Manhunt. Volume 9, Number 2, April 1961

Patsy by Paul Fairman

She was a gorgeous long-legged blonde. She stood in distress beside her crippled car. I didn’t feel at all like a “patsy” when I stopped to lend her a hand.

There was nothing sudden or jarring about the trouble. It was administered slowly, in small pleasant doses by experts in such matters; injected into my life and routine so skillfully that I didn’t know the size of the dose until twenty-four hours later; nor its lethal content even then.

The first sugary spoonful was a gorgeous, long-legged blonde; a girl in distress on a fine sunny morning around ten o’clock. She was standing beside a crippled car she’d pulled off the highway and I didn’t feel at all like a patsy for stopping to lend a hand.

In fact I was pretty smug about the whole thing because she let the two cars ahead of me go right by, waving a frantic handkerchief only after they’d passed.

Maybe this should have made me suspicious, but it didn’t. And don’t grin so knowingly because I think you’d have reacted the same way I did — with a glow of satisfaction at having been selected.

Anyhow, I pulled off the road behind her, happy that my car was a snappy new cream convertible — the kind that’s supposed to impress beautiful blondes. Glad too, that I’d worn my hand-painted necktie and put a new blade in my razor that morning.

These aren’t necessarily important points, though. I mention them only to bolster my earlier statement; to show how pleasant trouble can be when you have experts on the job.

But other small details were very important so watch close and maybe you won’t miss them the way I did.

The flat left front tire on the girl’s little black job made getting acquainted easy. All I had to say was, “I see you’ve got a flat,” and she smiled right back and said, “Yes, it certainly is flat all right,” and the ice had been broken.

“Nothing too serious, though,” I assured her. “If you’ll give me your keys, I’ll unlock your spare and—”

Her voice turned to a wail. “But I haven’t got one! Isn’t that ridiculous?”

For an ordinary run-of-the-mill female it would no doubt have been ridiculous indeed but in this case it seemed more like a daring gamble meriting admiration.

I smiled brilliantly and said, “No cause for alarm. I’ll stop off at the next gas station and send a man back.”

“But I’m so dreadfully late. I’m supposed to meet a friend at the hotel in Danvers. It’s so very important to me!”

“I can drive you on in,” I suggested hopefully. “Then you can come back later with a repairman.”

“That would be just wonderful. But you’re sure I wouldn’t be putting you out?”

“Not in the least. I stop off in Danvers every morning for breakfast.”

Which was true. So she got into the car beside me and as we rolled back into our lane she laughed and took a fetching red band off her hair and let it blow in the wind. A truly beautiful, girl; so arresting that when we passed a house around the next bend a woman working in the front yard stood up and stared; a prim-looking woman who was either critical or envious, I couldn’t tell which.

My blonde turned out to be Trudy Miller, a dancer. She didn’t say exactly what kind of a dancer but I got the impression soft light, exotic settings, and high cover charges would be involved.

Nor was I bashful with my own personal background; Larry Bowman, 32, single; a coin machine operator in that I owned a string of a hundred-odd juke boxes in the clubs and taverns north of Central City.

This appeared to thrill Trudy; a glamorous business. But I think I would have gotten the same effect by telling her I hemmed doilies for a living. She was obviously a girl who’d learned that making men feel important is good business.

And she was so good at it that the five-mile run into Danvers was over before I had time to suggest a broadening of our acquaintance; before she said I was a living doll and thanks and was rushing into the Danvers Hotel.

I rolled on around the corner, parked in my usual spot beside my usual restaurant and went in to my usual breakfast. This had been a part of my routine for a year now; since I’d bought a small house out on Crystal Lake; where — being no specialist in the kitchen — I didn’t even bother with coffee except on weekends. That made the restaurant in Danvers a real convenience — the first civilized spot on the fifteen-mile run between Crystal Lake and Central City.

Red-headed Connie Higgins was waiting with my orange juice and as I sat down at the counter, she glanced at her watch. “You’re two and a half minutes late.”

“Couldn’t be helped. A lady had a flat tire.”

“Oh, sure. I’ll bet she didn’t have a flat chest, though.”

Connie was no slouch in the figure department herself. She slapped a napkin down in front of me and turned to the coffee urn as I said, “Quite the contrary, but let’s talk about you. On our next date, we’ll take a ride and you can let your hair blow in the wind. You’ll probably look very gay and reckless.”

She snorted attractively. “I’ll probably be bald by that time. Some women lose their hair late in life.”

“Then we’ll make it tomorrow night. I’ll knock off early.”

“I wouldn’t hear of you neglecting duty. I’ll just run along behind and hold the spare wrench while you fix juke boxes.”

“That’s a heap but a girl’s place is in the suicide seat of a cream convertible.”

Connie sighed. “I wish you’d get that tub painted black. It stands out like a bonfire in a coal mine.”

I said, “The better to find you in the dark, sweet Wear something girlish,” and left her a dollar tip to start her day off right.

I passed the hotel again on the way out of Danvers toward Central City and my office-warehouse but Trudy Miller was not in sight, nothing of her remaining except a faint aura of the perfume she’d worn and an empty match cover labeled Palermo Club that she’d dropped on the floor of the car.

So, with the victim having experienced no pain whatever from the first injection of trouble, he went about his day’s affairs; a routine somewhat heavier than usual because my one and only employee, Jim Palos was on a hunting trip in Canada.

Not that I minded having Jim on vacation. A dependable worker, he still had annoying traits that could probably have been bunched under one word — impatience. He wanted to get up there fast and we’d never been able to agree on how often he rated a raise or how much his pay check ought to be fattened.

I’d been tempted more than once to let him go but it’s hard to tell a man he’s through when you can’t explain exactly why, so I’d ridden along.

My place was still there; nobody had blown it into the street, so I unlocked the door and went to work on a machine that had been an innocent bystander in a fight at the 52 Club and had gotten its nice shiny front all scratched up.

There were a few phone calls but none of any importance until I found Mack Carson on the other end. Mack was one of the nine local operators in the resort lake area around Central City. We hadn’t formed an organization exactly but we got together once in a while to keep the territory fairly divided and to discuss mutual problems.

