Copyright ©2005 by Jack Owen Jardine

INNOCENT BYSTANDER

THE GREAT TYPEWRITER ROBBERY

THE DEATH WISH

DELIVERED: ONE STEREO

YOU CAN'T CATCH ME

A MATTER OF TIMING

THE HONOR SYSTEM

UNACCUSTOMED AS I AM TO PUBLIC DYING

EVERYBODY REMEMBERS WHATSISNAME

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

The day Pete Ryan set his pattern for robbing the company payroll began like any other Monday: he was late to work. The guard waved in recognition as Ryan nosed his white Jaguar through the Bostic Corporation gate.

"Morning, Mr. Ryan. Didja have a nice weekend?” the man asked, then gaped at the bandage on Ryan's forehead.

Pete Ryan smiled sourly. “I wouldn't really call it nice, Charlie,” he said, and drove through.

The main plant covered fourteen acres, three of which were for employee parking. He parked in the executive section, in the slot with P. Ryan stenciled on it.

Once inside the main building, he proceeded along a network of corridors to the door marked PURCHASING. Pausing to straighten his tie, he entered.

Sylvia Robb, a lush blonde in her mid-twenties, stared at him. “Pete! Your head!” she gasped. “What in the world happened?"

"Nothing to worry about, Robbie.” He grinned, and touched the bandage gingerly. A lock of thick black hair curled rakishly over it. “I was having a quiet drink when the roof fell in, and I didn't duck in time. Any mail?"

"Today's Monday. Mail's late as usual. Were you hurt badly?"

"You worry too much, Robbie."

The girl frowned. “What's with the ‘Robbie'? We're alone."

"After what happened this weekend,” Pete Ryan said, “I think we'd better be more careful. You look delicious,” he added.

Sylvia ignored the compliment. “Does Phyllis-?"

"She doesn't know it was you,” he assured her. “But the fact that she found out it was anybody at all is damning enough. I've had to change quite a few of my plans."

"What do you mean?"

"You still worry too much, Robbie."

The door from the corridor opened, admitting Ralph K. Young, a slender man with receding gray hair. “I see you finally got here, Ryan,” he snapped. “Now that you're no longer the favorite son, perhaps we can get some work done. What happened to your head? No, don't tell me, you fell off a bar stool."

"Not quite,” Ryan corrected amiably. “I was just an innocent bystander, R. K., although I admit it did happen in a bar. I got clobbered with a beer bottle."

"You probably deserved it. I'm going to be tied up for a couple of hours in the plant but as soon as I get back I want an explanation of the Amco shipment records. I can't make heads or tails of them, but it looks like we've paid for about sixty tons we never received."

"Why, sure, R. K.. It's all there if you know where to look. They started short-shipping early last summer, but we needed the stock, so I subbed the shortages through Midtown. It cost a couple of bucks, but Amco made it up on later shipments. That happened during your last vacation, I think. Anyway, the Old Man okayed it, so stop worrying."

"Why wasn't it recorded, then?” R. K. asked.

"I'm sure it was,” Ryan replied pleasantly. “Don't you think you're wasting time, chasing paper shortages? The stock's in the mill, that's what counts. All you've got to do is check it."

The older man glared at Pete Ryan, then vanished briefly into his own office, hurrying out shortly with a sheaf of invoices.

Sylvia waited until R. K. was gone. “What did he mean you're no longer the favorite son?” she demanded.

"I was just about to tell you, sweetheart. Phyllis threw my ring back at me."

"That means no promotion. How are you going to—"

Ryan stopped her with a furtive kiss. “Don't worry your tinted head, pet. It simply calls for a change in tactics. Now, what's on the program for today?"

"Mr. Maltman's due in at ten,” Robbie said. “I put the file on your desk."

Pete Ryan headed for his own office. “I'd appreciate it, Robbie, if you'd bring me a cup of coffee. And some aspirin."

"Yes, sir,” she replied, smiling fondly.

Maybe it was the thick, black, curly hair that first attracted the girls he'd romanced. Without it, he reflected, he'd be only half as attractive and much more mature, like R. K.. Pete Ryan chuckled at the mental image this evoked, then frowned at his superior's discovery of the Amco discrepancies. He'd foreseen this day, of course, and had prepared for it. Still, without the protection of his engagement to the boss's daughter, things might get a bit sticky.

The older man said, “All right,” closing the folder on his desk and rubbing his eyes. “I see what happened. I doubt if I'd have done it in just that manner, but it worked out all right."

"You thought there was something fishy about it?” Ryan's faint laugh echoed the incredulity of his face.

R. K. smiled coldly. “My job is to protect the profit structure of this company at its source. Diversion of materiel is an old story, Ryan. The losses can run into billions a year."

"You think I'd swindle my future father-in-law?"

"There isn't a P.A. alive who's never been tempted. And now that Mr. Bostic is no longer your future father-in-law, young man, you'd better buckle down and pay more attention to your work. You've got the ability."

"I wouldn't be here if I didn't,” Ryan said crisply.

"Bear in mind,” R. K. smiled, “it's eight years before I retire. If you work at it, you may be able to handle my job by then. If you last that long."

Ryan's eyebrows went up and he winced because of the bandage.

"My prediction,” R. K. continued, “is that you'll either switch to another company within three years or be killed in one of your bar-room brawls."

"I tell you, R. K., I was just an innocent bystander. By the way, I've got to take a long lunch hour. I'm buying a car this afternoon. The new man from Hathaway Screw has an appointment with me at two. It won't hurt him any to cool his heels for half an hour or so, unless you want to see him."

R. K. stood up. “He's your account, Pete. Let him wait. I will not interfere. I don't understand about the car, though. What happened to your Jaguar? Is it wrecked?"

Ryan shook his head. “I'm just getting rid of it. I've got to revise my image. Playboys knock around in Jaguars and Ghias, but men of real responsibility, like you, R. K., are more—uh—conservative. I notice you drive a Buick."

"It gets me here and back again,” R. K. observed cautiously.

"I was looking at some new Mercs this weekend,” Ryan continued. “What do you think of Mercs?"

R. K. visibly relaxed. “As long as you don't commit yourself to too much money, it should be fine. A middle-priced Mercury ought to fill your bill perfectly."

"That's just what I had in mind, sir."

The older man smiled paternally as the two of them started towards the door. “Take all the time you want,” he said. “I'll try to smooth things out with Mr. Bostic."

They went into the outer office, where Sylvia Robb was tidying up before lunch. She smiled at them. “No messages, Mr. Ryan,” she reported, “I'll have your letters ready for signature by two o'clock, Mr. Young,” she added.

"I may not be back till three,” Ryan told her. “Stall the Hathaway salesman for me, will you, Robbie? Tell him I'm in conference with Mr. Bostic or something. And by the way, I have an ad in this afternoon's paper to sell my car. If there are any calls on it take their names and numbers and I'll call them back."

He left. Sylvia stared at the door for a moment, then looked questioningly at R. K. Young. “I thought he'd be in hot water this morning,” she said. “With his engagement to the boss's daughter broken off and all."

R. K. smiled and reached for his hat. “You fail to realize, Miss Robb, that security in this firm depends upon ability rather than connections,” he told her. “And that young man will go far. I'm glad to see that he's straightened out. With his talents, he doesn't need Phyllis Bostic."

On his way out, Pete Ryan paused in the Executive Lounge long enough to pick up a cup of coffee. Around a corner, outside the Payroll section, stood an armed guard, a man in his fifties.

Ryan went to him. “Hi, Perkins,” he said. “Thought you'd like a cup of coffee. Okay?"

The guard's face broke into a wide grin. “Why, thanks, Mr. Ryan. Hey! What happened to your head?"

Pete Ryan fingered the bandage and grimaced. “I got hit with a beer bottle, Sam."

Sam Perkins grinned. “I'd hear you and Miss Bostic had broke up, but I didn't know she was the violent type."

Ryan laughed. “Boy, news sure travels fast around here. We broke it up Friday, but it wasn't Phyllis who clobbered me. I drove over to Edgemont afterwards for a few drinks, and there I was, minding my own business, when suddenly the joint caves in. Two gorillas, both of ‘em stoned to the gills. I never did find out what they were fighting about, but it was one hell of a brawl. The first I knew of it—” Ryan launched into a blow-by-blow account, complete with dialogue, which graphically recreated the disaster.

In the middle of his narrative the Payroll door opened and Mr. Carson, the firm's treasurer, stepped into the corridor and lingered to listen. “He was moving pretty fast,” Pete Ryan continued, “and I kept my eyes on the bottle, which is why I didn't see his other hand coming at me until he'd knocked the wind out of me with it."

Sam Perkins winced in sympathy. “And you never met him before, huh? Not anywhere that you can recall?"

Ryan shook his head. “Didn't know him from Adam. Anyway, I doubled up from that punch in the belly and he was swinging the bottle around like a baseball bat. The next thing I know I'm hearing sirens and they're taking me to the hospital. Fourteen stitches. I think they left part of the bottle in there, from the way it feels."

"I'd hate to be in that guy's shoes when he comes up for trial,” the guard said.

"What trial? They both made for the hills before the cops got there. And the bartender swore held never seen ‘em before in his life."

"Naturally,” said Mr. Carson.

"They're probably his best customers and he's protecting his regular trade."

"Yeah,” agreed Sam Perkins. “He knows you won't come in again, after getting half killed in his ace."

"I bet you're right,” Ryan said. “At any rate, that's one weekend I won't forget, you can depend on that."

"You tell a very good story, Mr. Ryan,” the treasurer said approvingly. “Made me feel I'd been there myself. You should have been an actor."

Pete Ryan grimaced. “I did some acting in school,” he admitted. “The teachers thought I was a good leading man type. But I couldn't go that grease paint—"

Carson lifted his eyebrows. “You might like to talk to my wife. Mrs. Carson is quite active in a little theatre group here."

"Thanks anyway, but I've had it with the stage. Besides, my duties in Purchasing are too demanding for anything like that, now that R. K.'s taking his doctor's advice and is delegating more authority."

"I'll tell her about you, anyway,” Carson said. “In case you have a change of heart."

The two men started to move off down the hall when Sam Perkins spoke up: “Thanks for the coffee, Mr. Ryan!"

As Ryan and the company treasurer rounded the corner Sam sipped at his coffee, then pursed his lips thoughtfully. “It's a damn shame,” he said to no one in particular. “That's the kind of guy deserves to marry the boss's daughter."

At the city's largest Ford dealership Pete Ryan picked out the car he wanted and let the salesman talk him into it. He indicated that he had no intention of trading in the Jaguar and that he wanted the deal to be strictly credit. Within five minutes he was invited into a glass-walled cubicle by Mr. Phil Gresham, who introduced himself as Vice President in charge of sales and motioned Ryan to sit down.

"I understand you want this car with no money down,” Gresham said, as if such a thing had never happened before.

Pete Ryan nodded. “That's right. On a thirty-six month contract."

"What sort of work do you do, Mr. Ryan?” Gresham inquired, having mentally inventoried Pete's clothes, shoes and wristwatch and found them acceptable. He slid a pad of credit applications from a recess under the desk.

"Assistant Purchasing Agent for Bostic Corporation,” Ryan recited. “Two years on the job. My immediate superior is Ralph K. Young, Chief Purchasing Agent, although I'm really more responsible to C. W. Bostic, the president.” He took a society page clipping from an inside pocket. “As you can see, I will shortly become his son-in-law."

Gresham glanced briefly at it. “Beautiful girl,” he said. “Where'd you work before that?"

Pete Ryan reeled off the vital names and addresses. “You need my university and Army records, too?"

"This goes back far enough,” Gresham assured him. “Any other source of income?"

"A few investments—fairly well balanced, I think, between grow and income. They produce in the neighborhood of fifteen hundred a year.” Gresham added the broker's name to the application.

Ryan then named three open accounts, two revolving charge plans, his key club membership and a few other examples of good credit. “That take care of it? I'd like delivery about five thirty tomorrow afternoon. That'll give you plenty of time to check my credit. Now where do I sign?"

There were more papers to be filled out, but still Ryan managed to get back to the office by two thirty-five.

"A Mr. Arnold Moseby called in regard to the car,” Sylvia informed him, handing him the memo. “Just a few minutes ago. The man from Hathaway said he'll come back tomorrow. And Mr. Bostic wants you in his office at your earliest convenience,” she added, looking worried.

"You fret too much, Robbie,” he told her airily. “You'll get wrinkles."

C. W. Bostic was a bull of a man who had started the plant as a three-man machine shop. Time had knocked some of the burrs from his personality and circumstances had mellowed his manners. But Pete Ryan knew that underneath this cobweb veneer Bostic was still as rough as they come.

"Do you deny that there's another woman?” Bostic roared.

"Believe me, Mr. Bostic, Phyllis leaped to the wrong conclusion,” Ryan insisted.

Bostic glared at him. “My daughter may leap to conclusions, but she doesn't have hallucinations. You were seen having cocktails with an extremely good-looking blonde. There were lipstick stained cigarette stubs and other evidence in your apartment, she tells me. You can't wheedle your way out of this one, Ryan. If I were you I wouldn't even try."

"Yes, sir."

"Phyllis's pride is pretty carved up. It's humiliating to a woman like to her to find her fiancee playing around with someone else.” He frowned. “It's inconvenienced me, too. I had some great plans for your future, young man."

"I know, sir."

"You've done some fine work here, according to R. K.,” Bostic conceded in a grumble. “If you want a recommendation to another firm—"

"Well, sir, if you don't mind I'd prefer to stay on here."

Bostic's thick eyebrows lifted. “Indeed! Well, I don't believe it would be feasible. I know my daughter's faults as well as her virtues. She can be extremely vindictive. I'll have to hold back any promotions for you for some time to come—if I want peace at home. I can't fire you because you played around with some broad, but I warn you, Phyllis won't be happy until you've left here."

Ryan allowed himself a rueful smile. “I'd love to make Phyl happy, sir, but not on her terms. Anyway, you didn't hire me because I loved your daughter. You liked my qualifications. I've been with Bostic for over two years and I think I'm better qualified now than I was then. Besides, I like it here."

Bostic glanced shrewdly at Ryan. “I wanted you to understand my position in this, Ryan, and to make clear to you that you'd advance much faster with another company. With your ability and my recommendation you'd have no trouble transferring. But if you prefer to stay—"

"I do, sir,” Ryan replied. “I realize your position, but Bostic is where I belong.” He hesitated. “Maybe someday I can convince Phyl again that I love her."

C. W. Bostic smiled reluctantly. “More power to you if you can. Now get back to work."

Sylvia Robb looked puzzled as Pete Ryan handed her the container of coffee. “To celebrate with,” he explained. “Honey, Old Man Bostic thinks I'm the greatest thing that ever happened to this plant."

"He didn't sound that way when he called,” she said. “I thought he was going to chew you out."

"He congratulated me! He said he's glad she's out of my hair, and he'll be damned if he'll let Phyl's hurt feelings stop me from getting to the top—and quickly. That's what he said, doll, word for word."

"What'd you do, hypnotize him?"

"Look, honey, the Old Man didn't get where he is today by letting his daughter push him around. He knows a good company man when he sees him."

Sylvia smiled wickedly, “Don't forget, darling,” she cooed throatily, “so do I."

"You stick with me, Sylv, and the sky's the limit."

"You still get the promotion, then?"

"Well,” he hedged, “not this week—"

"Then how are you going to cover up the kickbacks?"

"Don't ever use that word in this office again,” he warned. “If you do—"

"It could be embarrassing to you, lover, couldn't it?” Her voice was bland.

Pete Ryan looked at her, speculatively. “I've got it all figured out and moving. And it won't go wrong because it doesn't depend on anyone—understand anyone—but me."

"Why don't we discuss it at dinner tonight?” she suggested.

"Sorry, honey, I'm going to be busy."

"Tomorrow night, then?"

"Look, beautiful, I think we'd better see each other only at the office for a couple of weeks."

"Are you cutting me out?” Sylvia's gray eyes slitted.

"Don't be silly, doll. I'm protecting you. If you don't know anything you obviously can't be involved or suspected of complic—"

"Well, I don't like it."

"You're just going to have to trust me, honey.” He kissed her expertly, holding her until she relaxed in his arms and her lips softened under his.

The setting sun glinted on the turbojet as it made its final turn toward the airport. Moments later the huge craft was earthbound, hurtling along the runway until it came to a stop near gate twenty-three. Its doors opened to connect with the aluminum stairways. Few of the departing passengers paused to look at the sunset. A luggage truck took the suitcases from the plane.

A balding man of indeterminate age emerged from the front of the terminal. He wore a business suit, a green shirt and a Texas string tie, and carried a large, fairly new suitcase and a brown briefcase. Glancing around, he spotted a bank of phones without dials, selected one and spoke briefly into it.

He listened for a moment, hung up and walked over to a nearby loading area. Soon a small bus incongruously topped with a thatched roof stopped at the curb and the man got in. On the side of the bus were the words Polynesian Village Motel—Courtesy Car.

Three miles up the freeway was the motel itself, its facade dominated, as might be expected, by much bamboo. The balding man registered as, “Arnold Moseby, Buffalo, N.Y.,” and was shown to a room. Apparently satisfied with his accommodations he unpacked, then set out in search of the bar.

Within an hour he had endeared himself to the barkeep through the size of his tips, although other patrons found the crudeness of his manners, the coarseness of his language and his insistent eagerness to find out “where the action is” more than slightly crude and obnoxious.

Unsuccessful in his quest for “action,” Moseby retired shortly before midnight Monday night. He informed the night clerk that he wanted a five-thirty call as he had to catch an early jet to Los Angeles. He would not be checking out, as he'd be back by evening. The clerk courteously asked if his airline reservation had been made and Moseby assured him that it had.

Tuesday morning Pete Ryan arrived at work on time. Sylvia was astonished. R. K. Young was delighted. C. W. Bostic, when informed of this turn of events, grunted.

At five o'clock that afternoon Ryan drove his white Jaguar through Bostic's gates for the last time. He drove to a multi-decked parking lot in the heart of town, handed over the keys to an attendant and placed the claim check in a stamped envelope. To this he added the certificate of ownership after signing “Peter B. Ryan” on the release line. The envelope was addressed. “Mr. Arnold Moseby, Polynesian Village Motel No. 34.” He sealed it and posted it in a nearby letterbox, then hailed a taxi.

He had checked earlier by telephone with the Mercury dealer. His credit was excellent and his car was waiting. It took all of ten minutes to accept delivery and drive off in it.

If Sylvia Robb had been watching him that Tuesday night, she would have been alarmed by his next actions, for he stopped at his apartment only long enough to pick up a small brown briefcase. Then he drove to the airport.

Arnold Moseby, too, stopped only briefly in his room—just long enough, in fact, to change his coat and inspect the barren dome of his head in the mirror. Frowning, he rummaged in a drawer, found a tube, squeezed out a minute amount of its contents and rubbed the stuff on his glistening pate. Satisfied with the effect he replaced the tube, straightened his tie and headed for the bamboo bar.

He stood in the entryway and let his eyes adjust to the gloom. The bar itself was nearly empty; three salesman sat at one end, at the other was a redhead in a tight gold dress. He headed for her like a salmon going upstream.

"Buy you a drink?” he offered.

She half-turned to look at him. “You're a stranger,” she said, “and I don't accept drinks from strangers."

"Arnold Moseby,” he told her, smiling affably. “But you can call me Arnie any old time."

She smiled, showing a dimple in one cheek. “Janet. Janet Swing."

"I bet you do,” Moseby guffawed, slapping her back. “What're you drinking?"

"French Seventy-fives."

Moseby looked bewildered.

The redhead smiled indulgently “Champagne and brandy,” she explained.

Moseby beckoned to the bar tender. “A French whatchamacallit for the lady—and I'll take gin.” He looked her over out of the corners of his eyes.

The gold dress hugged her figure without seeming to be blatant about it. The hair was long and deep, and the eyes sherry-brown. In front of her was an ashtray and a book of matches. Her hands tore a match out, lit it, slit the other end with a thumbnail and peeled it apart. She blew out both halves and dropped them into the ashtray. She sipped her drink.

"You here on business?” she asked.

"Only when the sun's up,” he laughed. “What I want to do is find a business to buy into."

Janet licked her lips lightly, daintily. “A money man,” she said softly.

"You hit the nail right on the head, Janet honey.” He laughed, slapping her back again, playfully. “Five days here and then back to God's country."

"Where's that?"

"Upstate New York, baby, upstate New York. I bet you're from back East, too."

"Kansas City,” she said. “For starters."

"I spent three days there once, y'know. Been on the coast long?"

"Too long,” Her mouth drooped sullenly.

Moseby chugalugged his gin and ordered a double. “You here alone?” he asked.

"Not very often."

He nodded. The girl had what he was looking for. She dressed the way he wanted her to dress and, best of all, she looked available. “What do you say we get out of here?” he ventured, prodding her ribs with his elbow. “We could take a cab into the city and you could show me the sights. Would that appeal to you?"

Her fingers were shredding another match. She blew it out. “Don't you think we ought to know each other better first?” Her voice was whispery.

Arnold thought it over carefully for a few minutes while finishing his double. Then he nodded agreement. “My room or yours?"

The girl shrugged. “Does it make any difference?"

He'd picked her up to make his role of Moseby more convincing. But now it was taking on an aspect he hadn't foreseen. He had never been one who could just say “hello” and “goodbye” to a woman distinctly on the special side.

He slapped a ten dollar bill on the mahogany. “Bartender!” he yodeled. “Give us two more of the same—to go. Only make mine a triple!"

Wednesday at the Bostic Corporation was distinguished by two events. The first was Pete Ryan's arrival on time for the second day in a row, which pleased R. K. Young and puzzled Sylvia Robb. They both noticed the new and smaller bandage over his right eye, and commented upon it.

"It's pretty ugly-looking underneath,” Ryan told them, “but it's healing. It's starting to itch already."

The second event was much more casual, consisting merely of the habitual cup of coffee brought by Pete Ryan to Sam Perkins, the guard posted outside the Payroll section. They conversed for about five minutes. When Sam asked about his head, Ryan replied, “I've got to see the medic tomorrow and have the stitches taken out."

"Hey, that can hurt,” Sam observed.

"So I've heard."

The rest of the day was as routine as any other. If there was difference it may have been that Pete Ryan worked harder than usual, but no one would have sworn to it. He left promptly at five, reluctantly resisting Sylvia’ hints that they should see each other later that evening.

When he arrived at his apartment he was delighted to find the mail had his broker's check for the full amount of his investment—slightly over four thousand dollars.

He spent an hour sorting through his belongings, keeping only those items which couldn't be traced to Peter B. Ryan. There was much that had to stay behind, but with the Bostic payroll—in cash—he could replace it all at least ten times over.

As he was leaving the phone rang. He listened to it for a minute, then smiled and went out. There was no time for phone calls.

It was almost seven o'clock when Arnold Moseby paid the cab driver and walked into the bamboo motel lobby. At the desk he inquired for mail and was handed an envelope. He put it, unopened, in his inside coat pocket, then picked up the house phone and asked for Miss Swing in room twenty-seven.

"Janet, this is Arnie,” he announced genially. “Want to come downtown with me and help me collect my new buggy? Then we can take a ride and stop at some swingin’ joint for dinner."

"Is that the white Jaguar you were telling me about last night?"

"That's right, honey-babe. You're pretty sharp remembering that. I just picked up the title this minute. How soon can you get dressed?"

"Oh, it would take me an hour anyway. I'm simply a mess."

"Well,” gurgled Moseby, “I'll be right up."

"You do and you'll be out on your ear,” she told him icily. “Where's the Jag?"

"It's in a parking lot downtown.” Moseby pouted. The clerk looked at him and stifled a grin.

"Tell you what, Arnie,” Janet suggested. “You go and get it and then come back here and pick me up? By that time I'll be ready. Maybe we could drive out to the ocean and have dinner there somewhere."

"What's the matter?” Moseby's voice became a nasty growl. “You afraid to sit in the back seat of a taxi with me?"

"That's not true, Arnie honey, and you know it. It's just that the City makes me nervous. Pick me up in an hour or so, will you?"

"Okay."

With the jovial grin back on his face, Moseby hung up and walked outside. The cab that had brought him was still there. He got in and ordered the driver to take him downtown. He tore open the envelope and looked at the ticket in order to give the cabbie the address of the lot where Ryan had left the Jaguar.

Thursday noon Mr. Carson emerged from Payroll a moment after Pete Ryan delivered Sam Perkins’ coffee. “I mentioned you to my wife, Ryan,” he said. “She very much wants you to try out for her group's next production. Will you be free Saturday afternoon?"

Ryan squirmed. “I'll let you know, Mr. Carson. Actually, I rather wish you hadn't mentioned that I used to act. It was a long time ago and I never really was too good at it."

"You should see some of the people in her group,” Carson laughed.

"I'd like to give this gash on my head a little more time to heal. I'm afraid I'll have a pretty obvious scar for a while. Once I can hide it with make-up, I'll try out. But not this time."

"Mrs. Carson will be disappointed,” the treasurer said.

"Are the stitches out yet?” Sam Perkins asked.

"Three o'clock this afternoon,” Ryan told him.

At two-thirty he left, telling Sylvia not to expect him back till the following morning.

"Will you be home tonight, Pete?” she asked almost too casually.

"I doubt it, kitten, I have a lot of things to do."

"You weren't in last night, either,” she said, a slight edge to her voice. “I tried to call you."

"Was it important?"

"I just wanted to see you."

"Now look, Syl. I told you the other day—"

"I know, I know! If I don't know anything I can't be involved or suspected."

"That's my girl.” Pete Ryan took her face in his hands and looked at her tenderly. “In a week or so we'll be together again without having to sneak around."

He gave her a reassuring kiss, made his exit and went out to the parking lot. Tossing his briefcase on the seat, he nosed the Merc out of his slot, waved at the gate guard and drove to a bank, where he cashed his broker's check. Four thousand of it went into the briefcase; the balance he stuffed in his wallet.

He didn't bother going to his apartment or to his doctor. Instead, he hurried to the airport.

Janet Swing was waiting when Arnold arrived at the motel. She seemed distracted and finally, during dinner, Moseby noticed it.

"What's the matter, honey-babe?” he inquired in a voice which carried clearly to diners at the other end of the room.

"I've got to talk to you,” she said quietly.

"So talk, baby, talk!” he invited in a gentle roar.

Janet winced. “Not here. Not in public."

"We'll go to my room, then,” he suggested.

"All right."

He paid the check and escorted her to number thirty-four. Locking the door behind them, he joined her on the couch and patted her knee. “Tell Arnie all about it,” he said.

