DURING the course of playing both records of Dugan's unwitting confession, I was prepared to throw Marie and Anthony a little hypnotic punch into believing my side of things. Unfortunately, working a whammy that went against a person's ingrained inclination was always temporary. Without regular reinforcement, the persuasion I wanted would never stay in their minds until they realized the truth of it for themselves.

Despite the distraction of Escott's Webley, Dugan's little helpers listened close and careful to everything. From their shared expressions of horror, they apparently understood what it meant.

Marie found a handkerchief in her purse and made use of it. Anthony seemed in about the same shape but being a man couldn't give in to tears. He looked grim and sad and restless. A couple times he asked me to stop the play, but I wasn't feeling softhearted tonight. Their friend was a bastard, and I wanted them to know that for a solid fact. But betrayal is a terrible thing to deal with, and when it was over, they tried to shove its reality away.

"You made it up," said Marie decisively. She straightened, showing a brave if sullen face to me.

I'd expected resistance. "I'm not smart enough or crazy enough to make up that kind of crap. You think he was reading from a script? Maybe you think he was blowing gas at me for some secret purpose. If so, then why did he tell you that Escott was the only guy he spoke to, or was that all part of some master plan Dugan couldn't reveal to his best friends?"

"Then that wasn't Gilbert."

"Wise up, lady. Who else talks like that? Well, maybe Escott, but they have totally different voices."

"You threatened him in some way," said Anthony.

"Does he sound like I was holding a gun on him? No one's that good an actor.

What you heard was the real Gilbert, the side he makes sure you never see. That was him in charge, threatening me, telling me how things were going to go, threatening my friends with six kinds of grief unless I jumped through his hoops."

"He has to save himself. Those criminals put him into this position. Gilbert knows no one will believe him. He has to do whatever he can to preserve his freedom."

"You think blackmail's a nice, stand-up road to take? What would your mother say?"

He flinched. It had been a pretty low blow. I'd calculated it just right.

"How do you explain away that ten grand he says Escott insisted on for a bribe?"

"You just didn't record that part."

"Shall I play it again? From beginning to end? The whole thing is right there, starting with me coming in the door to Gilbert ordering me to stand in front of the window. This is the truth. Your friend is a liar, blackmailer, kidnapper, and would have murdered that helpless young girl with less thought than you put into picking out a tie. And... did you happen to read the papers today?" I pulled out the story about the dead couple found at the farm hideout. "The Indiana DA will start pressing for a murder charge on this. Unlike Dugan, he takes the killing of innocent people very seriously."

They looked at it; so did Escott, who shook his head, somber. I folded the clipping and pocketed it.

"Gilbert didn't do that," Marie whispered. "It was those other men. They just didn't tell him."

"What, and miss a chance to terrify him that much more into helping? It don't wash, toots. He was out there helping demolish the rest of the outhouse so they could dump Sarah Gladwell's body into it."

"How do you know?"

"You don't have to repeat this, 'cause I'll deny it, but I was the mysterious Good Samaritan who clobbered them all and brought them in for the cops."

She shook her head. "But you-if that's true, if you want Gilbert in jail so badly, why don't you come forward?"

"Health reasons. I also thought Dugan and his crew would have enough weight to hang themselves without any help from me. Too bad I was wrong, but circumstances seem to be catching up with him after all. He seems to have pulled a hole in after himself, too. Has he talked to either of you today? You'd think he'd call and get the bribe money business finished. Don't look good for him, does it?"

They had no answer for that.

"Dugan's doing everything his twisted brain can think of to get out of paying for what he's done and still turn a profit. You're damn good friends to be willing to give him ten grand; he doesn't deserve you. But he's very deliberately and cheerfully using you. Since he couldn't haul in twenty-five Gs from Vivian Gladwell, he'll settle for ten conned from his girlfriend. My guess is as soon as the cash is in hand, he's off to Brazil."

Marie shook her head "N-no, he-"

"Lemme ask you this: When's the last time you were ever in his house?"

Anthony blinked and didn't reply.

