Bullet Proof - Frank Kane

the back shelf filled his glass to the brim. Way here from that cute little blonde he used to run around with Lydell, The bartender wanted to know Muggsy and I guess she's gone Hollywood on me, Mike, haven't heard in a couple of weeks. Her old man tells me she's been working on a new picture out there. He dropped a bill on the bar, watched the bartender pick it up, replace it with a diamond a nickel. Ain't that a hell of a fate for a good newspaper woman,

better than workin', the bartender grunted. Somewhere, a phone shrilled, and the man behind the bar shuffled off to answer it. Lydell regarded his full glass morosely considered the advisability of opening a Hollywood office. He decided against it. Debated the alternative of making a pass at his red headed secretary, got a momentary lift out of the prospect, decided he was looking for trouble. It's for you, Lydell. The bartender

called from the other end of the bar. Lydell grabbed his glass, shouldered his way to where the bartender stood holding the receiver. My office. The bartender shrugged, shuffled back to his station behind the bar. Yeah, Lydell asked the mouthpiece. You'd better get on back to the office, Johnny, sounds like some business coming out way. A dame called twice within fifteen minutes. Has to talk to you, Lydell groaned,

Not another dog poisoning case. Didn't sound like it. She told him this babe sounded like she was in real trouble. Wouldn't tell me who she was or where you could reach her. She said she'd call back in fifteen minutes. That means you'd better finish that glas. She'd got in your hand. Proto what do you mean glass in my hand? She laughed at him. This is pinky boss. What do you think I mean by glass in your hand? The

receiver clicked in his ear. The red head was in the outer office, stabbing away at a typewriter when he came in. She looked up, shook her head. Hasn't called back yet, but it should be any second now, she grinned maliciously. I hope I didn't break up anything. Lydell scowled at her, stamped into his private office, dropped into his chair. He grimaced at the pile of correspondence on his desk. The phone rang exactly six minutes after he

had gotten back. The voice on the other end sounded breathless, mister Lydell, that's right, who's this, Jean Merritt. I've been trying to reach you for the past hour. Lydell nodded, I've been on a case. What's it all about? There was a pause, then a low, tense voice murder. Who's my father, Matt Merritt. They've been able to make it look like suicide, mister Lydell, but I know he's been murdered. I want you to get the proof. Have you hon to the police with us? I can't. They're watching me.

If they knew I was talking to you, they'd kill me. Lydell scratched the side of his jaw. Can you come over here and talk it over? I wouldn't dare Where are yo? Now? She hesitated, I'm at the Hotel Westmore, But please don't come here, mister Lydell, thin'd no an My life wouldn't be worth a dime. Lydell scowled at the phone. I've got to see you. If you won't come here and I can't go there, where'll it be? Can't we meet on the outside some place by to night?

I may be able to shake them long enough to meet you at a bar. The voice was emphatic. No, it's got to be out in the open, some place where I can be sure I'm not being followed. What time do you think you'll be able to make it? There was a pause, Not before ten thirty? Would that be too late? Lydell looked out the window over Bryant Park, groaned inwardly at the threatening cloud banks over the Public Library. I guess it'll have to do. Where'll it be? Can

you suggest a place? I don't know too much about this part of New York? Lydell pulled his desk, pat to the edge of the desk, scribbled a few notes on it. There's an all night drug store at the corner of Lexington in twenty eighth. How'll that be? I'll be there at ten thirty, the receiver promised. If I'm a little late, wait for me. Lydell returned the receiver to its hook, glared at it. Why is it that all the screwballs come to me? The red head pursed

her lips humorously. Do you want me to answer that, mister Lydell? Johnny Lydell yanked irritably on his coat collar, drew it closer to his face in a fruitless effort to stave off the pelting rain. He took a deep drag on the soggy cigarette he held cupped in his hand, fervently cursed the fate that had made him a private investigator. The gleaming, wet face of the jeweler's clock across the street put the time at twelve o'clock, and the girl

had been due at ten thirty. He was painfully aware that he should have insisted on seeing her immediately when she He took one last deep drag on the cigarette, flipped it toward the gutter, sloshed into the all night drug store, whose awning had given him questionable refuge from the driving rain. A tired looking, middle aged clerk looked up from the morning tabloid as Lidel walked in, made a half hearted attempt to wipe the boredom out of

his eyes. Sighed as the detective passed him on his way to the row of phone booths, dropped his eyes back to the newspaper he had been reading. Lydel flipped through the pages of the telephone directory, underscored a number with his thumb nail, fished a dime from his pocket. He stepped into the booth, dialed the number of the Hotel Westmore. Hotel Westmore, Good Evening. The metallic voice of the hotel operator responded, not unless you're a duck. Lydell growled,

Let me talk to him his Merrit's room. The receiver giggled at him. Whom did you wish, sir, Miss Merrit, Miss Jean Merritt. There was a brief pause, Sorry, sir, I have no Miss Merit on my register. I'll give you the front desk, sir. There was a click, then Stevens desk clerk speaking Miss Jean Merritt. Sorry, sir, Miss Merritt has checked out, checked out? Where'd she go? We don't have that information, Sir. Lydell tossed the receiver on its hook, rubbed the heel of his hand along the

stubble on his chin, scowled at the instrument. He fished another dime from his pocket, dialed the number of his office. After a moment, the answering service came on mister Lyddell's office. The receiver chanted, this is Lydell. Any calls just one, mister Lydell, your secretary. She wants you to call her as soon as you check in. Lydell made the third call, heard pinky, sleepy voice at the other end of the phone.

What time is it anyway, she yawned. Wouldn't it be easier for you to get a clock than to have me calling in the middle of the night. Very funny, the girl retorted, It just so happens that I expected you to be checking in before you kept the date with the Merrick girl. I wanted to tell you we got a check for five hundred dollars as a retainer from her right after you left. How'd it come? Western Union Messenger how'd it go with her? I mean it didn't.

She didn't show up. I thought she might have called to call it off or something. The receiver laughed at him, he must be soaked. Instead of laughing at me, you ought to invite me to drop by and get out of my wet clothes into a dry martini. It might be arranged if you promised to be nice and quiet and not annoy the neighbors. After all, what would they think if they saw a strange man dropping by at this hour? Nothing strange about me. I'm the most normal

guy you ever saw. See you in a little while. He hung up the phone started for the door. He had almost reached it when he noticed the black sedan idling at the curve. He caught a dull glint of motion in the back seat, dived for the counter and hugged the floor. The snub nose of a submachine gun poked out of the rear window of the car and started raking the store with buzzing death. Little boxes danced off the shelves, glass crashed in a neat line of

holes appeared on the wall over Lighthell's head. As if by magic, he tugged the forty five from its shoulder. Holster focused all his attention on the front door. There was a sudden let up in the monotonous rhythm of the Tommy gun. A man appeared in the doorway. He was tall, thin, the coat collar of his dark overcoat pulled up around his face. He held two thirty eight Specials in his hands. Before his roving eyes could pick out Lydell, the private investigator fired the forty five, sounding

like a cap pistol. After the shattering blast of the tommy gun, the man in the doorway staggered back as the heavy slugs hid him. The guns in his hands started belching orange flames, and Lydell could see the slugs chew bits out of the counter near his head. He raised the forty five deliberately, aimed at the gunman's mid section, squeezed the trigger. The man's body jerked as the heavy slugs rammed into it. He folded his hands across his belly, went to his knees, then slid out full length on

his face. Lydell crawled across the debris to where he could command a view of the street. The sedan was beginning to roll away from the curb. Its rear window, belching a renewed rain of flame and death. In the rear window of the car, Lidell caught a momentary glimpse of a gross, fat face with thick, pouting lips in a flabby neck that bulged over its collar. He had barely timed a catalog for future reference. The beady little eyes buttressed by heavy pouches that peered down the barrel

of the Tommy gun. Somewhere in the distance, a police siren moaned. The gun stopped coughing abruptly, leaving a silent void that was almost deafening. Lydell was on his feet and into the street in time to see the heavy sedan lurching around the nearest corner. He flung two parting shots after it was reloading. When the police car skidded to a stop at the curb, Okay, Jesse James, A gruff voice commanded, drop the artillery. Turn around real slow, so's we can take a look at you. Lydell obediently

let the forty five slip to the sidewalk. He turned to face the uniform policeman who was scrambling from the police car riot gun in hand, having fun buster the cop asked, his eyes rove beyond Lidell to the wrecked front of the drug store. Looks like you've had a busy night, plenty busy, mostly ducking. Lydell grinned bleakly. Just an innocent bystander, eh. The CoP's eyes picked out the body of the thin man lying in the doorway face down.

He wasn't so good at ducking, no doubt. He motioned lydel back against the store front with the snout of the riot gun, walked over, picked up the forty five. I'll keep this guy covered, ray, he called over his shoulder to his partner, who was covering him from the rear. Better have a look at the guy in the doorway. This wasn't my party, buddon. Lydell told the cop placidly, like you said, I'm just an innocent bystander. The cop grinned frostily. Hefted Lydell's forty five in his hand. You'd

probably just wear this Sojia coat while hang straight. No doubt, it's licensed. Lydell told him. I'm a private op, names Johnny Lydell. I have my papers here if you like to see him. He motioned toward his breast pocket froze when the CoP's finger tightened on the trigger of the riot gun. If I was you and I wanted to keep breathing, I wouldn't make no sudden moves like that. The cop advised, when I want to see your papers,

I'll come get 'em. Second cop knelt beside the body of the thin man, turned him over, grunted, this is a job for the meat wagon ed. He got up, brushed off the knees of his blue pants. Stop three big ones. He walked over joined his partner. What's eyes irony packing a forty five. The second cop nodded, I would do it. He says, he's a private eye. The cop with the riot gun didn't take his eyes off Lydell as a license and everything. He says, maybe we ought to have a look at it while we're waiting.

The second cop stepped over to Lydell, careful not to come between him and his partner's gun, reached into his jacket pocket brought out a wallet. He rifled through the credentials, copying off a few notations into a large leather notebook. Better take a long, fond look at these, pal he grinned at lydel I got a nine. Yeah, you won't be having this license very long. Since when is it against the law to stop a guy who's out to

burn you down? Lydell was unimpressed. Besides the guy in the car with the Tommy gun, this Gunzel was out looking for me with two thirty eights. Save the song for the inspector pal He's got a real ear for sad music, Lydell shrugged, suits me. Only don't you think somebody ought to get in there and look after the clerk? Clerk and there the cop flicked a worried look at the wreckage of the store. There was one in there

when the guitar serenade started. Maybe it might be an idea to dig him out from under all those aspirins and feed him a couple end of chapter one, Chapter two. Inspector Hurley he sat behind an oversized, varnished desk in his office at headquarters, eyeing Johnny Lydell without enthusiasm. He chomped methodically on a wad of gum. Suppose you come clean on this one, Johnny. You know I don't like

trouble in my division. Lydell shrugged. I don't know any more than what I told your men, Inspector, I was making a telephone call when I came out of the booth. I spotted his car out front. They let go with a tommy gun and I hit the floor hurley. He scowled, made an impatient gesture, and the guy in the doorway died of old age waiting for you to come out. No, he wasn't the patient kind. He came to get me. That was a mistake. You should have shown him your

press clippings. He didn't know how tough you are. The inspector reached over, pulled a typewritten sheet from his correspondence basket, scowled at it. It's a lucky thing for you. The clerk in that store backs you up on most of it, but he also says you were hanging around out front for a couple hours before the shooting started. What for? Lydell fished through his pockets, brought up a pack of cigarettes,

held them up for approval. Okay to smoke. The inspector nodded, impatiently, tapped stubby fingers on the arm of his chair, watched Lidell deliberately hang a cigarette from the corner of his mouth. I ask you what you were hanging around that store for Lidell. I was supposed to meet somebody there. They were late, anyone I know? I don't know if I'm at liberty to discuss my client inspector and working on a case. He leaned across the desk. His voice was

dangerously low. Look, Seamus, I'm not interested in your client or any case you're working on. I am interested in the fact that some hoodlums decided to shoot up my district. I want to know who they are and why they did it, So do I inspect her? Curly, He pulled himself from behind his desk, stamped over to the water cooler in the corner, half filled a paper cup, drained it. Who handled that? Tommy gun tonight Lydell Lydell shrugged, I don't know. The inspector nodded, crushed the paper cup in

his huge hand, threw it at the waste basket. Okay, if that's the way you want it. I played along with you in the past because you leveled with me. You know me well enough to know that I'm not just sounding off when I tell you that If you're holding out on me on this, I'll break you license in all and I'll tell you I'm not holding out. Okay, let's go over it again, curly He stamped back to his chair behind the desk. What were you'd do when

they're waiting for a client? The man behind the desk snorted, banged the desk with his fist. What's the matter with your office? Don't you pay your rent? My client didn't want to come to the office. She didn't want anybody to know she had hired me. I don't blame her, Hurley. He leaned back, studied lydel She eh, what is this case you're supposed to be on? Lydell took a deep drag from the cigarette, let the smoke dribble lazily from

his nostrils. It's confidential, Inspector Hurley. He looked tired. A V shaped crease was between his brows. His cold eyes were steady searching his face. Serious. This can be a tough rap for you if I want to stack it up that way, Johnny, he said, We've got a guy on ice wearing three of your slugs for a belt buckle. That license you carry is and investigate his license not a hunting license, he spoke flatly. No malice or emotion.

Evident in his tone. I don't want to have to throw the book at you, but I'm gonna know what's going on in my district, no matter who gets stepped on. Lydell took a drag from the cigarette, held it in his lungs, let it drift from his lips. He returned the inspector's stare impassively. Suppose we start again from the beginning, Curly, He didn't miss a stroke on his gum. Who are you supposed to meet tonight? A client? What was her name?

Lightell's sighed. I don't think you could make a rap stick on me, Inspector, and I don't think you think you can either. Don't make me prove it. Shamous Lydell dropped his cigarette to the floor, grounded out with his heel. I'm going to make an exception of this one, Inspector, and I'll tell you some of my clients business, but not because of anything you think you can do to me, because you like the way I part my hair, no doubt, because I think I'll need some help before this is over, Hurly,

he smiled frostily. It's damn decent of you, Lidell. Who is this elusive client. Her name's Merrit, Jean Merritt. The v crease was back between the inspector's brows. He leaned back in his chair, regarded Lidell through lowered lids, and in relation to Matt Merritt, his daughter. Urly, he nodded indicated for Lydell to continue. She called me yesterday afternoon, wanted the agency to look into her old man's death. Give me a better one, Lydell, her old man committed suicide.

Lydell shrugged. She doesn't think so. She's convinced he was murdered. The man behind the desk scratched at his scalp through thick white hair, stared down at his fingernails. Why didn't she come to your office? Scared? Thinks the old man's killers keeping an eye on her. She didn't want to tip that she was having the case reopened. Urly, he rolled his eyes upward from his nails to Lydell's face. But she didn't show after all. I waited from ten

thirty until twelve. Then I called her hotel. She had appeared checked out with no forwarding address. So Lydell shrugged. So maybe she was right, Maybe someone did want to keep her from having the case reopened. The inspector snorted, just because she decided to change hotels. There's a hundred reasons why she should check out, and none of them sounded like what you say. Early, He pulled a pad to the corner of the desk. Who was the hood in the car, Johnny, I don't know. I told you that,

inspector Early. He tossed the pencil down on the desk, disgustedly, you don't know. Some guy takes the trouble to spray enough lead at you to sink a battleship, and you don't know who it was and why. I think it's tied up with Jean Merritt's check out. Somebody found out she contacted me and wants to discourage me from taking on the case. Early, he snorted, All right, Lightel growled. Then you tell me I will, just as soon as I have the answer, Early, he promised grimly. Only then

it will be too late for you to cooperate. Lydel stood up angrily, leaned over the desk, feet a little apart, broad shoulders, slouching, bald fists jam deep in his jacket pockets. I'm getting a little tired of all the Snyder remarks about my holding out. Inspector, I'm no newcomer around here. You know the way I operate, and you know me well enough to know that when I say I'm not holding out, I'm not holding out. You still insist the only reasons these hoods tossed lead at you was to

scay off the merrit case. I still insist. Happen to know who the guy is you gunned out tonight. I didn't have time to get introduced. Lydell growled, Mike Skota know him? Lydell nodded, I've heard of him. You sure it was Skoda checks prints from the slab at Scota? All right, how does he fit in with your merit case? Lydell pinched at his nose with thumb and forefinger. I don't know where he fits, and I don't know who his buddy was, the guy who handled the typewriter. All

I know is the dame was scared. Somebody was out to stop her from breaking this case open, and the minute I tackle it, they start working me over. The inspector leaned back, studied Ightel's angry face, nodded, Okay, maybe you are leveling as far as you know, maybe you really do believe all this ties in with merits suicide. I don't. But how do you figure it? How do I know what you've been up to? Hurly? He grunted.

You might have moved in on some guy's gal. You might even have tried to ring in a pair of trained dice on somebody sensitive enough to discourage you from a repeat performance. He grinned slowly. It doesn't take some guys as long to get unpopular as it does others. You know, Okay, okay, so I'll change my deodor it, But just to make sure I'm not just half safe? How about my gun back? Hurly? He nodded, drew a pat out of his drawer, signed an authorization, slid it

across the desk. A play along with you until I find you being frossing me, Johnny. If I do, you're gonna wish you had stop some of those slugs. The Hotel Westmore was a huge, oppressively modern group of buildings overlooking Riverside Drive and the Hudson River beyond the Cabby swung his hack out of the slow moving stream with such violence that it banged its front wheels against the curb.

Skidded to a stop. A heavily braided door man scowled his disapproval at the driver, yanked open the door, waited while Lydell shoved a bill through the half opened window. He crossed the sidewalk, shouldered his way through a chromed revolving door, entered a thickly carpeted lobby. A few upholstered chairs were occupied by baggy eyed men wearing expensive looking suits,

Countess Mara Tis and the morning tabloids. Lydell walked the block long length of the lobby to an ornate registration desk submitted to the scrutiny of A thin, lantern jawed young man with a carnation in his dark suit. Asked for the house detective. The clerk gave him a startled look, stared up at the clock above the desk, but said two thirty. A m turned reproachful eyes to the detective. Now now the clerk's signal for a bell boy, gave

him instructions in a low voice. The bell boy turned a pair of wise, old young eyes on lydel nodded this way, mester. He led him to the end of the registration desk, turned left to a group of executive offices knocked on a door the second from the end. A heavy voice invited them in. A gray haired man in a dark suit smiled at them, nodded for the bell boy to leave. When the door had closed behind him, he turned to lydel The smile was still on his face,

but his eyes were cold, searching. Now, what can we do for you? Sir? Lydell dropped into a chair on the far side of the desk. I was looking for some information. He brought out his credentials, tossed them across the desk. I was hoping Lee Cassidy would be on. The man picked up the credentials, rifled through him. Cassidy's on the day shift this month. We rotate know him well, worked on a few cases with him while he was still on the force. The gray haired man finished with

the credentials, shoved them back across the desk. So you're Johnny Lydell. The cool eyes studied him, impersonally heard about you. Good, good enough to help you if I can, far as I know, you're okay with the house. Lydell picked up his papers, re arranged them, stowed them in his breast pocket. I want some information about one of your guests, a check out. Why she had a date with me at

ten thirty last night and didn't show. I checked here at midnight, but she was gone with no forwarding address. The house officer blinked, no bad publicity in it for the house, no publicity. Lydell promised, what's the name? Jean Merritt. Lydell watched while the gray haired man jotted the name on a slip of paper. I want to know when she left, where she was going, if possible, in the line on the can she left in. Make yourself comfortable. I'll see what I can do in a few minutes.

He was back. I'm afraid this isn't going to be much good to you, Lidel. He referred to the slip of paper in his hand. Miss Merritt left the hotel at about ten last night, came back at ten twenty with a man. A man. Anybody know him? The house detective shook his head, Not that I could find, He referred back to his notes. They went up to her room, and she called down to have her bill made up, checked out about ten fifty or so. The man paid

the bill left with her. Lydell pinched irritably at his nostrils. Left at about ten the first time. Eh, she was supposed to meet me at ten thirty. I would have given her plenty of time to keep the date. The gray haired man held out a humidor when Lydell shook his head. He helped himself to a cigar. Lit it must have changed a mind. Somebody changed it for her. You're sure nobody got a good look at this guy she was with. The houseman took three quick puffs on

the cigar, examined the burning end with elaborate interest. I hope you haven't forgot, and there would be no publicity about this Lidel. I'm not looking for publicity. I'm looking for my client. He wouldn't beholding out. Why should I. The detective shrugged. I'm not interested in covering up for your client or her boyfriend. I'm just interested in keeping the name of the house out of the papers. How about the car she left in? I had a little

better luck there. We don't have much of a line playing the house after nine, so the doorman remembered putting her and the guy into a cab. He consulted. The paper driver's name was Leo Steinberg. He's a regular on the line. Can I see him? The gray haired man nodded. I passed a word to the starter to keep him there for you. As soon as you get back. He's on a hall, should be back any minute. You can wait in here if you like. Midell pulled himself out

of his chair, reached over, shook hands with the house detective. Thanks, but I think I'll have a little walk with the doorman while I'm waiting. He walked through the elaborate lobby. None of the men in the armchairs had moved, still seemed to be reading the same pages of their tabloids. The doorman's name was Harvey, and under the stimulus of a carefully folded five, he remembered that miss Merritt and her boyfriend didn't do any talking while they were waiting

to load her bags in Steinberg's hack. No, that wasn't usual. She was in the habit of kidding with the doorman, and the bell boys looked to him like she had had a fight with the guy. What do you look like? Skinny guy, dark coat, now much to look at didn't seem No, I couldn't rightly say you could identify him, didn't pay that much attention. A cab slid out of the line of cars heading across town toward the drive, took its place at the end of a small line

parked along the curb at Steinberg. Now, mister, the doorman told Lydell. He led the way down the line to the cab. A thin faced man with a shock of light colored hair grinned toothfully as they approached a Harvey. This guy wants to ask you a couple of questions, Leo, the door man, indicated Lydell. He's interested in the merrit Dame the cab. He looked Lightell over Who the merrit Dame? The doorman repeated patiently, The one with all the bags

the check out. He scratched his head, pursed his lips. M must have been around eleven. The cabby consulted his route card underscored a notation with a grimy fingernail. Oh that one, What about her? Where'd you take her? Leo Lydell wanted to know who'd just say? This character is Harvey, the cabby demanded Friend of the house Dick. Harvey looked at Lydell winked, Leo, figures his time is valuable too, Mister Lydell reached into his pocket brought up a five

that valuable. The Cabby reached over, snared the bill, folded it lovingly. Why didn't you say he was a friend, Harvey? He grinned. What was it you wanted to know? Mister? Where'd you take miss Merritt and the man corner of Madison in forty fourth? Lydell scowled over the information across from the biltmore eh or the Roosevelt? No idea which one they went to? Neither? The Cabby shook his head. There was a car waiting ride alongside while he Frank's

there on forty fourth, no lights. They transferred the bags into that. Lydell groaned, yeah, didn't see the license plate. The Cabby shook his head. Too dark. What kind of a car was it? The big black sedan looked like a buick to me. Lydell gnawed at his knuckle, nodded, you say. They transferred the bags and stuffed to the black car. The Cabby nodded. How about the girl? She seemed to put up any fuss or anything. The Cabby

thought it over, shook his head. She sat in the cab until they had all the bags in the other car, and she got out with the skinny guy and got into it. They was still sitting there when I pulled away. He looked anxiously at Lidel. I hope you got your dose worth? Oh sure Lydell assured him. You couldn't have confused me more if I'd paid a hundred. In the chapter two, Chapter three, at ten the following morning, Johnny Lidell irritably pushed open the ground glass door that bore

the caption. Johnny Lidell Private Investigations slammed it after him. The Redhead sat at a desk in an enclosed space, stabbing listlessly at the keys of a large desk typewriter, taking excessive care not to fracture the finish on her carefully slacked nails. Sorry about last night, pinky, he greeted her. I got tied up. She stopped jabbing at the typewriter keys, turned a pair of sea green eyes on him. So I read. She reached over, pulled a pile of paper

towards her, extracted a clipping from the dispatch. I saved it for you, Lydell grunted, I don't have to read about it. I was there anything new? The Redhead shook her head. A couple of checks on old jobs to check from Miss Merritt. I already told you about that's all. She hasn't phoned or anything, just the check and put it through this morning. She watched him as he pushed through the railing gate started for a door marked private. You've got company in there, your little blond playmate said,

it was all right to wait inside. She shrugged. It's okay with me if it's okay with you. But this is supposed to be a business office, and it's okay with me. Lydell cut her off. The red head sniffed audibly went back to stabbing at the typewriter keys. Then, as Lydell closed his office door behind him, she tore the half finished page out of the carriage, crushed it irritably, threw it at the waste basket. Inside the private office,

Muggsy Keeley sat behind Lydell's desk, polishing her nails. Hi Johnny surprised to see me, Lydell grinned, I thought you were going to stay on the coast for a couple of months, mugs. He walked around the desk kissed her upturned lips. When'd you get in this mornin on the Commodore. Looks like I timed it right. What's going on around here with all the boom boom? Damned if I know? Mugs, He admitted, I was supposed to meet a client last night when these guys opened up on me with a

Tommy gun some client. Muggsy grinned, who was it? A damn name? Merritt, Jean Merritt. Muggsy keelly, grimaced, wrinkled her pert nose that scroupall. How'd she get mixed up with a torpedo like Skota? I don't know that she is. I was supposed to meet her at ten thirty on Lexington Avenue. She didn't show, but the boys with the guitar did. Maybe there's no connection. But the door to the outer office opened. The redhead stalked in and dropped

a pilot letters on the desk. Stalked out, what's with her? Muggsy demanded, Pinky doesn't approve of your using my private office for a boudoir. He nodded toward the nail. Polish thinks that unbusinesslike. I can't say the same for those sweaters she wears in a way she tosses those hips. They really do mean business. Muggsy picked up the letters. The redheaded typed groaned, batspellying a rations, poor spacing. Why don't you get a secretary you can type two? Why

don't you lay off Pinky? She's a good kid, She must be good the way you baby here, Muggsy retorted, why don't you sit down? Or does that rexaw redhead approve of that either. Lydell's sighed dragged the client's chair to the side of the desk, dropped into it. He hooked his heels on the corner of the desk, leaned back. I didn't know how good I had it last night, when all I had to do was dodge bullets? What about last night? Now that you mention it didn't merit

show up at all. She's disappeared. The glimmer of interest flickered in the girl's eyes. Now you, my boy. She reached for the telephone. Wait a minute, baby, Lydell pulled the phone out of her reach. You can't use that yet anyway. I thought you were finished with newspaper work. What happened to that great American movie you were going to write? I didn't like Hollywood, Johnny Muggsy confessed, I

couldn't wait to get back to New York. Besides, Papa is still on the desk, and he'd never forgive either of us. If some beat him to this, Nobody's gonna beat him to it. That's what you say. That dame's name is news. If she disappeared, and if she's tied into last night's shooting, it's a corking yawn. Don't worry about it. Nobody knows she's disappeared except me and the house dick at the Westmore, and he's not likely to spill that one of the house's guests was snatched right

out from under his nose. Every old biddy in the joint would check out in an hour. Muggsy refused to be mollified. I ought to cover pop on this one, Johnny. I can't sit on anything as hot as this. You think this is hot? Before I'm finished, I'll give you a story that'll make this look like kid's stuff. What story? Light Ill shrugged? I haven't got it yet. You didn't even ask what she hired the agency for with her. It could be anything from finding her pet Pekinese to

buying back love letters from the tattooed man at the circus. Okay, I'll play along. What did she hire the agency to do? Find out who murdered her old man? Who murdered her old man? You kidding? Maunt Mary committed suicide? Lydell shrugged, Do me somethin she thinks she was murdered muggsy chewed on the end of a lacquered nail, considered it shook

her head. I don't believe it. That may have been the reason she gave you, but there was something else behind it, such as it could be anything I tell you. With gunmen like Scota and the picture begins to smell like blackmail or unpaid io used, doesn't it. I don't know enough about her, Lydell admitted, give me a fast run down. She's a typical cafe society screwball and one mess after another until the old man toned her down.

