Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 26, No. 6, May 27, 1981

The Swindle by Robert Edward Eckels

Right after eight, as I did every morning, I went out and picked up a copy of the Trib at the corner newsstand. As usual the kid who ran it had covered up all the Finals and Five Stars with leftover copies of last night’s City Edition. I did him a favor and didn’t bother to reach under, because as soon as I got back to my phone I pushed the news and sports sections to one side and concentrated on the classifieds.

Most of the ads were the usual help-wanted, this-or-that-for-sale variety, but halfway down the miscellaneous column I found one that looked more than a little promising.

REWARD! $300 for information leading to return of automobile missing from 1732 Beeler since September 30.

There were two phone numbers, a name — I. Dawes — and a kicker — “No questions asked.” I drew a circle around it, then skimmed through the rest of the page to make sure there wasn’t anything else. There wasn’t, so I went back and dialed the number with a city exchange.

As I’d figured, it was a business phone, but the girl who answered put me through to I. Dawes without insisting on the answer to any embarrassing questions.

“You the party looking for the missing car?” I said.

“Yes, I am,” he said, sounding aggrieved, like it was time somebody took him up on his offer.

“Good,” I said. “Maybe I can help you. What kind of car was it?”

“A — hey, now, wait a minute. Who are you? What kind of joke is this?”

“I just told you,” I said. “I’m the guy who may be able to help you. The trouble is, I’ve got all kinds of cars here. Maybe one of them’s yours, maybe not. I won’t know till I know what I’m looking for. So you either tell me or you don’t.”

He was silent for a full half minute. Then he said slowly, “It was taken from in front of 1732 Beeler.”

“I know. That’s what it said in the ad. But I’m just a middle man here. Nobody tells me where these things come from and I don’t ask, either — if you know what I mean.”

He was silent again for the rest of that minute. Then, “It’s a ’79 Impala. Custom powderflake blue.”

“Sounds nice,” I said. “Just a minute.” I put down the phone and made a great, loud show of opening a drawer and riffling through the papers inside, then closed it again and went back to the phone. “1979 Impala,” I said. “Powderflake blue. I got it, all right.”

“Well, fine,” Dawes said. He sounded really pleased. “You bring it back and the three hundred’s yours. No questions asked. Just like it said in the ad.”

“Fat chance,” I said scornfully. “In the first place, the price is a thousand. Three hundred is what I pay the kids who pick these things up for me. And, secondly, no way am I going to deliver that car anywhere and take a chance on finding the place crawling with cops. The way it works is you get the money and bring it where I tell you, then I tell you where your car is.”

He hesitated again.

“Something bothering you, Mr. Dawes?” I said.

“No,” he said slowly, “I guess not.”

“Well, something ought to be,” I said. “Because I don’t have your car and I never have had. I’m not a car thief, either. I’m a cop. My name’s McClure, and I’m a sergeant in Fraud-Bunco. I’m sorry about the come-on, but I wanted to make sure the lesson really went home. Because, like it or not, there are basically only two kinds of car thieves: the joy riders and the pros. If a joy rider takes your car, the chances are you’ll find it again within a couple of days not too far from where it was taken, and if you’re lucky it won’t be too badly smashed up. But if it’s a pro job, you’ll never see it again because it’ll be on its way to a chop shop before you’ve even had time to realize it’s gone.

“But that’s not to say there aren’t a lot of other types of crooks around. There are, and there’s a ring operating in the area right now that does nothing but watch the paper for ads like yours. They’ve got nothing to sell but a story, but you’d be surprised at how many people have bought it — for five or six hundred dollars, or however much the con can bilk them out of. And there’s no way to get the money back, because there are no leads except a telephone call to trace back to the crooks.”

“I see,” Dawes said. “Well, you’ve made your point very well, and you can rest assured I won’t let any money change hands until I have the car back in my possession or at least have seen it.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, “but that wasn’t really the point. What we’d like you to do — if you do get a call — is to go along with it.”

“You mean deliberately let myself be swindled?”

“No, sir, not that far. But, as you can understand, the way these people operate the only time they’re exposed is when they collect their payment and pretend to tell the mark where to pick up his car. And that’s what we’d like you to do. Let them set up a meeting so we can be there to catch them in the act.”

When Dawes continued to hesitate, I added, “There’s no danger. Con men aren’t violent and you’d be covered all the way. And,” I threw in, “there might even be a reward in it for you. Some of the insurance companies they’ve stung would be even happier than we’d be to have them stopped. And we’d see you got full credit, of course.”

“Well,” Dawes said at last, “I suppose I could do it. Of course, there’s no guarantee I’ll be contacted.”

“No, sir,” I said, “but on the chance you are, my private line here is 892-6383. If you do get a call, phone me as soon as the meeting is set and we’ll take over.”

I repeated the number to make sure he had it, then rang off and made one more call before going out to see if the Sun-Times was on the stands yet.

To tell you the truth, I wasn’t all that sure Dawes would follow through when push came to shove. He’d sounded good, but you never can tell with these executive types.