"Think he's a little embarrassed having people over? The place looks on the haunted side these days."

"He just likes to meet his friends elsewhere. Four walls closing in and all that,"

he offered.

"More like they're falling down around his ears. Appearances are important to him. He doesn't want you to see just how desperate he is. You know about his paper animal collection?"

"What?" The subject switch confused him.

I opened a desk drawer and pulled out some slightly crumpled origami animals.

And boats. Last night I'd taken away a few samples, just in case they'd be needed.

"Look familiar? He does this a lot. 'To fill the time,' he says. Sound familiar?

Would you know his handwriting? You aware of his preference for writing in green ink?"

They stared at the pieces.

"Unfold one of those boats. I've not read what's on there, but I can guess it's pretty revolting. Read it, see the kind of crap's flowing through Dugan's mind. See the stuff he doesn't tell you because he knows damn well how you'd react. Go on."

They didn't move, so I picked up two random pieces and put them into their hands. Very reluctantly, Marie unfolded a boat. Anthony held his loose in his palm and read over Marie's arm. They didn't get far down the page.

"This doesn't mean anything," Anthony said. "A man has a right to an opinion.

This is a free country."

"You got me there. But what's your opinion of a person who thinks people should be matched up to breed like a strain of cattle stock? Who thinks less-than-perfect children should be killed? Certainly Sarah Gladwell falls into that category.

He said himself he carefully chose her. Come on, you two. Don't be so damned thick-headed. Dugan put one over on you and too bad, but-"

"No!" Marie tore the paper up. "He's just doing this to mislead people. Or it's forged-"

I caught her eye, freezing her in place. "Believe it," I said softly. "He used you.

Used both of you. It's okay to be mad at him." I let her go, and she started sniffling.

"You're horrible. I hate you."

She was and wasn't talking to me. The turntable still spun; I put the needle arm over the record and dropped it in a spot I'd memorized.

"... sentiment for that creature is misplaced. I chose her quite carefully, you know. I would never remove a contributing member of society, but she was nothing, on the contrary..."

I lifted the needle, reached into the safe, and pulled out a delicate crane, tossing it to Anthony. "Read that. You can see I didn't open it; they don't fold back quite the same. This is what he wanted me to get the other kidnappers to say to get him off the hook. You heard him tell me what he wanted done. His own writing."

He shook his head. "Never mind. I believe you."

About damned time.

"Who was that woman?"

"What woman?"

"The one in the room with you. The one on the record."

I risked having Myrna mess with the lights. "That was just background noise from downstairs. Dugan and I were alone. That's why he was able to gab so freely."

"But what is this 'secret' of yours he talked about? It's not you hypnotizing people. What did he mean about you invisibly following him? And that Stockyards business-?"

Headache time. "Don't worry about that. Forget that part. What's important is he really did kidnap Sarah, and he tried to extort money from her mother and from you two. He's a liar and all the other garbage. Are you both straight on it? Dugan's a bad guy."

"Oh, shut up," said Marie, kneading her handkerchief as though searching for a dry spot to use.

"Where is he?" Anthony asked.

I shrugged. "I haven't heard from him since last night." That was absolutely true. "My guess is he got wise and decided to lam it."

"But he was so confident-"

"Based on lies. Maybe he realized it wouldn't work or worried that I might not toe the line for him after all. He's got a big brain; maybe he thought himself into a corner and knew he'd have to run. Why don't you go visit his house? See if he left a clue."

"You've been there, haven't you? That's how you got these things from him.

What have you done with him?"

"Nothing. I don't have to. He's done it all himself. If you hear from him, have him call me. He likes to listen to himself talk so much he'd probably love this." I nodded toward the spinning record.

Marie surged up, darting for the phonograph, murder in her eye.

Escott got there first. She slammed into him, but he held in place, arms up to deflect her fists. He dropped his gun on my coat, then grabbed her wrists. He spun her around quick as a jitterbug dancer, crossing her arms in front of her like a straitjacket, which mostly immobilized her. She struggled to get free, twisting and bucking. He tried not to wince.

