Save Your Tears
by Frederick Nebel

THE CHAMP, Harrigan, took one on the chin and piled into the ropes above the press-box. Three blows made sopping sounds against his ribs. He laughed. It was an intimate laugh, close against Tripp's face, as they clinched. The referee bounced in, slapping them. The champ tossed Tripp off. The referee waltzed backward, bent, over, fingers splayed, his monkey face screwed up tensely, his lower lip jutting upward over the upper.

It was only the third round. It had been noised around that the fight would go the limit--fifteen. The odds were seven to five in the champ's favor. He was a big fellow, a kid--twenty-one or two, fighting out of Giles Consadine's stable. He was not particularly sweet to look at, but he” had a nice smile, a nice laugh, and he was the champ.

Rushing Tripp to the ropes, slamming him with both hands, he looked over the challenger's shoulder, smiled at Token Moore. She waved, showed her fine set of teeth between luscious lips. The champ was crazy about her. But there was something peculiar in his smile. Giles Consadine, lean, slightly gray, sat next to Token Moore. He sat wooden-faced, his hands folded on the silver knob of an evening stick. The bell broke up the clinch.

They came out for the fourth, reached the center of the ring. Harrigan ducked. Then he piled two hard ones into Tripp's face.

Tripp clinched, muttered: “Yuh mugg!”

Harrigan laughed, danced away. He began dancing backward around the ring. He looked down over the ropes at Token, at Giles Consadine. Tripp jumped him but the champ was nimble for a big man. He tied Tripp up, broke, tossed him away, went after him. He stopped smiling and his jaw set, bulged. He carried Tripp to the ropes above the press-box. The wet gloves smacked, sopped; they were the champ's gloves. Blood flew, spread like a comet across a newshawk's cheek below. And suddenly the gloves stopped.

The referee was bending over Tripp.

The champ was not looking at him. Nor at the man on the floor. He was looking through the ropes, down at Token Moore, at Giles Consadine. He wore a dizzy grin. And he was laughing. The short, idiotic laughs thumped his chest, pumped his cheeks out and in. Nobody heard the laughs. He just looked as if he had the hiccups.

Giles Consadine was standing, expressionless, lifting a match to a long thin panetela. Token Moore was round-eyed. About them, Consadine's yes-men jabbered, gesticulated. But you couldn't hear what they said. Shouts, roars, screams, laughs, rose to the distant dome of the Arena, cascaded down again.

The newsreel cameras were in the ring, turning. Tripp was on a stretcher; two men carried him from the ring. The champ was glassy-eyed and trying to poke his way clear of the mob in the ring. A man was holding up a microphone, shouting for him. The champ did a breast-stroke for the ropes, swung through.

Consadine, inhaling deeply, let smoke languish from his nostrils. He was laconic, a little abstracted. “That's that, then,” he said, half to himself.

Token Moore gave the impression of a bird fluttering, looking for a place to alight. She fell on Consadine's arm. He hardly noticed her. But a tap on the shoulder made him turn, look around.

Donahue, lean and brown-faced above a single-studded stiff shirtfront, said: “Greetings, Consadine. The kid's a natural.”

Consadine was short with him, clipped: “Thanks.” Turning front, the fight solon bent his wiry gray brows, frowned thoughtfully. He turned around again.

But Donahue was gone.

Token said: “Who--who was the handsome well-wisher?”

“A private dick.”
II

DONAHUE MADE HIS WAY to the back of the Arena, opened a door marked private. A short hallway lay beyond. It contained but one door. The door was broad, of metal, and had no knob. Donahue pressed a buzzer.

In a moment the door slid open and Donahue walked into a large elevator.

“Deep down,” he said.

His overcoat was over his arm. He wore a black velour hat slanted over one ear. Humming to himself, he drew from time to time on a cigarette as the car descended. When the car stopped, opened, he drifted into a severely modernistic foyer. A girl in trim black and white took his hat and overcoat and he drifted to one end of the foyer, pushed open a door and entered an elaborate bar. It was crowded, noisy; and beyond, in the vast dining- and dancing-room, a Negro band was playing. The allegorical murals ' on the walls were in keeping with the name of the Suwanee Club. Giles Consadine did most things lavishly.

Donahue pushed into a telephone booth, dialed a number. A woman answered the phone and he asked for Karssen; waited, tapping his foot, whistling to himself. When Karssen answered, Donahue said:

“The champ put the works to Tripp in the fourth. ... A knockout is right. . . . Well, there's something screwy about it. I'd have bet my shirt Tripp was to win. . . . Not a chance. When the champ got busy Tripp didn't have a chance. . . . That's all so far, Alex.”

He hung up, squeezed out of the booth and came face to face with Detective-Sergeant Kelly McPard.

“Donny, as I live and breathe!”

“Me and my shadow. How're you, Kel?”

“Just swell, just swell.” He used a neat, manicured fingernail to snick Donahue's single shirt stud. “You look like a million. I never knew you went in for following the fights in a big way. Seems I've seen you at all of them for the past three months. Cleaning up, old kid?”

Donahue said: “I got this suit for a Christmas present. I don't like the theatre. I had to wear it somewhere.”

McPard squeezed Donahue's arm affectionately. McPard was a large man--large in the torso, thin in the legs. His feet tapered off in pointed shoes forever aglow with a high polish. He wore a tailored suit, a tailored overcoat. His starched collar was snug about his plump neck. He was a clean-looking, pink-cheeked man, wily behind the merry twinkle in his eyes and the amused smile that never quite left his lips.

He poked Donahue's ribs, said: “I picked up a hundred bucks on that little brawl, Donny. Not bad for a copper, huh? Hey . . . once I was a roundsman when Danny Harrigan was a kid. He was nuts about my uniform. Wanted to be a cop. Now look at him! Champ! . . . Come on, Donny; I'll buy you a drink.”

The head bartender was signaling. “Oh, Mr. Donahue there!”

“Yeah?”

“Mr. Consadine wants to see you.”

“It's free. Tell him to come down.”

“He says upstairs--his office.”

Donahue, leaning elbows on the bar, said: “I can't. My pal's buying me a drink. It might never happen again. Make it a double Scotch, Rudolph, with a bottle of Perrier on the side.”

The head bartender looked pained. “But I'm hangin' on the phone here and the boss--”

Kelly McPard chimed in: “Why act like that, Donny? Go up and see him.”

“I just came down. You think I'm going to spend the rest of the night chasing up and down in the elevator? Tell him,” Donahue said to the bartender, “I'm engaged. No-- wait a minute. I'll go up. Tell him I'll be up.”

McPard said: “Tsk, tsk! What a man!”

Donahue stretched his long legs to the foyer, entered the waiting elevator and said “Top” to the attendant. The car rose to the top floor. Sliding doors opened and Donahue entered a carpeted anteroom on either side of which stood a Grecian urn. Three doors faced him. He headed towards the one marked Private, opened it. He did not hurry.

