“My stories have been about murder,” Rourke reminded him.

“So they have. You’ve done a lot of insinuating.” Brenner pointed the glowing tip of his cigar at him. “People who read your stuff are beginning to believe they’ll be marked for murder if they win anything at my tables.”

“Like the last three,” Rourke agreed without emphasis.

“You’re a fool if you honestly think I had any part in those killings. I don’t have to make my money that way. I know the suckers will be back the next night to drop their winnings.”

“I don’t think you engineered any of the murders, but you’re directly responsible,” Rourke said calmly. “As long as you stay in business, they’ll go on.”

“Five hundred a week,” Brenner said sharply.

“Or else?”

“Or else.”

Rourke took a final drag on his limp cigarette, crushed it out in an ash tray, and said, “I’ve got you on the run. Painter doesn’t like this setup any better than I do. Public opinion has forced him to hold his hand. But I’m changing all that, Brenner. You were a fool to let those three customers be murdered. That’s going to put you out of business.”

“I don’t think so.” Brenner drummed on the desk with long, white, spatulate fingers. “Say it was a mistake,” he went on quietly. “Say I didn’t have things well enough organized. I’ll see that it doesn’t happen again.”

“Give us the killers,” Rourke suggested. “Including the finger bitch.”

Brenner’s square jaw was set and he said, “You’ve done a lot of nosing around,” through tight lips.

“That’s the only thing that’ll take the heat off.”

After a moment’s consideration Brenner said, “Can’t be done,” almost regretfully, and added, “In the first place, I don’t know anything about it.”

“You offered to see that it doesn’t happen again,” Rourke argued reasonably.

“I can pass the word along,” said Brenner, “but we can’t change what’s already happened.”