DAVID TULLY: Rugged architect who tears down the fa�ades of the town�s �lite and builds a murder case from the rubble.

RUTH TULLY: David�s missing wife � a slim, dainty, sophisticate wanted for murder. Is she a fugitive from justice, or a victim of injustice?

LT. JULIAN SMITH: When murder falls into his carefully manicured hands, his excessive tidiness prompts him to cover it up, rather than dig into it.

CRANDALL COX: Gray-faced, slop-bodied caricature of a man with a misplaced third blue-black eye in the flab of his neck. Locus: morgue.

NORMA HURST: She hovers delicately between reality and fantasy.

SANDRA JEAN AINSWORTH: As tart as her tongue. Her orgies wrapped their tentacles around her sister, Ruth.

OLIVER HURST: Norma�s long-suffering husband who makes a great show of being normal, but his restless hands are busy: feeling, pulling, scratching, rubbing.

MAUDIE BLAKE: A sex pot who boiled too long and then spilled over; she heard too much and talked to the wrong people.

ANDREW GORDON: dark, lean, and sullen. �A useless overprotected lunkhead� to his mother, Mercedes, but the object of Sandra Jean�s marital machinations.

MERCEDES CABBOTT: A much married creature with unpredictable moods and the millions to indulge them.

GEORGE CABBOTT: Mercedes� adored third husband. Big, bronzed, and bleached, he wears old jeans, T-shirt, and sneakers as if they were a uniform.

JAKE BALLINGER: Crustaceous city editor. A rumpled, baggy-panted newsman of the old school who expects a quid for his quo and gets it.

EDDIE HARPER: Prematurely bald TV newscaster who ruthlessly pursues a sensational story.

DALRYMPLE: Ingratiating young manager of Wilton Lodge who does not dare evade David�s determined investigations.

MRS. HOSKINS: A retentive memory and a loose tongue combined to disclose a wicked weekend.

Dave Tully reached the outskirts of the business district at five o�clock in the afternoon. Trying to make time, he chose River Street and swung into the car-stream rushing across the bridge. A cloverleaf intersection a mile beyond split the river of traffic into rivulets. The big beige Imperial took the one going east.

Oleander Drive brought Tully in a gentle climb to the short green hills and, a few minutes later, to the fieldstone pillar whose bronze plaque announced Tully Heights.

The stiffness in his legs � it was a long drive up from the state capital � began to leave him. He felt himself smiling.

Tully Heights never failed to relax him. The Heights had been Dave Tully�s baby, from the first inking of the plat to the last brad in the graceful ranchers and split-levels slipping past the Imperial.

He had done a very good job here, Tully thought. The street layouts held the secret � broad and meandering, following the natural contours of the hills. At the sacrifice of a few lots he had achieved a beautiful individuality. You came upon each house unexpectedly, as if it were alone in the hills � a miniature estate rather than what it was, a unit in a development.

At number 100 Oleander, Tully braked the big car and eagerly turned into the driveway curving to the double garage doors of a redwood and antique brick split-level.

The absence of the other car, the general air of emptiness, let him down. Still, she hadn�t known he would be getting back at this hour.

Tully got out of the car � a big man, big in the shoulders and small in the waist. His face was square-cut, hearty, with a crinkle-eyed glow under the rather surprising metallic gray of his hair. People invariably glanced at the back of his hand for a tattoo, as in the TV cigarette commercials.

Inside the house he called, �Ruth?�

He expected no answer, and he got none.

Smith was deft and quick with the whole thing. A local undertaker handled the town�s morgue cases. The man known as Crandall Cox lay under a rubber sheet on a table in the workroom of the Henshaw Funeral Home.

Smith�s touch on his arm guided Tully through the heavy sweetness of funeral flowers to the room at the rear. The mortician removed the sheet. Before Tully, in all his naked mortality, lay a stranger.

He was a medium-sized man with little fat bloats around the armpits. The flesh sagged all along the line of his jaw. His face was heavy-featured, almost coarse, with a thin, sporty mustache. The hair was black and wavy and came to a widow�s peak on the low forehead. There was one blue-black hole in the gray flab of his neck, just below the thyroid cartilage, like a misplaced third eye.

To Tully the late Crandall Cox looked like nothing human.

He tried to visualize Cox with unrelaxed flesh and blood in the tissues of his face, but it was impossible. Even in life he must have looked three-quarters dead � a slug out of some back-alley wall. To think of Ruth � cool, slim, dainty, delectable Ruth � in the arms of this cheap, gray-faced, slop-bodied, slobber-mouthed caricature of a man � made him want to laugh.

Tully looked down at him and thought, You ugly son-of-a-bitch, without any feeling whatever.

�Well?�

Tully turned. �What?� He had forgotten Lieutenant Smith.

�Well, do you recognize him?�

�No.�

�You�re sure, Dave?�

�Yes.�

Somebody opened the door and the flower-smell wriggled in.

�What�s the matter?� Julian Smith asked him, eyes on Tully�s face.

�It�s those damn flowers,� he muttered. �Let�s get out of here before I throw up.�

When they were seated in the unmarked police car, Tully stuck his nose out the window and inhaled.

�Ruth ever mention a man of Cox�s description?� the detective asked, starting the car.

�I can answer that one positively absolutely,� Tully said without changing expression. �No. How about taking me home, Julian?�

But as they drove off through the gathering darkness, Tully found himself thinking that Ruth had never mentioned much of anything about herself and her life before they had met.

He sat back and shut his eyes. He suddenly felt sleepy.

The girl sounded perfectly cool. If she was disturbed, it was more a matter of annoyance than worry. Tully gaped at her.

She went over to the bar and proceeded to fix another drink for herself. �It would have to happen now,� she complained.

�Now?� Tully repeated blankly.

�I mean, it�s darned inconsiderate of Ruth, getting herself involved in a mess just when I was settling my hooks for keeps in lover-boy. It�s certainly not going to help me with old lady Cabbott. She�ll snatch at this scandal the way a seal goes after a fish.�

�I see,� Tully said. He felt like grabbing her by the neck and the seat of the panties and heaving her through the picture window. �And that�s all you can think about?�

Sandra Jean sat down again in the same sprawled position and sipped her drink. �Oh, come off it, Davey. It�s obviously some kind of ridiculous mistake, and anyway Ruth�s always been able to take care of herself. Meanwhile, I have to make out with Mercedes Cabbott. She�ll look for any excuse to keep Andy and me apart. My sister being hunted by the police is made to order for that old barracuda.�

�I guess this just isn�t my day,� Tully said. He rubbed his forehead with one hand, leaning on the TV set with the other. �What kind of self-centered little slut are you, Sandra?�

Something very hard came into her eyes. But her voice was quite level as she said, �I don�t like that, Davey. Don�t call me that again.�

�All right, all right,� Tully muttered. �I can�t seem to grasp any of this, Sandra. Did Ruth know a Crandall Cox?�

�Ask Ruth that,� the girl said.

�Then she did!�

�I didn�t say that. Look, Davey.� Sandra Jean took a long swallow and then set her glass down. �You think I�m being awfully callous, don�t you?�

�I think you�re being damned unconcerned about a sister who�s knocked herself out for you!�

�I�m not unconcerned,� the girl said calmly. �It�s just that I�m not worried. I know Ruth a lot better than you do.�

�What�s that supposed to mean?�

�Nothing. Ruth�s always managed just fine. She�s done pretty well for herself so far, hasn�t she? She�s never lost her head in her life. She�s far too smart to kill anybody, especially a crumb like this Cranny Cox.�

Tully straightened up, staring at her. �Crumb? How do you know he was a crumb?�

�He must have been. Who else but crumbs get themselves shot in cheap motels?�

�You�re lying,� Tully said. �You do know what this is all about, Sandra. You gave yourself away!�

�I did?� she said. She picked up the glass again.

�Cranny. You called him Cranny.�

�So what?�

�How do you know he was called Cranny Cox?�

�The announcer called him that.�

�The announcer called him Crandall Cox!�

For the merest instant Sandra Jean seemed perturbed. Then she shrugged and sipped her Scotch. �It�s obvious, isn�t it? A man named Crandall would be called Cranny, wouldn�t he?�

�Who was he, Sandra? What was his connection with Ruth?�

The girl rose. �Really, Davey. Playing detective! You weren�t cut out for the role. Good night.�

�Not yet!� Tully caught her by the wrist and spun her around. �By God, you know something about this, and you�re not leaving here until you tell me!�

�Isn�t this where I say, �Please, you�re hurting me�?� she said. �For the second time tonight, I might add. Under other circumstances I�d enjoy it. Now I�m bored. Let go of me.�

He glared down at her in a dumb rage. She had a special talent for making him feel foolish. He let go and turned abruptly away.

�You�re a darling,� his wife�s sister said sweetly. �Ruth�s lucky to have you. About this Cox business, it�s Ruth�s show. She�s innocent, of course, and I�m perfectly sure she�ll clear the whole thing up. Try not to worry about it.�

�Will you please get out of here!�

�I�m off to the races right now,� Sandra Jean said. �Where the devil did I throw my purse? Oh, here it is.� He heard her going to the door. �You see, Mercedes Cabbott and that stuffed Adonis she picked for a third husband might decide to pack my beloved off on a long trip, and I�ve got to get in a few licks of my own or lose Andy for good. How mercenary can a girl get! Night, Davey.�

He did not reply, and after a moment he heard the door open and close.

Tully went to the bar and poured himself a long jolt of Scotch. He gulped it and poured himself another. Then he sat down and tried to think again.

Sandra Jean had seemed so positive that Ruth would come through this � whatever it was � in one piece. Of course the girl knew all about it. She must have good reasons for respecting Ruth�s confidence.

That was the trouble, Tully thought. Those reasons.

He was completely confused. The implications from some of the things Sandra Jean had said... If Julian Smith were to phone him this moment to announce that Ruth was in the clear for Cox�s murder, could he honestly say that things would be just as they used to be between them?

He swallowed some more of the Scotch.

What had Cox really been to Ruth? He couldn�t have been unknown to her � not when his nickname fell so naturally from her younger sister�s lips.

Who was Cox?

For that matter, who was Ruth?

The question invaded and possessed his mind...

Tully was pouring his third Scotch when the phone in the den rang.

It was Oliver Hurst.

At one time she must have been pink and firm and cheaply pretty, a sexpot joyously ready for a tumble. But the years had caught up with her. Her overblown breasts had grown soft and lifeless, her heavy hips supported a thickening middle, and she was getting jowly. She was wearing a flowered wrapper and curlers in her straw-bleached hair, and there was a patina of cold cream on her fat cheeks when she answered Tully�s knock on the motel-room door.

She looked at him impudently. �Yes? What is it?�

�Are you Miss Maudie Blake?�

She nodded.

�My name is David Tully. I�d like to talk to you for a few minutes.�

�What about?� She was taking automatic inventory, noting the cut of his clothes, the beige Imperial he had parked nearby. If his surname meant anything to her, he could not detect it.

�May I come in?� Tully asked.

�You a cop?�

�No, Miss Blake.�

�A girl never knows,� she said, poking at her hair. �You don�t look like one. What is this, a sales pitch?�

�I�m not selling anything. I�m the husband of the woman named Ruth.�

Her eyes closed to slits.

�I know you�ve made a statement to the police. You don�t have to talk to me, Miss Blake. But I�d appreciate it if you would.�

He could see her weighing the possibilities, ready for instant retreat or advance. There was an animal cunning about her. He felt his pulse begin to accelerate. His instinct had been right.

�I guess I got a minute, Mr. Tully. Come in.�

She stood aside and he entered the motel room. The air was clogged with heavy perfume and powder. The place was close and hot, like an incubator, and it was cluttered with magazines, newspapers and odds and ends of apparel.

The Blake woman shut the door, waddled to the messy dressing table, picked up a pack of cigarettes and lit one. She did not ask him to sit down, or sit down herself. He waited.

�Mr. Tully,� she said suddenly. �You ought to know I can�t change my story now.�

Tully said to himself, Easy, boy, easy. You�ve got a bite on your line. �You think that�s why I came here?�

She made a vague gesture with her dimpled hands. �Why else? I figured this Ruth babe for a chippie. Now that I see the kind of husband she�s got, I get a different picture. Class. A bored dame with everything, including round heels.� She clucked, shaking her synthetic locks. �It�s too bad. How do broads like that hook guys like you?� The fat blonde cocked her head at him. �Just for laughs, how much were you going to offer me?�

�Miss Blake,� Tully began, �I don�t think you understand��

�Only thing is, it�s too late.� She sighed. �You should have beat the cops here. I�m stuck with what I told them.�

�And what you told them was the absolute truth?�

�Sure it was.� She looked at him steadily. Too steadily?

�Did you actually see the woman?�

�No. I didn�t even know he had a woman in there till I heard her say something. These walls are like tissue paper. After that I listened, just for kicks.�

�You heard him call her by name, I understand.� He had to hold on to himself with all his strength.

�I sure did.�

�How many times?�

�Oh, once or twice.�

�Then isn�t it possible you made a mistake?�

Her wrapper rustled as she undulated toward him. She came close enough for her various odors to sicken him.

�You�re really gone on this wife of yours, ain�t you, Mr. Tully? I wish I could say I�m not sure, but how could I make a mistake? He said her name loud and clear.�

Tully managed to back off without offending her. Why did I have to come here? he thought.

�You want a drink, Mr. Tully?� the woman asked sympathetically. �You look like you could use one.�

�No, thanks.�

She shook her head. �What a dope, playing around when she has a husband like you. Have they found her yet?�

�No. I mean I don�t know. I don�t suppose so.�

�Maybe she can explain things when they do.�

And maybe she can�t. �What time did you hear them in there?� Already it was becoming easier to couple them verbally.

Maudie Blake shrugged, everything jiggling. �Earlier part of the evening. I wasn�t watching the time.�

�Is there anyone else who might have heard them?�

�I guess not. His room�s on the end of the row. No room on the other side.�

�And you were able to hear him call the woman by name,� Tully said. �How is it you didn�t hear the shot?�

�I went out before that, I guess � before she let Cranny have it.�

He turned to go, his shoulders at a defeated slope. But then he stopped and turned slowly around.

�Cranny,� Tully said. �You just called him Cranny. You knew him!� He was all over her in an instant, digging his big fingers deep into her floppy arms, glaring down at her. �In fact, you know a hell of a lot more about this than you�ve let on! Suppose you start telling the truth��

�Whoa, buster,� the woman said. She had gone a little pale around the edges of the cold cream, but her voice was cool and unperturbed. �I could have you up for assault. Calm down, Mr. Tully. You can bruise me any time you want, but not with that look in your eye. Take your hands off me.�

�All right!� He almost flung her from him in his frustration. �Then you explain why you called him Cranny.�

�I must have heard one of the cops call him that.� She actually came close to him again and patted his cheek. �I know, she really gave you the knee. You�ll get over it. You in the phone book?�

�What?� Tully said, trying to shake his head clear.

�I said you in the phone book.�

�Of course. Why?�

�I thought you might have an unlisted number � you look well-heeled enough.�

�Why did you ask?�

�Oh, so I could get in touch. In case I thought of something... No, I can�t right now,� she added hastily, seeing his expression. �But you know how it is. Sometimes a person remembers... later.�

Tully said tiredly, �Maybe Lieutenant Smith could jog your memory right now, Miss Blake.�

�I doubt it,� Maudie Blake said, smiling. �I�d just have to tell him the same thing over and over. But I like you, Mr. Tully. And I�m going to set my mind to work real hard to see if I can think of anything else.�

Julian Smith�s office at police headquarters was as tidy as Smith himself. He nodded pleasantly to Tully and indicated a chair.

�Don�t bother to ask, Dave,� the lieutenant said. �The answer is we still haven�t found a trace of her.�

Tully sank into the chair. �When you phoned me to come right over, Julian, I was hoping�� Tully stopped without hope.

Smith filled two paper cups from a container of coffee and offered one to Tully.

�She hasn�t tried to contact you, Dave?�

He shook his head.

The lieutenant regarded him with sympathy. �Not much sleep last night, I take it.�

�Not much.�

�You look as if you could use some lunch.�

�I�m not hungry. Julian, why�d you call me?�

�We have a rundown on Crandall Cox.�

Tully set the paper down on the Homicide man�s desk; it was scalding his hand. He felt as if he weighed a thousand pounds. The headache still drummed between his temples.

�Have you linked Ruth to him?�

The detective said, �Not yet.�

�I told you,� Tully said. �It�s some nightmarish mistake.� Where was she? Running? Hiding?

Julian Smith glanced at him again, then picked up some papers from his desk. You�ll be interested to learn that Cox originally came from these parts.�

�Really?� It was just something to say.

