PROLOGUE

IT WAS A HOT night. Oven−heat that baked the sweat out of the body and played hell with the dogs. It had been hot all day, and now the sun had gone down the streets still held the stifling heat.

Phillips of the St. Louis Banner sat in a remote corner of the Press Club getting good and drunk. He was a long, thin bird, with melancholy eyes and lank, unruly hair. Franklin, a visiting reporter, thought he looked like a bum poet.

Phillips dragged down his tie and undid his collar. The long highball slopped a little as he groped to put it on the table. He said, “What a night! What’s the time, Franky?”

Franklin, his face white with exhaustion and his eyes heavy and red−lidded, peered at the face of his watch. “Just after twelve,” he said, letting his head fall back with a thud on the leather padding of his chair.

“After twelve, huh?” Phillips shifted uneasily. “That’s bad. That’s dug my grave good and deep. Know what I should be doin’ right now?”

Franklin had to make an effort to shake his head.

“I gotta date to meet a dame tonight,” Phillips told him, blotting his face and neck with his handkerchief.

“Right now that babe is waiting for me. Is she goin’ to be mad?”

Franklin groaned.

“Franky, pal, I couldn’t do it. It’s a low trick, but not on a night like this. No, sir, I couldn’t do it.”

“Break it up,” Franklin pleaded, scooping sweat out of his neckband. “I want to freeze myself to death in a big refrigerator.”

Phillips raised himself slowly. A look of faint animation came over his thin face. Drunkenly, he patted Franklin on his back. “You’ve got somethin’ there,” he said. “Gee! The guy’s got brains. I’ve been doin’ you dirt. Boy, you’ve certainly got somethin’ there!”

Franklin pushed him away. “Sit down,” he said crossly; “you’re tight.”

Phillips shook his head solemnly. “Come on, bud, you’ve given me an idea.”

“I ain’t moving. I’m staying right here.”

Phillips grabbed his arm and hauled him out of the chair. “I’m goin’ to save your life,” he said. “We’ll take a cab an’ spend the night in the morgue.”

Franklin gaped at him. “Wait a minute,” he said. “I ain’t goin’ to sleep with a lotta stiffs. You’re crazy.”

“Aw, come on. What the hell? Stiffs ain’t goin’ to worry you. Think how cold it’ll be.”

Franklin wavered. “Yeah,” he said, clinging to the table, “but I don’t like it. Think you can get in?”

Phillips leered. “Sure I can get in. Know the guy there. He’s a good guy. He won’t mind. Now come on, let’s get goin’.”

Franklin’s face suddenly brightened. “Sure,” he said; “it ain’t such a bad idea. Let’s go.”

Out in the street they flagged a taxi. The driver looked at them suspiciously. “Where?” he demanded, not believing his ears.

Phillips shoved Franklin into the cab. “The County Morgue,” he repeated patiently. “We’re passin’ in our pails. This is just a matter of convenience, see, buddy?”

The driver climbed off his box. “Now listen, pal,” he said, “you guys don’t want the morgue. You wantta go home. Just you take it easy. I’m useta handlin’ drunks. You leave it to me. Where do you live? Now, come on. I’ll have you in bed before you know it.”

Phillips peered at him, then put his head inside the cab. “Hi, Franky, this guy wants to go to bed with me.”

“Do you like him?” Franky asked.

Phillips turned his head and looked at the driver. “I don’t know. He seems all right.”

The driver wiped his face with his sleeve. “Now listen, you guys,” he said pleadingly, “I ain’t said nuttin’ about gettin’ into bed wid youse.”

Phillips climbed into the cab. “He’s changed his mind,” he said mournfully. “I’ve got a mind to slosh him in the puss.”

“Well, maybe you’re lucky. I thought he’d got a foxy smell about him. I don’t think you’d’ve liked that.”

The driver came close to the window. “Where to, boss?” he asked, in what he thought was a soothing voice. “This ain’t the time to fool around. It’s too goddam hot.”

“The County Morgue,” Phillips said, leaning out of the window. “Don’t you understand? That’s the one cold spot in this burg, an’ we’re headin’ for it.”

The driver shook his head. “You’d never make it,” he said; “they wouldn’t let you in.”

“Who said? They’ll let me in all right. I know the guy there.”

“That on the level? Could you get me in too, boss?”

“Sure. I could get anyone in there. Don’t stand around usin’ up air. Get to it.”

Franklin was asleep when they got to the morgue. Phillips hauled him into the hot street and stood supporting him. He said to the driver, “What are you goin’ to do with the heap?”

“I guess I’ll leave it here. It’ll be all right.”

They stumbled into the morgue, making a considerable row. The attendant was reading a newspaper behind a counter that divided the room from the vaults. He looked up, startled.

Phillips said, “Hyah, Joe, meet a couple of buddies.”

