"Well, you might as well come in. You too, Mr Dullea. Now what's the question?"

The answer came before she had a chance to ask it. From the kitchen, his wife called out, "Who is it, Roger?"

"It's just-" Liction began. Then he must have seen the expression on Susan's face and realized what had happened. He tried to twist away as Dullea reached out to grab him.

When the Secret Service man had him under control, Mrs Liction came into the room. "Hey, what's going on?"

"We just have a few questions for your husband, that's all."

She seemed resigned to it. "About the drugs, I suppose."

"That and other things."

Then Susan spoke. "I was going to ask you what the 'R' stood for in R. James Liction, the name on your mailbox. I thought maybe it was Roger. That's what Betty Quint called you, wasn't it?"

"I guess so," he mumbled. "I might have sold her a little pot. Nothing wrong with that."

"Are you growing it in the bas.e.m.e.nt?" Dullea asked. "Some people do."

"Can I call you Roger?" Susan asked, then went on. "Roger, we know Betty offered to sell you a quant.i.ty of counterfeit hundred-dollar bills from overseas. She was frightened that you might try to steal them from her."

"I didn't kill her," Liction insisted. He could see where the conversation was leading. "I couldn't have killed her. You were alone with her when it happened."

"How did you know that?" Susan asked. "By looking in the bathroom window from your perch on the fire escape? Yes, I know there's a fire escape outside that window even though I didn't actually look at it. I saw the fire escape to the second floor when I drove up with Betty yesterday, and Mr Dullea here even commented on the unlikely prospect of a burglar coming through the bathroom window from the fire escape."

Liction moistened his lips. "I think I want a lawyer."

"You'll get one," Adam Dullea said, formally stating his rights. "First thing, we're going to get Sergeant Razerwell down here to make the formal arrest. The murder is his job. I'm just interested in the money."

Mrs Liction spoke from the doorway. "If we give you the money, will you forget about the killing?"

"Shut up, Mona!" he nearly screamed.

"You see," Susan continued, "I made a big mistake. Betty had seen someone in a car across the street and that frightened her. I thought it was Roger, but she knew it was Mr Dullea here. She was caught between the two of them, with no way out. Maybe she'd even spotted you on the fire escape, Roger. Anyway, she decided to fake an attack on herself in the shower and escape by being taken to the hospital in an ambulance. She'd done some community theater work and had a fake dagger with one of those collapsible blades, the sort that ejects imitation blood when the blade retracts. It has adhesive to stick to the skin. While she was rummaging for a towel, she took the fake dagger and a real one and attached them to her body with Scotch tape, probably under her arm where I couldn't see it. Her secretary Sadie said she was a great joker. Maybe she'd even pulled this stunt before."

Dullea was shaking his head. "Are you saying she accidentally killed herself?"

"No, no! She meant to tell me she was wounded and to call an ambulance. Then she'd give herself a flesh wound with the real dagger before they arrived, and she'd be rushed to the hospital, escaping both Roger and the Secret Service. But after sticking the collapsing dagger to her back, she let herself fall in the shower and accidentally hit her head, knocking her out for a moment. The real dagger, still taped to her body, came loose and fell in the tub. I saw the daggers and thought she was dead. Roger here had heard her scream, and while I was phoning 911 he came in the window of the bathroom to get the package of money. He must have seen her hide it there earlier. She was beginning to stir in the tub and he stabbed her with the real dagger. He saw that the first one was a fake, so he pulled it off her back and took it with him, along with the money. He went back out the window and closed it behind him."

"How long would that have taken?"

"Not more than thirty seconds, and any sounds would have been covered by the water from the shower, which I hadn't turned off. I stayed out of the bathroom completely after I called the police."

"What would she have told you and the doctors after the hoax was discovered?" Dullea asked.

Susan shrugged. "She'd have had a slight flesh wound to show the doctors, and she'd have thought up some story to explain the knife. She'd have told me it was meant to be a joke and it backfired. At least she'd be safe from both Roger and you. That was the important thing."

Dullea allowed a brief nod of agreement. "How did you know it was Liction? That first initial wasn't much evidence to go on."

"There was something else. When Betty called Sadie from my hotel room, she said she was going back to her apartment and what should she do if Roger came up and demanded the money. She was saying that Roger lived downstairs, if I'd only known how to interpret her words. And once I knew Roger was so close, the method of murder wasn't so hard to work out. One of the daggers had disappeared, and that meant someone had entered the bathroom before the police arrived. No one came through the door and the window was the only other entrance. If I hadn't killed Betty, the person who entered through the window must have done it. Roger was too likely to be ignored."

It was Mona Liction who returned with the package of counterfeit money while they waited for the police. "Here! Take it! I told him not to get involved in this. Take it and leave us alone."

Adam Dullea reached out a hand as a police car pulled up in front. "I'll take it, but I'm afraid we won't be leaving you alone for quite some time."

The Hook Robert Randisi Robert Randisi (b. 1951) is a powerhouse of creative energy. Not only does he write scores of crime stories and westerns, some ghost written for others, he also founded the Private Eye Writers of America a.s.sociation in 1981, inaugurated the Shamus Awards for the best P.I. fiction, and co-founded (with Ed Gorman) the news magazine of the field, Mystery Scene. Before writing full-time Randisi worked as an admin, a.s.sistant for the NYPD, which gave him plenty of material for his series featuring the New York police detective Joe Keough, whose adventures began in Alone with the Dead (1995). Amongst his many books is The Ham Reporter (1986) in which an ageing Bat Master son teams up with a young Damon Runyon in 1911. The following story, set a few years earlier, also features the legendary Bat Master son in a series of inexplicable murders.

