Jersey Toby looked at me, his face white and drawn. "Come on, you wouldn't do that."

"Try me."

He finished his coffee, looked around nervously again until he was a.s.sured we were alone, and nodded. "You would at that. Okay, spill it."

"Let's go back to d.i.c.kerson again, Toby."

"We went through that once."

"You get the word."

"Sure . . . secondhand through the broads."

"Good enough. What's the word on the money angle? If out-of-town hoods are moving in, something's drawing them. Who's spreading the green around?"

Toby's tongue flicked at dry lips and he pulled on the b.u.t.t. "Look . . . if I prime you, this is the last?"

I shrugged.

"Let's hear it, Mike."

"You bought it. I'll back off."

"Okay then, Marge . . . she's the redhead. She was with . . . a guy one night. No names, Mike. I ain't giving you names. I specialize in that end of the trade. Marge, she's a favorite with the hard boys. Does a lot of fancy tricks for them, see? Well, this guy . . . like he's representing somebody big. He's like muscle on lend. He comes in to do a favor. He's Chicago and ready. He ain't saying what's to do, but he stands ready. Now his boss man lends him out because a favor was asked, only his boss man don't do do no favors. It's got to be bought or got to be forced. Somebody's got something on his boss man and is making a trade. no favors. It's got to be bought or got to be forced. Somebody's got something on his boss man and is making a trade.

"Don't ask what it is. Who am I to know? I just put two and two together until it works out. Somebody is building an organization and although money is there it's the pressure that's bringing the boys in."

I tipped back in the chair watching him. "It plays if somebody is building an organization. Whatever the pressure is, it brings muscle in that can't be bought, then the muscle can be used to square the money."

"You play it," Toby said. "I don't even want to think on it no more."

"How many are in?"

"Enough. With a mob like's here I could d.a.m.n near run the town single-handed."

"These boys all come from big sources?"

Toby's head bobbed once. "The biggest. The Syndicate's lending men. They come out of the individual operations, but the boss men are the Syndicate men. You're trouble, boy."

"Thanks, kiddo. You've been a help."

"For that I ain't happy. I hope they get you before they tie me into anything."

"Forget it," I said and got up from the table.

I left him there and walked out into the rain back toward my office. If Jersey Toby was right Mr. d.i.c.kerson was pulling off a cute trick. It figured right, too, because he'd be smart enough and would have had the time to work it out. Little by little he could have built the things he needed to pressure the big ones into line. He had the background, experience, and the desire. One thing led to another. Once the mob was in, an organization could be built that could utilize three million bucks properly.

If Mr. d.i.c.kerson was Blackie Conley it fitted just right.

Up in the office I had to wait only fifteen minutes before Pete Ladero came in with a folio under his arm. He laid the stuff on the table and opened it up. "Do I get an explanation first?"

"Research on Blackie Conley," I said.

"Aw, for crying out loud, he's been dead for years."

"Has he?"

"Well . . ." He paused and searched my face. "You on to something?"

"You familiar with this case?"

"I ran over it. The magazine writers rehashed it enough so I know the general background. Give."

"If Conley's alive he's got three million bucks in his kick. He might be old and fiesty enough to start trouble with it."

"Boy, bring-'em-back-alive Hammer." He reached for the paper. "You looking for anything special?"

"Conley's connection with the heist. Take half and we'll go through them."

So we sat down and read. Velda called and I told her to hop over, then went back to the papers again.

The prosecution had a cut-and-dried case. Sonny Motley pleaded guilty since he was nailed in the act and faced an automatic sentence anyway. He ranted and raved all the way through the trial, cursing everybody from the judge down, but Torrence and Conley in particular. Torrence because he wouldn't let him alone, but kept hammering for details, and Conley for the big double cross and a bullet in his shoulder.

The main item of interest was the missing three million dollars, but despite the speculation and the nationwide police search, not one thing was turning up. Sonny Motley didn't mind spilling his guts if it meant nailing Blackie Conley and the unseen face who engineered the deal. Right then he figured they pulled the double cross together, but Sim Torrence couldn't get any evidence whatsoever on the one behind the action.

There was another witness. Her name was Sally Devon and she was called because she was a.s.sumed to be a confederate of Sonny's. Her testimony was such that she turned out to be the beautiful but dumb type after all, knowing nothing of the mob's operation. Sonny and the others all admitted she was only a shack job as far as they were concerned and that seemed to end her part in the affair. Only one reporter mentioned a statement that had any significance. Just before she was discharged from the stand she said that "she'd like to get the snake that was responsible." "she'd like to get the snake that was responsible."

And that was what had bothered me. Sue had said the same thing, only there had been a minor discrepancy in her statements. First she said it was a a snake that had killed her mother. Later she said snake that had killed her mother. Later she said the the snake! Sue Devon remembered something, all right. Sally had raved in her drunkenness too . . . not about snakes . . . but about snake! Sue Devon remembered something, all right. Sally had raved in her drunkenness too . . . not about snakes . . . but about the the snake. Old Mrs. Lee just hadn't understood right. snake. Old Mrs. Lee just hadn't understood right.

Now The Snake was emerging. It was the one who engineered the whole d.a.m.n business. The one n.o.body knew about or saw. The one who could have engineered it into a ma.s.sive double cross to start with.

Blackie Conley. He really played it cute. He stood by as a lieutenant to Sonny Motley, but it was his plan to start with. He worked it into a cross and took off with the profits. He was bigger than anybody gave him credit for being. He was big enough to hold on until he felt like it and make the most incredible comeback in the history of crime.

If it worked.

And it was working.

I had been looking over the paper too long. Pete said, "You found it, didn't you?"

"I think I have."

"Do I get it?"

"Why not? " I put the paper down and looked at him. "Can you hold it?"

