Front matter (continued 4)

He was about fifty or sixty feet from the building's main entrance when Timothy Hansen, Gerstle's Man Friday on the big magazine group's two cafe society, exposé magazines, emerged into the clear, bright sunlight. The young associate editor was not alone. His steps seemed almost to drag, and two heavyset men wearing light-weight summer suits just a little darker in color than the one which Fenton had donned, had fallen into step on opposite sides of him, their turned-down panamas shading features which Fenton did not like at all.

There was a suspicious-looking bulge in the coat pocket of one of Hansen's two escorts, and the slow, reluctant way the man seemed to be moving left little doubt in Fenton's mind as to what was taking place.

There was a black coupe parked at the curb, and the young associate editor was being escorted toward it. He entered the car a little ahead of the two heavyset men, but they wasted no time in climbing in after him, and Fenton caught the momentary glitter of sunlight on what looked like the barrel of a drawn automatic.

All this Lieutenant Fenton saw, and froze to immobility. Only for an instant, however. A short distance behind him a middle-aged man with a brief case was just getting into another car, a green Ford sedan. He'd noticed the car in passing, along with the man's unhurried stride. He'd even noticed the car keys dangling from the sedan owner's hand.

Fenton swung about and was grasping the door of the second car before the startled man could ease himself completely into the driver's seat.

Fenton whipped out and displayed his badge. "Get out, please, and give me those keys," he said, his voice so sharp that the man obeyed almost automatically and without waiting for Fenton to add: "This is a police emergency. I'm taking your car. Nothing to worry about. You'll get it back. Just get out and do as I tell you."

He waited until the man reached the sidewalk before he gave him further, urgent instructions. He was himself in the driver's seat and using one of the keys when he met the car owner's agitated gaze and said, still speaking sharply, "Listen carefully, please. Go to the drugstore on the corner, and ask for the police. Put the call through as quickly as you can. Say that Lieutenant Fenton of Homicide—get that, homicide—has started trailing a car from this address. Say the car is heading north. And tell them ... it's a kidnapping. Be sure to give them the number of this building: 584—and the street. It's a black coupe: YG67999. Got that?"

The man nodded, his face very pale now.

"All right. Make it fast. If you should run into a cop, tell him the same thing. Even after you've phoned."

Fenton barely waited for the man to nod again before he nosed the sedan out into the traffic flow and followed the black coupe at a cautious distance, taking care not to give it too much headway and slowing a little when he seemed in danger of overtaking it.

A half hour later Fenton was still trailing the coupe at a cautious distance and he was still alone. No wail of a police siren had arisen behind him and he was now grateful for that.

It had taken him a few minutes to make up his mind and decide that he was justified in feeling that way, and even now he had misgivings. He did not regret the instructions he'd given the owner of the sedan. The phone call had been routine, a necessary safeguard. He owed Hansen that much, at least.

And if police cars started converging around him he'd accept what came. But the kind of instructions he'd have liked to give the startled car owner only a policeman could have sent in to headquarters. Keep me in view, but don't give the game away. Don't interfere unless you see I'm in trouble. A chance like this may never come again. The payoff could be: two murders and a disappearance solved.

It wasn't what a policeman would ordinarily do. It was against all precedent and could cost him his badge. In one way he had increased the risks for Hansen, by not whipping out a gun and forcing a showdown in front of the building.

It would have been a risky showdown and Hansen might have ended up dead. Fenton also—but it was to Fenton's credit that he hadn't given that a thought. His decision—and he'd made up his mind about it only after a few minutes of driving—had been influenced chiefly by two considerations. The missing editor was in great danger, if he was still alive. It could almost be taken for granted that the murderer had kidnapped Gerstle, precisely as Hansen had been kidnapped. Not to force an instant showdown might lead to Gerstle's rescue and to force a showdown to Hansen's death. To forgo that and trail the car might be increasing the risks for Hansen in one way, but not in the most dangerous possible way. If given the choice—would Hansen prefer to be trailed or dropped to the floor of the car with a bullet in the head?

One other consideration weighed a little. The murderer had slain twice and might slay again. He was no ordinary murderer, but the most dangerous kind of killer. This had become one of the big, nation-arousing series of crimes. To catch that kind of killer justified unusual measures, the taking of exceptional risks.

Or did it? Even now, he wasn't completely sure. When a policeman sees a crime taking place in his presence, he's supposed to draw a gun and start shooting, if the crime can be prevented in no other way. Immediately, without stopping to speculate as to what some of the possible repercussions might be.

Still ... still ... a man had to have the courage of his convictions, even if it meant bending the rules a little more than the Manual told young rookies they had a right to do. He wasn't a young rookie; and a cop who had been on the Force thirty years, and worked his way up to a Detective Lieutenancy the hard, patient way, had a right, surely, to exercise his own judgment in a situation like this.

He wouldn't be breaking the backbone of the rules, cracking the spinal column in a completely demoralizing way. The backbone would snap back, and a vicious killer would be started on his way to the chair ... and all he really had to do was to make absolutely certain that the coupe did not get away.

If he should lose it in the traffic....

He relaxed a little, telling himself that there was much less likelihood of that now, because they had passed over the Triboro Bridge into Queens and the traffic had thinned considerably.

They were still on the main highway and quite a few cars were passing in both directions, but there was no heavy congestion or traffic snarls or many big trucks to block the view. Fenton was just as well satisfied to see the traffic change a little now and then, growing slightly heavy at intervals but thinning out again the instant a turnpike swept past.

Just two cars on a clear road would have been very bad, he told himself. This way there was at least a fifty percent chance Hansen's two escorts wouldn't suspect they were being trailed. A car traveling on a main traffic artery didn't have to be trailing anyone, even if it kept a variable distance behind another car for a considerable length of time.