Seems to me she's managed to stay out of the columns for the last year or so, but before that she was always in them. Seems to me she's due to get married this month. Who too? The blonde pursed her lips, wrinkled her brow and concentration the family doctor I named she struggled with her memory, shook her head. Let me check. She picked up the phone by the number. Waited, then Hello, advance, gimme Anne Schaeffer on Society. There was a brief pause, Anne, Ronnie Keeley. Fine, No, I'm back

in town for a while. Look, honey, my memory isn't what it was. Do you remember the guy Jean Merritt was going to marry who? Yes, that's the one. Thanks a lot. She dropped the phone back on its cradle. Doctor Seville, Tony Seville. He took care of the old man. How about him? Okay, as far as I know, he didn't play the cellar circuit? How he ever, came to fall for a screwball like the merry kid. I don't know.

That could be the answer. What the fiance? When she checked out of the Westmore last night, there was a man with her. He took care of the bill, took her away from all I could pick up. She went willingly enough. If it was a man, she went willingly lydel scowled, ignored the interruption. He might have talked her out of keeping the appointment, took her home. Why not your brains over it? If she didn't think enough of

it to keep the appointment. Why should you worry? First, because she paid a five hundred dollar retainer and she's got some action coming to her. Second, because the guy she left the hotel with sounded like Skota, and the car they got into sounded like the one they used for the guitar serenade. He punched the button at the base of the phone just the same. It's worth having a talk with doctor Seville. The redhead in the outer office answered her ring pink, you get me the number

of a doctor Tony Saville, will you? She snapped an affirmative click the phone in his ear. Maybe we can wrap this one up fast and have a couple of days to see the sights. Muggsy, what's your pop have to say about your packing in the movie job? Muggsy grinned. He played the same old record newspaper work is no fit work for a woman. It's a dog's life. Still, even with his ulcers, they can't get him to take

a couple of weeks off for a rest. Going back to the advance depends on what on you on how good this story is that you're gonna hand me all wrapped up in pretty ribbons. The desk phone buzzed. Lyidell lifted it to his ear. Doctor Seville has two numbers, Pinky snapped. One is his office on sixtieth in pot The other is his private hospital in Bronxville. Which one do you want? Try him at his office? Will you, Pinky, make an appointment for me to see him right after

launch if possible? He consulted his watch. Any time after one thirty, Doctor Tony Seville was sitting behind his desk, his chair facing out on to the streaming traffic five stories below along Park Avenue when the nurse ushered Johnny Lydell into his office. Mister Lydell, doctor, the nurse announced him. The man in the chair swung around slowly eyed. Lidell disinterestedly waved him to a chair with a careful, manicured hand. His thick black hair was carefully slacked into place. High

cheek bones accentuated, dark liquid eyes. A thin pencil line mustache separated a full, sensuous mouth from a perfectly chiseled nose. He picked up the typewritten mimo. The nurse lated at his elbow, glanced at it. His voice was low, well modulated. You wanted to see me on a personal matter, mister Lydell. His eyes rolled up to the nurse, who nodded back to Lidel. How can I help you? It's about miss Jean Merritt. Doctor Lydell told him, I'm a private investigator.

He dropped into a heavily upholstered chair, waiting until the doctor had dismissed his nurse. Now, Lidell, what about miss Merrit, Savill asked, as soon as the door had closed behind the nurse, I thought you might be here. The dark man raised his eyebrows delicately here. Why should she be here? She checked out of her hotel rather unexpectedly late last night. She left for the man. I thought it might be you. The doctor considered it, twisted a heavy gold ring on

his fourth finger. May I ask your interest in my fiance. Miss Merritt engaged my agency to look into her father's death. The doctor sighed, you know, of course, that her father committed suicide. That's what the coroner says. Miss Merritt thought she had something that proved otherwise, she may have thought she had, Saville conceded, meaning meaning that my fiance has been under a tremendous emotional strain she's prone to some exaggeration.

The doctor leaned over, selected a tubular cigarette from a japanned box on his desk. Try one of these, I have them specially blended lidoll. Selected one, hung it from the corner of his mouth, touched a match to it, drew deeply. He wrinkled his nose as he exhaled twin streams of smoke through his nostrils. I prefer tobacco and mine. He grunted, grounded out in an ashtray to get back to Miss Merritt. You think she's blown her top? Is that?

It not quite that drastic? Of course, Let's say she's very unpredictable as the result of the shock of her father's tragic death. He feted his cigarette into a holder, tilted it in the corner of his mouth. She was very close to her father, you know, very close. He reached into his bottom drawer deposited a bottle with a foreign label and two glasses on his desk. Since you don't approve of my tobacco, may I offer you a drink?

Midell nodded, watched the physician poor stiff portions into each glass. I understood you were to be married this month. We were naturally in view of what has happened, it has been postponed permanently. The physician looked up, a frown marring his forehead. Temporarily. Of course, we will be married as soon as Jean fills up to it. Lydell sipped his drink. Approved. You are Merit's physician. Are you convinced he committed suicide?

Unquestionably he had a reason to kill himself. Saville shrugged. He thought so obviously, and you. The doctor warmed his glass between its palms, sniffed the bouquet. Jean's father was convinced that he was suffering from a malignant condition in his throat. He became despondent withdrew into himself. We tried to convince him that the condition was not as bad as he imagined, but he refused to be consoled. Lydell found one of his own cigarettes. Let it this throat condition.

Was it incurable? In my opinion, no, But we could not persuade him that it wasn't. His mother had died of cancer, and nothing we could say would shake his conviction that he had inherited a tendency toward it. He worried himself to the verge of a nervous breakdown. He shrugged, looked sad. That night he probably cracked altogether. It was tragic. Why should miss Merritt be so convinced that it wasn't suicide. She must have known his mental state. She must know it,

but she won't permit herself to acknowledge it. Lydell, she is a very strong minded person, and to her suicide is an indication of weakness. She can't allow herself to believe that her father, whom she idolized, was weak in any way. Sharley, you could talk her out of it. Saville sipped at his glass, set it back on the corner of his desk. I haven't discussed the matter with Jean since the funeral. She was so upset she expressed

the wish to see nobody. I'm confident that when once she has worked the matter out in her own mind, she'll communicate with me. At that time, of course, I shall do what I can to rid her mind of this fixation. Lydell scowled, swirled the contents of his glass around the side. Does on her behavior of last night indicate she may need some help? The fact that she changed her mind about using your services. You mean, the fact that she's disappeared. What would you suggest I do?

The physician's voice was silky. Called the police and then have to explain to Jeanne after I'd stirred up an official inquiry merely because she'd decided to change hotels. Really, Lidell, it occurs to me that perhaps you are overstepping whatever authority you feel Miss Merritt's phone call may have given you. Maybe maybe not, But until she tells me otherwise, she's a client, and as such she gets all the help

and protection I feel she needs. Lydell growled, I'll go along with you on not dragging the police into this until it's absolutely necessary, But I do think her family should be checked. She has no family. Her nearest living relative is her mother, and she is lying near death in the hospital. Saville caught his drink from the corner of the desk, finished it, dried his lips with a snowy white pocket handkerchief. As you probably know, she was found unconscious at the foot of the stairs leading to

her husband's study the night he died. I didn't know. Lydell admitted stroke some cerebral hemorrhage. However, even more serious are the incidental injuries. Lydell raised his eyebrows. How day happen? The man behind the desk shrugged. We can't be sure. My guess is that she discovered her husband's body, ran for help, suffered the stroke at the head of the stairs, and fell the full length of the staircase. How does she explain it? A slight frown ruffled the placidity of

Saville's expression. She hasn't recovered consciousness sufficiently to explain anything. He spun his chair around, consulted the filing cabinet at his elbow, brought out a large Manila envelope, laid it on the desk. Perhaps you'd like to see the extent of her injuries. These are the x rays we took directly after the accident. He spilled four gray black negatives on the desk, rose and snapped the switch for a

large box like cabinet in the corner. He held the negatives up to the light, selected one, snapped it into place. Lydell could see clearly the outline of a skull with a large, ominous dark area over the ear. In this lateral view of the skull, you can see the full damage to that portion. Sabill's voice had grown professionally impersonal.

He indicated the dark area. Apparently, in her fall down the stairs, the patient's head came into contact with the sharp edge of either a step or the banister, causing a severe fracture. Lydell nodded, crushed out his cigarette, never mind dragging out the rest of the family album. Doc, I'll take your word for it, Savill smiled, snapped off the projector. Sorry, old man, I thought you might be interested. He walked back to his chair, refilled the two glasses.

In addition to the skull fracture, missus Merrit sustained a fractured jaw and a compound fracture of the right arm. And a woman of her advanced age, you can understand such injuries can be very serious. Lydell took a drink from his glass regarded the other man over the rim. Miss Merritt hasn't been around to see her mother since it happened. She has dropped by, of course, and phoned from time to time to ask about her condition. As you can understand, there is little or nothing she can do.

Savill tapped his cigarette hold her against his teeth. So you see, Lydell, it would appear that you are putting too much credence in the hysteria of an emotionally unbalanced girl. Lydell trained his glass, set it on the desk, stood up. I'll wait until I hear from miss Merrit. You can tell her that I am staying at the hotel Abbot if you should hear from her. In the meantime, I'll do my best to earn my fee. Doctor Saville smiled, raised his hands palms upward. That, of course is up

to you. I feel certain that you'll be hearing from her very shortly. In of chapter three, Chapter four, Johnny Lyddell was sitting at the back booth in Lottie's, a small coffee shop that served as a secondary headquarters for the staff of the Advance between editions. He was drinking a glass of milk, stabbing disinterestedly at a slab of pie when Muggsy walked in. She stopped at the counter on the way, ordered a cup of black coffee, slid in next to Lightell. Didn't take you very long, she said.

You couldn't have found out very much. I didn't, Lydell moaned, Oh, I've found out as that the dame is cracked in a nice sort of way, of course, and I'm goofier for paying any attention to her. What do you say when you told him she hired you to find out how her old man died? Lydell shrugged, waited while the waitress deposited a cup of black coffee in front of Mugsy cleared away the remains of a pie, same thing everybody else says. Did he know about it? He says

he hasn't heard from her since the funeral. Seems she likes to go some place and work things out alone. I told you she was a whack, Muggsy reminded him, So you can stop feelin bad if she doesn't take the trouble to even get in touch with the guy she's goin to marry. A mere employee shouldn't be hurt because she decides to stand him up. That part I might buy. Lydell conceded, But who is the guy she left with? And why the Tommy gun serenade for me?

He watched moodily while Muggsy lit two cigarettes, accepted one. What do you know about her mother? The girl screwed up her forehead in concentration, had a stroke or something, didn't She seems to me she was on the critical list at the time of the funeral. She ironed out the creases on her forehead. Shrugged. Just an impression, But I think she's per sick someplace and Doc Saville's private hospital. Lyedelk grunted, fell down a flight of stairs and got

herself all busted up. Apparently she was alone in the house the night it happened, and she took a stroke. Goin for help. I don't know why you don't just pack it in, Johnny. The only thing you're going on is Jean's telephone call, and she's a screwball from way back. Lydel nodded. I probably should, I guess, but before I do, I just want to satisfy myself that the old boy did go out Dutch. The medical examiner was satisfied, and so with the police. Seville was his physician. What does

he say, suicide? He scowled at the tip of his cigarette, But none of them were looking for anything. I am it might make a difference. Muggsy shrugged. It's your time. If you want to throw it around. How you gonna satisfy yourself. Maybe if I could lay my hands on the official photographs and the on the spot testimony, it might help got any contacts out on the island. Doc Travin still the medical examiner out there in Carport. Muggsy nodded,

he was last I heard. Then I got contacts, And if Doc Travin convinces you it was suicide, lydel shrugged, dropped his cigarette to the floor, then I'll ride it off as a dizzy dame's idea of a way to pass a dull, rainy night. I don't know how Scota feels about it, but I'm willing to make believe it never happened. Scota lightel grinned bleakly. Yeah, Scota, the guy

in the morgue. A half an hour later, Johnny Lidell headed his convertible up the East Side Drive to the one hundred and twenty fifth Street ramp to the triborough Bridge. He took the Long Island Entrance, headed south past La Guardia toward Northern Boulevard. Once on Northern, he headed east toward Carport settle back for a forty five minute run. Alongside Himuggsy Keeley leaned her head back on the leather seat,

let the breeze play havoc. With her thick blonde hair, hummed the accompaniment of the car radio by Mitchell consent. Neither of them referred to the cave saw all the way out in carport. The Medical Examiner's office adjoined the morgue in the basement of the new four story stone courthouse. Lightel wheeled the convertible into the courthouse parking lot, squeezed it between two whitewashed lines that were labeled for office

use only locked the car. The cross the courtyard, pushed through a revolving door, followed a stenciled arrow that pointed to Medical Examiner's office. It led down a flight of stairs, past a row of closed doors marked morgue, to a plane door bearing the legend Medical Examiner with doctor T. E. Travin and small letters below it. The dank, damp air of the morgue seemed to permeate through the walls into

the Medical Examiner's office. It was furnished only with a large varnished desk, a row of filing cabinets, two hard wooden chairs, and a row of framed diplomas. On the wall, A thin woman with painfully prominent front teeth stood filing sheets of paper at one cabinet near the door. She looked up as they entered. Doctor Travanan Lydel asked, he's in the building. She acknowledged the rebuff teeth. Kind of

busy right now? Was he expecting you? She pushed a whisper of graying hair out of her face tucked it untidily behind her ear. She had a yellowish complexion that seemed to go with the dankness of the room. I didn't have an appointment, but I think he'll see me, Lydell told her. Tell him it's Lydell. The woman's sigh, dropped her papers on the desktop, wiped her hands along the side of her thighs, slammed the cabinet drawer. I'll see if he can come out, have a seat, She

stalked out of the room, muttering to herself. Lydell, sprawled on a chair watched while Muggsy scrambled up on the corner of the desk, let her heels hit the sides. After a moment, the door swung open. The woman's complaining voice preceded her into the room. But I tell you, he's not in a hurry. You ought to finish that case now. Doctor Captain Holmes wants that autopsy report to day. Will you stop living my life, Smitty? That guy in there can wait. He waited for three days for us

to fish him out of the bay. He can wait another ten minutes to find out why I ended in the bay. The medical examiner walked in, his face dark with a noise ants when he saw Lydell and Muggsy. The annoyance drained out of his face, washed away by a slow grin Muggsy keely By, Oh that's holy. He walked over, grabbed her extended hand, wrung it. He're a sight for sore eyes. The thin woman behind him sniffed audibly. Doctor Travin didn't even turn around. I'll call you and

I need you, Smitty. This is personal business. The woman's bloodless lips flattened into a thin line. A dull flush gave her face and few uneven smears of color. She stalked to the door slammed it behind her. Damned old maid. The medical examiner muttered, the only reason I keep her around is because when she starts to look good to me, I'll know I've been spending too much time with floaters. Have it changed a bit, have you, Doc? Muggsy grinned at him, not even as jokes. Lidell nodded. Don't you

get to say hello to me at all? Doc, I'm afraid to. Every time I say hello to you, it means trouble. He walked over, shook hands with Lydell, pulled the other chair over, dropped into it with a sigh. Keeping you busy, dot, Muggsy wanted to know. Not too busy? Only reason I was out front. They brought in some god that's been in the bay for a couple of days, and all of a sudden they're in a hurry for

a report. What the hell? He's not going any place, doctor, travin with small chipper with a thatch of untidy white hair that belied the youthfulness of the grin that split his face from ear to ear. Never mind that, what brings you to out this way? I just came for the ride and to see you, Muggsy told him that'll be the day. He looked at Lydell curiously. Something going on out here, just routine, Doc, I'm on a case and I wanted to pick up some background on it.

Out here? What's the case? I've been retained to find out what happened to Matt Merritt. His daughter isn't satisfied with a verdict, The medical examiner scowled. Dug a battered briar from one pocket, a pouch from the other. He committed suicide? What's there to find out? He ran the bowl of the pipe into the pouch, packed it with his index finger. What are you really out here on,

Johnny the mat Merrit case, Lyedel told him. He fumbled through his pockets fruitlessly, caught the cigarette mugsy tossed him, stuck it in his mouth, lit it. What makes you so sure it was suicide? Dot, It couldn't be anything else, Travin told him flatly. He scraped a long wooden match on the sole of his shoe, held it to the pipe, sucked in a lungful of blue smoke. Even you can't make it out as anything but suicide. It been wrong before, Doc Lydel chied at him, Not this time, my boy.

He tempted tobacco down in the bowl, burned his finger, swore under his breath. Light El grinned, that's what you said the last time, Doc is this guy pulling my leg muggs. Muggsy shook her head. He's really working for the merrit kid Doc. She doesn't believe the old man killed himself. Travin scowled. That's the craziest damn thing I ever heard. He pulled himself out of the chair, brought a bunch of keys from his pants pocket, selected one, crossed the room to a metal cabinet. He used the

key to open it. Pawed through a file of large envelopes, selected one, tied with a red ribbon, pulled it out of the file. He peered near sightedly at the type notation on the left corner, nodded, brought it back with him. I shouldn't be breaking this stuff open for you without a court order, Johnny, but this is one argument I'm going to win from you. He tossed the envelope into Lightell's lap. Johnny took a last drag on a cigarette,

dropped it to the floor, grounded out. He untied the envelope, pulled out a batch of official photographs rifled through him twice. He stopped to examine a picture at great length. Muggsy hopped off the desk, stood behind his chair, looked over his shoulder. Dead. Quite a job on the top of his head, eh, The medical examined a grinned around the pipe they always do when they stick the gun in their mouth, and pulled the trigger. He pulled the pipe

from between his teeth, pointed with the stem. No sign of a struggle of any kind, you'll notice, Lydell nodded glumly. All right in, Travin crowed triumphantly. Now you tell me that he lets somebody walk up to him, stick a gun in his mouth and not even struggle. You've got a point, Flydell conceded. He rifled through the pictures again, frowned. Selected a long view of the room showing the ceiling. The homicide boys must be getting pretty neat. Doc can't

even see where they dug the slug out. He handed the picture to the medical examiner. Travin peered at it, looked up. I don't get it, neither do I. Johnny Muggsy put in the ceiling. Didn't they have to dig the slug out of the ceiling? Oh no, the slug didn't go into the ceiling. Travin put his pipe in his mouth, ground his teeth on the stem. So what so nothing. Where did the bullet go? I don't think they found it. It was probably spent by the time it went through the top of his head, fell to

the rug and got kicked around in the confusion. Lydel flipped the rest of the pictures onto the desk, stared at them morosely. Sounds like you got a good case for suits suicide all right here? Tight? Doc Travin gathered up the photographs, returned them to their folder. Hope, I haven't spoiled a case for you. We get paid to dig, so I'm digging. That's the motto of the Johnny Lydell Agency service. With a smile. Smile, Hell you laugh right in their face. Travin returned the folder to the file

locked the cabinet. Now what Johnny Muggsy wanted to know? Damned if I know this? One's really got me spinning. Say what are they use around here to revive a guy that's on the verge of a collapse? Doc spirits of ammonia I might have known, Lydell groaned, I'll take my collapse to more hospitable surroundings, the nearest bar, for example. Wait till I get my hat. The medical examiner grinned. You should have your physician along to make sure they

give you the right dosage. End of chapter four, Chapter five. That evening, Johnny Lydell dropped muggs Achellia at her apartment on Central Park South, headed the convertible downtown to the room he maintained at the Hotel Abbot. He turned the car over to the uniformed dorman, flipped him a quarter walked to the lobby entrance. The Hotel Abbot was an old, weather beaten, grime darkened stone building that nestled almost anonymously in a row of similar stone buildings on East thirty

first Street. A small metal plaque to the right of the entrance was the only clue to its identity. The lobby was large, noisy, seemed bathed in a perpetual pink light, the reflection of a huge neon signed to the right of the entrance that identified the cowl room cocktails. The easy chairs spaced throughout the lobby were filled with men whose perusal of their newspapers seemed undisturbed by the hum

of conversation and bustle of activity. A short, fat man stood at the cigar counter, trying with no apparent success to interest the blonde that presided over it with his plans for the evening. She looked over his shoulder waved to Lidell as he came in. Lidell winked back, headed for the bank of elevators, and in rear was deterred by a gesture from the immaculate creature behind the registration desk

A message for you, mister Lydell. He made a production of removing an envelope from the pigeon hole, prominently numbered six twenty five. He handed the envelope across the desk, worked hard at a semblance of an urbane smile that missed by miles. Your friends were very disappointed that they missed you. Lydell nodded, examined the envelope. It bore the return address of the hotel abbot. He looked up into

the eyes of the clerk. They wanted to leave you a message, so I suggested that they use our facilities. He dry washed his hands, bobbed his head like a cork in a stormy inlet. Lydell studied the scrawled Johnny Lidell on the face of the envelope, failed to recognize the handwriting. He ripped open the envelope extracted a piece of paper. It was blank. He growled under his breath. Ran his eyes down the list of new arrivals, failed

to find any familiar names. He flipped back through the pages of the register, seemed satisfied to find that the adjoining rooms and the room across the hall from his were occupied by semi prominent guests. Is anything wrong, mister Lydell? The clerk wanted to know what these friends of mine look like. The clerk looked, startled by the sharpness of Lydell's tone. I really don't know, young men, I'd say, neatly dressed. I didn't pay much attention. I hope nothing's wrong.

I hope you get your hope. The dry hand wash was going full speed. Now. I meet certain not to give your room number out of course, and you kidding, lydel grinned bleakly. He tossed the blank notepaper down on the counter. It is the oldest trick in the world. When you stuck that envelope in my slot, they got the number unless they were blind. He scowled at the shaking clerk strode down to the elevator at the sixth floor, He looked both ways, satisfied himself that there was no

stake out in the corridor. He walked down to the corridor, said at the right angles to the main one found it. Walked down to his room. The keyhole showed no signs of having been tampered with, but it didn't take a locksmith to know that the lock couldn't put up a good struggle with a bent bobby pin. He slid his key softly into the lock, turned it, then, easing the forty five from its holster, he turned the knob, pushed

the door open, flattened himself against the wall. For fully a minute, he stood in the corridor, waiting for some sound to betray the presence of one of his friends in the darkened room. Then he slid into the room, snapped the light, and fanned the room with his forty five. The room was empty. He repeated the procedure with the bathroom and the microscopic kitchen. None of the room showed any sign of having been entered. He walked back across

the bedroom to kick the door shut. Saw a bell boy at the far end of the corridor watching him with an open mouth. He had a sudden inspiration that a brandy wouldn't be amiss, stepped into the hall to talk to the boy. He had hardly stepped into the corridor out of range of the bedroom window when chips of wood and bits of plaster started flying. A sharp splinter of wood snapped against his forehead, drawing blood. Glass shattered, and a picture danced off the wall smashed to the floor.

A woman screamed hysterically, and from some place close a typewriter was spelling out death in a stuttering cadence. Lydell dropped to his knees, crawled back into his room, kicked the corridor door shut behind him, Conscious that the lighted room set him up like a sitting ducky blasted the light fixture half off the wall with the forty five. The Tommy gun continued its lethal chatter. Lydell could hear the pellets whizzing by like angry bees, chewing pieces out

of the woodwork and plaster. He crept to the window applied a cautious eye to the corner. There was a lull in the shooting, probably to allow the gunmen to slide another pen into his gun. Lydell took advantage of the pause to try to localize the source of the shooting. Directly across the narrow street was a movie house, the old Hotel Clinton, a supermodern office building, and on the corner a department store. He settled for the Hotel Clinton.

The flicker of the movie's neonk our key alternately drenched the face of the Clinton in light, then dipped it into darkness. A new sound, the wailing of police sirens converging on the area, split the sudden. Quiet Lydel's eyes flicked across the windows facing his the lighted ones he eliminated, immediately concentrated on the darkened ones. Suddenly, as the movie light blinked on, he caught the bright glint of light

on metal. He leaned the barrel of forty five on the window sill, ignoring the mounting crescendo of running feet and horse shouts in the hallway across the street, A man's leg was thrown across the windows sill was feeling cautiously for the fire escape landing. After a second, the rest of the body came into view. The man peered down over the railing at the street below, seemed satisfied, started down the stairs. Lydell waited until the upper portion of the man's body sat on top of his front

sight squeezed the trigger. There was a loud boom in the closeness of the room, and for a moment the pounding at the door stopped. Across the street, the man on the fire escape staggered. He tried to pull the tommy gun he was carrying into firing position. Lydell's square the trigger again. The tommy gun was apparently too heavy to lift, slipped from the man's hands. He went to his knees, pulled himself to his feet, tried to get

back to the window. The forty five barked again. The man on the fire escape stiffened, clawed at the rail, his knees folded under him. He toppled over the low guard rail, crashed headlong toward the street below. His body hit the sidewalk, lay motionless six stories below. A woman put her hands over her face, flattened back against the building. Other pedestrians scattered in all directions. As Lydell watched, the more hearty witnesses started dribbling back out of the doorways

congregated morbidly around the body from the hotel. A uniform bell boy came out to lead the woman into the hotel lobby. Then, pulling his head in lidel, walked to the door threw it open. The house detective, a normally ruddy faced irishman named Collins, stood uncertainly at the sill, gun in hand, staring wide eyed at the damage the gun had done. Behind him, half a dozen white faces guests stared over his shoulder. What's going on in here,

the house dick demanded. He looked as though he sincerely wished he were someplace else. The thirty eight in his hand was ridiculously toy liked by comparison to the forty five Lydell still carried in his Why didn't somebody tell me my room? Fronted on the municipal rifle range, Lydell growled. The manager's going to hear about this. You can say that again, the house detective breathed. There was a muffled murmur of voices at the end of the corridor, the

pounding of many feet. Suddenly, the night clerk burst into view, followed by two uniform policemen, guns in hand. Down here, Officer, the house dick called, making no attempt to hide his relief at the coming of reinforcements. Here's the guy. The first CoP's face dropped. Lydell recognized him as the same cop who had taken him in the night before, after the shooting outside the drug store. Not again, the cop growled, incredulously, What the hell are you trying to do? Lydell stage

a one man crime waif. The night clerk stood outside the room surveyed the damage. Sadly, he wiped the thin film of perspiration off his forehead with the side of his hand. Groaned. The cop walked over, took a look, whistled. They should choose you up, didn't they. Lydell grinned bleakly. You ought to see the other guy, The cop scowled, held his hand out for the forty five. I did, and he's deader than the mackerel. This winds you another ride down to head quarters. I gotta hunch the inspectors

going to want to have a talk with you. Funny thing. I have the same feeling. Lydell handed the gun to the cop, But first we better not keep him waiting. The night clerk stood wringing his hands. But the room. What am I going to do about the room? Lydell looked around the scarred and pitted walls, the smashed mirror, the light fixture hanging by a wire. It does look as though it could stand some decorating. Maybe you had better move my stuff into another room until it's finished,

something with not quite so much exposure. At headquarters, Johnny Lydell was led through a door that read Wilson Deet's District turned Ernie. Inside, a male stenographer sat at a desk typing in deposition. He looked up as the cop entered, leading Lidell as is Lydell. I got instructions to deliver him here, the cop told him. The man at the desk nodded, flipped a button on an enter office phone, muttered into it, hung it up there, expecting you lydel

right through there. He pointed to a door that said private and gleaming gold leaf. Lydell walked over, entered the room, closed the door behind him. It was a large room with beamed ceilings, had a peculiar absence of sound, almost like a vacuum. The floor was covered with a thick gray green carpeting. The leather of the big arm chairs had been polished to a soft gleam. One side of the room was covered with a huge bookcase, and in the center, facing the door, a large, highly polished walnut

desk dominated the room. A man was sitting behind the desk, his hands folded across his chest, finger tips touching. Inspector Hurley. He stood at a far window, staring down on the street lights below. Come in, Lydell, I think it's about time we met. I'm deets, the district Attorney. He made no attempt to get up or extend his hand. His voice was silky smooth, with an elusive trace of the Boston back bay where he had gotten his start. He

was long loose jointed. His sandy hair had receded from his brow to the crown of his head, exposing a freckled pate. You know, Inspector Hurley. He, of course. The Inspector turned, scowling from his scrutiny of the street, glared at Lydell. Not as well as he's gonna know me. The District Attorney smiled, but it consisted merely of a twisting upward of the corners of his mouth. The expression in his eyes was unchanged. There is no need for animosity, Inspector.

