The set-up smelled phony, but I took the job anyway. You don’t say no to multi-millionaires...

The voice on the phone was precise. “Mr. Harold Stander?”

“Speaking,” I said.

“This is Mr. George Harbor, personal secretary to Mr. and Mrs. Joshua Wolfendon. Mrs. Wolfendon has asked me to engage you on a confidential matter. Are you available at the moment?”

“I’m available,” I said laconically. I had been available for some time. The private detective business is never very good in Miami, and it’s worse when you have to be temporarily careful to stay strictly within the law. I’d had a blunt warning from the Miami chief of police that one more step outside of it would lose my license, and I was being temporarily careful.

“Then Mrs. Wolfendon would like you to call at her home at exactly three P.M. today. Is that time suitable?”

It was an hour off, and the Wolfendons’ Miami Beach mansion was a forty-five-minute drive from my office. But you don’t say no to multi-millionaires. Joshua Wolfendon was chairman of the board of Wolfendon Plastics, which grosses some four hundred million a year.

I said, “I’ll be there.”

The Wolfendon home was big even by Miami-Beach standards. A uniformed maid answered the front door, led me through a front room resembling a hotel lobby, through a couple of others resembling ballrooms, and finally to a small, neatly-furnished study. George Harbor and Mrs. Wolfendon were in the study.

When the maid had moved off, I studied the two. The woman was about twenty-five, a lovely, delicate-featured blonde with the kind of body which made most other women look like slobs. I knew from newspaper accounts at the time of her Cinderella marriage three years before that she had been a photographer’s model in New York when she ran into Wolfendon.

George Harbor was a good-looking, well-muscled man of about thirty with jet-black hair and eyes to match. He looked me up and down too.

“You seem to have the physical qualifications, Mr. Stander,” he said finally. “What are you? About six three and two twenty?”

“About,” I said. “Physical qualifications for what?”

“Acting as a bodyguard.” Then he remembered he hadn’t performed introductions. “Marie, this is Mr. Harold Stander. Mrs. Wolfendon, Mr. Stander.”

I wondered at his familiar use of his employer’s first name. Later, when he referred to Mr. Wolfendon as Josh, I wondered still more. Still later I learned he was a first cousin of Joshua Wolfendon, and had more of the status of a family member than of an employee.

When Marie Wolfendon and I had murmured polite things to each other, Harbor said, “Show Mr. Stander the letters, Marie.”

Rising, she crossed the small room to a desk and removed two envelopes from a drawer. I couldn’t help admiring the graceful sway of her hips as she crossed the room. I wasn’t alone. George Harbor couldn’t help it either.

Returning, she handed me only one of the envelopes first. It was postmarked St. Louis and was addressed in crabbed longhand to Miss Marie Carling at a New York City address. There was no return address. I frowned when I noted the postmark date was three years old, but I didn’t comment. I withdrew the single sheet inside.

The letter, in the same crabbed handwriting, read:

I looked inquiringly at Marie Wolfendon.

“I got that just after Joshua’s and my engagement was announced in the newspapers,” she said. “It’s from a boy I used to go with in my home town of Washington, Missouri. His name is David Carr.”

“Show it to your future husband?” I asked.

She shook her blonde head. “I couldn’t. Not because I was afraid for him to know I’d had a high-school puppy-love affair, but because of the way David referred to him in the letter. I... I thought it might hurt his feelings.”

I knew what she meant. Josh Wolfendon had inherited his control of Wolfendon Plastics, and though he was chairman of the board, the only actual work he did was to preside at the annual stockholders’ meeting. Before his marriage, he’d spent most of his time in New York night clubs. The description was accurate enough to hurt, including the word “ancient.” He was double his wife’s age.

I grunted and looked pointedly at the second letter in her hand.

“Before I show you this other one, I want you to understand about David,” she said. “It wasn’t anything but a puppy-love affair. We broke up almost a year before I left Missouri for New York.”

When she paused, I asked, “Then why was he so upset about you marrying another man?”

“He never accepted the breakup. He made some awful scenes, including a suicide attempt on my front porch. He cut his wrists. He recovered and was committed to the state mental hospital. He was still there when I moved to New York. The next I heard from him was the letter you just read.”

“Do anything about the letter?” I asked.

“I didn’t report it to the police, if that’s what you mean. I wrote his folks in Washington, Missouri about it. They wrote back that he was just being dramatic, and to ignore it. They said that when he was released from the state mental hospital, his psychiatrist had told them he was emotionally immature, but perfectly sane and definitely not dangerous. I decided to take their advice and ignore the letter. I never heard from him again until this came in the morning mail.”

She handed me the second envelope, which was addressed, in the same crabbed handwriting as the first, to Mrs. Marie Wolfendon at her present address. The postmark was Miami and the date yesterday’s.

I slipped the letter from the envelope. It read:

Looking up from the letter, I said, “Have you reported this to the police yet?”

George Harbor said, “We don’t want any publicity, and if possible, we don’t want Josh disturbed by having to know about it. That’s why we called in a private detective.”

I looked at him so long, he reddened slightly. Then I said, “You have a slightly wrong slant on things. Private detectives are just supplements to the police, not substitutes. If I took this assignment without reporting the situation to the police, and Mrs. Wolfendon got killed despite my efforts, I’d lose my license before the funeral. Let’s get something straight right now. If I take this assignment, the police see those letters. I’d also suggest that you take Mr. Wolfendon into your confidence. He’s going to be a devil of a lot more upset if he learns about this from some cop who drops around to question him, instead of learning it from you.”

Marie Wolfendon said, “Oh,” and wrung her hands together.

George Harbor ruefully rubbed his nose. “I told you it would be best to tell Josh all about it, and call the police, Marie. Mr. Stander’s experienced in these things. We’d better take his advice.”

“Josh will be furious that I never told him about the first letter,” she said.

“He’ll get over it,” Harbor told her. “He might not if he found it out from some other source.”

We let her stew the matter over without further help from either of us. Finally she said in a small voice, “All right, if you both think it’s best. I’ll tell Josh as soon as he comes home.”

The decision made me feel better. A month previously I might have accepted the case on any basis she wanted. But temporarily I wasn’t doing anything at all which might offend, or even irritate the police.

I said, “Now let’s define exactly what you want to engage me for. Just as a bodyguard to keep constant watch over Mrs. Wolfendon, or as an investigator to track down David Carr and get him salted away?”

This brought on some discussion between her and Harbor. They finally decided they wanted some of both. The mansion was virtually impregnable, being equipped with burglar-proof screens in all windows and inside bolts on all doors. In addition it had a burglar alarm system. To top all this, everybody in the place, with the exception of a housekeeper and a maid who slept in, owned a gun and knew how to use it. Harbor said that pending apprehension of David Carr, he, Joshua Wolfendon and Mrs. Wolfendon would all sleep with pistols under their pillows.

It was therefore unnecessary for me to furnish bodyguard protection except when Marie Wolfendon wanted to leave the house. They decided that the rest of the time I could devote to trying to track down David Carr.

I said, “Will you give me a description of David Carr, please.”

“He’s just my age,” she said. “Twenty-five. He’s about six feet tall and weighs about a hundred sixty pounds. He’s rather thinly built, and stoops slightly. He has strawberry-blonde hair, worn long, and blue eyes. Of course this description is four years old, and he may have changed since then.”

“Got a picture of him?” I asked.

She shook her head.

As my client had no plans to leave the house any more that day, I arranged to show the next morning, and departed with the two letters. I took them straight to Miami Beach police headquarters.

I found Lieutenant Sam Curry going over reports in his cubbyhole of an office. At the moment I wasn’t in any better favor with the Miami Beach police than I was in the city, and I didn’t expect a friendly reception. I didn’t get one.

He looked up and growled, “What do you want?”

I handed him the two letters and told him about my conference with Marie Wolfendon and George Harbor. He thawed a little, but not much.

“What’s your angle?” he asked.

“Angle?”

“You don’t expect me to believe you’re interested in this for a mere body guarding fee, do you? Not after that smelly jewelry insurance deal you pulled. Or the equally smelly divorce evidences you have a habit of rigging.”

“Believe what you please,” I told him. “There’s no angle, and I’ve given you everything I know.”

Apparently he decided to believe me, with reservations. He rubbed a large hand over his crew-cut and scowled. “Got a description of this joker?” he asked.

I passed on the description Mrs. Wolfendon had given me, and forestalled his next question by telling him no pictures were available.

“We’ll send a man out to interview her,” he said. “Put out a want on David Carr. Stake out the Wolfendon home. Any other suggestions?”

“Might check with the Washington, Missouri, police,” I said. “He has folks there. Possibly they have his Miami address.”

“Yeah,” Curry said. “We’ll try it for size. Anything else you want to tell me?”

“Just that Mrs. Wolfendon wants her letters back. She wants to show them to her husband.”

The lieutenant frowned, but he let me have them back. However, he admonished me to hang onto them, as they’d be needed as evidence when and if David Carr was picked up.

The next morning I arrived at the Wolfendon home at nine sharp. The maid showed me into a dinette where Joshua Wolfendon and his wife were having breakfast. George Harbor wasn’t present.

Joshua Wolfendon was bronzed and still muscular at fifty, with a full head of graying hair and a relatively unlined face. He seemed a little petulant about being brought into his wife’s confidence at such a late date, but otherwise he was pleasant enough.

“Sit down, Mr. Stander,” he said after introductions. “Had breakfast?”

“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll just take coffee.”

He told the maid to bring me some coffee.

I gathered from the ensuing conversation that Marie had told him the whole story when he returned from a yacht race the previous afternoon. Apparently it upset him, but he had gotten over it, as George Harbor had predicted he would.

I learned that a police officer had interviewed Mrs. Wolfendon shortly after her husband had arrived home, and she had repeated the same story she told me. The officer had told them that the house would be kept under surveillance, and suggested that Mrs. Wolfendon go out as little as possible, even when accompanied by me as a bodyguard.

Wolfendon asked if I still had the letters, and I showed them to him. He scowled at the reference to himself as a notorious and ancient playboy, but made no comment. When he handed them back, I put them in my pocket.

“I think the arrangements you made with my wife yesterday are adequate, Stander,” he said. “With George and me in the house, there’s no point in your staying here nights. My room is right across the hall from Marie’s, and I could get to her in seconds if she yelled. I’m a dead shot with a pistol. As a matter of fact, Marie is, too. Taught her myself. And all of us will keep pistols in our rooms for the time being. Not that I think we’ll need them. It would take a professional burglar to get in this house.”

A phone bell sounded. Without getting up, Marie reached across to lift an extension phone from a wall nook near the table.

“Wolfendon residence,” she said.

Her husband and I could clearly hear the low-toned voice of the caller. “Marie?”

“Yes.”

“David, honey.”

Marie drew in her breath in a gasp.

“I’m coming to get you, Marie,” the voice droned on. “Not this minute, but soon. Don’t think you can escape by staying in that prison you live in. I can break any lock ever invented, and short any burglar alarm system there is. And don’t think the police you have around your house will protect you. I saw them there. I walked right past them an hour ago. I’ll walk right past them again when I come for you. Expect me.”

A click sounded and Marie slowly hung up the phone. “My God!” she said. “He really means to kill me.”

Before either Wolfendon or I could say anything, George Harbor burst into the kitchen. “I heard it,” he said excitedly. “Marie, I picked up the extension in my office at the same time you answered.”

Then he saw me and gave me a nervous nod of recognition. He turned to Wolfendon. “This Carr must be a maniac, Josh. Could you hear what he said?”

Wolfendon said, “I heard it.”

“Maybe he is a lock expert. Maybe he does know how to short the burglar alarm system. And maybe he could walk past the police. I think we’d better reconsider and have Stander move in here. There’s plenty of room.”

Wolfendon looked at me and I shrugged. He looked at his wife and she said in a low voice, “I think I’d feel safer. If David did manage to break in somehow, there’d be nobody to stop him until he got to the top of the stairs. Mr. Stander could sleep in the downstairs bedroom and act as a sort of first line of defense.”

Wolfendon looked back at me, and I said, “You’re paying the fee. I’ll play it any way you want. Only the first thing to do is report that phone call to the police.”

I rose, rounded the table to the phone and dialled police headquarters.

The rest of that day was uneventful. I drove back to my Miami apartment, packed a bag and returned to Miami Beach. I found the front door bolted when I got back. George Harbor peered at me through the thick glass before opening it. Obviously the phone call had brought on a maximum security effort.

They put me in a guest room on the first floor next to the servants’ quarters. Nothing happened all day except a phoned report from Lieutenant Curry that David Carr had still not been apprehended, but that an intensive search was underway for him.

We all retired at eleven P.M. Before going to bed I accompanied Joshua Wolfendon on a tour of the entire house while he inspected each window and each door bolt.

It didn’t seem very likely to me that, despite his boasts, David Carr would get into the house that night.

A ringing phone awakened me. I glanced at the luminous face of my watch, saw it was three A.M., and sleepily reached for the bedside phone before I realized I wasn’t in my own bed. Coincidentally the extension was in the same relative place that my own bedside phone is.

I put it to my ear just as Marie Wolfendon’s voice said, “Hello.”

I heard the click of still another extension phone being lifted, then a low voice rasped, “It’s not hello, Marie. It’s good-by.”

“David!” Marie gasped.

“Yeah, David, honey. Expect me. Expect me at any minute. I’m coming after you right now.”

The phone went silent. I continued to hear the sound of Marie’s breathing, then two clicks as two extension phones hung up.

Cradling my phone, I leaped from bed, groped for the bedlamp switch, pulled a robe over my pajamas and grabbed my gun. I didn’t bother with slippers.

A small night light in the upper hall furnished enough illumination for me to see my way up the stairs. I took them three at a time. At the top I found Joshua Wolfendon’s bedroom door open and Wolfendon, wearing only pajamas, in the act of reaching for the knob of his wife’s bedroom door. At the far end of the hall George Harbor was just coming from his room dressed in a robe. Both men had pistols in their hands.

I started to yell, “Hold it!” to Wolfendon, but it was too late. He already had the door open and stood framed in the darkened doorway, the dim glow of the nightlight in the hall silhouetting his form to his wife inside the room.

