Tony Ransome examined what the caboose wheels had left of the large young body on the embalming table without any expression at all on his face, but deep within him was a churning bitterness.

�Sam Stone all right,� he said in a colorless voice. Then, as though conscious something aside from dazed apathy was expected of him, he added with forced briskness, �Funny, the way it missed his head completely.�

�We figure he fell square across one track with his head clear of the rails,� Chief Ward Murphy said. �The wheels caught him at belt level.�

Tony lifted achromatic eyes to the face of the fat chief. �Then how you account for his arms? A guy falling would push his arms in front of him; not hold them flat to his sides.�

�We figure he fell clear from the top of the car,� the police chief said. �Probably he rolled before the wheels hit him.�

Ransome�s lips tightened. �Or maybe he was dead before he fell.�

Abruptly he turned and stalked toward the exit from the funeral parlor�s basement, a thin, wiry little man in his early thirties who moved with a belligerent strut, as though daring anyone to block his one-hundred forty pounds. Outside he waited for the slower moving fat man to catch up.

�How could he be dead before he fell?� Chief Murphy asked querulously. �He just had an unlucky accident. Three witnesses saw him hold up the restaurant, clean out the cash drawer and shoot Larson, the proprietor. Then he hopped a freight to get out of town. There can�t be any mistake about him being the robber, because we found the money and the murder gun on his body.�

�Why�d he wait five hours to hop a freight?�

The chief shook his head resignedly. �What�s eating you, Ransome? So the guy was a respected citizen in Buffalo, but down here turns out to be a killer. That any skin off your nose? You act like the guy was your brother.�

You fat slob! Tony thought. But what he said was milder than his thoughts. �My chief in Buffalo told me to stick around long as I thought necessary. Mind?�

�Don�t trust small-town police work, huh?� Murphy asked resentfully. �You think maybe because our five cops ain�t split up into fancy-named teams like �vice squad� and �homicide department,� we never catch the right guy, is that it?�

The little man�s patient expression hid growing irritation. �I don�t think anything. Got any objection to my sticking around?�

�Can�t very well run you out of town. But just remember Buffalo detective sergeants got no jurisdiction in Missouri. What�s the name of that fancy department you work for up there?�

�Homicide and arson.�

�Yeah. Imagine that! A whole department to chase murderers and firebugs.�

�Possibly we have more murders and fires than St. Michael,� Tony said shortly. �Do I get police backing if I poke around?�

�What�s there to poke for?�

�Kind of like to know why a straight character like Sam suddenly went nuts. Occur to you maybe this was a frame?�

The fat man said, �Who�d bother to frame a hobo?�

�Somebody mad at the guy he was supposed to have killed. Who held a grudge against Jonathan Larson?�

The chief opened his mouth, closed it again and let the fat around his eyes squeeze them half shut. �That kind of question could get you in trouble if you asked it too public. There ain�t no doubt about Stone being the killer, and very little doubt about robbery being the sole motive. But in a town this size gossip builds mountains out of mole hills. You ask that question to a few people and it plants suspicion. They kick it around without a shade of evidence to go on, and first thing you know everybody�s asking, �Think so-and-so hired Jonathan killed, and the robbery was just a cover-up motive?� Couldn�t really blame so-and-so for getting mad, could you?�

Tony stared at the fat man in amazement. Was this a warning, or an oblique suggestion as to how to start things moving? The former implied the chief�s complicity in some sort of underworld arrangement, and the latter that he was as suspicious as Tony, but for some reason fearful of continuing the investigation himself.

Either interpretation required Tony to adjust his opinion of the man�s intelligence, but before he could decide which way to take the chief�s remarkable statement, a tall man in a light gabardine suit stopped and said, �Good afternoon, Chief.�

The man was meagerly built, with a thin, alert face and a jutting jawline. His complexion was a smooth tan, but his iron-gray hair indicated he was past fifty.

Chief Murphy said, �Afternoon, your Honor. Meet Sergeant Ransome of the Buffalo police.� To Tony he said, �His Honor, Mayor Ainslie. Aside from being mayor, Mr. Ainslie also owns the Bijou, only legitimate theater in the county.�

As they shook hands, the mayor�s alert eyes examined Tony attentively. �Long way from home, aren�t you, Sergeant?�

�About nine-hundred miles.�

�The sergeant isn�t satisfied with our solution of the Larson case,� the chief said. �Wants to stay around and ask questions.�

The mayor shot a quick glance at the fat man. �Does our force require outside help?�

Chief Murphy shrugged. �I�ve closed the case as solved, and got no intention of reopening it. Don�t see how I can prevent Ransome from asking questions though, long as he behaves himself.�

Tony sensed a baffling undercurrent in this exchange without being able to analyze it. Was the chief subtly telling the mayor to mind his own business, or carefully explaining his position so that he could not be held responsible for whatever Tony dug up? The double-meaning innuendoes began to irritate the little man.

