The Man with Three Eyes

The M a n with Three Eyes

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E. L. A R C H

AVALON

BOOKS

THOMAS BOUREGY AND COMPANY, INC. 22 EAST 60TH STREET • NEW YORK 10022

© Copyright, 1967, by E. L. Arch Published simultaneously in Canada by The Ryerson Press, Toronto Printed in the United States of America by The Colonial Press Inc., Clinton, Massachusetts All rights (except printed-book/publication rights) © Copyright 1995 by SMW Productions, Inc. - All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage or retrieval system or via any technology or methodology now or hereafter known without the permission in writing from the respective rights holder.

ISBN: 978-1-60557-159-1

The M a n with Three Eyes

CHAPTER I The melody had been running around in his mind all day, a catchy little tune which Dan Gorman whistled as he hurried along the sidewalk. H e had spent longer in the library than he had meant to, and if he didn't hustle, he would be late again for dinner. Mrs. M u m ble would be annoyed. H e had gotten so involved, though, in sketching some of those mythological m o n sters that the time had zipped by. H e was almost past Lew's Joke Shop w h e n he remembered the party tonight. Honey alway expected something kookie of him, just because he illustrated stories for the fantasy and science-fiction magazines; and what m a n wanted to disappoint Honey Tucci? H e backtracked and went into the store, still whistling the elusive tune. D a n couldn't think just where he had heard it—probably a T V jingle; he had even been shushed in the library for h u m m i n g it there. Lew's was a standard "Be-the-Life-of-the-Party" shop: exploding cigars, trick playing cards, rubber snakes, corny buttons. "Help you?" m u m b l e d a tall, scrawny kid behind the counter. "I'll look around for a minute/' D a n said, and went back to his whistling while he cast an eye over the junk. F r o m the back of the store, a little hunchback hurried forward; he wore glasses so thick that his eyes 7

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looked like something in one of Dan's illustrations. "It's all right, Freddie, I'll help the gentleman. Y o u can unpack that crate in the back room." A s the helper ambled toward the rear of the store, the proprietor came out from behind the counter, peered u p at Dan, and asked, "Are there any rooms available at Mrs. Mumble's?" Gorman, caught completely off guard, said, " H u h ? " T h e hunchback frowned, then repeated, enunciating the words very carefully, "Are there any rooms available at Mrs. Mumble's?" "Sorry, didn't realize you knew I roomed there." Then, aware that the little m a n was waiting for an answer, G o r m a n shrugged. "There aren't any vacancies—at least there weren't w h e n I left this morning. W h y ? D o you need a room?" T h e proprietor seemed disconcerted by Gorman's reply. " N o rooms, he says." H e shook his head, started to say something, then stopped short. G o r m a n felt sorry for the fellow, so he tried to soften it by adding, "Maybe there'll be a vacancy tomorrow. Never can tell at Mrs. Mumble's. T h e y come and they go/' Relieffloodedthe hunchback's face and, behind the heavy glasses, his eyes glittered. "Vacancy tomorrow. Fine. You're the one. I wasn't sure." O r that's what G o r m a n thought he said, although it made no sense at all to him. T h e m a n had turned away, however, and was scuttling back behind the counter. H e hadn't seen a thing which had caught his fancy in the trick-joke line, so G o r m a n decided to forget it

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for tonight; maybe just his ugly Irish face would give H o n e y a laugh. H e started out of the shop, only to have the hunchback cry, "Wait, wait, I haven't gotten it wrapped yet." G o r m a n knew he wasn't drunk; he had been working all day. M a y b e he was having hallucinations. W h a t could the m a n be wrapping? H e hadn't bought anything. "Wrapped?" T h e proprietor peered toward the back of the store, then leaned forward to whisper, "The eye. I'm wrapping u p the eye." " T h e eye." G o r m a n decided that he must be asleep and dreaming; that was the only way any of this could make sense. H e reached across the counter and took the small box from the hunchback's hand. In it lay a phony eye, complete with vinyl lid and inch-long lashes; on the back of it was a rubber suction cup, for attaching it to any surface. Just then, the helper came back into the shop from the rear, saying, "Lew, I can'tfindthe invoice for that order." T h e n he glanced at the eye which G o r m a n was examining, and said, "Hey, I stuck one of those right in the middle of m y forehead w h e n I went to see m y girl last night. Thought she'd faint w h e n I walked in the door." H e snickered. "She said . . ." "Freddie." Lew's tone was obvious. " U h — y e a h , about the invoice." "Just unpack the box. I'll check it later." There was no mistaking the ominous note in Lew's voice; Freddie gave G o r m a n a sickly grin and beat a hasty retreat

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"Sorry about that," Lew muttered. "No need to apologize," Gorman said, still dazed by the whole affair. Lew held out a hand for the phony eye, which Gorman willingly surrendered. Quickly Lew wrapped it, thrust the package at Gorman, who accepted it automatically before he remembered that he didn't want it, and then Lew gave the big Irishman a shrewd smile. "Just to make it seem all right, I'll charge you. That'll be one dollar plus tax." "One dollar plus—wait a minute," Gorman protested. Lew held up an admonishing had. "Just to allay— uh—suspicion. You understand." "No, I don't understand any of this . . . but somehow I think it's just easier to pay and get out of this madhouse." Gorman shelled out the bill and the pennies, slipped the box into his pocket, and left. Just as he turned the corner to catch his bus, he heard someone else whistling the same tune which had been running through his head all day. His bus was there, though, ready to pull out; Gorman dashed for it, swing up on the step, andfishedin his pocket for change. Oh, well, the whole episode in the shop defied understanding, but he did have that nutty eye to wear at Honey's party tonight. Now, if he could just come up with some kookie thing to say—let's see—"There was a handsome guy . . ." no, too conceited. "There was an ugly guy, who had an extra eye, right in the middle of his head ..." D u m d u m d u m de dum, what rhymed with head? Bed. Said. Dead.— But his

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stop was next, so he began pushing his way to the rear of the bus. It was about two blocks to Mrs. Mumble's boardinghouse from the bus stop. Her name wasn't really Mrs. Mumble; it was some unpronounceable Slavic name which they all mumbled—hence the nickname. For what they paid there, the rooms were clean but old-fashioned, the food plain but adequate. Gorman thought he was lucky to have found an attic room there, complete with skylight. The other boarders were a motley crew, but on the whole, congenial. As he hurried along, he heard somone behind him call, "Gorman. Dan Gorman." H e stopped, turned, and recognized Yusef Afifi, one of his fellow boarders. The little man was puffing when he caught up with Gorman. "Afraid I'd be late to dinner. Mrs. Mumble scolds." "We've all told you, Yusef, that if you'd only marry her, she'd cease to do that." "And I keep telling all of you, I have a wife in Afghanistan. W h e n I earn enough, I will bring her here to America." "Now, now, no excuses, Yusef. You're a good Muslim, aren't you? You are allowed more than one wife." Yusef rolled his eyes heavenward. " W h o can afford even one wife these days?" he moaned. H e was a slightly comical figure, short and wiry, with a bushy mustache. His glittering black eyes over an eagle beak of a nose gave him the appearance of a brigand, but Afifi was actually the mildest of men, the willing butt of many jokes, and terrified of Mrs. Mumble.

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The boardinghouse was big and old-fashioned, a relic of plushier days now long past, its brownstained shingles weatherbeaten, its outline barny and angular. As G o r m a n fished in his pocket for keys, his companion whipped out his o w n efficiently, opening the front door with aflourish.T h e reception hall was cavernous and bare, an old battered table under a wall set of partitioned shelves, so that each roomer had a pigeonhole for mail. A quick glance showed G o r m a n that he had no mail, not even a bill. Afifi stopped to collect his letters, and G o r m a n started u p the steep stairs; but Mrs. M u m b l e appeared from the gloom of the back hall to jingle something at him. "You left your keys in your door again, M r . Gorman." H e r tone was more weary than accusing; by now, G o r m a n knew that she had him pegged as a typical, absent-minded artist, for at least once a week he forgot his keys. "Someone will get into your room one of these days—and then don't complain to m e that you're missing some of your things." "Ah, lovely lady, I a m but an impecunious painter with nothing of value in m y quarters." " A n d that includes his alleged artistic efforts." G o r m a n glanced up the stairs and looked right into the sardonic face of Fritz Holtzer. H e gave Mrs. M u m b l e a little wink and said in a stage whisper, "Holtzer's just annoyed with m e because I won't use him as a model." T o which, the m a n on the steps hooted with laughter. "You've seen his illustrations, Mrs. M u m b l e —

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Afifi—he doesn't need a model, unless he uses one of those weird demons of yours, Afifi." " W r o n g religion, M r . Holtzer," the Afghan said affably. Mrs. M u m b l e refused to be drawn into the exchange of incivilities. She handed G o r m a n his keys with a cautionary shake of her head, said, "Dinner in ten minutes," pointedly, and disappeared toward the kitchen. G o r m a n started u p the stairs, asking Holtzer, as he passed him in the second floor hall, "Going to Honey's party tonight?" "Need you ask? W h a t red-blooded male in his right mind misses one of her bashes? W h i c h reminds m e , is Big Chief Lone Eagle going?" G o r m a n shrugged. " W h o ever knows what Matt's planning? H e likes to play at being the inscrutable redskin. We'll ask him at dinner." By the time he had reached his attic studio, Gorm a n was puffing. H e unlocked the door, laughing to himself as he did so, because anyfive-and-dimestore skeleton key would open any door in the house. In the fading light which came in through the skylight set into the slanted roof, G o r m a n looked rather critically at the painting on his easel. It was nearly finished, the cover illustration for Futurific. T h e central figure was Gorman's conception of a many-eyed space monster, with most of the myriad eyes life size. "Quit looking at m e that way," he told the picture. "I haven't been loafing. I've been doing research—tomorrow's soon enough to get back to you."

C H A P T E R II When he heard the dinner gong, Dan Gorman hurried d o w n to thefirstfloor;Mrs. M u m b l e discouraged latecomers to meals. As he took his place at the long table, he saw by the tight, disapproving mouth that someone else must be late. H e gave a quick look around the assembled group, nodding a general greeting, and saw that Matt V a n Houten's place was empty. G o r m a n was used to his fellow boarders, but he remembered h o w startling they seemed a year ago, w h e n hefirstmoved into Mrs. Mumble's. Johnny Jones, the little Welshman, was ordinary enough; and Fritz Holtzer, although he boasted the classic features which m a d e him such a popular model, could scarcely be classed as exotic; but then the group got a bit out of bounds. O r more than a bit. D a n wondered h o w m a n y boardinghouses could offer a genuine Alaskan Eskimo, an Afghan, a refugee from. H o n g Kong, a beautiful Ethiopian w o m a n , an equally lovely girl w h o claimed to be a descendant of the royal Incas of Peru, and a full-blooded M o h a w k Indian from Brooklyn? "You going to Honey's, Dan?" Johnny Jones asked around a forkful of potato. "Need you ask?" Jones snickered. "I won't even ask Fritz, the Lord's gift to w o m e n . W h a t about you, Oonalak?"

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By now, he should be used to it, but Gorman never ceased to be surprised by the Harvard accent of the Eskimo. "Afraid I can't make it tonight. I have to attend a sociology seminar." Jones shook his head disapprovingly. "You must have ice water in your veins, to turn d o w n an evening at Honey's." Oonalak just grinned. "Naturally. W h e r e I come from everything's frozen, remember? Maybe I'll drop by her place after the lecture. N o doubt the party will still be in progress." " N o doubt." T h e n Jones turned to the Peruvian lovely. She wore her long black hair coiled high on her head, and everything about her was charming, including the faint touch of accent which colored her speech. "Will you be there, Eufemia? O r don't you like competition?" "Competition? F r o m Honey Tucci?" She smiled faintly. "I m a y go late. I'm playing and singing for the supper show at the Hurricane L a m p tonight. But if nothing better turns u p . . ." She left it there with a delicate shrug. " W h a t about you, Sheba?" Jones asked the other w o m a n at the table. "I have to help entertain some visiting diplomats." H e r n a m e wasn't Sheba, but no one at Mrs. M u m ble's called her anything else. Tall, stately, with dark skin and aquiline features, she was so typical of every man's idea of the Queen of Sheba that they chose to forget her real name. She was brilliant as well as beautiful; a linguist w h o worked at the U.N. Although Ethiopian, Sheba had gone to school in

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Switzerland and France before coming to the States. Jones didn't bother to ask Yusef Afifi, knowing by now that the little man took his religion too seriously to go anywhere where alcohol was served. Holtzer held up a hand. "Don't even bother to ask me, Johnny." "Hadn't intended to. Being Welsh, I have the second sight, you know—in m y mind I can already see you, surrounded by beautiful women at Honey's." Gorman snorted. " W h o needs second sight to see Fritz with women? If that's the best you can do, Jonesie, you'd better turn in your Ouija board for a refund." The front door slammed, and Matt Van Houten stalked into the dining room, Big Chief Thundercloud in person. Without a word of greeting to any of them, he sat down and attacked his soup as if it were an offending paleface. Mrs. Mumble came in just then to clear the soup plates, and he said, "The soup's cold." "If you came to dinner on time, it wouldn't be." W h e n most annoyed, Mrs. Mumble could be at her sweetest; now she dripped saccharine. "You've never heard of a subway, I take it." "Now, Mr. Van Houten, there's no need to be sarcastic. And before you register any more complaints, may I remind you that you left your radio on again today." Giving her one of his inscrutable Indian looks, Van Houten said, "For your information, m y radio is in the shop being repaired."

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This stopped Mrs. Mumble, but only momentarily. "I heard music in your room as I went through the hall." "You'd better see a doctor," was Van Houten's unkind rejoinder, but he didn't pursue the subject further. Gorman never enjoyed bickering at dinner; he tried to change the subject, "Going to the party, Matt?" "Party?" Van Houten gave him a blank look. "Come on, get with it, mighty brave," Jones kidded. "For someone as perceptive as you claim to be, Johnny, you can be very dense at times," Eufemia cut in deftly. "Anyone can see that something's bothering Matt. W h y don't you leave him alone?" Jonesflusheddarkly at Eufemia's words. "You Indians sure do stick together," he muttered, but he kept it very quiet, glancing out of the corner of his eye at Van Houten as he did so. Jones was a bantamweight, without enough size to back up his wicked Celt tongue; he knew he was out of his class to heckle Van Houten. The big Mohawk would make two of him. Seeing that Van Houten was in one of his moods, Gorman didn't pursue the subject of Honey Tucci's party further. If Matt wanted to go with them, okay; if not, also okay. The guy had been real jumpy lately. Maybe something was wrong at work. Van Houten was a civil engineer, one who'd come up the hard way. He'd started, according to his own stories, work-

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ing as a bridge builder, as Indians had an excellent sense of balance and a good head for heights; later he'd put himself through school, earning his engineering degree only recently. His practical experience m a d e him better than average at his job, but perhaps some kind of office politics was eating at him. Gorm a n , himself, had no racial bias, but he k n e w it was possible that some might not like V a n Houten just because he was a M o h a w k . Through all this, Chien W a n g , the student from H o n g Kong, sat quietly, taking it in, but saying nothing. In the year G o r m a n had k n o w n the boy, he doubted if he had heard him say more than a dozen words. Wang's English was atrocious, which probably accounted for his silence, but w h e n any of them tried to draw him into the conversation, he just looked d o w n at his plate; so after so m a n y attempts, they gave up and ignored him. Afifi, always one to pour oil on troubled waters, began a conversation with Sheba about rug designs, and soon everyone was entering in as usual, except for V a n Houten. G o r m a n thought that he looked worried, but he didn't question him; Matt didn't like to have anyone pry into his private affairs. At the end of dinner, Eufemia hurried away. "I must take Pepito for his evening walk before I go to work," she explained. After she had gone, Fritz Holtzer wrinkled u p his nose. " M y idea of a pet is not a kinkajou." "It's all part of this Peruvian act of hers," Jones

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said, still rankling from Eufemia's sly digs at him. "She's about as much an Inca princess as I am, for m y money." Gorman started to say something to Van Houten, but the man pushed blindly past him. and went up to his room. "So what's eating Matt?" Holtzer wondered. Gorman shook his head. "Beats me. Well, when it's time to go to Honey's party, I'll venture to stick m y head into the lion's mouth and ask if he's going with us." Van Houten's room was on the thirdfloor,under Gorman's attic studio. Jones also had a room there, so when Gorman came down at party time, Johnny was waiting for him in the hall. "Did you ask Matt?" Jones shook his head. Gorman knocked on Van Houten's door. After a moment, he heard the key turn in the lock and the door opened about six inches. "Going to Honey's with us, Matt?" Van Houten shook his head. "I'm not much in a party mood tonight, Dan." "Oh, well, she'll probably never miss you. With the mobs that come to Honey's bashes, I'll bet she never even sees half of them. The guests who get pushed into the kitchen never see those who don't get past the hall." H e and Jones started down the stairs to pick up Holtzer. The three of them were out on the side-

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walk when they heard a "Hey, wait!" from behind. Loping along fast was Van Houten. "Changed m y mind," was all he said. "Just couldn't stand the thought of all those women clustering around me, I'll bet," Holtzer kidded. "Let's go."

C H A P T E R III

Honey Tucci's party had been going full blast for some time w h e n Lili LaClerc and Eufemia Rosario arrived, but not together, even though they both were performers at the Hurricane L a m p . By some process of which he was unaware (but w h o cared?) D a n G o r m a n found himself off in a corner with the exotic and vivacious Lili. She tossed her head, making her flaming hair cascade about bare shoulders, and said, in tones catty enough to match her green eyes, "Inca princess, m y foot. T h e nearest that Rosario dame's ever been to Peru is a travelogue at the movie." Gorman, slightly befuddled by the liquid refreshment H o n e y dispensed so lavishly, nodded owlishly. "So you think our little Eufemia is a phony?" N o w , w h o had said that to him not so long ago? H e couldn't seem to remember. "If she's not from Peru, then where, pray tell?" "Spanish Harlem," was the spiteful answer. Just then, there was a yelp of pain across the room, and a shrill cry of, "That nasty beast bit m e , Eufemia." There was a lull in the overpowering noise, and a general surge toward that side of the room. In the quiet, G o r m a n heard Eufemia protest, "Pepito doesn't bite. You're just imagining things." H o n e y undulated across the room, working her way 21

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through the m o b with the skill of a seasoned party giver, and soon had the situation smoothed over. Lili sneered. "Eufemia and that live furpiece of hers. Tepito doesn't bite,' " she mimicked savagely. "Just what does she think he does with those sharp little teeth? Whittle soap carvings?" " H e never bit me," G o r m a n felt impelled to say. " A good thing, too. He'd die of ptomaine if he did. A n d if you like Pepito so well, w h y don't you go over there and leer at Eufemia, you Irish wolf, you." "Because I'd rather leer at you," G o r m a n declared gallantly, if a bit drunkenly. H e put an arm around Lili's waist, pulling her close. "Ouch," she said. "What's in your jacket pocket? I'll be too black and blue to go on tomorrow night." "And deprive the patrons of the Hurricane L a m p of the inspiring sight of all that gorgeousflesh?It'd be downright criminal, Lili." H e fished in his pocket to see what it was that had bruised her tender flesh, and pulled out the box containing the phony eye. "Hey, I'd forgotten all about this. W a n t to have a little fun, Lili?" "Silly question, Dan. W h a t is it?" She held out an eager hand. " U h uh, Lili. Musn't grab. It might bite." She snatched back a hand hastily. "What's in there, a spider? Y o u wouldn't dare." " N o w , Lili, would I do that to you?" "Yes." "Well, never mind, it's perfectly harmless. See," and he opened the box, "it's just an extra eye."

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"A what?" With a well-manicured hand, she deftly plucked the eye from the box. "Oh, I see." Then she frowned prettily. "Or do I?" "You stick it on with that suction cup. The clerk said he stuck one on his forehead and gave his girl hysterics. Here, let m e show you." H e reached for it. "No, not on you." She looked at him, her lips pursed judiciously. "Definitely not on you. You're homely enough without an extra eye." "Thanks for nothing. A n d I'd even thought u p a p o e m to go with it." She shuddered delicately. "Well, I've had to listen to Eufemia caterwauling those so-called ancient Indian tribal songs. Frankly, I think she makes them u p as she goes along. So speak your piece like a little man. Nothing could bother m e after Eufemia." "Let's see if I remember h o w it went. There was an ugly guy." Lili grinned and pointed one scarletnailed finger at h i m until she touched his nose and m a d e him look cross-eyed. "Cut it out, Lili. You'll drive away m y poetic muse." "Sorry. Please proceed." "There was an ugly guy . . ." "You've already said that." "Quiet. There was an ugly guy, w h o had an extra eye, right in the middle of his head. A n d w h e n — d u m d e d u m . . ." "Fine poet you turn out to be. You should practice in a coffee house first." " A n d ruin m y career as a budding alcoholic? Lili, you pain m e with your advice." T o punctuate his

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statement, he took a swig of his drink, swallowed it the wrong way, and wound up with Lili pounding him on the back. "Let m efinishyour poem," she offered. "Let's see — h o w did it go? There was an ugly guy, who had an extra eye, right in the middle of his head." She stopped, and he waved his hands to the beat to encourage her. "And when he was good, he was very very good . . ." "So original," he murmured. T o which, she pleasantly replied, "Oh, shut up." "And w h e n he was good, he was very very good, and w h e n he was bad ..." She paused, then cried, "I have it! A n d w h e n he was bad, he was dead." "I hadn't realized you were so bloodthirsty, Lili." "I'm sure you haven't realized lots of things about dear Lili," purred a voice in his ear. G o r m a n turned and found Eufemia, complete with Pepito draped around her graceful neck. "Keep that stinking beast away from me," Lili warned. "If I were you, I'd take h i m back to the pet shop where he came from, and turn h i m in." "What pet shop?" Eufemia was imperious, every inch the Inca princess. " A m e m b e r of m y tribe trapped Pepito w h e n he was just a tiny thing." Lili didn't say a word; she just winked openly at Gorman. T h e n a malicious smile pulled her pretty mouth. "Shall I tell your fortune, Eufemia? See what I have here?" and she extended her hand, holding the phony eye in it. " A magic eye, stolen from a voodoo priest-

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ess in the middle of the night during the dark of the m o o n . W h e n I wear it so"—she clapped it onto her forehead with a dramatic flourish—"I can see the truth beneath the layers of sham." "Then look at yourself, and see if it calls you Lili LaClerc or Lillian Lowenoski." Eufemia turned on her spike heels and worked her way into the crowd, with Pepito looking balefully over her shoulder at them. For once, G o r m a n had sense enough to keep his big mouth shut, not asking Lili what Eufemia had meant by that crack. H e had trouble keeping a straight face, though, because the trick eye was slightly tilted, giving Lili's face a sort of out-of-focus look. Added to this, she was patently furious with the Rosario w o m a n ; it wouldn't take m u c h to make her blow her top. W h i c h she proceeded to do, in such a spectacular fashion that G o r m a n involuntarily backed off from her. First, her eyes widened until he thought they were going to pop right out of her head. T h e color drained from her face, leaving it dead white and showing a shadow of unsuspected freckles under the skillfully applied make-up. T h e n the blood rushed back into her face with a vengeance, blotching her complexion in a most unbecoming manner. At the same time, her features seemed to thin out; her nostrils were pinched; muscles bunched harshly along her jawline, and her eyes n o w narrowed to slits. G o r m a n realized that something more than anger was bothering Lili; she must be having some sort

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of seizure, perhaps epileptic. As he stepped toward her, one hand out in a sort of placating gesture, she suddenly threw back her head until her red hair streamed floorward; the cords of her neck tautened, and she let out a shattering scream. Even above the noise of the party, her scream rose and rose, holding its high note until G o r m a n was gasping in sympathy. Lili's hands were clenched into tight fists. Silence rippled out from the focal point of Lili's screaming, until the only sound in Honey's apartment was the echo of the bloodcurdling sounds which came from the redhead's throat. As usual, Honey was there almost immediately. "What's wrong with her?" she hissed at Gorman. "And—what's on her forehead?" "Oh, that. Just a gag. I don't k n o w what's wrong, Honey. She just started screaming. I thought, at first, she was m a d at Eufemia." By n o w he and Honey had moved to either side of Lili, supporting her as she sagged, as if completely drained. G o r m a n could see little beads of perspiration on her forehead, around the false eye, and there was a hint of moisture on her upper lip. "Someone get some brandy," H o n e y ordered. "Here, let us through to the bedroom." Lili was quaking, now, shudders running through her and transmitting themselves to Gorman, w h o was half-carrying the stricken w o m a n . Little moans escaped from slack lips, and she allowed them to assist her until she was almost through the bedroom door. Then, so suddenly that G o r m a n was caught off guard,

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she stiffened, shook off the arm with which he helped her, and made a mad dash for the door of the apartment. Caughtflatfooted,Gorman just stared after her until Honey put one handfirmlyin the small of his back and gave him a very ungentle shove. "Go after her, Dan. Something may happen to her."

C H A P T E R IV Galvanized into action, Dan Gormon raced after the fleeing girl, caroming off Matt Van Houten as he went through the door into the hall. H e had one of those photo impressions of Van Houten, mouth agape in astonishment, before he was after Lili LaClerc. Bumping into the man delayed him just the moment necessary for Lili to duck into the selfservice elevator, and the door sighed shut in his face. Yanking open the door to thefirestairs, Gorman hurtled down them with little regard for life and limb. Everything was happening too fast, but some sense of urgency drove him to catch up with Lili before—before what, he didn't know. Gorman just knew he had to get to her quickly. As he yanked open the door leading into the main lobby of the building, he saw theflashof her heels at the outside door. Lili was fast, but Gorman caught up with her on the sidewalk. Grabbing her arm, and not bothering to be gentle about it, he set his heels and pulled, almost yanking her off balance. Gasping from his dash down the stairs, he said, "Lili, what's gotten into you? Are you sick?" Her eyes picked up light from a nearby street lamp, so that they glittered. "Take your hands off me," she said between clenched teeth. "You and your jokes. If I never see you again, Dan Gorman, it will be soon enough." She gave a determined pull and freed her 28

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arm from his grasp. "I don't know how you worked it, and I don't want to know. H o w you could think up something as ghastly—ugh. Man-eating ..." She shuddered then, and seemed unable to go on. Gorman, afraid she was going to have another attack, put his arm around her and tried to urge her back to the building where Honey lived. "I said to keep yourfilthyhands to yourself." She reached u p to her forehead and pulled off the trick eye, which seemed to stick. Thrusting it into his pocket, she turned and began hurrying away from him, almost running. Gorman, completely at a loss, went after her. "But Lili, what did I do?" he protested. "At least tell m e that." She muttered something about nightmares and hurried on, with G o r m a n still trailing her. T h e bulkyfigureof a policeman loomed ahead. She stopped long enough to say, "If you don't quit following m e , I'll call that cop. I m e a n it." "At least let m e see you home, Lili." "I told you to leave m e alone." She seemed to have recovered completely now; her voice was full of selfconfidence and something which G o r m a n felt come through as loathing. "Is this m a n bothering you, miss?" It was the cop on the beat, and his tone was unmistakable. "Just a little misunderstanding, Officer," G o r m a n said. But Lily scotched that by saying, "I told him that if he didn't leave m e alone, I'd call you."

