A dazed Filipino let him in. A cook stood in the door of a far room winding her apron around her hands. A woman, possibly Mrs. Hecklin, sat in the study, eyes hidden by her moist handkerchief.

  Norton walked through past the cook.

  Hecklin was lying on a blood spattered bed, his evil old face the color of a dead salmon, his hands clenching at the spread.

  The doctor pulled open the dressing gown at the chest and ripped away the shirt. Hecklin was a rather gory mess. There was a round hole in the center of his chest which was pumping blood.

  “Is he in bad shape?” said Chief Danton, helping himself to a box of cigars on the desk by the bed.

  “Don’t know yet,” said the doctor. “Small caliber bullet. Seems to have punctured a lung. Why the hell don’t you get somebody to tell you how it happened and leave my end of it alone.”

  “Well, if he’s dead, then that’s murder. And if he isn’t dead then that’s just mayhem.”

  “This is Hecklin,” said the doctor.

  That fact seemed to come home to Chief Danton and Kelly. They went out and collared the Filipino.

  “How did this happen?” said Danton to the shaking brown boy.

  “I don’t know. I hear a shot and come to room. I come in and Mister Hecklin lying on floor. Window open. Is he dead?”

  “How do we know you didn’t do it?” said Danton to the brown boy.

  “I heard the shot too,” said the white woman in the study. “Enrico wasn’t even near. The door was locked from the inside and Enrico had to break it open with an axe.”

  “Where was the cook?” said Kelly.

  “I vas in da kitchen, you sneaking Irish,” said the big cook with a defiant nod of her head. “You leave Enrico alone or I take a cleaver to you.”

  “Dead end,” said Chief Danton. “Now, Mrs. Hecklin, we hate to bother you with questions, but did you see anybody come in the house earlier this evening?”

  “No one,” said Mrs. Hecklin. “Thomas was in his room going to bed.”

  “Well, we’ll have a look in there,” said Kelly. He walked into the bedroom again and ran into Norton who was helping the doctor get Hecklin straightened out. “Huh!” said Kelly. “Where did you come from?”

  “I just arrived,” said Norton.

  “You run along,” said Danton. “We’ll attend to this.”

  Norton, having helped the doctor all he could, stood back, waiting for a further excuse to linger. Hecklin’s safe was open and papers were strewn around in front of it. Lying hard by the laboring doctor’s feet was a patent leather pocketbook, black with a large brass buckle.

  “Small caliber bullet,” announced the doctor, producing it.

  Norton took it out of his fingers and though Kelly yanked it away almost as soon as he touched it, Norton could see that it was a .25.

  “If he dies,” said Danton, “somebody will hang for this. Maybe.”

  “Looks like self-defense to me,” said Norton.

  “Huh? Self-defense for who?”

  “For the person who shot Hecklin. See that?”

  Partially hidden by a fold of the sheet was a Colt Frontiersman. Danton scooped it up eagerly and inspected it.

  “Probably has Hecklin’s initials on it,” said Norton.

  Danton turned it around and around. “I don’t see anything on it.” He threw it down, having obliterated any fingerprints on it, particularly Norton’s who had scooped it out of a drawer and thrown it on the bed while the doctor was trying to separate cotton packs.

  “The killer evidently went out that window,” suggested Norton.

  Kelly went over and leaned on the sill and then bent far out, his dripping raincoat getting the entire sill wet.

  “You’d have to go outside to see where he went,” said Norton.

  Kelly did not like to follow the suggestion but it was too obviously the correct procedure, so far as he could see, to be ignored. Kelly lifted himself through the window and dropped heavily on the side of the hill, starting a small avalanche. He poked a flashlight at the ground.

  “Hell,” said Danton, from the window, “you went and stamped out the footprints.”

  Norton swung the handle of the safe back and forth a time or two and pulled open a few inner compartments.

  “Let that alone,” growled Danton. “Say! You’ll wipe out the fingerprints.”

  “Sorry,” said Norton, standing up.

  “Clumsy,” reproved Danton. “I thought you guys were supposed to know about such things.”

