It wasn't easy, either, typing stuff in around a misplaced ad. Damn HTML and XML and XSL and such like iniitals, thought Chongo. I wonder what they mean?

But he came out from behind the billboard -- it helped if he thought of them as billboards -- and swung himself on the window ledge. He knocked.

No answer. He knocked again.

Still no answer.

He tugged on the casement window. It swung open. Unlocked. Damn stupid little Cap, just like 'em, their braincases were so small....

The trail of blood snagged his attention like stinkbait catches a catfish. It wasn't droplets, but a pretty good stream. Liquid, he thought, but going pasty.

For some reason, pasty made him think of Laura. He shook his head to clear it. He'd need a clear head, because all he had was his .357. The Capone-model typewriter was still in his Burberry, the sawed-off in the other pocket.

Gat in hand, he followed the trail.

It grew cold as he entered the ratty kitchen. Nymbel was there, growing cold too. Or colder. Chongo looked at the open window, first up and then down.

Whoever plugged Nymbel was either a damn good climber for a human or a middling good Simian-American. It was seven stories to the concrete, and five more to the roof. Probably simian -- there were no heel marks or other indications that the hitter had been wearing shoes.

Chongo turned, looked around. They'd blasted poor old Nymbel like they'd used a cannon. Wonder what they used...cartridge case over there...aw shit, no!

.357. And now his prints were on it. Someone had known that he had the Monster under his jacket and had set him up for a fall. And since Nymbel's hands were tied and he'd been shot in the back of the head, they wanted him to fall for Murder One.

Neat. Chongo takes the fall and fries in the Hot Seat in Joliet. He wondered when the cops would show, and then the knock came.