On sober reflection Fenton cut the likelihood that the pair in the car ahead would suspect anything from fifty to about twenty percent. To kidnap a man in broad daylight at the point of a gun from a building that the police had good reason to keep under fairly close surveillance was taking a big risk, of course. But it wasn't a police car that was trailing them, and they'd seen nothing on the block to make them suspicious—just a middle-aged man getting into another car further down the block, and a pedestrian approaching the building with nothing about him to suggest that he was a police officer.

Of course if they had looked back and seen him take over the other car on pulling out from the curb, the percentage would soar again, right up to the hundred mark. But would they be keeping on this way if they had? The car ahead hadn't zigzagged in and out of traffic at any time or put on an unusual burst of speed, as if in an effort to elude a pursuing car.

Fifteen minutes later the scenery changed a bit, the traffic thinned some more, and in the distance there were occasional glimpses of Flushing Bay.

The car ahead remained on the main highway for another ten minutes and then made a sharp turn at a circular, three-lane intersection and started traveling in the direction of the Bay. Fortunately the traffic became fairly heavy again at that point, and Fenton was able to continue on a cautious distance behind without running the risk of losing sight of the coupe. There were two more turns and the last brought them to a quite narrow road running almost parallel with the Bay.

The shining bright waters of the Bay were almost constantly visible now, cut off by long rows of trees at intervals, but close enough to bring a wide expanse of open water into clear view. But the coupe didn't slow down to enable its occupants to train an appreciative eye on white sails glimmering in the sunlight or to inhale with pleasure the tangy, brine-scented air. Fenton sat very still, with no admiring eye for the scenery either, his face set in harsh lines.

The black coupe finally turned into a side road that ran directly downhill to the bay and Fenton drew in quickly to the side of the highway and waited until the car ahead was out of sight before making a turn that otherwise would have been a dead giveaway.

Fenton made the turn slowly and for the next few seconds kept his eyes straight ahead and watched the road for the slightest stir of movement. But his extreme caution proved unnecessary, for the coupe had vanished around a corkscrew curve, and it did not come into view again until a wide stretch of open water burst on Fenton's vision.

The car ahead was heading straight for what appeared to be a fisherman's landing at the narrowing tip of a wide inlet. Fenton could see the wharf and the boathouse clearly, and rowboats bobbing about in the tide at the end of the wharf. Far out near the middle of the inlet a large motor cruiser rode at anchor.

Fenton drew in to the side of the road, switched off the ignition and descended from the car just beyond the corkscrew curve. He continued on down the slope on foot, taking care to keep in the shadows cast by overhanging foliage.

He had about a mile and a half of descending road to cover before he reached the boathouse and the open clearing in front of the wharf. He had just about reached it, still keeping close to the edge of the road with its protective foliage screen when the sound of voices raised to more than conversational pitch came to his ears.

Fenton stood very still, well within the last cluster of sheltering trees, and strained his ears to catch what was being said.

The voices came to him whipped by the wind, but he heard one, sharply-spoken order. "Push off! Don't just stand there! Every one of these goddam boats has taken on water!"

The complaint was followed by the steady click of oar-locks, and a dwindling murmur of barely distinguishable sound.

He did not emerge from the cluster of trees immediately, but waited several minutes. Even then he was careful not to step completely into the open, but crouched down and peered out from behind a waist-high clump of thinning foliage.

The rowboat was now about two hundred feet from the wharf and appeared to be moving out into the inlet on a very straight course, a course which could hardly fail to bring it close to the anchored motor cruiser.

He had very little doubt that it was heading directly for the cruiser, and that the three men in the boat would soon be going aboard. One of the heavyset men was plying the oars and the other sat in the middle of the boat facing Hansen, who sat in the stern. Whether or not he was keeping young Hansen covered with a gun Fenton could not determine. The sunlight was too bright and an automatic pistol too small an object to be visible from so great a distance.

Fenton stood very still for a moment, debating the wisdom of going straight to the boathouse and having a showdown with the man—or men—he might find there.

He was almost sure that whoever owned the wharf and the boats knew exactly what was going on and had been paid to cooperate. It seemed to him unlikely that the pair in the rowboat would have risked bringing Hansen there otherwise.

But he couldn't be completely sure, and getting in touch with Center Street fast was very urgent. He'd passed two Manhattan-bound police cars on the Queen's side of the bridge and a cop on a motorcycle. But his decision not to flash a warning signal to the car ahead by enlisting police aid had hardened during the drive and he'd decided not to. Now he regretted having taken so much upon himself. A police escort would have swiftly overtaken the kidnappers and rescued Hansen. Any chance of finding out what had happened to Gerstle or trapping the murderer would have vanished into thin air, in all likelihood, for the two kidnappers couldn't be depended upon to name him. And they could still have silenced Hansen with a bullet, figuring maybe that a good mouthpiece, hired by the killer, might be able to turn it into an act of self-defense before a rigged jury. There was no chance too desperate and even suicidal for trapped gunmen to take, if you hardly gave them time to reason.

He'd done a foolish thing, however, and he realized it now. Only a quick phone call from the boathouse could set it right again. With luck, a dozen police cars could close in on the wharf in fifteen or twenty minutes. And it wouldn't take long for the police to get to the cruiser. If it started moving, the Coast Guard could be alerted.

Fenton made up his mind quickly. He had a gun, and even if there were two or three men in the boathouse the odds would be in his favor. He was reproaching himself so bitterly now that he decided on the spot he'd turn in his badge and make a full confession if anything went wrong and Hansen was slugged and dropped over the rail of the cruiser before he could be rescued.

He emerged from the cluster of trees and walked straight toward the boathouse, his hand on the butt of his gun, in instant readiness for any contingency.

He walked to the door, opened it and stepped inside—and stood blinking in amazement.

The boathouse wasn't deserted. But it had only one occupant—a frail little old man of about seventy-five, who sat dozing in a chair by a dust-darkened window.