�What questions you intend to ask?� the mayor said to him.

�Things like who had enough grudge against Jonathan Larson to hire him killed?�

An opaque film seemed to settle over Mayor Ainslie�s eyes. �I was under the impression the killing was the bandit�s own idea.�

Tony shrugged. �Maybe it was. But from the way Chief Murphy describes the robbery, the bandit could have gotten away without hurting anyone, but deliberately went to the unnecessary trouble of killing Larson. Sounds to me as though his purpose was murder as much as robbery.�

�I see,� the mayor said thoughtfully. After a short pause he added in a deliberate tone, �You�ll probably discover he was trying to have me impeached. But being mayor of St. Michael is an hour-a-day job with five-hundred dollars a year salary, in case you wonder if desire to hang on to the job is sufficient motive to hire a man killed. You may unearth some other people with better motives, but I wouldn�t advise stirring up gossip unless you first uncover evidence that the killer actually was a hired assassin.�

Another warning? As he walked back to the hotel Tony wondered if anyone in St. Michael spoke straight out what he meant, or if he could expect to encounter from everyone the same double-talk which suggested menace and friendly advice at the same time. In the hotel bar he brooded over a Bourbon and soda while contemplating what little evidence he had.

Information of Sam�s death had come to the Buffalo police in the form of a telegram from Chief Murphy reporting the death of a bandit named Sam Stone, whose papers showed he was a resident of Buffalo, and asking if he were wanted for anything there.

Since �Sam Stone� was a pseudonym under which the dead man had both written and traveled, and while he was hardly a nationally famous writer, he was well known and well thought of in Buffalo, the Buffalo police were amazed to discover he was a bandit. Tony was not amazed; he simply did not believe it. And since he had a personal interest in the matter, he immediately obtained leave of absence and hopped a plane for St. Michael. On arrival he learned Sam was accused of robbery and murder, and with Sam�s death the police had marked the case closed.

In the face of the evidence Tony could hardly blame them, except for the chief�s refusal to even consider the lack of motive. Aside from the fact that big, grinning Sam would have been incapable of shooting a man in cold blood, there simply had been no reason for him to commit armed robbery.

�Stone wasn�t a real hobo,� he had tried to explain to Chief Murphy. �He was a professional writer bumming around for magazine article material. He wasn�t rich, but he could write a check up to two-thousand dollars. Why would he knock over a restaurant for two-hundred?�

But against the testimony of three witnesses, the chief had no intention of reopening the case on the say-so of an out-of-state cop. Until the fat man�s odd dissertation on the evils of gossip, Tony had grown increasingly to regard him as a pig-headed fool, but gradually he was beginning to realize the man�s placid exterior concealed a tortuous subtlety. Whether this would prove helpful or dangerous to the little detective sergeant was still an open question.

When he finished his drink, Tony left the hotel again and walked two blocks to the town square. From the Western Union office he sent a wire to Buffalo stating arrangements had been made to ship the body home the next day.

Then he crossed the square to the restaurant Sam was supposed to have robbed.

In streamlining, the Missouri Cafe was years ahead of the rest of the town. From its glass brick front to its chrome and bakelite tables, it was strictly modernistic. Apparently its owner�s murder had not driven away business, for even though the hour was 3:30 P.M., a half-dozen patrons were seated at tables.

Tony perched on one of the red leather stools at the glistening black counter and ordered a cup of coffee. He was served by a bright-eyed brunette of about twenty, who seemed to be responsible only for counter trade and the cash register, for in spite of Tony being the only counter customer, she paid no attention to the loud throat-clearing of a table patron wanting service. After placing Tony�s coffee in front of him, she stood watching him idly, and eventually another girl came from the kitchen to investigate the �hurrumphs�.

�You on the night shift?� Tony asked abruptly.

�Three to eleven,� she said, and a wariness jumped into her eyes � the wariness of a girl whom experience has taught to expect, �What are you doing after work?� immediately following questions about her hours.

�What�s your name?�

�Janet,� she said without enthusiasm.

�Work night before last, Janet?�

�The night of the stickup?� The wariness was replaced by interest. �I�ll say I did! I was as close to the bandit as I am to you.�

�You were one of the witnesses, eh?�

�Sure. Me and Gert � she�s the girl just went back in the kitchen � and Henry, the cook, all had to go over to Werlinger�s Funeral Home to identify the bandit�s body. They use Werlinger�s for a morgue, you know, on account of we got no regular morgue.�

Tony asked, �Just the three of you and Mr. Larson were here when it happened?�

�Yeah,� she said eagerly, gratified by his attentiveness. �It was just before closing and there hadn�t been a customer for fifteen minutes, when in walked this fellow with a handkerchief over his face��

�Handkerchief!� Tony snapped. �Chief Murphy didn�t say anything about a handkerchief.�

Some of her previous wariness returned. �Say, are you a reporter or something?�

�Cop,� said Tony. �Detective Sergeant Ransome.�

She eyed him suspiciously. �Then you must be new. I know all the cops.�

�I�m from Buffalo.� He slipped a badge from his vest pocket and held it before her face a moment before returning it. �Down to take back the body. I have no official connection with the case. Just interested.�

�Oh,� she said, obviously impressed by meeting a big-city detective from so far away.

