Like A Hole In The Head

Chapter One

 

In theory it seemed to me to be a pretty bright, money making idea, but it only took around four months for the fact to sink in that The Jay Benson School of Shooting was headed for a flop.

 

Of course, I should have known. The previous owner, a nice old guy named Nick Lewis, had hinted that the school had long ago run out of powder. It was certainly ramshackle, and in need of a lot of paint. Against this it was plain to me that Lewis was long past good shooting and this, I told myself, was the reason why he had only six paying pupils, all as old and as doddery as himself. He had been running the school for twenty years. Over this period his books showed an impressive profit and it was only during the past five years the receipts had fallen off as his shooting had fallen off. I was confident enough to believe my shooting talent could put the school back on its feet, but I didn't take into consideration two important factors: my lack of working capital and the location of the school.

 

By the time I had bought the lease, the buildings and the three acres of sandy beach I had used up all my savings and most of my Army gratuity. Advertising in Paradise City and Miami comes high, and until I could make some kind of profit, advertising had to remain a pipe dream. Until I moved into the black, I couldn't afford to give the shooting range, the restaurant, the bar and our bungalow a much needed face lift. This, of course, turned into a vicious circle. Those few who were willing to pay to become good shots expected a decent restaurant and a comfortable bar. Those who did show up lost interest when they saw the set-up. They expected something in mink. They turned up their rich, spoilt noses when they saw the paint peeling from the buildings and that the bar carried only a bottle of whisky and a bottle of gin.

 

At least we had inherited Nick Lewis's six pupils, old, tiresome and hopeless as they were, but they did provide us with eating money.

 

Four months after we had opened, I decided to take stock. I looked at our bank balance ($1050) and our weekly turnover ($103) and then I looked at Lucy.

 

We're not going to get anywhere unless we make this place fit for the rich and the idle," I told her.

 

She fluttered her hands. This was a sure sign she was getting into a panic.

 

"Take it easy," I said. "Don't get excited. We can do quite a lot ourselves. Some paint, a couple of brushes, some hard work and we can put this place nearly right. What do you think?"

 

She nodded.

 

"If you say so, Jay."

 

I regarded her. Every now and then, I wondered at the back of my mind, if I had made a mistake. I knew this school, if it was going to make money, had to be worked on. I couldn't do it alone. Maybe, if I had married a pioneer type of girl who could work as hard as I could, there would be less of a problem, but I hadn't wanted to marry a pioneer type of girl, I had wanted to marry Lucy.

 

Whenever I looked at Lucy, I got a lot of satisfaction. The moment I had seen her, I felt sure she was for me. We had run into each other in that strange way that destiny has for pairing off the male and the female.

 

I had just got out of the Army after serving ten years as a range instructor and three years in Vietnam as a sniper. I had ideas about my future, but no idea of getting married.

 

Lucy, twenty-four years of age, blonde, beautifully built, lovely to look at, was walking ahead of me along Florida Boulevard, Miami, where I had come for some sun while I made up my mind just how I was going to earn a living.

 

There are breast-men, leg-men, bottom-men and men who dig for the over-all female scene. I have to admit that a neat, small bottom that twitches as its owner walks has always caught my eye.

 

Lucy had the prettiest bottom I had seen and it so fascinated me that I followed it along the boulevard without being aware of the rest of her. As she passed a saloon a fat drunk came staggering out and cannoned into her. She went reeling across the sidewalk, heading helplessly towards the fast moving traffic. I was ten steps behind her. I reached her, caught hold of her arm and swung her against me.

 

She looked at me and I looked at her : those clear blue eyes, the snub nose, the freckles, the wide, scared mouth, the long silky blonde hair, the brave little breasts straining against the white cotton dress made a tremendous impact on me. I knew right away that she was the woman for me.

 

During my years in the Army I had met a lot of women. Experience had taught me how to handle the various types. I saw at once that Lucy was the timid, dithering type so I appealed to her kindness. I explained I was on my own, I had no friends and as I had undoubtedly saved her life would she have dinner with me?

 

She stared at me for a long moment while I tried to look lonely, then she nodded.

 

We saw each other every night for the next three weeks. I could see I had made an impact on her. She was the kind of girl who needed a man to lean on. At this time, she had a job as a book-keeper at a Pets' store on Biscayne Boulevard so she had only the evenings to herself. I took her by storm. I told her I had this chance to buy the shooting school and why I thought I could turn it into a paying proposition.

 

I had the reputation of being the second best shot in the U.S. Army. I had enough medals, trophies and cups to fill a small room. Also I had spent three years in the jungles of Vietnam as a sniper. I didn't tell Lucy I had been a sniper. I had a feeling I wouldn't get far with her if she knew that. Sniping is cold- blooded murder. It's a necessary job and I had got used to it, but it is something I never want to, talk about. When I got my discharge, I had to look around for a new career. Shooting is my business. I have no other talents. When I saw the ad. that this school of shooting was in the market, I felt it was for me.

 

"Let's get married, Lucy," I said to her. "We can make a go of this school together. With your business training and my shooting, we can't miss . . . How about it?"

 

I saw the hesitation in her blue eyes, She was the kind of girl who dithered, not sure whether to go forward or to go back. I knew she loved me, but to her, marriage was a big step and she had to be pushed. I put pressure on her and turned on all my persuasive charm. Finally, after more dithering, she agreed.

 

So we got married and we bought the school. The first month was the sort of paradise I thought only came in dreams. I liked playing the boss-husband. Although she wasn't much of a cook and she would rather read historical romances than clean the bungalow, she was terrific in bed and she seemed to like being bossed around. Then, when the money didn't come in, when we had only these six old deadbeats paving us, between them, $103 a week and wasting my ammunition, I began to worry.

 

"It takes time . . . I must he patient," I kept telling myself.

 

At the end of the fourth month, the position looked so bad, I decided Lucy had to accept some of the responsibility and I called this board meeting.

 

"We have to create a better image, honey," I said. "Then, somehow, we must advertise. The trouble is we are fifteen miles from Paradise City . . . that's fifteen miles too far. If people don't know we are here, why should they come to us?"

 

She nodded.

 

"Yes."

 

"So I'll buy some paint and we'll smarten the place up. What do you say?"

 

She smiled.

 

"Yes . . . let's do it. It'll be fun."

 

So on this bright late summer afternoon with a stiff breeze fanning the sand, the sea lapping the beach, the sun hot, the shadows growing long, we were both at work, slapping on paint.

