"Eckland, I'll kill--" But Eckland's foot never halted. And he, Big

Sid, let him have it in the back. Twice point-blank.

But even as he tumbled, buckling forward in the middle, twisting with

agony, Eckland's foot found the pedal, punched it. The damage was done.

The bank resounded with the strident clamor of the gong. And Big Sid

knew its twin was galvanizing them down at police headquarters.

He ran for it. Was moving even before the teller's slumping body hit the

floor. Got through the partition door; he had even thought to block the

snap-lock with a paper wad. Williams was out, going down the steps. The

Tommy began to chatter. Then it was clattering down on the sidewalk,

Williams crumpling over it with two slugs in his body. That cop coming

out of the hardware store down the block happened to be a crack shot.

He, Big Sid, had sent him scurrying back with one well-aimed slug

though. Then headed for the car parked down beyond the "No Parking" zone

directly in front of the bank. He always believed in keeping the law

when nothing was to be gained in breaking it. He was smart that way.

It was the cop running from across the street who got him in the wrist

and made him lose the automatic. A lucky shot. Still, he might have made

it. He got the car between them. He was almost at it, lunging for that

open front door on the curb side. Johnny the Itch was quaking in there

behind the wheel, hands up at his ears, yapping, "Cripes, I give up--I

give up!"

Big Sid had always known how yellow Johnny was. That didn't bother him.

He could take care of him when he got inside, got to that stubby .38 he

had slipped into the glove compartment just in case. But he never got to

it. That police car, roaring up from behind, siren a-scream, smashed

into the tail end of their job. Jolted it ahead savagely. And with one

foot on the running board, he was slammed to the ground hard, rolling

his head against a tree. Then they had him. Him and Johnny the Itch.

Only Johnny didn't count.

* * * * *

Big Sid shook his head. He still couldn't figure how it had happened. It

was crazy, that guy, Eckland, committing suicide like that. Something

had gone wrong but--

Johnny the Itch crept closer across the cell to Big Sid, shooting

nervous glances toward the door. He admired Big Sid tremendously. Big

Sid was so plenty smart, not a dumb cluck like him. He didn't blame Big

Sid for what had happened. It _couldn't_ be his fault; Big Sid never

made a mistake. He could think.

Maybe he had figured out what had gone wrong by now. He would ask him,

then tell him what he had. It was dangerous to interrupt him when he was

thinking. But time was growing short. And then when he knew, Big Sid

would figure out a way to use it. Johnny put a hand to his jammed-down

hat and spoke.

"Sid, you got it figured how we was double-crossed maybe? What slipped?

I know _you_ figured it right." His voice squeaked out of his throat.

"But--Sid, I got something you can figure on now, maybe. I got--"

Big Sid whirled on him, one of his heavy hands sweeping. He batted

Johnny the Itch's fedora onto the side of his head. Johnny clutched at

it as if it might be a life preserver. He started: "Sid, I got a--"

One of the County Homicide men came to the cell door. He plucked the

cold cigar from his mouth and nodded at Big Sid. "You're lucky, pal. The

hospital says Eckland the teller will pull through. If he hadn't, it

would have been first degree and the hot squat for you."

Big Sid sneered. "Ah-h, that dumbhead, Eckland! He wanted to be a hero.

He was asking for it!" He spat disgustedly onto the floor. "If he'd had

any sense, he wouldn't have gone for the alarm. I told him I had a gun

in his back!"

The Homicide man shook his head. "He never heard you."

"But I was only two feet away! I told him twice an'--"

"Eckland was stone deaf, chum," the Homicide man said.

Big Sid's lips curled. As if somebody had tried to tell him a fairy

story. "Why, I talked to that chump many a time! I--"

The Homicide man agreed on that one. "Yeah, facing him. So he could look

at you--and your lips. Eckland was a lip-reader. And--he was stone deaf,

Cloras."

Big Sid swayed. He might have pulled it off if that guy hadn't been

deaf. Could have. He swore, raking his hair savagely. "I never figured

on that! I never figured--"

"_You_--you never figured that?" Johnny the Itch was on his feet when he

screamed. His splinter of jaw jerked out fiercely. "You--Big Sid--the

smart guy! You never figured--you--you was dumb?"

But he couldn't seem to believe it. Then--he did.

He jerked off his fedora, grabbing inside it. He came out with the

stubby .38 from the glove compartment. He had been able to slip it out

in the excitement after the capture. Nobody ever paid much attention to

Johnny the Itch. Any more than they had thought to look under his hat

when they searched him.

He said it again to Big Sid. "You was dumb." Then he just kept

triggering until the gun was emptied and he had put five slugs fatally

into Big Sid's carcass.

THREE GUESSES

by DAVID GOODIS

Detective Frey came in and saw Duggin lying dead, and he figured

he'd go out and do big things. He went out and threw his weight

around. Doing big things? You figure that one out!

[Illustration]

It was one of those white stone places up in the east seventies. Plenty

of class, Frey thought as he walked up the steps. He turned and looked

at the guy waiting in the car. He shrugged, and the guy shrugged back.

Frey was in his early thirties. He was five eight and he weighed 170 and

it was packed in like steel. He was a private dick and he was reckless.

It showed in his grey eyes and the glint in his carelessly combed light

brown hair and the set of his jawline. It showed in the thin grin of his

lips.

His lips grinned like that as the door opened. A servant, a Jap.

"Yes, please?"

"I'd like to see Miss Rillette."

"She busy."

"Not too busy to see me," Frey said. "I'm coming in."

Japs are either very tough or they are very timid, and the servant was

of the latter stamp. He stepped aside and Frey walked through a pale

orange room, then through a burnt orange room and then into another pale

orange room.

"Nice place you've got here, Miss Rillette," Frey said.

She was small and slim and even in the frock of a sculptress she looked

delicate and graceful. In one hand she held a chisel. In the other she

held a mallet. She was working on a chunk of marble and she had the

forehead and general scalp contours almost completed.

When she turned around she showed a good looking set of features. She

had dark brown hair coming in bangs to the eyebrows, and her eyes were

gold-hazel. Her mouth was a little too wide, but still she was a good

looking girl. She was in her late twenties.

"Just who are you and what is the meaning of this?" she said.

"My name is Frey, and I'm a friend of Harry Duggin."

"Is that so?" she said. "How is Harry?"

"He's dead."

She blinked a few times and then she said, "What happened--and when?"

Frey said, "He was murdered--this morning. Knifed."

She blinked a few more times and then she looked at the floor for a few

seconds. Frey was watching her and then he was glancing sideways to a

little jade box that held cigarettes. He took one up, eased a stray

safety match from his vest pocket, flicked it with his fingernail, and

lit up.

He took a few deep drags and said, "I got an idea that you know

something, Miss Rillette."

Her face showed no emotion as she said, "I thought you said you were a

friend of Harry's. You sound more like a detective."

"That's right. Harry was a good friend of mine. We went to law school

together. He became a successful corporation lawyer and I starved for a

while and then I became a private detective. I lost touch with Harry for

a year or so and then last week he called me up and asked me to do a

favor for him. He asked me to follow you."

She said, "Indeed?"

"That's right. He must have been looking around for a private dick and

then he found out that I was in business and he asked me to follow you.

He said that in return for the favor he would give me one hundred and

fifty bucks. So you see, Miss Rillette, I have nothing against you

personally. I just have to make a living, that's all."

"Why did he want you to follow me?"

"You don't have to ask me that, Miss Rillette. You know the answer. In

fact, you know all the answers. I found that out through seven days of

following you."

She blinked some more and then she reached out to the little jade box

and took a cigarette. Frey flicked one of his safety matches with his

fingernail and gave her a light.

"What am I supposed to say?" she murmured.

He knew he was going to have trouble with this girl.

"You don't have to say anything. I'll write out a confession outline and

you sign it. If you want to, you can fill all the gaps. But what I want

most is a signed confession--"

"What did you say you were?" she murmured.

"A private detective."

"Beginner, aren't you?"

That made him sort of sore. But he swallowed it and said, "Maybe, but

I'm not an amateur. I make a living out of this."

She blinked and dragged half-heartedly at the cigarette and then she

turned and looked at the marble she was doing. She looked back at Frey

and her eyes were tired as she said, "How close did you follow me?"

"Here's what you did," Frey said. "On Sunday you attended an exhibition

at the Wheye Galleries, up on 57th Street. From there you went to

Larry's, in the Village, where you had a dinner engagement with a man

named Lasseroe. From there this guy took you to a party at the

Vanderbilt. He went home alone. You stayed at the Vanderbilt. You stayed

there for five days, with your very good friend, Daisy Hennifer, the

jewelry designer. You had a few luncheon and dinner engagements with

Lasseroe. You went to a few shops with Daisy. Then early last night you

left the Vanderbilt and I lost you in Fifth Avenue traffic. I went back

to tell Harry about it and to get your home address, because in all the

days I'd been following you--well, you didn't once touch home. When I

got to Harry's apartment, his valet informed me that Harry was out for

the evening."

"That's as far as you got?"

"Hardly. I went to Harry's apartment again this morning. The valet came

to the door and told me that Mr. Duggin was sleeping. I explained that

it was certainly most important and I went in. But I couldn't wake

Harry up, because he was dead. I don't know why I'm telling you all

this. You know it already."

"How did you get my home address?" She was still blinking a lot, but she

wasn't excited.

"The valet gave it to me."

"You told him--?"

"I didn't tell him anything. I came out of the bedroom and told him that

Mr. Duggin was still sleeping. Then I asked him for your address. Maybe

he still thinks that Harry is asleep. Or maybe he's found out already

and the police are in on the case."