Consadine was seated in a tremendous red leather chair. He was fully dressed, hat on, white silk muffler bunching between the lapels of his black overcoat. He sat well back, legs crossed, and he tapped the patent leather toe of one foot with the end of his walking stick. Kempler, a small, chubby man with a squashed nose and close-fitting ears, sat on the mahogany desk spinning a small penknife at the end of a platinum watch chain. He looked as if he had been shoehorned into his evening clothes.

Donahue elbowed the door shut. “Mohamet comes to the mountain, Consadine.”

Consadine's face was wooden. “Win any dough on the scrap?”

“Didn't bet.”

“Since when did you begin to follow the fights?”

“I take it in spells.”

“This spell began about three months ago, didn't it?”

“You figure close.”

“I noticed you behind me in every scrap I attended in the past three months. Kempler noticed it, too.”

“Yeah,” said Kempler.

Consadine said: “You've been dropping in at the gym, too.”

“Sure,” nodded Donahue.

: “Going to write a book or something about the game?”

“No.”

“Why the sudden lively interest?”

“Hobby,” said Donahue, good-humored.

Consadine said: “Take a tip, I don't like strangers hanging around my stables.”

“I get tossed out if I show up again, huh?”

“That's the idea. And that goes for the Suwanee Club, too. You've been practically living there. Stay out of it.”

“In other words--”

“In other words,” said Consadine, wooden-faced, unemotional, “keep your nose clean.”

“Yeah,” said Kempler.

“Finished?” Donahue said.

Consadine said: “Yes, you can go now.” Donahue turned, opened the door. He stood for a moment on the threshold, smiling at Consadine.

“Keep yours clean,” he said.

Kempler thumped off the desk, lumbered over and said:

“What?”

“I wasn't talking to you.”

“What?”

“Nerts.”

“What?”

Consadine said: “Lay off, Kempler.” Kempler lumbered back to the desk, turned, scowled at Donahue.

Donahue said to Consadine: “B-r-r-r! He scares hell out; of me, Consadine.” His voice dropped: “You do, too.” He chuckled, went out, closed the door.
III

ALEX KARSSEN was head of the Boxing Commission. He was a small bag of bones, five feet four, and he had a lopsided, leathery face, a tyrant's bright eye tempered by an amazing sparkle, crooked teeth that nonetheless could produce a winning, dynamic smile. He spoke quickly, sharply, out of his warped mouth.

“In here, Donny, my boy.” He shoved and punched Donahue into a small study whose door, now closed, muffled the music in the salon.

Karssen was socially prominent. His Fifth Avenue house was the scene of many bright affairs and it was said of him that he entertained every night.

He was eager. “What happened, Donny?”

“Nothing much. Only Consadine's wise. He may not know for sure, but he's got a bug in his brain--he suspects me. I was told”--he grinned slowly-- “to keep out of his gym, out of his Suwanee scatter.”

Karssen's bright eyes darted about in space, he rubbed thumb frantically against forefinger. “What do you think, boy?”

“Only this: something went wrong. I don't say Tripp was to 've knocked Harrigan out. Nothing like it. But I do say Tripp was to 've stayed the fifteen, to a close decision. The “fight started out like big-time. The two guys smacked hell out of each other. Tripp's been the only logical contender for the past two years. He was built up nicely. I say he was to 've lost this scrap, but by such a slight margin that a return bout would have been down on the books before their gloves were dry. As it is, Tripp's a has-been. There's no contender on the horizon. Consadine is going to lose dough on the champ. Why? Because there's nobody for the champ to fight.”

Karssen bobbed his shriveled head. “Right! Right! That sounds reasonable. The fight was to have been in the bag. Both sides in agreement. A close, fast fight. A close decision. A return bout inside of six months and the public milked of another several hundred thousand dollars! Capital!”

Donahue dug in “Referee fixed, judges spoken to. Not only in this fight but in the other fights Tripp had preparatory to the championship match. He's a good man--but the champ is a wow. He's the best--Tripp is--of the white hopes.”

Karssen rattled on: “Somebody double-crossed the inner ring. Forgetting the actual money transaction of the bout itself, there must have been thousands bet on the outside. Get this, boy: Giles Consadine either lost a fortune on this bout--or made a fortune. It could have worked either way.”

Donahue frowned. “What I'm worried about is, Consadine's got an idea I've been soft-shoeing up his alley.”

“Scared?”

“I'm not bragging I'm not. His keeping me out of his stable and out of his Suwanee is going to cramp my style. I'm not afraid of Consadine personally. I mean him--the guy. He's a pushover. But there's a lot of mugs--”

“I see.” The eager, darting eyes sparkled; the crooked grin spread. “Chuck it, boy. Send me a bill tomorrow.”

Donahue walked around the room scowling. He shrugged. “Hell, I might as well stick.”

“Why? What's the use of inviting a bullet?”

“I'd hate my guts if I gave it the go-by now.”

Karssen slapped him. “Boy, you've got what it takes!”

“Cut out the bouquets, Alex. Give me a drink.”

“But remember”--Karssen pinched his arm, tightened down his voice--“you've got to keep my name out of this. Unless you get the real low-down. . . . What'll you have?”

“Anything that burns on the way down.”

At 11:40 Donahue breezed into the Hotel Whitestone, where he kept a small bachelor apartment. Hinkley, an assistant editor of the Sporting Sphere, rose from a straight-backed chair in the lobby. A scrawny, young-old little man, dressed in flashy clothes, a low-crowned derby, he always affected an unpleasant leer that was, obviously, intended for a smile.

“Brother, can you spare a dime's worth o' your time?”

Donahue said: “Oh, I mistook you for one of the potted plants,” and kept heading for the desk.

“Frequently potted but never 'a plant. Say, kiddo . . .” He lolled languidly after Donahue.

Donahue received several letters from the clerk, turned, moved towards the elevator. Hinkley fell in beside him, rose in the car with him and paced him down the fifth floor corridor. All the time Donahue was reading a letter. Reaching his door, he unlocked it, entered his small apartment and turned on the lights. Hinkley, lolling in, kicked the door shut with his heel.

Donahue took off hat and overcoat, carried them into a closet, said from the closet: “Well, what's on your mind?”

Hinkley helped himself to a cigar. He nipped off the end, said nothing.

Donahue reappeared, saying: “Well, what's on your mind?”

“I was up the Suwanee tonight. Kelly McPard said you had an interview with Consadine.”

“Did he say interview?”

“Call the italics mine.”

Donahue went into the bathroom, washed his hands and reappeared carrying his tuxedo jacket over him arm.

“What about Consadine?” Hinkley drawled from the depths of a wing chair.

Donahue, sitting on the divan, removed his shoes, clamped in shoe-trees. He carried them into the bedroom, called out: “He likes me. He just wanted to shake my hand.” He appeared in the doorway clad only in shorts.

“You better toddle, Hinkley.” He disappeared again.