 

I was working on the shooting gallery while Lucy worked on the bungalow. We had been at it since 05.00 with a break for coffee and another break for a ham sandwich. I was dipping my brush into the paint pot when I saw this black Cadillac come bumping up the dirt road that led to the gallery.

 

I put down the brush, hurriedly wiped my hands and stood up. I saw Lucy was going through the same motions. She too was looking hopefully at the big car as it came slowly up the drive, scattering sand and pebbles.

 

I could see two men in the back and the driver. All wore black, all had black slouch hats and they looked like three crows, sitting hunched up and motionless until the car pulled up within ten yards of the bungalow.

 

I started across the sand as a short, squat man got out of the car and paused to look around. The other passenger and the driver remained in the car.

 

Thinking back, I can see now that there was something menacing and vulture-like in the way this squat man stood, but that's thinking back. As I approached him, all I hoped for was this could be a profitable client. Why else, I asked myself, would he be here?

 

The squat man was looking at Lucy who was regarding him round-eyed, too shy to welcome him; then he looked towards me. His fat, swarthy face lit up with a smile that showed gold- capped teeth. He moved towards me, extending a small, fat hand.

 

"Mr. Benson?"

 

"That's me." I shook hands. His skin was dry and felt like the back of a lizard. There was power in his fingers, but the grip was friendly without being challenging.

 

"Augusto Savanto."

 

"Glad to meet you, Mr. Savanto." Thinking back, this was the understatement of the year.

 

Augusto Savanto was around sixty years of age. I guessed he was Latin-American. His face was full and slightly pock-marked. He wore a straggly moustache that hid his top lip. He had flat, snake's eyes : genial, darting, suspicious and possibly cruel.

 

"I've heard about you, Mr. Benson. They tell me you are a fine shot."

 

I glanced beyond him at the Caddy. The driver looked like a chimpanzee. He was small, very dark with a completely flat face, deep set tiny eyes and hairy strong hands that rested on the driving wheel. I looked at the man in the passenger's seat. He was young, slim, swarthy and he wore big sun goggles, a black tight suit and a startlingly white shirt. He sat motionless, staring straight ahead, not looking at me.

 

"Well, I guess I shoot," I said. "What can I do for you, Mr. Savanto?"

 

"You teach shooting?"

 

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

 

"Is it difficult to teach someone to shoot well?"

 

I had been asked this question before and I gave him the cautious, stock answer.

 

"It depends what you call well and it depends on the pupil."

 

Savanto took off his hat to reveal thin, greasy hair and a bald spot on the crown of his head. He stared into the hat as if expecting to find something hidden in it, waved it in the air, then replaced it on his head.

 

"How well do you shoot, Mr. Benson?"

 

That was the kind of question I could live up to.

 

"Come over to the gallery. I'll show you."

 

Savanto revealed more of his gold-capped teeth.

 

"I like that, Mr. Benson. No talk . . . action." He laid his small hand on my wrist. "I am sure you are very good at hitting the bull, but can you hit a moving target? I am only interested in moving targets."

 

"Would you like to see some clay pigeon shooting?"

 

He looked at me, his small black eyes quizzing.

 

"That's not what I call shooting, Mr. Benson. A burst with a shotgun . . . what's that? One bullet from a gun . . . that's shooting."

 

He was right, of course. I waved to Lucy who put down her paint brush and came over.

 

"Mr. Savanto, meet my wife. Lucy, this is Mr. Savanto. He wants to see me shoot. Will you get some beer cans and my rifle?"

 

Lucy smiled at Savanto and offered her hand. He shook hands, smiling at her.

 

"I think Mr. Benson is a very lucky man, Mrs. Benson," he said.

 

She blushed.

 

"Thank you." I could see she loved this. "I think he knows it. I'm lucky too."

 

She ran off to collect some empty beer cans we keep for shooting practice. Savanto watched her go. So did I. Whenever Lucy took off, I was always looking after her. Her neat little bottom would never lose its charm for me.

 

"Beautiful woman, Mr. Benson," Savanto said.

 

This was said very quietly and there was nothing but friendly admiration in the small eyes. I began to warm to this man.

 

"I guess so."

 

"You are doing good business?" He was looking at the buildings and the peeling paint.

 

"We've only just started. A school like this has to be built up. The previous owner got old . . . you know how it is."

 

"Yes, Mr. Benson. This is what I call a luxury trade. I see you are painting the place."

 

"Yes."

 

Savanto took off his hat and looked inside it. This seemed to be a habit. After he had waved the hat around in the air, he put it on again.

 

"Do you think you can make money out of a place like this?" he asked.

 

"I wouldn't be here if I didn't." I was relieved when Lucy came from the bungalow carrying my rifle and a string hag full of empty beer cans.

 

I took the rifle and she set off across the sand, carrying the string bag. We had often gone through this routine together and it was now close to a circus turn. When she was three hundred yards from me, she dropped the cans on the sand. I loaded the rifle, then waved to her. She began tossing the cans high into the air. She knew by now exactly the right height and just how fast to throw them. I hit each can. On the face of it, it was impressive shooting. When I had punctured ten cans, I lowered the rifle.

 

"Yes. Mr. Benson, you are a fine shot." The little snake's eyes roved over my face. "But can you teach?"

 

I rested the butt of the rifle on the hot sand. Lucy went off to collect the cans. We were no longer drinking beer : these cans still had a lot of work ahead of them.

 

"Shooting is a talent, Mr. Savanto. You either have it or you haven't," I told him. "I've been at it for fifteen years. Do you want to shoot the way I do?"

 

"Me? Oh, no. I am an old man. I want you to teach my son to shoot." He waved towards the Cadillac. "Hey . . . Timoteo !"

 

The swarthy man who had been sitting motionless in the back of the Cadillac stiffened. He looked towards Savanto, then opened the car door and came out into the hot sunshine.

 

He was built like a beanpole with big feet and hands : a shambling brittle-looking giant with hidden eyes behind the black sun goggles, a full mouth, a determined chin and a small pinched nose. He shambled across the sand and stood expectantly by the side of his father, dwarfing him by his lean height. He must have been around six foot seven. I'm tall, but I had to look up at him.

 

"This is my son," Savanto said and I noticed there was no pride in his voice. "This is Timoteo Savanto. Timoteo, this is Mr. Benson."

 

I offered my hand. Timoteo's grip was hot, sweaty and limp. "Glad to know you," I said. What else could I say? He was a possible pupil.

 

Lucy had collected the beer cans and was now approaching.

