The Chilly Winds of March

by Richard Hart

Central City, 1950

I

The front door of Lawrence Mallory's foursquare swung open allowing in a blast of cold late winter air and his daughter, Susanna. The ninth grader plopped her books on the sofa and began unbuttoning her coat.

“Hi, Larry,” she said brightly. No one else called Mallory by that name. Susanna had begun doing it more or less as a joke back when her mother was his secretary and apparently saw no reason to change things over a little matter like adoption. Besides, Mallory had reasoned, the only man she would ever call “Dad” had been killed in the Battle of the Bulge.

“Hi, Kiddo,” Mallory replied. “How was school?”

“It was fine.” Susanna was short for her age and had her mother's hair—brown with just a hint of red. Her face was randomly freckled, and that, along with a narrow chin and wide mouth, gave it a pixyish quality. The girl peeled off her coat and flung it and her hat onto the sofa, covering her books. She pulled an envelope from her sweater pocket and crossed the living room to the overstuffed chair where Mallory had been reading his afternoon paper while sipping his afternoon martini.

“I have a note for you.” she said. “It's from Julius.”

Mallory wasn't the only one for whom she had a nickname. “Who's Julius?” he asked, crinkling his forehead.

“Mr. Franklin.”

“The basketball coach?”

“He's not my basketball coach; I have him for world history,” she said, then added with mock indignation: “You'd think you'd know the names of your only child's teachers.”

“It's the ravages of age. The body's gone and the mind is going. I can't even remember why you call him Julius.”

“It's because he's crazy about Julius Caesar. He's always talking about him in class. Everybody calls him that now.”

“And you, no doubt, are responsible.”

She smiled impishly and handed the envelope to her father. He accepted it with a skeptical look. “You're not in trouble are you?”

“Of course not. Mr. Franklin just handed that to me at the end of class and told me to give it to you.” Mock indignation had turned to righteous indignation, but that too quickly passed. “I'm hungry, I'll be right back”

She darted off to the kitchen. He sighed and read the note:

Mr. Mallory,

Please call me at MAdison 3-3345 at 8:00 P.M. tonight. I need to speak with you about an urgent matter.

Roger Franklin

Mallory had just been reading about Franklin in the sports section. His North High Vikings were to play Friday night for the sectional championship and a trip to the state tournament. A related story concerned rumors that he was a finalist for the assistant coach's job at Minnesota A&M, a fading collegiate power with a head coach in his seventies. Mallory picked up the paper and began rereading the articles when Susanna banged back through the kitchen door chomping on a Snickers Bar.

“That'll give you pimples,” he said.

“And what‘s that stuff doing to your liver?” She nodded toward the half finished martini on the table beside his chair.

He picked up the glass and raised it as if making a toast. “Not to worry, my dear. I drink only in moderation.”

She shook her head. “I don't know where moderation is, but I bet everybody there is a drunk.” She giggled at her joke and sat down on the arm of Mallory's chair. “What'd the note say?”

“Mr. Franklin wants me to call him. Are you sure you're not in trouble?”

“If I was,” she said a bit overdramatically, “Julius wouldn't bother with writing notes. I just wouldn't be sitting down too good.” She took a bite of her Snickers.

“Too well,” he corrected her. “You wouldn't be sitting down too well.”

“However you say it, he's strict, too strict if you ask me. Sometimes I think he really believes he is Caesar and we're his slaves.”

“I suspect he's just being a good disciplinarian, which is exactly what this younger generation needs. Someday, you'll thank him.”

“Maybe, but not today.” She stood up, finished off the candy bar, and retrieved her coat.

“Can I go over to Cindy's? I'll be back in time to help Mom with dinner.”

“Give Cindy my regards.”

She put on her coat and started to open the door. “Oh, I almost forget, I promised some more people rides to the game Friday.”

“What are we up to now?”

“Six.”

“Six?” Malory's thick eyebrows rose as they tended to do in response to surprise, shock or total illogicality. “Your mother's going too, you know. That'll make nine people. Have you given any thought as to how we're going to put nine people into one car?”

“Not yet.” She shrugged her shoulders. “But don't worry, I'll think of something. Bye.”

As the door shut, Mallory sighed again and picked up his martini.

II

Mallory had been an investigator for the D.A.'s office and then a lawyer. During the war, he worked in counter intelligence. He returned from the army on the wrong side of forty with no desire to go back to either of his former professions. And thanks to a lucrative albeit tedious law career, and an inheritance from an uncle who disliked him a little less than the rest of the family, he didn't have to.

He quit the firm and bought his current residence about twenty blocks north of downtown to serve as both home and office. Then taking Kate, his secretary, with him, he set up shop as a private investigator. Within the year, he'd married Kate, adopted Susanna, and handled a grand total of seven cases. Fortunately, one of them was high profile enough for the resultant publicity to create a steady trickle of clients, the would-be latest of which he was about to meet.

At just past 8:00 P.M., he was leaning, coat and hat in hand, on the jamb of the door to the upstairs reading room. “I'm going out,” he said to his wife. “I shouldn't be long.”

“Where are you going?” she asked without looking up from her book, a Nero Wolfe mystery. “To the Blacktop Inn. I'm meeting one of my women on the side. She's lonely.”

“Give her my best, poor thing.” She put the book down and looked at her husband. Kate lacked her daughter's freckles and her face was more rounded, but she had the same reddish brown hair and diminutive stature.

“You're going where?”

“The Blacktop Inn. It's about 20 miles south of town on the Cedarville Blacktop, hence the name.”

“She must be some looker for you to drive all the way down there.”

“Actually it's Roger Franklin I'm meeting. I just talked to him.” Mallory put on his coat. ”Susanna's innocent of all charges, by the way. It's my professional services he wants.”

Her eyes narrowed. ”I'm certainly happy Susanna's not in trouble and your concubine's not lonely, but why on earth does Mr. Franklin need a private detective?”

“He didn't say.”

“And why are you meeting out in the middle of nowhere?”

“He didn't say that either.” He began buttoning the coat. “Sadly, some people don't like being seen with private detectives, probably because most of them aren't in the same class as your hero, there. Or as me, for that matter.”

“So now you're putting yourself in the same class as Nero Wolfe?” she asked with remarkable deadpan.

“Actually, I like to think I'm a class or two up on Mr. Wolfe.” Mallory plopped his fedora onto his head. “After all, he's fat and fictional.”

***

An hour later he was sipping a beer in the third booth from the door of the Blacktop Inn. One look at the place had convinced him they'd most likely never heard of martinis. The tavern was small, and as Kate speculated, in the middle of nowhere. There was a bar with seven stools, three of them occupied by large men in Levis drinking beer and engaging in fervent problem solving, both the worlds' and their own. The other stools and booths were empty. Hank Williams' “So Lonesome I Could Cry” was playing a bit too loudly on the juke box, and cigarette smoke hung in the dim tavern light like L.A. smog on a bad day.

Coach Franklin arrived several minutes later. At about 5' 9”, he wasn't as tall as you'd figure a basketball coach to be, but he was stockily built with large hard muscles that moved easily under his jacket. He had blonde hair and a broad face, genial, but with a no-nonsense look about it; the face of a good disciplinarian. Mallory stood to meet him.

“I'm Roger Franklin,” he said treating Mallory to a finger numbing handshake. “Did you have any trouble finding this place?” His voice had that hoarseness endemic to basketball coaches in March.

“None at all. I've always been good at finding bars.”

Franklin smiled. “Sorry to drag you all the way down here, but as you'll see, there's a good reason why I couldn't risk being seen talking to you.”

A fortyish waitress with an obvious dye job came and took his order for a beer. “There's a small matter I want you to clean up for me,” he said when she'd left, “before it becomes a big matter and blows up in my face.”

“I didn‘t think you invited me here for a parent-teacher conference.”

“I'm afraid not. Susanna's a good kid, by the way.”