Anthony was shocked for a moment, then stepped in and pulled her away.

"Marie, please don't!"

She subsided into sobbing, falling against him. "You're horrid, all of you!"

"Not us. Gilbert," he said.

"You liar!"

"I'm sorry, my dear, really I am."

Escott got his gun and sank back on his chair with a stifled sigh. Marie went unintelligible for some while, her posing and apparent boredom completely gone.

Her reaction told how deeply Dugan had gotten under her skin. He must have executed one hell of a charming performance for her, saying and doing all the right things, being the perfect gallant. The other night Anthony had been urging Dugan to overcome his reluctance and propose to her. How much of that had been inspired by Dugan's manipulations so he could laugh up his sleeve at them both? I could imagine him entertaining himself by setting all his friends up, then having them eagerly running around in response to every little thing he said. What a way to fill the time.

"Okay, Brockhurst," I said, "you think you can convince the rest of your pals that Dugan's guilty after all? I don't want any more letters being written."

"I don't know... possibly."

"Would hearing these recordings do the trick?"

He nodded, not meeting my eye.

"Fine. Maybe by tomorrow we'll have some copies for you to pass around.

Phone here around six, and I'll let you know. You two scram."

He looked, startled. "Just like that?"

"Yeah. In case you missed it, I'm busy with another mess right now." I plucked at my bloodied shirt. "This has nothing to do with you, and I suggest you forget all about it."

Anthony hurriedly guided Marie toward the door, yanking it open and hauling them through before I could change my mind.

"You sure that's wise to let them run loose?" Escott asked. "There were things on the records that might raise questions."

"I'll deal with them then. My guess is those two won't be back if they can help it."

"One may hope. Now... what about Bristow?"

"He promised to buckwheats me, and it's a sure thing he'll invite you to the party just for laughs, but I don't particularly want to go."

"Indeed. I had quite enough of his hospitality." He went to the couch, sinking stiffly onto it. "I've an image in my mind of having an extremely hot bath and doing nothing at all for at least twenty-four hours, but rather think it will have to be postponed."

"Only until we get you to Vivian's."

"I shall phone her shortly so she may have some warning. How much about this Bristow business should I tell her?"

That was a change. The only cases he ever talked about with clients were their own. This wasn't exactly a case, though. On the other hand, maybe he thought Vivian should know what she was getting into if she granted him shelter for an indefinite period. "Use your best judgment," I said. I stabbed two lingers through the shirt holes. My jacket would have holes out the back as well. Another reweaving job. Or a new suit. "I wonder which of Hog's boys did the actual shooting last night."

"Does it matter?"

"It will to New York. Bristow was drunk enough then to step out of line, but maybe too far gone to be the triggerman. I can attest to some personal experience that he and one other of them is a good shot, though. They'll want the man who actually did it. I'm hoping it was Bristow. If Gordy's men find him first, he could maybe choose not to come quiet and end up dead. That would solve a lot of problems."

"Gordy's men?"

I gave him the short version of life at the Nightcrawler and how I'd dealt with Kroun. "He's probably already phoned Kroun to tell him what kind of a rat I turned out to be. All I needed was five minutes with Bristow to get the fuse out of the powder keg. That's in the toilet now."

"Then arrangements must be made to allow you to make a second attempt."

"How?"

"I haven't the faintest idea. If Gordy's men locate him, you can sneak up on him and bash him about the head and shoulders for a few hours. I'll be happy to hold your coat for the duration."

"Or I can try to set up another meeting through Gordy's people. I'll see what Derner can do. Bristow may think I'm dead, you know. His boy got me point-blank. With me out of the way, he may figure he can waltz in... except he doesn't know how bad off Gordy is. I let drop with Kroun that he was okay, just keeping low, but they won't buy that for long."

"Do you really think one of Gordy's people might have shot him?"

"It's a possibility I can't leave out. This is a tough business, and if any of them decides Bristow can move them up in it..."

"And you suspect-?"

"All of them. Maybe not Strome or Lowrey, not directly, but either of them could have gotten someone else to do the actual shooting. Then there's Derner.