Fenton cast one quick glance at the old man and then his eyes swept the interior of the boathouse and came to rest on a phone booth behind a waist-high coil of rope and six oars stacked crosswise. He lost no time in encircling the rope and oars and wedging himself in the phone booth.

He deposited a dime and waited, with sweating palms, for the humming sound to start before dialing. There was no humming sound. He jerked the receiver hook up and down, but nothing happened. In desperation he dialed the operator. Still nothing.

Cursing softly, he emerged from the booth and shook the old man awake.

He hardly gave him time to wake up completely. "The phone!" he demanded. "What's wrong with it?"

The old man stirred drowsily, and blinked sleepy eyes. Then, quite suddenly, he was wide awake and staring.

"What's matter?" he muttered. "Who're you? How did you get here?"

"Never mind who I am," Fenton said. "Just tell me one thing. Did you give a boat to three men just now? Better not lie about it. I saw them pushing off."

The old man shook his head. "Been asleep for an hour," he mumbled. His eyes had darted to the clock on the opposite wall of the boathouse, as if Fenton's question had filled him with alarm and an instant need to find out the time.

"But you expected three men to come and take a boat? One of them would be acting kind of frightened."

The old man nodded again. "Boss told me to be on the lookout for them. But I must have dozed off."

"You know why they wanted a boat in a hurry?" Fenton asked. "Boss tell you?"

"No, he just said they were friends of his."

"What kind of man is this boss of yours. Has he a police record?"

"A police ... record?"

"I'd advise you not to go coy on me. Has he ever been in trouble with the police? You ought to know. You work for him."

The old man was becoming a little angry now. "Why are you asking me all these questions?" he demanded. "What business is it of yours?"

Fenton took out his badge and held it before the old man's eyes.

"A cop, eh?" the old man muttered. "I don't want no trouble with the police, mister. I'll tell you everything I know. It ain't much. I only been workin' here three weeks. No police ever came here. But the man who owns the motor yacht out there in the inlet came here and talked to the boss a couple of times. He didn't look like no crook to me. Man about forty or forty-five, hair cut short, and wearing a light-weight suit same color as yours. Figured he must be loaded, to own a motor yacht like that. Dressed like he was, too."

"Then what put the idea into your head he might have been a crook?" Fenton asked.

"Well, he acted kind of funny, kept his voice low and once I saw him slip the boss some money. And he mentioned the police a couple of times. Boss doesn't know I have sharp ears. I'm seventy-seven but there's nothing wrong with my hearing."

"All right," Fenton said. "Now suppose you tell me what I asked you when I shook you awake. What's wrong with that phone over there? I dropped a dime in, but there was no dialing sound."

"It's been out of order for two days," the old man said. "There was supposed to be a man come here to fix it yesterday, but he never showed up."

"Somebody did a little wire-ripping, maybe?"

The old man shook his head. "No, it just went dead on us. Boss jiggled the receiver for about ten minutes, to make sure. He tried it again this morning."

"How far is it to the nearest phone?" Fenton asked.

"Hell, you got to go back to the road you turned off from and drive for about fifteen minutes. There's a gas station—"

"Never mind," Fenton said. "Do you think you could go back to sleep again, if I asked it as a special favor?"

"I told you ... I don't want no trouble with the police," the old man said. "I got a grown daughter and two grandsons—"

It was a difficult decision for Fenton to make. If he walked back to where he'd parked his car and drove to the gas station twenty-five minutes at least would have to be written off. It might take even longer. And after that, he couldn't count on police cars arriving at the wharf within the optimistic time limit that had come into his mind a short while before. It was nothing that he could be sure of. It would depend on how many squad cars were in the immediate vicinity, and how fast the message went out.

It might be an hour before the police could get to the wharf.

Fenton wasted only about a minute making up his mind. He tapped the old man lightly on the shoulder. "All right. Just close your eyes again and stay put. One more question, first. When is the boss expected back?"

"Not for another couple of hours," the old man said. "His sister-in-law took sick. That's why he ain't here now."

"He has a car?"

"Yeah, that's right."

"Well, just stay put," Fenton said. "You're in no trouble with the police right now. If you want to go on being lucky, don't move out of that chair."

"I won't," the old man promised.

When Fenton descended the slope on the east side of the wharf to the gleaming, bright water just beyond he was careful to remain as inconspicuous as possible. He kept close to the shadows cast by tumbled boulders, and the high fringe of shrubbery which ran almost to the waterline, weaving in and out between the rocks.

When he reached the water he paused for an instant to make sure that the rowboat was within a short distance of the cruiser and too far away to take notice of a solitary figure four-fifths concealed by the shoulder-high marsh grasses at the edge of the inlet.

He undressed quickly, stripping himself to his shorts, and placing his clothes in a neat pile behind a large boulder.

The water was not as cold as he'd expected it to be. The noonday sun had warmed it and he could feel the warmth on his scalp as he swam, using an inconspicuous breast stroke, and not even trying to get to the cruiser fast.

Several times he paused to tread water and stare out across the shining surface of the inlet toward the anchored craft. The rowboat had rounded the stern of the cruiser and was now on the other side, no longer visible from the shore.

He began to swim more rapidly only when he felt reasonably sure that Hansen's two escorts had had time to take the young associate editor aboard.

He reached the motor cruiser just as the rowboat drifted back empty on a tow-rope at the vessel's stern. The tide was running toward the stern and he let himself drift with it, keeping close to the dark green hull of the craft until he had rounded the stern and was swimming just underneath the tightly stretched rope.

He was swimming close enough to the cruiser to be invisible from the deck, unless the boarders had remained by the rail and were staring straight down at him. He treaded water for an instant, listening for sounds on deck, his ears alert for a startled grunt or shout of anger.

