NOT MUCH OF the night was left. If I rushed it I could pull out and find another place to stay before the sun caught me. Instead I walked home, dumped the bags of earth back in the trunk, and got undressed. My instincts about people were fairly sharp by now, and I had a good feeling about the man. The question of whether or not to trust him had only been briefly considered. With something close to fear I realized I was alone, I needed a friend badly.

There was no hunger the next night, so I could skip visiting the Stockyards and go straight to Escott's office. The afterglow of the sunset made my eyes burn, though, and I made a mental note to acquire a pair of dark glasses at the first opportunity.

It was only eight. A fair amount of traffic still cluttered the street and my mind was on sunglasses, so I almost didn't notice the dark green Ford parked in front of Escott's stairway until too late. I approached the stair opening and at the last moment continued past without breaking stride. Two men were at the top, just emerging from Escott's door.

I raced around the block to get a good look at them from behind. Peering around the last corner, I was in time to see them stowing a long, heavy bundle of carpeting into the trunk of the Ford. They were red and puffing; their burden seemed overly heavy for its size. The trunk lid slammed down and they dusted their hands off. The one on the left had a bandaged right forefinger. It was Fred Sanderson.

Their backs to me, they opened the doors and got in. Before those doors shut I was making a beeline for the trunk, crouching low. There was no time to try opening it. The engine was kicking over, giving me a face full of exhaust. Not having any better ideas, I vanished and seeped through the crack between the lid and the car's body before they pulled out. I cautiously resumed form again, making sure there was enough room to do so.

I was on my side, crammed uncomfortably against the rug which smelled of dust, grease, and other less pleasant things. It was difficult to hear well over the rumble of the car, but I was sure I detected muted breathing beneath the layers of nap. Reasonably certain it was Escott, I hoped we'd stop soon before he smothered. Under the present circumstances it was impossible to unwrap him.

After the first few minutes of the ride I lost all sense of direction and had to fight off motion sickness. We crossed water, and soon the sound of the wheels on the road steadied. There were no more stops and turns, and the speed was steady, so I gathered we were on a highway.

This was worrying; if the ride were too long, I'd be stuck somewhere without my earth, but long before this could become a problem the car slowed and made a sharp right turn onto a very bumpy dirt road. We slid to a stop and the motor was cut.

I pressed an ear to the bundle and was reassured by the sound of working lungs, though I didn't think their owner was conscious yet. Outside, crickets and other small creatures made their little noises. Awkwardly close at hand, the two men lurched out of the car. Not wanting to be discovered in such a tactically poor position, I floated from the trunk and reformed where I hoped I wouldn't be seen.

Trees were all around, but too sparse to offer adequate cover. When I turned to face the car I thought the game was up, Sanderson was looking right at me, then his eyes skipped blindly past. He didn't have my night vision. His friend even gave him a flashlight to facilitate their work.

They opened the trunk and with a none-too-gentle wrench, hauled the bundle out, and dropped it on the ground. From their movements, I'd have to interfere soon, but dark or no dark, I didn't want to risk being recognized by Sanderson. I tied a handkerchief cowboy-fashion over my lower face, feeling foolish about the melodramatics, then turned up my coat collar and pulled down my hat.

The men were professionally matter-of-fact about their task. They yanked one end of the rug up and Escott's unconscious body rolled out onto the leaves and dirt.

"You want to do it here?" the other, younger man asked Sanderson.

'Nan, we might get blood all over us takin' him to the river."

"We could carry him in the rug."

"Georgie," came the patient reply, "we would then have to throw it in with him. The boss don't like wasting a good gimmick, he'll want to use the rug again someday, and then where would we be? Come on and get the legs."

They grunted and lifted their burden. Before they'd gotten ten feet, I darted in and punched Sanderson for all I was worth. I felt and heard bones give under my fist. The big man's head snapped back, and he shot straight away from me and smashed against a tree.

His partner had little time to react, but he was fast. He dropped Escott's legs and clawing for his gun when I knocked the wind out of him with a gut punch. He doubled over with a whoosh and was made unconscious by a more restrained tap on the head.

I tore my mask away and knelt by Escott, checking him over. There was a swelling behind his left ear and a little blood from a cut lip, but he seemed otherwise uninjured. On a hunch, I searched Georgie and found a whiskey flask. I sniffed to make sure it was drinkable and dribbled a little into Escott's sagging mouth. I was surprised at my own enormous relief when he coughed violently and opened his eyes. He was understandably dazed; it took a few more minutes and another swallow before he was up to asking questions.

"Dear me, how ever did we get out here?"

