PART ONE

I

Rico opened his office door and peered cautiously into the dimly lit restaurant. The long, narrow room with its tables already set for dinner, its small, rectangular dance floor, the band dais decorated with flowers, was empty and silent. He listened intently, then stepped back into the office and shut the door.

‘Be another half-hour before anyone shows up,’ he said. ‘What are you nervous about?’

Seated by the flat, ornate desk in a red-leather lounging chair was a blond giant of a man, whose thick, lumpy shoulders dwarfed the back of the chair. His clothes were creased and dusty. His slouch hat had an oil stain on the front, and the ribbon was frayed. His big, granite-hard face was yellowish white, and his eyes were pale grey: the colour of ice.

Rico watched him with uneasy excitement. He was always nervous and unsure of himself when he was with Baird. He knew Baird was dangerous, and yet he was fascinated by him as some people are fascinated by a snake.

Baird pulled out a dirty, screwed-up handkerchief and tossed what it contained on the desk.

Rico peered intently at the emerald and diamond bracelet. A little pang of greed ran through him. He had never seen anything so beautiful. Then caution edged the greed out of his mind. The bracelet was beyond his class: to attempt to handle it would be as dangerous and futile as a midget attempting to fight Joe Louis.

‘Don’t I keep telling you to leave this kind of stuff alone?’ he said furiously; furious because he was forced to recognise his own shortcomings. ‘It’s no good to me. It’s too dangerous. Al these stones match. The value of the piece is as it is now. Break it up, and it ain’t worth a goddam!’

‘Don’t feed me that crap,’ Baird said. His voice was surprisingly soft for a man of his size. ‘It’s worth a couple of grand even if you have to break it up.’

Rico shook his head. He wouldn’t admit to Baird that he knew of no one to whom he could sell a piece of this value. Ever since he had first met Baird he had tried to impress the big man with his importance.

‘I don’t want it,’ he said. ‘It’s too dangerous.’

Baird looked at Rico, his pale eyes probing.

‘All the same you’ve got to take it, Rico,’ he said. ‘I’m in a jam. The twist might die.’

Rico stiffened. His heart skipped a beat and then began to race madly.

‘What was that? What do you mean?’

Baird reached for a cigarette from a box on Rico’s desk. He smiled jeeringly at Rico. The sudden fear in Rico’s eyes amused him.

‘The bitch tried to scream. There was a prowl car not more than ten yards away. I had to hit her.’

Rico looked as if he were going to faint. He clung to the edge of the desk, his face turning white.

‘Why, you crazy bastard!’ he snarled furiously. ‘Get out of here! Don’t you know this’ll be the first place the cops will come to? They know you’re always here. What are you thinking of? Get out and stay out!’

Baird eased his powerful muscles. All along he had known Rico was a cowardly little rat. He had chosen him because of his cowardice. There were plenty of other fences in town he could have gone to, but none of them would be so easy to handle as Rico in a crisis. He knew, too, he had a fatal fascination for Rico. He was everything Rico wanted to be: big, strong, ruthless, and a killer; he was the out-of-reach fantasy of Rico’s private dreams.

‘I want some dough,’ he said. He lit the cigarette and flicked the match across the room. ‘Give me five Cs.’

Rico was frightened. Baird wouldn’t have said the woman might die unless he had a good reason for saying so. Murder! This was something he hadn’t bargained for when he had told Baird he could handle anything Baird brought to him.

He swept the bracelet across the desk towards Baird.

‘Not a dime! Take it and get out! Think I want to be caught on an accessory rap? Maybe you’re crazy, but I’m not!’

A muscle high up near Baird’s right eye began to twitch. He opened his coat so Rico could see the butt of the .45 Colt he carried in a holster under his arm.

‘Five Cs, Rico,’ he said, and Rico could read the threat in the pale eyes.

‘No!’ Rico said violently. His pock-marked face began to glisten with sweat. ‘You can’t do this to me, Baird! You’re not going to hold me up for something I don’t want! You and me have worked together…’

‘Five Cs,’ Baird repeated, ‘and snap it up. I want to get out of town before the heat’s on.’

Rico snarled at him. He looked like a cornered rat as he crouched over the desk, his teeth showing and sweat running down his face.

‘Get out!’ he said. ‘Take that bracelet with you! I wouldn’t touch it if you gave it to me!’

Baird’s hand shot out and gripped Rico’s shirt front. He hauled him out of his chair, dragged him across the desk, sweeping papers, the cigarette-box, the rack of fountain pens and the telephone to the floor. He stood up, lifting Rico off his feet. Rico hung in Baird’s grip like a sawdust doll, staring with protruding eyes at Baird’s expressionless face.

‘I said five Cs,’ Baird said softly.

He slapped Rico’s face with his left hand. He slapped it four times, very hard, knocking Rico’s head from one side to the other. The sound of the slaps was like the bursting of a paper bag. Then he let go of Rico, who staggered against his desk, his knees buckling.

‘Snap it up,’ Baird said, ‘or you’l get some more.’

Rico staggered to his desk and sat down. His hand went to his cheek, which had puffed up and had turned the colour of port wine. He opened a drawer, took out a bundle of bills and counted out five of them. With a shaking hand he pushed the bills across the desk.

Baird picked them up, tossed the bracelet into Rico’s lap and pocketed the bills.

‘Why do you have to do it the hard way?’ he asked. ‘When I want anything, I damn well get it. You should know that by now.’

