Chapter IV: Part 4

"Benny Knox," he wrote in his informal report to the commissioner, "seems to have a mental age of about eight. While it is true that many adults with that mental age find themselves unable to adjust to the world and to earn their own way in it, thereby requiring institutionalization, others do make the adjustment, especially ones who still have parents or other mentors to guide and help them.

"Mrs. Saddler stands _in loco parentis_ to Knox, and she is a very sane and sensible woman. With her help, he does all right. Of course she is about twenty years older than he (that is my guess; I did not ask her age) and it is statistically probable that she will predecease him, but even this may not lead to his becoming a public charge. Mrs. Saddler is aware of the problem and has in mind solving it when the time comes, in other words, if and when she finds herself getting too old to run her boarding house any longer. She knows other rooming and boarding house keepers, some younger than herself, and believes she will have no difficulty in finding one willing to take over Benny. She says he is pleasant, tractable and easy to get along with, and his earnings are sufficient that he will represent a profit and not a burden to whoever takes care of him. The biggest problem, in fact, will be to find someone sufficiently honest not to make too much of a profit on him.

"So much for his adjustment to society despite his subnormality and now to what you've been waiting for me to discuss, his abnormality, his fantasy of believing that he has committed crimes of which he is innocent and wishing to be punished for them. From what I can learn he seems to have been a wonderfully 'good' boy and probably did nothing that, even in his own mind, merited the punishment he now seeks. I would say that his guilt feelings were given to him by his father. His father--who raised Benny alone after his mother died in childbirth--was a fiery fundamentalist minister. He taught his son what he himself believed--a good but vengeful God, original sin, a very literal brimstone Hell, eternal damnation for the sinner. These are very heady and frightening doctrines even for a person of normal mentality.

"He feels himself guilty of unnameable sins and since he cannot name them--and thereby obtain punishment and through punishment forgiveness--he builds the fantasy of having committed a real sin, one for which he _can_ be punished. A nameable real sin becomes surrogate for an unnameable one.

"The prognosis? Incurable. He may 'grow out of it' or its symptoms may become worse or at any rate more frequent.

"Does this mean he should be put in an institution? I personally do not think so. He will probably again--and possibly again and again--become a mild thorn in your side by confessing to other crimes. As a matter of police routine you'll have to check his story out, and thereby run into a little extra work and expense. But--at his present rate of two years having elapsed between his last confession and his current one--the cost of this slight amount of police work once in a while will be a minute fraction of the cost to society of institutionalizing him and supporting him for the rest of his life. So my recommendation is that you give society a break by letting Benny support himself as long as he can.

"I don't think there's any chance of his becoming dangerously insane. I can't guarantee that, of course--but neither can I guarantee it in your case or mine. And I can say for him what I can say for you or me: at present none of the three of us shows signs or inclination toward any dangerous aberration.

"I do suggest one precaution, however. Any time he again comes in with a confession, whether or not it's one you can immediately rule out without investigation, hold him until I can talk to him again and determine whether his degree and kind of mental disturbance is at that time such that I might want to change my recommendation."

That had been a year ago. Now Benny Knox was disturbed again. Not suddenly, not just tonight; his realization that he was the man who had murdered the two women, the man the police were looking for, had come to him gradually over the past week. At first he hadn't been sure, he couldn't really remember. But that wasn't surprising; from time to time there were so many things that he couldn't remember. Even now he couldn't remember _why_ he had killed them--it must have been just because he was bad, evil. People were born evil and only through God and Jesus could they become good and even then before they could get into Heaven they must confess to the evil things they had done and be punished before they could be forgiven.

He closed his eyes and had a mental picture of his father and his father was holding out a hand to him and saying, "You've done wrong, Benjamin. Confess and let them punish you so you can be forgiven, or I'll never see you again. You'll go to hell and burn forever." His father's face was really his father's face, for there was a picture of his father's face on Benny's bureau and he saw it every day and couldn't forget what his father had looked like. But his father's body was clad in shimmering robes and seated on a throne. Benny often got his father in Heaven and his Heavenly Father mixed up and was as likely to pray to one as to the other.

He said, "Yes, Father, I will," aloud and opened his eyes. They fell upon his hands lying in front of him on a pile of newspapers. Big, strong hands. Strangler's hands. Hands that could kill easily, and had killed.

Footsteps approached and stopped, and he looked up. Officer Hoff stood there, grinning down at him. "Hi, Benny. Will you take your big paws off that pile of papers so I can take one?"

Benny lifted his hands and dropped them in his lap, out of sight, and Officer Hoff took one of the papers and put it under his arm. He didn't put down a dime, but Benny hadn't expected him to; policemen didn't have to pay for papers. He didn't know why not, but the man from whom his father had bought the newsstand had explained to him that policemen didn't have to pay for little things like newspapers. It was part of the cost of doing business, he'd explained, whatever that meant. You didn't charge policemen for their papers and then they liked you and helped you if you needed help. Well, he needed help now. Maybe Officer Hoff would want to arrest him right now. Officer Hoff was a nice man.

