It was a hand. Five fingers, a palm and wrist. Pale, a little blue. It could have been fake except for the slightly ragged flesh at the wrist where it had been cut off. Nobody could have faked that so well. I picked it up and looked at the butt end. I could see the bone, the blood vessels, the fat layer under the skin and the skin.

Who would leave a hand in an alley in the middle of Manhattan?

I went to a phone and called a number I knew well. "Callahan? Gimme Lieutenant Pritchard.... Hello, Dick? Bruck. Found a hand in an alley--that's what I said, I found a hand in an alley off 56th. Yeah, a human hand. No, this isn't a joke.... No, I don't know whose it is. Are you kidding, carry a cut-off hand around with me? I put it under a trash can.... Yeah, get down here and I'll show it to you." I gave him the location and hung up.

Twenty minutes later Pritchard and I watched an assistant medical examiner from Manhattan General Hospital up the street pick it up and look at it. He turned it over a couple of times, looked at the butt end like I had, then put it in a rubber bag and got in his car. Pritchard went over and leaned in the window.

"Think you could take a minute to let a cop know what you found?"

The head tilted back and the thick lenses looked up at Pritchard. "It's a hand," the little guy told him.

Dick didn't say anything for a beat or two, then, patiently: "How old was the guy? How long ago? Cut off with what?"

The guy was a mouth-breather so I couldn't tell if he was just sucking in air or sighing at the stupidity of a non-doctor. He finally said, "I'll know more when I get it down to the lab." He put the city-issue Plymouth coupe in gear and drove off.

"I doubt it," Dick said aloud to himself.

"Mr. Coffee Nerves," I told him. "Mustn't get upset at the civil servants."

"Look, I don't need your smart mouth added to that guy's crap. Where was the hand when you found it? And what in the hell were you doing in an alley in the middle of the afternoon?"

To answer the first question I pointed to the side of the alley, over near a trash can, then answered the second with one of my own. "You think it'd be better if I was prowling around here in the middle of the night?"

"I asked you what you were doing here."

"Job."

"Oh, yeah? What kind of job? For who?"

"I think you're familiar with the Code of Conduct issued by the Licensing Board of Private Detectives of New York State. 'No licensed private detective shall reveal--'"

"I'm warning you, Bruck, anymore of your crap and I'll haul you in. This is a felony probably and a homicide maybe. You say you 'found' a hand, just by accident, laying in an alley. When I tell the D.A., he'll--"

"Laugh you out of his office," I finished for him. "Get serious."

He took his hat off to wipe his brow. You may remember the summer of '50 was a scorcher. It was close to ninety that day, and running around in a wool suit and heavy police brogans was having its effect on Dick: He was about to get pissed. When he gets like that, I can't resist. "Tell you what, I'll confess to putting the hand here and calling you to look at it if you'll dream up a motive for me doing it. Even trade. No, no, no, now don't thank me. You guys don't solve many cases and I'd like to--"

I didn't finish because he was walking away from me muttering something. I told myself I should be ashamed.

He stopped at his car near the entrance to the alley and waved for me to come to him. I pointed to my chest and mouthed, "Me?"

"Goddamnit, Bruck!" he yelled. "Get down here!"

When I got there, he shoved me towards a bar around the corner. "We're gonna have a little talk."

We settled in a booth near the back and ordered beers. "Now," he said, glaring at me, "you're gonna give some straight answers or I'm going to tell the Licensing Board of New York State Private Investigators about a no-longer licensed .38, formerly registered to the New York Police Department. And I'll tell them the serial number, and they'll be able to trace it to a patrolman a few years ago name of Bruck."

"God, you're beautiful when you're angry."

"Who's your client?"

I told him about the phone call that morning, telling me to meet someone at one o'clock in the alley. "What's wrong with my office? Or the street?" I'd asked the caller.

"The alley," the caller had insisted. "You'll be paid a $200 retainer and given information--"

"Wait a minute. I'm not sure I want this job. What's your name, and what's the job?"

