When Dixie died, Ray would die. And Ray had to kill Dixie...

There were lots of advantages to being the mayor�s personal chauffeur and bodyguard, Ray Butler thought. For instance, besides earning you a small percentage in this and that, it gave you many excuses to see the mayor�s wife.

A maid told him that she was on the terrace, and he found her there in a sunsuit that almost wasn�t. She was stretched out on a chaise longue behind a pair of dark glasses. His eyes flicked over golden legs and torso broken briefly by scraps of thin fabric. The muscular action incidental to his smile didn�t disturb his face much. It was smooth and hard and brown, like the polished hull of an acorn. There was only a swift flash of white in a margin of red, a deepening toward black of eyes that were normally a shade darker than the face. A hard and handsome boy, Ray Butler. A lot of women carried him around in their heads a long time before they finally lost him in the confusion of things that come and go.

For the maid�s benefit, he said, �Good morning, Mrs. Cannon. I understand you have an errand for me.�

�Good morning, Ray.� She swung her long, sleek legs off the lounge and stood up, stretching lazily in the sunlight. Her full, firm breasts were thrust up by a deep breath against the frail restraint of her halter. �It�s hot out here. Perhaps we�d better go inside.�

She shrugged into a thigh-length jacket that increased, by paradoxical design, both the coverage of her body and the impression of its nakedness, and he followed her through glass doors into a room that was cool and shadowed. She turned, then, and surged back against him with a little sound that was almost like a whimper, her face lifted and her eyes suddenly glazed.

�Ray,� she said. �Ray...�

The palms of his hands were damp with sweat that had nothing to do with the temperature, and he dried them in her honey-colored hair, dragging her head back savagely and talking into her throat.

�It�s been a thousand years, baby. A thousand long years.�

�I know, Ray. I know.�

Their bodies strained for maximum contact, groping hungrily with countless tiny receptors, and after a long time she relaxed with a sigh, hanging limply in his arms. Her voice was a spent whisper.

�How long, Ray, how long?�

�As long as it takes, baby. Until I say when.�

�Say it now. Say it right now.�

He laughed softly. �You didn�t read your fables when you were a kid. Don�t you remember the one about the goose that laid the golden eggs? The moral is, you don�t kill it. Not literally, not figuratively. Dixie Cannon, mayor of this town and your husband, is the goose, baby.�

�Listen to me, Ray. Over half of everything he owns is in my name. It has to be that way, for the looks of it. It�s mine legally. We don�t need Dixie. We don�t need him at all.�

He laughed again, and there was a sudden tension in the sound. �That�s not the point. It�s not just the lettuce. Think, baby, think. Dixie grabbed me off the force for his personal bodyguard. I�m the strong-arm guy. I do the dirty work. In the last couple years I�ve made more enemies than any one guy ought to have, and every one of them would love to see me dead. Who keeps me alive? I�ll tell you, baby. Dixie Cannon. Fat little Dixie Cannon. God knows how he ever got the power he�s got, and God knows how he keeps it, but he did and he does. He�s all that stands between me and something I don�t like to think about. Just one little man between Ray Butler and the full treatment. Just one fat little man who looks like Santa Claus with a shave.�

He stopped, tucking her fair head under his chin, his hands moving along the sidelines of her torso, and after a while he added dreamily, �But I�m growing. Slowly, I�m growing. I�ll let you know when I�m ready, and when that time comes, there�ll be no question and no more waiting. We�ll take care of Dixie Cannon, and we�ll take care of anyone else who thinks he wants a piece of Ray Butler.�

She lifted her face again to his pleasure, her bright hair hanging, and again there was the molten merging of their bodies. After a long time, she shuddered and twisted from his arms.

�Okay, Ray. Maybe we ought to have a drink to the time.�

�No.� He shook his head. �Sorry, baby, but I just stopped off on my way to somewhere else. I�m on a job for Dixie.�

�Where?�

�Out to Club 44�40. The Schultz twins� place. Dixie�s moving in.�

�Be careful, Ray. I�d die if anything happened to you.�

He lifted a hand with thumb and index finger tip to tip in the okay sign. �Don�t worry. Nothing�s going to happen to Ray Butler, baby. Nothing but good luck. The kind that was meant for the two of us.�

He went out into the hall past the maid, who was dusting, and outside to Dixie Cannon�s blue Caddy in the drive. Thirty minutes later he was at Club 44�40.

It was a sweet joint. Even on a day as hot as this, it had a cool, secluded look. Remote from the blistering concrete highway at the end of a white gravel drive, it sprawled with an effect of leisure beneath the drooping pale green branches of weeping willows.

Ray parked the Caddy in shade and went up to heavy double doors. They were unlocked, and he pushed his way inside, standing for a moment in the soft air-conditioned shadows of the lobby to tune his senses to the reduced momentum and volume of the club�s interior stirrings. Looking straight ahead through the small lobby, he could see a litter of chairs and tables, a dance area that was hardly more than a nominal concession to active patrons. Swinging his gaze clockwise through an arch, he picked up in dark glass a reverse view of a section of the bar. The angle showed him the back of a bald head that was not visible directly, and he went over to the arch and through.

The bartender watched his approach from under heavy lids. He stifled a yawn with a clean bar rag and shot a glance upward at the lighted dial of a clock.

�We�re not open yet, Mac. Come back in a couple hours.�

Ray covered red leather with the seat of his cords and leaned forward on his elbows.

�It�s nice in here. Nice and cool and quiet. I�ll have a Collins, I think. While I�m drinking it, you can tell the twins I�m here. Tell them it�s Ray Butler with a word from Dixie Cannon.�

Heavy lids flicked up reflexively and then dropped over a glitter of pupils. The bar rag made a swift swipe at mahogany that didn�t need it.

�Maybe. And maybe you�re Joe Blow with a bag full of brushes. You got identification?�

Ray laughed. �You�re hurting my feelings,� he said. �A guy gets to thinking he�s known around, and then some joker wants credentials. You�d better fix the Collins and see the twins.�

The bartender vacillated a moment longer between the unknown reaction of the twins and the nearer threat of a still, brown face. Then he reached for the gin. He mixed the Collins and left the bar through a door at the rear. Ray watched him go and began the pleasant work of uncovering the maraschino cherry that lay on the bottom of his glass. Spinning on the stool, he saw beside the door through which the bartender had gone a garish monster of a juke box, with bubbles rising endlessly in colored tubes. He went back, carrying the Collins, and deposited a nickel. A female voice with a cultivated sob lamented. It struck Ray as rather amusing. A fine laugh, really. He leaned against the box and heard the platter through, working at the Collins as he listened. The Collins was just finished and the platter back in the stack when the bartender returned. He jerked a thumb at the door.

�You can go on back. It�s the door at the far end of the game room.�

Ray nodded and set the empty glass on top of the juke box. He went through the door into the game room, and the reason for the nominal concession of space up front was immediately apparent. Most of it was utilized here, in the main business of the club. A nice layout. Better than that, it was a beautiful layout. Facilities for the works � roulette, dice, blackjack, everything for the luxury separation center. Expensive stuff. A lot of lettuce had gone into it.

At the indicated door, Ray knocked and waited for an invitation. Getting it promptly in a gutteral voice, he stepped into deep pile and surveyed three faces. In point of differences, there might have been one face less. That is, two of them were identical. They were heavy, swollen, with flesh like dough with too much yeast in it that encroached on eyes and gave to mouths a tucked, parsimonious quality. The brothers Schultz, Jake and Theo, who had, with characteristic economy, split an egg between them. They owned the place.

The third face was a study in contrast. Though its structure was almost exactly opposite that of the twins�, it achieved an equal ugliness. Long, gaunt and yellow, with a sour, twisted mouth. Sheriff Caleb Kirk. Prince Caleb, they called him. A county power. He�d bought, in his day, enough votes to elect a president.

Ray leaned against the door, palming the knob behind him, and smiled lazily. �Well, well. The sheriff himself. Glad to see you, Kirk. Finding you here will save me a trip to the county seat. It�s too damn hot for driving today.�

Kirk�s lips twisted. His eyes were flat and lusterless. �Detective Ray Butler. Personal bodyguard to the mayor. To Dixie Cannon himself. Word�s around that you�re a comer, Ray. Cops don�t usually work up so fast.�

Half of the twins, Jake or Theo at even money and take your pick, wiped an oily face with a wad of damp cloth and blew out a wet breath. He lowered his bulk into a chair behind a desk, tugging at the tie that tortured his bulging neck. �It�s too damned early. Too early for this heat.�

�You never know when the heat�ll come on.� Ray divided a pleasant look between the Schultz brothers, his brown face perfectly smooth and non-committal. �No heat in here, though. No reason at all for you boys to be sweating. The conditioning system must have set you back something. You�ve got a nice place.�

The other half of the twins lumbered to a liquor cabinet with a gelatin-like quivering of fat hips. �You like a drink, maybe, Ray boy? Real good stuff?�

�No, thanks. I had a Collins in the bar.�

�This is good. Old stuff. Stuff like this you don�t get at the bar.�

�The Collins was good enough.�

Caleb Kirk�s long, bony body jerked violently, as if the stringy muscles had contracted in a sudden seizure. �To hell with this folderol. You didn�t come here on any goddamned social call, Butler. What you got on your mind?�

Ray released the knob behind him and took a couple of steps into the room. His eyes drifted casually over the sheriff�s sour, yellow face. �Like I told the boy up front, I�ve brought word from Dixie Cannon. It�s business for the twins. You their agent, sheriff?�

�Maybe.�

�Okay. Dixie said to remind you there was an election some time back. You remember?�

�Sure. Dixie got elected, like always. So?�

�It�s not his own election Dixie�s thinking about. It�s the vote out here in the county. In case you�ve forgotten that part of it, this area voted for annexation. It�s inside the city limits now.� Ray pivoted in a quarter turn to include the twins impartially in a deliberate inspection. �Dixie�s a patient man, boys, but now he�s getting a little annoyed. He waited for you to contact him, and you didn�t do it. That wasn�t polite. Not polite at all.�

Kirk�s voice intruded, rasping, grating on the nerves like sand underfoot. �What the hell you getting at, Butler? Cut the fancy talk and lay it on the line.�

Ray didn�t even bother to look at him. He lifted his eyes above the heads of the sweating twins and let them wander lazily along the line of junction where wall met ceiling. His voice descended to a deadly softness.

�Sure, sheriff. I�ll lay it on the line. The line�s the one where the city ends and the county begins. And you�re on the other side. Out in the county. Prince Caleb of the brush. Like I mentioned, this is a nice place. A place like this must separate the suckers from plenty. Just like you�re separating the twins from plenty. You�ve been collecting ice for years, and up to now it was all right, because you had jurisdiction. Now the line�s changed, and it�s different. You�ve got no more jurisdiction. Dixie Cannon�s got it.�

Kirk moved in on the flank. Ray could feel the heat of his breath on his neck. The sour odor of it offended his nostrils.

�To hell with the line. To hell with Dixie Cannon. You tell the fat little bastard that Prince Caleb Kirk isn�t moving out for any lousy city politico. Not any whatever.�

Ray moved swiftly and smoothly, like a machine, driving his bent arm back like a piston. The elbow buried itself in the soft area above the diaphragm where Kirk�s ribs converged. Spinning with the motion, Ray chopped into the base of Kirk�s neck with the hard edge of his right hand. That made everything easy. Catching the sagging body, he lifted the sheriff�s yellow face up into a savage, cadenced chopping that produced, in seconds, a red pulp. The job done methodically, he let the body collapse and turned to the twins.

�Dixie Cannon�s a big man,� he said. �It�s not right for a bush-league bastard to talk about Dixie like that. If I overlooked it, after a while no one would have any respect for Dixie at all. You boys ready to listen?�

The brothers Schultz were motionless mountains of frozen meat. After a few seconds, the one behind the desk lifted his hands and spread them carefully on the desk�s surface. His head jerked.

�You�re talking, boy. We�re listening.�

�Good. I told Dixie you�d be reasonable. You can always depend on the Schultz boys to play it cool, I told him. It�s as simple as this: Dixie wants the ice. If you don�t like that arrangement, he�s ready to buy you out. Thirty grand, he said to tell you.�

�Thirty grand!� The Schultz in the chair heaved upward to his feet, his voice skidding up the register ahead of him to a shrill squeal. He stood for a minute bent forward, his fat belly overlapping the oak, and then he sank slowly into the chair again. His lips twitched in a sickly smile. �You�re joking, boy. Young guys like you always got to have their joke. We got eighty grand invested in the joint, me and Jake. It�s worth a hundred.�

Ray shook his head sadly. �Dixie said thirty. He said if you didn�t like thirty, he�d settle for ice.�

�What�s Dixie�s idea of ice?�

�It�s simple. A kid could figure it. There�s you two and Dixie. It comes out a third each way, however you slice it.�

�An even split? You�re killing me, boy. You�re killing me dead with your corny jokes.�

Ray shrugged. �There are worse ways to die.� He turned, moved to the door, turned again. �Dixie doesn�t want to crowd you any, but he thinks you owe him an answer. He�s been waiting ever since election, and he thinks twelve hours more ought to be plenty.�

His eyes deserted the twins, wandered over to Prince Caleb Kirk. The lank sheriff had dragged himself into a chair, and he sat slumped there with his long legs sprawled and his body canting over the arm. He�d wiped some of the blood off his face with his handkerchief, and held the bloody cloth wadded in his hand. His eyes were as yellow as his jaundiced hide, filled with the pus of a malignant hatred. His smashed lips writhed wolfishly off stained teeth.

�You�re riding high, sonny. You�re riding high enough to get hurt if you fall. I�ll tell you something. You better take real good care of that body you�re hired to guard. If anything happened to it, you might lose altitude awful fast.�

Ray studied him briefly and then went out through the game room and the bar to the Caddy under the willows. Wheeling around in the parking area, he followed the drive back to the white welt of concrete. Slipping into the tide of traffic, he drifted with it into the heart of the city. Outside City Hall, he tucked the Caddy into Dixie Cannon�s reserved spot and went up a wide sweep of stairs into the main floor hall, where he caught a fast elevator at the bank. Upstairs, he got out and exercised his privilege by turning the knob of Dixie Cannon�s private door.

Dixie was pink and white and plump. He had pale, silky hair brushed smoothly over a round skull, and he looked like a happy child. He possessed the natural, amoral cruelty of a child, too. The voters loved him and crammed the ballot boxes to prove it. With plenty of indications to the contrary, they just couldn�t believe that Dixie would ever do anything really wrong.

He smiled a welcome at Ray across the polished expanse of the huge desk that made him look like a small boy playing executive.