She looked at the ceiling and then she looked at the floor and then she

looked at Frey and said, "Now let me understand this. You say that I

murdered Harry. You want me to sign a confession."

"That's all there is to it," he said.

"You're going to place yourself in a lot of difficulty, Mr. Frey," she

murmured. "I advise that you give this matter a little more thought

before you accuse anyone else--"

"I'm not accusing anyone else," Frey said. "What are you going to do?"

She blinked and then she looked at her wrist watch and then she looked

at the marble. "I have a lot of work to finish before three thirty this

afternoon," she said. "Please go now."

She turned, took up her mallet and chisel, and started to work on the

marble. She acted as if Frey had already walked out of the pale orange

room.

He shrugged and walked out.

The Jap servant followed him to the door. He said to the Jap, "Tell Miss

Rillette that I'll be back--after three thirty."

He walked down the steps and stepped into the parked coupe.

He turned the key in the ignition lock and said, "No go."

"What happened?" this other guy said. This other guy was Mogin. He was

about as tall as Frey and he weighed a little over 200 pounds. He had

close-cropped blond hair and pretty blue eyes and he was a very tough

boy.

"She don't know from nothing," Frey said. He took the car around the

corner and stepped on the gas.

"What do we do now?" Mogin said.

"Well, we could go to a double feature and kill the afternoon that way.

Or we could go up and visit this Lasseroe."

Mogin shrugged.

* * * * *

It was a new apartment house near Morningside Heights. It was elegant

and smooth and important.

"Do I wait?" Mogin said.

"Maybe you better come in with me."

They went in and rang Lasseroe's number and he must have been expecting

somebody because he buzzed an answer right away and the door opened.

When Frey and Mogin stepped out of the elevator, Lasseroe was standing

at the door of his apartment and when he saw them he expected them to

walk right by. But they came up to him.

He was a man of medium height and he had a good build for a man of

forty-five. He had a square, rigid-boned face, and deep-set dark grey

eyes, and a good head of black hair threaded with silver. He was wearing

a long collared silk shirt and an expensive cravat and an expensive silk

lounging robe.

"Hello, Lasseroe," Frey said.

"I beg your pardon--"

"You don't have to beg anybody's pardon," Frey said. "All you have to do

is answer a few questions. If you don't mind we won't waste time out

here in the hall. We'll go into your room and talk."

"I presume you are thieves?" Lasseroe said. He wasn't excited.

"No, we ain't thieves and we don't like funny boys," Mogin said.

Lasseroe walked into the apartment and Frey and Mogin followed.

"Now, gentlemen?"

"My name is Frey. This is my assistant, Mr. Mogin."

Lasseroe ignored Mogin. He said, "What do you want with me?"

Frey began to talk. He didn't look at Lasseroe. He looked out the window

and talked slowly, taking his time. He said, "You got a nice business,

Mr. Lasseroe. You are an expert appraiser of art, and you take good fees

from various dealers. Sometimes you hit healthy money. You check up on a

Rembrandt and you give your okay to a buyer and the dealer gives you a

sweet kick-back. It is all very legitimate and lucrative--"

"What are you, a census taker?" Lasseroe said.

"Quiet," Mogin toned.

"A short time ago you figured out a few new angles," Frey said. "You

weren't doing so good on the old stuff and you reasoned that you might

be able to make up for the deficiency by a few transactions with the

modern boys and girls."

"Just what do you mean by--"

"Quiet," Mogin toned.

"So here's what you did," Frey said. "You rounded up several of the more

snooty painters and sculptors--the artistic boys and girls who have a

lot of dough because their parents or some uncle or somebody had a lot

of dough. You told the suckers that you'd boost their work in return for

tribute. Then you went to the dealers and told them that you had several

sensational new artists whose work would bring high prices. You'd give

that work a big build-up in return for the kick-backs. It worked."

"Now just a moment--"

"Quiet," Mogin toned.

"Everybody was happy," Frey said, "because nobody really lost out. The

artists made dough and the dealers made dough and the customers thought

they were getting high class stuff. One of these customers was Harry

Duggin, the successful corporation lawyer."

Lasseroe opened his mouth to say something. Then he closed it and looked

at Frey and looked at Mogin and looked at Frey again.

"You sold Duggin a few pieces of sculpture done by a girl named Tess

Rillette," Frey said. "Duggin liked the sculpture and he wanted to meet

the girl. You introduced him to Tess and he went crazy. He worshipped

her. He asked her to marry him. She thought it was funny and she told

you about it. You didn't think it was funny. You saw a new dodge--"

"Now damn you--"

"Quiet," Mogin toned.

"Duggin was out of his head because of Tess Rillette. And of course he

bought up every piece of sculpture that Tess turned out. This sort of

thing went on for more than a year, and Harry didn't know that sculpture

takes a long time and a high-class artist can turn out so many pieces

and no more in a certain period. In other words, Harry didn't stop to

figure that you were selling him stuff that Tess Rillette had nothing to

do with. That is--he didn't stop to figure about it until he found out

that Tess had fallen for you."

"Now you look here--"

"Quiet," Mogin toned.

"Harry could be clever when he wanted to be, and he was always clever

when he was good and burned up. He checked up on that stuff you sold

him, found out that it was phoney. He got in touch with you, told you

that you were slated for jail--but that you could snake your way out of

it--by giving up those happy little plans for yourself and Tess

Rillette. By that time, you were serious about Tess and you wouldn't

give her up for anything. So you went and murdered Harry Duggin."

"What?"

"I said--you murdered Harry Duggin."

Lasseroe stared at the lavender rug. He raised his eyes and said, "Is

Harry--dead?"

Frey reached in his pocket and pulled out a safety match and flicked it

with his fingernail. Then he remembered he had no cigarette in his mouth

and he reached out and Mogin took out a pack and gave him one. He lit

the cigarette and he said, "I'm a detective, Lasseroe. I'd like you to

tell me how you did it."

"I didn't do it."

"No?" Frey looked at Mogin. Mogin shrugged.

"No, I didn't do it," Lasseroe said. "Let me see your badge."

"I don't have a badge. I'm a private detective."

Lasseroe said, "I've a good mind to call the police."

"You don't have to call them," Fry said. "They'll be here soon anyway."

He walked to the door. Mogin followed.

Lasseroe stood there in the center of the lavender rug. He said, "You

gentlemen have wasted your time."

"Quiet," Mogin toned.

In the elevator Frey said, "Maybe we can still make that double

feature."

"I'm getting hungry," Mogin said. "How about some lunch?"

Frey parted his lips and the cigarette fell from his mouth. He stepped

on the stub and said, "We'll have lunch and then we'll visit another

party."

"No double feature?" Mogin said.

"No double feature. We'll visit this third party and if we strike out

we'd better leave town for a few days to avoid a lot of aggravation. See

what I mean?"

"I see what you mean," Mogin said. "Who do we see now?"

"We see Daisy Hennifer, the jewelry designer," Frey said. "We go to the

Vanderbilt Hotel."

* * * * *

They faked a story that they were representatives of a big Manhattan

lapidary. That got them up to Daisy Hennifer's suite. It was topaz

yellow, ceiling, walls, rugs and furniture--all topaz yellow. Daisy had

on a topaz yellow gown and she had topaz yellow hair.

"You won't be able to stay long, gentlemen," she said. "I've a cocktail

engagement at hof post threh--"

"What's that again?" Mogin said.

"Skip it," Frey said.

Daisy was frowning.

"What did you do last night, Miss Hennifer?" Frey said.

Her topaz eyes started to glow and she said, "Just what do you mean by

coming up here and--"

"Don't get excited, Miss Hennifer. We're just doing our job, that's

all."

"But you said you were--"

"No, we don't represent a lapidary. We're just up here to ask you a few

questions, that's all."

"You're not police--" She was wearing four rings and she was twisting

them about her fingers. They were all big yellow topaz stones.

"Not exactly--" Frey said.

"Well then--"

"Do you know Harry Duggin?" Frey said.

"Why--yes. In fact, I was to see him this afternoon--"

"You won't see him, Miss Hennifer," Frey said. "He was murdered this

morning."

"Oh--"

"He was a fine sort, Miss Hennifer. You shouldn't have done it."

"Done what?"

"Killed him."

She was twisting the topaz rings. They circled fast about her long

fingers, the nails of which held topaz yellow polish.

"You've been friends with Harry for a long time, Miss Hennifer," Frey

said. "As far as you were concerned, it was more than friendship. You

went for Harry. But he wasn't serious. And he finally gave you up

altogether because he was getting big ideas concerning Tess Rillette.

You hated Tess. You had known her for some time and you had paid no

particular attention to her, except to laugh behind her back. You looked

upon her as a girl with a lot of money and no brains and no real ability

as a sculptress. When you saw her at teas and parties you just saw her,

that was all. But when Harry fell for her, you had to pay attention, and

you hated her. You--"

"How do you know this? Who are you? What--?"

"Please be quiet and listen," Mogin droned.

"It was sort of natural that you should begin to cultivate this Tess

Rillette's friendship. You wanted to talk to her about Harry. You wanted

to find out just how much she cared for the guy. And then you found out

that she didn't go for him at all. She adored another man. That made you

hate Harry. But at the same time you still weren't giving up hope. You

went to Harry, told him that Tess Rillette was after another man. You

begged him to marry you. But instead of helping the situation, your

visit made things worse. Harry began to look into the matter. He found

out about Tess and this man Lasseroe. He wanted to make doubly sure. He

was worried about a lot of things. He had a private investigator follow

Tess around during this past week."

Mogin threw a cigarette. Frey caught it and flicked a safety match with

his fingernail.

Daisy Hennifer was saying, "All this--it's--I don't know what to think.

I don't know what to say."

