Ignoring the legal aspects of the matter, the question still remains. Is Gerald Hanna a rogue and a criminal? Is he, in fact, a cold-blooded murderer; a man who callously permitted another man to be killed so that he could profit to the tune of a hundred thousand dollars?

Or, as some believe who were intimate with him and thoroughly conversant with the details of the situation, is Gerald Hanna merely a fearless, public-spirited citizen who did his duty as he saw it?

There are a number of opinions on the matter and it is significant that these opinions vary widely. Certainly Sue Dunne, herself deeply involved in the incidents surrounding the case, has her opinion. And so does Miss Maryjane Swiftwater, who, although she really knows nothing of what went on, has been Gerald’s fiancee for more years than she cares to remember and certainly knows him well.

It is a coincidence that Fred Slaughter should have shared the opinion held by Detective Lieutenant Hopper, as each man was vitally concerned, but from completely different sides of the fence.

Young Vince Dunne himself might have formed a very firm attitude about the thing, but unfortunately Vince didn’t live long enough really to know Gerald Hanna. He met Gerald only once in his life and then but for a few moments. Although the contact was very brief, it was extremely intimate. The thing is that Vince was really in no condition to form any opinions about anything, at the time of their encounter.

One thing is sure. When Vince sneaked away from the small apartment he shared with his sister Sue on that fatal Saturday evening to keep his rendezvous with Dommie and Jake, he had no idea that such a person as Gerald existed, let alone that he would ever meet him.

It is more than probable that any conjecture concerning the matter of Gerald’s character would be more or less pointless and without value, unless one were to sit back and, calmly and with dispassion, review the events which actually took place and learn at firsthand exactly what did and what did not happen.

These, then, are the facts.

Vince Dunne was the first one to show up at the tavern where they agreed to meet shortly after ten o’clock. He carried the black leather jacket, the gas mask and the peaked cap in a small zipper bag, along with the .38 and the half box of cartridges.

There was something vaguely furtive about his manner as he pushed through the wide, half-curtained door and entered the place. He was aware of this characteristic and it annoyed him. He was nineteen years old, old enough to walk up to any bar and order a drink. But he felt the shyness and the hesitancy he always felt when he went into a barroom, or in fact, any public establishment.

He looked his age, but no more, and he always worried that a bartender would turn him down when he walked to the mahogany counter and ordered a drink. The idea of having to prove his age, in front of a lot of strangers, embarrassed him and as a result, his manner was not only furtive but a little defiant as well. He walked as though he carried a chip on his shoulder and being rather slight and of no more than medium height, this tended to give him a somewhat tough and arrogant manner.

He didn’t want to be mistaken for a kid, but if it had to be that way, he wanted people to know that at least he was a tough kid. It was a little unfortunate as actually he was normally a pleasant-looking boy with wide-spaced eyes in an overly sensitive face. He had a slightly snubbed nose, a generous mouth, but a rather weak chin. It may be said that these identical facial characteristics in his sister made her an extremely attractive girl.

Vince didn’t look at all like a boy who would be carrying a .38 revolver.

He had left the house a little before he had to, knowing it might be tough getting out. Sue was home and she would, quite naturally, want to know where he was going and why.

Any other night but this particular Friday would have been fine. Sue worked evenings, but this was her night off and she was home. She was home, and as always, she was suspicious. She’d been suspicious about everything he did since they’d let him out on probation.

Sue was nineteen also; his twin sister. Her attitude really burned him up, but Vince was in no position to complain. He was fresh out of the can and Sue was paying the bills.

Vince was the man in the family, but it was Sue who’d been holding things together since the death of their mother. He rebelled against her, but it was a silent sort of rebellion and never flared into open resentment. In his heart Vince knew that Sue really cared for him; really wanted to keep him out of trouble.

So Vince had told her that he wanted to hit a late movie and although she hadn’t believed him, she’d let him go and now he was here and waiting. Waiting for Dommie and Jake.

He could count on Dommie being punctual. Dommie was twenty-one and he still lived with his mother and father and he, too, would have trouble getting away from his house. Like Vince, he’d foresee the trouble and make his alibi early. Dommie was a lot more afraid of his father and his mother than he was of the police.

Only Jake would be able to stroll in at exactly the moment he was expected to arrive. Jake was in charge of the job, had even helped plan it with the big wheel who was backing them and who was the real brain; the one who would take the stuff off their hands and dispose of it.

Vince had heard a lot about this man-this big heel. He didn’t know him by name because Jake was a lot too smart to throw names around, but Vince had a pretty good idea who he was. He’d met several of Jake’s friends and knew that Jake had important connections. Jake usually introduced them as “Mr. Smith” and there was one particular “Mr. Smith” who’d been taking a lot of interest in Vince lately. He had his own ideas all right, but he’d been much too smart to get nosy. It was one thing he’d learned while doing his stretch-don’t get nosy. It didn’t pay, not if a guy wanted to get places.

When Dommie came into the place, some fifteen minutes after Vince himself showed, he didn’t as much as acknowledge Vince’s presence with a nod. He just walked right past him and went up to the bar and ordered a shot, although Jake had warned him against it.

“A beer, nothing else, while you’re waiting,” Jake had said.

It was no problem as far as Vince was concerned. He didn’t like whisky and only took a beer now and then to show that he was grown up. But Dommie liked his booze. Not that he was a lush or anything like that; he just liked a quick shot now and then to give him a lift. Vince couldn’t blame him for disobeying Jake’s orders. He would very likely need that lift before the night was over.

Dommie had the tricky job. He was the one who would handle the chopper and he had to be on his toes, had to be keen.

As Jake explained it while they’d been making the plans, “You have to have perfect coordination; a submachine gun is a lot different than a sawed-off shotgun or an automatic.”

“Not that there’s much chance you’ll have to use it,” Jake said. “But if you do, you gotta be right. There’s just twenty shots in each clip and there won’t be any chance to change clips once you get into action. With perfect timing, you can limit a burst to five or six shots. That means you get three bursts. Four at the most. Then you are through.

“You gotta remember that and you gotta be absolutely calm and cool. If you do have to use the thing, it’s going to mean we’re in a jam and that’s the one time it isn’t easy to be calm. So you have to remember. Three rounds, four at the most. No time to reload if anything goes wrong. If you blow up and hold your finger on the trigger and let all twenty shots go at once, the last ten of them are going to be up in the air because that’s the way a chopper works. And you won’t be getting any second chances.”

Later on they’d driven up to the place in the Catskills, the farm that belonged to one of Jake’s “Mr. Smiths,” and Jake had taken the machine gun out of the case and had let Dommie get familiar with it. Dommie had shot off one clip, and right away he knew what Jake had been talking about. He’d had to be satisfied with the single clip as Jake didn’t want to take any chances on creating curiosity and attracting attention.

Dommie was finishing his drink when Jake walked into the tavern. Jake didn’t look at either of them, but went at once to the men’s room. Vince turned away from the juke box and went out and climbed into the rear of the Ford sedan standing at the curb a couple of doors down the street. The parking lights were on and the engine was idling.

Dommie got in a moment later, sitting in the front, and then Jake was back behind the steering wheel and they were pulling away from the curb.

“Any trouble about the car?” Vince asked, leaning forward as Jake swung into Northern Boulevard and headed east down the island and away from Corona.

“None. Don’t talk.”

He’s touchy, Vince thought. Edgy. Well, he couldn’t blame him. They were all edgy. Hell, who wouldn’t be, starting out on a caper like this?

It is an ironic coincidence that at this very moment, the moment Jake Riddle, driving east on Long Island, ordered Vince not to talk, Gerald Hanna should have pushed his hand into the discard, yawned widely and said, “There’s too much talk.”

Gerald leaned back in his chair and looking a little bored and a little amused, shrugged his shoulders and continued.

“I think I’ll just call it quits for the night and take off,” he said. “Have to be up early, you know. I’m about even and I should be getting…”

They didn’t give him a chance to finish.

“It’s early, kid,” Herb Potter said. “You can’t quit now. We need you. Stick it out for another hour. You’ll bust up the game if you leave now. Come on boy, just another hour.”

Gerald sighed as the others joined in with Potter, urging him to stay.

Well, what the hell. He might just as well hang on for a little longer. It really didn’t matter too much. The game bored him, but so did everything else. Even the idea of leaving and going home and getting the sleep which he wanted and needed, bored him.

“O.K,” he said. “O.K, deal ’em out, boy. If you insist on making me a rich man, what can I do about it?” Gerald laughed and pushed his ante toward the center of the table.

“I guess you’re right. It really doesn’t make any difference if I leave now or I leave later.”

He couldn’t, of course, have been more wrong. It made all the difference in the world and to a great many persons, none of whom, with the exception of Maryjane Swiftwater, Gerald’s fiancee, he had ever met or even suspected existed.

Jake drove at a reasonable speed, careful about stoplights and signs. He tried to concentrate on his driving and think of nothing else, but it was impossible to devote his entire attention to the road, methodically unfolding in front of his headlights. His mind kept going back to Sammy.

My God, Jake thought, in another few years Sammy would be as old as that punk in the back seat. In less than six months the boy would be having his bar mizvah, and then, if time went as fast as it had been going these last few years, before he knew it, the boy would be a man. A man in body and in heart and in mind.

Well, there was one thing for sure. Sammy wasn’t going to turn out like young Dunne, or like Dommie, sitting here beside him. Sammy was going to keep on going to school. To high school and then to college and after that, by God, if he wanted to be a doctor or something, he could still go on learning. Jake was going to make sure of that, if it was the last thing he ever did. Sammy wasn’t going to end up like these other kids. He was going to learn something, going to be a gentleman.

Sammy was his and Belle’s son, their only child. But it wasn’t even that which mattered. If they’d have had ten kids, he’d have felt the same way about it. They would all have the same opportunities, all be brought up right. To have respect for their parents and to be good, decent members of society.

Yeah, if he, Jake Riddle, had to knock off a hundred jewelry stores, if he had to rob and murder or anything else, his kid was going to have the best. Sammy deserved the best. He was a fine boy; a good boy. Smart. A damned sight smarter than his old man, sitting here driving a hot car on a hotter job.

They arrived in Manhasset in just under thirty minutes. The movie theater was in the center of the block, on the right-hand side of the street and someone had just cut out the marquee lights as the last show was already underway and the box office had been closed for the night.

The theater was a segment in a series of buildings recently constructed and the builder, fully conversant with both modern design and modern necessity, had arranged so that a large area in back of the structures could be devoted to a parking area. An alley leading into this parking lot lay between the theater itself and the block of stores next to it on the eastern side. Jake held out his hand and signaled before making the turn and swinging the car down the long ramp.

The lot was still pretty well filled with cars of theater patrons and they found a place to park near the back fence, between a Caddie and a Pontiac station wagon.

Jake cut out the lights and the three of them got out. They left everything in the car. Jake checked to be sure that the right key was on the ring, and then locked the doors after winding up the windows.

A man and a woman were getting into a car in the next aisle and they waited a moment or two, until the man had started his motor and pulled away. Then they walked quickly to the rear of the theater.

Candy was there, where he’d promised to be, next to the door with the dim, red-lighted EXIT sign over it. He was in his uniform and he looked like a frail, black ghost. He was looking down at the luminous dial of his wrist watch and his voice was a thin, nervous whisper.

“O.K,” he said. “O.K, snap it up. I been here too long already. They’ll be wondering up front.”

He stepped aside and they quickly entered. Candy closed the door after them and locked it and then brushed past them, leading the way down the long hall and to the stairs. He went down first, muttering a whispered warning that they watch their step.

He didn’t wait once they were in the tiny, unused dressing room, a throwback to the mistaken idea of the ex-manager who had hoped to put on amateur nights.

“No noise,” he said, “an’ don’t smoke. No lights.”

He flicked on a cigarette lighter giving them time to find the folding chairs and seat themselves and then stole out of the room like a soft breath of wind.

None of them spoke. They sat there, each silent and buried in his own thoughts.

At least I’ve told the truth up to this point, was the thought going through Vince Dunne’s mind. He smiled secretly to himself. He’d told” Sue he was going to the movies and he was in the movies. It would be a little tricky, later on, after he got his cut, but he’d figure out something. Give her a song and dance about a job and so be able to account for the money he’d have. But he’d have to be awfully damned careful about it. He was still on parole; a ward of the state until his twenty-first birthday. So-he’d just be careful, that was all.

He began then to think about the next couple of hours and in spite of himself, he could feel the sweat coming out on his forehead. It was going to be big time all right.

Dommie was thinking about girls. He didn’t want to think about what they were going to do. He’d been in on other jobs before, but nothing quite like this. Nothing in the real money. It was new to him and he wasn’t at all sure of himself, but he didn’t have any real worries about it. He knew that everything was planned down to the last detail. Knew that Jake, and that other one, the real big guy, had everything laid out.

The stuff was up there, in the store next door, and all they had to do was go in and get it. The only thing which bothered him at all was the knowledge that the Pinkerton man was up there also. It wasn’t as though he was a real cop, but Dommie knew that he carried a gun and had a license to use it. Dommie just hoped that the business with the gas would work out all right.

He shook his head and muttered an oath under his breath. The hell with it; it wouldn’t get him anywhere worrying about things. He went back to thinking about girls. Man, this little deal was going to make it a lot simpler. Money, plenty of money, could solve any problem. Especially the girl problem.

Jake, on the other hand, made a conscientious effort to keep his mind off anything but the immediate work in front of them. He didn’t want to think about young Sammy or young Sammy’s mother. Somehow, sitting here waiting to pull the job, it just didn’t seem right to think of your wife and your son.

His mind went to the place next door and what he knew was in that place. And it was there all right. He’d seen the stuff only that morning, soon after the store had opened.

God, a quarter of a million in jewels! And out here in the sticks. It just hadn’t seemed possible. But of course it was possible and the stuff was there, just where the newspapers had said it would be. It certainly made an impressive display. And for a lousy little local jewelry store in the center of a shopping center.

Of course it was true that the store was a branch of a big important Fifth Avenue store and the stuff was only there as a sort of publicity stunt during opening week, but still and all. It was really something. No wonder they kept the private cop on duty day and night.

That certainly wasn’t a part of the publicity stunt. After all, neighborhood jewelry shops aren’t exactly equipped to carry a quarter of a million in ice in their tin safes. And it was a lucky thing they weren’t, too. Otherwise he and these punks wouldn’t be sitting here waiting around to take it away.

Dommie suddenly spoke, his voice sounding hollow in the confines of the small room.

“Must be at least an hour by now,” he said.

“Shut up,” Jake quickly growled. “No talking. Hasn’t been more’n about fifteen, twenty minutes. Just sit tight and shut up.”

Vince coughed and quickly covered his mouth. He knew Jake would be only too well aware of exactly what time it was, watch or no watch. He himself knew that the picture upstairs would be off at around eleven-fifteen; that the place would be cleared out within another ten to fifteen minutes. Candy was the one who would close up. He was the last man out. Candy could be counted on. He’d be down to get them a couple of minutes before he was ready to lock up for the night. And then they’d have exactly five minutes to get out and get the stuff from the car and get back inside again.

Candy returned at exactly twenty minutes to twelve. He knocked very softly on the door and a second later opened it and entered. He waited until he was inside before he switched on the flashlight. He’d changed from his usher’s uniform to his street clothes.

“O.K,” he said. “Let’s go. I wanna get out of here and get home as soon as possible and get my alibi set. I’m the one they’re goin’ to be questioning an’ I gotta be ready.”

He used a small pencil flash and they followed him upstairs. Back at the exit door, Vince stayed behind with Candy as Dommie and Jake returned to the car.

Jake was careful to make sure that the parking lot was empty and he breathed a sigh of relief when he saw the Ford sedan sitting alone against the fence.

Quickly they went to the car and Jake unlocked the door and reached in for the suitcase, handing it to Dommie.

“Take this and the guns,” he said, “and be careful. Give ’em to Vince and get right back. I can handle the tank alone, but I’ll need help with the hose and the tools.”

As Dommie left, Jake closed the door and then went around to the front of the car and lifted the hood. He put the brace under it and returned to the rear of the sedan, opening the trunk. By the time Dommie had returned, he’d removed the steel tank and was taking out the coiled-up hose.

He closed the trunk and turned and followed Dommie back to the EXIT door of the theater, carrying the tank carefully in both arms. Dommie had the hose draped over his shoulder.

“You left the hood up,” Dommie whispered.

“Sure I left it up,” Jake said in a low, irritated voice. “The cops check this lot two or three times a night. Looking for kids who come in here for little parties. They see the car with the hood up, they won’t bother it. They’ll figure some guy had trouble. Anyway, don’t worry. Just get moving.”

Back in the theater, Jake waited until Candy had once again closed and locked the doors.

“Grab one of the bags,” he said.

“Not me, boy,” he said. “I ain’t got no gloves on an’ I ain’t leaving no prints on nothing.”

He led the way once more, this time turning halfway down the hall and entering the theater proper from a side door. The others followed him with their burdens. They went up the aisle and just before coming to the end of the long rows of seats, Candy stopped for a second.

“I’m turning off the light now,” he said. “We’re going into the lobby and anyone going by can see the reflection. You have to work it in the dark.”

He went on and they passed through the double doors.

Two red lights over exit doors leading off the lobby, kept burning twenty-four hours a day, cast a dim, eerie light and they could just barely make out each other’s shadowy figures.

“You all are on your own,” Candy said. Once more he moved off like a disembodied ghost, and a second later they heard the slam of the outside door and then the sharp click of the lock as Candy pulled it tight.

Jake gently put the tank on the floor and took a small spot flashlight from his pocket.

“No talking now,” he said. As he spoke he switched on the light aiming it up on the wall to his left where he knew the vent would be. The fight was on for only a split second but in that brief moment they all saw it. The grilled vent which led outside, but which they knew was only a few inches from a similar vent leading into the building next door.

“Get the hose attached and then hand me the end of it,” Jake said. “Vince, you find a damned chair or something I can stand on. And both of you be careful not to hit the valve on that tank. One mistake and they’ll find us all laying here when they open up for the matinee tomorrow afternoon.”

Five minutes later Jake stepped down from the leather seat of the chair.

“She’s in,” he said, “in and I got her plugged up around the hose as well as I can. But you better get the gas masks ready, just in case.”

He leaned down and fumbled around for a minute and then found the valve on the gas tank. Quickly he turned it on full.

“O.K,” he said, “back into the theater now. Get the tools out and have everything set. We got time, but we want everything ready. We’ll give it another twenty-five minutes, just to be on the safe side. If that Pinkerton hasn’t passed out by then, nothing will ever knock him over.”

He turned the flash on his wrist watch.

“At exactly a quarter to one we start breaking through the wall. I figure twenty minutes for that at the most. And be damned sure to keep the masks on.”

Once again he flicked on the light and quickly looked at the others.

“Dommie,” he said, “get the chopper out. Get out into the lobby and stay right there. Stay where you can watch the street. Anything suspicious, just the two short whistles. If anything happens once we get into the jewelry store, I expect you to stay right there and cover us until we get a chance to get out. Remember one thing, it’ll only take us five minutes once we get through the wall.”

“A lot can happen in five minutes,” Dommie said.

“A hellofa lot can happen,” Jake said. “But that’s just why you are going to be out there with the chopper. The chopper is the difference. All you have to do is remember that. The difference.”

“You think it would be safe to light a butt?” Vince asked. “They can’t see nothing in here.”

“No,” Jake said. “No cigarettes. And keep your voice low. Now Vince, just to review it. Once we get our hands on the stuff, I come back through the wall and pick up Dommie. We go out the way we came in, through the back door. We pick up the heap and drive around in front. You, Vince, come out through the front door of the jewelry store with the stuff. It’s a simple snap lock, opening from the inside.”

Vince cleared his throat.

“Only thing I don’t like is my coming out through that front door,” he said. “I still can’t see why…”

“I told you a thousand times,” Jake said, irritation in his voice. “I told you. The one really dangerous moment is when we start to drive out of the parking lot. A police cruiser comes along then and stops us and they’d stop us for sure. We’d be blocked in and wouldn’t have a hope. They check that parking lot two or three times a night. Looking for kids laying up. If by any chance they happen to hit us as Dommie and I are getting in, we got a chance to make a breakout. If we get caught, at least we ain’t got the loot and we can ditch the guns when we see ’em coming.

“But you’ll be in the clear and you’ll have the stuff. If everything goes all right, all you gotta do is walk out the front door. It’s a snap lock and closes behind you. We’ll be in front ready to pick you up and then, if the cops should happen by, at least we’re not trapped. We’re in the open and we got a chance.”

Dommie scratched a match to light a cigarette and Jake quickly cursed him and told him to put it out. And so they just sat there then, waiting.

The second time Jake flicked on the light and checked his watch, he grunted and got up from where he was squatting on his heels.

“All right, Dommie,” he said. “Out front. This is it. Vince, let me have the sledge. Hold the light and keep it on the wall. This stuff is nothing but plaster and lathe and it should go like cheese.”

Dommie walked into the lobby, carrying the machine gun under his arm as the first dull blow reverberated throughout the empty theater.

Vince suddenly stopped worrying. Now that they were in action, there was no longer time to worry. Anyway, he felt a quick surge of confidence. It was going to work. It was bound to work.

It was odd, odd and just a bit ironic, that he should have been reflecting upon the utter mediocrity of his life when the incident occurred.

The seven of clubs was responsible. That is to say, the seven of clubs which Gerald Hanna had drawn to fill an inside straight during the last hand of the evening had started him thinking about himself and about his life.

Gerald Hanna was not a man to draw to an inside straight. He wouldn’t, normally, gamble on any kind of straight, even if it was the last hand. As he pushed the money into the pot and asked for the card, he was subconsciously amazed at his audacity.

The fact that he filled, that he drew a seven to make a ten high run, so completely surprised him that for a moment or two he sat there thoroughly stunned.

Bill Baxter had to ask him twice what he wanted to do after he himself checked the bet.

It was the usual Friday night game, which was always held in Bill’s place, Bill being the only one of the regulars who was unmarried, or didn’t live with his family, or who had a suitable apartment. Bill worked down at Seaboard Life with Gerald and several of the other players.

Dr. Harry Kline, an examiner for the insurance company, and four or five other men who were regulars, were playing that evening.

It was a friendly kind of game, the sort of thing which happens in a thousand towns and cities where several men get together once a week for a night out. The limits were modest, usually a ten cent ante and a quarter raise with only two consecutive raises allowed, in keeping with the incomes, and the responsibilities, of the players. They were men in the six to ten thousand dollar a year bracket.

Mostly they would drink a few beers during the evening and the money for this was taken out of the pot a week in advance, although now and then Doc Kline would bring along a bottle of Scotch which he would share with anyone who cared for a drink.

The game started at eight o’clock and broke up sometime after midnight. No one ever got hurt very badly and there was never any ill feeling or anger. The nearest they ever came to it was the time Herb Potter got drunk and insisted on raising the limits after he’d gone for three hours without a hand. Even that was understandable and forgiven as it happened only a couple of weeks after Herb’s youngster died of polio and everyone knew that he was still feeling pretty much broken up.

They played a fair brand of poker, considering everything. It was usually straight draw with jacks or better to open, or five card stud and each player pretty much knew every other player’s game. Packy Wilson was inclined to bluff and Doc Kline was overly cagey, never staying unless he had a little the best of it before the draw, but all in all they played very evenly and conservatively.

No one, least of all Gerald Hanna, would have dreamed of drawing to an inside straight. But on this particular night Gerald did. And he filled. He raised twice and won over a pair of aces and jacks held by Doc Kline, taking in around four-eighty on the hand, which put him about six dollars ahead for the evening.

While he was pulling in the pot, Gerald told Doc Kline that he’d filled an inside straight and Doc Kline laughed sourly and, in a good-natured way, called him the world’s biggest liar.

“Don’t kid me,” Doc said. “You draw to an inside straight? Boy that’s one I’ll never believe. I’ll bet you haven’t left your house on a cloudy day in the last ten years without an umbrella and your rubbers.”

The funny thing was that Doc Kline was right. Gerald hadn’t.

Bill Baxter’s apartment was in the East Seventies and when they broke up, Doc Kline offered to drive Hanna home as he also lived on Long Island. Gerald rented a room and bath in Roslyn from a family who had been friends of his mother.

Gerald explained he’d driven his own car in that morning. He didn’t wait around to have the final post-game glass of beer with the others.

“Want to get to bed as soon as I can,” he said. “Got to get an early start in the morning and the traffic will probably be lousy, it being Saturday.”

They all knew what he meant.

Each week end, after the Friday night game, Gerald went to his rooms for a few hours’ sleep and then got up before dawn on Saturday morning to drive up to Connecticut to spend the week end with his girl.

They knew all about Gerald’s girl. He’d been engaged now for five years. Maryjane lived with her invalid father and worked as a librarian, and Gerald and she had agreed that they wouldn’t get married until he was earning enough to continue sending money to his own family and also support her father. It was the sensible thing to do, Gerald would argue, although now and then he began to wonder if he ever was going to get married, or if he actually really wanted to any longer.

In the meantime he saw Maryjane on week ends, and they did simple, inexpensive things together, like swimming and picnicking and going to the movies. Maryjane had become a habit. It was like everything else in his life, he reflected, a trifle bitterly. Dull, safe, respectable and routine.

Gerald left Bill’s apartment at ten to one and drove up the Drive to the Triborough Bridge and out to Long Island, Traffic was light when he reached Northern Boulevard and headed east. He obeyed all stoplights and stayed well within the speed limit. He was still thinking about that seven of clubs when he passed through Great Neck and reached the outskirts of Manhasset.

He was thinking of the seven of clubs and he was thinking of the incredible dullness of his own life. Until he was almost parallel to the Gorden-Frost Jewelry store he was completely oblivious of his surroundings, driving through the all too familiar streets by sheer instinct and with his mind a thousand miles away.

Jake had been optimistic about the time it would take to smash through the partition separating the theater from the jewelry store. It was closer to a half hour than to twenty minutes. Jake himself handled the heavy sledge hammer, not trusting Vince to use it for fear of his making too much noise.

Vince stood behind the older man, holding the pencil flash and wishing there was something he could do. The inactivity intensified nervousness and try as he might, he was unable to control the shaking of his hands.

For the first time since he had embarked on the venture, he began to have serious misgivings. It couldn’t work. They were bound to fail. The wall wouldn’t break down and even if it did, they would enter the jewelry store only to find the private detective waiting for them with his gun drawn. He was suddenly sure, now that it was too late, that the entire thing was impossible. Someone was bound to hear the heavy blows of the sledge and set up an alarm.

Vince strained his ears, trying to catch the wail of the police sirens he was positive must be approaching.

For a moment the flashlight wavered in his hands and in that instant, Vince had an irresistible desire to drop it and turn and flee for the rear exit of the theater. He half turned, prepared to put the thought into action, when Jake’s quick curse penetrated his mind.

“Jeeze, hold that light still,” he said in a husky whisper. “How the hell can I see.”

Vince quickly refocused the light. But he was unable to keep his mind from wandering.

He would have given anything, at that moment, to be back home in his own bed. Back home with Sue. Sue had been right. She was always right. If he didn’t behave himself, sooner or later he would end up in real trouble. God, if he’d only listened to her. But it was too late now, too late to do anything but go ahead. He was trapped; there was no turning back.

Jake was through with the sledge now. He’d broken through the plaster and had encountered the tough wire lathing. Jake had hoped that he’d encounter wood lathing, but he’d taken no chances. The heavy tin shears were in the bag and he lowered the gas mask in order to ask Vince to hand them to him.

Jake’s shirt was wet with sweat as he worked and Vince knew that the man’s face must be dripping under the gas mask. He could feel the water running down his own face and the plastic goggles kept clouding up with steam. He had to admire the way Jake handled things, the deliberate, steady pace with which he went about making the hole in the wall. Vince envied the other man his coolness under tension. He was feeling anything but calm and cool himself.