 

"Timoteo, this is Mrs. Benson," Savanto said.

 

The beanpole giant turned his head, then he took off his hat, revealing crisp black curls. He ducked his head, his face expressionless. The twin mirrors of his black glasses reflected the palms, the sky and the sea.

 

"Hello," Lucy said and smiled at him.

 

There was a long moment of nothing, then Savanto said, "Timoteo wants very badly to shoot well. Can you make him into a good shot, Mr. Benson?"

 

"I don't know right now, but I can tell you."

 

I offered the rifle to the beanpole. He hesitated, then took it. He held it like you might hold a puff-adder.

 

"Let's go over to the gallery. I can tell you when I've seen him shoot."

 

Savanto, Timoteo and I walked across the sand towards the range. Lucy took the cans back to the bungalow.

 

Thirty minutes later, the three of us came out into the hot sunshine. Timoteo had fired off forty rounds of my expensive ammunition and had dinned the edge of the target once. The other shots had hummed out to sea.

 

"Okay, Timoteo," Savanto said in a cold, flat voice, "wait for me."

 

Timoteo shambled away, reached the car, got in and settled down : a depressed-looking statue.

 

"Well, Mr. Benson?" Savanto said.

 

I hesitated. Here was a chance of making a little money, but I had to be honest.

 

"He hasn't any talent," I said, "but that doesn't mean he can't shoot straight if he's carefully coached. With ten lessons under his belt, you'll be surprised how he'll improve."

 

"No talent, huh?"

 

"It might develop." I was reluctant to kill a possible pupil. "I can tell you after I've had him a couple of weeks."

 

"In nine days, Mr. Benson, he must be as good a shot as you."

 

For a moment I thought he was joking, then I realised he wasn't. The flat snake's eyes had become glittering bits of glass.

 

His lower lip had turned into a thin line. He was serious all right.

 

"I'm sorry . . . that's impossible," I said.

 

"Nine days, Mr. Benson."

 

I shook my head, controlling my impatience.

 

"It's taken me close on fifteen years to shoot well," I told him, "and I have talent. I guess I'm a pretty good teacher, but I just don't perform miracles."

 

"Let us talk about it, Mr. Benson. It's hot out here. I'm not a young man." Savanto waved his hand towards our bungalow. "Let us get in the shade."

 

"Why sure, but there's nothing to talk about. We'll just be wasting each other's time."

 

He walked off slowly towards the bungalow. I hesitated, then followed him.

 

In nine days he must be as good a shot as you.

 

The boy would not only never make a good shot, but worse, he hated the feel of a gun. I could tell by the way he handled my rifle and by the way he flinched every time he pulled the trigger. He had held the rifle so loosely, his shoulder must be one black bruise right now from the recoil.

 

Seeing Savanto coming towards the bungalow, Lucy opened the front door, smiling at him. She had no idea what he had just said and she imagined I was about to sign up my first new pupil.

 

As I joined him, she said : "Would you like a beer, Mr. Savanto? You must be thirsty."

 

He regarded her, the genial smile back in place and he lifted his hat.

 

"That is very kind of you, Mrs. Benson : not now; perhaps later."

 

I stepped around him, opened the sitting-room door and waved him in. As he entered the room, I patted Lucy's arm.

 

"I won't be long, honey. You get on with the painting."

 

She looked surprised, then nodded and went out into the sunshine. I moved into the room and shut the door, then crossed to the open window and looked out.

 

Lucy had gone around to the back of the bungalow. The black Cadillac stood in the hot sun. The driver was smoking. Timoteo was sitting motionless, his hands resting on his knees.

 

I turned around. Savanto had taken off his hat which he laid on the table. He lowered his bulk on to one of the upright chairs we had inherited from Nick Lewis. He looked around the room, slowly and with interest, then he looked at me.

 

"You don't have much money, Mr. Benson?"

 

I lit a cigarette, taking my time, then as I flicked out the match flame, I said, "No, but why bring that up?"

 

"You have something I can use. I have something you can use," he said. "You have talent. I have money."

 

I pulled up a chair and sat astride it.

 

"So?"

 

"It is vitally important that my son becomes an expert shot in nine days, Mr. Benson. For this I am prepared to pay you six thousand dollars. Half down and half when I am satisfied."

 

Six thousand dollars!

 

Immediately, I thought what we could do with a sum like that.

 

Six thousand dollars!

 

We could not only give this place the complete face-lift it so badly needed, we could even run to a spot on the local T.V. station. We could hire a barman. We could be in business!

 

Then I remembered how Timoteo had handled the rifle. An expert shot? Not in five years!

 

"Thanks for your confidence, Mr. Savanto," I said. "I certainly could use money like that, but I must be honest with you. I don't think your son will ever be a good shot. Sure, I could train him to shoot straight, but that's all. He doesn't like guns. Unless you really like guns, you just can't be a good shot."

 

Savanto rubbed the hack of his neck and his eyes narrowed.

 

"I think perhaps I will have one of your cigarettes, Mr. Benson. My doctor doesn't like me to smoke, but sometimes the urge is too strong for me. A cigarette at the right time is soothing."

 

I gave him a cigarette and lit it for him. He inhaled and let the smoke drift down his nostrils while he stared at the top of the table and while I thought of what Lucy and I could do with six thousand dollars.

 

Silence hung in the room along with our cigarette smoke. The ball was in his court so I waited.

 

"Mr. Benson, I appreciate that you are being honest with me," he said finally, "and this I like. I wouldn't be happy if you said you could make Timoteo into a good shot the moment I mentioned six thousand dollars. I know my son's limitations. However, he must become an expert shot in nine days. You told me you don't perform miracles. In a normal situation I would accept this, but this isn't a normal situation. The fact remains my son must become an expert shot in nine days."

 

I stared at him.

 

"Why?"

 

"There are important reasons. They need not concern you." His snake's eyes glittered. He paused to tap ash off his cigarette into the glass ash-tray on the table. "You talk of miracles, but this is the age of miracles. Before coming here, I made inquiries about you. I wouldn't be here unless I was satisfied that you are the man I am looking for. Not only do you have a great shooting talent, but also you are very determined. During the years you served in Vietnam you spent long, dangerous and uncomfortable hours in the jungle, alone with your rifle. You killed eighty-two Vietcong . . . cold blooded, brilliant shooting. A man who can do that is the man I am looking for . . . a man who doesn't admit defeat." He paused to stub out his cigarette, then went on, "How much money do you want to make my son an expert shot, Mr. Benson?"

