she was locked inside it the way she was locked inside this house.

After a while she could hear again. She was sitting on the floor with her wet back against the wall.

Arnold Friend was saying from the door, �That�s a good girl. Put the phone back.�

She kicked the phone away from her.

�No, honey. Pick it up. Put it back right.�

She picked it up and put it back. The dial tone stopped.

�That�s a good girl. Now, you come outside.�

She was hollow with what had been fear but what was now just an emptiness. All that screaming had blasted it out of her. She sat, one leg cramped under her, and deep inside her brain was something like a pinpoint of light that kept going and would not let her relax. She thought, I�m not going to see my mother again. She thought, I�m not going to sleep in my bed again. Her bright green blouse was all wet.

Arnold Friend said, in a gentle-loud voice that was like a stage voice, �The place where you came from ain�t there anymore, and where you had in mind to go is cancelled out. This place you are now � inside your daddy�s house � is nothing but a cardboard box I can knock down any time. You know that and always did know it. You hear me?�

She thought, I have got to think. I have got to know what to do.

�We�ll go out to a nice field, out in the country here where it smells so nice and it�s sunny,� Arnold Friend said. �I�ll have my arms tight around you so you won�t need to try to get away and I�ll show you what love is like, what it does. The hell with this house! It looks solid all right,� he said. He ran a fingernail down the screen and the noise did not make Connie shiver, as it would have the day before. �Now, put your hand on your heart, honey. Feel that? That feels solid too but we know better. Be nice to me, be sweet like you can because what else is there for a girl like you but to be sweet and pretty and give in?�� and get away before her people come back?�

She felt her pounding heart. Her hand seemed to enclose it. She thought for the first time in her life that it was nothing that was hers, that belonged to her, but just a pounding, living thing inside this body that wasn�t really hers either.

�You don�t want them to get hurt,� Arnold Friend went on. �Now, get up, honey. Get up all by yourself.�

She stood.

�Now, turn this way. That�s right. Come over here to me � Ellie, put that away, didn�t I tell you? You dope. You miserable creepy dope,� Arnold Friend said. His words were not angry but only part of an incantation. The incantation was kindly. �Now, come out through the kitchen to me, honey, and let�s see a smile, try it, you�re a brave, sweet little girl and now they�re eating corn and hot dogs cooked to bursting over an outdoor fire, and they don�t know one thing about you and never did and honey, you�re better than them because not a one of them would have done this for you.�

Connie felt the linoleum under her feet; it was cool. She brushed her hair back out of her eyes. Arnold Friend let go of the post tentatively and opened his arms for her, his elbows pointing in toward each other and his wrists limp, to show that this was an embarrassed embrace and a little mocking, he didn�t want to make her self-conscious.

She put out her hand against the screen. She watched herself push the door slowly open as if she were back safe somewhere in the other doorway, watching this body and this head of long hair moving out into the sunlight where Arnold Friend waited.

�My sweet little blue-eyed girl,� he said in a half-sung sigh that had nothing to do with her brown eyes but was taken up just the same by the vast sunlit reaches of the land behind him and on all sides of him � so much land that Connie had never seen before and did not recognize except to know that she was going to it.

Original publication:Black Mask, October 1940, as by William Irish; first published in book form in The Pocket Mystery Reader edited by Lee Wright (New York, Pocket Books, 1942). Note: The story was retitled �Cocaine� for its first book publication.

I knew what it was like to wake up after being drunk the night before � everyone does, I guess � but that wasn�t in it compared to what this was like. This had all the same symptoms of the other, and then some new ones of its own. My mouth felt just as dry and my head felt just as heavy and my stomach felt just as bad. And then in addition, my eyes wouldn�t focus right; everything I looked at seemed to have rings around it; and my hands were cold and clammy, and my teeth were on edge, as though I�d been chewing lemons. But worse than anything else was the mental conditioning it had left behind it; I was afraid. I was as afraid as a seven-year-old kid in an old dark house. And when you�re afraid at one o�clock of a blazing bright afternoon, mister, you�re afraid.

And at that, the after-effects were nothing compared to what the symptoms had been like the night before, while I was still under it. I grabbed my eyes tight to shut out the recollection, and if I�d had an extra pair of hands I�d have stopped up my ears with them at the same time. But the images were inside, in my memory, where I couldn�t get at them. Blurred, but there.

He was a fellow I�d known slightly � so slightly that I didn�t even know his last name; just Joe. Joe said, �Aw, you need cheering up. Come on with me, I�m going somewhere that�ll cheer you up.� And then, probably an hour later, the parting hand on my shoulder. �Take it easy, be seeing you around, I�m blowing now.�

I remembered saying, �Well, just a sec, I�ll go with you; I came here with you after all.�

I remember the knowing wink he�d given me. �Naw, you better hang around awhile; I�m taking that girl in green home. You know how it is, two�s company�� Exit Joe, whoever he was.

So I stayed on there, like a fool, in a strange place with strangers.

The rest of it came crowding back on me, all mixed up like what they call montage in the movies. The man with the white scar on his jaw. I kept seeing that white scar, hearing disconnected things he�d said. �Just enough to cover your thumbnail. Always remember that and you can never go wrong; just enough to cover your thumbnail. Then you bring it up the long way, like you were going to wipe your nose.�... �Nice-looking place, isn�t it? You want it, you can have it. Listen, I�d give away anything tonight. Make yourself at home, I�ll be right back.�... �What�d you do, have some trouble in here while I was gone? Look at that, look at the blood all over your shirt!�... �No, you can�t get out that way! That�s a dead window, you fool! Can�t you see by looking at it? It�s nailed-down fast, it�s painted over. They built a house right up next to this, and the brick work sealed it up.�... �Aw, that�s nothing; you want that to go away? I�ll show you how to make that go away. Now hold steady. Just enough to cover your thumbnail. Watch and see how that makes it go away.�... �Don�t get excited, I�m not going anywhere. Just wait here for me, I�ll be right back��...

And then it got worse and worse. At the end it was almost a frenzy, a delirium. Of fear and flight and pursuit. The very walls had seemed to whisper. �Look at him, sitting there waiting! They�ll get him, they�ll get him!� They seemed to sing, too. Music kept oozing out of them. Ghost-music. I could hear it so plain, I could even recognize some of the tunes, I could even remember them now! Alice Blue Gown, Out on a Limb, Oh, Johnny, Woodpecker Song. Those were some of the things my crazed, inflamed brain had distinctly heard those moaning, sobbing walls emit. And then the climactic madness, the straining, tugging trip to the closet along the floor; the frantic closing of the door; the locking of it, on what it held; the secreting of the key in my pocket; the piling-up and barricading of it with a table, a chair, anything and everything I could lay my hands on. Then flight, through the labyrinth of the city, hiding in doorways, sidling around corners, hugging the shadows. Flight that went on forever. From � where? To � where? Then kindly oblivion at last.

All of it a junk-dream, of course. But needles of cold sweat came out on my forehead even now, it was still so vivid, so haunting.

I didn�t know what to do for a hangover of this kind. But I figured water, lots of cold water inside and out, was good for almost anything under the sun, so it ought to be good for this too. At least it couldn�t hurt it any.

I staggered rubber-kneed into the bathroom and filled the washbowl up, and sloshed it into my eyes, and ducked my whole face in it, and strewed it across the back of my neck. After I got through doing that I felt a little better. Not a lot, though.

I went back to my room and combed my soaked hair and started to get dressed. If I�d had a job I would have been out of it by now, I�d overslept so long. But I didn�t have one anyway, so it didn�t make any difference.

Just after I�d got my shoes and trousers on, Mildred knocked on the door. She�d heard me moving around, I guess. I told her to come in. I was ashamed to look at her, but only I knew the real reason why, she didn�t. She looked in and said, �Hello, Tommy. I guess you had a drink or two too many last night.�

I thought, �I only wish it was that!� I was sorrier than ever the thing had happened.

�I understand how it is, it helps to take your mind off your troubles once in awhile.� Then she rested a hand on my arm for a minute, to show she didn�t mean it for criticism. �But don�t do too much of it, Tommy. It doesn�t make it any easier to get a job. I�ll fix you some coffee, that�ll brace you up.�

She was my older sister. She was swell. I was not only living with her, but she�d even been keeping me in pocket money since I�d been out of a job. She went out again, and I went ahead with my dressing.

First I was going to put on a clean shirt, but I thought I better not be too extravagant while I was out of work, so I decided I�d stick to the old one a day more. The way it was folded or rumpled must have hidden the stain. I only saw it after I had the shirt on, and tucked into my belt, and was buttoning it down in front of the glass. It was brown, a sort of splashy stain in front.

I stared at it in a sort of paralyzed horror. I don�t think I moved for about two minutes flat. Finally I touched it, and where it was brown it was stiff. Good and stiff. �What�d you do, have some trouble in here? Look at the blood all over your shirt!� It rang in my ears again. So that part of it was real at least, it hadn�t been just a snow-mirage.

All right, it was real. But it had to come from somewhere. It didn�t just appear from nowhere, like a miraculous stigmata. I pulled it up out of my belt, and hoisted my undershirt, and scanned my body, all around the lower ribs. There wasn�t a scratch on me anywhere. I looked higher up, on my chest. I even rolled up my sleeves and looked at both arms. There wasn�t a nick anywhere on my skin. And whatever had bled that much must have been a pretty good-sized gash.

So it had come from someone else.

I finished dressing. I kept talking it into myself that it meant nothing. �Somebody you were with cut himself on something. You don�t remember it, that�s all. How�d it get on me, then? Well, maybe you were lurching around. You leaned up against someone, or someone did against you. You better quit thinking about it. You want to hang onto your self-control, don�t you? Then quit thinking about it.�

Which was a lot easier said than done, but I finished up my dressing, put on my coat. The last stage of all was what everyone�s last stage usually is. To put my change, matches, keys, whatever loose accessories there were, back into my pockets where they belonged. Even in last night�s befogged condition, habit had been strong enough to assert itself. The stuff was dumped out on top of the bureau, the way I always found it every morning. I started collecting it item by item, dropping each category into the particular pocket where it belonged. Three nickels and a dime. (I�d started out with thirty-five cents last night, I distinctly remembered that, so I must have spent a dime sometime during the course of the night; I couldn�t remember doing it.) A withered package that contained one last cigarette � broken into two sections from pocket-pressure. I put one into my mouth, threw the other away. And last of all, my keys; one that Mildred and Denny had given me to the apartment here, and the other a little jigger that opened my valise.

This time I didn�t stand staring in frozen horror. The half-cigarette fell from my relaxed lips to the floor, and I lurched forward, steadied myself by gripping the front edge of the bureau. I stayed that way, sort of hunched-over, goggling down at it. There was one key too many there. There were three keys staring me in the face, and up to last night I had only had two. There was a strange key there mixed-up with my own two now, a key that didn�t belong to me, a key I�d never seen before. Or at least, only in a � snow-flurry.

It wasn�t one of these modern, brass, safety lock keys, it was an old-fashioned iron thing, dun-colored, with an elongated stem and two teeth at the end of it shaped like a buzzsaw. The kind of a key used in an old-fashioned house, that has old-fashioned rooms with old-fashioned doors.

It was an interior key. I mean, you could see it wasn�t for an outside door, a street door, but for some door on the inside of a house � a room door or a closet door.

That gave me a shot in the arm, that last word. I straightened up from my leap-frog position and did things around the room fast. First I gave it the benefit of the doubt � although I knew already as sure as I was born I�d never seen it before in my life, it didn�t belong around here. I went over to my own closet with it, to try it on that. It wouldn�t go in, because the closet�s own key was sticking out, blocking the keyhole. Then I went to my room-door with it, but there wasn�t anywhere on that to try it. It had no lock at all, it closed on a little horizontal bolt run into a hole. There wasn�t anyplace else for me to match it up with. That brass safety-lock key there was the one to the outside door.

It came from somewhere outside. Somewhere in a dope-dream.

Then the panic came on again from last night, only now it was worse, because this was broad daylight and now I was in my right senses. I swung out my valise and kicked the lid up. I didn�t have much to pack, so it didn�t take long. But everything there was to pack, I packed.

I�d gotten halfway down the short little hall with my bag in my hand when Mildred looked out at the back and saw me. She gave a little moaning protest, ran after me. �No, Tommy � what�re you doing?�

�I�ve got to go. Don�t stop me, I�ve got to get out of here.�

�No, Tommy � what is it?� She took the valise and set it down. I let her. I didn�t want to go myself, that was why I stood there undecided. But yet, I knew I couldn�t stay � now.

�I�ve got to, I tell you!�

�But why? Where? You have no money.� She took me by the arm and coaxed me into the kitchen. �At least drink a cup of coffee before you go, don�t leave like this; I just made it fresh.�

It was just a stall, she only wanted to gain time. I knew that, but I slumped into a chair anyway, and cradled my head, and leaned way over my own lap, staring down at the floor.

I heard her slip out to the phone when she thought I wasn�t noticing, but I didn�t try to interfere. I heard her saying in a guarded voice, �Denny, will you come home right away? See if you can get relieved from duty and come home right away � it�s very important.�

He was a detective. In one way, I wanted to talk to him very much. In another way, I didn�t.

I guess I must have wanted to more than I didn�t want to, because I was still sitting there when he showed up. He got there very quickly, not more than ten or fifteen minutes after she�d phoned him.

He came striding in looking worried, and shied his hat offside at the seat of a chair. He was a slow moving, even tempered guy as a rule, misleadingly genial on the surface, hard as nails inside. Mildred and I, of course, only saw him when he was off duty, we hadn�t had much chance to see the latter quality in him. I only suspected it was there, without being sure. I had him sized up for the kind of man would give you a break if you deserved one, crack down on you like granite if you didn�t.

He addressed himself to her first. �What�s the matter?�

�It�s Tommy,� she said. �He packed his things and wants to leave. You better talk to him, Denny. I�ll leave the two of you alone if you want me to.�

�No,� he said. �Come on, we�ll go in your room, Tom.� He brought the bag in with him, and he closed the door after the two of us.

He sat down on the edge of my bed and looked at me, waiting. I stayed up. Nothing came, so finally he said patiently, �What�s the matter, kid?�

I gave it to him right away. What was the good of paying it out slow? I said, �Last night I think I killed a man.�

He churned that around in his mind for a minute, without taking his eyes off me. Then he said, �You think? Listen, that�s a thing you usually can be pretty certain of. You either did or didn�t. Now which is it?�

�I was kind of fuzzy at the time.�

�Well who was he?�

�I don�t know.�

�Where did it happen?�

�I don�t know that either.�

�You don�t know where or who or if�� He gave me a half-rebuking, half-whimsical look. �I don�t get it, Tom. You don�t look yourself today. You look a little funny. And you sure sound a whole lot that way.�

�Yes, that�s it,� I said bitterly. �I better start from the first and try to tell you as much as I can.�

�You better,� he agreed drily.

�There won�t be very much. At 11:30 last night I was standing on a corner waiting to cross with the light, when a guy I knew by sight happened along. I don�t know who he is or where I knew him from; just that I�d seen his face someplace before, fellow named Joe. I told him I was down in the dumps and he said I needed cheering up. He asked me to come with him and like a sap I went.

�I can remember that much clearly. He took me to some apartment where there was a big party going on. I don�t even know just where that was � down on one of the side streets off Kent Boulevard somewhere. I didn�t know anyone there, and I can�t remember that he bothered introducing me. They seemed a sort of free-and-easy bunch, no questions asked; it was almost like open house, new people kept showing up all the time and old ones leaving. He left, and when I tried to go with him, he gave me some excuse and shoved off alone, leaving me there.

�From then on it gets all woozy. It was late and there were fewer people left. The lights got dimmer and the place got quieter, people talking in whispers. There was some guy with a white scar along his jaw. I remember he seemed to be watching me for a long while. Finally he came over and offered me something��

This was the part that was hardest to tell him, but I had to if he was to make any sense out of it.

�Offered you what?� he said when I stopped.

�I thought it was a headache powder first. He told me to stick my thumb out, and he sifted it onto the nail, from a little paper.�

He just asked the question with his eyes this time. I looked down at the floor. �Coke,� I murmured half-audibly.

�You damn fool,� he said bitterly. �You ought to have your head examined!�

�I was feeling low; I thought if it would make me forget my troubles for even half an hour it would be worth it. You don�t know what it�s like to be without a job for weeks and months, to mooch off your relatives��

�Well, get drunk then, if you have to,� he said scathingly. �Get so pie-eyed you fall down flat on your face; I�ll pay your liquor bill myself! But if you ever go for that stuff again, I�ll break your jaw!�

Again was good. There didn�t have to be a next time, all the damage had been done the first time. I finished up the rest of it. It came easier once I�d gotten past that point. ��and I piled stuff up in front of it, and I beat it out of there, and I don�t remember getting home.�

He hinged his palm up and down on his knee once or twice before he said anything. �Well, whaddya expect if you go monkeying around like that,� he growled finally, �to dream of honeysuckle and roses? It�s a wonder you didn�t imagine you stuffed six dead guys into a closet instead of just one.�

�But do you think that�s what got me rattled?� I expostulated. I held my head tight between both hands. �I found the key on the bureau when I got dressed a little while ago! And his blood on my shirt!� I hauled it out and waved it at him. I pitched the key down and it went clunk! and bounced once and then lay still.