Rico didn’t say anything. His fingers caressed his burning face, but he picked up the bracelet and dropped it into his pocket.

‘I’ll let you know where I get to,’ Baird went on as if nothing had happened. ‘I’ll be back in a week if she doesn’t croak. I’ve another little job lined up that might be something. If you hear of anything that’d fit me, keep it on ice until you hear from me? Okay?’

Rico licked his dry lips.

‘Sure,’ he said hoarsely, his hand still on his cheek.

‘Well, so long for now. Take a look outside. I don’t want to walk into any trouble.’

Rico made the effort and went to the door. He peered into the restaurant, listened, stepped back.

‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Go through the kitchens. Don’t let any-one see you.’

‘So long,’ Baird said again, and moved through the dimly lit restaurant, skirting the tables, moving softly, his hands in his pockets, without looking back.

Rico returned to his office and straightened his desk. When he had picked up the various articles that had fallen to the floor, he sat down limply. He took out a mirror from a drawer and examined his reflection. His eyes were hot and intent as he stared at the livid bruise across the side of his face. He put the mirror away, got up and crossed over to a cellarette standing in a corner. He mixed himself a stiff whisky and soda, sat down again, and took the bracelet from his pocket. He studied it for some time. It was a beautiful piece. At a guess it’d be worth five or six grand. But who would buy it? He frowned at the bracelet. It was the best piece he had ever had through his hands; the best and the most dangerous.

He got up and locked the bracelet in a concealed wall safe. He would have to wait and see if the woman died. If she didn’t die it might not be so difficult to find a buyer. But if she did… He grimaced and took a long pull at his glass.

He went into the bathroom, leading off his office. He spent some time holding a sponge of cold water against his burning face, his eyes still hot and intent, his mind busy.

What a guy that Baird was, he thought. Not a nerve in his body! ‘If I want anything I damn well get it,’ he had said, and it was true. Working with a fell a like Baird meant big-time, Rico told himself. It was dangerous, but look what he stood to gain! He gently patted his face dry. He felt no anger or animosity against Baird for hitting him. It was just another proof of his strength of purpose. Baird was like no other crook who came to Rico. No one else would have dared to touch Rico.

Rico adjusted his tie, smoothed down his thinning hair and went back to the office.

He came to a standstill just inside the door, fear clutching at his heart.

Seated in the red leather chair, chewing a dead cigar, was a short, thickset man with a red, freckled face, sandy hair and wide-set, cold, green eyes. He had on a grey suit, a little baggy at the knees and shiny at the elbows; a nigger brown hat rested far to the back of his head.

‘Hello, Rico,’ he said, eyeing Rico’s face with his bleak, green eyes. ‘Who’s been knocking you around?’

Rico smiled stiffly; his mouth felt frozen.

‘How did you get in here, Lieutenant?’ he asked, coming to the desk. ‘I haven’t seen you in weeks.’

Lieutenant George Olin of the Homicide Bureau crossed one thick leg over the other, took the cigar out of his mouth and stared at it with an expression of disgust. He tossed it into Rico’s trash basket, produced a cigar-case, selected another cigar and put the case back in his pocket.

‘I sneaked in,’ he said, staring at Rico. ‘I hoped to catch you on the wrong foot. Have I?’

Rico tried to laugh. The croaking sound he made deceived neither himself nor Olin.

‘I’m very careful where I put my feet,’ he said, and sat down. ‘What’s on your mind, Lieutenant?’

‘Suppose you tel me,’ Olin said. ‘Had any visitors within the past half-hour?’

Rico poured himself another drink while his mind worked swiftly. Had there been a patrolman watching the club? He didn’t want to admit Verne Baird had just left, but if the club was being watched, and Baird had been seen leaving, it would be awkward to be caught in a lie. But as lying came more naturally to him than telling the truth, he decided to lie.

‘I haven’t had anyone in here,’ he said careful y. ‘The club doesn’t open until eight.’ He glanced at the desk clock. The time was twenty minutes past seven. ‘I’ve been working. Of course, anyone could have come into the restaurant without me knowing: like you did.’

Olin grinned sourly. He knew all about Rico. He knew he was itching to move out of small-time into big-time. He had been watching Rico for months now, waiting for a false move.

‘Still playing it close to your chest, Rico? One of these days you’re going to lie yourself into the gas chamber. I hope I’m there to spit in your eye before they close the door.’

Rico continued to smile, but his eyes shifted uneasily. Even when spoken about in jest, death had a horror for him.

‘What’s biting you, Lieutenant? You sound a little sour tonight. Have a drink?’

Olin shifted his squat figure to make himself more comfortable.

‘I don’t drink on duty,’ he said, rubbing his fleshy jaw. ‘Who hit you — Baird?’

Rico was expecting something like that, but although he was prepared he couldn’t conceal a little start that told Olin all he wanted to know.

‘One of the girls,’ Rico said, and lifted his shoulders. ‘I thought she was a pushover, but I made a mistake. The little devil hit me with a hair-brush.’

‘Good for her,’ Olin said. ‘Where is she? Maybe I could persuade her to make a charge against you.’

Rico laughed.

‘She went home. There was nothing to it, Lieutenant. It happens every day. But why bring Baird into this?’

‘Has he been here tonight?’

‘I haven’t seen him,’ Rico said, shaking his head. ‘I haven’t seen anyone but you tonight.’

‘And your pushover friend,’ Olin said.