I sensed the tragic mistake that was going to happen, and braced myself against the roar of the shot even before it sounded. In the close confines of Marie’s bedroom it sounded like a cannon.

Josh Wolfendon went over backward like a falling timber. I didn’t have to move any nearer to see that he had died instantly. The slug caught him squarely in the center of the forehead and took along a section of skull as big as a tennis ball when it exited at the back of his head.

A dozen feet away George Harbor halted with his mouth gaping open.

Hugging the wall to one side of the door to Marie’s room, I called, “Hold your fire, Mrs. Wolfendon. Turn on your light.”

“Is he dead?” her voice came thinly.

“Yeah,” I said in a dry tone. “Turn on your light. I’m coming in.”

Light came up in the room and I cautiously stepped through the door. Marie was sitting up in bed in a filmy nightgown through which her flesh showed pinkly in the glow of the bedlamp. She held a snub-nosed thirty-eight in her hand. When she saw me, she let it drop to the bedspread.

“You sure he’s dead?” she asked fearfully.

“Certain,” I said. “Better put on a robe.”

She glanced down and became conscious of the filminess of her nightgown. Flushing, she pulled the sheet over her bosom. I picked a thin robe from the foot of her bed, tossed it to her and returned to the hall.

George Harbor was standing over his dead employer, looking down at him blankly. He glanced at me, his mouth still open.

“She thinks she shot David Carr,” I said. “I’ll let you handle the hysterics when she comes out. I’ll be phoning the police.”

I went into the dead man’s room to phone. Before I could dial, Marie stepped into the hall and went into the hysterics I had phophesied.

Stepping back to the doorway, I watched Harbor’s ineffectual efforts to quiet her screaming. I shouted over the racket. “Who’s the family doctor?”

It took two shouts to get the question to him. He said preoccupiedly, “Dr. Philip Hudson,” and returned to his back patting.

I phoned the doctor before I phoned the police. He got there first and had Marie back in bed under a sedative before the police arrived.

Lieutenant Sam Curry was the chief investigating officer. He talked to me first, and after hearing my account of events, he talked to George Harbor. It developed that Harbor had heard the phone conversation between David Carr and Marie too.

“Seems obvious it was just an unfortunate accident,” Curry said. “Damn shame, a thing like this happening. Wolfendon should have known his wife would be so upset after that call that she’d shoot when he opened the door.”

“He didn’t have time to think,” I said. “He was rushing to protect her.”

Curry said, “Well, there isn’t anything we can do tonight. The doc says she’s under a sedative and can’t be questioned. Not much point in questioning her anyway, since we know what happened. Have to eventually, of course, as a matter of routine. She’ll possibly even have to appear at an inquest. But that will be routine too. I’m convinced it was an accident. Any idea where that call came from?”

Harbor shook his head and I said, “No. But I’ll bet Carr never intended to make a try for her tonight. Or any other night, for that matter.”

The lieutenant raised his brows. “Why do you say that?”

“If he’s serious about killing her, why does he give advance warning? Tonight, for instance, he’d know his call would alert the whole house, plus the police outside. He’s a nut, but he can’t be that stupid. I think he’s just been trying to scare her pants off, and never intends to do anything else.”

He thought this over, finally said dubiously, “Maybe, but we’ll play it like he’s serious. I’m doubling the outside guard.”

“Get a reply back from Washington, Missouri yet?” I asked.

He nodded. “Early this evening. A long, chatty wire from the chief of police which boiled down to nothing. He verified the story of Carr’s confinement to the state mental hospital. Even knew about the threatening letter he sent Mrs. Wolfendon before she was married. His folks discussed it with him when she wrote them about it. But he has no idea where Carr is now. His folks died in an auto accident two years ago, and Carr was back for the funeral. Hasn’t been seen or heard from since. At the time he was playing in an orchestra in St. Louis. Played the clarinet.”

“Hmm,” I said. “Miami police co-operating in the search for Carr?”

“Yeah. If we don’t find him soon, I’m going to ask for a house-to-house search.”

It was nearly five by the time the body had been taken away and the police had left. Harbor and I made another check of the doors and windows and went back to bed.

The next morning Dr. Hudson dropped by with a nurse, gave Marie another sedative and told the nurse not to let anyone disturb the patient all day. George Harbor retired to his office to make funeral arrangements, and I sat around doing nothing.

At nine I phoned Lieutenant Curry and learned that David Carr was still at large.

At ten I decided to do at least something to justify my fee, and made a long-distance call to St. Louis. I called the Exeter Investigating Service and got hold of Carl Exeter himself.

“Harry Stander from Miami,” I told him. “Got a chore for you.”

“Fine,” he said. “Shoot.”

“I want a check on a man named David Carr, last known to be playing clarinet with a St. Louis orchestra about two years back.” I gave him the description. “At present he’s holed up somewhere in Miami or near by. See if you can track down some former associate who knows his address here.”

“That all you got on him?” Exeter asked. “You don’t know what orchestra he played with?”

“No,” I said. “I know it’s not much. I’m playing an outside chance.”

“Do the best I can,” Exeter said. “Where can I reach you?”

I gave him the Wolfendon telephone number.

At noon the housekeeper prepared some lunch for Harbor and me. The nurse took Marie’s lunch up to her room. Shortly afterward Lieutenant Sam Curry phoned to tell me the inquest was scheduled for the day after tomorrow and ask my opinion as to whether I thought Marie Wolfendon would be sufficiently recovered from shock to attend by then. I told him he’d have to ask Dr. Hudson.

At one P.M. Carl Exeter phoned me from St. Louis.

“This was an easy one,” he said. “All I had to do was phone police headquarters.”

“Oh? What’d you find out?”

“October sixth last. Just a little over a year ago. He committed suicide.”

“What?” I said. “You mean he’s dead?”

“Suicides usually are.”

“That can’t be,” I said slowly. “He’s been sending letters and making phone calls from Miami.”

“Not this guy. Name fits, description fits, and he played clarinet in a local night-club orchestra. Birthplace was Washington, Missouri.”

“What were the circumstances?” I asked.

“Blew his brains out. Left a note asking that a woman friend be informed of his death.”

“What woman friend?”

“Someone down your way. A Mrs. Marie Wolfendon. The police sent her a routine letter explaining his death.”

I didn’t say anything for a time. Then I said, “Thanks a lot. Send me your bill.”

After I hung up, I sat thinking for a long time. Then I rose, left the house without telling anyone and drove to Miami. I drove to the apartment of Professor Emertis Harlon Manners, who is a retired Miami University Professor, and knows as much about handwriting as anyone in the country.

It took the old man about ten minutes of study with a magnifying glass to come to a conclusion.

“It’s a good forgery,” he said. “But this second letter wasn’t written by the same person who wrote the first. I can show you in detail why, if you’re interested.”

“Never mind,” I told him. “I’ll take your word for it.”

Back at the Wolfendon mansion George Harbor met me at the door. “Where have you been?” he asked angrily. “You’re supposed to be protecting Marie.”

“Against what?” I inquired. “She’s not in any danger. Except possibly from the law. Let’s go talk to her.”

He followed me to the stairs, protesting, “Dr. Hudson said she’s not to be disturbed.”

I didn’t pay any attention to him. He followed me clear to her room door, still protesting. I gave the door a gentle knock.

When no one answered, I opened it and looked in. Marie was asleep on the bed, and the nurse was out of the room. I went in, held the door for Harbor to follow me, and closed it behind us. I touched Marie’s shoulder and her eyes popped open.

I took a chair and waved Harbor to another. He glared at me and remained standing.

“Suit yourself,” I said. “But you’ll take this better sitting down. This was a pretty cleverly executed murder.”

Marie’s eyes suddenly slitted and George Harbor’s face smoothed of all expression. “What are you talking about?” he said.

“The murder you and Marie engineered of her husband. It was a smart idea, getting me in as an impartial witness so that I could testify how the ‘accident’ happened. It wouldn’t have stood up nearly as well with only George to testify. Somebody might have guessed you were lovers and had made up the story.”

Neither said anything.

“I’ll spell it out for you so you can be sure I’m not just guessing,” I said. “Over a year ago Marie got word from the St. Louis police that David Carr had committed suicide. When the two of you decided to dispose of her husband, she got the brilliant idea of making use of that old crank letter he’d sent her three years before. She forged a second letter, or maybe you did, George, and sent it to herself. Then you called me in, ostensibly to protect her from Carr, but really to act as an unsuspecting witness to the ‘accident.’ You, George, were the voice on the phone. Both times.”

“You’re crazy,” he spat at me. “I was here in the house both times.”

“Sure,” I said. “You dialed the service number. Every exchange has a number you can dial which makes your own phone ring. It’s for the convenience of repair men and isn’t listed, but you can find out what it is easily enough. Any telephone repair man could tell you. You dialled the service number from one of the extensions, then disguised your voice.”

Harbor started to open his mouth, but Marie gestured him to silence. “What do you intend to do about it?” she asked coolly. “Inform the police?”

I shook my head. “Cut myself in, baby. How many millions do you inherit from Joshua? Twenty? Thirty? I’ll be easy on you. I’ll settle for one.”

“And if we say no?”

“Lieutenant Curry wants those two letters back for evidence, you know. It’s extremely unlikely he’d have the handwriting compared. Unless I suggested it. Once he did, you’re both finished. A comparison would prove the danger from David Carr was not only a myth, but a deliberate fraud. He wouldn’t stop then until he had you both in jail for murder. He’d find out just what happened to Carr, just as I found out, and discover you’d been informed of his death over a year ago. Then he’d dig for evidence that you two are lovers. I imagine he’d find some. You two didn’t come to the point of murder just looking at each other across the dinner table. There’ll be tourist-court owners who will be able to identify you as the couple who registered as man and wife on certain dates. And Curry will find them. He’ll build a case you couldn’t possibly beat.”

Marie looked at me silently for a long time. Then she said in a totally calm voice, “I don’t see anything we can do except agree to Mr. Stander’s terms, George. One million dollars. As soon as the estate is settled.”

She looked at him and a message of understanding passed between them. It was a message which meant, “We’ll agree now, and take care of him later. Just as we took care of Josh.”

I felt a little tingle along my spine. I hadn’t expected to make a million dollars in absolute safety. It was going to be a contest. Either I’d collect or die. But it was worth the risk. I was willing to keep one eye over my shoulder.

If I could manage to live I’d be a millionaire.

“My wife told me what you did,” Colby informed his partner. “Sit down and write out a suicide note...”

Colby tuned the record player down and went over and sat on the edge of the sofa where Lucy lay on her back, listening. Only a filter of dusk light came through the draped picture window, but she drew light to her like a jewel and her round, pert face was cleanly defined as he bent to kiss her forehead. When he sat up away from her he was aware of leaving the delicately scented cloud of warmth hovering over her body, and the air seemed chilly, flavorless. She blinked, waited, her dark, glossy eyes watching him. He mustn’t nag; she’d told him repeatedly she felt fine; she wasn’t sad, just serious.

“I... uh... just came to tell you I’m going to shower.”

“All right.”

He was reluctant to break the contact of his hip against the curve of her waist.

“You’re not ready to come in and start dressing for the dinner?”

“There’s time. Will you make it a little louder again?”

He returned gloomily to the bedroom. She usually frisked her delicious body around in scanties, tantalizing him beyond endurance, just for the pure hell of turning his logical theory into a shambles. Colby reasoned that because he was homely and dull and bound to be outshone socially by the other junior partners, he needed a certain edge of discontent, a crackle of excess energy. Therefore it would be unwise to make love, for he would feel too good afterward, and look stupidly smug. He had explained it once and Lucy had said: “If you’re all done talking you can start loving me, lover.” Which he had done. Since then there had been no discussion, and she simply went about the business of making herself irresistible. Colby stood feeling aimless and listened hopefully for the dance sound of her step. Maybe she was just teasing.

But there was nothing teasy about the big, pretty bedroom... no stray shoes, no disarray on her dressing table, no clutter on the chairs. In fact, for a week, the whole house had been tidy and subdued. He went in and turned on the shower and kicked off his slippers angrily. Her chaos exasperated him; but he was secretly proud of it, it gave him a sort of pleasantly wicked feel. Hell, he didn’t want her changed. He plodded, she flew. He only resisted her flightier impulses and emotionalism for her own protection. When he took her out he felt like the toad with the precious jewel on its head; she was the magic touch to his life. What hideous irony if instead of Lucy enlivening him he had ground her down to his own dismal, orderly level!

He tested the shower spray without getting in, then dried his hand, frowning. What kind of a man sulked around waiting to be seduced?

He shut off the music and knelt by the sofa. His hand felt coarse, thick, as he groped and found her softly graceful little hand.

“Baby... are you sure you’re all right...?”

“Vin, you promised to stop worrying about me. I’d tell you if anything was wrong, you know that.”

He suddenly yearned for the easy fluency he scorned in some of his colleagues. He was masterful at building solid cases but totally unable to present them in court.

“Lucy,” he began huskily, praying that the depth and sincerity of his feeling would force the words out. “I want you to know, Lucy...” Words, phrases, teemed profusely in his mind... but his tongue failed him, as always, as always... and this was why he was condemned to drone in the library and stay shunted into the background. “Lucy... I respect... adore... love...” he said, feeling an agony of unworthiness. “You’re everything worth anything... I’m nothing...”

She freed her hand, pressed her fingers to his lips. “I don’t like your forever criticizing yourself when you’re a million times better than you think.”

Something in her tone... not anger but impatience... made him cringe. How long before his contemptible unassertiveness turned a high-spirited girl’s sympathy to disgust? Maybe it had already happened. Abruptly, he stood on his knees and thrust his hands under her robed thighs and back. She pushed against him as he started to lift her on his arms, and he felt a run of tension through her slim, exciting body.

“What are you doing?... No... Please...”

His pulse quickened with the feel of her precious softness against the taut muscles of his arms and chest. He held her tight and got to his feet with her, an exultance of male strength flooding through him like a drug. She began to writhe and struggle and cry out in a sharp little voice.

“You’re hurting me... please...”

Entering the bedroom there was a bright glaze over his eyes. He neither knew nor cared if her struggle was genuine, the unaccustomed feel of it keened him wildly. She was holding her robe shut at the throat with one hand and pushing at him with the other, and she began to kick violently, exposing her legs to the knee, and one slipper flew off.