"I—I don't know how to begin—"

"Are you in trouble?"

"No—well, yes. In a way."

"Don't you know, honey-babe?"

"Arnold,” she asked, “are you married?"

Moseby choked and scrambled off the couch.

"Please tell me, Arnie. I've got to know. It's very important."

"Well, kind of. I mean I used to be, but I'm not any more. At least, I don't think I am."

"Do you have a girlfriend back home?"

Moseby gurgled in delight.

"Well—I don't like to brag about it—but what does that have to do with—"

"Arnie,” the redhead said urgently, “I want you to take me with you when you go back to Buffalo. Please?” Janet got up, snuggled against him and put her arms around his neck. Moseby shied away from her.

"I won't be any trouble,” she begged. “I promise!"

Moseby pulled her arms down and held her firmly away. “Well, now, honey-babe, it sounds kind of all right but there's something called the Mann Act. I don't quite know how it works, but I do know what you're asking isn't legal."

"Every time we come to a state line I'll walk across,” she vowed.

"I just don't think it's right."

"Why not?"

"You might start to thinking about gettin’ married. I'm not about to get married again."

"Listen to me, Arnold. Once we get to Buffalo I'll say goodbye and you'll never see me again. Or you can drop me off in Kansas City if you want to. I've got to get off the West Coast.” She was crying now.

"Aw, honey-babe, don't do that. Why can't you take a plane?"

"Money,” she said.

"Well!"—Moseby pounded her shoulder—"I'll buy you a ticket."

"No!” she protested quickly. “No!"

"No?"

"No!” She was silent for a moment, drying her eyes. “Listen, Arnie, when I came here I got in with the wrong crowd, you know?"

"I'm afraid I don't,” he said, frowning.

"Anyway, I found out some things that could put them in prison, and they know I know these things. They don't know where I am, but they're trying to find me."

"Oh-h-h! Hmm! Are the police looking for you, too?"

"The police don't even know I exist. But if I tried to go to them I'd never make it. Now do you see why I can't take a plane or a train or a bus out of here?"

Moseby nodded slowly. “You're kind of in trouble. You ever try to make ‘em pay you to keep quiet? Bet they would."

"I don't want their money. I just want out. Can't you understand that? I just want to get out alive. And you're the only one who can help me."

Arnie looked at her but didn't say anything.

"The only thing they can't check on,” she explained, “is every car that drives out of California. Please take me with you!” She was sobbing again.

Arnold Moseby bit his lip. “I've got to think about it,” he said. “I'm starting back Saturday, that's plenty of time to think in."

"That late?” she wailed.

"Honey-babe, I got business here. I don't know if I'll take you, but I'll think about it and if I do it'll be on Saturday."

"I'm so scared, Arnie. I'm scared."

"I think the best thing to do is just go to your room and stay there and maybe Saturday—"

"You sure you can't leave sooner?"

"Look, Janet, I like you. You're a lot of fun and you make me laugh. It would be kind of nice to have you around. But there's several thousand bucks in this deal I'm working on and I can't let a woman louse up my business plans. It happened to me once and it won't happen again."

He scowled at his shoes. “Besides, I'll sorta be getting into danger myself, won't I?"

"I guess I can wait until Saturday, then. But I'm awfully scared."

"You said they don't know where you are,” Moseby reminded her.

"I'm not sure. Lend me a hanky, huh? There was a man in the coffee shop tonight. He looked at me like he recognized me."

"Did you know him? Seen him before?"

"No."

"Well, you're imagining things, girl!” The bellow was back in full force. “Honey, you're the kind of gal a man's got to look at twice.” He put his arm around her. “Tell you what. If it'll make you feel better you can stay here tonight."

She sighed tiredly. “You're a nice guy, Arnie. I hate imposing on you, but thanks."

Moseby grinned and took off his jacket. “I'll be leaving early,” he warned. “I've got to fly to L.A. again, so you just spend the whole day here if you want to. I'll try to be quiet getting up."

The phone rang at four-thirty, but it didn't disturb the sleeping redhead. Moseby thanked the night clerk for the call and dressed quietly. Briefcase in hand, he stood for a short while looking thoughtfully at the sleeping girl.

Then, nodding happily, he turned out the lights and tiptoed from the room.

Arnold Moseby parked the Jaguar at the airport and entered the terminal. He breakfasted leisurely in the coffee shop overlooking the runway and parking area, then proceeded to a bank of coin lockers. He took a key from his pocket and opened one of them. Inside was a suitcase which he removed and carried downstairs to the men's washroom.

Friday morning, promptly at ten, the armored truck arrived with the Bostic payroll. Pete Ryan watched from his office window as it pulled up alongside the building and stopped. The guards went through their ritual, unloading and carrying the two sacks of money into the plant.

Ryan glanced at his watch and smiled. The bandage was gone from his forehead, revealing a livid scar.

Inside the Payroll section Mr. Carson accepted the cargo and signed the receipt. The guards departed. Carson and his assistant dumped the money on the sorting table. By eleven o'clock the currency was neatly stacked, the coin rolls had all been broken open and their contents placed in five metal bins. The system had not varied in forty years.

The long boxes of pay envelopes, each with its yellow accounting slip protruding from the open end, were positioned. At eleven thirty the assistant departed. Three minutes later a cafeteria employee brought Mr. Carson his lunch. Sam Perkins unlocked the heavy door for her, locked it behind her, and repeated the process a few moments later.

Pete Ryan sat very still behind his desk, his eyes on the second hand of his watch. At exactly fifteen minutes before twelve he opened a drawer, took out a paper cup and a small bottle. Quickly he unscrewed the cap and poured a small amount of the liquid contents into the cup. He capped the bottle, dropped it in a pocket and rose. With his briefcase in one hand and the cup in the other he went into the outer office.

"Leaving so soon?” Sylvia inquired.

"Maltman invited me to lunch downtown today,” he told her. “I think he's dropped his price to where we can do business. I don't know just when I'll be back."

"Aye, aye, captain,” she said.

He kissed her lingeringly.

"Well, now,” Sylvia said. “That's promising."

"That's for luck,” he told her, and left.

The blonde gazed thoughtfully at the door for a while, then resumed typing.

In the Executive Lounge Pete Ryan added coffee and sugar to the cup, then carried it to Sam Perkins. The guard took the cup and stared at Ryan's scar. “That sure was a nasty cut you got,” he said.

Pete Ryan grinned cheerfully. “It'll fade. Doc said the best thing now is to let the air get to it so it'll heal normally. In a month or so it'll be back to normal.” Perkins sipped the coffee and made a face.

"Lousy, isn't it?” Ryan sympathized. “I complained about it, too. Seems they're trying out a new brand. Let's hope that after the girls get the hang of it they'll make good coffee with it."

Perkins downed a goodly amount. “You know,” he confided, “my wife never did learn to make a decent pot of coffee. After drinking hers I guess I can get used to this."

"That's the spirit,” Ryan laughed.

The guard took another healthy swig and blinked. “I guess I sure needed this coffee,” he said thickly. “Awf'lly sleepy."

"Well, drink up, then,” Ryan urged. “You can't afford to go to sleep today, man, with all that green stuff floating around."

"Thass ri', M'sser Ryan,” Perkins agreed, swallowing more of the steaming liquid. He stared glassily at Ryan, yawned and offered no resistance when Ryan eased the cup from his grasp and lowered him gently to the floor. Sam Perkins began to snore.

With a quick glance to make sure the corridor was still empty, Ryan’ removed the keys from Sam's belt and unlocked the heavy door to the money room. Grabbing Perkins by the heels he dragged the man inside and closed the door. He checked his watch. The entire operation had taken about three minutes.

Mr. Carter called from the inside room. “What's the matter, Jack? Did you forget something?"

Perkins’ gun was in Ryan's hand now and he moved to the connecting door, flinging it open. “Just do as I say, Mr. Carter, and you won't get hurt,” he said pleasantly. Enjoying the look on the man's face, he tossed the briefcase at Carter's feet.

"You—you can't get away with this,” the treasurer sputtered.

"I sure intend to try. Now fill the briefcase—neatly—and be quick about it."

Carter looked ill. He eyed the gun Pete Ryan was brandishing, swallowed, and began to comply. As he placed stacks of currency in the case his composure returned.

"Where'll you go?” he inquired conversationally. “There'll be a description out immediately. That scar on your forehead will give you away in a minute."

"Let me worry about that,” Ryan snapped. “Pack the bag."

"How did you get past Sam?"

"A little chloral hydrate in his coffee. He'll get over it."

"Very clever, Ryan. I hope you'll take care of me in the same manner? I'd prefer it to being shot."

"Excellent idea, Carter.” Pete Ryan moved around to the treasurer's lunch. Keeping the man covered, he got the bottle from his pocket, worried the cap off with one hand and dribbled several drops into Carter's iced tea.

Carter shrugged, drank the doctored tea and obligingly passed out. Ryan returned the gun to Perkins’ holster and let himself out of the Payroll office, locking the door.

Then, with bulging briefcase, he strolled out of the building, got in his new car and drove off.

It took Pete Ryan twenty-six minutes to get to the airport. Once there, he parked the Mercury, took a suitcase from its trunk and carried that, along with the briefcase, into the terminal.

However, instead of going to a ticket counter, he turned left and entered the men's lounge, going directly to a private, coin-access dressing room.

Here he changed suits, depositing his Ivy Leagues in the suitcase and donning the provincial togs of a tourist. Then he leaned close to the mirror and with the fingertips of both hands stretched the skin of his forehead on either side of the livid scar, worrying the flesh underneath until it slid free of one edge of the bruised area. Carefully, he lifted the edge and peeled off the scar.

Then he grasped his thick black hair and lifted it from his shiny scalp. The toupee and scar also went into the suitcase. Adhesive solvent and a vigorous rubbing with a rough towel removed all traces of both.

Satisfied with his appearance, Arnold Moseby locked the suitcase, picked it and the briefcase up and made his exit.

In the parking lot he went directly to his Jaguar and drove off, whistling, in the direction of the Polynesian Village Motel.

There was no longer anyone named Pete Ryan. And there was no link between him and crude, loud Arnie Moseby—for Moseby had begun to exist a week ago, when Ryan was still preparing for the robbery.

With almost thirty-six thousand dollars in his briefcase, another four thousand waiting for him at the motel, plus a beautiful redhead eager to accompany him back East, it had been a profitable week.

He pulled into the motel and parked. Leaving the suitcase in the trunk, he took the brown briefcase with him into the lobby.

"Afternoon, Mr. Moseby,” the clerk said. “No mail."

As if in response to a signal, two men detached themselves languidly from the lobby chairs and approached. “Mr. Moseby?” one of them asked. “Arnold Moseby?"

"That's right,” he boomed jovially.

"Police, Mr. Moseby. We'd like to talk to you downtown."

Pete Ryan forced himself to be calm. He was acutely aware of the briefcase under his arm. “What's the trouble, fellows?"

"Murder, Mr. Moseby. The body of Janet Swing was found in your room this morning. Did you kill her?"

"Certainly not!” Pete Ryan sputtered. “That's—that's ridiculous!"

The taller of the two detectives smiled. “Then you have nothing to worry about. It's just a formality, but we have to check out every angle. They'll take your statement at headquarters and let you go."

"Statement?” Pete Ryan said cautiously. “About what?"

"Your relationship with the dead girl,” the first cop said. “She was found in your room, buddy. So was four thousand dollars in cash. It was locked in a drawer, so it looks like you didn't trust her alone with it. You probably have a good reason for carrying that much cash."

The second cop picked it up. “We'll also need your home address and some personal references—plus, of course, a pretty detailed account of your whereabouts for the past twenty-four hours. What's, the matter, Mr. Moseby? You look ill."

It was then that Pete Ryan started to cry.

[Back to Table of Contents]

It started the day Eddie O'Gorman showed up at my pad carrying a laundry bundle. “You need some bread, man?” he asked.

"Always,” I told him.

"All right,” he said, tossing the package at me. “We ought to make two or three bills each out of what's in there."

I opened it up. Inside were a couple of gray workmen's uniforms, like guys at gas stations wear. There were names embroidered over the shirt Pockets: “Bud” on one and “Steve” on the other.

"I don't want no job pumping gas,” I told him.

"Look at the backs of them, stupid."

It said Federal Typewriter Service in big letters across the back of each shirt.

"Fill me in,” I invited. The shirts weren't new so I knew they were genuine; Eddie'd grabbed them off a laundry truck. He does things like that on impulse sometimes.

Eddie held up a finger. “'First, do you know where we can swipe an unmarked panel truck?"

I grinned. That was why he needed me. Wheels are my specialty.

"I think it can be arranged,” I said cautiously.

"Good. I've found a repair shop that can handle up to twenty typers, immediate delivery. We'll get thirty to forty bucks per machine."

"Don't they have burglar alarms on warehouses anymore?” I asked.

"Who needs warehouses? We've got uniforms. We walk into office buildings, look around until we see a typer that's not being used, and walk out with it. We put it in the truck and drive to another office building. Ten stops and we've got us twenty typers."

"I don't know,” I said. “Think of the risk."

"What risk? As long as were dressed for the part, who's to stop us?"

"Cops,” I said.

Eddie laughed. “Listen, you know how cops disguise themselves as electricians and telephone repairmen when they're staking out a joint? I guarantee there won't be any trouble. Have I ever let you down yet?"

"No,” I admitted.

"How soon can you get the truck?"

There was a green panel job with no markings on it that was always parked in an alley behind a warehouse I'd worked in a few months earlier. I'd quit as soon as I managed to get a duplicate set of keys made. I picked it up at five the next morning and met Eddie two hours later at a pancake house.

At nine we changed into our uniforms and drove downtown to the first of a series of office buildings we hit that morning.

By the time we got there, Eddie had convinced himself that he actually was a typewriter repairman, but I didn't have that kind of confidence. The plan worked like a charm though. Nobody suspected a thing; nobody challenged us. We just walked through the buildings, looking into one office after another until we found an empty one, and swiped the typer.

We carried ‘em out as bold as brass. I got worried at our third stop when Eddie tried to make a date with a cute receptionist. I felt better each time we got away clean.

It was eleven-thirty and we had sixteen stolen machines in the back of the truck.

"Why I don't we quit now, Eddie?” I suggested. “We could unload ‘em, ditch the truck and split. How about it?"

"You nervous?"

"I'm getting that way,” I admitted.

"Relax. We've just got four more to go. Two stops. There's a likely looking building now. I bet they got nothing but electrics."

"Great,” I said. I scanned the scene for fuzz but didn't see any. Unless the guy loitering in the alley where we had parked the truck was fuzz in mufti.

He looked like a bum, but you never can tell.

We walked into the building and right off a tall, balding gent in a fancy vest and steel-rimmed glasses came towards us.

"You're the men from Federal Typewriter?” he asked.

"That's right,” Eddie replied quickly

The man held out his hand. “I'm Milt Schnepf, office manager here. Follow me, gentlemen. We've got them all ready for you."

I shot Eddie a worried glance but he ignored me.

I had no choice but to tag along.

"Five of them in all,” Schnepf said, showing us into a small office where five electric typers sat in a row. “Did you bring the loaners?"

"No,” Eddie replied, just like he knew what he was talking about. “We were on another call when we got the word to come after these. We'll bring the loaners right after lunch."

"Fine. Need some help carrying them out?"

"No, thanks. We'll take care of it.” Eddie grabbed one machine and I glommed onto another and we walked out to the truck.

"All we need,” I wheezed, “is for some jerk like that to see sixteen other typers back here. He'd blow the whistle for sure."

Eddie laughed. “You worry too much. Wasn't it nice of the man to have five of them ready and waiting?"

"Let's forget the other three,” I urged, looking for the bum at the other end of the alley. He was still there.

"If we don't take the rest he'll blow the whistle for sure. Come on."

Still feeling uneasy, I followed him back into the building.

As we started down the corridor towards the room where the typers waited, a small, cute brunette bounced up to us. “You're the typewriter men, aren't you?” she said, sort of breathless.

"Yes,” we admitted.

"I'm trying to change a ribbon and I'm getting all fouled up,” the doll explained. “Do you suppose one of you could be a real dear and take time out to teach me how to do it right?” She batted her eyelashes and I was afraid Eddie'd volunteer on the spot.

But he just smiled and said, “Miss, I'd love to, but right now we've got to get these typewriters loaded so we can get back to the shop in time for lunch. But when we come back this afternoon I'll personally teach you everything I know."

"And that's quite a bit,” I put in.

"I'll sure appreciate it,” she said, smiling and looking helpless and taking a deep breath all at once.

"Let's get moving,” I prompted.

"Just ask for Irma,” the chick said.

We grabbed the next two typers and carried them out.

The minute we got in the alley we froze.

There was a cop car parked right behind our truck. The back of the panel job was standing open and two harness bulls were looking inside. With them was the “bum” I'd seen earlier.

We didn't have time for a conference. We dropped our machines and took off at a dead run.

"I knew that bum was fuzz,” I panted as we rounded the corner. “Shut up,” replied Eddie.

Footsteps pounded behind us and a voice shouted for us to stop.

"Don't even look back,” Eddie wheezed. He was running out of steam already and so was I. That's what happens when you let yourself get out of shape. But those harness bulls kept on coming like they were working out at a gym or something.

The next thing I knew a hand grabbed my collar.

About twenty feet further the other cop got Eddie.

"Okay, boys. Let's go back to the truck and you can explain things."

"Go to hell,” Eddie said.

They handcuffed us together and led us back to the alley.

"You sure tumbled fast to this hustle,” Eddie complained.

"Yeah,” I added. “It isn't fair to plant a plain-clothes man in an alley like that."

The cops looked at each other and started to laugh. We were approaching the truck now and they took us around to the back of it.

"Oh, no!” Eddie moaned as we saw the bum handcuffed to the door handle.

"Oh, yes,” the cop chuckled. “We saw him coming out of the other end of the alley carrying a typewriter. He looked suspicious so we stopped him."

"That's right,” chimed in his partner. “We were going to warn you that you should keep your truck locked, but all of a sudden you started running. You guys will never learn, will you?"

"Go to hell,” said Eddie.

[Back to Table of Contents]

"It's called the death wish,” Professor Bloch explained, sucking noisily on his pipe. He was a smallish man, dark, with a quietly expensive taste in clothes. It was easy to visualize him, a few years in the future, as a highly successful Park Avenue psychotherapist.

"But suppose someone claims I have a killer instinct to match it,” Sanford said. “Where does that leave me?"

"I see your problem. Actually, it's far more likely that Long himself has the killer instinct. In the mind of the psychotic one justifies the other. He wishes to die, therefore he can kill others and be punished for it. It's an endless circle."

Sanford considered this. “You mean Jimmy might try to kill me?"

"It is entirely possible."

"I don't think he has the guts."

"It takes courage to resist a compulsion, Sanford, not to indulge in it. Jimmy Long is quite capable of murdering you, particularly since he has identified you as a threat to his own life."

"But he wanted the threat!” Sanford's control suddenly weakened, and it was apparent that he bitterly resented the circumstances which had brought him to the psychologist's office. Although he was only five years younger than Professor Bloch, the gulf between them was as great as has ever existed between student and teacher.

"Exactly,” said Bloch, punctuating his speech with his pipe stem. “It is difficult to think of anything which could give him so much pleasure as knowing he might be murdered at any moment. As I said, the death wish."

"Professor,” Sanford said nervously, “it gives me no pleasure at all."

"Of course not. How long have you known him?"

"Just this semester. I thought I was lucky my new roommate wasn't a football player. I don't have anything against athletes, but I'd just as soon not have to room with them."

"Long is the intellectual type, like yourself?"

Sanford was not accustomed to being called an intellectual; he smiled faintly at the label. “Jimmy Long,” he said, “is sharp and clever but he broods a lot."

"When did he come to you with this, ah, proposition?"

"Last week. He said he'd been worried about the financial bind I've been in and had figured out a way to get around it. He knew what little money he could lend me wouldn't do much good. But he said he could make me rich in exchange for just one favor."

"He asked you to kill him."

"Yes. He showed me his insurance policy. It's for twenty-five thousand dollars. He'd had it changed, naming me as his new beneficiary—you can see he's been planning this for some time."

"So it would appear,” Bloch agreed.

"If he dies by accident, the payoff is fifty thousand. Double indemnity—he explained it in great detail."

"And what was your first reaction?"

"I put it down to one of his moods and tried to talk him out of it. Don't get me wrong, Professor—the idea of suddenly coming into that much money was attractive as all hell; but it wasn't right and I told him so. I tried to get him to change his beneficiary back to the way it was before, but he refused."

"I see.” Bloch's expression was bland. “Tell me, Mr. Sanford, have you figured out just how to kill him?"

Sanford looked sharply at the psychologist. “What do you mean?"

"I assume you discussed possible methods with him."

"Well, yes,” the other admitted, fingering his lower lip. “But strictly as a hypothetical exercise. I told him, look, Jimmy, suppose I did, how would I get away with it? He said it was easy—just make it look like an accident. He doesn't want to commit suicide—that would reflect badly on his family. Besides, he said he's too much of a coward to go through with it. He's tried to kill himself before, you know."

"How many times?"

"Five or six, he says. But he's afraid he might botch the job and end up a hopeless cripple. That's why he needs someone to help him. He asked me to make it swift, painless, and unexpected. We talked about it for several hours."

"Why did you come to me?” Professor Bloch asked.

"I don't know how to handle him,” Sanford admitted. “Maybe you do—I hope so! But the biggest thing is, I'm scared."

Bloch's eyebrows lifted slightly. “Scared?"

"I've got plenty of use for that money. Jimmy Long wants to die. I suppose he's what you'd call ‘suicide prone'."

"I see, it'll be most advantageous to you financially if he is to kill himself."

"It could be very messy,” Sanford corrected. “If Jimmy dies and there's anything fishy about it, I'd be Suspect Number One!"

Bloch laughed harshly. “An uncomfortable position for you, indeed,” he said. “You might have a difficult time proving that you hadn't lent a helping hand."

Sanford nodded. “And if somebody else kills him—for any reason—I still wind up as the guy with the best motive."

"Have you pointed this out to him?"

"You bet I have. But Jimmy won't listen. He told me he'd elected me as his executioner, and not to look a gift horse in the mouth. As far as he's concerned it's all settled."

"It is a challenge,” the psychologist mused. “Aside from my teaching duties I'm retained as a consultant by a number of corporations for use in their college recruitment efforts. Interesting at times, but somewhat dull in the aggregate. This will be a refreshing break from my normal routine."

"What are you going to do?"

"I think first I should like to talk with Mr. James Long. You were right, Sanford, in bringing this to me instead of to the police. The college is extremely sensitive about any kind of scandal. A matter like this should be handled quietly."

"As long as it is handled,” Sanford agreed.

Bloch rose from his chair. “I'll get in touch with you if I need your help."

"Thank you, sir. Just get him to change his beneficiary, that's all I ask."

Four days later Professor Bloch encountered Sanford on the campus. The psychologist was smiling. “I hoped I'd run into you, Richard. I believe I have the situation in hand. A fascinating case."

"He's changed the policy, I hope?” Sanford said anxiously.

"Not yet. But he's coming around to it. These things take time.” Bloch paused, frowning, “Forgive me, but I've had to undermine his respect for you quite a bit"

"Anything, Doc,” Sanford grinned, “as long as you get me off the hook."

"Exactly. Do you have time to come up to my office for a moment? It would be more convenient to discuss the matter there."

After they were settled comfortably in the small office, Bloch reopened the topic. “Jimmy thinks very highly of you, Sanford. To him you are quite a hero."

"I suppose so."

"You should never have told him about your overseas experiences. Did those exploits really happen?"

Sanford nodded. “It was State Department business—very hush-hush—but they happened. I realize I shouldn't have bragged to Jimmy, but I'm afraid I was drunk that night."

"To him it was almost as if you were applying for the job."

"That's another reason why I can't be his beneficiary. I've killed seven men—would a jury believe I'd hesitate at one more?"

"I doubt it, and with such an excellent motive.” Bloch frowned and fumbled with his pipe. “You are a trained killer, taught by wartime experts. Your record makes it difficult for me to convince Jimmy that you are really a coward instead of a hero, but I believe it can be done. With your help, of course."

Sanford smiled crookedly. “If you think it's necessary,” he said.

Professor Bloch tamped tobacco into the bowl, kindled a large kitchen match, and sucked energetically at the flame until he was rewarded with thick, blue smoke. “Excellent. Here's what we'll do, then. There's a certain amount of risk involved, but I'll cover you with the school authorities."

"I'm used to risks, Professor,” Sanford said mildly, and settled back to listen while the psychologist outlined his plan.

Three days went by, the last one full of seemingly spontaneous violence. On the fourth morning Sanford reached Professor Bloch by telephone.

"I've been trying to get you for hours,” he began.

"Unfortunately, I was detained at the president's office. Our little scene yesterday was effective, was it not?"

"Sure was,” Sanford agreed. “He detests me now. I put up the proper arguments to excuse my cowardice but he didn't buy them."

"Good. Will you be moving to another room?"

"I already have. But what'll I tell the other students? They're asking questions."

"What have you said so far?"

"I've refused to discuss it."

"Excellent. Continue being silent about it. If you're pressed for an explanation, use the same one you gave Long—that you didn't want to be expelled for slugging a faculty member."

"But I did swing at you."

"You didn't connect. That's the important point. Have you seen the Dean yet?"

"No,” Sanford said. “Should I?"

"He'll call you in this afternoon. I've convinced him it was a psychological experiment and although he doesn't approve he has grudgingly agreed to go along with it. Your interview with him will be strictly a formality."

"Thank you.” It was difficult to tell whether or not Sanford was being sarcastic.

"But,” Bloch continued, unruffled, “you must give Jimmy the impression that it put the fear of God into you."

"I don't know that I like acting the coward,” Sanford objected.

"There's something about dead heroes and live cowards that covers that, I think, Richard. I'll talk with you tomorrow. I expect by then Jimmy will have got in touch with me."

"I hope it works,” Sanford said.

"It will,” Professor Bloch assured him.

Two more days passed before the psychologist again conferred with Richard Sanford. They met this time in Bloch's home, which was as tastefully and expensively turned out as the man himself.

"You can relax, Richard,” Bloch began. “I believe you're off the hook for good,"

"Wonderful!” Sanford said, sipping the professor's twelve-year-old Scotch.

"Jimmy saw me today and hinted that he would have a surprise for me next week,” Bloch elaborated. “So far he has told me nothing about his death wish, but there are enough indications in his behavior to substantiate your story."

"You doubted it?” Sanford said.

