CHAPTER XII

_Black Light_

Black Hood staggered to his feet, his brain still whirling from that

blow to his head. He lurched toward the front door of the shop, stopped

half way there, clung to a counter for support. Somebody was pounding on

the front door. A hoarse voice was calling on him to open in the name of

the law.

Black Hood turned, spurred the muscles of his legs to carry on. The

brilliant light of a policeman's torch sliced through the semi-darkness

and spotted him. He kept going. Glass in the front door shattered

beneath a blow from the butt of the copper's revolver. Black Hood ran on

leaden feet into the rear of the shop. The back door stood invitingly

open. He stepped over the sill, all but fell into the arms of a second

cop. He struck just one wild haymaker of a blow that cleared the head of

the cop by nearly a foot. And then suddenly there were two cops--one on

either side of him.

"It's Black Hood!" one of the coppers shouted triumphantly. "We've got

him. We've got the Eye. Wait till Sergeant McGinty hears about this!"

Cold steel jaws of handcuffs closed on Black Hood's right wrist. A

second cop frisked him quickly, emptying the pockets of his belt.

"Look at the sparklers, will you!" the policeman gasped.

And Black Hood, his mind still in a daze, stared down at the gems in

the copper's hand. No use telling them it was a frame. That was the

standard alibi of every crook who ever found his way into police courts.

They had him cold, and in his present condition he was utterly unable to

fight back.

As long as he lived he was never to forget that ride down to police

headquarters. Nor could he ever forget standing there in Sergeant

McGinty's office while the sergeant did a bit of triumphant gloating.

"As sure as my name's McGinty, I knew there'd come a day like this, Mr.

Black Hood, alias the Eye. I've got you, and I've got you where I want

you. You'll burn in the chair, Mr. Hood."

Black Hood stood erect, still handcuffed to the cop who had captured

him. He could think a little bit more clearly now and the muscles of his

powerful body were much more inclined to obey the dictates of his taut

nerves. He looked at the top of the sergeant's desk. There the entire

contents of his belt pockets had been spread out--the dozen diamonds

which had been used to frame him; that crumpled check which he had taken

from the dead fingers of Biggert; the powder box from Vida Gervais'

boudoir, most of its contents now gone; all his little tools and weapons

which he had found valuable in his valiant fight against crime.

"You know what I've done, Mr. Hood?" McGinty asked. "I've telephoned the

members of the citizens' committee who got together to tell the police

what to do to catch the Eye. I've asked them and their friends to come

down here to headquarters for the unveiling of Black Hood, alias the

Eye. When they get here, I'm going to jerk off that mask of yours and

we'll all have a little surprise party."

"You might spare me that 'alias, the Eye' business," Black Hood said,

some of his old-time banter returning. "The Eye died when Jack Carlson

died, and I can prove that. Since Carlson was murdered, another has

taken his place. The man who killed Biggert and also killed Jack

Carlson, now wears the white rubber mask that identifies the Eye, goes

around whispering orders to professional rob and kill men. He's robbed

Carlson's safe and robbed Carlson of his life and even robbed Carlson of

his identity as the Eye. And given half a chance, I'll prove that to

you, McGinty."

McGinty frowned. He could not deny that many times before Black Hood

had beaten him to the solution of crimes, much to his embarrassment.

And in each case, McGinty had received full credit for the solving of

these crimes.

"When the time comes, Mr. Hood," McGinty said, "you'll have your chance

to speak your little piece. I wouldn't deny that to any man."

"Then perhaps you'll unlock these handcuffs," Black Hood suggested.

"You've robbed my bag of all its tricks and I'm relatively harmless at

the present time. Besides," he added, glancing at the cop to whom he was

linked, "this man here becomes something of a liability after this

length of time."

"Unlock the cuffs, Bricker," McGinty ordered the cop. "Black Hood can't

get out of here, and that's a sure thing."

* * * * *

The cuff removed from his right wrist, Black Hood went to a chair beside

the desk and calmly sat down.

"I want to appeal to your reason a moment, Sergeant, before this

committee arrives for the 'unveiling' as you call it. First of all, is

it reasonable to suppose that I would crack open a jewelry store just to

get those few diamonds there on the desk? And having broken into the

store with intent to rob, as you seem to think, would I be silly enough

to fall on my head and knock myself out?"

"Could be those were the only diamonds you found in the store."

"There were one hundred thousand dollars worth of unset diamonds in that

store tonight," Black Hood said. "And that's what this man who is posing

as the Eye went after and got. The past record shows that none of these

crimes have been what you could call petty."

"A fact," McGinty said, "which doesn't prove you haven't hid the

diamonds somewhere."

"But kept a few of them on my person just to get myself in jail, huh?"

Black Hood laughed. "Listen, McGinty, why do you suppose Biggert,

Weedham's secretary, was killed?"

"The shot that killed Biggert was intended for Jack Carlson," McGinty

said. "So it was an accident that Biggert was shot."

Black Hood shook his head, "Jack Carlson was nowhere near Biggert when

the latter fell. That was no mistake. Biggert was killed because he was

about to expose somebody who had forged that check which is lying on

your desk. That check is the piece of paper that was in Biggert's hand

when he died."

McGinty's eyes narrowed. "How did you get hold of that, Mr. Hood?"

Black Hood saw that he would have to lie in order to protect his

prototype, Kip Burland.

"I reached the body of Biggert before Carlson or anyone else did. That's

how I know Carlson wasn't near the man when the shot was fired."

McGinty thought that over a moment.

"Go ahead, Mr. Hood. I'm not convinced, but every man has a right to

free speech."

"Did the police notice the smudge of white powder on the lapel of

Carlson's coat when they found his body? Did they notice that the

regular light bulbs in his garage had been replaced with ultra-violet

bulbs?"

McGinty nodded. "Our lab men don't miss much. That smudge of powder

contained some chemical that glows in black light. I figured it spotted

Carlson for the killer, made a target out of him in the dark."

"Right, McGinty. But do you know that Carlson was betrayed by a woman

named Vida Gervais? She lives in the house next to the Weedham place.

That powder box which you took from my pocket and which is now on your

desk, is a sample of her face powder, treated with naphthionate of

sodium. You can prove that yourself. And if you'll question the lady

thoroughly, you'll be able to get at the truth. She'll know that Carlson

was the Eye. And she may even admit that she threw Carlson over and

helped somebody else dispose of Carlson and step into the lucrative

position which Carlson occupied as the Eye."

McGinty looked up at one of his men. "Send out for that Gervais dame."

When the man had left the room, he turned to Black Hood. "You haven't

cleared yourself yet. You claim Carlson was the Eye. That's the world's

oldest alibi--putting the blame on a dead man."

"I can prove Carlson was the Eye," Black Hood persisted. "In the morning

I will send you that signal device which the Eye used. It carries

Carlson's fingerprints."

"You'll send it from jail, then," McGinty said.

* * * * *

Black Hood shook his head. "I wonder if you'd send to the police lab for

an ultra-violet lamp? I think I can conduct an experiment which will

prove my points."

McGinty considered this a moment, and finally sent out for an

ultra-violet lamp. It was not long after that before the members of the

citizens committee began to arrive. The two Weedhams, father and son,

were ushered into the room, followed by Major Paxton, Harold Adler, and

the rest of the committee. Jeff Weedham's newspaper was represented by

Barbara Sutton and her ace cameraman, Joe Strong. And finally the police

brought in a coldly furious Vida Gervais.

Black Hood carefully avoided meeting Barbara Sutton's eyes. He knew that

her emotions must be strained to the breaking point, and even a glance

from him might have caused her to betray herself.

"D-d-don't tell me you've finally caught Black Hood, Sergeant!" Jeff

Weedham gasped.

The sergeant smiled. "Sooner or later, McGinty gets 'em all."

McGinty waited until all present were seated. Then he stood up alongside

of Black Hood.

"Now, folks," he said, "as you can see, I've got Black Hood just where I

want him. And I've wanted him quite a while. I promised you that I'd

show you his face, and that's just what I'm going to do."

* * * * *

Harold Adler uttered a hoarse cry of warning that came just a bit too

late. With one of those lightning-like movements of his, Black Hood had

pulled the revolver out of McGinty's holster, turned it on the sergeant.

A copper near the door started to intervene, but Black Hood stopped him

with a narrow-eyed glance that held all the threat of a thunderbolt.

"Make a move toward me, and I put a bullet into McGinty's back," he

said. "No one will ever see the face of Black Hood and live to talk

about it. I've just given McGinty the entire solution to this mystery.

I've told him that Jack Carlson was the Eye. I've explained how Jack

Carlson was murdered and his powerful position in the underworld was

usurped by another man who now poses as the Eye. If there is any doubt

in his mind, I am about to dispel it."

Black Hood picked up the ultra-violet lamp with his left hand while his

right kept the gun on McGinty. He said, "Mr. Adler, will you kindly

turn out the lights."

Adler hesitated.

"Do as you're told," Black Hood insisted, "if you don't want to witness

murder. And I want to warn everyone in this room, that when the lights

go out if anyone makes any move toward me, McGinty will die. Even if I

were to be shot, the reflex action of my fingers would pull the trigger

of this revolver and McGinty will die. I am no murderer, but if you

interfere with me in this business, you'll make a murderer of me."

Adler switched out the lights. The darkness lay like a smothering

blanket upon them all. The air itself had a certain electrical tenseness

about it, like the silence before a storm.

"I am now going to switch on the ultra-violet light. If the filter is

perfect, you will not be able to see the light, because ultra-violet

rays, when unadulterated by other rays, cannot be seen by the human eye.

There. The light is on.

"I have offered evidence to Sergeant McGinty in which I intended to

prove that Biggert, William Weedham's secretary, was killed because he

was about to show to William Weedham a check to which William Weedham's

signature had been forged. Not only that, but the forger, in cashing the

check, also forged the endorsement of Major Paxton, to whom the check

was made out.

"I have further pointed out to McGinty, that this same killer disposed

of Jack Carlson, after Carlson had been betrayed by a woman. This woman

must have been Carlson's friend. She must have known all his secrets,

including the fact that Carlson was the Eye. She gave all this

information to another man--the same man who forged the check which I

mentioned before. Then she assisted this killer to shoot Carlson. This

woman's face powder was treated with naphthionate of sodium. A little of

this powder rubbed from her cheek to Carlson's lapel made Carlson a

perfect target in pitch darkness, provided that darkness was penetrated

by rays of invisible ultra-violet or black light. I have a sample of

that woman's face powder here on McGinty's desk."

Black Hood turned the ultra-violet lamp on the desk. The box of powder

there became phosphorescent.

"When I was framed for the Tauber jewel robbery tonight, I seized the

opportunity to toss some of this face powder onto the jewels in the

robbers' bag," Black Hood continued. "The face powder is that of Vida

Gervais. Watch, please."

Black Hood turned the ultra-violet lamp out toward his audience. Vida

Gervais' frightened face glowed in the black light. Startled gasps could

be heard from the others in the room as they stared at that ghostly

face.