I feel certain that we can count on Lydell's cooperation in this matter. He motioned Lydell to a chair. Let's all sit down and talk this out hurly. He stamped across the room, dropped into a chair at the d'e's right. Lydell got comfortable in a leather over stuffed across the desk. All right, if I smoke, he asked. The ready smile was back on the district attorney's face. Of course, this isn't a third degree, you know, Lidel. We are merely interested in clearing up a few points that puzzle us.

After all, the shootings were in self defense. There was a note of regret in the silky voice. Both times. Lydell agreed, Hurley, He squirmed angrily in his chair. There didn't have to be any shooting. If you'd come clean with me last night, I could have picked Richee up. But no, you had to go grand standing. Well, self defense and no self defense. Nobody's going to use my district as a private shooting gallery. Why didn't you tell

me it was Ricie? The guy I killed last night, isn't the same guy who tried to shoot me up the night before, Lydell grunted, I thought you told me you didn't know who it was in that car. I don't, but I did get a look at him as the car pulled away. He was fat, slobbery, fat, thick lips, beady eyes. The pigeon I picked off the fire escape was too thin to be him. Hurly, he didn't miss a beat on his go. You told me you didn't

see the guy in the car. Now all of a sudden, you can describe him if you're playing games with my department, Seamus, so help me. The district attorney cut in with the raised hands. Lydell wouldn't be that foolish inspector. After all, his license does come up for renewal, and we might have some influence in that direction. He refolded his hands across his chest. Would you mind telling us again what this first man looked like? Fat, thick lips, beady eyed. I didn't get too much of a look at him.

The car was moving by the time I hit the street. The DA nodded, leaned over, confred with Hurli. He in a low tone that Lydell failed to catch. After a moment, he settled back jotted a few notes on a pad. Suppose we start at the very beginning, Lydell, suppose you tell us what you're really working on. Lydell lit a cigarette, sighed, I've been over all that with the inspector, mister Deats, Suppose you go over it again with me. Okay, I'm

working on the matte Merritt's suicide. A quick flash of annoyance wiped the last traces of simulated good nature from the district Attorney's face. Believe me, Lidell, we are bending over backwards in this matter. The inspector is convinced that you are deliberately obstructing justice and wants me to have you thrown into a cell. Please don't make that necessary. He reached over the desk, selected a fat havana from the humidor bit off the end, spat it at a

square leather waste basket. If necessary, I think I could make the charge stick. Lydell shrugged. That's up to you. You asked me a question, I answered it. Deets rolled the cigar in the center of his mouth, fixed the private detective with the cold glare of his eyes. Possibly you consider this whole episode as very amusing. I don't. Two men have already been killed. No loss to the community. I'll admit, but killed none the less, this matter has

ceased to be a boyish prank. If you think being a walking shooting gallery is my idea of a good, clean night's fun, you're mistaken Lydell retorted hotly. I don't like cluttering up the sidewalks of corpses any better than you do, especially when one of them is liable to be mine. Don't make it sound so alluring, Hurly, he growled. Suppose we stopped playing footsie with his character, mister Deats, and get down to cases. He turned to glare at

Lidell for the last time. Shamus, what's the rumble you're working on? Lydell sighed, examined the glowing end of his cigarette morosely. Even I'm beginning to get sick of sayin' it, but it happens to be true. I was hired by Jean Merritt to look into her father's death. Hell, I've even got a five hundred dollar retainer to prove it. Hurley, he snorted angrily. You may have a check. What you got it for could be another story. It should be a simple fact to establish, inspector. Why don't we have

miss Merrit in to verify Lydell's statement. Deats asked, he's already thought of that too, Hurly, he growled and ask him. Dets rolled his eyes from the purple face of the inspector to lidell Well. Lydell shrugged, I don't know how to get in touch with her. He took a deep drag on the cigarette, held the smoke, let it dribble from his lips. I told hurle he last night, she's disappeared. He did nothing about it. Nothing about it, Hurley, he shouted, What the hell am I supposed to do about it?

A woman leaves her hotel room, so what. She's a big girl. If she wants to go play house for a couple of days with some guy, that's our business. So you did check the Westmore, Yeah, just to see if you were lying about that too. And this girl, Inspector Deeds cut in. You don't know where she is at this time? No, and I don't care. I'm not runnin a lost and found apartment for a broken down shamus who can't even find his own client. She'll show

up when she's good and ready. The district attorney damned the angry flood with a gesture from a well manicured hand. Let's not Lightell, lead us from the track. He removed the unlit cigar from between his teeth, frowned at the soggi end, pasted back a loose leaf with the tip of his tongue. He seemed to be choosing his words carefully. You see, like we know perfectly well that you're mixed up in something far more explosive than a mere investigation

into an acknowledged suicide. He rolled his eyes upward, favored the private detective with a frosty smile. The object of this little unofficial get together is to discuss the real nature of your investigation. If you know I'm on something else, I wish you'd let me in on it. There's not another case in the shop but the merit job, and cut it out, Lydell. That Injured Innocence Act is strictly

for the birds. Hurley growled, what's with you in vaiy Lydell's hand stopped with his cigarette inches from his mouth. His eyes hopscotch from the inspector to deets back. Vailey, Yeah, Vailey, Pete Vailey. Lydell searched the inspector's face for some indication that he was needling Pete Valley's setting out a ten to twenty in the pen. How would he come into this, you tell us, Lydell, don't get it. The private detective shook his head. If Valley's in the pen, how the

hell could I be in anything with him? You're not in anything with him. You're bucking him some way. We want to know how the inspector told him you must dust that chewing gummy ears with opium. Inspector, I don't even know what you're talking about. No, then maybe you do know why two of Valley's best hatchetmen went on to make for your hide in two days running Scota and Ricci, both Vailey torpedoes. I can't help to who they are. I'm not mixed up with Pete Valley or

his mob. The district attorney jabbed a button on the base of his phone, lifted the receiver to his ear, muttered a few words into it, replaced it on its hook. If you're letting the fact that Vali himself is in a cell give you a false sense of security, you're not very smart, Lydell, he said. The organization is still intact, and we're convinced that Pete Valley is running it as much as if he were here in person. He twirled his cigar between thumb and forefinger stared coldly at Lidell.

I'm out to smash Valley's influence in this town. So far, we haven't even gotten our foot in the door. You apparently have something that he is anxious to hush up. I intend to know what it is. He broke off as a uniform policeman brought in a stack of photographs, laid them on the corner of his desk, turned and walked out. Well, I don't know what it's all about. If it's true that Scota and Richey or Vailey's hatchetmen, then someone is making a mistake. Curly, he nodded grimly.

Someone's making a mistake, all right, and that someone is you. Lidel. The district attorney flicked through a pile of pictures on his desk, picked one out, passed it over. Ever see this man. The face in the photograph had pouting, thick lips, heavy jowls that threatened to overflow the man's collar, beady eyes resessed by bulging dark patches. Lydell studied the face remembered it as he had last seen it framed in the window of the big sedan, tossed it back on

Deete's desk. He nodded, I've seen him before. He wiped a thin film of perspiration from his upper lip with the side of his hand. And that's the fat boy who tried to gun me out night before last. The district attorney exchanged glances with the inspector, returned the photograph to the pile. I thought, so, care to change your story now, Lydell? Change it? How the smile was back.

The district Attorney's eyes were colder than ever. Don't you think it's a bit ridiculous to stick to your story that you are not mixed up with Pete Vailey's operation in some way, that you are merely trying to investigate an admitted and established suicide. Lydell thought it over shrugged. Why should the fat boy's picture make you think I want to change my story? Urly? He stared at him for a moment, his square jaw methodically crushing the ever

present wat of gum. Because Frankie Cupola, He indicated the picture on the desk with a sweep of his hand. The fat boy as you call him, happens to be Pete Vailey's right hand man. End of chapter five. Chapter six, Johnny Lydell flagged down a cab outside of headquarters. Gave the cabby an address just off Houston Street, sank back against the cushions, amused himself by keeping score of the

number of lights the cabby jumped. He swung the big hack east across town, played tag with the elevator pillars along Bowery, slid to a stop in front of a dilapidated two story building. He handed the cabby a bill waved away the change. Looked around. The neighborhood was almost deserted. No lights showed in the buildings in front of which he stood. He crossed the sidewalk into a dark and smelly hallway, guided himself along the wall to the end

of the musty corridor. Knocked on the door. There was a faint scraping sound, a faint stirring of air, the sudden, heavy smell of beer. Close at hand, A gravelly voice said, Eh, I want to see dummy, go he hear The gravelly voice informed him, I gotta see him. I'm Johnny Lightell. There was a beery chuckle from the other side of the door. I can't help it who you are. If hein hear you can't see him, Lenill he be back

tonight some tom But you can't wait upstairs. Dummy wouldn't like it if I let him by in his office when he ain't here. Okay, I'll leave him a message let me in. The scraping sound was repeated Lydell had it placed as a sliding panel on the door. After a moment, a creaking announced the opening of the door. He stepped through, heard the door close behind him. Then an old fixture on the wall spilled yellow light into

all but the far corners of the room. The gravelly voice belonged incongruously enough to a wizened dull man with an unruly thatch of yellow white hair. His left eye twitched uncontrollably as he studied Lydel. Let's hurry up about it, Lydell. Dummy'll be back tomorrow. Ain't that time enough? Lydell shook his head. I want a guy located fast. He's gone into a hole, but I got to see him before the cops do. The little man's bad eye twitched maddeningly.

He bared the toothless gums in a grin. It ain't easy, a cough domm He knows I'm good for it. This ain't the first favor I've asked, and he's never lost by handling the contract. Who's the guy, Frankie Cupola, one of Pete Vailey's hoods. The little man scratched his side whistled soundlessly. You sure you want to find him? Yeah and fast. It's your skin if you like to wear

it with holes in it. The old man walked over to a rickety table in the rear of the room, opened the drawer and brought out an old brown bag and the stub of a pencil. He licked the point of the pencil scribbled laboriously. Well, he'd be able to reach you at munks Achille's place. The old man looked up leered obscenely. It might be awful laid. Don't let it worry you. I'll be there. We could play an awful dirty trick by finding him right off. The old

man grinned. But it won't be for a couple hours. At least. We'll get word to all their boys work in midtown. Cupola must be a regular on one of their beats. They'll turn him up for you. Lydell passed a folded bill. How's the school going pretty busy right now? I'm breaking in a fresh load of fish. There's a big call for imputees right now, always is during the war. The deaf and dumb panhandlers and the blind ones, they

don't do too good during the war. Collections in midtown are off, so the dummy is replacing some of the deaf and dumb ones. Anyway, they're harder to train. You gotta keep working on them so they don't jump when a horn goes off in back of them or somebody talks to them. The emputees only got to remember to keep their eyes and ears open and not give the business a bad name. What an operation a school for beggars,

lydel grinned. The old man shook his head, and it's just like anything else, Lydell, it's gotta be organized well, some guy like Dummy. The grifters will be muscling in on each other's territory. The phony has will be given the racket a bad name. The bad eye twitched endlessly like this, everything is under control. And besides whatever, boys covering the city like a blanket. There's nothing going on, no place that we don't know about. He winked. That

can come in handy, eh, Lydell, plenty handy. Remember I want action on Cupola. Tell dummy it's worth a hundred to me to get him tonight. Tomorrow may be too late for me. The cool air of the street was a welcome relief after the dank smell of dummies school. Lydell walked up to Bowery, caught a cruising cab, signaled it to the curb. He gave muggs Achilles address on

Central Park South, settled back against the cushions. The cabby played tag with the l pillars to fourteenth Street, bore west through the heavy traffic to Fifth Avenue, swung north again. Lydell held his breath as the big cab wove in and out of the late hour traffic along Fifth, watched with wordless admiration the way. The cabby nonchalantly fitted the big car into spaces that looked too small for a

baby carriage. At fifty seventh, the cabby broke the monotony by engaging in a heated exchange with another cabby who had to stand on his brakes as Lightel's cab cut in front of him at fifty fourth. Aside from that, he was delivered at muggs Achielle's doorstep, safe but shaken pretty rough. Ride Buster, he grinned at the cabby handed him two singles. The cabby nodded, didn't bother to remove a frayed toothpick from between his teeth. I don't know

how most of those jerks ever get a license. Is getting sets of guys laf safe driving, with all of them refugees from Newark and New aven A guy ain't safe lydel nodded his sympathy, watched the cab roar away from the curb, forced its way into a stream in northbound traffic, carre him around the nearest corner toward Broadway. He used his key to Muggsy's apartment, found her huddled on the couch with a pink addition of the news. She jumped up, ran out to him, kissed him soundly.

You all right, Johnny, she asked, Pop called me about the shooting. I've been trying to reach you all over town. I even called Hurley He's office downtown, but Lightel grinned crookedly I'm traveling him bigger and better circles. Now. They took me down to Deet's office, muggs He led him to the couch, drop down beside him. What's the da horning in for? He thinks I'm holding out. He thinks I'm playing tag with Pete Valley's mob and he wants

to be in it. Don't want unestimate Deets Johnny. He's got a bad case of albany fever and he won't think twice about feeding it to the wolves if it'll get him in that horse faced wife of his into the executive mansion up there. Lydell nodded, I know, but I'm not standing still for it. He scowled at his shoes. But he's right about one thing. There is something fishy going on. The two guys that tried to dop my eyes with the typewriters are both Valley hoods. Maybe they

just hired out for this job. I doubt it. What's Jim think about it? Muggsy shrugged. You know, Pop, he's tickled that as long as you had to get yourself blasted, you waited until it was too late for the tabloids. She kicked the news with the tip of her shoe, not a line on it, and Pop has a layout picks an all riding with an extra hooray for him. How about the valley tie up? What's he thinking? Muggs? He shrugged, and I think he buys the inspector's idea.

He doesn't believe it's tied in with the merit job. She pulled her feet up under her. How does Vale fit, Johnny? How the hell does anything fit in this mess? First I've got a client, then I can't find her. She wants me to find out who killed a guy who killed himself. Then a couple of high caliber hoods decided to carve their initials on my hide with the Tommy gun. For what would Vally be after you for something else? Why? I never had anything to do with Pete. I had

nothing to do with his going to jail. I was a federal rap. Besides, why would he wait until now? He's been in the can a couple of years. He pinched at his nostrils with thumb and forefinger, asked for Scota and Ricci. I don't even know them now, all of a sudden, they can't be happy until they pin my hide to the wall. What are you gonna do about it? Liedell grinned bleakly discourage them first. I'm gonna find out what it's all about. How I'm going to

ask them what the hell's going on? Hurly? He tipped me who the guy was that used the Tommy gun in the car the other night? Another Bailey Torp. You know Frankie Copola? Cupola. You're not going to fool with him, Johnny. He's sudden death. He knows the answers to the questions I want to ask, and I'm not gonna fool them. Suppose he does know the answers. What makes you think he'll tell you? Lightel grinned, You'd be surprised how persuasive I can be. I suppose he does tell you, what

good will it do you? If you develop a hole in the head. You're not gonna do it, Johnny. I won't let you go up against the killer like Copola. Stop worrying. If he was that good, I'd be downtown in the Morgue keeping scota and reach a company. He got up from the couch, wandered out into the kitchen, examined the labels on a couple of new bottles. What's this shark truce and crem dement. I've been dying to try a new cocktail I heard about. There's some Irish

whiskey and drive a mooth in the cabinet. You're gonna spoil good Irish whiskey with this mess. Lydel looks shocked. Don't be so conservative. It's supposed to be wonderful. You mix the Irish and overmuth about one to one, then just a couple of d ashes of the shatrus and crimmed mint. They call it a shamrock. Make me one, Johnny, will you? She stretched out on the couch watched the broad shoulders of Lidell going through the motions of making

the cocktail. She tried to wipe the concern from her eyes. Failed. Lydell brought the shaker and glass out to the couch, swept two books and a magazine off the end table, set them down. Aren't you gonna try one? She indicated, the lone glass. That's stuff. It's not fit for human consumption. If I'm gonna get cirrhosis as a liver, I'm gonna get it from drinking whiskey, not perfume. How do you know you don't like it. If you don't try it,

just take a sip. Muggsy coaxed. Ladell shrugged, poured a little of the green concoction into the glass, sipped it, made a wry face. I'll take my irish straight. He filled the glass from the shaker, handed it to the girl. The way my father and his father got their dts is good enough for me. He walked out into the kitchen, poured some liquor from the bottle over three ice cubes, brought the glass back with him. Muggs He folded her feet up under her to make room. Johnny, you're not

really going up against Cupola, are you? Lydell nodded, clinked the ice against the side of his glass. As soon as I can find out where he's holed in. How lucky can you be, Johnny? They missed twice. The third time you number may be up. There's not going to be a third time, Mugs. He told her, I'm gonna beat them to the punch this time. Instead of them coming to look for me, I'm going looking for them. Want to tell me how you plan to persuade Copola

to pour his innermost secrets into your shell? Like ear Lydell shrugged. I figured to go up to him and ask him, Oh, fine, and when is this touching confessional schedule to take place? Lydell took a taste to the whiskey approved. I don't know yet. I haven't been able to get a line on him. He's apparently holding up somewhere until the heat dies down, but you expect to find him. Eighteen thousand cops in the city of New York can't smoke him out, but you will. I've got

the dummy in his bag scouring the town. They'll contact me here when they get a line on him. Muggsy sipped at the green drink, wrinkled her nose. I think maybe you're right. This calls for a real drink. She walked out to the kitchen, emptied the glass in the sink. She found another glass, dropped three ice cubes into it, spilled a stiff slug of whiskey over them. I can't talk you out of it, Johnny, she asked, when she rejoined him on the couch. It's my only chance, Mugs,

but it's crazy. I tell you, you can't go up against a gang like that and walk away from it. You'll end up with a bunch of eels making a patchwork quilt out of your face in the bottom of the bay. Let Hurley he and his boys take care of Cupola on what charge? What charge? Didn't he try to kill you? Didn't he shoot up the drug store? Isn't that enough? You want Hurley he to pick him up? Because I say I saw him in a moving car and bad light at night and he smart mouthpiece with laughed deats

out of court with that, and you know it? What's more? So does deats? The girl leaned over, snagged a cigarette from a bar on the end table. Why not drop the whole thing, Johnny, you said, if Doc Travin convinced ye it was suicide, y'd but he didn't. The blonde stared at his mouth agape. Didn't What didn't convince you or didn't commit suicide? Both? Doc Travin didn't convince me because maunt Merritt didn't commit suicide. He was murdered. You're

bluffing muggs, he accused. I was right there with ye. Ye even told Doc he made a good case for suicide. He did, but not good enough. I'm sure Merritt was murdered mugs, but I can't prove it. The girl studied his face. Was this something you found out at Doc Travin's office, Lydell nodded the fact that they never found a bullet, so Lydell shrugged. So nothing, Maybe so murder most likely, He took a deep drag on his cigarette.

The bullet should have been in the ceiling, but Doc explained that He said the bullet was spent by the time it was through. Merrit's skull fell out of the floor, was lost. That's reasonable, Lydell snorted, not unless Merrit's skull had a steel lining. The gun was a thirty eight. Since when does a thirty eight get spent traveling through at most four inches of tissue and a quarter inch of bone. Then where is it? Well, that's the sixty four dollar question, he admitted. He finished his drink, set

the glass down on the floor at his feet. He might have been killed someplace else and brought there, or the bullet was deflected, or Mugsy squirmed impatiently in her chair. That's goofy, and you know it just as goofy as it is to sit there and try to convince me or anybody else that the old guy sat there let a killer shove a gun in his mouth and didn't put up a struggle. Lydell sighed, I know it. The whole damn case is goofy, but you still think it's murder.

Lydell crushed his cigarette and an ash tray, scowled at the last, thin, irregular line of smoke that curled ceiling word. I told you I couldn't prove a thing. But until I find out what's behind all this shooting, why Jean Merritt disappeared, and what happened to that bullet, I think it's murder. The telephone jangled noisily in the foyer. Muggsy jumped up from the couch walked out to answer it. It's for you, she called in. Lydell walked out took

the receiver from her hand. This Lydel a metallic voice, wanted to know. Yeah, I got some information you wanted about a certain party. Good. Where is he? The receiver hesitated a moment. It ain't that easy. You better meet me. You couldn't swing it alone. I don't get a loan some easy bud. Just give me the dope and let me worry. He laughed in his ear a high pitched, crackling laugh. Don't get me wrong, Lydell, I ain't figuring. I'm backing your play. You're the tough dick. I don't

get paid to get holds in my head? Then what do I have to meet you for? I got to get it set to get you in. Thinking about two thirty, Lydell consulted his watch, scowled. It's only eleven thirty, now, can't you make it earlier? Two thirty? He repeated, in front of the bright Light's tavern on forty seventh. Know the place, Lydell nodded, I know the place. How'll I know you? You won't have to I'll know you. The

receiver cackled. There was a click, and the line went dead Lydell tossed the receiver back on the hook, scraped his palm over the faint stubble on his chin. It could be the tip he was expecting, but by the same token, he realized it could be another stake out. He walked into the living room for Muggsy, found that she had gone into the bedroom, closed the door behind her. He wandered out on the little terrace that was pasted on to the side of the building overlooking Central Park.

He had almost finished a cigarette Whenmugsy slipped up behind him, slid her arms around him, laid her cheek against his Miss me, she whispered. He flipped the butt into a glowing arc toward the street below. Turned around. Muggsy had changed into a flowing royal blue dressing gown. Her blonde hair was fluffed out softly, her make up fresh. I guess I'm beginning to sound like an old woman, she grinned. I dunno by now that you can take care o yourself.

She stood on her tiptoes, placed her lips against his. After a moment, she pushed him away. Well that's relief. I was beginning to think that redhead in your office had something I haven't got, Lidel grinned. We ought to be able to settle that easily enough. He tried to pull her to him again, she eluded his grasp. Was that the call you were expecting? Yeah, but he can't meet me until two thirty. That's almost three hours from now. That's soon, Muggsy pouted. She led him into the living room,

pushed him down on the couch. She made a face at him, walked to the kitchen returned with a bottle, some glasses, and a bowl of ice. He patted the cushead at his side, waited while she poured a drink into each of the glasses. Sat down beside him. As she reached across him to place the bottle on the end table, he could feel her body against his, the scent of her hair and his nostrils. He slid his arm around her, turned her face up to his. Her

lips were moist, soft, looking slightly parted. Her eyes were heavy lidded. When he covered her mouth with his he could feel her teeth sinking to her lower lip. After a moment, she put her hand against his shoulder pushed him away. She snuggled comfortably on his lap, reached up, loosened his tie, opened his collar. You can kiss me again now, she said, it won't kill you. It didn't. End of chapter six. Chapter seven. The room was half dark when Johnny liedll awoke. The alarm clock was ringing.

There was a dark brown, fuzzy taste in his mouth that refused to be washed away by the tap water. He ran another glass of water, held it to his head. The clock on the kitchen wall said two o'clock. Muggsy, chilly, stirred uneasily on the couch, moaned softly in her sleep. Lydell splashed water in his face, swabbed it dry with a towel, ran a comb through his hair. He turned out all the lights, found his hat on the end table,

kissed Muggsy softly, and left. The bright Light's tavern was a garishly lighted honky tonk on forty seventh Street, east of Broadway. The normal flow of traffic along the street had dribbled to an occasional vague eyed pedestrian, the type that had given the block the nickname of dream Alley. A group of heavily painted hustlers with three fresh faced, eager but drunken sailors in tow a mounted cop rode by his horse's hoofs striking hollow clinks in the emptiness

of the street. Lydell took up his position outside the tavern, waited. It was almost twenty five minutes before he heard the trademark of the blind Beggar, a discordant guitar and strident, nasally off key voice doing unmentionable things to a mountain chant. After a moment, he came into Lydell's line of vision, a little man, a silver glint of bristles on his chin, a tin cup wired to the neck of his guitar, his eyes covered with a pair of opaque black glasses.

He finished the song a few paces before he reached Lydell continued to shuffle along, coaxing a terrifying assortment of discords from the guitar as he went. When he was abreast of Lidel, he lowered his face as though to get protection from the wind. Give me a few minutes inside, then come in after me, Seamus, he muttered, with no apparent movement of his lips. Lydell gave no sign of having heard. Sucked deeply on the butt he held cupped in his hand, consulted his watch as though impatient over

a stand up. The beggar shuffled by entered the tavern. A mixture of conversation and jukebox music spilled out into the street. As he opened the door, Lydell continued to smoke, finished his cigarette, flipped it toward the gutter. The mounted cop rode by again, stared at him in curiously, continued east toward fifth Lydell consulted his watch again, and turned and entered the tavern. The Bright Light's tavern got a

good late hour play by servicemen. Bar girls of all sizes and vintage were working the sailors and marines that lined the bar too deep. On the way in, Lydell was almost bumped by a buxom redhead leading a sailor. She was back in ten minutes without the sailor. As Lydell walked in, a heavily bleached woman sitting in a booth near the door, studied him speculatively passed an unseen signal.