"I did not doubt the facts, as you related them, but I had to convince myself that your interpretation of his personality was correct."

"I'm usually right about these things."

"I asked him if he could give me any insights into you, since the two of you were roommates. I told him you had serious personality problems and I was trying to cure you."

"What kind of problems?"

Bloch smiled. “I painted you as a psychopathic liar,” he said. “Jimmy had a hard time accepting that, considering the intensity of his hero worship, but our public flurry of fisticuffs proved it to his satisfaction. He now believes that he was the one who engineered the fight between us."

"A neat trick of brainwashing."

"My specialty,” Bloch replied with unpersuasive modesty.

"What's the surprise he's hinting about?"

"I believe he's making a change of beneficiary,” the psychologist said. “Appointing a new executioner, so to speak."

"Who?"

"Me!"

"That's handy,” Sanford observed. “Now when he kills himself you can go to prison."

Bloch shook his head. “I was worried for a while that Jimmy would kill himself, but you were correct, Richard—he's afraid to."

"As I said—I'm usually right about these things."

"And,” Bloch continued, eyeing his guest sardonically, “if he should meet with an accidental death, I'm in a considerably better position than you to defend myself with the authorities."

"I'd think you'd be even more vulnerable."

"I'm preparing a case history of Mr. James Long which would exonerate me completely if ever such a need should arise."

Sanford smiled lazily. “You think the need will arise?"

"The probability of accidental death,” Bloch stated, “is even more remote than that of suicide."

"You believe that?"

"Of course I do. If I were given the opportunity to conduct extensive psychotherapy I'm fairly certain Jimmy could be returned to normalcy.” Bloch paused as a speculative look came into his eyes. “Next week he will present me with the same proposition he gave you."

"You're doing nothing to discourage this?"

"Why should I?” Bloch countered. “I'm handed a seriously aberrant personality under circumstances which afford intensive study. I'm working towards my second doctorate, so—"

"I see,” Sanford cut in. “Jimmy makes a nice guinea pig, is that it?"

"Exactly. The longer I can play the role of potential executioner the more I will profit from it later in professional fees."

"Why are you telling me this, Professor?"

Professor Bloch held his glass up to the light and gazed into it. “Let's just say I find it difficult to think of you merely as a student.” His manner changed abruptly. “Anyway, I—I've got you off the hook:"

"Thanks,” Sanford said. “I have enough on my mind without facing a murder rap."

"I am aware of your situation. I understand you're rather deeply in debt."

Sanford nodded. “Foolish of me, but that's the way it is."

"Perhaps I can help,” Bloch suggested. “I owe you something for giving me the opportunity to study Jimmy Long. Maybe we can work something out. You're finishing your postgraduate courses at the end of this term?"

"That's right."

"Where do you go from here?"

"I've had a couple of offers from electronics firms—nothing special, though."

"I'm quite involved in corporation recruitment,” Bloch said. “You'd be surprised at the range of businesses which insist on psychological pre-evaluation of prospective employees. For instance, I have some connections in Chicago which might be useful to you. Shall we discuss your qualifications?"

They talked for another hour.

Richard Sanford completed his postgraduate work on schedule, but he did not seek employment in the electronics field. Professor Bloch regretted losing contact with Long during the summer vacation, but welcomed him back for further study in September.

It was almost Thanksgiving before the next significant conversation took place between Professor Bloch and Richard Sanford, and it occurred far from the scene of their previous encounters.

They met, seemingly by accident, in the cocktail lounge at Chicago International Airport. Sanford was at the bar when the psychologist strolled in, carrying a brief case. The younger man rose, drink in hand, and offered a warm handclasp, which was accepted.

"Well!” Professor Bloch exclaimed ceremoniously. “Sanford! One does run into the oddest people at airports."

"It's been a long time, Doc,” Sanford replied. “Buy you a drink?"

"I have just over half an hour. I'll take you up on that."

They chose a table near the windows overlooking the taxi area.

"You've heard about Jimmy Long, I suppose,” the psychologist said.

"Read about it in the paper. A horrible way to go."

"Killed instantly, I understand, just the way he wanted it. Wrecked one end of the laboratory—they literally scraped him off the walls. I was away at the time, attending a psychological conference—actually lecturing to a group of colleagues when it happened."

The two men stared at each other over their drinks.

Bloch broke the silence. “Are you certain no one saw you?"

"Positive. Even Jimmy didn't believe it was me. Two hours later I was a hundred miles away."

"You did an excellent job. If I hadn't known, I too would have thought it was an accident. The insurance company was a bit troublesome at first, but when I showed them Long's case history they paid promptly—double indemnity in an accident, you remember."

The psychologist took a small flat package from his brief case. He laid the package on the table between them. “Your half,” he said. “In twenties, as you requested."

"Thank you.” Sanford slid the package closer. “Number eight,” he said softly.

Bloch smiled. “How did my contacts in Chicago work out?” he inquired casually.

"Just fine. I'm working on ways to dispose of numbers nine and ten right now. Would you care to hear about it?"

"No, thank you. It's not my profession at all, you know. But I'll drink to yours."

They lifted their glasses.

[Back to Table of Contents]

The two men jockeyed the new stereo-combination around a turn in the stairway. They were winded; a third-floor walk-up is not the easiest place in the world to deliver a bulky piece of furniture,

"In here,” I said, holding the door open and stepping inside. “I've made room by that wall."

They placed it where I directed. The phone was off the hook—I picked it up: “I'll have to call you back, honey. The deliverymen arrived with my new hi-fi. Call you after I check in at headquarters."

"Okay, okay. Roger. Wilco.” Always clowning.

I hung up and turned to the men. One was about forty-five and heavy-set. The other, a kid in his early twenties, was plugging the set in. His partner flipped open the top and started to remove the packing from around the turntable.

"How long'll it take you to check the set out and make sure it works?"

"About five minutes,” the kid said. “Right, Smitty?"

Smitty nodded.

I checked my watch. “How about a beer, then?"

They grinned.

"Sit down. I'll get the booze.” I went into the kitchen, took two cans from the refrigerator and popped them open. “You want glasses?"

"Aw, the can's okay,” was the reply. I carried the beers in to them and watched them gulp it. “You boys make many deliveries like this?"

"I hope not,” Smitty said. “We got fourteen more sets on the truck—TV's and stereos both. Most of ‘em go into houses in the suburbs."

"Good luck,” I said.

"Ain't you havin’ a beer?"

"I go on duty in half an hour."

"What kinda work you do?"

"I'm a cop. Bunko squad."

Smitty grinned. “I thought you was Army or something. Says Sgt. Phillips on the slip."

"You know Lt. Barnes?” the kid asked.

"Narcotics Division? The one the Crime Commission's after for accepting bribes?"

"A lousy mink coat,” the kid said. “He's my uncle."

"I hear he's an all right guy. I've only met him once or twice. Sure hope he can clear himself.” I glanced over at the stereo. It was a beautiful set, costing far more than a detective sergeant could afford. “You're going to have to show me how to work it,” I said.

"Soon's we finish our beer."

"Don't rush it. I've got ten minutes before I have to leave."

The kid remarked, “I bet you work on some real good cases."

"It gets so it's routine. Now and then somebody comes up with a new swindle, but mostly it's the same old stuff over and over. They all slip up somewhere, though. Even the smartest crooks get caught sooner or later."

"I wanted to get on the force only I wasn't tall enough."

"Takes more than height,” I told him. “Character and intelligence come first. And a clean record."

Smitty finished his beer and resumed unpacking the changer. “You work in uniform, Sarge?"

"When you're on a bunko beef it's better not to. I've baited many a trap in plain clothes."

"Ain't entrapment illegal?"

"Technically, yes. But that doesn't make it wrong. As far as I'm concerned, only suckers give a crook an even break."

"I guess you're right."

"Look at your uncle. Somebody was grateful enough to give him a mink coat for his wife. Then they tipped off the Crime Commission. That's a beautiful way to wreck a cop's career."

The kid looked unhappy.

"We gotta get going, Sarge,” Smitty interrupts.

"So do I. Show me how it works first, huh?"

Smitty demonstrated the controls and explained their use—how to tune in AM and FM and balance the output, how to read the green indicator eye, how to load the changer, the whole works. I had him repeat part of it. It took more than the allotted five minutes. “If you got any questions,” he concluded, “it's all in the instruction manual.” He shut off the power and stood up.

"I've got the hang of it."

He hauled the delivery slip from his pocket; I signed, then got into my coat. We walked down the stairs together. They went to their truck while I headed for my car.

Suddenly Smitty yelled, “Sgt. Phillips! C'mere, quick!"

"What's the trouble?"

"We had fourteen other sets in here—they're gone!"

I looked. The inside of the truck was dark but obviously empty. “You sure this is your truck?"

"It's our truck all right. Somebody swiped ‘em—swiped the whole truckload!"

I glanced up and down the street. There was no sign of anything suspicious. “One of you stay here, the other come with me. We'll report this right away."

Smitty and I sprinted up the three flights and I grabbed the phone. “This is Sgt. Phillips,” I said, reciting the facts and giving the address. I listened for a minute. “Okay, I'll have ‘em stay with the truck."

I hung up and turned to Smitty. “They're sending a squad car. You'd better call your boss and tell him what happened. But make it quick."

Nervously, Smitty called in and reported the theft, adding that I'd notified the cops. He hung up and I told him to stay with the truck. As soon as he left I dialed again.

"Willmont Sales Company,” a girl answered.

I asked for Ben Chapman.

"One moment, please. I'll ring."

"Chapman speaking."

"Ben? Alan Whitney. I've got that truckload of TV's and hi-fis I promised you. Just talked to the boys and they're on their way with ‘em."

"I'll give you a good price."

"I know you will. By the way, you remember Sgt. Phillips?"

"Isn't he the one who sent you to the joint two years ago?"

"That's right. I'm calling from his apartment. I left him a present—a brand new AM-FM-stereo console."

"That's a hot one,” Chapman chuckled. “A hard-nosed cop with stolen goods."

"Stolen, my foot! It's fully paid for. Now how's he going to explain that to the Crime Commission?"

Ben was laughing as I wiped my prints off the phone and hung up. The only other things I'd touched were the beer cans. I pocketed them, locked Sgt. Phillips’ apartment and went down to my car.

The two jerks in the truck were still waiting for the squad car to show up. I waved to them as I drove off, wondering how long it would be before they'd actually report it to the police.

[Back to Table of Contents]

I was finishing my research on the Thompson murder case when the phone rang. Murphy should have answered it, since he was the one on duty, but Chief of Detectives Raglan was closer to the phone. Not yet forty, Raglan was almost a stereotype of a top cop; bull-necked and massive-shouldered, with a truck driver face which fronted for a tricky, analytical mind. He wrapped his meaty, hand around the receiver and put, it to his ear.

"Homicide,” he said, “Go ahead."

His expression brightened, then clouded. “Where are you, honey?” he asked, grabbing for a pencil. By this time, of course, my eyebrows were up and my ears were at attention. There was only one person in the world whom Raglan would ever call “honey".

"Sit tight, honey,” he was saying. “I'll have someone there in five minutes.” He broke the connection and dialed three numbers while I stuffed my notes back into my briefcase. “Prowler at 730 Barron,” he barked. “Get two cars there and seal off the block. I'll cover the house myself."

I'd watched him in action for seventeen years, and knew my time for questions would come later.

Raglan hung up and shifted his bulk in the swivel chair. “Get the lead out, Murph!” he bellowed. “My kid just reported a prowler. Let's move!” He was out of the chair by now and grabbing his coat. He must have seen my expression because he grinned at me. “You want a story, Shaffer? Come on!"

Moments later the three of us were in a squad car heading east, and Raglan was telling me, “I'm not doing this just because it's my kid. She wouldn't call unless she was sure she saw somebody. We've had prowler reports before in that neighborhood."

Murphy started the siren then to clear traffic and, as shouting over it was not my idea of how to get a story, I sat back to enjoy as much of the ride as I could. Even Raglan showed signs of tension at the bigger intersections.

Hardnosed and determined to do his job, Joe Raglan had first come to my attention when, as a rookie patrolman, he gave the Mayor a citation for speeding. I was a rookie, too, in the middle of my first year on the Bulletin. It was that first Officer Raglan story that gave me a freer hand with the police and City Hall beat than I probably deserved.

I'd kept track of Raglan after that, figuring he'd brought me luck. He was a cautious cop. He never made a move until he was sure he was right, but when he moved it was with a ruthlessness that brooked no opposition. That he should have been promoted to the Detective Bureau was as natural as my own advancement as a reporter. We both, I suppose, went as high as we wanted to.

Despite our similarities, however, in all the seventeen years I had never liked the man. Understood him, yes. Admired him, certainly. But I could never bring myself really to like him. He was too cold, too analytical, too well-honed a blade for my taste. The only warmth I'd ever seen him show was for his daughter.

Murphy killed the siren and the squad car rolled to a gentle stop two doors down from our destination. It was as close to a suburban neighborhood as you could find while still inside the city limits. The other two cars were already there, one at each end of the block.

"No noise,” Raglan cautioned, and the three of us got out. “You and Shaffer cover the front of the house. I'm going around back."

Murphy and I found shadows to stand in, while Raglan went heavily but silently to the wooden gate at the side of the house. A moment later he had it open without a sound. Then he was gone and I watched the gate swing slowly closed. There were no sounds for several minutes.

To Murphy, I imagined, it was not the sort of investigation which should legitimately concern an ambitious young detective. But Raglan had seniority, and I guess you don't complain when the big boys call the shots. At least not in public.

Raglan's voice came sharp and clear: “Debbie. Debbie!” Heavy footsteps inside the house. The front door burst open. “Murph! Shaffer! She's not here!"

We sprinted for the door. “The children?” Murphy asked. He's got two of his own about that age, and he tends to worry.

"Asleep,” Raglan said. He looked at his watch. “I talked to her ten minutes ago and she was okay. But take a look—she didn't leave willingly, that's for sure."

The living room told its own story. A coffee table was upended in front of a sectional couch. A chair lay on its side not far from a television set. Between the couch sections, on a magazine stand, was a pink telephone, perversely undisturbed. A lamp leaned crazily against the near end of the couch. The draperies along the back wall had been partially torn loose from their runners, revealing a sliding glass door behind them. There was a hum and the scritch-rake sound of a phonograph needle grooving monotonously at the end of a record. Loose-leaf paper littered the floor.

The living room was connected with the kitchen by a doorway and also by an open serving area above a waist-high counter. A stone fireplace dominated about a third of the outside wall. The wall-to-wall carpeting would have made the room feel cozy had it not been for the signs of recent violence.

Raglan stared thoughtfully at a purse which lay open on the couch. He reached inside and found his daughter's wallet, thumbed it open. “Three bucks,” he said, tossing it back in the purse. He pulled open the draperies and through the glass wall we could see a small porch and some lawn furniture beyond.

There was the click of a switch and light spilled from the side door of the garage at the back of the lot, revealing an object which lay crumpled on the grass nearby. For a big man, Raglan moved fast, ducking outside and covering the ground with long strides, Murphy and I at his heels. “Her sweater,” Raglan said. “Cover me, Murph."

Gun in hand, he approached the garage door; Murphy moved up on the other side. I prudently removed myself from the line of possible fire.

"Debbie!” Raglan called. “You in there, honey?"

He listened for a moment, then stepped quickly inside. “Come on, Murph!” I heard him say, and Murphy followed. A moment later the garage light went out.

"Stop where you are!” a new voice barked.

"Relax, Phillips—it's me, Chief Raglan. See anybody?"

In the distance a dog began to yap. “Nobody,” Philips reported.

"Where's your partner?"

"With the car, sir."

"Get him. Go over this alley from one end to the other. First I want you to call in an APB on Deborah Raglan, fifteen, hundred thirty pounds, brown hair, green eyes, good figure, last seen wearing a green plaid skirt, yellow blouse, saddle oxfords. Got that?"

"Yes, sir."

"One other thing,” Raglan said. “When I saw her at ten o'clock her hair was up in curlers. She had a pale green scarf over it. Get that on the air now. Don't waste any time."

"Yes, sir. You want the lab crew tonight, sir?"

"Get ‘em here."

While Raglan and Murphy started searching the alley I returned to the house. I looked in on the kids and saw that they were sleeping soundly. Then I went to the telephone. My deadline for the final edition is eleven o'clock, I still had a little over ten minutes. I picked up the phone. There was no dial tone. It took me another minute or two to find the kitchen extension, which was off the hook. Had Debbie been trying to call out when the prowler broke in? I jiggled the hook until I got a tone, then dialed the city room.

"Jackson, this is Ted Shaffer,” I said. “Page one if you have room. Chief Raglan's daughter is missing. Foul play suspected. While babysitting last night she called her father, Chief of Detectives Joseph P. Raglan, Homicide Bureau, to report a prowler in the neighborhood. That was about fifteen, twenty minutes ago. Make it ten-thirty. Ten minutes later, Raglan arrived in a squad car. No prowler has been found yet but neither has the girl. Name is Deborah.” I repeated the description Raglan had rattled off a few minutes ago.

I could hear Jackson's typewriter clacking as be took it down. There was an envelope on the kitchen counter. I picked it up, then continued, “Her sweater was found in the back yard. Address is 730 Barron street, home of Mr. Frank Van Drimmelen.” I told him about the purse, then added, “Look in the morgue for shots of her; about a year ago I did a picture story on her, the cop's daughter who wants to follow in her daddy's footsteps. Yeah, I'll hang on."

I could hear Jackson bellowing for somebody to look for Debbie's picture. In a moment he was back on the line, firing questions.

"Yeah, Howdy. Two kids, about two and four. Apparently she was making a phone call when her assailant broke into the house. Kitchen phone off the hook. I was with Raglan when he got the call. How's that for luck, huh?"

I hung up and looked at the mess in the living room. Van Drimmelen's hi-fi was still grooving on the record. I walked around the kitchen partition and lifted the needle off, being careful not to disturb any fingerprints that might he on the pickup arm. A record jacket lay nearby. I found the control and turned the hi-fi off. Without the hum the house was deadly quiet.

The stillness was broken by the telephone bell. I reached through the service opening into the kitchen and picked the receiver off the hook. Before I could answer a man's voice said, “Deborah?"

"No, she isn't here at the moment,” I said. “Who's calling?"

"Isn't there!” the voice exploded. “She's babysitting my kids! Who is this?"

"Your children are fine, Mr. Van Drimmelen,” I assured him. “But I suggest you come home immediately. Debbie reported a prowler to the police. When we got here she had disappeared."

"What happened?"

"We don't know yet. Apparently somebody broke in."

"I'll be there in fifteen minutes."

"The children are both asleep, and somebody will stay with them until you arrive, so drive carefully."

"I will. Thank you."

As I hung up, Raglan came in from the back yard, carrying Debbie's sweater. “She must have had it around her shoulders,” Raglan said.

I nodded. “Van Drimmelen's on his way home, Joe,” I told him. “He just called. Find anything else?"

"Nothing. There's no trace of her. A kid just doesn't disappear without a trace. Not Debbie. She put up a fight, anyway,” he added, looking at the mess.

"You'll find her, Joe,” I assured him. “Got any theories about it?"

His eyes narrowed for a moment as he stared at the sweater. “It might not just be a prowler,” he said. “I don't have anything at all to back up that statement, but I've got to suspect the worst."

"Motive?” I asked.

"Try revenge,” he said.

I looked at him.

"It's no secret that I think the world of that kid. Could you come up with a better way to get back at me?"

"Can I quote you on that?"

"Yeah. Go ahead. But as a police officer I've got to think of other possibilities, too. I know Debbie. I know how her mind works. This theory, though, you do not quote."

"All right,” I agreed. “Did she have any reason to run away from home?"

"What reason does any fifteen-year-old have?"

"She's not in trouble, is she?"

"She better not be. But I don't know. Hold off for a day on the revenge theory. You'll be the first to know the minute I get anything."

"I know that. What grade's she in, Joe? And what school?"

"Ten. McKinley. Why?"

"I may be able to get farther in this direction than you could."

"I appreciate your help. I don't recall any special girl friends—my wife might, though. Debbie is a lot like me. She keeps pretty much to herself."

Raglan went out then to check on progress in the alley and returned just as a car stopped out front. A key turned in the lock and we watched the front door swing open to, admit a tall man and an attractive, buxom woman. “Raglan!"’ the man said. “What happened. Did you find her yet?"

Raglan shook his head. “Shaffer, this is Frank Drimmelen and his wife."

"Excuse me, please,” the woman said. “My babies.” She vanished towards the bedrooms.

"I tried to call Debbie at ten-thirty,” Van Drimmelen said, “to tell her Nikkie and I might be about an hour later than we'd planned, but the phone was busy."

"She was calling me about then,” Raglan said, nodding.

"I tried again three times in the next ten minutes,” Van Drimmelen continued, seeming to enjoy the limelight of his own testimony. “I even called the operator to see if the line was out of order. She was still talking, though. Half an hour later I tried again and Officer Shaffer answered."

The woman returned and gasped when she saw the living room. “Good heavens, this is a mess. Let me clean it up,” she said, starting forward. “Oh, what a mess!"

"Don't touch anything,” Raglan said sharply. “The lab boys ought to be here any minute. I'll need your prints, Frank, and your wife's, so we can eliminate them."

"You'll find mine on both phones,” I volunteered. “I don't think I touched anything else."

The technicians arrived and spent an hour combing the house; it was nearly one by the time Raglan, Murphy and, I got back to the police station. Raglan told me to check with him in the morning, and I went home.

The big detective had been in and out already when I called Homicide the next morning, which was Wednesday, so I bought a paper on my way in to the Bulletin building. The story was on page one. Jackson had slugged it, “CHIEF'S DAUGHTER VANISHES,” with a sub-deck reading, “Foul Play Suspected".

Stanton Pritchard, perhaps the best city editor in three states, was pointing out the story to one of our newer staff members as I walked in. “Here's how to be a star reporter, Nolan,” Pritch was saying. “Pick a cop, make him look like a hero, help him get promoted and twenty years later you're the one he calls when something breaks. Oh, hello, Shaffer."

"You've got it all wrong, Pritch,” I said. “The real secret is to work for a paper that pays you so poorly you're forced to moonlight. So you start writing up old murders for the true crime magazines; that puts you in the cop's office at ten-thirty at night when all the action starts. How you doing, Nolan?"

"Fine, Mr. Shaffer. Anything new on the Raglan story?"

"I don't know, kid. I just got here. Pritch, I'd like to spend most of the day on this thing, unless you have something more pressing in mind."

Pritchard grinned. “Can you give me twenty inches by four o'clock?"

"If you promise me a fourteen point byline. I'm going to talk to her schoolmates today, find out what sort of girl she was—pardon me, is,” I told him. “Tomorrow I'll have a quote from Raglan that it might be the work of a revenge-seeking ex-con."

"He tell you that?"

"Asked me to sit on it for a day or so."

I spent a few minutes in the morgue giving Old Mayhew instructions to dig out every criminal Raglan had been instrumental in capturing, starting about five years ago and working backwards, in case the revenge theory was right. Then I called the Superintendent of McKinley high school and got his permission to talk to Deborah Raglan's homeroom teacher. By the time I arrived he had rounded up several teachers, Debbie's counselor, the school nurse, her Phys Ed instructor, and the presidents of the two student organizations to which she belonged. In all, I interviewed five teachers and about a dozen students. The picture which emerged was in line with Raglan's statement that she was a lot like her father—a loner. Apparently Debbie had no “best” friends of either sex. She dated a variety of boys, apparently so sure of herself that she considered a “steady” an unnecessary social crutch.

I asked the blonde, bucktoothed girl who sat next to her in study hall if there was any chance Debbie might have staged the whole thing and run away.

"That'd be tough,” the girl replied, intrigued by the idea. “She'd have to have a real good reason, though. She figures everything out, you know?"

Caution seemed to be a Raglan family trait.

I stopped at a pay phone and called Homicide again. This time Raglan was in. “Any news about Debbie?” I asked.

"Nothing much. Some strange prints on that glass door, but they don't match anything in R and I. You've been busy at the school?"

"They all say the same thing: bright, good character, no trouble, no enemies, no close friends, sort of a loner, fairly popular but she didn't make a career of it. If you have no objections, Joe, I'd like to talk with your wife."

"Sure. She's at home. I told her to stay there in case Debbie called."

"I'll check with you later."

"Do that. By the way, Shaffer, when are you going to learn not to withhold information from the police?"

"What information?"

"I have to read in the paper that the phone was off the hook. Anything else you didn't tell me?"

"The hi-fi was on."

"Of course. I'm surprised she wasn't watching television at the same time. I wonder if she was trying to call me back?"

"Could be,” I agreed. “Let me know if the lab comes up with anything newsworthy."

Talking to Florence Raglan, I suspected, would be one of the least pleasant parts of my day. I figured that staying married to her was either a point of honor with Raglan, or he was doing it just to be near his kid. I took the elevator up to their third-floor apartment and thumbed the bell.

Florence Raglan had been a pretty woman once. Traces of it were still visible, if you looked past the hard lines around her mouth and the puffy eyes. She opened the door and stared blankly at me for a moment. “Yes?"

"I'm Ted Shaffer, Mrs. Raglan, with the Bulletin. I was with Joe last night when he discovered Debbie was missing. Can you tell me what happened earlier in the evening?"

She ushered me into her living room and motioned me to a chair. When she spoke it was in a voice that had too many sharp edges.

"We had dinner at six o'clock, then Deborah walked over to the Van Drimmelens'. Joe has a crime show he likes to watch on Tuesday nights, so he stayed home. About a quarter of ten Deborah called and asked if her father could bring her one of her other schoolbooks, so he drove over with it."

"He would have seen her about ten o'clock, then,” I said.

"That's right. I suppose he went to the office after that."

"Did your daughter seem nervous earlier in the evening?"

Florence Raglan shook her head. “She read a book all through dinner.” She stared at the telephone, then massaged her forehead with the heel of her hand.

"I know this is upsetting you, Mrs. Raglan. Would you rather I came back later?"

She shook her head again.

"About a year ago,” I said, “I did a story on Debbie—I think you recall it. Does she still want to follow in Joe's footsteps and become criminologist?"

"That was just a phase she was going through,” the woman replied. “She worships her father, of course, but I think lately she's been leaning towards writing."

"What sort of writing?"

Her voice held a sharp note of contempt. “Mysteries, of course."

Naturally. With Joe Raglan in her pocket she'd be a fool to write anything else.

"You're hoping for a phone call?” I asked.

"It's possible, I suppose, but not very likely.” Mrs. Raglan smiled thinly. “I'd be the last person she'd call."

"Are any of her clothes missing?"