And his face showed me I�d made my point. He picked the key up first and turned it over and over. You could tell he wasn�t so much looking at it as thinking the whole thing over. Then he traced a fingernail back and forth across the stain once or twice. Also absent-mindedly. �A knife,� he murmured. �A bullet-wound wouldn�t have bled that much � not on you. Can you remember a knife? Can you remember holding one? Have you looked � around here?�

I shuddered. �Don�t tell me I brought that back here with me too!�

He flipped up both thumbs out of his entwined hands. �After all, you brought the key, didn�t you?�

He got up from the bed, I suppose to look for it around the room. And then he didn�t have to, it was there. His getting up unearthed it. The bedsprings he�d been pressing down twanged out, settled into place again. Something fell through to the floor with a small, soft thud as they did so. Something that had evidently been sheathed between them and the mattress all night. He picked up a scabbard of tightly folded newspaper, with a brown spot or two on it. He opened it and there it was. With one of those trick blades that spring out of the hilt. Not even cleaned off.

All he said was, �This don�t look so good, does it, Tom?�

I stared at it. �I don�t even remember slipping it under there. It isn�t mine, I never owned it, carried it�� I took a couple of crazy half-turns around the room without getting anywhere. �You haven�t told me yet what I�m going to do.�

�I�ll tell you what you�re not going to do; you�re not going to lam out. You�re going to stay right here until we find out just what this thing is.� He rewrapped the knife, this time in a large handkerchief of his own. �Here�s how it goes. There�s a possibility, and a damn good one, that there�s some guy stuffed in a closet, in some room of some house, somewhere in this city at this very minute � and that you killed him last night under the influence of cocaine. Now he�s going to be found sooner or later. From one hour to the next he�s going to be found. And we�ve got to find him first, do you get that? We�ve got to know ahead of time, before it breaks, whether you did kill him or not.� He stepped up and grabbed me hard by the shoulder. �Now if you did, you�re going to take the knock for it, I�m telling you that here and now. That�s the way I play. But if you didn�t�� he opened his hand and let my shoulder go; �we�ve got to get to him first, otherwise I�ll never be able to clear you.�

�I think I did, Denny,� I breathed low. �I think I did � but I�m not sure.�

�That�s a chance we�ll have to take. And I�m pulling for you; for Mildred�s sake, and yours � and even my own. I don�t exactly hate you, you know.�

�Thanks, Denny.� I gripped hands with him for a minute. �If it turns out it was me, I�m game, I�m willing to��

But he had no more time for loving-cups. He was on a case now. He took out an envelope and a pencil stub so worn down that the lead-point practically started right out of the eraser. He sat down, turned over one foot, and began to use the side of his shoe for a writing-board. He used the back of the envelope to jot on.

�What are you doing?� I asked, half-terrified in spite of myself by these preliminaries to police activity, even though they were still confined to my own bedroom.

�I always plot out my line of investigation ahead of time.� He showed me what he�d written.

�See the idea? One leads into the other consecutively. Interlocking steps. It�ll save a lot of time and energy. �Joe� gives us the party-flat, the party-flat gives us the man with the scar, the man with the scar gives us the room with the singing walls. That gives us a closet with a dead man in it you either did or did not kill. A lot of dicks I know would try to jump straight from the starting point to the closet with the body in it. And land exactly in the middle of nowhere. My way may seem more roundabout, but it�s really the surer and quicker way.�

He put the envelope away. �Now we disregard everything else and concentrate on �Joe� first. Until we�ve isolated �Joe,� none of the other factors exist for us. Now sit down a minute and just think about �Joe,� to the exclusion of everything else. His whole connection with it occurred before you were stupefied by that damnable stuff, so it shouldn�t be as hard as what comes later.�

It shouldn�t, but it was.

�You absolutely can�t place him, don�t know where you had seen him before?�

�Absolutely not.�

�Let me see if I can�t build him up for myself, then. What�d he talk about on the way over to this place? You didn�t just walk side by side in stony silence.�

�No.�

�Well gimme some of that. Maybe I can get a line on him from that.�

I dredged my mind futilely. Disconnected snatches were all that would come back, it hadn�t been an important conversation.

�He said, �Aw, don�t think you�re the only one has troubles. Look at me, I�m working but I might just as well not be. A lot I get out of it! Caged up all day, for a lousy fifteen a week.� �

�And didn�t you ask him what his job was?�

�No. He seemed to take it for granted I knew all about him, and I didn�t want to hurt his feelings by letting him see I hardly remembered him from Adam. Besides, I didn�t particularly care anyway, I had my own worries on my mind.�

�Well is that all he said the whole way over?�

�That�s all that amounted to anything. The rest were just irrelevant remarks that people make to one another strolling along the street, like �Did you see that blonde just passed?� and �Boy, there�s a car I�d like to own!� �

�Let me decide whether they were irrelevant or not,� he said impatiently. �I never throw anything away.�

�I�ve given you about all there were. Then when we got to this place, I heard him say, �Well here we are,� and he turned in. So I went in after him without particularly noticing where it was. The flat turned out to be on the second floor; it was an elevator building, but the car was in use or something. I remember him saying, �Come on, let�s take the stairs for a change,� and he headed for them without waiting, like he was in a hurry to get up there, so I followed him.�

Denny drove fingernails into his hair. �Not much there, is there? Fifteen a week. Caged up all day. We�ll have to try to figure him out from those two chance remarks. Caged up all day. Bank-teller? They get more than that.�

�I�ve never had enough money on me at one time to go near a bank.�

�Cashier maybe, in some cafeteria or lunch-wagon where you�ve been going?� He answered that himself before I had a chance to. �No, you�ve been taking your meals home with us since you�re out of work. Not a ticket seller in a movie house, they use girls for that. And you never go to stage shows, where they use men in the box office.�

�No,� I agreed.

�Caged up all day.� He kept saying it over to himself, trying to make it click. �Change booth on the transportation system maybe, on the station you used to use going to work every day?�

�No, I know both the guys on shift there, Callahan and O�Donnell.�

�Pawnbroker�s clerk, maybe. You�ve been patronizing them pretty frequently of late, haven�t you?�

�Yes, but that�s Benny, I know him real well � by now.�

�I can see where this Joe�s going to be a tough nut to crack.� He mangled the pin-feathers at the back of his head, where the part ended. �It might have been just an idle expression, it don�t have to mean he�s actually in a cage, literally behind some sort of bars or wicket. But it�s the only lead you�ve given me on him so far, and I�m blamed if I�m going to pass it up! Are you sure you can�t dog me up something else, Tommy?�

I couldn�t have if my life depended on it. Well, it did in a way, and even so I couldn�t. I just eyed him helplessly.

He got tough. Tough with himself, I mean. I guess he always did, when something showed signs of getting the better of him. �Well, I�m gonna get it if I sit here in this room until cobwebs form all over me!� he snarled.

He raised his head alertly after a moment. �How�d they act at the door? What�d they say to him at the door?�

�Nothing. He thumped it, and I guess it was opened by whoever happened to be standing closest to it, a visitor there himself, just like we were. He didn�t say a word to us, and we didn�t say a word to him, just made our way in.�

�Pretty free and easy,� he grunted. He gnawed at it some more, like a dog with a bone. �You say he was kind of in a hurry to get up there?�

�No, not on the street he didn�t seem to be. We just ambled along, the two of us. He took plenty of time. He stopped and looked at some shirts in a window. Then another time he went in a minute and bought a pack of cigarettes.�

�But you said��

�That was after we got in the entrance. Like I said, the elevator was in use, or at least on its way down to us. I remember the little red light over the shaft was lit up, and the indicator showed it was already down past the second floor. It would only have taken a minute more for it to reach us. But he didn�t seem to want to bother waiting, he said, �Come on, we�ll take the stairs for a change�� �

�That don�t make sense. On the street he�s not in a hurry, once in the building he�s in too much of a sweat to wait. Either a person�s in a hurry to get someplace the whole time, or not at all.�

Suddenly he uncoiled so suddenly I got kind of a fright myself and jumped back from him. �I�ve got it!� he said. �I got something out of that! See, I told you it never pays to throw away anything.� He stabbed his finger at me accusingly. �Your unknown friend �Joe� is an elevator operator! I�m sure of it. Fifteen a week would be right for that. And he wasn�t in a hurry when he took the stairs inside that building! He was just sick of riding in elevators, glad for an excuse to walk up for a change.�

He looked at me hopefully, waiting for my reaction. �Well, does it do anything to you, does it mean anything to you, does it click? Now do you place him?� He could tell by my face. �Still don�t, eh?� He took a deep breath, settled down for some more digging. �Well, you�ve evidently ridden up and down in his car with him more than a few times, and he took that to be sufficient basis for an acquaintanceship. Some fellows are that way, without meaning any harm. Then again, some could be that way � meaning plenty of harm. Now: where have you gone more than once or twice where you�ve had occasion to use an elevator?�

I palmed my forehead hopelessly. �Gosh, I�ve been in so many office buildings all over town looking for a job, I don�t think I�ve missed being in one!�

Right away he made it seem less hopeless, at least trimmed it down. �But it would have to be a place where you were called back at least a second time, probably talked to him about it riding up to the interview. Were there any such?�

�Plenty,� I told him grimly.

�Well, here�s your part of the assignment � and take it fast, we haven�t got a hell of a lot of time, you know. You revisit every such place you can recall being at within the past few months, where you nearly got a job, had to go back two or three times. Meanwhile, I�m going to get to work on this knife, slip it in at Fingerprints as a personal, off the record favor, and see just what comes off it, how heavily it counts against you�� He took out a fountain pen, spattered a couple of drops of ink onto a piece of paper, and made an improvised ink-pad by having me stroke it with my fingertips. �Now press down hard on this clean piece, keep them steady. Homemade but effective. I�ll make the comparison myself while I�m down there, without letting anyone in on it � for the present. I�ll probably be back here before you are � I�m going to get sick-leave until we�ve broken this thing down. You call me back here at the house the minute you have any luck with this Joe. And don�t take too long, Tom; it�s almost mid-afternoon already. Any minute somebody�s liable to step up to a certain closet in a certain house, and try to open it, and do something about it when they find it�s locked��

I flitted out, on that parting warning, with a face the color of a sheet that�s had too much blueing used on it. He stopped me a minute just as I got the door open, added: �Mildred�s out of this, get that straight.�

�I should hope so,� I said almost resentfully. What did he think I was?

I could remember most of the places I�d been around to fairly recently looking for openings. I mean the ones where I�d been told to come back, and then when I had, somebody else had walked off with the job anyway. I revisited them one by one. Some of them were old-fashioned buildings with just one rickety elevator; they were easy to cover. Others were tall modern structures serviced by triple and quadruple tiers of them, and a starter posted out front to give them the buzzer. In places like that I had to stand there where I could command all the car-doors and wait until they�d all opened to reveal the operators� faces. And even then I wasn�t satisfied, I�d ask each starter: �Is there anyone named Joe working the cars here?� He might be home sick or he might be on another, later shift.

I always got: �Joe who?�

�Just Joe,� I�d have to say. �Joe Anybody.�

Once I got a Joe Marsala that way, but he turned out to be an under-sized, Latin-looking youth, not what I wanted. No sign of the vague, phantom Joe who had, voluntarily or involuntarily, led me into murder. At five to four, or nearly an hour after I�d left Denny, I finally ran out of places where I could remember having been job hunting. I knew there must have been others, so to make sure of getting them all I went back to the employment agency where I�d been registered for a time to see if a look at their files wouldn�t help my memory out. I figured they must keep a record of where they sent their applicants, even the unsuccessful ones.

I phoned Denny from there, from a little soft-drink parlor on the ground floor, all winded from excitement. �I got him! I got him! I came back here to the employment agency to get a record of more places where I was sent to � and he was here the whole time! He runs the car right in this building!�

�Has he seen you yet?� he asked briskly.

�No, I got a look at him first, and I figured I better tell you before I��

�Wait there where you are,� he ordered. �Don�t let him see you until I get down there.� I gave him the address and he hung up.

I kept walking back and forth on the sidewalk in front of the entrance, to make sure he didn�t give me the slip before Denny got there. He couldn�t see me from where he was, the elevator was set pretty far back in the lobby. I was plenty steamed up. Kind of frightened too. We were a step nearer to murder. A murder it looked like I�d done. A murder I was pledged to take the rap for, if it turned out I had.

Denny came fast. �In here?� he said briefly.

�Y-yeah,� I stammered. �There�s only one car and he�s running it right now.�

�Stay out here,� he said curtly, �I�ll go in and get him.� I guess he wanted to catch Joe off guard, not tip his hand by letting him see me with him right at the beginning. Then with a comprehending look at my twitching face muscles, he threw at me: �Buck up, don�t go all to pieces, too early in the game for that yet.� And went in.

They came out together in about five minutes, after he�d asked the first few preliminary questions.

It was him all right. He was in livery now, and he looked pretty white and shaky. I guess the shock of the badge hadn�t worn off yet. Denny said: �This your acquaintance?�

�Yeah,� I said. I waited to see if he�d deny it. He didn�t deny it. He turned and said to me querulously, �What�d you do, get me in wrong? I didn�t mean nothing by taking you there with me last night. What happened after I left, was there something swiped from the place?�

Which was a pretty good out for himself, I didn�t have to be a detective to recognize that. In other words, he was just an innocent link in the chain of circumstances leading to murder.

If Denny felt that way about it, he didn�t show it. He gave him a shake that started at the shoulder and went rippling down him like a shimmy. �Cut out the baby-stuff, Fraser,� he said. �Now are you going to talk while we�re waiting for the van?� Which was just to throw a scare into him; I hadn�t seen him put in a call for any van since he�d gotten here; they only used that for a group of prisoners anyway, I�d always thought.

Denny took out an envelope with his free hand and showed me the back of it. �Sorrell � 795 � Alcazar, Ap�t 2-B,� he�d pencilled on it. He�d gotten the name and location of the party-flat out of Joe. I didn�t know what more he wanted with him. It seemed he just wanted to find out whether Joe�d been in on anything or not. �How many times had you been up there before last night?�

�Only once before.�

�How�d you happen to go up there in the first place?�

�My job before this, I was deliveryman for a liquor store near there. I was sent over with a caseful one night, and they were having a big blow-out, and they invited me in. They�re that kind of people, they�re sort of goofy. They used to be in vaudeville. Now they follow the races around from track to track. Half the time they�re broke, but every once in awhile they make a big killing on some long shot, and then they go on a spree, hold sort of open house. People take advantage of them, word gets around, don�t ask me how, and before they�re through they�ve got people they don�t even know crashing in on them.�

�But how�d you happen to know there was going to be a party just last night, when you took this fellow up there with you?�

�I didn�t for sure, I just took a chance on it. If there hadn�t been anything doing, I would have gone away again. But it turned out they had a bigger mob than ever in. They didn�t even remember me from the time before, but that didn�t make no difference, they told me to make myself at home anyway. They were both kind of stewed by that time.�

�You make fifteen a week chauffering that cracker-box in there, right? How much did they charge you up there?�

�I don�t get you,� Fraser faltered. �They didn�t charge me anything, it isn�t a place where you pay admission��

Denny gave him a twist of the arm. �Come on, you knew what they were passing around up there. How were you able to afford it? Did you get yours free for steering newcomers?�

�I don�t know what you�re talking about, mister, honest I don�t,� he quavered.

�You didn�t know that was a dope-flat?� Denny slashed at him mercilessly.

Joe�s consternation was too evident to be anything but genuine. I think even Denny felt that. I thought he was going to cave in for a minute. I never saw a guy get so frightened in my life before. �Holy smoke�!� he exhaled. �I never noticed nothing like that � I saw this girl in green and I took a shine to her, and the two of us blew the place after about fifteen minutes��

Denny only asked him one more question. �Who was the guy with the white scar?�

�What guy with what white scar? I didn�t see no guy with a scar. He musta come in after I left.�

Denny took his hand off Joe�s shoulder for the first time. He tapped his notebook meaningfully. �You may be telling the truth and you may not. You better pray you were. I know where you work and I�ve got your home address, and if you�ve been stringing me along, I�ll know where to find you. Now get back in there and keep your mouth shut!�

He turned and slunk back into the building, looking back mesmerized over his shoulder at Denny the whole way.

Exit Joe.

We got in a cab. Denny said, �I think he�s telling the truth, as far as you can be sure about those things. If he isn�t, I can always pick him up fast enough. If I did now, I�d have to book him, and that would bring the whole thing out down at Headquarters.�

�How�d � how�d the knife come out?� I asked apprehensively.

�Not good for you,� he let me know grimly. �Your mitts are all over it. And there�s not a sign of anyone else on it. It must have been cleaned off good before it was handed to you. It�s going to crack down on the back of your neck like a crowbar when I finally got to turn it in.�

The cab stopped and we were around the corner from the party-flat. We got out and headed straight for the entrance, without any preliminary casing or inquiring around. We had to. It was 4:30 by now, and the deadline was still on us � only it was shortening up all the time. It was a kind of flashy looking place, the kind that people who lived by horse betting would pick to live in.

I couldn�t help shuddering as we went in the entrance. We were now only two steps away from murder. There remained the man with the scar and the room with the musical walls. Getting closer all the time.

We didn�t have any trouble getting in. They seemed to expect anyone at any time of the day, and made no bones about opening up. An overripe blonde in a fluffy negligee, eyes still slitted from sleep and last night�s rouge still on her face, was standing waiting for us at the door when we got out of the self-service car. She was shoddy and cheap, yes, but there was something good natured and likeable about her at that, even at first sight.

�I never know who to expect any more,� she greeted us cheerfully. �Somebody parked their gum on the announcer a few weeks ago, and you can�t hear anything through it ever since, so I just take pot-luck��

Denny flashed her the badge. She showed a peculiar sort of dismay at sight of it. It was dismay all right, but a resigned, fatalistic kind. She let her hands hang limply down like empty gloves. �Oh, I knew something like this was going to happen sooner or later!� she lamented. �I been telling Ed over and over we gotta cut out giving those parties and letting just anyone at all in. I already lost a valuable fur-piece that way last year��

�Okay if we come in and talk to you?� He had to ask that, I guess, because he had no search warrant.