He's been second fiddle at the Nightcrawler for a long time. He might want more.

Then there's all the other guys." The ones I'd dealt with earlier and sent out to find Bristow. "I don't want it to be any of them, though."

"Indeed?"

"I like things simple. Bristow being the shooter is best. If I end up having to question every guy in Gordy's organization, I'll have a headache the size of Lake Michigan."

"You'd do it, though."

I sighed. "Yeah. I would." I reached for my phone and dialed Dr. Clarson's number.

Bobbi answered.

"It's me," I said. "How's Gordy doing?"

Her voice was very subdued. "Still the same. He should be better, Jack. After all this time? He should. But he's not."

"He'll get better." But she was right. I'd seen guys shot in the war who either rallied early or gradually faded away after a long plateau of nothing happening, good or bad. "You know Gordy, he thinks things over without saying anything, then suddenly goes to work."

"Yeah, I guess so."

An old war memory dredged up for me: being in one of the hospitals, seeing some of the wounded guys from my company. Remembering the ones who made it and why. "Do me a favor and talk to him."

"Talk to him? But he's supposed to rest."

"He's been resting. Maybe too much. You and Adelle talk to him, tell him what's going on, act like he's part of the conversation. Tell him about the weather, tell him stories, play the radio for him. He might be awake under his eyelids and just can't talk back yet." I knew what that was like.

"Okay. We'll do it."

"And you can tell him I'm taking care of things with Bristow."

"Oh, Jack, you got him?"

I hated disappointing her. "Well, not yet. We had a setback, but I'll be fixing things, then sending him back to New York."

"Even after he shot Gordy?"

"His mistake. They won't like him so much after I'm done."

"But will they not like him enough to keep him there?"

"I'm hoping they'll keep him there permanently." Like under a highway or as part of a bridge. "Pass this on to Shoe if you see him, and tell him I said to go on with keeping Gordy under wraps. He's safer there than anywhere else."

"Thank God for that."

"But I don't want to take any chances. If Strome or anyone else from the organization shows up that isn't me, don't let them in."

"Why?"

"Loose ends."

"What's going on?"

"Is Isham there?"

"Yeah. Him and another couple guys. I'll let them know, but you're scaring me."

"Don't be. I'm just being extra careful. Bristow might have had help I don't know about."

"Like Strome?"

"Yeah, but it's long odds. I'm only saying keep the doors locked for now. Old maid stuff, y'know?"

"You're sure?"

"Yeah, honey. I've got some more stuff to do tonight. Can you get a ride home in case it runs late?"

"Yes, but I think I'll be staying. Adelle's getting some sleep. Poor thing's worn down to the bone. Can't blame her."

"I'll call to check in. If I'm not in the office, do you know the number for the lobby phone? I'll have Wilton keep his ears open if it rings. And you can reach Charles at..."

She wrote down the numbers I dictated. "Where will you be?"

"Got some other business to clean up. Tell you later."

"Is it about Dugan?"

"Yeah. We just convinced his friends he's guilty, so that's finally over. I had them listen to the records. It wasn't fun, but they came around."

"They're all right?"

"Not happy, but breathing tegular. I sent them home, too. Tell you later."

"Darn tootin' you will."

We said bye and hung up. I told Escott about Gordy's unchanged condition.

"Talking to him might help at that," he said thoughtfully.

"It can't hurt. C'mon, let's get you some aspirin. I think Wilton keeps a bottle under the cash register." I took the record off the player and slipped it in its sleeve and then the flat box with its brother, but not into the safe. That I clanked shut and locked.

"What are you doing with those?"

I grinned. "Does Vivian Gladwell have a phonograph?"

We didn't leave right away; I had to change clothes. There'd been a laundry delivery that afternoon, and along with fresh towels for the washrooms and bars, I had a clean suit and a half-dozen shirts stacked in one of the dressing rooms.

After staring at the near-pristine suit for ten seconds, I decided not to risk it and hung it in the closet. That thing had cost nearly a hundred bucks-over a month's pay for my last regular job as a reporter. Though I was making much more than that in profits now, I hated wasting money.