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"Lili!" Gorman was anguished. "All right, move along, bud, or I'll run you in." Gorman knew when he was licked; he went slowly back to Honey's, his mind in a turmoil. It couldn't be the alcohol; he hadn't drunk that much. M a y b e he was losing his m i n d — o r else Lili was. A n d what was it she thought he'd done to her anyway? Maybe he'd wake u p soon and find out that it had all been a particularly nasty dream. Back at the party, though, G o r m a n knew that it had been all too real. H o n e y was watching for him, and cornered him immediately. "Where's Lili? Didn't you catch her?" "She refused to come back—she refused to let m e take her h o m e . . ." "Dan Gorman! Y o u should have insisted. T h e girl was ill, as any fool could see." "Well, for your information, she wasn't too sick to yell copper. Believe m e , Honey, it was let her go h o m e alone or spend m y night in the clink. W h e n she called in one of N e w York's Finest to reinforce her position, I beat a strategic retreat." There was a guffaw behind him, and Fritz Holtzer suggested, "Get out of line with her, Dan?" Honey turned on him and snapped, "Don't be a fool, Fritz. Didn't you hear her scream? Didn't you see the girl? She took some kind offit."T h e n she turned, worried. "But will she be able to get h o m e all right, Dan? Maybe I should go after her." "I left her in the capable hands of a policem a n , Honey. She m a d e it quite plain that she didn't want m e there, and she seemed quite recovered."

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Eufemia edged into the small group. "I told you she was trash, Dan. N o w maybe you'll believe m e . Always trying to discredit m e , with her fancy talk that I'm a p h o n y — a n d all the time the fabulous Lili LaClerc is just plain old Lillian Lowenoski." At the raised eyebrows Honey showed, Eufemia added, "I saw it on her Social Security card one day. So she has her nerve calling m e a phony. As to her charming performance here—she wasn't getting enough attention. Remember, she's an exotic dancer—and if that isn't a coy way of saying it . . ." She lifted her shoulders delicately and gave a smug little smile. "She's accustomed to being the focus of all eyes—just having D a n dance attendance wasn't enough for Lili, so she went into that routine. I must admit, it was better than stripping." Johnny Jones had materialized behind Eufemia. "Better go file your claws, darling, before you cut your o w n throat with them." She glared at him, but Jones was impervious to Eufemia's ill humor. H o n e y stepped into the breach quickly to avert trouble. "The girl really was sick, Eufemia. I was with her—she shook as if she had malaria, or something. Didn't she, Dan?" G o r m a n nodded agreement. "You don't lose color the way she did by just deciding to do it. Sorry, Eufemia, I k n o w you and Lili don't hit it off, but something was wrong with the gal—bad wrong. But she seemed all right outside, so what could I do? I let her go h o m e by herself." "Well," reluctantly Honey agreed that D a n was

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right, "maybe I'll give her a ring later, just to m a k e sure she's okay. I have to admit she gave m e quite a turn." T h e partyfizzledout soon. Lili's seizure had set their teeth on edge, and no one seemed able to get back into the m o o d for an all-night bash. Gorman's m o o d was just plain lousy. W h e n V a n Houten suggested, "Let's get out of here," he was only too glad to agree. Fritz Holtzer and Johnny Jones tagged along with the other two, the quartet ending up, as they so often did, at the Corner Bar near Mrs. Mumble's. "You seem to have lost your charm with w o m e n , Lover Boy," Holtzer suggested to Gorman. "I thought you had something going there with lovely Lili. W h a t happened?" G o r m a n shook his head. "Beats m e . I still say she had some kind of attack—I just happened to be unlucky enough to be around w h e n she came out of it, so I got all the blame." "Did she really sic the cops on you, Dan?" "That she did. That's w h e n I left thefield,bruised and bloody. Never tangle with an irate redhead— Gorman's First L a w of Self Preservation." "Lili seemed in a fighting m o o d tonight," Jones said. "First she tangles with Eufemia, then you. With our self-styled Peruvian royalty, I can understand — b u t w h y you?" "Don't think I haven't been asking myself the same question, and I've come u p with no satisfactory answer except this." G o r m a n held u p his glass, signaling for a refill.

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"What was that mark on her forehead?" Van Houten wanted to know. "She went by m e so fast I just got a blurred impression of—you'll think I'm nuts— another eye." "Heap big mighty Lone Eagle see u m correct," Jones informed him. "You know Lili—she believes in exhibiting all her assets, even to extra eyes." "Stow it, Jones," Van Houten snapped, to Gorman's surprise. Usually Matt ignored Jones's rather heavyhanded humor about Indians, but right now he looked as if he could be persuaded to scalp the bandylegged little escapee from the Welsh coal mines. H e turned to Gorman, and there was still a trace of his ill humor when he repeated his question. "Yes, it was an eye," Gorman told him.. "You know, one of those party joke things. She'd stuck it on her head and claimed she was going to see the truth about Eufemia—or some such rot as that. They must have a real feud going at that grog shop where they entertain." Van Houten leaned back in the booth, relaxing a bit. "She brought it with her, then, to bug Eufemia?" "Lili? No, it was m y eye. She just borrowed it for the occasion." Gorman was beginning to feel his drinks now. "Good old Gorman, that's me. Dan the man, just ask and I give you the shirt off m y back— an a r m — a leg—you name it. Lili needed an extra eye, so I obliged." "Where'd you get it?" "My marvelous disposition? From m y dear mother ..."

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" T h e eye, the eye. Where'd you get it?" "Heap big Indian need u m extra eye for seeing all," Jones said, but a look from V a n Houten silenced him fast. "Oh, one of those shops—you know, boutonnieres that squirt water, leaning cocktail glasses—it really didn't do a thing for Lili's looks." G o r m a n was beginning to feel somewhat muddled, and he wanted to forget all about the sidewalkfiascowith Lili. Earlier in the evening, during the party at Honey's, he hadn't expected to befinishingthe night here at the Corner Bar with three men. "Don't k n o w what got into her," he muttered. "Just gave m e the brush outside Honey's. All I wanted to do was to m a k e sure she was okay, and see her safely home." Holtzer snickered. After that, the evening began to blur. Feeling sorry for himself, G o r m a n tried to drown his gloom, but all he succeeded in doing was to get very sleepy. H e was depressed, andfinallycalled it a night. His three companions elected to stay on at the bar. G o r m a n didn't remember, in proper sequence, getting into Mrs. Mumble's house and u p the stairs. At some stage in the foggy return, he found himself outside his attic door. H e fumbled in his pocket, pulled out something which wasn't his key,fishedagain, and finally managed to get the door open. H e didn't turn on the light, but lights from an apartment in the next buildingfilteredin through the skylight, picking out certain things in his room. T h e picture on the easel, with all its eyes glaring

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balefully at him, was one of the objects bathed in the light. "Anh—quit staring," he muttered angrily. W h e n the picture kept right on looking at him, G o r m a n walked over to it with the exaggerated care of a drunk and slapped the canvas monster. T h e n he turned, stumbled on the rug, and staggered to the bed, not noticing that he had had the eye in his hand, having fished it out of his pocket w h e n he reached for his keys. B y chance, the suction cup on the back of the trick eye hit the canvas as he smacked the picture, and the eye stuck, just one more eye among many. G o r m a n fell across his bed, fully clothed, and was asleep in moments. Just as he drifted off, he thought he heard the melody which had haunted him earlier in the day; all it did was to lull him to sleep.

CHAPTER V Someone was pounding on his skull. Dan Gorman squeezed his eyes tighter, pulled the pillow over his head, and tried to ignore it; but the pounding persisted. Slowly he opened his eyes a crack, groaned at the light, and sat u p in bed. H e had a headache to end all headaches; maybe if he could manage to take some aspirin, the pounding would stop. "Gorman, open up. W e k n o w you're in there." It was delivered with a tone of authority which G o r m a n recognized, hangover or not. "Just a minute," he croacked. "Don't break d o w n the door." H e ran his hand over a face bristly, a scalp tousled, and eyes gritty. With a monumental effort, he managed to get across the room to the door; it wasn't even locked. H e opened it and hung onto the doorframe for support. "You Gorman?" T h e m a n was unmistakably a cop. M e d i u m height, hefty, middle-aged, his face had that I've-seen-it-all-and-it's-all-pretty-sordid look which came from long years of apprehending criminals. His companion was younger, taller, but just as cynical looking. "Yes, I'm Gorman. I think." "And just what does that mean?" "It was a pretty big night last night. I'm not even awake yet, and you want brilliant conversation?" 36

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The older plainclothes man pushed in past Gorman, jerking his head at his companion. "Do come in," Gorman said angrily. "Wise guy, eh?" the younger one said, his eyes narrowing so that it gave his long, thin face a mean look. "Say, how do I know you're . . ." Gorman started, but the older copflasheda badge in his face. "Lieutenant Crowley, Homicide. A n d Sergeant Kern." T h e word "homicide" had a sobering effect; it was as if someone had d u m p e d a pitcher of cold water on Gorman. H e eyed the police warily; vaguely he remembered that there had been some sort of unpleasantness last night, but just what, he wasn't sure. Crowley openedfireimmediately. "Usually sleep in your clothes, Gorman?" It was thefirstthat he realized h o w he looked. M o mentary panic hit Gorman. W h a t had happened last night? W h y were homicide m e n here? Kern was standing in the middle of thefloor,looking around slowly. G o r m a n had the feeling that Kern could see right into the dresser drawers. "Been looking for something, Gorman?" For thefirsttime since he'd been so rudely awakened, minutes before, G o r m a n took a good look at his room. It had been ransacked. Drawers were pulled out, and clothes dangled from them every which way. His painting supplies were a mess, which brought a roar of rage from him. "Who's been into m y stuff?"

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Crowley gave him a sharp look. "You hadn't noticed?" Gorman glared at him. "You just woke m e up, I have a monumental hangover, and you want to know if I just noticed. T o keep it brief, yes." "Told you he was a wise guy," Kern said to no one in particular. H e had begun poking about the table where Gorman's paints and brushes were. "Hey, watch that stuff." Kern just gave him a look. T h e n he walked over to inspect the unfinished illustration on the easel. "You do your painting w h e n you're loaded, Gorman?" "Listen, I resent that. For your information, I illustrate sciencefiction,fantasy—horror stories . . ." "It's a horror, all right." Kern turned his back on the monster with the eyes. Getting more rattled by the minute, G o r m a n tried to pull himself together. Turning to the lieutenant, he asked, "What's this all about? Y o u can't just come busting in on m e this way . . ." Crowley held u p an admonishing hand. "Just a few questions, M r . Gorman. I'm sure you'll co-operate." H e m a d e it clear that G o r m a n had little choice. Without invitation, he pulled u p the plain wooden chair from beside the dresser, turned it around, and sat d o w n straddling it. "Sit down, M r . Gorman. Sit down. Just a few routine questions, that's all." Kern kept prowling about the room, not missing anything. G o r m a n sat on the edge of the rumpled bed and braced himself. H e had no idea what was coming, but he knew it wasn't going to be good. " H a d yourself quite a time last night, didn't you?"

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Last night. Memories of it were seeping back n o w — Honey's party—some unpleasantness . . . "Bit of a quarrel with Miss Lowenoski?" "Miss W h o ? " The name rang a bell. Just as Crowley said, "Professional name of LaClerc," Gorman remembered. Apparently there was a change in his expression, because Crowley's mouth twitched into a lopsided grin. "Like to tell m e all about it, Gorman?" "About what?" H e wasfightingn o w for time. W h a t had happened? Frantically G o r m a n ran through what he remembered of the evening. Lili'd had that fit— she'd run out—he'd followed her—she'd given him his walking papers. "If you'll just tell m e what this is all about. Lieutenant, I might be able to talk more intelligently." T h e n it hit him, and sudden fear twisted his insides into knots. "Has anything happened to Lili?" Crowley didn't answer for a moment; he just looked at Kern, then back at Gorman. "Were you expecting anything to happen to her, Gorman?" "Well, she got sick at this party last night—you k n o w about the party, Lieutenant?" "You tell m e , Gorman. All about everything." G o r m a n hesitated, then started in, trying hard to remember all the details. A s he talked, they came back. T o o vividly. "You didn't quarrel with Miss Lowenoski at the party?" "No. Ask anyone w h o was there. W e were having a ball, until she had that seizure, or whatever it was. T h e n she just plain went berserk. I followed her out-

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side because our hostess, Miss Tucci, didn't want her to be alone. Ask her," he said with sudden relief. "Honey—Miss Tucci, that is—will tell you that there wasn't any quarrel between Lili and me." Kern pounced. "There was a quarrel with someone else?" G o r m a n hesitated, then decided he had better tell the truth. H e had nothing to hide—or did he? If only he could remember about getting home. H e had been at the Corner Bar—then everything got foggy. "Lili and Eufemia Rosario had a little spat," he said. " O d d that you should remember that, yet not have told us about yourfightwith Miss Lowenoski outside this Tucci woman's apartment house." H e smiled, but there was no h u m o r in it. "Kern, you'd better speak sharply to that patrolman. Telling lies—trying to make us believe that our friend, here, M r . Daniel Gorman, had afightwith a lady right out on the street. Said lady calling him to her assistance." " N o w just a minute, Lieutenant Crowley—if you'd give m e a chance tofinish,I'd tell you about that. T h e girl was sick, I tell you—she just went wild, and I don't k n o w why. W h e n I found out she didn't want m e to take her home, I went back in to the party. Didn't your patrolman give you that little bit of information?" H e paused, trying to calm down. It wasn't going to help if he antagonized the police. A n d what had happened, anyway? "Is Lili dead?" It sounded so bald, that way. "Yes, she's dead." Crowley's answer was as bleak as his question.

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Gorman had known what it would be—why else would men from Homicide be here asking about Lili if she weren't dead?—but still it was a stunner. "Someone killed her?" "Someone killed her, Gorman. You?" H e mustn't panic, now; that's what the police wanted. G o r m a n knew that he hadn't killed Lili, so he must stay calm. "I didn't kill Lili, nor anyone else, Lieutenant. I didn't really quarrel with her, in the strictest sense. For some reason, she just didn't want m e to take her home. W h e n I insisted, because I thought she was sick, she called the policeman on the beat. So I left quietly" "And then . . ." "I went back to the party, briefly. It broke up soon, though. That fit Lili threw set everyone's teeth on edge. T h e n I went to the Corner Bar with three of the m e n w h o live here . . ." "They'd be?" "Van Houten, Holtzer, and Jones. They'd all been to Honey's party. Ask them—they'll tell you that Lili got sick, or had a seizure, or something." " W h e n did you leave the Corner Bar, Gorman?" Kern asked. H e hadn't stopped prowling about, poking into things, but he had been listening. This time, G o r m a n did hesitate. Finally, he decided that the truth was the truth, and he had better tell it. "I don't k n o w what time I left there. That business with Lili had been upsetting. I drank too much." "Will your friends remember w h e n you left?" G o r m a n shrugged. "I don't know. I don't think

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they left w h e n I did." H e closed his eyes, trying to remember. "I think I came h o m e alone— N o w I remember. I didn't even switch on the light in here. I justfloppedd o w n on the bed and went to sleep." Crowley looked skeptical. "You managed to get across your room, dead drunk, without falling d o w n — stumbling against something? In the dark, Gorman?" "It wasn't that dark. Light was coming in through the skylight from an apartment across the way." Silkily Kern insinuated his question. "Then you don't k n o w whether or not your room was like this," he waved an inclusive hand at the ransacked place, "when you came in last night?" G o r m a n hadn't even gotten around to thinking about his ransacked apartment. " I — I don't know. I didn't see anything." O n e of those unspoken messages passed from Crowley to Kern. "Any idea h o w a burglar could get in here, Gorman?" G o r m a n just looked at Crowley for a moment. "If you'll take one look at the lock, Lieutenant, you won't have to ask. A n yfive-and-dimeskeleton key would do it—or a hairpin—or probably a sharp stick in the hands of a mentally retardedfiveyear old. I'm always leaving m y keys in the door, to Mrs. Mumble's sorrow — b u t it couldn't possibly matter. Anyone could get into any bedroom in the place without any trouble. If not the door, there's thefireescape." Again one of those wordless exchanges between the police, and Kern left. "You didn't go to Miss Lowenoski's apartment on your way h o m e from the Corner Bar, Gorman?"

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"No. Are you charging m e with her murder, Lieutenant?" The big innocent act. "Now, now, Mr. Gorman, did I mention any such thing? Just some routine questions." Then he changed tactics. "What did you have here, Gorman?" Hungover, breakfastless, still rocked by the news of Lili's death, Gorman was very slow on the upbeat. "Have here? What do you mean, Lieutenant?" "Someone ransacked your room. What for?" Trying to forget his throbbing head, Gorman said he didn't know. "I'm just an illustrator. I make a living, but any fool can see that I'm not rolling in dough." "So explain this ransacked room." G o r m a n shrugged. " H o w can I? A sneak thief. A junkie, out to pick u p something to hock for a fix." "Anything missing?" "I've scarcely had time to see," was Gorman's dry reply. " T h e n look." G o r m a n checked his art suppliesfirst.H e looked through his wardrobe. H e checked his meager supply of cheap cuff links. His watch was on his arm, his radio beside his bed. T h e portable T V was on the dresser where it belonged. A quick check on his wallet showed that he hadn't been robbed. "Nothing, Lieutenant. If anything's missing, it can't be important. A s far as I can tell, it's all here." Crowley gave him a quizzical look. "You didn't go through things yourself, Gorman?" "I?" T h e n he paused. "If I did, I don't remember.

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And if I did, I'll never know why." H e thought back to that hazy middle-of-the-night time when he had hit the sack. "I vaguely remember coming in and stumbling to m y bed. Next thing I knew, you were beating on the door." Just then, Kern came back in, his eyes gleaming with suppressed excitement. H e gave a quick jerk of his head, and Crowley followed him into the hall, where they had a hurried conference which Gorman couldn't hear. Then both men came back in. "Looks like you got lucky just now, Gorman. Yours isn't the only room that was ransacked last night." "I told you—a sneak thief." "Which doesn't change the fact of the Lowenoski woman's death by strangulation, nor your quarrel with her." "I didn't do it." "Perhaps not, Gorman. We'll want you down at headquarters this morning to make a formal statement — a n d to look at the body." Gorman's stomach did a quick flip. "Why me?" "Why not?" Crowley countered. Kern stepped forward then,flippedopen his notebook, and asked, "You said you were with Van Houten, Jones, and Holtzer last night?" Gorman nodded. "Their rooms were hit, too. Odd thing, they weren't missing anything, either." "Any complaints?" Kern shook his head. "All three said the same thing. Nothing gone, so they didn't bother to report it. Oh,

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yes, one other room was searched. That of," he paused and frowned, "Oonalak." Crowley raised his eyebrows. "Oonalak?" "He's an Eskimo," Gorman supplied. "Oh, they've got everything here, Lieutenant." Kern referred again to his notebook. "A man from Afghanistan—he was in all evening, didn't hear the sneak thief, although his room is right next to Holtzer's. This Van Houten looks more like an Indian than a Dutchman." "He is," Gorman told them. "Full-blooded Mohawk." "Then there's a Chinese kid who doesn't seem to speak English. His room was untouched, I think. W e didn't communicate too well. A regular little U.N. Something funny going on here, if you ask me. Rooms ransacked, but no one reports anything missing. Four — m a k e thatfive,with the Rosario dame—at the party with Lowenoski." "We'll be spending some time around here, Kern." The police left Gorman then, with instructions that he was to present himself at headquarters at eleven. Gorman wanted to talk to some of the others, but when he started down the attic stairs, he heard Crowley's voice, so he knew the investigation was still in progress. H e went back up, straightened up his room, and decided to go out for breakfast; he was too late for Mrs. Mumble's regular meals. O n his way down, Yusef Afifi hailed him. "Going out for coffee, Dan?" H e nodded. "May I

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go with you?" Afifi glanced fearfully toward the third floor where the police were still busy. " A terrible thing, to have the police here so early." H e kept his voice d o w n to a confidential whisper. "I a m afraid, Dan. W h a t if they say I was the one w h o entered the rooms last night?" G o r m a n didn't answer until they were out of the house. " W h y should you expect them to think that, Yusef?" "That young policeman, he kept asking and asking w h y I had not heard someone in Fritz's room. I don't k n o w the answer to this. I just did not hear anything. I was tired, so I went to bed early and slept deeply. N o r did I see any prowler going u p thefireescape." H e shook his head, and his face was worried. "So I a m sure the police think I a m lying to them. I must go to headquarters later." " M e , too, Yusef, so don't be too worried. They're questioning all of us, because of Lili's murder." "Murder? Lili? T h e police did not mention a murder to me." G o r m a n filled him in quickly. "You weren't at Honey Tucci's party, so I guess they interviewed you only after they discovered there'd been this wholesale ransacking of rooms." H efilledAfifi in on what had happened, and the little m a n was properly shocked. "This Lili—you knew her well?" G o r m a n shook his head. "Not really. I've seen her around. She entertained at the Hurricane L a m p , where Eufemia sings." Afifi shook his head dolefully. "Mrs. M u m b l e won't

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like this—police tramping up and down her stairs." "I can't say I'm crazy about it myself," Gorman admitted. H e tried to keep his mind off what was ahead of him while he had coffee; but the prospect of having to look at Lili's body made him wish he had not bothered even with coffee this morning. H e hoped the cops picked her killer up soon; he wasn't sure he had convinced them of his own innocence.

C H A P T E R VI The trip to the morgue was almost too much for Dan Gorman. N o one should have to suffer, after death, the indignity to which Lili's body was subjected; no one should look as she did. Death should come quietly and peacefully, not violently. Death by strangulation is never pretty. A d d to it the ghastly places on her face, and you have horror. "What caused those?" G o r m a n gasped. " W e thought maybe you could tell us that, M r . Gorman." Crowley was watching him with narrowed eyes. " W e thought atfirst,rats. N o w we're not so sure. Y o u don't keep a nasty little pet of some sort, do you, Gorman?" " A pet?" G o r m a n shuddered and his stomach heaved. A n d before him, almost as if it were happening right now, was the scene from the party, with Eufemia standing there, the kinkajou draped around her slender neck. H e turned away from the slab. "Let's get out of here, Lieutenant." His voice was thick, and it shook. Without another word, Crowley led the way out of the cold room. T h e interview which followed was an ordeal. " O d d crew you have at that boardinghouse. T h e landlady—what's her name, anyway? ..." " W e call her Mrs. Mumble." "Yes. Mrs. M u m b l e allows pets, I see." There was a 48

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frown on the officer's face. "A kinkajou—a chameleon . . ." "Yes, that's Sheba's. She wears it." Crowley's eyebrowsflewup. "Wears it?" G o r m a n nodded. "It has afinegold chain attached to a collar, and she pins it to her dress. Sheba's an interpreter at the U.N. A n Ethiopian." "So's Haile Selassie, but he doesn't go around wearing a chameleon. This—Sheba—did she k n o w the Lowenoski w o m a n ? " G o r m a n shrugged. "I don't know. Possibly. You'll have to ask Sheba that, Lieutenant. I've enough troubles of m y own, believe m e , without worrying about Sheba." "So you have troubles, M r . Gorman. I suppose you wouldn't care to confess? Get it off your chest?" " N o , I wouldn't care to confess, if you m e a n Lili." "I was afraid you wouldn't. H o w do the people w h o live at Mrs. Mumble's like having a young sealion in the bathtub?" "Oh, you m e a n Nuknuk. Oonalak doesn't keep him in the tub, you know. A n d I think he intends to give him to a zoo soon. Nuknuk's getting too big for . . ." Crowley cut him off. "Kooks. I have a murder on m y hands, and I get stuck with a whole houseful of kooks. I suppose you haven't any further ideas on w h y your room was ransacked? O r when?" "I still think it must have been a junkie." After he got out of police headquarters, G o r m a n wanted to walk. H e couldn't, for the moment, face anyone at the boardinghouse; Crowley's insinuations about pets had turned his already churning stomach.

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H e wondered if the police would require Eufemia to look at Lili's body. H e paid little attention to where his feet took him, just walking briskly, putting all his energy into walking so that he wouldn't have to think. Lunchtime came and went, but G o r m a n had no appetite. It might have been an hour later, or more, w h e n he discovered that he was on the street where Lew's Joke Shop was located. That reminded him of the phony eye, which in turn brought back the whole nasty business at the party. Abruptly he changed directions, just as he came to the shop door, so that he wouldn't have to pass the place. Behind him, G o r m a n heard, "Mister. Hey, mister. Wait. I have to see you." H e didn't even bother to turn around, as he was sure it wasn't for him, and he had no inclination toward curiosity today. H e heard footsteps hurrying behind him, but paid no attention, until someone caught at his arm, pulling him to a halt. Annoyed, G o r m a n turned, shaking off the arm, to find that it was Lew, the shop proprietor, w h o had accosted him. "I was afraid you'd get away from me," the hunchback babbled. "I've been frantic—had no idea h o w to get in touch with you, without coming to Mrs. Mumble's—and I didn't think that wise. Y o u see, I m a d e a mistake." "You certainly did, mister." Angrily G o r m a n shook the man's hand loose from his arm. "You some kind of nut?" "But you told m e there would be a vacancy next

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day at Mrs. Mumble's," the little m a n said insistently. " C o m e inside; w e have to talk." H e was darting looks in every direction, his eyes sinister behind the thick lenses. "I've talked enough today to last for months. Y o u seem to have m e mixed u p with half a dozen other guys." G o r m a n decided to get a bus back, so he turned, leaving the hunchback in the middle of the sidewalk. "Wait, w e have to talk." L e w was beside him, again clutching at his arm. "Keep your hands off me," G o r m a n said between clenched teeth. "Is it m y fault that Mrs. Mumble's place is full? G o worry a real-estate agent if you want a room." "But I gave you the eye by mistake." "Serves you right." G o r m a n was feeling nasty, and this little creep was m u c h too persistent, and too cryptic, to suit him. "Look, fellow, I don't k n o w what it is you w a n t — b u t go peddle your papers somewhere else." "But I'll buy it back from you," the hunchback said hurriedly. "Twice what you paid." G o r m a n looked with distaste at the man. "Look, bud, I don't k n o w what you're yammering about." " T h e eye, the eye," L e w hissed. "It was supposed to be for someone else." With real anguish in his voice, he asked, "Will you return it? For double the price." " O h , that trick thing? Sorry, I haven't got it." Lew's face registered dismay. "You haven't—but I must get it back. W h a t did you do with it?"