And then, before he realized it, they were through the wall and in the jewelry store.

It was just as Jake had said it would be. The Pinkerton man must have been sitting in a chair in the inner office when gas reached him and he had slipped and fallen to the floor.

Jake took a few seconds out to go over and check on him. He was breathing heavily and the two of them dragged him out into the hallway and Jake opened a window to clear out the air after quickly binding the detective’s wrists with wire. He didn’t bother to gag him; they wouldn’t be there long enough to make it necessary.

The safe itself was as simple as Jake had said it would be. It was only necessary to use the sledge to break it open and within minutes of entering the room, Jake was filling the bag with the jewels.

In less than ten minutes they were through. Jake went with him to the front door and handed him the bag. He pulled the gas mask from his face then, to speak.

“Give us five minutes to get the car and get around in front. If we are not there by then, it will mean something has gone wrong. Wait five minutes; no longer. If we’re not here, you’ll be on your own. Don’t use your flashlight to see your watch. Count. Count to five hundred. You’ll be able to see the car when we pull up in front.”

He slipped the gas mask back over his face and turned and quickly headed back through the store.

Vince began to count, moving his mouth silently.

Sergeant Clarence Dillon was driving, and he would never in the world have seen it if it hadn’t been for young Don Hardy, the probationary cop who was on his first night’s tour of regular duty and had been assigned to Dillon for the evening. The Sergeant, who was happily married and the father of three youngsters but who had a dangerous weakness for women, was thinking of the new carhop down at the all-night soft drink and hamburger stop. He was wondering just what his chances of making a successful pass might be if he should stop by when he got off duty.

She was a pretty kid, probably Italian, and she couldn’t be more than seventeen or eighteen. But she’d given him that certain look a half hour ago when they’d stopped for coffee and he was wondering about her and so his mind wasn’t on his job. He never even noticed the car parked at the curb in front of the new branch of the Gorden-Frost Jewelry Company-the car with its headlights off and its motor softly purring.

Hardy, who did spot the car, knew the motor was running because he could see, in the reflection of their own headlights, the exhaust fumes coming from the tailpipe.

They were almost opposite the car by the time Hardy got his companion’s attention and by then it was too late to do anything but pull up several yards in front of the car.

Hardy hadn’t seen anyone, but the second he swung out of the door and to the pavement and turned back, he realized what must have happened. The occupants, and there were apparently two of them, had ducked down as the squad car passed. Now the doors of the sedan were opening and a man was getting out from each side.

Probationary Patrolman Hardy reached for his police positive.

In spite of his preoccupation with young women, Sergeant Dillon was a good cop and a thoroughly experienced man in his business.

The situation was obvious. There was a car parked with its engine running, its lights extinguished. The car was in front of a jewelry store. It was very late at night and the neighborhood was deserted.

The Sergeant didn’t look back at the car; his eyes went to the front of the store and he was just in time to see the figure leave the shadowy entrance and run toward the curb.

A city cop might have fired first and then yelled. But the Sergeant worked out of Mineola, the county seat, and most of his experience had been with prowlers and petty criminals.

His gun was in his hand as he called out the command.

“Hey, you! Hold it right there!”

In that second, Dommie forgot everything they’d ever rehearsed. He lifted the machine gun and it was pointed directly at Sergeant Dillon. The first finger of his right hand pressed hard on the trigger and stayed that way. Stayed that way while the weapon leaped and chattered and the stream of leaden slugs buried themselves one after another in the Sergeant’s body.

Probationary Patrolman Hardy didn’t lose his head. His eyes had been on the figure leaving the doorway, but the moment Dommie pressed the trigger of the submachine gun, Hardy swung to face him. His first bullet struck the radiator of the sedan, but the second caught Dommie in the stomach as the last of the bullets left the barrel of the tommy gun.

He swung the revolver then, taking the chance that his shot had gone home, and aimed it at Jake, who was running directly toward him. The two fired in the same instant and each shot was effective. Jake staggered, a bullet in his chest just below the heart, and slowly dropped to the pavement.

But the gunman’s shot also found its mark, striking Hardy in the right temple and glancing off without actually penetrating the skull itself. The shock was enough to drop him, and Hardy’s gun fell from his hand as he went down. He was unconscious for several seconds.

Vince Dunne never was quite sure what had happened.

He’d been at the door waiting when the sedan swung around and stopped in front of the place. Jake was in the driver’s seat and Jake had waved to him as he’d cut the lights.

Vince had to fumble to find the catch on the jewelry store’s door and it had taken a second or two and then he had the door open and was starting out when he looked up and saw that Jake was frantically waving him back. It was only then that he spotted the squad car.

It wasn’t that he panicked. It was only that he realized if he went back inside he’d be cooked. Wouldn’t have a chance. He had to get to the car, cops or no cops. Holding the bag which held the jewels tight and close to his chest, he started across the wide sidewalk to reach the sedan. He was climbing into the back when the fireworks started.

The minute Vince looked up and saw Jake slipping to the sidewalk and heard the staccato rattle of the gunfire, he went into action. He reached for his own gun as he climbed over to the front seat and slipped under the wheel. It wasn’t until he shoved his foot down on the pedal and rammed the car into gear that he knew the engine was dead. He never did realize that the first slug from Hardy’s gun had smashed into the distributor, shattering it into a thousand parts. All he knew was that when he pushed the starter button, nothing happened.

Frantically he leaped to the street, still clutching the bag and with his own .38 held tight in his other hand.

He hesitated only long enough to fire twice, aiming directly at the prone body of Patrolman Hardy. The body jerked as the bullets smashed into it. Then Vince looked up.

That’s when he saw the Chevvie convertible drawn up opposite the sedan, a man behind the wheel with his eyes staring and his mouth wide open.

Probationary Patrolman Hardy was unconscious for less than a full minute and once he came to, it took several seconds to orient himself. His outstretched hand found the gun lying next to him on the pavement. He was dying, even then, but of this he wasn’t aware.

He still had time to fire the two remaining shots from his service revolver. He couldn’t be sure about it at all, later on when he was making his deathbed statement to the inspector in the emergency ward at the hospital, but he felt pretty positive that at least nine of the shots had gotten the third gunman who was escaping in the second getaway car. He was also pretty sure the second shot had hit the car.

The shattered windshield glass which they found on the road afterward would seem to bear him out on this.

One thing he was sure about. The second car had been a late model Chevvie, a two-tone convertible, black and yellow, and the license plate was a New York issue. The last number on the plate was a “3.”

It was the sound of the gunfire which brought Gerald Hanna to. He had no idea at all of what was happening, but instinctively pulled to a stop, his eyes wide with shocked surprise and horror as he saw the bodies lying in the street in front of him. He watched as Vince Dunne pumped two shots into the body of the already fallen patrolman.

A moment later the man in the goggles and the cap and black leather jacket jerked open the door of his car and climbed in beside him. Gerald Hanna didn’t have to be told what was being shoved into his ribs.

“Get going! Fast!”

He wasn’t more than normally quick-witted and he didn’t have a great deal of imagination, but for once in his life he didn’t need a lot.

Gerald rammed his foot down on the accelerator and the Chevvie shot forward. As it did, there was a burst of gunfire and the windshield in front of his face cracked and splintered.

Gerald Hanna’s life had ceased being dull.

The man’s voice was a mumbled whisper when he spoke. The pressure of the gun in his side had lessened, but Gerald knew it was still there. He half turned his head.

“Take the next right.”

He slowed the car, surprised that no one was following him. He made the turn, just north of Roslyn.

It was a little used road and Gerald wasn’t familiar with it. They passed a few scattered houses and then there was nothing.

Gerald was about to speak, when he heard the man at his side groan and then a moment later there was no longer any pressure at all from the gun and he heard the thud as it fell to the floor.

He stole a quick glance at his companion as they passed under one of the widely separated street lights. The man’s cap had fallen off and the goggles had dropped down on his thin, white face and his eyes were closed. He was slumped low in the seat.

Gerald took a chance and made a right turn at the next intersection. His passenger said nothing. Five minutes later he pulled to a stop in a lonely place in the road.

The map light illuminated the interior of the car as he reached quickly for the fallen gun. A moment later he knew that he wouldn’t need it.

The man was dead.

It wasn’t, however, the body at his side which held Gerald Hanna in frozen fascination. It was the half-opened bag which lay on the floor of the car. Cascading out of it and lying at his feet was a glittering mass of diamonds and rubies and emeralds. Necklaces, bracelets, earrings and one or two watches.

Sue Dunne clicked off the television set at eleven-fifteen, as soon as the late news was over. She was tired and decided to go to bed, although it was actually very early for her. Friday nights were always like this; the one night of the week when she didn’t work and had free time, but the one night when she really enjoyed getting to bed early.

That was the trouble with the job at the cafeteria. Or at least, one of the troubles. There were others, of course. Somehow or other, during the past year while she had worked as a night cashier in the place, her whole life had seemed all topsy-turvy. She still couldn’t get used to sleeping during the day and working at night; six nights a week, from six in the evening until three in the morning.

Not that it was hard work. Just tedious. Standing there at the cash register and going through the same inane motions hour after hour, night after night. It was a dull, uninteresting job, but it was a job and the pay wasn’t bad.

It wasn’t the pay, however, which kept her interested. It was the part about having the afternoons free. Free at least to allow her to go on with her studies. Sue was bound and determined to become a singer and she had few illusions about her potential career. She knew it would take a lot of studying and a lot of practice, along with a certain number of breaks. Having those afternoons free gave her the time for studying and practice. There was no one around in the afternoons to complain about her singing and for this she was grateful.

There were, of course, other ways to pursue her career. It had not taken a girl as good looking as Sue Dunne long to find out these ways. There were the offers of night-club work and there were the other offers. Offers which had been made to her by various men who would have been only too glad to have helped further her career.

Once or twice, coming home in the early morning dead tired from standing on her feet for hours, discouraged with the little money she was making and the high cost of her music lessons, she had been almost tempted to take up one of those offers. But it had only been a passing thought. Quickly she had smiled, wryly, and dismissed such thoughts from her mind. She’d do it the hard way, no matter how long it took. At least she had plenty of time. At nineteen, you always have plenty of time.

She left the light on in the hallway and checked to see that the door was locked and then she went into the bedroom and closed the door. There was no telling what time Vince would be getting in. Vince slept on a pulled-out couch in the living room of the small apartment and he was always quiet when he came in.

That was one of the things she worried about with Vince. He was too quiet.

She took a warm shower after undressing and then climbed into a pair of men’s pajamas and went to the window and raised it wide. For several moments she stood there, looking out over the fire escape at the long row of silhouetted apartment houses which lay to the west. At last she sighed and turned and went to the bed. Before pulling the sheet over her, she reached up and set the alarm clock on the side table. She wanted to be up early, before Vince had a chance to leave the house. She’d made up her mind; she would just have to talk to him in the morning. He wouldn’t like it, but she was going to talk to him anyway.

It seemed incredible to her that Vince, who was himself nineteen years old, could be such a baby, such a complete child. You’d think, after the trouble he’d already been in, that he would have learned something. That he’d know enough to stay away from bad companions.

Sue had met Dommie and Jack Riddle and one or two others whom Vince had been running around with. Dommie was bad enough, but at least he was only a boy himself. But Riddle. That was hard to understand. She didn’t actually know anything about the older man, but she didn’t have to. What was a man of his age hanging around with a kid like Vince for anyway. It couldn’t be for anything good.

Riddle was one of the men who hung around the cafeteria in the late evenings. He and a half a dozen others. Bookies and loan sharks. She knew the type all right. You can’t be a cashier in an all-night restaurant for a year without picking up a lot of stray information about the types who hang around such places.

Slaughter himself had told her about Riddle and some of the others who patronized the place. He knew them all. He’d warned her not to have anything to do with them.

“No good bums,” he had told her. “Operators. Stay clear of them.”

The odd thing was that in spite of his advice, Slaughter himself hung around with the very worst of them. In fact, he held a sort of court each night at one of the back tables and they would drift in and sit down and then there would be the whispered conversations, the occasional exchange of money.

Fred Slaughter owned the cafeteria, as well as the bar next door and Lord only knows what else. He was a man of many and varied interests.

Well, it was probably one of the reasons he was able to warn her about men like Riddle. He knew them and did some sort of business with them.

At first she had thought that it was only because Slaughter liked her and had a sort of fatherly interest in her. He’d been nice about giving her the job, had seemed to take an interest in both her and Vince, whom he knew all about. But she’d soon learned that his interest was anything but fatherly.

Not that he’d been insistent or anything. Just made his pass, the way most men did sooner or later. Tried to take her out and when she had made her position very clear to him, had been a little nasty. But he hadn’t tired her and after a while he’d left her alone.

Slaughter had plenty of women and she guessed that he just hadn’t wanted to bother. She was a good cashier, so he left her alone and had gone on about his business.

By this time she had begun to realize that whatever Slaughter’s business was, it involved a lot more than just owning a bar and cafeteria.

Thinking about it. her mind once more went back to Vince. It had been very tough after their mother died. She and Vince were seventeen at the time and Vince was in reform school. They’d picked him up in a stolen car and sent him away, and Sue was living alone with her mother at the time. She’d already had to leave school herself and was working.

The authorities had investigated, after the funeral, but when they found that she had a job and was able to support herself they had lost interest and had left her alone.

That job had ended after a year when a new boss came in and made things difficult. She’d quit and that was when she got the job in the cafeteria. Slaughter had learned about Vince and he must have had excellent connections because he’d been able to get him out on parole.

Vince was supposed to go to work as a bus boy in Slaughter’s place, but he hadn’t lasted long. He’d had a fight with a waiter and the manager had fired him. Slaughter heard about it, but he’d merely shrugged his shoulders.

“The kid will get another job,” he said. “In the meantime, don’t worry about it. I’ll tell the parole officer he’s still working here, until “he finds something else.”

The trouble was, Vince hadn’t found anything else. It had been a couple of months now, and Sue slowly began to realize that Vince wasn’t even looking. Instead, he was hanging around with Jake and with Dommie and some of the others.

Sue leaned up on her elbow and snapped on the table light. She found a pack of cigarettes and hunched a pillow under her shoulders so that she was half sitting up in bed.

Yes, she would have to talk with Vince in the morning. Vince wasn’t the brightest boy in the world, but Sue knew that he wasn’t really bad. He had sworn he hadn’t known the car was stolen, but the judge hadn’t believed him and they’d sent him away. In a sense, it was a tragedy. He’d been a different boy when he’d come back.

She finished the cigarette and stubbed it out and once more turned off the light and settled down in the bed. She was determined to get some sleep. She wanted to talk with Vince the first thing in the morning and she had a date at eleven o’clock at the television station for a commercial tryout. She wanted to be fresh and rested when she got there.

She’d just stop thinking about Vince and worrying about him-at least for the time being. He’d listen to her. There was no use worrying about it now. She just wished, though, that he’d get home. It was dangerous for him to be running around this late at night. If the parole board should find out…

By one-thirty, Sue Dunne had fallen into a restless, fretful sleep. Several times during the night she turned on the narrow bed, moaning slightly. Once she woke up for a moment or two, her eyes wide and frightened and her pretty, heart-shaped face bathed in perspiration. She half sat up, her slender body tense, and then slowly sank back on the bed.

She realized that she’d been having a nightmare and forced herself to again close her eyes. She slept then, the deep, quiet sleep of exhaustion, until sometime after daybreak.

When Gerald Hanna made his decision as he sat there in the front seat of the Chevvie on that lonesome stretch of deserted road out on Long Island in the early hours of Saturday morning, it was a sharp and a sudden thing.

It was seeing the fortune in stolen jewels glittering on the floor mat of the car in the dim rays cast by the dash light which triggered that decision. What brought it about, however, was a long series of events and circumstances which actually bore no relationship to the jewels or the method by which they had arrived at their present destination.

To understand this decision, it is necessary to know something about and to understand Gerald Hanna himself. Gerald belonged to that class which is loosely and incorrectly referred to as the great middle class. A white collar worker, employed by an insurance firm as an actuary, his background and upbringing was as normal, as routine, as mediocre, as it would be possible to imagine. He’d graduated from high school, taken two years at a Midwestern state university, and come East. He’d had to find a job but had also wanted to finish his education. The job, as a mechanic in a garage, had enabled him to complete a second two-year course at a business school. Then he had gone to work for the insurance firm which had hired him directly upon his graduation.

His college career had presaged his later business life. His marks had been average, he dabbled without distinction at a few extracurricular sports and activities. He didn’t bother much with girls, coming from slightly poverty-stricken but respectable parents who had to strain themselves in order to see him through college at all. He was a normal, rather dull, thoroughly respectable, reliable and very average young man. He had neither unusual vices nor outstanding virtues. He was, in short, the stuff of which the backbone of the nation is made up.

A hernia which bothered him not at all had kept him out of military service, for which he was vaguely grateful.

At thirty, Gerald was a good-looking, medium-built young man who still had all of his hair and almost all of his teeth. He was beginning to believe that his eyes were getting a bit nearsighted and had recently been promising himself to find out if he would be needing glasses, at least for reading. He had normal taste, rather limited ambition (knowing the possibilities of an insurance actuary’s career), and a sort of lingering desire to get married and settle down. He had met Maryjane Swiftwater at a house party given by one of the men who worked in his office, and they had been engaged for several years.

He had known, for some time now, that there was something wrong with his life. But he didn’t know quite what it was. Didn’t know, except that he realized his job was dull, his activities were dull and that even the girl he planned and hoped to marry had herself become just a little dull with the passing of the waiting years.

That evening he had taken a foolish chance when he had drawn to an inside straight. It wasn’t a matter of the petty sum of money involved. It was a silly, ridiculous thing to do. As an actuary, he could figure percentages.

But he had taken the chance and drawn to the inside straight and it had paid off.

Now, here, lying at his feet, was a fortune in gems.

Gerald’s decision involved a second foolish chance. A chance contrary to every law of percentages. A truly insane chance.

Gerald Hanna flipped on the dashboard light and opened the door at his side of the car. He circled around the front of the car and opened the other door. The boy’s body was surprisingly light. It took him only a minute or two to half lift and half drag the mortal remains of Vince Dunne from the front seat and over to the side of the road. He was almost gentle as he laid his burden into the pile of bushes, making only a slight effort to conceal it.

That was the easy part of it. What was a thousand times harder was making the trip back to Roslyn and the house in which he lived; finding the house and opening the garage doors and putting the ear away and taking the jewels and the gun and wrapping them in his jacket and carrying them up to his room.

He knew the chance he was taking; knew the percentages. He wasn’t sure, of course, if the car had been identified. Wasn’t sure that even now the pickup alarm wasn’t out. He also knew the chance of a cruising policeman stopping a car with a broken windshield, on general suspicion. Of course, if it happened before he turned into his own street, it would be all right. He’d just tell the truth, tell them that he was on the way to find help.

But it hadn’t been necessary; there had been no one to tell. He’d made the house without passing a single car or person. That had been a break and the second break was one which already existed and made it possible for him to put his plan into operation. The second break was the fact that the family from whom he rented his rooms were away for a month’s vacation in Bermuda. He had the house to himself and what was more important, he had the garage to himself.

There were neighbors, of course, but no one ever came around and even the milkman had suspended service while the owners were absent.

Sitting there in the small bedroom with the blinds carefully drawn and only the single dim desk light on for illumination, he was looking at more wealth, or potential wealth, than he would normally see if he worked for the rest of his life and saved up every cent he was ever to make.

Until this moment, not once in his entire life had he ever considered doing anything dishonest.

Very suddenly he laughed.

Well, in the purest sense of the word, he still hadn’t. A man with a gun in his hand had forced his way into his car. The man had later died, probably of a gunshot wound sustained in a battle with the police and had. conveniently, left a fortune in jewels scattered at his feet.

Gerald had merely removed a body which had intruded on him. He had driven home. One life already had paid for the gems and if Gerald was any sort of judge and his eyes hadn’t deceived him, several other lives had been forfeited. Certainly it was too late to do anything about that.

As for the owners of the gems, Gerald was certain they were covered by insurance.

Having spent some of the best years of his life slaving for a surety company which neglected to pay him enough money to get married and live decently, Gerald was not overly sympathetic. After all, that was why they were in business and why they charged very high premiums-to take care of just such losses as this.

Before going to bed, he did two things. He returned to the garage and removed the fragments of glass from the broken windshield. Then he carefully checked the car for bloodstains, wiped it over with a damp rag.

He placed the jewels in a brief case and put it into his bottom dresser drawer. He knew there would be no point in trying to hide the stuff; he must take a gamble that no one had taken the license number of his car.

It was a calculated risk and one which, in view of the possible rewards, he was perfectly willing to assume.

It was very much like the poker game; he’d already filled his inside straight. Now all he had to do was be sure no one else held a higher hand and he would collect the proper rewards for the rather insane risk he was taking.

Just before falling asleep, Gerald Hanna reminded himself that he must be sure and call Maryjane the first thing in the morning. He must make the proper excuses about the week end. It would, of course, be perfect if he were only able to run up to Connecticut as he usually did, but that would be impossible. You can’t run around in a car without a windshield. Certainly not in a certain Chevvie convertible which even now was sitting downstairs in the garage.

The idea of disappointing Maryjane failed to upset him and he had no difficulty in falling asleep almost at once.

After all, Maryjane had been disappointing him for a number of years now.

The people who knew Maryjane Swiftwater all agreed on one thing-she was a nice girl. A nice girl and a good girl. Just look at the way she took care of that invalid father of hers. And everyone knows how hard invalids are to get along with.

The expression Maryjane used, however, as she slammed the receiver back on the hook, was anything but nice. In fact, even people who didn’t know Maryjane and hadn’t as much as thought about her one way or the other, would have been hard put to figure out how anyone who looked as sweetly innocent and demure as Miss Swiftwater, would even know such an expression.

Old Horace Swiftwater, however, was neither surprised nor shocked when he overheard his daughter’s bitter voice as she hung up. Horace knew his daughter very well indeed.

“What’s the trouble, baby,” he called, from the front room where he sat in the wheel chair with the afghan over his shrunken legs. “Was that Gerald?”

“It was indeed,” his daughter said, striding into the room. She looked over at her father hatefully. “He must be either drunk or insane. He knew very well that I’ve planned the outing for this afternoon. How he can dare, at the last minute…”

“He’s unable to come up?”

For a moment Maryjane stared at him, as though aware for the first time that he was in the room. Her small, sharp face was bitter and the thin mouth was drawn tight as her pale eyes looked him slowly up and down.

“No excuses-nothing,” she said. “Just called and said not to expect him this week end. As though he didn’t know that I’ve been planning for weeks now…”

“Perhaps he’s ill,” the old man said. “You know how it is sometimes, a man…”

“Oh, God, I know all right,” Maryjane said. “Don’t think I could have been around here for the last dozen years waiting on you hand and foot without knowing. But he isn’t ill. There’s nothing wrong with Gerald. He just merely called and said he wasn’t coming up. And when I very politely asked him why he wasn’t, he didn’t say a thing for so long that I had to repeat my question. And then do you know what?”

She stopped for a minute as she stared at her father and her eyes narrowed.

“He said that he damned well didn’t want to come. Can you imagine? Gerald Hanna-said that he damned well didn’t want…”

She sputtered and stopped speaking then, her face suffused with color and her slender, reedy body shaking in anger and frustration.

“The boy must have been drinking,” Swiftwater said. “Perhaps…”

“Please don’t be a fool. Father,” Maryjane said. “Gerald drinking! The very idea is preposterous.”

“Well, then maybe he meant what he said,” the old man said, taking his eyes away from his daughter and staring out of the window. “Maybe he’s finally getting tired of waiting, getting tired of having you postpone…”

She swung toward him swiftly and for a second it looked almost as though she was going to strike him.

“Gerald knows very well why we must wait,” she said. “And certainly you, of all people, can’t accuse me of postponing or procrastinating. As long as I have you to take care of, and Gerald must send money home to his family, marriage is out of the question. Gerald knows it and he agrees with me.”

For a long moment the old man looked at his daughter and then slowly shook his head.

“Baby,” he said, his voice tired and old, “baby, you know better than that. Nothing stands in the way of you and Gerald getting married except you yourself. I can manage to get by all right. I’ve got my pension and I can go to a home…”

“No father of mine is going to go to a home so long as I can work,” Maryjane said. “Just stop talking foolishness. Anyway, Gerald still has to send money home and he makes so pitifully little.”

Once more the old man shook his head.

“I won’t argue with you, baby,” he said. “You know the truth as well as I do. I’d be happier in a home and no matter how little Gerald makes, you two could get along if you really wanted to. You’re like your mother-you’re afraid. You’re afraid of marriage and what marriage means. You want a husband but you don’t…”

Maryjane turned and started for the door. She yelled the words in a thin high voice over her shoulder as she left the room.

“You’re a miserable old man,” she said. “You have a bad mind. You don’t understand; you just don’t understand anything…”

She was crying as she ran up the stairs and slammed the door of her bedroom.

Flinging herself on the white counterpane of the single four-poster bed, she doubled her fists and pounded the mattress at her sides.

“They’re all dirty-all men,” she said in a high, tight voice. “Vile, lecherous, filthy…”

The words ended in a hysterical series of sobs as she lay staring up at the ceiling with the tears flowing from her half-closed eyes.

She didn’t quite know how or why, but she just assumed that once they were man and wife, his masculinity would no longer frighten and shock her.

She never thought of herself as being cold or frigid; she merely thought of herself as decent and proper. She knew all about sex, having read considerable material on the subject, but it was a knowledge obtained solely from books. In fact, she prided herself on her open-mindedness and her intellectual approach to something which she considered to be, after all, a minor part of the relationship between a man and a woman.

She never did know how she’d happened to let him talk her into agreeing to spend the week end at the lodge up in Saratoga. The place was owned by a friend of Gerald’s and he told her that his friend and his friend’s wife had asked them both up over the week end. They drove up, leaving on Friday night.

It was a small, weather-beaten shanty, a sort of hunting cabin, up in the mountains above the town and they went up late in the fall when the weather was brisk and clear and very cold at night. He’d been there before and he had no difficulty in finding the place in spite of the lonely back roads leading to it. They arrived near midnight-finding the cabin completely dark.

She hadn’t suspected anything at first, had merely assumed that Gerald’s friends had tired of waiting for them and retired. Gerald had taken their bags from the car and gone to the front door and let himself in, using a key that he carried. The place was empty and he explained that their hosts were probably late getting away from the city and had not arrived as yet.

There was a fire already laid in the great field-stone fireplace, which covered one wall of the room, and Gerald had lighted it. Then, while she warmed herself and took off her coat, he went into the kitchen and made a pot of hot coffee.

She was chilled through and the steaming coffee was welcome. Immediately she noticed the peculiar taste and Gerald explained that he’d laced it with brandy. She protested, as she almost never drank, but he’d insisted. It was odd the effect the drink had on her. It seemed to go through her veins like fire, warming her and making her pleasantly drowsy. He hadn’t had to argue about her taking a second cup.

Later, when she came to think about it, she realized that those two drinks had actually made her half drunk. It was while she was finishing that second cup that Gerald had confessed to her. The people who owned the cabin were not coming up. They would be alone in the place.

The strange thing was that she had argued only feebly. She knew of course that she should have insisted and that they left at once. She should have been furious at his deception. But the fact was she was very tired from the drive and she hated to face the thought of the long, lonely road back. She hated to leave the warm comfort of the place.

He had pulled the great bear rug from the couch and thrown it on the floor in front of the fireplace and she stretched out on it, half dozing in front of the flickering flames. She was only half conscious of his sitting beside her, holding her head in his lap as he talked with her. She was very drowsy, and the brandy was making her sleepy so she only half listened as he talked.

Then suddenly she had decided that she hated him; that she hated all men but especially him.

