­ let's call it the dream plane until I've shown you what it really is ­ physically as well as mentally." "As Lewis Carroll reached it?" "As he must have, to have known the things he knew. Things so revolutionary and dangerous that he did not dare reveal them openly." For a fleeting moment it sounded so reasonable that I wondered if it could be true. Why not? Why couldn't there be other dimensions besides our own? Why couldn't a brilliant mathematician with a fantastic mind have found a way through to one of them? In my mind, I cussed our Clyde Andrews for having told me about the asylum break. If only I hadn't learned about that, what a wonderful evening this one would be. Even knowing Smith was insane, I found myself ­ possibly with the whisky's help ­ wondering if he could be right. How marvelous it would have been without the knowledge of his insanity to temper the wonder and the wondering. It would have been an evening in Wonderland. And, sane or crazy, I liked him. Sane or crazy, he belonged figuratively in the department in which Mrs. Carr's husband worked literally. I laughed and then, of course, I had to explain what I'd been laughing about. His eyes lighted. "The Roman candle department. That's marvelous. The Roman candle department." You see what I mean. We had a drink to the Roman candle department, and then it happened that neither of us said anything right away and it was so quiet that I jumped when the phone rang. I picked it up and said into it, "This is the Roman candle department." "Doc?" It was the voice of Pete Corey, my printer. It sounded tense. "I've got bad news." Pete doesn't get excited easily. I sobered up a little and asked, "What, Pete?" "Listen, Doc. Remember just a couple of hours ago you were saying you wished a murder or something would happen so you'd have a story for the paper ­ and remember how I asked you if you'd like one even if it happened to a friend of yours?" Of course I remembered; he'd mentioned my best friend, Carl Trenholm. I took a tighter grip on the phone. I said, "Cut out breaking it gently, Pete. Has something happened to Carl?" "Yes, Doc." "For God's sake, what? Cut the build-up. Is he dead?" "That's what I heard. He was found out on the pike; I don't know if he was hit by a car or what." "Where is he now?" "Being brought in. I guess. All I know is that Hank called me­" Hank is Pete's brother-in-law and a deputy sheriff. "­ and said they got a call from someone who found him alongside the road out there. Even Hank had it third-hand ­ Rance Kates phoned him and said to come down and take care of the office while he went out there. And Hank knows Kates doesn't like you and wouldn't give you the tip, so Hank called me. But don't get Hank in trouble with his boss by telling anybody where the tip came from." "Did you call the hospital?" I asked. "If Carl's just hurt­" "Wouldn't be time for them to get him there yet ­ or to wherever they do take him. Hank just phoned me from his own place before he started for the sheriff's office, and Kates had just called him from the office and was just leaving there." "Okay, Pete," I said. "Thanks. I'm going back downtown; I'll call the hospital from the Clarion office. You call me there if you hear anything more." "Hell, Doc, I'm coming down too." I told him he didn't have to, but he said the hell with having to; he wanted to. I didn't argue with him. I cradled the phone and found that I was already standing up. I said, "Sorry, but something important's come up ­ an accident to a friend of mine." I headed for the closet to get my coat. "Do you want to wait here, or­" "If you don't mind," he said. "That is, if you think you won't be gone very long." "I don't know that, but I'll phone here and let you know as soon as I can. If the phone rings answer it; it'll be me. And help yourself to whisky and books." He nodded. "I'll get along fine. Hope your friend isn't seriously hurt." That was all I was worrying about myself. I put on my hat and hurried out, again, and this time seriously, cussing those two flat tires on my car and the fact that I hadn't taken time to fix them that morning. Nine blocks isn't far to walk when you're not in any hurry, but it's a hell of a distance when you're anxious to get there quickly. I walked fast, so fast, in fact, that I winded myself in the first two blocks and had to slow down. I kept thinking the same thing Pete had obviously thought ­ what a hell of a coincidence it was that we'd mentioned the possibility of Carl's being­ But we'd been talking about murder. Had Carl been murdered? Of course not; things like that didn't happen in Carmel City. It must have been an accident, a hit-run driver. No one would have the slightest