"Vida Gervais," Black Hood continued, "knew a good thing when she saw

it. To eventually better her social and financial position, she was

willing to sell out Carlson, alias the Eye, to another man who, if he

could accumulate, through fair means or foul, quite a tidy sum of money

now would get his hands on a great deal more money in the future.

"So Vida Gervais betrayed Carlson, alias the Eye, into the hands of the

man who had killed Biggert. The forty thousand dollars which this man

had got from the forged check was a small part of the money he needed.

But if he could step into the Eye's shoes for a little while, he could

rapidly accumulate the rest.

"I mentioned a moment ago that I had tossed some of Vida Gervais'

unusual face powder onto the diamonds stolen from Tauber's shop. The

naphthionate in that powder would cling to the diamonds and subsequently

cling to the hands of the criminal who eventually got hold of them.

Watch now for the glowing hands of the killer--the man who has been

impersonating the Eye ever since Carlson was killed. But one funny thing

about that impersonation which I did not realize until tonight. The

impersonator, this man who killed Biggert and Carlson, was most careful

to avoid any word or name beginning with the letter 'D.' He would not,

for instance, say the name 'Delancy,' nor would he speak the word

'diamonds.' Why? Because every time he says a word or name beginning

with that letter, he stutters. He might disguise his voice by

whispering, but he could not control this stutter, which would have been

a dead give-away."

* * * * *

In the black light, luminous fingers suddenly showed themselves. There

was a piercing scream. Men surged forward to close in and blot out the

glow from the killer's fingers.

"Watch out!" Black Hood's warning voice rang out. "He is probably

armed!"

Men bumped into each other. There was the repeated thud of blows. There

were cries, grunts, stammered oaths. And when finally somebody turned on

the lights, Jeff Weedham was on the floor, two cops astride him. He had

a gun in his hand, but his hand was pinned to the floor.

Sergeant McGinty looked over his shoulder at the Black Hood--or rather

looked where he thought the Black Hood would be. McGinty's jaw sagged.

He looked down at his own gun which was poking him in the ribs. His

revolver had been wedged into the baby-gate extension arm of his own

desk telephone. And Black Hood was gone.

It was an hour later that McGinty and his men, by playing Vida Gervais

and Jeff Weedham, one against the other, got a full confession which

corresponded very closely to Black Hood's reconstruction of the crimes.

Jeff Weedham had been placed in rather a desperate position by his

father, Jeff explained. William Weedham had bought Jeff the newspaper,

insisting that he make a financial success of it and thus prove his

worth. If he failed in this as he had in everything else, William

Weedham was determined that none of the Weedham fortune should fall into

Jeff's hands.

Jeff had run his newspaper into the red. As the time came closer in

which William Weedham was to examine the newspaper's ledger, Jeff

Weedham tried desperately to make up the lost money, first by forgery,

and then by stepping into Carlson's shoes as the Eye.

Ballistics tests proved that it was Jeff's gun which had killed both

Biggert and Carlson.

Just as McGinty was about to leave his office for the night, his phone

rang. Almost before he picked the instrument up, he knew who his caller

was.

"I say, McGinty," the voice of the Black Hood came from the receiver, "I

really intended to apologize for making a fool of you there in your

office, sticking you up with a gun attached to that telephone arm. But

then, as I thought the matter over, it occurred to me that I really

wasn't to blame for making a fool of you. You've really got a bone to

pick with dear old Mother Nature on that score!"

"Say, will you kindly go to Hell!" McGinty exploded. And as he hung up,

a chuckle broke from his thick lips. "What that guy don't know is that

I'm beginning to get a kick out of tangling with him!"

CANDIDATE FOR A COFFIN

By T. W. FORD

Wilson Lamb cuddled his automatic to play "Mr. Death" and fingered

little Louis Engel for coffin cargo. But when he pulled the

trigger, Whisper, the gun-cobra from Chi, spilled out of Doom's

deck....

[Illustration]

Death stood on the Times Square subway platform, uptown side, waiting

for a subject. Death looked at himself in the gum machine mirror, then

down at his watch. It was exactly 4:12 P. M., Wednesday, December 10th.

When the second hand hit the "30" mark, he would turn around and the

person nearest would be It. Death wore a blue pin-stripe suit, well

fitting but slightly unpressed. Death's name was Wilson Lamb.

The second hand wiped over the "20" of the smaller dial, jittered on

toward the half-minute spot. Inexorable and meaningless. Just as what

Wilson Lamb planned. He said "Now" with a little sucking in of breath

and a thin anticipant smile and spun on his heel. He was a slim

saturnine-faced man with cigaret-ash stain on a coat lapel.

Undistinguished from any typical strap-hanger except perhaps by the

light-hued eyes. His shoes needed a shine. He lifted the pale eyes from

them and looked for the corpse to be. To the left. To the right. Then he

came as near recoiling from the thing as he ever would.

It looked as if it might be a woman. Somehow he had always thought of

killing a man. Something that could strike back. Not that he would get

the chance. It was just the idea of the thing. But she, the woman, was

descending the stairs that led up to the shuttle, bearing down toward

him, less than twenty feet away. Big and billowy and red-faced, waddling

along like a sow. To face a jury, charged with doing away with a hunk of

human beef like that and--

He flashed a glance to the left again. Nobody near. It was a fluke of

circumstance a score of people weren't buzzing all about him. He whipped

his eyes back toward the woman as a local thundered in. And Luck took a

hand. A stocky man dodged around from behind the woman and came rapidly

down the platform, neat, crisp, briefcase under his arm.

Wilson Lamb's pale eyes flickered with amusement. He said softly, "Tag,

you're it, John W. Goon." This was his corpse to be. Mr. Death had made

his pick-up.

"_Ex_-cuse me." An express rolled in and cutting over for it, the stocky

man brushed Lamb. His voice was mild, colorless. He wore a gray

snap-brim hat; it was set squarely on his head, precisely level. Lamb

had seen hats worn like that by show-window clothing dummies. The man

entered the third car, middle door. Wilson Lamb boarded it on his heels.

His victim almost got a seat. A pimply-faced office boy elbowed him out

of it and the man turned away meekly. He hooked himself onto a strap,

hitched the briefcase up under his free arm, and concentrated on a

segment of his folded-open newspaper. It was one of the conservative

sheets, comic-less, reactionary Republican to the core. Wilson eased

down the aisle, casually pushing a woman out of his way, and glanced

over his victim's shoulder. The goon was studying an advertisement for a

nine-piece living room suite, overstuffed, at "special reduction this

week only." It was at one of the better department stores.

Amusement flickered in Wilson Lamb's pale eyes. He got the picture. A

typical George Babbitt in the flesh. To the core.

At Seventy-second Street, the stocky man got a seat. When he faced the

light, Lamb saw that he was turning slightly gray over the ears. He had

a roundish face, a little fleshy under the chin, a soft-lipped mouth

that from habit he held slightly pursed, muddy eyes. He was inclined to

plumpness. Somebody had scuffed his right shoe in getting out and now he

pulled up the pant leg of his dark grey suit to study it ruefully.

"Typical taxpayer," Lamb said to himself, savoring it. "Always makes his

insurance payments on time.... Probably has weak arches.... Is going to

buy the Five Foot book-shelf, always next week, and read it.... Would

like to get up nerve enough to take that blonde steno at the office out

to luncheon...." Wilson Lamb wanted to laugh out loud; it was as good as

having a duck flutter down smack in front of your blind.

Past 86th, the Express roared. Lamb's victim had turned his paper,

halved back the last page. Automatic pencil poised, he was scanning the

crossword puzzle intently. As they lolled through 91st, he bared his

teeth in a satisfied smile and rapidly filled in four vertical blanks,

then filled out the lower right-hand corner. Lamb saw that his four

upper front teeth were a neatly fitted denture. He wondered how they'd

look after a bullet had gone through them.

The victim got off at 96th, carefully straightening his muffler inside

his black overcoat. He went downstairs, crossed beneath the local

platform to the west side, mounted to street level. He had a cigaret in

his mouth but waited until he was outside the subway entrance before he

put a match to it. Lamb lit one too. He picked up an evening paper from

the newsstand--it might come in handy if he got to close quarters with

the dope and wanted to mask his face. The newsdealer was looking the

other way as he made change so Lamb plucked back his nickel.

* * * * *

The victim started to cross 96th Street, heading north. A traffic

officer's whistle shrilled. Broadway was spattered with the ruby red of

traffic lights. Vehicles moved crosstown. Dutifully Lamb's goon turned

and retraced his steps to the curb, holding his four-square hat

carefully. A little trick with skimpy skirts whipped about plump calves

crossed on over. Watching her, Lamb's victim shook his head.

Lamb could hear him saying: "Tsk! Tsk! Foolish to take chances like

that." Imagine him saying it, anyway.

Lamb kept at a cautious distance as they moved several blocks up

Broadway. Walking briskly, the victim turned into a side street. There

was something smug about the way he picked up his heels, swung his

briefcase.

"Little man who has had a busy day with a job well done," Lamb

paraphrased it sarcastically. He pushed his battered felt hat further

back on his head in a gesture of disgust. His cheap unbuttoned

raglan-style coat fluttered in the wind off the Hudson. Abruptly, the

man ahead halted, wheeled.

Lamb calmly turned and opened the rear door of a parked sedan whose

driver was at the wheel. Put a foot in. Down the block, his victim

headed into a distinctly second-rate apartment hotel. Lamb said to the

sedan driver, "I thought this was a hearse" and went down the block.

His victim was getting his mail at the desk when Lamb entered the shabby

lobby. Lamb got on the elevator after him. The victim said "nine,"

immersed in his paper again, studying that living room suite. He had his

key ready in his hand, terra cotta-hued tab swinging loose. "914" was

lettered on it in black.

"Ten, Bud," Lamb told the operator.

On the tenth floor, he moved quickly down the frayed carpet of a

corridor and found the service stairs. Back on the ninth, even when he

was yards from the door of 914, he caught the odor of cooking. Rich and

greasy. He got his ear against the door.

"Spare-ribs and sauerkraut, huh, Ede?" the victim was calling out

inside. Lamb could visualize him putting his coat on a hanger, carefully

folding a scarf over it.

From the rear of the apartment came Ede's voice, reedy and with a bit of

a whine. Lamb could visualize her too, a dyed blonde who devoured film

fan magazines and thought the girdle was the world's greatest invention.

"Uh-huh. How'd things go downtown today, Lou?"

Through the thin door, Lamb heard him clear his throat, mutter, "Oh,

so-so."

But Ede wasn't to be put off. "Lou, did you tell the boss you had to

have a raise, that the job is worth more?"

Lou started to mumble something. Ede's voice, penetrating the door

easily, rose to a querulous pitch. "Lou, you're too easygoing! You ain't

got the sense to stand up for your rights. You're an expert in your line

and you know it. There's never any kick-back or complaint on a job you

do."

