
Die and You Die Alone

Peter Martin Larney
_Die and you Die Alone_ is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Written in New York in the 1950's.

Transcribed from the original manuscript by his grandchildren, Brett and Andrea Larney in 2011.

Cover design by Andrea and Peter Larney.

Contact the author's son via email at plarney@gmail.com

# Chapter One

She weighed about one-hundred twenty pounds and at least forty pounds of that was breast. She walked toward me slowly, tantalizingly, her fingers unbuttoning her blouse. Every muscle in her body seemed to be alive. I know damn well mine were. She slid the blouse off the top of her shoulders and wiggled until it fell to the floor. All that wiggling made her bare breasts shake and bounce and I know if I were any closer I would be slapped silly. I was damn near a stark, raving maniac already. She kicked off her high heels and her hands went to her side as she fumbled with the zipper of her skirt. I felt beads of sweat roll down my forehead and dribble into my eyes. I blinked rapidly to erase the cloudiness. I didn't want to miss a bit of this performance. She was unzipped now and was wiggling like hell again as the skirt slid around her curved hips and fell to her feet. She stepped out of it and stood there, beautifully naked, her dark, smooth skin gleaming in the light from the lamp.

She stepped closer now, close enough for me to hear her quick breathing. She moved faster, now that she was finished with the preliminaries, she was ready for the main bout. Her arms encircled my neck and her warm, soft body pressed tightly against mine. She was kissing me on the cheek, the neck, and the shoulders. Her tongue flicked rapidly in and out of my ear, as her hands moved searchingly over my damp, bare body.

My brain was pounding against the top of my skull and my insides were as hot as a five-alarm blaze. Her torso was gyrating like a Hawaiian welcoming committee. I moved back about an inch and felt a sharp, stabbing pain in my back. I grimaced and moved closer against that spiraling sex-bomb.

"Alright, sweetheart, that's enough". It was a man's voice and it damn near shocked me. I had almost forgotten he was in the room. Almost, but not quite.

Under normal circumstances, with a beautiful, nude woman with me in her bedroom, I wouldn't have an audience. And, under normal circumstances, I would have had her on the bed long before this. But I was certainly not under normal circumstances. For one thing, this beautiful dish who had just raised hell with my nervous system was married. And for another, the tall, thin guy standing next to her was her husband. And to top it off, the three of us were naked as newly sheared sheep.

But things weren't as cozy as they sound. Oh, they were having a swell time, a real ball. I never saw two people enjoying themselves as much as these two were right now. But I was having a lousy time. So lousy, in fact that I wished I was someplace else, anyplace else. This was a lovely bedroom, handsomely decorated in French furniture; chairs, sofa, dresser, desk, and an enormous window which opened on to a balcony. It was very impressive, like a chapter from out of the past, and the pinnacle of it all was the Louis XIV bed. It was so massive they must have knocked a wall out to get it in here. The only thing wrong with this whole picture was that I was tied to this goddamned bed with a sword ready to stick me in the back if I moved and inch.

The man spoke again. "Sit down and rest sweetheart."

"Must I, honey? I was just beginning to enjoy it." She smiled at me when she said it.

"I said sit down." He snapped.

She pushed her mouth out like a five-year-old kid, then wiggled over and plopped down in an overstuffed chair. Every time she moved she wiggled, and that wasn't helping my blood pressure, not after what she just put me through.

I looked back at the man who was now standing two feet away from me. He had a twisted grin on his face and I got the idea that the fun was just about over. He'd toyed with me long enough. Now he was ready for the kill.

"Are you prepared to tell me what I want to know?"

"Go to hell." I spat.

He jerked his head back and roared with laughter. I didn't see one damn thing that was funny about this whole situation but there he was laughing to beat the band. His body rocked with glee and the noise of his laughter bounced and vibrated off the walls. Jeez, I wish I could enjoy this half as much. He stopped as abruptly as he had started and his eyes narrowed as he looked back at me.

"That's your final answer," It wasn't a question, it was a statement and if I wanted to answer him I never got the chance.

He whirled on his heels, walked over to the heap of clothes the girl had discarded, stooped and picked them up. He headed for his bedroom, never stopping to look back.

I wonder what he was cooking up now. I thought back over the past two days and whatever he had in store couldn't have been anything more than what I'd been through. I'd been shot at, beat to a pulp, damn near tossed in jail, stabbed and just now almost raped by a nymphomaniac. There wasn't much more that could happen to me. There wasn't much left he could do except kill me. But how wrong I was, and maybe I would have been better off if he had killed me.

I looked over at 'sweetheart' sitting in the overstuffed chair with one leg dangling over the arm. It wasn't a very lady-like pose, especially for a lady with no clothes on, but it didn't seem to faze her. She was watching me with a half-smile on her lips and hot, hungry eyes. She wasn't looking at my face. She was staring at my body, and I knew if her husband hadn't been here I would have been raped. She moved her leg back over the arm of the chair and rose to her feet. She moved her hands over her sides and down her hips as her breasts rose and fell rapidly. Don't tell me I was going to go through this again. I couldn't stand much more of it.

She was walking toward me, her body slithering like a snake. God, honey, have mercy. Then she was kissing me, rubbing me, crushing me until I heard my heart pounding in my chest.

And then the door sprung open and I jerked my head up with a start. She moved from me slowly, never turning, still watching me.

Nothing happened for about ten seconds. It seemed like an eternity. She still moved slowly away, her eyes fixed on my body.

Then, with a quick movement, before I realized what had happened, she was in the room.

She was beautiful. How else would you describe her? Golden blond hair that nestled on her shoulders, a voluptuous body with proportions similar to 'sweetheart's; full, large breasts, slim, tapered waist, curving sharply into wide, flowing hips. So similar to her, in fact, she had on her clothes. If it wasn't for the blond hair, they could pass for sisters.

And I'll be damned if she wasn't going through the same routine. Walking toward me, unbuttoning her blouse, only this one had on a bra. But it just didn't look right. She didn't take off the bra, but let her hands slide to her skirt and unzipped it. She hesitated a moment, then let the skirt fall to the floor. If I hadn't been tied to the bed, I would have fallen to the floor.

This beautiful, sensual, voluptuous, blonde was a man. A goddamn man. And then it hit me right between the eyes. All the little bits of information I had picked up these past two days made sense. It was as if I had a jigsaw puzzle in my head and I had just shaken it the right way for all the pieces fall in the right place. There was just one thing left to do, one thing more to wind up. But I had to get out of here first. I had to think of a way out of this. But how could I think with this goddamned queer kissing me on the cheek, the neck, the chest. If I only were free, if I had just one foot free, I'd kick him so hard he'd lose all interest in any form of sex. He kissed me on the naval and I screamed.

"Alright you son-of-a-bitch, I'll tell you!"

# Chapter Two

I looked up from the paper I was reading and smiled. We were at One-Hundred Twenty-Fifth Street and I knew in about 5 minutes we'd be pulling into Grand Central Station. I didn't have to look at a sign to tell me where I was. I knew this station. I had dreamed many hours away living this exact moment. This was an elevated platform and it always gave me the feeling that I was riding the BMT or IRT instead of the New York New Haven and Hartford railroad.

This was the feeling I had lived for the past few years, the feeling of looking at the 125th Street station, the feeling that I was free, that I was once again Mr. Bart Drake, civilian, not Sgt. Bart Drake, U.S.A. I was once again a carefree fun-loving bachelor, ready and willing to dive into that enormous sea of young, beautiful, carefree women that inhabited New York. No more barking orders, no more taking orders, standing inspections and the rest of the chicken that goes with military life. All I wanted was a little apartment, a nice paying job, and someone beautiful and loving to come home to every night, as long as it was someone different every night. I wasn't ready for marriage. I said I'd wait until 1960 to marry, and this was only the fall of 1953. I was twenty-six now, and I figured by the time I was thirty-two or three I will have had my fling, and be ready to settle down. Hell, I'd been away for three years and had a lot of catching up to do. And I meant to start catching up tonight.

It was dark now as we went into the tunnel, and a few people began to mill about, getting their belongings in order. We'd be pulling into the station in a few minutes and, as was typical of New Yorkers, whether native or not, everyone was ready for the big scramble.

There was an excitement about New York, an electricity, a compulsion, that made people rush from place to place whether you were in a hurry or not. People rushed in and out, back and forth, to and fro like a community of ants that just had their hill overturned with a pitchfork. It was something you couldn't explain. Even visitors, after a few hours in the city, caught the fever. It was like a contagious disease, it hit everyone. I'm a native New Yorker and I'm no exception, but sometimes I think that people hustle and scurry about just to get where they are going so they can get out of the crowd. But not me, not today.

Today I was a tourist. I was going to mope along, gaze at the sights, look at the faces of pedestrians, and even wait for the green light. This way my day of liberation, it was the happiest day I might ever see again, and I was going to enjoy it to the hilt. Let them maul me, trample me, stomp me to ribbons. I would just look at their unsmiling faces and laugh. Today I was a tourist.

The train jerked to a stop, and I came back to reality. We were in the station, and droves of rushing people filed past my window. The race was on. I rose from my seat, put on my coat and hat and slung the duffel bag over my shoulder. I cursed under my breath as it thudded against the side of my head. Then I smiled, realizing this would be the last time I'd have to haul this thing around.

I walked up the ramp and out into the station. I glanced at the clock and saw it was only 7:10 a.m..... The station was still comparatively empty at this time of morning. I spied a phone booth and headed toward it, then decided against it and headed toward the shuttle. I'll just walk in and surprise them.

I took the shuttle over to Times Square, changed for the IRT 7th Avenue Line and rode one stop to Penn Station. I got off at the lower level and dumped the duffel bag down in front of the Long Island Railroad Information Booth. The clerk looked up from some papers as I asked him the next train to Merrick. He told me it was 75 58 and I noted I still had almost a half-hour to kill.

"Would you mind keeping an eye on this duffel bag for a few minutes?" I asked.

"Sure. Nobody will bother it. I'll watch it."

"Thanks." I said and headed for a bar I saw down the passage.

It was closed. I went to a phone booth and leafed through a Nassau County directory until I found what I wanted. 'Mr. James Thompson, 19 McKinley Drive, Merrick, Long Island.' I copied the address on a slip of paper and went back to the Information Booth. The duffel bag was still there and I picked it up, thanked the clerk, and went to the ticket counter. I bought a one way ticket to Merrick that cost me $1.26 and went over to track 16. The clock told me I still had twenty minutes to wait, and the gate was closed. The Gateman looked at me, then the duffel bag and opened the gate for me to pass through. He closed it again as I went through and I went down the stairs and boarded the train. I found a seat, and settled back and relaxed. I thought about Janet.

Janet was my sister. There was just the two of us in the family, Mom and Dad had died a few years back within six months of each other. Dad died first of a bad heart, and after that mom seemed to lose all interest in life. She was never sick, but just seemed to gradually fade away. One night she died in her sleep and when we found her in the morning, there was a soft little smile on her face. I guess she knew she'd be with her husband again.

We'd lived in a four room apartment in Brooklyn and when I went to the army, Janet was left alone. She didn't like that much apparently, because a few months after that she married Jim Thompson, a fellow she'd been going with when I left.

I'd met Jim quite a few times and liked him. He was about my size, six-one, one hundred ninety-eight pounds and he liked his booze as much as I did. He worked for a small advertising agency in New York that was growing very rapidly and apparently Jim was growing with it. They had just bought a house out in Merrick, and a new car, and Janet was expecting her first child in February. With me getting out of the service ready to set the world on fire, and Janet and Jim all happy, things couldn't be better for our family.

The conductor walked through the aisle asking for tickets and I realized for the first time that we were moving. The train had gone through the tunnel and we were almost in Jamaica. I had been doing a lot of day dreaming today, but I suppose that was a good way to kill time.

We pulled into Jamaica and five or six people came into the car. There weren't too many people going in this direction, but the trains were loaded with passengers on their way to New York.

My watch read 8:40 as the train pulled into the Merrick station. I hopped a cab that was standing there and he let me off at 19 McKinley Drive. I gave him a buck and a half and got out.

It was a nice little house, Cape Cod model, white with a red roof and red trimming. It was set about 12 feet back from the sidewalk and a curved, red brick wall lead to the stoop. As I slung the strap of my bag around my shoulder the front door opened and Janet came running toward me with her arms wide apart.

She was a petite blonde, not much over one hundred pounds and she felt like a bag of feathers as I dropped my duffel bag and swooped her up in my arms.

"Oh Bart, I'm so glad to see you!" She had a slight whimper in her voice.

"Hey there, there's no need to start bawling. I'm here for good this time."

I put her down and the dam opened. The tears flowed freely. I smiled and put my arm around her and we walked to the house.

The front door lead into the living room. On the left were stairs leading up to the attic. On the right was a larger mirror under which was gray sectional sofa. There were two end tables holding large, modern lamps and an oval shaped coffee table. Two stuffed chairs and a television set completed the room.

We sat on the sofa and Janet buried her head in my shoulder.

"I'm so worried!" she said. "It's Jim. He didn't come home last night."

"Did he call you?" I asked.

"Yes. Early last night." She was gaining control of herself now, "He called about seven-thirty. He said he was having supper with a client and he would try to get home as early as he could. I know he didn't intend to stay out all night."

"Does he ever stay out all night?"

"No. Oh you know Jim. He likes a good time and enjoys a few drinks, but he's considerate. If he's going to be out really late he always calls and tells me. But he's never been this late."

"I'm sure there's an explanation. He probably got drunk and someone took him home to sleep it off."

"He would have called by now. Bart, I'm really worried!"

"Now don't worry. Did you call his office? Maybe they know where he is."

"I tried, but it was too early. There was no one there."

"Well give me the number and I'll try it. It's almost nine o'clock; there should be someone there now."

She gave me the number. I dialed it and a feminine business-like voice answered, "Jones, Johnson and Hatfield, Good Morning."

"Hello, I'm trying to locate Mr. Thompson. Can you tell me where I can reach him?"

"I'm sorry, sir. He's not in yet."

"I know but it's very important that I find him."

"You might try his home sir."

"I'm calling from his home. Is there anyone who may know where he is?"

"I'll give you his secretary, sir."

I heard a few clicks in the phone and in a few seconds, another female voice answered, this one softer and less business-like. In fact it was a creamy voice, more like an invitation than a formal "Good morning". All she said was, "Mr. Thompson's office, Miss Clayton speaking." But the way she said it, I felt like jumping through the phone and devouring Miss Clayton, whatever she looked like. I know why I had called. I know Janet was very worried about Jim and I wanted to ease her mind. I didn't mean to get off the tract. I didn't want my tone of voice to sound the way it did, but it just came out. I said "Hello", nothing more, but it was as if I was a love-sick cow the way it came off.

She said hello even softer and creamier than before and I cleared my throat. I thought to myself that this was a hell of a way to find out about Jim. I'd make some detective. One broad would whisper softly to me and that would be the end of the case.

"Miss Clayton," I said more sternly "I'm trying to locate Mr. Thompson. I'm his brother-in-law, Bart Drake."

"He's not in as of yet, Mr. Drake, may I have him call you when..."

I cut her short. "I'm at his home now. He's not here and I can't locate his wife. Can you tell me where he may have gone last night or where he may be now?"

I didn't want the whole town to know he hadn't been home all night. Maybe he was shacked up. Or just plain drunk. No matter where he was, I didn't think it was anyone else's business.

"He's probably on his way in now, Mr. Drake. His wife may be out shopping. I'll have him call his home as soon as he comes in."

"Thank you, Miss Clayton."

She said "Bye" in that soft, sexy voice again and I almost didn't hang up.

I went back to the living room and sat down on the sofa with Janet.

"He's not there yet. Honey, but they're sure he'll be in shortly."

"No, no. He would have called me. Bart, something has happened to him!"

"Take it easy now and tell me all that happened last night, all that he said over the phone."

"As I told you, he called about seven-thirty. He said he was having supper with a client..."

"Did he say who it was?"

"No. Just that he would try to be home as early as he could." She frowned a little. "He said something funny then that I didn't think anything about at the time. He said he said he was onto something and that he was going to the Club Tempo. What he meant by that, I don't know. I didn't even ask him about it. That's all he said, and hung up."

"Did he say where he was when he called?"

"No, but it was probably the Pelican Room. That's where he brings all the VIP's he takes out.

"O.K. sis. Look, let me take a shower and shave and then I'll see what else I can find out. In the meantime he may call."

"Should I call the police?"

"No, not yet. There's no reason to. I still think he's sleeping off a drunk somewhere. In an hour or two he'll wake up and call you and tell you everything will be alright."

"I hope your right, Bart, but I can't help but worry about him."

"He's a big boy. He can take care of himself."

She smiled weakly as I left her and went to the shower.

After the shave and shower I felt like a new man. I took a suit, shirt, and tie from Jim's closet and they fit almost perfectly. I had to wear my army shoes, but I thought I could buy a pair later and toss these away.

I went back to the living room to Janet. It was 10:25 now and she was getting on the verge of hysteria.

"Is the car in the garage?" I asked.

"Yes."

"Let me have the keys and I'll ride over to New York and see what I can find out. If he doesn't call by 11 O'clock you'd better call the police. I'll check back every once in a while and let you know how I'm doing."

A few tears started to flow from her eyes, and her lower lip quivered. I went to her and put my arm around her shoulder.

"Sweetheart, if he is drunk, it may take him quite a while to wake up. I know. I've been on some beauts myself. Don't worry, I'm sure he's alright.

"Call me when you know anything, please Bart." She wiped her eyes and smiled a bit.

"Sure, sis."

# Chapter Three

I pulled the car out of the garage and drove to the southern state parkway. I drove along it until I reached Van Wyke Expressway, headed north to Queen's Blvd. and over the 59th Street bridge. I turned left on Second Avenue, left again at 42nd street and down to First Avenue. There I made my third left and pulled into the parking area in the United Nations building. I paid the attendant seventy-five cents and walked west to Madison Avenue. Jones, Johnson and Hatfield was at 501 Madison. That would be about 50th street.

I walked toward 50th dodging cabs and people. This was supposed to be my day as a tourist, the day when I would laugh at New Yorkers, but somehow I didn't feel in the mood to laugh. I hadn't let on to Janet that I was bothered by Jim's absence, but I was. As she had said, he was very considerate. He wouldn't stay out all night without letting her know about it. And what he had said over the phone about being on to something bothered me too. I had no idea what he could be on to, naturally, not having been home for over two years. But in view of the fact that he hadn't been home all night, it could mean something.

I stopped in a drug store on Madison Avenue, got some change from the clerk, and went to the phone booth to call Janet. She still had no word from him, and the agency had called to see if he was sick. It was obvious that they knew nothing about his whereabouts, and I was probably wasting my time going up there, but I had to start someplace. I told Janet to call the police, but she'd already done that. She was a nervous wreck by now, and I couldn't much blame her. I was starting to worry quite a bit myself. It was 11:45 now and if he had tied one on, he certainly would be over it by now.

Five minutes later I was standing in the small but plush reception room at Jones, Johnson and Hatfield. There were three overstuffed, arm-less chairs, green, red and yellow, against two walls. The carpet was coral blue, and my feet sank as I walked across to the white, modern desk. Sitting behind the desk was a slim blonde, good looking in the high-fashion modern look you see on the pages of Vogue. She was a combination receptionist/switchboard operator, and she smiled warmly as I approached.

"Yes sir, can I help you?" She was the business-like voice I had talked to earlier.

"I don't suppose Mr. Thompson is in." It was a half question.

"No sir, he's not." She seemed surprised at the way I said.

"May I see Miss Clayton? My name is Bart Drake."

"Yes sir. One moment please."

She turned to her left to the switchboard and announced me. She listened for a couple of seconds, and then told me Miss Clayton would be out in a minute or two. I walked over to one of the chairs, and was half squatted when she came in. I stopped short, and must have looked silly as hell half-standing and half-sitting. But the truth of the matter was, I didn't know what to do. I knew it wasn't proper to sit, but I didn't know if I had the strength to stand, she affected me that way. I suppose she affected everyone that way.

She smiled broadly and said "Mr. Drake, won't you come in?"

And that did it. I sat. I scrambled to my feet and smiled limply and said, "Bart." That was brilliant as hell, but that's all I could get out. I was lucky I got that out.

As we say in the army, she came on like gangbusters. She was a redhead, the most beautiful redhead I've ever seen, and that beautiful red hair was cropped shoulder length, and had a tousled, almost un-kept look. It wasn't done carelessly, it was purposely combed that way to make her oval-shaped face even more interesting than it was. Her eyes were green, and they alternated from a starry-eyed teenage look, to a small, exotic, knowledgeable stare. Her lips were full and delicious, and her smile produced a dimple on each side of her mouth. But as lovely as her face was, my eyes were drawn automatically down. She had on a white blouse which would have hung loosely on any other girl her size, but on her it didn't hang. It almost looked ridiculously small. This girl was hung.

She turned and started back to where she came from and gestured for me to follow her. The gesture was unnecessary. I would have followed her whether she had or not. I watched her plump, well rounded fanny bounce as we walked down a short hall. On each side of the hall, about every ten feet there was a doorway leading to small, box-shaped offices. Men and women were busy at typewriters, layouts, adding machines and doing other various forms of paper work. I wasn't really interested in what they were doing. I was too busy watching that fascinating movement ahead of me.

We reached the end of the hall, and she stopped and turned to me. I had to stop fast to keep from bumping her. This girl really protruded.

She nodded to a small office to the left and said, "This is mine. Come in."

We went in. It was a small office the same as the rest of them I had seen. She went around her desk and sat down. I sat in the only other chair in the room. Behind her desk was a doorway that lead to another office, I presumed it was Jim's.

She folded her hands on the top of her desk and flashed me a warm smile. Those dimples popped up again and her eyes got that starry look.

"Now Mr. Drake, what can I do for you?"

"Bart." I said again. I was some conversationalist.

"Alright Bart." Her voice was soft and almost caressing. I looked down at the bulge in her blouse and all I could think of was soft and caressing. I pulled my eyes away from her and spotted the door to the other office again. It's about time I got down to business.

I said, "I don't suppose you have any idea where Mr. Thompson might be? He didn't come home last night and we've had no word from him. My sister is pretty worried, and quite frankly, so am I."

Her face got serious. "I have no idea where he is. It's very strange too. Jim just isn't the kind of man to do a thing like that."

I noticed she said 'Jim', not Mr. Thompson. It seemed to me a secretary shouldn't be so personal as to call her boss Jim, but maybe I had been in the army too long.

"I know this much," I said "he went to supper with one of his clients and then he was going to the Club Tempo. You have any idea who that client was?"

"Oh that would be Mr. Feilman. Jim, Mr. Feilman and Clyde Hogarth left together last night. I think they were going to the Pelican Room."

Clyde Hogarth. That was one I hadn't heard before. Janet made no mention of him.

"Who's Hogarth?" I asked.

"Another of our account men. Pretty big wheel around here. He's the one most responsible for our tremendous growth in the past year. Oh we're not one of the real big agencies, but we're growing fast. Last year we billed around three million. This year we'll bill about nine. That's rapid rising and Hogarth's the one most responsible for it."

"The agency makes nine million?" I didn't know about these things.

"No. We bill nine million to our clients. We get about 15 percent of that. That's not very impressive when you consider that the big ones are billing 70 or 80 million, but it keeps us in operation."

I looked at my watch. It was almost 12:15 and I was feeling a slight growl in my stomach.

"Listen," I said as if I just had a brain storm. Actually I was thinking of it all along. "I want to go over to the Pelican Room and see what I can pick up there. Why don't you come along and we'll have lunch together?"

She gave me that warm smile and sprung out of her chair. "Fine. I was beginning to wonder if you would ask me."

"Just one more thing." I said "I'd like to talk to Hogarth before we leave. Maybe he can throw some light on this."

"I'm afraid you'll have to wait until tomorrow. He's out of town and won't be back. Big meeting in Jersey."

"Well maybe I can get in touch with him later tonight. Do you have his address?"

"Sure," She waltzed passed me and out into the hall. "Give it to you later."

That last line got me thinking about things I shouldn't have been thinking about. I know she meant the address, but my mind was somewhere else.

The Pelican Room was on Fifty-Fourth Street between Lexington and Park Avenue. It was a typical eating place for executives. Not a night spot, just a place to have lunch or supper and drinks.

The waiter led us to a table and we sat. It wasn't a big room, but it was just one of the four leading off from the bar. The lady ordered a Manhattan and I ordered scotch-on-the-rocks. When they came, we sipped them, and I grinned at her.

"I don't even know your name."

"Marla. Marla Clayton." She gave me the sultry look this time.

I couldn't get over this chick. When she looked at you with those wide, green eyes you wanted to take her under your wing, and protect her from all the cares and woes of the world. She looked like an innocent child who needed to be mothered... or fathered. But when she stared at you the way she was now, you wanted to mash her against you and make her a mother. She was quite a woman. All woman and I liked every acre.

I had to get down to business. "Tell me more about the operation of the agency. Just what did Jim do?"

"Don't you know? You're his brother-in-law aren't you?" She seemed a little wary.

"I nodded. "Sure. But I just got home today. Out of the army. I've been away over two years. Three years not counting leaves. My sister and Jim weren't married when I left. I really don't know much of what's been going on."

"Korea?"

"Uh, huh. Two Years."

She settled back in her chair, the suspicion gone. "Was it bad?"

"Sometimes. How about Jim?" I wanted to get off that subject. I'm not a flag waver.

"Well" she heaved a sigh and that raised hell under her blouse and I damn near missed the rest of what she said. "Jim's one of our account men. One of eight but he's the best of the bunch. He's got a creative mind and wonderful ideas. He was top man until Hogarth came along. Hogarth's not in his class as a copywriter or anything else for that matter. But he's the fair-haired boy, the one who brings in accounts. I don't know how he does it. He's got a lousy personality. Nobody in the place likes him, but he's P.P.'s boy."

"P.P.?" I damn near shouted it and almost fell off the chair laughing. A few people turned and started but I just couldn't contain myself. The funniest part of it was that Marla was looking at me as if I was a nut.

"I'm sorry." I said, getting myself under control. "That's a hell of a name for anybody to have."

She smiled. "I guess it is. Everyone around the office is so used to it by now that it doesn't have any effect on us."

"Well, just who is P.P.?" I damn near broke up again.

"J. Percy Penock. Don't know what the J is for. He's the head of the agency."

"J. Percy Penock. I think I like P.P. better."

"You'll like it less when you see him."

"What's he like?"

"Fat, around fifty and ugly as a sin."