�About the handkerchief,� Tony prodded. �How�d you identify the bandit if his face was covered?�

�Why, he might as well left it off,� she scoffed. �He�d been in here for supper, you see, and I recognized him right away in spite of the mask. He had this white scar through one eyebrow, and his nose had a bump on it, where it had been broken sometime, I guess. The handkerchief didn�t hide that. Then too, I could tell the clothes. He had on a green corduroy jacket with leather elbow guards and leather patch pockets, blue denim pants and a pork-pie hat with a little hole worn where it pinched together in front. I noticed his clothes at supper because they was old and kind of worn like a hobo�s but clean as a pin and even pressed.�

Obviously the Blue Goose was straight out of the pre-prohibition era, complete to sawdust, brass rail and cuspidors. Through double curtains across an archway at the rear came the whir of slot machines and the brittle click of dice. Aside from two men leaning against the bar, most of the place�s custom seemed to be the other side of the curtains.

�Looking for Art Jason,� Tony told the bartender.

�Usual table,� the man said, jerking his head toward the archway.

The little man parted the curtains and stepped into a wide, barn-like room containing a roulette wheel, three dice tables, two poker tables and about twenty slot machines. Five men sat around one of the poker tables, a half-dozen more ringed one of the dice boards and three women played slot machines. No one was playing roulette.

Behind a square table centered nearly against the rear wall sat a large-boned man of middle age wearing a close-cut mustache and goatee. Laid out in front of him on the table were stacked coins ranging from nickels to silver dollars, the last denomination taking up half the table space in stacks of ten each.

Tony approached the man and said, �Looking for Art Jason.�

Sharp eyes surveyed Tony before the man spoke, and his gaze was such a solid ray of power, it exerted nearly physical force. The little man got a fleeting impression of ruthlessness, and experienced mild surprise to encounter it in a small-town gambler. A dangerous opponent, was his first appraisal, but he immediately revised it downward when he detected evidence that the man�s forcefulness was largely theatrical effect. His whole personality was an obvious pose, from the small beard which only partially concealed a weak chin, to the thick gold ring with its glittering yellow diamond, which he wore on his right forefinger.

�You�ve found him,� the man said.

�My name is Tony Ransome. Buffalo Homicide and Arson. Got permission from Chief Murphy to ask questions.�

�About what?�

�Killing night before last. Kind of like to know what made an honest Buffalonian turn killer.�

The sharp eyes lanced at Tony again, but when they clashed with the smaller man�s steady gaze, immediately dropped. �What makes you think I�d know?�

�Didn�t say you did,� Tony said. �Thought I�d try tracing back the kid�s movements after he hit town. Got to start somewhere.�

�Better start somewhere else.� He became absorbed in the refracted light from the stone on his index finger. �Never heard of the guy until he was dead.�

Jason turned his attention to a portly, bald-headed man who wanted to trade a twenty-dollar bill for silver dollars.

�Aren�t many places in town a fellow could go,� Tony said mildly. �Thought maybe he dropped in here. Big fellow about your build, wearing a green corduroy jacket with leather pockets and elbow patches, denim pants and a flat fedora.�

The portly man glanced at Tony. �You talking about that tramp who murdered Jonathan Larson?�

Tony eyed the man deliberately. �The kid accused of it, yes.�

�He was around here a couple of days. Getting the lay of the land, I guess. Tuesday night he made thirty bucks riding me on a hot roll, then backed out of the game. The next afternoon I saw him drop five and quit. You�d think a guy that cagey with money wouldn�t need to stick anyone up, but that same night he robbed the Missouri Cafe.� He shifted his attention to the bearded man. �You remember the guy he is talking of, Art. You gave him a letter to mail for you.�

Jason�s face assumed an expression of sudden enlightenment. �Yeah, I remember the guy now. Big fellow in his late twenties with a bent nose and a scar through one eyebrow. Looked like a hobo. Didn�t realize he was the one killed Larson.�

�You gave him a letter to mail?� Tony asked.

Green paint blanked out all of the wide show window next to the fire hall, except for an oblong section through which a poster proclaimed: MONDAY, THURSDAY, SATURDAY � 30 REGULAR, 10 SPECIAL GAMES � 5 TO 100 DOLLAR PRIZES.

