CARROLL JOHN DALY

Race Williams pretty much started it all. You take your Hammetts, Chandlers, Cains, MacDonalds (John D. and Ross Macdonald)—and you're still talking Carroll John Daly (1889-1958), the creator of Race Williams. Because no matter how you gussy up, trick up, Seriously Literaur-ize the private eye novel, the source will always be the inimitable, reckless antics of Race Williams, who never met a man he didn't want to kill.
Frequently published in pulp magazine's such as Black Mask and Dime Detective, Daly broke away from the genteel sleuthing of his predecessors, bringing the dirty streets and double-dealing criminals onto the magazine pages. His short story "The False Burton Combs" is acknowledged to be the first hard-boiled detective story. In more than fifteen novels published from the 1920s to the 1950s, his detectives lived by their own moral code, punishing the guilty and protecting the innocent.

Just Another Stiff
Chapter ONE
A Corpse on Me

The door of my private office crashed back, and the man hurled himself in. Jerry, my assistant, was following him, grabbing at his right arm. Then followed the prettiest bit of gun-work you'd want to look at.
Both the man's hands moved at once; both of them held guns. The left one was trained on me. The right one crashed with a thud against bone, and I saw the blood on Jerry's forehead start to trickle down before he sank to the floor and lay quietly there. My visitor's foot moved too, and the door was kicked closed.
Some entrance!
I was caught with my coat off—and that's no figure of speech. It was warm. My shoulder holster was sporting a gun, but it was over on the bookcase. A bad set-up for a guy who fancies himself with heavy hardware and should be ready day and night? I don't know. I had a gun fastened beneath my desk that was handy enough. Well, nearly enough.
But I was getting a good look at this smart duck. He was high class on the outside—that is if expensive scenery makes for high class. Spats, a ninety-buck suit, a twelve-dollar hat. Things had happened to his face. Someone must have taken a sledge hammer and knocked his nose flat into the middle of it.
My hands went up and he spoke. "You don't have to play any Hold-Up-Your-Hands game with me, Race Williams. If you have any wish to use a gun, why go ahead and use it. How's that?"
I nodded and said that was fine. I wondered what he'd do if I slipped one hand under the desk, let my gun drop into it. Then I wondered what I'd do. I'd have to raise my hand to shoot; he only had to press a finger on a trigger—either trigger. So I waited—and lived on.
"So you're Williams. The wise dick, Race Williams—smartest gunman in the racket. You didn't think a guy could come from across the pond and put the finger on you—lay you right on the spot."
"Across the Atlantic?" I tried.
He shook his head. "The Orient. Don't know my face, eh?"
"Well—" I looked at that thick-lipped, flattened puss of his and said: "Maybe I knew it before you had it renovated."
He didn't get that last crack, and maybe it was just as well. He didn't look like a guy who'd take a joke, and I was in a pretty position to take a face full of forty-fives.
There was my own forty-four sprung nicely beneath my desk. Just an outward thrust, an upward jerk, and the pressure of a finger. I've done it before and gotten away with it, and I'd have done it then. But this guy could do things with guns and the best I could hope for was a double death. Besides he looked like a man who wanted to talk. And if he wanted to talk, I wanted to listen; he wouldn't be the first lad who'd talked himself to death.
"Brother," he said, "you've got a chance to live if you do exactly what I tell you. Don't go around with the wrong people. You understand that?"
"Sure"—I looked straight into his eyes—"sure, I understand that. What's the show?"
"The show is dope. Millions of dollars' worth of narcotics coming into the country through Morse and Lee, Fifth Avenue jewelers. Coming in easily until you killed Frank Morse, saved Conklyn Lee's life after he had discovered the racket Frank Morse was running. Then you even wised up the real owner of the firm—the girl, Mary Morse—and for the time being put the easy money out of business."
"Anything else I did you didn't like?"
"Yes," he said. "The killing of Gentle Jim Corrigan, the man who started to take Frank Morse's place—that's why I came."
"You were a long time coming." I stopped and looked toward Jerry. "How about putting the boy on the couch." And when he only grinned, "He may come to and bother you."
He laughed—a very assured laugh. "He won't come to for a bit, and if he does, he won't bother me." For a fraction of a second his head jerked toward Jerry, his eyes rolled. And I took the chance. My right arm shot slightly forward, my fingers touched metal, and a forty-four dropped into my hand.
Did he see me? I knew that he didn't, for his guns never changed—nor did either of his fingers tighten. He went on talking.
"Certainly, we were a long time coming. A long time figuring out the set-up, and making new plans. You see, we figured that after the first shooting you would be out of the case, because Mary Morse didn't have any money—and wouldn't have until she was twenty-one. So she couldn't hire you. But somehow you fell for her blue eyes, and took a hand in things. And now—"
He went for his inner jacket pocket. He simply crossed his left arm, tucked the gun under his right armpit—never took his right-hand gun off me—and pulled out a long folded piece of paper. He tossed it on the desk before me. I had to move my gun into my left hand as I leaned forward to reach it. I didn't dare come up shooting then, for he was leaning far over the desk.
"Look that over," he said.
He waited while I read it. It was hot stuff—a written statement of everything that had taken place in the dope-smuggling game. My protection of Mary Morse; her own knowledge of what was going on; the fact that her stepfather, Conklyn Lee, also knew; and that I, too, had kept such information from the government. It was all there right up to the shooting of Frank Morse. It looked like a confession that awaited only my signature.
Where did he get his information? Mary Morse wouldn't talk and ruin the Morse business to say nothing of being accused of helping her uncle. Conklyn Lee wouldn't tell for the same reason. Then it must be—
"Where did you get this information?" I asked Flat-Face.
From his indifference, I knew I was never supposed to live to repeat his answer. He said simply, and without hesitation: "The little lady known as the Flame supplied the information. But take a sheet of paper, copy that document there in your own handwriting. That will assure us that in the future, you'll stay out of this case—stay away from Mary Morse."
It wasn't the time to laugh, so I didn't. Up to date, the Morse case had not only paid me nothing, but had actually been a loss. I had thought it was over. Oh, she had buzzed me a few times on the phone, tried to see me, and then—like that—a dead silence. Which suited me, I guess.
I looked at Flat-Face's gun, thought, "Now is the time for it," pulled up my right hand and started to reach for the pen. The left with the gun in it was ready to follow, when he leaned far forward and killed that motion. "Get paper! What's the matter with your left hand? Are you a cripple?"
I dropped my gun onto my knees, and brought up my left hand. And I was right. If black had showed against the white of my hand I would have been dead, for his eyes were glued on that left.
For a moment I was glad I hadn't chanced death—I mean chanced his death, for mine would have been sure. Then I wasn't so glad. I was beginning to copy the paper. Hell, I know it's the proper thing for a real hero to throw out his chest, tell the guy that the sweet child, Mary Morse, came first and die like a man. But the hard thing to do is live like a man—if you're in a position like I was. I wanted to see a turn of his head, a second's lowering of that gun—and I wouldn't bore him with any more conversation. But I guess the main reason I was exercising my penmanship was because 1 was simply writing, Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of the party.
After watching my moving fingers a while, he said: "You're making good time, Williams. Turn the paper around so I can see what you wrote."
I breathed easier. This was the break. He'd have to look down at that paper, and when he did—Simple? Sure. It's just playing a waiting game, having a bit of patience. I swung the paper around, slid my left hand back to the edge of the desk.

"There you are. Just what you—"
His eyes never lowered. They stayed right on my hands. He said simply: "Put both your hands in the air—both of them."
I did, and he looked down at the paper—just a quick glance. Then his right hand moved with incredible speed. I felt more than saw that the gun turned in his hand as he gun-whipped me. Sure—he just tore a thin line down the side of my face, dug backwards, and gouged out a hunk of flesh almost beneath my ear. Mad? Of course I was. This lad's technique was perfect.
His voice never raised as he said simply: "Take another sheet of paper and try again." And when both my hands were once more on that desk, and a fresh sheet ready, "Listen, Williams, the cops know I'm in town. They're looking for me. You write it and sign it and I'll pass down the back stairs and be safely hidden away. They can't possibly suspect I'm here at your office. Don't write it—and I'll blast your head off or maybe simply cut your throat."
He parked a gun then; his left hand shot beneath his jacket and out again. Silver streaked in the light—and there was a long-bladed knife sticking in my desk.
He said: "That might as well have been in your chest—or in your throat!" And his crooked mouth twisting, "Though I like cutting throats from behind—it isn't such a mess. I mean for the cutter."
Now, as I wrote, he leaned forward and picked up the knife. He was trying to see, but no matter how he bent, the writing was still upside down. So he pulled a fast one.
"Keep on writing word for word, Williams. A mistake, and I'll let the whole thing go. To be perfectly honest with you, I didn't like the looks of a couple of men outside your office building. They looked copper, and they smelled copper." He was moving around the desk as he spoke.
"Look here"—I kept my right hand on the desk, but let my left slide naturally off it and onto my knees as I turned and faced him—"how do I know that you won't kill me after it's written?"
"You don't know—only that I tell you and that my gun would make too much noise."
The knife! I thought of the knife then, and I knew what he intended to do, just as if he had told me himself. Once the final word was written, once my signature was there, it would be a single stretch of his arm behind my back, a sharp twist of his wrist and he'd cut my throat.
Then what? Why, they'd have that girl, Mary Morse, under their thumbs, have her money, the cellar of her great store to keep their dope in. The famous house of Morse and Lee that was beyond suspicion would become a huge central receiving and distributing point for the narcotic trade. And I signed that paper—with all the threats, intimidation, blackmail and extortion that were contained therein.
The killer—with the knife in his left hand the gun in his right—was coming around the end of the desk. He was going to pass almost in full view of me. Would he see the gun? Would he see it before his body was directly in the line of my fire? Of course he would. I wouldn't dare move the hand that held it; I wouldn't dare move the arm or the shoulder that controlled that hand. Suddenly he moved forward, was directly before my gun—and he saw it.
Sure he saw the gun! He couldn't help see it. It was spewing orange-blue flame as soon as enough of his body was visible. It wasn't a nice shot; it wasn't a clean shot. But then it wasn't meant to be. It spun him as if he were a top. His own gun exploded, tore into the bookcase behind me. For a moment he swung back toward me and his gun was stretched out in his hand. And that was all of that. I squeezed lead once more and made a hole where his flat nose had been.
He was further away this time, but he was dead—dead right there on his feet. I saw it in his eyes, saw the light go out of them as if you'd switched off an electric bulb, just before he collapsed there between the desk and the window.
A voice said: "Nice work, boss. You don't often let me in on the kill," It was Jerry, half up on one knee.
"He let you in on it and—" I paused, picked up the original paper and the copy I was making and started to tear them up. A door slammed. Heavy feet beat across the outer office and once again my private door burst open. I slipped my gun into my pocket as a face appeared in the doorway—the hard, weather-beaten face of my worst enemy on the police force. Yep, you guessed his name. It was Iron Man Nelson. All the things I had pulled on him and taken my laugh at, at the time, didn't seem quite so funny to me now with those papers clutched in my left hand.
Inspector Nelson saw Jerry who was getting slowly to his feet; saw the deep cut in his forehead, the blood beginning to dry on Jerry's face, and for the first time in his life Nelson was solicitous. Evidently he thought I had been knocking Jerry around and he was going to make the most of it. Apparently Iron Man Nelson hadn't heard those shots. He'd come in for some other reason. Of course, he wasn't in a position to see the body of Flat-Face.
"What did this man, Williams, do to you, son?" Iron Man had an arm around Jerry, and the "son" sounded as though a couple of other words were missing. "He smacked you with a gun, eh? Well that's a pastime of Williams'."
"Mr. Williams was showing me a new gun-twist," Jerry lied easily, though I knew his head was near busting as he bathed it at the water-cooler. Before Nelson could blow up he added: "Then I tried it on him and—"
I dropped the papers into the ashtray, lit a butt, and tossed the match in after them.
Nelson's eyes were wide as he looked at my face, the thin line of red down it, the dig behind the ear, for I turned my head so he could see it. Then he saw the sudden blaze in the tray, said: "What the hell! Want to burn up the place?" He stepped forward and reached for that ashtray, but I was before him and had awkwardly knocked it from the desk.
Jerry dropped to his knees, was picking up the white sheets, grinding in the partly burnt edges—and I had a real break. Sergeant O'Rourke stamped into the room, stood there in the doorway with a couple of city dicks behind him as Jerry walked by him with the papers. Good old Jerry! Walking out with a bit of writing that would have given Nelson the happiest moment of his life, and O'Rourke—well, friend or no friend, I'd have been in plenty of trouble. But the cops were ready for an argument between themselves. Nelson always was. O'Rourke gave him the chance this time.
"Now look here, Nelson"—O'Rourke worked close to the commissioner and didn't have to take guff from any cop, not even an inspector— "I tipped you to this lay, and you go in the back way alone."
"What lay?" I cut in as Nelson said something about O'Rourke being too friendly with a "private dick" and making those two words stink to high heaven.
O'Rourke began to explain then. "Why—Spats Willis. Wanted here ten or twelve years ago for murder, went to the Orient—Singapore last time we heard of him—and mixed up in some dope-smuggling. We think he's Raftner's man—Nick Raftner."
"Who's Raftner?" I wanted to know.
"Who knows?" said Nelson. "No one has ever seen him. However, he's real. Sits pretty in the Malay States and has a big idea about filling America with dope."
"Yeah?" I said. "But why would he come here? I mean this other bloke—Spats Willis."
"We don't know, Race." And when I just stared at him, "It's not a hunch or anything like that. We had a call Willis would be found here at your office, and to come up right after one o'clock. No suspicion of you— nothing like that, Race."
"No? That's just O'Rourke's opinion," Nelson sneered. "We got a good description of Willis. He was seen entering this building, and it's fairly well established that he came to this floor. He's got a face that isn't hard to place."
I shrugged. "Who told you he was here?"
"We don't know. You didn't anyway!" Nelson blasted. "What's that got to do with it? We got to search the place—maybe take you down for a little questioning."
I looked at O'Rourke. He looked back very soberly, said: "He's wanted for at least one murder we can lay on him. It's serious business, Race, if you let him come and go."
"What would you do with him?"
Though I spoke to O'Rourke I got the answer where I hoped I'd get it—from Nelson. "We'd fry him. Or better still lay a couple of slugs in his head."
"Oh, you want him dead." I tried putting on a child-like wonder which I knew always infuriated Nelson.
"Of course, we want him dead. If Raftner's money's behind him it'll take a couple of years to get a conviction—if we get one even then. Now, Race, what do you know about—"
He stopped, followed the direction of my jerking thumb—first with his eyes, then with his head, and finally with his moving feet. His bellow of surprise as he spotted the body was pleasant to my ears. Then O'Rourke was on his knees beside him and I saw them swing the dead head around.
"It's Spats Willis all right. I remember him years back," Nelson said and I liked the awe in his voice. "And what a mess!"
"That's right—a mess," I told him. "Get him out of here. He's all yours."
Nelson came to his feet, turned on me viciously. He accused me of everything right up to the murder of a poor unfortunate traveler named Willis, who had returned to his native shores after these many years. Maybe those weren't his exact words, but they're close enough. And they made me mad; damned good and mad. I let him have it.
"By God!" 1 said. "You pound in here hollering for Willis's death. And me—am I paid to sit around and wait until someone you happen to approve of knocks over your wanted man? Then you give me abuse, accuse me of about everything in the calendar." And going to the cooler and taking a drink, "Look at my rug! That's the thanks I get for spilling a public enemy's guts all over it. He's yours. Take him out of here. I'll complain to the commissioner that you got word I was to be shot to death and waited until you thought the job was done."
Nelson started toward me as I turned to leave the room, but O'Rourke reached me first. "All right. All right. How did it happen, Race?"
"How did it happen!" I flared back. "Why, he just talked himself to death." And I banged on into the outer office.
Mad? Well, not now. I went to the rear of the room and laughed for a good five minutes.
O'Rourke came out and stood looking at me. He shook his head. "I can't understand you, Race. I've been twenty-five years in this business— and I have never yet been able to see anything funny in death."
"Funny!" I told him. "Of course, it's funny. Damn it, O'Rourke! If you couldn't get an occasional laugh in this business, you'd go nuts. But I've got to go out and eat. Haven't had lunch yet."
I swung back into my private office, hopped over the late lamented Mr. Spats Willis, swung both my shoulder holsters into place and put on my jacket.
"Don't scowl like that, Nelson." I winked at the sour-pussed inspector. "They don't come much deader than that one. I'll expect the city to pay for the rug at the cleaner's. There, there—not a word of thanks. That corpse is on me."