He said, "Mr. Hoff, I killed them two women. You want to arrest me? Or should I walk around to the station myself?"

Officer Hoff had quit grinning. He shook his head sadly. "Not again, Benny. You didn't--"

"I really did, Mr. Hoff. I--choked them to death." Benny held up his hands, the evidence.

Officer Hoff shook his head again. "Well--I'll radio in from the car. Maybe they'll want me to bring you in. I'll see. We're pretty busy tonight."

He walked downstreet to the curb where the squad car was waiting, another officer at the wheel. He got into the squad car. Benny was afraid at first that they'd drive off, and then he saw that the squad car wasn't moving. And after a couple of minutes Officer Hoff got out of it and came back.

He said, "No, they don't want us to bring you in. Lieutenant Burton--you know him? Red hair?"

Benny hadn't known the name but when Officer Hoff said, "Red hair," he remembered he'd talked a lot with a policeman with red hair, down at the station. He couldn't remember what they'd talked about, but he remembered the hair. He nodded.

"Well, he wants to see you. But there isn't any hurry. You can go ahead and sell the rest of your papers, no use their going to waste. Then you go to the station and he'll see you."

Benny nodded again. "All right, I'll go round."

"Be sure you do, and don't forget." He shook his head a third time. "Benny, you didn't kill them dames--we checked you out on it, long ago. You and a lot of other people. But just the same don't you forget to go to the station. If you don't go there right after you quit we'll have to come to the rooming house to get you."

"I won't forget, Mr. Hoff. I'll go there."

Benny sadly watched Officer Hoff get back into the squad car and watched the squad car drive off.

Officer Hoff hadn't believed him either. But the policeman with the red hair would believe him, when Benny told him all about it.

9:00 P.M.

A clock somewhere was striking nine as Ray Fleck got out of the taxi in front of Dolly Mason's apartment, and he knew that he was on time. He'd had trouble finding a cab and had thought he was going to be late--not that a few minutes late would have mattered but if he was very late Dolly would be annoyed; Dolly got annoyed easily if you were late for a date with her. Then just at the right moment a cab had pulled in to the curb right near him to discharge passengers, and he'd caught it.

A turn in his luck? God, he hoped so. _Everything_ had been going wrong today and tonight, up till then. What had got into him to pop off about Connolly's thirty-dollar bet when it had been Sam's that Amico had been talking about! A lousy six bucks, and he _had_ forgotten about it by then. Connolly's thirty had been the one on his mind. Hell, he thought disgustedly, he really couldn't blame Amico for not believing that he'd not been covering bets and dragging down right along, when he'd come up with a boner like that.

But Jesus, did Joe have to get so tough about it? Twenty-four hours to raise four hundred and eighty bucks, or else. His face was still sore from the two flat-handed slaps Monahan had given him and his stomach still ached from the blow there. But those things would pass, the pain of them and the humiliation of them. But if he lost his job he was sunk, really sunk. If he lost his job the way Joe would make him lose it, under a cloud with the J. & B. Distributors and on the outs with most of his customers to boot, he'd never get a reference and never get another job, here or anywhere else, selling liquor.

Many people thought Ray Fleck was a good all-around salesman who could do well selling almost anything to almost anybody, but Ray knew better; he'd tried. His first foray into selling had been just after he'd quit high school about three-fourths of the way through his senior year--he was failing in several subjects and wasn't going to be graduated anyway--and it had been a try at selling brushes door to door. He'd hated it, especially the long hours the company had expected him to work, and he'd stuck it out less than a week, during which time he'd earned seven dollars and some odd cents. He'd tried to stay home and loaf around for a while but finally became fed up with his father calling him a no-good and with not having any spending money, and he started to look for work again. During the next seven years he held a lot of jobs but none of them for very long. All in all he worked about half of the time, but he got by because his father, a certified public accountant, had a fairly good income and, after a while, gave up trying to collect anything from his son in the way of room and board, so all the money Ray did make went for clothes and entertainment.

The jobs he held were many and varied. Soda jerk, counterman, assistant shipping clerk, driver of a delivery truck, what have you. He never held any job longer than a few months; half of them he quit because the work was too hard or too boring; he was fired from the rest for a variety of reasons, usually for goofing off. Once, in a bad period, he was fired for dipping into a till but luckily the employer didn't prosecute so he didn't have a police record because of it. The job he had held longest, and had most hated, during that period had been with the army when he had been drafted at twenty. And he had held that job only five months instead of the usual period. He had suddenly developed a violent allergy to wool, and since the army wasn't geared to provide special uniforms and bedding for him, it had the choice of discharging him or letting him ride out his hitch in the infirmary. It discharged him. The allergy had gradually diminished; by now he could wear wool suits except in very hot weather, but in cold weather he still used quilts or comforters instead of blankets.

