"You still don't see it? Well, perhaps it will help if I mention the word blackmail."

"Blackmail? What…"

"A highly original kind, Mr. McCoy. Almost an attractive kind. To elaborate, one is forced to go along with the wishes of the blackmailer, whether or no. But the mailed fist-or should I say the muddy fist? — also contains a prize; something delectable indeed. One is even allowed to sample it generously, by way of making sure that it is worth the cooperation which one is forced to extend…"

He let his voice trail away. He waited deliberately, prolonging the delicate torture, deepening the sickish heart-tightening suspense. Then, although nothing more needed to be said, he resumed talking. He spelled the thing out, speaking with a false sympathy that was worse than any hatred. Speaking with lewdly gleaming eyes, his wide mouth salaciously wet.

He's drunk, Doc thought. He's lying. He's sore, so he's striking back, digging at the one spot where it will hurt.

In the whispering twilight there was a minutely exploratory movement of the screen door. His attention riveted on Beynon, Doc didn't hear it.

"Take it a little at a time," Beynon was saying. "Approach the matter from all sides. One-" he held up a finger, waggled it in pseudo-courtroom fashion. "One, we have an extremely attractive woman, one who has thoroughly demonstrated her desirability. Two-" he put up a second finger, "we have the woman's husband, probably the most skillful bank robber in the country, who is serving a long prison sentence. Three-" another finger, "we have a powerful politician, a man who is in a position to free the robber husband. Why should he be freed? Well, naturally, to rob a bank, thus leaving the woman and the politicion comfortably fixed for life, the ill winds peculiar to public office notwithstanding. Secondly- would you care to guess at a second-but by no means the lesser-motive, Mr. McCoy? No? Very well, then…"

His voice purred on, pushing and twisting the knife; moving Doc McCoy off balance, hacking away at the one thing he had trusted and believed in.

"Consider, Mr. McCoy. Our robber is notoriously ingenious and deadly. He is also devoted to his wife. If he lost her to another man, he would quite likely kill both of them at the soonest opportunity-at the end of his prison sentence, that is. This didn't appeal to them at all, of course. Yet unless they gave each other up and resigned themselves to a life of modest or no comforts, there was only one alternative. To free the bank robber, let him make them wealthy, and then, having lured him to an isolated spot such as this…"

Beynon leaned forward, his voice dropping to a harsh conspiratorial whisper. "Then, Mr. McCoy, when he is off guard, when he is no longer sure of where he stands, whether he is captured or captor, when, being sure, he still would not dare to move; then, Mr. McCoy-_kill him!_

Doc heard the screen at last. Heard it close-firmly, with no attempt at silence.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Carol move out of the shadows. And he saw the gun, held very steady, in her hand.

Was it pointed at him? If he moved, would it be pointed at him-blasting him into oblivion before his move could be completed?

It would, he was sure. Carol was practical. She could be as merciless as he. Undoubtedly she had heard much if not all that Beynon had said. If she thought that he, Doc, believed the man-and was he so hard to believe? mustn't there be a great deal of truth in what he said-if she thought that he believed Beynon, and was about to act accordingly…

He didn't know what to do. With extreme cleverness-or with drunken, conscience-stricken truthfulness-Beynon had so fixed things that any move or no move could be fatal.

"This-this is stupid," he said, his voice amused but deeply sincere; making the words at once a statement and a plea. "Did you really think I'd fall for a sucker pitch like that?"

"A trick question," Beynon pointed out promptly. "You don't know whether it is or isn't a sucker pitch. To be fair, neither do I. Obviously, I believed little Carol-our Carol, shall I say? — at one time. But with three men killed in spite of her promise that there would be none-well, was just that one promise of hers a lie or were all of them? Another thing…"

"That's enough," Doc broke in. "It was a good try, Beynon but…"

"Another thing-" Beynon raised his voice. "She may have been entirely sincere and truthful with me. It may be that she just didn't know there would be three murders-in addition, of course, to your own. But seeing my dismay at the killings, and fearful that I might be a frail reed to tie to…"

It was wicked, cruel. And still he wasn't through. Beaming falsely, he drove home the final nail in Doc's cross of doubt.

"Carol, sweetheart-" Beynon pushed back his chair and stood up, extended one arm in an embracing gesture. "I hope you won't think ill of her, Mr. McCoy. After all, you were locked up for a long time-your first separation since your marriage, wasn't it? — and she's a healthy, vigorous young woman with perhaps more than her share of…"

Carol let out a low moan. She came at him with a rush, and jammed the gun into his stomach. And the room rocked with its stuttering explosions.

Beynon shrieked wildly; it sounded strangely like laughter. He doubled at the waist, in the attitude of a man slapping his knees; then collapsed, dead, riddled with bullets, before his body completed its somersault.

The gun dropped from Carol's fingers. She stood very straight, eyes squeezed shut, and wept helplessly.

"He-he was lying, Doc. The mean, h-hateful, dirty-! I wish I could kill him again…"

"There, there now. Don't let it throw you." Doc held her in his arms, caressed her with hands that were still damp with sweat. "I'll get you a drink of the booze here, and…"

"He was lying, Doc! Y-you believe me, don't you? There wasn't anything at all like-like he said."

"Of course there wasn't," Doc said warmly. "I never thought for a moment that there was."

"I–I was just friendly, i-just pretended to be. I couldn't help it. I had to be nice, make him want to know me, or he wouldn't have…"

It was a moment before Doc realized that she was talking about only the one facet of Beynon 's story: her supposed or actual infidelity. That was all that bothered her, all that she was denying. Which must mean there was nothing else to deny.

It was a comforting thought, and he hugged her to him fiercely with a kind of shamed ardor. Then he realized that if the undisputed part of the story was false, the other must be true. And he had to fight to keep from shoving her away.

"T-that's why I didn't want to come here, Doc. I–I was afraid he'd say something-rn-make up a lot of lies, just to get even with me, and

Doc sat down on a chair and pulled her onto his lap. Smiling lovingly, he got her to take a drink, gently dried her tears with his handkerchief.

"Now, let's look at it this way," he said. "You wanted to get me out. The only way you could do it was to compromise him, so-wait, now! There had to be something between you. After all, if you didn't have a club to swing over his head, how — .

He broke off. The look in her eyes stopped him. He forced a laugh which sounded reasonably genuine, then stood up, lifting her in his arms.

"A very clever man," he smiled. "It's hard not to admire him. But I think we've let his gag bother us enough, so suppose we forget it?"

Carol brightened a little. "Then you do believe me, Doc?"

"Believe you?" Doc said warmly. "Now, why wouldn't I believe you, my dear?"

He carried her upstairs and laid her down on a bed. She clung to his hand when he started to straighten, made him sit down at her side while she told him how she had compromised Beynon. It sounded reasonable. Doc seemed satisfied. Urging Carol to try to rest, he went back downstairs and lugged Beynon's body down into the basement.