�You see the twins, Ray?�

�I saw them. I gave them the deadline. They�re squealing like stuck pigs, but they�ll come around. I saw Prince Caleb Kirk, too. He was at the club.�

�So?�

Ray lifted his shoulders and let them fall. �He�s got a nasty tongue. I had to work on him a little.�

�Yes? Well, watch yourself, boy. Don�t make the mistake of underestimating the devil. He�s mean as a rattlesnake.�

Ray repeated his shrug. �A guy beats his gums, you take action. It�s bad for discipline to let a guy get away with loud-talking you.�

Dixie dry-washed his plump hands, his soft mouth pursing with gentle approval. �Sure, Ray. You look after Dixie like an angel.� He stood up and patted his neat little pot with satisfaction. �Well, it�s been a nice, profitable day. I think I�ll knock off.�

�Shall I drive you home?�

�Never mind, boy. I�ll make it all right. You go buy yourself a couple beers or something.�

Ray made it another Collins and took his time with it. In the afternoon, he sat in a small-stakes poker game in the back room of a friendly cigar store and rode a moderate run of luck to a small profit. Later, as lights came up in the end of the long evening, he sat in his room in the Commerce Hotel with rye and water in his hand and a dark restlessness in his brain. He thought of a golden body reclining in sunlight, and, closing his eyes, he developed the thought behind his lids in vivid imagery. Myra. Myra Cannon. He pronounced the magic syllables aloud, but softly, and when the telephone rang shrilly at his elbow at that moment, he had a sudden intense conviction that she was, through some kind of supersensory awareness between them, responding to the name.

The voice was a woman�s, but not Myra�s.

�Mr. Butler?�

�Yes.�

�This is the Cannon maid. Mr. Cannon would like you to come out.�

�Tonight?�

�Yes. A car will be sent for you.�

�All right. I�ll be waiting.�

He hung up and stood for a minute beside the phone, wondering what urgent deal Dixie Cannon now had cooking. While he waited for transportation, he mixed another rye and water, sipping it slowly until he finally heard knuckles on his door. The guy in the hall had a bullish, blocky body and an undersized head. The left corner of his mouth was lifted in a perpetual leer by a puckered scar that ran across his cheek at a tangent. Ray had seen him around. He was called Rhino.

On the way downstairs, Ray said, �What�s the pitch?�

He didn�t expect a solid answer, and he didn�t get it. Rhino lifted thick shoulders. �Business. That�s all I know. Just business.�

They left it that way, driving in silence to Dixie Cannon�s suburban stone stack and walking in silence up from the drive into the front hall, Rhino keeping pace a step left and to the rear. The maid was waiting in the hall, and guided them to the door of the room off the terrace in which Ray and Myra had been that morning. Rhino followed Ray into the room, obviously on orders, and so did the maid. That was queer, a little too queer, and it was then, for the first time, that Ray had a feeling of something wrong.

Dixie was standing in the middle of the room with a glass in his hand. He was wearing a spotless white dinner jacket, and his benign face had a scrubbed, rosy look. His small mouth curled affectionately.

�Hello, Ray. You�re a good boy to come so soon.�

Behind him, sitting in a chair with motionless rigidity that was the antithesis of her usual seductive grace, was Myra. Her face was stiff, drained of blood, and her eyes in the startling pallor were like burned-out cinders, her mouth like a crimson wound.

The wrong feeling intensified. Twisting at the hips, Ray could see Rhino by the door at his rear. He stood there indolently, shoulders braced against the wall, his right hand resting in the pocket of his coat.

The maid had advanced on Ray�s other side. Her stance, for a woman, was oddly erect, almost military, and it prompted in him a strange kind of disgust. It seemed, for some reason, a physical perversion.

�I always come soon,� he said carefully.

Dixie lifted his glass and sipped, looking at Ray over the rim. �Thanks. But I had better explain why I called you out tonight. Also why I�ve invited Rhino and Mitzie to attend this little conference. I�ve made use of them, you see, and I believe in permitting the people I�ve used in an affair to see its finish. And then, too, it is good for personnel to be made aware of certain consequences.� He smiled gently. �You know what I am, Ray? I�m a foolish, fat little man with a beautiful wife, and that�s the trouble. Perhaps there is nothing quite so unfortunate as a man like me with a wife like Myra. Because he has no confidence, you see. He has no faith. It corrupts his personality. It makes him suspicious, and it degrades him. If he were like you, it would be different. If he were a tall and handsome guy, he wouldn�t be forced to measures a man should scorn.�

It was all clear then, of course. Even before Dixie walked to a table and flipped a switch. Even before the sultry, vibrant voice whispered his damnation through the room: Ray, Ray...

Dixie flipped the switch again, cutting off Ray�s line, and he was suddenly a sick old man. The smooth skin seemed to darken and wither on his bones. �The machine was in a cabinet in the hall,� he said. �This was only one of the rooms it could have picked up. Mitzie�s very clever about operating it. For a dame, Mitzie�s clever about a lot of things.�

He lifted his glass and drained it greedily. �What would you do, Ray, if you were Dixie Cannon? What would you do to the guy who made your wife? As you said in the office today, it�s a matter of discipline. Some things you can�t let pass.�

It seemed to Ray at that moment, in retrospect, that the whole day had been pointed toward this bad end, and he wondered dully how he had been so blind as to miss the signs of destiny � his own words to Myra about needing Dixie�s protection, the malignant threat of Prince Caleb Kirk, all the dark signs pointing. He tried to speak, but he found that he couldn�t. Bones and muscles functioned, permitting his mouth to open, but no sound would come from his throat.

�At first I thought I�d ruin your handsome face,� Dixie said. �I thought I�d let Rhino cut it up for me. But then I remembered something you said to Myra. Something on the tape there. Who keeps me alive? you said. So now I�ve decided it will be best if we simply part company. From this moment, we are at liberty from each other. I will take steps to make it known that you are no longer my man and therefore no longer my concern. For example, I�ve already notified the men I�m presently dealing with � the Schultz twins. Prince Caleb Kirk. They were quite interested.�

Then there was an unexpected sharp sound of splintering glass, and blood dripped brightly from Dixie�s soft fingers. His voice rose to a shrill, womanlike scream.

�Get out, you double-dealing son of a bitch! Get the hell out before I have Rhino cut you to shreds!�

Ray turned away with a bleak sense of loneliness that was more terrible than fear. For a moment his eyes sought the face of Myra, but there was nothing in it now but defeat and the shadow of terror, so he gave up and went past Rhino into the hall and out of the house. All the way, hanging in disembodied suspension before him, there was a second face. It was long and yellow, with a sour mouth and hate-filled eyes, the symbol of his enemies.

Fair game. Open season on Ray Butler. He felt a frantic, irrational compulsion to start running, but all growth and structure on the surface of the earth around him seemed, of a sudden, to disintegrate and disappear, leaving no place, no place at all, for a man to hide.

Rick could solve all his problems, just by putting another guy in jail. It didn�t matter to Rick that the guy was innocent.

We checked out at 8 A.M., left the Robbery Detail office together, and went down the corridor. Outside, on the marble steps in the gray morning. Bledsoe asked, �Going home now?�

I said yes, knowing it wasn�t true. �See you tonight.�

�Be damn glad when this graveyard shift�s over.� He headed for his car, a big man in a rumpled suit, a guy who took his job seriously.

I waited ten minutes while the morning traffic, slowed by the smog and fog, ground by; then I got my own clunk and headed out toward Pacific Highway. I�d driven it every morning for a week and each day I got a little closer to the house up the canyon, the house where Kit Cord lived. One day I�d make it.

This morning I got as far as the turnoff above the Palisades. I sat there in the car, smoking and cursing, and then I backed and turned and drove home.

Leah wasn�t there. A note on the table said she�d gone to the doctor. I was glad she wasn�t there. I didn�t even eat. I took a double slug of whiskey and went to bed.

I woke up six hours later. I lay there in bed feeling I wanted to stay there forever. There was a dull ache behind my eyes and I kept wishing I hadn�t taken that big slug of whiskey before going to bed. I lay there and wished I was at forty thousand feet in a Sabrejet. Not that I�d ever been in a Sabrejet, but the idea appealed to me. Especially the forty thousand feet from the earth, where things happen.

The door opened and Leah came in with the slow, painful movements of the very pregnant. It seemed to me her fine features had coarsened. She appeared bloated and unwieldy. Pregnancy makes some women beautiful. I felt cheated.

�Time to get up, honey,� she said, and walked heavily across the room to stand beside my bed. She sat on the bed and leaned sideways to kiss my check.

I was irritated, but I didn�t say anything.

�Get up, Rick,� she coaxed, and stood up and stripped the covers back.

I was more irritated. I jerked the cover out of her hand.

�Call �em,� I mumbled. I buried my head in my pillow. �Tell �em I�m sick. Tell �em I�m dead.�

She went to the window, adjusted the drapes, and turned, smiling. �I�ve poured your tomato juice.�

I felt guilty. I got out of bed and went over and put my arms around her, standing behind so I could be close to her. She leaned her head against my chest and I kissed her. I felt the soft warm outline of her body against my legs and a tremor ran through me.

She turned and pushed me back. �Poor kid,� she said, and patted my cheek. �I won�t always be like this.�

I thought of Kit Cord, then. It made me feel guilty, just thinking of her. But I hadn�t seen her in two weeks and I�m one of those guys who miss it.

I grabbed my robe and put it on and went out into the kitchen. I drank a glass of tomato juice and sat down and picked up a magazine.

The magazine bored me stiff. I looked at the pages without seeing them and I knew then that I�d do something about my problem. I had to do it. I finished my coffee and went back to the bedroom and threw everything off and stepped into the shower. While I let the stinging spray needle me, I thought about it. I thought about it some more while I scraped the dark shadow my whiskers made. When I was through I looked as though I still needed a shave. My dark whiskers are like that. I sprinkled talc on my hands and rubbed it on my face and let it go at that.

I dressed quickly. I came out into the living room and Leah had the bridge lamp on and she was sewing something blue and dainty. I kissed the top of her head. �How you feeling?�

She began telling me about her aches and pains but I wasn�t listening. I was struggling with my own troubles. She was still talking, and I was still struggling, when I walked out to the car.

The lights of the city reflected against the sky. It was 8 P.M., and some of the wet wind from the west was reaching North Hollywood Hills. I got in the car and started the motor and let the oil pressure build up. Then I backed out of the driveway and wheeled the car down to the boulevard. It was 8:05 P.M., and I wasn�t due at the city hall for three hours and fifty-five minutes.

I hated myself for doing it, but I used thirty minutes of that time to get to Pacific Palisades. I turned off the highway and drove up the canyon for a half mile. I turned into a driveway, between rock walls, and drove on up to a big white house that backed against the mountain and stared seaward, over as rustic a setting as you�ll find on a movie set.

I hoped her husband wouldn�t be home.

I pushed the button and listened to the chimes sound in the distance. A maid opened the door and showed me a lot of teeth, in a sort of knowing smile. She said, �Mrs. Cord sure isn�t expecting you, Mr. Rick.�

�This�ll just take a minute, Marie,� I told her. �Tell her it�ll just take a minute.� Rabbit Richard Sanders, Det. Sgt., City of Los Angeles.

She still grinned. �Come on in, sir. I�ll tell her.� She took my hat and I followed her into the library. I dropped into a red leather upholstered chair. The lights were indirect and restful. I could look across the rocks and trees to the ocean. Farther down, I could see the glitter of the amusement park. Straight out from me, a streamer made a string of yellow unflickering fire move across the water. I didn�t see or hear Marie but there was a drink under my hand. I looked at my watch. Nine P.M. Just three hours until I went on shift. Chlorophyl would take care of it. I took a long drink and set my glass down as Kit came in, so fresh from a bath the bubbles were still clinging to her.

She smelled of shampoo, and her deep blue eyes had a lazy sort of invitation in them. That invitation was always there.

�Rick,� she said in a pleased voice. She came toward me, holding out her hand. Her robe was of something sheer, pinkish, hiding nothing if you looked hard. I looked hard.

I took her hand and my pulse sounded like an alarm. �I just dropped by,� I began, and then stopped because it wasn�t my voice I heard. I tried again with better luck. �Just to check. See if your stickups had tried to make contact � maybe offered to sell you back your own stuff.�

She and her husband had been held up-in the driveway two months before. The heistmen had got some jewelry. That�s how I�d met her. I was ripe for that meeting.

�No.� She sat down on a green and white striped divan and tucked her feet under her, looking up at me with eyes wide as the Pacific and the same color. She patted the seat beside her and there wasn�t room enough for a toothpick but I managed to squeeze into it. �Silly. You could have phoned.�

I felt her warm thigh against mine and wanted to tell her my real reason for being there, in plain, unvarnished street lingo. �Don�t like to use the phone about things like that. Anyway, there�s a few other questions I wanted to ask. Do you��

She twisted her supple body and dropped back into my arms. Her face was close to mine. Her red lips were parted and her eyes were closed. She whispered, �Yes, Rick?�

My mouth closed on hers. It was soft and slightly pursed. Her arms went up around my neck and her fingers played with my hair for a moment before they slid down and dug into my flesh. She squirmed beneath me and her breath came in savage little gasps. The room grew warm, then hot.

I hesitated for a fraction of a second. I thought about Leah for a moment and then it went out of my mind, for a white-hot heat was building up inside of me. I let myself go and both of us forgot everything except each other.

After a while we rested. She sighed and said, �God, I won�t be able to move for a week.�

I turned my head. Her eyes still held a hungry look. �Me too.� We were just getting ready for another four alarm fire when a car scattered gravel in the driveway outside. I jumped up.

She said, �Damn, it�s later than I thought.� She looked at me. �Go out the side door, darling. I�ll let you out.� She swayed to the french doors and opened them. The cold wet wind blew in and she shivered.

�You can ask me those questions next time,� she said softly.

I went around the side of the house. A big black Cadillac was parked in front. I looked at the MD sign on the license plate, and I scowled at it. I went on and climbed into my car and got it started and moving toward the highway. I felt better than when I�d first got there, but nothing was changed.

I wondered about her husband, how he looked and what he thought and whether he knew. I felt sorry for him, in a pitying sort of way, and a little superior too, because he couldn�t keep up with his homework. But he spoiled everything. I hated the thought of him sleeping with Kit. He was my problem. I was a jealous lover.

What a deal!

There�s never a dull night at the city hall. My partner, Will Bledsoe, and I interviewed a robbery suspect left over by the evening shift. We got a signed confession. We were assigned to check outgoing buses for a pickup and we worked at it from 3 A.M. to 6 A.M., when we were called to La Brea and Norton for a drug store holdup.