"I know, I know, Ede but--" Wilson Lamb's victim got in.

"You're entitled to more money, Lou! You've never bungled a job yet. I

need a new coat. And you said you wanted to put the kid in a private

school after the first of the year. How're we gonna do it if you

don't--"

Lou said, "Look, Ede! Something came up today and the boss had to leave

in a hurry--right in the middle of a conference. I just had time to grab

my briefcase myself. Let's get to work on those spare-ribs."

They moved toward the rear of the apartment and Lamb out in the hall

could hear no more. He was chuckling as he walked away, loose mouth

curled in a sneer. Back on the tenth floor, he boarded the elevator

again. Again it was empty except for the operator, a tow-headed kid with

a Racing Form tucked in a side pocket.

"Funny thing," Lamb mentioned casually, "I could've sworn I knew that

man who rode up with me. Stocky chap. Got off at the ninth. But I can't

seem to recall his name."

"Mr. Engel, yuh mean?"

"Engel ... Engel ... Lou Engel? Is he an accountant?"

"Yeah, Louis Engel's the name. But he ain't no accountant. Comes from

Chicago. I heard him tell the manager he was an efficiency expert."

Lamb stopped rattling the coins in his pocket suggestively, kept them

there, and strolled toward the main entrance. Behind him, a lobby

lounger moved over to the elevator boy, jerking his chin in Wilson

Lamb's direction as he asked a question.

At the corner, Lamb stopped in and bought a drink. Thin face creased in

a smile of self-satisfaction, he glanced at the paper he had bought.

Below the latest war communiques was a small column-head about a

threatened gang war in the numbers racket. "Police Raid Joe 'The

Flasher' Abadirro's Headquarters," it said. Lamb's eyes picked up

flashes of it. "... when plainclothes squad walked into luxurious

apartment ... mid-town West Side hotel ... several henchmen taken into

custody on technical charges ... Abadirro reported out of town ...

police acting on tip killers imported from Chicago ... showdown

anticipated on who will boss numbers racket in metropolitan area...."

* * * * *

Lamb turned the paper over and winked at himself in the concave mirror

of the semi-circle of bar. That was unimportant claptrap to somebody

like him. That kind of tripe was for the little Joe Dopes who got their

thrills vicariously. There was going to be nothing vicarious about what

he was going to do. He was going to rub out Louis Engel. Blast him.

Louis the Goon, as he had already christened him in his mind. He had put

the finger on him.

"Louis the Goon is going to die," Wilson Lamb said softly. He liked the

sound of it.

He wasn't crazy. Long ago he had assured himself of that. It was just

that his mind operated on a different, a higher, plane than the norm. He

was not one of the little pieces of protoplasm running along with the

herd. He was above them. Looking down on them. Studying them. His

perspective ranged somewhat further than the end of his nose, the latest

double-feature at the neighborhood movie house, and spare-ribs.

That last made him laugh out loud. He picked up his change and headed

back for the subway and his two-room apartment in the Village. His gun,

a .45 automatic, was there. He would be needing it soon. Louis the Goon

practically demanded, invited, the use of a .45 automatic on him.

"Efficiency engineer," Lamb said to himself once.

The guy was the perfect subject. Ripe for murder. The more Lamb thought

of it, the more he was convinced he couldn't have dreamed up a better

stooge. Engel was a model--for homicide. He himself might die for it.

But that was unimportant. The killing of Louis the Goon was the only

thing that counted. The results, materially speaking, meant nothing.

This slaying was to be an exposition of the ego. Without other cause.

Emotionless. With no hope of gain, financial or otherwise. No female

involved. Nothing. Just a killing, a plain open and shut case of

homicide for no earthly reason imaginable to the police. It would be

amusing to watch those flatfoots sitting around trying to sift a motive

out of the thing. Baby, they'd sweat their so-and-so's off trying to

cook up a reason for this one.

It was so simple to Lamb himself. Inevitable. A logical step in a

sequence. The final step, perhaps. Louis the Goon Engel was a mere

walk-on in the piece, a spear-carrier doomed to death. Little better

than a papier mache dummy set up to be a target for the custard pie.

Only, in this case, the custard pie was to be a cupro steel-nosed

bullet.

To Lamb, it boiled down to an ultimate expression of the psyche. The

final test of one's ability to project the personal ego over all else in

the material world. Because the ego was the alpha and omega of all

living the moment one got above the level of animal existence, the mere

feeding of the face and satisfaction of the other instinctive physical

hungers. As Braunitsch had put it so succinctly, "Even the lowest worm

can procreate itself--unfortunately."

Then, of course, there was Nietsche and his superman. And some of Freud.

And that treatise of Van de Water, the Belgian, on the sublimation of

the sub-conscious by the negation of the self-censor. And the papers of

Braulinski of the old University of Warsaw on the fear trauma which he

termed a birthmark of civilization. Lamb had gone into them all, deeply.

All of them dealing with the ego. The ego and its development and

complete consummation. And the killing of Louis the Goon Engel was going

to be the consummation of Wilson Lamb's experiments in the total

exemplification of that ego.

It was no brash idea, no hare-brained impulse concocted in one's cups,

perhaps. Analytically, objectively, he had thought out the whole thing.

The axis of life was the psyche. Its two poles were birth and death.

And, as Braunitsch had stated, the former was a function, often

accidental, of which the lowest animal order was capable. A mono-cell,

the amoeba, was able to reproduce itself by the simple stratagem of

sub-division. But death--when it became a deliberate action,

administered without emotion or hope of material gain--was one step

removed from the godhead. Perhaps less than one step. But the step that

would raise one above all the little fumbling, blind-spawning, life

hugging bipeds who infested the scene.

In short, birth was fortuitous, a product of circumstance plus

proximity, its get a biological accident. But death--the taking of

life--was a selective process, intentionally executed, the result a

foreseen conclusion. In so doing, the taking of life, you broke the

greatest law of humanity and so became above it. You unfettered the ego

with a single ineradicable stroke. In taking a life, one tasted the

essence of living. He tried to remember who had said that. De Maupassant

had put it better but Lamb could not quite recall the quotation....

He was still trying to remember it as he lounged down the block from

Engel's apartment hotel at 8:10 the next morning. There was a

bone-chilling breeze off the Drive that made Lamb belt his coat tighter

about him. When, at 9:35, Louis the Goon Engel had not made an

appearance, Lamb went down to the corner drugstore and had a cup of

coffee. He could not see the entrance of the hotel through the window.

But he commanded a clear view of the street and anybody coming up it

toward the subway. And if he ever saw one, his corpse-to-be was a

methodical little piece of humanity. He would come and go to the subway

by the same route.

* * * * *

Wilson Lamb was correct as he had never doubted. But it was 11:07 by his

wrist watch before Engel emerged. The gray hat just as squarely set on

his head as before, without a glance around, Engel came out of the hotel

and turned his steps dutifully in the direction of the subway. Lamb was

strolling on the other side of the street at the moment. On sight of

him, he turned up the front stairs of a brownstone. But a few seconds

later, his long legs were carrying him rapidly toward Broadway. By

hustling, he got to the other side of it, entered the subway on the

uptown side, crossed underneath and was waiting in the by-pass when

Engel came along. Engel trotted up to the downtown express platform.

When the next train pulled out, Lamb was in the vestibule, half a

car-length away from him.

Taking the trouble to keep at a distance, to make himself inconspicuous,

seemed almost wasted effort. Louis the Goon went along, looking neither

to right nor left, docilely intent on minding his own business.

"Efficiency expert," Lamb said to himself. "Bet he's a cracker-jack at

cutting down on the overhead."

It was like playing a game of cat-and-mouse with him, Wilson Lamb, the

cat. Only in this instance, the mouse seemed as good as blind.

Lamb could have given it to him any time, a slug in the back that would

terminate his little life the way you would step on a cockroach. On

second thought, he would not give it to him in the back. It would be the

front so he could see the stricken stupid look of surprise. He'd

probably try to get his foolish little briefcase in front of him like a

shield. Lamb could just see it. Hear his squeal of futile protest, too.

Yes, he could give it to him whenever he chose. Just walk up to him and

squeeze the trigger and savor omnipotence for a moment. Very simple. At

his leisure. But Wilson Lamb wasn't going to do it that way. That would

have been like a blind stab, in the dark, meaningless, impersonal. Like

taking a hack at a piece of meat. Or tossing a bomb into a crowd.

Instead, he wanted to know something about his specimen before he

exterminated him. Understand his background. Get a fair picture of the

little sphere of the life from which he was all unknowingly about to

depart.

Lamb didn't figure it to take long in the case of Louis the Goon. What

Engel was was pretty patent. A typical little taxpayer, careful to keep

his nose clean, asking only to be permitted to tread his narrow path

unmolested. Undoubtedly the type who got sick to his stomach at the

sight of blood even though it might be no more than a nose-bleed.

At 42nd Street, Louis the Goon got off and trundled over to the shuttle.

He passed through the Grand Central Station, stopping off to buy a

package of Camels en route. The cigar store had a counter display of a

bargain buy of razor blades combined with some unknown brand of shaving

cream. Engel hovered over it like a bargain-hunting housewife. The clerk

put on his spiel. Engel bought, got stuck for a bottle of after-shave

lotion too.

Lamb saw it all from over by the counter of the baggage-checking room.

"'A penny saved is a penny earned,'" he paraphrased for him.

They cut through the Graybar Building to come out on Lexington. Engel

proceeded north a few blocks, turned into one of the commercial hotels

noted for its name band. Halfway across the lobby, a tall swarthy man

with one of those deadpan faces rose to greet him. They shook hands.

"You're right on the dot," the tall man said.

Engel's pursed mouth lengthened in a flattered smile. "I always make it

a point to be punctual," Lamb dawdling in the background, overheard him

say.

Then they headed for the elevator bank. The tall one shot two glances

backward as they did so Lamb couldn't make it too obvious. When he

rounded the corner of the ell where the elevators were, they were gone.

Lamb went back into the main lobby and ensconced himself behind a

morning paper. Midway down the page was more about the threatened strife

in the numbers racket. It didn't interest Lamb in the slightest.

Engel probably had gone upstairs to try and peddle one of his efficiency

schemes to some big shot. The guy he'd met in the lobby was a

go-between, doubtlessly. Lamb wondered whether Louis the Goon would get

up the nerve to hit his boss for that raise today, as Ede had demanded.

Lamb almost lost him. Half an hour later. Louis the Goon came down and

scooted out the side entrance in a hurry. When Lamb got out there, his

man was already in a cab, shooting away. There was something wrong about

the conservative, penny-saving Engel taking a taxi. Wilson Lamb did not

realize it at the time.

They went westward across town. Over near Sixth, Lamb's driver lost the

other cab. Lamb was cursing when he spotted Engel on the sidewalk,

coming back across town. That was strange because he could have sworn

Engel's cab had not stopped. Must have gotten it mixed up with another.

