prayer that I'd guessed right on the swing and not hit too hard or not hard enough, and I swung. The thud scared me. I thought I'd killed him, and I knew that he wasn't shamming when he dropped back flat on the bed because his head hit the head of the bed with a second thud that was almost as loud as the first. And if he had been shamming he could have taken me easily, because I was so scared that I put the revolver down. I couldn't even put it in my pocket because it was cocked and I didn't know how to uncock it without shooting it off. So I put it on the night stand beside the bed and bent over him to feel his heart. It was still beating. I got the rolls of adhesive tape out of my pocket and started to work. I taped around his mouth so he couldn't yell, and I taped his legs together at the ankles and at the knees. I taped his left wrist to his left thigh, and I used a whole roll of adhesive to tape his right arm against his side above the elbow. His right hand had to be free. I found some clothesline in the kitchen and tied him to the bed, managing as I did so to pull him up into an almost sitting position against the head of the bed. I got a pad of paper, foolscap, from his desk and I put it and my ball-point pen within reach of his right hand. There wasn't anything I could do but sit down and wait, then. Ten minutes, maybe fifteen, and it was getting pretty light outside. I began to get impatient. Probably there wasn't any hurry; Al Grainger always slept late so no one would miss him for a long time yet but the waiting was horrible. I decided that I could take a drink again and that I needed one. I went out into his kitchen and hunted till I found a bottle. It was gin instead of whisky, but it would serve the purpose. It tasted horrible. When I got back to the bedroom he was awake. So wide awake that I felt pretty sure that he'd been playing possum for a while, stalling for time. He was trying desperately with his free right hand to peel off the tape that held his left wrist to his thigh. But with his right arm held tight against his side at the elbow he wasn't making much headway. When I picked up the gun off the night stand he stopped trying. He glared at me. I said, "Hi, Al. We're in the seventh square." I wasn't in any hurry now, none at all. I sat down comfortably before I went on. "Listen, Al," I told him, "I left your right hand free so you can use that paper and the pin. I want you to do a little writing for me. I'll hold the pad for you so you can see what you're writing. Or don't you feel in the mood to write, Al?" He merely lay back quietly and closed his eyes. I said, "All I want you to write is that you killed Ralph Bonney and Miles Harrison last night. That you took my car out and intercepted them on the way back from Neilsville, probably on foot with my car out of sight. They knew you and would stop for you and let you in the car. So you got in the back seat and before Miles, who'd be driving, could start the car again you slugged him over the head and then slugged Bonney. Then you put their bodies in my car and left theirs somewhere off the road. And then you drove to the Wentworth place and left my car instead of whatever car I'd been driven there in. Or am I wrong on any little details, Al?" He didn't answer, not that I'd expected him to. I said, "There'll be quite a bit of writing, because I, want you also to explain how you hired an actor to use the name Yehudi Smith and give me such an incredible story to tell that no one would ever believe me. I want you to tell how you had him entice me to the Wentworth place and about that bottle you left there and what was in it. And that you'd instructed him that he was to drink it. And what his right name was and what you did with his body." I said, "I guess that'll be enough for you to write, Al. You needn't write what the motive was; that'll be obvious after your relationship to Ralph Bonney comes to light, as it will. And you needn't write all the little details about how or when you let the air out of my tires so I wouldn't be using my car nor how or when you used my shop to print that card with the name Yehudi Smith and my union label number. And you needn't write why you picked me to take the blame for the murders. In fact, I'm not proud of that part of it at all. It makes me a little ashamed of the thing I'm going to have to do in order to persuade you to do the writing I've been talking about." I was a little ashamed, but not enough so to keep me from doing it. I took the bottle of non-inflammable cleaning fluid that smelled like gasoline and opened it. Al Grainger's eyes opened, too, as I began to sprinkle it over the sheets and his pajamas. I managed to hold the bottle so he could read the "Danger" warning and, if his eyes were good enough for the smaller type, the "Keep away from fire" part. I emptied the whole bottle, ending up with quite a big wet spot of it at a point at one side of his knees where he could see it clearly. The room reeked with the gasoline-like odor. I got out the candle and my knife and cut a piece an inch long off the top of the candle. I smoothed out the wet spot on the sheet and put the candle top down carefully. "I'm going to light this, Al, and you'd better not move much or you'll knock it over. And I'm sure a pyrophobiac wouldn't like what would happen to him then. And you're a pyrophobiac, Al." His eyes were wide with horror as I lighted the match. If his mouth hadn't been taped, he'd have screamed in terror. Every muscle of his body was rigid. He tried to play possum on me again, probably figuring I wouldn't go