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  “I’m sorry I upset you,” she said. “I’m not trying to be dramatic. I just want to make sure I’ll see you once more.”

  “Of course you will,” he said a little testily.

  “All right, Jim,” she said, sounding a little lost. “I didn’t mean to make you angry.”

  She hung up, and he stood for a moment with the phone still in his hand, blaming himself for snapping at her. It was a defense against having to admit his own feeling of guilt, he thought. He told himself he owed Belle nothing, that he’d never committed himself to anything but a casual affair, and that he shouldn’t feel any guilt.

  Nevertheless, when he finally hung the phone up, he still couldn’t shake the feeling.

  Henry’s Grill was as average-looking a neighborhood tavern as the Hurricane Bar had been. At this time of evening, after the cocktail hour and before people started out after dinner, the place was almost deserted. The colonel stood at the bar alone, talking to a bartender as bald as he was.

  As Horton entered the place, the bartender was saying, “You must have it wrong, mister. Doesn’t make sense, the way you put it.”

  Colonel Bob was wearing a deliberate expression of stupidity. Puckering his brow in thought, he said, “I’m sure that’s the way this fellow who showed it to me put it. Let’s see now. I’ll bet you a quarter that if you give me a half-dollar, I’ll give you a dollar bill. Isn’t that what I said before?”

  “Yeah. But you come out a quarter loser that way. You must have it wrong.” The bartender turned to Horton. “Yes, sir?”

  After paying for his dinner, Horton was down to a dollar bill and some change. He ordered a beer. He gave no sign that he had ever before seen the colonel.

  The bald barkeep drew a draft beer, set it before Horton and returned his attention to Colonel Bob.

  “Let’s try it out,” he suggested. “Where’s your dollar bill?”

  Taking out his wallet, the colonel extracted a crisp one and handed it over for inspection. After examining it carefully, the barkeep handed it back.

  “That’s the dollar bill you’ll give me for a half?” he inquired. “There’s no trick about giving me some play money or something, huh?”

  “I’m betting that I’ll give you this specific dollar bill I have here in my hand,” the colonel said, waving it. “Providing you first give me a half-dollar, of course.” He laid a quarter on the bar. “Put up your money.”

  The bartender mentally checked his arithmetic once more, winked at Horton and reached in his pocket to lay a twenty-five-cent piece on top of the colonel’s.

  “Now give me your half-dollar,” the colonel said.

  The barkeep reached in his pocket again, produced a half-dollar and handed it over. “Okay,” he said, holding out his palm. “Give me the dollar.”

  The colonel dropped both the dollar bill and the half into his pocket. “Pick up your money, sir,” he said with a winning smile. “You win the bet.”

  The bartender stared at him for a moment, then looked down at the two quarters still lying on the bar. He picked them up and wrinkled his brow. Then his expression cleared. “Yeah. Say, that’s pretty good. Worth two bits to learn it. Wait’ll I work it on some of the wise apples who come in here.”

  Then he had a thought. “Hey, this would work just as good for real stakes. For instance, you could say, ‘I’ll bet you a dollar that if you give me a ten, I’ll give you a twenty.’ You’d make nine bucks instead of a lousy quarter.”

  Colonel Bob shook his head chidingly. “Fight a war of containment,” he advised.

  “Huh?”

  “It’s an established military principle that when the enemy is capable of massive retaliation, you commit only enough troops to harass him, unless you’re prepared to withstand attack by his big guns.”

  The bartender said, “You’re over my head, mister.”

  “I’ll reduce it to a bartender-customer relationship. If you take a customer for a quarter, he’ll laugh it off as a joke. Clip him for nine dollars, and he’ll never come in again. You’d lost all your business.”

  After thinking this over, the barkeep gave a reluctant nod. “Guess you’re right at that.” Then he brightened. “I’m sure going to take a lot of these wise apples for two bits apiece, though.”

  The colonel turned to Horton. Addressing him in the polite tone of a stranger, he said, “Will you have a drink on my profits, sir?”