"I can't tell you any more over the phone. You'll get the money and further information at one. Tell nobody."

"Wait a minute."

But he hung up, I told Dick. "So, I got to the alley at one o'clock and found the hand. And you know the rest."

"What is he, some kind of nut? He leaves a hand there for someone to find. What'd he sound like--old, accent, anything like that?"

"Old. High-class accent. You know, sort of a talking-down-his-nose kind of tone."

"He say anything at all about the job, what it was?"

I shook my head.

We finished the beers and ordered two more and sat there talking about the old days when crimes had whole bodies. Then Dick looked at me and said, "You sure you're telling me everything about the case? The hand and everything?"

"Yeah. And in return, I want to know everything you find out about that hand."

"Why?"

"I'm a curious kind of guy," I told him.

"You can say that again." And he got up and left, leaving me to pay for the beers. Well, they'd been worth it. His disposition had improved from unbearable to simply abrasive.

I got another call the next morning about the same time. The voice said, "You weren't there. I thought we had agreed--"

"Wrong on both counts," I told the guy. "I didn't agree to anything, but I was there. Now, unless you have a good explanation for--"

"What? The alley behind Ling Chow's Restaurant, Broadway near 56th? One o'clock last night? You weren't there."

The light dawned. "Of course I wasn't. Yesterday morning you said one o'clock. When someone says in the morning 'Meet me at one o'clock,' that means one in the afternoon."

The line was quiet. I heard him talking to someone in the background, then he was back on the line. "Mr. Bruck. I believe there was some confusion here but surely you would know that someone wanting strictest secrecy and confidentiality and who designates an alley could expect that the listener would understand that one o'clock means one AM. "

"Yeah, well, sorry, professor, I--"

"What?"

"I said, sorry, I'm a private detective, not a mind reader."

"Before that."

"I was in the army."

"Mr. Bruck," he said with forced patience like he was talking to Stone Age Man, "it is vitally important that you do precisely as I am going to tell you. You will be well paid. However, as before there must be strictest confidentiality. Meet at the walkway at Grant's Tomb, ten-thirty tonight. Do you understand?"

"I've been speaking English for several years now, but--" But I was talking to a faint buzz. The line had gone dead.

Interesting. He claimed he didn't show up till one AM. So who left the hand there for me to find twelve hours before?

Grant's Tomb is deserted in broad daylight, so at ten-thirty at night it's a pretty safe bet for a private meeting. Not even muggers hang around. I smoked a couple of fags down to the butt and checked my watch every couple of minutes until ten-forty. I began to think it was all some joke, a smart guy trying to see how many places he could make me go stand and wait. I even looked for body parts, thought I might find a foot or something laying around.

But for some reason I was taking the guy on the phone seriously. For all I knew, a family member had been kidnapped and was being returned one piece at a time. "Pay up or we keep sending you parts." No, that didn't make any sense. Nothing in this case made sense.

But, what the heck, in the detective business you don't come across a lot of normal people. And what harm could there be in coming up here to meet some old geezer?

"Put your hands up, please."

She had come out of nowhere. One second I was alone and the next she was not three feet away with a gun.

She moved towards me cautiously and touched my armpit, tapping my shoulder holster. "Slowly, take it out and lay it on the ground," she said with her gun pointed at my face. I did as I was told. She stuck a foot out to shove it out of my reach, and at that instant I struck--and missed--going for her gun hand. She moved back, smooth as a ballerina, gun still pointed at my head. "You are in no danger," she said reaching down for my gun and putting it in her shoulder bag. "No need for heroics. But you must do exactly as you are told."

"Silly me. When there's a gun pointed at me I always imagine I'm in danger."

I'll say this for her, she gave gunsels a good name. Besides the politeness, even in the dark I could see she was something of a looker. Slim and shapely. Soft voice.

"Your name is Bruck? Peter B. Bruck?"