As Mallory agreed, the waitress returned with Franklin‘s beer. He took a sip then reached inside his jacket and produced a large envelope. It contained photocopies of betting slips for college basketball games, all clearly signed by Franklin . The bets were in the hundreds, sometimes thousands of dollars. The accompanying letter demanded $5,000 or photocopies would be sent to every news organization in town. It was singed, “D. Karnes.”

“How did you come to owe Dewey Karnes $5000?” Mallory asked. “He never carries anybody for that much.”

“You know Karnes?”

“Central City's leading bookie? I know him. I've even done a little business with him.”

“So have I, obviously. But I didn't lose $5,000; I've won that much and more. Now Karnes says I was cheating and wants his money back.”

Mallory perused the photocopies. “How does he say you were cheating?”

“He thinks I was getting information on what games were fixed.”

“Point shaving?”

“I see you've heard of it.”

Mallory nodded. “ Gamblers bribe some players on the favored team to make sure they don't cover the point spread. Then they bet against them. Some say it's pretty wide spread.”

“It may be, but nobody's telling me who's dumping games, and I don't know where Karnes got the idea there was.” Anxiety crept into Franklin 's voice. “I just know this can't get out. A coach would be better off being caught in a whore house than in a gambling jam these days. You may have heard I‘m up for the assistant‘s job at Minnesota A&M. This would kill any chance of that plus probably cost me the job I have.”

“Can you afford what he's asking?”

“Yes, but…”

“Then pay it. Just make sure to get all your betting slips and photocopies.”

The coach's eyes flared at Mallory as if he'd missed a wide open lay up. “You're telling me I should give that little asshole $5000?”

His voice was filled with incredulousness. It cut the smoky air like a chainsaw. In response, Mallory sipped his beer and calmly explained: “It's a matter of an affordable amount of cash versus potential disaster. Besides, the amount Dewey wants can probably be negotiated down.”

“Why should I pay him anything?” Franklin continued in the same tone only louder. “I wasn't cheating.”

“But you were gambling illegally,” Mallory pointed out. “Something many of us have done, but in your case no one can know about it. Dewey's holding all the cards.”

“Shit!” he said loud enough to attract the attention of the problem solvers at the bar. “I was told you were the top private dick in town. And that's all you have to offer—give Karnes what he wants?”

Mallory was wearying of the coach's act. It might work on his players, over whom he had virtual dictatorial powers, or a referee he wanted to intimidate, but to Mallory it came across as petty and childish.

“Realistically,” he replied curtly, “yes.”

Franklin stood up and threw some money for the beers on the table. “Then thanks for your time.”

He stepped toward the door then halted and drew a long breath which he exhaled hard. When he turned back around his face had managed to soften a bit. “Look, I'm sorry I blew my top. I've been under a lot of strain lately, what with the job interview, the state tournament, which I'm expected to win, and now this.” He sat down. “Isn't there any way I can get rid of this bastard short of paying him off?”

Mallory looked at him indulgently. “I've given you my best advice. And I wouldn't try any strong-arm stuff, if that's what you have in mind. Dewey's not tough himself, but he's got a few hard boys on the payroll. Besides which, you could land in jail, and I don't have to tell you what that would do to your coaching career.”

“So I just make the best deal I can, is that it?”

“That's it. If you want help with the bargaining, I can give you some names. They're all relatively honest and won't be intimidated.”

“Thanks, but I'm not interested in spending a dime more than necessary on this. I'll handle Karnes.”

“Okay,” Mallory said dubiously, “but watch yourself.”

“Don't worry. He won't intimidate me.” Franklin stood up. “What do I owe you?”

“ Nothing. I never took your case.”

“Okay, thanks again for your time.”

He turned for the door and this time he kept going. Mallory wasn't unhappy to see him leave. The Blacktop Inn was much more pleasant without him.

III

North High's gym was packed, loud and overheated by the time Mallory got Susanna and her friends to Friday night's game. The kids scuttled off to the student section leaving Kate and him to push through the surging crowd and up steep narrow bleacher steps in a search of a place to sit.

“Hey, Lawrence, Kate, over here!”

Mallory looked around and spotted the voice's owner—Lt. Bernie Higgins of the Central City Police Department. He was parked on the aisle of the top bleacher and using his substantial backside to nudge a reluctant row of fans far enough over to create a place for two more.

“Thanks, Higgy,” Mallory said as he took his place next to the Lieutenant. Kate, sat on the outside, saying there was no way she'd sit between these two reprobates.

“What brings you here?” Mallory asked. “If your working security, you're not supposed to be up here with us paying customers, you know.”

“You kidding? I'm here for the game. I went to North High. Class of '19.” He smiled proudly as he dabbed the sweat off his round and very balding head with a wadded up handkerchief. He had an infectious grin and twinkling blue eyes. In many ways, he looked more like a beardless Santa Claus than a homicide cop in a large city.

“We brought Susanna and some of her friends to the game,” explained Kate, “and I'm working at the concession stand at half time. I'm in the booster club”

“I was kidnapped and brought here against my will,” interjected Mallory. “Officer, I wish to prefer charges.”

Kate elbowed him, her green eyes flashing. ”You said you wanted to see the game.”

“Perjury, my love. I said I wanted to listen to it on the radio not watch it sitting on bleachers harder than my Aunt Tilley's biscuits and being deafened by 5,000 screaming adolescents.”

As if to prove his point, the band began blaring the North High fight song. The crowd roared to life, then stood and began singing and clapping in unison as the Vikings sprinted onto the court and formed into lay up lines. Mallory found himself focusing on Coach Franklin as he strode regally down the sideline to the bench where he crossed his arms, jutted out his chin, and watched warm-ups like Caesar inspecting his legions.

“The coach looks confident,” he commented.

“Why not?” said Higgins. “He's a fifteen point favorite.”

His team started out like they'd win by at least that much, building a five point first quarter lead. But then the Oak Creek Owls, a small team from a small town, began chipping away thanks to outside shooting as deadly as any sniper's and some sloppy ball handling by the home team. By half time the Owls led by three.

Things only got worse in the second half. As the game began slipping away, Franklin screamed at his charges from the bench and berated them mercilessly during time outs, sometimes even grabbing and shaking an unfortunate hoopster who'd committed a particularly grievous error. Having experienced a bit of the coach's wrath himself, Mallory could empathize with the players.

But in the end, it was all for naught. The Vikings lost 62 to 55.

It took the dejected horde a long time to make its way out of the hot sullen gym. As Mallory, Kate, and the Lieutenant finally neared the exit, a gray haired man in a police uniform materialized from out of the crowd, his face twisted in concern. He was McCreary, a retired cop who worked security at the North basketball games.

“Hi, Mac,” Higgins said, “What's going on?”

“A guy just told me he heard a shot from Coach Franklin's office,” he said breathlessly. “He said the door was locked. I was just going to get the janitor when I spotted you guys.”

“Where's the office?” Higgins asked.

“Through that door.” He pointed to the back of the gym. “And up the stairs.”

“Okay, find the janitor and send him up. We'll meet him there. Then park yourself at that door and don't let anyone passed.” He started for the door in a sort of running waddle.

Mallory told Kate to collect Susanna and her friends and wait for him in the car. “If I'm not there in ten minutes take the kids home. I'll catch a ride.”

She nodded in resignation, having become used to such adventures. Mallory caught up with Higgins as he was starting up the stairs and followed the huffing man to the top where Higgins stopped to wipe his brow with his now soaked handkerchief. They'd ended up in a dim hallway lined with windowless doors. The third one in had “Mr. Franklin” printed on it.

The janitor showed up a few minutes later, not looking happy. “This had better be important,” he muttered. “I got that whole gym to clean. I can't be running around…”

“Just open the damn door!” Higgins barked in his best police voice.

The man fumbled through his keys until he found the right one. He opened the door and emitted a gasp of surprised horror.

