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  At a table a short distance from the entrance he saw Belle Jarvis seated across from a plump, pompous-looking man of about fifty. Horton thought ruefully that apparently he would have been out of luck even if he had been willing to settle for second choice.

  The headwaiter was before him then, murmuring a polite, “Good evening, sir.”

  “Just a single, please,” Horton said. Then, on an impish impulse, he pointed to the table immediately behind Belle’s and asked, “Is that table taken?”

  “No, sir,” the headwaiter said, and led him over to it.

  Belle’s back was to the door. When Horton seated himself facing her back, she was unaware of it.

  A waitress brought water and a menu. Horton ordered a dry martini, opened the menu as the girl moved away, and strained to hear what Belle and her companion were saying while he studied it.

  He wasn’t in the least ashamed of eavesdropping. He assumed the man with Belle was the mark she and the colonel were setting up for a score, and it was accepted professional ethics among the exclusive fraternity to which he belonged to attempt to learn rival colleagues’ plans by any means which would not spoil the game. Neither Belle nor Colonel Robert Desmond would hesitate for an instant to tap his phone or steam open his mail, if they thought such prying would give them an opportunity to move in on his plans for a share of the profit.

  Horton wasn’t interested in moving in on their plans, for he always operated alone. He was eavesdropping merely because custom gave him the moral right to do it, and he was bored.

  Belle was saying, “It’s so hard for a woman with no business knowledge to know what to do, Mr. Tyrell. When my husband was alive, he handled all our investments, so I really know nothing about the stock market.” She emitted a tinkling little laugh. “If the major didn’t watch me like a hawk, I suppose some unscrupulous broker would have plucked me long ago.”

  The plump man nodded understandingly. “One sure safeguard against that, Mrs. Winters. Invest in government bonds.”

  “Oh, I have those,” Belle said. “I wouldn’t dream of touching my savings.” She laughed again. “Major Walsh wouldn’t let me anyway. The old dear treats me rather like an idiot child. But I want this ten thousand from the sale of my home to work for me. My husband always said part of your money should be in gilt-edged securities, and the rest should be invested to make more, even if it involved a calculated risk. But George had such good business sense, and I don’t have a bit.”

  “The stock market’s a little beyond me,” Tyrell said. “I own a few shares of G.M. and a bit of TV stock. But long as I can make money manufacturing boxes, I’ll leave market speculation to the other fellow. Afraid I’m not going to be much help.”

  Belle reached across the table to squeeze her companion’s hand. “You have such a fund of common sense, though, Mr. Tyrell. I’m sure I can rely on your judgment.”

  Mr. Tyrell inflated a little. “I’m not one to be taken in very easily,” he admitted. “But don’t you trust this fellow?”

  Belle emitted her tinkling little laugh again. “Major Walsh? Why, of course. He was my husband’s best friend. And he’s practically a father to me.”

  “Oh. Don’t you think he knows his stocks, then?”

  “The major would probably challenge you to a duel if he heard that,” Belle said with a smile. “Haven’t you ever heard of Major Herbert Walsh?”

  Tyrell shook his head. “Should I have?”

  “Well, he’s considered one of the outstanding authorities on the stock market in the country. It’s just a hobby, you know. He was a career soldier until the Korean War, and then he was seriously wounded and discharged. He never plays the market himself. He just enjoys studying it. Some of his friends have made fortunes from his advice, but he himself has never made a nickel. Doesn’t believe in speculation. He’s let me make a few dollars, but not nearly as much as I could have if he wasn’t so conservative. He never gives me a tip unless he’s convinced it’s sure-fire.”

  The plump man frowned puzzledly. “Don’t see why you need my opinion then.”

  “You don’t understand,” Belle told him. “I can never make head or tail of what the major’s talking about when he gets on the subject of stocks. He’s so full of expressions like money markets, and bullish trends, he might as well be speaking Swahili for all the sense I can make out of it. I need you to act as a sort of interpreter.”