When he was convinced that he had not been spotted he grasped the rope firmly and ascended hand over hand to the rail. The aftdeck was deserted. Its polished surface glimmered in the sunlight and was encumbered only by a brass stanchion, and a waist-high coil of rope. Although the cruiser was quite large there was no stern or forward deckhouse, just the curving back of what appeared to be a companionway entrance shaped like a gigantic scallop shell.

A moment later Fenton was crouching just inside the shell, above a descending flight of stairs. A faint light was visible from the top of the stairs, but it wasn't the light that interested him. It was the hum of angry voices.

He started to move cautiously downward in order to hear better, but stopped when the voices rose sharply, becoming so heated and enraged that he could catch every word.

"We've kept our hands off you so far, but it wouldn't be a sharp idea for you to keep shaking your head like that and pretending you don't know what the score is. Sit down, Hansen. Sit down. We told you to relax, didn't we?"

"He's stalling," a deeper voice cut in. "Darby would never have gone this far if he didn't think Gerstle told him more than it's safe for him to know. Why don't you come clean, kid? What have you to gain by stalling?"

There was a slight pause and then Hansen's voice rose as high in fright as the other two voices had in anger. "He didn't tell me a thing. Only that he was collecting information for a series of articles that he was hoping he could persuade Miss Lathrup to let him bring out under his own byline. Sensational material which would name names and be backed up with affidavits. Would I tell you even that much if he'd turned any of that material over to me, as you seem to think he did? I'd just pretend to know nothing at all about it."

"No—you're too smart for that, kid. You want us to think you're leveling with us, and if you denied you'd seen those names—"

"But I didn't. Not one name. He took me into his confidence most of the time, but this was too big, I guess."

"You'd make a good salesman, kid. The way you tell it ... I can almost see myself buying it. But not quite. And that's going to make a big difference to you, kid ... you're not quite selling us."

"What do you want me to do? Lie about it?"

"We're wasting time," the one with the lighter voice said. "We should at least try to persuade him."

"We should try, by all means. You want to begin, Foldes?"

There was a meaty thud, followed by a groan and a low, barely audible sobbing sound.

Fenton stiffened in instant concern, his lips tightening. He forced himself to remain where he was for a moment longer, however. It was safe to assume the two below would work up to what they were doing gradually and there were things he desperately wanted to know. Under stress of rage they might let something drop—some clue, some pointer, which would enable him to save both Gerstle and Hansen. They must know what had happened to Gerstle.

There was another thud, and Hansen's cry of pain was too loud, this time, to permit of further delay. Fenton unholstered his revolver, snapped off the safety catch and was down the companionway and in the cabin so fast the two kidnappers were taken completely by surprise.

He gave them no time to recover. The one who had struck Hansen was just raising a reversed automatic for another blow and was facing away from Fenton near the base of the stairs. A sudden tensing of his muscles failed to save him. Just as a glint of awareness flickered at the perimeter of his vision Fenton's fist caught him flush on the jaw, and sent him crashing backwards.

He hit the opposite bulkhead, rebounded and sank with a groan to his knees. Fenton moved in close again, and chopped downward on his wrist, sending the gun clattering. It was a needless precaution, for the man was already going limp, and had held fast to the gun in his backward lurch by convulsively contracting his fingers.

He collapsed forward on his face and Fenton did not wait to see if he would try to rise again. The danger that his companion would get to the dropped gun first was too urgent. He could have prevented that by putting a bullet in him with his own gun, but he did not want to kill a key accessory in a murder case and he was too excited to be sure of merely splintering the man's kneecap.

The weapon had skidded half-way across the cabin, but Fenton raised his right foot and kicked it two yards further a split second before it could pass into dangerous hands again.

The second man had dropped on all fours, and his hand hit the deck with a thud when the gun was kicked beyond reach of his fingers. Fenton reversed his own gun and clobbered the unsuccessful weapon snatcher across the back of his skull with a blow that flattened him out almost at his companion's side.

The big detective was breathing harshly when he straightened, his face very white and looked with concern at Hansen, who was moaning and slumping a little in a straight-backed chair, with a swelling ugly-looking bruise on his right forehead. One eye was half-closed, and his breathing was harsher than Fenton's.

Fenton bent and gripped him firmly by the shoulders, easing him into a less strained position. "Take it easy," he cautioned. "Just lean back and don't try to talk for a minute. You're going to be all right."

"Thanks," Hansen muttered, disregarding the advice. "They ... slugged me twice. Felt like the whole top of my head was coming off the second time."

Fenton nodded. "They were just being gentle," he said. "I know the breed. Each time they hit you a little harder and they don't stop until you black out. But they do it the slow way, even when it's the butt of a gun they slug you with. They keep hoping you'll talk...."

"They were going to kill me," Hansen said.

"I know. I heard them talking from just up above."

"Thank God for that," the young man breathed.

"Yes. I'm glad I could get here in time."

He turned and swept the cabin with his eyes. The two kidnappers were still out.

Fenton hesitated for an instant, then tapped the handle of his gun, letting it rest on Hansen's right knee, and tightening his grip on Hansen's shoulder. "I don't suppose you've ever shot a man, in self-defense or otherwise. But do you think you could handle a gun if you had to ... handle it well? There's a coil of rope on deck, and I've got to tie these two up. The quicker it's done the better."

Hansen nodded, an angry glint coming into his eyes. "You can trust me," he said. "Just let one of them make a move—"

"All right," Fenton said. "But be careful—the safety catch is off. If one of them comes to, and tries to take the gun away from you—shoot to kill."

Fifteen minutes later Fenton stood by the rail of the cruiser, staring down into the clear, blue-green water, a deeply worried, almost tormented look in his eyes. He had no right, he told himself, to feel the way he did, for Hansen was alive and safe and the two kidnappers securely bound.