“The Sporting Sphere,” Hinkley said, “is aching to pay you a little cash for a little good turn.” There was a moment of silence, then Donahue came into the living-room buttoning his pajama coat, holding a pipe in his teeth. He crammed the pipe, lighted it while peering down keenly at the man in the wing chair. “About what?” he asked.

Hinkley sent up a toy balloon of cigar smoke. “You've been tagging Consadine's fights for the past three months, Donny. That's common gossip. When one. of the best private dicks in the city--and one of the best known--does that sort of thing, it's news in the bud. Catch on?”

“No.”

He puffed up. “Tell me some more.”

“My sheet's interested. What have you got on Consadine?”

“What's it worth?”

“Anything within reason. We know you're not tagging his fights for the fun of it. Who's behind you? Who hired you?”

“That goes in the deal, huh?”

“Sure. We've got to know where we stand.”

“What's your top price?”

“How about ten thousand?”

Donahue sat down and began chuckling, wagging his head. “This is rich,” he said. “Rich!”

He stopped chuckling and his face began to darken. “That rag you work for, if it paid out ten thousand it'd go broke.”

“Says you.”

“Says I!”

“Why get tough?”

Donahue puffed, took the pipe from his mouth and sighted down the stem. “Hinkley, I'm so far ahead of you that it's a crime to take advantage of you. Listen, boy scout: I don't know a thing. I just follow the fights. I don't like bridge and I don't like jig-saw puzzles. So I follow the fights. Consadine's pugs put on some swell dances.” He made a brusque gesture. “Okey, Hinky-dink; take the air.” Hinkley stood up. “Listen, Donny--”

“Peddle it where you've got an audience.” Rising, Donahue napped a hand. “I need some shut-eye. Skid out.”

“Donny, look now . . .” He moistened his lips. “This is hot. Be a pal. The Sporting Sphere-- Listen, kid; how about twelve thousand?” Donahue suddenly appeared thoughtful. “How about fifteen?”

“Maybe I could arrange it.”

“Fifteen?”

“Okey, fifteen. But that's the limit.”

Donahue laughed shortly. “Now scram. I just wanted to know how much you were holding out.”

“But--”

Donahue's voice snapped. “You deaf? Slide out!”

Hinkley colored. “That's a lousy trick, fella!”

Donahue took his arm, escorted him to the door. “Thanks for dropping around, Hinkley. You must come in again some time. Come in for a drink some time. Bring your own liquor.”

“I hate wiseguys!”

“So do I--when they go flat.” He opened the door. “And do you know why the Sporting Sphere can't bribe me?”

Hinkley made no reply,

“I'll tell you,” Donahue said. “Because I happen to know --and I'm one of the few guys who know it--I happen to know that Consadine dough is behind it. And I can guess-- don't break down, Hinkley--I can guess that it wasn't your editor who sent you here. Should I tell you now who sent you here?”

Hinkley rasped: “Things happen to guys like you!” He swung out, strode swiftly down the corridor.

Donahue called after him: “Consadine sent you, dope!”
IV

THE HOTEL CHANCELLOR lifted its pale, severe beauty into the cold winter starlight. Traffic moved sparsely on Park Avenue, slipping out of the ramp that hurtled Forty-second, Street and wound its way among the cluster of skyscrapers. The outward serenity of the Hotel Chancellor was massive, overwhelming.

In the lobby, shaped like a tremendous bell, deftly lighted by radiance that seemed to float beneath the high-domed ceiling, a page boy moved swiftly, vanished down one of many corridors. The chief hotel clerk spoke quickly into a telephone; he was hunched over the instrument, his eyes intent. The liveried doorman, who should have gone, off duty at twelve--it was ten past twelve--lingered beneath the heart-shaped marquee, blowing white breath into the cold, tanping cold heels on the sidewalk.

A man came out of a door in a corridor on the main floor. He was buttoning his vest. He had combed his hair quickly, and a slab of it, at the crown, sprouted upward like a recalcitrant weed. His face was puffed from sleep. He poked irritably at his sleep-drugged eyes, wheezed. He headed for the lobby, and gradually, as he walked, he straightened, squared his shoulders. He was Adolph Elms, the resident managing director.

Before he attained the lobby he ran into a short, rotund, bald man. Both men stopped, regarded each other. The bald man sighed, spread his palms. The managing director grunted irritably. Both men fell in step, reached the lobby, where they were joined by a third man who looked as if he had seen a ghost. The three men marched towards the elevator bank, vanished in a car.

The lobby door opened and two men headed across the lobby, paused at the desk. As they went towards the elevators, they were joined by several uniformed policemen. All entered an elevator and were whisked upward.

The lobby was vacant, then. Two drunks staggered in, singing. They wore top hats. They fell into an elevator car. A man came in with a lot of baggage, signed the register. The operator was telling room so-and-so that the hotel did not supply liquor.

Donahue entered swathed in a belted camel's-hair coat, his lean face riding beneath a brown felt. He was slapping pigskin gloves against his thigh as he reached the desk. “Where's the trouble?”

“I'm sorry. Press not allowed--”

“I'm not the Press. Sergeant McPard phoned me.”

“Oh. It's 1406.”

Donahue found a waiting car. It carried him silently to the fourteenth floor, and stepping out he swung his legs down a wide corridor that smelled remarkably of fresh air. He turned several corners, came to a door that had 1406 inscribed in bronze on its dark panel.

A cop opened the door, said: “What do you want?”

“Kelly called me.”

He stepped into a spacious foyer. To his left was a Lancet arch. Beyond was a large, luxurious room, almost baronial in size; at the farther side was a narrow mezzanine. Many lights were sprinkled about. There was no glare, yet there was sufficient light. Bluecoats were standing about. Several hotel officials, jabbering. Kelly McPard, spic and span, working his provocative smile, his eyes wandering but his mind--Donahue knew--certainly at work.

“Thanks, Donny,” McPard called.

Spengler, his assistant, came in through a French window. He had been wandering about on the broad terrace that overlooked Park Avenue and the East River. He was a roughneck, badly dressed, good-humored, loud, who regarded his job as a joyous hobby.

He yelled: “Hello, Irish!”

The hotel officials looked up in unison, a little shocked.

But Spengler was never self-conscious. He banged the windows shut with great gusto, smacked his big hands together.

“What do you think, Donny?” he bawled on good-naturedly. “Somebody give Giles Consadine the works. Ain't is just like life, though? There's a mugg with everything to live for--swell joint here--nice flower garden out front--”

McPard broke in quietly: “Okey, Dutch.”

Spengler was expansive: “Okey, Kel. Excuse it.”

Kelly McPard beckoned to Donahue. They climbed to the

mezzanine, and McPard pushed in a door that had been standing slightly ajar. He leaned in the doorway, jerked his chin.

“A honey, eh, Donny?” Donahue stood beside him, looked down at the body of Giles Consadine. It lay on the floor, in front of a huge canopied bed. Clad in gray silk pajamas, it lay on one side, head pillowed on arm.

