Burn, Witch, Burn!

fascination by the severed head might have been assumed. And the tossing of the match a calculated

action designed to destroy evidence. I did not feel that I could trust my own peculiar reactions as valid.

And yet it was difficult to credit McCann with being so consummate an actor, so subtle a plotter. Ah, but

he could be following the instructions of another mind capable of such subtleties. I wanted to trust

McCann. I hoped that he would pass the test. Very earnestly I hoped it.

The test was ordained to failure. Ricori was fully conscious, wide awake, his mind probably as alert and

sane as ever. But the lines of communication were still down. His mind had been freed, but not his body.

The paralysis persisted, forbidding any muscular movements except the deep-seated unconscious

reflexes essential to the continuance of life. He could not speak. His eyes looked up at me, bright and

intelligent, but from an expressionless face…looked up at McCann with the same unchanging stare.

McCann whispered: "Can he hear?"

"I think so, but he has no way of telling us."

The gunman knelt beside the bed and took Ricori's hands in his. He said, clearly: "Everything's all right,

boss. We're all on the job."

Not the utterance nor the behavior of a guilty man-but then I had told him Ricori could not answer. I

said to Ricori:

"You're coming through splendidly. You've had a severe shock, and I know the cause. I'd rather you

were this way for a day or so than able to move about. I have a perfectly good medical reason for this.

Don't worry, don't fret, try not to think of anything unpleasant. Let your mind relax. I'm going to give you

a mild hypo. Don't fight it. Let yourself sleep."

I gave him the hypodermic, and watched with satisfaction its quick effect. It convinced me that he had

heard.

I returned to my study with McCann. I was doing some hard thinking. There was no knowing how long

Ricori would remain in the grip of the paralysis. He might awaken in an hour fully restored, or it might

hold him for days. In the meantime there were three things I felt it necessary to ascertain. The first that a

thorough watch was being kept upon the place where Ricori had gotten the doll; second, that everything

possible be found out about the two women McCann had described; third, what it was that had made

Ricori go there. I had determined to take the gunman's story of the happenings at the store at their face

value-for the moment at least. At the same time, I did not want to admit him into my confidence any

more than was necessary.

"McCann," I began, "have you arranged to keep the doll store under constant surveillance, as we agreed

last night?"

"You bet. A flea couldn't hop in or out without being spotted."

"Any reports?"

"The boys ringed the joint close to midnight. The front's all dark. There's a building in the back an' a

space between it an' the rear of the joint. There's a window with a heavy shutter, but a line of light shows

under it. About two o'clock this fish-white gal comes slipping up the street and lets in. The boys at the

back hear a hell of a squalling, an' then the light goes out. This morning the gal opens the shop. After a

while the hag shows up, too. They're covered, all right."

"What have you found out about them?"

"The hag calls herself Madame Mandilip. The gal's her niece. Or so she says. They rode in about eight

months since. Nobody knows where from. Pay their bills regular. Seem to have plenty of money. Niece

does all the marketing. The old woman never goes out. Keep to themselves like a pair of clams. Have

strictly nothing to do with the neighbors. The hag has a bunch of special customers-rich-looking people

many of them. Does two kinds of trade, it looks-regular dolls, an' what goes with 'em, an' special dolls

which they say the old woman's a wonder at. Neighbors ain't a bit fond of 'em. Some of 'em think she's

handling dope. That's all yet."

Special dolls? Rich people?

Rich people like the spinster Bailey, the banker Marshall?

Regular dolls-for people like the acrobat, the bricklayer? But these might have been "special" too, in

ways McCann could not know.

"There's the store," he continued. "Back of it two or three rooms. Upstairs a big room like a storeroom.

They rent the whole place. The hag an' the wench, they live in the rooms behind the store."

"Good work!" I applauded, and hesitated-"McCann, did the doll remind you of somebody?"

He studied me with narrowed eyes.

"You tell me," he said at last, dryly.

"Well-I thought it resembled Peters."

"Thought it resembled!" he exploded. "Resembled-hell! It was the lick-an'-spit of Peters!"

"Yet you said nothing to me of that. Why?" I asked, suspiciously.

"Well I'm damned-" he began, then caught himself. "I knowed you seen it. I thought you kept quiet

account of Shevlin, an' followed your lead. Afterwards you were so busy putting me through the jumps

there wasn't a chance."

"Whoever made that doll must have known Peters quite well." I passed over this dig. "Peters must have