 

I moved uneasily.

 

"No amount of money can make him that in nine days. Maybe in six months, I might do something with him, but nine days . . . no! Money doesn't come into it. I told you . . . he hasn't any talent."

 

He studied me.

 

"Of course money comes into it. I have learned over the years that money will buy anything . . . providing there is enough of it. You are already thinking what you could do with six thousand dollars. With that amount of money you would be able to make a modest living out of this school. And yet six thousand dollars isn't a big enough sum to convince you that you can perform a miracle." He took from the inside pocket of his jacket a long white envelope. "I have here, Mr. Benson, two bearer bonds. I find them more convenient to carry around than a lot of cash. Each bond is worth twenty-five thousand dollars." He tossed the envelope across the table. "Look at them. Satisfy yourself that they are what I say they are."

 

My hands were unsteady as I took the bonds from the envelope and examined them. I had never seen a bearer bond before so I had no idea if they were genuine or not, but they looked genuine.

 

"I am now offering you fifty thousand dollars to perform a miracle, Mr. Benson."

 

I put the bonds down on the table. My hands had turned clammy and my heart was thumping.

 

"You can't be serious." My voice was husky.

 

"I am, Mr. Benson. Make my son an expert shot in nine days and these bonds are yours."

 

To gain a moment of time, I said, "I don't know anything about bonds. These could be just pieces of paper."

 

Savanto smiled.

 

"So you see, I am right when I said enough money buys anything. You now want to know if these bonds are forgeries. You no longer tell me that you can't perform a miracle." He leaned forward, tapping the bonds with his finger nail. "These are genuine, but don't take my word for it. Let us go to your bank and see what they have to say. Let us ask them if they will convert these two pieces of paper into fifty thousand dollars cash."

 

I got up and moved to the window. The little room felt suffocatingly hot. I stared out of the window at the black Cadillac and at the beanpole sitting motionless in the back seat.

 

"That won't be necessary," I said. "Okay . . . so they are genuine."

 

Again he smiled at me.

 

"That is good for there is little time to waste. I will now return to the Imperial Hotel where I am staying." He glanced at his watch. "It is just after five o'clock. Please telephone me at seven o'clock this evening and tell me whether or not you will perform a miracle for fifty thousand dollars."

 

He put the bonds in his pocket and stood up.

 

"Just a moment," I said, annoyed with myself at sounding so breathless. "I have to know why your son has to shoot so well and what his target will be. Unless I know, I can't hope to prepare him. You talk about an expert shot, but there are all kinds of experts. I must know, Mr. Savanto."

 

He thought for a long moment. He had picked up his hat and was staring into it.

 

"So I will tell you. I made a foolish bet with an old friend of mine for a very large sum of money. My friend is an excellent shot and always boasting about what he can do with a rifle. Foolishly I said that anyone could become a good shot with training." He regarded me sharply with his flat snake's eyes. "Even I, Mr. Benson, when I have had too much to drink, can be stupid. My friend betted me that my son couldn't kill a fast- moving animal with a rifle after nine days' tuition. I was drunk and angry and I accepted the bet. Now, I must win."

 

"What animal?" I asked.

 

"A monkey swinging in a tree : a deer in flight : a hare running from a dog . . . I don't know . . . something like that. My friend has the choice, but it must be a clean, certain kill."

 

I wiped my sweating hands on the back of my jeans.

 

"How much did you bet, Mr. Savanto?"

 

He showed his gold-capped teeth in a smile.

 

"You are very curious, but I will tell you. I bet half a million dollars. Although I am a rich man, I can't afford to lose that amount of money." His smile became fixed. "Nor do I intend to."

 

As I stood hesitating, he went on, "And you can't afford to lose ten per cent of that kind of money either." He stared at me for a long moment. "Then at seven this evening, Mr. Benson."

 

He left the room and started off across the hot sand towards the Cadillac. I watched him go. Halfway to the Cadillac, he paused, turned and raised his hat. He was saluting Lucy.

 

Fifty thousand dollars!

 

The thought of owning such a sum turned me hot with a frightening, terrible desire.

 

Fifty thousand dollars for a miracle ! So I was going to perform a miracle !

 

*

Goldfish Have No Hiding Place

One

   

ON THIS hot Sunday afternoon, as I had the house to myself, I decided it would be an opportunity to take a close look at myself, to consider if there was anything I could do to bridge the widening gap between Linda and myself, and to examine my financial position which was far from healthy.

   

Linda was with the Mitchells. I had begged off, explaining I had work to do. Linda had shrugged, taken her swim suit and had driven over to the Mitchell's house with my vague promise I would join them later. I knew she wouldn't care if I showed up or not.

   

Because of a defective filter in my pool, this was one of the very rare Sundays when I could be on my own: an opportunity I wasn't going to miss.

   

So I sat in the sun and looked at myself. I am thirty- eight years of age, physically fit and blessed with a creative brain. Some three years ago, I had been a successful columnist for the Los Angeles Herald. The work had bored me, but it was a way to earn a decent living, and as I had just married Linda who had extravagant tastes, earning a decent living was important.

   

One evening, in San Francisco, I attended one of those dreary cocktail parties where the Big-wheels meet and talk business while their wives yak in the background. There was little in it for me, but if I hadn't shown up I might have missed something and I made a point of never missing anything if I could help it. I was propping up a wall, cuddling a whisky on the rocks, wondering when I could slip away when Henry Chandler came up to me.

   

Henry Chandler was alleged to be worth two hundred million dollars. His kingdom comprised computers, kitchen equipment and frozen foods. As a sideline, he owned the California Times and a successful Vogue-like glossy, selling fashions to the wealthy. He was the city's leading Quaker, his money had built the local, vast Quaker church and he was the least liked, most generous do-gooder of the city's rich citizens.

   

"Manson," he said, staring at me with his dark, hooded eyes, "I have been following your column. I like it. You have talent. Come and see me tomorrow at ten o'clock." I went to see him and listened to his offer. He wanted to start a monthly magazine to be called The Voice of the People which would circulate throughout California: its purpose was to criticise and protest.

   

"This state," he said, "is riddled with corruption, dishonesty and crooked politics. I have an organisation that will supply all the information you will need so long as you feed them ideas. I'm offering you the job as editor because I believe you can handle this. I have had you investigated and I am satisfied with the report. You can choose your own staff. It can be small as the production and so on can be handled by my people working on my newspaper. You needn't worry about expenses. If the magazine flops, you will get two years' salary, but it won't flop. I have a brief here which I want you to examine. You will see you will have every support. Your job is to look for trouble. I'll take care of the libel suits. I have a top-class detective agency to work with you. We are not muck raking. I want you to be quite sure of that. There is no need to muck rake. We attack the administration, we attack police corruption and we go after the bribery and corruption boys. Does this interest you?"

