Earl went right on not saying anything. He swung the Lincoln into the dead end on First Street across from the squat grey mass of the Seaman�s Union, and parked facing out towards Harrison with dimmed lights.

�What�s the handle, kid?� he asked.

�Rick. I told you, you got the wrong guy.�

�Make it easy on yourself, kid. Tell us about Kiely.�

�I never even heard of him.� I was sweating by then.

On the corner was a dive with a red neon sign above the door. Two guys came out, glanced incuriously at the Lincoln, and angled across Harrison. I didn�t move. Beside me Emmy made wet noises on the end of his cigar like a baby with a new bottle.

�We knew he was in town.� Earl�s voice sounded detached, as if he was trying to remember the last man he�d gunned down. �Tonight we spotted him talking with you on Third, but we lost him.�

�Then we make you again comin� outta the flics,� put in Emmy.

�Hell,� I said, remembering. �Was that Kiely? He�s just a juice-head, bummed me for a buck.�

�Did he say where he lived?�

After a second I said in a steady voice, �No � nothing. Not even thanks.�

Earl began to drum on the steering wheel with his fingers. Then, abruptly, �Okay, kid, I guess you�re straight. Emmy, let him out.�

As I slid out, Emmy shoved his face close to mine. With his saggy jowls and droopy outer eye-lids, he resembled a well-fed bloodhound.

�Right down Harrison without trying to look-see the license plates, boyfriend.�

�Can the musical comedy act and get to hell in here,� snapped Earl.

I told him thanks and he laughed and I walked down Harrison feeling like a tin duck in a shooting gallery with his pulley broken, even though I knew it was silly. No one shot at me. After half a block I stopped to light a cigarette: the Lincoln was out of sight. Cupping the match my hands shook, but not nearly as much as Keily�s would have shaken.

Abe left the apartment. There was something he could do. He could destroy the pawn tickets. He could throw the gun into the river from the railroad crossing. They�d never find it. He could do this. Or he could tell the police and try to convince them that Danny wasn�t the kind of boy who would kill.

Abe reached the store. He went inside and sat at his desk. No... he was not a lawyer. He could argue over a radio or a set of golf clubs, but not a life. His tongue would turn thick and the words would stick in his throat.

Abe opened the drawer and removed the revolver. He glanced at the photograph of his wife, the one made just before the fall that took her away. And his unborn son.

He spoke to the photograph. �Tell me what to do, Celia.� He slipped the gun into his pocket.

Abe believed that Danny had told the truth. He could not sacrifice him to a fate tied together by such terrible circumstances. Abe started for the door.

�Twenty-seven dollars,� Danny had said. �I�ll go twenty-seven dollars.� And he had made a profit of nineteen dollars. How well he had played their little game this last time. Abe halted abruptly at the door. Perhaps the police would think about that. Danny was a smart boy. Surely the police would know that Danny would not openly sell a gun which he had used to kill an officer. Was that proof? Wouldn�t they say that this made it obvious that Danny was innocent?

No. Maybe they would not say this. Maybe they would say that Danny was very smart. That Danny sold goods to Abe Cohen at the pawn shop nearly every week. They would say that Danny would go ahead and sell the gun because when the gun was found, everybody would say that Danny would have been too smart to sell a gun that had killed a policeman. Yes... perhaps they would say this. Then they would ask Danny where he had been last night. What could Danny tell them?

He couldn�t prove he had been to the theatre. Sure, he could tell them all about the picture, but they would say that he had seen it some other time. He had no ticket stub to show them. He could not say he had bought the ticket from the pretty girl in the box, because she would not remember. Everybody knew Danny Hancock down on this street. The girl would have remembered.

Abe plodded along the sidewalk, aware of the weight in his pocket. It was very, very heavy. He walked toward the river. He came to the marquee of the Strand Theatre.

Abe paused at the entrance. He looked at the pretty dark-haired girl in the ticket booth. Her face was very bright, happy. Dark eyes. Full lovely lips painted gaily. A pretty smile.

�Hello,� Abe said, bending his head, looking over his glasses.

�Hello, Mr. Cohen,� she said.

�What is your name?� Abe asked.

�Nancy James,� she answered. �Why?�

�Do you know Danny Hancock?�

An expression passed over her face at that moment. But it was too brief, too subtle for the eyes of a tired old man.

�Yes. I know Danny.�

�Tell me. Did he come to the movie last night?�

The girl answered quickly. �No, he did not.� Her voice left no doubt.

�I see,� Abe nodded. �You are sure.�

The girl repeated, studying him.

�Very well. That�s too bad. It is very bad. Goodnight, Nancy,� Abe said solemnly.

He started away. She waited until he was nearly gone. At precisely the right moment she called to him. Abe smiled.

�Yes,� he said turning.

�I need this job, Mr. Cohen. But if it�s really important... Why do you want to know about Danny?�

Leonard Brole, Executive Assistant Manager, was more the �type.� He wore no carnation but it would have suited his aloof, ultra-hygenic aura.

Waring stood gazing at the body. The grey pallor, the staring eyes, left no doubt.

Brole�s mouth opened.

�Jesus! This is bad! Why�d he have to go and do it here! Jesus!�

Waring spun around. Angry.

�It�s bad alright. It�s bad. Not because it happened here. Because it happened. Because a man is dead.�

�Suicide?� Brole asked.

Jeff answered.

�Not unless he swallowed the knife.�

�Well, it could be underneath the body.�

�I looked,� Jeff said.

Waring told Brole to get the man�s registration card.

�He�s with the automotive-parts people,� Jeff offered. �From Mishawaka.�

�Don�t you want Jefferson to go? You�ll need me here,� Brole asked.

�Get the card. Don�t say anything. Nothing. Got me?�

�Right away, Boss. You know me � not a word.�

Brole trundled off, nose in the air.