Several of his jobs during that period had been selling jobs; he'd tried insurance, automobiles, hardware, and a few other things. But he hadn't lasted at those jobs as long as at others. He could turn on a pleasing personality and could make people like him, but he lacked the perseverance and determination necessary to succeed at selling, which is a lot tougher job than most people think.

Until at the end of the seven years he found himself and found the one job he both liked and could do well at. It was time that he found it, for his parents had just died, his mother only a month before his father, and free room and board were out; he _had_ to keep a job if he wanted to eat regularly.

And the job he had finally found was a natural for him. He liked hanging out in taverns. He liked to be able to buy rounds of drinks and being able, within reason, to put them on an expense account. He liked the hours. The only part of the job that he considered work was the calls he had to make at liquor stores and he was willing to do that chore for the sake of the rest of the job. He liked drinking and he had an excellent capacity for holding his drinks. The job brought him into contact with others who, like himself, loved gambling and enjoyed talking horse racing, dog racing, the odds on a pennant race or matching coins for drinks. Best of all, the job let him make money--and make it doing what came naturally.

And now he was going to lose that wonderful job, unless he could raise four hundred and eighty bucks in twenty-four hours. Joe Amico had meant every word of what he'd said, and Joe could make his threats good, too. He wouldn't last a week in his job if Joe started spreading the word around. He _had_ to raise that money now; it was a matter of desperate necessity.

He paid off the taxi, and that left him thirteen dollars, thirteen lousy dollars.

Dolly, he thought, don't fail me now! He'd already decided, in the taxi, not to start off by asking for any special amount; he'd just tell her he was in a desperate jam and needed every cent he could possibly get. Maybe she'd come up with five hundred and take him off the hook completely. If that happened, he wouldn't risk the poker game at all; he'd make sure of having the dough for Amico, to save his job. That came ahead of everything else, now.

Of course she probably wouldn't have five hundred in cash at the apartment, that would be too much to hope for, but a check would be all right; he'd have all day tomorrow to cash it. How much could he offer her for five hundred? To pay her back six hundred within two weeks? That ought to be enough to tempt her, but hell, he could go even higher if he had to. After all, he hadn't given her his right name so she couldn't locate him to heckle him. Not that he wouldn't pay her back as soon as he could--if she was reasonable, like wanting six for five. If he had to promise her anything extortionate, like a thousand for five hundred, then she could whistle for it and it would serve her right for being greedy.

He hurried up the two flights of stairs and along the corridor, knocked on Dolly's door.

She opened it, first on the chain, and then when she saw who it was she said, "Hi, Ray honey. Just a sec," and closed the door a moment to slide off the chain and open it wide.

He went in and she stepped aside and then closed the door behind him. The chain went on again. Few women were taking chances these days, even if a man was with them.

Dolly Mason, he saw, was practically ready for action. Her otherwise bare little feet were in mules and she wore a thin silk kimono, brilliant red, with obviously nothing at all--except Dolly--underneath it. But he was too desperately worried to be interested. Business came first, right now. Of course if he got enough money from her to end his worries for tonight, then he could relax and romp.

"Dolly," he blurted, "I'm in a jam, a hell of a jam. Life or death, almost. I need to borrow some money--just for a week or so. Have you got any?"

She took a short step back from him; she'd been going toward him to put her arms around him as she always did when he came in. "Honey, _I_ haven't got any money. Where did you get a wild idea like that?" She looked toward a handbag lying on an end table by the sofa. "I've got just eight dollars--and I can't spare any of that because it's got to last me till payday, three days. Look, I'll show you if you don't believe me."

She started toward the handbag but he said, "Never mind, I believe you. I didn't mean that kind of money anyway. And cash doesn't matter. A check will do because I can cash it tomorrow and that'll be in time, because tomorrow night's my deadline. And you'll make money on it--not lose. If you can lend me five hundred I'll give you back six, in two weeks. That's how God damn important it--"

Suddenly she was laughing. Not a cruel laugh, but an amused one. "Ray honey, I haven't _got_ a bank account, not even a savings account, let alone a checking one. I'm sorry if you're in trouble, but what made you think _I_ had any money? Honest, I haven't."

Ray Fleck took a step backward and dropped onto the sofa, put his elbows on his knees and his face into his hands. He was beat. He hadn't realized until this moment how much he'd been counting on Dolly--and how ridiculous it had been for him to have done so. He didn't know whether or not Dolly was lying about not having a bank account, but he knew, and for sure, that even if she had she wasn't going to lend him any money. Not even fifty bucks that he might manage to run up in the poker game, let alone the five hundred that it would take to bail him out of trouble. She didn't trust him that much and it wouldn't do any good to plead, to offer her a thousand back instead of six hundred. Even if she had a checking account, she'd never admit now that she'd been lying and write him a check against it.

"Ray honey, I'm sorry. Honest."

