Then I came to the local paper. It was thought I might be here. It was thought that the man who acted so strangely on the west-bound train that morning, and who vanished at a point several miles out of town, might have been Cuff the Murderer. Descriptions tallied. Tentative identification had been made from telephotos. My lip lifted in a silent snarl. The hounds were baying close. I dressed and shaved off my mustache. I put on dark glasses and went out to a bar. The liquor tasted like water from a goldfish bowl. I walked the streets. About midnight a policeman gave me a second look, then called questioningly. I waited until he came to me, and then with savage glee I put him across my knee and broke his back. I went to the hotel and stored up some more sleep, like an animal, preparing for the time when I should be fleeing or fighting around the clock. CHAPTER VI It was some two hours before sunrise. I was dressing, packing leisurely. There was a knock at the door. My light was on. I could not pretend to be asleep. "What is it?" "Police sir. We're checking for a wanted man. Will you open up, please?" I threw the last of my stuff into the Gladstone and shoved it under the bed. Putting my ear to the panel of the door, I listened for their breathing. There were two of them, and probably more within call, checking other rooms where a single man was registered. I tipped the shade of the lamp so that my face would be in shadow, and opened the door. They walked in, one of them diffident, the other as insolent as a thug, with his hand on his holstered revolver. The second would be the less dangerous, I thought; he would be faster to draw that gun but more stupid in his reactions to a surprise than the other, who looked the more intelligent. So as they entered, turning to face me, I pushed the door shut with my heel and let the smart, shy one have a quick jab on the angle of his jaw to quiet him for a time. That left me the tough boy, and I looked forward to a good time with him. He was fast on the draw. His gun was not buttoned down and it fairly flew out to cover me. I am big and make a fine target. His eyes were squinting at my chest where he expected to shoot me and he never saw my foot come off the floor. The gun exploded out of his broken hand and skidded across the room. He was full of guts. He came at me with his one good hand and his knees and even his teeth. I did not want to be marked. I kept my face away from him and let him hit me twice in the stomach. Then I caught his wrist and flying-mared him over my shoulder. The crack of his skull against the wall was a burst of sharp sweet music. I grinned wide. Then I bent over the other policeman. I had hit him more scientifically than I had known. He wouldn't get up any more. That made five. Five murders! Five killings, using no weapons, just my hands, for five violent homicides! * * * * *