Joe laid down his newspaper. “What the hell’s this?”

“We’re spendin’ the night here,” Phillips said. “Just look on us as three stiffs.”

Joe climbed to his feet. His big fleshy face showed just how mad he was. “You’re all drunk,” he said. “You better scram outta here. I ain’t got time to horse around with you boys now.”

The driver began to edge towards the door, but Phillips stopped him. “Listen, Joe,” he said; “who was the swell dame I saw you with last night?”

Joe’s eyes popped. “You didn’t see me with no dame last night,” he said uneasily.

Phillips smiled. “Don’t talk bull. She was a dame with a chest that oughta have a muzzle on it, an’ a pair of stems that cause street accidents. Gee! What a jane!” He turned to the other two. “You ain’t seen nothin’ like it. When I thought of that guy’s poor wife, sittin’ around at home doin’ nothin’, while this runt goes places with a hot number like that, I tell you, it got me.”

Joe undid the counter-bolt and pulled back the little door. “Okay,” he said wearily, “go on down. It’s a goddam lie, an’ you know it, but I ain’t takin’ chances. The old woman would just like to believe that yarn.”

Phillips grinned. “Down we go, boys,” he said.

They followed him down a long flight of marble steps. At the bottom there came to them a faint musty odour of decomposition. As Phillips pushed open a heavy steel door the pungent smell of formaldehyde was very strong. They all entered a large room.

The sudden icy atmosphere was almost too violent after the outside heat.

Franklin said, “Jeeze! There’s hoar frost formin’ on my chest hairs.”

On one side of the room were four long wooden benches. Round the other three walls were rows of black metal cabinets.

Phillips said, “If you don’t think about it you’d never know there were a lotta stiffs in those cabinets. I like comin’ here. I jest sit around an’ cool off, an’ it don’t worry me at all.”

The driver took off his greasy cap and began twisting it in his hands. “That where they keep the corpses?” he said, his voice sinking to a whisper.

Phillips nodded. He went over to one of the benches and laid down. “That’s right,” he said. “You don’t have to think about that. Just settle down an’ go to sleep.”

With his eyes on the cabinets the driver sat down gingerly. Franklin stood hesitating.

“I wonder if Joe would stand for me phonin’ my girl friend to come on down,” Phillips said sleepily. He shook his head. “No, I guess he wouldn’t stand for it.” He sighed a little and settled himself more comfortably.

“Franky, put that light out, will you? It’s tryin’ my eyes.”

Franklin said, “If you think I’m goin’ to stay here in the dark, you’re crazy. This place gives me the heebies.

I don’t mind stayin’ here so long as I can see those cabinets, but in the darkwhy, hell, I’d be thinkin’ they might be gettin’ out an’ lookin’ me over.”

Phillips sat up. “What you mean, gettin’ out? How the hell can a stiff do a thing like that?”

“I’m not sayin’ that they’d do it. I’m sayin’ what I think they might be doin’.”

“Don’t be a nut.” Phillips swung his feet off the bench and got up. “Now I’ll show you somethin’. Let’s have a look at some of these guys.”

Franklin backed away. “I don’t want to see them,” he said hurriedly. “This burg’s spooky enough without lookin’ at corpses.”

Phillips went over to the cabinet and pulled out a drawer. It slid out silently on the roller−bearings. In the drawer was a big negro; his pale pink tongue lolled out of his mouth and his eyes seemed to be bursting out of his head. Phillips hastily slammed the drawer shut. “That guy was strangled,” he said shakily. “Let’s try another or I’ll dream about him.”

The driver edged close, but Franklin went over and sat on the bench. Phillips pulled another drawer open.

An elderly man, his face covered with a good half−inch stubble of beard, came into view.

“You wouldn’t think he was dead, would you, boss?” the driver said.

Phillips shoved the drawer to. “Naw,” he said, “he looks like he was stuffed.” He walked over to the other side of the room. “Let’s have a look at some of the dames.”

The driver’s face brightened. “That’s an idea, boss,” he said. “Can you unwrap ’em?”

Phillips looked over at Franklin. “For Gawd’s sake, did you hear that?” he said. “This gaul wants to see some Paris pictures.”

The driver looked abashed. “Don’t get me wrong, boss,” he pleaded. “If you don’t think I oughtta look, I won’t.”

Phillips was pulling open drawers quickly, peering inside and hastily shutting them. “Real hot numbers don’t seem to die these days,” he said regretfully. “All old dames here.” He paused and pulled a drawer open further. “Say, this looks better. Hi, Franky, come an’ look at this.”

Franky got up slowly and came over, impelled by irresistible curiosity. They all stood looking down at the girl lying in the drawer. She had flame−coloured hair, that showed a darker brown at the roots. Her thin pinched face wore a tragic look of one who has missed the good things in life. Her lips were gentle in death, in spite of the almost pathetic smudge of the lipstick that smeared her chin.