"You don't have to say anything," Frey said. "Just write me a confession

note, that's all. Just write out the confession and sign it and you

won't have to say anything."

"But--but--"

"It was convenient for you, Miss Hennifer. Lasseroe had a good motive

for killing Duggin. So did Tess Rillette. At first she was indifferent

to Harry. And after he threatened to have Lasseroe jailed, she hated

him. But your feelings were even stronger. It was your kind of hate that

turned to murder."

"You're wrong," she said. She was excited. "I didn't do it."

"A confession will get you off easy."

"I'm not signing any confession," she said. "I didn't do it. I had

nothing to do with it. I adored Harry. I--"

"You'll save yourself a lot of misery--"

She started to sob. "I didn't do it. I--"

Frey looked at Mogin. The short, heavy guy shrugged.

"Is that all, Miss Hennifer?" Frey asked.

"That's all I've got to say." She stopped sobbing. Her topaz eyes were

dull now. "Are you going to take me away?"

Frey shook his head. "We can't take you away. We're not cops."

She stared. "Then--what are you?"

Frey shrugged. "Maybe we're just a couple of damn fools."

He nodded to Mogin. They went out of Daisy Hennifer's suite.

* * * * *

They were walking toward the coupe. Mogin was saying, "It's almost

three."

"We'll have something to eat and we'll go back and sit in the coupe and

wait a while," Frey said. He put his hand in his change pocket and took

out two half dollars, three quarters, six dimes, four nickels. "We'll

eat a classy lunch on this," he said. "Then we'll wait around for a

little while and we'll see where Daisy Hennifer goes."

"It's all right with me," Mogin said: "Anything's all right with me--as

long as we eat."

They lunched at the hotel and then they walked out to the lobby and sat

down and smoked. At twenty past three, Daisy Hennifer walked through the

lobby and Frey and Mogin took their time and followed her.

A cab was waiting at the curb and Daisy got in.

The coupe followed.

Up Fourth avenue and two turns to blade through heavy uptown traffic and

then down the street where Tess Rillette lived. The cab stopped outside

the white stone house and Daisy got out.

The coupe went once around the block and then Frey parked it at the

corner.

"This looks good," he said.

Mogin nodded.

Frey said, "Maybe you better wait here. If I'm not out in thirty minutes

maybe you better come in and see what's happened to me."

Mogin said, "Maybe you better take this." He reached in his coat pocket

and pulled out a little pistol. Frey looked at it and made a face.

"I hate to use those things."

He took the pistol and put it in his pocket and walked up the white

stone steps. The Jap came to the door and Frey said, "Well--it's past

three thirty. Miss Rillette is expecting me, isn't she--?"

The Jap shook his head. "Miss Rillette is busy. You must call later."

"Tell Miss Rillette that I--" He braked his tongue and said, "No--don't

tell Miss Rillette anything. In fact--maybe you better take a walk

around the block."

The Jap started to get excited. He said, "You were not among those

invited--"

"Take a walk around the block," Frey said. "Look, I'll help you down the

steps--" He grabbed hold of the Jap and hustled him down the steps.

Mogin saw the deal and opened the door of the coupe. Frey pushed the Jap

inside.

"What's this?" Mogin said.

"A glimpse of the Far East," Frey murmured. "Take him to a show. Take

him to a dance. I don't care what you do with him, only keep him away

from the house for a while. He'll get in my way otherwise."

The Jap started to yell.

"Tag him," Frey said. He looked up and down the street and he saw that

it was all right. Then he heard a click and he saw Mogin's fist bouncing

away from the Jap's chin. The Jap went to sleep.

"I'll drive around the block a few times," Mogin said.

Frey went up the steps again and took his time going through the pale

orange room, the burnt orange room. Then he was moving slowly and very

quietly as he heard voices coming from the other pale orange room. The

orange door was closed but Frey managed to get in a look through the

side windows of the studio. The windows were slits of glass running from

the floor to the ceiling, and through them Frey saw Tess Rillette and

Lasseroe and Daisy Hennifer.

They were all talking at once and at first their voices were low but

then they started to argue and Frey got in on it.

"Clever, weren't you, Daisy?" Tess Rillette was saying. "You asked me to

be your guest at the hotel, and I thought it was hospitality. But what

you really wanted was to keep me away from here. You didn't want Harry

to get in touch with me."

"That's a lie," Daisy said. "I asked you to stay at the hotel purely for

business reasons. I wanted you to work on those inlaid ivories--"

"That's what I thought--at first," Tess Rillette said. "But I know the

truth now. You wanted to keep me away from Harry. You thought maybe you

had one last chance of winning him back. And when you found out it was

futile--you killed him!"

"She's right, Daisy," Lasseroe said. "You killed Harry Duggin. You

worshipped him--and hated him!"

He got out of the chair and pointed at her, and a few glasses on a

cocktail tray tipped over.

Daisy was shouting, "You're both lying! You're trying to place the blame

on me and switch things around so that I'll be put out of the way.

You're trying to commit--double murder!"

"Just what do you mean by that?" Lasseroe said.

Daisy's voice was lowered as she stared at the art appraiser and said,

"You killed him. You had every reason to kill him, and you did it. And

now you're trying to get me out of the way. I know the truth about you,

Lasseroe. I know how you've been swindling art patrons, charging them

exorbitant prices for cheap junk such as Tess puts out--"

Tess Rillette wasn't taking this sitting down. She started to call Daisy

a lot of nasty names. It was all very unpleasant.

And then Lasseroe said, "You've got a lot of influence around this town,

haven't you, Daisy?"

She liked that. She nodded. And there was a mean smile on her lips.

Lasseroe was moving slowly toward her, and his face was pale. There was

a light in the man's eyes that told Frey a lot of things. Frey reached

into his coat pocket and touched the revolver to make sure that it was

still there.

"You've got a lot of mouth, too," Lasseroe was saying.

"Just what do you mean by that?" Daisy looked at him straight.

"You may turn out to be quite an annoyance," Lasseroe said. He kept

moving toward her.

Tess Rillette was grabbing Lasseroe's arm, saying, "Please--enough has

already happened--"

But Lasseroe was excited and he was pushing Tess Rillette away and then

he was making a grab for Daisy. She fell backward and he went over with

her and he got his fingers around her throat. She managed to scream once

and then she started to gurgle. Frey opened the door and took out his

revolver and pointed it at Lasseroe's spine.

"All right," he said, "Let's stop playing."

But Lasseroe was out of control now and he was choking the life out of

Daisy Hennifer. He didn't seem to hear Frey, and he increased the

pressure of his fingers around Daisy's windpipe. Tess Rillette was

screaming and putting herself between Frey and Lasseroe, in an

ungraceful try at the old martyr act.

Frey knew that he couldn't stand on ceremony. He had to break it up and

break it up fast. He pushed Tess Rillette and she didn't like being

pushed. She was screaming now, and she threw fingernails at his face. He

let her have a slow right to the jaw and it sent her across the room,

spinning.

Then he had a try at Lasseroe.

He tried to pull Lasseroe away from Daisy Hennifer, who by now was in a

very bad way. But Lasseroe was a maniac now and he wanted to take the

life away from the jewelry designer. Frey knew that he would have to use

the revolver. He lifted it and then allowed the butt to come down and

make contact with Lasseroe's skull.

Lasseroe went to sleep.

* * * * *

"We'll take them all down to Harry's apartment," Frey said. "If the cops

aren't there already, it'll be a good idea to finish the case right on

the spot where it started."

"That's a very good idea," Mogin said. "I have a hunch that this will

put us on the map."

Frey nodded. He prodded Lasseroe with the revolver and said, "You and

Miss Rillette will sit in the opera seats with me. Miss Hennifer will

ride in front." He touched the shivering Jap on the elbow and said, "The

studio is in quite a bad state. Better go in there and rearrange things.

If you have any questions to ask Miss Rillette, maybe you better call

the police station. That'll be her temporary address before she goes

away on a long trip."

He stepped into the coupe and closed the door. Lasseroe was manacled to

him and Miss Rillette was manacled to Lasseroe. Daisy was still groaning

as Mogin put the car in first and sent it whizzing down the street.

"You're making a big mistake," Lasseroe said.

"I wouldn't talk about making mistakes if I were you," Frey said

lightly. He felt very good. All a private investigator needed was one

good break like this, and he was made. The cases would come in thick and

fast, and so would the dough. Frey smiled.

Tess Rillette was saying, "I told you, Mr. Frey--you were letting

yourself in for a lot of difficulty, and--"

"Do I turn here?" Mogin was saying.

* * * * *

There were a few police cars in front of the high-class apartment where

Harry Duggin had lived, and where he had died. The coupe parked across

the street and Frey saw the crowd and the reporters. He said, "All

right--here we go."

Everyone was looking and murmuring as the five of them went into the

apartment house. A cop walked over and said, "What's this?"

"It's the Harry Duggin case," Frey said.

They stepped into the elevator and went up seven floors to the

apartment. There were a lot of cops up there, a lot of plain clothes men

and lads from the homicide bureau. Reporters and photographers and a

doctor.

"What's this?" a plain clothes man said.

"It's the Harry Duggin case," Frey said.

The mob crowded around. This little deal was taking place in the living

room of the apartment. The dick was saying, "Carven is in the bedroom.

He's talking to Duggin's valet." He frowned at Frey and said, "What have

you got?"

"Enough," Frey said. He pointed to Lasseroe. "Here's your baby. I'm

going in and talk to Carven."

As he started for the bedroom door he heard Lasseroe saying, "You're

making a big mistake--"

Frey smiled.

He went into the bedroom and he saw Carven, the big shot detective. He

saw the two cops in there and he saw the valet, and then the corpse of

Harry Duggin. Carven had the valet by the back of the neck. Carven was a

big man and he was forcing the valet to look down at Harry Duggin's dead

face.

