Pearls Are Tears
by Frederick Nebel

DONAHUE came in with his ulster open, the collar negligently turned up. A snap-brim tan felt leaned over one ear. He elbowed the door shut and stood for a moment leaning against it, a droll half-smile hovering on his wide, good-humored mouth.

“Your humble servant, Mike,” he said.

Mueck moved forward in the carved mahogany chair and laid smooth white hands on the green desk blotter, palms down, fingers splayed. He bowed with his blond leonine head; his gray eyes twinkled; he lifted one side of his mouth in a sly, jovial leer.

“Same old Donny.”

“Same old Mike, only”--Donahue looked around--“considerably more prosperous.” He dropped into a chair facing Mueck, lit a cigarette, blew smoke towards the ceiling. “Well, counselor?”

Mueck was a striking figure of a man, even while sitting. With his fingers clasped, he rubbed the heels of his hands slowly together, regarded Donahue with a bland look.

“I didn't want to speak too much with Hinkle over the phone,” he said. “It's a delicate matter. For me.”

“How much is in it?”

“Five hundred.”

“For you and us?”

Mueck shook his head. “I get nothing, Donny.”

Donahue scoffed with his brown eyes.

“Honest,” Mueck insisted quietly.

The two men eyed each Other steadily. Then Donahue shrugged and gushed smoke through his nostrils.

“All right, Mike.”

“You've got to believe me in that, Donny. You know, or ought to know, that I've always been on the level with you. I asked Hinkle to send you over because I believe I can depend on you--implicitly.”

“What's troubling you, Mike?”

“Do you remember the Jennifer jewel theft--six months ago?”

“That old eccentric dame who lost her fifty-thousand-dollar necklace?”

“Yes. But stolen. Not just lost. Well, Mrs. Jennifer happens to be a client of mine. She had me come over last night. She was, well, all of a-twitter.” Mueck picked up a pencil. “She has a chance of recovering that necklace--for twenty thousand dollars. She's a paralytic, you know; never goes out of the house. A man called her up last night, offered to return the necklace for the sum I mentioned--and no questions asked.”

“Why don't you throw it to the cops, Mike?”

“Damn it, I wanted to, Donny! I talked myself blue in the face trying to dissuade her. But, no. The necklace has a great sentimental value. She is willing to pay the twenty thousand. The man who telephoned her wanted to make a rendezvous with her. Of course, she can't go out. She . told him to come to the house. He wouldn't hear of it. Then she said that she. would appoint an agent to carry out the deal, explaining to the man why she could not meet him. He agreed to this. She told him to call back this afternoon at five.”

Donahue said: “Well, why don't you act as her agent?”

“Please.” Mueck held up his hands. “You know damned well, Donny, that I wouldn't dare. I have my legal reputation to think of. If something happened during the course of the procedure, if the police got wind of it, I would stand a fine chance of being accused of compounding a felony. Besides, it is out of my line. But at the same time I feel a should try to humor my client. Hence you. She wants that pearl necklace and wants it bad. The cops disgusted her just after the robbery by running around a lot, drinking . her liquor, and finding out nothing. She doesn't want it to happen again.”

“And I'm supposed to take the twenty thousand, meet the crook, turn over the money and receive the necklace.”

“Yes--if you want to take the job.”

“It sounds like a soft snap.”

“I won't say whether it is or not. I've put my cards on the table, and it's up to you. You can call on Mrs. Jennifer this afternoon, get the money and receive the instructions the man will give over the telephone.”

“I sure hate to turn over twenty thousand to a crook, Mike. It kind of runs against the grain.”

“The same with me. But you couldn't tell Mrs. Jennifer that. She wants the necklace, she's willing to pay for it.”

Donahue crushed out his butt. “It sounds so simple that I'll bet there will be a hitch somewhere. That necklace should have been fenced long ago.”

“The crook might be a first-timer. Maybe he couldn't find a fence. The necklace is well known, you know.”

Donahue said abruptly: “I'll take you on.”

“Good. But remember, Donny, I am not your client. I have nothing to do with this. Your client is Mrs. Jennifer. When you go around there she'll settle the bill.”

Donahue stood up, grinned. “Mike, I've never spoken to you about it.”

“I know I can depend on that, Donny.”

“You know little old me, counselor!”
II

HINKLE, the agency head, said: “How well do you know this Mueck?”

“We used to 'play duck on the rock together.” Donahue sat at the desk opposite Hinkle in the Interstate office and counted crisp new bills. Hinkle eyed the bills reflectively.

“That's a lot of money, Donny. I hope this chap Mueck is strictly on the up and up.”

“I know, Asa. If I had any doubts--hell, do you think I'd take this job?”

He shuffled the bills together, snapped a rubber band around them and slipped the lot into a heavy manila envelope. He put the packet in his inside pocket and buttoned his coat. He looked at his strap-watch. It was twenty to six.

“The old dame made me swear to be a nice boy,” he said. “I shouldn't try to flimflam this crook out of his jack. Imagine! Well”--he shrugged, scowled--“it's her dough. Though it gives me a pain to do this.”

“What time do you meet the crook?”

“At ten o'clock.”

Hinkle wagged his head. “I certainly hope you don't get in trouble, Donny.”

“What a swell moral support you turned out to be!”
III

DONAHUE LEANED AGAINST the mail-box on the corner, the belt of his ulster drawn in tightly, the gusty wind tussling

with his turned-up collar, snapping at the brim of his hat.

A street-light hung a wan glow over this Greenwich Village intersection, sometimes picking out Donahue's chin when he raised his head to peer searchingly.

It was a dark, dismal crossroad, blockaded by one- and two-storied houses, none of them pretentious; a meeting of the ways flanked by shadows, sapped by alleys, undermined by areaway speakeasies. Far away could be heard the sound of intermittent elevated trains; five minutes by foot, was Sheridan Square.

Donahue drummed his heels oh the pavement. He was impatient as well as cold. It was half-past ten.

Suddenly a man appeared on the opposite side, stood motionless, his hands in his pocket, his face a blur beneath a yanked-down hat-brim. Almost imperceptibly Donahue tensed. Force of habit as well as the urge of precaution made his hand tighten on the gun in his pocket.

Abruptly the man started across towards Donahue, hard heels rapping the street, re-echoing.

“How the hell much longer are you going to hold up that mail-box, buddy?”

Donahue said nothing. He remained leaning against the green metal box, his chin buried in his collar, his eyes peering hard under the brim of his hat. Then suddenly, he chuckled, hove his chin out of the collar, showed his teeth in a crooked grin.