"You go around pointing that thing at guys in the dark till you hit the right one? Of course my name's Bruck. What's going on? Where's the guy that called me?"

"This way," and she motioned with the gun for me to walk ahead of her over the rise to a parked car. She handed me some keys and told me, "You're driving."

She sat in the passenger seat corner facing me, a wide brim hat pulled low over her face. She kept the gun on me and gave me directions. Up to the George Washington Bridge, across to Jersey, then up the Hudson on the Palisades Parkway. Past Englewood, west through Bergenfield. Finally, off the pavement onto a country road out into the sticks. For several miles there was no traffic, no car lights ahead or behind. I half expected to pass Mammy Yokum on a mule.

"Around this curve take a sharp right," my guide said. "Slow down or you'll miss it."

We bounced onto what was really two ruts and I had to put the car in first gear. Fifteen minutes of bouncing up this track brought into view a ramshackle two-storey house on a hilltop. Not a sign of life.

"This is it," she said.

"This" was a leaning pile of boards and stone, backlighted by a quarter moon.

But inside, it was a modern well-lighted home with black-out curtains at the windows. I got a better look at the girl and the gun and confirmed my suspicions. One was a semi-hot number, the other was ice cold. She was younger than I'd thought, not much more than a kid. Good figure, but plain as a Plymouth. Which reminded me: The assistant M.E. might be examining a hand this kid cut off.

Off the entrance hall to the right was a long room that had been created by knocking the walls down between what I suppose had been a sitting room and a dining room. Now it looked like one huge chemistry lab, with glassware, instruments, gauges and Bunsen burners to gladden the heart of any mad scientist. What could have been central casting's idea of same appeared from behind me on cue. Tall and stooped, hawk-nose, pince-nez glasses, wild grey hair, intense eyes.

"Mr. Bruck," he said peering down at me, "so glad you are here. I apologize for the method, but I assure you the hugger-mugger was necessary--to be sure that you would come and that Margot would not be prevented from bringing you here once started on your way."

"Prevented? By who?"

"Whom. As you will see, there are those who oppose me."

Well, part mad scientist and part English professor.

"Okay," I told him. "You said there was a $200 retainer. If you'll just hand it over, I can find my own way back to Manhattan."

He scowled at me questioningly until she went to his side, gun still pointed in my general direction, stood on tiptoe, and said softly into his ear, "Humor, I think. Perhaps to seem to be in control."

"Oh. Oh. Very good," he said to me. "Yes, the $200. I have it here and you shall have it, but first, a few words about the job. As you can see" he swept a hand at the laboratory, "I am a scientist. I have discovered something that promises to save the lives of thousands, perhaps millions. But--"

"Look, doc, I don't much care about science. So far you and your assistant are guilty of menacing with a deadly weapon, kidnapping, and, for all I know, making Frankenstein movies. Not to mention the little matter of the hand in the alley. I've been very patient with you, but life's a lot more fun back in the big city, so...."And I stepped to her and took the gun out of her hand with no more trouble than if it had been a stale bagel. I also lifted my .38 from her shoulder bag.

The girl stayed in place, calm as a clam. The prof wasn't impressed either. "You believe in taking chances, I see," he said.

"Not really," I told him holding up the gun. "I thought I saw during the ride up here that she had the safety on. Not much danger from a girl who either doesn't know enough to take the safety off or doesn't remember to. I came along for the ride."

"And for the two hundred dollars," the professor said. "Pay him, please, Margot."

She pulled a stack of fresh bills from her purse. "Hold out your hand," she said. I hesitated, wondering if she had used the line recently on someone else.

"Just put it on the table there. What's this all about?" I asked the professor. "Why'd you get me up here?"

He directed my attention to the laboratory equipment. "Until one year ago, I was a professor of biology at the University of Maine, doing research on fungi. An amazing little substance, found all over the earth."