He lowered her to the bed. She clutched her robe and rolled frenziedly away from him. Colby moved with jungle-swift reflexes, pouncing as on a prey. He seized the arm nearest him and she gasped and lay as though felled, unresisting. He started across the bed toward her, releasing his hold on her arm. Abruptly she rolled herself clear off the bed, and scrambled to her feet.

“The light,” she said and started for the wall switch. He caught a flying corner of her robe, and felt it come off. He twisted his head, trying to glimpse her, but the light went off. He heard her returning to the bed, panting a little. “Darling,” she whispered, seating herself. “Darling...”

“Just a second...” He reached cautiously across and suddenly snapped on the bedlamp. Surprised, she tried to pull the overhang of the satin spread over her, while she stared at him.

He looked at her naked body in silent horror. Her upper arms were purpled with bruises; one soft breast was discolored with ugly marks as though crushed by the vicious grip of a hand; there were heavy slotches on her thighs and on the gentle round of her hip.

He felt suddenly paralyzed and so weak he could barely draw breath. Tenderness and revulsion gripped him alternately. He looked at her face without seeing her and then at the stamp of violence on her, saying nothing, his jaw dropped weakly open. He felt a little dizzy. His face had become very pale, his mouth chalk dry. He couldn’t say anything. She lay totally inert now, staring up at the ceiling. There was no sound in the room except the remote sizz of the forgotten shower. Her eyes welled and he saw the tears glide down her temple into the massed dark ringlets of hair, but she didn’t lift her hands. She just lay there, abused and shamed, crying silently, hopelessly and he wanted to cry with her and caress her and whisper his love, but there was a coldness in his breast, and he just waited, watching her.

She said nothing, nothing.

“Well?” he said finally. “Well?”

She didn’t even seem to hear. He got up, rammed into his robe and went to the kitchen where he poured some whisky. He brought it to her. She shook her head weakly, but he lifted her, made her drink. She coughed and pushed at the glass, then sat up crosslegged on the bed, her head down.

“It was last Thursday night. You were working on that brief. He came and got in...”

Colby blasted. “And you didn’t tell me, didn’t report it to the police. Did you get a good look? Lucy, Damn it... why did you try to hide this from me...” His guts clawed him and he stomped away from the bed, blindly, came back, his fists clenched as he stared grimly down at her crushed figure.

“The publicity... the scandal... what it would do to us, to your career, to have me dragged... dragged naked through the headlines...” She turned an anguished, pleading face up to him. “I thought I could bear it... save you from it... honest to God, Vin...” She caught his hand, tried to draw it to her face. He yanked away, then regretted it.

He petted her face, kissed it. “Sorry, baby. I know what you meant to do, and I love you for it. How did he get in?”

“I let him in. It wasn’t a stranger...” Her voice dropped so low he had to bend near and ask her to repeat. “It wasn’t... wasn’t a stranger?”

“Wasn’t a stranger?” he repeated stupidly.

“No. So of course I let him in. He’d been drinking, but I didn’t know how much. He made a pass. I slapped him. That made him worse, and I hit him harder and ran for the phone to call you, and he knocked it away, and I ran to the door and yelled at him to get out and he got mean... mean...”

“Who?” Colby said. “Who? He... He... He you say. WHO!”

“I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you,” she cried desperately. “But first let me tell you how and what happened, so you’ll believe me, and know that I did fight, that I didn’t want it to happen. He tortured and overpowered me...”

“That’s obvious to me. Why are you stalling... why have you been hiding it if there’s nothing guilty about it? Who?”

“He was scared afterward. He threatened. He stood over me for I don’t know how long, driving it into me what would happen if I let you know. He’d say it was an affair.”

“Affair!” Colby said contemptuously. “Bluff. I want Dr. Keech to look at you so he’ll be prepared to swear...”

“Wait. Listen to me. I did go to Dr. Keech, but he said he’d claim I required abuse from a lover...”

“It wasn’t the doctor who said that.”

“No, of course. You know who I mean...”

“That’s just what I don’t know.”

“Well... it was Windy. Windy Tearle. That’s who it was. I swear that’s who it was. I swear!”

“I believe you. Why overemphasize? Go on. Keep talking,” he said, turning away. He began to dress rapidly.

“If I let you know and you took him to court he would hire a psychiatrist to explain masochism, and Windy would swear that’s what I was. He’d bring friends in to claim they too had... had made love to me... or that I’d tried to get them. Windy said it was common knowledge that men flocked to me at parties, dinners, the country club... and for a better reason than my public charm. Vin, that’s a lie...”

“I know. Go on,” he said tightly, continued dressing.

“He said any jury would take one look at me and see a high-stepper, and one look at you and see... well, a not high-stepper... and they’d look at him and snort at the idea he would have to rape any woman...”

Colby nodded involuntarily. Windy was handsome, and the easy charm and magnetism that made him an effective trial lawyer made him damned attractive to women. Unwillingly Colby remembered Windy and Lucy dancing together... a very attractive team. Others had seen it; Colby himself had realized it.

“His defense would hammer on that point,” Lucy went on. “That I was a thrill-seeker... and he was the thrill, and that I had pestered him for months on end. He had resisted because he was your colleague, a junior partner in the same firm... he and you worked closely together on many cases, and he esteemed you and considered you friend, and I was, however desirable, off-limits. Then he’d say he just hadn’t been strong enough... he had been weak, weak, weak and human. He had had a rendezvous, then another, and my shocking passion had begun to scare him and he had wanted to break, but I had become venomous, threatening to blow both my husband’s and his career sky high, get us kicked out of the firm. He had lost his head and slapped me. It had... that slap, inflamed me and I had begged him to hit me harder... Then gradually I increased my requirements for pain, and he had been trapped in all that morbid ugliness, and scared that he himself might become perverted and begin to enjoy inflicting pain...”

Colby had seen Windy in Court often enough. He had an actor’s flair; he could shift from earnest, boyish tactics to deep solemnity with wholly convincing ease. He could seem as incapable of guile as an infant. Colby finished dressing with an air of deadly calm, but there was a cold sickness in his gut, and the insidious, unwelcome thought crept into his mind. He couldn’t stand it... he had to have it denied.

“Lucy...” He didn’t look at her. “If... I say if there was... were any truth to it... that a dull low-key bum like me was too slow, un-alive for a lovely, vital girl like you and the marriage left your hungers unsatisfied... if, I mean... and even though you loved me and pitied me and fought to remain loyal, but couldn’t... and if this wrongness in your life drove you somehow into wild cravings... cravings to punish yourself or to be punished, and consequently...” He stopped. She was silent. He turned, half expecting to see that she had thrown herself face down to weep. She sat there staring at him coldly.

“I only meant,” he flustered. “Don’t look that way, baby.” He went near and tried to touch her. She leaned away. “Lucy, I only wanted to say even if every lie of his was true I’d love you... I’d help you... get a psychiatrist... stand by you...”

“If you’re so close to believing him, imagine it all in a court. I see I was right in hiding it from you. He would smear me, make us so ugly and contemptible, drag me naked through the headlines so successfully we’d have to skulk out of town... even if he went to jail. Furthermore, if you’ll look in my vanity case on the closet shelf you’ll see a copy of the little document he prepared just in case you murdered him.”

There were three typewritten pages. Colby finished reading and sat looking drained. It was a sort of last testament, and it would be effective in court... maybe even effective enough to send Colby up for life. Even if he should be acquitted, Lucy would emerge smeared.

Lucy had got up and put on a slip. “Now you understand that we can do nothing, and why I concealed it.”

Colby nodded weakly, then heaved himself to his feet. He went to the closet, got his overcoat.

She sat on the edge of the bed and began to put on her nylons. “The best thing for us both is to forget it. I can.”

“I can’t,” he said, almost to himself.

“You must. It was worse for me, and if I can, you can. I did my best, Vin, to protect you from knowing... where are you going in your overcoat?”

“Out.”

She stood up. “I want to go to that dinner. I have a new gown... high at the throat, long-sleeved. Nobody need know.”

“He’d be there. He knows.”

“This dinner is part of our normal lives... part of our future. I need a future, Vin. I need it desperately now. Now please change your clothes. It’s important for us to be there tonight. You’ve worked too hard, succeeded too well in that firm to let anything... ANYTHING... stop you. We’ll go and I’ll face him down. He can’t make me skulk.”

Colby walked blindly to her dressing table. The blood was throbbing so hard in his head that his vision blurred with every beat of pulse. Abruptly, his hands spread, gathered jars, bottles. He hurled them smashing into the wall. He let out a harsh sound and swept the table top clean, then looked at the damage on the floor, clenching his fists.

His voice was gritty, low. “Work in the same firm with him? My God... My GOD... DAMN IT!...” He thrust his head at her, glaring and red-faced. “If he can intimidate us this way, what’s to stop him from doing it again... and again... and...”

She winced; clearly she hadn’t thought of that.

“I’m going for a walk. To think.”

He was quivering when the cold air hit him. He began to walk at a furious pace, thinking he might think of something. Some legal angle... some way of striking... but all he could think was kill kill kill...

He reached a through street, turned and strode swiftly along beside the speeding lanes of traffic. He came to a filling station, saw a cab company phone. He went to the phone, called a cab.

He entered the apartment building, pressed the buzzer beside the card of John Windham Tearle, picked up the lobby phone.

“Hel-lo...” Windy’s voice had a gay, half-tight lilt.

“Hi, Windy,” Colby said, surprised at the easy, untroubled sound he managed. “Listen, you know that Hastings business... I dug up a gem for you... a precedent our esteemed opponents never heard up... I’ll bring it up, now, if that’s o.k. It got me all excited. I’m late getting home to dress for the dinner, but I can spare a minute more.”

“You’re a pal, pally. Come right up. I dunno what I’d do without you, Vin, and that’s no crap. Furthermore, I let Mr. Mac know that I’m just a fancy mouth, and you’re the brains... just in case Vin, you ever think I want to hog the spotlight...”

“Ah, forget it, Windy... push the button...”

He crossed the small, silent lobby, pressed the button of the self-service elevator, feeling a cold calm. A click of sound from the shutting foyer door made him start and snap his head around. He frowned, realizing he was far, far from calm. The elevator door opened — he stepped inside — and closed. He jabbed at the “6” button, hit it clumsily at the edge. Yes, he was very far from calm... right over at the edge of fear. There was a heavy pulsing there in his upper stomach, a crowding of his diaphragm... he drew in a long breath of air. The elevator was coming to a stop he had a sick moment of pure objectivity. A mindless rage had driven him here. He’d eased the hell in him with raw images of himself beating Windy bloody and insensate, making him feel a little of the meaning of the pain and degradation and shame he’d subjected Lucy to, making him whimper cravenly for mercy, for the chance to tuck his tail and leave town.

But in fact Windy was more athletic; he outweighed and out-reached him. And a lifetime of easy successes had armored him with confidence so powerful that he had trouble even imagining defeat. How trite and true that nothing succeeded like success... no dark knowledge of many failures lay leaden in his guts to cripple his drive.

The elevator door opened. Colby moved out fast toward Windy’s door. If he hadn’t moved fast, he thought, loathing himself, he wouldn’t have moved at all. Then he saw Windy open his door and stand there with that big, winning smile of his, as confident as the gods. He owned the earth! What he wanted he used... whether it was another man’s brain to do his drudging for him... or the other man’s woman. And if a smile wasn’t enough he took by rape!

Then he saw the big smile shift subtly; the blue-gray eyes alerted. Colby knew he had signalled his own rage, putting Windy on guard, losing the little advantage of surprise. He’d planned to palsy along at least until he could get free of his overcoat. Windy, in slacks and T-shirt, had his arms free. His first came up and he danced back, feinting rapidly with his left as Colby came into the apartment in a slugging rush.

The smash of Colby’s first blow to the body was drained to a thump because Windy was going away, but his second hooked solidly into Windy’s ribs with force enough to drain the last of the arrogant bastard’s smile off his face. Colby crowded him, giving and taking gut blows, then Colby pistoned one up at his head, but Windy bobbed and took it in a graze along his cheek. Then Windy was away, to the side, and he landed a blow on Colby’s temple before he could turn. Colby swung a roundhouse, and knew at once it was wrong. He found himself offbalance, and wide open.

A blow caught him in the jaw, and another, another, and for a moment his vision swirled, and he had to grab and hold on in close quarters till his head cleared, then agony burst like fire in his guts as he felt the knee smash up into his groin. It came again, harder and an involuntary dry, puking sound came out of his throat. He turned, bent, holding himself, trying to get a second’s respite, then Windy was at his back, jerking his overcoat down, effectively binding his arms. Then Windy came around and slammed him full in the face, with left, right, left, following him around as he tried to turn, following him down as he backed and stumbled over an ottoman and crashed to the floor.

Windy’s lips were drawn back tight against his teeth in an ugly deadly expression as he leaned down. He kicked his head, then struck his face again with his fist. Colby felt the blood, knew his face was cut open, and one eyelid was twitching uncontrollably, and he could taste the saltiness and sliminess of blood and saliva in his mouth, and he knew his lip was open, but he barely felt the pain in his face under the overwhelming intensity of the pain in his groin.

He rolled and pawed out toward Windy’s legs to bring him down. But there was a slow-motion night-marishness about his action, a hopeless celerity to Windy who evaded him with ease.

Windy moved in at will to strike and kick viciously wherever he chose. Colby found all his force used up in protecting his groin, his head, stomach. He tried to get up three, four... he didn’t know how many times... and each time he was kicked sprawling, or battered down or flattened by the smash of Windy’s body on his back. Then he was slugged at the base of the skull and his face mashed to the floor and his senses bleared, darkened, and all the fight in him was turned against losing consciousness. He got his head up and his forearms under him and sucked air dizzingly into his lungs, and prepared himself for the mighty heave that would bring him miraculously storming to his feet... and then he saw Windy ahead and out of reach, watching him. Windy wasn’t angry or alert now. He looked almost playful, as if it wasn’t a fight any longer, just a victor and a vanquished... and that was the worst horror of all. Colby heard his own enraged roar come out of his throat sounding more like a sob as he willed himself up... and he was making it! making it!... he was halfway up... but then his leg was yanked from behind and he was being flopped helpless onto his back by a toe-hold. His free leg drove up at Windy’s head, but Windy was no longer there. Windy’s heel crushed down into the muscle of his bicep, then the barrage of blows started on his head...

