We certainly got sick of John Lash. A lot of the guys stopped coming after he started to attend every meeting. It’s a skin diving club — you know, just a few guys who like to swim under water in masks and all, shoot fish with those spear guns, all that. We started originally with six guys and we called ourselves The Deep Six. Even when it got up to about fifteen, we kept the name.

When it started we just had masks and fins and crude rigs. We live and work on the Florida Revs. I work in a garage in Marathon. Dusty has a bait and boat rental business in Craig. Lew manages a motel down on Ramrod. That’s just to give you an idea of the kind of jokers we are. Just guys who got bitten by this skin diving bug. We tried to meet once a week. Dusty had an old tub that’s ideal for it. We meet and pick a spot and head for it and anchor and go down and see what’s there. You never know what you’ll find. There are holes down there that are crawling with fish.

Once the bug gets you, you’re hooked. There are a lot of little clubs like ours. Guys that get along. Guys who like to slant down through that green country, kicking yourself along with your fins, hunting those big fish right down in their own backyard.

We got better equipment as we went along. We bought snorkel tubes when those came out. But the Aqua-lungs were beyond our price range. I think it was Lew who had the idea of everybody chipping in, and of putting in the money we got from selling the catches. When we had enough we bought a lung and two tanks, and then another. In between meetings somebody would run the four tanks up and get them refilled. There was enough time 0n the tanks so that during a full day everybody got a crack at using one of the lungs.

It was fine there for quite a while. We’d usually get ten or twelve, and some of the wives would come along. We’d have food and beer out there in the sun on that old tub and we had some excitement, some danger, and a lot of fish.

Croy Danton was about the best. A little guy with big shoulders, who didn’t have much to say. Not a gloomy guy. He just didn’t talk much. His wife, Betty, would usually come along when she could. They’ve got some rental units at Marathon. He did a lot of the building himself, with the help of a G.I. loan. Betty is what I would call a beautiful girl. She’s a blonde and almost the same height as Croy, and you can look at her all day without finding anything wrong with her. She dives a little.

Like I said, it was fine there for a while, until Lew brought this John Lash along one day. Afterward Lew said he was sorry, that Lash had seemed like a nice guy. In all fairness to Lew, I will admit that the first time John Lash joined us he seemed okay. We let him pay his dues. He was new to the Keys. He said he was looking around, and he had a temporary job tending bar.

One thing about him, he was certainly built. One of those guys who looks as if he was fat when you see him in clothes. But in his swimming trunks he looked like one of those advertisements. He had a sort of smallish round head and round face and not much neck. He was blonde and beginning to go a little bald. The head didn’t seem to fit the rest of him, all that tough brown bulge of muscle. He looked as if a meat axe would bounce right off him. He’d come over from California and he had belonged to a couple of clubs out there and had two West Coast records. He said he had those records and we didn’t check, but I guess he did. He certainly knew his way around in the water.

This part is hard to explain. Maybe you have had it happen to you. Like at a party. You’re having a good time, a lot of laughs, and then somebody joins the party and it changes everything. You still laugh, but it isn’t the same kind of laugh. Everything is different. Like one of those days when the sun is out and then before you know it there is a little haze across the sun and everything looks sort of funny. The water looks oily and the colors are different. That is what John Lash did to The Deep Six. It makes you wonder what happened to a guy like that when he was a kid. It isn’t exactly a competitive instinct. They seem to be able to guess just how to rub everybody the wrong way. But you can’t put your finger on it. Any of us could tell Dusty his old tub needed a paint job and the bottom scraped and Dusty would say we should come around and help if we were so particular. But John Lash could say it in such a way that it would make Dusty feel ashamed and make the rest of us feel ashamed, as though we were all second rate, and John Lash was used to things being first rate.

When he kidded you he rubbed you raw. When he talked about himself it wasn’t bragging because he could always follow it up. He liked horseplay. He was always roughing somebody around, laughing to show it was all in fun, but you had the feeling he was right on the edge of going crazy mad and trying to kill you. We had been a close group, but after he joined we started to give each other a bad time, too. There were arguments and quarrels that John Lash wasn’t even in. But they happened because he was there. It was spoiling the way it used to be, and there just wasn’t anything we could do about it because it wasn’t the sort of club where you can vote people out.

Without the lung, with just the mask, he could stay downstairs longer than anybody. Longer than Croy Danton even, and Croy had been the best until John Lash showed up. We had all tried to outdo Croy, but it had been sort of a gag competition. When we tried to outdo John Lash some of the guys stayed down so long that they were pretty sick when they came back up. But nobody beat him.

Another thing about him I didn’t like. Suppose we’d try a place and find nothing worth shooting. For John Lash there wasn’t anything that wasn’t worth shooting. He had to come up with a fish. I’ve seen him down there, waving the shiny barb slowly back and forth. The fish come up to take a look at it. A thing like that attracts them. An angel fish or a parrot fish or a look-down would come up and hang right in front of the barb, studying this strange shiny thing. Then John Lash would pull the trigger. There would be a big gout of bubbles and sometimes the spear would go completely through the fish so that it was threaded on the line like a big bright bead. He’d come up grinning and pull it off and toss it over the side and say, “Let’s try another spot, children.”

The group shrunk until we were practically down to the original six. Some of the other guys were going out on their own, just to stay away from John Lash. Croy Danton kept coming, and most of the time he would bring Betty. John Lash never horsed around with Croy. Croy, being so quiet, never gave anybody much of an opening. John Lash never paid any special attention to Betty. But I saw it happen. Betty wasn’t going to dive after fish. She was just going to take a dip to cool off. John Lash had just taken a can of beer out of the ice chest. He had opened it and it was a little bit warm. I saw him glance up to the bow where Betty was poised to dive. She stood there and then dived off cleanly. John Lash sat there without moving, just staring at the place where she had been. And the too-warm beer foamed out of the can and ran down his fingers and dropped onto his thigh, darkening and matting the coarse blonde hair that had been sundried since his last dive. I saw him drain the can and saw him close his big hand on it, crumpling it, before throwing it over the side. And I saw him watch Betty climb back aboard, sleek and wet, smiling at Croy, her hair waterpasted down across one eye so that as soon as she stood up in the boat, she thumbed it back behind her ear.

I saw all that and it gave me a funny feeling in my stomach. It made me think of the wav he would lure the lookdowns close to the barb, and it made me think of the way blood spreads in the water.

After that, John Lash began to move in on Betty with all the grace and tact of a bulldozer. He tried to dab at her with a towel when she came out of the water. If she brought anything up, he had to bustle over to take it off her spear. He found reasons to touch her. Imaginary bugs. Helping her in or out of the boat. Things like that. And all the time his eyes burning in his head.

At first you could see that Croy and Betty had talked about it between meetings, and they had agreed, I guess, to think of it as being sort of amusing. At least they exchanged quick smiles when John Lash was around her. But a thing like that cannot stay amusing very long when the guy on the make keeps going just a little bit further each time. It got pretty tense and, after the worst day, Croy started leaving Betty home. He left her home for two weeks in a row.

Croy left her home the third week and John Lash didn’t show up either. We sat on the dock waiting for latecomers. We waited longer than usual. Dusty said, “I saw Lash at the bar yesterday and he said today he was off.”

There were only five of us. The smallest in a long, long time. We waited. Croy finally said, “Well, let’s go.” As we took the boat out I saw Croy watching the receding dock, no expression on his face. It was a funny strained day. I guess we were all thinking the same thing. We had good luck, but it didn’t seem to matter. We left earlier than usual. Croy sat in the bow all the way back, as if in that way he’d be nearer shore, and the first one home.

Croy came around to see me at the garage the next morning. I was trying to find a short in an old Willys. When I turned around he was standing there behind me with a funny look on his face. Like a man who’s just heard a funny sound in the distance and can’t figure out just what it was. He looked right over my left shoulder, and said, “You can tell him for me, Dobey, that I’m going to kill him.”

“What do you mean?”

“He came around yesterday. He was a little drunk. He scared Betty. He knew I wouldn’t be there. He came around and he scared her. The Sandersons were there. She got loose of him and went over where they were. He kept hanging around. She had to stay with them most of the day. He’s got her nervous now. You tell him for me if he makes one more little bit of a move toward her at any time, I’ll sure kill him stone dead.” He turned around and walked out with that funny look still on his face. It was the most I ever heard him say all at one time.

At noon I went over to the bar where John Lash was working. He’d just come on. I got a beer and he rung it up and slapped my change down. He seemed a little nervous.

“Get anything yesterday?”

“Les got a big ’cuda. Croy got some nice grouper. Where were you?”

“Oh, I had things to do.”

“You better not have any more things like that to do.”

He looked at me and put his big hands on the bar and put his face closer to mine. “What kind of a crack is that?”

“Don’t try to get tough with me. You messed around Betty Danton yesterday. You scared her. She told Croy. Croy came in this morning and gave me a message to give you. He says you bother her in any other kind of way at any time and he’s going to kill you.” It sounded funny to say it like that. As if I was in a movie.

John Lash just stared at me out of those little hot eyes of his. “What kind of talk is that? Kill me? With all the come-on that blonde of his has been giving me? Why don’t he come here and tell me that? You know damn well why he didn’t come here. By God, I’d have thrown him halfway out to the road.”

“He told me to tell you. It sounded like he meant it.”

“I’m scared to death. Look at me shake.”

I finished my beer and put the glass down. “See you,” I said.

“I’ll be along the next time.”

I walked out. One thing about that Lash, he didn’t scare worth a damn. I would have been scared. One of those fellows who do a lot of talking wouldn’t scare me much. But the quiet ones, like Croy, they bottle things up.

It was nearly three o’clock when Betty came into the garage. She had on a white dress and when she stood there it made the old garage with all the grease and dirt look darker than ever before. She is a girl who looks right at you. Her eyes were worried. I wiped my hands and lit a cigarette and went over to her.

“Dobey, did Croy talk to you?”

“He was in.”

“What did he say?”

“Wouldn’t he tell you what he said?”

“He just said he gave you a message for John Lash. What was it, Dobey? He won’t tell me. He acts so funny. I’m scared, Dobey.”

“He told me to tell Lash if he messed around you he was going to kill him. He said Lash scared you.”

“Well, he did scare me, sort of. Because he was drunk. But the Sandersons were there. So it was all right. Croy says I have to come along with you next time. What did Lash say?”

“What do you think he said? You can’t scare him off that way. I don’t think anybody ought to go out next time, Betty. I think we ought to call it off. I think it’s going to be a mess.”

“Croy says we’re going. He’s acting funny. We’ll have to go. You’ve got to come along too, Dobey. Please.”

That’s the way it was. It was something you couldn’t stop. Like one of those runaway trains in the old movie serials. Picking up speed as it went. I had time during the week to get hold of the other guys and tell them what was up. I don’t know now why we didn’t form a sort of delegation and go see John Lash and tell him to move along, off the Keys. There would have been enough of us. But there was something about Lash. Something wild and close to the surface. You could have done all that to a normal guy, but he wasn’t normal. I’m not saying he was crazy.

Anyway, I loaded the little Jap automatic I had brought back from Saipan and put it in the paper sack with my lunch. That’s the way I felt about the day.

Dusty and Lew and I were the first ones to arrive. We put the gear in the old tub. Lew had gotten his new Arbalete gun with the double sling and we hefted it and admired it and then we talked about maybe getting our own compressor some time for the two double-tank lungs. I crushed a damp cigarette and rubbed the glass on my face mask. Two more of the regulars arrived. There was the feel of trouble in that day. A different shimmer in the water. A different blue in the sky. A car door slammed and pretty soon Croy and Betty came around the corner of the fish house and down to the dock, laden with gear. For a time I guess we were all hoping that John Lash wouldn’t show. It would have been a good day then, like the days before he came along and joined us.

But as hope grew stronger and Dusty started to fool with the old engine, John Lash came down to the dock, walking cat-light, carrying his sack of gear and lunch and beer, his personal Saetta gun in his other hand, looking slimmer and frailer than it was because it was John Lash who carried it, walking toward us, sun picking sweat-lights off his brown shoulders.

I expected it right then and there. I saw Betty hunch herself a little closer to Croy and start to put her hand on his arm and then change her mind. But John Lash came aboard, saying a lot of loud hellos, banging his gear down, opening the ice chest to pile his cans of beer in there. He didn’t seem to pay any special attention to Betty, or Croy either. He sat on the rail back near Dusty at the wheel while we headed out and down the coast. It was enough to make you want to relax, but you couldn’t. The water had a greased look. We had agreed to try Gilman’s Reef. There is good coral there, and rock holes. I don’t know whether we were trying to keep a lid on trouble, but the other five of us did more talking than usual, more kidding around. But laughter had a flat sound across the water. Lew checked the Aqua Lungs. I had me a beer.

When we got close I went up and stood on the bow and had Dusty bring it up to a place that looked right. I let the anchor line slide through my hands. It hit bottom in twenty-five feet, which was about right. We drifted back and it caught and we swung and steadied there, about twenty feet off the reef shallows. No trouble had started and it didn’t look like there would be any. Croy and Lew went down first, Lew with a lung and Croy with a mask only, just to take a look around. I noticed that when Croy lowered himself easily into the water he glanced at Betty and then back to where John Lash was working his feet into the fins. He ducked under and one fin swirled the water as he went down.

John Lash got his fins on and flapped forward to where Betty sat on the rail. He laughed out loud and wrapped a big brown fist in that blonde hair of hers and turned her face upward and kissed her hard on the mouth. She struggled and clawed at him and fell to her hands and knees when he released her.

“Hard to get, aren’t you, blondie?” he asked.

Dusty said, “Cut it out, Lash. Cut it out!”

“This is nothing to you, Dusty. Keep out of it! This is me and Betty.”

“Get away from me,” she said. Her eyes were funny and her mouth had a broken look. I picked up the paper sack and put my hand inside and got hold of the automatic. I couldn’t tell what he was going to try to do. He stood spreadlegged on the deck watching the water. Betty moved away from him toward the stern, beyond me and Dusty.

Croy broke water and shoved his mask up. He was a dozen feet from the boat.

John Lash stood there and laughed down at him and said, “I just kissed your woman, Danton. I understand you got ideas of making something out of it. I got a message from you.”

Croy took one glance at Betty. He brought the Arbalete spear gun up almost off-hand and fired it directly at John Lash’s middle. I heard the zing and slap of the rubber slings, heard Betty’s scream, heard John Lash’s hard grunt of surprise as he threw himself violently to one side. I don’t know how he got away from it. But he did. The spear hit the end of the nylon and fell to the water on the far side of the boat. John Lash recovered his balance. He stared at Croy as though he were shocked. He roared then and went off the side in a long flat dive, hurling himself at Croy. There was a splash of water, a flash of brown arms and then they were both gone. I got a glimpse of them under the water as they sank out of sight. Betty screamed again, not as loud.

Nobody was set to go down. We all started grabbing gear at once. I went off the side about the same moment as Dusty, and at the last moment I had snatched up John Lash’s Saetta gun. It was cocked and I don’t know what I expected to do with it but I took it. I went down through the deepening shades of green, looking for them. I saw movement and cut over toward it, but it was Lew wearing the lung. He saw me and spread his arms in a gesture that meant he hadn’t spotted anything worth shooting. He didn’t know what was going on. I motioned him to go up. I guess I looked as though I meant it. He shrugged and headed up.

I looked hard, but I couldn’t find them and I could tell by the way my chest felt that it was nearly time to head up. I took it as long as I could. I thought I saw movement below me and to the right but I was close to blacking out and I went up. Dusty was hanging on the side of the boat. Betty stood staring down into the water. I knew from her face that they hadn’t come up. I took deep breaths and turned and went down again and got part way down when I saw them. John Lash with a look of agony on his face, was working his way up, kicking hard, one hand holding Croy by the waistband of his trunks. Croy was loose in the water. I went over and got hold of Croy by the wrist. I fired the spear off to the side so the gun would float up. Lash was having a hard time of it. I got Croy up and we got him over the side and put him face down on the bottom and Les, who had the lung and tanks off, began to work on him. Somebody behind me helped John Lash aboard. Dusty had to grab Betty and pull her away from Croy so Les could use the artificial respiration without her getting in his way.

She turned against Dusty and she was crying. Those were the sounds. The small noises she made, and John Lash’s labored breathing, and the rhythmic slap and creak of the respiration.

“Tried... to kill me,” Lash said. “You... you saw it. Then... tried to drown me. Tried to hold me even... after he’d passed out.”

Nobody answered him. The boat moved in the offshore swell. Loose gear rattled. Croy retched and coughed. Les continued until Croy began to struggle weakly. Les moved back then and Croy rolled over, closing his eyes against the sun.

Betty dropped to her knees beside him saying words that did not make sentences. Croy raised his head. He looked at her and then pushed her aside, gently. He got to his knees. I tried to help him up but he refused the help. He got to his feet with an enormous effort. He stood unsteadily and looked around until he saw John Lash. As soon as he saw Lash he bent and picked up a loose spear. He held it by the middle, the muscles of his arm bunching.

John Lash moved quickly. He got up and said, “Wait! Hold it! Croy, wait...” Dusty tried to grab Croy but he moved quickly. The spear tip gashed John Lash’s arm as he tried to fend it off, and as Croy drew back to thrust again, John Lash hit him flush in the face with one of those big brown fists. Croy bounced back and hit the engine hatch and rebounded to fall heavily and awkwardly, unconscious.

Betty reached him and turned him and sat, his head in her lap, arm curled protectively around his head, murmuring to him. Lew wet the end of a towel and gave it to her. She wiped the blood from his mouth and looked at John Lash and then the rest of us with cold hate.

“Why didn’t you stop him? Why are you letting him do this to Croy?”

“I had to hit him!” John Lash said, his voice a half-octave higher than usual. “You saw what he was trying to do. Why didn’t you guys stop him?”

Croy’s mouth puffed rapidly. He mumbled something. Dusty started the engine. “We better get back. You want to get the anchor up, Dobey?”

I broke it free and hauled it in, coiling the line. When I moved back I saw that Croy was sitting up. Betty was holding onto his arm. She was saying, with a gradually increasing edge in her voice, “No, darling. No. No please, darling.”

But Croy was looking beyond her, looking at John Lash. Lash was trying to grin. It wasn’t a grin as much as it was just a sort of twist he was wearing on his mouth. He’d look at Croy and then look away. Croy got up then with Betty holding onto him. He lurched over toward the rail and grabbed one of the gaffs. Lash came back up onto his feet quickly and said, “Grab him!”

Croy shook Betty loose. Lew and I grabbed Croy. It was like grabbing hard rubber. He lowered his head and butted Lew over the rail. Dusty swung the boat to keep the prop clear of Lew. It made me lose my balance. As I staggered Croy rapped me across my shins with the handle end of the gaff and hot stars went off behind my eyes from the sudden pain of it. When I could see again I saw him going for Lash with the gaff. They were poised for a moment, muscles like they were cut out of stone, both holding onto the long gaff. Then John Lash, with his greater strength, hurled Croy back toward the stern again. Croy fell, harder than before, but he hadn’t been hit.

“Keep him off me!” Lash yelled. “Keep him off me!”

Croy got slowly and clumsily back to his feet and started back toward Lash. I was set to take another grab at Croy. Lew was climbing aboard. The other two guys were having no part of it. They were plain scared. Just as I was about to grab Croy he put his weight on his left foot and went down. I could see the ankle puffing visibly. He never took his eyes off John Lash. He had fallen near his gear. He fumbled and came out with a fish knife with a cork handle. Holding it in his hand he began to crawl toward the bow, toward John Lash again, the handle thumping against the cockpit boards every time he put his right hand down. I fell on his arm. I could hear Lash yelling. I couldn’t make out what he was saying. I got Croy’s wrist and managed to twist the knife out of his hand. Lew had him around the middle. We hauled him over and tried to sit on him. He kept struggling with stubborn, single-minded strength. Once he broke free and started crawling again toward Lash, puffed lips pulled back from bloody teeth, but we got him again.

