Chapter V: Part 5

But Fats said, "Wait a minute," and took a clean handkerchief from his pocket, unfolded it and spread it in front of him. "Put it on this," he said, "so one of us can pick it up in one grab if somebody starts back this way. You're facing front; slide over to the outer edge of your seat so you can watch that way."

Ray took the crumpled handkerchief out of his pocket first and then managed to get hold of all the jewelry at once. He put it in the middle of Fats's spread handkerchief and then, as Fats had suggested, slid over to where he could watch toward the front of the tavern. He didn't think anybody would head back--there were only four other customers in the place--but it was best to play safe.

But he watched Fats out of a corner of his eye. Fats stirred through the stuff with a stubby index finger. He picked up one of the earrings with the green stones first, looked at it closely and then put it down again. He felt glad things had worked out this way, that Fats hadn't made him tell what he thought he had to sell. If the earrings were glass it would have made things embarrassing if he'd told Fats they were emeralds. And the other way around would have been worse. If he'd told Fats it was all costume jewelry except the diamond, then Fats could cheat him all too easily if the stones really were emeralds.

Fats picked up the diamond ring and took a jeweler's loupe from his pocket. He screwed the loupe into his right eye and studied the diamond through it. Briefly. Then he put the ring back with the other pieces and the loupe back in his pocket. He wadded up the handkerchief and pushed it across to Ray Fleck.

"Put it in your pocket," he said. "It's all junk. What did you think _I_ could do with it? Keep the handkerchief. Fair trade for the drink."

He picked up his shot and tossed it down, took a short sip from the water chaser and then wiped his thick lips with the back of his hand.

"My God, Fats," Ray said. "You trying to tell me that isn't even a diamond in that ring? I know the other stuff is costume jewelry, but--" He did know it now.

"Sure it's a diamond. _What_ a diamond. Got a flaw in it you could crawl inside, and it's a cheater cut, thin like a poker chip."

"You mean it's not worth _anything_?"

Fats Davis shrugged. "Maybe fifty bucks, mounting and all. It's not too bad a mounting."

Ray Fleck was stunned, but he didn't doubt that Fats was telling the truth. Of course Dolly, smart little bitch that she was, wouldn't keep anything valuable right on top of her dresser where any man who visited her could swipe it--as easily as he had. If she owned anything valuable in the way of jewelry she'd at least keep it out of sight and probably locked up at that.

Well, anyway, fifty bucks would again put him in shape to sit in on the poker. He sighed. "Okay, Fats. I'll settle for fifty bucks."

Fats shook his head. "Huh-uh. I don't want it. I said the ring might be worth that--but I don't mess with peanut stuff. You take as much risk and don't make anything."

"What risk?" Ray asked. "Damn it, Fats, I didn't steal this stuff. It's mine." He realized that sounded silly. "My wife's, I mean, but this is a community property state and that makes it mine too."

"I'll buy that," Fats said. "But does she know you're selling it? There could still be a beef. She misses it and calls copper, and you got to go along with her, or confess up. And tell what you did with the stuff--and that gets my name on the blotter even if they can't hang a rap on me. Huh-uh, Fleck." He shook his head again. "If the stuff was worth a couple of grand, I'd take a chance maybe, but not for junk jewelry."

"Fats, she knows about it, gave it to me to see if I could get anything out of it when I told her I was in a jam. Listen, the costume pieces are stuff she was tired of. And she was married before, and the engagement and wedding rings are from her first marriage--and that's how come neither of us knew the diamond wasn't as good as it looked. We never had it appraised or anything."

"Take it to a hock shop if it's a clean deal. They'll give you as much as I offered on the diamond, and maybe even a little something on the other junk. Like the wedding band; you'll get old gold value for that, if nothing more."

"But damn it, Fats. I need the money tonight. The hock shops are closed."

Fats sighed. "All right, get your wife on the phone and let me talk to her. If she says she gave you that ring to sell I'll buy it. Otherwise no dice."

"She's out with friends, damn it. I can't reach her on the phone. But I'm telling you the truth, Fats."

Fats slid out of the booth and stood up. "Sorry, pal. No dice." He turned to the front and said, "Oh-oh. Fuzz. Better get that back in your pocket. I'm getting out of here."

Looking past Fats as he walked to the front, Ray saw that two uniformed policemen had just come in. One of them he knew, Hoff. The other he knew by sight as Hoff's partner. A momentary chill went down his spine, but then he realized they couldn't possibly be looking for him. Not possibly. Just the same he was relieved when Hoff caught his eye and waved a hand casually, then stopped at the bar with his partner.

He quickly stuffed the handkerchief with the junk jewelry back in his pocket and stood up. He wanted to get out of here too, although he didn't know yet where he was going.

He intended to walk past the two policemen but Hoff stopped him by turning as he approached and saying, "Hi, Ray. Have a drink." And it would have looked funny if he'd turned it down.

"Thanks, sure," he said. "How goes it?"

Hoff nodded to Jick and then turned back. "Hell of a night. The psycho's out. Every squad car we've got is out and they're ordering us around like crazy. We dropped in for a quickie."