She stood back readily enough to let us through. The place was a wreck, they hadn�t gotten around to cleaning it up yet after the night before. �Is it pretty serious?� she asked nervously. �Who told you about us?�

Denny was trying to trap her, I could see. �Your friend with the scar on his jaw, know who I mean?�

She didn�t know, and she seemed on the level about it, just as on the level as Joe Fraser had been about not knowing there was dope peddled up here. �I can�t place anyone with a scar on his jaw�� She poised a finged at the corner of her mouth and looked around at various angles in search of inspiration.

�Are you denying there was a guy with a scar on his jaw up here last night?� Denny said truculently. He had my word for that, and I was sure of that part of it, if nothing else.

�No, there could have been ten guys with scars. All I�m saying is if there was I didn�t see him. The excitement was a little too much for me, and I retired about midnight.� She meant she�d passed out, I guess. �He may have come in after that. You�d better ask my husband.�

She went through the next room and spoke into the one beyond, we could hear her plainly where we were. He was asleep, I guess, and she had to talk loud; at least no attempt was made at off-stage prompting. �Ed, we�re in trouble. You better come out here and answer this man�s questions.�

Ed came out after her looking like a scarecrow in a dressing-gown. Interest in the races had kept him thin around the middle, if it hadn�t prevented his hair from falling out. Denny woke him up with the same question he�d just given her.

�No, I didn�t notice anyone with a scar here last night. He might have been here and just happened to have that side of his face turned away from me each time I got a look at him. But even so, he wasn�t anyone I know personally. I don�t know anyone with a scar.�

�Some guy got in here, and you not only didn�t know him but didn�t even see him the whole time he was in your place. What kind of people are you anyway?�

�Well, that�s the way we live, mister. We may be careless but we have a helluva good time.�

Denny scanned him for several uncomfortable minutes. Suddenly he said, �Mind if I look around?�

�N-no, go ahead.� They were both frightened, but in the vague way of people that don�t know what to expect next. It wasn�t a fear that had a definite focus.

I didn�t get what he was after for a minute. I trailed after him, and they trailed after me. In each room he went into, he only had eyes for the closet � when there was one. Or rather, the keyhole in the closet.

There was only one that didn�t have a key sticking out of it. We got to it finally. It was painted white. It was in a little room at the back, a sort of spare room. My heart started to pick up speed. It seemed to stand out from the walls, as if it was coated with luminous paint. My eyes almost seemed to be able to pierce it, as though they were X-rays, and make out, huddled on the inside � I looked around in cold, sick fear in the split second that we all stood there grouped in the doorway. That mission type table over there, didn�t it look like the very one I had upended against the locked closet? That window, with the dark shade drawn all the way down to the bottom � �No, you can�t get out that way, that�s a dead window, blocked with bricks.� I didn�t have the nerve to step over to it and raise the shade.

Denny had tightened up too, I could see. He didn�t take out the key I�d found on my bureau. Instead he said, �D�you mind unlocking that?�

Right away they both got flustered. They both looked at each other helplessly. She said to him, �Where�d we put it this time?�

He said, �I dunno, you were the one put it away. I told you to pick the same place each time; you keep changing the place, and then we can�t find it ourselves!�

They both started looking high and low. She explained to Denny, �We call that closet The Safe. When we feel one of these parties coming on, we gather up everything valuable and shove it all in there, and lock it up till it�s over.�

Denny didn�t look convinced or relenting. I was leaning against the door-frame, I needed support.

�It�s all our own stuff,� she added placatingly.

He gave her the stony eye.

The harder they looked, the more flustered they got. I kept wondering why he didn�t take out the key he had and fit it in, why did he have to torture me this way? My chest was pounding like a dynamo. Was he in there, whoever he was? Would he topple out on us when it was opened finally? But if they�d known about it, they would have smuggled him out long ago, wouldn�t they? Or else beat it away from here themselves, not lain asleep until evening. Or suppose they hadn�t known about it themselves, still didn�t? That wouldn�t make my guilt any the less flagrant.

The Sorrell woman suddenly gave a yelp of triumph, from the direction of the bedroom, where the ever-widening search had led her. She came running in with it, holding it up between her fingers. You could hardly distinguish what it was, it was all clotted with some white substance. �I hid it in my cold-cream tin, I remember now!� she exulted. �Luckily I stopped a minute to rub a little on��

Denny wouldn�t let her get over to the keyhole with it; he took it over, inserted it himself, gave it a twist, and the door swung out. Furs, silverware, hand-luggage, everything that predatory guests might have made off with was piled up in it. But no dead bodies.

I had to sit down for a minute, I felt weak all over.

�It�s all our own stuff,� the woman said for the third or fourth time. �Did somebody tell you we had something in there didn�t belong to us?�

�No, just an idea of mine,� Denny said quietly. He handed the key back and turned away.

It was dusk when we left the Sorrell apartment. All day someone had lain murdered in a closet, and we were no nearer to knowing where. And now it was night again, the second night since it had happened. We stood down there on the street outside the place. Because we didn�t know where to go now. There was a gap. The first step had led into the second, but the second had led into a vacuum.

�Well, my way didn�t pay off,� he said glumly. �The thing�s broken in two.� He turned and looked up at the lighted windows behind us. �And I�m inclined to give the Sorrells the benefit of the doubt. I don�t think they really knew this man with the scar. I don�t think they really noticed him up there in their place last night. I don�t think they realized anyone had cocaine on him and passed some to you. I have to give them the benefit of the doubt � for the present. I can�t go after it the way I would ordinarily, have them watched, check their movements, track down as many people as I can who were at the party, in hopes of finally getting a line on him. We haven�t time. We�ll have to jump the gap blindfolded and try for the third foothold � the room with the singing walls.�

We passed a cigar store and Denny went in, stepped inside the phone booth. I figured it was to Headquarters, without his telling me so. It was. He came back, said: �Well our margin of safety still holds, they haven�t found him yet. I checked on all reported homicides, and there�s no one been turned up stabbed in a closet � as of 6:45 this evening.� He gave me a look. �But that don�t mean there�s no one in a closet still waiting to be turned up. We�ve got to hustle.�

Sure we did � but where?

�Can you remember leaving here at all?�

�No, there�s a complete blank. The next I knew was the room with the singing walls. Scarface reappeared in that sequence, so I must have left with him, he must have taken me there from here.�

�Obviously. But that don�t tell us where it is.� It was strangely topsy-turvy, this thing. Ordinarily they get the murdered remains first, have to go out and look for the murderer. In this case he had the murderer at hand from the beginning, and couldn�t find out where the remains were. Even the murderer couldn�t help him. �About those so-called singing walls. Was it a radio you heard through them? That�s the first thing occurs to me, of course.�

�No, I�m pretty sure it wasn�t. There wasn�t a scrap of human voice, of station announcement in between. If I was able to distinguish the tunes clearly enough to recognize them, I would have been able to hear the announcer too, wouldn�t I? And there�s at least a title given between numbers on any radio program.�

�You can�t remember how you got there? Not even the vaguest recollection? Whether it was on foot, or in a cab, or in a car with him, or by bus, or trolley?�

�No. Any more than I can remember how I got away afterw� Wait!� I broke off suddenly.

�What is it?� he pounced.

�I just remembered a little detail I didn�t tell you before; I wonder if it�s any good to you or not.�

�I told you I never throw anything away. Let me have it.�

�I either spent or lost ten cents sometime during the course of the night. When I met Fraser on the street, I had thirty-five cents in my pocket. I can remember standing there jingling it just before he came up to me. This morning there was only twenty-five cents on my bureau. I was out a dime. D�you think I spent it making my way home � from wherever this was?�

He liked that right away, I could see; he liked that a lot. �It could be a yardstick, to measure just how far out this place was, if nothing else. It don�t give us the direction, but it might give us the approximate distance. Can you remember making your way back at all?�

�Yeah, partly; only the opening stages, though. I remember slinking along, hugging walls and doorways, scared stiff. I don�t remember what part of town I was in, though. And then the curtain came down again, I don�t remember how I got back finally��

�What kind of coins was this thirty-five cents in, when you had it last night, can you remember that?�

�Easily, I counted it over enough times. Three nickels and two dimes. And this morning there were only the three nickels and a dime left.�

�That�s important,� he said. �The fact that the three nickels were carried over eliminates the possibility that you paid a nickel fare or a fifteen cent fare. If you paid any fare at all, you paid an exact ten cents. It�s still possible you lost the dime, of course, but we can�t let that stop us. If you spent a dime fare, that eliminates trolleys � and of course taxis. Now the bus system here runs on a mileage basis, you know that. Five cents for a certain distance, then ten, then fifteen from there on, for as far as they carry you. This missing dime seems to show you boarded an inbound bus at some point within the ten cent zone and rode in toward our place.

�D�you see what I�m driving at, so far? We�re looking for someplace, in that ten cent bus ride zone, where there�s music playing late at night, until two or three in the morning. And not a radio, either a real band or a phonograph that changes its own records by automatic control. Some roadhouse or resort or pavilion, or even just a hole-in-the-wall taproom. And then we�re looking for a room right upstairs over it, or right next door to it, with a partition wall so thin it lets this music come whispering through. There�s our problem.�

�But it seemed to me I did a lot of this running away on foot first; my starting point might have been quite a distance off from this ten cent bus zone.�

�It seemed that way. I doubt you did in your condition. Narcotics distort your time sense, for one thing. Just down the block and around a couple of corners, to you, might have seemed like an endless flight that went on for hours. Then again, of course, you may be right about it; I wasn�t on your feet. The only way we�ll find out is to put it to the proof.�

There were two bus lines that passed the immediate neighborhood our own flat was in, the Fairview line and one that went out to the municipal beach at Duck Island. The routes were parallel this far in, they only diverged further out. The double route was two blocks over from our place.

�We�ll take whichever one comes along first,� he said while we stood waiting by the stop. �It�s a toss up between the two.�

A Fairview one hove into sight first, outward-bound of course. We got on and he said, �Two ten cent fares.� Then he stood there behind the driver�s back and, company regulations to the contrary, asked, �How many stops do you make in the ten cent zone?� They ran on fixed stops.

�Only three.� He gave us the intersection names. �After that, it jumps to fifteen.�

�Well, offhand, could you mention any inns or dance joints out that way, where the music plays late?�

�Try Dixie Trixie�s, that�s just outside the city limits��

Denny cut him short. �No, I�m asking you about the ten cent zone, between Continental and Empire Road.�

�Naw, that�s a sweatshop district, I don�t think you�ll find many around there, one or two honkytonks maybe.�

�We�ll have to do our own scouting then,� Denny said to me. He led the way back to a seat. He swore bitterly under his breath, �We�ll be at it all night.�

We got out at Continental, the first ten cent stop, and he did a little surveying before we moved off the bus right-of-way. The task before us wasn�t as bad as it had threatened to be at first sight. It was no cinch by any means, but at least he was able to put physical limits to the terrain we had to finecomb. The bus stops were an even eight blocks apart. A railroad embankment walled us off six blocks to the left, and a large park with a lake in it dead-ended the streets four blocks over the other way. He divided the difference between the two bus stops, multiplied it by ten crosswise blocks, and that gave us forty square blocks to canvass for each bus stop.

Naturally, it wasn�t a question of going into every doorway of every building along those forty blocks, that would have still been pretty much of a physical impossibility. A cop on the beat here, a storekeeper there, was able to speed us through by listing the places in his immediate vicinity that provided music late at night. That way we sometimes only had to make one stop in five or six blocks. We investigated several bars which had coin phonographs, but none had all four of the selections that I�d remembered hearing in their repertoire.

We went back and boarded the bus, rode one stop ahead, and started the whole thing over. Same lack of results. The closest we got to anything in this sector was when the harness cop told us there had been a lot of complaints about a Polish family playing their phonograph late at nights with all the stops out. But they didn�t own any of the records we were looking for.

We went back, caught another bus, got out at the third and last ten cent stop, and finished the chore out. That fizzled too. We limped aboard an in-bound bus and rode back to where the Duck Island line diverged from this one. The thought of going through the same routine all over again, on a new bus route, was more than we could face without a breathing spell. We dragged ourselves into the nearest resting place we could find, which happened to be a lunch wagon, when we left the bus and just sat there slumped over the counter, too tired even to hold our backs up straight, chins nearly dunked in our coffee cups, talking it over in low voices so the counterman wouldn�t overhear us.

�Even if I wanted to take you down with me and report it � and I don�t, God knows � I couldn�t until we�ve found out where it happened. They�d have to have that. And the longer it takes and the colder it gets, the harder it�s going to be to clear you.� He looked down at the wax-white, trembling hand I�d suddenly braked on his arm. �What is it?�

�Did you hear that, just then?�

He turned and looked over at the wire-mesh loudspeaker that looked like a framed fly swatter, set on a low shelf near the coffee boiler.

�They just got through playing Alice Blue Gown and now��

He didn�t get me for a minute. �But this wagon�s in the middle of a vacant plot, you saw that when we came in. There aren�t any adjoining��

�No, no, you haven�t been paying attention to the program, I have. They got through Blue Gown a minute or two ago; now they�ve gone into Out on a Limb. Listen, hear it? That�s the same order I heard them in last night � there.�

�That�s just a coincidence. There must be six thousand bands all over the country playing those two pieces day and night the last few weeks��

�The third one�ll tell. The third one was Oh Johnny.� I could hardly wait for it to end; it never seemed to, it seemed to go on forever. I balled a fist and beat it into the hollow of my hand to hurry it up. He sat there straining his ears too; his back was held a little straighter now.

It wound up finally, there was a short pause. Then a nondescript introduction. Then the tune itself. I grabbed him with both hands this time, nearly toppled him off the tall stool he was perched on. �Oh Johnny! That�s not a coincidence any more. That�s the same sequence I heard them in last night. That�s the same band.�

�But I thought you said it wasn�t a broadcast, you heard no station announcements. This is.�

�But there are no station announcements on this either, it�s evidently a program that only makes one every five or six numbers. I still don�t think it was a broadcast; this isn�t the same hour I heard them, and they wouldn�t broadcast twice in one night. But I think it was the same band, I�m sure of it. Maybe they broadcast first, and then play in person somewhere later on��

The Woodpecker Song had started in. I turned around to tell him that, not sure if he knew tunes by ear as well as I did. But he�d had enough; the stool next to me was empty and he was already over at the pay phone on the wall. His nickel chimed in along with the opening notes. �What station you tuned at?� he called out. The counterman read the dial, gave him some hick station I�d never heard of before. He got its studio number from Information. �Who�s that you got going out over the air now?� I heard him ask them. Then, �Bobby Leonard�s Band? Find out where they work from about one to three or four every night. Hurry it up, it�s important. No, I can�t wait until they�re through broadcasting, this is police business. Write the question on a slip of paper and hand it in right where they are now.� He had to wait a minute until the answer was relayed back, evidently scribbled on the same piece of paper. �The Silver Slipper, eh, out on Brandon Drive.� He hung up, bounced a coin on the counter, and ran out. We�d both stopped being tired, like magic.

�It�s all the way over on the other side of town,� he said to me in the cab. �God only knows how you found your way back to our place. It shows you what a wonderful thing the subconscious is, even under the influence of a drug.�

We got to it in about twenty minutes, paid off the cab, and stood there sizing it up. It was mostly glass, you could look in on three sides; it had a glass roof that could be pushed back in fine weather so they could dance under the open sky. The fourth wall was solid masonry. Only a scattered couple or two were dancing. They evidently used a radio to provide the incidental music, until this Leonard and his band came over and did a lick later on.

He snapped his head around to me. �Familiar?�

I shook mine. �Not a flicker of it comes back to me.�

On the fourth side it backed against two buildings, which in turn were set back to back, each one facing a different street. We cased them both, from their respective corners. One was a trim, two story cement garage, that looked as if it had only recently been put up. The other was a sort of run-down lodging-house, with a milky lighted globe pallidly shining down over its doorway. It was the obvious choice of the two; garages don�t have closets. Nor furniture to pile up in front of them either.

We went in.

It couldn�t have been dignified by the name hotel. The �desk� was just a hinged flap across an alcove, within which sat a man in shirt-sleeves reading a paper under a light.

One good thing, there was no question of a bell-boy showing you up and looking on. You paid your fifty cents, you got a key, and you found your own way up. We didn�t want any witnesses � if it was in here.

He didn�t even bother looking up at us, just heard the double tread come in, asked: �Two-in-one or two singles?�

Denny said, �How many rooms you got here that back up against that place next door? We like to fall asleep to music.�

Even that didn�t get a rise out of him; he expected anything and everything. �One on a floor, three floors, that makes three altogether. I�ve got someone in the one on the second, though.�

So that was the one. My stomach gave a sort of half-turn to the right, and then back again.

Denny said, �D�you have to sign when you get in here?�

�You got to put down something when you pick up your key, you can�t just walk in.� Meaning a place like this didn�t expect right names and didn�t care if it got them.

�Let�s see what was signed for that one you got taken on the second.�

�What�s all this to you?� But he was still too indifferent to be properly resentful about it.

�We might know the guy.�

We did. One of them anyway. It was a double entry. The cocaine had vibrated my handwriting like an earthquake but I could still recognize it. �Tom Cochrane, 22�28 Foster Street.� For once they�d gotten a right name and a right address. It was probably the only one in the whole ledger � and it had signed for murder! The second name, also in my handwriting, was �Ben Doyle.� No address given, just a wavy line. So I�d signed on for someone else too.

We just looked at each other. Then at him. Or rather, Denny did. I was afraid to.