Out, he threaded his way recklessly through a welter of vehicles and

picked up the tail as his man entered an office building.

It was fairly crowded in that foyer and it was simple to step onto the

elevator right at Louis the Goon Engel's back, then wheel behind him out

of sight as he turned. Engel called "Fourteen" and got out there,

briefcase tightly clutched up under his arm, its flap unbuckled.

* * * * *

"Going in to high-pressure somebody on a sale," Lamb figured.

Another passenger had called fifteenth, the next floor. Lamb got out

there, found the built-in fire escape, and got down to fourteen. This

was a little foolish, he realized. There was no way of finding what

office Louis the Goon had visited. Still, he might see him when he came

out. Maybe he had gone to see the boss about that raise Ede was

demanding. Maybe he'd come out bouncing on his tail-feathers. It was fun

following and watching Louis the Goon. Like watching an ant on a

sidewalk flagstone puttering about its puny business, knowing you were

going to stamp out its life when it so pleased you.

Lamb was just lighting a cigaret, gazing down the hallway of the

fourteenth floor, when the muffled report came up the staircase. It

didn't seem possible, a gun seemed so out of place in such

surroundings.... Then there were two more shots, a scream intermixed.

The shattering of plate glass. Lamb was down the stairs and pulling open

the firedoor onto the floor below. Immediately he sniffed the acrid

fumes of gunpowder.

He was looking out onto an ell of that floor. Onto a tableau of

violence. There was just a single office suite on that ell, directly

opposite him. On one of its double doors was lettered "Continental

Exhibition Corp." The frosted glass of the other door was almost

completely broken out, leaving a jagged-fringed aperture through which

to view the scene within.

Wilson Lamb flattered himself on being pretty cool headed under all

circumstances. But he blinked three times rapidly now. Inside the

Continental Exhibition Corporation one man was slumped over a desk, an

automatic half-gripped in his inert hand. He was very dead. Half his

head was shot off. Another man was sprawled on the gray broadloom of the

reception room, a brownish puddle beneath his side. He wasn't going to

be going any place in a hurry, either.

Even as Lamb stared at the carnage, a third figure appeared, wobbling

drunkenly from an inner office. He came stooped over, holding his side.

Crimson-speckled froth at his lips. He got to the shattered glass panel

and moved the lips at Wilson Lamb.

"Tell 'em--the police--it was--was Whisper Ross from--from Chi--" He

coughed twice on the "Chicago," then caved in on himself and went flat

in the hallway.

Lamb saw an ashen-face bespectacled man peering around the corner of an

ell. From further back, through an open doorway, a girl's voice was

shrieking for the police over the phone. Lamb remembered the fact that

he had a gun on his person. It might be extremely embarrassing if the

police picked him up for questioning. Ducking back through the firedoor,

he ran quickly up to the sixteenth floor, up past the fifteenth. Nothing

had been heard up there yet. He caught a down car and got out just as

the first prowl car came sirening its way into the side street curb.

Afterward, outside the police cordon thrown around the building,

somebody jostled against him, peered under his hat brim. Later, Lamb

recalled the bluish scar crescent on his left cheek.

"Hey, aren't you Reynolds of the Dispatch, pal?"

"Nope," Lamb said.

"You're a reporter with one of the local sheets, aren't you?" the other

persisted. "I know I've seen you around before."

"You must have been wearing your other glasses, Bud," Lamb said and

turned away.

Maybe it was the effect of seeing the handiwork of that other unknown

killer. For the police had nabbed nobody yet in that mid-town mid-day

shooting. Anyway, Lamb had the itch to strike. It was like a thirst

building in a guy. You've seen somebody else dip into a tall cool one

and after a while you feel like you got to have one yourself. Those

three dead men on the thirteenth floor of that office building had acted

like an aphrodisiac on Wilson Lamb. He wanted to get him his corpse. But

soon.

He knew it when he picked up his victim again. It was almost 4 P.M.,

shreds of snow drifting down through New York's early darkness. He was

hanging around by the cab stand above 96th on the west side of Broadway,

waiting hopefully. He had got so that he felt a little lonely when he

didn't have Louis the Goon right handy. He felt on familiar terms with

the guy. Of course, Louis the Goon didn't know him. And when he

introduced himself, Louis was going to get one hell of a big surprise.

Like a kick in the teeth only a lot more permanent.

One of the hackies turned up his radio. A news commentator was on. He

came to the topic of the mid-town shooting. Three dead, gunned in the

office of the Continental Exhibition Corporation. Lamb edged over

nearer. The Continental outfit, the announcer said, was the business

front of one Big John Girra, well known local racketeer. Girra was a

powerful figure in the metropolitan pin-ball game syndicate and had a

piece of the number policy racket too.

"Police, promising an arrest within twenty-four hours, claim the triple

killing a step in the fight for control of the numbers game business in

this city. They are still seeking the missing Joe The Flasher Abadirro,

also reputed to have boasted he would take over the numbers game. Two of

the slain men have been identified as close associates of Big John

Girra. A building employee stated earlier today that Girra left the

premises less than five minutes before the killing. A prominent police

official who refused to be quoted asserted the killer was a Chicago

torpedo imported for the job, a killer who would not be recognized by

members of the New York mobs. 'We are closing in on him at this very

instant,' the official concluded."

* * * * *

The news broadcaster went on to another item of the day's reports. Lamb

turned around. And there was Louis the Goon Engel, not four feet away.

En route home from the subway, he had paused to listen to the report

too. He stood now with a calculating look, almost as if he were checking

the verity of the report. Lamb wanted to laugh in his face.

"If you'd seen those three carcasses leaking blood all over the place,

you'd probably have swooned in your britches, my little dope," Lamb

addressed him mentally. And the funny part was that the little dope had

been so close to it. Just a floor away, in fact.

As he followed him on uptown, down his side-street, Lamb had a curious

sense of elation. He was in on the ground-floor of Death, Inc. Even

before voting at a stock-holders' meeting himself. For he knew who had

triggered those three today, who the Chi torpedo the cops wanted was.

One Whisper Ross. Of course, he might have tipped off the police say, by

a phone call. But he wasn't going to.

"We killers must stick together." The thought tickled his sense of

humor.

They were almost at Louis the Goon's roost when Lamb saw how he was

going to do it. A boy with a carton of groceries almost ran down Louis,

then ducked down into the delivery entrance of the apartment-hotel. And

Wilson Lamb had his cue.

Some ten minutes later, after due investigation, he knew how he was

going to put Louis the Goon on the spot. And how he was going to get

away with it, get clear afterward. The taking of life was the important

thing, the major premise. Whether he was caught or not had never seemed

important before. But after reviewing the handiwork of Whisper Ross--who

had ambled off unimpeded--Lamb saw no reason why he should not do the

same. It would be the nth degree in the epitomization of the ego to kill

and get away with it.

The building's delivery entrance was a perfect avenue of escape.

Actually it did not enter the hotel at first. Down a few steps and then

it ran rearward between the side of the building and the retaining wall

next door, an open-topped alleyway. The delivery doorway was in the

rear. A few feet further on was the backyard laid out in a garden with a

waterless age-browned concrete fountain in the center. A low concrete

wall separated it from the property that backed onto it. And there was

the payoff.

Ambling casually through in the darkness, Lamb had discovered that the

property in the rear, facing on the next street downtown, was several

feet lower. It would be simple to drop over the wall to its paved

courtyard. And from that ran a concrete passage beside the apartment

house out to the street one block below.

Emerging on it, Lamb lit a cigaret and went back around the block to

Engel's place. He appraised it like a surveyor. First off, it was one of

those second-rate places that boasted no doorman. Across the street were

those brownstones for a nice dim background. The nearest street lamp was

down about ten feet from the entrance of Engel's place. Engel would come

walking along primly, right into its light. A man crossing the street

from the brownstones, a little behind Engel, calling out, "Hey, Mr.

Engel," and--

It was a very nice set-up. The property line of the building where Engel

lived was set back several feet further than that of the old-fashioned

private homes between it and Broadway. They would serve as a screen for

his movements from one direction when he hit into that delivery alleyway

after fixing Louis the Goon's wagon once and for all, Lamb realized. It

was almost ridiculously simple.

Why he could almost have chalked an "X" right there and then on the

sidewalk where little Louis would lie down and forget it all. Wilson

Lamb hummed as he headed up toward Broadway and decided to have dinner.

He had a swell appetite. He was humming snatches from something. Minor

key, descending scale. It went "Come to Papa, come to Papa, come to

Papa." He didn't know whether it was from a song or a crap game. Anyway,

the dice were sure loaded against a certain party he knew.

Down the block, a taxi that had been parked with meter ticking across

from Engel's apartment-hotel drew away slowly.

He went to the movies with Louis the Goon that evening. Louis didn't

know anything about it and Lamb bought his own ticket. That too had been

extremely simple. After dinner, he had phoned Engel. When Louis himself

answered, Lamb had asked for Toots. Louis said they had no Toots there

and Lamb said he was very sorry, that he must have got the wrong number.

And Louis said that was all right, no harm done. And Lamb said he was

sorry he had disturbed him and Louis said to think nothing of it, no

trouble at all. And Lamb said a four-letter word after he had hung up

and laughed out loud in the phone booth.

Then he hung around and saw Louis come out after dinner. Ede was with

him this time. Ede was the type after which some department store

advertising-department diplomat had coined the term "stylish stout." Ede

toddled and she was pretty hefty. If there was a family argument, Lamb

would have laid two to one she would have come home in front by a t.k.o.

before the fifth round.

* * * * *

They went into the movies on the north-west corner of 96th. The closest

Lamb could get was some three rows back. He was disappointed because he

could not watch Engel's face. It was a double feature. _Pampas Nights_

was one of those alleged South American musicals whipped up by a couple

of submorons with the intent purpose of sabotaging the Good Neighbor

policy. The other picture was some ghoulish thing about a mad surgeon,

described in the script as an "ego-maniac," who had a pleasant pastime

of revivifying electrocuted felons. That one gave Lamb a pain in the

pants too. He had really made a study of ego-maniacs.

He got out in the foyer right behind the Engels. He heard Ede say she

thought the one about that "nutty doc" was so thrilling. Louis the Goon

did not agree. He liked those musicals.

"They take my mind off business," he said.

Lamb left them and went in and had a drink. He had two drinks. Now that

everything was settled, he felt no impatience. It was all lined up right

down to the final curtain. Louis' final curtain. Lamb had already

decided he would give it to him as he came plodding his smug little way

home some evening. Any evening. Maybe tomorrow evening. Now that the

details were ironed out, it was fun to leave the closing date open. He

could play the fly-on-the-wall in Louis the Goon's life as long as he

wanted. And when he got bored with Louis's act--bop! he would deliver

his compact little package to Louis....

He started to get bored fast the next day. He rode downtown with Louis

and they went over to that same East side hotel and Louis went upstairs.