�As a matter of fact, the name Cox rang a bell the minute I heard it. This fellow�s father, Crandall Cox Senior, owned a big hardware store where the Macklin department store now stands. He � the father, I mean � served a couple of terms on the City Council.�

�I don�t remember him.�

�It was a long time ago. Junior was the apple of his father�s eye � a rotten apple, as it turned out. Kicked out of school � he went to college here � wouldn�t go into the business, thought the world owed him a living; you know the type. When Cox Senior died and the store was sold, Junior ran through the estate in short order. Spent it mostly on women. Then his mother died. He had no other family here, so Cox liquidated what was left and lit out for bigger fields.

�Through his fingerprints, clothing labels, baggage and a few other leads we got a quick make on him from upstate and a few big cities in neighboring states. He was arrested and tried at least twice for extortion, once on a charge of blackmail, but no convictions.� Lieutenant Smith shrugged. �There�s probably a big book on him that�ll turn up when we�ve had more time to dig.�

�Sounds charming,� Tully said dully.

�Until comparatively recently Cox lived pretty well. Off women. Mainly middle-aged widows and well-heeled married women with busy husbands and too much time on their hands.�

Tully flushed at that, and Smith went on, looking through his window at the town�s main street. �About a year or so ago he began to go to pot physically � kidneys kicked up, an almost fatal pneumonia, a stomach ulcer, heart attack... He wound up in the charity ward of a city hospital, and we�re pretty sure he headed for here not long after he was discharged.

�Dave... I don�t think Cox came back to the old home town for sentimental reasons. He was sick and broke, and the way I figure it he had a pigeon here ready to pluck � some woman he could blackmail out of a lot of money. And she lost her head and killed him.�

�You mean Ruth,� Tully said.

�The shoe seems to fit, Dave.�

Tully swallowed the dregs of his coffee, crushed the paper cup and flung it at the window. Smith patiently picked it up, dropped it into his wastebasket and waited.

Tully�s skin was gray and his eyes looked as if they had been wiped with sandpaper.

�Thanks for nothing!� he said through his teeth.

�It may not be so bad, Dave. She�d certainly get the sympathy of a jury. Probably could even plead self-defense and get away with it. Why don�t you think it over?�

Tully laughed. �You think I�m hiding Ruth?�

�You�re head over heels gone on her, pal. It might have warped your better judgment.�

�This is one nightmare that seems to have no end.� Tully�s laugh was more like a bark. �What good would it do me to hide her, Julian?�

�You might be figuring on smuggling her out of the country � Mexico, South America, anywhere. Then turning your assets secretly into cash and slipping away to join her.�

�Julian, you can�t be serious��

�Can�t I?� the detective said. �Item: We�re pretty good at looking for people. Ruth�s hiding in no back-street hotel in this town, believe me. Item: You cut short your visit upstate. Why, Dave?�

�I�d finished sooner than I�d expected. I�d only just got back to the house when you drove up and found me!�

�Or you left the capital two hours before you claimed. Figuring normal driving time, there�s still about two hours of your return trip we can�t account for, Dave. Maybe more, if you really pushed the Imperial.�

�You mean,� Tully snarled, �I�m a suspect in this case, too?�

�Under the circumstances,� Lieutenant Smith said unhappily, �I�m afraid I�ve got to ask you what you did with those two hours.�

Tully drew the back of his hand across his mouth, tasting a clammy slick. It had not occurred to him that he might be under investigation, too.

�For one thing, I got a shave and haircut,� he said.

�At the Capitol Hotel barber shop?�

�No, at a place near Monument Square. Not far from the restaurant where I had my breakfast.�

Smith reached for a scratch pad and a pencil. �Want to give me the name of the shop?�

�I don�t know the name of the shop. I don�t remember what the barber looked like, or the shine boy. I didn�t realize I�d need them for an alibi or I�d have taken notes, Julian.�

�You didn�t spend two hours in the shop,� the Homicide man said. His face was slightly flushed.

�Of course not! I decided that as long as I was in the capital, I�d take a quick look at the Markham development. The one with the artificial lakes.�

�Did you call Mr. Markham?�

�No. He�d have insisted on showing me everything in detail and I�d have lost half a day. I was only interested in his use of the terrain. I drove out there, cruised around, saw what I wanted to see, and then left.�

�You drove directly home from there?�

�Yes.�

�Okay, Tully, thanks.�

Tully drove away from police headquarters depressingly certain that Julian Smith was far from through with him.

It was easy enough to see it from the detective�s point of view: Tully returning early from upstate; Ruth, skulking in a darkened house, waiting for her husband, half out of her mind, hysterically confessing in his arms that she had shot a blackmailer; Tully, completely in love with his wife, hiding her without thought of the consequences...

Bleakly, he almost wished it were that simple.

The mansion � no one ever referred to it as a house � lorded it over the landscape from its eminence above the town. It was a gigantic white-brick edifice with the tall white pillars and sweeping verandas of the Virginia Colonial style, out of place and out of time. But if you could ignore the modern developments clustering about its skirts, and the grimy town far below, it was beautiful.

Tully drove up the winding approach between the immaculate palisades of seventy-foot arborvitae trees, worth a fortune in themselves, catching glimpses of the intricate terracing beyond that kept a crew of landscape gardeners busy nine months a year. Then he passed the tennis courts and the Olympic-sized swimming pool. Over the hill behind the house, Tully knew, were stables and riding trails and a nine-hole golf course, separated from the rear terrace by an immense acreage as carefully tended as a Londoner�s postage-stamp garden.

The English butler � only Mercedes Cabbott would have the nerve to employ an English butler in a community where the acquisition of a cook or even a mere maid was a major triumph � preceded Tully through the gleaming two-story entrance hall and showed him out onto the flagged terrace at the rear of the mansion, overlooking the incredible lawns. Mercedes was seated in flowered grandeur at a white-ribbed glass table, big enough for twelve, before a display of savory-smelling silver-lidded mysteries.

�Good morrow, David,� she said.

�Good what?� Tully said, in spite of himself.

�What else can I call it? I don�t know whether the hell it�s morning or afternoon � whether this is breakfast Edouarde whipped up for me, or lunch. What is it, Stellers?�

The butler said, dead-pan, �A bit of each, Madam.�

�Thank you, Stellers. How about disposing of this grapefruit for me, David? It�s laced with sherry. Or would you care for some he-man chow?�

�I only dropped in for a few minutes, Mercedes�� Tully began.

�And a great mercy it is, David � you look half starved. Pull up one of these spidery iron chairs George picked � I can�t imagine why! Another place, Stellers, and tell Edouarde to fix Mr. Tully a filet. Medium rare, David, isn�t it?�

Tully smiled faintly. �That�s right. But really��

�Shut up, darling. It will make me happy. Don�t you want to make me happy?�

Sipping Edouarde�s Lucullan coffee, listening to Mercedes Cabbott�s brisk small-talk, Tully resigned himself to a long session. She was a tinkling, vivacious little woman, all pinks and whites, with the figure of a young girl and the temperament of a fifteenth century queen. She wore her white hair like a crown and left the dye bottles to commoner females.

No one told Mercedes what to do, not even her husband George Cabbott, whom she adored. She kept whimsical hours, ate when she pleased, abhorred exercise and never gained a pound. She was a many-sided creature with unpredictable moods, and the inherited millions to indulge them. She would suddenly take off for Europe, or India, or some unannounced destination and be gone for months. She would often, without explanation, refuse to support a much-needed community project; yet Tully knew that she just as often made huge anonymous donations to causes or institutions that caught her fancy.

This youthful woman with the imperious blue eyes was old enough to be a grandmother many times over � which she would have been, she had once remarked to him, had her daughter Kathleen Lavery lived. Tully knew how much Mercedes wanted grandchildren � grandchildren of �the right sort.� He supposed this had something to do with her ferocious possessiveness toward Andrew Gordon, her only remaining child, and the fierce eye she kept on the girls in whom he showed an interest.

Tully had known Mercedes all his life as most others in town had known her, which was to say not at all. Then his plans to build Tully Heights brought them together. During their negotiations for the purchase of the land he wanted for his development, they had become friends.

It was through Mercedes Cabbott that he had met Ruth Ainsworth. Ruth had exploded into Tully�s life when she made a sudden appearance in the storybook mansion as Mercedes�s house guest that memorable summer. Mercedes�s insistence on making the wedding for them had seemed to touch Ruth deeply; Tully, who had other plans, found himself abandoning them without a struggle.

It was at the wedding that he first met his bride�s sister; Sandra Jean had come from somewhere in the East to be Ruth�s maid of honor. And in the mansion Sandra Jean had remained, playing a rapidly warming game with Andy Gordon, as a sort of quasi-member of the family. The Ainsworth girls� mother and Mercedes had been intimate friends since their college days, it seemed, and Mercedes had characteristically kept an eye � and often a hand � on her friend�s daughters when Mrs. Ainsworth died. Between Mercedes and Ruth there had been an obvious affection; toward Sandra Jean the wealthy woman evinced no such personal involvement. Their relationship was too complex for Tully to grasp.

He had once asked Mercedes, �Sandra Jean seems to bring out the iron in you. Why do you let her stay?�

�Because,� Andy�s mother had replied sweetly, �here I can keep tabs on what she�s up to.�

Something Mercedes was saying jolted Tully out of his ruminations.

�Sorry,� he said. �I was off on Cloud Nine. What was that again, Mercedes?�

�I said you�re not eating your steak. Now let�s talk turkey. When are you going to get down to the reason for this visit? I know it�s about Ruth.�

Tully put down his steak-knife. �How did you know?�

�Darling, two men were here. Policemen. Very discreet and well-mannered. And pathetically anxious to sniff out Ruth�s whereabouts.�

�Did you tell them?� Tully asked quickly. �Do you know?�

�No, David, to both questions.�

�She�s in serious trouble,� he muttered.

�I gathered as much,� she said in a quiet voice. �David, what�s it all about? Tell me, please.�

�She�s suspected of causing a man�s death. His name was Crandall Cox.�

�That motel shooting?� The little woman had guts of steel. Her eyes turned steely, too. �We shan�t let them harm her, shall we, David?�

�Not if I can help it.�

�Not if we can help it.� Mercedes glanced over her shoulders into the house. �I wonder what�s keeping George?�

�Mercedes... have you heard from Ruth?�

She returned her attention fully to him. �I�m not sure I�d tell you even if I had.�

�What do you mean!�

Mercedes Cabbott leaned over and squeezed his big hand with her tiny one; it had surprising strength. �You needn�t bark at me, David,� she said gently. �You�d have a troubled look of a different sort if your concern were without a doubt. There�s a big question in your mind suddenly about Ruth.�

�I don�t know what you mean,� Tully said stiffly.

�You know exactly what I mean. It�s Ruth�s possible relationship with this worm Cox that�s eating away at you, not the absurd allegation that she shot him.�

�Well, suppose it is!�

�Then I was right. I don�t blame you one little bit, David. It�s natural for a man to doubt under such circumstances.�

�Is it?� Tully said miserably. �I always thought that if a man loved a woman��

�Garbage! A man is a man, which means that he�s a peculiarly vulnerable creature.� Mercedes smiled at him. �But I have good news for you, David. Natural as your doubts are, they�re unnecessary. I know Ruth through and through. She really loves you. No other man exists for her��

�Would you make the same statement in the past tense?� he mumbled. �A man, say, named Cox?�

�Do you think you have a right to expect that Ruth was brought up in a bottle?� She squeezed his hand again. �But I�d stake a very great deal on that girl, David. I�ve never known her to do a vulgar or sordid thing.�

Tully sighed. �I�m sorry, Mercedes.�

�That�s good.� The blue steel came back into her eyes. �Because now I can say I�m sorry, too.�

He looked up, puzzled. �You? What for?�

�For what I have to do, David. I have to use what weapons fate puts into my hand.�

�I don�t think I understand.�

�In a short time you and Ruth are going to be hip-deep in the worst slops of a sex and murder scandal. I mean publicly. I�m going to have to use it, David.�

�That�s just what Sandra Jean predicted.�

�She did?� Mercedes nodded. �Good for her � she�s even shrewder than I gave her credit for. Funny how an angel like Ruth could have such a little bitch of a sister. A bitch, I might add, in continuous heat.�

Tully said, without thinking, �It takes two to couple, Mercedes.�

For a moment she looked furious. Then she shrugged her pretty shoulders. �Yes, it does, David. I suppose you�re justified in taking that tone about Andrew � I haven�t always sounded rational about my son. I�m afraid I haven�t done a very good job with Andy.� Her voice hardened. �But he�s all I have left, and he�s going to be what I want in spite of himself.

�When I buried Kathleen...� Mercedes stopped; for the merest flash of a startling instant, she looked ancient. All Tully could think of was Rider Haggard�s Ayesha swiftly crumbling to dust. Then Mercedes was herself again. �I wasn�t able to stop mourning Kathleen, David. And when I was left with Andy Junior, the ghost of Kathleen took over. What I mean is... I was terrified from that moment on. Terrified that I might lose him, too.�

He had never seen Mercedes Cabbott so nakedly distressed.

�I�ve become increasingly aware of the poor job I�ve done with Andy. Maybe it was marrying George Cabbott that opened my eyes. Third time the charm, they say. George is the man I should have met and married in the beginning. If he�d been at my side in Andy�s formative years, to help me bring Andy up...�

�Mercedes.�

�No, let me say it, David. I want you to know... I honestly don�t feel any personal spite toward Sandra Jean. Under other circumstances, in fact, I could like the girl � she�s so like me in so many ways. But it�s too late all around. Andy is what I�ve made him, a useless and overprotected lunkhead who doesn�t know how to take care of himself. He wouldn�t survive six months outside the environment I�ve created for him. But finally knowing all this doesn�t change anything. I love him, and I�ve got to keep him from coming to serious harm. Sandra Jean would swallow him like a female shark... Have I been awfully selfish, filling your ears with my true confessions when you�re in such immediate trouble? Forgive me, David.�

�For what?� Tully said. He engulfed her little hand and felt it stiffen in his grasp. She was an island surrounded by an impenetrable reef � a strange and lovely little island full of unexpected hazards. No one, with the possible exception of George Cabbott, had ever really explored her.

At that moment George Cabbott came out on the terrace, and Tully rose, feeling a great relief.

George was a big man, as big as Tully, bronzed and bleached by outdoor living. He wore old jeans, a T-shirt and sneakers as if they were a uniform.

��Lo, Dave. Sorry I�m late, sweetheart. I was scrubbing up.�

As her husband stooped to kiss her, Mercedes crinkled her little nose.

�You�ve been in the stables again, darling. Sometimes I think I married a horse.�

George Cabbott chuckled, and she threw her head back for his kiss. Tully looked away and took the first opportunity to excuse himself.

He had never felt so alone in his life.

�If that refugee from a TV commercial thinks he can bluff me out of this...!� Sandra Jean was raging up and down the room. �I�ll show him.�

�Maybe he�s being your very good friend,� Tully said.

�And maybe Mercedes Cabbott is a member of the human race! Why, Dave, she put him up to this � isn�t it obvious? I�ll show her, too!�

There was a bubble of froth at the corner of her mouth. And her sister�s predicament, Tully thought bitterly, left her temperature unchanged. That�s what she thinks of Ruth.

As if she had picked up the name on her emotional radar, Sandra Jean said suddenly, �I�m not really worried � that woman won�t cast her precious sonny-boy adrift � it�s the way she treats me. You�d think I was Typhoid Mary. The old bitch wouldn�t act this way if I were Ruth.�

�Well, that�s one thing you don�t have to worry about,� Tully said. �You�re not.�

His tone seemed to calm her down. �I know I�m not, Davey. It�s been thrown up to me all my life. What the hell happened to this drink?� She went over to the bar and got busy again. �It�s always been Ruth this and Ruth that, all that�s pure and holy. In Mercedes�s case it�s easy to understand � she latched onto Ruth as a substitute for her daughter Kathleen, who becomes more and more of a saint the longer she�s dead � in Mercedes�s mind, that is.� Sandra Jean took her fresh drink to the sofa and curled up opposite him. �That�s all right with me...�

�I don�t think it is,� Tully said. �I think you hate Ruth. I think you�ve always hated her.�

Sandra Jean looked into her tall glass and considered this. �Maybe I do at that,� she said at last. �Maybe I always have, as you say. And that makes me out a stinker for real, doesn�t it?�

�Forget it,� Tully said, barely waving his hand. �Forget it. I hardly know what I�m saying.�

�Look, Davey,� the girl said, setting her glass down on the floor. He looked, and he saw a Sandra Jean ten years older, her face drawn down in bitter lines. �Did Ruth ever tell you that our mother died giving birth to me? Till the day he died Daddy never forgave me for it � I was the �cause,� you see, for Mother�s dying. Poor Daddy had a tough time trying not to show it, and it�ll give you a short idea of the kind of cookie our father was when I tell you that his solution was to pretend I wasn�t there. So I never had a mother, and to my father I was a sort of nothing. Naturally, he gave all his paternal attention � and love � to Ruth, who could do no wrong. That�s what I grew up with � a guilt feeling about my mother�s death and having my big sister thrown in my face. And it�s still going on.�

�I didn�t know that.� Tully shaded his burning eyes. He had never more than tolerated Sandra Jean, being polite to her only for his wife�s sake; but now he realized that for some time he had even stopped thinking of the girl as a human being. She had become a sort of ambulatory annoyance � a tart-tongued irritant when her sister was around, a menace when she could corner him alone. He could not even flatter himself that she was sexually attracted to him. It was Sandra Jean�s way of tearing down everything around her that seemed to have some solidity. Now he understood why. �I�m sorry we haven�t got on better, Sandra,� Tully said.