We got there about fifteen minutes after a lone gunman had tied up the druggist and beat it with ten G�s worth of dope.

The drug store was a chain outlet. The pharmacist was a fat little guy named Adrison. His teeth were bad for such a young guy, and he was scared stiff. He couldn�t even tell us whether the guy was long or short, heavy or light, white or black. Will threw questions at him until he was dizzy as a ticket collector on a merry-go-round. There was something phony about it. A cop gets so he can smell them.

His hands had been taped and the tape lay on the floor. I picked it up and looked at it and dropped it and wiped my hands on my handkerchief. Maybe I got my idea then. Otherwise I wouldn�t have acted as I did.

�Something screwy here,� Bledsoe said. Will�s an average-sized guy with an average-sized mind. �Phony as a three-dollar bill.�

�You�re dreaming,� I said. �You�re the screwy one. He�s clean.�

He looked at me. �Maybe you�re right,� he said. �Maybe you are.�

We finished checking and went back to the cruiser. Will wasn�t satisfied. �The stick-up guy took nothing but dope,� he muttered.

�So what?� I asked. �That�s what they do when they�re looking for the stuff.�

�It don�t smell right,� he said.

I knew what he meant but I didn�t encourage him.

�If it wasn�t an inside, maybe the guy will hit another one,� he said. He went on, talking about knocking off the dope heister.

It hit me like a bolt of lightning, just then, as were stopped for a traffic light: everything clear as hell. I cracked a fist into my palm.

Will looked at me. �What�s eating you?�

�These damn dope stickups,� I said. �They�re hard to crack.� It was the first thing I could think of.

He nodded. �We�ll nail him. He might pull another tonight. We�ve got to stay on top of it.�

I breathed a sigh of relief. He�d dropped the inside angle.

We listened to a broadcast as we drove. Warning all cruisers and patrolmen particularly to watch drug stores. Working the percentage.

We made it to 8 A.M. without another call. We signed out and I crawled into my clunk and instead of driving home I tooled the jalopy out to Vermont and turned north and watched the side streets. I found the street I wanted and made a left turn as the light changed.

The address was a typical California residential apartment on a quiet street. Flat-roofed, yellow stucco and with a dime-sized lawn between the two wings and lots of shrubbery.

I went on back to the main entrance and consulted the mail boxes. Not that I didn�t remember the address that Adrison, that drug clerk, had given us. I punched the button under the box.

It was Adrison�s voice that asked, �What is it?�

�Police,� I said.

The silence was growing painful when the buzzer sounded. �Come on up,� he said. �Second door to your right.�

I climbed the stairs and went to the second door. He was standing in the doorway, wearing a flashy robe with a towel around his neck.

�Anything wrong, Sergeant?� he asked, with a half-smile showing his bad teeth.

�Yes,� I said and shoved him back into the room.

His half-smile faded quick. He stared at me. His adam�s apple worked up and down and he moistened his lips with his tongue.

�You didn�t really believe it�d work, did you?� I asked.

�I don�t know what you mean,� he said.

I reached behind me and slipped the night latch and slammed the door. �Anyone else live here?�

His eyes followed me as I moved away from the door.

�I share it with another fellow,� he said.

�Where is he?�

�He works days.� He ran a worried hand through his hair. �See here, Sergeant, you don�t think I had anything to do with that robbery, do you?�

�That�s why I�m here,� I said. �Why don�t you make it easy on all of us, and talk?�

�There�s nothing to talk about. I swear it.� He followed me around the apartment, stepping on my heels as I examined the incense burner on top of the table model television set. There were lots of obscene figurines on the bookshelves, and very few books. The drapes had a tailored look. The carpeting was chosen with an elegant eye for color. The beige lounge and matching chairs were expensive.

�What do you pay for this place?� I asked.

�Four hundred,� he said and quickly added, �That includes maid service.�

�What do they pay you at the drug store?�

�Well, I pick up a little extra��

I swung around and put a bite into my voice. �What�s your salary?�

�Eighty a week,� he said.

�How do you do it?� I asked.

�I just pay half,� he said defensively. �I just��

I hit him with the back of my hand. His head flopped around and I hit him on the other side. He cowered back and said, �I�ll report you for that.�

I hit him in the belly with my fist and then shoved him back into the beige chair. �You won�t report anything.� I sat on the arm of his chair and got a fistful of his hair. �You�d better start talking. Goddam quick.�

�I don�t know anything,� he said. �Honest I don�t.�

I put my face down close to his face. �You don�t like to get hurt, do you, Adrison? Just a little pain and you go all to pieces, don�t you?�

He was staring at me like a hypnotized bird. His jaw worked a little.

�That�s why you put oil on your wrists, wasn�t it? I spotted that the minute I looked at your wrist. You didn�t want to lose any hair when they yanked that tape off your wrist. Why didn�t you use a rope? Because it�d be too hard to tie? Wasn�t that it? Start talking.�

�I�m trying to � I don�t know what you�re talking about,� he chattered, and he was scared bad.

�You�ll go up for this, Adrison,� I said and took my hand out of his hair. �You�ll spend time in jail for robbing your boss. The judge is easier on a guy that�s an honest robber than the one like you. He�ll throw the book at you. He hates guys like you.�

His head was down and he stared at his hands.

�It�s tough up there, fellow. Locked up. You don�t know what it�s like��

He stared at me, a sick look on his lace.

�The years pile up on you in there. And you�re missing everything that means living. No nice apartment. No women. You�ll die in there��

�I don�t know anything,� he said hoarsely.

I stood up. �Make it hard on yourself,� I said. �You can save yourself a lot of grief if you want to do it.�

He put his head on his hands and sobbed.

He was getting weak. I could feel it. You get so you can sense those things. My heart began to run faster. Up to this time I�d always been a good cop. Straight.

�We can make a deal,� I said, and my face was burning and my pulse beat in my temples. �Make it easy on yourself, Adrison.�

I left him then. I went over to the telephone and dialed my own number. When Leah answered, I said, �Sorry I didn�t call. Something came up.�

She said, �That�s all right, dear. I knew something had come up.�

�I�ll see you soon,� I promised, and then asked, �How do you feel?�

Her laugh was shaky. �You know how these mornings are.�

I knew. I said. �It�s all in your mind. The scientists all say that.�

�They aren�t women,� she said. �They�re all men. They should have a baby.�

I told her I�d sec her later and hung up. When I turned around, Adrison was watching me. I went over to him and broke out a pack of cigarettes and offered it to him. He took one and his hand shook. I held the lighter for him.

�What about the deal?� he asked.

�You got ten G�s worth of dope.�

�I�m not admitting anything,� he said. He tried to take his cigarette out of his mouth and it stuck to his lip. He jerked and dropped it in his lap and scrambled wildly around trying to keep from getting scorched. He rescued his smoke and brushed ashes from his robe.

�All right, all right,� I said. �But supposing you take half of it. Just half and put it in a certain car. I�ll tell you the license number, the make, and where the car will be parked. You�ll still have a big slug of the stuff for yourself. And you�ll be in the clear.�

�Suppose I won�t do it?�

�Then I�ll haul you in,� I said. �We got ways of making you talk. You�ll do plenty of time, Adrison.�

�I�ll tell them about your offer,� he said. But his hand was shaking.

I shook my head. �That won�t help. Every time a cop knocks someone off he takes a chance on that. You wouldn�t get to first base.�

He stood up. �Okay, copper. It�s a deal.� He leered at me. �Give me the grim details.�

I hit him on the jaw and knocked him back into his chair. �Get smart with me,� I said, �and I�ll knock all your teeth out. You can use some dental work, anyway.�

He hated me with his eyes.

I lifted my hand to look at my knuckles and he dodged. I laughed and said, �All right, the car�s a black Caddy.� I gave him the license number and told him where it�d be parked, a lot near Cord�s office. �Put the stuff behind the back seat cushion and be damn sure half of it is there.�

�When you want it done?� he asked through puffy lips.

�Say around noon tomorrow. He gets to the parking lot about 9 and leaves in the afternoon.�

�I�ll try,� he said.

I shook my head. �Uh-uh. You�ve got to do it. If it�s not there I�m coming back for you, Adrison. And I won�t give a damn whether I bring you in or not.� I tapped my shoulder near the holster.

It was eleven o�clock before I got home. Leah was gone and there was a note on the kitchen table. �Gone to doctor. My appointment is for 11:30. Back soon. Milk in refrigerator.�

There were graham crackers in a bowl on the table. These graveyard shifts always gave my stomach hell. I got the milk out of the refrigerator and poured it over the graham crackers and sat down and began eating. To hell with that guilt complex stuff, I thought. It was hard to put it out of my mind, but I worked at it, and by the time I finished the graham crackers and milk I felt pretty good. That Kit dame had been all right.

I crawled into bed and went to sleep.

When Leah called me at six I still was feeling good. Usually, I feel like hell when I wake up after working nights. The way I figure, nights are made for sleep � and other things. I got out of bed. �How you feeling?�

�My doctor turned me over to a specialist,� she said.

I went into the bathroom. �Anything wrong?� I called. I was busy planning my story to Will while I brushed my teeth and shaved.

�No, I suppose not. He just wanted to be sure.�

�This specialist � he�s a good one? You like him?� I finished and decided to wait for my shower. I went out into the bedroom. She sat on the bed, looking at her hands.

She nodded. �I like him, Rick.�

�Fine. I want you to have the best.� I went on out into the kitchen and drank my tomato juice and picked up a magazine.

She came over and pushed the magazine aside and sat on my knees. She kissed me and said, �You don�t love me since I�m like this.�

�Don�t be silly,� I said. �Of course I do. I love you more.� It was true. I felt a sort of tenderness for her I�d never felt before. I was excited about the kid, too.

�You don�t show it,� she said.

I looked at her, surprised. She�d never complained before � about anything. I thought about it. �I can�t,� I said. �I get close to you and get all excited. And that�s not good.�

She got up from my lap and then sat down again and put her arms around my neck and squeezed. �I feel like I�m losing you,� she whispered. �I wish we�d never had a baby.�

�Don�t say things like that, honey.�

She got up, smiling at me. �I just feel that way sometimes. When I realize you love me, I feel better.�

I felt like a heel, but just for a little while. I still knew I�d taken the right step, and that was that. I showered and dressed and came out into the living loom.

Leah asked, �You�re going early again tonight?�

I nodded. �Yeah. Will and I are working on a case.�

�I�ll bet Will doesn�t show up early,� she said.

I laughed and threw my hat on the table. �Okay. I can use a little relaxation tonight.�

She looked up. �If you really have to go,� she said, �don�t mind me. I�m just contrary tonight.�

I sat on the rug at her feet and leaned my head against her knees. �No,� I said. �No, you�re not.�

Her hand ruffled my hair.

We watched the fights on television and she made some coffee. She fell asleep in her chair about ten-thirty, while I sipped coffee and looked at a chase program. I carried her to bed and covered her. She didn�t wake when I kissed her.

I got my hat and went out to the car. I got the car started and drove straight to the city hall.

Will Bledsoe met me in the corridor. �Let�s get a cup of coffee,� he said.

We went across the street to the diner and the girl brought coffee. I lit a cigarette and said, �Will, I got a lead on our stickup.�

He looked at me quickly and shoved his hat on the back of his head. �Working overtime?� he grunted. He�s always grouchy on the midnight to 8 A.M. just like me.

�I got a tip from a stoolie,� I said. �There�s a doctor in the deal. Fellow named Cord. Drives a black Caddy. We ought to look it over.�

�Got to be careful with these docs. You�re in trouble if you�re wrong about �em.� Frowning, he asked, �How reliable is this pigeon of yours?�

�He�s batted a thousand up to now,� I said.

He didn�t lose his frown. �Who�s this stoolie, Rick?�

�Don�t ask me,� I said. �I wouldn�t tell my own mother.�

�Drop dead,� he said, and threw twenty cents on the counter and stood up. �Let�s go.�

I followed him out to the sidewalk. �Let the day shift knock this guy off tomorrow morning,� I said. �Let�s do it that way.�

�Why don�t we do it now?� he wanted to know.

�It might put the finger on my man. I wouldn�t want to lose him.�

�What about the others?� he asked. �What about them, Rick?�

I moved my shoulders. �He just fingered Cord. Maybe we can get the rest out of the quack after we make the pinch.�

�I�d have sworn that guy Adrison was in on it,� Will said. �Oh, well. Let�s check in, Rick.�

A cop was dead. The machinery of the hunt started to move. But there just wasn�t a clue to be turned up...

There was a blanket thrown over the patrolman by the time we got there. The ambulance was waiting, and a white-clad interne was standing near the step of the ambulance, puffing on a cigarette.

He looked up as I walked over to him, and then flicked his cigarette away.

�Detective-Sergeant Jonas,� I said.

�How do you do?� the interne answered. �Dr. Mallaby.�

�What�s the story?�

�Broken neck. It must have been a big car. His chest is caved in where he was first hit. I figure he was knocked down, and then run over. The bumper probably broke his neck. That�s the cause of death, anyway.�

Andy Larson walked over to where we were standing. He shook his head and said, �A real bloody one, Mike.�

�Yeah.� I turned to the interne. �When was he hit?�

�Hard to say. No more than a half-hour ago. I�d guess offhand. An autopsy will tell.�

�That checks, Mike,� Andy said. �Patrolman on the beat called it in about twenty-five minutes ago.�

�A big car, huh?�

�I�d say so.� the interne answered.

�I wonder how many big cars there are in this city?�

Andy nodded. �You can cart him away, Doc,� he said. �The boys are through with their pictures.�

The interne fired another cigarette, and we watched while he and an attendant put the dead patrolman on a stretcher and then into the ambulance. The interne and the attendant climbed aboard, and the ambulance pulled off down the street. They didn�t use the siren. There was no rush now.

A cop gets it, and you say, �Well, gee, that�s tough. But that was his trade.� Sure. Except that being a cop doesn�t mean you don�t have a wife, and maybe a few kids. It doesn�t hurt any less, being a cop. You�re just as dead.

I went over the accident report with Andy.

Hatred isn�t always the reason. Sometimes a love that�s too strong can provide.

In ribbon after ribbon of gleaming white foam, the surf rolled in from the blue Gulf and, each time for lingering moments, spread patterns of delicate lace on the broad beach. It was Sunday, but it was near the end of the season at Seahorse Beach; most of the vacationists had left, and only a few guests remained in the tall resort hotel. Three or four fishing boats bobbed like huge white corks on the swells of the blue water, and several gulls glided lazily along the foreshore.

