uttered a choking curse.

"Listen you!" Mike suddenly bellowed, the echoes in the booth almost knocking it over. "Get the hell offa this line! Howdja get on in the first place?"

Mort stopped drumming his fingers and glanced startledly at the booth. Crimson began to return to his face.

"What's up?" he shouted. He started toward the booth. I followed him. We could hear Mike spluttering incoherently inside. Then there was an ear-splitting racket as the big bookie smashed the receiver back into the hook and turned purple faced toward us.

"The gag artist!" he raged. "The same damn wise guy. The Hitler-Mussolini smart aleck. He was waitin' on the line. He hadn't hung up. He told me he hadda wait on the line, cause he didn't dare break off the connection. He said it was too hard to make inna first place. He said he hoped we didn't mind if he waited until we got Adolf and Benito on the wire fer him!"

y now Mort was spluttering, and this time neither partner seemed to have a calming effect on the other. They were both raging, boiling mad.

"I'll call the cops!" Mike bellowed. "That's what I'll do!" He began to pace up and down. "I'll have that guy electrocuted!"

"I'm going out," Mort stormed, "and get the operator onna 'nother phone. I'll report that so-and-so, and they'll trace him down through the telephone company!"

He started for the door. Mike grabbed his arm.

"Waita minute!" he exclaimed. "We can't do that!"

Mort tore his arm from his partner's grasp. "What's stopping us?" he demanded.

"The State's Attorney's office!" Mike groaned. "Maybe it's a trap set by them skunks from the State's Attorney's office. Maybe it's the start of their telephone tracing of bookmakers!"

Sickly, Mort turned back. His face was still flushed, but three fourths of his steam was gone.

"Maybe you're right," he admitted. "And if so, what a helluva note this is!"

I couldn't hold back my curiosity any longer.

"Look," I said. "I have an idea. If it's a joker, perhaps I can talk him out of it better than you boys. You'll need that wire today, and the joker might just be drunk and obstinate enough to hang on all day long to spite you. Maybe he knows you won't dare report it. I'm not steamed up; maybe I'll reason with him better because I'm not. You want me to?"

Mort and Mike gave me grateful glances.

"You get ridda that wise guy," Mike said, "and we'll never ferget it!"

"Go to it, chumly," Mort said, "and if you lose that louse, we'll make it up to you!"

I went over to the booth and, stepping inside, took the receiver from the hook. I had a jovial, let's-be-friends opener all ready.

"Hello, pal," I said amiably.

The voice that came to my ears was distinctly unlike what I'd expected. I don't quite know how or why it sounded so strange and eerie, but it did. It was a man's voice, coming over the wire the way long distance calls used to sound before they got transmission technique down pat.

"Hello there," said the voice. "Have they arrived yet?"

It wasn't the voice of a drunk. And if it were that of a practical joker, the poker-faced quality of it was perfect acting. It sounded earnestly, eagerly serious.

"You mean Adolf and Benito?" I asked. I was willing to play ball for a few minutes if it brought results. Besides, I was curious.

"Yes."

"Why do you want to talk to them?" I asked.

"I don't want to talk to them. My boss does," the voice answered.

"Then put your boss on," I said. "I'll talk to him."

"You are neither Hitler nor Mussolini," the voice replied. "He wishes to speak only to them. He's very busy. Too busy to waste time in idle conversation. Please fetch Hitler and Mussolini to the wire."

"Who are you?" I demanded.

"I have already covered that