Mallory and Higgins pushed passed him. The light was on. The office had wood floors and white plaster walls, one of which was dedicated to pictures of Franklin‘s past teams. The coach was seated behind his desk in a high backed chair. His head was tilted at an odd angel and had a rather large hole in it just above the right ear. The expected amount of blood and brains were leaking out. A gun lay on the floor beneath his dangling right hand.

Higgins quickly shut the door and used Franklin 's phone to call headquarters while Mallory checked the body for nonexistent signs of life. Then he examined the gun, a 9 millimeter automatic which was consistent with the damage to the coach's head and the size of a hole in the far wall. Mallory left the gun where it was and made a quick scan of the desktop. On it were several neat stacks of papers one of which had been knocked slightly askew by a ring of keys, presumably tossed there by Franklin .

Higgins hung up the phone. “What do you think, suicide?”

“I'm not sure. I don't see a note.”

“Not everybody leaves one. Besides, if somebody else had been in here, how'd the door get locked? The only way you can do it when you leave is with a key.”

Mallory glanced at the keys on the desk. “Come now, Lieutenant, you've never heard of a locked room murder?”

“Only in books and movies. Twenty-five years in homicide, I've never come across one.”

Higgins took a pen from his pocket. “I know what you're thinking, though.” He poked through Franklin 's keys with the pen. ”Your killer took Franklin 's office key off the ring and used it to lock the door.”

“I'm astounded by your perception. They should really make you captain.”

“That's what I keep saying.” He singled out a small brass Schlage. “This looks just like the key the janitor used. After we dust everything, we'll see if it fits the door. My guess is it will.”

“They're must be other keys floating around,” Mallory commented as he turned his attention to the window on the back wall. He carefully raised it with gloved hands.

“At least we don't have a locked window murder.”

He leaned out. The cool night air was a welcome change from the stuffiness inside the school. The back parking lot was twenty feet below, dimly illuminated. There was a narrow ledge just under the window that could be walked along if you were very careful about it.

He pulled his head back inside and shut the window.

“One thing I should probably tell you,” he said. “ Franklin tried to hire me a few days ago.”

“Small world. What'd he want?”

“Dewey Karnes was demanding five grand to not make his betting records public.”

“Karnes, huh. He'll do that sometimes when somebody's winning too much. You take the case?”

“No, I advised Franklin to pay up. He didn't like hearing that and said he could handle Karnes himself.” Mallory glanced at the body. “I wonder if he handled Karnes a little too roughly, and Karnes had him handled.”

“We'll check on it,” said Higgins, “but it's my experience blackmailers usually don't rub out their meal tickets. Come to think of it too, losing a game like tonight's on top of being blackmailed might have pushed Franklin over the edge.”

“Possibly, he said he was under a lot of strain. On the other hand, if you read the papers, it seemed like things were going pretty well for him: a successful high school coach with a chance to move up to college.”

“Yeah, but you never know what's going on in somebody's head. You know, like the rich guy in that poem.”

Mallory looked at Franklin again. Even cold and dead, he seemed to radiate residual anger. “I don't know. I think Susanna may have had him pegged. From what I saw, there was more Julius Caesar to him than Richard Cory.”

***

The homicide squad showed up, and Mallory left them to their work. A currently employed policeman had replaced McCreary at the door and was doing his best to keep the dwindling crowd, now mainly reporters, at bay. McCreary was talking to a large man near the center of the gym.

“A buddy of mine with homicide just told us about Franklin ,” McCreary said as Mallory approached. “I thought I was done with all that kind of thing. Goes to show, you never know.”

“Isn't that the truth,” Mallory agreed.

“This is Gil Brenner. He's the one who heard the shot. He's waiting to talk to the homicide boys.”

He and Mallory shook hands. Brenner was well over six feet with thick broad shoulders and arms like redwoods. His face was darkly complected with tightly pulled muscles that made it seem statue-like.

“My son‘s on the team, and I keep the scorebook,” he explained in a smooth low voice not unlike a radio announcer‘s. “I've heard of you, of course. Are you investigating the shooting?”

“No, it's strictly a police matter.”

“It's certainly a tragedy. I don't know what I'm going to say to my son. What do you suppose happened?”

“I'm not supposing much of anything right now, but I am somewhat curious. How did you happen to hear the shot?”

“Coach Franklin always wanted to see the scorebook right after games no matter how good or bad things went. So as soon as I had all the stats totaled, I took it to the locker room as I always do, but Coach had already gone to his office.”

“Why would he go there? Shouldn't his place have been with his team?”

“This wasn't unusual for him after tough losses. You have to understand Coach Franklin. He was a man of great passion, and sometimes he needed to go off somewhere to get himself together and collect his thoughts. At any rate, I went up to his office with the book, and as I was about to knock, I heard a shot. The door was locked so I came back out here and found McCreary.”

“So you don't know if anyone came out of the office.”

“No, I guess I should have waited to see, but as you can imagine, I wasn't thinking too clearly.”

“You did the right thing,” Mallory reassured him. “Where there's gunfire, you don't take chances.”

“I know that all to well,” Brenner said deliberately. “I was a commando during the war.”

IV

It took nearly a week for the hoopla surrounding Franklin 's demise to subside. There'd been the huge outpouring of grief, both real and artificial, the very public funeral, and the endless and sometimes outrageous speculation as to what really happened.

Mallory was working on his second cup of coffee, relieved that there was no mention of the case on the morning radio newscast, when the doorbell rang. The woman he found on his doorstep looked young. So young, in fact, that Mallory first thought she might be one of Susanna's friends. Except that at ten o'clock on a Thursday morning all her friends should have been in school.

“Mr. Mallory?” She said in a tired voice.

“Yes.”

“I don't believe we've met. I'm Linda Franklin. I've worked with Kate in the North High Booster Club.”

“Certainly. Won't you come in?”

He held the door as she glided by. Seeing her better, he could tell she was in her mid twenties, a lovely brunette with a round face dominated by sparkling hazel eyes.

“Please accept my condolences for your loss,” Mallory said as he took her coat.

She uttered an automatic, “thank you,” and he escorted her into the living room where he offered her a chair and coffee. She accepted the former and declined the latter.

“I‘m afraid you just missed Kate,” Mallory said. “She's gone shopping.”

“It's you I'm here to see, Mr. Mallory,” she said firmly. “I want you to prove my husband didn't commit suicide.”

Mallory reflected on the irony of being solicited by yet another Franklin as she continued:

“I just came from police headquarters, and they're about to close the case. Lt. Higgins recommended you if I wanted the investigation pursued.” She gave Mallory an impassioned look. “It wasn't suicide. Roger would never take his own life, and I don't want people thinking he did just because he lost some stupid basketball game. He deserves better than that.”

He sipped the last of his coffee. “You realize, of course, that if your husband didn't commit suicide, then he must have been murdered.”

“Yes,” she said softly. “I know.”

Mallory agreed to take the case. After a brief discussion about fees and such, he excused himself and got a pad and pencil from the antique roll-top desk in the corner.

“How long were you and Roger married?” he asked, returning to his chair.

“It would have been four years in June.”

“Lived in Central City the whole time?”

“Yes. He started at North the year we were married. It was a big step up for him.”

“Where was he before?”

“ Denison . It's about two hundred miles south of here. That's where I'm from.”

“So you knew him when you were in high school.”

“Yes.” Her body stiffened slightly. “And then when I came back home after college, we happened to run into one another and started dating. There's nothing unusual about that, especially in a small town.”

“Nothing at all,” agreed Mallory, puzzled by her defensiveness. “Would you describe your marriage as a happy one?”

“For the most part. We had our ups and downs like any marriage, but we loved each other.”

“Do you know of anyone who'd want to do him harm?”

Her expression became at once thoughtful and intense. “I've been thinking about that a lot since…it happened. Roger was no saint. He was very driven, and he could be abrasive, even ruthless. He made enemies. He'd also been gambling a lot lately, and he'd gotten himself involved with some pretty shady people.”

