"Hold it right there, Ace," I told him as he lurched up. "I'm a rootin' tootin' son of a gun from Arizona, so don't dance with me."

"Yeah, sure, with the safety on," he said, grinning and moving forward in a fighter's crouch.

I twitched the muzzle in a threatening movement that made him stop. "It's a revolver, Ace, and we both know they don't bother with pesky things like safeties. Next time try teaching your granny to suck eggs, you'll get fewer laughs."

He scowled mightily. "In fact, this is a sweet little double-action model, so I don't even have to c.o.c.k it to make big holes in your skull, so why don't you back off and stand over there with Shep?"

He growled something under his breath about my mother that I pretended not to hear, but did as he was told while I retrieved the machine gun. Shep had woken up from his trance at some point and stared, still looking like a fish, just slightly more animated.

"What the h.e.l.l happened?" Ace demanded of his friend. "I go off for one minute to take a leak and-"

Why Ace needed a machine gun along for that errand I didn't want to know.

"Gah!" Shep's memory had evidently caught up with him. He pointed at me with a quivering hand. "This guy got inna car, right inna car with me! You shoulda seen! He was just there!"

"Shep," I said calmly, looking hard at him. "Take a nap."

His eyes rolled up, and he slid to the sidewalk.

Ace's own eyes went wide, staring at his unconscious friend, before he turned them on me. It was all I needed, just a little of his undivided attention to put him under as well. I gave him the same questions I'd put to Shep and got the same answers. Ike LaCelle was accustomed to hiring them for odd jobs at odd hours, so when he called with instructions for them to get over to the club and follow me, it was nothing out of the ordinary. Night work was one thing that gangsters and the undead definitely had in common.

They were usually told to rough up the bird they were after, but not this time. I supposed LaCelle just wanted information to start with, then he'd send in his boys to discourage me from seeing Bobbi again. Maybe I was to come home one evening and find them waiting for me with bra.s.s knuckles and big grins.

Fat chance.

When I'd finished with them both, they'd have to report a dismal failure to LaCelle. I primed them to say they'd followed me diligently, then lost me sometime after I crossed the state line into Wisconsin. In fact, at three in the afternoon tomorrow they would make a collect long-distance call to Mr. LaCelle from wherever they happened to be in that state to let him know about it. I walked them back to their car, saw them tucked in all cozy, and waved good-bye as they drove off.

I hoped they had enough gas for the trip. I'd forgotten to tell them to stop for it.

The house was dark when I got back, though Escott had left the upper-landing light on for me. For once I was sorry that he was attempting to get one up on the insomnia; I'd wanted to tell him about my little interruption, and let him know about Ike LaCelle's bullyboys.

Just because I'd taken care of the two he'd sent didn't mean he couldn't find more.

I sieved upstairs lest the creaking of the house's old floorboards disturb my sleeping partner and shucked out of my thoroughly soaked clothes. Maybe I could get LaCelle to pay the cleaning bill.

Having changed into pajamas and a robe, I went silently down to the kitchen and spent some time scribbling Escott a letter on the situation, adding in the news about Bobbi being a full-fledged guest on the Variety Hour. He also had an invitation to come to the studio and watch-Bobbi's way of thanking him for the orchid. I left the note on the kitchen table with the revolver and machine gun, wishing I could see the look on Escott's face in the morning when he saw them.

It'd be a beaut, I was sure, especially before he had his coffee.

There was still a big slice of waking night left. My condition wouldn't allow me to cheat and go to bed early, so I caught up on reading the papers. Escott had gotten to them first; some were in tatters from his habit of cutting out any articles that caught his eye. He'd left the clippings on the coffee table; I didn't miss much. They were mostly concerned with crimes. I skimmed those enough to know what they were about then moved on to other news, little of which was good. The civil war in Spain was going great-for the side that the n.a.z.is were backing. The word "atrocities" was used a lot, but the paper either wouldn't or couldn't get more specific than that.

I got sick of it and the state of mankind in general pretty fast and gave up on current news, trying a magazine instead. The first page I turned to informed me that dynamite was the preferred method of suicide in a Montana mining town. That was enough to send me back up to my room to find a book. I spent the remaining hours reading about a detective who talked tough, got hit on the head a lot, and planned to marry the girl right after the case was finished.

He shot several gangsters stone dead and sent the chief bad guy plunging into a cement mixer, none of which brought any objections from the grateful cops. Not a bad life at all.

It occurred to me at several points in the story that I could do a better job of writing myself, but I just couldn't trouble myself enough to go down to the bas.e.m.e.nt and prove it. I finished the book off, tossed it on a pile of others I'd gone through, and stared at the ceiling, not thinking about much of anything except Bobbi for a long while. I'd let her read some of my stuff, and she'd said it was good and that she'd liked it, but I wasn't all that sure myself. She was a singer, not a writer; I needed someone in the writing business to look at it. Since no editors were knocking themselves out to make appointments with me, the only course left was to get to work, finish something, and send it in.