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beat it. G o peddle your eyes somewhere else." H e saw his bus pulling into the stop, left the hunchback standing in the middle of the sidewalk, and sprinted to get on. If he didn't k n o w he was cold sober, G o r m a n would think he had D.T.'s. W h a t was so special about that phony eye that the guy was so worked u p over it? H e let his mind wander. Dope? W a s it hollow, and filled with heroin? H a d he somehow stumbled into a dope ring by accident? O r was the joke-shop proprietor mixed u p in some kind of spy game? N o w , now, Dan, take it easy. You've been watching too many spy stories on T V , he thought. Dope sounded more reasonable. O r stolen jewels . . . ? T h e eye was pretty small; it would have to be diamonds to make it all that important. G o r m a n wondered what he had done with the crazy thing. H e remembered Lili's giving it back to him, but it wasn't in his coat pocket, for he slipped his hands carefully into the pockets and felt around. N o holes, either, for it to get d o w n into the lining. Gorm a n shrugged. As a joke it had been a bust; he had probably dropped it somewhere. Odd, though, that the hunchbacked character had been so worked up over it. A n d obviously there had been a connecton with Mrs. Mumble's, for the fellow had asked about a room there. O h , well, one of life's little unsolved mysteries. G o r m a n decided that he had lots more important things to worry about than a party joke; there was Lili's death to haunt him. Dinner that evening was a depressing affair. Most

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of the boarders had been called to police headquarters to m a k e statements, either about Lili's death or about the ransacked rooms; or both. Eufemia seemed particularly shaken. "I didn't like her," she said defiantly, "but I wouldn't have wished such a death on anyone." "Did they really require you to view Lili's body?" Sheba asked. Eufemia nodded, shuddering. "Last evening was a bore—but h o w glad I am, now, that I had to play nursemaid to those barbarians. Otherwise, I, too, might have gone to Honey's party, and thus been involved. O r I could have been here at the house w h e n the sneak thief was prowling. W h a t if I'd happened on to him? It might have been disastrous." "Being out last evening didn't keep m e out of the police station today," Oonalak said distastefully, his broad Harvard "A's" even broader than usual. H e turned to W a n g , w h o sat on his left. "How'd you escape, Chien? Wasn't your room searched?" W a n g looked up, and G o r m a n thought he saw fear on the fellow's usually impassive Oriental features. "No." It was the extent of Wang's conversation; but twice during the meal, G o r m a n caught the student looking surreptitiously at Sheba. It could be that he was attracted to her, of course, but somehow the glances didn't appear to be admiring ones. " W h a t do you think happened to Lili?" Jones asked the table at large. "You saw her," Fritz Holtzer snapped. " W h y ask?" "Please don't remind me," Eufemia begged. "They asked m e some strange questions," Afifi said suddenly. "All about w h o had pets."

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"And of course you told them about m y Pepito," Eufemia said angrily. "They knew all about him. Asked if he were vicious—imagine that!" "Yes, just imagine," Jones repeated, not willing to miss an opportunity to needle her. "Did you happen to mention to them that your beast attacked someone at Honey's party?" "That's a lie," she snapped. "If I'd k n o w n you were going to be so beastly, I'd have told them about that pet squirrel you have trained to come to your wind o w to feed. Nasty, dirty little things—first cousins of rats." "Don't let m e catch you setting Pepito after it," Jones warned. "You m a y be a princess at home, but around here, you're no more than anyone else." In an obvious attempt to change the trend of the discussion, Sheba turned to W a n g . "Speaking of pets," she said brightly, "do you still feed the pigeons?" It had to be fear, G o r m a n decided. W a n g couldn't turn white, of course, but he did turn a sickly yellow. "No." She gave a little shrug, turned to Van Houten, who sat beside her, and said very quietly, "Either I've got to learn Chinese or give u p on W a n g . A s a conversationalist, he's a washout." G o r m a n was pretty sure that the boy understood a good deal more English than he spoke, so he hoped that Sheba's comments hadn't reached his ears. H e had no quarrel with W a n g ; he felt sorry for the kid, over here, so far from home, with everyone chattering in a difficult language. H e wondered h o w W a n g managed in his classes. H e must understand more than

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they thought he did, or he would be swamped in a lecture course. Just then, Mrs. Mumble brought in the dessert. "Mr. Van Houten, what's that strange-looking plant on your window sill?" " A variety of Venusflytrap,"he said. "Surely you can't object to m y having a plant in m y room, if Oonalak can clutter u p the bathroom with that monster of his." "Oh, come on, now, Matt, N u k n u k isn't a monster. He's just a young sea lion, and I don't put him in the tub. Y o u k n o w as well as I do that I have that old plastic wading pool in the courtyard where he exercises." Mrs. M u m b l e wasn't going to be put off by Oonalak, though. W h e n she introduced a subject, she kept to it. " D o you m e a n it's one of those nasty plants that eatfliesand bugs?" V a n Houten, his mouth full of chocolate cake, nodded. Mrs. M u m b l e shuddered, but not delicately; there was nothing delicate about her, even her shudders. "I hope you aren't suggesting that m y rooms have bugs in them." Very blandly V a n Houten assured her, "I haven't seen a single bug, Mrs. M u m b l e . In fact, I'll probably have to buy hamburger to feed m y plant. In your bugfree rooms, it m a y starve to death." "I'd like to see the plant," Sheba said. "Better watch out, or it'll eat Winki," Holtzer suggested. "Or is it large enough to consume lizards, Matt?"

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Van Houten, still shoveling in the cake, didn't bother to answer Holtzer. "With all this reporting of pets," Eufemia cut in, "did anyone tell the police about Matt's plant? I think it should qualify." "And just what do you mean by that?" Van Houten's voice was icy, and Eufemia eyed him a bit fearfully. "Oh, can't you take a joke, Matt?" "Anything to do with Lili's death doesn't fall into a joking category, Eufemia," Gorman reminded her. "I think that Crowley asked all those questions just to set us against each other, so that someone would let something slip." "Do you really think he believes one of us killed Lili?" Holtzer sounded disturbed. "Oh, come on, Dan. W e were at the party—and you raced out after her—but she was killed hours later, according to the police. They'llfindthat it was a prowler." "Like the one who went through our rooms?" Oonalak asked quietly. "A junkie," Gorman insisted. "Then why didn't he steal anything? Junkies are notoriously catholic in their tastes. Anything pawnable they'll steal. No, I can see why the police would ask their questions here." N o w it was Mrs. Mumble's turn to be indignant. "It'll give m y place a bad name, with police here at all hours snooping about and asking questions. W h o came in when? What time did Miss Sheba return? W h e n did the men leave for the party? D o they think

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I keep a record book of the movements of m y tenants? I told them that I didn't spy on you," she finished righteously. "Bully for you," Jones said heartily. " A man's rooming house is his castle, I always maintain. T o o bad all of us aren't as close-mouthed as our good landlady." This fell into dead silence. G o r m a n often wondered if Jones did it on purpose, or if his remarks just happened to come out sounding as if he wanted to start a fight. Afifi, lookingflustered,hurriedly stated that he hadn't told the police anything. "Except about Pepito," Eufemia muttered. "I was asleep early—they didn't believe m e . I heard Miss Sheba come in, but I was already in bed." There was a moment's silence, then Sheba said, "Your ideas of late and mine don't coincide, Yusef. It was the wee small hours w h e n I got home." There was a faint challenge to her statement. Yusef got the message. "I guess—I guess I heard someone else," he said hurriedly, looking unhappy. T h e n G o r m a n noticed that W a n g shook his head, and mouthed a silent "No." H a d Sheba been back early? A n d if so, w h y should she lie about it? W h a t time she got h o m e seemed of little consequence, as she hadn't been at the party, and could have no connection with Lili's last night of life. O r maybe he was misinterpreting W a n g ; with so m a n y unusual and unpleasant things happening, Gorm a n began to doubt his o w n senses.

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H e had little time for idle speculation, for Sheba asked, "Matt, why don't you show us this plant you have? It sounds very exotic." "It's just a plant," he demurred. Sheba could be very persistent w h e n she wanted to be. Looking at the rest of them, she said lightly, "It must be something very special if Matt hides it away from us. W h a t about it, Matt? Does it have some exotic properties which you don't wish to divulge?" V a n Houten put on what G o r m a n thought of as his cigar-store-Indian look, wooden as a lumberyard. "It's just a plant. C o m e look at it if you wish." If he had thought that would put her off, he was wrong. " C o m e on, everyone," she invited as if it were her plant. "Let's see this special 'pet' of Matt's." As if glad to have something to do and think about other than the murder, the boarders trooped u p to Matt's room. After all the buildup, V a n Houten's plant was rather m u c h of a letdown. It was small, the stems no more than four orfiveinches long. A t the end of each was a kind offlowerwith sharp spines, like teeth. "So this is the monster," Holtzer said. "Doesn't look nearly as dangerous as Winki, Sheba." At the m o m e n t she wasn't wearing the chameleon, for Mrs. M u m b l e had drawn the line on pets in the dining room. "As a watchdog, it's a washout, Matt," she conceded. "If w e need any protection, Eufemia, we'll have to call on Pepito." "Or m y Nuknuk," Oonalak put in. "But m a k e it soon. I'm dickering to get rid of him. There's a fellow

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w h o trains sea lions for circus and carnival acts, and I think he'll buy m y friend. I'll miss h i m — b u t he's getting a bit large for that little pool outside." Eufemia interrupted him with a little exclamation. Once she was the center of attention, she cried, "What's this, Matt?" and held u p a small book. "Tribal chants," she read from the cover. "Oh, maybe there's something in here I could use in m y act." "I doubt it," V a n Houten said blandly, taking the book from her over-eager hands. "That is, unless you speak one of the American Indian dialects used in there." " N a w , she makes u p that pseudo-Inca jargon as she goes along," Jones scoffed, then grinned as Eufemiaflushedwith anger. "Any time you need n e w music for your act, just call on m e . I'll teach you some Gaelic dillies—and your audience won't k n o w the difference." Muttering something under her breath which sounded to G o r m a n like "peon," Eufemia stalked out of V a n Houten's room. "You've hurt her feelings," Afifi said softly. "She'll live," was the callous reply. Sheba asked, "Matt, haven't you anything to feed that plant so w e can see it work?" but he shook his head. "Didn't you hear our dear landlady?" Fritz asked. "She has n o bugs here. Matt will have to buy hamburger to keep his plant going." "Or feed Winki to it," Jones suggested unkindly. S o m e h o w all this talk of insect-eating plants didn't help Gorman's digestive processes; there'd been too

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many unsettling things today. "I think I'm going to try to get some shut-eye," he said. "Good night, all." But sleep was a long time coming. Every time he closed his eyes, G o r m a n saw Lili's corpse as it lay on the slab in the morgue. W h e n hefinallydid sleep, he had horrid dreams of giant plants which ate people, plants which chased him all through the nightmare night.

C H A P T E R VII Monday morning, Dan Gorman got a call from an editor who wanted him to do some work, so they arranged to meet for lunch. As Gorman left the house, Holtzer joined him. "Job?" Gorman inquired. Holtzer nodded. "I'm off to film some sort of commercial." T h e y headed uptown together. As they approached the bus stop, Holtzer paused. "Didn't I hear someone call you, Dan?" Gorman, whose nightmare-ridden sleep had left him with a miserable headache, hadn't been registering m u c h of anything. H e glanced around to see someone, half-hidden in a doorway, beckon mysteriously. Frowning, he pointed to himself inquiringly, as Holtzer watched with unconcealed interest. T h e beckoning became more urgent. "Better see what he wants, Dan," Holtzer advised. " N o bus in sight. If I see it coming, I'll give a shout." "Thanks. S o m e nut, no doubt, confusing m e with six other people." D a n walked back, but with little enthusiasm. H e still couldn't see w h o it was. T h e n he had an idea—one which he didn't like: Could this be a newspaper reporter after some dirt about Lili's murder? As yesterday had been Sunday, it hadn't had m u c h of a play. T h e vultures should be gathering soon, though. Not about to be trapped by some over61

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eager reporter into an impromptu interview, Gorman started back to the bus stop. "Wait, please, sir! I must see you!" There was real anguish in the voice, which sounded familiar. Against his better judgment, G o r m a n glanced back over his shoulder. T h e m a n had edged out of the doorway. Even from here, G o r m a n could see the hunchback, the sun glinting on the thick spectacles; it was Lew, the owner of the joke shop. Just then, Holtzer called, "Dan. Bus." "Be right there." T h e little m a n had scurried up to Dan, though, and caught at his arm to keep him there. "Look, whatever you want, I'm in a hurry. Can't it wait?" "I've got to see you," L e w panted. "I've been waiting outside Mrs. Mumble's for hours. I have to have it back." "Not that eye again." G o r m a n groaned. "Look, I'll miss m y bus. I have a business appointment, and I must hurry. I told you, I don't have that eye. I never wanted it in thefirstplace, if you recall. Y o u forced it on me. Just leave m e alone, huh?" H e had to sprint, and wouldn't have m a d e it if Holtzer hadn't deliberately delayed getting on. Behind him, G o r m a n heard what sounded like, "But you were whistling . . ." then the bus doors hissed closed, and they were under way. "Bill collector?" Holtzer asked as he gave G o r m a n a hand u p the steps. They found seats, G o r m a n still puffing from his race to make the bus. " N o , just some creep w h o has

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flipped his lid. Y o u were at the party. Did you see that eye Lili had in the middle of her forehead?" Then, remembering h o w Lili's face had looked at the morgue, he wished he hadn't mentioned it. Holtzer, though, wanted to hear the rest of the story. "That hunchback. Did he have something to do with Lili? D o the cops k n o w about him? Might get their minds off us," he added hopefully. G o r m a n told him about buying the eye. "If you can call it that. Somehow, without m y knowing just h o w it happened, I was paying the guy a buck for that thing. T h e n he tried to buy it back from m e — now, today, he's still after it." "If you don't want it, w h y not let him have it?" "I don't have it," G o r m a n explained. "Somewhere in the shuffle the thing got lost." "It's a nutty story, Dan. W h y would anyone want the thing that badly?" G o r m a n shrugged. "Beats m e . I've wondered if maybe the guy pushes dope, or is involved in a smuggling ring, or some such illegal enterprise." "You mean, the thing's hollow—full of heroin, or the H o p e diamond, or a new, mysterious subtle Oriental poison?" Holtzer laughed and shook his head. "You've been reading too m a n y of those stories you illustrate, Dan. There's probably some very prosaic explanation to the hunchback's action." "Such as?" N o w it was Holtzer's turn to shrug. "Well, I don't k n o w the circumstances." "You k n o w as m u c h about it as I do. There's some

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tie-in with Mrs. Mumble's—must be, or he wouldn't have asked m e about a room there." "Has it ever occurred to you that the guy might be looking for a place to live?" "Oh, come off it, Fritz. I go in there, a perfect stranger, and he asks m e right off about a room at Mrs. Mumble's. A n d I'm supposed to call it coincidence?" "Happens all the time," Holtzer said airily. Just ready to make some caustic reply, G o r m a n noticed that his stop was coming up. "Here's where I get off. Don't forget to look pretty for the commercial, Fritz." "Handsome—handsome. I'm the rugged, outdoor type, remember?" H e was referring to some cigarette commercials he had made. Holtzer had had to take riding lessons, just to manage to stay on the horse long enough to have his picture taken, and the m e n at Mrs. Mumble's still kidded him about it. That evening G o r m a n got back to Mrs. Mumble's barely in time for dinner, his mind full of his new assignment, so m u c h so that he hadn't thought of Lili's death for hours. Holtzer, to liven u p the dinner conversation, told them all about the mysterious hunchback and the missing eye. "Gorman's trying to build it into some big syndicate enterprise, with Chicago hoods arriving on allflights,the Mafia lurking in dark doorways, and the FBI alerted." "Knock it off, Fritz. I just said it was odd, all that fuss over a gag." " D o you m e a n that dreadful eye Lili wore at the party?" Eufemia shuddered as she remembered.

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"Maybe the m o b rubbed her out to get back the eye," Jones suggested, only half-facetiously. "The newspapers say her room was ransacked." "And so was mine," Oonalak reminded him, "and yours, and quite a few others." With mock severity, he turned to Gorman. "Can't you keep your mobster friends out of m y room, Dan?" "Not if you stole the famous eye." "Then you don't k n o w where the eye is?" Matt V a n Houten asked. "Didn't Lili take it h o m e with her? As she dashed out of Honey's, I k n o w it was on her forehead." " N o , she gave it back to m e . But that's the last time I saw it. Probably dropped it out of m y pocket somewhere along the line. If you remember, Matt—and believe m e , I don't . . . it's all a blur after the Corner Bar—things got pretty alcoholic after the party broke up." "You should have told that hunchbacked creep," Holtzer said. " H e could have searched the gutters and sidewalks from Tucci's to the Corner Bar to here." "Poor little man," Sheba said. "Maybe that eye was very important to him." "Obviously, but why?" G o r m a n countered. " O h , let's change the subject. T h e thing's gone. It's his worry, not mine." A s usual, w h e n he had a n e w assignment, G o r m a n was anxious to get to work. H e remembered that he hadn't yet completed the many-eyed monster cover for Futurific. H e would get back to work on it, then begin blocking out the n e w illustrations. O n e of them

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called for an Oriental face; he stopped W a n g as they went back to their rooms. "Would you pose for me?" Gorman asked. "I can't pay much, but it wouldn't take too long." W a n g gave him one of those looks, then surprised Gorman by grinning broadly. "Yes." Conversation wouldn't be much, but the kid seemed glad to pick up an extra buck. And it proved to Gorman that his theory was right; Chien W a n g understood a lot more English than they gave him credit for. H e asked W a n g if he would be willing to pose for a short time that evening. The student was agreeable, so the two men went up to Gorman's attic room. "The light's no good for painting, but I can manage okay for a sketch if I adjust m y pole lamp properly. Have you ever done any posing before, Chien?" "No." But he seemed able to follow Gorman's directions quite easily, further proof of his command of English. "Listen, Chien, you should try to talk more with the gang here," Gorman suggested. "You'll never get proficient in English if you just answer 'Yes' or 'No.' " "Engrish hard." "Yes. Well, no doubt Chinese would be hard for me." W a n g grinned suddenly, transforming his face from the blank Oriental mask he usually displayed to the alert look of any intelligent graduate student. H e nodded. "But I'm not living in China," Gorman reminded him. "So there's no need for m e to work up Mandarin or Cantonese, or whatever it is."

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"Both," W a n g told him. "With you I're try, okay?" Gorman grinned back at him. "Okay." Then he got down to business, sketching W a n g from various angles. Finally, he asked, "Tired, Chien?" "Aritter. Butlrike." "Well, I'm glad you like." H e noticed the young m a n looking around at the studio room. "Not m u c h like the rooms downstairs, is it?" "No." T h e n G o r m a n saw Wang's eyes widen. H e pointed an almost accusing finger, asking, "What's that?" That was the half-finished cover for Futuristic. "Just a bug-eyed monster. I do illustrations for science-fiction stories—fantasy—weirdfiction.That's one of m y wilder efforts." W a n g walked across the room to get a closer look at the painting. "For a minute, I think it's rear." T h e n he got excited. " T h e eye. Ifindthe eye." " W h a t eye, Chien?" G o r m a n put d o w n the sketch pad and pencil and went across to the easel. "It's all eyes." "This one not paint, I think." H e pointed to one of the m a n y eyes on the picture. "Sticks high." "Chien, you'd m a k e a good detective. There it was, right in front of m e all the time, and I didn't see it." H e pulled it off the canvas, frowning w h e n the suction cup stuck and then popped loose, taking a bit of paint off with it. H e rolled the phony eye around in the palm of his hand. "Well, there it is, and I can't see what all the fuss is about, can you?" H e handed it to W a n g , w h o went over to the lamp in order to examine it more closely.

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There was a quality in the Chinese student's attitude which caught Gorman's complete attention. It was hard to describe, but suddenly W a n g was absorbed in the examination, so much so that Gorman felt as if a wall of glass had dropped silently between them. In order to break the mood as much as anything, Gorman asked with a touch of forced humor, "What is it, Chien? A time bomb?" H e didn't answer at once. H e raised the eye to his own, peered into it closely, turned it around and looked at the suction disk, then shook his head. "I don't know, Dan. It is—something." "Yeah, sure. A joke eye. Stick it on your forehead and get a few yaks at a party, that's all. Unless it's hollow, and hides something." W a n g hefted it and shook his head. "Not horrow." "Then what?" "I don't know." His voice was worried, and he continued to turn the eye over and over, examining it and shaking his head. Then, as if he had come to a decision, he handed it back to Gorman, almost as if he wanted to get rid of a suddenly hot potato. "Don't terr youfindit, Dan." "Don't terr—oh, don't tell." Sometimes he had trouble getting around Wang's accent. "Then you do think . . ." Wang cut him off with an oddly commanding gesture. "It is—something. I don't know. Hide it, Dan. Put it someprace safe." Gorman looked around his room. "Here?"

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"I do not want to know. I go now." W a n g almost ran from the room. "Hey, wait, I . . ." Gorman shrugged. W a n g was gone, his steps clattering d o w n to the thirdfloor.Well, he would settle with him tomorrow, and arrange a time for further posing. Meanwhile, what was the story on this nutty eye? G o r m a n repeated Wang's performance. H e looked at the eye from every angle, shook it at his ear to see if it rattled, tried to pry it open, looked for a secret catch to release, all to no avail. So far as he could see, it was just what it was supposed to be: a gag. That hunchback must be nuts; it was the only explanation. T h e n G o r m a n had another thought. Could the hunchback have been responsible for the ransacked rooms? It was such a farfetched idea, though, that G o r m a n discarded it immediately. Mrs. M u m b l e kept the front door locked all the time. She wasn't about to let in some oddball character and let him go roaming about over the house. Yet someone had been here, searching. H e shook his head. It was something to be performed in the Theater of the Absurd, not something to happen to D a n Gorman. Once again the nightmare quality of the past days came to haunt him. Involved in a murder, caught u p in some mysterious current which had to do with this eye, G o r m a n wished he could take off for parts unknown and forget it all. Standing in front of his dresser, trying to decide where to put the eye, he had a sudden impulse to slap it on his forehead, as Lili had done that dreadful

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night. His hand was poised in mid-air, almost to his face, when there was a tapping at his door, followed by Mrs. Mumble's voice: "Mr. Gorman. Sorry to bother you, but the police are here again. They want everyone down in the lounge." "Thank you," he called. "Be right there." N o w what? More grilling about Lili? It was a fitting end to a hectic day. H e started for the door, remembered the eye, and paused. What to do with it? Idly he tossed it in his hand, then turned back to the dresser andflippedit into the leather box where he kept his cuff links. N o point in confusing the police with his story of the eye and the erratic behavior of Lew, the hunchback; they had enough on their minds with real crimes. In the lounge, he found all the other roomers, and it sounded like a protest meeting. "I have crass," W a n g kept repeating to Kern, who just shook his head as if he didn't understand, and pointed at a chair. "I'll be late to work," Eufemia snapped. She wasn't nearly so attractive when she was peeved, Gorman noticed. She had Pepito tucked under one arm, and Kern was keeping a respectful distance from the kinkajou's needle-sharp teeth. "This won't take long, if you'll all sit down," Crowley said quietly, yet with such a tone of authority that the group all found seats and the protests quieted. There was a feeling of tension in the room, which was not lessened by the silence which Crowley allowed to build up. H e just stood there, glancing around the room at all of them.

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"There's been another death." H e dropped the statement into their midst as if it were a stone dropped into a dark pool, and waited for the ripples to reach all of them. Even though he hadn't the faintest idea what Crowley was talking about, Gorman had that instant clutch of guilt which most people feel when confronted with an accusation, veiled or open. "Ordinarily, Kern and I wouldn't be concerned with a suicide," he went on "but by an odd coincidence, the trail leads here. T o one of you." Again the vague accusation. Suicide. Could they have found Lili's murderer, who had committed suicide rather than be jailed for murder? Gorman felt a vast relief, for he knew he would be high on Crowley's list of suspects. His relief was short-lived, Crowley pulled out his inevitable notebook, studied it for another of those tension-producing intervals, then asked, "Does the name Lewis Engelman mean anything to anyone here?" H e was met with a stony silence. "Maybe you should give them a description," Kern suggested, in a way which made Gorman suspect that the whole performance had been carefully rehearsed. "He wasn't exactly unnoticeable, Lieutenant." "True. Very well, then—the deceased was a male Caucasian,fivefeetfiveinches tall, one hundred fifteen pounds, age approximately sixty." H e paused, and Gorman knew that it was a studied effect; nothing in the description so far was particularly odd, except that the man had been small. Then Crowley added, "Oh, yes. Engelman was a hunchback."

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"A hunchback! Must be your guy, Dan." At that moment, Gorman could have willingly murdered Holtzer, for Crowley turned to him with that wolfish grin which wasn't mirthful, and asked, "Was Engelman a friend, Mr. Gorman?" "I don't know anyone named Engelman," Gorman said, trying to make his voice convincing. H e knew, of course, that it had to be L e w of the joke shop. "I'm beginning to think it's not safe to k n o w you, Gorman," Kern said jocularly. "All your friends seem to meet violent ends. T h e Lowenoski w o m a n murdered—this poor hunchback hanged." "And M r . Holtzer, here, seems to think you knew him," Crowley bored in. " H e ran a little hole-in-thewall gag shop, Gorman. Sure you don't k n o w him?" "I never knew his name. I went in there and bought a practical joke gadget—that's all." But Gorm a n knew that he would have to tell the police more than that; everyone at Mrs. Mumble's had heard Holtzer's recital at dinnertime. "Oh, is that the funny little m a n w h o was following you?" It would be Sheba, with that innocent air. At times, G o r m a n thought she could be even deadlier than Eufemia, w h o didn't try to sugar-coat her nastiness. Crowley looked around the circle of faces. "Anyone else k n o w this joker w h o hanged himself?" There was a noticeable lack of response. "Well, Gorman, I think it's time w e had another little chat, no? Y o u seem to keep popping u p with revolting regularity in m y work these days."