"No, nothing's missing. There was money in her purse. There's still over a hundred dollars in her savings account."

"Would it be possible for me to take a look at some of her writing?"

"If you wish,” she said, crushing out her cigarette and standing up. “But I assure you it's nothing worthwhile."

Mrs. Raglan led me deeper into the apartment and opened a door. “This is her room,” she said flatly. “Such as it is. Doesn't look much like a normal teenager's bedroom, does it?"

The room was starkly functional. A portable record player was in one corner, on the floor. The bed had no stuffed animals on it, the dresser-top was bare. A kneehole desk stood against one wall, and an old portable typewriter occupied the center of it. Mrs. Raglan opened the drawers, disclosing a neat stack of typing paper, carbons, pencils and paper clips but nothing which looked remotely like a manuscript. “They're probably in her locker at school. I think she took them in for Mr. Sorenson in the English Department to check over."

I added Sorenson's name to my notes.

"You'd hardly know she was a girl,” the woman said wryly. “She refused to learn how to sew. Said it didn't interest her. Cooking was the same. She was always too busy with her art work for which she had no talent at all, and I told her so. For a while she wanted to be a dancer but she had absolutely no sense of rhythm.” There were many things Florence Raglan felt were wrong with her daughter and she seemed to enjoy listing them. “Lately it was writing, but the girl can't even spell. When she took typing I tried to talk her into taking shorthand, too. Being a stenographer is a respectable career for a girl, but she said she wasn't interested in other people's words."

"She must be a pretty good babysitter, though,” I ventured.

"She never sat for anyone but the Van Drimmelens. I was hoping that would bring out her feminine instincts, but I haven't seen much improvement. She's just too much like her father."

"In what way?"

She gave me a long-suffering smile. “You know how Joe loves playing cops and robbers. He's smart enough to get a better job, but being a detective has glamour. It feeds his ego. Do you know he even turned down a promotion last year because it would mean he'd have to grow up and start acting like a man?"

"I know.” It would have been unwise to tell her that was one of the reasons I admired Joe Raglan. I thanked her for her cooperation, borrowed a photo of Debbie and put it in my briefcase, and left her to resume her telephone vigil.

It was noon. I traced the eight block route Debbie had traveled to her babysitting job and parked in front of the Van Drimmelens'. The neighborhood seemed just as quiet as it had been last night.

Mrs. Van Drimmelen was home, feeding lunch to her two children. She was an attractive young woman, big-boned, with the clean, just scrubbed look that owes more to diet than to cosmetics. “I'm so upset over this,” she said. “You just don't know. I've been so afraid something like this would happen."

"You've had trouble with prowlers before?"

"No,” she said, shaking her head. “Never, as long as we've been here. We've been very fortunate in this neighborhood, until last night. But—well, you know, Mr. Shaffer, a mother can't help worrying about her children. Finding Debbie was such a godsend. Not very many girls her age are so capable or so dependable. She was always here fifteen to twenty minutes early, she never touched anything that didn't belong to her. She was a real contrast to some of the girls we've had."

"How did you happen to find Deborah?"

"My husband knows her father. Frank was telling Mr. Raglan about the troubles we'd been having with babysitters, and that very night Debbie called us. I've been so thankful she did—until this horrible thing happened."

"Could you give me the names of your neighbors? I'd like to talk with them."

"Of course.” She dictated a list of names while I wrote them down.

It was a short block, with only five houses counting the ones on the corners, so I worked my way from one end to the other. A Mrs. Carter Phillips, in the corner house, furnished the only piece of information which might conceivably be considered a clue.

"Nothing unusual ever happens in this neighborhood,” she said. “About the most exciting thing yesterday—until the girl's disappearance, I mean—was the old car that was parked behind our garage all day. I was a little angry about it, and I was going to call the police if it was still there today, but it isn't."

"A strange car?"

"I suppose I wouldn't even have noticed it if it hadn't been parked right where we put the trash barrels."

"What kind of a car.

"Oh, I don't know. It was just an old black car like you see in junkyards. It was there all day, and it was still there when I went shopping last night, but it was gone by the time I got back."

"What time was that?"

"Let's see,” She said. “I was almost the last person to leave the supermarket, so it would have been a few minutes past ten when I returned. I told the police all about it and they said they didn't think it was important."

I drove thoughtfully back to the newspaper office.

Old Mayhew had done a good job for me. On my desk was a stack of clippings covering some thirty-seven cases in which Raglan's testimony had helped send the accused to prison. I had about an hour or so left in which to produce twenty inches of copy for Pritch, so I set the files aside and began sifting my notes to find a starting place. Sometimes it's like trying to pick up a jellyfish without knowing where the handle is. I had enough material; all I had to do now was put it together in the proper order. After about ten minutes I began building my lead paragraph. I stared at it for a minute, then reached for the telephone.

Raglan was in his office. No, there were no last-minute developments.

"May I use the revenge theory yet, Joe?"

"I'd rather you didn't until tomorrow,” Raglan said. “I don't want to tip anyone off."

"Anything to the old car in the alley?"

"What?"

"I've been busy, Joe. A Mrs. Phillips at 768 Barron said there was an old car parked behind her garage all day yesterday."

"Oh, that. It was gone too early to have anything to do with this. If Debbie isn't home by midnight I'll have deputies and Boy Scouts combing the area for a body."

"I hope you're wrong."

I broke the connection, dialed McKinley high school, and arranged for Mr. Sorenson of the English Department to call me immediately. It took him five minutes.

"Mr. Sorenson,” I said. “I've been told Deborah Raglan is interested in writing. Know anything about it?"

"Oh, yes, Mr. Shaffer,” Victor Sorenson replied. “I wasn't in this morning, but I heard about your visit. Yes, Debbie showed quite a bit of promise. Her spelling was atrocious, but her stories were original and well-plotted, although of course there was very little depth to her characters."

"Why do you say ‘of course'?"

"At fifteen? Would you expect her to have the insight you or I would have?"

"I wouldn't expect the average fifteen-year-old to be writing mystery stories."

"You have a point there,” he agreed. “Still, Debbie was not a very warm individual. Her mind was very clinical; her emotional development was wanting. She might have been capable, as she grew older, of attaining some degree of rapport with her fellow human beings, but I seriously doubt it."

"She took you some stories, I believe. Do you still have them?"

"I'm sorry,” he said. “Three days ago I had one but Debbie took it back to work on it some more."

At three o'clock my story was in Stanton Pritchard's hands. He read it over and passed it to Hendrix for a head. “What's next, Shaffer?” he asked.

I told him about tomorrow morning's manhunt with the Boy Scouts; Pritch took notes.

"Seeing that I haven't had lunch yet,” I added, “I thought I'd grab a bite on my way over to the Probation Department."

"Here's a thought, for what it's worth,” Pritch said, rubbing his chin. “If you were inside, would you be likely to know how crazy Raglan is about his daughter?"

"I'll bear that in mind."

I ordered my sandwich and then called the Department to make sure Milt Rosenberg could see me. Milt had been a parole officer for the last ten years, and had helped me on previous occasions when I needed information on individuals who had goofed themselves into the news. Today, however, according to Esther, Milt was just too busy to talk to me.

"I'm checking a news story,” I told her. “Trying to keep ahead of Chief Raglan."

"Fat chance,” she said sympathetically. “It takes some doing to keep ahead of Joe Raglan. Can I help?"

"I've got to talk to Milt about some of his boys."

"You think one of them pulled the job?” she asked dubiously.

"Raglan seems to think so."

"How well I know. Check with me tomorrow, will you?"

I had a somewhat more leisurely lunch than I'd planned, then returned to my desk at the Bulletin and called Homicide again. Raglan had ordered Debbie's locker opened at school, he told me, but all they found were two textbooks and a couple of items of clothing. No, no short stories.

I'd put off writing the side feature on Deborah Raglan long enough, so I batted it out at home. Despite my objectivity, Debbie came out smelling pretty good, and because of that same objectivity, she came out real, a clever, talented girl, with poise and self-assurance, a realistic outlook, a bit headstrong.

Pritch was happy, too, when I handed him the story Thursday morning. “I might want a favor some day,” I said. “You have somebody out there this morning to shoot the Boy Scouts combing the fields?"

"Matcha. Got back an hour ago. He's probably in the photo lab."

I found the huge photographer at the coffee machine. “Listen, Shaffer,” he said, “next time one of your friends gets me out of bed so early, try to have the body in a ground-floor apartment, okay? I must have walked off fifty pounds in the last two hours."

"They find anything?"

"Yeah. One baseball, an old shoe and seventeen empty whiskey bottles."

The story broke at nine-thirty, with a phone call from Raglan. “Come over here, Shaffer,” he said curtly. “I told you you'd get it first, but I won't give it to you on the phone."

I grabbed my briefcase, told Pritch where I was going, collected Matcha, and went.

When we arrived at Homicide we were sent straight back to Raglan's office. Raglan picked up a letter from his desk and handed it to me. “This was dropped in a drive-up box in front of the main post office sometime between ten forty-five and eleven forty-five yesterday morning."

The envelope was clipped to the letter, and bore a twelve noon postmark. The crudely printed address read: “Chief Raglan, Homicide Div., Fallbrook Police Dept., City."

The note itself was a masterpiece of restraint: “Raglan, if you want the girl back alive, it will cost you $100,000 in unmarked twentys. You have 3 days to get it ready!” It was penciled in bold block letters on a sheet of plain paper.

"Fingerprints?” I asked hopefully.

Raglan shook his head. “The paper's too porous to retain any. You want to take a shot of it?"

Matcha was already setting up his camera.

"What are you going to do, Joe?"

"Pay,” he said. “I've already ordered everyone off the case. I've got to assume Debbie's alive; it's my job now to keep her alive. She's probably still in the city. And so is he."

"Couldn't you find them in three days?"

"I might scare him into killing her. I don't want that."

"Where are you going to get the money, Joe? A hundred thousand is quite a lot. If the department wants to hold a raffle I'll help with publicity..."

"I'll get it, one way or another. I hope. Whoever is behind this knows damn well I can't raise a hundred grand. But he's got the knife in, and he's twisting it. It's someone who hates me personally."

"You don't think the money interests him, then?"

"He's interested; he just doesn't expect to get it. But perhaps his greed is more powerful than his hatred. My only hope is to get word to him that he will get the money."

Matcha put the ransom note back on Raglan's desk and said, “You know what I think, Chief? This is the work of some young high school punk. If he hates you it's only because you wouldn't let your daughter go out with him."

"What makes you say that?” Raglan asked.

"This ransom note. It's like comic-book lettering. An experienced criminal would have clipped words out of newspapers and pasted them together. This guy practically signed his name."

Raglan shook his head. “I wish he had used scissors and paste; he might have left a useable print."

"I still say if you check with the school and see who's been absent since Tuesday you'll have him."

"It's an interesting theory,” Raglan admitted. “But the fact remains, he's asked for a hundred thousand and, I've got to assure him he'll get it."

"I can have it on the streets by nine o'clock tonight,” I offered.

"That's too late, Shaffer. I promised you an exclusive; I want you to release me from that promise. This story has got to be on the noon news over every television and radio station in the area. Help me, will you, Shaffer?"

I told him, “Give me an open line and I'll start the ball rolling."

Matcha looked at me oddly. “You better get back to the paper, Chuck,” I told him. “A print of that note ought to go good as a line cut, don't you think? But, don't tell Pritch what I'm doing, okay?"

Matcha shrugged and lumbered out.

It took me an hour to contact all the local media. At the end of that time Raglan said, “Shaffer, I've been thinking. This guy is sure I can't raise that much money. But if, by some miracle, I succeed, he'll figure I can make good any promise—or any threat."

"Maybe,” I said.

"I've got to take the chance. Is there any way I could get on television tonight and talk to him personally?"

"A televised news conference,” I suggested.

He frowned. “They'd edit me down to about three minutes of film. I'll need longer than that. Larry Brenner's on tonight, isn't he?"

"Are you serious? He'd tear you apart!"

The big detective smiled. “Nobody tears Joe Raglan apart, Shaffer. Get me in touch with him."

I talked to Brenner first. He was delighted with the opportunity, and agreed to postpone the show he'd taped for tonight and substitute a live half hour with Chief Raglan. Caught up in the spirit of the thing, I even called the Daily News and let them scoop me on page one. For that, I should have been awarded a Merit Badge.

Then I called the Department of Probation and Parole. Half an hour later, Milt Rosenberg looked at my list of ex-cons and checked off half a dozen of them. “Back in custody,” he explained. “Raglan picked them up this morning for questioning. Yesterday he interrogated almost everybody else on this list, and every last one of them has complained about it to me. Except for those six, who haven't been released yet."

"Complained?"

Rosenberg smiled. “It's—ah—the manner of questioning they're objecting to."

I nodded. “The boys on the force sometimes forget their manners."

"It's creating a problem for me; in a couple of cases my parolees have lost their jobs already, on account of being picked up. The department is sometimes instrumental in finding jobs for them where only one man in the firm has to know they're ex-cons but you can't keep that a secret when you're picked up at work. It's unfair, but what do you expect from a man like Raglan? He's not interested in people—he's interested in results. You want the home addresses of these men?"

"That's what I'm here for, Milt."

"Just be fair to ‘em, all right?"

"Until one of these guys is charged with kidnapping Debbie Raglan, he won't even get his name in the paper. But if it happens, I want all the information right at my fingertips."

Rosenberg buzzed for his secretary. When she came in he handed her the list. “Esther, give Ted the current addresses of all these men, will you please?"

"Any of these guys hate Joe Raglan enough to kidnap his daughter?” I asked.

Rosenberg shook his head. “These men are specialists; they know one crime and they always do it the same way, maybe with minor improvements as they gain experience. Take Duncan; he's a forger. A master of his trade—signatures, documents, the works. Raglan got him for preparing false ID that was used in the commission of a felony."

"So?"

"This job was pulled by someone who knows the ins and outs of kidnapping—someone who probably is capable of murder. Either that or a master criminal, a jack of all trades, and they don't exist except in the comic books."

I, too, was unwilling to buy the Master Criminal idea, which left but one category to choose from. The hoodlum who had not yet settled down to a distinctive modus operandi. A young kid, maybe a smart high-school kid. I was willing to bet that in addition to brains he'd have a personality problem. A smart kid. Perhaps brilliant. But socially inept. Since he wouldn't be much of a mixer he wouldn't have the experience to make it with the girls. Outwitting the cops might have a strong appeal for this type of boy. And to kidnap the Chief's daughter—that would be a project worthy of his intellect!

I was guessing now, and I didn't want to risk Raglan's scorn if I was guessing wrong. But there was nothing to prevent me from doing a little detective work on my own.

I called Victor Sorenson and arranged to meet him at a convenient bar later on. In the meantime I still had a story to write, to run alongside the personality profile I'd done of Debbie the night before. I wrote it fast and well, thankful that Raglan, for a change, was being good copy all by himself.

Sorenson was tall and angular, with a long face and a Nordic complexion, complementing his name.

"I ordered you a beer,” I said. “I hope that's all right."'

He smiled crookedly. “My taste in beverages is completely in character with my budget. Have they located the missing manuscripts yet?"

"No, but a ransom note came in Raglan's morning mail."

"I heard about that. I understand he's ordered everybody off the case."

"Everybody but us amateurs. He wants to keep Debbie alive."

"A noble motive,” Sorenson said. “I've been trying to think of anything else I can tell you about her, without much success."

"That's all right,” I said. “I didn't ask you here to talk about Debbie. I have someone else in mind.” I described the brilliant, rebellious high school boy I'd built up in my mind's eye.

"Whew,” he said. “I know the type."

"But do you know the boy?"

He smiled and sipped his beer. “Fifteen years ago that description might have fit me. Off hand, I can't think of anyone quite like that in school right now."

"Maybe a drop-out,” I suggested. “Someone attending school recently enough, though, to get to know Debbie, develop a crush on her. Someone who might have been in the habit of printing his name at the top of his assignments?"

"Why should that be significant?"

I took a clean sheet of paper from my briefcase and reconstructed the ransom note. I should have asked Matcha for a duplicate print of the note itself.

Sorenson studied my facsimile and nodded. “I've seen lettering like that. Not too often, but I've seen it. I can't recall exactly where, but I'll check around for you."

"He's not necessarily a dropout,” I said. “But if he's still going to school, he'll have been absent just as long as Debbie has."

"Not necessarily,” Sorenson countered. “If he's as smart as you say he is, he'd be cautious enough to cover his tracks. He would have kept coming to classes just as if nothing had happened at all. His ego would demand it; it's all the kids are talking about now."

"There's one class he would have missed,” I said. “Yesterday morning, between ten forty-five and eleven forty-five, he was in front of the main post office mailing that ransom note."

Sorenson smiled. “That narrows the field considerably."

"Call me, will you?” I drained my beer.

"Sure. At the paper?"

"If I'm not there, ask for Stanton Pritchard. He's the city editor. He'll know where to reach me."

After we'd parted, I thought about Victor Sorenson for a while. The man was handsome, with a brooding, intellectual quality which I imagined would have appealed to a girl like Deborah Raglan. I wondered if it could have been more than a quest for constructive criticism which had prompted her to take her stories to him. He was in his early thirties, old enough to be her father, but young enough not to be. And he had poise and maturity. I wondered, too, if he might have seen in her something more than just a welcome relief from the general run of nincompoops he was required to instruct.

At nine o'clock that night the Larry Brenner Special Report came on; I taped it for reference.

Florence Raglan was there, a tragic figure of grief. Perhaps it was the crumpled handkerchief in her hands that did it. If I hadn't known her, my heart would have gone out to her. Joe, too, had changed. By the time I'd watched five minutes, I realized I was looking at a side of Joe Raglan I'd never seen before.

The first quarter hour was devoted to the details of finding Debbie gone. Then Brenner concentrated on Debbie, delving into her likes, dislikes, anecdotes about her childhood, the warm, human way in which she blossomed into all-American girlhood. She, too, had changed, having acquired a sweetness and an innocence that no one ever suspected. That was Brenner's style of reporting. The thought of such a girl being the victim of a brutal kidnapping was enough to send chills down the spine.

Brenner had a documentary look about him as he solemnly informed his audience that Chief Raglan had requested a few minutes in which to talk directly to his daughter's kidnapper. Then the scene shifted to the tragic couple on the dais.

Raglan blinked and located the proper camera. “I want to assure you,” he said slowly, “that all official efforts to locate you have been stopped. No police technician has so much as seen your ransom note. I am making every effort to cooperate. You have asked for one hundred thousand dollars.” He paused, and his voice was almost inaudible. “I want my daughter back."

Mrs. Raglan began to cry quietly. Joe's arm went around her shoulders, and he looked straight at the camera as it dollied in. His face filled the screen. He wasn't the tough cop any more. There was grief in his eyes as he continued.

"Debbie, we'll get you back. I don't have the money yet. I don't know where we're going to get it, but we'll get it if I have to die trying."

His expression changed, became hard. “And you—whoever you are. If you hurt my kid I'll track you down. Don't hurt her, you hear me? You'll get your money, every penny of it. You know my reputation. I've never gone back on my word yet."

He was breathing hard, and his wife was sobbing openly, her head on his chest. The camera pulled back and the lighting changed, leaving the Raglans silhouetted in black against a white background.

Larry Brenner's voice dominated the scene, “Mr. and Mrs. Joseph Raglan. Parents of Debbie Raglan, fifteen years old, kidnapped Tuesday evening while babysitting."

The camera cut to Brenner's face. His eyes flicked to one side and he frowned, then reached out to accept a slip of paper from an unseen hand. There was a moment of effective silence before he spoke again, rapidly and excitedly.

"We just had a telephone call pledging a check for one hundred dollars."

Brenner's voice faltered. “Chief Raglan, I'm sorry I couldn't be the first, but I'll match that hundred right now. We've only got a minute and I don't know much about setting up fund-raising campaigns, but I'm sure there are many people in our audience tonight who will give what they can."

They called it the DEBBIE FUND, and a hastily scrawled placard bearing the station's address filled the screen for Brenner's remaining minute.

I switched the TV off and thought about the story I'd done for tomorrow's Bulletin, which was already on the streets. The human slant. A word-picture of a girl as she really was—or as close to it as I could find out. An honest story, not a tear-jerker, not at all. Not the sort of story Brenner had pulled from the Raglans. And, I had to admit, not the sort of story which would prompt anyone to contribute a hundred dollars to the Debbie Fund.

I rewound the tape, skipping back and forth until I found the part I wanted, then copied it and added two paragraphs to it, feeling uneasy all the time. Then I went to the phone.

"Jackson,” I said, when I got through to him, “you watch the Larry Brenner show tonight?"

"Last half of it. I'm trying to figure what to take off the front page."

"You're the editor. How far along is it?"

"Early edition's out—state edition is on press. I can have the change for home delivery in the city. Got something?"

I read him what I'd written. It wasn't a complete story, but Jackson could handle the rest of it. When I got through I opened myself a beer, and wondered if I should try to match Brenner's gesture with a hundred dollar check.

I flicked the TV set back on and confirmed my suspicion that the station was turning the Debbie Fund into an impromptu telethon. Just ninety minutes after Raglan's appearance, the pledges were estimated at better than twenty thousand dollars.

Friday morning dawned bleak and overcast. I unfolded the morning paper and read what Jackson had done to the front page. It seemed as uninspiring as the weather.

Pritch frowned at me as I walked into the city room. He stood up as I approached his desk. “Ted,” he said quietly, “Raglan's unhappy, boy. He's so unhappy he's threatened to sue the paper, you, me, Old Man Owens and two or three John Does."

"For what?"

"For telling the world what Debbie is really like. Defamation of character."

"You're kidding."

"I've gone over that story with a magnifying glass and I can't find anything libelous in it. But you know Owens and lawsuits.” He paused. “There's only one condition under which Raglan won't sue, and Mr. Owens decided to meet it. Your check is waiting at the cashier's desk."

"Now wait a minute!"

"Look at it this way,” Pritch said reasonably. “Raglan's in a corner. He doesn't have a hundred grand, but he's worked out a way to get it. He sees you as a threat to the Debbie Fund and he panics. He'll cool off once he gets her back. Don't do anything rash. I'm not trying to hire a replacement."

I nodded. “I guess what I resent most is being taken off this story."

Pritch grinned. “How can I take you off a story if you don't work for me any more?"

"You have a point,” I agreed. “My phone still work?"

"Yep."

"I want to talk to Raglan.” Joe Raglan didn't want to talk to me. I had the feeling, when I hung up, I'd be lucky not to be picked up on suspicion of spitting on the sidewalk.

I spent an hour at the typewriter, making notes. Then I picked up my briefcase, my hat and my check, and went out to find out why. There had to be a reason behind it, more valid than the theory Pritch had advanced. I probably knew Joe Raglan as well as anyone else in the city did. And the Joe Raglan I knew was incapable of panic.

I sat in the car for a long time and reviewed the case, right from the beginning. I consulted my notes and went over conversations I'd had with the people involved.

One of the first things Regan had said to me was that there had been prowler reports before in that neighborhood; Mrs. Van Drimmelen and Mrs. Phillips had contradicted that.

The time element seemed to have holes in it, too. I had been in Raglan's office at ten-thirty when Debbie called. We had arrived at ten-forty. Therefore, within that ten minutes she must have disappeared. Van Drimmelen had tried to call her at ten-thirty and the phone was busy. That part of it checked.

But three times in the next ten minutes Van Drimmelen had tried to call her and it was still busy. She had finished talking to Joe, and was either conversing with someone else, or had been interrupted while attempting to place the call. But Van Drimmelen had called the operator and asked her to check the line; she had reported that the line was actually busy, that there was conversation in progress. That completed her report.

Was it my call to the Bulletin she'd plugged in on? No, because I didn't talk for more than three minutes. The phone rang almost immediately after that, and it was Van Drimmelen. He claimed he'd waited half an hour before placing that particular call. Either the man's time sense was drastically off, or there was something else amiss. I got out pencil and paper, trying to unscramble it.

It took about an hour, but suddenly I had the jellyfish by the handle, and when I held it up I didn't like what I saw at all. There were a few things I'd have to check, but now that I knew what I was looking for it would be easy. I spent the next two hours feeding dimes into a phone booth.

Mrs. Van Drimmelen, at home, gave me one of the answers.

Her husband, at work, gave me another. “Yes,” he said, “I like to keep my watch fifteen minutes fast. I'm more frequently on time for appointments that way. I suppose it was actually about ten-fifteen when I started calling home."

I wondered who Debbie would have been talking to before she called her father. It seemed strange that whoever it was had not volunteered the information. Unless, of course, it had been the kidnapper himself.

Fortunately, I was on good terms with Jay Evans, the local phone company manager. After an enlightening technical conversation, he cleared me with his Chief Special Agent who promised me he'd get in touch with the verifying operator and have her call me right back. They both warned me that there was but one chance in a hundred that the girl would remember any one particular number.

By a stroke of luck, the operator remembered Liberty 11-776. “I thought it was a good omen,” she said, “seeing that it was one of the last numbers I checked before my relief came."

"Could you tell me the exact time you checked it?"

"We don't log verifications, but it must have been just a couple of minutes before ten-thirty."

"Are you sure it wasn't a couple of minutes after?"

"It couldn't have been. My break is at ten-thirty."

"Was the voice male or female?"

"Male, I think. But I wouldn't know what was being said. I plug in just long enough to hear a voice. I'm too busy to listen longer than that."

I dialed Evans again. He promised to check the toll charges on the Van Drimmelens’ phone for that evening, but informed me that, unless a message unit call had been placed, no record of the call would exist. Still, even if I drew a blank in that area, I had enough information to satisfy me, although it would hardly convince the District Attorney.

I called Mrs. Van Drimmelen back with one more question. The answer was no, their record collection was entirely composed of classical music.

I got some more change and called Milt Rosenberg, who was happy to give me the names of the men who'd lost their jobs as a result of being pulled in for questioning.

"Have any of them asked for permission to leave the city?” I inquired.

"No, Ted. Why?"

"Just a hunch. Call me at home if it happens."

I cashed my check, then stopped at a music store on my way out to see James Duncan, the artist who had served three years on account of his excellent penmanship. I had to agree with Milt—Duncan wasn't the type to try his hand at armed robbery. Or kidnapping. He wasn't even a particularly good liar; his denial was so all-inclusive that I was sure now I was on the right track.

The rest of the afternoon I spent with a travel agent. We planned about six different vacations for me, with careful attention to flexibility and economy. I regretted not being able to make up my mind, but gave her to understand that I'd let her handle all the arrangements as soon as I reached a decision.