“Like Dewey Karnes?”

“Yes,” she said with only a modicum of surprise. “He was blackmailing Roger, but of course you knew that.”

Mallory nodded. “When I talked to your husband, he said he was going to try to reach a settlement with Karnes. Do you know if he did?”

“He went to see him, but nothing came of it. I don't know anything else. Roger never talked much about his gambling. He knew I didn‘t approve. Not the way he did it.”

“Was he a compulsive gambler?”

“I'd say so. He would have disagreed.”

“About those enemies you said he made. Is there anyone in particular you suspect?”

“I don't know that I really suspect him, but a boy Roger kicked off the team just before regionals threatened to kill him.”

Mallory's eyebrows rose. “What's the boy's name?”

“Bret Ramsey.”

“The name rings a bell. I think Susanna's mentioned him. Why was he kicked off?”

“Constant breaking of team rules, arguing, talking back. Roger tried to keep him on the team; he was very good, but he was having an effect on the other boys. The day after he was let go, he confronted Roger in the hall and began screaming that he was going to kill him.”

“Sounds like a lovely child,” Mallory commented as he took some notes. “Is there anything else you can tell me?”

“Yes,” She looked at Mallory with a small spark in her eyes. “When the police gave Roger's things back to me, one of the keys to his office was missing. Couldn't that mean someone took it after they killed him and used it to lock the door?”

“It could,” agreed Mallory, feeling a spark himself. “But let's not get ahead of ourselves. Why did your husband have more than one key?”

“About a year ago he lost his office key so the school gave him a new one. Then he found the original, but he never got around to returning the second key.”

“And you're sure he had them both last Friday?”

“They were on his key ring Thursday. His car was sitting behind mine on the driveway. I had to run to the grocery store so I borrowed his keys and took it. I‘m sure both keys were there.”

“Do the police know about the missing key?”

“Yes. Your Lt. Higgins says they‘re still checking on it.”

***

After she'd gone, Mallory called police headquarters and asked for Higgins. “Well, are you going to work for her?” the Lieutenant asked when he got on the line.

“I'm afraid so.”

“Don't blame you. She's hard to resist—in lots of ways.”

“You're a dirty old man, Higgy.”

“I resent the ‘old' part.”

“I also happen to think she might be right.”

“Do you, now? Hang on.” Mallory listened to the sound of papers being shuffled. “We just got the preliminary coroner's report. Cause of death, of course, was a gunshot wound. There were powder burns around the entry wound, which shows that the gun was next to or at least very close to the skin when it was fired. The paraffin test showed the presence of nitrates on his hand.” he paused. “Meaning he fired the gun.”

“Meaning he probably fired a gun,” Mallory said, his lawyer's instincts surfacing. “Anything else?”

“Nothing much, just some red marks on the sides of his neck.”

“Where did they come from?”

“The report doesn't speculate, but you saw how he was acting during the game—jumping around, throwing things. He could have done something to himself then.”

“What about the gun?”

“We ran the serial number. It was his. Bought it three years ago. And, oh yeah, his fingerprints were the only ones on it.”

Somehow, Mallory wasn't surprised. “Did you talk to Karnes?”

“Yeah, we put him through the ringer, which is not a bad thing to do to Karnes ever so often. His alibi was air tight, though.”

“It would be. One more thing, I understand there's a missing key floating around, just as someone speculated there might be.”

“Somebody speculated that? Probably a lucky guess.”

Mallory laughed. “Anything new on it?”

“Just that it's still missing. Otherwise the case would be closed.”

V

The Karnes Dry-Cleaners and Bookie Joint occupied the first floor of an old brick building just off Jefferson in a less prosperous part of downtown. “Bookie Joint,” of course, wasn't on the sign, though Mallory believed it should have been. Gambling was the establishment's reason for being, and everyone from the mayor down to the lowliest rookie flatfoot knew it. The inside of the store was cramped and badly in need of a paint job. The air was damp and heavy with the smell of cleaning chemicals. Behind the counter about thirty garments hung in neat rows.

A bored looking girl with her face in a movie magazine was also behind the counter. Mallory ignored her and went on around to the office where he found Dewey Karnes standing behind his desk holding a gun.

“Dewey, you must be getting jumpy in your old age,” Mallory said. “Do you bring out the artillery every time someone comes into your office?”

“Only when they barge in unannounced,” Karnes said in that raspy voice of his. He was a bit on the thin side with dark and overly Bril-Cremed hair. His small dark eyes could be (and often were) described as beady.

He sat down behind his desk, but kept the gun on Mallory. “I ought to turn this thing lose on you anyway for telling the coppers about my negotiations with Franklin . They sweated me pretty good.”

“Negotiations? Now there's an interesting synonym for blackmail.”

Karnes finally put the gun back into his shoulder holster. “Listen, it ain't blackmail if you're just getting back money you was cheated out of.”

“ Franklin claimed he wasn't cheating.” Mallory sat down on a wooden chair in front of the desk. “What made you think he was?”

“First, what are you doing here?”

“I've been hired by Franklin 's widow to investigate his death.”

“I thought they decided it was suicide.”

“She doesn't agree. I'm not so sure I do either.”

Karnes scoffed then reached into his top right desk drawer. He brought out a bottle and two glasses. “I'll tell you what. We'll have a drink for old time‘s sake, and I'll answer your question. Then unless you want to put down a bet or get your pants cleaned, you scram and don‘t bother me about Franklin again.”

“Fair enough.”

Karnes poured the drinks and handed one to Mallory who regarded the scummy glass, and hoping the alcohol had killed the germs, took a sip. Surprisingly, it wasn't half bad scotch.

He said: “Okay, now what was going on with you and Franklin.”

“He's a long time customer,” Karnes said evenly. “Bets on everything, baseball, football, but mostly basketball. We've done business long enough for me to know his betting patterns, and to know overall he loses more than he wins, which is fine with me.” He took a sip of his drink. “Then this season, he starts winning, often and big. Not good for my bottom line, so I do some checking. I got connections, you know, and I find out he's getting advance information on what games were fixed. I confront him, but he denies everything. So what could I do? I sent him photocopies of his betting slips and said I'd make them public if he didn't pay me five grand. That don‘t come close to covering my losses. I was letting him off easy.”

“You always were a sweetheart.” Mallory swirled the scotch in his dirty glass and took another sip. ”Who was feeding him the information?”

“My contact told me it's best all around I don't know. My guess is it's some of the New York boys. They're whose behind all this.”

Mallory‘s eyebrows rose. “Why would New York gamblers be telling a Central City high school coach what games are fixed?”

“Call it long range planning. Paying a couple of players to shave points is no guarantee the game will come out the way you want. Too many things can still go wrong. These boys want all the edge they can get, and one way to get it is for the coach to be in your pocket.”

“ Franklin ?”

“He was going to be the new assistant at Minnesota A&M, as you probably heard. The old man there is going to retire in a year or two. Franklin was set to be the next head coach.”

Mallory nodded. “So they were buying Franklin by feeding his gambling habit.”

“Something like that.” He shrugged slightly. “It don't matter much, though. In a year, maybe sooner this whole thing's gonna blow up like an A-bomb. It's gotten too big. Everybody's got players on the take now— Kentucky , Bradley, CCNY, Long Island . You can't keep something like that quiet long. Mark my words: it'll be the biggest scandal since the Black Sox.”

“I won't argue the point.” Mallory finished his drink. “But getting back to Franklin , I understand he came to see you last week. How did that go?”

“It went nowhere. He tried to get tough. I had to have Eddie and Carlo escort him out.”

Eddie Conrad and Carlo Petrolle were the “hard boys” about whom Mallory had warned Franklin . They worked as dry cleaners when they weren't breaking legs.

“They didn't happen to follow up with a visit after the game Friday night?”