C H A P T E R VIII

It was past midnight before Crowley gave up on Dan Gorman. Kern had questioned Fritz Holtzer, w h o told about seeing the hunchback talking with Gorman; but other than that, no one at Mrs. Mumble's seemed to k n o w anything. G o r m a n took the officers up to his room, told and retold the story of the eye, and saw the look of disbelief deepen with each account. "This is the eye which disappeared?" Crowley asked. " W a n g found it tonight. Apparently, the night of the party"—he couldn't bring himself to mention Lili's death—"I stuck it on that partiallyfinishedpicture over there." G o r m a n pointed to the many-eyed monster. "As I hadn't done more work on the illustration, I just didn't notice the eye." " O h , come on, now, Gorman." "You don't believe me? I'll prove it if you'll turn your backs a minute," G o r m a n challenged. H e got the eye from his cuff-link box, made sure that the cops weren't watching him, and stuck it on the painting. " N o w , turn around." H e gave them the chance to take only one good look, then stepped in front of the easel. "Okay, Lieutenant, did you spot the phony eye? R e m e m b e r , you k n e w it was there. I didn't remember what I'd done with the fool thing, and didn't care." 73

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There was a look of chagrin on Crowley's face. H e admitted that he hadn't seen the eye. "Kern?" G o r m a n challenged. "If you'd let m e take a good look at it . . ." "Okay, I've proved m y point. It isn't noticeable unless you k n o w it's there and you're looking at it." H e pulled it off the painting. Crowley held out a demanding hand. "Let m e see that thing, Gorman." H e took the eye over to a lamp and examined it from every angle, as G o r m a n himself had done earlier; and as Chien W a n g had looked at it. Then, without any comment, Crowley passed it to the sergeant, w h o went through a similar routine. H e shrugged, passed it back to Crowely, and waited. "Well, you tell me," Crowley said. "What's so special about this that the dead guy wanted it back?" "Your guess is as good as mine." "You've no explanation, Gorman?" "Frankly, I've thought of all kinds of exotic answers. Dope, smuggling, stolen diamonds. But the eye looks perfectly innocuous. I can't find a way to open it. It doesn't rattle, or tick ominously—nothing. T h e only thing I can offer as an explanation is that the hunchback was off his head. W h a t else can I think? Look at the way he practically forced it on m e in the first place, then wanted it back in the worst way. I ask you—is that the way a sane m a n acts? T o m e , his suicide is just proof that he was nuts." "This is the eye that Lili LaClerc, as she called herself, was wearing at that party?" G o r m a n nodded. H e might have k n o w n he couldn't be lucky enough to have Lili left out of tonight's little

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chat. "But it certainly has nothing to do with her death." "Just coincidence, Gorman?" The painter looked at the lieutenant, then nodded, strictly on the defensive. "Tell you something, Gorman. I'm a cop. Have been for more years than I like to remember. I always suspect coincidence." "So suspect. C a n I help it if wacky things have been happening to m e lately?" Crowley turned the eye around with stubby fingers, shrugged, and handed it back to Gorman. "Don't you want to take it d o w n to headquarters and give it a thorough going-over?" G o r m a n asked sarcastically. "You're too eager," Crowley said wearily. H e rose, signaled to Kern, and started for the door. "Don't get any fancy ideas about leaving town, Gorman. We'll be seeing you again." "At times I wish I weren't so popular." "Wise guy." Kern's tone was more bored than belligerent. T h e n they were gone, and G o r m a n sagged with weariness. W h a t did it all mean? H e looked with distaste at the eye; if he ever went inside one of those gag shops again, he hoped someone kicked him good and hard. Disgusted with everything and everyone, G o r m a n started to toss the offending eye into the wastebasket; then, moved by some obscure fancy, he walked, instead, to the dresser. Standing in front of the mirror, he slapped the eye angrily onto his forehead. T h e image in the mirror glared balefully at him,

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the third eye incongruous in the Irish face. O n e lock of black hair fell d o w n above it, almost as if it were a curtain trying to obscure the third eye. T h e n it happened. G o r m a n could still see himself in the mirror, with the studio room reflected behind him, but he could see more, m u c h more, a sort of superimposed picture. It was as if he were two people, one outside of himself and watching the other. There was a landscape, but it was like nothing Gorm a n had ever seen before; it was alien. In all his travels, in all his studies, in his reading and looking at art of all varieties, D a n G o r m a n had never seen anything like this. It out-Dalied Dali. T h e scene was bleak and barren, bathed in a red light which was malevolent, horrifying. T h e terrain was stony, with vast pockets of dark, brooding rocky crags, and above, the dull red sky. T h e n the scene slowly changed, as if a camera were advancing slowly, moving along a path. It went through a narrow defile in the rocks, the sides reaching u p and over so that the baleful, dying sun was almost obscured by the cliffs. T h e pass was uphill and winding, with theflooruneven; it was so real that G o r m a n felt himself panting as if he were actually struggling u p the incline. Then, abruptly, the pass ended, and a strange scene lay before him. H e stood on a high cliff overlooking a bowl-shaped valley which was vibrant with activity. A mass burial seemed to be in progress. F r o m the far side of the valley, long lines of creatures came, bearing litters; on each litter lay a fellow creature, to all appearances dead. Even though he was high above

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the scene, it all came to him with surprising clarity, as if he looked through telescopic eyes. T h e creatures were biped, humanoid in general appearance, but each had three eyes equally spaced across the front of a dome-shaped cranium, no apparent nose, and a wide, fanged mouth. Their skin was of a deep-red hue, or else it was colored, as was the entire scene, by the red rays of the sun. T h e creatures had long, drooping tails which just touched the ground. A monotonous, wailing sound reached Gorman's ears, and over it was a sort of obbligato, a familiar strain which he recognized but couldn't place. T h e procession w o u n d around to the far end of the valley, where a group of the creatures were digging graves in the rocky soil, using some sort of mechanized tool which G o r m a n did not recognize. It pulverized the rock, making it easy to dig. As each pair of litter bearers reached a new grave, they deposited the litter on the ground beside the shallow trench, walked ceremonially around the grave three times, genuflected, then swung the body by feet and arms, allowing it to reach the top of the arc and then releasing it so that it fell precisely into the grave. Another crew of workers quicklyfilledin the grave, taking care that the dead creature's tail extended up through the loosely packed soil so that about six inches of it remained exposed. This scene repeated itself as the endless procession of litter bearersfiledd o w n into the valley from beyond. Gorman's view shifted, and he saw another place,

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this one apparently older graves; the workers were cultivating plants, watering them carefully and using mechanical tools similar in function to the farm implements with which he was familiar. They must be using the dead bodies as fertilizer for whatever crops they grew. It was a revolting concept; yet G o r m a n knew that the early American Indians had put dead fish into hills of corn to m a k e it grow. Perhaps in this barren land, wherever it was, organic matter was at a premium., so that the dead contributed their decaying bodies so that the living could exist. It m a d e sense. T h e valley n o w became more meaningful. Different sections of it were in different stages of cultivation. At one place, huge plants, different from anything he knew, waved about, even though where G o r m a n stood there was no breath of breeze. T h e leaves were huge, broad, and prickly; tightly rolled buds rose high into the still air. Then, from another direction, came another line offigures.This time, the bipeds were driving small, creeping things, not unlike large slugs. They forced them along with long prods, directing them toward thefieldof huge plants which he had observed. T h e creeping things kept trying to get away, but the bipeds were alert, herding them ever forward toward thefield.T h e n thefirstof the line of creatures reached the giant plants, and G o r m a n watched with growing horror as the tightly rolled bud whipped open, the stalk bending d o w n with a swooping movement, and the openedflowerpart engulfed thefirstof the slugs. T h e n the bud rolled itself again into a tight

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ball and swung high into the air, while a shrill, screaming sound was suddenly muffled. T h e plant had eaten the sluglike creature. Revulsion swept over Gorman, and the feeling broke the spell which held him. N o w he was himself again, looking into his dresser mirror, the eye attached to his forehead, a horrid addition to his face. With one swift motion, he plucked the extra eye off his face and threw it d o w n on the dresser in disgust. H e was shaking, and cold sweat broke out on his body, the drops trickling d o w n his sides. G o r m a n covered his face with his hands, then staggered over to the bed, where he sank down, sitting on the edge of the sagging springs. W h a t had happened to him? It was as if wearing that eye triggered a particularly vivid hallucination. W a s he going mad? H a d all the crazy events of the past few days unhinged his mind? O r were they themselves only projections of his o w n subconscious, symptoms of a mental disturbance of which he had been unaware? H e needed a drink; he needed to see bright lights, or people—if he stayed here in his room alone, Gorm a n didn't k n o w what would happen to him. H e flung out of the room, and started d o w n the stairs, remembering at the last m o m e n t that it was n o w the wee small hours, and he had better be quiet if he didn't want to arouse Mrs. Mumble's ire. H e eased his way d o w n the stairs, and was thus able to see Eufemia Rosario slipping stealthily out of V a n Houten's room. She was across the hall and d o w n the steps without noticing G o r m a n on theflightabove her.

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At any other time, Gorman would have been fascinated by the idea of Van Houten and Eufemia; just a couple of Indians having a little p o w w o w . N o w , with the vision of the eye still vivid, he had no interest at all in any hanky-panky between two of his fellow boarders. G o r m a n waited long enough to give Eufemia time to get inside her o w n room before he went on d o w n and out into the street, his feet heading themselves toward the Corner Bar without any direction from him. Not being in the m o o d for company, G o r m a n didn't bother to look around the dimly lighted bar for friends, so he was surprised w h e n he heard his n a m e called. "Hey, Dan, over here." There was no mistaking Johnny Jones's Welsh intonations. Well, he would have to join him, or he would never hear the end of it. H e carried his drink back to the booth from which Jones was wigwagging, and started to slide into the side opposite Jones, only to find that Oonalak and V a n Houten were there. Jones slid over to make room for him. "Long session with the cops?" Matt asked. "You seem to be keeping yourself in hot water with the law these days, Dan." "It's just his criminal past catching up with him." G o r m a n had trouble following them. T h e session with the eye had wiped out the earlier session with Crowley and Kern. N o w , reminded, he remembered he had offered that eye to the cops. H e shuddered, just thinking about what a close one that had been.

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What if they had seen it? H o w could he ever have explained that he didn't know what the eye was all about? "You look beat, Dan." Oonalak was studiously noncurious, but Gorman could see that the Eskimo was eyeing him more than casually. "Yeah. Those cops can be persistent." Gorman had no intention of telling his friends anything about that eye, and the frightening vision he had had while wearing it. The whole nasty business required more thinking, and right now, he didn't want to think about it at all; he forced himself to gripe about cops and their stupidity. "Could you give them any information about the guy who hanged himself?" Jones asked avidly. "I could not, except that he must have been nuts. Everything he did points to it. Tell you something, Jonesie, I'm sick to the teeth of cops. I wish they'd just go about their business, catch Lili's murderer, figure out why some nut knocked himself off, and leave m e alone. I didn't have anything to do with either unhappy event, and the sooner they quit questioning m e and start elsewhere, the sooner they'll solve their crimes." "And this eye that they asked about?" Van Houten inquired. "I told them that I must have lost it somewhere between Honey's, here, and Mrs. Mumble's." It wasn't a lie; that's what he had told the cops earlier. The fact that W a n g had found the eye, and that the cops themselves had looked at it and turned it down, he felt was none of Van Houten's business.

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Then Gorman did a double-take. "What's wrong?" Oonalak asked. H e wasn't missing much tonight; Oonalak was a real sharpie. "You're looking at Matt as if he'd just turned into a wooden Indian." "Very funny," V a n Houten muttered. "Oh, w e Eskimos are real comedians." It gave G o r m a n a moment's respite, so he didn't blurt out the first thing which hit his tongue. "I thought I heard Matt in his room w h e n I came d o w n past it," he said. "But I couldn't have, could I? Y o u been here long?" "Since the cops carried you away to beat you with rubber hoses," Jones assured him. "We've been drinking to your good health—and m a y you confuse the cops forever." V a n Houten didn't leave it alone, though. "You heard someone in m y room, Dan?" Eufemia's actions n o w were most peculiar, and G o r m a n wasn't anxious to start something he might not be able tofinish.M a y b e it hadn't been Matt's r o o m — b u t that was crazy. O f course it was Matt's room, which was right under his own. W h o else's could it have been? Oonalak and Jones were right here with Matt—which left only W a n g . By no stretch of the imagination could G o r m a n see the Chinese student and the night-club entertainer getting together. Anyway, it definitely wasn't Wang's room she had left, for that one was on the other side of the hall. In answer to V a n Houten's question, G o r m a n said,

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"I probably heard your radio playing. Maybe you forgot to turn it off." "It's still in the shop." G o r m a n shrugged. " T h e n I must have been mistaken. After a long session with those two cops, don't hold m e responsible for too much, Matt. Their questions are enough to addle better brains than mine." V a n Houten didn't pursue it further, and G o r m a n was glad. Being cleverly inventive with his lies was too m u c h like work. Anyway, he had come here to drink and to forget that hallucination, or whatever it was. N o w was not the time to begin speculating about what Eufemia had been doing in Matt's room, h o w she had gotten in, and w h y it was all so stealthy. G o r m a n devoted himself to his glass, trying to catch u p with his three companions w h o had a head start. Not too m u c h later, V a n Houten glanced at his watch, muttered something about it being later than he realized, and broke u p the session. "But I just got here," G o r m a n protested muzzily. " W e aren't artists, able to work w h e n w e feel like it," Oonalak reminded him. " W e have jobs, remember? A n d slave drivers for bosses. Coming with us, Dan?" Solitary drinking had lost its allure. G o r m a n didn't want to stay on at the Corner Bar alone, so he headed back to Mrs. Mumble's with the others. As he walked along, making a conscious effort to walk straight, he

hummed. "What's that you're humming?" Van Houten demanded.

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Facetiously, Gorman told him, "I'm humming our song." "What do you mean by that?" Van Houten stopped right there on the sidewalk and caught Gorman's arm in a grasp of iron. "Take it easy, Matt. I was just being funny. I'm not casting aspersions on you." "Catchy little tune," Jones said. "I think it's a T V commercial," G o r m a n told him solemnly. "Probably one they use as background music for good old Fritzie w h e n he's shm—smoking those shigarettes." Oonalak moved unobtrusively to separate V a n Houten and Gorman. " T i m e for beddie-bye, Dan, m y lad," he suggested. "You've had a rough day." T h e n to V a n Houten, quietly, "Take it easy, Matt. Can't you see he's stoned?" "Anyway," Jones assured him, "the gals don't call you Lone Wolf for nothing." "I heard that," G o r m a n said with the precision of a drunk. Once out in the night air, the drink had hit him hard. " T h e w o m e n love him." H e leaned forward so that he could look around Oonalak, proving just h o w stoned he really w a s — V a n Houten towered over the Eskimo. "Even a li'l playmate right at home." Jones was ready to pick that right up, but V a n Houten said with disgust, " N o w I k n o w you're loaded. Better sleep it off, Dan." So Jones didn't get a chance to pry loose from G o r m a n the tidbit about Eufemia.

C H A P T E R IX

For several days Dan Gorman very carefully kept his mind off the eye, and what he had seen while wearing it, but you don't forget such a thing, no matter how hard you try. By Thursday, he gave up and took the eye from his sock drawer where he had hidden it, not so much from someone else as from himself. Again Gorman looked it over carefully. H e didn't believe in magic; there had to be a logical explanation to the hallucination he had experienced while wearing this. N o w he understood what had happened to Lili that night at the party. She had seen something—what, no one would ever know—but Gorman knew how the scene he had viewed might affect someone else. Lili, too, must have seen those huge plants devouring the slugs; she had yelled something about man-eating somethings w h e n she snatched off the eye and gave it back to him. T h e next conclusion was obvious: Lili had died because she had worn that eye. Nothing else m a d e any sense. G o r m a n wasn't a coward, nor was he in the foolhardy brave class. H e was just an ordinary guy, capable of good, healthy fear, yet able to take care of himself in a crisis. If Lili had died because of the eye, it followed that he himself was in danger. N o doubt what had saved him so far was the fact that few knew he had the eye. H e thought he had lost it, and had 85

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said so. N o one, other than W a n g and the two cops, knew that he still had it in his possession. W a n g . H a d the kid suspected something about the eye? From the way he had acted, G o r m a n guessed that he had. In which case, could he trust W a n g ? H e sat d o w n on the edge of the bed, still turning the eye around in hisfingers,and thought. Chien W a n g , student. That wasn't m u c h information. W a n g was said to have come from H o n g Kong, but these days, that didn't m e a n too much; he could have come d o w n from R e d China with the hordes of refugees w h o n o w crowded H o n g Kong. W a s he a Communist agent? W a s h e — b u t G o r m a n stopped right there. Sitting around speculating about his companions here at Mrs. Mumble's would get him nowhere. H e didn't even k n o w what the fellow was studying, only that he was a graduate student. A bit of research was in order. M a y b e Jones could help; Johnny enjoyed picking u p bits and pieces about people. If anyone knew anything about W a n g , Jones would be the one. Finally, G o r m a n let himself think about what he'd seen while wearing the eye. It had been an alien landscape; the creatures were non-human. W a s it, though, some extraterrestrial gadget he'd acquired, or was this some sort of h u m a n activity which was playing on people's gullibility? W a s this some kind of hypnosis? Telepathy? G o r m a n eyed the object in his hand with distaste. H e had seen these things advertised, and he was sure they were just what they purported to be: party gags. W h y was this one different?

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H e went back over the business mentally. The key must be Mrs. Mumble's, because the hunchback had asked him about vacancies here. N o w he realized that it must have been some sort of password; he recalled Lew's insistence on the wording of his answer. B y some freak of coincidence, L e w had heard the password from someone from Mrs. Mumble's other than the person w h o should have received the eye. That wasn't right, though. G o r m a n remembered that he had been approached first by the gangly clerk; L e w had practically pushed the fellow into the back room so that he himself could wait on Gorman, presumably to give him that special eye. " W h y m e ? " G o r m a n wondered aloud. " H o w could he have k n o w n I lived at Mrs. Mumble's? H a d he been casing the joint, familiarizing himself with all of us w h o live here? A n d I, quite by chance, wandered in there that day?" H e shook his head. H e had a feeling there'd been more to it than that. Coincidence had entered in, all right—but there was a limit even to coincidence. There must have been some other cue which he had inadvertently given, so that L e w assumed he was the rightful recipient of the eye. W h i c h brought him right back to the eye. W h a t was its purpose? For that matter, what was it? M u c h as he hated the thought, G o r m a n knew he was going to put that eye on his forehead again. First he m a d e sure that his door was locked. Remembering h o w easy it was to pick the locks here at Mrs. M u m ble's, he took the straight chair and wedged the back of it under the doorknob. H e would have to see

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about getting a n e w lock put on this door, at his o w n expense; he knew n o w that his room had been ransacked for the eye. G o r m a n supposed that L e w had done it—going through other rooms, as he wasn't sure which room he wanted. H o w the m a n had gained entry to the house was a mystery—and w h y only some rooms had been ransacked, and not all of them, was also unanswerable. Lili had been killed for the eye. This brought G o r m a n smack against a very solid brick wall. W h o knew she had worn the eye? T h e party-goers. L e w Engelman hadn't been at Honey's; that was for sure. She might invite way-out types, but no creep of the hunchback's genre would ever get into a Tucci bash. N o one had seen Lili with the eye, except those at the party; so some one of the guests had murdered her. It gave G o r m a n a shuddery feeling. T h e next step followed too closely for comfort. Lili had been murdered by someone living here at Mrs. Mumble's —there was the obvious tie-in with the eye which led right here. So either her murderer was someone at the party, or someone w h o had heard that Lili wore the eye there. "Whoa, hold on a minute, fellow," G o r m a n muttered. "It ain't necessarily true. L e w could easily have had a confederate at Honey's party. There'd been a m o b there, coming and going all evening. Someone could easily have reported to L e w that Lili rushed out wearing the eye. Then, w h e n it hadn't been found at her o w n place, Mrs. Mumble's was the next logical move. As to w h y some rooms had been

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searched and others not, who knew? Maybe some of the boarders had been in their rooms, which forestalled search." G o r m a n took a deep breath. T i m e to try the eye again. If he saw the same hallucination—he would be as m u c h in the dark as he was now. H e put it against his forehead and pressed hard to set the suction cup. Nothing happened. G o r m a n sat there for ten minutes, waiting for the show to go on. Nothing. H e began to feel like a fool. H e would give himself five minutes more by the clock, and if nothing happened, he would throw the eye away, d o w n the nearest storm drain. G o r m a n watched the second hand go around on his watch, timing himself carefully. Never had a minute seemed so long as it did n o w that he was watching time pass. O n e minute; one minute thirty seconds; two minutes; three minutes; four minutes . . . the allotted time was almost gone. Then, with only ten seconds to go, the picture came. This time, it was different. There was some sort of huge object which G o r m a n identified as a spaceship of sorts. H o w he knew this, he couldn't say; he just did. It was the same general scene as before, with the bleak landscape bathed in red light, the odd three-eyed creatures working as hard as they had in the burial scene. This time, though, they were loading the spaceship. H e had no idea what the cargo was, only that it was in large containers, box-shaped, yet m a d e of some unfamiliar substance. From the way the tailed bipeds handled these boxes, they were moderately heavy. As they worked, they chanted, fit-

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ting their movements to the beat of the music, just as h u m a n workers have done for centuries. T h e chant was familiar; it was the same one he had heard as the funeral procession hadfiledd o w n into the valley of burial. This time, the picture faded more quickly. Gorm a n did not experience the emotional jolt he had thefirsttime he wore the eye, for this time he was expecting some such phenomenon. W h e n he was sure that no further view was forthcoming, he pried the suction cup loose from his forehead, rubbing the site, which tingled, with thefingersof his left hand. T h e eye had to be some sort of miniaturized communications device. A tiny contact T V , maybe? Gorm a n was pretty hazy on electronics. H e knew they were doing some pretty fancy things these days, so maybe this was just an advanced model of something which was being tried out. But why? A n d where was the program sent from? It was alien—then he pulled himself u p short. He'd watched sciencefictionprograms on T V which were weirder by far than the two scenes he'd viewed while wearing the eye. Could this be a publicity gimmick for a n e w tiny T V set? W e r e the Japanese stealing another march on our o w n engineers? If so, w h y was Lili killed? Cutthroat business competition? Possible, quite possible; from some of the things G o r m a n heard about big business, about industrial spying, and involvement of the crime syndicates in legitimate enterprise, it wasn't just possible, it was probable. H e heaved a big sigh of relief. H e had been ready

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to believe that something supernormal was going on; his hackles were up, his deep primitive fears were churning, and his instinctive defense mechanisms were triggered. It was a letdown to realize that he had stumbled into some kind of big-business funny business. H e tossed u p the eye and caught it. H e had been toying with the idea of invaders from outer space, man-eating plants, and all sorts of other nonsense. Well, he would go to the cops with his story now. H e felt that Crowley was with it enough to recognize the gangster bit in this. It was u p to the police to ferret out the story, not to D a n Gorman. Maybe they would leave him alone if he did his bit by co-operating with them. H e had tried to give the eye to then! previously, but that was before he knew it was this miniature T V thing. N o w he had something concrete to tell to the police. H e would call later, m a k e an appointment with Crowley. Once he had given them the eye, he could relax and forget it.

CHAPTER X With his mind at ease for the first time in days, Gorm a n turned eagerly to his work. H e went to work on the sketches he had done of W a n g . T h e kid had refused to pose again, not openly, but usingfirstone excuse after another. G o r m a n believed that the Chinese boy had recognized the eye for what it was; he'd had sense enough to be scared. With mobsters in on it, w h o wouldn't be? W h o , indeed? N o w it occurred to D a n G o r m a n that he might be in real danger. If the gangsters had a foot inside the door in this business, he could easily be the target for one of their gunmen. H e had better get the eye to the police right away. O r was that the worst thing he could do? Maybe the gang had a pipeline right into police headquarters. "Mr. Gorman!" It was Mrs. M u m b l e , calling up the stairs. "Yes." "Telephone." "Thank you." H e slipped the eye into his pocket and hurried d o w n to thefirstfloor.T h e phone was in the hall, as public as you could get it. "Hello. Gorman." "Mr. Gorman, can you be overheard?" T h e voice was quiet, with an overtone of authority; there wasn't a sinister quality to it at all. 92

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"Just say I'm out in the open in Times Square." "It is imperative that we talk with you about the eye. W e do not wish to come to you, for reasons which we cannot discuss over the phone. Can you come to the Hotel Rialto, room six seventeen, within the hour?" Just like TV, Gorman thought. Well, he had seen enough programs not to be suckered in by this routine. " W h o are you?" he demanded. "I'm sorry. That's one of the things which cannot be discussed. We'll provide suitable credentials when you arrive. It is urgent, Mr. Gorman." The voice vibrated with controlled power. "It is in the national interest. That's all I can tell you now. Hotel Rialto, room six seventeen, within the hour?" "No dice." And walk right into an ambush? This man sounded very authentic, just as Gorman imagined an FBI man, or maybe C.I.A. to sound; but the approach was unorthodox, to say the least. H o w did he know that this wasn't an approach by the syndicate, to steal the eye and get rid of him all in one operation? "Mr. Gorman, I implore you. W e must talk with you." Gorman decided to play it cagey. "All right, I'm willing to talk—but not in any hotel room. Right out in the open, with lots of people around, or not at all." There was a moment of hesitation, with that faint h u m which told Gorman that the line was still open. Then the voice again. "Where?" "Where?" Thefirstplace that came to mind was

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the Port Authority Bus Terminal, so Gorman specified it. "At the information desk." "What are you wearing?" " H o w would it be if I wore an extra eye?" "This is no joking matter, Mr. Gorman." There was ice in the voice, ice over steel. "Time is running out. W e must know how to identify you." Sudden suspicion made Gorman have second thoughts about this. "If you knew who I was and how to contact me, why don't you know what I look like?" "Our sources did not describe you. Let's not play games, Mr. Gorman. W e know that you carelessly lost the eye." "Wha-at!" "There's no need to shout, Mr. Gorman. M y hearing is quite acute. W e know the eye ..." The voice stopped short. "Correction, Mr. Gorman. N e w information has just been received. You do have the eye, but it means nothing to you. You tried to dispose of it." Cops. They had a pipeline into police headquarters, so they must be okay. Then Gorman did a swift about-face. H e had remembered that there was always the chance of a crooked cop; and rumor always had it that the m o b could worm its way into the most carefully regulated police force. Still, in the bus terminal, with all those people around, what could happen to him? Maybe it was better to go to meet them than to have them trailing him around, catching him off guard some night in a dark side street.

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"Okay. I'm wearing loafers, brown slacks, a tan sport shirt, and I'll slip on a brown tweed jacket. I'm just under six feet, weigh in at about one seventy-five, have black wavy hair—but I keep it cropped too short to see the w a v e — a n d blue eyes. Shall I carry a rose in m y teeth?" "Jokes again, M r . Gorman? Be there on the hour, ask for a R e d and T a n bus schedule, and leave the rest to us." There was a very positive click on the wire. G o r m a n climbed back u p to his attic slowly, thinking furiously the whole time. W h e n he got to the thirdfloor,he surprised Eufemia Rosario, her hand out to V a n Houten's doorknob. Obviouslyflustered,she stammered, "I'm looking for Pepito. T h e naughty boy has slipped his leash." " A n d what's the naughty girl done?" She gave him a nasty look, but G o r m a n had more on his mind n o w than Eufemia and w h y she was at Matt's door w h e n V a n Houten was at work. O r was he? Well, that was Matt's problem. D a n G o r m a n had enough on his mind without worrying about the princess. Back in his room, he slipped on the tweed jacket, and then did some fast thinking about what to do with the eye. G o r m a n was certain of one thing: he wasn't carrying it with him. If this secret agent bit at the bus terminal was just to get the eye away from him, then he'd foil them early in the game. O n the other hand, if he was being lured away from his room in order to give someone a chance to enter it and search while he was gone, he'd have to foil that, too.

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H e looked longingly at the now-finished picture of the multi-eyed monster, but once was all he could work that ruse. H e would have tofinda better place of concealment than that. Gorman glanced around the room, discarding each possible hiding place even before he considered it. Outside his room. It had to be. H e locked the door, wondering as he did so w h y he was bothering. Until he had a n e w lock installed, he might just as well leave the door open and print a sign: C o m e on in. However, to keep Mrs. M u m b l e happy, he went through the motions. As he went d o w n the threeflightsof stairs, he kept looking around for a place to hide the eye. Over a doorway? H e wasn't sure just h o w careful a housekeeper Mrs. M u m b l e was. If she swiped the tops of the door jambs with the vacuum cleaner, goodby eye; although maybe that was the best solution yet to a completely bewildering problem. Just get rid of the thing. Even as he thought it, though, G o r m a n knew he had no intention of disposing of the eye now. H e had to k n o w what it was all about, and perhaps today was thefirststep in the direction of revelation. H e was n o w in thefirst-floorreception hall, and he knew just the place for the eye. H e would stick it on the underside of the table, which was used as a catch-all for delivered packages, magazines too large to go into the individual pigeonholes, assorted hats, scarves, and gloves which Mrs. M u m b l e found and put there to be claimed by the owners. W h o would think of looking there for the eye? It would be safe until he decided what to do with it.