  Horton indicated that he would have another beer. The colonel ordered scotch on the rocks.

  When the drinks had been served, the colonel asked the bartender what he had to eat.

  “Just short order stuff,” the man said. “Sandwiches, chile, tripe.”

  Colonel Bob said, “I had a heavy lunch. All I want is a snack.” He ordered a hot roast-beef sandwich.

  When the bartender had disappeared into the kitchen, the colonel looked inquiringly at Horton. Horton produced the forty-five slug and dropped it into his hand.

  “From the gun I found at Velda’s place,” he said. “Will you have your pals over at Ballistics run a comparison against the murder bullet?”

  Colonel Bob examined the slug doubtfully. “How do I explain where I got it?”

  “You had an anonymous phone call from someone who knew you were writing up the case for Fact Crime Magazine. The voice told you where to find it—a dime locker at the railroad station, for instance. You can make up some likely place. The caller told you to have it checked against the bullet that killed Quincy. Said he’d phone back tomorrow to find out if they matched. If they did, he’d tell you where to find the gun.”

  The colonel nodded. “Think they’ll swallow that. Sounds logical enough.” He dropped the slug into his pocket.

  “If it does match, you can give me time enough to get the gun back into Velda’s house, then tell the cops your anonymous informer tipped you to where it is. If the gun’s registered to Quincy, that ought to take me off the hook altogether.”

  “You took the gun away with you?” the colonel asked. “Thought you were going to test it right there.”

  “Circumstances prevented it. How’d you make out with the lady?”

  Colonel Bob looked offended. “No gentleman discusses such things,” he said a trifle coldly. “No gentleman would ask.”

  “You’ve got a guilty conscience,” Horton told him. “I mean, did you have any trouble convincing her you were a writer?”

  “Oh,” the colonel said, a little abashed. “Of course not. Matter of fact, we spent a good deal of time discussing the case.”

  “You did? Learn anything from her?”

  “Nothing important. Naturally I couldn’t bring up the rumor that Quincy was on the verge of divorcing her. It did come out that she knew about the gun her husband owned, though. Claims he couldn’t find it?”

  “What? What’s she mean?”

  “She was describing the evening the threatening note showed up. She found it in the mailbox, she said, and took it in to her husband. His first reaction was to go looking for his gun. It wasn’t where he always kept it.”

  “He must not have looked very hard,” Horton said. “Or else it never happened. What do you make of her story?”

  The colonel shrugged. “Sounded like the truth. I didn’t inquire about the gun. Couldn’t, without making her wonder how I knew Quincy had owned one. She volunteered the information without prodding. It came out quite naturally, while she was describing her husband’s reaction to the threat.”

  “Hmm,” Horton said. “Suggests a guilty conscience, doesn’t it?”

  “How?” the colonel inquired, raising one eyebrow.

  “She seems to have gone out of her way to let you know the gun disappeared before the murder. Yet it was still in its usual place today. Why would she mention it, unless she was trying to plant the idea that she couldn’t have used it on her husband?”

  “Why would she mention it even if she did kill him? Why not let sleeping dogs lie?”

  “That’s what I me
ant about a guilty conscience,” Horton said. “She must have brought it up because it’s on her mind. Nobody but the killer would know that Quincy’s gun had any bearing on the case.”

  “One other possible explanation,” the colonel said.

  “What?”

  “She may simply have been telling the truth.”

  The bartender interrupted their conversation then by coming from the kitchen with the colonel’s hot roast-beef sandwich.

  CHAPTER XXI

  “WHERE YOU want it?” the barkeep asked the colonel.

  Colonel Bob nodded toward a booth. “Care to join me and have another beer, sir?” he asked Horton.

  Horton said, “I’ll have a cup of coffee with you.”

  “Make that two,” the colonel told the bartender.

  They seated themselves and the bartender returned to the kitchen for the coffee. The colonel looked after him thoughtfully.

  “Seems to me he was looking you over rather closely,” he said.

  Horton glanced at him in surprise. “I didn’t notice it.”