�Were you here when this was signed?�

This time he did get annoyed, because the question touched him personally. �Naw, I go off at twelve, don�tcha think I gotta sleep sometime too?� That explained, at least, why he didn�t recognize me. But not why it hadn�t been found out yet.

�D�you give any kind of service here? Don�t you send someone in to clean these rooms in the daytime?�

He got more annoyed than ever. �What d�ya think this is, the Ritz? When a room�s vacated, the handyman goes in and straightens up the bed. Until it is we leave it alone, for as long as it�s been paid for.� I must have paid for this one for two days in advance, double occupancy; there was the entry �$2� after the two names. But I hadn�t had two dollars on me, I�d only had thirty-five cents.

�What�s all this talk about? Do you two guys want a room or don�t you?� We did, but we wanted that second-floor room that already had �someone� in it. Denny obviously didn�t want to use his badge to force him to open it up for us, that would have meant a witness to the revelation that was bound to follow immediately afterward, and automatic police notification before he had a chance to do anything for me � if there was anything he could do.

�Give us the third-floor one,� he said, and put down a dollar bill. The mentor of the establishment hitched down a key with a ponderous enamel tag from the rows where they hung. The one immediately below was missing. The �occupant� still had it. If I�d taken it away with me, I must have lost it in the course of that mad flight through the shadows; only the closet key had turned up at our place this morning.

Denny, with unconscious humor, scrawled �Smith Bros.� in the registry (he told me later he wasn�t trying to be funny), and we started up the narrow squeaky staircase. He turned aside when we got to the second floor, motioned me to keep on climbing. �Scuffle your feet heavy to cover me, I�m going to try to force the door open with something.�

I shuffled my way up step by step, trying to sound like two of us, while I heard him faintly tinkering at the lock with some implement. I unlocked the one we�d hired on the floor above, put on the light, looked in. Yes, there was something vaguely familiar about it; this was the end of the trail, all right. The closet in this one had a key in it, had been left slightly ajar by the last occupant.

I crept back to the stairs, listened. The tinkering had stopped, he must have forced the door. A curt �Sst!� sounded, meant for me. I eased down one flight, to where I�d left him. You could make them fairly soundless if you tried hard enough.

The light from inside was shining out across the grubby passage. A half-section of his face showed past the door-frame, waiting for me; then withdrew. I made my way down there, moving slow, breathing fast.

It was the room all right. He�d already taken down the stuff that I�d barricaded the closet door with, but it was still strewn around nearby. A table, a chair, even a mattress.

He signed to me and I closed the door behind me. He gave the closet key I�d turned over to him at our flat a fatalistic flip-up in the hollow of his hand. �Here goes,� he said. I got a grip on the back of a chair and hung on tight.

He turned and fitted it into the lock. It went in like silk, it turned the lock without a hitch. It couldn�t have worked easier. It belonged here. I said a fast prayer, that was all there was time for. �Make it turn out it was somebody else did it!�

Denny�s body gave a hitch and there was no more time for praying. He�d caught it against him as it swayed out with the closet door. It must have been semi-upright behind it the whole time. I hadn�t done a good job of propping, it must have shifted over against the door instead of staying against the wall behind it; and the way the knees were buckled kept it from toppling over sideways.

He let it down to the floor, out in the room. It stayed in a cockeyed position from the way it had been jammed in. It was stiff as tree-bark. He turned it over on its back, made me come over. �Remember him? Take a good look now. Remember him?�

�Yeah,� I said dry-lipped.

�Remember him alive, that�s what I mean.�

�No, no, I only remember him lying there, only not so shrivelled�� I backed away, nearly fell over a chair.

�Pull yourself together, kid,� he said. �This is something they would have put you through anyway. It�s a lot easier just with me alone in the room with you.�

He disarranged the clothing, peered down. �Sure, a knife did it,� he nodded. �Three bad gashes; one in the stomach, one between the ribs, and one that looks like it must have grazed the heart.� He looked at the belt-buckle. �B. D.,� he murmured. �What was that name down there � Ben Doyle?� He started going through pockets. �No, he�s been cleaned out; but the name checks with those initials, all right.� He drew back a little. I saw him scanning the corpse�s upturned soles. �He did a lot of walking, didn�t he?� The bottom layer of each was worn through in a round spot the size of a silver dollar. �But the heels are new, not worn down at all. What�d he do, walk around on tiptoes?� He took something from his pocket and started to reverse a small screw that protruded like a nail-head. Then he pulled and the whole heel came off. It was hollow. Three or four folded paper packets lay within it in an orderly row. He opened one into the shape of a little paper boat. I didn�t have to be told. I�d seen that white stuff before.

�He was a peddler,� he said. �But he wasn�t the guy that contacted you at the party. Where does he come in it? I wonder if the Narcotic Squad would have heard of this guy before, can give me anything on him. I�m going to check with Headquarters, ask them.� Before he went out, he crossed to the window, raised the dark shade that shrouded it. The pane behind it was also painted dark, a dark green. You could see the heads of heavy six inch nails studded all along the frame, riveting it down. Even so, he took that same screwdriver from his pocket and scraped away a tiny gash on the dried paint-surface. Then he held a lighted match close up to it. �Solid brick backed up to it,� he commented. He started for the door. �You�re down on their blotter for this room � and in your own handwriting � along with this dead guy. I want to find out if he was seen coming here with you. Or if it was the guy with the scar. Or both. Or neither. I gotta dig up that other slouch that was in charge of the key rack here from midnight to morning; he�s the only one can answer all those things.�

I started out after him. I couldn�t help it. I couldn�t have stayed in there alone for a million dollars. �All right, go back and wait in the one over this, if it gets you,� he consented. He closed the door on the grisly sight within. �But keep your eyes and ears open, make sure no one gets in here until we�re ready to break it ourselves.� He went down and I went up.

I didn�t know how long to give him, but pretty soon it seemed to be taking longer than it should have. Pretty soon the room up here started to get me, just as bad as though I�d stayed down there. Try hanging around when you know there�s a dead body under your feet in the room below, a body you�re to blame for, and you�ll know what I mean. The band showed up for work next door while I was in there, and instead of making it better, that only made it worse. It nearly drove me nuts, that whispered music coming through the walls, it brought last night back too vividly again.

Finally I couldn�t stand it in there another minute, I had to get out, wait for him down below by the street entrance. I almost lunged for the door, a damn good cold panic on me. I got it open, poked the bilious light out. Then I saw something in the darkness behind me. Something that made me hold the door at half-closing point and stand there on the threshold.

It should have been pitch black behind me in there now. The place only had a dead window. It wasn�t. A late moon must have come up since we�d been in here. Three phantom silvery lines stood out around the drawn shade, like a faint tracing of phosphorus. There was moonlight backing it, only visible now that the room light was out.

My panic evaporated. I went back in again, leaving it dark. I crossed to the shade, shot it up. Moonlight flashed at me through the dust-filmed glass. There was no brickwork, no dark paint, blanking out the windows on this floor. Denny hadn�t been up here at all, or we might have found that out sooner. The garage was only two stories high, the rooming-house three, that was a detail that had escaped our attention until now.

The frame wasn�t nailed. I hitched it and it went up. The garage roof was a bare four feet below me, plenty accessible enough to� But the fact remained the body hadn�t been in this room, but in the one below, where the window was blocked. I scanned the roof; it looked like an expanse of gray sand under me. In the middle of it, though, there was dim light peering up through some sort of a skylight or ventilator.

I didn�t have any theory, I didn�t know what I thought I�d find out or what I hoped I�d find out, I just went ahead on instinct alone. I sidled across the sill and planted my legs on the graveled roof. I started to pick my way carefully over toward that skylight, trying not to sound the gravel.

I got to the perimeter of it, crouched down on hands and knees, peered over the edge and down. Nothing. Just the cement garage floor two stories below, and a mechanic in greasy overalls down there wiping off a car with a handful of waste. No way to get up, no way to get down � except head first.

I straightened up, skirted it; eased on. I took a look down over the front edge of the roof. Just the unbroken cement front of the garage, a fly couldn�t have managed it. I went around to the side, the one away from the Silver Slipper. There was a narrow chasm there, left between the garage and some taller warehouse next door. And midway down that there was something. A pale, watery, yellow reflection cast on the warehouse wall by some opening in the garage wall directly under me, at second-floor level. And more to the point still, a sort of rickety iron Jacob�s ladder leading down to it. I could only see this at its starting point, up where I was; the darkness swallowed the rest of it.

I swung out on it, tested it with one foot. Narrow rungs. It seemed firm enough. I started down very slow. It was like going down into a bottle of ink. The reflection of the lighted square came up and bathed my feet. The ladder didn�t go any lower, it ended in a level �stage� of iron slats, no wider than the window. I tucked my feet in under the last downward rung so they wouldn�t show in the light, leaned out above them, gripping a rung higher up backhand. It was a grotesque position. I slanted my head forward and peered into the lighted square.

It was an office connected with the garage. There were filing cabinets against the wall, a large flat-topped desk with a cone light over it. There was a man sitting there at it, talking to two others. Or rather going over some accounts with them. He was checking some sort of a list on a sheet of paper he held. There was money on the desk, lots of it; more money than any garage like this would take in in a month. It was separated into several stacks. As he finished checking one list, he�d riff through one stack, rapidly and deftly thumb-counting it; snap an elastic around it, and move it over from one side of him to the other. Then he�d begin on a second list.

There was something vaguely familiar about the shape of his head, even seen from the back, and the cut of his shoulders. The other two I�d never seen before, I was sure of that. One was sitting negligently on an outside corner of the desk, the other standing up against it, hands deep in pockets. They looked too well dressed to be hanging around the upstairs room of a garage.

I must have taken too much time to size them up. After all, a paring of a face is just as conspicuous against a blacked-out window as a full-face would be. I didn�t even see the signal passed, nor which of the two gave it. Suddenly the checkmaster had twirled around on his swivel-chair and was staring out at me eye-to-eye. That white cicatrice along the underside of his jaw stood out as visibly as a strip of tape or courtplaster. So there he was at last, the diabolus ex machina.

My position on the ladder was too complicated to make for a streamlined getaway, I had too many things to do simultaneously. I had to extricate my tucked-in feet, make a complete body turn to face the ladder, before I could start up. Even then, I missed a rung in my hurry, jolted down half a foot and hit my chin on one of the upper ones. By that time the window had flashed up and a powerful grip had me around the ankle. A second one cleaved to its mate.

I was torn off the ladder, dragged in feet first, and the only thing that saved my skull from cracking in the bounce from window-sill to floor was that it bedded against one of their bodies. I lay flat for a minute and their three faces glowered down at me, ringing me around. One of them backed a foot and found my ribs. The pain seemed to shoot all the way through to the other side.

Then I was dragged up again and stood on my own feet. One of them had a gun bared, brief as the onslaught had been.

The man with the scarred jaw rasped: �He�s the patsy I used last night, I toldje about!�

�There goes your whole set-up, Graz!� the third one spat disgustedly.

The man with the scar they called Graz looked at me vengefully. His whole face was so livid with rage it now matched the weal. �What the hell, it still holds good! He was one of Doyle�s customers, Doyle cut off his supply, so he knifed him!�

�Yeah, but he ain�t up there in the room with him any more.�

�All right, he come to, lammed out through a third-floor window � like he did. He�ll be found dead by his own hand in Woodside Park when morning comes. What�s the difference? It changes it a little, but not much. It�s still him all the way through. Him and Doyle took the room together to make a deal. He was seen going in where Doyle�ll be found. And you know how snowbirds act when they�ve got the crave on and are cut off. There�s a lake there in Woodside. We�re gonna dunk his head in it and hold it there until his troubles are over. Then throw the rest of him in. How they gonna tell the difference afterwards?�

�Suppose Doyle had already sang a note or two to the police, mentioning names, before you��

�He didn�t sing nothing, I stopped him before he had a chance to; the minute I seen that narcotics dick beginning to cultivate him, I cut out his tonsils! An operation like that in time saves nine. Come on, let�s get started.� He gathered up the money and lists from the desk. �And another thing,� he added, �we�re giving this joint up, it�s no good to us any more, let the jaloppies have it all to themselves from now on. We�re coming back as soon as we ditch this punk and move out all them filing cabinets, right tonight!�

His two subordinates wedged me up between them, he put out the light behind us, and the four of us started down a cement inner stair to the main floor of the garage. �Run out the big black one, Joe,� one of them said to the grease-monkey I�d seen through the skylight, �we�re going out for a little air.�

He brought out a big, beetling sedan, climbed down and turned it over to them. He must have been one of them, used for a front on the main floor; they didn�t try to conceal my captivity from him.

They shoved me into it. It was like getting into a hearse. That�s what it was intended for, only it was taking me to the cemetery before death instead of after. I didn�t say a word. �Denny�ll come back to that room back there too late. He won�t know what happened to me; he�ll start looking for me all over town, and I�ll be lying at the bottom of the lake��

Graz got in back with me and one of his two underlings, the other one took the wheel. We glided down the cement ramp toward the open street beyond. Just as our fenders cleared the garage entrance, a taxi came to a dead stop out at the curb directly before us, effectively walling us in. The way it had crept forward it seemed to have come from only a few yards away, as though it had been poised waiting there. I saw the driver jump down on the outside and run for his life, across the street and around the corner. The sedan�s furious horn-tattoo failed to halt his flight.

The big car they had me in was awkwardly stuck there for a minute, on the slant, just short of the entrance. It couldn�t go forward on account of the abandoned cab, it couldn�t detour around it on account of its own length of chassis, and the mechanic had sent down a sort of fireproof inner portcullis behind us, without waiting, keeping us from backing up.

They weren�t given much time for the implications of the predicament to dawn on them. Denny suddenly straightened up just outside the rear window on one side and balanced a gun over its rim. The district harness-cop did the same on the opposite side. They had them between a threat of cross-fire. It was a strategic gem. They must have sidled around the opposite sides of the garage entrance, bent over below window level and then suddenly straightened up in the narrow channel left between the car and the walls of the ramp.

Denny said, �Touch the ceiling with them and swing out, one on each side.�

But he and the cop couldn�t control the man at the wheel, he was a little too far forward and they were wedged in too close. I saw his shoulder give a slight warning dip against the dashboard-glow as he reached for something. I buckled one leg, knee to chin, and shot the flat of my shoe square against the back of his head. His face slammed down into the wheel. He didn�t want to reach for any more guns after that. He just wanted to reach for the loosened front teeth in his mouth.

It took a little while to marshal them back upstairs, and send in word to Headquarters, and clean out the files and all the other evidence around the garage. They found traces of blood on the cement inner stairs, showing where Doyle had been knifed as he was trying to escape from the death interview with Scarjaw, right name Graziani, kingpin of this particular little dope-ring, small but lucrative.

Denny said to me while we were waiting around up there: �A guy on the Narcotics Squad recognized this Doyle right away, even from the little I was able to give them over the phone. They�d picked him up several times already, and they were trying to dicker with him to get the names of the higher-ups he worked for. When I got back to the room that open window on the third tipped me off which way you�d gone. From what Officer Kelly here had just finished telling me a little while before, I figured there was something fishy about this garage. He�d seen people drive up at certain hours to try to have their cars serviced, and they�d be turned away. And yet it was never particularly full of cars on the inside. I figured the smart thing to do was arrange a little reception committee at the street entrance, where they weren�t expecting it.�

The final word, however, wasn�t said until several hours later. He came out of the back room at Headquarters, near daylight, came over to where I�d been waiting. �You didn�t do it, Tom. It�s official now, if that�ll make you feel any better. We�ve been questioning them in relays ever since we brought them in, and we just finished getting it all down on here.� He waved a set of typed sheets at me. �Here�s how it goes. Graziani and his two lieutenants killed Doyle in the garage about midnight last night, just around the time you were arriving at the Sorrells� party with Fraser. That rooming-house had already come in handy to them once or twice � it�s got a vicious name on the police records � so they used it again, for a sort of dumping ground. Graziani sent one of his stooges around and had him put down fifty cents and take a room on the third floor, within easy access of the garage roof. That was just to obtain a convenient back way in. They smuggled the body across the roof and passed it in to the stooge through the window. But this stooge wasn�t supposed to take a murder rap, he was just acting as middleman. Graziani went out looking for the real stooge, the stooge for murder � that turned out to be you. He�d been to those dizzy parties of the Sorrells before, so he knew all about them. He went there last night, picked you out, got you higher than a kite, brought you over to the rooming-house in his car. He saw to it you were given a room on the second floor, directly under the one where the body lay waiting for transfer, where all the windows were walled up tight. Not only that, he had you sign for it for yourself and for Doyle, who was already dead. Doyle was supposed to be along in a minute or two. He got rid of the fellow in charge of the keys for that minute or two by sending him next door to the Silver Slipper for some coffee to �sober� you up. By the time he got back with it, Doyle was already supposed to have shown up. The original stooge on the third floor spoke loudly to you to show there was somebody up there in the room with you. Graziani said, �His friend�s up there with him now, he�ll be all right, I�ll shove off.� Doyle had shown up, but in a different way. They�d carried him down the stairs from the third-floor room to your room with the bricked-up window. They wiped off the knife handle and planted it on you; they smeared your shirt front with Doyle�s not yet quite congealed blood. You were dazed, in no condition to notice anything that went on around you. Graziani was careful to carry the coffee up only to the door, pass it in to you, come right down again, and leave. Doyle�s �voice� still sounded up there with you in the room, for the fellow at the key-rack to hear.

�You were given another whiff of coke to hold you steady for awhile. Then the original stooge came down, presumably from the third floor, handed in his key and checked out as if he were dissatisfied, complaining about the vermin.