"Depends on what kind of sin you're talking about." I gave her a wry grin. Subtle as hell.

She narrowed her eyes. "I see your point. Maybe I should rephrase that line." She was smiling slightly.

"Either rephrase it or clarify it." I was starting to enjoy the conversation immensely.

"Maybe someday I will." She sure as hell was getting under my skin.

The waiter came over, broke the train of thought, and we ordered another drink. While he was gone I asked Marla about the Pelican Room and Jim. As Janet had said, he brought most of his clients here for lunch or supper. The food was good and the atmosphere was pleasant. She thought most of the waiters knew him as a good customer and a good tipper. When the waiter returned, I asked him about it.

"Do you know Mr. Jim Thompson?" I asked him.

"Oh yes sir. Mr. Thompson is a very good customer. But I'm afraid he's not here today."

"Yes, I know. But I wanted to ask you about last night. Did you see him here?"

"No sir. I leave at five. You'd have to see the night man. He's here at five when I leave."

I thanked him and we ordered our food. I was hungry. I hadn't had anything to eat since late last night when I left Boston. I ordered a T-bone, and Marla had a hot roast beef sandwich. I was finished with mine before she'd had a taste of her french-fries. Over coffee we discussed the agency again. Hogarth had been with the agency for about eight months and he had brought in almost six million dollars' worth of business. He didn't bring an account with him as some account men do when they switch agencies. He built it up after he got there. In fact, he wasn't in the advertising business until he went to Jones, Johnson and Hatfield. Marla knew nothing of his past; only that P.P. had brought him back from California on his last vacation and gave him a job. Seemed it turned out quite well for everyone. The agency was growing, and everyone connected was growing with it, so Hogarth was not resented by the others, just disliked for his personality.

"How about Feilman?" I asked.

"One of our new accounts. Feilman's Cosmetics. They do over a million dollars' worth of advertising alone. It's funny about all the accounts Hogarth's brought in. Just five of them but they're all big. Over a million. The thing I don't understand is why they switched to us. We're just a small agency with no real recognition in the field, but as soon as Hogarth comes along, wham, we get hot."

"He must be a hell of a salesman." I said.

"He doesn't impress me. He must have hidden talents."

"I bet you have a few hidden talents yourself." I grinned at her and looked down at a couple of them that weren't too well hidden.

A faint smile flickered across her face and disappeared almost immediately. She stood up and smoothed out her skirt.

"Well I have to get back to the grind." I got a small mental picture of that and decided I would like to see it. Damn it. Everything she said, I twisted around. I was either over-sexed or underfed.

I paid the check and we left.

Outside I remembered something that she hadn't told me.

"Marla. You didn't give me Hogarth's address."

"Oh I almost forgot." She reached into her purse but I put my hand on her arm.

"Never mind. I want to go back with you and look around Jim's office. Maybe I can find out something there. I don't know what, but I have no idea where to start."

"You really think he's in trouble, Bart?"

"I'm sure of it now. We would have some word by now if he was alright. I don't know what I can do, but I just can't sit around and wait."

We went back to the office of Jones, Johnson and Hatfield, and as we walked in the door I heard the receptionist saying over the phone "Yes Mr. Hogarth, I'll see if I can locate him."

I turned to Marla. "If that's Hogarth I'd like to speak to him."

She nodded. "I'll fix it. You can take it in my office."

I walked to the hall and down to the end to Marla's office. I went in and sat at the desk. The phone buzzed almost immediately.

I picked up the phone and asked, "Hogarth?"

A high pitches voice answered "Yes" leaving the 'S' trail off musically.

"This is Bart Drake, Hogarth. I'm Jim Thompson's brother-in-law. Jim's disappeared. He never came home last night and I thought you could throw some light on his whereabouts. I understand you had supper with him and Feilman at the Pelican room last night."

"No, Mr. Drake. I didn't eat with him. I left him at the club before he ate. I only had one drink and left."

"Well, he called my sister and told her he was going to the Club Tempo. He said he was on to something, you have any idea what that could be?"

"Oh nooo, Mr. Drake. I have no idea." He hit high C again and it annoyed me. I hadn't even met the guy, but his tone of voice aggravated me.

"Was there anything in his conversation that may hint he was worried about anything?"

"No. Nothing at all. I'm sorry I can't help you Mr. Drake. All we talked about was business."

"How about Feilman? Did he leave with you?"

"No, He stayed on with Jim for supper."

"Where did you go after you left them?" I don't know why I asked it. It was none of my business, but I was getting wound up in this thing now and I wanted to find out all I could. I supposed I had it coming, but his answer still burned me.

"It's none of your damned business what I did or didn't do Drake!" The Mr. was gone. "Now switch me back to the operator."

"Alright, keep your pants on." I should have apologized but I wasn't in the mood.

Marla was with me and I lowered the phone. "He wants to talk to the operator."

She took the phone from me and pressed a button marked 'hold', then pressed another marked '26' and said into the receiver, "Helen, Clyde wants you on twenty-seven.", then she hung up and turned to me.

"Any luck?"

"No. He was no help. He said he left before they ate supper. If it's any consolation to you, I don't think I like him either."

She gave me a broad grin. "I think you and I are going to get along fine."

I grinned right back. "I hope so. I sure as hell hope so."

We stood grinning at each other for a few moments and I walked to the door behind her desk.

"This is Jim's office?"

"That's it. Help yourself."

I leered at her and walked into the room. It wasn't much different from Marla's office, except the carpet was softer, the desk was mahogany, and a few pictures were scattered on the wall. Nothing fancy, but it was pleasant.

I went to the desk and leafed through a stack of papers in a box marked 'in'. I went through another stack in the 'out' box and found nothing of interest.

I went through all the drawers, and still a blank.

"I guess there's nothing left to do here. I'll take a walk down to the Club Tempo and see what I can dig up there."

"I don't think it will be open Bart. That's strictly a night spot, no afternoon trade. It's the kind of place, well...uh... you know, they have exotic dancers. It's on Fifty-Second Street."

I knew. Exotic dancers. Stripper is what they are commonly known as. I knew the type of place. Fifty-Second Street was a haven for those joints. Drinks were a buck or two a throw, and the talent was strictly for tourists. The girls there took off less than the broads at Coney Island. I couldn't think of one good reason why Jim would want to go there. Anyone familiar with New York knew they were all clip joints, and a native New Yorker would stay clear of them. But Jim had gone there, and I was going to visit there today.

"Well I'll take a look just the same. There might be someone in the place. As I said before, I have no place to start looking."

"Alright Bart. Will I see you later?"

"Try and keep me away. Give me your number and I'll call you."

She jotted down her address and telephone number and I left.

# Chapter Four

I walked along Madison Avenue to Fifty-Second Street and went across Fifth Avenue. I walked down Fifty-Second Street toward Sixth Avenue and spied the Club Tempo before I reached it. There was a canopy from the entrance cut to the edge of the curb, and an unlit neon light advertised 'Club Tempo'. In front, plastered all over, were different girls in various stages of undressing, but the most prominent, and rightfully so, was a deliciously built chick named simply 'Sheila'. The billboard was about four feet high, and Sheila was standing with one hand on her hip, the other in the air, and her right foot extended from two feet from the left one. It was a very fetching pose, and I was thinking I'd like to see this girl in action. Her long black hair hung loosely from the shoulders, her head was thrown back and her eyes closed. She had on a skimpy bra which hardly could contain her enormous development, and a tousle hung from her navel down to the ground. A very fetching pose.

A little guy with a grimy shirt and overalls was polishing the brass on the door, and I walked up to him.

"Anyone inside?" I asked.

He looked up and gave me the once over. He nodded and said the boss was inside.

"I'd like to see him."

He looked at me, surprised. "Well go ahead. Who's stopping you?"

I ignored that and walked through the unlocked door.

Inside I stopped and looked around. It was no different from all the other dives along this street. The place was long and narrow, and cheap looking. On the right there was a phone booth and a bar that extended halfway along the length of the room. To the left was a check room, men's and women's washrooms, and a door that read 'Office'. The back half of the club was filled with tables and a small half-oval stage was in the rear.

No one was in sight, so I went to the door marked 'Office' and knocked. The door sprung open immediately.

Now, I don't consider myself to be a small fellow by any means. I stand six-one, weigh one ninety-eight, and am quite broad in the shoulders. And having just been discharged from the Army, I am still in pretty good physical condition. I have met a few men who could take me in a rough and tumble brawl, but not too many. Matter of fact, there are only two I can think of in my life who have ever got the best of me. But as I looked up at the ape who opened the door, I was almost willing to add a third name to that list.

He must go about six-six and grind the scales at two-sixty. This was just a rough estimate, but this boy looked pretty rough. His one arm hung loosely at his side, and the other was wrapped around the doorknob. I'll bet he used doorknobs for marbles when he was a kid. His face was big, round, and ugly, and he looked as though it had been riddled with buckshot. I couldn't see past him, so I didn't know if he was the only one in the room or not. He made no attempt to move or speak, so I guess it was up to me.

"I'd like to see the owner of this establishment," I said with a grin.

One side of his mouth moved upwards and bared a couple of jagged molars, and for a minute I thought he was going to haul off and let me have one across the chops. Then a voice from inside the room told him to let me in.

He grunted, stepped aside, and I walked in. It was a small, dimly lit office with a desk, two chairs, and a filing cabinet. A little greasy-looking character stood in one corner cleaning his nails with a pen knife. He had on a porkpie hat and looked like something out of Dick Tracy.

The guy behind the desk was entirely different from either one of them. He was well dressed and handsome. He wasn't too big, but I'd bet he was quite the boy with the ladies. He smiled broadly and stood up to shake my hand as if I were a long lost relative.

"How do you do. Garrett's the name, Nick Garrett. Come on in. What can I do for you?" He said it fast and cut every syllable off sharply. He was obviously nervous, or maybe you get that way watching those dames gyrating all over the stage every night.

I smiled. "Bart Drake. I'm trying to find out some information about my brother-in-law, Jim Thompson. We can't locate him and I think he was in your club last night."

He didn't answer. He looked past my shoulder to the mugs behind me and nodded. I glanced over my shoulder and saw the little greasy one nod back, and he and the ape went out the door. When they were gone, Garrett went back around his desk and sat down.

"Now what can I do to help you, Drake?"

"Do you know Jim Thompson?"

"Never heard of him. Should I?"

"No, not necessarily." I described him. "Do you remember anyone here last night that might fit the description?"

He sighed and leaned back in his chair. "You a cop?"

"No. Brother-in-law. Anything you can tell me would be appreciated."

"I'd like to help you, Drake, but we get a big crowd here at night. I don't pay much attention to any of them unless they start raising too much hell. You know the kind of place we run here. Give the customers a few half-naked broads, a little music and some booze. Nothing artsy about it, but I make a living. As long as people mind their own business, and I don't get in trouble with the law, I leave them alone. The bartender or one of the girls could tell you more about the customers than I can. Why don't you stop back later? Maybe they can help you."

"O.K. Garrett, thanks anyway." I shook hands with him and left. The hoods were nowhere in sight, and when I got outside the club, the little grimy polisher was gone too. I closed the door and took three steps to my left, and heard something crack about two inches ahead of me. A couple of splinters flew past my eyes and I stopped abruptly. Then it registered. I leaped for the ground head first, and felt my chin scrape the sidewalk just as another crack splintered the wall I was been standing in front of.

As I hit the ground, I simultaneously forced my body into a roll toward a small alley next to the club. Another shot kicked up the cement about six inches from me. I rolled over and over again and after what seemed like an eternity I reached the alley. I scrambled to my feet and plastered myself against the wall, trying to become a part of it. I stood like that for about fifteen seconds, and nothing else happened. I peered out from behind the wall and saw no one in sight. The shots must have come from street level, because the canopy outside the club would have obstructed the view from anywhere else. I saw a parking lot across the street and jumped from behind the alley and raced toward it in a zig-zag run. If he was still waiting for me, I didn't want to give him a good target. I reached the parking lot, ducked behind a car, and listened. Nothing happened. A guy passed on the street, looked at me, and shook his head. A few cars passed, and an old man with a shoe shine box on the corner sat in a chair watching me. Whoever took the pot shot at me would be gone by now. I stood up and ran my hand over my chin. It was sticky and covered with blood where I had skidded along the sidewalk. I dabbed at it with my handkerchief.

I stuffed the handkerchief back into my pocket, ran back across the street, and pulled open the door to the club. I ran through the club and shoved the door to the office open. I barged through, flying across the room to the desk. I stopped. The room was empty. I ran out and went to the back of the club. The grimy polisher was coming out from behind a curtain next to the stage. I grabbed him and slammed him against the wall. His eyes got big and his mouth sagged.

"Where is he? Where's your boss and those two hoods of his!?" I was yelling and I could feel the anger boiling up inside me.

The polisher was scared stiff, and he mumbled something inaudible. I had him by the shirt front, and I pulled him back and slammed him hard against the wall again.

He groaned and slumped down toward the floor.

"I don't know, I don't know." He sobbed.

I threw him into a pile of chairs and tables and went back through the curtain. Behind it was a short hall that led to a door in the rear. There was another door to my left and I threw it open. It was a small dressing room obviously occupied by the strippers. I went in the rear and went outside. It was just a small area where they put the garbage. You couldn't even call it a backyard. No one was there, but he could have gone out the alley when I came in the front.

I went back through the club. The polisher was still trying to get out from under the chairs and tables and when he saw me he tried to get deeper under them.

I stopped out front and looked around again. The only possible place the shots could have come from was the parking lot. It was the only place on street level that anyone could conceal himself.

I couldn't figure why anyone would want to kill me. All I did was ask a few questions. I hadn't uncovered anything of importance. But somebody must be afraid that I might. This incident convinced me that Jim's disappearance was the result of foul play. He must have found out something that scared someone. But who? With Jim gone, how was I going to find out?

I had only talked to a few people; Marla, Clyde Hogarth, and Garrett and his hoods. The only one I could figure was Garrett. As soon as I came into the office and mentioned Jim's name, he had sent his boys outside. They could have been waiting for me when I left. But why would he take a chance right in front of his own place? That didn't make sense. If he wanted me out of the way, he could have picked a better spot. The Club Tempo had something to do with this thing, and I was coming back tonight to find out what.

I thought of Marla. If Garrett didn't set this thing up, who did? Marla? She was the only one who knew I was coming here. I just couldn't picture that hunk of loveliness pulling a trigger. But it was possible. Anything was possible.

This thing hadn't been on the spur of the moment, either. Whoever it was used a silencer. There was no noise from the shot, and the little it would make from the silencer was drowned out by the noise from the city.

I was getting pretty damn mad. It takes quite a bit to make me angry. I can take an awful lot of guff before I blow my top, but one thing I don't go for is someone shooting at me. I had enough of that crap in Korea, and I didn't come home just to have it start all over again. I've got them scared now. Just by asking a few questions, I've got them so damn afraid that they are willing to risk killing me in broad daylight on the streets of New York. Well by God, I was going to find them. If they did anything to my sister's husband, I was going to kill them. I've killed before. I've killed Koreans, but they're no different from any man. I'll find these bastards and kill them the same way. 

# Chapter Five

I walked down to Sixth Avenue and stopped in a bar. I ordered a shot of rye with a beer chaser, drank it, and went into the phone booth. I called Jones, Johnson and Hatfield, and asked for Miss Clayton. Marla answered. At least I knew it wasn't her who shot at me. She could never have gotten back so soon.

"Honey," I said, "I want you to think real hard. Is there anything Jim might have said the last few days that may have sounded a little out of the ordinary? Anything that he might have been worried about?"

"Nothing I can think of, Bart, honest. Everything's been the same as it always was. He's been working a lot lately on the Feilman account, but there was nothing he said or did that seemed strange to me."

"O.K. It was just a chance that he may have dropped something to you. I'm convinced he found out something that somebody didn't want known. I think that's why he disappeared."

"You think something has happened to him, I mean something bad?" She really sounded deeply worried.

"Yeah, honey, something bad."

I didn't know where I was headed now. I'd just about used up all my leads, outside of Feilman."

I said to Marla, "Look honey, give me Feilman's number and I'll see what I can find out from him. I'll meet you later at the Pelican Room. I still want to talk to the waiter that served them last night.

She said she'd meet me and I hung up.

I called Feilman's office, but he hadn't been in all day. They gave me his home phone but I got no answer there.

I called Janet.

The voice at the other end was definitely not Janet's. It was a gruff, raspy voice that sounder as though it came from the mouth of a bull moose. He said, "Hello, who's this?"

"Who the hell is this?" There was no answer for a few seconds and then I heard Janet's voice. It was soft and sounded weak and shaky.

"Janet, honey, what's wrong?"

"Oh Bart, Bart" she sobbed, and her voice faded out and the man came back again.

"Now look, what the hell is going on there!?" I was getting pretty damn mad at everything that was happening to me lately, and was in no mood to screw around.

"Take is easy, Drake. This is Sergeant Wilson, Police. Your sister's all right, so don't get excited."

"O.K. Sergeant, but let me in it. What's up?"

"Your brother-in-law, Drake. He's dead. We found him this morning, but couldn't identify him until we got your sister's missing persons report."

I was shocked and didn't quite hear all of what he said. I got the part about Jim being dead. It just didn't seem possible. Up 'till this time, this was more like a game than a reality. I hadn't taken this business as seriously as I should have. Even being shot at didn't make me realize how dangerous this thing really was. I had been shot at before by people who wanted to kill me, but there it was impersonal. When you're fighting a war you're not shooting people, you're shooting the enemy. Oh, they're people, but that's not how you look at it. They're just blank faces, things that move and have no individualism. If you killed, you didn't think about the one you killed. You don't stop to consider that the one you killed may have a wife and family. They are not a personality with the same troubles, joys, and ambitions as you. They're just things in your way, and the more you get out of your way, the faster you can end it all. It was the way war was. The people standing on the side of it, hearing of it, reading about it, imagining it, had different ideas, many solutions, and numerous comments. But the ones in it, fighting it, living it, hating it, these were their thoughts and feelings. They were the ones who knew it for what it was. It was their war and no one else's. It was kill or be killed. It has been said before and will be said again, but it was that simple.

But this wasn't war anymore. I had left that all behind. I was at home now and I wanted to start living as a human being again, not as an animal. I wanted to enjoy life, and all it had to offer, all there for the taking. But something wouldn't let me.

Something was fighting me. I couldn't live in peace with all of the angers, fears, and obsessions before me. I had to fight again, crawl through the mud on hands and knees, and taste the sticky dryness in my mouth. I was fighting a war again. Only this time, it was my own little private war, within myself. I knew what I was going to do, and yet I wanted to prevent doing it. I didn't want to kill again. But I knew I would. I'd find the one who killed Jim and I knew I'd kill again.

"...shot twice, one in the chest and one in the neck. He must have been dumped there some time during the night."

"Dumped where?" I'd lost most of what he had said.

"I told you. Eighteenth Street Station on the IRT. It's been closed down. A workman on the tracks found him this morning lying on the platform."

"How's my sister taking it, Sergeant?"

"Pretty bad. 'Course she hasn't identified him yet, just given us a description. There's little doubt that it's her husband. She's in no condition to go to the morgue now. The doctor is here with her."

"Don't bother her with the formalities. I'll take a drive to the morgue and give you an identification."

We said our goodbyes and hung up.

I left the phone booth, stopped at the bar for another shot, and went outside and grabbed a cab. I rode to East 29th Street to the City Mortuary. I viewed the body, made my identification, and left. I wasn't anxious to spend any length of time there. The only thing I found out was that it was Jim, and when they found him he didn't have a thing on him except his clothes. They would have identified him sooner or later through those, but when Janet had called reporting Jim's disappearance, it made all that leg-work unnecessary.

I hopped another cab and went back to the United Nations buildings where I had parked the car. I drove down the East Side Highway to the Williamsburg Bridge, then over it and into Brooklyn. I knew what I was going to do now. For the first time since I had started this thing, I knew in which direction I was headed. I was going to get the bastard that killed Jim, and the same one that shot at me. It was simple as hell. I ask a few questions about Jim's whereabouts and I get shot at. Someone didn't want me to snoop too far into this thing. I might find out too much. I had talked to Marla but she was out, because she was at the agency when I called five minutes after it happened. I talked to Hogarth. It couldn't have been him, because he was in New Jersey. I had talked to him on the phone and knew he was in New Jersey. Even if he wasn't, even if he had called from someplace else, he didn't know what I looked like to begin with, so he couldn't go gunning for someone he'd never seen.

Then there was Garrett. Good ole palsy walsy Nick Garrett. He was real glad to see me, so glad he even told his nice friends to leave us alone in the room so we could have a nice quiet talk. He talked nice and gave me all the answers he could, so his cute little playmates could get set outside waiting for me. He was a swell pal. Well, I was going to fix his ass tonight, but first I wanted to know more about those two boys of his. And the guy to tell me was Herring Harry.

Herring Harry was an old neighborhood kid who was part of the teenage gang I roamed with as a kid. It was just a normal neighborhood gang, one of many you find in the five boroughs of New York City. There was nothing malicious about us, never was involved in any trouble other than that which any normal boy would get into. There must have been thirty-five or forty of us that met almost every night in front of an ice-cream store. We'd stand on the corner, shoot the breeze, and then split up in separate groups, depending on what you intended to do for the night. Some would go to the movies, some for a walk in the park to see how many girls they could whistle at, and others would stay at the store, have a coke or two, and listen to the juke box. They weren't bad kids and very few of them looked for trouble, very few, but Herring Harry was one of the few.

Herring was a couple of years older than most of us. He was a tall, skinny kid, with little beady eyes and puffed up lips. He was a nice enough guy, but Herring had a knack for trouble. His real name was Harry Kipp. From that came Kipper, then Kippered, and finally Herring. That was his nickname. We all had one. Mine was Ducky, from the Drake of course.

Herring was the cause of the one and only gang war we were ever involved in. Another gang from a few blocks away had cornered Herring and a couple of boys in the park, and told them to stay out, that the girls in the park belonged to their boys. Well that didn't sit too well with Herring, and he came back to the store, rounded up all he could find of us, and made a few phone calls to some friends he knew outside of the gang. Where he knew them from, God knows, but inside a half-hour, at least fifty more kids, some with zip-guns, knives and saps, were waiting at the store for Herring to say the word. We took off for the park, met the rival gang, but before any damage could be done, the police patrolling the area broke it up and everyone scattered. No one was caught from our side, and we never were involved in anything like that again, but Herring was always in trouble. Because he had gotten help from the friends of his, he was also expected to help them in their hour of need. He did, and was caught a few times, along with petty theft, but as far as I knew, he was the only one in the crowd who had wound up on the wrong side of the law. I didn't know what he was doing now, or where I could find him outside of the old neighborhood, but if there was anyone who could tell me about those two hoods who took a pop shot at me, I was sure Herring Harry could.

I drove to the Greenpoint section of Brooklyn and parked the car. I made the rounds of the bars, and got nowhere. Herring Harry had gone big time now and doesn't come around the neighborhood anymore. No one seemed to know exactly where he was, only that he was one of the New York boys now, Brooklyn and New York of course being two different states.

The neighborhood had changed, as does everything of the past. The things you see, the dreams you had, the plans you made, and the fun you have in boyhood all seem unreal when you look back, as if they had never been. We tend to think that we can go back in time, erase the future and present, by returning to the atmosphere of the past. But we cannot. We can return to the surroundings, even them altered and replaced, but we never capture the mood and spirit of bygone days.

I saw few people I recognized, barely any who knew me. I had changed, as does everything with time. I found Pop Donahue in Foster's Bar and Grill. The years had been unkind to Pop. He had always been a friend of the kids on the block, full of life, as if he were a kid himself. Now he was tired, battered and worn from too much liquor. He was half-slumped over the bar when I saw him. I tapped him on the shoulder.

"Pop, hey Pop. Remember me?"

He raised his head slowly and his half-closed eyes surveyed me quizzically.

"It's Bart, Pop. Bart Drake."

A slight flicker of recognition raced through his eyes, and was gone almost immediately. He shook his head from side to side, very slowly, very deliberately.

"No. You're not one of my boys. All my boys are gone, all gone."

"No, Pop. Look at me. It's Bart." I wanted him to see me, know me. He was part of the old neighborhood and part of my past, and I wanted that much left to hold on to.

"My boys all gone," he said, "They all leave me, go away. Nobody come to see Pop anymore. All my boys are gone."

He picked up his shot glass and raised it to his lips. He threw his head back and set the glass back on the bar. It had been empty all along. I motioned for the bartender to refill it.

"Look, Pop, I'm looking for Herring Harry. I've got to find him. Can you tell me where he is, Pop?"

"Herring don't come to see me anymore. Nobody comes. Everybody forgets Pop. Herring is just a short way. But he don't come. Nobody..."

"Pop, tell me where I can find Herring. Tell me Pop."

"New York boy now. Big wheel. Wears fancy clothes. Fancy girls. Big car. Harry's big deal. Too big for Pop."

"Where is he, Pop? Where is he?"

"Pool room, Starlight Club, ball games, all over. Harry's big time..."

I threw a five on the bar next to him and left. He was still mumbling as I went out the door. I had found one lead at least. The Starlight Club. It was one of the swankiest clubs in the city. Good food, wonderful entertainment, and delicious prices. Well, Herring Harry had come a long way from the petty thief I knew him as. I climbed back into the car and shoved it in gear, and then it dawned on me. The Starlight Room was a ritzy night club. The Starlight Club was a small little smoky bar in Greenwich Village. They had a small combo and a singer that they called entertainment, but it was not in the least comparable to the Starlight Room. Maybe Harry hadn't gone as far as I thought. Then again, Pop was pretty drunk. He might have meant the Room, and not the Club. But he did mention the fancy clothes, girls, and big car. I though back about Harry and tried to imagine him in a tux. I stepped on the gas pedal, and drove to the Starlight Club in the Village.

# Chapter Six

The Starlight Club was exactly how I had remembered. I had been here once before, years ago, and the place hadn't changed a bit, even down to the cobwebs. The smoke that filled the room, I assumed was the same. There were seven or eight people at the bar, half of them had just about reached the point of no return. One middle aged battered-looking woman was rubbing her hand up and down the inside of a leg belonging to a kid of about twenty. He had his arm around her waist and was whispering in her ear. One guy was asleep at the bar, a cigarette between his fingers almost burned down to where he was going to wake up in a hurry. Two grease balls were on each side of a girl who had been nice looking at one time, and was trying to recapture that with an overabundance of makeup. All of them were laughing profusely. A shabbily dressed man sat in the corner, rolling a cigarette. The bartender was young, about thirty, and approximately my size, but his muscles had gone to flab and his belly bulged. Herring Harry was nowhere in sight. I walked to the bar and the bartender lifted his head from the news and said, "What'll it be?"