And the big mutual problem of the moment was Gus Largo and his protection racket.

Mack Carson lost no time in bringing him up. “My box at the Kenton Lake Spa was wrecked last night.”

“Largo?”

“Who can prove it? A drunk. He beat it. Nobody stopped him.”

“Have Largo’s boys been pushing you harder lately?”

“That’s a silly question, Larry. You know the guy and what he’s capable of.”

“I don’t quite agree with the rest of you on that. He wants us in that so-called union of his but so far it’s been mostly threats.”

“Well, he sure threatened the hell out of my box at Kenton Lake.”

“That might not have been Largo.”

“Maybe not,” Mack said, “but the rest of us can’t help being scared. We’ve got more to worry about than you. We’ve got wives and kids.”

That was true. I had only myself and my boxes and not being vulnerable to the dirtier tactics of Largo’s kind I’d become a sort of rallying point for the others. I was in a position to match dirty looks with the big thug so the boys had used me for a buffer — the get-Larry-Bowman-in-and-I’ll-join-too type of thing.

So far it had worked and I thought I knew why. I tried to explain it to Mack. “Largo can’t afford to push his neck out very far right now. You know that. He’s going before the racket committee in Washington.”

“Uh-huh. He’ll go down there and take the Fifth all over the place and then come back here and beat our brains out.”

“I don’t think so. There’s that secretary of his you’re forgetting about. It’s not generally known and I want you to keep it under your hat, but she’s ready to turn on him. She’s not open to prosecution and there’s nothing to keep her from talking her head off.”

“Nothing except maybe she won’t have a head by the time she gets there.”

“You’re misjudging Largo, Mack. He’s clever and devious and he’s scared. Sure he threatens — nobody can get him on that. But he’s not going to do anything to Gloria Dane or have anything done to her because the finger would point straight at him. You’ve got to remember it’s not just local law on his neck. He’s been careless with his income tax and the Federal boys are keeping him awake nights.”

Mack wanted to be convinced but he was having a tough time selling himself on how safe we really were. “Okay, Larry. I hope it’s like you say. I’ll hold out a while longer and I know the rest of the boys will too. But if the rough stuff starts — the real rough stuff—”

“It won’t. All we have to do is keep a solid front.”

“Sure, Larry. It’s solid as a rock. But I’d hate to see Largo try to throw a cream puff through it. The rock might melt.”

“Everything will work out fine. Wait and see.”

With Mack reassurred, at least for time being, I went back to work; finished the mussed-up box, loaded a rack of records into the car, and went out on the route to make changes.

Things went smoothly with everything quiet on the juke box front and the customers dumping in dimes and quarters at brisk rate.

In fact things were so peaceful that I cut back through Central City proper, undisputed Largo territory, and tried a little salesmanship on a couple of his customers. But I didn’t get very far.

Not that the owners wouldn’t have liked to throw Largo’s boxes out. They were both moaning over inferior merchandise — counterfeit discs — another of Largo’s little rackets.

Not content with a big end of the take, he’d been transposing records onto his own wax and distributing stolen music to save the cost of buying from legitimate companies. The result was scratchy unsatisfactory rendition and the outlet owners were getting the complaints from their public.

There wasn’t much they could do, though, with Largo’s goons handling the objections.

I listened to some myself, offered sympathy, and went on home and so ended the first day...

The second began as usual; back to normal in that there were no stranded blondes on the highway as I drove toward Danvers and breakfast.

Connie Higgins had my orange juice ready and looked a trifle more starry-eyed than usual, I thought. “You do recall asking me out tonight, don’t you?” She asked the question over my second cup of coffee after I’d deliberately avoided any mention of the date.

“Of course. I was afraid to say anything for fear you’d been offered a better proposition.”

“When that happens I won’t hesitate to let you know.”

“Okay. Just give me a chance to up the bid. But about tonight-how about driving out to my place? Meet me there and we’ll go on up to Saugus Lodge.”

Her blue eyes widened. “My, my! The dimes must be really rolling in.”

“Confidentially, I’ll have to hock my watch but a date with you will be worth it.”

I reversed myself, left her only a dime tip and walked out of the restaurant just as one of Danver’s two squad cars pulled up beside the parking lot. I paid them no attention, being of clear conscience and went over to my convertible.

But they demanded attention when they cut across in front of me and blocked my exit to the street. One of them got out and strolled up beside me.

“Is this your car?”

“That’s right. Bought and paid for.”

He didn’t seem convinced. “It sure is a blazer, isn’t it?”

“Are you questioning my taste or my ownership?”

“Both maybe. Let’s see your registration.”

I took out my wallet slowly, trying to think the thing through. The suburban police around Central City had a pretty good reputation. I hadn’t heard of any shake-down activities but things were beginning to look suspicious.

He was a grizzled veteran of the force with a fine coat of tan and as he studied my registration some thoughtful little lines appeared at the corners of his eyes.

“Driver’s license?”

I handed him that too. “How about the initials on my belt buckle?”

“No need to get sarcastic,” he said mildly. “I haven’t insulted you. I’m just doing my job.”

And he did it quite leisurely, circling the convertible and studying it carefully from all sides. Then he came back and said. “You’d better get out.”

I did as I was told. “Okay. What next.”

“You said this was your car.”

“It is damn it all! I bought it from King and Walter at Barton Lake. Their label’s on the rear bumper.”

“What’s your license number?”

I politely lifted the registration from his fingers and pointed to where it said, 118-B-297. “Right there. Read it.”

“I did, but the plates on the car read different.”

He was out of his mind, of course, but I decided to humor him. “Let’s look together.”

We looked together. Then I looked again, refusing to believe the impossible. The front plate read 119-B-741. I stared at the plate, then at the cop. “But that’s ridiculous!”

“Isn’t it though?”

“Somebody switched plates on me.”

“And somebody scratched King and Walter off your rear bumper too. They put Central City Motors on in its place.”

The squad car had attracted a few people from the street and now I saw Connie hurrying out of the restaurant and even at this early stage of things, a familiar face was nice to see.

“Larry. What’s wrong?”