  Tyrell gave her an indulgent smile. “I guess I know enough about economics to do that, if that’s all you want.”

  The waitress brought Horton’s cocktail then, and he lost track of the conversation while he was ordering dinner. He really didn’t have to hear any more to diagnose the plot, though. It was merely a variation of the ancient gimmick of the supposedly rich widow flattering the mark by asking his advice on an investment. Shortly the colonel would be along with such a sure-fire market tip, the mark would begin to wonder if he might get in on the deal too.

  The colonel would be a little dubious about letting a stranger in on such a sure thing, but after some coaxing by Belle and a promise of secrecy from the mark, he would let himself be brought around.

  By the time Horton’s dinner arrived, Belle and Tyrell were almost finished with their coffee. It was no surprise to Horton when Colonel Bob Desmond appeared just as Belle and the mark were getting ready to leave the table.

  The colonel was a portly man of sixty with a florid face, bright, birdlike eyes and a ragged mustache of sandy color. He had equally ragged eyebrows of the same hue, which suggested his hair had once been that shade too. There was no other way to tell, because he was totally bald.

  There was an odd mixture of Britishness and Americanism about the colonel. Physically he had all the attributes of the stock British colonial officer. A habit of hiking his left eyebrow at the same time he squinted his right eye even created the effect that he wore an invisible monocle. But his manner was that of an American officer. His bearing was erect without being stiff, his speech crisp, and he studded his conversation with military expressions.

  Horton happened to know he had never served a day in any army.

  The colonel was passing his table when Horton looked up at him calmly. The colonel’s gaze was on Belle and her companion, but the movement of Horton’s head caused him to glance sidewise. His mouth popped open.

  Without a sign of recognition, Horton returned his attention to his steak. The colonel recovered and moved on.

  When he reached Belle’s table, Colonel Bob inclined his body in the barest suggestion of a bow, said, “Ah, there you are, my dear,” and looked inquiringly at Belle’s companion.

  Belle performed introductions, referring to the colonel as “Major Walsh.” As Tyrell started to rise, Colonel Bob waved him back to his seat.

  “At ease, sir,” he said. “Make it a rule myself never to stand except for ladies and the Star-Spangled Banner. Silly convention. Meet so many people, you’d be bobbing up and down all the time if you didn’t establish and hold a position.”

  Tyrell sat down again and caught Belle’s eye. Major Walsh was a pompous old bear, her look seemed to say, but rather a family pet, and she hoped Tyrell would be forbearing with him.

  Tyrell was obviously flattered. Probably he had been prepared to be a little in awe of the stock-market wizard. But Belle’s tacit invitation changed his attitude to one of indulgence.

  Horton knew how things would develop from there. You aren’t likely to be wary of a man you condescend to. And when your condescension is tinged with genuine liking, you are even less inclined to be wary of him.

  Everybody liked Colonel Bob. Except in retrospect, after he had faded out of town.

  Tyrell said, “Sit down, Major, and we’ll order more coffee.”

  The colonel’s eyes flicked sidewise at Horton’s table in a movement missed by Tyrell, but caught by Belle. He said, “If you’ve finished, why don’t we all make an advance on the cocktail lounge?”

  Belle instantly rose and said, �
��That would be nice. I’d like a brandy.”

  Casually she glanced around, and her eyes widened when she saw Horton seated immediately behind her. Raising her chin in a gesture of disapproval, she swept by his table without looking at him.

  She hadn’t even given Tyrell time to pay the bill. As the colonel followed Belle toward the cocktail lounge, the plump man signed his check and dropped a tip on the table. Then he followed.

  Later, as Horton left the dining room, he glanced through the open door of the cocktail lounge. The three of them were seated at a table in front of the empty fireplace. The colonel was speaking, while Belle and the plump box manufacturer listened with rapt attention.

  At ten-thirty that night, Horton was reading in his room in his shirtsleeves. A soft rap came at the door.

  Laying aside his book, he rose and opened the door. He wasn’t overly surprised to find Belle in the hall.

