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As Kolcicki stood up, Matt heard himself cry in a distant voice, “Don't! Don't hit me! All right, all right! Please don't hit me again. I'll say what you—you want. Tell me what to say, but don't hit me.” His words died in a whisper.

Kolcicki pulled Matt erect in the chair, grunted, “I ain't even started on your kidneys yet. I'll have you pissing blood for weeks.”

“Tell me what to say?”

“You know what to say. Just make it good. Good. You understand, bastard? None of your fancy crap. You ready?”

Hands pressed to his aching body, Matt nodded dumbly.

The detective glanced about, saw the typewriter on its little metal table. He carried it over to his chair, took a piece of clean paper from Matt's desk, inserted it in the machine. He said, “Now you start talking. If you talk right, you'll sign this. If you don't, I'll bust every rib in your goddam body. Now talk—and not too damn fast, either.”

Kolcicki began typing. Even in his daze, the opening sentence of a confession suddenly appeared very clearly in Matt's mind: I, Matt Anthony, voluntarily do....

Sitting there with his dirty hat still on, Kolcicki typed with expert ease. The detective's typing efficiency was the last straw for Matt, completed his fright and terror—increased it. And he knew he was trapped, that the confession would stand up in court. Kolcicki was good, he'd make him write a logical confession.

Matt shut his eyes. Shame, reason, everything fled. He was too frightened to care about anything except to be free of Kolcicki's animal eyes and iron fists.

Kolcicki said coldly, his stubby fingers resting on the typewriter keys, “Start talking. And talk right, or I'll really work you over. I ain't even got a sweat up, yet, bastard!”

His voice a whine, a lifeless whisper, Matt Anthony began dictating another mystery, another fiction story.

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