  “We’ll have to get him to the hospital,” said the doctor. “Send for an ambulance. He’ll live, I think, but he may have to have a transfusion.”

  Danton called for an ambulance and, a little later, the intern and his driver were struggling down the long slippery steps, bearing Hecklin on a stretcher.

  Norton went into the kitchen. “Are you sure you didn’t hear anything?”

  The cook shook her head. “Yust a shot.”

  “I suppose Hecklin had a lot of enemies,” said Norton.

  “No. Course that is pretty hort to say. He vas a hort man, Mister Hecklin.”

  Norton kept it up until he was sure the police weren’t coming back. He went into the bedroom where Hecklin had been shot and swiftly hauled the pocketbook from where he had kicked it—under the bureau. He put it inside his coat and went out.

  “I’m sure your husband will be all right,” he said to Mrs. Hecklin.

  “Oh, I hope so. He has been so worried lately that his health has been very poor.”

  “Good night,” said Norton.

  He went down the steps to the street and made his way across into the darkness of the other side. Under cover of a bush he inspected the pocketbook. As he had supposed it contained letters to Elaine Halloway, a compact initialed E. H. and an identification card.

  He was not quite sure why he had covered her up so thoroughly, staging a self-defense angle in case the police ever caught up to her, getting her prints wiped off the sill and safe if her prints had been on them. He had the solace of knowing he had not interfered too much with the case. In an inside pocket, carefully wrapped in a linen handkerchief, he had the assault weapon which he had taken from under the bathrobe of Thomas Hecklin. Hecklin had evidently sought to save himself by clutching the weapon. He had not avoided the shot but he had at least retained, unbeknownst to himself, a full set of fingerprints of the attacker. Kelly had the slug from the gun. Norton had the gun and the fingerprints. Well, Kelly wouldn’t have known what to have done with them anyway.

  Chapter Six

  ELAINE HALLOWAY came up the steps to the second floor of the Sourdough Hotel. Her face was tense with concern as she glanced up and down the dim corridor. Quickly she inserted a key in her lock and opened the door. Her hand went out to the switch and the lights went on.

  She stumbled back with a gasp. Norton reached out and slammed the door shut behind her. He put out his hands to help her out of the rain cape and she turned to let him remove it. He hung it on a chair where it could drip.

  “Late to be running around Ketchikan,” said Norton.

  “I . . . I had to find a drugstore and get something for my arm.”

  “And you have it with you, I suppose?”

  “No. I . . . Oh!” She had spotted her pocketbook lying on the bed and snatched it up. “Where did you find it? It had all my money in it and I was so upset that I forgot to take it with me. I couldn’t pay the clerk and said I’d have to come back for some money first.”

  “What a mind,” said Norton, not without admiration.

  “What do you mean? Where did you find my purse?”

  “Where you left it.”

  “Right here?”

  “No.”

  She looked into the purse again and missed something. “What have you done with my automatic?”

  “It is in a safe place,” said Norton, touching his raincoat over his chest.

  “Why did you take it?” said Elaine.

  “To save your pretty neck, my lady.”

  “Oh. I still don’t understand. I’ve carried it since I was attacked that night. I wouldn’t use it unless I had to.”

  “Naturally Hecklin forced you to use it.”

  “Hecklin? What does he have to do with this?”

  “Listen, Miss Halloway, I am interested in three things. The disappearance of Jerry McCain, special agent, the presence of heroin in Ketchikan and its import into the States from here, and the whereabouts and health of Chick Star. I am not interested, particularly, in the shooting of Hecklin tonight.”

  “Hecklin? Shot? By whom?”

  “Lady, must you always pretend? I have here the weapon. It is your gun. It was left on the scene in Hecklin’s hand. Your purse was also there. You went to Hecklin to get back that paper he made you sign and when he protested you shot him and got it anyway. That was pretty coldblooded and even in Alaska murder is sometimes punished. Hecklin is dying in the local hospital.”

  “You mean . . . you think . . . I shot Hecklin?”

