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“I heard voices a little while ago — men’s voices, not a woman. Where did the Munds go? And don’t call me runt.”

“You go to hell, runt.”

His hand struck out like a rapier flash. It didn’t look like a hard blow but all his fingers were traced in red on her cheek. She went back, brought up against the side wall. He went past her and looked in the open door on the right. She was gasping for breath, muttering behind him, but he paid no attention.

A man lay face down on the rug. He was a fat man, broad-beamed and short. A couple of chairs near him were overturned. The rug under him was twisted. The dark flooring was marred by scratches.

The top of his head was a mass of blood. Some blood had dripped on the rug, directly beneath his head. One arm was pillowed under his head and the other was outflung at right angles to his body. A carved mahogany stick, such as the natives sold in Cariba’s waterfront markets, lay close to him. Short black hairs stuck to the end of it. The hair was plastered with blood.

The Parson walked into the room, knelt and turned the body over. It was Lee Fong, the owner of the Montecita. Lee Fong was dead.

Something creaked. It was a door opening. The Parson turned his head sidewise without moving his body. A thick-set, broad-shouldered man in a white linen suit came in. The suit was dark with sweat under the armpits, though the rest of it looked freshly laundered. The man was smiling, jovial.

“Parson,” he chortled. “Parson, of all people! Remember me?”

“You’re Carl Dorn. I remember you.”

“A small world, eh? A small world.”

Another man came through the door. It was the white-haired old man the Parson had seen at the Montecita. He was followed by a thin, eagle-nosed individual with a gun in his hand. The white-haired man’s shoulders drooped wearily. He looked like a thoroughly cowed and beaten old man. His was the whitest face the Parson had ever seen. The thin, eagle-nosed man standing beside him wriggled his gun but he did not point it at anything or anyone in the room. He did not look at the Parson.

Eagle Nose growled, “Who’s the clerical looking gent?”

Carl Dorn laughed coarsely. “Hah! You took the words right outa my mouth. He sure looks like a peaceable parson, don’t he? Well, that’s what they call him — the Parson. Hey, Parson, meet one of my boys, Alex Morton.”

The white-haired old man looked as if he were about to say something. Alex Morton took a step closer to him. The old man looked at him, did not speak.

The red-haired woman swaggered in, pointed a finger at the Parson, bawled, “That son-of-a — whammed me one!”

Carl Dorn scowled sharply. Beady eyes regarded the Parson. Then the smile of joviality returned to his face. He said, “Don’t count that one, Eva. The Parson’s really a gentleman. He was one of the boys in New York.”

When she began to curse, Dorn put fingers in his ears. “Such language!” And when she stopped for breath, “That’s about enough, you!”

She looked at him with her green, gold-flecked eyes but subsided.

The Parson said, “Excuse me for pointing but there’s a dead guy on the floor.”

Dorn laughed again. “Hah! So there is. So there is.”

“How come?”

Dorn said, “Well, I guess it was self-defense. The fool Chink came at you and you gave him a couple of hard ones on the beano. With a little rehearsing Alex, Eva and me can tell the story that way.”

The Parson’s eyes merely widened a trifle. “Don’t you think I’d need the old gent here as a witness, too?”

Dorn made a gesture with his hand. “Why, I imagine that could be arranged.”

“Why not ask him?”

“He can’t talk so good.”

“Hm. Who is he?”

“Just a pal.”

The Parson let the .45 he had taken from the woman slap against his trouser leg. “Correct me if I am wrong, but I am under the impression that this house is occupied by a guy named Jake Mund and his wife, Nina.”

“You call the turn every time,” said Dorn.

“You wouldn’t happen to know why they’re not here, would you?”

“That’s where you got me, pal. Yes-sir! I’d sure like to know where Jake Mund and his wife are, myself.”

The Parson shot him a quick look. “Why did you follow Jake Mund down here?” He added quickly, “I’m just asking for my own sake. If he ain’t strictly on the up and up, to hell with him.”

“Why, Jake’s fine,” Dorn said soothingly. “We just dropped in for a kinda social visit. Jake’s fine.”

The Parson shot him a sharp, biting glance and abruptly changed his line of attack. “Where does Lee Fong tie in?”

Dorn looked blank. “Who?”

The Parson pointed impatiently to the dead man.

“Oh, him. The Chink. Well, look my friend, I don’t know.” He looked genuinely puzzled. “I’m just damned if I know.”

The white-haired old man took a deep breath, said quickly, “The poor Chinaman was simply slaughtered. When I came in and found him murdered — ugh! Only about an hour and a half ago, I was talking to him in his office in that cabaret. I promised him five hundred dollars if he would give me the address of this place. He wanted ten thousand to guarantee that no harm would come to Nina. I said I’d give him five thousand. But I didn’t know that he’d be killed.”

“Who killed him?” the Parson snapped.

The old man glanced at Dorn meaningfully. “When I came in, he was already dead.”

“Go on.”

“These two men were in the house. Upstairs.”

“Alex,” said Dorn quietly.

Alex said, “Yeah,” and turned cold eyes on the old man. “How many times we gotta tell yuh we had nothin’ to do with the Chink. Shoot off your mouth again and I’ll plant my knucks on your kisser.”

The eyes of the white-haired man flamed but he said no more, as though in fear. But not fear of physical punishment. The Parson sensed that somehow without knowing why.

The Parson said, quite dispassionately, “You lousy punks!”

“Now, now, Parson,” Dorn said placatingly.

“Tough guys, aren’t you? Yeah, with an old man. And you know what he’s aimin’ to say — that you murdered the Chink.”

“Don’t say that, pal!” Dorn protested. “We had nothing to do with it. We come in and there he was — cold meat. Just like I’m telling you.”

“The British cops won’t see that as an answer.”

Dorn laughed nastily and Alex Morton said, “This guy needs a lot of slammin’ around.”

“As a matter of fact,” Dorn told him, “he don’t slam so good. He’s tough like rubber. He bounces back at you.”

“Oh yeah? One bounce’ll be all he’ll get!”

“Ah, forget it. We’re friends! We’re goin’ to help the Parson, not pick a fight. Ain’t that right, Parson?”

“I’ll toss a coin to see if I can believe you or not.”

“Kidding won’t help.” Dorn made a sucking sound with his lips as if in commiseration; a frozen-fish smile appeared on his face. His eyes, though, were hooded, glittering, and he said levelly, “You’re in a jam, Parson.”

“Nice of you to remind me. But I can’t seem to remember — what kind of a jam?”

Dorn spread his hands in a gesture of acceptance. “Well, you killed the Chink. Just one of those things, I suppose. Too bad, too.”

“What’s too bad?”

“Too bad you whacked the poor departed Chink with that mahogany walking stick. The trouble with you, old pal, you don’t know your own strength. Now most times you hit a guy, he goes down and that’s all. He’s down maybe ten minutes, maybe even half an hour. But he gets up. He may have a headache or something but that’s all.”

The Parson gave a harsh, dry laugh. “You must be soft in the head.”

Dorn was purring, “Self-defense, though, will put you in the clear.”