�Are you now,� the girl said. She had been biting her lips; but now she retracted them in a curl of malice. She stooped and snatched up her glass. �And I love you, too, Davey my lad. Pros�t!� She tossed down the contents of the glass and deliberately dropped it on the sofa and jumped up. �On that moon-eyed note, dear brother-in-law, you are rid of me for the evening. Any more of it and I�ll throw up.�

�Where are you going?� It was her way of covering up, he knew, for having momentarily exposed herself.

�Back to the Cabbotts� to play hell with Mercedes�s plans. She has no intention of turning Andy loose on an unsuspecting world, but the dumb bunny may not realize it unless there�s someone there to tell him. And that�s me. Say, call me a cab, will you? I was expecting Andy to drive me back.�

Tully silently rose and went into his den and phoned for a taxi. When he returned she was standing at the front door. �You�re not such a bad egg, Davey,� she said brightly. �Only a little on the raunchy side... I had you going with all that autobiographical crud, didn�t I, Dave boy?�

�It sounded real to me,� Tully smiled faintly.

His smile infuriated her.

�So what!� Sandra Jean snarled. �I don�t need you, Ruth or anybody else!�

She was waiting for him in the doorway of her room. He supposed she had instructed the seedy clerk at the desk in the dusty lobby to warn her of his arrival.

Stretched over her gelatinous figure were skintight slimjims with a pattern of huge pink roses and a knit blouse that sculptured her outsized chest. There was a cigarette in her fat fingers and a tobacco crumb on her lips.

�Anybody with you?� She stepped into the hall and glanced down the dingy stairwell.

�You said to come alone.�

She motioned him into her room and followed him in.

She shut and latched the door and leaned back against it, watching him critically � even, Tully thought, anxiously. He glanced around the room; he had never set foot in Flynn�s Inn before. Like the hall it was dingy and cramped and dirty, and she had brought with her from the motel room the same odor of stale smoke and cheap perfume. He wondered if he was the intended victim of a badger game � the bed was unmade, the bedclothes tumbled about.

�Have a drink, Mr. Tully?�

�What? Oh � no, thanks. Miss Blake��

�I never been much on this �Miss Blake� stuff.� The woman went to the dusty bureau and poured herself a shot from a two-thirds empty fifth of rye. �You call me Maudie.�

�Look,� Tully said. �I don�t know what you�re up to, but if this is some kind of shakedown racket��

�Why, Mr. Tully, you got no right to talk to me like that!� She actually sounded injured. �I just had a story to tell you.�

�Then tell it, please, and I�ll get out of here.�

�A real sad story, I mean.� She slung the contents of the shot glass down her throat. �About a girl who needs a loan.�

�I�m not a banker or a money-lender,� Tully said shortly. �I�m in the market for information and I�ll buy it. How much do you want?� He brought out his wallet and waited. Her quick animal eyes pounced on it and sprang away. She went back to the bureau and refilled the glass.

�What�s your hurry, Mr. Tully? Why don�t you sit down and relax?� Tully looked around, spotted one uncluttered chair, and sat down on it. �That�s better,� she smiled. �You see, Mr. Tully, I leveled with the cops. My neck ain�t stuck out. If I happen to remember an extra detail later, that�s natural, ain�t it?�

�What detail?�

Her glance was fixed on his right hand, and he looked down. He had forgotten that he was still holding the wallet. �First about that loan I mentioned...�

He made an impatient gesture. �How much?�

Maudie Blake said swiftly, �A hundred. Cash. They don�t like checks here.�

Tully opened his wallet and leafed through its contents. There were three twenties and a few small bills. �All I have on me is seventy-eight dollars.�

She walked over to him and deliberately looked into his wallet. �Okay,� she said. �Gimme.�

He handed her the bills and put his empty wallet away. She made a tight roll of the money and thrust it into the cleft under her blouse.

�Well?� Tully demanded. He felt himself sweating.

She carried her drink to a lumpy chair and sat down, draping her left leg over the arm. She looked at him uneasily and gulped the whisky. She had apparently been drinking for some time; her eyes were beginning to blear and she sounded a little tight.

�You�re not going to like this, Mr. Tully,� the woman began slowly. �Remember, I never promised you would. Right?�

�If it�s about Crandall Cox,� Tully said, �I�m listening.�

�And your wife.� She blinked and tongued her lips. �She wasn�t the only one,� she said. �A long time ago... well, Cranny used to tell me he didn�t give a damn about any of them but me. I didn�t believe him even then. But � you know how dames are, Mr. Tully. Or maybe you don�t.�

Or maybe I don�t...

Maudie Blake�s face drooped all over. �I was the one who was always there � he always had me, and he knew it. Cranny Cox was the kind needed a woman to fall back on when he was scared or broke � something like a dog he could count on no matter what he did. A dog that didn�t ask for nothing but a pat on the head once in a while, or even a boot in the rear.�

She got up and shuffled back to the bureau and the whisky bottle.

�It must have been rough on you,� Tully said. Who cares? he thought. Get on with it!

�Rough? Yes, you could say that, mister... yess�r, you could sure say that.�

He thought she was going to cry. Instead, her mouth tightened and she seized the bottle and drank directly from it and then took it back to the lumpy chair with her.

�When he got real sick this last time,� she said, �I figured I had Cranny for good. Though what I wanted with him I can�t tell you. All I knew was... I�d sooner have a kick from Cranny Cox than a kiss from any other man I ever knew. And he knew it. Goddam that ugly creep, he knew it!�

�Miss Blake,� Tully said. �Maudie��

But she mumbled, �And I was wrong again. I didn�t have him, any more than the other times. He still had his great big plans to live it up. He just let me take care of him till he could get back on his feet. Then he robbed me and took off again.�

In spite of the sick dread in the pit of his stomach Tully found himself becoming aware of Maudie Blake as a woman, a hopeless addict of what she herself would hardly dare call love � love for a man who permitted her to shelter and nurse and feed him and give him money, and who then deserted her again.

�Did you know his plans? That he was coming here?�

�He didn�t tell me nothing. One day I come home and he was gone, and he didn�t come back. No note, no nothing. But I found a bus timetable... he�d marked it... name of a town, and I remembered he�d once said it was his home town.�

�So you followed him?�

�Took the next bus.� She hiccupped and giggled, ��Scuse me.�

�Why?�

�Huh?� She peered at him owlishly.

�Why did you follow him?�

She seemed surprised. �He needed me.�

�If he left you without a word,� Tully said, �how did you know he was at the Hobby?� Suddenly he was suspicious.

�I didn�t. But I figured him for a cheap motel � I�d only left a few bucks in my flat that he�d lifted. Third motel I tried, there he was, walking across the parking lot.�

�I suppose he wasn�t very glad to see you?�

�He cussed me out good.� She laughed, tilted the bottle again. But it was empty, and she flung it from her. �Later he says okay, you�re here you can stay, only keep out of my hair.� She laughed again, then scowled and began to struggle out of the chair. �I got to get me another bottle��

But Tully was towering over her, and she plopped back in alarm. �Cox told you why he�d come here, didn�t he?�

�No��

�You�re lying. You�ve known all along, haven�t you?�

Through her fright he saw a glint of cunning. �That ain�t what you�re buying for seventy-eight bucks, Mr. Tully.�

�Would you rather Lieutenant Smith asked you the question?�

�You yell copper and a fat lot of good it�ll do you,� she muttered. �I�d just have to tell him like I�m telling you: I don�t know why Cranny came here, I just followed him, that�s all. Is there a law against that?�

Something in Tully�s face above her sobered her.

�Now don�t you try muscle on me, mister!�

�Cox told you his plan, didn�t he?�

�He never��

�And I was beginning to feel sorry for you! Either you were both in on this from the start, or he cut you in on the action when you showed up at the Hobby!�

She shrank deep into the chair. �No. I swear��

�Making you share the crime of whatever he was up to would be a kind of insurance for Cox. That�s it, isn�t it? He didn�t trust you, so he assigned part of the job to you. What were you supposed to do, Maudie?� Tully was shaking her now, his fingers deep in her fat shoulders. �What part of the mucky plan did he assign to you? Talk, you bitch!�

It was the sight of her eyes that brought him to his senses. They were bugging out, terrified, from her purpling face; and to Tully�s horror he saw that his hands were around her neck. He released her and backed off. She felt her throat unbelievingly.

�You were gonna choke me,� she whispered. �I ought to have you arrested for f�lonious assault, that�s what I ought to do!.. But I got a better idea, Mr. Tully.�

She was all bitch now, a mountain of triumphant flesh. Tully half turned away, half closed his smarting eyes. The Blake woman got out of the chair and waddled over to him, still feeling her neck.

�I was trying to ease you into it because I thought you were real class and a nice guy and I didn�t want to hurt you no more than I had to. But now, Mr. Tully, I�m gonna give it to you good! You know what your seventy-eight bucks bought? You listen!�

He tried to avoid her sour breath, but he could not.

�You drive on up to the Lodge at Wilton Lake � the Lodge, hear? Talk to the people who run it � the maids and the bellhops � take a good long look at the register��

�What are you talking about?� Tully stammered. �The register for when � what?�

�Two summers ago � first week in June, Mr. Tuny,� the woman jeered. �Him and her � yeah! Cranny Cox and your wife.�

The distance from town to the Lake was a hundred and sixty miles. Tully covered it in under three hours, taking the final twists of the mountain road shortly after nine o�clock.

The Lodge lay at the northern end of the great lake � a rugged, spreading two-story ranch building of ivy-overgrown fieldstone and hand-hewn logs. The west terrace was lighted with copper torches. Cooks in tall chef�s hats were serving an outdoor barbecue to the music of a strolling trio of cowboy-clad guitarists. Half the terrace tables were unoccupied.

The beamed lobby with its great field-stone fireplaces was quiet. An attractive woman of middle age was on duty behind the desk.

�I was to meet my wife here,� Tully said. �Do you have a Mrs. Tully registered?�

The woman consulted a register-file. �I�m sorry, sir, she hasn�t arrived yet. If you have a reservation, would you like to register for the two of you?�

�No. I want to see the manager.�

Tully was hungry-faced and gray. The woman hesitated.

�It�s important.�

She looked him over carefully. �Just a moment, please.� She lifted the wicket, crossed the lobby and disappeared through the tall doors that led to the terrace.

She came back several minutes later with a sunburned young man. He smiled and said, �I�m the manager of the Lodge, Mr. Tully � Dalrymple is the name. Don�t worry about your wife�s not getting here on schedule. It happens all the time.�

�May I speak to you in private, Mr. Dalrymple?�

The young manager�s smile became rather fixed.

�Of course. This way, please.�

In his office, Dalrymple offered Tully a chair. Tully shook his head, and the manager chose to remain standing, too. He was no longer smiling at all. �I really don�t see what the problem is, sir, if it�s merely a matter of your wife�s being delayed��

�She may be here already,� Tully said.

�I beg your pardon?�

�Registered under another name.�

The manager now sat down, slowly. �I see,� he said. �I see... Of course, Mr. Tully, the management can�t accept the least responsibility��

�I�m not asking you to accept any responsibility. I�m not here to make trouble,� Tully said. He pulled his wallet from his pocket and showed Dalrymple a clear snapshot of Ruth. �This is my wife, Mr. Dalrymple. All I want to know: Is she here? Under any name?�

The manager accepted the wallet photo and sat studying it a moment. �No, sir.�

�Are you sure?�

�Positive. We�re not a large hotel. Vacationers are our stock in trade, and I make it my business to know every guest. I assure you, your wife isn�t registered under her own or any other name.�

The manager was smiling again. He started to rise. �If that�s all, Mr. Tully...�

�It�s not.�

The manager remained in mid-rise.

Tully�s pallor had taken on a haggard caste. �Two summers ago... the first week of June... May I see your register for that period?�

�Certainly not!� The manager completed his rise as if a spring had been released.

�I�ll have to insist, Mr. Dalrymple.�

�It�s absolutely against our rules! I�m sorry, sir��

�Would you rather I ask the police to take a look for me?�

�Police?� Dalrymple blinked. �Of course, if a crime has been committed � although I assure you, sir, no crime has ever been committed on these premises!��

�I didn�t say it was.�

�What kind of crime?� the manager asked abruptly.

Tully hesitated. Then he shrugged. �Murder.�

Mr. Dalrymple went oyster-white. �How is the Lodge involved?�

�There�s a question as to whether or not a certain man and...� Tully licked his lower lip �...and the original of this photo visited the Lodge two years ago... together... or at least at the same time. If I can check it out here and now, Mr. Dalrymple, the police may never come into it at all. Of course, I can�t guarantee that. Do you let me see your register or don�t you?�

The manager stared at Tully for a long time. Tully withstood his calculating appraisal with indifference. A numbness was setting in, not so much a lack of feeling as a suspension of it.

�Well?�

Dalrymple�s glance wavered to Ruth�s photo, which was still on the desk between them. He sat down and began to scrutinize it very carefully. �This woman � I mean your wife, Mr. Tully � is she...?�

�Yes.� He almost started to add, But that was before I married her.

�Two summers ago, eh? I must say the face looks familiar... The trouble is, I see so many people come and go�� He rose again, handed the snapshot back to Tully. �What was the man�s name?�

Tully found himself able to say, �Cox. Crandall Cox,� without choking.

�Wait here, please.�

Dalrymple left, shutting the door emphatically behind him. Tully remained where he was. He had not shifted his position six inches since entering the office. He simply stood there, not thinking.

When the manager returned he had with him a dumpy gray-haired woman wearing old-fashioned gold-rimmed eyeglasses.

�Well?� Tully said.

�Well!� Dalrymple inhaled. He said quickly, �We had a Mr. and Mrs. Crandall Cox registered during the period you mentioned.�

�How long did they stay?�

�Three days.� The man gestured, and the gray-haired woman stumped forward; she had badly flat feet, Tully noticed, and then he wondered what difference that made, what difference anything made. �This is Mrs. Hoskins, one of our maids, Mr. Tully. Employed here fourteen years. Two years ago she worked the wing where Mr. and Mrs.�� where this couple had their suite.�

�Suite,� Tully said.

�I remember them, all right,� the woman said. She had a flat-footed kind of voice, too, as if she had never learned to use it right. �He was the man took an afternoon nap with a cigarette in his hand and he burned the new couch in the suite, Mr. Dalrymple, you remember. He�d tied a real good one on��

�Yes, yes, Mrs. Hoskins, thank you,� Dalrymple said.

Tully forced himself to take the photo of Ruth from the desk and across the room to Mrs. Hoskins.

�Is this the woman?�

Mrs. Hoskins adjusted her glasses and peered earnestly. �Looks like her. Yes, sir, I�d say she was the one. It�s been a long time, but I always remembered that couple real well even though they was here such a short time. Something about them two��

�What?� Tully said.

�Well, for one thing, most of the guests the Lodge gets don�t drink so much. More refined, like.�

Dalrymple coughed nervously. Tully took the photo of Ruth from the woman�s worked-out fingers and replaced it in his wallet. He was surprised to find that his own hands were perfectly steady. �Do you remember anything else about them?�

Mrs. Hoskins became quite animated. �Oh, yes, sir! They were real lovey-dovey. Them two are honeymooners, I says to Mrs. Biggie � she was working that wing with me then. Mrs. Biggie says, �Whoever heard of honeymooners spending all their time getting tanked up?� but I says to her, �It takes all kinds, and anyway I heard �em smooching in there between drinks, like�� not,� Mrs. Hoskins added hastily, �that I was listening or anything, but sometimes a maid can�t help��

�All right, Mrs. Hoskins,� the manager said.

�I don�t suppose,� Tully said to the gray-haired woman, �you remember hearing the man use the woman�s first name?�

�I do indeed,� she said, beaming, �Ruth, it sounded like. The gentleman would say it over and over, like he liked it, too.�

�That�s all, that�s all, Mrs. Hoskins,� Dalrymple said. �Thank you.�

David Tully had just finished his lonely breakfast when Ollie Hurst drove up. He came in wiping his cranium with a folded handkerchief. His eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep.