   

I took his brief away and studied it. This was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to me. I talked it over with Linda and she was excited as I. She kept saying, "Thirty thousand!" Her lovely face alight. "We can at last move out of this godforsaken apartment!"

   

I had met Linda at a cocktail party thrown by an ambitious politician and had fallen in love with her. As I sat in the sun, I thought back to that moment when I first saw her. She was the most marvellous looking woman I had ever seen: she was blonde, beautiful, with big, marvellous eyes and a body that could only be the exact model of the perfect woman: heavy breasted, slim waist, solid hips and long tapering legs: a sex symbol de luxe. The fact that I was a society columnist and mixed with the best people appealed to her. She told me she thought I was heavenly romantic. She made a tiny living acting as one of the various hostesses who looked after an ambitious politician: mixing with his friends, supplying glamour to his background, filling them with whisky, but, so she assured me, strictly paws off.

   

We married within a week of our meeting. Our wedding night should have warned me. There was no passion, no nothing. She just gave herself, but I was hopeful to think that I could rouse her if I were patient enough: but I never did. I then discovered that her obsession was money. I was so crazy about her, I let her spend what I hadn't got. She was always buying things: handbags, clothes, costume jewellery, junk and because I wanted to keep her happy, I let her spend. She grumbled. She hated the small apartment in which we lived. She wanted a car. Why should she have to take a bus when I used the car for business? I loved her. I tried hard to jolly her along. I even showed her figures to prove we just couldn't afford the things she wanted. She wasn't interested. "You are famous," she said. "People always talk about you: you must be successful."

   

Just when I was really getting worried, this offer from Chandler arrived.

   

"I know just where we are going to live!" Linda told me. "Eastlake! It's marvellous! It has everything! Let's go tomorrow and pick a house."

   

I pointed out to her I hadn't got the job, hadn't made up my mind and beside, Eastlake was an expensive estate which could eat a hell of a hole in a thirty thousand dollar income.

   

This was our first real quarrel. I was startled by her violence. She screamed at me and threw things. I was so shocked, I gave way. As soon as I promised I would take the job and would go with her to look at Eastlake, she came into my arms and apologised for being 'so naughty.'

   

So I went to Chandler and told him I would be his editor.

   

He sat behind his desk, looking like a vast blow-up of what a two hundred million dollar executive had to look like, a big cigar rolling between his thick lips.

   

"Fine, Manson, the contract is all ready." He paused and regarded me, his hooded eyes probing. "Now, one thing: you will be attacking the corrupt and the dishonest. Remember you will he a goldfish in a glass bowl. Be careful: don't give anyone any chance to hit back at you. Goldfish have no hiding place. Remember that. Take me: I am a Quaker and proud of it. I believe in God. My private life can't be criticised. No one can point a finger at me and no one must be able to point a finger at you. Do you understand? No drinking when driving: no fooling with women. You are respectably married so keep that way. No debts. No nothing the opposition can pin on you. You step out of turn and every newspaper in this state will come after you. You now have a mission to attack the corrupt and the dishonest and you are going to have a lot of enemies who will crucify you if they can."

   

Because I needed his thirty thousand dollars a year, I said I understood, but after signing the contract, after shaking his hand and when I left his opulent office and went down to my car, I had misgivings. I was already in debt: I had a bank overdraft. I had Linda who spent and spent.

   

But for all that, I stupidly let her talk me into buying a house at Eastlake.

   

Eastlake is a housing estate built for the upper income bracket people. The comfortable, de luxe houses sold around $75,000 and they were equipped with fitted carpets, dish washers, air conditioners, you name it it's there, even to a lawn sprinkler. These houses are built around an artificial lake of some two hundred acres. There is a Club house, riding, tennis, swimming, a golf course (floodlit at night) and a vast de luxe Self-service store that supplied anything from caviar to a pin.

   

Eastlake was Linda's idea of paradise. She had a number of friends living there. We just couldn't live anywhere else, she told me. So I bought a house with a horrifying mortgage that would cost me $10,000 a year in fees, property tax and outgoings.

   

We moved in and Linda was happy. The furniture took all my savings. I had to admit that the house was marvellous and I was proud to be the owner, but at the back of my mind, I kept thinking of the cost. We had neighbours; young people like ourselves, but I suspected the husbands were better off financially than I was. Every night we either entertained or were entertained. Linda, of course, wanted a car of her own. I bought her an Austin Mini Cooper. She was never satisfied. She wanted way-out gear: her friends were constantly changing their clothes, so why shouldn't she? She couldn't cook and hated housework so we had Cissy, a large black woman who came in her beatup Ford every other day and cost me $20 a visit. My $30,000 a year that had looked so good when I had signed Chandler's contract shrank to nothing.

   

But, at least, the magazine was a success. I had been lucky to find two top-class reporters, Wally Mitford and Max Berry, to work with me. Chandler's detective agency fed me with a stream of information. Chandler lent me his advertising expert who really knew his job. Financially, the magazine had no problems. With Mitford and Berry helping, I lifted the lid off a lot of corruption and consequently made a lot of enemies. This I had to accept. I went after the Administration and the politicians. After the fourth issue, I knew I was a hated man, but I kept strictly to facts and there was nothing anyone I attacked could do about it. Sitting in the sun, taking stock, I saw how vulnerable I was if some enemy began to probe into my private life. I was burdened with a $3,000 overdraft. I was living beyond my means. I didn't seem able to control Linda's spending. If some columnist wanted to be spiteful he could hint that Linda and I were falling out and I knew that would upset Chandler whose married life was blameless.

   

In the next issue of The Voice of the People, due out at the middle of the month, I was attacking Captain John Schultz, the Chief of Police. I was raising inquiring eyebrows that he was able to run a Cadillac, live in a $100,000 house, send his two sons to the University and his wife wore mink. Chandler had told me to go after Schultz whom he hated. What I had written was the truth, but attacking the Chief of Police was asking for personal trouble. I knew, once the magazine was on the streets, I would have to be very, very careful: no parking offenses, no driving even after one drink: every cop in the city would be told to gun for me.