Almost immediately, the girls drifted away from their prospects and headed for the ladies room or found seats together in a booth. Lydell walked through the blue white haze of cigarette smoke, found a place at the bar ordered bourbon. The bartender grabbed a bottle from the back bar, slid a shot glass in front of him, filled it to the brim all in one motion. Well, I see a by particular mista. He studied Lydell with pig like eyes that were almost obscured by the scar tissue of hundreds

of ring battles such as Lydell asked. The bartender shrugged bulky's shoulders. Lil maybe big lil. She handles the local boys on this spot. He indicated the bleach blonde with a toss of his head. Lydell swung around, saw the woman studying and walked over to where she sat. The bartender thought, I wanted to see you, should I from close. The woman was old, her make up a stiff mask covered with indifferent success, the sag and wrinkle of age. Her eyes were bright and hard, her hair thinned by

constant exposure to chemicals. Her lipstick was glaring, smeared, her teeth nicotine stained. What's the beef we're paid up to date? You got me wrong. I have no beef. I just got cold waiting out there for a babe that never showed. He held up his drink. I came in to get thawed out. The bright eyes rolled in the dead wide of the old woman's face. You're not the law, lied elk grinned. I was wondering why you called time out. He shook his head. I'm no copper. The woman studied

his face, looked past him to the bartender, nodded. The bartender reached up on the back bar, turned a beer ad face to the wall. Almost immediately, the girls resumed their stations at the bar, pushing drinks and mixing with the service men. Sorry, mister, the old woman croaked. He can't be too careful around now. Without these blue noses yelling for action. You never know when they're going to buy past the local station house and send in a fly cop. She folded, blue vein faded hands in front

of her on the table. Can't be too careful, Lydell nodded, started back toward the bar, spotted the blind man sitting in a booth at the rear of the room. He ambled down, slid in beside him. Mind if I join you? Pop? The blind man bared his gums and a cackle. They're scaring the girl's hey, Lydell. He peered near sightedly at the glass in Lydel's hand, signal for the bartender. You're buying, ain't you? Lydel grinned, nodded. I thought you were blind

just during business hours. He grinned up into the bartender's battered face as he came toward the table. Man wants to buy a kid, Let's get it on the table before it changes his mind. A couple of brew I'm drinking bourbon. Lydell told him, okay, so you tucked me into it, I'll drink both the bruise. The bartender twisted his thickened lips and a grin. You could fool me, buster. I thought she was a new flatty on the beat too. He was back in a few seconds with two beers.

Picked up the dollar bill lydel laid on the table, dropped two quarters a diamond, two nickols, shuffled back to the bar. The blind man tilted his glass to his lips, approved the brew, audibly drained the glass, set it down, thirsty work pounding that beat all night. He looked inquiringly at the other glass, drew a nod from Lidell, pulled it over with a toothless grin. Work up, quiet at theirs that you do. Dummy's a tough bas eh. The beggar took a swallow from the second glass, wiped his

mouth with his sleeve. Take a beat away from you soon as you look at you and the way he's got this town organized. If you lose a beat, you might as well go to work. He couldn't make a dime panhandling. He's got it sewed up that tight Lydel nodded, tossed off his bourbon, set the glass down. How buy my merchandise? Got it lined up for you? The blind man nodded. Only he ain't even be easy to get at it? Where is he? Cross the street? The hotel

sirt he's got an office there. Lydel made concentric circles on the table top with the wet bottom of the glass. Nodded. I shouldn't be too tough. Think again, it ain't an ordinary hotel. The old man looked around, dropped his voice. Most of these girls are syndicate girls. The sert is where the syndicate has its headquarters. That's where Cupole is. What room you still want to go up against him on his own home grounds. There was a note of

respect in the beggar's voice. What room, third floor front? He put a hand on Lydell's arm, kept him from getting up. He's got a lookout staked in the lobby and another on the third floor. He'd never make it. I can make a damn good try at it. The old man shook his head. You wouldn't get past the lobby. You gotta use your head on this one. There's ways of doin it. An shooting your way in. Ain't one of em. Lydell grunted, settled back. You've got an idea.

I'll get you past the gun in the lobby. Give him past the one on the third floors. You a problem, okay, Lydell nodded, how you goin to do it? The old man grinned obscenely looked past Lydell signaled one of the girls. She pasted a wide mouthed grin on her face, sauntered down to the booth, slid in across from Lydell. She couldn't have been over twenty five, but already there was

a fine network of lines under her eyes. Her make up was losing the first skirmishes of what would soon develop into a battle with the crows feet around her eyes and at the sight of her mouth. Her hair was raven black, parted in the center, allowed to cascade down over her shoulders on to the white satin blouse that made a half hearted attempt to disguise the shapeliness of her breasts. She looked Lydell over approvingly, fluffed her hair over her shoulder with flame. She licked fingers. Who's

your friend? Pop? Her voice was throaty husky, not unpleasant. I'm Lorraine, she told Lydel. He's in from the coast. Laurie doesn't know anybody here. Come over to buy an old man a drink. The old man lowered his voice. He couldn't keep his eyes off you, So I'm returning to favor by introducing him. The girl regarded Lydell from under lowered lids. He doesn't look like a guy who'd have to wait to be introduced. Her eyes approved, the

gray tinged hair, the bulky shoulders. Maybe it's too public here, eh, lour. The old man winked obscenely. Maybe he don't like an audience. Why don't we go across to my place. The girl's voice fell automatically into a commercial sing song. She smiled mechanically at Lidel. We can be alone over there. I could pick up a bottle here and we can have a drink or two if you like. Sounds good to me. Lydell pulled a roll of bills from his pocket, separated a tin, passed it to the girl. You handle the

bottle part, will you. The hard ready smile was back. She slid out of the booth, started for the rear Lydell noticed that the wary lines in her face had no counterpart in her body. She stood about five six weighed about one hundred and twenty eight, and not an ounce of it was misplaced or unaccounted for. After she had disappeared through the door in the rear, Lydell growled, what's the idea? You know what I'm after? Why not mix business with pleasure? The old man cackled. You have

to get past the gun and the lobby, don't you. Well, what's better way than to have one of the syndicate gals passed you through as a john. Then all you gotta do is get past the guard on the third floor. Lightel considered it, nodded, not bad. Pop got any ideas about how I get past the one on the third floor. Well, one of the reasons I picked Laurie for you is because she's got fourth floor front. The guy you wants third floor front From here on in, the rest is

up to you. There was no mistaking in the guard in the lobby of the hotel's sert. He was thin shouldered, sunken cheeked. An immaculate pearl gray fedora sat on top of his head. Its rolled brim parallel to the cold button eyes, the bloodless slid of his lips. The collar of his camel's hair coat was up. There was no tie on the gray silk sports shirt he wore with his blue flannel suit. The black eyes flicked contemptuously over Lidell as the girl led him to the registration desk.

A pudgy little man with wet, pouting lips stood behind the desk. His bulging eyes had a disconcerting habit of appearing to roll from side to side as he talked. His skin was blotchy, his hair obviously marceled. He favored Lidell with what he obviously intended to be a provocative glance. The girl laughed right in his face, bringing patches of color. If I knew you cared, I would have gotten another and we could have had a double date, she taunted.

The pudgy man's eyes rolled, his pouting lips trembled. A bubble formed between them as he spoke. I don't have to stand for any of that from me, you, he spat out indignantly. The girl winked at lydel placed the bottle on the desk. We'll want some ice in soda and don't bother bringing it yourself. The pudgyman rode a slip with a hand that shook, threw it across the bar. The room is ten dollars in advance, he told Lydell, between murderous glances at the girl. Lydell peeled a tin

from his roll, dropped it on the desk. The girl winked again at the pudgyman. Caught Lydel by the arm led him toward an old, open grille work elevator. A pimply faced operator grinned vacuously at her as they got in, started the ancient contraption wheezing upward. As they passed the third floor, Lydel had a momentary glimpse of the twin to the guard in the lobby, the same camel's hair coat, the same gray fador at the same angle, the same

blue flannel suit and gray sports shirt. He sat in a wooden armchair that commanded a view of the staircase and elevator well. He paid no attention to the elevator as it wheezed past him. On the fourth floor, the elevator creaked to a shuddering stop. The operator slid the grill work door back with A shrill creak watched hungrily as the girl led Lydell down a long, bare, semi dark corridor of closed doors. There was the occasional mutter

of low conversation, a shrill drunken laugh. Lydell wrinkled his nose at the strong odor compounded half of cheap perfume and half of perspiration. The girl stopped in front of the in door on the left side of the long hallway, opened it, led the way in. She indicated the rickety old iron bed, the stand, and two chairs with the sweep of her hand. It ain't much, but it's home. She pulled the door closed behind her, came close to him, looked up into his face. Going to be in town. Long, honey,

long enough, Lydell grunted. The girl looked piqued by his failure to draw her any closer. The ice will be right up, honey, The professional term of endearment failed to wipe away the peak. Make yourself at home, Lydell wandered around the room, stopped at the window. He raised the shape, looked down into the darkness of an alley four stories below. He caught a red pin point of light that glowed brightly for a moment, faded, only to glow again. Lydell scowled.

A guard in the alley made that means of exit impossible. To the left, the gaunt skeleton of an iron fire escape loomed. Lydell swung suddenly at the sound of a knock on the door. The girl stood in front of a mirror, completely naked, admiring the full blown lines of her figure. Come in, she called. The door opened, and the pimply faced elevator operator sidled in pitcher of ice and two glasses on a tray. His watery eyes fastened on the girl as he walked across the room. His

tongue licked wetly at his slack lips. Give him a tip, will you, honey? The girl called over to Lydell. He's saving his pennies to come see me, aren'tye. Buster. The elevator boy nodded, wiped his lips with the back of his hand, deftly caught the coin Lightell flipped it'll be sooner, and ye think lori. He shuffled to the door, turned for a last look through it to the hall beyond. Why don't you give the cat a break? Lightel grinned that drip, the girl wrinkled her nose. He gives me

the willies. She caught a robe from the closet, slipped into it. How about a drink? Lydell nodded, walked over, started to open the bottle they had brought. Not that stuff, that's for the suckers. I've got some real stuff stashed away. She reached into the closet came out with a half filled bottle. Lydell sniffed at the bottle he had in his hand, wrinkled his nose. What's this stuff? Slops? We get half of everything we sell, and what's left over

is used to refill bottles from the bar. She dropped some ice into each of the glasses, poured liquor over it, handed lidella glass. I save this for special people. What makes you think I'm special? The girl grinned, tasted or drink. In my business, you meet a lot of people. You get so as you can pick out the regulars and the grifters. You're not in ordinary John out after a girl? What am I you tell me? The young old eyes looked him over. In the first place, a guy like

you would never have to pay for a girl. What are you a cop, lydel shook his head. What makes you think that, Big Lil ain't wrong? Very often? She tagged you as a cop. You talked her out of it, but I'm not so sure. She swirled the liquor over her eyes. There going to be a raid. Lydell dropped into a chair, caught her by the arm, pulled her down into his lap. I'm no cop, and there's not going to be any raid. His eyes dropped to the open house coat. I'm here on business, but you're making

it awfully tough to keep my mind on it. The girl grinned impishly, made no effort to pull the house coat closed. You mean you just came here to talk. That's right, Laurie reached up, ran her fingers through his hair. What'll we talk about, Frankie cupola? The girl's eyes widened. She got up from his lap, finished her drink. Uh ah, not me. When I go swimming, I like to know

about it. Lydell pulled himself out of his chair, walked over, freshened his drink, poured a stiff slug into the girl's glass. This isn't charity, Laurie. I pay my way. He pulled the roll of bills from his pocket. Who are you? Her eyes refused to leave the roll of bills. Private eye, Johnny Lydell's the name. I'll tell you something about Frankie, and for free, stay away from him. He plays for keeps.

She took a drink from her glass, put it down on the dresser, walked over to Lidell, slid her arms around his neck. Be smart, Johnny, She laid her cheek against his shoulder. Why not stay here with me instead of going out looking for trouble, Lydell sighed, Debating the urgency of seeing Cupola lost the decision. Don't make it any tougher on me than it is, baby, he groaned, I've got to see Cupola tonight. The girl looked up

at him, grinned ruefully. I must be slipping. I thought I could at least hold my own against that fat slob. She brushed the thick black hair back over her shoulder with a sweeping motion of her hand. You might get in to see him, baby, but you wouldn't be in any condition to see. She picked up her drink stared at him morosely. That gorilla on the third floor isn't some interior decorator's idea. He's there to discourage curious people

like you. Lydell nodded. How about the one in the lobby a look out mostly let Frankie know if anyone comes in. Frankie might not like to see, like the cops, for instance. And what does Frankie do? Blows? You don't think the only way out of this trap is through the lobby? Do you go on? You're getting interesting, The girl grinned. Don't get your hopes up, Buster. The escape patch is at the far end of the hall. You'd still have to pass the guns will reach it. She

looked meaningly at the bills in Lydell's hand. He peled off three tins, folded them, watched glumly while she stuck them in the house coat pocket. There's another one staked out in the alley. This place is about as easy to get out of as Alcatraz if they don't want you to leave. Lydel nodded, scowled. Where is the escape hatch on the third floor, Laurie. It's a back staircase that runs through the third door from the back. We use it to empty the joint in case of a raid.

It comes out in an alley opening on forty sixth Street. Lydell pilled five tins off his roll, laid it on the table. I need ten minutes, Laurie. The girl looked hungrily at the money up at lydel for what to get, cupola. He nodded his head to the window down the fire escape. What happens to me when they find out I wouldn't live long enough to spend it? Lydell added more bills to the pile. How could just stop me? I tied you up and gagged you. Laurie considered it. Bit her lip.

They wouldn't buy that, But if you knocked me cold, I couldn't do anything about it. She looked up that cost extra. Lydell counted out twenty dollars, added it to the money on the dresser's your idea? He watched while the girl scooped up the bills, added the money from her pocket, pulled out a drawer on the stand, stuck the money in the recess, closed the drawer. She held up her glass drained it. As long as I'm going to wake up with a headache, I might as well

have a reason for it. She replaced the glass on the stand, slept out of the house coat, stood before him, naked, her eyes bright, her color high. I'm ready any time you are. You call the turnbuster. She straightened up, closed her eyes. There must be an easier way, Lydell growled, If you insist on going through with it, get it over with. The girl urged, I'd rather get slugged by you than stop a couple of their thugs. She opened

her eyes, looked from her nakedness to him. Unless you've changed your mind, the punch traveled less than twelve inches exploded on the side of her jaw. The girl's eyes glazed, rolled back in her head, her knees buckled, her body fell toward him. Lydell caught her under the arms dragged her to the bed. He arranged a pillow under her head, threw the sheet over her body. A thin trickle of blood ran from the corner of her mouth. A large

welt was already discoloring on the side of her jaw. Sorry, baby, he whispered, It had to look good for your sake. End of chapter seven. Chapter eight. Lydell doused the light in the room, walked over to the window, slid it up. The fire escape landing was about four feet from the

window opening into the adjoining room. He slid one leg over the sill, found a tiny cornice, leaned his weight on it experimentally, then carefully hooking the toe of his left foot inside the window jam, he leaned slowly toward the fire escape. After what seemed an eternity, felt the cold metal touch his finger tips, wiggled farther forward until he could grab the landing with both hands. Then releasing his foot from the window, his body swung dizzily toward

the fire escape. A minute later, he sat, panting on the landing. He dried the palms of his hands along the side of his thighs, looked down into the alley below. As he watched, he saw the guard's cigarette redden to a bright dot and fade. He strained his eyes against the darkness, failed to make out the shape of the man below. Hoped he was equally invisible. Keeping as close to the wall as possible, Lidel felt his way down

the stairs to the third floor landing. The window was dark. Carefully, he tried it, breathed a sigh of relief as it slid quietly up. He threw a leg over the sill, followed it into the room, closed the window behind him. The room was apparently used as an office of sorts. A large desk took up most of the room. The walls were lined with what appeared to be filing cabinets. Lidel felt his way carefully around the desk toward the door.

Opened at a crack, applied his eye to it. The hallway was empty, but at the far end, commanding a view of it, he could see the guard sitting his chair tilted back against the wall. Lydell swore under his breath. Closed the door noiselessly. He felt through his pockets, came up with a paper package of matches, scratched one. Looked around. On the far side of the desk was the door. He held the match, walked to the door, burnt his finger. Dropped the match. At the door, he placed his ear

against it, listened. There was no sound from the room beyond. He caught the door knob, turned it carefully, pulled the door open a crack. A man was sitting in a large over stuffed chair, facing away from him. He held a phone against his ear. A cigar clinched between his teeth waggled when he talked. Lydell had a clear view of the pouting lips, the fat neck that bulged over the tight collar. He pulled the forty five from its holster, waited until the fat Man had knotted into the phone,

dropped it back on its hook with a grunt. Cupola was holding a match to the cigar when Lidel stepped into the room. His forty five pointed at the fat Man's stomach. Hello, Frankie, Lydell greeted him. The fat Man turned his head laboriously. The cigar that had been standing at right angles to his pouting lips suddenly drooped. The rolls of fat around his neck bellowed as his jaw dropped. His pig like little eyes receeated behind their discolored pouches

flashed a combination of hate and fear. What is this? He growled? His voice was heavy, blubbery, as though choked by the fat around his neck. Is that a nice way to talk to a guy who went through all the trouble I've gone through to see you? Frankie? The fat Man started a sneer. You don't even know what trouble is yet, lydel kept the muzzle of the forty five pointed at the fat Man's belt circled in front of him. Took up a position with his back to

the wall near the hall door. You're scaring me to death, The fat man squinted at him, scowled. Who are you? And what's the idea? My name's Lidell mean anything to you? Not a thing. Lightel grinned tightly. It must have. The other night you tried to part my hair with a Tommy gun. I kept Skoto as a souvenir. Remember. The fat Man's face drooped, his lower lips sagged, showing the discolored stumps of his bottom teeth. The pinkness left his face, leaving the sacking jaws of muddy white. Oh no, what

you're talking about? You will, Lydel promised we'll take a little ride to clear your head. Coppola said nothing, rolled his cigar between thumb and forefinger, stared fixedly at Lidel. First, we call your boy in from the hall. The fat man continued to regard Lydel with sinister eyes, his eyelids drooping until the eyes themselves were mere slits. He made no move Lydel grinned frostily. Course, I don't have to talk to you. I could just blast you where you're sitting.

I get out the same way I got in, but you wouldn't be going any place. Coupola's face sprouted a crop of globules of sweat that gleamed wetly in the light. He looked down at his pudgy white hands, played with a diamond ring on his fourth finger. Okay, suppose I do go along? Then what depends. I've got a lot of questions I want answered. You tell me the answers, and that's all I want with you. How do I know you're not gonna blast me as soon as I

tell you what you want to know? Lydell shrugged, You don't, but you're sure of getting it if you make me do it the hard way. Ask them here too many distractions. Lydel shook his head motioned with the forty five, get the gunzel in here. As the fat man's pudgy hand moved toward a button on the wall, Lydel stopped him. Don't forget Frankie. If you tip him in any way, if he comes in shooting, you won't be around to get the score. Cupola wiped the red smear of his mouth, nodded,

jabbed at the button. He returned his hands to his lap, crossed them across the stomach, settled back to wait. Lydell flattened back against the walls for five trained on the man in the chair. A strange smile paceded on his face. They both started. When the rap came on the door. The fat Man's eyes rolled to Lidel, who nodded, come, Cupola ordered. The door opened. The man in the camel's hair coat and gray Fedora walked in, closed the door

behind him. When he saw Lydell, his hand streaked for his right lapel froze with his fingertips inches from the butt of his gun. How'd you get in here? He growled. I borrowed a pair of wings from that ferry and the lobby and flew in. Lydel grunted, turn around and keep those hands up where I can watch him. The guard turned around, faced the wall, gave no resistance when Lydel fanned him relieved him of a snub nose. Thirty eight.

Now what, Frankie, Copola demanded, You and I go for a ride, Frankie, the fat Man sneered, that's what you think. There's a guard down in the lobby and there's no way I can call him up here. There's another one down in the alley. So how do we get out? Hang round, Frankie, and I'll show you, Lydell told him. With one motion, he knocked the fedora from the guard's head, chopped the barrel of the forty five above his right ear, stood back as the man slid to the floor. Now

on your feet, fat boy. The fat man looked at the unconscious guard with disbelieving eyes, pulled himself out of the chair. He permitted Lydell to get behind him relieve him of a luguer, which Lydell transferred to his own pocket. Two bad house in that chair and couldn't get at it, Capola growled. Lydell was unimpressed. If you couldn't do any better with this than you can do with a tommy gun, it wouldn't have done you much good. He jammed the snout of the forty five into the fat Man's side,

propelled him to the door. Stand there, face on the wall, Frankie, it might help your memory. He leaned down, stripped the camel's hair coat from the guard, picked up the gray fedora, set it on the top of his head, the brim parallel to his eyes. Let's get going, Frankie. Where down the hall to the third door from the end. We'll use the escape hatch. He could feel the fat man stiffened. Yeah, the one you use for raids. The fat Man's shoulders drooped as the fight seeped out of him. Okay, shame,

I s your hold. The aces the concealed stairway leading from the third floor of the hotel Sert came out in a courtyard that opened on forty sixth Street and the yard, a large black sedan was parked whose car Lydel wanted to know mine, get into it. The fat man hesitated, the forty five, boring into his side, prodded him forward. He slid in behind the wheel lightel slid in beside him. The forty five jabbed into the fat man's side. Where are we going? He breathed, noisily. Your place.

The fat Man's face gleamed wetly in the dim light as he turned to face light. L my place. It'll be the last place they'll think of looking for you when your boy comes to life and tells them you've been snatched. That way, we won't be interrupted. I own alad, I got a sheck up deal Lydel grunted, lucky girl. He jabbed the snout of the gun deeper into the fat man's side, brought a gasp from the pouting lips. You'll be able to persuade her to leave us alone.

How bet you're a hard man with the ladies. Get this heap moving, Capola kicked the motor to life, eased the big car up the alley out to forty six. He swung left on forty six to six, turned north to Central Park South. Pulled the car up in front of a modern apartment house facing on the park. Is it? He gurgled Lydell nodded, Pull the car up a block or two. We don't want to advertise where you are. Besides, the exercise will do you good, put you in the

right mood to do some talking. Go count on it, Lidel. They fitted the big sedan between two other black cars and a row of parked cars a block east of Capola's apartment house. Walked back Lydel stayed a pace behind the fat man. The forty five, pointed unwaveringly at the small of his back. They took the automatic elevator to the fourth floor, walked down a carpeted corridor to a door marked for seat. The name on the bell was Claire Rhodes. Lydell looked at the fat Man inquiringly. It's

the broad's name, Cupola growled. He started to go for the keys in his pocket, groaned when the Lydel jabbed the snout of the gun into his already tender back. Stay away from the pockets, the fat Man glared, I'm gootin my key. Knock. The fat Man's jowls quivered their indignation, but he did as he was told. Inside they could hear the sound of a woman's high heels tapping across the floor. Then who's there? Who are you expected? Open

it up? Cupola growled. The door swung open. A tall brunette with a vacuously pretty face stood in the doorway. Why didn't you use your key, Frankie? I Her hazel eyes flowed past. Cupola fastened on Lidel. That's not mickey, what's wrong, Frankie? The fat Man put his hand against a woman's shoulder, shoved sent her reeling into the room. You talk too much, he growled. Lydel followed them into

the living room, closed the door behind them. He pulled the forty five from his pocket, held it in full view. Anybody else in the place, he asked. The girl made an ineffectual attempt to pull her negligee around her shook her head. The blood had drained from her face, leaving in a transparent ivory, her makeup standing out like blotches on her skin. Her hand was at her throat, as though to stifle the scream that was rising. There no noise,

baby Lydel told her, nobody's going to get hurt. The fat boy here and I have some business to talk over, private business. He's going to tie you in the bedroom until we're finished. I'm damned if I go. Cupola's jowls quivered lightel grinned tightly and double damned if you don't make it easy on yourself, fatso, and don't keep reminding me that you tried to use me for a shooting gallery. Capola tried to stare him down. Then his eyes wavered and fell com here you, he snarled at the girl.

The girl stood her ground, a faint flush of color returning to her cheeks. Don't let him push us around like this, Frankie. You're always telling me how tough you are. The fat man lashed out, caught her across the cheek with a sharp crack. The girl fell back, hand to face, lay off the rough stuff Copola. Lydel growled for a fraction of a second, he took his eyes off The fat man was unprepared for the speed with which Copola caught the girl by the arm, spun her into position

between him and Lydel, and threw her forward. The girl's body caught lydell A glancing below, throwing a momentarily off balance, Capola was on top of him. Before he could regain his balance, lashed out with a foot at Lydell's groin, missed by inches. Lydel chopped at the leg with the barrel of the gun, drew a yelp of pain from the fat man. He regained his balance, braced himself, was ready for the fat man's next lunge. Slammed him across the mouth with the flat of the barrel, smashing the

pouting lips like an over ripe tomato. Capole La, howling with pain, lowered his head charged again. Lydell side stepped, chopped at the back of the fat neck. Cupolea hit the floor face first, lay there moaning Lydell stood over the quivering hulk on the floor, breathing hard. He looked over to where the brunette stood, rubbing the side of her face. You all right, Claire, Lydell asked. The girl nodded no, thanks to him. He didn't care if you shot me when he pushed me at you. She glared

at Cupola looked up at Lydell. You won't have to tie me, mister. I won't make any trouble. I've waited too long to see someone work him over, she indicated the prostrate gunman with a contemptuous toss of her head. I've had to wait a long time, but it was worth waiting to see it done right. She leaped toward the bedroom door. I'll put the key on the outside. You can lock me in if you want to. Lydell satisfied himself that there was no extension to the telephone

in the bedroom, no exit via a fire escape. He put the girl in, locked the door behind him, returned to the living room. Frankie Coppola was still sprawled out on the floor, face down. Okay, tough guy, now for the conversation. Lydel stirred him with the tip of his toe. When the fat man made no move to get up, he caught him by the collar, dragged him to his feet, pushed him to a chair. The fat man was still

having trouble and focusing his eyes. There was a welt on the side of his face and a stream of blood had cascaded from the smashed lips. Who put me on that spot the other night? Frankie Cupola managed to arrange his battered lips in a sneer. I know what you're talking about, Lydel sighed. Don't make me do it the hard way, Frankie. Not that I wouldn't enjoy it, but I haven't got the time right now. I'll ask you just once more. Who told you to burn me

down on that corner? The fat man ignored him, looked down at his white hands, played with the diamond ring on his finger. Lydel growled, reached over, caught a handful of the fat man's hair, yanked his head up until he was looking Lydel in the eye. Don't go hard to reach on me, Frankie, Lydel told him in a low voice. I'm gonna get the answers I want. How I get them depends on you. Make it easy on yourself. Capola's breath whistled between his smashed lips. I don't know

a thing. Not very smart, are you, Frankie? You think you are being here, You're not getting a thing out of me, led old, grinned, bleakly. That's what makes horse racing fatso difference of opinion me. I think you're gonna sing like a stage struck canary. He reversed the gun, held it by the barrel for one thing. If you don't talk, I'm gonna feed you this rod, but first, so help me. I'll leave you as toothless as the day you were born. Caupola squeezed back against the cushions.