�How�s Norma, Ollie?�

�She had a bad night. Apparently this business of Ruth is somehow tied up in her mind with Emmie�s death. I finally got her under sedation and asleep, and she seems a lot better this morning.�

�I�m sorry as hell, Ollie��

�Forget it,� the lawyer said abruptly. �If it hadn�t been that it would have been something else. How about some of that coffee I smell?�

�I�ve been keeping it hot for you.�

They went into the kitchen and Tully poured coffee into two fresh cups.

�No,� Ollie said, refusing the cream and sugar, which he usually used in immoderate proportions, �I need it straight this morning,� and he gulped a third of it and set his cup down and said, �Anything on Ruth yet?�

�No.�

�Dave.�

�Yes?�

�Do you know where she is? Are you hiding her?�

Tully glared into the lawyer�s crystal eyes. �No. No.�

�Okay, okay,� Hurst said. �I had to be sure. And you still haven�t heard from her?�

�No.�

�All right. Then let�s talk about the future.�

�The future of what?� Tully asked bitterly.

�The future of Ruth.�

�What future?�

�Oh, the hell with that defeatist talk,� Ollie Hurst snapped. �Look, Dave, I�m a lawyer, and I�m your and Ruth�s friend. If you want to wallow in hopelessness that�s your funeral � and incidentally it only makes my job tougher. Now what�s it going to be? Do I have to do this with you on my back, dead weight, or are we in this together?�

Tully stiffened.

�That�s right, hate my guts,� Ollie said. �I don�t mind. All right. Now I�ve got us a good criminal lawyer, I mean on tap. I�ve retained him tentatively, and I�ve talked the whole thing over with him as it stands. He agrees that there�s no point in his coming into this until Ruth turns up or is found. Do you want to know who he is?�

Tully shook his head.

�You mean you actually trust somebody besides yourself? I swan to Marthy! Anyway, his name is Vinzenti and he�s top dog upstate in trial work, especially murder cases. I�ve got to be frank with you, Dave. Vinzenti says that unless Ruth can come up with clear counter-evidence to refute the facts as they now seem to stand, we�ll have a real fight on our hands. He also said that the longer she remains in hiding the worse it�s going to look for her. That�s why I had to ask you again if you know where she is.�

�I told you I don�t.�

�I believe you, Dave,� the lawyer said soothingly. �I�m just outlining the situation. How about a refill?�

Tully replenished Hurst�s cup.

�You haven�t touched yours.�

Tully drank it.

�The circumstantial case against Ruth is strong,� Ollie Hurst went on. �The use of your gun, the testimony of a witness who overheard Cox call his woman-visitor Ruth � and especially Ruth�s disappearance after the shooting, add up to a pretty powerful prosecutor�s case, according to Vinzenti.

�Against this, he says � barring some unforeseeable explanation when Ruth turns up that automatically clears her � the defense will have to try to tear down the evidence. The typewritten unsigned letter, Vinzenti thinks, for instance, is inadmissible, unless the police have turned up an identifiable fingerprint of Ruth�s on it. Most of all Vinzenti seems to be counting on the human element. This may well turn out to be, he says, one of those cases in which the law and the evidence prove of less weight than the character of the people involved. The professional leech who preyed on women, the woman of refinement and good reputation who in panic and desperation turned on the beast who was trying to wreck her life � in a setup like that, juries always empathize with the woman, Vinzenti assured me.�

Tully laughed. The lawyer looked at him sharply.

�What was that for, Dave?�

�Nothing.� A woman of refinement and good reputation, Tully thought. Wait till the prosecution gets hold of that Lodge shack-up!

�The hell you say. Dave, if there�s something you�re holding back...�

Tully shook his head. He could not, he could not talk about Ruth and Cox and those three days at the Lodge two years before. Not now. Not yet.

Ollie Hurst continued to study him. Finally, he shrugged. �If you are, Dave, you�re being a very foolish guy. Well, we�ll have to trust your judgment. Isn�t there anything new you can tell me?�

�Yes,� Tully said. �We may find help in an unexpected place.�

�What do you mean?�

�I�ve had a session with that witness � the woman, Maudie Blake. She told me something she didn�t tell Julian Smith.�

�Oh?�

�She and Crandall Cox were old buddy-buddies. He shacked up with her whenever he was on his uppers, or in trouble. The last time he was sick, he let her take care of him till he could get back on his feet, then he lifted some money she�d left around and took off for here. And she followed him. That�s how she came to be in the next room at the Hobby.�

�She told you all this?�

�That�s right.�

�Well,� the lawyer said softly. �That�s interesting. How come she told you, Dave, and not the police?�

�They didn�t pay her. I did.�

�She asked you for money?�

�Yes.�

�How much?�

�A hundred dollars. I only had seventy-eight with me. She took it.�

The bald lawyer frowned. He got up and began to walk around the kitchen, pulling his nose, scratching his ear, frowning.

�I don�t know, Dave,� he said slowly. �That�s pretty valuable information to sell for seventy-eight dollars. Unless she�s stupid and cheap as hell��

�She is.� Tully wondered what he would say if he knew what else Maudie Blake had sold for the same seventy-eight dollars.

�Did you tell this to Lieutenant Smith?�

�No. Anyway, she said if I told the police she�d simply deny the whole story and stand pat on her original testimony.�

Hurst kept shaking his head. �I still don�t like it. If she�s telling the truth she can deny her head off � the facts can be dug up. She can�t be that stupid. Dave, you�re not telling me the whole story.�

�All right, I�m not,� Tully burst out. �But don�t ask me to talk about the rest � not yet, Ollie. The point is, she can be bought. In fact, I was intending to see her again this morning after you left. I think she knows a hell of a lot more than she told even me.�

�You may be getting into something you can�t handle, Dave,� the lawyer said. �I�d better go with you.�

Tully hesitated.

�Maybe I ought to put it this way, Dave,� his friend said gently. �If I�m going to help you, I can�t do it in the dark, and I�m certainly not going to get a man with Vinzenti�s reputation into a case where the defendant�s husband is withholding information. Am I in, or out?�

Tully was quiet.

Then his shoulders drooped and he said, �All right, Ollie.�

It was 2:00 P.M. before Julian Smith got back to his office.

Tully was seated near the lieutenant�s desk. The tailored Homicide man stopped and looked at him. �Why are you still here, Dave?�

�Where else do I have to go?� Tully was slumped on his tail, his long legs stretched way out, his big hands clenched over his belt.

�How about your office?� Smith went briskly to his desk. �Your business must be going to the dogs.�

�Julian, I want to talk to you.�

�Sure, Dave,� the detective said, glancing through a pile of reports and memoranda. �But right now I�m pretty busy��

Tully sat up straight. Smith glanced over at him. He immediately pushed the pile of paper aside.

�Okay, Dave.�

�Is there an autopsy report yet on the Blake woman?�

�Just a preliminary one.�

�What�s it look like?�

�The M.E. is pretty sure she died as a result of acute alcoholism. He�s making the usual tests for poison, but there are no marks of violence on her, no toxic indications so far except the alcohol.�

�So she�s going to he written off,� Tully said with a peculiar smile, �as an accidental death?�

�In all probability.� Smith leaned back in his swivel chair, clasped his manicured hands behind his head. �From the empties in the room and blood analysis, she died when her intake of alcohol passed the critical point. She took one big slug too many � if she had passed out before that, she�d likely have survived. Maudie�s tough luck was that she collapsed on the bed before she drank that last one. She landed on her back and she was too near unconsciousness to get up; about all she had the strength to do was lift the bottle to her mouth that last time. Her body tried to heave the stuff but, with her head way back the way it was, only an insignificant amount came up. So...� Julian Smith shrugged and sat up. �We get two-three deaths like that a year, Dave, even in a town of this size. Okay?�

�No,� David Tully said.

�What d�ye mean no?� the detective demanded.

�I mean no, you�ve got it all wrong, Julian. Maudie Blake�s death was not an accident. It�s too damn convenient for somebody.�

�Murdered, hm?� Smith seemed unexcited.

�Yes, I think she was murdered.�

�And who�s the somebody you think murdered her?�

�The same one who murdered Cox.�

�You mean,� Julian Smith said, �Ruth?�

Tully�s face convulsed. He leaped to his feet, upsetting the chair. �Damn you, Julian, I don�t mean Ruth! Ruth�s the pigeon in this thing, don�t you see it?�

�Dave,� Smith said. �Why don�t you drop by your office? Or go home and lie down? You�re as wound up as an eight-day clock. What do you say?�

�No!� Tully stood glaring down at him. Suddenly he righted the overturned chair and seated himself in it. �No, Julian, I�m going to sit here till you listen to what I have to say. Or have me thrown out.�

Smith hesitated. Then he smiled. �Of course I�ll listen, Dave. Shoot.�

Tully sat forward immediately. �I�ve had some time to think since this morning, and I�ve doped it out. Ruth didn�t fire that shot. Someone else did. Maudie Blake knew that � knew who really murdered Cox. She implicated Ruth to cover up the killer. And when I came nosing around, Maudie tightened the noose around Ruth�s neck to keep me off the right track.�

�You mean by sending you up to Wilton Lodge, Dave?�

Tully blinked. �You knew that?�

�I�ve had one of my men tailing you. We know you went to see Maudie Blake yesterday. We know you then drove up to the Lodge. After you left there, my man tackled the manager. Dalrymple was quite cooperative.�

�It�s too damn bad,� Tully said thickly, �your man didn�t stick around Flynn�s Inn instead. The Blake woman would still be alive!�

Lieutenant Smith frowned the least bit. �I don�t see that that kind of talk is going to get us anywhere, Dave. What�s your point?�

�Don�t you see it? Why Maudie sent me up to the Lodge? She wasn�t interested in the lousy hundred bucks she asked me for, or the seventy-eight I was actually able to cough up. She was after a goldmine! That Wilton Lodge business strengthens the circumstantial case against Ruth. It sends me off in the wrong direction. To that extent it protects the real killer better, and so ups the value of what Maudie�s selling. Protection, Julian � that�s what she had in mind! She was going to hold what she knew over the killer�s head and make him pay through the nose for keeping quiet!�

Tully stopped, out of breath, looking at Julian Smith with shining eyes. The shine slowly dulled.

�I�m sorry, Dave,� Smith said, shaking his head. �I don�t buy it.�

�Why not, for God�s sake?� Tully cried. �Doesn�t it make sense?�

�As a theory, Dave, sure. But it�s a theory based on pure assumption, with not a scrap of evidence or a single provable fact to support it � based on two assumptions, actually: that Ruth was not the last one to see Cox, and that Maudie Blake was murdered. There�s no evidence that anyone but Ruth visited Cox on the night of his murder, and the medical findings are that the Blake woman died of overdrinking.� Smith shrugged. �You know, Dave, unsupported assumptions are tricky things. I could assume something you wouldn�t like.�

�What�s that?� Tully muttered.

�The circumstantial case against your wife rested largely on Maudie Blake�s testimony as to what she overheard from her room at the Hobby Motel the night Cox was shot,� the detective said. �I could assume that Ruth murdered Maudie � to get rid of a damaging witness. As a matter of fact, Dave, Maudie�s death is a bad break for the State... and a very good one for Ruth.�

Tully sat still. He had not thought of that at all.

�So, you see,� Smith said mildly, �as the officer in charge of this case I�d have to welcome evidence that Maudie was murdered, because it would corroborate the assumption that she was murdered by your wife. Fortunately or unfortunately, depending on where you�re sitting in this merry-go-round, Maudie was not murdered, so my assumption carries just about as much weight as yours.�

Tully was silent.

�Dave, Dave,� Lieutenant Smith went on in the same mild tone, �face it � tough as it is, face it. Sick, broke, Cox came back to town to blackmail Ruth. To keep him from wrecking her life, she shot him. Nothing else explains the use of your gun, taken from your house. No other motive has turned up.�

Julian Smith rose. �I can�t blame you for trying to find an out for Ruth. I�m sure if she were my wife I�d do the same thing � shield or no shield.�

He came around the desk.

�I�ll tell you what, Dave.�

Tully looked up.

�Suppose I take the tail off you. I didn�t like having to put you under surveillance in the first place. But in this business you either learn to treat your friends like anybody else or you turn in your shield and take up a milk route. I had to make sure. That Wilton Lodge trip of yours convinces me you really don�t know where your wife is.�

Tully�s lips twisted. �Am I supposed to say thanks, Julian?�

The lieutenant said carefully, �I don�t think I get you.�

He rose. �You�re telling me I�m not going to be tailed any more because you still think I know where Ruth is and may try to contact her � or she me. You�re not taking the tail off me, you�re doubling it.� The detective�s barbered cheeks began to show blood. �I don�t blame you, Julian. You�re a good cop. Let me know if you get a lead on my wife.�

Julian Smith grinned faintly. �And vice versa?�

�Depends,� Tully said. �It all depends.�

He picked up his hat and left.

Sandra Jean shrank deeper into her sister�s clothes closet. �I don�t know what you�re talking about.�

�When did you first meet Cox?�

�I�ll let the white dress go for now,� she whispered. �I can get it after Andy and I get back.�

She made as if to leave the closet. Tully loomed over her. She stopped. Her face was yellow-white now.

�Davey, please. I want to go to Andy.�

�Tell me.�

�Dave! Let me out of here! Or I�ll��

�What?� David Tully said. �Call Andy? Go ahead. You can tell both of us all about you and Cox. Or yell copper and save me the trouble.�

He could see the girl�s natural shrewdness take over little by little. She was weighing the probabilities even before the panic was fought down. She smiled up at him.

�I don�t know what you�re talking about, Dave. You scared me, that�s all. You must be out of your mind. Let me pass, will you?�

�Sure,� Tully said, stepping aside. She slipped quickly by him. �But I don�t think you�ll want to go just yet, Sandra. Even if it�s only to indulge me a few minutes longer. Don�t you want to hear my brainstorm?� She�ll have to stay and listen, he thought, if only to find out how much I�ve guessed.

He was right. Sandra Jean shrugged and said, �Why not?� and sat down at Ruth�s vanity, crossing her legs and looking at herself in the mirror. She began to poke at her hair. �But make it snappy, lover, or Andy�ll think you�ve got evil designs on his bride.�

�The resemblance,� Tully said. �It�s been right here all the time, under my nose, and I didn�t see how it answered the question.�

�What question?� the girl asked, still plumping up her hair.

�The question of how a woman of Ruth�s taste and character could foul herself up with a mucking gigolo like Cox. The answer obviously was that she couldn�t. So it had to be you, Sandra. You and Ruth are such look-alikes it hits me every time I see you.�

�I suppose there is a resemblance,� Sandra Jean said carelessly, �and I can see how you�d figure me for more of a tramp than my beloved sister, but aren�t you forgetting something, Davey?� Her eyes in the mirror were watchful.

�No,� Tully said, �I�m forgetting nothing, Sandra. You mean the fact that when you were indulging in your nasty little peccadilloes you did it using Ruth�s name. I wonder why. To protect yourself? Hiding behind your sister�s name would do it, all right. Maybe it had a deeper meaning��

�Such as, Doctor?� the girl laughed. �As long as we�re hallucinating...� Her eyes kept giving her away.

�Such as that you�ve always hated Ruth for being what you couldn�t be, and by masquerading under her name in a filthy affair you transferred the filth to her in some perverted kind of way.� He shrugged. �The psychiatrists can dig into that. What interests me is that it�s the only explanation that makes sense.�

Sandra Jean began to search among Ruth�s lipsticks for the shade she wanted. �For what?�

�For Wilton Lake, for instance,� Tully said. Her hand paused for the slightest instant over a lipstick. Then it resumed its motion and she was applying it to her pouting lips. �That was you up at the Lodge two years ago, Sandra, wasn�t it? With Cox? You using Ruth�s name and wallowing in a three-day orgy the people up there still remember! That resemblance worked overtime for you, Sandra. I showed one of the maids a photo of Ruth and she said, yes, that was the woman with Cox that summer. It was an honest mistake � seeing a wallet-sized snapshot after the passage of two years, the woman made a logical identification. But I think if we darken your hair and take you up to the Lodge for the old gal to inspect in the flesh...�

This time fear flickered in those depths. She set the lipstick down, white-faced again. Tully pressed on remorselessly.

�I don�t know why even you took up with a creep like Cox � for the kicks, I guess, rolling around in the gutter to see what it tasted like � but you must have come to your senses, probably gave him some money, and thought you were rid of him. Only it didn�t work out that way, Sandra, did it?�

The full lips were drying. Her tongue stole out to wet them.

�Cox wasn�t rid of you. For some time he let you alone. But then he got sick, and he was broke, and he rummaged around in his dirty little bag of tricks and came up with that weekend. He got in touch with you. And you wrote him a letter � that unsigned typewritten note the police found in his effects: �Cranny� You keep away from me, and I mean it. What happened between us is ancient history... I�ve found myself a leading citizen here who�s very much interested in me and I think he�s going to ask me to marry him...� That wasn�t Ruth referring to me. That was you referring to Andrew Gordon.�

He saw her thighs tighten and her rump begin to lift. But then she sank down again.