Maybe I could hit Bristow up for compensation. Literally. A few socks to his wide kisser wouldn't improve his looks, but I'd feel better. While he lay all groggy on the floor, I could see what the inside of his wallet looked like.

Fresh shirt buttoned, tucked in, tie in place, and coat on my back-the holes weren't too visible-I was ready to make a quick check of how the evening had progressed without my supervision. I emerged from the backstage area, nodded to the bartenders, and surveyed the crowd. They seemed cheerful, tapping in time to the music, talking, smoking, drinking, and watching the show. Not bad, especially since I'd missed doing my usual light "enjoy yourself" whammy on them at the door.

Thankfully, the early debut of Roland and Faustine had gone without a hitch, according to the waiters. The dance duet had gotten in sufficient rehearsal to be a real audience-pleaser. They had enough professionalism-or desperation for a paycheck-to put aside their big fight and focus on the job. I'd heard of couples like that who could brawl better than cats and dogs before and after a show but still deliver a flawless performance in between.

Escott and I walked in as the band struck up a tango. It was kind of old stuff, having had its heyday with Valentino, but the arrangement shifted back and forth between tango and swing rhythms, a contest to see which was better and both winning. One minute Roland and Faustine were smoldering eye to eye, the next they were up and spinning into a modified jitterbug. She wore a glittery silver gown with the hem high enough from the floor so as not to tangle her feet, and the shimmering skirt swirled dramatically with every turn. She had on heels but still managed to put in some ballet-style twirls. There was no toe dancing, but you could see the classical influence in her form. Roland moved gracefully, both supporting and showcasing her.

"Damn," I muttered to Escott, who had parked at the bar. "They're good."

"Excellent sense of timing," he agreed.

Escott had washed his aspirin down with a ginger ale instead of gin and tonic.

He probably wanted to be sharp later on.

"I gotta play boss for a few minutes," I said, gauging the music. The number was about to wind itself up.

"Please proceed. It will give time for my medication to work."

The exhibition dance ended; Roland and Faustine made bows and collected a huge round of applause, which boosted my satisfaction. With this initial reception to judge by, they'd go over very well tomorrow night.

It was time for the patrons to join them on the floor. I had the jump on other guys since I'd known it was coming and reached Faustine first.

"How 'bout a quick turn?" I asked.

She granted me a pleased smile. "But ov course. You enjoyed our daunce, yesss?"

"Very much." The band did a slow waltz. I was no Roland Lambert but could keep up with this beat without disgrace. Faustine was a delight in my arms, like dancing with air. "I wanted to thank you for coming in ahead of time."

"Eet vas our pleasure. Tomorrow vill even better be."

"Are you two working things out? I know it's not my business, but I like my performers to be happy."

She stiffened only a little. "Yesss. Ve talk. He prostrate himself, as he should. I may forgive, but eez difficult."

"You can always talk to Bobbi if you need to, you know."

"Yesss, she is lovely-sweet to be zo nice in my troublings. I like not to impose, but in this only another woman understands. She is vhere tonight?"

"Looking after a friend who took sick."

"Nothing to be caught, I hope?" She looked alarmed. Bobbi was the same way about colds.

"No, stomach problems."

"Hopeful I am there is quick recovery, then."

"Thanks."

Across the floor, Roland squired an older woman around. She was elegantly dressed, well into the dowager years. He guided her majestically over the floor, and she seemed to glow from his twinkling attention. Faustine noticed, and her chin went up, eyes glinting. "He is being good boy tonight, yesss.

But I expect he must daunce wit' the pretty ones, too."

"I think he'll behave for awhile, even with them."

She made a small humph sound. "Some men should not marry. Perhaps eet vas a mistake for me, but he is zo handsome, such the charm, and I do love. I know he loves me, but sometimes he forgets. We shall see."

I could make the situation better for them, but so long as she wasn't throwing drinks in public, things were under control. It was better for them to work their marriage stuff out on their own.