Over a doorway beside the bingo hall hung a sign reading: SMOKE SHOP UPSTAIRS. But at the top of the stairs there was no evidence of any tobacco business. Instead of the usual token front room engaged in selling cigarettes and cigars, the stair head led directly into the bookshop.

A race was in progress as Tony entered, for a man wearing a phone headset stood in front of a large blackboard droning the positions of the horses at each quarter. Seated on a dozen of the approximately fifty chairs facing the blackboard, a mixed audience of men and women listened to the results.

Ringing the walls were a series of long, narrow tables littered with racing forms and turf news, and several men sat at these, concentrating on dope sheets and paying no attention to the race currently being run. Behind a cashier�s cage to the right of the blackboard sat a young red-headed man wearing horn-rimmed glasses.

Approaching the cashier, Tony said. �I�m with the Buffalo police. Got Chief Murphy�s okay to look into the Larson killing. Trying to check back on the bandit�s movements the day of the robbery, and understand he was in here.�

The customer-greeting smile on the red-head�s pale face faded to blankness. Behind their glasses his colorless eyes examined Tony deliberately.

�He wasn�t here,� he said in a flat voice.

�You Harry Short?� the little man asked mildly.

�No.�

�Like to talk to Mr. Short.�

The redhead said in a toneless voice. �Sorry. He�s busy.�

Casually Tony put one hand on the swinging gate next to the cashier�s cage. �That his office over there?� he asked.

In one quick movement the cashier swept off his glasses, laid them in front of him and stepped in front of the gate. From an advantage of three inches he stared down at the little man with his jaw outthrust.

Tony�s eyes brightened with an interested, almost eager look, and gently he massaged his left fist with his right palm. Then he dropped the fist to his side and slowly began to push open the gate.

The cashier drew in his chin. �Wait here,� he said, turned abruptly and ducked into the office door Tony had indicated.

Almost immediately he was back, followed by a thick-set, heavy-shouldered man with a long, jaundiced face and a crew haircut. The redhead slid back on his stool and replaced his glasses, and the yellow-faced man pushed open the swinging gate to come out into the main room. At that moment the race ended, there was a sudden burst of conversation from the audience and people began to crowd up to the cashier�s cage, either to collect their winnings or lay bets on the next race. The yellow-faced man stood quietly examining Tony until the hubbub subsided sufficiently for his voice to be heard.

�What�s on your mind?� he asked.

Tony said, �You Harry Short?�

The man nodded.

�You run this place?�

Short nodded again.

Tony repeated what he had told the cashier.

�You got a bum steer,� Short said. �He wasn�t in here.�

�Witnesses say he was.�

�The witnesses are wrong.�

�Fellow wore a green corduroy jacket with leather trimming,� Tony said mildly. �Denim pants and pork-pie hat.�

�He wasn�t here.�

�Maybe you just didn�t see him.� Tony turned to the cashier. �Recognize that description?�

Nearly an hour passed before Tony�s next visitor arrived. At an imperious rap he opened the door to a striking brunette about his own age. She was taller than Tony, with ebon hair and luminous eyes in a square-jawed, olive face. Her nose curved slightly over a sulky mouth which gave her an appearance of restlessness.

�I�m Mrs. Larson,� she announced.

�Come in,� Tony said, stepping back and waving her toward the easy chair.

She entered, closed the door and stood with her back to it, ignoring the proffered chair.

�If you�re not out of town by morning,� she said, �I�m going to sue you for slander.�

�All right,� Tony said agreeably.

The anger in her eyes was partially displaced by surprise. �You mean you�ll leave?�

�I mean go ahead and sue.�

Color rushed to her face and her eyes blazed. But before she could speak again, another knock sounded. Immediately she stepped away from the door and examined it fearfully, as though trying to guess who stood on the other side.

�Come in,� invited Tony.

The door pushed open to disclose George Erickson. He started to open his mouth, saw Mrs. Larson, shut it again and closed the door.

�What are you doing here, Grace?� he asked.

�Probably the same thing you are,� she snapped.

Erickson swung his eyes back to Tony. �Perhaps it�s just as well we�re here together. Ransome, unless you make immediate public apology for the rumors you�ve started, I intend to sue you for defamation of character.�

�What rumors?�

�You know very well what! The dirty story you�ve spread that Grace � Mrs. Larson and I hired her husband murdered.�

�Never even suggested such a thing,� Tony said. �Simply suggested somebody might have.�

�But that coupled with Larson�s idiotic divorce action��

�Listen, bub,� Tony interrupted. �What Larson did to you is none of my concern, nor what you did to him to make him do it. That restaurant robbery was as phony as a telephone booth, and that I�ll quote for the papers. If people are embroidering that with dirt, I�m sorry, but you can expect dirt in a murder investigation. Somebody had Larson killed, and when we catch the guilty guy, people will stop talking about you � unless you�re the guy that did it. But if you think I�m going to stop a murder investigation because your feelings are hurt, think again.�

�You�� Grace Larson started to say, but stopped when the phone rang.