He had to pretend to be interested. "You mean he's killed another dame."

"No, not yet, but he's on the prowl. Made a try late this afternoon. Dame alone in a flat on Koenig. Knocked on the door and called out 'Western Union,' and she opened up--but on a chain. When he saw or heard the chain he ran fast; she didn't get a look at him. She phoned in, but he was out of the neighborhood by the time we got there."

"Sounds like it was him all right," Ray said. Jick had put a drink in front of him and he said, "Thanks," and lifted his glass to Hoff.

Hoff said, "And he made another try just a little while ago--or we think it was him, anyway. Must of decided women weren't opening doors for him any more. Dame in a cottage out on Autremont heard someone trying to break in a window and phoned in. Nobody when we got there--but there were chisel marks on a window, so she wasn't imagining things."

"That could have been a burglar, couldn't it?"

"Burglars don't break in lighted places with someone inside. He could of seen her from the window he tried. And the phone too. Quit trying the window and ran when he saw her dialing."

Hoff's partner leaned around him. "Well, we know now he drives a car, anyway. She heard it start up while she was still talking over the phone." He clunked down his glass. "Hoffy, we gotta go. This was a quickie, remember?"

"Can't I buy you boys one?" Ray Fleck asked.

Hoff said, "Thanks, Ray, but no. We're taking a chance being outa the squad car this long. If the radio operator calls our number and we don't answer, we're on the carpet plenty. So long."

They went out. Ray looked at his glass and was surprised to find that it was empty. Morosely, for lack of a better idea, for lack of any place else to go or anything else to do, he put money on the bar and said, "One more, Jick."

Jick picked up the glass. "Anything wrong, Ray? You look kind of--well, not so good."

"Everything's wonderful," Ray said. "It's a great, wide, wonderful world."

Except, where was he going to get four hundred and eighty bucks by tomorrow night?

10:25 P.M.

Benny Knox had left his newsstand early; usually he didn't leave until eleven o'clock or when he'd sold out on papers, whichever came first. But tonight at a quarter after ten there'd been only a few papers left and he'd decided not to wait any longer; he'd waited that long only because Mr. Hoff had told him to finish out the evening and then go to the police station to turn himself in. That had disappointed him; he had hoped that Mr. Hoff and his partner would take him in themselves in the squad car, with the siren going and the red light flashing. He had had rides in automobiles only a few times in his life and never one in a squad car.

Now inside the police station he stood in front of the tall receiving desk, at which a gray-haired man was busily writing. The man hadn't looked up yet. That is, he'd looked up when Benny had come in but then had looked down and started writing again. Benny stood there waiting and feeling awkward, but he didn't want to interrupt the man. Under Benny's arm was clutched the cigar box, now with a rubber band around it, that held his receipts for the day. One thing about the money in it puzzled him. He'd counted it before he left the stand, because he always did, and there were about ten dollars less in it than there should have been. He couldn't figure out what could have happened to ten dollars--except for a vague recollection of someone laughing at him; he remembered feeling angry about that but he couldn't remember who the someone had been or how it connected with the ten dollars.

The gray-haired man at the desk put down his pen but he still didn't look toward Benny. He picked up the telephone and said into it, "Get me Burton." And then a few seconds later, "Lieutenant, Benny Knox is here. Shall I send him on upstairs, or--" And then, "Okay."

He put down the phone and looked at Benny. "The lieutenant wants to talk to you, in his office." He jerked a thumb. "Down that corridor, second door on your right."

Benny found the door and knocked on it lightly. He opened it and went in when a voice called out for him to do so. The lieutenant with the red hair was back of a desk.

He said, "Sit down, Benny. Officer Hoff radioed in earlier that you want to confess to two murders. Is that right?"

Benny sat down. "Yes, sir, Lieutenant. I did kill them women, both of them. I choked 'em to death." He held up the evidence--his hands.

The red-haired lieutenant nodded gravely. "Benny, we'll have to hold you overnight and Doc Kranz will talk to you tomorrow. What happens after that depends on what he says. Do you understand?"

Benny nodded. Although he didn't see where a doctor came in, that didn't matter as long as they were going to put him in jail and punish him. Then God and his father would forgive him and everything would be all right.

The lieutenant said, "One thing, Benny. That woman who takes care--that you stay with. Does she know you were coming here? If not, I'll phone her to save her worrying when you don't come home tonight."

Benny shook his head, feeling ashamed of not having thought about Mrs. Saddler. She _would_ worry about him. And wait up. She never went to bed until he got home.

"Let's see," the lieutenant said, reaching to pull the phone book over in front of him. "Her name's Saddler, isn't it? And on Fergus Street?"

"I got her number here, sir," Benny said, glad of a chance to be helpful. He took a card from his pocket and handed it across the desk. It was an "in case of accident or illness, notify" card with Mrs. Saddler's name, address, and phone number on it. She'd asked him to carry it always and once in a while asked him to show it to her so she'd be sure he hadn't lost it.