"By way of the Fred Sanderson taxi service."

"They caught me like a bloody amateur," he complained, painfully probing his lump. "Did they get you, too?"

"Hardly. I hitched a ride when I saw them load you into the car. Neither of them looked like carpet layers." I indicated the discarded rug.

Escott was unsteady, but made a game effort to get to his feet. I helped him. "I am very much in your debt, Mr. Fleming. I hope that I may somehow--"

"Don't worry about it," I interrupted. "You could have aced me with a hammer and stake anytime today, but you didn't. We're even."

"But, my dear fellow, such an action never occurred to me." Escott was truly shocked.

"But I thought of it. The way I am now I gotta be careful who I trust, but I know you're gonna be square with me. Now before we get all maudlin, let's pack these two mugs in the car and get back home."

I left the flashlight with Escott and got busy manhandling Georgie into the backseat. Having had some practice at it, I removed his tie and secured his hands together behind him, then went back for Sanderson.

Neither of us had to venture very close to know something was seriously wrong. Sanderson's utterly loose posture was enough to alert Escott, who gingerly felt for a pulse. I already knew that to be a futile effort.

Escott turned the body face up into the light and his breath hissed sharply. I looked quickly away, sickened by what I'd done.

Twenty minutes later we were almost back in Chicago. Sanderson's body was in the trunk, wrapped in the rug. Occasionally Escott would check the backseat to make sure the now-blindfolded Georgie was quiet. I'd been silent, driving carefully to avoid the unwelcome attention of any cop with a quota to fill.

"You've got to understand," I finally said, "this is scaring the hell out of me."

"I do understand. A healthy dose of fear will certainly temper your actions from now on."

"That's not it. I'm afraid of what I've become. What I did back there--I knew what would happen if I hit him like that, and I did it anyway."

"Good."

I glanced at him, surprised. His face showed a dour expression that must have matched my own. "Good?"

"Mm. Do you honestly think I harbor any regret or pity for a man who would have been the agent of my death and was by your own guess responsible for yours? Your feeling of guilt is misplaced. Were our positions reversed I should give no more thought to the matter than a soldier does when he must shoot at the enemy."

Half a lifetime ago I had shot at the enemy. I hadn't liked it then, either.

"He would have met his death sooner or later, for such was his life, and then at the hands of someone with far less conscience. If it is any comfort to you, I'm sure he never knew what hit him."

" What is the magic word. What have I become? I'm no longer human."

"That is utter nonsense and for your own good I suggest you put it from your head as quickly as possible. Do you in all truth really believe the biological changes within you have stripped you of humanity? You still possess your mortal clay, you still have emotional needs. I think you are giving far too much credence to a fictional character created out of the imagination of an actor's manager."

I gave him a sharp look.

"No, I'm no mind reader, but I can follow your line of reasoning. The character Dracula was a monster. He was also a vampire. You are now a vampire, ergo, you are a monster."

"What makes you think I'm not? Maybe I should pull over and strangle the kid in the back."

"If you feel it's necessary, but you won't."

He was right, it'd been a stupid thing to say and said in anger.

"You're feeling guilty, hence this black reaction. Feel guilty if you must, but leave self-pity out of it, for it is the most destructive of all emotions."

"What makes you so smart?"

"I read a lot." He bowed his head in weariness, looking green at the edges.

"You still want to go on after this?" I said, meaning the investigation.

"Oh, yes, but not just this moment."

I heard something in the back and checked our prisoner from the mirror.

"He's waking up," I whispered.

Escott nodded, tapping his lips with a finger. We kept silent for the rest of the trip while Georgie played possum in the backseat.

Following gestured directions, I negotiated the streets and pulled into a no-parking zone. We rubbed the interior down for fingerprints, got out, and Escott lifted the hood. He fiddled briefly with something as I kept a nervous lookout. We both jumped as the street was filled with the earsplitting blare of the car's horn. Escott dropped the hood, swiped at it with his handkerchief, then grabbed my arm, and we hustled out of sight around a corner.

"What was that for?" I asked as we left the area.

"There's a police station not a hundred feet from the car. Once that horn gets their attention they can take Georgie in at least for disturbing the peace. After they find Sanderson they can become more creative in their charges."

"Why didn't you want to question Georgie about this?"

"He wouldn't have known anything useful. I'm already certain Paco ordered my untimely demise because I was clumsy somewhere in my investigations. I did quite a lot of poking around today and he must have got the wind up, and can only expect more of the same until one or the other of us has been eliminated."

"You're pretty cool about it."

"Only because my head hurts too much at the moment for me to be overly concerned about the future."