Jeff described how he�d found the body, what he knew, what he�d done.

Waring nodded approvingly, put his handkerchief around the telephone.

�Get me Captain Rourke, Chicago Avenue Station. And, Millie, whatever you hear � forget.�

Listening, Jeff knew he�d been wrong. There was somebody Millie wouldn�t dare call �Hon.� � Waring.

Jeff smoked quietly, looking everywhere but at the body. Neil Waring talked to �Tommy� Rourke, Captain of the district.

Jeff mused that all the coffee the beat-cops drank in the Avenue Kitchen, all the Fifths Waring sent Rourke at Christmas, were about to pay off in more than double-parking privileges.

He was right. When the police arrived, three cigarettes later, they were in plain clothes. Without reporters.

He met Detective-Sergeant Joe Sawicki and Detective John Thiel. He noticed how respectfully they regarded Waring, Rourke had put out the word alright.

Jeff recited his story.

Sergeant Sawicki edged a newly-returned Brole downstairs again. Told Waring three lab-men would be along. Arranged for the �meat-wagon� at the Seneca service entrance. Told Jeff to think about the man in the hall.

Jeff said his recollection was only a tall, bushy man. In a much-worn black-and-white topcoat and in a hurry.

Sawicki snorted.

�Think harder. We�ll get back to it.�

Jeff pointed under the dresser.

Grunting, Sawicki strained to his knees. Stood up, pocketing hairpin and orange disk. Threw, �Good.�

At first sight, Jeff had sized him as one more paunchy, florid-faced Polack, Big-City detective. If he hadn�t known the right politicians he�d still be pounding pavements.

Now Jeff wondered. Questions had been to-the-point. Maybe he was smarter than he looked, much smarter.

Jeff hoped so. The faster Sawicki could solve this thing, the less grist for the newspaper mill. And grind they would. �THE HOTEL RIPPER.� Jeff shuddered.

About the other detective, Thiel, Jeff had no doubts. Thiel was at least six-foot-three, with immense shoulders and a long jaw. He kept his hands in his overcoat pockets, watched Sawicki. Definitely the pavement-pounding type.

Sawicki bent over the body.

Jeff thought any butcher would have shown more emotion about a carcass of beef.

Sawicki�s face cracked in a crooked grin. Exposing tobacco-stained teeth. He reached into the flannel robe that twisted around the corpse, pulling out an almost full package of cigarettes. Offered it. Waring shook his head, Thiel accepted. Jeff recoiled.

Sawicki smiled broadly. Put the pack to his mouth, fastened thick lips around a cigarette. Addressed Jeff, gesturing with the package, cigarette dangling.

�What�s the matter, kid? He won�t need �em.�

Jeff kept quiet.

The police surgeon arrived, ushered in by Brole who announced the entrance loudly. Brole seemed glad to be back � where his importance could be recognized.

He looked at Jeff.

�Better get downstairs, the wedding and the sales conference are breaking.�

�Just a minute.� Sawicki spoke to Waring.

�I�d like him to stay around awhile. Alright with you, sir?�

Jeff wondered. More questions about the man in the hall? Oh well, five hours to seven-thirty. Plenty of time to play games with the Detective-Sergeant and meet Jill.

Waring nodded.

To Brole: �You go down, will you.�

It was not a question.

�You�ll need me, Boss. Why don�t I call Rodriguez? It�s his day to work anyway.�

Jeff cut in.

�It�s his Wedding Anniversary, Mr. Waring, we changed shifts. He�s been planning for weeks.�

Jeff waited edgily for Waring�s answer, Luis Rodriguez was his friend.

Waring waved Brole out.

�You go ahead. Let Rodriguez have his day. I�ll call if I need you.�

Brole left with poor grace. And a dark glance at Jeff.

Jeff didn�t notice; there was horrible fascination in the way the Doctor had brushed aside the corpse�s robe, the body limp on its left side, and was inserting a rectal thermometer. Like you�d test a roast for cooking time.

The Police Surgeon stood up. He must have the word from Rourke too, Jeff thought.

�Death by laceration of the carotid artery and jugular vein. Inflicted, probably, with about a six-inch blade. Died almost immediately. Blood still not fully coagulated. He�s nearly body-temperature. Time of death about forty-five minutes ago.�

It registered with Jeff how closely he�d missed the actual stabbing. He tried to bring the face of the man he�d seen to focus.

�You figure this is right, Doc...� Sawicki, still smoking the dead man�s cigarette, stood at the foot of the body. �Cut starts high under the left ear. Angles down and right.

�Looks like Farnham was standing � here.� Sawicki turned around. �Now Farnham�s five-ten � say, my height. So the cut�d figure if a guy Johnny�s height...� he motioned Thiel to face him �...Raised his right arm...� Sawicki lifted Thiel�s ham of a hand. �And chopped with a long knife. So!�

Everybody winced as Sawicki brought Thiel�s empty hand down on his neck. Hard.

Whatever he is, Jeff thought, he�s a showman.

The Police Doctor, unimpressed, nodded.

�What about motive?� Thiel finally spoke. �Money? Fight?�

Jeff remembered the gold hairpin. The empty money clip. And what was the orange disk Sawicki had pocketed

�Let�s dig a little,� Sawicki said. �This phone business,� he looked at the Doctor. �You figure he grabbed for it?�

�More likely fell against it�

He turned Farnham�s hand over. The palm was a thick smear of drying blood.

�He must have grabbed his throat,� the Doctor continued. �He couldn�t have grabbed the knife, his hand�s not cut. Strictly speaking, he couldn�t have grabbed anything.�

He worked two of the dead man�s fingers back and forth loosely.

�See. This �death-grip� business is hogwash. At a death blow, the body slacks.�

Jeff flexed his own fist, assured himself he was alive. Not like the crumpled heap on the floor.

