"THIS is Fleming."

"And who the hell are you?" Ordinary voice, Hell's Kitchen accent. Definitely aggressive.

"Filling in for Gordy tonight. You Kroun?"

"Yeah. Where's Hog?"

"I don't know."

"What's this about him shooting Gordy? He wouldn't do that."

"Well, Kroun, you're in for a disappointment. Bristow was crazy drunk last night and plenty mad. He had a lapse in judgment. Gordy got away, and put himself where he can stay healthy."

"How you know all that?"

"I was there, saw everything. What the hell were you thinking, sending that brainless thug out here to take over from Gordy?"

Derner gave me a sharp look. Questioning the New York bosses was something you only did once.

"Hog says he can do a better job." Kroun sounded like he was simmering just short of boil-over.

"All he wants is a place to get drunk every night."

"The money's not like it was. Hog can do better."

"Check the paper, there's a depression on. Gordy's doing damn well, and a damn sight better than Bristow would. He keeps his head clear and has a brain inside it-"

"Aw, go buy a violin. So you're filling in? What're you going to do about this?"

"That's up to Bristow. He will be found." I hoped I wasn't talking too fast for this guy. " How he's found is his choice. He can be dead or alive. His choice."

"You bury him, you put yourself in the same box. He's got friends here."

"Then he should go back to 'em. I'm the only friend he's got here. Listen very carefully, Kroun. If I don't talk to him, one of the other boys will, and it'll be with a gun. They're plenty sore about what he did to Gordy."

"I don't hear no proof Hog did anything. You think I'm just gonna take your word for it?"

"Your favorite son will be explaining himself soon enough. If he lives that long."

"What d'ya mean by that?"

"Just listen: I'm the one man here with enough sense to keep him alive. If he should happen to call home to say hello, you pass that on. Every guy in this town wants to nail him to a wall. I'm the one man here who won't kill him. I know what's at stake." Not strictly true, but Kroun wouldn't be asking for a list.

"Hog won't believe that."

"Then he's dumber than he looks. Gordy has to have told him I don't care one way or another about how you guys run your business. It's none of mine, and I want to keep clear of it. But Hog comes in like a binging sailor, rocking boats, upsetting things-that's bad for everyone's business."

"So?"

"If you can talk him into being smart, I can clean up the mess he made and see to it he's happy with the deal."

"What d'ya mean by that? What deal?"

"Have him talk to me, and he'll find out. If he doesn't wise up, then you can't blame anyone but him for whatever happens. I don't like assholes coming into my town thinking they can kick my friends around and not catch one on the chin for it like a man. That kind ain't worth the powder to blow 'em to hell, and you and I both know it. If Bristow thinks he's got big enough balls to take on Chicago, he's got to prove it to me first. You got that straight?"

Silence on the line.

"I said, do you got that?"

"Oh, yeah. And Hog's gonna get every word." His voice was shaky. Mad as hell kind of shaky.

"Good. Now I have things to do." I hung up.

Strome didn't move or speak. Same for Lowrey, who looked out-and-out appalled for a second before covering it up.

Derner opened and shut his mouth a few times and finally said, "Where you want the funeral?"

"Mine or Bristow's?" I grinned.

"Both. What the hell were you thinking, kid? Talking to Kroun like that?"

"If I rolled on my back and pissed myself, would he have respected me?"

"I guess not, but Kroun-"

"Is probably calling Bristow right now and passing on my message just the way I want. I'll wait here for him to phone. Of course, if any of the boys finds him first, then I change my plans. I hope you got two grand in petty cash lying around." With the amount of gambling going on in the private casino downstairs, that's probably what they used for coffee and donut change.

"That's the boss's money you're throwing around, remember."

Just what I wanted to hear: guys in Gordy's organization talking like he could walk in any minute. "Gordy won't mind."

"Two grand? That's a lot, considering there's no hit on."

I was fairly confident that no one would collect. Bristow would call first. Not because he was smart but for a chance to let me know what he thought of me.

After he was done spitting dust, I'd arrange a meeting with him and do my evil-eye

"deal." In the meantime, the hunt for him kept a lot of dangerous, jittery guys chasing around and focused on something else besides me. Of course, if one of the boys accidentally killed him, that would change things, but I was optimistic about Bristow's ability to survive, even with a bounty on his head. His bodyguards would keep him safe if they knew what was good for them. "I think insurance people call it a finder's fee. Gordy can take it off his taxes."

"Taxes?" Derner spoke like it was an unfamiliar foreign word.

"Never mind. Anyone deliver a paper here today? I wanna read the news."

Strome found this morning's papers. I sprawled on Gordy's wide leather sofa and looked over the headlines. The others took the hint and parked themselves at the other end of the room to wait for Bristow's call.

The kidnapping case had faded from the front page, replaced by a milk fund scandal, union troubles in Detroit, and the latest load of woe from China. The Japanese were murdering them. The Chinese were in desperate need of pilots and people to teach them to fly, but not having much luck. The officers wanting to learn were from the upper crust of a very caste-bound society and took criticism from lower-rank tutors rather badly. If you gave your noble-born student a poor grade, you could have your head chopped off. Along with the war, they were losing flying teachers by the bushel basket. Though many outside the country were sympathetic, there weren't a lot of American or British fliers interested in taking their place.