reason for killing, of all people, Carl Trenholm. No one but a­ Finishing that thought made me stop walking suddenly. No one but a maniac would have the slightest reason for killing Carl Trenholm. But there was an escaped maniac at large tonight and ­ unless he'd left instead of waiting for me ­ he was sitting right in my living room. I'd thought he was harmless ­ even though I'd taken the precaution of putting that gun in my pocket ­ but how could I be sure? I'm no psychiatrist; where did I get the bright idea that I could tell the difference between a harmless nut and a homicidal maniac? I started to turn back and then realized that going back was useless and foolish. He would either have left as soon as I was out of sight around the corner, or he hadn't guessed that I suspected him and would wait as I'd told him to, until he heard from me. So all I had to do was to phone the asylum as soon as I could and they'd send guards to close in on my house and take him if he was still there. I started walking again. Yes, it would be ridiculous for me to go back alone, even though I still had that gun in my pocket. He might resist, and I wouldn't want to have to use the gun, especially as I hadn't any real reason to believe he'd killed Carl. It could have been an auto accident just as easily; I couldn't even form an intelligent opinion on that until I learned what Carl's injuries were. I kept walking, as fast as I could without winding myself again. Suddenly I thought of that newspaper clipping ­ "MAN SLAIN BY UNKNOWN BEAST." A prickle went down my spine ­ what if Carl's body showed­ And then the horrible thought pyramided. What if the unknown beast who had killed the man near Bridgeport and the escaped maniac were one and the same. What if he had escaped before at the time of the killing at Bridgeport ­ or, for that matter, hadn't been committed to the asylum until after that killing, whether or not he was suspected of it. I thought of lycanthropy, and shivered. What might I have been talking about Jabberwocks and unknown beasts with? Suddenly the gun I'd put in my pocket felt comforting there. I looked around over my shoulder to be sure that nothing was coming after me. The street behind was empty, but I started walking a little faster just the same. Suddenly the street lights weren't bright enough and the night, which had been a pleasant June evening, was a frightful, menacing thing. I was really scared. Maybe it's as well that I didn't guess that things hadn't even started to happen. I felt glad that I was passing the courthouse ­ with a light on in the window of the sheriff's office. I even considered going in. Probably Hank would be there by now and Rance Kates would still be gone. But no, I was this far now and I'd carry on to the Clarion office and start my phoning from there. Besides, if Kates found out I'd been in his office talking to Hank, Hank would be in trouble. So I kept on going. The corner of Oak Street, and I turned, now only a block and a half from the Clarion. But it was going to take me quite a while to make that block and a half. A big, dark blue Buick sedan suddenly pulled near the curb and slowed down alongside me. There were two men in the front seat and the one who was driving stuck his head out of the window and said, "Hey, Buster, what town is this?" CHAPTER FIVE When the sands are all dry, he is gay as a lark, And will talk in contemptuous tones of the Shark: But, when the tide rises and sharks are around, His voice has a timid and tremulous sound. It had been a long time since anyone had called me "Buster," and I didn't particularly like it. I didn't like the looks of the men, either, or the tone of voice the question had been asked in. A minute ago, I'd thought I'd be glad of any company short of that of the escaped maniac; now I decided differently. I'm not often rude, but I can be when someone else starts it. I said, "Sorry, pal, I'm a stranger here myself." And I kept on walking. I heard the man behind the wheel of the Buick say something to the other, and then they passed me and swung in to the curb just ahead. The driver got out and walked toward me. I stopped short and tried not to do a double-take when I recognized him. My attention to the wanted circulars on the post office bulletin board was about to pay off ­ although from the expression on his face, the payoff wasn't going to be the kind I'd want. The man coming toward me and only two steps away when I stopped was Bat Masters, whose picture had been posted only last week and was still there on the board. I couldn't be wrong about his face, and I remembered the name clearly because of its similarity to the name of Bat Masterson, the famous gunman of the