An eager-looking business type cut in on me the moment the waltz shifted to a rumba. Faustine would have her hands full with him, but he'd behave. The waiters had been told to keep watch in case any guys got fresh with her. She had a high sign to give should things get awkward. This was a class place, not one of those dime-a-dance warehouses. Though not happy about dealing with mobsters, my staff could handle the regular sort of customer.

I went back to Escott. "How about a drive over to the Glad well house?"

"I already telephoned and told Vivian we were on the way," he said, face carefully neutral.

And I thought that business type was a fast worker.

Escott got in his car, and I got in mine, and we didn't look over our shoulders more than a dozen times after leaving the club. My job was to trail him and watch the rearview mirror to make sure it stayed clear. We figured if anyone-meaning Bristow-followed us, they would be more interested in my car.

Escott had a talent for throwing a shadow and lost me in ten minutes, and I knew where he was headed. He wound that big Nash around corners like it was a bicycle. I barely kept even with him, lost sight of him twice, then gave up and let him bull ahead. If Escott shook me, then he was safe. I was less safe but better able to handle trouble.

To make sure I was fully restored for whatever lay ahead, I took the long way around to get to the Stockyards, parking in a different spot from last night. Made wary by Dugan, I vanished while still in the car and ghosted across the street, not going solid again until far inside the cover of the cattle pens. Even then I had a good, careful look around to make sure I was alone and unobserved.

I hoped to settle things soon with Dugan, else I might always feel like someone was watching as I fed. Not exactly good for the digestion.

Business finished, I returned the same way and sped out, not stopping until I found an all-night drugstore. Its bright lights made me wince, but no matter, so long as the phone worked. I wedged into the narrow booth, unfolded the door into place for privacy, and dialed the Nightcrawler Club.

"Derner." He'd picked up before the first ring had finished.

"This is Fleming-"

"What the hell have you been doing?" he demanded.

I suppose he had a right to be worried. Not for me, but his own hide. If I didn't hold things together for Gordy, we were all up shit creek. "What have you been told I've been doing?"

"Kroun's heard from Bristow. They ain't happy. Said you tried to kill him."

" He was the one trying to plug me. Twice. He must have left that part out."

"You got hit?"

"He missed me, so I might forgive him. Where is he?"

"Kroun didn't say. On the move, probably."

"Think he'll come by the club?"

"There's a laugh."

"Can you get him there? Tonight?"

"I don't see how."

"Call Kroun. Tell him Gordy didn't make it and Bristow is free to take over.

Tell him you don't care who runs things, that you can be a big help getting the other guys to cooperate. Tell them you can get me to the club so Bristow can-"

Derner audibly sputtered. "You're crazy! I can't feed them that crap! You know what they'd do to me?"

"I'll make it square for you later. The important thing is to put Bristow in a place where I can talk with him, and it's got to be tonight."

"You gonna kill him?"

"Of course not. I'm gonna be smarter than him, which ain't too hard. You just make sure you sell Kroun on the news."

"What about Gordy?"

"What about him?"

"They said he was dead. Is he?"

"You got told wrong. I saw him tonight, and he's still breathing. So long as he keeps breathing, you and everyone else stays copasetic."

"But-"

"Can it. Who do you want running things? Gordy or Bristow?"

"Gordy."

"Same here, so gimmie a hand on this."

He mumbled a reply. He'd cooperate.

"Great. Just get Bristow to the club and keep him happy. Cooperate with him, make him believe you. I'll check in later.

See to it you're the one answering the phone. Now... where's Lowrey?"

"He went home."

"What, not out on the big hunt for Bristow?"

"Not with his missus." By his tone Derner gave me to think Mrs. Lowrey had more in common with Marie Dressier than Greta Garbo. A hen-pecked mobster.

What would they think of next?

"Okay, where's he live?"

"What for?"

"I got a job going; you'll hear about it later."

That didn't seem to satisfy him, but he gave me an address.

I scrawled it on the back cover of the booth's phone book and tore it away.

"There's one more thing... call off the hunt for Bristow. Tell the boys thanks and go home. Don't mention Gordy one way or another."