Karnes dark eyes narrowed and his lip curled.

“I withdraw the question.” Mallory said raising his palms. He stood up. “I'd best take my leave before Eddie and Carlo have to escort me out. Thanks for the drink and the answers.”

“Sure we can't do a little business?” Karnes asked.

“Sorry, my britches are spotless, and I've given up gambling. If I wasn't sure about it before I came in here, I am now.”

VI

Mallory was parked in front of North High at dismissal time. He stood beside his Nash Ambassador watching the torrent of liberated teenagers pour out of the double doors of the red sandstone building. Susanna and her friend Cindy spotted him and worked their way through the crowd to where he was.

“Hi, Larry, what are you doing here?” Susanna asked.

“I was in the neighborhood and thought I'd see if you ladies would like a ride home.”

The girls quickly accepted. March had turned bitter cold with a wind that stung the skin and chilled to the bone.

“Okay, but first can either of you tell me where I might find a Bret Ramsey?”

“That's what Cindy would like to know.”

“Oh, really?” Mallory said in an exaggerated voice as he looked at the slim blonde. She proceeded to dissolve into a profound state of giggling.

“She has a crush on him,” explained Susanna.

“I do not,” Cindy protested in a gasp. “He's a stuck up creep.”

“But he's soooo handsome.”

“All right,” said Mallory. “Where might I find this soooo handsome stuck up creep?”

“He always parks in the senior lot behind the school,” said Cindy. “He drives a red Pontiac convertible.”

“And how do you know that?” Susanna teased.

Mallory shooed them giggling into his car and started around to the back. As he turned the corner of the building, he almost ran into a large man in a brown overcoat whom he quickly recognized as Gil Brenner.

“Excuse me,” Brenner said with an emphatic politeness. “I wasn't watching where I was going.”

“Just as much my fault,” responded Mallory, feeling compelled to show equal civility.

Brenner smiled. “Today's the first day of baseball practice. Of course my son forgot his glove and guess who ended up having to bring it to him?”

“I wish I had a nickel for everything I've brought to school that my kid had forgotten. I could retire.”

Both men laughed and Brenner said he had to get home. Mallory went on around to the back of the building and found himself in the parking lot he'd seen from Coach Franklin's office window Friday night. Near the entrance was a red Pontiac Torpedo convertible. As he waited for its owner, he surveyed the façade of the building. The ledge he'd noticed that night looked more decorative than functional. It ran the length of the building just under the line of second story windows. The gym windows stood out, larger than the others, about twenty-five feet from Franklin 's office. It would be difficult, if not impossible, Mallory realized, for anyone to walk very far on that ledge, especially at night.

As Mallory's gaze returned to ground level, a tall, athletic kid in a green North High letterman's jacket was approaching the car. One of his long arms was wrapped around an angelic blonde who was snuggling her head into his chest as if she meant to take up residence.

“Hello,” Mallory said. “Are you Bret Ramsey?”

“Who wants to know?”

“My name's Lawrence Mallory. I'd like to talk to you about Coach Franklin.”

“Are you a cop?”

“I'm a private investigator.”

“Then I don't have to talk to you, right?”

“Right, but I can arrange for cops if you'd like.”

The kid puffed out his chest like a rooster. “And I can arrange for a lawyer to sue your ass if you'd like.”

He opened he passenger side door for the girl. She started to get in then stopped short and looked uncertainly at Mallory. “Bret didn't kill Mr. Franklin.”

“Shut up!” the kid snapped. “You don't talk to him, understand?”

“You know,” Mallory said, “if this was my girl, I'd be a whole a lot nicer to her than that. Besides, it sounds like she's trying to help you.”

The kid's babyish face was getting decidedly red. He looked at the girl, then at Mallory, and finally back to her. “Okay, tell him.”

“We were at the game together Friday night. He was with me the whole time.”

“There, satisfied?” Ramsey sneered.

Mallory was surprised at how much insolence two ordinary words could hold. Resisting a strong urge to smack him, he said to the blonde: “May I ask your name, Miss?”

“Patty Elmore,” she replied, mustering a smile.

“Okay, Patty, so you were together the whole game.”

“Yes.”

“What about right after the game?”

She hesitated and looked at Ramsey.

“You don't need his permission to tell the truth,” Mallory said.

He gave it anyway. “Go ahead.”

“Actually, I was cheering…I mean I'm a cheerleader. After the game, I went to the dressing room to change.”

“I thought you said you were together the whole game. I was there, and I don't recall him out on the floor waving pom-poms.”

“I was sitting behind the bench,” Ramsey said, now so red faced he almost matched his car. “She could see me all the time.”

“ What about after the game? I assume you didn't go to the cheerleaders' locker room with her.”

“Of course not,” Patty interrupted. “We talked a few minutes, and I went to change. Then I met him at the front door. We went to a party.”

“How long did it take you to change and get to the door?”

“About half an hour.”

“Can you account for your movements during that half hour?” Mallory asked Ramsey.

“I don't know,” he said, petulantly. “I talked to some people.”

“Do they have names?”

He muttered a few, and then said: “Do you actually think I went up to Coach's office and killed him while I was waiting for my girl to change?”

“You'd threatened him.”

“I was mad because he kicked me off the team. When you're mad you say things you don't mean.”

“And sometimes you say things you do mean.”

“Okay, so how'd I get to his office and back without being seen? How was I able to lock the office door when I left? And how come Franklin 's fingerprints were on the gun, but not mine?”

He didn't wait for answers. He pushed Patty into the car. After an explosion of door slamming, they were both inside. Through a rolled down window, he said: “My father will hear about this.”

“Be sure to give him my best.”

The Pontiac roared to life. Gears clashing and tires squealing, it shot out of the parking lot and was gone.

***

“I can see why Ramsey was kicked off the team.” Mallory said as he pulled his Nash into traffic.

“We told you he was a creep,” agreed Susanna.

“Was his girlfriend with him?” Cindy piped. Her voice was rife with both distain and envy.

“Patty Elmore? Do you know her?”

“She's not a nice girl,” Susanna said, trying to sound very adult. “If you know what I mean.”

“Yeah, she even had an affair with Mr. Franklin,” said Cindy.

“An affair?”

“The whole school knew about it,” said Susanna. “She was always going to his office. They finally broke up, though. I think her father found out.”

Cindy quickly added: “And she wasn't the only cheerleader that Mr. Franklin…”

“Enough,” Mallory interrupted, feeling uneasy about discussing such matters with two freshman sophisticates. He wondered if they fully comprehended the significance of all they were saying and quickly decided they probably did.

VII

After dinner, Mallory drove to the Franklins ' house on the northwest side, a white bungalow that sat on a small lawn of brown March grass. Linda answered the door looking not especially surprised to see Mallory even though he hadn't bothered to call ahead. She was wearing a light blue dress with a somewhat low neckline. Her hand was clutching a half full glass of pale chardonnay. Her hazel eyes were vague and sleepy. Mallory was certain this wasn't her first wine today.

“Are you going out?” He asked as they sat down in the living room.

“Yes, some friends thought it would do me good to get out of the house. They're going to pick me up in about a half hour to go to dinner.”

Mallory smiled. “I'll be brief then.” He told her what he'd learned during the day. She listened with as much concentration as she was able to muster.

“So do you think he was murdered?” She asked expectantly.

“I think it's a strong possibility, but there are still too many unanswered questions. Do you mind if I ask a few?”

“No, go right ahead.” She fortified herself with a sip of wine.

“All right, as you know, Roger was killed with his own gun. Did he always carry it with him?”

“Only for the last few months.” She took a deep breath. “When I asked him about it, he said he was being followed.”

“Did he know by whom?

“I don't think so, but I'm sure it had something to do with the gambling. I kept telling him he should go to the police, but he wouldn't hear of it. Finally, he told me whoever it was had stopped, and he never mentioned it again.”

“But he kept the gun.”