Which I'd have to do some other night. The clock said I had just enough time to get to my bas.e.m.e.nt sanctuary. I did exactly that, and for my last moments of consciousness I concentrated hard at not looking at my abandoned typewriter.

It was still in the same spot when I woke up, but I had a busy evening ahead and cheerfully quit the chamber to join Escott upstairs. He sat at his ease at the kitchen table surrounded by several empty cartons of Chinese food and sipping a gin and tonic. He was doing the newspaper crossword puzzle with that d.a.m.ned hypodermic pen.

"Cripes, it's the easy life for you and no mistake," I said, knotting the tie on my bathrobe.

He was fairly used to my sudden materializations by now and hardly bothered to look up. "Yes, it's been so dull here lately I was thinking of spending the next weekend in Cuba."

"Didn't you like the presents?"

Now he managed to crack something close to a smile. "Rather. Especially the machine gun. I took it out to the firing range today and had a bit of fun. The stock got slightly damaged from that roughhousing you described in your note, but it is a very fine weapon, indeed."

"You sound like you're keeping it."

"Why not?"

"Because it might have been used in a crime. The cops could be looking for it."

"Not to worry, I'll turn it in when I've finished playing. It's not often I get a chance to make so much noise in so short a time. You'd be surprised at how quickly one can empty those drums. It's a pity the Treasury Department has such a tight control over those things; I should like to have one for myself."

"Maybe you could ask that mug where he got it."

"I meant legally. I doubt he paid much attention to the restrictions."

"Yeah, crooks are funny that way. Where is it?"

"In the bas.e.m.e.nt behind the safe's alcove. The revolver's there, as well."

We were the only two people on the planet who knew how to open the trick wall that hid the safe. "How're things going with the Sommerfeld girl?"

He made a sour face and capped the pen. "They're not. She's all right, or was so when she phoned this afternoon to check on me. In fact, she's phoned several times today, according to my service."

"Getting antsy?"

"That's an accurate enough description for her growing impatience."

"What about that guy Paterno? Find him?"

"No," he said, which really surprised me. Escott was capable of tracking down a black cat in a coal mine without breaking a sweat. "I tried asking at the tavern McCallen frequents, and several other leads, but nothing turned up concerning his mystery friend. The single name you provided could be a first name, an alias, or a nickname. Whichever it might be, he's never broken any laws using it."

"I'll do what I can to clear the books tonight when I see McCallen."

"Which may not be possible."

"Now what?" "He did not go in to work today, nor was he at home."

"Where, then?"

He shrugged. "My guess is that he's either hiding out from us or devoting his time to searching for Miss Sommerfeld."

"That's just great."

"Yes, it is rather disappointing."

"I don't figure him for hiding out, though. There's probably nothing better he'd like to do than find us. He was steamed hot as h.e.l.l about my going through his place."

"So you've said, but he avoided the office-at least when I was there."

"You mean you've been waiting for him?"

"Well, I did give the correct name of the agency when I first contacted him for that cafe meeting. If he remembered it he need only look in the telephone directory to find the address. I did rather expect him to walk in at any time today, but..." He made a small throwing-away gesture.

"I hope you thought to-"

"My dear chap, I'm no fool, I took suitable precautions to arm and protect myself."

"There's a relief. I just wish you'd told me-oh. You couldn't."

"You do miss a few things with that daily coma of yours."

That called for a snort. "Now what?"

"It depends how much time you have to spare tonight."

I knew what he wanted me to do. "Not much, at least early on. I'll drive over to McCallen's, see if he's there. If he is, then the problem's solved; but if not, then I can't wait around. I promised to take Bobbi to dinner."

"How is Miss Smythe? She must be most pleased with the turn of events you mentioned."

"She's fine, all excited about the radio broadcast tomorrow. There're tickets reserved for us at the studio, and we're to go to the party at the Nightcrawler afterward."

"That is most generous of her, but I-"

"Charles, she likes you. It'd really make her happy if you accepted her invitation."

He bounced one eyebrow. "And I thought it was Mr. McCallen who was the blackmailer. What about this LaCelle and his toughs? Will he be at this event?"

"Probably."

"Then I shall be happy to attend."

"Great, just don't tell Bobbi you're there adding to your rogues'-gallery files."

"Certainly not. You do seem determined to fill up my social calendar this week. I phoned Shoe, and we've an appointment for dinner and to see the show playing at his club on Wednesday."

"You can have my plate of snails."

"If Shoe is not merely boasting about this new chef he's acquired I just may do that."