Carven was saying, "Look at him. He's dead. Do you get that? He's dead.

You called us in here and you figured that would automatically put you

out of the picture. And you told us that a guy by the name of Frey came

in here this morning and killed him. But Frey's an old pal of mine.

Frey's a private dick--a lousy one, reckless and careless, but still

he's a dick and your story didn't go. You killed Duggin--why--why--?"

Not only was Carven big, he was plenty tough. He gave the valet a short

left and a mean right to the ribs. The valet broke.

"I--I killed him," he said, and it turned into a sob. "I--I wanted

something that he owned--"

"What was it?" Carven said. He raised his head, clipped to one of the

cops, "Take this down."

The valet was sobbing, saying, "He had a fortune in little marble

statues. He was always talking about those marble statues, telling me

how priceless they were. He--kept talking about those statues all the

time, telling me that the greatest sculptress in the world made

them--and that money couldn't buy them. That's all he talked about--the

statues made by Tess Rillette. He--drove it into me--made me crazy with

the desire to own them. I--I--put a knife into him--"

Carven grinned. He looked at the cops and said, "Pretty fast, wasn't it?

We came in on this case exactly two and a half hours ago. I can well

imagine what happened to that wise guy Frey. He came in here this

morning and he saw Duggin lying dead in bed and he figured he'd go out

with his stooge Mogin and do big things. I'd like to see his face when

he finds out--"

Then he turned and saw Frey's face.

* * * * *

Mogin was talking loud and fast. He was saying, "What're you crying the

blues about? It was just a bad break, that's all. And at least we pinned

something on somebody. We got that smart bird Lasseroe locked up for

fake art manipulations, and--"

They were walking toward the coupe. Frey was shaking his head and his

head was hanging low. He said, "Can we make a late double feature?"

"Sure," Mogin said. He put his heavy hand on Frey's shoulder and said,

"It's a good idea. We'll go to the movies and get it off our minds.

Don't worry, pal. Better days are coming. Hey--where you goin'?"

Frey was walking away from the coupe, toward a corner drug store. "I'll

be right back," he said. "I just want to go in here and take an aspirin.

It'll help me wait for the better days."

THE COP WAS A COWARD

by WILBUR S. PEACOCK

Johnny Burke had the making of a fine cop in him ... but there was

something mighty strange about Johnny Burke--something mighty

strange!

[Illustration]

I liked the looks of Johnny Burke the first time I saw him. He was one

of the cadets who had been signed on less than six months before. He was

still on the probation lists, but I could see that he had the making of

a fine cop in him.

"Sergeant Southern?" he asked, when he found me in the garage, where I

was wiring in a new radio, "My name's Johnny Burke, and I've been

detailed to work with you in 27."

"Glad to know you, Burke," I said, coming out from underneath the

dashboard of the cruiser.

We shook hands, after I had wiped some of the oil from mine, and I

winced a bit from the pressure of his fingers. I got my first good look

at him then, and I felt my first bit of confidence since Riley, my old

partner, had been detailed to the north end of the district.

He was big, and I mean big. Six feet four, he must have been, and must

have weighed close to two and a quarter. Wide shoulders tapered into a

narrow waist, his blond head sat squarely on his shoulders, and he

carried himself with a panther-like grace. He appeared to be a swell

partner to hold down the other half of cruiser 27.

I said as much, and he flushed at the compliment, which was another

thing that took my liking. Too many of the cadet cops think they're big

shots and are inclined to belittle the men who had been cops before they

were out of three-cornered pants.

"I hope so," he said, "for I want to be a cop more than anything else in

the world."

I grinned from my scant six feet. "Okay, let's see how we'll work in

double harness. Shed that coat, and give me a hand with this set."

"Right," he said, and the two of us went to work.

That was our first meeting, and the one in which I judged him for the

first time. I liked the kid and I let him know it, tried to put him wise

to some of the things I've learned in ten years on the force. He

listened to everything I said, tried to fit it in with the theories the

police school had pumped into his brain. Some of it, I knew, he

discarded because it didn't sound logical, but other parts seemed to

make an impression on him.

He rode the other half of the seat with me for the next week, learning

the neighborhood that was our patrol, memorizing names and locations and

addresses as I gave them out. He learned fast, and I knew I had drawn a

honey of a partner.

Still, there was something strange about him that I couldn't quite

analyze. When we were alone, or when we were with the other men at one

of the stations, he was big and quiet, seeming to know that he was not

out of place. But when we made periodic inspections of boarding houses

and the like, he was an entirely different person. He walked stiffly,

his arms braced a bit at his sides. His face became a trifle white and

his lips thinned, making him seem somebody suddenly alien to the kid I

had for a partner. I didn't understand it, and in a way it shook my

confidence in him, which, of course, meant that ours was not the

instinctive partnership it should have been.

That sounds rather silly when I tell it, but there is nothing childish

or amusing in its practical application. Cop teams should be as closely

in accord as Tom and Jerry, or sorghum and flapjacks. The average person

thinks that the mere routine of following orders takes care of the

partnership angle, but that isn't the fact. Teams have to know exactly

how much confidence each can place in the other, and each must know the

capabilities of the other, or the two men don't make a good team.

And here was this new cadet partner of mine acting strangely as the

devil any time the mere routine of covering the district became broken.

I didn't like it, but I kept my mouth shut, waiting to see something

definite that would prove something one way or the other.

* * * * *

Then one day, down in the station gymnasium where daily calisthenics

must be taken, I got my first inkling of the mental twist that was in

Burke's brain.

There were half a dozen of us in the place; some of the men boxing the

bags, some on the bars, and Burke and I on the wrestling mats. He and I

had been practicing jiu jitsu for ten minutes, and both of us were

working up a good perspiration. Neither of us had the advantage for the

moment, so I went in for a quick wristlock and spin.

Burke straightened as I came forward, squatted and drove forward with

catlike speed. Before I knew what was happening, he had caught me with a

knee catch and a hip flip, and I was skidding across the rough canvas on

my face. I was growling to myself for being caught with an elementary

trick, and came whipping back with my hands outspread in catch-all

style.

There was blood on my face, although I didn't know it, and since I'm

none too soft looking at best, I must have appeared to be rather in a

mad rage at being thrown by a man of less skill than I.

I was half-crouched and gathering myself for a quick burst of energy. I

noticed Burke's hands coming into position for sudden defense, and for a

moment the mere fact that they were in position meant quite a bit to

me. For there is no such thing as placing hands in defensive position in

Jiu Jitsu; the entire science of this particular wrestling lies in

keeping your hands out of the reach of your opponent.

I stopped momentarily, sudden wonder filling my mind. Burke's hands

seemed to be warding off some unknown danger that was threatening, and I

caught the flicker of some emotion in his grey eyes. I straightened out

of my crouch, forced myself not to reveal what I had just seen.

Burke backed off a step, and slowly some of the tightness went out of

his face and arms. He breathed deeply, and the sound was strangely like

a gasp of relief.

"Whew!" he said relievedly, "I thought for a moment we were going to

have a real fight."

I grinned, watching every play of emotion on his face, and carefully

weighing every nuance in his tone of voice. And as suddenly as though

somebody had told me, I knew he had a strip of yellow squarely up his

back.

"That shouldn't worry you," I countered, "You could tie me into knots."

"Yeah?" he said skeptically, "And while I was tying you in knots, what

would you be doing?"

I grinned, but I felt suddenly sick inside. Somehow, in the past week, I

had come to think a lot of the kid. And now, despite his strength and

brains and college degree, I knew that our days as partners in 27 were

numbered.

I stretched, headed toward the showers, not answering his question.

"Come on," I said, "We've got just enough time for a cup of coffee

before our shift."

I watched him that night and for the next three days. Now that I was

particularly noticing him, I could see that my analysis was right. He

was like any other cop I had ever known while in comparative safety, but

when out of the usual routine and into some beer dive or fairly tough

hangout, he was yellow clear to his heart.

He proved that one night when we picked up a quartet of drunks at a dive

on the south end of our district. We went there on radioed orders, the

complaint being phoned into headquarters by some old maid whose sleep

was disturbed.

I shoved through the door of the dive, Burke following close behind. The

report had been right, for we could hear the quartet murdering 'Sweet

Adeline' in the back room. We went down the narrow passage and over to

the drunks' table.

"Come on, fellows," I said, "we're going for a little ride."

Burke stood at my side, not saying anything, carrying himself with that

same strained look that I had noticed the first few days we were

together. The drunks joked with me at first, insisting that Burke and I

have a drink or two with them. I wheedled with them for a while, not

wanting to get tough.

And then the entire situation changed. The drunks got ugly, wanted to

fight. I obliged them, taking the two on my side of the table, leaving

the other two for Burke. I crossed a short right, then lifted a left,

and turned to see how my partner was doing.

* * * * *

One of his own men was down, a bloody welt along the side of his head,

and the other was cowering drunkenly from the heavy gun in Burke's fist.

I knocked the gun up just as his finger pulled the trigger. I caught the

gun from his hand, looked at his face in amazement.

"What the hell do you think you're doing, Burke," I yelled, "These men

aren't criminals; they're just drunk!"

"He was going to hit me with a beer bottle."

"So what!" I was shaking with the nearness with which tragedy had almost

struck. "Hell, you don't shoot a man because of that!"

"But that's what that gun's for. I'm supposed--"

I looked at the drunks, who were rapidly sobering. "Get out of here and

go home," I said, then turned to Burke, "Come on, let's get out of

here."

I reported over the two-way radio that a gun had been fired

accidentally, in case somebody phoned in about it, also explained that

the drunks had disappeared when we got to the scene of the complaint.