Shortly after eight the following evening, though, my private line rang, and when I picked it up Dawes was on the other end. His voice was breathless with excitement.

“It was uncanny, Sergeant,” he said. “One of those con men of yours phoned and the spiel he used was almost word-for-word identical with yours.”

“That shouldn’t be surprising,” I said. “I learned it from people who’d heard it first hand from him or one of his partners.”

“Yes, of course,” Dawes said. “Anyway, it made it very easy for me. I just reacted the same way I had with you — except this time I didn’t let my suspicions show through.”

He hadn’t really let any suspicions show through when I’d called him either, but if he wanted to believe he had, that was O.K. with me. “Fine,” I said. “When’s the meeting set for?”

“Tomorrow noon at the bus terminal on Randolph. He wanted to meet tonight, but I said I needed until tomorrow to get the money.”

“Good. That gives us plenty of time to stake out the place well in advance. How are you supposed to recognize him?”

“He said he’d recognize me. I’m to wear a blue suit and stand in front of the line of phone booths in the northeast corner, carrying a folded want-ads section under my left arm.”

“Just like Alfred Hitchcock,” I said. “All right, we’ll pick you out the same way — although it wouldn’t hurt for you to give the paper a little wave when you take up station.”

“I’ll do that,” Dawes said. He hesitated. “There may be one problem,” he added. “He said the man who would meet me was only a messenger and wouldn’t know where my car was and he himself would call me back later to tell me after the messenger had let him know he had the money and was safely out of the building.”

I was silent for a moment. “Yeah,” I said at last, “that could be a problem. You don’t want anybody walking away with your money even if there is a tail on him. On the other hand, we don’t want to risk picking up somebody who’s going to turn out to be a dead end.” I paused thoughtfully again. “O.K., let’s see if we can’t handle it this way. How much is he asking?”

“A thousand dollars — just as you did.”

“O.K., bring five hundred. When this messenger shows up, tell him the deal is half now, the rest when you get the car. If he really is just a messenger, the only thing he can do is go back and ask for instructions — in which case you don’t give him the money and we can follow him. On the other hand, if, as I suspect, he’s a member of the gang who’s trying to bluff out some insurance he’s going to want to keep the number of contacts down to a minimum. So the odds are he’ll O.K. the deal on the spot and take the money — which will be our green light to grab him then and there. Either way you’re covered.”

“Yes,” Dawes said, “I will be.”

“And that’s the way we want it,” I said. “See you tomorrow then. Noon sharp.”

I made it a point to be at the bus terminal by 11:30, but even so I only beat Dawes by ten minutes or so. He turned out to be a tall man in his late forties to early fifties with a fleshy, somewhat sharp-featured face, thinning fair hair, and more than the beginning of a paunch, which the blue suit, well cut and expensive as it was, did little to hide. But I think I would have known him even without the suit and the newspaper he dutifully waggled as he took his stand. A sheen of perspiration covered his forehead and his eyes flicked around the room nervously. Which made him the world’s worst conspirator, because there was no way he could have waited out the full twenty minutes he had to go without drawing every eye in the place to him. But, fortunately, his contact was early too and must have sensed the same thing I did, because Dawes had barely gotten set when a small man in a checked sportcoat sidled up to him.

I gave them a minute or two to get well into it, then folded the newspaper I’d been pretending to read and rose to stroll casually across the room as if headed for a phone booth that had just become free.

“—the rest when I get the car,” Dawes was saying.

Shorty in the checked sportcoat hesitated. “Let me see the money,” he said.

Dawes took an envelope from his pocket and opened it briefly to show the green inside.

“All right,” Shorty said. “You got a deal.” He reached for the envelope. Instinctively, Dawes drew back.

Shorty’s eyes narrowed. “Hey, what is this?” He caught hold of one end of the envelope while Dawes clung fiercely to the other. For a minute it looked like a real tug-of-war could develop, but I stepped in quickly.

“I’ll take that,” I said, closing my hand over the middle of the envelope. Startled, they both let go at once. “Police,” I declared. “This is a bust.”

Without a flicker of hesitation, Shorty bolted for the door. I shouted after him and drew my gun, but the terminal was too crowded for any shooting and after only a moment’s delay I took off after him.

Dawes started to follow, hut I called back over my shoulder, “No! You stay here and when the others catch up send them after us!”

There was the usual noontime crowd on the street, but an alley led back to the parking lot behind the terminal and I cut down it after Shorty and caught up with him just as he was getting into his car. The door on the passenger’s side was unlocked, and I scrambled in beside him.

He was panting as he fumbled the key into the ignition. “God damn it, Charley,” he said, “why can’t we do this the easy way just once? Just tell the mark we got his car and collect the ransom without all this yelling and running.”

“What?” I said. “And never know if the real cops are going to be waiting? You got to be kidding! Besides, the exercise is good for you. Now let’s get out of here before Dawes realizes no other cops are going to show up unless he calls them.”

As we drove away I counted the money in the envelope. There was only three hundred dollars. I tell you, it’s disillusioning. You can’t trust anybody these days.