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Show I sullen looic. "Got the five thousand, Miss ! Porter?" he asked. I Claire's face was flushed, her ! manner nervous. "No, not yet, I Whitey," she said In a low voice. "I'm afraid to ask Link." "That's rich!" exclaimed Whitey, with a sarcastic chuckle. "You afraid to ask for dough?" His eyes flashed defiantly. "Look, I gave you until tonight. Now I'll see Stephens. ! He'll be glad to hear my story." Claire put out a restraining hand. "Whitey, wait!" she begged. "Link would never give me that much money." i The reporter's eyes lighted on Claire's sparkling diamond bracer let. "Forget about the money," he , said abruptly, pointing to the orna-i orna-i ment. "I'll take that instead." Instinctively Claire drew back. "No," she returned, "he'd find out." "Not unless you tell him," shot I back Whitey coldly. "And you ! won't. Just say you lost it." I Claire, her features reflecting a mixture of fear and hatred, took i , J - :r :. '. ' : ' v i . . -ij H v- ! - , - 4 ' t 1 - I Mi- t J 1 . - 'j? 4 v ' 'V . '.iiJ SI said. "This is lor good. I need ten thousand. That's cheap enough for ail the fixing I've done!" Stephens seemed to be picking his words cautiously. "That's a lot of dough, Whitey," he said. "More than I've got on me. Just stick around downstairs. We'll see you later." "Yeah, later, Whitey," echoed Macy, with eyes half-closed. When Whitey had left the room, Stephens approached his partner. "Looks like we could use a new whitewasher," he suggested. "Suits me," answered Macy laconically. la-conically. When Paul Clarke met Molly Ford at a chop suey restaurant, she could see he was in a high-strung high-strung mood. "It's maddening, sweetheart," he said, taking her hand. "No matter what I do, I can't get the goods on those crooks! Tonight I asked Nick Charles to help, but he turned me down. I can't blame him." As he spoke he picked up Molly's handbag, and opened it. "Help yourself until pay day," said Molly, supposing that he wanted a. small loan. In a moment she saw that she had been mistaken, as he took out her keys and put them in his pocket, "What are you doing?" she cried excitedly. "Paul! You mustn't." "I'm going to search Stephens office," said Paul grimly. "Those racketeer bosses of yours'U be down in the arena. They must keep some records somewhere." "But think!" cried Molly, "what would happen if we're caught?" "If we're caught?" echoed Paul. "What kind of a heel do you think you are going to marry? You won't be involved. Just wait here." Molly put out a restraining arm. "I can't let you go," she cried, becoming terrified. "Stephens' desk is locked. I haven't got a key to that." "I'll find a way," said Paul, reaching for his hat, and darting toward the door. The corridor of the second floor of the arena building was blanketed blanket-ed in darkness, as Paul moved slowly toward the door at the end of the stairs. When he entered, and hurried to the inner office, Paul pulled down the shade and switched on the shaded lamp. The drawers of the desk, as he had expected, were locked; but he was prepared for this, having picked up a small iimmy on his way. Malting a heroic effort, NicJc seized his glass. Adapted from the Metro-Goldwyn- Mayer Picture by HALSEY RAINES CAST OF CHARACTERS Nick . . . . , William Powell Nora - Myrna Loy Paul. . . Barry Nelson Molly ...... . Donna Reed Lieutenant Abrams . Sam Levene "Whitey" Barrow .... Alan Baxter Major Jaton I. Sculley ... Henry O'Neill Nick, Jr. ....... Dickie Hall Claire Porter ...... Stella Adler Stella . . . Louise Beaver and Asta Nick Jr. smiled very slightly. "You drink it drink it," he replied. "You wanted to be a father," interposed Nora cheerfully. Making a heroic effort, ef-fort, Nick seized his glass and painfully drained the contents. Nick Jr. watched him alertly and followed at the same speed. When the maid stepped step-ped forward to announce an-nounce two visitors, Major Sculley and Paul Clarke, Nick welcomed welcom-ed it as a life-saver, and dashed from the table. Major Jason Sculley, a distinguished looking look-ing man of about fifty, with gray-streaked hair, was head of the State Athletio Commission with admitted ad-mitted ambitions for the governorship. Paul, the young reporter who had had the Chapter One A sudden sense of shock had descended on the crowd of riders, trainers, stableboys and reporters crowding the San Francisco jockey house locker room. It had just been announced that Gomez, one of the regular track jockeys, had been found dead from a bullet wound, under highly suspicious circumstances. cir-cumstances. Nick Charles, who had come to the races with Nora for an afternoon's after-noon's diversion, only to run smack into this apparent murder, nodded as he recognized Paul Clarke, a young sports reporter with an engaging en-gaging smile and pleasant manner. Standing by quietly, Nick and Nora listened while Buddy Burns, a thin, nervous-eyed jockey, began to talk to the police. "I roomed with Gomez," he said, glancing down momentarily at the prostrate figure. "Last night he didn't sleep a wink. He was scared. He knew they were layin' for him. Poor Gomey! He never kept a horse from winnin' in his life, till they made him do it." His voice broke. "The gamblers murdered Gomez. They were afraid he'd squeal!" Paul Clarke's photographer snapped snap-ped a picture, then ducked toward the door. As he did so, Whitey Barrow, Bar-row, a sturdy reporter with a surly, determined look, blocked the way. "Say, Clarke," he called out, "how about splitting with the rest of us newsboys on that picture?" Paul shook his head. "Sorry, Barrow, that's exclusive," he answered. ans-wered. Whitey barred his path. "Let me take that plate and I'll have prints made for us all," he said. "I wouldn't trust you with that plate, Whitey," retorted Paul. "Something might happen to it." Whitey doubled his fists. "Why, you punk newshog!" he cried out. 