“You finished,” he said. His voice sounded accusing, although he hadn't intended that it should.

  “Yes, I have. If you want to read them, you may take them along. Your brief case is still here.”

  Tracy turned and looked at her. She'd closed the door, but she was standing near it. She looked annoyed, and a little puzzled.

  He said, “You're from Hartford, aren't you?”

  “Yes. What's that go to do with—?”

  “Nothing. You had an uncle, then, named Walther Mueller. He was killed a little over two months ago.”

  “Of course. It was in the papers. Mr. Tracy, what are you trying to say? What's that got to do with—? Have you been drinking?”

  “Sure I've been drinking. Look, have you anything to conceal about the matter? Or are you willing to talk about it?”

  “Bill, I don't know what you're driving at. Of course I have nothing to conceal about it. How could I have?”

  “I don't know. That's what I want to find out.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Murder,” Tracy said. “I'm talking about murders — a lot of murders. Your uncle was murdered. Your boss — the man who hired you at the studio — was murdered. And a friend of mine, a janitor, was mur — Dotty, do you by any chance have any Polish ancestry, way back?”

  She took a step backward, clear against the door. Her hand was on the knob. She said, “Bill, you're — tight. I'm sorry, but you'll have to leave. I can't talk to you now. If you want to come tomorrow, when you're not in this mood, I'll be glad to tell you anyth—”

  “Have you? Any Polish ancestry?”

  “No, of course not. Belgian, on my father's side, and English-Norwegian on my mother's. Now will you go?”

  “Did you know a man named Frank Hrdlicka?”

  “Frank — That's the man who was killed in the building you live in, wasn't it? The janitor?”

  “Yes. Did you ever meet him?”

  “Of course not. Mr. Tracy, I won't answer questions when you're acting the way you are now.”

  Tracy said, “If I wasn't feeling this way, Dotty, I wouldn't ask them. But — oh, all right, I apologize. In advance. Now tell me — how did you happen to get that job at KRBY? Through your uncle?”

  “Yes. In a way.”

  “What do you mean, in a way? Did you know Dineen through him?”

  “It came about perfectly naturally, Mr. Tracy. But I haven't time — If you'll come tomorrow, I'll tell you about it. Not now.”

  Tracy said, “It'll take you five minutes to tell it, at the most, if you start in and keep going. You can get me out in five minutes that way. If you want to send for the police, they can be here in fifteen.”

  She glared at him. Her eyes were like blue marbles now, and there weren't any stars in them.

  Tracy sat down on the sofa and pretended to lean back comfortably.

  And, abruptly and surprisingly, Dotty smiled at him. She shrugged her shoulders in mock resignation and came closer to sit on the arm of the chair facing the sofa.

  She said, “All right, Bill. I'll take into consideration that you've been drinking and not be angry. There's no reason why I shouldn't tell you, except the way you asked, and I'll overlook that. I can tell it in less than five minutes and then — you'll go? Promise?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right. First, I never met my uncle. I knew, though, that I had an uncle who had money — I thought it was more than it turned out to be — in South America. About six months ago, when I began to sell love stories, I wrote to him. I suggested — well, that travel would be good experience for a writer and I wondered if — well—”

  Tracy said, “Be frank about it. You fished for an invitation to go to Rio and live there for awhile. And he didn't fall for it?”

  She frowned a little. “He wrote back that he was leaving there very shortly to come to America to retire. He said he looked forward to meeting me when he got here and — well — he hinted he might be able to do something for me in the way of enabling me to travel. I don't know what he had in mind, and I guess now I never will know.

  “But in the same letter he asked me if I was interested in radio writing. He said he had a close friend named Arthur Dineen who was program manager at KRBY, and that if I was interested in radio, why didn't I talk to Mr. Dineen about it and that he'd write Mr. Dineen meanwhile.

  “So I came to New York and talked to Mr. Dineen and he gave me the job there. He said I should work in the office a while until I got the feel of things and then he'd try to get me a chance to work on some program.

  “So that's all there was to it. I started working there three — no, three and a half months ago.”