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H e timed his arrival at the Port Authority Bus Terminal so that he was about ten minutes early. H e would circulate for a bit, see if he could spot the spotters before they spotted him. "Dan! Going someplace?" Caught completely off guard, he spun around on his heel, aware that his face was flushing from chagrin. W h a t a time to run into Sheba! A n d there she was, in all her statuesque glory, with that confounded chameleon pinned onto the shoulder of her severely tailored suit. T h e cut of the suit only emphasized her spectacular figure, a fact which G o r m a n suspected she not only knew, but capitalized on. "I could ask you the same thing," he temporized. "I've been asked to take a group of fellow Ethiopians to Sterling Forest Gardens next week. I'm in to pick u p some bus information." Even as she said it, G o r m a n had a sudden, unpleasant thought. W a s Sheba here to spy on him? W a s she the one at Mrs. Mumble's w h o was involved in whatever was going on? But she hadn't been at Lili's party. H e remembered distinctly that she had been on one of her shepherding assignments that night, so she hadn't been at the boardinghouse, either. Unless — G o r m a n recalled h o w Chien W a n g had reacted to Sheba's statement that she had been out until late that night. She had lied about that; if she had been in the house, could she have ransacked the rooms? G o r m a n sneaked a look at the time. Nearly on the hour. H e was going to have to do something to shake Sheba. If she were in on the plot, he didn't want her seeing him contact these m e n , w h o had to be some

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sort of Government agents from the sound of the phone call. "You never did say what you were doing here, Dan." Confound the woman. H e thought he had sidestepped that one neatly. "Just gathering m o o d for an illustration," he said, inspired. "I have to do a scene of a crowded spaceport in the future." "I'd think Kennedy Airport would be a better place." She gave him one of those sudden shrewd glances which reminded him that Sheba was more than an exotic female parading her charms; she was highly educated, with a keen brain. H o w did he k n o w that she wasn't planted at the U.N. in some sort of undercover job? Okay, she had asked for it. " W h y not Kennedy? Because this is closer to Mrs. Mumble's. A n d a m o b of people milling around a station is pretty m u c h the same, whether here or at the airport, N e w York or Paris or Addis Ababa. So w h y spend time and dough on a jaunt out on the Island?" G o r m a n was so busy trying to get away from Sheba that he had no chance to try spotting his contact in the crowds. With only seconds to go until the hour, he was torn between following his instructions, with Sheba there as a possible spy, and just passing u p the opportunity. Maybe he still could ditch her. "Well, I'd better get back," he said, hoping she would take the hint. "Oh, you're finished here. Well, wait a m o m e n t ,

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can't you, Dan?" T o make sure he would, she took his arm possessively and urged him toward the information desk. "I'm going right back to Mrs. M u m ble's, just as soon as I pick u p some timetables." H e had no choice; it was be abysmally rude or go along meekly. H e noticed that Winki was looking at him with unblinking eyes. G o r m a n glared back at the chameleon, then had to laugh in spite of himself; he was as completely a captive of Sheba as was the little lizard. A t the sound, the chameleon turned its head toward Sheba, and it looked for all the world as if the creature were whispering in her ear. It gave Gorm a n a terrific idea for an illustration. T h e n all thought of work vanished, for Sheba said to the attendant behind the counter, "I'd like a timetable for the R e d and T a n line, please."

C H A P T E R XI Mrs. Mumble met them as they came in the front door. One look was enough for Gorman; she was annoyed, and she didn't care w h o knew it. "That phone's been ringing and ringing for you, M r . Gorman." She sounded downright abused. "The same m a n each time, even though I've told him you weren't in." "Sorry, Mrs. Mumble." "Nice to be so popular/' Sheba said. W a s she poking fun, or was it a sly way to fish for information? T h e shrill ring of the telephone interrupted any further exchange. Mrs. M u m b l e gave an exaggerated sigh which said even plainer than words, "Not again!" Quick to forestall further trouble, G o r m a n offered, "Shall I answer it for you?" "You might as well. It's for you, no doubt." Conscious of both women's continued presence, G o r m a n picked u p the phone. "Hello." There was a pause, but G o r m a n knew someone was on the other end of the wire. T h e n the familiar voice asked cautiously, "Is this M r . Gorman?" "Speaking." "That was a very foolish thing you did at the terminal, M r . Gorman. Very foolish. I'm not sure what you thought you were up to, bringing someone else into this business." 100

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Hoping that only what he said could be overheard by Sheba, Gorman phrased his reply, at the same time giving a sort of apologetic shrug to the ladies, which he hoped conveyed the hint that he would prefer privacy for the call. "It was unintentional," he assured the caller. "Not m y idea at all." "You expect m e to believe that it was a coincidence? Really, M r . Gorman." Irked, G o r m a n said, "I don't care to discuss it now," and hung up. Then, turning to his unwanted audience, he added, "Fellow wants m e to take on a job for him—portrait of his wife—homely w o m a n , and he wants the picture to come out beautiful. Not m y palette of paints, and I told him so." W a s the silence skeptical? G o r m a n was n o w becoming supersensitive, and suspicious of everyone here at the house. "Well, back to the old grind," he said with forced gaiety, and headed for the stairs. H e could hear Sheba and Mrs. M u m b l e in conversation until he was inside his o w n room. Scowling, he jammed hisfistsin his pockets and glared out of the slanting skylight at the apartment house next door. H e had handled the phone conversation badly, but with such an interested audience, what else could he do? A s he had n o way of contacting the agent, or whatever he was, he would just have to wait for further word from him. It came within the hour. Mrs. M u m b l e called him to the telephone, with a, "You certainly are a busy man," in a decidedly aggrieved voice.

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"Thank you, Mrs. Mumble. Sorry to have had you called away from your work." She gave a sniff and went away. It was, of course, the same m a n again. "I've decided to give you another chance, M r . Gorman, but don't ever cut m e off again as you did a while ago." There was a veiled threat which was still unmistakable. "I wasn't alone." "I see. Are you now?" G o r m a n glanced around, and pulled the phone cord as far as he could so that he could look up the stairs. If Sheba were listening, he couldn't see her; nor was Mrs. M u m b l e in evidence. Even as he peered, he heard the vacuum cleaner start u p somewhere in the back of the house. "I think it's all right now." "Very well, M r . Gorman. T h e same as before, except two p.m. A n d no company this time. N o one else asking for the timetable." "I tried to tell you . . ." "Later, M r . Gorman, later." T h e line went dead. G o r m a n tried to work, but it was impossible. H e was m u c h too keyed u p to settle d o w n to painting. Once he found out just what this was all about, perhaps he could relax. After lunch, he walked around, killing time. W a s he doing the right thing or not? Should he go directly to Lieutenant Crowley and tell him about the phone calls? W h a t would that hard-bitten cop do if he told him about the scenes viewed through the eye? For that matter, what would Crowley do if he wore the eye

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himself? H e remembered the skeptical attitude of both Crowley and Kern when he had suggested that the eye was somehow important. No, he would see what this new bunch had to sayfirst;that they had a pipeline into police headquarters made it seem at least semi-safe. This time, Gorman played it straight. H e was going into the terminal at one minute before two, and approached the information desk on the hour. There was no Sheba now to louse him up. H e still didn't know whether the approach had been coincidence or plan, but she hadn't followed him this time. H e gave a quick glance around, but saw no familiar face in the hurrying throngs. "Timetable for Red and Tan line, please." The bored attendent passed it over the counter with scarcely a glance at him. N o w what? Gorman stood there, undecided. Was he to wait here for contact? H e stood there, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, while the minutes passed. Maybe his contact had missed seeing him pick up the timetable. H e held it in his hand, leafing through it with a great show of interest, the perfect example of a Method actor reading a timetable. After ten minutes, Gorman's Irish temper began to boil. If this was their idea of punishment because Sheba had ruined thefirstcontact, he didn't like it. H e wasn't a schoolkid. Angrily he jammed the timetable into his jacket pocket and strode out of the building. H e would go back to Mrs. Mumble's, forget the whole lousy business, and get to work, which

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was what he should have been doing right along. H e didn't care what the eye was all about; it could stick under that table in the hall, along with assorted blobs of chewing gum, until the house fell down, for all he cared. If anyone asked him about the eye, he would give them the, "Eye, what eye?" routine. If these telephoning buzzards were clever enough to find the eye in its hiding place, they were welcome to it. Let them see the nightmares for a change. This mental blast took him outside the terminal onto the sidewalk. As he started to cross the street, a cab cut in front of him, and someone took his arm urgently and hustled him into the taxi. Before he could yell, "Hey, what's the big idea?" they were into the stream of traffic. G o r m a n found himself between two other m e n in the back seat of the taxi. Both were the type w h o melt into a crowd. If he had been asked to close his eyes and describe either of them, he would have w o u n d u p with hair-colored hair, eye-colored eyes, no distinguishing features—blank. T h e original invisible men. "Sorry to have to do it this way, M r . Gorman." It was the one on his left, and the voice matched the telephone voice. "I don't like being kidnapped." G o r m a n was hanging onto his temper, but only by the tips of his fingers. "I assure you, it was necessary, once w e realized that the w o m a n with you earlier was also a resident at your boardinghouse."

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"I tried to tell you that Sheba ran into m e quite by accident." "And the password, Mr. Gorman? I suppose you think we'll assume that she just picked it out of the air, quite innocently." "It jolted m e , too, believe m e . Maybe she reads minds." " A n d maybe she knows too much," the m a n said. "Before w e get into this discussion too deeply, I'd like to see some identification," G o r m a n cut in. "I'm not at all sure I trust y o u — y o u operate oddly, I must say." "Absolutely necessary, M r . Gorman." H e pulled a leather folder from his pocket andflashedit open in Gorman's face. "You m a y call m e Brown. M y colleague is White." White flashed a similar identification. It was all done so rapidly that G o r m a n had the now-you-see-itnow-you-don't feeling. There was, though, something reassuring about the two m e n , even though their approach had been unorthodox. It was their very ordinariness which impressed G o r m a n favorably; he was convinced that they were Government agents, although he would never have been able to prove it from their identity cards. "All right, what do you want?" " W e need your help, M r . Gorman. W e have been conducting an investigation. At the m o m e n t w e can't tell you all the details. Y o u must trust us w h e n I say that it affects the security of our country—in fact, if what w e suspect is true, of the entire world. O u r trail

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led to a joke shop run by a hunchback named Engelm a n — L e w Engelman. You knew him." It wasn't a question, so Gorman didn't bother to interrupt with an affirmative. "His death left us in difficulties. His place, as you m a y have guessed, was a drop. With Engelman dead, w e have lost the trail momentarily. W e thought it led to you, but n o w w e feel you blundered into this affair quite innocently." " A n d with your permission, I'll blunder right out again." "Impossible, M r . Gorman. You're far too involved now. W e can't permit you to exit so casually. At the moment, you're m u c h too valuable to us. Y o u are our only lead to the rest of the setup." "But you just admitted that I'd blundered into this mess quite by accident." "Which doesn't alter at all the fact that you are in it. A n d you are a vital link in our chain. W e realize that there has to be a tie-in at Mrs. Mumble's. W e expect you to help us out there." "You expect—now, wait just a minute, M r . Brown, or Green, or whatever you call yourself. I'm not in the least interested in becoming some sort of volunteer undercover agent. I'm just an artist. Spying is not m y line." For thefirsttime, White spoke up. "I'm afraid you have no better choice, M r . Gorman." His voice was as colorless as he himself. " W e can't have you running around loose, falling into traps w e set for others, tying knots in our carefully laid lines, and otherwise g u m m i n g u p the works. If you don't co-

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operate with us, then you'll have to be taken out of circulation until w e clean u p this affair." "Which m a y take quite some time, M r . Gorman." " W h a t if I yell for help?" White shook his head pityingly. " W e thought you were a little more intelligent than that, M r . Gorman." "So the cabbie's one of you." B r o w n nodded. "We'd scarcely be discussing the affair so freely otherwise. N o w , we're going to take you to our headquarters and show you some films. T h e n we'll tell you some of what's happening. Not all. W e don't k n o w it all ourselves." G o r m a n was resigned; there wasn't a thing he could do except play along with Brown and White. H e did wonder, in passing, just what their names really were. Each had flashed his identification too fast for him to read details; and quite possibly they'd have B r o w n and White printed on them. "Well, let's get on with this spy game, gentlemen." White nodded, the cabbie nodded in return, then reached forward to touch a button on the dash. A partition slid u p between them, offering G o r m a n a sudden view of himself and his companions. Oneway glass, apparently, fixed so that he couldn't see out. H e glanced at the windows to find that they, too, had changed character. " A n d what's that in aid of?" H e was bitter. T h e y expected him to co-operate and to trust them, but they didn't trust him even to the extent of allowing him to see where they were going.

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"Just a precautionary measure, Mr. Gorman. You may even thank us some day for concealing our headquarters from you." Gorman wasn't sure just what Brown meant by that, and he didn't want to find out; he had a sneaking feeling that he wouldn't like the answer. T h e y drove for nearly an hour before the cab braked to a stop. White got out and motioned for G o r m a n to follow him. He'd expected to get at least a clue to his whereabouts w h e n they stopped, but he was disappointed. They were inside a closed garage, and White led the way directly into the building through an inside door. It was a house, not too large from the little he saw of it; the windows were covered with draperies, so that G o r m a n couldn't look out, nor could anyone look in. T h e room White led into was the living room, but it was furnished only as an office, with the addition of a movie projector set u p at one end of the room, and a screen on the opposite wall. White m o tioned G o r m a n to a seat where he could easily see the screen. T h e n he went to work the projector, while Brown sat d o w n beside Gorman. "Thefilmsyou are about to see were captured only a few days ago in a raid," Brown explained. "I want you to watch themfirst.I'll withhold comment until after you've seen and heard these films." H e nodded to White, w h o turned off the lights and started the projector. Suddenly G o r m a n stiffened; the picture which flashed on the screen was all too familiar. It was the scene he had watched while wearing the eye. This time, though, there was more.

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There was a scene inside what had to be an observatory, with the now-familiar bipeds manipulating instruments and using a large telescope. Even though their faces were so different from human ones, Gorman saw on them expressions which were impossible to mistake. They were viewing some approaching calamity—just what he could not tell. One small piece of the puzzle did fall into place. This time, when the chant came to his ears, Gorman recognized it—not because he had heard it previously while wearing the eye, but because he now remembered . . . A little sound escaped him. Instantly, Brown ordered, "Cut, now," and White shut off the projector and the lights came on. Brown was looking at Gorman expectantly. "Something clicked, Mr. Gorman." "That song—I was whistling it the day I went into the joke shop. And I remember, now, the day Engelman waited to talk with me, he called out to m e something about m y whistling. That must have been part of the password. N o wonder he gave m e the eye." Both Brown and White were sitting so still that Gorman wondered if he had hypnotized them. There was a kind of pouncing quality to the silence, too catand-mouse to suit him. Defensively, he asked, "Well, doesn't it make sense?" Very quietly Brown spoke. "And just how did you happen to be whistling this particular tune, Mr. Gorman?" Gorman shrugged. "It'd been running around in

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m y head all day. You know how it is. And I just happened to whistle it. Pure coincidence. They say such things don't happen, but believe me, they do. Add to it the coincidence of m y living at Mrs. Mumble's— all right, it sounds impossible. But it happened just that way." "Where had you heard that tune, M r . Gorman?" "Probably on T V . A commercial. I don't know. It's familiar." White and Brown exchanged a look. T h e n Brown nodded as if he had come to a decision. "Could you have heard it at Mrs. Mumble's?" G o r m a n thought, but he hadn't the foggiest idea w h e n the melody had first been impressed on his mind. "Frankly, I don't know. Does it matter? It's in those movies you showed m e , so it must be something others have heard." Again an exchange of looks between agents. This time, it was White w h o asked the question. "And just what do you think these movies are, M r . Gorman?" G o r m a n shook his head. "Beats me." H e laughed self-consciously. " T h efirsttime I saw them, I didn't k n o w what to think. I'll tell you now, I feel better having seen those films. I mean—seeing all that through that nutty eye is enough to give a guy the willies forever." H e hesitated, then went on. "Tell you the truth, atfirstI thought maybe I was going crazy. M y initial impression was that the whole scene was alien—you know, some other world, outside our own, where all this was actually happening. N o w that I k n o w it's just one more horror movie, I feel a lot better about it, I guess you know. R e m e m b e r , I do

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illustrations for sciencefictionstories. I'm inclined to think in those terms sometimes." "So you think these are scenes from a science-fiction movie?" " W h a t else can they be? I guess it's a promotional stunt to sell the eyes." "Sell the eyes, M r . Gorman?" G o r m a n realized that there was something going on here he didn't understand. "Well, sure, what else is it all about? They're pretty gimmicky T V sets, I'll grant you that, but I suppose there'd be a sale for them, or w h y make them?" Brown shook his head slowly. " A n d just where would w efitinto such a scheme?" "Well, I suppose someone'sfilchingsomeone else's industrial secrets—isn't that what this is all about? I mean, those are pretty miniaturized TV's, and it certainly is a revolutionary method of turning them on —skin contact." Brown seemed engrossed in his o w n thoughts. T h e n there was that silent communion with his colleague, after which he just sat and looked intently at G o r m a n until he began to feel uncomfortable. "I seem to have said the wrong thing." Brown came to a decision. "Mr. Gorman, w e have to trust you, I guess. If you're as deeply involved in this affair as you seem to be, and as far off base as your answers indicate, then we've no better choice than to clue you in properly. Otherwise, I'm afraid you'll go blundering about and mess u p some very carefully laid plans." "Okay, tell me."

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"Yourfirstimpressions of that eye were correct, Mr. Gorman. Thesefilmsyou just saw—they're films of another planet, an incredible distance away from Earth. That spaceship you saw loading—that was the advance guard which arrived here—we're not sure just when, nor where. All we know is that Earth is in peril. Talk of destruction by nuclear warfare is kid stuff compared to this." Gorman just looked at him in disbelief. "You mean . . ." Brown nodded solemnly. "We've been infiltrated by beings from another world, Gorman. So far as we can find out, their intentions are hostile. They mean to take over our world."

C H A P T E R XII On his own instructions, Brown and White let him out near the Port Authority Terminal, where they had picked him up. Dan Gorman had a lot of thinking to do, and he did it better on his feet, walking, than any other way. H e had until evening to make up his mind what to do. "What if I say 'no'?" he had asked Brown. "What could you do about it?" Brown just gave him one of those long, cold looks which chill you to the core. "You couldn't run far enough, Mr. Gorman." Nothing else, but it was enough; Gorman had sense enough to be scared. H e still didn't know just what official status Brown and White held, but official it was—of that he was sure. They were ruthless. If he refused to play it their way, his widowed mother back in Indiana would be minus her second son. Still, to preserve the illusion of the power of decision, Gorman insisted on time to think over their proposition; and Brown agreed, knowing that it was all a game, with the outcomefixedfrom the start. "I'll call you on the dot of six," Brown told him as the pseudo-cabbie swung in to the curb to drop Gorman. "Be there." Gorman resisted the impulse to say, "Yes, Master," and walked away without a backward look. If they had a tail on him, the guy was going to earn "3

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his money today. W h e n he walked, Gorman covered a lot of ground. Even though he knew he would say "yes" to Brown, G o r m a n had a lot of thinking to do. H e reviewed everything he knew of the mess so far. There was only one phase which he didn't buy—the one about invasion from outer space. H e k n e w that there was some sort of skullduggery afoot, but this was too much. Once he had seen thosefilms,and knew that they had been captured somewhere here in the city, G o r m a n had finished with any half-baked ideas he himself might have had offlyingsaucers and all the rest. H e had no explanation for the weird scenes, but he was sure they were just what they n o w appeared to be—filmed science-fiction shots, carefully staged. H e didn't k n o w what game the Government agents were playing, but their obvious authenticity m a d e him realize he had to help, even though they had not told him a lot which they must n o w know. It irked him to have to take them on face value, to be their tool, but he saw the logic of their choice. H e had to be the one for them at Mrs. Mumble's. Because he had so obviously gotten into this thing accidentally, he was the only clean one living there; they couldn't trust any of the others. T h e tape they had played for him, the mumbled, almost incoherent words of the dying agent, had clinched things. " W e want you to hear this," Brown had said. "It's the best lead w e have—only it led right to that joke store run by the dead hunchback. O u r m a n was found

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dying, terribly mangled. W e don't know yet what killed him." "Wild animal, looked like." Even White seemed shaken. H e remembered what Crowley had shown him there in the morgue. Lili had been strangled, but the body had been chewed, or bitten—something nasty. Gorman didn't bring it up now, for he was sure these two men knew all about Lili's death and how it tied in with their problem. " W e found our agent," Brown continued. "He was barely alive, but he managed to get out this much to us. It's all we have to work on, now, with our lead to Mrs. Mumble's." White switched on the tape recorder, and Gorman listened. "Ah-tock . . . tock . . . own . . ." Then wheezing sounds as if the man were having respiratory difficulty. More sounds, unintelligible, followed by, "Contacted native . . . nay . . ." There were seconds of silence, punctuated by an odd, whistling sound. "Bulbs. Shipped bulbs." More wheezing. "Nasty little compan . . . Orders. Took orders from pet ..." The voice was fading fast, now. The final words were a hoarse whisper. "Promised them they'd give it back to the . . . to . . . give it back . . ." Then a gasp and silence. "That's all, Mr. Gorman. H e died then." "But what does it all mean?" Brown shook his head. " W e don't know, but it's all we have. Once Engelman killed himself, our lead

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dried up. The fellow who worked there didn't know from beans." Gorman nodded. "The hunchback got rid of him the day I went in. Made sure the fellow was in the back room when he sold m e the eye." "And what have you done with the eye?" White asked. "Put it in a safe place." T h e two m e n gave him hard looks. "It makes you vulnerable." "Not if the word is out that I don't have the eye." " W e found out that you do. Others could, also. W e don't have any idea h o w extensive the alien organization is. They m a y penetrate police headquarters . . ." "As you have." "... and find out you found the eye." Brown ignored Gorman's interruption. "Frankly, your life could be in danger. It's only fair to warn you." "Then maybe I'd better not agree to work for you." "Wouldn't m a k e a particle of difference, M r . Gorman. You're on their list." G o r m a n knew that this was true; if he worked with these government agents, he would at least have allies. "I'll let slip a few remarks at dinner to the effect that the eye is gone," G o r m a n told them. "Just for protection." They weren't happy about it, but he wouldn't tell them where the eye was. H e had to have something working for him; otherwise, they held all the cards.

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So this was where things stood when they dropped him off for his thinking walk. As he strode along, he thought about the abortive message the dying agent had left. T h e "tock, tock" part. It m a d e no sense at all. A n d something about bulbs being shipped—components of the miniature TV's, perhaps. H e still was guessing about the eye, but he was sure it was something technologically explainable, if only he were suitably educated. H e wasn't going to tamper with the thing, though; it would remain stuck under the table in Mrs. M u m ble's hall, his ace in the hole, his bargaining power. T h e business about a nasty c o m p a n — a n d taking orders from a pet—obviously the dying m a n had been wandering in his mind, or he'd been getting out parts of words. Pet. It could be a name, such as Petros. O r maybe part of petulant, for he had already mentioned a nasty little something—compan— probably trying to say company; which bore out Gorman's theory that this was some sort of cutthroat business deal, involving industrial spying on a large scale. Might even be something affecting national defense; m a n y of the big companies had Government contracts. A tiny T V receiver such as the eye could have military significance. As to his o w n part in this operation, he was going to play at spying blindfold, or so it seemed to him. Brown's orders, given ahead of Gorman's acceptance of his unwanted assignment, were simple. Keep his eyes and ears open; watch what went on at Mrs. Mumble's; at thefirsthint of anything at all suspicious, anything tying in to any of the eye business,

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Gorman was to make a phone call, a perfectly innocent call to a number which he had been told to memorize. H e would then discuss a current illustration with an editor. It was a key, though. Within the next hour, he would be at the Port Authority Terminal for contact. By this time G o r m a n was walked out, so he headed back to his room. H e knew that he would say "yes" w h e n the six o'clock call came; and he knew that Brown wasn't expecting anything else, or he would never have left that u n k n o w n address where he had conferred with them. G o r m a n waited until everyone was at the dinner table before he steered the conversation to the police, and then to the eye. "Thought you said you'd lost it," Holtzer said. "I wonder if that odd little guy would have killed himself if you'd found the eye sooner and given it back to him." It was a thought G o r m a n preferred not to dwell on. "Wang, here, was the one w h o actually found the eye," G o r m a n said, trying to gloss over Holtzer's question. Instantly he was sorry. T h e fellow gave him one deadly look from those almond eyes which might have withered a less hardy soul than Gorman. Quickly he added, "I decided that the eye had too m a n y unpleasant associations, so I chucked it out." There was a m o m e n t of silence which was thick enough to cut. T h e air almost screamed with vibrations, but Gorman, scanning the faces around the long table, could read nothing in any one face which could tell him anything. T h e y could all have been

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carved from the same mold as Van Houten, noted for his cigar-store-Indian expressiveness; so m u c h for that. At least he hoped he'd allayed suspicion. "What'd you do, toss it in the wastebasket?" G o r m a n wondered if Jones was just asking, or if he could be the one, avid n o w for information. "No, I very carefully put it in a trash basket on the street w h e n I went for a long walk this afternoon— doing m y bit to keep our fair city clean." T h e joke fell flat. "Couldn't it have been construed as a clue of some sort in the LaClerc woman's murder?" Sheba asked. N o w why think of that? G o r m a n wondered. Sheba seemed more and more to be intruding in this affair. M a y b e he was a bit off base on his guess of industrial spying; could this be part of a full-blown cloak-anddagger affair, with international overtones? In her position at the U.N., Sheba certainly was a candidate for possible spy activity. "I think it wise to forget all this talk of murder," Afifi spoke u p suddenly, surprising Gorman. "It can lead only to trouble. Involvement with the police is never good." Oonalak gave the Afghan a sharp look, but asked mildly enough, with a smile to prove that he was just joking, "You aren't smuggling something into the country in your rolled-up carpets, are you, Afifi?" T h e effect was startling. Afifi went so white that his moustache seemed to turn shades darker. Usually you could kid him unmercifully without causing him to turn a hair; yet here he was, terrified at Oonalak's mild joke.

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"Please, do not say such things," he said almost in a whisper. "Importers must be very careful. T h e slightest suspicion . . ." H e stopped, as if he couldn't go on, but he had m a d e his point. Oonalak didn't even try to apologize, but quickly changed the subject, asking Eufemia about her work at the Hurricane Lamp. "I'm trying out a n e w act tonight." G o r m a n had the impression of a cat licking thick cream from long whiskers. "I wish you'd all drop by to hear it." She turned to V a n Houten, w h o sat next to her. "You, too, Matt. As a special request from one Indian to another." Jones snorted at this, and Eufemia glared at him. Jones, to compound his insult, suggested, "Having heap big p o w w o w ? Matt, I advise you catch 'um squaw quick, or our very o w n Indian princess, Peruvian variety, m a y get her hooks in you. Then, goomby, Matt." G o r m a n sensed immediately that Jones's wit wasn't going over with V a n Houten. T h e big m a n turned on his smile, which was rather overpowering, mainly because he usually didn't bother, and said, "I'll probably take you u p on that invitation, Eufemia." Then, even more surprisingly, he winked and added, " W e redskins have to close ranks against the paleface invaders, don't we?" Eufemia glowed; obviously she felt that she had come off, for once, well ahead of Jones. Johnny wasn't through yet. "Say, m e n , are you going to take this sitting down? I say w e all go tonight,

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and if w e don't like hearing tribal chants, we'll have the chance to boo." Eufemia glared, but somehow the tension was broken. T h e eye seemed to be forgotten, and the rest of the time at dinner was spent in the usual goodhumored bickering, although it got a bit nasty occasionally between Jones and Eufemia. T h e outcome was that everyone there would take in the supper show at the Hurricane L a m p , even W a n g and Afifi agreeing to go along, m u c h to everyone's surprise. "I can always order a non-alcoholic beverage," Afifi said. " O n e Coke, coming up," Holtzer assured him. "If the waiter laughs, we'll all take turns belting him."