Tony lifted the receiver and said, �Yeah?�

�This is Mayor Ainslie,� a tense voice said in his ear. �I�ve been trying to reach the chief, but can�t. I�ve discovered something in the men�s dressing room at the Bijou.�

�What?�

�Something missing. We haven�t had a show this week, or I�d have discovered it sooner. Can you come over here?�

�Listen, Mr. Mayor,� Tony said irritably, �all I�m in town for is the Larson killing. Call on the local police to solve your robbery.�

�But this may tie in with the Larson case. If it means what I think it does, it puts an entirely different complexion on the whole matter. I just discovered��

�Hold it!� Tony interrupted. He glanced at the attentive faces of Erickson and Mrs. Larson. �Where is the Bijou?�

�First block beyond the square on Main Street. The front door is open, so just come on backstage.�

�Be right there,� Tony said, and hung up.

Grace Larson said, �That sounded like Mayor Ainslie�s voice. Did I understand him to say something about my husband?�

�You got good ears, lady,� Tony said. �Sorry to rush you people off, but I got an appointment.�

Chief Murphy regarded his prisoner placidly and waited for him to go on.

�I got it figured out,� Tony repeated, �provided I can find out one thing.� He frowned thoughtfully at his empty coffee cup, then glanced up at the chief. �Stone�s body is due on a train at noon. Think you could get an autopsy done right quick?�

�Might. Why?�

�We don�t need a complete autopsy. Just want to know whether or not he�d been doped. Tell the doc to look for knockout drops first. Chloral hydrate. If he can�t find that, tell him to test for the other hypnotics. Sodium amytal, for instance.�

�Sodium what?�

�Amytal. A-m-y-t-a-l.�

�Better write it down,� the chief said.

For the next three hours Tony lay on his bunk staring at the ceiling. At eleven o�clock, when Chief Murphy returned, he had just fallen asleep. He was awakened by the chief tossing spit balls through the bars at his head. Tony stretched and sat up.

�The doc found the stuff,� Murphy announced. �Chloral hydrate. Now tell me how you knew.�

�Genius,� the little man said modestly. �Do I get out of here now?�

The chief shook his head. �Finding Stone full of knockout drops proves nothing about Ainslie�s killing. You�re still the only suspect I got, and I�m hanging onto you till I get a better one.� He contemplated the prisoner and added consolingly. �I�m a pretty cooperative guy though. You keep calling the bets and I�ll fade them.�

�Listen,� Tony said. �Let me out of here and I�ll crack both cases. How you expect me to do anything from jail?�

�Is a tough problem,� Chief Murphy admitted. �Good thing you�re a genius so you can figure it out.�

The little man stared at his gaoler coldly. �All right,� he said finally. �Break them yourself.� He lay back on his bunk again and deliberately rolled his face to the wall.

�Want to talk to you, Ransome,� said the chief. �Turn over.�

Tony continued to ignore him.

�Don�t you think it�s time we stopped calling this dead kid �Stone� and started calling him Sam Ransome?�

Slowly Tony rolled over and sat on the edge of the bunk. �You�re not as sleepy as you look,� he said.

The chief put his hands behind him and teetered back and forth. �Thought it kind of funny Buffalo would send a cop nine-hundred miles to check up on a dead guy. So when I phoned last night, I asked them. Found out you weren�t sent here at all. You�re on leave of absence.�

�The kid was my brother,� Tony said. �Now you know why I was so sure he was framed. Listen, why don�t you let me out of here? If I can�t crack this case in twenty-four hours, I�ll come back voluntarily.�

The fat chief shook his head. �Not a chance. If I turned you loose when the whole town thinks you shot the mayor, I might as well resign. The gossip you spread backfired a little. Talk is Ainslie hired Larson killed, you found it out and killed Ainslie instead of just arresting him, as you ought.� For a moment he examined the little man expressionlessly. �Matter of fact, not only ain�t I going to turn you loose, I�m aiming to stay up all night on guard, case you make a break. This jail ain�t as strong as it might be.�

�I won�t make a break,� Tony said irritably.

�Good. Be embarrassing to the town council if you broke out. I been asking for repair money two years now. Keep telling them the jail�s falling apart.�

Tony gazed at the fat man in astonishment. Was the chief subtly suggesting he would not be opposed if he broke jail, but could not be officially released? The thought was fantastic, but what other interpretation could be put on the man�s remarkable comment that the jail was falling apart? Again Tony got the impression that Chief Murphy was on his side, but for some reason must keep up a public front of unrelenting opposition.