McPard's voice was low, almost confidential: “Two slugs smack in the chest.”

“Anybody hear the shots?”

“No. Radio was going loud.”

“How'd they find out?”

“They knew he was in. He'd told the operator he was expecting a long-distance call from Chicago. When it came, she got no answer. She sent a hop up. He knocked hard. No answer. And he heard the radio playing. So he got a clerk with a pass key. Found him at exactly midnight. It was eleven when he came home.”

“Between eleven and twelve, huh? Any ideas?”

McPard looked vacantly at the body on the floor, spoke in a detached manner: “Yeah. My first idea, I suppose, was to ask you over.”

“What am I going to turn out to be now--a strange interlude?”

McPard rarely became angry, rarely raised his voice. “I guess you were one of the last men to see him alive. He never came down to the Suwanee. Took the Arena service entrance out and went straight to his hotel.”

“How do you know?”

“That elevator boy at the Arena saw him leave at 10:45. It'd take about fifteen minutes, traveling fast.”

“He come in alone?”

McPard nodded. “The clerk said . . . Look here, Donny. Consadine wanted to see you earlier tonight. Pretty bad. Or he'd not have paged you, in the bar. What did he want?”

“Wanted to know if I'd won any dough on the fight.”

McPard chuckled faintly. “Quit kidding.”

“All right; you tell me what he wanted.”

McPard fooled with a button on Donahue's overcoat. “He hired you for something, didn't he?”

Donahue walked six paces away, turned, laughed and wagged his head. “That sure panics me!”

McPard grinned, showing small pearly teeth. His eyes twinkled, radiated. You could never tell what was going on behind that smiling, cherubic face. Kelly McPard should have been an actor; he had all the qualifications.

“Honest, Donny, I've got to know.”

Donahue came back to face McPard and said, seriously: “Consadine couldn't have hired me for a million.”

“That sounds nice and big and strong, kid, but I'd hate to 've had him wave the million in front of your face.”

Donahue smiled, shrugged. “All right, Kel; I exaggerated. But get this: he didn't hire me.”

“Was he scared?”

“I didn't ask him.”

McPard sighed. “What a pal!” Then he was suddenly grave, his voice low and quiet: “I've got to know, Donny.”

“I told you.”

“Listen, kid.” He touched Donahue's arm. “You know the champ--you know Danny Harrigan. . . .1 used to, well --you know, I kind of brought him up. In a way, I mean. I mean when he was a kid I used to steer him clear of the hoodlums. When I was a roundsman. Once I let him have his picture taken wearing my hat and shield. . . . Listen, kid; this is no song and dance, no soft soap. Listen, Donny” --his voice dropped lower--“the champ was here tonight.”

“Go on.”

“He was here. The kid runs the hotel elevator--he-couldn't help recognizing him. Danny was here. Came here between-eleven and half-past--nearer half-past. Came out again in about ten minutes.” He withdrew his hand from his overcoat pocket. A 32-calibre revolver lay in his palm. “Danny's gun.”

“How do you know?”

“I helped him get a license to carry it--six months ago, when he had an idea some muggs were trying to kidnap . him. See the chip on the butt? . . . Danny's gun.”

Donahue was silent for a moment, eyeing McPard steadily. Then he said: “What am I supposed to do? If it's Harrigan's gun, what's the matter with getting Harrigan?”

“I phoned his hotel. He checked out at 11:15. He must have taken his bags and checked them at the station. Then he came here.”

“Where is he now?”

“I don't know whether I'd like to know or not--but I don't know. I want to know if Consadine hired you. I want to know if he was afraid of Harrigan--or anybody else.”

Donahue said: “Consadine didn't hire me.”

“Did he try to?”

“No.”

McPard sighed. “I'm not going to like it--pinching that kid.”

“Hey, Kel,” Spengler shouted. “The camera guy from H.Q. is here. He wants to mug the stiff. Ask the stiff if it's okey.”

Donahue said to McPard: “I imagine Spengler's comedy goes over big with the hotel help.”

“Spengler's all right at heart. . . . Listen, Donny--”

Donahue held up his palms. “Nix, Kel. We've been all over that. Consadine didn't hire me.”
V

DONAHUE walked north. Park Avenue was wide, empty, in the winter starlight. Even in the dark its smartness was obvious, insistent. The purr of a passing automobile's tires made a loud sound in the wide, windowed canyon.

Donahue cut east to Lexington Avenue, entered a drugstore and pushed into a telephone booth. He thumbed a directory, dialed a number, made a whistling mouth but no sound. The operator at the Hotel Eden answered and Donahue said:

“I want to speak to Miss Moore in apartment 44.”

“We have no Miss Moore in apartment 44.”

“You must have. Look it up.”

There was a pause and then the operator said: “I'm sorry, sir; we have no Miss Moore in apartment 44. The only Moore we have is in apartment 606.” .

“I must have made a mistake.” Donahue said. “Pardon me.”

He hung up, whistled his way out of the booth and bought a malted milk at the counter. He drank only half of it, left the drug-store and walked north on Lexington, then west to Fifth. In a nearby side-street he entered the small, chic Hotel Eden, crossed to the open elevator car and mentioned the sixth floor. The operator yawned on the way up.

Donahue hummed on his way down the sixth floor corridor, bowed before 606, listening, and then rippled his knuckles down the panel. He seemed quite satisfied with himself, teetering back and forth from heel to toe.

A breathless voice broke on the other side of the door:

“Who's there?”

“Is Harrigan in there?”

“No!”

“I don't believe it.”

“He's not here!”

“I heard him in there.”

“You didn't! Who are you?”

“A detective. Harrigan's in there.”

“He isn't!”

“You've got to prove it.”

A lock grated. The door was flung open. Token Moore was not so sleek as she had been at the fight; but she was no less beautiful. She looked stunning in a black sheer peignoir, black pajamas beneath. She was flushed, her auburn hair rumpled, and her eyes bloodshot. And she was drunk.

Donahue shouldered in, shouldered the door shut and snapped the lock. He passed her where she stood swaying, went into the living-room, the bedroom, the bathroom, the closets. He reappeared to find Token flip-flopping her way across to a divan. She made a peculiarly pathetic spectacle. Changing her mind about the divan, she brought up in the center of the floor, rubber-kneed, dabbing at loose ends of hair.

“What you want?”

She hadn't a bad voice; there was nothing particularly coarse about it; but liquor made her tongue thick, her lips clumsy. She bounced from one foot to the other, her arms darting out at eccentric angles in an effort to strike a balance.

Donahue said: “Where's Harrigan?”

“Don't know.”

She made a headlong dive for the coffee table, grabbed at a bottle of gin, raised the bottle to her lips. She had had more than enough. Donahue knew it. But he didn't move, he didn't offer advice. She gagged and slammed the bottle down and went dizzily around the room holding her throat. He seemed keenly, clinically interested in her haywire maneuvers. Suddenly she wound up in a heap, on the divan, and lay there shaking violently, panting hoarsely.