He took his hands away from his face, stared at her dully. "It's all right, Dolly. I shouldn't have--" He shook his head slowly. He'd started to say that he'd been a damn fool to expect anything but this, but there wasn't any point in finishing the sentence. The only thing to do now was to get going, go some place where he could think, and try to figure something out. He knew there wasn't an earthly chance that he could raise the four-eighty tonight, but if he didn't waste time he might still build back his stake enough to let him sit in tonight's game. His luck _had_ to change sometime.

"Ray, you do look beat," Dolly said. "Would a drink help? Let me make you a drink."

He started to say no, and then nodded instead. He really did need a drink now, and it seemed like ages since he'd had one. It had been at Connolly's, before that horrible scene at Amico's. "Sure," he said. "Make it a strong one, huh?"

"One strong drink coming up," Dolly said. She went around the screen that hid the kitchenette. He heard her taking down glasses from the little cupboard over the sink.

What an ass he'd been to remember that short story about the mistress who had given her--

Jewelry? Dolly had jewelry. He didn't know how much of it or how valuable it was, but it could be worth plenty. Not that she'd give or lend it to him, of course, but he knew where she kept it, or some of it. It was in a little hand-tooled leather box on top of the dresser in the bedroom. He'd never seen down inside it but he'd seen her open it and put jewelry into it. The last time he'd been here she'd been wearing long dangling earrings with green stones--emeralds?--and she'd taken them off the last thing and put them in the box before she'd thrown herself face down on the bed and rolled over into his waiting arms.

The jewelry in that little box might be worth plenty. Did he dare? There wouldn't be time now, even though the bedroom door stood ajar; it was clear across the living room from him and she'd surely hear him moving if he tried to go there. He'd have to go to bed with her to get a chance at the box, but it would be easy then; she always went to the bathroom for a minute or two immediately after.

Did he dare? Why not? He'd taken chances before, although never quite in this way, but then he'd never been in this bad a fix before either. Besides, it wouldn't really be stealing; it would be borrowing without telling Dolly about it. He'd make it up to her someday, when he was solvent again. If he couldn't get her back the same jewelry he could get her other stuff like it.

Thank _God_ he hadn't given her his right name. Fletcher instead of Fleck was a little close for comfort, but all she knew about him outside of his right first name was that he was a liquor salesman. But there were a lot of liquor salesmen in the city--and the police wouldn't _know_ that he'd given her his right first name, since they could find out quickly enough that he hadn't given a right last one.

Dolly came back with two drinks, both dark enough to show that she'd really made them strong.

He took the drink she held out to him and downed half of it at a gulp. It was strong enough to burn on the way down and it did help, it did make him feel better.

Dolly sat down on the sofa beside him, not pulling the kimono closed, and snuggled up against him. "Ray, honey," she said, "there's something might make you feel even better than a drink."

"A sure cure for everything?" he asked. "Maybe, Dolly. Maybe it would help. But I got to think a minute first, get something clear in my mind."

He put his free arm around her, but made no move otherwise. He didn't want to take her to bed unless he was going to take the gamble of emptying that jewel box, and if he made a pass or even kissed her he'd be committing himself. Besides, he knew that if he could get aroused, and let himself, he wouldn't have the will power not to follow through, no matter what he decided about the jewels.

But he had to decide quickly. Was the risk too great? Hell, he couldn't deny there _was_ a risk--why had he told Dolly what his job was? If he'd kept that under his hat too, it would be safe as houses. But that would be pretty much of a lead, if the police really worked on it, and there was no reason why Dolly shouldn't and wouldn't report it to the police. Of course if she didn't miss it for several days she couldn't be sure who had taken it, but that was too much to hope for. Probably she wouldn't miss it tonight but probably when she dressed for work in the morning she'd go to the box for some piece of jewelry, costume or real, and that would be it. But it would still take the cops a while to get to him and if he could get rid of the stuff first--and he thought he knew where and how to do that--there'd be no proof. It would be just his word against hers and his reputation was at least as good as hers--hell, he had friends on the force who would vouch for him. Maybe his reputation was better; he'd never been in cop trouble, and maybe Dolly had. And--

He thought of the trouble he'd be in if he didn't raise the money for Amico, and suddenly made up his mind. He'd take the gamble. That is, if he _could_.

He took another slug of his drink and then put it down on the end table and leaned over and kissed Dolly. Her lips parted moistly, but nothing happened--to him, that is. Then his hand found one of her breasts and squeezed gently before he bent down and kissed the firm erect nipple of the other one and ran his tongue around it. He felt something stir in his loins and knew that everything was going to be all right. He wasn't worried or scared enough to disgrace himself in bed.

As a matter of fact, everything was better than all right. He found that the excitement of the risk he was going to take added to rather than took from his sexual excitement. It didn't last long but while it lasted it was wonderful; Dolly seemed to think so too.