"You can't go back to your office, they might be watching."

"I have other places to uh lay low for the time being. However, I do have to return to my office to fetch some paperwork; it's too important to leave. I'd be most obliged if you accompanied me. I don't feel well at all."

"Be glad to, but what if some of Pace's men are there?"

"I'm inclined to think only Sanderson and Georgie were involved with this job, but we won't know until we get there, which we won't do unless we find a cab."

Taking the hint, I left Escott resting on a bench outside a barbershop and went looking, turned up a cab near a hotel, and returned to pick him up. He gave directions and paid the driver off some two blocks away from our goal. We walked the rest of the way, eyes peeled, and turned onto the street that ran behind his office. He approached the door of a modest tobacco shop, produced a key, and went in, motioning me to follow. It was full of crowded shelves and fragrant smells, the second floor was devoted to storage and full of dusty crates. Escott pulled one away from the back wall and made something go click. A three-foot-tall section fined between the wall studs popped open like a door. Two inches beyond this opening was another apparent wall. He put his ear to it and listened.

I made a reassuring gesture, then realized he couldn't see it, for we were in almost total darkness. "There's no one on the other side or I'd hear them," I murmured.

"Oh," he said. He pushed on the wall, opening another narrow door, and eased himself through. I followed. We were standing in a small washroom, but only for a moment. Escott went on to the room beyond.

I correctly guessed it to be Escott's living quarters behind the office.

Except for a radio acting as a nightstand next to an army cot and the window blinds, the place was depressingly bare; even a hotel room had more personality. I found myself fidgeting as Escott moved smoothly around in the semidarkness. He'd pulled a suitcase from under the cot, opened a tiny closet, and was busily packing.

"You dropped a sock," I observed.

"On purpose. Should they send anyone here later I want them to draw the conclusion that I've departed in a great hurry, which is what I am no doubt doing. Besides, it was developing a hole."

He went to the office. His desk had been searched. He paused and grimaced at the mess, then stopped and grabbed up some scattered papers.

"I'll have to sort this lot out later," he muttered. The crossbow was still on the desk; he picked it up and took it back to the bedroom. I wondered what his attackers had thought of it.

"This will hardly fit in my bag, I'll have to leave it in the tobacco shop for the time being. It is a bit too conspicuous to carry right now."

"How did you happen to have it in the first place?"

"It's a working prop left over from my acting days. I made it for a small part I had in the Scottish Play."

"The what?"

"Macbeth," he said sotto voce. "As a weapon these days it's a little bulky, but it is powerful, lethal, and silent. I have smaller ones, but thought you might be more impressed with something large."

"You thought right."

"Then you're certain wood can harm you?"

"The lady I knew in New York mentioned it."

"Ah." Escott returned to the washroom and shoved the suitcase through the doors, along with the crossbow. He paused at the medicine cabinet, dropped some shaving items into his pockets, and then, to my puzzlement, tugged at the frame of the cabinet itself. It swung out, revealing a flat metal box standing on edge in the space behind. He opened it, making sure the papers inside were still intact before taking them away.

"Who did your carpentry?"

"Oh, I did it all myself," he said with some pride. "I love this sort of thing, don't you?"

As Escott locked the tobacco shop door, I asked, "Do you own this place?"

"Half of it. The other owner actually runs it. I help him financially through these hard times and he helps me by maintaining a good hiding place and, if necessary, escape route with twenty-four-hour access and egress."

"Are you rich?"

"Sometimes." He swayed a little. "Sorry, that bash on the head is making itself felt."

"Lemme take your bag."

"Only if you insist."

"Where to now?"

"I'm not sure. Not knowing just where I slipped up on my investigations, I can't be certain which of my other places would be safe."

"Then stay away from them and get a hotel."

"Mr. Fleming, I don't think you have grasped the tremendous influence the gangs have on this city. If I show my face at the wrong hostel I am very likely to get it blown off, putting to naught your efforts tonight on my behalf. Within hours, if not already, Paco and his men are going to know of my miraculous escape and be looking for me. It's very bad for their image when someone thwarts them, you see."

"Then you'll leave town?"

"I'm not sure." Beads of sweat had popped out on his forehead and his face was gray. He was having some kind of delayed reaction. I caught his arm to support him.

"Hey, you're really sick. Come on, we'll sneak you up the backstairs of my hotel, you can flop there."

"But I really shouldn't--"

"You can't think in the shape you're in now. You'll be safe enough there under my name."

He protested mildly once more, but now and then everybody needs a keeper. I appointed myself his and dragged him off.

