SILENTLY ENTERING THE house by way of the kitchen, I started to re-form, but became aware just in time to dodge two men making a late raid on the icebox.

"Did you see that?" a distorted voice asked.

"See what?"

"I thought something moved over there."

"Check it out, then."

I held still, even when something alien intruded into my amorphous body.

"Jesus, it's cold as hell in here. Shut that box up."

"You see anything?"

"Nah."

'Boss'll think you're drinking, you talk like that."

"I could use one."

I left them to their food and moved on to the basement. The lab was as I'd left it, complete with the "milk and cookies" guard. Try as I might, I couldn't work up any dislike for the guy, and it took a real effort to tap him a good one behind the ear so I could do my work undisturbed. To make up for the assault, I eased him gently to the floor and thoughtfully folded his magazine into his coat pocket. Then I went through the lab like a dose of salts, opening cabinets and leaving them open, dumping drawers and looking for papers that might be useful.

Escort had been thorough, though, and anything really important would be upstairs with Paco.

Now I hauled out Escott's present, a single stick of dynamite with a five-minute fuse attached. It would do the job, but I wanted to be certain of the lab's utter destruction, and for that spent the next few minutes sloshing several gallons of alcohol all over the room. The walk-in storage closet was full of usable items, and anything marked flammable was added to the general mess. I made sure the air vents were wide open. There were no windows to the outside or I'd have opened them as well. After that I gave the gas taps for the Bunsen burners a good twist and listened to it hiss invisibly into the room.

Propping the dynamite on the one clean table in the middle, I lit the fuse with some nervousness. In the five minutes it would take to burn down I planned to be in the car with Escott and tearing down the road back to Chicago.

I hoisted the guard with the sweet tooth over my shoulders, my new strength making him seem remarkably light, then unlocked the lab door that led to the T-intersection and set it to lock again once it was closed. Trudging upstairs with my burden, I opened the second door into the hall and put the man down to one side. My back was to the hall while I was busy with the door. Too late, I heard the sharp clunk of a machine gun bolt being drawn back. My guess that the hallway would have less traffic than the kitchen was wrong.

"Freeze right there, buddy," a voice told me.

I had to obey and wondered how I could stall them. If I left now they might check the basement and, depending on their luck, foil the explosion or be blown up. There were two men behind me. One of them approached, and I raised my hands slowly.

"Stay outta my line of fire, Harry."

Harry grunted in acknowledgment. He searched me with quick, professional slaps. "He's clean," he announced, and stepped back.

"What's going on?" demanded another, more authoritative voice.

"We caught ourselves a burglar, Mr. Paco."

"Check out the lab, Harry."

I made a move to stop him, but was told again to stay put. Harry slipped downstairs. "The door's still locked, Mr. Paco," he called up.

"Then how'd he get Newton out, dummy? Get up here and check 'em. He's gotta have keys or something."

My muscles had gone all tight. Frank Pace's voice had touched a dormant nerve in my brain. I needed time to think, to remember "You! Turn around."

I turned slowly, enjoying first the puzzlement, recognition, and then shock on Paco's face.

"Fleming," he breathed softly. Only I could hear him. I felt an awful smile crawling across my features.

The portrait in his office had been too flattering--the artist must have wanted his commission very badly. He'd caught the wide face and pop eyes, but had omitted the ingrained hardness and suspicious set to his mouth. He was shorter than Sanderson, but built much the same; stocky with muscle, rather than flab, and not afraid to use it, but now, because of my face, he fell back a step in fear.

"Mr. Paco?" the man with the machine gun said uncertainly.

The need to assert his authority overrode his confusion. He straightened and glared at me, rejecting his first instincts. And why not? As far as he knew, Jack Fleming had died over a week ago.

"Who are you?"

"My name is Gerald Fleming. I believe you know my older brother. Jack."

Paco seized the explanation as I knew he would. Once more on firm ground, he was able to deal with the situation. "Yeah," he agreed reasonably. "I know your brother."

"You met him the other week, didn't you?"

"Yeah, we had some things to talk over. But you answer the questions here, punk. What are you doing in my house?"

"I thought we could talk."

"We'll talk and you better answer straight. What are you after?"

I said nothing and my bloodshot stare made him uncomfortable.