If he'd stayed on shore until help arrived and Hansen had finished dead, a dark cloud would have hung over him for the rest of his life, even if he turned in his badge. He had a lot to be thankful for, for self-reproach to a man like himself could be harder to live with than the sternest kind of official censure.

But it took more than what had happened to drive away all of the clouds—far more. He still didn't know what had become of Gerstle, and although it wasn't too hard to picture what might have happened to the elderly exposé editor it was bad ... very bad ... for a cop to allow his imagination to paint a picture so ugly that he'd stop thinking seriously about how to rescue a living man and concentrate solely on capturing a remorseless killer who had included that man in his list of victims.

He was still confronted with the same problem which had prevented him from shooting it out with the kidnappers in front of the Eaton-Lathrup building. The pair might be persuaded to talk, since they'd have more time to reflect now, and would realize they could only hope to escape the chair by turning State's evidence. It would be a slim reed for them even then, but they might seize upon it. They might ... but it couldn't be counted on.

He was rather glad that the motor cruiser had a tiny kitchen, and that he'd persuaded young Hansen to spend a few minutes there percolating some coffee before they both went ashore in the rowboat with the securely bound pair. It gave him a chance to straighten his shoulders, collect his thoughts and breathe in the brine-scented air. It wasn't the open sea, only the fingertip of a bay, with the shoreline close on both sides. But there was something about any part of the ocean that could give a harassed man perspective, make him realize how small and quick-passing all human tragedies were, when you contrasted them with eternally breaking waves, and the vast shining permanence of the sea.

He had paused for only a moment by the rail, to stare down into the clear water, seeking perhaps to make that realization even stronger, to keep it more forcefully in mind. Or perhaps only because he was so inwardly preoccupied. He could not have said exactly why.

He could see every rock and crevice, every waving seaweed, every darting silvery fish between the cruiser's keel and the sandy bottom, for the inlet was now as still as a sheet of glass.

He was just turning from the rail when a faint gust of wind ruffled the water, spoiling its crystal-clear transparency. The ripples attracted his attention and he did not turn, simply continued on for a few paces parallel with the rail.

He was staring down idly when the ripples vanished and he could see all the way to the bottom again.

A look of horror came into his eyes and he gripped the rail with both hands, cold sweat oozing from the pores of his skin, bringing a glistening to his bare back, drenching him from waist to armpits.

The corpse was wedged in a narrow rock crevice, in a rigidly contorted attitude, the face white and staring and turned upward, the legs grotesquely bent. It was clothed only in shorts and the blonde hair on the naked chest was matted with seaweed, which swayed back and forth in the underwater current.

Curiously enough, the hair on the dead man's head did not move with the current, but the slack jaw seemed to move slightly, as if protesting against the indignity which had been thrust upon him.

There was neither strength nor weakness in Gerstle's lifeless features now, but there was something about the configuration of the face which suggested that great energy and firmness of purpose had once been dominant characteristics of the man. The cheeks were faintly blue with a two-days' growth of beard, the eyes wide and staring, the lips purplish.

Both the wrists and ankles of the slain cafe society exposé editor had been bound with heavy wire which glistened in the downstreaming sunlight, and had cut cruelly into the flesh, whether before or after death Fenton had no way of knowing.

How long the corpse had remained at the bottom of the inlet was another thing which the detective had no way of knowing. But he was almost sure that it could not have been longer than two or three days, for no trace of decomposition was visible on either the face or the body.

It could have been dropped overboard from any part of the inlet and been carried by the tides to where it now was, but somehow he doubted that it had been carried far. It did not have a sea-battered look.

Fenton did not remain for more than a minute or two by the rail speculating about it. A grapple might have drawn it to the surface, but he had no stomach for such a procedure at that particular moment, even if he could have found a grapple somewhere on the cruiser.

He was content to let the body remain where it was, securely wedged in a rock crevice, until the police could follow their usual procedure, and examine it in situ before removing it.

A sardonic thought flashed for an instant across his mind, but he put it from him as unworthy. No dusting for fingerprints here, or surrounding the corpse with chalk marks. The bottom of a Flushing Bay inlet was quite different from a magazine office.

Chapter IX

It might have been a repeat of a conference that had taken place in the Eaton-Lathrup offices several days earlier, if twice the original number of people hadn't been present. Like the earlier conference, it was held in Macklin's office and in addition to Macklin, Eaton, young Hansen and Ellers, there were two women and two police officers present.

It was a conference ... in a strictly official sense. Lieutenant Fenton had made it plain that there were a number of weighty matters to be discussed and that he wished precisely eight people to be present.

The eight, of course, included First Grade Detective Gallison and himself. One of the women was Lynn Prentiss, the other Susan Weil, who presided over the seldom-idle switchboard in the outer office.

As before, it was Macklin who seemed the most intent on asking blunt questions, and challenging the opinion of the majority. Even Fenton came under challenge, and the big detective seemed content to let Macklin talk on for several minutes in almost uninterrupted fashion, for many of the points which the boyish-looking editor brought up—he was almost phenomenally youthful-looking for a man in his forties, Fenton told himself—seemed both discerning and well-taken.

"I don't understand," Macklin was saying, "why there should be any doubt left in your mind, Lieutenant, as to the guilt of the man you've just arrested and charged with Gerstle's murder."

"Not as to Gerstle's murder," Fenton said. "I thought I made that very plain. He'll go before a jury for killing Gerstle. But the other two slayings—"

"For Pete's sake, Lieutenant," Macklin said, leaning a little forward and giving him no time to finish. "You've arrested the owner of that motor cruiser, and he turns out to be someone Helen Lathrup had known for five years. Not to mince words, John Darby had been her lover for that length of time, if not longer. They quarreled and she broke off with him a half-dozen times. But just recently the fire started burning again, for both of them. He practically admits all that, because I guess he knows he'd gain nothing by denying it. What he doesn't admit is that they quarreled again even more recently."

