He dropped straight back and down. No frills, no flourishes, and best of all, no talking. He sprawled on a worn-looking Persian rug, a lead brick in a nice blue suit.

Slightly rumpled now.

I rubbed my knuckles out of habit. My hand didn't hurt. Hell, I could have used Dugan for punching bag practice the rest of the night and not felt anything but the warmth of righteous satisfaction.

God, that had been good.

Since he was out for an undetermined count, I took a look around what he called home. He must have been very secure indeed about his control over me to have come here. Maybe he thought I couldn't get inside a dwelling without an invitation, but he didn't seem the type to swallow all the old folklore and superstitions whole. More likely he just couldn't believe anyone would cross him once he'd decided things for them.

The room we were in served as a parlor and study in one. It was crowded with old furniture, expensive a couple generations ago, gone shabby in the years between with moth holes in the musty upholstery. Stuff made of wood had aged better, but the varnish had gone black. He had one big table covered with books and papers, the latter mostly bills, the top layer was legal documents. A few mismatched chairs, lamps, and shelf clutter filled up the corners, with nothing new to relieve the drab except for a cheap radio.

Scattered around were hundreds of his origami pieces. Literally hundreds. All kinds of animals, paper boats, planes, other objects not readily identifiable, they were everyplace. It was like I was being watched by them. A few quivered in unseen drafts as though they might start walking toward me any second. I quelled two urges: either to leave fast or smash the moving ones flat.

The rest of the place was big and pretty thoroughly cob-webbed, and if not already haunted, then it should have been. I wasn't much for figuring the date of a house, but this one seemed on a level with Escott's old relic, only he took better care of his home. The modernization here must have stopped when Queen Victoria died.

The other rooms were empty or down to a couple pieces that were too big to move. I got the impression he'd sold off stuff to pay the bills. He'd left the dust-coated curtains, probably to keep neighbors from seeing where all the echoes originated. Faded wallpaper bubbled or peeled quietly in the damp. The floors creaked or crunched from dry rot. I could see why he'd tried kidnapping as a source of income. Of course, he could have cut his losses, moved out, and gotten a job like a normal person.

Upstairs was more of the same: only one bedroom next to an aging bath was in use, the rest were gutted, their heating grates sealed up by rags and yellowed newspaper. He did have a nice clothing collection in his closet, enough to hold his head up at society events. So long as no one saw the inside of this dump, he could blend.

Back where I left him I found his phone and noticed the first two letters shared the same exchange as Vivian Gladwell's. Her house couldn't have been far. I didn't believe in coincidence. Going to the window, I checked the street. Big yards, posh homes, familiar neighborhood. A little more checking, and I found a second-floor room with binoculars on the sill. The window was on a straight line of sight through bare-branched trees to the Gladwells' front gate. You could just see the house beyond.

"You son of a bitch," I said, then went to call Lady Crymsyn's office, picking up the receiver using a handkerchief and dialing with the eraser end of my pocket pencil. I'd been careful not to touch anything, having left my gloves back at the club.

Escott caught it before the first ring died. "Yes?"

"I got him," I reported with no small triumph.

"Where are you?"

"His house. Wait'll you see this place. Talk about not very Great Expectations.

Miss Havisham would feel at home."

"I look forward to it. You still wish to proceed as planned?"

"Yeah. You got everything set?"

"They're waiting and ready for us."

"Great. Where's Bobbi?"

"Downstairs running things."

"Any problems?"

"None of which I am aware."

"Great. Tell her I'm okay, then come over, and let's get this show on the road."

"Immediately."

It took him about half an hour with traffic. He used the back door, which opened into a badly kept kitchen. By then I'd found rope and other things and had Dugan trussed up tight, blindfolded, with a gag in his mouth. He lay on the floor like forgotten laundry, still unconscious to judge by his heartbeat and utter immobility.

"You're not taking any chances, are you?" Escott observed.

"You heard him talk. Wanna listen to more?"

"No, thank you."

"He didn't seem to be expecting any visitors after his cousin dropped him off.

We have the whole night to go through everything.

"It may take longer than that. This place is enormous."

"He doesn't live in all of it."

I took him into the living room zoo. He paused, staring at the countless paper animals populating every horizontal surface.

"Good God."

"Yeah. That's what I thought. Must be a couple of reams' worth here."

"Are the other rooms... ?"

"No, just here."

He looked relieved.

Taking off his regular gloves, he pulled out a pair made of thin rubber, the kind used by surgeons, then gave me an identical set. Neither of us wanted to leave any sign we'd been near this place. "Tell me what happened after you left."

It was my pleasure. While listening, Escott poked, pried, sifted papers, rummaged drawers and cabinets, and generally turned the house inside out for information about Dugan. We found it impossible not to knock over or displace the origami pieces, but there were so many, chances are even anyone familiar with the place wouldn't notice the added disorder.

"No personal journal," he said a couple dusty hours later. "A pity. He seems the sort who would want a record of his accomplishments."