Dusty helped that time and one of the other guys and we held him and tried to talk sense into him, but he kept on struggling. We finally got heavy nylon line around his wrists and tied his arms behind him. We thought that was going to be enough, but even with his hands like that he managed to get on his feet and, limping badly, try to get at Lash. Dusty put a length of the anchor line around the engine hatch and we tied him there around his chest, sitting on the litter of gear and water and smashed sandwiches and cans of beer, staring at John Lash and fighting the heavy line constantly.

Once he was tied up, Betty kneeling beside him, trying to soothe him, John Lash lighted a cigarette. His hands shook. He grinned, “He get like that often?” he asked “Look at him. He still wants to get at me.”

Croy’s shoulders bulged as he fought the rope. Lash kept glancing at him. We were all breathing hard. Dusty examined skinned knuckles. “I never see him like that, not that bad. Old Croy he gets an idea in his head, you can’t get it out. No sir.”

“He’ll get over this, won’t he? When he cools off.”

“He’s not going to cool off at all,” Dusty said. “Not one little bit. Tomorrow, the next day, it’ll be just the same.”

“What am I supposed to do then?” Lash asked.

“I don’t know. I really don’t know,” Dusty said. “You got to either kill him or he’s got it in his mind he’s going to kill you. Known him twenty years and he’s never gone back on his word one time. Or his daddy before him.”

Lash licked his lips. I watched him. I saw him sitting there, nervous. It was something he’d never run into. It was something I guess few men ever run into in their lifetime. I could see him wishing he’d never made any sort of a pass at Betty.

Croy fought the rope, doggedly, constantly, sweat running down his face.

John Lash lighted another cigarette. “He’ll get over it,” he said unconvincingly.

“I wouldn’t want to bet much on that,” I said.

There was that big John Lash sitting there in the sun, a whole head and forty-fifty pounds bigger than little Croy Danton. And without the faintest idea in the world as to what to do about it. Either way, there didn’t seem to be any kind of an out for John Lash.

“He’s nuts. You people are all nuts down here,” Lash said.

I sensed what was forming in his mind. I said, “When we dock we’ll see if we can hold him right here for about an hour. You ought to pack up and take off.”

“Run from a character like him?” Lash said.

Croy’s arms came free suddenly and he tried to shove the line up off his chest. His wrists were bloody where the nylon had punished them. Three of us jumped him and got his wrists tied again. He didn’t make a sound. But he fought hard. Betty kept trying to quiet him down, talking gentle, her lips close to his ear. But you could see that for Croy there were two people left in the world. Him and John Lash.

It took about forty minutes to get back in. Nobody talked. I didn’t like to watch Croy. It was a sort of thing I have seen in Havana at the cock fights. I hear it is like that, too, at the bull fights. A distillation, I guess you would call it, of violence. The will to kill. Something that comes from a sort of crazy pride, a primitive pride, and once you have started it, you can’t turn it off.

It was easy to see that John Lash didn’t want to look at him either. But he had to keep glancing at him to make sure he wasn’t getting loose. During that forty minutes John Lash slowly unraveled. He came apart way down in the middle of himself where it counted. I don’t think any of us would say he was a coward. He wasn’t yellow. But this was something he couldn’t understand. He’d never faced it before and few men ever face it in their lifetime. To Lash I guess Croy wasn’t a man any more. He was a thing that wanted to kill him. A thing that lusted to kill him so badly that even defenseless it would still keep coming at him.

By the time we got in, John Lash wasn’t even able to edge by Croy to pick up his gear. We had to get it and pass it up to him where he stood on the dock. John Lash looked down and he looked older in the face. Maybe it was the first time he had seriously thought about his own death. It shrunk him a little.

“Hold him for an hour. I’ll go away,” he said. He didn’t say goodbye. There wasn’t any room in him to think of things like that. He walked away quickly and a bit unsteadily. He went around the corner of the fish house. We’ve never seen him since.

Croy kept watching the place where John Lash had disappeared. Betty kept whispering to him. But in about ten minutes Croy stopped struggling.

“There, baby. There,” I heard Betty whisper.

He gave a big convulsive shudder and looked around, first at her and then at the rest of us, frowning a little as if he had forgotten something.

“Sorry,” he said huskily. “Real sorry.” And that is all he ever said about it. He promised that he was all right. I carried his stuff to their car. Betty bound his ankle with a strip of towel. He leaned heavily on her to the car.

That’s almost all, except the part I don’t understand. The Deep Six is back up to about fifteen again. We have a compressor now, and new spots to go, and we did fine in the inter-club competitions this year. We’re easy with each other, and have some laughs.

But Croy never came back. He and Betty, they go out by themselves in a kicker boat when the weather is right. I don’t see any reason why he didn’t come back. He says hello when we see him around. Maybe he’s ashamed we saw him like that, saw that wildness.

One morning not long ago I went out alone on the Gulf side. I got out there early and mist hung heavy on the water. I tilted my old outboard up and rowed silently. It was kind of eerie there in the mist in the early morning. All of a sudden I began to hear voices. It was hard to tell direction but they kept getting louder. There was a deep voice, a man’s voice, talking and talking and talking, and every so often a woman would say one or two words, soft and soothing.

All of a sudden I recognized the voices as Croy’s and Betty’s. I couldn’t catch any of the words. I rested on the oars. It made me feel strange. I figured I could get closer and find out what in the world Croy could talk about for so long.

But then understanding came to me suddenly, and it wasn’t necessary to listen. I understood suddenly that there was only one subject on which a quiet guy like Croy could talk and talk and talk, and that the situation wasn’t over and maybe would never be over. And I realized that embarrassment was only part of the reason Croy didn’t come skin-diving with us any more; the rest of the reason was that the sight of us reminded him too strongly of John Lash. I turned the dinghy and headed off the other way until their voices faded and were gone.

Later in the morning after the sun had burned the mist off, I was spin casting with a dude and mono-filament line over a weed bed when they went by, heading in, their big outboard roaring, the bow wave breaking the glassy look of the morning Gulf.

Croy was at the motor, Betty up in the bow.

Betty waved at me and Croy gave me a sort of little nod as they went by. I waved back. Their swell rocked me and then they were gone in the distance.

She is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. You could look at her all day and not find anything wrong.

The girl had tried very hard to be lucky, but it hadn’t done much good. When the cops found her, she was dead.

She was a small girl, and she looked even smaller, lying there at the river end of the vast, empty pier. A tugboat captain had sighted her body off Pier 90, radioed the Harbor Precinct, and a police launch had taken her from the water and brought her ashore. There was a chill wind blowing in from the Hudson and the pale October sun glinted dully on the girl’s face and arms and bare shoulders. The skirt of her topless dress was imprinted with miniature four-leaf clovers and horseshoes and number 7’s, and on her right wrist there was a charm bracelet with more four-leaf clovers and horseshoes.

A sergeant and three patrolmen from the Uniform Force had arrived in an RMP car a few minutes before my partner, Paul Brader, and I. They had just finished their preliminary examination of the body.

The sergeant glanced at me and then back down at the girl. “They’d didn’t do her a hell of a lot of good, did they? The lucky symbols, I mean.”

“Not much,” I said.

“How old do you figure her for, Jim?” Paul Brader asked.

“Eighteen, maybe,” I said. “No more than that.”

“Well, we’ve got a homicide all right,” Paul said. “She sure wasn’t alive when she hit the water. You notice the skin?”

I’d noticed. It wasn’t pale, the way it would have been had she drowned. The river water was cold, and cold water contracts the blood vessels and forces the blood to the inner part of the body.

“And there’s no postmortem lividity in the head and neck,” Paul went on. “Floaters always hang the same way in the water, with the head down. If she had been alive when she went in, she’d be a damned sight less pretty than she is now.” He stepped close and knelt beside the girl. “How long would you say she was in the water, Jim?”

“That’s always tough to figure,” I said. “Taking the weather into consideration, and the fact that she’s a little thin, I’d say anywhere from three to five days.” I looked at the sergeant. “Any label in that dress, Ted?”

“No, sir.”

“How about the underclothes?”

“Just brand names. No shop names at all.”

Paul gently rolled the girl over on her left side. “Take a look at these lacerations on the back of her head,” he said.

I knelt down beside him. There were two lacerations, apparently quite deep, and about three inches long. But lacerations and other mutilations of bodies found in the water are often misleading. Marine life takes its toll, and bodies frequently bob for hours against pilings and wharves and the sides of boats before they are discovered.

“We’ll have to wait and see what the M.E.’s shop says about those,” I said. I looked at both the girl’s palms. There were no fingernail marks, such as are usually found in drownings. It’s true that drowning people clutch at anything; and when there’s nothing to grasp, they clench their hands anyhow, driving the nails into the flesh.

The girl had pierced ears, and the small gold rings in them appeared expensive. So did the charm bracelet, and the dress was obviously no bargain-counter item. There were four dollar bills tucked into the top of one of her stockings.

The uniformed sergeant removed the jewelry and the bills and listed them on his report sheet. “Four bucks,” he murmured. “Mad money, probably.”

Paul and I straightened up. “You want to wait for the doc?” he asked.

“Not much point,” I said. “He won’t be able to tell us anything until after he autopsies her. We don’t need him to tell us we got a homicide.”

“No I guess not,” Paul said. He stared down at the girl a moment. “Tough, Jim. There’s something about pulling a pretty girl out of cold water that gets me. Every time.”

I nodded, and we turned back toward our prowl car. I knew what he meant. We handle about four hundred floaters a year in New York, most of them in the spring and summer. The majority of them are accidental drownings. A number are suicides, though there are fewer than is generally supposed. An even smaller number are homicides. And of the homicides, only about one in ten are women.

I got behind the wheel and we drove along the pier and turned downtown toward Centre Street, where the Missing Persons Bureau is located.

“You going to hit the station house first?” Paul asked.

“No. We can call in from the Bureau. I’ve got a hunch we’ll save time if we go through the MP reports ourselves.” The first thing a detective does when he has an unidentified body — provided it’s a homicide and the body has been dead more than a day or so — is check the reports of missing persons. In the event of a routine drowning, the investigating officer’s report is sent to the Bureau and the description matched against MP reports by MP personnel.

We found the matching MP report almost at once.

I scanned the rest of the MP form. It was all there — a close physical description of the girl, the skirt with the lucky symbols, the pierced ears and gold earrings, the charm bracelet. There was, however, one item of jewelry listed on the report which had not been on the girl when she’d been taken from the river. A diamond engagement ring, assumed to be about half a carat.

“You were off a year on the age, Jim,” Paul said, grinning.

“All right, so fire me,” I said.

“I’ll take it up with the commissioner,” he said. “You want me to handle the ID confirmation?”

“Might as well,” I said. “No use both of us killing time with it.” I glanced down at the bottom of the form. The report had been phoned in by a Mrs. Edward Carpenter, with the same address as the girl’s. Mrs. Carpenter, it seemed, was the girl’s aunt. I wrote down the name and address on a piece of scratch paper and handed it to Paul. “I’ll make a deal with you,” I said. “You get Mrs. Carpenter and take her over to Bellevue for the ID, and I’ll handle the paper work on this.”

“All the way through?”

“Sure. What’d you think?”

“You’ve got yourself a deal. You want me to take her home, after the ID?”

“Nope. Take her to the precinct... That’s if she isn’t too upset. If she takes it too hard, drive her home and call me from there.”

“Anything else?”

“Well, you might get her to fill you in on the girl, if you can. Don’t push too hard, unless you think she can take it.”

He nodded. “You going back to the station house now?”

“Uh-huh. I’ll ride that far with you, and then you can go on up to Seventy-second Street and get Mrs. Carpenter.”

Back in the squad room, I finished typing up some 61’s in connection with other cases Paul and I were working on, completed several Wanted cards on a gang of Philadelphia hoods a stool had told me were now in New York, and then rolled a fresh 61 form into the Underwood and began the suspected homicide report on Lucille M. Taylor. I kept remembering how small she had looked there on the end of the big pier, and how angry the river had sounded as Paul and I stood there in the chill wind.

Paul came in an hour later. There were two people with him, a tall heavy-set blonde woman of about fifty and a small, wispy little guy with an almost completely bald head and eyes the color of faded blue denim. It took me a few moments to realize he was probably not much older than the woman. Of the two, the man seemed much the more upset.

“This is Mr. and Mrs. Carpenter, Jim,” Paul aid. “Folks, this is Detective Coren.”

We all nodded to one another and I pushed two chairs close to my desk and asked them to sit down. Mrs. Carpenter frowned at the chair, rook a large, flowered handkerchief from her purse and dusted it thoroughly, and finally sat down. Mr. Carpenter watched her closely, biting his lip. He didn’t sit down until she had settled herself. Paul Brader leaned a hip against my desk and lit a cigarette. He extended the package to the Carpenters, but both shook their heads.

I could sense that there was no point in condolences, and I was relieved. I knew Paul hadn’t got anything on the trip to Bellevue or he would have taken me aside and briefed me. Mrs. Carpenter was obviously the dominant member of the family, and I addressed my remarks to her.

“We’ll make this just as short as we can,” I said. “The first question, of course, is whether you know anyone who might have killed your niece.”

She sat very straight, almost rigid, staring at me unblinkingly. “I’m sure I couldn’t say.”

“You reported her missing as of eight P.M. last Monday, and the time of your report was ten a.m. Tuesday. Was it unusual for Lucille to stay out all night?”

“It was the first time she’d ever done that. She would never have had the opportunity for a second time, I assure you.”

“We’ll want to notify her parents.” I picked up a pencil. “What’s their address?”

“They’re dead. Lucille has been living with Mr. Carpenter and me ever since then. Almost a year now.”

“Did she go on a date Monday night, Mrs. Carpenter?”

“I’m sure I don’t know. We’d had very little to say to one another the last few weeks.”

“You have no idea at all where she was going? No idea whom she might have planned to meet?”

“None at all.”

“Was she wearing a coat or jacket when she left?”

“I told them what she was wearing when I called to report her missing. If she’d been wearing a coat, I would have said so.”

“It’s been very chilly the last week or so. I thought you might have forgotten—”

“I forgot nothing.”

I looked at Mr. Carpenter. “How about you, sir? Do you have any idea of whom Lucille planned to see that night?”

“He knows nothing about it,” Mrs. Carpenter said crisply.

Mr. Carpenter glanced furtively at her, then dropped his eyes and shook his head. “She didn’t mention,” he said.

I turned back to Mrs. Carpenter. “You said she was wearing a diamond engagement ring when she left. There was no such ring on her hand when we found her.”

“She was wearing it when she left the house. I’m quite certain of it.”

“Whose was it?”

“Why, her own, of course.”

“I mean, who gave it to her? Who was the man?”

Mrs. Carpenter had very thin lips, and when she pursed them, as she did now, she gave the impression of having no lips at all. “I’m afraid I don’t know,” she said finally.

Paul Brader leaned forward. “Mrs. Carpenter, do you mean to tell us that your niece was engaged to a guy, wearing his ring, and you don’t know who he was?”

Mrs. Carpenter took a deep breath, staring at Paul fixedly. “I don’t like your tone, young man,” she said. “I—”

“I’m sorry,” Paul said. “It’s just a little hard to understand, that’s all.”

“She began wearing the ring about a month ago. It was shortly after the time Lucille and I — well, you might say we stopped confiding in one another.”

“And why was that?” Paul asked.

“Because I discovered certain things about her. At first I was of a mind to ask her to leave my house.” She turned her head slightly to glare at her husband.

“You mind telling us a bit more about it?” I asked.

“Not at all. Why should I pretend to protect the reputation of a girl like Lucille? She was an extremely pretty girl... she liked to flaunt herself. Especially around Mr. Carpenter.”

“Now, Cora...” Mr. Carpenter began.

“Please be still, Mr. Carpenter,” she said coldly. “You’ve defended that disgraceful person often enough already.”

“It just don’t seem right somehow,” he said. “Her being dead and all, and—”

“That’ll do,” Mrs. Carpenter said. She looked at me. “As I said, she flaunted herself. She thought nothing of going through the house in her slip, or parading from the bathroom with just a towel wrapped around her. Why, once she even—”

“We’re interested only in finding the one who killed her, Mrs. Carpenter,” I said. “Now, can you tell us anything else that might help? For instance, do you know whether she was in fear of anyone? Had she ever said anything at all that might give us a lead?”

“No, she never did. It seems quite plain to me that she was robbed.”

“Why so?”

“Because she wore the ring when she left the house, and yet it was not on her finger when her body was found.”

“A lot of things could have happened,” I said. “Robbery’s a possibility, of course.”

A knowing look came into her eyes, and when she spoke there was a subtle suggestiveness to her voice. “Unless something else happened, that is. Unless, let us say, one of the people who found her took a fancy to the ring. It would be quite simple for him to appropriate it.” She smiled faintly. “Such things have been known to happen, have they not?”

“Just a minute,” Paul said sharply. “If you’re trying to say that we—”

“Hold it, Paul,” I said. “Mrs. Carpenter is just upset, that’s all.”

“I’m not in the least upset. I never permit myself to become up-set.”

“About this man she was engaged to,” I said. “We’ll want to talk to him. Can you tell us anyone who might know who he is? Any girl friends Lucille had who might know?”

“She had few friends. Naturally, the way she twisted herself around, showing off all the time, she’d be lucky if decent girls even spoke to her.”

“Did she have a job?”

“Yes. She worked for a photographer.”

I lifted the pencil again. “Where?”

“His name is Schuyler. The studio is somewhere on Fifty-seventh Street.”

“You know the address?”

“No, I don’t. You’ll have to look it up.”

I studied her a moment. “Can you think of anything else that might help us, Mrs. Carpenter? Surely she mentioned friends or acquaintances. A young girl would have some social life. How about church groups, or clubs, or night courses at one of the colleges?”

“I’ve told you all I can,” she said. “It was only during the last two or three months that she began going out much. Before that, she went out only now and then. And if she ever told me the names of any of her men friends, I’ve long since forgotten them.”

“One more thing,” I said. “She was nineteen, and she had a job. If things were strained between you two, why did she continue to stay with you?”

Again Mrs. Carpenter glared at her husband. “She didn’t realize the full extent of my dislike, I’m quite sure. Mr. Carpenter prevailed on me not to ask her to leave. Then, too, we charged her considerably less for her board and room than she would have paid elsewhere. Even so, things were coming to a head. I had almost determined to give her notice.”

I stood up. “I guess that’ll be all, Mrs. Carpenter,” I said. “Mr. Carpenter, will you come with me a moment?”

He glanced at his wife, as if for permission, and then he got slowly to his feet and followed me back through the squad commander’s office to one of the interrogation rooms.

“We’ll be only a moment,” I said. “I wondered if you had anything to add.” I grinned. “I thought maybe we could talk a bit more freely back here.”

The expression on his face told me he was genuinely surprised to find that anyone was willing to show him any consideration.

“Cora’s just plain wrong about Lucille,” he said in a voice that sounded as if it were accustomed to making apologies. “Just plain wrong. Lucille was a pretty girl, and I reckon she knew it well enough, but she sure never did anything wrong around the house. She... well, I guess she just figured I was her uncle, and that it wasn’t a heck of a lot different than if it was her father. Maybe she did run around the house half naked sometimes, but she sure never done it for my benefit. She just never thought anything about it, that’s all.”

“I can understand why she might have kept things from your wife, Mr. Carpenter,” I said, “but I thought she might have said something to you. About the man she was engaged to, I mean.”

“Nope. She never did.”

I nodded. “Can you think of anything that might help?”

“No, sir, I can’t. Not a thing.”

We went back to the squad room. I arranged for an unmarked car to take Mr. and Mrs. Carpenter home, and then I typed up the results of the interview and added them to the file on Lucille Taylor.

“That guy Carpenter bugs me a little,” Paul said. “Being in the same house all the time with a girl like Lucille could give a man a lot of ideas. Maybe he got charged up, and she nixed him, and he got mad about it.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Or maybe she didn’t nix him, and his wife found out about it, and she got mad.”

“Could be,” I said. “You feel like some coffee?”

“Always.”

“Let’s grab a cup, and then go see her boss.” I found the address in the directory, and then Paul and I signed out and left the squad room.

The Schuyler Studios, Inc. was on the fourth floor, with windows opening on Fifty-seventh Street. It was apparently a good-sized outfit, judging from the number of lettered doorways we passed on our way to the reception room. The reception room itself, however, was quite small. We told the male receptionist who we were, and after he’d talked a moment on an intercom, he led us back to Schuyler’s private office.