�You were left there drugged, with a murdered man in your room, his blood on your shirt, the knife that had been used concealed on your person in newspaper. You even helped the scheme out up to a point; you got the horrors, hid the body in the closet, locked it, piled everything movable you could lay your hands on up against the door. Then you fled for your life. You got a small break, that wouldn�t have helped out any in the end. The guy at the key-rack must have been either dozing or out of his alcove again. I spoke to him just now, and he never saw you leave. That postponed discovery, but wouldn�t have altered its emphasis any when it finally came.

�As I said, the subconscious is a great thing. In all your terror, and stupefied as you were, you somehow found your way back to where you lived. You didn�t wake up in the same room with the dead man, like they were counting on your doing, and raise an outcry, and thereby sew yourself up fast then and there. You had a chance to talk it over with me first; we had a chance to put our heads together on the outside, without you being in the middle of it.�

It was getting light when we got back to our own place together. The last thing I said to him, outside the door, was: �Tell the truth, Denny, up to the time it broke, did you really figure I did it?�

His answer surprised me more than anything else about the whole thing. �Hell, yes!� he said vigorously. �I could have eaten my hat you did!�

�I did too,� I had to admit. �In fact, I was sure of it!�

Original publication:Argosy, March 2, 1940, as by William Irish; first collected in Eyes That Watch You by William Irish (New York, Rinehart, 1952)

It was over so quickly I almost thought something had been left out, but I guess he�d been doing it long enough to know his business. The only way I could tell for sure it was over was when I heard him say: �You may kiss the bride.� But then, I�d never gone through it before.

We turned and pecked at each other, a little bashful because they were watching us.

He and the motherly-looking woman who had been a witness � I guess she was his housekeeper � stood there smiling benevolently, and also a little tiredly. The clock said one fifteen. Then he shook hands with the two of us and said, �Good luck to both of you,� and she shook with us too and said, �I wish you a lot of happiness.�

We shifted from the living room, where it had taken place, out into the front hall, a little awkwardly. Then he held the screen door open and we moved from there out onto the porch.

On the porch step Alice nudged me and whispered, �You forgot something.�

I didn�t even know how much I was supposed to give him. I took out two singles and held them in one hand, then I took out a five and held that in the other. Then I went back toward him all flustered and said, �I... I guess you thought I was going to leave without remembering this.�

I reached my hand down to his and brought it back empty. He kept right on smiling, as if this happened nearly every time too, the bridegroom forgetting like that. It was only after I turned away and rejoined her that I glanced down at my other hand and saw which it was I�d given him. It was the five. That was all right; five thousand of them couldn�t have paid him for what he�d done for me, the way I felt about it.

We went down their front walk and got into the car. The lighted doorway outlined them both for a minute. They raised their arms and said, �Good night.�

�Good night, and much obliged,� I called back. �Wait�ll they go in,� I said in an undertone to Alice, without starting the engine right away.

As soon as the doorway had blacked out, we turned and melted together on the front seat, and this time we made it a real kiss. �Any regrets?� I whispered to her very softly.

�It must have been awful before I was married to you,� she whispered back. �How did I ever stand it so long?�

I don�t think we said a word all the way in to Michianopolis. We were both too happy. Just the wind and the stars and us. And a couple of cigarettes.

We got to the outskirts around two thirty, and by three were all the way in downtown. We shopped around for a block or two. �This looks like a nice hotel,� I said finally. I parked outside and we went in.

I think the first hotel was called the Commander. I noticed that the bellhops let us strictly alone; didn�t bustle out to bring in our bags or anything.

I said to the desk man, �We�d like one of your best rooms and bath.�

He gave me a sort of rueful smile, as if to say, �You should know better than that.�... �I only wish I had something to give you,� was the way he put it.

�All filled up?� I turned to her and murmured, �Well, we�ll have to try someplace else.�

He overheard me. �Excuse me, but did you come in without making reservations ahead?�

�Yes, we just drove in now. Why?�

He shook his head compassionately at my ignorance. �I�m afraid you�re going to have a hard time finding a room in any of the hotels tonight.�

�Why? They can�t all be filled up.�

�There�s a three-day convention of the Knights of Balboa being held here. All the others started sending their overflow to us as far back as Monday evening, and our own last vacancy went yesterday noon.�

The second one was called the Stuyvesant, I think. �There must be something in a city this size,� I said when we came out of there. �We�ll keep looking until we find it.�

I didn�t bother noticing the names of the third and fourth. We couldn�t turn around and go all the way back to our original point of departure � it would have been midmorning before we reached it � and there was nothing that offered suitable accommodations between; just filling stations, roadside lunch-rooms, and detached farmsteads.

Besides she was beginning to tire. She refused to admit it, but it was easy to tell. It worried me.

The fifth place was called the Royal. It was already slightly less first-class than the previous ones had been; we were running out of them now. Nothing wrong with it, but just a little seedier and older.

I got the same answer at the desk, but this time I wouldn�t take it. The way her face drooped when she heard it was enough to make me persist. I took the night clerk aside out of her hearing.

�Listen, you�ve got to do something for me, I don�t care what it is,� I whispered fiercely. �We�ve just driven all the way from Lake City and my wife�s all in. I�m not going to drag her around to another place tonight.�

Then as his face continued impassive, �If you can�t accommodate both of us, find some way of putting her up at least. I�m willing to take my own chances, go out and sleep in the car or walk around the streets for the night.�

�Wait a minute,� he said, hooking his chin, �I think I could work out something like that for you. I just thought of something. There�s a little bit of a dinky room on the top floor. Ordinarily it�s not used as a guest room at all, just as a sort of storeroom. You couldn�t possibly both use it, because there�s only a single cot in it; but if you don�t think your wife would object, I�d be glad to let her have it, and I think you might still be able to find a room for yourself at the Y. They don�t admit women, and most of these Knights have brought their wives with them.�

I took a look at her pretty, drawn face. �Anything, anything,� I said gratefully.

He still had his doubts. �You�d better take her up and let her see it first.�

A colored boy came with us, with a passkey. On the way up I explained it to her. She gave me a rueful look, but I could see she was too tired even to object as much as she felt she should have. �Ah, that�s mean,� she murmured. �Our first night by ourselves.�

�It�s just for tonight. We�ll drive on right after breakfast. It�s important that you get some rest, hon. You can�t fool me, you can hardly keep your eyes open any more.�

She tucked her hand consolingly under my arm. �I don�t mind if you don�t. It�ll give me something to look forward to, seeing you in the morning.�

The bellboy led us along a quiet, green-carpeted hall, and around a turn, scanning numbers on the doors. He stopped three down from the turn, on the right-hand side, put his key in. �This is it here, sir.� The number was 1006.

The man at the desk hadn�t exaggerated. The room itself was little better than an alcove, long and narrow. I suppose two could have gotten into it; but it would have been a physical impossibility for two to sleep in it the way it was fitted up. It had a cot that was little wider than a shelf.

To give you an idea how narrow the room was, the window was narrower than average, and yet not more than a foot of wall-strip showed on either side of its frame. In other words it took up nearly the width of one entire side of the room.

I suppose I could have sat up in the single armchair all night and slept, or tried to, that way; but as long as there was a chance of getting a horizontal bed at the Y, why not be sensible about it? She agreed with me in this.

�Think you can go this, just until the morning?� I asked her, and the longing way she was eying that miserable cot gave me the answer. She was so tired, anything would have looked good to her right then.

We went down again and I told him I�d take it. I had the bellboy take her bag out of the car and bring it in, and the desk clerk turned the register around for her to sign.

She poised the inked pen and flashed me a tender look just as she was about to sign. �First time I�ve used it,� she breathed. I looked over her shoulder and watched her trace Mrs. James Cannon along the lined space. The last entry above hers was A. Krumbake, and wife. I noticed it because it was such a funny name.

The desk clerk had evidently decided by now that we were fairly desirable people. �I�m terribly sorry I couldn�t do more for you,� he said. �It�s just for this one night. By tomorrow morning a lot of them�ll be leaving.�

I went up with her a second time, to see that she was made as comfortable as she could be under the circumstances. But then there was nothing definitely wrong with the room except its tininess, and the only real hardship was our temporary separation.

I tipped the boy for bringing up her bag, and then I tipped him a second time for going and digging up a nice, fluffy quilt for her at my request � not to spread over her but to spread on top of the mattress and soften it up a little. Those cots aren�t as comfortable as regular beds by a darned sight. But she was so tired I was hoping she wouldn�t notice the difference.

Then after he�d thanked me for the double-header he�d gotten out of it, and left the room, I helped her off with her coat and hung it up for her, and even got down on my heels and undid the straps of her little sandals, so she wouldn�t have to bend over and go after them herself. Then we kissed a couple of times and told each other all about it, and I backed out the door.

The last I saw of her that night she was sitting on the edge of that cot in there, her shoeless feet partly tucked under her. She looked just like a little girl. She raised one hand, wriggled the fingers at me in good night as I reluctantly eased the door closed.

�Until tomorrow, sweetheart,� she called gently, when there was a crack of opening left.

�Until tomorrow.�

The night was as still around us as if it were holding its breath. The latch went cluck, and there we were on opposite sides of it.

The bellboy had taken the car down with him just now after he�d checked her in, and I had to wait out there a minute or two for him to bring it back up again at my ring. I stepped back to the turn in the hall while waiting, to look at the frosted glass transom over her door; and short as the time was, her light was already out. She must have just shrugged off her dress, fallen back flat, and pulled the coverings up over her.

Poor kid, I thought, with a commiserating shake of my head. The glass elevator panel flooded with light and I got in the car. The one bellhop doubled for liftman after twelve.

�I guess she�ll be comfortable,� he said.

�She was asleep before I left the floor,� I told him.

The desk man told me where the nearest branch of the Y was, and I took the car with me as the quickest way of getting over there at that hour. I had no trouble at all getting a room, and not a bad one at that for six bits.

I didn�t phone her before going up, to tell her I�d gotten something for myself, because I knew by the way I�d seen that light go out she was fast asleep already, and it would have been unnecessarily cruel to wake her again.

Original publication:Mystery, November, 1933; first collected in Hildegarde Withers: Uncollected Stories (Norfolk, VA, Crippen & Landru, 2002). Note: The book has Riddles on the dust jacket but Stories on the title page.

Rushing through the wide doors of the Cosmopolitan Museum of Art came Miss Hildegarde Withers, out of the blinding sunlight of Fifth Avenue in August into a hushed, dim world. Pausing for a moment to sniff the musty odors which cling to the vast treasure house wherein men have gathered together the objects saved from vandal Time, the angular school teacher went on, sailing serenely past the checkroom to be halted by a gray-uniformed guard at the turnstile.

�Have to check your umbrella, ma�am.�

�Young man,� she advised him sharply, �can�t you see that I need it?� She leaned on the umbrella heavily, and the guard, with a shrug of his shoulders, let her through. She was not lying, even by implication, for this day she was to need her only weapon as never before in all her assiduous, if amateur, efforts at crime detection.

It had been some months since Miss Withers had last found occasion to visit the museum, and today there seemed to be fewer guards and more visitors, particularly juvenile visitors, than formerly. She threaded her resolute way through the crowd, entering the Hall of Sculpture and pushing on toward the staircase at the rear of the building. In this hall the visitors were fewer, and only a solitary art student here and there was copying a painting, lost to the rest of the world.

�You�ll find Professor Carter somewhere in the Florentine Wing,� the Inspector had told her over the telephone. �You can�t miss him, he�s a tall, dried-up old fossil with a big round head bald as an egg.� But at this moment Miss Withers had no idea how, and where, she was to find Professor Carter, associate curator of the Cosmopolitan. For all her haste, she paused for a moment beside a crouching marble nude labeled �Nymph � by Hebilly West.� Using her dampened handkerchief, Miss Withers frowningly removed a penciled mustache from the classic stone face, shaking her head at the laxity of the guards. Then suddenly she looked up.

From somewhere came the patter of light footsteps � the quick steps of a small man or perhaps a woman � fading away down some distant corridor. As they passed, she heard a hoarse masculine scream, thin with surprise, which set a thousand echoes ringing in the vaulted halls. After the school teacher turned and ran on down the hall, turning toward the stairs, she stopped short.

A man was coming, slowly and horribly, down the hundred marble steps � a man whose hoarse scream had almost become a bellow, and who clutched unavailingly at thin air. His body was bent forward almost parallel with the slope of the steep steps...

Miss Withers was frozen with horror, for at the foot of the stairs loomed a gigantic statuary group upon a granite base. As she watched, powerless to move, the plunging man collided headlong with the base of the statue, and his screaming stopped.

There was no doubt in Miss Withers�s mind as to the identity of this man. Inspector Oscar Piper had told her that Carter, the man she had come to see, was a tall and dried-up �fossil� with a head like an egg. And like an egg the round hairless skull of Professor Carter had cracked against the implacable stone.

Almost instantly the hall was filled with gasping, curious onlookers. Here and there a guard began to push his way through. But Miss Withers turned swiftly away, and moved up the stairs. She was looking for something, and when she reached the top step she found it. Then, and not until then, did she rejoin the murmuring, excited group at the base of the stairs.

A small, almost dandyish man in morning clothes was approaching from the opposite corridor, and the guards made a path for him. Miss Withers heard one of them whisper � �It�s the curator!�

Willard Robbins, chief curator of the museum, resembled a young and bustling businessman more than the custodian of a large share of the world�s art treasures. He was not one to waste time upon adjectives. �Quick, Dugan � the canvas and stretcher.� He looked around, through the crowd, for a uniformed figure which was not there. �Burton! How did this happen? Where is Burton?�

�Probably studying art again,� said one of the uniformed men, softly.

But the curator went on. �Please move back, everybody. Back, out of the hallway. Everybody...�

Miss Hildegarde Withers stood her ground. �Young man, I want a word with you!�

Curator Robbins looked annoyed. Then one of his men whispered something to him. His face cleared. �So you�re the lady who saw the accident? Won�t you step this way, to my office?�

They faced each other across a bare mahogany desk. �Well?� said the curator.

�It wasn�t an accident,� said Hildegarde Withers. �Someone tied this� � she produced a loose ball of twine � �across the top step. That was murder.�

�Impossible,� gasped Robbins. He handled the string gingerly. �And you mean to tell me that poor Carter stumbled over this, and plunged to his death � you expect me to believe that?�

�I expect you to believe what I say,� she told him tartly. �Because the police will, if you don�t. You may not know that Professor Carter was afraid of something like this. He telephoned Inspector Piper at Headquarters this morning, asking for police help. The Inspector was busy, so he called me and asked me to drop in, because I live just across the Park, and I�ve been of service to him at times in the past. Now do you believe me?�

Robbins nodded slowly. �All except that Carter phoned for police protection for himself. The old man never thought of his own safety. He lived for the Cellini Cup, which as you perhaps know is the most valuable single art object in the world. He was always dithering for fear bandits would grab it, although we have a burglar-proof system here to protect it. He�d been reading reports from France that a gang of super crooks stole the Mona Lisa from the Louvre, substituting a copy. Why, he even used to spend most of his time in the Florentine Wing, watching over his Cup...�

Miss Withers nodded. �Then there was some reason behind his dithering!�

But the curator shook his head. �Carter had outlived his usefulness here. He had ceased to distinguish between major and minor matters. Indeed, his chief worry was that small boys would do some harm to the Cellini. He used to drive them away from the Florentine Wing religiously, and in turn they teased him...�

The curator smashed his fist against the desk. �That�s it! This was no murder plot. Anyone wanting Carter out of the way could have managed it without going to this extreme. Don�t you see? It was only a thoughtless prank on the part of some of the little hoodlums who play about here on free days. They tied the cord there to give him a bad fall, as a joke, never dreaming of the possible consequence...�

Miss Withers remembered the light, running footsteps. Yet she was somehow surprised that she could not agree with the curator�s easy explanation. Perhaps � yet it was too pat.

�I�m going to find Burton, the guard who was supposed to be stationed near the head of that staircase,� explained Robbins. �Then we�ll have every child in the building searched to find the rest of that string. It was probably taken off a kite string.�

�Probably,� agreed Miss Withers. �I have two favors to ask. First, please don�t let anybody know that I�m anything but a visitor here. Second, let me go in search of this Burton. I think I can guess where he is.�

Robbins bowed, twice. �You�ll probably find Joel Burton around a skirt,� he advised her. �He�s a new guard but highly recommended. Only has this one vice...�

�That you know of,� said the school teacher. �What does he look like?�

Original publication:Mystery, July 1934; first collected in Hildegarde Withers: Uncollected Stories (Norfolk, VA, Crippen & Landru, 2002). Note: The book has Riddles on the dust jacket but Stories on the title page.

As the screen went dark, the twelve men who had just crept into the orchestra pit struck up a few bars of �The Stars and Stripes Forever,� and then without pausing broke into �Did You Ever See a Dream Walking?�

Footlights flared on, and the audience roused itself. All through the picture, which filled in between shows at the Diana, they had been drifting in by ones and twos. But the several hundred � mostly masculine � who made up the audience had not left the garish lights of Forty-Second Street and paid their half dollars at the box office to see a movie.

It was the first day of a new show at the Diana Burlesque � its title was one of those Rabelaisian affairs designed to catch the masculine eye. Last week it had been something equally raucous, although except for the change in the big electric sign outside, few could tell the difference. Dapper Max Durkin, who acted as house manager of the Diana, often thought that the long hours he spent working out new gag titles was a waste of time.

He wasn�t wasting his time now, though he lounged in the wings and idly watched the �Forty Naughty Paris Girlies� as they rollicked onto the stage in their opening dance number. He leaned forward and caught a ribbon which formed an essential part of the costume of a handsome, red-haired girl who was waiting for a cue.

It was the ribbon which, if tugged hard enough, would leave Janey Vere de Vere attired in little more than what she had first worn into the world. She whirled suddenly, drawing the ribbon from his fingers, and frowned.