"Not that he's done much. He called himself a scholar, but I don't see many books." We did find a stack of old Police Gazettes and crime magazines, all with articles on famous kidnapping cases. "He should have gotten rid of these."

"He'll probably claim the gang brought them in for him to study."

"No doubt. Still, it's a damned fool thing to have those lying around."

I dropped a magazine with a torn cover onto the pile. Its lead was about the Lindbergh baby. "Yeah, of course only an innocent man would keep them. 'See what they forced me to read, Judge?' What a crock."

"To be expected. He's obviously a chronic liar."

"Only when his lips are moving. He should be on the stage, but I don't think too many people would believe him; he just expects them to."

"That expectation is a weakness. Let's hope he keeps it. You'll dissuade his friends from helping him further?"

"So long as they're not crazy."

"There's nothing to prevent him writing more letters, though."

"Won't matter if he's in jail. Look at this." I held up a letter. "He's supposed to be in court tomorrow. Ain't that too bad?"

Escott chuckled. "How convenient. And now you've an address for his lawyer."

"Yeah. By tomorrow night, he won't have anyone on his side, and the law will be after him. Life is sweet."

"Still, it's a bit of chance we're taking."

"Safer than having him run loose. He can do with a dose of poetic justice."

"You're certain hypnosis won't work on him?"

I let the letter fall and picked up one of the origami animals, fiddling with it. "I did my best. It had no effect on him except give him a laugh and me a hell of a headache. We'll do it this way, then when the time comes, let him twist in the wind."

"As you wish."

"Something's missing," I said. "You find a typewriter here? Carbon sheets?

Typing paper?"

"No. Nothing like that."

"Then he wrote the letters someplace else, or got one of his friends to do them for him."

"Where are those letter copies?"

I patted my inside coat pocket.

"But we've not found the originals. Perhaps one of his friends has them."

"His fingerprints are all over these. If it ever comes to it, they can make a good case against him for blackmail by intimidation. It shouldn't get that far... oh, hell."

Something about the paper animal caught my eye, got my brain to working.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Just take a look." I unfolded what first appeared to be only scrap.

Flattening it out on the table revealed writing on one side, all done in a distinctive dark green ink. Very oddball. I read some of the ruler-straight lines. Dugan had no scratch-outs, no botched lettering. The writing was so even it could have been done by machine.

Sentiment is our greatest hindrance to true progress. Think of the scientific advancements we could have by now had our ancestors been able to rid themselves of the more impractical emotions or at least better control them. We have twisted what should be simple survival and improvement of the species into a complicated tangle.

From the moment we're born we are driven by instinct to find a mate and through her propagate offspring, a laudable goal unless the mate is of a mediocre intellect, bound by the limits of emotions, which are passed on. The greater part of humanity is mediocre because we tend to be attracted to mates similar to our own background and place in society. There is safety in the familiar. Thus do we continue to hold ourselves back. We could progress to a higher level more quickly by a judicious program of breeding. If we have bred lesser animals to our purposes to produce cattle with more milk or meat on them, why not do the same for ourselves? The mating of two brilliant people would likely result in a brilliant child, and he in turn can expect to produce...

"Oh, brother." I said.

Escott puffed out a single laugh. "His journal. And I'd been looking for a notebook."

"This is more like an editorial than a diary. When I was reporting, there was a guy on the staff who would write out whatever was bothering him that day.

Sometimes they'd use it for an opinion piece."

"Dugan has a good point, but I doubt a practical application will ever prove to be popular." Escott collected more animals, lining them up, and we unfolded several. Each animal represented a specific subject. All were covered with the same machinelike writing, recording all kinds of observations about people and life, mostly the shortcomings. What a complainer. Giraffes were concerned with sociology, cranes were history, pelicans current events, boats were about euthanasia of inferior human specimens as a means to improve the breed. Chronic criminals, the mentally ill or retarded, those with hereditary afflictions or abnormalities were on his list. He had quite a fleet of boats.

"This is the damnedest filing system I've ever seen," I said, standing away from the remains and staring at the ones yet untouched. Just thinking of the hours he'd put in writing all that crap made my guts twist.

"Do you think there's any symbolism involved in his choice of animal for each topic?"

"Ask Dr. Freud."

"He is very consistent, in his own way organized, very prolific. An acute case of overthinking and too much time to do it. Could this be only window dressing intended to make one conclude he is less than rational? Or is he really like this?"

"I know he's nuts. Doesn't matter much. Once we're done, he'll have plenty more time to write his novel or treatise or whatever he thinks he's doing."

"Indeed. We should wind things up, then. I'll phone and let them know we're on the way."

The driveway to Dugan's garage led from a side-street entrance around the house to the back. There it was secluded, surrounded by trees and a high fence, and completely concealed the presence of my car. No one saw as we lugged Dugan's unresisting body down the kitchen steps and dumped him in the trunk, dropping his coat and hat on top.

"You're sure he's all right?" asked Escott.