1.

Denver, 1899 George's Weekly Normally, this is a sports column, but something has happened in this city and no one seems to be doing anything. Three women have been killed on the streets of Denver and the police department seems to be unable-or unwilling to do anything about it. All citizens of Denver-decent and otherwise have a right to be able to walk the streets in peace and safety. The old west they keep telling me-is gone. The twentieth century is upon us, and yet these young women are dead and the killer is still at large. Shame on you, Chief Flaherty, and shame on the Mayor.

The banging on the door woke Bat, who reached out for Emma only to find her gone. This was not unusual. She often rose before he did, as she often retired before him. If she was up, she would answer the door, and would not allow anyone to disturb him unless it was . . .

"Bat?" she said, softly. "It's the police."

When Bat entered Chief Flaherty's office there was one other man there, seated in front of the Chief's desk. Flaherty's normally florid face was redder than ever as he told the police officer who had delivered Bat, "You can go."

"What's this all about, Chief?" Bat asked. "I don't usually get up this early in the-"

"Masterson," Flaherty said, cutting him off, "this is Inspector House. Inspector, Bat Masterson."

House stood up and turned to face Bat. He had a genial grin on his face as he extended his hand and said, "Quite a column in today's paper."

"Oh," Bat said, accepting the younger man's extended hand, "so that's what this is about."

"That's right, Masterson," Flaherty said. "Since you think the Denver police are so inept, I'm gonna accept your offer of help in this case."

"I didn't offer-"

"Or I'm gonna toss your a.s.s in jail for obstructing the investigation."

"I didn't obstruct-"

"One or the other," Flaherty said. "The choice is yours."

Bat could see that the Police Chief was deadly serious. It had been a few years since he'd seen the inside of a cell, and his recent spare of soft living had not left him in shape to handle the food.

George's Weekly was owned and edited by Herbert George, who was so thrilled to have the likes of Bat writing for his paper that he allowed the western legend to cover any subject he wanted. Ostensibly a sports columnist, on this morning Bat was berating the Denver police for their inability to track down and capture the man who had, in recent months, killed three women on the streets of Denver. Two were what polite society called "decent" women, and the third was what that same group referred to as "fallen". To Bat Masterson, whether the women were somebody's wife or a street wh.o.r.e didn't matter.

Actually, it did matter to Bat. The person it didn't matter to was his wife, Emma. She was the one who was particularly upset about the murders, since she and her friends no longer felt safe on the streets.

"It's the job of the police to catch this maniac, isn't it?" she'd asked him yesterday morning while he dressed.

"Yes, dear."

"And they're not doing their job, are they?"

"No, dear."

"Well, then, somebody should light a fire under their a.s.ses, shouldn't they?" she demanded.

"Yes, dear." Bat wasn't surprised at his wife's language. When they'd met she had been performing on stage at the Palace Theater, which at the time he'd owned (and had since sold). Stage people, he'd found, often "salted" their language.

"Somebody with the public's ear," she finished, and stared at him.

It suddenly became clear that she was talking about him, so he fixed his tie, turned to her, kissed her cheek and said, "Yes, dear."

He'd written the column, half expecting that Herbert George would not run it.

But he did . . .

Bat sighed. "I guess you got yourself a volunteer, Chief."

"Excellent," Flaherty said. "House has been working on the case so far, so he will catch you up on what's been going on. I think you two should work well together."

"Shall we go?" House asked, standing up.

Bat stood and said, "Lead the way."

"Oh, and one more thing," Flaherty said before they reached the door. "When this thing blows up it ain't gonna be blowin' up in my face. It's gonna be your faces. You two got that?"

"Got it," Bat sad.

"Yessir," House said.

The two men left the office.

2.

"I don't get it," House said, out in the hall.

"What is there to get?"

"You're Bat Masterson," House said. "Why would you agree to this just because of some threats from our blowhard police chief?"

"Are you married, son?"

"No, sir."

"Then you wouldn't understand."

Inspector House led Bat to an office and closed the door behind them.

"Have a seat."

The detective walked around and sat behind his desk. On it were three folders. He put his hand on them.

"Want to read them, or do you want me to tell you what we have?" he asked.

But sat across from the man. "Just tell me."

"How much do you know?"

"Only what I read in the newspapers, like everyone else."

House sat back in his chair. "Well, forget everything you read," he said. "It's all false."

"Why?"

"We've kept the truth to ourselves."

"And has that helped?"

"No."

"All right, well," Bat said, settling back in his chair, "tell me what you've got."

"We reported that the three women were robbed and murdered," House said. "We deliberately left out the method that was used to kill them. Because of that, all these 'Jack the Ripper' rumors have started."

Bat had the good grace to experience some chagrin. He had, after all, mentioned Jack the Ripper to Herbert George only yesterday.

"And were they killed the same way Jack the Ripper's victims were?" he asked.

"Not at all," House said.

"So how were they killed?"

"We don't know," House said.

"What does that mean?"

"It means there was no sign of violence on them," House said. "They were just . . . dead."

"Natural causes?" Bat asked. "All three?"

"No," House said. "They had to have been killed. They were dumped where they were found. Somebody killed them, we just don't know how."