Macklin paused an instant, as if to emphasize the importance of what he was about to say. Then he went on in a tone of absolute conviction: "Isn't it all pretty obvious? When the fires started burning again she sat on Gerstle's story, wouldn't let him run it. It was big, but that didn't matter. She was determined to protect Darby. Then it stands to reason they must have quarreled again. You'll never get him to admit that, because it supplies the strongest kind of motive for murder and would be the equivalent of a complete confession. They quarreled again and she threatened to give Gerstle the green light, and that's why he killed her."

"A pretty drastic way of making sure," Fenton said. "Why didn't he try making up again with her?"

"He probably did and got nowhere. When once her mind was made up, it usually stayed that way. Really made up, I mean. She might have quarreled with Darby off and on for years, enjoyed letting him dangle, but this time she probably turned absolutely venomous.

"Consider what kind of man he is. That's important, too. A cafe society procurer—a flesh-for-sale racketeer with a capital-gains league clientele—big names in Hollywood and the TV industry, not to mention the magazine field. Consider how far that kind of upper-echelon pimp would go if she thought she was about to blow his five-million-a-year racket sky high, and himself along with it? Of course Darby killed her."

"And Ruth Porges too?" Fenton asked.

Macklin nodded. "She worked here, didn't she? I knew that Gerstle was working on something big which she didn't want him to publish, and she may have found out more than either Hansen or I knew or suspected. She may have found out too much for him to let her go on living. It all hangs together, doesn't it? It would be the wildest kind of coincidence if Darby just murdered Gerstle and someone else killed Helen Lathrup and Ruth Porges."

"I'm afraid I can't agree," Fenton said quietly. "It would be the wildest kind of coincidence if the three crimes were not closely related. But they were, very closely, even if a different person committed the first two and for an entirely different reason."

"And I'm afraid I can't follow your line of reasoning," Macklin said. He grinned suddenly. "I don't know why I should be raising problems for the police to worry about, when you're so convinced that you know just who did murder Helen Lathrup, and why!"

"We know," Fenton said.

"Then why don't you arrest him then?"

"We intend to," Fenton said. "But first I'd like to point out the flaw in your line of reasoning. You've just said the flame started up again between Helen Lathrup and Darby, and she sat on Gerstle's exposé. That we know—Darby, as you say, has practically admitted it, because he knows it would remove any motive he might have had for killing Helen Lathrup. He'd have a very special reason for wanting her to stay alive. And he did want her to stay alive, you can be sure of that."

"Not if she quarreled with him again still later," Macklin said.

"Just have patience," Fenton said. "I'm coming to that. What makes you so sure she quarreled with him again, in a deadly serious way this time, and was going to expose him? We haven't uncovered a shred of evidence pointing in that direction. It just possibly might be true, because she was a quarrelsome woman, but even if it were true, he didn't kill her for that, or any other reason. He didn't kill her, period. If they had another quarrel, I rather suspect he'd have known how to talk himself back into her good graces again. So the whole quarrel motive is pure assumption on your part."

"A very plausible assumption," Macklin pointed out.

"Under ordinary circumstances it would be," Fenton conceded. "But it carries no weight at all now, because we know who murdered Helen Lathrup and—well, we can make a pretty good guess as to why he did it, even if we're not absolutely sure about his motive."

Fenton nodded, his lips tightening a little. "By the same token, we know that Darby couldn't have murdered her. He happens to have an unbreakable alibi for that particular morning, and the two hoodlums who kidnapped Hansen have just as good an alibi, and they were the only professional, gun-carrying characters in his employ, as far as we've been able to determine. But Darby couldn't have murdered her anyway—because someone else did. Someone else went into her office and shot her dead and it was that which started the fire under Darby. With Lathrup dead, Darby had no longer a beautiful, protective, guardian angel—or crime-blinking witch, if you'd prefer that term—to keep the exposé under wraps, and Gerstle would have had a field day. And Gerstle was going ahead with it, not telling anyone, not even Mr. Eaton or Hansen here ... although Darby made the mistake of thinking Hansen did know and had him kidnapped also, to silence him."

Macklin shook his head. "I'm sorry, Lieutenant. I just can't buy it. I'm willing to be convinced, of course, if you've strong evidence to support it. But otherwise—"

"We've the strongest kind of evidence," Fenton said, "short of what an eye-witness would be able to tell us. No jury could listen to expert testimony regarding it, and stay locked up for more than ten or fifteen minutes."

He paused for a moment to stare around the office. His gaze lingered for an instant on Ellers and it seemed to Lynn Prentiss—up to that moment her own gaze had rested on Macklin and the detective—that the elderly editor paled slightly. But Hansen and Eaton appeared ill at ease too, the publisher extremely so, and even Susan Weil grew a little restive under the big detective's prolonged scrutiny.

It was to Susan that he spoke. "The switchboard keeps you pretty busy, doesn't it, Miss Weil," he said. "If someone came out of one of the offices on this side of the reception desk and darted past you—I'm using that word deliberately because it describes the way he probably moved—it would be quite possible for him to reach Miss Lathrup's office on the other side of the desk-division unobserved, I should imagine. Your back would be turned, because the switchboard faces toward the outer door. Isn't that so?"

Susan wet her lips before replying. But her answer was decisive enough. "Yes, sir. I'm quite sure I wouldn't have seen him, if I was plugging in a call."

"Then, if he'd darted back again a few moments later, it stands to reason you wouldn't have seen him then either ... if you happened to be answering another call or even—if you just happened to have your back turned. It would have been very easy for him to pause an instant before darting back to make sure that your back would be turned."

Susan nodded. "That's right, sir. When someone comes into the outer office I usually see him right away, because I just have to glance sideways. But I seldom turn around and look behind me, unless an editor speaks to me. Editors pass back and forth all the time and even when I hear them I seldom turn around."