"This guy's some kind of freak. Take him out and get rid of him."

Harry and the machine gunner each grabbed an arm and marched me past Paco and down the stem of the T. "Get rid of me and you'll never find that list," I shot back. My escort hesitated.

"What makes you think I want it?"

"My brother told me you were after it. He gave it to me. I know you got him. I'll trade you the list for him."

Paco was chuckling. I'd given him a lot to laugh at.

"What if I got it already?"

"Then you wouldn't bother talking to me now." Maybe the bluff would stall things longer. I had no idea if there was enough truth in it to give him doubts, but I was certain I hadn't talked aboard the Elvira. He might still want his list. "I came here to look for my brother. You caught me square, but I'm willing to deal."

"I'll just bet you are." Paco came closer, his eyes absorbing my face. I hoped my reclaimed youth would pass the hard study. "I'll deal with you the same as I did with him." His hand came up and he tried to knock my jaw off its hinges. I faked the impact, snapping my head hard over and letting my knees buckle. The two men on either side kept me standing.

Not that I paid them much attention, my guts had gone cold. (They were going to kill me they were going to beat me to death) "You hear me, punk?" Paco's voice jolted me back to the hallway. "You start talking. You tell me how you got in here. You tell-"

"Frank?"

"What?" His head jerked around in irritation. Another man strolled up.

He was in evening clothes, holding a glass, and his face had the broken-veined, dissipated look of a confirmed alcoholic.

"Ask him what he was doing in the lab. Is the lab safe?"

"He musta got in somehow to get Newton out, Doc," said Harry. "The door's locked now and I don't have no key to check."

"Oh, of course, hold my drink." The man fumbled in his pockets. "I have mine right here um somewhere."

"I told you, I was only looking for my brother," I insisted, needing to sidetrack them.

"Then why were you dragging Newton around?"

"I thought I could use him as a hostage."

Paco didn't believe that one at all, not that I blamed him. He threw a hard punch to my stomach. I doubled over, remembering to force air from my lungs. I sagged between my supports, gagging a little, and hoped my performance was convincing.

"How'd you get in here?" Paco repeated.

"Snuck past men--open window--"

"Frank, do you have your key, I must have left mine--"

"Not now. Doc!"

"You'll think not now if he's damaged anything down there."

Paco growled and slapped through his pockets. I straightened, worked saliva into my mouth, and spit right in Paco's face.

It was a more than sufficient distraction. Paco gaped at me, frozen in sheer disbelief. His big hand came up slowly to wipe it away. I found a perverse enjoyment in the situation and let it show.

"Leave it there," I suggested. "On you it looks good."

He went beet red, then hit me hard enough to knock me from the grip of my two supports. Stiff-legged, he bulled after me with his fists ready, and I made a big show of cowering and backing away. Paco struck again and again. I was only distantly aware of the blows, feeling impact rather than pain. He'd wear his hands out before he could do me any real harm now. I put on a good act, though, crying out, throwing my arms up, trying to protect my face and groin and each second moving farther and farther away from the basement door.

I heard it a split second before anyone else and, down already, I just covered my head and lay prone.

The blast roared up the stairs, knocking the bottom door to splinters and shattering every window in the house. The whole structure shook; plaster and framed pictures alike jumped from the walls to the bucking floor. The men in the hall were bounced away by the concussion, and the machine gun went off and tore holes in the ceiling.

Paco, Doc, and Harry were knocked flat, Paco actually somersaulting over me. People were yelling alarms in other parts of the house and beneath it all, like the purr of a tiger, I heard the fire. It was time to go.

I got my feet under me and stood in time to greet the reinforcements rushing in from the dining room. Spotted as the outsider, two of them grabbed me while a third aided Paco. He threw off the helping hands and came straight for me. He halted inches away, glaring.

"Take this bastard to my office. Somebody call the fire department."

They dragged me to the office on the other side of the house. Behind us Paco was talking to Doc.

"Get up, you goddamned lush. We got work to do."

I faked weakness, hoping they might get careless and take their eyes off me for a moment so I could disappear, but there was no such luck, not with the boss right behind them. They kept their eyes and guns locked on my head until Paco came in, dragging Doc with him.