And when she scampered into the bathroom afterward he walked quickly to the dresser and emptied the tooled leather box into his hand, walked back to the bed and put the pieces of jewelry into the left pocket of his trousers. He'd hardly glanced at it, except to see that there were about a dozen pieces and that they included the earrings with the green stones that might be emeralds and that there was also a diamond ring and a wedding ring.

He was pulling the trousers on when Dolly came out of the bathroom. He didn't have to pretend to be in a hurry; he was. He told her he had an important business appointment and was late for it already, and left the moment he'd finished dressing.

When the chain slid home behind him he breathed a deep sigh of relief. He'd got away with it, thus far. And just maybe the whole answer to his problem was in his left trouser pocket. He'd soon know.

9:32 P.M.

Mack Irby stopped his two-finger typing and leaned back in the creaky swivel chair to light himself a cigarette. This was the only part of his job that he really hated, making reports. He'd rather tail a wife for her husband or a husband twelve hours straight than spend the half hour writing up a report on the activities of the suspected spouse. Whenever possible he talked a client into settling for verbal reports, but it wasn't always possible to get a client to agree to that. Some of them insisted on having words on paper for their money.

His dream was to have enough men under him so he could afford a stenographer-bookkeeper to take down the reports as dictation--he wouldn't mind talking them--and to take care of sending out and paying bills and the rest of the paper work. He wouldn't even insist that his office help be young and pretty--God, he had all the sex he wanted or needed with Dolly. He'd settle for anybody who could type.

But it seemed as though even this modest dream was a long way from coming true. He did all right for himself, one way or another (some of them not too honest) but strictly as a lone wolf operator. True, he had connections with other detective outfits that let him farm out work at times when he had more than he could handle alone, but he'd never had even one operative working under him full time. He'd never get rich, but most of the time he thought it was best that way; when you work alone you can cut corners you wouldn't take the risk of telling someone else to cut for you. So in all probability the nearest he'd ever have to office help was what he had already, a telephone answering service. That was an absolute must, since he spent so little of his working time actually in the office; he couldn't have operated without it.

He took a deep drag of his cigarette, put it down on the edge of his desk, already scarred by a hundred cigarette burns, and went back to his typing. "Subject entered Crillon Bar at 3:15, looked around first, then went to the bar and ordered a drink. Talked, apparently casually, to the bartender while he drank it, but kept an eye on the door as though waiting for someone. At 3:25 the woman already described in previous report entered. She nodded to him and went to a booth. He joined her there and ordered drinks for both of them. At 3:47 he--"

The phone rang and he picked it up and said, "Mack Irby speaking."

"Mack." It was Dolly's voice. "Fletcher just left and--"

"All right," he said, interrupting her to save time. "I'll be around, but I'm going to finish this one report first. I'll be there in about--"

"Wait, Mack. It's not just that. He stole my jewelry, the few things I had in that leather box on my dresser. Not worth much, but--Do you think I should call the police and report it? And if I do, maybe you shouldn't come, maybe you shouldn't be here when they get here. What do you think?"

"Don't call the cops," he said flatly.

"But why not? Like I said, the stuff isn't worth much, but they might get it back for me."

"They might, Doll. But I might be able to do even better than that. Sit tight. This report can wait till tomorrow. I'll be there in five minutes."

He hung up the phone, got his hat and turned out the lights, locked the office, and left. Downstairs he got in his car. It was, as any car used for shadowing should be, inconspicuous--a five-year-old Studebaker Commander painted gray--but there was a bit of souping-up under the hood and it was kept in perfect condition; it could go over a hundred if it had to. He drove the dozen blocks to Dolly's in three minutes flat. He let himself into the building with the key he carried and it was exactly the five minutes he had predicted when he rapped lightly on Dolly's door. He heard her coming and called out, "It's me, Doll, Mack," to save her the business with the chain.

She let him in. She was still--or again--wearing the red kimono she'd put on when he'd left at nine, and he wondered if she'd have had sense enough to have dressed before she called the police, if he had let her call them. He kissed her, and then firmly disentangled her.

"This is business," he said. "So no monkey-business. I'll sit here and you sit over there and don't distract me."

"All right, Mack honey. But can't I make us each a drink?"

"No, not--Well, all right. I can be asking questions while you make 'em." He sat down on the sofa and tossed his hat onto the end table. Dolly went behind the kitchenette's screen and he raised his voice a little so she could still hear him easily.

"So the family jewels are gone. Point one. Can you be absolutely positive this Fletcher took them? Obviously you missed them right after he left, but how long ago do you know for sure they were still in the box?"

"While you were still here, Mack, just before he came. Remember I had on those costume earrings--the ones with the green stones--and I took them off when I undressed. I hate earrings in bed, especially dangly ones. And I put them in the box on the dresser. The other things were there then too, or I'd have noticed."

"That makes it sure, all right. How come you missed the stuff so soon after he left? You weren't starting to get dressed again, were you?"