“They say this isn’t my car. They say I stole it.”

“Why that’s ridiculous!”

“The most ridiculous thing I ever heard of but they’re right. This isn’t my car.”

When you looked close there were differences but too small to notice unless they were pointed out. And the oversight on my part wasn’t strange. A man comes out of a restaurant to get into his car and if the make, model, color, and condition haven’t changed while he was eating, he gets in and drives away — that is if the cops will let him. He doesn’t check it over for the scratch on the right rear bumper, the smudge on the left front whitewall he put there the night before, or the slight flaw in the radiator cap that he argued with the dealer about.

But I checked now and when I showed Connie that these marks were missing, her bewilderment increased.

The cop had been wearily patient. Connie turned on him and said, “Good heavens! If he’d stolen the car would he drive it in here in broad daylight right under your noses?”

The cop shrugged. “Lady, I’ve got no idea what he’d do. Maybe he’s going to claim the owner loaned it to him.”

“Who is the owner?”

“The car was reported stolen late last night — or rather early this morning — by a Miss Gloria Dane.”

Which went to show that most of what I’d gotten out of life had come by accident, not because I was smart and alert, because I still didn’t realize what was being done to me; that right there in the middle of town on a fine summer morning I was being measured for the electric chair.

I didn’t realize this even though I knew who Gloria Dane was — Gus Largo’s beautiful blonde secretary; the gal who could put him in jail for seven hundred years if she said the wrong things at the right time in Washington, D. C.

I still reacted like an idiot, thinking there’d been some crazy mistake that would straighten itself out.

“You’re taking me in?”

“It’s customary,” the cop said.

“Am I entitled to counsel?”

His manner turned a trifle colder. “Then you admit you stole the car?”

“I admit nothing of the kind.”

He had me by one arm now and Connie was clinging to the other as though they planned to divide me down the middle. I said, “Connie — do me a favor. Call Lee Henry. Tell him what happened and ask him to come to the station.”

“I’ll go right in and call — and don’t worry, darling. Everything will be all right.”

I smiled bravely. “Of course. I’ll meet you tonight.” And the gendarmes hauled me away to gaol...

Lee Henry was an able lawyer and a good friend. He handled my business affairs along with those of the other operators Largo was trying to move in on.

He was a nervous, wispy little man but he looked to me like Sir Galahad’s brother when they brought him to my cell half an hour after I was locked up.

“What sort of nonsense is this, Larry?”

“They claim I stole the car I was driving.”

“False, of course.”

“I didn’t steal it but it wasn’t my car. It was my car’s twin — identical in every detail.”

“I didn’t know you were acquainted with Gloria Dane.”

“I’m not. I never met her in my life.”

“Then how did you get her car?”

“So help me, Lee — I don’t know. I thought it was mine.”

“Most peculiar but I’m sure everything will work out all right. In the meantime, you don’t want to stay in this place do you?”

“I don’t seem to have much choice.”

“Oh, I can get you out all right. In fact I stopped off and got a writ from Judge Boylan on the way over. There was a thousand-dollar bond but that’s routine. Nick Sampson has it ready. Nick handles all my bonding business.”

And it occurred to me that democracy was wonderful as I silently thanked the writers of the Magna Carta and the Bill of Rights.

So I thanked Lee out in the street fifteen minutes later and hiked by the Danvers Hotel to the restaurant where Connie was waiting.

She brought two cups of coffee to a corner table and asked, “Did the girl apologize?”

“What girl?”

“You mean the silly thing still isn’t straightened out?”

“Not so far as the police are concerned. I’m out on a writ.”

“But Larry. It’s all so idiotic. Somehow the two of you switched cars.”

“And you think Gloria Dane has mine?”

“That’s the only way it could be.”

“Then why did she report her’s stolen?”

“I... I don’t know. Wouldn’t it be smart to ask her?”

“Good idea. Can I use your car, hon?”

“Of course. But be careful of the brakes. They need relining.”

“I hope I can locate this Dane gal. I suppose she’s in the phone book.”

“If not the police should have her address. But if you don’t, you’d better keep my car. You can drive it to your place tonight and I’ll take a cab out.” She looked up quickly. “We’ve still got a date, haven’t we?”

I’d never realized before how pretty Connie really was. Also, I liked the quick concern in her tone of voice and knew that having her on my side made me luckier than most.

“Sure we’ve got a date.”

Her smile uncovered even white teeth. “In that case I’ll get you the keys.”

I set my cup down with a bang. “The keys!”

“What about them?”

“How come my key fit Gloria Dane’s car?”

Connie stared at me. “Your keys — someone else’s car—” She frowned. “Wait a minute. It gets a little complicated.”

“It certainly does. It gets harder and harder to call it a coincidence. I’ll grant that another convertible exactly like mine might get parked right next to it, but an accidental exchange demands identical ignition locks. I suppose such a freak accident could happen at the factory but I doubt that it did.”

“Larry — I’m beginning to get scared.”

“No point in that but I’m mighty curious myself.” I got up from the table. Connie got me her keys and I said, “See you tonight, chick.”

“Larry, you will be careful. And call me if anything new develops.”

I said I would and went out to the parking lot.

The search for Gloria Dane ended quickly; after she didn’t answer the phone number listed in the Central City directory, nor the bell I pushed at 2841 Sedgewick Drive. So I got back into Connie’s little foreign job and sat back to think things over.

I was more worried than I’d wanted Connie to see. I’d have had to be pretty stupid not to be. But still there didn’t seem to be anything I could do because nothing that had happened made any sense. There didn’t appear to be any objective to the weird goings-on. And nothing much I could do about it, at least until I found the owner of the car I’d been accused of stealing and asked her a few questions.

Of course there was plenty I could wonder about; like what had happened to my own pride and joy — the sleek cream convertible that had apparently turned into someone else’s cream convertible in the parking lot — a miracle I couldn’t quite swallow.

There were other angles to ponder also and I pondered them all the way across town to my office. First and foremost, who would profit by my conviction for auto theft?