Doc was the worse for wear and dropped onto a couch, holding his head.

Paco went to the massive desk, unlocked it, and began cramming papers into a briefcase.

"What's Slick going to say about this?" Doc wondered out loud.

"I already know," said Paco. "And if you got any brains in that skull that ain't been pickled yet, you'll figure it out, too."

"What will we do?"

"A quick trip outta town with a few of my best boys until this blows over."

"An apt phrase."

"And this mug's coming, too. Slick and me screwed up with his brother, but I won't be taking any chances with this one. If I come up with his list and hand it over, Slick will cancel all my IOUs."

"Assuming you get him to talk."

"He'll talk. He don't have his brother's guts."

Oh, yeah?

"What about me?"

"Don't worry, I'll find a safe spot for you until we can set things up again." He snapped the case shut. "Come on."

They opened the door to a smoke-filled hallway. Paco's men were losing out to the fire. He slammed the door, coughing. "We'll take the back way," he said, and started for another door across the room.

Just as he touched the knob, the lights went out. Not knowing how long it would last, I took advantage of the situation. In seconds I knocked Doc and the other two men out cold. The sounds alerted Paco. He swung around, a gun in his hand.

"What's going on?" he demanded. "Doc? Sam? Answer me!"

I grabbed his wrist, pushing the gun away and squeezing. He grunted in pain, dropping the gun from suddenly nerveless fingers. He was trying not to scream. I eased off, but only a little.

"Fleming, it's you, ain't it? We can still talk. I can still give you your brother--" Now he did scream, my grip on his wrist tightened involuntarily and the bones snapped. He dropped the briefcase and sank to the floor when I released him.

"No deals, Paco," I whispered from the dark.

"What d'ya want? Just tell me"

What I wanted he didn't want to know. The hate inside me was growing like a separate living thing, and I wanted to turn it loose on this man and let it tear him to bloody ribbons. I picked him up by the clothes and shoved him against the wall. He made a small movement with his left hand. I should have paid attention, but was too crazy to notice. He drew a slightly deeper breath and briefly held it, which was a warning, but then it was too late. The hard snout of a nickel-plated derringer was pressed up under my rib cage and he triggered both shots.

Two red-hot comets tore through me, leaving behind the harsh, ringing aftershock of pain. My body spasmed once for each bullet. I must have cried aloud in reflex, because it hurt like hell. Paco let his breath out in relief and waited for me to fall away.

Instead I slapped the gun from his fingers and laughed. It sounded ugly to me, and I could only imagine what it was doing to him. My lungs ran out of air and I was still laughing, shaking with it, drunk from the look of fear on his face. He fought to get away, but I hoisted him right off his feet and pinned him to the wall. There was just enough thin light coming from the windows for him to see my face. His pop eyes bulged even more, his head shook, and he looked ready to scream, but it was reduced to a whimper that seeped out of his mouth like dribble.

"What's on the list?" I said, giving him a shake to punctuate the question. His heels knocked loosely against the wall.

"N-n-numbers."

"What numbers?"

"C-code--don't know--"

"What do you want it for?"

He was struggling again. "You're dead, I shot you--"

"You're damn right I'm dead, you son of a bitch. You tell me why."

" dead, shot you--"

"What is the list for? Why do you want it?"

"Slick!" The name was screamed out. It could have been an answer or a call for help.

"What does Slick have to do with it?"

"He wants Him--you get him. Lemme go, oh God, lemme go!"

"Who killed Fleming?"

"I dunno."

"Did you?"

"No!" The denial was too fast and forceful. "It was Slick! He said to do it. Him!"

"Why?"

"Shut him up. Please, lemme--"

"Where?"

"Yacht."

"The Elvira!"

"Yes."

"Who else was there?"

"Fred, he tried to tell me. Oh God, tried--"

"What? Tell you what?"

"You're dead. Go away, go away." Tears streamed down the man's cheeks from his wide-open eyes.

The hot, living hate was banging around inside me, fighting to get free, clouding my brain like the smoke that was just starting to ooze into the room. Our eyes were locked. He couldn't turn away, and then it was too late. He stiffened under my hands like a corpse. His mouth dropped wide and a gagging noise came out. The noise shaped itself, rose in volume, and lengthened into a full-fledged shriek that had no humanity in it. I let go and stepped away. Something else inside me released him as well, and the screaming died away. Paco dropped facedown on the floor and didn't move.