‘Well, yes…’

Olin lit his cigar, puffed contentedly for a moment, took the cigar from between his teeth and blew gently at the glowing end.

‘About a couple of hours ago,’ he said, looking at Rico, ‘Jean Bruce, the actress, in case you don’t know, left her house to attend some shindig at the Martineau Galleries. Between her house and the end of the drive, she was held up and robbed. An emerald and diamond bracelet worth five grand was stolen.

From the way the stick-up was staged, it’s my bet Baird did it. There was a prowl car within twenty yards of the robbery, and the officers didn’t see or hear a thing in spite of the fact it was done in broad daylight. Baird specialises in that kind of recklessness. He’s been hanging around this club for the past few months, so I thought I’d drop in and see if you and he were dividing the spoils.’

Rico sipped his whisky, patted his thin lips with a stiff linen handkerchief and stared back at Olin, his eyes intent and sick looking. At this moment he wished he had never had anything to do with Baird.

‘Couldn’t she identify him?’ he asked. ‘He’s big enough. I don’t like that last remark of yours, Lieutenant. You can’t talk that way to me.’

Olin tapped ash on to the carpet. He showed his teeth in a mirthless smile.

‘Can’t I? Who’s going to stop me? The reason why she can’t identify Baird is because he murdered her!’

Rico gulped, and his smile slipped. He thought with horror of the bracelet in the safe.

‘Murdered her?’ he croaked. ‘How do you know Baird did it? What proof have you got?’

‘He’s a killer,’ Olin said quietly. ‘I’ve rubbed around with crooks long enough to know who will kill and who won’t. Ever since Baird blew into town I’ve been watching him. I knew sooner or later he’d break loose and kill someone. He’s dangerous, Rico. Up to now you’ve played around with the little punks, but Baird isn’t a little punk. He’s a kil er. Take my tip and keep clear of him. The guy who tries to pass that bracelet is booking himself a one-way ride to the gas-box.’

Rico felt a cold chill run up his spine. He hurriedly gulped down the rest of the whisky.

‘I’ve never been in trouble,’ he said, his face twitching. ‘You’ve nothing on me. You never have, and you never will have.’

Olin made a weary gesture.

‘Don’t be a sucker, Rico. You haven’t a bad little club here. You’re making nice money. Keep clear of guys like Baird. If you know anything about the bracelet, now the time to spill it. Why do you think I came here? Ask yourself why I didn’t send a couple of my boys to pull you in and push you around just for the hell of it. I’l tell you why. I’m ready to do a deal with you, Rico. There’s going to be a hell of a stink when the press hears this Bruce woman’s been knocked off. I want it cleaned up quick. If you know anything about it, spill it, and I’l keep you out of it. That’s a promise. I don’t want you: I want Baird!’

Rico felt a sweat trickle down the back of his neck. He knew he could trust Olin, but if he fingered Baird, and Baird heard about it before Olin could reach him, Rico’s life wouldn’t be worth a damn.

Olin, who had been watching him closely, guessed what was going on in his mind.

‘We’ll pick him up in a few days. In the meantime, if you’d feel happier, I could tuck you away in a nice safe cell. Come on, Rico, get smart. It was Baird, wasn’t it?’

Rico made up his mind. For the past year now he had dealt with petty crooks, making a nice side-line in stolen property. Baird was his first big client. He had made a lot of money out of his transactions with Baird during the past months. Besides, if he fingered Baird the rest of them would drop him like a hot brick. He wasn’t going to be stampeded just when he was moving into big money.

‘If I knew, Lieutenant, I’d tell you,’ he said with an ingratiating smile. ‘But I don’t know. I don’t know nothing about Miss Bruce or her bracelet… not a thing.’

Olin sat for a moment staring at Rico, his face slowly tightening with rage.

‘Sure, Rico?’ he said, leaning across the desk. ‘And, by God! you’d better be sure!’

Rico flinched back.

‘I’m sorry, Lieutenant,’ he stammered, ‘but I can’t tel you what I don’t know. I haven’t seen Baird since the day before yesterday. I don’t know nothing about the bracelet…’

Olin got up.

‘I’ll get Baird,’ he said, his face set and menacing. ‘Make no mistake about it. Don’t kid yourself he won’t talk. He won’t go to the chamber alone. If you’re hooked up with him, you’ll go too! I’l give you one more chance, and you’d better take it. Have you got that bracelet?’

‘I tell you I don’t know a thing about it!’ Rico said, through clenched teeth.

Olin reached across the desk and grabbed hold of Rico’s coat front, pulling him out of his chair. He shook him savagely.

‘God help you if I find out you’re lying, you little creep!’ he snarled, and flung Rico back into his chair so violently the chair went over backwards and Rico sprawled on the floor. ‘And don’t think you’ve seen the last of me!’ Olin went on. ‘I’ll be back.’

For a long time after Olin had gone, Rico sat at his desk, staring with empty eyes at his twitching hands, and sweating.

II

Ed Dallas steered his tall, lanky frame into a pay booth. While he waited for a connection, he surveyed the busy hotel scene through the glass panel of the booth door, his eyes shifting from one beautiful woman to another, trying to make up his mind which of them he would take out for the night should a miracle happen and give him a choice.

A girl’s voice said in his ear, ‘International Detective Agency. Good evening.’

‘This is Ed,’ Dal as said. ‘Gimme the old man, will you, honey?’

‘Hold a moment, please,’ the girl said, and proceeded to make violent crackling noises in Dallas’s ear.