The answer to that one was fairly simple. Gus Largo would conceivably get the boys who were looking to me as their leader if I were discredited with a felony; get them into his fake union where he wanted them. But somehow I couldn’t buy it. The frame was too elaborate — and too full of potential holes. There were other, far simpler tricks that Gus could have pulled out of his bag. This one was too chancey. Even though I’d been arrested, I was far from being convicted.

No, it just didn’t add in that direction, but think of the devil and there he was — his big Cadillac parked in front of my office door as I pulled up.

No goons came over to escort me to the captain so I walked over under my own power and said, “Hello Gus,” to the fat man sitting in the back seat.

Gus Largo had a huge, gross body with a face that didn’t fit; the face of an innocent-eyed juvenile that looked as though it might have been attached to the front of his head on a day very few faces were available; just something to get him off the production line and away.

As a result, he looked like a sincere person who meant it when he said, “Hello, Bowman. I heard you got into a little trouble with the law.”

“Something you arranged?”

He looked genuinely hurt. “How can you say that?”

I saw no point in explaining how easy it was. “A little out of your territory aren’t you?”

He had two assistants with him; well dressed young men who might have been fresh out of college — no slanty-headed types for Largo — high-honor boys in the field of business administration. But no school taught the methods they were capable of using.

Largo had only smiled at my question and I said, “You’re wasting your time, Gus. None of us are going along with you. And if you bust up too many of our boxes, I know quite a few honest cops who won’t like it any better than we do.”

“All I’ve done,” Gus said mildly, “is invite you fellows in with friendly persuasion.”

“That’s fine. See that you keep it friendly.”

He made a motion toward the driver. “I wouldn’t have it any other way, Bowman. And if you need any help from my legal battery, just let me know. I’d like to give you a sample of the kind of service Apex Protective gives its clients.”

I could have said something about Gus needing the legal eagles himself when he got to Washington, but the car pulled away and I went into my office.

I tried to do a little work but my mind wasn’t on it. There was too much unfinished business in other directions. It was collection day and I took the canvass change sacks and serviced two stops before I lost interest and kept right on going past the third.

I had a small hunting lodge about an hour’s drive north that I seldom used; nothing much more than a shed on a marshy section of Lake Clara. Ducks were out of season now and there was no point in going there except that it suddenly seemed a nice place to be.

Maybe even then I was filled with subconscious fear that I refused to admit consciously. Maybe my duck blind looked good to me because I was afraid I wouldn’t see it again. That’s the way it is, they say; when you see an end or a change in the offing, the simple, homey things you’ve had and known become very precious. Anyhow, I stayed there all afternoon and watched the sun slip down across the lake making the water and the reeds and the loneliness beautiful and desirable. Then I remembered my date with Connie and had a guilty twinge. If I didn’t hurry, she’d be kept waiting.

I made the return run pretty fast but it was practically pitch dark under a thin sickle moon when I hit the road to the north end of Crystal Lake and my bungalow.

And the real trouble...

It began when my headlights outlined the girl in the road ahead. She appeared to have been hiding in the roadside bushes but when I got close enough she stood up and waved frantically. I stopped and she ran to the car.

“Larry! You’ve got to turn around and go back!”

“Connie! What’s wrong? What’s happened? Why are you down here?”

She’d come in high heels and the skirt of her fluffy green dress had been torn by brambles. “The police, Larry. They’re waiting for you. I had a feeling you might be fool enough to come just because we had a date.”

“Look — angel — I don’t get it. I’m out on a writ. If they’ve been told to pick me up, that’s it. Hiding won’t help.”

“You mean you don’t know what’s happened? Where have you been all day?”

“Up at Lake Clara. I took the afternoon off.”

Her laugh seemed on the edge of hysteria. “Well first let’s get out of sight. A prowl car may come down this road any minute and I can’t let you give yourself up until you know what they’re after you for.”

We didn’t say anything more until I’d turned around and gone back a few hundred yards where a narrow overgrown road just let the little car in with branches brushing our heads. I snapped off the motor and turned out the lights.

“Okay, what’s it all about?”

Connie hesitated for a few moments. Then she said, “Larry, there’s something I’ve got to ask you first and I Want you to tell me the truth. And please remember whatever you say won’t make any difference but I’ve got to know.”

“Know what, angel?”

“Were you living with that girl? I mean, was she living with you in your bungalow?”

“What girl?”

“Larry — please—!”

I reached out and took both her hands in mine. “Darling, simmer down. I don’t know what you’re talking about but I’ll answer your question. There’s been no girl living with me up here or any place else. You’re the only girl who’s been in my bungalow even for a quick drink. But you don’t have to ask. You know that.”

“I knew it but I had to hear it from you.”

“Well, you’ve heard it. Now tell me why you had to ask.”

She was tiny and warm and trembling there beside me as she spoke into the darkness. “I got to the bungalow early, before sundown and took a sun bath in the back yard. Then I went in and saw the purse and gloves on the table. I thought they were mine at first and then I knew they weren’t. So... so I had to keep on looking and... well, I found the rest of the things. The robe — the nightgown — the dresses and the other things in the bedroom.”

“Connie — you out of your mind?”

“The things are there, Larry. I saw them.”

“Then someone put them there between the time I left this morning and when you found them.”

“I thought it was something like that — because I wanted to, I guess. Then I turned on the radio and I was sure.”

“What did the radio have to do with it?”

“The whole story was on the newscast — so I began to gather up everything I could find. I was going to hide all the clothes and things, but then the police came and I dropped them in the middle of the living room and ran.”

“What story, Connie? Tell me!”

She was fumbling for the knobs and a moment later the radio lit up. The voice came through a second later, beautifully timed:

“...New evidence has been uncovered by the police linking Lawrence Bowman, Central City coin machine operator, to Gloria Dane, beautiful blonde secretary of August Largo, prominent local businessman also interested in coin machine activities.

“Miss Dane’s mysterious disappearance was reported early this afternoon by Mr. Largo when he was unable to locate her at her apartment. Late last night, Miss Dane had reported her car as having been stolen and the first sinister note was added when the car was found in the possession of Mr. Bowman near a Danvers restaurant this morning.