“How the hell long have you been watching me, Kiff?”

The plain-clothesman reared his head, craned his neck, shoved his jaw forward, squinted as he screwed up his compact mustache. Then he put hands on hips, rocked on his heels.

“So it's you, Donahue.”

“How is every little thing, Kiff?”

They let it go at that for a minute, Donahue drumming his heels, wearing an amused smile, Kiff peering at him with hard little shiny eyes.

Then: “What are you waiting for, Donahue?”

“A date.”

“In this neighborhood?”

“Sure.”

“What's the matter with a bar? It's warmer.”

“The jane doesn't like bars.”

“Boloney!”

Donahue shrugged. “All right, Kiff. You see that dump over there? Well, a scrubwoman lives there. I'm going to rob her. Going to take her pennies away from her, Kiff. I'm sorry I lied to you about the jane, Kiff.”

“Oh, that's all right.” Kiff poked Donahue in the stomach, leering. “That's all right, kid. Well, hope you have luck with the pennies. I'll tell the copper on the beat to stay away.”

Kiff laughed harshly, left a hard shiny look as he turned and swung off, heavy-heeled.

Donahue listened to the sound of the heels fading away. Then he exhaled a long-held breath, swore briefly. Silence and the wind again. Five minutes later the creaking of a door. A man was in the street, motionless, ten feet from Donahue.

A low mutter: “Hey, you!”

Donahue straightened, kept his hands in his pockets, started slowly towards the man.

“Yeah?” he said.

He noticed the suggestion of a crouch in the small man's attitude, the crook of his arm, the way his hand was rigid in the pocket of a blue jacket.

“Are you the guy?” the little man said.

“What kept you so long?”

“That dick's been snoopin' around. Heard you and him talkin'.”

“Where's the scatter?”

The little man jerked his head. “In here.”

Donahue went gingerly through a doorway one step above the sidewalk. A gas jet supplied mediocre light. The hallway was narrow, beads of damp, cold sweat stood out on yellow walls.

“Door at the” end,” muttered the little man. “Just open it.”

Donahue turned the knob and opened the door. A tall man with a patent-leather haircomb and dull eyes stood behind a table holding a gun. His face had the dry gray look of cigarette ash. He had a long goose-like neck, wore a tight white collar, tight dark clothes, long sideburns.

The small man slipped in behind Donahue and closed the door. He was rabbit-like in his movements.

“Okey, Eddie,” he said. “That shamus beat it.”

Eddie said to Donahue: “If you brought that shamus with you, guy, I'll turn your belly inside out.”

The little man blinked bright blue eyes in a chubby red face. “Hell, Eddie, he's okey. Ain't you heard him and the shamus?”

“Yeah,” Eddie said somberly, without conviction. “Show us the color of your dough, guy.”

“I've got it,” Donahue said. “Show me the color of the pearls.”

Eddie slipped a hand into his pocket, drew out a string of pearls, dangled them. Donahue stepped forward. Eddie drew the pearls in, lifted his lip wolf-like.

Donahue said: “I want to count them.”

Eddie laid them on the table, stepped back and leveled his gun at Donahue. Donahue, ignoring both men, picked the pearls up. He moved the string slowly through his fingers. There were fifty-two pearls. He then examined the settings and the clasp. He nodded, drew the packet from his pocket, and dropped it on the table.

Eddie snatched it up while the small man stood behind Donahue with a gun. Eddie ripped the packet open, scowling, and counted the bills swiftly. Still scowling, he crammed the bills into his pockets.

He jerked his head. “All right, bozo. Beat it.”

Donahue dropped the necklace into his pocket.

“Beat it!” snapped Eddie.

“Pipe down,” Donahue said. “It sure amazes me how a couple of punks like you get away with twenty grand.”

“Beat it!”

The small man opened the door.

Donahue bit his lip, wrinkled his forehead, looked from one to the other, exasperated, reluctant to go, to leave twenty thousand in hard cash with these punks. Not because he pitied Mrs. Jennifer. Not at all. It was just on general principles.

“Beat it, you! Beat it!”

“Ah-r-r! . . .” Donahue snarled, spun on his heel, his back to their guns; banged the room door savagely behind him; tramped down the hall, the pearls in his pocket, his job done practically-- Practically! He laughed bluntly to himself. Reached the hall door, put his hand on the knob, paused, thinking, deliberating, still reluctant to leave,. But his job was done---done! His teeth lashed his nether lip. He swore, pulled open the door and stepped into the street. The wind slapped him in the face. He yanked down his hat, looking up and down the street; buried his face in the folds of his coat-collar. He waded through the wind, long-legged, rolling his shoulders.

“Make your date, Donny?”

Donahue stopped as he saw Kiff lounge from between two vacant store windows. Kiff was smoking a cigar. Kiff looked genial, jovial, hale-fellow-well-met. He shoved his chest out expansively, wobbled the cigar in the wind from one side of his mouth to the other; snorted as sparks showered back into his face; then was genial again, oddly blocking Donahue's path, turning sidewise to keep the wind from blowing his long coat between his legs. Light and shadow danced a windy saraband around him; his big horse teeth kept showing; the red cigar end hummed and sputtered in the wind.

“You playing tag or leap frog or something?” Donahue asked.

“Just tag.”

“All right, I'm it. Follow me.”

Donahue started around the precinct dick, boring his head into the wind.

“Wait a minute, Donny.”

Still genial, still jovial, provocative. He twisted his blunt ; body to sideswipe and stop Donahue. Donahue lifted his hard jaw out of the coat-collar. He glared at Kiff. He looked angry, his brown face seemed strangely malevolent. Kiff grinned with his big horse teeth, a fixed grin, while he weaved his head to keep the wind out of his eyes.

“What the hell's on your mind, Kiff?”

“What's on yours, Donny?”

“Go to hell!”

Again Donahue started forward. Kiff, instead of blocking him, fell in beside him, flanking him closely, turning his cheek to the wind.--,

“You wouldn't be down in this neighborhood for your health, Donny. What's in that house, Donny?”

“A still.”

“Rats. They don't cook stuff in this neighborhood.”

“You know better, then.”

Kiff stopped, grabbing his hat as the wind uprooted it “I'll go back in and see, just in case, Donny.” Donahue stopped. The wind had made his eyes water. He dabbed at them.

“Why be a gofor, Kiff? Hell, are you hard up for a pinch?”

“Sure. The chief's been on our necks. A pinch is a pinch any kind of a pinch.” Kiff kept backing up towards the house, holding his hand to his hat, looking awkward as the wind pushed his coat between his legs.