  “You seem to be the only one carrying your own purse.”

  “You got my purse and gun at Hecklin’s house?”

  “Where you left them.”

  “But you’re mad! It wasn’t Hecklin who was here tonight.”

  “Then who was it?”

  “I don’t know!”

  “We won’t quibble about this,” said Norton. “As I said before I am interested in three things. Jerry, dope and Chick Star. Right now it is Chick Star. Tonight I persuaded one George Fishcatcher to tell me that he was off the Roger Halloway. You know George Fishcatcher.”

  “Do I?”

  “He is an Indian in your employ.”

  “I employ no one. I tell you I have nothing to do with my fleet. I know nothing about either dope or your friend.”

  “I saw you stop and talk to George Fishcatcher outside the Federal Building.”

  “Oh. That Indian. He said he was a friend of my grandfather’s and that if I needed help to let him know. I told him I needed no help.”

  “What a plausible person you are,” said Norton. “But we won’t argue. Chick Star may be aboard one of your boats, perhaps the Roger Halloway which, I think, is skippered by Russian Tarlof. If I went down there by myself they would probably shoot me on sight. Now we’ll make a deal. I will forget what you did to Hecklin if you will lead me to Chick Star and confess to the dope rap. Hecklin dead means your execution. I am the only one who knows you did it. A dope rap will mean, at most, twenty years, twelve on good behavior, and you will still be a young woman when you come out.”

  She was tall in her anger. “Mr. Norton, you have gone too far. You threaten me with the chair and then with prison. For what? I have done nothing!”

  “Quit the dramatics,” said Norton. “If you will go down to the Roger Halloway and get yourself aboard, thus distracting attention so that I can get the gentlemen covered, I will forget about this murder.”

  “No.”

  “Then,” said Norton, getting up, “I will have to go to Chief Danton and tell him where he can find the murderer of Thomas Hecklin and give him the proof.”

  “Go ahead and tell him. Go ahead and make more trouble for me, who already has enough to last eight lifetimes. If you had come to me and asked me to do this for you without all this threatening and bullying I would have helped you all I could but now, sir, you can go straight to hell!”

  Norton paused at the door. He could not but admire the majesty of her. “If I asked you nicely right now, would you help me?”

  “What would I get out of it?”

  “So you can drive bargains too,” said Norton.

  “Why not?”

  “And what do you want out of it?”

  “That any charge against the Halloway Fleet for running heroin be dropped. You can arrest whoever you wish but you cannot confiscate the boats.”

  Norton stared. “I must say that you can ask enough.”

  “Only under those conditions will I aid you to get your friend back.”

  Norton was angry now. “All charges against the boats dropped and no confiscation of them?”

  “Yes.”

  “But I can arrest whoever I please?”

  “Yes.”

  “Including yourself?”

  “If you can find any real evidence against me. Yes.”

  “Huh. All right. I know when I’m bested. Put on your cape and we’ll go to the Roger Halloway. You’re very confident of having covered yourself up in this matter.”

  “Why not be? I have nothing to fear.”

  “You don’t know the meaning of the word, you blonde fool.”

  She let it pass and put on her cape. Norton led the way out of the room but insisted that she precede him down the steps and across the lobby into the street.

  “If you make any signals to anyone,” said Norton, “much as I hate to do it, you get shot first.” And his hand tightened about the butt of his service .45 in his raincoat pocket. “Lead on.”

  She knew where she was going. She went up Water Street toward the city floats. The rain had increased in velocity and quantity, its gusts blotting out the lights along this deserted way for a second or two at a time. Ahead and to their left lay a number of fishing boats, trolling poles and decks shining under the swinging dock lights, vanishing and reappearing like some spectral fleet. Elaine Halloway went down the ramp, ducking her head against the torrents of water. With certainty she picked her way up the slippery planks which were rendered only slightly less treacherous by laid chicken wire.

  Elaine Halloway went down the ramp, ducking her head against the torrents of water. With certainty she picked her way up the slippery planks which were rendered only slightly less treacherous by laid chicken wire.