Once back at the hotel, Escott collapsed with a groan on the bed while I ordered up some ice and poured out a double from Georgie's permanently borrowed flask. With the whiskey on the inside and the ice on the bump outside, he went into an exhausted but healing sleep. I was stuck with the whole rest of the night and wondering what to do with it when someone knocked at the door. It was the bellhop returning with my change and receipts.

"You wasn't here when I came on, or I'da brought 'em sooner."

"That's all right, I was busy. You got them all?"

He held up a few pounds of newsprint. "Sure do."

I tipped him and told him I'd want copies of each paper every night and to put it on my bill. He grinned, knowing I'd have to tip him each time he brought them up. I winked back and took the papers inside.

I spent the rest of the evening reading. My notice appeared in the personal columns of them all and by some miracle the wording and spelling was correct.

DEAREST MAUREEN, ARE YOU SAFE YET? JACK It was the same notice I'd been putting in the papers without a break for the last five years. If she were alive, if she only glanced once at it, she would let me know. After all this time I'd little hope left.

Checking the papers for a reply each day and getting none had eroded most of it away. I fended off the inevitable depression of disappointment by sifting through the rest of the pages.

The war in Spain was heating up, FDR was confident the economic crisis was over, and there was an encouraging rumor on the fashion pages that hemlines were going up. The shoe ads reminded me it was high time I did something about my footwear, so I squeaked downstairs to look for my friend the bellhop. I gave him a picture of what I wanted with my size scribbled next to it, five bucks, and a silent blessing for not asking questions.

It was a longer night than usual, with nothing to do but listen to Escott sleep. The papers filled the time up, though, and I kept my eyes and brain focused on them or else I'd be seeing Sanderson's mangled face instead. Before turning in I wrote a note for Escott, telling him he was welcome to stay as long as he wanted and to put any meals on my tab. I opened the window wide, turned on the fan, and took to my trunk for the day.

He was gone when I woke up, but there was a note on the radio stating his intention to return after dark. I was uneasy but let it go and went through my nightly ablutions, dressed, and strolled downstairs to buy something to read. The bellhop had my shoes, and I let him keep the change for his tip. He was making a fortune off his oddball guest, but I didn't mind; he was honest, incurious, and the shoes more or less fit.

We got on so well he loaned me his own copy of Shadow Magazine. When Escott let himself in later, he found me comfortably engrossed in something called "Terror Island."

"An intriguing title," he observed. "Here, I borrowed your key."

"Anytime, I've got other ways of getting in." I marked my place and put the magazine to one side. He cocked an amused eye at it. "I know the writer; I like to keep up with his work," I said, trying not to sound defensive.

"I have serious doubts that anyone can, he turns them out at an astonishing rate."

"Well, they usually have more than one guy working on the stuff."

"Not for this one so far. Certain elements of his style have been constant."

"You don't seem the type to go for stuff like this."

"You are the first person who ever thought so."

"I take it you're feeling better?"

"Apart from the slight headache and some bruising, I am quite myself again, thank you."

"What were you doing out in broad daylight?"

"I was safe enough after I retraced my steps by making a few calls on the phone downstairs--"

"Have a seat"--I dragged a pile of newsprint from the chair-- "and tell me all."

"Thank you, I will. Yesterday I paid a visit to International Freshwater Transport and while enquiring about their rates, took a good look around, especially at the faces of their help. At least three of them had no obvious duties other than to watch me, and the names of the daily work schedule were suspiciously neutral."

"Neutral?"

"John Smith, John Jones, John--"

"I get it, go on."

"As I was leaving the warehouse, I spotted Sanderson. With your description of him in mind and the fact that his index finger was still well bandaged, he was impossible to miss. He looked twice at me as well, perhaps for a moment he thought I was you. I left and then spent time researching the business. Several hours and false trails later, I determined that Frank Paco does own the business, but is overly modest about it. IFT is not a growing concern, they seem to make only enough to keep their heads above water--excuse the pun--but not much more. They also do not appear too interested in improving things, either. They were not at all anxious to do business with me, and the rates they quoted were discouragingly high."

"So you think they have only a few select customers?"

"Yes, and to me that indicates smuggling."

"What kind?"

"Almost anything: stolen goods, drugs, people wanting in or out of the country Such business can be most profitable if properly organized.

Perhaps if we returned to their warehouse and opened a few crates we could discover the source of their profits."

"I'd be happy to try again."

"Anyway, after all these labors I was quite starved and stopped in at a little cafe I like, and there made my downfall. It was pure carelessness on my part; that and the fact that Mr. Sanderson was a man very skilled at following people. His young partner Georgie was with him and sat nearby nursing some coffee, while the more noticeable Sanderson remained discreetly in his car. Georgie heard me order my meal sans the American accent I'd used at IFT. He must have mentioned it to Sanderson, then they followed me to my office."