"Better tell me about it first."

When I did he whistled softly and started writing. I said, "If it goes out now this guy might withdraw and we'll never get him. You can call the shots, buddy, but I'd advise you to wait. It could be bigger."

He put the pencil away, grinning. "This is bonus stuff, Mike. I'll sit on it. Make it mine though, will you?"

"Done."

"Want Hy in?"

"d.a.m.n right. The office can use the publicity. Give him the same p.o.o.p."

"Sure, Mike." He folded the news clips together and headed for the door. "Call me when you need anything."

I waved when he left, then picked up the phone and dialed Pat. He was home for a change, and sore about being dragged out of bed. I said, "How'd you make out, Pat?"

"Got something new for you."

"Oh?"

"Write off Arnold Goodwin. He's dead."

"What happened?"

"He was killed a couple of months ago in an automobile accident near Saratoga. His body's been lying in a morgue up there unclaimed. The report just came in with his prints."

"Positive?"

"Look, it was a stiff with good prints. He was on file. He checked out. The dead man was Goodwin. The accident involved a local car and was just that . . . an accident."

"Then it narrows things down. You still working on Basil Levitt?"

"All the way. We've gone over his record in detail and are trying to backtrack him up to the minute he died. It won't be easy. That guy knew how to cover a trail. Two of my men are working from a point they picked up three months ago and might be able to run it through. Incidentally, I have an interesting item in his history."

"What's that?"

"After he lost his P.I. license he had an arrest record of nineteen. Only two convictions, but some of the charges were pretty serious. He was lucky enough each time to have a good lawyer. The eleventh time he was picked up for a.s.sault and it was Sim Torrence who defended him and got him off."

"I don't like it, Pat."

"Don't worry about it. Sim was in civil practice at the time and it was one of hundreds he handled. Levitt never used the same lawyer twice, but the ones he used were good ones. Torrence had a d.a.m.n good record and the chances are the tie-in was accidental. We got on this thing this morning and I called Torrence personally. He sent Geraldine King up here with the complete file on the case. It meant an hour in court to him, that's all, and the fee was five hundred bucks."

"Who made the complaint?"

"Some monkey who owned a gin mill but who had a record himself. It boils down to a street fight, but Torrence was able to prove that Levitt was merely defending himself. Here's another cute kick. Our present D.A., Charlie Force, defended Levitt on charge seventeen. Same complaint and he got him off too."

"Just funny that those two ever met."

"Mike, in the crime business they get to meet criminals. He does, I do, and you do. Now there's one other thing. The team I have out are circulating pictures of Levitt. Tonight I get a call from somebody who evidently saw the photo and wanted to know what it was all about. He wouldn't give him name and there wasn't time to get a tracer on the call. I didn't tell him anything but said that if he had any pertinent information on Levitt to bring it to us. I was stalling, trying for a tracer. I think he got wise. He said sure, then hung up. As far as we got was that the call came from Flatbush."

"h.e.l.l, Pat, that's where Levitt comes from."

"So do a couple million other people. We'll wait it out. All I knew was that it was an open phone, not a booth unless the door was left open, and probably in a bar. I could hear general background talk and a juke going."

"We'll wait that one out then. He has something on his mind."

"They usually call again," Pat said. "You have anything special?"

"Some ideas."

"When do I hear them?"

"Maybe tomorrow."

"I'll stand by."

When I hung up I stared at the phone, then leaned my face into my hands trying to make the ends meet in my mind. Screwy, that's all I could think of. Screwy, but it was making sense.

The phone rang once, jarring me out of my thought. I picked it up, said h.e.l.lo, and the voice that answered was tense. "Geraldine King, Mike. Can you come out here right away?"

"What's up, Geraldine?"

She was too agitated to try to talk. She simply said, "Please, Mike, come right away. Now Now. It's very important." Then she gave me no choice. She hung up.

I wrote a note to Velda telling where I was going and that I'd head right back for the apartment when I was done, then left it in the middle of her desk.

Downstairs I cut around back of the cop a.s.signed to watch me, took the side way out without being seen, and picked up a cruising cab at the street corner. The rain was heavier now, a steady, straight-down New York rain that always seemed to come in with the trouble. Heading north on the West Side Highway I leaned back into the cushions and tried to grab a nap. Sleep was out of the question, even for a little while, so I just sat there and remembered back to those last seven years when forgetting was such a simple thing to do.

All you needed was a bottle.

The cop on the beat outside Torrence's house checked my ident.i.ty before letting me go through. Two reporters were already there talking to a plainclothesman and a fire captain, but not seeming to be getting much out of either one of them.

Geraldine King met me at the door, her face tight and worried.

I said, "What happened?"

"Sue's place . . . it burned."

"What about the kid?"

"She's all right. I have her upstairs in bed. Come on inside."

"No, let's see that building first."

She pulled a sweater on and closed the door behind us. Floodlights on the grounds illuminated the area, the rain slanting through it obliquely.

There wasn't much left, just charred ruins and the concrete foundation. Fire hoses and the rain had squelched every trace of smoldering except for one tendril of smoke that drifted out of one corner, and I could see the remains of the record player and the lone finger that was her microphone stand. Scattered across the floor were tiny bits of light bouncing back from the shattered mirror that had lined the one wall. But there was nothing else. Whatever had been there was gone now.

I said, "We can go back now."

When we were inside Geraldine made us both a drink and stood in the den looking out the window. I let her wait until she was ready to talk, finishing half my drink on the way. Finally she said, "This morning Sue came inside. I . . . don't know what started it, but she came out openly and accused Mr. Torrence of having killed her mother. She kept saying her mother told her."

"How could she say her mother told her she was murdered when she was alive to tell her?" I interrupted.