Van Rollins sat up in bed and gazed downward from the tenth-floor window. �Wish I could stay here another day,� he said with a wistful expression on his tanned face. �I�d like to get down there and splash around in the water. It sure looks good.�

�We�ve been here three days, Van,� Kathy reminded him. �We could�ve gone swimming yesterday or today, or even both times.�

�That�s right,� he said. �And we haven�t been out of this room for forty-eight hours, have we?� He shook his head. �Oh, well. There�ll be other times, other places. But always the same beautiful girl � that wondrous work of nature.�

Kathy smiled happily. �Now, Van, why do you always say that?�

He winked at her, and then he moved away from the window and reached for the whisky bottle on the table. It was empty.

�Look at that, would you?� he said. �It�s all gone again. Phone down and tell them to send up a couple more, will you, Kathy, and plenty of ice, too. Tell them to get busy and make some new ice � the last ice they sent up here was all old and squashy. Imagine what life would be like if there wasn�t another drop of whisky left in the world, and only squashy ice.�

Kathy went to the phone and ordered the whisky and hard ice. When she finished, she sat down on the side of the bed.

�Van, I want to talk to you about something important,� she said nervously. �It�s very important.�

�If it�s something that important, why didn�t you tell me about it when you got here the other night?�

�I didn�t want to do anything that would � well, anything that might spoil our week end this time.�

�You talk so serious, Kathy.� He stuffed the pillows behind his back with energetic movements of his arms. After that he regarded her with his searching dark eyes while she nervously fingered the hem of her dressing gown. �What�s the trouble, Kathy?� he asked, concerned, after a while.

She drew the mauve gown more closely around her, at the same time shaking her dark brown hair backward from her face. She looked childlike and fragile, sitting there on the edge of the big double bed.

�Van, I want to get married,� she stated forthrightly, but being careful to avoid his penetrating gaze.

�Now, Kathy,� he said with an annoyed frown as he reached for her. Knowing what to expect, she quickly moved backward beyond his reach. He leaned back against the pillows again. �Kathy, you know all about that. Why bring it up now? There�s no sense dragging ourselves through that again. I�ve got a wife, I�ve got four children, and I can�t afford to break up my family. Besides, it wouldn�t be an intelligent move, businesswise. You know all that. Let�s not get all on edge about something that can�t be changed. We�ve known each other for nearly five years now, and we still get along fine every time we get together, don�t we? I meet you three or four or five times a year, somewhere like this, and we stay together for a week end. What more can a girl want these days � under the circumstances?�

�I�m not talking about that, Van,� she said, still forcing herself not to look at him. She knew she cared so much for him that it would hurt her to see him displeased and unhappy. �It�s something else, Van.�

�Then what are you talking about, Kathy?� he asked, perturbed. �You said you wanted to get married, didn�t you?�

Taking a deep breath, she looked directly at him. �I want to marry somebody else, Van.�

He stared at her, completely amazed; after a while a disbelieving smile came to his face.

�That�s a funny thing for you to say, after we�ve meant so much to each other all these years. Don�t you think we get along fine together, Kathy? Be honest now. Be truthful. Sure, we do. You�ve always said that.�

�Van, I�m twenty-eight now, and in two more years I�ll be thirty��

�And in two more years you�ll be even more beautiful and wondrous, and I�ll be just as crazy about you as I ever was. Time improves the wondrous work of nature.�

�Please try to understand, Van. It frightens me to think that I�ll soon be thirty years old. That�s why I want to get married now � while I can. That�s what I really mean � while I can.�

�Who�s this you�re talking about marrying, Kathy?�

�It wouldn�t mean anything to you if I told you his name. You don�t know him, and you�ve never heard of him. He doesn�t have an important job like yours, and he doesn�t make a lot of money. He lives back home.�

�What is he � a locally renowned turpentine-and-rosin man up there in those Alabamey piney woods?�

�No, he�s not a business man. He�s a lawyer in our little town. He�s a widower, and he�s about your own age, Van. He�s forty-one. He�s been very kind to me. And he�s asked me to marry him.�

�Who wouldn�t be kind to you and ask you to marry him � to get his hands on a wondrous work of nature like you!�

�So far he hasn�t meant anything like that to me at all, Van,� she told him earnestly, hoping he would believe her. �I mean, in the way you�re thinking. There hasn�t been anything like that. You know I wouldn�t be dishonest with you, Van.�

�Why do you want to marry him? Why him?�

�Because nobody else has asked me.�

�Don�t make me feel like a damn scoundrel, Kathy. It makes me feel awfully bad. You know I can�t divorce my wife and marry you. I can�t afford to break up my family like that. I�ve got those four children growing up. I�ve got to think of them. And it wouldn�t help me businesswise, either.�

�I don�t want you to feel badly, Van,� she said, shaking her head sympathetically. �You know I don�t. I�m too much in love with you to hurt you, if I can possibly help it. It�s just that I�ve reached the point where I want to get married, before it�s too late. You know a girl has to think of her youth, Van. After I�m thirty��

�I know,� he said, nodding and looking out the window. �I know, Kathy.� He watched the gulls gliding over the foreshore while he was talking to her. �But why do you want to get married at all? Why can�t you keep on meeting me every couple of months, just like we�ve been doing? It�s perfect this way. You know I travel a lot. I can always manage to meet you for a week end somewhere � here, New Orleans, Chicago, Atlanta, Miami, or almost anywhere. You�ve always said you like meeting me the way you do, haven�t you?�

�I do like it, Van, because it means being with you, and I�d rather be with you than with anybody else in the world. I always feel so secure, and loved. It�s the most wonderful thing in life to me. But I�ve got to think of the future now.�

A waiter knocked on the door. Kathy got up and unlocked the door, and the waiter came in and placed the two bottles of whisky and the bowl of ice cubes on the table. Kathy signed the bill and gave him fifty cents from her purse. The waiter thanked her for the tip and gathered up the empty bottles and took them away with him. Neither of them said anything until the door had been closed and locked again.

�If I�d known this was going to happen, I would�ve sent for four bottles,� Van remarked, laughing a little to himself. �We�re going to need four bottles before we finish this. It�s a four-bottle argument if there ever was one.�

He poured large portions of whisky into two glasses, carelessly splashed ice cubes into the liquor, and handed one of the glasses to Kathy. She sipped the whisky slowly and deliberately.

�I can�t let you do it, Kathy,� he stated as though he fully expected her to abide by his decision. Then he lifted his glass to his mouth and drank all the whisky in it. �That�s how I feel about it, Kathy. That�s it.�

�Don�t talk like that, Van,� she begged. �Please try to see my side of it.�

�I don�t want to see your side of it. I want to be selfish as hell about it. Why should I want to see your side? I don�t want you leaving me to go off with somebody up there in those piney woods of Alabama. I should say I don�t! You wouldn�t meet me again after that.�

�Of course I couldn�t ever meet you again.� She drew her breath quickly. �Of course I couldn�t, Van!�

He shook his head more determinedly than ever. �That�s the answer, Kathy. You can�t do it.�

�You�ve got to let me, Van!�

�I haven�t got to,� he said, speaking out angrily to her for the first time. �You�re mine. You�re going to stay mine. That�s the way it�s been, that�s the way it is, and that�s the way it�s going to stay from now on.� He was breathing rapidly when he stopped, and there was silence between them for a long time. He smiled at her after that, all anger vanishing, and immediately she felt as though she would remain incapable of resisting him as long as he lived. �The wise man has spoken, Kathy,� he said lightly.

He put his arms around her and hugged her desperately. Presently Kathy pressed her face against him, and after that she put her arms around his neck and kissed him as though they had just that instant come together after having been parted for a long time.

�You get that crazy idea out of your mind, Kathy, and keep it out,� he told her, assuming a gruff manner. �Forget it. You�re my sweetheart, honey-babe. I�m not going to let you go off and be somebody else�s. I know what�s good for us, even if you pretend you don�t.�

�But if we can�t marry � I�ve just got to think of the future. I�d like to have children, Van. And I don�t want to end up being an old maid � I can�t even stand the thought of it! I�m lonely all the time when I�m not with you � awfully lonely.�

�Kathy, I give you everything you want, don�t I? You�ve got a new car, a nice coat, and a lot of other things. You wouldn�t even have to work in that office, if you didn�t want to. I can take care of you. I make enough to go around. I�ll always take care of you.�

�No, Van,� she said firmly. �No.�

�Now, look here, honey-babe��

She drew away from him and stood at the foot of the bed.

�Stop calling me that!�

�What do you want me to call you � Mrs. Somebody-Or-Other!�

�Yes!�

�Well, you�re not going to be Mrs. Anybody! You�re going to keep on being who you are right now � Miss Kathy Woodson!�

She turned away from the bed and walked to the other window. She stood looking down at the curving white beach and the blue water of the Gulf. Van, his anger passing, waited several minutes, and then he got up and went to her. He put his arms around her and held her tightly. Slowly turning to him as she always had the desire to do when he was close to her, she raised her lips to his and kissed him.

�Now, that�s more like it, Kathy,� he said later, taking her back to the bed and making her sit down beside him. �You know you don�t want to go off and leave me and marry somebody else.�

�Yes, I do, Van,� she told him with renewed insistence. �I really do.�

�Well, you�re not! I said so!�

�I�ll do it anyway, then.�

�You will not!�

Tears filled her eyes. She covered her face with her hands.

�You�ll get over this pretty soon, Kathy,� he said, trying to comfort her. He kissed her cheeks and forehead and hands. �You�ll be meeting me somewhere in about two months. Then you�ll be glad that I wouldn�t let you do this fool thing.�

She pushed him from her and determinedly held him away with both hands.

�No, Van. I�ve met you for the last time. I�ll never see you again after this. As soon as I get back home, I�m going to marry��

�If you do, I swear I�ll come up there and break every bone in that shyster�s head!�

�No, you wouldn�t do that, Van. You wouldn�t make trouble like that. You know you wouldn�t, for my sake.�

�Kathy,� he pleaded solemnly, �I�ll do anything in the world for you, if you�ll forget all about this fool thing. All you have to do is name it, and I�ll do it for you. That�s a promise if I ever made one.�

�Will you marry me?�

�Now, Kathy, please don�t start that again.�

�Then remember what I said I was going to do when I get back home this time.�

Van picked up his glass and poured more whisky into it. Taking several ice cubes from the bowl, he threw them, splashing, into the glass. Then he drank all the whisky in it.

�Kathy, I�ve got to leave in a couple of hours. I�ve got to be in New Orleans at nine o�clock in the morning. Sales conference. Regional meeting. Now, let�s not spoil the next few hours by arguing about that fool thing any more. It�ll be nearly two months before I see you again, and it�s going to be��

�I don�t want to spoil things, either, Van,� she told him in an intense voice. �But I�ve got to do what my sense tells me to do. I�m going home tomorrow and��

�If I have to drop everything and come up there in those piney woods, I�ll take that fellow apart piece by piece. I�m not joking, Kathy. There won�t be anything left of that shyster for miles around.�

�Please don�t talk like that, Van,� she begged. �This means everything to me.�

�Kathy, I�ll make you happy as long as you live. I�ll make you so happy that you�ll think you�re floating on clouds day and night for the rest of your life. You�re happy right now � as happy as happy can be � and you know you are. Anybody could look at you and see how happy you are this minute. I�m going to keep you that way. I�m not going to give you up and let somebody else take you over. Not a wondrous work of nature like you. I�m not that kind. The people in my business will tell you that when Van Rollins sets his sights on something, he takes it over, no matter what the competition or resistance is. That�s why I hold down the top sales job in my company, and they�re getting ready to make me a vice-president just because of that. I set a quota for the whole country � from New York to San Francisco � and then I get out on the road and see to it that the field makes the quota, hell or high water. Now, I set my sights on you, and you�re mine, and don�t you forget it. No piney-woods shyster is going to break down my quota.�

Kathy, covering her face with her hands, fell across the bed.

After a while Van got dressed and packed his two suitcases. It was becoming dark then, and he walked to the window and looked at the early stars twinkling over the Gulf. Near the horizon, a new moon was rising. He went back and closed the suitcases.

When he was ready to leave, he lifted Kathy into his arms and held her close to him. They clung to each other for a long time, and then, her whole body trembling, she put her arms around his neck and kissed him fervently.

�I love you so much, darling,� she whispered. �I�ve never loved anybody else like this. As long as I live I�ll never love anybody else the way I love you. Darling... darling!�

�You still don�t want to marry that shyster up there, do you, Kathy?�

�Yes, Van,� she told him, trying to remain calm. �I�ve got to � I can�t help it!�

�Then I�ll help it. Listen to me now. You forget all about marrying him or anybody else. I want you to meet me in Chicago or St. Louis about two months from now. I�ll let you know the exact time and place, and send you the airplane ticket.�

�No, Van! No!�

�And when you check out of here tomorrow morning, sign the hotel bill and give it to the cashier. I�ll tell him to mail it to me at the home office.�

�Please, Van! Please let me marry him! Please, for my sake!�

�It can�t be done, Kathy. And that�s final. I�ve got to go catch that train to New Orleans now. Good-by, honey-babe. Take care of yourself. I�ll see you in a couple of months.�

He kissed her again and again she clung to him.

Finally, he left her and picked up the suitcases.

Kathy sat up erectly on the bed, watching breathlessly as he went toward the door.

�Darling�� she said fondly. �Oh, darling!�

�I feel the same way about you, Kathy,� he told her while her heart throbbed with a painful feeling. He stood in the doorway, appealing and handsome in his dark gray suit, and looked at her longingly. �That�s why I�m going to keep you � for us. Now, you be sure to take good care of yourself, and in a couple of months...�

She did not know if he said anything after that, but she could see him, tall and manful, going into the hall. Then the door was closed. The moment he had gone from sight she fell face downward upon the bed in the desolate room and cried as she had never cried before.

They�d hurt his wife, so he was out to get them. It was as simple � and dangerous � as that.

Steve flipped a half-smoked cigarette far out into the summer darkness, and dropped his feet from the porch rail. For the third time in fifteen minutes, he glanced at his watch in the light flowing through the open door. Nine twenty-five. The dinner-meetings of Nancy�s club almost never lasted past eight.

He paced twice across the porch and lit another cigarette. For a moment he considered the dark shape of his car parked in the driveway, then dropped impatiently back into the lounge chair. One of the girls had offered her a ride. They were at someone�s house, chatting. It would only embarrass Nancy if he went looking for her.

Steve cursed quietly, remembering the way he�d let his wife persuade him she should walk to the downtown restaurant where the girls met each month.

�Silly,� she�d chided, wrinkling her nose at him. �It�s only a few blocks, and I�ll probably get a lift home. If not, it�s still better for me to walk. Dr. Carlisle said so.�

He looked at his watch again. Nine thirty-three.