“At the time, however, Miss Dane had not been reported missing and the police had no reason to be suspicious of Mr. Bowman for other than car theft and he was released on bail.

“But later a close check of the car revealed blood stains and a woman’s shoe in the trunk. Fast-breaking developments followed when Gertrude Armitage, a resident on Route 18 into Danvers reported that she saw a man she identified from a picture as Bowman riding into Danvers with blonde and beautiful Miss Dane yesterday morning.

“Thus, Bowman was definitely linked with the vanished girl and further evidence of what was possibly a clandestine romance came to light only a couple of hours ago when the police searched Bowman’s bungalow on Crystal Lake and found clothing identified as belonging to Miss Dane.

“Police, somewhat embarrassed at having released Bowman, have thrown out a dragnet and promise his apprehension soon. Also, they’ve begun searching the surrounding lake country for signs of foul play relative to Miss Dane’s disappearance.

“Interesting sidelights of the case involve Largo’s scheduled appearance before the Senate Rackets Committee in Washington, and rumors that Miss Dane, also scheduled to testify, would be a damaging witness for Largo.

“However, Mr. Largo denies this emphatically and claims he has nothing whatever to hide from the committee.

“Mr. Largo appears to be cleared of any suspicion by the fact that Bowman was his business rival, Bowman resisting Largo’s efforts to organize local coin machine operators.

“The two cases of polio, reported at—”

Connie lunged forward and snapped off the radio and as she drew back I realized she’d been crying during the whole newscast. I said, “Take it easy, hon. I—”

She was tight in my arms, her wet face against mine. “Oh, Larry — I love you so much it’s a great big ache! We’ve gone along from day to day and I’ve tried to hide it but when something like this happens—”

I held her tight and let her cry thinking how it’s that way sometimes — the casual day to day business, and seeing only a cute little character always ready to be attractive or understanding or sophisticated or whatever you happen to need at the moment until you look at her more as a convenience than a girl trying to be whatever you want her to be.

And not realizing you’ve been in love with her all the time.

“Baby — take it easy. Everything will turn out all right.”

She stopped crying, the effort taking a few moments before she said, “Darling. Who did this to you? Largo?”

Of course it had been Largo but there was no point in mulling that over now. I had to sit back and think. It was a little like getting suddenly smashed in the face with a blunt instrument. After you’re down you sit there for a minute trying to rattle some sense back into your head.

“It looks like Largo’s work, but the main thing is to figure out just what’s happened and what I’ve got to do.”

“You can’t give yourself up, darling. That would be fatal. Do you think Gloria Dane has been killed?”

“Who knows? Look, angel — I want you out of this.”

“But I don’t want to be out of it. I want to stay with you. I can help.”

“You can help me the most by letting me take you home. I don’t know what I’m going to do or where I’m going to do it but I’ll feel better knowing you’re safe.”

“The police will be watching my apartment, won’t they?”

“Maybe, maybe not. But they can’t arrest you. Please, Connie. I don’t want you in this and I might be picked up at any moment.”

She came through in the clutch and began to look at things realistically. “If they found me with you they’d probably arrest me too and that wouldn’t help any. As long as I’m free I can—”

I turned her face in my hands and looked straight into it. “There’s one thing I want you to understand, darling. I have never met or talked to Gloria Dane. I don’t know her and never wanted to. You’re the only woman in my life — now and forever.”

“You don’t have to convince me, Larry. But who was the blonde that Gertrude Armitage said she saw you drive past her house with? Or was the lying?”

“She wasn’t lying but it was a different girl; one that looked like Gloria Dane — enough so that when this story broke the Armitage woman was willing to swear it was Gloria Dane. After all, the Dane girl’s picture has been in the papers often enough.”

“Do you know who this other blonde is?”

“No. She gave me a name, Trudy Miller, but it’s probably not her real one.”

“What are we going to do, Larry.”

“I’m going to take you home and hope I can get you there. But if it looks as though we’re going to be stopped on the way I want you to jump out and hide in the woods. Then get to your apartment some way and I’ll call you there — if I’m not in a cell.” I smiled at her in the dim light of the new moon. “Okay?”

“Okay, darling. But kiss me first. Then I promise I’ll be real sane and sensible.”

The kiss took a little while and then I backed out of the lane and headed for Danvers where Connie lived. I took the backroads and dropped her on the outskirts of town and just to show she was keeping her word, she had a wisecrack for me as I let her out after another kiss. “I’ll run right home now and report my car stolen,” she said and we laughed together, both of us trying to prove the courage neither of us had. Then she whispered, “Oh my darling, take care of yourself,” and was gone in the darkness, leaving me with the warmest feeling I’d ever had...

I didn’t go anywhere at first except back into the woods where I could hide in the bushes and think things out, follow it through from the beginning to where I now sat — a few jumps ahead of what was slated to be trial, conviction and the electric chair.

I forced the numb shock out of my mind and tried to view the mess objectively, asking myself exactly what Largo had done that was clever.

His job had been to safely get rid of a dangerous witness, Gloria Dane, and he’d used me as the fall guy to achieve a double result. Wipe out Gloria Dane and get me out of the way of his juke box domination.

The abstract problem was to associate the two of us — strangers — in a way that would stand up in court — before witnesses. This had taken a little time and a little money, he’d had to buy Gloria a car just like mine and get it into my possession. That had been achieved in the parking lot. Also, we had to be seen together, so the highway bit was carefully arranged — a blonde who looked enough like Gloria Dane to be mistaken for her — a ride down the road and into town.

A few parts of the devilish operation were still obscure; who had reported the theft of the car and called herself Gloria Dane? How had my personal routine and habits become familiar enough to Largo for him to know I would be where he wanted me at the proper times?

And one more thing — had my release been a slipup in the routine? I thought it probably had. Largo could not have anticipated my quick release on the theft charge and had probably expected me to be still in custody when he sprang the bit about Gloria having disappeared. He’d probably wanted that to come out only after he’d forged the last damaging link — planted the belongings of the dead girl in my bungalow.

The words dead girl on my thought track caught my attention. Had Gloria Dane already been murdered? Was her body already lying somewhere out in the woods waiting to be found and labeled an example of my handiwork?

