hought this Cordell guy did that
job?"

Slowly Kirk replaced the receiver and eyed Naia North across the desk
from him. "Looks like you're elected," he said somberly. "I'm telling
you straight: the D. A. isn't going to like this at all--not even any
part of it."

Her brow wrinkled. "I'm afraid I don't understand. Doesn't he want
murder cases solved?"

Kirk smiled crookedly. "You're forgetting this case _was_ solved--over a
month ago. You any idea what it can mean to a politician to have to
admit publicly that he's made a mistake? Especially a mistake that's
going to get all the publicity this one's bound to? 'District attorney
railroads innocent man!' 'Tragic miscarriage of justice averted only by
chance!' Stuffy editorials in the opposition press about incompetence in
high offices and how the voters must keep out anybody who goes around
executing the innocent and helpless. Looks like Arthur Kahler Troy is
going to be a mighty unpopular man around these parts--and election less
than five months away!"

He glanced up at the office clock. It was nearly nine o'clock in the
evening, and both of them were showing signs of wear. Kirk left his
chair and went over to the water cooler, drank two cupfuls and brought
one back to the girl. She thanked him with a wan smile and gulped down
the contents.

He took the empty paper container and crumpled it slowly. "Might as well
get hold of him," he muttered. "It's going to be mighty damned rough,
sister. You sure you want to go through with it?"

She lifted an eyebrow at him. "That's a peculiar question for a homicide
officer to ask, isn't it?"

"I suppose so." His eyes shifted to the phone on his desk, stayed there
for a long moment. Then he shrugged hugely and picked up the
receiver....

* * * * *

It was well after two in the morning before Martin Kirk reached his
apartment. He showered and got into a fresh pair of pajamas and went
into the small, sparsely furnished living room. He moved slowly and with
no spring in his step, and the set of his features was harsh and
strained in the soft light from the floor lamp.

Troy had been even more difficult than he'd feared. What had begun as
plain irritability at being disturbed, had passed by successive stages
to amused disbelief, open anger and finally reluctant conviction that
Paul Cordell was innocent of the crimes for which he had been sentenced
to die.

A male stenographer from his staff