Ask a simple question, get an encyclopedia entry. "Yeah, I know all about 'em. Now what about the hand and--"

He stopped me with a look. "If you will be patient. I am explaining to you. Now, where was I?"

"You were telling about your research with fungi," she told him. The look in her eyes was the kind choir members give to preachers who soon after are charged with breaking commandments.

"Yes, yes. Now, fungi are everywhere and they range from microscopic to a meter or more across. Now, nature, as you know seeks homeostasis--"

"Hom-e-o-what-sis?"

"Homeostasis. Balance. Please, do not interrupt."

I made a production of looking at my watch, tapping the crystal and holding it up to my ear. He went on.

"You know, of course, that bacteria proliferate virtually all around us, but particularly in the intestines--in us and in every living insect, bird and animal."

Not just an encyclopedia entry. A whole book.

"Now, on a dairy farm, cows are continually defecating. It has been estimated that one cow produces four tons of fecal--"

"Wait, wait, wait. Skip the bullshit. Just tell me why you got me up here and--"

"Patience?" The guy's eyes burned holes in me. "Now, with all the creatures of the earth depositing billions of tons of feces and bacteria every day, why aren't we swimming in feces and bacteria?"

"I don't think about it that much."

"Fungi. That's the answer! Fungi in the soil eat the bacteria and help break down the fecal matter!"

Ah.

"And do you know what that means? That means that when bacteria cause infections, they can...be... controlled...by...FUNGI!"

"Just inject some barnyard dirt into patients and they're cured, huh?"

"You scoff, but that knowledge is worth hundreds of millions. And only I have it." He turned to the girl for another dose of adulation and got it. I would have given anything to swim in those soft eyes, to have those soft lips part for me. Maybe even dabbled in manure piles.

"Professor Weinstock is on the verge of saving humanity," she told me. "He has worked around the clock for the past year, going for days without sleep."

Well, that explained the one o'clock PM--one o'clock AM mix-up.

"And now," she went on, "he has developed a new medicine that will save the world from infections that penicillin and sulfa drugs are powerless against."

"And you think I'd make a good guinea pig. Sorry, I--"

He seemed to consider the idea for a moment, but went off on a different track. "If you will please listen. Margot, a former student and now my assistant, evaluated several private detectives for experience, reliability, character. We chose you because we think we can rely on you. I need a man to protect me until I can deliver a paper two days from now--"

"Tomorrow," Margot broke in gently.

He barely paused. "Tomorrow at the International Conference of the Society for Bacterial Research in New York. Once the paper has been presented, my work will belong to the world. No one person or drug company will have a monopoly. It will be made and sold all over the world, saving millions of people--"

I wasn't listening. I was watching as he went into a trance, seeing himself, probably, in the heavenly pantheon with Edison, Einstein and the inventor of nylons.

"Protection from who?" I broke in, bringing him back to the Ramapo Mountains.

"Dr. Proctor, an evil man who is president of the Fitch Chemical Company. If he steals my research, he will patent it and deprive millions of poor people of life-saving medicine."

"So you want me to protect you from some scientist?"

"He is ruthless. He will surely engage the services of one or more henchmen. He will stop at nothing." The lines around his eyes were deepening. His voice had gone up in pitch. I thought he might pound a lab table and break a few thousand test tubes.

"Shouldn't be too hard."

"Not as simple as you think. It is really my notes and records that are in danger, not me. A physical attack on me would occur only as part of an attempt to get my papers. However, once I reach the meeting room, he would be a fool to try to stop me. And when I present my findings to the audience, my claim to the research will be forever established.

"So, you see, his only chance is to lie in wait for me outside the conference room. In the parking garage, the lobby, even the hallway outside the room. Get me into the room and I will prevail. That much is simple."

"What's he look like?"

"He will be easy to pick out of the crowd. He has only one arm."

"What? Then he's the guy--"

Professor," Margot broke in, "it's two in the morning, and your talk is scheduled for ten thirty. Don't you think it's time you turned in? You want to be strong tomorrow."