“That’ll be all, Mr. Stacy,” he said, rising. “Won’t you gentlemen sit down?”

We sat, and I told him our business. He was a big man, about forty, with hair grown gray at the temples and a face that would have been rugged except for the eyes. The eyes were strangely soft, with that moist sheen that women’s eves sometimes have. When I had finished, he picked up a letter opener from his desk and turned it over and over in his fingers, shaking his head slowly.

“It’s hard to believe,” he said. “She was such a young girl, and a very pretty one — and to die like that...”

“We’re trying to get a line on her friends,” I told him. “Can you help us?”

He thought a moment. “You know, that’s very strange. She was a very quiet, unassuming girl, but quite personable. And yet, now that you ask, I can’t remember her ever mentioning anyone.”

“How about other employees here? She must at least have gone to lunch with someone.”

“She was the only girl. All the rest are men. And I’m almost certain she never went to lunch with any of them. She wasn’t exactly a cold person, but she did tend to keep aloof from the men here. I’ve heard them talking about her, now and then — as men will. I gathered that none of them had ever dated her, or in fact even talked to her very much, except as pertaining to business.”

“How did you get along with her, Mr. Schuyler?”

“Quite well. I was very fond of her. She did her job, and my clients seemed to like her. Especially the women. And in this business, that’s important. We deal with a great number of account executives and art directors, and many of them are women. Lucille was quite a favorite with them.”

“You ever see her outside the office?”

His mouth tightened a little, but his eyes retained that almost feminine softness. “Just what do you mean?”

“I mean, did you ever see her socially? Did you ever take her out?”

“That’s a rather unusual question.”

“There’s nothing personal,” I said. “We have to follow a certain routine, Mr. Schuyler.”

He nodded slowly. “Yes. Yes, I suppose you do. The answer to your question is no. I have had a number of young women working for me, during the fifteen years I have owned this studio. I have made it a strict personal rule never to become involved, in even the most innocent way. Sometimes girls — especially ones as young as Miss Taylor — misinterpret a friendly interest. And even so, I am quite happily married. I have a daughter fifteen and another seventeen.” He smiled, and the friendliness came back into his voice. “Does that answer your question?”

I nodded. “How long had she worked here, Mr. Schuyler?”

“Let’s see... Oh, about three months. I can check and be exact, if you wish.”

“That’s close enough,” I said.

“Wait!” He leaned forward. “Maybe I can help you after all. You asked about her friends. Well, up until about six weeks or two months ago Lucille used to receive calls from some man. Someone named Vince. He called quite often. I’d hear her mention his name when she said hello, of course.”

“But he hadn’t called her recently?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Were their conversations friendly, would you say?”

“Yes. Judging from Lucille’s tone of voice, I’d say they were a bit more than friendly — if you know what I mean.”

“You ever hear her mention his last name?”

“No, I’m afraid not. I couldn’t help but overhear, of course, but I didn’t make a point of tuning in. I’d just hear her say ‘Hello, Vince,’ or ‘Good-by, Vince,’ — you know.”

“Uh-huh. Can you think of anything else that might help us, Mr. Schuyler? You remember anything else from these telephone conversations — anything to indicate that she and this Vince might be planning to get married?”

“Married? Why, no. I’m sure she would have mentioned such plans to me, though. That is, if she planned to take some time off, rather than just quit outright. She’d almost have to, you know.”

“Yeah. Well, is there anything you can tell us, Mr. Schuyler?”

“I only wish I could. As I said, I was very fond of Lucille. I’d be only too anxious to help, if I could.”

On our way down in the elevator, Paul turned to me and grimaced. “A real cold fish,” he said. “As long as something doesn’t scratch him or his own family, he doesn’t give a goddamn. But I’ll bet if one of his daughters got looked at cross-eyed by some guy, he’d be after us to put the guy in the electric chair.”

We drove back to the station house, checked the message spike for calls, read the flimsies in the alarm book to see if there had been any new arrests or detentions that concerned us, and then I called the morgue at Bellevue to see how Lucille Taylor’s autopsy was coming along.

The assistant M.E. to whom I talked said it had just been completed. The cause of death had been a severed spinal cord, resulting from a blow or blows to the back of the neck and head. The lacerations appeared to have been made with a blunt instrument, such as a length of two-by-four. One or more of the blows had dislocated the vertebrae enough to sever the cord, after which the vertebrae had slipped back into place. The assistant M.E. seemed quite pleased that he had discovered this so quickly.

I told Paul the result of the autopsy, changed the official designation of Lucille Taylor’s file from “Suspected Homicide” to just plain “Homicide,” and added the autopsy finding to the original Complaint Report form.

Then Paul and I got down to routine. We collected all the arrest records for Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday, divided them equally, and began going through them for pickups made near the Hudson River. It was our hope that Lucille’s killer might have been pulled in on some other charge after he had put Lucille in the water. There had been several pickups, but most of them had been too far downriver to look right for us.

Next, we checked the list of men pulled in for morning lineups, starting with the one held Tuesday morning. There was nothing for us there, either.

The phone on my desk rang and Paul, who was closer, answered it. He nodded to me, and I picked up an extension. It was Schuyler, the photographer for whom Lucille Taylor had worked.

“I’m afraid the shock of Lucille’s death affected my memory,” he said. “I’ve just recalled that I did hear her mention that man’s name. That ‘Vince’ I told you about. I remember now that she called him once, while I happened to be passing near her desk. She asked someone to call him to the phone, and she used his full name. I don’t know why, but for some odd reason the name seems to have stayed with me.”

“Fine,” Paul said. “What is it?”

“Donnelly. Vince Donnelly. I remember distinctly.”

“Thanks very much, Mr. Schuyler,” Paul said. “That’s a real help.”

“Well, I certainly hope so. It was unforgivable of me not to have thought of it sooner.”

“It’s only natural, sir,” Paul said. “We appreciate your calling us.” He spoke a moment longer, and then hung up.

“We’ve got a package on a guy by that name, Paul,” I said.

“Yeah. I know. Want me to pull it?”

“Uh-huh. Seems to me he lives on Seventy-second Street, just the way Lucille did.”

Paul went to the next room, brought back the package on Vince Donnelly, and put it down on my desk. “You’re off again, Jim,” he said. “He lives on Seventy-third Street.”

“All right,” I said. “So fire me again.”

Vince Donnelly was twenty-three years old, had drawn a suspended sentence in 1950 on a grand larcency charge in connection with a stolen car, and had been convicted on a similar charge in 1951. He had done eighteen months. Since then he had been pulled in twice for questioning, but had not been booked. He lived less than two blocks from the address where Lucille Taylor had lived with her aunt and uncle.

“Maybe we’ve got ourselves a boy, Jim,” Paul said.

“Maybe. Let’s see what he’s got to say.”

We spent the better part of two hours looking for Vince Donnelly, and then gave up and went back to the station house. Donnelly had moved from the Seventy-third Street address some two weeks before, and we were unable to turn up anyone who knew his present whereabouts.

I called Headquarters, gave them Donnelly’s description, and asked that an alarm for him be sent out. In a few minutes the teletype machine in the squad room began to clack, and Paul and I walked over to it and watched the words form across the paper, just as they were doing in all the other squad rooms in New York.

“I haven’t eaten yet,” Paul said. “How about some chow?”

I nodded. “Good idea.”

“How about the Automat? I like those pecan rolls.”

“Okay. Sign us out, will you, while I put Donnelly’s package back in file?”

“Check.”

Peggy Webb turned out to be a very thin, very plain girl of about thirty. She kept twisting her handbag in her hands and, except for the moment it took me to introduce and identify myself, she never met my eyes once.

“I read the story in the paper,” she said, staring out at the traffic on Sixth. “Right away I knew who did it.” She glanced at the doorway of the camera shop and then back at the traffic again. “I work here now. But I used to work for the Schuyler Studios, I worked there for four years — until Lucille came there.”

I leaned back against the plate glass front of the shop, studying her. “Who do you think killed her?”

“Schuyler killed her.”

“That’s a pretty serious accusation, Miss Webb.”

“I realize that.”

“How do you know he killed her?”

“It had to be him. I know it, just as well as I know I’m standing here. It caught up with him, that’s all.”

“You mind explaining?”

“That’s why I called you, isn’t it? Schuyler and Lucille were having an affair. I was his right hand around that place for four years, and then one day Lucille shows up. Right off he starts breaking her in on my job. And that’s not all. He started her in at more money than I made, after I’d been there four years. Oh, it made me sick to watch the two of them. They thought nobody knew what was up. But they were wrong. Here he was, more than twice her age, and she sitting there smiling so prissy and nice — it made me want to throw up.” There was a hard set to her features now.

“Still,” I said, “that’s hardly—”

“Have you talked to Schuyler?”

“Yes.”

“Did he tell you he was married?”

“Yes.”

“Did he also tell you that he was just a photographer’s assistant, till he met his wife? Did he tell you that she was a very wealthy woman, and that he married her for her money?... No? No, of course he didn’t.” Her voice grew tighter. “He isn’t dumb. Not that one. He wouldn’t have let go of his wife any sooner’n he would let go a gold mine.”

“I don’t quite follow you,” I said.

“Well, you’ll soon begin to.” She was staring at the knot in my tie now. “Why would a man buy a girl an engagement ring — if he was married to a gold mine, and meant to stay that way?”

“You mean he bought one for Lucille Taylor?”

“That’s right. He bought it at Lormer’s, on Fifth Avenue. They made a mistake somehow, and sent the bill to the office. I opened it, right along with all the other mail, and put it on his desk. About ten minutes later I overheard him giving Mr. Lormer hell. He said he’d specifically told the clerk there not to send a bill, either to his office or his home. He was so mad that he was almost shouting. And then, about two or three days later, Lucille shows up with a big diamond on her finger. When I asked her who the lucky man was, she just simpered like the silly fool she was, and acted coy. I thought I’d have to go to the window and be sick.”

“That’s interesting,” I said, “but it could have been a—”

“A coincidence? Oh, no — it was no coincidence. Schuyler bought that ring for Lucille, and she wore it. And if you were a woman, you’d know from the way she acted around there that she thought she and Schuyler were going to get married.”

I thought it over.

“That’s the whole thing, can’t you see?” she asked. “Schuyler was after something, but he couldn’t get it without promising to marry her. He wanted to have his cake and eat it too. I mean he didn’t have any intention of giving up his wife’s money, but he wanted Lucille. So he told her he was going to divorce his wife and marry her. He was just sharp enough, and she was just dumb enough, and he pulled it.” Her eyes came up as far as my mouth, but no higher. “And that couldn’t go on forever, could it? When it came to a showdown, and Schuyler had to admit that he’d been playing her for all he could get—” she shrugged — “well?”

“You didn’t care much for Lucille, did you?”

“I loathed her.”

“And Schuyler?”

She took a deep breath. “I... I guess I was in love with him once. But no more. After Lucille had been there a couple of months, he called me in and fired me. Just like that. He didn’t even give me a reason — because there was no reason. He didn’t need two girls, and so he just kicked me out on the street. Why, it was all I could do to get him to write a few references for me. And that after I’d been there all those years...”

I nodded. “A tough break, Miss Webb.”

“When will you arrest him?”

“We’ll talk to him again.”

“But isn’t it plain enough? What more could you possibly want?”

“We’ll talk to him,” I said again. I got out my notebook and took down Miss Webb’s address and phone number.

“I see I’ve wasted my time,” she said.

“Not at all,” I said, making it friendly. “I’m very grateful to you. As I said, we’ll—” But she had turned quickly and was walking off down Sixth Avenue. Once she hesitated a moment, as if she might turn back, but then she went on again, walking even more rapidly than before.

I went into a drug store and called the Twentieth Precinct. Paul Brader told me that Vince Donnelly hadn’t opened his mouth, except to demand a lawyer. Paul had been able, through other sources, to establish that he was the same Vince Donnelly who had gone around with Lucille Taylor, but that was all. We had nothing at all on Donnelly, and unless we came up with something within the next few hours we’d have to let him go.

“I got a feeling about this guy,” Paul said. “I think we’re on our way.”

“Yeah? Why so?”

“I just sort of hunch it, that’s all.”

“Well, keep at him. I’m going to check out a couple things with Schuyler, and then I’ll be over to help you.”

He laughed. “Schuyler — or the girl?”

“Schuyler.”

“Okay. See you later.”

I hung up, located the after-business-hours number of the Lormer Jewelry Shop in the directory, and finally got through to Mr. Lormer himself. He lived in a hotel on Lexington Avenue, and asked me to come up. From him I learned that the diamond engagement ring, while large, had been of the lowest quality he carried. I asked if Schuyler had brought a young woman to the shop for a fitting, and Mr. Lormer said no. Schuyler had asked that the engagement ring be made up in the same size as a small intaglio he wore on the little finger of his left hand. And then — very reluctantly — Mr. Lormer told me that Schuyler had returned the ring yesterday morning. He had not wanted a cash refund, but had applied the refund value of the ring against two jewelled wrist watches, to be delivered to his two daughters.

I took Mr. Lormer to his shop, impounded the ring, signed a receipt for it, and took him back home. Then I drove to Seventy-second Street and got a positive identification of the ring from Lucille Taylor’s aunt and uncle.

I located Schuyler’s home address in the directory, picked up Paul Brader at the Twentieth, and we drove downtown toward Schuyler’s apartment house.

In his office, Schuyler had been as cool as they come. Standing in the doorway of his apartment, with his wife and daughters just behind him, he was something else again. We had counted on surprise and the presence of his family to unnerve him, and we weren’t disappointed. He had divided his life into two parts, and we had suddenly brought the parts together. He stared first at Paul and then at me, moistening his lips.

I had the engagement ring in the palm of my hand, and now I opened my fingers slowly and let him see it.

“What is it, dear?” his wife asked, and one of the girls moved a little closer, her eyes questioning me.

“I... I can’t talk here,” Schuyler said, in what he probably thought was a whisper. “My God, I—”

“Get your coat,” I said.

He nodded rapidly. “Yes, yes — of course.”

We rode down in the self-service elevator, phoned in a release for Vince Donnelly, and crossed the street to the RMP car. Paul got behind the wheel and I got into the back seat with Schuyler. Paul eased the car out into the heavy Lexington Avenue traffic.

“We have the ring, Mr. Schuyler,” I said. “We got a positive identification of it. You returned it after Lucille Taylor had been murdered. We’ll have no trouble taking it from there. Not a bit. We’ll put a dozen men on it. We’ll work around the clock. We’ll get a little here, and a little there — and pretty soon we’ll have you in a box. The smartest thing you can do — the only thing you can do — is make it a little easier on yourself.” I paused. “And make it a little easier on your family.”

“My girls!” Schuyler said. “My God, my girls!”

“Tell us about the other girl,” I said softly. “Tell us about Lucille.”

It was a long moment before he could keep his voice steady. “She threatened me,” he said at last. “She said she was going to my wife and daughters and tell them about — about us. I knew I could have patched it up with my wife, but... my daughters... God, I—”

“You admitted to Lucille that you’d never intended to divorce your wife and marry her?”

He nodded almost imperceptibly. “I had grown a little tired of her. She was pretty, but so — so immature. I told her, and she became enraged. I was surprised. I hadn’t thought she was capable of so much fury. We had walked down Seventy-second Street to the river. We were sitting on one of those benches down there, watching the tugboats. When I told her, she began to curse me. She was almost screaming. I couldn’t see anyone else nearby, but I was afraid someone would hear her. I tried to calm her, but she got almost hysterical. Then she slapped me, and I grabbed her. I... I don’t know just what happened then, but somehow I made her head hit the back of the bench. And then I kept doing it — kept beating her head against the back of the bench.” Suddenly he covered his face with his hands and his body slumped. “And then — and then I carried her to the railing across from the bench and threw her into the water.”

I watched the neon streaming by. “But not before you stripped that ring off her finger, Schuyler,” I said. “You sure as hell didn’t forget the ring, did you?”

He didn’t say anything.

As we neared the Harbor Precinct, I could hear a tugboat whistle, somewhere out there on the cold Hudson, a deep, remote blast that was somehow like a mockery.

“God,” Schuyler murmured. “My poor girls, my poor little girls...”

And don’t forget poor little Lucille Taylor, I thought, while you’re feeling sorry for your victims.

Jim’s wife didn’t mind if he left her alone. She was very understanding. That’s what began to bother Jim...

No sound, no movement anywhere, then a perceptible awakening. A breath of wind, a palm frond moving, and shadows thickening below the hotel balcony. Jim Withers sat forward and watched the white-clad figure climbing the steep road toward the hotel. Even at that distance he recognized the man and frowned. In another moment he leaned forward again and nodded his head in sign of grudging respect for the one in white. The chap was running up the hill.

But why not? The natives were capable of feats that could stun, if not kill, anyone else. But this Juan... Jim sat back once more and wiped the perspiration from his face. The wind had faded, evening brought no relief from the fierce tropic heat. He closed his eyes, steps on the tiled floor alerted him. Seconds later a pair of cool hands pressed against his eyes. An exotic bouquet floated around him.

As he broke free and turned, Kathy smiled, beautiful and cool-looking in white. “Lazy-bones, sleeping again?” she said.

“No, thinking of when we’re leaving this place.”

“But how can you say that? I could stay forever in Acapulco.”

“Then it’ll have to be without me.”

“Fresh,” she said and laughed in a way that set his pulse racing. A wild surging desire made him want to crush her in his arms, but she stepped back, as if she had read his mind, and said, “We’d better dine, don’t you think?”

“Have to wash up,” he mumbled, rising from the chair. Then, escorting her as far as the stairs, he went to their room, washed quickly and hurried to the upper balcony.

In that brief interval a swift transition had taken place. The night had closed in, a vast canopy stretched overhead; on the slope of the hill below the balcony nothing but silence.

Jim sat down abruptly. “You’re out of sorts,” Kathy said, watching him.

“No, it’s the heat,” he lied. For he could bear with that, but to have found Juan with Kathy was too much. As Juan had gone back to the kitchen, Jim said, “He’s altogether too friendly.”

Kathy opened her eyes wide, innocently. “You mean Juan?”

“And who else would I be talking about?”

“Oh, he doesn’t mean anything. He’s just friendly.” She was smiling now. “But don’t tell me — it’s not really jealousy.”

“Jealousy, hell!”

“Hush.”

Warned, Jim turned his head. Others were arriving. A table for two. He nodded to the couple and turned back to Kathy.

“From Michigan. They motored down. Very nice people,” she whispered.

Then Juan appeared from the kitchen bearing a large tray. He smiled. “And how are you this evening, Mr. Withers?” His white teeth flashed, his smooth brown skin gleamed. Not a drop of sweat on his face after that run up the hill.

Jim nodded, unable to speak. Juan set him on edge. All eyes for Kathy as he served, his words directed at her. She appeared delighted by his attention.

“Are you going fishing tomorrow?”

Both of them were looking at Jim now and he appeared almost stunned.

“I hadn’t thought of it for tomorrow,” he finally answered.

“But why wait?”

“Yes, why wait?” said Kathy. “Wasn’t it one of the reasons you came?”

“If you go in a big boat,” Juan was saying, “very big fish. Sailfish, swordfish, anything you can name.”

“And any price the boatman can name too.”

“Ah, but you are rich.”

Kathy laughed with delight at this remark.

“All Americans are not rich, particularly this one,” said Jim.

Exchanging glances with Kathy, Juan only smiled and said, “If you wish, I can make the necessary arrangements.”

Jim finally conceded. “All right, tomorrow, at what time?”

“At six it is best for hooking the big ones.”

“Make it seven.”

Juan shrugged. “As you wish. The boys will be waiting at Caleta Beach. Ask for Rodriquez.”

Juan returned to the kitchen. Voices in heated argument made Jim turn. No door to the kitchen. He saw a barefooted Indian woman — the cook — berating Juan.

“That old devil’s at it again.”

“Well, she has work to do and he’s holding her up.”

“I still don’t like her.”

“And him?”

Kathy’s eyes widened. “But don’t be silly, Jim. He’s cute, that’s all.”