Then I turned back to Burke who was huddled in white-faced silence in

the side of the seat.

"For God's sake, Johnny," I said slowly, "Just because you're a cop and

wear a badge doesn't give you the license to shoot that gun any time you

get a notion."

"I know," he said miserably, "I know."

And that was all that was said that night. Burke was uncommunicative and

sullen the rest of the shift, seeming to realize now just what a boner

he had pulled. As for me, I still shook with horror when I remembered

how close he had come to putting a slug through the drunk. I didn't say

any more, even tried to apologize for his action in my mind.

1 tried to cover up for him by saying that he was just a rookie and

untrained. Too, I remembered how frightened I was the first time I had

any trouble. I walked into a gang fight and waded into the leader of one

gang. I had my man down, and was bouncing his head on the sidewalk, when

other cops pulled me off. I was so scared that I didn't even know he had

been unconscious for seconds. Luckily, I hadn't killed him in my

unreasoning excitement.

So I covered for my new partner, and acted as though he had made but a

natural mistake.

But I was only kidding myself, for two nights later, he let me down

again.

It was about eleven at night, and the streets were slowly clearing of

traffic, when we rode right into the center of a bank job. I was at the

wheel, thinking what a swell life my girl and I were going to have when

I got promoted to a detective's job. I pulled around the corner onto

Harper street, and into the path of a tommy gun's fire.

We went over the curb, the tires shot to ribbons, before I had time to

take a deep breath. I went sideways out of the door, grabbing my gun as

I rolled on the pavement. I came up shooting at the two men who were in

the touring. I heard Burke yell something from the other side of the

cruiser.

And then a couple of slugs spun me like a top, and I hit the ground,

having only a hazy memory of seeing Tony Flasco dodging out of the

bank's door with another guy. I passed out cold, the drum of the

touring's motor sounding in my ears.

I woke up once, when Burke came around the car to see how badly I was

hit. I went back into blackness remembering that the flap to his belt

gun was still fastened. The yellow rat hadn't even pulled his gun!

The next thing I remember was asking for a slug of whiskey and not

getting it. After that, I slowly came back to earth. I hadn't been hit

so badly; just bullet shock and a nicked shoulder to keep me in bed for

a couple of days. Within forty eight hours, I was sitting up, and a

week later I was aching to get back into harness again. True, I was

still a bit muscle tender, but I figured a thing like that shouldn't be

considered when a killer like Tony Flasco is running around loose.

I wouldn't see Johnny Burke in the hospital; I wanted nothing to do with

him again. So, each time he tried to visit me, I had the nurse tell him

I was asleep. Finally, he must have taken the hint, for he didn't come

around any more.

I felt pretty badly about the kid, but I felt worse when Riley, my old

partner, visited me. He came through the door of the hospital room, that

map of Ireland he uses for a face ruffled up in a wide grin.

"I warned you, Southern," he said, "but you would play with the big

boys. Now, look at you--your pants are ripped."

"Oh, shut up and sit down," I snapped from the wheelchair, trying not to

grin, "Who the hell do you think you are--Dorothy Dix! Cripes, you've

got enough slugs in you to make you rattle like a dice box!"

"My, what a nasty temper. Tch, tch, tch!"

"Okay, okay, go ahead and gloat. But first, let's hear the latest from

headquarters."

* * * * *

And then his face wasn't grinning, instead it grew hard like granite. He

told me the details that the chief hadn't let me know, for fear that I

would get worried. Suddenly, I lost all desire to joke, too.

Tony Flasco, his lieutenant Vance, another killer named Keeper, and an

unidentified man were in the mob that shot me down. They had forced the

bank's cashier to open the bank for them at night, had murdered the

watchman and then left the cashier for dead. He had rallied enough to

identify two of the men from pictures. Burke's and my stories had fitted

in the other pieces.

Tony and his mob had got away with over fifty thousand in cash and an

unnameable sum in bonds. They had disappeared into thin air, were

evidently holing up somewhere until the heat died down. Teletype and

radio had the country blanketed, but with as much money as they had they

would be able to buy their way out of the country.

"So that's that," I said, "not one blasted thing to go on."

"We haven't got a thing," Riley admitted, "but the chief thinks they're

holed up somewhere in town. The identification was too fast to let them

get far."

"Maybe," I said, "and maybe not."

Riley hitched his chair closer, and his face wrinkled up a bit in a

smile. "There's that possibility that the chief might be right, anyway

Johnny thinks so."

I felt blood pressure rising in me for the first time since my

transfusion. I started to tell Riley just what I thought of a cop who

wouldn't even draw his gun to save his own life. And then Riley pulled

the thing that gave me my second shock within a week, and somehow it

hurt me more than the slugs did.

"Yeah, Johnny," he said, "he thinks the chief may be right. He's a

bright kid, too, smart as they come. He should be, he's my nephew and I

put him through college."

"He's--he's your nephew?" I said.

"Sure, and a swell lad; he'll go high on the force. And Southern, you'll

die laughing at this--he thinks you're about the bravest cop and finest

man he ever met."

Well, that clinched it; I couldn't say a thing about the kid. I knew it

wasn't the right thing to do; I should have reported him the moment I

got out of the hospital, but the memory of Riley's pride stopped me

before I could speak. Instead, I laughed and joked with the cops at the

station, and tried not to be alone with Burke. I knew that I might tell

him exactly what I was thinking if he rubbed me the wrong way.

And then on the tenth day after the shooting, Tony and his mob still in

hiding, I went back into 27 with Johnny Burke. To all outward

appearances we must have appeared to be the same old team, but there was

a difference.

I was still taped, and the bandages irritated me every time I moved. But

there was an irritation in Johnny that shifting a bandage couldn't help.

He tried to make conversation, but I wasn't in the least pleasant. After

a bit, he shut up and remained hunched over the wheel, his face as white

and stiff as though chiselled from marble. I felt sorry for him then,

but I felt a dull hatred, too. He had almost cost me my life, and might

do it again if something broke.

I made a mental resolution to apply for a transfer the moment we got

back to the station.

About three in the morning, there was a furtive whistle from the mouth

of an alley near where we had parked for a moment. Burke grunted

something, then climbed from the car. I went, too, just out of general

principles.

I knew the whistler the moment I saw him. His name was Lefty

something-or-other, and he was about the sneakiest stool the department

had. Burke seemed to know him, for he started talking the second we were

out of sight of the street.

"You found it?" he said.

"Sure, it's down the street about six blocks. They're holed up in the

old warehouse." Lefty's tone was a thin, scared whisper.

Burke pulled a packet of bills from his pocket, slipped them to Lefty's

skinny hand. Then the stool was gone down the darkness of the alley, and

Burke was turning to me.

"One hundred bucks," he said, "but it's worth it."

"What's worth it?" I asked, but I had a hunch about what was coming.

"The information. I've had Lefty working for me for ten days. He's

spotted Flasco and his men in the empty warehouse down the street."

"Well, what are we waiting for?" I snapped, "let's take them!"

I had forgotten for the moment that the cop was a coward; but Burke

didn't waste a bit of time in bringing back my memory.

"Maybe we'd better call headquarters?" he said slowly.

* * * * *

I caught at Burke's arm with a grip so tight it hurt my fingers.

"Let me tell you something, Burke," I said, "Lefty is too ratty to

trust. Before a squad could get here, he'll tip Tony Flasco off about

cops coming. That's his way; he collects both ways." I let go his arm.

"We'll call headquarters, sure, but meanwhile we'll see what we can do

to stop those punks from leaving."

Burke's face was whiter than any man's I've ever seen. A muscle twitched

in his cheek, and his hands lifted a bit.

"Look, Southern," he said, "you don't understand."

"Don't understand!" I was so filled with rage I could barely talk. "I

understand only too well. You dirty yellow rat, you're a disgrace to the

uniform you wear. You're afraid, afraid to meet another man on equal

footing. You were afraid of me in the gym; you were afraid of the drunk

in the beer joint; you were afraid of Tony's guns--and now you're afraid

to try to mop up a mob that's murdered two men in cold blood." I went

toward the street. "Well, by the Gods, I'm afraid too. I'm just as

scared as you of getting my belly full of hot lead. But this is my job,

and I intend to do it."

"Look, Southern--" He caught at my sleeve.

I shook myself free. "Look, hell! You've got a gun; why don't you use it

now the way you'd have used it on a defenseless drunk!"

"That's what I'm trying--"

I swung, lifted an uppercut from my knees. Johnny Burke went down,

crumpling slackly to the cement.

"That's just in case I don't come back," I snarled, "I owe you that."

And then I was running down the street.

I ducked around the first corner, ran half a block, then slipped down

the alley. I was over my rage almost as soon as I was out of sight of

the cruiser, and suddenly sorry for what I had done.

I knew that he would be coming to in a minute or so, and would call

headquarters and report. Meanwhile, it was my job to try and hold Flasco

and his mob until help arrived. I laughed suddenly without mirth; I knew

that one man didn't have a Chinaman's chance of holding four men in that

warehouse.

I slowed down in the fourth block, realizing how weak my trip to the

hospital had made me. My head was swimming a bit, and there was a throb

of pain from my side where a slug had gouged a path.

I darted down the alley, keeping under cover, watching other shadows to

see if there was a lookout posted. Finally, I came to the rear of the

vacant warehouse, satisfied that I had arrived unseen.

I took a look around, trying to find a sliver of light that would reveal

the part of the building in which the men were hiding. Empty windows

leered back at me, scabby paint seemed to rustle in the light breeze,

but I couldn't find the slightest signs of life.

I leaned weakly against the wall for a moment, wondering if the tip had

been on the square, knowing instinctively that it had. I leaped and

caught the bottom rung of a fire escape, pulled myself up until I could

get a foothold.