I dug out the funny pages, finding them much more entertaining than usual.

Having been walking on the edge for too long, I craved inanity. Strome, Lowrey, and Derner didn't hide their annoyance at my enjoyment, but damn it, the laughs felt good.

The crossword looked interesting, so I went to the desk- only then did I sit in the chair-and played at filling in the squares for a while. The phone rang a few times, but it was ordinary club business that Derner handled quickly to keep the line clear.

Halfway through the puzzle it hit me: I'd faced down all those toughs and hadn't once resorted to the evil eye. Hadn't even thought of it. I was faster and stronger than any of them and had used that, but it was different, seemed more square for some reason. And no headache from the effort.

But all the rest was me, not supernatural influence. For all the guff and gab I'd thrown out, I'd been rock steady and still was; it felt good, even. This ordinary kind of smoke and mirrors stuff agreed with me.

Well, well, Mrs. Fleming's youngest was doing all right for himself.

When I'd had enough of self-congratulation, I decided to check the inside headlines for that morning's latest about the Gladwell kidnapping. Escott had mentioned no new developments over his boiled egg supper, but then he'd slept in late and might not have read anything. Neither of us had listened to the radio, either. I shifted newsprint around on Gordy's desk.

The kidnapping had been relegated to page two, and I expected a much-truncated story rehashing everything, but there was fresh information after all. The first was Dugan's mysterious failure to appear in court. His lawyer gave excuses, requesting a postponement. The judge rescheduled things for tomorrow and sternly lectured the lawyer about the importance of not wasting the court's time.

By tomorrow, if not already, Dugan would be on someone's official fugitive roster. He'd be in jail now if they'd been doing their jobs. For crying out loud, kidnapping was a federal crime to start with, and he'd added to it by taking the girl across state lines. He should have been stewing in jail, not Mrs. Gladwell's basement. God save us from fancy-talking liars.

But tacked onto the bottom of the article was the real bombshell. My guess was the news had come in after they'd set up the front page. Rather than ripping everything, they'd made space for it on the already existing story. Under a smaller heading that read "Grim Discovery at Kidnap Hideout" was a report from Indiana.

The cops there had done some digging-literally-at the farmhouse. Dumped in the cesspit under the partially destroyed outhouse were two bodies, an old man and woman, apparently the owners of the property.

I stared at the print a long time, then read it again, carefully, but the words hadn't changed. I stood, throwing the paper down, and paced a few times.

Derner looked up. "Something wrong, Mr. Fleming?"

"I want a new edition. The latest you can find. Now."

"Okay." He went to the office door and passed the errand to someone down the hall. About a minute later he had an evening paper taken from one of the boys.

The kidnapping was once more on the front page, this time with photos. The couple had been identified, their ages listed, with a truncated history of their lives.

In summation, they were elderly, had no close relatives, and kept to themselves.

Perfect for Dugan's purpose. If they disappeared from their isolated farm, no one would be likely to notice for months. Cause of death seemed to be gunshots to the head.

How had he found them? Had he and one of the other men, maybe Vinzer the driver, gone along the back roads looking for just such a setup? It would be easy enough to pretend to have a breakdown, stroll up to a house, and ask to use a phone. Dugan's polished manners and nice clothes would get him through any rustic door. Sooner or later, they'd find a place not on the phone exchange. Plenty of those in farming country. They'd narrow it to anyone who kept to themselves.

No visitors, no family, no neighbors. They could find all that out over a friendly cup of coffee. Then Dugan or the other guy would take out a gun and with a couple of bullets claim the house for their own.

If I'd known that to start with, I'd have killed Dugan and his whole gang the first night and lived with a clean conscience afterward.

Mostly clean.

I'd killed before. It wasn't my solution to every problem, and I sure as hell hated what it did to me, but in this case I could honestly say their deaths would not have troubled me too much.

The paper played up the fact that Dugan was truly missing, from his court date and from answering questions about the murdered couple. A lot too late, the editors had come to realize their society pretty boy was a bad egg after all. The cops were again grilling family and friends for his whereabouts. Well, they wouldn't be lying when they said they didn't know.

I wondered if Escott had had a chance to read this stuff and reached for the phone, then changed my mind. That could wait until after Bristow called. I sat and stewed and thought seriously about killing Dugan even now in cold blood. There'd be nothing to it: just go up to a man chained helpless to a wall and snap his neck.

Or use a gun so I wouldn't actually have to touch him and feel the life going out. I thought about that a lot, what I'd have to do to get rid of the body, how I would deal with the aftermath inside my head. As long as I slept on my home earth, there would be no nightmares, and if I stayed busy and distracted, I wouldn't have to think about it. For decades to come I wouldn't have to think about it for a single minute.