Chapter TWO
Table for Three

I hit my favorite restaurant, ready for a thick steak, and I saw the girl; the woman, if you like—for the Flame could be either one—a sort of flesh-and-blood Doctor Jekyll and Miss Hyde, if you get what I mean. There were times when she was young and lovely, the sparkle of youth in her eyes—and times, too, when she was hard, cold, cruel, a woman of the night. Beautiful—sure, but in a sinister way.
I couldn't tell which was she now, as I walked down the room. She was tapping a cigarette on the table, looking toward the door, and suddenly she saw me. Her eyes brightened, her head moved slightly, and I went toward her. What a coincidence finding the Flame occupying my special booth in my special restaurant? Well, if you're young and in love you might look on it like that. But the Flame has no coincidence in her life—and I have none in mine. I knew she was waiting for me.
She didn't show surprise and neither did I as she started to move over to make room for me beside her. My surprise came when I saw that the seat across from her was occupied. Long, slender, neatly manicured fingers lay upon the whiteness of the table cloth. Sleek black hair, soft oily skin—I don't have to tell you. It was Armin Loring—One Man Armin— the most dangerous man in the city of New York.
The Flame moved further into the booth. Armin just looked at me, smiled pleasantly enough when I sat down beside her.
I didn't let the Flame talk first. I said: "I suppose you wish me to sit down—right?"
"Right. Would you believe me, Race, if I said I'm surprised to see you—but delighted?"
"Maybe you are surprised to see me—alive, but I rather doubt the delighted part."
"And you may well doubt that, Williams." Armin Loring showed more of his even white teeth, watched the Flame open her purse. He took the five hundred-dollar bills she stretched across to him. "Will we tell Williams about the bet, honey?" And when the Flame stiffened, "It's too good to keep. You see, Race, Florence bet me those five centuries that I'd never see you alive again." And twisting up his lips as he pocketed the money, "Even money, too, Race. You must be slipping."
Graceful shoulders went up and down. The Flame turned, blew a smoke ring at me, said: "You always did let me down, Race. Seriously, Armin, you're not really jealous because Race was once madly in love with me?" She looked at me steadily. "Sometimes I think he still is."
"That's the way it goes." Armin beckoned a waiter and I ordered. And then, "They say that once a man loves the Flame he always loves her."
I said: "And they say also that to love the Flame is to die."
"Yet," said Armin, "you and I are both alive. There, Williams, you can be the first to congratulate me. Florence and I have given up the racket, discovered that underneath it all we are both very conventional people. We are going to be married—and sail away on our honeymoon."
"Not to Singapore by any.chance?" I asked.
Armin Loring jerked erect. I had hit him a wallop all right. He showed it and knew that he showed it. "What do you mean by that?" he demanded.
"Well"—I stuck my tongue in my cheek—"I had a visitor from Singapore today. He said you sent him."

Armin Loring looked straight at me. He seemed puzzled. I knew he spoke the truth when he said: "I never sent anyone." He looked at the Flame; back to me.
"Race"—he spoke very slowly, very distinctly, and without any dramatics—"you have never really crossed me yet." He scowled. "Except for that one time when you took Miss Morse from the Royal Hotel. Forget me—forget Singapore. I haven't got an enemy in the world—a dangerous enemy—that is a live one. Don't make me think I have." He leaned forward now and I believe he meant every word he said. "You've walked up and down the Avenue for years, Race. Lads fear you because they fear death. They recognize you as one of their own kind. A man who has no interest in courts of justice, no interest in stupidly gathering evidence that won't stand up. You're a killer, just like—"
"Just like you're a killer," I finished for him.
"No." He was deadly serious. "Speed with a gun like speed in everything else is only relative. You don't know it, don't believe it, but I can draw and shoot in less than one second."
"Yeah?" I said. "Right now?"
"Right now—one second. What do you say to that?"
I said: "Armin, you'd be exactly one-half second too late."
And Armin did it. I had heard about his speed and was interested to see it operate. Now I did. He just swept the handkerchief from his outside jacket pocket and I saw plainly the nose of the tiny gun beneath it.
"By God!" Armin said, and I didn't like his eyes. "I've a good mind to do it here." And his eyes shifting up and down the room, "I will, too—unless you give me your word that you will never mention my name and Singapore. Poor sap, you never even raised a hand to save yourself."
I said easily: "Be your age, Armin. You don't think I go around letting guys pull guns on me—at least not twice in one day. Put that handkerchief away or comes it a sudden pain in your stomach."
His eyes narrowed. His thin lips tightened. I saw the Flame half rise in the booth.
I said: "There's a gun covering you under the table, Armin." And when doubt came into his eyes I added lightly: "A nice conventional guy like you wouldn't want a lot of strangers to know what you had for lunch."
"I don't believe you." Those were Armin Loring's words, but he did believe me just the same. And he was right. Why, a gun fell into my hand almost the moment I sat down.
I shrugged my shoulders and told him what was on my chest. "We sat like this once before, Armin. Remember? I do. Only that time both our guns were under the table. But have it your own way. Press the trigger of that toy gun—" I leaned forward suddenly, spat the words at him. "Park that gun, Armin; park it damn quick or I'll blow hell out of your insides!"
Armin's eyes brightened to twin beads of fire. For a moment I thought he was going to do his stuff and my finger tightened on the trigger. I could feel the hammer of my forty-four slipping back.
Armin smiled suddenly and said his well known line. "No fooling, Race?"
"No fooling, Armin," I answered.
Three things happened. His handkerchief twirled back into his pocket.
My gun slipped back into its holster. The waiter brought my steak. And— I'm not sure—but I think the Flame opened the bag that lay on her lap and slipped something stubby and black into it. Was I ungentlemanly enough to think it was a gun? Yeah, I guess I was. But the steak was good and I was hungry.

There were several minutes of silence then—that is conversational silence. I like my steak and I don't care who hears it.
After a while the Flame said: "You run along if you want, Armin. I'd like to talk to Race—of our old love." And damn it, she put a hand across the table and patted the back of his.
He took a dumb look and pulled his hand away—but he liked it. He said: "All right, kitten. Just a word with Race first." And to me, "Now about this Mary Morse case and the unfortunate fact that unscrupulous people have been using her jewelry firm for dishonest acts." He grinned at his own cleverness in the wording. "You haven't made a nickel on the deal. I have been offered a big fee—a very big fee to keep you out of this case. Because of your old friendship with Florence, my future wife, and my dislike for trouble just before our honeymoon, I'll give you half of this fee to stay out of your own accord."
"The laugh's on you, Armin," I told him. "I am out of it."
"Certain?"
"As certain as a man can be." I shrugged. "I have no intention of seeing Mary Morse."
"That's a promise—your word?"
"That's nothing to you," I told him flat. "It simply means that I don't want to see her—don't want to go to her if she sends for me. But I would go in a minute if I felt like it. Threat from you—or no threat from you."
The Flame clapped her hands. "Waving the old flag, eh Race? You have to understand him, Armin. He's free, white and twenty-one, and he just won't be threatened."
"Threatened, hell!" Armin drew a small case from his pocket, flipped it open, tossed a cigarette into his mouth and popped a match to the end of it. "This, Race, is a plain statement of the facts. You never bluff; I never bluff. If you're seen with Mary Morse again—so much as talk to her in a hotel or restaurant—you'll be shot to death at once."
"By you?" was all I asked.
"By me the second time."
"You expect to kill me twice, eh?"
"I expect to kill you if the first attempt fails, though I can hardly see failure." He was tossing his napkin on the table now. "This man I have in mind would shoot you even in a crowded restaurant."
"Restaurant, eh?" I rubbed my chin as he pulled that "restaurant" line the second time, watched him start to slide out of the booth. I looked at the check for the meal beside his plate, said quickly: "It's you who are going to marry the girl, Armin. I'm damned if I'll pay the check."
It was strange to see the sudden color come into Armin's face, but he fished out a five-spot and tossed it on the table. I turned over the check, took a squint and nodded, said: "The Flame must be trying to reduce. On your way. Nothing else I should know, is there?"
Armin didn't like my light banter. His teeth showed when he leaned over and spoke to me, but there was nothing of a smile on his face—just the baring of his teeth which was anything but pleasant. "I'm going to pay you a great compliment, Race," he said. "I'm going to steal your line. If you so much as see or speak to Mary Morse again and live—then I'll shoot you to death the first time we meet."
I shook my head, smiled and filled in the missing words for him. He had left my favorite line out. "Any place, any time—at Forty-Second Street and Broadway during the lunch hour. That's what you mean, isn't it, Armin?"
"That," said Armin, "is exactly what I mean." Without another word he turned and left the table. I watched him walk slowly down the length of the room toward the door. Then I turned to the Flame.