The strange part of it was the decision she reached the moment she realized it. She would never let him go. She would marry him, as they had planned, sometime in the future. He must belong to her, now and forever. But there must be time, time for her to adjust herself.

He owed her something and he must be made to pay for it. Yes, they would be married, but when the time came, things would be different. It would be a marriage on her terms, not his.

She was the stronger of the two; in spite of what he had done to her, she was the stronger. And it would work out the way she wanted it to. There was no doubt about that in her mind.

Lying on the bed and thinking things over, her thin-lipped mouth formed into a hard thin line and her jaw became resolute and firm. Gerald was like her father and she could handle him the same way she handled her father. If he thought he could callously break dates with her, he’d have another guess coming.

It was the sound of the ringing of the bell which awakened Sue, but she didn’t open her eyes. Instead her hand instinctively reached out and she fumbled around until she found the small, square clock and pressed the button on the top of it.

The ringing stopped and she started to fall back on the bed again. But just as her head again reached the pillow, the ringing began once more.

“Damn,” she said, her voice low and sleepy. This time she opened her eyes and the first thing she noticed, even before again seeking the clock, was the fact that it was barely daylight.

Almost immediately it came to her then. It wasn’t the alarm clock at all which had awakened her. The ringing was coming from the other room. She grabbed the dressing gown from the end of the bed as she leaped to her feet and started for the door. It wasn’t the telephone. It wasn’t that kind of a ring. It must be the doorbell.

Sue Dunne silently cursed whoever it was that was waking up the household at this unearthly hour.

The living room curtains were drawn and the room was in semidarkness, but she had no trouble finding her way to the front door which opened directly into the apartment. The first thing she noticed was that the burglar chain was not in its slot, but the significance of this failed to register. She twisted the knob and when the door didn’t at once open, realized that the lock had been snapped. She turned it and opened the door, standing in front of it sleepy-eyed and barely avoiding a wide yawn. With her robe held tight around her and her disheveled hair circling her small sleepy face, she looked very much like a little girl. Which, indeed, she was.

The man didn’t open his mouth. Didn’t say a word. He waited only a second until the door three-quarters opened and then he suddenly lunged forward and crashed into the room, pushing her roughly aside with one heavy, long arm as he entered. It was then that she saw the gun in his hand.

Sue didn’t scream. She did nothing, nothing at all but simply stand there, her mouth agape and her eyes wide and alarmed.

He moved fast, still saying nothing. The hand which was not holding the gun whipped out and found the light switch and the room was suddenly bathed in brilliance. It took him less than a second to see that there was no one in the room except the two of them and before Sue had a chance to find her voice, he passed on into the bedroom. She heard the slam of the bathroom door and then the sound of the closet opening and closing. A moment later and he was back, standing in the doorway between the living room and the bedroom.

“All right, where is he?”

For a long moment she just stood there staring at him. She wasn’t frightened; it had been too sudden for that.

Wordlessly she moved and half fell into the big upholstered chair near the window. Quickly she shook her head, getting the sleep out of her mind. She started to open her mouth, to say something, and then suddenly stopped. Her eyes had gone quickly around the room and for the first time she saw that the folding bed hadn’t been pulled out. Vince had not returned home from the late movie.

“Vincent Dunne,” the man said. “He lives here, doesn’t he, sister?”

Sue realized that her dressing gown had fallen open and that the top of her pajamas was unbuttoned. Instinctively she clutched the cloth of the robe close to her bosom.

“Say! Say, just who are you?” she said. Her voice was filled with indignation.

For the first time he looked at her as though she might be human. He didn’t smile, but at least he looked a little less like a maniac.

“Sorry,” he said. He put the gun in his side pocket and then reached into a second pocket and took out the nickel shield.

“Detective Wilson. Out of Headquarters,” he said. “Sorry to bust in like this, Miss. But I’m looking for a punk named Vincent Dunne. Understand he lives here. That right?”

“Vincent Dunne is my brother and he lives here all right,” Sue said. She was fully awake at last and the fear which had escaped her when the man first burst into the apartment was all too apparent at last. But the fear had nothing to do with the man who stood facing her.

“What is it?” she asked. “What has Vince done. Why are you here? What…”

“Take it easy, Miss,” the detective said. “I don’t know if he’s done anything. I’m just anxious to see him. You say he lives here? Then where…”

In spite of herself, her eyes went helplessly around the room.

“Yes, he lives here,” she said at last, her voice weak. She fought to keep the fear out of it, to keep her chin from quivering. “Please,” she said. “Please? Is Vince in some sort of trouble? Has he…”

“I’m just trying to find him, that’s all. Just want to talk to him. You say he lives here? Then how come…”

Sue stood up and unconsciously went toward the couch which made up into a bed.

“He’s not here,” she said. “He went out last night, to a movie, and he hasn’t come back. Tell me…”

“Your brother hang around with a guy by the name of Dominic Petri?” Detective Wilson asked. “Kid about twenty-one, twenty-two. Goes by the name Dommie. Does your brother know him?”

Sue looked at the man for a moment and then slowly shook her head.

“I don’t know who he knows,” she said.

“Or a man named Jake Riddle?”

She couldn’t help but start as he mentioned the name. She didn’t know what to do, didn’t know what to say. All she could do was wonder and worry. Worry where Vince was, what he’d been doing. Why hadn’t he come home? Where…

“I can see that he knows them,” Wilson said. “You want to help your brother, you best come clean. Tell me…”

“I’ve heard those names,” Sue said. “That’s all, just heard the names. Vince may have known them, but they weren’t friends of his. I’m sure of that. They weren’t friends of his. Vince is just a kid. He’s a good boy; he doesn’t hang out with riffraff. He…”

“He’s fresh out of reform school and on parole. He’s a punk. If you don’t know it, you should. Now, come on, tell me…”

This time, when the bell suddenly rang and interrupted his words, Sue didn’t have to think to know what it was. There was no doubt about it. It was the phone which stood on the end table next to her and the shrill sound of the ring cut his voice short.

For a second both their eyes went to the instrument and then the detective quickly looked back at her. She could see that he wanted her to answer it and as she leaned over to take the receiver from the hook, he quickly crossed the room, leaning close so that he might overhear the voice at the other end.

“Yes?” Her voice was a bare whisper.

The voice which came through the wires was even lower than her own. A deep, soft, masculine voice.

“Vince there?”

She hesitated a moment and looked up at the detective who stared at her without expression.

“Who’s calling?” she asked.

“I want to speak to Vince Dunne. It’s important.”

“Who is this?” Sue said. “This is Vincent’s sister. Who’s calling him, please?”

Quickly the detective leaned over and took the telephone from her and put the receiver to his ear. He listened for a second or two and then spoke in a high, disguised voice.

“Vince talking,” he said.

He waited a moment or two and then spoke again. “This is Vince,” he said. “Who’s this?”

There was a sharp sound of a click at the other end of the wire and in a moment Wilson hung up the receiver in disgust.

He turned once more to the girl.

“Better get your clothes on,” he said. “There’s a man down at Headquarters wants to talk to you. Detective Lieutenant Hopper-of Homicide.”

Sue slowly nodded and stood up. She looked sick.

“I suppose I can go inside and get dressed?” she said.

Detective Wilson nodded.

“Sure, kid,” he said. “Go right ahead. And don’t take it so hard. Maybe nothing happened at all. Maybe your brother wasn’t mixed up in anything and just stayed out over night.”

He watched her as she crossed the room and entered the bedroom.

Yeah, maybe. But he didn’t believe it. Didn’t believe it at all.

And neither did Sue Dunne believe it.

The house, sitting well back on the half-acre plot, was in one of the older sections of town. It was surrounded by large shade trees and a high privet hedge protected it from the street in front and the neighbors on each side and the rear. It was one of the first split-level houses built, having been constructed to fit the natural slope of the land rather than conform to a popular building fashion. As a result, the three levels conformed with the landscaping naturally, allowing the garage level and basement to follow the contours of the driveway, which came in on the right side as one entered the grounds.

A flagstone walk led from a break in the hedge to the front door, which opened onto the second floor.

Originally the house had been designed for a doctor who planned to practice out of his home. Entering a central hallway, a visitor was confronted by a wide arch, which had been curtained off, and doors on each side. The door to the left led downstairs into the garage and basement; the door on the right led into the main residential part of the house, which consisted of half the second floor and all of the third. The archway itself led into what had originally been planned as the doctor’s offices.

When the present owners had purchased the house, they had converted the office section into a separate small apartment. This consisted of a living room, a small bedroom, a bath and a tiny kitchenette. These were the quarters which Gerald Hanna had rented and in which he lived. He paid only a nominal rent as the family which owned the house had been friends of his mother and leased out the apartment more as a personal favor then because of any desire for extra income.

The Sandersons, his mother’s friends, were an elderly couple whose children had long ago married and left to establish homes of their own. Carl Sanderson was a retired bank executive and he and his wife spent a good deal of time traveling. At present they were in Bermuda, where they usually spent the spring and part of the summer. They were only too glad to have Gerald as a tenant, liking the idea of someone around the place while they were away.

Gerald had the run of the house, but by preference stayed pretty much to his own quarters. He did, however, keep an eye on things. He saw to it that the gardener, hired for a few days each month, kept the lawn and the hedges trimmed and he also made a point of seeing that the Sandersons’ car was maintained in running condition. He checked to see that the tires didn’t become deflated from standing idle or the battery run down. There was no telling when the Sandersons might suddenly decide to return and he made it a point to be sure everything would be ready in case they did. In this fashion he partly made up for the low rent which he paid for his own quarters.

The converted doctor’s offices made a pleasant and convenient bachelor’s apartment; would in fact have been satisfactory for a childless couple. Maryjane Swiftwater, however, on the single occasion when she had visited Gerald, had found it hopelessly inadequate when he had casually suggested that it might make their immediate marriage possible. He hadn’t argued; for some odd reason he himself found the idea of sharing the apartment with a wife-or at least with Maryjane-slightly unattractive.

When Gerald returned in the early hours of the morning he had, for one of the few times in his life, neglected to set his alarm clock. As a result he awakened late, or at least late for him. It was well after seven-thirty when he slowly woke up and the sun was already streaming through the sheer curtains of his bedroom window, which faced to the east.

For a moment or two, as he opened his eyes and stretched, the events of the previous night were erased from his mind. He started to leap from the bed, remembering only that he had to hurry if he was to arrive in Connecticut as he had planned. And then, halfway to the bathroom, he stopped dead in his tracks. Connecticut? No, it wasn’t to Connecticut that he was going this Saturday.

He turned to the dresser where he had placed the jewels and he was unable to resist the temptation to pull open the drawer and check on them. There they were in all of their loveliness.

His eyes went to the clock as he checked the time. It had been more than five hours since he had left the scene of the robbery and the shooting. He breathed a sigh of sudden relief. He began to feel a little safer. No one could have obtained the number of his car; certainly not one of the policemen who had been lying in the street. They would have checked it and found him by now for sure. His calculated risk was beginning to pay off.

He took his time showering and shaving, having put a pot of coffee on to boil first. And then he dressed, getting into a pair of slacks and an open-necked shirt and putting on a pair of tennis shoes. He fried two eggs and several slices of bacon and made himself a couple of pieces of toast. He ate a leisurely breakfast and took time to clean up after he had finished. Then he returned to the bedroom, made up the bed and put away the clothes he had been wearing the previous evening.

The pattern of Gerald Hanna’s thinking may have undergone a radical change, but the habits of a lifetime failed to desert him.

At eight forty-five he put in his call to Maryjane. He had his story all ready, his alibi for not coming up for the week end.

It was probably the quality of her voice that caused him to do what he did. Somehow or other, he was unable to help himself. There was something about the way she framed the question, something in the tone of her voice as she said, “And just why aren’t you coming, Gerald?” that made him say what he did. He couldn’t resist it.

“Because I damned well don’t want to,” Gerald said, and then, quite unconsciously, he laughed. He could hear the gasp at the other end of the wire.

Gerald carefully put the receiver back on the hook. He felt fine, just perfect. It was something he’d been wanting to say to Maryjane for a long, long time now.

Gerald left the telephone and at once went downstairs to the basement where his car sat next to that of the Sandersons’ in the double garage. He didn’t open the garage doors, but instead turned on the overhead light. He started the engine in his car and then pressed the button, lowering the convertible top. He minutely inspected the car for bloodstains. He found no trace of his unwelcome passenger of the previous night.

He realized almost at once what must have happened. The bullet must have struck the man somewhere in either the back of his head or his neck. The bullet had either completely passed through and gone out the windshield, or had struck a bone and stayed buried in the body. What little blood there was had probably dripped down the inside of the leather jacket.

Finishing his inspection of the inside of the car, Gerald next made an inspection of the windshield. He began removing the last remaining fragments of glass. When he was through, he gathered the broken glass together and wrapped it in newspapers along with the pieces he had already recovered, and then put the parcel in a zipper bag which had been given him as a souvenir by United Airlines. He returned upstairs and retrieved the .38 revolver which Vince Dunne had dropped on the floor of the car, and this too he put in the bag. He placed the bag on the floor of the Sandersons’ car next to the brief case which held the jewels.

Five minutes later, at the wheel of the Sandersons’ car, he drove out the driveway, after carefully locking the garage doors behind himself.

Traffic was inordinately light and he made good time getting into New York. He found a parking lot not far from Grand Central Station and after checking the car in, took the zipper bag in one hand and the brief case under his arm and walked the two or three blocks to the station. He realized that the public locker services had a twenty-four hour time limit, so he went to the parcel checkroom on the ground floor level. He checked both the zipper bag and the brief case.

He stopped in the lobby of the Biltmore long enough to obtain an envelope and a couple of sheets of stationery. Then he walked around the corner and over to the post office. Standing at the desk in the lobby, he addressed the envelope to himself, folded the check in two sheets of paper and inserted them. Then he purchased a stamp, sealed the envelope and dropped it into the slot.

Returning to the parking lot, he felt considerably relieved.

It took him only a few minutes to drive directly cross town and find the entrance to the Lincoln Tunnel.

A lot of changes had been made during the last seven years, since the last time he’d driven this way, but he had no difficulty in finding the place. It wasn’t surprising; he’d made the trip often enough, heaven knows, during the two years he’d worked for the garage while completing his course at college. They’d painted the building, added a wing and the name of the firm had changed, but it was still a glass factory. Parking in front of the place, he sensed a feeling of relief. It was an odd sensation walking inside once again.

A man he had never seen before greeted him at the long counter and he guessed that the place had probably changed hands. He asked for a windshield for a ’56 Chevrolet convertible. He had the model number, but the man behind the counter didn’t need it. The man had the right size glass in stock. Hanna paid for it in cash.

By one o’clock he was back in Roslyn.

He knew a moment’s nervousness as he drove into the driveway and stopped. The place was completely deserted, but he still felt the tension as he opened the garage doors. The Chevvie stood where he had left it the previous evening.

It took him longer than he thought it would and once he bruised his knuckles badly, but at last he had the windshield installed. When he was finished, he went out to the drive and picked up a handful of sand and gravel. He rubbed it over the windshield, purposely scratching it. Next he covered the glass with a thin layer of mud and then wiped it off, leaving stray bits around the edges.

At three-thirty he was finished and he went upstairs and washed up. Not until then did he sit down and relax. He picked up the newspapers he had purchased on his way back to Roslyn.

The lieutenant had been very emphatic and Patrolman Hoffman was not a man to disregard a superior officer; especially as the lieutenant was attached to Homicide and was a detective. No one was going to pass through the door and get into that room. No one. That is, of course, with the exception of the day and night nurses and the doctor.

Looking down from his six feet four inches of muscle and brawn into the upturned face of the slender man in the immaculate pin-striped suit, Officer Hoffman again repeated himself.

“You heard me,” he said. “I made myself very clear. No one. No one at all. Those were my orders and I’m going to follow them.”

“You do just that, Officer,” Steinberg said. “Go right ahead and follow your orders-and the next thing you know you’ll be walking a beat somewhere so far out in the sticks they’ll have to fly your relief in by helicopter.”

Officer Hoffman very carefully removed the toothpick from the side of his mouth.

“A wise shyster from the city,” he said. “You know all the answers, yes? Well, let me tell you something, mister. You may be a big shot over in Manhattan, but out here, in Nassau, you ain’t nothing. Less than nothing.”

“Keep your voice down, Officer,” Steinberg said. “This is a hospital after all, you know. And perhaps you would like to look at this,” he added, taking a folded piece of paper from his pocket. “That is, of course, if they taught you to read. It happens to be a note from the assistant D.A. It’s an order permitting me to see my client, Jake Riddle. I don’t give a damn for you or your lieutenant. I happen to be Mr. Riddle’s attorney and I have every right to see him. This little paper says so. And I’m going into that room and I’m going to talk to him. Alone.”

He handed the paper to the other man.

“The doctor…”

Steinberg whipped out a second piece of paper.

“His permission,” he said. “So just roll over and I’ll go on in.”

Officer Hoffman carefully read both papers and then handed them back.

“And how do I know you are Leon Steinberg?”

“Oh, my God.” The attorney reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a wallet. “Do I look like somebody who’s going to go in there and shoot him?” he asked. “Do I…”

“It would be a good thing if you did,” Hoffman said. “The dirty cop killer! O.K., go on in. But five minutes. That’s what the doc says. Five minutes. And if you can get a word out of that rat in that time, you’ll be doing a lot more than we’ve been able to do.”

He reached down and turned the key in the door and then opened it.

Steinberg entered the sterile white room, unconsciously observing the barred window and slightly repelled by the heavy anesthetic atmosphere.

He waited until the officer had closed the door of the room and once more turned the key in the lock. Then he moved over to the high white bed and leaned down, speaking in a low, hoarse voice.

“How is it, Jake?”

Jake opened his eyes and stared at the lawyer.

Looking down at him, Steinberg knew that the Assistant D.A. had been right; knew he’d been telling the truth when he’d said that the man was dying. That he wouldn’t even need a mouthpiece.

Steinberg wondered if he’d be able to talk at all.

“Dommie’s dead,” Steinberg said, “but Vince made it. Only he hasn’t turned up yet and Fred’s worried. You’re going to be all right, boy,” he said as Jake again closed his eyes. “You’re going to be O.K. and we’ll get you out of it. Be sure of that-we’ll get you out. But try and tell us what happened to Vince.”

Once more Jake opened his eyes.

“I’m dead,” he said in a choked whisper. “You know it-I’m dead.”

“Don’t be a fool,” Steinberg said quickly. “You’ll be O.K. But try and think now, kid. What happened to Vince?-Fred’s gotta know. We gotta find Vince.”

Jake groaned and tried to turn away, but quickly fell back on the bed. Five minutes later, when Hoffman opened the door to tell Steinberg his time was up, the little lawyer was still pleading with Jake.

Steinberg picked up a cab a half a block from the hospital and gave the driver the address. It was an apartment hotel in upper Manhattan, and the driver didn’t want to make the trip that far out of his territory, but Steinberg slipped him a ten spot and so he drove him. On the way, Steinberg muttered to himself under his breath.

“Fred ain’t gonna like it-not one little bit. He just ain’t gonna like it.”

One thing was good about it, though. Dommie was dead and Jake couldn’t last much longer. And Jake hadn’t talked. Jake wasn’t talking to anyone, not even to his own mouthpiece.

Bella Riddle looked across the oilcloth-covered kitchen table at her son and raised the napkin to wipe her eyes.

“Sammy,” she said. “Sammy, I want you should eat your food.”

“You’re not eating, Mom,” Sammy said.

“It don’t make no matter. Eat. You’re a growing boy and you gotta eat. And when you finish, I want you to go over to Grandma’s for a while. Maybe for a few days.”

Sammy pushed the plate away and his delicate, sensuous lips formed a stubborn line.

“I’m not hungry and I’m not going to Grandma’s,” he said.

Bella felt the tears starting again, but she made an effort to control herself.

“Sammy,” she said. “Sammy, what’s got into you anyway? A course you’ll go to Grandma’s. Just for a few days. Just until Daddy is better and maybe gets outta the hospital.”

“Daddy isn’t going to get better,” Sammy said.

“Of course he’s going to get better. What are you saying anyway, Sammy? An auto accident can happen to anyone. What kind of son…”

“Listen, Mama,” Sammy said. “I was downstairs a while ago. I got a tabloid. It was no auto accident. I didn’t think so this morning when the cops came ’cause cops, that many cops, don’t come around because of an auto accident. So I went downstairs and I could tell the way people looked at me. And I got a tabloid and I read all about it. I know what happened. I know all about it so there ain’t no use you’re trying to kid me.”

He stopped talking suddenly, feeling the tears coming to his own eyes. He gulped a couple of times and then spoke again, his voice suddenly thin and high-pitched.

“Oh, God,” he said, “how’m I ever going back to school? How’ll I ever even go out on the streets again. My old man a thief and a cop killer!”

“Sammy! Don’t talk that way, Sammy. Don’t dare say those things about your Daddy. He was only doing it for us. Only trying to do things for you and for me. Your Daddy is a good man. A fine…”

“A good man?” Sammy said through bitter tears. “A good man? He’s nothing but a…”

“Sammy, stop it,” his mother cried. “Don’t say it, Son. Maybe Jake made a mistake; maybe he did a wrong…”

“Mama, I read the story in the papers,” Sammy said. “It was no mistake. You always said Daddy worked in a restaurant. But it was all a lie. He’d been in jail. He had a record. He was a gambler and bookie. The papers said so and so there’s no use kidding ourselves. My old man is a crook and a…”

“He did it for us, Sammy,” Bella said. “Don’t talk ill of him now. It was for me and for you…”

Sammy stood up and shoved the table away. He wasn’t crying now and his voice was suddenly deeper and harder.

“Nuts, Mama,” he said. “Uncle Merv has four kids and he takes good care of them without robbing and killing. He’s no smarter than Daddy. You’ve said so plenty of times. A lot of men take care of their wives and kids and aren’t crooks. But me… my old man’s a cop killer. I’m proud of him, Mama-real proud. He always said I should be good and live a decent life so he could be proud of me. Yeah? Good. And so now I should be proud of him because he’s a thief and a cop killer, is that it?”

He suddenly turned and ran from the room.

Bella started to get up from the table and then slowly sank back into her chair. She dropped her head into her arms and this time there were no tears. Nothing but dry sobs as her heavy shoulders slowly weaved from side to side.

Gerald had bought all of the New York newspapers. A quick look through the morning papers turned up nothing, but there were comparatively complete stories in the early editions of the afternoon sheets.

He had to admit that the police moved fast. They didn’t have all of the answers, at least according to what the press had learned, but they did have a lot of them.

The Tele gave the case the most complete coverage, handling the story without sensationalism, but playing up the pertinent facts. There was a long statement given out” by the Pinkerton man, who had been guarding the jewels and who had been found semiconscious from breathing the gas which had been pumped into the office where he sat.

The guard had had a lucky break; police admitted that the only thing which had saved his life was the fact he had been dragged from the office by the thieves. He was going to be all right after a day or so in the hospital, but the police sergeant was dead and one of the gangsters had been killed outright. The other cop. Hardy, was not expected to live and already had been given last rites.

A second mobster, identified as Jake Riddle, ex-convict and known bookie, forty-four years of age and married, and the father of a teen-age son, was also dying. During a moment of consciousness he had been questioned, but had refused to talk. He’d asked to see his wife and child and the request had been refused.

It was believed that a third and fourth member of the gang had made a clean getaway in a second car. One of the mob cars, a Ford sedan stolen twenty-four hours previously from a parking lot in Garden City, had been abandoned at the scene of the shooting after a stray bullet had disabled it. Hardy, the patrolman who was not expected to live, had been able to tell investigating officers that a second car was driven off at the time of the shooting. The newspaper said that he had made a partial identification of the automobile.

Hanna, reading this last, paled slightly. A partial identification? He wondered just what the phrase meant. He realized that when Hardy referred to a fourth member of the gang, he must be referring to himself. He could feel his pulse quicken as the thought struck him.

One of the newspapers devoted several paragraphs to the loot itself, itemizing much of it and mentioning that its total value was well over a quarter of a million dollars. It also added that the gems were fully insured.

The dead bandit was identified as one Dominick Petri, an ex-con in his early twenties, known to officials as strictly a small-timer. Police were believed to know the identity of one of the escaped pair and claimed he was a youth who had served time with young Petri in a state reformatory.

Newsday, a local Long Island paper which Hanna had also picked up as he drove through Roslyn, was the only one to mention that a Miss Sue Dunne, nineteen, of 104-16 Meadow Street, Corona, had been picked up for questioning. Aside from saying that she worked as a night-cashier at the G. and S. Cafeteria, no other details were given.

Gerald carefully rechecked every news column, but nowhere did he see anything about the discovery of a young man’s body, filled with bullets, somewhere on a lonely road on Long Island’s North Shore.

He carefully folded the papers and stacked them on an end table when he was through with them. And then he did something he had never done before in his life.

He opened a bottle of Bourbon which had been given to him by Maryjane’s father the previous Christmas and taking a water glass from the kitchenette, poured about two and a half ounces into it. He added an ice cube and a little water and returned to his small living room and sat down and lifted the glass to his lips.

Downing the drink with a wry expression, he sat back and as the warmth of the liquor hit his stomach and spread through his veins, he felt fine. Fine and relaxed.

A drink before dinner was a fine idea. He wondered just why in the world he’d never tried it before. There were a lot of things he’d never tried before that he was suddenly determined to try.

He felt a pleasant warm glow throughout his body and suddenly he laughed aloud. He was the new Gerald Hanna. Yes, there were a lot of things he had been missing that he would soon experience. A lot of things.

His mind went to Maryjane Swiftwater then and as he thought of his fiancee, his face took on a rather hard, uncompromising expression and he shook his head ever so slightly. The idea of trying out something new with Maryjane completely failed to entrance him, although in the not too distant past he had frequently contemplated that thought with a great deal of frustrated desire and certainly no degree of distaste.

Things had certainly changed.

It was the sound of the doorbell which suddenly brought Gerald back to reality. As he stood up his eyes went to his wrist watch and he saw that it was exactly six-fifteen. He was expecting no one; he rarely if ever had visitors. For a fleeting moment it occurred to him that Maryjane might have come down from Connecticut, but quickly he dismissed the idea as utterly farfetched. Walking toward the front door, his face assumed a curious, but not alarmed expression.

There were two of them; a long thin man with iron-gray hair and a horselike face who wore old-fashioned pince-nez glasses, and a short, round, surly man with a slightly soiled white shirt under an unpressed, badly fitting suit. The thin man did the talking.

“You Hanna? Gerald Hanna?”

Gerald half blocked the doorway with his body as he answered.

“Yes?”

“Well, are you?”

“Yes.”

“Detective Lieutenant Hopper,” the thin man said, at the same time turning the palm of his right hand and exposing a gold shield. “May we come in?”

The short man needed no invitation, but pushed through the doorway, not waiting for Gerald’s weak, forced smile and for him to move back.

As the fat man brushed past him, Gerald felt suddenly faint. These men were police and there could be only one thing in the world which brought them to his door. Somehow or other they had traced the car to him.

He stepped back and made a conscious effort to control his quaking emotions.

The lieutenant followed the other man into the apartment, shrewd eyes quickly darting around and casing the room. Gerald gestured toward the couch and went himself to the big red-leather chair and slowly sat down. The lieutenant seemed to fold up as he slouched down on the couch, crossing long legs so that his trousers were hitched up to expose several inches of thin, scrawny bare shanks over his shoe tops, where his black socks lay in folded rings unsupported by garters. He removed his battered, gray slouch hat and ran a lean fingered hand through his short hair.

The fat man walked over by the window and just stood there, between Gerald and the door.

“Just what…”

Gerald hesitated as Hopper took a notebook from his pocket and methodically folded back its imitation-leather cover.

“You home alone, Mr. Hanna?”