I wondered what kind of hole in the world he would make disappearing. It's a big thing to kill, not necessarily a bad thing, but a big thing, the old toss a rock into a pool kind of thing. Would the ripples be too much to handle? There would be a hellish legal fuss with the law looking for him, but beyond that... maybe it'd work.

But it wasn't practical. Too many witnesses. Vivian Glad-well trusted her servants, but I couldn't. I'd have to remove Dugan to some other place. Escott would have to be told... or I could hypnotize him into forgetting. Not square, doing that to my best friend, and eventually it would wear off and he'd remember.

Or, knowing what I had planned, he'd help, become an accessory to first-degree murder.

We'd been through a lot together, and I could count on him, but he didn't need this kind of burden. Okay, maybe I could kill Dugan cold, not something to be proud of, but in the end too much of a problem to drop on my friends.

I eased back from the idea. Things would serve as they stood; no need for me to step in swinging, all fired with belated vengeance. We'd continue as before: let Dugan rot for a time, then turn him over to the law. It was slow, and justice was sometimes uncertain if not completely absent, but better that someone else handle the problem.

Besides, if Dugan's trial didn't go the way I thought it should, I could always step in and have a "talk" with the judge, attorneys, and the whole damned jury.

I cut the article out, shoved it in my pants pocket, and pretended to read.

Across the large room, Strome told the other men how he'd spent his day in Clarson's office, speaking soft to keep me out of it. He complained about the food, how he was treated, and I picked up plenty about him and how his mind worked.

There was no point reminding Strome that Coldfield's people had saved Gordy's life and were continuing to preserve it. Throwing it up in his face would not make our own uneasy collaboration any better, and he wasn't the type to learn new stuff, anyway. I'd make sure he wouldn't be going back to watch over Gordy.

His Bronze Belt surroundings were too distracting to him. He'd be paying more attention to himself than outside threats. Better for Gordy that Coldfield's people played bodyguard. They knew the territory, what was normal, what wasn't.

When talk shifted to the present situation, I sensed a few looks thrown my way. Their voices got softer, but my ears picked up every word. Strome and Lowrey didn't think I could pull off running things, but Derner had seen me in action and thought I had a chance.

"He does something to people," he said. "I donno what, but he talks and they listen. The boss calls him in whenever he needs a special job. One minute a guy's all piss and vinegar, the next he's on a train to Florida and happy about it."

"So?" said Strome. "Ain't gonna work with Bristow. We listened to him all this time, and what he goes after, he gets. Even the boss wasn't crossin' him. Night after night we was listening to that crap."

"The boss was learning stuff," Lowrey put in.

"Ain't that much to learn. Bristow's taking over."

"Fleming'll kill him first. He an' the boss owe each other. He's stand-up. He'll back Gordy all the way."

"Fleming don't have the authority to do any killin'. I don't see that kid having the guts, neither. It's just show with him, nothing underneath. We've seen a dozen punks just like him come to town, gas loud, and then they ain't around no more.

New York likes that loudmouth bastard Bristow. If anything happens to him, we all go, including Gordy."

"We go anyway if Bristow takes over," Lowery reminded him.

"You mean when. Gordy's not looking so good. Even if Fleming stops Bristow-which he won't-Gordy's dead meat.

I'm moving town. Plenty of places in Jersey or Florida to work."

"When you going?"

Strome seemed to consider. "We'll see how this punk handles a real piece of trouble, but I can promise you Bristow will bury him. When that happens, you better be packed and going through the door."

Gordy had some fine fellas working for him, but it was the nature of the business. When he was better, I'd let him know about Strome's flexible loyalty, though he was likely already aware of it.

"Strome! C'mere."

To give him credit, he didn't do a guilty start at my calling him over. He took his time, though.

I swiveled Gordy's chair to put my back to the other guys and gestured for Strome to pull another up close. "We gotta powwow about tonight," I said.

"Make some plans."

Strome got a chair and sat. I leaned forward. He mirrored me to a lesser extent, but we definitely had privacy. I could be confident that Derner and Lowrey wouldn't overhear.

"Yeah, what plans?" His talk with them must have been fortifying to his self-assurance; after all, I was just a kid full of my own piss and vinegar.

I took care of his objections to me in about a minute, though it made for a good sharp pain behind my eyes. When I was done, we stood and shook hands.

"Glad that's settled. Good luck."

His mouth twitched like it was trying to remember how to smile, and he left. No word of parting to his pals as he passed. I didn't do anything drastic, just told him to go home and sleep for a couple of days. By then things would be over, one way or another. By then Gordy would still be with us or not. I hated that latter possibility, but it had to be considered. One thing that would not happen was Bristow taking his place.

Derner stared after the departing Strome and muttered to Lowrey. "See? That Fleming guy does things to people."

As it ticked toward nine o'clock with no word from Bristow, I got antsy and phoned my club. Escott answered.

"Any sign of Brockhurst yet?" I asked.

"Not tonight. I think he took a powder."

What the hell? "Okay, you can lay off." Impersonating me once was funny, but not twice.