I stared, afraid and wondering what I'd done to him. I was cold all over and shaking, feeling drained and weak. Out in the hall someone ran up, shouting for Paco. The door opened, and smoke billowed into the room along with two blinded, coughing men.

Paco was still alive, but he didn't respond when I turned him over and there was a heart-sinking blankness in his eyes. As surely as I'd broken his wrist, I had shattered his mind. Considering what he had done to me and who knows how many other poor slobs who couldn't hit back, I felt no pity for him. I picked up his briefcase and retreated a few steps through the door we were to use before the lights went out. By then, the newcomers were tripping over unconscious bodies.

What the hell? They're all out Mr. Paco? Mr. Paco?"

But Paco was still oblivious.

"We gotta get 'em outta here." The back way?"

"Too slow--open the window."

I quietly left while the men were busy lowering bodies into the flower beds outside. No one really noticed as I crossed the open grounds this time. All eyes were on the house. Some of them had been late-staying guests still in evening dress, others were servants, the rest looked like the thugs they were, and all huddled in little groups and stared at the smoke rising from the windows to the sky. Shouts from the other end of the house brought help to the men who were getting Paco out, saving me the trouble. I may have hated his guts, but I wouldn't have let him burn to death.

Turning away, I walked unchallenged out the front gates and down the road. In the distance I could hear the first fire trucks approaching.

Escott was standing on the fender of the Nash, craning to get a better view of things.

"You were successful?" he asked when he could see me.

"Yeah, it was a real riot."

"Anything wrong?"

"No." I got in the car and tried to pull myself together. I felt the same as when I'd hit Sanderson and turned his face inside out, only this time it had been Paco's mind. I wasn't sorry about it, but I was frightened that I had such an ability and of what it might do to someone who didn't deserve it.

Escott started the car and got us well on our way back to the city. He was looking at me, wanting to ask what was the matter, but forcing himself to be patient. I shrugged and shook myself as though I'd solved a problem. It wasn't solved by a long shot, but I could at least push it aside for the moment.

He took my movements as an opening to conversation. "What is in your case?"

I'd forgotten it. "Some of Paco's papers. He seemed to think they were important enough to carry from a burning house, so I took them away instead."

"Dear me, yes, they should prove to be most interesting, indeed. But did he not see you?"

"Yeah, he saw me, but I passed myself off as my younger brother Gerald, who I invented just then, and he swallowed it."

"Then will he not be in pursuit of Gerald?"

"The explosion and fire were some big shock to him. I don't think he'll be looking for me at all. He was talking about finding a deep hole and pulling it in after him. If his boys are smart they'll be doing the same thing."

"If they're smart. What else happened?"

"I think I met the alchemist; they called him Doc. He was drunk, but still had more brains than the others, he nearly spoiled the boom. I last saw him being hauled out a window, guess he got too much smoke. He was worried about what Slick would say once the news was out, which was why Paco was leaving town. Morelli holds all his markers."

"He may have a difficult time collecting now."

"I I started to remember things, Pace's voice--I nearly had another seizure, but snapped out of it. I found out for certain I was killed aboard the Elvira for some kind of coded list. Paco and Morelli were both after it, so it wasn't just the loan and money tying them together."

"At one point it was you and what you knew."

"When I didn't talk I know they beat the hell out of me before Paco"

(He raised the gun to my chest and fired. The flash filled my eyes, I fell) My head bumped hard against the dashboard. My shoes were stained with grass and damp. Escott said my name in a worried tone and brought the car to a stop. He pushed me upright against the seat, and I shook my head like a dazed prizefighter, my eyes blinking as I tried to regain the present.

"Fleming?"

"I'm all right." I was a little surprised; the guy was really concerned about me.

"You don't look it," he said.

My ears were ringing from the memory of the shot and I felt weak; my vision was fuzzy around the edges. The shock of memories coming back I couldn't help, but I could handle the cause of these new symptoms.

"I just--just drop me at the Stockyards. I'll walk home from there, if you don't mind."

He didn't.