“Why yes,” Gerald said. “That is, I live here alone. Rent this apartment from people by the name of Sanderson. A Mr. Miles Sanderson and his wife. They are in Bermuda at present.”

Hopper nodded.

“I see. You own a car, do you, Mr. Hanna?”

Instantly he knew that he’d been right. It was the car all right; they’d managed to trace it to him somehow. He might have known. His luck had been just too phenomenally good. But even as the thought went through his mind, Gerald was catching his second breath.

So they’d traced the car. Well, he’d expected that they might. He was prepared for that eventuality. Wasn’t that why he’d made his preparations; wasn’t it a contingency which he had foreseen?

There was no point in getting worried, no point in permitting himself to become confused and upset. Now was the time when he must play it smart; it was the moment he knew must come and the moment he had prepared himself for.

Gerald nodded.

“Chevrolet,” he said. “Fifty-six convertible. Why?”

“Just wanted to know. Where’s the car now?”

“Why downstairs in the garage,” Gerald said. “Or at least it was a few minutes ago. Say, just what’s wrong anyway, Lieutenant? Have I done something…”

“Have you?” Hopper asked, looking up quickly, his face enigmatic and bland.

“Well, I mean, is something…”

“Where were you last night?” the lieutenant interrupted.

“Last night?”

The fat man moved across the room and stood in front of Gerald.

“You don’t hear good, do you?” he said.

Hopper raised his eyes but not his voice.

“I’ll handle it, Harry,” he said. He spoke softly. “Harry-Detective Finn here-feels you should know where you were last night. It’s a simple question. Where were you?”

Gerald coughed and took out his handkerchief and wiped his mouth. “Sorry,” he said. “Well, I spent the evening playing poker. In New York. A friend’s apartment.”

“Start with the beginning. What time did the game start, who was there, where was it? You might even start before that. Just what do you do for a living?”

“I work for the Seaboard Life Insurance Company,” Gerald said. “Wall Street, New York. I’m an actuary. Been with the firm for seven years. I played poker last night at the apartment of a man named Bill Baxter, on East Seventy-eighth street, Manhattan. He’s a salesman with the same firm I work for. Quit around five-thirty and had dinner with Bill and then went with him to his apartment. Several other men from the office sat in on the game. We started playing around eight o’clock.”

“You win?” Finn cut in.

Lieutenant Hopper looked at him and frowned.

“Go on,” he said.

“Well, there was Doc Kline, Herb Potter, Shelley…”

“Never mind the rest of ’em. This Baxter got a phone?”

Gerald gave him the number, as well as Dr. Kline’s number and that of Herb Potter and he noticed that Finn, rather than the lieutenant, wrote them down in a little notebook of his own.

“When did the game break up?”

“Sometime after midnight. I can’t tell you exactly when, but I know it was pretty late. I was going to leave earlier, but the boys…”

“Never mind that,” Hopper said. “You left after midnight. Then what?”

“I came home and went to bed.”

“You came home alone? Did you drive?”

“Yes. I drove and I was alone.”

“Just how did you come home?”

“I drove.”

“You already said that. I want to know how-what route you took.”

“The way I always do after a game. Took the Drive up to the Triborough Bridge, cut over past the airport and picked up the Cross County Highway. Turned off on Northern Boulevard and drove directly out to Roslyn. Turned off the boulevard at…”

“And you don’t remember just what time you got here? That right? Did you stop anywhere along the way? Maybe get a cup of coffee or something?”

“Nowhere. I came directly home, put the car up and went to bed. You see, I had to get up early this morning to go up to Connecticut…”

Gerald stopped suddenly, realizing what he was saying. It was a slip and he tried to recover.

“That is, I was planning last night to go up to Connecticut-I always go up early on Saturday mornings to spend the week end-and I wanted to get up early.”

“But you didn’t go up, huh?” Finn interrupted.

“Now, Harry,” Lieutenant Hopper said. “All right, did you go up?”

“No. When I woke up this morning I had a splitting headache. So I called my fiancee and told her I thought I’d skip it this week.”

“Want to give me her name and address and phone number?”

Gerald gave it to him. For several minutes after Hopper wrote it down in his book, he sat staring at the note paper and saying nothing. At last he again looked at Gerald.

“So, as near as you can remember you got home some time after midnight. You can’t say exactly when. Now, did you notice anything, anything at all out of the way while you were driving home? Say during the time you were driving along Northern Boulevard?”

“Nothing-no, nothing that I can recall,” Gerald said. “Say, maybe you can tell me what this is all about? After all, I…”

“You didn’t loan your car to anybody after you got home?”

“Certainly not.”

“Anyone else got keys to it? Some friend maybe…”

“No, I have the only keys. I had an extra set, that came with the car when I bought it, but I wouldn’t have the faintest idea where they are now.”

Hopper nodded.

“All right,” he said. “Now tell me, if you didn’t go up to Connecticut this morning, well then, just what did you do?”

“Got up rather late, and made breakfast. Telephoned my fiancee, as I have already explained. Then went for a ride, driving into New York, where I did a little window shopping.”

Gerald went on to explain that he had taken the Sanderson’s car and why he took it. Explained that they had asked him to use it now and then while they were away so that the battery wouldn’t run down.

Hopper asked him how he happened to go into town if he’d been feeling bad, and he explained that around midmorning his head began to clear up. So he’d decided to go into New York and shop. He gave them the address of the parking lot where he’d left the car and he was relieved when neither officer marked it down.

He said that he’d gotten back in the middle of the afternoon and had just been laying around the house taking it easy since.

He was still explaining when Finn again suddenly interrupted.

“When did you see Jake last?” he said.

Gerald looked at him, baffled.

“Jake. That’s right,” Finn said.

“I don’t know anyone named Jake,” Gerald said.

“How about Dommie-Dommie Petri, or maybe Vince Dunne-you know either of those boys, maybe?”

Gerald still looked baffled as he slowly shook his head. But his mind was racing. There was no question about it now. No question at all. Jake would be the Jake Riddle mentioned in the papers. And Dommie would be the one who had been killed by the police bullets. But Dunne-who was Dunne?

Suddenly he remembered the single paragraph in one of the afternoon papers. The one which had mentioned that police were questioning a girl named Sue Dunne. This Vince must be some relative and he must have been the third member of the gang. The one whose body Gerald had left beside the road.

“Dommie,” Gerald said. “Dommie Petri. The name seems to ring some sort of bell. But I don’t know just why. I can’t remember ever meeting or knowing anyone with that name, but still…”

Lieutenant Hopper stood up, looking tired and just a little bored.

“Let’s take a look at the Chevvie,” he said. “Don’t mind, do you?”

“Of course not.”

The lieutenant followed him out of the room and down the inside stairs to the garage. It wasn’t until they had entered the concrete room that Gerald noticed that Finn, his partner, remained upstairs.

Lieutenant Hopper must have been acutely sensitive or perhaps a little psychic.

“He wanted to make a phone call,” he said, vaguely waving at the rafters above his head. “Hope you don’t mind. Had to call his wife about something or other.”

Gerald said he didn’t mind. But he didn’t believe the wife story. Finn would be calling to check on the poker game. Well, that was fine. He wouldn’t have had it any other way.

Hopper walked over to the Chevvie and Gerald saw him quickly look at the license plate.

“This yours, eh?”

“That’s it.”

Hopper nodded. He walked slowly around the car, not touching it.

“Leave your keys in it overnight?” he asked.

Gerald instinctively reached for his pocket and then blushed.

“Why yes,” he said. “Sometimes I do. The fact is-” he leaned over to look at the dashboard of the car “-the fact is I did last night. I see they’re still in the ignition.”

“How about the garage door? That locked?”

“Sometimes, when I think of it. Mostly, though, it’s left unlocked. No one around here ever bothers anything.”

“I see. Then someone might have taken the car out last night after you got home, used it, and brought it back, assuming the door was left unlocked. It could have happened that way. Right?”

Gerald smiled, a little patronizingly.

“I doubt it,” he said. “I doubt it very much. I’m not a very heavy sleeper and I would certainly have heard the car starting. I’d have heard them when they returned. No, I don’t think there is much chance…”

“But it could have happened.”

“Well, yes. It’s possible. But I certainly don’t…”

“You drink much during that poker session last night?”

“Not much. A couple of beers-maybe three or four.”

“Any liquor?”

“One shot of Scotch, early in the evening.”

“And nothing after you got home?”

“Nothing.”

Hopper grunted. He walked over and opened the door of the car and looked inside. He didn’t take long, but Gerald was aware that his eyes missed nothing. He pulled the front seat cushion up and checked under it and then replaced it. He slammed the door and went to the rear of the car and opened the trunk, which was unlocked. There was nothing there but the spare tire and tools for making a road change.

Gerald noticed that he completely ignored the windshield.

They spent a few minutes more as Hopper asked a number of additional questions, none of which seemed to have significance. And then, finally, they returned upstairs.

Finn was seated on the couch and he had removed his hat. He was smoking a cigar and it smelled vile.

“Well, sorry to have bothered you,” Lieutenant Hopper said, reaching for his own hat where he had placed it carefully on a side table before going down to the garage. “But you see how it is. As I told you downstairs, we’re looking for a Chevvie with New York plates which end with the number ‘3’. You just happen to have one. And we have to check everybody. Sorry to have taken up your time.”

The fat man slowly got up from the couch. He spoke without removing the cigar from the corner of his heavy mouth.

“You always get all the New York newspapers?” he asked.

He didn’t wait for an answer, but went to the door and opened it.

The lieutenant followed him out, also without waiting for Gerald to say anything. He closed the door after himself.

Neither of the officers said a word until they were in the black, unmarked police cruiser which they had left at the curb. Lieutenant Hopper started the engine and Finn slumped back on the cushions.

“Well, what do you think?”

The fat man shrugged.

“Who knows?” he said. “There was nothing at all around the place. Except a big pile of today’s newspapers. Nothing else. I got that Baxter guy on the phone and the poker game thing is on the up and up. Of course we’ll check with the others, but his story certainly seems to be O.K. Should be easy to check that part out. Only thing is, the game ended a little later than he said. But I guess it’s easy enough to miss up on the time, especially during a card game. And when you got no wife home waiting to beat your brains out.”

He took the cigar butt from his mouth, looked at it with an expression of mild disgust and then replaced it and scratched a match and relighted it.

“Seems like a clean-cut lad,” he said. “How was the car?”

“Windshield O.K.,” Hopper said. He hesitated a minute and then released the clutch and pulled away from the curb.

“It’s a damned funny coincidence though,” he said. “Two Chevvies, both with New York plates ending in ‘3’ and both out there on Northern Boulevard around the same time of night. Of course, Hardy could have been wrong about the number on the plates. A guy who’s filled with lead…”

“Hardy could be right, too, and Hanna still be in the clear,” Finn said. “He’s not the type for this sort of caper. These clean-cut boys-Sunday school boys-hell, they go in for rape and an occasional murder. That’s their dish. No, if his background checks out, he won’t be our pigeon. We’re after someone who’s tied in with Riddle and Petri. Dunne’s the lad, for my money. And Dunne has disappeared.”

“Case of time,” Lieutenant Hopper said. “Just a case of time. Punks like Dunne don’t stay disappeared for very long.”

“They don’t stay out of jail very long, either, thank God.”

“Only long enough to kill a cop or two,” Hopper said, his voice bitter.

The little man in the horn-rimmed glasses leaned away from the table and carefully capped his fountain pen before joining it with half a dozen others in his inside breast pocket. He pushed his chair out and stretched and then spoke in a garrulous voice.

“That’s it, Mr. Slaughter,” he said. “Your total worth is exactly $348,675.4.”

Slaughter grunted, reaching for the glass which held the Scotch and water. The ice cube had melted and the glass was still half full.

“And?”

“And outside of sixty-two thousand in back taxes, seventeen thousand in withholding taxes, your debts are a little more than three hundred and ten thousand.”

Irving Wiener took a certain amount of quiet satisfaction in quoting the figures. He liked to be right, exactly right. It gave him a certain feeling of real superiority and he couldn’t resist a little shrug of self-complacency as he finished speaking. He was nothing, nothing more or less than a servant to a man like Slaughter. His total net worth stood at a mere $4,000-but at least he had no debts. Men like Slaughter, these big shots, well…

“Your bar is making money,” Wiener said. “The cafeteria breaks even and most of your concessions are all right. But that night club…” he threw up his hands.

“The night club is new. It’ll pan out,” Slaughter said.

“That well may be,” Wiener replied. “But these other items-these things which you have listed as a’s and b’s and c’s and so forth. I just can’t understand.”

“You’re not supposed to understand,” Slaughter said. “It isn’t your business to understand. All I want from you is to know where I stand.”

Once more Irving Wiener shrugged.

“It’s very simple,” he said. “You need money. At once-or at least within the next thirty days. If the tax people take out a lien, and they will, along with the creditors who are beginning to act…”

“Yeah, I know. I know all about it. So I’ll get money. Don’t worry about it. I’ll get money.”

“There’s nothing in these figures,” Wiener waved at the papers stretched out on the table, “nothing here that tells me where. I certainly wouldn’t know…”

“There’s a hell of a lot you wouldn’t know,” Slaughter said. “A hell of a lot you wouldn’t even want to know. Just you do the work I’m paying you for and don’t even think about anything else. I’ll do all the thinking that’s necessary.”

He started to push the papers away and as he did the phone on the desk rang and he quickly reached for it. For a moment he listened and then spoke into it quickly.

“Five minutes,” he said. “I’ll be clear-in just five minutes.”

Wiener took the hint. Standing up, he reached for his hat.

“Have to be going now,” he said. “But you had better start…”

“Yeah, yeah,” Slaughter said. “Just snap the lock so the door is open as you leave. I’m expecting someone.”

He didn’t bother to stand or to say good-by.

By the time Slaughter had gone to the portable bar and mixed himself a fresh drink, Steinberg had slunk into the apartment noiselessly, relocking the door after himself. Slaughter asked him if he wanted a drink, purposely holding back his impatience.

Steinberg shook his head.

“It’s good and bad,” he said. He looked around the apartment and sat down nervously. “This place, Fred,” he said. “Makes me nervous. How can you tell that it might not be bugged?”

“Don’t be a damned fool,” Slaughter said. “Who” the hell’s going to bug me? Nobody’s got…”

“They bug everyone nowadays. Why even…”

“Just stop worrying,” Slaughter said. “Let’s have it. You saw-Jake?”

“That’s the good part,” the lawyer said. “He’s dying. Can’t last more than a few more hours. And he hasn’t talked, He won’t talk.”

“I know that,” Slaughter said, “Of course he won’t talk. Good God, Jake’s got that kid of his and he knows. Knows what would happen if he talked. I never worried about Jake. But did he talk to you? What’s with the punk? Did he…”

“Nothing,” Steinberg said. “Absolutely nothing. He didn’t know a thing.”

“Was he conscious; was he able to make sense. Hell, he has to know.”

“He was conscious all right. Weak and could hardly speak, but he understood me. The only thing he remembers is the rumble and getting shot. Saw the kid for just a bare moment and the kid had the stuff. He was climbing into the car. That’s all he knows. Everything.”

Slaughter cursed.

“This second car the police yak about? How about that? Did Jake see any second car?”

“He saw nothing. Nothing but the cops, shooting at him. There was no second car, not that Jake saw anyway.”

Slaughter downed his drink in a gulp and again cursed. “I just don’t get it,” he said. “Of course the newspapers could be wrong. They could have got a bum steer from the cops. But it don’t sound like it. The kid had to make a getaway somehow and a second car makes sense as far as that goes. The thing is, he would have had to have it planned and I know damned well that young punk didn’t have the brains to be a double-crosser. Nobody could have reached him. He wasn’t smart enough. No, I just can’t buy that second car thing. On the other hand, where the hell is he? Why hasn’t he made a contact?”

“Maybe the cops got him. Maybe…”

“Don’t you believe it,” Slaughter said. “Don’t you believe it for a minute. Not that they aren’t capable of something like that. The papers said they checked the kid sister, but that was only natural. They knew Dunne hung around with Dommie. But they didn’t get him. It would have leaked out somehow. No, the insurance company is making too big a stink about the jewels. If they’d have got him, they’d have got the loot.”

“Maybe the cops just glommed onto…”

“Even the cops aren’t that stupid. Money-yes. It could happen. But not hot ice. No, the kid got away somehow.”

“Well, then maybe he just powdered. Figures on fencing the stuff himself.”

Slaughter slowly shook his head.

“I can’t see it,” he said. “Not that kid. Hell, I know the sister; I know what kind of punk he was. Just smart enough to know that he’d never be able to unload without connections and he had no connections. Somebody else, yes. But not the Dunne kid.”

Steinberg shrugged.

“All right, Fred,” he said, “then you name it. What did happen to the stuff and where is the kid?”

“It could be that the rumble just plain threw him into a frenzy; scared him half silly and he’s hiding out someplace. With Riddle and Dommie gone, he may just…”

“He’s got my number,” Steinberg said. “That’s the one thing we know he’s got. Jake drilled it into him; told him if anything happened the first thing he should do is call my office. He wouldn’t be afraid to call his lawyer. No, something…”

“There’s nothing to do but sit tight. Sooner or later he’s got to call. You got someone on the phones, just in case…”

“Twenty-four hours a day,” Steinberg said. “And the office knows where I am. They’ll contact me the very second there’s word.”

“All right then,” Slaughter said. He looked down at his wrist watch.

“Seven-thirty,” he said. “Solly’s on his way up. Hang around and we’ll have some food sent in. We can play a few hands of pinochle and just sit tight and wait it out for a while. There ain’t nothing else to do. It just may be that that call will come in.”

The police were nice about it. They brought Sue home in a squad car on Sunday morning and it was just as well that they did. She was dead on her feet.

It wasn’t that they were rough with her, or pushed her around or anything like that. They didn’t even raise their voices when they questioned her. They were very reasonable about the whole thing. Merely the questions. Only the trouble was the questions went on all Saturday afternoon and Saturday night. It was all quite legal; she was formally held on a short affidavit and they saw to it that there was a matron present at all times while they talked to her.

It wasn’t merely that she was Vince Dunne’s sister and that Vince was missing. Somehow or other they’d turned up a witness who had seen Vince and Dommie and Jake in the tavern at the same time. It was enough for them.

A representative of the insurance company which covered the loss was present part of the time and he was even worse than the police. He did everything but accuse Sue of being in on the thing. The police themselves didn’t harp that angle; they concentrated on trying to find out where the boy could have gone, who he knew, who had he been hanging around with. They were sure that Vince had the jewels and that there was a fourth man in on the robbery. They wanted to learn the name of this fourth man.

By the time the police were ready to call it quits and let her go, they were convinced that she knew nothing; that she was completely guiltless.

The trouble was, that by then Sue knew a great deal. She knew that Vince had been in on the robbery; she knew that he was guilty.

This was no juvenile prank, no simple matter of a stolen car used for a joy ride. It wasn’t even a matter of a mere robbery. This was murder. They made it quite clear to her; it didn’t matter whether Vince himself had pulled the trigger of the gun which had killed a policeman. He would be equally guilty in any case.

Vince Dunne, nineteen years old, was a murderer. Police throughout the country had been alerted and it would be just a case of time. Sooner or later they would get him and when they did, he would go to the electric chair. They didn’t have to draw a diagram for Sue. She knew what happened to cop killers.

And so they sent her home at last in a squad car and she climbed out in front of her apartment house and slowly entered the building. Her feet felt like lead as she walked through the lobby to the self-service elevator. She wanted to cry, but she had no more tears. She’d already used them up during those long hours at the police station between the questioning sessions.

There was a broad-shouldered, dour-faced man standing near the elevator and he carefully avoided looking at her as she waited for it to answer her ring. She knew that he was a detective, waiting there in case Vince should show up. By this time she’d seen enough detectives to spot one a block away. She’d seen enough detectives to last her a lifetime.

She wasn’t hungry, but she knew that she must eat something. They’d offered her food at the station house, but she’d been unable to swallow.

Once in the apartment, she listlessly prepared a pot of coffee and soft-boiled a couple of eggs. She knew that she would have to eat; knew that life would have to go on. There was nothing else, nothing now but her job and her career. She tried to blame herself, but even this she was unable to do. She’d done everything for Vince that she could do. It was no longer in her hands.

The police had been bitter about it, bitter and hard and angry. Could she blame them? No, in all fairness she couldn’t. She felt bitter and hard and angry herself. Not about Vince. Vince was nothing but a child. A rather weak child who had been too easily led astray. No, the ones Sue felt angry about were the men who had influenced him, the ones who had brought him in on the thing.

She was glad that Dommie had been killed. He was better off dead. And the other one, the man she knew as Jake. He was supposed to be dying and Sue found herself wishing that he’d live. Live so that he could go to the electric chair. She wondered what kind of man he could be. They’d told her he had a boy of his own, a boy only a few years younger than Vince.

She couldn’t understand how a family man and father could have taken boys like Dommie and Vince in on a thing like this. And there were others. The fourth man. The police seemed to feel that in back of the whole thing was an organized mob, a tough, vicious, underworld gang. These were the ones they wanted. Wanted as much as they wanted Vince.

Well, she would never be able to do anything to help them find Vince, but she’d give anything and everything to help them find those others. The men who had brought her brother in on the job and had made a thief and a killer out of him.

There was just one way to find out who they were. Sooner or later Vince would get in touch with her. Of this she was morally certain. No matter where he was or with whom he was hiding out, he was bound to try and reach her sometime or other. And once he did, she knew exactly what she would do. She would find out the names of the people in back of the thing. She wanted to see them brought to justice; wanted it more than anything else in the world. More than her career and even more than she wanted Vince to escape the justice she realized he fully deserved.

There was only one thing to do. Vince would be too smart to try and reach her at the apartment. He would know by now that the police were seeking him. No, if he tried at all, it would be while she was working at the cafeteria. That was the place, the key to the whole thing. It had been through the hangers-on at the place that Vince had met his new companions, met the men who had involved him. And it was there that he’d try and reach her.

Tired and sick as she was, she was determined to go to the place as usual that night to work. That night and every night. And sooner or later some man would come up to the counter and whisper a word or two and she would know where he was and be able to reach him. Be able to learn what she had to find out.

She had no more than climbed into the uniform she wore when the manager of the place came over and spoke to her.

“Mr. Slaughter is in his office,” the man said. “He’d like to have a few words with you. I’ll take the cash box while you’re gone.”

He watched her coldly for a moment as she turned to leave the counter.

“You could have at least called and told us you weren’t coming in last night,” he said, his voice resentful.

Sue felt a sudden sense of relief as she walked to the back of the long building where Slaughter maintained a small private office. Her first thought, when the manager had spoken to her, was that Slaughter must somehow or other have learned about Vince. That he, like the police, would start the series of incessant questions.

But no, it wasn’t that. She’d been absent Saturday night and had failed to notify the restaurant. That was what he wanted her for. He’d be sore about it and she’d have to give him some sort of story. She didn’t want to tell him the reason she hadn’t called was because she was in the police station being questioned about her brother-who was wanted for murder.

If he had paid slightly less for his clothes, and purchased them in either good department stores or from tailors on the east side of Fifth Avenue, Fred Slaughter might very easily have passed for a gentleman. As it was, the handmade shirts were just a trifle too sheer, the gray-worsted suit was cut a trifle too wide in the shoulders and the shoes, although imported and expensive, were not the type to be worn with a business suit.

His clothes were like his jewelry. The watch should have been gold rather than platinum and like the cuff links and rings which he wore on each hand, there was just too much of it. The clothes were like the man; a little too good and a little too ostentatious.

In his late forties, Slaughter had the figure of a college athlete. He took exceptionally good care of himself, visiting his barber daily for a shave and a trim as well as a manicure. His dark hair was always perfectly groomed and no matter what time of the day or night, there was always the faint trace of after-shaving powder on his lean, olive jaw.

His manners, at least in public, were polished. But the giveaway was the voice. He had a voice like gravel and even his over-precision in the choice of words and phrases merely served to emphasize the effort he made to sound like a gentleman.

Any smart cop would have spotted his background in a second. Slaughter was strictly East Side scum; a one-time mobster who’d made money fast and ostensibly turned legitimate. He didn’t actually fool anybody and certainly he didn’t fool the riffraff with whom he hung out and whom he patronized.

His sharp eyes looked up as Sue entered the office and he smiled thinly.

“Close the door, Sue,” he said. “Close the door and come on in and sit down. I want to talk with you.”

Sue took the chair next to the desk.

“If it’s about last night…” she began.

He nodded and half raised a hand to interrupt her.

“Yes,” he said, “about last night. You were off. What was it, kid? Vince? Was it about Vince?”

She felt herself go pale. How did he know? Why did he go at once to Vince. Of course he would have read about the robbery, would have learned about Jake, whom he knew. But why did he bring Vince into it?

He was quick to see the way her mind was working.

“I know all about it, kid,” he said. “You know I have connections. So the law is looking for your brother. Well, you have to expect that. I guess you know what happened. Know about Dommie and Jake Riddle. The police figure Vince was a pal of theirs and that he might have been mixed up in the thing. I guess you can’t blame them for thinking that, can you?”

She stared at him and nodded dumbly.

“Where is Vince?” he said.

She dropped her eyes and slowly shook her head.

“I only wish I knew, Mr. Slaughter,” she said. “He left the house on Friday night, around ten o’clock. Said he was going to a movie. And he hasn’t been back since.”

Slaughter looked at her closely.

“And you haven’t seen him? Haven’t heard from him?”

“No.”

“Have the police been around?”

Sue nodded.

“Yes,” she said. “They’ve been around. That’s where I was last night. All night. They questioned me until…”

“What did you tell them?”

She looked up at him, startled by the suddenness of the question and the hard, cold note in his voice.

“Tell them?”

“Yeah. That’s what I said. What did you tell them. Come on…”

“Why I didn’t tell them anything,” Sue said. “What could I tell them? He didn’t come home; I don’t know where he is and…”

“I know, I know,” Slaughter interrupted her hurriedly. “Of course you don’t know. Who the hell does? But I mean, what did you tell them? You know. They must have asked you other things. Like who he hangs around with, who he knows. Things like that.”

“Yes, of course,” Sue said. “They asked. And I told them everything I knew. I told them that he knew Dominick Petri and Jake Riddle. What else could I tell them?”

Slaughter looked angry and Sue vaguely sensed his mood and was puzzled. Why should he be angry?

“About the cafeteria,” he said. “And me. Did they ask about me?”

Sue looked at him, perplexed.

“Why should they?” Sue said. “Why should they ask about you? It wasn’t me that they were investigating…”

“Listen,” he said, “they know the kid worked here for a time. They know I took an interest in him.”

“Did you?” Sue asked.

“Of course I did,” Slaughter said, suddenly dropping his voice back to normal. “Remember? I said I’d square things with the parole board when he got fired so that they wouldn’t know about it. Remember. Certainly I took an interest.”

Sue slowly nodded in agreement. She couldn’t help but wonder why he was taking such an interest now. It was impossible that he could think any trouble Vince was in could hurt him in any way.

“Listen Sue,” Slaughter said, standing up and walking around the desk and looking down at her. “Listen, Vince is a good kid. Don’t you worry yourself about Vince. But we got to find him. See? We gotta find out where he is.”

Sue looked up at him and slowly shook her head.

“He isn’t a good kid, Mr. Slaughter,” she said. “No, Vincent isn’t a good kid at all.”

“Don’t talk like that,” Slaughter said. “He’s just a boy. Maybe a little wild, but just a kid. Don’t forget, he’s your own brother. Twin brother, isn’t it?”

Sue nodded and dropped her eyes.

“Yes,” she said, “twin brother.”

“Well, listen, we just got to find him. You gotta help me. We gotta get hold of Vince.”

Sue pushed back the chair and reached her feet.

“And then what?” she asked, slowly.