"Not my doing, bo. He's the no-show."

"Charles?"

"Yeah?"

"How's the dance act going over?"

"They're burning up the floor. That blond pippin's laying 'em flat. Wouldn't think the mugs would go for that snooty type, but they're eatin' it up. We're having grief from the damn lights, though. It's that short what needs fixing. You need to get here and do that."

Right. Well, he didn't have to hit me twice with a two-by-four. "I'll be over, but I can't leave just yet."

"Where are you?"

"Looking after Gordy. He's ready to chew nails over Bristow, but I talked him into keeping his head down a little longer." Escott knew as well as I that Gordy was still out. Now he'd also know that I'd caught his message.

"Maybe I should talk with him, too. Where's he parked?"

"Don't worry about it. You can see him tomorrow. He's in a bad mood."

"I can cheer him up," he pressed, still holding the American accent. Someone had to have a gun to his head. Certainly they were listening to everything.

"Look, I'm gonna wind some stuff up here and get to the club in... oh... about an hour. If Brockhurst comes in, tell him to wait. All I want is fifteen minutes with that jerk. Just fifteen nose-busting minutes."

"Yeah, but-"

"In an hour," I said, hanging up and bolting for the door.

I'd wanted to work in a stop at the Stockyards at some point tonight but had to nix that. Not that I was in dire need of blood; it was just to keep myself prepared in case things got rough. But events had bulled ahead and sideways of my feeble plans.

Risking notice from traffic cops and subsequent delays, I ran stop signals but got lucky, reaching Lady Crymsyn in twelve minutes flat. The only parking space was my reserved spot, and I wasn't using it in case someone was on watch. I drove around the block and backed my car into an alley, hoping the owners of the property didn't have any night deliveries scheduled.

The wind was still ugly but blowing in a favorable direction for me. It was strong at my back as I hurried along the nearly empty sidewalks. Cars growled past, snorting thick exhaust that the wind immediately shredded. I knew it wouldn't do that to me when the time came to go invisible, but it raised unpleasant mental pictures.

Before taking the last corner, I paused to check the front of my club. My office lights were on. One of the window curtains was held partially open; a man's form-not lean enough to be Escott-was silhouetted there, looking out. Very smart of them, but they didn't expect me for another forty-five minutes yet.

Peering narrow, I sighted a sharpshooter's bead on the entry, intending to bowl straight in. Not caring if anyone walking by noticed, I vanished and let the wind speed me along across the street until I washed up against the doors like ghostly flotsam. I hit so hard it nearly sent me solid, but the shock passed, allowing me to sieve under the cracks into the lobby.

Busy night. I sensed people milling about, couldn't tell how many. None saw me flowing across the lobby, though a few might have felt a passing chill. They'd blame it on drafts. I surged upstairs and down the hall, materializing in the room next to my office.

Dark and empty as I expected. The recording equipment was gone, only the tables, a couple chairs, and a phonograph on its stand remained. Excelsior scraps littered the floor, left over from packing the stuff off again. The wiring from the microphones was still in place but not hooked up to anything. I didn't need them, only had to press my ear to the adjoining wall.

I could hear just enough breathing to know more than one man was in the room. No one spoke. This was a rotten time for Bristow to play clam. I wasn't going to just walk in blind. Not in the strict sense. I wanted to know how many and where they were.

One way to find out. Damn.

To avoid the unpleasant sensation of pressing through the wall, I eased quiet into the hall and slipped beneath the office door, then had to try locating Escott among the several individuals here. Two were behind my desk, close together, another seated on the front corner of the desk near the door, one by the window, another on the sofa. They were too scattered for me to take on and be certain of no gunplay.

Guessing that the man in my desk chair was Escott, I moved in close to give him the shivers. He obligingly coughed and cleared his throat so I'd know his voice.

"What's with those lights?" someone demanded sharply.

"We got a short," said Escott. "I tol' ya. They flicker like that all the time."

"Goddamn it!" This was from Bristow. Unmistakable. He was on the couch.

"They're out again! Someone get a flashlight."

I took a hell of a chance with Escott's life, but he knew I was there and would duck quick enough. Materializing in the dark behind the guy nearest him, I plucked his gun away and slammed home a kidney punch, dropping the thug almost instantly. He'd been aiming at Escott. Now the gun was pointed at Bristow, who was on the sofa, glaring impotently around and grumbling in what for him was near pitch blackness.

When the lights abruptly came on again, the men honestly didn't notice me right away. The guy I'd clobbered and I both wore dark coats. I stood in his exact same place. It was the change of the gun's direction that got Bristow's exasperated attention.

"Hey! Why are y-"

Oh, my, but he had a beaut of an expression on his wide mug once the bad news settled in and took root. His mouth made like a fish's. His brain had called a sudden strike and wouldn't be working for an indefinite period.

The other men were even slower to react. The one sitting on the end of the desk happened to notice something was off with his boss and tardily turned to look. He twitched at seeing me but didn't dare go for his gun, which was holstered under his arm. The guy at the window had his back to the room. It must have been the abrupt silence that caused him to drop the curtain and turn. He blinked, squinting at me in disbelief. Most importantly, he didn't move.