Harry Short moved into the room and circled toward the desk without allowing his gun muzzle to waver from its bead on Tony�s nose. Jack, the red-haired cashier, followed the yellow-faced man through the door.

�Have a chair,� invited Short, indicating one of the straight-backs with his gun.

Obediently the little man seated himself.

His eyes still on Tony, Short reached down with his left hand and drew all the way open the drawer in which Tony had found the box of powders. Momentarily he dropped his eyes to it, immediately raised them again and pushed the drawer shut. He smiled slightly.

�Heard they had an autopsy on that bandit,� he said.

Tony said, �You must have an in with the police.�

The bookmaker raised one eyebrow. �A councilman can find out most everything, if he goes to the bother.� His pleasant expression faded and his voice became ominous. �Hand it over.�

�What?� Tony asked, then decided pretended ignorance would only delay the inevitable, and started to reach for his pocket.

�The box, Shorty,� Harry said.

The little man�s movement toward his pocket stopped and his face flushed at the nickname. �Come and get it, you yellow-faced ape.�

The red-headed Jack casually stepped behind Tony�s chair. The little man�s head turned to follow him warily, then snapped back toward Short when the bookmaker rasped, �Eyes front, or I�ll blow your head off.�

At the same moment a gun barrel crashed down on Tony�s head...

A surging, then diminishing roar, such as the breaking of surf against a cliff, awakened Tony. For nearly a minute he lay in throbbing pain, dully trying to figure out how the ocean could have moved itself to southern Missouri. Then he realized the noise was all within his head. He waited with closed eyes until the pain subsided to a persistent ache, then opened them to equal darkness.

He lay on the rear floor of a speeding sedan, he discovered, and his hands were bound behind him so tightly they were numb to the shoulders. His legs were tied together both at the ankles and knees, but not so tightly that circulation was stopped. His forehead pressed against someone�s foot, and the person�s other foot casually rested on his shoulder.

�This is about far enough,� said the owner of the feet. Tony recognized the voice as that of the yellow-faced bookmaker.

Obediently the car came to a halt. The front door on the driver�s side opened, then slammed shut again. At the same time Harry Short pushed open the rear door on the other side. For a moment his full weight rested on Tony�s shoulder as he stepped from the car, and the little man had to clench his teeth to prevent a groan of pain.

A moment later he was unceremoniously dragged from the car and dumped on the ground. Giving no indication of consciousness, Tony allowed his eyes barely to slit open. A half moon had now risen, and by its subdued light the bound man made out that they were parked on a graveled road running parrallel to a railroad track. In the distance he heard the slow whistle of a freight.

Between the tracks and the road was a shallow ditch choked with weeds and small bushes, some of the bushes being nearly shoulder high.

�All right, snap it up,� Harry Short ordered his companion roughly.

He stooped to grasp Tony�s shoulders as the driver caught him beneath the knees. Like a sack of grain the two carried the little man into the ditch, dropping him between two bushes.

The freight�s whistle sounded again, clearer this time, but still a mile or two away. Harry Short kneeled over the bound man, unexpectedly flashing a light into his eyes.

Instead of snapping shut his barely opened lids, Tony rolled his eyeballs upward so that only the whites showed. A palm slapped him solidly across the mouth. He let his head roll loosely with the slap, which faced it away from the light and allowed him unnoticeably to close his eyes.

Fingers groped for his throat, pinched together a bit of the tender flesh beneath his chin and squeezed until tears of pain gathered beneath the little man�s closed lids. But he managed to keep his face vacant of expression and his body limp.

�Still out like a swatted fly,� Harry Short decided, rising to his feet. �Get to work on his legs and I�ll take his hands.�

�Wouldn�t it be safer to leave him tied?� the dubious voice of cashier Jack inquired.

�How the devil would you explain it as an accident with ropes around him?� Short asked. �Snap it up. If we miss this freight, we got a two-hour wait till the next.�

Tony felt hands fumbling at his bonds, and a minute later he was free. But he might as well have remained bound insofar as use of his arms was concerned, for the tight cords had stopped circulation and both arms were asleep. Attempting to flex his muscles, the little man discovered neither arm would respond to his will.

Although his legs tingled, Tony learned both were in working order by wriggling his toes within his shoes.

The train whistle blew a third time, seeming only hundreds of yards away, and now the roar of wheels and the rumbling rattle of freight cars could be heard. Then the track in front of them was suddenly bathed with light.

Above the growing noise Harry Short shouted to his companion, �Keep down till the engine is past, so they don�t see us in the headlight!�

With a hiss of escaping steam the locomotive swished past, dragging behind it a long row of box cars which seemed as though it would never end.

�Now!� the bookmaker yelled, slipping his hands under Tony�s shoulders and pulling him half erect.