"Thanks, Benny." The lieutenant took the card and gave the number on it to the switchboard operator over the phone. And then he was saying, "Mrs. Saddler? I'm phoning you about Benny--this is Lieutenant Burton speaking--so you won't worry when he doesn't get home tonight.

"Yes, he's here and he's just confessed to two murders--the two recent sex killings--and.... Yes, I know he didn't do them. We're not charging him with them. But you remember what I explained to you about a year ago--that if Benny ever confessed to anything again we'd have to hold him until Dr. Kranz has a chance to talk to.... No, I wouldn't dare call the doctor tonight; the chief would have my ears if I did.... Sometime tomorrow, and we'll try to get him to make it early enough so Benny won't lose the whole day if Doc says to.... Oh, no, Mrs. Saddler, it wouldn't do any good at all for you to come down. We wouldn't be able to let you see him anyway, tonight. But we'll take good care of him, and we'll phone you again tomorrow as soon as there's anything to report. I won't be on duty then, but I'll leave a memo.... All right, I'll tell him. Goodnight, Mrs. Saddler."

He put the phone down and smiled at Benny. "She said to tell you good night for her, and for _you_ not to worry. You've got a fine friend there, Benny."

Benny nodded. He did feel sorry about Mrs. Saddler and that she'd never see him again unless she visited him in jail. She was like a mother to him, or the nearest to a mother he'd ever known. Then he remembered something the lieutenant had said to her.

"But, Lieutenant, sir, you told her I didn't do it. I _did_, honestly, I remember, I choked them. You got to believe me."

"Just a minute, Benny," the lieutenant said. He picked up the phone again. "Give me the jail--Wait, don't. Just call them yourself and tell them to send down a couple of boys to pick up a customer, in my office. Thanks."

He looked back at Benny. "Now Benny listen. Maybe you're not yet in the mood to believe _me_, but I'm going to tell you this anyway. I like you and I hope you get by Doc Kranz again, and I think you'll have a better chance of doing that if I can get you started thinking straight tonight. Then maybe tomorrow you'll realize how wrong you were thinking.

"Listen, Benny, we _know_ you didn't commit those murders, and I'll tell you how we know. After each one of them we checked a hell of a lot of suspects. Every man who had a record of sex offenses, any kind. Every known psychopath, everyone known to us to be seriously abnormal or subnormal mentally. You--uh--"

"I know I'm not very bright, Lieutenant. I don't mind your saying so as long as you don't laugh at me. I don't like people to laugh at me."

"I'm not laughing, Benny. Listen to me, listen hard. We checked you on both of them. On one you've got an absolutely solid alibi; you _couldn't_ have done it. We know just when that one happened, ten o'clock in the evening. We could rule you out without even leaving the station, because Hoff remembered it was ten o'clock, within a few minutes, when he picked up a paper from you at your stand, three miles or so from where the woman was being killed. Your alibi on the other murder isn't quite so solid, because we don't know exactly what time it happened. But we know you were at your stand all evening till eleven and you got home about twenty after, just the time it takes you to walk that far. We can't prove you didn't sneak out later, of course--but you _didn't_, Benny. Whoever killed either one of those women killed both of them. That's for sure if anything is."

Benny looked and felt miserable. The lieutenant didn't believe him, and neither had Mr. Hoff. That much at least of the lieutenant's speech had registered.

He said unhappily. "But I _did_ kill them, both of them. I remember, Lieutenant. I'm sure."

"You just think you're sure, Benny. Now before you go to sleep tonight and in the morning after you wake up you think over what I said and make yourself a little less sure. I--"

The door opened and two men in the uniforms of turnkeys from the city jail on the upper floors of the building came in. One of them, the tall one, said, "Package for us, Lieutenant? You through with him?"

The lieutenant sighed. "Yeah, I guess I'm through with him. This is Benny Knox, boys. He'll be your guest tonight. A disposition order will come up sometime tomorrow."

"Sure. Just in the tank?"

"Hell, no. Benny never took a drink in his life; don't put him in with the drunks. You've got cell space, haven't you?"

"Yeah. What's with the cigar box he's got? A time bomb, maybe?"

"It's got money in it," the lieutenant said, "and be sure there's the same amount when you turn it in."

The tall turnkey grinned. "Why, Lieutenant! Have you frisked him otherwise?"

"No, Benny wouldn't be carrying a--Oh, I suppose we might as well protect ourselves by following the routine. He just might get a funny idea, at that. You take care of it."

"All right, chum," the turnkey said to Benny. "Come on; we'll take care of you. We'll give you the bridal suite, and you can be making up your mind whether you want a blonde or a brunette to go with it."

Benny realized that was a joke so he didn't try to answer. He went with them along two corridors and up several flights in an elevator, then along another corridor and through a door into an office in which there was a desk with a young male clerk behind it.

At the desk they asked him for the cigar box; they opened it and the clerk counted it. When he called out and wrote down the total, it was the same amount Benny himself had counted it to be just before he'd left the newsstand. Meanwhile the turnkeys had asked him to empty his pockets onto the desk and he had. They patted him a few places and then gave him back what he'd taken out of his pockets except for one thing, a small penknife he used for cutting the rope around bundles of papers and for cleaning his fingernails. They asked him to take off his belt and he did. He wasn't wearing a necktie; he never wore one except to church. And they didn't take his shoelaces because he was wearing moccasins. Hard shoes hurt his feet and he always wore moccasins except on Sunday.