I could understand his concern. Once, before I'd gotten used to my preternatural strength, I'd killed a man with a single punch to the face. Not that he didn't deserve it, but I hated being the one to deliver his fate. Sometimes, when mired in a dark mood, I could still feel the bones giving wetly under my fist. Not a memory I wanted to double. I listened to Dugan's heart and breathing. "He's just out. Smelling salts should bring him around."

Escott slammed the trunk lid shut.

Dugan's house keys in hand, I went back for a last look, making sure we'd covered everything. Propped against his phone was a single sheet of paper, the letter notifying him of his court date tomorrow. On its back Escott had block-printed "Good-bye," using one of the fountain pens on the table so its green ink would match up with the other written things. We left the essays lying around open so anyone who bothered to read them could draw their own conclusions about their writer's mental state.

Last of all, in the kitchen, I picked up a sizable suitcase we found in Dugan's bedroom. Personal stuff from his bedside table was in it, along with his shaving kit and toothbrush, and we filled the rest up with clothes and a pair of galoshes. We emptied hangers in his closet and enough underwear was missing from his bureau to indicate he'd packed for a long absence. Escott had found Dugan's bank-and checkbook and put those in, too. There was less than a hundred in the account.

Added to what was in his wallet, if that was all he had in the world, he must have been desperate for cash.

He'd have other things on his mind soon, though.

I locked the house, put the suitcase in the backseat, got behind the wheel, and took the long way around to our destination. Eventually I found another side street entrance to a long driveway, this one in better repair with a gate made of tall iron bars with spikes on top. At one in the morning it was locked. Escott jumped out with a key, pulled the gate wide so I could get though, shut it, and rode the running board on the trip up to the big, dark structure ahead. He seemed to be thoroughly enjoying himself.

Only one light showed at the servants' entry to the Glad-well mansion. As I set the brake, Vivian Gladwell herself came out to meet us. At this very late hour she was fully dressed and looked wide awake. If she was nervous, it didn't show. She went to greet Escott, giving him her hand. He took it in both of his-he'd removed the surgical gloves-and cut a little bow, looking pleased to see her.

"Hello, Mr. Fleming," she said as I got out. "Is everything all right?"

"Copasetic," I replied. "There's still time to change your mind, you know."

She shook her head, turning to Escott.

"Jack's right," he said. "This is a dreadful risk for you if word got out."

Another headshake, with a warm smile. She did have a nice face. "I trust my household. We're all in agreement."

Escott shot me a look of confirmation, nodding. He knew the people better. I could rely on his judgment of them and the situation in general.

I opened the trunk, and Vivian stared down at Dugan, getting her first sight of him outside of newspaper photos. His bindings didn't seem to shock her.

"To think I was at the same parties with him," she said. "He makes my flesh crawl."

"You and me both, ma'am." I grabbed under his arms, folded him forward, then heaved him up over one shoulder like a sack of flour. "Lead the way."

The physical effort impressed her. She recovered quickly, and with Escott behind carrying the suitcase, ushered us into the house.

The place was as silent as Dugan's aging white elephant but much warmer and missing the dust. He might be grateful for the switch in accommodations. Maybe he could write an essay about it if Vivian had some green ink lying around.

She went to a broad door under some stairs, opened it, and yanked on a light cord. Bare wooden steps went steeply down to the basement. Dugan wasn't especially heavy to me, just awkward. I was careful about balance on the descent.

At the bottom was another cord, this one controlling several lights. We were in a big, dim, low-ceilinged area, chilly compared to the rest of the place. Here the laundry was washed, Christmas decorations were stored, and unfashionable furniture ripened into antiques. It was the Ritz compared to Dugan's place. The pitch-black dusty-museum cellar there would have scared Frankenstein into next week.

Vivian walked ahead, gesturing toward a sturdy door with a serious-looking bolt lock on it. The room behind it was a dozen feet square and very, very quiet, the result of solid concrete walls. It was lighted by one unshaded standing lamp on the floor by the threshold. On the far end was an army cot, several blankets spread neatly on top, with a pillow. Under the cot was a chamber pot discreetly covered by a square of cloth, a roll of toilet paper on end next to it. She'd thought of everything.

I rolled Dugan off my shoulder onto the cot and stretched my cramped muscles. "Is he in for a surprise." He'd wonder how the hell he'd gotten here.

Most people knocked unconscious don't remember how they got that way.

Escott put the suitcase on the floor and opened it. He removed the safety razor and anything else that might be made into a weapon, including the toothbrush. "He only gets this when he is actually brushing his teeth," he said to Vivian. "The handle can be filed down to a point, you know. Wouldn't want anyone to get punctured."

"Goodness," she said. "I wouldn't have thought of that."

I went through Dugan's pockets, taking stuff he wouldn't need, like his wallet and a pencil. I judged his handkerchief to be fairly harmless... unless he twisted it into a garrote. On second thought I took it, too. He could use the toilet roll to blow his nose. Of course, he could rip his clothing up to make the same sort of weapon, but maybe it wouldn't occur to him. He'd be pretty damn muzzy. Vivian had an ample supply of sleeping pills to put in his food and drink.