Jim picked up his fork, not caring to pursue the subject. The food was excellent, as always, not to be ignored.

“You know,” he said, “that’s the most remarkable thing about this place.”

“What is?”

“The food. No two meals alike, a kind of endless variety and perfection.”

“I hate to admit it, but the old she-devil does wonders.”

“Probably no one appreciates it, either.”

At that moment Juan arrived back at the table, apparently not upset by the argument with the cook. “A bottle of Bohemia,” said Jim. “And if you don’t mind, tell the cook that my wife and I are in love with her cooking.”

After what had taken place, another man would have at least hesitated before such a request, but Juan smiled, as if sharing in the compliment, and went immediately to the kitchen. Watching, Jim saw the Indian woman turn her ugly pock-marked face and smile at him.

Juan returned with the bottle of Bohemia. As Jim poured the light golden beer, he said, “Coming along tomorrow, Kathy?”

“Fishing? Are you out of your mind, Jim?”

“It was just an idea.”

After dinner, a few couples gathered on the lower balcony. Intensely dark now, a soft wind from the sea, palms stirring, the lizards darting at insects lured by the lights. Utter silence in the shadowed jungle on the slope below the balcony.

Kathy had left with the other couples to join the Canasta players in the lobby. Jim leaned over the railing. Looking down, he saw a light flash. Nothing then, but he knew of the forlorn native shacks hidden below. The cook, and perhaps Juan lived in one of them.

Jim turned away, thought of Juan rousing his anger. What does Kathy see in him? he asked himself, starting for the hall that led to the lobby. There he found the Canasta players at their tables but not Kathy. Gone to the room, he thought, and he walked through the open lobby, then down the front steps.

Palms shadowed the driveway. A night-bird cried out. About to light a cigarette, Jim turned and saw a white-clad figure jump from the small balcony of his own room and quickly disappear. In the next second he turned round, mounted the steps and hurried through the lobby.

“Kathy?” The door was locked. He rattled the knob. Footsteps, and the door swung open. No light in the room. He flipped the switch and stared at Kathy.

“Thought you were going to play cards?” he said, watching her eyes.

“I changed my mind and decided to lie down for a while.”

Yes, with Juan, he thought. But when she stared innocently at him he went out to the balcony, dropped in a chair and lit a cigarette.

“What are you going to do out there?” Kathy asked.

“Sleep. I’ve a big day ahead tomorrow. Wish you’d come along.”

No answer from Kathy.

“What are you going to do?”

“Nothing, I suppose.”

“Perhaps I better not go.”

“Don’t spoil your fun because of me.”

“Thanks.” That said as if he meant it. Then: “Look, why not meet me at the beach with the camera just in case I hook a big one.”

“What time?”

“Noon.”

“I’ll be there.”

Hearing the door open, he turned and saw her smiling at him. “Now where are you going?” he asked.

“Canasta, dear. Bye!”

The door closed. He shot his cigarette away. Kathy had lied. He didn’t want to believe it, the two of them together. A wild thought entered his mind. Capable of murder. He knew that now, but it was insane. Get away, he told himself. The plane to Mexico City tomorrow, anything to escape the precipice lying near in the dark.

A night-bird cried out in the palms, a wind from the sea. He closed his eyes, slept and woke again to that same mournful cry. Now stillness, everything dead, asleep. Turning, he saw a figure in white vanish behind a palm; he tried to rise and his tired eyes closed.

He opened them again to the clear tropic light and profound stillness of morning, looked at his watch, stood up, passed through the shadowed room, empty lobby and hurried down the hill toward the beach. Halfway there and he met the Indian cook; a mirrored light flashed from a machete that hung from her waist. She smiled. He smiled in turn, passed on, hurrying.

No one at the beach. He lit a cigarette. Ask for Rodriquez? As if provoked by this thought, the quiet beach came to life. A group of beach-boys arrived. One approached Jim and he said, “Are you Rodriquez?”

“Si. You are ready?”

Jim nodded. Rodriquez barked an order. One of the boys plunged into the water and swam out to a boat at anchor. Rodriquez himself took off barefooted and returned with two fishing poles. Meanwhile the boat had been brought in close to the beach. Jim and Rodriquez climbed aboard. The motor started, the boat backed away, turned and headed for the open sea.

Under other circumstances, the trip alone would have been worthwhile, but Jim was preoccupied. Himself out here, Juan didn’t have to climb the balcony. Knock on the door, walk in and strip for action, he thought.

A strike and his line went taut, the pole bent. Excited, the beach-boys rose to their feet. Far astern the placid surface of the sea broke as the fish that had struck jumped clear and flashed in the brilliant sunlight. Minutes later the fish was boated.

“A durado,” one of the beach-boys pronounced it and with a blow from a club stilled it forever.

One more strike, and thereafter the sea gave up nothing. Only the scenery now, great cliffs with the sea battering them, then miles of beach and white surf wild and booming like cannon. Jim barely took notice, his mind on Kathy and Juan. He had been tricked and couldn’t wait to get back.

At noon the boat nosed against the beach. Jim came ashore, eyes searching for Kathy. Rodriquez handed him his catch. Fifty yards away he saw Juan squatting on the back of his legs and Kathy lying on the sand. He dropped the fish, started forward, fists clenched. The sun was blinding, he began to run, caught himself.

I’m going mad, he thought, and he was gasping when he stood over Kathy. Juan was standing now. Kathy smiled at him. “Ah, your husband is back,” said Juan.

“Didn’t you catch anything?” Kathy asked.

“No luck.”

“As I said, you must leave early for the big ones,” Juan put in and, excusing himself, he walked off toward the hotel.

Kathy lay back on the sand again, aware that Jim was staring at her. “Angry that you caught nothing?”

“Not about that.”

“What then? My boy friend? There, you are jealous?” She laughed, pleased with herself.

“It’s nothing to laugh about.”

“Oh, come now, you’re old enough to know better.”

“I wonder,” he said casually. And to himself: I wonder how long it’s gone on?

Evening on the balcony with Juan serving, and a new air about him that smacked of amused assurance which Jim found aggravating. He showed it, too, but to no avail. Juan’s usual argument with the cook ensued. But back he came to the table in the same high mood — and with a new suggestion — a trip into the jungle. “Not quite for a lady,” he added. “But I am sure you would enjoy it,” he said to Jim.

It was obvious enough now that they wanted him out of the way, Jim realized, but he wondered if they took him for a fool. This time there would be no trip. But suddenly he changed his mind. It was insane, yet he made the decision quickly, saying, “I suppose it would be interesting.”

“Something to remember after you leave,” said Juan. “You won’t regret it.”

Jim looked at Kathy. “Oh, go along,” she urged. “I wouldn’t have you miss it for the world.”

“But what will you do?”

“Occupy myself.” This as she looked directly at him, as if deliberately flaunting him.

“Your wife is very obliging. An admirable quality,” Juan smiled. Jim was afraid to look up, wanting to bash the fellow.

“It’s an all-day trip,” said Juan. “A man named Varga will pick you up at nine.”

“Good. Bring me a Bohemia,” said Jim, this to get rid of Juan. Then he looked at Kathy. She was lighting a cigarette, poised and cool-looking while he soaked in his own sweat.

What am I doing? he thought. Giving her to him. Trying to torture myself? The trip was a foolish idea, and yet behind the madness — method.

“Anything wrong?” Kathy asked.

“Just thinking.”

“You’re not going to change your mind about the jungle trip?”

“Does it matter if I do?”

“Of course. Don’t let me spoil your fun. I’ll be perfectly content here — and no one will steal me.”

He felt she was laughing at him and almost exploded. Tomorrow will tell, he thought. Things are beginning to square. That made him smile, and Kathy asked why.

“It won’t be long now.”

“Meaning?”

“All sorts of things, mostly that we’ll be flying home.”

“I hate the thought of it. Aren’t you going to miss all this?”

“A bit. What particularly will you miss?” he asked, feeling almost malicious now.

“Oh, everything. When are we coming back?”

“That all depends.”

“On what?”

“Several things, my dear,” and he smiled, seeing her frown.

They finished dining and went to the balcony below. Then Kathy joined the card players. Jim didn’t mind, for he wanted to think and the coolest place was the balcony.

Later, he sought the lobby but didn’t see Kathy. He went to their room and knocked. No answer. For a moment anger assailed him, then he managed to grin, knowing she was with Juan. Stupid little Kathy, he thought. Quickly he turned round, passed through the lobby and down the front steps. The road curved and darkened under the palms; up ahead he thought he saw something white disappear in the shadows. Then Kathy emerged from the darkeness.

“Hello, what are you doing out here?”

Kathy advanced, then stood face to face with him. “Taking a breath of air. It was stifling inside.” Perfectly poised, she raised a cigarette to her lips for him to light it.

“Dangerous walking this road at night,” he said calmly as he struck a match. Her face was caught in the light, innocent. She smiled.

“Worried about me?”

“A bit.” He dropped the match and added, “Terrible job you did on your mouth. Your lipstick is smeared? Here.” He gave her his handkerchief and turned round. Up ahead, he again thought he saw a white shadow turn the curve in the road and he quickened his steps. A tall man in white entered the hotel.

“You’re walking so fast,” Kathy complained.

“Sorry.”

He slowed his steps till they reached the lobby where Kathy joined the card players. Then he went to a rear balcony and found a tall man in white leaning against the railing, another waiter.

“Ah, Alfredo.”

“Good evening, Mr. Withers!”

“It is very hot.”

“Yes, very hot.”

“Hotter when one walks fast.”

Alfredo lifted his head and dropped his cigarette.

“You warned them, didn’t you?” Jim said, and his hand went to his pocket. Alfredo stiffened, then saw the crisp bill in the hand extended toward him.

“I was asked to,” he said, accepting the money and shrugging his shoulders.

“Who asked you?”

Alfredo hesitated. “The lady.”

“I see. And suppose I asked you to do something?”

“I should have to consider.”

Alfredo’s meaning was clear, and Jim was already prepared with a sheaf of pesos. Handing them over, he named a cafe in the city and said, “I’ll be there all day tomorrow. If Juan should happen to go to my room, telephone me immediately. Is that clear?”

“Perfectly,” Alfredo answered with a smile, and Jim turned and walked away, everything clear in his mind, too. Kathy and Juan expected him to go on the jungle trip. Which gave them all day to themselves, the leisure of time and freedom. Jim grinned unpleasantly. If Alfredo called, he could make it back to the hotel in ten minutes with a fast taxi.

Kathy was still in the lobby. With a glance toward her, he went to their room and turned in. It was stifling and close, yet he managed to fall asleep.

Morning and he left the room, Kathy asleep yet. Foregoing breakfast, he sought out the guide, said he had changed his mind about the trip, tipped him well and took a taxi into the city.

There he bought a three-week-old New York paper and found an outdoor table at the cafe. Morning passed, the heat blazed. Noon and he retreated to the cooler interior of the cafe. With the siesta, the streets emptied and came to life afterward. Jim sat outside again, nerves ragged, patience worn. He had changed from coca cola to brandy and soda. Time oozed, the phone call from Alfredo never came.

At five, he gave up waiting, hailed a taxi, drove back to the hotel and sought out Alfredo who met him with a smile that made him want to smash his face in.

“I am very sorry, Mr. Withers, but there was no need to phone.”

An obvious lie, but it was too late to do anything about it. “How much did you ask of the lady for not phoning me?” said Jim.

“Your wife? But she knew nothing. I went to Juan and he offered more than you.” Alfredo smiled and shrugged. “Of course you want your money back.”

“Keep it,” Jim snarled, walking away.

The shower was running when he entered the room. He slammed the door shut and Kathy called out: “How was the trip, darling?”

“Wonderful. I didn’t go.”

“You didn’t?” The pattering and splashing ceased in the bathroom. Towel around her, Kathy came out to find Jim standing at the door to the balcony, his face flushed and sweated, his eyes like glass.

“I don’t understand,” she said.

“There’s nothing to understand. I didn’t go because I met a party from New York. We went to a cafe and talked.”

“And drank.”

“So what? As long as you enjoyed yourself.”

“I didn’t exactly pine away.”

Still acting, flippant now! He wanted to knock her little head off. Why in hell did I marry her? he asked himself. But he knew why and turned away, going to the bathroom to shower himself. “I’ll meet you on the upper balcony,” he said.

Kathy was waiting for him and, as usual, Juan was at the table. He bowed, smiled at Jim, drew out his chair, and suddenly the cook began screaming at him from the kitchen. She was brandishing an ugly machete. Juan turned pale and didn’t move till she turned away. Then he scampered into the kitchen.

“My God, did you see that?” said Kathy.

“Perhaps he’ll tend to his business now,” Jim answered calmly.

But he was wrong about that. At least, Juan found time to return to their table to drop a word when he served them coffee.

“And how was the jungle trip?” he asked with a gloating smile.

“You should know,” Jim answered. Then, to deflect comment concerning this curious remark, he quickly turned to Kathy and said, “You know, we’re leaving tomorrow. Do you think a hundred and fifty pesos too little to tip the cook?”

“Are you going out of your mind, Jim?”

“In deepest appreciation for services rendered, that’s the way I feel about it.”

“Oh, do what you wish.”

Smiling, Jim counted out the money while Juan watched, obviously shocked. “And this is for you,” said Jim, adding a mere ten-peso note as a tip for Juan who could not protest. He looked sick but managed a smile and retreated to the kitchen from which he returned some moments later to extend the cook’s appreciation.

Later, on the lower balcony after Kathy had gone to join the card players, Jim sat with another guest. Conversation led to the cook and her tirade against Juan.

“Nothing new about that,” said the other guest. “Last year she got to him with that machete and put him on his back for a month.”

“Really?”

“A nasty old woman, but she can really cook.”

“The best,” said Jim, looking at his watch. He stood up, excused himself and went to the upper balcony. Quiet there, the diners and waiters gone, a light in the kitchen, the Indian woman cleaning up. As Jim stepped into the kitchen, she turned.

“Just wanted to make sure you received the tip I sent you,” said Jim. “You did get it?”

The cook nodded, smiled.

“All of it? A hundred and fifty pesos?”

“It was but ten, Señor.”

“That was for Juan. He must have made a mistake,” said Jim and, with that, he turned round and left the kitchen.

Some minutes later, while standing at the front of the lobby, Juan passed him without notice and started down the dark road under the motionless palms. Almost within seconds the Indian woman followed him.

Next morning neither the cook nor Juan appeared at the breakfast hour. Then news came of the murder. Juan had been found just below the hotel in the bushes, hacked to death. The Indian woman could not be located.

The guest of last year, whom Jim had spoken to the night before, was heard to say the obvious: “I wouldn’t be surprised if it was the cook. They scrapped last night, and she slammed him with that machete once before, you know. Too bad, because she could wrestle up a meal.”

Kathy had nothing to say. Not until she and Jim were aboard the plane and flying north toward Mexico City. Then she turned to Jim and said, “Wasn’t it awful?”

Not looking at her, he lit a cigarette. “You mean about Juan? He had that coming, I think.”

“What do you mean?”

“Jealousy, of course. The cook was soft on him, but yesterday she found he’d been going around with another woman. One of the hotel guests. Lucky the cook didn’t go to work on her.”

Kathy had turned dead white. “How do you know all this?” she finally asked.

“Alfredo told me,” he replied, continuing the lie. Then he waited, for she had to ask, her woman’s curiosity greater than her fear.

“Did he say who the woman was?”

Her words were weighted, barely audible. They made Jim smile, and at last he turned and looked at her. “Alfredo didn’t have to,” he said slowly, watching her turn pale again. Then she raised her hand in a peculiar constricted gesture, as if to ward off a blow, and he laughed.

“You see, I knew all the while,” he went on. “And next time, if there is a next time, you’ll know what to expect.”

You could love Cynthia Finch, or you could hate her, and there were people who did both with equal enthusiasm. I myself had vacillated between both ends of the emotional spectrum, sometimes wanting to strangle her and sometimes wanting to hug her.

I did not much feel like hugging her that Wednesday morning. Nor did my preference for murder run toward the gentler form of strangulation. She sat behind her desk in the offices of Bradley and Brooks, and there was that infuriating smile on her face, and I pictured her head on the end of a long pike, and I would have joyously carried that pike through Hell.

“You see, Jon,” she said, smiling, her lips tinted a very pale orange, her midnight black hair fluffed around her neck, circling her face like an oval black frame, “it’s just not good.”

I snorted, but made no other comment. I’d been writing the Rocketeers show for a good long time now. I’d been writing it when Alec Norris was producer, and I’d been writing it before him, when fat Felix Nechler held the production reins. I was used to producers coming and going, and I was used to interference and advice from the office boy up. And even if Cynthia Finch was the fair-haired girl of television at the moment, and even if I’d appreciated her calm efficiency after the blundering, bumbling job Norris did, I still did not have to wax enthusiastic when she pulled one of my scripts apart.

“You’re thinking I’m all wet, I know,” she said, still smiling. “You mustn’t misunderstand me when I say this isn’t good.” She tapped the script with one tapering, delicate hand. “I don’t mean it’s not good by past standards. I simply mean it doesn’t stack up to what we’re trying to do now.”

“And just what is it you’re trying to do now, Cynthia?” I asked.

“I’m trying to push Rocketeers up into the respectable bracket.”

“My writing has been called a lot of things,” I said coldly, “but it’s never been called unrespectable.”

“Your writing is fine,” Cynthia said.

“But...”

“Yes, but.”

“But it isn’t respectable.” I grinned sourly, picked up the script, and then stood up. “You’ll excuse me, Cynthia. I’m going out to get very unrespectably drunk. Then I’m moving over to the Captain Jet show. They want science-fiction, and that’s what I’ve been writing for the past five years.”

“You’re behaving like an adolescent,” Cynthia said.

“Am I? Then it’s the influence of Rocketeers. Look, Cynthia, let’s get this straight. I don’t mind submitting story ideas, and I don’t mind submitting outlines, and I don’t even mind submitting step by step treatments. I’ve listened to you and Perry and Mark, and I’ve even taken occasional tips from some of the cameramen. But when you suddenly decide the product I’ve been turning out all along isn’t good enough for a lousy juvenile show, it’s time to hop into my own little rocket ship and go where I’ll be appreciated. It’s as simple as all that.”

“And you still don’t understand,” she said sadly.

“I understand one thing, Cynthia, and that is the side upon which my daily bread is buttered.”

“Sit down,” she said suddenly, “sit down, Jon.”

“There’s no sense prolonging...”

“Oh, for God’s sake, sit down!”

I sat down reluctantly, sullenly handing her the script when she reached over the desk for it.

“Shall we discuss this like intelligent adults?” she asked. I didn’t answer. “All right, here’s what’s wrong. In the first place, the science is all wet. I know you’ve been writing just this kind of science for a long time now — but we can’t have it that way anymore. It has to be accurate, and it has to be based upon known facts.”

“Cynthia...”

“You’ve got, for example, Cadet Holmes sucking in great gobs of oxygen on Mars. Now hell, Jon, spectroscopic tests of Mars have never revealed oxygen in the atmosphere of that planet. That means any oxygen there would be in a quantity less...”

“... than one-thousandth of that in the Earth’s atmosphere. Cynthia, you’re not telling me anything new.”

“Then why is Cadet Holmes breathing oxygen?”

“He’s breathing oxygen in this week’s sequence, too. Why the sudden complaint?”

“I’ve had that changed,” Cynthia said. “But why do you continue counter to scientific knowledge?”

“Why are there Martians, Cynthia? Do you object to the goddamned Martians?”

“Well, no. Extra-terrestrial beings are good for the show. They...”

“Well, go ask your high-priced science expert if Martians are likely to be found on Mars. Look. Martians come into the sequence two weeks from now. They breathe, and that’s impossible. So I have Holmes breathing in the current sequence, and he has to continue breathing.”

“I told you I’ve already changed that.”

“Then why the hell bring it up?”

“Because there are more important things wrong with the script. For example, you’ve got this Martian disease that shows all the symptoms of food poisoning. For God’s sake, Jon, International Foods is our sponsor.”

“Shove our sponsor,” I said.

“All right, do that, if you’re not interested in getting paid for what you write. But don’t forget the mothers who watch the show, too. And don’t forget that the biggest problem they have with their kids is feeding.”