‘Must you knock my brains out?’ Dal as complained, holding the receiver at arm’s length. ‘Why don’t you use your hands instead of your feet?’

‘I would if I thought you had any brains,’ the girl said pertly, and completed the connection with a loud whistle on the line.

Harmon Purvis, head of the agency, said in his dry, flat voice, ‘What is it, Dal as?’

‘The Shine’s just had callers,’ Dal as said, speaking rapidly, the glowing end of his cigarette bobbing up and down within an inch of the telephone mouthpiece. ‘A man and woman. The man’s a well-nourished bird, pushing fifty, and looks made of money. The woman’s a nifty; young, blonde, with a shape that’s knocked my right eye out. The Shine was expecting them. They by-passed the desk and went right up. Want me to do anything about them?’

‘Don’t cal the Rajah a Shine,’ Purvis said coldly. ‘He’s a high-class Hindu. He may be coloured…’

‘Okay, okay,’ Dal as said impatiently. ‘I wouldn’t know the difference. What about these two? Want me to cover them?’

‘Better find out who they are,’ Purvis said. ‘We can’t afford to take chances. They’re his first callers, aren’t they?’

‘If you don’t count the two rubes from the Embassy, and the floozie he had up there last night to fix his insomnia.’

Purvis said he didn’t count them.

‘Well, okay. I’ll see what I can do. I’ll buzz you on the next move. So long for now.’

Dallas replaced the receiver, pushed open the booth door and walked fast across the lobby of the Hotel Cosmopolitan to where Jack Burns was reading a racing sheet, with one eye on the reception-desk.

Dallas leaned over his shoulder.

‘The old man wants me to find out who those two are,’ he said. ‘Stick around and try to earn your money. If anyone shows up, give the old man a buzz.’

Burns groaned.

‘If I have to sit in this goddamn lobby much longer, I’ll go nuts,’ he grumbled. ‘I wouldn’t mind trailing that blonde myself. Get her telephone number, Ed. She might make blind dates.’

‘Not with you, she wouldn’t,’ Dal as said. ‘A nifty like her needs the velvet touch. I could rock her dreamboat myself.’

‘You’d have to knock over a bank before you got within a mile of her,’ Burns said, mopping his round fat face. ‘A frill with that shape doesn’t have to give anything away. It’d cost you plenty.’

‘You could be right at that.’ Dal as straightened. ‘Don’t fall asleep on the job. The old man thinks this’s important.’

‘I wish I did,’ Burns said, yawning.

Dallas made his way through the crowded lobby to the main entrance. He sat down in a basket chair, shifted it around so he could watch the elevators and waited.

He had a long wait. It was over an hour before the Rajah’s visitors appeared. The girl came first: an elegantly dressed blonde with big blue eyes and a cold, sophisticated expression that intrigued Dallas.

She moved gracefully, swaying her hips in a way that made all the men in the lobby look back at her, aware she was creating a sensation as she passed, and accepting it as her due.

Her companion was a tall, darkly tanned man, a little heavy around the waist-line, but very upright.

His sleek grey hair was taken straight back, and his military moustache bristled. In his immaculate clothes he had an arrogant air of confidence and authority that impressed Dallas, who wasn’t easily impressed.

They passed Dallas without noticing him, and went down the hotel steps to the street. Dallas slid out of his chair and went after them. He was in time to see them get into a big black LaSalle, driven by a smartly uniformed Filipino chauffeur, and which moved away so quickly that Dallas saw he hadn’t a hope of following it.

He memorised the licence number and signalled to a passing taxi.

‘Police Headquarters,’ he said urgently, ‘and imagine you’re driving to a fire!’

Three minutes later, the taxi pulled up outside the concrete and steel building that housed the city’s police. As Dallas paid off the driver he saw Lieutenant Olin get out of a police car and start up the stone steps leading to the main entrance of the building. He ran after him.

‘Hi, George,’ he said, joining Olin. ‘Too busy to do me a favour?’

Olin frowned at him.

‘I’m pretty busy,’ he said reluctantly, ‘but I guess I can spare you a minute. Come on in. Have you heard Jean Bruce has been knocked off?’

Dallas’s eyes popped.

‘You mean she’s been murdered?’

‘That’s what I mean.’ Olin walked quickly along the passage to his small office, kicked open the door, entered and sat down behind a small battered desk. ‘A stick-up job with a couple of my boys sunning themselves within yards of it. The guy got away with an emerald and diamond bracelet worth five grand. He hit the girl on the side of her jaw — broke her goddamn neck.’

‘Jeepers!’ Dal as whistled. ‘Any idea who?’

Olin nodded.

‘Yeah, but never mind that. What do you want?’

‘Checking up on a black LaSalle, licence number AO 67. I want to know who owns it.’

Olin accepted the cigarette Dallas pushed at him, and then a light.

‘Working on something?’

‘A fifteen-year-old robbery,’ Dallas said. ‘Want to hear about it? It’s a good story.’

Olin shook his head.

‘Robbery isn’t my line. Besides, who cares about a fifteen-year-old robbery?’

‘The insurance companies — when the amount involved is four million,’ Dal as said seriously.

Olin looked startled.

‘Is that right? Four mil ion?’

‘Yeah. The insurance companies were caught for the lot. They paid up, but they’re still trying to find the jewellery.’

Olin squinted at his cigarette end.

‘I think I remember something about that job: wasn’t it a Rajah’s collection?’