We took his shoes and suspenders, the belt on his over-coat, and double-checked the room inch by inch, making sure it was completely bare of anything that would be used for a weapon or a means of escape. Vivian's people had been thorough. There wasn't so much as a used toothpick left forgotten in a corner.

"What was this before?" I asked her, wondering how an ideal prison cell happened to be in her basement.

"It used to be the wine storage. The lock prevented temptation for the servants.

When we married, my late husband installed a special cooler on the ground floor for his stock, which I still use. It's more convenient than coming all the way down here, and electric, so the temperature is controlled winter and summer."

"I got something like that at my club. I'd like to see yours, though."

"Certainly," she said. "But, please, let's get him... well..."

"No problem."

Escott had been over earlier in the day with a special drill and hardware. He said it had only taken him a few minutes for the job, which would have done the Inquisition proud. Set deep into the concrete floor next to the cot was a very heavy-duty ring bolt made of steel nearly an inch thick. Threaded through it was an equally heavy chain, the ends joined by a big padlock. I tested the strength of the chain, yanking hard, trying to pull it apart or shatter the lock. No chance that Dugan would break it if I couldn't. I did my best and failed. It made me very glad not to be in Dugan's socks.

Escott wore something close to a smirk, his eyes twinkling with unsuppressed good humor. He was having a ball.

The weakest item were the handcuffs, but Escott had turned up a set of grim manacles that Houdini might have hesitated trying his luck against. They were padded to minimize chafing marks but would fit snug as a friendship ring. Escott looped these through the doubled chain and clamped them on Dugan's wrists, locking them fast. Only then did I cut the ropes. When Dugan woke, he'd have about a six-foot radius for exercise and wouldn't be able to come within four feet of the door. In planning it out, we tried to think of what we'd do in his place to escape. It only seemed prudent to be overcautious.

"He won't be able to change his shirt with those on," Escott pointed out.

"Too bad," I said. "Sarah wore the same clothes for two weeks. Do him good to find out what it's like."

"There's that, but I was considering the sensibilities of the people charged with looking after him."

"He can make do with a washbasin, and we can hold our breath," said Vivian.

"He won't have visitors except to bring him food and -er-remove the necessary."

"How many are actually in on this?" I asked.

"All of us. The butler, maids, cook, the chauffeur-"

"That's a lot of mouths to keep quiet."

"I trust them, Mr. Fleming. Not many people are able to accept my daughter or treat her like an ordinary human being. It took me years to bring together a staff that would care for her as much as I do. Charles will tell you how hard it was for everyone when she was kidnapped and how incensed we all were when this-this animal began throwing out those horrid lies to the papers to talk himself free. We all want him to pay for what he's done. This is a start."

A start and a half, I thought, deciding that Vivian did indeed have the guts to go through it. "How's Sarah?"

Her face softened. "Improving. She has nightmares and won't let me out of her sight, but she's begun talking more freely again."

"Does she talk about what happened to her?"

"She doesn't recall much, only a little about 'the bad men' scaring her. I want to be able to look her in the eye and truthfully tell her that they will never scare her again."

"You can now. Make sure she doesn't come down here."

"Oh, that won't be a problem. Sarah hates the basement. Doesn't like the closed-in feeling. She thinks basements are where monsters live."

I looked at Dugan, gathering up the last scraps of his bindings. "She's right."

We went out, leaving Dugan alone in his cell.

"She fully understands the precautions she must take," Escott said about Vivian as we drove away. "Her butler and chauffeur will do the looking -after, bringing food and such. No eating utensils allowed, and always with at least one other man on hand to back them up. We've had a very somber chat about safe procedure and caution. I'll go over every day to check on things."

The way he'd looked at Vivian gave me the idea he would have done that with or without a prisoner to watch.

"I doubt they'll have difficulties, but can't say it will be pleasant for them."

"Less so for Dugan. He's still got better than what he gave Sarah."

"They're well aware of that. I think the household's outrage will be more than sufficient to carry them through, however long it goes on."

"Hope so. He may be tougher than we think. He could crack tomorrow or never."

"Either way, he will be subject to a manhunt. Once the authorities realize he's truant, they will have to assume it's to avoid prosecution. Even the worthies of the misled press will eventually see the truth."

"If it sells papers, yeah. Maybe Gordy can put a good word in for us. He's chummy with some of the crime beat guys. Did you see if he came in tonight?"

"Yes, along with several bodyguards and Hog Bristow. He showed no sign of remembering last evening's dustup or his noon-hour ultimatum. They were at that high table as usual."

"It's taking too long. Gordy should have gotten him out of the picture by now." He probably had his reasons for letting this drag, but I didn't like it dragging all over my place. Things had come too close to disaster with the near gunplay, and I wanted no more of the same. If he didn't resolve things tonight, I'd offer my services as interrogator the next time Bristow was sober, get what was needed, then pack him off to Cuba. This was the right time of year to enjoy Havana's climate.