“Do you know the limerick starting, ‘A woman who triplets begat’?”

“No. So you throw in food poisoning, a delightful excuse for every kid who doesn’t feel like eating Poppsies.”

“Poppsies, shmoppsies. Are you running a TV show or a luncheonette?”

“Here’s another thing,” Cynthia said. “You’ve got The Marauder’s mind captured by the Martians, and they force him to do dastardly things. The kids don’t know his mind is captured until the end of the sequence. All they see is their good old friend Marauder behaving like a bastard. So all these months we strive to build a father image, and you come along and wreck the whole thing in a week.”

“Why don’t you get Sigmund Freud to write your show?” I said. “He knows all about father images. Me, I’m just an underpaid writer.”

“Jon...”

“Jon me not, Cynthia.” I stood up, took the script from her desk, and stuffed it into my briefcase. “We sang a duet, doll, but the show closed.”

“You’re walking out then?”

“Aye. That I am. I’ve destroyed too many father images.”

“Jon...”

“Honey, you’ve got the nicest legs at Bradley and Brooks. You’re a pretty enough creature, and sometimes I love you to pieces. But I turned to writing after I got rid of Ulcer Number One, and I don’t want to start on Number Two — not while I’m only twenty-nine. So off I am to Captain Jet, where the legs and faces may not be as pretty, but where I won’t have to worry about the number of doom rays I use, or the Oedipus complexes of my lizard-like Venusians.”

“What about the current sequence?” Cynthia asked.

“I’ll stick it through. I’m going down to the studio now in fact. Jonny on the spot, they call me. Always willing to help.”

Cynthia Finch did not look happy when I left her, but I did not much give a damn about her state of mind. When someone tried to take an acknowledged hack show and shove it up into the Studio One bracket, it was time for me to fold my tent. And my typewriter. I started down the large, open-door-flanked corridor of Bradley and Brooks, the advertising outfit that was handling Rocketeers and a half-dozen other radio and TV shows for International Foods.

I passed 32b unconsciously, and I whirled abruptly when the voice hissed, “Hey, you!”

Andrea Mann stood in the open doorway to 32b, leaning against the doorjamb like the stereotyped picture of a Panamanian beauty. She narrowed her eyes in exaggeration and said, “Want a date, mister?”

“What’ll it cost?” I asked, smiling at her playacting.

“The best in New York,” she said, and she wiggled her hips a little. Andrea was a small blonde who proved the adage about good things coming in small packages. “Won’t cost you much more than a dinner and movie.”

“That’s too expensive. See you, Andy.”

“Hey, rat,” she said, dropping the loose girl pose. “Weren’t you even going to stop and say hello?”

“Hello,” I said.

Andy came out of the doorway, and grabbed my arm, yanking me back into her office. “It’s a good thing I love you,” she said.

“It’s a good thing somebody loves me,” I told her.

“Trouble with the Lord High Executioner?” She moved her head towards Cynthia’s office down the hallway.

“No more trouble,” I answered. “Finished, done, over with. I am now, as they say in Variety, at liberty.”

“You quit!” Andy burst.

“I did.”

“You didn’t!”

“But I did, I did.”

“But why,” she said, distressed. “Jon, you didn’t really.”

“Father images running rampant,” I said cryptically. “I really did tender my resignation, Andy doll, and how about that dinner and movie this evening?”

“Can you afford it?” she asked, smiling.

“I’ll hock my typewriter.”

“I was kidding about...”

“Yes or no? I’m due at the studio.”

“Yes. But you said you’d quit?”

“Eight o’clock okay? I did quit. I’m tying up the loose ends.”

“Eight is fine.”

I left her smiling in the doorway to 32b, and when I reached the lobby of the swank Madison Avenue building, I located a phone booth and called Tom Goldin, my agent. When I’d passed his battery of secretaries and assistants, I said, “Hello, Tom. Good news.”

“Yeah?” Tom said drily. “Did Cynthia Finch drop dead?”

“Better. I dropped her dead.”

“What?”

“I quit the show, Tom.”

“You crazy son,” Tom said. “Why’d you do that?”

“Food poisoning.”

“What? How’s that again?”

“Relax, Tom. I’ve got friends at Captain Jet. I’m going over to the studio now, but after rehearsal I’ll drop in to see Binx.”

“Binx is just as crazy as Cynthia,” Tom said drily. “Besides, his legs ain’t as pretty.”

“His money is just as pretty,” I said.

“What’s money?” Tom asked. “Can you buy happiness with money?”

“No. But can you buy money with happiness?”

“Ha-ha,” Tom said. “Very funny.”

“You’ll get the ten percent, so stop kicking. What’s new on the novel?”

“Did somebody write a novel?” Tom asked.

“No takers yet?”

“No, not yet. I’m having lunch with a guy at Simon and Schuster tomorrow. Maybe I can fool him into taking it.”

“That’s why I love you, Tom. Your coat is so warm.”

“I love you too,” he said. “You shouldn’t have quit Cynthia.”

“ ’Bye-’bye, Thomas.”

“Hey, just a...”

I hung up, grinning, and then walked out of the building to hail a cab. The studio was in the loft of what used to be a factory. The station had done wonders with the loft, and if you didn’t have to climb up through two deserted stories, you’d never suspect you were in an abandoned factory.

I walked up the clattering iron steps, and then into the studio, waving at Artie Schaefer in the control booth, and then stepping onto the floor. I took a seat up front, and watched the cameramen dolly in for a closeup of Marauder. Dave Halliday, the show’s director, held a mike in one hamlike fist, and he brought the mike closer to his face now.

“That you, Jon?” he asked.

“That’s me,” I shouted.

“Want to come up here a minute? We’re having a little trouble.”

I left my brief case on the seat of my chair, and walked past the cameras and onto the brilliantly lit portion of the studio. The set designers had really gone all out with the Martian landscape. They had a bunch of weird looking plants, and a couple of tons of interplanetary sand strewn all over the stage. In the distance, painted against a very realistic-looking sky, was Earth and its satellite, the Moon.

Marauder, an actor who normally used the name Fred Folsom, stood by with a godawful-looking contraption strapped onto his head. He also had what appeared to be fifty pound oxygen cylinders strapped to his back. I looked through the contraption at his face, and Fred Folsom seemed positively miserable.

Dave took my hand, shook it briefly, almost crushing my knuckles, and then said, “You’re late.”

“I had a session with Cynthia,” I said.

“Oh?” Dave was a heavy man with a round, cherubic face, and a lot of beer fat around his middle. He raised shaggy brown eyebrows now, and a devilish smile marred the cherub’s look. “Make out?” he asked.

“Do rabbits make out?” I kidded.

Dave shrugged massive shoulders, and the inflated tire around his middle nudged up toward his chest. “Well, we got troubles,” he said. “Is Cynthia coming down?”

“She didn’t say.”

“So tell me,” Dave said, “how we supposed to hear anyone through these goddamn helmets?”

“What goddamn helmets?”

Fred Folsom said something behind the contraption on his head, but all I heard was a sullen mumble.

“I didn’t write any helmets,” I said.

“I know,” Dave answered, shrugging again. “Cynthia says there’s no oxygen on Mars, though.”

“Did Cynthia also tell you about the gravity on Mars?”

“Gravity?” Dave Halliday looked puzzled.

“Oh, what the hell! Throw the helmets away. Forget the oxygen.”

“Cynthia says no.”

“Then give your boys face masks. They’ll just cover the noses, and you’ll be able to hear something other than Martian rumblings.”

“You hear that, Stu?” Dave called.

Stu Shaughnessy, the show’s prop man, looked up from a pad and nodded. Stu was a thin-faced man with. serious brown eyes behind black-rimmed bop classes. He attacked his job as prop man with the same intensity a physicist gave the atomic bomb, and he exhibited the same pride in the completed product.

“Take off the helmet, Fred,” Dave said. “We’ll play it straight until Stu gets the masks for us.”

Fred Folsom took off the helmet and sighed, and Dave said, “We got another problem, Jon. The death-ray gun.”

“What about it?” I said wearily.

“Cynthia says it’s impossible.”

“Cynthia is impossible, damnit. What’s wrong with it?”

“It’s supposed to burn a man to cinders. She says a weapon that small wouldn’t be capable of containing the energy necessary to...”

“Make it a larger weapon. For Christ’s sake!”

“You got that, Stu?” Dave called.

“I’ll fix it,” Stu answered. His voice was quiet, and he nodded resolutely. There was no doubt he’d fix it. Fred reached into the holster at his waist and pulled out the ultramodern death-ray gun, hefting it on his palm. He pulled the trigger, and a shower of harmless sparks drifted from the disc-surrounded spray nozzle.

“Point that the other way,” Dave said.

Fred smiled. “Dave is going Martian,” he explained. “He thinks all the props Stu rigs are real.”

“That’s the only way to direct it,” Dave said. “Let’s run it through, yes? You’re sticking around, aren’t you, Jon?”

“Like a dirty shirt,” I said.

“The letdown is all on film,” Dave explained to me. “A really nice job, Jon. I think you’ll like it. Jets blasting, all that junk. You watch it on the monitor.”

“I will,” I said.

“We pick up Marauder on a boom shot, looking straight down on him. All you see is the top of his head and his ray gun sticking out in front of him — that and the Martian sand. It’s a nice effect. Besides, we cut out the necessity of having the ship right on the set, you follow?”

“I follow.”

“After Marauder is in, we pick up Cadet Holmes. As if suddenly remembering,” Dave put his mike to his mouth and shouted, “On stage, Cadet Holmes. Let’s roll!”

I took a seat near the monitor, and watched the film of Marauder’s ship putting down on sands of Mars. I was really interested until Cynthia’s voice behind me said, “Isn’t he supposed to be braking for descent before this?”

I turned. “Hello, Professor,” I said.

“You think it’s funny,” Cynthia said, pouting. She looked pretty as hell when she pouted, and she knew it. “I’m interested in getting a good show.”

“You are getting one,” I told her. I watched the monitor as the boom camera picked up Marauder, and then Cadet Holmes came onto the screen.

“Where are their helmets?” Cynthia said. “And are they still using those stupid guns? I told Dave...”

“Stu’s working on that now. Relax, Cynthia.”

Instead of relaxing, Cynthia Finch strode away from me purposefully. She stopped alongside Dave, said a few words to him, and Dave bellowed, “Cut, cut.”

The actors slouched into weary positions while Cynthia kept chewing out Dave. Then Dave said, “Take a break, fellows,” and I heard Cynthia’s voice, close to his mike, say, “If Stu is working on it, I want to see it.”

“All right, all right,” Dave said irritably. “Come on.”

The mike picked up his voice and tossed it around the studio, and then he and Cynthia walked away from the lights and into the blackness. Marauder and Cadet Holmes had already disappeared into blackness. I lighted a cigarette, and then headed for the control booth, figuring I’d bandy a few words about with Artie Schaefer. The booth was empty when I got there, though, so I strolled out to the stairwell and looked through one of the windows at the rooftops of New York, puffing happily on my cigarette. I ground the butt out under my heel, lounged around for another ten minutes, and then went back into the studio.

Dave was fiddling around with one of the plants on the set. Stu was handing both Marauder and Cadet Holmes their new death-ray guns and face masks. Artie Schaefer was back in the booth. I took my seat near the monitor again, and that was when I spotted old Felix Nechler, the guy who used to produce Rocketeers. I got up, walked over to him, and took his hand.

“Hello, Felix,” I said, “how goes it?”

Felix was a thin man with a trim black mustache. He looked up sadly and said, “Hello, Jon. So-so, I guess.”

“Back for a looksee at the old baby, eh Felix? How long have you been here?”

“Few minutes,” Felix said, his grey eyes dull.

“Okay, we’re ready to go now,” Dave called into the mike. “You out there, Cynthia?”

“She’s not here, Dave,” I shouted.

“Scare her up, will you, Jon? She’ll want to watch this.”

“Where is she?”

“Piddling around out there someplace,” he said into the mike.

“Excuse me, Felix,” I said. “I’ll be back.”

“Sure,” Felix answered. “I was about to leave anyway.”

“Oh, stick around. You’ll enjoy it.”

Felix shrugged, the shrug plainly stating he would probably not enjoy anything produced by the woman who’d taken his job. I started off around the studio, walking past the rocket ship interior set, and then over past the Earth Control Office set, both unilluminated now. Then I strolled around back to the cubbyhole where Stu kept his props, and then over to where the flats were piled against the inside brick wall of the building.

“Cynthia?”

When I got no answer, I walked past the flats, and the first thing that hit me was the overwhelming stench, and I thought someone was burning garbage right here in the building, and I knew Cynthia would have a fit about that. I kept walking in the darkness, the stench overpowering now, and that was when I tripped and fell.

I got to my knees cursing. I reached down and groped for what I’d tripped over, and I found the stench and I found soft flesh, and I reared back in what must have been stark terror. I hit the wall, and my fingers groped for the light switch. I scraped my knuckles, finally found the switch, and flicked on the light.

Cynthia Finch lay on her back on the concrete floor.

“Douse that goddamned light!” Dave yelled into his mike.

I stood over against the wall and looked down at her. I knew it was Cynthia because of the dress. It was a blue woolen number that hugged her flesh, only now it was scorched down the front, and the fabric had browned and parted to show the blistering flesh underneath. Her face was an unrecognizable, charred, burned mass of skin and bones.

“Hey, how about it?” Dave shouted again. “We’re trying to run this through, you know.”

“Dave!” I yelled when I’d caught my breath. “Come back here! Quick!”

I didn’t move from my spot near the wall. I stood there even when I heard many running footsteps, even when I heard Dave mutter, “Oh God! Oh, holy, holy God!”

And then Marauder, and Cadet Holmes and Stu Shaughnessy and even old Felix Nechler were standing around the charred, lifeless body on the concrete floor, and Marauder took one look at the ominously cumbersome death-ray gun in his fist, and dropped it to the concrete as if it were alive.

Detective-Sergeant Hilton could have been a high-priced performer on Dragnet. Perhaps he watched the show. He had an underplayed, natural delivery and an inscrutable face, and he went about his business with the calm detachment of a shoe clerk at I. Miller’s.

“You found her?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said, still a little sick at what I’d discovered.

“Just like that, sir? Burned all over?”

“Just like that, Sergeant.”

“Mmm. Hell of a way to die.” Hilton stroked his lean jaw and shoved his fedora to the back of his head. “And the rest of you were all on the set when Mr....” Hilton paused. “What’s your name again, sir?” he asked me.

“Jonathan Crane.”

“Nice name,” Hilton said conversationally. “Your own?”

“It is now.”

“You an actor?”

“Writer.”

“Do any mystery stuff?”

“Science-fiction,” I said, and Hilton seemed to lose all interest immediately.

“You were all on the set, is that right, when Mr. Crane discovered the body?”

“I wasn’t,” Felix Nechler said.

“Where were you?”

“I was sitting near the monitor.”

“Are you connected with the show, Mr. Nechler?” Hilton asked.

“No,” Felix said, embarrassed.

“What were you doing here then?”

“I thought...” Felix hesitated, then seemed to make up his mind, and blurted, “I thought Cynthia might have a job for me.”

“Did you talk to her before she was killed?”

“No. I was waiting out here for her.”

Hilton turned to Dave. “When did you see her last, Mr. Halliday?”

“Back in Stu’s prop room,” Dave said. He looked at Stu, and his voice carried a muted accusation.

“And what was she doing then?”

“Stu had given her the... the death-ray gun. He was showing her how it operated.”

“The what gun?”

“Look, Sergeant,” Stu broke in, his eyes serious behind their black-rimmed bop glasses. “The gun is just...”

“What kind of gun did you say?”

“The death-ray gun,” Dave said more firmly.

“It’s just a plastic gimmick,” Stu said hurriedly. “A few batteries and some flint. Here, I’ll show you.”

He unhooked the flap on Cadet Holmes’ holster and pulled out the unwieldy weapon. He was ready to squeeze the trigger when Hilton said, “The other way, please.”

Stu shrugged. “It’s a harmless thing,” he said. He pointed the gun at the ceiling and pulled the trigger. There was the harsh scrape of metal against flint, a burst of spark, and then the nozzle of the gun seemed to glow and a cascade of sparks showered from the open end. “Harmless,” Stu said.

“She was holding this gun when Mr. Halliday left you?”

“Yes,” Stu said. He gave the gun back to Cadet Holmes, the fifteen-year-old boy from the High School of Performing Arts. Cadet Holmes’ face was a chalky white, his eyes fear-filled.

“She was burned to death,” Dave said suddenly.

“But not with that toy,” Hilton said. “Looks more like someone used a blowtorch.”

“No blowtorches around here,” Dave said emphatically.

“I’ll have my men look the place over,” Hilton said drily. “Mr. Shaughnessy, where did Miss Finch go when you left her?”

“I don’t know. She said the gun was okay, and told me to bring it out together with the oxygen masks. I left her in the prop room.”

“And what about you, Mr. Halliday? Did you come directly back to the set when you left Miss Finch and Mr. Shaughnessy?”

“No,” Dave said. “Matter of fact, I didn’t. I stopped at the fountain for a drink of water. Then I went around and checked the Earth Control Office set.”

“How long did all that take?”

“About ten minutes.”

“Uh-huh. Were you two on the set all this time?” he asked Marauder and Cadet Holmes.

“No. We went down for a cup of coffee,” Marauder answered.

“Together?”

“No,” Cadet Holmes said, his face still white. “I left Fred just outside the building. When we came back, Dave was ready to roll.”

“You meet anyone at coffee, Mr. Folsom?” Hilton asked.

“No. No one,” Marauder answered.

“Where’d you go, Cadet?”

“His name’s Findlay,” Dave put in.

“Where’d you go?”

“Just took a walk around the block, that’s all.”

“Meet anyone?”

“On the way back, yes.”

“Who?”

“Artie Schaefer, our engineer.”

“Where had he been?”

“I don’t know, sir,” Findlay said, almost trembling now. “You’ll have to ask him, I guess.”

“I will.” Hilton wiped his hand over his face. “All right, Mr. Crane, where were you all this time?”

“Out in the hallway,” I said, “having a cigarette.”

“Anyone see you?”

“Why... no. I don’t think so.” Hilton sighed. “And you, Mr. Nechler?”

“I took a seat near the monitor when I came in, and I stayed there all the while.”

“I don’t suppose anyone saw you.”

“Not unless someone was in the control booth. I didn’t see anyone there.”

Hilton looked disgusted. “Nobody around when she got it,” he said, “and nobody saw anybody where he said he was. This is just great.”

“I was seen by the guy in the coffee shop,” Marauder said defensively.

“Think he could pinpoint the time? It only takes a minute to kill someone.”

“You don’t think...”

“I want to talk to Mr. Schaefer. He was probably out walking his French poodle, only no one saw him except on the way back.”

“He didn’t have a poodle with him,” Findlay said helpfully.

“A Great Dane?” Hilton asked, then waved Findlay’s answer aside before he spoke it. “You go about your business. I know you’ve got a daily show to put on. Don’t mind my boys.”

“Whoever did this will get the chair, won’t he, Sergeant?” Dave Halliday asked.

Detective-Sergeant Hilton assumed his best Dragnet manner. “Sure,” he said. “There’s just one thing.”

Dave, an avid Dragnet viewer himself, supplied the straight man’s like. “What’s that, Sergeant?”

“We got to get him first.”

When I stopped by for Andy that night at eight, she’d already heard the news. She did not pretend great sadness because Andy was an honest kid, and she’d never really liked Cynthia Finch. Andy wrote the commercials for the Rocketeers show, and Cynthia’s conception of a producer’s tasks included the censorship of the nonsensical drivel Andy wrote in praise of Poppsies and its sister breakfast cereal, Cracklies.

One of Andy’s choice commercials had consisted of the repeated line, “Eat Poppsies, they’re tops, see, they POP, see?” This done in a parrot’s falsetto. It was good.

Cynthia had stepped in and changed it to: Buy me Poppsies, Popsy! They’re tops, see, they POP, see, Popsy?

By the time anyone untangled that, he was ready for a straight-jacket. He was not ready to rush out and buy a box, as the copy suggested after the parrot had finished his speech.