Then they took him down another corridor, through a steel door, past the barred doors of cells. Then they opened a cell door and the tall turnkey said, "All right, chum, this is it. Home, sweet home."

Benny went in and they closed the door behind him. The closing door made a loud clang and someone somewhere yelled out, "Quiet, you bastards!" And then they went away and left him alone.

The cell was long and narrow, about six feet by fifteen. Enough light came in from the corridor through the bars so he could see his way around. There was a double-decker bunk bed--with no one in either the upper nor the lower--two chairs and, back in the far corner, a commode. That was all, or it was all that he could see now, in the dimness.

He sighed and took off his suit coat, hung it over the back of one of the chairs and put his moccasins under the chair.

He started to get into the lower bunk and then remembered that he'd never slept in a high bed, an upper bunk, in his life and he wondered if it would feel any different, so he climbed into the upper and stretched himself out.

The lieutenant had told him there was something he should think about tonight and he tried to remember what it was. But within seconds, and before he could remember, he was asleep.

10:45 P.M.

Ray Fleck still stood at the bar in Jick's, where Hoff and his partner had left him, nursing a drink and moodily making wet circles on the bar with the bottom of his glass. Twice Jick, who wasn't very busy, had said something to him but he'd answered briefly and without looking up so Jick knew he hadn't wanted to talk and had moved along the bar to someone else.

He was thinking about the poker game that would be starting soon now and he was blowing hot and cold on the idea of trying to get into it. There was still one chance that he could: the diamond ring. It was a strictly cash game, no checks cashed and no borrowing. But he might be able to make an exception to the borrowing rule if he had security like that to offer. Sure, he could. He remembered now one night when Luke Evarts had gone broke and had managed to keep going a while by borrowing thirty-five bucks from Doc Corwin, putting up as security an almost new and quite expensive wrist watch. And the diamond ring, damn it, _looked_ good, looked like it ought to be worth several hundred dollars, and none of the boys was a jeweler or carried a magnifying glass. One of them might be willing to lend him a hundred on it, or at least fifty.

Of course it would be embarrassing as hell to have to go up there to Harry Brambaugh's flat with no money at all and have to try to raise money, on whatever security, to get into the game. Much more embarrassing than going there with a reasonable amount of money and raising more, as Luke had done with the wrist watch, after losing it. It would really be embarrassing if he went there and was unable to play at all, if no one would lend him even fifty on the damn ring.

But that wasn't the important reason why he was beginning to blow cold on the poker. In as bad a jam as he was in a little embarrassment, losing a little face, was something he could put up with. If he didn't raise Amico's money he was going to lose worse than face. He was beginning to worry about his luck, as far as tonight was concerned. Everything, but everything, had gone sour on him (he thought; he didn't know that his real troubles hadn't started yet). Bad luck runs in streaks and he didn't have the slightest indication that his was going to change tonight.

And a better idea had come to him, standing there at the bar.

He could go home soon, even now, and be there, sober, when Ruth got home around midnight. She'd be surprised to see him, after their quarrel, and maybe even pleased, if she was over her mad.

But whether she was still mad or not he wouldn't let it develop into a quarrel again. He'd be calm and patient with her, and he'd be able to explain this time what he'd not been able to explain this afternoon--exactly what Joe Amico's ultimatum had been, exactly what Joe's deadline was and what he'd do if the money wasn't given him by then. She'd listen; he'd _make_ her listen. She was a stubborn bitch all right and that damned policy was the thing she was most stubborn about, but she _did_ have common sense. If he could explain to her and convince her, and he thought he could, that his keeping his job depended completely on his having five hundred dollars tomorrow, she'd at least see that her own selfish interests were in this case identical with his.

Jick Walters was across the bar from him again. He didn't say anything but he glanced interrogatively at Ray's glass, and Ray saw it was empty. Ray nodded, and put money on the bar while Jick made him another drink.

He could do it, he thought. He could talk Ruth into it--if he could avoid losing his temper and stay calm and reasonable, keep her that way. And thank God the home office of her insurance company was right here; they could go to it together any time tomorrow and she'd be able to get a check while they waited. No sweat at all about Amico's deadline; he wouldn't wait till evening to get the money to him.

It would work. He wondered why he hadn't thought of it sooner, right after Amico had read the riot act to him, instead of wasting time trying first to borrow money from Dolly, and then stealing her junky jewelry. He'd get rid of that tomorrow, too, if Ruth was reasonable about the insurance business. He'd mail it back to Dolly--and then call her up and tell her he'd done so, apologize, and explain. And if she was reasonable about it and not too mad, he'd even be able to see her again sometime, when he was solvent again.