“Then, why then we get hold of the…”

Suddenly he stopped talking and stared at her. He moved and crossed the room and stood with his back to her, staring out of the window.

“We get hold of a mouthpiece and if the kid’s in any kinda jam, we go to work for him,” he said, lamely.

Sue stood watching him with wide eyes. She stood dead still, almost as though she were hypnotized. As though she might be looking at a poisonous reptile.

She knew what he had been about to say when he’d so suddenly interrupted himself. She knew it as well as though he had spoken the words themselves. He’d been going to say, “Why then we get hold of the jewels.”

He swung back from the window, reaching into his side pocket for a pack of cigarettes.

“Yeah,” he said, “yeah. We have to help the kid. So the second you hear from him, you get hold of me. Right off. Call me at my place-here, I’ll give you the number.”

He took a pad and pencil from the table and scribbled down two or three lines.

“My apartment number, the phone over in the bar, and the phone here. I’ll be one spot or the other. Just don’t forget. Call me at once. No one else. Definitely not the police. The cops would grab him and then he wouldn’t have a chance. No, you hear from Vince, you get me pronto. We’ll take care of him, see that he’s protected.”

Returning to the cashier’s cage a few minutes later, Sue thought: Yes, you’ll take care of him all right. There’s no doubt about that.

Her face was a sickly dead white and she felt as if she could hardly stand.

She was sure. Very sure. She knew now who had been in back of Vince and Dommie and Jake. Knew for a certainty.

Could Slaughter himself have been the fourth man on the job? No, it didn’t seem likely. The fourth man would know what happened to Vince and where he was. Slaughter must have been the mastermind; the brains behind the thing.

As the thought hit her, she experienced a blinding, insane hatred for the man. She turned toward the telephone booth at the side of the cafeteria. She had almost reached the instrument before she slowly stopped and then once more turned toward the front.

The phone? The police? What good would that do? She’d tell them about Slaughter and maybe they’d listen to her and maybe they wouldn’t. But what possible good could come of it? She had no proof, no proof at all. Nothing but her own intuition. Her own sure knowledge.

No, what she must do was find Vince. Find Vince and get the truth from him.

As Sue Dunne once more returned to the front of the restaurant and took her place behind the cash register, the small portable radio underneath the counter was just beginning to give the early Sunday evening news broadcast which interrupted the usual all-music programs each hour on the hour.

Little Shirley Conzoni walked over and stood in front of the deck chair on which her father sprawled, the Sunday paper fallen across his large lap and his eyes closed as the sun beat down on his dark, leathery face.

“He’s still there, Daddy,” Shirley said.

Anthony Conzoni grunted.

“Go ’way and play, honey,” he said.

“Shirley’s talking to you, Tony.” Mrs. Conzoni spoke up, taking her eyes from her sewing. “Answer her.”

Mr. Conzoni grunted again and opened one eye.

Shirley, quick to follow up this brief victory, spoke quickly.

“I said he’s still there, Daddy.”

“Who’s still there, honey?” her father asked.

“Why the dead man,” Shirley said.

Anthony Conzoni opened both eyes.

“Now honey,” he said, “you shouldn’t speak like that. There’s no…”

“There is so!”

Shirley looked at her father furiously. “There is too a dead man. The one I told you about before. He’s still there. Nobody’s come for him and he’s still there in the bushes.”

“An imagination!” Mrs. Conzoni said proudly. “What an imagination the baby’s got, Tony. A real…”

“There’s no dead man!” Anthony Conzoni didn’t approve of his daughter having so vivid an imagination.

Shirley stepped back a pace and lifted her doubled fists and quickly swung at her father’s large stomach.

“There is so a dead man,” she screamed, striking him several quick blows. “There is so. See! See this?”

Shirley held out the small square of white handkerchief she had folded in her hand. It was stained a reddish brown.

“Blood,” she said. “He had it in his hand. Sally dared me and so I took it. If there’s no dead man, then where do you think I sot this? And that’s blood…”

Conzoni, with amazing speed for a fat man, reached out and grabbed his eight-year-old, pulling her to him. He took the handkerchief from her.

“Where did you get this?” he asked.

“Like I said, from the dead man.”

Mrs. Conzoni had gotten out of her chair and come over and was leaning down. She started to put out an inquiring finger and then suddenly drew it back and paled.

“My God, Tony,” she said, “my God…”

Little Shirley started to scream as her father began pulling her across the lawn.

“Come on,” he said, “come on now. I want to see this here dead man. You take me to…”

Five minutes later Detective Lieutenant Hopper was sitting in the front seat of the black police car as it screamed away from headquarters in Mineola. A uniformed policeman was driving and Finn was in the back seat, cleaning his nails with the unburnt end of a match.

They arrived at the deserted stretch of road simultaneously with a car from State Trooper headquarters. A county patrol cruiser, empty, was pulled alongside of the road and the uniformed driver was attempting to keep the rapidly collecting crowd away from the bushes at one side, where his partner was leaning down over what appeared to be a crumpled mass of old clothes.

Hopper made a quick search as they waited for the lab man and the photographers. He was careful not to disturb the body, but he didn’t have to worry about footprints or tire markings. The crowd of curious had already very competently eliminated any possibility of identifying either.

It took Hopper less than a minute to find the wallet in the rear trouser pocket of the dead man. The only identification was a Social Security card, but it was enough for the lieutenant, at least for the moment. That and a quick look at the corpse. There was no doubt at all in his mind. Vince Dunne had turned up.

It took another three minutes for Hopper to reach his second conclusion.

Vince had turned up, but the jewels had not. The jewels were still missing.

The lieutenant waited only until after the man from the medical examiner’s office showed up to make a preliminary examination. Then, wishing to duck the reporters who were beginning to appear, he took Finn by the arm and left.

“One bullet,” he said, when they were back in the car, “through the back of the neck. Doc said he might have lived for half an hour, no more. I felt a little better about Dillon and Hardy.”

“Maybe it wasn’t Dillon or Hardy who got him,” Finn said. “Maybe it was his own mob.”

Hopper half shook his head.

“The bullet’s still in his skull somewhere,” he said. “It will tell the story. But I think it was our boys. The guy who was driving the getaway car wouldn’t have shot him in the back of the neck. Anyway, that’s three down and one to go.”

“One-and the jewels,” Finn said.

“I’ll settle for the fourth one,” Hopper said. “The jewels can be replaced but you can’t replace a couple of dead policemen. The services are tomorrow,” he added. “It will be a joint service and I want every available man on the force to show up. It’s the least we can do.”

“By the way,” Finn said, “how did that guy Hanna check out?”

Hopper hesitated several moments before answering. “Well,” he said at last, “he seems in the clear. The trouble is, he’s almost too good to be true. I’ve been trying to get hold of that girl of his, his fiancee up in Connecticut. Probably won’t mean anything, but it is a little odd that he suddenly postponed his visit up there. I understand from his friends he’s been making that trip once each week religiously for the past several years. And then suddenly, he cancels out at the last minute. Seems a little strange.”

“No one’s talked with her?”

“The local men talked with her father. The girl herself has been out. But I have a call in for her and she’s supposed to be back this evening.”

Hopper looked over at the clock on the dashboard.

“Should be able to reach her by the time we get back to the station,” he said.

Sunday was probably the most miserable day Gerald Hanna had spent in his entire life.

By now the reaction had set in. Had there been something for him to do, could he have kept busy, it might have been better. But instead, there was nothing, nothing but the idle hours in which to worry.

For the first time he began to wonder what insane caprice of mentality had motivated him, began to wonder if he hadn’t temporarily lost his mind. As the full implication of his actions came to him, he was suddenly convinced that he couldn’t possibly win. The police were bound* to find him out, bound to discover his part in the thing.

He didn’t leave the house except to run down to the corner and pick up the newspapers. And then he found that he was unable to concentrate long enough to read them. He just sat there in the apartment waiting, waiting for the police to come once more, thoroughly convinced that it was merely a matter of time until they did.

He had orange juice and coffee for breakfast and skipped lunch altogether. By six o’clock, still not hungry, he decided that he must get something into his stomach. He would have gone out, but for some reason he was afraid to leave the apartment.

He had to be there, in case the police did come. It was a strange thing, but he was deathly afraid that they would return, and at the same time, the thought of their arriving and his not being there filled him with an even greater fear.

At seven-thirty he decided to telephone Maryjane. By this time he was suffering a hundred regrets and nameless fears. Among them was a feeling of guilt for the way he had acted to his fiancee over the telephone. It was inexcusable. He had to admit it. He had been a boor and had behaved like a stupid idiot. No wonder she had been speechless with indignation.

He put the call in and then, when at last she answered, he was overcome with a sudden dumbness.

“Gerald,” he said. “This is Gerald.” And then, for some reason, he seemed utterly incapable of uttering another word.

“Where are you?”

Her voice was cold and distant.

“Home,” he said, at last. “I’m home and I just thought I would call and see if everything is all right.”

For a long moment there was no answer.

“Gerald?” Maryjane said, at last. “Gerald? What’s the matter? What’s wrong? You don’t sound right. Please tell me what is going on? I want to know.”

She was no longer angry, no longer bitter. She was perplexed, unable to understand what wTas happening.

“I’m all right,” Gerald said. “Yes, I’m all right I just wanted to call and apologize…”

“There’s something wrong. I just know that there’s something wrong,” Maryjane said. “Please tell me…”

“It’s nothing dear,” he said. “Just that I wasn’t feeling well, and… well, I just…” his voice trailed off.

“Gerald Hanna,” she said, “Gerald Hanna, you tell me this minute exactly…”

And then, once again just as it had on Saturday morning, it came over him again. He felt that peculiar feeling of cold aloofness. A sensation of almost utter distaste.

“I’m all right, I tell you.” His voice was frozen and tight. “Sorry I bothered-just wanted to tell you that everything is fine. I’ll see you next week end as usual. Good-by.”

He hung up without waiting for an answer.

Leaving the phone, he quickly crossed the room and snapped on the radio. And then he went to the kitchen and got the bottle of whiskey and poured himself a drink.

It was almost like magic. Suddenly he felt fine. Felt just as he had been feeling Saturday night. What in the hell had gotten into him anyway? What had he been stewing around about and worrying for? Everything was going just as he had planned it. Everything was fine.

All it had taken was that phone call to Maryjane to straighten him out. He’d been a fool to sit around and worry.

He downed the drink and replaced the bottle and then returned to the living room and sunk down in the big upholstered chair, He took a cigarette from a box on the table at his side and then reached over and played around with the dials on the radio set until he found a band playing calypso.

At nine o’clock the program was interrupted for five minutes of spot news. It was then that Gerald learned that police had found and identified Vince Dunne’s body.

Maryjane Swiftwater was not among the several hundred thousand persons who heard that newscast. In the first place, Maryjane never listened to either the radio or television, considering both mediums vulgar and boring. And in the second place, at the moment the announcer was telling the world about the discovery of Dunne’s body, Maryjane herself was having a completely baffling conversation over the telephone with a man who had described himself as Detective Lieutenant Hopper of the Nassau County Police Department.

The lieutenant, from what she could gather, was for some absolutely bizarre reason, interested in her engagement to Gerald Hanna, He refused to say why he was interested and his questions completely confused her.

It never occurred to Maryjane to ask if Gerald were in some sort of trouble. Gerald wasn’t the sort of person ever to be in trouble. And it couldn’t be that he had had an accident. Why she’d been talking to him herself less than half an hour or so ago. And so she was utterly bewildered.

The man wanted to know how long they’d known each other, how long they’d been engaged. He even wanted to know why Gerald had failed to keep his week-end appointment with her, although to save her life she couldn’t understand how he even knew about the appointment.

Five minutes after she had talked with the man, Maryjane made her decision.

There was just no doubt about it any longer. There was something very, very wrong. Something that she didn’t know about and couldn’t possibly understand. And so there was only one thing to do. There would be no point in calling Gerald back on the telephone. No point at all. The last two calls had been sufficiently unsatisfactory to establish that.

She would go down to New York the next day. on Monday, and see Gerald and have it out with him. If she left her job an hour early, she would have plenty of time to make the two-ten into town and it would get her to New York in time to take a cab to Penn Station from Grand Central and get out to Roslyn by the time Gerald himself returned from his office.

It would be best to see Gerald at the apartment; she didn’t want to risk having a scene in his office or in some public restaurant.

Steinberg was watching a television show at the time and so missed the news broadcast. The oversight, however, was not important; he received the word from one of his ambulance chasers within five minutes of the time the announcer signed off. Within another two minutes he had Slaughter on the phone. He knew at once that Slaughter himself was unaware of the news and he had to be very careful how he broke it to him. Steinberg worried about tapped telephone lines.

It took several minutes and a little double talk, but Slaughter was fast on the pickup and got it almost at once. He told Steinberg to hold the wire a moment and then rushed out into the restaurant.

Sue Dunne had already left. The only thing the manager knew was that she had suddenly gotten sick and said she had to go home.

Slaughter went back into his office and told Steinberg to meet him at the New York apartment as soon as possible. They both arrived within forty-five minutes and took the same elevator up to the floor on which Slaughter maintained his apartment.

“All right, Leo,” Slaughter said, the moment they were in the apartment, “let’s have it.”

“There isn’t much,” the attorney said. “Maxie said the cops are playing it cagey. But this he does know. Dunne turned up out on the Island, north of Roslyn. Some kid found the body lying in the bushes. Shot. Maxie got there only a minute or two after the cops showed up. Vince didn’t have the stuff on him.”

Slaughter cursed.

“How does he know?” he asked. “Maybe the law…”

Steinberg raised a protesting hand.

“Maxie knows,” he said. “Hell, they didn’t even know it was Vince at first. Maxie was there when the identification was made and he got a verification from a pal at headquarters. No-there were no jewels. Nothing. Looked like the kid got shot and tossed out of a car. At least that rounds that up. We know what happened to him.”

“We don’t know,” Slaughter said. “We don’t know nothing. All we know is about Vince and Jake and Dommie. There has to be someone else; someone we don’t know nothing about. And there has to be the stuff. We know they got the stuff outta the jewelry store all right.”

Steinberg stood up and stretched.

“Listen Fred,” he said, “maybe you better forget about that part of it. The boys are taken care of-they’re dead. The jewels are missing. Right now, they are about the hottest things this side of hell. Don’t forget, two cops died during that rhubarb. Maybe it would be better to just write the whole caper off and stay in the clear while you’re still clean.”

Slaughter looked hard at the little lawyer and then slowly shook his head.

“No,” he said. “No. Not by a damned sight. Some lousy rat hijacked those gems and I mean to do something about it. For two reasons. I don’t like anyone chiseling in on my jobs. But even more important, I’ve already made the deal to unload the stuff. And I can’t miss out on it. I have to have the dough. Have to have it.”

“But just where do you start…”

“Well, to begin with,” Slaughter said. “There’s the girl. We gotta start somewhere and so we might just as well start with her.”

“You mean young Dunne’s sister?” Steinberg asked. “But why…”

“I pay you to do my thinking for me,” Slaughter said. “Don’t make me do all of it. Vince Dunne lived with his sister, didn’t he. And she was off work on Friday night. Maybe she got suspicious when he left the house and followed him. I don’t say that she did, but just maybe. She could have been worried about him, known something was up. She just possibly could have followed him.

“Someone picked him up, that we know. It seems to me it had to be someone he knew, not someone who just happened to drive by. It could have been arranged in advance, or, in the case of the sister, she could have been there, waiting to see what he was up to. It’s a cinch he was picked up and it’s a cinch that whoever picked him up, dumped the body when they found he was either dying or dead, and hung on to the loot.”

“But the girl, his own sister…”

“Listen,” Slaughter said. “It could have happened. Who the hell else did he know. Who else was close to him? Nobody. If he’d been playing around with someone from another mob, I would have known about it. Sure, it may be farfetched, but we gotta start someplace. Someone has that stuff and I mean to get it. Another thing, I talked with the girl tonight. She acted damned funny, very damned funny, when I asked her about the cops and what they’d asked when they took her in.”

“All right,” Steinberg said. “So, let’s see the girl.”

“Tomorrow will be time enough,” Slaughter said. “Plenty of time. Right now she’s probably waiting down at the morgue to identify her brother. The cops will keep her busy for the rest of the night. But tomorrow-well, we’ll see. I’ll take care of that end of it. You check with your guy again and make absolutely sure about the stuff. Sure that no one got their hands on it when they picked up Vince.”

Leaving the house early Monday morning, Gerald departed by the front door and looked into the mailbox as he went down to the garage. It was empty, but he expected as much. The mail wouldn’t be delivered until sometime in the forenoon and it would bring the envelope he’d mailed himself on Saturday. He would let it stay in the box when it came until he was ready to use it contents. The box would be the safest place. The police might be back; might possibly search him and the apartment. The one spot they would never think of would be the mailbox itself.

He drove the Chevvie, leaving it at the railway station parking lot in Manhasset as he usually did on weekdays, and took the train into Penn Station. He arrived at the office at his usual time.

He wanted very much to see either Baxter or one of the other men who had been at the Friday night poker session, but he made an effort to control any temptation to seek them out. The opportunity came, as he expected it would, during the midmorning coffee break. He was at the counter in the drugstore in the lobby of the building, when Bill Baxter entered and spotted him. Baxter moved onto the stool next to his immediately.

“Hi, boy,” he said. He laid a heavy hand on Gerald’s shoulder. “Say, what were you up to after you left Friday night, anyway?”

“Up to?”

“Yeah,” Baxter said. “Don’t try and kid me now. What did you do, get picked up for drunken driving or something?” Bill looked at him and laughed but there was a curious expression on his bland face. “The police called me Saturday afternoon-wanted to know all about the poker game and especially wanted to know all about you. Funny thing, the guy who phoned me said he was a detective connected with the Homicide Bureau. Who’d you murder, kid?”

Gerald forced a laugh.

“Oh, that,” he said. He shook his head, ruefully. “Damnedest thing you can imagine, Bill,” he said. “Seems on my way home I passed the scene of a robbery and shooting. Maybe you read about it. Out in Manhasset. Couple of cops and some gunmen had it out after the gunmen were found robbing a jewelry store.”

“Jees,” Bill said, “don’t tell me you were in on that one!”

“Well, I must have just missed it. Anyway, it seems someone spotted a Chevvie with a license number somewhat similar to mine and so the cops came around and checked up on me.”

“Did you see anything; were you there when…”

“Hell, I missed it,” Gerald said. “It was just that I happened to be in the neighborhood at the time or near abouts. I understand the gang got away with a quarter of a million in jewelry.”

Bill Baxter whistled.

“You sure you haven’t got the loot stashed away, kid? Boy, a quarter of a million.”

“I wish I had,” Gerald laughed. “By the way,” he said, “that stuff was insured according to the papers. It must have been for plenty. I wonder who…”

“They can afford it,” Baxter said.

“Who can afford it?”

“Well, without doubt it would be Great Eastern Surety. Used to work for them. They handle all of those big jewelry accounts. And they have more damned money than they know what to do with.”

“Eastern, eh?”

“Yeah, a real tight outfit. Incidentally, a pal of mine, Jack Rogers, is probably the man on the account. He takes care of most of the stuff around town here. Know him?”

Gerald shook his head.

“I’m sort of interested in the thing,” he said. “You know, what with the cops being by and questioning me and everything.”

“Jack can probably give you the low-down. He works pretty close with the police on these things.” Baxter hesitated a second. “Tell you what,” he said, “I’m tied up this noon, got an appointment at the Downtown Athletic Club. But if you’d like, and really want the story about it, I’ll give Jack a buzz and if he’s free, I’ll set up a lunch date for you.”

“Say Bill, that would be great,” Gerald said. “You know, with the cops talking to me and everything…”

“I’ll give him a buzz,” Bill said. “You be in your office all morning?”

“All morning.”

Hanna picked Jack Rogers up at the latter’s office at twelve-fifteen. He took him to lunch in a Schrafft’s restaurant in the neighborhood after a rather embarrassed introduction.

Rogers, a heavy-set, middle-aged man with a perpetually worried look, ordered a cold salad and a glass of iced tea and then turned to Gerald as the waitress left.

“Bill said you were interested in the Frost job, out in Manhasset,” he said. “Said the police had been around asking you about it or something?” He looked at Gerald with mild curiosity.

Gerald nodded.

“They sure did,” he said. “Damnedest thing, I was at a poker session at Bill’s Friday night. I left sometime after midnight and drove out to the Island. I live out in Roslyn. Anyway, “i must have passed that jewelry store in Manhasset either just before or just after the thing took place.”

“It wouldn’t be just after,” Rogers said. “You’d have seen the police and the ambulances and everything.”

“Just before then. Anyway, I was driving a Chevvie. And it seems that someone spotted a Chevvie at the scene-supposed to be a getaway car or something-and the last number on the license plate was the same as mine. What do you think of that for a coincidence!”

“It happens,” Rogers said morosely. “Happens more often than you would suspect.”

“Anyway, the police were around the next day. Checking up on me and on my car. They sure asked a million questions.”

“They would,” Rogers said. “They don’t miss much, you know. After all, there was a quarter of a million in jewels lifted. That ain’t hay.”

“Do you think they’ll turn up?” Gerald asked.

“They usually do,” Rogers said. “We have offered the usual reward-a hundred thousand dollars in this case. Yes, they usually turn up.”

“A hundred thousand!” Gerald whistled.

Rogers shook his head, looking sad.

“The reward won’t bring them in this time,” he said.

“No?”

“No. You see-this is off the record of course-in most cases like this a deal is made sooner or later. There’s a cooling off period and then, sooner of later, someone contacts us. Usually the contact is a perfectly respectable front, either a lawyer or something like that. We pay the reward and we get the jewels.”

“You mean the police…”

“Well, let’s put it this way. The police undoubtedly know that a deal is made. Sometimes the mob throws them a fall guy, and sometimes not. But the big thing is getting the stuff back. After they’ve had their crack at it and if they fail to produce, well, then we go to work on it. Of course we are in on it from the beginning, as far as that goes.”

“Then you mean that sooner or later you’ll recover the quarter of a million in jewels they got away with?”

Rogers shook his head.

“No,” he said. “No, not this time, I’m afraid.”

Hanna looked up at him, his head twisted in curiosity.

“Not this time?”

“Not a chance,” Rogers said. “You see, this is a little different. This isn’t just a simple heist or stick-up. Two cops were shot. Shot and killed. As far as the jewels are concerned, we’re just as much interested as we’d ever be. But this time it’s different. We don’t have the freedom to move that we’d have normally. A robbery is one thing. Even a robbery and a murder or two. But not this time. Not when they kill a cop. The police aren’t partial to cop killings.”

“Then you mean that the thieves…”

“Well, they got three of them, I understand. But the jewels are missing and that means there are others. Or at least one other. Although I would bet my right arm there’s an organized mob in back of it. Anyway, no deals can be made now. Not after they shot those two cops. The police would never stand for that. They don’t care about the jewels now. All they want to do is get the guys who are responsible for those two murders.”

“And so, you mean, you people get stuck then. That the reward won’t bring in…”

“We still offer the reward of course. There’s always the chance that someone may have some knowledge. Maybe one of the mob itself will turn rat. A hundred thousand is a lot of money. But frankly, I wouldn’t count on it. We may or may not get the stuff back, but as far as I’m concerned, I don’t think the reward will have much to do with it. No, this one will be cracked by the cops themselves. As I say, they don’t like to have people going around knocking off their men. They’ll go to work on this and they’ll stay with it. Sooner or later they’ll crack it. They almost always do. When a cop is killed.”

They finished their lunch and Gerald asked Rogers if he didn’t want a second iced tea. Rogers refused.

“No thanks,” he said. “Ate too much as it is,” he added, patting his belly and looking sadder than ever.

Gerald insisted on picking up the check. He walked back as far as the door of the building where Rogers had his office.

“Well,” he said, “it must be damned interesting work. And thanks a lot for lunching with me. I was really pretty interested, you know, with the police being around and all.”

Rogers grunted.

“Not too interesting,” he said. “After all, we turn it over to a private detective agency and they really do the investigating from their end. I just sort of keep track of things.” He belched and held out his hand.

“Nice to see you,” he said. “By the way, is that poker game that you and Bill have every week open to strangers?”

“Glad to have you-any time at all,” Gerald said. “But you want to watch the boys; you know how these percentage players are. Especially guys with insurance companies.”

“I’ll give Bill a ring,” Rogers said. “Be seeing you.”

Gerald, hurrying through the noonday crowds on his way back to the office, was torn by mixed emotions. A hundred thousand reward. Great. Couldn’t be better. But then he remembered what Rogers had told him. This time it would be different. This time two policemen had been murdered. This time it wouldn’t be a case of the loot being returned and a hundred thousand dollars being paid over and things allowed to be quietly forgotten. No, this time the police were going to stay right with it. Right up until the end.

As he pushed his way through the streets, he mulled the thing over in his mind. Finally, nearing his office, he slowly nodded, smiling to himself in quiet satisfaction.

He knew what he would have to do. He knew the answer. It was ticklish, devilishly ticklish. But he wasn’t licked. Not by a long shot.

At three o’clock that afternoon, Gerald knocked at the door of the private office of his supervisor.

“And so if it’s all right,” he said, “I’d like to get away a little early. I’ve got everything pretty much cleared up on my desk and I feel a little bit under the weather. Probably a virus or something,” he said.

The supervisor told him to go on home, to take it easy and if he still didn’t feel all right in the morning, not to come in. Gerald thanked him and within twenty minutes had left the office.

He had returned to his desk only long enough to type out the note.

He went directly to Penn Station and took the train out to Long Island. In Manhasset he got into his car and drove to Roslyn. The trip, actually, wasn’t at all necessary. But he couldn’t resist the temptation to stop by at the apartment. He wanted to make sure that the envelope had arrived.

It was in the mailbox and Gerald breathed a sigh of relief when he spotted the white of the paper through the air holes. He didn’t open the box but instead returned to the car which he had left at the curb with its engine running. It was probably because he was concentrating on what he was about to do, that he failed to notice the taxi which pulled up behind him as he was putting the Chevvie into gear.

Maryjane Swiftwater leaned forward on the leather seat and stared through the side window of the taxicab.

“Well!” She took a long breath and slowly expelled it.

“What did you say, Miss?” The driver looked over his shoulder.

For a second she stared at him blankly. And then her eyes focused, staring at him in anger.

“That car,” she said. “The Chevrolet which just pulled away. I want you to follow it.”

“Follow it?”

“Yes. Follow it. That’s what I said. I want you to follow that car. I don’t want you to let the driver know…”

“I’m no private detective, Miss,” the cabbie said. “I don’t want to get mixed up in no divorce case or nothin’ like that.”

If she had had a minute to think about it, she would never have been able to do it. But Maryjane moved without thinking and her hand shot into her bag and she found the tightly rolled-up bills, the money she’d been secretly saving for months now not putting it in her savings account, not letting anyone know about it. The dollar and five dollar bills which she changed into larger denominations as the sum built up and which she always carried with her. It was her own private hoard, held out from her frugal and careful life. Money she was going to use someday to buy the fur coat she’d always dreamed of and always wanted.

She peeled off a bill at random and waved it over the driver’s shoulder.

“Hurry,” she said, “just follow that car. It isn’t a divorce case or anything like that. Here-” she forced the bill into his hand, where it rested on the wheel. “It’s yours,” she said, “if you don’t lose sight of him.”

It wasn’t until she leaned back in the seat, jerked to the rear cushion as the car suddenly shot forward, that she realized she had handed the man a twenty dollar bill. Her shock at the knowledge was almost as great as had been her shock at seeing Gerald Hanna leaving from in front of his house at four-fifteen in the afternoon-a full two hours before he was even due to be home from his office. She couldn’t, to save her life, imagine what he was up to. But she was certainly going to find out. Yes, indeed, there were a lot of things she was going to find out about Gerald and his behavior of the last few days.