"Hands up," I said. "Nobody get stupid. I just want to talk." When they looked like they'd behave, I motioned the two on their feet over toward the sofa. The one I'd hit was still down, gray of face and breathing funny. He'd probably be peeing blood for a couple days.

Escott had sensibly leaned over and to the left, ready to slip from the chair if necessity dictated. He gradually sat up, sighing with relief.

"That was a bloody long fifteen minutes," he said, annoyed. He must have been pretty shaken. Usually stuff like this put him in a good humor. At least his English accent was back.

"How much longer did you have to wait?" I asked.

"Until you finally telephoned? They invaded here around a quarter past eight.

The one chap had his gun against the back of my skull the whole time. They wouldn't let me phone out. They thought it would better lure you in unawares if you called first. I was to get you here or at least discover Gordy's location from you."

I was surprised they didn't try beating it out of him and said as much.

"Actually, they did indulge in a spot of uncivilized behavior, but nothing that would show. When you walked in, the plan was for you to see me here as usual, unmarked, then jump you. Fortunately, I persuaded them to my ignorance, that I was just a club manager not privy to my employer's secrets."

"He squealed like a pig," said Hog Bristow with satisfaction. "Told us everything."

Escott shook his head, not quite rolling his eyes. "One of my finest performances of utter capitulation, abject terror, and lying through my teeth. Quite wasted on this gathering. Shall I continue his porcine analogy by adding a remark about throwing pearls before swine, or would that be too trite?"

"It's just as well for you he fell for it."

"What's that supposed to mean?" demanded Bristow.

It was hard to believe this guy had any friends, much less people who thought him capable of taking over for Gordy. "It means you really are dumber than you look."

"Hey!"

"Shut up." I waved the gun, reminding him who was in charge. "Kroun in New York gave you my message, right?"

"Yeah. I got it. Why d'ya think we're here? You think I'd just walk into the Nightcrawler on your word? That you can keep me alive?"

"You're alive now, aren't you?"

"Enjoy it, you goddamn pink-eared mama's boy. When I'm done with you, they won't need a meat grinder to turn you into dog food."

"You still expect New York will protect you after trying to bump Gordy?

Forget that.'

Escott eased from the chair. He must have taken a few gut punches, for he moved carefully. Staying out of my line of fire, he disarmed everyone, taking his big Webley back from one of them. The lights flickered slightly but didn't go out.

The men looked up, uneasy.

"Goddamn short," Bristow muttered.

"Myrna," I said softly. "Her name is Myrna."

"Who the hell is Myrna?"

"Resident revenant and guardian angel." I addressed the air. "Thanks, doll.

You did good."

"Indeed. Extremely well done," agreed Escott, having apparently lost his nervousness about her. "You two gentlemen join your friend on the floor. Lie facedown and clasp your hands at the small of your back. A little more speed, if you please. I have a grudge against the Lot of you and shall shoot the slowest in a very undignified and disagreeable location. That's better. Now lie perfectly still."

They were lined up side by side, even the guy I'd hit. He was the only one who didn't seem to mind being motionless.

"You're gonna die buckwheats, you son of a bitch," Bristow growled at me from the couch.

"Beg pardon?" Escott kept his eyes on the three floor goons.

"Nothing to do with Our Gang," I said. "It's killing a guy slow and ugly as a lesson to others."

"Interesting nomenclature. One wonders at its origin. I hope you'll take steps to change his mind about such an alarming course of action."

"Oh, yeah." Damn, it was a relief to have him talking normal again. "Hey, Ignance."

You could almost see the steam coming out of Bristow's ears. "Why you-"

"Yeah-yeah, I know, buckwheats with a beer chaser. You have anything to drink tonight?"

"What's it to you?"

"You'll find out."

Just then the office door opened. Anthony Brockhurst stood on the threshold in a dapper camel-hair coat, silk scarf, and topper. Marie Kennard was with him, clutching at her high fur collar and looking sullen-angry. They saw Escott standing over the men on the floor and me with my gun aimed at Bristow. It must have been an impressive tableau.

Anthony's eyes popped, and he fell away half a step. "I-I can see you're busy.

I'll just come back later."

Keeping my aim steady, I gave Anthony a look. "Oh, no, get your ass in here.

You're late."

Marie let out a soft little moan of alarm and seemed about to bolt.

"You, too, sister. Inside."

Just the sight of the gun, though it was pointed elsewhere, put me in charge of them. They were almost too petrified to obey. Anthony gallantly stood in front of her.

"Let her go; you don't need her here," he declared, chin and voice high.

" Both inside. Now. Shut the door." They did exactly that. I made them stand well clear of Bristow and glanced at Escott. "What is this, bank night?"

"You didn't exactly plan it this way," he admitted.

And I couldn't deal with more than one at a time. I'd have to cut down the opposition odds.