I peered ahead, trying to blink my way past a light mist that had begun falling just after we left the Gladwell house. Though not cold enough for snow or sleet, it did slick the world up and obscure the view. The wipers would swipe the windshield clean, then squeak protest against the streaked glass, so I had to keep turning them on and off.

Driving in a full rain was easier; this stuff created too many shifting reflections.

"We anywhere close yet?"

Escott checked a map by flashlight. "One more street."

We went one more street. There was no parking to be had; the people living in this area had grabbed every legal space. We wouldn't take any illegal spots. This foray was meant to go unnoticed by the law. "Take it around the block a few times, would ya?"

"My pleasure."

I paused across from a venerable-looking apartment hotel and got out. Escott slid over to the driver's side, put my Buick in gear, and cruised off. He'd be gone about twenty minutes, plenty of time for my errand.

We'd debated on whether I should see Marie Kennard or Anthony Brockhurst, and Anthony dear won out, based on what I'd overheard in his car. He seemed to be second to Dugan in the hierarchy and the one most likely to know interesting things.

At this late hour there was no night man; you needed a key or to be buzzed in by a resident to gain entry. I wafted through the cracks, went solid, and used the elevator the rest of the trip. Counting off the door numbers, I found Anthony's flat at the far end of the fifth floor's hall and sieved inside.

Solid again. In a stranger's home. Me failing to suppress a big grin.

Damn it, it was fun to break into places, especially without performing any actual breakage and with no chance of getting caught. Not that I sneaked into just any house that took my fancy-I'd been taught better manners-but the ones in the line of duty were fair game. Unless required by the needs of a case, I never stole anything, so my conscience was fairly clean. I was just naturally nosy and liked looking around other people's lives because I suspected they were doing a better job of living it than me.

If his father controlled Anthony's money, he was generous, to judge by the surroundings. Everything was expensive and new except for what appeared to be family pictures dotting the walls. The Brockhursts looked to be a large and well-to-do clan. I didn't recognize any of them but did spot a formal studio portrait of Marie Kennard standing alone on a baby grand piano in the living room. Perhaps Anthony, the helpful cousin and unsuspecting best friend of the bad guy, had a crush on her, choosing to be chivalrous and stay quiet about it. I could imagine him at the keyboard practicing love songs while looking at Marie's photo. Close up and with time to study, she was a dish, but not to my taste. The studiously bored manner I'd overheard in the club and the car made her sound spoiled, not sophisticated. World-weary people who had never been near a real crisis weren't worth my time, but she was perfect for the likes of Dugan and Anthony. They were welcome to her.

This place was easy to go through; Anthony's life was uncomplicated. The usual trappings of modern living were in their usual places, including a very well-stocked liquor cabinet. No surprises there. Except for the piano, he didn't seem to have any creative leanings. I found some check stubs in his desk indicating that he had a job at a place called Brockhurst and Sons and damn near blanched at the amount he made. I couldn't imagine anyone being valuable enough to a company to deserve a sweet and cool hundred a week. Not unless they were in the movies or the mobs.

That was obscene. When I'd been reporting I counted myself lucky to pull in seventy-five a month and thought myself well off.

The desk was the kind with a hinged trapdoor on top. Lift and fold it to the right and a counterbalanced shelf within raised the hidden typewriter up level with the rest of the work area, which was now doubled. That was a very handy thing to have. Maybe I could get one of my own.

Used carbon paper was crumpled in the wastebasket, along with early versions of the letters Dugan intended to send out. Keeping company with them were two origami animals, a giraffe and a pelican, made from discarded drafts. He'd probably amused himself folding them while Anthony typed.

I found Anthony in his bedroom, snoring obliviously away in fancy red silk pajamas. There was a taint of booze on his breath, mixed with mint mouth gargle.

That told me he'd had something to drink but not enough to make him forget to brush. This would be slow going, but hopefully not impossible.

Turning his night table light on, I loomed over him, tapping his face a couple times to haul him from sleep. Once I captured his bleared and dumbfounded attention, I was able to give myself another headache.

"You're sure that's all of them?" Escott asked after picking me up.

"The ones he had." I fanned the crisp envelopes full of potential grief, holding them like a card hand. They were stamped, ready to mail. None had a return name, but the delivery addresses were neatly typed, including one on top for the FBI. I ripped it open. It was indeed the original to what I'd seen earlier. "How could Dugan think J. Edgar Hoover would ever bother himself with me?"

"Because he likely would. I understand he is a very persistent investigator and a great one for collecting information, rather like Gordy. What about the other letters at large?"

"Brockhurst will get them for me." I shuffled this batch together and stuffed them in my coat pocket. The mist had grown thick and fast enough to qualify as rain. Tiny drops dotted the windows, and the wiper thumped back and forth without squeaking. I was glad not to be driving. "He was pretty cooperative once he was under."

"You're certain of that?"

"Slack face, eyes like a dead fish, and a suddenly slow heartbeat. I'm certain.