Then I went home and opened a beer and sat back and admired the clinical thoroughness of the whole swindle.

In a little while the telephone rang. I'd been expecting that.

"Victor Sorenson,” he said. “I've been trying to get you all day. They tell me at the paper you don't work there any more."

"Sad, but true. You find anything?"

"Not what I was looking for. Something better, I think. That was a fine profile you did of Deborah Raglan."

"Thanks, but it lost me my job. Get to the point."

"I'm getting there,” he assured me. “Your story was particularly effective alongside the photo of the ransom note. I wish you'd shown me the note itself yesterday, instead of just your reconstruction. Something struck me as odd the minute I saw the paper this morning. It may not mean anything, but..."

The paper was in plain sight. I stared at it for a moment, then grinned. “I see what you're talking about,” I told him. “All by itself it wouldn't mean much, I'm afraid. Comparison discloses it."

"I'm surprised you didn't spot it yourself,” Sorenson chided.

"You know, Victor, for a while I suspected you."

"Really?” He sounded amused. “Why?"

"After what you told me about yourself I started thinking. You were one of the few who knew her whose whereabouts I couldn't account for at the time the ransom note was mailed."

"I was ill that morning. Who else can't you account for?” he asked.

"One of them was Raglan himself. But he doesn't count."

"What are you going to do about this?"

Sorenson was asking too many questions. “I think I'll sit on it,” I said cautiously. “See what else develops. You spotting the error confirms something I suspected, but letting the information go any further right now could queer the whole thing."

"I'll keep quiet,” Sorenson promised.

We chatted a few minutes more. Afterwards, I opened another beer and settled back to wait for Rosenberg to call. He did, about half an hour later. When he accused me of being psychic, I felt so good I considered for a moment applying for Joe Raglan's job. But you have to work your way up from the bottom for that, paying careful attention to your reputation.

"What's his name, Milt?"

"Eddie Rocco. He's nineteen; served six months for grand theft auto. He's kept his nose clean since he got out, but being picked up killed his job. I'll have to take back what I said. I guess Raglan isn't as ruthless as I thought. When he found out, he got on the phone and found the kid another job where nobody knows he's done time."

"That was real nice of him. Rocco tell you this?"

"Raglan called me himself a few minutes ago to see if I'd approve."

"What city?"

"New York."

"You tell Joe about my hunch?"

"No. Should I have?"

"I'd just as soon you didn't. Joe and I aren't on the best of terms these days."

"He'll cool off,” Milt assured me. “He's proved he's human, anyway."

I hung up and laughed, then. And I put some records on and laughed some more.

I watched television for a while. Someone in the city was sitting on one hundred thousand dollars in unmarked twenty dollar bills. That was on the midnight news. Raglan had delivered them as per instructions in a second misspelled note, and he refused to tell even the FBI where he'd taken the money until Debbie was back. The TV played it up big, Would she be returned alive? Or would her body be discovered half-buried in a shallow grave?

I knew the answer to that one. I was one of two people in the entire nation who knew the answer to that one. Sorenson suspected the truth, of course, and maybe Florence Raglan did, too.

The next morning, Saturday, I conferred at length with that travel agent. It took us about ten minutes to find the information I was looking for, now that I knew the destination, but she was such a charming girl that it was an hour before I left her office.

I drove over to the telephone company then, after calling to make sure Jay Evans would be in. “In that time bracket,” he said, “it must have been a local call. There was a message-unit call about two hours earlier, though.” Reluctantly, he gave me the number.

"Who belongs to that number, Jay?"

He told me. “You think it's important? Should I call Raglan?"

"No, That fits in with one of her homework assignments. She was just checking some facts."

Evans looked crestfallen. “Well,” he shrugged, “I tried. I'm sorry."

I patted his shoulder. “Thanks."

I was whistling as I walked out of the telephone building. Maybe it was because I had another excuse to visit my favorite travel agent.

Once a day, after that, I went for a drive. It took me half an hour to get there, I'd spend forty-five minutes watching people come and go; I'd spend another half-hour getting back. I got to know the parking attendant quite well, and discovered that it takes ten days for a car to qualify for impound. I browsed around the lot until I found the car for which I was looking.

Raglan, after it was obvious to everyone that the kidnapper had failed to keep his end of the bargain, resumed the search. I followed it on the front pages with considerable interest. It annoyed me for a while, not seeing my byline there, but I certainly couldn't write those stories if I was persona non grata at the Detective Bureau. I grinned ruefully when I realized that most of my former friends were useless to me now as news sources. I decided I'd have to start making some new friends.

"Our pigeon has flown,” Raglan was quoted one day. “With the money in his pocket, he doesn't need Debbie any more. If he were going to release her, he'd have done so earlier. The fact that he didn't leads me to believe he couldn't risk her describing him, and I am forced to assume that my daughter is dead."

Reminded of his promise to “track you down", Raglan was asked if he'd resign to do so. “I may apply for a leave of absence,” he said.

My daily drives continued. They were quite pleasant. Nine days had gone by since Debbie had vanished. And in the parking lot, the car I'd been checking on was gone.

Clutching my ever-present briefcase, I hurried into the airport. I had forty-five minutes—plenty of time. Even with time out for a phone call, it only took me ten.

Raglan was in the coffee shop, sitting at a table which commanded a fine view. With him was a nervous young man in a suit which was obviously new and apparently uncomfortable. They were conversing and didn't notice me as I approached. I pulled up a chair.

"Hello, Shaffer,” Raglan said. If he was surprised it didn't show in his face.

"Hi, Joe. I'll bet your friend is Eddie Rocco."

"You've got quite a memory for faces."

"Never saw him before in my life. I'm not working for the Bulletin any more, or hadn't you heard?"

"I'm sorry about that. You're a good reporter."

"And you used to be a good cop. But we can let bygones alone. I haven't forgotten how to write, but I need some technical advice. You know how the criminal mind works better than I do. Maybe you can help me."

"Buy you a drink?” Raglan asked.

I looked at my watch. “Yeah. It's half an hour before plane time. I won't take that long. I'm thinking of switching to mystery stories, Joe. It's a shame Debbie isn't here, she might be able to give me a few pointers."

The Rocco kid blinked at us, first at me, and then at Joe.

"You say you're having troubles with a plot?” Raglan asked.

"Oh, I've got it all worked out,” I assured him. “I'm basing it loosely on your daughter's tragic disappearance. I'll change the names, of course, so there won't be any grounds for a lawsuit. Anyway, this girl and her father are pretty close—two peas out of the same pod. Daughter is intensely interested in Daddy's work, catching criminals, you know. I have no choice but to make him a detective."

"Do,” Raglan said, with a trace of amusement.

"They decide to vanish, take a lot of money to a foreign country. Cuba would be ideal, if it weren't for the international situation. I think it would be safer in Mexico, or one of the Banana Republics."

"Venezuela is pretty,” Raglan observed.

"You've got a point there,” I admitted. “Trouble is, they don't have a lot of money, so the girl sits down and figures out a way to do it. Probably with Daddy's help."

Raglan smiled. “It'd be better if she worked it out on her own. Make her a real bright kid."

Rocco sipped his coffee nervously.

I nodded. “With a clinical mind. Anyway, they decide to stage a kidnapping for ransom. That precludes any immediate suspicions that the girl is running away and, if they can figure out a way to raise it, guarantees them enough money to live on for a few years, especially if they invest it wisely."

"You have all the details worked out?"

"Most of them. First, they need a good place to vanish from; for some reason they can't use their own home,” I looked at him expectantly.

"Too many sharp-eyed neighbors around,” Raglan said. “Or the physical layout would make things difficult."

I nodded enthusiastically. “Wrong sort of neighborhood. A wife who's home most of the time. Third floor apartment and all that. Anyway, they pick a spot where the kid can babysit regularly and get to know the habits of the neighbors. This has to be done carefully, because the timing is very essential. It takes about three months before they're ready. Daddy has access to a car that couldn't be traced too easily. An old one would be ideal; nondescript. If anybody spotted it, I doubt they'd even be able to identify the make. Only Daddy and his daughter would be likely to know."

Raglan's eyes crinkled. “Building some traps into this, aren't you?"

"Got to,” I said. “The girl's character is the major trap, Joe. She's too precise, too clinical. She never touches anything without permission. Even a hi-fi. I've worked out a real clever way for her to be in two places at once."

Rocco, by now, had stopped pretending a lack of interest.

"When you take a phone off the hook and dial one number, any number but 0, you kill the dial tone and open the line. In case somebody tried to call in they'd get a busy signal. Of course, if they really wanted to get through, they'd ask for a verifying operator to check the line. The operator plugs in just long enough to hear a voice; she's too busy to listen very long. But how do you get a voice on the line when the house is empty? Turn a TV set on? No, it would probably sound like a TV program. A tape recorder with conversation on it? That's out, because anybody could spot the gimmick if they found a tape recorder running."

"Sounds like a problem,” Joe said.

I grinned. “I bought three Shelly Berman records the other day. You've heard of him? The comic who does the telephone conversation routines?"

"This puts the girl in two places at once?"

"Sure. She has the old car parked in the alley. At ten o'clock, or even a little before, she makes the house look like somebody broke in and violent things happened. She calls Daddy so he can come over with a schoolbook and verify that he saw her at ten o'clock. He might be bringing her some clothes, too, to change into boy's clothing, perhaps?"

I looked at Eddie Rocco, but he just blinked at me.

"She might even cut her hair. Daddy could get rid of the clippings, along with what she was wearing when she left home. She leaves in the old car—after the phone is off the hook with an open line and the record is on the hi-fi. Daddy drives to his office. The girl drives to the airport, where she picks up her ticket for faraway places—Venezuela, did you say?"

Raglan nodded.

"Obviously,” I continued, “if the plane for South America leaves at ten-fifty, and the girl is half an hour away at ten-thirty, she'd never make it, But it works out nicely if she calls the airport at eight and leaves at ten. I'll admit her means of transportation had me puzzled until I found the car in the lot."

Raglan frowned; Eddie Rocco looked worried.

"Daddy wouldn't want the car impounded,” I went on, “for that might have unpleasant side-effects. But it would take two people to drive to the airport and collect it. Daddy and someone else, somebody he could trust. I doubt he'd pick Mommy, since she's the one he and the girl are skipping out on. He'd look around for somebody who was in a corner. He might even put that somebody in the corner. That would be a nice touch, right in character with Daddy's usual way of doing things. Someone who, with a little persuasion, could be convinced that Daddy could do him some real good!” I looked at Eddie Rocco. “Maybe somebody who'd just lost his job."

"When did you decide it was a swindle?” Raglan asked suddenly.

I countered with a question of my own. “What's the most precious thing in the world to a writer?"

"Seeing his name in print?"

"No, Joe. There's glamour to that, the first time or two it happens. But there's something far more precious than his byline. His manuscripts. Especially if he's a beginner. Every word is sort of sacred. If he had to leave everything else he owned behind, he'd take his stories with him, because they're the only things he couldn't replace with money."

"I guess you know writers better than I do,” Raglan admitted.

"I guess I do, Joe."

"I can put together the rest of the story myself,” Raglan said. “You got a hero in this thing? A detective? A fatal mistake and all that?"

"Sure. A newspaperman. I'm prejudiced towards my own kind. He's in the detective's office when the girl calls—from the airport—to report a prowler. There's no way to tell if the babies’ parents have tried to call their babysitter Do I have to go into detail?"

"Smooth,” Raglan said. “Just tell me the mistakes. In fiction, the crook always makes mistakes, happens in real life, too, sometimes."

"Not so much mistakes, Joe. Circumstances. Like, how is he to know that Van Drimmelen's watch is always fifteen minutes fast? Or that the man's wife is going to brag about how the girl never touched a thing without asking first. And how she didn't ask to play the hi-fi. Or that anyone would suspect the Van Drimmelens wouldn't be likely to own a Shelly Berman album? Or that the girl spells homicide with two O's and one I, instead of the other way around, and that her English teacher would remember such a thing? It's a common enough error, but when it shows up on a ransom note too, you know?"

I smiled. “I owe you a lot, Joe. You told me once that a good detective gets to know the people he's pitted against. The better he knows them the easier it is to figure what they might do next. Same thing goes for a good writer. He knows his characters so well that the minute they step out of line it's like a red flag. Once you decide what a character wants, you figure out the most intelligent way for him to go about getting it, consistent with his limitations, of course. Conversely, if you know his limitations and can see what he's doing, it's fairly easy to determine what he wants, and what he'll do to attain it."

"That's pretty heavy theory, Shaffer."

"Let me put it in terms of our story, then,” I offered. “This reporter knows Daddy pretty well, and he gets a funny feeling when Daddy acts out of character. And when he gets a real incentive to use his imagination, things start falling into place. He starts figuring how he would do it if he were planning a swindle. And he starts checking back."

"Suspicions,” Raglan said. “That's all you've got, Shaffer."

"Suspicions confirmed,” I corrected. “This is a technological age, Joe. Remember I told you timing was absolutely vital to this plot? Even picking the right night for Debbie to be kidnapped. Why did it have to be a Tuesday? What advantage was there having everyone think she vanished at ten-thirty when she really lit out at ten? I didn't have the answer to that one until a week ago, when I discovered she'd made a phone call to a certain airline."

"What does that prove?"

"Have patience, Daddy, I'm getting to it. Flights to Mexico City are not a nightly occurrence from here, Joe. They happen twice a week, Tuesday nights at ten-fifty, Friday afternoons at three forty-five. And there's only one airline offering that service. So I asked myself, why not Friday? Wrong time of day for the vanishing act. And the wrong day, seeing that Daddy had to go on the Larry Brenner show while the story was still hot."

Raglan nodded. “How'd you discover the call to the airport?"

"Another one of those circumstances over which you had no control. The Van Drimmelens had been having babysitter trouble; it even showed up in their phone bill. So they subscribed to a message monitoring service, which makes a record of any calls placed from their phone to numbers outside the local toll-free area. Not only were you ignorant of this, Joe, but nobody would have any reason to look for something like that."

"I see."

"It took me a while to locate the car,” I admitted. “But I knew you couldn't leave it there. Today it was gone, and I figured you'd be gone soon, too. It took me about three minutes to find out that you'd been granted a leave of absence, ostensibly to follow up a lead in New York. Correct me if I'm wrong, Joe. In New York you will disappear, no muss, no fuss. It may be weeks before anyone starts wondering what happened to you. They'll check with the airline. Yes, a Joseph P. Raglan was delivered to the New York airport. That's one more reason you need Mr. Rocco, isn't it?"

The kid looked as if he was ready to make a run for it, but Raglan held him back with a gesture. “Tell me more, Shaffer,” he said quietly.

"There's an expert forger kicking around,” I said, “who hotly denies having any beef against you, or even having seen you since he was paroled. But the records show that he was picked up for questioning the day after Debbie disappeared. An experience like that certainly wouldn't have slipped the man's mind, would it?"

Raglan looked thoughtful.

"And then,” I continued, “Eddie here asks permission to move to a job in New York. Turns out Daddy is the one who has assured the job, which the reporter and the Parole officer both agree is quite out of character. There is also a way to get from here to New York where you fly to New Orleans first. Now if Eddie were to be holding a ticket with Daddy's name on it, and Daddy were to have Eddie's ticket—plus a forged passport—it would be simple for the ersatz Mr. Rocco to change planes in New Orleans and fly to South America.

"And that touch with the money was clever as all get out, Joe. Technically, I don't even know if you stole it, because people gave it to you as an outright gift.” I grinned. “When you come right down to it, you didn't ask ‘em for it. It was Brenner who did that. I'll admit I like the idea of Brenner being forced to give it all back to the donors."

"Me, too,” Raglan admitted. “Especially as a large percentage of the gifts were anonymous."

"Exactly. But tell me, Joe—how will you get the money out of the country? It's not too big a package, but sizeable enough to present difficulties."

It was Raglan's turn to grin. “Not if it's broken up into small packages. But I'll never admit it."

I shrugged. “And I was looking for something complicated,” I said, smiling ruefully. “Why should I blow the whistle, Joe? I keep thinking of poor little Debbie, waiting for you down in Venezuela, an innocent, inexperienced, naive little fifteen-year-old. What in the world would she do without you?"

"What do you want, part of the take?"

"Please!” I protested. “You earned that, Joe. You and Debbie."

"You figure things out pretty good,” Raglan said thoughtfully.

Then he added abruptly, “You've got your story. What are you going to do about it?"

"Not a damn thing, Joe. Florence has the furniture, you've got your freedom and your daughter and enough money to get by on, hundreds of people have the good glow from knowing they've helped. I'm not hurting any—I'll be back on the Bulletin payroll in a week or so, just as soon as it's definitely established that you're missing. And if I write this up as fiction I ought to make back part of the salary I've missed."

Joe Raglan stared at me uncomprehendingly. Then he held out his hand.

"Thanks,” he said. “Aren't you afraid if I get caught between here and the border you'll be held as an accessory?"

"Not a chance,” I said. “I haven't got one witness who actually saw anything happen, so how could I prove any of it? Of course that forged passport in your pocket might be a little embarrassing, but Jim Duncan would be back in stir if be testified against you. So would Eddie, here. It'll be your word against mine, and I'm the first to admit that it's half conjecture."

"But it would look good on the front page of the Bulletin, wouldn't it?” he asked. “I still don't get your motive."

"Try revenge,” I said. “I was reminded recently that Mr. Owens doesn't read anything but the financial section. You'd better hurry, Mr. Rocco,” I added. “Or you'll miss your plane."

I picked up my briefcase and walked out then. Murphy was waiting in the lobby, as we had arranged.

"Hi, Chief,” I said, patting the briefcase. “I've got it all on tape."

I turned and watched as the young cop strolled into the coffee shop. Pick yourself a cop, any cop, Pritch had said. Make him look like a hero. And you're the first one he calls when something big happens.

I smiled. In all that seventeen years I'd never really liked Joe Raglan.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Mitch Owens lounged against the bathroom doorframe, his eyes shrewdly appraising the blatant appeal of the blonde girl who stood in front of the motel mirror, staring at her own reflection.

"I didn't think it was possible,” she breathed.

"Almost anything is possible, doll, if you know makeup,” Owens replied.

He'd put on a few pounds since his moments of questionable glory in the heyday of live television, but he was still reasonably good-looking and could pass for a man of twenty-eight any time he seriously wanted to. He was amused by Aimee Rogers, which made it easier to conceal his boredom. It wasn't her prosaic physique which bored him. He'd been around enough professional glamour girls to know that pitifully few of them qualified as beauties before breakfast.

But the numbing realization that Aimee couldn't think beyond the end of her nose and that, furthermore, she fancied herself in love with him, was guaranteed to bore Mitch Owens.

"Your own mother wouldn't recognize you, honey,” he drawled.

Aimee smiled shyly. “I'm glad of that,” she said. “Mother would never approve.” Experimentally she threw her shoulders back, immodestly straining the top of the new dress Mitch had bought her. She blushed at her reflection.

"I'll change and we'll give the new you a trial run. Does dinner at the Black Angus appeal to you?"

Aimee's eyes widened. “With me dressed like this?"

"Might as well get used to it. I want Aimee Number Two to exist in public for several days before Aimee Number One vanishes. That way nobody will suspect a thing."

The girl looked at him admiringly. “You've got it figured all down the line, haven't you?” she breathed.

Owens smiled patiently. Her admiration of his intellect, while flattering, was becoming a drag. It was apparent now that she'd never consent to an amicable parting, even if they split the loot fifty-fifty. As murder held no appeal for him, he'd have to ditch her, engineering the operation as cleverly as he'd planned the heist. The challenge was stimulating. But it was a pity, he reflected, that there would be no audience to applaud his success.

Still the thirty-five grand should be an adequate substitute for applause.

After dinner they returned to the motel, chatted briefly with the manager, and conferred for about three hours in Mitch Owens’ room. Then the new dress went back into its box, the blonde wig rested on its styrene block, and a much plainer Aimee slipped out alone, unnoticed, and drove home.

Owens spent a couple of hours experimenting with different faces before deciding upon the one he would actually use. Satisfied, he dressed in a suit he didn't like and went out to establish himself in three local bars as a rather obnoxious newcomer.

Two days later Mr. Wormly, manager of the savings and loan where Aimee was assistant cashier, inquired paternally, “How are you and your young man coming along?"

Aimee lowered her eyes and her lips quivered. “He's not my young man, Mr. Wormly."

Wormly's eyebrows arched. “Oh? I thought you had a real romance going. My mistake."

"No,” she replied. “It was mine. He's going with some blonde now, over in Harperville."

"That's too bad, Aimee,” he clucked sympathetically. “He seemed to be just the ticket for you."

"I guess we were both wrong,” Aimee sniffed.

If was essential, Mitch had said, for her to give the impression that they'd broken up. That way no one could connect him with the swarthy man who would rob the Savings and Loan of $35,000 the following Friday afternoon.

If Mr. Wormly had not brought the subject up, Aimee had been prepared to do so herself. Now it was done, the fact of the blonde in Mitch Owens’ life was planted. There was little chance now that the police would look him up to find out the whereabouts of Aimee Rogers.

In the meantime, the two of them were busy thoroughly establishing the existence of the flashy blonde. Aimee enjoyed playing the part as it was foreign to the drab life she'd always lived. Mitch explained that many professional actresses had the same reaction, preferring to play the “other woman” over the less interesting ingenue.

The thoroughness of Mitch's plan was a source of amazement to naive Aimee. He'd thought of every angle and covered every loophole. She, herself, at ten past two, would be near enough to the only alarm button to be able to prevent anyone else from using it. Wormly would be unable to reach the revolver he kept in the vault.

Mitch Owens, disguising his voice, would have called in two separate, highly excited reports of a major accident at the edge of town, to insure that most of Millville's small police force would be speeding away from the scene of the crime as it was taking place.

While Owens held a gun on Mr. Wormly, she would follow his thickly accented instructions, fill a canvas bag with money and bring it to him. He would then take her as his hostage, to guarantee that no alarm would be sounded immediately.

She would drive them, in her car, to where his would be parked. During the drive he'd remove his swarthy makeup and change jackets. After they'd transferred to his car, he'd take the wheel while Aimee would strip off her drab dress, revealing a brief bathing suit, don the wig and sunglasses, make up her face and become Mitch's blonde by the time they arrived at the motel in neighboring Harperville.

The police, of course, would be looking for the Aimee Rogers Mr. Wormly knew, and for her abductor.

To Aimee, the whole thing was just too thrilling for words. Meeting Mitch, and the interest he'd taken in her from the start, was astonishing enough. At first she'd thought he'd been kidding her, but he made it obvious that he really enjoyed talking with her. Maybe it was just that, as a stranger to the area, he was lonely—not as lonely as she, but hungry for companionship anyway.

She had told him of her life a week or so after they had met. Around Mitch it seemed the natural thing to do.

"I love you,” he said, firmly pressing her hand.

It was the first time in her life anyone had said that to Aimee Rogers.

Mitch Owens grinned, remembering the effect. Aimee was probably the most hopelessly naive girl he'd ever met. But her enthusiasm to learn was phenomenal.

Convincing her she should help him rob the Savings and Loan was duck soup. And outlining the details of the plan had overwhelmed her with his brilliance.

But the masterful touch was the creation of Aimee Number Two, which offered the girl a totally new and exciting life to exchange for the boredom and loneliness with which she'd lived for so long. Also, it had convinced her he was doing it all for her. Such, Owens reflected wryly, was the logic of women.

It was two days before the date set for the holdup that Mitch Owens had her meet him at the motel. For a moment Aimee thought she'd come to the wrong room. Then Mitch laughed: “It's hokay, signorina. Joost remember what I look like when I'm walk in with the gun, hokay?"

"It's perfect,” she whispered, wide-eyed.

"If it fooled you, honey,” he chuckled, hugging her, “it's a cinch Wormly won't tumble. I'd love to hear the description Wormly gives to the cops."

While they changed, Owens talked of the wonderful things they would do with the money. Travel, of course, came first. Aimee had never been more than fifty miles from Millville. Owens felt it would be wiser not to tell her that once she'd ‘disappeared’ and assumed another name, her plans for travel outside the United States might have to be postponed indefinitely because of passport difficulties. So he let her burble happily about a trip to Bermuda.

That night, when they had returned from dinner, Aimee offered herself to him with the trustful abandon of a girl who is very much in love. Mitch Owens accepted her gift gracefully, as if he deserved it.

After she departed, he lay awake for a long time wondering why he'd brought her into the picture at all. She'd finger him for sure if he didn't take her with him.

Friday came. Aimee Rogers went to work, pleading a sick headache to cover her nervousness. The morning dragged; Aimee picked at her lunch, left it unfinished. The time she was waiting for was ten past two. At that time a swarthy Italian in a dirty blue shirt was scheduled to enter the Savings and Loan offices, pull a gun, order her to fill a bag with money and then take her with him as his hostage. Aimee found her eyes turning to the wall clock with increasing frequency.

At 1:55 she heard the wail of sirens, faintly, their sound receding. It seemed awfully early for the accident report, and she worried, checking the clock again. Still, Mitch was brilliant—he'd know what he was doing.

At three minutes before two, a heavy-set, florid-faced man limped into the lobby, carrying a large briefcase. There were two other customers present, plus Mr. Wormly and Aimee. She made a mistake counting change for one of them and had to start over.

The newcomer stopped at the New Accounts counter and Mr. Wormly went over to attend to him. Aimee mopped a thin film of perspiration off her face. If the briefcase contained business papers as she suspected, the stranger would be tied up in a discussion which might last half an hour. That would complicate things for Mitch.

Suddenly she heard Mr. Wormly's voice: “Miss Rogers, may I see you for a minute?"

Aimee finished with her second customer and moved to obey.

Wormly spoke quietly when she arrived. “Miss Rogers, this gentleman has a gun pointed at me and he'll shoot if you don't do exactly as I tell you. Take this briefcase into the vault and fill it with twenty dollar bills. Then bring it back here quickly."

Aimee stared in panic at the stranger, bit her lip, and nodded agreement. Calmly, she picked up the briefcase and hurried into the vault. Once inside, she leaned against a wall and trembled uncontrollably.

This was the one possibility they hadn't planned for—that another gunman might try a holdup on the same day. If he succeeded ... She looked at the clock: four minutes past two.

Aimee was in a turmoil. In six minutes Mitch would be coming through the door, and perhaps he could disarm the unscheduled gunman. But he certainly wouldn't be expecting him. Off his guard, Mitch might be killed. She'd have to get the florid faced man out of there before he arrived. And when he showed up, she'd have to get word to him somehow that the money was already gone. But how?