Gerald, several hundred yards in front of the taxi, drove at a moderate speed, his mind only half on the traffic, which was comparatively light. He wasn’t quite sure of the best way to get where he was going, but he knew the general direction. Once in Long Island City, he stopped to ask a traffic officer for directions, checking the address on a slip of paper. The officer told him and five minutes later he was in front of the building which housed the offices of the messenger service.

It was a calculated risk, but one that he knew he would have to take. There was, of course, the chance that the girl wouldn’t be home, wouldn’t, in fact, return home at all that night. But she had to come sooner or later. It was merely a matter of time. The greater risk was that she would go at once to the police. But this Gerald was inclined to doubt. Sisters of gunmen and killers, didn’t, as far as he knew, have any great love for policemen.

But even if she did, even if worse turned to worst, he still had an out. The most they could do would be to convict him of butting into police business. And certainly he had an excuse for being curious.

But Gerald doubted very much that Sue Dunne would go to the police after getting the note. No, she’d be too much interested in seeing him; interested in finding out about her brother.

It took him a little while to make it clear to the manager of the agency just what it was he wanted. The man was suspicious, but then, after Gerald had slipped him the extra five dollar bill, he apparently was willing enough to overlook it. He assured Gerald that the matter would be taken care of.

Returning to his car, Gerald decided to go directly into New York. He could kill some time driving around Central Park, then stop by the Cavern On The Green and have a drink. It was something he’d always wanted to do.

He might just as well relax. Either she’d come or she wouldn’t. It was out of his hands.

He only hoped that the breaks would be with him; only hoped that she’d be alone when she got the note. That it wouldn’t fall into the hands of the police before she had a chance to make up her mind.

By six-thirty Gerald was seated at a round iron-topped table slowly sipping a gin and tonic. He had perhaps an hour and a half to kill and he was determined to enjoy himself while he was killing it. His car was parked in the lot a few hundred yards away, and for the moment he was at peace with the world. He felt like a million dollars. Keyed up-yes. But still, fine.

He began to visualize the future. A gin and tonic before dinner, every night. Miami perhaps. Or maybe Bermuda would be pleasant at this time of the year.

The thoughts going through the head of Maryjane Swiftwater, however, were anything but pleasant. She herself was sweltering in the back seat of the taxi where it stood with its motor idling a few yards from the spot where Gerald had parked the Chevvie. She’d just returned to the car after walking to the entrance to the tavern for the second time and watching Gerald sitting there over his drink. And she had also just parted with the second twenty dollar bill to the cab driver, who had the audacity to not only accept it, but to accept it with a whine of protest.

But it was going to be worth it. Worth every cent of it, no matter what it cost her.

Maryjane was no longer perplexed. She was sure. Absolutely sure. Gerald could be sitting there for only one reason. He was waiting for someone; waiting for some other girl.

Much as Maryjane regretted parting with the money, she was determined to sit it out. She just wanted to see this girl. See what sort of witch…

Gerald drained his drink, smiled complacently, and raised a finger to beckon the waiter.

By seven o’clock the messenger was about ready to call it quits and leave. Hell’s bells, he’d been standing here in front of the place for at least an hour and a half. People were beginning to get suspicious of him. That woman, the one of the ground-floor front, had twice opened her window now and stared out at him. It made him damned nervous.

For about the tenth time, he turned and slowly started walking around the block. He’d give it just one more try and then the hell with it. Even if she hadn’t shown up by the time he got back, well, an extra couple of bucks or not, he’d just take off. He was due to quit at six-thirty and here already he’d spent an extra half hour overtime. He could just put the damned note in the mailbox and shove off. She’d find it. What could be so damned important about handing it to her personally, anyway?

He passed the tavern again and this time he ducked in and ordered a quick beer. At seven-ten he was back in the lobby of the building and pushing the bell. He was surprised when he heard the answering click of the door lock.

At eight-twenty-eight, Maryjane Swiftwater returned to the taxi in the parking lot for the last time and dismissed the driver. She was so mad that she failed to ask for change from the second twenty-dollar bill which she had given the man.

As far as the driver himself was concerned, he didn’t waste any time hanging around. He was anxious to get back to Long Island and get home and have his dinner. And he didn’t want any more of his present fare, in any case. He knew an irate female when he saw one and there was no doubt in his mind about his latest fare. He was glad to be well out of it. Forty bucks for a few hours’ work was all very well and good, but he didn’t want to get mixed up in any sort of hassle. Not when a girl with a jaw like that girl had, was involved.

She found a phone booth and it took her several minutes to make it clear to information just what it was she wanted. The stupid girl seemed to think that the only Police Department in the world was in New York. But finally she got it clear and within another minute or two, Maryjane had the right number. She was in luck. This man Hopper, the detective who had called her at her home in Connecticut, was in the office. It took her a couple of minutes to make him understand just who she was.

“Don’t you remember,” she said, her voice high-pitched in irritation. “Miss Swiftwater, Miss Maryjane Swiftwater. You called me about a Mr. Gerald Hanna.”

There was a pause and then the man’s voice came back to her.

“Yes, yes of course, Miss Swiftwater. And just what…”

“You wanted to know all about him. At least you seemed awfully curious about him. Remember, you wanted to know why he broke our appointment. Well! I can certainly tell you. It was because he has another girl. Can you imagine…”

Hopper cut in with a long-suffering voice.

“I see, Miss Swiftwater. So, he has another girl…”

“He has. And not a word, not one single blessed word about it to me. I don’t know why you were interested in him, but I can certainly tell you this. If ever a man was deceitful, if ever a man was a downright cad and liar…”

“Of course, Miss Swiftwater,” Hopper said. “You mean that when he was supposed to come and visit you, you’ve discovered he was with this other woman…”

“I wouldn’t know about that,” she cut in shortly. “But I can tell you this. He’s with her right now. Sitting with her and guzzling…”

“And where is Mr. Hanna right now?” Hopper asked in a bored voice.

“Some place here in New York. A place called Cavern On The Green. And that woman has just come in and joined him.”

“Perhaps a relative…”

“It certainly is not,” Maryjane said in indignation. “I know all of Gerald’s relatives and business acquaintances. This girl is a blonde, a painted-up blonde. Her name’s Dunne. I heard her give it to the waiter when she came here and asked for him. I heard…”

“What did you say?” This time the voice at the other end of the line was hard and sharp. “What did you say the girl’s name was?”

“Dunne. I heard her very distinctly. She came in a taxi and she told the headwaiter Mr. Hanna was expecting her. She said her name was Dunne. Mr. Hanna is my fiance and I want…”

It took Hopper another three minutes to get her off the wire and hang up. It took him a little less than two minutes to reach Detective Finn.

They’d been together for more than half an hour now, sitting across from each other at the small, round-topped table in the secluded corner of the terrace. She hadn’t touched the Martini which the waiter had brought and put down in front of her and he himself had let the gin and tonic grow lukewarm in the tall glass.

She wore a cheap little cotton suit, but well cut as though she might have made it herself, and her makeup was smeared. Her slender-fingered hands beat an insistent tattoo on the edge of the table and when she spoke there was a note of controlled hysteria in her voice. When she looked at him, the azure eyes were filled with loathing.

But in spite of her expression, he could tell that she was very pretty. Her eyes were really beautiful. He only wished he could see them without the anger. Nothing, of course, could detract from her slender, perfect figure.

Looking at her, Gerald’s mind unconsciously went to his fiancee, Maryjane. She would never have approved of this lovely golden girl. Maryjane didn’t like women who wore their hair free and careless, who…

She reached across the table suddenly, jerking him by the sleeve of his jacket and interrupting his thoughts.

“You wanted to talk to me, Mister,” she said, fury in her low, husky voice. “What kind of man are you, anyway? Don’t just sit there staring at me. Tell me…”

“I’m sorry,” he said, refocusing his eyes on her.

“I don’t understand you,” Sue Dunne said. “I don’t understand you at all. I have to believe you, but I simply can’t understand you. You don’t look like a hoodlum-and God knows, I’ve seen enough of them to know. You don’t look like a thief or a crook. Maybe you are an insurance man like you say. Maybe you are legitimate.

“And yet you come here, or rather bring me here, and tell me about my brother. Tell me about his getting into your car. You say that he had the jewels and that now you have them. Or that you know how to get hold of them.

“Why? Why in the name of God do you come to me?”

“It’s like I explained,” Gerald said. “There was nothing I could have done for your brother. He died within minutes of the time he got into the car. There was nothing I could have done for him. But, I want to know who else is mixed up in the thing. If anyone else was involved in the robbery. I want to know how they planned to get rid of the stuff once they had it.”

“But why? Why do you want to know? Say, are you some kind of cop or something? You said you were an insurance man. Is that why…”

Gerald slowly shook his head.

“No,” he said. “No that isn’t why. And I am not any sort of cop or anything like that. It’s like I have told you. Five men have already died because of these jewels. One of them was your brother. Nothing can be done about that part of it any longer. But you have to be sensible, be realistic. It doesn’t make the jewels any less valuable.”

He hesitated a second and watched her closely.

“You see,” he said, “I don’t know anything about mobs, or gangsters, or fences, or anything like that. I just assumed that maybe you, being the sister of one of the men who took the stuff…”

She pushed back her chair and angrily got to her feet, leaning down with her hands on the table and staring into his face.

“My brother’s dead,” she said. “I don’t say that he didn’t get what was coming to him; I don’t even blame the policeman who fired the bullet which killed him. But the very thought of those jewels makes me sick. Makes me want to vomit. Do you understand? I hate the jewels and I hate the men who helped Vincent steal them.”

Her slender body suddenly began to shake and Gerald himself leaned forward, taking her by the arms. In a moment she again sat down, half collapsing in the seat.

He leaned forward, still holding her.

“Please,” he said. “Please. Just take it easy. I’m not trying to hurt you. I don’t want to…”

She swallowed a sob and looked up at him. The hatred was still there, but there was a difference. He could tell that the hatred had nothing to do with him personally. He was no longer important.

“If there is anything I could do to see that the man who got Vince into this thing was arrested,” she said in a low, choked voice, “anything I could do at all, why I’d give my life.”

She lifted her eyes again and stared at him intently. “And you expect me to help you contact him? You expect me to help you make money out of the very thing which killed my brother? You must be a fool as well as a scoundrel!”

She leaned back in her seat in sudden tired resignation and he could see the tears forming in the corners of her eyes.

“Vince was weak,” she said, her voice soft and barely above a whisper, as though she were speaking to herself and had forgotten his very presence. “Yes, Vince was weak. I always knew that he wasn’t much good. But if they’d let him alone, if they’d only left him alone! He could have turned out all right. I would have seen to that. I could have helped him, protected him.”

She looked up again and once more her mood changed.

“Yes,” she said, bitterly. “Yes, I could have helped him. But they didn’t. They didn’t leave him alone. They need kids like Vince to do their dirty work-take the chances they are afraid to take themselves.”

Suddenly she reached for the Martini and lifting it to her lips, swallowed it in one long draught. She made a wry face as she replaced the glass.

“As far as you’re concerned,” she said, looking into his face and not bothering to conceal the repugnance in her voice, “as far as you’re concerned, if you have the jewels like you say you do, then keep them. Or, if you aren’t just a cheap thief, give them back to the people they belong to.

“I wouldn’t help you if I could. I don’t even know why I’m stupid enough to sit here talking to you. I think maybe you are as bad as Fred Slaughter himself. There’s something darned funny about you and I think maybe I should just go to the telephone and…”

“Slaughter? Was this Fred Slaughter the man-the fence or whatever it is?”

For a long moment she stared at him and then quickly looked away.

“If you are smart,” she said, “you’ll forget that name. Forget that you ever heard it.”

This time when she stood up there was no doubt about what her intentions were.

“I don’t know what your angle is, Mister,” she said. “Maybe you are just a screwball after all. You certainly don’t look like a thief and you don’t look like a cop. But if you should by any chance know anything about those stolen jewels, I would advise you to get rid of them just as quickly as you can. I’d advise you to go right to the police and tell them everything you know.”

She hesitated a moment and for the first time as she looked at him, there was no longer the disgust and the dislike in her expression.

“You are older than Vince was,” she said. “You should be a lot smarter. Maybe you are and maybe you’re not. Maybe, you too just have to be told what is right and what is wrong.”

She moved a step away from the table as he started to stand up.

“I’m going now,” she said. “We’ve had our talk. I’m going home now and I don’t think I ever want to see you again.”

She swung on her heel and stalked out into the night and Gerald stood there.

Somehow he felt a sudden sadness, a sudden odd sense of loss. It didn’t matter how she felt about it. He knew that he himself would want to see her again. Would like to see her soon and often and…

He didn’t notice the man several tables away who also sat watching the girl leave. The man himself, for a moment, made as though to get up and follow her. Then, after a moment, he once more sat back and his eyes returned to Gerald.

It was a decision he had to make on the spur of the moment. There was no time to call in and find out which one of the two they wanted him to keep his eye on in case they split up. Well, he couldn’t, very obviously, tail both of them. And he guessed that the man would probably be the most important one. The man usually was.

It is more or less of a shame that he reached this particular decision, because, if he hadn’t and had decided to follow Sue Dunne instead of stay with Gerald Hanna, he might have been able to do something about what was to happen a few moments later.

At least he would have seen the car which was waiting at the curb, in front of Sue’s apartment house when she arrived. He would have seen the man who leaped to the dark street and crossed over and accosted her and a second later threw a strangle hold around her neck and pulled her to the edge of the gutter. He would have seen the other hands reach out and drag her into the machine as it left the curb to speed off into the night.

But instead, this man who had to make the decision stayed on as Gerald sat and finished his warm drink and called the waiter over and asked for his check. He followed him when Gerald went out and got into his car. He was behind him, in his own unmarked police car, all of the way out to Long Island. He was parked across the street, watching, as Gerald closed the garage doors and went on up to his apartment.

He wasn’t prepared for it. It was funny how that was the first thought that passed through his mind as his hand reached out and he flicked on the wall switch in the living room.

Even before the sense of surprise, of fear, reached his brain, that was the thought. He should have known or at least have guessed. But he hadn’t. That was the trouble with having no experience. Experience was always valuable. Gerald could only assume the rule applied to almost any given situation.

A criminal, a man who operated outside the law, would have had that experience and would have known. Would have sensed it the moment he entered the room. But he, Gerald Hanna, was without experience and that is why, as the yellow brilliance filtered through the dark room and he saw the two of them, one on the couch and the other standing by the door, he reacted as he did.

The hand which had found the fight switch went to his mouth and his eyes, in the sudden glare of the light, were wide and almost hysterical. He gasped and instinctively he turned and took a step back toward the hallway.

It was the short, fat one, the one called Finn, who spoke. He didn’t move and didn’t take the dead cigar from between his lips and he didn’t raise his voice but spoke in a cool, detached manner.

“Don’t leave now, Mr. Hanna,” he said. “You just got here. This is your house, you know. Your castle. You may stay.”

Detective Lieutenant Hopper merely sat still and relaxed on the couch, his glasses half down on his thin, bony nose and his hat pushed back on his head. He didn’t look up. His eyes were on the floor and he seemed to be inspecting the carpet under Gerald’s feet.

“Yes, do stay. It wouldn’t be polite to leave while you have guests,” Finn said, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He dusted a spot of cigar ash from the unpressed lapel of his dark-gray suit and looked up into Gerald’s face, smiling politely.

“You’re real cute, Mr. Hanna,” he said.

Lieutenant Hopper raised his eyes and sighed. He looked over at the fat man, ignoring Gerald, who still stood half in and half out of the doorway.

“I’ll take it, Finn,” he said in a tired voice. He transferred his gaze to Gerald.

“Come in and sit down, Mr. Hanna,” he said. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

Gerald entered the room, attempting to compose his expression. He took off his hat and carefully placed it on the side table and then moved across the room and pulled a straight-backed chair out from the wall. He straddled it and then just sat there, waiting.

“Where have you been?”

The lieutenant’s expression was disinterested as he asked the question in a soft, gentle voice.

“Why… why, out,” Gerald said. The moment the words left his lips he realized the inane vacuity of them. Realized how silly they sounded. But he still hadn’t gotten over his shock at finding the men in his apartment, hadn’t adjusted to the reality of their presence.

“He’s been out,” Finn said, his voice heavy with sarcasm. “I told you he’s cute, Lieutenant. Not tricky-nothing cagey or deceitful or reticent about him. Just cute. You ask him where he’s been and like a little man he ups and he tells you. He’s been out. Simple? Straightforward? Certainly. A man would have to be a damned ingrate not to be satisfied with that sort of answer.”

He moved then, moved with amazing swiftness for a man of his bulk. He was halfway across the room when he again spoke.

“Why, you dirty little…”

“Sit down, Finn. I said I’d take it!”

The lieutenant stood up then himself and stared down at Gerald. He began to speak in the same soft, unimpassioned tone of voice, almost apologetically, but his gray eyes were like ice.

“I’d like to explain something to you, Mr. Hanna,” he said. He took a step forward, standing in front of Gerald on straddled legs. As he spoke he reached up and pushed his glasses into position.

“I don’t believe it’s any news to you that we have been working on a robbery. The Gorden-Frost job, to be precise. A quarter of a million dollars in stones and assorted gems. But do you know, in spite of the money involved, in spite of the fact that the thieves got away with the stuff, we aren’t really primarily concerned. Interested of course, that more or less being our business, but not hysterical about it or anything.

“On the other hand, it just so happens that two policemen were shot during that particular robbery. One of them was a man a year or so younger than you, but unlike you, he was married. Had a two-year-old baby. His name was Hardy, Don Hardy. I never knew him personally as he was just a rookie when he was shot. He’ll never be anything else. He’s dead.

“The other one was a man named Dillon. Dillon was a sergeant, an old-timer. Dillon I did know. Knew him. knew his wife, and knew his two sons and his daughter. You’d have liked Dillon-a good solid family man and honest as the day is long. Dillon was the sort of cop who hated to write out a traffic ticket. He wasn’t a cop’s cop-he was a layman’s cop. Everyone liked Dillon. Well, he’s dead too. I take his death pretty hard; you see he stood up at my wedding and we were friends.

“But I don’t want you to let that influence your reaction to what I am saying to you. A lot of men have friends and a lot of those friends die, sooner or later. Not exactly the way Hardy and Dillon died, of course, but they do die.”

Lieutenant Hopper shifted his weight and scratched vaguely at the side of his nose before going on. His voice was softer than ever.

“Around New York,” he said, “we take it seriously when someone shoots a cop. We don’t like it. Not at all, we don’t like it.”

Gerald, staring up at the other man, half nodded. He didn’t speak.

“Now let’s take you,” the lieutenant said. “By some amazing coincidence, you just happen to be driving by the scene of a crime at the time or around the time it is taking place. And, through an even more fascinating coincidence, you were driving the same make of car which was driven by one of the men who engineered the getaway.

“Sort of coincidental, eh? But that isn’t all of it. Oh, no, we have even more and greater surprises in store. Your license plate ends in the same number as the license plate of the getaway car. The truth is really stranger than fiction, isn’t it, Mr. Hanna?”

The lieutenant tipped his hat back a bit farther on his head and then took off his glasses. He pulled a linen handkerchief from his breast pocket, carefully polished both lenses and then put the glasses into a leather case and placed the case back in his jacket pocket.

“Now you tell us, Mr, Hanna, that you didn’t know anything about that robbery. Didn’t know anything about those two policemen who were killed in the line of duty. You tell us further that you didn’t know the three men who were known to have been involved in the crime. That you never as much as heard of Vince Dunne, or Dominick Petri or Jake Riddle.

“And yet, tonight, by another one of those utterly fascinating coincidences, you spent a few casual, carefree hours with the sister of one of those men. You met her at a pleasant, restful saloon and the two of you enjoyed the cool of the summer evening over a few drinks. I certainly can’t criticize you for that, Mr. Hanna. Having met the young lady, I can only congratulate you on your good taste. I can only envy you your youth and your freedom and your luck. But do you know something, Mr. Hanna? Do you know that I experience another sensation even stronger than envy?”

Suddenly the soft voice was no longer soft, no longer gentle and conciliatory.

“You s-o-b,” the lieutenant said, “start talking! Start talking and make it good. Make it damned good!”

As Lieutenant Hopper finished speaking, Finn moved swiftly across the room. His meaty right hand swung from his hip and the hard side of the palm caught Gerald across the eyes. Twice more, before Gerald could raise his arms in defense, Finn back slapped him, rocking his head from side to side.

“He’ll talk,” Finn said. “He’ll talk. You’re damn right he’ll talk.”

Gerald talked.

He tried not to lose his head, tried not to panic. Tried to tell them the truth, straight and simple.

Yes, he’d met Sue Dunne and he’d spent an hour or so with her.

They didn’t interrupt him as he explained it. He told them that he had read about the robbery in the newspapers and that after that first visit the two had paid him, he’d made the connection and reread the stories in the newspapers. He had realized what it was they had wanted to see him about.

Naturally he had been curious. Who wouldn’t be? He’d gone on and followed the case for the last couple of days, reading the papers and tuning in on the news broadcasts. He himself had been fascinated by the coincidences in the thing. The fact that he had a Chevvie, that its license ended in the number “3.” That he had been near the scene of the crime at the time it had taken place. Who wouldn’t be curious?

He’d seen the girl’s name in the newspapers and her address as well. There had been a picture of her and he had thought she was enchanting.

At this point Lieutenant Hopper interrupted his story. Finn was back, seated on the couch and the lieutenant still stood, a few feet away.

“Enchanting?” he said. “I’m rather surprised, Mr. Hanna… and you an engaged man. In fact, I believe that you and Miss Swiftwater have been engaged for several years. A nice girl, Miss Swiftwater. Not enchanting, perhaps, but nice. I don’t believe, however, that nice as she is, she would quite approve of her fiance finding Miss Dunne enchanting.”

Gerald blushed, but continued.

“I couldn’t understand,” Gerald said, “how a girl who looked like Miss Dunne could be mixed up with a lot of thugs.”

“And is she mixed up with thugs?” the lieutenant asked.

“What I mean to say,” Gerald explained, “is how she could be the sister of a thief and a gunman. In any case, curiosity got the better of me, and because I was interested in the case, and because you had questioned me about it, I looked up Miss Dunne and arranged to see her. It was as simple as that.”

But it wasn’t as simple as that. It wasn’t simple at all.

The questioning continued, continued endlessly. A half a dozen times Finn would get up and cross the room and raise his thick hand and slap him. The lieutenant never struck him and he alternated between suaveness and detachment and cold fury. But neither of them shook his story. Neither of them made him admit a thing beyond the bare outlines of his original statement. He had seen the girl’s picture and her address, she had interested him, and he had made a date with her.

What had they talked about? Nothing much really. He had offered to help her in any way he could. He had expressed his sympathy over her brother’s death.

“It is too bad you didn’t sympathize with Hardy’s widow or with Dillon’s widow,” Hopper said. “But then I don’t suppose that they tweeked your curiosity. I don’t suppose that you found the same ‘enchantment’ in them.”

That was when Finn hit him the hardest.

At one time during the evening the telephone rang and Hopper quickly reached for it. The call was for him and he spoke into the instrument for several moments, mostly in monosyllables. Once or twice he looked across the room curiously at Gerald as he listened to the voice on the other end of the wire. When he hung up, he swung back to Hanna.

“When you left Miss Dunne,” he asked, “where did she say she was going?”

“She said she was going back to her apartment.”

Hopper nodded.

“You had your car,” he said. “Why didn’t you drive her back?”

“Perhaps she didn’t find Mr. Hanna as enchanting as he found her,” Finn said.

The lieutenant turned and stared at his partner for a moment and then returned his attention to Gerald.

“Well?”

“Miss Dunne resented my curiosity,” Gerald said. “Also, she was very upset, about her brother, you know. She just wanted to be left alone. I offered to drive her home, but she preferred to leave by herself.”

“I can’t say I blame her,” Finn cut in.

“It couldn’t have been because she knew you were mixed up in the robbery, now could it?” Hopper said. “It couldn’t be that she just didn’t want any part of…”

“I am not mixed up in anything,” Gerald interrupted. “The only thing I know about the robbery is what I have read in the papers. I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again. I have absolutely no knowledge…”

They left around five o’clock in the morning. It was the lieutenant who had the last words as they stood in the doorway.

“Brother,” he said, “this time we are really going to check you. We’re going to find out everything there is to find out. When I get through, I’ll know if you ever as much as spit on the sidewalk. I’ll know about the time you skipped school when you were in the second grade at P.S. 40. I’ll know about the first girl you kissed and the last one you made a play for. There won’t be one damned thing I won’t know about you.”

He pulled his hat forward on his head and his eyes were deadly.

“And if you are mixed up in this thing,” he said, “we’ll get you. We’ll get you and we’ll fry you!”

He didn’t bother to close the door as he followed Finn out of the apartment.

Closing the door behind the two detectives, Gerald had an almost irresistible desire to wait for a few moments and then go to the mailbox. He wanted to be absolutely sure that the envelope was there, where it should be. Silently he congratulated himself for having come up from the garage by the inside stairway. Had he locked the garage from the outside and walked around to the front of the house, he would have very likely stopped at the box and removed the letter on his way in. He would have had it in his hand when he was accosted by Hopper and Finn.

Well, thank God, he hadn’t made that mistake. And he wouldn’t make the mistake now of going to the box. The envelope containing the two baggage checks would be there all right. It had to be there. If Hopper and Finn had taken it out, certainly they would never have walked off and left Gerald free.

Reluctantly, he slowly turned and went in through the bedroom and turned on the light in the bathroom. He’d take a shower before turning in for a couple of hours sleep. He needed a shower, needed to wash off the feel of Finn’s heavy hands.

Steinberg walked over to the window and pulled the cord, opening the Venetian blinds halfway and letting the early morning sunshine filter into the room. Then he crossed to the light switch and flicked it. He turned back to face Slaughter, who sat on the couch with the cup of steaming coffee in his hands. Slaughter was in his shirt sleeves and his forehead was wet with perspiration. His hair was messed and there were streaks of dirt down one side of his face.

Four long, raw scratch marks, caked with dried blood, decorated the other side.

“You shouldn’t have done it,” Steinberg said. “Damn it, Fred, you can’t do things like that. What the hell are you going to do with her now? You haven’t found out a damned thing and now we got her on our hands.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, shut up,” Slaughter said. “What the hell is the matter with you anyway? What do you think I’ve done to her? Murdered her or something? I just slapped her around. Asked her questions and slapped her around a little. She isn’t hurt.”

“Sure,” Steinberg said. “You just slapped her around. And what do you think she’s going to do when she gets out of here, eh? Do you think she’ll go out and buy you a nice Father’s Day present. Is that it? Fred, don’t you know that that kid’s going to talk? Going to the cops? She can’t be completely stupid, you know. She understands why she was brought here. She knows now that you’re mixed up in the thing. So what’s she going to do?”

“She ain’t going to do nothing,” Slaughter said. “She knows what I’d do if she…”

“You’re being stupid, Fred,” Steinberg said. “That kid’s a square. She isn’t like that punk brother of hers. She’s on the up and up. It isn’t only that she’ll be sore about being slapped around-and I hope to God that’s all you did do to her-it’s that being a square, she’s burned up about her brother. And she’ll talk. Sooner or later, she’ll talk.”

Slaughter took a sip of the coffee and put the cup down.

“She’ll talk all right,” he said. “But it won’t be with the cops. No, any talking she’ll do will be with me. And don’t tell me she don’t know nothing. How about that note she had on her when we picked her up? Huh, how about it? She may not know anything, but the guy who sent her that note-the guy she met last night-he knows plenty.”

Slaughter took a piece of soiled paper out of his pocket.

“Just listen to this,” he said, and read from the slip of paper. “If you are interested in what happened to your brother, meet me at the Cavern On The Green in Central Park at eight o’clock. Ask the headwaiter to take you to Mr. Hanna’s table.’ How about that, huh?”