Then Bristow, fast for his bulk, boosted from the couch and slammed one meaty arm into Escott like a club. Softened by his earlier pummeling, Escott grunted and staggered, tripping over one of the goons. He failed at catching his balance but kept a grip on his Webley when he fell.

Marie screamed and ducked; Brockhurst grabbed her out of the way, pushing her down, throwing himself on top, which was sensible. Hog Bristow had a gun in his other hand and used it.

The first shot was for me. I dove to one side, slamming smack into my chair. I heard him fire again as I pitched headfirst toward the floor. The flash of agony ripped through my chest for an awful instant until my body ceased to be solid.

Though quick enough to avoid a tangling crash, I'd still caught a bullet.

Bristow rumbled something indistinct, and Marie screamed again, a good, long, piercing one. I got moving.

"Shaddup!" Bristow ordered.

"Boss, let's go," said one of his boys urgently.

Marie shrieked.

I materialized behind Bristow, grabbing his gun hand, twisting it down, not being careful about my strength. He cursed in pain and plugged a hole in the floor before I wrenched the weapon away from him. I hoped to God the bullet didn't crash through to the lobby below.

We danced around. I glimpsed Escott huddled to one side. Couldn't tell how badly he'd been damaged. Enough not to participate. Someone hauled sharp at my arm, and Bristow broke free and turned.

"Get him!" he bellowed.

Two of Bristow's men had recovered their feet and their guns. They leveled the latter at me.

Oh, shit.

The lights winked out. Now we were all invisible. At least until my eyes adjusted. I stopped being there. Fast.

Gunshots. Cluster of them. Impossible to tell how many. Surging toward the shooters, I tried to get behind them, but they were on the move.

"C'mon, boss!" one of them yelled.

"You kill that punk?"

"Out, boss! Now!"

They audibly bolted. I went solid again, kneeling by Escott. It was dim, but I could distinguish outlines and movement. "You hit?"

"No," he gasped. "Ribs." Bristow must have had an arm like a baseball bat.

"He's dead," said Marie Kennard, in a thin, funny voice. For a second I thought she'd misjudged Escott's condition until realizing she meant Brockhurst.

She tried crawling out from under him. He wasn't moving.

I hurried over and pulled him off her. His head lolled as I checked for bullet holes. No bloodsmell, though. Marie scooted back against the wall, tucking her legs up close, a hand to her mouth.

"You killed him," she whispered.

But I heard a strong heartbeat. "Easy, sister. He's just fainted."

"Wh-what?"

"Fainted," I said more loudly. "Charles..."

He'd begun to sit up. "I'll watch these two. Go after the-"

I whipped out the door. In the lobby another woman cut loose with a scream.

Bristow shouted. They should have left by now. Must have been hampered by the mug I'd punched.

Quick down the stairs, but I missed the gang's exit out the front and probably just as well; they'd have fired at me again. Disaster in this crowd, in this dark.

Myrna had done her specialty number over the whole joint, God bless her.

Wilton had a flashlight and shone it around; people drifted toward him like moths. Focused on it, they missed my ghostlike passage tearing through the door.

Cold wind thrashed at me as I re-formed under the entry canopy.

Bristow and his mob pelted toward a big car parked across the street, nearly getting run down by a panel truck. He waved his gun at the heedless driver, who blared his horn, brakes squealing. Two of the bodyguards half-carried their boss and their faltering companion clear just in time.

I started forward, then had to pause or get hit myself. By the time I made it halfway across, the truck was gone and they'd loaded into the car. Bristow had the wheel.

He'd just got the engine started as I grabbed the door handle. He looked up, jaw falling as he recognized me, rage and disbelief in a dead heat on his face. I yanked the door open. Too hard. The hinges cracked and the thing came away in my hand.

Bristow glared at the impossibility. "Son of a bitch!"

Shot.

Goddammit-the thug next to him caught me in the same damned spot. I staggered away, dropping the door. The world faded. Another shot, but I was gone. The car motor roared, gears protested. I sluggishly moved toward the noise, trying to find the gaping opening where the door had been, but slammed against the metal side of the car instead. It was moving, tires screaming against the road.

Solid. Just long enough to get a bead.

Not solid. Hurtling after them, speeding low and fast, fighting the tumbling wind in the wake of their passage. I thought I felt the heat belching from the exhaust pipe; I was certain I felt the back bumper jouncing just ahead and streamed forward, reaching for it, searching out the trunk.

Something carried it abruptly away from my sense. He must have cut a turn.

Sharp screech, skidding. I guessed a hard right, tried to follow, but trying to fix on anything, especially a fast-moving anything was damn near impossible. The hulking car was elsewhere. I'd have to go semitransparent.

And it cost time. Too much. When I materialized enough to see them, they were too far distant for me to catch up.

Fully re-forming, I tried to get a plate number. Couldn't.

They wouldn't be too hard to trace. There weren't a whole hell of a lot of cars running around Chicago with the driver's door gone.

They shrank in the distance and turned again. Out of sight. They'd be back for more, though, after a little regrouping.