Maybe I'd talk with him later, for right now things in my stirred-up brain could wait. We were both tired. For something to do I opened the briefcase and rummaged through the papers. There was a lot of junk I didn't feel like wading through just then. No doubt Escott would enjoy every bit of it later. Then I found an interesting item at the bottom of the case which I could immediately understand. If the printing on the homemade wrappers could be believed, I was holding five neat bundles of one hundred twenties--ten thousand dollars all in one lump sum sitting in the palm of my hand. After spending so many years living close to the edge, all that cash felt pretty damn good.

"Who says there's no justice?" I mumbled.

"What?"

"You want some?"

Escott spared a glance at the money and managed not to run us off the road. "Well, well."

"You think it's marked?"

"Knowing Paco, I think not, but it won't hurt to make a thorough check."

"You mean we keep it?"

"Why not? You once asked me if I were rich. I said sometimes. This is one of those times. A little extra cash is always handy."

"I thought you might be above this sort of thing."

He looked pained. "A Free Agent is entitled to whatever rewards his conscience will permit. If this is Paco's money, my conscience can become quite elastic. It is? Then I think we should consider this to be sufficient recompense for our work tonight. I shall put my share to good use, such as interior improvements to my home."

If he meant his two-room office, he could use a lot of help there. I looked down at the shredded cloth on my stomach. "I think I'll get some new clothes."

Escott looked at the holes. "I thought I smelted cordite. What happened?"

"I annoyed Paco."

He wisely decided to leave it at that.

After feeding and a good day's rest I felt a lot better, and the next night I made an effort to find a men's store that closed early, so I sifted through the ads in the papers, squinted at my map, and located a place nearby that might fill my needs. Then I went downstairs, got a handful of change at the desk, and folded myself into a phone booth. The operator put me through to Cincinnati.

"Hi, Mom. What's going on?"

After last night I needed a dose of reality, and happily used up my change talking to her and Dad about mundane things. We argued about money a little.

"Don't think we don't appreciate this. Jack," said Mom, "but you can't afford to be sending us twenty-five dollars all the time. You have to save a little for yourself."

I thought about the five thousand dollars Escott would be bringing by tonight. My current expenses were running about fifteen dollars a week, including rent and tips. My food, of course, was free. At that rate I could easily spare my folks twenty-five bucks a week for the next two years or more. Maybe by that time Roosevelt would have the economy back on keel.

"I'm saving a little How are my siblings?"

"What?"

"How's the family? Any new nephews or nieces?"

"Yes, Sarah Jane wrote just the other day" And she went down the line chattering about my three brothers and three sisters and the growing brood of grandchildren, then had to hand the phone over to Dad.

"Where are you staying so we can write you?"

"I'm just at a small hotel for now, and I may be moving on if I find a better place," I hedged. I didn't want them knowing I was staying under an assumed name. I asked him about the store and about his drinking buddies and what he thought about Hitler, safely distracting him away from questioning me. I'm a lousy liar at the best of times and my parents were always able to tell when I was trying to give them the business. The best thing was to keep my distance until I could figure out what was safe for me to tell them about my condition, or if I could tell them anything at all.

"What happened to all that reporting?" he demanded.

"What's all this about an ad agency? I thought all those places were in New York."

"They have a few out here, and they pay good money to bright boys like me."

" Like--what--oh, your mom asks when you coming back for a visit?"

"When I get a vacation."

"When's that?"

"I don't know, I just started. Give me some time to get settled into things."

"You know you got work here if you need it."

"I know, and thanks."

"Well, this is costing you a fortune. Write next time."

"I will, don't worry."

He gave the phone over to Mom, who said pretty much the same stuff, then repeated it all over again to make sure I understood.

"And remember what I said about saving some for yourself."

"Yes, Mom."

"And be careful about what you eat. No drugstore hot dogs."

"No, Mom, I promise."

She said good-bye, gave the phone over to Dad again, and he told me to stay out of trouble, and we said good-bye.

I stayed in the booth for a while, my head down and a cold hard ache inside. I hadn't been really homesick since I first left for the Army as a kid. At least back then I knew I could return again, that home and things would be the same as ever, but that was a kid's thinking. Their lives had changed and I had changed and grown up. I didn't necessarily like the situation, but there wasn't a whole hell of a lot anybody could do about it.