I don't know why you were on the spot. Look orders from Scota on, No one go on. The fat Man wiped the perspiration off his upper lip with the back of his hand. I just went along to give him cover. He had the contract to blast you who from The fat Man shook his head, agitating the rows of fat that wringed his neck. I don't know what about Ricci. The fat Man shruck so violently his chin seemed about to overflow his collar. I wasn't in on that one. That was Riccie's job, not mine. What's it

all about, Frankie? Why am I on the spot? Maybe you make too many people hite your guts, like me, for instance, Lydell snorted. Or maybe because the word is out to keep me from reopening the Matt Merrit killing. A stubborn look of fear washed all other expression from the fat face. I don't know anything about it. Scota was in charge of that job. I just went along to give him cover. Where's Geane Merrit? Frankie, how do

I go? Lydell put his face close to Cupola's until he could smell the foulness of the fat man's breath. Because Scota took her out of the Hotel Westmore just before you opened up on me. Where did he take her? The fat man managed to but the apprehension in his eyes persisted. Ask him, I don't know how to work Ouigia boards end of chapter eight, Chapter nine. Perspiration beat it on Johnny Lilydell's face as he stood looking down at the man in the chair. The past hour had

not improved Coppola's appearance. You're being awfully hard to get along with, Frankie, he told him. All I want to know is where Gene Merritt is and who gave you the office to spray let at me the other night? The beaty little eyes glared from behind their pounches. You're having all the fun to not, Lydell, Caupola muttered through smashed lips. I never forget a face, and I'm double sure to remember yours. Lydell's hand described a short arc caught the man in the chair smartly across the cheek.

Never mind what's going to happen to me, Frankie, just give some thought to what's going to happen to you. You scared me to death. The fat Man snarled, Okay, fat, so if that's the way you want it, I mightn't have scared Ricci and scoted a death, but it's a cinch. The forty five slugs I pumped into them didn't lengthen their lives. He pointed to forty five at Copola's bulging waistline. One more won't hurt. The fat Man studied Lydell's face

for signs of a bluff. Lydell returned the scrutiny unblinkingly, his finger tightened against the trigger. Copola squeezed back against the cushions of the chair, his fat face slack with fear. A minute, I'll talk, Lydell released his pressure on the trigger. He became suddenly aware that Copola's eyes were staring past him at the door. There was a faint, almost imperceptible creak behind him, as though the door was being opened. Without attempting to turn, Lydell blasted away at the only

lighted lamp in the room. The forty five slug tore the fixture half off the wall, leaving the room in darkness. As he fired, he threw himself to one side, flattened out against the floor. The door scraped all the way open, simultaneous with the crashing of the light bulb. There was a faint PLoP and a short flash near the door, followed by a soft sigh and the sound of someone sitting down hard. The light in the hallway had been turned off, and the gunman in the doorway provided no target.

Lydell slid cautiously to the left in an attempt to get a shot at him, caught the leg of a small table with his foot, knocking it to the floor with a crash. There was another muffled PLoP from the doorway, and Lydell heard the buzz of an angry bee whiz past his ear. He squeezed the trigger of the forty five threw two shots at the doorway. The forty five made a deafening roar in the cramped space. He heard the patter of running feet in the hallway. By the

time he reached the door, the hall was empty. He sprinted down the corridor, arrived at the elevator in time to see that it was on its way down. He debated the advisibility of trying to race it to the lobby by way of the stairs, decided against it. Returned to Capola's apartment, walked in, let a match close the door behind him. He found an undamaged lamp, turned it on. Frankie Coppola was still sitting in the chair, grinning at him.

A small blue black hole in his forehead had spilled a bright red stream that ran down the side of his nose and was dripping from his chin down onto his white collar. The beady little eyes secure behind their purple buttresses, regarded Lydell soberly, were glaring no longer. There was a muffled pounding on the bedroom door. Lydell walked over, turned the key. The bedroom spilled yellow light across the carpet to the chair where Frankie Coppola sat grinning. What happened?

The brunette tried to look into the room over Lydell's shoulder. Coppola's dead. Someone stuck his head in the door, started pitching lead. Frankie fielded one with his head. The girl's hands shook as she pulled her robe close around her. What doll we do call the police? I guess, Lydell grunted. Someone else's bound to probably has already. We better get it on record that we reported it as soon as it happened. They'll kill me, the girl moaned. They'll blame

me for it. They'll think I put him on the spot. Who will his friends? The pallor had returned to the girl's face. Her voice was high, squeaky with fright. They'll think it was me. Lydell patted her arm. Don't worry about it. I'll see to it that your booked as a material witness and put away some safe place until I can take care of those friends of his. The girl licked her lips, made a visible effort to get herself under control. Why what do you want me to do?

Forget what happened tonight? You and Frankie expected me over. You went inside while Frankie and I were talking. The first thing he knew there was shooting. Leave the rest to me, but his friends they'll know. Lydell nodded, leave them to me too. The brunette took a deep, shuddering breath, nodded, okay. She looked down at her gown, pulled it together. I

bet get some clothes on. After she had returned to the bedroom, Lydell took Capola's luguer from his pocket, wiped it carefully with his handkerchief, Then, lifting the dead man's hand from where it hung limply over the side of the chair, he pressed the gun into the lifeless hand. In several positions. He blew on the gun, seemed satisfied

with the number of prints that showed up. Holding it with his handkerchief, he slipped it into the fat man's holster, walked over to the telephone, dialed Inspector Hurley he had headquarters. A few minutes later, one of the radio patrol men who had been the first to answer the call opened the door for Inspector Hurley, he and his men. The inspector pushed his broad brimmed hat back on his head, scowled at Lydell. He crossed the room and bent over

the corpse. After a careful scrutiny of the wound, he nodded for the headquarters men to take over. Then, perching himself on the arm of the sofa, he regarded Lydell soberly plus like ya Lux run out, Lidell. No one could call this one's self defense. Lydell managed to look surprised. You don't think I did it, Inspector her He shifted his gum from his left cheek to his right, grinned humorlessly.

You kidding this morning? You find out this guy tried a machine guny the other night, he turns up dead and you're on the scene with that hole in his head. It's a cinch. He didn't die of old age? How would you figure it? Lydel shrugged, I didn't kill him, Inspector Hurly, he grunted, got a gun on you here, it is, sir. One of the uniform men produced the forty five wrapped in a handkerchief. Hurly he held the

barrel to his smoke, sniffed, No, you're smelling it. Inspector Lydell told him, you won't have any trouble proving it was fire tonight. Your trouble's going to prove how I shot Frankie with a forty five and he turned up dead with a thirty two hole in his head. Curly, he stared at him thoughtfully, a troubled frown on his face. He spun on his heel walked over to the uniform patrolman. Anyone else in the place when it happened? He barked.

The patrolman referred to his black leather notebook. Ah, woman names Claire Rhodes. She's an entertainer at the showplace out in Brooklyn. What's she doing here? The patrolman scratched his head. She lives here, the place is listed in her name. Hurly, he turned back to glare at Lidell. Ah wouldn'tess eh, Let's have a look at her, demmoch. The uniform man disappeared into the bedroom, reappeared a moment later, leading the brunette by the arm. She made a determined effort to

keep her eyes off the body. Lost the match when they roved there uncontrollably. You were here when the shooting took place, Miss Rhodes. Hurly, he barked at her. The girl nodded, then you knew this man. He stepped aside so she could get a good look at Cupola. The brunette's pallor turned a patchy gray. She swallowed audibly, averted her eyes. He was my fiancee, Hurly, he nodded. How about him? He indicated Lidell. The girl's eyes sought out Lidell,

then dropped. I never met him until to night. Frankie was expecting him. They had something to talk over. Frankie told me to go to bed as soon as he came. A trouble v creased the inspector's brow. They were friendly, The girl nodded. They were while I was here. But they had an argument and Lydell shot him. I didn't say that it was somebody else that shot Frankie. Somebody opened the door, stuck a gun in and killed him. Hurly. He growled deep in his chest. He said, you were

in the bedroom. How do you know all this? He snapped, I told her Lydell broke in. Hurly. He fixed Lightell with a baleful glare. It wasn't that considerate of you. Suppose you tell me what happened? Lydell shrugged. It's just like Claire says. The door opened, someone stuck a gun in and plugged Frankie. You didn't even get a look at the killer, no, doubt Lydell grinned bleakly. I didn't have a chance to do anything but duck. It happened so fast. Frankie didn't even have time to go for

his gun. He indicated the butt of the luger peeping from under the fat man's jacket. Either that or he knew the guy in the doorway and didn't expect any trouble. He's pretty theory. What were you doing when the shooting started? Talking to Frankie, he was in the chair and I was standing with my back to the door. I heard it open and someone threw a shot. I died for the floor and took the light with me. Then I threw a couple at the doorway and tried to get

a crack at the killer. He raised his shoulders in an eloquent shrug. He got away. Do tell Hurley. He spun on his heel, swung back to the patrolman standing with the girl. Take her down and book her as a material witness. Arrange for a paraffin test while you're at it. Maybe she'll be ready to do some talking. After a couple of knights in the tank, there was a light tap on the door. Another patrolman opened it. The medical examiner breezed in greeted the inspector with a

cheery grin. He whistled soundlessly as he took inventory of the girl being hustled through the door. I'm glad it wasn't her. He's not half as pretty. He dropped his hat on the table, leaned over the body, examined the wound with the practiced air hum A thirty two way, Inspector Hurley. He slammed his hat down on the tip, ran his fingers through the thick mane of his hair. How the hell can you tell it's thirty two until

you get the damn bullet out, he roared. The medical examiner dropped his top coat on the couch, took off his jacket, started to roll up his sleeves. I can't, if you are going to get technical about it, inspector, not anymore that you can tell when you find a hole under you to sink, whether it's made by a mouse or an elephant. He busied himself at the body,

made a series of notations on a printed form. If it'll make you feel any better, I'll have him tag for an autopsy to make sure he wasn't poisoned, he added maliciously. Hurly, he started to retort. Let the fingerprint man catch him by the arm, draw him aside. A whisper in his ear, the red flush crept all the way up from the Inspector's collar. You're absolutely sure that fnce,

the fingerprint man looked unhappy. Positive, Inspector cupolas are the only prints on the luguer, Just like I tried to tell you, Inspector light El grinned, I'm as innocent as a newborn babe. Stilled, determined to toss me into the pokey Hurly, he gave his wad of gum a murderous pounding swore under his breath. I could lock you up as a material witness, but chances are the legitimate prisoners would be circulating a petition to get rid of you.

Can I have my gun back, Lydell asked hurly. He handed it back wordlessly, watched while the private detective fitted it into his holster. Still insists, you don't know what's going on, Lydell, now as much as in the dark as you are. Lydell nodded. The inspector sniffed. It's not what the district attorney thinks. God help you if you make one slip. Your department hasn't got a thing on me, and you know it. It's not my department you'd better

be worried about. It's the health department. You're a public menace and more fatal than an epidemic. End of chapter nine, Chapter ten. The phone jangled so hard it almost danced off the night table. Johnny Lydell groaned, turned over, tried to keep out the strident sound by pulling the covers over his head, Trying to make believe the phone wasn't there. Didn't work. It stood on the end of the table, shrilled at him. He consulted his watch, couldn't see the

time and the dimness of the room. Reached up, pulled on the bed lamp, was almost blinded by the flood of yellow light. It was eleven o'clock. He reached over, scooped the phone from its cradle, eh, the receiver laughed in his face. The Lydell Detective Agency never sleeps. What a laugh it was, mugs Achille, her voice so cheerful that it made his stomach new backflips. I've been ringing this phone for half an hour, no accounting for tastes, Lidell grunted, Wake up, Johnny, I'm on my way up.

Lydell scowled at the phone, tried to think of some argument to stave off the threatened invasion, gave it up as hopeless. Don't hurry on my account. That's what I love about you, Lidell. You're so impetuous. Lidell tossed his receiver on the hook, walked over, ran up the shade, blink at the sunlight. On the way to the bathroom, he unlocked the apartment door, was already under the shower when he heard it open and close. Be right out, he yelled, above the roar of the water. Take your time,

Muggsy called in. He finished showering, rubbed himself down briskly, tried with no noticeable success, to wash the dark brown taste out of his mouth. He stuffed his legs into a pair of gray flannel pants, ran an electric razor over his face and was feeling reasonably human by the time he walked out to face Mugsy. She was sitting on her feet in the only decent chair in the room, skimming through a two column story on the front page of the Advance. She looked up as he walked into

the room, grinned. Her face was free of make up, her thick blonde hair fluffed out beneath the dark blue, jaunty tam. She looked more like a college senior in her well filled sweater than most college seniors ever managed to look. She tossed the paper onto the floor, got up, walked over to Lidel, slid her arms around his neck. It sounds like you had an exciting evening after you left me. Just routine. Not a couple of interesting women, he planted his lips on hers. A couple of women.

I only read about one. Who is the other a hustler who works forty seventh Street. Her name's Laurie. Interesting. Muggsy nodded in mock gravity. Oh, I'll bet no doubt she told you the story of how she was lured unwillingly into a life of sin. Laurie. Hell no, she loves it. He stepped around the girl found a fresh shirt in his biureau drawer. What have they done with the roades? Gal put her in deep freeze early. He thinks she may start remembering things if he keeps her

there long enough. Lydell shrugged into the shirt, grinned, good, that's just what she wants him to do. He selected a tie from the rack, put it back docily when Muggsy selected another one. She's afraid Cupola's men will be after her. Muggsy watched the tie tying process critically approved, sat on the side of the bed, and fumbled through

her oversized perse for a cigarette. The store worry is that this mass marvel crept up behind you and pop poor Frankie right over your shoulder, and you don't have any idea what he looks like. She lit the cigarette. That's the story. Muggsy blew a stream of smoke at him, shook her head. You could do better than that, Johnny. Don't believe me, huh. The girl grinned, that's not important, did her? Lee Lydell shrugged. He hated to stand still

for it, but he had no choice. Frankie was popped with thirty two my gun's a forty five and Frankie's as a luger. Smoke tickled Muggsi's nostrils. You could have gotten rid of it, or the stripper could have done the shooting. Don't think they missed that one either. They gave the roads gal the paraffine test the minute they got her to the station, he dragged a comb through his tangled hair, slipped into his shoulder harness. Take my word for it that the kid didn't do it, Muggs.

She was locked in the bedroom when the shooting started, and you lydel fished his forty five out of the bureau drawer, checked it, slid it into the shoulder holster. Act your age, baby. If I'm going to try to beat an experienced hood to his gun, I'm going to use a forty five that'll stop him cold, not a thirty two that might just sting him. Find out the answer to those questions you wanted answered? No Lydell shook his head, But I would have if I had just

a little more time. Frankie was beginning to soften up, real nice. What did happen, Johnny? He took the cigarette from between her lips, took a deep drag replaced it. After I left your place, I went over to meet one of Dummy's men in a joint on forty seventh Street. He had run Copola down in a riding academy called the Sert. He fixed it so as I could get into the place. That's where Laurie came in. Lydell nodded. I went up to her room with her. She was

right above Copola's room. I managed to get to him, snatch him. I didn't think they'd find him at his own place. He scowled, rubbed the heel of his hand along his jaw. They must have spotted us. I made the mistake of using Copola's car, and Lydell shrugged, And that's all the rest happened, just like it's says in the paper. While I was sweating him, the door opened and died for the floor. Took the light out with me. Frankie didn't move fast enough. Muggsy smoked silently for a moment.

It gets screwier and screwier. Where does this leave you? Up a dead end without a parachute. I'm trying to figure out what I'm knocking my brains out for. You're not letting it get you, Johnny, I'm getting superstitious, that's for sure, He admitted. Things have happened to me since I took this case on that shouldn't happen to a dog. If I had any sense, i'd throw it away. Muggsy looked shocked. You can't walk out in the middle of

a case. Case? What kind of case? Some old guy blows the top of his head off, his daughter blows her top and takes off. Then a bunch of trigger happy hoods nominate me as target for today. You call that a case? You says yourself that Matt Merritt was murdered. I talk too much, lied old growled. But if he was murdered, you can't drop the case, Johnny. Nobody else believes he was. You can't let the killer get away

with it. What more can I do, Muggs. With all the prowling and ducking I've been doing, I haven't come up with a single thing that I can sink my teeth into. Muggsy found another cigarette in her purse, chain lit it from the one she held. There's got to be a connection. Once we find that, it should all fall into place. She leaned back, blew a stream of smoke at the ceiling if we could only find it. Unless you know how to operate wija boards, we haven't

got a chance. Cupola was my last hope, and they've fixed it so he won't be doing any talking. Muggsy shook her head. There must be others. Cupola wouldn't be the only one to know about a connection between Merritt and Vailey. There's bound to be others. You couldn't keep a thing like that quiet. Merritt's dead and Vailey is the original sphinx. Whom would you suggest? Muggsy blew more

smoke at the ceiling considered, how does that saying go? Johnny, the moving finger writes, and having writ moves on something like that, isn't it? This is the hell of a time to impress me with your culture. The girl sat up, no kidding. That quote applied to the hand of fate, I think. But the hand of fate isn't the only thing that writes. Newspapers do too, only what they write doesn't move on. It stays right in their files. Go on.

Most of the people mixed up in this mess so far, Vailey, Cupola, Merritt, Jean, they're all well known they've all been good copy, so the chances are that everything they've ever done is hit the papers. Why don't we hot foot it down to the shop and see if they ever cross paths anyway, they may give us a lead. That's my girl, light Owl leaned over, kissed her hard. That's what I love about your mugs, your brain, Muggsy pouted prettily. That's what

I was afraid of. The Advanced Morgue was on the ground floor of the pile of stones on South Street that housed the newspaper office. It was a huge, metal drawered mausoleum where all the dead news of yesterday's editions are laid to rest. Tier upon tier of metal faced drawers and still filing cabinets stretched from the floor to the ceiling for as far as the eye could reach.

It was presided over by Pop Michaels, veteran of the City Room for forty years now, put out a pasture among many of the stories he had originated and followed through. His only connection with the city side now was limited to the occasional pounding out of an editorial. He took a charred brier from between his teeth and grinned to

welcome at Johnny Lydell and Muggsy Keeley. Well, well, if it ain't Johnny Lidell, don't tell me they got you farmed out on the oh bit beat two, he wheezed, winking broadly at Muggsy fine way, at a great and old Powell who got up at this unearthly hour of the morning just to drop by and pay his respects. Johnny grinned, that'll be the day, Hey, Muggsy. The old man nodded. How's Jim feeling these days? The old ulcer's a kickin up again, Pop, but he's back at the desk.

He can't figure out how the sheet could get out without him out there in the slot. The old man sighed, shook his head. He was one of the greatest, Muggsy. They don't grow newspaper man like Jim Keey anymore. It was in his blood he drew on the juicy old pipe. Let his mind tumble back over the years, sighed again. Never forget how disappointed he was when you were a girl. Never thought in those days the women would take over the city room. He's sure proud of you, No, Buggsy grinned,

Not that he admits it. He keeps preaching that newspaper work is no job for a woman. The old fake. He gets as much of a bang out of my byline as I do. Pop Michaels nodded. You can be sure that comes down here often he does to get copies of your stuff for a scrap book he's been making on the Sly says he's gonna give it to your kids. He tossed a sly look at Lighthel says, he hopes it ain't in twenty volumes before you get

around to having Eddy. See how it is, Johnny. Even Pop is out trying to get me a man discourage. It ain't it, pomp. The old man grinned his young bucks. Don't know how good they got it, mugs if I was forty years younger myself. He caught himself grinned. You didn't come down here to hear an old man's life history? Though, what are you really after? Johnny Lydell scratched his head. Damned. I find no exactly, Pop, anything that'll show a connection

between Matt Merritt and Pete Vailey. I guess Pop Michael sucked on his pipe, pursed his lips. It's kind of a broad order, Johnny, break it down for me. Put it this way, Pop. Matt Merrett and Pete Vailey have cropped up in a case I'm working on the way things stack up. It looks like they knew each other sometime in the past. I've got to find out when

and how ever hear of their paths crossing. The old man clamped the pipe stem between his teeth, ran the heel of his hand across the silver bristles on his chin. His bright blue eyes seemed to be consulting the card in decks of his mind. Matt Merritt and Pete Vailey. Eh. He sucked contemplatively on his pipe, shook his head. Recall that they ever did, Johnny, I've known Pete ever since. He used to raid push carts as a fresh kid on the East Side, and I was a district man

in the courts. He shook his head again. He never played in Merritt's league, not that I can recall. Muggsy nodded. It sounds goofy does too, Pop, But it's worth to try get us the files on Merrit and Vailey, would you. The old man pushed over a pad of forms to be filled out waited until she had written the information, then shuffled down the line of filing cabinets towards the rear. Let's see anything you have on Frankie Coppola too, will you? Pop Muggsy called after him. After a minute, the old

man was back carrying three bulging Manila envelopes. Been reading the story on the Cupola killed Johnny, He said, what's the inside? Lightell shrugged, just like it says pop. He and I were having a little talk when somebody started tossing lead. Frankie forgot the duck. The old man grinned slyly pushed the envelopes across the desk. Frankie was a bad boy. Funny thing about him not going for that luger of his. Wasn't it if it was in his holster when the shooting started? That is yeah, isn't it?

Lightdell agreed. I hear the da is wondering about that too, Johnny. If I were you, I'd watch my step Deet's file back. There is a pretty skinny one. You don't care how he fattens it or who he has to stant flat to do it. Thanks for the tip, pop Lydell winked, they don't have a thing on me, not a thing yet, added Mugsy. She picked up the folders led the way to a library table at the side of the room spilled the contents of the merit file out. Let's see

what we can find in this one. They divided the clips into two finals, each poured through half. The clippings ran back through the years, traced the growth of a poor Irish immigrant who rose to an important national figure

before his death. Roteo prints, news stories of trips abroad, news photos, predictions of prosperity at the height of the depression, warnings of recession at the height of prosperity, business and social triumphs, his daughter's debut, his son's death in a shooting accident, and finally his own death in the homage paid him by friends and associates at the funeral. After half an hour of examining the file, Lidell straightened up, eased the cramp in his back, suppressed a yawn. Looks

like Merrett never knew Pete Vailey existed, he grumbled. Muggsy Keelly chewed on the end of a finger nail. Merritt was a big contractor, maybe he used Vaily in some strike breaking or keeping his workers in line. Think that could be pump. The old man sucked on his pipe, considered it, shook his head. Merritt never had any labor trouble far as I know, he pointed with the stem of the pipe. If he had, you would have come

across it. In there. The kind of stuff always hit the papers, especially if there was violence, and if Pete was mixed up there was violence, no hits, no strikes, plenty of misses, Lydell said with a grunt. Muggsy nodded, rifled the pile of clips with her fingers. How about the daughter, Maybe she got mixed up with Pete in some way. Wasn't Pete kind of old? For that wouldn't make any difference to a screwball glamor puss like Jean Merritt. You know the way the movies and t V have

glamorized To hit hoolimbs like Vailey in her circles. Knowing Pete Vailey would be a real accomplishment, She shoveled the clippings back into the folder marked Matthew Merritt deceased, handed it back to Pop. It's not like in her old man's day when the racket boys and society traveled in different circles. Now they both hang out and the upholstered sewers we laughably call night clubs. It's worth a try, as long as we're here. I guess how about it? Pop?

You knew Valley from way back? Was he the kind of guy that might take a shine to a society kid like Jean Merritt? The old man scratched his head, surrounded himself with the blue fog of pipe smoke, shook his head. I wouldn't know, mugs, that society stuff was off my beat. I can let you have her file, though, he shuffled back to the files, reappeared with another Manila envelope.

Another half hour of pouring through gossip items and columns, reams of copy on Jean Merritt's debut, an announcement of her engagement to doctor Tony Seville got them no farther. What a screwball? Looks like I had the dot wrong. She seems to have leveled off a little since she met him. Lightell growled, hooray for him. Maybe we've both been wrong. Mogsy sighed, Maybe this isn't such a good idea after all, Lydell rubbed his eyes wearily, yawned. One

more to go, then we'll pack it in. He poured the voluminous contents of the Pete Vailey file out on the table in front of them, selected a handful at random, started glancing through them. They went through the pile methodically, reading, discarding, reading, discarding. Suddenly lightel stiffened. He held a clipping up to the light, studied it carefully for a minute. I think I got something, baby, His voice was heavy with superst excitement. So help me, Hannah,

I think I've struck Paydart. He was holding a two column picture that had apparently been used in a center spread picture layout. Take a look at this one, pop, The old man took the picture, adjusted his glasses, peered at the date August twelfth, nineteen thirty eight. Eh, that was in my time, all right. He held the picture out at arm's length studied it. It was the picture of a man sprawled out on his back in the gutter, a folded overcoat under his head. A white clad intern

was kneeling at his side. Two uniform patrolmen were watching with half hearted interest. That's Pete Vailey, there the old man stabbed the man in the gutter with a gnarled finger. I remember that time. That was the garage ambush back in thirty eight down on the east side. Damn near got Pete that time too. Okay, okay, I know that's Pete Vailey. But who is this? Lydell pointed to the intern.

Pop Michael studied the picture, shook his head. Just a ambulance. Doc, far as I can see them, young fellers came and went. Johnny never round long enough to get to know them. Well, how about letting me in on this, Muggsy complained. She took the picture from Pop Michael's hands, studied it, frowned. What's all the excitement, Johnny, I thought you had something. Take another look at that Doc. Doesn't he look familiar? Muggsy studied the picture obediently shook her head. Not a bit,

just another intern. She read the caption under the picture. He wrote the Governor Hospital Ambulance name of Anthony and Seville auro So so what he means, so clied al roared, You mean you don't recognize him as Doc Saville, the guy Jean Merritt's going to marry Doc Seville. You sure, Johnny, of course, I'm sure i'd know that smooth hair pill push or any place, even if he has changed his name. It could be Muggsy, conceded. I don't know Seville well enough to say say for sure, but it could be.

Even the name and Savillaro to Seville, it could be. It's got to be. It's the link we're looking for. Now. At least we can tie two people up in a screwy mess, Seville and Vailey. Now we're beginning to get someplace. He turned to the old Man. Got a file on Doc Seville pop end of chapter ten, Chapter eleven. The file on Tony Seville proved disappointing. The batch of clippings dated no further back than five years, the earliest being an account of doctor Seville escorting one of that season's

more publicized debs. He had apparently made no effort to get publicity of either nature. After the files had been returned to the metal drawers, Laide leaned back stared morosely at the ceiling. I'm beginning to get a couple of ideas of what's been playing around here for the past couple of days. But it sounds so screwy. Even to me that I'm afraid to mention it. Muggsy Heey made an effort to erase her disappointment, but failed. Her full lips drooped, though she showed no signs of giving up.

