Crawford nodded. "It just came to me. It had to be you. Supposedly, you
broke into the mosque from the back at the same moment I came in the
front. Actually, you were already inside." Homer grunted. "Besides, it
would have been awfully difficult for anyone else to have doped that
bottle of cognac on me. What I couldn't understand, and still can't, was
motive. We've been in the clutch together more than once, Abe."

"That's right, Homer, but there are some things so important that
friendship goes by the board. I could see as far back as that meeting
something that hadn't occurred to either you or the others. You were a
born El Hassan. I figured it was necessary to get you out of the way and
put one of our own--perhaps me, even--in your place. No ill feelings,
Homer. In fact, now I've just given you your chance. You could come in
with us--"

Even as he was speaking, his eyes moved in a way Homer Crawford
recognized. He'd seen Abe Baker in action often enough. A gun flicked
out of an under-the-arm holster, but Crawford moved in anticipation. The
flat of his hand darted forward, chopped and the hand weapon was on the
floor.

As Isobel screamed, Abe countered the attack. He reached forward in a
jujitsu maneuver, grabbed a coat sleeve and a handful of suit coat. He
twisted quickly, threw the other man over one hip and to the floor.

But Homer Crawford was already expertly rolling with the fall, rolling
out to get a fresh start.

Abe Baker knew that in the long go, in spite of his somewhat greater
heft, he wouldn't be able to take his former chief in the other man's
own field. Now he threw himself on the other, on the floor. Legs and
arms tangled in half realized, quickly defeated holds and maneuvers.

Abe called, "Quick, Isobel, the gun. Get the gun and cover him."

She shook her head, desperately. "Oh no. No!"

Abe bit out, his teeth grinding under the punishment he was taking,
"That's an order, _Comrade Cunningham_! Get the gun!"

"No. No, I can't!" She turned and fled the room.

Abe muttered an obscenity, bridged and crabbed out of the desperate
position he was in. And now his fingers were but a few inches from the
weapon. He stretched.

Homer Crawford, heavy veins in his own forehead from his exertions,
panted, "Abe, I can't let you get that gun. Call it quits."

"Can't, Homer," Abe gritted. His fingers were a few fractions of an inch
from the weapon.

Crawford panted, "Abe, there's just one thing I can