“Neither can I change what I’ve written.”

“You’re not quite out on a limb,” Brenner reminded him. “I don’t even demand a retraction. Just drop the line you’ve been pounding on.”

“Suppose I don’t.”

“Then you’ll be out five hundred a week-and you will, anyhow. I can put pressure on your publisher.”

Rourke stood up and said, “You’re a cold-blooded bastard, Brenner. The rackets stunk bad enough before the war.”

Brenner’s smile was cold. “That old line again,” he scoffed.

Rourke’s face was taut and his eyes were murderous. He swung angrily toward the door through which he had entered. The side door opened and Bing hurried in with an early afternoon edition of the Courier in his hand. He was excited. He thrust the paper at Brenner and panted, “Look at this, Boss. It just came.”

Monk came in and got between Rourke and the outer door, his big hands doubled into fists.

Brenner spread the paper out and began reading the front page item. Rourke saw that some of the news had been crowded off to give his story a prominent spot. He had a sudden let-down feeling inside. Up to now he hadn’t thought much about personal danger. In his mind he had characterized Brenner and his ilk as rats and was contemptuous of them, but as he watched the gambler’s face, he wished to God he was out of there.

It was ominously silent in the ornate office. The only sound was Bing’s heavy breathing. Then there was the rustling of the newspaper as Brenner laid it aside. He lifted his cold blue gaze to Rourke and said, “You really spilled your guts this time.” He nodded to Monk.

Monk slugged Rourke. It didn’t appear to be a hard blow. It struck the reporter on the side of the head. He tried to roll with it, and to his surprise found himself rolling all the way to the floor.

Brenner puffed on his cigar and said with sadistic calm, “Work him over, Monk.”