“You had enough?”

Yes... no... never... never... never... The question came again, again, eternally, and Colby tried to remember the reason for this... Lucy... the thing that had happened to her... the reason he must never, never, never, NEVER submit... but she faded under the mounting pain, faded and vanished, and then there was only the pain and the craving in him to stop it at any cost...

He hadn’t spoken, he told himself, he hadn’t begged for mercy, he hadn’t broken... but the blows had stopped, and he knew he had said the words to stop them, and he could feel tears crawl down his face, cutting like fire as they touched the raw open injuries. He was sitting and Windy was standing looking down on him and Colby couldn’t raise his head. Then, Windy was helping him to his feet and for a sickening instant Colby was aware of a feeling of gratitude toward the son of a bitch and he wished he could die. Then Windy was standing in front of him, saying with a taunting pretense of sporty good-fellowship.

“Up and at ’em again, huh, Vin? Ready for round two! Throw one.” He cocked his fists, waited and grinned.

Colby just stood, dreading the thought of more pain, unable to lift his arms... or his head. He worked up some bloody saliva and forced himself to lift his head and stare at Windy. He was beaten, he told himself, but not intimidated, and he was still man enough to spit in his face... and then he knew he didn’t dare.

“O.K., then, pal. No more stomach for the sport...” Windy thrust out his hand, clasped Colby’s. “So we shake, and no hard feelings. And I’m always open for a return match. But, meantime, let’s get your face cleaned up and have a smoke and a drink. Now we’re calmed down, Vin, fercrissakes, maybe you can tell me why you come charging in here at me like a mad bull when I thought we were friends.”

Before his groggy senses could absorb what he’d said Windy moved away and returned with a double shot of whisky in a water glass.

“This is what you need, Vin,” Windy said with an air of concern.

It hurt his cut mouth but Colby drank it off, and after a few seconds it began to help. Windy was offering him a lighted cigarette and saying:

“Pal, you’re about the toughest customer I ever tangled with...”

Colby knew he was being patronized, but it felt better to accept it as a compliment.

“The only hell of it is, Vin, you’re a little rusty, and I’ve kept half-way in training ever since I used to box for Alma Mammy. Look, I want you to see Casey down at the City Club... you know the athletic director, and take some private boxing lessons. The main thing he’ll help you with is to stay cool... never go into a fight mad, Vin... and by the way, what the hell was it that got you riled at me? Hell, I thought you and me hit it off.”

Colby just stared. This son-of-a-gun was positively incredible. Not only was he carefully diminishing the sense of Colby’s humiliation, he was giving an entirely plausible picture of innocence.

“Lucy. She’s why... and you know it damned well!”

Windy’s eyes widened. “Lucy? What did I ever do to make her sic you on me...” He paused, narrowed his eyes. “Vin, you don’t mean you think I... I made a pass... at Lucy? At your wife... at the wife of my closest colleague and friend. No, you can’t mean that.”

Colby stared at him, feeling some of his certainty ebb.

“I do mean it. You raped her...” The simple word drove him like a fool and he smashed out at Windy’s arrogant face. He missed, stumbled... and Windy’s hands helped him regain balance.

“Please, Vin... don’t hate me, don’t be my enemy. This is a dreadful misunderstanding, if she thinks that... Lucy’s a wonderful girl, Vin, we all know that, but so romantic, and dramatic... and, don’t get sore again... and foolish. She goes farther than she realizes sometimes... I poked a guy’s mouth shut for him not two weeks ago, Vin, because she claimed... Well, it was a lie... that girl adores you, and she’d never let you down...”

“She’s bruised, hurt... she was raped...”

“We’re not going to be enemies, Vin. A woman is not going to come between us.” Windy clenched his fist. “I say she’s lying to you if she accuses me.” This fist, he was saying, says that she is the liar. “I want to be your friend, not your enemy, Vin.”

And I, Colby told himself, prefer to believe him. Because he is stronger. Colby turned brokenly and walked into Windy’s bedroom, thinking that he had found the way out. He had only to obey Windy and he wouldn’t get hurt any more. If he didn’t quite fully believe him now, he would convince himself in time. If Lucy had lied and betrayed him he could forgive her, and he would, in addition to winning Windy’s goodwill, managed also to keep his precious jewel. He wandered as though dazed, purposeless. Windy watched from a distance, his eyes wary. When Colby neared the bureau Windy moved swiftly toward him, and Colby knew he was right. Windy still kept his gun in that top bureau drawer.

Windy came flying and his hand dove into the opening drawer with Colby’s.

Colby got the gun. He rammed it into Windy’s gut and turned his bloodied face to Windy.

“You’re done!” he said. “You’re done!”

“Wait... use your head, Vin...”

“I know. If I kill you there’s a dead man’s statement waiting to smear Lucy and convict me. I read it. But I don’t give a damn, a damn, not now...”

“Please. Think! You can’t, you can’t shoot me down in cold blood... Vin, I had you beat; I could have come and got this gun and murdered you. You can’t murder either. Think! I’ll resign... leave town... Vin, are you hearing me?”

“You raped her. You smeared her. You called her a liar. You wanted to cow me into hating her, into living like a whipped cur... I’d rather die... but not before you do... Ask your God for mercy, not me!”

“I was drunk! I didn’t mean to, didn’t want to... so help me God I’d give my arm to wipe it out... Give me a chance to go, to run, run like the whipped cur, out of town... give me a chance... That paper I wrote. I’ll give you the original. Let me get it. We’ll burn it. As a sign of my intentions, the truth of them...”

He wavered. “Don’t stall...”

“It frees you to kill me. It puts me helpless at your mercy. It shows what I think of your integrity, your honor. Vin, for God’s sake...”

“Where is it...”

“Lockbox. Closet shelf.”

“Get it down. Move very carefully, Windy.”

“Yes, yes... I’m no fool...”

Minutes later the lockbox was down and open. Colby scanned the statement after Windy took it from its sealed envelope. It was the one Lucy had a copy of. Colby stared silently into Windy’s eyes, and asked:

“No other copies.”

“None.”

They went to the bathroom, wadded each sheet of paper and set it afire. Watching the fire and the shaky anxiety on Windy’s face Colby began to chill at the thought of killing in cold blood. Windy’s stall for time had worked. Something of his rage and hate had weakened under the look of Windy’s terror. It was not impossible to believe he did feel remorse... Gah! He began to despise himself for weakness. Windy was being either very clever or intensely sincere at the moment... too wise to say a word. He was letting Colby work it out in his own mind, letting him too realize the awesomeness of death.

“We’ll go into the phone. Dial my number. Then let me talk to Lucy.”

Windy nodded gravely, moved to comply. When Lucy answered Colby continued to cover Windy with the gun. “Sweetheart? I’m at Windy’s. Dress and come here as fast as you can, and bring my gun... don’t ARGUE with me... I’ve got his gun and I’ll kill him this instant if you... Windy, you tell her!” He pushed the handset at him.

“He means it! He’s got me covered. Do as he says.”

Colby replaced the handset, pointed to the small desk.

“Sit down. Get paper and pen. We’re both going to write suicide notes. Then we’re going to Tarleton Park. A gun for each of us. I don’t want you on my conscience the rest of my life. I haven’t the guts to just blow your brains out. You’ll have an equal chance to blow mine out.”

“A duel? You mean a duel?”

“Something like that?”

He saw the flicker of hope... and slyness... in Windy’s expression. “I knew you were a gentleman, Vin. This is the gentleman’s way. I know just the place, secluded. We stand back to back, walk ten paces, turn and fire.”

Colby nodded. “The only thing lacking will be seconds. We’ll be alone. Not even Lucy will be there.”

Windy sat at the desk and wrote the suicide note. Colby read it, nodded.

“Now you stand there, back to me, your hands up on the wall, while I write my note. Remember, I’ve still got the only gun.”

“Of course.”

Windy could scarcely conceal the lifting of his spirits. No fear of death in him now, Colby noted. Windy imagined that Colby was going to be the proper gentleman and march ten paces with his back turned, and Windy was counting on that turned back. If he hadn’t counted on it he would never have written the suicide note.

Colby finished his own note, let Windy read it. Then they sat across from each other, waiting for Lucy.

When she arrived he got rid of her as quickly as possibly.

Forty minutes later he and Windy got out of Windy’s car, and headed on foot to the isolated little green. Reaching it Colby emptied each gun of all but one cartridge.

“What’re you doing?”

“There’ll be a slight change in procedure. I wouldn’t want you to worry, Windy, that when you walked ten paces with your back turned I might turn and shoot you in the back.”

“You’re a cute son-of-a-gun, aren’t you?” Windy raged.

“Very. Now, you take my gun, I’ll take yours. I’ll put your gun to your temple, you’ll put my gun to mine. Then we’ll pull triggers... until one of the bullets comes under one of the hammers.”

Colby spun the chambers several times on each gun. He solemnly handed Windy his gun. Windy seized it and began to pull the trigger wildly as fast as he could, before Colby got the gun in his own hand up to Windy’s head. Windy ducked away from the feel of the muzzle the instant Colby placed the gun at his temple, and he struck out, trying to throw Colby off balance. There was an explosion that almost deafened him... Windy’s one bullet had gone wild. Windy yelled and fell, scrambling to get away, and Colby, with infinite patience, followed him down, holding the gun near his head, and pulling the trigger one, two, three, four... the revolver tugged at his arm as the bullet fired...

He crouched after awhile to make certain Windy was dead. Then he wiped Windy’s gun, tossed it down, pried his own gun free of Windy’s death grip and walked away.

His name was Welles, but it wasn’t. He came from Louisiana, but he didn’t. He looked like a bum — but he had a hundred and fifty grand in his pocket...

The night was thick and soggy with a threatened rain. He drove through the thick night down the coastal highway, going much faster than the law allowed, yet taking no chances and functioning with an instinctive cunning of which he was only partly aware. Approaching Long Beach, he eased up on the accelerator and went through the city like any other late driver going home. Only when the car had again nosed out on the open highway and was headed south toward San Diego did his foot sharply feed gas into the carburetor again.

No red light blinked behind him. No siren shrieked him to a stop. A little after midnight, thirty-five miles north of San Diego, he saw a house. It was a house that he had never seen before but he knew instinctively that it was empty. There were no lights in the windows. He turned the car into the drive.

A double garage was at the driveway’s end, and that was empty too. He forced it open with a tire iron, ran the car inside and shut the door. Then he climbed behind the wheel, let his head fall back and closed his eyes. For a while he rested.

For a little while.

But pictures formed in his mind, nebulous figures like gray, accusing ghosts. He shook his head, trying to rid himself of them. They pressed in closer. He sat up straight, opened the glove compartment, took out a pint of Scotch. He drank, the whiskey trickling over his chin. It warmed him, pushed the ghosts away. Presently he slept.

His head was throbbing when he awoke and there was nausea in his stomach and his mind. The ghosts were back again, and in the instant between sleep and waking he saw a woman’s face. Her reproachful eyes looked directly into his. He groaned, fell over on the seat and vomited. As suddenly as she had come the woman disappeared.

There were a couple of drinks left in the pint. He took a white pill from a bottle in his pocket and washed it down with whiskey. When his headache grew a little less intense he began acting in an orderly, decisive manner as though according to a pre-arranged plan. From the glove compartment he took a second pint and put it in his pocket. He felt his wallet but did not open it. He knew how much money it contained. He knew how much was pinned to the inside of his shirt. He opened the door at his side and climbed out of the car.

He started to leave the garage but turned back, unstrapped the car’s registration from the driving shaft. He unscrewed the license plate and took it with him when he went outside.

Inland, the sky was growing light. In another hour it would be dawn. He hurried to the road, walked quickly toward a cluster of lights a quarter of a mile away. The license plate he threw into a ditch.

The lights came from an all-night eatery. Three trucks were parked in front, two of them headed north. The third was headed south. He approached the cafe’s plate-glass window, cautiously looked inside. Three truck drivers drinking coffee at a counter. A languid fry cook with a toothpick in his mouth. He turned away, feeling a faint distaste.

The body of the southbound truck had high sideboards and a canvas top. He parted the canvas at the rear and crawled inside. The truck was not carrying a load. When his eyes had adjusted to the denser darkness, he made out an empty fruit crate. He sat on it, put his arms around his knees and held them tight. Gradually his trembling lessened. He opened the second pint and took a drink.

A screen door slammed and footsteps crunched toward him. He sat very still as the driver climbed into the cab. The motor started and the truck gave a sudden lurch ahead. Although he had been expecting that, it startled him. Then, as they reached the smooth bed of the highway, he settled back into a state of dull acceptance. He focused his eyes on the canvas sidewalls, watched them slowly grow light.

A limp, dark object dangled within his range of vision. Narrowing his eyes, he identified it as a suit of coveralls. Minutes passed before he removed it from its suspending hook. More time went by while he did nothing but sit quietly, holding it in his hands. Then he pulled the coveralls over his own clothes. He rubbed his hands on the floor and smeared his face with dirt. After that he sat and waited while the miles unwound and the dawn turned into morning.

The truck bumped over tracks. He parted the canvas and looked out. San Diego. Another quarter of an hour, at the first stop light... no, the second stop.

They stopped, went on for ten more minutes, stopped again. A quick look out the rear showed a deserted street. He dropped from the truck as it was getting under way again. He went quickly to the first corner, rounded it, and rounded two more before he slowed down.

The first used car lot that he found was closed. He entered a lunch room across the street and sat down in a booth.

“Coffee, black,” he told the waitress.

“Juice, eggs, Danish pastry?”

“Just coffee. Wait,” he said. “I’ll have one doughnut, please.”

The doughnut was stale, but the hot coffee gave him strength. He drank two cups. Meanwhile he watched the car lot and went through the pockets of both the coveralls and his own clothes.