Donahue said: “Wait, Kiff.” Went towards the precinct dick, gestured with his hand. “I went in there for a pinch myself, Kiff. That's straight. But I missed out. There's nothing in there. I was on a tail. I'll be frank with you.”

“Well, I'll go in anyhow, Donny.”

“Kiff, don't be weak-minded like that! It's nothing, I tell you. Just an idea I had.”

The little guy--and the guy with the sideburns--Eddie --in there. Both heeled. And Eddie had looked hopped up. A hot rod he'd be if Kiff went poking his nose in there. They'd smear Kiff all over the walls.

But Kiff kept backing up, then half-turned, moving sidewise towards the door. Donahue followed by fits and starts.

“It was just an idea I had, Kiff. I wanted to--. Hell, Kiff, don't be like that. It's a jane all right, but don't bust in. Don't pick on her. She's a friend of a friend of mine.” He crowded Kiff. “I'll go in first, Kiff, talk with her. I'll--”

It sounded silly. He knew it sounded silly. He felt his ears burning. The guy with the sideburns would cut Kiff down like nobody's business. Kiff was no great shakes as a gun artist. A snooper, Kiff was.

Kiff said: “First it's a jane--then it isn't a jane-- Donahue! What do you take me for? You been hanging around that corner for something. I watched you. Then I find out it's you and I walk away. But I think--hell, he's up to something, that guy. I come back and you're gone.”

“Well, can't a man stand on a street corner?”--'

“I'm going in there, Donahue. I don't know but what you're hand in glove with a lot of heels. Roper always figured you for a two-timer--”

“Don't you call me a two-timer, you cheap gumshoe!”

“Get outta my way!”

“Kiff!” Donahue got between him and the door, bulking.

“A jane I know is in there. That door's locked. By you can't enter this house without a warrant!”

“Warrant! Holy Mary, I never in my life bothered with a warrant! Get out--”

“Kiff, you dumb animal!”

Donahue grabbed him, desperate now. He knew that if Kiff entered that door it would be murder. They'd murder Kiff. They wouldn't be caught red-handed with all that dough on them. And for the first time he found himself reacting to a moral obligation. Not one that included Kiff. To hell with Kiff! Kiff used to work stoolies on the street girls when he was on the vice squad. It was Mike Mueck. The East Side boy who grew up to be a swell lawyer. And himself too. Oh, Donahue was thinking of himself--

Kiff cursed and whirled. A blackjack crashed down on the crown of Donahue's hat. Donahue reeled away, fell against the wall of the building, fell down to the pavement.

Kiff broke through the door. Donahue, getting to his knees, saw Kiff disappear.

Three shots boomed out of the hallway.

A figure staggered out, slammed headlong to the pavement, lay motionless.

Donahue, half-risen, flung himself backward, fell into the recession between two store-windows. He heard two pairs of feet running--running away down the street. He got up, took his hat off, punched out the dents, replaced it on his head.

Windows grated open. Voices called. Heavy shoes came pounding from the distance.

Donahue stood on his feet, hefting his gun. He saw the two men tearing down the street, the tall one, Eddie, far in the lead. Eddie had the money on him. Donahue clamped his teeth, raised his gun, his arm out straight. Flame tore from the black muzzle. A- woman screamed and a window slammed shut. Flame burst again. The little man reared, keeled over, struck a pole and spun down to the sidewalk.

Donahue broke into a run. Eddie had disappeared. Donahue reached the little man where he lay beside, the pole. He rolled him over, ransacked his pockets. No money. But a small black wallet, worn and bent out of shape. Donahue thrust this in his own pocket.

He stood up, looked back. A couple of cops were over Kiff's body. Donahue walked towards them swiftly, his face drawn, his lips dry. Damn Kiff for a snooper, a busybody! Everything would have gone off nicely but for Kiff. And Kiff had cooked his own goose. And Donahue had had to shoot that little guy. ...
IV

THE TWO COPS squared off, their guns drawn.

“Hello, boys,” Donahue said.--;

“Stick your hands up! Who are you?”

Donahue didn't put his hands up. “I'm Donahue, an Interstate operative.”

“What the hell are you doin' around here?”

Donahue jerked his head. “I just plugged a guy.”

“Grab him, Joe!”

“Wait a minute!” Donahue said. “Not Kiff. A guy up the street.”

“What guy?”

“The guy bumped off Kiff.”

“Go ahead, Joe--go look at that guy he plugged.”

Donahue pointed. “By that third light.”

Joe started off.

The other cop put away his gun. “He's dead--Kiff's dead.

How'd it happen?”--j

“I don't know. I came around the corner here as the shots went off. I saw Kiff falling. There were two guys running away. I yelled at them. They didn't stop. Then I fired and got one of them. The other guy got away.”

The precinct station was in an uproar. Donahue was in a room with Detective-Sergeant Brannigan.

“You saw them babies, Donahue--you saw them--”

“Get me right, Sarge,” broke in Donahue. “I saw them running away. Running away. I just yelled to them to stop. They didn't. So I let 'em have it.”

“Why the hell didn't you get the other guy?”

“I had a job getting one. It was pretty dark. The other guy just got away. I should go running around the streets and have a cop take a shot at me!”

“He went in that house, Donahue. There's bullet marks in the walls. The damned house was supposed to be empty. No rooms was rented to anybody. The house was empty. But those two babies must ha' been in there, 'cause Kiff went in. Kiff got the works in the hall there and must ha' fell out the door. If I only had an idea why Kiff went in that house. But I ain't.”

“Maybe he knew the place was empty and saw a light in there--”

“I'll get that other guy, Donahue. He'll burn for this, and before he burns he'll get the beatin' of his life. We'll beat him till his eyes pop. I got a general alarm out. We're pick-in' up any guy don't look right. We'll get that baby!”

When Mueck opened the door he was in bathrobe and dressing-gown. “Well, Donny--” Donahue stepped into the apartment, closed the door, said: “Well, Mike, I got the pearls.”

“Great!”

“Oh, you think so?” Donahue scaled his hat on to the divan, threw open his ulster, began pacing up and down.

“Not by a long shot, Mike. There's trouble and plenty of it. Kiff, a precinct dick, got the works.”

“You didn't!”

“Hell, no, I didn't. But one of the guys I called on did. And I had to plug one of the guys--to save my face. And incidentally, your face.”

“Donny!”

“Keep cool, Mike. I knew damned well this job should have been thrown to the cops. But it's done now, and I suppose it's up to me to find a way out.”