CHAPTER

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On the way out of the dining room, Gorman realized that Chien W a n g was trailing him. A s the kid had been avoiding him since he had seen the eye, Gorm a n was curious. N o w that he had agreed to kick in with Brown and White, everything that happened would probably be fraught with hidden significance. In order to make the opportunity for W a n g to talk with him seem casual, Gorman, in front of any w h o happened to be listening, asked, "Have time to do any more posing for me? That cover illustration I blocked out is due soon." W a n g gave him a wary look, yet nodded; so he did have something to say. G o r m a n led the way to his room and m a d e a pretense of taking u p his painting tools. " W a n t to sit over there, the way you did w h e n I sketched you, Chien?" For answer, the boy walked almost stealthily over to the door, cracked it open about an inch, and applied his eye to the slit. Apparently satisfied that no one had followed them u p the stairs to listen in, he moved close to G o r m a n and asked, "You destroy eye?" "You heard m e at the dinner table. Tossed it in the ashcan." G o r m a n was watching W a n g closely, but it seemed his luck to live with types w h o learn from 122

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babyhood to control their facial expressions. Wang's face was bland as a porcelain bowl. "Good. T h e eye was bad." Taking a stab in the dark, G o r m a n asked, "Are you specializing in electronics, Chien?" That got home. H e saw aflickerin the black eyes, damped almost immediately, but there. Then, reluctantly, W a n g nodded. H e might as well; it was something easily checked. "They're doing a lot of miniaturization these days, aren't they?" Rather sullenly, W a n g nodded again. "I must go now. T i m e to study," he said. "But I thought you would pose for m y illustration." W a n g shook his head slowly. "No." Well, G o r m a n hadn't really expected it. H e had already gone ahead with the illustration, in fact, finishing it from some photographs, using only the sketches he had blocked in w h e n W a n g had posed previously. After all, the fellow had found out what he wanted to know—that the eye was gone—or he thought he had found out. That was just as useful for Gorman's purposes as the truth; he had a feeling that word wouldfilterback to the police via his n e w colleagues, and they would not come looking for the eye here, either. H e glanced at his watch. Plenty of time to do a bit of reading before joining the group for the trip to the Hurricane L a m p . H e would skim through this latest story he was to illustrate, see if he had any good ideas.

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In thefirstparagraph, he came across the word "autochthon." "New one on me," he muttered, reaching for the dictionary he kept beside his bed on the nightstand. "Auto—auto—here w e are, autochthon. A n aboriginal inhabitant. A native. From the Greek, sprung from the land itself." H e checked the pronunciation. " U h tock thun." N o w he had added a n e w word to his vocabulary. G o r m a n had read several more pages of the story before he encountered the word again. This time, he said it aloud, to help cement it in his mind. "Autochthon." A n d as he said it, it hit him—that tape recording he had heard this afternoon. T h e dying agent had gasped out something about ah tock and G o r m a n thought that it had ended with tock own. Could he have been saying "autochthon"? A n d wasn't part of the message about native something or other? H e wished n o w he could hear the tape again. T o m o r r o w he would contact Brown and ask if they would play it for him. Although what it meant, he didn't know. Natives. Here, he was a native, wasn't he? O r would you say that the only true native was Matt V a n Houten, the full-blooded Indian? O r Oonalak, the Eskimo? It depended on one's point of view. If you were in Ethiopia, then Sheba was the native. O r Eufemia, if you wanted to believe that she was a Peruvian Indian descended from the Incas. Frankly, he doubted it somewhat. W a s this a clue to the culprit here at the house? His reverie was interrupted by a knock at the door. "Hey, Dan, aren't you joining us?" It was Holtzer.

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"Be right with you. I didn't realize it was this late." Yes, it might well be later than he thought. E n masse they were quite an item as they poured into the Hurricane L a m p . It wasn't quite time yet for Eufemia to go on, so they had the waiters shove some tables together, and they all ordered drinks, with Coke for Afifi. G o r m a n noticed that W a n g sat as far away from him as he could, although it was done unobtrusively, quite unnoticeable if you weren't looking for it. G o r m a n sat by Sheba, although w h e n he discovered that she was wearing Winki, he almost wished he hadn't; a chameleon wasn't his idea of an ornament. Oonalak managed to get the chair on the other side of the Ethiopian lovely. "Aren't you ordering something for Winki?" he asked. "Afraid they don't serveflieshere," she rejoined. "Tell you what, Sheba, if aflydoes happen to fall into m y drink, I'll share it with that lizard friend." "Fair enough," she agreed. "But wouldn't it be nicer to save it for Matt's meat-eating plant?" Jones asked. "I'm worried about that thing, Matt." " H o w so?" "I thought you Indians just said 'how.'" Jones paused expectantly. W h e n no one said anything, he asked, in an injured tone, "Isn't anyone going to laugh at m y joke?" " T h e best I can offer is 'ugh,'" V a n Houten told

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him. "And you didn't answer m y question. W h y the worry about m y plant?" "I just think it isn't getting enough to eat. It could become anemic." "Cheer up," Afifi said. "If it gets hungry enough, maybe it'll eat you." " W a s that kind?" "Not to Matt's plant," G o r m a n said. "You're a pretty tough piece of horse meat to feed to an exotic plant, Jonesie." "Speaking of pets and plants, where's N u k n u k these days, Oonalak?" Sheba wanted to know. "I haven't heard him barking lately, or clapping those flippers." "I told you I was getting rid of him. His appetite got too big for m y wallet. H e wasn't like Matt's plant, eating daintily on spiders and cockroaches." "Please, remember Mrs. Mumble," G o r m a n cautioned. " W e have no bugs at our house," Holtzer mimicked. Through all of this, W a n g sat silent as usual, sipping his drink; G o r m a n was surprised that he had even agreed to come along. M a y b e he had his eye on Eufemia. All such speculations were cut short, though, for there was a wild strumming of a guitar and Eufemia stood in the spotlight. H e r costume was just short of gaudy, her headdress a marvel of colorful feathers, while massive gold jewelry caught and reflected the light from the baby spot. She carried a guitar, which G o r m a n doubted to be Incan at all. Around her neck and across her shoulders lay Pepito,

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so accustomed to public display that he seemed asleep. She might not be authentic Inca, but Eufemia was authentic show biz. "Poor old Atahuallpa must be whirling like a dervish in his grave," hissed Jones, but Sheba put a finger on her lips for silence. Eufemia strummed a chord on the guitar, and silence fell over the place. There was no getting around it—she was a star attraction. G o r m a n had heard her sing before, and could take it or leave it. H e had no idea whether or not her songs were, as she claimed, authentic Peruvian Indian, but they were a bit too exotic for his taste. Still, he could see h o w she held her audience. This time, she held him, too. After thefirstattention-getting chord, Eufemia tilted back her head, and in that high, hollow voice sang a chant which chilled G o r m a n to his marrow. It was the song he had heard w h e n he wore the eye, the out-of-this-world chant which the three-eyed bipeds walked to w h e n they buried their dead. It was the melody he had been whistling w h e n he went into Lew's shop. H e heard a sharp intake of breath, but w h e n he looked around the table, there was no way for Gorm a n to k n o w w h o had done it. Eufemiafinishedthe chant, and went on to others, but it left G o r m a n stunned. W a s she the one? W a s it Eufemia w h o was the lead they sought at Mrs. Mumble's? If so, w h y would she so boldlyflauntthat melody in public? W a s it a signal to someone else here at the Hurricane Lamp? G o r m a n wished he were sitting on the other side

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of the table, facing the room, so that he could see the other people w h o had heard Eufemia's performance. H e tried to ease around in his chair so that he could look behind him without seeming to do so, but he found that the light was so dim he couldn't distinguish faces, anyway. His problem n o w was what to do about Eufemia's song. Should he go immediately, call the number he had memorized, and arrange to contact Brown? O r would it be best to wait until morning? Maybe he could do a little questioning, see if she would tell him anything about the song. Suddenly everyone was applauding, and G o r m a n realized that Eufemia's act was over. She bowed, the spotlight faded, and the house lights came u p a little. Eufemia had disappeared, presumably back to her dressing room. G o r m a n said, "Excuse me," and followed her out without any explanation to his friends. H e would strike while the iron was hot. G o r m a n met defeat, however, in the hands of one of the club bouncers. "But I'm a friend of Miss Rosario," he insisted. "Sorry, she's given strict orders, no one's to see her tonight." T h e bouncer shrugged, looked regretfully at the bill G o r m a n was creasing between his fingers, and added, "Don't k n o w w h y she's gone temperamental all of a sudden. Usually she eats u p visitors—especially men." So that was that; he'd have to catch her later. It sounded suspicious, though—singing that particular song, then suddenly becoming inaccessible.

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H e turned to go back to his table, and almost bumped into Van Houten. "Just thought I'd compliment Eufemia on her performance," Matt said. "You seem to have beaten me, though." "Nope, but you'll not have any luck, either, Matt. She's incommunicado—and there's six feet three, two hundred twenty-five pounds of bouncer to convince you." Van Houten glanced down the corridor, shrugged, and said, "With that, even heap big brave Lone Eagle doesn't argue. Let's get back to the party, Dan."

C H A P T E R XIV Eufemia didn't join the party who had gone to hear her, m u c h to their surprise. Finally, Sheba got disgusted with waiting, and asked the cigarette girl if she knew w h e n Eufemia was joining them. "She's gone. Some time ago." "Gone! Are you sure?" T h e girl nodded. "I saw her leaving myself, with that nasty beast on his leash." "Typical," Jones said. "Let's get out of this rat trap, gang, and the next time our visiting royalty has one of her c o m m a n d performances, I'll ignore the summons." "It was very interesting, her singing," Afifi said. "It reminded m e somewhat of m y o w n native music." D a n G o r m a n was sorry n o w that he hadn't alerted the agents the minute he heard that song. Perhaps she had gone to meet someone. W h o knew? H e might have muffed something really important. Well, it was too late now. Maybe some of the storybook spies could work night and day for weeks on end without sleep, but he wasn't a superhero. G o r m a n yawned widely, glad that they were home. As he went u p to the secondfloor,he could see a thin line of light under Eufemia's door. Jones, right behind him on the stairs, said loudly enough for her to hear if she were listening, "Well, she needs her 130

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beauty sleep." Which was nasty, even for Jones, and Oonalak told him so. "Ah, you Indians all stick together," Jones snapped. "Eskimo, if you please." "And don't lump m e in with Eufemia," Van Houten warned. "For once, I agree with you, Jonesie. She's a phony from way back, no more an Indian, Inca, or Iroquois than you or Dan are." Gorman was a little surprised at the suppressed rage in the big man's voice. All right, none of them were wild about Eufemia, but only Jones had ever been so outspoken before. "Say, I thought you two were just like this," Gorman said to Van Houten, holding up twofingersclose together. "What hoppen? Did she not like you cast as Lone Wolf?" "You must be drunk, Dan. Where would anyone get the idea that Eufemia and I were like this," and he duplicated Gorman's gesture, "or like anything?" "Well, I just thought, seeing her slipping out of your room late at night . . ." H e stopped short. There was something in Van Houten's face which he best described as a tomahawk look. "For your information, pal, I have not been entertaining her royal highness, nor do I intend to, and not because Mrs. Mumble would disapprove, either. Maybe you need to see an eye doctor." "All right, all right, so I was mistaken." Gorman was in no mood to tangle with Van Houten, who looked murderous. Matt shrugged, turned on his heel, unlocked the

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door to his room, and left them without even a good night. Oonalak did say good night, and so did Jones. As he started up to the fourthfloor,Chien W a n g blocked Gorman's way momentarily. "Sometimes it best not to say arr you see, Dan. Better to be sirent, rike me. Rive ronger." "Yeah, I guess you're right at that, Chien. Well, good night. Sleep well." It was a long time before Gorman slept, though. The haunting notes of that chant kept going through his mind. H e wished he had not said anything to Matt about Eufemia. Then it hit him; maybe she had been the one who had gone through their rooms the night Lili had died. If so, she might have been searching Matt's room the night he saw her there, instead of visiting him. And then there was that cryptic warning which Chien W a n g had issued just as they parted. What did the fellow know? It was something. There had been something about Sheba, Gorman was sure. N o w he warned him about talking too much. Was he in the midst of a whole nest of spies and counterspies? Was everyone at Mrs. Mumble's in on this? Was he the lone innocent in a web of spiders? Things seemed more normal next morning. Perhaps it was hearing Mrs. Mumble complain to Van Houten that did it. Her faintly injured tone was such a part of life at the boardinghouse that Gorman relaxed. "That plant, Mr. Van Houten. It's getting awfully large." "So?"

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Mrs. Mumble scowled; it was hard to argue with the great stone face. "It makes it difficult to clean your room, with that weird plant there. I'm sure it moves." V a n Houten's eyebrows were black raven wings in flight. "Don't worry about it, Mrs. M u m b l e . I'm having a n e w lock put on m y door today. After this, I'll do m y o w n cleaning." " W h a t do you mean, a n e w lock?" She was affronted. "Just what I say. I'm tired of having m y room entered w h e n I'm out." "Well!" She flounced out of the dining room, and Fritz Holtzer laughed. "That's telling her, Matt." "But such a nice lady, to m a k e angry," Afifi protested. "If she gets too outraged, maybe she will raise our rent." T h e prospect obviously m a d e him unhappy. "What's this about more rent?" Eufemia had just come into the room. "She wouldn't dare." "You'll issue a royal c o m m a n d to that effect?" Even at breakfast, Jones had a knife ready for Eufemia. She chose to ignore him, holding her head fully as high as any real Inca princess ever could have. Turning to Gorman, she inquired, "Did you enjoy m y singing last night, Dan?" W a s this some sort of signal? Did she think that, because he had once had that eye, he was a part of whatever liaison was here? O r was she justfishingfor a compliment, expecting G o r m a n to be polite about it? "It was an interesting performance, Eufemia." She

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gave him a sharp look as if she suspected undercurrents. "But I'd keep Pepito out of the act, if I were you," Jones suggested, the light of battle in his blue eyes. "Oh? A n d why, m a y I ask?" "He's so obviously bored. Just sleeps through it." Eufemia flushed angrily, delighting Johnny Jones. In his usual role as peacemaker, Afifi assured her that it had been an entertaining evening, reminiscent of his o w n native music which he missed here in America. This all brought G o r m a n squarely in front of his big problem again. W h a t was he to do about Eufemia? H e had better contact Brown right away. If they wanted to arrange to have her followed, the sooner the better; spying was an ugly game, he thought, one at which he would never star. This time, the rendezvous was simple. As G o r m a n walked u p to the bus terminal, a cab edged in to the curb and he heard, "Taxi, mister?" It was the cabbie w h o had taken him to the secret headquarters, so Gorm a n got in, found that the windows had already been opaqued, and waited until the cab arrived at their destination. Only White was present. "Something's happened?" "I'm not sure." G o r m a n told him about Eufemia's singing the song the night before. White showed faint surprise, which startled Gorm a n , as the agent had been so colorless previously that he could have been an automaton. "She sang that melody in public?"

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"In full Inca princess regalia." White frowned, n o w obviously perturbed. "This isn't right," he muttered. "You're sure it was the same tune?" "Sure." T h eflatnessof his answer seemed to convince the agent. "This will take some time. I have to do some checking." H e started from the room, but G o r m a n stopped him with an uplifted hand. "I wanted to hear that tape again, the one m a d e by the dying agent. I had a kookie idea—but I wasn't sure I remembered it correctly." "I'll put it on for you while I do some phoning." While he was alone in the room, G o r m a n m a d e notes of what was said on the tape. "Ah-tock . . . tock . . . own. Contacted native . . . nay . . . Bulbs. Shipped bulbs . . . Nasty little compan . . . Orders. T o o k orders from pet . . . Promised them they'd give it back to the . . . to . . . give it back . . ." B y the time White returned, G o r m a n had stashed the notes in his pocket, not sure that the agent would approve of his having anything d o w n in writing. "Through listening?" G o r m a n nodded, and White turned off the tape recorder. "Any ideas?" "Some, but I must admit they're pretty far out." "Mind waiting briefly? I've telephoned for Brown to come so that he can hear this, too. W h e n he heard about the Rosario w o m a n , he wanted to be in on our conference." T h e n , as if this were just an ordinary

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business conference, he asked, "Care for coffee while w e wait?" G o r m a n nodded. "I could do with a cup." It was nearly thirty minutes before Brown appeared. H e got d o w n to business immediately. " W h y didn't you alert us at once about this singer?" His back up, G o r m a n snapped, "Because I like to sleep once in a while. R e m e m b e r , you guys are getting paid for playing spy. I don't have to do this at all, you know. A n d about now, for two cents I'd chuck the whole rotten business." "Can't, you know." Brown wasn't even annoyed with him, just brutally matter-of-fact. "You're in m u c h too deep to hope to back out, Gorman. Well, what's done's done. W e just pick it up from here. I've ordered a watch on the Rosario w o m a n from n o w on." H e frowned then and shook his head. "I don't like it, though. It doesn't ring true. W h y would she do that piece of music at a public performance?" "Unless it was meant for a signal." "Maybe." Brown sounded unhappy about this. "But they've kept it all so quiet u p till now. Even the place where the ship landed ..." H e broke off, then went on, "But I told you that this was aliens, didn't I?" G o r m a n had to grin. "You told m e , but you didn't expect m e to buy that, did you? So it is some kind of smuggling? F r o m overseas, by that slip you just made." "Slip? Gorman, you've got to be serious about this. It is some kind of plot involving aliens. Didn't those films convince you? Y o u don't really think w e have such creatures here, do you?"

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"Come off it, Brown. I'm perfectly willing to help without your making with the fairy tales to convince me. I've seen enough science-fiction movies and T V programs to know how you can achieve all those wild effects. If you'd just level with me, you might find m e more co-operative. Maybe I'm only an artist, but I'm not a complete idiot." Gorman felt pretty pleased with himself at his speech. He'd show these Government agents that he knew a thing or two himself. "So why notfillm e in. Is it some kind of international industrial spying? That eye is obviously a miniature T V of a sort. Does it have military implications?" Brown sighed and turned to White. "Have you any ideas?" "Just one. Tell him what he wants to hear." Gorman saw Brown's eyes narrow, and a small smile touched his face briefly. "Yes, I guess that's the only way. Thanks, White." H e turned to Gorman. "You win. This is just what you suspect. Thosefilmsare just red herrings." "Testfilms,"White cut in, "to try the eyes for range. So you'd be sure you were picking up the proper uh—channel. There'd be no mistaking that movie for anything else, now, would there, Gorman?" With this, Gorman had to agree. H e still remembered hisfirstreaction to the pictures—and Lili's. They had seemed so real at the time. "Now," Brown continued, "does smuggling ring any bells with you? You seem to think ..." This part made Gorman unhappy. "Look, fellows, I hate to gossip, and that's all a lot of this will be. I could be getting innocent people involved in this. And

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from m y own experience, I wouldn't wish that on a dog." Brown's voice was cold steel. "You will tell us anything, no matter h o w trivial. Let us decide whether or not it is important. A bit here—a bit there—suddenly the whole picture falls into place. N o w , there must be something about smuggling." G o r m a n was distinctly unhappy about this, for he liked little M r . Afifi, w h o never caused trouble. However, after more pressure, he admitted, "Someone was kidding Afifi about smuggling—I'm not sure, I think it m a y have been Oonalak, but I can't recall for certain—and Afifi nearly had apoplexy. I think he imports rugs from Afghanistan." " A n d that was all?" "That was it. See, I'm not going to be of m u c h use to you men. H o w can casual remarks m e a n anything? Agents wouldn't be careless enough to say anything incriminating." "They're only human, Gorman, and subject to the same mistakes all of us make. Just one slip . . ." "And you honestly think that's what Eufemia's performance was? A slip? O h , come on. N o one could be that stupid." "Then there has to be another explanation to Miss Rosario," White said. " A n d if w e find out what that is, we're still ahead. You've given us a good lead about her. N o w , just keep your ears open for more." "White told m e that you listened again to the tape," Brown cut in. "Has it given you any ideas?" G o r m a n told them of his idea about "autochthon." T h e two agents listened attentively, not laughing at him as he had expected. Again one of those looks be-

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tween the two, and Brown muttered, "Ties in neatly, eh, White?" "Fits right in with the part about contacting natives. I think we're on the right track, Brown. Gorman, you're being a lot more helpful than you realize. This word, autochthon, wasn't in our vocabularies. It confirms some of our theory." "Then you think it means perhaps native populations?" White nodded. "Which still leaves us with our full quota at Mrs. Mumble's," Gorman reminded him. "Indians of two varieties, if you believe Eufemia's autobiography ..." "And do you, Gorman?" "Frankly, no. I wasn't convinced until I heard her sing the chant last night. That isn't any old Inca melody, even if it is tied into this funny business. Which makes her a phony for m y money." "But there are the others—Van Houten's American Indian, isn't he?" "If you've ever seen him, you wouldn't need ask. Even the trappings of modern civilization can't change his look. Give him a set of deerskin pants and a tomahawk, and he'dfitright into an exhibit at the Museum of Natural History." "And there's the Oriental, Wang. And that Eskimo." "And don't forget little Sheba, Ethiopia's gift to America," Gorman added. "For that matter, you'd better include all of us. We're all natives of someplace." "Any other ideas on that recording, Gorman?"

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Well, if Brown were listening, he would expound his theory. "I think parts of it tie in definitely with the industrial espionage angle. That part about shipping bulbs—you can't miss that. S o m e components of the T V eyes, I'd say. A n d taking orders—this ties right into sales." "Aren't you forgetting the pet part, Gorman?" "Someone's name? I don't know." Brown eyed him speculatively, then inquired, " W h y not just what it says, Gorman? A pet." "As in cat or dog?" "Yes. Maybe they're sending messages via pigeons— or some other animal. There are pets there?" G o r m a n laughed. "Well, yes. Eufemia has that nasty kinkajou. D o you think he's giving orders to her?" H e lifted an eyebrow. "Or that Sheba's chameleon whispers sweet nothings in her ear?" This pulled him u p short, for he remembered h o w he had seen the lizard in just such a pose. Brown pounced. "I see you've thought of something else, Gorman. This is good. It's what w e want you to do." "Sorry, m e n , I'd thought of seeing that chameleon on Sheba's shoulder, with its reptilian head near her ear. But if you think I really supposed it was giving her the word—sorry. W h e n that day comes, send for the little m e n in white." "Any other pets?" "Well, Oonalak had a baby sea lion, but he seems to have disposed of it. It got too big for the wading pool he had out in the back yard." " W h e n was this?"

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"That he sold the sea lion?" Gorman shrugged. "I don't know. H e mentioned something about it during the last few days." " A n d you don't k n o w to w h o m it went?" "Haven't the foggiest. Surely you don't think that's important?" H e noticed that White was jotting something in a pocket notebook. "You're going to check on that?" H e was frankly incredulous. " W e check on everything." "Then don't forget the squirrel that Johnny Jones feeds. Has it trained to come to his window. A n d W a n g feeds the pigeons—surely that's of great significance." As he watched White continue writing, G o r m a n shook his head sadly. "You think they're carrier pigeons?" "That's a classic way of sending messages." "I knew there was a good reason for never feeding the nasty things." "Any more ideas about the dying words of our friend?" G o r m a n shook his head. "Not now. Although w h y you guys need m e is the big question of the century. With the kind of fantasy you're building, I'm superfluous." "Keep your eyes and your ears open, M r . Gorman." "All three eyes?" "Better stick to two—that third eye is a hazard. Sure you don't want us to keep it safe for you?" "Don't worry about that eye, men. It's—according to m y story—now in the garbage of dear old N e w York City. Even the most anxious searcher would scarcely take on that job."

CHAPTER

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Dan Gorman got downstairs a few minutes early for dinner, so he went into the lounge to wait until Mrs. M u m b l e rang the gong. Finding Eufemia there alone, he decided to try questioning her about her song. "Interesting performance last night, Eufemia," he said, noticing that she began preening immediately. "I thought it was one of m y better evenings." There wasn't a modest bone in her body. "Thatfirstthing you sang—I've heard your show before, but I don't remember having heard you do that. Is it a n e w number in your repertoire?" Did she hesitate momentarily before she answered? It was hard to tell; n o w that G o r m a n was looking for such telltale hints, he began to doubt his senses. " H o w perceptive of you, Dan. Yes, it is a n e w chant — n e w to m y show, that is. All of m y songs are ancient Inca melodies, of course." "I suppose you just picked it u p out of a m u s e u m — y o u read the carvings, I presume." She gave him a sharp, angry look, and the telltale flush gave her away, but G o r m a n just smiled blandly and pursued the subject further. " H o w do you get these songs, Eufemia? Y o u never have told m e , you know." "That's right, Eufemia, you haven't told us." V a n Houten was lounging against the doorjamb, smiling d o w n at her. T o Gorman's surprise, she 142

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turned pale. T h e n Jones edged into the doorway, grinning maliciously. "Must'vefilchedit, Matt. Look at her—that guilty expression is a dead giveaway." H e r recovery was quick, w h e n confronted with her sworn enemy. "Matt startled m e , creeping u p on us that way." T h e n Holtzer joined the others, and put in his two cents' worth. "I thought all you Indians were adept at the silent approach." W h i c h didn't put Eufemia in any happier frame of mind. "Please, Fritz, she's royalty, while poor old Matt, here, is just a c o m m o n ordinary garden variety Indian. Right, Matt?" "Eufemia's in a class all by herself," V a n Houten agreed. "But you must remember that she comes from a very highly civilized kind of Indian, while I'm a poor savage. While her ancestors were handing over their country to the conquistadores, mine were scalping the palefaces w h o were trying to run us off our land." T h e bitterness in his tone startled Gorman, and apparently Jones heard it, too. "So you're the guy w h o coined the expression, 'Give it back to the Indians,' Matt?" "It's not all that funny, Jones." Oonalak n o w peered in from the hall. H e had apparently heard at least the last bit, for he quipped, "Matt's welcome to it. If anyone dares offer to give back the frozen wastes of Alaska to m e , I m a y murder him and put his body in a deep freeze for eternity, as the onlyfittingpunishment."