For a long moment I looked steadily into those brown eyes. They looked steadily back, didn't even blink slightly. I tried: "Too bad about the bet you lost, Florence. So you sent Spats Willis to kill me."
"To kill the man I used to love—do love?" She leaned forward.
"You bet Armin he'd never see me alive again. And Willis was fast with a gun."
"So"—arched eyebrows went up—"you admit that others can be fast with a gun. Willis—What happened to him?"
"In this hot weather they'll bury him quickly."
Red ran in and out of her face; her right hand tapped the table. If that was emotion, it was all she showed. She said simply: "It's part of the price men must pay who want to make money—a lot of money."
"And women, too," I told her.-
"Mary Morse, for instance." She pretended to miss my crack. And then, "How do you know I sent him—to kill you?" And after a pause, "Maybe I sent him for you to kill."
"But why—why?" I'd had that thought, too. But I was never sure that it was an honest thought or a wish—something I wanted to believe, yet really didn't.
"I saved your life once, and you believed that I did it because I was more anxious for someone else to die. Perhaps I sent Willis to you that you might kill him."
"Yeah." I looked at her. "You've lined up with a dope outfit so you can set guys up for me to shoot down. Let me tell you something. This Willis boy very nearly got your intentions mixed and gave me the dose. After this when you set a lad up for me, give me a ring he's coming. Hell, Florence, you wouldn't expect a child to believe that!"
"I'm not expecting you to believe anything; certainly not as much as a child. A child has a clean honest mind." And suddenly sticking out a hand and gripping mine tightly; gripping it while her fingers against my skin went colder and colder, "Let's chuck it all, Race. Let's go away together—"
I jerked my hand away, put hard eyes on her—then lowered them slightly. Damn it, the woman was a marvel of—well, maybe deceit. I could have sworn her eyes were wet and warm. But I said: "I thought you were going to marry Armin Loring."
She shrugged. "You told me once that I would make a charming widow."
I let that slide and spoke what was on my mind. "They wish to keep me away from Mary Morse. Why? She doesn't want me, doesn't need me now."
"She needs you more than she ever needed you. Armin would like an excuse to kill you. Someone watches over Mary day and night. Someone who came from the Orient. Someone who could shoot you to death right in a public place and wield enough influence—what with your reputation for shooting—to escape punishment. If you want to live don't go near Mary Morse."
I didn't get it, but I drew in my knees and let the Flame slide from the booth. Certainly, I admitted, she was a gorgeous woman, but if I were Armin, I'd have her searched upon her wedding night.
She turned her lithe, feline body there at the end of the booth and said: "There are a million tiny cells in every human brain, Race. Try using just one of them. Remember, the police arrived in time. They might have been late."
That they had been late was my only thought as she swung down the room.
A minute later I picked up my check and saw the small envelope under it. I drew out the oblong bit of cardboard about as big as a visiting-card. It was from the Flame, of course. But it wasn't. It read simply—

Race—Race, don't come to the Green Room. Don't come to my table. It means your death. Don't come no matter what I say—how I plead. It's a trap to kill you—I won't mean it.
Mary Morse

Chapter THREE
Champagne Supper

I stalled around a bit before going back to my office. When I got there the body was gone. O'Rourke wanted to hear my story again. Nelson wanted to hear it again. The D. A. wanted to hear it and so did the commissioner of police. Also a dozen or more reporters panted to hear it.
By that time I didn't want to hear it and had boiled it down to a few words. I simply said: "His name, the cops say, was Willis. Why he tried to kill me I don't know. He fired and missed. I fired and didn't miss." After all, there wasn't a hell of a lot more to it.
One reporter said: "You killed him." And when he saw the expressions on the faces of boys who had been around and knew my record, added hastily, "Of course."
I shrugged my shoulders. "If I didn't kill him, you've got a great story. 'Cops Bury Man Alive'."
Ypu just can't go around the city shooting people to death, nor are you even allowed to pull off promiscuous killings in your own office. But it ~ was routine to me. I knew all the answers, and if I didn't, I had a damn good lawyer who did. Spats Willis was wanted for murder. It was easier to find reasons for killing him than it was to find reasons for not killing him. Everybody was pleased—even Nelson.
After I went downtown and traded dirty words with the D.A., O'Rourke got me alone in his room and talked straight out. We liked each other O'Rourke and me.
"Race," he said, "there's a new angle to this case. You see, we got word that Spats Willis was coming to America, also that Raftner was coming. Now, Spats was known, but no one has ever seen Raftner. Raftner is also supposed to be here in New York. He's the biggest narcotic agent in the world. Yet, if he walked into police headquarters this minute no one could arrest him. You know—that knowledge-without-the-evidence stuff. Wanted in England, Germany, France, Italy—"
"I know." I nodded. "But what of that? He's in New York now."
"Yeah, that's right." O'Rourke eyed me shrewdly. "We were tipped off he was coming by the G-men. They could have dragged in Spats Willis any time they wanted to; they've been following him ever since he landed. Lost him last week—and we wanted him for murder here. But the G-men have been following someone else longer than they have been following Willis."
"Who—Raftner?"
"No. Take another guess."
"I'm not good at riddles."
"You," said O'Rourke. "You, Race."
"Hell! I should have known it. There's been a dozen or more lads playing lamb to my little Mary." And suddenly, "How long? What did they find?"
O'Rourke grinned. "You seem excited, Race. They drew a blank on you, passed you up over a week ago. Gave you a clean bill of health."
I breathed easier, said: "What put me into their heads? They didn't suspect I was in the racket?"
"I don't know what they suspected; or how they picked up your trail. But they knew drugs had entered the country and that a big man handled it. Gentle Jim Corrigan was wanted, but they weren't sure he headed the dope-ring. They only had to read the newspapers to know that you shot Corrigan to death smack in front of Nelson and myself. So they figured some place along the line you had a client in the racket—and they sat down on your tail."
"Well"—I looked straight at O'Rourke-f--"I haven't got a client, in or out of the racket."
"Have you met the Flame lately?"
"Haven't seen her in three or four months." My attitude was one of total indifference.
"You mean since lunchtime today." O'Rourke tossed his bomb as casually.
"My God!" I cried out. "You—spying on me like that. How did you find that out?"
O'Rourke chided me lightly. "Now, now. You've been seeing too many movies with dumb cops in them, Race. You shot a man to death and walked out for your lunch. The police were interested in whom you met. You won't argue with me, Race, when I say that the Flame is the most beautiful and the most dangerous woman in New York. And today she was with the most dangerous man in New York—Armin Loring. That's a combination a single man can't beat. No, not even a single man like you. Women are dangerous to men in the racket. Armin never had a woman before—and such a woman.".
"The Flame is not—" I started, but O'Rourke cut in.
"I know. I know." A long pause and then, "He'd think nothing of having you killed. And Armin can think fast."
"Fast with his brain as well as with his gun," I thought half aloud.
"Correct," O'Rourke agreed. "Just fast with a gun won't keep a man from being shot in the back of the head." And with a smile, "Your being alive sort of disproves that theory, eh Race?"
"Yeah," was the best I could do.
O'Rourke laid a hand on my shoulder. "You have something that none of them have, boy. You've got instinct. You feel danger before you see it. That's what keeps you alive."
"What about these federal men. Are they going to question me?"
"No. In fact, they've decided to drop you as useless to them."
"Even though I killed Willis?"
"Even though you killed Willis. They didn't make me promise not to tell you about them, but I think a demand for such a promise was coming when we were interrupted. Now, Race, those are my cards. I want yours." .
"Mine? I have none. You don't think Armin is in the dope racket? As for the Flame—" I stopped there. Sure, she was in it.
O'Rourke went on and his voice was low. "I never pushed you, Race. I won't push you now. You worked with the G-men once—they owe you something now. It would be a great feather in my hat if we beat them to the pinch." And after a moment, "I'd stretch a point for your client, too." 
"O'Rourke!" I looked indignant. "You don't think I'd help anyone who—"
"Never mind what I think. Will you play ball with me when the big moment comes? I don't want our city to be flooded openly with dope. I'd like to think that I was the guy—even through you—who helped prevent that." And suddenly, "Did you know that Armin has been to Singapore?"
"No, but I know he intends to go."
"And for some reason or other he intends to have you killed. That's a fact, Race. It's common gossip in the underworld. Do you know why?"
I grinned broadly, thought of Mary Morse and grinned more. "Is it about a woman?" I asked innocently.
"A woman?" O'Rourke seemed surprised so I switched that.
"Well—I don't know just who Mr. Armin Loring will get to alibi him in my death."
O'Rourke said rather sadly: "The lad who knocks you over won't even need a lawyer. Any self-defence plea will save the man who kills you. With your record any judge, any jury will feel that if you didn't try to kill the man first it was simply an oversight on your part."
I took a bow. "I won't worry about the lad who does me in." And in sudden thought, "Now, O'Rourke, you think Armin is going to kill me. Armin, perhaps, thinks the same thing. Just how would you feel if I— well, prevented Armin from killing me?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that if he wasn't alive, why he couldn't kill anyone."
"You mean that you'd murder him?"
My shoulders went up and down. "Why make a nasty word out of it?"
"I'm telling you now that he can shoot circles around you."
"That'll be fine." I grinned. "If I'm standing in the middle of that circle while he's doing his act, then good-bye, Mr. Armin Loring. Suppose"—I leaned forward—"suppose seriously, O'Rourke, because I have a great respect for Armin and his gun, that it was kill or be killed. Just one bullet from one gun—whichever lad fired first. How would you like it if Armin took the dose?"
"Personally," said O'Rourke, "I'd like it fine."
"All right." I turned toward the door. "I'll see what I can do for you—personally."
"Personally—" He started suddenly, stopped, then blurted it out. "You said it was a woman. Good God, it's not the Flame!"
"Good God—it's not." I had the door half open and O'Rourke had his mouth half open. I knew what he was going to say; what he always said. His personal opinion had nothing to do with that of the department, so I didn't give him a chance to say it. I just closed the door and took it on the run down the hall. If anything happened to Armin now, I'd tell O'Rourke I thought he wanted it that way. And truth is truth—I think he did.