through with it if he was unconscious, if I thought he'd fainted. He could do it with his eyes, but the muscles of the rest of his body gave him away. He couldn't relax them if it would have saved his life. I lighted the candle, and sat down again. "An inch of candle, Al," I said. "Maybe ten minutes if you stay as still as that. Sooner if you get reckless and wriggle a toe or finger. That candle isn't too stable standing there on a soft mattress." His eyes were open again, staring at that candle burning down toward the soaked sheet, staring in utter horror. I hated myself for what I was doing to him, but I kept on doing it just the same. I thought of three men murdered tonight and steeled myself. And after all, Al's only danger was in his mind. That wet spot on the sheet was stuff that would keep the sheet itself from burning. "Ready to write, Al?" His horror-filled eyes shifted from the candle to my face, but he didn't nod. I thought for a moment that he was calling my bluff, and then I realized that the reason he didn't nod was because he was afraid to make even that slight a muscular movement for fear of knocking over the short candle. I said, "All right, Al, I'll see if you're ready. If you aren't, I'll put the candle back where it was, and I'll let it keep burning meanwhile so you won't have gained any time." I picked up the candle gently and put it down on the night stand. I held the pad. He started to write and then stopped, and I reached for the candle. The pen started moving again. After a while I said, "That's enough. Just sign it." I sighed with relief and went to the telephone. Carl Trenholm must have been sitting beside his own phone; he answered almost before it had finished ringing the first time. "Dressed and ready?" I asked him. "Right, Doc. What do I do?" "I've got Al Grainger's confession. I want it turned over to the law to clear me, but it's not safe for me to do it direct. Kates would shoot before he'd read and some of the deputies might. You'll have to do it for me, Carl." "Where are you? At Al's?" "Yes." "I'll be around. And I'll bring Ganzer to get Al. It's all right; Hank won't shoot. I've been talking reason to him and he admits somebody else could have put those bodies in your car. And when I tell him there's a confession from Grainger, he'll listen." "How about Kates, though? And how come you were talking to Hank Ganzer?" "He called up here, looking for Kates. Kates left him to go back to the office an hour or two ago and never got to the office and they don't know where he is. But don't worry. Kates won't take any shots at you if you're with Ganzer and me both. I'll be right around." I phoned Pete and told him that all hell had been popping and that now we had a story we could use, one even bigger than the ones that had got away. He said he'd get right down to the shop and get the fire going under the Linotype's metal pot. "I was just leaving anyway, Doc," he said. "It's half past seven." It was. I looked out the window and saw that it was broad daylight. I sat down and jittered until Carl and Hank got there. It was eight o'clock exactly when I got to the office. Once Hank had seen that confession he'd let Carl and me talk him into letting Grainger do any explaining that remained so I could get the paper out in time. It was going to take me a good two hours to get that story written and we'd probably go to press a little later than usual anyway. Pete got to work dismantling page one to make room for it ­ and plenty of room. I phoned the restaurant and talked them into sending up a big thermos jug of hot black coffee and started pounding my typewriter. The phone rang and I picked it up. "Doc Stoeger?" it said. "`This is Dr. Buchan at the asylum. You were so kind last night about not running the story about Mrs. Griswald's escape and recapture that I decided it was only fair to tell you that you can run it after all, if there's still time." "There's still time," I said. "We're going to be late going to press anyway. And thanks. But what came up? I thought Mrs. G. didn't want to worry her daughter in Springfield." "Her daughter knows anyway. A friend of hers here ­ one whom we went to see while we were hunting our patient ­ phoned her to tell her about it. And she telephoned the asylum to be sure her mother was all right. So she already knows and you might as well have the story after all." I said, "Fine, Dr. Buchan. Thanks a lot for calling." Back to the typewriter. The black coffee came and I drank almost a full cup of it the first gulp and damn near scalded myself. The asylum story was quick and easy to get out of the way so I wrote it up first. I'd just finished when the phone rang again. "Mr. Stoeger?" it asked me. "This is Ward Howard, superintendent of the fireworks factory. We had a slight accident in the plant yesterday that I'd like you to run a short story on, if it's not too late." "It's not too late," I said, "provided the accident was in the Roman candle department. Was it?" "Oh, so you already knew. Do you have the details or shall I give them to you?" I let him give them and took notes and then I asked him how come they wanted the story printed. "Change of policy, Mr. Stoeger. You see there have been rumors going around town about accidents here that don't happen ­ but are supposed to have happened and to have been kept out of the paper. I'm afraid my grammar's a bit involved there. I mean that we've decided that if the truth is printed about accidents that really do happen, it will help prevent false rumors and wild stories." I told him I understood and thanked him. I drank