The lab-men came. Began the �going-over.�

Sawicki went out to the corridor, motioning Waring and Jeff after him.

He asked space for questioning � bellboys, doormen, telephone operators, elevator girls, Farnham�s convention associates, Jeff again. He wanted to see Farnham�s bill, what charges he�d had, what phone calls.

Waring arranged for Sawicki to use his office, suggested coffee and sandwiches.

Thiel emerged. Following Waring.

�Come down in an hour.� Sawicki called to Jeff.

Jeff looked at his watch. It was several seconds before he could understand the time. The big watch-face blurred. Violent death, even to battle-trained ex-soldiers, is never an easy experience.

Two-forty-five. Only an hour since he�d found the body? God!

He decided to go to one of the hotel bars. He guessed he was off-duty.

He thought of phoning Jill, his date for the evening, rejected it. He�d see her in � four and a half hours. He planned to get very drunk that night. Very drunk.

Pat sat at the dinner table, her mouth a trembling pink �O.� She was almost sixteen. Right then, she didn�t look it.

�It was no trouble,� I said, keeping it light.

�Eat your dinner,� Joan said severely.

�Don�t you understand?� Pat yelped. �I�m vice-president of Jerry�s fan club here��

�You mean you were,� I broke in.

She stared at me.

�I don�t want to catch you anywhere near that stupid fan club � not from now on.�

Pat got up and marched out, wearing that martyred expression she had when she didn�t get her own way.

Joan smiled uncertainly. �You did put her in a heck of a spot with her friends. They all belong to the fan club � and you know how seriously kids take those things.�

�Like making phone calls,� I said.

�Oh, that couldn�t be any of Pat�s��

The phone rang.

We both jumped, then I laughed. �I had the number changed this morning, remember? It�s probably the boss.�

I went in the livingroom, picked up the phone.

��We told you yesterday to lay off but you have to be a wise sonuvabitch, well you�re asking for it��

It wasn�t the boss.

I tore the phone loose from its socket and threw it on the floor. Only four people knew that new number. Joan and myself, my city editor, and� Slowly, unwillingly, my eyes turned to the closed door of Pat�s room.

The Duff cleared the channel in the first pale glint of dawn and put to sea for Nuku Hiva. Within two hours Tahiti was nothing but a wavering thread of black outlined against the pink glow of sunrise.

Mason stood a twelve hour watch and ate three meals with the other officers in the cuddy, but he had still not met Gann. At the beginning of each meal he would pick up his napkin and then ask: �Where�s the captain?� but always the negative reply: �In his mood,� would answer him.

On the second day, at lunch, he became annoyed with the mystery, and when he heard the inevitable �In his mood� he threw his napkin down and leaned toward the first mate.

�What do you mean? What is his mood? Is he crazy?�

But the chief spluttered in his coffee cup, and threw a look of fear over his shoulder. He stood up, red in the face, and left the cabin.

The first mate scowled after him, and spoke in a short angry tone.

�You�ll see soon enough. Now let me enjoy my lunch.�

Mason began to see that afternoon. He was off duty, and relaxing on his bunk with a dog-eared book, the door of his cabin open in the vain hope that a cooling breeze would find its way in. His eye slid away from the printed page and he saw a shadow laying on the deck.

�What are you reading?� a quiet voice demanded.

Mason looked up with a start and found Gann standing in the passageway watching him. He knew it was the captain, there could be no mistake about that. If Gann had been standing naked before him, Mason would have known him. As it was he wore nothing that resembled a uniform. His trousers were faded denims, his shirt white, long-sleeved and open at the neck. A plain black cap was on his head.

But Mason was interested in his face. The eyes were narrowed slits with glints of callousness, cunning and self-certainty, they seemed capable of looking through flesh and bone and into the minds and hearts of men. His nose was thin, aristocratic. His mouth was a narrow, slitted match for his eyes. Overall there was a Satanic quality to the strong face that disturbed Mason.

�It�s Mardi,� he replied, and as an afterthought he added, �By Melville.�

Gann stood quietly in the passageway, his arms akimbo, and seemed to consider the reply with deliberation. He looked up suddenly. �Do you read much?�

�Yes, sir, I do.�

�Been to college? Studied literature? Philosophy?�

Mason nodded. �Yes, I have.�

Gann�s hands fell suddenly away from his hips and he spun on his heel. �Follow me,� he said over his shoulder.

Her voice trailed off into silence as she stared at the revolver. Willie Texas looked into her eyes and lifted the pistol until it pointed at the girl�s head. Closing his left eye, he sighted carefully along the barrel and squeezed the trigger. The hammer clicked on an empty chamber. Willie Texas stared at the gun wonderingly. Pointing it at the ground he pulled the trigger and sent a bullet ricocheting into the woods alongside the road. The girl watched as he stuck the revolver back into his jeans. Her hands hung at her sides and she made no attempt to cover herself.

�Get back into the car, Miss. We�ve got to get back on the road now.�

The girl climbed into the car pulling the torn blouse over her. Willie Texas put the Cadillac into reverse and backed out of the ditch onto the highway.

�You come as near getting killed as anyone ever comes, Miss.�

He smiled at the girl who sat clutching her arms across her chest.

�You sure are lucky. I was fixing to kill you for what you done and I would have too, if it wasn�t for your luck. You sure are lucky, Miss.�

It was dark and the headlights of the Cadillac illuminated the scrub pine forest on either side of the road. The girl slid closer to Willie Texas.

�As soon as you come to a place where you can pull off the road, let�s stop.�

�Are you all right, Miss?�

�I just want to stop, Willie Texas.�

The boy pulled the Cadillac onto the shoulder and switched off the lights. He let the big car roll until it was well into the cover of the scrub pines. It was very dark. Two cars flashed by on the road.