  “Oh,” said Tracy. He felt vaguely disappointed, and a little ashamed of himself for having been so abrupt with Dotty. Her story was undoubtedly true. It made sense and it fitted all the facts perfectly.

  He asked, “Did either you or Mr. Dineen know when your uncle was coining?”

  “I didn't, no. And Mr. Dineen told me afterward that he didn't. He said he wished uncle had wired him so he could have met the plane and that — maybe it would never have happened.”

  She held out her hand, back up, to show a ring on her fourth finger. “He was bringing me a present — this ring. It's only an aquamarine, but the mounting is beautiful workmanship in white gold.”

  “It's beautiful,” Tracy said. He was feeling a bit foolish now. “The newspapers didn't mention it. How come it wasn't stolen with his money?”

  “It was in the customs, of course, like the pearls. There were some other small things that the papers didn't bother to mention — a beautiful silver inkstand for Mr. Dineen, for one thing, and a few other little things.”

  “How could — how did you know what was intended for whom?”

  “He'd declared them that way, for the customs. I mean, they ask whether an object is brought in as a gift or for resale, or for what. The pearls — I guess you read about them — were brought here to sell. He thought he could do better on them here, I guess, even with the duty.”

  “An inkstand,” Tracy said thoughtfully. “That's what the man who killed Dineen took from his office. Was it very valuable?”

  “It was silver. The workmanship was exquisite. I don't know; it might have been worth a few hundred, but not more. He — the killer, I mean — would hardly have gone there to steal it, but it was certainly valuable enough to take along with him if—”

  “Did your uncle bring any other presents for the Dineens or for you?”

  “Not for me. I didn't hear about any others. He'd sent Mr. Dineen presents before, though, or given them to him. That wrist watch Mr. Dineen wore, with the sweep second hand. And — did you know Rex? That beautiful dog collar; it was peccary pigskin from South America with gold-plated studs. Mr. Dineen had Rex with him when he visited South America last spring, and afterward my uncle had the collar made and sent it for Rex. And Mr. Dineen mentioned earrings my uncle had once sent for Mrs. Dineen and — I believe, a clock.”

  “Wasn't he pretty free with presents?”

  “Well, Mr. Dineen had done him some favors. In a business way, I mean, in New York, and wouldn't take any payment for them. But he couldn't very well turn down presents.”

  “What sort of favors?”

  “I don't know. I haven't an idea.” Dotty looked at the clock, very pointedly. “You said five minutes, Bill, and it's been over ten. Honestly, that's all I know about it, except what was in the papers.”

  Tracy stood up. He said, “Sure, thanks. I'll go.” He felt considerably like a fool. Obviously Dotty didn't know a thing and her connection with events was perfectly innocent, and he'd started out questioning her as though she were a criminal. It was a wonder she hadn't called the cops to chase him out.

  He'd come in like a lion and now he'd go out like a lamb, after having been a mouse—

  “What's so funny?” Dotty asked. The edge was coming back to her voice.

  “Nothing,” said Tracy. “I was just thinking — Say, Dotty, why didn't Dineen tell his wife about your starting to work at the studio?”

  It had been a random question, to Tracy.

  But Dotty's face suddenly flamed and then went white, and her hand — the one with the aquamarine ring on its fourth finger — flew up and smacked sharply against Tracy's cheek.

  “Get out!” she said.

  Tracy got out. There just wasn't anything to say. But outside the door, he turned. There still wasn't anything to say but he said, “Well, Dotty, it was nice knowing you. I'm sor—”

  The door slammed.

  He walked thoughtfully to the stairs. Sure, he was sorry, but he wasn't quite sure what he was sorry about. He'd asked a random question, and it had hit home. Only a guilty conscience could have caused a sudden flare-up like that.

  Dineen and Dotty.

  Damn.

  And he, Tracy, had been chivalrous. He'd acted like a perfect little gentleman. Little Lord Fauntleroy Tracy. Damn.

  He went down the stairs and opened the door to the outer hallway.