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The dinner gong sounded, interrupting the exchange. Gorman noticed, though, that all through dinner Van Houten kept giving Eufemia that famous cigar-store-Indian stare of his; and from the nervous chatter which she kept up throughout the meal, it was getting through to her. That's all we need here at Mrs. Mumble's right now, he thought a bit wildly. Tribal warfare between our various Indians. Even Mrs. Mumble seemed out of sorts tonight. She sniffed audibly each time she brought in a new course. Finally, Sheba asked, in a stage whisper, glancing at the landlady's retreating sturdy back, "What's her problem?" "My lock," Van Houten suggested. "You did it?" Oonalak asked. "I was out all day and didn't notice. Didn't think you'd have the nerve, Matt." "After our rooms were ransacked, I got fed up with these old locks anyone could pick with a hairpin." H e looked straight at Eufemia, and she turned a dull red. So she had been in Matt's room when he was out, Gorman knew. And he, with his big Irish mouth, had blabbed so that Van Houten caught on. Well, he excused himself virtuously, what was Eufemia doing in there, anyway? Could she be a klepto? There was entirely too much going on here at Mrs. Mumble's, and absolutely none of it made sense to him; as an undercover agent, he was a washout. Dinner continued on the tense note, with not even Afifi's usual soothing techniques working tonight. Gorman wondered why he always tried to avert

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trouble. W a s Afifi afraid that any ensuing difficulty would expose him to unwanted investigation? Even as he thought it, G o r m a n hated himself; this spy racket was making him suspicious of even his best friends. H e had always liked the wiry little guy. N o w he couldn't even enjoy this friendship, he was so busy looking for hidden motives, watching everyone for telltale slips, trying to piece together a jigsaw, w h e n he had no idea what the picture was. It was as bad as spending hours trying to solve a cryptogram, only to discover that it was in a foreign language. O n the way out of the dining room, G o r m a n overheard Eufemia say to Holtzer, "Fritz, would you go with m e to the Hurricane L a m p tonight? I've had the strangest feeling that someone's following m e today." Holtzer, seeing that G o r m a n had overheard, winked slyly at him behind her back, as if to say, " O n e way to get attention." H e agreed, though, to be her unofficial bodyguard. G o r m a n had to laugh, for he knew that Eufemia was being followed—by his secretagent friends. It was gratifying to find that they were on the ball. If Eufemia were mixed u p in this mess, maybe she would lead them to some solution, although if she knew she were being followed, she'd scarcely do that. O r would she? If she were stupid enough to sing that code song in public, she might be expected to do anything. H e wondered if he could pick u p any clues lying around, but no one seemed in the m o o d to talk tonight. H e tried to corner V a n Houten, but Matt muttered something about some specifications he had to check over tonight, and practically slammed his door

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in Gorman's face. Jones, coming up the stairs behind them, cackled at the indignity. "I see he got it." H e pointed to V a n Houten's door, which n o w sported a shiny n e w Yale lock. T h e little Welshman dropped to one knee before the door, an admonitoryfingeron his lips, and applied an eye to the old keyhole. H e rose almost immediately, a look of chagrin on his face. "Plugged u p the old one. Boy, trust an Indian to think u p that one. Suspicious cuss, all of a sudden, isn't he?" "Well, he didn't like having his room ransacked." "Then w h y wait until n o w to change the lock?" It was a good question. Jones could be very astute; Gorm a n wondered if he might not be a source of information, and was just ready to do a bit of prying, w h e n the fellow took a quick glance at his watch, whistled, and said, "Got to dash. Have a date with a lovely blonde, and she won't want to be kept waiting." Then, just as he was about to go into his room, he turned back and asked, "Have you heard any odd music late at night, Dan?" " O d d music?" "Kind of like that stuff Eufemia yowls—only it wasn't the princess." H e grimaced. "I'd k n o w that caterwauling she foists off as singing anywhere. It was — o d d . Hard to explain. W o k e m e u p one night." " N o , I don't think I have." Yet later, G o r m a n remembered that he had heard it, one night—that same song which was tied u p in this case somehow. A t the time, he had thought it a radio or T V ; now, he wasn't so sure. As both W a n g and Oonalak had hurried off to class,

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he gave up and went to his room to try to get some work done. Playing spy was ruining his illustrating; if he wanted to eat, he had better get back to his painting. H e noticed that neither Brown nor White had mentioned money to him. Apparently he was expected to give his all for nothing. Well, he had tipped them off about Eufemia; n o w he would just relax and let the paid agents carry the ball. G o r m a n didn't k n o w h o w long he had been asleep w h e n the scream woke him. It jolted him to a sitting position before he was fully awake. Stumbling across the room in his bare feet, he had the door open w h e n the second scream came, followed immediately by a loud thumping which could only be someone falling d o w n the stairs. Fumbling around for the light, he blinked at the glare w h e n it came on, and started d o w n from the attic. H e heard a sharp click on the floor below, then sounds of a rousing house. There were no more screams, and the thumping had stopped. As he emerged from the stairwell onto the third floor, all four doors opened almost simultaneously, and W a n g , V a n Houten, Jones, and Oonalak, all in nightclothes, with eyes looking as bleary as his o w n felt and hair rumpled, came out into the hall. " W h a t was that?" Oonalak asked, his voice thick with sleep. "Sounded like the house was caving in on us." "I think someone fell d o w n the stairs," G o r m a n muttered. As if moved by puppet strings, all five m e n converged on the d o w n staircase, and crowded together.

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By this time, those on the secondfloorwere awake, and out in the hall. Crumpled at the foot of the stairs lay a figure. Someone behind him gave a sharp gasp; then they saw Afifi edge toward the body fearfully and kneel beside it. T h e next m o m e n t he almost fell over backwards, and G o r m a n heard an unearthly sound coming from the body. H e and the others almost fell over themselves trying to get d o w n the stairs to see what was wrong. H e heard Sheba, then. "It's Eufemia!" There was an hysterical note in her voice. " A n d Pepito's under her." By now, G o r m a n and V a n Houten had reached the body, and both reached for her; G o r m a n knew, though, by the way she lay, that it was too late. There was something so final in her unnatural pose, as though someone had thrown d o w n a rag doll and abandoned it. G o r m a n drew back instinctively, but V a n Houten lifted her body, only to have a furious kinkajou hurtle into him. Matt swore and shook the animal loose from his right hand, where it had grabbed him with its sharp teeth. "Filthy little beast." It backed u p into a corner, enraged, snarling at everyone; even Sheba was afraid to try to pick u p Pepito. As V a n Houten sucked his hand, Jones echoed, "Filthy little beast." Oonalak asked, "Is she dead?" "I think so," G o r m a n answered, shaken. V a n H o u ten nodded. "But shouldn't w e call a doctor, or something?"

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Just then, an apparition inflannelrobe and hairnet appeared from below. "Now what's happened in m y house?" Mrs. Mumble took one look at Eufemia's crumpled body and let out a shriek. Gorman started toward her, not sure that she wouldn't faint and topple backwards down to thefirstfloor,compounding the tragedy, but he should have known that the landlady was made of sterner stuff. She came on up to the secondfloor,trembling, but not from fear; she was mad to the core. "No one can claim that m y stairways are not safe. I abide by all the city regulations." She pointed an accusingfingerat Eufemia's body. "See. It's her own fault, trotting up and down stairs in those mules." Then she heard Pepito's snarling, and spun around. "Someone get that beast on its leash," she ordered. N o one moved. Then Sheba said quietly, "I think we must call someone trained in handling animals, ma'am. H e is very upset. H e has already bitten Mr. Van Houten." "I cannot be held responsible, Mr. Van Houten," Mrs. Mumble said angrily. "Here, let m e see the place." H e obediently held out his left hand, and she tut-tutted over it. "Just a surface wound, I think. Be sure to wash it well and apply antiseptic." Then she paused to give emphasis to her next words. Gorman had been here long enough to know that one of her ultimatums was forthcoming. "No more pets. I've had enough. I've been more than generous about it, but there will be no more pets.'9 "But—you don't mean Winki, surely? He's so tiny." Mrs. Mumble just looked at Sheba, who got the

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message; Gorman saw her lovely dark features set in stubborn lines. Mrs. Mumble was going to have trouble evicting Sheba's chameleon, but the Ethiopian girl would be clever about it. N o w was not the time to argue with the distraught landlady, so Sheba would bide her time. Holtzer was thefirstone to remember what should be done. "Has anyone called the police?" H e looked right at Mrs. Mumble, for obviously none of them had done it. The telephone was on thefirstfloor. The landlady groaned audibly. "The police again." "And while you're telephoning, you'd better alert the SPCA," he reminded her. "To deal with the kinkajou." She glared balefully at the animal, still backed up into the corner of the hall. "I don't like to leave it here." She turned and just happened to aim her next look at Matt. "Mr. Van Houten, surely you're big enough to subdue a little beast like that. I'llfindthe leash." She marched into Eufemia's room and came out almost immediately trailing Pepito's leash which she handed to Van Houten. H e approached the corner where the kinkajou huddled, only to have it snarl aggressively. Instinctively, he backed up a step, tofindthat Pepito was following him. Angry, Van Houten handed the leash back to Mrs. Mumble. "Leash him yourself," he snapped. "He's bitten m e twice already." Surprisingly, it was Johnny Jones who subdued the little animal. H e took the leash from Mrs. Mumble and advanced slowly, dropping down on his haunches when he was still several feet away from Pepito.

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Then he coaxed and cajoled, soothed and wheedled, until the kinkajou came warily and allowed Jones to snap on the leash. "I'll keep him in m y room until they come for him." Gorman couldn't understand the underlying sadness in Johnny's voice. H e and Eufemia had carried on a running battle, yet here he was, caring for Eufemia's pet. Jones picked up the kinkajou, tucked him under an arm, de toured Eufemia's body, and went back upstairs without a backward glance. Mrs. Mumble sighed, said something about phoning for the police, and went downstairs. The rest moved reluctantly toward their respective quarters. N o one was in the mood for any light chitchat. At the last moment, Sheba said, "I'll stay here with her until —until they come for her." At the door to Van Houten's room, Gorman offered, "Can I help you with those bites, Matt? You should take care of them right away." "I can manage." H e unlocked his door and slipped into the room without even opening the door wide; it closed in Gorman's face with a loud click as the lock snapped. Gorman shrugged. H e guessed they were all upset and edgy, and no wonder. Gorman heard sounds of tramping down below as officialdom took over in Eufemia's death. H e halfway expected a police officer to question him, but no one knocked on his door. Finally everything was quiet once again, and he crawled wearily into bed, hoping that he would be able to sleep for what little remained of the night.

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As he lay there, just on the edge of sleep, the question popped into his head. W h a t had Eufemia been doing on the third floor? More nocturnal prowling? H e also remembered that this was something he should report at once to Brown, but the lethargy of sleep overtook him even while he considered trailing downstairs to the phone to report. H e would call in the morning.

C H A P T E R XVI "Two screams? Are you sure about that, Gorman?" Dan Gorman looked at Crowley with undisguised dislike. H e might have known that Homicide would be around; if they investigated suicides, then w h y not accidental deaths? "Yes, I'm sure. I'm not deaf." " N o need to get so touchy, Gorman. W h a t you've told us just corroborates other witnesses." " T h e n w h y ask?" G o r m a n snapped. H e was wearying of having his sleep interrupted by inquiring cops. " A n d w h y are you investigating an accident?" "Well, now, M r . Gorman, w e have to be sure of that, don't we? T o o m a n y coincidences to suit us. W e have an out-and-out murder of the Lowenoski w o m a n . . ." "Which you haven't solved." G o r m a n couldn't resist that one. "Which w e haven't solved. T h e n w e have the suicide of Engelman. Both with ties to people in this building." T h e policeman looked pointedly at Gorm a n , w h o refused to rise to the bait. " N o w Miss Rosario falls d o w n the stairs in the middle of the night and breaks her neck. A n y idea w h y she was u p on third?" H e slid it in easily, but there wasn't anything casual about the watching look in his eyes. "Friendly with one of those men? O r coming up here, maybe." H e would scotch that one in a hurry. "She wasn't 153

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coming up here to see me, Lieutenant. She'd never been in this room, nor did I expect her ever to be." "Not your type, Gorman?" "Not m y type." H e hoped he said itfirmlyenough to convince Crowley. "You didn't even ask her to model for you?" "I have very little need for female models. I can do bug-eyed monsters from memory—I just think of all the times you've interrogated me, Lieutenant." Nothing seemed to perturb Crowley, and today he didn't have Sergeant Kern with him. "Now I understand you have seen Miss Rosario on thefloorbelow—visiting Van Houten?" Some blabbermouth had talked to Crowley already. "I saw her in the hall. I'm not sure where she'd been." "But at the time you thought she'd been in Van Houten's room? Or so you said." "When I had a skinful. But Matt insisted she hadn't been visiting him, and he should be the authority on that." Crowley nodded. "Had a new lock put on his door, I noticed. T o keep out the Rosario woman?" "He doesn't confide in me," Gorman said wearily. "How do you ever solve anything, Lieutenant? You spend hours questioning people who have no answers to give you." "Sometimes I get lucky, Gorman. Sometimes." Then he added one of his non sequiturs. "The kinkajou bit Van Houten—on both hands." "We're lucky it didn't chew all of us to bits. She

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must have been carrying Pepito when she fell, and he was trapped under her body. H e was a snarling, raging beast. Matt just was unfortunate enough to be the one to free Pepito—and he got gnawed for his trouble." "Yet Jones was able to calm the animal." "So maybe he talks kinkajou. He's Welsh. Anyway, he has one of the squirrels tame enough to come to his window and beg for food. I guess he has a way with animals." "Do you think she was pushed down those stairs, Gorman?" "Do I what?" "Think she was pushed." "Frankly, no. Didn't you see what she had on her feet? Even Mrs. Mumble saw that. Poor old girl—I think her main concern was that someone would accuse her of having unsafe steps here. I think she took it as a personal affront that Eufemia fell to her death." "So I'm to believe that the Rosario woman walked in her sleep? There had to be some reason why she was on the thirdfloorin the middle of the night." "I can't help you, Crowley. I was asleep." Gorman didn't mention any of the secret-agent stuff; if Brown wanted the police to know, he would have to tell them. As soon as Crowley left, Gorman decided to call Brown. H e didn't want to do it from the phone in the hall; he would go directly to the terminal and call from there. Then he could pick up a bite of breakfast while he waited for the taxi to come for him.

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As he went down the stairs, he saw Crowley go into Holtzer's room; so he wasn'tfinishedyet. Sheba peeked out of her door, then gestured to Gorman. "What a m I going to do about Winki?" she whispered when she stepped back to let him come into her room. " T h e old hag says I have to get rid of him." G o r m a n just looked at her in astonishment. Eufemia was scarcely cold, and all Sheba could think about was that little lizard. "I guess you'll either have to ditch h i m or find a n e w room, Sheba. Surely you aren't that attached to a chameleon." "You don't understand . . ." "That's right, I don't. Look, I've got some business I have to take care of, Sheba. If you want m y advice, just take Winki out and turn him loose." "Well! If I'd k n o w n that was your attitude . . ." She flung open the door dramatically, and G o r m a n escaped. W o m e n ! They'd be the death of h i m yet. T h e n he shivered at the thought; there had been too m u c h death around him lately. This time, it was White w h o met him, not Brown. " H a d breakfast?" the agent asked, looking hopefully toward the restaurant. "While I waited for you." "Then you won't want more coffee." G o r m a n felt sorry for the guy, so he agreed to another cup of coffee. " W e can talk in there." A t Gorman's obvious surprise, White added, " W h o listens to you in a restaurant?" G o r m a n noticed, though, that the agent very carefully chose a table against the wall, one which

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wasn't near another occupied table. After they had given their order, White said, "Now." G o r m a n told him of the events of the night. It was hard to say whether or not White was upset by the news. "You might have called last night." "I was sleepy, and she's just as dead n o w as she was then. T h e cops woke m e u p this morning, or I wouldn't have called as early as I did. Homicide came." This did get through to White. " W h y Homicide?" "Too m a n y deaths, according to Crowley. All leading right to Mrs. Mumble's doorstep." H e took a sip of coffee. " W h y don't you m e nfillin the local cops if you want co-operation?" " T h e fewer w h o know, the less chance of a leak." T h e n he looked at Gorman, eyes narrowed. " W a s it an accident?" " H o w should I know, White? She could have been killed by little green m e n inflyingsaucers. H o w a m I supposed to ferret out such details? I was sound asleep until I heard thatfirstscream." "That's what bothers m e . T h e two screams." " C o m e to think of it, Crowley asked about that, too." "You don't seem to get the significance, Gorman." "I don't cerebrate too well before noon, White. I'm not a trained investigator, I'm not used to violent death, I'm just plain stupid, if you like. So she screamed twice. So what? If I'd been falling d o w n those stairs, I might have screamed several times." "You don't think she might have screamed because someone was pushing her d o w n the stairs?"

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"Why?" White nodded. "That's the problem, isn't it? Why? Okay, Gorman, that's all for now. Keep us posted." "With your pipeline into the police headquarters, what do you need m e for?" White just grinned, said, "You lend local color," and left. After he had gone, Gorman realized he was stuck with the check for their coffee. Disgusted, he paid; not only was he not on salary, it was costing him money to play at the spy game. H e got back to Mrs. Mumble's just in time to see the police leave. Upstairs, Eufemia's body was gone, but V a n Houten wasn't. H e stood outside his door, swearing with afluencywhich amazed Gorman. Usually Matt had little to say. "Anything special, or just everything in general, Matt?" V a n Houten, w h o had been so intent on his swearing that he hadn't heard G o r m a n come upstairs, spun on his heel. "Oh, it's you. I've locked myself out. Forgot about the n e w lock, and m y keys are inside on m y dresser—or in m y other suit, or somewhere. Anyway, inside. Not out. Only thing is, m y office desk key is on the ring, too." " H o w good are you at picking locks?" "What do you m e a n by that crack, Dan?" W o w . Everyone was getting jumpy around here. "I just thought you'd have to pick the lock to get back in. With the old locks, it was a cinch. A threeyear-old could do it with a bent nail. O r less." "Not this lock, I don't. That's w h y I had it put on, remember? It's pick proof."

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"Somehow I don't think Mrs. Mumble will appreciate it if w e give it the T V cop routine, with our shoulders applied forcefully." D a n laughed. "It might be fun to try, though. I've always been skeptical of that business; I wonder if it's as easy as it looks." "Can't you come u p with something more constructive?" Gorman's temper wasn't quieted by V a n Houten's question. If that's the way the big l u m m o x was going to act, he could just stand there in the hall and fume. Matt seemed to sense, though, that he had been rude. "It's been a tough night on all of us," was his way of apologizing. It had been; so G o r m a n overlooked V a n Houten's snappish question, and tried a bit of thinking instead of making with the jokes. It was, however, a corny old joke which gave him the only practical plan available. "As they say in vaudeville, 'Shut the door, they're coming through the windows,' Matt. If the door's already closed, come through the window is the only answer." V a n Houten gave a quick shake to his head, as if the words had gone in garbled. "How's that?" "You'll have to get in through your window." "Thanks for nothing, Dan. I'm good at heights, but believe m e , I'm no h u m a n fly." "But doesn't thefireescape go past your window?" C a m e the dawn. "So it does, Danny boy, so it does." T h e n he stopped. "But it doesn't go to the ground. H o w do w e haul the ladder d o w n that last flight?" " N o need to worry. Y o u can crawl out m y skylight onto thefireescape. It's a bit awkward—I've dreaded

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the prospects of doing it in a real fire—but it's possible." "Good idea." H e headed for the attic stairs. "Often wondered h o w you put u p with that upstairs room. N o w I'm just glad that you do." "Say, is your window unlocked? If it isn't, there's no point in risking life and limb on that questionable fire escape. I doubt if it's been inspected in years. Maybe rusted through." " T h e window's open. I need air to—I like to air the room while I'm gone." Remembering h o w it rained in his o w n window, G o r m a n wondered, but he didn't question V a n H o u ten. Everyone was in such a touchy m o o d today that the least question seemed inflammatory. H e did ask, "Does Mrs. M u m b l e approve?" but got only a noncommittal shrug for an answer. "Glad n o w I didn't have m y o w n lock changed," G o r m a n commented as he unlocked his o w n door. " W e could both be locked out, as absent-minded as I a m with m y keys." H e waved V a n Houten into the room and they inspected the slanting skylight. "Mind if I stand on that chair, Dan?" "Be m y guest. T h e more I think of it, the less I like the idea of thatfireescape. By the time I'd worked u p enough nerve to clamber u p onto it, I'd be fried to a crisp." V a n Houten had no difficulty, though, in swinging himself up through the window, once he had unlatched and opened it. Seeing this, G o r m a n decided he would follow. This was a golden opportunity to try out thefireescape in case he ever needed to use it.

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H e found that it wasn't as tricky as it looked, once he had moved out onto the platform which was built just below the level of the skylight. By this time, V a n Houten was d o w n the ladder and disappearing into his window. G o r m a n moved d o w n the ladder, only to have Matt shout at him. H e peered d o w n through the open spaces to find the m a n looking u p at him, frowning against the light. "Got in okay. Thanks for the assist, Dan. Got to rush n o w to get to work. C a n you m a k e it back into your room all right?" "Yeah, sure." H e had meant to go d o w n and into V a n Houten's room, as it was a m u c h easier window to get through; but Matt drew in his head and shoulders, and pulled his window down, leaving only about an inch open at the bottom. Probably in case it did rain, G o r m a n surmised. With this pointed hint, he began the ascent to his o w n room, just a little put out with V a n Houten. H e had certainly gotten touchy about his room, lately. T h e rest of the day passed uneventfully. Dinner was very subdued. Everyone seemed to be avoiding the vacant chair where Eufemia had sat. Finally, as if she couldn't keep it bottled up any longer, Sheba said, " W h y Homicide? W h y was Crowley here? D o they think that one of us pushed Eufemia d o w n those stairs?" There was a m o m e n t of shocked silence, then everyone was talking at once. Over it all, Holtzer's protest could be heard. "They kept asking m e w h y she'd wanted an escort to work. I told them she thought she'd been followed. T h e fact that she asked m e to

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help her proved that she didn't think I would harm her—didn't it?" "I'm sure the police don't suspect you, Mr. Holtzer." It was Afifi, calming as usual. "Anyway, you came out of your room at the same m o m e n t I did, so you couldn't have been on the third floor." "That's right," Holtzer agreed gratefully. "Clears us, doesn't it, Afifi?" "Unless he went u p thefireescape," Jones said. Typical of him to say something controversial, G o r m a n thought. A n d they said the Irish were quarrelsome! "That makes either V a n Houten or m e an accessory," G o r m a n reminded him. "Speak for yourself," Matt snapped. "I had no part in this, and I don't think it's a joking matter." "Indeed it isn't, Matt," Sheba agreed. "Poor Eufemia. W h a t happened to Pepito, Johnny?" " S P C A came for him." His answer was short, and for Jones, usually voluble, terse. Just then, Mrs. M u m b l e came in with coffee, and hearing Pepito mentioned, turned to Sheba. "Did you get rid of that reptile?" "I haven't had a chance to find him a suitable home." She drew herself up regally, staring at Mrs. Mumble. T h e landlady, though, refused to be intimidated. "It has to go, Miss Sheba. T o m o r r o w at the very latest, or I'll take matters into m y o w n hands." She looked over the other guests. " N o more pets. That's final." She stamped out, leaving the place in silence. Sheba was seldom spiteful; that had been Eufemia's

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role while she lived. But now, upset over losing her chameleon, she turned on Jones. "I guess that includes you, too, Johnny. A n d you, Chien." "I don't have any pets," Jones protested. W a n g just shook his head mutely. "I've seen that squirrel that comes to your window. A n d Chien's pigeons. Dirty birds. Are they better than m y Winki? I think it's mean." Jones, stung by her sudden change of attitude, suggested, " W h y don't you m o v e if you don't like it here?" "I m a y just do that." W a n g said nothing, but G o r m a n thought he looked worried. Surely W a n g didn't feel attached to those noisy, messy birds thatflockedabout his window sill for crumbs. G o r m a n was inclined to agree with Sheba. Winki was a lot less undesirable than the pigeons, and even squirrels could be a nuisance. As they left the dining room, G o r m a n noticed that a small package lay on the table in the hall. Wondering w h o it was for, he picked it u p just as Mrs. M u m b l e called in from the kitchen, "Oh, M r . V a n Houten, I forgot to tell you. There's a package for you in the hall. C a m e by messenger." G o r m a n had already picked it up, so he was holding it as V a n Houten came into the hall. With two long strides, he was at the table. Seeing no package, he turned to G o r m a n and saw that he held the small parcel. Without so m u c h as a word, he snatched it out of Gorman's hand and took off u p the stairs two at a time.

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"That'll teach you to steal from an Indian," Holtzer said as he passed Gorman, whose jaw had literally dropped at V a n Houten's behavior. "We're all upset," Sheba soothed. Later in his room, G o r m a n happened onto the notes he had m a d e of the taped words of the dying Government agent. Glancing at them, one bit almost jumped off the paper at him: "Orders. Took orders from pet." He had been assuming that the "pet" was just part of a word. Could it be that he was wrong? W a s the message just what it said? "Took orders from pet." It didn't make sense—or did it? Carrier pigeons were one of the classic ways of transmitting secret material. W a s it possible that Wang's supposedly wild pigeons were, in fact, messengers? W a s he the one here at Mrs. Mumble's w h o was part of whatever nefarious business was afoot? W a s he the autochthon mentioned on the same tape? Perhaps one of the M o n goloid racial types would be considered a native of m u c h of Earth—weren't most of the Indian and Eskimo types related, as Mongoloids? W a s W a n g the Silent really W a n g the Agent?

C H A P T E R XVII Dan Gorman's dream was the usual mixture of happened events and garbled interpretations. Pepito was backed into the corner of the second-floor hall, but instead of snarling, he was yelling, "I know. I know. I have the message." Then Winki was whispering in Sheba's ear, as she nodded in agreement. "Yes, Winki. Whatever you say, Winki. I'm to push Dan down the stairs? Of course, Winki." Through it all, W a n g was silent; but he worked feverishly with a brush, lettering messages in Chinese which he fastened to the legs of his carrier pigeons, while Jones's squirrelflickedits tail and shouted, "I know. I know, and I'll tell." Afififlewby on one of his carpets with Fritz Hotzer clinging to the edge of it, trying desperately to climb up to safety. Oonalak kept cautioning Nuknuk, "Don't go near Matt's plant, little sea lion, or it will eat you." Then Eufemia sat up, said spitefully, "I wasn't dead at all," and began to sing the chant which had been the background music for the scenes in the eye. H e woke, sitting bolt upright in bed, clawing at his forehead to remove the eye. Fully awake, Gorman reached for the lamp beside his bed, determined to drive the ghosts away with light. H e propped himself up with his pillow and reached for a book. Maybe reading would soothe his nerves. Then he realized that the music hadn't stopped. 165

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Gorman shook his head to clear it, but the music persisted; it sounded just the way it had w h e n he had worn the eye. This wasn't someone singing it the way Eufemia had done in the night-club act. H e remembered then that he had heard it once before in the night. Jones had mentioned hearing it, too. This time, he meant to track it down, for if the music were a part of whatever was going on, then it would help solve the puzzle if he found the source. G o r m a n didn't even put on bedroom slippers; he could m o v e about more quietly if he were barefooted. H e doused the lamp and waited a few moments until his eyes adjusted to the dark. A little lightfilteredin through the skylight, making the furniture darker shadows in the room. It was n o trouble getting to the door, which he unlocked quietly. T h e n he paused, listening. T h e music stillfilledthe air. Cautiously, G o r m a n eased his way d o w n the stairs, for the sound had to be from somewhere below him. Just as he emerged from the enclosed stairwell, he collided with someone, and let out a gasp as he clutched at the figure. "Hey, leggo!" a voice hissed. It was Jones. " W h o is it? Dan?" "Yes." G o r m a n kept his voice to a whisper. "Did you hear it, too? That music? It woke m e up." G o r m a n nodded, then realized that Jones couldn't see him. "I heard it, too. Where's it coming from?" "I don't know. That's w h y I came out here in the hall to listen. I've heard it before, and n o w I'm curious." H e paused, and in the stillness, G o r m a n listened. T h e music had stopped. " T o o late. It's gone." H e

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took Gorman's arm and urged him toward his room. Once inside, Jones closed the door carefully before he switched on the light. His hair was tousled from sleep, his bed rumpled. H e wore a pair of faded pajamas, with a button missing on the coat. "Sit down, Dan." Jones yawned widely and didn't apologize; it was the hour for yawning. "So you don't k n o w where the music comes from, Johnny?" Jones shook his head. "It was that song Eufemia sang, wasn't it? T h e n e w one?" G o r m a n nodded. If Jones had recognized the melody, there was no point in dissembling. "Dan, what was going on those last few days?" Caught off guard, G o r m a n hedged. "What do you mean?" "I'm not sure what I mean." Jones perched on the edge of the bed, while G o r m a n took the only easy chair. "But there's been a feeling of tension around here recently. Since Honey's party, I guess. Something's going on, and I wish I knew what it was. C o m e on, Dan. As a fellow Celt, you must have felt it." G o r m a n scarcely knew what line to take. Perhaps if he agreed, Jones would tell him something useful. H e was unusually perceptive, and might have seen or heard something which would be meaningless to him, but which might throw light on the events G o r m a n was supposedly investigating. "I k n o w what you mean, Johnny. It did seem to start after Lili died. Maybe that's all it is—just natural reaction to a murder." " N o , I don't think so, Dan. It's here—right here."