�I can�t let you get out alone, Miss.�

�I don�t want to get out, Willie Texas.�

Willie Texas could hear the girl breathing. He reached out to touch her. Her warm flesh pressed against his hand. Her hand touched his. She took the pistol from him and he heard it drop heavily onto the floor. He tried to slide from under the steering wheel. The girl held him tightly.

�In the back, Willie Texas.�

He tried to move again but she held him even more tightly.

�Now, Willie Texas. In the back. Please. Now.�

The girl stretched and yawned, rubbed her feet against the soft floor rug. It was hot in the closed car. She reached across the boy curled up in the corner of the seat and rolled down the window. Although it was still dark outside, the girl could make out the spiny shapes of the scrub pines that overhung the car. It was perfectly still.

Willie Texas groaned in his sleep and the girl pressed herself against him. She ran her hand through his hair but he did not stir. Gathering up her clothes from the floor, she shook the wrinkles from them. Slowly and carefully, the girl dressed herself in the darkness. When she had finished she picked up the tangled denims and hung them over the open window. The girl shook Willie Texas but he continued to sleep, breathing slowly and heavily. She forced his arm into the sleeve of his tattered shirt and struggled to pull it over his back. The girl dressed Willie Texas laboriously, like a child dressing an oversize doll. He did not awaken. When she had finished the girl slumped back in her corner of the seat. She suddenly felt tired and closed her eyes. As she did she became aware of a sudden movement at the window. A man was outlined in the darkness.

Willie Texas started awake at her scream. He clutched both hands to his chest and ran them down to his waist. The car was flooded with light and the door was flung open. Willie Texas blinked in the light and continued to grope at his waist. A man�s voice was shouting his name. He slid off the seat and ran his hand over the rug. The light was blinding. He held up a hand to shield his eyes and a bullet struck him in the top of his head. He settled to the floor with one arm folded under him. His body rested on the girl�s feet, pinning her legs to the seat.

The girl looked at the man seated next to her. He smiled and took her hand. He had white hair and a very red face. They were in the back seat of a police car. The siren wailed and the girl saw the reflection of the red light speeding along the scrub pines by the side of the road.

�It�s all over now, Miss Farrow. We�ve got an ambulance ready for you in Blaylock. We�ll be there in about twenty minutes.�

The girl nodded at the man. He squeezed her hand and let it go.

�I�m Special Agent Foster, FBI. We�ll have to have a talk but it can wait. We�re glad enough to have you safe and sound.�

�Blaylock? Were we near Blaylock?�

The FBI man looked at the girl without speaking.

�I don�t remember getting into this car.�

�Now you just take it easy, Miss Farrow. There�s absolutely no need to worry yourself about anything now. You just leave everything to us.�

The girl threw her head back suddenly.

�Oh Christ!�

Foster reached for the girl�s hand but she pulled away.

�Oh God! Leave me alone, will you! Christ!�

�All right. You just try and calm yourself now. Nobody�s going to hurt you now. Everything�s going to be just fine. We�ll be in Blaylock in two shakes of a dead lamb�s tail.�

The girl laughed at the older man�s words and he smiled at her. He reached over and patted her hand again. She didn�t move.

�There we are. We know what you�ve been through but from here on in everything�s going to be just fine. Just don�t you worry about a thing.�

The girl smiled sadly at Foster and he broke into a broad grin.

�Well, that�s just fine. You�re a wonderful girl.�

He patted her hand again.

�Mr. Foster, who was that boy?�

Foster pursed his lips and the smile faded from his face.

�Look, Miss Farrow, maybe we�d better just wait a little. I honestly don�t think this is the time to bring it up. You�ve been through quite a lot.�

�I want to know. Please, Mr. Foster.�

The FBI man clasped his hands nervously.

�Well, for one thing, I guess I should tell you that your uncle and Summers are both dead.�

The girl nodded and the older man continued to knead his hands.

�Well, then we got word that the Cadillac had been spotted. We went in with the State Police and that�s about all there was to it. You�d be better off to try and put it out of your mind, Miss Farrow.�

�But who was that boy. Don�t you even know who he was?�

Foster cleared his throat and looked sternly at the girl.

�Look here, Miss Farrow, I think we had better get this straight. That boy was a dangerous criminal. You�re very, very lucky to be alive. In the past ten days he�s killed five people, including his own wife and child. Every cop in the country has been looking for him. He was a mad dog. Maybe now you can see why we�re so glad to have gotten you out alive.�

The girl slumped back in the seat. She shook her head slowly.

�Oh Christ!�

Foster patted the girl�s hand and looked nervously at her face. He couldn�t tell what was wrong.

�Now I don�t want you fretting over what might have been. There�s no sense in that. It�s all over now. I wish you�d try and rest. There�ll be plenty of time to talk about it later on. You just try and get it off your mind for a little while now.�

Dover grinned. �I�m not bawling my eyes out because of Ed Mavaradian, if that�s what you�re referring to.�

�It�s not and you know it. It seems to make you happy when one of us gets shot up or killed. Any one of us. It doesn�t matter to you.�

�That�s not so. It doesn�t seem personal, that�s all,� said Dover. �Besides, I�m not soft. You know that.�

�I know,� said Parks. �I have to admit you�re not soft. It�s the one thing that�s kept you on the force. In spite of yourself you do get results, sometimes.�

Dover went out and started the car and cruised. He felt good. Ed Mavaradian was out of his way. Ed hadn�t been competition but it didn�t hurt to have a clear field. Besides, Mavaradian was a cop, and this was reason enough. Dover was careful with what he said, particularly to other cops, and sometimes with Laura, but with himself there was no need to conceal what he felt. A dead cop, a coffin, and five hundred dollars was worth a burial in the best cemetery in town. No more.