"How did you find this out?"

He coughed slightly. "One of the waitresses there is somewhat fond of me, I can't imagine why, and she happened to notice their car tagging behind me when I drove off, and didn't like the looks of it. From there I can deduce their later movements. Having found my office, Sanderson probably called his boss to inform him of my suspicious activities at the warehouse. Paco is not known for his tolerant attitude toward the curious, so he sent them after me. I think it was Georgie who did the actual violence to my person. His shoes were rubber soled."

"How could he sneak up behind you in that small area?"

"Sanderson was using his car for a distraction. He was racing the motor with the bonnet up as though there were some problem with it. When I went to the window to see what the noise was about, Georgie coshed me.

They went through my desk, as you saw, and fortunately for me, waited for darkness before taking me downstairs in the rug. You know the rest."

"Except what you did today."

"With that out of the way I went home for a change of clothes and to make more calls. Georgie is still in jail and his friend Paco has never heard of him. I've also found out Paco is no longer actively seeking me."

"Why not?"

"That is a good question. Perhaps he's under someone else's orders or something else has him busy."

"Who or what?"

He shrugged. "It or they have my gratitude in the meantime. I think I may have turned up an interesting possibility for you. If you've nothing better to do we can look into it more closely tonight."

"Are you kidding? I'll get my hat."

We went down and got into a black Nash that had been a luxury model a few years ago. The outside had some dimples in the metal running in an almost straight line from front to back, but the finish had been well polished and the interior was as clean and blank as his office.

"What are those marks? They look like bullet holes."

"They're bullet holes. I had them repaired, as they ruined the paint job."

"Bullet holes?"

"Bullet dents, actually."

"How'd they get there?"

"I understand someone took a few shots at the previous owner with a machine gun." He busied himself starting the motor.

On the front seat between us was a hat, a brown derby with a red satin band. On one side of the band was a miniature stickpin in the shape of a diamond-trimmed horseshoe. He took his own hat off and put this one on.

He was wearing dark gray so it figured he had some good reason to look so mismatched. He saw the question forming on my face and smiled.

"It's our passport," he explained, which explained nothing. He liked his mystery game, so I let him enjoy it. He was working on my case and whatever he wanted was fine with me.

We drove to an area he said was called the Bronze Belt, which was Chicago's version of Harlem. Once there, he cruised the streets slowly, scanning them for something or someone. I asked him which.

"Oh, definitely a person. One has only to make the right contact and one is in."

I nearly asked in what, but that would have been too obvious, and I'd been thinking of something else, anyway. "Have you turned up anything on this Benny Galligar?"

"From my local sources I learned he is considered to be only 'small time,' though he specializes in safe-cracking and lately some bodyguard work. No one has seen him for a week or more, but I have several inquiries going. He should turn up soon."

"Hope so, I'd like to know why he called me, if he did call me."

"He is originally from New York. The logical inference is that he knows you from there. If you can recall anyone with that name--"

"He'll be changing his name like other people change socks. I did know one or two Bennys, though. In New York you practically trip over them; maybe if and when I see him--"

"He was described as a small man, graying hair, lined and lived-in face, forty to forty-five, nervous manner, sometimes affects an Irish accent when he's in the mood--"

That rang a bell. "Wait, Benny O'Hara, sometimes he'd sell me a tip, you know, where to go to see something interesting."

"For a story?"

"That's how it usually worked. I knew him as Benny O'Hara. How could he have known I was in town?"

"Perhaps he was staying at your hotel. I'll check on it. I've been there once, the night clerk remembers your last visit quite clearly, perhaps I can persuade him to go back a little further in his memory."

"Yeah, between him and the day clerk there must be something useful."

"Be assured, I shall try."

We paused for a red light and a skinny brown kid suddenly poked his face into my window.

"I thought this buggy looked familiar," he said, grinning at us. "You up here lookin' for a shine, Mr. Escott?"

"Hello, Cal. Actually I'm looking for a shoe. How are you?"

"Same old stuff, a day late an' a dollar short."

"I cannot overcome your time difficulties, but I can possibly aid your monetary problems." He passed a dollar over to Cal, who made it disappear.

"You're a real friend. Next time you need a shine, you look me up, it's on the house."

"Where will you be?"

