Sellers said angrily, "You get me a taxicab. Hell, I'll get one myself."

  He walked over to the telephone, picked up the receiver, laid it on the little table, dialled a number with his left hand, then picked up the receiver and said, "Hello, this is Police Sergeant Frank Sellers. I'm at 226 Korreander, and I want a taxi out here right away. Now rush it out here, will you?"

  He waited a moment for confirmation, the' --tinted and slammed the receiver back into place.

  Bertha, prowling around through the house, was banging doors behind her. Claire Bushnell, sympathetic and frightened, was hovering around Sergeant Sellers.

  "Can I take a look at that hand?" she asked.

  "Fortunately," Sellers said, "I think it missed most of the bones except the thumb. That thumb's pretty messy." He turned to me and said, "I'm going to get both you and Bertha for this, Lam. Bertha pushed me off balance or I'd have—"

  I said, "Bertha probably saved your life."

  He looked as though he wanted to bite my head off.

  We heard Bertha's steps coming rapidly down the corridor. Then she was triumphantly displaying a bloodstained bath-towel that had the words KOZY DELL embroidered on it in red thread.

  "Here we are, lover," she said. "I found it in a soiled-clotheshamper in the bathroom. The woman certainly was careless, just threw it in the soiled clothes."

  I said. "She felt pretty certain no one would ever be here to look for it. Wrap it up in some paper, Bertha. First, better put your initials on a corner with a fountain pen so that you can testify as to where you found it."

  Sellers said, "Don't bother. If there's any evidence I'll take charge of it."

  I said, "We don't want to get any blood on it, Sergeant. You're bleeding from that wound in your hand. We want to keep the blood that's on there as evidence."

  He glared at me and said, "I'm not buying any more of your schemes, Donald. You're going to Headquarters. You're going to be booked. That's what I should have done with you in the first place. And then, I'm going to settle an account with those two women."

  "Sure," I said. "Newspaper reporters will be around you thick as flies: They'll want to know all about the story of how you got shot."

  "Okay, I'll tell them."

  I said, "Bertha saved your life. She pushed you out of the line of fire."

  "What the hell are you talking about?"

  "About Bertha saving your life," I said. "And if you think that's going to look well in print, just ..."

  "Bertha didn't save my life," he yelled. "She gave me a shove that had me off balance when that hatchet-faced number took a pop at me. Bertha, if you ever lay your hands on me again, I don't care if you are a woman, I'll bust your damn jaw."

  "Just try it," Bertha said, belligerently, and then added, "that is, if you feel lucky."

  I said, "All right, if you want to get tough about it, Frank, let's put the cards right on the table. You go up to Headquarters now and you're in the worst mess of your life. You've arrested me, but you can't hold me."

  "Says you!"

  "For a while," I said, "but there's enough evidence now so a lawyer can get me out."

  "I don't see it," Sellers said. "You find out that Amelia Jasper has a bullet hole in her thigh—so what?"

  I said, "Okay, you haven't got a case against her yet. But you haven't got a case against me—not now.""The hell I haven't."

  "No, you haven't, Frank. The fact that this woman made that statement about the girl putting her hands on my face shows that she knew what happened. She was watching from outside the window."

  "Did the girl put her hands on your face?"

  "Yes."

  That gave Sellers something to think about.

  I said, "It's now pretty well established that Amelia Jasper was out there at the KOZY DELL. She was putting the bite on Minerva Carlton. Minerva was in a spot. Someone had stuff on her that she didn't want her husband to find out. So she ran in a ringer. Dover Fulton was called in to pose as her husband."

  "You've gone over all that before."

  I said, "Something went wrong. Here's what probably happened. Dover Fulton pulled his gun. Both of these women were there. One of them rushed him and Amelia Jasper turned her back. Susie, the grim-faced maid, probably hit Fulton over the head with something. Fulton convulsively pulled the trigger of the gun, the bullet went into Mrs. Jasper's hip. Minerva Carlton started to run. Susie picked up the gun and put a bullet through the back of her head. By that time, everybody was in too deep to quit. They rubbed Dover Fulton out and then decided they'd have to make it look like a murder and suicide. But they had an extra shot to account for. They finally figured out the scheme of putting that extra shot in the suitcase.