Tony felt his arms flop limply, tried to propel some power into them by force of will, then gave up the struggle as hopeless. His feet were grasped by the red-headed Jack and he was lifted bodily.

�Let him fly on three!� Short yelled above the train roar. �And time it right, so he goes clear under.�

Together they swung his limp body forward slightly. �One!� Short counted. They swung Tony back, and as he reached the peak of the back swing, the bookmaker said, �Two!�

At the same instant Tony jerked both knees to his chest, pulling the red-head off balance, snapped his legs straight again and felt Jack release them as though propelled from a catapult.

There was one wild scream which cut off suddenly at a sickening crunch.

Beside thrusting Jack beneath the train, Tony�s kick expended part of its force in the opposite direction, causing Harry Short to stagger back and sit down with a crash. Immediately he sprang to his feet again and threw himself at Tony.

With his arms flopping uselessly at his sides, Tony rolled to his back, again brought both feet to his chest and kicked the larger man solidly in the stomach.

Short staggered backward, teetered on one foot inches from the speeding box cars, and for a horrified moment gyroscoped his arms in an attempt to keep from falling beneath the wheels. He fell to one elbow, at the last instant twisting from beneath the wheels, and started to scramble to safety on hands and knees.

But his moment of terrified balancing had allowed Tony to leap to his feet. Aiming deliberately, the little man swung his right leg back and kicked the scrambling bookmaker solidly on the jaw.

It took Tony ten minutes to restore circulation to his dead arms, and another ten to tie his unconscious opponent and drag him to the car. The box of pills he found in Short�s coat pocket, and the automatic in a holster under his arm. He relieved the man of both. Half lifting and half heaving, he managed to get the big man on the car�s rear floor. Then he turned the car and drove back to town, the bookmaker tied and unconscious in the back seat.

They had been nearly ten miles out, Tony discovered, and the city hall clock struck midnight as he parked on the town square. The only lights in the city hall were in the basement, on the side containing the jail and police headquarters. Over the basement entrance to police headquarters a small green light was burning.

Quietly Tony moved to a lighted window and peered into the main office. A single uniformed policeman slept in a chair with his feet elevated to a desk. Beyond him, down a hall, the little man could see the open door of the chief�s office, and a light burned within it.

Without sound the little man tiptoed under the green light, past the sleeping policeman and down the hall. Next to the open door of the chief�s office he paused, drew the automatic he had taken from Harry Short and ruefully felt the twin bumps on his head. Then he took a deep breath and entered the office.

Chief Ward Murphy looked up calmly from the fiction magazine he had been reading.

�Howdy,� he said. �Been waiting up for you.�

The little man circled to a chair against one wall, seated himself, thrust the automatic in his coat pocket, but kept it aimed at the chief through the cloth.

�As I remember,� he said tightly, �you told me your town council consisted of seven members.�

The chief nodded, his face expressionless.

�One of them � Harry Short � is tied up in the back seat of a car outside. Get on the phone and call a special meeting of the rest of them for right now. We�ll hold it here.�

�Why?� the fat man asked.

�Two reasons,� Tony told him. �The first is that I don�t trust the police chief and want to break this case to the council. The second is that if you don�t start calling, I�ll blow you apart.�

The fat chief allowed his eyebrows to raise. Then he shrugged, picked up the phone and after a moment said, �Hello, operator. Which one is this?�

After a pause he said, �Oh... Jane. Listen Jane, you know who the council members are, don�t you? I want a special meeting of them in my office right now... Yeah, fast as they can get here... Never mind Harry Short. He�s already here.�

He cradled the phone, looked up at Tony and asked, �Satisfied?�

�Not quite,� the little man said. �Now get hold of the three witnesses to the Missouri Cafe robbery and get them over here.�

The chief looked at him in surprise. �The Missouri�s been closed over an hour,� he objected, �and I don�t think either waitress or Henry, the cook, have phones.�

�Send the cop sleeping in the front office,� Tony said. Then added in a warning tone, �One attempt to signal him you�re covered, and you�ll get a bullet in the stomach. That�s a target I could hardly miss.�

Without taking his eyes from Tony, the chief raised his voice and bellowed, �Johnson!�

There was the sound of feet hitting the floor with a bang, and a moment later the uniformed cop came running into the room. He halted when he saw Tony, and his eyes widened. But he could not see the gun which was hidden from him.

�Sergeant Ransome came back of his own free will,� the chief explained mildly. �Everything�s under control. Run over to Sadie�s Rooming House and bring back Janet and Gert, the two waitresses from the Missouri Cafe. Don�t know their last names. Then pick up Henry, the cook. He sleeps back of the restaurant, I think.�

Johnson repeated the instructions, nodded his head twice and left the room. For nearly a minute after his departure, Tony and Chief Murphy silently examined each other.