“Are--are you suspected?”

Donahue stopped. “No. Not yet, anyhow. They think I'm a great guy because I plugged one of the hoods that got Kiff. Kiff--that snooping old fool! But”--he wagged a forefinger--“the cops are throwing out the old dragnet, and if they pick up the other guy, find the jack on him-- Listen, Mike, this is not going to be any bed of roses.”

“But how did it all happen? Sit down, Donny. Have a drink.”

Donahue sat down. Mueck poured out some Scotch. Donahue downed it straight. He told Mueck what had happened. Mueck walked up and down, eyes glued on the carpet, teeth nibbling at lips.

Donahue cracked fist into palm. “I tried to keep Kiff out of there! I knew damned well that if he went in those two hoods would let him have it. But the jackass took a swipe at me with his blackjack and I took a header. Before I could organize myself it was over.”

Mueck sat down, spoke quietly: “It looks bad, Donny.”

“Don't worry, Mike. I'll keep you out of it.”

“Nonsense! Do you think I'd let you take the rap alone?”

“Be your age, Mike. What's the use of everybody taking the rap? And besides, shut up about a rap. So far I'm in the clear. Just act as if nothing happened. And tell that client of ours to keep her face shut.”

“I shouldn't have got you into this, Donny. But I didn't dare take it myself. The legal profession is the butt of a lot of unfair criticism these days. And a lawyer found acting as intermediary for thieves is immediately suspected of cashing in on it. But, damn it, Mrs. Jennifer wanted those pearls! She would have paid more than twenty thousand for them! Oh, she's a hard client, Donny. Eccentric as blazes. They were her mother's pearls.”

“Yeah?” Donahue was dangling the long string. “They're sweet--they're certainly sweet. But they're causing a lot of tears, Mike.”

Mueck took them and ran them through his fingers. “What do you intend doing, Donny?”

“The guy who got away looked like a real gun, Mike. He looked hopped up too. A tough hombre. We've got one chance of cleaning out of this.”

“What's that?”

“I've got to get to that guy before the cops do.”

He had lied--naturally enough--to Kiff. Kiff had tried to butt into his business. Kiff had had a hunch that Donahue had been hanging around that corner for other reasons than amorous ones. So Donahue had lied. The lie was based on many ramifications. He had had to protect himself, the crooks he later met; and he had not wanted to start something that in the long run might well have reached and drawn in Mueck.

Mueck stood up, gestured with both hands. “Hell, Donny, I don't see why you should run the chance of getting killed.”

“I'd rather do that than run my chances with the cops--at this stage. I've got to, Mike. This guy is a killer and I have no qualms about going after him. You and I are fairly honest men. But that wouldn't prevent the law from having you disbarred and very likely pitching me in jail. If they get that guy--find the dough--he'll talk. And will it be rough on me? Don't ask!”

“Remember, Donny, I'm with you--I'm not trying to slide out.”

Donahue laughed. “I never had any doubts about that, Mike.” He pinched Mueck's arm. “And remember, let me handle it, old kid. It's the kind of work I'm cut out to handle.”

“I feel sort of--”

“I know how you feel. But you couldn't help me by baring your breast to the H.Q. crowd. I'll see the old dame in the morning. She's got to bury this necklace among her other souvenirs.”
V

HINKLE LOOKED WORRIED when Donahue breezed in at ten next morning. He looked up from the newspaper.

“I see you're a hero, Donny.”

“Well, I gave the dame her necklace and she almost wept on my shoulder. I told her a few things though. I talked turkey. She swears she'll never mention the necklace. She never wore it anyhow. It's an heirloom.”

“Did you stop in at H.Q.?”

“Yes. I got there in time to witness the line-up. They had dozens of guys. But not the guy I want.”

Hinkle wagged his head. “What a mess!”

“I took a walk through the Rogues' Gallery. I spotted the guy. Man, he's a bad hood! So I helped myself to the dope they've got on him. He's been arrested ten times--for almost everything on the calendar: dope, felonious assault, concealed weapons, petty larceny. But he beat them all. Eddie Bishoff's his name.”

“Did they identify the other guy?”

Donahue sat down, said: “No.” He drew out a small black wallet, tapped it on an open palm, smiled. “I took this off that guy, Asa.”

“What the devil did you want to do that for?”

Donahue made no reply. He whistled to himself, emptied the wallet on the desk. “The cops,” he said, “have got more than a hundred guys combing the city--not counting the stoolies these hundred guys will swing into action. I'm one guy against that mob--one guy, Asa--”

“I was leery of this job--”

“Don't crab!” Donahue smacked his palm down on the photograph of a woman. “I've got this. Picture of a dizzy broad. 'Love to Louie from his Nora.' And here--down in the corner--'Barcelona Club, Jan. 4th.' A cabaret girl. 'His Nora.' Okey”--Donahue waved the picture--“I'll find that dame. Louie was the little guy. He put one bullet in Kiff. Eddie Bishoff put two.”

“Are they making any progress at H.Q.?”

“No. They dragged in a lot of punks and busted a lot of hose on some guys. They're mad for a pinch, what with the vice squad getting razzed these days. Here, this”--Donahue flattened a sheet of paper on the desk--“is a list of amounts of money, with dates alongside each amount. Small amounts. It's on the back of a piece of Hotel Grebb stationery. That's a one-fifty a night flop-house on Seventh Avenue. The paper looks old. But the picture doesn't.”

“Who's in charge of the case?”

“That bruiser Tom Brannigan. All steamed up. I was just talking to him at H.Q. He said if I ran into the guy got away I should tip him off and he'd see I got a case of Scotch. Big-hearted Mick, that Brannigan. I told him I'd snoop around. He said it was okey by him. I said: 'Tom, suppose I smack into this bird and have to shoot it out with him?' Tom looked down-hearted. He said: 'Hell, Donahue. Save him for the boys. We want to take it out of his hide and then pitch him to the D. A.' “

“Do you want a man to work with you?”

“No. It's solo for me, Asa. And don't say anything to any of the boys. And don't mention Bishoff's name. Well”--he grabbed up his hat--“I'll be seeing you, sweetheart.”

The Barcelona Club was closed at noon. It huddled between two drab brick houses in West Tenth Street. Its black door was flush with the street. Donahue knocked. A man opened the door and put out a wedge-shaped face.

“Barney here yet?”

“Who is it?”