�How about dinner and a little bottle of gin after the show?� he asked.

�Oh � it�s you. Ask me later, will you? I � something�s happened.�

He saw that the big brown eyes were glazed with fear. �What? Spill it, girlie.�

She came closer. �You�ve got to get me a new lock for my dressing-room door, Durkin. I tell you��

�Lock? Say, what have you got that anybody could steal?�

�If you want to know, somebody got into my dressing room while I was out to dinner and stole a gun I kept in my trunk, and that�s what!�

Still Durkin didn�t see anything in this to upset her. �I�ll buy you a dozen pop guns if that�s all you�re worrying about. Now listen, baby��

His fingers caught the soft flesh of her upper arm. Then came an inopportune interruption. �Say, boss, what lighting goes with the cafe scene?�

The hulking, ape-like form of Roscoe, stage electrician, came between them. Durkin stared into the little pig-like eyes and wished for the tenth time that he had enough on this gorilla to fire him. �You know damn well it gets amber foots and a pair of baby spots from up above, why come busting��

But Janey Vere de Vere was going out on the stage, as all twenty-four of the Forty Naughty Paris Girlies kicked their way off. Her hand was on her hip, and her throaty contralto voice picked up her song.

There was a little smattering of applause from the darkened house, for Janey was possessed of charms notable even among strip-artists, and she was a newcomer to the Wheel. She went into a slow hip dance as a purple spotlight struck her, body twisting, wide hips surging back and forth beneath the wispy evening gown of revealing black lace � one of those slashed affairs especially designed for dancing.

As the cash customers agreed later, Janey was at her best that night. Which showed that she was a real trouper, for the people backstage knew that she had something on her mind.

�What�s eating Vere de Vere?� Durkin demanded of Murphy, a slapstick comic who approached in a costume composed of a silk hat and a long flannel nightshirt. �She looks scared of something.�

�Her?� The comic grinned. �Must be she�s scared of you, you sheik. Janey ain�t used to this racket yet. She�s been accustomed to better things, says she.�

�Yeah?�

�Yeah. And she moves with a classy crowd, Maxie old thing. Why last week out in Brooklyn there was a dude in a tuxedo came into a box every night, just to see her act.� The comic peered through the wings, past Janey�s gyrating body on the stage, and squinted. �Say, it looks like the same guy � see him, alone in the right front box? Maybe it�s him that she�s scared of.�

Max Durkin took a long greenish-brown cigar from among the half dozen which graced his vest pocket. Murphy also helped himself. �Thanks,� he said. But the manager wasn�t listening.

�So,� he said. �Vere de Vere has got herself mixed up with the Park Avenue crowd. Somebody ought to do something about that.�

�Maybe somebody will,� agreed the comedian. �Me, I�d do anything short of arson if it would get me to first base with her.�

He stared admiringly out onto the stage. Janey�s song was only four minutes long, and at the first encore, when stage lights flared on, her costume was due to go off.

Durkin turned and went through the door, placed just beside Roscoe�s switchboard, which led to the left side aisle and the front of the house.

At that moment Janey Vere de Vere, without breaking the pagan rhythm of her dance, began to fumble with the ribbon at the rear of her costume. A round knee and thigh began to disclose themselves. She was still singing � �...he may have the manners of a country lout, but who wants politeness when the lights are out?... he�s my��

But that was all anybody was to see of Janey Vere de Vere�s knee that night. Her song was interrupted by a tremendous bang! and a burst of flame which came from the left front box.

A woman screamed somewhere in the audience, and the acrid smell of powder drifted out over the house.

From somewhere came Max Durkin�s voice. �Hit the lights!�

Then the crowd knew that this was not meant to be part of the show. �Roscoe, hit �em!� shouted Durkin, from the aisle. �Everybody keep their seats!�

Still Roscoe fumbled with his switches, so that instead of casting a flood of brilliance over the auditorium, even the red exit lights went dark. Only the purple spotlight remained, slanting down from the film booth in the balcony. Janey Vere de Vere, her red mouth open wide, stood frozen in the center of the stage. The orchestra died away in a confusion of strings and brass.

Then the spotlight left the girl on the stage, sliding eerily past the white frightened faces of the girls who were crowding into the wings, sliding over the orchestra and the people in the front rows, and finally pouring its soft brilliance into the box from which the shot had come. But it stood empty and bare.

�House lights,� roared Durkin again. This time the house lights came on. The audience straggled into the aisle, staring at each other and muttering questions. There was a long moment of this, and then the forgotten girl on the stage made a throaty, whimpering noise. She pointed � and then suddenly collapsed like a sack. But she had been staring at the right front box � the box in which a little man in a white shirt front was sitting, slumped down in his chair.

He was staring at the stage, but his stare was sightless � for everyone in the audience could see that there was a small round hole in the center of his forehead.

Original publication:The Red Book Magazine, October 1924

�Wherefore it is the judgment of the Court in compliance with the law that you be confined in the State�s prison at Greenbow for a period of five years.�

A woman screamed. The courtroom buzzed. Police Officer O�Malley had scored again!

No more would the historic confines of Tar Flat resound to the turbulent clamor of battle, the tinkle of broken glass and the Saturday night slogan of Danny the Dude: �Follow me, boys, and you�ll see action!�

Gone was the glory of the Tar Flat gang, smashed by the brilliant single-handed campaign of a cop from Killarney! The battle was over now. Danny was going up to join his defeated pals. Tar Flat had caught a Tartar in James Patrick O�Malley. Deliberately they had set out to get him; and instead their scalps now adorned his belt, and their bruised ears still rang to the roar of Erin go Bragh!

Danny the Dude had boasted that he would beat the case. Him go up! Not a chance! But this was one time when public opinion offset the District�s political pressure. Nor did the presence of Danny�s wife and baby avail him anything. O�Malley had prepared his case well. He was too honest to be �squared,� and too stubborn in his testimony to be shaken. Arrest and conviction were both his work.

�Five years in Greenbow!�

Danny the Dude, slim and sartorially elegant, bade a nonchalant farewell to his family and sauntered from the courtroom in the custody of a deputy jailer. On the way out, he brushed shoulders with the arresting officer, and for the space of a second looked deep into the latter�s eyes.

�I�ll � see � you � later!� said Danny, and there was no mistaking what lay behind the promise.

Officer O�Malley, who feared neither God, man, nor devil, answered quietly: �Fine, my boy � I�ll be right on my beat waiting for you.�

Thus was born the seed of future reckoning. Young Danny, who was not old enough to have learned discretion, marched off, determined by good behavior to cut down considerably the time in which Police Officer O�Malley had yet to live. As for the latter, he hitched at his belt, patted his gun and �cuffs, and strolled back to the station conscious of a duty well performed, and eager now to maintain his reputation as an arresting officer.

O�Malley was a harness bull if there ever was one! Heavy of hand and foot, slow of thought, and very red of face, he considered that day lost whose low descending sun saw no man imprisoned and no battle won! His mother, having given one husky son to the priesthood and another to the police force, considered she had done her duty by God and the community.

Captain Collins, kindly, gray-haired veteran of the Central Station, was not so sure that the community had been blessed by the acquisition of Patrolman O�Malley; and as time went on, he became more and more dubious.

�The breaking up of the Tar Flat gang was a feather in Jim�s bonnet,� admitted Captain Collins, �but now the lad wants an Indian headdress. Sergeant, how many men did he bring in yesterday?�

� �Twas bargain day,� said Sergeant Patterson. �He found a Chink lottery on his beat and grabbed forty-four. He was displeased because three got away.�

�Tomorrow it will be something else,� sighed the Captain. �Since we gave him a day beat, he goes to bed with a copy of the city ordinances, and he knows �em all from the time they ruled the first cow off the street. Give him time, and he�ll have half the city behind bars. You see what publicity does to a young cop!�

Captain Collins was right. It is a bad thing for a patrolman to see his name in the papers too frequently, or to be held long in a district where he is called upon to use his stick and �cuffs to any great extent. He is like a horse that once attuned to the clang of fire-bells or the smell of gunpowder is satisfied thereafter with nothing else.

Even a discreet officer, and the departments are full of them, has a hard enough time making friends. For the statute-books are full of unpopular and obnoxious laws, passed by inexperienced and impractical commissioners. The poor patrolman is always between the slippery curb and the chasm. If he enforces the ordinances as they are written, he is a pest; if he doesn�t, he is a grafter. To retain both prestige and popularity, he must combine the qualities of Solomon, Chesterfield, and Sherlock Holmes.

O�Malley was far from being discreet. He did his duty as he saw it, but he saw it too frequently for his own good. Honest, sober, conscientious, he was none the less an irritating influence in the community, the type of man who can do more harm than good to the department. �To call that man a peace officer,� sighed his superior, �is to make sad misuse of the English language.�

Nine times he was hauled upon the carpet for being overzealous in the performance of his duty.

�Listen to me, you big man,� said Captain Collins. �If Justice is supposed to be blind, a cop can afford to be nearsighted when the occasion requires. You�ve got too much blood in your head, and your fists are too big. Will you turn in your star now, or must I break you?�

O�Malley�s heavy shoulders drooped, and dumb helplessness was written in his blue eyes. He shifted from one big foot to the other, unable to say a word in his own defense.

Captain Collins�s eyes wandered to a printed motto on the wall, the Christmas sermon of Robert Louis Stevenson.

He unpinned the card and held it out to O�Malley. �I�ll give you one more chance, Jim. Read that, and see if you can get it through your thick head. �Tis my conception of an officer�s code. On your way, now, and the next time you open your police manual, consider that card Page One.�

O�Malley departed for his beat, which was a long way off. He made the journey by street-car, hunched in a corner, hands gripping Captain Collins�s present, and his lips mumbling the message, �To be honest, to be kind; to earn a little, to spend a little less... to make on the whole a family happier for my presence.�

Men are not usually cured by the mere reading of sermons. By all the rules of logic, the Central Station would have lost a good man and this story would never have been written, had it not been for Miss Sadie Smith, who had just as much courage as Officer O�Malley and a great deal more sense.

Sadie was a product of Tar Flat, which only goes to show that the law of compensation is a wonderful thing. Bright and blonde as a canary, and not much larger, Sadie was principal of the Hillside Park Grammar School and the kindergarten that adjoined it, having qualified for the job by successfully rearing five little brothers and sisters without the aid of the police.

But Sadie wanted police protection now, and what she wanted she usually got. Fifteen minutes after Miss Smith swept into the Central Station, armed with facts and figures and resolutions from mothers� clubs, Captain Collins threw up his hands and agreed to do the impossible.

�I�ll give you one, Sadie,� said he, �if for no other reason than that I used to dandle you on my knee once; but God knows where I�m going to find him. We�ve got one third of the force on traffic-duty now, and the council won�t increase the budget. Crime grows � the city grows � everything grows but police salaries.�

�Don�t fool yourself,� said Miss Smith. �I�m intrusted with the training of six hundred future citizens, and I�m paid no better than the cop on the beat.�

�Shake!� said Captain Collins. �We represent the two most responsible professions in the commonwealth, and the two poorest paid. Now show me on the map just where you want a man stationed, and he�ll be there in the morning.�

So Sadie stuck a glass-headed pin right in the center of Hillside Park Boulevard, where cross-streets and traction-lines branched out like the points of a police star. A small park was on one side, the school a half-block distant on the other. In between, owing to the peculiar curve of park and streets, there were six corners on which children could gather for the dash across.

�Good night!� said Captain Collins. �Whoever gets that post will have to put mirrors on his ears. Even then, he�ll get cockeyed. How many children did you say there were?�

�Six hundred,� said Sadie, �and none of them are older than twelve � some are as young as five. They come streaming in from all directions in the morning, at the very hour when people are hurrying to work in their machines. Most of them go home at noon, return to school, and then are dismissed at various hours in the afternoon. That means four crossings for each child. And if the children are late, they�re running, and they don�t look��

�Enough!� pleaded Captain Collins. �You�ve got the cold shivers coming down my back now. �Tis my idea of a fine job for a man who�s looking for trouble. Sergeant, who have we got on the discipline list that needs soft-boiling? I want one of these brave club-swingin� buckos who... who... oh, wait a minute! Never mind, Sergeant; I�ve got just the man. That glass-headed pin is officer James Patrick O�Malley, and may God have mercy on his soul! He�ll be there at eight o�clock in the morning, Miss Smith.�

Sadie smiled her thanks. �I think it would be wise for him to come up to the assembly-room at ten o�clock and make a short speech to the children at that hour. I�ll get them all together. That way they�ll know him, and he can impress upon them the importance of obeying his signals.�

Captain Collins�s eyes twinkled. �A speech?� said he. �You want him to get up and talk to six hundred children? Oh, fine! Make him stand with his heels together and bow politely before he starts. I�d give my back teeth to be a kid again in your classroom. Good-by, Miss Smith; I�m glad you called.�

The little teacher went out the door, and Sergeant Patterson grinned at his superior. �Jim will turn in his badge on next pay-day,� he predicted.

Captain Collins looked at the vacant spot on the wall where once an embossed card had hung, and his eyes grew dreamy and reflective. �You�re wrong,� said he. �Big fists and little hands go well together, and Sadie Smith�s kids will be the making of O�Malley.�

Patterson thought differently.

�I owe you ten dollars,� said the Sergeant. �If you�re right, I�ll owe you twenty, but if O�Malley resigns, I don�t owe you nothin�.�

�What kind of frenzied finance is that?� demanded the Captain. �All the same, I�ll go you this once.�

Pay-day came and went, and Sergeant Patterson lost his bet; nor did he ever try to renew it, for by that time every man on the force was aware of what was going on in the Hillside Park District. The captains told the sergeants, who in turn passed it on to the street men, who went home and told their wives, and everybody laughed except James Patrick O�Malley, who was in the process of being made.

The big harness bull who did not know the meaning of fear was racked wide open the first day. The first avalanche of youngsters that answered his nervous orders, trusting their hands to his clasp and their lives to his keeping, shattered all his assurance. The necessity of making his first public address completed his downfall.

No timid tyro mounting the rostrum to recite, �Curfew Shall Not Ring Tonight,� had anything on Police Officer O�Malley as he faced the six hundred youngsters who overflowed the seating capacity of the room, and heard Miss Smith say at his elbow: �Now, children, this is the good, kind police officer who has been detailed to take care of you at the crossing. He is going to say a few words to you on the subject of safety, and I want you all to listen very carefully.�

She smiled encouragingly at the speaker, who bowed, cleared his throat, and ran a huge finger around his wilted collar. He had stayed up half the night preparing for this moment, but now he could not recall a line of what he had written.

�Ladies and gentleman�� he stammered. �I mean, boys and girls! It gives me great pleasure to appear before you, and � and��

His eyes began to glaze. He half-turned toward the girl teacher. �What � what�ll I say?� he whispered.

�Tell them who you are,� she prompted, comprehending his distress and realizing when all else fails a man can usually talk about himself.

�I�m James Patrick O�Malley,� he announced. �Officer Four Hundred and Forty-four.� He would probably have given his age and physical measurements, but at that moment his panic-stricken eyes were caught and held by a little girl in the front row who smiled up at him with such friendly encouragement that it was as though she were saying aloud: �Don�t be scared, Jimmy; I�m your friend.�

The solemn lines on O�Malley�s face melted. He smiled at the little girl in the front row. His smile grew wider. So did hers. She tittered, and the titter spread over the room, swelling into a gale of delighted laughter that was led heartily by an officer of the law and ably seconded by a young school principal. The ice was broken forever.

�Say, listen,� said O�Malley, hitching at his belt and holding up his hand as the nearer children crowded around him � with the single exception of the little girl in the front row. She still smiled at him, but she made no move to arise. �My name is Jim, and I�m your friend. Let�s all be good kids, and love our teacher, and be very careful in crossing the street. How �bout it? Are you with me?�

The walls rang with their answer.

�Three cheers for Officer Jim!� shrilled a youngster at the back of the room, and they were given with a will.

That was the way Officer Jim came into his inheritance, a trust that broadened and deepened as the days went by, until it was the talk of the whole neighborhood. Dignified business men would pass up street-car after street-car just for the pleasure of standing on a corner and watching a blue-coated shepherd at his morning devotions. He seldom crossed the street without ten children hanging to either arm, and a dozen more clinging to his coat-tails and trampling all the polish off his shoes. They clustered on the six corners waiting for him to suspend traffic from first one direction and then the other. At his cheery cry �Here y�are!� accompanied by a beckoning hand, they left the safety of the curb and headed for their protector as fast as they could leg it. His customary procedure was to stand in the center of the boulevard until he had collected a full consignment from three-corners; then he headed for the other shore, entirely surrounded by chattering youngsters.

Not always did they obey his signals promptly. Sometimes a tiny lass in pinafore, more timid than the others, would turn back after she had got halfway, and then tie up traffic while she stood on the curb and tried to make up her mind whether it was safe to go or not. About the time that Officer Jim would decide to wave the traffic on, the small lady at the curb would take it into her head to go. He was always in hot water, and not infrequently his anguished roar could be distinguished for three blocks.

�Whoa! Whoa!... All right, come ahead!... Well, then go back! Come on, everybody! No, no! Not you! Stand where you are! Stop! Go ahead! Whoa! Whoa! Holy mackerel!�

There was really not much danger, for most motorists knew that crossing by now and approached it cautiously. Even so, Officer Jim, with the perspiration beading his forehead, fluttered back and forth with all the exaggerated anxiety of a clucking hen, and the boulevard was smudged with long black marks.