"I could be anyplace, but if you go down three blocks and turn right one, the gents on the corner can tell you proper. You just say I sent you." He flashed his teeth, pushed away from the car, and went off with a quick, pavement-eating stride. The light changed and Escott followed the directions, easing the big car into an empty space on the curb and letting it idle.

A group of dark men were standing just outside the cone of light from a streetlamp on the corner ahead. Escott told me to stay put and got out.

The men had been talking and continued to do so, but their posture had subtly changed. It was apparent they were fully alert to our presence, but content to wait and let us make the first move. Two of them dropped their cigarettes and stood a little straighter, their arms hanging free so they could more easily get to the angular bulges their tight-fitting coats were unable to hide. Two more shifted their weight to the balls of their feet. They moved out and bracketed Escott when he got close enough.

His head moved slightly as he acknowledged them and there was some low conversation I couldn't quite hear because of the noise of the car. He said something to the armed men; the one on the left shot back a suspicious question. Escott touched his hat and looked reasonable. The man was dissatisfied with the situation, but Escott kept talking and once gestured back to the car, presumably about me. I had half a mind to get out and come over, but this was his show and he didn't look to be in any immediate danger, despite their belligerent attitudes. I sat and stewed and unsuccessfully tried to read lips.

The man on the left made a decision and sent one of the brackets into the building they were guarding. He came out after a minute with a report even more dissatisfying to the leader, but he nodded grudgingly to Escott. Escort came back and opened my door.

"We're in."

"What, the frying pan?"

The Shoe Box."

"Is it a speak?"

"It used to be. Now it's a respectable nightclub."

"Just how sticky are things?" I gestured with my eyebrows at the men.

"Not very, nothing to worry about now. The gentleman we will see is a cautious fellow, but will welcome us as long as he has sufficient notice. He has a very strong dislike for surprises."

"Gang boss?"

"What a colorful way you have of phrasing things, no doubt due to your journalistic training."

"And the fact we're in Chicago, it seems to be a major industry here."

"For only a fractional percentage of the population, I assure you. Not everyone here is a boss, someone has to do the support work."

"Like him?" One of the brackets was walking toward us.

"Yes, well, let's go."

I shut off the engine, pulled the keys, and got out. He closed the door and walked away. "Aren't you going to lock it?"

"There's no need, no one would dare touch it now."

I made a casual glance around and noted a few dozen faces watching us from windows and doorways up and down the street; men, women, and even a few kids. They all had the same attentive look about them as the door guards. The Shoe Box was a well-surveyed fortress. I felt like a target in a shooting gallery, which led me to speculate if any of them were armed. Escott seemed comfortable, though, and he was nowhere near as bulletproof, so I told myself to relax. We followed the bracket into the building.

There was a small entry hall and then a long passage with a wood floor that acted like a drum to our footsteps. I heard loud and fast music vibrating through the right hand wall, mixed in with the thrum of conversation, clinking glassware, and laughter. We passed by a closed double door that led to the fun and went on to the back of the building, stopping outside another door. Our bracket said he could let Escott in, but he'd have to search me. If it would speed things along, I had no objections and held my arms out. He was efficient and had the quick, light touch of a pickpocket, which might have been his usual occupation when he wasn't pulling guard duty. He found my pencil, notebook, and wallet and nothing more lethal in my pockets than some change. He tapped my shoe heels, checked my hat, decided everything was harmless, and opened the door and stepped to one side.

It was a big room, furnished with sofas, overstuffed chairs, and low tables. One of the tables was really a fancy model of radio that cost more than I'd made in a year. It was playing softly, just loud enough to mask off the sounds coming from the nightclub. At the far end of the room was a small bar near a long dining table where a man was seated alone, eating what appeared to be his dessert. As we came in he tapped a napkin to his lips and turned to look at us.

His skin was sooty black, his hair cut close to the scalp with a short beard edging his jawline and elaborately trimming the mouth and chin.

Dressed in light brown with a deep red silk shirt and tie, he looked almost foppish, but was easily getting away with it. He stood up, a big man and not one you could ignore.

Escott spoke first and in a voice rather louder than required to carry across the room. His tone was a mixture of anger and pity. "O thou Othello, that wert once so good/ Fall'n in the practice of a damned slave/ What shall be said to thee?"

Our host was still for a moment, staring at Escott, whom I was sure had need of a straitjacket and gag, then he responded in a rich voice: "Why anything/ An honourable murderer if you will/ For naught I did in hate, but all in honour." Then he barked out a short, delighted laugh and came over to wring Escott's outstretched hand. Both men were grinning.

"Charles, you's.o.b., what do you mean showing up like this with the derby? You could have mentioned your name to the boys! How the hell are you?"