old West. I'd thought of it as a coincidence at first and then I realized that the similarity of Masters to Masterson had made the nickname "Bat" a natural. He was a big man with a long, horselike face, eyes wide apart and a mouth that was a narrow straight line separating a lantern jaw from a wide upper lip; on the latter there was a two-day stubble of hair that indicated he was starting a mustache. But it would have taken plastic surgery and a full beard to disguise that face from anyone who had recently, however casually, studied a picture of it. Bat Masters, bank robber and killer. I had a gun in my pocket, but I didn't remember it at the time. It's probably just as well; if I'd remembered, I might have been frightened into reaching for it. And that probably would not have been a healthful thing to do. He was coming at me with his fists balled but no gun in either of them. He didn't intend to kill me ­ although one of those fists might do it quite easily and unintentionally. I weigh a hundred and forty wringing wet, and he weighed almost twice that and had shoulders that bulged out his suit coat. There wasn't even time to turn and run. His left hand came out and caught the front of my coat and pulled me toward him, almost lifting me off the sidewalk. He said, "Listen, Pop, I don't want any lip. I asked you a question." "Carmel City," I said. "Carmel City, Illinois." The voice of the other man, still in the car, came back to us. "Hey, Bill, don't hurt the guy. We don't want to­" He didn't finish the sentence, of course; to say you don't want to attract attention is the best way of drawing it. Masters looked past me right over my head ­ to see if anybody or anything was coming that way and then, still keeping his grip on the front of my coat, turned and looked the other way. He wasn't afraid of my swinging at him enough to bother keeping his eyes on me, and I didn't blame him for feeling that way about it. A car was coming now, about a block away. And two men came out of the drugstore on the opposite side of the street, only a few buildings down. Then behind me I could hear the sound of another car turning into Oak Street. Masters turned back to me and let go, so we were just two men standing there face to face if anyone noticed us. He said, "Okay, Pop. Next time somebody asks you a question, don't be so God damn fresh." He still glared at me as though he hadn't yet completely given up the idea of giving me something to remember him by ­ maybe just a light open-handed slap that wouldn't do anything worse than crack my jawbone and drive my dentures down my throat. I said, "Sure, sorry," and let my voice sound afraid, but tried not to sound quite as afraid as I really was ­ because if he even remotely suspected that I might have recognized him, I wasn't going to get out of it at all. He swung around and walked back to the ear, got in and drove off. I suppose I should have got the license number, but it would have been a stolen car anyway ­ and besides I didn't think of it. I didn't even watch the car as it drove away; if either of them looked back I didn't want them to think I was giving them what criminals call the big-eye. I didn't want to give them any possible reason to change their minds about going on. I started walking again, keeping to the middle of the sidewalk and trying to look like a man minding his own business. Also trying to keep my knees from shaking so hard that I couldn't walk at all. It had been a narrow squeak all right. If the street had been completely empty­ I could have notified the sheriff's office about a minute quicker by turning around and going back that way, but I didn't take a chance. If someone was watching me out of the back window of the car, a change in direction wouldn't be a good idea. There was a difference of only a block anyway; I was half a block past the courthouse and a block and a half from Smiley's and the Clarion office across the street from it. >From either one I could phone in the big news that Bat Masters and a companion had just driven through Carmel City heading north, probably toward Chicago. And Hank Ganzer, in the sheriff's office, would relay the story to the state police and there was probably better than an even chance that they'd be caught within an hour or two. And if they were, I might even get a slice of the reward for giving the tip ­ but I didn't care as much about that as about the story I was going to have. Why, it was a story, even if they weren't caught, and if they were, it would be a really big one. And a local story ­ if the tip came from Carmel City ­ even if they were actually caught several counties north. Maybe there'd even be a gun battle ­ from my all too close look