His own pockets contained a wallet packed with bills of large denominations, plus a number of more readily negotiable smaller bills. There were also cigarettes, matches, keys, a driving license and the registration of the car he had left behind. That, with his whiskey and the bottle of pills, was the lot. In the coveralls he found a driving license and more cigarettes. The license was in the name of Peter Jarvis Welles — home address, Oxnard. He put it in the breast pocket of his coat. He also saved the two bottles, his money and the cigarettes. The other things he set before him in a little pile.

There was movement in the lot across the street. He picked up the things on the table and went out. He paused at the curb to shred his own papers into bits and drop them with his keys into a trash disposal can. He crossed to the used car lot and stopped before a last year’s Cadillac.

“Yes, sir?” It was a stocky, balding salesman. “Nice job.”

He grinned. “Ain’t for me, mister.” He had spoken to the waitress with no perceptible accent. Now he had an exaggerated southern drawl. “Just figured on something might hold together long enough to get me home.”

“Where’s home?”

“Pine Ridge, Louisiana. Just a little place.”

“Mister, I got just the car for you,” the salesman said.

An hour later he drove an old Pontiac off the lot. It rattled, and there was evidence that at one time it had been wrecked. But it ran, and it was registered in the name of Peter Jarvis Welles. He turned south on the Tia Juana road.

But only for about six blocks. Then something slowed him. Panic, combined with the same sure instinct that had governed his driving the night before. Suddenly he made a right turn, circled the block and sped back the way that he had come. When he left town three quarters of an hour later he was headed east toward the pass through the mountains, toward El Paso and Juarez.

Then for a week he disappeared.

Seven days later a man who identified himself as Peter Jarvis Welles applied for a tourist permit at the Mexican Information Service on the outskirts of Laredo, Texas. His identification was an Arizona automobile registration and a driving license from the same state. His home address was Yuma. The car he drove was a new Buick convertible and its rear end was packed with expensive luggage. He had five thousands dollars in cash and eight bank books showing deposits totalling over one hundred and forty-five thousand dollars. He intended, he said, to run down to Monterrey. Because of the rainy season, which would be coming along shortly, he didn’t think he would go farther. The permit was made out.

That was in the afternoon, and he checked in at a motel to kill time until the following morning. Some previous guest had left a newspaper on the closet shelf. He glanced at it casually.

The usual scare headlines. Two airliners had crashed. A boy had murdered his sleeping father with an axe. Police still wanted a man named Richard Hammet, described as a California chain-restaurant magnate. A picture of Hammet accompanied the story. He studied his own features for a moment before crumpling the paper, throwing it away.

Early in May at four-thirty in the morning he drove across the International Bridge to Nuevo Laredo. As dawn was breaking the Buick rolled out on the highway and started on its long trip south to the high mountains.

To the man who called himself Pete Welles, it was as though a thick miasma which had hovered over him for many days had lifted, leaving his mind and breathing free and clear. He turned on the radio. Mexican music blared from the loudspeaker. It was exhilarating. It sounded good.

The road descended from the mountains at last, the plateau was left behind. The last turn in the highway was just ahead. The Buick rounded it, coasting down hill, and there below was Acapulco. The houses were pink, yellow and vanilla white; the sea was blue, the setting sun was red. He drove through town and checked in at an unpretentious hotel on a hill overlooking the Pacific. His room had a view of a crescent shaped beach lined with cafes and magnificent hotels. Caleta Beach.

Pete looked down at the warm, white sand. It was evening, but tomorrow the sun would rise again and he could think of nothing he wanted more to do than to lie on that warm sand and forget. His nerves were ragged; he’d been on the run too long. He would crack up if he didn’t get some rest. He crossed to the dresser and studied his reflection in the mirror.

Except for a twitch in the left cheek, the face he saw could have belonged to anyone. The hair was brown, the nose was the usual straight nose. Scattered throughout the town there must be hundreds of Americans who looked like that.

He stood at the mirror, frowning, undecided. South of Acapulco was a remote village named Emancipación. In the rainy season only burros could struggle over the primitive road. He would be safe there until the rains had ended, but after that? Someone would be sure to talk about the eccentric foreigner. The news would spread.

But here in this resort town he could be just another American tourist. It shouldn’t be too hard to act like one. He would have to hole in somewhere, find a house. A hotel, any hotel, was too exposed and dangerous.

Suddenly he went to the door, ran downstairs and out to the car. When he returned a gun was in his pocket, a Smith & Wesson thirty-eight. He did not leave his room again that night, and when he fell into a restless sleep the revolver was on the table by his bed.

Mary...

He had been deeply in love with her when they had married. He’d worked hard for eight years to give her security and a home. So that today, coming home unexpectedly, he could see a familiar Cadillac on the drive, and hear Bob Cunningham talking in the living room.

He heard his partner’s voice the instant he opened the kitchen door. “Damn it, Mary — I don’t want to go! You know that. But what excuse could I give Ethel?”

He stood motionless and listened to her more softly voiced reply. “Is that important? Doesn’t it mean anything to you that I’ll be left here for six months — alone with Dick?” Silence, followed by a penetrating whisper. “Oh, for God’s sake — there’s his car!”

Maybe he still loved her, in a way. She could hurt him, certainly, if that is any proof. He opened the kitchen door again, and slammed it shut. He walked into the big front room that stretched the full length of the house. Mary sat in a window seat and Bob Cunningham stood facing her. They both turned.

“Forget something, darling?” Mary jumped up and came toward him. She was blonde with a complexion so clear it seemed translucent. She looked delicate and pliable, but so does a blacksnake whip.

“That’s right. Forgot the specifications for the new drive-in.” He crossed to the liquor cabinet. “Drink, Bob?”

“Why not?” His partner was a big man, an ex-athlete who had put on weight. He had a booming voice.

Mary frowned. “Liquor at ten in the morning?”

He looked at her expressionlessly, poured two drinks and handed one to Cunningham. “To you and Ethel, and your trip.”

Bob choked on the straight whiskey. “Doesn’t seem right, going off to Europe while you stay here and do my work. Well!” He shrugged, reaching into his pocket for an envelope. “Here’s that power of attorney. That’s why I came by — to drop it off.”

He opened the envelope and glanced at the paper it contained. “Looks okay.”

“What’s this power of attorney business?” Mary asked.

“Let Bob tell you.” Stairs led up to a narrow landing where the bedrooms were. He climbed them as Cunningham fumblingly explained.

“Well, I won’t be here to sign contracts and such for this new restaurant, so now Dick can do it for me. It’s legal and—”

Dick Hammet closed his bedroom door and leaned against it. Anger, too long repressed, tore loose in him. Oddly, it was triggered less by this evidence of Mary’s cheating than by Cunningham’s bungling explanation. The man was nothing but a stupid slob. It had been Dick’s brains and work that had prodded the firm of Cunningham & Hammet to success. Cunningham only shared in the profits and, it now appeared, in the favors of Dick’s wife.

He got a bottle from his dressing table, went into the bathroom, poured a drink. Swallowing, he remembered that Mary had once called him a bathroom drinker. Mary was right. She always was.

She had been right eight years ago when, before their marriage, she had introduced him to Cunningham and urged the two to go into partnership. It was a good deal, for her. Bob had just married an enormously wealthy woman. This business arrangement had kept him handy. Dick knew the restaurant business. She’d figured he would make out all right. He had. Cunningham & Hammet owned six drive-ins now.

His glass was empty. He slammed it against the wall. It broke and the pieces tinkled to the floor. Unconsciously he must have known of this affair between his partner and his wife for a long time, and unconsciously he had prepared for it. He had Cunningham’s power of attorney and knew exactly what he was going to do.

It was morning. Juanita brought him fruit juice, and he dressed in swimming trunks and a sports shirt. The padlock had been removed from the green gate when he went down to the car port. He backed out the convertible.

The road ran downhill toward the boulevard. Halfway down was the house he had noticed the day before. A man ran out of it and waved him to a stop.

“You’re an American, aren’t you? For God’s sake, keep your gate locked. Last night I was robbed for the third time in a month!”

He was like an excited, mammoth baby, fat and pink and bald. The infantile appearance was heightened by his lack of clothes. He was barefoot and wore only a pair of brief white shorts.

“Thieves everywhere! The lousy ladrones can steal the tongue out of your mouth!” His naked torso was half-inside the car. A horn tooted. A beer truck wanted to get by. The bald man called, “Un momentito!” and turned back.

“Where you from?”

“Arizona. That truck’s going to blast me off the road.” Pete nervously let in the clutch.

“How long you going to be in Acapulco?”

He stepped on the accelerator in reply. At the foot of the hill he turned right into the boulevard. He left the car in a parking lot at Caleta Beach. There was a line of cafes on the ocean side of the lot. He sat at a rickety table under a palm tree, and three waitresses in flowing skirts converged on him.

The first to reach the table was pretty in a bosomy, broad-hipped sort of way. “I talk you inglés, boy,” she said, and shrieked at the other waitresses. “Is mine! Largo de aqui! Go ’way!”

“Black coffee and toast, please.”

“No tostados, boy. You like tortillas?”

“Just coffee.”

“Okay, boy.” She left him alone with a swarm of flies.

The mosquitos were bad, too. He was ready to leave when the waitress returned with a thick cup. She put it in front of him and sat down herself. The day was hot and she did not use a deodorant.

“Chucha, me. Who you, boy?”

“Pete.” He sipped the coffee.

“Pete. Is pretty name. You think me pretty?”

“Gorgeous.”

“You talk me inglés so I talk good?”

“Sometime.” He put the money on the table and got up.

Chucha was surprised. “You no like coffee?”

“Changed my mind,” he said, and walked away.

Crossing the parking lot he looked back. Chucha still sat at the table. She was drinking the rejected coffee and staring moodily out to sea.

Then he noticed a cafe he had overlooked before. The walls were of bamboo, the roof was thatched. The interior looked dark and cool. A sign above the entrance read Tahiti Bar. He opened a half-door and stepped inside. Directly ahead was a flagged terrace. It was spotted with low tables around which only a few people lounged. Beyond the tables was an azure cove reached by a stretch of clean, white sand. More people were on the sand. Surfboards and kayaks were sprinkled over the water, and far out he saw the sails of a white yacht. There were no mosquitos and no flies.

He sat as close to the beach as he could get, and ordered toast and coffee. Both were hot and good. He killed time for an hour and watched the place fill up.

A man sat down beside him. “See you found my hangout.” It was the baldheaded man who had been robbed. “Bohemia,” he told the waiter, and looked at Pete. “Have one? Better beer than we get in the states.”

“No, thanks.” Pete braced himself against the questions sure to come.

They came and he answered them consistently. His home was in Yuma and he expected to be in Acapulco about three months. He was in the trucking business. That last, he thought, was a neat touch.

The fat man introduced himself as Jack Pascault. He knew everyone in town and was a self-admitted gossip. Pete listened to his mildly ribald stories for a while, then suddenly lost interest. His attention had been caught by a girl who was coming up the beach. She carried a straw mat and wore a dark blue swimming suit. She spread the mat on the sand and sat down not more than fifteen feet away.

Pete had never seen the girl before, but there was something familiar about her. She was slender, with lovely, long, brown legs. Her features were delicate and her fair hair, swept straight back from her forehead, was secured by a fillet of black ribbon.

Pascault was grinning. “Nice, isn’t she?” he said, and Pete found that he disliked him intensely. On the other hand, nothing so stamps a vacationing businessman as an amatory interest in a pretty girl.

“Very nice. Who is she?” he asked.

“Karen Brewer. That’s her aunt, the one with the musclebound Adonis in red trunks.”

He indicated a woman who had followed the blonde girl at a more leisurely pace. She had a forty-year-old face and an eighteen-year-old body, and she wore a yellow play suit puffed out at the hips. Her hair was short and unnaturally bronze. Her hand rested on the forearm of a sullen young man, but with no effect of clinging. She seemed to be steering him as though he were a rather stupid horse.

The young man was decorative, but not much else. He had a deep chest, small hips and thick, sloping shoulders. His light, curly hair looked as though it had been carefully set in the morning and expected to stay in place all day.

She dismissed him as they neared the terrace. “You’re still hungover, Andy. Go take a nap.” The young man scowled at her and went back the way that he had come. The woman saw Jack Pascault, climbed to the table and sat down.

“Hi, folks.” Her accent placed her as having come from Texas. “Scotch,” she told the waiter. She smiled at Pete. “Hello.” She had an unexpectedly youthful and attractive smile.

“Pete Welles, Fran Garvey.” Pascault called the waiter back. “Make that two Scotches.”

“Make it three,” Pete said.

Karen Brewer came up from the beach. She stood beside her aunt. “Do I rate a chair?”

Pete rose quickly and pulled one out for her.

Karen lay on a surfboard and studied the man she had just met. He was smiling up at her, his compact body half-in, half-out of the water. He was attractive, all right. A little nervous, perhaps. He had a funny twitch in his cheek and seemed to be under some kind of strain, but so are lots of men when they first come to Acapulco. They get cured. The sun baked the strain out of them, the sea washed it away.

Pete Welles. He was a widower; that had been one of the first things he had told her about himself. She had filed the information for possible future references. She smiled. It was amusing — the thought of keeping a file on eligible males.

“It’s not polite to laugh at a man who’s pushing you,” he told her. “Furthermore, you’re getting lazy. Time you had a swim.”

She lay on her side, one hand in the water. Shaking her head, — “Too tired” — she flicked a little water in his face.

“That’s disrespectful.” He tilted the board, let her slide into the sea. His arms encircled her as she went under the water. She let him hold her, let him lift her up...

Jack Pascault’s lower lip projected like a segment of ripe orange. It was late afternoon, and he sat with Pete on a stone wall above the bay. Below them some of the world’s most expert swimmers and water skiers were putting on an exhibition. Jack paid no attention. A girl had promised to meet him here, and had failed to keep her date.

Pete had watched impossible jumps, astounding acrobatics and a graceful water ballet. Now the feature attraction of the afternoon was coming up. It was a man who started off on a single ski. Pulled by a speed boat, he gingerly lifted his left foot from the ski and put it in the water. He was drawn for fifty yards like that; then, so quickly that it was impossible to see how it was done, he kicked the ski away and dropped his right foot, too. The crowd rose to applaud as he sped past, skiing on the soles of his bare feet. Pete rose with the others.

Jack got up, too, and stretched. “Let’s get some beer,” he said.