"They're gonna be sore. They'll think you took the reward."

"Give 'em each fifty bucks as a consolation prize."

"B-but that's nearly fifteen hundred! For doing nothing!"

"It's five hundred less than you'd have paid out before, and this way everyone gets something. Gordy will approve."

"You don't know that."

"Do I have to come down there? Just do it!"

After fishing a map from my glove box, I looked up Lowrey's street and drove over. He and I had some talking to do.

It was a surprise to learn he was a family man. He had a narrow house in a crowded neighborhood, filled with a wife and several kids to judge by the amount of toys scattered around the small, muddy yard. As it was late and a school night they were all in bed. I found this out by a silent invasion of their home, floating from room to room, ghostlike, which roused a couple of dogs. They gave sharp barks of alarm upon sensing me and rushed around sniffing like crazy and whining. This woke Mrs. Lowrey but not the mister. She grumbled at him for not getting up to look for burglars, going to see for herself.

I materialized at their front door and knocked. The dogs barked frantically. She told them to shut up, and I heard her slow approach.

"Who is it?" she called over the din.

"I'm here from Derner. Gotta see Lowrey." The idea of simply appearing in their bedroom did not appeal to me. I'd have to hypnotize her, which would happen only after I scared her half to death. Terrorizing housewives, even if they were married to gangsters, just wasn't a nice thing to do.

"Who are you?"

"It's business," I hedged. "Club business. Gordy."

That was enough for her to cautiously unlock and crack the door. It was on a chain. If anyone really wanted to break in, a halfway decent kick would do it.

"Yes? I don't know you." She had a fierce eye, peering sideways through the opening. One of the dogs forced his muzzle through and snorted mightily, growling.

"No, ma'am. I'm new. Derner sent me with a message for Lowrey."

Nodding like that was something familiar, she undid the chain. The dogs, a couple of big mongrels, charged up, wanting to see who the hell I was, and after one good sniff retreated, tails tucked.

"He's asleep. I'll get him." She stared at the dogs.

"Just show me where; Derner's waiting. This won't take a minute." I hoped.

A tired-looking woman in a sagging bathrobe, married to a gangland bodyguard, she understood not to ask questions or cause delays. For all she knew, I might have been sent here to kill her husband. It was all part of the job.

She pointed, frowning. "Through there."

"Thank you."

I went in, flipping on the overhead light and closing the door. Up the hall I heard a drowsy kid ask his mom what was wrong. She told him to never mind and go back to sleep. Couldn't tell if she was scared or not.

Lowrey was sprawled in bed, down to a yellowed singlet and the start of a beard. I got him awake just enough to put him under again, and primed to answer questions.

"Who shot Gordy?" I asked, still trying to figure out which of his eyes to focus on. Either one seemed to work well enough for my kind of work. "Did you see him? Who?"

"Donno. Dark. Hadda be Bristow."

He was the logical suspect, but I wanted to cover all the bases. "Who's next in line after Gordy to run things?"

"Bristow," he mumbled.

"If Bristow ain't in the picture, who else?"

"Dunno. Fleming. He could do it."

Me? Holy moley. Who the hell did they think I was? "But Fleming helped save Gordy."

"He coulda got that English gumshoe to do it for him. He pretends to help Gordy, then Gordy croaks, then he-"

"Yeah-yeah, I got the picture. Well, forget it, powder puff, Fleming ain't playing that game."

"Okay," he said obligingly.

"Anyone else want Gordy's job?"

"Derner, maybe. Strome, too."

Now we were getting somewhere. "Think Derner would knock Gordy off to work for Bristow?"

"Dunno. Maybe."

"What about Derner knocking Gordy off to take over for himself?"

"Strome thinks he would." Lowrey shrugged. "Maybe. Ask him."

I planned to and got his address from Lowrey, writing it on the scrap of phone book cover. "Okay, you did fine. Now forget I was ever here and catch up on your sleep." I shut off the light on the way out.

Mrs. Lowrey seemed more awake and showing worry. "Anything wrong?"