He was gone a long time. Lamb said to himself, "That dope goes around in

a rut and I'll get in one too just following him and then I will get

sore." Eventually Louis the Goon came back down into the lobby. The

tall, swarthy man he had met there the day before was with him.

"Well, I guess there'll be nothing doing today," Louis the Goon said.

"Nope, nothing," the other said.

They parted. Louis went down to the telephones, used one after

consulting a little black book. When he came out, he bought a white

carnation for his button-hole in the florist shop, then treated himself

to three twenty-five-center Perfectos.

"Something builds," Lamb told himself. Outside, when Louis the Goon got

a taxi, there was something positively cocky about him. Lamb was humming

his "Come to Papa" again as he took another and trailed him eastward

this time. Louis got out at a Third Avenue bar and grill and went in.

Lamb gave him five minutes and strayed in himself. There was no Louis.

Not at first, anyway. Lamb could feel his pulse beat faster.

Then he spotted the dim backroom with the booths. And he went through it

to the Men's Room. And there was Louis the Goon--his little clay

pigeon--in one of the booths with a doll. She was red-haired by courtesy

of the local beauty parlor, cuddling up in a flashy little leopard fur

number. She looked like a dance-hall hostess from one of those joints

where everything goes so long as you keep time to the music.

As Lamb passed, she was saying, "Now, Daddy--" That almost unbuttoned

Lamb. Daddy! On his way back, he noticed there were two others in the

backroom, a couple of men gnawing on pretzels over beers.

He stepped back into the bar just in time. Three men had entered. They

headed straight for the rear. One of them shouldered Wilson Lamb from

his path as if he did not see him. The second one pulled out a cannon

and poked it at the bartender and told him to keep his britches on. Then

the other two were in the rear and letting go with their cannon.

Slammed over against the bar, Lamb had a split-second glimpse of it. For

a moment, it almost seemed as if the damn fools were out after Engel.

One shot smashed the table lamp in the booth where he sat. Then the two

beer drinkers back in there were around and swapping it out with cannon

of their own with the newcomers.

Lamb got out of there fast. He got across the street. He saw two men

dash out of a side entrance and into a dark sedan that roared away. He

did not see Louis the Goon get out. Then the howling prowl cars

converged on the scene. And there was an ambulance. It took one guy

away. Another guy, it didn't. Lamb worked his way up into the throng and

got a glimpse of the other guy getting stiff on the backroom floor.

Everybody else was lined up in the bar for questioning. Engel was not

among them. So Lamb knew he must have gotten away all right.

"This is some more of that numbers racket war," a gray-haired sergeant

said. And then Lamb began to taste something like panic even as the

first neon signs began to smear the wintry shadows. He got afraid he

might lose his little clay pigeon. Louis the Goon seemed to have a

blind genius for getting on the scene when some blood-letting was due.

He felt a certain possessiveness toward Louis. Louis belonged to him.

And he wasn't going to have him chopped down by any piece of stray lead.

Lamb had a bullet ear-marked for Louis.

* * * * *

He said, "I've been wasting time." He got on the shuttle and over to the

West side and up to 96th and across the street from where Louis lived.

Well, where Louis used to live, anyway. He was there just twenty

minutes--it was 4:43 by his wristwatch--when Louis the Goon came down

from the corner. He couldn't make out his face at first but he knew him

by that square-set hat. Lamb eased away from the stairs of the

brownstone, humming "Come to Papa, come to Papa, come to Papa...." This

was it.

The ultimate in the demonstration or the ego.... He told himself that as

he moved over the scabrous snow of the street.... The zenith in the

projection of the psyche.... Louis the Goon had his briefcase clutched

up under one arm instead of swinging.... The final triumph over the fear

trauma.... Louis was abreast of him, then passing by. Wilson Lamb

brought the automatic out from under his coat. He called, "Mr. Engel--"

And Louis the Goon turned and Lamb held it, wanting him to get a good

look at the heater, wanting to get a good look at him as he saw it.

Engel had the briefcase open, unbuckled. He was bringing something out

of it swiftly, jerkily. It was a heater too. That wasn't in the script.

Louis the Goon was stepping out of role. But Lamb knew he had him anyway

and started to squeeze. He would squeeze three times on that trigger

and--

Somebody else squeezed first. It was the man running from that parked

car down the street. Lamb got it in the side and then a red-hot finger

was probing down into his guts. A man stepped from the vestibule of one

of those brownstones and he squeezed and Wilson Lamb couldn't feel the

side of his head any more. Knew he would never feel it again. He was

down on one hand and one knee and his gun was gone. Some place in the

black haze seething around him. Like a hurt animal, half crawling,

knowing only the base instinct of self preservation, he tried for that

delivery alleyway.

Somebody else had figured that was a good spot too. It was the man with

the bluish cheek scar who had accosted him after the triple-killing in

that office building. He squeezed. And Lamb took that one square on the

chest. In a vague way, as the sidewalk slid up at him, he was aware of

that car back-firing away like hell.

The man with the blue scar was standing over him, throwing words to

Louis the Goon in a quick, harsh whisper. "This is the one, Whisper. He

come in here with you Wednesday. He was on the spot when you give it to

them boys in Girra's office, yesterday. Today, he was in that bar when

they tried to get you. The Flasher said to stick close to you--an' him."

"Girra's finger man, eh?" called back Engel softly.

"Yeah, Whisper." The blue-scarred man ran. In a moment, a car roared off

down the block toward West End Avenue.

Lying there on the sidewalk, blasted for keeps, his wagon fixed, Wilson

Lamb tried to put it together. Things moved very slowly for him.

Whisper. Whisper Ross, Chi torpedo. Then he had it. Whisper Ross was

Louis the Goon Engel. Hired killer of Joe The Flasher Abadirro. The guy

he, Wilson Lamb, had fingered for an exposition of his ego.

Down the sidewalk, little Mr. Louis Engel, alias Whisper Ross, stood

looking at the body and going "Tsk! Tsk!" through pursed lips. Wilson

Lamb's ego died a horrible death seventeen seconds before he did.

ONE HUNDRED BUCKS PER STIFF

by J. LLOYD CONRICH

Mr. Peck was dead ... the papers said so. Yet Mr. Peck performed

his own autopsy and saved eight men from death!]

[Illustration]

"There's a guy outside wants to see you, Chief," Charlie Ward's assistant

announced through the door.

"What's he want, Joe?"

"I don't know. Says his business is confidential and urgent. Wouldn't

say what. Looks harmless though, in spite of he drove up in a Rolls

Royce with a chauffeur."

"Well, send him in."

Ward busied himself with a sheaf of morning mail and miscellaneous

police circulars. Presently a small, immaculate looking individual with

an apologetic, breathless air entered the room and approached the desk

timidly. Silently, without even so much as a nod, he laid a newspaper

clipping before the Chief of Police. Adjusting his glasses, Ward reached

for the item and glanced through it hastily:

MAN KILLED AT EL GATOS GRADE CROSSING

El Gatos, November 1. The decapitated body of a man tentatively

identified as J. Peter Peck, address unknown, was discovered by a

company track walker early this morning on the South West Pacific

grade crossing half a mile south of the town of El Gatos. Local

police believe that the man was killed some time after midnight,

possibly by the San Francisco milk train. Identification was

established by a wallet containing papers of the deceased.

Ward laid the clipping on his desk, rolled a bulbous wad of chewing

tobacco into one cheek and expelled it into a spitoon some ten feet away

with a resounding plunk. Wiping his chin inexpertly with the back of a

grizzled hand, he looked up and eyed his visitor interrogatively.

"I clipped it from last night's _San Francisco Bulletin_," the latter

explained quietly. "I drove practically all night so as to be here this

morning."

"You're a relative?"

The stranger smiled weakly and placed a pair of painfully thin hands on

the desk as though to steady himself.

"Well, no, not exactly; that is, somewhat," he answered obscurely.

Charlie Ward eyed the little man curiously. "Come again, please?"

"Well, it's this way," slipping nervously to the very edge of a

convenient chair. "There appears to have been a slight error made. The

clipping is somewhat inaccurate."

"Sure. Half the stuff you see in the papers these days is cockeyed. Them

guys never get anything straight. I always tell my wife you gotta

believe only ten per cent of what you read and doubt that."

The stranger smiled thinly. "Precisely. Now the real truth of the matter

in this particular case is that _I_ happen to be J. Peter Peck and, to

the best of my knowledge, I'm not dead. In fact I'd take issue with

anyone who questioned the fact. I therefore feel that the report has

been exaggerated; just a tiny bit, at least." He paused for breath. "I

thought you'd like to know."

Ward arched his brows and smiled calmly. As a veteran police officer, he

was used to surprises. "Well, now that's one for the book, ain't it?"

"Rather."

"So, if you're the guy that's supposed to be downstairs on ice," Ward

supplemented, fumbling in a drawer of his desk, "how come we find this

here wallet with your name all over the papers inside on him?"

Mr. Peck glanced at the wallet.

"Very easily explained," he answered. "I was held up last Monday evening

in San Francisco. The wallet and the papers it contains were among the

things taken from me. Incidentally, there were several thousands of

dollars in the wallet when I last saw it."

Ward whistled softly. "How much?"

"About twenty-four hundred dollars."

"That's a lot of dollars."

"It would keep a man in cigars for a day or two."

"And this guy, after he stuck you up," Ward reasoned, "left Frisco and

come North where he had the bad luck to meet with an accident."

"Precisely."

"What'd he look like?"

"There were two of them. One had red hair and his left ear was missing.

The other was short; about my size, I would say; rather thin, with a

small, black, straggly mustache and swarthy skin. I should judge he were

either an Italian or possibly a Spaniard."

"The second one fits the guy on ice. Want to take a squint at him?"

Mr. Peck jumped to his feet.

"I'd be delighted," he said with what sounded to Charlie Ward like

unwarranted glee.

Ward picked up a flask of corn whiskey and slipped it into his hip

pocket.

"I warn you," he cautioned as he rose, "this guy's pretty much worked

over in spots. A train went through him you know. Some people get goose

pimples looking at them kind of things."

"I'll risk it."

* * * * *

The pair left the office and descended a flight of steps. At the end of

a dark corridor, Ward led the way into a basement room. Upon one of two

marble slabs in the center of the room, lay a sheeted corpse. Ward

pulled the shroud back, revealing a horribly mangled body. Mr. Peck

leaned over the corpse, revealing none of the repulsion that Ward was

sure he would exhibit.

"Yes, that's unquestionably one of the men who held me up," the little

man said quietly. "I'd know that face anywhere, what there is left of

it. Er--seems to be quite dead, doesn't he?" he added wryly.

"Quite," Ward mimicked, wondering at the same time what strange complex

could cause a man of Mr. Peck's evident refinement and good breeding to

jest under such circumstances.

The little man leaned over the corpse again.

"Odd marks on his face, aren't they?" he observed.

"Huh?" Ward seemed startled.