But handling Ruth came first. He found himself planning what he'd say to her, as he'd plan a sales talk. He'd have to eat a little crow, and make some promises. Not to quit gambling; she'd never believe him if he promised that, and disbelief would antagonize her. But he would promise--and sincerely, because he never wanted to get into a jam like this again--never again to gamble on credit and go in over his head. He could promise too to pay back the loan against the policy at, say, twenty-five a week, so the full ten thousand would be coming when the endowment was due. And even make the payments for a few weeks until things were on even keel again. He could tell her--

"Beg your pardon, Mr. Fleck. Like to talk to you."

He'd been aware, while thinking, of someone coming up alongside him at the bar and ordering and getting a drink, and now he turned to see who it was. He didn't know the guy. Medium height, stocky and husky-looking, reddish face, and eyes like pale blue marbles.

"You don't know me," the man said. "My name's Mack Irby."

Ray Fleck nodded, not too cordially. "Glad to know you, Mr. Kirby," he said. "Got to leave in a minute but--what's it about?"

"Irby, not Kirby. Mack Irby--does sound like Kirby when you say both names together. Look, it's kind of private. End booth back there's empty, and so's the one next it. Let's go back to the end booth."

Ray frowned. "I said I got just a minute. You can tell me what it's about right here." The guy might be a damn insurance salesman, for all he knew. Or more likely a bill collector.

Irby said, "Let's say I want to talk about a friend of yours, Mr. Fleck. His name's something like yours. It's Ray Fletcher."

Ray Fleck winced. He knew that the wince was visible, even obvious, but he couldn't help it; the shock had been too great. Here was trouble, new trouble, just when he'd thought he had figured a safe answer to the problem of his debt to the bookie. Now this. He had no doubt what it concerned. At various times in his life and for various reasons he'd used a name other than his own, but not always the same one; to no one but Dolly Mason had he ever given his name as Fletcher.

But how had he been found so quickly? The only thing he could think of was that Dolly must have known all along, or for a long time, what his real identity was. There'd been times--not tonight--when she'd been briefly alone with his clothes while he'd gone into the bathroom; on any of those occasions she could have taken a quick look at identification in his wallet or papers in his pocket. Just what a girl like Dolly would do. Why hadn't he thought of....

"Well, Fleck?" There was an edge of impatience in Irby's voice now. "Want to talk in the back booth, or down at headquarters?"

"The booth," Ray said. His voice didn't come out quite right. But he picked up his glass and started toward the rear of the tavern. And a sudden thought came and with it a sudden hope that this wasn't as bad a jam as he had feared. It wasn't a pinch--at least not yet. The cop--he _must_ be a cop; he looked and acted like one--hadn't simply pinched him; he wanted to talk, and in private.

That meant Dolly hadn't simply called the police, given his name and description and reported the theft. She hadn't wanted the publicity, for obvious reasons. This Irby must be a friend of hers on the force--either a plain-clothes cop or a regular cop who was off duty when she called him. And she'd have told him she didn't want to make a complaint if she could get her stuff back without making one. Thank God, he thought, Fats Davis hadn't bought any of the stuff after all, and he still had it intact, ready to hand back. If he'd sold the ring for fifty they'd claim it was worth more and there'd still be trouble.

But, he thought as he slid into the booth, he'd let Irby talk first. He wouldn't make the mistake he'd made with Amico earlier by talking out of turn, admitting to having dragged down Connolly's thirty-buck bet when Sam-the-waiter's smaller bet was the only one Amico had known about. Just conceivably, although he didn't see how, this current deal didn't even concern the jewelry at all.

Irby slid in across from him, where Fats had sat only half an hour ago.

Irby said, "Keep your hands on top of the table, Fleck. The stuff's in your left pants pocket--you unconsciously put your hand over it while you were walking back to make sure it was still there. And I wouldn't want you to try to get any idea of ditching it here in the booth. I'd have to take you in right away if you tried that."

It was the jewelry then, all right. And there wasn't any use in his denying it--or of volunteering any information either. Ray Fleck just nodded. And kept his hands in sight.

Irby said, "All right, I'll put my cards on the table. Or my card." He took a card from the breast pocket of his coat and put it down in front of Ray. _Mack Irby, Private Investigator._ And an address and a phone number. "Put it in your pocket. You might want to use me sometime to get you out of a jam. But not _this_ jam; I've already got a client. And you can guess who it is, without straining yourself."

Ray Fleck nodded again. And to avoid discussion and keep things moving he put the card into his own breast pocket.

"Meanwhile," Irby said, "don't let the fact that I'm a private detective and not a cop dazzle you into thinking I can't arrest you, or that I won't if I have to. I carry a deputy's badge, for one thing. And if I didn't I can still make a citizen's arrest if I find someone in the act of committing a crime. And you are; you're in possession of stolen property. And if you think I can't handle you--" He pulled back his coat far enough so Ray could see the butt of a flat automatic in a shoulder holster. "Just don't try to make a run for it."

"I'm not running," Ray said. "But you wouldn't shoot a man for--"

"In the leg I would. Try me and see."

"Look, Irby," Ray said. "You don't want to arrest me or you would have right away. Dolly just wants her junk back, and I'm willing to give it back. I've still got it all. So why don't I just give it to you and call it square. And you can give her my apologies too."