Phillips pulled off the sheet that covered her.

The driver said, “Oh, boy!” and trod on Franklin’s toes to get nearer.

She was slender, but firmly rounded. Her body was as perfect as the three men had ever seen.

Franklin took the sheet from Phillips and made to cover her again, but Phillips stopped him. “Let her lie,” he said, “she does somethin’ to me. By God! She’s nice, ain’t she?”

The driver said wistfully, “It’d take a heapa jack to play around a dame like that.”

Phillips continued to stare at the girl. He pulled the tag of identification from its slot in the drawer and studied it. “Julie Callaghan,” he read. “Age 23. Height 5 ft. 4 inches. Weight 112 lbs. Address not known. No relations.” He pulled the tag out further. “Cause of death: Murder by stabbing. Profession: Prostitute.”

He released the tag, which snapped back into its socket. “Well, well,” he said.

The three men stood silently looking down at the figure in the drawer, then Franklin said, “You never can tell, can you? Here I was workin’ up some sympathy for her, and she turns out to be a whore.”

Phillips glanced at him. “What’s the matter with that?” he said. “Can’t you give her any sympathy?”

Franklin threw the sheet over her and closed the drawer. “You ain’t one of those guys who tries to put glamour in that type, are you?”

“You’ve got the angle wrong. That dame’s doing a job of work. Maybe it ain’t a good job of work, but all the same, she’s human, ain’t she?”

Franklin wandered to the bench and sat down. “Come off it,” he said, “that don’t hold water. I’ll tell you something. I hate these broads. I despise them. To me, that dame is just one more of ’em out of the way. She got what was comin’ to her. She was too damn lazy and too damn brainless to do anythin’ else.”

Furtively the driver had opened the drawer again and was looking with fascinated eyes.

Both Phillips and Franklin took no notice of him.

Phillips said, “Some of these girls are forced into the trade, Franky. You ought to know that. Gee! You ought to be sorry for them.”

“Don’t talk a lotta bull. Sorry? That’s a laugh. Listen, there’s too much crap going around about forcin’ janes into prostitution. If a woman don’t want to do it, you just can’t make her. They do it because they want the things in life the easy way. They’ve got what you want, and they make you pay for it. They give you nothing. They’ll cheat you, rob you, lie to you, and they certainly hate you. They’re a breed on their own. To hell with them!”

The driver said, “Maybe this was one of Raven’s girls.”

The two looked at him. “Why do you say that?” Phillips asked. “Are you sure?”

The driver closed the drawer regretfully. “No, I ain’t sure, but he always had the best girls; and she’s a honey, ain’t she?”

Phillips looked at Franklin. “You’re wrong, Franky. Some of these girls had a bad time. Raven’s girls had a terrible time. It’s hick−minded to group them all together.”

“Who’s this Raven you’re talkin’ about?” Franklin wanted to know.

Phillips exchanged glances with the driver. “So you don’t know Raven?” he said. “Well, well! Where’ve you been all this time?”

Franklin sat down. “Okay, okay, I’ll buy it, just so long as you’ll stop this sissy talk about whores. Tell me.”

Phillips reached for a cigarette. “Raven was quite a boy,” he said, setting himself comfortably. “He came to this town about a year ago. As a matter of fact, one of our crowd, working on the old rag, first got on to him. It was odd how it started. Damned odd. If old Poison’s wife hadn’t gone off the rails, maybe Raven would still be operating right now. It happened this way….”

PART ONE

1

June 3rd, 11.45 p.m.

“TAKE ME OUT for a little drive, Gerry darling,” Mrs. Poison said as the music stopped.

Hamsley looked at the big bulk of wrinkled flesh and was appalled.

“It’s such a very, very hot night, isn’t it?” she went on, walking across the ballroom floor. “It’ll be nice out in the car”she gave his arm a little pat“with you.”

Hamsley wiped his face with his handkerchief. “Yes, Mrs. Poison,” he said.

He knew what was coming. He’d seen it coming for the last week. He had a sick feeling inside him as he followed her steady march across the floor. He could see people looking at him and smiling to each other.

As he went past the band the conductor said something he didn’t hear. He knew what it was, and it made him sicker than ever. At the door he tried to persuade her to stay. It was like pushing the sea back with his hands.

It was dark outside, cool after the heat of the ballroom. They stood on the top step, trying to pierce the darkness.

Mrs. Poison put her hand on his arm. He could feel her trembling. “Isn’t it wonderful?” she said. “My, my, it makes me feel young again.”

Automatically he said, “Don’t talk such nonsense. You’re a young woman.” She and the other old women paid him to say things like that.