I went whistling out of the building and grabbed the subway uptown. Oh, I know taxis are the thing for private investigators. You can't very well say to subway motormen: "Follow that man." But then I had no man to follow—and more to the point, no client to pay for the taxi.
When I reached my own apartment I dropped into an easy chair, picked up the evening papers. I liked the streamers on a couple of the papers. Wanted Murderer Shot To Death and Hoodlum Killed As He Threatens Death. But one sheet did its stuff and wouldn't hurt my business any. Yep, the blazing banner I liked best read —Race Williams Does It Again.
On the second page I took a laugh. The photograph was good; the wording under it better. There was a picture of Iron Man Nelson leaning over the body of Spats Willis in my office. And the caption read— Inspector Nelson First to Find the Dead Body. Get it? Of course, you do—and so would Nelson. He had been making it a habit lately of finding bodies— after I laid those bodies out for him.
The phone rang. It was Mary Morse and she was crying. There was terror in her voice. She had hard work in getting her words out over the phone, and I had a sight harder work understanding them. Then she cleared up.
"Race," she said finally, very slowly and distinctly, "I need you more' than I have ever needed you. I am at the Green Room of the Hotel York Terrace. There is a man with me called Raftner. He is controlling my every move, because—well, you know why."
I didn't get the idea, but I said simply: '.'Sure, Mary. I'll come around and have a talk with you."
"But this man—he'll kill you if you come!"
"Nonsense." I put it lightly. "I'll stick you for the supper check."
"But this Raftner—he's here with me."
"Then we'll stick him for the check," I chuckled.
Her voice lowered. Someone muttered beside her. Mary Morse pulled an aside in a hoarse whisper. "I won't. I won't. He's coming." A pause and then, "Close the door of the booth. Wait on the outside, and I will—Oh, I will!"
I didn't cut in on the little comedy—or tragedy—that took place in that booth. I just listened. I heard a single step, a soft swish which sounded like the telephone-booth door closing, then Mary Morse's voice.
"They are making me do this. Raftner is making me. They want me to plead with you to come. They want to find out if you would come. Race, Race! I've caused you enough danger. Don't come—don't come. This Raftner is different; has influence. He's—he's bad."
"He's kidding you, Mary. I'll just trot over to the York Terrace and see how bad he really is."
"No—no!" Her voice wasn't, low now. "Don't come! He'll kill you right here at—"
There was a slight thud, a stifled scream, the click of the receiver— and I dropped my own phone back in its cradle.
I whistled softly as I adjusted my shoulder holsters, slipped into my jacket, picked up my hat. Armin Loring had warned me not to see Mary Morse again. The Flame had told me not to see her again. Mary Morse herself had told me not to come—both on that card and over the phone. And a lad called Raftner—so bad that he admitted it himself—threatened my death if I visited the Green Room of the Hotel York Terrace.
There was only one answer to that.
The York Terrace is a rather classy, high-priced hotel, and the Green Room some parsnips in the night life of a great city. Yet, I didn't get into evening clothes. I can wear the boiled shirt as well as the next fellow and talk so I won't be taken for a waiter. But a shoulder holster isn't so good with a tux, unless you sport a small gun. Me—I don't like twenty-twos. When I put a hole in a guy I don't embarrass half a dozen doctors who try to find it. My motto is: There isn't much sense in shooting the same guy over and over.
The exclusive Hotel York Terrace was having something put over on it. I spotted him as soon as I entered the lobby. He was all decked out in fish-and-soup and leaning against a pillar—a bad boy of the night. He had the size to look down at you, and the twisted kisser to scare people to death. Now he grabbed my arm and started to work on me as soon as I reached the pillar.
"Listen, Williams," he said, and despite my six feet, I had to raise my head slightly to look at him, "I'm working for Armin—Armin Loring. You're not to go in that Green Room. You're to beat it from the hotel now before I—"
I stopped him there. I knew why he repeated Armin's name. It was like whistling in the dark. His heart wasn't in his threat. I said simply: "Take your hand off me, Sam, before I shoot your arm away at the shoulder." And when he dropped his hand as if he were gripping a hot iron, "Now— tell me what you'll do. And if I don't like it—you'll be surprised."
His face got a bit white. "Well—" He hedged trying to get us a little back from the entrance to the Green Room which made me turn my head and see Mr. Armin Loring sitting at a table by the door with the Flame. His face was sideways to us. "Well," Sam tried again, "I was just to say it wouldn't be healthy for you." And as I carelessly crossed my right hand to my left armpit, "God, Mr. Williams! It was just a message I had to give and—and—"
I watched him back away then, fade to the left and out of sight of the crowd in the Green Room. He didn't speak again. When he got far enough away he turned sideways and did a little ballet dance toward the main entrance. And he was right. I don't take talk from guys like him; never did; never will.
I spun on my heel and entered the Green Room. Armin turned his head and saw me just as I saw Mary Morse—frightened, white-faced little Mary Morse who had gone through so much with her head up—and the gent beside her. Big shoulders, big neck, big head—and so help me God!—nose-glasses with a wide black ribbon running down from them and half twisted about the huge cigar that decorated his thick-lipped puss. They were far down in a corner of that room.
"Hello, Armin." I leaned on Armin's table and smiled at him; smiled just as the lights dimmed, a spotlight flashed, and a dame started to sing. "Is Raftner still tough? Is he the guy with the crape on his glasses?"
Armin said very slowly: "That is Raftner—and he'll shoot you to death right at the table. So don't go near Mary Morse."
I smiled cheerfully over at the Flame. She wasn't the young girl now. She was the hard, calculating woman of the night. It was in her eyes, her face, her tight lips—in the very movement she made pulling the high-priced fur piece over her bare right shoulder.
I said to Armin above the singer who had hit her stride and was raising hell all over the room: "And if Raftner isn't as bad as you think, then you'll—"
He almost snarled as he cut in. "Any time and place."
"Fine." I patted Armin—the dangerous Armin—on the back. "Get ready for the fireworks."
"You fool!" Armin clutched at my arm, looked at me as if he were figuring out if I were drunk or not. "Don't try anything here. I tell you this man will kill you."
"You asked for it, brother," I told him and then almost viciously as I jerked my arm free, "If Raftner's half the man you think he is, we'll give the Green Room a floor-show that will be entirely different."
I moved around the edge of the dance-floor, cut across it on the fringe of the light, nearly lost an eardrum as the singing girl, feeling that she was not annoying enough people, began to circle around.
I went straight down the lane of light toward those wide, staring terror-stricken eyes of Mary Morse. I saw Raftner, too. He was half turned now. One arm—his left—hung over the side of his chair. His right hand was holding a glass of champagne. The silver ice-bucket was plainly visible beside him.
I got a good look at his face. He wasn't any gunman—that is a gunman as we picture one. He was smiling at me and his bulging, fish-like eyes had a film over them; a film that seemed to magnify instead of dim them through the lenses of his glasses.
He never changed his position as I reached the table—just smiled and said very low: "You're Race Williams, of course. I have seen your picture. I have come to this country for the purpose of looking at you—just once.
"That's fine," I said, and since his voice was not unpleasant, I tried to keep mine the same, though I daresay I didn't make much of a go of it. "You're Mr. Raftner. Well, I've got some bad news for you. Your very charming companion is coming along with me."
"That is not the truth," he said very solemnly, "She will not go. She will remain here with me. It is her preference—her privilege—and her comfort." And very slowly, "She is used to every luxury of life. Prison cells are cold and damp."
"Hell!" I didn't like this backing and filling. "I thought you were dynamite. Armin gave me the idea that this was the table of death."
"You could, of course, make Armin's words come true." Those great shoulders hunched. His left hand still hung over the chair; his right still held the almost full glass of champagne.
"Come on, Mary," I said. "Your fat friend has proved a bust. You and I are going places."
Mary started to her feet. Raftner spoke, "The dear child has a cold on her chest Mr. Williams. She will be escorted home carefully so that the night air will not hurt her. Then she will place her feet in a hot bath." He paused a long moment, turned his head and looked directly at the girl. "Sit down, child," he said, and his voice was like fingernails drawn along a! wall. "I knew a young girl once who found the hot bath so severe that she never walked again." He made a queer noise in his throat. "Both her feet were amputated."
So that was it. Here was a guy who was supposed to be good with a gun making cracks with certainly more than a hint of torture. Mary Morse put one hand to her throat; the other stretched limply toward me as she fell rather than slipped back in the chair.
"Go, Race," she said. "Go—I'll—I'll stay with him. I've got to. I've got to."
"Nonsense," I told her and as my voice rose a little I took a quick look-see around. Tables on either side of us were vacant; people beyond were looking from the semi-darkness beneath the balcony into the light, and watching the singer. I went on: "Don't mind this big bust, Mary. You heard what was going to happen to me if I came here. Now what? A lot of wind. Why, this big stiff couldn't—"
The big stiff did. He just moved his right hand back and tossed it up again. The "insult direct" or something like that in the book of etiquette, I guess. For his cigar puffed, smoke blew straight into my face the moment the champagne splashed all over my map.
Mad? Of course I was mad. So would you be. I just can't shoot lads to death unless there is some reason for it. Though you and I may think a face full of champagne is sufficient reason—twelve beer-drinking men on a jury might not.
Anyway, I didn't like it. His eyes were watching my right hand. Hard eyes and cold; no fish now, but steel through his glasses. And his right hand was ready to cross as soon as mine. Oh, I won't believe any man is . quicker than I am, and—
I don't go in for light humor often, but I did now. I stretched out my right hand, pulled the cigar out of his wide, surprised mouth, then shoved it back into his face again. That I turned it around and shoved in the wrong end of the cigar—that is, the wrong end from his point of view—is what caused the trouble. But if he wanted to play—why, so did I. .
If you have ever pushed the lighted end of a cigar in your own mouth during a fast evening, you'll know the sensation of surprise. But you'll probably have to guess how it feels when someone else does it—then screws it in like a cork in a bottle.
No, I don't know how dangerous Mr. Raftner was, but I do know what he did. He spit bits of cigar, ashes, and fire, and jumped up and down like a maniac. Sure, he stopped the show. He had half a dozen waiters around, poured glasses and glasses of water into his mouth, and just made a mess of himself as the waiters tried to stop him. He tried to talk, but didn't make much of a go of it.
To the first waiter I said: "He's drunk."
The head-waiter was disturbed—greatly disturbed. He said sort of awed: "He's the Baron from Antwerp, is he not? It is most regrettable, Miss Morse—this head of a great jewelry firm."
And when I put a bug in his ear, "But certainly, monsieur, Miss Morse need not be further embarrassed. The door there— through the kitchen. No, no—no one knows him by name, and few saw—and none, I believe, recognized Miss Morse."
I wasn't mad any more when a captain led the girl and me to the little door and into the kitchen. Of course, Mary was well known in the best places. For some time now she had been the actual head of Morse and Lee. Poor kid—trying to stimulate the jewelry trade by appearing in fashionable places.
I was careful as we left that dining-room. No fear that Mr. Raftner, alias, the Baron, would stick a bullet in my back. Like Mount Vesuvius, he was having another eruption. It was Armin I was watching. I saw him come to his feet and start across the dining-room toward the vanishing figure of Raftner who was being pushed more than just escorted between red curtains in one corner of the room. Then Armin hesitated, hurried back to the Flame who was quickly leaving the room.
Yes, I was chuckling. But we can't have our little joke without paying for it. That's life, I suppose. The captain who saw us to the side entrance and sent for a taxi was very polite. He said quite close to my ear: "Monsieur le Baron was rather too clever with the champagne. But you, monsieur, with the revolving cigar were superb."
So just as I was about to help Mary Morse into the taxi I parted with a tenspot. Another donation to a cause that had paid no dividends. But I shook my head. After all, where could I have gone and had so much fun for ten bucks. Mr. Raftner had taken it, and wasn't likely to go around and tell people what had happened. I frowned. Nothing to worry me, maybe. But what of Mary Morse?
That had been my mental question. Now as I turned and started to climb into the taxi it became a physical one. Mary Morse was not in the taxi. Mary Morse was gone. She was nowhere on that side street. By the time I reached the corner Mary Morse was not on the main thoroughfare either.

Chapter FOUR
On the Kill

I climbed into the taxi and gave the address of my apartment. Then I did  a little thinking. My main thought was that Raftner was flooding the city with narcotics and the place he would use to distribute the drugs from would be Mary Morse's jewelry shop—-one of the most respected establishments in the city. The last place to suspect, it had never even come under observation when her dear Uncle Frank Morse had hidden drugs in the basement. He'd kept the stuff in vases that sold for prices that would amaze you—did me, not having an eye for Ming's Dynasty or any other guy's dynasty for that matter. Now Raftner was threatening Mary Morse with exposure of her dead uncle's activities, the fact that she'd kept her knowledge of them from the police. Also threatening to expose the bit of killing I'd pulled off in her interest.
One thing they did wish to make sure of—and that was that I was out of the picture, and out of it quickly. If I were willing to fade myself they'd let it go at that. If I weren't, they wanted to find it out right away and knock me over.
Anyway, I couldn't get the truth out of Mary Morse—at least at once—since I didn't know where she was. Then who could talk? And I had it. Her stepfather, Conklyn Lee. He had managed that firm since Mary's grandfather's death.
I'm not a sentimental fool. Anyone who knows me knows that. Oh, if it comes to a show-down, I'll die for a cause, but I'd much rather kill the cause and live for another one. And I'm not a guy who got his knowledge of drugs and the vicious part they play in the life and death of a great city by reading articles in the magazines. I have seen the real thing. Criminals turned into mad dogs by dope, murders and tortures, decent women leaving their husbands and children and walking the streets because of it. Young lives ruined, old lives taken by a jump from a window.
Of course I couldn't let lugs like Armin or Raftner tell me where to get off but when I reached Conklyn Lee's old brown-stone front, I like to think there was something else beside that urging me—something of the crusader if you want to go DeMille on me. Lee let me in himself and I followed him down the hall to the library. He may have been hot stuff in the jewelry business and made quite a front, but then I guess he didn't go walking about the great floor of the shop with his nightshirt flapping out from under his bathrobe.
He had more things to do before he could get settled than a bride getting ready for her wedding. He had to get his glasses, mix himself a whisky and soda without hardly enough whisky to kill the taste of the soda. He kept walking around offering me cigarettes and lighting one himself every time I shook my head, until he had two in the ashtray and one in his hand—all lit. And all the time he kept saying: "Mary—where is Mary? No cigarette, Mr. Williams, no whisky? Some tea then?"
"I never eat or drink or smoke in a place I'm not sure of," I told him flat. "I lost some good friends that way." And when his face grew blank, I explained simply, "Poison."
"Good gracious," he said, and if the words themselves seemed trite, old-fashioned and childish, he put enough expression into them to make them sound almost profane.
I didn't waste time; I gave him straight talk. I said bluntly, and as if I knew every word of it to be gospel: "The shop is being used again to store and ship narcotics."
"The idea"—he puffed and blew a bit—"is impossible."
"Have you met the Baron from Antwerp?" I chucked at him.
"Baron Von Stutz? Yes."
"And Armin Loring?"
"Armin Loring? No."
"Maybe not under that name." I shook my head. "Now, Mr. Lee, we're getting too deep into this thing to go on with it. I may have trouble explaining my knowledge of the former use of your store for narcotics, and those men I shot up in Mount Vernon. And it may ruin the Morse firm, may give you and Mary a jolt up the River. I've got to hear talk from you—real words—or I'm going to blow the works. You're opening up a passage that will make the almost uncontrollable crime situation in the country get out of hand entirely."
He got up, paced the room, said: "I don't know. I hope not. I—God, Williams! I've thought of it day and night and have been tempted to go right to the government officials. It's Mary—just Mary. But there are times when I thought it would be best for her if I should talk to you. After all you have done it would seem so unfair—such ingratitude—to let you pay the penalty for your loyalty and help. Yes, I think I will go straight to the police with the whole truth."