more black coffee and worked a while on the Bonney-Harrison-Smith murder story and then sandwiched in the Roman candle department story and then went back to the big story. All I needed now was­ Captain Evans of the state police came in. I glared up at him and he grinned down at me.. I said, "Don't tell me. You've come to tell me that I can, after all, run the story of Smiley's and my little ride with the two gangsters and how Smiley captured one and killed one. It's just what I need. I can spare a stick of type back in the want ads." He grinned again and pulled up a chair. He sat down in it,. but I paid no further attention; I went on typing. Then he pushed his hat back on his head and said quietly, "That's right, Doc." I made four typing errors in a three letter word and then turned around and looked at him. "Huh?" I said. "I was kidding. Wasn't I?" "Maybe you were, but I'm not. You can run the story, Doc. They got Gene Kelley in Chicago two hours ago." I groaned happily. Then I glared at him again. I said, "Then get the hell out of here. I've got work to do." "Don't you want the rest of the story?" "What rest of it? I don't need details of how they got Kelley, just so they got him. That's, from my point of view, a footnote of the local angle, and the local angle is what happened here in the county to George and Bat ­ and to Smiley and me. Now scram." I typed another sentence. He said, "Doc," and the way he said it made me take my hands away from the typewriter and look at him. He said, "Doc, relax. It is local. There was one thing I didn't tell you last night because it was too local and too hot. One other thing we got out of Bat Masters. They weren't heading for Chicago or Gary Tight away. They were going to hole up overnight at a hideout for crooks ­ it's a farm run by a man named George Dixon, up in the hills. An isolated place. We knew Dixon as an ex-crook but never guessed he was running a rest home for boys who were hiding out from the law. We raided it last night. We got four criminals wanted in Chicago who were staying there. And we found, among other things, some letters and papers that told us where Gene Kelley was staying. We phoned Chicago quick and they got him, so you can run the whole story ­ the other members of the gang won't keep that hotel date anyway. But we'll settle for having Kelley in the bag ­ and the rest of our haul at the Dixon farm. That's local, Doc. Want names and such?" I wanted names and such. I grabbed a pencil. Where I was going to put the story, I didn't know. Evans talked a while and I took notes until I had all I wanted and then I said again, "Now please don't give me any more. I'm going nuts already." He laughed and got up. He said, "Okay, Doc." He strolled to the door and then turned around after he was halfway through it. "Then you don't want to know about Sheriff Kates' being under arrest." He went on through and was halfway down the stairs before I caught him and dragged him back. Dixon, who ran the crook-hideout, had been paying protection to Kates and had proof of it. When he'd been raided he'd thought Kates had double-crossed him, and he'd talked. The state police had headed for Kates' office and had picked him up as he was entering the courthouse at six o'clock. I sent out for more black coffee. There was only one more interruption and it came just before we were finally closing the forms at half past eleven. Clyde Andrews. He said, "Doc, I want to thank you again for what you did last night. And to tell you that the boy and I have had a long talk and everything is going to be all right." "That's wonderful, Clyde." "Another thing, Doc, and I hope this isn't bad news for you. I mean, I hope you were deciding not to sell the paper, because I got a telegram from my brother in Ohio; he's definitely taking that offer from out West, so the deal on the paper is off. I'm sorry if you were going to decide to sell." I said, "That's wonderful, Clyde. But hold the line a second. I'm going to put an ad in the paper to sell it instead." I yelled across the room to Pete. "Hey, Pete, kill something somewhere and set up an ad in sixty-point type. `FOR SALE, THE CARMEL CITY CLARION. PRICE, ONE MILLION DOLLARS.' " Back into the phone, "Hear that, Clyde?" He chuckled. "I'm glad you feel that way about it, Doc. Listen, there's one more thing. Mr. Rogers just called me. He says that we've discovered that the Scouts are going to use the church gym next Tuesday instead of this Tuesday. So we're going to have the rummage sale after all. If you haven't gone to press and if you haven't got enough news to fill out­" I nearly choked, but I managed to tell him we'd run the story. I got to Smiley's at half past twelve with the first paper off the press in my hands. Held carefully. I put it proudly on the bar. "Read," I told Smiley. "But first the bottle and a glass. I'm half dead and I haven't had a drink for almost six hours. I'm too keyed up to sleep. And I need three quick ones." I had three quick ones while Smiley read the headlines. The room began to waver a little and I realized I'd better get to bed and quickly. I said, "Good night, Smiley. 'Sbeen wonnerful knowing you. I gotta­" I started for the door. Smiley said, "Doc. Let me drive you home." His voice came from miles and miles away. I saw him start around the end of the bar. "Doc," he was saying, "sit down and hang on till I get there before you fall down flat on your face." But the nearest stool was miles away through the brillig, and slithy toves were gimbling at me from the wabe. Smiley's warning had been at least half a second too late.