Dolly came around the screen, again with a glass in each hand and again the red kimono gaped open all the way down the front. Mack Irby took his drink from her and then resolutely averted his eyes. "Pull that damn kimono shut and sit down--over there. Now answer my last question."

Dolly sat down across from him and obediently pulled the top of the kimono closed. But she crossed her legs and it fell away from them, quite a lot of Dolly still showed. She said, "No, I wasn't going to get dressed again. I just--well, I just had a sudden hunch, right after he left and just before I called you, and I looked around to see if anything was gone. I looked in my purse first; there wasn't much money in it but it was still there, and then I looked in the jewelry box and it was empty and I knew my hunch had been right.

"You see, Mack, he was in an awful hurry and kind of--well, furtive is the word, I guess, when he left. Almost like he was scared. And besides that, he's in some kind of a jam over money. What he really came here for was to try to borrow some from me."

Mack Irby laughed shortly. "He sure didn't know you, Doll. What kind of money did he want? Did he mention an amount?"

"Five hundred. He offered to pay six back in a week or two. That would have been fair enough, if I knew him. But I probably don't even know his right name--and if Ray Fletcher _is_ his right name he could still be planning to blow town for all I know."

"You played it smart, I'd say. Offering that much interest is suspicious, and besides, the fact that he swiped your jewelry shows he ain't very honest. If you'd of lent him the money you'd never of got it back. Now you said the jewelry wasn't worth much. How much is not much?"

"Well, it was mostly costume stuff. Some of the things maybe cost up to twenty bucks apiece, but they wouldn't have any resale value. The wedding ring, worth ten or fifteen--I mean, that's what it would have cost new, not what he could get for it. And that diamond ring, the one with the flaw. You remember it."

Mack Irby remembered the ring. One of Dolly's "friends" had given it to her about a year ago. She'd turned it over to Mack to have appraised and maybe to sell it for her. It had _looked_ like a good stone and as though it might weigh almost a carat; they'd thought it might be worth several hundred dollars. But the appraisal had been disappointing. Mack's jeweler friend had told him its diameter was deceptive; it was too shallow, cut too thin. And it had a bad flaw, one you could see with the naked eye if you looked at just the right angle. Seventy-five was all he offered for it. And at that price, since it looked to be worth much more, Dolly had decided to keep it.

Dolly seldom wore rings, but once in a while someone wanted to take her out of town for a weekend, and if the someone was a free enough spender she sometimes went. Since they'd be registering as man and wife she kept a plain wedding ring to wear on such occasions. And she thought that a diamond ring worn with it would look good and add verisimilitude.

Mack said, "If that's the lot, he won't get more than fifty bucks from a fence--if a fence would be willing to bother with the stuff at all. If he needs five hundred, he's in for a disappointment. All right, so much for the stuff. And now about Fletcher. I think we can take it for granted the name's a phony, or he wouldn't of risked robbing you."

He thought a moment. "But there's still a possibility. If the jam he's in is so bad he's figuring on blowing town anyway, the name business might not worry him. Let's check something."

He walked over to the telephone table and picked up the directory and opened it. After a minute he said, "There's only one Ray Fletcher listed, a Ray W. Fletcher, seventy-one sixteen South Kramer. How long ago did your Ray Fletcher leave here?"

Dolly looked at her wrist watch--and was suddenly glad she'd kept it on instead of taking it off as she sometimes did. It was a good watch, worth more than all the items she'd lost put together. She said, "About fifteen minutes ago."

Mack said, "That address is to hell and gone on the south side. Take him at least half an hour to get there, so if that Ray Fletcher is home now we can eliminate him."

He picked up the phone and dialed. A man's voice answered, "Ray Fletcher speaking," and Mack said, "Sorry, wrong number," and put the phone down.

He went back to the sofa. "Not our boy; he's home. All right, what do we know about our boy? He told you he's a liquor salesman and I'd say that's probably true, account of his bringing you a case of whisky most of the times he brought you anything. Did he ever mention what outfit he works for?"

Dolly shook her head.

"The cartons the whisky came in. Were they stamped with the name of a distributor?"

"I didn't notice if they were. And the last carton got thrown out at least a month ago. But listen, the whisky was always Belle of Tennessee brand. Would that help? I mean, do all distributors handle all brands?"

"That might help. It'll pretty well pinpoint him if it's a brand his outfit has exclusive franchise for. But damn it, I won't be able to work that angle till tomorrow--and I want to get to him tonight if I possibly can, while he's still got the stuff on him. We won't be in such a strong position if he's got rid of it, or even stashed it somewhere."

He took another sip of his drink. "All right, Doll. Start at the beginning. Where and how did you meet the guy?"

"He called up one evening and said John Evans--that's a guy I was seeing once in a while then--had given him my name and phone number and suggested he give me a ring sometime. Wanted to know if he could drop up and meet me, and bring some liquor. I wasn't doing anything that evening and he sounded nice over the phone so I said sure."

