ortly before three the two men
left the Hospital by the Physicians' entrance, and Prex's little beat-up
Dartmouth slid smoothly into the desultory traffic for the suburbs.

* * * * *

The apartment was small and neatly furnished. Shandor and the Doctor had
been admitted by a sleepy doorman who had been jolted to sudden
attention by Tom's PIB card, and after five minutes pounding on the
apartment door, a sleepy-eyed man opened the door a crack. "Say, what's
the idea pounding on a man's door at this time of night? Haven't you--"

Shandor gave the door a shove with his shoulder, driving it open into
the room. "Shut up," he said bluntly. He turned so the light struck his
face, and the little man's jaw dropped in astonishment. "Shandor!" he
whispered.

Frank Mariel looked like a weasel--sallow, sunken-cheeked, with a
yellowish cast to his skin that contrasted unpleasantly with the coal
black hair. "That's right," said Shandor. "We've come for a little talk.
Meet the doctor."

Mariel's eyes shifted momentarily to Prex's stoney face, then back to
Shandor, ghosts of fear creeping across his face. "What do you want?"

"I've come for the files."

The little man scowled. "You've come to the wrong man. I don't have any
files."

Prex carefully took a small black case from his pocket, unsnapped a
hinge, and a small, shiny instrument fell out in his hand. "The files,"
said Shandor. "Who has them?"

"I--I don't know--"

Shandor smashed a fist into the man's face, viciously, knocking him
reeling to the floor. "You tried to kill me tonight," he snarled. "You
should have done it up right. You should stick to magazine editing and
keep your nose out of dirty games, Mariel. Who has the files?"

Mariel picked himself up, trembling, met Shandor's fist, and sprawled
again, a trickle of blood appearing at his mouth. "Harry Dartmouth has
the files," he groaned. "They're probably in Chicago now."

"What do you know about Harry Dartmouth?"

Mariel gained a chair this time before Shandor hit him. "I've only met
him a couple of times. He's the president of Dartmouth Bearing
Corporation and he's my boss--Dartmouth Bearing publishes '_Fighting
World_.' I do what he tells me."

Shandor's eyes flared. "Including murder, is that right?" Mariel's eyes
were sullen. "Come on, talk! Why did Dartmouth want Ingersoll's personal
files?"

The man just stared sullenly at the floor. Prex pressed a stud on the
side