at Masters I had a hunch that there would be. Perfect timing, too, I thought. For once something was happening on a Thursday night. For once I'd beat the Chicago papers. They'd have the story, too, of course, and a lot of Carmel City people take Chicago dailies, but they don't come in until the late afternoon train and the Clarion would be out hours before that. Yes, for once I was going to have a newspaper with news in it. Even if Masters and his pal weren't caught, the fact that they'd passed through town made a story. And besides that, there was the escaped maniac, and Carl Trenholm­ Thinking about Carl again made me walk faster. It was safe by now; I'd gone a quarter of a block since the Buick had driven off. It wasn't anywhere in sight and again the street was quiet; thank God it hadn't been this quiet while Masters had been making up his mind whether or not to slug me. I was past Deak's Music Store, dark. Past the supermarket, ditto. The bank­ I had passed the bank, too, when I stopped as suddenly as though I'd run into a wall. The bank had been dark too. And it shouldn't have been; there's a small night light that always burns over the safe. I'd passed the bank thousands of times after dark and never before had that light been off. For a moment the wild thought went through my head that Bat and his companion must have just burglarized the bank ­ although robbery, not burglary, was Masters' trade ­ and then I saw how ridiculous that thought had been. They'd been driving toward the bank and a quarter of a block away from it when they'd stopped to ask me what town they were in. True, they could have burglarized the bank and then circled the block in their car, but if they had they'd have been intent on their getaway. Criminals do pretty silly things sometimes but not quite so silly as to stop a getaway car within spitting distance of the scene of the crime to ask what town they're in, and then to top it by getting out of the car to slug a random pedestrian because they don't like his answer to their question. No, Masters and company couldn't have robbed the bank. And they couldn't be burglarizing it now, either. Their car had gone on past; I hadn't watched it, but my ears had told me that it had kept on going. And even if it hadn't, I had. My encounter with them had been only seconds ago; there wasn't possibly time for them to have broken in there, even if they'd stopped. I went back a few steps and looked into the window of the bank. At first I saw nothing except the vague silhouette of a window at the back ­ the top half of the window, that is, which was visible above the counter. Then the silhouette became less vague and I could see that the window had been opened; the top bar of the lower sash showed clearly, only a few inches from the top of the frame. That was the means of entry all right ­ but was the burglar still in there, or had he left, and left the window open behind him? I strained my eyes against the blackness to the left of the window, where the safe was. And suddenly a dim light flickered briefly, as though a match had been struck but had gone out before the phosphorus had ignited the wood. I could see only the brief light of it, as it was below the level of the counter; I couldn't see whoever had lighted it. The burglar was still there. And suddenly I was running on tiptoe back through the areaway between the bank and the post office. Good God, don't ask me why. Sure, I had money in the bank, but the bank had insurance against burglary and it wasn't any skin off my backside if the bank was robbed. I wasn't even thinking that it would be a better story for the Clarion if I got the burglar ­ or if he got me. I just wasn't thinking at all. I was running back alongside the bank toward that window that he'd left open for his getaway. I think it must have been reaction from the cowardice I'd shown and felt only a minute before. I must have been a bit punch drunk from Jabberwocks and Vorpal Blades and homicidal maniacs with lycanthropy and bank bandits and a bank burglar ­ or maybe I thought I'd suddenly been promoted to the Roman candle department. Maybe I was drunk, maybe I was a little mentally unbalanced ­ use any maybe you want, but there I was running tiptoe through the areaway. Running, that is, as far as the light from the street would let me; then I groped along the side of the building until I came to the alley. There was dim light there, enough for me to be able to see the window. It was still open. I stood there looking at it and vaguely beginning to realize how crazy I'd been. Why hadn't I run to the sheriff's office for Hank? The burglar ­ or, for all I knew, burglars ­ might be just starting his work on the