‘That’s right. The Maharajah of Chittabad. He lent the whole of his family heirlooms to the Purbright Museum. That was fifteen years ago. The museum was staging an exhibition of the world’s most famous gems. The Maharajah had his collection flown to New York. They never arrived, and they’ve never been seen since. A year later a fence in Holland was approached by Paul Hater with some of the stuff.

Remember Hater? He was the smartest jewel thief of them all. The fence shopped Hater because Hater wouldn’t agree to his price. Hater was arrested, but he wouldn’t tell where he had cached the collection.

He got twenty years: he’s still serving his sentence, and is due out in a couple of years time. Old man Purvis is representing the insurance companies, and we’ve been trying to find the stuff ever since. Our one hope now is to wait until Hater comes out and then stick to him like leeches in the hope he’ll lead us to the hiding-place. There’s four hundred grand in it for us if we get the stuff back, as well as a yearly retainer.’

Olin blew smoke down on to his grubby blotter, then waved it away irritably.

‘Did Hater do the job alone?’

Dallas shrugged.

‘No one knows. The pilot and the crew of the plane were never found: nor was the plane, for that matter. We figure they must have been working with Hater, but he wouldn’t finger them. We’re pretty certain the stuff’s never come on the market. Hater’s the only one, as far as we know, who knows where it’s hidden.’

Olin pushed out his aggressive jaw.

‘I guess my boys would have made him talk,’ he said sourly.

‘Don’t kid yourself. They worked over him until he looked as if he had been fed through a mincer.

Nothing anyone did to him — and they did plenty — could make him open his trap.’

‘Aw, the hell with this!’ Olin said impatiently. ‘I’ve got me a murder to solve. What do you want this car owner for?’

‘A couple of years back, the Maharajah died,’ Dal as explained. ‘His son came into the estate. This guy has his own ideas of how to live, and he’s been throwing his father’s money around like a drunken sailor. Rumour has it he’s run through half the old man’s fortune already. Without warning he suddenly turns up here. The insurance companies have the idea he’s over here to contact Hater. They think he’s going to do a deal with Hater somehow or other.’

Olin stared.

‘What sort of deal?’

‘They think Hater would be glad to sell the stuff back to the Rajah at a price. They argue the Rajah could get rid of it far easier than Hater could. From what they hear about the Rajah they think he’s quite capable of sticking to both the jewels and the insurance money. Personally, I think it’s a lot of phooey, but you can’t tell these insurance birds anything. They’ve hired us to watch the Rajah, and report to them who he’s seeing while he’s here. Up to now the only two he has seen are the man and woman who left his hotel in this LaSalle. I want to know who they are.’

‘Well, I guess I’d better do something about it,’ Olin said, reaching for his phone. ‘Purvis has done me a lot of good in the past. How is the lug, anyway?’

‘Just the same,’ Dal as said gloomily. ‘Doesn’t spend a nickel more than he can help, and still thinks a woman’s place is in the kitchen, and no place else.’

‘That’s Purvis all right. He gave me a box of cigars last Christmas I swear he made himself.’

‘You can consider yourself lucky,’ Dal as said, grinning. ‘He didn’t give me a thing. How about a little action on that car number? I haven’t got all night.’

Olin spoke into the phone, listened, waited, grunted and hung up.

‘The car belongs to a bird named Preston Kile. He has a house on Roosevelt Boulevard which puts him in the money. Does that help you?’

‘Not much. You wouldn’t like to ask Records if they’ve anything on him?’

Olin sighed, dialled, spoke again into the phone. While he waited, Dallas crossed over to the window and stared down at the two-way stream of traffic flooding the main street. He spotted the Herald truck unloading a pile of newspapers at the corner. The boy snatched them from the driver and began running along the sidewalk, yelling excitedly.

‘Looks like your murder’s hit the headlines,’ he said.

‘It’s going to make a sweet stink,’ Olin said, grimacing. He spoke into the telephone again, then hung up. ‘We’ve got nothing on Kile. We don’t know him.’

‘Well, okay and thanks,’ Dal as said. ‘I guess I’ll have to do a little more leg work. This job gives me the hives. So long, George. Hope you find your killer.’

‘I will,’ Olin said, scowling. ‘The drag-net’s out for him now. It’s just a matter of time. If your job gives you the hives, my job gives me ulcers. So long. Drop in when I’m too busy to see you.’

Dallas grinned and walked quickly along the corridor, down the stairs to the street. He took another taxi to the Herald offices, made his way through a maze of corridors to Huntley Favell’s office, rapped and pushed open the door.

Favell was the Herald ’s gossip column writer. He made it his business to know everything about anyone in town whose income ran into four figures.

Dallas was a little startled to find Favell and a pretty red-haired girl wrapped together in an embrace worthy of the best traditions of Hollywood. They sprang apart on seeing Dallas, and the girl slid past him, her face scarlet, and fled from the office.

Favell, completely unruffled, eyed Dallas coldly. He was a tall, thin Adonis, with a Barrymore profile, who lived well above his income and was glad to augment his earnings by selling information to the International whenever the opportunity arose.

‘Don’t you know better than to burst into a private office like that?’ he asked tartly as he sat down behind his desk.

‘I wasn’t thinking,’ Dal as said, grinning. ‘Accept my apologies. The next time I’ll let off my gun before coming in.’