Dover didn�t like the small time crooks and runny nose junkies and pushers he usually picked up. They were disgusting too and weren�t even tough physically, no fight in them. What they were wasn�t much but at least they knew it. Big men in the syndicate were different, and he almost admired them. He couldn�t touch them and no cop in town could. The syndicate knew what it wanted and picked men who could deliver. That was honesty.

But cops � it amused Dover. He was one of them and had a badge to prove it, but he would rather not. If there were some other way to earn the sort of living he was accutomed, to he would have taken it long ago.

Dover saw a service station and stopped and went to a phone. The line was busy but he finally got through. �Laura?� he said, knowing from her voice that he didn�t have to ask the next question. �I hope I�m not the first to tell you.�

�No. I�ve heard.�

�I�m sorry. I wish it hadn�t happened.�

�Are you really sorry?�

�I was on vacation. I cut it short as soon as I heard and came back to go after them.�

�You didn�t like Ed.�

�I guess I didn�t. He went with you until I came along.�

�You wouldn�t have liked him if I had never gone with him.�

�Perhaps not. But he was on the force too and I worked with him.�

�I shouldn�t think that would make any difference to you.�

�Laura,� he said, leaning close to the phone, �I don�t know where you got the idea that I hate cops. Ed gave it to you or someone else. No, let me finish. It�s true I don�t like a person merely because he�s a policeman and I�m one too. But I do have a decent normal respect for the people I work with. Can you get that into your head?�

�I want to believe you, for your sake as well as mine. You know I still like Ed a lot.�

�I�m glad that�s all it was, that you liked him, nothing more.�

�You know that�s what it was. It could have been something else, but then you came along.�

�Lucky for both of us I did. You�d be a widow.�

�I don�t know. Maybe that would have been better. I could trust Ed. I�m not sure about you, never.�

�You�ll get over that,� he said. �Look, don�t break up over him. I�m going after the kids who killed him.�

�I�m not breaking up,� she said. �Please be careful.�

�I�m not brave like Ed was. I�m always careful,� he said. �I�ll come over and see you when I get done with this, whenever that is.�

Dover got in the car and continued cruising. It would be good if he could find them. Not great, just good. Cop killers didn�t rate high except with other cops. The public went for juicier items, a beautiful model raped and strangled, a playboy shot in a fit of blind anger by an outraged husband who had just incidentally bought a gun the day before and had spent eight hours practicing on a pistol range. But cops didn�t rate much and everybody knew it except cops themselves.

So there wouldn�t be much in it if he found the killers. Not that there was much of a chance he would. Too many others were looking. Besides, these sort of characters were probably holed up at home drinking their old man�s beer and watching television. When it got safer they�d come out, but not until then.

He could figure them pretty well, cop hating kids fast with a switchblade � and slow on guts. He didn�t sympathize with them � Dover didn�t sympathize with anyone stupid enough to get caught in a jam � but he did share part of what they thought and he could stretch this similarity in thinking a long way.

Exactly what had they done after knifing Mavaradian? Well, Ed had been cut up a lot so there was blood on the kids too. They went home and changed into other jeans, shoes, the whole outfit. Then they disposed of what they had been wearing. It wasn�t difficult.

The simplest way was to wash and dry everything they�d worn. They could go to a laundromat but it was a good bet one of their families had a washer-dryer so they washed at home. After that they�d tear the clothing into rags and wipe the rags along the underside of the car. If that wasn�t enough they�d drain crankcase oil from the car and soak the rags in the oil. This would leave too many rags to explain so if the trash disposal truck didn�t come by that day they�d go to a district it did pick up, stuffing the rags in the first trash can they saw. This took care of their clothing but they still had switchblades.

Nothing to the knives either. If they didn�t have a torch in their old man�s workshop they�d go to a garage that specialized in hot rods and hang around until someone put down a torch. They�d use that to melt the knives into something unrecognizable, at least unidentifiable.

This shot nearly everything. It was no crime not to have a switchblade, though if he knew anything about it kids that were capable of knifing a cop were apt to have spares saved for just such an emergency.

George Dover rode and thought. He could figure them out but there wasn�t much incentive in it for him. Killing a cop meant nothing to him. In finishing off Mavaradian they�d actually done him a favor, if he wanted to look at it that way. It didn�t matter, that�s all, Mavaradian, or any other cop. Besides, there wasn�t much of a chance he�d find them. Too many delinquents, and they were all alike.

Still he was supposed to be working on it so he drove to the old man�s house because it was something. The jeanagers were out. Nervous, but they were out as usual. Some had been picked up and let go and were circulating again. Those who hadn�t been touched knew what was going on. Dover passed twenty or thirty. Not many singles tonight, and no large groups either. No one would be throwing a ball tonight, until this died down. Dover grinned; he knew how they felt. They�d hate him if they guessed he was a cop. But they didn�t find out; he wasn�t driving a squad car and he was careful not to turn on the police radio.

Nothing at the old man�s house, not even teenagers. They stayed away from this area. He circled the block a few times and when no one showed that he might think of stopping to question he drove away.

And then, after possibly an hour of aimless driving and looking, there they were � both of them.

These two weren�t any different from the rest except that they were in a group that was larger than usual for the evening, five. Dover couldn�t put his finger on why he was interested in two and not the other three � but he was. He didn�t argue with himself. He was going to talk with them but he wasn�t in a hurry. Sliding the car into a parking space ahead of them he watched the group come toward him. Of the two one was taller than Dover but thinner; the other a good four inches shorter but as heavy. A chunky kid, but he wasn�t all fat.

They were average, normal delinquents, hardly a thing to distinguish them from the other three. Possibly they were a little more scared, and certainly they did suck in their guts and slouch their shoulders a bit jauntier. It was what he�d expect of them if they had killed a cop. It gave him ideas.