Finally the chief spoke. �Mind explaining the reason for the gun while we wait?�

�Not at all. I don�t know how you fit in this, but you fit somewhere, or you wouldn�t have needled me into a jail break so you could kill me and still be able to explain it.�

The fat man nodded his head slowly. �Thought that might be what was eating you. Thought I tried to kill you, huh?�

�What�s your story?� the little man asked coldly.

Leaning back in his swivel chair, the chief clasped hands across his stomach. �Got tired of waiting for you to move. Decided to light a fire under you.� He paused, then added, �Also wanted to show the general public their chief of police was on the ball, even though the town council is too stingy to give us a decent jail.�

�Be a nice story if you hadn�t missed so close,� Tony said, his tone still cold.

The chief�s voice took on a faintly injured tone, �I guess you didn�t know,� he said, �that I�m the state champ pistol shot.�

For nearly another minute the little man did not say anything. Eventually he said, �That makes the story a little better. I might even believe it if you can explain why you�ve been sitting on the fence in this investigation and letting me do all the work.�

�Figured you were a smart feller and could work it out alone.� The chief�s eyes half closed, and he asked, �You ever live in a small town?�

�No,� Tony admitted.

�If you had, you�d realize a chief of police can�t push prominent citizens around on mere suspicion. Look at the suspects you picked.� One-by-one he ticked them off on his fingers. �The mayor, three members of the town council and the widow of the late chairman of the Citizens� Committee. Even if one was guilty, the other four would hate my guts before I got through. I knew something was phony about that stick-up, but what could I do?�

The little man frowned at him. �Suppose I hadn�t dropped around? Were you just going to let somebody get away with murder?�

�But you dropped around,� the chief said, undisturbed...

It was a large gathering to be crowded into the small room Chief Murphy called his office. On folding chairs facing the chief�s desk in a semi-circle sat George Erickson, Art Jason and the four other councilmen. Harry Short, handcuffed and with his jaw twice its normal size, sat in one corner under the watchful eye of the policeman Johnson. The two waitresses, Janet and Gert, and the cook, Henry, sat along the opposite wall. Behind the desk the chief comfortably hunched, while Tony sat to the right of the desk, facing the audience.

Chief Murphy said to the councilmen, �Sorry to call you out so late, but Sergeant Ransome here claims he�s got the Missouri Cafe robbery and the mayor�s murder all solved. He don�t quite trust the police department, so wants to present his evidence to the council.� He turned to Tony. �You�re running the performance, Ransome. I�ll cut in if I have anything to say.�

The little man ran his eyes about the circle, but aside from the open-mouthed awe of Janet and Gert, he detected no emotion stronger than rapt attention.

�To start off I better explain that the hobo you knew as Sam Stone was actually a professional magazine article writer named Sam Ransome. He was my kid brother.�

He paused long enough to stare broodingly around the circle again. �Larson�s murderer had a nice plan to knock Larson off and put the blame on a hobo nobody would bother to check up on. Probably would have worked if he�d picked a real hobo, but he had the bad luck to pick a hobo in disguise who had a cop brother.�

Reaching in his pocket, Tony drew out the box of powders. �This I found in Harry Short�s desk drawer. This morning an autopsy was performed on my brother and he was found full of chloral hydrate... In commoner language, he�d been slipped a Mickey Finn. I think an analysis of the contents of this box will show it matches the dope in my brother�s stomach.� He tossed the box to the chief. �Better mark it as evidence.�

�The next bit of evidence is not so definite,� Tony went on. �It�s more a matter of reasoning. Just before he was killed, Mayor Ainslie phoned me that he had discovered something missing from the men�s dressing room at the Bijou, and the missing item put an entirely different construction on the Larson killing. A check of the room by a cleaning woman who knew every item in it, disclosed that absolutely nothing was gone. Our first assumption was that the cleaning woman had forgotten some item, but a better explanation was that when she checked, the item had been returned. As a matter of fact, the murderer was in the act of returning it when he overheard Mayor Ainslie�s phone conversation, realized he had figured out how Larson�s murder was accomplished, and killed the mayor to shut him up.

�There were so few items in the dressing room, by checking the list of contents you can almost immediately guess which item had been stolen and later returned.� From memory Tony announced the items the Chief had read from his list. �Obviously what Ainslie found missing was one of the makeup kits,� he concluded.

�What happened was this: The murderer kidnaped Sam � I�ll explain how in a minute � put on Sam�s clothes, used the makeup kit he swiped from the theatre to give himself a putty broken nose and a scar through one eyebrow, covered the lower part of his face with a handkerchief and stuck up the restaurant. After killing Larson, he put the clothes back on Sam�s unconscious body, stuck the gun and money in his pocket, took him a mile out of town and threw him feet first under a freight train.