They made their way through the crowd and climbed to the clubhouse. There were tables on the veranda, and Fran Garvey was at one of them. She tried to catch Pete’s attention but he was purposely looking the other way.

Jack caught the small by-play. He got bottles from the bar and drew Pete inside out of sight. “That’s using your head. There are times when Fran’s a little too rich for the ordinary palate.”

“Thought she was a friend of yours.”

“I like her. I like butter, too, but a steady diet would harden my arteries.” Jack sucked at his bottle. “Got too much money, for one thing. She spends it collecting beautiful boy friends.”

“Such as the guy who was with her yesterday?”

Pascault nodded. “Andy Shultz. He’s about due to be replaced. Poor fellow’ll be on the beach without so much as a swan’s-down pillow on which to lay his curly head.”

“Tough.”

“Tougher than you know. Fran likes you. She’s got her eye on you for next in line.”

“Not in the market, thanks.” Pete drank his beer. “Where does Karen fit into that kind of set-up?”

“She’s just visiting. And looking for a husband, incidentally.”

Pete shrugged. “A husband should be easy for her to find.”

“Not in Acapulco. The men here, myself included, think in terms of less permanent arrangements. But Karen’s a romantic.” Pascault gave him a knowing grin. “Given to moonlight strolls along the beach. I’m fair. I tell you that much so we can get off to an even start.”

Pete stiffened. “Devoted a lot of study to her, haven’t you?”

“Why not? She’s worth a little spade work.” Pascault finished his bottle. “More beer?”

“No.”

“How about some Scotch?”

“No.” He said it brusquely.

“Hey!” The fat man frowned at him, surprised. “I didn’t know you were serious about the girl. Don’t get sore.”

“I’m not sore. I have a headache. For Christ’s sake, is that a crime?”

It was Pascault who was sore now. “It’s your head. I don’t give a damn if it falls off.”

He turned away, and Pete went out to his car. He drove to the Zocalo. Sitting outside a cafe he watched the sun go down. It was dark when the waiter brought his check. Paying it left him short of cash. His money, with only a small part of it converted into pesos, was hidden in an olla hanging on his bedroom wall. He returned to the house, took three hundred pesos from the olla and drove down the hill again. Passing the parking lot behind the Tahiti, he impulsively turned in.

The Tahiti was primarily a swimming club and closed at sunset, although the second-class cafe next door stayed open all night. Pete walked around to the ocean side. A full moon lay on the horizon like an ivory cue ball on a pool table. He sat on the sand and listened to jukebox music coming faintly from far away.

Presently a girl walked between him and the moon. It was Karen. She moved slowly, and after she had passed he could still make out her figure on the beach. She went to the end of it and turned back, walking higher on the sand. When she came near enough he saw that she was carrying her straw mat.

She spread the mat on the edge of the terrace and sat down. He didn’t move, and for a full half-minute she did not move either. Then she raised her hand to smooth a straying lock of hair, and it was a gesture he had often seen Mary make when he’d first loved her and been watchful of the slightest of her gestures. Mary was dead, but this girl—

He rose silently, and stepped around to stand in front of her. She looked up, startled. He caught her wrists, pulled her up and kissed her on the mouth. He did not mean to frighten or to hurt her. She fought him savagely, and he let her go.

“Karen,” he said, “I only—”

“What’s the matter with you? I think you must be crazy!”

“Now, wait!” He tried to catch her wrists again. “Wait a minute!”

But she was no longer there. She was down near the water, running, stumbling away from him across the sand.

He was running after her. She heard him and went faster. “Wait, damn it!” he shouted. “Stop!” She did not stop. They ran past stacked deck chairs and piled-up beach umbrellas. The lights of a hotel were coming near. He saw her push inside.

His head was pounding when he returned to the Tahiti. She had left her beach mat on the terrace. He carried it to his car. He opened the luggage compartment, tossed in the mat and started to lower the top again. When it was halfway down he stopped, abruptly pushed it up. The moon lit up the interior of the compartment. He was shocked by what he saw inside.

A paper bag from which the necks of four whiskey bottles protruded. It was the Scotch he had accused Martin of stealing, and which he was sure he remembered putting in the closet of his kitchen. He did nothing for a count of five.

Then he carefully withdrew one bottle, opened it with the corkscrew which was an attachment of his pocketknife, and took a deep, long drink. He waited a quarter of a minute, then lifted the bottle to his lips again.

Pain thudded through his forehead at regular, short intervals. It was blinding. He took another drink and climbed behind the wheel.

Footsteps approached the car. “No work tonight, boy. Is Domingo — Sunday. Is pretty, no — the automóvil?”

It was Chucha. He didn’t look at her. He held the bottle on his lap.

“You got whiskey? I like whiskey. Is more better as tequila. We go for ride in automóvil, drink whiskey, have good time?”

“No.”

“No? You loco. Good girl, me.”

He turned his head. He saw her foggily, as through a reddish mist.

“Loco?”

“Oh, yes! Why we no go for ride?”

Someone said, “Get in the car.” It sounded like his voice.

The beach lobby was deserted when Karen entered the hotel. Already she had recovered from the shock that Pete had given her, and which, now that she’d had time to consider it, turned out not to have been such a great shock after all.

She wondered why she had reacted so violently. Pete Welles had kissed her but, after all, she had clowned around with him on the surfboard, and he probably had thought—

It made no difference what he thought. Next time she saw him she would be polite but, at first, a little distant. What might develop later would depend on how he took the arms-length treatment.

She took the elevator to the lobby at street level. The wide entrance to the bar was on the right. Fran was in there with her usual crowd of free-loaders. Andy stood on the outskirts of the group. His eyes met Karen’s, and she quickly turned away. She went outside and stood under the porte-cochere, facing the boulevard.

A Buick convertible drove past. Pete Welles was at the wheel. A woman sat beside him, but Karen couldn’t see her face. The convertible passed under a street lamp, went on into the darkness on the other side.

For no reason she could understand, Karen suddenly felt shaken and alone. She went back thoughtfully into the crowded lobby of the hotel.

A man at the end of the bar was staring at him with an odd expression. Pete recognized him: Andy Shultz. Andy’s expression was more difficult to place. It was too detached to be called hatred, but it was deeper than the instinctive dislike one human being might feel for another at first sight. Andy must have seen him at the Tahiti with Fran Garvey. The damn fool probably thought he was interested in Fran.

The waiter served his steak. It looked delicious, red under a thin layer of charred black. He cut off a corner and tasted it. Perfectly seasoned. He started to take another bite.

Then he noticed that the noisy chatter at the bar had suddenly been silenced. Everyone was looking toward the door. Four heavily armed policemen had come in. The head waiter was talking to them; he shrugged and spread his hands. It was an expressive gesture, indicating that he was helpless if the police insisted on coming further but that it would do no good and that he would appreciate it if they went away.

To Pete’s intense relief they nodded and backed out. He took a drink and listened to the exited murmur that swelled up.

A man said, “Same damn cops stopped me on the road a while ago.”

The woman beside him lit a cigarette. “What do you expect? When there’s a murder—”

“So what? Another Mexican girl gets knifed by her boy friend.”

“But this was a particularly brutal murder. They say the blood—”

The woman’s voice fell to an inaudible whisper. Pete stared at his plate of meat. It was nauseating. He pushed himself to his feet. Andy grinned at him as he went out.

Pete leaned against his car, inhaling the clean night air. It had been hot in the night club. Cigarette smoke and the odor of food must have made his sick. He started for Acapulco, and a few minutes later three policemen flagged him down.

It was a road block. Two policemen remained beside it; a third approached the Buick.

“Your name?”

Pete fumbled for his tourist permit. The policeman only glanced at it. “Norteamericano? Pass,” he said.

The new padlock was on the gate. He undressed quickly, took the Smith & Wesson from its hiding place and laid it on the bedside table. He emptied the pockets of his slacks.

Everything, as was his habit, went into the small drawer of the bedside table. Keys, a handkerchief, his wallet and some change. He tossed the slacks on the adjoining twin bed, and emptied the breast pockets of his shirt.

Cigarettes and matches, and finally his pocketknife. That should not have been in the shirt pocket; it was much too heavy. He put the knife with his other belongings, and pulled down his bedclothes. He reached for the light.

But he didn’t click it off. He stood with his hand on the light switch for a moment, then turned back to the bed. There was a stain where his hand had touched the sheet. It was a dark stain, reddish brown. He looked down at his hand. After a long while, moving very slowly, he picked up his knife. He pried open its long blade.

Both blade and handle were sticky, smeared with a brown viscous fluid. The knife fell as memory spurted into his mind. Memory came back, not in a flood, but in a thin, hard intermittent stream...

He stopped by the roadside and opened the car door. “Come on. End of the line.”

“Why for you stop, boy?”

“You’ll see. Get out.”

She climbed from the car. The underbrush was thick. His knife was in the left-hand pocket of his slacks.

“You loco, boy. What we do here?”

“You’ll see.” The blade was sharp. He could feel its sharpness, shifting the knife to his right hand...

Nightmare.

The sheets were wet with perspiration. He knew he’d had a terrible and vivid dream but his waking mind rejected the details. He got up and went into the bathroom. By the angle of conjoining shade and sunlight he knew it was late.

The water in the shower was tepid. He still felt sweaty when he dried himself. A glass and a bottle of whiskey were on the floor. He poured a drink and choked it down.

It made him sick. He carried the bottle to the bathroom, put it in the shower stall out of sight.

The screen door opened and Pedro came in. “A man señor. He says to give you this.”

Pete took the card. On one side had been scrawled, “Party tonight. Come on over. Please?” The last word had been underlined. On the other side were printed directions for finding Fran Garvey’s house. Pete tossed the card on his dresser. He sat on the bed and stared at the drawer of the bedside table.

He did not open it. Last night he had dreamed of putting his knife in there. It had been a confused and frightening dream, and his memory of it was vague. Let it stay that way. There was something he didn’t want to remember about the knife.

The evening came at last. He lay on his bed, staring through darkness at the ceiling. There was a lizard on the wall. It would stay as lifeless as a broken twig until a mosquito came within striking distance. Then its long tongue would flick out and the mosquito would disappear. The lizard would make a chucking sound like laughter. Another lizard on the porch would chuck, chuck back at him.

It takes time to learn to live with lizards. Mexicans like them. They say they bring good luck. But suddenly Pete couldn’t stand the chucking another minute. He had to get out. He dressed and went down to the car port.

Fran Garvey lived in a huge house overlooking the bay. He drove the Buick up a steep hill and parked among approximately thirty other cars. It was a big and noisy party. He could hear it through the house, coming from somewhere on the other side.

He entered the house, passed an improvised bar and went out on the terrace. The lawn was crowded with Fran’s guests. Waiters circulated among them, collecting and refilling glasses. Beyond a swimming pool, four men in black trousers and pink silk shirts beat energetically on a marimba. Submerged lights glowed in the kidney shaped pool. On his right was a small guest house. He looked for Karen but could not find her. He walked toward the pool.

As he neared the guest house Andy Shultz came out of it. He passed in front of Pete and went to speak to Jack Pascault who was standing a few yards away. Pascault looked up, and saw Pete.

He frowned, said something in an undertone to Andy. Then he walked over to a middleaged couple at the far end of the pool. He spoke to them and went on to whisper to several others. Pete felt his face grow hot. He walked quickly toward the fat, baldheaded man.

The first couple fell silent as he passed. The same thing happened when he neared the second group. It seemed to him that all the people on the lawn had lowered their voices to one insinuating funneled whisper. Even the marimba music was subdued. His feet slowed to a stop. Everyone was staring at him. He could catch no one actually doing it, but there was a tingling sensation up and down his spine. He turned, retreated to the terrace, went inside the house.

He stood at the bar, glass in hand, and asked himself what the hell he was doing here, at a party where people talked about him and where he was obviously unwelcome. He set the glass down and walked to the front door. Someone called him but he didn’t answer. He was going somewhere. Maybe he was going home.

“You’re not leaving, are you, Pete?” a light voice asked.

He had already started down the steps. He stopped, turned back. Karen stood in the doorway. Light streamed past her, outlining her slim figure, touching her pale hair with bronze.

She came slowly to the steps. “I’d like to talk to you,” she said. “Provided you’re not... excitable, the way you were last night.”

He smiled. “If I do get excited I promise not to let it show.” Behind Karen, he saw Andy at the bar. Andy was watching. “Too many people at this party. Let’s go for a ride.”

She went with him to his car. He helped her in and walked around to climb behind the wheel. But he didn’t start the motor. He caught the clean scent of the perfume she was wearing. A cool breeze carried the tinkle of marimba music from the pool.

He put his arms around her and she did not resist. But when his kiss became demanding she pulled away.

“They can see us from the house.”

“Who cares?”

“I do. Andy’s on the porch.”

He released her. He sat studying her profile for a full quarter of a minute. Then he pushed the starter button. The motor sounded sullen as it caught.

Andy returned through the noisy room and went into the library at the far end. He picked up the telephone and told the long-distance operator that he wanted to speak to a man named Stewart Winslow in Beverly Hills, California. The operator said that she would call him back. He pushed a button on the desk. The door opened after a moment, and a man in a white jacket came in.

He was young and good-looking. His complexion was dark but his hair had been bleached light brown by the sun. All except one strip across the top which was peroxide blond. He stopped abruptly when he saw who had rung the bell.

Andy grinned. “Get me a drink, Eddie. Bourbon on the rocks.”

Eduardo nodded and went out. The door slammed, and Andy shrugged. He didn’t blame Eddie for hating him. If the circumstances had been reversed he would have been hated the young Mexican. But at present he was on the comfortable inside looking out. Looking out and back to what he had been in Beverly Hills less than a year before.

Broke. Things were so tough that he’d been forced to take a job as night counterman in one of the Cunningham & Hammet drive-ins. The manager was an easy-going sort. As long as Andy did his work he was left pretty much alone.

Cunningham never showed up in the place. The only time the going was likely to get rough was when Hammet would unexpectedly make the rounds. Then everybody had to look bright and eager and super-efficient, particularly when, as often happened, the boss was carrying a load.

Then there was no telling what might happen. Hammet got funny ideas when he was drinking. Like the night Andy had saved him from being run in by the cops...