As they passed the car chunky gut was on the outside and Dover looked him over. A hell of a lot of blubber but not more than seventeen. He could be rough to handle in the right situation but he wasn�t as good as he thought he was. None of them were.

Pretending not to notice Dover they sauntered on by. He knew what they were thinking. They wanted to yank him out of the car and see how long it would take to beat him into insensibility. They might not be aware of it but all five of them couldn�t do it. They�d have to have years of practice before he�d need to watch out for them. Their attitude amused Dover.

And yet, once they�d gone by, in spite of what they considered their toughness, they knew something was out of place. They didn�t necessarily think he was a cop but they were pretty sure they�d made a mistake in banding together. They went on up the street and as casually as they could, peeled off. At the first street one turned off and at the next two others went, leaving the two alone that Dover was interested in.

Maybe this just happened but Dover didn�t think so. If the two were hot, the others would be aware of it and wouldn�t care to be picked up with them. Certainly they�d scattered fast and it meant something. Dover started the car and drove after the two who were far down the street. He got ahead of them, turned down a side street, made a U turn in the middle of the block, and was in the second line of cars when they crossed the intersection. They didn�t see him but he got a glimpse of the tall kid. He was about nineteen, maybe twenty.

No question of it; they were nervous, jittery, and not merely because cops were out. It wasn�t much to go on, except with these creeps Dover was almost certain he knew why they were spooked. The clothing they�d worn had been destroyed and couldn�t incriminate them. Their knives couldn�t be found or traced. From what he�d seen they weren�t marked or scratched so that no lab analysis could connect them either to the old man or Mavaradian. But one thing, if they had it, they hadn�t disposed of. They couldn�t hide it on or near either of their houses; they wouldn�t burn it or throw it away; they were in a hell of a bind to know what they could do with it.

The money they�d stolen from the old man. Ten thousand was found in the old man�s house. There may have been a lot more. If so these kids had it. How much they had was problematical. It might be thousands if they�d had time to look, perhaps only a few hundred if Mavaradian had interrupted their search in the beginning. Whatever the amount it meant a lot to these kids or they wouldn�t have kept it this long when they knew every cop in town was looking for them.

Dover�s interest was aroused. Money meant something to him too. It would link them better than anything else to Mavaradian�s death but he wasn�t thinking of this. It entered his mind, but only briefly.

He could pick them up now. If they had the money they�d make a break for it and he�d have to shoot one or both of them. At the station a confession could be beaten out of them. He didn�t like this angle. That they might, probably had, killed Mavaradian did not concern him.

The best approach was to give them a little room. If that didn�t do it, well, he should be able to think of something else.

Driving some distance ahead he parked and walked back toward the youths. He looked in a store window until they came even with him and then he followed them, making no attempt to conceal that he was tailing. At first they were silent but then they thought they ought to talk so they began chattering wildly. The tall older one was called Ford, either because that was his name or because he stole that make. The chubby one had two names, Vic sometimes, but mostly Butter-Ball. This was as much as he could get out of them listening so when they reached the car he stopped and got in, pretending he didn�t think they were worth bothering with. After that he kept them in sight though he was pretty sure they didn�t know he was following.

They were disappointing. Either they were smarter than he thought, and guessed that he was lying back even if they couldn�t see him, or they didn�t have the money to get rid of. That, or maybe they were trying to prove to each other how much pressure they could take. They didn�t seem to be going anywhere. They were wandering, no more than that. Dover became impatient. With money involved he wasn�t going to let them take all night.

Lessening the distance between them, just before they reached an intersection he switched on the police band and turned the corner in front of them, stalling the car directly in their path.

It bugged them. There was an announcement that the murderers of policeman Mavaradian hadn�t been apprehended and that all officers were ordered to concentrate on finding the killers. The two stood on the sidewalk waiting for Dover to move the car and he didn�t. He let them fill their ears and when he finally got out of their way they were no longer stalling.

They didn�t split as he feared. They headed toward a shabby residential area that bordered a manufacturing district. He knew the section and interposed the car. He didn�t want to lose them among the factories. After that he was more careful and pushed them. It was skillful use of the car, forcing them to run without actually letting them go where they wanted to. Gradually he increased the pressure. They were rugged to take it without cracking.

They didn�t give up easily but since there was money in it neither did he. He kept moving them away from the factories toward the edge of the city. He was squeezing them and they knew it. They had very little choice of where they could go but they tried to evade him. Twisting and dodging among the streets did them no good; finally they came to a dirt road at the end of which was an open field and beyond that, perhaps a quarter of a mile away, a state highway. They were cornered without possibility of escape and if they didn�t know it he was going to have to show them.

However it wasn�t necessary. His luck held; midway down the dirt road they turned off it onto a railroad spur that he had almost forgotten about. It was the last chance they had but they�d made good. He watched them start down the track and when they were well on it he reversed the car to the corner and cut around so that he would be where they came out on the next street. With lights and engine off he coasted up to the track and got out and waited.

He didn�t see them immediately and for a moment thought they�d slipped away. Presently he saw them, two dim figures crouched at the edge of the track. As he watched they stood up and continued toward him. He let them reach the street and walk thirty feet before calling out for them to stop.

�What do you want, daddio?� said Butter-Ball when he got close.

He snapped a flashlight on their faces. Butter-Ball had fine even teeth and skin that girls would envy. Ford had the more elaborate hair arrangement. They blinked at him, apparently unconcerned. �I�ve been following you,� he said.

�Have you? See anything you didn�t like?� said Ford.