I walked back to Crymsyn, overcoat collar turned up against the wind, pissed and wanting to punch things. Most of it wore off by the time I'd covered the blocks back. It surprised me how far we'd gone in what seemed such a brief time.

Very tiring it was, too. I was healed but drained. Passing under a streetlight, I found the only visible damage was to my clothes. Holes there, some bloodstains.

Alarming to the uninitiated. Anger-making for me. I'd paid hard-earned bucks for this overcoat. Maybe a reweaving job... if only that was my biggest problem.

Damnation to Bristow. I'd have to find him quick. There was no doubt in my mind he would try to make good on his buckwheats promise. He might arrange the same for Escott just for the hell of it. I'd have to go back to the Nightcrawler and think up a brilliant song and dance for Kroun, start things over again, and try clearing this mess before it got worse.

Someone had apparently noticed the discarded car door lying in the street and thoughtfully moved it. Now it was propped against a shop building, left in plain view should the rest of the vehicle's owner return to claim it.

But I couldn't expect Bristow to oblige.

Lady Crymsyn's lights were back on again. Heartening sight: business almost as usual, no cops or sirens. Maybe the customers startled by Bristow's exit had chosen to leave rather than make a scene. I'd ask Wilton later. Not wanting to deal with comment from the staff, I ghosted in and didn't go solid until making the upstairs landing.

I pushed the office door open. Escott had kept the party going. Brockhurst, recovered from his ignominious faint, was huddled on the couch with Marie. He tried to stand up and face me, but she dragged at him.

"No, Anthony! Please!" she pleaded.

He was white around the gills, so he let himself be persuaded. Good. I was tempted to sock him one. He didn't deserve it, but he was handy, and life ain't fair.

Escott was just to my left, standing-sitting, rather, since he'd pulled my desk chair over-guard. He had his big Webley ready, which was enough gun to scare anyone sensible. It worked great on our guests, though he didn't have it aimed directly at either of them. Neither seemed to notice.

"Hallo," he said, giving me a once-over. He raised an eyebrow. "Been to the wars, have you?"

"Just the one and not for long."

"Long enough. You are in a state."

The holes and bloodstains looked worse in full light. The big one with the singe marks was right in front. A second hole with less blood was inches from it and slightly lower. Bristow and his pals had done some damn fine shooting. Lucky me.

Our guests goggled at the destruction.

"Are you all right?" Brockhurst ventured.

"Just peachy."

"That blood... you're hurt?"

"Yeah, in fact, they killed me. At least twice."

He put on an affronted face. Marie seemed ready to slug me. Good. They were busy being mad, which was better than thinking about the craziness in front of them. I peeled out of the damaged overcoat and left it on the desk, not without some regret. Maybe the laundry had delivered more fresh shirts earlier today, and-

"What happened?" asked Escott.

I gave a longing look at the open liquor cabinet and wished I could still have a shot of booze. From the glasses that had been used, all three of them had indulged.

"Jack?"

"Yeah. Bristow got away. I ain't betting money he won't come back. He'll be loaded for bear. Elephant, maybe. A whole damn herd."

"Perhaps we should remove from this place."

"You for certain. Disappear yourself to a hotel for tonight."

"At the first opportunity."

"Or better, go over to Vivian's."

He considered that one for a whole two seconds. "Normally I would not impose, but in this case I'm sure she won't mind."

"What is going on?" Marie demanded, her voice cracking. "Who were those men? Let us go!"

"When I'm ready," I said. I went to the cabinet, poured doubles into three fresh glasses and shared them around. Since I couldn't have a drink, I'd get my comfort vicariously. No one protested or turned down the offered hospitality, especially Brockhurst, who downed his in one practiced gulp.

Escott had a pointed look for me, and I understood him. If hypnosis became necessary later, I was shooting myself in the foot giving these two booze now.

"You okay?" I asked him.

"I should like a gallon of liniment, a few aspirin, and some sleep."

"How much damage did they do?'

"No broken ribs, though the one I cracked before is pro-testing the maltreatment. Much of the rest of my person has been thoroughly tenderized."

I wanted to ask if he could have talked his way out of being hurt altogether but figured Bristow would have had his boys roughhousing him just for the hell of it.

They'd get their payback, but I should have anticipated something like this. All my smart-ass talk to Kroun was supposed to make me Bristow's new target, not anyone else.

Escott must have read my face. "Really, Jack, this was not your fault. Had I too quickly given in and told them what I wanted them to know, they'd never have believed it. As I'm sure you've noticed, Bristow has all the intelligence of a box of bricks. I discerned that he draws conclusions from a person's emotional reactions, not from what is actually said. That's how he understood we were insulting him without his having the least idea what the insult was about. Abstractions make less sense to him than hieroglyphs do to us. We see the pictures and know they mean something. He sees only a wall."

"Where'd all that come from?" This was new stuff from him.

He sketched a brief smile. "Vivian and I had a fascinating conversation about the workings and processes of human thought. Perception is a very subjective experience. She's interested in understanding how her daughter's mind works, the better to help the girl-"

"Oh, God" said Marie Kennard. She seemed less angry and frightened now, shifting toward impatience.