   

As I sat by the empty swimming pool, I wondered if what I was doing made sense. I hadn't Chandler's Quaker mentality. I was in this for the money. It was fine for him: he could take care of any libel action and he was a natural crusader: I wasn't.

   

Tomorrow was the first of the month. It would be the day of reckoning when I paid my last month's bills. I went over to my desk and spent the next two hours listing what Linda and I owed. The amount exceeded the quarterly payment from Chandler by $2,300. I analysed my outgoings. Apart from Linda's extravagance, the worst inroad was liquor and meat bills. When you entertain ten to fifteen people twice a week, providing them with vast steaks and unlimited liquor, you really ran away with the money, plus Cissy, plus the monthly payments on my car and Linda's car, plus living expenses and provision for income tax and property tax, I wondered I wasn't more in the red.

   

I sat back feeling trapped. I would have to do something, but what? The obvious thing was to sell the house and move into a small apartment in the city, but by now I was regarded as a big success by the people of Eastlake and could I afford to raise the white flag and quit?

   

The telephone rang. It was Harry Mitchell.

   

"Hi! Steve! Are you coming over? Do I put a steak on for you?"

   

I hesitated, looking at the litter on my desk. What was the point in sitting here, making sums?

   

"Sure, Harry, I'll be right over."

   

As I replaced the receiver, I thought tomorrow could bring a solution, although common sense told me it wouldn't.

   

I would have to talk to Linda and this was something I dreaded. I knew she would make a scene. I still vividly remembered our last major quarrel. But she had to be told. We had to cut down expenses. She had to co-operate.

   

I locked up the house, went to the garage and got in my car. I liked Harry and Pam Mitchell. He earned big money in real estate. I suppose he earned three times what I did. They never had less than thirty people to their Sunday Bar-B-Qs.

   

I drove over to his place, telling myself without any hope that tomorrow was another more hopeful day.

   

* * *

YOU’RE LONELY WHEN YOU’RE DEAD

CHAPTER I

   

I

 

ON A NICE sunny morning in mid-March, around eleven o'clock, I drove over to the Santa Rosa Estate where the owner, Jay Franklin Cerf, was expecting me.

   

I had been out when he had called the office, but Paula Bensinger, who runs the business and me too if I don't watch out, had told him I would be over within the hour. He hadn't volunteered any information except the matter was urgent and confidential, but the fact that he owned the Santa Rosa Estate was enough for her. You had to have money to run a place that size and money always got Paula steamed up.

   

By the time I arrived at the office she had dug up some dope about Cerf, and while I made myself presentable she rattled off the facts from news clippings we keep on all the big-shots in Orchid City. Cerf was the President of the Red Star Navigation Company, a gigantic wholesale lumber and shipping business operating along the Pacific Coast. He had been a widower for the past two years—his wife had been killed in a car accident—and up to now, his private life had been a lot less exciting than the mummy-room of the Park-Livingstone Museum. Recently he had married a mannequin, and that, Paula thought, was probably why he wanted to see me. When a man of his age and wealth falls for a mannequin, she went on cynically, and is sucker enough to marry her, the writing goes up on the wall.

   

But if it wasn't his wife troubling him, she continued—she always liked to have an alternative theory—then it was probably his daughter, Natalie, a forbidding piece in her early twenties, crippled in the same car accident that had killed her mother, and who made enemies as easily as her father made dollars.

   

"The guy's made of money," she concluded, with that wistful look in her eyes the thought of vast wealth always brings. "Don't let him think we're anything but expensive, and get over there quick. We don't want him to change his mind about hiring us."

   

"To hear you talk," I said bitterly, moving to the door, "anyone would think you owned this joint, not me. Thread a new ribbon in your Remington and leave this to me."

   

"I'll have you know I'm the only one who does any work around here," Paula said heatedly. "If it wasn't for me . . ."

   

But by then I was half-way down the stairs.

   

The Santa Rosa Estate was a hundred-acre paradise that embraced terraced lawns, formal gardens, a swimming pool and fountains. It was a pretty lush spot if you like lush spots : I don't. Whenever I happen on one of these gold-plated, millionaire's caravanserais my bank balance pokes up its head and jeers at me.

   

The drive up to the house was along a winding avenue of trees, and on the way I caught a glimpse of a distant lawn, big enough to play polo on, and flower-beds that were packed with colour bright enough to hurt your eyes. The avenue opened out on to a vast stretch of tarmac on which were parked five or six cars. The smallest of them was a Rolls-Royce convertible in cream and sky blue. Two Filipino chauffeurs were flicking it over with feather dusters, and sneering to themselves as if what they were doing was against their religion.

   

To the right of the parking lot was the house, a modest little affair of about twenty-four bedrooms, a front door through which you could drive a ten-ton truck and a terrace of french windows overlooking an esplanade broad enough to use as a runway for a B.25.

   

On my way to the front door I came upon a concealed loggia before which stood two big tubs of red and yellow begonias. I paused to admire the flowers as an excuse to get my breath back, and found myself gaping at a girl in a wheel chair, sunning herself in the loggia. She showed no surprise at my sudden appearance, and her deep-set eyes regarded me so searchingly I had an uneasy feeling she could read the letters in my wallet and count the small change in my pockets.

   

She was about twenty-four or five, small and as hard as an uncut diamond. She had that pale, pinched look cripples have, and her thin, neat mouth drooped a little at the corners, hinting at a sneer that might or might not be in her thoughts. Her dark, glossy hair was shoulder length and curled inwards at the bottom, and she wore a pair of fawn-coloured slacks and a blue Cashmere sweater which was too loose to show off her figure, if she had a figure, which I doubted.

   

I took off my hat and gave her a polite grin to show her I was a friendly sort of guy if that was what she was looking for, but apparently she wasn't. There was no answering smile, no bonhomie, just a plain, straight-forward freeze.

   

"Are you from Universal Services?" she asked in a voice you could slice bread on. A book lay in her trousered lap, and one thin finger held down a word as if she was scared it would slip off the page.

   

"Lady," I said, "I am Universal Services."

   

"Then you shouldn't come to the front entrance," she told me. "The tradesmen's entrance is to the right and at the back."

   

I thanked her, and then as she lowered her eyes to the book I started off again towards the front door.

   

"Where are you going?" she demanded, looking up sharply and raising her voice. "I said the tradesmen's entrance . . ."

   

"Is to the right and at the back," I broke in. "I know. I heard you the first time. Between you and me and the begonias, Miss Cerf, it could be to the left and in the front. It could be on the roof or under a fountain. I'm not particularly interested. One of these days, when I have time, I'll have a look at it. Maybe it's worth seeing. I'll put it in my duty book for a wet afternoon. Thanks for the suggestion."