I backed quickly out of the confining space of the booth and went outside, trying to put distance between myself and the loneliness. The depression followed, but its hold lessened with the distractions the long streets offered. Thirty minutes of roundabout walking put me in front of a men's shop that had been advertised in the papers.

It was closed and no one would be in the back working late, which was exactly why I picked the place. I didn't need any hovering clerks asking awkward questions about my aversion to mirrors.

I slipped inside and got oriented. The front window shades had been pulled, but the low level of illumination was more than adequate.

"Riming the lights on would have just annoyed a passing cop. After poking around, I located a pencil, receipt book, and a pair of gloves, not necessarily in that order, and proceeded to wait on myself.

Careful to print, I recorded the purchase of several shirts, ties, a couple of suits, some other odds and ends, and the real corker: a tuxedo, complete right down to the white fringed scarf to drape around my neck. I figured the scarf would make me look more like Fred Asia ire than Bela Lugosi.

The clothes were high quality and with a price to match, but aside from rent and a few tips, I wasn't spending my money on very much else. I overpaid the purchases by three bucks since I was out of small bills, but thought it would be sufficient compensation to the shop owner for my inconvenient nocturnal intrusion. I could have just walked out with the stuff, but I'm basically an honest guy. Besides, if the incident were reported to the cops, they would probably do nothing. The stuff was paid for and then some. They'd have bigger fish to catch than some customer who took self-service very seriously.

After packaging everything up into a stack of long, flat boxes, I tried leaving by the back door in order to avoid witnesses to my impromptu Houdini act. There were alarms on all the doors, set to go off if they were opened, so I was forced to dematerialize to get out. Not all the boxes went through, the ones that didn't tumbled to the shop floor. I made several trips in and out after that, holding the larger ones close.

Since I had to enter the back door of my hotel by the same method, I got a lot of practice in that night. The boxes all bore the name of the store I'd "burgled" and I didn't want to be seen entering the lobby at a late hour with an armful of incriminating evidence. Should the story of the honest thief make the morning papers, the last thing I needed was to have some night clerk putting things together. Maybe I was being overly cautious, but sometimes paranoia pays off.

Before midnight had rolled around, my new duds were hung up, their labels removed and flushed. Taking another short walk out the back way, I disposed of the boxes and wrappings in some isolated trash can.

Escott was sitting in my armchair smoking his pipe when I returned.

"You certainly waste no time." He nodded at my open closet and its new contents, and his eyes went to the top hat on the bureau. "Planning an evening out?"

"Maybe. From what I hear about the Nightcrawler Club, I figure a plain old suit and tie wouldn't get me past the hat check girls."

He murmured agreement. If he had questions about how and where I came by the stuff, he kept them to himself.

"Is this a social visit?"

"More or less. I was wondering if you had seen the papers."

I knew what he was talking about. "Yeah, but you know how these things can get distorted. Editors like to punch things up; it sells papers."

"True, but even taking that into consideration, there was quite a lot of copy devoted to Frank Paco's mental condition."

"He must have been running close to the edge. The fire may have pushed him right over--either that or he's faking to keep Morelli from collecting."

"Has your memory come back on anything since last night?"

"Haven't thought about it," I lied. "I've been busy."

"And I as well." He pulled five thousand dollars from his inside pocket and gave them to me.

"Clean?"

"Very clean."

"I'll try not to spend it all in one place. Don't I owe you something, though?"

"For what?"

"For this case, or are you working for free these days?"

He made a noise that was something like a laugh. "Mr. Fleming, I have already received a very exceptional fee for this case and it is safely lodged in my home, all five thousand of it. You have been more than generous, believe me. As it was, I had not planned to bill you anything at all, especially not after you prevented Sanderson from dumping my careless carcass into the river."

"All right, we'll call it even, then."

"You don't keep banker's hours. You have a safe place to keep your share?"

"Don't worry, it's locked away."

"Very well." He changed the subject again, but kept the conversational tone in his voice. "Did you know that several of Paco's key men have been arrested on suspicion of arson?"

"Fancy that," I chuckled.

"I've also been going through the papers you brought out."

"Is it good stuff?"