She opened the door and led me into her living room, and then she asked, “Have the police been hard on you, Jon?”

“No harder than on anyone else,” I said. I chuckled a little and added, “This Sergeant Hilton has his hands full. Only Artie Schaefer and the Cadet have alibis, and even they aren’t too strong. Hell of a case.”

“Is it true about... about how she died?”

“Yes.”

“It must have been horrible,” Andy said, shuddering a little.

“I don’t imagine it was pleasant. Dave still thinks the goddamned ray gun did it.”

“Oh, not really.”

“You know Dave. I think he believes in BEM’s, too. He doesn’t know that bug-eyed monsters left the science-fiction scene a dozen years ago.”

“I was worried about you,” Andy said. She fluffed out her blonde hair, then walked to a cigarette canister on the end table, taking one and lighting it quickly. She blew out a wreath of smoke. “Really worried, Jon.”

“Oh? That’s awfully nice of you.”

“I could hardly get the new Cracklies limerick going.”

“That denotes real worry,” I said. “I’ve got it, though. Want to hear it?”

“Sure. Shoot.”

“Buy Cracklies, by crackie! Over and over again, repeated. Like?”

“I’m an eggs-for-breakfast man,” I said.

“I think it’s good. Considering the worrying I did.”

“You had no cause for worry.”

“You seemed pretty damned worried,” Andy said, turning suddenly.

“Huh? I don’t follow.”

“When you called.”

“When I called?” I lifted my eyebrows. “Sorry,” I said, “wrong number.”

“Well, no one even asked me.”

“Asked you what? Make sense, Andy.”

“Asked me about what you’d told me.”

I let out a deep breath. “I’m sorry, ma’m, but I missed the first reel. Want to start from scratch?”

“When you called this afternoon,” Andy said, impatiently.

“Honey,” I told her. “I didn’t call this afternoon. And if I’d made any calls, they’d have all been to my lawyer.”

Andy stared at me curiously for a few moments? Then she smiled and said, “Jon, really, there’s no need for any cloak and dagger. I won’t tell anyone, if you’re worried about it, and you needn’t deny having called.”

“Won’t tell anyone what? Goddamnit, Andy, I didn’t call you. The last time I spoke to you was at the agency.”

Andy looked extremely puzzled. “Well now isn’t that strange,” she said.

“It certainly is,” I agreed. “Did someone call and say it was me?”

“Well, no. But the voice... well, I just assumed it was you.”

“What did this mysterious caller say?”

“He said, well he said, ‘Is this Andy?’ and I said, ‘Yes, it is.’ ”

“That’s all?”

“No, of course not. He said, ‘Listen and listen hard, Andy.’ That’s when I figured it was you calling.”

“What else did he say?”

“He said, ‘I want you to forget everything I told you this morning. Everything, understand? Especially when the police start asking questions.’ ” Andy shrugged. “Golly, I was sure it was you.”

“What did you answer?”

“I said, ‘Okay, Trigger, I’m a clam.’ Honestly, Jon, I thought it was you clowning around.”

“What happened then.”

“He just hung up. I thought that was strange, and then later, when the news about Cynthia reached the office I figured you wanted me to keep quiet about what you’d told me, about quitting the job. I thought... I thought maybe you were involved.”

“For Pete’s sake!”

“Well, how was I supposed to know? It sounded like you, and I thought immediately of you, and besides I was in the middle of that damned Cracklies limerick.”

She looked as if she were ready to start bawling, so I went to her and took her into my arms, and she snuggled her head against my chest.

“You’re a rotten louse, Jonathan Crane.”

“I know,” I said.

“And I knew you when your damned name was plain Johnny Kransen.”

“I know,” I said.

“And I was worried.”

“You’re a doll.”

“Sure.”

“You are. I mean it. You’re a doll on wheels.”

“Sure.”

“Do you still want dinner and a movie?”

“Yes,” timidly.

“Then go fix your face. Come on, doll.”

“Don’t call me ‘doll.’ I’m not one of the office dolls you flirt with every day.”

“I know you’re not.”

Andy tried to keep a stern face, but the smile broke through like filtered sunshine. “I’ll powder up, you rat,” she said.

“Hey!” I said, snapping my fingers. “Whoever called you was obviously someone who’d told you something this morning. Who’d you speak to this morning?”

Andy batted her eyelashes. “Lots of people,” she said.

“Who?”

“Cynthia. You.”

“Who else?”

“Dave Halliday, I guess. Yes, he came in to see Cynthia about oxygen on...” Andy paused. “Oxygen on Mars?”

“Yes. Did he say anything to you?”

“Sure, lots of things. But I don’t remember them all.”

“Anything important?”

“No. No, unless... well, I’ve heard a million people say that.”

“Say what?”

“Well, he said, well, he was complaining about the oxygen business. He said, ‘Someday I’m going to murder that meddling witch.’ ” Andy paused again. “Only he didn’t say witch.”

“Who else did you see?”

“Artie Schaefer. Stopped by for some film stuff, I think. He came into my office to say hello.”

“Anything from him?”

“I can’t remember. Just the usual pleasantries, I guess.”

“Marauder? The Cadet?”

“No, neither of them. At least, if they were at the agency, I didn’t see them.”

“Felix Nechler?”

“Why, yes. Isn’t that curious? He told me he wanted to see Cynthia about a job. He’s a nice old duck, isn’t he?”

“Did he say anything else?”

“Well, Cynthia’s secretary spoke to him, and he was pretty angry afterwards. She told him Cynthia was very busy and would be leaving for the studio in a little while. Pretty shabby treatment.”

“He probably came down to catch her there then,” I said.

“Was he there when she...”

“Yes.”

“Jon...”

“Yes?”

“You... you didn’t kill her, did you? I mean...”

“Me? Hell, I haven’t killed anyone since last Wednesday.”

“Seriously, Jon. I... I’d like to know.”

“You are the craziest female I’ve ever met,” I told her. “No, I did not kill anyone.”

Andy smiled. “I’d have brought you cigarettes and a cake with a file in it.”

“You probably would.”

“So undying is my love. I’ll go powder up, and you’d better be here when I come back, you rat.”

“There’s a cute number down the hall,” I reminded her.

“How do you know?” she said suspiciously.

“There’s always a cute number down the hall.”

Andy considered this seriously. “I’ll be ten seconds,” she promised, and she wasn’t seven minutes over that.

When my doorbell chimed noisily at twenty minutes past ten the next morning, I was still in bed. I frowned at the alarm clock until I realized it was innocent, and then pulled on a robe over my pajamas and walked through the living room.

I opened the door a crack, and Detective-Sergeant Hilton’s inscrutable face peered back at me. Another inscrutable face was behind his.

“My partner,” he explained. “Ed Matthews.”

“Mrfff,” I said.

“May we come in? Hope we didn’t wake you?”

“No,” I said grumpily. “I had to get up to answer the door anyway.”

Hilton’s face remained inscrutable, and I decided I’d save my knife-edged wit for a worthier audience. “Come on in, boys.”

I flung the door wide, turned my back on it, and walked into the living room. Andy and I had done our best to drink up all the scotch in the City of New York the night before, and whereas Andy’s recuperative powers were amazing, mine were a little less spectacular. I lighted a cigarette to take the taste of the motorman’s glove out of my mouth. The cigarette did not help. I looked down at it sourly, and then remembered the detectives.

“What can I do for you?” I asked.

“Few questions,” Hilton said. “Routine.”

“All right.”

“First, is it true you saw Cynthia Finch in her office along about eleven-thirty yesterday morning?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Is it also true you quit your job at that time?”

“Yes.”

“Is it true you and Miss Finch had what might be termed an argument?”

“No,” I said.

Hilton reached into his jacket pocket and came out with a glossy photograph which he extended to me dangling from his thumb and forefinger. “Know her?” he asked.

I took the photograph from his fingers, studied it, and passed it back. “Yes. She’s Cynthia’s secretary.”

“Did you kill Miss Finch?” Hilton asked conversationally.

“Sure. I kill all women with black hair. My stepmother had black hair.”

Hilton sighed and put the photograph back into his pocket. “She says she heard you arguing with Miss Finch yesterday.”

“She’s a bird-brain. She wouldn’t know an argument if it hit her in the face with a brick.”

“She says you raised your voice. She heard it all the way from her desk outside.”

“She was probably listening at the keyhole. Cynthia and I were not arguing. We were discussing a script of mine. We discussed it like ladies and gents. No threats of murder, no nothing. Then I quit.”

“How much does Bradley and Brooks pay you for the Rocketeers show, Mr. Crane?” Hilton’s partner asked suspiciously.

“Why?”

“Routine.”

“Seven-fifty for a week’s sequence. Fifteen hundred for a two-week’s sequence. What’s that go to do with the price of fish?”

“I got some ideas about you,” Hilton’s partner said.

“Let me hear them,” I told him.

“Maybe she fired you.”

“I quit.”

“Maybe she fired you, and you didn’t like the idea of losing all that easy money.”

“Sure. Maybe I started the San Francisco fire, too.”

“Don’t get smart, Crane,” Hilton’s partner said ominously.

“I can’t help it. I’m that way naturally. We did not argue, and I was not fired. We had a normal discussion, and I quit. I can get a job in ten seconds over at Captain Jet. So your idea about me is a stinkeroo.”

“That’s what you say,” Hilton’s partner said. “Anyway, don’t you leave town, Crane.”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake.”

“What’s the matter?” Hilton asked.

“Haven’t you got a detective who doesn’t read Ellery Queen?”

“I don’t read Ellery Queen,” Hilton’s partner said belligerently.

“Reading is an acquired skill,” I told him. “Stick with it, give it time.”

“Wise guy,” he mumbled.

“I have to get down to the studio soon,” I told him. “I suppose I’ll see you both there.”

“We still haven’t found the blowtorch, you know.”

“Assuming it was one.”

“How do you mean?”

“Maybe the death-ray gun did it.”

“Wise guy,” Hilton’s partner mumbled again.

They went to the door, and I watched them go. I lighted another cigarette, and then remembered I’d forgotten to tell them Andy’s story. I opened the door and looked over to the elevator banks, but the two sleuths were already gone. I shrugged and made a mental note to tell Hilton about it at the studio. Then I showered, shaved, ate, dressed, and left the apartment.

I stopped over to see Binx Bailey at ABC, and he told me he’d be happy to give me a trial run, and why didn’t I come over and watch the show to get the slant some afternoon. I told him I would, and then I caught a cab crosstown to Tom Goldin’s office, remembering after I got there that he had a luncheon appointment, and Tom eats lunch early. So I stopped for a cup of coffee in a drugstore, spotted the phone booths, and gave Andy a call.

“Hello,” I said, “how’s the head?”

“Dandy,” she said. “How’s yours?”

“Ouch.”

“You drink too much,” she said solemnly.

“Or not enough of the right stuff. anyway. Listen, have you recalled anything further about the people who spoke to you yesterday?”

“Did I tell you that Stu Shaughnessy stopped by?”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Well, he had. He was sore as hell about the way Cynthia constantly changes her mind about props. He said his budget wasn’t high enough to permit constant changes and substitutions.”

“How come all these people stop to weep on your shoulder?”

“I’m an attractive young lady,” Andy said.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Someday I’ll show you.”

“When?”

“Someday.”

“Sure.” I paused and thought for a minute, and then said, “Does any of that drivel sound like talk preceding a murder?”

“You mean the conversations with everyone?”

“Yes.”

“No, it doesn’t. I’ve been wracking my brain all morning, trying to think of something that sounded incriminating, something that necessitated a warning. I can’t think of a blamed thing, Jon.”

“Maybe you invented the phone call,” I said. “Maybe you killed Cynthia Finch.”

“I’d have liked to, sometimes — but I didn’t.”

“I’m going over to the studio,” I said. “If you think of anything...”

“I’ll call you.”

“ ’Bye, doll.”

“Did I tell you I love you this morning?” Andy asked suddenly.

“No.”

“I’m slipping. I love you, you big boob.”

“Go write a limerick,” I told her, and then I hung up, smiling.

The studio was unusually quiet when I got there. There were a few cameramen on the floor, but no one else was in sight. I lighted a cigarette and went around back, opening the door to the control booth. Artie Schaefer was standing near one of the turntables, a cigarette end glowing in the dimness. He brought the cigarette to his mouth, took a preoccupied drag on it, and then stared out through the glass, out over the studio floor.

“Dead today,” I said.

Artie looked up suddenly. “Wh... oh, hello, Jon.”

“Hope I didn’t break in on a thought fest,” I said.

“No, I was just... come in, come in.” He walked to the table behind the wide glass front of the booth, hooked an ashtray with one finger and snuffed out his cigarette. Artie was a tall man with kinky black hair and a magnificent profile. He’d made a good living out of radio, and he was now making a better living out of television. Rocketeers was only one of his shows, and he was generally conceded to be the best engineer in the business.

“Nobody in yet?” I asked.

“I saw Dave a few minutes ago,” Artie said. “None of the cast are here yet, though.”

“What do you think of yesterday?” I asked.

“Only yesterday,” he said, seeming to be still lost in thought. “Seems like it happened a long, long time ago, doesn’t it?”

“Who are you picking?”

“I don’t know, Jon. I honestly can’t figure it. I mean, Cynthia... well, who’d want to kill Cynthia?”

“Lots of people have considered it,” I told him.

He seemed honestly surprised. “Really? A sweet kid like her? I can’t believe it.”

“Did you know her very well, Artie?”

“We dated a few times.” He looked up suddenly. “I’ve already told that to Sherlock Holmes. I don’t suppose it’s a secret, anyway.”

“Anything... serious?”

“No, just a few dates. I liked her company. She was levelheaded and intelligent, and I liked what she was trying to do with the show.”

I didn’t say anything because I’d been one of those who hadn’t liked what she was trying to do with the show. Artie sensed this and he added, “Hell, you can’t blame her for wanting to give it class.”

“I’m not blaming her,” I said.

“She gave you a rough time with your scripts, did she?”

“She did, but that doesn’t matter. Not now it doesn’t.”

“No, not now,” he agreed. He suddenly slapped the table top with his open palm. “Dammit, who’d want to kill her? You really think some stupid character would kill her because of the way she was running things? You really think that?”

“I don’t know, Artie.”

“You’ve got to be twisted to do something like that — really twisted, rotten inside.” He shook his head. “You can’t be normal and kill someone like Cynthia Finch.”

“I suppose not.”

Artie sighed wearily, passed a hand over his classic nose, and then gestured through the glass of the booth. “There’s Dave now,” he said.

“I’d better get down there,” I said.

“Sure. Ask him to let me know when he’s ready to test, will you?”

“Okay,” I said. I left the booth and went down to the floor. Dave was walking with his head bent, as if he were looking for clues in the concrete.

“Find anything?” I asked.

He looked up and shook his massive head. “I was looking for a blowtorch,” he said.

“The police didn’t turn one up, did they?”

“No. But they don’t know the studio as well as I do.”

“Did you find it?”

“No,” Dave said sadly. He looked at me solemnly for a moment, and said, “Come over here, will you?”

“Sure,” I said, surprised. I followed him over to the rocket ship interior set, and Dave pulled up an aluminum stool near the port blister. Outside the blister, a painted backdrop of black space and brilliant white stars showed above Dave’s head. “I... I want some advice.”

“Sure,” I said. “What is it?”

Dave reached for a pair of calipers hanging on a string from the ship’s plotting board. He held them in his beefy hands, opening and closing the pointed tips. “I’ve been wondering whether or not I should tell Hilton something. I figure he’ll find out anyway, but I sure as hell don’t want to get involved. Do you follow me?”

“So far. What is it you think he should know?”

Dave sucked in a heavy breath. “Cynthia and I were married,” he said.

“What?”

“Not now. I mean, not when she was killed. This was a long time ago, Jon. We were both kids, and it didn’t work out. I mean, well we went our separate ways. We were both in radio at the time, but Cynthia started fooling around with the theatre... well, I never guessed we’d both end up in television, and certainly not on the same damned show.” He looked at me mournfully.

“But you’re divorced,” I said.

“Yes. A long time ago. In fact, Cynthia had the marriage annulled. It was the best thing, Jon. We... we didn’t get along too well. I mean, we got along fine now, before she was killed, but it was different when we were married. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think I should tell Hilton?”

“I think so, yes.”

“You don’t think he’d misconstrue it? I mean, he won’t think I killed her because I was once married to her? You don’t think so?”

“He seems fairly intelligent,” I said, “if a bit obvious in his tactics.”

“That’s what I figured. But...” Dave shook his head again. “It’s a hard decision to make. I don’t want to get involved in this, you know. I mean, what the hell, she was the same to me as to anyone else. The marriage was a long time ago.”

“I understand, Dave.”

“Well, thanks,” he said heavily. “I guess I will tell him.”

“I think that’d be best.”

“Yeah, I guess so.” He still didn’t seem convinced. I left him to worry it out, telling him I was going down for a cup of coffee until the cast showed up. I was heading down the iron steps when I met Detective-Sergeant Hilton, minus his partner this time.

“Hello, Sergeant,” I said.

“Ah, Crane,” he answered, nodding. “Where you bound?”

“Cup of coffee,” I said.

“Mind if I come along?”

“Well...” I hesitated. “No, not at all.”

“Thanks,” he said. He turned, and we walked down the steps together, and out into the street. We didn’t say anything on the walk to the luncheonette, and the silence persisted until we’d both been served our coffee. Hilton stirred his, took a sip at it, and then put the cup back in the saucer.

“Got a few interesting items from the coroner and the lab boys,” he said, matter-of-factly.

“Oh?” I bit into my toasted English, sipped at my coffee, which was too hot, and looked at him interestedly.

“Yeah,” he said. His face was not as inscrutable now, nor did he affect the preoccupied, business-man cop attitude any longer. He could have been a close friend of mine discussing the plot for a new story. “Coroner says the burns didn’t kill her.”

This surprised me. I didn’t say anything, but I continued to look at Hilton. He nodded and said, “Back of her skull was cracked open. Coroner figures it happened when she hit the concrete floor.”

“But the burns...”

“Not really bad ones, and not enough to kill her instantly. Most burns won’t. We had a cop caught in a gas explosion once, and he came running out of the building like a goddamned torch. The pain was terrific, but he was conscious all the way to the hospital, and he didn’t go out until the doctors gave him morphine. And he didn’t die until four hours later. First degree burns, too. So even if a blow torch was used on Miss Finch, it’s doubtful she’d have been killed instantly.”

“What do you figure then?”

“Well, I’m not sure. I can’t picture someone deliberately setting fire to her, and yet it all points to that. She probably went up in flames, reared back, fell, and bashed in her skull.”

“Accidentally, you mean?”

“It’s still murder. I mean, if I show you a snake and you back away from it over the edge of a roof, that’s homicide. No two ways of looking at it.”

“Then a blowtorch was used on her?”

“No. Leastways, the lab boys don’t think so. They found traces of turpentine on her dress and in her hair.”

“Turpentine?”

“Yeah, highly inflammable, you know.” He looked at me like a man with a knotty storyline problem. “Does it sound screwy to you, too?”

“It does, yes.”

“I’m puzzled, so help me. Can you picture a guy throwing turps at her, and then lighting a match? What’s to gain? Was he trying to ruin her good looks? If so, he must have known the turps wouldn’t kill her. It’s screwy as hell.”

“Maybe the fire was an accident. Maybe she tripped over the turpentine or something. There’s always a lot of turps back there, guys painting sets, you know.”

“If she tripped over a can of the stuff, we’d have found traces on her stockings and shoes. She wasn’t burned below the waist, you know. It figures somebody threw a bucket of it at her. But why?”

“I don’t know.” I studied Hilton for a moment, and then asked, “Why are you telling me all this, Sergeant?”

Hilton smiled, assuming the cop pose for just an instant. Then the pose vanished, and he was plain, honest Hilton again. “You smoke Pall Malls, Crane?”

“Yes,” I said, puzzled.