  “Evening, Peeping Tom,” she said. “Alone?”

  “Uh-huh,” he said, and stepped aside for her to enter.

  She advanced to the center of the room and glanced around with the womanly air of searching for some sign of bachelor disorder. She seemed disappointed at not finding any. Horton pushed the door shut.

  “Sorry I have nothing to drink,” he said. “I could phone room service.”

  “Never mind,” she said. “I’ll settle for a cigarette.”

  He crossed to his dresser, picked up a pack and offered it. She selected a cigarette and waited while he held flame to it. She inhaled deeply, blew smoke from her nostrils, and studied him from narrowed eyes.

  He examined her in return. She was lovely in a green evening gown which left her dark-skinned shoulders bare and dipped in a deep V to expose the upper swell of perfect breasts.

  “Sit down?” he asked.

  “No, thanks. I’ll only be a minute.”

  He raised his eyebrows.

  “I came to give you a tip,” she said.

  “Yeah?”

  “Don’t take a fall in this town, Jim.”

  “I wasn’t planning to,” he said. “But why not?”

  “They throw the book at you. They hand out hard time like they own the calendar.”

  Horton raised his brows. “I understood it was pretty wide-open.”

  “Sure, for the locals. They’ve got the fix in. This character Tony Manzetti, who has his fingers in all the local rackets, has the chief of police and the D.A. right in his pocket. Which is why they’re so heavy on outsiders. There have been so many rumbles about corruption in the papers, the police and the D.A. try to make it look as though they’re doing their jobs when they get hold of a lawbreaker who isn’t protected by the machine.”

  Horton said, “Sounds logical.”

  “Another thing. Steer clear of a local named Honest John Quincy.”

  “Why?” he asked, remembering that this was the name of the used car dealer with the Jaguar. “That your mark?”

  “He started out to be,” she said candidly. “Until we found out who he was. Then we dropped him like a hot potato.”

  “Oh? Why?”

  “He’s chairman of the Civic Crime Committee, a volunteer organization of businessmen and community leaders dedicated to the elimination of rackets in Rice City. They haven’t had much luck in fighting the Manzetti machine, so they take out their frustration on minor criminals. If you get picked up for anything at all here more serious than a traffic charge, Honest John will be breathing down the D.A.’s neck to see that justice is done.”

  “If things are so rough,” he asked, “why did you and the colonel pick Rice City?”

  “You have to go where the marks are,” Belle shrugged.

  “They’re everywhere.”

  Horton eyed the girl speculatively for a moment and then grinned. “You didn’t have to tell me all that you know,” he said. “You don’t need a reason to visit.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Do you want me to be brutally frank?”

  She raised her chin. “You usually are.”

  “You just wanted an excuse,” he said.

  “Excuse for what?”

  “To come to my room,” he said in a mocking tone.

  CHAPTER IV

  BELLE’S CHIN went higher and her eyes blazed. Crossing to the dresser, she ground out her cigarette with a vicious gesture and wordlessly started for the door. Horton had moved too, though, and his back was to it.

  “Get out of my way, you beast!” she said.

  He gave her a lazy smile. “You’re pretty when you’re mad, sugar.”

  “I said, get out of my way!”

  Instead of answering, he took her by the shoulders and slowly drew her against his chest. He was not smiling now. She made no resistance, but her body was passive.

  He held her quietly, looking down into her upturned face.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” he said.

  One of his hands left her bare shoulder and his fingers wound into her dark hair. Brutally he jerked her head back until her face pointed straight upward. He kissed her savagely, forcing her lips apart. And then her arms slid about his neck and she strained against him eagerly.

  When he finally raised his mouth from hers, her brusied lips remained parted. Her head was still forced backward by his grip on her hair, but she made no attempt to free herself.

  He lifted her bodily, took three steps, and tossed her on the bed in a heap. She bounced to one elbow and stared at him with a mixture of fright and expectancy. He turned his back, walked to the doorway and snapped out the light.