Think hard, Pop, can't you tie this young doc in with Pete in any way? It can't just be coincidence. There's got to be a connection between them. The old man sucked noisily on his pipe, rattled the juice in the stem. Can't say I do mugs. Matter of fact, I don't believe there was any Pete was the last guy in the world to have any truck with medics anyway. Why Pop scared to death of him? Always was? How come Pop Michaels chuckled deep in his throat A good

reason to be. I guess doctor's always meant trouble for Pete. Back in the old days, he was always getting shot up, and every time he'd go to a dock for treatment, they'd turn him in. You'd think he'd have stayed away and taken his chances. The old man shook his head. Ah, Pete muggs he was scared to his kid brother Micky died from an infected wound he refused to have treated. Pete saw the kid die, and he he had none

holy fear of infection after that. Yet he knew, Saville, that's the only thread we've got, and we're hanging on to it. Let's take it from there, see where it goes. Try fill innocent on this little garage ambush, pop Lydell prompted. The old man chewed his pipe, stem ran his mind back over the stories he had covered. Who's a good yarn? He nodded. They backed my piece up with a centerfold of picks that, when you saw, was one of them. He tapped the ashes out of the pipe, started repacking it.

They surprised Pete and five of his boys in a garage down on Monroe Street. Pete was the only one to walk away. Who did it? Word around was that it was the Mulligan boys. Always was bad blood between Laradiy Mulligan and Pete ever since they were kids. Anyway, Pete clammed up and the case was never solved, not by the cops anyway. Lydell nodded, watched the old man light his pipe with a long wooden match. Pete shot up bad, pretty bad. But Pete always was a tough

one to kill. We got to flash down at the Elizabeth station, got there before they loaded him into the ambulance. Real scared, Pete was that time, real scared. But you didn't know the intern Lydell persisted, Like I said, Those kids came and went, never paid them much mind. Pop shook his head. Never saw him before, can't recollect ever seeing him after that. How about Pete the old man

screwed up his forehead in concentration. No recall that I saw much of him after that either, until they sent him up on the federal rap No, wait a minute, I did. About a year later he was up for questioning about the epidemic of lead poisoning. Already, Mulligan and his boys suddenly contracted eight of him in two weeks. Nothing come of it. Bob Michaels shook his head, not in the courts, but the other Mulligans didn't take it.

Lying down. Every so often you'd hear one or another of Pete's boys being found with a Mulligan trademark in his back, but not Pete. Lydell made some rapid computations. That was almost fifteen years ago. Pete's been inside for about three on the federal wrap. You mean that in twelve years he never turned up. You saw his file. He's been off for questioning on a couple of killings and things. I guess Lydell nodded, but he never showed

up with any bullet holes. Can't say that I ever remember Pete getting into a shooting scrape from that day to this. None of his boys either, now that you mention it, dead, yes, but not wounded. Lydel beat a noiseless tattoo on the table with his fingertips. He stared at a framed picture on the wall above Pop Michael's head. After a moment, as though arriving at a decision, he stood up, caught Muggsy under the arm, lifted her to her feet. Thanks Pop. That's about all we can learn

around here, I guess. He pulled a roll of bills from his pocket, separated two fives, shoved them into the old man's hand. Have a beer on us. He caught Muggsy by the arm, led the way out of the morgue, down the corridor toward the advanced editorial offices. Ten bucks. You must really have an idea of vegetating under that spreading scalp What is it, Johnny, Nothing, very definite, just an idea. Baby. Don't kid me, Johnny, this is muggsy,

the girl chided. You just aren't the type to go scattering five dollar bills in your patches because somebody gave you an idea. Something Pop said back there rang a bell? What was it? You heard what he said? I heard, but to me it didn't mean anything it did to you. Don't hold out on me, Johnny, she pleaded. I'll give you the whole thing when I'm sure that I'm on the right track. There's no use in both of us being confused. Scout's honor, Mydell grinned, chucked her under the chin.

You know I never hold out on you, baby, Then what hit you so hard? Back there? She persisted Lyadell pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, held it out to the girl, who shook her head. Hung one from the corner of his mouth. Quits, darling, Johnny, what hits you? A lot of things? I guess. For instance, what's a kid who was interning in a city hospital a few years ago doing with a fancy Park Avenue

office and private sanitarium in Westchester? And Blydell shrugged and how come Pete Vailey gets involved in a gang war with the Mulligans, and yet neither he nor any of his boys ever showed up for treatment of gunshot wounds. You think there's a connection, could be, but first we've got to be sure that Ann Savellaro and Seville are both the same guy. Muggsy considered it, conceded that it was reasonable. How are you planning to go about that? I thought you might dig me up a press card

for a couple of hours. What for? Blydell shrugged, just checking a hunch. I can do it without the car, but happn one will make it a lot easier. Can you get one? I suppose so. Jim ben Arsdale always keeps a couple of extras stashed away in the city side for when the Space Rate boys need one. She led the way to a frosted glass door labeled Advance Editorial employees only and parked him on the door. Still, she was back in a few minutes with a shilled

shaped card in her hand. And you're now Tom Terry of the Advance. Every guy on assignment who needs a card becomes Tom Terry on account of that's the name. The card is made out to. Lydell stuck the card in his hat band, shoved the hat on the back of his head. Now, if only I had on my baggy pants and hadn't shaved, the disguise would be complete.

Owhawa look like Darrell Xanik's conception of a reporter. You think that's bad, Lydell countered Hurst never saw the day he could pay his reporters what Xanak pays his Where do we go from here? Lydell took the press card from his hat band, slid it under the cellfane flap in his wallet. You go home and wait to hear from me. This is strictly a one man operation. Muggsy started to protest, permitted herself to be dragged to the street. Lydell flagged down a cab, pushed her into it, gave

the cabby her address. I'll check on you as soon as I get this off my chest, he promised. How nice, I'll have some beer and cheese ready. Lydell was pleasantly surprised. Now you're making sense. I thought you were going to cut up, And how do you want your cheese? I'm bread or in a trap? The girl snapped, let's go driver. The cab charged away from the curb, leaving Lydell standing his mouth open. As it pulled away, he had a

final view of Muggsy in the rear window. He waved, and she put her thumb up to her nose and waved back. A half hour later, Lydell loped up the steps of the drabbed stone building that housed the administrative offices of Governor Hospital. He walked down a poorly lighted hallway to a door marked information. Inside, a white haired woman sat behind a grilled counter making entries into a large ledger. She raised her eyes as Lydell walked in smiled.

Can I help you? She asked. Lydell flashed the shield shaped press card. I'm Tom Terry of the Advance. I'm down here to do some feature pieces on famous doctors who have then turned here. Who would I have to talk to? The woman was suitably impressed. I think you'd want to talk to mister Morsey, our director. Will you come this way, sir? She opened the gate led him to a wooden door in the rear of the office. Would you wait here a moment, mister Terry. She disappeared

into the office. Beyond was gone only a minute, mister Morrisey, will see you now, mister Terry. Mister Morrisey had a thin, long, sad face, running up into a thatch of iron gray hair that matched the bushy eyebrows perched precariously over a pair of cold, gray of praising eyes. His mouth was a thin, colorless split that formed the base of a triangle connecting with the long, pinched nose. He delicately removed a pince nez as Lydell walked in. Good morning, mister Terry.

His voice was deep, funereal, always glad to meet with members of the press. His eyes rolled sideways to the white haired woman. That will be all, miss Dennis, he said coldly. Johnny Lydell pulled a wooden arm chair close to the desk, dropped into it, found an old envelope in an inside pocket. We're thinking of doing a series on famous doctors who got their start here at Governor mister Morsey. I hope you have no objection, of course not.

We'll be glad to co operate. Did you have any particular person in mind to start with or did you wish suggestions? Lydell shook his head. He thought we'd do it alphabetically, just to avoid ruffling any feelings, you understand. He consulted the scribbled notes on the back of his envelope. I thought we'd tee off with a sketcher on doctor and Sevolaro. The long, sour face of the director seemed to lengthen as he sucked on his lower lip. And Sevilaro,

you say, Lydell looked up. He interned here, didn't he? Yes? And Silviolaro was with us for a few years. But don't you think there are others, possibly more distinguished men among our alumni. He started to tabulate on long bony fingers. There was Ryebeck, the chest man, the Steckler brothers Cove who did all the research on vitamins, and Lydell interrupted with a wave of his pencil. Good men, but they have no oomph. The heavy eyebrows of the director arched upwards,

corrugating his brow with ridges. Umph reader interest Lydell explained circulal and several arrows. A glamour boy, a society doctor. The stinnows would eat up a story about him. Of course, if you say no. Morrisey shrugged his shoulders, attempted a smile that only succeeded and making him look as though he tasted something sour, then laced his fingers on top of the desk. Certainly not. We're only too glad to cooperate in any way. You say, exactly what can we do?

You can sketch out the background for me, and then, if possible, I'd like to talk to someone who has worked closely with him for the details and color. He held his breath mentally crossed his fingers. There is somebody around that he worked with or who knew him as an intern. Morrissey japped at a button. I can tell you better when I've refreshed my memory of what services he was on. The white head of the clerk appeared in the doorway. Let me have the personnel file for

nineteen thirty eight, Miss Dennis. The woman nodded, closed the door behind her, was back in a moment with a large, loosely folder. She laid it on the desk walked back to the outer office. The then men flipped through the pages of the binder until he came to one headed and Savalaro Anthony j His long, bony fingers ran through the short paragraph that followed the name, I'm sorry, I won't be able to be of much help with his background.

Doctor and Sivioalaro gave us very few facts concerning himself. Lydell nodded, acking get that material direct if I need it. Just give me some of his educational background. His college, City College, then Bellevue on a scholarship. Lydell scribbled the information on the back of the envelope. When did he finish his internship in nineteen forty? The director closed the

loose leaf book leaned back directly. Upon completion of his internship, he left Governeur, and we have no record of him since he replaced the pence Nez on the high bridge of his nose. That accounts for my surprise at yours selection of doctor A. Sevilaro as one of our outstanding alumni. There was a faint gleam of suspicion in his cold gray eyes. Johnny Lydell pulled his wallet from his breast pocket extracted a clipping over to Morrissey. Then you probably

don't know that he's changed his name to Saville. The director's eyebrows arched in surprise. He took the clip, studied it. That's doctor A. Sibilaro. All right, you say he's doing well, as doctor Seville, very well. For the past five years, he's been society's number one medicine man. You must have seen his name in the papers at some time or other. Morrissey continued to stare at the picture. Yes, of course, I guess I never associated the two, though I did

hear something about him. It's nice to know he's doing so well. Lydell took back the clipping, replaced it in his wallet. Now about someone who knew him while he was here. The thin man took off his penson AZ tapped him thoughtfully against the palm of his hand. Almost twelve years ago, eh, he mused. Of course, there would be many changes in that time, not among the charge nurses. Perhaps, he considered the possibility for a moment, shook his head.

I doubt if they'd remember him, a retiring young man, I think, I mentioned. Lydell nodded. Anybody else The thin man sucked on his lower lip. The labman or the X ray technician might possibly remember him. Most of the interns spend a lot of time in the lab doing their own work. Ups Suddenly his face cleared, of course, why didn't I think of him before, Vinnie. He'd be sure to remember Aunt Savolaro if any one did. Vinnie,

he drives the bus ambulance. You know. He's been here for about twenty years and is the unofficial father confessor to most of the interns. He japped at the desk button again. The whitehead of the clerk popped in the open doorway, Miss Dennis, will you call the garage and tell Vinnie that I'm sending over mister He fumbled for the name, turned to Lydell for help. Terry Tom Terry. Lydell filled in, I'm sending mister Terry of the advance over to talk to him. Ask him to give mister

Terry any assistance he can. The white head in the doorway nodded, was withdrawn. I am certain Vinnie would have the kind of information you want, mister Terry. Lydell nodded, pulled himself out of his chair. Thanks for the left, mister Morrisey. I'll keep in touch. End of chapter eleven, Chapter twelve. The ambulance garage for the hospital was in the back of the building, facing on east Side Drive

in the river, reached by a long inclined ramp. A short, fat man his bay window, resting comfortably on his belt. A blue uniform hat on the back of a bald head stood leaning against a shiny, sleek new ambulance. He watched Lidell approach, with no visible change of expression, continue to execute a delicate operation on a moler with the ragged end of a toothpick. I'm looking for a driver named Vinnie, Lydell told him. The short man nodded, that's me.

His bright blue eyes flicked over. Lidell seemed to hesitate a moment at the left lapel, where an almost imperceptible bulge was there to be seen by an experienced eye. You the one in the office called about Yeah, Lydell told him, what's on your mind? The short man was fat, but it wasn't a soft Dowey fat. It was muscled that had been allowed to run to fat. But it was still muscle. He could have been fifty, looked forty. Lydel dug his wallet from his pocket, held the press

card out. I'm digging some stuff for a feature article. Lydell told him, Morris, he thought you could help. The blue eyes flicked over the press card seemed unimpressed. Like, for instance, little instance, touches of color, anything that will dress up an article and bring en Savolaro to life for our readers. Tony N. Salvolaro. Eh, the short man pulled the toothpick from between his teeth, took a last look at the freighted end, flipped it to the concrete floor.

What's the beef against the kid? No beef, I just want to do a story on him. The driver nodded toward Lydel's left lapel. Sin's when to report is go around carry an iron. Lydel grinned, you are pretty sharp, Vinny, I didn't know it showed. He sized the little man up, decided to play it straight. I always carry one sometimes in my racket you have to. You step on toes, and you gotta carry some authority or you get pushed around, he figures. The fat man conceded, what about Tony Lydell shrugged?

He's been doing all right for himself. Office on Park, private hospital up in Westchester. How's that set him up for a ride up? There's hundreds at dot got the same setup, maybe, But he's the only one who's scheduled to marry the only child to one of the richest men in the country. That makes some news. Then he pulled a cigarette from behind his ear, fitted to the corner of his mouth. So he played his cards right. Eh, feels like he said he would. Lydell held a lighter

to the other man's cigarette, watched him suck it into life. Ambitious, say he knew what he wanted. What was that? Money? Plenty of money, Lydell nodded, Most poor kids do. He came from a poor family, didn't He family never had a dime live down here on the east side Mulberry Street. Tony hated everything connected with poverty in the east Side. The short man took a deep drag on his cigarette,

blew the smoke and wind streams through his nostrils. He even hated the poor slobs that came here to the clinic. Hated them because they were poor. He used to say he could smell their poverty, and the smell made him sick. Was he popular with the staff? Then he shook his head, kept to himself pretty much. Only one he spent any time with it was a little redhead on Maile surgery. The bright blue eyes squinted Laura Malleson. I think her name was. She left just before Tony did. Always had

it figured. She went with him. Do you spend much time on the ambulance same as the others, No more, no less? All in turns rotate one month they ride bus the next, maybe in admissions, then the whole swing. Male medicine, accident, mail, surgery, all of them. He stood his trick on them all. You got to know him pretty well. Or he was riding bus with you. The fat man shrugged. He used to like to ride with me. We got two buses and two win turns on call. Like I said, if I was in Tony would always

jump mine lydel nodded. Pretty excited riding the bus down this part of town. I guess plenty of stabbings and shootings. He looked up from the envelope where he had been jotting notes. Plenty of everything, people getting born and dying all the time. How about some famous people that you picked up with an sevalaro anyone interesting? Depends on what you call famous. Down here. The biggest excitement we get his gang stuff. Used to get a lot more of

it years ago. It's sort of tapering off now. They got it too well organized. Wasn't that garage masker pulled in this district, Pete, Velly, you mean then he took a last drag on his cigarette, dropped it to the floor, crushed it out. Yeah, well you picked him up. Tony did a good job on him, saved his life. Kid really knew his stuff, you know, so I understand Lydel put his envelope and pencil into his pocket. Guess Pete was pretty grateful to the doc. Eh Benny shrugged. I

don't know if he ever saw him again. I thought you said on Sevalaro saved his life. He did, stopped him from bleeding to death in the street. But the man on the bus doesn't take care of the cases he brings in. They go right into the services. Lydell frowned over it. Seen on Sevalaro since he left or heard from him? Vinnie once the short man nodded about three four months after he left, wanted me to drive for him. He pushed the uniformed cap back on his head,

scratched the ball of pate. I had to turn him down. I couldn't see giving up a civil service job to work for a kid fresh out internship. Maybe I didn't play it as smart as I thought. You can never tell. Lydell agreed. He pulled the envelope out of his pocket, consulted his notes. You say the nurse's name was Mellicon, Laura Mellison. The fat man nodded. I got a funny idea that she want to find her. All you gotta do is ask Tony. I still think she left to

go with him. The redhead in the outer office was still pecking haphazardly at the keys of her typewriter when Lydel walked in. She had substituted a loose fitting white silk peasant blouse for her customary sweater, but it did nothing to disguise her assets. She looked up, followed him with her eyes as he slammed through to his private office. He tossed his hat at the coach tree, dropped into the swovel chair behind the desk, gave the mail a

fast shuffle. I haven't heard from Jean Merritt by any chance, Pinky, he called out to the girl. Not a peep. Her check clear, though I checked the bank this morning. She appeared in the doorway, her notebook in hand, walked over to the desk with a disconcerting motion of her hips. There's been some other calls. Want to hear about them. Lydell nodded, leaned back. The Masterson's out in Great Neck.

Want a man for five days to keep an eye on wedding presents for their daughter next Wednesday through Sunday. I told him we'd have a man there. Lydell groaned. As long as it isn't me, Pinky nodded. I already ranged to borrow an up from lou Blake. He'll cost us ten a day. We're getting thirty five, okay, Lydell nodded. After what I've been through on this merrit job, I'm beginning to think that play a nurse maid to a raft of ten coffee pots is a nice clean way

to make a living. Pinky nodded. Miss Keey called twice wants you to call her as soon as you get in. That's about it. Anything new on your end. Lydell shook his head. There'll probably be a call from Albany if I'm not here. Take the message. That's about a registered nurse named Laura Malleson. I want to know where she is now. Check anything else not right now. If Muggsy calls again, tell her the ringing of the phone cut him off. He scooped the receiver off the hook, held

it to his ears. The operator informed him that she had a call for him after a moment, mister Lydell, this is the State Board of Registration at Albany. He placed a call here this afternoon to request some information. That's right Lydell nodded about a registered nurse named Laura Malleson. Have you got it for me? I'm very sorry, The receiver told him. The last year of registration of miss Malleson's nurse license was nineteen forty two. We have no

record of her since that time. Lydell cursed under his breath. Could she be nursing in another state? The receiver hesitated. It's possible, but in cases of reciprocal granting of licenses by other states, there is usually some notice given to this state of original license. We have no such notation on miss Melleson, nor do we have any indication that she served with the armed forces during the last war. Lydell nodded, thanks very much, I'm sorry we couldn't be

of more help. The line went dead. Lydell dropped his receiver back on its hook, glared at the instrument. Bad news I'm getting used to. It wasn't too important anyhow. I was just trying to check something I'm pretty sure of anyway. He laced his fingers behind his head, stared up at the ceiling. This damned case. It's almost like somebody is looking over my shoulder figure in my next move and beating me to it. Pinky clucked sympathetically smoothed

her skirt over her thighs with a practiced motion. Lydell continued to stare at the ceiling. I wonder why she let her registration lapse. Most nurses don't, even if they don't figure on going back to nursing. He dropped his eyes to the red head scowled. I've got an idea. But he wouldn't be that careless. He chewed on his lower lip, nodded just the same. I'm about right for a break in this case. He reached over, lifted the receiver off its hook, dialed a number. After a moment,

a pert voice informed him the events. Good afternoon, Jim Keeley on the desk, He told her, one moment, please, she chirped. Then a heavy voice growled, desk, let me talk to Jim Keeley. Will you this is Johnny Lidell. This is Jim. Johnny, what's up? I need a fast check on vital statistics, Jim, would your city hall man give me a lift? The receiver hesitated. I guess so, Johnny. Nothing much brickin down there right now? What's the check?

A marriage license in the name of Anthony Seville and Laura Malleson, or maybe the groom's name is listed as a Savolaro. Should be in nineteen thirty nine or nineteen forty, preferably forty. Where are you now, Johnny? My office. I'll wait here for your call. Likely to be long, depends. I'll get back too, as soon as we get anything. By the way, what's in it for us? A good yarn? I think Mugs knows the score to date, and if it breaks, you'll have the works all wrapped up for you.

Sounds good. Drop by and let's see you one of these days, Johnny, it's been a long time. Lydel nodded, dropped the receiver back on the hook, sighed. He reached down to the bottom drawer brought up a bottle and two glasses. Well, while we're waiting, there's no reason we can't be comfortable. Sit down pinky and relax. The Redhead looked doubtful, shrugged, walked over, dropped into the client's chair. This is no way to run a business office. You know,

it can be a lot of fun, though. He poured a stiff drink into each glass, handed one to the red Head. Pinky took the glass, grinned, made a half hearted effort at pulling her skirt down over her knees. Gave it up as a bad job. In business school, they told me there'd always be days like this. What's wrong with the little relaxation? Nothing, I guess it's just that I'm still an employee and you're my employer. Lydel nodded, held his glass up in a toast. Here's to more

and better employer employee relations. The Redhead lifted her glass, sipped at the contents, studied him over the rim. You're kind of crazy. You know, you don't have to be crazy to get into this racket, but it does give you a head start. He scowled at the phone as it jangled, nodded for the red Head to answer it. She walked over to his side, lifted the receiver from its hook. Johnny Lightell Agency, She said, inspector herlickey. She

glanced at Lydell inquiringly, received a nod. Just a minute, Inspector, I'll get mister Lydell for you. Lydell slid his arm around her waist tried to pull her down onto his lap. She wriggled out of his grasp, leaving him with only a phone in his hand. He grinned ruefully put it to his ear. Hello, Inspector. Herlee's voice was gruff, impatient. You're in trouble now, Lydell, serious trouble, Lydell sighed, what

I do now? Unwarranted invasion of privacy anyway, that's what the DA is going to try to tag you with. Doctor Seville spent the last hour with him in his office, says, you're apparently trying to put a shake on him. That's a cock eyed lie. Maybe that's why I'm tipping you off. You may still be able to call off the dogs. I don't like to see any guy hound it out of a job unless he's got it coming to him. Thanks, Inspector, don't think me. You never even heard from me. Just

get yourself straightened away with deats in the dock. Otherwise you're out Lydell nodded, I'll do what I can. Thanks for the tip. He returned the phone to its cradle, glared at it, swore under his breath. More Trapple. They're really turning the heat on now, Pinky. They've got the das steamed up to lift my license. I must be worrying them. He chewed on the side of his thumbnail, considered, what are you going to do? Lydel shrugged. I've got

to get something to fight back with. I know the old man was murdered, but that doesn't do any good until I can prove it. With Doc Seville tossing his weight around, I'm a dead duck unless I come up with something awful soon, an awful good. He finished the drink, put the glass back in the bottom drawer. Call Muggsy, tell her to meet me at Luigi's in about an hour, Pinky. From here on in and I've got to keep moving so they can't tag me with a writ. I'll keep

in touch with you by phone. But the telephone jangled again. Light l picked it up, answered in a guarded tone, is light El there. This is Johnny Harris of the Advance. Hello Harris, what's up? Got the dope you one from the old man Johnny. There was a pause. Then Anthony Joseph and Savalaro and Laura Jane Mellison were married at City Hall on September second, nineteen forty. That's what you want, Lightel nodded, jotted the information down. That's my boy. Remind

me to buy you a drink. Next time I see you drink, Hell, I'll buy you the whole bottle. This I've got to see, Harrison chuckled. See here, Ren Pinky leaned across the desk excidedly, the folds and the peasant blouse filling out with breath taking effect. Got something, Lightel nodded, depressed the button on the phone, pulled an envelope from his pocket, found the telephone number he was looking for, started dialing. I've got that club I wanted. Baby, Maybe

I can still hold them off. He told the voice that answer that he wanted to talk to doctor Sabyl. After a few moments, a silky voice came on, doctor Sabyl, This is Lydell. Doc. I understand you've been making some complaints about me down at the DA's office. The receiver nodded, that's right. Your unwarranted invasion of my privacy has become annoying. I intend to stop it. Just awm my invading your privacy. Doc. The receiver snorted that clumsy masquerade as a reporter delving

into my background for one thing. Lydell considered it. Agreed, it was pretty clumsy, but it was never intended to win an Academy award. It served its purpose, and the purpose to prove that doctor Anthony and Savalaro and doctor Tony Saville are one and the same person. Of course, you could have gotten the same information from the Hall of Records. The change in name is quite plainly recorded, so is your marriage to Laura Mellison. Doc. There was a short pause. Then I don't see that has anything

to do with you, Lydell. I might since your plan in to marry Jean Merritt. This state is very narrow minded about begamy. Since when is it bigamy for a widower to remarry my first wife? Laura has been dead since nineteen forty five, Lydell made a fast recovery from the body blow died just about the time you met

Jean Merritt. Interesting, isn't it? Yes? Very, but I'm afraid you won't be finding out how the story ends, since, according to the district attorney, you may not only lose your license, but could conceivably end up in jail as well if you persist in this malicious invasion of my privacy.

End of chapter twelve, Chapter thirteen. Luigi's was located in the heart of Brooklyn, a brownstone house and a row of brownstone houses, with no indication of its identity as a restaurant other than the oversized garbage can in the area way. The walls of the basement apartment had been knocked out to make one huge room at the far end of which a huge wood burning stove chuckled and snapped. Lydell selected a table near the wall, tossed his hat

on the hat rackaddle down away from Muggsy. A huge woman waddled slowly over to his table, her face wreathed in a toothy smile that was given added brilliance by a slight mustache. It's nice to see you, mister Lyddell, she puffed. Long time, since you pay Luigi and Serafina visit Miss Ronnie she come in too. She is supposed to meet me here, Seraphine. He glanced at his watch. She shouldn't be long now, you like maybe some kianti while you wait? She pursed, Her lips, rolled her eyes,

touched the tips of her thumb and index finger. He's good kianty, just like you, like, mister Laddell. Lydell nodded, watched her waddle to a nearby cabinet come back with a fiber covered bottle. She gave him another smile, waddled back to preside over her pots. Lydell was on his second cigarette when Muggsy walked in. She waved to Seraphene came directly to the table. Something happened. Johnny Lydell poured

some wine into her glass, refilled his plenty. Savelle's put in the heat on the DA to lift my card, And there's nothing that clothing store dummy would like better, He sipped at his wine morosely. Can't you do anything about it? Isn't there any way to stop it? Not unless I get something to use as a lever. I thought I had it, he growled, But the dock keeps one step ahead of me. What do you have? Lydell shrugged.