�You must have scared him off for the time being. Or he was too sick to follow it up. But under Maudie Blake�s fat and tender hands he got back on his feet. And he made straight for this town like bad news. And phoned here, asking for Ruth. Andy himself told me that; he took the call when you and he were here and Ruth happened to be out. Even Cox thought your name was Ruth.�

Her eyes were darting about now like trapped fish. Tully knew what she was thinking. Not about Ruth. Not about him, or even herself. She was thinking of Mercedes Cabbott�s money, and how it was slipping though her fingers.

�That�s when you got your big idea, Sandra. You�ve always had the key to this house. You lifted my gun and went to the Hobby Motel. It was you the Blake woman heard Cox call Ruth. It was you who shot Cox to death.�

He could actually see her thoughts snap back to the present. Her head jerked up and she said, �What did you say?�

�I said you murdered Cox.�

He thought she was going to faint, and he found himself becoming irritated. Sandra Jean Ainsworth wasn�t the fainting type. She was play-acting. Or was she? To hell with her, he thought impatiently.

�Well?�

She shook her head, seemed to be making a great effort. Finally she swallowed, and her lips parted, and her voice cracked as she spoke. �No. No, Davey. It wasn�t me.�

�You expect me to believe that?� Tully growled. �What do you take me for, a stupid sucker like that oaf in there?�

�Davey, no, no.� She got to her feet and went to the bedroom window. She turned to face him, resting her palms on the sill, leaning back so that the curtain framed her head. �This time I�m telling the truth. You�ve left me no choice.�

Tully laughed. �You admit the Wilton Lake shack-up?�

Her head moved ever so slightly.

�You admit typing that note?�

Again.

�You admit stealing my gun? Using Ruth�s name? You admit the whole damn thing and expect me to believe you didn�t shoot him?�

�I didn�t,� Sandra Jean said. It sounded real.

Tully was confused again. He sat down on the big bed � it was king-size, made to order, built especially long, and how tiny Ruth always looked in it and how he used to tease her about it � just sat there, arms dangling, suddenly without strength or stamina, staring into the past... or the future.

�I didn�t,� a husky voice said in his ear; and he felt the humid tickle of Sandra Jean�s breath and the pressure of her body against his back. She had crawled across the bed from the opposite side and seized him softly, like a hostage.

Tully rose violently. The girl fell over backwards with a cry of surprise and pain, exposing her thighs. He reached over and yanked her skirt down so hard the hem ripped.

�Let�s keep this clean, you little whore,� he said through his teeth. He leaned over the girl, and she scrambled away like a terrified bug, tumbling off the other side of the bed and staring up at him from her knees. �I�m not taking your word for anything, understand me, Sandra? Anything! Not after the vicious deal you�ve given Ruth.�

�Yes, Davey,� Sandra Jean whispered.

�You say you didn�t shoot Cox��

�No,� she whispered, �no.�

�Then who did?�

�I don�t know.�

�But you admit you were there that night with my gun.�

�Yes...�

�Why? Why my gun?�

She began to whimper. �I didn�t know where else to get one. Davey, I swear that�s the only reason��

�Never mind the swearing bit; it doesn�t impress me. If you didn�t shoot Cox, why did you take the gun in the first place?� He hardly recognized his own voice now; it was harsh and low, without mercy or humanity. �Answer me!�

She clutched the bed. �To scare him. I wanted to scare him.�

�And you say you didn�t use the gun?�

�I couldn�t, Davey. I was too afraid. He... he took the gun away from me. We had a wrestling match over it.�

Tully leaned his fists on the bed and glared down at her. �Why did you want to scare him? What was he after?�

�I didn�t know when I went there, but I knew Cranny Cox.� Sandra Jean�s body shook in the slightest shudder. �He was a monster. But a smart monster. I was an idiot to write him about my chance to marry a wealthy man. I might have known he�d try to cash in on it.�

�How? By blackmailing you on the strength of those three days at the Lodge? Threatening to tell your husband-to-be about it and so spoil your marriage plans unless you paid up?�

�That�s what I thought. But when I accused him of that, he laughed and said he�d hardly break the egg of the golden goose before it hatched. He even offered me a drink and wished me luck with my fianc�.�

Tully slowly straightened. It made sense. Why should Cox milk Sandra Jean�s modest trust-fund when, by waiting for her to marry a rich man, he would have a fortune to squeeze?

�All right,� Tully said.

The girl scrambled to her feet, started to leave.

�All right so far,� Tully said, and she stopped in her tracks. �I�m not through with you. So that�s all Cox wanted you for, eh? To prepare you for the blackmail to come?�

�Yes, Davey,� Sandra Jean breathed. Her eyes were full of fear again.

�And you just walked out of his motel room � leaving my gun behind? Wasn�t that a little careless of you, Sandra?�

�You don�t understand,� she said quickly. �He�d taken it from me and he wouldn�t give it back. I wanted it back � I asked him for it. He laughed and said he was keeping it as a memento. I suppose he was afraid I�d change my mind and shoot him after all if he let me get my hands on it again.�

Tully brooded.

The girl watched him with anxiety. She took a tentative step toward the bedroom door, stopped as he stirred.

He looked up. �Then what happened to Ruth?�

�I don�t know.� Her voice rose. �Davey, I don�t!�

�Did you see her that night?�

�No��

�At any time?�

�No, Davey, no.�

�You have no explanation for Ruth�s disappearance, then? It�s simply a great big mystery to you. Right?�

�Yes, Davey. I�m telling you the truth!�

�Sandra.� The word had a flat, almost mechanical, timbre. His eyes, sooty with fatigue, stared at her out of a face as rigid as a cheap Hallowe�en mask. �If I find out that you know anything about Ruth�s movements that night � where she went � what happened to her � where she is � anything!�� I�ll kill you. I�ll give you one more chance. Where is Ruth?�

She said hoarsely, �I don�t know.�

For a long time they stood that way.

Then Sandra Jean stirred cautiously.

�Davey...�

�What?�

�May I... go now?�

�Go?� Tully looked up. �Go where?�

�To Andy. Remember we had plans to�?�

He stared at her again, shook his head. �You baffle me, Sandra, you really do. There�s only one place you�re going, and only one man you�re going there with � that�s to the police, with me.�

�I suppose I have to,� Sandra Jean said after a while.

�You have to.�

�It means postponing our elopement...�

Tully said nothing. The girl became reflective. Watching her, Tully marveled at her resiliency. The fear of the immediate past was gone. The trip to the police was an accepted fact. The problem now was apparently how to mend her fences with Andrew Gordon.

She looked up. Problem solved.

�Will you give me a few minutes with Andy?�

He shrugged.

She went to the living room. Tully followed her as far as the hall. He saw her stoop over Mercedes Cabbott�s son, who was asleep, kiss him lightly on the forehead, slip into his lap, begin to murmur into his ear.

Sickened, Tully turned away.

A quarter of an hour later he heard Andy Gordon leave. Tully went into the living room.

�Success?�

Sandra Jean was smoking a cigarette in perfect calm. �I think so. He wasn�t as miffed as I expected.�

�Maybe Andy�s not so keen on this connubial connection as he pretends to be.�

�Don�t be an ass. His tongue is hanging out.�

�How much did you tell him?�

�Just enough. I said something�d come up about Ruth�s trouble that couldn�t wait, and we�d have to elope some other time.�

�Just like that. And he fell for it?�

She smiled. �I gave him a Sandra Special before he could think about it. It�s a type of kiss I�m thinking of patenting. It produces amnesia.�

Tully did not change expression. �Did you tell him you went to see Crandall Cox on the night of the murder?�

�Of course,� Sandra Jean said. �I couldn�t have him hearing it from another source, could I?�

�What reason did you give Andy for the visit?�

She said hurriedly, �Oh, something or other that wouldn�t disturb his dear addled brain too much. Shall we go, Davey?�

He knew then that Sandra Jean had probably ascribed the visit to sisterly duty, something that involved Ruth as the principal � a total and shameless lie. Tully shrugged and went to the door. So long as Sandra set the record on Ruth straight with the police, he didn�t care how she bamboozled Andy Gordon and Mercedes Cabbott. They would have to watch out for themselves.

David Tully cooled off very suddenly � his urge to grab Smith by the neck and shake sense into him died at birth. He had caught a certain look in Sandra Jean�s eye, a look of calculation. She was the problem, not Smith. It was dawning on her that the lieutenant�s skepticism gave her a possible out even now.

Tully said very quietly to the girl, �If you have any idea of putting on an act for Julian�s benefit and finally �admitting� that you and I hatched up a cock-and-bull story to save Ruth � forget it, Sandra. This is something that can be proved by having Dalrymple and the maid identify you.�

�Sit down, Dave,� Julian Smith said.

�Sure.�

Tully sat down, his stare pinning Sandra Jean to the wall. He could almost see the computer inside her pretty head whirring and clicking to produce the decision.

It was made. Sandra Jean looked bewildered and hurt. �I don�t know why you�d say a thing like that, Davey. I�m telling the truth, Lieutenant. I was the one. And, as Dave says, all you have to do to prove it is take me up to the Lodge for a positive identification.�

�All right,� Smith said. �Let�s take it from there. Why did you use your sister�s name?�

Sandra Jean said coolly, �Dave has a theory that it�s because I�ve always hated her. It�s nothing as Freudian as that. I was eighteen, I thought I was being terribly sophisticated, and since I never expected the story to get out I thought using Ruth�s name was a good joke. Now, of course, I see what a bad joke it was.�

�So when Cox came to town to blackmail Ruth, it was you he really meant?�

�Obviously. He asked me to come over to his room at the Hobby Motel��

�The night he was shot?�

�Yes. I went.�

�Alone? Or with your sister?�

�As far as I know, Ruth didn�t know a thing about it. I went alone, yes.�

�With the gun?�

�Yes. I took it from Dave�s house. I knew it was there. I�ve always come and gone in the place as if it were my own home.�

�Miss Ainsworth, do you realize the implications of what you�re saying?�

�I�m not implying anything,� she said. �You�re inferring.�

He blinked at her, sat forward. �Cox tried to blackmail you, and you used the gun?�

�I did not use the gun. Anyway, he took it from me and wouldn�t give it back.�

Smith knuckled his jaw. �You did intend to use the gun, however?�

Sandra Jean said calmly, �If I�d intended to shoot Cox, I�d hardly have carried a gun traceable to a member of my family. And I�d certainly have picked a better scene for my crime than a wide-open motel on a busy night. I�d have chosen a safer time, place and weapon, Lieutenant, believe me. I took Dave�s gun simply to scare Cox.�

The detective�s face told nothing. �And did you scare Cox?�

She shrugged. �I guess so. He took a crazy chance and jumped me. He didn�t know I couldn�t have pulled the trigger even if I�d wanted to. Anyway, he wouldn�t give it back to me.�

�Then your story is that you didn�t shoot Cox.�

�It�s not a story, Lieutenant. It�s a fact.�

Smith drummed on his desk. �Tell me, Miss Ainsworth,� he said suddenly. �What was Cox asking of you?�

�Nothing.�

�Come again?�

�Nothing then.� Sandra Jean lowered her head again, modestly. �He knew Andrew Gordon and I were � are... well, in love. He was setting me up for a richer haul � after I became Mrs. Gordon.� She looked up with a show of anxiety. �I do hope this is all � I mean, confidential, Lieutenant.�

�Confidential!� Julian Smith sprang to his feet. �What is this, Dave? Doesn�t this girl understand the position she�s in? Confidential, she says! Miss Ainsworth, don�t you realize that, simply on the strength of what you�ve already confessed, I have grounds for holding you?�

She smiled.

Smith abruptly sat down again. �There�s something cross-eyed about this,� he complained. Tully had never seen him so upset. He was beginning to feel queasy himself. She had something up her sleeve, but what? I should have known, he thought. She came along too damn meekly!

�You could hold me, perhaps,� Sandra Jean said, �but it wouldn�t be for long. Cranny Cox was alive when I left him.�

�There�s only your word for that,� Smith snapped.

�Not at all. I can prove it. Or... yes, Lieutenant,� she said in the sweetest of voices, �I think I�ll let you prove it for me.�

�Prove that Cox was alive when you left him?�

�Mm-hm.� The girl tugged at her skirt. �Oh, dear, I seem to have ripped my hem somewhere... You see, Lieutenant, although I went to the Hobby in a cab, I had the man let me out blocks and blocks from the motel and walked the rest of the way. But when I left, I took a taxi right outside the motel. Cranny took me out to the road and actually hailed it for me � handed me into it, in fact, like the gentleman he wasn�t. I was all dressed up and I looked like a lady, if I do say so myself. Taxis don�t pick up many ladies outside the Hobby, so I�m sure the cabbie will remember me � and Cranny Cox being so gallant and, of course, alive. In fact, I can even give you a description of the taxi man. He was white-haired, about fifty-five years old...�

Tully scarcely heard her rattle on, as Julian Smith scribbled furious notes. The cold-blooded little bitch, he thought. She hadn�t said a word to him about that!

�Of course,� the detective was saying frostily, �even if this checks out, Miss Ainsworth��

�Oh, it will check out all right, Lieutenant,� she smiled.

��it could mean that you made a deliberate attempt to establish your departure at a time when Cox was seen alive, only to slip back to the motel later and do the shooting. In other words, a phony alibi.�

�I suppose it could mean that,� Sandra Jean murmured, �only �could mean� doesn�t carry much weight as evidence, Lieutenant, does it? Anyway, my alibi�s a lot better than that. If you�ll find that taxi driver, I�m sure he�ll tell you where he took me, and when. He drove me to an all-night party I�d been invited to in the Heights. People named Bangsworth. And there must have been a dozen people there I knew who�ll account for every minute of my time. So, you see, Lieutenant, I simply couldn�t have shot Cranny Cox.�

Tully could only sit there, numb.

Julian Smith sat there, too. He said slowly, �A few minutes ago, Miss Ainsworth, you told me that Cox asked you to visit him at the motel the night he was shot. Just how did he ask you?�

Sandra Jean�s brow wrinkled ever so little. �I don�t think I understand, Lieutenant.�

�I mean, did he write you? Did he phone you?�

�He phoned me.�

�Where?�

�At the Cabbotts�, where I�ve been staying.�

Smith leaned forward. �But you said he thought your name was Ruth. How could he have looked for Ruth in a place where you�re known as Sandra Jean?�

�Oh, that,� Sandra Jean said. �Didn�t I explain that? Between the time Cranny came to town and the time he phoned me, he did some snooping. That�s how he found out my real name and where I was staying, he said.�

The unutterable trull. She hadn�t told him that, either.

Tully shut his eyes. Andy Gordon had placed Cox�s call to the Tully home, when the blackmailer had asked for Ruth, as having come two days before his murder. So at that time Cox must still have been ignorant of Sandra Jean�s real name. In those two days, then, Cox had done his homework. But if by the time of his phone call to the Cabbott house he had known that �Ruth� was really Sandra Jean, why had he...?

Tully heard scraping chairs. He opened his eyes. Smith and Sandra Jean were on their feet.

�But where are you taking me, Lieutenant?� Sandra Jean was saying, not entirely without alarm.

�On a tour of the cab companies,� the detective said, �to make an honest woman of you. Dave, this won�t take too long. Though you don�t have to wait if you have something else to do.�

Tully shook his head. Julian Smith opened his office door and stood aside, and Sandra Jean swept by in rather a hurry, Tully thought, noting that she was careful not to look at him. He could wait. There were only three or four cab companies in town; it wouldn�t take long.

It didn�t. Barely an hour later Julian Smith marched back into the office. He was alone.

�Where�s Sandra Jean?� Tully got to his feet.

Smith homed in on his desk. �She gave me a message for you. �Tell my darling brother-in-law he needn�t wait for me. I�ll hop a cab � I have things to do in a rush.� The last I saw, she was streaking for a phone booth. That�s quite a sister-in-law you have.�

�So her story is true,� Tully said slowly.

The detective shrugged and sat down. �The alibi checks. I found the hack the first cab company I hit. He identified her, all right, and corroborated her statement that Cox put her into the cab that night. His trip-sheet in the office checks out for time, too. He described Cox to a T. For the record I had him hustled over to the funeral parlor for a look at the body, and I just had a call that he made a positive identification.