"Information. You know a guy named Herring Harry?"

He nodded toward the rear of the bar. "He's in the john." He went back to his paper. I sat on a stool and lit up a cigarette. I took one puff, and Herring Harry come out of the john.

He walked past me without giving any indication he had seen me, and then he stopped and turned abruptly.

"Well I'll be a son-of-a-bitch." His face lit up as he shouted it. "Ducky you bastard, where the hell did you come from?"

"Hello Harry, how are you?" I smiled back at him. We shook hands and I could tell he was honestly glad to see me.

He hadn't changed much. He still had small, beady eyes, and his lips still looked as though he had been worked over by Rocky Marciano, but he had put on some weight. He was staring at me now and frowned.

"What the hell happened to your face?"

I remembered the skid I had taken when I hit the sidewalk.

"A little accident, Harry. You got a few minutes? I want to talk to you."

"Sure, Ducky. Come on over here and have a drink. I want you to meet some friends of mine."

He motioned toward the two grease balls and the dame in between them. I had no desire to meet any of them.

"I want to talk to you alone, Harry."

"C'mon, don't be a fink. Have a drink!" He giggled at his poetry, and started to walk over to his friends. Just then, someone let out a howl and leaped off the stool. It was the old bum who was asleep at the bar. He was now wide awake. The cigarette was a good alarm clock. Harry was busting his sides laughing as I eased him over to a table. We sat down and I waited until he had control of himself. When he finally straightened up and wiped the tears from his eyes, I asked, "You know a guy named Nick Garret?"

"Sure. He runs a strip joint on Fifty-Second Street. Club Tempo, I think. Nice joint. Some real nice broads there." He winked at me.

"What do you know other than that?"

"Not a hell of a lot. He's only been in New York a short time. He came from out west someplace. He's small-time."

"What do you mean small-time?"

"You know. The big boys don't pay much attention to him. He hasn't got no real connections with the mob."

Herring Harry hadn't changed at all. He was still impressed by the people who were outside the law. The legitimate ones made no impression on him whatsoever. But I was sure Nick Garrett wasn't legitimate.

"What about a couple of hoods that work for him? One's a big ape, about six-six, the others a small creep who cleans his nails with a pen-knife?"

His face lit up again. "Oh, you must mean the Monk. He's the big one. The little guy is called Slits. They're big time, Ducky. Real big. But they're sure as hell not Garrett's boys."

"Not Garrett's boys?" I was puzzled. If they weren't sent out on the street to shoot at me by Garrett, then that knocks my theory all to hell. It wasn't Garrett who shot at me, that much I knew. "Who do they work for, if they don't work for Garrett?"

"Whitey Morgan. Big time, Ducky. Jeez, I wish I could get with that outfit. That's where the big dough is. I think they got their eyes on me, though. One of these days I'll make it. All I need is one big break."

He sounded like an aspiring actor instead of a small time hood. To him Monk and Slits were like Martin and Lewis.

"What's Whitey Morgan's connection with Garrett?"

"None. I told you, he's small potatoes. Whitey wouldn't mess with him. They got nothin' in common."

"Well, Monk and Slits had a talk with Garrett this afternoon, and right after that, someone used me for target practice. I want to have a talk with those two."

"Watch your step, Ducky. They're not boys to play games with. You could get yourself bumped off, nice and clean like, and no one would be the wiser. They're smooth. Organized. You're not messin' around with some punks now, you know."

"Tell me where I can find these two, Harry."

"No Ducky. You'll get in trouble. I wouldn't want to see you get hurt. You're a pal of mine, remember?"

"Look Harry, I'll find them one way or another. I'll go to the police if I have to, but I'll find them, so you might as well tell me and save me a lot of walking around."

"They're always with Whitey. They're his right hand. Where you find Whitey, you find Slits and Monk."

"Where does he hang out?"

"He doesn't hang out anyplace in particular. He's a man about town, you know what I mean. One of those playboys. Likes girls, always parties. I think he lives on Central Park. Around the seventies. I've never been there, but I heard about those parties. Boy, I sure would like to go to one of those. All the classy broads. Boy."

"The prospects of that made Harry's eyes dance with delight. I stood up and thought of something else.

"I just left the old neighborhood, Harry. I saw Pop there. What's the matter with him? He didn't even recognize me."

"Pop's no good anymore. He's hit the booze too hard and too long. He don't know anybody anymore. He's just an old drunk."

I thanked Harry for his help, and assured him we'd get together sometime for a few drinks, and left.

I looked at my watch. It was five minutes to five. I had told Marla I would meet her at the Pelican Room at five. I hopped in the car, and headed uptown. The traffic was thick at this time of day, and it took me twenty-five minutes before I could find a place to park near the Pelican Room. She waved to me as I walked through the door. I sat down and ordered a scotch on the rocks, and another Manhattan for Marla. When they came I drank mine quickly and ordered another.

"You must be thirsty," she raised her eyebrows when she said it.

"Busy day. Did you know Jim was dead?"

She gasped and I watched the expression on her face turn to disbelief.

"God. How did it happen?"

"They found him in the subway on the platform of the East end IRT. At Eighteenth Street. I understand that station isn't being used anymore."

She nodded assent and bit the nail of her thumb. "It doesn't seem possible. Who would want to kill Jim? He was such a nice guy." She winced when she said 'kill'.

"I don't know. But someone sure as hell wanted him out of the way. And I'm going to find out who."

She frowned. "How are you going to do that? The police will take care of that, won't they? Why do you have to find him?"

"For my own personal satisfaction. Whoever it was took a shot at me today. Or I am assuming it was the same person. And I don't go for that kind of nonsense. I'm a peace loving guy, but I can be pushed too far. And I've been shoved as far as I'm going."

"You really mean it, don't you Bart," she said softly.

"I mean it honey."

She folded her hands in her lap and dropped her head down. The silence lasted for a minute or two. Finally, I said, "I came to talk to that waiter about last night. Then we can have supper if you'd like."

She looked up and nodded. "I talked to him before you came in. He said he served Jim and Feilman last night. They were here until after eight o'clock."

"Which one is he?" I asked.

"Him. Right over there." She pointed to one two tables away. As she pointed he looked up and I motioned over.

"I'm sorry sir, but this isn't my table."

"Yes. I'd like to ask you a few questions about last night."

"Oh yes," he smiled, "the young lady did ask me before, and I told her about Mr. Thompson and Mr. Feilman."

"You mind telling it again?"

"Certainly not. They came in last night about six-fifteen with Mr. Hogarth. Mr. Hogarth had one drink and left. Mr. Feilman and Mr. Thompson had a few drinks and dinner, and left here a little after eight." He frowned slightly.

"Was there anything else?" He looked as if he was about to say something and thought better of it.

"No. That's all I can tell you."

"Look, if there's anything at all you can remember, tell me. Jim Thompson was murdered last night, and I can't reach Mr. Feilman, so anything you saw or heard may be important."

A startled look came into his eyes and he stepped back, as if I slapped him. He said nothing for a few seconds, and then, "Horrible. Are you the police?"

"No. I'm his brother-in-law. But the police will be here. Anything you have to tell them you can tell me."

"Well there was just one thing. I don't know if it is important. But they had a fight. Not a fight, really, an argument. I didn't get any of what went on. Just one sentence that Mr. Feilman said, he said it loud enough. It was 'You and that... err...'" He glanced sheepishly at Marla.

"Go ahead. She's broadminded."

"He said, 'You and that bastard Hogarth'. That's all I heard."

He was blushing. "Was Hogarth here when he said it?"

"Oh no. This was after they ate. As a matter of fact, they were only here about another fifteen minutes and then they left."

"And that's all you can tell me?"

"That's all. I'm terribly sorry about Mr. Thompson."

"Thanks," I said, and handed him a five. I sat back in my chair and took a deep breath. "Well, I don't know what that means, but I sure want to talk to Feilman and Hogarth. This is the screwiest damn mess I've been ever been in."

"Why don't you let the police handle it, Bart? They have the men and the training to find out about these things. You'll only get yourself in trouble, and if people are taking shots at you it isn't safe. You could be killed too. I'm sure that was someone's intention this afternoon. "

"I'm sure it was too, baby. They weren't playing games."

"Bart, why don't we get a couple of steaks, go up to my place, and cook them. I only live five minutes from here. You can relax and think this thing out in peace and quiet, away from this noise."

I smiled, "I can't pass up an offer like that. But I'll settle for a couple of hamburgers. I had my steak at lunch."

We both cheered up considerably and left.

Marla lived on East 38th Street, between Lexington and Third Avenues. It was an apartment building, and she had a four room suite on the third floor. She had good taste. It was modern, roomy and comfortable. It gave you the feeling that it had been lived in. It certainly never would make the pages of House Beautiful, but most of those places looked as if you wouldn't be permitted to walk on the carpet with shoes on.

I sank down on the sofa and waited while she made me a drink. She sat next to me and handed me my scotch. I pulled at it until it was almost gone. This thing was starting to get to me. My nerves were on edge, and I noticed the booze going down faster than usual. I finished this one and Marla stood up and took the glass from my hand.

"You better watch yourself Mr. Drake," she smiled, "we run a respectable establishment here and we don't like anyone to get out of hand."

"If I get out of hand it won't be because of booze." I reached for her and she spun away laughing and went to the kitchen to get another drink. When she came out she was still smiling and handed me the drink as if she was afraid to get near me.

She bowed slightly. "Now if you'll excuse me sir, I think I'll get into something more comfortable."

"Where have I heard that line before?" I grinned.

"Oh it's a cliché. All we wicked women use it." She was still smiling as she left the room.

I sat there and let my imagination wander. I wondered what she'd look like in a sheer negligee, opened at the throat. Then I imagined what she'd look like with it opened all the way down the front. I went further and pictured her with it off entirely and just as I was about to leap up and run to her bedroom she came into the room.

She had deceived me, no negligee. On closer inspection I saw that this was almost as good. She had a pair of toreador pants and a sweater that buttoned down the front, only she hadn't bothered to button it up all the way. The sweater looked as if it had been molded on, and when she walked the front of it jiggled and bounced and it was obvious that it was all she had on.

She sat down next to me again and sighed. "There. I feel much better now."

I stared at her. "So do I."

She finished her drink and put it down on the table. "Well, shall we eat?" She asked and started to get up.

I grabbed her by the arm and pulled her back. "Why eat?"

She grinned. "You have to keep up your strength, you know."

"I've got plenty of strength for what I have in mind."

She rested her head on the back of the sofa. "Just what did you have in mind, sir?"

I kissed her. "Guess." I slid my hand around her waist and let it glide under her sweater and up the small of her back. She stirred and moved her body to me, her hands encircling my neck.

"Let me see now," she said, "I'm sure you're not the kind who enjoys chess."

I said "Umm" And unbuttoned her sweater. Her breasts were full and firm and I felt her body quiver when I touched her.

"In the mood for scrabble?" she said, softer.

I kissed her lips, her throat, her breasts. She moaned slightly.

"Tennis," she whispered.

I unzipped the side of her pants.

She pressed her lips against my ear. "Now I know. You want to play house."

Lights flashed through my brain, and it wasn't because of Marla. It was something else. Something that she had said made a thought race through my mind. But I couldn't stop it. It ran right out again.

Her body was pressing tightly against me, and she moved it slowly and sensually. "Closer darling, come closer."

And there it was again, running through my head. Dammit, why was I so stupid? This is a hell of a time to be worried about other things. And then it stopped dead in the middle of my brain, and I had it.

I pushed Marla away and jumped off the sofa. "How dumb can you get!?" I shouted to no one but myself.

Marla sat up, startled. "What is it, Bart?"

"Me and my thick head." I raced to the phone and dialed Janet's number. I listened to it ring eight times and hung up.

"What is it, Bart?" She was standing now.

"I'm sorry honey, I've got to run. I'll explain later."

I ran out the door, leaving her standing there with her hands on the bare hips, looking mad as hell.

I got the Chevy on the Northern State parkway, and pushed the speedometer to eighty. I'd been one hell of a fool. I should have thought of this as soon as someone decided I was dangerous enough to shoot at. Janet was the one who was in more danger than I. All I did was ask a few questions. I didn't have any answers. But I was considered too dangerous to let stay alive. What about Janet. Whom would a husband confide in most? The wife, naturally. And if that husband were to find out some information a certain party didn't want spread around, then it would become necessary to eliminate him. Then if his brother-in-law started nosing around, they would be frightened again. If one person can find out something, it stands to reason that another one could dig up that same information, with enough prying. So the next step would be to get rid of the brother-in-law. But that failed. Now, the brother-in-law didn't know much of the murdered man's private life, but still he got close enough to frighten someone. If the brother-in-law could get that close with no beforehand information, how far would the wife be able to get with the information they would assume had been passed on to her. The only way to solve the problem would be to eliminate the wife also, then maybe the brother-in-law would never find out anything.

I beat my hand against the wheel. Dammit what a dope. There I sat making love to a woman when Janet could have been struggling for her life at the same moment. Oh God, they better not have done anything to her. She better be alright. I prayed that she was.

# Chapter Seven

I slammed on the brakes, skidded to a halt, and was out of the car almost before it stopped. I leaped across the lawn and fumbled with the keys until I found the right one. I pushed the door open and went in. The house was unlit. I went through the living room, into the bedroom and back out to the kitchen. Empty. I raced up the stairs to the finished attic. Both rooms were deserted. I went back downstairs and looked around. There was no sign of a struggle.

I went through the house thoroughly and found nothing. Not a trace that anyone have been there and abducted her. I was standing in the bedroom, not knowing which way to turn next, when I spotted something I had missed before, next to the phone. There was something written on the pad. I reached it and had a strange feeling that I wasn't alone. My body went taut and I half-turned and saw the shadow of something huge raised above my head. I never made it all the way around. I felt an explosion on the side of my head and my body went limp. Out of half-closed eyes I saw the floor rise to meet me and then something again burst my head, and I fell into a dark, endless pit.

The room was full of naked and half-naked women, beautiful women. They leaped about gaily and bubbled with mirth. Some wore toreador pants with no tops. Others wore an open sweater with no bottoms. Some wore negligees and some wore their beautiful white skin. I was in the middle of this enormous room and they all danced around me like a maypole. Some would pour drinks into me, some would run up and kiss me, others went even further but I dare not touch them. Sitting in a tree that grew upside down through the wall directly above my head were Monk and Slits. If I raised my hand to touch just one of these lovelies they were going to bury me in tons of banana peels. All they had to do was to pull a chain and tons of slippery banana peels would envelop me until I suffocated. I stood rigid until I saw Marla dance by wearing nothing but black silk stockings. I couldn't resist it. I reached out and pulled her to me, and thousands of slimy banana peels assaulted me from above. I was slipped into a cannon and just as Garrett was about to light the fuse to send me soaring into space, I came up out of that deep, dark pit.

My face was buried in the carpet and my nostrils felt dusty and numb. I raised my head slightly and felt the pain knife through me from my neck up. I slowly got to my knees and my head throbbed violently. I rested on one knee until the fog cleared a little, and then got to my feet. The room was black and I wondered how long I had been out. In the bathroom I splashed cold water on my face and felt somewhat better. My head still ached and I could feel a lump the size of a golf ball behind my ear. I took two quick shots of scotch and went back to the bedroom. The pad was lying on the floor. The sheet I had seen before was gone. I tried to remember what was on it. I saw it close enough to know at the time. It was something familiar, something I had seen earlier today, but it just wouldn't come to me. My brain had been rattled around too much.

I looked at the clock. It was almost eight o'clock. I figured I had been unconscious for about twenty minutes. I must've gotten some wallop. I went out and poured myself another drink, and sat down and tried to think this thing out. I came up with nothing. I still didn't have enough to go on. I couldn't pin this on anyone, couldn't narrow it down at all. It always came back to Garrett. There were some things that didn't tie in there either, such as him picking the worst spot he could to make a pass at me. His own club just wasn't where I would think he would want me to die. And what Herring Harry told me bothered me too. I had assumed that Monk and Slits worked for Garrett. Harry told me they worked for Whitey Morgan. It was possible he had something to do with this. Hell, anything was possible. There was eight million people in New York and as far as I was concerned, every damn one of them was a suspect.

I went to the phone and called Marla. She had connections. Anyone in the advertising business had various sources of supply where they could obtain anything from a 1928 Essex to a call-girl. That's what I had been led to believe, at least.

I heard her voice over the phone.

"Marla, this is Bart."

She made a few obscene remarks I thought her incapable of.

"Look honey, I'm sorry but this is serious. Janet is missing and I'm afraid she's in trouble. Probably the same ones who killed Jim."

"Oh, I'm sorry Bart. I was only thinking of myself."

"I know honey. Do me a favor. See if you can find out where Whitey Morgan lives. I think it's on Central Park somewhere in the seventies. Get his address and find out all you can about him. I know a little, as much as you can find out by reading the papers, but get me the real dope on him. Can do?"

"I think so Bart. I know a few shady characters who should be able to give me some information."

"Good. I'll call you back in about a half-hour. I'm coming back to the city soon, but first I want to see Feilman. He lives out here somewhere, I have his number. I'll call you later."

She said she'd do what she could and hung up.

I reached into my inside pocket and pulled out the slip of paper I had written Feilman's phone number on earlier in the day. I laid it next to the phone and started to dial. I stopped and looked close at the number. Something was there I should see, something beside that number. A picture of a dark shadow coming nearer to my head came to me, and I realized what I should have before. That pad that was next to the phone with something written on it, something I should know, was right there before my eyes. Feilman's phone number was on that pad. The rest of it must've been his address but that wasn't clear. Janet must've called him or maybe he called her. Whatever way it was, I wasn't going to waste time thinking about it. I dialed Feilman. No answer. I flipped through the pages of the Nassau County directory and found his address. Thirty-seven Meadow Lawn Drive, Westbury.

I went out the door and locked it remembering if I had done that when I came in I wouldn't have been socked on the head. I jerked the Chevy in gear and raced to Westbury.

# Chapter Eight

I drove slowly through the town of Westbury. The town was only about a half-mile long. I had no idea where Meadow Lane Drive was so I stopped in a bar on the edge of town and asked. I got my directions, had a drink and left. I drove out of the town proper and over the Northern State Parkway up into a dark winding road. I drove along that for two or three miles and then went left. A mile further I turned into Meadow Lane. Why he had called it thirty-eight was beyond me because it was private property and Meadow Lane was obviously a name he chose. The road was gravel and bumpy and circled around a barn and a stable. A few hundred yards back was an enormous white house that looked as if it was a throw-back from the pre-civil war mansions in Virginia. It was completely dark.

I parked the Chevy in front and went up the marble stairs to the door. I rang four times and got no answer. The door was locked. I walked around the side of the house and saw a smaller entrance toward the rear. It was also locked. The window next to it was opened from the inside but a screen blocked my way. I took out the largest key I had in my pocket and I dug it into the mesh and scraped along it. I hacked at it until the wiring gave way and the rest was easy to rip. I unhooked it from inside and raised the window until I could pull myself through.

I lowered myself through the small opening and slid down the wall until my foot touched something. I let my hands slip from the window sill and dropped all the down to the floor. My left foot hit something hard and slippery and it felt wet up to the ankle. I pulled it out of the water and rested it on the floor. I groped along the wall until I found a switch and flicked it. Light filled the room and it took me a few seconds to get my eyes accustomed to it to see where I was. When I did, I saw I had entered bathroom. When I came in I had stepped in a toilet bowl. I cursed under my breath and opened the door that led to a hall. I left the light on so I could see where I was headed.

The hall was long, and narrow with doors at either end. The one toward the rear of the house was closed, the one at the front was ajar. I walked toward the front and went into a large dining room. The light spilling from the bathroom was still strong enough to allow me to see my way through without bumping into anything. An archway led to a huge living room. The light had faded and was of no use now. There were three different exits from the living room and all but one was opened. I went to the sliding doors and pushed them back. Everything was black and I tried uselessly to pierce the darkness. I went along the wall searching for the light switch. My foot struck something soft and I froze. I stood there and slid my hand as far as it would go along the wall without moving my feet. My fingers touched it and the light exploded in my eyes. I looked at my feet. It was a man lying on his side with his arms stretched out above his head. He was very cold, very bloody and very dead.

My eyes scanned the room. Bookcases covered half the walls. A big desk was in one corner. I spied a shoe two feet from behind the desk. It was a woman's shoe. I walked to the desk and looked behind it. Her body was twisted underneath the desk. The side of her dress was damp and red with blood. One arm took on an abnormal shape. Her dress was raised above her thighs. I pushed the desk back and looked at her face. It was Janet.

I knelt down and felt her pulse. I felt none but her flesh was still warm. I tried to get a heartbeat but to no avail. Her purse lay alongside her right hand. I opened it and dumped it on the floor. I found the mirror and put it close to her mouth. After a few seconds the mirror clouded slightly. She was still breathing but not very much. I grabbed the phone on the desk and called the police.

When they arrived the place was a bedlam. The medical examiner had made his report on the body, which was identified as Feilman by a neighbor. Janet had been taken away in an ambulance. She was in very serious condition and if she had been found too much later she would have never made it. As it was there was only a fifty-fifty chance she would survive.

I sat in the middle of the room with Lieutenant Layton from the Nassau County Police Department. He was a tall, thin man with a pleasant face that looked as if it was ready to break into a smile at any moment. He hadn't smiled in since he came in.

"Now look Drake", he said, "You can't go around busting people's houses like this. I realize if you hadn't it would have been too bad for your sister but I just don't want you going too far with this thing. Furthermore we got word from Lieutenant Howell in New York that they have an assault complaint out on you. Some old guy in the Club Tempo that you roughed up. Now you just knock off that crap and let us do the investigating. We've got the men to do it."

"And just what the hell good did you do? You didn't prevent my sister from damn near getting killed."

"We've got more on this thing than you think. We're not sitting, around on our tails waiting for something like this to happen."

"Just what do you have?" I asked smugly.

"That's none of your business."

"Well I'll tell you what I have and it all points to the son of a bitch that runs the Club Tempo, Nick Garrett."

"We know about Garrett and his activities. As far as we know there's no connection between him and your brother in law. Between him and Feilman is another thing. Feilman's been seen in there talking to Garrett and they seemed pretty chummy. From what we can get it seems he fixed Feilman up a couple of times with a few of his lovelies. We haven't traced them down yet but we will. We tracked your brother-in-law and Feilman down for most of last night. After they left the Pelican Club they hailed a cab and went uptown to Sixty-Ninth Street and Second Avenue. They stopped in a bar and, had a couple of drinks and then your brother in law left. Feilman stayed around for one more, seemed pretty mad about something, and then he left. That's when we lost them both. We don't know where either of them went from there. Now the waiter in the Pelican Club mentioned an argument they had in there...."

I cut him short. "I know about that."

"Yeah I know that too. As I said you shouldn't stick your nose in police business. Well he mentioned Hogarth and lives on Sixty-Ninth Street but he claims Thompson never showed up there. So we're stuck. We don't know where either of them went from there and it doesn't look like we are going to find out."

"I'm sorry I lost my head Lieutenant. I guess you boys have been pretty busy".

"Not me. Howell in the city is doing all the leg work. We were just in on it because Thompson lived out here. But this throws a different light on things. Now we get two murders in two different departments and they tie together."

"How about Whitey Morgan. Can you find any connection there?"

"What's he got to do with it?" he asked with raised eyebrows.

"I don't know but someone took a pot shot at me to-day and it could very well have been one of his boys, namely Monk or Slits."

"Well why the hell didn't you tell someone sooner. When did this happen?" His face got beet red and he looked ready to burst.

I gave him the details and he sat back and lit a cigarette.

"In broad daylight", he said, "Either has a lot of guts or he's just plain nuts. You got no proof that it was Whitey's boys that did it. You didn't see them?"

"I didn't see a thing. They all disappeared in one hell of a hurry."

"That's when you slugged the old man?"

"Yeah I was burned up. I guess I lost my head."

"I'll fix that. Don't worry about it. But please Drake, let us do the investigating. Sometimes we get downright brilliant and solve these things, you know."

I nodded. "I knew that. But my sister got it from somebody and I'm going to who I can. Furthermore I've a feeling that they have me on their list and I'm next."

"You just keep the hell out of it," he snapped. "I could slap you in jail for breaking and entering to get you out of the way. Don't force me to do that, Drake."

"I'll keep out of your way. But I might beat you to him Lieutenant."

He stood up end sighed. "O.K. Drake, if that's the way you want it. But you'd better be damned careful. If Whitey Morgan ties into this in any way you'd be a damn fool to tangle with him. He's a rough boy and knows how to play it within the law. Never could get a thing on him although we know he's mixed up in ten different kinds of rackets. Just watch your step. I don't want to be picking up your pieces."

I told him I'd be careful. He smiled and shook my hand. "If you do pick up anything we can use in your travels it would help if you let us know."

I smiled back at him. "OK Lieutenant. I'll give the police department my fullest cooperation."

I went outside to the car. The house was blocked off by police and scores of people were milling about to get of glimpse of the activity. Some were still in bathrobes. I slapped the Chevy in gear and drove back to the city.

I parked the car in the first available space on east Thirty-Eight Street and walked the half block to Marla's apartment. I rode the elevator to the third floor and pressed the bell for her apartment. She opened the door in ten seconds.

She was wearing the Toreador pants and sweater again. When I left they were on the floor. She looked as good now as she had when I first saw this outfit on her. She said nothing but left the door open and walked back into the living room and sat on the sofa, her face serious. She watched me sit next to her before she said anything.

"Is Janet alright?" she asked.

"I phoned the hospital on the way in." I told her. "She's in a coma. She's in bad shape and I guess we won't find out what happened for quite a while."

"I'm sorry Bart. I mean about before. I just didn't stop to think..."

"Forget it." I interrupted. "I'm a little worked up myself. What did you find out about Morgan?"

I was interested to find out all I could about him. It was the first real lead I had. He was mixed up in the rackets and if there was any connection between him and Garrett and Feilman I felt sure I'd have something to go on. Right now I had nothing.

"I got all I could. He's a pretty busy boy. Got his fingers in all sorts of pies. But the law never could get a conviction. Same old story. These big racketeers are all protected one way or the other."

"Exactly what does he run?" I asked.