"I said those were odd marks on his face," Mr. Peck repeated.

Ward's face clouded and he stepped closer to Mr. Peck.

"It's funny you should notice them red blotches, Mr. Peck," he said. "I

been kind of wondering about them myself."

The two men eyed one another for a moment of tense silence, and marked

suspicion.

"Why?" Mr. Peck asked abruptly.

Ward scanned the little man's face with an air of uncertainty.

"Er--do them marks mean anything to you?" he finally asked, his voice

tinged with caution.

Mr. Peck made no immediate answer, but turned and leaned closer to the

corpse, examining the faint red blotches on the cheeks with more care

than he had at first taken.

"To the casual observer, that is, to the layman," he said, removing his

glasses and facing Ward, "it might appear that the deceased was

suffering from a mild case of measles"--he paused, glanced at the corpse

again, then turned once more to Ward--"but to the trained eye, I would

say that this man has received a shot of xetholine caniopus into his

system."

"A shot of what?"

"The name means little. Xetholine caniopus is a drug; not rare, not

common, but violently poisonous. Contact, even to the lips or to a

flesh abrasion will bring about practically instantaneous paralysis of

the cardia." The little man blinked. "Er--the heart, I refer to.

Xetholine invariably leaves its mark, as you perceive, in the form of

faint red blotches on the cheeks." He thumbed in the direction of the

corpse. "Putting the diagnosis into simpler words, this man has been

poisoned. He died from the effects of the poison as is indicated by the

slight carmine tinge to the blood. The effect of this poison on the

blood stream is similar to that caused by asphyxiation by coal gas or a

similar substance, only not quite so brilliantly red. If this man had

died as a direct result of injuries received by the train passing over

his body, the blood would be darker, almost purple. Offhand, I would say

that the train passed over his body some several hours after his death.

Depending upon the determination as to whether the poison was self

administered or otherwise, will settle the question as to whether you

have a suicide or a murder case on your hands."

Ward stared into the little man's eyes in astonishment.

"Say," he interrupted, "who are you, anyhow?"

Mr. Peck smiled benevolently.

"My name," he explained, "you already know. I happen to be deeply

interested in criminology. It's been an avocation of mine for many

years. My specialty is toxicology. I...."

"Tox--tox...?"

"Toxicology; the study of poisons. The circumstances of this particular

case are unusually close to home and I feel a personal interest." He

paused and peered into Ward's face hesitantly and then added in a voice

that half pleaded and half apologized--"I--could I--would you allow me

to--er--work with you in this matter, Mr. Ward? I'd expect no pay, of

course," he hastened to add, "and I can assure you that my efforts will

be sincere and my intentions entirely honorable. My only interest is in

clearing up the matter, or at least attempting to do so, for

the--well--the fun of doing it."

"Some fun, all right," Ward observed wryly. "But, at that price, the

County can't lose much. You're hired."

"That's fine," Mr. Peck enthused, his eyes shining brilliantly. He

rubbed his palms together briskly. "I can't tell you how deeply grateful

I really am."

"Okay, Mr. Peck," with a shade of doubt. "It's your funeral. The paper

says so."

"Now first, I must make a test to satisfy myself that xetholine caniopus

was the actual cause of death. There are a few things I'll need; a

glass, an ordinary water glass will do, a small quantity of commercial

alcohol and a bit of lime water. My chauffeur will get the latter two,

if you'll supply the glass. Please notify him."

Ward hesitated, as though doubtful about leaving this unusual person

alone in the morgue, but finally assented.

A few minutes later he reappeared with the glass, followed almost

directly by the chauffeur with the alcohol and lime water.

"Thank you, Christian," Mr. Peck said in the chauffeur's direction. "You

may wait in the car."

* * * * *

Ward's eyes followed the chauffeur as he left the room.

"He's a big guy all right," he observed, thumbing toward the vanishing

driver. "Sure must have et his mush every morning when he was a little

boy. Looks like he's about six foot six."

"Six, six and one-eighth in his stocking feet, to be exact," Mr. Peck

corrected. "Before meals he weighs two eighty-eight; after meals two

ninety-eight."

"Wouldn't want to run into him on a dark night."

"Hardly," Mr. Peck agreed. "When he first came to me, he applied for the

position which he now holds under the name of Mike Dennis and explained

that he generally answered to the intimate and thoroughly quaint

cognomen of 'Butch.' But I changed that to Christian. Of course 'Butch'

is more in keeping, but I do believe that Christian adds to his dignity

in spite of his ears. Don't you think so?" Ward grunted vaguely. "I have

it on good authority that he put Mr. Dempsey to sleep one evening about

fifteen years ago in an amateur boxing meet." Mr. Peck's eyes sparkled

as he glanced up from his work for a moment. "Unfortunately, I happen to

be worth several million dollars. There have been two attempts to abduct

me. Christian makes an excellent body guard as well as chauffeur. Not

much intellect, but most conscientious and as faithful as an old watch

dog. I've had him with me twenty-two months now and to date he's uttered

not more than twenty-two words; except, of course, when I speak with

him. A handy person to have about; most handy."

By now Mr. Peck had sterilized the glass with the alcohol and was

prepared to make his test.

"In the glass," he explained, holding the object toward the light, "I

have poured some lime water. By blowing one's breath into the liquid,

through a common cigarette holder, the lime water becomes a milky white;

thusly," and he suited the action to the word. "The balance of the test

is quite simple. Several drops of the deceased's coagulated blood are

now added to the water. As you see, there is no change. In a moment, I

will add a little alcohol. If the lime water clears and becomes

colorless again, and shows indication of a volatile oil on the surface,

you may rest assured that xetholine caniopus exists in the blood stream.

Although the test is simple, the chemical reaction is rather involved,

being a combination and then a dissemination of structural heraetixae

and third power phincus. I shall not, therefore, bother you with its

details. Suffice to say, the test is infallible and conclusive."

Ward scratched his head in hopeless perplexity and stared in mild

anticipation mingled with a great deal of skepticism as Mr. Peck poured

a small quantity of alcohol into the glass. Immediately, the liquid

became pure and colorless and the surface indicated a distinctly oily

film.

"All of which bears me out," Mr. Peck said quietly, placing the glass on

the table. "This man has been poisoned. Our next step is to determine

whether the poison was self administered or otherwise. We...."

"Just a minute, Mr. Peck," Ward interrupted, raising his hand. "There's

a couple of things here I ought to explain." Ward floundered for a

moment of hesitancy. "You see, it's this way. For about twenty years,

now, about twelve people a year have died in this here town; one a

month; that's the average."

"Yes; yes?" Mr. Peck interjected interestedly.

"But in the last month, eleven people have turned in their rain checks.

This guy's the twelfth."

"Which more or less upsets the law of averages."

"That's just what I'm getting at. But what's worse, is that ten out of

these twelve met with deaths from accidents of one kind or another."

"Just how do you mean?"

"Well, this guy, for instance," motioning toward the slab, "was bumped

by a train. The rest met with other accidents ranging all the way from

hit and run, down the line to falling off hay lofts and being kicked in

the head by a mule. Nobody seen any of the accidents, but the evidence

was such that you couldn't help see what happened. For instance, the guy

that was kicked by a mule, he had a hoof mark on his head and his mule

had a bloody hoof. The hit-run guy, we found in the middle of the high

way."

"Coincidence. Accidents almost invariably occur in threes or fours."

"Sure; threes and fours, but not tens and twelves. But there's something

else."

"... yes?"

* * * * *

Charlie Ward moved a little closer and glanced behind him as he spoke.

"Of the ten who met with accidents," he said, "nine had these red marks

on their cheeks."

"Excellent! Gorgeous!" Mr. Peck enthused through grinning lips. "A

multiple murder! Nothing could be clearer or more fortunate!"

"Well, you may be tickled, Mr. Peck, but I ain't. Several of the victims

were close friends of mine."

Mr. Peck's attitude changed at once.

"I'm deeply sorry, Mr. Ward," he apologized. "My enthusiasm carried me

away for the moment. Please proceed."

Ward nodded and went on. "At first I didn't think very much about these

blotches, but when this guy was brought in this morning, I began to get

kind of nervous. As a matter of fact, I was just going to phone Frisco

for help when you come in."

Mr. Peck nodded and smacked his lips thoughtfully. He removed his

glasses and wiped them slowly and carefully, polishing each lens with

meticulous care.

"You of course have a coroner or medical examiner of some kind," he

finally said.

"Oh, sure. Old Doc Kraus handles the cases for the whole county when

they come up. There ain't enough to keep him on full time, but we send

for him whenever we need him. He makes the examination and runs the

inquest."

"What did he think about the red blotches on the faces of the nine

corpses?"

"Nothing. To tell you the truth I never thought enough about them to

bring it up.

"And he's never mentioned it to you."

"No."

"I can't possibly conceive of anyone missing them."

"The Doc's getting pretty old," Ward explained. "He don't see so good.

We been trying to get a younger saw-bones for a long time, but nobody

had the guts to tell him he was fired, I guess. He was born here; lived

here for seventy-two years. He's a nice enough old guy. Matter of fact,

everybody sort of looks up to him as the town granddad. He's a kindly

old duffer; always doing things for folks and going out of his way to

help a neighbor and things like that. I'll send for him and ask him if

he noticed the marks and what he thinks about them."

"No, I'd prefer it if you didn't. For the present, let's work quietly.

As far as I'm concerned, everybody's under suspicion and any word

getting out that we're working on the case might spoil things."

"Old Doc Kraus under suspicion!" Ward scoffed with a loud guffaw. "Say,

that's rich. Why, I'd trust him ahead of my own Dad and that's saying a

lot. Why he brought me into this world forty-two years ago. Used to

spank me when I was a kid and needed one. Why...."

"I did not say I suspected Doctor Kraus," Mr. Peck interrupted. "I

merely inferred that everybody was under suspicion until we begin to

find something definite to go on. The reasons, I believe, are obvious."

"I get you Mr. Peck."

"Now then, the inquest has been performed in this last case?"

"Yes; early this morning; just before you got here. They handed down a

verdict of accidental death."

"Have you made any attempts to identity the corpse?"

"Certainly. We figured it was you on account of the papers. We been

trying to trace you through the Frisco police. So far no information has

come in."

"That's quite possible. I lead a very quiet life; live at a bachelor

club and am not listed either in the phone book or the City Directory."

"I sent finger prints to the Frisco Police. If this guy's got a record,

we'll know who he is pretty quick."

"That's fine."

Mr. Peck stood for a moment with a thoughtful finger to his lips.

"I think we'll visit the spot where the body was discovered," he decided

abruptly. "We can go in my car."

* * * * *

Ten minutes later, J. Peter Peck, accompanied by Charlie Ward and

followed by Christian, stepped from the machine at a point opposite the

spot where the body had been found.

"A machine has stopped here at the side of the road quite recently," Mr.