"It's all right," said Anthony, misinterpreting. "I won't let them hurt you." He took her hand.

"No wonder Gilbert got on so well with him, they talk exactly alike."

Escott looked insulted. "Young lady, I am not a compulsive liar."

"Let's not get into that," I said. "Brockhurst, did you bring the letters?"

His expression wavered an instant, a dredged-up reaction from the instructions I'd given him last night. "I have them here." He patted his inside pocket.

"Hand them over."

He did so. I put them on my perforated coat. They made quite a stack. Like the others I collected from Dugan, these were addressed to people of such influence and position as to make life miserable for my friends.

"That's all of them? You're sure?" I dipped back toward head pain again, to be certain he told the truth, and it got a little way past his drink.

"All of them," he whispered.

"Why are you helping them?" Marie asked him.

He blinked, coming out of it, unaware he'd even been in. "I have to. It will help Gilbert." His voice, but my words from last night.

"How? You said that before. How will this help him?"

"I can't explain yet, but I will later."

"It is later." She glared at me. "You got what you want, now let us go."

I wasn't holding the gun on them, but couldn't fault her assumption that they were prisoners. "Was it your idea to come up here with him?" I hadn't allowed for the possibility that any of his friends would tag along.

"Yes. I want to know why he's doing this, giving these to you. We can always write more."

"I know, but you won't. Where are the others in your band of merry makers?

They downstairs?"

She didn't answer.

"Brockhurst?"

"They're not here," he said. Truthfully.

"That's good. We've got enough guests at this party."

"Let us go," she repeated.

"In a minute. I want to talk to you about your friend Gilbert and that ten grand he says we want." I jerked my head Escott's way to include him.

"What about it?"

"Deal's off. We don't want your money. In fact, we never wanted it. That was all Gilbert's idea. He was trying to shake you."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Last night? In the car? Anthony drove you away from the club. During the ride, Gilbert told you all about how he bought us off the kidnapping case with the threat of these letters and a bribe to sweeten things. He said Escott was the brains, and I was the crazy-mad muscle that roughed him up some."

She stared. "How do you know that? Anthony, did you tell him?"

"Yeah-yeah, he told me all about it. Well, sister, you need to hear the truth about poor, abused, misunderstood Gilbert."

"I don't know what you're-"

"Charles, are those records still in the safe?"

He nodded. "Miss Smythe wasn't up to dealing with the copying business today. However, I did transcribe the rest of it this afternoon. Only in shorthand, though."

"That's fine. Keep these birds here a second." I went to the next room, bringing back the phonograph, setting it on the desk, and plugging it in. Then I unlocked the false drawer front, spun the combination, and took out the flat box inside.

The top record had no label last night, but now sported a title, H. G. Dugan-

Part One, and date, neatly printed on a small square of paper that was cellophane-taped near the center of the disk.

I tilted the record so Marie and Anthony could read it.

"What's that?" she asked, suspicious.

Escott answered. "When your friend Gilbert made his visitation here, presumably to come to an advantageous arrangement with us concerning the kidnapping, he was unaware we were recording him. I think you'll find his candor with Mr. Fleming to be remarkably enlightening."

"Lemme set the scene," I said, fitting the record onto the spindle. "When I came into this office yesterday for our meeting-that's me and Gilbert, not Escott and Gilbert like you were told-I found your smiling sweetheart trying to pick the lock on my desk. He's a bad kid. Too much time on his hands."

"Impossible," she said.

"Possible, and true. He had a set of professional lockpicks he must have gotten from those three criminal types he had helping him with the kidna-"

"They intimidated him into working for them! If he'd not done as he was told, they would have killed him."

"Honey, did you ever once ask yourself why a gang of toughs like that would think an upper-crust, high-hatting, fancy-pants double-talker like Dugan could ever be a help to them on a kidnap job?"

"He knew the family, had access to the house-"

"And in the entire two weeks of the kidnapping, and the time before that, did Gilbert show the least sign that he was under pressure or preoccupied by anything threatening?"

"They told him if he said anything, he would die."

"Gosh, and a brainy guy like him couldn't think of a way around that? But let's put it aside for the moment. Back to me coming in here and finding him impersonating Raffles on a bad night. I will admit to a certain amount of annoyance about it and threw him around. Anyone would. I also tried to persuade him to sense, which we need not go into; suffice to say it did not work. After that, things got really interesting, bang, crash, boom, because I was frustrated and Dugan, being the source, made him the logical target for my ire. I will point out to you that Mr. Escort was not in the room, and in fact never spoke to or saw Gilbert at all that night. So the stuff you heard in the car from dear Gilbert dealing with and finally bribing my partner here was just so much horse hockey."

She shook her head. "No, you're lying."

"Lady, I don't have to, but Gilbert does, enough for ten politicians. Just listen to what's here, and if there's anything on this that makes me a liar about him, I'll give you ten grand."

Record spinning, I put the needle in the groove and let Dugan damn himself.