"It is excellent stuff. I made copies for future reference, and then anonymously turned them over to the right people. If Paco were in his right mind, he would certainly be in jail by now, rather than in hospital."

"Better that he's in the hospital; he can't make bail and leave the country."

"He does have a police guard on him."

"Couldn't happen to a more deserving guy."

"What did you do to him?" he asked in the same quiet tone.

I wasn't ready to talk about it. He could see that, but just sat there and waited.

"Was it something to do with your condition?" he said after a long time.

After all the activity last night I had needed to go straight to the Stockyards, so he knew I hadn't touched Paco's throat. Such an assault might have driven the man around the bend, though at the time it hadn't even occurred to me to try. Escott was fishing around for something more subtle.

I avoided his eyes. "You've seen him?"

"I talked with a nurse who had."

"How is he?"

"The same as he was last night."

He wanted to know very badly.

"Was that a result of one of your powers?"

I caught myself avoiding his eyes again and stopped. "You make it sound like I'm Chandu the Magician."

"More like Lamont Cranston."

He was referring to the introduction of "The Shadow" radio show. Every time it came on, the audience was reminded of his power to cloud men's minds. "Yeah, I guess it was something like that."

"What kind of control do you have?"

"I don't know, that was the problem."

"Are you going to learn how?"

"No!"

He gave me a few minutes to cool down. I paced the little room and looked out the window for a while. The street was still down there. I thought about Maureen and all the things she hadn't told me.

"Mr. Fleming"

His formality was annoying. "Why don't you call me Jack?"

' 'I was going to wait until your case was cleared away. I prefer to keep things on a business level with my clients until they cease to be my clients."

I looked at him now. My mind was concentrated and I prayed controlled.

His gray eyes had ceased their normal movements and were locked onto mine. It was so damned easy.

"Call me Jack."

His pipe dropped to the floor with a clack, and the tobacco inside scattered from the impact. The movement distracted me just enough. His eyes blinked and his face resumed the expression he had a few seconds ago.

"Where's your pipe?" I asked.

He found it and apologized for the mess.

"But how did it get there?"

"I must have dr--" He let his breath out slowly. "You did it just now?"

"Yes, I told you to do something. The pipe falling was just a side issue. Now do you see why I want to leave this alone?"

"Induced hypnotism"

"No--"

"Jack, this is not something you should avoid, this demands responsib--"

"Am I still your client?"

It was an oddball question and he wondered why I'd asked it. I told him.

"You see how it is? You weren't even aware of what I did. You think it's your own idea. If I told you to jump out the window singing 'Swanee' you'd do it."

"If it were hypnosis, I would not."

"Yeah, I know all that. You can't get a person to do anything against his will--but that's for the normal kind, and this isn't."

"How do you know that?"

"Because I saw what it did to Paco."

"Did you do it on purpose?"

"No--I don't know--it was an emotional thing as well. I don't know how it works, it just happened. It got away from me and I'm not going to try anything like that again. I have no right to."

"And how do you plan to control it if you choose to ignore it?"

"I don't know I'll work things out. I could avoid all this arguing by just telling you to forget all this."

"Then do so."

"No. I'm not going to go banging around in your brain with a monkey wrench and have you ending up like Paco."

Escott nodded thoughtfully and refilled and lit his pipe. "I almost wish other people were as morally minded as that, but then I should be out of a job."

It took me a minute to figure out what he meant by that beyond the obvious, but at times I could be pretty damn slow. His needling had been more of a test than curiosity. Apparently my reaction was satisfactory and I almost resented his game. Almost, because if our positions were reversed I might have done the same thing to him.

I tried to laugh, but it came out sour. "Yeah, I'm a goddamned Jack Armstrong."

He stood up. "If you've nothing else planned, would you care to go for a drive? I find it to be quite relaxing and I've something you might like to see."

I didn't, so we did. He took the Nash as far north as the streets led without actually being in the lake, then took an east-west road. He went dead slow past a two-story brick building that took up the whole block.

The place was dark except for a couple of upstairs windows.

"The Nightcrawler Club," he said, in case I'd missed the dark neon sign on the front. "I thought you'd like a look at it. They're closed on Sundays."

He drove down a block and pulled over. We got out and walked past the place, then around to the back. I noticed someone standing in the rear alley and told Escott to keep going. We turned away from the club, going north again until we were stopped by a railing that overlooked the lake.