“Donahue. Barney knows me. Ask him.” The door closed. Donahue waited. A minute later the door opened and Barney De Vere looked out--grinned, opened the door wide. “Bar's not open, Donny--”

“It's not that, Barney. Can we have a little talk? I'm hard up for a little information.”

They went into the lobby, across the dim dance-floor, down a short corridor and into a stuffy office. Barney nodded to a chair and Donahue sat down.

“It's about a jane, Barney.”

“Oh-oh.”

“Can't remember her last name but I think she used to work in your little review. Maybe she does yet. Nora something--Nora--Nora--Well, a little brunette.”

“Oh, you mean Nora.”

“Yeah, Nora.”

“Yeah--Nora Slaven. What did she do?”

“Nothing,” Donahue said. “Not a thing. I just want to have a talk with her--a real heart-to-heart talk, Barney.” Barney sighed, shook his head. “She used to work here, Donny. Up until a month ago. She left, and she didn't say why.”

“Do you know where she went?”

“No, I don't, Donny. I often thought she might have run off with a little guy used to hang around here a lot. Louie Brown--or something, I dunno. Say, I see by the paper you did the cops a good deed.”

“Yeah. Ran into a gun-fight and helped old John Law. Well, thanks, Barney.”

“Drop in some time.”

“Sure.”

“Sorry I can't help you out.”

“Don't know where she lived, eh?”

“Well, she lived upstairs till she left.”

Barney didn't know that Louie Brown was the man Donahue had shot last night. Neither did the cops. The corpse was still that of “an unidentified man.” Donahue walked over to Sheridan Square and caught a north-bound subway train. He got off at Penn Station and walked a few blocks north on Seventh Avenue. He took a look at the drab facade of the Grebb Hotel. He dropped into a corner cigar store nearby and crowded into a telephone booth, got a number out of the directory. He put a nickel in the slot.

Yes, the girl at the Grebb said, Mr. Louis Brown lived there. Donahue hung up, stood for a while near the cigar stand. He didn't want anyone at the Grebb to know that he was looking for Louie Brown. He left the cigar store and went down to the Penn Station. He sent a wire to Louie Brown at the Grebb. “Call me when you get this. Jim.” Then he left the station and retraced his steps north on Seventh Avenue, entered the Grebb.

The lobby was as drab as the facade. A dozen men sat around in wooden rockers. Donahue joined them and waited, watching the door. Half an hour later a Western Union messenger came swinging in. Donahue rose casually and sauntered to the desk, flipped tourist and excursion leaflets negligently.

“Wire for Mr. Brown.”

The clerk turned from a ledger, signed the slip. He called over to the switchboard: “Brown in 408 in?” The operator buzzed.

Donahue left the desk, went back into the washroom, killed ten minutes there and then came out. He took an elevator to the fourth floor.

A master key paved the way for him. He slipped into a narrow room that had a narrow bed, a dresser, a cheap green armchair. The closet door was open. Inside were a couple of hats, a suit, a pair of shoes, a yellow suitcase on the floor. He opened the suitcase. It was empty. He searched the pockets of the suit. They were empty.

Half a dozen shirts were in one of the dresser drawers. Socks, handkerchiefs, in another, and underclothes. Odds and ends in another: a pocketknife, some pennies, a tarnished cigarette case, some poker chips, cards. Donahue closed all the drawers, disgruntled. Then his roving glance landed on the telephone. Hanging from the mouthpiece was an oblong sheet of cardboard with an advertisement at the top and ruled horizontal lines beneath it. There was some scribbling on it. Donahue removed the cardboard and squinted. Names. Telephone numbers. Nora. Donahue drew his lips tightly against his teeth. He sat down and copied the names and numbers. Six names. Johnnie S. . . . Pete. Nora. Kitty. Ed. Luke. He returned the cardboard to the telephone mouth-piece, hesitated, then removed it, tore it to bits.

He left the room, locked the door, went down in the elevator, out into the street. He made a flying trip to the Agency office, in Park Row.

“Call up your friend in the telephone company, Asa,” he . said, “and get the street addresses of those telephone numbers.”

“Oh, you've been places, eh?” .

“Yeah. Louie Brown was the little guy's name. He had a room at the Grebb Hotel. I busted in.”

“How you get around!”

“Well, go ahead, Asa. Those two dames on there--Kitty and Nora--have the same number. Pals, I suppose.”

Asa made a telephone call, called off the telephone numbers, and hung up. Donahue gave him a resume of what he had done and the manner in which he had done it. The telephone rang. Asa answered it, pencil in hand. Beside each number on the slip of paper Donahue had given him, he wrote down an address. Finished, he said: “Thanks, Bill,” and hung up. He shoved the slip of paper across the desk.

“May God watch over you, Donny.” Donahue seemed not to have heard. He stared round-eyed at the addresses, his lips moving. “Ed,” he said, “may be Eddie Bishoff.”
VI

DONAHUE came out in Park Row and walked over to Broadway. He turned north and was nearing Chambers Street when a bull voice haled him. Before he could locate the voice a P.D. flivver hurtled to the curb. Tom Brannigan was leaning out, waving a red, beefy hand, grinning like a fool.

“Come here, Donny.”

“Hello, Tom.”

“Yah, boy--yah, boy!” Brannigan spat with gusto. “What the hell do you think? Hey?”

“Got me, Tom.”

“We got that punk identified. Louie Brown's his name. That punk you give the works, Donny. Hot dog! Yah! Ain't that hot, kiddo--ain't it? Yah! Well, we got him identified all right. A pal of a pal of a pal of mine--'Sure, I seen that guy,' he sez. 'Louie Brown's his name.' All I gotta do now, kiddo, is get my stoolies workin' to find out who was trottin' around with Louie Brown. Watch the papers, Donny. You'll be seein' things.”

Donahue forced a grin, not heartfelt. “Swell, Tom.”

“Goin' up a ways?”

“Yeah.”

“Jump in.”

Donahue dropped to the seat in the rear beside Brannigan and the police flivver started off. Brannigan erupted, slapping his knees, chewing a cigarette to rags, the feel of the hunt burning in his eyes.

“Just depend on Tom Brannigan, Donny,” he said. “I'll get that bum got away. Me, personal. Before sundown I'll have the name o' the guy was trottin' with Louie Brown. I'll bust everything but his windpipe. Yah.” Donahue got off at Eighth Street and walked west with Brannigan's voice still re-echoing in his ears. He did not doubt that Brannigan, who had a vast array of stoolies, would discover the name of the late Louie Brown's partner before sundown. Armed with the name of Eddie Bishoff, Brannigan would find his police record, get his underworld spies working, and eventually get Bishoff.