Peck offered, pointing to the tire marks in the dust. "The occupant, as

is indicated by those very clear foot prints, stepped from the car,

crossed the ditch and walked to the railroad tracks. He was a heavy man,

at that, or at least he has big feet. And they turn out more than the

feet of the average person."

Charlie Ward nodded agreement.

"Now if you'll look closely," Mr. Peck went on, "you will observe that

there are two sets of foot prints; one coming and one going. The return

prints, significantly, are not as clear as those that go to the tracks,

indicating that he was carrying a load to the tracks, but did not return

with it." He glanced at Ward for a moment, then added, "It is pretty

obvious what that load was. All of which gives us practically undeniable

proof that a murder was committed. The deceased died of poison. We have

definitely established that point. And his body was placed upon the

tracks to conceal the fact; or to attempt to do so. If the deceased had

walked to the tracks himself, which of course he didn't because these

are not his foot prints, there obviously would be no return prints. Dead

men, especially decapitated dead men, seldom, if ever, retrace their

steps." He paused for a moment of conjecture. "We'll take plaster casts

of the foot prints as well as the tire marks. Will you attend to that

Christian? I believe you'll find sufficient plaster of Paris in the tool

compartment."

Christian set to work and Mr. Peck and Ward retreated to the machine.

When Christian had completed his work, the trio returned to

headquarters, Mr. Peck leaving again to "do a little thinking."

Two hours later, Mr. Peck entered Charlie Ward's office again and eased

himself into a chair.

"I have an idea," he informed Ward, "that the apprehension of the

murderer is but a matter of moments. As a matter of fact, I can put my

finger on him in ten minutes should I care to."

"You can put your finger on him right this minute if you want to," Ward

supplemented, taking his feet off the desk and flipping a cigarette butt

through the window.

"How so?"

Ward unlocked a drawer in his desk and drew out a tin box from which he

produced a thickly padded envelope.

"I been doing a little scientific snooping myself," he announced with a

proud ear to ear grin.

"That's extremely gratifying."

Ward thumbed toward a cigar butt in an ash tray.

"That," he said, "is what's left of a cigar you give me this morning. It

gives off a pretty thick aroma."

"It ought to. They cost me a dollar each."

"Just take a whiff of this," Ward said, handing the envelope to Mr.

Peck.

The latter smelled cautiously. "Why, it smells like my cigars."

"Exactly. Now take a squint in the envelope."

Mr. Peck opened the envelope and extracted a sheaf of currency.

"There's about twenty-four grand there," Ward offered.

"All of which is mine. It's the money that was taken from me when I was

held up. I had the wallet and several of the cigars in the same pocket.

The currency evidently became impregnated with the odor of the cigars.

Where did you get it?"

Ward shuffled leisurely through some papers, finally producing a

telegram.

"This wire," he said, flourishing the message with an extravagant

gesture, "come in from the Frisco police while you were out. It says the

guy downstairs on ice is Dominic Diaz. He was a guest at San Quentin up

to four days ago where he was serving ten to fifty years for some

mistakes he made when he was younger." Mr. Peck nodded interestedly. "It

also says that when he so rudely walked off the premises without

stopping to say goodbye, he was with a red headed monkey, minus one ear,

that answers to the name of Mike McSweeney."

"I see."

"Mr. McSweeney had the bad taste to try to stick up our local drug

emporium about half an hour ago."

"And he is now incarcerated in your bastille."

"Right. And he had your dough on him."

* * * * *

Ward sat back in his swivel chair, hooked his thumbs into the arm holes

of his vest and beamed. "Well, I guess that makes it pretty clear. Eh,

Mr. Peck? Diaz, the dead pigeon, and this guy McSweeney take it on the

lam from the big house. They sticks you up, then blow North and land

here. They're going to split, but McSweeney's a pig. He wants the works.

So what does he do? He croaks his pal." Ward cocked his head and

extended his hands, palms outward. "Okay?"

Mr. Peck scratched his chin thoughtfully.

"Well, fairly so," he answered without enthusiasm. "But before I say

_how_ clear, I'd like to see this McSweeney person."

A moment later a very sullen and defiant Mike McSweeney was ushered into

the room.

"Turn around slowly," Mr. Peck ordered.

The man sulked, but with a little persuasion, he finally did as he was

told.

"Now take your shoes off."

"Say, what is this, a racket?" the prisoner snarled.

"That will be all," Mr. Peck murmured after a hasty inspection of

McSweeney's feet. "You may return him to his cell. And unless you care

to have him prosecuted for his attempted robbery of the drug store, you

may just as well notify the Warden at San Quentin to come up and get

him. His list of crimes, I am sorry to say, Ward, does not include the

murder of Dominic Diaz."

"Why--why it's as plain as the nose on your face," Ward spluttered as

McSweeney was led from the room. "The cigar smelling currency...."

"You've tried hard," Mr. Peck interrupted, "very hard, in fact. Your

efforts are indeed commendable and I do say that your deductions are

plausible, but the fact remains that McSweeney is not the man we are

looking for."

"Well, couldn't have McSweeney poisoned him and then thrown his body on

the tracks?"

"He could have," Mr. Peck conceded, "but there would be no object in

attempting to conceal his method of killing his confederate. Besides he

is not mentally equipped to think of such things. Offhand, I'd say that

his I. Q. is that of an eight year old boy. Remember also, that we are

looking for a man--or possibly a woman--who has killed _several_ persons

within the past thirty days, using the same method; that of the

injection of xetholine caniopus. McSweeney couldn't have killed any of

the others, for the very simple reason that he has been behind bars up

to four days ago."

Mr. Peck raised his hand to silence Ward. "In addition, Mr. Ward, please

remember that I have a motor car full of foot print casts. Even in his

bare feet, which you saw with your own eyes, he'd overlap those prints a

half inch all around. That's why I had his shoes removed. Also, you

recall that the man who carried Diaz's body to the railroad tracks

possessed feet that pointed outward. McSweeney is decidedly pigeon

toed." Mr. Peck raised _his_ hands, palms upward, and then dropped them

to his chubby knees with a sharp slap. "Now how clear does your case

appear?"

Ward grunted and stared out of the window.

"On the other hand, Mr. Ward, as I before stated and now repeat, I can

put my finger on the murderer within ten minutes, should I care to."

"Who is it?"

"I'll tell you later. There are one or two points I must clear up before

I order the arrest. I'd like to drop in and have a talk with Doctor

Kraus first. I believe he can furnish what little information I

require."

* * * * *

"This is Mr. Peck, Doctor Kraus," Ward said as the pair entered the

doctor's study ten minutes later.

"It's a pleasure," Mr. Peck conceded coolly. He drew a newspaper

clipping from his pocket and handed it to Doctor Kraus. "To settle an

argument, would you read this and give me your opinion?"

The doctor read the clipping through hastily.

"Why trepanning is nothing new," he scoffed. "The ancient Egyptians

practiced it successfully five thousand years ago. They...."

"Never mind," Mr. Peck interrupted sharply. "I don't care a rap if the

practice is new or old." He glanced sharply at Ward, who stood gaping in

astonishment, then back at the doctor. "The point is, Doctor Kraus, how

does it happen that you are able to read fine news print and yet, while

performing autopsies on nine different corpses, you missed the fact that

each of those persons had died from a shot of xetholine caniopus as was

clearly indicated by the red blotches on the face of each individual

victim?"

Doctor Kraus stiffened and stared at his inquisitor with cold precision.

"I'm afraid I don't quite follow you, Mr. Peck," he said smoothly.

"That likewise makes little difference. I also note that your toes point

out considerably more than the toes of the average person."

"Your remark, Mr. Peck, is not alone vague, but makes no sense; at least

not to me."

Ward intervened with a snort.

"You're crazy, Peck," he asserted heatedly. "I tell you I've known

Doctor Kraus all my life. I'll vouch for him. I...."

Mr. Peck silenced Ward with an impatient gesture. Then turning again to

Doctor Kraus, he said slowly and clearly, enunciating each word with

care and precision. "There has been a murder committed, Doctor Kraus. As

a matter of fact, there have been several murders, but I refer to one in

particular; that of one Dominic Diaz, an escaped convict. Diaz died from

xetholine caniopus poisoning. Later, his body was placed on the railroad

tracks to make it appear that he had been killed by a train and to

conceal the fact that he had been poisoned."

"Yes, I am aware of the incident," Doctor Kraus answered evenly. "I

performed the autopsy. But...."

"And you also murdered this man, Doctor Kraus!" Mr. Peck glared into the

doctor's eyes as he shot the accusation.

The old man sucked in a great breath and fell back a step and Ward saw,

to his deep consternation, that the kindly light that had shown in

Doctor Kraus's eyes for many a year, was no longer there.

"The tire marks that we found on the road near the scene of the train

accident, Doctor Kraus," Mr. Peck continued, "were made by your car. In

addition, Doctor Kraus, the poison was administered most carefully and

professionally with a hypodermic needle. Only a physician, or one

skilled in the use of such an instrument could so inject a poison as

delicate and as deadly as xetholine caniopus. Obviously, because of the

fact that you yourself were the autopsy surgeon, and because no other

person in the County is familiar with such matters, you estimated your

chances of detection as being extremely small. But...." Mr. Peck

hesitated for a split fraction of a second. "Drop that!" he shouted,

pouncing upon the aged physician and slapping a small glass vial from

his hand.

But his action was just an instant too late, for the next moment, the

old man slumped to the floor. Through eyes already dimmed by the instant

action of the deadly poison, he peered up at Ward.

"I--I'm sorry, Charlie," he breathed softly as Ward dropped to his side.

"After all these years, I--I've brought disgrace to--to our midst."

Ward, panic stricken and terrified, looked up at Mr. Peck, who stood

frowning down at the pair.

"There's nothing we can do, Ward," he said quietly. "Look closely. The

red blotches are already forming on his cheeks. Just hold him another

ten seconds."

Presently Ward settled the body of the old man back to the floor. Then

he rose and faced Mr. Peck.

"I can't believe it," he murmured, looking away. "I just can't believe

it. I can't see why he should have done it. There wasn't any reason for

it."

"Ah, but there was a reason for it," Mr. Peck asserted confidently.

"Through various channels, I discovered this morning that Doctor Kraus

was deeply involved financially. His circumstances were desperate. It

was vitally important that he raise two thousand dollars at once."

"But I can't see how his killing anybody could have brought him any

money. He...."

"You forget, Mr. Ward," Mr. Peck elucidated with a wry smile, "that

Doctor Kraus was not a permanent employee of the County. He was

retained, as needed, to perform an autopsy and preside at the inquest.

For these services, he was paid at the rate of one hundred dollars a

case. Twelve inquests at one hundred each, comes to twelve hundred

dollars; or at least it did when I studied mathematics as a small boy.

Now, Mr. Ward, is the motive clear?"

Ward nodded.

"The doctor needed eight hundred dollars more," Mr. Peck concluded. "But

for a strange set of circumstances which brought me here, you, Mr. Ward,

might have been his next victim."