"Just about everything illegal here in the city. Bookmakers... well you know... any form of gambling. The horses, numbers, sporting events, he controls all the bookmakers in the city. He also has interests in many of the night spots around town. Not controlling interest in all of them but enough of each to get a nice take. Also the call girls. He has that all wrapped up. Runs the biggest call girl racket on the east coast. He has most of his men set up in legitimate businesses to cover him. They run the restaurant concessions, what I mean is the supplies. The linens, laundry, soft drinks, silverware, glassware, anything you can think of. That's where his boys are. They have the beer and liquor business. They supply the clubs and the bars in the city and suburbs. Oh hell Bart, just about everything."

"Nice setup. The guy must be worth millions."

"Sure. And he's well protected. He's one of the kingpins in the syndicate. They run the whole country."

The syndicate. The public was pretty well informed on that score. They'd heard of the syndicate, knew how wide spread they were, but the average person didn't realize how well infiltrated in honest businesses the syndicate really was. Marla just mentioned a few, some I had known myself but it was obvious that they were in just about every enterprise in America.

I shook my head. "There's still nothing there to tie him in with Jim. Only that call girl business might be a lead."

Marla looked honestly shocked.

I held up my hand up. "Wait a minute. I didn't mean that Jim might have been visiting a chipie on the side. Lieutenant Layton of the Nassau cops mentioned that Garrett may have been fixing Feilman up. Maybe there's a link there. Offhand I don't see what it can be but it's worth looking into. What else have I got to go on?"

"There may be something there at that Bart. Feilman was single and was always sneaking in a pinch now and then when he got the chance. It's conceivable he could be looking for one of those girls. He had the money and he was far from good looking. I'd imagine he'd have to pay for it."

She smiled slightly and got that faraway look in her eyes and I figured I'd better get out of there before she got any ideas. Matter of fact I think she already had them.

I backed toward the door. "Well... er... I've got to go. Things I have to do...er...I'll see you later."

I got out of there in one hell of a hurry, not only because of her but because of me. I knew if I stayed there another minute I'd never leave. But hell, I was doomed. I had to go back. I hadn't even found out where Whitey Morgan lived.

I opened the door cautiously and peered inside. She wasn't in sight so I slipped two steps inside the door and stopped. I could still make a fast exit. I started to call out in the direction of the bedroom and I heard a muffled giggle behind me. I whirled around and saw her standing behind the door. My mouth sagged and I thought my knees would buckle under me, Marla was standing there in a pose that was similar to September Morn. Only she didn't have Marla's equipment. She snapped up straight and her bare breast jiggled and then she laughed and everything jiggled and pretty soon I was jiggling to beat the band.

I knew you'd come back" she said coyly.

"Dammit Marla I just came back for Whitey's address." I felt dry and the words came out thick and almost undistinguishable.

She moved close to me and wrapped both arms around my neck and her body was warm and demanding against mine.

"Please Marla. Just the address." I didn't sound too convincing.

"I'll make you a fair exchange."

We sank on the couch and my lips found hers, sweet and hot with passion. Hell it was fair exchange. Come to think of it, I think I got the better of the deal. 

# Chapter Nine

When I left Marla's apartment it was almost midnight. I had wasted half of the night already. It wasn't exactly wasted but I hadn't accomplished anything constructive. Not that it was destructive... oh hell it was almost midnight. I had Whitey's address in my pocket but I thought I'd take a ride over to the Club Tempo first. There were still a few questions I wanted to ask Garrett.

I pulled the Chevy into the parking lot on Sixth Avenue and walked to the club. A doorman stood outside informing everyone who passed that the show was about to begin. I pushed open the door and went in. The place was dimly lighted and the smoke that filled the place made it seem darker. It was almost filled to capacity but I saw an empty stool at the bar. I slid onto it. The bartender was busy mixing something in the shaker so I glanced around the room. Most of the people were half loaded and a couple of them weren't going to last another hour. On stage a young chubby girl was bouncing around exuberantly and shedding articles of clothing with each bounce. She was bad and uninteresting and no one was paying too much attention to her.

The bartender finally spied me and I ordered a scotch-on-the-rocks. I drank it down and ordered another. When the bartender came back with the refill I asked him if Garrett was in. He opened his mouth to answer and from the rear the drummer went into a roll. The bartender stuck his fingers to his lips and blew out "Shhhhh."

I looked toward the stage. The lights had gone even dimmer and just one spotlight rested in an oval on the stage. The drummer was still on the roll but it grew softer and he went along. He hit a cymbal, the lights went out completely and when they came back on she stood in the spotlight. This was an enormous production for this kind of a joint. They went to more trouble than most to bring their strippers on. But when I looked at her I saw why. No wonder this place was so crowded. She was worth it. It was the girl I had seen earlier today on the signs in front. The one who was billed simply as 'Sheila'. This was the one I wanted to see in action and in a second or two I was going to get my wish. To say she was beautiful would be an understatement. To say her body was well proportioned would be ridiculous. She had it all over, up under and around. Her hair hung down to the middle of her spine and shone lovely in the spotlight. She wore a flaming red gown that clung to her almost in desperation. If she took a deep breath the act would have been over. Her breasts were full and jutted provocatively away from each other, each demanding equal time. And that's just what they did. You were just about worn out watching one side, there was too much strain to watch all of that at once. This, my friends, was a woman.

The band was playing something slow and dreamy. Everyone was still. You could have heard a garter snap. The bartender was refilling my drink. I hadn't realized it was empty. I didn't give a damn if it was or not. Sheila was swaying her body slowly back and forth in time to the music. Her feet were wide apart and her head was tilted back. She closed her eyes and from where I say at the other end of the club I could hear her humming softly. Nobody made a sound. Her hands were still at her sides but now they began to move slowly up and down her body. She ran her hands up over her breast and someone moaned near the stage. She moved her head from side to side and the drummer picked up the heat. Her hands went around her back and the top of her dress fluttered to the floor. Her hands went to her waist and she moved quickly to the side of the stage. The bottom half of the dress stayed where it was and crumpled to the floor. The rhythm was faster now and the tousle that hung from her navel was moving in unison. She whirled around the stage a few times and each time something else fell away from her. She stopped abruptly and stood there, arms outstretched high in the air. Two tiny stars flickered on her breasts. She wore nothing else but a G-string. The drums started a jungle tom-tom beat and her hair flew around her head and face and her body shook violently. She stopped again, reached behind her and pulled the stars away, baring her magnificent breasts. There was a three second pause and the lights went out. In five seconds they came back on and she was gone. The applause and the roars were deafening.

I let out a long breath of wind and went back to my drink. It was empty again but I didn't remember drinking it. When the bartender came out of his trance I had another.

"You know," he said as he put the full glass down, "I see her every night, been that way for three months but I never get tired of her. She's quite a broad."

"I know what you mean." I said and I did. I had seen enough strippers in my time but none of them ever affected me the way this one did.

"I'd like to talk to her" I said.

He laughed. "You and fifty other guys."

"Will she be out here later?"

"Sure. She comes out and has a few drinks in between shows."

"What's her name, I mean, what else besides Sheila?"

"Garrett's her last name. She's the boss's wife."

That surprised me. He was a pretty sharp character and I figured he'd be a lady killer but I couldn't picture anyone wanting his wife in that kind of business. Everyone to his own taste. If I had my way she'd wind up a widow anyway.

"How about the boss?" I asked. "Is he around?"

He pointed the rear. "He's in the office"

"Thanks." I shoved three dollars his way. He pocketed it without even looking up.

I went to the door marked 'Office' and knocked twice. I heard no sound from inside but it would have been almost impossible to hear anything in this noise so I turned the knob and went.in.

He was sitting behind his desk and he looked up when I came in. He started to smile, and then it rapidly faded when he saw who I was.

"What do you want here?" he said with a scowl.

"First of all I want to hear a nice long story from you about Feilman. Then I want you to tell me all about Jim Thompson. And last you can tell me why you murdered both of them and tried to kill my sister too."

"Now look here. . . "

"Shut up. I've taken all I'm going to from you Garrett. If you say one thing, just one that I don't believe or might even have the slightest doubt about, I'm going to bash your skinny little skull in. So start talking and make it good. No slip ups."

"Just who in hell do you think you are? First you knock my cleaning man around and now you come in here and ..."

He never finished it. I reached over the desk and grabbed him by his shirt collar and the words choked off in his throat his mouth opened and his eyes got big and fearful. I yanked him to me and his feet came off the floor and the chair toppled backward. His stomach hit the edge of the desk and I heard him grunt. I pushed my face an inch away from his and pulled his collar tighter.

"Listen Garrett. I'll give you five minutes to tell me the whole story. Otherwise you get it right here and now. I'll strangle you and walk out of here and no one will ever know what happened. Just you and I, only you won't be able to tell. You can see I mean it, can't you Garrett?"

I pushed him back over the desk and he fell and laid on the side the chair. I walked around behind the desk and bent over him.

"OK Garrett, start spilling."

He backed over against the wall with his hands up to his face.

"Alright, alright." he said hurriedly.

He sighed and slumped back against the wall. "Feilman used to come here quite a bit. He liked dames and he was willing to pay for them. So I fixed him up a couple of times. That's all. As far as Thompson goes I never heard of him until today when you came here. Then later I read it in the papers.

I started to reach for him and he threw his hands up again.

"No no. Please I'm not lying to you. It's the truth I swear it."

The guy was obviously afraid and I didn't think he'd hold out on me. I thought he was telling the truth.

"O.K.", I said "Tell me who the girls were you fixed Feilman up with. Their names and addresses."

"There were just a few. One works here in the club. Her name's Rosie. She's a chubby kid but she has a nice shape."

"I know who you mean." I remembered the strip when I came in. "Who else?"

"A girl named Joan Zelling. She's a professional. Lives up in the Hotel Chateau. She was his favorite. He wanted her almost every time he was in the market. The other one is Virginia Blane. I don't know here she lives. She just drifts in and out of here every once in a while. That's the truth Drake I swear it."

"How did you know my name?"

"You told me this afternoon." He tried to grin but couldn't.

"All right Garrett one other thing. What were Whitey Morgan's boys, Monk and Slits, doing here this afternoon?"

This time he did grin. "You've been a busy boy today. Just business. Nothing you'd be interested in."

"I'd like to hear it."

"Well if you must know they told me Whitey wanted to buy me out."

I lifted my right hand across my chest and backhanded him hard on the jaw. His head bounced off the wall a couple of times and blood trickled down the side of his mouth.

"For Christ sake. All right you bastard." He whispered it softly. "A few people that come in here are looking for a broad for the night. Guys like Feilman. I don't mean any bum off the street. The guys that have money and are willing to pay for it. I fix them up. I got a little nest of girls that I keep for those occasions. Whitey heard about it somehow and didn't like it. He's in the business himself, you know. Well he sent Monk and Slits around and told me to lay off. If I wanted to fix anyone up then I should get one of his girls. Joan Zeller is one of them. Maybe he heard it from her, I don't know. All I know is he told me to lay off. So I lay off. That's it and that's all I can tell you."

"Was it their idea to take a shot at me outside or was that your idea?" I asked casually.

His mouth fell open. "I don't know what you mean."

"I'll believe you this time Garrett. But so help me if I find out that any bit of it is a lie I'm coming back for you. And next time I'll leave you dead."

I went l out the door and left him still on the floor.

I went back to the bar and looked around. I saw the Chubby girl Rosie sitting on a stool sipping a drink. I went over to her and threw a five on the bar.

"Can I buy you a drink?"

She looked up from her drink and sized me up. Her eyes were pretty and she had a cute oval face. Her body was fairly well shaped and if she lost twenty pounds she would be a good looking kid. Her makeup was too heavy and she had a hard sneer on her mouth.

"Sure big boy. Anything you desire."

She finished her drink and the bartender filled her glass. He brought me a scotch without me asking.

"One scotch and one champagne cocktail, three and a half" he said. I assumed the champagne cocktail was ginger ale.

Rosie looked at me tiredly. "Well tell me about it. You have a wife who doesn't understand you and three kids who are juvenile delinquents."

I smiled. "No wife. I may have some kids but I don't give a damn if they are delinquent or not."

She looked at me again with new interest. She smiled. "Well at least your approach is different."

"Matter of fact Rosie I wanted to ask you a few questions if you don't mind."

She looked tired again. "You a cop?"

"No cop either. Just a citizen. You know a man named Feilman?"

She nodded. "I know him. Comes in here once in a while."

"How much do you know about him?"

"Nothing. Just know his face."

Her head snapped around and her eyes narrowed. She was silent for a moment and then she shrugged. "So I slept with him. He paid well. Other than that I know nothing about the creep."

I saw her as she walked from the rear of the club. Almost everyone in the place saw her at the same time. Some guys were waving her over to their table. Others were going to her to make a personal invitation. All eyes were watching her, at the male eyes least. She walked through the crowd and nodded her head to all, but refused all the requests to sit. She walked toward the bar and was headed straight for me. Rosie said "Just who in the hell are you anyhow?" but I hardly heard her. All my attention was focused on Sheila as she came closer, smiling at me. Or I thought she was smiling at me.

She went past me and slid on the stool next to Rosie. The bartender put down something green in glass and she sipped it. I sat back down next to Rosie. I looked at Sheila for quite a while. I couldn't help myself. My eyes just wouldn't be led away, not that I wanted to in the first place. She was some dish. The gown she wore was gleaming silver and it was out almost to the end of her spine. It rose up from back and haphazardly covered her abundance up front. Then as it started to meet in the center it took an almost disastrous plunge downward to an unbelievable depth. Her black hair shone brilliantly against the silver glitter of the gown and caressed her back. Her ruby lips were parted slightly and her eyes danced with excitement. I could see she was enjoying the attention paid her tremendously.

I tapped Rosie on the shoulder. "Aren't you going to introduce me?"

"Why the hell should I?" she sneered. "You don't interest me."

"Well then," I said "I'll make my own introductions. Sheila my name is Bart Drake and I'm a good friend of your husband's."

She looked at me and smiled automatically. "How nice."

"The proper thing for you to say would be any friend of Nick's is a friend of mine. Then we could take it from there."

"Oh really?" Her eyes widened and she looked at me earnestly. I was either being taken for an awful dope or this one was just plain dumb.

I changed the subject. "That was quite an exciting performance you put on."

She was interested now. "I'm glad you liked it."

"How do you get away with it? I mean going as far as you did."

"Oh we don't do that every night. Just when we think the crowd is responsive."

"I guess you thought they were responsive tonight."

"Didn't you?"

I nodded "Still, isn't it against the law to take off... well ... to take off what you took off?"

"Yes but the.." She stopped and looked at me with a puzzled expression. "You're not a cop are you?"

"No honey. That's the second time tonight someone asked me that. Your friend Rosie here..."

The stool between us was empty. I hadn't even noticed Rosie leaving.

Sheila smiled and moved over next to me. "There's no sense in our shouting across at each other."

"No sir." I said and took a long pull at my drink.

She frowned slightly. "Are you really a friend of my husband's?"

"No. Not really. As a matter of fact I don't think he likes me

She smiled broader this time. "I didn't think you were. You don't look like the type."

"What do you mean by that?" I felt her thigh press lightly against mine and I forgot what l had asked.

"I haven't seen you in here before."

"I haven't been in before. I only came here for one reason, to see your husband and then I was leaving. I got interested in the show and decided to stay."

"I'm glad you did." The pressure increased on my leg and she moved her body closer to me.

"There's one thing you can do for me Sheila if you don't mind."

"Oh I don't mind. What is it?" She seemed to have something; entirely different on her mind than what I did.

"Just answer a couple of questions for me."

"Sure. What did you say your name was?"

"Bart. Bart Drake."

"Bart. I like that. It sounds so masculine."

"You know a man named Feilman?" I asked.

"No I don't think so. I know people by their faces mostly, I can't remember names. But I'm sure I never heard that one before. Should I know him?

"Well he was, let's say, a business associate of your husband's."

"I have no interest in my husband's affairs. All I do is perform. He handles the business. I don't want any part of it."

"One more thing. Did you know Jim Thompson? He may have been in here last night." I described him. "Did you see him?"

"Doesn't ring a bell. Why all these questions Bart?"

"Nothing to concern you Sheila. Don't worry about it"

"OK, let's have another drink." She said and we did. We had another after that and then another and pretty soon it was time to do her next show.

"Will you wait here for me Bart?" She asked.

"I don't think so honey. I have another call to make tonight."

"Will you come back later and take me home?"

I was genuinely surprised. "Take you home? Are you kidding? Sweetheart you're a married woman. And your husband happens to be right in this club. You must think I'm some kind of a nut."

"Oh don't worry about him. He won't care."

I was flabbergasted. I had met some screwballs before but she topped anything I'd ever run up against. I looked at my watch. It was ten minutes to two.

Sheila stood up to leave. "Please Bart come back later."

"Well" I said, weakening. "Maybe if I have the time."

The place didn't close until four o'clock and I figured that would be plenty of time to see Whitey. Hell maybe I couldn't even find him.

"I'll be waiting for you." She put her finger to her lips and then placed it on my cheek. The she walked away to the rear of the club, her hips swaying from side to side in a smooth rhythmic motion. I'd made up my mind that it would be one short visit with Whitey Morgan.

I spoke to Rosie and the bartender about Jim before I left, but neither one of them had remembered seeing him. That was a dead end. I'd come to the conclusion that Jim never made it last night.

# Chapter Ten

The address Marla had given me was on Central Park West. Whitey Morgan lived in a penthouse apartment overlooking the park. I had left the car in the parking lot and taken a cab to the address. I was standing outside the building looking up at it wondering how I was going to get in. Whitey was one big wheel in the rackets and I knew that he'd have plenty of protection. I couldn't just walk up and announce myself and be expected to be greeted with open arms. They wouldn't know if l was a hood, a cop or some lunatic trying to get a look at the great man. And I couldn't barge in and start slapping people around. I'd last about two minutes that way and I'd never be heard from again. Well I wasn't making any progress standing here so I might as well walk in. I did and no one was there to greet me.

I went to the elevator pressed the buzzer marked 'Up'. Half a minute passed and the elevator opened and a small aged man peeked out at me. I got on and asked for the penthouse. The elevator was slow moving and I didn't mind that a bit. I still couldn't figure out what I was going to do once I got there. If it was Monk and Slits that did the shooting at me on orders from Morgan, or even on their own, I didn't want to walk right into their hands.

The elevator jerked to a stop and the diminutive man slid the doors open for men to pass through. I took a step toward the exit and stopped. Three men were standing just beyond the elevator, two big men, awful big and one little one by the name of Slits. I backed off into the corner and slid halfway down the wall.

"Take me back down. Its the wrong floor", I mumbled. I saw the three men in the hall turn toward the car expectantly just as the doors closed. When we started back down I breathed easier. This wasn't going to be easy. I was sure Slits would recognize me as the one at the Club Tempo even if he didn't shoot at me. I wanted to get in to see Whitey and I knew I'd never get past that pack of hoods. The doors opened again and I went back out to the lobby.

I paced the lobby floor for more than fifteen minutes without an idea. That is, l had lots of ideas but l doubted the validity of any of them. I could hire a helicopter and drop down a ladder to an open window. I could pull a Phileas Fogg and go up in a balloon. Or maybe I could just sprout wings and fly up there. Hell, this was idiotic. I was ready to give it up as a lost cause and go back to see what Sheila had to offer when the front door opened and a noisy, obviously half loaded crowd walked in.

There were seven all told when they finally got through the door, and they seemed to be having quite a time for themselves. There were three men and four women in the bunch and every one of the girls was a knockout. The men were graying and paunchy but well dressed. They headed for the elevator laughing and hugging one another and I just caught the name Whitey in their conversation I didn't pay much attention to anything else. I made a bee line for the elevator and just managed to squeeze in before the doors closed shut. They made merry on the ride up and didn't seem to notice I had joined the crowd. I inched my way passed a couple of them, sliding easily against the wall until I was at the rear of the car. I waited until we reached the penthouse.

When we did they all filed out en masse with me right on their tail. I stepped from the rear of the elevator and took a quick look around. Slits was still in the hall with the two monsters. They smiled as the group went by and on into the suite. Slit's eyes flicked over everyone in a sign of recognition and he was just starting to focus on me when I grabbed the nearest girl to me and locked her arm in mine. Her head turned to me and her mouth opened in a startled expression. I glanced at her and tried to make my eyes plead, make them show some kind of warning but I couldn't be sure if I was accomplishing what I wanted. She appeared as if she would say something and decided against it. She smiled instead and rested her free hand on my arm. The interchange had taken only a couple of seconds and I flashed back to Slits. I couldn't be sure if he'd seen the performance, but he said nothing. He was looking at me quizzically and kept staring as we passed, arm in arm through to the suite. Nothing was said, and no one moved, nobody hollered or shot at me. I glanced back over my shoulder and Slits was standing in the doorway watching us go in. He made no attempt to follow so I relaxed a little.

We floated through the room arm in arm into an enormous living room. It was expensively decorated in the very utmost in taste. The carpet sank like cotton under the pressure of my feet. Some thirty odd people were standing, looking, laughing and generally enjoying themselves thoroughly. In one corner of the room a trio comprised of a piano, bass fiddle and guitar played softly amid the tinkle of ice against glasses. In another corner two bartenders were actively attending to the pleasures of the guests behind a small bar. I noticed that most of the women were young and beautiful in contrast to the men who were middle aged. It looked to me as if these women didn't belong to any of the men. If they had wives, they weren't here and I was quite sure they didn't know their husbands were here either.

I hadn't paid too much attention to the girl I had conveniently escorted in but now I took a long hard look at her. She was a golden-haired lovely but it was impossible to tell if she was a bleached-blonde or not. As the ads say, "does she or doesn't she?" but it always confused me whether they were talking about the color of her hair or not. With this one you didn't care whether she did or she didn't provided you were speaking of her hair. The rest of her left nothing to be desired. Her lips were full and red and the lower lip jutted out slightly, just enough to be provocative. Her eyes were deep blue and her lids were half closed in a sleepily fashion. Her breasts were large and pushed forcefully out against the fabric of her dress. The dress was cut low enough to let you know what she had was not store bought.

She smiled at me as I completed my survey. "You like?"

"Mmmm." I said and had another trip around. "I like."

She gave me the same treatment I was giving her and when she was through she said "Who are you?" She never stopped smiling.

"Bart Drake's the name. I'm just a tired businessman looking for excitement."

"You won't have to look far sweetheart. You came to the right place." There was a trace of amusement in her tone.

"Who are you?" I asked trying to sound amused. I was having difficulty at it because out of the corner of my eye I saw Slits staring at us.

"Joan Zelling." She replied.

Joan Zelling. She was one of the girls Garrett said was toying with Feilman. He told me she was one of Whitey's girls and I had hit the jackpot on the first try. At least I knew Garrett was telling the truth.

When I didn't answer her immediately she said "Don't tell me you've never heard of me."

"Oh sure," I said "I've heard of you." But I didn't tell her what and from whom.

She looked a bit surprised that I had. "You have heard of me? Oh honey you're for me. You've got moxie."

I couldn't figure that one out. Just because I had heard of her I had moxie? Well, screwy broads. I supposed this place was full of them.

My mouth was dry and the bar was looking more inviting by the minute. "How about a drink?" I asked.

"Sure. Scotch on the rocks." She smiled. I went to the bar in the corner and ordered two. While I was waiting I glanced around the room.

There was a door at the other side that I hadn't noticed before. Two more big thugs stood on each side of it, guarding it with their lives. Hell everyone in the place was big except the guests. I took the drinks back to Joan and handed her one. She sipped it and she watched me curiously.

"Do you know Whitey?" she asked.

"No, not really. I came here tonight to see him. I was hoping you could point him out to me."

She laughed. "I'm sure he knows all about you by now."

"What do you mean?" I asked incredulously. I thought I had been very clever about concealing myself. Maybe not to Slits but he never gave any indication of recognizing me.

"When you walked in here tonight with me sweetheart, you assured yourself of an interview. I'm his baby, his doll, Whitey's little snuggle bunny." She laughed gaily and I turned green.

Of all the women in this place, of all the things I could have done to get in here, I had to pick the one way to make me the center of attention. No wonder she was unescorted on the way in. Nobody but nobody would come in with Whitey Morgan's girl. They would come in crowd with her tagging along but sure as hell wouldn't be overly attentive to her. I was a fine ass, a triple threat man. Stumble, blunder and fall. One more asinine stunt like that and I was going to wind up in the river with a nice ball of cement tied to my ankles.

I gulped down my drink and I got a refill. I was drinking an awful lot today and it was bound to catch up with me but the way I felt now I figured it could easily be my last. That thought scared me even more and I got a second refill.

Joan was watching me very attentively with a mildly amused expression on her face. The expression on my face must have been anything but amusing. I felt as if the bottom of my stomach had dropped out and my legs had become putty. The only thing I could picture in my mind was Monk and Slits looking into a big pool of water smiling pleasantly at me. And I had a wonderful view. I was on the bottom looking up.

"Hey lover, come out of the trance." It was Joan.

"Look, don't call me lover or anything that even sounds close to that. You've got me in enough trouble already."

"Sweetheart, I didn't grab your arm, you latched on to me, remember?" She was still amused at the situation.

"I would have been better off if I had been kicked out then and there."

"Uh-huh. You've got something there Baby."

"Joan, before I get sent to the gallows like to ask you a few questions."

"Shoot, daddy-o."

"Please. Watch your language. Someone in here might take you up on that."

I took a quick look around the room just to make sure no one would. No one was paying any attention to us, not even Slits. He was nowhere in sight.

"You know a man named Nick Garrett?"

"Vaguely, I know he runs a place on Fifty-Second Street. Outside of that, nothing."

"How about a guy named Feilman? Owns a cosmetic outfit."

"Never heard of him. Should I?"

"I guess not. It looks like I've been taken for a sucker."

My good friend Nick Garrett again. That son-of-a-bitch was causing me more trouble than was good for him. He gave me the right dope on the stripper and Feilman shacking up but it seems he just threw in Joan Zelling for good measure. He knew I'd go looking for her and if he knew beforehand that she was Whitey's girl then that would be a good way to put me in hot water. I did exactly that and now I was in hot water and pretty soon it might be cold water. It was water just the same and I didn't relish the thought of being on the bottom of it.

Now that I was here and saw the people and knew a little of Whitey's operation I couldn't fathom the idea that Jim had any connection whatsoever with Whitey. It looked like a wild goose chase but one I couldn't get out of until I was well goosed. Just as I had decided to try to find a way out of here the door on the other side of the room opened and Slits came out between the two monsters. They marched straight ahead and I didn't like that a bit because that meant they were heading straight to me.