He couldn't have faked the last." I'd also pretended to take a swing at him. He didn't blink, even when the breeze of my passing fist ruffled his hair. "He has the day to get the rest from the other four people in his little circle, then come by the club tomorrow night to deliver them. I told him to say he found out the truth about Cousin Gilbert, that he really had been the mastermind in the kidnapping, his motive being the money. Brockhurst will look shocked and grieved by the betrayal."

"Let's hope they accept it."

"If not, then I got their names and where they live. I should visit them anyway, make sure they're set straight about Dugan. This will save Marie Kennard ten grand. And from a disasterous marriage." Not a bad night's work. I felt positivly chivalrous.

"Was Brockhurst possessed of further useful information?"

"I asked about family history. Their paternal grandfathers way back when were brothers. Both did pretty well for themselves and their descendants until the crash.

By then Dugan was the only one left of his branch. He lost his shirt. The Brockhursts had gone into ball bearing manufacture, so they weathered things better. Anthony seems to idolize Dugan, thinks he's a deep thinker, and he's given him financial help on the sly. He's got an open offer for a job at the family business, but he's much too sensitive for the harshness of the cruel world."

"Indeed?"

"My translation: Dugan's too lazy or thinks he's too good for regular work."

Escott nodded, thoughtful. "Yet he will put weeks of effort into committing a crime and lie his head off to con a young woman out of ten thousand dollars. The mundane bores him. He likes challenge to lift him from his ennui. Danger, too. He didn't bring a gun to your little meeting, did he?"

"Nope."

"And at least twice he mentioned doing various activities to 'fill the time.' "

"Boredom. Now that's a hell of a motive for kidnapping."

"I can understand him, though."

I snorted. "He's crazy. You're not. Don't go scaring me."

Escott chuckled.

It was great to walk into Crymsyn again and see everything running normally.

The doorman told me we'd had a good crowd, people grabbing an early piece of the weekend by starting on Wednesday. They'd mostly gone home by now. I was just in time to close and felt like I'd missed a lot by not being here. Tomorrow would be less worry-making. With Dugan locked away, I could immerse myself back into my favorite routine.

How long he stayed chained to that floor was up to him. His only way out of his cell was to write and sign a full confession. Then I'd take him to the cops. He could scream all he liked about it being obtained under duress, but everyone in the Gladwell household would lie themselves blue denying that they had anything to do with holding him against his will. We knew who would be believed in the end.

Especially if I had anything to do with it.

I had a lot of respect for Vivian for going along with our dangerous game.

Escott had confided the general idea to her earlier today. All of it was based on the calculation that Dugan fully expected to leave his meeting with me alive.

We figured he'd have prepared some pretty serious insurance for that, and it would have to be blocked by us in some way. I had to play the business very much by ear, let him tell me what he thought I should know, let him think he'd won, then follow and look for a weakness.

Which had worked out very well, up to and including the possibility of putting him on ice. He had plenty of brains, just not a lot of experience playing with the big boys. Good thing for him that he'd tried blackmailing me instead of Gordy; otherwise, Dugan would be fish food by now. Gordy was more practical about disposing of annoyances. More final. Not that I hadn't killed before myself, in the heat of rage, cold-bloodedly, and out of my head with insanity. But I had enough deaths hovering over my shoulder, bleak company when in a gloomy mood.

Maybe Dugan deserved to die, but I didn't care to be the executioner.

We'd intended to store him in the far end of Lady Crymsyn's basement, hidden behind a bank of crates and old scenery flats, and take turns keeping watch. But once she heard these tentative ideas, Vivian volunteered her place and staff for the job, and the devil take the law if she was caught.

Escott tried to talk her out of it. Any other client he'd have turned down flat, and devil take their bruised feelings in the matter. He failed with Vivian, which told me a lot about how far she'd gotten under his skin. Maybe he could bring her to the club some night to meet Bobbi, and we could all double-date like college kids.

Bobbi was in the main room, seated by the near-side bar. It was the best place to keep an eye on the patrons, the entry, and the show, which was winding down.

She saw Escott and me come in and immediately got that things had gone well. I'd have done it all even without a hug and kiss at the end, but I wasn't going to turn down what was offered.

"So?" she said as we shed our coats and sat at her table.

"The good guys won."

"A tremendous success," Escott added.

Adelle was done for the night, probably backstage changing. Gordy and Bristow were still talking, which astonished and annoyed me.

"How much longer is that gonna go on?" I asked.

Bobbi leaned forward, impatient. "Who cares? Tell me everything. I'm ready to chew glass from all this waiting."

She got the short version; details could come later if she wanted them. Escott let me do most of the talking, lounging back in his chair to load and light his pipe.

He looked contented.

"What if he doesn't confess?" she asked when I was done.

"That, sweetheart, is the flaw in the plan. We're going to ignore it."

" What? Oh, you stinker, don't pull my leg."

"Weil, not here and now. We could go upstairs..."

"Oh, hush!" she said, going a little pink.

Escott, more of a gentleman than I, pretended not to have heard.