safe in there. He might be in a long time, long enough for Hank to get here and collar him. If he came out now, what was I going to do about it? Shoot him? That was ridiculous; I'd rather let him get away with robbing the bank than do that. And then it was too late because suddenly there was a soft shuffling sound from the window and a hand appeared on the sill. He was coming out, and there wasn't a chance that I could get away without his hearing me. What would happen then, I didn't know. I would just as soon not find out. A moment before, just as I'd reached the place beside the window where I now stood, I'd stepped on a piece of wood, a one-by-two stick of it about a foot long. That was a weapon I could understand. I reached down and grabbed it and swung, just in time, as a head came through the window. Thank God I didn't swing too hard. At the last second, even in that faint light, I'd thought­ The head and the hand weren't in the window any more and there was the soft thud of a body falling inside. There wasn't any sound or movement for seconds. Long seconds, and then there was the sound of my stick of wood hitting the dirt of the alley and I knew I'd dropped it. If it hadn't been for what I'd thought I'd seen in that last fraction of a second before it was too late to stop the blow, I could have run now for the sheriff's office. But­ Maybe here went my head, but I had to chance it. The sill of the window wasn't much over waist high. I leaned across it and struck a match, and I'd been right. I climbed in the window and felt for his heart and it was beating all right. He seemed to be breathing normally. I ran my hands very gently over his head and then held them in the open window to look at them; there wasn't any blood. There could be, then, nothing worse than a concussion. I lowered the window so nobody would notice that it was open and then I felt my way carefully toward the nearest desk ­ I'd been in the bank thousands of times; I knew its layout ­ and groped for a telephone until I found one. The operator's voice said, "Number, please?" and I started to give it and then remembered; she'd know where the call came from and that the bank was closed. Naturally, she'd listen in. Maybe she'd even call the sheriff's office to tell them someone was using the telephone in the bank. Had I recognized her voice? I'd thought I had. I said, "Is this Milly?" "Yes. Is this ­ Mr. Stoeger?" "Right," I said. I was glad she'd known my voice. "Listen, Milly, I'm calling from the bank, but it's all right. You don't need to worry about it. And ­ do me a favor, will you? Please don't listen in." "All right, Mr. Stoeger. Sure. What number do you want?" I gave it; the number of Clyde Andrews, president of the bank. As I heard the ringing of the phone at the other end, I thought how lucky it was that I'd known Milly all her life and that we liked one another. I knew that she'd be burning with curiosity but that she wouldn't listen in. Clyde Andrews' voice answered. I was still careful about what I said because I didn't know offhand whether he was on a party line. I said, "This is Doc Stoeger, Clyde. I'm down at the bank. Get down here right away. Hurry." "Huh? Doc, are you drunk or something? What would you be doing at the bank. It's closed." I said, "Somebody was inside here. I hit him over the head with a piece of wood when he started back out of the window, and he's unconscious but not hurt bad. But just to be sure, pick up Doc Minton on your way here. And hurry." "Sure," he said. "Are you phoning the sheriff or shall I?" "Neither of us. Don't phone anybody. Just get Minton and get here quick." "But ­ I don't get it. Why not phone the sheriff? Is this a gag?" I said, "No, Clyde. Listen ­ you'll want to see the burglar first. He isn't badly hurt, but for God's sake quit arguing and get down here with Dr. Minton. Do you understand?" His tone of voice was different when he said, "I'll be there. Five minutes." I put the receiver back on the phone and then lifted it again. The "Number, please" was Milly's voice again and I asked her if she knew anything about Carl Trenholm. She didn't; she hadn't known anything had happened at all. When I told her what little I knew she said yes, that she'd routed a call from a farmhouse out on the pike to the sheriff's office about half an hour before, but she'd had several other calls around the same time and hadn't listened in on it. I decided that I'd better wait until I was somewhere else, before I called to report either Bat Masters' passing through or about the escaped maniac at my own house. It wouldn't be safe to risk making the call from here, and a few more minutes wouldn't matter a lot. I went back, groping my way