‘There’s no need to be facetious,’ Favell said, wiping his mouth careful y with a handkerchief. He eyed the smear of lipstick that appeared on the handkerchief with a grimace of displeasure and tucked the handkerchief away. ‘And don’t go getting any wrong ideas,’ he went on, distantly. ‘She had something in her eye.’

‘Sure. I always get things out of a girl’s eye in the same way.’ Dal as sat on the edge of the desk and offered Favell his cigarette-case. ‘I dropped in for a little information.’

Favell’s acid face brightened, but he didn’t say anything. He lit the cigarette, leaned back in his chair and waited.

‘Know anything about a guy named Preston Kile?’ Dal as asked.

Favell seemed surprised.

‘Why? Is he in trouble?’

‘Not to my knowledge. I spotted him with a blonde who interested me. Is he likely to be in trouble?’

‘He’s seldom out of it,’ Favel said. ‘I haven’t time to waste talking to you, Dal as. I’ve got my column to polish up.’

Dallas took out his wallet, selected two tens and dropped them on the desk.

‘That should cover five minutes of your precious time,’ he said. ‘I want to know as much about Kile as you can tell me.’

Favell hurriedly pocketed the bills.

‘I don’t know a great deal,’ he said, relaxing. ‘By the way, you can keep your trap shut about that red-head. She has a husband in the wrestling racket, and he’s been waiting to pick on me.’

‘Never mind about her: tell me about Kile.’

‘He comes from San Francisco. Hasn’t been here more than a couple of months. He’s bought a big house on Roosevelt Boulevard which he hasn’t paid for yet, and probably never will. Three years ago he was a successful market manipulator and cleaned up a packet, but since then he seems to have dropped out of business. He spends a lot of his time on the race-tracks. He must win more than he loses, as he doesn’t seem to have any other means of making a living.’

‘What’s this about trouble?’

Favell stubbed out his cigarette, and helped himself to another from Dallas’s case.

‘Scandal more than trouble. The guy’s never grown up. His theme song’s wine, women and irate husbands. He specialises in married women, and a couple of husbands have taken shots at him in the past. One of them winged him. It was hushed up, but it didn’t teach him a lesson. He gets into brawls as easily as you get into bed. He drinks too much, and when he’s lit up, he gets tough. For a man of his age he should know better, but he just won’t learn.’

‘Who’s the blonde he’s going around with?’

‘Eve Gil is. Quite a dish, isn’t she? He took her out of the Follies about a month ago and set her up in an apartment on Roxburgh Avenue. It can’t last long. He’s a love ’em and leave ’em Joe, but from the look of her she’ll get what she can out of him before he gives her the gate.’

‘They cal ed on the Rajah of Chittabad about an hour ago,’ Dal as said thoughtful y. ‘From what you tell me they don’t sound like people a Rajah would entertain.’

Favell looked interested.

‘They’re not. Are you sure?’

‘Yeah; I saw them go to his suite.’

‘You still working on that jewel robbery?’

‘Sure; it’s Purvis’s main source of income.’

Favell thought for a moment, his polished nails tapping on his blotter.

‘You may be on to something here,’ he said at length. ‘I’ve heard rumours that Kile is in contact with the underworld. Just rumours, mind you; nothing concrete. I’ve never been able to get any proof. He spends a lot of his time at the Frou-Frou Club. It’s run by a wop named Ralph Rico, a small-time fence.

Rico’s slowly moving up in the world. It wouldn’t startle me to hear Kile’s behind him. It might pay off to keep an eye on Rico.’

‘The police haven’t anything on Kile,’ Dal as said, frowning.

‘I know that. I tell you at one time Kile was in the money in a big way. Some of his deals were a little questionable, but then most big-shot financiers do edge over the line sometimes. What puzzles me is he’s been out of business now for two years. Admit edly he’s probably worth a lot stil , but he certainly knows how to spend his money. You could do worse than to look into his association with Rico. He may be planning something.’

‘Okay, I wil .’ Dal as slid off the desk. ‘If you hear anything you think’d interest me, give me a buzz.’

‘Don’t blame me if there’s nothing to it,’ Favel said, reaching for a pile of copy in his In-tray. These rumours about Kile may be a lot of phooey.’

‘I know. Half the tips I get lead nowhere,’ Dal as said gloomily. ‘That’s the hell of this job. Well, so long. Next time you stage an eye operation, better lock the door.’

He went out, tipped his hat to the red-head who was busily typing in the outer office, grinned to himself when she tossed her head at him, and made his way rapidly down to the street.

III

So she was dead!

Verne Baird crushed the newspaper between his big, powerful hands. His pale eyes ranged over the noisy saloon, packed with people, cloudy with cigarette smoke and strident with voices, laughter and the jangle of a juke-box. No one was looking his way, and he dropped the newspaper on the floor, kicking it out of sight under the booth seat.

Damn her! he thought savagely. To have died like that! It wasn’t as if he had hit her more than once.

A broken neck! It was unbelievable!

He would have to get out of town now. Olin would be certain to pick on him. What a fool he had been to waste a precious hour in this saloon! He should have gone as soon as he had got his get away stake from Rico. Now it wasn’t going to be easy to get out. Every cop in town would be looking for him.

He signalled to the Negro bartender, who came over, his face glistening with sweat.

‘Another beer with a shot of rye,’ Baird said, ‘and snap it up.’