  When the barkeep returned with the coffee, Horton surreptitiously watched him. The man didn’t seem to be paying him any more attention than he did the colonel.

  Setting the coffee and two cream containers before them, the bartender asked, “Anything else, gentlemen?”

  Both shook their heads. The bartender returned to the kitchen. They could hear him begin to rattle dishes back there.

  “Probably my overactive imagination,” the colonel said.

  “I’ve got one too,” Horton told him. “I start sweating every time somebody gives me a second glance. But I didn’t notice this fellow eyeing me particularly.”

  The colonel started to eat his sandwich. After a moment Horton said, “Still have your friend Tyrell on the string?”

  The colonel affixed him with his invisible monocle. “How’d you learn his name? Belle been talking?”

  Grinning, Horton shook his head. “I eavesdropped last Friday evening when Belle was dining with him. Sidetracking you this way isn’t going to make you lose out with him, is it?”

  Colonel Bob smiled. “It’s only whet his appetite. The delay’s killing him. He’s afraid I may change my mind and not let him in on the deal.”

  Conversation lapsed then, as the colonel disposed of his sandwich and Horton sipped his coffee. When he finished the sandwich, the colonel produced two cigars and offered one to Horton.

  Horton shook his head. The colonel returned one to his pocket, started to strip cellophane from the other, then stopped the movement and slowly returned it to his pocket too. With suddenly narrowed eyes, he glanced over his shoulder at the kitchen door.

  “Hasn’t been any sound from there in some time,” he said softly. “There’s a phone on the wall back there, too. Noticed it through the open door when we were at the bar.”

  Instantly Horton became alert. He too looked toward the kitchen door. He strained his ears against a silence which suddenly seemed ominous.

  Quietly the colonel slipped from the booth and peered out the front window. Then he turned and made an urgent gesture toward an open door at the end of the bar through which stairs descending to the cellar could be seen.

  “Cops,” he said in a barely audible voice. “I’ll stall them.”

  Without a sound, Horton moved toward the stairs, his eyes on the door to the kitchen. The bartender was not in sight.

  The only spot from which he could be seen from the kitchen door was the end of the bar. He passed behind it on his hands and knees and scuttled through the basement doorway. He was halfway down the stairs when he heard the sound of the tavern’s front door opening. Quietly, he descended the rest of the way and moved in under the stairs.

  A deep voice said with surprise, “Why, hello, Major. What are you doing here?”

  Apparently the colonel had slid back into the booth, for his voice came from that direction. “Lieutenant Grady. This is a happy chance. I was just going to phone you.”

  The voice of the bartender came from the kitchen doorway. “You men police officers?” he asked anxiously.

  “Yeah,” a fourth voice said. “Where is he?”

  “He was sitting right there in the booth with this gentleman,” the bartender said excitedly. “I recognized him from his description. Where’d he go, mister?”

  “The man I was talking to?” the colonel asked. “Why he walked out some time ago. What’s this all about?”

  Grady’s deep voice said, “Who was he, Major?”

  Horton could almost see the colonel’s shrug. “Just a man I fell into conversation with at the bar, Lieutenant. He didn’t offer his name. What’s it all about?”

  “This guy phoned in that Quincy’s killer was here. We got half the force surrounding this place.”

  “You mean that Horton fellow?” the colonel inquired. “Oh, come now, Lieutenant. Wouldn’t that be quite a coincidence?”

  “What?”

  “I mean my casually running into him at a bar. When I’m doing research on the very murder he’s accused of. Things like that just don’t happen.”

  “You mean it wasn’t him?”

  There was a thoughtful silence on the colonel’s part. “Now that I think of it, he did answer the newspaper description pretty well,” he finally admitted. “Except for his hair. Papers described Horton as wearing a crew cut.”

  “He had a hat on,” the bartender said. “You couldn’t see his hair. It was him all right. Fitted his description to a tee.”

  “Yeah?” Grady said. “Well, we’ll take a look around. You check the washrooms, Cassidy. I’ll take a look in the basement.”