“You mustn’t tell untruths. I’m not young, Gerry, but I’m not old. I’m in the best years of my life.”

Hamsley shuddered.

Out of the darkness a two−seater slid up to them. The young mechanic got out quickly and stood holding open the door. Hamsley felt completely trapped. She’d arranged everything.

The mechanic winked at him and made a sign with his hand. Hamsley climbed in beside Mrs. Poison, ignoring him. He could have wept with shame.

He said desperately, “It’s cold out here. You sure you won’t catch cold? Maybe we ought to get back.”

“Oh no!” She gave a giggling little laugh. “It’s cold now. But we’ll be warm soon.”

There, she had said it. He knew beyond any doubt now. His hand shook as he engaged the gears and let the clutch in with a jerk. “Where shall we go?” he said, driving the car slowly into the road.

“Go straight. I’ll tell you.” She leant against him. He could feel her soft hot body pressing into his shoulder.

He drove down the road for a couple of miles, then she told him to turn off to the left. He could hear the tyres bite into the dirt road, and the trees overhead blotted out the sky.

She said suddenly in a hoarse voice, “Stop.”

He pretended not to hear. His foot pressed down on the accelerator.

She said in his ear, “Gerry darling, I said stop. I want to talk to you.” At the same time she reached forward and turned the ignition key. The car slid to a standstill.

Hamsley stared into the night, holding the wheel tightly in his hands.

Neither of them said anything for a moment.

“Gerry darling, you’re a lovely looking boy,” Mrs. Poison said. Her hand touched his.

Hamsley moved away from her. “I’m glad you think so, Mrs. Poison,” he said. “I guess it’s pretty kind of you to think that.”

He could feel her quick breath on his face. “Yes, Gerry, you’re the handsomest boy I’ve ever seen. I don’t know what Mr. Poison would say, but I could be very kind to you.”

Hamsley shuddered again. “Why, Mrs. Poison, I guess you’re always giving me things. I guess you couldn’t do any more.”

“There’s one thing I haven’t given you, Gerry.” Out of the darkness her voice sounded horribly harsh.

“Gerry, I’m crazy about you. I’m mad about you.”

She put out her hands and caught his head, pulling him towards her. She began to kiss him furiously. Her wet mouth made him want to retch. He suddenly pushed her away, his hands loathing the feel of her breasts.

He said, “No. I’m taking you back. I’mI’m not going to break up your home.”

She came at him again. “Don’t be a fool!” she said harshly. “Come heredon’t talk!”

He pushed her back more violently so that she thudded against the side of the car. He could see her staring eyes in the dashlight. She sat there heaving and panting, looking as if she could kill him. Then her mouth opened and a thin, reedy scream came out of the slack cavity that went through his head like red−hot wires.

He fumbled with the door−handle, pushed the door open, and got out of the car. He didn’t say anything. He just wanted to get away from her. So he ran into the darkness, leaving her still screaming.

2

June 4th, 5.10 p.m.

JAY ELLINGER sat behind his battered desk and scribbled on his blotter. His hat rested on the back of his head and a cigarette dangled from his lips. His completed copy lay in a wire basket by his hand, and he was through for the day. He had nothing further to do, but he made no effort to leave the office. He just sat there scribbling and smoking.

The house phone buzzed and he looked at it without interest. “You’re lucky, laddybuck,” he said, reaching out. “Two minutes, and you’d’ve missed me.” He scooped the receiver to his ear. A girl said, “Mr. Henry wants to see you.” Jay made a face. “Tell him I’ve gone home,” he said hastily.

“Mr. Henry said if you’d gone home I was to ring you.

“What’s the trouble? Is there a big fire or somethin’?”

“You’d better come. Mr. Henry sounds awful mad.” She hung up.

Jay pushed his chair back and got up. Henry was the editor of the St. Louis Banner. He was a good guy to work for and he didn’t often get mad.

As he walked upstairs to Henry’s office Jay searched his mind to find any reason why he might be called on the mat, but he couldn’t think of a thing. There was that little business about the extra expenses last week, but surely Henry wasn’t going to crib about that. Maybe he was getting sore about the way Jay belted Mendetta in the Rayson trial, but then he’d passed the copy himself.

He shook his head. “Well, well, let’s see what’s bitin’ the old guy.”

He pushed open the frosted−panel door and walked in. Henry, a big fat man in his shirt−sleeves, was pacing up and down his small office. His cigar hung in tatters from his teeth. He looked up and glared at Jay.

“Shut the door!” he barked. “You’ve been a long time coming.”

Jay lounged over to an arm−chair and sat down. He hung his legs over one of the arms and shut his eyes.

“I’m sorry, Chief,” he said; “I came as fast as I could.”

Henry continued to pace up and down, ferociously chewing his tattered cigar. “What do you know about Gerry Hamsley?” he barked suddenly.