So we reversed positions. It was he who threatened to go to the cops, and now I who talked him out of it. I told him all that had happened tonight. Of Mary's fear, of my attempt to help her, of the threats against my life. I watched his face while I talked. Then I watched his face while he talked, and I'm used to reading faces. His was an honest one; so honest it stood out. I'd have bet my last dollar on that—but what the hell! I've bet my last dollar on a lot of things and lost. But he gave me the story.
"Mary has taken an active part in the business lately. Even built it up considerably. After Gentle Jim Corrigan's death we felt that we had nothing more to fear. Mary tried to see you then—thank you. The past seemed so definitely the past. Then it became the present—a deadly horrible present."
He paused and I helped by saying: "Let's have it." "Mary began to be worried. Began to spend much of her time in the basement below the store. Then she introduced me to Baron Von Stutz who was interested in vases. Then out of a clear sky she told me that the Baron would take charge for a while of the buying and selling of vases to private collectors. He would come and go by the rear entrance to the basement itself. No one but men he selected would handle the shipments of vases. There was such a fear in her eyes, such a plea, such a—I—" His hands spread far apart. "So she asked for the key to the heavy steel door that led to the basement, and the next morning"—with great emphasis on the single word, next—"I gave it to her, and for the first time in the history of the shop the basement on that side was shut off from the shop itself."
"Why do you say—next morning?" I asked him. 
He coughed, looked me straight in the eyes and finally said: "We had but the one key which I kept in a drawer in the safe. I had a duplicate made."
"You were suspicious, then?" The old boy had his good points. "Suspicious!" His voice raised slightly. "I was alarmed, frightened, distraught."
I liked that last word so I threw it back at him. "When you visited the basement later with that key were you still distraught?"
He didn't smile, simply nodded. "This Baron knew nothing of vases. Even in the semi-darkness and without handling them I knew that a great many pieces he'd brought in were made here in America by the thousands to be sold at cheap auction-rooms. I spoke to Mary, and she told me the truth. It was blackmail. This dark man who was often with the Baron and called himself Mr. Armitage had discovered the secret of her uncle's— Frank Morse's—death. They were using our basement for the cutting and resetting of smuggled or stolen gems. It was the price we must pay for their silence."
"Did you believe her?"
"Of course." Conklyn Lee seemed surprised, and if he were an actor he was a damned good one. "You think it's drugs. No, Mr. Williams. I thought of that, too, but after what you told Mary the first time—she'd— yes, she'd sacrifice everything—name, business before she'd agree to that."
I shrugged my shoulders as I came to my feet. "Go on believing what you like, Mr. Lee. But it's drugs just the same."
We talked after that. And I believed in Conklyn Lee, just as Mary Morse believed in him. I believed in Mary Morse, too. Believed even now that she did not suspect the real truth. Illegal diamonds, unlike dope, could not corrupt the youth of a country. Sure, she would believe what they told her. Who wouldn't believe it? And I gulped. I didn't like the answer to that thought. The Flame wouldn't believe it. Not be fooled a minute. And the Flame was in it. Criminal mind, eh? She must have developed a criminal stomach, too.
Before I left I made arrangements to meet Conklyn Lee at the shop the following night.
The Flame was nervous; Armin Loring was nervous; Raftner was nervous, for he had sent Spats Willis to kill me. Willis, of course, was both nervous and dead. But I recognized the signs. It affects all big crooks the same. They get fidgety, suspicious, ready to act quickly; kill quickly just before the big pay-off.
The pay-off was soon, then. The drugs must be in that basement ready to be shipped. The cheap vases gave that away. That's how the dope came there and that would be how the dope left.
What would the government, the police, give for a bit of information like that? They'd give us freedom. They'd have to. It would be a great story that Mary Morse suspected something wrong, hired me and I uncovered the greatest drug-ring that ever got ready to encircle a city— a country even. The other story about Uncle Frank Morse—my killing him— why, we'd just forget that and begin with the coming of Baron Von Stutz, alias Raftner, and Armin Loring. So I was humming as I left the house.
I wasn't humming when the taxi drew up before my apartment door. My pleasant thoughts busted like a child's balloon. We could forget it all right. But what good would that do us while Raftner and Armin Loring still remembered it and could talk about it?
As I stepped from the taxi my thought was to make them forget it. Which was impossible unless—unless—And my right hand mechanically slid under my left armpit as I swung around. Yep, I thought, imagination is a great thing, as I actually caressed my gun—and I was right. For that little bit of imagination saved my life, saved it right then and there in the fraction of a split second.
Sure, for I swung my face almost against the barrel of a Tommy gun. I saw the steel drum which hid steady fingers, saw a face behind that tommy gun. I don't know if the man spoke, if the man threatened. I don't think so. Just narrowing eyes, a droop to the lower lip, the sudden assurance of death, and I flipped back my hand and shot that face straight out of my life—and his too, for that matter.
The City of New York may seem insufficiently policed. You can walk the streets at night and not see a cop; you'd think you didn't have any protection. But try shooting a man to death and see how quickly the boys turn up and want to know why. Yep, they were on their way before I skipped over the corpse and stepped into my apartment house.
I bumped into Frosty, the night-man. His eyes popped; he dropped the paper he had been reading on the floor, mouthed the words: "Lord, Mr. Williams, sah! I just read it in the paper and—and you ain't gone an' done it again?"
"That's right, Frosty. I gone an' done it again." I handed him a five-spot. "Tell the cops I'm upstairs and pay the taxi-man if he squawks." Without losing my stride I entered the automatic lift and started up. One thing was certain. The boys in the dope racket meant business.
I reached my apartment in time to get O'Rourke out of bed and tell him to hop over—there might be trouble with the police. O'Rourke was half asleep, but he came to quick enough when he realized a dead guy was lying out front.
"What the hell!" I cut in on his sermon. "I'm a citizen and I want some police protection. I want it pretty damn quick, too, or these cops will drag me downtown and keep me from shooting a guy who—"
"Another one?"
"Yeah—another one." I stopped. The bell of my apartment was ringing, and someone was trying to kick the door in at the same time. "Wait, O'Rourke. Don't go back to sleep." I put the phone down on the table leaving the connection open and went to the door, flung it wide. A sergeant was there and a couple of harness cops behind him.
The sergeant was fat, officious and had been used to scaring pickpockets and milk-bottle thieves half to death by glaring at them. I knew him and he knew me.
"Hello, Halorhan." I pushed him in the stomach. "The commissioner has let the ropes down, and you're filling up the waist-line, eh?"
"Now look here, Williams." Sergeant Halorhan came into the room as if he expected guys to pull guns on him from behind every chair. "You can't be doing this, you know—not so steadily on the public streets. I've got to—"
"You've got to talk to O'Rourke." I managed to roll him across to the phone, even lifted it and put it in his hand. The talk was one-sided. It went like this—
"That's right, O'Rourke.... No, I guess Williams admits the killing. ... There was a Tommy gun in this hood's hand.... Recognize him! Why, he hasn't got any face."
There was more, but I wasn't listening. I invited in the cops who stood in the doorway. Jerry was around by now and I had him get them a drink and saw Halorhan looking at the glasses and hurrying his talk with O'Rourke. At last he hung up the phone and when I didn't say anything, asked point-blank for a "snort." He was a "one-drink man" when on duty, but he made that drink go a long ways. It knocked hell out of a bottle.
Now he rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth, smacked his lips and said partly sarcastic, partly humorous: "I wonder, Mr. Race Williams, if it would be asking too much to ask just how it happened. Sergeant O'Rourke seems to think that you're too busy killing people to talk about it."
"No trouble at all." I was affable. "I stepped out of a cab. This lad put a Tommy gun against my head, and I shot him."
"Then?" said Halorhan falling into the trap.
"Why then he died," I told him.
The cops laughed, stopped at once as Halorhan moved toward the door. Then they were gone.

The phone rang and it was Mary Morse. She talked before I could get started. "Race—you're alive then! You're all right? Armin Loring swore he'd kill you if I so much as talked to you. That's why I ran away from you tonight. I thought they'd know, understand. I telephoned Armin that I'd never see you again if he spared you and—"
"Spared me! That grease ball! Listen here, Mary—" And I damn near choked over the words. I thought I'd shown her enough to let her know I didn't need any nursemaid. "Wherever did you get such an idea? You saw how I handled Raftner."
"I was told, Race—yes, told by your friend—to warn you to keep out of this affair, never to see me again or you'd be killed by Armin who can"-—yes, her very words were—"who can shoot circles all around you. Don't you see, Race—don't you understand! It was your own assistant who told me."
"My assistant—Jerry?" I fairly gasped, before the truth struck me.
"No, that woman. The one who helped you and me when we were prisoners. The woman with the queer name—the Flame."
The Flame. Sure, I saw what she meant then. The Flame had told her she was my assistant and I had never told Mary any different. At the time I'd kept silent, perhaps to protect the Flame. Later there was no need. Now—I just gasped, let the thing go, and asked her: "Where are you— home?"
"No, I've been walking the streets. I don't know what to do. I've got to see Armin or he'll kill you."
Dumb? For a bright girl she was certainly dumb. Poor kid. No, she wasn't dumb—except in one thing. How anyone above the age of seven who had seen me in action could think for a moment that Armin Loring would take away my appetite, I don't know. But I told her simply: "Let me run things for a day or two. Go to some hotel, register under another name and—"
"But I can't. I telephoned Armin. I must go over and see him in half an hour. He said I must. I saw your assistant with him in the Green Room tonight. Does that mean—"
I cut her off. "What's Armin's telephone number?" And when she hesitated, "I want to ring him up and tell him I won't bother with you any more"—I gulped—"then he won't want to kill me."
She gave me his telephone number at once. So her dumbness served me some purpose that time. But when I started to talk to her like a Dutch uncle she hung up on me.
Mad? I was fit to be tied. Why should I wait around for Armin to have first shot at me? Wait to let Armin set the time and the place—murder by his watch? Just wait until he was ready—then try my luck against his. No, I had had enough of that. Two could play his game.
I snapped up the phone and buzzed Armin's number. It was early in the morning, yet he answered the phone almost at once. His voice was low and expectant—expectant of another voice maybe, a girl's voice—but he got exactly what was on my mind.
"Williams calling, Armin," I told him. "You've broken that one-man record. There was an attempt on my life a few minutes ago. Friend of yours—nice boy."
"Yes?" There was interest in Armin's voice, anxiety too, I thought.
"What happened?"
"He's dead," I said. "Spread all over the sidewalk, and I'll have to talk to the district attorney early in the morning."
"I'm sorry you have to get up early, Race, but I'm sure the D.A. will be pleased." "I won't have to get up early," I told him. "At least, I don't think I will. I'll already be up."
"Insomnia—conscience?" He laughed. "I don't quite understand."
"Listen, Armin—about that promise of yours—or was it a threat? You know—any place, any time. Does it still go?"
His laugh was light. "It got under your skin, eh Race? Well, when I talk like that and something like that machine-gun business comes off, it is unnerving. Yes, it still goes—maybe quicker than you think."
"That's right." I was very serious now. "Maybe quicker—much quicker—than even you think. I'm giving you a chance to withdraw that threat, Armin. I know you don't bluff, and it does bother me."
"Any time, any place—the five-o'clock rush hour on Forty-Second Street. Do I make myself clear enough?"
"O.K." I got down to the point. "I'll be leaving here in five minutes and I'm coming directly to your apartment. If you're to make good on that threat, you've got to make good on it within the next twenty minutes."
"What do you mean by that?" I think he was a bit startled.
"I mean," I said, "some people have an idea that you're faster with a gun than I am. In twenty minutes one of us will find out—but only one of us."
"Hell," he said. "You can't try that, not tonight."
"Listen, Armin. When you open your door, open it shooting or you're never going to shoot again. I'm on the kill."
"No fooling, Race?" And something had gone out of his voice.
"No fooling, Armin," I said and hung up the phone. And I wasn't fooling when I put on my hat and walked out the door. I know it doesn't sound nice; doesn't look nice in black and white. But it was the truth. Armin Loring had to make good within the next twenty minutes or I'd shoot him to death.

Chapter FIVE 
The Flame

 I won't say it was exactly pleasant walking up the stairs to Armin's top-floor apartment, but I didn't think he'd had time enough to call in any friends, and I didn't think he'd show the yellow streak anyway—at least not to those friends.
Nothing happened as I reached the fifth floor, went down the corridor, and stood there in the dim hall-light right smack before his door. Then I lifted both my guns from their holsters, shoved one against the bell-button and trained the other on the door.
But the door didn't open. Didn't open, though I heard feet—a sort of soft pressure as if a body leaned against that door, maybe with an ear cocked to listen. I tapped lightly with my gun, moved the gun close to the lock, half tightened my finger on the trigger, then looked up and down the hall.
I shrugged and shook my head. That wouldn't do at all. This was no secret mission on my part but still—I looked toward the flight of stairs that led to the roof, jerked back my gun and sped up them. No tricks there, no lock to shoot. I simply slipped the hook off the door and walked out onto the flat roof. I didn't need the light in the window below to tell me which fire-escape led to Armin's apartment.
I don't like to loiter and pussy-foot around. In less than two minutes after I left that apartment door, I was crouching on the fire-escape by the window. And what's more the window was open a bit. A look-see under the shade did me no good. There was a window-seat, and beyond that heavy curtains. Well, I was there on business. I pushed the window quietly up, slipped onto that window-seat and parting the drapes, peered through just as the doorbell to the apartment rang. There was another visitor, then. Perhaps half a dozen of them. Armin wasn't taking chances.
I sat down on the window-seat behind those curtains, made sure that they were long enough to hide my feet, held a gun in each hand and waited; waited as I looked between those curtains at the man who stood in the center of that room. He stood there with a gun hanging in his hand, fear in his eyes, uncertainty in his manner, as he turned from the ringing bell to the curtains behind which I sat.
It was my boy friend, Sam, of the Hotel York Terrace—the big mutton who had started out to be a tough guy and turned into a ballet-dancer. The bell rang once more. Sam stiffened and listened as he backed toward me. I took a silent laugh. He was backing to that window to escape me at the door! So Armin had run out on me.
But I was listening just as Sam was listening. His hand was on the curtain when the key turned in the lock and the door to the apartment opened and closed. Feet came down the hall—light, tapping feet—the feet of a woman. Mary Morse, of course.
And I was wrong. So wrong I damn near fell off the window-seat. Sam shot his gun into his shoulder holster and sighed with relief. It was the Flame, and if she had ever been the laughing happy young girl, you wouldn't know it now. Her face was hard, set; her brown eyes, twin balls of ice. She squeezed her green handbag close in her two slender, ungloved hands and popped right out with, "Where's Armin?"
"He's out. Got a message from this Williams guy and beat it along." Sam shook his head. "This cheap dick was coming down to have it out with Armin. Armin hated to leave, but couldn't afford a shoot-up here with things ready to move."
The Flame nodded, said: "Is it tonight?" And shaking her head, "It's too early in the morning for that. Is the stuff to move tomorrow night, Sam?"
I could see the man's eyes narrow. "Don't you know? You're going to marry Armin and you don't—"
The Flame raised her head, sniffed at the air, said: "Where's the woman. Did he leave her here?"
"Why, there ain't no woman here, Florence."
"Miss Drummond," she snapped back at him. "Armin's got an eye on that Morse girl for more than just the money in it. She's been writing him letters."
"Naw." Sam let his broad thick lips part. "And what of it, Florence. You're a knock-out when you're mad. Armin was always One. Man Armin—not One Woman Armin." He put a hand around her shoulders, drew her to him. "Let him run out with the dame if he wants. I'll be around to make it up to you." And suddenly grabbing her to him with both his arms, "Hell—the Flame—that's the name for you."