“Yes.”

“Did he always have it with him at games?”

She nodded. “He left it in his car during away games. At school he always locked it in his desk.”

“Was this generally known?”

“I couldn't say. He may have told someone at school.”

She took another sip of her wine. Mallory paused and then said carefully: “Did you know about him and Patty Elmore?”

She shook her head and looked down. “I knew, but I forgave him. I always forgave him.”

“Always?”

“Yes, always. Gambling wasn't the only thing he was compulsive about.”

“A man of large appetites,” Mallory observed.

“More than you know. “ She smiled wanly. “I was a cheerleader once too, not that long ago, actually. He was the handsome new basketball coach, and I was swept off my feet.” She made an exaggerated gesture with her hand, sloshing out some wine. She ignored it. “Our affair was torrid, as I'm sure his and Patty's was. When my father found out, it was all my mother could do to stop him from shooting Roger.”

Mallory's eyebrows rose.

“No, Dad didn't kill him. He was in Denison Friday night. I called Mom and him right after I found out about Roger.” She forced a small smile. “Of course, Dad did say he'd probably been shot by a cheerleader's father.”

“Speaking of which, what about Patty's father?”

“Sam Elmore? When he found out what was going on, the only thing he did was threaten Roger with was going to the school board and to me. That's when I got the usual confession—the one I always got when he knew he was caught. The next day he dropped Patty.”

“And her father kept quiet.”

She nodded. “Roger must have persuaded him somehow. He could be very persuasive.”

Mallory found himself looking at a bust of Caesar prominently situated on the mantle. Linda noticed.

“That was Roger's,” she said. “Julius Caesar was his idol. He was always quoting him to his students and his team.”

“So I've been told. My daughter was in his freshman world history class.”

“He was a good teacher. He cared about his students, and they liked and respected him.”

“Susanna's gotten a lot out of his class,” Mallory said neutrally.

“I just thought of something rather ironic,” she said. “Roger was killed in March. Like Caesar.”

Her eyes misted over, and she quickly excused herself saying her friends would be there shortly. Mallory went back to his Nash and as he started it up recalled a line from Shakespeare. Brutus had said: “ Did not great Julius bleed for justice' sake? ” That question had been asked centuries ago. The concern now was why Roger Franklin had to bleed. And who was his Brutus?

***

When Mallory got home, he found his wife upstairs reading and his daughter in front of the television watching wrestling.

“Who's winning?” he asked.

“It doesn't matter. It's all fixed.”

“Like college basketball,” Mallory muttered to himself. To Susanna, he asked: “Then why do you watch it?”

“I want to see if Buddy Cortez gets to win this time. He's the tall one with black hair.”

Mallory looked at the screen. Mr. Cortez, a handsome Latino, had his opponent, a squat bald man the announcer called The Boston Bulldog, in a half-nelson.

“I sense an adolescent crush here. But you should have picked the Bulldog; he's much dreamier.”

Susanna gave her father an exasperated look as he went to the kitchen to fix the afternoon martini he never had. After the first long sip, he put in a call to Higgins.

“Anything new on the Franklin case?”

“The missing key turned up.”

“Where?”

“In Franklin 's desk. The janitor was cleaning it out and found the key in the top right drawer. He took it to the office and the principal called us.”

“How come your boys didn't find it?”

“It was way in the back of the drawer and under some stuff. That's no excuse, though. We just missed it.”

“When was it found?”

“About four this afternoon. Finding it pretty much wraps up the loose ends.”

“So you're calling it suicide?”

“No reason not to now.”

“Maybe, but first you should check on the alibi of a kid named Bret Ramsey, he'd threatened to kill Franklin after he kicked him off the team. You also might want to visit a Sam Elmore. His daughter's a cheerleader who Franklin was having a fling with.”

“Give your Police Department some credit. We already checked out the Ramsey kid.”

“And?”

“He's clean.”

“What about Elmore?”

There was a pause. “Okay, what about him?” Higgins asked, somewhat irritated.

Mallory filled him in and said he'd check back tomorrow. He returned to the television where he found Cortez on the ring floor writhing in pain as the Boston Bulldog gnawed on his leg like it was a soup bone.

“Is that legal?”

“Of course not,” Susanna said. “But that's why he's called the Bulldog; he bites people.”

“A poor idea. Who knows where that leg has been?”

Suddenly Cortez got lose and was quickly behind his opponent. He wrapped one arm around the Bulldog's neck while using the forearm of the other to push against the back of his head.

“It's the sleeper hold!” yelled the announcer.

The Bulldog squirmed for a few seconds and then was still. Cortez laid his limp body on the canvas and made a great spectacle of pinning him.

Mallory's eyebrows rose. “So that's how it was done,” he whispered.

VIII

At first, Mallory thought it was part of a dream—a bell ringing, followed by loud pounding. Gradually, in the depth of his consciousness, came the realization that it was no dream and someone was at the front door and wanted in very badly. He got out of bed slowly and put on his robe and slippers. Kate was still dead to the world. She could sleep though a chorus of jackhammers and wake up wondering where all the holes in the street came from. The pounding continued, louder than before. Mallory got his .38 revolver from the holster he'd hung in the closet. He put the gun in his robe pocket then opened the bedroom door. He stepped onto the landing and looked down the stairs. The vestibule light was on and Susanna, in a pink robe and pinned up hair, was about to open the door.

“No! Let me get it,” he hollered as he galloped down the stairs.

He was too late. She opened the door and two large men in dark overcoats and hats set low on their foreheads entered. They were Eddie and Carlo, Dewey Karnes' leg-breakers. Mallory started to reach for his gun, but stopped short. Theirs were already pointing at him.

“What's going on?” he demanded.

“We just want you to come with us for a little chat, that‘s all,” Carlo said.

“At 2:00 A.M.? And why the artillery?”

“Speaking of artillery.” Carlo nodded to Eddie who quickly frisked Mallory and relieved him of his gun.

“What about her?” Eddie asked, looking at Susanna.

The girl stared back at him with wide frightened eyes. She seemed frozen in place.

“Whatever business you have with me has nothing to do with her,” said Mallory. “Let her alone and I'll go without a fuss.”

“Like you have a choice,” Carlo said giggling nastily. “Okay, lock her in a closet. We gotta go.”

Hearing that seemed to snap Susanna out of her stupor. Her eyes focused intently as her tongue slid around her lips. Mallory had seen that look on her before; usually when she was in trouble and trying to figure a way out of it.

“I have to go to the bathroom first,” she blurted.

“There ain't time,” said Carlo.

“Sorry, but if I'm going to be in a closet all night…” She bolted up the stairs.

“Get her!” Carlo ordered.

Eddie took off after her. Mallory tried to follow, but Carlo cut him off and jammed the gun into his stomach. “You can't do her any good dead,” he said in a voice as smooth and cold as a marble slab.

“If he hurts her, he'll be the one who's dead,” Mallory seethed. “I‘ll kill you both. I swear to God.”

Carlo gave Mallory a baleful look and a hard poke with the gun. Then he yelled up the stairs: “What the hell is going on?”

“She's in the bathroom.”

“Get her down here. Now!”

Minutes later, Eddie was leading Susanna down the stairs by the arm. She looked none the worse for wear, Mallory noticed with much relief. As they reached the bottom of the stairs, she broke away from his grip and flung her arms around Mallory in a tight hug.

“Daddy, I'm scared!” she wailed tearfully.

Mallory, somewhat taken aback, returned the hug. “It'll be all right, kiddo,” he said as soothingly as he could. “Just do what they say.”

“I don't want you to go with them.”

“I'm not crazy about the idea myself, but it doesn't look like I much choice right now. Don't worry; I can handle anything these buffoons try.”

Mallory felt something slide into the left hand pocket of his robe. Susanna released her hug and stepped back, giving Mallory a wink.

Then she shot the intruders an angry look. “I know—in the closet.” She went into the closet next to the stairway and slammed the door.