�Hell!� Rising, he flipped a cigarette once more over the railing, strolled down the steps and out to the sidewalk.

A block down the street a door slammed, and a souped-up roadster roared away from the curb. The headlights glared and swept beyond him, and he noted absently the twin red fender guides as the car screamed past. Its special-toned mufflers thundered and faded in the distance.

Then he saw her. Nancy was running toward him, stumbling, falling, getting up, falling again. Nancy, calling faintly to him in sobbing gasps.

Steve was at her side in seconds. He pounded down the sidewalk, fear gripping his chest, and caught her just as she stumbled again.

�Nancy! Nan�� He lifted her easily, conscious of the bare flesh against his arm. Her blouse and torn slip hung in shreds from one shoulder.

�Steve, Steve, Steve,� she sobbed, over and over.

As he carried her past a street light, Steve winced at the sight of the streak of dried blood across her cheek. It formed a ragged �X� with a hanging lock of hair. One of her white shoes was gone.

�Nancy, baby.� He held her closer and quickened his steps.

Between the shuddering sobs, she gasped hysterical phrases. �They � pulled me � into the car. I screamed � Steve, I screamed for you. I tried to fight � I tried � oh, Steve, I tried��

�There, baby, it�s okay. It�s okay now��

The soothing words caressed her, but Steve spoke them automatically; his thoughts were suddenly racing. The roadster. The hot-rod with fender guides and the Smitty mufflers. Dark-colored.

His arms tightened savagely about her as he stumbled up the porch stairs and into the house.

Fumbling in his haste and anxiety, Steve slipped off all that remained of her clothes. The sight of the purple bruise under one breast made him clench his teeth until they ached. Gently he helped her into bed. She was sobbing more quietly now, but horror lingered in her eyes. They followed him as he leaned over her, brushed her forehead with his lips and walked into the living room to call the doctor.

Returning, Steve sat on the edge of the bed and leaned close to his wife. Nancy closed her eyes and attempted a weak smile that turned to a grimace of pain when it reached the stiffening cut on her cheek.

�Darling.�

Steve�s voice was urgent.

�Listen; please try to think. What did they look like? How many were there? Did you catch any names? Please, sweetheart, I�ve � got to tell the police.�

At the forced memory, the racking sobs returned. Nancy turned her head away and fought silently, wearily to control them. Steve waited, gently stroking her dark hair. Only the broken moans, for minute after long minute. Finally they subsided, and she looked up at him.

�There were � three,� she whispered. �One had a little moustache. The others�� Pain flowed back into her eyes, and she shut them again, rocking her head violently from side to side on the pillow.

�I don�t know, I don�t know,� she sobbed.

�Think, Nan. Please, darling, think!� He gripped her hand. �Names. Did you hear them talk? Did they��

�Ed.� Her eyes flew open. �I heard one of them call another one Ed.� She sank back. �I don�t know which one.�

The front screen door clicked, and Nancy�s fingernails bit deep into Steve�s palm.

�It�s okay, baby,� he said. �It�s only the doctor.�

He rose, but Dr. Carlisle was already at the bedroom door. The elderly man flicked a keen glance over Steve�s face, then mustered a cheery greeting for the girl in the bed. Steve stepped forward, but the doctor motioned him to the other room.

A few minutes later the other man joined him.

�No serious injuries,� he said. �It�s a little early to tell, but I think the baby will be all right, too. I gave Nancy a sedative.�

Steve felt a wave of relief that failed to interrupt his thoughts.

�Thanks, doc.�

�You�ve called the police?�

Steve looked up quickly.

�No. No, there�s no use in them coming here. I think I found out all she knows. I�d rather go to them. Will you stay with her, doctor? I have to go. Now.�

For a long second, the older man studied Steve�s face. Then he nodded, slowly.

�Thanks, doc,� Steve said, softly. �Thanks very much.�

He walked into the bedroom and stood looking down at Nancy. She was asleep, breathing deeply, a faint color returning to her cheeks under the fresh white bandage. For several seconds he stood there. Then he picked up a jacket and strode rapidly through the house and out the front door, not glancing at Dr. Carlisle.

Outside, Steve stopped by his car and shook his head. He could still see the roadster as it had swept by in the darkness. How had it looked? He remembered a vague impression of redness as the street light glinted off the fender. It must have been dark red or maroon.

A town this size might have a dozen cars like that. But where would he start looking for it? Where would they go afterwards? Not home... no. They�d go somewhere to celebrate � maybe someplace a few miles out of town to drink and talk about what they had done. Big shots.

Steve opened the car door and slid behind the wheel. He could cover every likely place within fifteen miles before closing time.

It was nearly two hours later, at the fifth roadside night spot he�d visited, when he spotted the roadster. A maroon Ford was parked among a crowd of cars in the graveled parking lot.

Steve swung into the lot and backed his big sedan into the empty space beside the car. Then he pulled forward and backed up again at an angle. Shutting off his motor, he slid out and looked over the roadster.

Chrome-plated fender guides, with red plastic tops, jutted up from each front fender. Two highly-polished exhaust extensions projected from beneath the ornamented rear bumper. He glanced into the car.

A woman�s white shoe was jammed into the corner of the rear seat.

Steve stood motionless, his gaze fixed on the shoe. Slowly, he felt all of the nervous tension drain from him, to be replaced by an icy hate. He clenched his fist, then turned and headed for the neon-bordered door some fifty yards away.

The tavern was crowded, but Steve picked his way through the noisy, dimly-lit room and found an empty stool at the bar. He downed a double shot and ordered another. Not until it came did he allow himself to swing casually around and survey the room.

A dozen couples were dancing languidly through the blue haze that covered the tiny dance floor. In a corner of the room at his right, a juke box blared, barely penetrating the jumble of voices and laughter.

From the corner, his gaze moved slowly to the small booths, shadowed cubicles of false privacy, along the opposite wall.

A middle-aged man, leering at a chattering brunette as he stroked her hand across the table.

Two teenage couples, clowning.

A drunk mumbling soberly to an absent companion.

A man arguing intently with a girl who smiled brightly, but kept shaking her head.

An empty booth.

Three men talking earnestly, their heads close together over the table.

Steve forced his glance on past them and swung back around to the bar. His eyes found the booth again in the mirror behind the rows of bottles. He tossed off his drink without shifting his gaze, and set down the glass with a thump that drew a keen look from the bartender.

Slipping from the stool, Steve strolled along the edge of the dance floor. At the far corner he paused and fumbled in his pocket for a coin, which he fed into the juke box.

When he turned back to the floor, his hair was slightly rumpled and his mouth held the slack expression of a man not quite drunk. He strolled on, now along the row of booths.

Steve�s glance wandered aimlessly, now among the dancers, now along the booths. Occasionally he nodded and grinned at strangers who stared vacantly or grinned and nodded back.

A few yards from the booth he had marked, he paused and turned again to the dance floor. Hands thrust into his pockets, he stared with obvious approval at a couple glued passionately together, gliding through a beam of dim blue light. Then he resumed his stroll.

A few feet now. He fixed his eyes on an empty booth beyond the one in which the three men sat. His face lighted in surprised recognition and he lifted his hand in greeting.

�Ed!� he shouted gaily. �H�are ya, Ed?�

Without looking at them, Steve saw one of the men abruptly break off his low conversation and jerk his head upward. The broad face was topped with blond hair, trimmed short in a crew haircut. The other two also looked up. One had a small moustache. When the three saw the slightly tipsy man looking at someone beyond them, they turned back and picked up their conversation. Steve strode past them and out the door.

He was sitting in the car, smoking his second cigarette, when the trio came out. Quickly, he stubbed out the smoke, switched on the ignition and waited.

The three men were young, he noted absently, somewhere in their early twenties. At the same moment, and with a faint feeling of surprise, he realized he was probably no more than four or five years older. Yet the classification he had immediately assigned them stuck in his mind.

�Punks,� he thought contemptuously. �Young punks.�

He pressed the starter button and eased the automatic drive lever into reverse. The youths were less than a dozen yards from their car when he tramped down, hard, on the accelerator.

The car shot backward, and Steve felt the satisfying crunch of chrome and polished metal as his rear bumper smashed in the side of the roadster.

The three men halted an instant in stunned surprise, then ran toward him, shouting angrily. Steve threw the car into gear and showered them with gravel as he roared forward out of the parking lot.

In his rear-view mirror, Steve saw them scramble into the roadster with scarcely a pause to inspect the damage. The Ford�s headlights flared as it careened onto the highway behind him.

He smiled at them, almost tenderly, in the mirror and let his car slow a little. Ahead of him the gray highway stretched into the darkness beyond his headlights. Behind him the roadster�s lights grew rapidly. He speeded up.

The tight hate in his chest had disappeared. He felt relaxed, confident in his resolve and the smooth power beneath him. He looked at the gleaming dash and smiled. The speedometer needle quivered at 70.

He looked at the lights in the rearview mirror and almost laughed. �Not �til I�m ready,� he said. That hopped-up jalopy couldn�t catch him until he wanted it to. They might take him on a closed racetrack but not on an open highway that he knew like this one.

The needle passed the 75 mark.

�Now let�s use that extra 50 horses under the hood,� he murmured. The roadster was pulling ten years to his car�s one, and he knew he could keep ahead. The highway hummed by under the wheels and the headlights leaped eagerly at the darkness. The other lights kept their position behind.

The needle touched 80, then fell back as he braked slightly for a curve. All four tires screamed.

Behind him, the other car�s headlights gained ground, reflecting brighter in the mirror. The road was beginning to climb. He might take the curves faster, he thought, feeling almost gay. �But then I wouldn�t want my friends to get discouraged,� he said aloud.

He braked hard as a sharper curve leaped out of the darkness. The car lights swept momentarily over a black pit of nothing and again picked up the highway. The lights behind moved up closer, dropped back.

His headlights picked up a sign with an arrow pointing off to the left. It said, �To The Lake.� As it flashed past, he thought, �That�s where Nan caught her first fish.�

Abruptly he wished that he hadn�t remembered that, hadn�t thought of her name. The jocular, reckless mood of adventure was gone. For the first time since he had waited grimly in the car outside the tavern, he was conscious of the deadly purpose behind the wild pursuit.

A straight stretch was coming up soon � for a couple of miles. He eased the wheel expertly to the left and then to the right, and shrieking rubber responded to the curves.

He glanced at the mirror again. The headlights behind him tilted a little, righted, rocked the other way and righted again, each time moving closer.

The cars screamed around another bend, and the highway leaped straight ahead, rising in a slight, steady pull. A vertical wall of rock began to flash by in the left side of the headlights� glare, but on the right the shoulder of light gravel drew a sharp line between the paving and the blackness beyond.

�Got to gain it all here,� Steve murmured. The speedometer needle wavered at 80, moved slowly on to the glowing 90 on the dial. He flicked another glance at the mirror. The roadster had dropped back several hundred yards. He leaned forward, tensing.

�Not far now,� he thought. The other car had shrunk to a pair of glowing spots far behind. �Not far��

Then he saw it � the quick gleam of a reflector far ahead on the right. The first post of the guard rail. The glare of the warning sign. The road beginning its sharp curve to the left around the shoulder of the mountain.

He forced himself to hold down on the gas pedal. The rail hurtled past him and the lights in the mirror winked out behind the wall of rock. At the last possible instant he jerked his foot up and slammed down hard on the brake pedal.

The sudden deceleration threw him hard against the horn ring, but its blast was lost in the tortured shriek of rubber as he fought to keep the lurching car on the road. The cliff�s edge leaped at him beyond the white rail, moved away. He fought the wheel as the car skidded crazily toward the embankment and rocked back to the paving.

�Time it right � time it right,� he prayed. And then�

�Now!�

He jerked the wheel savagely to the left, and the car broadsided. For agonizing yards it skidded sideways, its locked wheels howling. Then it rocked upward, teetered and dropped to a halt across the highway.

The rapidly brightening glow of the roadster�s headlights was visible around the shoulder of the bend. For the space of a wink, the realization that the other car might smash straight into him flashed across Steve�s mind, and was swiftly rejected.

�Too yellow,� he said, and he knew, somehow, he was right. They�d try to make it between him and the guard rail, and � he glanced toward the flimsy fence � there wasn�t that much room.

He stared at the widening glow of the oncoming lights, the ribbed plastic of the steering wheel digging into the palms of his hands. Only seconds had passed since he�d slammed his car to a wild stop across the highway, but they seemed like hours.

Suddenly the roadster�s lights exploded around the curve and swerved to the far side of the road. The braked tires screamed as the roadster shot into the narrow space between the sedan and guard rail.

The rail broke with a crunch, and for a moment the lights hung in black emptiness, then plunged from sight. Steve heard a faint yell drift back, but this cut off sharply when the car crashed at the bottom of the cliff.

He let his breath go with relief and suddenly found he was trembling. He climbed out of the sedan and walked over to the side of the road. The feel of the ground under his feet steadied him.

At the edge he looked down at the roadster. Flames broke out as he watched, and in the rising light he could see three dark, crumpled figures.

One of them was twisted in the windshield and the other two lay motionless on the ground nearby.

He looked downward for a moment longer, and then turned and walked back to his car.

The train was too crowded to let her escape from the hands touching her. And then she didn�t want to escape...

She was shoved into the subway car at Grand Central.

It was July, and the passengers reeked of sweat and after-office beers. She wore a loose silk dress, buttoned high on the throat, and she wished for a moment that she had worn something lower cut. The overhead fans in the cars were going, but the air hung over the packed passengers like a damp, clinging blanket.

She was packed in tightly, with a stout woman standing next to her on her right, a tall thin man on her left, and a pair of broad shoulders in front of her, a tall girl and a little squat man behind her. The fat woman was wearing cheap perfume, and the aroma assailed her nostrils, caused her senses to revolt. The thin man on her left held a thinly folded copy of the New York Times. He sported a black mustache under his curving nose. The nose was buried in the newspaper, and she glanced at the paper and then took her eyes away from the headlines.

There was a slight movement behind her and she leaned forward. The broad shoulders in front of her shoved back indignantly. Whoever was behind her moved again, and she felt a kneecap pressing into the backs of her own knees.

She moved again, away from the pressure of the knee, and then she tried to look over her shoulder, turning slightly to her left. Her elbow brushed the Times, and the thin man lifted the paper gingerly, shook it as if it were crawling with ants, and then went back to his reading.

The kneecap was suddenly removed.

She thought: No, I didn�t mean you should...

She was suddenly aware of something warm touching the back of her leg. She almost leaped forward because the touch had surprised her with its abruptness. The silk dress was thin, and she wore no girdle. She felt the warmth spread until it formed the firm outline of fingers touching her flesh.