  A dapper little man with graying hair and gold-rimmed, pince-nez glasses was standing there in the hallway, his hand raised to push a door buzzer button. He saw Tracy and hurriedly lowered his hand.

  Tracy grinned at him. He bowed slightly from the waist, and then recovered his balance by putting his hand against the wall.

  He said, “Good evening, Mr. Wilkins.”

  “Ah — good evening, Mr. Tracy.”

  “Good evening, Mr. Wilkins.”

  “Good—” Wilkins frowned.

  “It is a good evening,” said Tracy. “It's Apartment Seven, in case you're looking. She has the manuscripts ready.”

  “The — ah—”

  “The Millie scripts. That's what you came for, of course. And will you tell her I said it was fun just seeing her?”

  Wilkins stepped back as Tracy passed him. Wilkins frowned and then pressed the button over mailbox seven. The latch of the inner door clicked just as Tracy opened the outer door.

  Tracy leaned back in. He said, “Mr. Wilkins.”

  “Yes?”

  “Watch out for the biological urge. Station KRBY definitely does not approve of its — ah — employees—”

  Wilkins had recovered his dignity. His voice was frosty. “That will do, Mr. Tracy.”

  “Quite, Mr. Wilkins. Good night, Mr. Wilkins.”

  CHAPTER 13

  TRACY CLOSED the door and started down the street, whistling. For some screwy reason, he felt quite cheerful. He ought to be mad as hell. He wasn't. It was too funny, now. Wilkins! Good Lord — Wilkins! Dineen and Wilkins!

  It was unfair, though. Definitely unfair. Not that he minded a gal using her wiles to get ahead in a profession; that was a woman's privilege, if she wanted to take advantage of it. But hell's bells — it ought to be against union rules or something for her to be a speed artist at continuity writing on top of it! Either one or the other made the competition tough enough, but both—

  It ought to have worried him, but it didn't.

  He decided that he must be drunk. And that, again, reminded him of what he was supposed to be doing.

  All right, he'd taken the first step. He'd seen Dotty. What had he learned that could be important? What that could have led to murder?

  Not Dotty's sex life. Conceivably, someone might have killed Dineen out of jealousy. But not Dotty's uncle, whom she'd never met. Not Frank. Nope, that didn't make sense.

  Money, then? The silver inkwell — he'd forgotten about that until Dotty mentioned it. There could be an importance in its being stolen by the killer — if the killer had taken it because it was a gift from Mueller to Dineen.

  Under what circumstances had the gift been made? Maybe Mrs. Dineen could tell him that. Maybe she could tell him what other presents, if any — besides the dog collar and the clock — Mueller had given Dineen. Something could be concealed in an inkwell, if the inkwell had been made to conceal it. Or in a clock. Had there been any attempt to steal the clock? And what kind of a clock was it?

  He felt a vague excitement, as though he were touching the outer fringes of an answer. What time was it? Too late to go out to Queens this evening to talk to Mrs. Dineen?

  Hell, he should have gone out there anyway. Especially since he'd missed the funeral. He could still do it; express condolence, and then ease into the asking of a few questions.

  Was he sober enough yet? Well, he would be by the time he got there. It was only eight-thirty by his wrist watch. If he could catch a cab—

  One was coming and he flagged it. “Queensborough Bridge,” he told the driver. “I'll direct you after we cross it; I know how to get there, but not the address.”

  The cab cut over to Second Avenue and headed north toward the bridge. Tracy noticed that it slowed down once or twice without apparent reason. At Fortieth Street the driver turned east and then north on First Avenue. He turned west on Forty-second, and slowed down again.

  He turned around. “There's someone following us,” he said. His voice sounded a little scared. “I been making sure before I said anything.”

  Tracy swore. He'd forgotten Bates' warning about the tailing. Probably he'd been followed all evening — to Barney's and to Dotty's — Well, it didn't matter.

  “It's all right,” he said. “Let 'em follow.”

  “Not me, mister,” said the cabby. “I don't want no trouble, and I'm not being tailed out to Queens. You get another cab or take the subway or something.”

