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Free looked at the girl. “You wore gloves when you grabbed the gun?” he said.

She nodded. Hammond said: “That’s all right, anyway. I’ve used cloth on the gun, and Miss Reynolds has never been finger-printed, of course.”

Free smiled a little. “Sure,” he said. “But she might be.”

The girl widened her eyes, and her lips trembled. Hammond frowned at Free.

“See what you can dig up,” he said. “Take it very easy, of course. Call me back at seven and we’ll eat together.”

Free nodded. “Okey,” he said. His eyes met those of the girl. “It’ll be all right, Miss Reynolds,” he told her. “Don’t let it hit you too hard. He was a louse — and a mark for somebody’s bullets pretty quick, anyway. Just stay with it.”

She covered her face with gloved hands and her body shook. Free nodded to Hammond and went from the office. In the outside room he stood beside Jen Carle, offered her a cigarette she refused, and lighted one for himself. She said:

“A knockout, eh?”

He shrugged. “One kind of one,” he replied. “What was the idea of you calling her a man killer, Jen?”

Bitterness was in her voice again. “She’s got Tim going,” she said. “I went into the office just before you arrived. She was crying and he was patting her shoulder. He told me to get out, and knock before I came in — the next time. A lot of them have cried in there, but this is the first time I’ve caught Tim patting one on the shoulder.”

Free grinned. “Yeah — this is the first time you’ve caught him,” he said dryly. “What’s her first name, Jen?”

She said: “Mary.”

Free nodded. “That good, old-fashioned name,” he breathed.

The secretary swore. After a few seconds she said:

“What’s her trouble, Free? Anything serious?”

Free grinned again. “Can’t tell yet — nothing much, I’d say. Just one of those things.”

Jen Carle frowned. “One of what things?” she asked.

Free chuckled. “You women!” he muttered. “She’s an agency client, Jen — her secret is our secret.”

Jen sniffed nastily. Free said: “I’m going to poke around some. But if anyone calls or comes in — you might say I haven’t come back from Philly yet.”

She nodded. He looked at her hair and said: “It’s all right, Jen — I like it.”

She frowned at him. “You think it’s business in there, Free?” she asked. “Give it to me straight.”

“I’m damned sure it’s business, in there, Jen,” he replied. “Don’t be that way.”

He put on his coat and hat and went from the office. There was a side entrance to the building, and he used it. In the cab, on the way downtown, he decided that Tim Hammond had acted rather strange, and that Jen Carle was worried about something besides a pat on the shoulder. Mary Reynolds he hadn’t been able to figure, but he was willing to agree that she was a man killer, of one kind or another.

2

After an hour he had got nothing of importance, and he called the agency. When he asked Jen if Tim was inside alone she said that he was but that she thought it had broken him up to let his pal go. Free said:

“Switch me in.”

Hammond said: “Hello, Parker,” in a cheerful voice and Free spoke slowly.

“On that downtown deal everything seems quiet. Maybe I’d better pick up somebody and go inside for a peek. What’s the address?”

Hammond hesitated and after a few seconds gave it to him.

“You want to be pretty careful, Parker,” he warned.

Free said: “Sure I want to. You believe the lady, of course?”

Hammond grunted. “Naturally,” he said. “I just called Burkley and checked up. He isn’t worried about the police but he says we’ve got to protect our client. He’s afraid of the friends of the man in that house — the sleeping chap. See?”

Free said that he saw. “I’ll be sure everything is right outside, and get in for a peek. Then we’ll know how to move. Our client might have made a mistake on what happened.”

Hammond said: “She didn’t, Parker; but handle it that way, and then call me.”

Free was smiling a little as he hung up. Hammond was seldom sure about women clients’ stories, but he was sure about the one this client had told. And it had been a pretty wild story.

He picked up Crail, one of the agency men, at his flat, and twenty minutes later they were on a quiet Village street not far from Tenth. Free said:

“If a cop comes along tell him you’re off duty, and looking for Joe Cline. Cline had a beat around here a few weeks ago, but got himself transferred nearer his home. Don’t get too far away from the place, unless you have to. I don’t want anyone coming inside.”

Crail said: “Right.” He walked along the sidewalk near the house front. His police uniform fitted him pretty well.

Free went up three or four steps and into a clean vestibule. It was almost dark. He tried the knob of the inside door and when nothing happened he got a few keys from his pocket and went to work. After about two minutes the door opened. As he went inside he turned and saw Crail strolling in front of the house. Inside everything was quiet.

It was dark, but not absolutely black. Free went through two rooms downstairs, neither very large. The place was furnished nicely and didn’t look as though it had been used much. He went up one flight of stairs and went through another room. There was a narrow hall leading towards the rear of the house, and there seemed to be a door at the end of it. When he got close to the door he saw that it was tightly fitted. His left hand was gloved; he found a knob and opened the door slowly. The air in the room was bad — and it was very dark. There were no windows, or else the windows were heavily covered. Free got a small flashlight from a pocket and snapped the button.

There was a heavy explosion — Free’s body pitched to the right, struck against the open door. His right hand jerked a Colt free of his pocket; the flashlight struck the floor and rolled a little. There was a second roaring explosion — and the bullet made sound as it tore into the carpet somewhere near the flashlight. Free, on his knees beside the opened door, let his body fall. It made thudding sound as he struck the carpet, which was thick.

He lay motionless, his gun at his side, one arm thrown out. Faint light from behind, from the narrow hall, came into the room. The flashlight beam was still streaking light — across the carpet. With slitted eyes Free saw a motionless hand caught in the yellow-white beam — a diamond glittered on a half-stretched finger.

There was the sharp odor of gun smoke in the room. The beam of the flashlight suddenly caught shoes — brown shoes. There were the cuffs of trousers, narrow and gray striped. Legs moved across the beam — Free’s slitted eyes could see almost to the knees of the moving man. Then the color was gone from the beam of light. There was a faint swishing sound, a very soft thud — as though a heavily padded door had closed.

Free lay motionless for almost thirty seconds, his Colt gripped tightly in the fingers of his right hand. The hand was beside the opened door. When he pulled himself to his knees he reached for the flashlight, moved it slightly. The beam struck Tony Bandor’s body. Bandor’s head was twisted to one side; his eyes were staring. His lips were drawn back slightly from white, even teeth. The diamond on a finger still shot color out. He was dead.

Free listened as faint sound seemed to come from the hall or the stairs, or a room below. He snapped out the flashlight, stood up. With his gloved hand he found the knob of the door, went into the hall and closed the door very softly behind him. He stood for several seconds, listening — and then moved to the head of the stairs. It took him almost five minutes to reach the floor below. The entrance door was heavily curtained, but as he neared it he saw the figure of Crail stroll past the house. A cab cruised by, and Crail looked towards it blankly.