   

But by now she was bending over her book again, apparently not listening. Her long dark tresses fell forward, hiding her face. A pity. I bet she looked as if she had swallowed a bee.

   

There seemed no point in staying. So far as she was concerned I just wasn't there any more, so I continued the long trek to the front door, a shade hotter under the collar than I had been before I met her, thinking she was definitely not the type of girl you took to a gin palace in the hope she'd snap a garter at you.

   

The butler who opened the door was a tall, regal-looking person with the face of a retired statesman and the manners of a bishop. When I told him my name he said Mr. Cerf was expecting me. He led me through a hall that was smaller than Pennsylvania station but not much, along a passage lined on either side with suits of armour and crossed swords, down a flight of stairs, past a billiard room to an elevator that whisked us up two floors. From the elevator I followed his stiff back along another mile of corridor to a room overlooking the front lawn and the distant ocean, and which was obviously the great man's study.

   

"I will tell Mr. Cerf you are here, sir," he said with a formal bow. "He is unlikely to keep you very long," and he went away with no more commotion than a snowflake makes to settle on your hat.

Blondes’ Requiem

I

   

ONE LOOK AT CRANVILLE WAS ENOUGH.

As I drove down Main Street a smell of dirt and decay drifted in through the open windows of the Packard. In the far distance I could see the high brick stacks of the smelters stuck up against the skyline. They belched black smoke that had, in the course of time, yellow-smoked everything into uniform dinginess.

 

There was a sordid, undisciplined feeling about the town I didn't like. The first policeman I saw needed a shave, and two buttons from his uniform were missing. The second, directing traffic, had a cigar in his mouth.

 

The sidewalk, littered with papers and trash, was crowded. Groups of men stood around at street corners. Some of them read newspapers, while others tried to read over their shoulders. Women slouched past like they had something on their minds. Shops seemed empty ; even the bartenders were standing outside in the sunshine. I didn't have to be told that Cranville was coiled up like a spring with suppressed anger and excitement. I could see it just by looking at the people.

 

I stopped at a drug-store and, using one of the 'phones, called Lewes Wolf. I told him I had arrived.

 

"Well, come on out." He sounded like a man used to getting his own way. His voice was harsh and impatient. "You go through the town and turn right at the traffic lights. It's a mile or so further on."

 

I said I'd be right over and left the drug-store.

 

There was a small crowd of loafers around my car. I didn't cotton on at first. As I started to ease my way through the crowd, I heard someone say : "That's the dick from New York."

 

I looked quickly over my shoulder, but I didn't stop. They were a sick, seedy-looking bunch, dirty, tired and angry. A guy with a big Adam's apple said : "If you know what's good for you, you'll get the hell outa here." I was startled to see he was talking to me.

 

There was a murmur from the other guys. They edged closer and they looked like they wanted to take a poke at me.

 

I got the car door open quickly and slid under the steering-wheel.

 

The guy with the Adam's apple shoved his lean unshaven face through the window. "Beat it, Gum-shoe," he said in a gritty voice. "We don't like your kind around here."

 

I had the engine running. "Take it easy," I said, wanting to hang one on his jaw, and I drove off. In the driving mirror I could see them staring after me.

 

I felt damp under my arms, but I wasn't here to fight bums. I had other things to do.

 

I found Wolf's house without difficulty. It was so big I couldn't miss it. From the front wall a half-acre or so of fine green lawn spread in a gentle slope down to the street. The sidewalk and the parkway were both very wide and in the parkway the flowering bushes were worth seeing.

 

I left my car on the street, walked across the lawn and rang the bell in the brick portico under a peaked roof.

 

The manservant—a noiseless, sharp-eyed man of fifty—took me into Wolf's study. It was some place. There was tapestry on the blank roughened stucco walls, iron grilles imitating balconies outside high windows, heavy carved chairs and a marble-topped table with carved legs. Thirty years ago it could have been quite a room.

 

Wolf was sitting by the window waiting for me. He was big and fat. His head was almost perfectly round under the close-cropped white hair. He reminded me of an octopus with his beaky little nose and thin, cruel mouth. His small, watery eyes crawled over me, but he didn't say anything.

 

"I called you five minutes ago," I said. "I'm an International Investigations operative, New York branch. You asked for a man to do some work."

 

"That's what you say," Wolf growled, peering at me suspiciously. "But how do I know who you're from ?"

 

I gave him my identity card. It had been designed by Colonel Forsberg, my chief, especially for suspicious, irritable clients like Wolf. It was a neat job. On the outside it had the silver shield of the International Investigations and inside it had my photograph and everything about me, including my thumb-print. It was countersigned by the New York District Attorney.

 

Wolf stared at the card longer than necessary. Maybe he enjoyed keeping me standing there. "I suppose it's all right," he grunted at last and tossed the card back to me. "Know why you're here ?"

 

I said I didn't.

 

He fidgeted with his gold watch-chain, then he waved to a chair. "Sit down."

 

I picked the most comfortable chair in the room, pulled it close to him and took the weight off my feet.

 

He stared out of the window for some minutes without saying anything. I don't know whether he was trying to get my goat, but if he was, he didn't succeed. I watched him, knowing that time was on my side.

 

"See that ?" he suddenly barked, pointing out of the window.

 

I followed his finger. I had to lean forward before I caught a glimpse of the distant smoke-stacks.

 

"They were mine."

 

I didn't know whether to console him or congratulate him, so I didn't say anything.

 

"I ran that mine for twenty years. I owned it, heart, stun and guts. I quit last month." His fat face sagged as he said it, I grunted.

 

That seemed to annoy him. "A pup like you wouldn't understand," he snapped, his watery eyes gleaming. "I worked there twelve hours a day for twenty years and I miss it."

 

I said I guessed he did.

 

He thumped on the arm of the chair. "Three days away from that mine and I was crazy with boredom. Do you know what I'm going to do now ?" He leaned forward, his face congested with excitement. "I'm going to be mayor of this damn town and I'm going to put it on its feet."

 

It wouldn't have surprised me if he'd gone for the White House.

 

"There are two other candidates," he went on, a grim note in his voice. "The election's in a month's time. That gives you three weeks to find the missing girls."

 

I didn't know what he was talking about. "What missing girls ?"