"I see," Fenton said. "That would have cut down the risks for him, made it even easier. But I imagine he did his best to dart past as quickly and silently as possible. Did you hear the sound of the silenced gun, Miss Weil?"

"Yes, I'm sure I did. But it didn't make much of an impression on me, until Miss Prentiss came out a minute or two later and told me that she'd heard it also. It seemed to trouble her a great deal."

"Yes, well—that's all I wanted to know."

He looked directly at Lynn. "How long was it, Miss Prentiss, before you got up, after hearing the sound, and went to investigate? I questioned you about that on the day of the murder, but it wasn't of such vital importance then. I mean—it didn't seem so to us at the time. It should have, and I blame myself for it. Please try to think back again, and narrow it down as much as you can. A half-minute, a minute and a half?"

"It's hard to be sure," Lynn said, wetting her lips as Susan had done. "I should say—about one minute. I remember that I just sat staring at the manuscript I'd been working on, blue-penciled mentally a third of a page, in fact. Then my curiosity got the better of me—"

She sighed helplessly. "I really don't know. It could have been as long as two or three full minutes."

"Time enough for the murderer to get back into his office on this side of the switchboard, if he moved quickly."

"Yes, I should think so."

"That was not a question, Miss Lynn. It was a statement. For my part, I'm sure of it ... in view of what you've just said. It could easily have been all of three minutes. Time enough—and to spare."

"Yes...." Lynn murmured, moistening her lips again.

"Just one more question, Miss Prentiss. The typewriters you said you heard clattering away. If one of them had stopped for as long as ten minutes, would you have realized it had stopped—if it started up again the instant you stepped out of your office? Think now. Several typewriters, a great deal of sound, and you were engrossed in your editing. Even if it had been the typewriter in the office next to yours—"

That too, Lynn was to realize later, had been more of a statement than a question, for Fenton did not even wait for her to reply.

He looked directly at Macklin and said: "It's your typewriter I'm talking about, I'm afraid. You didn't know she'd heard the sound of your silenced gun, but the instant she stepped out into the hall some instinct warned you that you'd have nothing to lose by battering away on your machine again. It would certainly help to make her believe you hadn't left this office at all—not even long enough to dart past the reception desk, shoot Helen Lathrup through the head and dart straight back again."

Macklin paled visibly, but not a muscle of his face moved. He sat very quietly returning Fenton's accusing stare, a strangely withdrawn look in his eyes, as if he had half-anticipated exposure and had steeled himself to endure the agony of it, if it came, by erecting a kind of mental block within himself.

"We found the gun you killed her with in Ruth Porges' apartment," Fenton said, not unkindly—he could never bring himself to speak without compassion to a man who was certain to die. "We'll never know where she found it, unless you tell us, but we don't have to know. Ballistics has identified it as the murder gun. You searched her apartment after you strangled her, even tore apart two mattresses in your search. But you didn't look inside the flushing compartment of the toilet. It would have been so easy for you to go into the bathroom, lift the lid and look. But I guess you just didn't think of it.

"It's your gun, Macklin. A war souvenir gun with a long black barrel, the kind of gun some men, with your kind of war record, like to show to friends. Possibly you showed it to her once, but that's also something we'll never know unless you tell us. But she must have known it was your gun or she would not have attempted to hide it. If she'd found a stranger's gun—the gun of someone she had no reason to respect or like or want to protect, she'd have gone straight to the police with it. She must have felt you were justified in killing Helen Lathrup.

"If you did show the gun to her once—that wouldn't have prevented you from using it. You had no way of knowing she'd find it and that it would be traced to you. War souvenir guns are often very hard to trace to their owners, but we had very little trouble tracing this one.... You're tagged with it, Macklin. You're also tagged with a fingerprint you left in Ruth Porges' apartment. I imagine you wore gloves and were very careful, but not careful enough. Remember taking one glove off for a moment? Well ... it's not too important, so long as we have that one very fine print."

Fenton sighed and his voice hardened a little. "Would you like to tell us why you killed her, Macklin? I must warn you, though, that anything you say now—"

Macklin seemed not to hear him. He spoke softly, almost gently, as if the violence which had taken two human lives had been long since spent.

"There are two kinds of men in this world—leaving abnormality out of it. One kind, I think, is very rare. The old saying: 'Love is a woman's whole life—to men a thing apart' isn't always true. There are men to whom love is everything. I have always been ... that kind of man. And when she betrayed the great love I had for her, as she betrayed the others, she—"

A look of torment came into his eyes. "It would have been better if she had been the one to slay, to kill me then without compassion and without remorse. But that was one cruelty she was incapable of, and so I had no choice...."

"Every man has a choice, Macklin," Fenton said. "There was no need—"

Fenton was later to regret that he had not been more careful, not stayed more alert and on guard. But when a man does not in the least resemble a killer in his outer aspect, when he can grin boyishly, and disarm everyone with his blunt forthrightness, his wry humor, his complete absence of even the everyday, garden-variety kind of neuroticism which afflicts nine men and women out of ten—when, in short, he seems more robustly wholesome, normal than a football player with a well-rounded love life, it is very easy for a man to go a little astray emotionally and assume that he can't be too dangerous in an immediate way.

Fenton had not realized that Gallison was standing so close to Macklin's desk, facing away from Macklin and that the police positive on Gallison's hip could be a very formidable weapon in the hands of killer still bent on saving his skin.

The realization came a split second too late. Macklin had reached for the gun, whipped it from its holster and was gripping it firmly before Gallison could swing about. And swinging about did Gallison no good, for by that time he was weaponless.

Macklin snapped off the safety catch and fired twice. The first bullet struck Gallison in the right thigh, wrenching a groan from him, and dropping him to his knees. Blood spurted, spraying out over the floor.