I didn’t know, but there was little doubt in my mind that she would be found in due time. A week, two weeks — three — what difference did it make? One thing was sure; when they did find her they wouldn’t be able to pinpoint the exact time of her death. This devious genius named Largo had set it up so that he could kill her any time he felt like it; a deal where he could wait and be sure of my conviction even before my alleged victim actually died.

Even sitting there in the dark with my stomach turning flip-flops, I had to admire the guy. He was good at his work. And there was the thought in my mind to get in touch with all the boys and say, Look, fellows, I was wrong. Sign up with this man Largo. Take whatever he’ll give you and say thank you sir. Otherwise you’ll wake up and find yourselves nailed to twelve crosses with iron spikes. But that wouldn’t be necessary. They’d sign now without giving him any more trouble.

I wiped the sweat off my face then and tried to find a way out of the frame. There didn’t appear to be one. Locating my own car might help. It would be a step in the right direction. But it was no doubt repainted and out of the state by now.

The girl? The blonde who called herself Trudy Miller? She was the best of my few, forlorn hopes, but where could I find her? I didn’t know her name or where she lived or where she worked — even if she worked at all.

But I had to do something. I couldn’t sit there and wait for the cops to pick me up. They would do that soon enough and at least I wanted to be caught while trying to clear myself rather than hiding in a basement somewhere awaiting the inevitable.

And it was a pretty sad situation when my only thin hope of escaping execution lay in the name Palermo Club I remembered from an empty match cover on the floor of my car.

But oddly enough, it gave me hope, which proves that hope, too, is a comparative thing, and I pulled out of my hiding place wondering just where Largo had set up the switch of cars — just where had he replaced my cream convertible with Gloria Dane’s cream convertible. At the restaurant lot in Danvers? Possibly, but more likely the night before, at my bungalow when I was sleeping. Not that it mattered. It was just something to think about — something to keep my mind off chairs wired to high-voltage generators for the purpose of execution...

One tricky little point lay in my favor. They had to look for me, not my car. They would have no reason to associate me with Connie’s gay little foreign job and the odds were that the hunt would center in the wooded, suburban areas, not in Central City itself where I headed after stopping at a lonely phone booth to check the address of the Palermo Club. 621 River Street, the book said; an entirely logical address.

River Street was a five-block strip across lower Central City — a vast neon blaze when I got there because this was honkytown, thrillville, the street of girlie shows, clip joints, and catch-penny museums; a gaudy belt below which lay the city’s rail yards, the oil-streaked river and — at this hour — the sinister night streets of the skid-row slums.

I found a dark nook in a nearby alley where I parked the car and I decided that if I was going to get anywhere there was no point in slinking around with my hat over my face looking for back doors. So I stepped out into the carnival glare and moved down the street.

I’d been in the dark a long time with my nerves pulled as tight as violin strings and the pressure was telling a little in that suddenly none of it seemed real — the raucous color, the tinny music, the hoarse voices of the barkers — and I seemed to be walking in a dream — a big neon nightmare — with the girl I searched for nothing but a blonde phantom dancing in and out among the reds and the blues and the greens until they formed into a sign reading Palermo Club — 20 Blonde Sirens and I walked in through the wide-open door knowing I wouldn’t find her because it couldn’t possibly be this easy.

And I didn’t find her. But I found somebody else.

It was after my eyes had adjusted to the comparative dimness and I’d walked to the bar and ordered a scotch. Then I turned and saw him, alone, at a small table on the far side.

I paid for my drink and went over and sat down at the table facing him. I said, “Well, so this is Canada. And I suppose the blondes up there on the stage are deer and elk. How’s the hunting been, Jim?”

Jim Palos seemed to be debating his reaction. Should he be embarrassed, apologetic, or belligerent? He decided against all three and smiled lazily as new facets of Largo’s frame became crystal clear in my mind.

Jim said, “Hello, Larry. What are you doing down here?”

“Looking for a blonde. The name she gave me was Trudy Miller but it was probably phoney and the chances are slim that she even works here but you no doubt know more about that than I do.”

He was being wary, careful, calculating. “Why should I?”

I turned the scotch glass slowly in my fingers. “If you’re worried about my reaching over and knocking your teeth out, forget it. I’m not the explosive type. I’m just going to sit here like a law-abiding citizen and ask you a few questions.”

“Then I won’t start running. I’ll just sit here too.”

Jim Palos was a slim-waisted, broad-shouldered college athlete type and my trying to knock his teeth out was ridiculous. He could have unscrewed both my ears and made me eat them while I was trying to get one punch in.

I said, “It’s funny, Jim, how I didn’t figure you in when you were a natural. I knew that to make this frame work Largo needed someone close enough to me to get his hands on my car keys long enough to duplicate them and make a new lock for the other car. He needed someone who knew my habits, my routine; someone who could give him a pattern for the frame.”

“I didn’t know anything about the frame, Larry.”

“What did he offer you — my coin machine route?”

“That’s what I’m getting. In return I gave him certain information he needed. But I didn’t know how he was going to use it.”

“Maybe you did and maybe you didn’t but you certainly knew he meant me no good fortune.”

“I suspected as much.”

“Maybe you didn’t want to know.”

Jim Palos seemed to be trying to find words. He said, “Larry, this is a tough world. People have to look out for themselves. I’m sorry you had to get in the way of the steam roller. You’re a real nice guy and it’s a shame.”

“Well, thanks a lot for your good wishes. I’ll pin them on the wall of my cell.”

“I really am sorry.”

If he repeated that once more I was going to have to clout him even if the police got me three minutes later. I said, “You didn’t say what you’re doing here. Is this a Largo hangout?”

“As a matter of fact, I’m looking for Trudy Miller too.”

“What’s your interest. Have you figured out a way to cross Largo and me at the same time? That would really put you on top.”

“A guy likes to play all the angles. But I can give you a tip. The girl’s real name is Maggie Lynch. She’s a singer and she used to work here but she left town.”

“How did you get wind of her?”

“Oh, I hear things. I get around a lot.”