I established the fact that Seville is Ann Savalaro. He admits that I also stumbled over the fact that he married a nurse named Mellison in nineteen forty I thought I had him on that one. He just laughed at me. Mellison died in nineteen forty five, leaving him conveniently free to marry Jean Merritt and leaving me holding a nice right bag. But you said Matt Merritt was murdered. If you can prove that, Lydell snorted if I could prove a lot of things. Sure, I know Merrit was murdered,

but nobody will believe me. I know his daughter didn't disappear, she was snatched by Skota, but I can't prove it. I even know why Vailey's boys have been trying to blow my brains out. So what there's not a damn thing I can do about it. Well, you can't sit here and swill KEIANTI and let them lift your license

without fighting back. If you can just prove if any one of those things pop in the paper could start a big enough fire under the DA that he'd be too busy keeping his own rear end from getting sined to be trying to burn yours. Her eyes mirrored her concern. Don't you have any ideas? Just one, and it's so damn far fetched, I'm afraid to count on it. He finished his glass of wine. I'm going out to carport. If Merritt was murdered, there must be some trace of

it if I can't find it, he shrugged. I just let myself in for something I should have stayed out of. Muggsy drained her glass. I'm going with you, Lydell shook his head. Yeah, you'd better not. Baby. Why should you get dragged into this mess Because I'm a special correspondent from the advance assigned to it. We're going to string along with you on it. Johnny Pop doesn't know it, but I'm back on the staff. Lydell started to argue, decided it was a lost cause. It's your time if

you want to waste it. Saraphene waddled over as they stood up. You not going, miss Ronnie. I'd fixed something special for you. You're not going without trying it. Muggsy patted the fat woman on the shoulder. We'll be back, Serphene. We can't take the time to eat now. We've got a train to catch. The Long Island Railroad wheezed its way to a jerky stop in front of a one story weather beaten frame building that had a shingle hanging from its roof that identified to stop as carport two.

Dust bagrime sedan stood under another sign captioned taxi, their operators lounging indolently against their front fenders. They watched Muggsy and Lidel alight from the train with no sign of interest. Know where the merit places, Lydel asked the cabby. He addressed, a tall, lanky man with a red ski cap, a brightly colored plaid shirt, a lined leathery face, shifted the water tobacco from his right cheek to his left, spat in the dust at his feet. No sense going out there, mister.

Ain't no one there, he opined. Isn't there a caretaker of some kind? The cabby considered the question conceited. There was fellow name Lessie, nice fellow. None of the family there, though the old man's dead, the rest are gone. Lydelf fished the Tom Terry press card from his wallet, showed it to the cabby. Now we don't have to see the family. We're just interested in doing a feature piece on the grounds itself. The Cabby side realized motion was inevitable,

straightened up. Suppose you want to go out there, if it's not too much trouble. How far out of town is it? Ten fifteen minutes? Cabby directed a stream of tobacco juice in the general direction of the trash can depends on how much of a hurry you're in. He opened the rear door of the sedan, helped Muggsy in. The young one that miss Jean, she was always in a hurry, made at one time six minutes flat for

wouldn't want to make a habit of it. He slid in behind the wheel, kicked it to the starter, headed the car out of the parking lot onto the town's main street. The route took them through the heart of town, making it necessary for the driver to weave in and out of double parked cars around trucks parked almost in the middle of the road. Throughout it, the driver kept up an endless stream of chatter. Finally, an old Matt merritt lydel asked knew him to see, not to speak

to kept pretty much to himself. He did. The girl wasn't like that A little bit wild, I guess, but not snooty. The taxi passed the last cluster of stores that made up the main street, headed into a twisting road that skirted the bay. She used to spend a lot of time in New York. Ever run into her down there, never did, guess lately she didn't get in as office as she used to. Here she was running with a fast crowd, and the old man put his

foot down. How about missus Merritt? The cabby concentrated on skidding the big sedan around the curve in the road, shook his head. Never saw much of her, kept pretty much to herself. I guess real broken up by the old man's desk. From what I hear, guess she would be lydell agreed. What did they think about the way he died? Around here? The cabby spit nextpert curve in the wind, didn't think much one way or the other. I guess man's got a right to do what he

wants with his own life. He was a pretty sick man there tore the end. Don't know but what I'd do the same thing myself. He half turned looked back. Ain't want of them. People feel it ain't right to kill yourself if you got a mind too. That's all very fine, as long as you don't take other people with you. Us for instance, Muggsy muttered, if you made this drive in six minutes, you must have used a helicopter. The driver turned back to the road. Needn be nervous, miss,

I can drive this road to mys close. That's what I thought you were doing, Muggsy told him. The car slowed down, swung off the county road onto a black top that wound up a hill through a twin lane of old trees. After a short climate reached a hidden driveway. Turned in the house was a huge, old frame building set back from the road in a sheltering grove of elms. It had a broad porch that ran around three sides of the house sat on a promontory that commended an

unimpeded view of the bay beyond. The taxis skidded to a stop in the driveway. Want me to wait, the cabby asked Lydell considered it, nodded, might as well. I don't know how long we're going to be here, but I don't like the idea of walking back to the station. The Cabby grinned, patted his meter. Whatever you say, partner. It's your money if you want to go crazy with it. Lydell led the way up the short flight of wooden steps to the entrance, pulled the old fashioned door pull.

A dark man with gray hair brushed up into a pompadoor opened the door. He looked from Lydell to Muggsy him back. Good evening, sir, you're Lessie, I suppose, Lydell greeted him. The man nodded, is there anything I can do for you? Lydell produced the press card. Let the man read it. We came out from New York to have a look around. We're working on a feature series about famous old homes out here on the island. We'd like to take a look around. The gray haired man

looked undecided. I don't know, sir. As you may know, there was a tragedy in the family, and I know that makes the interest in this place all the greater. Lessie took another look at the press card, consulted his watch. It's too late to read, mister Bagussian today. That's the Merritt family lawyer. You understand I would like some authority before I Is it only a preliminary visit, Lessie. We wouldn't be taking any photographs or anything like that until

you had time to check with Pogossian. The gray haired man made up his mind, swung the door open. Oh sure, that would be all right, sir. I know you'll understand my hesitation. I wouldn't like to exceed my authority. Lydell nodded, followed him into a large hall. At the far end, a broad, curving staircase led to the upper floors. On either side, huge doors led into other rooms. The entire hallway was covered with thick, yielding carpeting. The walls were

hung with patently expensive tapestries. Is there any place in particular you would like to start, sir? Lydell dropped his hat on a carved oak chest of drawers, looked around. I suppose it's been closed up since mister Merritt's death. Nothing has been touched. As you may know, missus Merritt has been ill and miss Jean's been living in town. He indicated a door to the right. This is the parlor. You may be interested in some of the period pieces.

I think I would rather see that in daylight. Lightel cut him off. Would it be possible to start with his study? And it's morbid, of course, but I would like to see where he met his death. The gray haired man looked at him, frowned, nodded, as you wish, sir, mister Merritt's studies at the head of the stairs, would you come this way? He led the way up a thickly carpeted staircase to a door at the head of the corridor. He opened the door, felt for a light switch,

bathed the room in a subdued light. Mister Merritt spent most of his time here. One whole wall was of glass, looking over the bay. Two of the remaining walls were filled with bookcases, the fourth covered with beautiful tapestry depicting a savage tiger hunting scene. In the center of the room, a huge carved mahogany desk contained a radio, some correspondence trays, a pipe rack with four pipes, a silver hammered humidor.

The entire room was covered with soft, gray green carpeting that seemed to merge and blend with the green of the trees and lawn that's stretched out below toward the bay. I don't blame him for spending most of his time here. If I had a study like this, I'd never leave. Lydell murmured. He stared up at the ceiling, found no trace of a scar, walked over to the window wall, seemed intent on studying the glass. Finally, he walked back to his desk, leaned against it. Where was he found?

Lessie walked around the desk, faced them. He was standing here when he did it, standing. How do you know, Lessi frowned. He had to be. You see, the chair was pushed back when he shot himself. He fell to the floor. Here, he indicated a place on the carpet where a faint chalk outline was still barely visible could be He toppled off the chair, knocked it back out of the way. Muggsy suggested, hardly, Miss Lessa responded, pointing to the heavy carved armchair. There are no rollers on

the chair. Lydel reached over, snapped on the desk light. It threw a yellow gleam of brilliance towards the ceiling. This is the only lamp in the room besides the end direct lighting. That's right, Why, I'm not sure, lied Al told him, just an idea. He walked around the desk, stood over the chalked spot on the rug, faced the lamp. Then he swung around looked at the tapestry directly behind him. The gray haired man and Muggsy watched him curiously as

he walked over to the tapestry, examined it carefully. Suddenly his head jerked. Lessie, come here, please, he called over his shoulder. Lessie joined him at the tapestry. What's wrong, sir? What's that look like to you? Lydel pointed to an almost invisible hole. The man caught his breath, examined it more closely. A moth hole. I don't understand. This tapestry was supposed to be completely protected from No moth made that hole? Lessie? Help me lift this tapestry away from

the wall. Uh, I don't know if I should, sir. Mister Merritt was very particular about anyone touching the tapestry. He won't mind it, won't hurt it a bit. Grab that end and lift. There was a sharp note in Lydell's voice. Mugs, you'd better come over here. I think we should have several witnesses. The girl walked over watched while the two men lifted the huge tapestry. Lidell gave a triumphant grunt. Take a look at that hole in the wall under the tapestry, Lessie, You're moth boored right

through it. Only your moth was steel jacketed. There was a neat bullet hole in the wall. What could have done that, sir, Lessie gasped The bullet that killed mister Merrit The bullet The police couldn't find the bullet. That is the best proof in the world that Matt Merritt did not commit suicide but was murdered. End of chapter thirteen. The cab dropped Johnny Lydell and Muggsy Heely at the entrance to the courthouse. Lydell led the way to the

basement office of the Medical Examiner, walked in. Doc Travin sat behind his huge desk, looked up as they walked in, grinned them, welcome. I wasn't expecting you two, beck so soon. What have you dug up now, a murder Lydell told him wearily. Doc Travin chuckled, not another one like the last one. Business share must be bad when you go out trying to make suicides look like murder. Lydell scowled irritably at the little man's humor dropped into a chair.

What would you do if I brought you a murderer, a murderer, a motive, and an opportunity talk? Doc Travin brought up a chair for Muggsy helped her into it. I'd see to it that the killer got the chair. What else? Suppose you were positive that you had all these things, but you couldn't prove it to the satisfaction of a jury. The medical examiner perched on the corner of his desk. Either there's a murder or there isn't a murder. Either there's a corpus delecti or there isn't

a corpus delecti. What's all the double talk for? Johnny Lydel grinned crookedly. I've got the corpus delecti and I've got the murder. I'm gonna hand them over to you, and it's up to you to prove them only. I'm damned if I think you can, Doc Travin snorted impatiently. If there's a murder, will prove it. He leaned back, pushed his desk buzzer. First, let's have a cup of coffee and talk it over. Muggsy nodded, we can both use some Smitty. The angular lab assistant stuck her head

into the room. Three copies, Smitty, rush them one black, Muggsy put in. Smitty nodded withdrew her head. Now suppose you tell me what this is all about, Johnny, give it an order. First, Let's have the murder, he sniffed. A murder. That's not a murder, A corpus DELECTI, that's not a corpus deluctie. He turned to Muggsy. You know this story. Muggsy shook her head. Lydell's been doing a solo Sherlock Holmes all day. Only instead of using a needle,

he's been using cognac. Lydell stuck a cigarette between his lips. Lit it. Your murder is the killing of Matt Merritt, he said, flatly. Oh not again. Doc Travin groaned, We've been all through that, Johnny. Mat Merrick committed suicide. You admitted it yourself when I showed you the records. I admitted you made a good case for suicide, but it wasn't good enough. I know he was murdered, and I

can prove it, but not for a jury. The clerk came in, deposited three cardboard containers of coffee on the desk, went out. Nobody made a move. How could it be murdered, Johnny? He was shot through the mouth and there was no sign of a struggle. Lydell nodded, how about the bullet? Doc Travin scowled his impatience. So it wasn't found so wet? So I found it where Lydell took a deep drag on his cigarette blew it downward, right where it had to be if it was murder. Doc Travin looked from

Lydell to Muggsy, who nodded and back. What the hell are you talking about. We gave that place a good going over and there was no bullet. If you're trying to pull anything, Lydell, Lydell sighed, pull anything, your grandmother. I've got two witnesses who saw me find that bullet, and when you dig it out of the wall, you're gonna find it matches the gone merit was killed with. I don't care where you found the bullet. It was suicide.

Nobody can make me believe anything else. Travin stormed, Then, well, you might as well tell me where did you find it and the tapestry on the far wall. The medical examiner stared at him, open mouthed, how the hell did you come to look in the tapestry? It figured it didn't go in the ceiling. Your story about it falling to the floor spent was too silly to even consider. It had to go some place? Why not into a wall? Lydell enjoyed the speechlessness of the little man. One wall

was glass, the other two full of books. I settled for the tapestry. Why Lydell shrugged the desk lamp. My guess was he would be facing the desk lamp. The bullet had to go into the tapestry that way. Travan was making a visible effort to keep up with the developments, having indifferent success. I don't care. Nobody can convince me that any man will let a killer stick a gun in his mouth without a struggle, unless it was his doctor. Lightel tossed the bomb show with startling success. Doc Travin's

eyes bulged, his jaw dropped. Come again. The thing that three off is the fact that there was no struggle. You figure nobody would let a killer stick a gun in his mouth without a struggle, Right, Travin nodded wordlessly. But suppose the killer is his doctor and he's been feeding him a lot of malarkey about an imaginary throat infection, and the victim doesn't know it's a gun the doc is sticking in his throat. Break it down further, Johnny Muggsy urged, Okay, you've got a doc who tells you

you have a throat infection. You let the doc look into your throat, even stick an instrument into your mouth so he can get a good look. One day, instead of an instrument, he shoves in the nose of a gun, and boom. He took the cigarette from between his lips, stared at it with distaste, crushed it out that way. The throat ailment gag serves two purposes, give a plausible reason for the suicide and provides the opportunity for committing the murder. Doc Travin was leaning forward his mouth. Gabe,

he made an effort to pull himself together. You're wrong, Mugs. He has been using a needle. But there was a look of indecision on his face. So there's your murder and your opportunity. Wait a minute, you didn't explain how you knew where to look for that bullet, Travin protested, I knew if he had shot himself through the mouth, the bullet would be in the ceiling. Now, if the dock was pretending to examine the throat, Merritt would throw

his head back right. The medical examiner nodded gloomily. He was standing when he got it. The only direct light in the room was on the desk, so he was facing the desk with his head thrown back. There was only one place the bullet could go. The medical examiner rubbed his hand across his mouth, tried to punch a hole in the theory failed. The killer Johnny, Doc Saville, what was his motive? Travin wanted to know Merritt's money. Of course, Lydel reached over, took one of the paper containers,

handed one to Muggsy. He was slated to Mary Jean, the old man's only heir. He gouged the top out of his container. Savell killed him. But I can't prove it, and I don't think you can either, Doc. Why should he kill him? The old man thought a lot of him. He could still have married the girl and eventually inherited the money. The medical examiner argued, maybe Merritt found out that Tony Seville of Park Avenue and Anthony and Savalaro

of Mulberry Street were one and the same guy. Maybe he also found out that Anne Savalaro had been married to a nurse named Mellison. Maybe he was figuring on breaking up the marriage. What's this and Sevalaro business? That's Savell's right name, the one he went through medical school and internship with, the one he was married under. He took an experimental sip of his coffee. He was a little Eastside kid with no future and plenty of plans.

He ended up as a fifteen dollar a month intern in a city hospital without a dream of raising enough money to open his own office. Doc Travin pulled a desk pat over, scribbled a few notes on it. Go ahead, he nodded Lydell settled back in his chair, took another sip of coffee. One day, he gets what looks like

a big break. Pete Vailey, top racket boy on the East Side, gets himself shot up in the Governeur district, and Savalaro is riding bus that day, does an extra special job of patching Pete up before he takes him into the hospital. Doc Travin looked disappointed. So what's that got to do with Mett Merritt and his daughter? Let me tell it my own way. Lydell held up his hand. After he finishes a stretch on the bus, he goes into mail surgery, starts to drop by Pete's room more

and more often. Maybe Laura Melleson, who's in charge of male surgery at that time, sets it up for him. I don't know. Anyway, pretty soon he and Pete are telling each other they are troubles, such as Lydell shrugged. Pete had plenty of troubles in those days. He was just building up his organization, and he's got competition. Competition means a little rough stuff. And sometimes Pete and his boys need medical care, discreet medical care which they can't

get the reported. Every time he or his boy show up for treatment, the medical examiner nodded, doodled on his desk. Pad Pete scared a death to ignore wound because his kid brother Micky, died from an infected wound. So when Anne Savalaro makes his proposition, Pete is plenty ready for it. Stop making like you read Crystal balls, Muggsy grinned pop

Michaels told you that. Lydell nodded. I don't know who made whom the proposition, actually, but the upshot of it is that Anne Savalaro got a fancy uptown office and a private hospital in Westchester and Valley and his boys get constant and discreet medical care. Doc Travin stirred unhappily in his chair. These are serious charges you're making, Johnny, can you make them stick? I can't prove a bit

of it, Doc, that's your job, Lydell admitted, cheerfully. All it can prove is that Anne Savalaro became sebil in nineteen forty and that as Anne Savalaro he married Laura Malleson, who conveniently died in nineteen forty five. For him to make an all out pitch for Jean Merritt, Doc Travin made a few more notes, Well, it won't be hard to establish when he opened that Park Avenue office and his Westchester set up. It will be to find out

where he got the money to do it. You think Vailey underwrote it, Lydell shrugged, and may be a coincidence, But from that day to this neither Vailey nor any of his men have ever shown up for gunshot wound treatment. Oh kay, so Vailey sets him up. Then what Sidell's a good lucking boy, and with the front, Valley's money pays for Pretty soon he's doing all right with the debs all this time. Of course, he's married to Laura.

Maybe she objects, maybe she doesn't. Anyway, there's no crisis until Seville meets Jean Merritt and falls hook line and sinker for the old man's bank account. Lydel drained his paper cup, crushed it with his fist, tossed it at the waste basket. Laura is now a handicap, so she's got to go. In nineteen forty five, she conveniently dies, clearing the way for Saville to marry Jean Merritt. If he has Vali's money in back of him, why I take the risk of getting rid of Laura just to

marry more money. By nineteen forty five, Pete Valley is well organized and he's getting less and less action out of the dock for his money. He sees a chance of getting back some of his investment in Seville, so he backs the doc's play for Jean, he ran a hand across his eyes. There you are, Doc, It's all yours, the murder, the murderer, the means, and the motive. I'm not boring you, am I Doc. The medical examiner forced a grin that his eyes didn't join into Not a bit, Johnny.

It's more soothing than mother Goose, if a little less probable, even if we can't move in on a reputable physician on the alcoholic day dreams of a punch drunk private Eye, go ahead anyway. I can't wait to hear how it turns out. I can tell you that too. Seville gets away with it and manages to muscle the district attorney into lifting my license for persecuting him. When things go quiet down a little, he'll marry Jean inherit the old man's dough and kick the kid around until she wears out.

Where'd you come into this picture? Travin wanted to know, just in time to get my ears half shot off. The girl must have gotten suspicious of the way her father died, contacted the agency to dig into it, and some way Saville tumbled to what she did, sent a couple of Ailey's boys to discourage me muggs Achille was biting on her finger nails with concentrated energy. There's one thing about the whole picture I think you've got wrong, Johnny, the way you set it up. The doc waited for

a night when nobody was home. There was somebody home that night, missus Merritt. That was her tough luck. Lightel nodded. She heard the shot, came running, found the dock leaning over her husband's body. She started to yell, and he must have slammed her over the head with his rod. His story that she got those injuries falling down the stairs wouldn't hold up. The carpeting on the stairs was too thick. Why didn't he kill her right there? Travin argued,

that would ruin the suicide theory. Of course, he might have staged a suicide and murder, but that might have stirred up an inquiry. So he did it the easy way. Set the old guy up as a suicide. Lugged the old lady to the head of the stairs and pitched her down. Doc Travin pinched at his lower lip. She could have been killed by the fall, Well, that would have been all right. It would have looked as though she had started for help, fainted and was accidentally killed

by a fall down the stairs. If she didn't die, as the family physician, he could lug her off to his private hospital, where he could see to it that she didn't do any talking. Doc Travin nodded. It all fits, he conceded, But where's the girl now? Saville has her someplace. She was afraid to be seen talking to me. Wouldn't come to the office, wouldn't let me come to the hotel. When Savill's boys grabbed her, they found out she was supposed to meet me at the drug store, sent a

delegation to scare me off. Maybe they did get her, but she went peacefully enough. It seems to me, Muggsy put In, she could have kicked up a fuss at the hotel if they were taking her away against her will. Don't forget they had her mother in their hands. They might have told her the old lady would suffer if she coul gave them any trouble. Doc Travin chewed on his pencil, considered the picture lydel a drawn you figure. The reason they tried to get you is because the

girl might have told you too much. Lydell nodded. Maybe they were only figuring on throwing a scare into me that first night, But Skota didn't look as if he was fooling without thirty eight in his fist. From what I heard, they weren't fulling that second time. Johnny muggs he put in Ricci was a killer. That was Doc Saville's work for suret Mugs. After I talked to him the morning after Jean Merritt disappeared, he realized I wasn't

going to be scared off. He figured I knew more than I was admitting, so he sent Riccie to blast me right out of my hotel room. Doc Travin slammed his pencil down, hopped off the desk. Let's go get them, Lydell didn't move. Get home for what he asked, If you went into court with a story like this, you'd be laughed right onto the retirement list. Haven't you ever heard what happens to police officials who make false arrests and to private detectives who aid in a bet them.

You don't think they can get away with this, Johnny Muggsy looked worried they're doing it, Mugs. We may know a lot of things, but proving them as another story. How about the old lady, Johnny Travin demanded. She's the weak link in Seville's armor. If you're right, she may be able to put the doc in the house the night Merit died. How are you going to get her testimony, get a warrant and raid the sanitarium? On what grounds? You can't move her without physicians? Okay, and that's Saville.

You can't even bring in another doc to examine her because that's unethical or something, Idel growled. Get used to it. Doc Saville's holding all the aces. The little man took a deep breath. Let it whistle between his teeth. What do we do? Sit here and let him get away with it? Looks like he's doing it anyway, so we might just as well relax and enjoy it. Wouldn't it be worth while taking a chance on getting a search warrant like the doc suggests. Johnny Muggsy wanted to know.

He'd hear about it, and the chances are that by the time the writ was issued, the old Lady would be dead from natural causes. As it is, the chances are that my license is just a memory. But the doc would be back wiping running noses and giving penicillin shots so far in the sticks that even a rumor could only reach him by carrier pigeon. Buggs Achilly dug a cigarette from the voluminous depths of her hand bag. If we could only find Jean, she must know something.

Doc Travin grinned humorlessly. If Johnny's right, Bailey's boys have her on ice, and if we push too hard, it may be curtains for her too, write Johnny, I doubt it, Doc. They've taken too many risks to get their hands on that money. Their best bet is to rush the schedule and push the marriage through. After all, a wife can't testify against her husband. Blydell shook his head slowly. They may knock the old lady off, but not the girl. Doc Travin tore the top off his container of coffee,

tested it with his finger. Damn near ice cold, he growled. You make your fairy story too interesting. What's with you two characters, Muggsy asked, in a shocked tone. You sound like you're gonna sit there and let them get away with this. I didn't say that exactly, muggs. Lydell told her, I said, Doc has all the aces, but Lightell shrugged. Sometimes a trump can take an ace. I think I have a couple of trumps. Then what are we waiting for? Lydell pursed his lips. It may be slightly illegal, he

looked at Doc Travin, speculatively illegal and dangerous. Doc Travin stirred his coffee around the sonky container with his finger. How illegal, illegal entry, house breaking, robbery? What for? Lydell shrugged, evidence that may give us a foot in the door. Doc Travin drank his cold coffee, crushed the cup, dropped it into the waste basket. He leaned back, avoided Lydell's eyes. What a blessing to be deaf that way? You can't hear any illegal proposal. Lydell stared at him for a second, nodded,

I mean you're right. Maybe it's a good thing you didn't hear me, because I'm going through with it. But you'd better stay out of it. Doc, You've got a job to worry about, that's right. I've got a job, and you've got a license. If he get caught at this caper, your license is gone. You'll be blackballed in every state of the Union and serve time on top of it. Muggsy got up, Come on, Johnny, what are we waiting for. Doc Travin shook his head. You're not going, Mugs.

It's bad enough he's out of his mind and is going to bowl himself into his cell for the next five years. But you're too pretty to be cooped up. Besides, you wouldn't care for the styles they're wearing in there. Now. I'm going with him, Doc Muggsy stuck her chin out, her blue eyes flashing defiance. I'm not letting him go into this alone. Doc Travin grinned, who said he's going to do it alone. Muggsy blinked, you mean you're in,

of course, I'm in, lydel grinned. I'll be crazy, Doc, A guy in your position can't afford to get fouled up in a mess like this. Ain't in a fact, Doc Travin's sighed, I've got a feeling I'm gonna hate myself in the morning, but I bet tonight's going to be fun. End of chapter fourteen. Chapter fifteen, Doc Travin drove. On the ride back to the city. Muggsy Keeley sat between him and Johnny Lidell on the front seat. Nobody did much talking until the car approached the Queensboro Bridge.

How are we gonna work this, Johnny? Doc Travin wanted to know. He swung the sedan into a line of trucks and cars converging on the bridge entrance. I don't know, Doc Lydell grunted. I've got to keep away from the DA's man until we've got something to fight with. If they serve me any kind of papers before then, I'm done. Why don't you hold up at my apartment until you're ready to go up against eatch Johnny Muggsy suggested, I don't think he'd be crazy enough to try to crash there.

Okay with you, Johnny Travin asked Lydel nodded, okay, No, id to go Crosstown It fifty ninth, make it sixtieth, then you can hit Central Park South at fifth. Conversation lagged again as the car separated from the stream of cars on the second Avenue side of the bridge. Fifteen minutes later, Doc Travin pulled his car to the curb in front of Muggsy's apartment. He leaned past Muggsy, opened the door. Suppose you two go up and have a sandwich. I'll be back in an hour or so, he consulted

his watch. No self respecting burglar would break an enter much before midnight. Anyway, Where are you going? Lydell wanted to know. I think I'm gonna have a talk with Inspector Hurley he at headquarters and tell him what you told me. He's a good guy to have on your side at a time like this. Lydell nodded, I'll go with you better not Johnny, the medical Examiner shook his head. Right now, You're in no spot to win any popularity

contests down there. What's more, of the DA may get a brainstorm, pick you up and jug you just long enough for Docsville to sweep up all the loose ends. I'll be back around to eleven. Lydel permitted himself to be shoved out the door, stood on the curb and watched Doc Travin sedan Melton to the stream of traffic. Come on, Johnny, I'll fix you a drink. Muggsy invited you going up. Mugs He told her, I'll be back

in about an hour. Where are you going? I'm going on that expedition I mentioned, you don't think i'd let Doc take the risk of going along. I'm already a dead duck as soon as deets can tag me. The worst that can happen to me now is that they throw the book at me. But it's worth to try. You're crazy, Johnny Muggsy argued, Why don't you let Doc come all the way in from carport unless you're going to let him go along. I need Doc, If my hunch is right, his being medical examiner of the old

lady's hometown might speed things up. What about Hurley, he lightell shrugged. I'll worry about Hurley. He when we get to him, he signaled. A cruising cab winced as it screeched to a stop at the curb. Have that drink ready, I'll probably need it by the time I get back. The cab dropped him at the corner of six the fourth and Park, a block from the building housing Dxaville's office. There was nobody in the lobby as he walked in. He avoided the elevator, climbed three flights of stairs to

the office he had visited several days before. It was completely dark. He took out a ring of keys, tried several, found one that turned easily, walked into the doctor's office. He went through the door beside the receptionist's desk, walked straight to the cabinet where he had seen Duxaville place the X rays on Missus Merritt. With the questionable assistance of a cigarette lighter, he selected the proper envelope, stuck it in the waistband of his trousers, buttoned his coat

over it. He closed the drawer, made sure there was no sign of his presence, walked through the two offices into the corridor. A half hour later, he was fitting his key into the lock on Muggsy Kielly's door. Muggsy came out of the kitchen to meet him. She had changed the royal blue house coat. Her thick blonde hair was caught behind the ears, with a matching ribbon allowed to cascade over her shoulders. Everything all right, Johnny Lydel nodded,

tossed the Manila envelope on the table. So far, insulted his watch. Trave and call here. It's only nine thirty, he said, he wouldn't be here until midnight. Led El grinned crookedly. I have an idea that when he tells the story to Hurley, he'll get faster action than he expects. He walked into the living room, sank onto the couch with a sigh. How about that drink you started out to make an hour ago? Come in right up, Muggsy promised.