 

He waved his hands impatiently. "I forget their names. My secretary will give you details. Three girls are missing. Esslinger and Macey are using the disappearances to get votes. That'll show you the kind of heels they are, but three can play at that game. Your job's to find the girls before either Esslinger or Macey fund 'em. I've paid Forsberg plenty, and God help you if you don't get results."

 

This was all Chinese to me. I saw he wasn't the kind of guy to bother with details. It was a waste of time to sit and listen to him.

 

"Maybe I'd better talk to your secretary," I said, getting up.

 

"She'll tell you." He nodded his round head vigorously. "Only remember, I'm going to be mayor of this town. When I want something, I get it. Understand ?"

 

I said I did.

 

He rang a bell. A girl of nineteen or twenty, small, pale and scared, came in. She wore glasses and she looked as if she could have used a meal.

 

"This is a detective," Wolf harked at her. "Take him away and tell him what he wants to know."

 

She looked at me curiously and moved to the door.

 

I stood up.

 

Wolf said : "Remember what I said . . . results. Don't come here until you've something to tell me."

 

I said I'd have something for him before long and followed the girl out of the room. She took me across the lobby into a smaller room, equipped as an office.

 

"I'm Marc Spewack," I said, as she closed the door. "I hope I'm not fording up your work."

 

She again looked at me curiously. Maybe she had never seen a detective before. "What did you want to know?" she asked, moving round behind her desk.

 

I sat down on a hard chair. There was no comfort in this little room.

 

"Mr. Wolf wrote my chief, Colonel Forsberg, sent him a cheque and asked him to handle a case for him. He didn't say what the case was. I'm doing the work, so I want to know what it's all about."

 

She sat down. "Then I'd best give you a brief account of what's been happening," she said.

 

I said that'd be fine.

 

"About a month ago," she began, in a low, monotonous voice, "a girl named Luce McArthur disappeared. Her father works in a drug-store on the corner of Sydney and Murray. A couple of days later another girl disappeared. She was the daughter of a janitor named Dengate. A week after that a third girl, named Joy Kunz, disappeared. Mr. Wolf went to Chief of Police Macey to find out what was being' done about the missing girls. You see, there was a great deal of unrest in town. Parents were naturally anxious and the local press were hinting that there was a mass-killer at large.

 

"As a result of Mr. Wolf's visit, the police started a search. They went to all the empty houses in Cranville and in one of them they found a shoe that belonged to Joy Kunz. They didn't find anything else, nor have they any clues even now. The finding of the shoe started a panic in Cranville. Mr. Wolf thought he'd get experts in and that's why he's sent for you." She stopped talking and made a row of fingerprints along the polished edge of her desk.

 

"That clears the air," I said, admiring the way she had given me the story. "Who's Esslinger ?"

 

"He's the local mortician." She didn't look at me while she talked. "He's running for the election too."

 

"A mortician ?" I was startled.

 

When she didn't elaborate, I said, "What are his chances of becoming mayor ?"

 

She made more finger-prints before saying : "Very good, I believe. The workers like him." I thought there was a hint in her voice that she liked him too. But I couldn't swear to that.

 

Anyway, I couldn't imagine the workers liking Wolf, but I didn't say so. "Mr. Wolf thinks that if he finds the girls he'll win popularity and get elected mayor, is that it?"

 

She nodded. "Something like that."

 

"What does Esslinger say ?"

 

"He's started an investigation too."

 

I was vaguely surprised. "Who's working for him?"

 

"Cranville has its own local agent," she said. "Mr. Esslinger didn't want strangers meddling with Cranville's private affairs."

 

I looked at her sharply. "That sounds as if you agree with him."

 

She flushed and said : "My opinions don't matter."

 

There was a pause while I stared at her, then I said : "Why didn't Mr. Wolf employ your local agent ?"

 

Her mouth tightened. "He hasn't any confidence in women," she told me. "You see, the agency's run by a woman."

 

That was comforting news to me, I didn't have much confidence in women myself. I thought for a moment and then asked : "What do the police think ?"

 

"They won't help either Mr. Wolf or Mr. Esslinger. Chief of Police Macey has his own candidate."

 

I laughed.

 

Her mouth looked less prim, but she didn't look up. "It's a little complicated," she admitted. "Chief of Police Macey wants Rube Starkey to be mayor, so he is carrying out his own investigation."

 

"Who's Starkey ?"

 

She shook her head. "I'm afraid I don't know anything about him except he's a gambler and I don't think he's a very desirable person to be mayor."

 

"Well, that's not bad considering you don't know anything about him," I said, with a smile. "What about these girls ? Any angles ?"

 

"They've just disappeared. Nothing has been found so far."

 

"I see." I selected a cigarette from my ease and lit it. This looked a hell of a case. "Let me get all this right. There are three separate investigations going on to find these girls. Wolf, Esslinger and Macey know that whoever finds them has the best chance of becoming mayor. I'm not likely to get any help from the police and I won't be popular in Cranville because I'm an outsider. Esslinger's investigator is likely to get support from Cranville, but not from the, police. Thu about it, isn't it?"

 

She said it was.

 

I remembered the bunch of men who had surrounded my car. If that was going to happen to me every five minutes, I was going to have a swell time.

 

"Excitement is pretty high, isn't it ?"

 

"People are worried because nothing's been done," she said. "Some of them went down to police headquarters and broke some windows last night." She sounded very calm about it all.

 

I thought they'd be breaking my neck if I didn't watch out.

 

"Can you give me the names and addresses of all the people you've mentioned?"

 

She opened a drawer and took out a sheet of paper. "I thought you'd want that," she said.

 

I thanked her and put the paper in my pocket.

 

"I'll poke around," I said, getting up. "Maybe I'll have something for Mr. Wolf in a day or so."

 

She suddenly looked straight at me. It was a shock to see she was': hating me. Being a worker, I guessed she was on Esslinger's side. With Wolf for a boss, I didn't blame her, but it was a shock all the same. I could see how complicated it was all going to be.

 

"Is there somewhere where I can leave my car ?" I asked.

 

She looked puzzled. "Leave your car ?" she repeated.

 

"It carries New York licence plates. They don't seem popular around here. Some guys have already told me so."

For a split second she looked pleased, then she got her expression under control. "You can leave it in the garage around toe back. There's plenty of room. "

 

I thanked her. "I didn't get your name," I said at the door.

"Wilson." She flushed and looked embarrassed.

 

"You've been a big help, Miss Wilson," I said. "I hope I haven't taken up too much of your time."

 

She said it was all right and pulled the typewriter towards her.

 

* * * * *