"Know how to get in touch with this John Evans?"

"No. I don't know what happened but I haven't seen him in over a year."

"And John Evans was probably a phony name too. Damn it, Doll, this is a digression but you ought to know the right names of the men you see. Not for blackmail or anything--I know you don't go in for anything like that--but just for your own protection. Like tonight. You can do it. Sooner or later a guy goes in the can and leaves his pants outside and all you got to do is take a quick gander in his wallet for his right name and address. And from then on you'll know who he really is.

"But okay, let's get back to Ray Fletcher. Do you think he's married?"

"I'm almost sure. He never took me out anywhere, for one thing, just came to the apartment. Single guys--I know a few of them--like to show me around; I'm decorative. And another thing; he never stayed all night, usually left around twelve or one. And other little things--yeah, I'm sure he's married."

"Know what kind of a car he drives?"

She shook her head again. "He must drive one, but he never brought it upstairs with him."

"You sure don't know much about him. All right, physical description. Don't see how that'll help tonight, but we might as well get it over with."

"Well, he's about your build, maybe an inch taller."

"Go on."

She giggled. "He's about an inch taller, but you're about an inch longer, Mack."

He looked at her disgustedly. "A lot of help that is, unless I find him in a Turkish bath."

Suddenly he snapped his fingers. "Doll, was he wearing tonight a gray suit, white shirt, blue tie. Sandy hair, no hat?"

"How--? Oh, sure, you must have passed him on your way out. He got here just a minute after you left."

"Good. Then skip the rest of the description; I'll know him if I see him again. We passed in the doorway. But damn it, Doll, you haven't come up with anything yet that will let me find him tonight, and you gotta. Put down that drink and think hard. As many times as he was up here he must have said or done _something_ that'd give me a lead. Think hard."

Dolly Mason closed her eyes and thought hard. After a minute she said, "He's a horse player. Usually had a Racing Form with him, in his pocket. At first, until I convinced him I don't bet, he used to give me tips on horses--and offered to place bets for me if I wanted to take the tips."

"Keep going."

Dolly's eyes opened wide. "Mack honey, I got something. I think Ray is his right _first_ name."

"That helps. How do you know?"

"One evening, maybe six months ago, he must of made up his mind suddenly to make a bet. He used my phone to call some bookie to phone in the bet. Twenty bucks to win--I don't remember the horse or the track. He started out by saying 'This is Ray'; no last name but the bookie must have known him from that."

"Doll, we're getting somewhere. Think hard. Did he call the bookie by any name?"

"I think he did, but--Yeah, I remember. He said 'This is Ray, Joe,' and then went on and gave the bet."

Mack said, "I know two bookies named Joe. It couldn't be Joe Renfeld; he takes only cash bets, no phone business. Runs a cigar store and books on the side. So it's Joe Amico. I'll know in a minute."

He crossed to the telephone table, looked up a number and dialed it. When a voice answered he said, "This is Bill? Mack Irby. Is Joe there? Can I talk to him."

Bill said sure and a minute later Joe's voice said, "Hi, Mack. What can I do you?"

"Joe, you got a customer named Ray. He's a liquor salesman. Can you give me the rest of his name?"

"What do you want with him, Mack? Listen, he owes me dough and if you're going to get him in trouble I'll never collect."

"It's the other way around," Mack said. "He's in trouble all right, but he'll be in worse trouble if I don't find him right away, tonight. He stole some jewelry from a client of mine. If I can get to him before he sells it, there'll be no beef; my client'll settle for getting the stuff back. If he fences it before I get to him, it'll be too late for that, see? I can find him tomorrow easy enough--how many liquor salesmen are there in town named Ray? But that might be too late to keep him out of jail."

Joe Amico grunted. "Guess you got a point. And I guess I pushed him too hard. All right, his last name's Fleck. F-l-e-c-k. I don't remember his address offhand, but it's in the phone book."

"Attaboy, Joe. You wouldn't make a guess which fence he might head for?"

"No, I wouldn't. I know some fences, and so do you, but I don't know which of 'em, if any, Ray might know or know about."

"Okay, one more thing. Got any idea where I might find him tonight? If he didn't head home, that is. I'll give his number a ring first."

"Best I could guess is some downtown tavern, almost any of them. He makes the rounds. Your best bet would be to make 'em too. Will you know him if you see him, Mack?"

"Yeah. Thanks to hell and back, Joe. So long."

He put down the phone and quickly looked up Ray Fleck in the phone book. He looked at the address first. Yes, it was close enough. If Fleck had headed straight for home he'd be there by now. And just maybe that's what he'd done, if he was scared.

He dialed the number and while it rang a dozen times he held his hand over the mouthpiece and spoke to Dolly. "Your boy friend is Ray Fleck. Three-one-two Covington Place. But I guess he didn't head for home." He cradled the telephone. "So I go looking for him."

Dolly ran over to him, put her arms around his neck and pressed her body against his.