  A nest of boats lay on both sides. A swinging light picked out the name Roger Halloway on a tall bow. The halibut boat was third out from the float, necessitating their climbing over two boats to get to it. At the gunwale of the first Norton stopped her by touching her arm and discovered that she was shivering.

  “You go to the companionway and sing out for Russian Tarlof,” said Norton. “You ask him to come on deck. If he won’t and asks that you come below, don’t make him suspicious but go below. Remember that there are ports open there and that I will be on the next boat, at one of those ports. When you go below, if you must go below, I will be at that port. When I cover those in the cabin, you pick up any guns and throw them out the other port. If you try to shoot me or in any way hinder me from taking these men, you get my first bullet.”

  “Pleasant fellow,” said Elaine Halloway.

  “If Russian Tarlof will come up it will be easier but I don’t think he will. Be on your way.”

  She drew a deep breath and stepped over the gunwale, crossing the first boat. She stepped to the second and crossed its deck. Norton was beside her. He indicated the open port in the hull of the Roger Halloway which he could command by standing on the deck of the second boat.

  Elaine boarded the Roger Halloway. She rapped sharply on the pilothouse door.

  Quick movements sounded in the cabin below. Norton was ready to move up and slug Tarlof if he came out.

  “Who is there?” rumbled Russian Tarlof.

  “Elaine Halloway to see you,” said the girl.

  There was a thump as the inner hatch went open. The cabin door swung outward. “Who?”

  “Elaine Halloway.”

  “Oh! Huh! What you want?”

  “Come on deck for a moment.”

  “It is too vet. Come below.”

  Elaine glanced at Norton who had swiftly taken his post beside the port. She stepped into the pilothouse and below.

  Norton saw her legs on the hatch ladder and then all of her as she swung down into the cabin. He cast a swift look at the three men in the room. Russian Tarlof still had his arm in a sling but his comrade in that fatal battle was not bearing any signs of it now, outside of a plaster on his broken nose. The third man in the room was a Siwash with a sullen, nearly black face. Russian Tarlof stood back so that Elaine could sit down on the transom by the table.

  “Well?” said Russian Tarlof. “I suppose you come to see about things. You got nerve to come down here but I always say blondes have nerve. What can we do for you tonight?”

  The Siwash on the bunk and the white man on the other bunk looked quietly but fixedly at Elaine. There was a rifle above the Siwash. Russian Tarlof was only half in Norton’s view. Norton had to take his chance for at last resort he could blast them as they tried to come out of the ship.

  Norton put his face to the port. “Stand still, gentlemen. I can shoot before you can.”

  The three whipped about to face him. The Siwash shrank back from the muzzle of the .45 just inside the port. Tarlof’s white friend froze to his blankets.

  “So!” yelled Tarlof. “You turn squealer! This is a trap!” And while he spoke he moved more quickly than Norton had thought he could. Tarlof, battle-wise, placed himself in front of Elaine so that any bullet going through him might hit her. In the same movement and instant he smashed down the lantern and, by its last glow, threw Elaine off the transom and in front of him, the while diving back out of coverage from the port.

  “You she-witch!” bawled Tarlof in the dark.

  Elaine screamed. “Norton! He’ll . . . kill me!”

  Norton called himself a blundering fool. A gigantic doubt surged into his mind and with it mad recriminations. He stabbed his pen-flashlight into the room at risk to himself. The rifle by the Siwash was in instant use, the bullet throwing splinters into Norton’s eyes.

  Blinded, Norton sought to fumble his way back to get away from the side of the boat. His foot contacted a rope which rolled. He sagged against a stay. The delay detained him too long to permit his reaching the float. He felt about and crouched in the cover of the second boat’s pilothouse. Another shot glanced off brass by his head and went yowling away. He crouched lower, trying to clear his sight. He could see vague blurs of lights. He got out a handkerchief and dabbed at his eyes. He had a sick feeling of helplessness. When he took the handkerchief away, though in considerable pain, he could see again. The splinters had gashed his eyelids, filling his sight with blood.

 

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