A tremor of excitement traveled the length of her body, spreading from the warmth on her leg. She moved again, and the stout woman shot her an angry glance, but the hand was taken from her leg.

The excitement in her ebbed.

She stood stock-still, wondering when it would start again. She almost didn�t breathe.

It looked as if there would be no more. She moved her leg impatiently, but the excitement that had flared within her was dead, and now she felt only the oppressive heat of the train. The car jogged along, and she cursed her foolishness in trying the subway to begin with. She thought of the thousands of girls who rode home every night, and then the heat overwhelmed her again, and she was sorry for herself once more.

The train rounded a curve, and she lost her balance. She lurched backward, felt the smooth, gentle hands close on her, then release her instantly as she righted herself.

The train pulled into 86th Street, and the door slid open. She was pushed onto the platform, and shoved past the man and woman who had been standing behind her in the train. The man was short and squat, and he wore a battered Panama. His hands were thin, with long fingers that clung innocently to the lapels of his suit. She looked at the tall girl, and the girl�s eyes met hers sympathetically. She smiled quickly, darting her eyes away, and the girl smiled. The debarking passengers rushed by her, and suddenly everyone on the platform was scrambling to get into the car again. She stepped in quickly, moving deliberately in front of the tall girl, and away from the man. He pushed into the car behind her, and she felt the girl shoved rudely against her, too. She heard the door close behind them, and she sucked in a deep breath as the heat descended again.

She knew what was going to happen, and she waited expectantly. The excitement was mounting in her again, and she found herself wishing desperately for the warmth. When it came she almost sighed aloud. The hands were gentle, as before, as she knew they had to be. They touched her, and then held tight. She shivered and the hands moved slowly, deliberately. For a moment there was sudden doubt in her mind, and then she put the doubt aside and thought only of the moving hands, the deliberate pressure of the hands...

They became more insistent, strangely so, strongly so. A perplexed frown creased her brow, and the doubt returned, and she was almost tempted to turn and look. But that was absurd... that was...

The hands continued, moving feverishly, and suddenly she realized there was wild strength in the fingers. She looked down in panic. This wasn�t... couldn�t be...

The hand was covered with hair. Long, slender fingers, with Chick masculine hair...

�I thought...� she murmured, and then she began screaming.

Malone only had two juvenile delinquents and some lady wrestlers on his hands � until he ran into the wandering corpse.

�Look here, Malone,� Maggie said, �just because you lost all your money on that all-night poker game, it doesn�t mean you have to take your bad temper out on me. You�ve got to see these two clients, now.�

�Go away.� the little lawyer said. �Today I wouldn�t sec the Emperor of Little America. And I didn�t lose all my money. I�ve got eight dollars and seventy cents. I know, I just counted it. Chase the clients away; I�m busy worrying.�

�What are you worrying about?�

John J. Malone said, �Can�t I just worry, without worrying about anything in particular?�

�Malone,� Maggie said, �you�ve got to see these two people.�

He reached for a cigar, looked up at her. Maggie could usually spot a prospective client with money three blocks away on a clear afternoon.

�I don�t think they have a dollar between them,� Maggie said. �But I think you�d better see them.� She added, �Their name is DiAngelo.�

Malone bounded up from behind his desk. �For the love of Pat and Mike, why didn�t you say so? What are you standing there for? Send them in.�

The two young men Maggie ushered into the office definitely didn�t look like profitable clients. They looked very much alike. Blue jeans, wind breakers. He got a few facts fast as they sat down on the couch. The one on the left was Eddie DiAngelo, age twenty. The one on the right was Frankie DiAngelo, age nineteen. They both looked scared.

Malone wondered if he ought to offer them a glass of wine. He did. They accepted it and said, �Thanks,� in unison.

�Mr. Malone,� Eddie said, �our Uncle Joe said you were the best lawyer in Chicago, maybe in the whole world. He said we should come to you.�

Malone lit his cigar and said, �Your uncle Joe is a very smart man.� Joe the Angel, owner and proprietor of Joe the Angel�s City Hall Bar. Friend, and occasional banker, to Malone. The least he could do for Joe the Angel�s nephews was to take the case for free. After all, eight dollars and seventy cents was a good stake for another poker game.

�We want you to defend us,� Eddie said.

�Speeding ticket?� Malone asked genially.

Eddie shook his smooth-haired head. �Uncle Joe explained to, us what the charges would be. Breaking and entering. Attempted robbery.�

The quiet-looking Frankie roused himself and added, �And murder.�

Malone held his breath for a good sixty seconds, put his cigar down in the ashtray and said, �Maybe you�d better tell me the whole story.�

�Well,� Eddie said, �it�s like this. Yesterday this babe��

�Lady,� Frankie said.

�All right, this lady came into Uncle Joe�s. She had a coupla drinks, and she asked Uncle Joe, does he know where she can hire a coupla husky young guys to do some moving for her. So Uncle Joe, he knows we can use some money, so he tells this babe � pardon me, I mean lady � yes, and he calls us up, and we come and talk to her in Uncle Joe�s back room.�

He paused, fumbled through his pockets, and fished out a cigarette that had been lit once before, carefully put out, and saved to be lit again. Malone rose to the rescue with the box on his desk.

�Thanks, Malone. Uncle Joe said we was to call you that, not Mister Malone. Anyway, we meet her. She�s a big babe��

�Lady,� Frankie said gloomily.

�She�s a big lady, and very pretty. She tells us this story. She�s got a husband, they�re separated. He is hanging onto the house, which is out in Maywood. He is also hanging onto ten thousand dollars in thousand-dollar bills, which rightfully belong to her. She gives us the address, and draws the layout of the house on a paper napkin. Here�s a window, on the side. The house is hid all around with bushes and stuff. She said, cut the screen on this window, it goes into the bedroom. You get there early, he�ll be asleep. But just to be safe, make sure he stays asleep.�

�Sap him, she said,� Frankie said.

�Well, just to keep him quiet while we search the house. Because the money�s supposed to be in a tin box in the book case. If it ain�t there, he may have hid it, and we better look. We better do this very early in the morning. So, we say yes. I borrow a car, we drive out. It�s a funny little house, a lot of trees and stuff around it. The guy paints pictures, or something.�

�Artist,� Frankie said.

�Well, we go in. Through the window. The bedroom is empty. That worries me a little. I had a sap with me, just in case. You know I mean. We went in through the bedroom, we walk into a big room, living room. I guess. All filled up with pictures. The guy is there, on the floor. Somebody else has hit him with a sap, too hard, I guess, and he�s dead.�

�What did you do?� Malone demanded.

�Do? What the babe � I mean, lady � told us to do. We looked for the money. It wasn�t there. We searched that whole place and didn�t find a dime. We even searched him. Then we got worried and we talked to Uncle Joe, and he said come talk to you, and here we are. Can we be arrested?�

�Not if I can prevent it.� Malone said. He pushed the buzzer and yelled. �Maggie! Get me Joe the Angel.�

Joe�s voice came over the phone sounding a little wistful. �Malone, can you��

�Yes, I can,� Malone said, �but can you get these two amateur criminals out of town so they won�t get in my way while I�m doing my job?�

There was a little silence on the far end of the line. Then Joe the Angel said, �My cousin in Milwaukee. They can stay there a few days. They can take the North-Shore Electric. You send them over here, I make all the arrangements, give them money. And you, Malone, you work.� He hung up.

�All right, boys,� Malone said. �You�re going to take a short vacation. Stop over at Uncle Joe�s. He has your tickets and money, and I don�t want to see you or hear from you until everything is all clear. Catch?�

�Catch,� Eddie and Frankie said in unison. They waved goodbye, and ducked.

Malone folded his arms on his desk, rested his head on them, and wished he had died in his cradle.

Maggie came in, snapped, �Malone!� looked at him, then walked around the desk, laid a gentle hand on his shoulder and said softly, �Malone!�

He looked up wearily. �I�ve decided to abandon the profession of law. I�ve decided to become a radio announcer. How do you like this?�

The little lawyer stood up, squared off, and went on in pear-shaped tones:

�Life � can be horrible. This program comes to you through the courtesy of the Spit �n Image Undertaking Parlors, whose thought for today is: you, too, may try our easy lay-away plan.� He looked at Maggie. �Not good, not bad?�

�Worse,� Maggie said. �This may cheer you a little.� She handed him an envelope.

Malone ripped it open. Two hundred-dollar hills fell out, and a note.

The note read:

�Retainer on my nephews� case. Your respectful friend, Joe the Angel.�

Malone grabbed the phone, dialed Joe the Angel�s number.

�Look here,� he said, �I can�t take money from you.�

�Since when?� Joe the Angel said, and hung up.

Malone sighed, tucked the money in his wallet, and told Maggie, �Now, I�ve got to produce.�

�Go back to worrying,� she said, and went out.

Malone put his head back on his arms and worried about how he�d lost that much in last night�s poker game, what he was going to do about the young DiAngelos, and where next month�s office rent was coming from. He was awakened from a dream of utter darkness by a discreet knock at the door.

�Malone,� Maggie whispered. �Another client, and it looks important, and for the love of heaven, comb your hair and straighten your tie.�

The little lawyer roused himself, scooted to the cupboard washbasin, and did the best he could. He was sitting behind his desk when Maggie ushered the woman in.

She was a king-sized Amazon, and beautiful. Malone stood up from behind his desk, and estimated her height at a little less than the Empire State Building. He took a second look and decided she was only about five foot eleven. Her hair was blonde, her face was lovely. Her clothes were definitely not from a department store basement.

�Mr. Malone,� she said, �I�m Nadine Sapphire.�

�A beautiful name,� the little lawyer said gallantly, �for a beautiful woman.�

She smiled, sat down, and became only half the size of the Empire State Building.

�I wish my husband had as beautiful a one,� she said. �His name is Jackson Kornblum. He�s an artist. I mean, he paints pictures, I suppose that makes him an artist. And he has ten thousand dollars that belong to me.� Malone felt a quickening down his spine. What had Eddie said? �A big lady, and very pretty.�

�Go on, my dear,� he said, and hoped his voice didn�t sound as hoarse as it felt.

�We�d quarrelled. We�d been quarreling a lot, but this was the finish. I�d brought the money home, in cash, that afternoon, and put it in a tin box on the bookcase, to take to the bank the next day. He wouldn�t let me touch it. He put me out of the house.�

Malone took another look at his client and decided Jackson Kornblum must be about the size and shape of Samson. He looked sympathetic. �You poor girl.�

�That was day before yesterday,� she said. �He won�t send me the money, and I don�t want to go out there alone. That�s why I came to you. I suppose I could take a policeman with me, but I think a lawyer would be better. After all, it�s my money. I earned it.�

�None of my business,� Malone said, �but how?�

She looked as though he should have known. �I�m a lady wrestler.�

Malone managed, with an almost superhuman effort, not to look surprised.

�Well, will you come with me?�

He rose and said, �What are we waiting for?�

Her car was waiting downstairs, and she drove it expertly. The little lawyer had a feeling she would do everything just as expertly.

The house was just as the young DiAngelos had described it, a small house, surrounded by trees and bushes, in that section where the city was about to become suburb. It was, Malone noted, still within the city limits. That meant the murder was in von Flanagan�s jurisdiction, which was good. Von Flanagan occasionally gave him a bad time, but suburban police were worse.

They walked up to the front door and she fumbled for her keys. Well, Malone told himself, this was as good a way as any to discover the body.

They went in. There wasn�t any body to discover. Malone blinked.

There wasn�t even an indication that a body had ever been there.

Maybe the DiAngelos had been mistaken. Maybe Jackson Kornblum had just been conked on the head hard enough to knock him cold, had come to, and walked away. But Malone didn�t think so. Young as they were, the DiAngelos would have been able to tell if a man were dead or not.

�He isn�t in,� Nadine Sapphire said in a tone of relief.

She looked through the house while Malone looked around the room. A big room, full of pictures. A hardly adequate description. The pictures made him shudder a little, even if he couldn�t tell what they were supposed to represent. He imagined Jackson Kornblum had painted them. Certainly he wouldn�t have bought them. No one in his right mind would have bought them.

�No, he isn�t here,� she said, coming back in the room.

She walked over to the bookcase, picked up the tin box and opened it.

�But the money is,� she said happily. She counted it. �It�s all here. Ten thousand-dollar bills.�

Malone�s mind was whirling like a merry-go-round. The DiAngelos had been telling the truth. The body had been here and the money gone. Now the body was gone, and the money was here.

Were the DiAngelos crazy, or was he?

His gaze caught a framed photograph on the bookcase, a thin-faced man with small eyes, set close together, and a small beard.

�Is this him?� he asked.

Nadine Sapphire nodded. �That�s him. The rat.� She stuffed the money in her purse. �Let�s be on our way.�

Halfway to the Loop she said, �You�ve been very kind. I suppose your fee should be ten percent.�

�Miss Sapphire,� Malone said. �You�ve taken up a very little of my time, on a morning when I had nothing to do anyway. I�ve had a very pleasant drive on a beautiful day. Let�s see � my fee has been paid.�

She shot a sharp glance at him.

�The pleasure,� he said, �of meeting a real lady wrestler. First time in my life.�

She laughed. �All right. Then let me send you tickets to the match tonight.�

�A deal,� Malone said.

Back in his office, he worried about the whole thing. Finally he called up Joe the Angel. The boys should be at their destination by now. He got the telephone number in Milwaukee and put a call through, and got Eddie on the wire.

Were they absolutely sure the man was dead? Were they absolutely sure the money was gone?

Eddie�s voice was hurt. �Mr. Malone, don�t you believe us? Naturally we�re sure.�

�Just wanted to double-check,� the little lawyer said soothingly.

�Is anything wrong?� Eddie asked anxiously.

�Not as far as you�re concerned,� Malone reassured him. He hung up.

Well, one hopeful theory was out. That Kornblum had hidden the money in a safer place. That someone had knocked him cold enough to make him look dead. That he�d come to, put the money back in the box, and gone out.

Everything would have been so easy if it had happened that way. The DiAngelos could have come back from Milwaukee, Nadine Sapphire would have her money and all he, Malone, would have had to do was forget the whole thing and go to the wrestling matches.

But it hadn�t worked out that way.

The phone rang and he picked it up with an inexplicable sense of apprehension.

�Malone? Rico DiAngelo. I want you to come over right away. I got a trouble.�

Another DiAngelo. Where did Rico, Joe�s cousin, the one who owned the undertaking parlor on North Avenue, fit into this tangle?

Malone said, �I�ll be right over.�

He paused in the outer office and said, �If any more DiAngelos get into this rat race, I�m going to Alaska.�

He took a cab to the ornate establishment and walked in. Rico was waiting for him, his usually cheerful face pale with anxiety.