  "The suitcase was lying open on the floor. The blouse probably was on top of it. Minerva Carlton had taken off just enough clothes to make it appear she was delightfully informal with her husband in the motor court. Amelia Jasper grabbed a bath-towel and wrapped it around her leg to stop the flow of blood. She closed the suitcase, and in order to get it closed, simply wadded the blouse, which had been carelessly tossed on top of the clothes in the suitcase, into a ball and slammed the suitcase shut. They got out of there, went a mile or so down the road, perforated the suitcase, took one empty shell out of the gun so it would look as though Dover Fulton had been carrying the gun with one empty shell under the hammer, then went back to the motor court, put the suitcase in place, locked the door from the inside, crawled out through the window and went away."

  Sellers said wearily, "I get so damn tired of listening to your theories that don't have anything to back them up."

  I said. "This isn't a theory. This is what happened. I'm telling you because it's an interview I'm going to give to the press."

  "Give it and be damned."

  I said, "It means that you've got off on the wrong foot. Instead of actually solving the murder of Lucille Hollister, you've got the thing all balled up and have let a woman shoot you in the hand and steal your car. That's certainly going to put you in the position of being the prize boob. When you pose for the flashlight pictures of the newspaper photographers you can just see the headlines: WOMAN SUSPECT SHOOTS OFFICER, STEALS CAR, ESCAPES!"

  Frank Sellers thought that over. He conjured up a picture of how that was going to look in print and didn't like the picture.

  I said, "You're in this thing now to a point where you've got to straighten it out. Take half an hour with me and ...”

  “All right," he said wearily, "let's have it. You've got some wild-eyed plan in view. Let's hear what it is. At any rate, I'll listen."

  I said, "Take these handcuffs off and ..."

  "Not by a damn sight!"

  I said, "Let's use our heads. This man, Tom Durham, was mixed up in it. We know that because Minerva Carlton wanted to find out about him. He was the contact man. He must have been. Now then, Amelia Jasper and her maid, Susie, are mixed up in blackmail, and by this time, murder. They may make a run for it, but before they do, they're going to pick up Tom Durham, who is also on the lam. And, unless I miss my guess, they're going to give Durham a story to tell. And after Durham has told that story, then the two women will switch their own stories, stand together on it, appeal to the chivalry of an American jury, and convict Durham of first-degree murder."

  "You talk and talk and talk," Sellers said. "Where the hell's that taxicab?"

  Almost as though the cab had been waiting for the words, we heard the sound of a horn out front.

  Sellers lumbered to his feet, said, "Okay, everybody, let's go."

  Sellers hooked the fingers of his left hand around my arm, said, "On your way, Smart Guy."

  I held back long enough to say, "It's all right with me if that's the way you want to play it, but if you play it smart you can come back to Headquarters driving your own police car, with the Lucille Hollister murder solved and the killing in the KOZY DELL SLUMBER COURT all cleaned up."

  I thought I felt some of the tension go out of his fingers.

  I said, "What the hell. You've got your gun. You can hold it in your left hand. If I try to get away, you can drill me. Take those handcuffs off and I'll take you to Tom Durham."

  The taxicab honked his horn again."And to where your police car has been parked," I added.

  He said, "Look, if you know so much, you're going to begin by taking me to where the police car is. The bracelets look good on you. Try to hold out on me and you'll swallow your teeth! One of you janes go tell that taxi driver to quit blowing that horn."

  Claire Bushnell ran out to the taxicab.

  I said to Sellers, "Tom Durham checked out of Westchester Arms about eleven o'clock, just about the time he could have got back from the expedition to the KOZY DELL SLUMBER COURT. That's a peculiar hour to check out. The good trains have all pulled out by that time. The night planes are beginning to take off; but Durham didn't go in one of the limousines that runs to the airport. He didn't take a taxi. The doorman's certain about that. He didn't remember Durham, but he remembered Durham's suitcase, a massive affair with two hasps and two padlocks.