'If you made another crack like that " Lieutenant Abrams, scowling angrily, an-grily, pushed them all backwards. "Fight outside, you scribblers!" he exclaimed. "Go outside and kill each other! See if I care!" He motioned to the cops, who advanced and cleared the room. Nick was seated at the dinner table pondering about the jockey's mysterious death, and abstractedly pouring himself a Martini, when a tiny but truculent voice broke in on his consciousness. "Drink milk!" came the command. com-mand. Four-year-old Nick Jr. had elevated his own glass, and was surveying his father quizzically. Nora turned to the maid. "Please bring Mr. Charles a glass of milk," she said. Smiling at Nick, she idded: "He's made up his mind, Jear. He won't drink his unless you take some too." Nick gripped the arms of his chair as the glass of milk was put before him. "It's awfully white, Isn't it?" he murmured. Gingerly he tasted it, choked, and put down the glass. "Drink yours you Borgia!" he growled across the table. Forcing open the desk, Paul came upon the black ledger in which Stephens had noted his country-wide betting transactions. Hurriedly, he slipped the book in his pocket, glanced rapidly through the other drawers to see if there was any other evidence, then snapped off the desk light and started for the door. Just before reaching the door-. way, Paul thought he detected a sound; he paused a moment, felt sure he had been mistaken, strode forward and opened the door. Directly facing him was Whitey Barrow, who already had him covered cov-ered with his revolver. "Back up!" demanded Whitey. "Keep moving back!" Paul sensed that it was futile to argue. Silently he stepped back into the private office, as Whitey stealthily followed. "I could drop you right on the rug and collect a reward," said Whitey. "You broke in here." His eyes roved around the room and visualized what had happened to the desk. "Get your hands up!" ht added. As Paul raised ' his hands, the black ledger fell from under hit coat. "So you found the family archives!" ar-chives!" cried Whitey. "You know, I can use this little book in my business." As Whitey reached for the notebook, note-book, Paul plunged at him, grabbing grab-bing his wrist. They struggled desperately des-perately for several minutes, as the gun dropped to the floor. Finally Fin-ally Whitey managed to trip Paul, and the latter went down, cracking his head on the desk. Seizing the notebook, Whitey looked in vain for the gun. Then he hurried to the outer door. He threw it open, caught sight of a figure in front of him, and tried to turn. But it was too late. The bullet fired from across the threshold struck him in the heart, and he fell prostrate to the floor. '(To bo continued Primal In TT. 6. UL Copyright) 9M1 by Votm't toe. skirmish with Whitey Barrow, was his personal friend. "I suppose we might as well get down to cases," began Scully. "Nick, running the Athletic Commission is more than I bargained for. After six months of fruitless investigation on this race fixing, we finally manage man-age to get one witness, Gomez, who's been killed. Now we're right back where we started. The syndicate syndi-cate responsible for this has got to be smashed, but we're helpless unless we get actual evidence to convict them." Nick pursed his lips. "I can think of pleasanter pastimes than picking on the Stephens - Macy crowd," he commented. "Nick, you're the one man who can handle it," added, Paul earnestly. earn-estly. "There's a good man working on the case now, Lieutenant Abrams," said Nick. "He'll do all that I could do. Besides, I haven't a free minute. You don't know what work is all day in the park, convoying my son. All night I do escort duty my wife wants dancing and night clubs, wrestling bouts. I appreciate the invitation, but not this time " Link Stephens, a thick-set, superficially super-ficially genial man-about-town and his underweight, neurotio partner, Fred Macy, together made up a self-appointed sports trust for San Francisco. Rumors had been rife that Stephens and Macy were personally per-sonally responsible for the acknowledged acknowl-edged flock of "fixed" races, boxing and. wrestling bouts. As Nick and Nora passed down the arena to take their places for the night's wrestling matches, they saw Stephens, with a tall, glamorous glamor-ous blonde, Claire Porter, draped decoratively on his arm. When Stephens stopped at the business office, Whitey Barrow, who had been standing there, moved forward to Claire's side. Offering to escort her to her seat, he waited till they had reached a telephone al-Icove. al-Icove. and then faced her with a off the bracelet and silently handed hand-ed it to Whitey, who hurried away. Rainbow Benny Loomis, a furtive, fur-tive, dark-eyed figure dressed in a suit of raven black, slank into Link Stephens' private office, and paused before the desk of Molly Ford, Stephens' secretary and Paul Clarke's fiancee, who at once announced an-nounced him. All the affability had dropped from Stephens' pose as Rainbow, mopping his brow, stepped inside. Fred Macy was also scowling. "So you showed up at last!" he exclaimed. "What's loose?" countered Benny. "What's de matter, fellers?" He pulled a slip from his pocket that looked like a laundry list and supplemented sup-plemented this with a fat roll of bills. "It's been a heavy day," he went on. "Fifty G's, no less." Stephens reached out gruffly, took the list and the bills, pocketed pocket-ed the latter, and began to make entries of the racing bets in a small black ledger. His races, as Benny well knew, had to be maneuvered so that the big money stayed with the gamblers' trust. When Whitey Barrow was announced, an-nounced, a wave of Stephens' hand dismissed Rainbow Benny. As Stephens stepped forward, he saw from the look on Molly Ford's face that Whitey had in some way been annoying her. It was no secret to him that she disliked the reporter, re-porter, who in turn had been forcing forc-ing his attentions on her. "What's on your mind?" asked Stephens, when he had closed the door. "Link, it's like this," said Whitey bluntly. "I've done the best I could for you, up to now. Now it's getting hot. I need a change of air." "I suppose you need carfare?" asked Stephens, controlling his feelings feel-ings as he reached into his pocket. "Would five hundred help?" Whitey shook his head. Tm not going for a week-end, Link," he |