"Here comes the gestapo now. Good luck."

At least Joan was on my side.

I tried to find a hole to slide into but there wasn't any in the floor. It's not that I'm chicken but I just didn't like these odds.

The gestapo halted before me and Slits stepped forward.

"Let's go bright-eyes. Boss wants to see you."

"Well I'm not too crazy about seeing him. Let's make it some other time shall we?" I smiled courteously.

Slits' eyes got even narrower than they were and his hands clenched into a ball. I thought for a minute that the top of his head was coming off.

"Move buster and make it fast."

I moved and it was fast. Not because of Slits, but I didn't like the way the two monsters were leaning in my direction waiting for their cue.

I followed Slits, and the two monsters took up behind. Slits opened the door and ushered me in. He closed the door behind him and the monsters stayed outside. They didn't need them in there. As I took a quick glance around the room, I saw another one that was as good as those two. Monk.

I took a good long look at Monk. If I thought he was big before, I had underestimated him. Even though I'm six-one I felt like a kid looking up at a statue in Rockefeller Plaza.

Four other men were standing in the room but none were as impressive as Monk. They all wore evening clothes and all were middle aged. They didn't look like the brawn of the operation, so I assumed they were the brains.

Near the far wall a white-haired man sat behind a huge desk. He wasn't old or prematurely gray. His hair was pure white and probably had been that way since birth. He was in his mid-forties and although I couldn't tell exactly how tall he was, he looked to be a fair size.

I walked toward him and stopped in front of the desk.

"Whitey Morgan, I presume?"

He nodded and folded his hands on top of the desk.

"Your name, sir?"

"Drake. Bart Drake."

"And to what do I owe this pleasure?"

He seemed entirely too courteous to suit me.

"I'm looking for information. I thought you could help me."

"Just what type of information are you after, Mr. Drake?"

"My brother-in-law was killed some time last night or this morning."

"A pity, Mr. Drake. What has that got to do with me?"

"As far as I know, nothing. But I saw your two monkeys at Nick Garrett's earlier and I think he has something to do with it. I thought maybe you could throw some light on that."

"If you are referring to the visit with Mr. Garrett that is a personal matter. Nothing you'd be interested in. If you are inferring there is any connection business-wise with Mr. Garrett and myself, you are mistaken."

"That's not exactly how I heard it. According to Garrett you're a big man in the flesh trade. I understand the syndicate runs the prostitution business. Garrett said you didn't like him muscling in."

He smiled. I wasn't getting to this boy at all. He was perfectly calm, as if we were talking about his new suit.

"Mr. Drake, I'm afraid your information is slightly twisted. I have been accused of a lot of things but never been called a pimp. We couldn't afford to be mixed up in that enterprise. Too much annoyance. You must know how difficult it is to handle one woman. Picture if you will, trying to keep thousands of them in tow. No Drake that is not one of my ventures."

"Makes sense, Morgan."

He sat back in his chair. "Now Drake, is that all the questions you have for me?"

"One more. You ever heard the name Jim Thompson of Feilman?"

He frowned for a second. "No. Never heard of either one of them."

"O.K. Morgan, thanks for your cooperation." I smiled and started to turn for the door. It was silly I guess. I knew damned well that I'd never get away with it.

"Hold it Drake. I've got a question for you."

I turned back to face Morgan again. He pounded both fists hard on top of the desk and flew out of the chair.

"Just what the hell were you doing with my girl!?"

Well I got to him alright. I had done it. Now he was mad, mad as hell, and his face was beet red.

"That can be explained Morgan if you'll just sit down."

"Don't tell me to sit down you punk! Coming in here like you own the joint. Who the hell do you think you are? I'll say one thing for you, you've got guts. Oh you bastard, how you've got guts. There's probably not another idiot in the United States who would do what you just did. And to top it off you expect to get away with it!"

He laughed now and everyone in the room broke up with him. Everyone this is, except me. I wasn't feeling too gay right at the moment.

"You silly son of a bitch, you expected to get away with it!" He was still laughing.

He sat back down in the chair again and laughed himself out. He'd mutter phrases such as "Dumb bastard" and "Simple-minded ass" and finally stopped and let out a deep sigh.

"It's really a shame, Drake. A man with your guts I could use around here. Here Drake, have a drink."

He pulled a bottle of his best bourbon out of the desk drawer and poured me half a glass full. I looked at it hungrily. I really needed that. Maybe that's what was wrong with me. I had been drinking all day. Maybe I wouldn't be here if I had my senses about me. What the hell, I needed the drink.

I took it from Morgan and drank it in one gulp.

"Have another, Drake." He poured the glass full this time and extended it to me.

"No thanks, Morgan. I've had enough."

"I said drink it." He said it through clenched teeth.

Monk and Slits had taken up a position on either side of me and I figured I'd better have the drink whether I liked it or not.

I took a small swallow and stopped, but as soon as I did I got a nudge from Monk so I finished it.

Morgan stood up and came around from behind the desk. He stood two feet in front of me with his feet wide apart and his fists opening and closing rapidly.

"I said you had guts Drake, but you're also a damn fool. If I had anything to do with your brother-in-law's murder do you think you could get out of here alive? As it stands now you're lucky I don't kill you. I like women and I can't stand people who fool around with things that belong to me, especially my women. I'll say this just once and you better listen and listen good. Stay away from me. Keep away from anything that belongs to me. I don't give a damn what you do to Garrett. He's no concern of mine. But if you get in my way you won't get another warning."

I saw his right hand ball up into a fist and the knuckles went white. I would have been alright if I had left things the way they were. I think I would've been out of there with no harm done. But I didn't and I suppose it was because of the liquor or maybe it was just because I don't like people pounding on me.

His fist jerked back a fraction and I brought my right hand up and into his mid-section. He let out a gasp and stumbled back against the desk. Before I could even get my eyes turned around I felt a thud on the side of my head, one knee gave way and I went down on it. I was pulled back up almost instantly by Slits and Monk and my arms were locked behind me.

Morgan stood and took a deep breath.

"That's stupid, Drake. Real stupid." It was said softly but his fist felt hard as it slammed into my side.

He round-housed a right on my jaw and I felt a dizziness come over me. I couldn't blame that on the booze. He kept up the barrage of lefts and rights to both my face and body. I could feel myself slipping to the floor but I'd get so far and then would be jerked back up again. I felt blood trickle from my nose and I could no longer see out of my left eye.

They finally let go of my arms and I fell heavily to the floor. I felt as though the Russian army had just marched over me, but I was still awake. I could hear them talking but couldn't make out what they were saying. Suddenly my mouth was pulled open and something was poured into me. It burned my lips and the inside of my mouth. Someone rubbed my throat and I had to swallow, and the burn went all the way down to the bottom of my stomach. They did that two or three times more and after that I felt nothing.

Once in a while I'd hear a slight humming noise and a squeal or two. I felt a bumping sensation but couldn't figure out what it was. Then all would be quiet again.

Someone grabbed my arms and pulled me along and I could feel my feet dragging behind.

I went flying through space and was rolling over and over down a mountain the size of Mount Everest. Something whacked my head and everything went blank.

When you wake up in the morning after a sound sleep, you are almost instantly aware of where you are, what day it is, and what plans you have for that day. Some people wake up slower than others, but as a rule most people have their wits about them in the morning. But that's not true when you have gone to sleep against your will. There's an awful feeling you experience when you don't know where you are, how you got there, and sometimes even who you are.

I had that feeling now as I gradually started to come out of it. I knew I was one of the living again, but wasn't sure just how alive I was. My mouth was dry and dirty and I spit cotton to get rid of the mess. I could feel nothing on my lips. They were numb. My head throbbed violently as I tried to raise it. I slumped back with my face in the dirt and lay there breathing heavily. I opened my one good eye and tried to look around. Even that pain was too much to bear. I didn't know how long I had been here but I could see that dawn was just coming up.

I heard a voice somewhere in the distance but couldn't cry out. I didn't want to cry out in the first place. I still didn't know where I was, and for all I knew it could be Monk coming back to finish the job.

I heard a noise, a scuffle of feet, and then a voice again.

"How in hell did you get here?"

I couldn't answer. I was too weak. Arms went underneath me and I felt myself being lifted. My head was splitting and my body was racked with pain. I was being lifted higher and higher and just when I thought my head would explode everything went blank again.

It was easier waking up the second time. I felt something cold and soothing mopping my face. I was lying flat on my back and when I opened the good eye I was staring at a huge white light.

"He's awake now, officer."

It was a female voice and I glanced over and saw the possessor of it. She was a cute brunette dressed in white, and she had just stopped wiping my brow.

"He's a real dandy isn't he miss?"

That was a man's voice and I didn't like the sarcastic tone of it.

"Buddy, I've been a cop for a long time but I never saw anything like you. Are you some kind of nut?"

"Look officer," I said weakly, "Don't play games. I feel real lousy."

"You ought to," He said. "But just tell me how in hell you got there."

"Look, I don't even know where I am now."

"You're in Belleview and if I had my way you'd be in the psych ward."

I sat up on the table and looked around. It was a small all-white room, the emergency room. My head was still pounding.

"Alright fella, are you ready to go?"

"Go where?" I asked.

"Down to the jail. I'm booking you."

"Booking me. For what? What did I do?"

"'What did he do?' he asks. Mister, I've seen drunks and bums all over Central Park but I never saw one do what you did."

"What did I do? Tell me will you?" I was wishing he'd get to the point. Here I felt like hell, what beat to a pulp, and this guy's playing footsie with me.

"Well for one thing you must have been roaring drunk. Your breath now is enough to get me pie-eyed. And second, you had to be drunk to pull a fool stunt like that. All you did was climb over the fence and fall down into the bear cage. You rolled down those rocks and got banged up pretty bad."

"The bear cage? In Central Park?"

"In the zoo," He nodded.

Oh, this was swell. It was bad enough getting knocked around and thrown into the bear cage but this clown thought I climbed in there.

"Look officer, I didn't climb in there. I was thrown in there by Whitey Morgan's hoods. Do you think I'd be nutty enough to pull a stunt like that? Hell, those bears could have killed me!" I thought about that a moment and added, "By the way, where were the bears?"

"Asleep, I guess. I spotted you just in time. If it had been any later they would've been awake and we'd be picking you up in pieces."

I winced. That thought didn't settle too well with me right now.

"Look officer, you've got to believe me. I was pushed in there."

"Let's go sonny, I've heard them all."

On the way to the station house he told me what had happened. I didn't tell him my version, because it was obviously useless.

The only way I could piece things together was by the few things that I did remember. The beating, of course, is still fresh in my mind. I remembered I'd felt something wet being poured into my mouth. It must have been whiskey. I didn't need much after all I drank today. No, that was yesterday. Now I couldn't keep track of time. I was in swell shape.

I remembered the bumping and squeals. It must have been in the car when they drove me to the park. Then I remembered being dragged somewhere. That would be to the zoo. Then I had the feeling that I was flying through the air. That must have been when they threw me over the fence. I also remembered rolling down a hill, and then hitting my head, and that was it until they found me. The officer saw me lying down there on his usual check. He called the keeper and they got me out and took me to the hospital.

That Whitey was a real nice guy. He said I was lucky he didn't kill me. I'd hate to think of what he'd do if he did want to kill me.

When we got to the station I tried to explain things to the sergeant but he was laughing too hard to get a word in edgewise. In fact, the whole place thought it was hilarious. A drunk climbing into the bear's den and going to sleep. This was a hell of a mess and I didn't even have any identification. Whitey's boys must've cleaned me before they dumped me.

When I did finally manage to get a word in I asked them to call Lieutenant Howell. He was the one that Layton in Nassau County had told me was working on the case in the city. When he arrived I explained to him who I was and what had happened last night. He put in a call to Layton and that got me off the hook. He hung up the phone and looked at me.

"Just where did you get the bright idea to go see Morgan in the first place?" He asked.

"Well, I thought he had something to do with it."

"Well that should convince you to keep your nose out of this thing. We know what we're doing, Drake. They don't make us police lieutenants for giving out tickets."

"Listen Howell, my sister is lying in a hospital bed with her life hanging on a thread and you're telling me to lay off? I'm not laying off until I find the guy that did this."

"Your sister's alright. Layton was at the hospital almost all night waiting to question her."

"Did he find out anything from her?" I was relieved to hear she was O.K.

"No, she's still not out of it yet. Not enough, that is, to question her. But the doctors say she's out of danger.

"How about the baby?"

He said nothing for a few seconds and I didn't have to ask again.

"I'm sorry, Drake. They couldn't save it."

Well, that was two in my family they had killed. First Jim and now a little unborn infant. I was going to get them for sure. I'd never do another thing in my life until I found them.

"I know how you must feel, Drake, but don't be going off half-cocked and get into more trouble. We have enough to worry about without you getting in our way."

"I won't get in your way, Lieutenant, I'll find him my own way."

"What have you found out so far, Drake?"

"Nothing. Not a damn thing I can sink my teeth in. The only one I don't like is Garrett. He seems to cause me a hell of a lot of trouble to be a disinterested party."

"We've got nothing on him yet. Only that he's hustling on the side. We'll nail him for that after we clear up the murder. Right now we can overlook that. But there's one thing strange about the whole setup. This guy Hogarth comes back with Penock from California and sets the advertising world on fire. Well it just so happens that a few months before that, Garrett and his wife also came from California and bought this nightclub."

"That doesn't prove anything, just because they came from the same state..."

"That's not all. We have nothing yet to prove that there's any connection between the two, but Garrett's wife's maiden name was Hogarth."

"What!?" Well that took me back a step or two. "That's a pretty odd name to begin with. I don't suppose there's too many Hogarth's in the country. And to come from the same state." I was getting interested. This was the first real thing I had to grab on to.

"Have you asked Hogarth of Mrs. Garrett about it?" I asked.

"No. We just got the info early this morning."

I stood up. "Well thanks for everything Lieutenant. You got me out of a jam."

"That's alright, Drake. But remember to try to stay out of trouble."

We shook hands and I promised him I would.

# Chapter Eleven

I took a cab back to Marla's apartment. I unlocked the door with the key she had given me last night, and went in. I found her in the kitchen drinking a cup of coffee.

"Say, I could use a cup of that stuff."

She jumped back in her chair. "Oh Bart, you frightened me." She looked at my face and her mouth dropped open.

"Bart, what happened to you?"

"I ran into a bear cage, sweetheart."

I took a cup from the cupboard and poured myself a cup of coffee from the electric pot on the table. I drank it black. I needed it.

"Your face is a mess, Bart."

"Thanks a lot. I'll bet you don't look so hot in the morning yourself."

"Tell me what happened?" She showed genuine concern.

"Well, I went up to see Whitey Morgan and he took offense to me belting him in the stomach. He worked me over and dumped me in Central Park. It's as simple as that."

"I told you that you ought to let the police handle this thing. It's too dangerous for you to be fooling around when you don't know what you're doing."

"Look honey, forget that. What more can you tell me about Hogarth?"

"Nothing more than I told you before."

"You know nothing more about his personal life?"

"No more than I told you, Bart. Do you think he's mixed up in this?"

"Could be. Anybody could be mixed up in this. Even you."

That was the wrong thing to say and I knew it as soon as it came out of my mouth. Her face became cold and she stood up quickly.

"I have to go, I'll be late for work." She started to walk from the kitchen and I bounced up and grabbed her arm.

"Honey, I'm sorry, I didn't mean that. This thing has gotten me so upset I hardly know where I am."

"You can leave the key on the table when you go Mr. Drake. Now please let go of my arm."

I let go and she went out the door. Well there I was again. The only friend I had in this thing and I just loused it up. I was getting dumber by the day.

I got undressed and took a cold shower. It felt refreshing. I hadn't had any sleep for over twenty-four hours, unless you want to count the couple of winks I had in the bottom of the bear cage. I don't think you could describe that as a good night's sleep.

I shaved with a safety razor I found in the bathroom cabinet, using bar soap to lather my face. It was probably a razor Marla used to shave her legs, and it felt as if the blade hadn't been changed in six months. On top of that, the bruises and cuts on my face made it even more difficult, but I struggled through it. I climbed into the same dirty clothes I had taken off and went outside and pulled the door shut. But I had a change of heart at the last minute and pushed it back open again, picking up the key. I put it in my pocket and went out. Maybe she'll have a kind thought for me after she thinks it over. I wasn't going to give up that easily, in any event.

I walked down to Third Avenue and found a small clothing shop named Sam's. Sam outfitted me with a new suit, shirt, tie, socks, and black shoes. Oh yes, also underwear. When I was all through and standing in front of the mirror admiring myself, Sam told me I owed him Eighty-nine Fifty. That's when I remembered I had no money. Whitey's boys had cleaned me.

"Look Sam, you just charge it to Whitey Morgan and tell him it's for Bart Drake's new clothes. I'm sure he won't mind."

He sputtered out a few words I didn't get and I left. He didn't like the idea one bit but I saw him writing down my name and Whitey's. At least I should get something for letting him use me as a punching bag.

I walked back to Marla's apartment and went in. It's a good thing I had kept the key.

I went to her bedroom and started searching. I wasn't looking for clues, I was looking for money. I saw a piggy bank on the dresser and emptied it. There was maybe three or four dollars in pennies, nickels, and dimes. Hardly enough to get me through the day.

I rummaged through the drawers in the dresser and found her checkbook. That wouldn't do me any good.

Under the usual flimsy things you would expect to find in a woman's dresser, I found a little black book. I didn't know women kept those too. I flipped through it and found what I wanted. There were five twenties stuck in the middle. An ample amount for the day, providing I didn't drink too heavily.

I stuffed the bills in my pocket and looked down and saw something else. It was a brassiere and I picked it up and held it out to look at. I whistled softly and dropped it back in the drawer. I certainly didn't want to lose that girl. Even her bra was sexy.

I went out in the hall and was about to pull the door shut when I heard a voice behind me. "Here's your mail Mr. Clayton."

I turned to face a red-faced smiling postman, and took the envelopes he handed me.

"Nice day, isn't it?" He said as he walked down the hall.

"Sure is." I said and went back in the apartment.

I glanced at the envelopes quickly and put them on the table.

Only one interested me. It was larger than the rest. At least eight by ten. It was addressed to Miss Marla Clayton and her address. The thing that interested me was that it was postmarked "Westbury, L.I." and mailed yesterday.

Probably doesn't mean a thing and was none of my business, so I flipped it on the table with the rest of them.

I shut the door and went back out into the air.

It was really a beautiful day in New York. One that is always welcome about this time of the year. The summer was coming to a close and New Yorkers had suffered through the hot, humid days that come every year. The temperature doesn't have to be high for you to feel the heat in the city. The humidity is unbearable throughout the months of July and August. You can't seem to get away from it. Even when you try to sleep, the night air doesn't relieve the blanket of heavy air that settles in the city. The more you toss and turn, the more dampened your body becomes. It makes living uncomfortable and tempers short, but millions of New Yorkers endure it every year, rather than move to a more pleasant atmosphere. The need for excitement, the want to rise high in the business or theatrical world, or an escape from boredom is what drives and keeps them here.

But today was a beautiful day. Beautiful for everyone except me.

I had too many things to do to mull over the weather and compulsions of people. There was a murderer to be found and I wanted to find him first. I didn't want the police to get to him so he could sit on his fat fanny in a warm jail cell and eat three squares a day. That wasn't what I had in mind for this boy. Not at all.

The first thing I did was walk into a restaurant-coffee shop and order a steak, charcoal-broiled.

"At nine-thirty in the morning?" The waitress asked.

"Yes honey, at nine-thirty in the morning." I replied.

She walked off muttering something about screwballs walking the streets should be put away and other such flattering phrases.

I waited patiently for the steak and when it came I devoured it in no time. I had a cup of coffee, a piece of apple pie. I left the waitress a dollar tip and heard her say maybe I wasn't such a nut after all, and left.

I walked toward the Club Tempo. I didn't expect to find anyone around there at this time of day but I could think of nothing else to do.

On the way over I tried to piece things together. First I knew Feilman and Jim had an argument in the restaurant. Over what I didn't know. From there they went to a bar around the corner from Hogarth's apartment. Feilman waited there a while and left. Jim never returned, and the next thing anyone finds out about him is that he's dead. Hogarth said he didn't go to his place. But is he telling the truth? Jim could have gone there and Hogarth killed him. But why? There's no motive. He didn't have any reason to kill him. The only connection they had was Feilman. Hogarth brought in the account and Jim worked on it. Other than that they were only business associates.

Next we have Garrett. He fixed up Feilman with a couple of girls a few times. That's their only connection. Other than that he didn't know him. He didn't know Jim at all, so he says. But Jim had told Janet he was going to the Club Tempo and he never got there. But if he did get there nobody was saying. Maybe he went there after he left Feilman.

Then we have Garrett's wife, Sheila. Her maiden name was Hogarth. They both came from California. If they were brother and sister, then Garrett is Hogarth's brother-in-law. Right back to Garrett again. Garrett lied to me about Joan Zelling. She's sitting pretty with Whitey Morgan and would have no reason to shack up with the likes of Feilman.

And next someone takes a shot at me outside of Garrett's place. Whitey's boys couldn't have done that. They had their chance to get rid of me last night, if they wanted me out of the way. But although they roughed me up and threw me in a place where I might be killed, I still lived. If they wanted me dead they would have made sure. That just about eliminates Whitey and his boys, in my eyes.

Next someone killed Feilman and tried to kill Janet. Why? Feilman must have known the same thing Jim knew. Janet was at Feilman's home apparently, through a call made by Feilman. That would make her necessary to kill. Whoever did it would assume Janet knew as much as Feilman. And by that time maybe she did.

If she does know as much then her life is still in danger. It would be difficult to get her in the hospital, but she is still in danger nonetheless.

Then there's Marla. She threw herself at me pretty fast. If she was that easy with everyone, she'd have a line waiting at the door. Maybe it was just a physical attraction. It certainly was with me. But on the other hand, if she wanted to stay close to me and follow my activities, what other way could more effective than the one she chose. She was the only one who knew I was going to the Club Tempo when I was shot at. She couldn't have done it herself because she was at the office immediately after that. But she could have an accomplice. She could have phoned him and had him waiting there for me.

But then why did she walk out this morning as if we were through? If she wanted to stay close to me that's no way to do it. I was sure mixed up and didn't know in what direction I was heading. The whole thing didn't make sense. Nothing fit. None of the facts tied together. There was always an argument for and against. And you can't accuse someone unless there is positive proof, beyond any reasonable doubt.

It was all Greek to me so far, and I sure hoped the police weren't as confused as I was.

I reached the Club Tempo and tried the door. It was locked and there was no sign of anyone. Not even the grimy man I had tossed around yesterday was here.

I went around the back and tried that door. Locked also.

I went back out front and stood there breathing deeply. I was beat. The events of the night before were catching up with me. I needed sleep but I wouldn't sleep until this thing was cleared up. At least a hell of a lot more before my satisfaction. My body ached with pain, and my head still hurt a little. Not as bad as earlier but I was still aware of it. I turned and started up the street and then a brilliant thought hit me. I walked over to the wall and searched for the spot where the first bullet had landed yesterday. I ran my hand along the wall and looked for a break in the wood. I found it, after about two minutes, and scraped at it with my fingers. It was still in there. I walked down the street to Sixth Avenue and stopped in a novelty shop and bought a pen-knife.

I went back and dug at the wall until the bullet came free. I looked at a flat piece of metal and thought what an awful job of tearing up the flesh a little thing like that can do.

I dropped it in my coat pocket and walked toward the offices of Jones, Johnson, and Hatfield.

# Chapter Twelve

The good-looking blonde receptionist smiled mechanically as I entered the office. I didn't wait to be introduced this time. I walked right on past her and into the hall. She rose in protest but her switchboard started to buzz and she had no choice but to give up. I went down the hall toward Marla's office, noticing the hum of activity as I passed each doorway. Busy place. My conception of an advertising agency was nothing like this. I always thought they had scotch for breakfast, lunch, and supper, and in between made love to the beautiful women who modeled for bra and deodorant ads.

Marla looked up in half-surprise when I walked in but her face quickly became ice. The last few hours apparently had done nothing to change her feeling I was still a heel.

"Look Marla," I said pleadingly, "Ignore what I said. I didn't mean it. How could I after what we had last night. Doesn't that mean anything to you? To me it was wonderful. It was a small but pleasant appetizer for the beautiful things that can be ours together."

She said a four letter word that was connected with an appetizer but long after consumption. I did lay it on a little thick, I thought.

"Alright. The hell with you. If you don't want to help me find Jim's murderer I'll do it myself. I must've been crazy to think that any woman can be helpful anyway. They only get in the way. I'll tell you this once, Miss Clayton. I don't know what you thought of Jim as a worker or as an individual, but you're just one of the eight million people in this city and as far as I'm concerned, every one of them is a suspect. That includes you, your relatives, friends, and anybody else you can name. Now if you'll tell me where Hogarth's office is I won't bother you again." I didn't just say it to shake her up. I was mad, fed up with the whole damn business, and I was through trying to be nice to people. I wanted action from here on in.

The outburst must have startled her and brought her back to reality.

Her face melted and became warm again. She stood up and walked to me.

"I'm sorry, Bart. I guess I'm just a selfish person. I wasn't thinking of how you must feel after all you've been through."

I put my arms around her and pulled her to me. Her lips were warm and her body pressed tight against mine. I almost forgot where I was but a voice behind me jolted me back.

It was a high-pitched voice and one that I had heard before.

"Oh, I'm sorry Miss Clayton, I see you're busy." It said scornfully.

I turned to face the voice I knew, but the face was one I had never seen before.

Marla said, "This is Clyde Hogarth, Bart. Bart Drake." She said to Hogarth.

She had lost none of her composure and didn't seem in the least bit concerned that Hogarth had 'caught' us. It sure as hell didn't faze me in the least.

Hogarth looked familiar. He was a thin man, about five-eight, and not a bad looking guy, if you like men. He had jet black hair and small, even features. His skin was dark and unblemished, and his mouth was tiny, almost girlish. His eyes were blue and his eyelashes were almost too long. He tried to give me a cold stare, but he was incapable of it. His body was slender and his shoulders slopped down, giving the impression that he had none at all. He wasn't very impressive, and would probably go unnoticed in a crowd, but to me right now he was my sole interest in the world. I wanted to find out all this fellow had to say. And I was sure it would be plenty.

"You're just the man I've been looking for, Hogarth." I said.