While the Negro went back to the bar, Baird lit a cigarette. He had no qualms about killing this woman. This wasn’t the first time he had killed. The act of taking a life was of no consequence to him. If someone got in his way, he killed them. Even his own life was of no value to him. He knew, sooner or later, the police would corner him, and it would be his turn to die. But so long as he had life in him, he would rage against any interference, any break in his planned routine, and this woman’s death was going to upset his plans. He wouldn’t be free to wander the streets or sit in a saloon or drive the battered Ford along the highway when the mood was in him to escape from the noise and the congestion of the city’s streets. He would have to watch his step. He couldn’t walk into a saloon now until he had carefully checked what exits there were, if a copper was lurking inside, if someone was planning to reach for a telephone the moment he was seen.

He drew his thin lips off his teeth in an angry snarl. Damn her! To have a neck as brittle as that!

He became aware that the Negro was whispering to the barman as he levered beer into a pint glass.

Baird slid his hand inside his coat. The touch of the Colt was reassuring. He watched the Negro carry the drinks across the room, and he could see the excitement of unexpected news in the Negro’s rol ing eyes.

The Negro set the drinks on the table. As he did so, he whispered, ‘A couple of dicks coming down the street, boss. They’re looking in every saloon.’

Baird drank the rye down in a hungry gulp, pushed the beer towards the Negro.

‘Got a back exit?’ he asked, without moving his lips.

The Negro nodded. Baird could see the sweat of excitement running down the ruts in the Negro’s black skin.

‘Through the far door, down the passage,’ the Negro said, and grinned delightedly as Baird flicked a dollar over to him.

‘Take care of the beer,’ Baird said, got up and walked without hurrying across the smoke-filled room to the door the Negro had indicated.

As he pushed open the door someone shouted, ‘Hey! Not that way, mister. That’s private.’

Baird felt a vicious spurt of rage run through him, and he had to restrain himself not to turn and go back to smash the face of the man who had called out. He didn’t look around, but stepped into a dimly lit corridor and walked quickly to the door at the far end.

A fat little Wop in an under-vest, his trousers held up by a piece of string, appeared from a room near by. He was sleepily scratching his bare, hairy arms, and his red, unshaven face was still puffed by sleep.

‘Can’t come this way,’ he said, waving a hand at Baird. ‘The other way, please.’

Baird looked at him, without pausing. The Wop stepped back hurriedly, his mouth falling open. He stood stiffly still, watching Baird as he opened the door and peered into the dark alley beyond.

Baird didn’t like the look of the al ey. It had only one exit, and that into the main street. At the other end of the alley was an eight-foot wall; above the wall he could see the outlines of a tall, dark building.

He loosened the .45 in its holster, then stepped into the alley, closing the door quietly behind him. He stood for a moment listening to the roar of the traffic on the main street, then he walked quietly to the wall, reached up, hooked his fingers to the top row of bricks and pulled himself up. He hung for a moment looking down at a dark, deserted courtyard. Then he swung himself over the wall and dropped.

Across the courtyard he spotted the swing-up end of an iron fire escape. He decided it would be safer to go up the escape and over the roofs rather than risk the main street.

He just managed to touch the swing-up on the escape and hook his fingers in it. The escape came down slowly, creaking a little, and bumped gently to the ground.

He went up it, swiftly and silently, pausing at each platform to make certain no one was concealed behind the darkened window, overlooking the platform. He finally reached the roof without seeing anyone or hearing any sounds below. He crossed the roof, bending low to avoid being seen against the night sky, dropped on to a lower roof, climbed down a steel ladder to a garage roof, and from there, he scrambled down to a dark street that ran parallel with the main street.

He paused in a doorway to look right and left. He saw nothing to raise his suspicions, and walking quickly, he crossed the street and dodged down an alley that brought him to within a hundred yards of the walk-up apartment house where he had a couple of rooms.

He paused again at the end of the alley. Keeping in the shadows, he looked over at the apartment house. There were a few personal things in the apartment he wanted: a book of photographs, a suitcase of clothes, another gun. He was prepared to take the risk of returning to his rooms for the photographs alone. To anyone else the photographs were valueless; snaps he had taken when he was a kid of his home, his mother, his brother, his sister and his dog. They were the only links in a past long blotted out.

His mother had been killed by a police bullet in a battle between G-men and his father. His sister was walking the streets in Chicago, and at this moment was probably inveigling some drunk into her apartment. His brother was serving a twelve-year stretch at Fort Leavenworth for robbery with violence.

His dog had run out of the house when the G-men had come and had never been seen since.

Baird didn’t want to remember them as they were now. He wanted to remember them as they were before his father hooked up with Dillinger, when the farm was a happy place, and his mother was always laughing, in spite of the endless hours of work.

But if Olin suspected him, he would have the house covered by now, and he wasn’t going to walk into a trap, no matter how much he wanted that book of photographs.

He remained in the shadows, watching the house. There was no one in sight, and there was nothing suspicious about the house. His two windows, overlooking the street, were in darkness, but for all that, instinct warned him to take no chances.

After five long minutes of standing motionless, he decided it would be safe to cross the street. He pulled the Colt from its holster and held it down by his side. As he was about to step into the light of a street standard, he saw a movement from a dark doorway opposite him.

He froze, his pale eyes searching the doorway. It was several minutes before he made out the dim outlines of a man, standing against the wall.

Baird showed his teeth in a bitter, mirthless smile. So Olin was on to him, and he had nearly walked into a trap. Very possibly there were coppers in his apartment waiting to put the blast on him as he opened his front door. Cautiously he edged back, then when he was out of sight of the house, he turned and walked quickly back the way he had come.