  "The bell-boy says Durham paid his bill at the cashier's desk and then the boy took the suitcase out to the front door. The doorman remembers seeing the boy put the suitcase down. He had a glimpse of Durham, then he helped some people into a taxicab, and when he turned around, Durham was gone."

  "Walked around to another entrance and got a cab," Sellers said.

  "I don't think he did."

  "Where do you think he went?"

  I said, "Let's make a bargain. If your car is parked around the Westchester Arms Hotel, will you take the handcuffs off and give me a break?"

  Sellers hesitated. I could see the thought of losing that car really bothered him.

  I said, "Remember, I'll take you right to where your car is parked and ..."

  "You get busy and dig up my car," he said. "When you've found that car for me, you can do more talking. I hate to go in and report that car stolen."

  I said, "Okay. Let's go."

  We marched out to the waiting taxi.

  "Westchester Arms Hotel," I said, "and when you get there, cruise slowly around a two-block square until I tell you to stop."

  Sixteen

  TWO blocks from the Westchester Arms, we found Frank Seller's police car parked by a fire hydrant.

  Sellers' exclamation of satisfaction was ample indication of the load that had been lifted from his mind.

  "Stop right here," he told the cab driver.

  The cab driver lurched the car to a stop.

  Sellers opened the door with his good hand, walked over to the police car, saw that the keys were in it, locked the ignition switch, pulled the keys out, put them in his pocket, grinned and walked back to the cab.

  "Bertha," Sellers said, holding his injured right hand so that there was little possibility of bumping it against the car door, "the keys to those handcuffs are in my right-hand vest pocket."

  Bertha pulled his coat back, fumbled for the keys. Sellers winced as the pressure of the coat caused motion in his right hand.

  Bertha fitted the keys to the handcuffs on my wrists and took them off.

  Sellers said, "Understand, Lam, you're still under arrest. I'm just giving you a break."

  The cab driver said, "Who's going to pay me?"

  "They are," Sellers said.

  It spoke volumes for the condition of Bertha's mind that she opened her purse, took out the sixty cents that was due to the cab driver and added fifteen cents with it.

  "Now what?" Sellers asked. "Do we wait for them to come back?"

  "They aren't coming back," I told him. "They're smart enough to know that the quickest way they can get picked up is to be driving a stolen police car."

  "All right. What next?" Sellers demanded impatiently. I said, "You come along with me."

  Sellers frowned, hesitated, all but refused point-blank, then fell into step at my side.

  "No funny stuff," he warned.

  We walked in silence to the Westchester Arms Hotel. "You certainly don't think they're staying here?" Sellers asked.

  I said, "They're hunted, they're desperate, they're trying to make a getaway. When Tom Durham checked out of that hotel he was in a hurry and he was trying to make a getaway.

  He and his suitcase disappeared. They might as well have been swallowed into thin air. We're dealing with a regularly established blackmail ring. It isn't a casual act of isolated blackmail. It's part of a pattern."

  "All right, get to the point," Sellers said.

  I said, "Come on. This way."

  I opened the door of the cocktail lounge.

  The manager was standing near the centre of the room where he could see both the door into the hotel lobby and the street door.

  He came towards us, bowing, then he spotted Sellers, saw the bandaged hand, and then in a flash, recognised me. l said, "I guess you remember me, don't you?"

  He tried to look blank.

  I said, "You gave me some water with an olive in it and charged me for a cocktail."

  He said, "Where's the evidence?"

  "Down the drain. I guess."

  He said, "Don't be a damn fool." His eyes were fixed with fascination on the bloodstained bandage around Frank Sellers' right hand.

  I said, "Okay, we're going to order a drink, and I want this one to be better than the others."

  I moved over to a booth. The four of us sat down, Sellers with obvious reluctance. -

  The manager melted away.

  I said, in an undertone, "Follow him, Claire, quick! If he goes to a telephone, try and watch him and see what number he calls."