through the dark toward the dim square of the window, and bent down again by the boy, Clyde Andrews' son. His breathing and his heart were still okay and he moved a little and muttered something as though he was coming out of it. I don't know anything about concussion, but I thought that was a good sign and felt better. It would have been terrible if I'd swung a little harder and had killed him or injured him seriously. I sat down on the floor so my head would be out of the line of sight if anyone looked in the front window, as I had a few minutes before, and waited. So much had been happening that I felt a little numb. There was so much to think about that I guess I didn't think about any of it. I just sat there in the dark. When the phone rang I jumped about two feet. I groped to it and answered it. Milly's voice said, "Mr. Stoeger, I thought I'd better tell you if you're still there. Somebody from the drugstore across the street just phoned the sheriff's office and said the night light in the bank is out, and whoever answered at the sheriff's office ­ it sounded like one of the deputies, not Mr. Kates ­ said they'd come right around." I said, "Thanks, Milly. Thanks a lot." A car was pulling up at the curb outside; I could see it through the window. I breathed a sigh of relief when I recognized the men getting out of it as Clyde Andrews and the doctor. I switched on the lights inside while Clyde was unlocking the front door. I told him quickly about the call that had been made to the sheriff's office while I was leading them back to where Harvey Andrews was lying. We moved him slightly to a point where neither he nor Dr. Minton, bending over him, could be seen from the front of the bank, and we did it just in time. Hank was rapping on the door. I stayed out of sight, too, to avoid having to explain what I was doing there. I heard Clyde Andrews open the door for Hank and explain that everything was all right, that someone had phoned him, too, that the night light was out and that he'd just got here to check up and that the bulb had merely burned out. When Hank left, Clyde came back, his face, a bit white. Dr. Minton said, "He's going to be all right, Clyde. Starting to come out of it. Soon as he can walk between us, we'll get him to the hospital for a checkup and be sure." I said, "Clyde, I've got to run. There's a lot popping tonight. But as soon as you're sure the boy's all right will you let me know? I'll probably be at the Clarion, but I might be at Smiley's ­ or if it's a long time from now, I might be home." "Sure, Doc." He put his hand on my shoulder. "And thanks a lot for ­ calling me instead of the sheriff's office." "That's all right," I told him. "And, Clyde, I didn't know who it was before I hit. He was coming out of the back window and I thought­" Clyde said, "I looked in his room after you phoned. He'd packed. I ­ I can't understand it, Doc. He's only fifteen. Why he'd do a thing like­" He shook his head. "He's always been headstrong and he's got into little troubles a few times, but ­ I don't understand this." He looked at me very earnestly. "Do you?" I thought maybe I did understand a little of it, but I was remembering about Bat Masters and the fact that he was getting farther away every minute and that I'd better get the state police notified pretty quickly. So I said, "Can I talk to you about it tomorrow, Clyde? Get the boy's side of it when he can talk ­ and just try to keep your mind open until then. I think ­ it may not be as bad as you think right now." I left him still looking like a man who's just taken an almost mortal blow, and went out. I headed down the street thinking what a damn fool I'd been to do what I'd done. But then, where had I missed a chance to do something wrong anywhere down the line tonight? And then, on second thought, this one thing might not have been wrong. If I'd called Hank, the boy just might have been shot instead of knocked out. And in any case he'd have been arrested. That would have been bad. This way, there was a chance he could be straightened out before it was too late. Maybe a psychiatrist could help him. The only thing was, Clyde Andrews would have to realize that he, too, would have to take advice from the psychiatrist. He was a good man, but a hard father. You can't expect the things of a fifteen year-old boy that Clyde expected of Harvey, and not have something go wrong somewhere down the line. But burglarizing a bank, even his own father's bank ­ I couldn't make up my mind whether that made it better or worse was certainly something I hadn't looked for. It appalled me, a bit. Harvey's running away from home wouldn't have surprised me at all; I don't know that I'd even have