his name, it might ruin his scheme. A sudden burst of inspiration gave him the name of Alpert's lawyer.
A voice said: “Who is it?” Nason spoke quickly, from way down in his throat. “Sol Hirschbaum.”
The knob turned and Nason waited until the door started to open. He moved with it, slapping his shoulder against the panel. The door gave a foot or so, caught against some object; Nason's weight crashed into this object, knocked it aside as he barged forward.
Alpert was slammed against the wall of a tiny entryway. Beyond him, at the far side of an expensively- furnished and softly lighted living room, sat Rita Jordan. The bull-necked Hymie had spun towards the door, was clawing at his shoulder- holster.
Nason said: “Take it out, Hymie, and see what it gets you.”
Hymie hesitated with his hand at his lapel, met Nason's hostile gaze for an instant, dropped the hand. Nason poked the white-faced and astounded Alpert with his gun, said: “Get in there,” as he closed and locked the door.
Alpert backed into the living room, his hands half-raised, although nothing had been said about them. A frightened expression twisted his fatty face now, and his thick-lipped mouth hung open. He kept backing until he felt the divan against the calves of his legs; then he dropped down on it beside Rita Jordan.
Nason gave the girl a quick, searching glance. She sat stiffly erect on the edge of the divan, her hands tightly twisted together in her lap. Her eyes were wide and round, and there was fear in their depths.
Nason moved slowly across the room to the windows. He saw that the first one, by the fire escape, was open, that a faint draft was sucking the drawn shade outward. Reaching down, he raised the shade halfway, glanced out; then he turned to face Hymie, and Moe Alpert.
CHAPTER V. DRINK TO THE DEVIL
HYMIE continued to stand in the middle of the room, his thick homely face sullen and malignant, until Nason said: “Just stand right there,” and went around behind him and took his gun. Slipping it into a pocket of his coat, he moved away, added, “Now sit down with your pal—so I can watch the both of you.”
For a few seconds, while Nason studied Alpert and Hymie, he considered the time element. It would take Walcott two or three minutes to find a telephone at this hour; it would take another eight or ten minutes before Fitzpatrick could get here. Say twelve minutes altogether. He decided to use the time to try and plug the gaps in his half- completed theory of what had happened.
“You've been pretty lucky tonight,” he said finally, looking at Rita Jordan.
“I know it.” The girl's voice was jerky, uncertain. “I—I think they were going to kill me.”
“So,” went on Nason, “if I were you, I'd come clean. I want to know where you fit. You and Steig—”
“We were going to be married,” the girl said, her voice flat and hopeless. “Only I wasn't satisfied. I knew he worked for Alpert, but he always had a lot of money—and he would not tell me where he got it. I was afraid that after we were married, maybe something would happen. I didn't know what—only I was afraid.”
The girl hesitated a moment, continued in the same low tone.
“But he promised me we could go away. To Philadelphia—I've got a brother there. Sam said he'd tell Alpert he was going to leave next week and—”
“Oh—” Nason's voice held a thin, metallic ring, and a mirthless smile tugged at his lips. “Maybe I get it now.” He looked at Alpert. “I guess you are the reason those other three jewel breaks were so neat.
“You could be your own fence, huh? And Steig was in on it with you—your guard. But you were afraid to let him go. So you figured a way to rub him out. You told him you were going to rob your own store to make it look like you were just another victim. But your real reason was to put him out of the way.”
“You're nuts.” Alpert licked his lips. “I don't know what you're talking about.”
“You know, all right,” Nason said ominously. “And I know you put the finger on Steig in the hospital.” He went on to explain how he had checked up with the clerk at the hospital. “And if these two hoods had asked what room Steig had, you'd been clean on this. But when you called 'em at the Greek's, you gave 'em the room number.”
NASON moved slowly forward, his dark eyes hard and glaring. “One of your punks planted those stones on Donigan.”
“No,” wheezed Alpert. “You got me wrong.” His eyes were shifty now, his forehead moist with sweat. “Why should anybody do that?”
“I can guess that part, too—now,” Nason answered. “You imported Hymie and Leo—you don't need to worry about him anymore—and you told Steig they'd do the job and leave him tied in a chair. Maybe slug him a bit to make it look better. Only you knew they were going
“Donigan surprised the break. The trouble was”—Nason's voice thinned out—“he thought Steig would be on his side. He turned his back and Steig, the rat, shot him. It was either that or go to jail when your punks talked. And Steig didn't know then that he was on the spot.
“Then,” Nason's lips pulled back, “I've got an idea somebody called you and told you what had happened. It would look funny, a cop who was on to that kind of a job being shot in the back. The first thing we'd think of was that somebody he'd trusted shot him—which had to be Steig.
“So you planted the stones and put Donigan's gun back in his holster to make it look as if Donigan was the crook and Steig was honest— when we found him dead; to make us think just what Fitzpatrick did think. So that —”
A sudden gasp from Rita Jordan that was like a half-stifled scream, tensed Nason's muscles. Then a rough voice said:
“All right. Drop it!” For a fraction of a second Nason hesitated. The voice came from behind—there was a doorway here, he remembered, which led to the apartment's other rooms. He glanced over his shoulder. The man in the doorway who held the heavy automatic was thin, swart, black-eyed. A stranger. He was smiling now and perfect white teeth flashed in the overhead light.
Nason dropped the gun. It hit the side of his shoe as it fell, and he forced a smile, spoke to Alpert. “So I was wrong about one part? You imported three hoods instead of two.”
Moe Alpert recovered his composure in a few seconds. A sly smile filmed his puffy face and he stood up, nodding in approval.
“That was fine, Lascell. And a break—you bein' in the kitchen after a drink.” He wiped sweat from his forehead. “You shoulda come sooner. I thought you died or something.”
He started towards the inner doorway. “I think I'll get that drink. I need something.”
Nason, standing a few feet in front of the divan with Lascell at his side and Hymie facing him, watched Alpert leave the room and return a few seconds later with a tray. There were four glasses, a bottle of rye, some cracked ice and a siphon of soda. Alpert put the tray on a little table at one end of the divan, and began to pour whisky.
Looking questioningly at Nason as he siphoned soda, he said: “Have one?”
Hymie growled an oath, said, “To hell with all this crap. When do we lay this guy away?”
“Right now,” Alpert drained his glass and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “Only you gotta do it without much noise.”
Lascell said: “Get a towel, Hymie.” Nason felt the sweat come out on his lip, and spring from the roots of his hair. He tried to keep his voice level.
“So I had it figured after all.”
“You were close enough,” Alpert said, and his voice got harsh and resentful.
“We had a good set-up for that punk, Steig. He came in handy for a while. Only the doll here”—he nodded to Rita Jordan—“talked him soft. He was going to quit—and he started to get tough about his share. And I hadn't even got rid of the stuff on the last break.”
Continuing to fight for time, Nason said, hurriedly: “You won't get away with it.”
“Sure we will,” Alpert said without the faintest trace of emotion. “We'll dump you. Then we'll put out the dame's lights. The boys'll leave town—”
“There's still Leo,” Nason lied. “We got him down at headquarters.”
“If you have,” Lascell leered, “he won't talk. With you gone there's no witness against him.”
“There's Walcott.”
“We'll take care of him, too,” said Alpert. “If we have to.”
Lascell finished wrapping the towel around the muzzle of his gun. Nason glanced quickly about. Lascell was