  Claire Bushnell slid out from behind the table, and, looking demure as befits a modest young woman who is searching for a rest-room, started tagging along behind the manager.

  "You think he's in on it?" Sellers asked sceptically.

  I said, "Something happened in this vicinity when I was trying to follow Tom Durham. What's more, Dover Fulton and Minerva Carlton were in here having drinks just before they went to the KOZY DELL SLUMBER COURT."

  "That's a damn slender thread on which to tie a conclusion," Sellers said angrily.

  I said, "It's a thread that was stout enough to get you your car back."

  There wasn't any answer he could make to that.

  I said, "I figure it had to be either here or at the Cabanita. I tried this first because it's nearer and was an easier place to get rid of the car; but I'm not certain but what we'll find the answer in the Cabanita."

  Sellers moved his hand and winced with sudden pain. The numbness was beginning to leave and the slivers of bone in

  his shattered thumb were grating every time he moved the elbow.

  Bertha watched him sympathetically. "You'd better have a good shot of hooch," she said.

  Sellers said, "You've got something there. Let's get that waiter."

  "I'll find him," I said. "What do you want?"

  "Double brandy," Sellers said, and dropped his head back against the cushion. His face suddenly went white and his eyes closed. There were marks of pain around the corners of his mouth.

  I slid out of the booth and had taken half a dozen steps before Sellers opened his eyes and suddenly straightened.

  "Hey," he said, "not you! Bertha can go. You come back here."

  Somewhere a woman screamed.

  It was a peculiar muffled scream which seemed to come from back of the bar somewhere.

  I made a dash for the bar. The bar-tender said, "You can't go in there."

  I spotted an open door and a flight of stairs. I made a sprint. The bar-tender grabbed and caught the shoulder of my coat. I kicked him in the knee-cap and, when his hold loosened, dashed on down the stairs. The bar-tender had sufficient prescence of mind to slam the door shut behind me so that any noise made down below wouldn't be heard in the cocktail lounge.

  I reached a basement storage room. There were cases of liquor stacked all around, racks with wine bottles. There was no sign of Claire Bushnell.

  The manager of the cocktail lounge was in the process of gliding through another opened door at the far end of the room. He saw me, and an expression of black anger came over his face.

  "What do you want?" he demanded.

  "Where's that girl who screamed?"

  "I don't know. She ran back upstairs. This is private. Get out."

  "Where are you going?" I asked.

  He heard the sound of commotion at the head of the stairs and said suddenly, "As far as I'm concerned this is a stick-up. I'm going to defend myself."

  His hand darted under his coat.

  I grabbed a champagne bottle by the neck and hurled it. The bottle missed his head, but struck against the concrete wall. The champagne, spurting out from the broken bottle, drenched his face and had him blinking hard.

  He kept his right hand under the lapel of his coat. His left hand angrily brushed his eyes.

  I charged across the room at him.

  Behind me, I heard the crash of a door being kicked open, the sound of heavy steps on the stairs.

  The manager of the cocktail lounge suddenly thought better of it. He jerked his right hand out from under his coat.

  Sergeant Sellers and Bertha Cool came barging down the stairs.

  "What the hell's coming off here?" Frank Sellers asked, his face white as a sheet.

  "Where's the woman?" I asked.

  "She went back up the stairs," the manager said.

  Claire Bushnell thrust a cobweb-streaked countenance out from behind a wine bin. "Nuts!" she said angrily. "I was going to see where he went. I ran back up the stairs when he turned on me and then when he ran back I sneaked on down and got behind the wine bin."

  "Say, what is this?" the manager demanded. "I'm going to make a protest to police headquarters. It's lucky there wasn't a shooting. I thought this was a hold-up. I was getting ready to defend myself. Sergeant, I'm going to hold you responsible for this."

  Sellers seemed as tense as a marathon runner trying to hold out until he reached the tape. He came slowly forward and said, "Lam, I've had enough of this ..."

  I whirled, ducked under the arm of the manager of the cocktaiI lounge, sprinted through the open door.

  I heard Sellers bellow with anger, "Grab him!"