DEATH IS DEAF

by CLIFF CAMPBELL

Big Sid couldn't understand it, and he was a smart monkey. He had

cased this job himself, personal. Had cooked up the scheme for

pulling it off and spent a good two weeks laying the groundwork.

Yet, here he was locked up in the county jail with the hot squat

waiting to claim him.

[Illustration]

Big Sid couldn't understand it. And he was a smart monkey. He had cased

this job himself personal. Had cooked up the scheme for pulling it off.

Had spent a good two weeks laying the groundwork. Nobody yet had ever

called Big Sid Cloras a dummy either. Yet here he was locked up in their

tin-can of a jail, as good as a dead duck. He couldn't understand it.

It couldn't be. Not for him, Big Sid. Yet the bars of that cell door

were chrome steel, not papier mache. And those birds chatting down the

hall were local coppers with a couple of men from the County Homicide

Squad. And an escort of State Troopers were en route to take him over to

the real clink at the county seat. It couldn't happen to him, Big Sid.

But it had. And it was going to be for murder, maybe.

"Sid ... Sid," said Johnny the Itch almost reverently. He always

addressed Big Sid that way. He said, "Sid, I think maybe I got something

figured. But--but how did it happen, Sid?"

"Aw, shut up," said Big Sid with a disgusted glance over his thick

shoulder. He didn't bother really looking at him. Nobody much ever had

bothered looking at Johnny the Itch. He was one of those little

insignificant hangdog things with vacant eyes. Round-shouldered. The

kind they turn off the assembly line to hold up the fronts of pool

parlors. He had that twitching muscle in his right cheek. It made the

skin jerk and pull as if he were trying to get rid of an itch without

using his hand. He could do one thing. He could tool a heap like a

maniacal genius born with a steering wheel in his hands.

"Shut up," Big Sid grunted his way again and walked past the bowl in the

corner of the cell. He was trying to figure this out. He stood there

winding the tail of his necktie around a big finger.

Johnny the Itch pulled nervously at the wide-brimmed fedora jerked down

on his bony skull. "But, Sid, I think I got a way to--"

Big Sid turned around, spat out his cigaret, heeled it into the

concrete. He didn't take his eyes off Johnny the Itch for a long moment.

They were big muddy eyes, protruding. When Big Sid looked at you that

way, a guy felt he was being measured for a casket. Big Sid could haul

off and belt your teeth down your throat with those tremendous arms of

his. And those eyes would never change.

He really wasn't a tall or unusually large man, Big Sid. But he was

solid beef. That big belly that filled out a double-breasted drum-tight.

The massive shoulders that started minus courtesy of neck from right

beneath his double chin. The big, wide-nostrilled nose that gave him a

certain kind of heavy dignity. He exuded bigness.

Johnny the Itch fingered away sweat that rolled down from under his

fedora and nodded obediently. He felt of the fedora gingerly as Big Sid

turned away. Big Sid was thinking and had to be let alone. When Big Sid

thought, it was real important. Later, he'd tell him.

Big Sid sweated and listened to the buzz of voices from down the

corridor and tried not to believe he might have signed his own death

warrant. He put his hands on his broad hips, ignoring the bandaged wrist

where that copper's bullet had got him. He went back to the beginning.

It had been such a sweet set-up. This dinky little whistle-stop of a

town. Duffyville. Over near the southwestern border of the state. With

its single bank, the Duffyville National. And that motor parts plant on

the outskirts with its heavy back-log of defense orders that had

compelled a doubling of its help. A consequent raise in its payroll,

too. And that payroll moved through the bank, naturally. Just a little

matter of something over $21,000 each week.

"It's a shame to take it," he, Big Sid, had said in the beginning. Then

he had cased it thoroughly. And he had moved into town, openly and

aboveboard. Registered at the little hotel as one "Samuel Norris." Big

front with plenty of credentials and a neat black mustache which could

be shaved off easily enough later. Then he had walked right into that

bank and identified himself. Even opened up a small checking account.

"Just for ready cash, of course."

That was the way he did things. Cool and nervy. Always thinking,

thinking ahead. He was a smart guy. Sure maybe you could grab that dough

by blasting your way with the heaters plenty. But that kind of stuff

only made you hot as hell, afterward. You had to keep lamming and maybe

you never got a chance to enjoy it. Big Sid wasn't dumb like that.

His way, it had been a cinch to get the whole layout. How the payroll

cash was brought from up the line in an armored car to the bank before

opening time in the morning. And the company guards came down and picked

it up immediately after lunch for their auditing department. After

lunch!

He had put his finger on that weak spot almost from the start. The quiet

lunch-hour in a sleepy little town. When two of the tellers and the bank

officers went home to eat the way they did in those hick burgs. That was

the time for the snatch.

And even that was not to be done crudely. Not Big Sid's way. He was

pretty well known in the Duffyville National by then. Been dropping in

to confer with the vice-president about the local real estate situation.

It was so simple. A few hints dropped about the possible establishment

of a new branch plant ... of course, a man wasn't always free to mention

in advance whom he represented. And they'd have to get definite word

about the extension of a railroad siding for the lading purposes, too.

Oh, it went over big. He knew how they did things in that bank. And he

made them feel they knew him. Which was very important. Especially that

teller down at the end window, Eckland. The one who stayed when the

others went out to eat at the noon hour. Eckland was sort of good

looking in a weak blond way. He studied accounting at night. "Samuel

Norris" said he might know of an opening for a bright young fellow

there. When he came up to the city, they'd have to get together. Least

he could do would be to show him around the hot spots some night. That

always made Eckland flush some; you could see he was the type who

dreamed of himself as a glamor boy, a killer-diller with the dames.

And there was that fallen-arched Paddy who was the guard. Nice and

simple. An occasional cigar, a friendly slap on the back, did for him.

So there she was. Perfect. The clincher was to get away without firing a

shot. Before there was a warning. No shooting and they would be miles

away before they stopped rubbing their eyes in that one water-tank burg.

Probably wouldn't have figured out exactly what had happened until some

time Saturday. The payroll came in on Friday.

They scoured every main artery and side road and cart track for miles in

every direction, he and Johnny the Itch. They figured on cutoffs in case

of a chase and how they could double in their tracks. And the pass over

the mountain ridge that would take them across the state line. And about

forty miles down the line, on that abandoned farm, they located the old

barn where they would switch cars. They would hide the second heap in

the barn. Williams would take care of that. He was the trigger man.

Sonny Williams, cool as ice behind the business end of a Tommy gun.

Now, Sonny Williams was--

"Sid," Johnny the Itch said, watching the cell door nervously. He

couldn't keep the whimper out of his voice now. "Sid, time's getting

short. I--I think I got a way, a chance for us anyways. I got

something--" His whisper cracked and he made a faint gesture toward his

fedora as if he feared the walls had eyes as well as ears.

He was scared as hell. It made Big Sid sick. The little rat didn't have

anything to be scared about. Not like he did. He glared at him. "I'm

thinking," he warned heavily.

Johnny the Itch nodded so his under jaw jiggled. When a phone jangled

down the corridor, his eyes bugged right at the door. Then he couldn't

stand it any longer. "Look, Sid, how did it happen? You're smart. You

figured it all out and--" He half choked and had to dredge his voice up

out of his throat again. He took his hat carefully by both hands. "Look,

Sid, I got--"

Big Sid took him by a bony shoulder and threw him. Back over the lower

bunk of the cell. Johnny's head bounced off the wall. One of the town

flatfoots came down and stared in, chewing gum methodically. He gave

barely a glance to Johnny the Itch. The latter crouched there, frozen,

hanging onto his hat as if it were a hunk of dynamite.

* * * * *

Lighting a fresh cigaret, Big Sid paid no attention to the copper. He

was thinking what to do. He pulled at a vest button and picked up the

thread again. She had been all set. He had given the office to Sonny

Williams. Williams had planted the second heap at the old barn and they

had picked him up and rolled into Duffyville. Right on the nose. At

12.08 according to his wrist watch. Dropped off Williams on that

residential street around the corner from the bank.

Swung around the block. The timing was perfection. He, Big Sid, went up

the bank steps as Williams came along less than ten yards away. Williams

with that long bundle under his arm that looked like a florist's box.

The sub-machine gun was in that box.

A local tradesman was just leaving the bank, nodded to "Mr. Norris."

Then he, Big Sid, was over dropping his left hand on that guard's arm,

asking affably for the vice-president. He had left for lunch, of course.

And Sid slid the automatic from his side pocket and tucked it in the

guard's side.

"This is a stick-up, stupid.... Keep your pants on an' don't try to be a

hero. Now, pass me through!"

The guard's lips fell loosely away from his plates. He twisted his eyes

over toward Williams. Williams was at a desk, the florist box lying in

front of him, scribbling on a deposit slip. But Williams knew what was

going on. The guard nodded his head on the fear-stiffened hinge of his

neck and looked down at Eckland in the far cage, the only teller on now.

The guard pointed toward the electrically controled door in the teller

cage partition that cut off the offices and vault from the customers'

side.

Eckland was looking down, smiling at "Mr. Norris." Eckland nodded. He

pressed a button in his cage. The door down the line clicked. And he,

Big Sid, was through, inside. It went smooth as grease.

Williams was over, the Tommy gun out. Had herded the guard into a corner

where he was hidden from the teller as well as any passersby. Behind the

partition, he, Big Sid, wasted only a single glance at the open vault.

That would have been the stupid move. He was too smart for that. He

moved swiftly down behind the empty cages toward Eckland's, walking on

his toes. His left foot hit a discarded paper bill binder and it

crackled and he pulled away from it so he struck one of those adding

machines on a portable carriage. It jolted and rattled loudly. But

Eckland did not look around.

Then he was right behind him. Had the automatic snout poking through the

steel grille of the rear of the cage. Square at Eckland's back. Smack at

the belt of his pinchback coat. "This is a stick-up, Eckland," he said

quietly. "Don't try to be a hero--or I'll blow you outa your shoes!"

There was no sign from Eckland. He stood motionless, writing hand poised

over a voucher.

"Now you're showing sense," he congratulated Eckland. "Now back up easy

and unhook this--"

There was a low whistle. That would be Williams. It meant a depositor

had come in. Williams had moved around to cover him with the Tommy gun.

And that meant Eckland could see him and the gun now. Eckland's jaw

unhinged and the pencil slid from his limp hand and fell to the floor.

He peered forward, making gagging sounds.

"I told you this was a stick-up," he, Big Sid, told him, speaking louder

now. "I got a gun on your back! Make a move for that alarm and I'll give

it to you! I'm not fooling, Eckland!"

There was a long second ticking off into eternity. That Eckland almost

acted as if he didn't hear. His head never even started to twitch toward

the rear. One of his hands clawed at the counter in front of him. Then

he was moving. His right leg. Shakily but purposefully. Toward that

pedal that sounded the hold-up alarm, flashing it right to local police

headquarters.