"Sorry, I can't say the same, Drake." He said it sarcastically.

"I don't much give a damn one way or the other, Hogarth. Now shall we talk here or would you prefer we do it in private?"

He started to say something, looked at Marla, and changed his mind. He turned and went back out into the hall and walked back toward the reception room. I was right on his heels. He went past the reception room and down to the end of the corridor. He went through an open door, and I followed after him. The office was quite a contrast from Jim's. If this was Hogarth's and I assumed it was, it was obvious who the fair-haired boy around here was. I thought about that a moment and decided fairy-haired boy would be more appropriate.

The room was very large, more like a living room than an office. The carpet was thick and bright red. All the furnishings, desk, chairs, bookcase, table and small bar were done in blonde wood. Even the pictures on the wall had blonde frames. The pictures themselves were from the abstract school of art, and I just can't go wild over hideous colors smeared on canvas. Most of them had an eye staring out at you with a splinter of bone running through it and a limb of a tree growing from an ear that was floating through clouds. Not my idea of art.

Hogarth sat behind his desk, spread his palms on the top of it in an executive manner and started at me.

I plopped down in an overstuffed chair and stared back. That went on for thirty seconds or so and Hogarth finally said, "Alright Drake, what do you want from me?"

"Answers," I said, "Lots of answers, and I think you have most of them."

"Like what."

"Like did Jim go to your apartment Wednesday night?"

"I've already told the police he didn't. I see no reason why I have to go through this all over again with you. You're no official. As far as I'm concerned, you're just a nuisance and I see little I can gain by talking to you." He said none of it in anger, just matter-of-factly.

"Listen to this Hogarth, I'll just say it once. My brother-in-law was killed, my sister lost her baby, and she's lying in the hospital now with her life hanging on a thread. I'm fed up with being pushed around by little snot-noses like you so you'd better answer all my questions and answer them right, or I'll disfigure you for life." I said it softly but meant every word of it.

His eyes widened and he stared at me in disbelief. "Why you... you wouldn't dare."

I leaned toward him and whispered, "Try me."

He sat back in his chair and his hands clasped and unclasped in a nervous gesture as would a woman. A bead of perspiration appeared on his forehead and not because of the heat in here. I figured I had him now but just to make sure, I leaned over his desk and picked up his gold plated letter opener. I sat back in the chair and cleaned my nails with it as I stared at him. His hand started to shake slightly and his face was flushed. The man, or was he that, was the worst coward I had seen in my life.

"Drake," he said nervously, "I abhor violence. I'll answer your questions."

"O.K. Then did Jim go to your apartment?"

"No. the last I saw of Jim was when I left the Pelican Room. I told you on the phone. We had a few drinks together, and I left. That's the truth, I swear it." He was still shaking slightly.

"What did you talk about?"

"Nothing of interest. Business mostly, maybe a little baseball."

"Who's in first place in the National League?"

"Well, er... er, the Yankees."

"Sure, the Yankees." I tapped the letter opener on top of the desk. "I told you I'd use this if you lied to me."

"Hell Drake, I don't know anything about baseball. I meant they talked about it, Jim and Feilman." He was scared stiff again.

"Alright. Did either of them say anything out of the ordinary, something unusual?"

"No. Not that I... wait, he did say something."

"Who, Jim?"

"No, Feilman. He said it on the side to Jim but I heard it. He said he wanted to see Jim later about a 'deal', as he put it, with someone named Whitey."

"Whitey Morgan?" I asked.

"Yes, yes that's it, Whitey Morgan."

Well, now that was something. I had just about forgotten Whitey Morgan. I didn't see any connection, but there obviously was one. That's the second time he's bounced into the picture and I still wasn't convinced his boys didn't shoot at me.

"You don't know what kind of deal he was talking about?"

"No. That's all I heard. In fact, that's all he said about it while I was there. I know because they talked with me the rest of the time."

"Were you and Jim friendly?"

"Not outside the office. You know, have a drink with a client, that kind of thing, but other than that we didn't socialize. I liked him, though. I thought he was a swell fellow. We got along fine. I'm sure he liked me, only we just didn't socialize outside of business."

"I can understand that." It wasn't meant to be sarcastic. Many people get along with their fellow workers, but when five o'clock comes, they go their separate ways. There was nothing unusual about that.

"How long have you been working here at the agency?"

"A little over a year."

"How did you get the job?"

"Well, I met Mr. Penock in California white he was on vacation there. I was always interested in the advertising business, and told him some of my ideas. He liked them, and asked me to come to New York with him. I did, and it has turned out quite well for both of us."

"I understand. What did you do before this?"

"I was in public relations." He seemed to be becoming a little annoyed again. "Look Drake, I don't see how all this is going to help you. I had nothing to do with your brother-in-law's murder, believe me."

"One more question, Hogarth. Is Sheila Garrett your sister?"

"Who? Sheila Garrett? I've never heard of her."

"She's a stripper. Works at the Club Tempo, on Fifty-Second Street. Her husband is Nick Garrett, the owner." I watched his face as I talked, but I saw no sign of anything. If he did know then he was a damn good actor.

"I don't know either one of them. Should I?"

"Maybe. It seems they are from California."

He smiled. "That's a big state, Mr. Drake."

I smiled. "I know that Mr. Hogarth, but I don't suppose there are many people in that state or any other for that matter named Hogarth.

"What is that supposed to mean?" He asked contemptuously.

"Sheila Garrett's maiden name was Hogarth."

He smiled again. "I'll have to look her up. Maybe she's a long, lost relative."

"If you did get a look at her you wouldn't want to lose her again. On second thought, maybe you would."

He pressed his lips tight together, and they went white. I guess I was getting on his nerves. I had just about my fill of him anyway, so I rose to leave. As I did a door on the side wall opened that I hadn't noticed before.

A short, balding, pudgy man stuck his smiling face around the corner, and when he saw me the smile faded. It seems I affected everyone that way lately.

Pudgy said, "Oh I'm sorry Clyde, I didn't know you were busy. I'll stop in later."

"Alright Percy." Clyde said. Pudgy's face disappeared as I shouted, "Wait!" He stuck his fat face around again and I walked toward him.

"Are you J. Percy Penock?" I asked.

"Why yes, yes I am." He said, smiling. "Can I do anything for you?"

"No Percy, he was just leaving," Clyde intervened.

"Was is right Hogarth. Now I'll stick around for a few questions with your boss, if you don't mind."

"There's nothing he can help you with, Drake. He knows as much about this as I do, and I've told you all I know."

"Well, I'll just find that out for myself if you don't mind, Sweetheart."

The 'Sweetheart' got to him. His face looked like green tomato starting to ripe, and very fast. I could almost see the boil come up from his toes as he spun around and went out of the office.

I looked back at P.P. and he wasn't smiling anymore, either. As a matter of fact, he seemed a bit nervous. Hell, I wasn't that tough that everyone had to crap in their drawers when they looked at me. Unless of course he had something special to be nervous about.

Penock went through the door he had come in and I followed. There was no difference in either room. The office of Hogarth's was decorated almost exactly as Penock's. All the furniture was blonde wood. The rug was red and the pictures were just as ugly in either room.

Penock went behind a duplicate of Hogarth's desk and sat. I did the same in a copy of the chair I had just came out of. It was hard to tell who the boss around here was. You'd think they were partners.

Penock was a man in his middle fifties. Short, about five-six, and fat. His head was shiny in the middle, and the hair swooped back around his ears was bright blonde. Bleached blonde. These advertising people sure were a bunch of odd balls.

He wasn't a handsome man, but he wasn't gruesome. His face wasn't even pleasing, but you could look at it without shuddering. I didn't imagine he was much of a lover, or ever had been. He spread his stumpy fingers on the desk in a manner similar to Hogarth's, they must have been taking lessons from one another.

He shook his head slowly. "You shouldn't have done that. Clyde's a very sensitive boy. You shouldn't have made him angry."

"I didn't come in here to talk about Clyde. I'm not interested in him. What I want from you is a few answers."

"What kind of answers?" He asked.

"About Jim Thompson."

"Ah yes, Jim was a fine boy. We'll miss him around here."

"I understand he was the best you had until Hogarth came along."

"Yes that he was. He was a good worker and he got along well with everyone. Most people liked him. He was good for business, Mr. Drake. We'll miss him." He shook his head again slowly. "I can't imagine anyone wanting to harm Jim. He was so likeable. Didn't have an enemy in the world."

"How did you know my name was Drake?"

He looked surprised at my stupidity. "Why, Clyde called you that in the office."

And he did. I was some detective.

"Look Mr. Penock, let's get down to brass tacks. I want to find Jim's murderer and the only place I know where to find anything about him in right here in his office. It's the only logical place to start. First off, Jim and Feilman both were killed. They were business associates. It seems plausible to assume that whatever they were killed for had something to do with business. Do you follow me?"

"Oh yes, yes of course." He nodded vigorously.

"Good. Now what connection could they have had? Jim worked on Feilman's account, right?"

"Oh yes, yes."

"Now what could be mysterious about the cosmetic business? Do you know?

He was still nodding with everything I said, agreeing wholeheartedly.

"I said do you know, Mr. Penock?"

"Oh no, of course not." This guy was either a nincompoop or he was giving me a line. It didn't look as if I was going to get much out of him.

"Alright. Now how about Hogarth. What did he have to do with the account?"

"Nothing. Nothing at all."

"Isn't he the one who made the original contact? Didn't he bring in Feilman's account?"

"Oh yes. But that's all, Jim took over from there."

I sat back in my chair and gave him the pleasant look of a non-believer.

"Come now, Mr. Penock. If you were head of a big company and wanted to give your advertising to someone, wouldn't you want the man who made the initial contact to handle your account? If it were shoved off on somebody else, don't you think it would look like you were getting the runaround?"

"No, no, Mr. Drake. We don't do business that way. Mr. Feilman knew at all times who would handle his account before he agreed to do business with us. There was nothing strange there. And don't forget, he got one of the best in the business. Jim was a top man in his field."

"Is that the way you operated with all your clients?"

"Definitely. It stands to reason Clyde couldn't handle all the business he brings in. It would be too much of a load for one man to carry."

"Alright then, what makes him such a hot man, bringing in the accounts? Why did your business blossom as soon as he comes on the scene?"

"Salesmanship, Mr. Drake, salesmanship. A very important word. Very few people have the gift. Clyde has it. The ability to make things what they are not, to build meaningless things into importance, to create things that don't exist. This, Mr. Drake, is salesmanship. You must have a way of making the customer believe in you, believe in what you're selling, and make him realize that you can work with him and he can profit the most from you. And when you have built that confidence and trust, you have sold yourself and your organization. This is the gift that Clyde has. The customer no longer has to rely on Clyde, because he has been sold on the agency as a whole. He knows full well that his needs and demands will be efficiently handled whether Clyde does it personally or not. He knows that Clyde will always be on call if anything might run afoul. He has trust, and Clyde is the one who has built that trust. He is a titan among men."

I got up. "We obviously don't see eye to eye on a number of things, and Clyde is the biggest. Just how did you meet him anyways?"

"I feel this is none of your business, Mr. Drake," He answered, "I'm afraid I must ask you to leave."

I said, "I'll leave, but not because you're asking. I've had a belly full of the two of you, and the farther I get from you the better I'll like it." I was fed up being nice to people. "But I'll let you in on a secret. I'm going to get to the bottom of this, and if your pretty boy Clyde is mixed up in it you're going to lose him, remember that."

I had said my piece, so I turned and walked to the door. A sudden impulse swept over me, and I turned back and gave him a salute, "See you around, P.P."

I waited until his face dropped to his knees, and left.

I went back down the hall to Marla's office. She was sitting behind her desk as I walked in, she got up immediately and smiled.

"Well, how do you like my friends?" She asked.

"I don't like them at all. Matter of fact, I don't see how you can stand them."

"I can't, but I have to eat."

"That reminds me, it's almost twelve. Should we go have a bite?"

"A bite of what?" She asked, so I bit her.

She squealed a little, and pushed me away. "Save that for later," she said.

"O.K. But we still have to eat. How about it?"

"I'd love to Bart, but I can't. I have a date."

"Ha ha. Cheating on me already."

"No, strictly business. We'll have supper tonight, and then we'll have the whole night together."

I thought about that and decided it would be much better than lunch. I told her I owed her $100, kissed her, and left the agency.

Outside, I watched the office girls and boys fleeing from their buildings for an hour of lunch and relaxation. Lunch hour was a great thing for the worker. It eased some of the tensions of the job. A bit of false easing, as they had to go back and face the same problems for the rest of the afternoon.

I couldn't decide where to head next. Truth is, I had no idea where to go next. I'd just about run out my string, and was no closer than I was yesterday morning.

I reached in my pocket for a cigarette and felt something hard and cool. The bullet I had dug from the wall at the Club Tempo.

Well, there's a place to go, the police. I dropped the bullet back in my pocket and hailed a cab for the station house.

# Chapter Thirteen

When I arrived I announced myself to the desk sergeant and Lieutenant Howell ushered me into his office. After we were seated I took out the bullet and dropped it on his desk.

"I thought you might want to make a test of this. It's the bullet I dug out of the wall at the Club Tempo, the one that was aimed for my head."

"So you're the one," he said, "I sent a man down there to find it and have been giving him hell all morning because he came with nothing."

I smiled, "As long as I keep a step ahead of you, I'm alright. Then maybe I'll find my boy first."

"I hope you don't, Drake, for your sake. I'd hate to book you on a murder charge."

"Don't worry Lieutenant, I'm going to get him legally."

"That I'd like to see."

He picked up his phone and asked for ballistics. In a few seconds he said, "Wilson, come on up here and pick up a slug. I want you to run a test on it to see if it matched the ones we dug out of Feilman and Mrs. Thompson." His eyes met mine when he mentioned Janet.

He hung up and shook his head.

"It's a tough one, Drake. Not much to go on."

"How about my sister, is she alright?"

"Same. She's still in a coma."

"Can I see her?"

"Not a chance. They won't even let us in. We wanted someone there in case she came out of it long enough to talk. But we can't get near her, I guess she's in pretty bad shape. Sorry."

"Thanks, but that's all the more reason to keep a step ahead of you."

"Well, we won't argue about it," he said.

We were interrupted by the man from ballistics. He picked up the bullet, said he'd get on it immediately, and left.

I took a pack of butts from my pocket and offered one to Howell. He took it and we lit them from his lighter.

I sat back and took a puff.

"You know Lieutenant; on the way over here I got to thinking. A fellow as well off at Feilman, with that big house in Westbury, head of a cosmetic firm, he must have been loaded. Well, a fellow with that much cabbage and who didn't have a wife must've had someone to keep the place up. A maid say, or a caretaker. Might be he even had a chauffeur. Well I got to wondering, if he did have a maid and a chauffeur, or even just one or the other, where are they? They weren't at the house when I got there. They couldn't have been there when he was murdered or they would have reported it. And if they were there and the killer had seen them he would have killed them too. But he didn't, and they didn't report anything, so where are they? Assuming of course he had a maid and a chauffeur."

Howell sat back, puffed on the cigarette, and smiled. "You'd make a fair detective, Drake. We could use you around here. Everything you said is logical. We wondered the same things ourselves. So we did a little investigating. We do get paid for that you know. Well it seems that Feilman did have a maid and a chauffeur. An all-round chauffeur, butler, caretaker. They were a man and wife by the name of Elsa and Hugo Muller. They had been with Feilman for about four years, according to the neighbors. So we wondered, just like you, what happened to the Muller's. The neighbors knew nothing and as far as they knew the Muller's were still employed there. So we checked with the agencies that handle domestics. And we found Elsa and Hugo Muller, unemployed, looking for a new position. We talked to them but they told us nothing."

"Nothing at all? Why did they stop working for Feilman?"

"They were canned. Yesterday morning. When they got up in the morning Feilman handed them two month's pay and told them they their services were no longer required. They pleaded with him but he turned a deaf ear to them. No matter what they did they couldn't change his mind."

"Didn't he give them a reason?"

"None. He gave them a good reference and told them they were the best couple he'd even had, but they were through."

I leaned back in my chair. "Seems pretty damned odd, for no reason at all, to bounce them."

"It does, but as far as we can see, they're clean."

"Did they notice anything unusual about him?"

"They said he seemed jumpy, but that wasn't unusual. He worried constantly about his business, although he had money to burn. There's nothing we can pin down, nothing significant as far as we can see."

"Do you mind if I talk to them?"

"Not a bit, Drake. If you can get anything more out of them I'll be delighted."

He jotted down the number where they could be reached and handed it to me. "I'm sure you won't have any trouble talking to them. They seemed like a very nice couple."

"O.K. Thanks. You guys have been a big help to me. I don't really know why, but I appreciate it."

"You've got a beef Drake. Normally we'd frown on people sticking their nose in police business. Not that we like it from you, but we understand your feelings. And any guy who has guts enough to barge in on Whitey Morgan the way you did deserves a break. Furthermore, you might pick up something we can use. Maybe you have already, and aren't telling."

"Believe me Lieutenant, I'm in a fog. This thing has got me on a merry-go-round and I can't figure out how to get off. I've learned a number of things, but I can't tie anything together to make sense. If I could tell you anything that would help you I would. But it seems that every time I talk to someone either Garrett's or Whitey's name pops up. They've got to be in this somehow."

"If they are, we can't tie it," he said, "As far as we know Morgan didn't know Feilman, your sister, or your brother-in-law. We know Garrett knew Feilman, but had no reason to kill him. It's still a mess, but we'll work it out."

"What about Sheila Garrett and Hogarth?" I asked.

"Nothing there as of yet. We've got the California police on it, but so far they've found no connection."

I stood up. "O.K. Lieutenant, thanks for the info."

We said our goodbyes and I left.

Outside I breathed in the warm, fresh air. My eyes were starting to get droopy from lack of sleep, and my stomach gave off an empty growl. I thought a sandwich and a few cups of coffee would bring me around, so I hunted up a coffee shop and ate.

It was ten minutes past three when I got back to Marla's apartment. The sandwich, coffee and the walk had done me some good for a while, but now I was back to where I started. I just couldn't stay awake any longer. I went to the kitchen and hunted up a bottle of scotch and had a couple of shots. Then I went to Marla's bedroom, took off my new shoes, and laid on the soft, caressing bed. The room still had lingering aromas of Marla's perfume. There's something about a woman's bedroom that is sensual and at the same time serene. I closed my eyes and let my nostrils inhale the faint womanly scents. I thought of Marla in long black stockings and her beautiful bare skin.

I woke up fast and not easy. The gooks were opening again, and I thudded hard against the side of the Foxhole as I rolled on my belly and reached for my carbine. My hands went out to grab it, and I felt nothing but air. Damn that Barbari, he was always moving it away from me while I slept. My eyes snapped open alert, looking in all directions at once. And I was staring at a pink curtain. It took me another two seconds to realize where I was. I was on the floor in Marla Clayton's bedroom, not in Korea. Well I can't say I was disappointed.

Something woke me up, something loud like a gunshot. And there it was again. This time I knew what it was. A truck backfire. Well, I was awake now; I might as well stay awake. I had a lot to do before the night was over, and I didn't want to waste time in bed. I looked at the small alarm clock on the night stand next to the bed. It was five after five. That wasn't a hell of a lot of sleep, but I felt a little better. I went to the bathroom and splashed my face with cold water. Then back into the kitchen for another shot of scotch. It was five-fifteen now, and I figured Marla would be home shortly, but I didn't want to wait. There was someone I wanted to see, and I didn't want to miss him.

I left the apartment and hailed a cab to Central Park West.

# Chapter Fourteen

I was back on the street staring up at the apartment house on Central Park West, wondering once again how I was going to get in. Yesterday I had thought of sprouting wings and flying up there, or some such similar nonsense, but I had eventually managed to worm my way in. Today would be different. Whitey and all his boys now knew who I was and if they saw me again, I was sure they wouldn't greet me as a long lost friend. Furthermore, Whitey told me to stay out of his way; I should have enough sense to listen to him. But maybe I was just plain dumb.

I walked into the lobby and saw the same small, ancient man running the elevator as the night before. He was picking his teeth with a match book cover as I walked toward him.

"Hello friend, Whitey Morgan in?" I asked.

He shrugged, spit something yellow from his teeth and said, "I don't keep tabs on him."

I pulled a five from my pocket and showed him the end of it.

He laughed, and shrugged again. "You gotta do much better than that, pal. Whitey wouldn't want me to sell out that cheap."

I told him to go to hell and went back out to the street. It was ten minutes to six now, and I thought Whitey should be going out to eat, unless he planned to dine upstairs. And from what I've heard of Whitey's activities, I didn't think he ate upstairs very often. I went across the street and picked out a wooden bench that would enable me to keep an eye on the entrance to the apartment, and yet be concealed from anyone coming out of it.

It was twenty 'til seven before anything happened. A cab pulled up and Joan Zelling, dressed in furs and a revealing blue satin gown, climbed out and went into the apartment. It was a good half-hour later before any other activity began. Two large monsters whom I recognized from the night before came out and looked carefully up and down the street. A car cruised by and their hands went to the inside of their jackets, and remained there until the car was a good two blocks away. I got to feeling a little jumpy, and thought maybe I'd better high-tail it the hell out of there. Then, Slits and Monk came out, and the first two mugs went to opposite corners.

They were making quite a production out of this. Any minute I expected to see Alice Paye come dancing down the stairs in tights, high hat and cane. After another minute or two a black limousine came around the corner and out came Joan and Whitey. And when I mean Joan was coming out I really meant it. When she had gotten out of the cab her back was to me, and even then I could tell the gown she wore was revealing. Now she had her front to me, and what a front. It didn't matter that I was on the other side of the street. I had twenty-twenty eyes and all forty of them were now in full operation. Her body moved as though she was rhythmically dodging rain drops, and the current around her must have been kicking up a small tornado. Last night, she has looked awful good, until I found out she was Whitey's girl, and then she just looked awful. But at this distance, I could fully admire her talents without fear of the big man. And talents she had.

Whitey helped her climb into the limousine, and my show was over. Monk and Slits followed them in, and the other two birds hopped in a black Buick that followed them. I came off the bench in a run and started down the street after them. I ran a block before I was able to get a cab and have it follow them. They went left when they hit Fifty-Seventh Street, and rode over Fifth Ave, to the East Side.

The East side of New York had many of the best eating spots in town. The West side catered more to the tourists and show going people, but the East side served the show folk, newspaper folk, top businessmen, and gangsters. Not that they wouldn't serve anyone who'd go there. The prices were no more exorbitant than the West side, but the tourists usually head straight for Times Square and stay there throughout the visit. There weren't many bright lights on the East side and that didn't attract tourists. There are exceptions to the rule, such as the Copacabana, but on the whole, the West side was where the tourists would stay. The East side had many good restaurants, and they were catered to by the people who knew them and their reputation. Most of them didn't have floor shows, strictly for dining, but the food in many of them was the best in the world. You'd pay for it, but you got excellent food and excellent service for your money.

The Morgan troupe stopped at one of the best in town, both for food and prices, the Raconteur. I told the cab to stop a half-block away, and watched as they emerged from their car and entered the club. I paid the driver and got out. The two cars had pulled away and went hunting for a parking space. Whitey, Joan, Slits, Monk, and the two thugs had gone into the restaurant. I stood outside for a minute, lit a cigarette, and followed them inside.

The inside of the restaurant was dimly lit, and it took a few seconds for my eyes to become accustomed to the light. When my eyes did, I saw Whitey, Joan, Monk, and Slits seated toward the rear of the place. The other two apes were nowhere in sight. The maître d' approached me, but I waved him off and told him I was waiting for someone. He left me alone. The room of the place extended about seventy-five feet back, and then made a sharp curve and went to the side another twenty feet or so. It was here that Whitey and the group sat. The place was crowded at this hour, and the waiters were running back and forth into the kitchen that was directly to my left. A staircase led downstairs to the restrooms. On my right, the bar was bustling with activity so I decided to join it. I approached the bar and then quickly retraced my steps, as I saw the two apes of Whitey's standing guard against the bar. I got back to where I came from and sat in a chair, and lit another cigarette. Well what now. I couldn't walk through to Whitey's table. I'd never make it. These two clowns would spot me and hustle me out of there before I took two steps.

I thought for a moment and watched the waiters filing in and out of the kitchen door. I got up and eased over toward it, keeping my eyes on the maître d'. When he became involved with two couples who came in the door, I slipped into the kitchen behind a waiter balancing a tray on one hand. The kitchen looked like the inside of an army mess hall. It was immaculate, but the arrangement was the same. Two or three rows of long, aluminum tables with pots and pans hanging from an overhead rack. I slid to the side of one wall and eased my way around to the back. The cooks were too busy to notice me, and just at this time there was only one waiter in the kitchen.

When I got to the back I saw another doorway that was dark, so I slipped into it. Some light from the kitchen spilled in but it was a few seconds before I could see where I was. It was a locker room, very small, and containing maybe twenty lockers. I quietly felt my way around, and tried each locker door as I passed it. I finally found one open and carefully removed the contents. It held a pair of shoes, sport jacket, shirt, and a pair of pants. Not what I was looking for. I slid along again and found a second one open. This one had what I wanted, a waiter's uniform. I quickly removed my own clothes and substituted them for the waiter's outfit. They fit snug, and were apparently for a guy slightly smaller than me. About twenty-five pounds smaller, but it was all I could find so I'd have to wear it. I straightened everything out as best I could in the dark, and went back to the edge of the kitchen.

By this time the room had filled up considerably and now there were six or seven waiters milling about. I pulled down the jacket and walked into the midst of them. As I passed the last long table, I picked up a tray with four bowls of soup, and went into the dining area. I walked toward the rear where Whitey was sitting. Well here I was, out here right in the middle where I wanted to be, past the two mugs at the bar and almost on top of Whitey Morgan. Yep, here I was with a tray filled with soup and I didn't know what the hell to do with it. I stood in the middle of the floor and looked around hopefully. The ones that wanted the soup would see my predicament and motion me over. I looked over everyone in the room and no one motioned. One or two waiters looked at me a little oddly, and I saw the maître d' trying to stretch his neck to get a look at what I was doing, but he was too busy maître d'-ing to give me too much attention. I saw two young couples sitting to my right and in desperation I went over and started serving them the soup. The first girl looked at me as though I was mad when I set the soup in front of her and the guy next to her started to sputter.

He said "We didn't order this, we're waiting for our drinks."

"Compliments of the house, sir. Nothing too good for our guests," I retorted.

"But we want our drinks," he protested.