�And he did take the girl right from the Hobby to the Bangsworths� at the Heights, as she claims. I phoned Mrs. Bangsworth and she gives the girl a clean bill. I also phoned three of the people at the party who Sandra Jean said could testify that she hadn�t left the house after she got there, and they so testify � the party didn�t break up until five A.M., long past the time of the shooting. One of my men is running down the whole list the girl�s given me, but that�s just going through the motions. There�s no question that Cox was alive when she left him at the motel, and she�s alibied for every minute after that. She�s absolutely in the clear, Dave. Didn�t you know that when you brought her in here?�

Tully said, �No,� and had to clear his throat. The detective looked at him curiously. �Where does this leave Ruth?�

�You tell me.�

�Well, for one thing, Julian, at least now you know it wasn�t Ruth who took my gun to the motel.�

�There�s still that business of the name.�

�Name?�

�The name Maudie Blake said she overheard Cox use that night in addressing his visitor � or one of them. According to Sandra Jean, Cox knew well in advance of the visit or visits that her name was really Sandra Jean. So if that night he called some woman Ruth...�

Tully bit his lip. He had foolishly hoped that detail would somehow be lost in the shuffle. �That�s assuming Sandra told the truth about what went on in the room, Julian.�

�Her alibi story checks to the letter. We have to assume the rest of her story is true, too.�

�But that means you think my wife came to Cox�s room after Sandra left! How do you know she hadn�t come and gone � assuming she was there at all � before Sandra even got there?�

Julian Smith said, �We have the Blake woman�s sworn statement as to the time she heard the name Ruth mentioned by Cox in direct address. That time was well past the time we know Miss Ainsworth left. I�m sorry, Dave,�

So the Blake woman had lied to him about not remembering the time, too! Tully was striding up and down the office like a prisoner in a cell. �That sworn statement of Maudie Blake�s. She�s dead, Julian. It seems to me that if it came to a trial��

�The admissibility of evidence is a matter for the judge and the lawyers, Dave. I can only do my part of the job.�

�You�ve had your case blown right out of your hands!� Tully cried. �Why do you keep persecuting my wife?�

�Because of that name,� the lieutenant said doggedly. �Because she�s run away. And it�s not persecution, Dave; you know better than that. In the light of those two facts I�ve got to keep after her. You know that, too.�

�But you don�t even have a motive any more! Not with Sandra�s admission that she was the one who spent those three days at the Lodge with Cox.�

�I don�t have a motive I can prove yet, Dave, that�s true.� Julian Smith shook his head in distaste. �You make me say it. Ruth did go to Cox�s motel. That makes it pretty hard to avoid the conclusion that she knew him. Well, Cox�s relationships with women were strictly one thing. So I�ve got to work on the premise that not only your sister-in-law but your wife, too, was one of his ex-affairs��

�No!� Tully�s face was purple. �No!� His fist came down with a crash on the Homicide man�s desk. �No, no, no!� His fist kept smashing at the desk impotently.

Smith said nothing more, letting him rage.

After a while, Tully stopped. A choked sound came out of his convulsed throat, and he turned on his heel and strode out of Smith�s office.

Ollie Hurst trailed Tully and the butler into the foyer of the Colonial mansion. Tully wondered why the lawyer seemed so uncomfortable.

The two men waited in silence.

Mercedes Cabbott appeared, a fresh-scented and girlish vision in skirt and blouse and delicately thonged sandals. Her white hair was exquisitely coifed, as always; her tiny features and lake-blue eyes were set hard.

She looked Oliver Hurst up and down. �How are you, Ollie?� The words sounded as if she had just taken them out of a deep-freeze.

�I�m still here, Mercedes.� To Tully�s surprise, the lawyer�s tone was just as icy.

�And David.� She turned, light-footed. �Shall we go out to the terrace?�

They followed her and the butler out. She indicated two of the white iron chairs. �Would you care for a drink?�

Ollie Hurst said, �No, thank you.�

Tully said, �I�ll pass, too, Mercedes. I�d like to get right to your reason for asking me here. I know it wasn�t social.�

�That�s all, Stellers.� Mercedes waited until the butler went back into the house. �Perhaps that�s best, David. Actually, George has something to say to you, too � he�ll be down as soon as he�s through changing.� Her lips formed a hard line. �What I wanted to talk to you about concerns Andrew. Do you know where he and Sandra Jean are?�

�No,� Tully said. What in hell could George Cabbott want to see him about? �But to the best of my knowledge they�re planning to elope.�

The only sign Mercedes showed was a slight pallor. �So my bluff didn�t work. Well, darling, what am I to do?�

�Do?� Tully said. �I haven�t any idea.� He did not add what he was thinking: And I couldn�t care less.

Very suddenly Andrew Gordon�s mother turned to Oliver Hurst. �Ollie? Would you have a suggestion?�

Hurst shifted cautiously in his chair. �Are you asking for my professional opinion, Mercedes?�

�You may bill me for it.� There was nothing, utterly nothing to be learned from her voice.

�All right,� said the lawyer. �Are they of legal age?�

�Yes.�

�Then I�ll be happy to give you my opinion gratis: There isn�t anything you can do about it.�

Tully had never heard Oliver Hurst speak in quite that tone. It was composed of notes of bitterness, triumph, regret and barely checked temper; they formed a harsh, uncharacteristic chord. And Mercedes Cabbott�s blue eyes glittered like lake ice in deep winter at the sound of it. Whatever lay between the two obviously went back a long, long way.

�I might have expected you to say that,� Mercedes said.

�You�re licked, Mercedes.�

�My dear,� the young-old woman said softly, �I�m never licked.�

The sun bounced off Hurst�s bald head as he shifted violently back to his original position. But he did not reply, preferring to examine the hills in the distance.

Mercedes Cabbott rose and drifted to the edge of her terrace. She stood there gripping the iron railing, her back to the two men.

�It�s strange how events influence one another,� she said. �One brick falls, and a dozen others tumble after it.� She turned to face them, and again her voice was as savagely cold as her eyes. �If Ruth hadn�t gone away, Sandra Jean wouldn�t have become such a problem. But with Ruth gone, the little slut seizes an opportunity she knows may never recur.�

There�s no point in my putting my two cents in, Tully thought.

They had forgotten he was there. It was strictly a dialogue.

�You asked me for a suggestion, Mercedes,� Oliver Hurst said. The savagery in her voice had, oddly enough, purged him. He sounded almost sympathetic. �I�ll oblige.�

�Well?�

�For once in your life, acknowledge a defeat. Make the best of this, Mercedes. Try to remember that you�re not all-wise and all-powerful, after all.�

�Have I ever made any such claims?�

Ollie uttered a faint, incredulous laugh. He shook his head. �Don�t you know even now what a tyrant you are? And what a helpless parasite you�ve made out of your son? Sandra Jean isn�t the worst fate that could befall Andy. I think it�s even possible she might make a man of him out of the little you�ve left unspoiled.�

She had gone white. Her small hands reached backwards and closed around the railing convulsively.

�You have no right to come into my home and say�!�

�I�m here at your invitation, remember? And I didn�t speak until I was spoken to.� The lawyer crossed his legs easily. His aplomb seemed to increase in direct ratio to her anger. �However, if you want politeness instead of honest talk, I apologize.�

Mercedes sniffed with hauteur and came back to her chair. She seemed actually mollified!

Tully was bewildered. What was it between these two? He had never even suspected anything but a most superficial acquaintanceship. But then he thought, What the hell, it has nothing to do with Ruth; and he shrugged.

The rangy shadow of George Cabbott fell across them. His sun-bleached hair curled damply, as if he had just showered. He wore Bermuda shorts and a sports shirt with the tail out.

Cabbott�s eyes, which tended to squint from years of exposure to the sun, widened slightly at the sight of Ollie Hurst. But he merely uttered a pleasant �Hi,� stooped over his wife to kiss her � the incongruous thought crossed David Tully�s mind of Ferdinand the Bull lowering his massive head to smell a wildflower � and went to the bar-cart near the terrace table. �I take it you gentlemen aren�t drinking. Darling?�

�Not just now, George.�

�Mind if I have one?�

�What a stupid question for a smart man,� Mercedes laughed. The sight of her husband had restored her good humor.

George Cabbott dropped an ice cube into a glass, poured some Scotch in, studying its level critically, then added a few splashes of water from a silver carafe. He joined the group, sitting down and crossing one big blond-felled leg over the other.

�Now, sweetheart, where are we?�

�It�s all yours, George.� Mercedes gestured helplessly, smiling. �Believe it or not, I haven�t the foggiest notion of what George wants to talk to you about, David. When this old bear of mine makes up his mind to do things a certain way, Cleopatra herself couldn�t budge him.�

�I was told,� Cabbott remarked, �to tell you directly, Dave.�

�Tell me what?�

Cabbott sipped his Scotch, lowered the glass, agitated it gently. He watched the ice cube slide around. Then he looked up and at Ollie Hurst and said, in a perfectly agreeable voice, �Can you trust this guy, Dave?�

�What?� Tully said, blinking.

�Think nothing of it, Dave,� Hurst said. �Nobody trusts a lawyer. Especially on these premises. And especially this lawyer.�

�Look, George,� Tully said, �I don�t know what this is all about, but Ollie Hurst is my friend and my attorney, and anything you may have to say to me you can say in his hearing.�

�I don�t know,� Mercedes�s husband said in the same pleasant way. �This might be a special case.�

Oliver Hurst gripped the arms of his chair, began to get up. �I think I�d better leave, Dave.�

�You sit down,� Tully said grimly. �No, Ollie, I mean it! Or I�ll leave with you.� Hurst sank back. �What�s this special-case bit, George? Stop talking like a character in TV.�

�If he heard this, Hurst might feel it his professional duty to report it to the police.�

�That�s a damn nasty thing to say, Cabbott,� Ollie Hurst said. He was liver-lipped. �Dave just told you, I�m his attorney. Attorneys don�t run to the police to blab about their clients� affairs.�

�No offense,� Cabbott said with a small smile. �I was given pretty definite instructions.�

�Instructions about what, for God�s sake?� David Tully cried. �By whom?�

�Ruth.�

The moment Tully walked into the office Lieutenant Smith said, �There�s nothing new.� His desk was piled with papers which he rather stealthily covered with a phone book.

�This time you�re wrong, Julian.� Tully seated himself, uninvited, beside Smith�s desk. �You�d better give me a few uninterrupted minutes.�

The Homicide man studied him suspiciously. He wore a generally fretful and harassed look today. But then he became relaxed-alert all over; Tully saw it coming over him, like a change of clothing.

The detective picked up his phone and said, �No calls from anybody till I check back,� and he hung up and leaned forward on his forearms, clasping his hands. �You�ve got them, Dave.�

�I�ve heard from Ruth.�

Immediately Julian Smith�s hands unclasped. He reached for a pencil and pad. �You talked to her yourself?�

�No. It was a message, relayed to me.�

�By whom? When?�

�About three-quarters of an hour ago, by George Cabbott. Ollie Hurst was with me. I dropped Ollie off at his home and drove directly here.�

�When did Cabbott say he heard from her, and how?�

�Several hours ago. By phone.�

�Where was she calling from?�

�She wouldn�t say, according to Cabbott.�

�Why didn�t she get in touch with you in person?�

Tully said wearily, �She thought you might have our wire tapped.�

�How sure is Cabbott that it was really her voice?�

�He�s positive.�

Smith grunted. After a moment he looked up from his pad and said, �Well?� with a trace of impatience. �What was her message?�

�The gist of it was that she was physically okay, that she was going away to some place where she�d be safe, and that I should patch up my life and, presumably, forget her.�

�In other words, goodbye Charlie.� The detective leaned back in his swivel chair, tapping his chin with the pencil. �Well, Dave, in view of that call, was I right about her, or wrong?�

�Wrong,� Tully said. �Wrong, Julian.�

�You die hard, don�t you?� Smith sighed. �All right, I�ll play. How does this prove I�m wrong?�

�How did you ever get to be a lieutenant?� Tully said matter-of-factly. �Don�t you realize how convenient that message is for the killer of Cox and the Blake woman?�

�Suppose you spell it out for me!� The detective was a bit pink about the ears.

�If Ruth is never found, the goodbye message nails down the lid on her guilt. The all-points goes out like the ripples made by a stone tossed into a lake. The search gets further and further from town here, the ripples gradually weaken and die away. Goodbye Charlie my foot, Julian! Goodbye case � in the unsolved file.�

�You still don�t make sense, Dave.�

�Look!� Tully�s eyes were hard. �The whole thing is damn clear to me now��

�You mean by guess and by God?�

�I mean by logic and proof!�

�Oh?� Julian Smith said.

�Don�t bug me, Julian � listen! Either Ruth took off voluntarily, or she was forced into hiding, abducted. Those are the only two choices, aren�t they? If she didn�t drop out of sight of her own free will, she�s being held somewhere under duress!�

�By the real killer of Cox.�

�Yes! From which it follows that Ruth is innocent. No, let me keep going. I�ll concede the probability that Ruth did go to the Hobby Motel that night. For purposes of my argument, I don�t give a damn whether she went there � as you believe � because she was also one of Cox�s ex-romances and blackmail victims or � as I believe � because she�d somehow got wind of Sandra Jean�s involvement with Cox and followed Sandra to the motel to protect a wild kid sister. Either way, Ruth�s there, spying. She sees Cox put Sandra into a cab, go back to his room. But before Ruth can leave, she also sees somebody else call on Cox � and it�s my guess it�s someone she knew or recognized, or she�d never have hung around...�

�Pardon,� the detective said. �Your version can be improved. Ruth doesn�t just hang around outside after her sister leaves; she follows Cranny Cox into his room and talks to him � whether about herself or about Sandra Jean doesn�t matter at this point. There�s a knock on the door � the somebody else you set up. Ruth is trapped; she can�t get out without being spotted by this mysterious new visitor, so Cox lets her hide in the bathroom.

�Cox lets visitor in. Argument. Visitor picks up your gun � lying on the bed, maybe, where Cox tossed it after taking it away from Sandra Jean. Bang! Cox is dead. Ruth cries out or something � anyway, killer finds her hiding there. So he slugs her and spirits her away. Is that it, Dave?�

�Yes, that�s it,� Tully said eagerly. �And doesn�t it make all kinds of sense? For instance: Why doesn�t he shoot Ruth, too? Because he sees that she gives him a heaven-sent out. By smuggling her from the motel and keeping her out of circulation, he makes her the logical suspect for the Cox killing. And she takes the heat off him, or any possibility of it.�

�And even then he doesn�t kill her,� Julian Smith said, nodding, �because he�s saving her for the psychological moment. Right, Dave?�

�Right! When he figures the time is ripe, he forces her to make contact with me, to tell me she�s going to run as fast and as far as she can, and I�m to forget her.�

�And how does he force her to do that?�

�Are you kidding, Julian? By threatening to kill her � or, better still, me. Ruth would certainly knuckle under if she thought my life was in danger!�

�And for this killer that�s it, isn�t it?� Smith murmured.

�Exactly. He�s cinched his frame-up and he has no further need of Ruth. But he obviously can�t turn her loose, either.� Tully said hoarsely, �Don�t you see where this leads to, Julian? He has to kill her, dispose of her so that no trace will ever be found. Julian, you�ve got to forget this nonsense about looking for Ruth as a wanted killer. You�ve got to concentrate every effort on finding her before she becomes another victim! It may be too late already!�

The lieutenant did not stir.

Tully jumped up, yelling. �My God, Julian, are you a complete moron? Isn�t it logical? Doesn�t it follow?�

�It follows, all right,� Smith said. �The trouble is, it follows from a premise you�ve cut out of the whole cloth. It�s built on unsupported assumption.�

�What assumption?� Tully cried. �That Ruth is innocent?�

�The assumption basic to that one, that Ruth is being held against her will and was forced to make the call. What�s that assumption rest on but plain air?�

Tully leaned over the desk in a bitter sort of triumph. �I wanted you to put it like that, Julian. It rests not on air but on solid fact!�

�Produce it.�

�I haven�t a sworn affidavit or an inanimate Exhibit A. I have Ruth�s own word. She told me.�

�She told you?� Julian Smith said sharply. �Told you what?�

�That the message she asked George Cabbott to pass on to me was a fake.�

�Interesting if true. How�d she manage to do that?�

�By slipping in a certain word. It sounded like a harmless term of endearment. It was anything but.�

The detective frowned. �I don�t get you.�

�Haven�t you and your wife ever used a secret signal, Julian, a word or phrase with a meaning known only to the two of you?�

�Well... yes.� The lieutenant looked irritated. �If Gert wants to quit a party early because she�s bored or something, she�ll mention the O�Toole case to me. There never was an O�Toole case. It�s our private code for, �Let�s get out of here.��

Tully nodded. �With Ruth and me it�s sugar-pill.�

�Sugar-pill?�

�On our honeymoon Ruth told me about some aunt or somebody, a hypochondriac, who was always running to her doctor with imaginary aches and pains. He�d give her pills made out of sugar, and she went away happy. For some reason it tickled me, and I promptly christened sugar-pill our secret word for anything imaginary or untrue. If somebody told a supposedly true story, I�d beam at Ruth and call her my little sugar-pill, and she�d understand from that that I knew or thought the guy was lying his head off. Or if we were introduced to somebody, especially a gal, that Ruth thought I was showing too much of an interest in, she�d say sweetly to me, �Isn�t Miss So-and-So fascinating, sugar-pill?� and I�d get the message: My wife thought the gal was a phony.�

�So?�

�The last thing Ruth said to George Cabbott before she hung up was, �Tell Dave he�ll always be my sugar-pill.� That was the tipoff, Julian. Ruth was telling me, �Don�t believe a word of what I�ve said. This is a phony.� It could only mean she was forced to make the call, told what to say. Does that bear out my theory or doesn�t it?�

Smith was silent.