"I am in good health and only wanted to see if it still worked.

I would have called, but you'd moved and left no forwarding number or address I could acquire."

"Then it's your own fault. You should come around more often. You gave my men a start with that old-hat routine."

"As I had intended--it keeps them on their toes."

"Well, it doesn't go with the suit, so dump it. Have you eaten yet? Dessert, then; we've still got some pie and coffee."

"That would be fine, but please allow me to make some introductions.

This is a friend of mine, Jack Fleming. Jack, you have the honor of meeting the best Othello I've ever had the pleasure of working with; Shoe Coldfield."

Coldfield stuck out his hand. "Any friend of Charles--and that's short for Shoe Box. I got no bones to pick on how I started out. Just watch my smoke, I'm going to be mayor of this town someday."

"Really now, you can do better than that," Escott said dryly.

"All right, governor then, but only if they raise the pay. How did you find the place?"

"We saw Cal, or rather he saw us."

"Smart kid, that."

"He's grown."

"He's eating regular."

We sat down at the table and coffee was brought in by a kid in a busboy jacket who was also doing duty in the nightclub. Through the walls I could still hear music, which made an uneasy counterpoint with the radio.

"What brings you here, Charles? Working on a revival?"

"I heartily wish. Should I return to the boards, you will certainly be the first to know. In truth, I need a favor."

"These days who doesn't? What's on your mind?"

"I'm working on a little problem for Mr. Fleming, and since yesterday, for myself, in which Frank Paco is involved."

Our host sobered up, taking a cautious tone. "Just how involved is he?"

"Yesterday two of his men tried to kill me, and were it not for Mr.

Fleming's timely intervention, they would certainly have succeeded. He survived an attempt on his life only last week from the same source and has been laying low ever since."

"Can't say as I blame you. What do you need? Smuggling out of town?"

"Nothing quite so drastic. Let me apprise you of the whole situation."

Escott told him the basic truth, but said I sought him out and wisely omitted all the facts concerning my condition. " so until Mr. Fleming knows what occurred during those missing four days he will always have this rather nasty problem."

"How do you think I can help? He needs a head-doctor."

"I was hoping you could help us get into Paco's house."

Coldfield shut right up, from sheer disbelief I suppose, since I was feeling the same way. "My mistake," he finally said. "You are the one who wants a head-doctor."

"Shoe, I am quite serious."

"If Paco is after you, you oughta be. Why get into his place?"

"For a good look around and to find out what he's up to."

"Hell, I can do that from here. What do you want to know?"

"Some information on International Freshwater Transport might be useful."

"It's just his smuggling operation, everyone knows that."

"But what does he smuggle?"

"It used to be booze and he still brings in some of the fancy foreign stuff. If the price is right he'll take most anything, including people in or out of the country. Lately it's been machine parts and chemicals coming in."

"Is it possible to find out whom they go to and for what purpose?"

"I can try tomorrow, but can't guarantee anything. I generally keep my people away from his territory. I suppose you want specific names for the chemicals, p'fesser?"

"It could help identify what he's up to, but please do not expose your people to undue risk. Yesterday I only made casual inquiries and his reaction was most violent."

"Don't worry. You gonna put him out of business?"

"That would be nice."

"Yeah, we can dream, but he's got friends. Word has it he's been dealing with Slick Morelli out of New York."

"Is that name familiar to you?" Escott asked me.

"Sure, he's a big nightclub owner there, ran a lot of speaks, then fancied them up into top spots after Repeal. He sold a few and concentrated on one or two of the biggest. He always had the best acts and the prettiest girls. Of course, this is only what I've heard, I never had the chance to take a look." Or the money, I silently added.

"He hasn't changed much," said Coldfield. "He's done the same thing for one of the biggest clubs in town up on the north side; he's got a half-interest in it."

"The Nightcrawler?" asked Escott.

"Yeah, maybe he likes fishin' or something."

"Does he own a yacht?"

He nodded. "A nice one, too, if you can have any other kind. The Elvira."

I stirred in my chair at the mention of a ship.

Escott noticed, but continued. "Who is the other owner of the club?"

"A fat guy named Lucky Lebredo. He oversees the gambling there."

Escott glanced at me. I thought about the name, then shook my head. He turned back to Coldfield. "Do you know of any connection between Paco and Morelli?"

He shrugged. "If there is, it's probably money. Paco likes to spread it around and always needs more, Morelli keeps his in a mattress and the Good Lord help you if you borrow from him. He takes his loan interest right out of your hide."

"Do you think Lebredo is involved with them?"