For that matter, how would she be able to keep Mr. Wormly from sounding the alarm? If this robber escaped, the office would be swarming with police when Mitch arrived.

She filled the bag half full of money. Then she stared breathlessly at the revolver Mr. Wormly kept in the vault.

The florid man and Mr. Wormly were standing on either side of the counter when she emerged, lugging the briefcase in both hands. They looked as if they were discussing a business loan. The clock read six minutes past two. The stranger was smiling; Mr. Wormly appeared a bit nervous and there was a thin film of perspiration on his brow.

She knew just what she'd have to do, now. In another week or so they could do it the way they'd planned. It meant a delay, that was all. If she let the man get away, the police would arrive just as Mitch walked in, but if she stopped this one, it would cause enough excitement in the street to warn her lover to stay away.

Mitch would be proud of her quick thinking.

Taking careful aim, she shot the florid man through the head. All her life she would remember his cry of, “Aimee! For god's sake, don't!” just as she pulled the trigger.

[Back to Table of Contents]

"I am real sorry, Henry,” Sheriff Hamlin said, “but there isn't a thing I can do to stop him. There's going to be a lot of money in town next week and it's only natural that some of it will change hands pretty fast. If you don't want to get hurt, you'd better wait till he's been here and gone before you start any action. I'm just warning you.” Henry Norton blinked at the Sheriff. “What day is he coming?"

"Thursday."

"You sure?"

"I got it straight from the Attorney General's office, Henry,” Pete Hamlin assured him.

"It's the only week in the year I make any money,” Henry said.

Sheriff Hamlin shrugged. “Just thought I'd warn you."

"I appreciate it, Pete. Really do,” Henry said thoughtfully. “Anybody else know about this?"

"Not yet. Should they?"

Henry smiled. “I'll handle it in my own way. Thanks."

Henry Norton had always managed, by devious means, to make a living without performing any obvious work. When asked his occupation he would answer entrepreneur. It had a nice sound and was flexible enough to cover almost anything. Usually he could be found at the Smoke Shop shooting pool, except when he happened upon an opponent satisfactorily skilled at snooker or three cushion billiards. Rumor had it that he sometimes arranged things for individuals who had neither the time nor the inclination to do it for themselves. Such rumors were invariably vague, and in twenty-three years nobody had been able to prove anything.

The less charitable of the town's eighteen hundred permanent inhabitants even suspected Henry of arranging to have the girls show up the same week the loggers came in, but again nobody could prove anything. Henry was totally innocent of this charge, not only because he frowned on such activity but because he had bigger fish to fry.

In truth, Henry lived for the annual card games, the big ones, the high-stake action. Only one week in each year was there enough money in town for the fever to infuse the right crowd. In addition to the loggers, the games attracted several out-of-town gamblers and a handful of the local merchants, like Shorty Cosgrove who owned the hardware, and Chet Collins, the town mortician. Neither of them had much use for Henry, but they relied on him to make the arrangements. For his efforts, Henry took a percentage. His share of the week's action was usually enough to keep him relatively comfortable through the rest of the year.

A crackdown by the Attorney General's office could be disastrous. It wouldn't hurt the players, particularly, but it could upset Henry's financial structure for an entire year.

Henry's zeal in getting the big money games going early in the week was understandable.

The stranger was well-tailored and quietly efficient. He entered the back room of Ferguson's dry goods store with no fanfare—just a small canvas bag in his hands.

There was approximately twenty thousand dollars on the table.

"Gentlemen,” he said softly, “I'm sure you realize this game is in violation of State Law, and you know the Governor's position in matters of this sort."

"Who the Sam Hill are you?” Shorty Cosgrove demanded.

The stranger produced his wallet and flipped it open, revealing a badge and some credentials with the State Seal plainly evident. “My personal feelings about your pastime don't count,” he said quietly, “but my job is to bring you in. Neither Sheriff Hamlin nor I want to cause you gentlemen undue embarrassment. Several of you are influential men in the community and there's no point in exposing you to the ridicule of herding you into a paddy wagon, so I'm putting you on the honor system."

As he spoke, he had been methodically transferring the money from the table to the small canvas bag.

"Whaddya mean, honor system?” Henry inquired dubiously.

The stranger smiled. “I want all of you to follow me to Sheriff Hamlin's office. It doesn't have to look like a circus parade,” he said.

"And if some of us don't want to go?” Henry persisted.

Shorty Cosgrove turned to Henry. “You're the one who set up this game, Henry,” he snapped unpleasantly. “You'll come along with the rest of us."

The stranger raised his eyebrows. “Ready, gentlemen?"

Reluctantly, the cluster of men agreed. Singly and in pairs the players followed the canvas bag from Ferguson's store, each keeping an eye on the others. It didn't look too much like a parade.

The stranger was waiting for them at the entrance to Sheriff Hamlin's new brick office building. He ushered them inside and showed them three long benches in the corridor. “If you'll wait here, gentlemen, I won't be a moment.” All eyes were on the bag as the man carried it into Hamlin's office.

Five minutes passed.

"What the Sam Hill are they doing in there?” Shorty worried aloud. “Counting the money?"

"I'm sure it's just a formality,” Henry assured him.

"You were sure he was coming tomorrow, too,” Shorty growled.

"I can't be right all the time,” Henry mumbled.

Another five minutes passed.

"What's taking so long?” Chet Collins asked.

"They're probably arguing about jurisdiction,” another ventured. “Hamlin's touchy about that."

"He said it wouldn't take long."

"Time means different things to different people,” Henry observed philosophically.

They had been there exactly twenty-six minutes when Sheriff Hamlin entered through the street door. He seemed vastly annoyed.

"Pete!” Shorty exclaimed, leaping to his feet. “We thought you was in there..."

"What is this?” the Sheriff asked. “A delegation?"

"Well,” Collins, began, but Shorty interrupted.

"You don't know about it?"

Pete Hamlin shook his head. “First some joker hauls me out on the River Road with a fake accident report, then I come back and find the town's leading gentry lined up on my benches. You tell me what it's all about."

Shorty fumed for a moment and started to say something, but this time Henry interrupted. “I don't think we'd really better, Sheriff,” he said. “Isn't that right, boys?"

One by one, they nodded. Sheriff Pete Hamlin scratched his head as he watched them file out, avoiding his gaze.

Next day, when the man from the Attorney General's office showed up, there were no games in progress at all. On the weekend the action resumed, but on a much smaller scale than before. Henry's share of the pots was hardly enough to pay the rent.

Oh, there were rumors, of course, for some time after, that Henry'd had a hand in arranging the stranger's visit. After all, an outsider wouldn't know the entrances and exits to Sheriff Hamlin's new building—but Henry certainly did. And a total stranger wouldn't be expected to know which of the games in town would have that amount of money on the table at a given time, and who the players were, but Henry did.

As usual, nobody could prove a thing. And Henry wasn't hurting any. He seemed to live in the same relative comfort as before. If anything, his reputation as an entrepreneur was enhanced.

[Back to Table of Contents]

It was the Fourth of July and the only thing interesting about the assignment was the strawberry blonde I'd met that afternoon in Public Relations. I'd brought her along to keep me awake.

"You know,” she smiled, looking at me through her eyelashes, “you're the laziest reporter I've ever met."

"I'd fancied myself a paragon of industry,” I rejoined, glancing up at the speakers’ stand, where my briefcase was unobtrusively taping the predictable phrases of Mayor Stryder. We'd spread our blanket on the grass next to the platform and, fortified with a thermos of vodka martinis, were prepared for a minor siege.

Cathy Rogers laughed. She was in her early twenties and I was roughly fifteen years her senior, a fact we both were pretending to ignore. She was still somewhat awed by me, but at least she was now beyond the “Mr. Shaffer” stage and was calling me Ted, which augured well for the future. I'm not often the subject of such breathless adulation and I was enjoying it tremendously. The floodlights of the football field glittered on Stryder's wheelchair as he neared the end of his speech. Hardly anyone was listening, and the Mayor knew it. They'd all come here to watch the fireworks. Being an astute politician, Stryder limited himself to about two hundred words and then wheeled back to his place on the stand.

The floods winked out and the Fallbrook Fire Department's annual extravaganza was underway. About three rockets later I remembered the briefcase and got up to retrieve it, turning it off in the process. Then I groped my way back to the interesting proximity of Miss Rogers.

The body was discovered when the lights went on again.

At first it was just a minor commotion on the speakers’ stand. Then I heard a hysterical shriek and someone saying, in a voice tremulous with shock and incredulity, “Good Lord! He's dead!"

I spun around to see a group clustered around the shiny wheelchair, and vaulted onto the stand.

Bob Clough and Councilman Jim Davis were bending over the Mayor's body, which was slumped in the wheelchair. Clough, as coroner and mortician, had taken charge instantly.

Stryder's wife was lost in a paroxysm of hysteria, the brim of her huge picture hat flopping incongruously with each outburst; it was hard to tell if she was laughing or crying. City Treasurer Tom Richards was attempting to comfort her.

Fire Chief Dan Marsh and I, from opposite sides, scrambled onto the platform. Clough stepped away from the body to ask Marsh to summon the meatwagon; Mrs. Stryder's hysteria stopped abruptly as she beard the word.

I presented myself to Clough, who was unwrapping an antacid tablet.

"Bob,” I said. “What did he die of?"

Clough looked at me blankly for a moment, popping the pill into his mouth. “Oh, it's you, Shaffer.” His professional reflexes had only partly taken over; he was obviously stunned by Stryder's death. “I don't know yet. Stroke, I guess, but of course I can't tell for sure until I've made an examination. Call me in about an hour. I'll know more then."

"Sure,” I said, and spent the next three minutes finding a phone booth.

Howdy Jackson, night editor at the Bulletin, was shocked at the news. “Stryder? Dead? I'm sorry to hear that, Ted."

"Howdy, you surprise me. I thought you voted against him in the last two elections."

"I did. But he was colorful and human. How'd it happen?"

I told him what little I knew, adding: “I'll come in with it later but I thought you'd like to get started."

I returned then to Cathy and noted that she'd folded the blanket and had stowed the thermos out of sight.

"It'll take maybe five minutes more,” I informed her, “and then we can go. Sorry this had to happen."

"I'll wait,” she said.

A knot of the curious had formed around the stand. Grabbing the briefcase, I thumbed the tape back into service and shouldered through to the stand again. Marsh assured me nervously that this was the first fatality ever to be associated with the Fourth of July celebration in the department's history. Councilman Jim Davis, who'd had the honor of introducing Stryder to the crowd, practically implied that on all future Fourths of July the flags would fly not only in observance of Independence Day but to commemorate the death of a great and courageous American.

The Mayor's widow, I noted, had been removed to a less emotionally taxing spot, Coroner Clough was missing, and Dan Marsh was presiding over the body.

Satisfied that I had all the material I'd be able to get right then, I collected Cathy and we hurried to my car, some two hundred yards away.

Apparently, the Mayor's death had dimmed the stars in Cathy's eyes, for she sat silently on her side of the seat, clutching the folded blanket in her arms, while I fought traffic.

As it was now after ten-thirty, and the Bulletin goes to bed at eleven, there was no time to return Miss Rogers to her apartment.

"Join me,” I invited, “and watch a great reporter at work."

"I think I'd rather go straight home,” she said. “But if you really insist..."

[Back to Table of Contents]

We let ourselves in the side door and hurried up the back stairs to the city room, where Howdy was poring over clips on Stryder and making busy noises in brief bursts at his typewriter.

I read over his shoulder long enough to see that be had the situation well in hand, took the girl and my briefcase to my own cubicle, wound the tape back to where the quotes began and copied the meat from it.

Cathy, acting as copyboy, shuttled my paragraphs over to Jackson, who made the required editorial gestures with scissors and paste pot to incorporate them into what he had already written.

On the phone, Clough confirmed his earlier diagnosis. “Definitely a stroke, Shaffer. The funeral will be at two Saturday afternoon at First Presbyterian, Reverend G. W. Hamilton officiating. The ashes will be inurned later that day at Forest Hope."

"That was quick,” I observed. “Isn't it customary for politicians to lie in state for a while?"

"The family requested it, Shaffer,” the coroner said, then added caustically, “I suppose this makes you quite happy, doesn't it?"

"Badgering the incumbent is part of my job,” I grinned. “I'll be just as hard on the next man. Thanks, Bob."

I paragraphed the funeral arrangements and forwarded them to Jackson. Then I labeled the tape, filed it, put a fresh reel in the briefcase and bade Howdy adieu.

"I apologize, Cathy, for dragging you into this,” I said when we were once again in the car.

"Well, I do think it was thoughtless of the Mayor to die on our night out,” she said. “You want to apologize for that, too?"

"Hardly,” I said. “I've never been known as Stryder's spokesman."

"Oh? I thought you liked him as much as everyone else seemed to."

"He had his points,” I admitted. “He was one of the few politicians I've encountered who didn't have to be misquoted to make sense in print."

"I liked his speech tonight, didn't you?"

"It was quotable. Stryder usually was."

"You don't seem upset about his death. How come?"

I shrugged. “We weren't exactly friends. Still, I guess a gesture of respect is in order. I have a bottle or two we could use as the basis of a private wake."

"It's pretty late, Ted,” she protested.

"If left alone I might become maudlin about it."

"That wouldn't really do.” She hesitated. “Well, okay. Just remember I have to be at work at nine."

It was a beautiful bottle but we hardly touched it. Normally, I have very little interest in women who have not yet reached the seasoning age of twenty-five; Cathy Rogers was a rare exception. She had black eyes, pink cheeks, pink lips and a showgirl build, although she was a full head shorter than most showgirls. She also had lovely legs and was lightly salted with freckles from top to toe.

But more important than surface considerations was the feeling I got that something interesting was going on under her lovely surface.

She seemed preoccupied at first but after the second highball she'd relaxed enough for me to resume Operation Cathy full force. Soft lights, sweet music and gentle flattery had never failed me yet. I was telling her how refreshingly different she was from most of the girls I'd known when she asked if the Mayor was heavily insured.

"Probably,” I said. “Why?"

"I was thinking of Mrs. Stryder. Her future, I mean. Do they have any children?"

"None. I think she's his only survivor."

"Sort of an odd looking woman,” Cathy murmured. “Did you notice her hat?"

I frowned. “Yeah. Big, floppy thing, wasn't it? Why?"

"Well, you wear a picture hat to keep the sun off, but it's out of place late at night. I wonder if she's sorry to see him go?"

"I doubt it,” I said. “I imagine Stryder was a difficult man to live with."

"Because be was paraplegic?"

"Because he was a bully. I interviewed him at his home a couple of years ago. I wouldn't call his attitude towards her at that time very diplomatic. You have beautiful eyes."

Cathy frowned. “He bullied her?"

"Ordered her out of the room. Called her an idiot. Why the sudden interest in Stryder's domestic life?"

"Curiosity,” she said, shrugging. “Did he have any enemies?"

"Every successful politician does,” I said. “Are you trying to make a federal case out of a stroke?"

She laughed. “Suppose it wasn't a stroke? Suppose the Coroner was covering up for someone?"

"Clough may not be the most likeable man in the world,” I assured her, “but he wouldn't cover up for anybody. He's almost too honest for politics, if you know what I mean."

"Wouldn't it be interesting, though,” she mused, “if someone had killed Stryder?"

"Fascinating,” I agreed. “What sort of motive?"

"Insurance, politics, revenge—anything,” she said airily. “Who am I to say?"

"As I was saying,” I resumed hopefully, “you are refreshingly different. Why didn't I discover you before?'

"Maybe you didn't look?"

[Back to Table of Contents]

I arrived at the Bulletin promptly at nine the following morning and went up to the city room, where Stanton Pritchard was waiting for me. In the two or three hundred years Pritch has served as city editor he's earned the title Mr. Legree, bestowed upon him by generations of reporters. He seems, moreover, to enjoy the role.

Pritch wanted me to cover the political implications of Stryder's death, so I went to City Hall.

Thelma White, the Mayor's secretary for the past eight years, had seen the Bulletin headline on her way in to work and was still in a daze in her office.

"It's a quite a shock, Ted,” she told me. “Were you there when it happened?"

"Yes,” I admitted.

Thelma smiled crookedly. “He was working like a fury yesterday—now it all goes down the drain. What do you know!"

"You worked yesterday?” I asked. “On a holiday?"

"Holidays never meant much to the Great White Father."

"Who's going to take his place?"

Thelma shrugged. “According to the City Charter, when a mayor dies the council appoints a Mayor Pro Tem. Two months ago it would have been Art Vincent. He planned to oppose Stryder in the next election, anyway, but he's dead, too. Probably Jim Davis now. He'll make a try for it, anyway."

I nodded. Vincent would have been a much better choice, but he'd died in an auto accident.

"You admired Stryder, didn't you?” I asked.

"Just between us girls, I think he was a louse. June tried to leave him several times, but he had it rigged so if she did she'd be destitute. Please don't print that—to the public he was a hero. They didn't know him like I did."

"I imagine the secretaries to successful politicians often feel that way when the boss dies."

"Successful politician—that's a laugh. He enjoyed being a success at politics. There's a difference, he was a string-puller from the word go."

"Who'll benefit most from his death?"

Thelma frowned. “I don't know. June Stryder, I hope. It's the best thing that could have happened to her. Politically? Davis, I suppose. I'll be looking for another job. So will most of Phil's appointees."

"You think there's a shake-up in the offing?"

"There has to be. Victory goes to the wheeler dealers, you know that. It might be fun to watch, as long as you don't get hurt."

"Can you be hurt by it?'

"Not any more. I'm out of it, thank goodness."

A Western Union messenger arrived then with a fistful of telegrams. I went in search of Tom Richards.

The cute young thing in his outer office ushered me into the City Treasurer's presence. Richards looked a bit hung-over this morning, a condition which accented his usual gaunt appearance and made his lean frame look as if it were made of old coat hangers. He'd prepared a brief statement; now he handed me a copy.

"Where do you go from here, Tom?” I asked.

"Depends on who runs, I suppose."

"Who's the likely candidate?"

"Why don't you talk to Jim Davis? He's asked for a council meeting Monday night."

"The Pro Tem election,” I said.

"Right. I don't want the job myself. I'm busy enough as it is."

"In the November general election will you file again for treasurer?"

"I haven't made up my mind. I may accept a position in private industry."

"Any offers, Tom?"

Richards smiled. “Not for publication."

"Who might want the Pro Tem slot?"

"Well, Goodson took over as gadfly when Vincent died. He might make a token bid. Norris is a crusader, but he's all wrapped up in his vice probe. Privately, I'd put my money on Davis. But I wouldn't bet too much."

"You'll vote for him Monday night?"

Richards smiled again. “No comment."

Behind every politician, I knew, are the people who put him in office, the moneyed elements who financed his campaign. Before Stryder took over, Fallbrook was controlled by the real estate faction which had come into power during the building boom after World War II and created a complex of semi-suburban shopping centers as nuclei for ambitious housing developments. New industries had been wooed with tricky tax exemptions and a loaded zoning commission in order to attract droves of workers from other areas who were in turn quite efficiently fleeced by the real estate boys.

Tom Richards had been a realtor himself at one time, but had broken with the pack and was picked by the Stryder machine as an attempt to split the real estate bloc.

Councilman Benjamin Norris, known as “the churchman's’ choice,” had lent an air of sanctity to Stryder's campaign. Currently he headed the Mayor's Committee for the Study of Vice and Organized Crime. I cornered him, five minutes later, as he was emerging from Murray Bronstein's office.

"My special report is almost finished,” he informed me rather nervously. “I wish I had a Mayor to report to.” He was a bland-faced, ineffectual-looking man of fifty-five, with shiny skin and a voice at once thin, nasal and a bit dainty.

"Is it true that you'll be a candidate for Pro Tem?"

"It's possible. I won't know until Monday, though."

"How about the November election?"

"If I should decide to file,” Norris said vaguely, “the information will be released to all media simultaneously.” Translation: I still don't know which way the wind is blowing.

"Has your vice investigation been a success, Councilman?"

He hesitated a moment and primmed his lips. “Very much so. It'll blow the lid off. You may quote me on that—"

Norris scurried off down the corridor and I opened the door to the City Attorney's office. One of Stryder's first moves upon assuming office had been to take over the Civil Service Commission, “In order to eliminate possible corruption."

The Commission, reorganized, operated on a “merit” system which had enough loopholes to allow the Mayor to handpick a number of key figures. These, obviously, were the appointees Thelma said would be looking for new jobs. Murray Bronstein was one of them.

Bronstein was putting on his hat as I entered.

"Any comment on Stryder's death?” I asked.

Bronstein chose his words carefully. “A tragic occurrence. His hand at the tiller was a sure one. It's up to all of us to see that the ship does not founder without him. That sound respectful enough?"

"Lovely, I'll make sure your name is spelled right. Off the record, who's going to take over?"

He tapped a fat portfolio. “Norris just gave me his report. I'm going to weed the libel out of it this weekend, and if there's anything left we'll consider it Monday night."

"You're not answering my question,” I said.

"Ted,” he said fondly, “you know as well as I do that Stryder created that committee to perpetuate his reform image and to pacify the conservatives. Personally, off the record, I doubt it'll be a threat to the so-called vice lords Norris likes to rant about. But if there's a safe issue in here, it might influence the council's choice for Pro Tem."

"You still haven't answered my question."

Bronstein's grin was gleeful. “I guess I didn't, did I?"

"Let me put it this way. If Davis gets in, where does that leave you?"

Murray Bronstein blinked thoughtfully. He was well aware that I knew of the friction between him and Jim Davis. “I'll be able to go back into private practice. There's more money in it and fewer ulcers."

"I've never figured out why you joined Stryder's team in the first place,” I said.

Bronstein's face became unreadable. “It was a challenge,” he said softly, “once upon a time."

[Back to Table of Contents]

Councilman Jim Davis received me in his private office and closed the door behind us. “Bourbon? Rye? Scotch?” he inquired.

"Rye,” I told him and he decanted a generous portion.

He had the same intensity, the same aura of strength about him that Stryder had possessed. But it takes far more than personality to win an election. Maybe Davis had it; I didn't know.

With a distinguished war record, Stryder had done it by proving his executive ability in the insurance business and winning favor up and down Main Street by reorganizing the Chamber of Commerce into a major pressure group. With the Chamber, the American Legion and V.F.W. in his pocket, he rode in on a ‘reform ticket’ which included a politically expedient but potentially troublesome list of candidates for the City Council.

Jim Davis was backed by the manufacturing interest and brought with him a campaign contribution which could not be ignored. What additional backers Davis had acquired in the ensuing eight years remained to be seen.

"I wanted to talk to you alone, Ted,” he said, standing by a window. “Your newspaper represents the thinking people of this city. You have been highly critical, on occasion, of Mayor Stryder's practices and some of his objectives. But I think you understood him. I think you know that he placed the welfare of the city above personal gain or petty politics. His goal was to be a good administrator—which I think he was."

"A bit gaudy,” I furnished, “in a chrome-plated sort of way."

Davis coughed. “The Mayor's commitment to those principles of liberty for which our ancestors gave their lives was tempered only by his sense of responsibility to the people. In less than eight years his administration has eliminated the eyesores from the public conscience. We have a clean city, a decent city, thanks to Phil Stryder. But the price of liberty is eternal vigilance, which is why the Mayor's Committee on Vice was created."

"Norris says his report will blow the lid off."

"Norris is an old maid,” Davis snorted. “He sees bogeymen under every bed. He's valuable, however, but powerless unless backed by a strong Mayor."

"Such as yourself."

"Perhaps.” Davis smiled and sipped at his drink.

"Would you have opposed Stryder in the coming election?"

"No. But I am probably the only one who could take the reins and keep the machine running now that Phil's dead. Through me the good government Fallbrook has enjoyed over the past eight years will continue. My objectives are identical with Stryder's. Although some of my co-workers may not like me, I think they can be persuaded to back me."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because I'll need your support. I respect you, oddly enough, and I expect you to take pot shots at me after I'm Mayor. Stryder made the mistake of getting sore at you. I shall not."

"Are you worried about the Norris report?"

"Not at all."'

"What do you propose to do in case he actually has uncovered a few cesspools?” I asked.

"His report will be studied and acted upon where action is warranted. I'm sure I'll have the full cooperation of the Police Commissioner in this respect,"

Translation: give a little, get a little. The P. D. would be richer by two squad cars.

I remembered Bronstein's remark about going into private practice. “Can you tell me who you've picked as your new City Attorney?"

Davis lifted an eyebrow. “You don't miss much, do you?"

"You've been at each other's throats for years."

"If Murray wants to retire that's up to him,” Davis said. “He won't fight me."

"You must know more about him than I do."

"That's right.” Davis held out his hand. “Glad you dropped by, Shaffer."

I nodded and shook his hand. “The King is dead, long live the King,” I said, and made my way out into the clear air again.

From a phone booth I called the Mayor's home. A man answered. I identified myself and asked to speak with Mrs. Stryder.

"She's under sedation, Mr. Shaeffer,” the voice informed me.

"Shaffer,” I corrected. “Who're you?"

"Her doctor. Can I help you?"

"I'm interested in her reaction to her husband's death."

"She's upset over it, of course.” He sounded a bit testy. “This has been a great shock to her."

"How soon, doctor, do you think she'll be available for comment?"

"I'd appreciate it if you didn't disturb her until tomorrow."

"Are you the family physician?"

"Yes. My name is Morrison. Harlan Morrison."

"Could you tell me if overwork had anything to do with the Mayor's stroke?"

"Hardly. He thrived on work. These things can't be predicted. Amputees are always in some circulatory danger. I'm sorry he's dead—he played an excellent game of chess."

Dr. Harlan Morrison, frequent chess partner and family physician, I jotted, stated yesterday afternoon that...

I dialed Homicide and asked for Murphy. He was out, so I drove over to the Clough Mortuary where Stryder's body was being prepared for tomorrow's funeral, figuring that I could kill three birds with one stone.

The Coroner himself was busy in the back, so I asked his assistant, Frank Peterson, to fill me in on details of the service. They were expecting at least five hundred people, he said, and would be prepared for an additional thousand. The remains could be viewed that evening at the Clough Chapel and would be transferred to First Presbyterian at ten tomorrow morning. Floral tributes were already overflowing the mortuary's capacity and the florists’ association had been asked to make all additional deliveries to the church.

"Donations to a paraplegic foundation might be more in order,” I suggested.

Peterson looked at me as if I'd said something dirty. I remembered that he owned half-interest in a greenhouse.