Tully kept looking at him, puzzled.

Finally the lieutenant said, �You wouldn�t be making this up, Dave, would you?�

He fought a battle with himself, and won. �No, Julian, I wouldn�t and I didn�t. But if you doubt me, call Cabbott.�

�That wouldn�t prove anything. I have only your word for it that sugar-pill has a secret meaning � the meaning you claim it has � for you and Mrs. Tully.�

Tully shook his head and laughed. �The one thing that didn�t occur to me was that you�d doubt my word.� He shrugged. �Well, that�s the only proof I can give you, Julian. I can�t see that you and I are going to have much more to say to each other. I�ve had it.�

He made for the office door.

Lieutenant Smith said, �Wait, wait, will you?�

Tully stopped, waited.

�Damn it all, Dave, this puts me in a real spot. It might mean my job...� But then the Homicide man got to his feet, and when he spoke again it was with decision. �If your analysis is right, I�ll have to reverse my field. And fast, because Ruth is in for it. Go home and stay out of my hair!�

Tully went home.

He let himself into the silent house and sank limply into the big chair in the living room. His legs felt like old rubber and a great lassitude had sucked him dry. How long was it since he had come home from the capital � a day, two days, three? He could not remember.

Julian was right. He could do no more. Now it was in the hands of the police... now that they were looking for an innocent woman in danger of being murdered instead of for a murderer.

Funny how this thing, Tully thought, has kept testing my faith in Ruth. Down, up, down, up... He laid his head far back and stretched his legs gingerly.

Twilight was coming on and the room was sinking into shadow.

First he had destroyed her image. Then he had resurrected its fragments and put them back together. Now she was to be destroyed in the flesh... dead...

The shadows deepened into near-darkness. The thought of turning on the lights made him wince. Light meant seeing the things they had bought together, lived in, cherished. Light meant Ruth. Better the black gloom and the silence.

The silence.

The silence?

Noiselessly Tully shifted his position in the chair until he was sitting up, ears cocked, straining. There had been something in the silence that made it not quite silence. A sense of presence... With one leap he was out of the chair and across the room, his hand shooting out to the light switch.

He whirled.

Norma Hurst stood in the archway that separated the living room from the rear of the house. She must have been standing there, Tully thought, for a long time � perhaps since he had come home.

He felt the flesh of his forearms gather itself into little eruptions of dread.

This was a Norma Hurst he had never seen before. She had combed her drab hair with great care but the result was curiously fumbling. Her long thin face was grotesque with make-up, as if a small child had tried to imitate her mother�s toilet. And her eyes... her eyes were not Norma�s at all. They were overlarge and underbright; they looked blind.

�Norma,� Tully said; he tried to make his voice sound natural, but it came out in a croak. �What are you doing here? How did you get in?� She must have climbed through one of the bedroom windows.

Norma put her forefinger to her wildly rouged lips. �Not so loud,� she said. �She�ll hear me.�

Her voice was strange, too. It had a throb in it, a sort of excitement, that gave it an unpleasantly eerie timbre.

�Who�ll hear you, Norma?�

�Mother, of course.� He saw her shrink a little, as if she were afraid.

It took all his will-power to go to her, smiling, and take her hand. Her flesh was icy. She resisted his pull.

�You�re going to take me to her. She�s here, I know she�s here. I don�t want to see her.�

�There�s no one here but us, Norma.�

�You shouldn�t call me that.�

�What?� Tully said, bewildered. �Call you what?�

�That name. The name of that flat-chested horror.�

�You mean... Norma?�

�Please,� Norma said sharply. �You know perfectly well that my name is Kathleen.�

She had plunged over the edge.

Tully knew he must reach the telephone, call for help. Ollie? She must have slipped away from him. Ollie was undoubtedly hunting for her right now. The police? No... Dr. Suddreth!

Dr. Suddreth was the nearest thing the Tullys had ever had in the way of a family physician. Suddreth was no psychiatrist, but he would do in an emergency. At least control her, know whom to call...

Norma had drifted toward the middle of the living room. Her face was twisted with worry. �I can�t seem to remember where Ollie introduced us. Was it at the country club dance last week?�

�Why, yes,� Tully said, managing a smile. Oh! Would you excuse me a moment?�

�For what?� she said with sudden sharpness.

�I forgot. I have a call to make.�

�No!� she said. �No � phoning � mother.� Her lower lip stuck out resentfully.

�Mother?� he repeated mechanically. How was he to get to the phone?

�As if you don�t know! Don�t try to fool me. You know very well my mother is Mercedes Lavery.� She got into a crouch, looking around, whispering. �She�s here, isn�t she? You�re in this with her! And Ollie calls you his best friend! Where is she hiding?� Her glance kept darting about.

�Merce � your mother isn�t here,� Tully said in a reassuring tone. �And of course I�m Ollie�s best friend. Now why don�t you sit down and make yourself comfortable while��

�You are, aren�t you?�

�What?�

�Ollie�s best friend. Otherwise you wouldn�t let us meet here. Mother�s made it impossible for us to meet anywhere else.�

It was hard to follow the logic of her delusion. The damn phone, so near. But the delusion might be a temporary thing. I can�t risk pushing her toward the thin edge of total madness, Tully thought.

She was wandering about the living room now, humming a shapeless little tune. Suddenly she stopped before the bar.

�I want a drink,� she said.

�You, Norma�?� He stopped quickly. Surprise had made him forget. Norma didn�t drink.

She was looking at him with mean, hopeless resentment. �I ask you once more to stop calling me that name. Do you hear me? Do you?�

�Yes. Yes, of course, Kathleen. Sorry.�

�Kathleen. That�s my name.�

�Kathleen.�

He wondered if he dared try force. He might be able to wrap her in a blanket or something and tie her up until Dr. Suddreth arrived. No, he thought, she might tumble right over the edge. The safest thing was to humor her as best he could while he figured out a way to make the phone call without upsetting her.

�I want a drink,� Norma Hurst said in exactly the same way as before. As if their interchange betweenwhiles had not taken place at all.

�What would you like... Kathleen?�

It pleased her. �Now you remember,� she said gayly. �Why, Scotch on the rocks. Make it a double.�

Norma asking for a double Scotch!

But then a thought struck Tully.

�Sit down, Kathleen. I�ve got to get some ice from the kitchen for your drink�� He could phone for help from the kitchen extension.

But Norma said, �No ice, thank you.�

�You said on the rocks,� he said desperately.

�No ice,� she repeated.

He poured a huge slug of Scotch into a highball glass and handed it to her, hope returning. Norma didn�t drink because she couldn�t; hard liquor either made her sick or sleepy. In either event...

�Thank you,� she said, and held the glass without attempting to drink from it.

�Drink up, Kathleen,� Tully said heartily. �You asked for a double.�

�Oh, yes,� she said in a vague way; and she raised the glass and barely wet her lips. Tully turned and poured himself a drink almost as copious.

�Let�s go into my den, Kathleen,� he said, forcing another smile. �It�s comfier there.�

Rather to his surprise, she said, �All right,� and ambled along in his wake.

He sat her down in his oversized leather chair and hovered over the telephone without seeming to do so. If only someone would call!

�I suppose you�ve wondered,� Norma said brightly � she was sitting in a stiff position that made him wince � �what I can possibly see in a man like Oliver Hurst.�

�Well... yes.�

�I know everybody does. What people don�t realize is that the beautiful Kathleen Lavery � they call me that, don�t they?�� with all this money and position, is way down deep the unhappiest girl in town. The beautiful Mercedes � they call mother that, too, don�t they?�� doesn�t understand that I need to be needed for myself, for what I am inside, not for what I look like and have. Ollie Hurst needs me as a person � the only man I�ve ever known who does. What do I care what Ollie looks like? Or that he hasn�t a dime? He�s mad about me. And he always will be.�

Under other circumstances Tully would have been fascinated. This is how it must have been, he thought, seen through Norma Hurst�s eyes.

�You aren�t listening,� Norma said. She was still sitting rigid on the edge of the chair, still holding the glassful of untouched Scotch.

�Oh, but I am � Kathleen,� he said hastily. �Please go on.�

�There! You remembered again.� She smiled, a painful surface adjustment of muscle tissue. �Why did you keep calling me that other name? You know, that was cruel of you. Poor Norma can�t help being what she is.�

�I�m sorry,� Tully said. Idly he removed the handset from its cradle. �I mean I�m sorry for��

�Will you stop playing with that phone?� Norma said shrilly. �It makes me nervous.� He replaced the handset. �What was I saying? Oh, about Norma. She�s so sensitive and high-strung, you know. And so unattractive. Of course, she�s hopelessly in love with Ollie. The only way she could possibly get him would be to catch him on the rebound while I�m out of the picture. Poor Norma.�

So that was it. His skin crawled.

�It may happen, too,� Norma said, staring into space over her glass. �That horrible mother of mine! She�s offered me a �compromise.� She�s taking me abroad for three months, during which I�m not to see or communicate with Ollie. If I still want him when we get back, mother says, she�ll give us our blessing.�

�I see,� Tully said.

�But I know her, the way her mind works. She�s figuring on tricking me, the way she always does. Divine Mercedes! If people only knew her... She�ll pretend to be sick, or she�ll find some other excuse to keep us in Europe indefinitely. And that will be Norma�s chance.�

Tully could not help asking, �Then why are you leaving?�

�I have no choice. I�m under age. It�s going to be a battle. Because I�m going to fight just as hard to talk mother into keeping her word.�

�How does Ollie feel about this?�

�Oh, he doesn�t know yet. About my going away, I mean. I�ll have to tell him soon. The whole story� Where are you going?�

Tully had edged over to the doorway, his mind made up. �To see a man about a dog.� It was a phrase, he recalled, popular in Kathleen�s day. �Why don�t you drink your drink, Kathleen? You�ve hardly touched it.�

She glanced down at the glass with the same vague smile. Tully slipped out of the den. He went quickly into the master bedroom, shut the door without noise, snapped on the light and was over at the night table diving for the telephone book under the bedroom extension in one scrambling leap. Just as he found the S�s he heard a car turn into his driveway.

When the private ambulance drove away Ollie Hurst, looking eighty years old, got into his car and began to back out of the driveway. Tully walked along, one hand on the driver�s door.

�Let me know what the psychiatrist says, Ollie.�

The lawyer swallowed. �Dave...�

�Forget it. If you need me, call.�

Tully waited at the edge of the road until Oliver Hurst�s car disappeared around the curve. Then he went into the house and made for the phone in the den.

�Julian? Dave Tully. I�ve got to see you.�

�What about?� The Homicide man sounded tired and peevish. �I was just getting set at the TV.�

�It�s important, Julian. May I come right over?�

�To my house? My wife�s walking around half-naked. Where you calling from?�

�Home.�

�I�ll come over there.�

Tully hung up and went into the kitchen and dug around in the refrigerator. Nothing but cold cuts. He made a face and set the kettle on to boil. He was just pouring hot water into the big mug with the word PAPA on it when he heard Julian Smith�s car pull into the driveway.

He let the detective in and said, �How about a cup of coffee? I know you don�t drink.�

�Instant?� The detective was in rumpled slacks. He needed a shave.

�That�s all there is in the house.�

�The hell with it,� Smith said.

He followed Tully into the kitchen and sat down wearily. �How�d you get those scratches on your cheek?�

Tully set the kettle back on the electric range and sat down to his coffee. �That�s the reason I want to talk to you, Julian. Norma Hurst did that.�

�Norma Hurst?� The lieutenant stared at him.

�I found her here when I got home. She�s gone off the deep end again, Julian. She thinks she�s Kathleen Lavery.�

Julian Smith slowly took out a crumpled pack of cigarettes. �Kathleen Lavery... She was Mercedes Cabbott�s daughter, wasn�t she? Died in a boating accident in Europe somewhere?�

�That�s right.�

Smith looked puzzled. He lit his last cigarette, made a ball of the empty package, glanced around, then stuck the paper ball in his pocket. �What happened, Dave?�

�Ollie went out food-shopping and she took off. I had to handle her with kid gloves, and she did quite a bit of talking � as Kathleen. Finally Ollie got around to looking for her here. She went completely off her rocker and into a violent phase � got hold of my barbecue knife, and I had to knock her out. Delusions of persecution.�

�Where is she now?�

�At Pittman, the private sanitarium. Ollie called for an ambulance. That�s the place she was in after their child died.�

The detective looked around for an ashtray, saw none, and tipped the ash into his cupped hand. �I don�t get it, Dave. I�m sorry, of course, for both of them, but why did you have to get me out at this hour of the night to tell me about it?�

�Because I think what happened tonight is tied into the Cox case.�

Smith looked around again for an ashtray. �Don�t you have an ashtray?� he asked irritably. Tully got up and went into the den and brought back an ashtray. It seemed to make the Homicide man feel better. He emptied his hand of ashes and tapped some more from his cigarette into the tray and said in a good-humored tone, �You sure you aren�t the one who�s gone off his rocker, Dave?�

�I�m saner than you are, with your damn compulsive neatness,� Tully snapped. �Here�s what I learned via Norma�s delusion tonight: Kathleen Lavery and Ollie Hurst were in love with each other. In fact, they planned to get married. Mercedes characteristically interfered � talked Kathleen into a three-month separation from Ollie in Europe. The whole thing became academic when the girl was drowned in Switzerland.�

�So?� the lieutenant asked, unimpressed. �What�s that ancient history got to do with this Cox crumb�s murder at the Hobby Motel a few nights ago?�

Tully said slowly, �I think Crandall Cox�s killing had its origins in that ancient history. He may have come back here to shake down Sandra Jean��

�And Ruth?�

�Okay, and Ruth!�� but his killing had nothing to do with either one of them. I think Cox was murdered by Kathleen Lavery.�

After Smith�s departure Tully prowled about the house. A new thought had come to plague him, of having recently seen or heard something meaningful. A word, a key, a clue � an open-sesame that with one push would reveal the truth.

But what was it?

He holed up in the den, trying desperately to raise from the dead whatever-it-was. He sat stiff and strained until sweat slicked his forehead. Finally he muttered a curse on all darkness.

Tully heaved himself out of the chair and went to the phone. He dialed Information for the home telephone number of the city editor of the Times-Call, Jake Ballinger.

�Dave Tully?� Ballinger was yawning. �Something?�

�Well, for one thing I want to thank you for the way you�ve handled the Cox story, Jake,� Tully said. �I mean as regards my wife.�

�We�ve printed the facts. I left my tabloid techniques back in Chicago.� The rumble sounded interested. �What�s up, Dave?�

�I need a favor. Will you let me go through your files?�

Ballinger said immediately, �Meet me outside the shop.�

A jalopy was parked before the newspaper building when Tully drove up. The bulky newspaperman promptly hopped out. He looked as expectant as an old bird-dog.

�What�s the yarn, Dave? I expect quid for my quo.�

�I haven�t one � yet.�

Ballinger gave Tully a sharp look and led the way into the partly darkened building. The rumble of press machinery was giving the old floors the shakes. Upstairs, a crew of three was still on watch in the newsroom. Locally, the paper was published as the morning Times and the afternoon Call, with a Times-Call appearing on Sundays.

The old man plodded past the newsroom on his flat feet to a glass-partitioned office. He opened the door and snapped on a light. Tiers of laden shelves reached to the ceiling.

�We�re running cuts of your wife in the morning edition,� Ballinger said. �Headquarters request. I gather the gendarmes of our unfair city don�t think Mrs. T.�s so guilty any more. Why, Lieutenant Smith sayeth not. Any news?�

�She�s not guilty at all, Jake.�

Ballinger kept eyeing him. �This is our morgue. What are you after, Dave?�

�Kathleen Lavery.�

�Lavery...� Ballinger�s hard blue eyes turned inward. �Oh, yes. Why?�

�I�m not sure,� Tully said. �I think Cox had other reasons for returning.�

�Such as?�

Tully shrugged. �He staked his life on coming back here. He must have had a pretty solid expectation of loot � real loot � to take such a risk.�

�And you think it goes back to Kathleen Lavery?�

�I don�t know what to think, Jake. This is from desperation. Maybe your files have the answer.�

Ballinger rummaged through a card-index file, drew a card out, moved to the shelves. Consulting the card, he fished nearly a dozen small, flat cardboard boxes from the shelves. He opened them one by one and from each took out a round flat tin.

�Let�s take these over to the viewer, Dave.�

�Microfilm?�

The old newspaperman chuckled. �Unto even a one-horse town cometh technology.�

Tully trailed Ballinger to the microfilm viewer. Ballinger turned the projector on and slipped the top film into place. A front page of the Times sprang into being on the viewer�s frosted plate.