"I don't know. Maybe not, all he seems to do is gamble. He's got an adding machine for a brain, and a deck of cards is just another part of his body." He paused. Escott was looking at something we couldn't see, hovering just over the table centerpiece. We waited him out in silence until his eyes blinked a few times.

"You back?" Coldfield asked casually.

"Yes, just thinking, but I need more information."

"Then you're still serious 'bout going in?"

"Very serious."

"What did you have in mind?"

"Have you read the social columns?"

"Never miss 'em," he said with a trace of sarcasm.

"Then you may have noticed Frank Paco is hosting a reception at his estate this Friday. The place is going to be filled with politicians, hangers-on, and the man Paco plans to support in the next gubernatorial election."

"Yes"

"The whole thing is certainly going to be catered."

Coldfield thought it out and smiled. "You mean you can cook, too?"

"No, but I can pass as a waiter."

"Not on this one you can't. You know damn well one of my joints is doing the food and service, and face it, Charles, you're just too white for this job."

"Then I can work as a white waiter."

"And stand out like a sore thumb. No sir, Paco likes his staff well done. Besides, what white man would be working for me? Whites work for white caterers, and once in a while they take on a colored kid 'cause he works cheap, but it just ain't done the other way around."

Escott's pride had been piqued. "Am I or am I not a character actor?"

"The best, but no blackface makeup is going to pass a close look, and your nose is all wrong, anyway. If you were me, would you want to take the chance?"

"I agree," I said. "Paco might know your face, Georgie could be out on bail by now, and if either of 'em spots you, you're scragged and so are the caterers."

Escott's eyes snapped at me a second, then he visibly calmed and shrugged it off. "Of course, you're both right. We'll have to think of something else. Perhaps I could get hold of an invitation or forge one."

"Not easy, they check 'em against their guest list. You'd have to be in someone else's party to sneak past, and then you still have your face to consider. Look, why does it have to be this Friday? Try some other night when Paco is gone and just break in. I can stick one of my boys on the catering staff to case the place for you."

"That is most kind."

"Great, anything to save your ass. Listen, how 'bout we all have dinner tomorrow night, right here."

"Dinner, yes, but it's on me--to make up for too long an absence.

Mailman's, I think."

"You're joking, Charles. I couldn't get past the door."

"You most certainly will if it's my party. If you plan to run for governor you'll have to get used to breaking open some doors."

"When I do that, the cops get nervous."

"And well they should. Eight o'clock?"

"That's early for me, but I'll be there, and try to have some dope on the warehouse from my boys."

" Please advise them to use all caution; that thump on the head they gave me was nearly fatal."

"Your skull is too thick. I heard something was fatal to Paco's chief gun, Sanderson. They found him in a trunk the other day. That anything to do with your problem? The papers are saying Georgie Reamer hit him with a sledgehammer." He was looking at me with interest.

I was careful not to look at Escott for a clue. How much Coldfield knew or guessed about last night would be my affair. I shrugged. "Hey, I used to be a reporter--don't believe everything you read."

We left without hindrance from Coldfield's men, one of them even nodded and smiled as we went out to the untouched Nash. I gave the keys back to Escott and we got in. The watching faces were still around, but were not as interested in us as before. Word must have been passed that we were welcome in the neighborhood.

"He's some guy," I commented.

"Yes, I met him in Canada when we were both young and hungry. I was already in an acting company when he walked into the theater with his shoe shine box and asked for work. We got to be friends and with a great deal of argument, persuaded the manager to hire him on permanently. He worked at moving scenery and in wardrobe at half-salary. Occasionally, I'd do him up in white-face so he could carry a spear in the background when we were short of players, but he was being wasted. If you could have seen us in Hamlet as Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, he nearly sweated his makeup off and gave the game away. At least it showed the other actors in the company that he was more than capable, but our manager was a pigheaded old reprobate. He refused to even consider Shoe for the obvious part of Othello."

"But he did play it?"

"Oh yes, but it was a bit of a challenge for me to arrange it. The one thing I did manage was getting him the part of understudy to the lead.

The manager allowed that much."

"Then the lead got sick?"

"Not precisely I had to help him along. Between the chloral hydrate the company Iago slipped him and the ipecacuanha I provided to treat his symptoms, he was in no condition to play the Moor of Venice, and Shoe had his chance. I must say he brought the house down with his performance."

"What about the lead?"

"He recovered in a week or so and no harm was done. By then he had received a telegram offering him a radio announcing job in New York and he left. I'm afraid we didn't miss him much, a very unpleasant ham, he was."

"Was the telegram genuine?"

"Why, what a suspicious mind you have, Mr. Fleming."

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