Donahue sauntered over, sat down beside her, ran his big hand familiarly through her hair.

“Little girl shouldn't drink gin that way--!”

She slapped at his arm and went spinning to the floor.

He sighed. “The things I walk into.” He picked her up and stood holding her in his arms. She was small, pliable, and he liked the feel of her in his arms. He sighed again. “Business, though, is business,” he remarked as he dropped her to the divan.

She crouched there, staring up at him out of wide-open eyes. He rubbed the back of his neck. He sat down beside her and she shrank back farther, tugging her peignoir across her small breasts.

“Listen,” he said. “What kind of a deal was made on that fight? You're in the know. You'd know. Was Harrigan supposed to lose that fight or what? What went wrong?”

She gave an agonized groan, sprang from the divan and went hurtling across the room. She carried down a tea-table, sprawled with it, her legs flying.

Donahue said: “Tsk, tsk!”

She scrambled up and ran crazily into the bedroom. He followed her. He found her hiding beneath the bed. Pulling her out by one leg, he lifted her to her feet, held her erect. She looked horror-stricken.

He shook her. “Pull yourself together.”

Her teeth began chattering and her face became so white that Donahue was uneasy. He was annoyed, irritated. He laid her on the bed and she buried her face in a pillow and began sobbing and moaning.

He thought she might be out of her mind.

He went into the living-room and walked round and round, angry one moment, puzzled the next. Her moaning was unpleasant to hear. He was standing in the middle of the room, cogitating, when she came stealthily out of the bedroom and crept across the living-room. Fascinated, he watched her. She appeared to be unaware of his presence and kept creeping towards the hall door. Finally he jumped, caught her as she was about to open the door. Her voice was hoarse: “Lemme out!”

“Listen--”

“Lemme--” She tussled, kicked, clawed in sudden fury. '

“Now, Token, take it easy!” She tore away from him, fell on the doorknob, managed to unlock the catch. But he grabbed her by the arms, lifted her, swung her about and whisked her across the living-room, into the bedroom. Her feet did not once touch the floor. He dropped her to the bed, his shirt cuffs protruding, his hair rumpled and several bloody scratches on his face. He rasped: “Cut out this damned nonsense!” She tried to heave off the bed, but he caught her, flattened her on the bed, held her down.

“Listen,” he said earnestly, “I'm not going to hurt you. See? You understand? I want to know what happened to Consadine. I want to know where Harrigan is. I want to know if that fight was framed. I want-- Wait a minute. Stay here. Stay on this bed. I want to lock that door.”

He rose, swung into the living-room. He stopped short. Two men were coming across it towards him and both had guns leveled. They were young men, impeccably dressed. One was tall, handsome and hard in a pale-faced, red-lipped way. The other was small, anaemic, and the .45 automatic he held looked huge in his skinny little hand. They were bent on business.

“Back up, you,” the tall man said.

“Wait a second--”

“Back up!”

The two men crowded Donahue, and he backed into the bedroom. The smaller of the two had a nervous affliction; his upper lip kept twitching while the rest of his face remained cold, stony. His eyes were as cold as a lizard's.

The tall man snapped: “There she is!” He leaped after Token Moore as she staggered towards the bathroom.

The small man kept Donahue covered. The tall man, rough-housing Token across the room, said: “Where's Harrigan, brat?”

“Oh, my--!” she moaned.

“Where's Harrigan?”

“I--I don't know.”

He held her up with his left hand. With his right he slapped her face. She choked and groaned and he backed her up, slapping her hard, first on one cheek, then on the other. Meanwhile he wore a hard, tight smile. He stopped slapping her, took hold of her left arm and bent it behind her back. She grimaced. Her eyeballs bulged, rolled, showed the whites as she bent backward. Her knees gave way and she slumped. He let her fall to the floor.

Donahue offered: “She's just drunk.”

The tall man spun on him. “You're Donahue,” he rasped.

“Okey.”

The tall man took one step, one swing. Donahue crashed against the wall. His eyes blazed.

“What the hell's the idea of that?” he exploded.

“For being funny,” the tall man said.

The little' man grinned with his twitching lip, but the gun he held did not waver.

The tall man went into the bathroom, came out with a glass of water which he threw in Token's face. She stirred and he hauled her to her feet, shook her.

“Where's Harrigan?”

“Please--” Tears began to stream from her eyes.

He said: “Stop yammering, brat! Where is he?”

“Please--honest--so help me--”

He scoffed: “Crap!” The hard flat of his hand whanged against her face. Furious, but coldly so, he pitched her to the bed. As she tried to crawl off, he walked around the foot of the bed, waited a second, then struck her full in the face. She toppled back to the other side of the bed, fell to the floor, groaning weakly.

The little man giggled. “Jeeze, she's frail, the dame!”

Donahue said: “In about a minute I'm going to get sore.”

“In about a minute,” the tall man said, “you'll be sore-- all over.”

“What's the sense of slamming her around that way? Any punk can do that.”

The tall man pointed. “You got yours coming, bozo! So keep your trap shut!”

“What have I done? Hell, I'm looking for Harrigan, too.”

The tall man narrowed his eyes. “What for?”

“Murder of a guy named Consadine?”

The tall man and the small man flicked a glance at each other. Then the tall man said: “What's she told you?”

“Not a damned thing. She's pie-eyed. I couldn't raise a peep out of her. Harrigan's vanished.”

“Who says so? Who says Harrigan murdered Consadine?”

“The cops. Kelly McPard found Harrigan's gun in Consadine's apartment--the gun that killed Consadine. It's open and shut. The cops'll have him inside of twenty-four hours, and it's a murder rap.”

The tall man quieted down. He said: “Is this straight?”

“Phone Kelly McPard and check up.”

The tall man looked sharply at Donahue, at the little man. He turned and walked to the other side of the bed, stood there looking downward. Token was on the floor and Donahue, from where he stood, could not see her. Several times the tall man raised quizzical eyes, nicked them at Donahue. Then he leaned down, picked up the girl and flopped her on the bed. She lay sacklike, unconscious. The tall man slapped her cheeks briskly, not roughly, in an attempt to bring her around. But she remained unconscious. He cursed, shrugged. He blew his nose sharply. There were diamonds on his hands. His clothes looked expensive. He blew his nose again, looked from the girl to Donahue, frowned, went through the apartment like a dog on a scent. Presently he stopped in front of Donahue and frowned seriously.

“We're breezing,” he said. “You're walking down and out with us. Get your hat. . . . Watch him, Midge,” he added to the small man.

Donahue went into the living-room, scooped up his hat. The small man played shadow to every move. The tall man joined them and they went out into the corridor.

The tall man said: “We'll walk down a couple of floors, then take the elevator. Act nice, Donahue.”