Jay shrugged. “Oh, he’s a nice kid. He dances at Grantham’s joint. Gigolobut a better type of the usual breed.”

“Yeah?” Henry planted himself in front of Jay. “A better type, hey? Well, let me tell you that guy has started somethin’ that will mean my job and yours as well.”

Jay opened his eyes. “You don’t say,” he said. “What’s it all about?”

“The little swine tried to rape Poison’s wife last night.”

“What?” Jay sat up, his face startled, then he remembered Mrs. Poison and suddenly began to laugh. He lay limply in his chair and howled with laughter. Henry stood over him, his face black with fury.

“Shut up, you coarse−minded Mick!” he yelled. “There’s nothing to laugh about. Do you hear me? Shut up!”

Jay mopped his eyes. “I’m sorry, Chief, but damn it, you ain’t swallowin’ a yam like that? Gee! Is it likely?

She’s old enough to be his mother, an’ she’s as fat an’ as ugly as an elephant.”

Henry snarled, “Want me to phone Poison and tell him that? He’s been on to me. My God! You ought to have heard him. He’s in a terrible way.”

“Well, what’s behind it? You know as well as I, all that’s bull. What’s he want you to do?”

Henry struck the air with his clenched fists. “He wants Hamsley on a plate. He wants Grantham’s joint closed down. He’s yelling murder, an’ he’s got blood in his eye.”

Just then the phone rang. Henry looked at it doubtfully. “That’s him again, I bet,” he said, lifting the receiver off gingerly.

From where Jay sat he could hear a sudden bellow come over the line. Henry winced and nodded to Jay.

“Yes, Mr. Poison. Sure, Mr. Poison. I quite understand, Mr. Poison.”

Jay grinned. It did him good to see his chief sweat. “Why, yes, Mr. Poison. He’s here now. I’ll tell him to come to the phone.” Henry looked at Jay with a grim little smile.

Jay waved his hands frantically, but Henry handed him the phone. “Mr. Poison wants you,” he said, and stood, mopping his face.

This was the first time that Jay had ever spoken to the proprietor of the St. Louis Banner. “Ellinger here,” he said.

Something exploded in his ear and he hurriedly removed the receiver. Holding it almost at arm’s length, he could plainly hear Poison’s roar. “Ellinger? You the guy I pay each week to be my crime reporter?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Say sir when you speak to me, you young cub!” Poison bawled.

Jay grinned at Henry. He pursed his mouth and made silent rude signs. “Yes, Mr. Poison,” he said.

“Get after Grantham, do you hear? I want everything you can find about him. Get after that swine Hamsley. I’m going to close down the 22nd Club and I’m going to break Hamsley. I want action. Get out now and do something. Now give me Henry.”

Jay handed the phone back to Henry and sat back fanning himself with his hat.

Henry listened for a few moments with an agonized look on his face, and then the line went dead. He hung up gently. “The guy’s crazy,” he said miserably. “He’s been on to the D.A.’s office. He’s been on to the police.

They can’t do anything. Grantham’s in the clear. His joint’s respectable.”

Jay scratched his head. “Why doesn’t he give Hamsley in charge?”

Henry came round the desk and pounded the top of Jay’s chair. “For the love of God, don’t say a word about Mrs. Poison. No one’s to know about that. Poison only told me because I flatly refused to touch Hamsley. I’m not supposed to have told you.”

Jay grinned uneasily. “Sure, if that yarn got around, Poison would be laughed out of town. Surely, he doesn’t believe it?”

Henry shrugged. “Of course he doesn’t. It’s the old cow that’s causin’ the trouble. Poison’s scared to death of her. She’s after Hamsley’s bloodand you’d better find out why.”

“Listen,” Jay pleaded. “I’m a crime reporter. What you want is a nice private dick, not me. Let’s get Pinkerton on the job. He’ll turn up the dirt quick, an’ we’ll all be happy.”

Henry scowled at him. “You heard Poison. Go out an’ get busy. Don’t come back until you’ve got something.”

Jay got to his feet. “For cryin’ out loud,” he said. “If this doesn’t beat anything that’s ever come my way.

What chance have I got to hang anythin’ on Hamsley? Besides, he ain’t such a bad guy.”

Henry sat down behind his desk. “I’m warning you,” he said seriously, “you’ve got to find something. If we don’t give the old man what he wants, we’ll be out. I know him when he gets like that.”

Jay stood by the door. “But what?” he said. “What am I likely to find? Grantham’s all right, ain’t he?”

“As far as I know. I hate to say it, Jay, but if you don’t find something, we’ll have to frame those two guys.

I’m getting too old to look for anything else.”