"Wait a minute, wait a minute, I want to know--" but I was talking to their backs. At the top of the stairs she paused and said down to me, "I shall come and take care of you in a moment."

I counted out the bills--ten brand new twenties--and was putting them in my pocket when she showed up. I'd had an idea that her and the prof were bed buddies, but since she'd hustled back down to me, maybe she was interested in a younger man.

"Now I can make you comfortable for the night," she said.

"First, how about telling me about the hand."

"The hand?" She held one of her hands up in front of her face. "You mean this one?"

"Come on, game's over. I'm on to you."

"I'm afraid I don't understand." A distinct coolness had replaced the welcoming-hostess tone of a few seconds ago. I figured, what the hell, do I want to spend my time on a dead hand or a warm hostess?

"Now that the prof's down for the night," I suggested, " perhaps we should, uh, find a bed--"

"Oh, yes. But would you like something to eat? I've got some nice melons."

Obviously.

I decided she didn't mean it that way and said, "Sounds good. But no, I think it's time to we, you know, hit the hay, as they say out here."

"Yes. Come with me. I'll show you."

She led the way upstairs, opened the door next to the professor's room and motioned me in. "You'll find everything you want in here," she said.

Not likely, I muttered, watching her go to the room on the other side of the professor's.

What seemed like ten minutes after I hit the bed, she was shaking me awake. "If you hurry, you have time for some steamed figs and herb tea before we leave."

Yeah, right. Hurry for figs and tea. I fought back the queasiness with thoughts of steaming black coffee.

The prof asked me if I had a plan for getting him into the meeting room.

"Huh? Oh, right. Into the meeting room. Proctor will probably have some goons--" I stopped because both Margot and the prof were giving me blank looks. "Flat-noses. Hoods." Still blank. "Palookas? Yeggs?" Finally I said henchmen and they got it. "It may take more than me to get you into that room if Proctor brings a mob. If you have a phone, I can line up--"

The prof said to Margot. "I believe you evaluated ingenuity?"

She nodded.

He returned to me. "It was my understanding that all private detectives rely on ingenuity. You will have to improvise; that is your task. I will not risk having more than one outsider work for me."

So. It was me, an old guy and a girl up against who knew how many hired hands. I looked at Margot and got an idea. "Okay. Upstairs, bright eyes. Let's see how good you are."

The prof started to object but I stopped him. "You gave me the job, now let me do it." I looked at my watch. "We don't have much time."

He hesitated, then told her, "Do as he says."

I shooed her upstairs to her room.

"Dig out something sexy," I told her.

"Something sexy?"

"Yeah. Don't gimme the innocent look, let's see some of the stuff you wore to capture King Kong there." I indicated a smiling snapshot on the dresser, her next to a football player big enough to eat hay. The football in his hands looked like an egg.

"We were only friends."

Methinks she did protest too much.

"Here," I said, "let's get rid of that cardigan for a start."

"Keep your hands off me!"

"Just improvising, baby. Remember, prof's orders. Go on, take it off. Let's have a look at the blouse underneath." The prof's name worked; she shed the sweater. The blouse was dreary. "No good. Step into the closet and get rid of it and let me see you in something a little tighter. Got anything in red?" She shook her head no. "Pink?" Again no. "Well, let's take a look at what you've got. Git."

She went into the closet and closed the door, and so began the transformation of the drab lab mouse.

She came out in a white silk blouse buttoned up to her neck. I undid the top three buttons, getting my hands slapped again, but finally winning the point. Then I sent her back in for a skirt. "Anything you think you've outgrown," I told her, and she came out in one that stopped three inches above the knee and was stretched tight across the butt. "I haven't worn this in ages. It's too small."

"It's perfect. Now let me see you in high heels."

She wasn't happy when she came out in them. "I hate these things. I never wear them."