Then I went upward as quietly as I could. I found an unlocked window on

the third floor, slipped silently through. I held my breath for a

moment, wondering if I had been heard. Then, my gun in my hand, I

sneaked through the darkness.

I covered the entire floor, shaking a bit in nervousness as a rat

scuttled to safety. For seconds, I wondered if I might not be smarter by

waiting for reinforcements.

And then my mind was made up for me.

On the floor above there was the sudden sound of voices. I went toward

the stairs, climbed them slowly. My mouth was dry, and I could feel cold

sweat trickling down my spine.

"Come on, come on," That was Tony's voice. "This place'll be hotter than

hell in another five minutes."

I edged further up the steps, crouched with my head just below the

landing. I heard steps coming my way and saw the flicker of a light.

Then I stood up, lifted my gun.

"Hold it," I said, "It's the law."

There were the sounds of startled gasps behind the flashlight, then a

gun barked defiantly. I crouched a bit, blasted lead at shadowy figures.

I heard someone scream in agony, then a giant hand lifted me and sent me

rolling down the steps.

"Got him!" That was Tony again.

I tried to move, knew that another minute and I'd never be able to move

again. I stumbled to my feet, went back to the stairs. Above, I could

hear the mutter of scared voices. I knew why they didn't come down; they

were afraid I was playing possum.

I collapsed on the second step, was suddenly sick because of the pain in

my chest. And then, the steps vibrated from a heavy weight.

I lifted my head, wanting to see what was coming. For a moment, I

couldn't figure it out. Then I screamed out a warning.

* * * * *

But Johnny Burke went on up. One moment he was limned in the glow of the

flashlight, then gunfire made a blasting hell of that fourth floor. I

saw Johnny Burke's body jerk a bit under the impact of the slugs, but he

was too big to be stopped by them.

I got to the top of the steps, not knowing how I got there, but in time

to see the finish.

One man was down, probably sent there by my bullets, and another was

just crumpling from a smashed skull from a savage blow of Johnny Burke's

gun. A third man turned and tried to run, but Johnny's hands reached out

and hurled him against a wall. He was spreadeagled there for a moment,

then slumped sideways.

And then Johnny closed with Flasco.

He went back two steps as Tony pulled the trigger of the gun, then shook

his head and started forward again. He caught Tony, and they fought

silently for a second. Tony was big, but Johnny was bigger. But Johnny

was carrying enough lead to kill the average man.

Tony knew that and fought with the viciousness of a cornered rat. But he

was no match for the devil that was Johnny then. Johnny caught him in

arms like heavy lengths of hawser, and the back of his coat split from

the sudden surge of strength that went through them.

Tony Flasco screamed then, screamed like a woman in deadly agony and

fear. He pounded at Johnny Burke's face with bloody hands. Then there

was the sound of a heavy stick breaking, and Tony went utterly limp.

Johnny loosened his grip, stood swaying for a moment. He was laughing,

laughing with a madness that chilled my heart. He turned, tottered

toward me, fell, then dragged himself along with his hands. He laughed

when he saw my face in the flashlight's glow, but there was no mirth in

the sounds.

"I'm yellow," he said, "yellow as hell! I've been afraid all of my life.

Funny isn't it?" He choked a bit. "Then laugh, damn it, why don't you?

I'm big, and big guys aren't supposed to know what fear is. So I become

a cop, and for a while I think I'm learning bravery."

"Easy, Johnny, easy," I said, seeing the trickle of crimson on his lips.

"Easy, hell!" Johnny's hands clutched my shoulder. "Yeah, I was afraid

of you; you were the first man who ever stood up to me. I was afraid of

the drunk, too, and in my fear I almost murdered him. I knew then that

I could never carry a gun until I learned what bravery was."

"For God's sake, Johnny, shut up!" I yelled, "You'll talk yourself into

a hemorrhage."

"You'll listen to me and like it."

I nodded, felt a sabre of pain in my chest where Tony's slug had blasted

into me. I tried to move, couldn't, his hand was too solid on my

shoulder.

"So I couldn't get by without a gun," Johnny Burke's voice was growing

weaker. "So guess what I did--I took the bullets out. Yeah, I carried an

empty gun, afraid that if it were loaded I'd butcher somebody. You

thought I ran out on you the night of the hold-up, but I didn't. I tried

to tell you my gun was empty, but things happened too fast. And then

tonight, after Lefty gave us this hideout location, I didn't have time

to explain again. I had forgotten to bring shells for my gun, and wanted

to get some before we raided this warehouse. But you slugged me and came

yourself. I came to and followed you. Yeah, laugh that off, I followed

you in here with a gun I could use only for a club. Sure I'm yellow, I'm

yellow as hell, but I'm not such a rat I'd let you walk to certain death

without lifting a hand. And don't tell me I was brave; I was still as

yellow as I ever was. But I didn't have any choice. Hell, Southern,

don't you think I'd like to be brave like--"

He crumpled inertly, his hand slipping from my shoulder. I don't

remember much about what happened after that, but it couldn't have been

much more than a minute before the cops broke in.

We've got beds in the same room, Johnny and I. He'll be here quite a bit

longer than I will, but I figured maybe we'd better stick together while

we're in here. After all, if you're figuring on being partners for a

long time to come, there's no time like the present to make a few plans

for the future.

I just caught a glimpse of his back through the silly gown he's wearing.

Even partly covered by the bandages, I like it. Somehow, it still is

pretty solid--too, I'm beginning to appreciate its whiteness.

THE END

THE STRANGE CASE OF WILLIAM LONG

by ROY GILES

A TRUE FACT DETECTIVE SHORT

[Illustration]

Among the many unsolved mysteries in American crime annals the strange

disappearance case of millionaire William Long, of Denver and Chicago,

stands out as unusually weird. The case is doubly interesting in that it

is marked by an almost exact parallel in the disappearance of

millionaire William Sweet of Montreal. In each case a million dollars in

cash disappeared with the victim.

So far as is known the two cases are in no way connected. It is barely

possible that the same combination of kidnappers and murderers

perpetrated both crimes--if they were crimes. It is not altogether

impossible that both men disappeared of their own volition, although

such deductions might seem highly improbable. The William Long case is

the most interesting so it will be held for more detailed treatment

while a brief review is given of the William Sweet case which is the

more recent of the two.

William Sweet dropped from visible earthly existence in a Montreal

office building a few minutes after he had been paid $1,000,000 in cash

for his holdings in a Canadian theater chain. He had insisted the deal

be for cash and the amount paid to him in his offices. The

purchasers--according to perfectly reliable witnesses--brought the money

to William Sweet's offices where they found him alone in an inner room.

They paid over the money, were handed the documents of conveyance in

return, and left the place. That was some twenty years ago and from that

moment to now no one has ever seen or heard of William Sweet or the

million dollars in cash.

His attorneys, nor anyone connected with him closely, could account for

his strange actions prior to his disappearance. He was estranged from

his wife. She and others were questioned long and arduously by police

without result. His friends were the most mystified of all.

A few years previously William Long, one of the oddest characters ever

to have existed outside the pages of fiction, dropped from sight on the

street in the Loop district in Chicago in mid-afternoon. He was carrying

a suitcase containing $1,000,000 in cash which he had just withdrawn

from a Chicago bank. He was on his way to pay the money to the heads of

a syndicate in control of Chicago's gambling concession. The money was

to purchase for him a controling interest in an illegal concession and

one that would not have been regarded as tangible, probably, by any man

in the world except a Western gambler.

Furthermore, in order to get the million dollars with which to purchase

control of Chicago's gambling institutions Long had sacrificed a

perfectly legitimate and highly prosperous produce commission business.

Always a gambler, Long had tumbled into the legitimate million-dollar

business accidentally. He had entered into it against his better or

personal judgment and had no liking for it whatever. It interfered with

Long's gambling career, a situation which--to a man of Long's type--was

altogether intolerable.

Western gamblers are legion--a reckless, money-plunging, romantic and

venturesome yet an admittedly square-shooting clan. Long was typical of

this crowd. He was a swagger dresser and more marked than many because

he was strikingly handsome. Even better looking was Long's red-haired

wife. They were an unusually devoted pair according to all reports.

Long was born in Chicago and even as a young man he managed to climb

high in the gambling circles of that city. He was a high-ranking officer

in the fabulous gambling empire of John Worth, reputed to have been the

wealthiest gambler of all time with the possible exceptions of Edward

Chase and Vasil Chuckovich. Chase and Chuck, as they were known,

controled all gambling from Chicago west to the coast for thirty years

and amassed more than $20,000,000 apiece. Canfield, in all his glory,

nor any other Eastern gambler, not even the present wealthy, staid, and

conservative Col. Bradley, king of the modern gambling world, ever

approached the enormous fortunes of Worth, or Chase or Chuck.

Chase was originally a Saratoga, N. Y., hotel clerk and his partner

Chuck was an Austrian emigrant, kitchen worker. Both were bitten by the

gambling bug in Saratoga and went West, not to grow up with, but to

fairly conquer the country. They ran a dime apiece up into

multi-millions without batting their eye-lashes. It was under the

direction of this highly spectacular pair that William Long, a gambling

genius in his own right, was destined to work in Denver.

Long left Chicago for Denver during one of those periodical municipal

reform upheavals that sent his boss, John Worth, under cover for a

spell. Long arrived in Denver with his beautiful wife and a $10,000 bank

roll one bright spring day at the opening of the Overland Park racing

season. The Colorado resort fairly dripped with wealthy tourists and

members of the sporting fraternity from everywhere. He qualified with

Boss Ed Chase and was assigned territory. He opened up a rather modest

gambling hall near Seventeenth and Curtis streets. This was within a

stone's throw of Chase and Chuck's famous Cottage Club and it was

understood that Long was to take care of the overflow from the Cottage

resort.