Jay shook his head. “Not on your life,” he said. “I ain’t framing anyone because Poison’s wife thinks she’s young again. I’ll sniff around. If nothin’ shows up I’m resigning. But I ain’t framin’ anyone.”

Henry sighed. “Perhaps you’re right,” he said. “Anyway, for God’s sake dig hard.”

“I’ll dig all right,” Jay returned, and went out, shutting the door behind him.

3

June 4th, midnight.

THERE WAS a cop at the street corner, standing watching the traffic, swinging his night−stick aimlessly.

Raven saw him as he came out of the alley, and he stepped back hurriedly into the shadows. Obscenities crowded through his brain, and his thin wolfish face twisted with frustrated rage.

The cop wandered to the edge of the kerb, hesitated, then began to pace down the street.

Raven edged further down the alley, further into the sheltering darkness. He’d let the cop go past. Across the road he could see the large block of apartments with their hundreds of brightly lit windows. On the sixth floor, Tootsie Mendetta had a six−room suite. From where he stood Raven could see Mendetta’s windows.

He stood against the wall, his head thrust forward and his square shoulders hunched. He looked what he was, a bitter, screwed−up thing of destruction.

The cop wandered to the mouth of the alley. Raven could see him looking carelessly into the darkness. The cop took off his cap and blotted his face with a large white handkerchief. It was a hot night. Standing there, his mind dwelling on a long, cold drink, he was completely unaware that Raven waited so patiently for him to go away. He put his cap on again and moved on past the alley, on towards the bright lights, towards the cafe where he could bum a drink on the quiet.

Raven gave him a few seconds, and then he walked to the mouth of the alley and glanced up and down the street. He saw nothing there to alarm him, and squaring his shoulders he stepped into the light of the street lamps.

In his apartment Mendetta amused himself with a pack of cards. He held a cigar between his thick lips and a glass of whisky−and−soda stood at his elbow. He played patience.

The apartment was silent except for the faint shuffling of cards as Mendetta altered their position. He liked patience, and he played with tense concentration. He heard Jean, in the bathroom, drawing off water, and he glanced over at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was just after twelve.

The phone suddenly jangled. He half shifted his bulk, his brows coming to a heavy frown, and stared at the phone.

Jean called from the bathroom, “Shall I answer it?”

He got up and walked with heavy steps across the room. “No, no. It’ll be for me,” he said, raising his voice so that she could hear. He picked up the receiver. “Who is it?”

“That you, Tootsie? This is Grantham.”

Mendetta frowned. “What’s the trouble?” he said sharply. “This is a hell of a time to ring me.”

“Yeah, but this is a hell of a spot we’re in.” Grantham had a cold, clipped voice. “Listen, Tootsie, that little punk Hamsley’s dropped us right in it.”

“What are you talkin’ about?” Mendetta sat on the edge of the small table, which rocked under his weight.

“Dropped us where?”

“Hamsley’s been digging Poison’s wife. He’s been playin’ her for a sucker for weeks. She’s spent a heap of jack on him.”

“That’s what he’s at the Club for, ain’t it?” Mendetta demanded impatiently. “Ain’t he givin’ you a cut?”

Grantham laughed bitterly. “It’s not that. The old siren fell for him, and he couldn’t take it. She took him out last night and tried to rape him. He ran away, the yellow punk.”

Mendetta’s fat face relaxed a little. “Well, what of it? You can’t hold the boy up for that. Hell! I’ve seen that dame. She’d turn anyone’s stomach.”

“That so? Well, know what she’s done? She’s squawked to Poison. Said Hamsley’s tried to rape her. How do you like that?”

“She’s crazy. Poison ain’t goin’ to believe a yarn like that.”

“No? Well, let me tell you he’s hoppin’ mad right at this moment. Maybe he doesn’t believe it, but she’s got herself in such a state, she does. That’s enough for Poison. She’s makin’ him get mad. Listen, Tootsie, this is serious. Poison’s goin’ to try an’ close us up.”

Mendetta sneered. “Let him,” he said. “What the hell do we care? They’ve got nothin’ on us. He can’t close us up.”

Grantham cleared his throat. “You don’t know Poison as well as I do. He’ll attack us in that rag of his. He might turn somethin’ up.”

Mendetta considered this. “Not as long as I’m alive,” he said at last. “I’ll go round an’ see that guy. We’ll give him Hamsley, but he’s got to lay off us.”

“Will you do that?” Grantham sounded relieved. “Get round tomorrow early, Tootsie. This ain’t the time to he down on it.”

Mendetta stood up. “Leave it to me,” he said. “I’ll fix him,” and he hung up.

Jean came out of the bathroom. She looked strikingly beautiful in her silk wrap. Perhaps her mouth was too large, but it gave her a generous look that was not in her nature. She was tall, with square shoulders, a narrow waist and thick hips.

“Who was it?” she said.