Carlo turned the key which had been left in the lock and put it in his pocket. Mallory was allowed to take his coat before being escorted to a prewar four-door Buick sitting in the driveway. Carlo slid in behind the wheel while Eddie directed Mallory to the back seat with a wave of his gun.

“Mind telling me what I did to Dewey to rate this?” he asked.

“Screw it,” growled Carlo. “Just shut your yap and keep it that way.” He started the car.

They drove west through the dark city. Eddie sat on Mallory's left, his right hand jamming his gun into Mallory's ribs. As they reached the outskirts, the streetlights and occasional lighted buildings began thinning out until only a misshapen gibbous moon and a few stars rode along for company. Once outside the city, Carlo turned off the highway onto a narrow dirt road that wound through a bramble of bare trees.

Mallory said: “Can the condemned man have a smoke?”

“Sure,” said Carlo. “Just no sudden moves. Eddie gets jumpy.”

He snorted his nasty giggle. Mallory slowly dug his hands into his overcoat pockets then reached under it to explore the pockets of his robe. Something cold and hard was in the left pocket, and he knew right away what it was. Kate's first husband had given her a gun for protection when he left for the service, a .22 automatic she still kept in the nightstand beside their bed. Susanna knew about it, of course. There was a door connecting the upstairs bathroom to the master bedroom. Her urgent bathroom trip was a ruse aimed at getting the gun.

Mallory felt a swell of parental pride as he continued rummaging through various layers of clothing. “I don't seem to have any cigarettes,” he said to Eddie. “Could I trouble you for one?”

“Why not.”

Eddie had to reach his left hand across his body to get the cigarettes out of his right pocket. As he did, the twisting of his torso caused the barrel of the gun to move slightly back, away from Mallory's ribs. Mallory leaned forward and pivoted to his left, pulling the .22 from his pocket while simultaneously pinning Eddie's gun hand to the back of the seat. He kept turning until he almost straddled Eddie then rammed his right knee hard into the thug's groin.

Eddie yelled in pain and surprise but held onto the gun. By this time Mallory had the .22 about three inches from his right eye.

“Drop it, Eddie! This is a little gun, but it'll splatter your eyeball all over the back seat.”

“What the hell is going on?” demanded Carlo.

“He's got a gun on me!” Eddie moaned. He dropped his own gun.

Mallory picked it up with his left hand and pivoted back around so he could point it at Eddie while shoving the .22 into the back of Carlo's neck. “And now I've also got one on you. Pull this thing over and stop. And no sudden moves. I get jumpy too.”

Within minutes, the car was stopped and both hard guys were disarmed and braced against its side. In the dim moonlight, they seemed like night creatures who had blundered into a trap. Mallory stood a few feet behind them with the car keys in one hand and his retrieved .38 in the other.

“I thought you frisked him,” Carlo yelled angrily.

“I did,” Eddie protested. “He didn't have nothing else on him.” He hesitated. Then realization: “The brat! She slipped him the gun.”

“Kids, today." Mallory shrugged and smiled. Then he said: “Okay, I'm going to repeat my original question, and this time I want an answer. What I did I do to Dewey to rate this?”

Eddie said nothing. Carlo made a lewd suggestion as to what Malloy could do with himself.

Mallory took a step back and carefully aimed the revolver. The sound of the shot woke up some nearby birds who took to flight with panicked cries. The bullet slammed into the Buick's side between the two men.

“Shit!” screamed Carlo. Eddie just screamed.

“All right, gentlemen, let's try this once more. And the next time I shoot, one of you will be in desperate need of a proctologist.”

“It wasn't Dewey,” blubbered Eddie. “It was a guy named Brenner.”

“Gil Brenner?”

“That's him. He‘s one of Dewey's regular customers. He came into the store this afternoon and hired us to convince you to drop the Franklin case.”

“Just convince?”

“Yeah, convince,” Carlo said flatly. “If Brenner wanted you dead, you‘d be dead.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“He's a professional. Does hits for the mob and anybody else who can afford him.”

“ Brenner ?”

“No,” Carlo spat out, “The friggin Yacht Club Boys! Sure, Brenner. He did a lot of killing in the war. He was very good, and he liked doing it. The mob looks for his kind.”

Mallory let the news digest. “Then someone hired him to kill Franklin .”

“All he told us was he wanted you off the case. Guys in his racket don't say no more than they have to.”

“You don't want Brenner any madder at you,” said Eddie, fear ironically making him take charge. “Better let us go. You can have the car. We'll walk back.”

Mallory laughed and said: “I have a better idea. Move around to the back of the car. Slowly.”

They hesitated, and then complied. Mallory flipped the keys to Carlo.

“Open the trunk. Leave the keys in the lock.”

He did so, reluctantly.

“Okay, get in.”

The two men looked at each other then gaped at Mallory.

“Move!” he yelled. “You didn't think twice about locking my daughter in a closet.”

“You outa your mind?” Carlo roared as they climbed into the trunk.

“Quite possibly,” Mallory said. “In fact, right now I'm trying to decide whether to deliver you to the police or just drive this heap to the river and push it in with you in there.”

He slammed the lid down as hard as he could.

IX

It had taken Susanna ten minutes to get out of the closet. “I thought you'd make it in five,” Mallory kidded her.

“I've never picked a lock with a hairpin before,” she protested. “And besides, it was dark in there.”

After she'd gotten out, she woke up her mother who called the police. They were still searching when Mallory pulled the Buick, now with an extra hole in its side, to the curb in front of his house. He was greeted with hugs and cries of relief from his wife and daughter in the same vestibule from which he'd been snatched. Mallory then moved to the secure comfort of his overstuffed chair. Kate was opposite him on the couch with her arm around her daughter's shoulders.

“You did all right,” Mallory said smiling at the girl. “And that was quick thinking—getting the gun and slipping into my pocket. It was also nice hearing you call me ‘Daddy.'”

“I had to make it convincing, didn‘t I?” Susanna said with a grin.

Lt. Higgins returned from the kitchen where he'd been using the phone. He'd stopped by to check on Kate and Susanna and update them on the progress the police had or more accurately hadn't made when Mallory returned.

“They'll be here in a few minutes,” he said as he pulled a wooden chair to the center of the living room. “ Lawrence , you'll have to come downtown and make a statement. I talked the Captain into letting you do it tomorrow morning.”

“Thanks, Higgy. By the way, you can forget about Sam Elmore, Bret Ramsey and even Dewey Karnes unless you can prove that one of them hired Gil Brenner. It seems he supplements his income by killing people, one of whom was Franklin .” He told the astonished group about his encounter with Carlo and Eddie and what they had said.

“Gil Brenner?” Kate gasped. “It can't be. I know his wife from the boosters. She's a lovely person. They have three nice kids…” Befuddlement made her voice tail off.

“It's hard to understand,” Mallory agreed. “Carlo said Brenner did a lot of killing in the war and got to like it.”

“We see guys like that,” agreed Higgins. “They get back home and can't readjust. They miss the rush. Sounds like Brenner found a way to have it again and get paid.”

Susanna looked at her father. “So why didn't he just kill you?”

“I'm sure that we're all glad he didn't,” Mallory said, his voice and eyebrows elevated. “But as to why he didn't, I can't say. When he saw me at school today, I'm sure he wondered what I was doing there. Maybe he checked with Dewey Karnes and found out I'd been hired by Franklin 's wife. Carlo and Eddie would have been handy. He may have hoped they could scare me off and save him the trouble of another murder.”

“I suppose you got it figured how he killed Franklin ,” Higgins said.

“I think so. Brenner knew that Franklin retreated to his office after tough losses, he told McCreary and I that. Franklin had been carrying a gun and keeping in his desk drawer when he was at school. He must have known that too. When he took the scorebook to the office, he made sure the door was shut, and somehow got behind Franklin . Then he put a sleeper hold on him—a little trick he could have learned in the commandos. It also explains the red marks on the side of the Franklin 's neck they found during the autopsy.”