�Watch the heads, Dave. We click from page to page till we hit the story relating to our subject.�

For forty-five minutes David Tully watched a beautiful young girl grow up. The Laverys leaving for Europe. The Laverys returning from Europe. Young Miss Kathleen Lavery entertaining with a Christmas party at the country club, under the chaperonage of Mrs. Mercedes Lavery. At fourteen � taking a blue ribbon at the horse show � the budding teenager pictured sitting her sleek mount seemed to Tully a lonely little figure. Swimming on her school team in an intra-state competition. Entering a junior tennis tournament in England. Story after story...

And then her death.

�Hold that, Jake.�

Ballinger held it, looking curious. Tully skimmed through the story. �...vacationing in Switzerland with her mother. Miss Lavery was pronounced dead from accidental drowning after her boat capsized on Lake St. Cyr. Her body was washed up on the lake shore shortly after dawn yesterday morning, Swiss time. It was found by a group of early morning swimmers...�

Tully scanned the rest of the file. It concerned the girl�s funeral, and a final obit recounting her short history and family connections.

�That�s it.� Ballinger clicked off the viewer.

Tully mumbled: �No mention of Crandall Cox.�

�Why should there be?�

�He preyed on women most of his life, specializing in the upper crust. I thought he might have done a job on the Lavery girl. She was certainly the richest and most vulnerable target in this town.�

�He�d have had a pretty tough time,� the old newspaperman said dryly, �worming his way into her set, from what it used to be like in those days.�

Tully scowled, watching Ballinger stow away the films. �By the way,� he said suddenly. �How did Kathleen happen to drown? She was an expert swimmer, according to one of these stories. Or were you still in Chicago at that time, Jake?�

�No, I�d been here about six months when it happened. It was a big story. Anyone or anything connected with Mercedes has always been a big story here.� The old man shrugged. �There was a lot of back-of-the-hand talk, because the Swiss authorities didn�t come up with any clearcut explanation for the accident. There�d been a squall of sorts, and the girl had taken the boat out alone, presumably � they finally decided that when the boat upset she got a crack on the head, or a cramp. Or swam around in circles in the dark till she was exhausted.�

�It doesn�t sell me,� Tully said.

Jake Ballinger looked at him. �Are you suggesting that the bonnie Kathleen was murdered?�

�How the devil do I know what I�m suggesting?� Tully exploded.

He and Ballinger went down into the street.

�Thanks, Jake.�

�For what?� the old editor rumbled.

In spite of himself, David Tully grinned. �For nothing, I guess.�

�Crandall Cox and Kathleen,� Tully said. �Did they know each other?�

�How would I know?�

�She knew Ollie Hurst, even thought of marrying him. She knew Cox too, didn�t she?�

�I tell you I don�t know! Man oh man, I�ll fix you for this, Dave��

�Stick to the subject at hand. Mercedes took Kathleen abroad to keep her from marrying Ollie. Did Cox figure any way in that?�

�I don�t know!�

�You do know,� Tully said. �Mercedes runs a pretty taut ship. She�s held Kathleen�s fate up to you since you were in diapers � I mean, as a horrible example of what comes from crossing mama. Right, Andy?�

Andy was pressing a handkerchief to his nose. �Wait till she hears about this.�

�I�m not impressed any more,� Tully said. �I have a wife to get back. Are you going to talk?�

�The papers�� Andy shrank back.

�I read the papers, Andy. They printed the official handouts. Your half-sister was a good enough swimmer to be on her school swimming team. She didn�t drown accidentally, now, did she?�

Andy glared up at him. Whatever it was that he saw in Tully�s eyes, it made his own eyes shift.

�No. She didn�t.�

�Well,� said Tully. Then he said, �And she wasn�t murdered, either. The Swiss police are among the best in the world. They wouldn�t have missed that.�

�I don�t follow you,� the boy said sullenly.

�Kathleen was the daughter of a millionaire American. And there was no proof her death wasn�t an accident. Under the circumstances, didn�t the Swiss authorities decide to let it go at that?�

�I don�t know what you�re talking about.�

Tully stooped over him and said softly, �Kathleen killed herself, Andy, didn�t she? Took that boat out in a squall and deliberately upset it and let herself go under? Probably leaving a suicide note that Mercedes destroyed. Isn�t that the truth about Kathleen?�

The boy�s voice was little more than a whisper. �Yes.�

�Why, Andy? Why did Kathleen kill herself?�

�She�d found out she was pregnant.�

�Thank you very much, Mr. Gordon.�

Mercedes Cabbott�s son shot to his feet and darted toward the door. Before Tully could move Andy was out of the house.

A moment later his car roared its belated defiance as it escaped.

Tully went into the utility washroom off the kitchen and plunged his face into a basinful of cold water. Then he went into the kitchen and looked up the number of the Pittman sanitarium and dialed it and asked if Mr. Oliver Hurst was still there, and how was Mrs. Hurst? He was told that Mr. Hurst had left not long before and sorry, we can give out no information about our patients.

Tully broke the connection, began to dial Ollie Hurst�s home number, thought better of it, and hung up.

He got into the Imperial and drove over to the Hurst house.

Ollie answered the door. He looked like hell.

�Dave. I was just going to call you.�

�How is Norma?�

�Quiet under sedation. The doctor kicked me out. Come on in. Something up?�

�Yes. I hate to ask this of you, Ollie � you look about as beat as I feel!�� but would you do me a favor?�

�Don�t be an idiot,� Ollie Hurst said crossly. �What?�

�I�m going up to the Cabbott m�nage to see Mercedes. I�d like you to be present when I tackle her.�

�About what?�

�I�ll explain later. Will you come?�

Ollie stood there. �You put me on a spot, Dave. I�m not comfortable in that house.�

�I wish I could spare you,� Tully said. �But Ollie, I�ve got to have you there.�

�All right.�

Ollie went for his jacket and tie. Tully got into his car and waited. Finally the lights went off and the lawyer came out and climbed in beside Tully. Tully turned the car around and headed for the hills.

As the Imperial turned into the Cabbott grounds Ollie Hurst said suddenly, �This isn�t about Ruth, is it, Dave?�

�No.�

�Then I don�t see��

�That is, not directly.� Tully�s mouth set in a grim line. �Everything I�ve been doing in the past few days has been about Ruth one way or the other, Ollie.�

Hurst nodded and settled back. He appeared shrunken, half the size he had been.

It was George Cabbott who opened the door. The blond giant looked angry and formidable.

�We�ve been expecting you,� Cabbott said. �Come in.�

�Then you do know the story,� Tully said.

�I do now!�

Mercedes�s husband did not even glance at Oliver Hurst. He led them through the house to the terrace. Mercedes was waiting for them at the king-size terrace table. She looked odd in the weird lighting of the insect-repellent bulbs.

�It was quite horrid of you, David,� Mercedes said in a high, tight voice.

�Yes,� George Cabbott growled, �you sure had one hell of a nerve. Why don�t you take me on for a change?�

�You didn�t try to clobber me, George,� Tully said. He looked around. A cigarette was smoldering in an ash tray on the table; neither Mercedes nor George Cabbott smoked. �I take it Andy�s declared himself on the side of discretion. He�s updated you, Mercedes?�

�My son felt he should tell me that you�d forced certain information from him,� she said frigidly. �Did you have to trick him into coming to your house?�

�And why Andy?� George Cabbott demanded. �If you wanted information, why didn�t you ask Mercedes, like a man?�

�Do you think she�d have told me?�

�Of course I wouldn�t have,� Mercedes said. She had not once glanced Ollie Hurst�s way. He stood just outside the circle of grisly light, a forlorn shadow.

�If you want to break a chain,� Tully said sententiously, �choose the weakest link. Confucius or Sherlock Holmes or somebody, wasn�t it?�

Mercedes poured herself a drink from the heavy silver cocktail shaker. Tully noted that her hands were trembling. She did not offer any to him or Hurst, or even ask them to sit down. She drank in hard gulps. Her husband stood by, watchful as a paid guard.

�All right, David. Now that you�ve broken the chain, what do you intend to do?�

�Get the rest of the story straight.�

�Then the police?�

�I�m afraid so.�

She poured another drink. George Cabbott took the glass from her hand and flung its contents out into the black lawn. She glanced at him, and he shook his head very slightly.

�How much will be made public, David?�

Tully shrugged. �The irreducible minimum, as far as I�m concerned.�

�After all these years you�d destroy her image... blacken her name?�

�I can�t destroy or blacken, Mercedes,� Tully said. �That was done long ago, by others.�

The beautiful young-old woman sank into a chair, her back growing a queer hump. Her husband leaned over and took her impeccable little hand. It lay there lifelessly.

�Why?� George Cabbott asked. �That�s what I don�t understand, Dave. What purpose does this serve?� He asked it in a determinedly reasonable tone, like a representative of management in a labor dispute.

�The cause of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness,� Tully replied. �My wife�s.�

Ollie Hurst stirred, stepped forward. In the light he looked like a ghost. �Dave. What did Andrew tell you?�

�The truth about Kathleen�s death. When Mercedes strong-armed her into going abroad, Kathleen discovered that she was pregnant. She killed herself.�

The lawyer stared at him. Then he shuffled over to the table and took the shaker and Mercedes�s glass and poured. He set the shaker down carefully and drank slowly and thirstily. The tiniest frown appeared between Mercedes�s graceful brows. �What else do you know, Dave?�

�You tell me, Ollie. Was Kathleen�s child yours?�

�Yes.�

�Did she know she was pregnant when her mother took her to Europe?�

�No. Kathleen wrote me from Switzerland. Her letter reached me after the news that she�d drowned. I knew she had committed suicide.� Ollie Hurst stared out into the darkness.

�I suspected the baby was yours,� Tully said thoughtfully. �If it had been Crandall Cox�s��

�You � shut � up,� Mercedes Cabbott whispered. �You shut your filthy mouth!�

�If it had been Cox�s,� Tully said, �he�d have tried to cash in on it right away. Of course, he must have found out. How did he find out, do you suppose, Ollie?�

He saw the fine sweat appear on Hurst�s bald head.

�The letter,� Tully said softly. �Of course! The letter you just said Kathleen wrote you. Didn�t you and Cox both go to college here? It must have been around the same time��

�It was,� Mercedes Cabbott said. �Oh, it was! And now I remember, Oliver. You and Crandall Cox roomed together during one semester.�

�I�m going great guns, Ollie,� Tully said. �I�m really hitting it now. That�s it, sure. Cox swiped that letter from you, and he kept it like an insurance policy all these years. You probably thought you�d lost it. Isn�t that it, Ollie?�

The lawyer said hoarsely, �Dave.� He licked his lips and said again, �Dave.�

But Tully said, �It was Kathleen�s secret that brought Cranny Cox back here after fifteen years. He didn�t come back to put the bite on you, Mercedes � he was desperate, and he�d saved that letter for a desperate day, but he knew how tough you could be, and he�d look for a softer touch.

�You, Ollie. You�ve done well for yourself � he�d have investigated that for sure. You�re a respected member of the community. Your legal practice lies here. You have a vulnerable wife. He�d have played on all that, Ollie � counted on its making you pay through the nose to keep that letter from being published, ruining you socially, destroying your livelihood, maybe turning your wife into a hopeless lunatic.

�The one thing he didn�t count on,� Tully went on, and he had to steel himself with all his strength to keep from betraying the pity and sorrow and disgust he felt, �the one thing Cox didn�t count on was the lengths to which you�d go to hold on to what he was threatening. And the fact that you�re a lawyer and know that a blackmailer never stops.

�It was you who killed Cox, wasn�t it, Ollie?�

The man with the shining bald head was silent. Suddenly he looked strange � older, thinner, less substantial. Mercedes Cabbott and her husband were regarding him as if they had never seen him before.

As perhaps they haven�t, Tully thought.

�It would have been a pretty simple case if Cox hadn�t been so greedy,� Tully said into the silence, and then he shrugged. �But then he wouldn�t have been Cox, would he? He came to town to blackmail you, Ollie, but while he was here he thought he�d do a little business with Sandra Jean, too... whom he knew as Ruth. He must have set up the appointment with Sandra Jean first � a little incidental he thought he�d get out of the way. I wondered why he didn�t try to get some money out of Sandra on the spot � why he was willing to let her off the hook until she married Andy and he�d have something worth his while to go after. Now it�s obvious. He didn�t need Sandra�s immediate pittance; he had a much bigger fish tugging on his line. So Sandra came and went, and then you came at your appointed time, Ollie.�

He saw Ollie Hurst swallow, as if to gather sufficient moisture in his mouth to lubricate his voice. Before the lawyer could speak, Tully went on.

�You came, Ollie, and the gun Cox had taken away from Sandra was right there, and whether you came prepared to kill Cox or the sight of the gun set you off, you managed to grab it and cover him and wrap a towel around it and shoot him dead.�

�And Ruth walked in on that?� Mercedes said in soft horror.

�She did, didn�t she, Ollie?� Tully said. She�d followed Sandra to the motel, seen her leave, saw you go into Cox�s room, and she must have sensed that Cox had some hold on you, too. And with some quixotic idea of helping you � she�s always liked and looked up to you, Ollie; you remember that, don�t you?�� Ruth barged into that room after you. And found you standing over Cox�s dead body with the gun in your hand. It must have been your voice Maudie Blake heard calling Ruth by name, not Cox�s � listening through that thin wall to the whole thing, Maudie must have made a lightning decision to lie for you and cover for you, Ollie, so that you�d have to pay her off. As you did, when you slipped into her room at Flynn�s Inn subsequently and forced a lethal dose of booze down her drunken throat.�

He was no longer Ollie Hurst at all, but a standing corpse, a breathing dead man, so still and stiff he might have been a corpse in fact. I wonder, Tully thought, if he even hears me now.

George Cabbott drew a quavery sort of breath and exhaled it noisily. �How do you know all this, Dave?�

�It follows from one simple thing, so simple I hardly noticed it at the time.� Tully�s breath came out under tension, too. �Ollie made a tremendous mistake. The night I went to Flynn�s Inn at Maudie Blake�s request, she told me she�d �just� moved over there from the Hobby Motel. The next morning � the morning Ollie and I found her dead � we went in Ollie�s car, Ollie driving. Never once the night before in Ollie�s house, never once that morning in my house, did I mention the fact that Maudie Blake was no longer at the Hobby Motel, but had moved. And on the drive to Flynn�s neither of us said a single word. Yet Ollie drove directly to Flynn�s Inn.

�I didn�t realize until much later how significant that was,� Tully ground on. �In fact, I didn�t remember it at all. Until, that is, I began to put the pieces together about Ollie�s relationship fifteen years ago with Kathleen. Then it popped out, and it hit me between the eyes. That business with Kathleen concealed a possible motive for Ollie to have killed Cox. The knowledge he shouldn�t have had � of where Maudie Blake had holed in � put him right smack in that room at Flynn�s Inn � pouring a lethal dose of liquor down Maudie�s gullet. It�s not evidence, but I�m not after evidence � let Julian Smith and the prosecutor�s office worry about that. In fact, what I�m after��

�Dave,� the corpse said. �Dave, you�ve got to understand I didn�t know that gun belonged to you. All I saw was a gun � and that damn leering face... It was over � I was committed � before I really had time to think. And there he was, dead, and afterward that Blake horror � trying to squeeze me, too...� Ollie Hurst said dully, �Didn�t she realize that a man who�s killed once finds it easy to kill a second time? I had to kill her. She knew. She knew everything.�

�And Ruth?� Tully said. �And Ruth, Ollie?�

�Ruth... She walked in... I couldn�t kill Ruth. Not Ruth. My friend. Norma�s friend. Your wife...�

Tully crouched slightly. He heard his breath whistling up from his lungs, tasted the foul taste of undiluted hatred in his mouth. �You couldn�t kill Ruth, Ollie? Do you think you can still pull the old-pal act with me?� He dimly heard his own voice shouting. �You didn�t kill Ruth then for one reason only: You needed her as your fall guy! And when you thought you were in the clear and you had Ruth all set up to take the rap for you � did you kill Ruth, too? Did you, Ollie? Where did you put her? Where have you got her hidden? Alive or dead?�

�Dave, no! I�ll take him!�

It was George Cabbott who sprang between them, reaching for the lawyer with his bronze arms.

It was impossible, but Ollie Hurst moved faster. Tully saw the blur of his hand snatching the cocktail shaker from the table, the weirdly colored line of light it made as the shaker struck Cabbott squarely in the face. The big man went down with an expression of great surprise. Blood began to pump from his mouth.

And Ollie Hurst � portly, bald Ollie Hurst � twisted his clumsy body and grabbed the terrace railing and vaulted over it like a gazelle and disappeared in the darkness.

Mercedes Cabbott dropped to her knees beside her husband with a faint cry.

Then Tully found himself on the black lawn, running.