As this was the first real date Bobbi and I had had in a while, I put a little extra effort into making myself presentable. The tuxedo with the white coat was back from the cleaners, but I double-checked it for any sign of dark lint, just in case. Though I couldn't see anything in a mirror, I at least felt like I looked d.a.m.ned sharp. Escott glanced up long enough to say that I'd outdone myself, wished me and Miss Smythe a most enjoyable time, then went back to his evening papers. Unless work beckoned, he was more stay-at-home than Emily d.i.c.kinson ever thought to be, but minus the poetry writing to distract him. He had other activities to fill the hours.

His latest project with the crossbows appeared to be complete. The dining room and its big table were all cleared and cleaned, and hanging from its walls like trophies were the weapons he'd repaired. He'd been doing some practice with them, too. At the far end of the downstairs hall he kept a bale of old rolled up carpet about two feet thick and four feet square bound tight with rope. Most of the time he threw a tablecloth over the ratty thing to conceal it, but that was off now, revealing the target he'd tacked on the side. The red bull's-eye center was nearly eaten out by holes made from crossbow bolts.

Everyone should have a hobby. Besides, this beat the indoor pistol firing that had come before the crossbows. The neighbors had had fits complaining about the noise until I persuaded him to start going to a real shooting range.

I hopped in the Buick and went straight to Jason McCallen's place. It didn't look too promising; all the lights were out and his car was gone. On the slim chance that he might be playing games and skulking inside, I did another break- and-enter routine, though with me it was more of a vanish-and-slip-in-through-the-cracks act.

The living room was very still and dim. I listened hard before moving, but couldn't hear anything. My flashlight brightened things considerably, but did not reveal the presence of the owner, though it flushed the cat out as I went searching. The bedroom was in order, the clothing in the closet and bureau undisturbed, so McCallen hadn't packed for a lengthy trip-unless he planned to buy what he needed along the way.

In the kitchen the ample food in the cat's dish was still fresh, so the animal was in no danger of starving. It rea.s.sured me more than anything else I'd seen here that McCallen planned to return. He could have dropped in at any time today to feed his pet, who was presently trying to leave a coating of shed fur on my tux pants as he rubbed against me. I found the phone and called Escott. He took the negative news with a kind of verbal shrug.

"Nothing for it then but to get on to the rest of your evening."

"I'll try here again later. He has to come back to sleep sometime." I had the idea of waking McCallen in the wee hours to deliver my message. If I did it right he wouldn't even remember it as a dream.

"Only if it's convenient to you," said Escott.

I hung up and vanished, which scared the h.e.l.l out of the cat, to judge by his hiss and yowl as he tore from the room. Animals are usually fine with me until I try disappearing. Maybe they don't like the cold in the s.p.a.ce I occupy. I floated all the way across the street to the car, filling back into myself right in the driver's seat and feeling pretty smug about my ability to do so. Of course, I'd have felt a whole lot more smug if I'd actually reappeared in my own vehicle.

The damp wind from the north had caused me to drift too far to the left. I was in somebody else's Studebaker.

A nice car, but my key wouldn't fit. I sieved out and humbly walked to my Buick.

A short drive later and I found a parking s.p.a.ce no more than a dozen steps from Moe's tavern. Maybe I'd have better luck than Escott at finding McCallen here.

The main room held only a scattering of couples, but no sign of McCallen, Paterno, or any of the others who had chased me. I crossed to the curtained-off area they'd emerged from, but no one was there either. The only familiar face in the joint was Jim Waters, who sat sideways at one of the tables so he could stretch out his legs. I had time for a short visit, so I went over, said h.e.l.lo, shook hands, and apologized for my swift exit the other night.

"What was that all about?" he asked after inviting me to sit. "What did you do to get that big guy so mad at you?"

"It's a long story with no payoff. I need to settle something with him, but not when he's surrounded by a crowd."

"Well, I'm glad you got away. Leastwise, you don't look worse for the wear, so I'm a.s.suming you got away." He gave my duds a thorough eyeballing. My topcoat must have represented a month's earnings for him, even with an army pension.

"I'm taking my girl someplace fancy tonight," I explained. "Buy you a beer?"

He had one empty bottle on the table by him. "I won't say no so long as I buy the next round."

I lifted the bottle so the waiter at the bar could see and he nodded back. "This'll sound crazy, but I can't drink alcohol."

Waters laughed once. "I knew there was something wrong with you. You under the age limit?"

"No, it's just bad for my insides. Makes me sick as a dog, but I don't mind watching someone else enjoying a cold one." The waiter misunderstood my order and brought two bottles. Waters a.s.sured me he could make a home for the spare. I let him clear his throat with a good swallow of brew. "That big Scotsman, you know anything about him?"

"Thought he was your friend."

"No friend. It's a business deal with us, and I don't know him that well, or the people with him."

"I see him here a few times a week with his crew. They don't mix much with the rest of the crowd, mostly stay in the back."