I went on. "Anyway, a signed confession is the frosting. The cake is good all on its own. We don't count on him to crack, but the longer he's disappeared, the worse it'll be for him with the law. Then it won't matter."

Escott nodded. "If and when he emerges from his durance vile, he will find himself without friend or ally between him and a lengthy prison term."

"I was against this, you know," she said. "Until I heard him talking to you.

What a creep."

"How did that go?"

"Perfectly."

"So it turned out?"

"Clear as a bell. Wanna hear?"

We went upstairs, and once more I got a good look at the stuff she and Escott had worked so hard to arrange. Wires threaded from holes drilled in the wall between the storage room and my office led to a simple-looking box with a brushed chrome face. The innards were probably stuffed with tubes and a spaghetti twisting of more wires and unbelievably complicated electrical tubes and other stuff. The box was linked by cables to other devices, and it was all very intimidating to unfamiliar eyes. Bobbi worked switches and dials easy as stirring a cup of coffee. They hummed, warming up. Then she went to a large turntable spinning an ordinary-looking seventy-eight record and set the needle on it to play.

Dugan's voice spoke from the grill of an amplifying speaker. He was underscored by static and distant dance music but perfectly recognizable to anyone who knew him.

"... damaging. Your detective friend could lose his license, that blond singer with whom you keep company will never get decent work again. That large gangster will have no end of grief with federal investigators and could shortly find himself heading..."

"Oh, brother, that's great!"

She shut him off and grinned. "That's just the first one. The second's still on the recording table. It does fifteen minutes a side. We lost a little when I had to put a fresh blank in, but not much the way that joker likes to talk. I was worried the background noise of the band would ruin it, but you can make out every self-damning word he says. Even if you don't get a confession out of him, he can't deny any of this."

"I don't know if it will be allowed as evidence in court, but it would be a treat to have the DA in to hear it," said Escott.

"But I thought you didn't want anything to do with a court case."

"We make sure it doesn't come to that. If Dugan is stubborn about accepting his fate, we see to it he has a chance to listen to himself. I should like to be present to enjoy the look on his face."

"Won't it be a bad thing for Jack, though? They might want to know what his big secret is."

I lifted a hand. "No problem. I just whammy them into disinterest. Now, how about we put that in a very safe place?"

"After I make some copies." Bobbi fiddled with a knob and the hum of power from the machine diminished. "I'll take the originals to a place I know and have them turned into more records you can play on any phonograph."

"I should like to make a transcript first," said Escott. "I'll start right now. If the unthinkable should happen and either of those are broken..."

"Yeah, I guess I could slip on some ice on the way over."

"I'll need writing materials."

"In my office," I said. We went there. I got Escott a freshly filled fountain pen, some pencils, and a thick pad of paper. He knew shorthand nearly as well as I but I was better at typing. When he was done, I'd use my spare time to translate his scribbles into readable English.

He poked at the vase of cut flowers. "These will want water." He pulled the flowers and their greenery clear. Some stems remained behind, snagged on the microphone they had concealed. It was small, maybe as big as my fist, held by a short stand that fit into the bottomless vase. The cord ran through a hole in the table, down one of the legs by the wall, and then on through the wall. You had to know where to look to see it, and I'd kept Dugan plenty busy looking at me.

"I'm going to leave things set up," I said. "Never know but we might have a use for it again."

"But the recording equipment has to go back tomorrow."

"I can buy my own later sometime. Business is pretty good. Until then I can cover the mike with the vase, put some paper flowers in it."

"The curtains, too?"

"Yeah." Hidden in the curtain folds were two more microphones, hanging from either end of the rod at eye level. We couldn't be sure if Dugan would stay in one spot and had allowed for his moving around the room.

"You know... I could make something better for the one on the table." Escott stared at it, probably seeing something not yet there.

"Oh, yeah?"

"What about a lamp? I could fashion a pedestal base out of thin wood, drill holes in the sides, back them with black gauze... It would be like a radio speaker but in reverse. The lamp would even work. Of course, there might be an echo effect with the wood around the mike..."

"Talk it over with Bobbi."

He started sketching at the desk, focused on his new idea. "Um-hm."

Bobbi came in. "I got it ready to play. Talk what over with me?"

"I'll tell you; let's leave him think." Escott would be preoccupied for a while. I recognized the signs. I also had an idea about gutting a radio and putting the microphone in the speaker, but then someone might try turning the radio on, and that would raid the game. Arm in arm, Bobbi and I went downstairs. "How did the show run?"

"No hitches."

"Good. Anything from our dancing newlyweds?"

"Roland called to say they'd be rehearsing tomorrow. That's a good sign. You probably should talk to Faustine, though. Smooth things out for the duration."

"I'll do that the first-"

Hog Bristow and his three apes emerged into the lobby like a rockslide: not much speed but plenty of force. Bristow was red-faced, his shoulders bunched high, his head low, unconscious imitation of his nickname. The four of them saw me on the stairs where I'd paused in mid-step. Bobbi went still, her hand fighting on my arm.