Mendetta went over to the table and gathered up the cards. He didn’t feel like patience any more.

“Grantham,” he returned, putting the cards carefully in their container. He was a very tidy man. He took two little sips from the whisky.

She looked over at the clock. “What did he want? It’s late.”

Mendetta nodded his big head. “I know,” he said. “Go to bed. I’ll come in a little while.”

She turned her head so that he couldn’t see the sudden vicious look that came into her eyes. “Don’t be so secretive,” she said lightly. “Is he in trouble?”

He stubbed out his cigar. “He’s always in trouble. That’s why I’m hereto pull him out.” He plodded over to her. His big heavy hand rested on her hip. “Go to bed. I shan’t be long.”

“Tootsie, I must know,” she said. “Has something happened at the Club?”

He looked at her with a curious expression, half angry, half amused. He turned her towards the bedroom door. “It’s nothing,” he said. “Go to bed,” and he smacked her across her buttocks very hard.

She went away from him, her knees weak and her inside coiled into a hard ball of hatred. She went across the bedroom to the window and pulled back the curtains. Leaning against the window−frame, she looked down into the street below. She remained like that for several minutes before she regained control of herself.

If Mendetta had seen her expression as she stood by the window he would have been uneasy. As it was, his indifference to her feelings prepared the way for what eventually happened.

In the street, Raven crossed the road casually and walked towards the apartment block. When he neared the lighted entrance he stopped and knelt down to adjust his shoe−string. From under his slouch hat, he surveyed the doorway thoroughly. He was not satisfied with the empty doorway, so he crossed the street again and passed the block on the opposite side. His caution rewarded him.

A little guy, dressed in black, lounged against the wall in the shadows near the entrance. He kept so still that Raven wouldn’t have noticed him at all if he’d come straight into the blinding light of the doorway.

The little guy had his hands deep in his coat pockets, and he watched Raven pass on the other side of the street, indifferently.

Raven went on, crossed the road again and turned down a side street. He turned to his right after a few minutes’ walking and approached the rear of the apartment block. This time he kept to the shadows. He hadn’t gone far before he spotted another little guy, also dressed in black, lounging near the rear exit.

So it wasn’t going to be the easy way. He might have known it. It was a cinch that if Mendetta had guards outside the block, there would be guards inside as well.

Raven went on, his head thrust forward, the line of his jaw fixed, and his thin lips compressed. He knew Mendetta couldn’t escape from him. It was just a matter of time.

4

June 5th, 40 a.m.

JAY GOT round to the 22nd Club twenty minutes before it closed down for the night. There were a lot of people dancing and drinking, and he went immediately to the bar.

The bartender looked at him and rang a bell in Grantham’s office by pressing his toe on a button on the floor. His well−disciplined face smiled at Jay, and he asked him what he’d like. Jay ordered a beer.

Benny Perminger came up at the moment, very hot and damp, and ordered a double Scotch. He seemed delighted to see Jay.

“What a stranger,” he said; “and drinkin’ beer too! Don’t you know it’s bad etiquette to drink beer in a joint like this?”

Jay shook hands with him. “I don’t have to worry about such things,” he said seriously. “No one expects a newspaper man to behave like a human being. How’s the motor trade?”

Benny shook his head. “Lousy,” he said. “There’s too much competition. Seriously, Jay, I’m havin’ a bad time just gettin’ along.”

Jay pursed his lips. There were always guys who had a bad time getting along, but they went to places like the 22nd Club and spent as much in a night as he earned in a week. Benny was one of these.

“I saw your chief. Poison, the other night. My God! Have you seen his car? It’s just a ruin on four wheels.

It’s time he had a new one.”

Jay shrugged. “Poison’s old−fashioned. He likes that car. Maybe he’s got sentimental memories.”

“I don’t believe it; he’s just mean. Listen, Jay, could you put in a word for me? If I could get that old buzzard to take a trial run I’d hook him, but I can’t get near him.”

Jay promised to do what he could.

“There’s another guy who I want to get in with. That’s Mendetta. He could use a flock of my cars. I do trucks now, you know. Beggars can’t be choosers. I guess that guy could use a lot of trucks. I’ve been trying to persuade Grantham to get me an introduction, but he doesn’t seem keen. I suppose I’ll have to offer him a split in my commission.”

“Does Grantham know Mendetta?” Jay asked, suddenly interested.

“Know him? Why, of course he knows him. I thought everyone knew that. Mendetta put up the dough for this Club. He’s got his finger in every pie.”

Jay drank some beer. “Aaah,” he said, putting the glass down, “Mendetta’s a bad guy. I’d forget about him.”

Benny shrugged. “What the hell. His dough’s good, ain’t it?” he said. “I don’t care who buys my cars as long as he pays.”

Jay finished his beer. “Maybe you’re right,” he said.