Donahue hardened in his purpose. It showed on his face. He knew of a private cop on the West Coast who had been engaged to turn over an amount of money to a gang of crooks in return for bonds that had been stolen from a Seattle bank. A bank official had engaged him. There was a slip-up. The bonds were returned well enough, but then the cops started in; hauled in the private cop for abetting the criminals, handed him a jail sentence, thereby setting a precedent.

Donahue knew he was headed for a jam. And he knew that if he got in the jam Mike Mueck would be fool enough to try to get him out and in so doing would entangle him self. And Brannigan was on a tear.-Brannigan was ruthless, a hard cop, in his way a good one. But he would rough-house Donahue as quickly and as explosively as he had, on many an occasion, shaken his hand and clapped him on the back.

In Grove Street, near Sheridan Square, Donahue neared the address that corresponded with the telephone number Louie had written alongside the name of Ed. It was a speakeasy. Donahue grumbled his disappointment. But he entered, following a long corridor that terminated in a bar, with tables along the wall. He went to the corner where a telephone stood, looked at the number. It corresponded with the number on the slip of paper.

Donahue went to the bar, hooked his heel on the rail and ordered a highball. The barman whistled sleepily while he mixed the drink. Donahue took a few swallows, frowned-- not because of the liquor but because of an indecisive train of thought. Finally he drained the glass, got change from a dollar, went out. He had decided not to bring up Ed's name to the barman, since he believed that nothing would have been gained by it. He didn't want to spring Bishoff s name until he could be certain that it would bring definite information.

He took a cab to Twenty-sixth Street. The address was that of a small apartment house. A row of mail slots was in the lobby, with names above. One was--Miss Kitty Bra-don. Donahue pushed into a narrow, bare foyer. There was no elevator. He started up a staircase. There were two apartments on each floor, the doors facing each other across a small landing. On the third landing Donahue stopped and looked at the door marked 4B. He looked at the name under the bell-button.

He listened at the door. His right hand closed around the gun in his coat pocket. He used his left thumb to press the button. He eyed the door steadily. Heard footsteps. A woman's voice. “Who is it?”

“Special delivery, ma'am.”

The lock clicked. The door opened a matter of two inches.

A blonde head appeared. A hand thrust out. Donahue grabbed it. “Quiet, sister!”

He elbowed the door violently, shouldered in, kicked the door shut. His gun was in his hand, his voice low--“Not a chirp, sister.”

“Ow--you're hurting!”

He flung down her arm, trained the gun on her, backed her down the short, narrow corridor, into a small living-room. He nodded to a divan.

“Sit down.”

She fell to the divan, drawing up her legs, rubbing her hands back and forth across her chest, her eyes wide. Donahue stepped to the door, looked into a kitchenette, saw part of a bedroom. He looked quickly back to the girl, his eyes keen. “Where's Nora?”

“Nora--?”

“You heard me. Nora.”

“She's--out.”

Donahue remained standing. He pointed at the woman.

“You knew Louie Brown!”

She clasped her face between her hands.

“And”--Donahue was incisive, hard--“you know Eddie Bishoff!”

She shrieked: “Who--who are you?”

“Never mind who I am. Where's Bishoff?” She put her head back, gasping, saying nothing. Donahue hefted his gun.

“I haven't all day. Get your breath and tell me. I want to know where Bishoff is. I don't care about your girl friend--unless I have to find her to find Bishoff. But I want Bishoff. Louie Brown knew you and Nora Slaven.”

“You're a cop!” she cried. “That's what you are--a cop!”

“Yeah, I'm a cop,” Donahue drawled. She appeared to make an effort to pull herself together. She stood up, pressed her hands to her hips, moved to a half-open window and inhaled great draughts of air, kneading her hips. Then she pivoted and faced Donahue, her face very white, very grim.

“You've got to help her,” she murmured.

“Help her!”

“Nora--you've got to help her--or help me--whatever Way you want to put it.” Donahue wagged his gun. “Sister, don't try to kid me.”

“For --sake! . . .” She clasped her hands together, moving them up and down monotonously, emotionally. 'I “She's a good girl--but bewitched. She's a good girl--but a fool, a little fool, an awful fool. Please--believe me!”

Donahue relaxed, a shadow falling over his face, sarcasm fading from his lips, his lips softening, his eyes keening but at the same time losing their contemptuous glitter.

Yet he spoke bluntly--“Shoot.” Willing to listen, yet still watchful, wary--still mindful of the fact that he had been bitten many times, the scars still on his memory. “It's got to sound damned good, my lady.”

The woman had not the aspect of a hot-house lily, but at the same time she had a vague prettiness. Emotion had tensed her; she stood image-like, only her lips moving.

“I don't know what he did. He came here last night--late--around midnight. He looked murderous. But he was cool, in that cool way he has. He wanted us to hide him here. I loathed him. But Nora--well, he was a friend of Louie's. She never believed they were bad men. She met them where she worked--in a night club. She came from Utica. He said he had tried to save Louie--he was wounded--in the arm.

“But I wouldn't let him stay. I didn't know what had happened, but I wouldn't let him stay. I own this flat. I got Nora to give up that night-club life, she was such a little fool. I tried to get her away from Louie. But he had that morbid fascination for her; she pitied him--he had hard-luck stories.

“So he was wounded. And we argued. He said he got wounded trying to save Louie. He must have known this would' be a good place to hide. It's a respectable house. I was terrified. So then Nora said, like a baby: 'He's Louie's friend. I've got to-stand by him.' I wouldn't let him stay here. I was furious--then furious at Nora. She went with him. He said to me, while she was in the bathroom: 'You keep your mouth shut about this or I'll kill you--and her.' So she went away with him, to nurse him.”

She moved to the divan, dropped to it, rubbing her palms slowly together, elbows on knees. She stared transfixed at the carpet.

“I followed them,” she said; then looked up, startled, her eyes springing wide-open. “You've got to save her--save that little fool! She's innocent!”

“Go on,” Donahue muttered.

“So--I followed them. Nora took a suitcase. She looked dazed, and nun-like. The awful little fool!” She sobbed, then bit the sobs back. “First she bound up his arm-- tightly. Then they went--and I followed. I followed them to the Hall Hotel, on Broadway, near Thirty-seventh Street. They registered as Mr. and Mrs. Norman. The poor little fool!”

Donahue groaned, raised his hands, looked at the ceiling.

“I swear,” she said, “that Nora doesn't know what she's doing! Isn't there something--something you can do? I want to save her. I'll take her out of New York--take her back to Utica--anything. But, please, she's innocent!”