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H e pounded afistinto his hand for emphasis. "And Eufemia was in it somehow. That song she sang—I had the strangest feeling that she was—well—challenging one of us. Oh, I'm expressing myself badly." "On the contrary, you're doing quite well." Should he hint to Johnny any of what was happening? No, better not; this could be a trap to draw him out. Even as he hated himself for thinking it, G o r m a n wondered if it were possible for Jones to be the one. A n d then the music started u p again. It wasn't the same notes, but it was the same unearthly quality of sound. Both m e n were on their feet and scrabbling for the door simultaneously. "Let m e douse the light," Jones whispered. In the sudden dark, they almost wedged themselves in the doorway; but then they were in the hall, listening carefully. A n d then G o r m a n saw it—the thin line of light which showed under V a n Houten's doorway. T h e music must have wakened Matt, too. "Matt's awake," he said softly to Jones. "Shh." G o r m a n tensed and listened. T h e music was still coming, and gradually it dawned on him where the sound was. H e moved slowly toward V a n Houten's door,finallylaying his ear against the wood. Jones n o w took hold of his arm and urged h i m away from the door and back to his o w n room. Once inside, he asked, a thread of excitement woven into his voice, "It came from Matt's room, didn't it?" H e snapped on the light, and G o r m a n blinked and squinted. "Yes, that's where it was." "What is it? It's such weird-sounding music. A n d

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some of it was that thing Eufemia sang. D o you have any idea how he's making it—the music, I mean? Could it be an Indian pipe orflute,or something of the sort?" Gorman, puzzled, shook his head. This was more than he could sort out. So it was Van Houten—or so it must seem if the music were a clue. But what was it all about? And why play the stuff in the middle of the night? "Wish he hadn't plugged up that keyhole," Jones said. "Otherwise, we could peek in and see what's going on." H e shivered. "I don't like it, Gorman. I don't like it one bit." Gorman didn't like it, either. H e stood there, debating with himself whether he should knock on the door and ask Van Houten what was going on, or whether he should go right now and call Brown. If he knocked, he could say that the music was disturbing him. "Shall we knock?" Jones whispered, voicing his thoughts. This decided Gorman. "No, I don't think so." Then, so that Jones wouldn't become too suspicious, he added, "You know Matt. If we disturb him, he may go native on us and reach for his tomahawk. Probably just his radio." H e could tell by the quality of silence that Jones wasn't completely convinced, but Johnny would think twice before tackling Van Houten alone. Reluctantly he agreed and went back to his room. Gorman was now on his own. H e decided not to call Brown immediately. There might—just might—be a logical explanation to the music, which once again

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had stopped. H e had to give Van Houten the benefit of the doubt. If only that keyhole were available as a spying device, but it wasn't. T h e n G o r m a n remembered thefireescape. H e could creep d o w n that and peek into V a n Houten's window, for although the plaintive music had stopped, the light was still on. M a y b e he couldfindout what was happening. H e hurried back upstairs, then hesitated. W h a t was he going to do if he saw something suspicious? Well, nothing precipitate; he was no more anxious than Jones to take on an irate M o h a w k . Plenty of time to call in the cavalry after he had spied out the land. T h e prospects of thefireescape in the dark were not too inviting, once he had clambered out onto the platform. H e had slipped into his clothes, and had pulled sneakers onto his feet to deaden the sound of his steps on thefireescape. T h e light from V a n Houten's window shone out onto the iron landing; he just hoped that Matt wasn't staring out into the night. Slowly and with great caution, G o r m a n eased his way d o w n the rusted rungs of the ladder. H e paused before his feet entered the area of light cast by the lamp in V a n Houten's room, and took a deep breath. If he were to chicken out, n o w was the time to do it. Once he got into range of the light, he would be committed. H e could see that the window was opened about six inches. As he stood there, reluctant to go d o w n further, the music started u p again. At the same time, G o r m a n noticed a shadow cast by the light from the room. It was tall, elongated, and swayed in time to the music. W a s V a n Houten dancing?

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Curiosity got the better of Gorman; this he had to see. H e crept on d o w n thefireescape, sidled to the end of the window platform, and peeked around the edge of the opened window. T h e scene before him almost defied description. Standing near the window, and swaying to and fro, was an enormous plant. G o r m a n recognized it at once as both the tinyflytrapwhich V a n Houten had shown them just short days ago and as a duplicate of the flesh-eating plants he had seen while wearing the eye. T h e shadow which he had guessed to be V a n Houten, dancing, was in fact this plant. There was one difference between the huge plant and the ones he had seen while wearing the third eye; this one had what appeared to be a large fruit hanging from it, a sort of melon-shaped, dark-red, football-sized appendage. T h e weird music was coming from the plant. At first, G o r m a n doubted his senses, but it had to be. T h e plant was by the window, and he could hear the music clearly. Matt was hunched over a table, pencil in hand, concentrating on a book. First he would seem to listen; then he would pore over the book; and finally he would write furiously. H e kept repeating this until it dawned on G o r m a n that V a n Houten apparently was writing d o w n the music—or at least something to do with the music. T h e notes stopped, Matt m a d e afinalnotation, and read over what he had written. H e nodded as if satisfied. T h e n he reached out, took the box which he had received after dinner, the package Mrs. M u m b l e said came by messenger, and opened it carefully. G o r m a n heard him say, "Finally."

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Van Houten took something small from the box and examined it carefully, although from his vantage point on thefireescape, Gorman was unable to see just what the object was. Then the Mohawk raised his hand to his forehead, seemed to slap himself, and sat back, a bemused expression on his face. In the middle of his forehead n o w was a third eye. For a confused moment, G o r m a n thought that somehow V a n Houten had found the eye which he had fastened to the underside of the table in the downstairs hall. T h e n he realized that if this were so, the eye would not have come out of a package brought by special messenger; no, this must be another eye. So Matt V a n Houten was the o n e — h e was to have had the original eye which G o r m a n had acquired quite by accident. T h e n did it follow that Matt had killed Lili, mistaken in his assumption that she had the eye? With sudden clarity of vision, G o r m a n recalled Matt's startled face at Honey Tucci's party w h e n Lily crowded past him, the eyefirmlyfixedto her forehead, in her frantic desire to get away. But what of the ransacked rooms? If this had happened during Honey's party, then V a n Houten had to be in the clear, for he had gone with G o r m a n to the Tucci apartment. T h e n G o r m a n remembered one significant fact about any of Honey's parties— there was such a crush of people there, and so m a n y coming and going all the time, that Matt could easily have absented himself from the party for an hour or more without ever being missed. Of course. As Gorm a n raced out of the party after Lili, Matt was just coming in the door. H e could have been gone all that

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time, plenty of time to ransack the rooms at Mrs. Mumble's trying to find the eye which had been picked up by an unidentified man. Van Houten's room, too, had been searched. Was he on a false trail? No—there sat Van Houten, wearing one of those eyes. And here, close to him, stood this enormous plant, obviously one of those he had seen on thatfilm,although what the significance of the plant was, Gorman failed to see. Almost—almost he could believe the tall tale told him by Brown, that the scenes had beenfilmedon some other world. Then Gorman realized that he had been discovered. The nasty, carnivorous plant was slowly but inexorably turning toward the window, dipping one of the eating traps to the opening between sash and window sill. Even while Gorman watched, frozen by a kind of fascinated horror, the plant began to emit its weird music, and at the table, Van Houten snapped out of his dream state and seized the book. N o w it took no imagination to see what was happening. The notes were a message, and the book the key. Gorman knew that he had to move fast; once Van Houten decoded the plant's warning, he would apprehend the eavesdropper on his window sill. Moving as quickly, yet as silently as he could, Gorman was up the fire escape and inside his window in a hurry. H e snapped off his light and then stood in the darkened room, listening. With his senses sharpened by danger, he heard Van Houten open the window wider, and then the unmistakable sound of a shoe on the iron ladder. Without giving it conscious thought, Gorman slipped into his bed, sneakers and all, and

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assumed a pose of sleep, keeping his eyes opened a slit toward the skylight. If he hadn't been anticipating it, he would have missed the sudden darkening of a part of the skylight as Matt's head and shoulders appeared at the window. G o r m a n felt his muscles tense as he wondered what m o v e V a n Houten would make. T h e wait seemed interminable, although it could only have been moments until the shadow disappeared, and G o r m a n heard the faint sounds of receding feet on the fire escape. Still he lay in the bed, in case the man's retreat was a ruse to lure him into some revealing indiscretion. T h e luminous hands of the alarm clock beside his bed traced their way over ten minutes before Gorm a n felt it safe to slide out from his bed. N o w what? H e strained his ears, but he could hear no further sounds from the room below. Cautiously he tiptoed over the bare floor to the skylight. By craning his neck, he could see that V a n Houten's light was still on; so he hadn't gone to bed. G o r m a n scarcely knew what gave him the idea. Without thinking it through to the possible conclusion, he was out of his room and headed d o w n the stairs to the entrance hall. H e moved cautiously, for he didn't want to disturb V a n Houten. H e edged his way carefully; one of Mrs. Mumble's little economies was electric light bulbs which burned out conveniently and were replaced only after m u c h complaint from the tenants. H e fumbled about under the table until he located the phony eye, pulled at it without being able to dis-

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lodge the suction cup, andfinallymanaged to get a fingernail under the edge of the rubber disk to break the suction. Back upstairs, he collided with someone in the hall. "You again, Dan?" It was Jones, still prowling. "He has that crazy music going again. I'm going to bang on his door and tell him to knock it off for the night. I'd like to get some sleep." "Don't, Johnny." Gorman knew that the time had come to force the situation to a head; but Jones, not knowing what it was all about, wasn't the one to do it. It was up to him. "What's up?" Jones was no fool; he sensed that there was something going on which was far from right. "Does this have to do with Eufemia, Dan?" "Perhaps. Look, Johnny, I can't tell you any of it now." H efishedfor inspiration, for he had to get Jones out of the way—yet he felt he needed some sort of back-up team. H e wasn't sure that he could handle Van Houten alone if things got rough; and they might. Gorman was still in the dark about what really was happening. "You can help me, though, Johnny, by making a phone call." This should do it—get Jones out of the way, yet call up the U. S. Cavalry. "This is top-secret Government stuff," he confided in a feverish whisper. "Get to a phone—not the one downstairs. Matt might hear you. Call this number and tell them to get to Mrs. Mumble's—Van Houten's room. Tell them I sent you." H e repeated Brown's phone number and made sure that Jones knew it. "Now, hurry."

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"But what are you going to do?" "Nothing," Gorman lied. "Not without help." H e waited until he heard the front door open and close softly. Then Gorman slapped the extra eye onto his own forehead and knocked on the door of Van Houten's room.

C H A P T E R XVIII Everything went quiet. The music in Van Houten's room broke off in mid-note, and the line of light under the door disappeared. Gorman scowled in the dark and knocked again, this time a bit more loudly. H e didn't want to wake Oonalak or W a n g if he could help it, yet he must get into that room before Van Houten had a chance to get rid of all the evidence. "Matt, open up. It's Dan Gorman. Come on, I know you're awake." The lock clicked, and the door swung away from Gorman into the darkened room. His eyes, accustomed to the gloom, spotted Van Houten to the right of the door, instead of beside it where one would expect him to be. Ambush. Gorman knew where the light switch was, though, and heflickeda hand toward it before Van Houten could stop him. Then he stepped into the room and swung the door shut behind him in one smooth motion. Van Houten's eyes goggled at the extra eye on Gorman's forehead, although his own special eye was nowhere in sight. Momentarily there was no picture coming through the eye to distract Gorman. As an opener, he asked, "Where's your eye, Matt? Put it back in the box? N o pictures coming through on it right now?" "You said you'd thrown it away," Van Houten accused. 177

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"It seemed safer that way, until I established the identity of the one for w h o m it was intended." H e moved farther into the room, and sat d o w n at the table where Matt had been working. "Where did you put the code book?" H e pulled open the drawer in the table as V a n Houten uttered a protest. There the two things lay, the eye and the book of tribal chants. It all clicked together suddenly, and G o r m a n wondered w h y he hadn'tfiguredit out before. " H o w m u c h do you know?" V a n Houten demanded hoarsely. "Enough." Keep it cryptic enough, and Matt might tell him the whole business inadvertently. H e pulled the eye from his forehead and rubbed the spot where it had been. "I've used this eye before, you know." V a n Houten seemed to wilt. "Then you do know. I'd thought—well, I thought maybe you hadn't seen anything. It's not being broadcast continuously." "Very clever little gadget." G o r m a n tossed the eye lightly in his hand. "Where are they manufactured?" " A little plant upstate, run by a cousin of mine. T h e ship landed near there, so he was in on it from the first." Ship—landed. G o r m a n was back into the international spy bit now. "So it's not just—local?" V a n Houten frowned and gave him an odd look. "Of course not. It isn't just the Mohawks. In fact, for a little while there, I thought maybe Eufemia was one of us—until she stole the code song and used it in her act. T h e n I knew she was a p h o n y — n o more Indian than you are, Gorman. A n d I was afraid she

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might blow the whole deal if she used any more of the codes." "So you pushed her down the stairs." Gorman kept his tone as conversational as possible. Here he was, cooped up with a murderer, and he knew only bits of what was going on. Van Houten shrugged. "The project's bigger than one night-club performer—or two. I'll admit I did panic a bit when I saw Lili wearing m y eye. I had to get it back, and she put up a battle, particularly when she saw I'd brought along m y plant." H e grinned; but it wasn't a nice grin. At the mention of the plant, Gorman allowed his eyes to leave Van Houten long enough to look toward the window. The plant swayed there, evil, malignant, with the large fruitlike appendage hanging heavy from one branch. "Must cost you a lot to keep that plant in food." H e wished immediately that he hadn't said it, but the words were out. Van Houten nodded in agreement. "But I'll be rich soon, once we get back our land." H e gave a short bark of laughter. "Twenty-four bucks for the whole island of Manhattan, and we're supposed to sit back and keep quiet about it." N o w his smile was ugly. "It takes aliens to see the injustice and right it. N o one but Indians got the bulbs to plant, so we'd be able to carry on the plan from the stars." This brought Gorman to with a jolt. The agents had told him that they were chasing little green men from outer space, but he had ignored them. Gorman began to feel sick inside.

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"Just h o w did they get these bulbs?" V a n Houten seemed surprised. "I thought you said you'd seen the films they brought with them. T h e plants come u p w h e n they bury their dead. Didn't you see the funeral procession, the interment?" His facefilledwith suspicion. "I think you're bluffing, G o r m a n — y o u don't k n o w what it's all about. Just your d u m b Irish luck to stumble onto the secret, and get hold of the eye that was meant for me." G o r m a n saw the mistake of his tactics; he would have to reassert himself, take c o m m a n d of the situation again. "Did Engelman really kill himself—or did you assist?" " H e was a blundering fool, but I didn't kill him. H e knew he'd be executed, so he committed suicide." "But he wasn't any Indian." " S o — h e did it for money. That's what your angle is, isn't it, Dan? A chance to cash in and make the easy buck?" So this was the way to play it n o w with V a n Houten. G o r m a n nodded. "What else? Since I'm in on the deal, invited or not, that makes us some kind of partners—no? A n d it would be wise if I didn't have an accident, Matt. I've arranged a little set of what you might call checks and balances, just in case something unforeseen happens to me." It was hard to tell what V a n Houten was thinking. H e had put on his Indian-totem-pole face, and w h o could guess? G o r m a n thought, though, that he had given himself a bit of life insurance. Matt might not believe him, yet he would hesitate to try anything right now; with three deaths to keep the police inter-

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ested in Mrs. Mumble's, a fourth could easily be just one too many. "Okay, so you're in—pending an okay from higher up." "With you to sponsor m e , h o w can I lose?" Gorm a n decided he had better get all the information he could now, before V a n Houten thought through the situation and changed his mind. "I saw a lot through the eye, but I must have missed an episode or two." T h e n he remembered something. "I saw the aliens loading their spaceship." V a n Houten nodded. "With the bulbs. T h e plants grow from them. Y o u see, the planet is dying, and so they want to pass on their knowledge, their technology, to others. They sent out spaceships loaded with the bulbs, with instructions for using them. O n e alien traveled in each ship, although he knew that it was a suicide mission from the start. T h e chances of his landing somewhere with conditions suitable for him to live were negligible." " H o w m a n y of these ships landed on Earth?" Gorm a n found he was holding his breath, waiting for V a n Houten's answer. "So far as w e know, only one landed on Earth. Other ships were piloted to other solar systems, in hopes of finding life forms worthy of receiving the wealth of their technology. T h e y are an unselfish race, Dan. Even though they are doomed, their sun dying, they do not wish their knowledge to die with them. They are passing it on to others w h o m they find worthy." Worthy, sure, G o r m a n thought wryly. Passing it on

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to a bunch of crackpots w h o plan to take over the place, from the way it sounds. "So they're going to give the place back to you Indians." V a n Houten's eyes glittered. "Exactly. It was luck that landed the ship where it did. O n e of the tribal heads came across the craft, and helped the dying alien. Through his special powers, this alien was able to communicate with Crazy B e a r — a cousin of mine, incidentally." "Nepotism even in this." " W h y not? It's a fine old American custom." T h e bitterness was in his voice again. " W h e n m y cousin filled m e in, he sent m e one of the bulbs. We've shipped them to Indians all over the country—not just Mohawks. We're all redmen, remember. O u t to get the palefaces, finally." "Well, I've heard of germ warfare, but never plant warfare. H o w does that plant sing?" V a n Houten paused and glanced back over his shoulder at the tall plant which was rapidly outgrowing the large pot in which it was planted. For a m o ment, G o r m a n got the impression that the m a n was apprehensive. "I'm not sure exacdy h o w it works," he admitted. " T h e alien conked out before he'd told m y cousin all the details of the process. Just that the bulbs would grow into plants which would deliver suitable instructions. Each bulb was shipped out with that code book—clever of you to figure that out, Gorman. A n d instructions were passed along for manufacturing those eyes—cute little gadgets, aren't they?"

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" H o w come you had to pick yours up from Engelman, if your cousin was running the show?" Van Houten hesitated, then said reluctantly, "My cousin died." H e didn't explain further. "Unfortunately, control passed to some other bucks who didn't see eye to eye with all of us. There's been some in-fighting—with the result that some of the originals have had to go underground. We've a pretty effective organization going now—that's one reason I'm willing to take you in, Dan. You know too much to leave you out." Gorman wasn't fooled for a minute by Van Houten. H e knew that Matt was only trying to lull his natural suspicions, keep him around until he had a chance to kill him without alerting the police; no Irishman was about to be made a blood brother of the Indian. While he was here, he had to get all the dope he could about this affair, then get away from Van Houten and tell Brown and White everything he could. Remembering the faintly apprehensive look that Matt had given the plant—and no wonder, now that he had the eye and could see the beastly things gobbling up those slug creatures in another world—Gorman decided he might be able to use it to his own advantage. "Did you see, with your eye, the sequence where the plants on that other planet are fed?" For once, the usually wooden-faced Indian showed some emotion; heflickedanother glance at the plant, and edged toward Gorman slightly. Did the plant sway toward Van Houten?

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"I saw the plants eat. W e have the same thing here on Earth, remember. Venus flytraps." Gorman forced a laugh, although he felt much more like shuddering. "Oh, sure, those little plants you buy at the five and dime. They eat house flies, and bedbugs, I guess—although not here at Mrs. Mumble's. She doesn't have bugs. But that huge, alien monster. I'd think you wouldn't want to go to sleep at night, Matt, for fear it would get hungry and take a chunk out of you." H e glanced around the room. "Or have you put it over there, as far away from your bed as the room allows, just as a precaution?" For a minute, G o r m a n thought he was getting under V a n Houten's skin, but abruptly the atmosphere changed subtly. It was hard to describe, but G o r m a n knew he had lost c o m m a n d of the situation, although w h y or h o w this had come about he didn't know. V a n Houten seemed to grow taller; there was the glitter in his black eyes again, and he exuded confidence. "The plant won't hurt m e , Dan. See?" H e walked over to it, stood beside it, even reached u p and touched the coiled flower head which was the mouth of the nasty thing. "It's m y pet." It was his pet, all right, the one which gave him orders. T h e dead agent had been right in everything he had said; it was only his misfortune that he was dying, and his message was semi-incoherent. With the key, it could be deciphered. G o r m a n n o w held the key, but would he ever have a chance to pass it on to the Government agents? From the change in

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Van Houten's attitude, Gorman doubted this. For all his white shirt, his well-tailored slacks, his loafers and his Argyle socks, at this m o m e n t V a n Houten was a savage. H e needed no breechclout, no warpaint, no tomahawk to m a k e him a primitive killer. " C o m e here, Dan. You'll be getting one of the bulbs, n o w that you've insisted on joining us. Y o u must get better acquainted with m y little friend." G o r m a n didn't like the look on V a n Houten's face, but this was no time to show fear. H e had walked into this open-eyed tonight—with all three eyes open, he thought ironically—and n o w he had to play along, hoping that Jones could bring u p the reinforcements in time. For time was running out; he didn't need an hourglass in front of him to k n o w that the sands of life hadn't long to run for him. Murder fairly crackled in the air. With a show of nonchalance, G o r m a n walked over to stand beside V a n Houten. W h a t happened next was unexpected; Matt threw back his head, opened his mouth, and began to chant. G o r m a n was so caught off guard that he almost died then and there. Perhaps it was the exultant look in V a n Houten's eyes that warned him; but at the last m o m e n t he jumped backward, feeling as he did so a brush of something against his shoulder. T h e plant had swooped down, eatingfloweropen wide, to seize him; V a n Houten's song had been a signal to the plant to attack. Things happened so fast then that G o r m a n acted with his reflexes, conscious thought being too slow for

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survival. W h e n Van Houten saw that Gorman had escaped thefirstattack of the plant, he m a d e a lunge and caught him in an iron grip. G o r m a n wasn't in condition; obviously, Matt was. Battling n o w for his life, G o r m a n was forced, step by inexorable step, back toward the plant which n o w swayed wildly, almost upsetting the pot in which it grew. V a n H o u ten wasn't about to be tried for murder if he could help it; could he be blamed if G o r m a n got too close to his exotic house plant? G o r m a n flinched as the plant brushed against his arm. Again V a n Houten chanted, murder in his eyes, as he m a d e the supreme effort to push G o r m a n into reach of the plant. Pitting his strength against the other's superior physical ability, G o r m a n knew fear, but not the paralyzing kind. His primitive survival mechanism was n o w in operation, adrenalin pumping through his body; it was n o w or never, and he knew it. With a violent lurch, he managed to throw V a n Houten off balance for the few seconds necessary to break loose from his grasp. T h e m o m e n t u m of his pushing against G o r m a n carried the m a n forward within reach of the alien plant. T h e plant apparently did not recognize the difference between friend and foe; with one swoop it dipped and enclosed V a n Houten's head in its o w n carnivorousflower-head.There was a muffled scream, and the man's body writhed and convulsed as the plant lifted it u p from the floor. G o r m a n had staggered backwards, almost falling, until he was checked by the table. Stunned, he stood

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there, gasping for breath, as Van Houten's struggles began to lose their violence. There was a drumming in his temples as blood rushed through his arteries. Then Gorman moved, almost without conscious volition. Van Houten had tried to murder him, and in doing so was caught in his own trap; but he was a human being, and Gorman couldn't stand there while this horrid alien plant devoured him alive. H e looked about for a weapon, something to hack at the plant stem, but there was nothing in the room he could use. H e thoughtfleetinglyof breaking the window and trying to use the sharp edge of the glass as a knife. Without heavy gloves, he would cut himself so badly that he wouldn't be able to wield the shard effectively. Van Houten's struggles were feeble now; Gorman had to act, and act quickly, if he would save the man. H e leaped forward, jumped onto the flower pot, teetering there with difficulty, and seized the stem of the plant with both hands. It was thick as a man's thigh, and he was afraid that he wouldn't be able to get a grip on it. H e had difficulty maintaining his balance, and tipping backward, Gorman clutched at the thick stem, wrapping his arms around it to keep from falling. For a moment, he swayed back and forward; then something gave, and Gorman crashed to thefloor,knocking the breath out of himself in the process. There was a high, keening sound; then silence. Struggling up onto his knees, Gorman saw what had happened. H e had, in falling, uprooted the plant,

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which now lay limp and strangely withered on the floor. Van Houten was crumpled beside it, his head still encased in theflower.Gorman crawled to the man's body and pulled his head loose from the plant. H e gasped in horror and felt a wave of nausea sweep over him at the sight of terribly mangledflesh;but even as he looked in revulsion, Van Houten shuddered and opened his eyes. There was a sudden pounding at the door, and a voice of authority ordered, "Open up in there." Pulling himself up, Gorman staggered to the door and unlocked it to Crowley and a uniformed policeman. In the background, he saw Brown, White, and Jones. Brown pushed forward and moved in ahead of Crowley. " W e need an ambulance," Gorman said. "For Van Houten. The plant got him." Brown didn't need to ask questions; the uniformed officer motioned to Jones to lead him to a telephone. Crowley stood there swearing steadily, while Brown and White did what they could for Van Houten. "Did youfindout anything, Gorman?" Brown demanded. "Enough. At least part of it." H e paused, wondering if they wanted to hear the story now. Then he saw aflickerof motion out of the corner of his eye, and horrified, Gorman pointed to the withered plant. The fruit which had fallen to thefloorhad split open. Now, from the long crack in it, there crawled out a miniature creature, biped, humanoid, with reddish skin. Three eyes stared out at the men in the room.

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The creature had no nose, a wide, fanged mouth, and a long tail. As vividly as if he were wearing the third eye, Gorm a n saw the scene of the burial on the alien world. T h e bodies had been placed in the ground, the tips of the tails above the soil line—and from them had grown the monstrous,flesh-eatingplants; n o w the cycle was complete, and the alien was here. There was a harsh, inhuman cry, and V a n Houten, despite his injuries, m a d e a superhuman effort. H e lunged at the creature which was no larger than a small cat, strangled it before Brown and White could stop him, and then collapsed, moaning, upon the floor. T h e n the ambulance attendants were there with a stretcher to take V a n Houten to the hospital. It was hours later before the whole story had been told. By this time, Brown had received word that V a n Houten would live to stand trial for the murders of Lili LaClerc and Eufemia Rosario. A n d G o r m a n had learned w h o the other agent working with Brown was—Chien W a n g . " H e really believed it, you know," G o r m a n told the agents. " H e thought the aliens would give the country back to the Indians. I think, w h e n he saw that alien crawl from the pod on the plant, it was to him thefinalbetrayal. H e knew then that he'd been h a d — a n d all of the Indians with him. T h e aliens had suckered them into distributing those bulbs all over the country, so that the plants could spawn little al-

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iens. In time, with enough of them, they planned to take over Earth themselves. The Indians were just their tools." H e paused, then asked, "Will you be able to find all the plants? Before they produce their fruit?" "I hope so, Gorman, I hope so. If not . . ." Brown shrugged expressively. "If not, the whole h u m a n race is in for trouble. Big trouble."

A L O N

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