The second shot, also aimed at Gallison, missed its mark. It went wild, causing Lynn Prentiss to cry out and clutch at her side. Beneath her fingers a dull stain grew. She swayed a little, staggered toward the desk and clung to it, supporting herself with one hand, staring at Fenton in mute appeal.

Fenton had his own gun out now and was taking careful aim at Macklin, who was heading for the door. But before he could fire Macklin was out of the office and was racing down the hall, Gallison's gun still in his clasp.

Macklin reached the reception desk, and started toward the door of the outer office. But he never reached the door. A tall, very thin young man with a sheaf of drawings under his arm had just entered the outer office and he had heard Lynn's stricken cry.

He was all very confused about everything. But the cry did something to him, because he recognized Lynn's voice and realized instantly that something quite terrible had happened.

And when he saw the distraught-looking man come rushing out of the corridor, with a gun in his hand, he acted on impulse, threw out one leg and tripped the man up, sending him sprawling. A moment later, while the man with the gun was still sprawling, another very big strong-looking man with another gun emerged from the corridor, piled on top of the man he'd tripped and clobbered him over the head with the butt of the gun until he gave up trying to rise.

It was all very confusing and hard to understand.

Chapter X

He had entered the hospital room so quietly that Lynn Prentiss was unaware that she was not alone—the nurse had left fifteen minutes before—until he was standing by the bed with a sheaf of drawings under arm and the strangest, oddest assortment of yellow flowers in the other she had ever seen.

"You'll have to turn on the light to look at these, I guess," he said and she didn't know at first whether he was referring to the flowers or the drawings. But when she switched on the light directly over the bed she saw that it was one of the drawings which he was extending toward her. The flowers he was holding a little awkwardly, not even venturing to offer them to her, as if he wasn't quite sure that she would approve of his taste in flowers or would not think him over-presumptuous.

Since he seemed to want her to look at the drawings first, she did so, studying them carefully as he passed them to her one by one.

"Well," he said, when she had remained for a long while silent. "What do you think."

She sat up very straight, took the flowers from him and pressed them to her nostrils, looking at him very steadily and with a strange warmth in her eyes—a warmth that made him return her gaze incredulously.

"Yes," she said.

"The flowers aren't too bad, is that what you're trying to tell me? But my drawings—"

"No," she said. "That isn't what I'm trying to tell you. I like both the flowers and the drawings. But these new drawings—well, they're a little on the terrific side, if you don't mind my saying so. And they are saleable. I can guarantee it. I can't do too much to help, because we only need six more drawings this month, and six sales to the Eaton-Lathrup publications will do no more than start you off. But when we've published six, I'm sure you won't have any difficulty in selling the rest to other publications."

"It went against the grain," he said. "I don't quite know why I did it."

She continued to look at him, and the warmth in her eyes told him why, but it took him quite a long while to grasp it.

It was over and they'd released him. Ralph Gilmore still had to appear in court on an illegal firearms possession charge, but that big detective he'd disliked so much at first had assured him that the worst he'd get would be a suspended sentence.

The law was designed, apparently, to discourage gangsters from carrying weapons—although it didn't always work that way—and a young writer, without a criminal record, would be shown a great deal of leniency.

Everyone, even judges, expected writers to behave a little strangely, a little differently from other people and that would count in his favor.

He hoped the big detective was right about that. It would worry him and keep him awake nights until the ordeal was over, because just the thought of appearing in court to answer a quite serious charge terrified him.

No reason why it should now, he told himself. He'd had the book thrown at him, hadn't he? He'd been booked at a police station, taken into court, fingerprinted and confined in a cell for more than a week. If he could survive that, he could survive anything.

And the way they'd questioned him, in a room without windows and a bright light flooding down—Not the third degree really, nothing as bad as that. But it had been bad enough.

There was a tap on the door and he looked up quickly.

"Who is it?" he demanded.

"It's me—Nora. I heard about all what happened to you. I wanted to die myself, Ralph—I swear it."

He arose slowly, went to the door and opened it. "I told your mother about it," he said. "I went to that office with the intention of killing her. But at the last moment—I couldn't do it. I went there on the very morning of the murder. And I bought a gun—"

"I know, Ralph ... I know, darling. It's painful to talk about and there's no reason why you should, now. You know I love you."

"Yes ... and I love you, Nora. I must have been crazy not to realize it sooner."

"Don't blame yourself too much, Ralph. She must have been a very beautiful woman."

"Well—"

"Please don't worry about it, Ralph. It's all over now, done with. Don't even think about it."

"I'm trying very hard not to. But it isn't so easy—"

"Kiss me, Ralph. Kiss me and take me into your arms and make passionate love to me, like you did once."

"We're going to get married, Nora. You know that, don't you? We'll go right down to City Hall tomorrow, and apply for a marriage license."

"You don't have to marry me, Ralph. You don't—"

"But I want to. Don't you understand, you little fool? I want to and I'll do it ... if I have to drag you all the way downtown by the hair!"

"Ralph...."

"Yes?"

"Oh, Ralph, darling—"

Fenton had slept so soundly for ten hours his wife had to tug at his arm three times to awaken him.

"Joseph," she said. "The hospital just phoned again. Gallison is completely out of danger. You said he was last night, but I could see you were still a little worried."

Fenton came wide awake in an instant. "They're absolutely sure about it, eh?"

"Yes, the bullet's out and he'll be reporting back for duty in two weeks. He told them to tell you that."

"Is he crazy?" Fenton grumbled. "He rates a month's sick leave, at least."

"I'm just repeating the message he asked them to give you."

Fenton sighed and rolled over on his side. "I always thought he was a little crazy. Well ... it's good news, anyway. Will you please go away now."

"But why? Breakfast is—"

"Never mind about my breakfast," Fenton said, drawing the sheets up over his head. "I'm not anything like as crazy as Gallison is. I'm going to sleep for a month."