At the other end of the alley was a drug store. He pushed open the door and crossed over to a row of pay booths. There was no one in the store except a young girl in a white coat, reading a paper-backed book, behind a soda fountain. She glanced up to give Baird an indifferent glance, then went on reading.

Baird shut himself in the booth and dialled Rico’s number. He had to be sure Olin was covering the house. It would be infuriating to be stampeded by some loafer waiting for his girl. He would never forgive himself if he were panicked into leaving those photographs when it would be so simple to cross the street and get them.

Rico came on the line.

‘Are they looking for me?’ Baird whispered, his lips close to the mouthpiece. He heard Rico catch his breath in a startled gasp.

‘Who’s that?’ Rico asked feverishly. ‘Who’s talking?’

‘Did Olin call on you?’ Baird said, still keeping his voice low.

‘Yes,’ Rico said. ‘Get off the line, you fool! They may be listening in! They’re after you! Olin says he knows you did it! Don’t come near me! He’s after me too!’

‘Don’t lose your head,’ Baird said, seeing in his mind’s eye Rico’s twitching, terrified face. ‘They can’t prove anything. They’ve got to have proof…’

But he found himself speaking over a dead line. Rico had hung up.

Baird replaced the receiver. The muscle under his right eye was twitching. As he turned to leave the booth his quick, suspicious eyes spotted a movement at the drug-store entrance. He ducked down out of sight behind the panel of the booth door, his Colt jumping into his hand. He heard the drug-store door open and heavy feet walk over to the counter.

‘Police, Miss,’ a curt voice said. ‘Anyone been in here within the last few minutes?’

Baird eased back the safety catch. They must have spotted him while he was retreating down the alley. He wondered if there were any more of them outside.

He heard the girl say, ‘There was a big fell a in here about three minutes ago. He must have gone.’

‘In a brown suit?’ the detective asked. ‘A tall, broad-shouldered guy with a white, hard face?’

‘That’s right. He used the phone over there.’

‘Which way did he go?’

‘I don’t know. I didn’t see him leave.’

There was a sudden sharp silence. Baird knew in a split second the detective would guess he was still in the pay booth. He didn’t hesitate. Reaching up, he took hold of the door handle, turned it gently and flung the door open.

He had a glimpse of a short, stocky man facing him, whose hand was flying to the inside of his coat.

He saw the girl in the white coat, jumping off her stool, her mouth opening, her eyes sick with terror.

The Colt boomed once as the detective got his gun out. The heavy slug smashed a hole in the detective’s face, hurling him violently back against the counter.

Baird shifted the gun to cover the girl as she screamed wildly. The fear of death wiped the pert sophistication, the undisciplined sensuality and the old-young worldliness from her face. She looked suddenly pathetically child-like as she huddled into the corner formed by the wall and the counter with no hope of escape. The rouge on her cheeks and the lipstick on her mouth brought a sharp picture into Baird’s mind of his sister when she was seven, plastering her face with a stolen lipstick, and laughing at his uneasy disapproval.

It was partly because of this sudden, bitter vision of his sister, and partly because he knew this girl mustn’t be allowed to give the police a description of him that he shot her.

He was able to watch without a qualm the girl arch her body in agony as the bullet hit her. She slithered along the wall, her eyes rolling back, her outstretched arm knocking over a row of Coke bottles that fell with a crash of breaking glass to the floor. As she disappeared behind the counter her breath came through her clenched teeth the way the breath leaves the body of a rabbit when its neck is broken.

Baird left the booth, looked swiftly around the drug store, spotted a door behind the counter, jumped over the counter and wrenched open the door.

Outside, not far away, he heard the shrill blast of a police whistle. He ran down a dimly lit passage and up more stairs. He was cold and unflurried, and his one thought was not to be seen. So long as no one saw him, Olin couldn’t pin the killings on him. Already his calculating brain was at work on an alibi that would fox Olin. As soon as he could safely do it, he must get rid of his gun. That, and that alone, so far, could take him into the gas-chamber.

Ahead of him he saw a glass panelled door that led to the roof of the building. As he opened it, he heard a sudden clamour of police sirens outside the building. He ran to the edge of the roof, and peered cautiously over it into the street below. It was alive with running police. Prowl cars were skidding to a standstill, and from them poured more police, guns in hand. Rushing around the corner came a truck, carrying a searchlight which went on before the truck came to a standstill. The great white beam of light flashed up the side of the building and lit up the roof with blinding intensity.

Baird didn’t hesitate. He swung up his Colt and fired down the long beam. There was a crash of glass and the light went out. The darkness that followed was as blinding as the previous intense light.

Someone down below let off with a sub-machine-gun, but Baird was already running across the roof to the shelter of some chimney stacks. He ducked behind them, looked right and left, decided to go for a higher roof, and bending double, ran swiftly to a steel ladder, swarmed up it and reached fresh shelter as the first of the police came bursting on to the lower roof.

Still unruffled, Baird made his way silently across the roof, keeping the chimney stacks between himself and the police. He could hear them whispering together, unwilling to show themselves, not sure if he was waiting for them or getting away.

‘Well, get on with it!’ a voice bawled up from the street.

Looking down, Baird spotted Olin standing up in the middle of the street, gun in hand. He was glaring up at where his men were sheltering.

Baird was tempted to shoot Olin as he stood there, but realising his chance of escape depended on keeping the police foxed as to where he was, he resisted the temptation, and made his way across the roof to look below on the far side of the building.