"No, ma'am. All finished. Your man can take some time off."

"Husband," she corrected archly. Apparently she worked hard for that gold band on her ring finger. It and she deserved acknowledgment and respect from lowlife mugs like me.

"Yes, ma'am. Husband. Sorry to barge in." I got out fast.

Strome was next. I found the right residence hotel, the right number, and slipped under his door like an unwelcome bill.

He lived in an unprepossessing flat, just three rooms. Gordy's people were well-paid; Strome could afford better. He either spent the bulk of his time in other surroundings or the bulk of his money in the Nightcrawler's casino. I didn't see him as the type to send money home to his dear old ma.

In the combination living and bedroom, the Murphy bed had been pulled down from the wall. The sheets and blankets were messed around but unoccupied. No overcoat lying around. He was out, and I'd specifically told him to go home and sleep to keep him out of trouble.

Someone must have woken him up. Bristow perhaps. Or Derner. And Strome knew exactly where to find Gordy. Either of them could get the information out of him, willingly or not.

There was a phone in the small kitchen. I used it to call Clarson's again. Bobbi answered again.

"Everything quiet?" I asked.

"Why? What do you know that I should?"

"My old maid stuff might have something to it. I want you should get out of there."

"Jack..."

I knew she wouldn't leave. "All right, there's a chance that Bristow might come by."

"Oh, damn. You better talk to Isham, then."

"And you have to get yourself and Adelle out of there."

"She won't go any more than I will."

"Persuade her, doll."

"We can't leave Gordy-"

"Listen to me a minute. You think Gordy would want either of you in the way if something happens?"

"But-"

"Isham and Shoe can look after him better if you two are gone. You know that."

She knew but didn't like it. "How serious is this?"

"I don't know. I'm playing the better-safe-than-sorry song. You and Adelle go back to Crymsyn or take Adelle to your place, I don't care, but you get clear. It's tough, but he'd want both of you safe."

"And then what?"

"And then nothing happens, if we're lucky, and you can come back. You promise you'll leave?"

Not happily, but she promised. I asked her to put Isham on. Apparently he was hovering close, for he took the phone right away.

"Yeah, what's going on?" he wanted to know.

I explained a few things in broad terms. "Is Shoe there?"

"He can be."

"Let him know what I said. Beef up the guards outside. If you see Strome coming back with friends, you may have to nail them all. Keep your eyes peeled for a blue car with a missing driver's door."

"Huh?"

"Just what I said. Any chance of moving Gordy out of there?"

"You'd have to ask Clarson."

"Ask him for me. I'll call back in half an hour. If anything happens before then, you can reach Escott here." I gave him the Gladwell number. "Make sure Bobbi and Adelle get a ride to wherever they want."

He said he would and hung up.

I called Derner, knowing full well he might be working with Bristow. Or for himself.

"What'd Kroun have to say?" I asked.

Derner sounded unhappy. "Not a lot. I told 'em Gordy didn't make it and that Bristow should be told. I don't know that Kroun bought it."

"What's he going to do?"

"He didn't say. I think he'll talk to Bristow, though."

I wanted to be there in person to get the truth out of him. It'd be worth a headache to make sure of Derner's loyalty. "You heard from Strome?"

"No. Why?"

"I got an errand for him, too. If he phones or comes back, get him and keep him there. I'll be in later tonight."

"When?"

"Later. Is the hunt called off yet?"

"Mostly. Some of the guys know, others don't. Word's getting around."

If he'd passed it on. "Keep it moving. I'll call again shortly, and I want good news about Bristow."

I slipped back under Strome's door, heading out. The street seemed empty, but I took a moment longer than usual to check all the stray shadows before pulling into the thin traffic. I shifted gears, both in my head and with the car, and headed toward the Gladwell estate.

Until now, up to and including getting shot at, everything had been a relative cinch. Now I had to deal with Dugan. I liked mob guys better. They had certain rules and ethics I could at least comprehend. You knew where you stood with them and how to handle them. Dugan was the kind of mess you just wanted to scrape off your shoe and walk away.

No walking from this one, though.