“It doesn’t mean…”

“It means she met him-knows who he is. And if I have to kill her, I’m going to find out. You think I’ve touched her yet, why…”

“Work her over any more,” Steinberg said, “and you know what you’re going to have to do, don’t you?”

Slaughter stared up at the little lawyer.

“Are you getting queasy?” he said. “Of course I know what I’m going to have to do. So what?”

Steinberg shrugged.

“The trouble is,” he said, “from what you’ve been telling me all night now, it doesn’t matter whether you would hesitate or not. Apparently the tougher you get with her, the more stubborn she gets.”

“Well, that’s why I’m going to play it your way,” Slaughter said. “Or at least give it a try. We’ll let her sleep and rest up, give her a breather. I gotta get some damned sleep myself. But this afternoon she gets her last chance. After she’s had a chance to think it over and look at it sensibly. And then-well kid, she’ll talk. She’ll talk if I have to break every…”

“O.K., save me the details,” Steinberg said. “Do it your way. But realize what you are doing.”

Slaughter shrugged. “Go on home and get some sleep. I’m going to turn in for a few hours. You call me later this afternoon. I may have some news for you. In the meantime, maybe you better stay away from the apartment here. The cops know you were representing Jake-I don’t want them knowing that you are hanging around here too much.”

Steinberg found his hat and walked toward the door.

“One thing,” he said. “Keep this in mind. Right now you could probably let her go and you might get away with it. After all, she isn’t really hurt. It would be her word against yours. She may suspect a lot about the other thing, but she doesn’t know anything and she can’t prove anything. Her word against yours. She’s the sister of a thief and a cop killer; you’re a respectable businessman. I could almost guarantee you that there’d be no trouble. Just get her ginned up and throw her out and you’d be clear. But go one step further…”

“Listen, will you get outta here and go home?” Slaughter said.

Bill Baxter was walking through the lobby of the building shortly after ten o’clock on Tuesday morning, on his way to the restaurant for his coffee break, when he spotted Gerald. He swerved, crossing over to intercept his poker party pal.

Gerald didn’t notice him until the other man took him by the arm.

“Hey, kid,” Baxter said. “What the hell’s the big rush. Not,” he added, without waiting for Gerald’s answer, “not that you shouldn’t be in a rush. Jeez, old Engleman is having kittens. Where the hell have you been? You know how he feels about anyone coming in late.”

Gerald stopped, forced a weak smile.

“Overslept,” he said, “I…”

“You better have a better line than that,” Baxter said. “The old man is really up in the air. He’s been out in the office looking for you about ten times in the last hour. He seems mad enough to…”

“What the hell’s on his mind?” Gerald asked. “I’ve been late before. This isn’t the first time anyone…”

“I don’t know,” Baxter said. “All I can tell you is that something is in the wind. He’s been out about a dozen times and he’s sure as hell burned up about something. You haven’t been lifting the company funds by any chance, have you, kid?”

He slapped Gerald on the shoulder and laughed.

“Maybe,” he said, “you better stop in and have a cup of coffee with me or something stronger. Build up your morale before you have to face the lion in his den.”

Gerald shook his head.

“No,” he said. “No, I better get on up. The sooner I see him the better.”

He moved over to the bank of elevators as Baxter turned once more toward the restaurant. As Hanna got into the empty car, he turned and that’s when he again noticed the man. The man in the dark, linen suit and the light-weight felt hat tipped carelessly over his left eyebrow. The man who’d been sitting in the seat behind his own seat on the train into the city. The man who had been across the aisle and down toward the end of the subway car on his way from Penn Station downtown.

There was no doubt about it. The lieutenant was making good his promise. They weren’t going to let him out of their sight.

Kitty, the little redhead who sat at the switchboard just off the reception room and who was rumored to have dated just about every male member of the staff, looked up at Gerald as he passed by her desk. She gave him her usual smile.

“I’ve been trying to get you out at your place,” she said. “For the last half hour or so. Mr. Engleman has been trying to call you. What’s up anyway?” she asked, reaching out and taking hold of Gerald’s coat. “He’s really up in the air. Madder than you-know-what about something. Things have sure been popping around here this morning,” she said.

Gerald smiled back at her and went on.

“Also,” Kitty called after him, “you got other calls. A Miss Swift…”

“I’ll check on them later,” Gerald called back over his shoulder, not hearing the last of her sentence. “Later. Right now I better get in and see the boss.”

He stopped at his own desk only long enough to toss in his hat and nod to the girl whom he shared as secretary with four other actuaries. The girl started to say something to him, but again he said, “Later.”

J. Rolland Engleman looked up as Gerald entered the square, spruce-paneled office. He turned to where his middle-aged secretary sat at one corner of the room in front of an electric type-typewriter.

“You may leave us alone, Miss Goode,” he said. “And please close the door.”

Miss Goode left them alone.

Mr. Engleman looked up at Gerald, the travesty of a smile on his thin lips. He didn’t invite Gerald to sit down and there was nothing humorous about the expression in his pale, washed-out blue eyes which were set close together under all but imperceptible blond eyebrows.

“Late, Mr. Hanna?”

Gerald smiled weakly.

“I’m afraid so, Mr. Engleman,” he said. “You see…”

“I see perfectly,” Mr. Engleman said. “I am afraid that I see only too well. But don’t let my eyesight concern you. And, also, don’t concern yourself too much about being late. You see, we didn’t miss you. Not really. We had other visitors. A lot of other visitors.”

He hesitated, tapping the ends of his lean fingers together and slowly nodding his head up and down.

“Yes, Mr. Hanna, visitors. Suppose we start with the first one. A policeman, Mr. Hanna.”

He looked up expectantly and again smiled thinly. “Yes, Mr. Hanna-a policeman. And do you know-it was about you?”

“About me? What in the world would a policeman…” Gerald’s voice was as innocent as his bland expression.

“That is precisely what I was about to ask you,” Engleman said. “Yes-precisely what I was about to ask. Just why, Mr. Hanna, should a policeman invade my office and ask me a hundred questions about one of my actuaries? What have you been up to, Mr. Hanna? As you know, this is a fatherly sort of firm and we take a keen interest in our employees. We pride ourselves in our selection of our personnel and we take a…”

Gerald held up a hand.

“Oh,” he said. He laughed a trifle hollowly. “That. I can explain that all right. It seems that last Friday night…”

Gerald went on to explain. It took quite a little while, but he made a good story out of it, telling the facts with quiet amusement. The trouble was that Mr. Engleman failed to be amused.

“And you say that you were playing poker before you left for home, eh?” Mr. Engleman said when Gerald stopped for breath.

Gerald nodded.

“Gambling,” Mr. Engleman made it sound like the violation of an eleventh commandment.

Gerald nodded sheepishly.

Mr. Engleman stood up.

“I believe you are engaged to be married?” he changed the subject.

Gerald looked up and smiled brightly. Thank God they were on safer ground.

“Yes, sir,” he said. “For several years. Miss Swiftwater is a splendid girl and we…”

“I have had the pleasure of meeting Miss Swiftwater,” Engleman said. His expression denied the pleasure. “Yes, Mr. Hanna, I have had that pleasure. Only a few minutes ago. And I should like to inform you that Miss Swiftwater struck me as a very sensible girl. She particularly impressed me when she informed me that she has broken your engagement.”

This time Gerald looked at him with legitimate surprise.

“Maryjane was here? You mean…”

“I mean that Miss Swiftwater came to me to find out exactly what has been happening. What you have been up to. She was able to tell me that you are running around with some floozy, that you are hanging out in cheap barrooms, and you seem to have completely lost your mind and that you called her on the telephone to insult her. Frankly, she seemed to feel that perhaps you are suffering from sort of mental…”

Gerald suddenly held up his hand.

It was the damnedest thing. Exactly like that moment when he had decided to ask for a card to fill an inside straight; like that other moment when he had reached over and opened the door of the Chevrolet and pushed the dead body out into the road. He held up his hand and opened his mouth and he spoke quietly and clearly.

“I am suffering from utter and complete boredom, Mr. Engleman,” he said, pronouncing each word as though he were giving a lesson in simple grammar. “I am also suffering from a keen distaste for you and for this stodgy, antiquated, cheap-John firm for which we both work. I am suffering from a frustrated desire to slap your silly tongue into the back of your head and then pick you up and throw you out of the window. And, in fact, if I have to listen to one more word out of that chinless jaw of yours, that is exactly what I shall do.”

He took a step forward and Mr. Engleman fell back, leaning against the wall, his mouth wide and his eyes staring. He didn’t attempt to speak, but for a second his eyes flitted around the room as though looking for a quick escape route.

Gerald reached over and opened the humidor on Mr. Engleman’s desk and took out a long, light-brown cigar. He bit off the end, removing approximately an inch, not having had experience in the past in biting off the ends of cigars. He took the cigarette lighter from the desk and flicked it and touched the flame to the end of the stogy.

“Just so that you will have things straight, Mr. Engleman, when you discuss my firing with your boss,” Gerald said, “I’ll be glad to set your mind at rest. The police were here because I stole approximately a quarter of a million dollars in jewels. A man or two was murdered in the course of it all, of course. And the so-called floozy I am consorting with is everything you could possibly want in a woman-not you of course-but me. She’s a cashier in a hash house and has long blond hair and azure eyes and a build like-” Gerald stopped and stared hard at the other man.

“As for Miss Swiftwater,” he said. “It is really fortunate that she has broken our engagement. It will probably save me from cutting her throat. But I recommend Miss Swiftwater to you, Mr. Engleman. You and Miss Swiftwater would go very well together. I can just visualize the offspring. And now…” Gerald stopped and took a deep lungful of smoke and slowly exhaled it, spoiling the effect somewhat by coughing as he finally emptied his lungs.

“And now I shall go and empty my desk,” he said. “I will be leaving at the end of the week, but I don’t really think you would like me to spend the last few days around here. Or would you?”

Mr. Engleman’s narrow mouth was still formed into a perfect circle as Gerald breezed out of the room, leaving the door wide open. Miss Goode, Mr. Engleman’s secretary, was leaning over the water cooler just outside as Gerald passed. He hesitated a moment and then playfully patted her.

“Go,” he said. “Go at once. He needs you. The master…”

He looked down into her indignant, startled eyes as she swung around and faced him and then smiled at her sweetly and shrugged his shoulders.

In another minute he was back in his own small cubbyhole of an office. His one-fifth secretary had finished whatever she had been doing at his desk and he slammed the door and fell into his hard, straight-backed chair. He reached for the telephone.

“Kitty,” he said, “bring me the telephone book.” He waited a moment and then spoke again. “All of them, my sweet,” he said. “All of them. Brooklyn, Staten Island, Manhattan, Queens, Kings and anything else you might lay your lovely little hands on. At once.”

He replaced the receiver, coughed and looked at the cigar in his hand then casually tossed it out of the opened window at his side.

“A poor thing at best,” he said.

The Commissioner finished reading the editorial, his face purple and his voice edged with scorn. Carefully he folded the newspaper and laid it down at the side of his desk and then he looked up at the group of men standing in front of the desk.

“Well, you all heard it,” he said. “I guess I don’t have to tell you what the reaction is going to be. Like the rest of you, I’m a career man myself; I guess some of you can remember back to the time I was wearing a patrolman’s uniform. I’m a career man, but I’m also a politician. Otherwise you can bet I wouldn’t be sitting here as Commissioner.”

He hesitated to let the words sink in, looking down at his wrist watch and noticing that it was just after ten o’clock. He still had fifteen minutes before he had to meet the county chairman and he’d have to make it short and snappy.

“I’m not blaming any of you,” he said, “but this sort of publicity, coming before a November election, certainly isn’t doing us any good. Two policemen murdered in cold blood, a quarter of a million in jewels taken from under our noses, and nothing being done about it. I don’t expect miracles, but if they are necessary, then miracles we will have. I want those jewels found. I want someone, someone who is still alive, for the district attorney.”

Lieutenant Hooper was pretty tired, having been up for more than forty hours without sleep, and his temper was anything but complacent.

“Who doesn’t?” he asked. “Who doesn’t? Nobody wants to crack this one more than I do-or any of the other boys downstairs.”

The Commissioner half turned and stared at him. “I don’t doubt it,” he said. “That’s just why we are having this little meeting; why I want to find out what’s going on before I see the big boss this morning. And so far, it seems nothing is going on. Why, you’ve even managed to lose the one possible lead you had. I am referring, as you know, to the Dunne girl.”

“There was nothing we could hold her on,” Hopper said.

“You couldn’t hold her perhaps,” the Commissioner answered him, “but by God you could have at least kept track of her. I think we all agreed that there was a good chance she might lead us to something or another. And so what has happened? Well, she has disappeared. We haven’t the faintest idea where she is or why.”

“We know that she saw that Hanna fellow,” Hopper said. “We know that there is some sort of connection there. It was a case of the man tailing one or the other. He chose Hanna. Perhaps he guessed wrong, but there is no telling about that.”

The Commissioner shook his head.

“You boys are barking up the wrong tree,” he said. “I’ve gone over the reports. Gone over them very carefully. This man Hanna just doesn’t fit. Doesn’t fit at all.”

“If we brought him in and took him down to the basement for a workout, I’d make him fit. all right,” Finn said. “What he needs is a touch of the…”

The Commissioner raised his hand. “He’s not the sort of person you can take down to the basement-you know that, Finn. Not that sort of person at all.”

“We’re keeping a man on him twenty-four hours a day.” Lieutenant Hopper said. “We’re watching every move he makes. If he is involved, it’s a lot better letting him have his freedom and giving him enough rope to hang himself.”

“I quite agree,” the Commissioner said. “Well, that’s the story. The newspapers are on our backs and we have to do something about it. And damned soon. Those funerals are today and I get sick every time I think of the way the papers will bleed with sensationalism. So let’s get moving on this thing. I want to be able to issue a statement for the morning papers that we are definitely solving the thing-and I want to have something in back of that statement.”

He stood up, a gesture of dismissal.

“Lieutenant.” he said, addressing Hopper, “you look dead on your feet. I think you better get a little rest before you get back to it.”

“After the funeral,” Hopper said. “I have a cot down in my office and I’ll take a few hours out and get some sleep. But I want to be close by just in case anything should break. And we’ll turn up the Dunne girl all right, don’t worry about that. I’ve arranged to have her brother’s body released and she’s bound to show up and claim it.”

There were two Fred Slaughters listed in the Manhattan directory, none in Queens, or the other boroughs. One of the Manhattan Slaughters was listed as a CPA and Gerald passed his number up for the second one, whose address was up on Central Park West.

Dialing the number, Gerald thought; another one, another one-card draw to an inside straight. That would be what the odds were, one in a thousand or so. He smiled wryly. Things had certainly changed ail right. This business of taking outside chances, playing the long odds, was becoming a habit.

As the sound of the bell at the other end hit to his ear, his mind went back to the scene in Engleman’s office. Yes, he was certainly playing the long ones all right, only that hadn’t been any gamble. That was a straight and simple matter of burning his bridges behind himself. At the moment he felt fine about it, exhilarated and all keyed up. He wondered if and when the reaction would set in. It isn’t every day that a man callously and offhandedly ends a seven-year career as a mere gesture.

But then, of course, it wasn’t every day that a man decides to completely change the course of his life, change the very essential pattern of his thinking and planning and living. The job, after all, was a minor thing in comparison to the other factors involved.

The ringing ended suddenly as someone lifted a receiver in the apartment on Central Park West.

“Hello?”

“Is Mr. Slaughter in?”

“Who’s this?” It was a hard, uncompromising voice and Gerald detected a slightly Brooklynese accent.

“A business associate,” Gerald said. “I’d like to speak with Mr. Slaughter. It is quite important!”

The voice at the other end didn’t hesitate.

“You got no name, you ain’t important,” it said.

“It’s important to Mr. Slaughter,” Gerald said. “Very important. Mr. Slaughter lost something, lost something very valuable last Friday night. If he is interested, and he should be, you’d better get him to the phone.”

There was a long pause and then finally, “Hang on.” Two minutes later the second man came on the wire.

“Hello, are you there?”

“I’m here,” Gerald said, feeling a sudden sense of excitement. There was an odd quality in that hard, gravelly voice, a quality which at once convinced him that he had the right person.

“What’s this about my losing something? Who are…”

“I’ll be in the lobby of the Walden at exactly one o’clock, this afternoon,” Gerald said, ignoring the other man’s question. “The Walden at one. Be there. Have Mr. Courtland paged-William Courtland. Come alone. Do it just as I say if you are interested in that little bundle that got away from your friends.”

“Say, what the hell…”

Gerald hung up as the other man stuttered into the telephone.

The trick was going to be in getting out of the building. Gerald didn’t know a great deal about police work or procedure, but he knew enough to realize that they would be watching him. They would be watching every move, never letting him out of their sight. As long as he was in the office he was safe. They wouldn’t bother him here, not unless they picked him up, and so far they hadn’t done that. But what he had to do. he couldn’t do from his desk. He had to get out and had to insure that he’d have freedom of movement. He couldn’t have a detective on his tail.

There would be the detective who had followed him that morning. The man would either be in the lobby of the building, waiting for him to leave, or he would be out by the bank of elevators on this particular floor. But there was one thing the man wouldn’t know about. He wouldn’t know about the private staircase between the two floors occupied by the insurance firm.

The upper floor was used entirely by clerical workers and when he reached it, Gerald walked out into the general room, filled by dozens of girls working at filing systems and IBM business machines. He advanced at once to an unoccupied desk. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Mrs. Wilberton, the office supervisor, approaching. He turned to her.

“Mr. Engleman,” he said, “down in the executive offices. His secretary’s typewriter went on the bum. Wants to borrow a machine for an hour or so.”

Mrs. Wilberton nodded, smiling.

“Why certainly,” she said. “I dare say that one will fill the bill.” She indicated the typewriter at the unoccupied desk. “Helen, she’s one of our girls, is off today. If you will just wait a moment I’ll have one of our boys take it down for you.”

“Oh, that’s all right,” Gerald said. “I guess I can handle it all right.”

“It’s mighty heavy,” Mrs. Wilberton said. “I think Johnny…”

“I can handle it fine,” Gerald said, leaning down and picking up the machine. “I’ll just use the freight elevator. If you would be good enough to come over with me and push the button…”

He waited until the operator had closed the door and then spoke.

“All the way to the basement,” he said. “This damned thing weighs a ton.”

The operator nodded sympathetically. “What are you goin’ do, junk it?”

Gerald shook his head.

“Broken,” he said. “Taking it over to get it fixed up. I left my car in the alley in back of the building. They told me there’s a door from the basement leading into the alley.”

“That’s right,” the elevator man said. “You know,” he added, “my kid is learning to use one of them things. I’m sending her to business school. She wanted to go to art school but her mother and me, we think it’s a lot smarter she should learn something where she can make a living.”

“You’re absolutely right,” Gerald said.

“Yep, she didn’t want to, but she’s learning business. I get a little ahead of the game, or if one of my numbers comes in, I’m going to get her one of them machines to practice on at home.”

They reached the basement and he brought the elevator to a stop.

“I’ll show you the door,” he said.

Gerald, carrying the typewriter, followed him to the rear of the building. The man opened the door and Gerald stepped out, noticing at once that there was no one in sight. He sighed and laid the typewriter down at his feet.

“Thanks,” he said, starting to walk away.

“Hey. Hey, what about the typewriter? You left the typewriter…” The man was staring at his retiring back in bewilderment.

“Give it to your daughter,” Gerald said over his shoulder. “Consider it a gift from the Seaboard Insurance Company for your loyal and devoted work over the years. She deserves it.”

The man stared at him open-mouthed as he turned the corner of the building.

He was in luck. There was a cab at the curb.

They sat side by side on a deep couch at the back end of the lobby, speaking in low whispers. They didn’t look at each other as they talked.

He’d been very careful in his selection of the spot, seeking out a secluded area, but one from which he could see most of the open space in the large public room. He wanted to be out of the main current of traffic, a place where no one would be able to overhear what they had to say. At the same time, he was careful to select a location that would keep the two of them within sight of other persons. He had no idea of what sort of man this Slaughter would turn out to be and he was taking no chances.

Now, sitting here talking with him, he wondered why he had worried. With the exception of that odd, gravelly voice, Fred Slaughter was merely another run of the mill, middle-aged, businessman. He could have been a salesman or an executive, a contractor or a dress manufacturer. There was nothing either sinister or dangerous in his manner or in his attitude.

They’d been talking now for a good half hour.

“Yes,” Slaughter said, “you could be telling me the truth. And then again, maybe not. Maybe, instead of being just an innocent passer-by-an insurance man you said your racket was, didn’t you-well maybe instead of that you are a cop. How do I know? You don’t look like a cop, but today, nobody does. What with these college graduates and all.”

“I have identification…” Gerald began, reaching into his pocket for his wallet.

Slaughter put out a hand.

“Don’t bother,” he said. “Don’t bother about showing me anything. Identification would be the very first thing a cop would have.” He stopped speaking for a moment and then looked up.

“I’ll tell you what,” he said. “Lemme make a phone call. I want you to talk to somebody. Let’s just get it straightened out for sure whether you are on the up and up. Not, you understand, that I care if you are a cop. You’re the one who has been doing the talking. I’ve just been listening. I haven’t said a damned thing. But just so we keep the books right, let’s find out.”

He stood up and Gerald also stood.

“There’s a booth over at the side there. I’ll get a number then open the door and you just talk to the party that answers. O.K.?”

“Anything you say,” Gerald said. He followed Slaughter over to the booth and Slaughter told him to stand several feet away while he got his party. He concealed the phone with his body as he dialed behind the tightly closed door.

It took him several minutes to get Steinberg and then another minute or two to explain what he wanted. Finally he put a coin in the slot for the third time and then opened the door a crack and signaled Gerald.

“Talk to him,” he said when Gerald approached. The two traded places.

The voice at the other end of the wire was very smooth.

“Mr. Hanna?”

“That’s right.”

“Who is the chairman of the board of Seaboard Insurance, Mr. Hanna?”

“Philip Gottlieb,” Gerald answered at once.

“And what is the name of the receptionist who would be on duty now?”

“Miss Kitty Donnelly.”

The man told Gerald to hold on a second and he could hear him speaking rapidly to someone in the room near him. Gerald knew that he would be checking the names on another telephone.

“All right, Mr. Hanna,” he said, “tell me this. If I were to leave seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars to my wife and three kids, and I wanted to set it up so I wouldn’t be paying a full inheritance tax, just how would I go about it?”

“Well, you could do it several ways,” Gerald said. “Naturally you would be allowed to make a series of gifts over a period of years. Then if you wanted to establish a group of trust funds, the income to go.

He went on for several minutes, explaining the thing. Finally the voice at the other end of the wire interrupted him.

“All right, all right,” he said. “Just one more thing. What would it cost me a month to amortize a forty-thousand dollar, twenty-year mortgage at 5 per cent if the mortgage were to carry a life insurance policy for an equal amount and the policy was on an A risk, aged fifty?”

“Roughly five hundred and fifty a month,” Gerald said. “Give me a second and I’ll give you the…”

“Never mind, never mind. Put the other party back on the wire.”

Gerald beckoned to Slaughter.

“If that guy’s a cop,” Steinberg said, “he must be one of them quiz kids. No, he’s in insurance all right. But what’s it all about Fred? What the hell is going on?”

“I’ll call you back later,” Slaughter said. “Sit tight. I think we got our little problem all cleaned up and solved. Just sit tight.”

Once more they returned to the couch where they had first met.

Seated, Slaughter turned and looked closely at his companion.

“All right,” he said, “let’s say for the sake of an argument that you’re on the up and up. That you’re telling me the truth. Let’s say that you do have the stuff. I can believe it. I’ll admit it now-the girl told me you had it. We got that much out of her.”

“The girl told you?”

“The Dunne girl. We picked her up; had an idea she might know something and that there was a chance she was in on some kind of deal. We knew that someone had picked up Vince and taken the stuff off of him. We didn’t know who, of course, but it had to be someone and we figured maybe she knew something.”

Gerald stared at him, saying nothing.

“The thing is,” Slaughter said, “I can’t quite see why we should buy it back from you.”

“I’m not suggesting you buy it back,” Gerald said. “I’m merely suggesting you give me the same split you would have had to give the others-your three boys-if they had been successful in getting the stuff to you. This way you get it, and it costs you no more than it would have anyway. As a matter of fact, you should be damned grateful I’m here to offer you the deal. If I hadn’t shown up just when I did, the police would have found the jewels when they found young Dunne’s body.”

Slaughter looked at him curiously.

“How did you get mixed up in it anyway?” he asked. “Was it the girl? Were you working with her and Vince all along?”

“Don’t be a fool,” Gerald said. “It was the way I’ve told you it was. I never saw the girl in my life before last night. Never saw her brother until he stuck me up and got into my car. But all of that doesn’t matter. I am trying to do business with you. Nobody else matters.”

“In that case, it can’t matter to you what happens to the girl,” Slaughter said. “You see, after you talked with her last night, we picked her up. We sort of felt she might have been double-crossing us, you know. She was Dunne’s sister. She could have been getting cute. But what the hell. As long as she’s out of the picture, doesn’t mean anything to you, we can forget about her.”

There was something about the man’s voice that sent a cold chill down Gerald’s spine. What he said made good sense. It was quite true. The girl was none of his business. She didn’t mean a thing to him.

Suddenly he visualized her pretty, heart-shaped face, her angry azure eyes and the determined line of her fine jaw.

“It happens I do care what happens to her,” he said suddenly, hardly realizing he was speaking the words. “It happens that she means a great deal to me. So much, in fact, that unless you let her go, at once and unharmed, you can just forget all about the Gorden-Frost jewels.”

“You think you are in any position to bargain?” Slaughter asked. “We know who you are now. Maybe the police would like to know.”

“Oh, certainly,” Gerald said, with a slight sneer. “They’d hold me for what? Receiving stolen goods? I’d be out about the time they were turning up the juice for you in Sing Sing.”

“All right, all right. We won’t argue about it,” Slaughter said. “Assuming you got the stuff, I’ll make you one and only one proposition. No bargaining and no second guessing. Take it or leave it. Thirty-five thousand in cash for the jewelry.”

“Thirty-five?”

“Right.”

“And the girl?”

Slaughter shook his head. “The girl will talk,” he said.

“Not if you haven’t hurt her,” Gerald said. “You said that you hadn’t…”

“She’s all right,” Slaughter said. “But she’s bound to spill…”

“Thirty-five thousand and you release the girl,” Gerald interrupted. “I deliver the stuff and guarantee she don’t talk. After all, I have plenty to lose too,” Gerald said. “I have as much interest as you have in keeping her quiet. But you’ll have to let her go. Otherwise-no deal. And-” Gerald hesitated and gave the other man a long look “-and I know now you’ve got the girl. Just in case something should happen to her.”

“If you can keep her quiet, you got a deal,” Slaughter said. “You’re getting a damned good price. That stuff is so hot it sizzles. A fence wouldn’t take it as a gift. The stuff will have to be held for months, maybe years.”

Gerald nodded. “I know,” he said. “All right, about the details.”

“We can go up to my apartment…”

Gerald smiled thinly.

“No,” he said. “Hardly. Not that I don’t trust you, of course. But I think it will be better if we meet on neutral grounds. Suppose we do it this way. Is the Dunne girl somewhere I can see her within the next half hour or so?”

“Maybe.” Slaughter looked at him quizzically.

“All right. Take me to her. Let me talk to her alone, for five minutes. When I finish she’ll agree to do as I ask. Then I’ll leave, without her. I’ll take a room in a midtown hotel. You give me a telephone number where you can be reached and I’ll call you at exactly seven-thirty this evening and let you know where I am located. Give you the hotel and the room number. I’ll have the stuff with me. You come up. Bring the girl with you and the thirty-five thousand. Just you and the girl. We’ll make the switch then.”