  In the darkness he heard her shoes drop to the floor, then the rustle of clothing. He waited by the doorway until the rustling ceased.

  Then he moved toward the bed.

  Just before he reached it, her voice said in a barely-audible whisper, “You may as well know it. It was just an excuse.”

  Horton slept until nine. Sometime in the middle of the night Belle had left him. A parting kiss on his shoulder had momentarily roused him, but he had immediately fallen asleep again. He had a vague memory of her whispering, “Thanks, darling.”

  In the light of morning the words seemed unlikely, particularly the thanks. He decided he must have dreamed them.

  Downstairs he stopped at the desk for a paper to read at breakfast. The red-haired girl was on duty again. He was about to mention his attempt to phone her for a dinner date when a headline in the paper he had just bought distracted him. It blared: CRIME COMMITTEE HEAD THREATENED.

  Immediately beneath the headline was the photograph of a heavy-featured, black-browed man. The photograph was labeled: John Quincy.

  Bemused, Horton walked away reading the item without saying to the girl what he had intended. It read:

  “Honest” John Quincy, local auto dealer and chairman of the Civic Crime Committee, reported to police last night that he had received a threat against his life. The threat was in the form of a note composed of words clipped from a newspaper and pasted onto a sheet of paper. It read: “Call off your dogs, snooper, or you’re done. This is your last warning. Next you get a bullet.”

  According to Quincy, the note was left in his residence mailbox, at 223 River Road, sometime after the eleven A.M. mail delivery. The box was not checked again until eight P.M., when the threatening note was discovered.

  In an exclusive interview with a representative of this paper, Quincy expressed the belief that the threat referred to his committee’s recent probing into local rackets.

  “This is but another instance of the arrogance of Rice City’s organized criminal element,” he said in a prepared statement. “When known racketeers have the gall to threaten death to any law-abiding citizen who presumes to question their right to run roughshod over a community of a half-million people, it is time to examine our entire local political apparatus. What gives these racketeers such outrageous confidence in their power? Thinking citizens might well ask if the apparent immunity to the law enjoyed by certain racketeers in c
ontrol of Rice City doesn’t indicate a tie-in with the politicians in power, or even with the police. I have this to say in answer to this brazen threat: If anyone, including a certain gentleman named Manzetti, thinks such a threat can deter me from my battle against organized lawlessness, they have tried to intimidate the wrong man.”

  Presumably Quincy’s reference was to political boss and alleged racketeer Antonio (The Boss) Manzetti, whose affairs have been under investigation by the Civic Crime Committee for some time.

  Manzetti could not be reached for comment.

  Horton mused over the item all during breakfast. He had picked quite a town, he decided. Either Quincy’s Crime Committee was closer to breaking the local rackets than Belle had seemed to think, or this Manzetti man was so powerfully entrenched, he was totally contemptuous of what the public thought. For if the threat had originated with Manzetti, as Quincy seemed to believe, it was either a measure of desperation or a brazen flaunting of power.

  In either event, Horton thought with a grin, it ought to put Honest John Quincy in the proper mood to be highly intolerant of any sort of lawbreaking. This was going to make his own setup sure fire.

  It was eleven A.M. when Horton arrived at Trusting Joe Gannon’s Used-Car Lot. As soon as he set foot on it, a young man wearing a conservative blue suit stepped from the office building and approached him.

  “Help you, sir?” he asked with a friendly smile.

  “I was looking for a sports car,” Horton said, glancing up and down the rows of automobiles. “Don’t see any on display.”

  The young man chuckled. “Not in Rice City, mister. People here just don’t go for sports cars. We have a fine selection of hard-tops, though. Next best thing.”

  “Well, I really wanted a sports car,” Horton said. “Happen to know any lot that has one for sale?”

  The young salesman shook his head, faintly amused at the suggestion that he might recommend some competitor’s lot. “You won’t find one in town, mister. They’re a drug on the market. We ship them to the west coast fast as we get them. They go like hotcakes there. Here we never even put them on display. Let me show you what we have got.”