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Big Bill watched the men in the ambulance haul out a stretcher and follow the cops into the pawnshop. Then he poured himself another full drink.

The bartender was still looking out the window. “Wonder what happened,” he said.

“Guess somebody got hurt.” Big Bill was doing some wondering too — wondering why the ambulance if the old man was dead. If the old pawnbroker were alive — but he couldn’t be.

A crowd was gathering across the street in front of the shop. Bill reached in his pocket for two half-dollars, tossed them on the bar.

“Keep the change,” he said. “Guess I’ll go over and see what’s going on.”

“How about coming back and telling me?” the barkeep asked. “If you’ll do that, the drinks’re on me.”

“O.K.” He strode out of the place and across the street. As he reached the crowd, it parted to let the ambulance men through with their stretcher. Lying there, his head still twisted to the side, was the pawnbroker. He looked dead all right.

Big Bill tried to get closer, but the pack of the people kept him back. Before he could break through, the old man had been shoved into the back of the ambulance. Bill watched the ambulance scream up the street.

The crowd began to thin out. The cops came out of the building and stood beside the prowl car. One of the radio cops said, “Don’t take it so hard, Joe. We’ll get the guy.”

“Yeah.” Joe said dully He was the big cop that had pounded on the door.

The patrolmen drove away and Bill grinned as he looked at the cop called Joe. Those dumb heels would never guess that he was the guy they were looking for.

When Joe walked to the front door of the shop and locked it, Bill strode over to him.

“Hello,” he said “Was the old man hurt bad?”

“How’d you feel if somebody broke your neck?” Joe said, biting his words off sharp.

“Broke his neck!” Bill shook his head slowly. “Say, that is bad. Was he dead?”

“No,” Joe said.

Big Bill’s body grew tense. The old man was alive! His eyelids drew together as he thought what that meant. He forced himself to say: “I’m sure glad to hear that. He looked pretty bad when they brought him out.”

When Joe spoke, it was more to himself than to Big Bill. He said: “The doc says he isn’t going to come out of it, not even enough to say who murdered him. He couldn’t even recognize me. He couldn’t do anything but groan when we moved him.”

“Gawd, that’s tough.” Bill said. He felt the warm glow of security inside of him now that he knew that the old man had not said anything and never would. “That’s sure tough,” he said again. “Did you know him?”

“Yes,” Joe answered. “I knew him. The squarest guy I ever did know. I know his wife, too, and his kids.”

“That’s hell,” Big Bill sympathized. “Makes you feel lousey just to think of it. Say, come over and have a drink with me. It’ll make you feel better.”

The cop looked at him for a minute, then said: “O.K.” They walked across the street shoulder to shoulder.

When they came in through the door, the bartender said: “Hello, Joe. What happened over there at Matt’s? I couldn’t see.”

Big Bill sat on a stool. Joe leaned against the end of the bar, explained:

“Some rat broke Matt’s neck, broke it just to get the few lousy dollars Matt had in his drawer.”

“No! What a hell of a thing to do!”

“It sure is!” Big Bill said. “Better break out that whiskey.”

The cop was nervous. He killed his drink, filled his glass again. Carrying his whiskey, he crossed the room. Bill watched him in the mirror behind the bar. The cop pulled the plunger on a pin-game machine a couple of times. He pulled a handful of change from his pocket, looked in it for a nickel. Then he turned back toward the bar.

Joe stopped suddenly, staring. The muscles of his face knotted. The whiskey glass in his hand dropped to the floor. Big Bill, watching him in the mirror, saw that the cop’s eyes were focussed on his back.

“Where’d you get that?” Joe asked, his voice so low and hoarse that it was almost a whisper.

“Get what?” Bill swung around on his stool. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“On your back.”

Bill twisted his neck around to look in the mirror. Stamped in dust in the center of his blue coat was the imprint of a hand. It was a sharply outlined impression. The middle finger was a stump.

Big Bill stared at it, and the sweat began to come out on his body. That was the old man’s hand, reaching back from the grave to damn him. He rubbed his hand across his face, and then turned to the cop. Joe had moved over so that he stood between Big Bill and the door. His face was deadly calm.

Big Bill slid off his stool and stood on the floor, his hands balled up at his sides. His legs bent at the knees as his body settled into a crouch.

“Well!” he grated.

“So you killed him,” Joe said softly. “Matt left that on your coat when he tried to fight you off.”

Big Bill looked out at the street. It was empty. His eyes traveled back to Joe’s face. “So what?” he said.

“You’re under arrest,” Joe said.

“Think so?”

“Give me a chance to kill you,” Joe breathed. “I’d like that! I’d like to send you to hell for what you did to Matt.”

Big Bill had dropped lower into his crouch. Now his legs snapped straight, his body launched through the air toward the cop. His arms were stretched wide to clamp around the body of the man before him.

His arms slashed through empty air. Joe, tense and waiting, had side-stepped. As Big Bill grabbed at the bar to catch his balance, the cop’s fist hammered into the side of his face, drove him sprawling to the floor.

He bounced to his feet, shaking his head. The cop, standing with his back to the window, was looking at him. Joe’s eyes were as hard and cold as the metal of the gun he gripped in his right hand.

“So you’d like a chance to kill me!” Big Bill yelled. “Well, let’s see you do it.” He grabbed at one of the stools at the bar, tore at it frantically. It was bolted down.

“Cut it out!” Joe yelled. “Get away from there before I kill you!”

As he ripped the stool loose from the floor, Big Bill laughed, shouted out his laughter in the face of death. He swung the stool high over his head and started for Joe.

The gun in Joe’s hand jumped as flame and lead jabbed out of the snout. Big Bill kept coming, the grin on his face lopsided with pain. Joe’s gun crashed again.

Bill’s shoulders jerked as the second slug tore into his body. The chair flew out of his hands and crashed through the glass of the door. Going slower now, blood jetting out of his chest, Big Bill staggered forward. His arms were stretched wide, his fingers were distended claws.

“Stop!” Joe shouted. “Stay where you are!”

He didn’t stop. His face distorted as he started coming faster. Joe fired twice point-blank, then hurled himself out of the way.

Big Bill went past him, his head bent low his body leaning forward. He was blind with pain and approaching death. One thought inflamed his mind — there was a man that he had to get.

All of his dying strength went into one final lunge. His feet left the floor and he dove forward. His great body smashed through the plate-glass window, went sprawling onto the sidewalk outside.

Joe looked out through the gaping hole. It was very quiet, and the smell of burnt powder was acrid in his nostrils.

He stared down at the big man on the sidewalk. A penny had jumped out of the man’s pocket and was rolling toward his head. Blood was flowing out of the man’s mouth, and when the penny struck the thick stream, it fell over and stopped rolling.