Did I step out to protect the frail little body of the Flame from this giant. I did not. And I didn't need to. Her arms moved like twin pistons, the hands on the ends of those arms flashing white. Just the crack, and the marks of ringers upon the man's face. A curse as sharp pointed toes pounded against his legs.
He dropped her, stepped back, muttered: "And I seen you going through Armin's desk looking for letters from some moll and never peeped. He'd strangle you for that. You want to play rough, well I'll play rough. You can't talk—can't tell Armin afterwards—or I'll talk. There, don't run. It won't do you any good."
The Flame wasn't running. She didn't even step back, didn't give an inch—just stood there clutching her green bag. This time as his hand shot out, her right hand came up and down. 1 saw the tiny gun, saw it turn in her hand, saw its sight rip down his face and the blood come. He raised his hand to his face, staggered slightly.
The Flame watched him—calm. Her voice was even, steady, when she spoke. "Don't be a fool, Sam," she said. "I could have emptied the twenty-twos in this rod down your throat. There, that's better. I'm giving orders here. Where's that dame?"
The man eyed her, lifted his hands twice, let them fall to his sides again, said finally: "I'm sorry. It won't happen again. I swear it."
"There's nothing to apologize for," she said bluntly. "You keep your mouth closed and so will I." Her smile was not pleasant. "And it can happen again any time you want to be a fool. I always take care of myself." As if dismissing the subject, she stretched up a hand, grabbed at the lapel of his coat. "Was Williams here?"
"He was at the door and left." Sam was willing to forgive and forget, too. There was a nasty dig in his face. "I begged Armin to let me meet Williams. I'd have killed him right there in the doorway as soon as—"
The Flame laughed. "Race Williams would have shot your head right off your shoulders before you had time to tell him what a real dangerous man you are, Sam. About this dame, Mary Morse. Did she go with Armin or—"
The Flame stopped; both listened. Someone was at the door. There was the click of metal against metal as if that someone were having trouble placing a key in a lock.
"That's the girl—the Morse girl." The Flame just breathed the words. "Keep your face closed, Sam, or I'll tell Armin the trouble you have with your hands. I'll get her to go with me—say Williams sent me."
"You—you'd kill her?" He shrugged. "Well, it would save Armin the trouble."
"He was going to kill her tonight?"
"Maybe. She knows too much. Armin's afraid she'll blow to Williams. He—"
The door had opened and closed again. This time the feet were anything but steady. Mary Morse wobbled slightly as she stood in the doorway. Then she was speaking.
"Armin sent for me—and I came. I can't go through with it. I—I—" Her blue eyes grew even wider; the fear went out of them as they turned from Sam to the Flame. "You—you—Race's assistant. Oh, God, I wish I had your courage now!" She ran to the Flame, clung to her sobbing. I saw the Flame look up over her shoulder, wink at Sam.
I was tempted to step out then, but I didn't. Here was a chance to get an earful. It didn't seem like Armin was coming back.
The Flame was saying: "Armin had to leave, my dear. I'm going to take you along with me."
"You—Yes, I can go any place with you. But I must see Mr. Williams—Race Williams. I must tell him everything. I know the truth. It mustn't happen—mustn't—"
"I understand," the Flame said quietly as she patted the girl's head. "There, don't cry. Race Williams will make things come out all right for you; he always has. Don't shake like that—let me hold you."
If I wasn't on to the show I would have believed it myself. Just an older woman who had seen a lot of life comforting a younger one who hadn't. Yes, I'd have trusted the Flame, and I didn't blame Mary Morse for trusting her. Besides, there was that first time when Mary had taken the Flame for my assistant and I had let her believe it. I should have told her the truth. And suddenly she did know the truth.
It was the ballet-dancer, good old tactful Sam, who made his ugliest face when he spoke. "Why feed the kid baloney, sister. I think Armin may want her to live for a few days until he's sure."
Mary Morse screamed as she jumped back from the Flame. "That man—what is he doing here?" And there was recognition in her eyes followed by terror. "He's going to kill me—kill me before I can right my wrong."
She was running for the hall when Sam grabbed her and swung her back. She was screaming, too, but her words were clear until Sam clapped a hand over her mouth. "It's narcotics—drugs—not diamonds! I know it now!"
The man's left hand went over her face, tore her head back against his chest. His right hand shot awkwardly behind him, jerked a blackjack from a hip pocket. He was staggering under her weight, straightening, trying to regain his balance, his back almost against the curtain. Then his hand went up, the blackjack started down, and I parted the curtains slightly and struck—viciously, brutally. My gun bounced hard against his head— damn good and hard.
Ballet-dancer or not, Sam didn't trip the light fantastic this time. He just dropped his arm from around Mary Morse's throat and hit the floor.
As for me, I merely stepped over his body in time to strike with my gun again and knock the twenty-two from the Flame's hand. I wasn't any too gentle. Involuntarily her right hand went to her mouth, sucking suddenly at those fingers.
"I'm sorry, Florence, if I hurt your fingers." My apology was meant to be the height of sarcasm. "But it was that or shoot you to death."
She was a remarkable woman, all right. If she were surprised she gave no sign. Certainly, she was not struck with any terror. She said simply and as if she meant it: "It's too bad I didn't lift the gun. I'd like to know if you'd have—" And looking at the curtains behind me, "Well, throw out the body. I suppose Armin's lying dead there."
"No such luck." I shook my head as I helped Mary Morse to her feet. "You were playing the game pretty low on the kid here. Was it money or jealousy?" And as her brown eyes flashed, "It was money, then. You wouldn't recognize jealousy. You wouldn't recognize any other woman's chance against you."
"That's right." She looked from me to Mary Morse, sobbing on my arm, and back to me. "Not even with you, Race. Your trouble is that you're too sensational. Let her go, Race."
But I wasn't going to let Mary Morse go this time. I started after her as she ran toward the hall door. Then I stopped, swung quickly around and said to the Flame: "Don't touch it!"
She shrugged her shoulders and straightened from the gun.
"O.K., Race," she cut in when I would have spoken. "I know your line. 'There is no sex in crime,' you were going to say. Then gallantly spare my life by shooting three fingers off my right hand." And biting her lips, "I am very proud of my hands. I wouldn't want to live without the fingers that make them so clever."
"I wonder," I said, "why you want to live at all." This as the door slammed and I picked up the Flame's gun. No, I didn't follow Mary Morse. I might have caught her, probably would, but the Flame still had the little green bag in her hand and I didn't know what all was in it. I might very easily catch a bullet in the back.
"I live simply for you, dear." Her smile was rather unpleasant. "Is Sam dead?"
"I'm not a doctor," I told her gruffly. "If his head is as thick as the thoughts that come out of it, he won't have much more than a dent."
She shook her head at me, smiled. "They couldn't arrest you for killing Sam. It would just be one of those mercy killings."
Not a bad crack at all, but I didn't feel in a light humor. Damn it! I had loved the Flame, had— And she was putting those eyes on me now, with a brightness, yes, a sparkle of youth in them. And—And I snapped out of it.
I said when I reached the door: "Has Armin Loring got much money, Florence?"
"Enough. Why?"
"Because if you want to inherit as the widow you'd better marry him at once. He hasn't much longer to live."
I started to turn, but didn't. I felt almost as if she were laughing at me as I backed through that doorway to the hall. Well, after all, I'd rather have her laughing at me than be dead. Did I mean that the Flame might kill me? Truth is truth—that is exactly what I meant.

Chapter SIX 
An Earful of Murder

 Jerry and I hopped out of the taxi and hustled into the Morse and Lee jewelry-shop the following night. Though the weather was warm we were both sporting topcoats—Jerry's, a somber blue, mine a light, noticeable brown. What's more, we had our coat collars turned up. If anyone watched us enter or not, I don't know. I didn't see anyone; didn't expect anyone, but I like to do things as if the whole town were watching.
Conklyn Lee was nervous as a mother hen when we stepped into his private office and fumbled with the key at least a full minute before he got that door locked. He finally said: "Why is that young man with you, Mr. Williams? And why are you wearing coats this time of year."
"We forgot to look at the calendar." I gave him a dig in the ribs. "You have your assistant manager in the other room there?" I jerked a thumb toward the door to the right. "About my size you said on the phone."
"Yes—but I don't understand."
"Fine, fine. If you don't understand, then others won't. No word from Mary?"
"No, not a word. You think they're keeping her prisoner until they finish their work below? But if they kill you, then—"
"Never mind about my life. I've taken care of it for years. And I intend to live to dance on the graves of Armin Loring, Baron Stutz, .et al. You'd better think about her life and your own and do everything I asked you to do."
He had a first-class chill right away. Maybe I didn't hear his bones rattle, but I heard the change in his pocket.