Donahue sat down. Sat down and shoved his gun into his pocket, lit a cigarette and eyed the woman for a long time through the smoke that dribbled upward. And she eyed him, eyes wide-open, frank, candid, deeply troubled. Donahue grunted. He slapped a palm to a knee, left it there, looking down at the fingers. He grunted again, making a face. Then his lips tightened. He looked up.

“You've got to get them out of that hotel,” he said. “Get them--Why?”

“If I went there and crashed in their room there wouldn't be a chance of getting your friend in the clear. It would be slaughter and she'd bounce into trouble. We've got to get them out of that hotel--that's final.”

“But then what?”

He jabbed a finger towards the floor. “Telephone her. Tell her you're sorry you acted the way you did. You've thought it over--and you're sorry. Tell them to come here. Impress on them that you think it would be safer here than in that hotel.”

“But”--she spread her hands--“there would be slaughter here and she'd be drawn in anyhow. And so would I. It would be an awful mess.”

“Listen,” Donahue said,- getting up. “I can go over to that hotel and crash it. Or you can do as I say. I want Bishoff. For the information you've given me, I'm willing to try my best to keep Nora out of it. And to do that, we've got to get both of them out of that hotel first.”

“But don't you see--”

“Be quiet. I see. I know. You've got to depend on me--and the breaks. Telephone the hotel. Talk them into coming over to hide out here. Leave the rest to me.”

She held her breath for a long minute. Then she said quietly: “All right.” She rose and walked white-faced to the telephone.
VII

THEY SAT WAITING, LISTENING. Sometimes their eyes crossed, but for the most part they said nothing. The woman sat very straight on the divan, her hands folded primly in her lap, her face grave. A small clock ticked on a console. In another apartment a radio was playing. Donahue sat with his gun hanging between his knees, his coat open.

He said in a hoarse whisper: “Now remember--convince her. Don't get out of town too suddenly. Wait a while. And never say anything about my being here. If I get him out --and I hope to--I do!--never say anything about it.

This guy Bishoff has a record against him a mile long.”

She whispered, “I'll do my best.”

They went on sitting, listening, looking at the clock. The woman bit her lip, knotted her hands, moved her lips without audible sound. She got up and paced back and forth, feeling her throat, touching her lips with her tongue.

“Steady,” Donahue murmured.

She sat down again, fanning herself with a newspaper, rolling her eyes.

Donahue muttered: “You've got to look natural when you meet them. The way you are now--”

“I know--I know,” she said, trembling. “Oh . . . --!”

“Sh!” He looked around. “Got any liquor?”

“I never use it.”

“Hell!”

She got up and went into the bathroom, washed her face with cold water. It seemed to steady her. She came back into the living-room, holding her chin up. Sat down again.

The door-bell rang.

Donahue stood up, putting a finger to his lips. The woman rose. Oddly enough, she looked calm--suddenly calm. She even smiled grimly. She went swiftly out into the little corridor.

Donahue stepped to one side of the. console, flattening against the wall. He held his gun waist-high. The radio downstairs had stopped. He could hear every sound. He heard the latch click as the woman opened the door.

“Hello, Nora, dear--Eddie.”

“Oh, Kitty--you're so sweet!”

The door closed. “Hello, Kitty,” a man's voice said. “I'm glad you changed your mind. I'll lay up here for a couple of days, then breeze.”

The footsteps came scuffling down the corridor. Donahue dropped to one knee behind the console. Nora came into the room first. Hardly twenty, a slip of a starry-eyed kid. Then Bishoff came in, his left hand in his pocket, resting there.

Donahue stood up, stepped out. “All right, Eddie.”

Bishoff stiffened. His right hand swept towards his left armpit.

“Cut it, kid!” Donahue muttered. “Keep that hand away!”

Bishoff's lip curled; he snarled at Kitty: “You dirty little two-timer!”

Starry-eyed was Nora--still unable to grasp the situation.

“Why--why, what's the matter?” she asked.

“You see what's the matter!” snapped Bishoff. “Your friend laid a trap for me!”

“Kitty--”

“Sit down, Nora,” Kitty said, breathless. “I had to get you out of this. This man's a murderer.”

Nora cried: “Kitty, how could you? He's not a murderer! He tried to save Louie. He told me how the cops had been persecuting them. He told me how cops beat poor men in station-houses with everything they can lay hands on.”

“He told you a pack of lies,” cut in Donahue. “This man has a fat police record. He's an old offender. And he's a killer. He came here after he killed a cop for protection, knowing what a little fool you are. This flat offered the best kind of protection. He was a louse to try to drag you into it.”

“Yeah, was I a louse!” snarled Bishoff.

“I'm not wasting words on you,” Donahue said. “You're going out of here with me. You're cheap, Bishoff--you're so damned cheap that you hadn't a crowd to hide out in. You had to drag in a fool jane. Why, damn you, you didn't even have a fence. I said it--you're a louse.”

“Oh, Eddie, I'm sorry--I'm sorry,” cried Nora Bishoff whirled on her, started to say something, changed his mind. She was staring at Kitty.

“Oh, Kitty, how could you do a thing like this!”

“Nora, it's for your own good. Can't you see? Do you want to go to jail? Do you?”

“We're going,” Donahue broke in, moving towards Bishoff.

Nora sprang at him, blind to the gun.

“Run, Eddie!”

Donahue fell back. He saw Bishoff bolt for the door. He did not strike Nora. He tussled half-heartedly with her. Kitty sprang and gripped Nora's arms, pleaded with her. The hall-door banged.

Donahue tore free. “That's all right,” he said. “I'll get him, Kitty. But keep your friend here. Knock her senseless if you have to. She's probably the dumbest animal I've ever seen. But keep her here. She's in your hands. And your hard luck. Get her out of town. She hasn't been told the facts of life.”

“Thanks--thanks!”

“So long, sister.”

Donahue reached the foyer as the front door was closing. He saw Bishoff heading west at a brisk walk. As he stepped from the lobby, Bishoff looked back and saw him. Donahue started after him, stretching long legs in a fast walk.

At Eighth Avenue Bishoff dived into a taxicab. Donahue broke into a run and hailed another cab at the corner.

“Follow that yellow,” he said.

The yellow cab swung west into Twenty-fifth Street, and Donahue's taxi followed. The two cabs snaked among slow trucks. The yellow crossed Ninth Avenue, swung south on Tenth. Bishoff leaped from it at the corner of Twenty-second Street and headed west on foot. Donahue left his cab there and followed.