�Malone,� he said without preliminary. �I got a body. A corpse.�

�Well,� the lawyer said with false cheerfulness, �I thought that was your business.�

�You don�t understand,� Rico said. �I don�t know how I got this body.�

�You�re damned right I don�t understand,� Malone said. He took out a cigar, started to unwrap it, and put it back in his pocket.

�Somebody, they break in my place last night,� Rico said. �I see it when I get here. I think, I been robbed. I don�t worry. No money here to steal. I look around and I find it. The body.�

He looked at Malone with a kind of helpless anguish. �Nothing stolen. Nothing missing. But somebody leave me a body.�

�Whose?� Malone asked savagely.

Rico shrugged his shoulders. �No clothes. No wallet. Nothing. Just a body. On the slab, covered with one of my sheets. What are we to do^?�

�First.� Malone said, �we�ll take a look at this body.�

He had a horrible premonition that was turning his stomach into what felt like an ice-cube tray.

Rico led him into the back room, where a sheeted form lay on the slab. �There it is,� Rico said. He pulled back the sheet.

The premonition had been right. A thin face, eves too close together, a soft little brown beard.

�Whose was it. Malone?� Rico whispered. �Where did it come from and how did it get here?� He sighed noisily. �I run a nice little business here. I never get in no trouble. Malone, what do I do now?�

Malone was silent for a moment. Again he reached for the cigar, again he put it back.

�I know whose body it is, and I know where it came from. I don�t know how it got here, but I know what we�re going to do. We�re going to break out your hearse and we�re going to put it back where it came from.�

�Malone.� Rico said, �you are my friend. Any time you want flowers free, to give to one of your girls��

�Forget it,� Malone said. He went back into the front room. He saw that there was an ashtray, unobtrusive, but nevertheless an ashtray, and decided it was not against etiquette to light the cigar. He could hear Rico talking in rapid Italian to his assistant, he could hear sounds of movement.

At last Rico came to the door and said. �All packed. Let�s go.�

Malone followed him out to the alley and slid into the front seat of the ambulance.

�I think this better than the hearse,� Rico said. �Not so much noticed.� He stepped on the gas. �George, he is in back with the patient.� He grinned.

Malone gave him the address and said, �Let�s not use the siren. Also because we�ll be not so much noticed.�

He tried to think things out. Anyway he looked at it, it added up to one of those mathematical problems that could only be solved by a wall-wide electric machine with two thousand push buttons.

Jackson Kornblum had been a smallish man. (Malone suddenly remembered Nadine Sapphire saying, �He put me out of the house.� The little lawyer wondered just how he�d done it.) But even so, it would have taken a fairly strong person to carry him out of the house, probably into a car, and then carry him into Rico DiAngelo�s undertaking parlor. A reasonably husky man could have done it. Or a lady wrestler.

But she�d seemed genuinely surprised when the body was missing.

Had she killed him? She had the strength to crack a man�s skull, which was what had happened to Kornblum. Had she killed him, and arranged an elaborate shenanigan with him to go out to the house, so that she would have a witness � a lawyer � present when the body was discovered?

Had it happened that way, and had someone else moved him to Rico�s? Why? And who had put the money back in the tin box, and where had it been in the meantime?

And where were Jackson Kornblum�s clothes? Had they been taken off to avoid identification? But in that case, why bother to break into an undertaking parlor and leave the body there? Why not just dump it in a ditch somewhere?

Finally, why had Kornblum been killed? Malone sighed loudly.

Rico said anxiously, �I go too fast for you, yes?�

�You don�t go too fast for me, no,� Malone said.

Fortunately, the Kornblum house was in a sparsely settled section. No one seemed to notice the ambulance as it pulled up through the trees and stopped by the front door. Malone got out and tried to remember how the young DiAngelos had broken in. The bedroom window. He walked around the house, found the window with the cut screen, and crawled in. The pictures leered at him as he walked through the living room; he tried to avoid looking at them.

He opened the front door. Rico and his assistant carried in the late Mr. Kornblum.

�Here,� Malone said. �On the floor.�

Rico frowned and looked a little shocked. �Not on the bed?�

Malone shook his head. �The floor.�

Rico shrugged his shoulders and obeyed.

�We�re taking the sheet back with us,� the lawyer said.

Rico picked up the sheet, folded it. �He doesn�t have no clothes on.�

�He�s not going to get cold,� Malone said grimly. �Let�s get out of here before somebody drives by and wonders what an ambulance is doing parked in the front yard.�

As they neared downtown, Rico said, �I drive you to your office.�

�Not in this you won�t,� Malone said hastily. �I too have my social standing. Just drop me where I can get a taxi. And forget all this ever happened.�

Rico sighed. �Maybe I lose a good customer.�

�Maybe we�ll get him back for you,� Malone told him.

The tickets were in an envelope on his desk when he reached the office. He looked at them thoughtfully. An idea, not much of a one, but something, was beginning to form in his mind. He picked up the phone and called the Milwaukee number.

�Eddie,� he said, �it�s okay to come back. And come back right away. I think you can give me some help.�

He hung up and called Maggie in.

�Get two more of these,� he said, waving the tickets at her. �I�m treating some young friends to the matches tonight. And then�� He fished for the paper on which he�d written the address of the Kornblum house, found it, and handed it to her. �Find out what precinct this is in. Call that precinct, report a body at this address, and hang up fast. Then get hold of Charlie Stein for me and tell him to get over here, also fast.� He wasn�t sure if he was accomplishing anything, but at least he wasn�t losing ground.

It was less than half an hour before Charlie Stein arrived. He was a dapper little man with a waxed moustache, who was a one-man Dun and Bradstreet � except that he worked faster. For the most part his customers were bookies and proprietors of gambling houses, who wanted to know how far their clients� credit could be trusted. Malone never had figured how he could get his information, but he could ferret out the finest details, and, when necessary, in a hurry.

�H�ya, boy,� he greeted Malone. �Got a drink in the house?�

Malone opened the filing drawer marked �Emergency� and pulled out the bottle of gin and two glasses.

Charlie toasted him silently, then said, �What can I do for you, boy?�

�Find out everything about a guy named Jackson Kornblum. Bank accounts, insurance, the works.�

�Can do,� Charlie said. �How soon?�

�I�d like it in ten minutes,� Malone said, �but � well, as fast as you can make it.�

�Fast it is,� Charlie said. He tossed off the rest of the gin. �See you this afternoon.� He flicked an imaginary speck of dust from the carnation in his lapel.

Malone slipped him one of the two hundred-dollar bills he�d received from Joe the Angel.

�Thank you, boy,� he said, and was off.

An idea was beginning to form slowly in Malone�s mind. So far it hadn�t taken any definite shape nor form � it was like jello that still had to be poured in the mold � but it was there.

He picked up the phone and called von Flanagan, at Homicide.

Von Flanagan wasn�t in. Malone identified himself, swore it was a matter of vital importance, and asked where he could reach the Captain. After a few minutes� wait he was given an address he immediately recognized as that of the Kornblum house.

Well, there was nothing to do until Charlie Stein came back, and a little refreshment and human companionship might help the idea to jell.

He paused in the outer office. Maggie said, �The tickets arrived by messenger. And since when have you taken up wrestling?�

�Not wrestling,� the little lawyer told her, �wrestlers. There�s a distinction. I�m going out on business, and I�ll be back in an hour.�

She sniffed. �If anything important comes up, I�ll call you at Joe the Angel�s.�

It was not the first, nor even the hundredth time that Malone had sought Joe the Angel�s City Hall Bar as a refuge from troubles and a place to compose his thoughts. He slid onto a stool at the far end of the bar, waved at Joe, and said, �Rye.�

Joe slid it in front of him, and as Malone reached for his wallet, held up a protesting hand.

�Today, on the house.�

�Thanks,� Malone said. He downed his drink, reached for his beer chaser. �I phoned the boys that they can come back from Milwaukee.�

�They�re all okay?� Joe the Angel said happily, refilling the glass.

�All okay,� Malone told him.

For an anxious moment he thought Joe the Angel was going to kiss him, in front of a janitor from City Hall, a Tribune reporter, and assorted patrons. He protected himself by getting the second drink down fast. His glass had hardly touched the bar before Joe the Angel filled it again.

�You know what happen, Malone?�

�Not quite.� Malone said, �but I will.� He hoped he was telling the truth. �I just know they�ll be in the clear.�

Joe the Angel turned to the City Hall janitor and said, �This Malone, he�s smart like a judge.�

�This gal who hired the boys,� Malone said casually. �You ever see her before?�

Joe nodded. �She come in now and then, have one small drink wine, say goodnight, go out again.�

�Any idea who she is?�

Joe shook his head. �Me, I don�t ask my customers their names. I know now who she is, I think. The boys tell me when they come in this morning, she married to that fella got killed. I don�t know his name, I don�t know her name.�

His tone indicated that he would just as soon not know, that he was through with the whole matter. He shoved the bottle of rye in front of Malone, said, �Help yourself,� and went away to wait on a new customer.

Malone sat brooding. The idea was beginning to jell a little, but not much.

He�d been thinking that sending the two young DiAngelos out to the Kornblum house on what turned out to be a fool�s errand had been intended as a coverup for murder. He decided now that didn�t make sense. If the plan had been to have the DiAngelos caught with the corpse, there would have been some arrangement to catch them. This way, no one could prove they had ever been near the place.

No, there had to be some other reason. The boys had been sent on a genuine errand. But someone else had gotten there ahead of them, and done exactly what they had been supposed to do � except that they were only supposed to knock Jack-son Kornblum cold, and the someone else had struck with intent to kill.

Had it just happened that way?

No, that would be asking the long arm of coincidence to bend its elbow a little too much.

There was still the matter of the late Mr. Kornblum�s unexpected appearance in Rico DiAngelo�s Undertaking Parlor, and the reappearance of the ten thousand dollars.

�I�ll think of something,� the little lawyer said out loud.

�You always think of something, Malone,� Joe the Angel said admiringly.

�Let�s hope this doesn�t prove to be the exception that proves the rule,� Malone said. He looked at his watch. Time for Charlie Stein to be getting back. He took a fourth drink, waved goodbye to Joe the Angel, and headed back to the office.

It wasn�t long before Charlie Stein arrived.

�Easy job, boy, easy job. I ought to give you half your money back.�

Malone grinned. �That would be the day! What�s the answer or answers?�

�This guy Kornblum, he acts poor and he lives poor. Well, not poor exactly, boy, but not rich. He thinks he�s an artist; he�s... he�s��

�Eccentric?� Malone said.

�That�s the word, boy. He owns his house. He also owns about half a million bucks worth of stocks and bonds. But he keeps it a secret, and he makes his wife go out and earn her own living and most of his. Anything else you want to know?�

Malone shook his head. �You�re a genius at finding out stuff, Charlie.�

Charlie Stein smiled modestly. �I have my sources. See you, boy.�

Malone thought for a moment, picked up the phone and called von Flanagan again. This time the police officer was in his office.

�Malone,� he roared over the phone, �I got your message but I�ve been busy. Funny murder case. Tell you about it sometime.�

�Do that,� Malone said pleasantly.

�Says it�s a matter of vital importance. What�s up, Malone?�

�I�ve got two tickets to the wrestling matches tonight,� Malone said, �and I wanted to invite you to go with me.�

There was a moment�s silence, then a burst of profanity from von Flanagan shook the receiver.

�Vital importance! Wrestling matches! And I�m a busy man!� There was another silence, and then, in a milder tone, �That�s very nice of you, Malone. I think I can make it. When and where?�

�Meet you at Joe the Angel�s at seven-thirty,� Malone said. �I�ve never seen lady wrestlers in action, and I think I�ll need to build up my strength.�

The idea still hadn�t jelled.

It was still formless when the two young DiAngelos came in. They looked considerably more cheerful than when he had seen them last.

�You find out who killed him, Mr. Malone?� Eddie asked excitedly.

�Not yet,� Malone said, with confidence he hoped wasn�t false. �But you don�t need to worry. No one saw you go there. No one saw you there. No one saw you leave. So just relax, and don�t do it again.�

They grinned at him silently.

He picked up the tickets Maggie had gotten for him and handed them over. �I�d like you to come and watch the matches tonight.�

�Gee!� Frankie said.

�That�s swell!� Eddie said.

They said, �Thanks!� in unison.

Malone said, very casually. �I�d like to have a word with you outside after it�s over. Oh now, don�t look worried. There�s no trouble involved. You just may be able to do me a favor, that�s all.�

�Gee, sure,� Frankie said.

�Any time, Mr. Malone,� Eddie said.

They grinned at him again from the door by way of goodbye.

Two drinks past seven-thirty, von Flanagan began to get confidential about his day�s work.

�Everybody goes out of his way to make things hard for me,� the big red-faced police officer said. It was a familiar complaint, but Malone listened. �A nice, clean, straight killing I can understand. But something like this, it just makes a lot of unnecessary work for the police department.�

He went on to tell about the nude body of a murdered artist found in a secluded house, on a tip given from some unknown source.

Malone silently thanked the Unknown Source, and wished he could raise her salary. That reminded him of an unpleasant fact: in a feeling of warm goodwill he�d paid up half the office rent, paid Maggie part of her salary, and from his remaining one hundred dollars, had only a little over eleven left. Maybe Joe the Angel � no, this was not the time.

Von Flanagan was still going into details, and Malone paid polite attention, reflecting that he was still two steps ahead of the Homicide Captain.

The Captain finished his third drink and said, �Can�t figure out what happened to his clothes. Let�s go, Malone. Always wanted to see a lady wrestler.�

On their way, Malone wondered about sending flowers to her � he supposed they would call it �dressing room�. There was a florist where he still had credit. What kind of flowers? Tiger lilies might be appropriate. Or may be it wasn�t etiquette to send flowers to a lady wrestler. He decided against it.

When she appeared in the ring, she seemed even bigger and prettier than she had in his office. She wore what looked to him like a tight-fitting bathing suit, in a restrained shade of red. Her blonde hair was pinned around her head in braids.

The crowd cheered for, �Nadine!�

Her opponent stepped into the ring. She was just as big, and just as pretty, but her suit was a bright green, and her hair was just a bit on the reddish side.

The crowd sent up a cheer for, �Daphne!�

It was, Malone had to admit, a performance. He was not a ballet fan himself, preferring a good chorus line, but under duress he had attended a few. This was as close to ballet as he had ever seen. A combination of ballet and sheer mayhem. He watched, fascinated.

Once or twice he heard von Flanagan murmur a discreet, �Wow!�

Malone pulled his notebook from his pocket, scribbled a quick note: �Will you have supper with me? Malone.� He grabbed an usher, handed him the note and a dollar bill. That brought the bankroll down to ten.