Jerry remained behind and I got a slant at the assistant manager, standing in the room beyond when we passed through it. He was about my height and build, but not weight. He'd have to do something about that stomach of his first. And his face—well, I'm not so hot-looking I can complain. But his walk, as he opened the far door for us, bothered me. And the way he moved his hands looked as if he might break into Mendelssohn's Spring Song any moment. A couple of minutes later Conklyn Lee and I stood before the steel door in the back of the shop.
"I don't think anyone is down there now," he jittered. "But I don't know—I couldn't know. They come and go by the entrance on the alley."
"Open her up," I told him. "They wouldn't be around this early, and if they are—that suits me, too."
He got the key working and we went down to the basement. There was no one there—we covered it thoroughly. It wasn't such a big room—that is, as cellars go.
Just a little way from the foot of the stairs and beneath a green-shaded lamp was a stretch of carpet, a flat desk, and two comfortable chairs. There were no windows in the room, but tiny ventilators up near the ceiling.
Conklyn Lee lost his nervousness as he began to show me rare vases—far back in the dimness. He lifted them, held them as if they were a king's first born and looked childishly hurt when I told him flat they didn't look any better than five-buck ones to me. I was interested in those cheap ones he'd been telling me about. The ones Raftner, alias the Baron, had brought in.
We found them at once—and Conklyn Lee gasped. They were all close to the wide steel door which led to the alley. They were small and packed six to a partly opened crate.
"These are the ones?" I asked him. "Crated just like this? Why"—I went down the line and counted the crates, one upon the other—"there are enough here to flood the whole country with dope." I stretched a hand between the slats, had difficulty feeling inside of one, turned the crate over and slipped in my flashlight. Every vase was empty.
"There's nothing in them," Lee told me. "I have looked into every one. But if you're thinking of drugs—well, those vases are just a cheap pottery. The drug could be placed right in the mold. Do you want to break one and see?"
"No. The stuff might be in only one vase in ten. Besides, they'd notice a broken one, and I don't want to rouse suspicion."
"But if the drug is there why not—"
I cut in on him: "But I don't know it's there. They may bring the stuff with them later—tonight even—place it in the vases then take them away in a truck. A crate sent here and there—all open and above-board; just drop half a dozen vases at second-hand shops throughout the city. Nice distribution. I'll wait and see."
"Wait—and see. What do you mean?"
I didn't answer that one then. I was looking at two immense vases. Boy, they were big! Over six feet tall each one of them. If some of those small ones were worth dough why these must have been worth a cool fortune. They were both off the rug—just in the shadows away from that single overhead light. Still you could see animals and dragons dancing all over them. They were class. I told Lee so.
Conklyn Lee laughed. "Monstrosities," he said. "Valueless—sickening."
"How come you have them then?" They looked hot stuff to me.
"We give exhibitions above occasionally. A salesman on the road picked these up when the Chicago World's Fair closed. Had some fool idea that they would look nice on either side of the entrance to our little display of rare pieces."
He seemed disgusted at the thought and maybe a little disappointed that I didn't give him a chance to tell me about how they fired that salesman. I was pulling a chair over, looking at the short wide neck, trying to see things in the blackness of one of the vases.
"A man could get in there—hide in there," I said.
"Can and did." Lee smiled. "A burglar hid in one all night at the Fair, robbed the place, climbed back into the vase and the next morning mixed with the crowd and was never caught."
"A man about my size?" I was examining that opening.
"About—" Conklyn Lee nodded. "Maybe not so broad of shoulder. Good God, Mr. Williams! You weren't thinking of hiding in there. Why— these are desperate men. One of them could look down from the top and shoot you to death."
"If that one didn't lose his head.'*
Conklyn Lee pondered a moment. "They are very level-headed men," he said seriously.
I didn't explain how the guy who looked in would lose his head. I just took Conklyn Lee by the arm, led him to the stairs. I had seen the telephone that stood on the desk. He sat beside me on those steel steps as if his last ounce of dignity had left him.
"Mr. Lee," I said, "how far would you go for Mary?"
He said without hesitation: "I would give my life—everything for that child."
"O.K.," I told him. "There's a phone on that desk. Go to your home. Stay awake. Mary Morse is missing. They won't harm her until after the stuff is safe away from here—if it's here—or if they intend to bring it here and carry it away in those vases. You have let things go too far and so have I. I'd have the feds in here now if it weren't for the danger to Mary. I'm going to blow the works tonight—come what may. But I'm going to find out where Mary is first."
"But they won't tell you where she is. And they will kill her later."
"Mr. Lee," I said very seriously, and meant it, "if they don't tell me they won't be alive to kill her later. Now—go home. I have your number. If I don't telephone you before twelve, call this number." I handed him a card. "Ask for Sergeant O'Rourke. Tell him to come here. Then skip yourself and tell it all to a good lawyer. You'll need one." "But what of you?"
"Oh, I'll have missed out."
"You'll be dead."
"That's right. But get O'Rourke here, tell him about the vases. No matter what happens to me that dope must not get into the city." And after a pause, "You're not worth it. The firm is not worth it—Mary is not worth it. No, and by God, I'm not worth it!"
I dropped his hand quickly when I found I was holding it like a leading-man in a cheap road-show. Sure, that's right. I was even beginning to feel sorry for myself, and the sacrifice I was making for my fellow citizens.
I snapped out of that, said: "Jerry, my boy upstairs, will walk out to your car with your assistant manager, who will wear my brown coat, and my slouch hat. He'll turn the collar of my coat up high. If anyone is watching they'll think I've left."
Conklyn Lee proceeded me up the steps to the closed door. "Mr. Williams," he said and his voice was husky. "I have read enough about you, seen enough of you to understand that this is—well, part of your business, part of your life—maybe routine with you. But it is the most fearful night of my whole life. Is there anything else I can do?"
I smiled at him. "Brother," I said. "I have a feeling it is going to be the most fearful of my life, too." And just before he closed the door, "Yeah, there is one thing you can do. Make your assistant manager keep his hands in my overcoat pocket when he leaves the store." I was thinking of the airy-fairy way he used those hands. If I was to die—well, there might be people outside who would take that lad for me, and I didn't want to be remembered doing any Spring Dance.
After Conklyn Lee left I took a look-see over that cellar again. The boys had to come in that sliding door which led to the alley. It would be simple to stick each one up and wait for the next. I looked at those huge vases, too. They'd be swell places to dump a stray body or two if a lad felt like tossing a few corpses around.
I felt I had lots of time. No one would show up until late; until the side-street would be deserted. I went over to those crates of vases and examined them again. The Morse and Lee name was painted in great black letters on wide slats. Respectability that—keen thinking. And the vases weren't completely boxed. All the world could see what was being carried. And I saw it—or thought I did.
I took out my flash and examined the boards of a crate; then another and another. By God, the stuff must be in them! I'm not an expert carpenter; I didn't need to be. One or two boards on every crate had been hammered up far enough to remove the vases, then nailed down again. Did that mean the stuff was in them, hidden away in a secret place in those vases? Little movable parts in the bottom, perhaps, put there for that very purpose.
Should I bust hell out of them? Stand at the door afterwards and knock everyone for a loop that came in? Should I call O'Rourke and— But Mary Morse came first. But hell, she didn't come first—not before an entire city!
I went to the desk, looked at the telephone on it. The telephone! And I thought back to a mistake I had made in my younger days. Forgetting a telephone, caving in a guy's head who was supposed to use that phone to tell others the coast was clear. So it might be tonight.
My eyes raised and rested on one of those huge vases. A place to hide—a damn good place to hide. Plenty of room for a crouching man inside, and one of those vases had held "a man about my size!" Would they look inside the vase? Would the first man who came look inside it? Well, he couldn't see anything unless he stuck a light in. And if he stuck a light in, he'd never see anything again. I'd shoot his head right off his shoulders and damn near through the ceiling.
The vase was the place, obviously. I couldn't see once I was in there, but I could hear, wait, pop out with a couple of guns and do my stuff if the boys wanted it that way. No more fooling around, then. Into the vase I'd have to go.
Trouble? Of course there was trouble. First, I had to turn out the light. Second, I had to use my flash in the deep blackness. Third, I had to put the flash in my pocket while I scrambled up. And I made it—at least I was lying on my stomach on top of it. Getting inside was another thing. One leg at a time didn't seem to work, but I finally managed to get on my feet, straddling with one foot on either side of the thick circular rim around the top of the neck.
Why so fancy? Well, I wanted another chance to look inside that vase, with the flash directed straight in. I felt for my flash; the vase wobbled. I regained my balance, breathed a sigh of relief, then stuck my feet together and dropped right into that vase. It was dark and my judgment wasn't so good. My shoulders caught for a moment in the neck, slipped through and I landed bent up like a jackknife inside that vase.
Why did I pull that quick drop? Well, a bolt had clicked; a heavy iron bar was removed from the alley door. I'd heard it distinctly, as even now I heard the door beginning to slide back. But I was safe inside.
The door opened and closed. Groping feet crossed the stone floor, the feet of a lone man. Then the feet left the stone and settled on the rug. A light flashed and after a moment or two the feet moved again upon stone, passed close to the vase, hesitated. I looked up and raised my gun. My position was certainly good. If he looked in I'd simply have to decide whether he saw me or not. And on my decision would rest his life. What could be fairer than that?
After a bit the dial on the phone clicked several times. A husky voice said: "O.K., boss. All quiet here. I think you're wise to move the stuff early.. .. What... ? Yeah, I'd like to see Williams come here, too. He bounced a gun off my head last night."
So it was Sam. Poor dumb Sam. And the Flame had wondered if he were dead. His very next words made me feel that perhaps after all Sam wasn't so dumb.
"What?" he said. "The Flame's turned Armin's head? I don't know about that. But I tell you she's a wildcat, Raftner. See you in an hour then."
An hour. That was not so good. That vase was built funny, maybe thicker than I thought. Anyway I couldn't stand up and I couldn't sit down; I had to crouch like a guy playing squat-tag. I could turn, but I had to be careful of noise; had to be careful that neither one of the two guns I clutched in my hands pounded against the sides of the vase and rang out like chimes. How did I know they would ring out like chimes? I didn't. I didn't know what that vase was made of But I did feel that the burglar who'd robbed the World's Fair was entitled to all he got if he spent most of the night in that crouched position.
There was little sound after the phone was hung up. Just the pounding of Sam's heels on the desk where he sat and waited. And I just crouched and waited.
An hour passed and there was a knock, followed by Sam's feet beating across the hard stone, then the opening door.
This time more than one pair of feet crossed the floor. Each sound, each word came to me hollowly.
Armin Loring's voice snapped: "We don't need Sam here, Raftner. The trucks will be along any minute now—we'll want to get rolling."
The door closed and I guess Sam left.
Raftner said: "Sure, sure, Armin." And his voice changing to a harsh note, "Sit down. Yes—that thing in your back is a gun." "God, are you mad!" Armin said and his breath whistled in his throat. It was a regular radio play for me from then on with sound effects and all. I saw nothing; heard everything. And I heard plenty.
Raftner was speaking and his voice was soft, pleasant. "I heard about you, Armin—One Man Armin. Yes, one man—running a great racket; building up for this great racket until you became head of it. I thought Frank Morse was at the top. When he died I thought Gentle Jim Corrigan was head of it, and when he died—I knew the real head. The last man to be suspected because you built up the one-man idea, the working-alone idea. You've been head of it all along—and neither Frank Morse nor Corrigan even suspected it."
"Well," said Armin, "why the gun in my back? What the hell! You knew you had a boss—now you know who he is. I had to come out in the open sometime—at least to you."
"Well," said Raftner, "it goes like this. Frank Morse got onto the Flame. She was shoving herself in, getting into his papers. He didn't kill her; he wrote me he wasn't going to kill her. He felt pretty cocky in having that brilliant criminal mind working for him. And he died—she planned his death."
"Hell, you're crazy," said Armin.
"There was Jim Corrigan," Raftner went on. "She played him along. He got wise, wrote me exactly how Morse died, then died himself. And his death was planned by the Flame. She was there in the house with Corrigan when Williams killed him. Williams didn't expose her then. He didn't expose her because she'd set Corrigan up for Williams to kill."
"Williams didn't expose her because they were once—well, to know the Flame is—"
"To love the Flame is to die," Raftner snapped in. "That went for all the others. It's going for you tonight, too."
"You mean—you're going to kill me?"
"I'm not going to have the Flame set me up for death."
"You're out of your head, man," Armin said. "It was just a coinciddence."
"All right"—Raftner didn't argue—"have it your way. I'm not going to die by coincidence. But you—"
I could hear Armin's quick breath, felt that Raftner must have shoved his gun tighter against him. Armin's voice was hoarse when he spoke. "What—what do you want me to do?"
"I want you to pick up that phone, tell the Flame to come here—now."
"Then what?"
"I'm going to prevent any more coincidences. I'm going to kill her."
Armin laughed. "And you think I'd bring her here for that?"
"I think—just that?"
Armin spoke out like a man. I always thought he had it in him, but I had always thought also, and always believed and so stated, that all murderers were yellow inside; would do any rotten act, right up to tossing a knife into their best friend's back, if it would save their own skin. Now Armin made me out a liar.
"Raftner," he said, "I have always played the game without a woman. That's where I got the name, One Man Armin. Now—this is something new in my life. I'm taking on a wife not a woman. If you were to cut me to ribbons I wouldn't lift that phone from its cradle."
Raftner said very seriously: "I'm not going to cut you to ribbons. I'm simply going to shoot you to death."
"Go ahead and shoot then." Armin raised his voice. "I love that girl and—and—What are you going to do?"
"Count five and shoot."
"Why the Flame means more to me than life."
"One—"
"Death would mean nothing and—"
"Two."
"You can't bluff me by—"
"Three."
"I tell you I'd die a hundred times before—" And Armin's voice had raised to an almost hysterical shriek.
"Four," said Raftner.
A sudden cry from Armin. A dead silence. Then a clicking noise. After a few minutes I heard the voice of Armin say: "This is Armin, gorgeous. I'm at the den. Come over at once....Wrong? No, everything is fine....Right away then. Good....Sure, I have good news for you."
"That," said Raftner, "is more like it."
"That," I said to myself, "is more like what I expected also." No, there was nothing yellow about Armin but his soul.

Chapter SEVEN 
Up Popped the Devil

 They talked low after that—very low—Armin trying to convince Raftner, Raftner on his guard. Then I heard them cross the room, heard muffled conversation, and Armin curse and exclaim: "The vases—the one I marked with X. Look—the ones that had the stuff in them!"
"Yeah, I see. No tricks now, Armin. They still have the X on them."
"Yes, but they are not the same vases, not the same design, or color even. Look there! Remember? And the crate. By God, it's been opened and nailed up again!"
Loud talk then. Plenty of cursing, the pound of something heavy, and smashing crockery. More pounding, more smashing crockery—and Armin cried out: "Millions—and it's gone! Someone has taken it away."
"Who? Who—Williams!" Raftner shouted and then, "Don't go near that door! Only you could have—"
"Me!" The door was opening, Armin was calling low now: "Sam, come here." Feet then, and the closing door and Armin's, "You were wrong about the Flame, Raftner. She was not building me up; she's building up herself or—or—By God, she's working for—"
Mumbled words; quick questions. The voice of Sam, stupid, slow, un-excited. I damned near popped out of the vase, but didn't.
Sam was saying: "The Flame gave me money when I found her going through your desk. I thought it was love-letters, Armin. She always seemed jealous about you. I thought nothing of her looking through your things and—"
"The book," said Raftner. "The list of where the stuff was to go. What have you told her, Armin?"
"The book is in my pocket. I told her nothing—very little. Yes, she knew it was dope; didn't know I was head of the organization. She wanted me to make money. She had a key to the door here. I—I—Take that gun off me, Raftner. She made a fool of me. I'll attend to her when she gets here."
Yep, it was just like a good radio program. I could feel Raftner looking at Armin, reading the truth in that cold, cruel face of his. 
It was after they chased Sam outside again that Raftner said: "All right, Armin. But I'll make her tell where she put the stuff."
"No," said Armin very slowly, "I'll make her tell. I'll cut tiny pieces from every last inch of her beautiful body—"
"You'll kill her too soon—before she can talk."
"No," said Armin, "I won't kill her too soon. I won't even kill her after she talks. I'll promise her death just as she promised me life on that trip abroad." And after a long pause, "But I'll make it a most horrible death. Yes, I'll make her tell."
That was my cue. Just to pop up with a couple of guns before the Flame even entered the place. I was happy, too, for the first time since I had met the Flame months back and believed she was in this, the rottenest of all rackets. Then I had another thought. Perhaps they were wrong and the Flame was working just for herself.