"Coming right up sir, the drink man will be here in a minute."

He was still snorting and fussing as I dumped the soup and went further to the rear. I got behind the curve in the room so I'd be out of sight of the maître d'. Two middle aged couples were seated here, and they had nothing on their table. It looked as though they hadn't been waited upon yet so I went to them and politely asked them for their order. Both the babes were heavily laden with makeup and jewelry, and both had extremely low cut dresses. And low cut they were, probably down to their navels as everything they had sagged. Maybe it was an interesting sight to a sixty year old but I couldn't get too worked up about it.

The men ordered martinis and the girls ordered old fashions. That was swell, I had my first big order but now I had to go back to the bar and pass the maître d' to get the drinks. Oh well, I couldn't just stand there or I'd get thrown out for sure. I went to the bar, and as suspected was collared by the big cheese.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" he whispered. It was obvious he didn't want to create a scene so I had a little advantage.

"I'm just working," I said, "I was told to start tonight so here I am."

"Who in hell hired you?" he asked.

"The boss, the big man, you know... Mr.... eh..."

"Mr. Roth?"

"Yeah. Mr. Roth. That's who hired me."

"He doesn't hire anyone. That's my job. Mr. Roth had never interfered..."

"It was done as a special favor... for me... Whitey Morgan fixed it." I was fishing, but I had nothing to lose now.

"Mr. Morgan. Mr. Roth hired you through Mr. Morgan?" He found it hard to believe.

"Yes. Whitey's a friend of my father's, said if he could ever do anything for me..."

"O.K. If Mr. Roth hired you, you're hired. But try to remember where you get the orders from. That young couple was raising hell about that soup."

"Oh, that. I was just a little nervous. I'll be alright."

"I hope so," he moaned and went back to greeting new arrivals.

I went to the bar and ordered my drinks. The bartender looked at me queerly and I grinned and introduced myself.

"Bart Drake. I'm the new man."

He shook hands with me, introduced himself as Mike Tolucci, and promptly informed me that I was to give a percentage of my tips to him, him being at the service bar and having no opportunity to get any tips. I told him I'd cooperate, got my drinks, and headed back to my first customers. When I got back, there was another waiter standing there waiting, waiting for me, not on tables. When I served the drinks he grabbed me and stuck his face to mine.

"You got a hell of a nerve. This is my area buster, and you keep the hell out of it if you know what's good for you." He seemed annoyed.

"Alright buddy, alright," I said, "Don't worry. All I want to do is serve this one table. Then you can have the whole damned place to yourself."

"Nuts to that jazz. You just bust out right now. I'll finish with this table."

"Look pal, I'll give you ten bucks and the tip I get besides. Just leave me this one table."

He thought that over for two seconds and then asked to see the color of my money. I slipped him the ten and he was appeased. I was doing swell. Already it cost me ten bucks, plus the tip I'll get, and besides I had to give the bartender a cut. They can have this business, there's no profit in it.

My customers were satisfied so I stood back against the wall and took a look at Whitey's table. Joan and Whitey were sipping cocktails. Monk and Slits were drinking beer. I didn't know what the two goons at the bar were drinking, as long as they didn't look my way and recognize me. I wasn't too concerned about being spotted as I figured I'd just mold in with the atmosphere and never be noticed. So far I was doing fine. Monk and Slits had looked this way a couple of times, but gave no signs of recognition.

Now that I had come this far I didn't know where to go next. Thinking it over now, it seemed like a pretty silly idea in the first place. I wanted to talk to Whitey again, for I still wasn't convinced he wasn't mixed up in this mess somewhere. It seemed like Garrett was, and his apes had dealings with Garrett, so he probably knew more than he was telling. Also, Hogarth had said he heard Feilman mention a 'deal' he had with Morgan. The part that seemed stupid now was me thinking I would get any more out of Whitey than I had last night. I'd probably get a lot less now that he knew me and didn't take much of a fancy to me. But what the hell, I was this far, I might as well go all the way. If I didn't end up dead, maybe it would be profitable.

I stood only about ten feet from their table now, and was still unnoticed. The one break I had was the waiter. He was the same one whom I had slipped the ten bucks. I dug down for another five, as Whitey ordered another round of drinks for the table. I figured I'd collar him on the way back and slip him the five to let me serve them. As he left for the bar, I saw my first customers waving frantically at me. I guessed they wanted another drink, but this was no time for that. They kept up the waving and I waved back a couple of times but it did no good. They wanted that drink bad.

Slits noticed the action that had passed between the table and me, and was giving me a twisted look. I turned my back on him and went over to the thirsty ones. It would have been fine if all they wanted was a drink. I could have passed it on to the waiter and taken Whitey's drinks from him. Everything would have worked smoothly. But these clowns wanted to eat. I took down an order for a shrimp cocktail, two orders of cherry stone clams on the half shell, and one herring with sour cream. That last one made my stomach do a flip.

I turned to take the orders to the kitchen but they weren't through. They wanted to go right down the menu and order the whole meal. I wrote down one order of consume, and saw my waiter heading back for Whitey's table. I took two more orders of clam chowder and the dame who wanted the herring and sour cream ordered vichyssoise, iced potato soup, and I almost threw up. I heard someone say prime roast rib and saw the waiter getting close to me. He was only a step or two away now.

The herring and cold potatoes ordered escargots. I knew them as snails, and I felt my stomach do a complete somersault. I swallowed hard three times, and grabbed the tray of drinks as the waiter passed me.

He turned around, startled, and I shoved the five in his hand.

"Look buddy," I said, "You take this table. I'll take the drinks."

"Now look fella, I'm trying to cooperate..."

"Just let me take the drinks and I'll get out of your hair." I wished he would cut the talk. Now people were starting to look.

"O.K, O.K." he said and went to my table.

I took the tray of drinks to Whitey's table. I didn't say a word as I put the drinks on the table. Slits was looking at me with entirely too much interest to suit me. I didn't want him to spoil my play.

I had seen what they were drinking previously, so I put the two bottles of beer in front of Monk and Slits. Whitey and Joan had been drinking martinis, but I didn't have martinis on my tray. I had one rye or scotch on the rocks, and one Manhattan. I didn't know which went where, but I chanced it and set the Manhattan in front of Joan. I took a long look at Joan. She was a sight to behold.

What I had seen across the street from the apartment was nothing compared to what I was seeing now. Her dress was cut so low I could almost see her garters. To make the view even more enticing, I was standing directly above her. I could see the front and rear at the same time, and both sides had value of interest. I hesitated a bit longer than I should have, and I heard Slits voice say "isn't that..." but that's as far as he got.

Whitey looked up and his mouth clamped tight.

"Drake, you bastard."

I smiled and said, "Hello, you son of a bitch."

I was standing between Joan and Monk, and he slid his chair back partly and started to get up. I kicked at the front legs of the chair, and he was caught off balance and plopped back down in the seat. Whitey raised his hand and that's all that stopped Monk from trying to get up again. Slits sat still.

"You got an awful lot of nerve Drake, and awful lot," Whitey said in a pinched voice.

"You said that last night."

"I also said for you to stay the hell away from me, if you wanted to remain healthy. It seems you don't want to remain healthy." He said it with clenched teeth and it wasn't just for effect. He obviously meant it.

"And I probably would have taken your advice, if you had been a little considerate. You left me broke and without my wallet, and I was almost thrown in jail."

"You're lucky you're alive." He said it as though I might not be in the very near future.

"I would like my wallet back, plus the money you took from me. I didn't think a big man like you had to go around rolling people."

When I said that, he glanced at Monk for a second or two, no longer, and said, "Give it back, Monk."

Monk looked dejected, but pulled a roll from his pocket and started to count it out. I waited, and Whitey kept his eyes fixed on me.

Monk counted out the money and threw it on the table.

I picked it up and counted it myself. I didn't trust this bird a bit.

I slapped the money back on the table. "Give," I said to Monk. "You're two hundred shy."

Whitey looked at him and nodded, and Monk peeled off the remaining two hundred.

I shoved it in my pocket. My entire fortune, Six hundred twenty three dollars and thirty four cents.

"How about the wallet?" I asked.

"Look in the bear cage," Monk replied, with a twisted grin on his face. As he did Whitey roared with laughter.

"That was good Drake, real good. I didn't think Monk had that much sense. It was all his idea you know. I just told them to dump you in the park. A real stroke of genius, the bear cage," he roared again.

"Have your fun, Whitey. I guess I'm through with you for now."

I started to leave.

Whitey stopped me. "Sit down, Drake. No reason why we can't be friends."

I pulled up a chair and sat, against my better judgment. I should have gotten the hell out of there when I had the chance.

"Look Morgan, there's only one thing I want from you, and you won't give. So as far as I'm concerned we have nothing to talk about."

"Now look pal, I like you. You've got guts. I could use you, if you want to go work for me."

"No thanks. I don't like the business you're in."

"O.K. pal, but you could be a rich man."

"Yeah. Just one question, Whitey. What kind of deal did you make, or were going to make, with Feilman?"

"Who the hell is Feilman?" He asked. "Look Drake, just to get you off my back, I've got no connection with anything you're talking about. Garret has a racket. What kind I won't tell. He got a friend of mine in a squeeze and I sent my boys to tell him to lay off. He lays off if he knows what's good for him. It's as simple as that."

"What kind of a squeeze?" I asked.

"That's it. That's all you get. If you want more info, you'll have to find it yourself."

Monk stood up then, and Morgan stopped him. "Where are you going?"

"To the john." grunted Monk, and he left.

Whitey turned to me. "How 'bout a drink, Drake. You want to order it, or get it yourself?" He laughed.

I looked at my waiter's costume and had to laugh with him.

"No thanks, Whitey. Some other time. I have a lot of things to do."

"O.K... but remember, if you change your mind I got a job for you."

I stood up. "I'll remember."

I looked down at Joan, and it was a beautiful view.

"Good night, Miss Zelling. I hope to see a lot more of you."

She smiled. "There's not much more to see."

Whitey said, "Put your eyeballs back where they belong, Drake, or you'll be wearing a hole in the middle of them."

I turned to Whitey. "If it wasn't for your jealous nature, I might take you up on that job."

I got out of there while there was still time, and changed back into my regular clothes. The maître d' gave me a strange look as I left but said nothing.

Outside, the night air felt refreshing, and I started walking briskly down the block. I didn't get far. Something reached out and yanked me into an alley. I was hit on the head almost immediately.

It was a glancing blow, and didn't quite find its mark, so I didn't go out. I fell to my knees and saw a foot coming towards my face. I rolled my body to one side, simultaneously grabbing with both hands for the foot.

I felt the shoe touch my ear as it went by, and I fell on my back and twisted the leg as I went down. He lost his balance and came down to me, hard. It was dark and I couldn't make out who it was. At this moment, I didn't much care. I got to one knee, and as he moved to get up I took the side of my hand held stiff and slammed it on the back of his neck. He grunted, but it didn't have the effect I expected. He was light on his feet for a big man, and almost got back on his feet as fast as I did. As he came up I brought my fist up from my ankles and crushed it into his face. I felt something go soft and mushy, and I guessed it was his nose. Warm liquid dripped from my hand. He staggered backward, upright against the wall, and I moved in on him. He brought up his knee, but it didn't quite connect. He slammed the back of his fist against my ear, and I heard bells ring. I went back a couple of steps to clear my head, but I was too slow.

He came at me like a gorilla, and his arms went around my neck and squeezed. I was gasping for breath, and another few seconds of this and I'd be out. I reached into my back pocket and tried to get my comb. I could just about touch it, but couldn't get enough of a grip to pull it out. My breath was almost gone now, and I saw lights flashings before my eyes. I scraped the cloth of my pocket with my finger nails until I could get a hold of it, and then I kept pulling until the pocket got smaller. I reached the comb and pulled it out. My breath was gone entirely, and shells were pounding in my head. Two more seconds and I was done. I put my arms around his back, and pulled at his coat and shirt. I got the shirt out of the belt and I dug the edge of the comb into his flesh. I braced myself and pulled as hard as I could. I raked the comb across his back.

He let out a yelp and I felt his arms go slack. I wouldn't miss my chance this time. I took a deep breath and slammed my fist into the pit of his stomach. He doubled up and I brought up my knee and brought down a two-handed fist on the top of his head. They met together, and the sound echoed through the alley. He went down, and as he did I hit him three more times on the side of his neck with the side of my hand. He fell in a heap and relaxed.

I bent over him and rolled him over. I struck a match so I could see his face. Blood was splattered all over his face, and his nose looked like a crushed banana. But he was recognizable. It was Herring Harry.

# Chapter Fifteen

I went back into the restaurant, and got a pitcher of water. Back outside, I doused Harry with it until he came to. His face was a mess and I was sorry I was so rough on him.

"Harry, it's me, Ducky."

"Oh boy. What slugged me? Ducky, what the hell are you doing here?"

"You just tried to bash my brains in, remember?"

"That was you, Ducky? Oh Christ, I'm sorry. I didn't know it was you. Oh my nose, what did you do to my nose!?"

"Come on, Harry. We better get you to a hospital."

On the way over to the hospital in a cab, Harry told me the story. Harry was in the Starlight Club tonight when he got a call from Garrett, my dear friend. Garrett wanted to meet him outside the Raconteur just as fast as he could get there. So Harry, always interested in a quick buck as long as it was dishonest, rushed over. When he got there, Garrett called to him from across the street. He slipped him fifty bucks and told him he was working along with Whitey Morgan. Well, that thrilled Herring to pieces, to think he had made the big time. It seemed there was a guy in the restaurant bugging Whitey, and he wanted him leaned on when he came out. So Herring came back across the street, and waited in the alley for the guy to come out. When he did, Garrett, from the other side of the street, gave him the high sign and he went to work on me.

"You mean," I asked, "Garrett was on the other side of the street while we were fighting?"

"Sure, I guess so," he said.

"That slimy bastard."

"Jeez Ducky, if I ever thought it was you..." he didn't finish it.

"Look, dumbbell. Did it ever occur to you that Whitey Morgan has an army of boys that could do his strong arming for him?"

"Hell, I didn't think nothin'. The guy gives me fifty clams for a job, I don't ask questions. I know better."

"Why did Garrett get in touch with you? Do you know him?"

"Sure, I told you yesterday. He calls me once in a while for odd jobs. All the guys in town do. I get a lot of work. That's why tonight, I figured Whitey had finally heard about me and was trying me out. Boy, to be one of those boys."

"Sure, sure. Listen, you have any idea how Garrett knew I was there, what he was there for?"

"No, I told you all he told me. Ducky, I told you not to mess with that crowd. It's out of your league." He put his hand to his face. "Oh, my nose. You sure bitched it up."

"O.K. Harry, no more questions."

I left him in the emergency room at the hospital. He cautioned me again about messing with Whitey, and I should let him know if I need help.

I had one thing left to do tonight. If I did nothing else, I was going to do that one thing. First, I wanted to make a phone call, and then I was going to top off the night, I was going to kill Nick Garrett.

I stopped at a candy store and went to a phone booth. I dug through my pockets and fished out the phone number Lieutenant Howell had given me. I dialed the number of Elsa and Hugo Miller. Elsa Muller answered.

"Mrs. Muller," I said into the receiver, "My name is Bart Drake. I am a friend of Mr. Feilman's. I'd like to find out all I can about what happened to him."

"Oh, Mr. Drake, isn't it terrible? Poor Mr. Feilman. That poor man."

"I've talked to the police today, and they told me some of it. But there's a lot I don't understand. Why did he fire... er... let you go?"

"God knows, Mr. Drake. He was so good to us. We were good to him." She started to weep slightly.

A male voice came through the receiver. "Mr. Drake, I'm sorry. My wife's upset. Can I be of service?" He had a thick German accent, as did his wife.

"I'm trying to find out all I can about Mr. Feilman. I was a friend. Is there anything you can tell, anything unusual you noticed lately?"

"No, Mr. Drake. Just he was nervous, maybe. A little more than usual. He was a very busy man. He worked hard, Mr. Feilman."

"You have no idea why he dismissed you?"

"None at all, Mr. Drake. We work hard. He liked us. I don't know, people are strange."

"Isn't there anything he said to you? Nothing at all you can tell me?"

"No, Mr. Drake, I'm afraid not. Only thing I can think of is silly, doesn't mean nothing."

"Look, Mr. Muller, any little bit of information I might pick up could be helpful."

"Well, when we were leaving he gave us an envelope to mail. That's all. I know it's silly, but you asked."

"Did you mail it..?"

"Oh, yes."

"Where was it addressed to? Who?"

"I don't know. We just mailed it. No help, yes?"

"Maybe it means a lot, Mr. Muller. Thank you, thank you very much."

"I wish we could do more. He was a good man, Mr. Drake."

I thanked Mr. Muller and hung up. Mr. Muller had done more than expected.

I flagged another cab, and went back to Marla's apartment. I'd have to get my car out of the parking lot. It had been there since yesterday.

# Chapter Sixteen

I let myself in Marla's apartment with my key. This was a nice arrangement, and I hoped I could keep it for a while.

I called out to Marla, but got no answer. I looked through the rooms but she was not there.

I went back to the front door where I had left the envelope I had gotten from the mailman. It wasn't on the table where I had left it.

I spent the next twenty minutes going through every conceivable place in the apartment where she might have put it, but still no envelope. I wanted the thing bad now. I figured it had a few answers in it. Maybe all the answers. I should have opened it before, when I saw it was marked 'Westbury'. It just didn't click at the time, although I had been slightly interested in it. Now I had to find Marla and get that envelope. That was swell. Finding one small girl in a city like New York is like looking for a place to spit at the Metropolitan Opera.

I went downstairs and jumped in another cab. Any more cab riding today and I'd have part ownership in the company. I instructed him to go to the Club Tempo and wait.

I was going to kill Nick Garrett once and for all. I was certain now that he was running this. Everywhere I turned, he popped into the picture. Everything that has happened to me in the last two days has been directly or indirectly his doing. This last bit with Herring Harry was the topper. Now he was going to get his.

The Club Tempo was no different from last night. The smoke was as thick, the place as crowded, and the people just as drunk. The only difference was that instead of having a stripper on stage, now there was a young comedian. That's what they say, young comedian. Most of these guys have been around twenty years or more waiting for a break. But to show business, they're still young comedians. I stopped and listened to him for a minute.

"And then there was this young maiden who went to a psychiatrist. The psychiatrist said lie down on the couch. Twenty minutes later he got up and said 'There, that solves my problem now what's yours?'... I'm telling you, these head shrinkers, they're all crazy. I saw one walking down the street with a couch on his back. I said 'Hey Doc, what are you doing with the couch on your back?' He said, 'I'm making a house call!'...I go to a psychiatrist you know, and if I come late he makes me stand... or he starts without me... and the prices, I asked him how much this is going to cost me, and he said twenty-five dollars a visit, I said for twenty-five dollars I don't visit, I move in!"

I glanced around the room, and almost leaped for joy. Marla was sitting at the end of the bar. She spotted me about the same time I did and I went to her.

There was a drunk next to her trying to make a pass, and slobbering all over her at the same time. I pushed him aside as I got there, and he tumbled over backwards and onto the floor. I ignored him.

"Bart," Marla said, "I've been looking all over for you. I finally gave up and decided to sit here until you came in. I figured you'd get here eventually."

"What are you doing here?"

"I've got something very important to tell..."

"Forget it. Mines more important."

"But..."

"Listen to me. I haven't got much time. You got an envelope today in the mail. A large, brown envelope postmarked from Westbury/ what did you do with it?"

"That's what I've been trying to tell you! That's why I've been looking for you!"

"O.K. But what is it? What's in it?" I was anxious now.

"Something very interesting. I don't fully understand it, but when I came in here I saw the picture outside of that big-busted broad and I saw the connection but..."

"Alright sweetheart, never mind the publicity, just give me the facts. Where is the envelope?"

"Well here, jeez you're impatient. I got it right here in my pocketbook."

She fumbled around for a second or two and then pulled out the envelope. She had it rolled up. She handed it to me and I unrolled it.

She said, "When I first opened it I couldn't figure out why it was sent to me. When I saw the picture of Miss Bazooms outside, I started to get an idea."

I had the flap open and stuck my hand in the top and jerked out the contents. It was a single sheet of heavy paper – blank. I turned it and found a picture on the other side.

I puckered my lips and whistled. Just then the bartender asked me what I wanted and I told him a scotch on the rocks. Marla ordered another Manhattan, and I went back to the picture. I whistled again.

"Alright lover boy, don't get carried away," Marla said.

It was quite a picture. It was a bedroom scene, but most of the scene was bed and bare skin. The cast of the two were tangled up in a melee of sheets, arms, and legs. There was no doubt about the identity of the man. I had seen him before, only once before, and when I saw him he wasn't in as good a shape as he was here. In fact, he was dead. It was Feilman. There was no doubt about the woman either, she was a woman. She was draped around Feilman in such a manner as to make even the most blasé playboy's pulse lose its steady rhythm. And this girl had all the equipment anyone could ask for. It was Sheila.

I gazed at the photo for a minute or two, wondering exactly what it meant, other than some delirious moments of rapture. So Feilman went to bed with Sheila, so what. Sheila's Garrett's wife. Garrett finds out, flies into a rage, and kills Feilman. Fine, that's it. But that doesn't explain why Jim was killed. And Janet. Why try to kill Janet.

"You know what it means, Bart?" Marla's question snapped me back.

"Huh? Oh yeah, it means Feilman and Sheila went to bed and had their picture taken."

"Ha."

"I'll be damned if I know off hand. You said you got an idea, what is it?"

"Well here it is. The night Jim was murdered, Feilman and he were coming to the Club Tempo, here. Jim told your sister that, right?"

"Right."

"Alright. So Feilman knows the girls down here. He's been coming here and getting fixed up right along, right?"

"You know this for a fact?"

"No, I'm guessing."

"O.K. so you guessed right. Go on."

"Well, Feilman talks Jim into coming down here. Not that Jim would ever do anything like that."

"Granted."

"So they come down here and Feilman gets fixed up. That's why nobody can trace his whereabouts, because he's in bed with Aqua-lungs here."

"Two things wrong. Nobody saw Jim or Feilman here. Secondly, if you're right, what happened to Jim?

"Well, he sees what Feilman's up to, and leaves."

"Why is he killed?"

"Maybe he's mugged. You know it happens all the time in New York."

"So why is Feilman killed?"

"A jealous boyfriend."

I shook my head, "Husband."

"That's even better, a husband. And Janet, she just happens to be in the house trying to find out what happened to Jim, when the husband shows up. So, naturally, he has to get rid of her because she's a witness."

"O.K. So who takes the picture, and why?"

"I don't know, blackmail maybe. Maybe this cutie is running a racket."

"So why am I shot at? Why am I hit on the head in Jim's house? Why does Janet go to Feilman's house after she finds out that Jim was dead? Why does Feilman mail you that picture?"

"How do you know Feilman mailed it to me?" She asked.

"His caretaker mailed it. I talked to him."

"I can't answer those questions, Bart. I told you it was just an idea."

"We'll have to do better than that. Now, I've got a lot of things to do tonight, so I think you better go home and wait for me."

"Let me stay, Bart, I can help." She was like a wide-eyed kid.

"No dice. I have a feeling there's going to be a lot of trouble here, and I don't want you in on it."

"But I want to help," she pleaded.

"O.K." I had a sudden thought. "Beat it home and check up on Hogarth. Find out if he really went to New Jersey." I really wasn't that interested, I was just trying to get rid of her.

"But do you think that's important?" She asked.

"Anything's important."

"O.K. Bart, but I'd rather stay here."

I smiled. "And I'd rather go with you."

She stood up and winked. "See you later. And keep away from Elsie the cow."

As she turned to leave, I felt the side wall cave in on my back. I went down in a hurry, and as I was falling, my head struck the side of the bar. As I hit the ground, I rolled and came back up on one knee. I was groggy, and I stopped and shook my head to clear it. I looked up and saw the drunk I had pushed on the floor, holding a bar stool over his head, ready to crash it down on mine. I put all my weight on my toes, and pushed. My shoulder smacked hard into the area around his knee, and I felt the stool brush past my calf a second before he came down on me. Before I had a chance to do anything else, his weight was abruptly pulled off me, and as I turned over and looked up, I saw the bartender dragging him out toward the door.

Marla rushed to me. "Bart," she said, "Are you hurt?"

"No honey, I'm alright. But you better get, and fast. I have a feeling things are gonna start happening around here."

I got back on my feet, and had to give her a tap on the fanny to start her moving. She was about to protest, but she turned and left.

I brushed myself off, and sat back on the stool. The bartender was just coming back, and he went around the bar and came to me.

"You O.K.?" he asked.

"Yeah, thanks pal. That guy has a temper."

"You did knock him on his ass before."

I nodded my head. "I suppose I had it coming. Can I buy you a drink?"

"Sure." He went to the back bar and pulled off a bottle of Old Granddad. He poured a shot for himself and made me a scotch on the rocks. We toasted each other.

"You're the same guy that was here last night, aren't you?"

"I guess you get a lot of guys in here, but I was here last night. Why?"

"The boss was mad as hell after you left. What did you do to him, anyway?"

"We had a difference of opinion."

"You must've. He came out here and told me never to let you in this place again."

"Why are you serving me now?"

He shrugged. "I don't like the creep. I'd tell him to stick this job, if it weren't for his wife. I like to watch her. How many jobs are there around where you can watch a piece like that takin' off her clothes every night?"

"But if he sees me being served he'll fire you, won't he?"

"Nah. He's not here tonight. His wife said he's sick and won't be in."

"Is she here?" I asked.

He nodded toward the rear. "Speak of the devil."

I turned toward the stage, and saw her coming through the mass of tables and people. She walked with that same rhythmic gait as when I last saw her. Her eyes danced with excitement as she was aware of the male attention being paid to her.

She wore a green dress that was low in the front, low in the back, low all around. The dress was alive with movement as it reacted to the jelly-like qualities of her flesh.

She smiled as she approached me, and I could feel my extremities tingle. She held out her hand for me to take, and I reached for it and kissed it. It was not one of my practices to go around kissing hands, but at this moment it just seemed like the proper thing to do. She slid on the stool next to me and said, in a low voice, "I liked that."

I smiled. "I'd like to do a lot more of it."

"You had your chance. Why didn't you come back last night, Bart?"

"I'm flattered you remembered my name, Sheila."

"Likewise. But that doesn't answer my question."

"It's a long story, and if I told you, you wouldn't believe it."

"Try me."

"Let's forget it. We can make up for lost time tonight."