�Damn� right, I make �em burn their brakes,� he told the sergeant. �God pity the man that bumps one of my kids.�

By this time, you see, he really considered himself the daddy of the district, and not without cause. Mothers brought their little ones as far as the boulevard and introduced them to the guardian of the crossing with the solemn injunction: �Now if I�m late in calling for you this afternoon, don�t you dare leave Officer Jim until I come.�

Then they went downtown to do their shopping, and were nearly always late in getting back, so that he found frequently as many as twenty youngsters parked with him long after he was supposed to be off duty. Thus he learned their names and became acquainted with their respective problems.

Very small ones, going to school for the first time, were presented by older brothers and sisters.

�Jim, this is my kid sister Ethel. Shake hands with Jim, sis. And this kid is Billy Dugan�s brother. He just got over the measles. Him and me walk home together. His name�s Tommy. That�s his dog.�

He met others during the lunch-hour, when he sat on a bench in the park munching at a sandwich and exchanging confidences with his small admirers. The little girls brought him flowers in the morning and decked him out in defiance of all the rules and regulations. For that matter, Officer Jim had forgotten all about the once highly treasured volume of the city ordinances. The youngsters were riding bicycles on the sidewalks and whirring past on their roller skates, and playing ball in the park. All that he cared about was seeing that no one interfered with their happiness. When childish ailments kept one of his little friends away longer than seemed normal, he made inquiries, and these were usually followed by his appearance at the child�s home, cap in one hand and a bag of lollypops in the other.

�Just wanted to see how little Johnny was getting along,� he apologized.

Of course he had his favorite. Uniformed monarchs always do. Her name was Margie, and she was the same little Miss Sunshine whose encouraging smile had restored his composure on that opening day in school. He knew now why she had kept her seat, while all the others were standing. Margie was on crutches.

The last remnant of roughness was squeezed from his huge bulk by this crippled youngster who weighed scarcely sixty pounds. She alone could not take his hand in crossing, because of her crutches, but whenever he beheld her at the curb, he brought the whole world to a standstill and hurried forward.

They made a picture that everyone loved to watch: golden-haired Margie, swinging gayly to school on crutches, and big Jim O�Malley tiptoeing awkwardly behind her with both arms wide-stretched in a protecting shield. When they had crossed to safety, there was always a momentary pause, while he held her crutches and she put both arms around his neck in a childish embrace. That morning commendation inspired Officer O�Malley.

He made bold to seek the aid of Dr. Commerford, a distinguished surgeon who lived in the neighborhood, and who had both a skilled hand and a very big heart. �The poor little thing,� he explained, �tells me it�s something wrong in her kneecaps. She had a fall. Her mother is away workin�, and her father�s dead, I guess, because she says he�s gone to the North Pole. Her aunt takes care of her. I don�t think they have any money, but I could lay fifty a month aside��

�Oh, you could, could you?� said Dr. Commerford. �Well, go ahead and do it, you big fool! Put it in the bank, and don�t let me or anybody else take it away from you. Where does your little friend live?�

Jim told him. Not long afterward surgical genius triumphed. Margie discarded her crutches and began to walk unaided. Complete recovery came gradually of course, but eventually she was able to beat all the others in a race for Officer Jim and to spring like a cat into his arms with a happy shriek of �Catch me, Jimmy!�

His cup of joy was almost complete. He would not have traded his job for that of Captain Collins, nor even that of the Chief. The youngsters showed him their report-cards each month, and those that had fallen from grace and failed to win promotion were loud in their insistence that he arrest their teacher. Some of them offered him candy and then demanded: �What�s the capital of Cleveland?� �Hey, Jim, where was Lincoln born?� �Is this the way you make a capital H?�

Because his own education had been sadly neglected and he desired to retain the respect of those that were learning fast, he showed up at the school after hours one afternoon, and made his humble plea to Miss Sadie Smith.

�I�m ashamed to go to a night-school,� he confessed, �but if you could spare me twenty minutes at your convenience, Miss Smith, �twould be a great favor and I�ll be glad to make it worth your while.�

So Miss Smith gained another pupil. The maiden mother and the bachelor daddy of six hundred children confronted each other in a private classroom every afternoon. Officer Jim struggled manfully with the problems of algebra; Sadie got chalk all over her nose; and the winged god of love sat in a far corner, heels on a desk, chuckling as he watched them.

O�Malley�s romance deepened in two directions. In the evenings, he now went out with Miss Smith. In the daytime Margie claimed him for her own. He learned why little Miss Sunshine was so glad she could run and why she was so anxious to save all her report-cards that had �Excellent� written upon them.

�It�s for my real daddy,� she explained. �When he comes back from the North Pole, I�m going to run to meet him, and show him all my cards.�

�That�s a fine idea,� he told her, �but you mustn�t be too disappointed if your daddy doesn�t come home right away, darlin�. The North Pole�s a long way off, you know.�

�I know,� she nodded soberly. �But Auntie says Santa Claus is going to surely bring him when I�m seven years old, and I�m almost six now!� She screwed up her face and looked at him with an expression that seemed oddly familiar, but just why he could not tell.

�Well,� he sighed, �let�s hope Santa Claus won�t forget. In the meantime, remember that Jim loves you, and if there�s anything your little heart wants, just come to me.�

Original publication:Ellery Queen�s Mystery Magazine, October 1950; first collected in People Vs. Withers & Malone by Stuart Palmer and Craig Rice (New York, Simon & Schuster, 1963)

�It was nothing, really,� said John J. Malone with weary modesty. �After all, I never lost a client yet.�

The party in Chicago�s famed Pump Room was being held to celebrate the miraculous acquittal of Stephen Larsen, a machine politician accused of dipping some thirty thousand dollars out of the municipal till. Malone had proved to the jury and to himself that his client was innocent � at least, innocent of that particular charge.

It was going to be a nice party, the little lawyer kept telling himself. By the way Larsen�s so-called friends were bending their elbows, the tab would be colossal. Malone hoped fervently that his fee for services rendered would be taken care of today, before Larsen�s guests bankrupted him. Because there was the matter of two months� back office rent...

�Thank you, I will,� Malone said, as the waiter picked up his empty glass. He wondered how he could meet the redhead at the next table, who looked sultry and bored in the midst of a dull family party. As soon as he got his money from Larsen he would start a rescue operation. The quickest way to make friends, he always said, was to break a hundred-dollar bill in a bar, and that applied even to curvaceous redheads in Fath models.

But where was Steve Larsen? Lolly was here, wearing her most angelic expression and a slinky gown which she overflowed considerably at the top. She was hinting that the party also celebrated a reconciliation between herself and Stevie; that the divorce was off. She had hocked her bracelet again, and Malone remembered hearing that her last show had closed after six performances. If she got her hand back into Steve�s pocket, Malone reflected, goodbye to his fee of three grand.

He�d made elaborate plans for that money. They not only included the trip to Bermuda which he�d been promising himself for twenty years, but also the redhead he�d been promising himself for twenty minutes.

Others at the table were worrying too. �Steve is late, even for him!� spoke up Allen Roth suddenly.

Malone glanced at the porcine paving contractor who was rumored to be Larsen�s secret partner, and murmured, �Maybe he got his dates mixed.�

�He�d better show,� Roth said, in a voice as cold as a grave-digger�s shovel.

The little lawyer shivered, and realized that he wasn�t the only guest who had come here to make a collection. But he simply had to have that money. $3,000 � $30,000. He wondered, half musing, if he shouldn�t have made his contingent fee, say, $2,995. This way it almost looked like...

�What did you say about ten per cent, counselor?� Bert Glick spoke up wisely.

Malone recovered himself. �You misunderstood me. I merely said, �When on pleasure bent, never muzzle the ox when he treadeth out the corn.� I mean rye.� He turned to look for the waiter, not solely from thirst. The little lawyer would often have been very glad to buy back his introduction to Bert Glick.

True, the City Hall hanger-on had been helpful during the trial. In fact, it had been his testimony as a prosecution witness that had clinched the acquittal, for he had made a surprise switch on several moot points of the indictment. Glick was a private detective turned bail-bondsman, clever at tapping wires and dipping his spoon into any gravy that was being passed.

Glick slapped Malone on the back and said, �If you knew what I know, you wouldn�t be looking at your watch all the time. Because this ain�t a coming out party, it�s a surprise party. And the surprise is that the host ain�t gonna be here!�

Malone went cold � as cold as Allen Roth�s gray eyes across the table. �Keep talking,� he said, adding in a whisper a few facts which Glick might not care to have brought to the attention of the district attorney.

�You don�t need to be so nasty,� Glick said. He rose suddenly to his feet, lifting his glass. �A toast! A toast to good ol� Stevie, our pal, who�s taking the Super-Century for New York tonight, next stop Paris or Rio. And with him, my fine feathered friends, he�s taking the dough he owes most of us, and a lot more too. Bon voyage!� The man absorbed the contents of his glass and slowly collapsed in his chair.

There was a sudden hullabaloo around the table. Malone closed his eyes for just five seconds, resigning himself to the certainty that his worst suspicions were true. When he opened his eyes again, the redhead was gone. He looked at his watch. There was still a chance of catching that New York train, with a quick stop at Joe the Angel�s bar to borrow the price of a ticket. Malone rushed out of the place, wasting no time in farewells. Everybody else was leaving too, so that finally Glick was left alone with the waiter and with the check.

As Malone had expected, Joe the Angel took a very dim view of the project, pointing out that it was probably only throwing good money after bad. But he handed over enough for a round trip, plus Pullman. By the time his cab had dumped him at the I.C. station, Malone had decided to settle for one way. He needed spending money for the trip. There were poker games on trains.

Suddenly he saw the redhead! She was jammed in a crowd at the gate, crushed between old ladies, noisy sailors, and a bearded patriarch in the robes of the Greek Orthodox Church. She struggled with a mink coat, a yowling cat in a traveling case, and a caged parrot.

Malone leaped gallantly to her rescue, and for a brief moment was allowed to hold the menagerie, before a Redcap took over. The moment was just long enough for the lawyer to have his hand clawed by the irate cat, and for him and the parrot to develop a lifelong dislike. But he did hear the girl say, �Compartment B in Car 10, please.� And her warm grateful smile sent him racing off in search of the Pullman conductor.

Considerable eloquence, some trifling liberties with the truth, and a ten-dollar bill got him possession of the drawing room next to a certain compartment. That settled, he paused to make a quick deal with a roving Western Union boy, and more money changed hands. When he finally swung aboard the already moving train, he felt fairly confident that the trip would be pleasant and eventful. And lucrative, of course. The minute he got his hands on Steve Larsen...

Once established in the drawing room, Malone studied himself in the mirror, whistling a few bars of �The Wabash Cannonball.� For the moment the primary target could wait. He was glad he was wearing his favorite Finchley suit, and his new green-and-lavender Sulka tie.

�A man of distinction,� he thought. True, his hair was slightly mussed, a few cigar ashes peppered his vest, and the Sulka tie was beginning to creep toward one ear, but the total effect was good. Inspired, he sat down to compose a note to Operation Redhead, in the next compartment. He knew it was the right compartment, for the parrot was already giving out with imitations of a boiler factory, assisted by the cat.

He wrote:

He poked the note under the connecting door, rapped lightly, and waited.

After a long moment the note came back, with an addition in a surprisingly precise hand.

Undaunted, Malone whistled another bar of the song. Just getting any answer at all was half the battle. So she�d noticed him in the Pump Room! He sat down and wrote swiftly:

This time the answer was:

But the little lawyer thought he heard sounds of feminine laughter, though of course it might have been the parrot. He sat back, lighted a fresh cigar, and waited. They were almost to Gary now, and if the telegram had got through...

It had, and a messenger finally came aboard with an armful of luscious Gruss von Teplitz roses. Malone intercepted him long enough to add a note which really should be the clincher.

That was the way, he told himself happily. Don�t give her a chance to say No again.

After a long and somewhat bruising trip through lurching Pullman cars, made longer still because he first headed fore instead of aft, Malone finally sank into a chair in the club-car lounge, facing the door. Of course, she would take time to arrange the roses, make a corsage out of a couple of buds, and probably shift into an even more startling gown. It might be quite a wait. He waved at the bar steward and said, �Rye, please, with a rye chaser.�

�You mean rye with a beer chaser, Mr. Malone?�

�If you know my name, you know enough not to confuse me. I mean beer with a rye chaser!� When the drink arrived Malone put it where it would do the most good, and then for lack of anything better to do fell to staring in awed fascination at the lady who had just settled down across the aisle.

She was a tall, angular person who somehow suggested a fairly well-dressed scarecrow. Her face seemed faintly familiar, and Malone wondered if they�d met before. Then he decided that she reminded him of a three-year-old who had winked at him in the paddock at Washington Park one Saturday and then run out of the money.

Topping the face � as if anything could � was an incredible headpiece consisting of a grass-green crown surrounded by a brim of nodding flowers, wreaths and ivy. All it seemed to need was a nice marble tombstone.

She looked up suddenly from her magazine. �Pardon me, but did you say something about a well-kept grave?� Her voice reminded Malone of a certain Miss Hackett who had talked him out of quitting second-year high school. Somehow he found himself strangely unable to lie to her.

�Madam, do you read minds?�

�Not minds, Mr. Malone. Lips, sometimes.� She smiled. �Are you really the John J. Malone?�

He blinked. �How in the � oh, of course! The magazine! Those fact-detective stories will keep writing up my old cases. Are you a crime-story fan, Mrs.�� ?�

�Miss. Hildegarde Withers, schoolteacher by profession and meddlesome old snoop by avocation, at least according to the police. Yes, I�ve read about you. You solve crimes and right wrongs, but usually by pure accident while chasing through saloons after some young woman who is no better than she should be. Are you on a case now?�

�Working my way through the second bottle,� he muttered, suddenly desperate. It would never do for the redhead to come in and find him tied up with this character.

�I didn�t mean that kind of a case,� Miss Withers explained. �I gather that even though you�ve never lost a client, you have mislaid one at the moment?�

Malone shivered. The woman had second sight, at least. He decided that it would be better if he went back through the train and met the Rose of Tralee, who must certainly be on her way here by this time. He could also keep an eye open for Steve Larsen. With a hasty apology he got out of the club car, pausing only to purchase a handy pint of rye from the bar steward, and started on a long slow prowl of mile after mile of wobbling, jerking cars. The rye, blending not unpleasantly with the champagne he had taken on earlier, made everything a little hazy and unreal. He kept getting turned around and blundering into the long-deserted diner. Two or three times he bumped into the Greek Orthodox priest with the whiskers, and similarly kept interrupting four sailors shooting craps in a men�s lounge.

But � no redhead. And no Larsen. Finally the train stopped � could it be Toledo already? Malone dashed to the vestibule and hung over the step, to make sure that Steve didn�t disembark. When they were moving again he resumed his pilgrimage, though by this time he had resigned himself to the fact that he was being stood up by the Rose of Tralee. At last, he turned mournfully back toward where his own lonesome cubicle ought to be � and then suddenly found himself back in the club car!

No redheaded Rose. Even The Hat had departed, taking her copy of Official Fact Detective Stories with her. The car was deserted except for a bridge game going on in one corner and a sailor � obviously half-seas over � who was drowsing in a big chair with a newspaper over his face.

The pint was empty. Malone told the steward to have it buried with full military honors, and to fetch him a cheese on rye. �On second thought, skip the cheese and make it just straight rye, please.�

The drink arrived, and with it a whispered message. There was a lady waiting down the corridor.

Malone emptied his glass and followed the steward, trying to slip him five dollars. It slipped right back. �Thanks, Mr. Malone, but I can�t take money from an old classmate. Remember, we went through the last two years of Kent College of Law together?�

Malone gasped. �Class of �45. And you�re Homer � no, Horace Lee Randolph. But��

�What am I doing here? The old story. Didn�t know my place, and got into Chicago Southside politics. Bumped up against the machine, and got disbarred on a phony charge of subornation of perjury. It could have been squared by handing a grand to a certain sharper at City Hall, but I didn�t have the money.� Horace shrugged. �This pays better than law, anyway. For instance, that lady handed me five dollars just to unlock the private lounge and tell you she�s waiting to see you there.�

The little lawyer winced. �She � was she a queer old maid in a hat that looked like she�d made it herself?�

�Oh, no. No hat.�

Malone breathed easier. �Was she young and lovely?�

�My weakness is the numbers game, but I should say the description is accurate.�

Humming �But �twas not her beauty alone that won me; oh, no, �twas the truth...� Malone straightened his tie and opened the door.

Lolly Larsen exploded in his face with all the power of a firecracker under a tin can. She grabbed his lapels and yelped: �Well, where is the dirty�?�

�Be more specific. Which dirty�?� Malone said, pulling himself loose.

�Steve, of course!�

�I don�t know, but I still hope he�s somewhere on this train. You joining me in the search? Nice to have your pretty face among us.�

Lolly had the face of a homesick angel. Her hair was exactly the color of a twist of lemon peel in a glass of champagne brut, her mouth was an overripe strawberry, and her figure might have inspired the French bathing suit, but her eyes were cold and strange as a mermaid�s. �Are you in this with Steve?� she demanded.