“You told me yesterday that you were out in the hallway having a smoke when Miss Finch was killed. I rooted around out there and found a couple of dead butts on the floor. The place is probably a hangout for anyone who wants a breath of air from that window, and it probably gets swept up every day. Two of the butts were old ones, the lab boys said, probably missed by the sweeper. He makes his rounds about eleven, by the way. I asked him. Those two were off in the corner, so it’s easy to see how they could be lying there for a long time. The third butt was right under the window, and it was a Pall Mall. The lab boys told me the tobacco was reasonably fresh, and that the cigarette could have been recently smoked. They also got a lot of smeared prints from it, and one good thumb print. The thumb print matched yours.”

“Mine? Where’d you get my thumb print?”

Hilton smiled. “The picture I showed you this morning. You left a nice one on the glossy surface.”

I smiled with him, wagging my head. “I’ll be damned.”

“So I figured maybe you, out of all the jokers around, were telling the truth. I know a cigarette butt is flimsy enough evidence, and it sure as hell wouldn’t whitewash a man in court.”

“Then why whitewash me, Hilton?” I asked.

“We’re not in court, Crane. Nor do I figure you for a crazy guy who’d set a woman on fire. I may not be able to pull a killer out of a hat, but I’ve seen enough of them to know when a man isn’t one.”

“Well, thanks.”

“Besides, I need someone who knows all these people. The minute I step in, they clam up, even if they’re not guilty. Homicide has a way of making everyone feel like he did it. I need someone who can sniff around when they’re all off guard.”

“Me?”

“If you’ll help.”

“You’re pretty sure I didn’t kill her, huh?”

“Reasonably so. What do you say, Crane?”

“Sure, if you think I really can help. Where do I start?”

“Just listen around,” he said, “and let me know what you hear.”

I told him then about Dave’s confession, and he listened with interest, making no comment. Then I told him about the phone call Andy had received, and he listened to this with more interest, and then said, “That can mean something. If she remembers. Trouble is, the remark was probably significant only to the killer. It probably doesn’t mean a damn to Miss Mann.”

“At least we know the killer was a man.”

“There were no women in the studio anyway,” Hilton said.

“No, there weren’t.”

“Or at least none that we know of.” Hilton finished his coffee, and then said, “I’m going to have a talk with Miss Mann. Maybe I can dig something out of her. You’ll get what you can here, okay, Crane?”

“I’ll do my best,” I assured him.

I was kept pretty busy during the rehearsal, and I didn’t get much opportunity to ask many questions. When Dave finally called a break, I walked out into the darkness and took a seat near the monitor, lighting a cigarette before someone called me for another script change. I was seated for about six minutes when Martha Findlay came over to me. Martha was young Cadet Holmes’ mother, a woman who’d been deserted when the Cadet was six years old. Her husband had been an alcoholic with an itchy foot, and he’d just picked up and wandered off one morning, heading for South America way. Martha was an attractive, large brunette. She’d started the Cadet off on dancing lessons, and then dumped him into that private hell of the child entertainer, exhibiting his soft-shoe and tap routines at American Legion dances and one-night stands wherever the opportunity presented itself. With Martha Findlay at the helm, the opportunities presented themselves with blinding rapidity. She was shrewd enough to realize that tap dancers were a dime a dozen, though, and so she’d started the young Cadet on dramatics lessons. He’d done a few scattered television spots before landing the Cadet Holmes plum, and I had to admit the kid was pretty good — but I still wondered whether or not Martha hadn’t done a little entertainment of her own to get him the most coveted juvenile spot on the air. Alec Norris, the producer who’d originated the show, and the man who’d preceded old Felix Nechler, had a notorious reputation with the women, and Martha Findlay — if nothing else — was a good deal of woman.

She brought all her womanhood over to me, and plunked it down in the chair next to me. Martha affected dresses which would have warranted a raid on Fifty-Second street, and she wore them with the casual aloofness of a woman who is above thinking about her body, When Martha Findlay was within viewing distance, however, there was hardly a man from six to sixty-six who was not aware of her body. She leaned over purposefully, crossing her legs, and cupping her chin in her hand. I did not look down to her but the temptation was a very strong one, and the nearness of her perfume didn’t help the situation any.

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you, Jon,” she said, her voice soft. It always surprised me to hear that soft voice coming from Martha’s overabundant body. But the voice was just a small part of the femininity that was as calculated as an IBM card.

“Really? What about, Martha?”

“About Richie.”

Richie, of course, was Richard Findlay, and Richard Findlay was young Cadet Holmes. “What about him?”

“Well, now that Cynthia is gone...” Martha paused, moving her hand away from her chin for a moment, allowing me a better look at what the front of her dress had artfully uncovered. She brought the hand back like the President of the Censorship Committee, and then said, “I know it’s terrible and all, but I never could talk to her about Richie, and perhaps you can help.”

“How, Martha?”

“Fatter parts,” she said bluntly.

“This is Marauder’s show,” I said, just as bluntly. “Cadet Holmes is just a supporting character.”

“I know. I was thinking, though...” She hesitated, and then smiled, lowering her lashes at the same time. And even though I saw completely through Martha Findlay, there was one portion of my mind that remained acutely aware of her as a very desirable woman — if you like big women. “I had an idea, Jon. Suppose Fred — suppose Marauder were captured or something. You could easily handle that, I know. Or perhaps wound him, something like that. Then Richie would have to carry the ball, don’t you see? He’d have to hunt for his old friend, thwart the villains, all that. It would give him a nice opportunity to show what he can really do. He’s quite good, you know.”

“What does Marauder do when I write him out of the script? Fred Folsom makes his living from this show.”

“Oh, I know,” Martha said innocently, “and I wouldn’t think of cutting Fred out of his salary. We could have a few shots of him in prison or something like that, just to point up the drama. He’d still be in the show that way, and drawing his usual salary. And it would only take two weeks or so. Just enough time to show everyone what Richie can really do.”

“Richie’s doing fine,” I said.

“It’s much easier to talk to you than it was to Cynthia, Jon,” she said. Her voice lowered intimately. “Think about it. Maybe we can discuss it further over a few drinks.”

“You’re the biggest phony in the world, Martha,” I said.

“Jon!” She squeezed her eyes shut in mock, amused shock. “Really now!”

“Luckily, you’ve got the equipment.” I paused. “You really want to have a few drinks with me, Martha?”

“I’d love to,” she said earnestly, eagerly.

“Even when I tell you I’ve quit Rocketeers and won’t be doing the scripts anymore?”

Martha’s eyelashes batted in honest amazement. “You... you quit?”

“Yes, dearest.”

“I... see.” It took Martha only a moment to regain her composure, and then the shrewdly calculating mind beneath the softly shrewd exterior shoved through again. “Do you have any idea who’ll be taking over, Jon?”

I patted Martha on her well-shaped knee. “No, darling. I don’t. But about those drinks...”

“I think Dave is calling Richie now,” she said, standing and smiling and sucking in a deep dress-filling breath all at the same time. “You will excuse me, won’t you, Jon?”

She swiveled off before I could answer, and I chuckled secretly, wandering just who would fill in the script-writing gap I’d be leaving. And then I started wondering just why I was leaving. Now that Cynthia was dead, there would be no arguments over the quality level of the scripts. I could go right on writing adventurous space opera, providing the next producer of Rocketeers wasn’t as equally eager-beaverish as Cynthia had been.

This was a point worth considering. If I was relieved — and I must admit I felt no guilt about the feeling of relief — imagine how the murderer felt! Assuming, of course, that the murderer had also been harassed by Cynthia, plagued as it were into finally killing her. But assuming this, it simply remained a job of finding whom Cynthia had been riding hardest.

Dave Halliday? True, as director of the show he’d had to take an unwarranted amount of lip garbage from his ex-wife, a fact he’d skillfully concealed until just today. But considering the fact that she was his ex-wife... Or had Dave planted that bit of information purposely? Had he mentioned it to throw suspicion off himself? The possibility was worth a second thought.

Stu Shaughnessy? Again, he’d taken his share of abuse from Cynthia Finch. No part of a show she produced was immune to her probing, correcting eye. Stu was the kind of workman who took pride in everything he did, and if Cynthia possessed any one outstanding quality, it was the ability to demolish a man’s pride.

Felix Nechler? The old man had come back to ask Cynthia for a job, or so he said. Perhaps he’d come back to do her out of a job, leaving the old producing spot open again. Who’d he better qualified for the vacant position than a man who’d produced the show before? And it was certainly not news that Felix Nechler was not exactly in love with Cynthia.

Marauder? Somehow, I couldn’t picture Fred Folsom as a murderer. Besides, if Andy’s phone-call story were to be taken into account, both Folsom and young Cadet were out of the picture. Neither of the two had seen her or spoken to her on the day of Cynthia’s death.

That left Artie Schaefer, who’d dated Cynthia and who seemed extremely fond of her. It also left anyone else who’d been lurking around the studio unseen.

It left a lot.

Just before show time that afternoon, Dave dumped a fat prop problem in Stu Shaughnessy’s lap, and Stu was busy right up to ON THE AIR, trying to rig a weird looking Martian animal that would run across the stage apparently on its own power. It kept him hopping, but he came up with a papier-mâché horror propelled by wheels and wires, and Dave was beaming happily just before Rocketeers hit the screen. I didn’t stay for the show. I never did. Rehearsals always knocked hell out of me, and I’m not the type who gets any particular enjoyment out of watching my own work — especially when it’s been changed so much by viewing time that it hardly resembles the original.

I stopped at Hutton’s for a few martinis and a couple of broiled pork chops, and then drifted up toward Fifth Avenue, watching the pretty ladies in their pretty mink stoles. I walked on Fifth for a while, dismayed when I realized I’d never find a phone booth among the jewelry shops and clothing stores. I turned up 47th Street and then walked up to Sixth, stopping in the first cigar store I found.

I dialed Andy’s number and let the phone ring eight times. When she didn’t answer, I figured she was in the shower, and I debated whether or not I should hop a cab over and surprise her. I decided against it. I hung up, walked to Broadway, and stopped in one of the penny arcades, trying my luck with the skill-testing machines. I scored three runs at baseball, shot down 39 enemy bombers and got a fortune teller’s card reading You are good with your hands and should concentrate your activities on manual skills. I chuckled a little and then watched the guy behind the phony newspaper concession. I finally had him print a headline which read ANDREA MANN ASSAULT VICTIM, paid him, and took the newspaper outside, matching it to a same-sized tabloid I found at the nearest newsstand. I slipped the first page onto the tabloid, and then found another phone and dialed Andy’s number again.

This time I let it ring for long after I ran out of fingers on both hands. Andy’s a very quick girl in the shower, and I began to wonder just where the hell she was, or what the hell she was doing. I folded the tabloid, put it under my arm, and caught a cab. When I reached her brownstone on East 68th Street, I paid and tipped the cabbie, and then climbed the steps rapidly. I didn’t bother ringing the downstairs bell, I went straight up to the third floor, knocked on the door, and waited.

I knocked again.

“Andy!” I yelled.

I pounded on the door this time, using a closed fist, and then I tried the knob. The door opened easily, and that was when I felt the first touch of panic. In all the time I’d known Andrea Mann, she’d never left her door unlocked, even when someone was in the apartment with her.

The living room was empty. A desolate-looking, pom-pommed house-slipper lay on its side near the television console. The set was still tuned to the channel that carried Rocketeers earlier that evening, but the name comedian who filled the screen was playing to an empty house. I looked into the kitchen and found a cork-tipped cigarette burnt down to an ash in the tray where Andy had left it. That was when I ran into the bedroom.

It was empty, as empty as a tilted beer keg at two in the morning. The bedcovers were pulled back neatly, and I figured Andy had been watching television for a while, planning to hit the sack early. A closed book rested on the night table alongside the bed.

The closet door was open, and something — probably an overcoat — had been ripped so violently from its hanger that the surrounding garments were all lying in a disconsolate heap on the closet floor.

Andy’s slip, brassiere, panties, and stockings were draped over the back of a chair near the closet wall. Her purse was on the dresser. I knew then that she’d been taken from the apartment, and hadn’t left of her own accord. She’d probably been in pajamas or a night gown, and her abductor had thrown her into an overcoat and then forced her to accompany him. I didn’t waste any more time theorizing.

I went back into the living room and quickly dialed Homicide, and when Detective-Sergeant Hilton came on the wire, I told him what I’d found.

“All right,” he said, “don’t get excited. I’ll get an APB out on this right away, and we may be able to pick them up before they get very far. In the meantime, this may be the best break we’ve had yet.”

“How do you mean?” I asked, hardly able to think of Andy’s abduction as a “break.”

“Tomorrow’s Friday,” he said. “You’ve got a show on Friday, haven’t you?”

“Yes. But...”

“Whoever grabbed Miss Mann may figure it’s not safe to leave her alone. He may stick with her tomorrow, and then all we have to do is count heads at the studio. The missing guy is our man.”

“Except for one thing,” I said.

“Yeah, what’s that?”

“Suppose he kills her first?”

“If he was going to kill her, why snatch her? He could have done it right in her apartment.”

“Maybe he’s working up the courage.”

“That’s the chance we have to take. Meanwhile, I’ll get an I sheet out on her, and maybe one of the radio cars will spot her. Whatever you do, don’t start worrying, Jon.”

“All right,” I promised. “Did you talk to her this afternoon?”

“Yes. She told me just what she’d told you — but she couldn’t remember anything pertinent that was said.”

“Then whoever grabbed her did it all for nothing.”

“Not anymore. She’ll sure as hell know who the guy is now.”

“Then he’ll have to kill her,” I said.

“Maybe not. Maybe...”

“Don’t snow me,” I said. “I’m a big boy now.”

“All right, all right. Maybe he will. Chances are we’ll get to him first. Like I said, if his mind was already made up he’d have killed her already. Maybe he’s squeamish about taking another life.”

“Or maybe he’s taking her out to the country where he can do the job properly,” I said miserably.

“You start worrying,” Hilton said, “and you can dream up all kinds of junk. Just keep cool. If he stalls until tomorrow and doesn’t show up the rest is duck soup.”

“If he stalls,” I said.

“He might. Jon, we’ll be doing everything we can.”

“All right,” I said.

“I’ll keep in touch with you.”

“All right.”

“Now don’t start worrying all over the place.”

“I won’t,” I lied.

“Give it ’til tomorrow.”

“Sure. Sure.”

We gave it ’til tomorrow. None of the alerted policemen spotted anyone filling the description on the I sheet, so we waited until rehearsal time the next day. Dave Halliday showed up first, and Stu Shaughnessy walked in about ten minutes later. The Cadet and Marauder came in shortly after that. Felix Nechler was checked on, and he was reported being on the floor of Macy’s furniture department where he’d been selling sofa-beds ever since he lost the producing job.

We went through the rehearsal, and by show time that night there was only one man who hadn’t showed up for his job.

Artie Schaefer.

We didn’t know at the time that he was lying dead in his apartment, an ice pick sticking out of his chest.

I went along with Hilton because we figured this was the showdown, and I wanted to be the first to put my arms around Andy after we wrapped up Schaefer.

He was not a pretty sight to see, unless you like looking at dead men. The ice pick made hardly any blood at all, and perhaps that’s what made it harder to believe he was actually dead. It stuck up out of his chest at a grotesque angle, and a tiny trickle of crimson flowed from the tiny hole. He’d been a handsome man, Artie Schaefer, but the good looks had turned waxy and false in death, and he looked like a caricature of himself. I looked down at him, and then I turned away, a hard lump in my throat. If the killer had murdered Artie, then I was sure Andy was already dead.

This was not the showdown we’d expected. This only complicated things, and the murderer was still running around loose somewhere.

“Why don’t you just round them all up?” I said to Hilton. “You know it’s one of them. Why don’t you arrest them all and beat the truth out of them?”

“I may,” Hilton said. “Even if it means risking a pile of false arrest charges.”

“What about Andy now?” I said. “He’s sure to kill her now. He’s killed twice already. For God’s sake, Hilton...”

“There’s no figuring the homicidal mind, Jon,” Hilton said. “You can’t establish any sort of pattern for these goddamned things. Look, he may have killed Cynthia for what seemed like a good reason. He may have killed Schaefer here for what seemed to him like an equally good reason. That doesn’t mean he’ll kill your Andy. It doesn’t mean that at all. Maybe he hasn’t got a strong enough reason for killing her yet. Maybe he’s still debating it.”

“He’s killed two already,” I almost shouted.

“That doesn’t mean he’ll kill three. That’s a common fallacy, Jon. Everybody figures the first one is the hardest. After that, killing comes easy. It isn’t true. The first one is really the easiest. It’s usually done in rage, and it’s all over before you know what happened. It’s the ones after that which are difficult. It’s those that are usually planned and committed cold-bloodedly. It’s those that make the murderer realize he is actually doing murder. Those are the tough ones, Jon.”

“All this talk...”

“I’m just trying to explain something to you. He may have already killed your Andy — but he may not have. We’ve had guys who’ve killed ten, twelve people. And then they’ll walk into headquarters one day and confess. They just couldn’t kill any more. Look at...”

“All right,” I said. “All right.”

“I’m going back to the office,” Hilton said, “as soon as the boys finish with their pictures and prints here. I’m expecting an autopsy report on Cynthia Finch. If anything turns up, I’ll call you. I suggest you go home and get some sleep.”

I tried to do that. I went home, and I got into bed and turned out the lights, and then I lay on my back and stared up at the ceiling, and all the while I was thinking of Andy and wondering if she was still alive. You get so you take someone like Andy for granted. Like brushing your teeth in the morning. Like that. Andy was a nice kid, a lot of fun, a sweet girl. Only that.

Until now. And now I began to wonder how much more she really meant to me, now when it was perhaps too late.

When the phone rang, I leaped out of bed and ran into the living room, catching it on the second ring.

“Hello?”

“Jon?”

“Yes.”

“This is George.” He paused and added, “Sergeant Hilton.”

“Oh yes, yes.”

“Something interesting,” he said.

“Have you found Andy?”

“No, Jon.”

“Oh.”

“But this autopsy on Cynthia Finch. It gives us something to work on anyway.”

“What have you got?”

“She was pregnant, Jon. Three months.”

“What?”

“That’s the story. Now maybe we’ve got a motive.”

“Cynthia pregnant! I mean...”

“That’s the trouble with homicide,” Hilton said. “You start rooting around, and all the muck comes up. All the nice conventions are broken. There isn’t a person alive without that skeleton in his closet, Jon, and homicide brings it out and rattles the bones a little. But like I say, this may give us our motive.”

“Artie Schaefer was dating her,” I said automatically. “Do you suppose...”

“He told me that, and when I got this report it was the first thing that popped into my head. It’s a shame he was killed with that icepick. Suicide would have fit the picture better.”

“How so?”

“Killed her because she was carrying his unwanted child, and then knocked himself off because he felt guilty as hell.”

“Why couldn’t he have killed himself with the icepick?” I asked.

“Because no prints were on the handle. A dead man doesn’t get up and wipe his prints off the murder weapon.”

“I suppose not,” I said glumly, not seeing how the autopsy report had brought us any closer to finding Andy.

“We’re still working on it,” Hilton said. “Don’t worry.”

“No,” I said. Then I said goodbye and hung up. I tried the bed, but my pajamas seemed too tight, and the bed seemed too small, and the room seemed suffocatingly hot. I got up and walked into the living room, snapping on an end-table lamp. I debated putting on the Late Show, decided against it, and mixed myself a very stiff whiskey sour instead. I ate the cherry and chewed the slice of orange, and then I mixed another one, minus the fruit cocktail this time.

I was sitting down again, ready to drink myself to sleep dead blind when the doorbell chimes sounded.

I said, “Oh, hell,” and shoved myself up out of the chair. I walked to the door, and shouted, “Who is it?”

“Just me,” the voice answered softly. I’d have recognized that voice through the door of a bank vault. I opened the door on the smiling face and half-clothed body of Martha Findlay.

“Hello, dearest,” she said, breezing past me into the foyer. I got a whiff of her breath, and the aroma wasn’t Eau de Cologne. It was more like Vat 69, and I’d have to demolish a good many whiskey sours before I came anywhere near Martha’s lofty position on cloud nine. She walked directly to the liquor cabinet, rooted around among the bottles for a while and came up with a full fifth of bourbon. She broke the seal expertly, poured a water glass half full and then plopped down onto the sofa.

“I’m happy as hell,” she announced.