She disappeared into the kitchen, returned with a tray loaded down with ice and glasses and a bottle of bourbon. She set it on the inn table, dumped some ice into each of the glasses, spilled a generous slug of bourbon over them. Get what you were after, lyedel nodded. I got what I was after. Whether it's what I need or not, it's a different story. He reached out, caught the girl by the hand, pulled her down into his lap. This may not go the way we hope

it will, muggs, He told her. So far the dice have all been loaded against us. If our luck doesn't change, he shrugged, grinned at her, kissed the side of her neck. She reached over, placed one of the glasses in his hand, took one for herself. In that case, maybe I'll get some attention. Ever since you've been on this one, I've gotten about as much attention as last week's newspaper. Lydell looked at his watch. It's only nine thirty and Doc

doesn't due back until twelve. That soon, she pouted. She reached up, opened his collar, loosened his tie. He certainly doesn't expect us to sit here and twil our thumbs until he gets here. They didn't. It was actually a quarter to twelve when the buzzer sounded. Lydell got up off the couch, walked to the phone, lifted the receiver off its hook. Yeah, he grunted. Okay, let him come up. He walked into the kitchen, ran the tap water, held a glass to his head. Who was it, Johnny Muggsy

called in from the couch. Doc, he's on his way up. Water please. Muggy reached over, snapped on the light, spilled a yellow gleam into the room. Lydell brought the glass to her, picked up the bottle from the end table, spilled a little into his glass. A hair off the dog, he explained, down it shuddered, tastes like it too. Muggsies stifled a yawn, pulled her robe together. I'd better clean this up. She picked up the glasses. The melted bowl

of eyes the almost empty bottle. Took them to the kitchen. Lydell had time to run his fingers through his hair, adjust his tie, and get back into his jacket. By the time the doorbell sounded. He walked over threw open the door. Inspector Hurley he stood, towering over Doc Travin in the corridor. He pushed past. Lydell stalked into the living room. The little medical examiner followed him in. Well, this is a surprise, Lydell grunted. I suppose you're all

loaded down with warrants and everything. Stop, dog is Stupidlydell Hurly, he growled, deeds is after your hid, not me. I would have been over here hours ago if I wanted to find you Early. He's on our side, Johnny. I told him the whole story, Sorry, Doc Travin said. Lydell's eyes shifted back to Hurley. He believe it, Early, he growled, threw his hat on the couch, dropped down with a grunt. This sounds screwy, screwy enough to make sense. Why didn't you tell me all this? You didn't give me a

chance anytime I tried to give you the score. You accused me of snowing you. You even tossed me to the da Okay, okay, so maybe I was wrong, Maybe you were leveling. The inspector found a fresh piece of gum in his pocket, denuded it of its wrapper. He nodded to Muggsy as she returned tray, fresh eyes and fresh bottle in hand. According to the doc, you got Seville Peggs, Matt Merrit's killer. Right Lydell nodded, But there's not a thing in what you gave, Doc that lets

us move in on him. Not a shred of evidence. Hurly, he growled, that's what we're going after, Hurly, he Doc Travin put in. Hurly, he growled. Let Muggsy pour him a drink, accepted it. It won't do you any good, Doc, This guy's too smart. The way he's covered up, he's left us nothing. Lydell walked out to the foyer, came back with four X ray negatives, handed them to Travin. What do you make of these, doc? Doc Travin muttered under his breath, stood up, flattened the negatives against the

lamp shade. He studied each one, carefully, put them down. What the hell's this got to do with it? What about them? Travin picked them up, held them to the light again. Must have been a bad accident. The old woman's got a bad concussion over the right ear. The oldest kid's jaw is a bad fracture. The other kids a compound. Lydell caught the medical examiner by the shoulder. What do you mean the old woman, the young kid, and the other kid, Doc, they're all x rays of

the same person. The medical Examiner's eyes didn't leave Lydell. He picked the plates up, subjected them to another scrutiny, your nuts, lydel This one is the skull of an elderly person, probably a woman. This is the jaw an entirely different person, less than half the age of the first. And this is obviously the forearm of a youngster. He tossed the x rays on the table. What is all this?

Those are the x rays Docsaville claims he took of missus Merritt right after he took her into the Hut Hospital, Inspector Hurley. He looked from lightel to Travian and back again. These facular injuries. Why Lydell snapped his fingers. Take a look at them? A broken jaw so she can't talk, a skull fracture so he can claim she's unconscious, even a compound fracture of the right arm so she can't write the answers to any questions. It's as clear as

the nose on my face. Inspector missus Merrick knows something that Doc Saville doesn't want her to spell. Doc Travin groaned, what are we doing here? She's probably dead right now, Inspector Hurley, he looked worried. Why should they kill her? They think they're in the clear. They'd be better off waiting a couple of months and then letting her dive of natural causes. Doc Travin stamped the floor swore why should they She has no close relatives to ask embarrassing questions.

Docxaville will just sign the desk certificate and the daughter will sign the burial for him. Then some undertaker pal of Saville's will cremate her, and who's the wiser Later on, if any questions are asked, they can always say as the old girls wished that the services be quiet and bribed hurly. He walked out to the foyer, picked up the phone, dialed headquarters never thought of that she might be dead already. He dropped his lip to the mouthpiece,

gave an extension number. Then this is Inspector Hurley. Put a man to check vital statistics. See if a death certificate has been filed in the past week or ten days on Emma Merrit, Snap to it and call me at this number. He read the number off the instrument. He hung up the phone, sat twirling his thumbs. Nobody

in the room spoke for the next ten minutes. Hurley he left the phone, started to pace the room, stopping only long enough to walk out onto the terrace, stared down at the network of lights that identified Central Park. Muggsy went into the bedroom to apply a fresh coat of makeup. Doc Travin sat staring moodily at the ceiling, and Lidell applied himself to a morose inspection of the tips of his shoes. The phone rang with a sudden, piercing sharpness. Hurly, he grabbed it from its hook, held

it to his ear. You're sure of that, he demanded, Half far back, did you go good? Stand By a moment, he held his hand over the mouthpiece. He hasn't been filed yet. That means the old guile is still alive. We'd better get up to that sanitarium of his and make sure Seville doesn't rectify that oversight right away, Lydell growled. Hurley. He nodded, removed his hand from the phone. I want a car. Four men ride away. We'll pick them up at the fifty seventh Street entrance to the West Side Drive,

Lieutenant hop to it. The Seville Sanitarium was a trim, two story stucco building sat behind a well manicured lawn on the outskirts of Bronxville. The big police sedan skidded to a stop in the crushed bluestone driveway. Inspector Hurley he jumped out, followed by Johnny Lydell and the medical examiner muggs Achielle followed them up the stairs. More leisurely, Hurley he strode purposefully across the small lobby to where a colored boy sat behind a small switchboard. Sorry, mister,

he said, visiting hours over long ago. You can't come in here this hour. What room's missus, Meriden, Hurley, he demanded. He flashed his shield under the boy's sauce or sized eyes. This is police business. I don't know nothing about any police business, mister, he protested. I can't let you in without doctor Seville. Hurly. He reached over, caught the boy by the lapels of his white jacket, lifted him clear off his seat. I don't want to see doctor Seville, sonny.

I ask what room, Missus Merritt is in. What is it? The whites of the boy's eyes stood out against the blackness of his skin. His eyes rolled from face to face, ended on Hurley. He's I don't know. I'm only the relief man, mister Hurly. He pushed him back in his chair. Find out you've got a register of some kind of round. The boy nodded, opened the card file with shaking fingers, went through it. Missus Merritt, she's in sixty two. Mister, yes, sir,

it's sixty two Hurly. He nodded, spun on his heel started down the corridor. The boy behind the switchboard watched the four across the lobby. As soon as they had turned down the far corridor, he spun on his chair started plugging wires on the board. Room sixty two was almost in complete darkness. On the bed, a heavily bandaged figure lay, his features completely covered by white gauze, with

only thin slits for eyes. The sheet rose and fell slightly with her breathing, but there was no other sign of life. Doctor Travin turned on the light over the bed. She's alive, isn't she, Doc, Lighthel demanded fiercely in a low voice. Travin nodded, caught the limp arm that hung over the side of the bed, counted the pulse. He scowled, walked to the foot of the bed, read the chart, replaced it. Fracture the right arm, fracture jaw, and lateral

fracture of the skull. He looked a hurry. He if any one of those injuries is a phony, as the fake X rays would indicate, we've got enough on Seville to warrant our taking any necessary steps. Well, let's stop talking and do something. Travin looked down to the right arm. It's in a cast. Ethically, I have no right to remove it without the consent of her physician. Ethics be damned. You have every moral and legal right take it off, Doc.

I'll assume all responsibility, Hurley, he said. The medical examiner looked at him, frowned, shrugged his shoulders. From an inside pocket, he pulled out a scalpel in a leather case. I'm not too sure about what's cooking, but from the smell, I'd say somebody's goose is being cooked. I hope it's not ours. The only sound in the room was the tearing sound of the scalpel ripping through the cast Lightel scuffled his shoe nervously. As the cast fell to the ground,

they all leaned forward. Doc Travin took the woman's arm between his fingers, probed gently, then looked up at Hurley. He there's no more fracture here than I've got. He massaged the arm gently, held it under the light. But take a look here. The whiteness of the flesh was scarred by a score more tiny dots. Dope, hurly, he asked. Doc Travin nodded. I thought her pulse was funny. She's probably got a skinful of it. Let's do it inspect

her Lydell demanded. Hurly. He nodded, Mord enough, Johnny, even deets will be satisfied with this one. He turned to Travin, tacked the bandages off her head. Dock and see how bad or skull and jaw really are. If the jaws I'm broken, she'll be able to tell us what did happen that night. Lydell exalted, I wouldn't count on it. A new voice interrupted, No, Doctor, I wouldn't move if I were you. Lydell went for his forty five, thought better of it at the sight of the thirty eight

in Saville's hand. The hand was steady, the muzzle of the gun loomed as big as a cannon, pointed right at his belly. His hand frozen midair. Doctor Seville's thick black hair was slightly disarranged, and a thin film of perspiration beat at his forehead. He showed no other signs of apprehension. I suppose you realize that his trespassers. I'm perfectly within my rights to shoot you. You, inspector, have

no right to invade my privacy without a search warrant. You, doctor, have no right, either medical or legal, to interfere with my patient, Inspector Hurley, he motioned to the figure on the bed, right or no right. We're removing your patient to another hospital, doctor, and we'd taken you one on suspicion of murder. I would bake on that inspector. The dark man raised his gun until the blank eye of its barrel looked hurry he in the eye. I'm afraid that neither you nor the bark of the gun. In

the small room was a sharp, malicious spat. The slug caught Seville in the side of the head, spun him half around. He tried to regain his balance. There was a second spat, and he was slammed back against the wall to slide to a sitting position. He was dead by the time Doc Travin reached him. Who did it? Travin demanded lydel pointed to the figure on the bed, a thirty two in hand, holding herself half erect on her elbow. Hurly, he picked the telephone off the night table,

barked a few instructions in it. Better get the bandages off of face, doc, he ordered. Doc Travin nodded, helped the woman on the bed to a sitting position. He took the thirty two from her nerveless fingers, laid it on the night table. From a pocket, he brought out a pair of surgical scissors, inserted the blunt end under the bandages and cut them away. The open like the shell of an egg fell away to reveal a youthful face. Hi, it's not missus Merrit. Who is it? Lydell demanded. The

girl on the bed shook her head. I'm Jean Merritt. They kept me here so I couldn't go through with the investigation. Lydell cursed under his breath. What a perfect place to hide her. Why didn't I think o that? Thank god you came, Thank god you came. The girl in the bed murmured. Her shoulders shook as she wept. Yer mother, miss Merritt, where is she dead? They killed her? She pointed to the dead man on the floor. He did it. He killed her, just like he killed my father.

You're sure what you say, miss Merrit? Hurley, he asked gently. The girl nodded. My mother caught him. He had to fix it so she couldn't talk. He threw her down the stairs and brought her here so she couldn't tell what she knew. She lifted a tear stained face to Hurley. He they told me if I didn't come, they'd kill her. But when I got here, she was already dead. They put the bandages on me and kept me here. She dropped her face, covered it with her hands. It was

a nightmare. Lydell sat on the edge of the bed. I'm Lydell, miss Merrit. You hired my agency to look into this for you. The girl nodded. I thought they killed you. I heard Seville tell those others to do it. She shook her head helplessly. I thought I was all alone. I I had no one else to turn to, no one. Where'd you get the gun you used on Saville, Miss Merritt, Hurley, he asked. He picked it up with a handkerchief, wrapped it,

dropped it into his jacket pocket. It was his. I I saw him put it in the desk one night. I've had it here, trying to get up enough nerve to kill myself, but but I didn't have the courage. She stole a terrified look at the bulge and Hurley his pocket. I I never handled a gun before. I'm terrified of them. But when I saw that he was going to get away with it again, I just pulled the trigger. Doc Travin stepped in motioned them back. I think miss Merritt needs a little rest. Gentlemen, you can

talk to her in a day or two. But She's in no condition to answer your questions now. He herded them to the door. I'll stay on here until everything is cleared away. End of chapter fifteen, Chapter sixteen. Two days later, Johnny Lydell walked through the doors that said Wilson Death's District Attorney in private. This time he did not have a uniformed escort. Muggsychielle sat in a chair near the window, a stenographer's notebook balanced on her knee.

She was staring out onto the tree lined street below. When Johnny Lydell walked in. Inspector Hurley. He sat at Deed's right, pounding on the ever present wat of gum. On the other side of the desk was a breath takingly beautiful blonde, her coloring complimented by the dark black of her suit. As Lydell came in, she walked over to him, held out her hand. I understand. I owe my life to you, mister Lydell. Her voice was warm, caressing, even promising, you won't find me ungrateful. Her eyes smiled

up at him. She turned returned to her chair. The district attorney, unwound his long, loose jointed frame from his chair, approached Lydell with outstretched hand, Nor will you find the District Attorney's office ungrateful, Lidell, Inspector Hurley, He's told me of the role you played in wrapping this case up.

He wrapped a clammy hand around Lydell's I must say that to some extent, I disapprove of the extra legal methods you employed, but in view of the successful termination of the case, I am prepared to overlook them at this time. He waved Lydell to a chair, faced the others. I've asked you all here merely is a formality. He began. The back Bay Boston most pronounced in his voice. I think this office is about ready to close the case of the death of Miss Merritt's father and the several

other cases. He smiled bleakly in Lydell's direction of justifiable homicide that were and parcel of it. He walked around his desk brought the thirty two out of his top drawer. You can identify this gun as Seville's Miss Martin. The girl nodded, yes, sir, in a lucid moment. I took it from the desk where I saw him hide it. The District attorney nodded, smiled benevolently. Thank you, lucky thing for the state that miss Merit. Such a good shot,

Lydell grunted it. It was almost a miracle, mister Lydell, I know nothing about shooting. I I don't think I've ever fired a gun before in my life. The girl raised a handkerchief to her lips, made an effort to control herself. I'm sorry, I I guess I'm still not over it. Wilsondeeds fitted a cigarette to his holder, tilted it in the corner of his mouth. What exactly did you mean by that, remark Lydell. Lydell shrugged. I tied

everything up so neatly. It might have been hard to pin Seville for murder, particularly for the murder of Merit. What are you talking about, early, he roared. You were the one who built up the case against him. You were the one who proved that it could be murdered, because a man would let his doctor shove a gun in his mouth if he thought he was examined in his throat. Lydell nodded morosely. I didn't say his doctor was the only one. There was a pregnant silence. Who else,

Early he demanded Lydell pinched unhappily at his nostrils. Suppose it was his wife or daughter who was in the habit of spraying his throat. Suppose that instead of a spray, she put the muzzle of a gun between his teeth instead. Jean Merritt was on her feet, her face white, her handkerchief pressed against her mouth. I won't stand for this. You can't believe that my mother would have not your mother, miss Merrit. You you killed your father on the pretext

a spray in his throat. You shoved a gun in his mouth and shot him. You must be crazy. Lydell, the district attorney, roared. Miss Merritt was a prisoner of Seville's. You saw yourself that she has been kept under narcotics. Lydell shook his head. Not a prisoner, mister Dietz, checked Doc Travin. They'll tell you that they are mostly old punctures. Little Jeanie here has been an addict for years, haven't you, Blondie? Isn't that what all the trouble with your father was about.

I'm warning you all. The girl muttered between clinched teeth. Sure well, party to this persecution and I'm holding you all responsible Lydell nodded, well, take our chances. The way I figure it, your father found out you were on the junk. Maybe your brother told him, the one who was accidentally shot to death. He gave you an ultimatum, placed you under Seville's care, fixed it so you'd have to marry Seville or you wouldn't get a dime of his money. But Johnny muggs Achille put in. Jean Merritt

hired you to prove her father was murdered. If she killed him, why wasn't she satisfied to let it be marked off as suicide. The blonde walked over to Lidel glared at him. That's right, mister, smart guy. If I killed my father, wouldn't I be glad to have it called suicide? Not necessarily? A couple of things went wrong. In the first place, your mother walked in on you. You had to shut her up, so you hit her over the head with the gun. That's a lie, the

blonde roared, Is it? Then? How could you have known what did happen? You described it perfectly back at the hospital, but you didn't see your mother. She was dead when you got there, and she couldn't have told you at the house that night because she was unconscious. I'm not staying here to be insulted. The blonde screamed, you have no right to do this to me. Deets wiped the perspiration from his brow, raised a hand to stem the outburst. Let him hang himself, Miss Merrit, not me, mister Deets,

but miss Merrit. He turned back to the girl. You needed help, so you called Doc Seville. He took care of things for you by setting the scene for the tragic accident. You still haven't told us why she should call you in, barked the district attorney. She no longer wanted it called suicide. She wanted us to discover it was murder, but she wanted us to saddle the murder on Seville. I won't stand here and listen to these ridiculous insinuations, the girl screamed, I'm leaving an nobody can

stop me. They're not insinuations, miss Merrit. They're facts. You killed your father, were responsible for the death of your mother. Then you tried to cover up by killing Tony Sablle and saddling him with a guilt. The girl's face was white, haggard, Her lips were drawn back from her teeth. Her cheek was twitching uncontrollably. You can't prove a thing, Inspector Hurley. He dropped his hand on the girl's arm. We can try, miss Merrit. I'm arresting you on suspicion of murder. Murder,

Who's murder? There was a new shrill note of hysteria in the girl's voice. My father's death is listed as a suicide. No amount of talk by this Shamus will change that. My mother has disappeared. Tony Sebil kidnapped me and was holding me in restraint, killing him with self defense. She started to laugh, very hysterically. You can't hold somebody for murder unless somebody was murdered. Frankie Coppola was murdered. Blondie Lidell told her. The laughter broke off on a

high note. What's that got to do with me? Lydell turned to Hurley. He got a ballistics report on the thirty two. Hurley he nodded, pulled a typewritten sheet from his inside pocket. Frankie Coppola was killed with the same gun that killed Seville. It was his gun, Tony's. I told you that the girl screamed, he killed Frankie, not me. You can't prove I did. Yes, we can. Lydell told her the killer had a key to Coppola's apartment. He never would have given it to a lady killer like Seville.

He would have given it to a girl, though, And besides, I wouldn't be surprised if we could persuade Clara Rose to do some talking about the times you visited Frankie there. Why should she kill Cupola Deats asked. Lydell wiped the thin film of perspiration off his upper lip with the side of his hand, because she saw he was the weak link. He could have told Seville that she had hired him to shoot at me, something she knew would make me determined to see the case all the way through.

She was also afraid he might break and tell me what he knew, and she would have ended up in the death house instead of Saville. All eyes were on Lydell. No one could move fast enough to stop Jean Merritt from getting the thirty two on Deet's desk. She leveled it at Lydell. All right, maybe you can't prove it, Maybe you can't, but it won't do Ye any good, But you did kill mat merrit Lydell asked why not.

I hated him. He always blamed me for my brother's death, and I wanted his money, but he tried to fix it, so I had to marry Tony to get it. I wanted that money, and I wanted it without Tony. What about your mother, the fool? She blundered in after I shot him, She was going to yell. I had to hit her to keep her quiet. Then I lost my head and I called Tony for help. He threw her down the stairs, so it looked like an accident, But from then on he knew, and I couldn't let him

go on living knowing that I killed my father. The gun pointed unwaveringly at Lydell's mid section. Everything was going fine. I had Tony all set up as a fall guy, but you had to spoil everything. Her finger was tied on the trigger, her knuckles white from the pressure. You were too smart, Lydell, much too smart. She squeezed the trigger twice. There were two metallic clicks as the hammer fell on the empty cylinder. Hurly He jumped forward, pinned

the girl's arms to her sides. Lydell wiped the perspiration from his face. None too smart, i'll admit, Blondie, but just a little bit smarter than you. Smart enough to know that they always take the shells out of a gun when they do a ballistics check on it. The City room of the Advance was in the grip of the anticlimactic stupor that afflicts newspaper offices after the last

edition had gone to bed. Johnny Lydell picked his way through the organized confusion of the desks, passed a group of men in their shirt sleeves pecking away at typewriters of varying ages and vintages. At other desks, men were sitting back drinking coffee out of paper containers, running through smeared galleys of stories they had filed. For the addition, scraps of copy paper, crumpled newspaper telephones that had lost

their luster were scattered all over the room. Lydell headed for the city desk, where a lean, gray haired man with sharp inquisitive features presided. His gray eyes widened as Lydell stopped in front of his desk. Hi Jem, he nodded. Johnny Lydell. He got up from his chair, shoved out a gnarl claw. Didn't expect to be seeing you tonight. I thought the d' a would have y on ice until he got the story. If Howie broke the Merrit's suicide, Lydell grinned, shook his head. He can get enough of

me awful easy. Besides, the Merrick had cracked wide open. He knew that, didn't you. Keeley nodded, where's muggs. Keeley looked up at the fly specked face of the clock on the far wall. Blew out O here about a half an hour ago. Didn't even wait to see how the story looked. He picked up a blackened briar from his desk, clenched his teeth on it. She got a call from the coast to night Johnny water Back. Keeley pressed the tobacco down in the bowl of the pipe,

applied a match. It made a sucking noise when he inhaled. She didn't say. He stared at Lidell with sharp gray eyes goin to try to stop her. Lydell shrugged with what Keeley nodded. Watched while a copy boy deposited a damp proof of the front page of the Advance on his desk. The merrit story was splashed blackly across the entire page, Muggsy's by line over three columns and fourteen point type. Keeley pointed to her name with the stem

of his pipe. Imagine her blowin out o here without waitin to see that spread Lydell grinned, she must be sick. Got Hollywood fever again, I guess, the old man grunted. He pulled the page proof over, checked through it, initialed it with the stub of a copy pencil, pushed it at the copy boy. Tell him to run it, kid. I thought she said she didn't want to stay there, Keeley grunted, Who the hill knows what a woman wants, especially the woman herself. He jammed the pipe stem between

his teeth. She probably had some blow up with somebody out there. Now that she is getting her way, she's on her way back. Guess she is headed back to the apartment a jim. The old man nodded. That's as good a place as any to start trying. Muggsy opened the door in response to his knock. Her face was wiped clean of all make up. The bridge of freckles across her nose was prominent. I've been trying to reach you every place, Johnny. She took him by the hand,

pulled him in, closed the door after him. The most wonderful break has happened. Lydell nodded, you're going back to Hollywood. How'd you know? She demanded? Did Pop tell you? I dropped by the shop as soon as the DA's strong arm boys were done with me. They really gave you a spread on the story. You know. Muggsy's eyes were dancing. Tomorrow that'll be forgotten. But the assignment they dished out to me in Hollywood, Johnny, it's the biggest break of

the year. She led the way through the French doors out to the sun deck. Muggsy pushed him into a wicker armchair. Relaxed, Johnny, Well, I get us the makings of a celebration. She disappeared into the living room. Lydell sprawled comfortably in the armchair, squinted at the tiny black dots that crept along the winding ribbon of the roads below. He looked up as Mugsy reappeared at the door, two glasses in hand. How's Jim taking it, Johnny? She handed him a glass, sat on the arm of his chair

Lightell shrugged. He didn't say much. I guess all right. He was always preaching that newspaper work was no job for a woman anyway. He never meant a word of it, and you know it. She slipped at her glass. I get a bang out of the excitement and the pressure and all that, Johnny. But on the coast it's more than that. I don't know how to explain it, but it's a terrific bang. Jim will get over it, baby. He slid his arm around her waist pulled her down

into his lap. I was wondering how long I was gonna have to ridge my fanny on that arm before you'd get the idea. She grinned up at him shamelessly. What do you think about my going, Johnny? It won't be the same old talent mugs. I'm kind of used to having you around, muggsy not that's what I thought. So I fixed it so as you could come with me doing what Lydell scowled. Changing the ribbons and your typewriter. Give me credit for some ingenuity. I cooked up a

job that you'll fit like a glove. Technical adviser on what don't be so thick Johnny, they're going heavy on crime and gangster stuff out there. That's why they've signed up reporters like said Baum of the Journal, and Martin Mooney of the Old American, and me and lots of others. They want the pictures to have some guts. You know more about that kind of stuff than any of us. Ah,

there's no future in it, Lydell growled. You mean there is a future in being a walking shooting gallery for twelve hours a day and a punching bag for the DA the other twelve. Lydel grinned, crookedly, and it's better than working. Muggsy reached up, kissed him. You always wear a screwball, you always will be. I guess you're right. It wouldn't be the same, Johnny Lidell, if you were to wear pin striped suits and punch a clock. She got up from his lap walked over to the railing.

It won't be much fun out there without you. I guess it's like you said, I'm used to having ye round. I'll be around, baby when you need me. He got up, walked over to her, spun her around, kissed her hard. After a moment, she pushed him away. I've got a funny feeling, you'll be out there, she grinned. Lido kissed her again, you know, he said. Finally, I'm beginnin to get a funny feeling too. End of Chapter sixteen. End of Bulletproof by Frank Kine