�Not tonight. Where were you last night?�

�Home watching the fight.�

�There was no fight on television last night.�

�I didn�t say anything about TV. Daddio and momio.�

�Let�s go over last night again. Where were you?�

�Home, watching TV.�

�All night?�

�Yes.�

�At three in the morning?�

�Oh my no,� said Butter-Ball in a high dainty voice. �We were safe in bed long before that.�

Dover chopped a right to his belly and when Butter-Ball doubled over Dover brought the butt of the flashlight down on his kidneys, sending him sprawling into Ford. �I�ll let you know when I want you to talk to me,� he said.

�You a cop?� said Ford. He saw Dover�s right swing and ducked it but didn�t anticipate the heel that Dover brought down on his instep. Before he could squeal Dover rammed his forearm across Ford�s throat. A strangled gasp came out but it wasn�t loud.

�Yes, I�m a cop. Do you think I am?� said Dover.

�Never doubted it,� said Butter-Ball. Ford couldn�t speak but he grunted.

�Then we agree,� said Dover. �Move down to the street light.�

When they got there he faced them against the pole and went over them. They had money, not too much for their age, no identification, and each had the usual switchblade.

�You just buy these?� he said, holding the knives for them to see.

�Had mine about a year,� said Butter-Ball.

�You?�

�Longer. Almost two years.� Ford�s voice was scratchy, barely audible.

�Carry them all the time?�

�Once in a while,� said Butter-Ball. �Anything wrong with that?�

�They don�t look as old as you say they are. Too shiny.�

�I said we don�t often carry them.�

�But tonight you just happened to put them in your pockets?�

�Sure. You going to arrest us for that?�

He could, and wondered if he should. Switchblades were illegal, particularly this type. No other charges, just this, and it would put them away for at least a few days.

But there were drawbacks. His name would go down as the arresting officer. If these two creeps were determined they could trace him through this. But worse were the other cops. They were thinking of Mavaradian and they�d be in a beating mood. If he took Ford and Butter-Ball in they might get too enthusiastic and beat a confession out of them. He didn�t see why he should help them. Mavaradian was not his business. Let the other cops be as smart as he was if it meant that much to them.

And there was more. He�d have to put down where he made the arrest. This would be on the record. If a confession were beaten out a search would be made of the area and when nothing was found it wouldn�t look good for him. He�d be investigated and � hell � it wasn�t safe to take the JD�s in, as much as he wanted.

He snapped the blades open and looked at the punks. �Isn�t this the way you handed them to me?�

Ford and Butter-Ball looked at each other questioningly. �Yeah,� said Butter-Ball.

�That�s what I thought,� he said. �I�m giving them back the same way.� He threw the knives at them.

Ford caught his by the handle. Butter-Ball slapped his out of the air, nicking his finger but not badly. A small spot of blood showed, but no more than that. Butter-Ball picked the knife off the ground and the two stood there, glancing at each other and then staring at him.

Doover loosened his coat near his gun. �Close the blades,� he said.

Their eyes flickered but they closed the knives, pocketing them.

�You can go,� said Dover. �Get the hell out of here.�

�We�ll never forget your kindness,� said Butter-Ball.

�Don�t crap,� said Dover. �I�m going to my car. I�ll wait five minutes. After that I�ll drive around. If I see either of you I�ll take you to the station.�

�Maybe we won�t have the knives,� said Butter-Ball. �What can you charge us with?�

�If I find you without knives you�ll wish you�d kept them,� said Dover. �Do you get that?�

�We dig you, daddio,� said Ford.

He gave them a little longer than five minutes and then drove a few blocks but they weren�t in sight. A few more minutes and he was satisfied they had gone. It didn�t hurt to be sure, and he was sure. Driving back to where he had originally parked he got out and went up the railroad spur.

He stopped where he thought they�d been kneeling when he saw them from the street. A culvert; he flashed a light inside. Dirt and undisturbed leaves. They were cool enough, but not professional. They�d leave traces if they had buried money.

Next were cans at the side of the track. Upon inspection they were empty. The money was somewhere. He knew it. He got down on his knees and felt along the track. A loose tie, but nothing underneath it. They weren�t that stupid. It was a spur track, not used much, but even so a de as loose as this was due for replacement. They wouldn�t risk having the money found that easily.

Of course he might be wrong. Maybe they hadn�t found any money; they weren�t necessarily the ones that had killed Mavaradian and stomped the old man. Maybe � but he didn�t believe it. They were the same kids all right. When he first saw them they�d had the money. They�d hidden it here and came out to meet him. That�s why they were so sure of themselves when he stopped them. They knew he wouldn�t find anything on them.

It was possible they hadn�t hidden it here at all. They might have tossed it in any one of a hundred yards they�d passed, or even into the gutter on the street, anything just to get rid of it.

He went back over the ground he�d covered. Still not in the culvert, nor lying loose beside the tracks, nor yet in cans. But there were beer bottles, dark brown glass he hadn�t looked into. He broke three before he found anything and then it wasn�t as much as he expected, a handful of tens and twenties rolled into tubes and stuffed into the bottle. It wasn�t much, a few hundred dollars, but it was a fine beginning. There were other bottles.

He broke all he could find and the final take was sizable. He estimated it with concentrated satisfaction. A lot of entertaining with this, take Laura out more than a few times, a suit made by a really good tailor. He could have passed it by; he might have picked up the kids while they had the money on them.

He wadded the money tightly, intent on how much he had found, and got up. In so doing he avoided a knife in his side. He took the blade instead in his shoulder and the force of the blow and the pain threw him off balance onto a knife on the other side. The edge sliced along his ribs and ripped but didn�t enter. He grabbed for his gun and felt it in his hand but then his stomach became wet and weak and he couldn�t raise his arm. He lowered his head and butted, connecting with a solid body but before he could do much damage the back of his neck exploded and he fell down.