Clough appeared and invited me into a consultation room. He was a small man with liquid brown eyes which belied rumors I'd heard of a somewhat vindictive nature. Although Clough was a county official, he'd had Stryder's personal endorsement, which carried weight, as eighty percent of the county's population lived within the city limits. It seemed likely that Davis’ ‘deal’ with the Police Commissioner might well concern the Commissioner's dream of replacing the Coroner with a police pathologist.

I decided to sound Bob Clough out on it.

"Looks like a busy day,” I observed, sitting in a friendly chair.

"Hectic,” Clough fumed. “Absolutely hectic. Two operators out sick, the biggest funeral of the year on a rush order, my ulcer's in a state of seige and now I'm blessed with newspaper reporters."

"I'm interested in politics today, Bob. There's a rumor in City Hall that a shakeup may be in the offing and that the Coroner's Office might get the ax."

Clough gnawed his lip and stared at the ceiling. “Who's behind it this time, Davis? Norris? Richards?"

"An informed source."

The Coroner nodded. “The issue was raised about six years ago by Councilman Vincent. He argued that Fallbrook should have a Police Medical Examiner. Morticians should not be Coroners, it's too much of a political-plum. Actually, Shaffer, not many mortuaries want the City's business. There's no profit; very often it's a loss. Therefore, my office assigns a quota of indigent cases to each of the eight mortuaries in the city. The fee for autopsies is again minimal. We all share, in rotation. And nobody gets rich."

"That isn't the issue, Bob,” I said. “The modern approach is to make the Coroner's duties an official part of the Police Department, with a licensed pathologist as M.E., instead of a politically elected Coroner who may not know Hippocrates from a hole in the ground."

"I,” Clough snapped, “am fully capable of performing an autopsy and I'm well up on forensic medicine, although I'm not a certified pathologist. My findings, many times, have been at variance with those of the attending physicians, and as a matter of professional ethics I would insist that more death certificates be amended if it weren't for all the red tape involved."

"Oh? Doctors make that many mistakes?"

"I didn't say that. But I've seen evidence of negligence and twice I've testified in suits for malpractice. I belong to no medical societies and therefore cannot be pressured into covering up mistakes."

"Good point. But regarding the move to replace you—and considering that Stryder was the one who squelched it before—will it take place now that he's dead?"

"Officially, I'm aware of no such movement. Personally, I hope there is one. I'd be much better off devoting my full time to my own business. The city is money ahead with the present system and the services provided are pretty adequate."

"One more question, Bob. I've tried to get through to Mrs. Stryder but she'd under sedation. What was her reaction last night?"

"She wanted to get everything over with as quickly as possible, and insisted on tomorrow for the funeral. She was stunned by Phil's death, of course."

"They didn't get along too well, I hear."

Clough frowned. “I've never been exactly a crony so I wouldn't know. I'm not as impressed by big shots as I ought to be. They all look alike in the end."

[Back to Table of Contents]

It was noon, and I had three hours in which to get my story in to Pritch. I called Homicide again. This time Murphy was in.

"Had lunch yet, Murph?"

"You buying?"

"As long as you fill me in on Vice and Organized Crime in Fallbrook while we eat."

Murphy was rather young to be in charge of Homicide, but his ability more than made up for it. I liked him.

We met ten minutes later at the Celestial Grill. After comparing our fortune cookie readings, we discussed the abilities of Benjamin Norris as a vice crusader.

"What he'll never learn,” Murphy opined, “is that there's a big difference between vice, crime, and corruption. To him, all sins are equal. That's fine for an opinion but our legal system won't stand for it. He's had fun nosing around and he's made a list of indiscreet sinners but not much will come of it."

"Have you crossed horns with our Coroner?” I inquired.

"Who hasn't? Clough's rather jealous of his authority. Refuses to be ‘pushed around by the cops.’ Yes, we've tangled a time or two. Why?"

"With Stryder gone you may be getting yourself a medical examiner."

Murphy's smile was seraphic.

"You also,” I added, “may have to put up with a vice clean-up. Davis claims he's got the Police Commissioner's ear for action on the Norris report."

"I think I'd rather keep the Coroner,” Murphy said. “The department has enough to do without having to raid private poker games and confiscate dirty books—which is what I'll bet this boils down to."

I laughed. “You seem to have about as much use for Norris as I have."

"He came in about a month ago,” Murphy recalled, “looking for proof of his pet theory that Art Vincent was murdered. I handled that investigation myself, Shaffer. We stripped the wreck but didn't find a thing out of order. Norris as much as accused me of concealing evidence. He's convinced the Mafia bumped Vincent off. I booted him out."

"That may have been a mistake."

"Politically? Perhaps, but I don't think so."

We finished lunch. Murphy promised to let me know if anything interesting should filter down from above, and I hurried back to the Bulletin.

As far as the council was concerned, Davis was the obvious choice to fill Stryder's shoes. There were, in addition, seven rather colorless pawns, championed mainly by the neighborhood weeklies and ethnic or religious publications. Although each had had Stryder's endorsement, none was important enough to bother with.

I regretted not having talked with the widow, but her doctor's statement and the information I'd got from the Coroner would cover me in that area.

It took me an hour to sort out the main story, and another thirty minutes to write it. I knocked out a couple of side-pieces for good measure—one on the Norris report, the other a schmaltzy thing about the funeral in which I used up the quotes I'd collected—and gave it all to Pritch. Then I told him I planned to attend the council meeting Monday night and the funeral Saturday.

"Fine,” he said. “This stuff is pretty good, but I have the feeling something's missing."

"Yeah,” I agreed. “But I don't know what it is. I shall go out right now and drink it over."

Two beers later I was still worrying about it. Something was missing. Was it a question I'd neglected to ask? Was it something I'd refused to look for?

The Mayor was dead, of a stroke suffered during a fireworks display at McKinley High football field. Jim Davis would probably become Mayor Pro Tem because of it. Stryder's faithful secretary had cheered. Clough and several others might lose their jobs. Clough didn't care. Richards was ready to go into industry. Bronstein was looking forward to private law practice again. Norris was on a fence, his fanatic reformism blinding him to his own lack of political skill.

"Wouldn't it be interesting,” Cathy Rogers had said, “if someone had killed him?"

I was unable to make the leap of logic required for that to make sense. Murder in front of five thousand people is rather difficult to accomplish, even in total darkness.

Anyone trying to kill Phil Stryder could certainly find a dozen better, safer, surer opportunities than at the fireworks display.

Murder was ridiculous.

It was simply coincidence that the people who benefited most from his death were within ten feet of him when it happened.

As it was only four-thirty, I paid for my beers and went back to the Bulletin, hoping to find Cathy Rogers in the P.R. department. She'd gone home early, I was told.

I drove to her apartment but there was no trace of her. I considered stopping somewhere for dinner but I wanted to change first, so I went home.

Cathy was waiting for me there. She looked worried.

"What's the matter?” I asked.

"May I come in?"

"Sure. What brings you here, honey?"

"Something I didn't tell you last night. Since it's your story I wanted to talk to you first before I went to the police. I tried to catch you at the paper but you'd gone."

I unlocked the door and ushered her inside.

"Mayor Stryder was murdered,” she announced quietly.

"You saw it happen?"

She shook her head. “No, but I did see the murder weapon, Ted. It's a hatpin, a very long hatpin and it belongs to Mrs. Stryder."

"Listen, honey,” I began, patiently, “it would be pretty hard to kill a man with a hatpin in the dark without leaving any traces for the Coroner to discover."

"In the ear?” she ventured. “It would be a very small wound."

I laughed. “If your victim is obliging enough to hold still while you fumble in the darkness for his ear."

"She might have been whispering to him."

"What makes you so sure it was his wife?"

"A hatpin isn't exactly a man's weapon. She was the only woman on the platform. There's the insurance angle, too. She'll get fifty thousand dollars."

"Where'd you find this out?"

Cathy blushed. “A friend of mine is an insurance broker, I had him ask around."

Thelma White, I recalled, had said it was the best thing that could have happened to June Stryder. “Where's this deadly little hatpin now?"

"It should be in the ground on the football field, where I left it. I don't know if I'd be able to find it again, though."

"How'd you find it in the first place?"

"I was trying to fold up the blanket,” she explained, “and the hatpin was stuck through an edge of it, pinning it to the ground. I pulled it out to see what it was and stuck it back in the dirt so nobody'd get hurt by it. It wasn't till after we'd left that I wondered if it could have been used to kill the Mayor."

"Why didn't you tell me this last night?” I made no attempt to hide my irritation.

Cathy looked away from me. “I—I guess I didn't want to get involved."

"Some people watch muggings and murders without lifting a finger,” I said caustically.

"I deserved that. Anyway, it was too late to go looking for it then. And it seemed like awfully flimsy evidence to take to the police, especially when I didn't have the hatpin."

There was no percentage in bawling her out. “Was there blood on it?"

"I don't know. I didn't notice any. It could have been wiped off, though."

I had to agree—it was awfully flimsy evidence. I tried to put myself in Murphy's shoes, and decided he'd need something more concrete to go on.

"The Coroner says Stryder died of a stroke. I suppose a hatpin in the brain could produce the same effect, and Clough might miss it if he didn't know what to look for.” I checked my watch. “The body will be cremated in about twenty-four hours and Clough goes strictly by the book. We've got to get that hatpin."

"If I'd only had sense enough to hang onto it!” she wailed.

"The blanket,” I said. “It was pushed through the blanket. Think you can find the hole?"

"I suppose so. Why?"

"If there's human blood on it I can probably talk the cops into searching for the hatpin."

Cathy frowned. “You are the laziest reporter I've ever met,” she said.

[Back to Table of Contents]

I got the blanket from the car and we examined it under a bright light. It took us five minutes to find the puncture. There was a tiny brown stain at one edge of it.

"Morrison,” I said. “Harlan Morrison."

Cathy looked at me blankly.

"Stryder's doctor. He'd have a record of the Mayor's blood type."

Dr. Morrison's answering service promised to have him call me. I told Cathy to open us a pair of beers and dialed Homicide. Fortunately, Murphy was still in.

"Sorry, Ted,” he said, “but I haven't heard a thing yet. It's too early."

"I'm not calling about that,” I told him. “I'm working on something else and I need help. I've got a blanket which may or may not have a blood spot on it and I want it analyzed, no questions asked. Can you get it done for me?"

"I suppose so. Want to tell me why?"

"Not yet. I've got a theory which may be way out in left field. If it pans out I'll let you in on it. How soon can your lab give me a report?"

"Monday noon,” the detective said.

"Too late. I need it tomorrow morning."

Murphy hesitated, but not long. “All right, bring it over. I'll get someone on it right away."

"I'll be there in fifteen minutes."

I hung up and filled Cathy in on what to tell Dr. Morrison in case he called while I was out. She volunteered to have dinner going by the time I got back.

"Great!” I said. “There ought to be a couple of steaks in the freezer, and the pantry's full. I'll be back in forty-five minutes.” I kissed her and departed.

Murphy was waiting for me when I lugged the blanket in. I pointed out the hole and watched him mark it for the lab.

"Just what are you trying to establish?” he asked.

"Whether or not a crime has been committed,” I said. “If I tell you about it now you might talk me out of it—but if the lab comes up with the right blood type I'll tell everything. If it's just part of a Hershey bar I'll forget it."

"Want me to call you when I get the report?"

"Definitely. I'll be at home. I'd love to hang around and chew the fat, but my date wouldn't appreciate it if I'm late to dinner."

When I returned to the apartment it smelled like a good French restaurant. Cathy sat me down, peeled me a brew and informed me that Dr. Morrison had not called. “We'll eat in about fifteen minutes,” she announced.

I tried Morrison's answering service again; the girl expected him to call in momentarily. I finished my beer and Cathy put Beef Stroganoff, steamed rice and string beans in front of me.

"You're a good cook, too,” I observed, inhaling appreciatively.

"I'm not really applying for a job."

I grinned. “I wasn't offering you one."

The phone rang. It was Dr. Morrison.

"You're the reporter who talked to me earlier today when you were trying to get in touch with Mrs. Stryder, aren't you?"

"That's right,” I said. “Do you have a record of Phil Stryder's blood type?"

"Why?"

"Is it classified information?"

"It's an unusual request,” he said testily.

"I'm working with the police department on this,” I said. “Do you have the information?"

"Yes, but not for the newspapers. If you have some crazy notion that Phil Stryder was murdered, forget it."

"You sound as if you know more than I do, doctor."

"I know the way newspapers operate. My concern is for my patient. June Stryder is in a severe state of shock."

"She may have killed her husband, doctor,” I said. “If you won't give the information to me, I suggest you call Chief of Detectives John Corcoran Murphy, Homicide Division, and talk to him."

Morrison was silent for a moment. “You're serious about this,” he said.

"Very. Well, doctor?"

"His blood type was AB. He was forty-four years old and in excellent physical condition. It seems highly improbable that he died of a stroke."

"Thank you, doctor. I have a feeling Chief Murphy will ask you to sign a statement to that effect tomorrow."

I hung up and concentrated once more on my dinner.

"Did he tell you the blood type?” Cathy inquired anxiously.

"Yep,” I relied, dipping some French bread in the gravy.

"What do we do now?"

"Finish our dinner,” I informed her. “It's delicious."

"I can't. I'm too nervous."

"Are you sitting on something else you should have told me?"

She shook her head.

"Then relax and eat."

She picked up her fork. “I don't know if it's important or not—"

"Spill,” I invited.

"Who's Thelma White?"

"Stryder's secretary."

"Oh. Well, she gets fifty thousand dollars, too."

"That's, interesting. Eat."

"Shouldn't we do something about it?"

"After dinner,” I assured her.

Twenty minutes later Cathy cleared our empty plates away and, at my insistence, brought in the coffee.

"I thought you said we'd do something after dinner,” she protested.

"We could always make love,” I observed, “but I'm expecting a visitor. Better get out another cup."

Moments later the doorbell chimed. I answered it.

"Murph!” I exclaimed. “What a pleasant surprise. You missed dinner but I trust you'll join us for dessert?"

"Surprise, hell,” he growled. “Do you mind telling me what this is all about, Shaffer?"

"That depends on what your lab found on my blanket. This is Cathy Rogers, an excellent cook. Cathy, Chief of Detectives John Corcoran Murphy."

Murph acknowledged the introduction, then turned to me. “Miss Rogers in on this?"

"From the start,” I assured him. “I trust it was human blood, type AB?"

The detective nodded. “And earwax."

"Score one for Miss Rogers,” I said. “Sit down, Murph. After I tell you what we know and a little of what we suspect, you might like to have a look at the corpse. If our obstinate friend, Clough, will let you anywhere near it, that is."

Over coffee and dessert I told him about the hatpin, how it was found, where it presumably came from and where it was now. I listed the people on the platform and detailed the benefits, financial and political, accruing to my chief two suspects.

I discussed the apparent effect of Stryder's death on the others present. It took a surprisingly short time to cover the material, including Dr. Morrison's opinion that a stroke was unlikely.

"I see,” Murphy mused, looking a bit dazed. “Everyone on the platform had the opportunity but only two of them had any apparent motive. Motive isn't really as important as ability, though—and I guess they'd all be capable of murder."

"You're not even sure a murder's been committed yet,” I pointed out.

"True,” the detective agreed. “But an autopsy would establish that easily enough. I suppose you'll want to tag along while I have a look at the body. I may need you, anyway, to help me convince the Coroner he ought to do an autopsy."

"My pleasure,” I assured him. “Cathy?"

She hesitated.

"What's the matter?"

"Well—but isn't the Coroner a suspect?” she asked. “You said motive doesn't count as much as opportunity and ability, and he was on the platform, too."

"Score two for Miss Rogers,” I said.

"Three,” Murphy corrected.

"She found the hatpin."

"Since Clough is a suspect you'll have to have someone else do the autopsy."

"That can be arranged,” Murphy assured me. “Let's see how we make out at the funeral parlor."

[Back to Table of Contents]

When we arrived at the Clough Mortuary, the Coroner was out. Peterson, his florally-oriented assistant, led us to a softly lit ‘slumber room’ where the mayor's body lay. There was a line of citizens filing past, paying their last respects.

"Mr. Peterson,” Murphy said, “you'll have to get these people out of here."

Peterson bristled indignantly.

"For heaven's sake, why?"

"I have a reasonable suspicion that Mayor Stryder was murdered. An autopsy is required, immediately. Anyone here who can do it?"

Peterson shook his head. “Mr. Clough does them himself."

"Get him on the phone,” Murphy directed.

There was no answer at the Clough residence.

"All right,” Murphy announced. “I'll make arrangements to have the body picked up within the hour."

"I can't allow that!” Peterson protested. “Without specific instructions from the Coroner I couldn't possible release the body."

He spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness.

"Mr. Peterson,” I said. “Would it be good for business if the Bulletin informed its readers that you'd obstructed the course of justice?"

"That's Mr. Clough's decision to make, not mine,” he replied. “Now if you gentlemen had a court order—"

"This is Friday night,” I reminded him. “Stryder's to be cremated tomorrow."

"I simply don't have the authority,” Peterson persisted. “Furthermore, I can't imagine what you expect the autopsy to show."

"Poison,” Murphy said. “Come on, there's no point in our sticking around here."

Once we were back in the car, Cathy looked at Murphy and asked, “Poison?"

"When I get cooperation, I give it,” the detective said.

"You've given me a way to cover this story without tipping off the killer,” I told him. “I'll say an investigation is underway based upon an anonymous tip that the Mayor was poisoned. It might force Clough to authorize an independent autopsy."

Murphy frowned at me. “That's a good idea—in case I can't get a court order tonight."

"It won't hurt even if you do.” I called Howdy Jackson and dictated five short paragraphs.

"Shaffer,” he said patiently when I'd finished, “do you do these things to me on purpose?"

"Have fun with the front page, Howdy,” I told him and hung up.

Then I took Cathy to my apartment. Murphy had promised to call us if there were any further developments. We stayed up far into the night, discussing motives.

Saturday morning dawned bright and cheerful, two attributes for which I will not give Mother Nature credit, unless the sunny disposition and culinary genius of my strawberry blonde can be traced to the matriarch of creation. With my coffee was the headline: MURDER HINTED IN MAYOR'S DEATH. Following it was a gourmet's delight invented by Miss Rogers herself, which proved to be every bit as tasty as its creator.

I was complimenting her on it when the phone rang. Cathy handed me the instrument, saying, “It's Chief Murphy."

"Morning, Murph,” I yawned. “Did our headline get results?"

"Not what we expected,” he said. “I still haven't found Clough, but I'll have a court order in half an hour. There's a new development, though. Just after your paper came out Councilman Norris got a threatening phone call. A man's voice said, ‘Lay off or what happened to Stryder will happen to you.’”

I whistled softly. “What does Norris have to say?"

"I didn't talk with him. I got it from the Police Commissioner—Norris called him direct.” Murphy paused. “I've lined up a Mercy Hospital pathologist to do the autopsy. It's nine o'clock now. Can you meet me at the mortuary in forty-five minutes?"

"Love to,” I assured him.

While Cathy cleaned up the breakfast remains I tried to get Norris on the phone, but it was reported out of order. I grinned and tried another number, interrupting Murray Bronstein at breakfast.

"Murray,” I inquired, “have you read the Norris report yet?"

"Yes.

"What's in it?"

"I'm afraid I can't release that information until I present it to the Council Monday night."

"Have you seen this morning's Bulletin?"

"No. Why?"

"The police received a tip that Stryder was murdered. I printed it,” I explained. “Also in the paper was a quote from Norris that his report would blow the lid off. Shortly after the paper hit the streets Norris got a threatening phone call. What I want to know, is this: does the report endanger any of his fellow councilmen?"

Bronstein was silent for a moment. “There are lots of accusations, Ted. How valid they are is hard to tell. There's only one present council member named, though—in an accusation of bribery."

"Who?"

"I can't tell you that."

"Let me guess. Either Jim Davis or Tom Richards."

"Sorry, Shaffer."

I took a shot in the dark. “Look, Murray, the Mayor's dead—you don't have to be afraid of him now. Whatever he had on you he took with him."

Bronstein paused a moment, then said, “Richards."

"Has he seen the report?"

"It's hard to keep secrets in City Hall. The only one I've ever seen who could do it was Stryder himself—that was his specialty. My eggs are cold, Shaffer, and so are my feet right now, so I hope you'll excuse me."

I thanked him, then Cathy and I drove to the mortuary, arriving there just as Murphy pulled up, brandishing a court order.

I told him of my talk with Bronstein, concluding, “And Richards was on the platform with Stryder when he died."

"So were three other people,” Murphy reminded me. “Once we have proof of murder, I'm going to question all of them—including the Coroner."

"That ought to be fun."

"Has it occurred to you, Shaffer, that the killer may not have been on the platform at all, except long enough to do the job? You could have done it yourself."

I grinned. “I was with Cathy from the time the lights went out till they came on again."

"No you weren't, Ted,” Cathy said helpfully. “You left me for a minute to turn your tape recorder off."

"Thanks heaps,” I said.

The three of us went inside to claim the Mayor's body.

It was gone.

[Back to Table of Contents]

We found it twenty minutes later at First Presbyterian Church. With it were the Coroner, Reverend Hamilton and a line of curiosity-seeking mourners queued up halfway down the block. Clough read the court order.

"This is ridiculous!” he snorted. “I attended the body myself and there was absolutely nothing out of order."

"Judge Alexander seems to think differently."

"Just what do you propose to do?” Clough inquired testily. “Perform an autopsy between now and two o'clock? Do you think you can have it back here in time and in condition for the service? This is the most asinine thing I've ever heard of!"

"May I quote you on that?” I asked.

He shot me a startled look, and calmed down. “It's certainly not my intention to obstruct justice, even though I think you're on a wild goose chase—I assure you, if there is any poison in the remains it will still be there after the funeral."

"So?” Murphy countered.

"I'll cooperate in the fullest, but I must ask you to cooperate with me in return. Have some respect for the feelings of the widow. A funeral is a solemn occasion, and I see no sense in disrupting it."

Reverend Hamilton endorsed this sentiment, but Clough cut him short and turned to me. “You, Mr. Shaffer—I think your tactics in this morning's paper were entirely uncalled for. This crowd is not here to pay respects to the dead but to get a free look at a so-called murder victim."

"You refuse to admit you might have made a mistake?” I asked. “That you might have overlooked something because you weren't specifically looking for traces of murder?"

"That's always possible, of course,” Clough agreed. “But highly improbable."

Murphy had been thinking it over. Now he said, “All right, Coroner. I'll wait until after the funeral."

Clough nodded curtly. “The service begins here, there's the procession to the cemetery, and the concluding service is at the mausoleum. Once the family has departed, you may have the body."

"Agreed,” Murphy said. “What time will it be then?"

"Four-thirty, at the latest."

Murphy offered to buy my lunch but I declined. “I've got some work to do between now and two o'clock, so if you'll excuse me I'll get at it. Cathy, you want to keep John Corcoran company? I promise not to be jealous."

We agreed to meet again at the church at two and I headed back for the Bulletin. As it wasn't far out of the way, I drove first to the Stryder residence, parked and rang the doorbell.

Thelma White opened the door.

She looked at me blankly for a moment, then stepped nimbly out on to the porch beside me, pulling the door to behind her.

"Actually,” I said gently, “I came here to talk to Mrs. Stryder."

"I'm afraid you can't, Ted. June's pretty much under the weather. The doctor's with her right now, trying to get her in shape to attend the funeral."

I nodded. “Grief hits pretty hard, sometimes."

The late Mayor's secretary smiled crookedly. “Grief? Maybe it is. She's plastered. She's been drinking pretty steadily since Phil died. You print that and I'll sue,” she warned.

I grinned and cocked my eyebrows. “Celebrating?"

"You've got a nasty little mind, Shaffer,” she said frostily.

"Just recalling our conversation yesterday,” I told her. “A lot's happened since then, Thelma."

Thelma nodded. “Thank God she hasn't seen the papers. Is that actually true? The poison theory, I mean?"

"There's an investigation underway,” I assured her. “I'm surprised you haven't been contacted."

"Oh? And am I a suspect?"

I shrugged. “Until they catch who did it, honey, you may have trouble collecting your fifty grand."

"My what? Shaffer, are you drunk, too?"

"You don't know about it?"

Thelma shook her head.

"I understand you're an insurance beneficiary to the tune of fifty thousand dollars."

It was not at all like Thelma White to gape, but gape she did.

"You're kidding!” she exclaimed. “You must be! Fifty thousand bucks! Talk about heaping coals of fire on my head—if that isn't just like the Great White Father. He always did have to have the last laugh!"

"Some joke. But don't worry about it unless you killed him..."

Thelma sobered instantly. “Do they think June did it?"

"I don't know what they think, yet. You sure I can't see her?"

"It's going to be a job getting her sober enough to walk into the church this afternoon,” she said, “much less answer you coherently."

"All right,” I said. “See you at the funeral."

[Back to Table of Contents]

I drove thoughtfully back to the Bulletin, not much wiser than I'd been before. Parts of the puzzle were still missing. For one thing, that phone call to Benjamin Norris bothered me. “Lay off or what happened to Stryder will happen to you.” A man's voice, Murphy had said. That eliminated both Mrs. Stryder and Thelma, but opened up several possibilities.

Norris was accusing Richards of accepting bribes, according to Bronstein. It would help if I knew who, had been on the bribing end. Richards had been a realtor once; now he talked of going into ‘industry.'

Davis, however, was industry's spokesman, unless he'd sold out to somebody else. But Davis had told me he did not fear the Norris report. Murray Bronstein was his avowed enemy—it didn't figure that Murray would cover up for Davis. Supposedly, Bronstein was the only one who'd seen the report, although he'd added that it's hard to keep a secret in City Hall.

I began to wonder if there had actually been a threatening phone call in the first place.

Once back at the paper, I checked several files out of the morgue and spent better than an hour sorting out the political cross currents. I approached the problem from several different angles, even going so far as to postulate that if the phone threat was legitimate there might be more than one murder involved.

Bumping off political opponents, I reasoned, might get to be a habit.

That brought me to Art Vincent, and Norris’ wild rantings about the Mafia having bumped him off. According to the clippings, Vincent had died of internal injuries suffered in an auto accident on a high-speed stretch of freeway at about two o'clock in the morning. His car had gone out of control. He'd been driving home from a late conference with the Mayor, and police speculated that he'd gone to sleep at the wheel.

As a murder method it was lousy. Even if the car had been tampered with—and Murphy assured me it hadn't—there were still too many things which could go wrong. There'd be no way to guarantee the victim would die or even be seriously injured. The wreck had been meticulously examined and everyone but Norris was satisfied with the verdict of accidental death.

So much for that.