We stood only ten feet above the black water, but I hated any kind of height, and kept away from the rail. Escott leaned on it and stared at the garbage swelling against the concrete boundary of the land.

"Who was in the alley?"

"An off-duty waiter, maybe, but he was dressed fancy."

"We can try again later."

He pushed away from the rail and headed east along the water. There wasn't much to see: a few boats tied up, others were at anchor farther out; they all looked asleep at this late hour.

"Do you see anything out there?" He pointed to something large out on the lake. The last time I'd seen it was in profile. Its stern was toward us now, but I had no trouble reading the name.

"The Elvira."

"I couldn't be sure of her in the dark, but she is in the same spot she was in this afternoon. Morelli's on board now with his lady friend. He spends his free time there when he can."

"Must be nice."

"What does it bring to mind?"

I shook my head. "Sorry. Right now it's just another boat."

We walked on and made a big circle before coming back to the club. The alley was clear this time, but there wasn't anything worth seeing. It was wide enough for the delivery trucks, and had no more than its share of trash at the edges and the usual loading platform and steps that go with back doors. When I took an incidental breath, the place stank with a wet and used smell-nothing extraordinary--it could be found in any alley with bad drainage the world over.

I shook my head again to his unasked question. As a memory jog, the place was useless. We walked back to the car, or at least tried. The fancily dressed man must have taken a turn around the block himself. It was hard to tell who was more surprised. Automatically his hand went to his belt, where he kept his gun.

"What're you doing here? Get out!"

We were more than ready to oblige and moved away from him, but like a yapping dog, he trotted up behind to make sure we left. Things were peaceful enough until someone else stepped out the back door.

"What is it, Ed?"

"Couple of guys and they're leaving."

"Who are you with?" he said to us.

"Just ourselves, takin' a walk home," said Escott. He had an American accent now and sounded slightly drunk.

"And where's home?"

"Nonayur business. You want us out, we're out." Swaying, he grabbed my arm and started away.

"Ed."

Ed needed no further instructions. He came around in front of us and pulled the gun. I hoped it was too dark for him to see our faces clearly.

"What's the big idea?" protested Escott. "We're gotn'."

"In a minute," said Ed. "Turn around and keep your hands out."

He marched us up to the loading dock, the second man joining us at street level. He also had a gun. With his other hand he was pulling out a lighter. While he rumbled to get it working, I felt Escott's muscles tighten. It wouldn't do us any good if those bozos got a clear look at us. While they were watching the sparking lighter, Escott released my arm and twisted backward, grabbing Ed's gun hand and forcing it down. I jumped the other guy and tried to do the same. He had the gun up and fired once, but I knocked it to the outside before it could do any damage. I didn't waste time pulling it away from him, but just hit the side of his head and stunned him. He went down hard and ceased to be a worry.

I checked Escott. Ed had lost his gun and they were both scrambling and rolling on the concrete to get it. I kicked it out of the way and when there was an opening in the punching and flailing, leaned in and knocked him cold. I dragged Escott to his feet, and we ran out of the alley for the car before the one wild shot could bring reinforcements. Escott had the keys out and ready. He opened the passenger door, dived in, and slid over. The Nash was started and in gear almost as fast.

He was breathless with a thin sweat on his face, but his eyes were gleaming happily. The man was crazy, he'd been enjoying himself back there.

"That was good exercise," he puffed. "At least we know they take their security as seriously as Paco."

"That could be a problem."

"But not for you, my dear chap. Thanks for the helping hand, that fellow was awfully fast."

"Anytime. Are you done for the night or do you want to take on any wandering longshoremen just to cap things off?"

"Another time. Believe me, I did not think they'd react so suspiciously.

The one on the steps must have seen through my drunk act. A pity, it went over well enough on stage. I shall have to show you my press clippings sometime. Oh, dear."

He pulled the car over fast, the right front wheel bumping the curb as we jerked to a halt. He was still breathing hard and his damp skin was gray.

"Oh, damn. Oh, bloody damn." He pressed a hand against his left side.

Blood was seeping freely between his fingers. "The bastard had a knife."

He slipped sideways against me and fainted.