“That's what Buddy Cortez did to the Boston Bulldog,” Susanna interjected.

“It pains me to admit that's where I got the idea. Wrestling may be fake, but there is a sleeper hold. You simply cut off the circulation to the brain until the victim loses consciousness. As soon as Brenner had Franklin that way, he dragged him to his desk chair and got his keys. Then he unlocked the desk and found the gun. He wrapped Franklin 's hand around it and shot him in the head, leaving powder marks on his hand so it looked like he'd done it himself.”

“How did he get of that office and lock the door?” Kate asked.

“He simply took the key from Franklin 's ring. He had two that fit his office door, so Brenner figured one wouldn't be missed. He locked the door with it then went and found McCreaery and told him he'd heard a shot.”

“And the key?”

“That was a problem. He couldn't just throw it away because Linda had noticed it was missing and told the police. As long as that key was gone, there'd be a chance it wasn't suicide. When I saw Brenner at the school today, he said he'd taken his son‘s baseball glove to him, which probably was true. But I'm willing to bet he used the occasion to make a side trip to Franklin 's office and slip the key into his desk where the janitor found it.”

“So who hired him to bump Franklin ?” Higgins asked.

“Now that's the sixty-four dollar question. Actually, I thought for a while it might have been my client. She could have easily told Brenner about the second office key and the gun in the desk drawer. But I couldn't reconcile the fact that she'd hired me to prove his death wasn't suicide. The police were about ready to close the case. She would have gotten away with it. I also think she really loved the guy, undeserving of it as he was. Unless I'm very poor judge of emotions, she's really grieving.”

“Then how did Brenner find out about the key and the gun?” asked Kate.

“I think he just watched Franklin carefully. He's a professional, remember. He stalked his quarry until he had an opportunity, and then struck.”

Outside, flashing red lights filled the night. “If you'll excuse me,” said Higgins, “we'll take some baggage off you hands.”

“Please do,” said Mallory. “And thanks for everything.”

“I want to watch,” said Susanna, following Higgins to the door.

“Oh, no,” said her mother. “You've seen enough for one night. We're all going to bed.”

***

“You realize,” Kate, the former legal secretary, said to her husband as they finally climbed under the covers, “that your theory is based almost entirely on speculation.”

“I know, my dear. I took speculation in law school.”

“And you're also relying on the testimony of witnesses of highly questionable character.”

“Yes, but they're witnesses of highly questionable character who thought I was about to perform a hemorrhoidectomy on them with a .38.”

Kate laughed and turned off the light. “I think someone cut off the circulation to your brain.”

X

The big man moved quietly. The wind was barely stirring and there were no other noises except the usual urban sounds of an early evening. Yet Mallory hadn't heard him shut his car door nor walk up the driveway. He wasn't aware of him at all until he'd closed the garage door and had turned to go back to the house.

When he saw him, he froze. They faced each other in the fading light like two gunslingers on a dusty western street.

“Hello, Brenner,” Mallory finally said. “I'm a little surprised to see you here.”

“Frankly, I'm a bit surprised myself after what I've been through today. I just wanted to stop by and chat for a minute. We can do it out here so we won't disturb your lovely wife and daughter while they're fixing dinner.”

Thorough, Mallory thought. He doesn't miss much. “What shall we chat about? Murder?”

“Exactly the topic I had in mind.” Brenner stepped closer, and Mallory tensed. He had no gun. He hadn't thought putting the car away would require one.

“Your friend, Lt. Higgins seems to think I murdered Coach Franklin,” Brenner said almost off-handedly. “Apparently you told him those goons who snatched you last night said I hired them to convince you to drop the case, and that I was some kind of professional killer. He couldn't hold me, though. Lack of evidence. Of course I got the usual warning not to leave town.”

“What evidence was lacking?”

“Your friends Carlo and Eddie aren't telling the same story today as you say they did last night. They now claim I didn't hire them, and they don't know anything about my being a hit man. Sadly for you, there were no witnesses to your version except for maybe a stray raccoon.”

“It sounds to me like somebody got to them.”

“I wouldn't know.”

“Do you deny what they told me?'

“I certainly did to Lt. Higgins.”

“And to me?”

“What would it matter?” he said woodenly. “You're not about to change your story.”

Mallory folded his arms across his chest. The wind suddenly picked up. “Mind if I use one of my old lawyer tricks on you? It's called a hypothetical question.”

The big man smiled. “Please do. I'm sure it'll be interesting.”

“All right, let's assume a very successful high school basketball coach gets himself involved with gamblers and other assorted underworld types. For brevity's sake we'll call them ‘the bad guys.' Let's also assume the coach is a shoo-in for an assistant's job at a major college program and the heir apparent to the head job. The bad guys buy his loyalty by letting him in on what games are fixed. He makes a bundle, but with the understanding he'll play ball, quite literally, once he's a college head coach.

“Then let's say the coach's hypothetical bookie wonders why he's suddenly winning so much and calls someone in the know to check on it. That sets off alarm bells. The bad guys do some checking of their own and find the coach's gambling is out of control, he's playing around with San Quentin quail, and he‘s alienating his players. He's is a ticking bomb, and not too many ticks from a major scandal. The last thing the bad guys need is a coach who's in their pocket with his name plastered all over the headlines in the wrong way. So they decide to terminate the deal with the coach which in their business means they terminate the coach.

“Meanwhile, our hypothetical coach is getting nervous. Possibly, he realizes he's being watched and starts carrying a gun. What he couldn't know is the threat is a lot nearer to him than he could imagine. You see, as chance would have it, the bad guys already have someone close to the situation—someone who has a son on the team and even helps out at games. Little does anyone know, however, he's also professional killer. Friendship doesn't stop him from accepting the assignment, murdering the coach, and trying to make it look like suicide. I won't go through all the gory details of how it was done. All that matters is it was done. Hypothetically, of course.”

Mallory pause and looked for a reaction, but the big man's face remained stone-like. “Do you find any of this plausible?”

Brenner smiled again. “If you have no objections, I'll respond to your hypothetical question by asking one of my own.”

Mallory turned his collar to an increasing wind. “Ask away.”

“Very well, assume a hypothetical soldier returns from the war. He'd been trained to kill, and had become quite adept at it. Some people like your hypothetical bad guys come to him with an offer that gives him the opportunity to provide for his family in a way he never dreamed possible. So now instead of ridding the world of Nazis, he's eliminating gangsters, murderers, hoods, and other assorted low-lifes. Not much of a difference if you think about it.”

“Does this include the elimination of our hypothetical coach?” Mallory interrupted.

“Possibly, assuming he's a coach who betrayed his position as educator by defiling girls and breaking the spirits of boys.”

“And what hypothetical God gave your man the right to do all this eliminating?”

“A fair question, but one for another day. The thing to remember now is that this man doesn't wish to harm any honest people who are just doing their jobs—or their families—and hopes it will never become necessary.”

There was a nervous silence. Then Mallory said: “Is that a threat or are we still being hypothetical?”

“You figure it out, Mr. Mallory. Figuring things out is what you're good at.” He looked at his watch. “I must be going, and I don't want to keep you from your dinner. I've enjoyed our chat. We must do this again.”

“Perhaps we will, maybe on visiting day on death row. Don't count Higgins out just yet. Or me.”

Brenner smiled one last time. “I'm sure no one would make that hypothetical mistake.”

The big man turned and walked slowly down the driveway. Mallory watched him recede into the gathering darkness and listened as he started up his car and drove away.

“Larry!” he heard Susanna yell from the side door. “Dinner's ready.”

“I was just coming.” He turned and walked back to the house.

“Who were you talking to?” She asked.

Mallory glanced in the direction from which Brenner had departed. The chilly winds of March blew as they had blown for centuries.

“Brutus,” he said.