Malone said, �In simple, one-syllable words that even you can understand � No!�

Lolly suddenly relaxed, swaying against him so that he got a good whiff of brandy, nail polish, and Chanel Number 5. �I�m sorry. I guess I�m just upset. I feel so terribly helpless��

For Malone�s money, she was as helpless as an eight-button rattlesnake. �You see,� Lolly murmured, �I�m partly to blame for Steve�s running away. I should have stood by him at the trial, but I hadn�t the courage. Even afterward � I didn�t actually promise to come back to him, I just said I�d come to his party. I meant to tell him � in the Pump Room. So, please, please help me find him � so I can make him see how much we really need each other!�

Malone said, �Try it again, and flick the eyelashes a little bit more when you come to �need each other.� �

Lolly jerked away and called him a number of things, of which �dirty little shyster� was the most complimentary. �All right,� she finally said in a matter-of-fact tone. �Steve�s carrying a hundred grand, and you can guess how he got it. I happen to know � Glick isn�t the only one who�s been spying on him since he got out of jail yesterday. I don�t want Steve back, but I do want a fat slice for keeping my mouth shut. One word from me to the D.A. or the papers, and not even you can get him off.�

�Go on,� Malone said wearily. �But you interest me in less ways than one.�

�Find Steve!� she told him. �Make a deal and I�ll give you ten per cent of the take. But work fast, because we�re not the only ones looking for him. Steve double-crossed everybody who was at that party this afternoon. He�s somewhere on this train, but he�s probably shaved off his mustache, or put on a fright-wig, or��

Malone yawned and said, �Where can I get in touch with you?�

�I couldn�t get a reservation of any kind.� Her strange eyes warmed hopefully. �But I hear you have a drawing room?�

�Don�t look at me in that tone of voice,� Malone said hastily. �Besides, I snore. Maybe there�ll be something available for you at the next stop.�

He was out of there and back in the club car before Lolly could turn on any more of the charm. He decided to have one for the road � the New York Central Road, and one for the Pennsy too. The sensible thing was to find Steve Larsen, collect his own hard-earned fee, and leave Lolly alone. Her offer of ten per cent of the blackmail take touched on a sore spot.

Malone began to work his way through the train again, this time desperately questioning porters. The worst of it was, there was nothing remarkable about Larsen�s appearance except curly hair, which he�d probably had straightened and dyed, a mustache that could have been shaved off, and a briefcase full of money, which he�d probably hidden. In fact, the man was undoubtedly laughing at everybody from behind a false set of whiskers.

Such were Malone�s thoughts as he suddenly came face to face again with the Greek Orthodox priest, who stared past him through thick, tinted spectacles. The little lawyer hesitated and was lost. Throwing caution to the winds, he yanked vigorously at the beard. But it was an orthodox beard, attached in the orthodox manner. Its owner let loose a blast which just possibly might have been an orthodox Greek blessing. Malone didn�t wait to find out.

His ears were still burning when he stepped into a vestibule and ran head on into Miss Hildegarde Withers. He nodded coldly and started past her.

�Ah, go soak your fat head!�

Malone gasped.

�It�s the parrot,� Miss Withers explained, holding up the caged monstrosity. �It�s been making such a racket that I�m taking it to the baggage car for the night.�

�Where � where did you get that � bird?� Malone asked weakly.

�Why, Sinbad is a legacy from the aunt whose funeral I just went back to attend. I�m taking him back to New York with me.�

�New York!� Malone moaned. �We�ll be there before I find that��

�You mean that Mr. Larsen?� As he stood speechless, she went briskly on. �You see, I happened to be at a family farewell party at the table next to yours in the Pump Room, and my hearing is very acute. So, for that matter, is my eyesight. Has it occurred to you that Larsen may be wearing a disguise of some sort?�

�That it has,� admitted Malone sadly, thinking of the Greek priest.

The schoolteacher lowered her voice. �You remember that when we had our little chat in the club car some time ago, there was an obviously inebriated sailor dozing behind a newspaper?�

�There�s one on every train,� Malone said. �One or more.�

�Exactly. Like Chesterton�s postman, you never notice them. But somehow that particular sailor managed to stay intoxicated without ordering a single drink or nipping at a private bottle. More than that, when you suddenly left he poked his head out from behind the paper and stared after you with a very odd expression, rather as if he suspected you had leprosy. I couldn�t help noticing��

�Madam, I love you,� the lawyer said fervently. �I love you because you remind me of Miss Hackett back in Dorchester High, and because of your hat, and because you are sharper than a tack.�

Miss Withers sniffed, but it was a mollified sniff. �Sorry to interrupt, but that same sailor entered our car just as I left it with the parrot. I just happened to look back, and I rather think he was trying the door of your drawing room.�

Malone clasped her hand fondly. Unfortunately it was the hand that held the cage, and the parrot took advantage of the long-awaited opportunity to nip viciously at his thumb. �Thank you so very much � some day I�ll wring your silly neck� was Malone�s sincere but somewhat garbled exit line.

�Go boil your head in lard!� the bird screamed after him.

The maiden schoolteacher sighed. �Come on, Sinbad, you�re going into durance vile. And I�m going to retire to my lonely couch, drat it all.� She looked wistfully over her shoulder. �Some people have all the fun!�

But twelve cars, ten minutes, and four drinks later, Malone was lost again. A worried porter was saying, �If you could only remember your car number, sah?� A much harassed Pullman conductor added, �If you�d just show us your ticket stub, we�d locate you.�

�You don�t need to locate me,� Malone insisted. �I�m right here.�

�Maybe you haven�t got a stub.�

�I have so a stub. It�s in my hatband.� Crafty as an Indian guide, Malone backtracked them unerringly to his drawing room. �Here�s the stub � now where am I?�

The porter looked out the window and said, �Just coming into Altoona, sah.�

�They lay in the wreck when they found them, They had died when the engine had fell...� sang Malone happily. But the conductor winced and said they�d be going.

�You might as well,� Malone told him. �If neither one of you can sing baritone.�

The door closed behind them, and a moment later a soft voice called, �Mr. Malone?�

He stared at the connecting door. The Rose of Tralee, Malone told himself happily. He adjusted his tie, and tried the door. Miraculously, it opened. Then he saw that it was Miss Hildegarde Withers, looking very worried, who stared back at him.

Malone said, �What have you done with my redhead?�

�If you refer to my niece Joannie,� the schoolteacher said sharply, �she only helped me get my stuff aboard and rode as far as Englewood. But never mind that now. I�m in trouble.�

�I knew there couldn�t be two parrots like that on one train,� Malone groaned. �Or even in one world.�

�There�s worse than parrots on this train,� snapped Miss Withers. �This man Larsen for whom you were looking so anxiously��

The little lawyer�s eyes narrowed. �Just what is your interest in Larsen?�

�None whatever, except that he�s here in my compartment. It�s very embarrassing, because he�s not only dead, he�s undressed!�

�Holy St. Vitus!� gulped Malone. �Quiet! Keep calm. Lock your door and don�t talk!�

�My door is locked, and who�s talking?� The schoolteacher stepped aside and Malone peered gingerly past her. The speed with which he was sobering up probably established a new record. It was Larsen, all right. He was face down on the floor, dressed only in black shoes, blue socks, and a suit of long underwear. There was also a moderate amount of blood.

At last Malone said hoarsely, �I suspect foul play!�

�Knife job,� said Miss Withers with professional coolness. �From the back, through the latissimus dorsi. Within the last twenty minutes, I�d say. If I hadn�t had some difficulty in convincing the baggage men that Sinbad should be theirs for the night, I might have walked in on the murderer at work.� She gave Malone a searching glance. �It wasn�t you, by any chance?�

�Do you think I�d murder a man who owed me three thousand dollars?� Malone demanded indignantly. He scowled. �But a lot of people are going to jump to that conclusion. Nice of you not to raise an alarm.�

She sniffed. �You didn�t think I�d care to have a man � even a dead man � found in my room in this state of undress? Obviously, he hasn�t your money on his person. So � what is to be done about it?�

�I�ll defend you for nothing,� John J. Malone promised. �Justifiable homicide. Besides, you were framed. He burst in upon you and you stabbed him in defense of your honor...�

�Just a minute! The corpse was your client. You�ve been publicly asking for him all through the train. I�m only an innocent bystander.� She paused. �In my opinion, Larsen was lured to your room purposely by someone who had penetrated his disguise. He was stabbed, and dumped here. Very clever, because if the body had been left in your room, you could have got rid of it or claimed that you were framed. But this way, to the police mind at least, it would be obvious that you did the job and then tried to palm it off on the nearest neighbor.�

Malone sagged weakly against the berth. His hand brushed against the leather case, and something slashed viciously at his fingers. �But I thought you got rid of that parrot!� he cried.

�I did,� Miss Withers assured him. �That�s Precious in his case. A twenty-pound Siamese, also part of my recent legacy. Don�t get too close, the creature dislikes train travel and is in a foul temper.�

Malone stared through the wire window and said, �Its father must have been either a bobcat or a buzz saw.�

�My aunt left me her mink coat, on condition that I take both her pets,� Miss Withers explained wearily. �But I�m beginning to think it would be better to shiver through these cold winters. And speaking of cold � I�m a patient woman, but not very. You have one minute, Mr. Malone, to get your dead friend out of here!�

�He�s no friend of mine, dead or alive,� Malone began. �And I suggest��

There was a heavy knocking on the corridor door. �Open up in there!�

�Say something!� whispered Malone. �Say you�re undressed!�

�You�re undressed � I mean, I�m undressed,� she cried obediently.

�Sorry, ma�am,� a masculine voice said on the other side of the door. �But we�re searching this train for a fugitive from justice. Hurry, please.�

�Just a minute,� sang out the schoolteacher, making frantic gestures at Malone.

The little lawyer shuddered, then grabbed the late Steve Larsen and tugged him through the connecting door into his drawing room. Meanwhile, Miss Withers cast aside maidenly modesty and tore pins from her hair, the dress from her shoulders. Clutching a robe around her, she opened the door a crack and announced, �This is an outrage!�

The train conductor, a Pullman conductor, and two Altoona police detectives crowded in, ignoring her protest. They pawed through the wardrobe, peered into every nook and cranny.

Miss Withers stood rooted to the spot, in more ways than one. There was a damp brownish-red spot on the carpet, and she had one foot firmly holding it down. At last the delegation backed out, with apologies. Then she heard a feeble, imploring tapping on the connecting door, and John J. Malone�s voice whispering �Help!�

The maiden schoolteacher stuck her head out into the corridor again, where the search party was already waiting for Malone to open up. �Oh, officer!� she cried tremulously. �Is there any danger?�

�No, ma�am.�

�Was the man you�re looking for a burly, dark-complexioned cutthroat with dark glasses and a pronounced limp in the left leg?�

�No, lady. Get lost, please, lady.�

�Because on my way back from the diner I saw a man like that. He leered, and then followed me through three cars.�

�The man we�re looking for is an embezzler, not a mental case.� They hammered on Malone�s door again. �Open up in there!�

Over her shoulder Miss Withers could see the pale, perspiring face of John J. Malone as he dragged Steve Larsen back into her compartment again.

�But, officer,� she improvised desperately, �I�m sure that the awful dark man who followed me was a distinct criminal type�� There was a reassuring whisper of �Okay� from behind her, and the sound of a softly closing door. Miss Withers backed into her compartment, closed and locked the connecting door, and then sank down on the edge of her berth, trying to avoid the blankly staring eyes of the dead man.

Next door there was a rumble of voices, and then suddenly Malone�s high tenor doing rough justice to �Did Your Mother Come from Ireland?� The schoolteacher heard no more than the first line of the chorus before the Jello in her knees melted completely. When she opened her eyes again, she saw Malone holding a dagger before her, and she very nearly fainted again.

�You were so right,� the little lawyer told her admiringly. �It was a frame-up all right � but meant for me. This was tucked into the upholstery of my room. I sat on it while they were searching, and had to burst into song to cover my howl of anguish.�

�Oh, dear!� said Miss Withers.

He sat down beside her, patted her comfortingly on the shoulder, and said, �Maybe I can shove the body out the window!�

�We�re still in the station,� she reminded him crisply. �And from what experience I�ve had with train windows, it would be easier to solve the murder than open one. Why don�t we start searching for clues?�

Malone stood up so quickly that he rapped his head on the bottom of the upper berth. �Never mind clues. Let�s just find the murderer!�

�Just as easy as that?�

�Look,� he said. �This train was searched at the request of the Chicago police because somebody � probably Bert Glick � tipped them off that Larsen and a lot of stolen money were on board. The word has got around. Obviously, somebody else knew � somebody who caught the train and did the dirty work. It�s reasonable to assume that whoever has the money is the killer.�

There was a new glint in Miss Withers�s blue-gray eyes. �Go on.�

�Also, Larsen�s ex-wife � or do I mean ex-widow?�� is aboard. I saw her. She is a lovely girl whose many friends agree that she would eat her young or sell her old mother down the river into slavery for a fast buck.� He took out a cigar. �I�ll go next door and have a smoke while you change, and then we�ll go look for Lolly Larsen.�

�I�m practically ready now,� the schoolteacher agreed. �But take that with you!�

Malone hesitated, and then with a deep sigh reached down and took a firm grasp of all that was mortal of his late client. �Here we go again!�

A few minutes later Miss Hildegarde Withers was following Malone through the now-darkened train. The fact that this was somebody else�s problem never occurred to her. Murder, according to her tenets, was everybody�s business.

Malone touched her arm as they came at last to the door of the club car. �Here is where I saw Lolly last,� he whispered. �She only got aboard at the last minute, and didn�t have a reservation.� He pointed down the corridor. �See that door, just this side of the pantry? It�s a private lounge, used only for railroad officials or big-shots like governors or senators. Lolly bribed the steward to let her use it when she wanted to have a private talk with me. It just occurred to me that she might have talked him into letting her have it for the rest of the night. If she�s still there��

�Say no more,� Miss Withers cut in. �I am a fellow passenger, also without a berth, seeking only a place to rest my weary head. After all, I have as much right in there as she has. But you will be within call, won�t you?�

�If you need help, just holler,� he promised. Malone watched as the schoolteacher marched down the corridor, tried the lounge door gently, and then knocked. The door opened and she vanished inside.

The little lawyer had an argument with his conscience. It wasn�t just that she reminded him of Miss Hackett, it was that she had become a sort of partner. Besides, he was getting almost fond of that equine face.

Oh, well, he�d be within earshot. And if there was anything in the inspiration which had just come to him, she wasn�t in any real danger anyway. He went on into the bar. It was half-dark and empty now, except for a little group of men in Navy uniforms at the far end, who were sleeping sprawled and entangled like a litter of puppies.

�Sorry, Mr. Malone, but the bar is closed,� a voice spoke up behind him. It was Horace Lee Randolph, looking drawn and exhausted. He caught Malone�s glance toward the sleeping sailors and added, �Against the rules, but the conductor said don�t bother �em.�

Malone nodded, and then said, �Horace, we�re old friends and classmates. You know me of old, and you know you can trust me. Where did you hide it?�

�Where did I hide what?�

�You know what!� Malone fixed the man with the cold and baleful eye he used on prosecution witnesses. �Let me have it before it�s too late, and I�ll do my best for you.�

The eyes rolled. �Oh, Lawdy! I knew I shouldn�t a done it, Mista Malone! I�ll show you!� Horace hurried on down through the car and unlocked a small closet filled with mops and brooms. From a box labeled Soap Flakes he came up with a paper sack. It was a very small sack to hold a hundred thousand dollars, Malone thought, even if the money was in big bills. Horace fumbled inside the sack.

�What�s that?� Malone demanded.

�What would it be but the bottle of gin I sneaked from the bar? Join me?�

The breath went out of John J. Malone like air out of a busted balloon. He caught the doorknob for support, swaying like an aspen in the wind. It was just at that moment that they both heard the screams.

Original publication:Collier�s, May 21, 1938

�Be smart,� the warden said. �Go straight.�

A grin creased the leather face of Little John Sarto.

�I am goin� straight,� he said. �Straight to Chi.�

�I wouldn�t if I were you, Sarto.�

�Why not? I owned that burg once. I�ll own it again.�

�Things have changed in ten years.�

�But not me,� said Little John. �I still got what it takes to be on top.�

�You didn�t stay there,� the warden observed.

�I got framed,� Sarto said. �Imagine shovin� me on the rock on a sissy income tax rap!�

�It was the only charge they could make stick,� the warden said. �You were always pretty slick, Sarto.�

�I was, and I am,� said Little John.

The warden frowned. �Now look here, Sarto. When a man has done his time and I�m turning him loose, I�m supposed to give him some friendly advice. I do it, though I know that in most cases it�s a farce. You�d think men who�d done a stretch here in Alcatraz ought to have a sneaking notion that crime does not pay, but while I�m preaching my little sermon I see a faraway look in their eyes and I know they�re figuring out their next bank job or snatch.�

�Don�t class me with them small-time heisters and petty-larceny yeggs,� said Little John. �I�m a born big shot.�

�You�re apt to die the same way,� said the warden dryly.

�That�s okay, net, by me,� said Little John. �When I peg out I want to go with fireworks, flowers, and bands; but you�ll have a beard to your knees before they get out the last extra on Little John Sarto. I got a lot of livin� to do first: I got to wash out the taste of slum with a lakeful of champagne, and it�ll take half the blondes in the Loop to make me forget them nights in solitary. But most of all I got to be myself again, not just a number. For every order I�ve took here on the rock, I�m goin� to give two. I�m goin� to see guys shiver and jump when I speak. I�ve played mouse long enough. Watch me be a lion again.�

The warden sighed. �Sarto,� he said, �why don�t you play it safe? Stay away from Chicago. Settle in some new part of the country. Go into business. You�ve got brains and a real gift for organization. You ran a big business once��

�Million a month, net,� put in Sarto.

�And you�re only forty-six and full of health,� the warden went on. �You can still make a fresh start.�

�Using what for wampum?� asked Little John.

�You�ve got plenty salted away.�

Sarto laughed a wry laugh.

�I got the ten bucks, and the ticket back to Chi, and this frowsy suit the prison gimme, and that�s all I got,� he said.

�Don�t tell me you�re broke!�

�Flat as a mat,� said Little John. �I spent it like I made it � fast. A king�s got to live like a king, ain�t he? When I give a dame flowers, it was always orchids. My free-chow bill ran to a grand a week. They called me a public enemy but they treated me like a year-round Sandy Claws... But I ain�t worryin�. I was born broke. I got over it.