  Footsteps began to move toward the cellar door. Horton took a quick glance around. The only illumination in the basement came from a couple of narrow, dirt-encrusted windows at street level. It was just enough to show two doors. One, padlocked shut, was probably to a liquor storeroom. The other had a heavy refrigerator-door handle and was obviously to the beer-cooler.

  The stairway was the only way out of the basement.

  Grady’s foot was on the top step when the colonel’s voice said, “You’re wasting time, Lieutenant. I saw him walk out the front door. If it was your man, you’d better start a search of the neighborhood before he gets clear away.”

  There was a heart-stopping pause, then the lieutenant’s foot withdrew and he walked back into the upstairs room. “Cassidy!” he called.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Forget the washrooms. Tell the boys outside to spread out through the area. Have them check every tavern and store that’s open. And keep a lookout for him on the street. Hey, bartender. What was he wearing again?”

  “A light gray plaid sport jacket, gray slacks, brown shoes and a brown hat. White shirt and a red-and-blue plaid tie. I looked him over real good and memorized it.”

  “Got it,” Cassidy’s voice said. “Okay, Lieutenant. I’ll put the boys on it.”

  The sound of the front door opening and closing again came to Horton.

  Grady said, “You mentioned you were going to phone me, Major. What about?”

  “I got a funny telephone call,” the colonel said. “Tell you about it outside. Don’t want to keep you from your men. How much do I owe you, bartender?”

  “Forty for the sandwich. Twenty for your coffee and that other guy’s coffee. Sixty cents.”

  There was a short silence, then the ding of the cash register and the sound of change being slapped on the bar. Two sets of footsteps moved toward the door.

  As the door opened, the colonel’s voice said, “This was an anonymous call, Lieutenant. Fellow phoned me at the Rafferty House. Said he’d heard I was writing up the Quincy case for Fact Crime Mag—”

  The rest was cut off by the door closing behind them.

  Upstairs there was the sound of the bartender drawing himself a glass of beer. He muttered something to himself which Horton couldn’t catch.

  Horton glanced around the basement again. Th
en, stepping soundlessly on the balls of his feet, he made a circuit of it. The two windows were too narrow to get through, and, anyway, they were nailed shut. They couldn’t possibly be opened without the sound being heard upstairs.

  Even if it had been possible to sneak past the bartender, there was no point in trying to leave the basement while police were still in the area. Horton quietly upended a beer case behind the furnace and sat on it. Here he would be out of sight if the bartender had to come downstairs to tap a new keg, or to get bottles from the liquor storeroom.

  He settled down to wait until it was safe to make a break.

  CHAPTER XXII

  HORTON DECIDED to give the police two hours to convince themselves he had escaped from the neighborhood. It was now seven P.M. He would make his break at nine.

  At ten minutes after seven he heard the first evening customer arrive. When he heard him exchange greetings with the bartender, Horton moved over beneath the stairs to listen for a few moments.

  First the sound of a beer being drawn came to him, then the clink of the glass being set on the bar. The cash register dinged.

  “Had a little excitement here a few minutes ago,” the bartender said. “Guy answering the description of Quincy’s killer dropped in and had a couple of beers as big as you please. I phoned the cops from the kitchen, and they came swarming all over the place. He took off, though, before they got here.”

  “I’ll be darned,” the customer said.

  Another customer came in, and after serving his drink, the bartender repeated the story. Horton went back to his seat behind the furnace.

  During the next hour and a half the barroom gradually filled up. It seemed to be strictly a men’s bar, for Horton couldn’t detect a single feminine voice from above.

  Several times he moved back beneath the stairs to listen to the conversation. The bartender was telling each new arrival about Quincy’s killer dropping in, and how he recognized him and phoned the police. Eventually, when everyone in the place had heard the incident several times, he recalled the con game the colonel had worked on him.

  “Hey,” Horton heard him say. “I got a good one to show you. I’ll bet you a quarter that if you give me a half, I’ll give you a dollar bill.”