"It's not that simple, Fleck. My client will settle for restitution--but full restitution, and the way she wants it. You know how women are. They get tired of clothes and of jewelry and would rather have new things than old ones. She'd much rather have the cash value of that jewelry than the stuff itself back, so she could buy new to replace it. And there's the matter of the fee I'll have to charge her. I think she should be reimbursed for that, don't you?"

Ray Fleck licked his suddenly dry lips. "Is this a shakedown, blackmail? If it is, it won't work. I'm broke, flat broke and in debt already."

"Let's take those points one at a time, Fleck. First, blackmail. Blackmail is a crime. If you think I'm trying to blackmail you, you can arrest me. Citizen's arrest. And I'll arrest you for grand larceny and we'll handcuff ourselves together--I've got cuffs, right in my hip pocket--and go in to headquarters and accuse each other. I can make my charge stick, especially if I don't let you get rid of what's in your pocket, and I assure you I won't let you. Your charge would be your word against mine, and my word's damned good down there. They'd laugh at you. Shall we do it that way?"

Ray Fleck put out a hand for his glass but the hand trembled and he put it down on the table again. "All right, you've got me. But damn it, you can't get blood out of a turnip. I _am_ broke. I--"

Irby put up a hand to stop him.

"I know quite a bit more about you, Fleck, than I did when I started looking for you a little less than an hour ago. You weren't in the first five bars I tried, but the bartender or owner knew you in every one of them. I know you're married. And I know which outfit you sell for--J. and B. and that you've been with them for quite a while. Nobody guessed your income at less than a hundred a week and most thought more. So, broke at the moment or not, I figure you can raise the money somehow--and I don't care how you do it--to make adequate restitution to Miss Mason. And I figure the amount should be a nice even thousand dollars."

At the expression on Ray's face, Irby raised a hand. "I don't know whether you've tried to fence the stuff as yet. If you have, you're aware it won't bring anything like that sum. But don't forget there's a terrific difference between a fence's price, and a retail jeweler's. And Miss Mason will be replacing those items at retail; I'd say it will cost her five hundred dollars, or almost that. Say that half of the other five hundred is my fee--and I'm sure you'll agree that under the circumstances that shouldn't come out of Miss Mason's pocket. Call the other half punitive damages, or payment for the mental anguish Miss Mason suffered in learning that a friend whom she'd trusted turned out to be a sneak thief. Break it down any way you like, but that's the amount it's going to add up to."

Ray Fleck said bitterly, "It _is_ blackmail then. Damn you, Irby, I'm tempted--"

"To spend six months in jail--and lose your job, your friends, and probably your wife if she's worth anything to you? Just to save a lousy grand?"

Irby leaned forward to reach into his left hip pocket and brought out a pair of handcuffs. "I tried to give you a break," he said, "but if you'd rather go to jail, let's get it over with."

Ray said miserably, "You win. But--how long will I have to raise it? It may take me--"

"We'll worry about that later. For tonight, if you want to walk out of here free, two painless steps are all you got to do. First, write a check for a thousand dollars made out to Miss Dolly Mason, date it today." He held up a hand to stop Ray's protest. "Don't tell me you haven't got a thousand in your account. I'll concede that, or you wouldn't be broke. I'll tell my client when to cash it. Let me worry about that."

Ray said sullenly, "I've got a dollar and some cents in the account, just enough to hold it open. All right. But I've got to get my wallet out of my hip pocket to get a check." Irby nodded, and he took out his wallet and took from it one of several blank checks he kept folded in one of the compartments. Irby offered him a pen, but he shook his head and took his own from his inside coat pocket, and wrote the check.

"Don't put the pen away," Irby told him. "One more step." He read the check carefully and put it into his own wallet. Then he took from his coat pocket a folded sheet of blank paper. He unfolded it and put it in front of Ray Fleck. "Now a confession. Put the date down and I'll dictate the rest."

"Confession! My God, you've got the check. Why do you want a confession too?"

"Think, Fleck. We might have to prove what that check was given for. Maybe you haven't thought of this yet, but you will: If I let you walk out of here free what's to prevent you from ditching the stolen property down the nearest sewer right away--and then, first thing tomorrow morning, stopping payment on the check? And if she tried to make trouble your story--you'd think of it--would be you'd given her the check on a drunken generous impulse and had reconsidered, especially when you sobered up and realized you didn't have money in the bank to cover it. Be embarrassing for you to have to tell a story like that, but how could Dolly disprove it?"

Ray Fleck understood and nodded miserably; his mind _had_ been playing around with some such idea, although he hadn't worked out the details yet. He wrote down the date. And what Irby dictated to him after that. It wasn't long, but it sewed him up completely and left no loopholes. It even accounted for the fact that restitution was being made by check instead of return of the jewelry by stating that he had already disposed of several items of the stolen property. It didn't incriminate Dolly in any way by implying that he had ever been intimate with her.

He signed it and pushed it across. Irby folded the paper and put it in his pocket. He said, "Okay, you can have this back when my client has cashed the check."