Regardless of my wanting to kill him, I felt he was telling me the truth about the blonde. And, screwy as it sounded, I believed his bit about wishing me no harm when he said, “You ought to get out of here. Hide somewhere. The cops have got the dragnet out for you.”

I said, “I think I’ve got you figured, Jim. You’re the kind of a thief who won’t kill the guy you heist unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

This got through to him. He lowered his head and I detected embarrassment. “Why don’t you get out of here and hide somewhere?” he asked.

I had to get away quick or slug him. “Okay, rat. And I’ll do one more thing for you.”

“What’s that?”

“I’ll try and get you a pass to my execution. You’ll enjoy it,” and I got up and walked out.

Back into the street; back into the neon nightmare but without even the blonde phantom now. Just the nightmare of waiting for a cop to tap me on the shoulder. And as I walked I wondered why I was here on River Street in the first place. I should have known it wouldn’t work.

The thing to do was give myself up and get it over with. The more I thought about it the more sense it made. I wasn’t built for big drama; no good at all at fleeing injustice, getting out of the country wearing a false beard and a changed name. Whatever was coming, I had to face it and there was no time like the resent.

I went into a phone booth and called Connie.

Her hello came back to me in a small hushed voice and I said, “Hon, I’m afraid I’ve had it. The blonde isn’t available. Largo would have seen to that. I should have had more sense than to hunt and so I’m giving it up and turning myself in.”

“Larry. Please!”

“Please what, baby? They’ll pick me up any minute regardless. The dragnet’s out as we criminals put it.”

“But, darling. There’s one more thing. I just thought of it. Wouldn’t it help your case if that woman — that Gertrude Armitage — that witness — realized the girl you were riding with wasn’t Gloria Dane?”

“I suppose it might, but she swore otherwise.”

“But she might change her mind if I talked to her.”

“Now listen here Connie! I told you to stay out of this. The woman believes her own story and nobody can change her.”

“I’m going to try.”

“You’re not. You’re going to stay clear.”

“I’m going over there. You come here and wait for me. I’ll leave the key under—”

“Connie! You stay there until I come. If you won’t have it any other way, I’ll go and see the Armitage woman, okay?”

“Not you. She’s probably afraid of you. She’d call the police.”

“But I don’t want you—”

“I’m going, Larry.”

“All right... all right. We’ll go together. You wait there for me.”

She paused. “Be careful. Be very careful.”

I hung up and went back to the car...

Four blocks later, I was sure they had me; when a car behind mine seemed over-intent on not getting lost in the traffic shuffle.

I cut sharply off the boulevard into a side street and when the headlights followed me up an alley and back on the main thoroughfare, I was sure.

But why didn’t they cut me off and pick me up? Instead, they seemed satisfied to act as dubious escort and I thought of the old one about the police letting the criminal lead them to his confederates; except there weren’t any confederates and the police ought to have had sense enough to know it.

This did present a problem. Connie. I didn’t want them following me to her place and possibly picking us up together and with this necessity looming, I came up with an invention; my warehouse. There, evading them was simple. I drove in the front through the warehouse door, moved a few machines away from the back exit I never used and drove out again through the alley.

This seemed to outwit them and I headed for Connie’s place. But then my troubles really started when I got no answer from her bell and found the door key buried in a potted palm where she’d left it for me a couple times before.

She’d gone to see the Armitage woman on her own.

As I gunned off in that direction, I had one forlorn hope of cutting her off — keeping her out of this mess. That hope lay in the fact that she had no car and had walked or called a cab. In either case, I might be ahead of her. It was a long walk and sometimes cabs were a little late in answering suburban calls.

When I got to the Armitage house out on the highway, I heaved caution out the window and parked right in front of the place. It was a big, ugly house set in the middle of a square lawn with a garage in the back, and there didn’t appeared to be any activity. Lights were on inside but there was no cab in sight and the whole place had a sleepy air about it.

Perhaps I was in time...

Then, as I crossed the walk and opened the gate, I saw a slow-moving car swing around the bend in the highway and knew what had happened; my escort had solved the riddle of my rear warehouse door and had picked up my trail.

A touch of panic hit me, generated, probably by a hope that Gertrude Armitage just might help me. I hadn’t really thought about her until Connie brought up the possibility but now I wanted desperately to talk to her before I was picked up. So I ran.

Around the house and out toward the shadowy shelter of the garage. Of course I wouldn’t be hiding from anyone with the car parked at the curb but I ran anyhow and got behind the garage as the driver of the tail car rolled slowly on past and down the highway.

I felt a surge of relief. Whatever their plan, it obviously did not include picking me up yet. For this courtesy I was grateful. As the tail light vanished I took out a cigarette, snapped my lighter behind the shelter of my hand and raised the flame to head level.

Then I stood there frozen, with the flame holding steady in the curve of my palm.

It was a flash of color that did it; a flash of cream revealed by my lighter-flame through a tear in the heavy curtain over the garage window against which I stood.

And I knew instantly, in a kind of bursting revelation, that my car was in there. They hadn’t had time to get rid of it or have it painted and it was sitting inside that garage waiting to be worked over.

Revelations are strange things. Sometimes they pour in on a person as a result of god’s impatience with stupidity. At any rate, I knew now what I should have realized in the beginning; that Largo would not leave his witness to chance. He would not depend on a casual bystander seeing the blonde in the car with me. Therefore, his witness, Gertrude Armitage, had been primed for her role in the frame long before I picked alias Trudy Miller up on the highway.

So I wasn’t at all surprised when I felt a hard point pressed against my back and heard the female voice: “You’re a trespasser. I could shoot you. So you just walk right on into the house and tread mighty light, mister — mighty light.”

And as I walked lightly toward the house it occurred to me that maybe I rated the electric chair; maybe it was a good idea to kill off the stupid so the smart could have the world to themselves. Just save a few for suckers and patsies.

Bitterness at being a step behind Largo all the way...

It was Gertrude Armitage, all right; the prim hostile face; the gray hair pulled into a tight bun on the top of her head. Only a shotgun had been added and she handled it like a third arm.

This was what I saw in the kitchen where I turned and faced her and wondered at the hatred in her eyes. Had I injured her?