Just to bow to a time-honored custom, the room of Long's place fronting

on the street was fitted up as a fruit stand--a stall, of course, for

the spacious gambling hall in the back. This was more a condescension to

the church element than through any fear of the law.

Long had been in operation only a few weeks when the altogether weird

began entering into his affairs. The Rocky Ford garden district in

Colorado began growing small melons. Some of them found their way to

Long's stall. A youth tended the stall and nobody connected with the

whole establishment ever cared whether the fruit stall ever profited a

dime or not. The youth knew his salary was coming from the games in back

but it was customary to treat any possible stray customer for fruit

quite seriously and attentively.

One afternoon Long sent the youth on an errand and took charge of the

stall while the boy was gone. This was simply because all Long's dealers

were doing a Monte Carlo business in back and he was the only one

footloose. A man approached the stall and picked up one of the tiny

cantaloupes from Rocky Ford. He cut into it with a pocket-knife and

tasted the meat. Then the customer's eye-lids went up in the air. Long

observed him and, as he explained later, was becoming just a little

bored. Then the customer spoke, gravely, seriously:

"This," he said, "is the most perfect and the most deliciously flavored

melon of its kind in all the world."

"If that's true," said Long, "nobody seems to care. I can get them at a

dime apiece, wholesale. I'll sell you all you can carry at fifteen cents

each."

"Where do you get them?" asked the customer.

"They're grown down in Rocky Ford," said Long.

"These melons are worth $1.50 each and I can get that for them. I'll

take a train-load, laid down in Chicago, green, at fifteen cents each. I

am Mr. Blank of Blank & Blank. We supply a wealthy trade, the most

excellent hotels and the royal families of Europe. Wire me the market

daily on these melons in season."

* * * * *

That was the beginning of the Rocky Ford cantaloupe fame. Prices soared

to seventy-five cents, wholesale, within a week. Long went into the

melon business with Senator Swink, of the Rocky Ford district. They

bought up the entire crop and cleaned up a million dollars profit each

within a few years.

Then Long became restive. The gambling germs in his blood were rampant.

He sold out to Senator Swink and others and moved on to Chicago, his

early stamping ground.

Worth, kingpin of the Chicago gambling fraternity, had grown old and

what is known as the "concession" had fallen into other hands. Long

found that, so far as the Chicago gambling situation was concerned, he

was an outsider looking in. He and his wife knew that even their old

friends could do nothing to change this situation.

But our hero was nothing if not a determined person. Both he and his

beautiful red-haired wife liked Chicago and Long could not live without

gambling, so he was put to figuring out some way to make it possible for

him to fly his flags in the Loop or some other first-class commercial

district.

Finally he decided that if he could gain a foothold no other way, no one

would try to prevent his buying his way in. So he made his famous offer

of $1,000,000 cash for a controling interest in one approved district.

What happened after that might never be thoroughly understood. A little

light is thrown on the shadow by some known facts regarding Chicago

gamblers and their wars.

Like Long, himself, all Chicago gamblers are determined persons. The

famous killing of Jake Lingel and other interesting little events only

go to show just how determined Chicago gamblers are at times. It is

possible that there was an element in Chicago that did not exactly

approve of Long's activities. It is possible that they objected to his

entrance into the lists at any price.

What can happen under such conditions is shown by a page from the record

which reveals that, some years back, one gambling contingent was in and

another contingent was out. The outs were warring with the ins. During

this one war 49 bombs were tossed and planted and 49 gambling

establishments were blasted, uprooted and blown into the air.

There is no doubt that Long was aware of conditions. Whatever it was

that happened to him he certainly must have walked into it with his eyes

wide open.

His deal to pay $1,000,000 cash for a gambling concession progressed to

a point where Long withdrew the money from a bank. He took it to his

hotel room where he waited with his wife for a telephone call. The money

was in a suitcase. The phone rang and according to the wife Long

answered it. It was a little after one o'clock in the afternoon--broad

daylight, of course.

Long turned from the phone to his wife.

"I am going over now, and meet the boys," he said. "I have only got to

go about two blocks and as soon as I sign up I will be right back."

"For God's sake be careful," cautioned the wife.

"Don't be silly," laughed Long. "It is broad daylight. I am only going a

couple of blocks along the busiest street in the world. This suitcase

will attract no more attention than any other suitcase." Long kissed his

wife and left. He was confident and cheerful. But he did not come back.

The beautiful wife waited and waited. She phoned all their friends and

all the hospitals.

Gamblers' wives are never in a hurry to phone the police but finally,

after many hours of waiting and weeping, Mrs. Long did just that. It

availed her nothing. To use a hackneyed figure, it was as though the

earth had opened and swallowed her husband.

A DINNER DATE WITH MURDER

by HARRY STEIN

It was long past the dinner hour and too early for the after theatre

crowd. The two men at the table near the door were the only patrons in

Luigi's restaurant. They had eaten and were sitting there drinking wine.

They drank very slowly and it was plain that they were waiting for

somebody because they weren't talking much and had the half bored, half

impatient look of people who have nothing to do but wait. At a table

near the back of the room the waiter, who seemed to be the only one on

duty, sat smoking a black twisted cigar and reading a newspaper.

One of the men put his wine glass down and lit a cigarette. Even sitting

down he was noticeably shorter than his companion but he was powerfully

built. He had a deep olive complexion and eyes that were black and

sparkling.

"It looks like your man isn't coming, Dan," he said.

"Don't worry about that, Gatti," Dan said. "He'll turn up. He knows the

trail's hot and he'd rather be a live rat than a dead kidnapper."

Gatti shook his head slowly. "I don't know," he said vaguely. "You say

you'll know if it's the same one that phoned. How can you be sure?"

"The accent. It's unmistakable. A deep voice and an accent like a

vaudeville dialectician's."

Gatti refilled their glasses from the green bottle on the table. Then

they were silent.

The front door opened and two men entered. One was fat with a complexion

the color of old weather beaten brick and eyes that were watery and

cold. He wore a high crowned, pearl grey fedora, set squarely on his

head and his fleecy coat had heavily padded shoulders. The other man was

slight and sallow. His coat was too tight across his back and he walked

with a defiant swagger. They hung their hats and coats on the rack and

sat down two tables away from the one at which Dan and Gatti were

sitting. The waiter put down his cigar and came to their table, bowing

slightly.

"Spaghetti wid' a meat sauce," the stout man ordered loudly, "an' a

bottle a' Chianti."

"Same," the small man said laconically.

The waiter went off without a word. The two men lit cigarettes. Dan and

Gatti watched them with open curiosity, waiting for some sign but they

smoked in silence, never looking in the direction of the other table.

"It's the organ grinder accent all right," Gatti said in a barely

audible voice. "But where's the high sign?"

"Give him a chance," Dan mumbled. "He has to be plenty careful, I

suppose."

The waiter came in with a wicker wrapped bottle which he set on the

table before the newcomers. Then he went back to the kitchen and when he

returned he brought two heaping plates of spaghetti, dripping reddish

brown sauce and giving off a fragrant steam.

"The idea is to talk on a full stomach, I suppose," Gatti whispered. "Or

isn't he the guy? I thought your man was coming alone."

"He didn't say," Dan said.

Gatti watched the fat, red faced man wielding fork and knife, eating the

spaghetti with great relish.

"Dat's a pretty good a' spaghetti, eh Joe?" the fat man said loudly.

"Right," Joe replied briefly.

Dan looked toward the back of the room where the waiter was again

occupied with his cigar and paper. Maybe they're waiting for the waiter

to clear out first, he was thinking. He sipped at his wine, waiting....

Then he looked up again. The stout man had almost finished what was on

his plate and was taking a long drink from his wine glass. He put the

glass down and sat back in his chair. He turned his watery eyes on Dan

and nodded his head slowly up and down ... up and down. Dan glanced

quickly at Gatti who had his elbow on the table and seemed to be

sleepily leaning far over to one side of his chair. Then he nodded his

head at the stout man just as the latter had done.

The next instant he was on the floor and somewhere over his head,

repeated claps of thunder were bursting as if they would never cease and

from the other table he heard a choked scream. His ears hurt in the

silence that followed.

* * * * *

When he rose from the floor Gatti, gun in hand, was already standing at

the side of the two men who a little while before had been enjoying

their spaghetti and were now dead. The waiter had disappeared. Dan took

a revolver from the lifeless hand of the small, sallow faced man. He

looked at the chambers. All the cartridges were neatly in place.

"He never had a chance to use it," Gatti explained.

The door opened again. A man with his hat drawn down low over his eyes,

stood in the doorway and looked wildly about at the dead men and at Dan

and Gatti. Then he turned around frantically.

"Our man," Gatti cried.

He leaped forward, grabbed the fleeing man by the elbow and jerked him

violently into the room.

"You wanted to see us," Gatti said. "You phoned the lieutenant, didn't

you?"

Every feature of the man's face was distorted with terror. Gatti shook

him.

"This is the lieutenant," he said pointing to Dan. "What were you going

to tell him?"

The man was looking at the corpses with a slow, steady gaze. His face

was more composed now.

"Sure," he said in a deep, resonant voice. "Dey a' deada now, yes? I no

hava ta be afraid, yes?"

"That's right, they're dead," Dan said. "Where have they been keeping

the kid?"

The man drew a piece of paper from his pocket. Dan read the address on

it and put it in his own pocket.

"Who are they?" he asked pointing to the bodies.

The man was calm now.