Ray Fleck stared miserably down into his glass, not wanting to look at his tormentor. It was going to take him months, he was thinking, to get himself out of this, even if Ruth came through and took him off the hook on his gambling debt.

He heard Irby slide out of the booth. And then, standing outside, Irby bent over the end of the booth table. "By the way, Fleck," he said, "you owe Joe Amico some money too. That's only a gambling debt and this is a larceny rap. This comes first. Understand?"

Startled, Ray looked up, into those light blue marble-like eyes. He said, "Good God, man, I've got only till tomorrow evening on that. I can't possibly raise a thousand in a day. It'll take me weeks."

"It better not," Irby said. "This comes ahead of a gambling debt, and I'm not kidding. If you're paying off Amico tomorrow evening, you're paying this off sooner. Tomorrow's Friday, and it's not going to wait over the weekend. Your bank closes at three tomorrow, and Miss Mason will be there just before then with the check. If it's 'insufficient funds' the confession and the check both go to the police."

"God, Irby, I can't possibly--"

"You better, and I don't care how. See a loan shark, sell your house, your car or your wife, anything. Rob a bank for all I care. But this check will be presented for cashing at your bank at three tomorrow."

He turned and walked away, as casually as though he hadn't left a desperate man behind him. Ray Fleck reached for his drink. His hand shook badly but there was so little left in the glass that he didn't spill any. He drank it at a gulp.

He wanted to get out, away from everybody, to walk the night alone and try to think, _to think_. But he wanted Irby to have time to get clear first. He strode to the front of the tavern and stood looking out of the window. He saw Irby get into a car parked across the street and drive away.

Then he himself left, and walked. Not even a car to drive in tonight, he thought, feeling sorry for himself, and as though thinking about that one little trouble would help him forget his _real_ troubles. But he didn't dare try to forget them, he realized; he had to find an answer. If there was an answer.

He saw an open sewer grating at the first corner and for a moment he was tempted to push the damned jewelry, handkerchief and all, through it. But the thought came to him that that would be a useless gesture now. With the written confession in Irby's hands, soon in Dolly's, having the stuff on him was no additional danger to him now. Besides, it was worth _something_. If a fence had considered giving him fifty for the ring, probably a hock shop proprietor would give him at least that and maybe more tomorrow. And since the police didn't have a list for checking there'd be no danger selling the ring openly now. No use throwing fifty bucks or more down the sewer. Maybe _Uncle_ would give him a few bucks, say five for all of it, for the costume stuff.

He thought again of the ring in connection with the poker game. The game would be starting by now. But--oh, hell, it was hopeless. He needed fifteen hundred now, fourteen hundred and eighty to be exact, and he'd never seen money like that change hands in the game. A few hundred, never more than five or six, was as much as he'd ever seen anybody win or lose, and not that much very often. It would have been a miracle if he'd have got in the game and won enough to pay off Amico.

His only chance, his _only_ chance, now was Ruth and her insurance policy. (What if she'd get killed by a car on the way home from work tonight? He'd have the whole ten thousand coming, as her beneficiary, and his troubles would be gone. Eight and a half thousand left after paying off one and a half thousand. But things like that never happened, not when you desperately needed to have them happen.) But what remotely credible story could he make up when he'd needed only five hundred late this afternoon? Not that he'd lost another thousand gambling--if she did believe that, it would make her so mad she'd be more likely to walk out on him than meekly agree to borrow that much on the policy for him. And she probably wouldn't believe him to begin with, and he couldn't blame her; he'd never gambled for stakes like that before, a grand in one evening. The four-eighty to Amico had been lost in his bad-luck run over several weeks.

But there had to be _some_ way out. There _had_ to be.

He'd walked two blocks before he decided that walking wasn't doing him any good. His mind was going in circles, getting nowhere. He could think better sitting down. And besides, the shock of Mack Irby had knocked off his slight edge, had knocked all the alcohol out of him. And he could think better with a slight edge, just a slight one, than cold sober. He needed a drink and needed it badly.

The Palace Bar was coming up. It was a place he ordinarily didn't like and seldom drank at, especially since he'd never been able to get the place on his customer list. It was mostly a workingman's bar, doing a beer trade. But they did sell whisky, and any port in a storm. Maybe it would be a better place right now than most because he'd almost certainly not run into anybody he knew there. And he didn't want to see anybody he knew.

He played safe by looking into the window first. There were a few men in the place, mostly down at the far end of the bar, but they were all strangers. Still better, he didn't even know the bartender. Kowalsky, who ran the place, wasn't there himself and the bartender must be a new man he'd put on recently.

Ray Fleck went in and took a stool at the corner of the bar, facing the back. The bartender came over and he ordered a double, a highball. It came and he paid for it.

He sipped at it and tried to think, but nothing came, nothing constructive. He thought, damn Amico; if Amico hadn't put the heat on him, if Amico hadn't been so tough, he'd still be all right; he'd have got Amico paid off sooner or later and he wouldn't have been tempted to steal Dolly's stuff. And damn Dolly and double damn Irby; he hadn't had time to get to her place yet, but soon they'd be celebrating his check and confession and laughing at him. And then going to bed together to celebrate some more. Irby hadn't fooled him by calling his client _Miss Mason_; he was one of her men all right, and probably her steady. He wondered how many other shakedown rackets they'd worked together.