Donahue looked at their bulging pockets, said: “Wouldn't you, in my place?” The tall man was not in a jocular mood. “Pass up the cracks.” Three floors below, they buzzed for an elevator. The ear dropped them smoothly to the lobby. The lobby was deserted except for the clerk at the desk. He looked up, saw them, looked down again and kept on writing in a ledger. They went out, walked as far as Madison Avenue. On the corner the tall man stopped.

He said: “Okey, Donahue; keep going. Fade.” It- was cold and deserted on the corner, and he looked at their white, humorless faces, their bulging pockets. A lump caught in his throat. He looked up and down the avenue. No one was in sight. He returned his gaze to the motionless white faces.

The tall man said: “Well, get going--west.”

He nodded. He turned on his heel and started across the avenue. His jaw was clamped) his shoulders hunched a bit. He went through all the imagined sensations of a man being shot in the back. He didn't dare look around but walked on--not too rapidly; though he had to grit his teeth, almost, to stop from breaking into a run.

But nothing happened. He reached the next corner, stopped, looked around. He was in a cold sweat.

He became suddenly angry. He could feel heat rushing through his body and in an instant he was striding back through the street. He broke into a run, up on his toes, the long skirt of his overcoat flapping about his knees. Reaching Madison, he peered south. Several blocks distant, two men passed beneath a street light. But Donahue wasn't sure. He was angry enough, however, to take a chance.

He flagged a loafing southbound taxi and climbing in told the driver to take it easy. He drove four blocks south, called for a right turn, passed the driver a coin and jumped off.

From the shadow of a stone stoop he saw the tall man and the small man stride past the corner, heading south on Madison.
VI

KELLY McPARD sat on a desk in his office. The office was warm, and the sound of steam whistling from a radiator was not unpleasant. Spengler, his assistant, leaned against the wall; he looked wide awake and kept jabbing industriously at his teeth with a shaved-down match. Kelly looked preoccupied.

Harrigan, the champ, sat in an armchair and scowled at the floor. Out of fighting togs, he was less prepossessing. He had a good face, far from handsome, and coarse-featured; but he gave the general impression of being clean-cut, honest, straightforward; a fine animal at the peak of his power, aware of his standing, a little obstinate.

When Donahue came in, McPard looked up, twiddled his thumbs, said absently: “Hello, Donny.”

“Jeeze, you still up!” bawled out Spengler. “Hey, look, we got Harrigan here!”

Donahue closed the door, leaned against it. The brown of his lean and chiseled face was ruddied by the cold. His coat belt was yanked tight, the loose end dangling. He looked at Harrigan, who scowled; at Kelly, whose face was steeped in thought.

“Quick work,” he said.

“Ah, say,” Spengler said, flapping a big hand, “it was a snap, it was. He just went to another hotel.”

Kelly McPard said: “The champ says he didn't do it!” Harrigan's jaw jutted. “Of course I didn't do it!”

“An old refrain,” Donahue remarked. “What?” the champ barked.

“I was just thinking,” Donahue said; and to McPard:

“Who did it, Kel?”

McPard said: “The circumstances say Danny did it.”

Harrigan heaved up, his thick brows bending. “That there's a lie, Kelly!” He spun on Donahue. “What the hell are you butting in for? You keep your mug out of it!”

Donahue, leaning against the door, said: “Don't shoot your mouth off at me, Harrigan. You're a nice guy and a real champ, but don't get tough.”

“Now, now,” McPard chimed in. “None o' that. ... Donny, he said he went there, all right. He went to Consadine's apartment. He had an idea Consadine had his girl there. He had an idea the jane and Consadine were cutting corners on him. He was all steamed up and he went there with a gun. But he didn't find the girl. Consadine was scared about Danny holding the gun and he kept talking to him and after a while Danny threw the gun on a sofa. Danny was all shaken up. Consadine wanted him to have a drink, but Danny was too balled up to enjoy a drink, so he just turned around and went out, leaving his gun there.

McPard paused, then added: “That's Danny's story.”

Harrigan blurted: “It's the truth!”

McPard shrugged, strolled around the office. There were no melodramatics about Kelly McPard, but you could see he was deeply disturbed, indecisive, caught in a web of duty and sentiment.

Harrigan's face worked. “That's what I did! That's why I polished Tripp off in the fourth tonight. I could have done it in the second--but I was making up my mind!”

Donahue's eyes steadied. “Why?”

“Why?” Harrigan roared, swinging around. “Because I was sure Consadine was taking my girl away from me. No guy can take a jane away from me!” Some of his self-assurance fled and his shoulders hunched, his big face looked pained, his eyes wandered. “I didn't kill him. I guess I went there to do it. If she'd been there, I guess I would have done it.”

Donahue felt his way cautiously. “You did a nice job on Tripp.”

“Sure. Tripp's okey, but I can lick him. Maybe I did surprise him a bit. I guess I surprised him a hell of a lot!”

“I see. You were to let him stay the fifteen, huh?”

“Stay!” Harrigan laughed. “The tramp was supposed to win!”

Donahue, tingling all over, merely said: “H'm.”

“I was supposed to lay down in the twelfth! But I seen my girl down there with Consadine and I went nuts. I couldn't stand it. I was afraid it was a trick. I was afraid that if I lost the fight I'd never get another come-back chance. Consadine promised me a fight in six months when I was supposed to flatten Tripp. But I was scared. I was scared he was framing me and trying to get Token. I went nuts. I was afraid if I wasn't champ she wouldn't like me any more.”

Donahue suddenly felt sorry for Harrigan. The champ was just a kid with the mind of a kid. There was something touching in the way his voice broke hoarsely, in the way his face muscles strained and his eyes darted about, harried and uncertain. A splendid machine in the ring; outside, a babe in arms, a sap. “If I wasn't champ she wouldn't like me any more.”

Donahue said: “What are you going to do, Kel?”

“Hell, I guess I've got to chuck him in the hold-over.”

“I didn't do it!” Harrigan cried hoarsely. “I tell you I didn't do it, Kel! I meant to do it, but I didn't, Token wasn't there and I didn't do it. And then I felt like a louse and I didn't have the guts to go back and see her! I felt like a louse!”

Donahue became engrossed in his own thoughts. His train of thought went into reverse, traveled backward over the ground he had covered. Presently he said:

“You going home, Kel?”

“I was thinking of it.”

“Hang around, will you?”

“Why?”

“I may need you.”

McPard squinted. “What's on your mind?”

“Something goofy as hell.” He opened the door. “Hang around, will you?”

“Sure, I'll hang around.”
VII

DONAHUE was surprised, anxious, when he found the door of Token Moore's apartment unlocked. Entering, he closed it quietly, locked it. He made his way towards the bedroom, reached the doorway.

She lay on the bed, sprawled. It seemed to him that she lay exactly as she had lain when he and the two men had walked out. Drawing nearer, he could see that she was breathing. This reassured him. She was sleeping, soundly. There were marks on her face put there by the tall man. Her sheer garments were torn in places and there was a bruise on her shoulder, another on one wrist. Obviously she had not left the bed.