"Dat's a' Rocky Callahan," he said, "an'a da leetle wan he's a Joe

Baker. I was a' gon' ta tell you. I was a' gon' ta--how you say--walk

out on a' dem."

"Rocky Callahan from Detroit!" Dan said in surprise. "You mean the fat

feller."

"Dat's a'right."

"Sucker," Gatti chuckled.

"Yeah," Dan said wryly. "But what started the target practice?"

"He pulled a rod on us," Gatti said.

"Who?"

"Joe Baker, the little guy."

"I didn't see it."

"Sure, because you weren't looking for it."

"I was looking at them."

"Baker had it under the table in the hand he wasn't eating with. You

couldn't notice unless you bent down to look under the flap of their

tablecloth. They must have found out their pal here was going to sing

and figured he probably told us too much already. They counted on

getting him later."

Dan nodded reflectively. "But what I want to know," he said, "is how you

happened to be looking under their table."

Gatti chuckled some more.

"I was just making sure," he said. "Guys named Callahan shouldn't try to

eat spaghetti. He might have palmed off the accent but nobody with a

real accent like that would cut up his spaghetti with a knife and pick

up tiny pieces on his fork."

"What's wrong with that?" Dan wanted to know.

Gatti gave him a look of contempt. "You eat spaghetti with a fork and a

tablespoon to help you wind it around the fork and you eat it full

length or it isn't worth eating."

"You dam' right," Gatti's prisoner put in belligerently. His fear and

humility were completely gone now. "Dat's a' da only way ta eata him."

ARTISTIC MURDERS MISFIRE

_A TRUE FACT CRIME SHORT_

by MAT RAND

A scientific detective, identified with national and international law

enforcement agencies, is authority for the statement that there are at

least eighteen methods of murder that practically defy detection. Yet

the record shows that there are very few murders committed in any one of

the eighteen ways that go unpunished. In other words the old adage,

"Murder Will Out," is true according to the record in about ninety

percent of all felonious killings.

To commit a murder in any one of the mentioned eighteen ways it would be

necessary for the murderer to be a reasonably advanced scientist. Few

possess the technical knowledge necessary to destroy their fellow beings

by these methods. Nevertheless, all eighteen of the methods mentioned

have been tried from time to time with varying success in escaping

conviction.

It would appear that persons of scientific attainment could be counted

upon not to attempt murder. This is not true. Education is not a

one-hundred percent deterrent to crime. Educated persons have only a

slightly less average as potential murderers than the illiterate. Not

even motives differ except in cases of murder for robbery. Considering

robbery as greed this difference is removed. Jealousy figures as a

motive in a large number of murders and among the educated murderers it

is paramount.

[Illustration]

Considering murder--for that matter all forms of crime--as an art it

would seem likely that the criminals of education or scientific

attainment would excel as master craftsmen. This isn't true either. Just

the opposite prevails. In practically all crimes attempted by scientists

they bungle their jobs completely. The record proves positively that as

criminals scientists are flunkies without a single recorded exception.

Where a murder is committed by a method that destroys its own evidence

or fails to leave what might be called a "trace" or clue detectives are

hampered but not necessarily baffled. In these cases, almost without

exception, it is circumstances that bring the criminal to punishment.

While a jury might refuse to convict on circumstantial evidence a

detective is not so deterred. The scientific detective turns science

against the scientific murderer. He batters the suspect with

circumstantial evidence until in nine out of ten cases the scientific

suspect weakens and acknowledges his crime. Circumstantial evidence

backed by a confession that checks on all angles is about all any jury

needs to be convinced of guilt.

When your correspondent began to dig into this subject of artistic or

scientific murder Government detectives--themselves master

scientists--made a request. They asked that we be "a little vague" in

the use of proper names and in description of the eighteen murder

methods most difficult of detection. So, we will name no chemicals or

poisons but confine ourselves to effects and processes.

The commonest method is the complete destruction of the corpse--the

corpus delicti. Cremation is the usual means resorted to. The body is

burned in a furnace or on a pyre. Effort is sometimes made to make

identification impossible by burning the body or parts of it in gasoline

flames. The scientist has no edge on his uneducated fellow in this type

of murder case. He practically never is able to remain with the burning

corpse long enough to do a perfect job.

In many cases complete dissolution of the corpse is attempted by

immersion in acids. There are acids that completely dissolve bone tissue

and even clothing but circumstances usually reveal these crimes.

Accessibility to such chemicals and procurement of such chemicals

usually lead to a search. The search usually leads to the finding of

bone fragments, identifiable by means of buttons, bits of jewelry,

metallic dentistry and other bits of evidence which escapes or rather

resists the acid effects.

And now we get into some deep scientific water. It is actually possible

by the exact and accurate dosage of a certain poison, over a long

period, to produce death "by typhoid fever." This poison, a common and

easily available one shows up like an electric sign when not

scientifically administered. But when given in frequent and exact small

quantities it produces every symptom of typhoid. Quite often the corpse

is buried as a typhoid victim.

In most of these "typhoid" cases the motive is insurance and the

murderer encouraged by success in one case attempts others. Sometimes

there are a score of victims. In practically all cases the murderer is

convicted in the long run. The circumstances that usually bring about

detection are doctors and nurses and neighbors. They will remember that

the murderer was always quite enthusiastic about insurance. A nurse will

remember that the murderer insisted on preparing the victim's food.

Sometimes a druggist will remember selling some poison to kill a dog or

as an insecticide.

* * * * *

There is, too, a gas that administered in exactly correct quantities

will produce "tuberculosis." This gas kills instantly unless

scientifically administered. A small quantity will cause the lungs to

"rot" gradually bringing death in from five to thirty days with all the

symptoms of rapid or "galloping" consumption. Doctors have so diagnosed

such cases but circumstances usually bring the crime to light. First

among these is that the gas is rare, ordinarily. It can be home-made but

only by a chemist with a well-grounded knowledge.

It would appear that, among poisons, the most powerful would be the

hardest to detect. This because a small dose would leave less trace than

a large one. It follows only in some cases. One very powerful poison

absolutely defies detection. Another, and the most deadly poison known

to man reveals itself instantly. This second poison perfumes the corpse

and leaves it smelling with a fruity odor. Any doctor or chemist can

identify it instantly regardless of how small the dose might have been.

In the event of the first named powerful poison--the one that defies

detection--there is no odor or other discernible indication of any

nature. When scientifically administered the fatal dose is less than one

billionth the weight of an ordinary human body. Thus, to trace it, the

autopsy doctors would have to find, separate or segregate a billionth

bit of the mass under observation. The body completely absorbs the fatal

chemical and so--.

This poison has its uses but is rare and impossible to obtain even by

most chemists. There are few dispensing druggists who have scales

sensitive enough to weigh the dosage of the chemical. Even for doctors

to obtain it is an undertaking involving considerable red tape. But it

has been used by murderers--scientific murderers. Circumstances in these

cases have proven that the murderer possessed the drug and had a motive

to use it. Confession has followed circumstantial evidence in some cases

and in others conviction has been obtained on expert testimony backed by

positive circumstantial conditions, such as the presence of the corpse

and proof of the ante-mortem possession of the fatal drug by the

suspected murderer.

A fiction story of the football grid, some years ago, involved the use

of a solution to produce a fatal gas under conditions of bodily heat

produced by violent exercise. This was authentic so far as action and

effects were concerned. In the football story the victim's sweater was

soaked in a deadly solution. Under the heat of the exercise during the

football game the victim's body generated the gas which he inhaled. The

gas stimulated his heart action to the point where a blood vessel was

ruptured causing death.

The actual case from which this fiction story was borrowed involved a

man, a wife, and the wife's clandestine violinist lover. The wife

knitted the sweater for her admirer. Her husband dipped it in chemical

solution and dried it while his wife was absent. When she returned she

expressed the sweater to her admirer. He wore it under his shirt. His

body heat produced the gas which was inhaled by the violinist in

sufficient quantities to cause death.

The hypodermic needle is a weapon of death which has caused autopsy

physicians trouble since its invention. Murder by the hypodermic needle,

no doubt, would escape detection often enough were it not for

circumstances. Such circumstances of death are ever in the mind of

autopsy doctors. Where evidence warrants it corpses are subjected to

microscopic and meticulous search to locate a hypodermic puncture. And

they can be located even when hidden back of an eyelid as was the case

in one instance, that of an infant. The suspected murderer, in this

case, a colored mother, died in an insane asylum.

In cases such as have been described here readers might wonder why

names, dates and places are not revealed. They might ask why scientific

detectives desire the text to be vague. The reason is quite simple and

understandable once it is explained. Even where conviction is obtained

in such cases it is only after the most laborious and expensive

processes and investigations. Living relatives of the accused in each

case might be moved to bring suit on any of many grounds. This would

result in more long, laborious and expensive litigation--to the

Government, the writer, the publisher, doctors, detectives and what not?

This thing has been going on for centuries. As far back as history

records mysterious poisons have been a common means of murder. There are

thousands of poisons. Some of these, products of the jungles held secret

by savage tribes, are still little known to or understood by scientists.

Poisons are given up by the earth, secreted by plants and by animals.

They are produced by combining chemicals and by chemical reactions. In

nature they are begotten by elemental distillation, by the action of the

sun's rays, by the excrement of animals including the fishes, by the

promulgation of minute organisms, and in a myriad of mysterious ways.

Some of these processes are well understood and some little understood

by man. As is the case with electrical and other forms of scientific

research the field of scientific criminal detection hardly has been

scratched. Research is constant and no doubt will be perpetual. No one

knows where any sort of research will lead. Scientific detectives call

attention to this fact:

"Such research is valuable not only in the matter of law

enforcement but might prove of inestimable value in other fields.

It might lead to a discovery that would end cancer or one that

would end war."