“Why can’t you let him alone?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Why can’t you and all the rest of them let Gus Largo alone. Always dogging him, getting in his way. Not letting him live his life.”

“Lady. It’s my life I’m worried about. I—”

“Gus is a good man. When my Sam got killed, did any of you do anything for me?”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t acquainted with Sam.”

“But Gus did. He bought me this house. Took care of me. Gave me a chance to live out my old age in peace. And all you people sneaking around trying to take away what he’s got. If I had my way I’d kill all of you.”

I actually thought she intended to start with me as she fingered the trigger of the shotgun and I was relieved when she said, “But I’ll call Gus and see what he wants to do. He’ll probably kill you because you’re wanted by the police and you’re a trespasser but I’ll call him.”

She moved to a wall phone, let the receiver drop and hang loose as she dialed. After she picked it up and held it to her ear, she said, “Your girl-friends in there. I took care of her good and proper.”

She almost had to kill me then as I took two steps in her direction. She stopped me by saying, “I got her tied to a chair. I’ll ask Gus about her too.”

“May I see her?”

“Stand where you are.”

I stood there while she talked to Gus Largo, the gist of it being that she’d done fine and to hold everything, he’d be right over. Then we went into the living room.

Connie was sitting in a homey, old-fashioned chair; the kind you’d expect to find in any comfortable middle-class home; with her ankles tied to either leg and her wrists taped to each other.

She smiled at me and said, “I’m sorry, Darling. I didn’t help any.”

I looked at Gertrude Armitage. “She won’t hurt you. Can’t you at least undo her wrists?”

“We’ll wait.”

Gertrude Armitage had evidently had her say. From this point on she held the shotgun on me and stood silent. And fifteen minutes later Gus Largo rolled in.

He was a big man and roll was the word. He looked Connie and me over with thoughtful regard, acknowledging Gertrude Armitage’s presence only when she said, “You came alone?”

He glanced at her sharply. “Of course. You know I never bring anyone here.”

“What are you going to do with them?”

“We can kill Bowman. That will work out all right. With what they’ll find in the woods it will be logical — him coming here to get rid of a witness.”

This didn’t shock Armitage in the least. Largo could have been talking about a chicken for supper. “Do you want me to do it?”

“I’d appreciate it.”

Connie sat speechless; stunned at cold-bloodedness she’d not thought possible in human beings. Largo turned his bland eyes on her. “The girl is different. She complicates things a little.”

“You’ll have to get rid of the car before we call the police.”

“I’ll drive it down the road and have someone pick it up there. We were too slow about that. It shouldn’t have been brought here.”

“You had to get it out of sight.”

It was easy to see that Largo could do no wrong so far as Gertrude Armitage was concerned. She wouldn’t even let him criticize himself.

I said, “You can let this girl go. I swear she won’t say a word. It will be just as though she hadn’t come.”

Largo looked at me. “That’s pitiful.”

He was right, but I had to say something. “What are you going to do with her?”

As he pondered I gauged the distance to Gertrude Armitage’s shotgun. Could I get it? Probably not but I was going to make a try because there was nothing to lose. At the worst I would make them kill me right here and get blood on the rug. Blood on the rug has tripped killers up before and I thought it might work again.

“I know what we could do with her,” Gertrude Armitage said.

We never found out what she had in mind, though, because the doorbell rang at that moment. Largo blinked. “Were you expecting anyone?”

“No.”

“I’ll hold the gun. You answer it.”

The woman handed him the weapon and left the room. A few moments later she came back, took the gun from him and resumed her former position and Largo was staring at the man who had followed her in. It was Jim Palos.

“What are you doing here?” Largo asked.

“Gambling,” Jim said. “I’m betting this is the place I’ve been hunting for — where you keep the records.” And there was a gun in his hand as he finished. “FBI, Largo. This is it. I’m making my play.”

I knew instantly that Gertrude Armitage was going to blow him in two with the shotgun if she could; that she didn’t care about herself. If he didn’t get her first, he was dead and so I hit her with a tackle as the gun barrel moved.

She would have gotten him too because no matter how well-trained he was Jim Palos would have waited too long before killing a woman.

As it was we went over in a pile and the shotgun blasted out like seventeen cannon. That didn’t quite end it though because I had a fighting she-tiger on my hands. She was on me like the seven furies and I got the worst of it until I threw politeness to the winds and knocked her cold with a right to the jaw.

Largo stood frozen during the whole interlude. You could tell from looking at him that he still didn’t believe things could have gone so miserably wrong. That he’d misjudged a man and let an FBI agent part-way into his organization.

Then he sat down on the floor and began to cry and that was the way it finished...

Later Jim Palos spoke gravely of the perils involved. “They could have shot you and gotten away with it, Larry. They’d have probably taken the girl out of the country where she would never have been heard of again. They could have gotten away with that and the other too, sent you to the chair, if things had tipped that way, because I didn’t know enough about Largo’s operations to do you any good in court.”

“You fooled me, all right.”

“I had to work my way in somehow and as a disgruntled employee of Largo’s rival I was able to do business with him. But he was cagey. He didn’t let me in too far, and we might never have found what we had to have if you and the girl hadn’t charged in on the Armitage woman.”

“It was Connie’s idea.”

Palos grinned. “Marry her. That girl’s got a brain.”

I did. Two months later, during Largo’s trial. I’d like to end this nicely and say he hadn’t done away with Gloria Dane, but I can’t. He killed her, out in woods, after the frame had put the police on my trail. Killed her in a way I don’t like to think about; one that would have sent me to the chair and labeled me a monster.

As it was, Largo never stood trial for income tax evasion. He was tried for murder and was electrocuted one year and seventeen days after the night the shotgun blew a hole in Gertrude Armitage’s ceiling. The Armitage woman got twenty years but one thing that had to be said for Largo — he took the rap himself and none of his associates went with him even though we knew he’d had help.

As for me, I’ll always think of the case in terms of the blonde Trudy Miller. The girl in my neon nightmare, and that was where she stayed. The prosecution never located her and I never saw her again.

Not that I wanted to. Connie’s red hair in a black hardtop does me just fine.