He sat on the bed and began shaking her shoulder. She roused slowly, turned over, away from him, sighed deeply. He kept shaking her and presently she turned back again, opened her eyes quite candidly. In an instant a rush of memory must have come over her, for her eyes widened, her brows shot upward.

Donahue said: “Take it easy. You're okey. Those guys went away. Now take it easy. Do you want a drink of water?” He saw that she was moistening her dry lips. He rose. “I'll get you a drink of water.”

He brought a tumbler full from the bathroom. She was sitting up, white-faced, quivering now but giving no hint of being hysterical. He sat down on the edge of the bed, held the glass to her lips. As she drank, her eyes regarded him steadily. Finished, she looked away. Donahue set the glass on the bed-table. He did not say anything for a while, choosing to allow a few minutes for her to compose herself. He didn't say anything when she rose, went to a mirror and looked at herself. He heard a gasp. Then for a moment she seemed stricken, as if remembering. He went over and offered a cigarette. She made a face, shook her head.

“Too much hangover, huh?” he muttered casually.

She let herself down on to the chair in front of the dresser. Donahue dragged over another chair, sat down beside her. Instead of looking directly at her, he studied her image in the mirror.

He said in a conversational undertone: “They've got Harrigan for the murder of Giles Consadine.”

She looked up quickly, at her own image, at Donahue's. Her eyes remained round, wide. Then she turned her head and looked at Donahue. He regarded her image, noticing that she had a nice profile. “What?” she said. “Harrigan.”

“No!”

“Would I kid you, Token?”

His voice remained low, conversational, almost intimate. She looked back at the mirrored images. The fact that she was able to see the change in her own features, startled her.

He said to her image: “I dropped around again, Token, to tell you. Harrigan hasn't got a chance in the world. The cops found his gun--fired twice--in Consadine's apartment. He admits having been there but he says he didn't kill Consadine. He says he left the gun there.” She shook her head. “No-no! He didn't kill Giles!”

“I thought you might know.”

“Know?”

“Know he didn't.”

Her eyes shimmered as she stared at his image. “I mean--I mean I believe him! He couldn't have--”

“He could have,” Donahue said pleasantly. “He meant to, in fact. He went there with a gun, expecting to find you with Consadine. He didn't find you there.”

“No--of course not,” she panted.

“Were you there?”

“No!”

He sighed,, was silent for a moment. Then he said: “You and Consadine were crossing corners with the kid, weren't you?”

In an instant she was on her feet, quivering. “That's a damned lie!”

He rose and leaned back on his heels, dropped his chin, regarded her sorrowfully. “You were true-blue to the kid, huh?”

“Yes!”

“Didn't Consadine try to make you forget him?” She stuttered: “It--it w-wasn't my fault.”

“He did, didn't he?” After a moment she said: “Yes.”

“You hated him?”

“I--well, I couldn't show it--account of Danny. He was Danny's boss more or less.”

“Did you know Harrigan was to throw the fight--and didn't?”

She looked startled, confused; but she managed to say: “I thought something went wrong. I didn't know just what it was.”

“Harrigan was supposed to lay down in the twelfth. He didn't. He didn't because he thought you and Consadine were cheating him. He was afraid that if he lost the championship he'd lose you. Token, you were cheating on the kid.”

She shook all over. “I was not! I didn't! Danny meant everything in the world to me! I love him!”

Donahue was mournful. “He's sure in a tough spot right now, Token. It's murder. Say the word over to yourself a lot of times and get the real sting of it.”

She gripped his arm. “N-no! He didn't! They can't' prove he did! He says he didn't! How can they prove he did? Oh, he didn't kill Consadine!”

“He's got” to prove he didn't. Or somebody else has to prove it for him. . . . How about yourself, Token?”

She choked out: “Me?”

He was eyeing her keenly. “When I first came in here you were practically out of your mind. You were raving drunk. You were going around this apartment like a madwoman. You were mad. Off your nut. You hardly heard me and you hardly saw me. You were crazy, deranged--horrified about something. I couldn't talk you out of it.”

She shrank back from him.

He went on: “You knew Consadine was dead. You knew he was dead and if you'd been in this apartment since you I left the Arena you wouldn't have known that he was dead. Because nobody knew. Not even the Press. You couldn't have found it out from Harrigan because he didn't see you or phone. Besides, he didn't know Consadine was dead. He . didn't know till the cops nabbed him. Yet you knew. When I got here, Token, you knew that Consadine was dead!”

“No!” she screamed, fleeing to the other side of the room.

He did not move to follow, but he lifted his arm, wagged his forefinger. “You knew! You were trying to drug yourself with liquor. You were in Consadine's apartment when he was killed!”

She choked and shook her head violently. She backed up against the wall, spreading her arms, spreading her hands against the wall. Words deserted her and she could only choke, gasp, grimace.

Donahue was asking gently: “Did you kill Consadine, Token?”

She groaned “O-o-oh!” miserably and slid down the wall, her eyes rolling upward, showing the whites.

Donahue crossed the room, knelt down in front of her. She sat in a crushed, broken huddle, tears streaming down her cheeks. He took hold of her chin, raised her face.

“Come on, Token,” he said. “Who killed Consadine?”

VIII

IN A STREET off Lexington Avenue, in the Thirties, Donahue went along counting brownstone houses. It was too dark to read the numbers. At three in the morning the city was deserted. The swift passage of a taxicab could be heard blocks away. A cough echoed, and you were aware of your footsteps. Earlier, Donahue had come down this street, trailing the tall man and the small man from Madison Avenue. He had counted houses then, oriented himself pretty thoroughly.

He entered a vestibule, found the inner door locked and tried several skeleton keys. None worked. The lock was old but good. He tried again and again, working as quietly as possible,, but with no success. He knew the house contained furnished rooms, apartments, and he had an idea as to what apartment he wanted. After the two men had entered earlier, he had seen a light appear in a front window, second story, where no light had been before. There was, now, a hint of light in the same window--behind drawn dark blinds. He was almost certain he heard a radio playing.

After a few minutes he gave up the hall door and soft-shoed down the stoop to the sidewalk. There was a shallow areaway belonging to the house, three steps below the sidewalk. Unlike the main floor door--which was equipped with a snap lock--the door in the areaway had only a keyhole beneath the knob. Donahue got in, locked the door from the inside.

He was in a hallway. Groping through the dark, he came to a boxed-in narrow stairway and climbed to the main floor, where a dim light glowed in the hallway. He listened for a moment, heard no sound; and then he began climbing the carpeted stairway towards the second floor. A radio was playing, softly. He tracked down the sound to the front of the hallway, heard the low mutter of voices behind a door on the left.

Standing motionless for a long moment, listening, cogitating, he finally drew his gun from its shoulder-holster. It was a .38 revolver, and he cocked it. Then he cat-footed halfway up the next stairway, turned, and made considerable noise coming down. He went directly to the door and knocked insistently.