“And you mean you want to see the girl first, eh. Then leave?” Slaughter’s voice was heavy with doubt. “What’s to keep you from finding out where she is and then calling cops?”

“Good God, man,” Gerald said. “What’s wrong with you? There’s plenty to keep me from it. Among other things, the thirty-five thousand bucks. Why do you think I’m here in the first place. Because of the girl? Hell, I didn’t even know you had her. No, don’t get me wrong. My first interest is the money. It’s just that I don’t see any reason for the girl to get hurt. You have nothing to lose.”

“You didn’t want to come to my place at first,” Slaughter said. “How come, now you know the girl is there, you’ve changed…”

“I didn’t want to come with the jewels,” Gerald said. “I still don’t want to. That’s why I suggest the hotel deal. But alone-what the hell. You don’t want me-I’m no good unless I have the stuff. Right?”

Slaughter nodded slowly.

“Right,” he said at last. “O.K. Let’s get going. I’ll take you to where you can see her and talk to her. But let me give it to you straight. Get fancy and try anything cute, and you get killed. Very fast you get killed. And after you finish seeing the girl, you’ll have a guy with you for the first half hour after you leave. Long enough to give me a chance to move her. So don’t get any ideas…”

“I’ve told you,” Gerald said. “The only ideas I have concern thirty-five thousand dollars in hard cash.”

Five minutes later they were in the taxi heading across town.

She lay sprawled out on top of the sheet, her eyes filled with hatred as he leaned over and spoke to her.

“I’m taking the gag out of your mouth,” he said. “If you yell, or make any trouble, I’ll knock your teeth down your throat. Just stay right where you are and be quiet. Someone is coming in to see you for a few minutes.”

She fought back the sudden fear, trying to understand. He’d told her that if she didn’t talk he’d bring someone in; someone who would do horrible things to her. Someone who would make his own cruelties seem like caresses by comparison.

“You’re not going to be hurt,” he said. “This man is just going to talk to you.” He sensed her fears and spoke quickly. “But remember, no yelling.”

She sensed relief then; he must be telling the truth. He wouldn’t be taking the gag from her mouth if anyone were going to hurt her. She wondered what would happen next. Wondered what they would eventually do with her. She knew the kind of man he was. She could guess.

Slaughter removed the gag and reached down, lifting her slender body so that she leaned back against the headboard. He turned and left the room, closing the door behind himself. For several minutes she just sat there and then, as she heard the sound of the footsteps approaching, her eyes once more went to the door, wide with fright.

Gerald entered the room and closed the door firmly behind himself. He walked over to the bed and leaned down, sitting on the edge of it. He spoke quickly, before she had a chance to say a word and while the expression on her face was rapidly changing first from fear to utter amazement and then from amazement to bitter amusement.

“Please don’t say a word,” he said. “I’ve only got a couple of minutes before he’ll be back and you have got to listen to me.”

She stared at him, wide-eyed.

“I might have guessed,” she began, “might have guessed that you…”

“Don’t guess anything,” he said quickly. “You’d be wrong. Just listen. If you are interested in saving your life, just do nothing and listen to me.”

“I don’t care what they do to me,” she said, half hysterically. “Sooner or later the police…”

“Shut up and listen to me,” he said, taking her by the arms and shaking her. “It isn’t only your life-it can be mine too. But if you do just as I tell you, we’ll both get out of this. We’ll not only get out of it, but you’ll get what you want.”

“You don’t know what I want,” she said, fiercely, trying to pull away from him.

“I do know what you want,” he said. “I know very well what you want. But you simply have to have faith in me. I can’t explain, I can’t tell you why. I can’t tell you anything. I haven’t time. But you must do exactly as I tell you.”

Watching her as he quickly spoke, he was glad to see her expression gradually change from antagonism to curiosity.

“Some of what I told you last night is true,” he said. “But there was a lot I didn’t tell you. A lot I didn’t know myself. I didn’t know that they were going to pick you up. I didn’t know…”

“Are you trying to tell me you aren’t in with…”

“Do please shut up,” Gerald said. “Shut up and listen. Don’t ask questions. I haven’t time to answer them. I’ve only got another minute. Listen.”

He still held her by the arms and he could feel her suddenly relax.

“I’ve made a deal. They’re getting the jewels and they’re letting you go free. On the understanding that you keep your mouth shut. That you never breathe a word of what has happened.”

“And you,” she began.

“Later,” he said quickly. “Later, when you are out of here and free, I’ll tell you all about myself. Right now please just trust and believe me. Do exactly what I tell you to do and I’ll promise that it will work out the way you want it to. You must absolutely convince them that if they let you go you will keep your mouth shut. Later, late today, Slaughter will bring you to a certain place. He’ll take the jewels and you’ll be released.”

“But why…”

“Look,” he said, “dear God, just promise to do what I ask.”

For a long moment she looked into his face, this time almost without expression. She half nodded her head.

“And you,” she said. “Just what are you going to get out of it?”

For a moment he stared back into her eyes and then he quickly leaned forward on the bed and his lips barely brushed her forehead.

“Me?” he said. “Why I’m going to marry you and live happily ever after.”

He stood up, watching her seriously as her mouth fell open in surprise.

“That’s right,” he said. “And I want you to know that I realize you wouldn’t marry a thief or a crook.”

Staring at him, she suddenly realized that he was dead serious.

“Why,” she said, “why you don’t even know me! You must be a little crazy. We don’t…”

His finger went to his lips and he moved toward the door silently.

“I don’t even know myself,” he said. “But I’m not crazy. Not a bit. I’m completely and beautifully sane-probably for the first time in my life.”

He opened the door slightly and called out.

“O.K., Slaughter, we’re all through.”

He made the reservation over the telephone, using a public booth in the rear of a midtown tavern. He hit the right combination on his third try. The desk clerk at the Metropole had exactly what he wanted-two rooms, separated by a bath. He explained that he would be using the suite overnight, sharing it with a business acquaintance. Room 508 he reserved for himself, giving his correct name and address. Room 510 he reserved under the name of Fred Slaughter.

“Mr. Slaughter,” Gerald said, “will arrive sometime early this evening. However, I’ll stop by within an hour and will pay for both rooms at that time. I’d appreciate it if the maid can have them made up as I’d like an opportunity to arrange my samples.”

He wanted to leave the impression with the clerk that he was a salesman.

He took a cab from the tavern to Grand Central. He was vaguely worried by the possibility of being picked up. There was a chance that the police could have found out about his leaving the office and he guessed that the moment he was reported missing, the pickup order would go out.

He hurried into the station and found the checkroom where he had left the brief case and the zipper bag on Saturday. It only took a minute or so to retrive them.

The next stop was at a luggage shop in the arcade. Here he purchased a fairly large leather suitcase. He had the clerk remove the price tag and he opened the bag and put both of his other burdens in it.

A door or two away was a haberdashery and he went in and bought several shirts, some socks and underwear. One more stop and he had added a shaving and toilet kit to his luggage. And then he took a cab to the Metropole.

It was a rather small, very respectable semiresidential hotel in the Murray Hill section. The clerk greeted him with a smile when he identified himself. After Gerald had signed the register, he started to reach for his wallet.

“You can take care of it when you are ready to sign out,” the desk clerk said.

Gerald nodded and thanked him.

“I’ll go on up now,” he said, “but I’d like to leave Mr. Slaughter’s key for him to pick up himself when he comes in. I’ll probably be in and out of my room and I want to be sure…”

“Certainly. We’ll be looking for him.”

The bellhop doubled as elevator boy and he stopped the cage at the fifth floor. Gerald followed him down the carpeted hallway to room 508, and stood by as the boy put the bag on the floor while he opened the door. He entered the room and after dropping the bag, opened the closet door and then went to the window and made an unnecessary adjustment to the air-condition unit.

As Gerald was reaching in his pocket for a dollar bill, the boy opened the bathroom door.

“I understand you’ve reserved both rooms,” he said. “This door goes into the other part of the suite and you can lock either bathroom door from either side.”

Gerald thanked him and handed him the dollar. He shook his head when the boy asked if he wanted ice water.

“Nothing just yet,” he said. “Perhaps later. By the way, is there stationery and envelopes?”

“In the drawer over there,” the boy said, indicating a writing desk on which the telephone sat. “You want I should come up and get your mail in a while, maybe?”

“It won’t be necessary, but thanks,” Gerald said.

He waited until he was alone before he carefully inspected the suite. The rooms were exactly what he had wished for. The windows were closed on the air-conditioning units and they were covered by Venetian blinds and heavy drapes. Neither room was large, but they were adequate.

The bathroom was an old-fashioned and overlarge room. Doors led into each room and they could be locked from the inside to insure privacy. Going into 510, the room he had reserved for Slaughter, Gerald walked over to the radio and turned it on, fairly loud. Then he returned to his own room, carefully closing both bathroom doors.

He nodded his head in satisfaction. No sound from the radio penetrated.

“Perfect,” he said, half aloud. It would take the sound of a gunshot to penetrate the double walls.

He opened the suitcase and took out the brief case and the zipper bag and once more returned to Room 510. He opened the bottom bureau drawer and placed the bags in it. And then once more he returned to his own room. Sitting at the desk, he found the stationery.

For the next half hour he was busy composing the two letters. Finishing them, he addressed the envelopes and sealed them. Then he placed the letters in his inside breast pocket and left the room, turning the key in the lock.

Passing through the lobby, he ignored the postal drop. Once more he took a cab, this time directing the driver to the post office on Lexington Avenue, just north of Grand Central Station. He had the driver wait while he went inside and registered each letter before entrusting it to the mails.

When he returned to the Metropole, he stopped by the newsstand in the lobby and bought the afternoon newspapers and a couple of magazines. He had a little time to kill.

This time, when he returned upstairs, he told the combination elevator boy and bellhop to bring him up a drink from the bar.

“Make it a double Scotch and soda,” he said. “In fact, make it two of them.”

He might just as well do the thing right. Might just as well relax while he had the opportunity. Another few hours would tell the story. In another few hours, all decisions would have been taken out of his hands. He would either be a wealthy man with the world at his feet, or he would be in jail. There was, also, a fair chance that he might be dead.

Thinking about it as he waited for the whiskey to arrive, he smiled a little wistfully. At least he would not be bored.

At six-thirty he checked his watch for the dozenth time and got up from the chair under the reading light and carefully folded the newspaper he had been reading. He slipped into his jacket and then went to the door and carefully checked to see that it was locked.

He looked around the room for a final time and then opened the door into the bathroom. He closed the door between the bathroom and Room 508, not locking it, before entering Room 510. This time he was careful to see that the door between the bath and Slaughter’s room was locked, putting the key in his pocket after twisting it.

He had an almost irresistible desire to open the dresser drawer and take out the brief case and have one last look at the jewels, but he resisted it. Time was pressing now and he had things to do.

Gerald rechecked his watch and then sighed and went to the door of Room 510. Everything was going to hinge on what took place within the next few minutes.

When he left the room this time, he pressed the catch so that the door between the room and the outside hallway remained unlocked.

Back in the lobby, Gerald was pleased to see that the day desk clerk had been replaced by the night man. He went over to the counter and took out the key to Room 508.

“I’m Mr. Hanna,” he said. “Expecting a call shortly, but I have to be out for a while. I’d appreciate it if you’d tell the party I’ll be back around seven-thirty.” He left his key on the desk.

The man nodded.

“Certainly, sir.”

The telephone booths were in the mezzanine and Gerald walked up the short flight of stairs. He was glad that they were out of sight of the hotel’s desk.

Putting the coin into the slot, he was unable to resist the sudden chill which overcame him. Everything would depend on the success of this call. If his party should fail to answer…

He shuddered, not wanting to think about it.

The number answered on the second ring and he asked for his party. The voice at the other end requested his name.

“The name doesn’t matter,” Gerald said. “It’s a personal matter. But very important.”

“I’m sorry, but we have to know who is calling. We can’t disturb…”

“This is about Gerald Hanna and concerns the Gorden-Frost jewel robbery,” Gerald said, speaking fast and distinct. “I’ll call back in exactly fifteen minutes.”

He hung up fast. He couldn’t take a chance on the call being traced.

It was the longest fifteen minutes in his life.

He made the second call from a different booth and this time when he asked for his party, he added, “and if he isn’t on the phone within less than half a minute I am hanging up.”

He didn’t have to wait a half minute. And he recognized the second voice the moment it spoke.

“If you are interested in the whereabouts of Gerald Hanna,” he said, “he has checked into the Metropole Hotel in New York City. Got that-the Metropole. Room 508. The Metropole-Room 508.”

He slammed the receiver back on the telephone as the voice spluttered at the other end of the wire.

Returning to the booth from which he had placed his original telephone call, Gerald once more closed the door after himself and placed a coin in the slot.

He could detect the nervousness in Slaughter’s gravel voice the moment the other man picked up the receiver and spoke.

“You’re late,” Slaughter said. “Is everything…”

“Everything is fine,” Gerald said. “Now listen. I want you to be at the Metropole Hotel in exactly one hour. Not before and no later. You are registered in Room 510. Under your own name. Get your key at the desk and come directly upstairs. You must have Miss Dunne with you and no one else. You must be prepared to consummate our deal. You have the…”

“I’ll have what I need,” Slaughter said. “But wouldn’t it be just as well if the lady…”

“It would not,” Gerald said. “She must be with you. In exactly one hour.”

Again he didn’t wait for an answer, but quickly replaced the receiver on the hook and left the booth.

When he returned to the staircase, instead of going down to the lobby, he turned and started up. He climbed the five flights of stairs and the sweat was soaking his shirt by the time he reached the fifth floor.

This time, walking down the long carpeted hallway, he ignored Room 508 and passed on to 510. He entered through the unlocked door, but was careful to snap the catch so that it clicked behind him. He rechecked the bathroom door to be sure that it was still locked.

Opening the bottom bureau drawer, he removed the zippered bag-the bag in which he had placed the fragments from his broken windshield and the gun which young Vince Dunne had dropped on the floor of his car. He took out only the gun and then reclosed the bag. He used his handkerchief to remove any possible fingerprints from the weapon. When he was finished, he placed the gun on the bed while he hauled the heavy upholstered chair around so that it half faced the door leading into the room.

Then he picked up the gun, still using the handkerchief, and tucked it down between the cushion and the seat of the chair. The handkerchief remained loosely twisted around the checkered grip.

He was kneeling at the door of the room, some thirty-five minutes later, his ear pressed to the keyhole, when he heard the elevator come to a stop at the end of the hallway.

It wasn’t until the footsteps were almost opposite the door that he heard them, softened as they were by the thick carpet. They died out and a moment later he heard the small click of a key in the lock of what he knew must be the door of Room 508. He waited only until he heard the door close and then swiftly got to his feet and crossed to the bathroom door. Once more he knelt, putting his ear to the crack.

There were several moments of silence and then he heard someone enter the bathroom. He heard the sound of voices but was unable to distinguish the words.

A hand tried the knob of the door against which he was standing and it turned but failed to open.

And then all was quiet.

Gerald half smiled, a nervous smile. He looked at his wrist watch and nodded with satisfaction.

He tried to remain oblivious of the time, tried to blank his mind, knowing that it would be futile to worry. The die was cast and there was nothing more to be done. It would happen the way he planned it or it wouldn’t happen and there was nothing more to do now but sit here in the big leather upholstered chair facing the doorway of the room and wait.

Once, after endless minutes had passed, he became conscious of the ticking of his wrist watch as his right elbow rested on the arm of the chair and his head rested against his hand. He began to count the ticks, counting up to sixty, and checking the minutes on the fingers of his hands-until he suddenly realized that the individual ticks of the watch didn’t mark off the seconds but marked off the half seconds.

He was thinking about that, half smiling to himself, when he heard the alien sound; heard the key turning in the lock of the outside door. He knew then for the first time that someone was on the other side of it, someone who had approached on silent footsteps and was standing there at this very moment, preparing to enter.

He sat suddenly stiff and tense in his chair and watched as the knob slowly turned and then the door was quickly opened and Sue Dunne stepped into the room. Slaughter was directly behind her and he followed the girl inside, wordlessly turning and softly closing the door and snapping the night lock.

Gerald Hanna watched the man, but conscious of Sue tense and silent a couple of feet away. Slaughter stood there, his hands thrust deep into the side pockets of his light-weight jacket. He stared at Gerald coldly. Somehow or other he seemed to have lost his suaveness and he no longer appeared to be a small-time businessman or a bank teller or a salesman. He looked hard and dangerous.

“All right,” he said, his gravelly voice very low.

“All right, where is it? Where’s the stuff.”

Gerald jerked his head, indicating Sue.

“Let’s wait until Miss Dunne leaves,” he said.

Slaughter smiled, without humor.

“She stays,” he said. “Right here, until we get through.”

Gerald looked at her and saw that she was staring past him, as though he didn’t exist. Her face was totally without expression.

“Witnesses,” he said. “It’s foolish to have…”

“She stays,” Slaughter repeated. “You are the one who guarantees her silence, remember?”

Gerald shrugged, nodded. He looked up again at Sue and this time she was watching him, but he could tell nothing by her expression. Was she trusting him; did she believe in him? He couldn’t tell. Couldn’t guess.

It wasn’t the way he wanted it, with her there in the room, but there was nothing he could do about it. He’d just have to play it that way, take this one additional gamble.

Gerald looked over at the zipper bag sitting on the night table.

“Where’s the money?” he asked.

Slaughter ignored the remark and stepped quickly across the room. He opened the bag and dumped its contents on the white bedspread.

For a moment then the man just stood there, his dark eyes wide and staring as he looked at the collection of broken glass. The blood began to surge up his thick neck and into his beefy face. He swung around with a curse on his mouth.

“What is this,” he half yelled. “What kind of lousy joke…”

“The money,” Gerald said. “You were to bring the money. The thirty-five thousand dollars. I haven’t seen it yet.”

Slaughter stared at him.

“You’re cute, aren’t you,” he said. “Real cute. The fact is, I suspected there was something screwy about this deal. Suspected something like this. Figured you for a phony. So I put the money in an envelope and checked it down at the desk. Now, if you aren’t a phony, and you want to play it smart, just show me the stuff and then we can go downstairs together and we pick up the dough.”

Gerald smiled thinly at the other man.

“I don’t suppose,” he said, “that you’d just happen to be carrying a gun in that coat pocket of yours, would you?” he asked, his eyes going to Slaughter’s right hand which was still thrust into his jacket pocket.

Slaughter removed his hand, looking at Gerald in disgust.

“Don’t be a damned fool,” he said. “What do you think, I was going to come up here and stick you up or something? Of course I’m not carrying a gun. You think I’d be crazy enough to shoot anyone in a place like this? I’m no gun-happy desperado.”

“I just wanted to make sure,” Gerald said.

“All right, now you know. Let’s get back to the jewels. Have you got the stuff or haven’t you? If you have, then let’s see it!”

Gerald nodded his head in the direction of the bureau.

“The bottom drawer,” he said. “In the brief case.” He turned to the girl as Slaughter crossed the room in a couple of quick steps.

“Go over and sit in that chair by the window,” he said. It wasn’t a request; it was an order.

For a long moment her hot, tired eyes looked into his and he was unable to read anything in their depths. She stood as though frozen and he wondered if she had even heard his words. But then slowly she turned and without a word crossed the room and found the chair by the drawn Venetian blinds.

Slaughter had jerked open the drawer and had the brief case in his hands. He lifted it, almost as though he were mentally weighing it, and then he fumbled with the catch and opened it.

He was staring, fascinated, into the contents of the brief case as Gerald took the gun from the place where it was half concealed beneath his body at the side of the seat cushion.

As he started to rise from the chair, his finger pressed the trigger.

The bullet crashed into the panel of the bathroom door and even as the sound of the shot reverberated in the confines of the small, closed room, Slaughter dropped the brief case and swung around.

Sue, in the chair by the window, gasped, but sat still and stiff, as though frozen to the seat.

“You damned insane fool!” Slaughter screamed. “What in the name of God…”

He was across the room in a single wild leap and slashing down at Gerald’s arm with his closed fist. He caught the revolver as it started to fall to the floor, but Gerald held on to the handkerchief which had been wrapped around its stock.

The moment Slaughter’s fist struck his arm and he reached for the falling gun, Gerald side-stepped, moving like lightening to Slaughter’s right. His hands reached out as he moved and he swung the other man around so that he was momentarily facing the bathroom door.

Gerald was in time to see the door itself bursting inward on its hinges as he made a flying tackle across the room, dropping Sue Dunne to the floor as her straight-backed chair went over backwards, and half falling on top of her.

“You double-crossing son…”

Slaughter was screaming the words as the door gave way. The gun in his hand was half lifted and instinctively he pressed the trigger.

The sound of the explosion blended with that of Lieutenant Hopper’s service revolver as the detective fired.

Slaughter never had the opportunity for a second shot. The dark red blood was gushing from twin holes just above his eyes as he crumpled and dropped to the carpeted floor.

Gerald himself had time for only the few brief words as he pressed his mouth close to the girl’s ear.

“Remember,” he said, “remember what you told me. You’d give anything to get the man who got your brother into it. Keep trusting me. Say nothing-and trust me.”

Lieutenant Hopper waited until the basket arrived from the morgue and they’d removed the body; until after the chalked outlines on the floor had been photographed and the lab men were all through.

The room was cleared now and there were only the four of them. Gerald Hanna sat as Lieutenant Hopper stalked in front of him. Sue was on the edge of the bed, with Finn next to her chewing his nails and muttering under his breath. The uniformed patrolman was outside the door and all the others had left.

“You certainly have the damnedest way of turning up, the lieutenant said. “Maybe you are going to try and explain this one away.” His voice was thin with sarcasm.

“Nothing to explain,” Gerald said. “I’m just glad you took my telephone calf seriously and showed up. I was getting a little nervous.”

“You will probably be a lot more nervous before it’s all over,” Hopper said. “Maybe you’d like to tell me about it. It might relieve you and it certainly…”

“There’s nothing to tell.”

Gerald looked over at the detective and smiled as he continued.

“You have it all in the registered letter which I mailed you this afternoon,” he said. “The letter which you will have in the morning. I said in that letter that if you came here after I called you on the phone, you’d find the loot from the Gorden-Frost robbery. Well, there it is-in that brief case which your men checked and put over on the dresser.”

“So you wrote and explained,” Hopper said softly. “How nice of you.” And just how do you fit into this thing?”

“That’s very simple, Lieutenant,” Gerald said. “As you know, I’m in the insurance business. Well, I figured after I read about the robbery, that the stuff must be insured. And I knew that the insurance company would offer a reward for the return of the jewels. Yesterday, through a connection in my office, I found I was right. There’s a hundred thousand dollar reward. I’m claiming that reward. I sent you a note advising you to come here and pick up the stuff and you did and here it is. I have a receipt for that note.

“To make doubly sure there would be no misunderstanding later on, I mailed a second registered letter to the insurance people, establishing my claim.”

Lieutenant Hopper stared at him, his face growing red and congested as Gerald finished speaking.

“That’s dandy,” he said. “Just downright dandy! So you’re going to claim the reward, eh?”

He hesitated, fighting to control his temper.

“And how about the rest of it? How about the two police officers who were killed? By God, don’t you remember our little conversation? Don’t you remember what I told you about how we feel about things like that? Don’t you…”

“I think I can help you out a little there, too, Lieutenant,” Gerald said. Once more he smiled, conciliatorily.

“Yes,” he went on. “I believe I can help you. You took a gun out of Slaughter’s hand when you broke into this room and after he was shot down. Remember? Well, check that gun down at ballistics, and I’m pretty sure you’ll find that it was the same gun which was used to kill your policemen. Slaughter had the jewels and he had the gun. What more do you need?”

The lieutenant looked at him closely for several moments. At last, when he again spoke, his voice was more nearly back to normal and had lost a little of its bitterness.

“All right, just for the sake of argument, we’ll assume it was the murder weapon. But how do you plan to prove that Slaughter was in on the job? That he used the gun?”

“That’s simple, too,” Gerald said. He pointed over to the desk. “Among your other souvenirs,” he said, “you have that pile of broken glass which was swept up off the bed. I saw in the newspapers that police found fragments of glass from a shattered windshield at the scene of the robbery. Glass shot from the windshield of the getaway car. I think-in fact I feel absolutely sure-that if you take that glass along with you and match it up with the glass you already have, you’ll end up with a complete windshield. So can’t we just assume that Slaughter had to be in the getaway car in order for him to have the glass in his possession?”

Gerald stood up and yawned, putting his hand delicately to his mouth to cover his social lapse.

“And now,” he said, “I’m rather tired and I would appreciate it if you would just let me leave. I’m sure Miss Dunne is tired too and I’d like to take her home.”

Gerald’s eyes went over to Sue and he smiled, a little weakly, at her.

He noticed then, for the very first time since he had seen her, that the antagonism and the bitterness was gone from her face. That she was looking at him, still wide-eyed and with a trace of amazement in her expression. But there was something else; there was a warmth that had never been there before.

She nodded ever so briefly and half smiled, as her eyes met his.

Lieutenant Hopper was eying Gerald with grim distaste.

“At the very best,” he said, “you’re a material witness. And so is Miss Dunne. I’m going to hold…”

“Lieutenant,” Gerald said. “You don’t want to do anything foolish. The fact is, I’m a sort of hero. I feel quite sure that’s what the morning newspapers are going to say. Of course, up until now I have had every intention of explaining to the reporters that I have worked with the police on this and that I am sharing the reward with them-in the hope that their share will be turned over to the widows of the officers slain in the robbery…”

Detective Lieutenant Hopper shook his head slowly, staring at Gerald as though he were observing some completely new specimen in the Bronx Zoo.

“All right,” he said, at last. “All right, Hanna. You’ll get the reward, I guess. Maybe you are a hero. But I still don’t understand it. I know that I won’t be able to make you talk and tell me about it, but in the long run, I am glad to have the thing cleaned up. We’ll go over the glass and the gun of course, but I’m satisfied that they’ll check out.

“The thing I can’t understand, though, is why Slaughter would have the glass with him. Why he’d bring it here to the hotel. It just doesn’t make sense.”

Gerald looked at the detective and smiled.

“You are so right,” he said. “It doesn’t make any sense at all. But then so many things haven’t made sense. Why don’t you just be satisfied that he did have the glass with him? After all, that broken glass is the evidence, that if found, would possibly have put him in the electric chair. The same as the jewels would. Well, he had the jewels, so why not the glass? Certainly he wouldn’t be leaving it around for someone else to find and possibly use for blackmail, would he? The safest place for it, from his point of view, was with him. After all, he wasn’t expecting to be picked up, to be questioned in the case. He was in the clear. But I wouldn’t let it bother me. I’d just be satisfied that he did have it.”

Hopper nodded, morosely.

“There’s one more thing that, for my personal satisfaction, I would like to know,” he said. “Since you seem to have all of the answers, perhaps you can satisfy me on this one. If that glass came from the windshield of the getaway car, maybe you can tell me where I can find the car?”

Gerald moved toward the door.

“Miss Dunne is exhausted,” Gerald said. “Would it be too much to ask you to give us a lift out to Long Island?”

Hopper nodded, his expression unhappy.

“Glad to,” he said. “But about the car? I suppose that’s one you wouldn’t know…”

“Listen, Lieutenant,” Gerald said, “don’t you want me to leave something for the police department to do? I’ve found your hot jewels for you and I’ve given you your cop killer. You won’t even have to prosecute him. And as far as I am concerned, you can share equal billing in credit for solving the case. What more…”

Lieutenant Hopper grunted and shrugged.

“Oh, I’m happy enough,” he said. “Let’s get moving. Miss Dunne’s tired, Finn’s tired, I’m tired…”

Sue had crossed the room and Gerald felt her slender hand slip into his and as she leaned toward him his arm went around her waist.

“Tired?” he said. “Why I never felt better in my life.”