At Eleventh Avenue Bishoff ran into the middle of the street and leaped aboard a cruising taxi. Donahue broke into a run. The cab started south. There was not another nearby, but one was coming north. Donahue ran towards it, out in the street. The cab stopped.

“Swing around and tail that checker,” Donahue said.

He sat on the edge of the rear seat. His cab gathered speed. The checker ahead was speeding on its way south; it struck West Street and went flying past the pier sheds. It looped around slow-moving trucks. It swayed dangerously. Then suddenly it stopped. Bishoff leaped out and ran pell-mell across the wide thoroughfare, dodging northbound traffic.

Donahue tossed a dollar to the chauffeur and tailed Bishoff into Barrow Street. Bishoff started running and Donahue ran after him. Bishoff darted across Washington Street, across Greenwich, turned north into Hudson. He had long legs. He was fast.

He turned east on Christopher Street and then swung right into Bedford. People stopped and stared after him, only to be surprised again by the appearance of Donahue, his coat flapping about his legs. Others darted into convenient doorways, sensing trouble, the possibility of gunfire.

At the corner of Grove a policeman appeared, idly swinging a nightstick. He took one look at Bishoff, saw the light in his eyes. He shouted: “Hey, you, wait--” Bishoff's gun came out of his pocket for the first time during the chase. It blazed. The cop got it in the throat and crumpled, gurgling.

A pedestrian screamed and flung herself to the sidewalk, hugging a house front.

Donahue leaped over the fallen policeman. He saw Bishoff crash into a store on Grove Street. Donahue crashed in after him. There was a door open in the rear. He started for it. He heard a snarl and threw himself down as a gun boomed. A bullet smashed into the wall back of him. He saw Bishoff reeling towards the front door again. He fired. The bullet shattered a window.

Bishoff plunged back into Grove Street, sideswiped a woman, kicked over a child. The woman started to rise. She saw Donahue heaving out of the door and fell down again. The child screamed. People were on the corner--a dozen or more. But they did nothing. They stood petrified.

Blindly the chase led to Sheridan Square, across the Square while a policeman directed heavy-traffic, up to Waverley Place, then east. At Sixth Avenue Bishoff turned and fired a shot. It went through Donahue's hat without budging the hat. Donahue fired and his bullet rang against an L post, and Bishoff turned up Sixth Avenue. He turned and saw Donahue taking aim again. He flung himself against a door. The door gave and he plunged into a hallway. Donahue reached the door and saw him at the top of a staircase. He dived in headlong as Bishoff fired. He felt a jolt in his right arm and dropped his gun. He fell to the floor as another shot boomed and gouged the floor behind him. He grabbed up the gun in his left hand and started up the staircase.

Bishoff broke through a door on the second floor. A woman cried out and dropped a skillet to the stove. He struck her with the gun and she fell to the floor. His teeth were bared, his eyes blazed and sounds grated in his throat. The woman kept moaning and he cursed her. Food from the overturned skillet hissed and sputtered on the hot stove.

Donahue crept to the end of the hall, climbed out to a fire-escape, swung to the kitchen window. Bishoff saw his shadow, swivelled. Donahue fired across the woman on the floor. Bishoff's bullet struck the upraised window; glass rained down on Donahue as he fired again. Bishoff fell; back against the wall, grimacing, trying to raise his gun.:

Donahue jumped through the window, stepped over the woman. Bishoff cursed him, still tried to raise the gun. He groaned. The gun went off and a bullet banged into the floor. He couldn't raise the gun. He fell down, belching. The woman was creeping towards the door. Donahue laid his gun down, tore open Bishoff's coat, plunged his hand into Bishoff's pocket. He drew out a thick sheaf of bills held together by an elastic band. He transferred them to his own pocket.

As he stood up he heard heavy shoes rapping up the stairs, hard voices exclaiming. Tom Brannigan loomed in the doorway, his gun leveled.

“Hands up!”

“Your eyesight bad, Tom?”

“Jeeze, it's Donahue! What you been--Jeeze you got him!” Brannigan tramped across the room. “I told you, Donny, to save him for us! Watcha want to go and-- Say, I would ha' had that baby. I got tipped off an hour ago it was him was runnin' with Louie Brown. Louie, we find, is wanted in Denver. He cleared outta there six months ago after knifin' a woman!”

Half a dozen cops crowded in.

Brannigan bent over Bishoff. “Well, you wiper! Well-- Hey, he's dead! Well, c'n you tie that!” He turned to Donahue. “How come you 'meet up with him?”.

“Well, Tom, I was strolling up Broadway in the Twenties, when I saw him. He saw me at the same time. I said to myself: 'I'll tail him and hole him up somewhere and then call Tom Brannigan.' I tried to, Tom. But he got loose with his gun. He got me in the arm. I--I've got to get to a hospital, Tom. Look me up there.” He put his gun away. “You're not sore, are you, Tom?”

“Well”--Brannigan scowled--“what's the use o' gettin' sore. I'll okey this, Donny.” He jerked his head. “Beat it to the hospital before you get infection. I'll see you there later.”

Donahue went downstairs, pushed through the curious mob, found a taxicab. He climbed in, fell back, called out the Agency's address. He got white on the way downtown. Getting out of the cab in Park Row, he staggered.

He walked stiff-legged into Hinkle's office. Hinkle shoved his chair back.

“My--! Donny, what's the matter!”

Donahue flopped to a chair, drew out the sheaf of bills.

“Count them, Asa.”

“But you--you--you're sick.”

Donahue licked his lip. “Upset stomach, I guess. Count them, Asa.”

Hinkle pulled off the rubber bands, began counting. As he counted, his eyes grew wider. Donahue sighed in the chair, dropping his chin to his chest.

Asa said: “Exactly twenty thousand!”

“Good. He must have been afraid to spend any of it so soon. See that gets back to Mrs. Jennifer, Asa. Do it now. And tell her to forget about it. I'm pretty sure I've burned all my bridges behind me. Tell Mike Mueck to come over to the hospital to see me sometime, if he's not busy.”

He stood up. His right hand was red. The blood had come down his sleeve. He took a handkerchief and wrapped it around his hand.

Hinkle said, jumping up: “Why didn't you tell me you were wounded, you idiot?”

Donahue went towards the door. “It's not much, Asa. The punk just gave me a little something to remember him by.”

Asa heaved towards the clothes-tree. “I'll go with you.”

“You'll take that money right up to Mrs. Jennifer, that's what you'll do!” He went out alone.

THE END