Most of all, damn Ruth. It all had started by her being selfish and unreasonable this afternoon, refusing him the five hundred he'd needed then. If she'd been reasonable and sensible then, none of the rest would have happened, none of it.

Irby had said facetiously "sell your wife." God, if only he _could_ sell her. What a mistake it had been for him ever to have married in the first place. A sudden thought came to him: that damn Greek she worked for was soft on her. Maybe--No, it wouldn't work; Mikos wouldn't lend him money, soft on Ruth or not. Mikos would want him to get into trouble, bad enough trouble so Ruth would leave him and give Mikos a free field with her.

But there _had_ to be an answer.

He stared down into his highball, looking for one.

11:16 P.M.

This is the transcript of a conversation that might possibly have happened. If you believe in such things you'll come to see that it could have happened. If you do not believe, it doesn't matter.

"He is set up, Sire. Everything is ready when you say the word."

"You're sure he is sufficiently frightened, sufficiently desperate?"

"Yes, Sire."

"Ready for murder? Remember, he has committed every other sin, but he has not ever thought of murder. Not seriously, that is."

"Only because, Sire, he has known that he could not get away with it. Now we present him with the perfect opportunity. A chance to kill his wife in such a way that it cannot possibly be pinned on him. A method by which, if he alibis himself as he will, will not even cause him to be suspected."

"We can make sure by adding a little touch or two to what he thinks is his string of bad luck."

"It is unnecessary, Sire. And it would disturb the timing, which is very delicate. We would have to rearrange much."

"Very well. We shall follow the original plan. Check time and start the count-down."

"Four seconds, Sire. Three. Two. One. Now."

"Let him look up from his drink."

In Pete Kowalsky's Palace Bar, Ray Fleck looked up from his drink. And saw the psychopath.

11:17 P.M.

Avaunt, ye demons, and away with imaginary conversations. Let us to a very real, if suddenly conceived, plot for murder.

In Pete Kowalsky's Palace Bar, Ray Fleck looked up from his drink, in which he had found no answer to his problem, and saw the answer walking toward him.

That is, he saw a man walking toward him from the back end of the tavern, undoubtedly coming from the john; he must have been in it when Ray had come in the place a minute or so ago. Ray didn't know the man, but still he looked vaguely familiar. He was medium in height and stocky, probably about Ray's own weight except that he had broad shoulders and a narrow waist, just the opposite of Ray's distribution of weight. He had a somewhat coarse, brutal face--anyway a face that looked as though it could look brutal. And dark intense eyes that looked--well, haunted was probably the best word. For some reason he couldn't name a cold chill went down Ray Fleck's spine. He'd seen that man _somewhere_ before. Where?

The man hadn't noticed Ray and obviously didn't know he was being watched and wondered about. He stopped behind the bar stool that was the second one down from Ray's and stood there a moment. There was an almost finished drink on the bar in front of that stool and apparently he was deciding whether to sit down again and finish it or to go on out of the tavern.

And in that moment as he stood there Ray knew why the chill had gone down his spine. For a moment the man's hands, _big_ hands, flexed and unflexed--and then went rigid as though he'd suddenly realized what he was doing and had forced himself to stop. Then he slid onto the stool in front of the drink.

Now Ray knew, suddenly but beyond all doubt, where, when and under what circumstances he'd seen the man. He knew he was sitting two stools away from the psychopathic killer who was terrorizing the city. And who, according to what the squad car cops had told him in Jick's only half an hour or so ago, was on the prowl tonight and had already tried to get at two women.

His first thought was to get out of there fast and phone the police from the drugstore that was still open directly across the street. And hope the man would still be here when they came. Then he saw the dangers of that. For tonight--until they'd had time to dig into background and find evidence--it would be his word against the psycho's. And the cops would keep him for hours, questioning him--and bawling the hell out of him for not having reported what he'd seen when he'd seen it two months ago. They'd make him sound like more of a heel than a hero for reporting it now. And suppose he phoned in and the cops didn't get here in time to catch their man they'd be even tougher with him. And if the deal got in the newspapers the psycho would know there was someone around who could identify him, and he'd know who. That would be a hell of a spot to be in. And what did he have to gain? He had troubles of his own.

And then the second thought came to him, full blown and foolproof. And he knew he had to do it right away before he lost his nerve. Or before the man finished his drink and left.

He took the rest of his own drink at a draught and called out, "Hey, bartender," to the bartender he didn't know. "One more double." And then casually to the man who sat almost beside him, "Have one with me, pal?"

The man shook his head. "Thanks. Gotta go."

Ray made his voice sound just a trifle thick and slurred; to play this convincingly he shouldn't seem cold sober. He said, "One for the road, then. Look, I won't want you to buy back, won't let you. I'm a liquor salesman, see, so any drink I buy anybody goes on the 'spense account. Besides, I hate to drink alone. Hey, bartender, make it two up this way."