Andy saw him when he parked, and sent a car hop back to warn the kitchen gang. Everything was going nice and smooth when Hammet came in and sat down at the counter, playing that worn-out incognito routine. The dipso thought that, because he didn’t know the people on his payroll they couldn’t possibly know him.

Andy brought the special hamburger that the cook had fixed, and served it with a little flourish. Hammet was potted, all right, but the only way you could tell it was by his eyes. The girl on the next stool was talking to him, and he was nodding and occasionally saying a word or two, the way you’d treat anybody who was trying to start a conversation, but he didn’t know what she was saying. He didn’t really know that she was there.

When it happened, it came so fast that seconds passed before Andy could piece it together. All of a sudden the boss looked hard at the girl. Then he hit her in the face. After that he took a sip of coffee. He went on eating his hamburger as though everything was perfectly all right.

The girl sat staring at him, her mouth open and her left eye getting red. Everybody else was staring at him, too. The cook came out of the kitchen to see what was going on. The girl got up and ran to the phone booth in the corner. She put in a dime and dialed, “O.”

Andy leaned over the counter. “Better get out of here,” he whispered. “Get out fast!”

“What are you talking about?” There was a stupid frown on the boss’s face.

“That girl you hit is calling the cops.”

“I hit—?” Hammet looked at the phone booth. “Why should I hit her? I never even saw—”

“Don’t ask me why. You only got a couple of minutes, Mr. Hammet. I’d go out through the window in the men’s room if I was you.”

Most of the crowd had vanished before the police arrived. The cops asked Andy what had happened. He told them that he hadn’t seen anything personally but that the guy they were looking for was probably in the men’s room. They looked in there but the room was empty and the window open.

The manager spoke to Andy as he was going to work the following night. “Sorry, fellow, but the head office called this afternoon. They’re cutting down expenses. You’re the last hired, so you’re the first to go.”

Andy’s smile was humorless. “And they tell you that hard work and loyalty to the boss is the way to get ahead.”

“Did he know you recognized him?”

“He couldn’t help but know it. I called him by name.”

The manager sighed. “Well, there’s your answer. Wouldn’t surprise me if we all got fired now, one by one...”

They called it Brewer’s Guided Tour, and laughed because that sounded funny. They laughed at a lot of things that night. They went to three night clubs, and danced and drank champagne. They had precisely the right amount of champagne to impart a glow to everything they saw and a febrile excitement to everything they heard. And some time after midnight they found themselves in the parking lot behind the Tahiti. The cafe next to it was open, but they passed it and pushed open the half-door of the Tahiti, and went inside. They sat on the terrace, their feet resting on the sand.

“Remember last night? I must have given you a bad scare,” he said. “Where did you go?”

“Into the hotel. And I wasn’t really scared. I saw you again.”

He frowned. “You did?”

“You drove past.” Their shoulders were touching and she felt him suddenly grow rigid. “What is it?”

“Nothing.” He lay back on the terrace, using his forearm as a pillow.

“Nothing?” She turned to face him. “Was she attractive?”

“Who?”

“The woman you were with?”

“I don’t remember any woman. I must have been drunk.”

There was silence between them. The tide was on the ebb. “You know what I’m thinking?” Karen said.

“Maybe.”

“About liquor.”

“Yeah.”

“We all drink too much. It isn’t a method of relaxing any more. It’s a way of life. And the next day we don’t remember half of what happened. Look at all the fun we lose.”

“I couldn’t agree with you more. That’s one of the reasons I’m going to cut it out.”

“You are? I’m glad,” she said.

He sat up and pulled her to him. “I’m going to tell you the truth.” His voice was low and utterly sincere. “There was a time when I needed liquor. It blunted all the jagged edges, and I used to be full of those. But I don’t need it any more. That’s finished. See—?” He kissed her. “Finished as of now.”

They lay back on the terrace, and Karen’s fingers were gentle on his cheek. A jukebox started to play next door. She shook her head and sat up straight.

“Know what I’d like to do? I’d like to take a swim.”

He laughed. “There’s a little village south of here — Emancipación. Wonderful beach, a few fishing boats — that’s all. If we leave now we can get there for breakfast.”

She looked away, said nothing for a moment. Then quietly she turned back. “All right.”

He got to his feet, elated. “I’ve never been there, but I feel as though I were going home. It’s where I was headed when I got side-tracked here in Acapulco.”

“I’ll have to change my clothes.”

“Of course. And get a swimming suit.” He took his money out and counted it. “Only a hundred and ten pesos. Have to get some more. We’ll pick up your stuff first.”

“And have you roped in by Fran?” She put her hands on his shoulders, pulled herself up. “I’d never pry you loose. I’ll take a taxi and meet you here.”

“Make it next door. Don’t want you waiting in the dark.”

They went through the half-door and back across the parking lot. Pete hailed a taxi on the boulevard. He helped her in.

“Half an hour be time enough?”

“Plenty.”

“Something I want to tell you, Karen.” He lowered his voice, leaning into the cab. “I’ve had a rough time lately. Give you the whole story one of these days. But I’m coming out of it now, thanks to you. I’m very grateful.”

She leaned over and kissed him on the lips.

The taxi made a U-turn on the boulevard. He got in his car and started up the hill. Coming in sight of his house, he saw that all the lights were burning, both upstairs and down. The green gate was standing open. He parked beside it, walked rapidly through the car port. He went even faster when he heard Juanita’s high-pitched voice. He rounded the corner near the stairs.

Pedro sat on his cot. Juanita stood above him, putting a bandage on his head. There was blood on the bandage and more blood on a towel on the floor. The old man saw Pete and tried to rise.

“Bandits, señor! They come when I am sleeping. Call the police!”

Juanita pushed him down. “Be still, viejo verde! Three ladrones, all giants,” she told Pete. “They hit my brave Pedro on the head.”

“Let me see.” He examined the cut. It was clean and not too deep. “I’ll take you to the hospital.”

“No hospital! Hospitals are where people go to die!”

Pete let it pass. The wound wasn’t serious; Juanita could attend to it. He ran upstairs and went into his bedroom. It was a wreck. Both beds were torn apart. Clothes had been removed from the dresser and the closet, and what had not been stolen was scattered on the floor. The broken remnants of the olla in which his money had been hidden were at his feet.

He thought dully that this had been the pattern of his life. A little happiness followed immediately by violent disruption. He stepped on a fragment of the olla, ground it into powder, turned away.

In the bathroom he found something the thieves had overlooked: the bottle of whiskey he had put in the shower stall. He took it back to the bedroom, drew the cork. But before he drank he went inside the closet, ran his fingers along the ledge above the door. The Smith & Wesson was in its hiding place. He stood with the revolver in one hand and the whiskey in the other. He took a drink and tried to plan what he should do.

The strong liquor ran screaming through his blood stream, reawakening all the alcohol he’d had before. He would have to meet Karen. If he scrimped like hell they could still make the trip. Tomorrow he would wire for money. Karen mustn’t be disappointed, but already he was disappointing her. He was drinking, although he hadn’t meant to drink. He would have to go now, keep his date.

He drank again. The ladrones had done a thorough job, all right. He wished he’d been here and that he’d had a chance to use the thirty-eight. Damned gun wasn’t much use now. Tossing it on the bed, he started for the door.

He stopped, and slowly turned around. He stared at the bedside table, walked to it and deliberately took hold of the handle of the drawer. He pulled it open, looked inside.

The drawer was empty but there were dark brown stains on the wood. He looked at the brown stains, and sat down on the bed.

The bottle was half-full. He held it for a long time to his lips.

The bottle was empty. He opened his hand and let it fall. It smashed on the floor but that didn’t make much difference. The floor was already littered with broken trash. He looked at his watch. More than an hour had passed. He got up, lurched out the door.

Five minutes later the Buick raced into the Tahiti parking lot. He jumped from the car, ran into the Mexican cafe. Karen wasn’t there. He hurried through the cafe and scanned the tables under the palm trees on the other side. He didn’t see her. He went back inside. Leaning against the bar, he ordered Scotch.

Someone put a fifty-centavo piece in the jukebox. The jangling music grated on his nerves. He slammed his empty glass down on the bar and told the barkeep that he wanted another drink but that it was too damned noisy here. He wanted it outside.

He lost his balance going through the door, and saved himself from a fall by catching at a chair. A girl was sitting in the chair, and he saw that it was Karen. He sat down heavily.

“Where you been? Looked all over. Came out here,” he said.

“I know. I spoke to you.”

“Didn’t hear you. Terrible thing happened. House was robbed.”

She was silent.

“Well, aren’t you going to say anything? I was robbed! Ladrones cleaned me out.”

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “What did they take?”

“Everything. Took my money. Took my knife.”

“Your what?”

“Knife!” He was shouting at her. “Bastards stole it. Stole it out of drawer. What’s the matter? Can’t you understand?”

A shapely brown arm came before his eyes. Attached to it was a woman’s hand. In the hand was a shot glass of Scotch. He looked up at the waitress. She smiled down at him.

You think me pretty, boy? We go for ride, drink whiskey, have good time?

He knocked over his chair as he got up. He fell against the table, spilled the Scotch. Chucha backed away, and with each step she changed a little. At a distance of two yards she was no longer Chucha. She was a waitress he had never seen before.

Karen had risen, too. She was staring at him. There was a beach bag on the table. She picked it up and walked away.

Last night he had reached dead end. He put his clothes on slowly, his fingers nervous with the buttons of his shirt. Fully dressed, he tried to reconstruct as much as he could of what had happened. The house had been burglarized. He had gone back to the beach cafe and talked to Karen. After that, a blank. He went down to the car port.

The Buick was parked nearly in the center. The gate was still open, and he saw that the padlock had been forced. With no preliminary warning, he began to shake. He went into the kitchen, got a bottle from the closet and carried it upstairs.

But he did not drink. He stood with the bottle in his hand, and after a moment put it in the bedroom closet on the shelf. It was eleven-thirty, the time when Karen was usually at the beach. He did not feel up to facing a lot of people, but there was a chance that she might be at home. He returned to the car port and drove to the nearest public phone.

Fran Garvey answered. “You as corpselike as I am?”

“I’m pretty dead. Is Karen there?”

“Hear you got took last night. Need any cash?”

“I’ll get by. Is Karen—?”

“She’s at Caleta. Just getting by’s no fun. Come on over?”

“I can’t right now.”

“Look, Pete,” she said. “Let’s stop this horsing around. I like you — know what I mean? Come on over, and let’s talk.”

“Sorry. I’ve got a lot of things to do.”

He hung up, drove to the post office to send a telegram, then went straight home. A police car was parked at the green gate. Pedro stood beside it talking to the driver. The driver hadn’t seen him yet, and Pete slammed on the brakes. His hands grew wet with perspiration as he tried desperately to think. His mind was frozen. He needed a drink to thaw it, start it functioning again...

Once when he was eight years old he had been awakened by the soft click of a closing latch. He was lying on the couch in the living room of his parents’ house. His father was asleep in the big chair across the room. He could see his father, and the bottle on the floor beside him, by the light of a street lamp through the window. His mother—

His mother was in the room, too. It was she who had clicked the latch shut and awakened him. She was not alone.

“Dead to the world,” he heard her whisper. “Didn’t I tell you, honey? Didn’t I tell you it’d be okay?”

The shadow of a man, a stranger with his hat on, showed against the dimly lighted window. “I ain’t so sure. Maybe we better—”

“He’s passed out, hon. Nothing to be scared of. Come on.”

“How about the kid?”

“Slept right through an earthquake once. Door’s over here, hon. Anyhow, the kid’s too young to know—”

He was not too young. He lay on the couch after they had gone into the bedroom, shivering. He stared through down-pressing gloom, telling himself it hadn’t happened, that what he’d seen and heard had been a dream. Across the room his father muttered in his sleep. The bottle beside him reflected the light from the street.

He got out of bed, tiptoed to the big chair. When he returned he had the bottle. It was sherry. He lay in bed and sucked the strong, sweet wine. It made him warm and comfortable. His body was so light it seemed to float. He giggled quietly.

In the morning everything was as it had been before. His mother was in the kitchen, his father in the bathroom. The bad things he had dreamed had been just that, parts of a bad dream. Everything was exactly as it had always been except that under his bedclothes he found an empty sherry bottle.

He got rid of that by putting it in the trash. Then the memory of it, too, assumed a misty quality. It had never happened...

Pete started the convertible and ran it into the car port. He climbed out, nodded stiffly to the police lieutenant on the porch. “Just a minute, please.” He went upstairs. When he came back he was smiling and at ease.

“Sorry to keep you waiting.”

“Mr. Welles, my name is Gomez. I must ask you a few questions.”

“Sit down, Lieutenant.”

Gomez sat on the far side of the table. He was about thirty, slender and with thin hands. “I have come to inquire why you did not report the robbery of last night.”

Pete took a chair opposite him. “How did you hear about it?”

“One learns these things. Is it true your house was robbed?”

“It’s true. My gardener—”

“Pedro was asleep when these men came. His identification would be worthless. His wife describes ten giants. And you?”

“They’d cleared out by the time I got home.”

“What did they steal?”

“A little money,” Pete said. “Some clothes. That’s all.”

“How much money?”

“Approximately five hundred pesos. Not a great deal.”

The policeman shrugged. “Not to you, perhaps. To many of my countrymen it represents two months hard work. This money was in pesos?”

“All pesos. Why?”

“A man was arrested this morning,” Gomez said. “A known thief. In his possession we found money. Hundred and five-hundred dollar United States bills. But that, of course, could not be yours.”

There was only the slightest hesitation before Pete shook his head. “Afraid not.”

Gomez produced a manila envelope. He held it upside down above the table. A pocket knife dropped out. “Did you ever see this before?”

Pete quietly said, “No.”

Without touching the knife the policeman scooped it back into the envelope. He got up briskly. “I thank you for your help.” He started for the car port, stopped, turned back.

“It now occurs to me that there is one thing more. It is in connection with the murder of a waitress.” “Yes?”

“Road blocks were established immediately after the body was discovered. All cars were stopped and their license numbers taken. One of them had an Arizona license, as yours does. I do not have the list—”

“As far as I know,” Pete said, “mine is the only Arizona car in town. And I was stopped by a road block.”