A voice asked: “What's the matter? Who's it?”

Donahue assumed a high, petulant, rasping voice: “You going to play that damned radio all night? How do you expect a person to sleep?”

“Okey, okey.”

“If you don't cut it out I'll find a way to make you! Who do you think you are, anyhow? You think maybe you own this house? Other tenants want to sleep! I want to sleep!”

“I said okey, didn't I?”

“I'm just getting tired of it! You play it again and I'll bust your door down and bust the radio, too!”

“Oh, yeah!”

“You heard me!”

There was an oath, a furious rattling of the key in the lock. The door whipped open.

Donahue went in like a gale wind. Briefly he saw the little man before him. The little man went down like a struck weed. The tall man was sitting in a big armchair with a girl on his lap. That handicapped him. He dropped a glass of whiskey and the girl, frightened, threw her arms around his neck. The little man began scuttling across the floor like a whipped cur, but at the same time he clawed frantically at a shoulder-holster. Another girl stopped squirting seltzer into a glass, opened her mouth wide but didn't say anything; her mouth remained open.

“You on the floor!” Donahue snapped.

The little man flattened, his right arm buried beneath his body. He remained that way, motionless, his breath whistling. The girl who had been squirting the seltzer began backing up, wooden-legged.

Donahue said: “You en the floor, slide that rod out from beneath you and be careful when you do it.”

The tall man rose, lifting the girl with him. He set her down in the chair. He was in shirt-sleeves. His coat hung on the back of a chair several feet away; on the chair, also, hung his gun and holster. He put his hands on his hips. The diamonds on his fingers sparkled. The room was large, luxurious; a door, open, led to other rooms beyond.

“Is my face red?” he drawled.

Donahue said: “It looks pretty white to me.” He barked at the man on the floor: “What did I tell you about that gun!”

The little man's hand shot out, still holding the gun.

“Take your hand off it,” Donahue said, “and crawl.”

The little man was reluctant. Donahue took a step, put his foot down on the man's hand. There was a yelp. The little man crawled away. Donahue picked up the gun, hefted it, shoved it into his overcoat pocket.

“Get up now.”

The little man rose, crouching. His upper lip twitched madly, his lower hung motionless, and the rest of his face was cold, stony, gray.

Donahue said to both men: “This is a pinch, sweethearts. . . . Half-pint, get over alongside your pal. Get over, I said!”

When the little man had joined his companion, Donahue moved to a small table, reached for a French telephone.

The girl who had been sitting on the tall man's lap cried: “What are you doing?”

“Cops.”

“No! No! Listen, I can't be caught here! Listen, I got a husband! He'll beat hell out of me!” She jumped up, wild-eyed. “Listen, for-- sake! Irene and I are supposed to be in New Jersey!”

Donahue said: “So I hope he beats hell out of you.”

“Oh, please Oh, listen! N-no!” She stumbled across the room towards him, shaking her head. “You don't know Bill! He'll murder me! Irene and I are supposed to be in Bill's cabin near Woodport! Bill couldn't come account of work! He'll--”

“Get back!”

“Oh, won't you listen! My--! the cops! I can't--”

“Get back! Don't get in my way!”

Panicky, breathless, she swayed before him, wringing her hands.

He saw the little man move--lightning-fast--towards the chair on which the other's holster hung. He saw the woman reeling in front of him--her contorted face, her frizzy hair. He struck with his left hand and she reeled, took a floor lamp down with her, screamed. He saw the slight twitch of the holster as the little man freed the gun. Saw the gun swing.

Donahue fired twice. The two explosions interlocked, welded; there was only a split-instant's interval between them. There was no third report. The little man shook, sank--and Donahue saw that his eyes were closed tightly, that his upper lip convulsed, baring his teeth in a macabre grimace that almost looked like a grin. The tall man's face was white as death.

Donahue said to the tall man, grimly: “Ambitious, wasn't he?”

Then he raised the telephone.
IX

TOKEN MOORE sat in Kelly McPard's chair. She looked very lovely and grave and injured, with her downcast eyes, her fingers worrying a crumpled little handkerchief. Donahue, taking drafts from a bucket of hot coffee, regarded her critically. Kelly McPard, though he hadn't slept for many hours, looked spic and span, alert, wide-awake. There was a sound in the hall, and then the door opened and Spengler, grinning, shoved the tall man into the office. Spengler said: “He's Joe Ackerman. The little guy's Midge Reider. Close friends of King Padden, the St. Louis number one man.”

Kelly McPard looked at Token Moore. “This the guy?”

She raised her eyes, then lowered them. “Yes.” McPard sighed. “Okey, Dutch; take him out. Spengler shoved Ackerman into the hall, closed the door. Token had remained stoical too long. She burst out: “I'll go crazy, I'll go crazy!”

“You should have reported this,” McPard said. “It would have saved a lot of grief.”

She cried: “I couldn't! I was there when Danny came and I hid. I hid behind the sofa. And then Danny went out and about five minutes later there was a knock and I thought it was Danny again, so I hid behind the sofa again. I heard them come in. I heard one of them say: 'Consadine, you and Harrigan double-crossed the chief. King sent us here with three hundred grand to bet on Tripp because you told him you and Harrigan were chucking the fight. You double-crossed us, you rat. We're getting you and we're getting Harrigan.' And then--it happened. And I got a look at them. And then they went out and I saw Giles-- dead--bloody--and I ran out and went home to my hotel.”

“When you knew we had Harrigan here for the murder, why didn't you tell us the truth?”

She gasped: “I--I--” And then she broke into sobbing, covering her face.

Donahue set down the bucket of coffee. “I'll tell you, Kel,” he said, his eyes still fixed on Token. “She and Consadine had been two-timing on the kid. When Consadine was knocked off, she skimmed out because she couldn't take it. When she learned from me, later, that you guys had Harrigan, she knew then that he was out of danger of the two men that had killed Consadine. So she told me she loved Danny. She must have had an idea that somehow or other Danny would be freed. With Consadine dead, she thought of Danny again--and his dough. If she'd come out in the open to explain who'd killed Consadine, Harrigan would have known she was in Consadine's place. So she kept silent. She probably had a vision of herself standing heroically by Danny during the trial--getting her mug in the papers, getting nice sobby write-ups, and getting--if he was freed--her hooks into his dough. She--”

Token screamed: “Stop! Oh, how I hate you--hate you! I--I--“ She choked, then broke out in a flood of new tears, stamping her feet.

Donahue picked up the bucket of coffee again. He said, with a dry smile: “Dumb as the kid is, he fooled you and he fooled Consadine. Mainly, though, he fooled you. He'll have a hard time of it for a while, but he'll grow older, forget; and after a while you'll be just another day wasted away.”

She buried her face in her hands. She was overwhelmed by chagrin, humiliation, self-pity.

“Save 'em,” Donahue said. “Save your tears, Token.”

THE END