He lay on his stomach, knowing they were stabbing him repeatedly. He didn�t feel it. He couldn�t see them but he didn�t have to know who they were. He couldn�t focus on them even when they rolled him over and wrenched the money from his hand. Released of what it clutched his hand twitched toward his gun. A heel smashed into his face and thereafter he didn�t move, unconscious until nearly dawn.

When he next saw anything it was an officer in uniform. Someone he knew, probably, but couldn�t remember.

�Easy now,� said the policeman bending over him. �The ambulance is coming. Lie quietly.�

It was too late for an ambulance. It wouldn�t do him any good. �Ford,� he muttered. He tried to tell the cop who to look for but that was as much as he could say. His face was badly cut and had stiffened. He was cut all over.

�Don�t worry about the car,� said the policeman. �I saw it parked on the street, which is why I happened to look around. If I hadn�t recognized that it was yours you might have been here for hours.�

His lungs were bloodfilled; his breathing soggy. They�d sliced him.

�Cop killers,� he whispered. It was the last thing he said.

�I thought so. Same ones that got Mavaradian,� said the policeman. �Don�t worry. We�ll take them apart for both of you when we find them.�

Dover felt lousy, dying.

He was handsome: loose, lean, carefree, tired, musical. His face was long and pale and thin with good bones and soft brown shining eyes like a woman�s. He was a creature of the night and it showed in his pallor, in the dark rings beneath his eyes and the wet-purple shine of the lids. The white hair was startling. He was young, he was no more than thirty, and the white hair was young too, and springy, cut close and fitting about his head in tight ringlets. And just then he looked up and saw me studying him, and noticed Dora, and raised a hand in recognition. Dora waved back.

And now the music flattened, and I looked at Dora, and Dora winked. The lights in the wall brackets went off, one by one, and a red spot played on the empty platform to our left. A metallic voice over a microphone said simply:

�Ladies and gentlemen � Flame Cortez.�

The music boiled up, and there she was. The black drapes parted for her, and the drum went to work, and there she was, boldly shaped, tall and perfect, whirling in red veils on the small dais, whirling under the red spot, wild whirling in a reckless dance, the music going crazy � and I with it.

She hit me hard.

And she knew it.

The moment the drapes had parted, she had hit me, and she had known it, right then. She had stood there for the fragment of a second, and our eyes had met, and held, and there had been impact, like a kiss: close, intimate, physical, real. And then she was whirling in her dance, and when it was over, and she took her bow, she stared down at me with the widest blackest eyes I had ever seen, and she smiled, and then she was gone.

The music ended.

The musicians shoved away from their instruments.

Bill Floyd rose from his piano, rubbing circulation into his hands, stretched, and he came toward us, moving gracefully, casual and slender.

�Good evening, Miss Mason,� he said.

�Good evening to you, Bill Floyd,� Dora said. �Please, join us, won�t you?�

�Thank you kindly. Don�t mind if I do.� He had a soft melted-sugar voice, the words running together; there was no click to the consonants.

�Don Reed,� Dora said. �Bill Floyd.�

�How do?� he said.

�Won�t you have a drink, Mr. Floyd?� Dora said.

�Gin and tonic. Double gin and tonic, please.�

The waiter nodded and went away.

Dora said, �Is that a tinge of the South I detect in your voice?�

�Yep,� he said. �Tinge, I expect. Born in Louisiana, but I�ve spent most of my life on the West Coast.�

Then the black drapes opened again.

And the black drapes fell closed.

Bill Floyd did not turn. His eyes were on me, soft-brown, the sockets deep in the tired face. The eyes blinked rapidly, amusedly, cynically, and one eyebrow quivered as it moved up.

�Exquisite,� he said. �Isn�t she?�

�I didn�t know it showed.�

�Always shows. Like magic. People turn to glass. Like a mirror. They reflect her.�

Easy-talking Bill Floyd, the melted-sugar words running together, the soft eyes innocent now, amused but innocent, the voice a casual purr.

Then why did my back ridge?

Why did I hear a warning?

I shook it off. I fixed to answer in banter, but she was upon us now, and Bill Floyd was up out of his chair, familiarly touching her arm, saying, �Flame Cortez. You know Miss Mason. This is Don Reed.�

I rose and she gave me her hand and her eyes roved over me, head to toe and back. �Very pleased to know you,� she said.

She was tall, her curves exaggerated by a tiny waist. She wore a tight coral silk gown that was a shimmering embrace to her figure. The neck of the gown was scooped wide and low exposing breast and shoulder. Her flesh was tan-gold and indescribably smooth. Flame Cortez. Ridiculous name, but a genius must have named her. It was perfect for the casual arrogance, the confident gleaming smile, the nonchalant assurance. It was perfect for the imperious set of her head, the erect bearing, the tan-gold oval-shaped face, the thick black hair hanging in a shining mass over one shoulder, the straight nose with out-thrust nostrils, the smouldering black eyes, the audacious red-wet mouth.

�Please have a drink with us,� Dora said. �Won�t you, Miss Cortez?�

�Try and stop me,� said Miss Cortez.

�Subtle,� said Bill Floyd. �Like a house falling in.�

He held a chair for her, and she was seated, and Bill and I pulled up our chairs, and then Flame reached across and tapped a long fingernail at Dora�s glass.

�Champagne, I hope,� she said.

�Champagne,� Dora said.

�That�s for me too. Let�s have champagne, lots of it.�

I switched from Scotch and we had champagne, lots of it, and I silently thanked my father for the liberal allowance he had bestowed upon me. And then Bill Floyd flipped a look at his wrist watch and said, �Gotta go make music now. Excuse me, fellas.�

And then Dora said, �I�m next. Got to get up in the morning. Got a newspaper to run.�

�You�re going to leave Donny-boy, I hope,� Flame said.

�I�ve every intention of leaving Donny-boy.�

�Yes. I�ll see you, Dora.�

And then we were alone, Flame Cortez and Don Reed.