Gomez made a little bow. “You save me the trouble of a second visit. Where had you been before you were stopped?”

“Some night club. Couldn’t tell you its name. A blue building on the other side of town—”

“I know it well. How long had you been there?”

Pete frowned. “Quite some time. Long enough to order and eat dinner. This tied up in some way with that knife?”

“Who knows? The knife was found in the pocket of the thief. If the blood on it is of the same type as that of the young woman — then we have learned a little something, yes? Also there may be fingerprints.” Gomez bowed again. “Muchas gracias.”

“Por nada.” Pete watched him walk toward his car, hoping that the policeman would not look back. He was breathing heavily, and was in no condition to answer further questions. A shadow fell across the road. He looked up. A dark cloud had obscured the sun. Far away to the west, the sky was black. There was a rumble of distant thunder. The rainy season had begun.

The rain fell almost vertically at first, but at half-past two the wind rose and the heavy drops came slanting out of the Pacific and across Acapulco Bay from the southwest. The zócalo at three o’clock was an island in the middle of a lake. There were few cars on the streets. Pete jumped from the Buick and ran into a cafe. He called Karen from the telephone on the bar. It was the fourth time he had called.

A servant answered. “The señorita is no here.”

“Will she be there for dinner?”

“I don’t know. Tonight is dinner party at the house of Señor Pascault. You talk with the señora?”

He banged the telephone into its cradle. Two American women were sitting near him at the bar. As he walked toward the door, one of them let her handbag slip down on the floor. Pete stopped, looked at the bag and at the woman. Then he deliberately brushed it aside with his foot and went out in the rain.

He walked to the boulevard, entered a small cantina and ordered Scotch. “Bring the bottle.” An hour later, he was wandering up and down the sidewalk. His clothes were soaked and he couldn’t find his car. He stopped looking after a while, went into a grocery store and used the telephone.

He opened his eyes on a world of whispers that he could almost, but not quite understand. Wind and rain beat against the window. It was night. Getting up, he felt along the wall until he found a light switch, flicked it on.

He was naked and in a strange, elaborately furnished room. Women’s clothes were scattered about. He found his own clothes and put them on.

A woman’s slip was lying across a chair. He finished buttoning his shirt, not taking his eyes off the undergarment. He picked it up, methodically twisted it into a nylon rope. He looked at his watch before he went out into the storm. It was twenty after seven.

Passing the kidney-shaped pool, the wind blew him to a stop. He had to take shelter behind a palm. It was then that he realized that he was still holding the slip. He had meant, he thought, to leave it on the chair.

Thirty yards away a light flashed on. He looked through a window, and saw the woman. She came to the window, peered out, and disappeared. Lightning flashed as he took a forward step — and he saw with no particular surprise that he had left the palm tree far behind. He was crossing the terrace; french windows were directly ahead. There was a crack of thunder as he pushed them open and went in.

She was in the library. She was reading, and her back was turned. He crossed the room and raised the twisted slip. A rug muffled any sound he might have made. He took the final, cautious step—

And stopped, knowing with sudden certainty that he was being watched. He looked up. A young man with blondined hair and a white jacket stood in an open doorway.

“You want something, señor?”

Pete shook his head.

“On your feet again?” The woman looked over her shoulder, put down her magazine. “Eddie, get us a drink.”

The white jacketed young man backed out reluctantly.

She chuckled. “Still carrying a load, aren’t you? Thought you’d have slept it off by now.”

“How did I get here?”

“You telephoned me. Anyway, I got the call. I picked you up in the zócalo. Passed up a dinner date to do it, too. Hey—!” she said. “You’re twisting hell out of my slip.”

He looked down at his hands and saw the nylon rope. He threw it in her lap. The blond Mexican came back with a loaded tray. He left immediately, and the woman mixed two drinks. She offered one to Pete. He shook his head.

“Go on. You picked me up. What happened after that?”

She grinned. “Forgotten? Gallantry’s certainly not your strong point, dear.” Still grinning, she got up and strolled toward him. “This storm will wear itself out by morning. You might as well stay here. Take Andy’s house.” She pressed against him, put her arms around his neck. “He’s moving out.”

“I’m going now.” He pushed her away.

She looked uncertainly into his eyes. For an instant she seemed puzzled. Then she gasped. “Yes,” she said quickly. “You get out of here!”

He turned and walked out of the room.

The young Mexican was standing within two feet of the front door. He made no move to open it. Pete did that himself. Until the door had been firmly closed behind him he felt the servant’s eyes penetratingly on his back.

Rain stung his face as he followed the driveway to the gate. On the boulevard he hailed a taxi. His car was where he had parked it in the afternoon.

He walked past the car and into the cantina where he had been earlier. He had two quick drinks and used the telephone.

Karen caught Jack Pascault’s signal. She broke away from the people she was talking to and went toward him.

“It’s that weird friend of yours, Pete Welles.” He indicated the phone.

“Thanks.” Frowning, she crossed to it and picked it up. “Yes?”

“That’s impossible,” she said, a moment later. “I can’t just leave—” She lowered her voice. “That’s an odd way of putting it. Why so melodramatic?” She shrugged, presently. “Oh, all right — if you insist.”

She hung up. No one was looking at her. She got her raincoat, let herself out and waited on the porch. The storm had grown more violent, and she wondered if she were doing the right thing. Right thing or not, she was doing what she had to do. Something in Pete’s voice had told her that he needed help.

The headlights of a car came up the road. She ran out and climbed into the Buick. The windshield was a solid sheet of rain.

“Know someplace where it’s dry?” she asked. “Let’s go there fast.”

He didn’t look at her. “We’re going home.” The Buick jumped ahead. He drove carefully and stopped before a gate. An old man came running to prop it open. Pete drove into a car port.

“Wait here,” he said. He left the car and spoke in an undertone to the servant. Karen moved over on the seat.

“Tell Juanita to bring two breakfasts in the morning,” she heard Pete saying. “You sleep in your own quarters tonight.”

He returned to the car. “Come on.” Karen got out and found herself standing on an open, unprotected porch. The wind had torn the awning into shreds. He guided her to a partly sheltered stairway.

“Up here.”

“Let’s get one thing straight,” she told him. “About those breakfasts—”

He wasn’t listening. “Upstairs, my dear.” He took her by the shoulders, turned her to face the steps.

She climbed reluctantly. She had the feeling that, if she’d refused, he would have forced her to do it anyway. He seemed sober, but there was something wrong. The awning on the upstairs porch was still intact, bulging in like a full sail. Wind and rain spilled through at the corners. He steered her to a door. It banged open when he turned the knob. He steadied her through the doorway and pushed the door shut. She heard him grope along the wall.

Light flashed on, disclosing a bedroom with twin beds. It had the look of a room not currently in use. Karen leaned against the wall, raincoat dripping, hair tumbled over her forehead.

He touched her hair. “You’re wet, Mary. I’ll get a towel.”

“Oh, that’s all right—”

“It’s not. I must take care of you,” he said.

He went into a bathroom, came back with a towel. She let him unzip the raincoat, slip it off. She sat on one of the beds and dried her hair. He stood above her, silent and motionless. She put the towel aside, smiled up at him. The smile faded. Panic gripped her like steel claw when she saw his face.

Before she could speak, a gust of wind tore the awning loose out on the porch. Its wooden frame crashed through a nearby window. There was a tinkling fall of glass.

He said softly, “It was in the other bedroom, Mary. We’re safe. Nothing can hurt us here.”

She was still staring at his face. Something had happened to it. It seemed shrunken and had turned a leaden gray — and it was unnaturally calm, expressionless. She saw all this before she reacted to the name that he had called her.

“Who is Mary?” She got up nervously. “Is this a joke of some kind? I don’t think it’s funny. Frankly, I don’t understand—”

He smiled, but it was less smile than mechanical grimace. “Of course you don’t.” He came toward her slowly. “You’re tired. I’ll explain it later. After you’ve rested for a while.”

“I don’t want to rest! I want to get out of here!” She backed away, between the beds. “I’m not Mary, Pete. I’m Karen. Please don’t touch me. Please—!”

His hands closed on her arms. His lifeless face swooped down on her. It was the only thing that she could see.

“Don’t look at me like that!” he muttered. “For your own sake — don’t!”

“I won’t. I promise.” She looked over his shoulder. She turned her eyes anywhere except straight ahead.

His hands relaxed a little. “You’re shivering, dear.”

“I’m cold. I’m very cold. Get me — get me a blanket.”

He stripped the cover from a bed. Under the cover there was nothing but a mattress. He looked at the mattress as though he didn’t understand. “No blankets here,” he said.

“Then get me one. Get something. Don’t you see how cold I am?”

He studied her. The pupils in his eyes had shrunk to mesmerizing points. “I couldn’t do that.” His voice was high and crafty. “You might go away.”

“Why should I?” She forced a smile. She willed her hand to reach out and touch his.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know why you went away before. Don’t make me look for you again. I’d find you, Mary. You know that.”

She nodded. “Yes. Now please get me a coat.”

“All right.” He raised her hand and kissed it. “There’s nothing to be afraid of any more. You’ve had a hard time, but you’re home.” Again his lips made that mechanical grimace. “I’ll get my bathrobe. It’s in the other room.”

Wind plastered him against the wall as he made his way along the porch. He left the door of his bedroom open. Rain came through it and through the broken window. He turned on the light.

The bathrobe was in his closet. There was a bottle of whiskey on the shelf. He got a glass and poured a drink. He was raising the glass when all the lights went out.

The voice spoke to him from the darkness. For why you kill me, boy?

“Go away,” he said aloud.

You talk me pretty. You say we go for ride.

“Go away. Go away!”

I no do nothings, boy. For why I’m dead?

“Mary!” he shouted, and ran out on the porch.

The other bedroom door was open. The lights flashed on for an instant as he ran in. Just long enough for him to see that there was no one in the room. He stumbled down the stairs. He got in the Buick, backed up and raced downhill.

The lights gave him a wide radius for searching. Halfway to Pascault’s house, he thought he saw her running far ahead. The convertible’s reckless speed increased. It hit a chuckhole, bounced, and something cracked. The side of the road moved over in slow motion. It seemed minutes between the time when he saw the concrete wall and knew that he was going to crash, and the time when he actually did.

Consciousness returned slowly. He thought at first that he had gone to sleep one night and awakened on another, entirely different period of darkness. He did not know where he was or in what way this particular night was different. It came back to him in snatches.

The storm had passed. Trees dripped wetness but otherwise the night was still. He rested a few minutes before climbing out. Reflected light burned steadily in the sky. The city’s generator had been repaired. As he climbed back toward his house a taxi jolted past. It was headed for the boulevard. Then he saw lights ahead, and saw a shadow cross the window of his second bedroom. He started to run. She hadn’t left him, after all.

He ran through the gate and up the stairs. He started calling from the bottom step. His heart was pounding when he reached the top. He had to lean for an instant against the wall.

A hard object jabbed him in the back. “It’s a gun,” a man said. “Walk ahead of me into the bedroom, Hammet. Make it slow.”

He looked back over his shoulder as he walked to the second bedroom. The man was tall and handsome with light curly hair. He had seen him before. Vaguely he even remembered his name.

It was Andy... something. Andy Shultz.

He wore a blue shirt open at the neck, sandals and beige slacks. He held the gun in his right hand, more relaxed now than he had been at first, and sat on the bed where Karen had sat earlier that night.

Karen? Dick Hammet frowned. Mary? He wasn’t sure. There were a lot of things about which he was confused. On the floor between them was a bottle and two glasses. There wasn’t much left in the bottle. That was all right; there was another one downstairs. He picked it up.

“Drink?”

Andy nodded. “But take it easy.” He waited until both drinks were poured. “So about it, Hammet? Let’s get this over with.”

“Let’s do that.” He listened to his own voice, surprised that it should sound so high and thin.

“Fifty thousand. I could ask for more and get it, but I’d rather play it safe. Give me the fifty and you won’t see me again.”

He was silent, thinking. The rain had stopped. It would be pleasant in the morning, in Emancipación.

Andy was talking again. He seemed angry. “...pay attention or you’ll force me to get tough. You want me to tell the cops your right name, and what happened to your wife?”

Dislike for the handsome man was growing in him rapidly. “Have you noticed how still it is after the rain?”

“Oh, for God’s sake—”

“It’s more than still. It’s deathlike.” The bottle was beside him on the floor. His right hand closed around its neck.

“Okay, okay.” Andy leaned forward. He sat on the edge of the bed, the gun held negligently. “Come off it, will you? Now listen. I’m going to tell—”

Maybe he didn’t realize what Dick was doing. Maybe he thought that Dick was only going to pour another drink. The bottle splintered over his head before he finished the sentence. He continued leaning forward for a moment before crumpling to the floor.

The sunshine streaming through the window was golden bright. There was a churchbell ringing and music was playing somewhere, as it always was. The bottle on the bedside table was still half-full, and he was warm and comfortable. He swung his feet to the floor and wondered why his Smith & Wesson was lying beside the bottle. He did not remember having put it there. He didn’t need a gun. The night’s bad dreams had ended with the night, and it was day.

It was a day like any other day. Downstairs he could hear Juanita in the kitchen. The lizard was on the wall again and chuckling. Mexicans say that lizards bring good luck.

“Wish me luck,” he said aloud. “Wish Karen and me the best of luck.”

The lizard shot its long tongue out and wished him luck.

Nothing had happened. Everything was as it had been before, would always be. Juanita would bring up Karen’s breakfast pretty soon, and then bring his. He would carry his tray to Karen’s room. They would have breakfast together. Afterwards they would drive south to Emancipación. He hoped the road wouldn’t be too bad after the storm. If there had been a storm.

Juanita was coming up the stairs. He must remember to leave her a little something extra when they went. For her and Pedro. He could hear her on the porch now, plodding toward Karen’s bedroom. She was opening the door.

The car needed a grease job, but that wouldn’t take too long. They ought to make Emancipación in time for lunch. Why had he put the revolver on the bedside table? He picked it up. He was looking at it when Juanita screamed.

A few seconds later her continued screams were drowned out by a loud explosion. He heard it only faintly. It was as though a door had been closed in a remote section of the house. His body was so light. It seemed to him that he was floating even as he fell.