I wondered if the threatening call had existed only in the imagination of Benjamin Norris. Either that, or the murderer was attempting to lay a smoke screen, knowing, as he must, of Norris’ Mafia theory. He didn't even have to be the killer himself. A worried confederate could have made the call.

I put Mrs. Stryder back on my suspect list. Even so, my list was lousy. Murphy had been right. There was no guarantee that the killer had stayed on the platform. Cathy couldn't even swear positively that the hatpin belonged to Mrs. Stryder. She'd drawn that conclusion merely because the widow had been wearing a big floppy hat of the sort which is often held in place with hatpins. Even so, anyone could have swiped the pin in the darkness.

The fact that it was a woman's weapon didn't mean anything either. Tom Richards, Jim Davis or Bob Clough could have spotted the weapon, seized the opportunity and done the deed—if given a strong enough motive.

Afterwards, the killer had jumped off the platform and shoved the pin in the ground, burying it, probably stamping on it to make sure it was in deep. But had failed to notice that it pierced the edge of a blanket on its way into the ground.

I asked myself why. Then, satisfied with my answer, I returned to the church. Murphy and my strawberry blonde were waiting just outside the main entrance.

I barely had time to inform them that Thelma and Dr. Morrison had shielded Mrs. Stryder from the potentially disturbing knowledge that murder was suspected when the doctor's car arrived.

Thelma helped the widow out and the three of them came cautiously to the entrance to the church, where Clough waited in his role of funeral director.

The Coroner took June's hand and patted it comfortingly. She clung to him. Through the thick, black, widow's veil, her voice came clearly: “Is he really dead, Bob? You're quite sure he's dead?"

Clough's mask of solemnity darkened.

"Please, Mrs. Stryder,” Dr. Morrison said. Thelma stood by, looking uncomfortable.

There was still some fifteen minutes to go before the funeral was to begin, but the church was already packed. Clough detoured the widow and her party to a side entrance reserved for immediate family and close friends. Murphy, Cathy and I tagged along.

Clough had seated the city officials in the ‘friends of the family’ section, a semi-enclosed area at one side of the chancel. A forgotten music rack indicated that this alcove was intended for the church choir.

Tom Richards and Jim Davis rose from their seats as the widow entered, their faces arranged in attitudes of grief which I was sure neither of them felt.

Mrs. Stryder seemed to read their expressions correctly, too, for she looked at them for a moment and then exclaimed: “Why do you all look so sad? I thought you'd be happy! He's gone, after all. He's dead. And I did try to make you all happy.” She laughed.

Thelma clutched the woman's arm. “Please, June, watch what you say! Don't make a scene."

"Don't make a scene,” the widow repeated. “Phil wouldn't like that, would he?"

From out front came organ music, loudly played, in an apparent attempt to override the disturbance in the choir loft. At the same time the pastor appeared, a worried frown on his face.

"Reverend Hamilton!” Mrs. Stryder exclaimed warmly. “How are you? Isn't it amazing what prayer can do? All of us here have been praying for this day, haven't we?” She looked around, her gaze encompassing them all.

"Mrs. Stryder, please,” Dr. Morrison remonstrated. “Control yourself."

"Oh, but you see, Doctor,” she caroled, “I don't know how. That was Phil's job—controlling things—and people. But he's gone now, he's dead."

"My dear,” the minister began, “I realize this is a trying time, but you must face up."

The widow laughed. It began as a laugh, anyway, but it turned into a giggle of delight. Then she stopped and stared at the speechless assembly.

"Don't be afraid,” she said. “You don't have to be afraid any more. No one has seen his private papers.” She paused, then added significantly, “Except me."

"Mrs. Stryder,” Morrison said, reaching for her.

She shrugged him off. “You'll have to treat me nicely, now, won't you?” She looked directly at Norris. “Don't fret so about it, Benny dear, I won't expose you. You're safe."

"The photographs!” Norris blurted. “Where are the photographs?"

Ignoring Norris, the widow lifted her veil and peered owlishly at Richards. “And you, Mr. City Treasurer. You don't have a thing to worry about now."

"I don't know what this woman is talking about!” Tom Richards blustered.

June Stryder giggled and hugged herself. “Unaccustomed as I am to public speaking,” she said, and stopped as the ornate, flower strewn casket caught her eye. “How nice,” she breathed. “He didn't interrupt me. Let's get it over with, Reverend. Let's hurry up and get the bastard buried."

Cathy, at my side, gasped.

"No, no, no,” the widow continued. “That's not right. We're burning him. I've always thought he ought to burn.” The veil fell across her face again. Annoyed, she brushed at it, then tugged the hat from her head, or attempted to, anyway. Smiling crookedly, she reached up and extracted a long, silver hatpin, then removed the hat.

From the corner of my eye I could see Murphy stiffen. His attention was riveted to the widow. She held the hatpin between thumb and forefinger.

"Bothersome little things, aren't they?” she asked, her gaze flicking from one member of the group to another. “But handy in an emergency, I hear."

Morrison took her firmly by the arm. “You're overwrought,” he said, steering her adroitly towards the exit. “May we use your study, Reverend?"'

"Certainly,” he responded.

Murphy started to protest, then changed his mind. “Mr. Clough, Mr. Richards, Mr. Davis—would you join us, please?"

Bending close to Cathy, I asked, “Is that the hatpin?"

"No,” she said.

"Come along, Shaffer, you're in on this,” Murphy said, and we appended ourselves to the procession headed for the pastor's study.

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Once the door was closed behind us, June Stryder looked around at everybody. Seeing us she inquired, “Who are these people?"

Clough introduced us: “Detective Murphy, Mr. Shaffer from the Bulletin, and—"

"Miss Rogers, also of the Bulletin,” I provided.

"Detectives! Reporters! How very, very nice!” the widow exclaimed.

Dr. Morrison dumped a pink pill from a small plastic vial into the palm of his hand. “Would you get Mrs. Stryder a glass of water, Miss Rogers?” he asked.

"No more pills, doctor!” June Stryder said firmly. “I feel wonderful. I haven't had so much attention in years. But why the police?"

Murphy extracted the folded court order from his pocket. “The department wants an independent autopsy performed. Cremation will have to be postponed."

"I won't let you,” she snapped. “What do you expect to prove, anyway?"

"I think you know that, Mrs. Stryder,” Murphy said, looking pointedly at the hatpin.

She glanced down at it, then placed it carefully on the desk. “How did you find out?” she said quietly.

"June!” Dr. Morrison said sharply.

"Quiet, Harlan,” she commanded. “I want to know how the police found out about this. Did you tell them, Mr. Clough?"

"Mrs. Stryder,” Murphy said, “it is my duty to warn you that anything you say may be held in evidence against you."

"Murph,” I said, “you don't want to arrest her."

"Are you nuts?” be exploded. “I'm handing you the story you came here to get and you tell me not to arrest her?"

I shook my head. “Wrong story, Murph. Just because she knows how her husband was killed is no sign that she did it. There were four other people who knew—you, Cathy and me—plus the killer. And since the killer tried to hide the weapon instead of disappearing with it, it has to be one of the four people on the platform."

"What in hell are you talking about?” Jim Davis demanded. “I certainly didn't poison Phil Stryder!"

"Nobody did. And there wasn't an anonymous tip to the police, either, but the killer thought there was. I believe our killer thought that Benjamin Norris made that anonymous call, knowing that Norris was bright enough to realize the cops wouldn't take him seriously if he made the charge in person. That's Ben's trouble—he's made so many wild charges in the past that nobody takes him seriously. But the law of averages is with a man like that. Every so often he gets lucky and hits a sore spot."

I turned to Davis. “You're aware of what's in the Norris report, aren't you, Councilman?"

"Of course I am."

"I'm glad you said that, because for a while I thought it was you. But, as you told me yesterday, there's nothing in there for you to be afraid of. I should have known then that you'd seen the report, one way or another."

"Would you mind telling us,” Clough said stiffly, “just how you think Phil Stryder was killed?"

"Not at all, Coroner,” I said. “It was a hatpin in the brain. Small wound, easy to overlook."

"Preposterous!” Clough fumed. “I suppose that's the hatpin that did it, there on the table."

"No, not that one. Mrs. Stryder, when did you realize the hatpin was missing?"

"As soon as I got home,” the widow responded. “I'd had two pins in my hat that day. We'd gone to a picnic where Phil spoke, then we had dinner out and came straight to the fireworks display. I knew the hatpin was gone when I got home and I figured someone had used it to kill him with."

Murphy frowned at the woman. “Why didn't you report it to the police?"

"That would have been an awfully ungrateful thing for me to do, don't you think?” she said, smiling brightly.

"But your curiosity got the better of you,” I said. “You staged that demonstration a few minutes ago, just so you could find out who did it, right?"

"Yes. But I still don't know."

"Let's try the process of elimination, then,” I suggested. “Obviously, you didn't kill your husband. You had plenty of motive, but too many opportunities—much better opportunities."

"So?” Murphy challenged.

"She might have wanted to, but I don't think she was capable of it. Besides, she'd have stuck the weapon back where she got it, which the murderer obviously didn't."

Mrs. Stryder lifted shaking hands to her face. “You don't know how much I wanted to, Mr. Shaffer,” she said brokenly.

"All right,” Murphy agreed, “so we've narrowed it down to three people then—Davis, Richards and Clough. Where do we go from here?"

"Who discovered the Mayor was dead?” I asked.

"I did,” Jim Davis responded promptly. “I spoke to him and he didn't answer."

"And you exclaimed, ‘Good Lord, he's dead!’”

"That's right."

I turned to the Coroner. “What did you do when you heard this?” I asked.

"I went to him, of course,” Clough replied.

"Tom?” I inquired.

Richards shrugged. “June screamed—I went to her to see if I could help. She seemed awfully upset."

"You went to her immediately?"

"Yes."

"I'll vouch for that,” Davis said.

"All right. Tom Richards is not our man,” I announced. “He wasn't worried about having to cover up any possible blood that he hadn't been able to see in the darkness earlier."

Davis grinned. “That leaves only me and Clough. Bob, did you kill him?"

"This is preposterous!” Clough exploded. “I've seen no proof that murder's been committed, but if it was and if I was guilty, would I be fool enough to release the body for an independent autopsy?"

"As long as you thought the pathologist would be looking for poison in the man's stomach, you'd have nothing to fear. I doubt the ears would be examined. And it took a court order to get you to agree to our taking the body."

I turned to Murphy. “While we're examining cadavers, Murph, it might not be a bad idea, to exhume Art Vincent."

"Wait a minute!” Murphy said. “What does Vincent's body have to do with it?"

"Dig it up and you'll find out."

"Never mind. I'll save you the trouble,” Clough said wearily. “I did the autopsy on Vincent, but I never released all my findings. He was murdered."

"Then it was you who called Councilman Norris last night and threatened him."

Clough nodded. “I suppose I shouldn't have done that,” he said.

"What did the phone call have to do with it?” Murphy demanded grimly.

"Benjamin Norris,” I explained, “had been asking questions in a number of different areas, including an inquiry about Vincent's death. Davis knew the contents of the report and stated that he had no fear of it. There was nothing in there that could injure him.

"But Clough didn't know what to expect when he read my story that it would ‘blow the lid off.’ He couldn't afford to have the investigation re-opened, because it might come out that he'd filed a phony autopsy report. Correct me if I'm wrong, Bob. Originally you didn't dare report your findings, right?"

Clough nodded, his fingers nervously peeling the wrapper from an antacid tablet.

"What did he have on you?” I asked.

"It hardly matters now,” Clough muttered.

"Someone was blackmailing you?” Murphy demanded. “Who?"

"Stryder,” I said. “Is that right, Bob?"

Clough's smile was bleak. “I don't know if I could prove he did it, but no one else could have killed so ruthlessly, so painfully."

"And the only way you could stop Stryder was to kill him,” I prompted.

"That's right."

"Hold it a minute!” Murphy objected. “Are you trying to tell me Stryder engineered that auto accident? That's ridiculous! I examined the wreck myself."

"And I examined the body,” Clough reminded him. “True, Vincent was driving when it happened. He died of a chemical fire in his stomach. I found traces of potassium metal, which bursts into flames on contact with water. Apparently he'd swallowed a pill, a coated capsule containing pure potassium metal.

"You can't get it in drugstores, but any chemical supply house sells it. Getting it into a capsule would be no great trick, given time to experiment. And I imagine someone as persuasive as Stryder would have no trouble talking another man into swallowing it to help keep him awake on the drive home."

"I remember,” I said. “Stryder was the last one to see Vincent alive that night."

Clough gnawed his lip and unwrapped another antacid tablet. “When the capsule dissolved,” he continued, “the chemical acted like a small hand grenade. It had apparently been timed to react shortly after Vincent reached the freeway, on his way home from a late conference with the Mayor."

I nodded. “And you couldn't report the burns in his stomach because Stryder would have exposed what he had on you."

"That's right. But on the other hand, I couldn't let him do a thing like that to anyone else, either. I spent two months trying to figure out a way to kill him. I knew I could cover it up. Finally, when the opportunity presented itself Thursday night it was just too good to pass up."

"How did you manage it?” Murphy inquired.

"Stealing the hatpin was the ticklish part, but once that was accomplished all I had to do was move around behind the Mayor and wait for a bomb burst to show me his exact position. He was looking up, watching the sky like everyone else. I hit him once along the side of the neck.

"The rest was rather easy, with him unconscious. I inserted the hatpin in his left ear and stirred vigorously. But what I can't understand is how you happened to find the hatpin. I thought I'd hidden it quite well."

"We haven't found it yet,” Murphy said.

Briefly, I related the episode with the blanket.

"I see,” Clough said. “I assume I'm under arrest. Is that correct?"

Murphy assured him that it was.

Mrs. Stryder spoke up then. “Why did you have to poke and pry?” she asked me. “Why couldn't you leave well enough alone?"

I didn't answer, so she turned to Clough. “I'm grateful to you, Robert. I wish I knew how I could repay you."

"You might destroy the papers he had—those pertaining to me,” he suggested.,

June smiled. “I already did that. In fact, I burned all of his papers last night."

Relief showed on the faces of three anxious politicians.

"Phil was pretty good at framing people,” she added. “But he had a wicked sense of humor, too. Imagine, appointing Mr. Norris to investigate vice and immorality! Those photographs of him were beauties."

She paused, her eyes twinkling. “I've never liked him very much. Would you gentlemen do me the favor of not telling him I destroyed the pictures?"

We agreed readily.

Meanwhile, the funeral had been in progress. Now Murphy slipped the Coroner out a side exit and drove him downtown for booking. Cathy accompanied Mrs. Stryder to the cemetery. I used the pastor's phone to call the story in to the Bulletin.

After relating Cathy's discovery of the hatpin I gave John Corcoran Murphy full credit for a brilliant piece of detective work. This is known in the newspaper business as the fine art of cultivating one's sources.

Then I left the empty church and drove to the cemetery, where the Reverend Hamilton was finishing up the services. Murphy's pathologist claimed the body without incident and I joined Cathy and Mrs. Stryder, who were standing apart, chatting with Thelma White.

"Mr. Shaffer!” the widow exclaimed warmly. “Cathy just told Thelma and me of our insurance benefits. We've decided to pool our resources and get the best lawyer we can find to defend poor Mr. Clough."

I grinned at her. “You have a rather wicked sense of humor yourself, Mrs. Stryder."

Afterwards, I drove Cathy to my apartment. I was developing an unreasonable passion for Beef Stroganoff.

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The face of Danny Mitchell was not a face to remember. It had neither the outstanding nose nor the shaggy eyebrows, noteworthy mouth nor dimpled chin which set some men apart from their fellows. It was neither beautiful nor ugly; it could best be described as adequate.

Nature had also given Danny enough brains to realize the advantages of such a face, plus the talent to make it work for him. In high school he earned considerable applause by contorting his features into approximations of famous personalities. He duplicated not only the face and the voice but the posture, mannerisms, stance, walk and speech rhythms of the celebrities he mimicked.

Danny learned that to look fat one must think fat, and vice versa. It was inevitable that his talents should carry him into show business.

Perhaps you caught his act during his night club days. He was the comic who did Laurel and Hardy so convincingly—both at the same time. His Bogart was excellent. His Cagney likewise. His impression of W. C. Fields was unsurpassed. His Sullivan even astonished Ed Sullivan. He used to close his act with an impression of Sammy Davis, Jr. doing impressions of everybody else.

That was Danny Mitchell, otherwise known as Whatsisname, the guy who does Laurel and Hardy. Outside of his two appearances on network TV, Danny's career was confined to night clubs.

Once he almost got booked into a big-time Las Vegas bistro but the club owner forgot his name. It is said that Whatsisname shrugged and observed, “Well, that's show biz."

Sergeant Sheldon Sachs of the Manhattan division could not remember ever having seen Whatsisname in a night club. As Sergeant Sachs is noted for his amazing memory for faces, we are forced to take his word for it. Nor had he ever heard of Danny Mitchell.

To appreciate what Danny did it is necessary to follow the last days of his night club career, for that was when the die was cast. Don't relegate him too quickly to the forgotten limbo of yesterday's comics, for he was an artist.

Shortly before his downfall he began to experiment with a new dimension of acting. Among serious performers it's known as “observation” and is a base upon which convincing dramatic characterizations are built. Stanislavsky wrote about it, Lee Strasberg dabbled in it, Francis Lederer preached it—but it remained for Whatsisname to perfect it as an independent art form.

Danny was becoming bored with Fields, Cagney, Bogart, Davis—even the challenge of doing Laurel and Hardy began to pall, despite the personal note of appreciation Stan Laurel sent him after seeing him on TV. The act needed something new, Danny felt, something radically different.

He began by including an “unknown” among the celebrities—an impression of a man he'd seen trying to get a bottle out of a stubborn soft drink machine. It drew some applause, but nothing like the reaction to W. C. Fields, et al.

The next night he kept the balky machine bit and added his impression of an inept breakfast cook trying to keep track of six different egg orders and eight stacks of cakes. The reception again was lukewarm.

He spent the next week refining the eggs-and-hotcakes routine without any gains in his audience reaction. Still convinced that was on the right track, however, he added a Mexican ticket-taker he'd encountered at a movie theater and discovered that the only way he could get a decent response was to burlesque the man unmercifully.

The club owner gruffly pointed out that Danny's act was running a bit long and suggested that he drop the stuff that was laying eggs and go back to the tried and true. Danny compromised by shortening the celebrity impersonations. He dropped the balky machine bit and substituted a bus driver trying to change a twenty while negotiating a busy intersection.

It drew a few titters but no boffola.

Desperately, Danny worked to perfect his new and artistically valid routines, while the club owner glowered. Within a week he happened to witness an accident in which a truck ran over a little boy. The truck driver's reactions became material for a heart-breaking four minute bit in the show that night. The sudden change of pace drew a stunned silence. There wasn't a dry eye in the house.

Although the bit was an artistic success it killed the rest of the act. The club owner flatly forbade Whatsisname from repeating it.

"At least you had sense enough not to make it a drunk driver,” he grunted.

Danny smiled wryly, knowing that the man's profits were tied to a steady flow of drink sales.

Undaunted, he continued perfecting his “common man” bits. His theory was that the common man becomes decidedly uncommon—and therefore interesting—once you figure out what makes him tick.

Unfortunately, his audiences didn't agree, and a week later Whatsisname was out of a job.

One club owner's opinion didn't mean much to Danny Mitchell. He made the rounds, but word of his flop preceded him. The best bookings he could get were occasional one-night stands replacing the regular comics.

His agent pleaded with him to go back to the standard routines which had fed them both for so many seasons.

"No,” Danny insisted. “I'm onto something great. Once I get all the kinks worked out, it'll make me a star. Nobody ever hit the big-time doing Laurel and Hardy except Laurel and Hardy."

Cowed by Danny's logic, the agent walked away in disgust.

The money had been coming in steadily for better than three years—twice what the average man makes at an average job. But Danny had spent it faster than he earned it. Those increasingly infrequent replacement bookings began to spell the difference between starvation and survival. Danny's agent dutifully deducted his commission and then loaned it back to his destitute client.

Danny still refused to go back to the standard act. He worked harder than ever at impersonating strangers. Several times he walked into his agent's office “in character” and was totally unrecognized for several minutes, without resorting to make-up, costumes or the like. He used only stance, gestures, body rhythms and his amazingly plastic face to achieve the transformations.

"It's great, Danny,” the agent admitted. “It's tremendous. But the clubs won't buy it. It's not what they're used to in the way of entertainment."

"They'll buy it sooner or later,” Danny said. “You just keep trying to sell it to ‘em.” He tilted his hat forward and his body settled into a different attitude. The agent blinked, for he was now looking at a mirror image of himself.

"Meanwhile,” this ‘image’ continued, “you wouldn't happen to have a five-spot lying around loose, would you?"

"Danny-baby,” the agent laughed, reaching for his wallet, “I'd hate to try to give your description to the police."

Danny grinned, pocketing the five. “Just tell ‘em to look for Whatsisname,” he quipped. His face and body shifted again and Jimmy Durante strutted out of the office.

Economic need. An empty belly. Bitterness toward a society which had rejected him. A genius for mimicry, coupled with the ability to change his appearance almost instantaneously. A man who could walk into a crowd as Clark Gable and walk out, ten seconds later, as Jerry Lewis. Dangerously, a man who could walk into the same crowd as Joe Anybody and emerge as Bill Nobody. The common man bit, perverted for crime.

A rash of daring holdups hit the city, with witnesses completely unable to describe the bandits. Sometimes, several witnesses to one crime could not agree on what the criminal looked like. On one occasion, the bandit had run into a blind alley and totally disappeared.

Two policemen had seen him duck into the alley at a dead run, and had questioned a man who was coming out of the alley at the same time. He'd got a good look at the fugitive and gave a vivid description but the lead led nowhere. Later, the witness himself disappeared.

Liquor stores, gas stations and used car dealers were the initial victims, but soon drive-in movies, night clubs and cocktail lounges became prime targets. Police theorized an organized gang of smalltime crooks masterminded by a criminal-minded Houdini. Tabloids dubbed the hypothetical ringleader “The Phantom Bandit.” The search intensified as the gang settled down to a career in banking. Or un-banking, if you prefer.

The holdups stopped as abruptly as they had started. They began again a week later and a thousand miles away.

In that city, five bank tellers agreed upon the bandit's description—they all described, in detail, the bank examiner who had arrived half an hour earlier to audit the accounts. Only when that dumfounded man proved that he had been closeted with the bank's president during the robbery was he released from custody.

It was Whatsisname, of course. There are two outward measures of an artist's success: fame and money. As the Phantom Bandit, ringleader of an infamous but nonexistent gang, he had both.

He never repeated a characterization. Once he had used a face, a voice, a gait, posture and body mannerism he discarded it forever. This precluded any chance of a former victim accidentally encountering him and calling the cops.

Whatsisname's sense of humor led to other refinements, too. He would often impersonate a man he knew to have an airtight alibi for the time of the crime; he'd watch a man get on a bus and, moments after the bus pulled out, assume that man's appearance to stage a heist.

If he'd quit after a reasonable number of scores the chances are he'd never have been brought to justice. But headlines such as “Phantom Bandit Strikes Again,” obviously constituted a demand for an encore.

He staged it at the Broadway and 38th Street branch of the Thirteenth National Bank. In a neat business suit and soft hat, the only difference between Whatsisname and any ten other customers at that time of day was the small revolver he showed the cashier—that and the fact that he emerged less than two minutes later at least $20,000 richer.

He felt good about the job, for it was his smoothest to date. Exiting, he'd dashed around the corner, discarded the hat, slowed to a limping crawl and bobbled towards a nearby coffee shop. He'd entered and paused just inside the doorway, glancing around for a new matrix.

Within seconds he'd spotted his man, one who was just finishing up his coffee. Their clothing was similar and they were approximately the same size, which was what Whatsisname needed. His model had sloping eyebrows, a squint which hinted at myopia, and compressed nostrils. He held his head as if his neck hurt, and moved with the deliberate rhythms of a much heavier man. Whatsisname watched him get up and pay his check, and listened for the timbre of his voice.

As the man left, the Phantom Bandit assumed the squint and the stance, compressed his nostrils and lumbered into the vacant seat. He waved the waitress over.

"More coffee, please,” he murmured.

The girl lifted her eyebrows. “I thought you left."

"Had to get cigarettes."

There were sirens now, racing toward the bank. A few patrons craned to see the excitement, but Whatsisname stayed put. He hated drinking from another man's cup, but on the counter was all the evidence he could want to prove that for at least fifteen minutes he'd been there eating his lunch.

"You didn't give me a check,” he mumbled at the waitress.

"It musta blown off the counter,” she said. “I'll get you another one."

At the first sound of the sirens, Sergeant Sheldon Sachs was stepping into his unmarked car. Thirty seconds on the radio gave him the particulars—since he was within a block of the bank, he left the car at the curb and hurried on foot toward the scene of the robbery, his eyes scanning the sidewalk crowd and peering into every reasonable hiding spot.

It was inevitable that Sachs should look in the restaurant window. He blinked. Only his training as a poker faced plainclothes cop saved him from performing a double take. He walked in.

Whatsisname didn't even see him enter. He felt safe until Sachs tapped him on the shoulder.

"Come along quietly,” Sergeant Sachs ordered, his voice low. “You're under arrest."

"What for?” said the man with the myopic squint.

"Bank robbery,” Sachs said.

Whatsisname grinned. It was a new kind of applause.

"All right,” he said, not bothering to look at his accuser. “No argument. Can I finish my coffee?"

Sachs picked up the lunch check. “Stand up,” he said.

The Phantom Bandit stood up, keeping his eyes straight ahead, holding his head as if his neck hurt, moving with the body rhythm of a much heavier man. Sachs instructed him to place his hands on the counter and lean over. Nearby customers watched avidly as Sachs, from behind, pocketed Whatsisname's gun and riffled through the thick bankroll he found in the Phantom's coat.

"Tell me, officer, what'd I do wrong?"

"Turn around."

The Phantom Bandit turned, getting his second good look at the face of the plainclothes cop whose coffee he had just finished.

THE END

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Innocent Bystander first appeared in Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine for November 1965.

The Great Typewriter Robbery first appeared in Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine for October 1967.

The Death Wish first appeared in Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine for September 1967.

Delivered: One Stereo first appeared in Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine for October 1966.

You Can't Catch Me first appeared in Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine for January 1965.

A Matter of Timing first appeared in Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine for July 1965.

The Honor System first appeared in Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine for June 1965.

Unaccustomed as I am to Public Dying first appeared in Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine for December 1965.

Everybody Remembers Whatsisname first appeared in The Man from UNCLE Magazine for August 1967.