"You ought to. You got the equipment for 'em." I patted her on the butt. "Now sit down at the dressing table. Time for some lipstick, powder and paint."

"But, but, but..."

"Doctor's orders."

A few minutes later I had her do a turn for me in the middle of the room. "Great. Good enough to eat."

"I feel ridiculous. I must look like a...a hussy."

"Nah," I told her. "Hussies don't frown. Smile. Think of all the dried specimens at the conference who are going to have organisms when they see you." And she let a little grin show at the corners of her mouth.

"Now," I said, "got a raincoat?"

She shook her head. "Only a winter coat."

"Get it."

"What? I'll roast!"

"Get it." She got.

I had her throw it over her arm and go downstairs ahead of me. I thought the prof's eyes were going to pop out of his head. "This...this is.... What...why?"

"Improvisation, doc."

It was Margot who got things moving. "We must start for the city and the meeting," she told him. "Perhaps you should sit in the back and study your notes."

"Yes. Yes," he replied absently, eyes still on her. "Get my papers. I'll look at them."

And off we went down the Ramapo Mountains into the wilds of New York, me at the wheel and Margot in the front passenger seat, constituting in a way her own hazard to navigation.

Almost two hours later I said, "Okay, prof, George Washington Bridge coming up," I said. "Get down low in the back seat and stay there till I give you the all-clear. Margot, get ready."

"For what?"

"I'll tell you when the time comes."

"But--"

"Just keep your eyes peeled when we get to the hotel parking garage."

When we pulled into the Erie Hotel garage in midtown fifteen minutes later, Margot had her peepers peeled. She pointed. "Over there, by the entrance. A man smoking a cigarette."

He didn't look much like a bacteriologist. Checked sport coat and loud tie; about six feet and two hundred pounds.

"Okay," I told her as I nosed the car into a parking spot on the far wall, "Give me your coat and walk towards the entrance."

"All of a sudden, I'd rather have my coat on."

"Don't worry, I'll be nearby. Professor, you stay here out of sight."

She ankled across the garage, the tap of her high heels echoing off the walls. I worked my way around so I was almost behind the guy and watched as he went from interested to bug-eyed. When I was about ready to pin his arms at his side, a shrill voice called from somewhere off in the dark, "George, where are you? George! Oh, there you are." A woman in a silly hat and carrying packages came from the garage's street entrance towards him. "Stop that staring at her. Get over here and help me. I can't trust you out of my sight."

She marched him away down a row of cars as he tried for a last look over his shoulder. Well, I knew my secret weapon worked. I signalled Margot back to the car and told her and the prof, "Okay, now for the lobby. Margot, leave your coat on till we get to the meeting floor."

We were nearly through the lobby when the prof said, "My god!"

A round man with the look of a lion with a thorn in its paw was striding quickly towards us. But it wasn't his expression that caught my eye--it was the huge round ball of bandage at the end of his right arm. I set myself up to feint with my left and throw a right cross but the professor rushed up to meet him. "Dr. Speigelbush, what has happened to your hand? Are you all right?"

The round guy said in a thick Teutonic accent, "Ach. I got my hand caught in the test tube washer." Pause. "They fired us both. Ha! Ha! Ha! Nein, my dear friend, it is painful but not serious. A small accident in the laboratory. Come, it is almost time for the meeting to begin. And you must introduce me to this lovely--"

"You go ahead," I told the guy and pushed both the prof and Margot behind me. "We have a few things we have to talk over down here first."

"Oh, ja. Always, more discussion. I will see you at the meeting, Herr Weinstock." And he leaned to get a look around me at Margot before heading to the elevator.

"What do you mean, pulling a stunt like that," I said to the prof.. " He might have been--"

"Pish tosh," the professor said. "There's nothing to fear from him. It's Proctor I have to worry about."

I looked at my watch. Three minutes to get the prof to the meeting room.

We used the back fire stairs to get up to the meeting room floor. I told them to wait while I checked things out.