The corner of her mouth curled slightly, and she lifted her drink as the bartender set it in front of her.

I wanted to get Garrett tonight, and I figured this was my chance. If I went home with her, I could get to him. And going home with her wouldn't be the hardest task in the world. It was still a screwy arrangement with her. If I was in earnest about wanting to make love to her, and she took me home, what would Garrett say? That's the part I couldn't figure out. Unless it as one of those modern marriages where everybody is just too understanding. I wasn't going to worry about it, so I went back to my drink and the enjoyable company.

She was enjoyable. Not too smart, but clever in her approach to life. It was obvious she was used to getting her own way. She used her beauty to great advantage in her persuasive powers. She laughed freely, and was sympathetic at proper times. Her overall personality was a pleasant one, and being in her company was a pleasant experience. You wouldn't come out of it any smarter, but maybe you'd be a little happier. She was feminine and never let you forget that. Too many women today try to be masculine, so they may approach a subject as a man's equal. She was all woman, she didn't want to be your equal, and did everything possible to bolster the male ego, and for that alone her company was rewarding.

We talked, we drank, and we laughed. She did two performances, and I watched fascinated through both of them. In between we relaxed and enjoyed the moments together. We had left the bar and taken up a table in a small corner of the room. On occasions, we danced when the music was slow and soft enough. I was a world apart from all that had preceded these moments. She had propelled me into our own existence, free from interference. Her every moment of those hours was for me. Even when she was on stage, baring all for all to see, it seemed as though each movement of her body, every gesture, every look was for me alone. I was intoxicated with her beauty, and it continued after we left, into the waning hours of the night. In the taxi she moved close to me, and I felt the warmth of her flesh breathe fire into my veins. We kissed, softly at first, and then savagely, unable to control our emotions.

When we reached the apartment, I was unaware of what part of town I was in. It made no difference. I paid the cab, and we went up the flight of stairs to a brownstone house. The apartment was on the second floor, and we drifted up the stairs as if the pull of gravity had vanished from the earth. I removed my coat as I sat on the sofa. She was busy mixing drinks as I watched her pass before me, a dream in motion. I didn't think I'd be able to reach for her and hold her. I expected her to pop from sight if I dared to touch her. She came to me with a drink in each hand and I reached for one. I took one sip and laid it aside as I felt her warm body again close to mine. I took her in my arms and kissed her, not softly but with animal-like passion. She responded to my every movement, my every touch, with a passion I have never before experienced. Her dress came away freely, and beneath were only lace panties to detour my complete possession of this beautiful creature. Her breasts rose and fell with heavy breath, like gigantic mountains of sun-tanned flesh. They were magnificent, and I trembled as I caressed them with hands and lips. I moved my hands slowly down her body, feeling every inch of her, and soon there was nothing but warm flesh against mine.

"Hold it right there, Drake."

I came tumbling back to earth with a resounding thud. These past hours had me escaping from reality, but this male voice quickly erased my mystic clouds. I sprung from the sofa, and landed flat on my feet. I was facing a man with a gun in his hand, a man with a smile on his face and hate in his eyes. Nick Garrett.

"My wife is a nice playmate, eh Drake."

There was no point answering. He had enough reason to hate me before this. Now he had a good reason to kill me. It was his play. I had come to kill, but he had got the jump on me. All I could do was wait for him to make his move.

Sheila had not moved. She laid on the sofa with her eyes closed, still breathing heavily.

"O.K. Drake, move." He motioned toward a door behind him.

I moved. I don't like to argue with a gun.

"Come on Sheila, let's go." Garrett said.

"You would." she said. "You couldn't have waited a little longer? You had to spoil it."

"Up, you bitch." He said.

She got up, and came over to me and took my hand. We walked to the door.

When we went through it, I whispered to her. "What's he going to do to you?"

She didn't whisper. "Nothing. It doesn't mean anything to him. If he was normal, he wouldn't have interrupted us."

"What do you mean, normal? You are his wife!"

"Ha. In name only. He's one of those bisexuals. He gets hot pants for me about twice a year. Most of the time, it's his boyfriends he wants. He doesn't care what I do in between. And when I finally get someone I want, he has to louse it up. I could kill the bastard."

"I know how you feel," I said. I had a lot of reasons to kill him now.

"Alright, knock it off and keep walking. Go to your bedroom, Sheila." Garrett had heard the whole conversation, as we made no attempt to conceal it.

We went through one room and into a large bedroom. The decorations were French, probably from the period of Louis XIV. The bed was enormous. We both sat on it.

I was beginning to feel a little self-conscious about parading around nude. If I was going to die, at least I wanted to be dressed for it.

Garrett came in and sat on the chair. He pointed the gun right at my bare midsection.

"There's only one thing I want from you, Drake. Matter of fact, if you let me have it, I might let you go free."

"What is it, Garrett?" I asked. I had no illusions about him letting me go free.

"The picture. You must know where it is."

"What picture are you referring to?"

"If you are going to play games, we are not going to get anywhere. I want that picture, and I'm sure you know where it is."

I knew he was referring to the picture Marla had shown me. The one with Feilman in bed with Sheila. It was really the only evidence we had that Feilman and Garrett had any connection. Furthermore, it gives a good clear picture of blackmail.

"I don't know what you are talking about," I said.

"O.K. Drake, if that's the way you want it. Sheila," he said, "put some clothes on and go down to the cellar and get some rope."

Sheila got off the bed and disappeared into the other room.

"Look Garrett," I said. "It's a cinch I'm not going to get out of this, so the least you can do is clarify a few things for me."

"Forget it Drake. There's nothing to clarify. My only interest is in that picture."

"You killed my brother-in-law and Feilman, didn't you?"

"I didn't, but I doubt if you believe that. Just tell me where the picture is, Drake. That's all I want to know."

"Sorry, Garrett. I don't know where it is."

Sheila came back, and she had a rope in her hand. She had also put on a skirt and a blouse.

Garrett took the rope and made me stand up. He had me stretch out my arms at the foot of the bed, and tied each hand to the bedpost. My arms didn't reach the post, but he pulled the rope tight and did the same with my legs. After I was secure, he left the room.

I said to Sheila, "Now's our chance. Untie me and get me out of here!"

She looked at me sympathetically. "I'd like to, Bart. I really would. I like you very much. But I can't do that. I'm as interested in the picture as he is."

I asked, "What's behind it, Sheila? Were you blackmailing Feilman?"

She smiled. "That's not good thinking, Bart. Feilman was a bachelor. He went to bed with me, but so what. I'm attractive, and I know it. A guy like Feilman would be more inclined to brag about that. Why should he be afraid of blackmail?"

She had me there. She was certainly nothing to be ashamed of. Not for a bachelor, anyway.

"Alright, so why are you so anxious to get the picture back?"

"We need it, Bart. Let it go at that."

Garrett came back, and with him was the longest sword I had seen since my last Douglas Fairbanks Jr. movie. He had a large pillow from an overstuffed chair in the other hand.

"Don't tell me, you're going to tab me to death?" I said.

He put a chair sideways on top of the bed, and thrust the sword through the pillow. He propped the pillow against the chair so that the sword just touched my back. If I moved an inch backwards, I'd be stabbed.

He nodded to Sheila, and she came at me. She started to undress, and as she did so did Garrett. What a screwball operation this was. She was wiggling out of her skirt, and if I was going to die, this was one of the best ways.

Our bare bodies met and she fondled me gently. I dared not move for fear of the sword.

"Alright sweetheart, that's enough," Garret said. "Are you going to tell me what I want to know, Drake?"

"Go to hell." I spat.

He left the room and next few minutes were violent. That female lynx was all over me, and my blood raced through my veins at an exhausting pace.

Then a blonde came into the room, dressed in Sheila's clothes. She undressed as she walked toward me, and when she got far enough along I saw it was a man. If I would've looked closer in the beginning, I would've seen it was Garrett, in a blonde wig.

When he kissed me on the naval I screamed, "Alright you son of a bitch, I'll tell you!"

He stood up and smiled. "You're a beautiful specimen, Drake."

"Never mind the crap, Garrett. You touch me again and I'll never tell you."

"Tell me, Drake. I'll leave you alone."

"O.K., but get me out of this mess first."

"No good. Tell me, and then you'll get out."

"You might as well let me out now, Garrett. I'll have to lead you to it or you'll never find it. Take my word for that."

He agreed, and as he untied me I tried to put everything in place. A lot of it made sense now. I didn't have all the pieces, but I had the important ones. When Garrett came at me dressed as a woman, it hit me. You gather bits of information as you go along that don't seem to tie in, but something like that happens, and all of a sudden it fits. I could understand everything now. Why Jim was murdered. Why Feilman was murdered. Why Janet was almost killed. And best of all, who did it. I knew who the murderer was, but first I had to get out of here. Garrett still had a gun on me and that at the moment was my big problem. But I had to wait for my opening. Marla had that picture, and I didn't want to lead them to her. If I gave him the picture, I was sure he'd kill Marla and me. If I didn't give him it, I was sure he'd kill me. Either way, I was lost.

# Chapter Seventeen

When we left the apartment, we left Sheila there. Garrett didn't want her along, and as long as she wasn't on my side, I didn't want her either.

We hailed a cab and Garrett told him, "Sixth and Fifty-Second." We were going to the parking lot where I had left Janet's car the night before. Actually, it was two days ago, but time had ceased to mean anything. It had been so long since I had slept that things were becoming unreal to me. It was more like a dream, and I moved now by instinct rather than purpose. But I knew what I had to do. I had to get rid of Garrett. I had started out last night to kill him, but now all I wanted was for him to be out of my way. I had new plans.

I had told Garrett that the picture was in Janet's car. I had convinced him that it would be foolish for him to be prowling around a parking lot in the wee hours of the morning looking for a Chevy my keys would fit. I didn't know the plate number, and if a cop saw him testing the keys on every Chevy he'd be in trouble. He agreed to let me show him where it was.

I didn't know what I'd do when we got there, but I wasn't going to lead him to Marla.

The cab stopped in front of the parking lot and we got out. I directed Garrett to the car. There was no one on the street at this hour of the morning. We reached the car and I opened it up.

I slid behind the wheel and opened the other door for Garrett. He climbed in and I fumbled with the keys.

"One of these keys fits the glove compartment," I said.

He held the gun on me and watched as I tried each key. I purposely avoided the one that would fit.

When the sixth one I tried didn't work he became impatient. He snatched the keys out of my hand and tried them himself.

On the second try the compartment door sprung open. He stuck his hand in and pulled out maps, a flashlight, screwdriver, pliers, and dumped them on the floor. When he had emptied it he turned to me.

"You bastard. You lying bastard." He said.

"Wait a minute, Garrett. I just remembered. I put it in the trunk."

"So help me, Drake, if I don't find it I'll give it to you right here. Right in this parking lot."

"I swear Garrett, it's in the trunk."

"Let's look," he said.

"Grab that flashlight on the floor," I told him.

He shook his head. "You get it and hand it to me."

He was being cautious. I bent over and picked it up. The gun was in the back of my head all the time. When I gave him the flashlight we got out and went around to the trunk. I didn't fiddle with the keys this time because he was becoming impatient.

I opened the trunk, and lifted the top. I bent inside of it and shoved the contents around. I had my left hand holding the side of the top, and with my right hand I searched through tools, blankets, and other rubble.

"Bring the light closer, Garrett. I can't see what I'm doing."

He leaned slightly forward and brought the light into the trunk. When his head became level with the edge of the trunk top I pulled back quickly and yanked the top with my left hand as hard as I could. He yelled "Hey", but that's all he got out, as the top hit the back of his head with a sickening whack. He slumped over the bumper and I grabbed the gun from him. I didn't have to use it. He was out cold. I grabbed his feet and pushed him into the trunk and closed it. He would keep on ice for a while.

I went back around to the wheel of the car and started the ignition. I felt good now. For the first time in days I knew where I was headed. I pulled the car out of the lot and drove north on Sixth Avenue. When I reached Fifty-Seventh Street I turned right and drove to the East Side. At Third Avenue I went left to Sixty-Ninth Street. I stopped and went through my pockets until I found the address Marla had given me. I drove along Sixty-Ninth toward Second until I came to it. I pulled the car in front, and shut off the ignition. It was only then that I realized I was next door to Garrett's apartment. Neat arrangement.

As I got out of the car, I saw a nurse getting into a car two houses up the street. Hell of a time to be going to work. I climbed the stairs and looked at the three mail boxes until I found what I wanted. Second floor. The door was unlocked and I went past it and into a hall. I climbed the flight of stairs and tried the door on the second floor. It was locked.

I knocked softly on the door. No response. I knocked again. Still no answer. I thought about Sheila and Garrett's apartment and if this was the same, then the bedroom would be in the back, and he wouldn't hear the knock. There was a bell on the side of the door, and I pressed it. I had rung it twice before I heard movement inside. Feet shuffled to the door and this time I knocked again.

"Who is it?" The voice on the other side asked.

"It's me," I said in a whisper, "Nick."

"What the hell do you want at this time of night?"

"Let me in. It's important." I said, again in a whisper.

I heard the lock click and braced myself. When the door opened slightly I stood on the balls of my feet and shoved against it with all the strength I could muster. The door flew open and the guy on the other side went sprawling onto the floor. I took the gun out of my pocket and looked down at him. He was stark naked. It seems everyone I run into tonight is stark naked.

"What the hell's going on?" The man said.

I pointed the gun at him. "Up. On your feet, P.P."

J. Percy Penock rose slowly. His naked flab bounced with every movement. He grunted as he got to his feet.

"What's the meaning of this, Drake?"

I motioned with the gun. "Into the bedroom, sweetheart."

He moved slowly and we went into the bedroom. I approached it with caution, but didn't find what I expected to find. I looked around the room, under the bed, and in the closet. Nothing. I wanted to make a thorough search of this place, so I bound Penock with all the neckties I could find. When he was secure I locked him in the closet.

I began to search the bedroom first, but didn't get very far. On top of the bureau I found a box that looked like it had contained a suit. I looked at the name on it. 'Jay's Costume Shop' it read. I thought for a moment and then slammed the box on the floor.

"Darn," I thought aloud. "Always one step ahead of me."

I ran out of the apartment and took the stairs three at a time. I jumped in the Chevy and took off, tires screeching. The only way to go from here would be the expressway, I figured. It was the fastest way possible. I drove down Second Avenue at the fastest rate of speed I thought safe. I didn't want to get stopped by a cop now. I reached Thirty-Sixth Street and went through the Queens-Midtown Tunnel and on to the Long Island Expressway. There was no traffic as yet, just an occasional car, and I got the speedometer up to seventy-five in short order.

I had only gone as far as Woodhaven Boulevard when I saw her in front of me. The Expressway ended there, and she would have to get off and hit the Northern State Parkway. She was stopped for a light and as I approached the lights turned green. She drove the car up Woodhaven Boulevard and I followed. I pushed the gas pedal to the floor and pulled alongside the car. She looked out the window and saw me. She started to pull away but I inched back alongside and had the car going as fast as it possibly could. I didn't bother to look at the speedometer. I pulled slightly in front, and as I got the fender past the front of her car, I pulled the steering wheel hard to the right. There was an awful clattering of fender against fender and the car skidded sideways for about fifty feet. I tugged at the steering wheel to get it back to the left, and as I did I rammed my foot back on the gas pedal. The car took off and I was back in control of it.

I slowed down and turned around. By the time I got turned back, I was about three blocks away from her car. It was halfway up on the sidewalk, and the rear end of it was jammed against a pole. As I was nearing it, I saw her get out of the car and take off in a dead run. I followed her up a side street, but she cut across a lawn into a backyard, and I had to stop the car. I came out of the door with feet moving as fast as I could get them to work. When I reached the backyard I saw her going over a fence next door. I followed over the fence, and into another backyard. We went out to the front of the house and I caught her with a flying tackle in the middle of the street. We rolled around the ground a couple of times, and she got to her feet. I was coming up fast and got a foot in the face I was not expecting. I hit the pavement again, this time face first. I felt the shoe come down on the top of my head, and my nose ground into the hard road. I rolled quickly, and when I was on my back, I saw her hand go up under her nurse's uniform. She reached between her legs and the end of a black leather holster was visible. I came up off my knees and slammed my right knee between her legs as hard as I was able. I caught her hand still there and it smacked solidly on target. She groaned and doubled over, and I swung my left and nailed her on the side of her ear. She dropped to the road and rolled on her back. Her legs twitched once, and she was still.

I looked down at her. It was Sheila. Beautiful black hair, red ruby lips parted slightly. I grabbed a handful of hair in my hand and yanked. The black wig came free and I was looking at Clyde Hogarth. He was dead.

# Chapter Eighteen

On the way back to the city, I called police headquarters and told Lieutenant Howell to meet me at Hogarth's apartment. By the time I pulled the car in front of the place, a crowd had gathered, both civilian and police. I turned Hogarth over to Howell, showed him where Penock was tied up, and then I remembered Garrett. I went down to the car and hauled him out of the trunk. He was a little battered, but alive. After I'd explained everything to the Lieutenant I remembered something else I had to do. I told him I'd be back in a short while.

I went next door and climbed the stairs to the second floor. I rang the bell and Sheila opened it for me. I went in.

She had on the skirt and blouse she had worn earlier.

"It's all over, Sheila. The police are next door. They've got Nick, your brother, and Penock."

She smiled weakly. "Too bad it had to be you, Bart. It might have been fun."

I thought back to those few hours we had spent together. Looking at her now, it seemed they have never stopped.

I moved toward her and held my hand for her to take. She misunderstood and came to me, arms outstretched. She kissed me hard, and her body came alive next to mine. We sank to the floor together and I was lost to the world again.

After, when I had turned her over to the police, I drove back to Marla's apartment. Sheila was a strange woman. She knew I was going to turn her in and yet she never questioned me, never pleaded for herself. It was a physical thing, she wanted me and I wanted her, and that was enough. The other things didn't enter into it. I felt a bit of sadness when I saw them take her away, but it had to be that way.

Marla was full of questions, and I had to answer them. She gave me no peace until I did, and I wanted to sleep badly. I was physically, mentally, entirely exhausted.

"Alright," I said, "I'll give you the whole setup and then let me sleep."

"It's a promise," she said.

"First, you've got to know the background. Sheila and Hogarth are brother and sister, both from California. Garrett also is from California. Why they got married is beyond me, but they did, and came east. They had some cash, so they bought the Club Tempo. Now, Penock goes to California and meets Hogarth. Now the two of them are a couple of he-shes so they carry on this affair. Well Penock is no lover-boy and I guess boyfriends are hard to come by, so he suggests Hogarth came back East with him. Well Hogarth does and Penock gives him a job in the agency. When he's there a short time he comes up with an idea. He wants the agency to grow, and he's impatient, so he comes up with a system to make it grow fast. All he needs is a little help. And where does he go for that? His sister and brother-in-law, naturally. First, they get a couple of apartments together, one alongside another. There's no alley between them so all they have to do is to knock down a wall to make their setup. They put one of those two-way mirrors in a closet so that they can take pictures in the bedroom. Now they're ready, so they hunt a guy who owns a business that will spend about a million dollars a year on advertising. They take him out to town and finally wind up at the Club Tempo. There, they see Sheila going through her dance, and any red blooded male from sixteen to eighty couldn't help being aroused by that. When Hogarth tells the prospective customer that he can have that for a night, the guy leaps at the opportunity. So they take him to Sheila's apartment and leave him. Meanwhile, they run next door, go into their trick closet, and film the whole shooting mess. When they present the films to the big shot, they got him over a barrel. They don't want blackmail money. No, it's just a little business proposition. All he has to do it to turn over his advertising to Jones, Hatfield, and Johnson. Well now, it's set up and it works four or five times. In the meantime, old P.P. has found out about this, but there's nothing he's going to do about it. Why should he? He's in love with Hogarth, and his agency is growing, so he's not going to open his mouth. But then along comes Feilman. He's real ripe, because he's always smelling around the Club Tempo for stuff. Maybe even Garrett tips them off about him. Anyway, they work the gimmick with him, only they don't know he's a bachelor. When they bring him the films, he tells them to go to hell and laughs in their faces. Well, maybe that burns them up, and they set out to get even. Feilman has now had a taste of Sheila, and he wants more. So they have their chance. They get him drunk, maybe even drug him, and after he's rolled in the sack with Sheila, in climbs Hogarth. They're sister and brother remember, and with a black wig and makeup it's tough to tell them apart. They take some more film of Hogarth rolling around with Feilman while he's out cold. All they have to do is splice them together in the right places, and it looks as though Feilman went to bed with a man who was dressed like a woman. Well he doesn't want anything like that to get around, so when they show him those films, he gives in. Whew, get me a drink!"

She got off the bed and went to the dresser. She poured me a stiff scotch and I drank it.

"One thing though," Marla said, "How does Jim fit in all this?"

"He got into it by accident, the night he and Feilman were at the Pelican Club. I guess Feilman had too much to drink, and started to accuse Jim of being in on the deal. That didn't sit well with Jim, so they went up to Hogarth's apartment to have it out with him. Feilman probably backed off when they got there so he stayed in the bar, waiting for Jim to come back. When Jim confronted Hogarth with it, Hogarth killed him. He took his body and dumped it on the subway. Hogarth by now figured Feilman couldn't be trusted, so he planned to get rid of him, too. He was also afraid of Janet. He didn't want anyone to put the finger on him, so he had to get rid of all the possibilities. He had no idea when Jim found out about the operation, so he could have talked to Janet."

"Why did Janet go to Feilman's after she found out Jim was dead?"

"Because Feilman called her and told her he had some information that would help find Jim's killers. I'm not guessing this, by the way. The police told me Janet's out of danger and she has named Hogarth as the one who shot her. Feilman knew, after he found out that Jim had been killed, that Hogarth would be gunning for him. He didn't dare go to the police, because that would still expose him as being a queer. He wanted to get out of town awhile, and think this out. But he wanted Janet to know what was going on. He was smart enough to realize that she may also be in danger."

"But why the picture? Why did he mail me the picture?" She asked.

"Because he knew you would not do anything about it unless something happened to him. By then, he wouldn't care if he was exposed. The picture didn't really tell anything other than he went to bed with Sheila, who you didn't know anyway. This was the bait Hogarth used to let his clients know he had something more interesting to show them. That's why Garrett was so anxious to get it back. That was the only thing that could tie them in with the whole setup."

"O.K.," she said, "That explains some things, but not all. Who shot at you, and why?"

"Penock shot at me. When I talked to Hogarth in your office on the phone, he got a little worried. Someone was starting to check too soon. So he had the call switched to Penock, and told him I was in the agency asking questions. When I left, Penock followed me. And when I left the Club Tempo, he let me have it. It wasn't meant to kill me, just to scare me off."

"How about Whitey Morgan? How does he fit in?"

"He doesn't. Hogarth pulled the scheme on one of Whitey's big shot friends, and he asked Whitey to get the film for him. They weren't going to fool with Whitey Morgan, so last night Garrett went to meet him at the Raconteur. I got there before Garrett, and he saw me go in. That's when he called Herring Harry to work me over. He wanted to make it look like Morgan wanted me out of the way. And he damn near did want me out of the way after everything I did."

"When you were in Garrett's apartment, how do you come to realize it was Hogarth you were after?" She asked.

"Well all along I thought it was Garrett. He gave me too damn much trouble not to be him. The only thing is I couldn't tie him in with Jim. Nothing at all gave him any reason to kill Jim. When I first saw Hogarth, I thought there was something familiar about him, that I had seen his face before. But it wasn't until Sheila gave me the clue that anything made sense. She said Feilman would have no reason to be ashamed of going to bed with her, and I had to agree. But when I saw Garrett dressed in women clothing, I saw how blackmail was possible. And then I realized why Hogarth had looked familiar. He looked like Sheila. That's when Jim fitted very nicely into the picture, and the rest fell into place."

"O.K. master sleuth. Why did you give chase to Hogarth in the nurse's uniform? How did you know it was him?"

"Well the only real threat of discovery was Janet. Hogarth knew that he had bungled that. She could identify him as the killer when she came out of her coma, so he had to think of a way to eliminate her. He rented a nurses costume, and dressed up as a woman again. Then all he'd have to do was to get in the hospital and give her a shot to kill her. When I saw him get into the car outside the building, I thought it was just a nurse going to work. But upstairs, when I saw the box the costume came in, I'd realized what he was up to. If I had gotten there a bit later, I would have missed him. If I hadn't seen the nurse I don't think it would have dawned on me. But he outsmarted himself. When I knocked him to the ground he fell on the needle, and it killed him."

"You still haven't finished the story. What did you do with Sheila Garrett after all this was over?"

I smiled and put my arms around Marla. Hell she had asked. So... I showed her. 

# About the Author

Peter Martin Larney was born in Brooklyn, New York in September 1931. He enlisted in the United States Army in 1950, and eventually moved to the USAF and was assigned to the 916th AC&W (Aircraft Control and Warning) squadron as a radar technician. The 916th was stationed in Beausejour, Manitoba, Canada and was one station in a series across Canada and the northern U.S. known as the Pine Tree Line. The purpose was to provide an early warning capability for Soviet activity during the Cold War. The Pine Tree Line was eventually superseded by the DEW (Distant Early Warning) line positioned further north.

Peter met his future wife Frances Neduzak while stationed in Beausejour. Frances was from a nearby town named Garson.

Peter was honorably discharged from the Air Force in May 1954. He and Frances were married in Garson in 1956 and moved to New York to settle on Rhode Island Avenue in Long Island. They had three children; Peter born June 1960, Kathy born December 1961 and Debbie born September 1963. Peter was employed by the Doremus & Co. advertising agency in New York City as a production assistant.

Peter died of complications from cancer in May 1965. He is buried in St. Charles cemetery on Long Island. Frances returned to Canada with the children and settled in Winnipeg. Debbie was killed in a car accident in 1982 and Frances died of cardiovascular complications in December 1999. Kathy continues to reside in Winnipeg with her husband and two children. Peter lives in the Toronto, Ontario area with his wife and two children.

  1. Chapter One
  2. Chapter Two
  3. Chapter Three
  4. Chapter Four
  5. Chapter Five
  6. Chapter Six
  7. Chapter Seven
  8. Chapter Eight
  9. Chapter Nine
  10. Chapter Ten
  11. Chapter Eleven
  12. Chapter Twelve
  13. Chapter Thirteen
  14. Chapter Fourteen
  15. Chapter Fifteen
  16. Chapter Sixteen
  17. Chapter Seventeen
  18. Chapter Eighteen
  19. About the Author

  1. Cover