Bristow pointed at me. "You tell 'im! You tell 'im good! No one messes.

Goddamn bastard. Thinks he. Thinks. No one! You tell!"

The lobby lights nickered warningly, dimming, then snapping bright.

"Goddamn," said Bristow, glaring up at them. "Goddamn dump!"

With that, they rumbled over my floor, Bristow cursing and weaving so much his boys had to hold him up. The doorman hastily went to work and seemed relieved not to catch their notice as they passed by.

"Good night and little fishes," said Bobbi, breathing again. "What was that about?"

"At least one bottle of booze too many." This had to stop. I'd had enough.

"Let's see if Gordy can enlighten us. Wilton, start closing up."

Wilton, pale behind his bar, visibly swallowed and nodded a lot.

Strome and Lowrey walking ahead, the third guy trailing, Gordy was just descending from his table. We met up at the bar on the far end.

"Guess you saw him," he said to me. He signed for Strome to keep going.

"Bring the car to the front."

"What happened?" I asked, keeping my voice even.

There were no bodies lying around, but the last straggle of customers were hastily gathering up to leave. The band wouldn't have to play "Good Night, Sweetheart" this time to get them out.

He shrugged, a little sheepish. "Hog lost his temper."

"I think he was born that way."

"Maybe. He got loud. His boys talked him down, but not by much. He's plenty sore. Finally figured out that I'm not cooperating and never will. Tomorrow I'm supposed to let him take over or else. He won't forget this one. He talked to New York today. They want him to finish things."

"What does that mean?"

"What do you think?"

"Where will you finish it?"

His mouth twitched. "Not here. I like this place."

I was going to second that opinion, but Adelle came out, back in street clothes and ready to go home. She was all smiles for Gordy, unaware of Bristow's drunken wrath, but she picked up on the tension. Her smile dampened slightly.

"Anything wrong?"

Gordy shook his head. "Nothing to worry about, doll. Later, Fleming. 'Night, Bobbi."

Adelle seemed to want more information but had to walk out with him to get it.

She sketched a puzzled wave over her shoulder at us and went along, taking two steps to Gordy's one. He must have been plenty upset; he usually walked at her pace.

I looked at Bobbi. "Wanna close this bar while I take care of the front?"

"But... that is..." She gestured after them.

"Nothing we can do. It's business."

"Business. And I know what kind. I sometimes forget that with Gordy. What he has to do to hold on to what he's got."

"Me, too." I was glad my responsibilities were more mundane. And mostly legal.

"I hope he keeps Adelle out of it."

"He will."

We split up. We'd meet later in the office to bag the cash and total receipts, then on the way to her flat I'd make a stop at the bank. I liked the routine; it got my attention off less pleasant matters like Gordy's pending disposal of Bristow.

In the lobby, the hatcheck girl had retrieved Gordy's overcoat, and he was just pulling it on. Adelle's face no longer seemed puzzled, only somber. Gordy must have told her enough so she could pack her curiosity away. She was well aware of his work beyond running the Nightcrawler Club and knew when to back off.

The lobby lights dimmed again.

Wilton stopped counting his register money and looked up, frowning.

"I get you, Myrna," I muttered.

The remaining two bodyguards noticed but didn't take any meaning from it. I went past them and the doorman, signing for him to stay put, and opened the front door myself.

Empty street, wet and cold, still raining steadily. Gordy's big bulletproof car growled quietly next to the curb, chugging out exhaust, Strome at the wheel.

"Bristow gone?" I asked, stepping out from under the entry canopy. Rain sifted onto the back of my neck.

He leaned across the seat to the passenger side and rolled the thick window down. "Hah?"

I repeated the question.

"Yeah. He's gone."

Good so far as it went, but I took Myrna's fun with the lights seriously. She was quite a girl for spotting trouble. I left the canopy shelter and trotted toward the parking lot. There were few cars remaining, most likely belonging to the band members. I didn't know what make Bristow would have but could assume it to be a new model. Nothing fancy here. Musicians tended to earn squat, and their transportation reflected that.

The most likely hiding place checked, I hurried back. The other side of the club was bordered by a narrow street, clear of traffic. I carefully looked over the buildings opposite the front. All the windows were dark and closed tight. No one on the roofs. Unless they were down behind the facades. Cold perch.

Still bothered, I returned to the lobby. No one was hiding behind the bar with Wilton; the rest rooms-for once I broke my rule about invading the ladies'-were clear. Gordy waited near the door. Maybe he didn't know why I was running around, but he understood I'd have a good reason.

"Anything?"

I shook my head. "Not offhand." I still had the heebies and went to the light switch panel, cutting off power to the entry. It was sensible not to have everyone brightly picked out as they left. I'll see you out."

He sent Lowrey ahead, the other guy behind and close to Adelle, and I held the door for them. Once out, Lowrey went to open the car's rear door. Gordy was just handing Adelle in when firecrackers went off. Three or four short, flat bangs.

Gordy grunted and stumbled.

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