Dane shrugged. "Doesn't matter, of course. If the prints on the knife
belong to Stanton, that'll be the end of the whole thing, eye or no eye."
The door burst open. Two uniformed policemen came in. One said, "I called
the homicide boys. Whatcha got, Dane?"
"Ally got shivved." Dane said.
The cops exchanged secret glances. One said, "Oh oh... that does it!"
"Why?" Dane asked.
"Didn't you know? He was backing John, good old Honest John Dorran, the
ward heeler. He put up the green stuff to put John in the state legislature.
Wonder if this is gonna be a political mess?"
Before anything more could be said, the door opened again. A man's voice
said. "If it ain't the demon detective! Ready to go to work on the force again,
Dane?"
Dane grinned, "Hi, Hogan. No, not yet. Make a buck or two more my way."
Hogan was a squat, strong looking man in his fifties. A wiry red brush on
the back of his head was all that was left of his hair. He had an unlighted
cigarette in his mouth. He gestured with his thumb to the man who was with him,
a small, thin, compact looking man with a set jaw and thin mouth. "You know
Dockerty? Or is he since your time?"
"Don't think I've had the pleasure," Dane said as he stuck out his hand.
"It's not much of a pleasure," Dockerty said, and his mouth barely moved.
Hogan had taken a look in the bedroom. "I always knew Ally Mingus was born
to be killed. I thought it would be in a dark alley some rainy night. Not this
way."
"The whole thing is all wrapped up in a neat package," Dane said, "Your
boys were chasing a lammister and he entered this house. There are prints on
the murder knife."
"Neat but not gaudy," Hogan said, looking at the knife. "What's his name?"
"Roger Stanton. You've got his pic up on the Wanted board at headquarters."
"I remember. We'll pick him up. Thanks a lot, Dane." Hogan grinned a sour
grin. "This'll be a quickie. He should burn in a month..."
CHAPTER III
THE Alexis Hotel: Strange name for a refuge. In room nine twenty three,
the man who was registered under the name of John Barrel lay on a narrow bed.
He looked at the ceiling. A guttering cigarette sent a narrow plume up through
the gray blue haze that hung heavy in the small untidy room.
Three bucks for the room, in advance please, as long as you have no
baggage... twenty cents for cigarettes, a quarter to the bellhop. That left six
fifty five. You couldn't get very far on that.
Better stay right here until Lamont Cranston showed up. That was strange,
everything you read about Cranston put him on the side of the law. Why had he
aided and abetted a criminal in his flight?
The young man rolled over on the bed and put out his cigarette. Instantly
he lighted another one. He'd have to stop that. His mouth felt like a bar room
floor after a big night. His head was pounding. He was too exhausted to sleep.
A rat race. That's what it was. What had happened in that room? Had he
killed that man? Had his hand driven that knife deep into the little man's