“I can see that.”

“I put the little louse to bed early,” she explained, “and I’ve been pedaling from bar to bar.” She looked around fuzzily. “What bar is this, darling?”

“Why don’t you go home, Martha?” I said.

“Home? The party’s just started. Tomorrow’s Saturday. No goddamn show, no goddamn noses to wipe. Brother, this is my night to foul.”

“Howl.”

“Foul. I’m not that drunk.”

“What brought you here, Martha?”

Martha did a disappearing liquid act with the bourbon in her glass, and then filled the glass again. “You, darling,” she said.

“I know I’m irresistible, but...”

“You’re no more irresistible than any other jerk in town, except you own a typewriter. Even that doesn’t make you different than the rest.”

“What does?”

“You write Rocketeers.”

“I told you...”

“I’m not as stupid as I look, Jon,” Martha said.

“I never thought you looked stupid, Martha.”

“Are those pajamas you’re wearing?” she asked, as if noticing them for the first time.

“Yes.”

She lifted one eyebrow. “How cosy.”

“How.”

“I got to thinking, Jon. I sniffed around and found out why you were leasing the show. With Cynthia dead, you won’t have to leave it any more. You’ve been writing it since B.C., and you can go on writing it just the way you like.”

“I’m still leaving, I think.”

“You won’t leave. Rocketeers is in your blood. If you went over to Captain Jet, you wouldn’t be able to sleep nights.”

“I can’t sleep nights, now, anyway.”

Martha Findlay grinned recklessly. “Have you tried a hot water bottle?”

“I’ve got an electric blanket, thanks.”

She stood up suddenly, smoothing her skirt over her wide hips. “You’re being dumb, Jon, real dumb. I’m not exactly ready for the glue works.”

“No one said you were.”

“Damn right, no one said it. They’d have to be blind to say it.”

“Martha, why don’t you go home? I’ve got enough headaches without worrying about your son’s career.”

“You think I’m worrying about my son’s career? You think that’s it?”

“Well, you don’t leave much choice.”

“I’m worrying about one little number, and that number is pretty big, and that number is Martha Findlay. That’s who I’m worrying about. Look, Jon, let’s face it. I’ve got a lot of it now, all in trumps. I’m not going to have it forever, like the diamonds song says, and pretty soon that brat’ll grow up and take unto himself a spouse. That leaves Martha Findlay with a figure like a hippo, and a son with another woman to worry about. There’s nothing worse than a big girl who turns to fat, believe me.”

“You’re not turning yet,” I said, truthfully.

“I know. Give it time. That’s why I want Richie to hit the gravy train now, when I can still get something out of it. It’s been no picnic raising him alone, believe me. I’ll be damned if his wife is going to get all the dessert. Where’s that bourbon?”

She poured herself another glassful, trying to recapture the wearing-thin edge of her stupor. She swallowed that, and then poured and consumed another glassful, and I expected her to fall flat on her face. She didn’t. The two glasses hit her like a ton of nitro, and her eyes glazed, and her tongue thickened, but all she did was stagger towards me and throw her arms around my neck.

“That’s why you’re being silly, Jon baby. Very silly. That’s why you are.”

“Why, Martha?”

“Because all you got to do is give the show to Richie for two weeks or so, even a week or so, that’s all, Jon baby, that’s all. And then Martha Findlay shows her gratitude. Jon, I’m the most gratuitous girl in town.”

“I can imagine,” I said, holding back a smile.

“It’s no skin off your nose, and Jon honey, would I be grateful? I’ll be more grateful than you can possibly imagine, Jon sweetie.”

“Martha, go home. You’re loaded and you don’t know what the hell you’re offering.”

“I don’t, huh? I don’t, huh? I know damn well what I’m offering, Mr. Crane. Maybe you don’t know what I’m offering, huh? Hey, maybe that’s it.” Her hands roamed up the front of her blouse and stopped near the top button.

“Save that for when you’re home,” I said. “Come on, Martha let’s call it a night.”

“I think I’ll stay,” she said. “You need convincing.”

“I think you’ll go, honey.”

“I shoulda got married again,” she said morosely.

“You should have.”

“Like Cynthia. She was the smart one, all right.”

“Sure,” I said, “like Cynthia. Come on, honey.” I started steering her toward the door, and then she said, “Cynthia knew, by God, she knew it was best being married.”

“Sure,” I said. “Sure, sure.”

“And then she got killed. Damn shame, even if I didn’t like her.”

“That’s the way it goes,” I said. I was at the door now, with Martha’s elbow cupped in my hand. I started to unlock the door, and she whirled away from me.

“Is that right? Is it right she should get killed so close to her wedding?”

“What wedding?” I asked.

“Her wedding! For God’s sake, you stupid or something?”

“Yes, Martha, I’m stupid. Goodnight, doll.”

I opened the door, ready to shove her out in the hallway. She slammed the door shut and leaned against it, and then bent forward conspiratorially.

“She was gonna get married. Yes, Cynthia. Yes, little Cynthia. You didn’t know that, did you? You’re a bigshot writer, hut you didn’t know that.”

“No, I didn’t,” I said slowly. “Well, she was. So there.” Martha opened the door. “G’night, hard man. You’ll regret this someday.”

This time, I slammed the door.

“What do you mean, she was going to get married?”

“She was. Cynthia. She told me herself. Only thing she wouldn’t talk with me was business.”

“When? When was she going to get married?”

“A few weeks. I forget the exact date.”

“To whom?”

“Who? I don’t know.” Martha turned and fiddled with the door knob again. I grabbed her shoulder and spun her around, and she looked up and said, “You changing your mind, Jonny?”

“No. Who was Cynthia going to marry?”

“She didn’t say,” Martha answered. “Hey, why’re you so interested, huh? How come you’re so...”

“You’re sure she didn’t say?”

“I ought to know what she said, oughtn’t I? To know?”

“Was it Artie Schaefer?”

“She didn’t say, I told you. What do I have to do to...”

“Did she tell you anything about him?”

“Only that he was the sweetest, kindest, nicest man in the whole world.”

“That helps,” I said.

“Am I staying or going, Mr. Crane? If I stay, I want something comfortable to get into. If I’m going, the night is young, and tomorrow’s Saturday.”

“You’re going, honey.”

“Which shows all you know about women. Well, g’night, sucker.”

She opened the door, and this time I didn’t stop her. She closed it behind her, and I heard the click of her high heels down the corridor outside, and then the whine of the elevator as it started up the shaft.

Cynthia was going to get married!

And Cynthia was pregnant.

And now Cynthia was dead.

And so was Artie Schaefer.

And somewhere in that quatrain, there was meaning. Somewhere in it, but I didn’t know where. I mixed another whiskey sour, and I drank it slowly, trying to figure it all out, trying to see between the lines of the quatrain. The lines kept blurring because Andy’s face was hidden behind them, and Andy fit into the picture somewhere, too.

Had the killer mentioned his wedding plans to Andy? Or had it been the killer whom Cynthia had planned to marry? Why couldn’t it have been Artie Schaefer, or even Joe Shmoe who worked at a popcorn stand on Second Avenue? Why couldn’t it have been anyone, a boy back home, a cameramen, a sponsor, an anybody, or a nobody?

That was just it. It could have been anyone.

I finally fell asleep.

I woke up with ideas, and the ideas seemed so simple that I kicked myself around for not having thought of them before. I called Detective-Sergeant George Hilton even before I got out of my pajamas.

The first thing I said was, “Anything on Andy yet?”

“No, but we’re still working,” Hilton said.

“Well look, George, I’ve had a few ideas. Stop me if I’m wrong.”

“Go ahead.”

“First, there were a lot of cameramen in the studio the day Cynthia Finch was killed. I thought...”

“We checked on every one of them, Jon. Three all told. At the time of her death they were all in a nearby neighborhood drugstore plotting camera angles for the evening show.”

“I see. Well, one other idea. Andy was snatched on Thursday, but she was snatched either while Rocketeers was on the air, or shortly thereafter. I know because I called her right after leaving the studio.”

“Yeah?”

“Well, everyone connected with the show was at the studio when she was grabbed. I don’t know about Felix Nechler, but...”

“Thursday is a late night at Macy’s,” Hilton said, “and Nechler hasn’t missed a day’s work since this all started.”

“All right, that’s my point. It figures that the murderer had someone kidnap Andy. I mean, he didn’t do it himself. That will explain why everyone was right on the job Friday. There was no necessity to stand guard over Andy. Someone was doing that for the murderer.”

“You’ve got something there, Jon.”

“Well, today is Saturday. No one has to report to the studio, least of all the murderer. He’s probably stayed away from Andy up to now, which is why she hasn’t turned up floating in the river. But now he’s free. He’s got today and tomorrow to do whatever the hell he plans on doing, and when he reports to work Monday, no one will be the wiser. You follow me, George?”

“I’m with you. You mean if he’s going to kill her, he’ll do it over the weekend.”

“Right.”

“That means we have to work fast. The damn trouble is...”

“No leads.”

“No leads. There wasn’t a clue anywhere in her apartment.”

“I’m going to take a run down to the studio, George. Maybe I can dig up something there.”

“We’ve covered it pretty thoroughly, but if you feel...”

“I want to try.”

“Okay, Jon. Good luck. I’ll keep you posted.”

“Thanks. So long, George.”

I hung up and then got into some street clothing after washing and shaving. I was knotting my tie when the phone rang. I left the tie hanging around my neck loose, walked into the living room, picked the phone from its cradle, and said, “Jonathan Crane.”

“Jon, I have to make this fast.” The voice was a whisper, but it couldn’t have been anyone else.

“Andy! Andy, are you all right?”

“Jon, I know who it is. I remembered.”

There was the sound of a band behind her, brasses blasting, a bass drum pounding. She was speaking in a whisper, and I could hardly hear her over the noise of the radio.

“Andy, where are you?”

The band got louder, as if someone had suddenly turned up the volume on the radio. Andy said something in a whisper, but all I heard was, “It’s...” and then her voice was drowned out by the brasses.

“Who?” I shouted. “Andy, where are you?”

“I know it was him,” she whispered, “because he said, ‘In a little while, she’ll be taking the orders from me.’ ” The noise of the band was receding again, and I wished whoever was fiddling with the radio would cut it out. “I didn’t know what he meant, and he smiled and said, ‘The bells are ringing, baby’ and I still didn’t know what he meant. But they were probably going to get married, Jon. And then...”

“Andy, who? And where are you? Baby, where...”

“I’m...”

And then there was a click on the line, and a silence as deep as the Atlantic Ocean.

“Andy!” I shouted.

I began jiggling the hook, and when the operator came on, I said, “Operator, can you trace that phone call, please?”

“I’m sorry, sir,” she answered automatically. “We are not permitted...”

“Goddammit, this is a matter of life and death.”

“I’m sorry, sir. Regulations do not permit...”

“Oh, hell!” I shouted, and I slammed down the receiver. I picked it up again instantly, and dialed Homicide after what seemed like an eternity waiting for a dial tone. When Hilton came on, I said, “George, Andy just called me.”

“What? Where is she?”

“She didn’t say. Someone cut her off. Hey, what the hell is this?”

I had just become aware of the brasses and bass drums on the other end of the line. They kept getting louder until they filled the phone, and I shouted, “For Christ’s sake, turn down that radio.”

“I can’t,” Hilton said. “It’s not a radio.”

“What the hell is it then?”

“A band. Outside my window. A parade, Jon.”

“A par... George! That band was behind Andy when she called!”

“What? When was this?”

“Two, three minutes ago. Which way is the parade going?”

“Downtown. I want to get on this right away, Jon. I’ll get every damn radio car in the city.”

“Go ahead. She knows who it is, George. The guy who was going to marry Cynthia. She knows who.”

“What guy? What marriage? What are you talking about?”

“Go get Andy. I’m heading for the studio. I’ll call you in a half hour. George...”

“Yeah?”

“Find her. Please.”

“I will,” he promised, and then he hung up, and I visualized him tracing the parade’s progress back two or three minutes and knocking on every damned door in the vicinity. There was nothing I could do to help, and I couldn’t sit still anyway. I tied my tie and then left the apartment, catching a cab and heading for the studio.

The watchman let me in when he recognized me, and I took the iron steps up to the third floor. The studio was in darkness. I switched on one light, and then stood in the center of the concrete floor, wondering where to begin, wondering how I’d find what I was looking for.

The cameras stood around like silent robots. The overhead mikes dangled from the ceiling on thin wires. I walked onto the Martian set, the weird plants casting long irregular shadows on the concrete. My shoes padded silently on the Martian sands, and then I was walking past Earth Control Office, and back to the room where Stu Shaughnessy kept his props, and then over to the brick wall where the flats were stacked, and the concrete stretch of floor upon which I’d found Cynthia Finch.

There was still a brownish-red smear on the floor, where her head had rested.

I tried to picture it. I tried to visualize it happening, tried to reconstruct it. She’d gone to Stu’s prop room first, so I walked back past the flats, and into the prop room, turning on the overhead bulb. The props were arranged neatly on the table top. Oxygen masks, the death-ray guns, the space projector, the wind guide, all of them, all the phony accoutrements that went into Rocketeers. Alongside the props was a can of turpentine, and alongside that an open bucket of the stuff, with two paint brushes stuck into it.

I picked up one of the death-ray guns. It had a heavy plastic handle, probably loaded with lead to give the gun a proper balance. I squeezed the trigger. I heard the flint catch, and then the spark clicked in the open breach, and then the other sparks came from the nozzle of the gun, while the entire weapon glowed from the light generated by the batteries inside.

Cynthia Finch had been holding one of these guns when she died.

Dave Halliday had left her talking to Stu Shaughnessy. Stu had been showing her how the gun operated. I tried to picture the scene. How do you show someone how something operates?

There were two death-ray guns.

Could Stu Shaughnessy have been holding the second gun?

Could he have said something like, “You hold it this way, Cynthia, and then you squeeze the trigger?”

Could they have been standing near the prop table? Could there have been an open bucket of turps on it, just the way there was now?

And could Cynthia Finch have said, “I’m pregnant, Stu. And the baby’s not yours?”

I saw it clearly then, sharply, as if I were watching it on the monitor, the image sharply defined in blacks and whites.

She told him, and he probably flew into a rage. He reached for the open bucket of turps, threw it in her face, wanting to hurt her in some way, but not wanting to kill her, wanting only to strike at her the way she had struck at him, wanting only to... to soil her perhaps, to cover her with the filth of an open turps bucket.

He threw the turpentine at her, and she probably drew back, the death-ray gun in her hand. And then she did instinctively what anyone with a gun in his hand would do when threatened with violence.

She squeezed the trigger.

She squeezed the trigger, and the flint snapped in the breach, and the spark came, and the spark ignited the turps that had drenched her woolen dress and her face.

She probably turned to run, fleeing down the dark passageway where the flats were stacked, seeking help.

And Stu had run after her, the second gun in his hand. He’d swung the gun and caught her on the back of her head with the heavy plastic handle. He’d picked up her gun where she’d dropped it, and then brought both guns together with the oxygen masks out to the set, giving the guns to the actors, hopelessly smearing any prints on them.

Stu Shaughnessy.

The man with pride in his work. Stu Shaughnessy, whom Cynthia had utterly and irrevocably destroyed by telling him she was bearing another man’s child.

I hefted the death-ray gun on my palm.

Stu Shaughnessy. It fit. It fit it Andy corroborated it. It fit if he was the man Cynthia had promised to marry.

“What are you doing, Jon?” the voice asked.

I turned, lifting the gun unconsciously, instinctively, the way Cynthia must have done when the searing turps splashed into her face.

The gun that looked back at me was not made of plastic.

It did not shoot harmless little sparks.

It was big, and real, and it looked like a .45, and Stu Shaughnessy’s hand was clasped tightly around the walnut stock.

“Hello, Stu,” I said.

“What are you doing; Jon?” he repeated. The light from the overhead bulb cast a brilliant reflection on his black-rimmed glasses. He looked very intense and very serious, and he held the big, blue-black .45 steady. “You know I don’t like anyone in my prop room.”

“I was just looking around,” I said uneasily.

“For what?”

“Just looking.”

“What’d you find?”

“Nothing. What’s the gun for, Stu?”

“What’d you find, Jon?”

“Nothing, I said.”

“The turpentine, maybe?”

“What turpentine?”

“The turpentine, Jon. Don’t play dumb, Jon. I saw you holding hands with Hilton. Don’t tell me the police haven’t figured the turps angle yet.”

“All right, they have,” I said.

“Sure,” Stu said, seriously. “That’s why I’m here. As long as that blowtorch angle had them busy, the turps were safe. Besides, I couldn’t take them out of the studio with everyone around. But I’ll get rid of them now, and then I’d like to see them pin anything on me.”

“It’s too late for that, Stu. The police have probably found Andy by this time.”

“You’re lying.”

“No, I’m not.”

“So what? What good will it do when they find her? I didn’t kidnap her. Someone else did. Someone I hired. Let them prove I was behind it.”

“Kidnaping is a federal offense, Stu. Your stooge may not feel like riding it out alone.”

Stu considered this for a moment, and his mouth tightened. “You shouldn’t have come snooping around, Jon. This is a personal matter.”

“You knew she was pregnant?”

“Yes,” he almost shouted. I saw the gun hand waver, and I edged closer to the prop table, putting my hands flat on the table top behind me, putting down the plastic gun because I wanted both hands when I started my play. “Pregnant, that lousy cheat! Artie Schaefer’s kid, Artie Schaefer who only dated her a few times. It speaks well for the morality of Cynthia Finch, doesn’t it? I took care of him, too. I took care of him, all right.”

“You did, Stu.”

“She had the gall to tell it to me, just like that. Like exchanging pleasantries at breakfast. ‘I’m pregnant, Stu. Will you marry me, anyway?’ I married her, all right. I married her to fire and a dented skull, and then I got the guy who ruined it for me. It’s too bad you came into this, Jon. It’s too bad you and Andy...”

I reached for the bucket of turps, whipping it around with the open circle pointed toward Stu. I threw with all my might, and the brushes flopped out of the can, and the commingled turpentine and paint splashed into Stu’s face and eyes. He backed off screaming, the .45 going off once, twice, firing blindly into the walls of the small prop room.

And then my fist collided with his jaw, and the gun clattered to the concrete, and I hit him again just before he dropped down alongside the gun.

It was all over for Stu Shaughnessy.

We sat together in the restaurant, the three of us. George Hilton looked peculiarly spruced in his dress-up clothes, and Andy looked wonderful, and I couldn’t get enough looking at her.

“I don’t understand,” I said, “how you realized it was Stu. All right, even if you did know he was going to marry Cynthia...”

“The papers, silly,” she said, squeezing my hand and smiling brightly. I wanted to kiss her right then and there, but I remembered George Hilton.

“What papers, doll?” I asked.

“The ones Charlie brought in. He was very nice, Charlie,” Andy said. “I hope you won’t go too hard on him. After all, he was just being paid for a job.”

“Charlie is a kidnaper,” George said, “no matter how you slice it.”

“Still, he was very nice to me. Even when he caught me phoning you, Jon, he simply hung up and said, ‘Did you tell him where you were?’ And when I said I hadn’t, he just warned me to stay away from the phone after that.”

“As a matter of fact,” George said, “he ripped the phone from the wall. When we got there, we found it that way.”

“Yes,” Andy said. “Charlie was very strong.”

“I never knocked on so many doors in my life,” George said, sighing.

“Well, thank you, sir,” Andy said, smiling.

“About the papers,” I prompted. “What papers?”

“The daily newspapers. It was Saturday’s paper that carried the story about Cynthia having been pregnant.”

“That’s right,” George said. “We released the story Friday night.”

“Well, the minute I saw that, I went over the conversations again. That was when the wedding bells rang. It seemed like the only thing that made sense.”

“Did you see this paper?” I asked, pulling out the phony headlines I’d had made in the penny arcade.

Andy looked at the bold black ANDREA MANN ASSAULT VICTIM, and then squealed, “Oh, you darling little prophet,” and threw her arms around my neck.

George Hilton looked at the headline and said, “Huh?”

Andy took her mouth away from mine and winked at George. “Silly,” she said, “he just proposed!”

Which I guess I had.