I'm of a suspicious nature and so I didn't pop up. Perhaps I would hear more when the Flame came. Maybe she'd talk. Maybe they'd talk. Maybe I'd hear where the drugs were hidden. But I was listening to other pleasant conversation.
"About this Mary Morse"—it was Raftner's voice—"she's apt to gum up the works any time. She's safe?"
Armin laughed. It was like static. "Another cute bag of tricks. I missed her going into my apartment because of Williams last night. But I caught her coming out. Yes, she was ready to holler the business from the housetops. She's tied up on the thirty-seventh floor of the Hampton Hotel." He paused for a moment. Then, "It would be just like her to jump from the window, toss herself to the street below."
"God!" said Raftner. "You haven't done that."
"Not yet. I was afraid the police might find some way of identifying her body. That'd mean an investigation and cops and government men here in the shop. Williams will have to die first. The fool nearly forced me into shooting it out with him at my apartment. It's the first time I ever ran from any man, but I couldn't chance the investigation at this time. With Williams dead—and he will be dead—there is no one to know the truth. Conklyn Lee hardly counts. He doesn't know your real identity and he doesn't know mine. I might even keep the girl alive." And talking rapidly and excitedly as if he had just had the thought, "With Williams dead—we might let Mary Morse live. She gets money—plenty of it. If Conklyn Lee knew I had her and would kill her unless she—"
"No, no," Raftner said quietly. "There's more than a million in this for us. You said you had laid the foundation for the next distribution from a house in Brooklyn. The home of a respected lawyer with a big name-slated to be senator—who killed a man twenty years ago. No, Armin. This place will be too hot after tonight. I think your idea of Mary Morse jumping from the window must stand."
I heard Armin's feet move, heard his hand come down upon the desk. I imagined his eyes narrowing and his lips tightening. "O.K.," he said. "The Flame must talk. You've got the men outside. There's no danger from anyone but Williams—"
"Yes." I didn't need to see Raftner's face; the hate was in his words. He spat as if he still tasted that cigar. "There are two men with machine guns in the alley. I had hoped to be well away in the truck before Williams could act and now—"
A sudden silence. I heard the opening door, Sam's voice, then the closing door again and a single pair of feet across that hard floor. Quick steps, woman's steps; steps that stopped before they reached the rug. Then a voice said: "What's up, Armin? You and Raftner look white as ghosts. Anything wrong?" The voice was the voice of the Flame.
Feet went toward her, I guess. Armin spoke softly. "Why nothing, beautiful. What could be wrong with us?" Then, "To love the Flame is to die. To rat out on Armin Loring is—" A half scream, a muffled curse, a dull thud and a falling body.
Raftner spoke. "You fool, Armin! What did you hit her for? She must talk, must—"
"I couldn't help it—the two-timing little tart. Besides—her purse. Look at that gun. She'd use it, too."
I damned near popped out then, but I didn't. I waited and guessed what was going on outside. Moving feet, low voices; something knocked against the side of the desk, I think. Raftner was saying something about making the Flame trap me much as Armin had trapped her.
It was hard waiting till she came to five minutes later—maybe ten. Anyway it seemed a long time before they were hammering questions at her and she was answering defiantly.
Finally she said: "That's right, boys. I got the filthy stuff you wanted to flood the city with. You'll never find it now. Armin, you're a fool. One Man Armin—taken in by a woman. Now you'd torture the woman. Well— see how that woman takes it."
"You worked with Williams, didn't you?" Raftner shot the words through his teeth. "Race Williams—that was it, wasn't it? By God, you were the woman to fool Armin—to fool men! But Williams was clever."
The Flame laughed. It wasn't a nice laugh. "Clever? Williams is dumb. He couldn't have fooled you two for a minute. He wouldn't have let me try. No, I wasn't working with him. I was working for him—but without his knowing it. It was I who made you clever men threaten him. Mary Morse couldn't have brought him back by pleading with him. I couldn't have brought him into it again by pleading with him. He's built backward. You forced him back by threats he wouldn't take, and they were at my suggestion. Mary Morse told him not to come, fearing for his life—and I put that fear into her head. You attempted to kill him—I put the attempt into your heads. And it was an attempt that nearly succeeded when Armin kept me, so that I failed to warn him. Yes, Race is a stupid, gun-toting fool. Yet he's worth a dozen of either of you because he wins out through his lack of fear—his very conceit."
Maybe I turned slightly red in that tight-fitting vase, but Raftner said: "And just why did you do this—risk your life for Race Williams?"
"Because he saw no good in me. Because he saw only bad. Because he never believed in me. Because I wanted him to believe me—and want me. Not because I'm the Flame who can make any man love her—including the great One Man Armin. No, I wanted Race to like the girl he once thought me to be. I know I'm going to die."
There was passion in Armin's voice, a passion that he could not control. He said: "But you don't know how you're going to die."
"I didn't fail." There was a proud ring in the Flame's voice. "The drugs are gone, hidden far away where you'll never find them. I don't care what you do—no, not even if you cut me to ribbons."
"What a coincidence," ,said Armin Loring. "My dear, that is exactly what we are going to do. Cut you to ribbons."
"Unless," said Raftner, "you tell us where the drugs are."
"And," added Armin, "trap Race Williams for us."
"Trap him!" she said. "The only man I ever loved! Why—"
She didn't scream exactly. It was more a quick breath, a sucking sort of breath.
And the show was over. The curtain was to ring down on the final act. I felt good way down inside me. The thing was so simple, too. These men were busy with the girl. Feared, desperate killers both of them. Yet, I had nothing to do but pop out of that vase like a jack-in-the-box, throw a couple of guns over the rim and give, them both the dose if they preferred it that way.
Dramatic? Sure it was dramatic. I knew that when the Flame winced again—yes, an audible wince if you understand what I mean. So I took my cue. I gripped both my guns firmly, straightened my body as best I could, braced my feet and started my body upward.
My head went up into the neck of that vase, but my shoulders didn't. They stuck; stuck there in that neck just as my head came out over the top. And I knew the truth—the horrible truth. I had gotten into the vase through the very force of my falling body. Now—I could not get out

Chapter EIGHT
 Blast-Out

 The Flame cried out and I made another desperate effort, felt the vase rock slightly, nearly got my shoulders wedged so that I could go neither up nor down. What if my head stuck out with my arms pinned down at my sides? What if the vase should turn over and—and—I couldn't save the Flame then. Good God! I could kill them afterward, of course—sometime, someplace. I shuddered. Kill them after the Flame was dead; after I had crouched there helpless while they tortured her to death!
Minutes must have passed since my brain went dead. Things must have changed outside. The Flame was saying: "Telephone Race?" Her laugh was high pitched, but determined just the same. "Trap him to his death—to watch you torture him so I will tell you where the rotten stuff is. No, no, no! I want him to live—live to kill you! I left a note to be delivered to him if I was murdered. I wanted him to know the truth about me then. He'll kill you—both of you. Good, old stupid Race. He'd like it that way. He'd—What are you going to do with that knife! My mouth!"
Armin said very slowly: "You wish to laugh at us, Florence. I wish to make your mouth wider so that you may better enjoy that laugh. So we, too, can enjoy that laugh. Like this—"
God! I couldn't see. I didn't know what, was happening. There was a struggle. I heard that and—
A hole in the vase would mean a chance to see; a second, a chance to shoot. I placed my guns against the side of that vase, one above the other. Two holes—or would there be any holes? What was the damned vase made of? It might be steel; it might be copper. The lead might strike, ricochet and—and—No, I couldn't live to get them then. I couldn't live to get them anyway, once I fired that gun. No chance at all. A single bullet-hole—two holes. With the best of luck—the greatest of luck, I might hit one man. But the shots would be heard and the other man—No, I didn't dare shoot.
"All right, Raftner." Armin's voice was high now, gloating as he said: "Hold her so. The left side first. That pretty mouth slit close to the left ear before we crop that ear. Hold her steady—steady. That's it."
Both my fingers closed. My body stiffened, tightened, the roar was terrific!
God! What had happened? I was choked with smoke and burned powder. The entire room had collapsed around me, not on me, for I was there; there in the center of the room, crouched low, blinking in the light; blinking straight up into the surprised eyes of Raftner. Raftner who had turned from the Flame; turned from the back of the chair in which he held her while Armin—
I knew then. The vase was gone, smashed into a thousand pieces. And Raftner hurled his huge body toward, me—over me. He was crashing down upon me, both arms out, both hands grasping for my throat.
Then I heard Armin Loring's voice. "On top of him, Raftner! Pin him to the floor. I've got—"
That's all I heard then. I fired twice—just an upward flip of both guns and a split second between the shots. Did he fall dead on me pinning me to the floor? Not him—not a guy with forty-fours pounding into his chest. He picked himself up like an acrobat in the circus. Yes picked himself up and went out on his back. I never saw or heard a man hit the floor harder with his head.

My head still rang with those first two shots and the smashing vase. I staggered to my feet and shouted the words above the din in my head. "I'm on the kill, Armin!" I bellowed out like a madman. "On the kill!"
Whether it was the busting vase, the crashing body of Raftner or my shouting voice, I don't know. But Armin lost his head. He gave me a chance to rise and face him as he rushed to the Flame, raised his knife and yelled: "Drop the guns, Race, or she takes the—"
I lowered one gun and shot at the only part of his body I could see as he crouched there before the Flame, huddled in the chair. It was his leg— just below the knee. Did I hit it? Hell—you know me. I don't shoot at things I don't hit.
Armin regained his head then. I saw him step back and I saw that famous draw of his—that double draw—just both hands across his chest. You couldn't tell if they went under his coat or not, but they were both holding guns, both blazing as mine were blazing.
I had a sort of numb feeling as if I were going to drop. Then a sudden stab of pain in my cheek—sharp, quick pain that cleared that numb feeling.
There was blood on Armin's face—on mine, too, I guess. Warm—I felt it. But the blood was in Armin's eyes. He fired again before I did. I'll give him credit for that. But he either fired too soon or the blood blocked his vision. But he saw enough. Saw death and threw himself toward the Flame there in the chair for protection. I pushed out both my arms, twisted my guns in and fired twice.
Maybe Armin intended to kill the Flame then. Maybe he thought more of killing the Flame than of killing me; maybe it wasn't protection he sought after all—only vengeance. But I had fired directly—and surely— and calmly. Armin Loring was hurled backward. He half sank, straightened, crashed against the desk behind him. Then we hit it off together. Just crashing lead. If a Tommy gun had opened up in that cellar, the staccato notes of spitting steel couldn't have been closer together.
Wildly, blindly we fired? Well, maybe Armin did. I didn't. My lead spun him from the desk, turned him completely around. I took a slug in the right side just above the hip bone.
And I did it. Two shots into his stomach, another one into his chest. He was spinning like a top now, firing as he spun, and I got him—just as clean as I ever got any man.
Eyes that were bright and hateful dimmed, faded, and went blank. A small hole started to widen in his forehead, turn from black to blue, then a dull sort of red with tiny bubbles in it.
He didn't pound to the floor—-not Armin. He sank very slowly to his knees, stayed there a moment, then twisted grotesquely and rolled over on his back. I wasn't any too steady myself now as I stood above him. I was nodding my head, saying over and over. "No fooling, Armin. No fooling." The Flame! She had been in the chair. Now she was close to me, under my arm, holding me there. Had they done it? Had Armin done it? Had he ripped that knife across her face and—and—

"Florence," I said. "Your mouth—your mouth."
"Yes, Race, yes," was all she said as she pulled down my head and put her mouth hard against mine.

I had never really known if I loved the Flame. I didn't know then. But I stretched out my arms, pulled her to me, felt the guns still tight in my hands and—Suddenly I turned and faced the door that was opening. The machine-gunners—the men Raftner had there! I had saved the Flame. We were alive. I wanted to live and now—
The door slid wider. Figures were there in the gloom. I felt the Flame grab at my arms, but I was aiming straight at those figures as the trigger fingers of both my hands closed tightly.
Click, click. No more. Both my guns were empty, and—and Sergeant O'Rourke was pounding flat-footed toward me. There was Nelson, too. A couple of harness bulls and some plainclothesmen. And sneaking along on the side I saw the trembling figure of Conklyn Lee.
I guess Lee was talking to me. Anyway he was saying: "Mary was gone—no word from her. You were here—no word from you. I—I telephoned Sergeant O'Rourke and here I am. I—I had to."
I said to Conklyn Lee: "What did you tell him—tell the sergeant— these others?" I saw things going after all.
"He didn't tell us anything, Race," O'Rourke. said. "He met us before the shop. There were guys with tommy guns outside. But they dropped them and ran when they saw us. Flannigan and his men will get them on the block behind. Suppose you tell us."
"Suppose I tell you, Sergeant—and you, too, Inspector." The Flame was as serene now as if nothing had happened. "You never believed in me, Sergeant, but Race did; kept it from you, but believed in me. These men here—one, Raftner, whom you've wanted for a long time—were blackmailing Mary Morse for something her Uncle Frank Morse, who disappeared, had done. They made use of her store. She came straight to Race. We advised her to pretend to submit to the blackmail, once Race suspected it was the narcotic crowd. You nearly spoiled it a couple of times, Sergeant—the government men, too. You see, I had to pose as a friend of Armin Loring."
Now you've got to admit that was a good story. I couldn't have told a better one myself—maybe not so good a one.
I added my bit by saying that Mary Morse was safe. I didn't say where; she might speak out of turn. I wanted to see her first—regardless of the lead in me.
"And the narcotics?" It was Nelson who shot that one in as he nearly stumbled over Armin's outstretched legs.
"In the vases over there—the real ones in the back," the Flame said almost indifferently. "Race and I moved them away from the other vases to be sure nothing would go wrong if Race were killed. Race is hurt, Inspector. He'll have to have treatment. No hospital—I'll take care of him." And looking at me, "And what's more, Race, you've got an assistant who'll see that you collect this time from the Mary Morse fund or there'll be a surrogate shot around here." And when I started to ask her what of Mary Morse
she whispered, "I'll set her free when I have you home in bed and a good surgeon digging into you."
O'Rourke, with the help of Conklyn Lee, had found the drugs. Nelson was looking at the body of Armin Loring—bending closer. He straightened finally and paid me a compliment. Oh, maybe he didn't mean to, but it was in his voice more than his words.
"You, Race—" he said. "You shot it out man to man with—with Armin Loring. Why he was the most feared man in the city. No one—"
I cut in waving my hand deprecatingly as the Flame took my arm, supporting my slightly sagging body. But I got my final crack in before she sat me in a chair. I said: "It was really nothing, Nelson. Armin Loring. Nothing to me, Inspector—just another stiff."