I opened the door a crack and looked down a long hall filled with guys in baggy suits. There must have been three dozen of them, gathered in knots of two or three, talking and stroking their beards sagely, wandering in and out of the double doors of the meeting room. Inside that roomI could see another dozen or so, waiting for the morning program to resume. A harmless looking bunch.

Except for one guy, who looked like he could grab the whole gang of bugologists and squeeze juice out of them. He was stationed on the near side of double doors, sweeping the crowd with his eyes regular as windshield wipers. And his suit didn't bag, it bulged.

At the far end of hall, some twenty yards beyond Windshield Wiper Eyes, was a grim-faced guy who had just waited to see who got off the elevator. He apparently didn't find who he had been looking for because he started marching up the hall, half a step in front of two bruisers, weaving around the small groups of scientists.

And then I got a better look at Grim-face. One empty sleeve was tucked into a coat pocket.

Well, this was what I'd brought Margot along for. If she could create a diversion for long enough I could get the prof into the room. But I had to ask myself: Am I a big enough chump to send a dainty little girl out there with those guys?

I didn't have to decide. While I was thinking, she crowded past me out the door and called, "Darling."

It was like a bell went off in Pavlov's lab. One by one, the geezers turned and started salivating. Except for the W. W. Eyes. He rushed at her.

She took one of his ears in each hand to pull herself up to plant a big wet one on his kisser. In the complete silence, everybody heard her say, "Oh, Horace, I've missed you so much."

And then the prof saw his chance. Without waiting for a go from me, he made a dash for the doors. Proctor and the bruisers saw him and took off to intercept him at the doors.

"Margot! the professor!" I called, pointing to Proctor and the bruisers.

Margot took Horace's massive head in her hands and turned his face towards the attackers. "Sic 'em, Horace," she said.

It was a joy to watch. He put Margot down and picked the lead bruiser up like a log over his head and tossed him at the other two. They landed in a clump against the far wall, six legs and five arms sticking out at odd angles.

Horace and I held down the three down while the prof started his talk and Margot called the cops, then she came back to kiss her hero. That would be Horace, not me.

"I should never have left you," she said. "But I wanted to be involved in important work, to do something, not just stay on the sidelines."

"Aw, that's all right, darlin'. I can see why you were tired of watching me play football. But those days are over. I've got a new mission in life."

"What?"

"I'm a football coach."

Her face sank, and she looked a little longingly towards the meeting room as thunderous applause broke out for the prof.

Well, I guess not every story has a perfect ending.

When the cops took Proctor and the bad boys away, I found a phone. "Hello, Callahan? Gimme Pritchard.... Dick? This is Bruck. Thought I'd let you know, I got the missing hand case all wrapped up--"

"What are you talking about?"

"Look, Dick, I know it's hot and life is tough sitting around the station house in front of a fan all day, but real detectives have to go out and work. The hand, the hand. Remember the hand in the alley?"

"Oh, that hand. Yeah, what about it?"

"I got the case pretty well sewed up. A few loose ends but I'll--"

"Be the laughing stock of New York," he broke in. "There's nothing to it."

"What?"

"Yeah. It was nothing. Of course you noticed it was a cadaver hand. Bloodless, a little blue. Real detectives pick up clues like that."

"A cadaver hand? No, and you didn't either, or you would have said--"

"Oh, sure. Knew it all along. Then I did a little checking--you know, like real detectives do--and found out the Manhattan Hospital med school right up the street was missing a hand from anatomy class. And, lo and behold, a student admits he took it to his room for study and his dog tried to eat his homework--"

"Stop it, stop it. You didn't figure this all out yourself. That lousy assistant M.E. gave you the whole story, didn't he?"

"Ah, ah, ah, Mr. Coffee Nerves. Musn't get upset at the civil servants. A real detective--"

But he was talking to a faint buzz. I had hung up.

Return to the collection of Derringer Award-nominated stories by Robert L. Isles.