"Mack honey, do you have to start _right_ away? Would fifteen or twenty minutes matter?"

Mack Irby laughed. "All right, I don't guess fifteen or twenty minutes will matter."

The red kimono fell almost completely away as he picked her up and carried her into the bedroom.

9:59 P.M.

Ray Fleck reached the edge of downtown afoot. He had walked in from Dolly's, not to save the price of a taxi--what would one lousy buck have mattered out of the thirteen that was all the cash he had left?--but simply because he hadn't seen a cruising cab. And by the time he reached the first place from which he could have phoned for one he was so near town that he knew he'd get there sooner if he kept on walking than if he phoned and waited for a cab.

He was still a bit scared at what he had done, but he was also excited. He didn't know what he had, and it might be anything. Maybe a thousand dollars' worth of stuff, for all he knew. At least a couple of hundred dollars' worth, he thought; the diamond ring alone, from the quick glimpse he got of it, ought to be worth at least that much, even at a fence's price. And he felt certain that it, at least, was genuine; people just don't put glass or a rhinestone into that kind of mounting, like an engagement ring. Or if they do, they use a chunk of glass or a rhinestone that's bigger and flashier, one that looks like a three-carat diamond instead of a one-carat one. But the other stuff could be anything. Oh, probably some of it was costume jewelry, but if even a few pieces were real, he'd settle happily. And if the green stones in those earrings were emeralds they'd be worth at least twice what the diamond was worth. Maybe more. Each of the two stones was at least twice the size of the diamond, and he thought he remembered having heard that good emeralds cost just about as much per carat as diamonds.

Several times he'd been tempted, after he was out of the immediate neighborhood of the scene of his crime and over the worst of his initial panic, to stop under a street light and take a look at what he had, but he resisted the impulse. He didn't know a thing about jewelry and not even a close examination under a bright light would really tell him anything. If some of the pieces were marked _14K_ and others _gold filled_ it would give him a clue but it would tell him nothing about the stones and the stones were what counted.

He might as well hunt Fats Davis right away and let Fats make the appraisal. He'd thought of Fats even before he'd lifted Dolly's jewelry, while he was still making up his mind whether to or not.

He was reasonably sure Fats was a fence. Several people had told him so and he had no reason not to believe them. He didn't know Fats very well but he thought Fats knew him well enough to trust him and do business with him if he did buy and sell hot ice. At any rate, Fats would be able to make an appraisal for him; Fats, whatever his business was now, had been a jeweler once. Everybody knew that much about him.

He might have trouble finding Fats because he didn't know his right first name. He wouldn't be listed in the phone book under _Davis, Fats_, and there'd probably be a hundred or more Davises in the book, too many to try phoning down the line.

But Fats hung out around the downtown joints and there was an even chance he'd run into him if he made the rounds. And if he didn't find Fats he'd be sure sooner or later to run into someone who knew him well enough to tell him how to make contact, or who at least would know Fats's first name.

Jick Walters' place would be the best bet; he'd run into Fats oftener there than in any other tavern. And Jick at least knew Fats, although Ray didn't know how well.

He headed for Jick's, but since there were two other taverns he had to pass on the way, he made a quick stop in each of them. Business was slow in both; there were only a few customers and none of them people he knew. But he knew both bartenders and asked them about Fats. One of them didn't know him at all; the other knew him, but no better than Ray did and didn't come up with anything helpful, even a first name.

Business was slow at Jick's, too, but at least Jick himself was behind the bar. He waited till he'd ordered a drink and Jick had made it for him before he broached the subject.

"Jick, I'm looking for Fats Davis. But I don't know his first name so I can't find him in the phone book. You know how I can get in touch with him? It's important."

"Yeah, I know," Jick said.

"How?"

Jick grinned. "Turn right and walk a dozen steps. He's in the end booth down there."

Ray looked that way. He'd thought the booth was empty, but he realized now that Fats's head wouldn't show over the top of the partition. Fats was almost literally a five-by-five. He wasn't more than two inches over five feet and couldn't have been more than a few inches under five feet around the waist.

"Swell," Ray said. "What's he drinking? I'll take one over to him."

"Straight shots. But go ahead, Ray. I'll bring his drink over."

"Thanks, Jick." Ray picked up his own drink and strolled back. "Hi, Fats," he said. "Can I talk to you a minute?"

Fats's little eyes weren't especially cordial when he looked up, but he nodded, and Ray slid into the other side of the booth, facing the front of the tavern.

"Want to ask you how much some stuff is worth," Ray said. "And if by any chance you want to buy it, that'll be swell."

"Got it with you?"

Ray nodded, "But I ordered you a drink when Jick told me you were here. Let's wait till he's--"

But Jick was already there with a shot and a chaser and put them down on the table. When Ray had paid him and he'd gone back behind the bar, Fats asked, "More than one piece?"

"Yeah," Ray said, and reached for his pocket.