  Tracy sighed. “All right,” he said. “We're on Forty-second? Take me over to Broadway, then.”

  On the way he looked back out — of the window. Yes, there was the car, a Chevie sedan with two men in the front seat. Big men. Bates hadn't been kidding.

  He paid off his cab on the busiest corner in the world. And then, just out of cussedness, he steered an erratic course through the midevening crowd, ducked into the Astor bar and went on through it into the lobby and out another door, and through the crowd again.

  When he went down to the subway at the corner, he didn't even bother to look around to see if he was still being followed. One of the men would have had to park the car or stay with it, and if the other hadn't lost him in that jam, then he deserved a subway ride to Queens.

  But just the same, out of curiosity, he watched the other people who got on the train. None of them looked like a copper.

  And when only two women and an elderly drunk got off at the same stop as Tracy out in Queens, he was sure. He'd lost 'em at the Astor.

  He felt pretty sober now, as he walked through the quiet streets toward the Dineen house. He looked at his watch again; it was nine o'clock now; it would be about ten minutes after when he got there. He'd have to apologize and explain that he'd started earlier and had been delayed.

  And then he'd head for the nearest restaurant, if they had restaurants out here in Queens. He should have eaten sooner; with the liquor wearing off he was getting hungry as the devil. Let's see — this was the block. And it would be either the fourth or fifth house from the corner. He didn't remember which and they looked pretty much alike.

  He stopped in front of the fourth house, looking from it to the fifth and back again, trying to remember which it was. The time he'd been out here once before had been daytime; things looked different at night.

  The fourth house, though, was dark. There were lights on at the fifth. If it was the house in front of which he was standing, then nobody was home unless they'd gone to bed ungodly early.

  Might as well try the fifth, the lighted one. He got as far as the porch steps and saw that he didn't have to go any farther. This, definitely, wasn't the house. The porch and the door were different, and there wasn't any knocker on the door. He remembered admiring the antique brass knocker on the Dineen front door.

  Then the other house, the darkened one, was Dineen's, and he'd had his trip for nothing. He retraced his steps to the sidewalk. He looked in again at the Dineen house as he went past the walk leading back to it.

  He stopped walking, because there was a light there. A dim light at a downstairs window. It looked like it might be a flashlight. He stopped walking and watched.

  It was a flashlight. It moved, getting dimmer as whoever was holding it moved away from the front of the house. Then brighter, as he came back.

  Tracy stood there, wondering what he should do about it. It could be a burglar. Or it could be one of the family, using a flashlight because a fuse had blown out or something. No, not that. Surely, they'd have spare fuses and the flashlight would be in the cellar where the fuse box would be. Or the persons carrying the flashlight would be heading that way. The light showed again, briefly, and then vanished. A thought hit Tracy, hit him hard enough to shake him a bit. If there was a burglar in there, it wasn't any ordinary burglar. It would be the killer — the man who had already killed Walther Mueller, Arthur Dineen, and Frank Hrdlicka.

  And until now, until this moment, that figure had been an abstraction. Now it wasn't. Killer. A concrete word. Killer: one who kills. Not a nice word or a nice thought, alone at night. Tracy jerked back so he stood in the shadow of a tree between the sidewalk and the curb, and considered what he should do. Go in there?

  No, he wasn't crazy, no matter what Bates thought. Without a gun, against a killer who probably had one? Without even a flashlight? Nuts.

  There was only one logical, sensible thing to do — go to the lighted house next door and tell them to phone the police. This was a job for the cops, not for Bill Tracy.

  He thought, bitterly now, of his cleverness in getting rid of the two policemen who had been following him all evening. He'd give a thousand bucks right now for a sight of that Chevie sedan with two big coppers in it.

  He took a last look toward the Dineen house — there wasn't any light at all showing now — and started next door.

  Then, suddenly, he knew it was too late to phone for the police. It was too late to do anything, unless it was something foolish. For, in the quiet evening, he heard an unmistakable sound — the opening and closing of the outer door at the back of the house.