Just then a blonde came in, followed by a tall young man with heavy, horn−rimmed glasses. The blonde wore a red dress, very tight across her small breasts, and when she climbed up on the high stool at the bar she showed a lot of her legs.

Benny looked at her. He stared so hard that she giggled suddenly and adjusted her skirt. Benny sighed.

“There’re an awful lot of swell dames around tonight,” he said to Jay. “She’s nice, ain’t she?”

Jay wasn’t very interested. “Sure,” he said; “they’re all nice. Where’s your wife? How is she, anyway?”

Benny still looked at the blonde. “Sadie? Oh, she’s fine. She’s out there with my party. I sort of wanted a drink. Did I? No, that’s wrong. I came out for a doings. Seeing you put it out of my mind. I guess I’d better get on.” He shook hands again and went off.

Jay ordered another beer. While he was waiting for it, he saw Grantham come in. Grantham was very tall and thin, with silver−white hair. His face was hard. Two lines ran from his nose to his mouth, and he looked very grey. Jay only knew him by sight, he’d never spoken to him. When he saw him, he turned back to the bar and paid the bartender.

Grantham came up and stood at his elbow. “What do you want?” he said. His voice was very hostile.

Jay looked at him by turning his head. “Should I know you?” he asked. “Are you someone I ought to know?”

Grantham introduced himself. “We don’t have newspaper men in here, you know,” he said; “we don’t like them in here.”

Jay raised his eyebrows. “That’s interestin’,” he said. “That’s very interesting. No newspaper men, huh?

And who else? Tell me your black list. I bet you don’t like the cops in here either.”

Grantham tapped a little tune on the counter. “Don’t let’s get sore about this,” he said evenly. “I’m just telling you. Maybe you didn’t know.”

“Is this your idea, or did Mendetta suggest it?”

Grantham’s face hardened. “That sort of talk won’t get you anywhere,” he said quietly. “I’m just telling you to keep out of here, that’s all.”

Jay shook his head. “You can’t do that. This is a place for public entertainment. I should forget about it. A line or two in my paper could upset your business pretty badly.”

Grantham nodded. “I see,” he said; “I was just giving you a hint. You don’t have to take it. You’re quite right, of course. You have every right to come here. Only you’re not welcomed.”

“Leave me now, pal,” Jay said, turning away, “I’m goin’ to have a good cry.”

Grantham looked at the barman and then at the clock. “You can shut down, Henry,” he said, and walked away.

Jay finished his beer, nodded to the barman, who ignored him, and went out into the big lounge. People were beginning to move out. He saw Clem Rogers, who played the saxophone in the band, putting his instrument away. He knew Rogers quite well.

He went to the cloakroom and got his hat, and then he went outside. He had to wait ten minutes before Rogers came out, and then he followed him away from the Club. When they got to the main street he overtook him.

Rogers seemed surprised to see him. “You’re late, ain’t you?” he said, peering at his wrist−watch. It was just after two o’clock.

Jay fell in step beside him. “We newspaper guys never sleep,” he said. “How about a little drink? There’s a joint just down here that keeps open all night.”

Rogers shook his head. “I guess not,” he said. “I want to get home. I’m tired.”

Jay put his hand on his arm and steered him down a side turning. “Just a short drink, buddy,” he said, “then you can go home.”

They went down some steps to an underground bar. The place was nearly empty. A short, thick−set Italian dozed across the bar. He raised his head sleepily as the two entered.

“Good evenin’,” he said, rubbing the counter−top with a swab. “What will you have?”

“At this time of night, Scotch,” Jay said. “Bring us the bottle over there.” He indicated a table at the far end of the room.

Rogers followed him across and sat down. He yawned, rubbing his eyes with his hands. “God! I’m tired,” he said. “I wish I could get some other job. This is killin’ me.”

Jay poured out a big shot of whisky in each glass. “I ain’t goin’ to keep you long, but there’s just one little thing you might help me with.”

“Sure, I’d be glad to. What is it?”

“You must see everything that goes on at the Club. I’ve got a feeling it ain’t quite on the level. I want to find out.”

Rogers sat back. His sleepy eyes suddenly woke up. “I don’t know what you mean,” he said.

“Just that. How does the place strike you?”

Rogers blinked. “You tryin’ to get the place shut down?” he asked, a little coldly.

Jay hesitated, then he said, “That’s about it. Now, look here, Rogers, you know me. I wouldn’t make things difficult for you. I know you’ve got to think of your job, but if you helped me I’d see you all right.”

“Yeah? How?”

“How would you like to work for Cliff Somers? I could get you an in with his outfit if you fancied it.”

Rogers’ face brightened. “Honest?”

Jay nodded.

“I’d like that. I’ve always wanted to work for Somers. He’s got a swell crowd.”