When it was over, and Nadine had been pronounced the winner, he led a dazed-eyed von Flanagan down to the street. He stood there for a moment in the milling crowds, looking around. At last he spotted the two of them.

�Wait here,� he told von Flanagan, and shoved through the crowd to the two young DiAngelos.

�That�s her, all right,� Eddie said excitedly. �The one in the green suit.�

�Wait a minute,� Malone said. �Green suit?�

�Green,� Frankie said.

�Sure you�re not color-blind?� Malone demanded.

�Green suit,� Eddie said, �and sort of reddish hair. I�d know her anyplace. And Malone, she should of won that match.�

�How about the other babe?� Malone asked.

�Lady,� Frankie muttered.

�Never saw her before,� Eddie said.

Malone said, �Well, thanks, kids, and don�t worry any more. Hope you enjoyed the show.� He went back to von Flanagan and said, �C�mon, let�s take a lady wrestler out to supper.�

Yon Flanagan�s eyes brightened. He said, �Are you kidding?�

�Who,� Malone said, �me? Where do you think I got the tickets?�

She was waiting for them, superbly dressed and made up, and � so was Daphne. �I hope you don�t mind if I bring a friend along.� She introduced Daphne.

�I hope you don�t mind if I do,� Malone said. He introduced von Flanagan.

Nadine, it seemed, had her car. They took off for a restaurant on the near North Side. Malone fingered the remaining ten dollar bill, and hoped for the best. Lady wrestlers probably ate like horses.

Daphne ordered a bowl of clear soup and a small glass of domestic wine.

Nadine ordered a bowl of cornflakes and a glass of skim milk.

�Got to keep our weight down,� Daphne explained. She not only looked big, and pretty, she also looked charming and smart.

�Next match, Pittsburg,� Nadine said, �and Daphne is the winner.�

�We take turns,� Daphne added.

�From looking at you in the ring,� von Flanagan said, �I�d never of thought you were the best of friends.�

�Little do you know,� Nadine said. �In fact I�ve been staying with Daphne since my husband threw me out.� Suddenly she shut up fast.

Malone looked at her and decided to pitch an inside curve. He hoped she wouldn�t pitch the bowl of cornflakes. The idea in his mind had not only jelled now, it had whipped cream and a strawberry on it.

�Miss Sapphire,� he said in a light voice, �what time last night did you decide to murder your husband � Jackson Kornblum?�

Across the table he could see von Flanagan sober up as though someone had poured oxygen into him.

�It was�� She caught herself. �Why, you stinking��

Malone ducked the bowl of cornflakes.

�My dear girl,� he said, �nothing�s going to happen to you, because I�m your lawyer. Now both of you listen to me � and you too, von Flanagan.� He turned to Daphne. �You�re a good friend of Nadine Sapphire. You knew she�d had trouble with her husband, that he was holding on to ten grand that belonged to her. Am I right?�

�Right so far,� Daphne murmured. She had a soft gentle voice.

�You had the bright idea of sending a couple of young punks out to collect that ten grand, even if they had to sap Kornblum � not too hard � to collect it. Right again?�

�Go to the head of the class,� Daphne said.

Malone said, �I�m just making this up as I go along, but I know it�s right, and it has to check. You used to drop in at Joe the Angel�s for an occasional glass of wine. It occurred to you he might get you some fast hired help, and he did. You briefed the kids, and went back to your apartment. You told Nadine what you�d done. But Nadine got to brooding. She didn�t trust your hired help. And maybe she�d found out that with Jackson Kornblum dead, she�d inherit half a million bucks, cash money.� He turned his head. �Am I right, Nadine?�

She called him a very unpleasant name.

�Say that again,� the little lawyer told her, �and I won�t take your case.�

Von Flanagan said �Malone, what gives?�

�You missed the opening of the picture,� Malone said, �but I�m giving you the ending of it. The least you can do, with my cleaning up your case for you, is to buy us a drink.�

Von Flanagan waved to the waiter and gave the order. Two double ryes with beer chasers, one glass of milk, one plain seltzer water.

�Nadine,� Malone said, �drove out to the house, went in through the window, sapped her husband, picked up the money, and came back to your apartment, Daphne. She told you what she�d done, and you knew what a fool she�d been. Daphne, there have been times in my life when I�ve wished I had a friend like you. You took Nadine�s car-keys, and the money. You drove up to the house, got in, put the money back in the tin box, and decided to dispose of the body.�

Von Flanagan said hoarsely �Malone, is any of this probable truth?�

Malone hoped it was, and didn�t answer. He smiled at Daphne and went on talking. �Why did you pick Rico DiAngelo�s undertaking parlor?�

She smiled at him. Malone decided he liked Daphne. �The name DiAngelo stuck in my mind. I was going through the undertaking parlors in the classified, and I saw DiAngelo. I stuck the little jerk�s body in the back of the car, broke into the place, and parked him on the slab.�

�His clothes?� Malone asked.

�They�re at the bottom of the drainage canal. I thought it might help if he weren�t identified too soon. And the logical place to hide a body is in an undertaking parlor. I hope it didn�t make Mr. DiAngelo too much trouble.�

�It didn�t,� Malone assured her. Suddenly he felt very tired. �Nadine, did you know your husband had about half a million dollars you would inherit?�

�I�� She shut up fast and reached for the sugar bowl.

�Don�t throw it,� Malone advised her, �it�s against the law. And you�re talking to your lawyer now.� He reached across the table and patted her hand. �Don�t worry, my dear, I�ve never lost a client yet.�

She relaxed a little. Her eyes smiled at him, just slightly. �I didn�t mean to kill him. I just wanted to get my ten thousand dollars back. I guess I hit him a little too hard.�

�You don�t know your own strength,� Malone said in a sympathetic voice.

�Just like you said, I told Daphne. I went to sleep. She came back and told me not to worry, but she�d gotten your name from Mr. Joe DiAngelo. I thought it would be smart if you went out with me and helped discover the body. I thought it would be there, and the money gone, and I could blame it on these two young punks. But there was no body, and the money was there.�

Von Flanagan cleared his throat, drank half a glass of water, and said, �Miss Sapphire, I�m sorry, but you�re under arrest. I�ll have to take you with me.�

�Charge?� Malone asked.

�Murder,� von Flanagan said. �She�ll sign a confession.�

�She�ll sign nothing,� Malone said. �I�m her lawyer, and if there�s any pushing around done, I�ll tell your mother-in-law about that night in the dice house in Wheaton��

�You�ll be treated kindly,� von Flanagan told Nadine, �and you can see your lawyer first thing in the morning.� He turned to Malone. �How did you know all this?�

�I didn�t,� Malone said. �I just guessed.�

Two minutes later Daphne waved at the waiter, ordered a drink for Malone, and a seltzer for herself. She said, �You�re really going to defend Nadine?� Malone nodded.

�You probably need a retainer. She left money with me � in case anything like this happened.� She opened her purse. There were the ten thousand-dollar bills. �Don�t worry, they�re safe with me.� She slipped one of them into his hand. �Can you get her off?�

Malone looked at her, at the thousand-dollar bill. He found a slip of paper and a pen in his pocket, and wrote her a receipt.

�I never lost a client yet,� he told her, gazing at her. There was a certain fascination about Daphne.

�Tomorrow night,� she said, �at Joe the Angel�s, at eight. I want to know how things worked out.� Her eyes swam at him. �And, meantime��

Two hours before dawn he dropped in at Joe the Angel�s, ordered a fast rye and beer, and laid a thousand-dollar bill on the counter.

�No change,� Joe said.

�Okay, I owe you,� Malone said.

Joe stuck the bill in the cash register and said, �You get your change in the morning.� He poured out the rye and beer. �What are you singing about?�

Malone looked up at him happily. �Life � can be wonderful. This program comes to you through the courtesy of the Sunshine Florists, whose cheerful thought for this morning is: tomorrow will be another day.�

�A man your age,� the girls said, as if Charlie were too old to care any more. Only Charlie knew the truth that was hidden in.

Old Charlie Stevens had just finished trucking the last of the big cartons out to the loading platform, and now he sat on his shipping table, turning a stub of black marking crayon over and over in his short, spatulate fingers and watching Lois Anderson adjust the seams of her stockings.

A girl should wear a garter belt instead of round garters, he reflected, and then her seams wouldn�t always be twisting around. Still... round garters, if a girl wore them up as high on her legs as Lois wore them, looked a damn sight prettier; you had to give them that.

Lois glanced up at him through her lashes, and smiled. �Shame, Charlie,� she laughed. �A man your age.�

He grinned at her, and looked away, and felt the crayon break between his fingers. She didn�t think of him as a man at all, he knew. She made the same mistake all the rest of them did, the mistake he wanted them to make; she thought he was too old to notice a girl�s legs. Or anything else.

Too old to notice, and too old to do anything about it even if he did.

He stared hard at the calendar over the zoning chart, trying to keep the amusement out of his eyes. She wouldn�t have her skirt hiked up like that if she knew about the scrapbook, he thought. He took out his handkerchief and wiped his silver-rimmed glasses, and then ran the handkerchief back across his bald head and mopped at the wrinkled, sagging flesh back of his neck.

Lois smoothed her skirt down and came over to lean against the edge of the shipping table. �You got a cigarette, Charlie?� she asked.

He gave her a cigarette, and lit it for her, watching the way she sucked the smoke deep into her lungs.

�I don�t know how you do it,� Lois said.

�Do what?�

�All those heavy boxes.� She shook her head. �I mean... well, a man your age, and all.�

�Sixty-one isn�t so old,� Charlie said. �And besides, handling weight is more knowing how than muscle. You sort of let the weight work for you.�

�Well,� she said, �anyhow, your vacation starts tomorrow, doesn�t it?�

He nodded. She didn�t believe he was only sixty-one, he knew.

�We�ll miss you while you�re gone,� she said. �Everyone around here likes you a lot, Charlie.�

He didn�t say anything. He knew they liked him at Morton�s. Everybody from Mr. Morton himself right on down the line liked him. Next to Mr. Morton, he�d been here longer, and worked harder, than anybody else. And each year, at vacation time, Mr. Morton had come back to the shipping department to tell him to enjoy himself, and to give him an envelope with a fifty-dollar vacation bonus.

Lois dropped her cigarette to the floor and ground it out with her heel. �Got to get back,� she said. �The ladies� room is always jammed up at quitting time, and that�s why I had to come back here to��

�Sure,� Charlie said. He wondered what Lois� pretty face would look like if he were to take her to his furnished room on West Seventy-third Street and show her the scrapbook. She looked a little like that girl in St. Louis. Let�s see... that was back in �47. Her name had been Diane Benton, and he could remember exactly how she had looked when he killed her, and how the picture on the front page of the St. Louis Post-Dispatch had been blown up from an amateur snapshot, so that you couldn�t really tell how pretty she was. But there�d been a better picture of her the next day, and that was the one he�d put in his scrapbook.

�Have fun on your vacation, Charlie.� Lois said. She smiled at him. �And don�t give the girls too bad a time.� She moved off toward the door that led to the front office.

He watched the lithe swing of her hips until the door closed behind her. Then he slid off the shipping table and went over to his locker to change into his street clothes. A real pretty girl, he thought. She did look like that girl in St. Louis, all right, but she walked like the one in Baltimore. A girl didn�t have to roll her hips that way, and if she did she was really asking for it. But with Lois it was force of habit; she wouldn�t waste the motion on him.

He�d just finished knotting his tie when lack Morton came through the door and strode toward him. He nodded and said, �Hello, Mr. Morton.�

�Mr. Morton, hell! It�s Jack, goddam it! Can�t you ever remember, you old�� He broke off, and laughed, and slapped Charlie on the shoulder. �Well, you all ready?�

�Just about.� Charlie said.

�Good,� Morton said. He reached into his inside coat pocket and handed Charlie an envelope. �Just got a minute. Charlie, to tell you to have fun.� He winked. �I figured you could use a little extra liquor money.�

�Thanks,� Charlie said.

Morton glanced at his watch. �Forget about this place,� he said. �Just concentrate on having a good time. Okay?�

�All right.� Charlie said.

Morton slapped him on the shoulder again and hurried back the way he had come.

Charlie turned and picked up his lunch bucket and walked the length of the shipping room to punch the time clock that was reserved for himself and the porter.

Forty-five minutes later, Charlie closed the door of his third-floor room behind him, and locked it, and went directly to the closet where he kept his heavy, brass-bound trunk. He dragged the trunk to the middle of the floor, found his key, and knelt down beside it. The padlock in the hasp was nearly as large as his palm, and it was the most expensive he had been able to find. He unlocked it, lifted the tray from the top of the trunk, and reached down beneath a layer of smaller books for his scrapbook.

It was an unusually large book, large enough to hold entire newspaper pages without folding them. He sat cross-legged on the floor, opened the book, and stared at the beautiful girl looking back at him from the front page of the Buffalo Courier-Express.

Elaine Bishop had been the first, and one of the youngest. Seventeen. The newspaper had yellowed in the eight years since he�d killed Elaine, but he needed no newspaper photograph to remember how lovely she had been. And the words in the long account of what the Courier-Express called �...the most brutal sex murder in the history of New England� were as clearly imprinted on his mind as they were in the newspaper columns.

He could remember every detail of Elaine Bishop�s murder, and of the seven others that had followed it, as vividly as he could remember his trip home on the Seventh Avenue subway this evening.

He thumbed through the scrapbook slowly and lovingly. Eight of them, he thought. And every one of them a real beauty. One of them for every vacation he�d taken in the last eight years, and no two of them from the same city. He�d spent that first real vacation in Boston, and in the years that followed he had gone to St. Louis and Baltimore and Richmond and Philadelphia and Cleveland and Pittsburgh and Miami. Eight beautiful young girls in eight years, and never a single hitch. Two of the girls had succeeded in clawing him a little, before he killed them, and that girl in Richmond � that Gloria Roberts � had kneed him pretty bad; but that was all.

He�d always been able to come back to New York feeling like another man, ready to start planning and saving for the vacation next year. And along with his savings and plans, his anticipation had always mounted steadily until, when vacation time finally came, the urgent need to rape and kill had become the only thing in his mind. Between vacations, he talked to only the girls at Morton�s.

It had been wonderful to come back to his job and listen to what everybody said about the horrible out-of-town sex crimes. He�d always gotten such a kick out of shaking his head sadly with the best of them, and muttering about what he�d like to do with such a fiend � if he were a younger man, of course.

He glanced at the alarm clock on the dresser. He�d better get started, he thought. He didn�t want to get to Washington, D.C. too late...