blamed him. A man can be too good a man and too conscientious and strict a father for his son ever to be able to love him. If Clyde Andrews would only get drunk ­ good and stinking drunk ­ just once in his life, he might get an entirely different perspective on things, even if he never again took another drink. But he'd never taken a drink yet, nor one in his whole life. I don't think he'd ever smoked a cigarette or said a naughty word. I liked him anyway; I'm pretty tolerant, I guess. But I'm glad I hadn't had a father like him. In my books, the man in town who was the best father was Carl Trenholm. Trenholm ­ and I hadn't found out yet whether he was dead or only injured! I was only half a block, now, from Smiley's and the Clarion. I broke into a trot. Even at my age, it wouldn't wind me to trot that far. It had probably been less than half an hour since I'd left home, but with the things that had happened en route, it seemed like days. Well, anyway, nothing could happen to me between here and Smiley's. And nothing did. I could see through the glass that there weren't any customers at the bar and that Smiley was alone behind it. Polishing glasses, as always; I think he must polish the same glasses a dozen times over when there's nothing else for him to do. I burst in and headed for the telephone. I said, "Smiley, hell's popping tonight. There's an escaped lunatic, and something's happened to Carl Trenholm, and a couple of wanted bank robbers drove through here fifteen or twenty minutes ago and I got to­" I was back by the telephone by the time I'd said all that and I was reaching up for the receiver. But I never quite touched it. A voice behind me said, "Take it easy, Buster." CHAPTER SIX "What matters it how far we go?" his scaly friend replied. "The further off from England the nearer is to France. There is another shore, you know, upon the other side. Then turn not pale, beloved snail, but come and join the dance." I turned around slowly. They'd been sitting at the table around the el of the tavern, the one table that can't be seen through the glass of the door or the windows. They'd probably picked it for that reason. The beer glasses in front of them were empty. But I didn't think the guns in their hands would be. One of the guns ­ the one in the hand of Bat Masters' companion ­ was aimed at Smiley. And Smiley, not smiling, was keeping his hands very still, not moving a muscle. The gun in Masters' hand was aimed at me. He said, "So you knew us, huh, Buster?" There wasn't any use denying it; I'd said too much already. I said, "You're Bat Masters." I looked at the other man, whom I hadn't seen clearly before, when he'd been in the car. He was squat and stocky, with a bullet head and little pig eyes. He looked like a caricature of a German army officer. I said, "I'm sorry; I don't know your friend." Masters laughed. He said, "See, George, I'm famous and you're not. How'd you like that?" George kept his eyes on Smiley. He said, "I think you better come around this side of the bar. You just might have a gun back there and take a notion to dive for it." "Come on over and sit with us," Masters said. "Both of you. Let's make it a party, huh, George?" George said, "Shut up," which changed my opinion of George quite a bit. I personally wouldn't have cared to tell Bat Masters to shut up, and in that tone of voice. True, I had been fresh with him about twenty minutes before, but I hadn't known who he was. I hadn't even seen how big he was. Smiley was coming around the end of the bar. I caught his eye, and gave him what was probably a pretty sickly grin. I said, "I'm sorry, Smiley. Looks like I put our foot in it this time." His face was completely impassive. He said, "Not your fault, Doc." I wasn't too sure of that myself. I was just remembering that I'd vaguely noticed a car parked in front of Smiley's place. If my brains had been in the proper end of my anatomy I'd have had the sense to take at least a quick look at that car. And if I'd had that much sense, I'd have had the further sense to go across to the Clarion office instead of barging nitwittedly into Smiley's and into the arms of Bat Masters and George. And if the state police had come before they'd left Smiley's, the Clarion would have had a really good story. This way, it might be a good story too, but who would write it? Smiley and I were standing close together now, and Masters must have figured that one gun was enough for both of us. He stuck his into a shoulder holster and looked at George. "Well?" he said. That proved again that George was the boss, or at least was on equal status with Masters. And as I studied George's face, I could see why. Masters was big and probably had plenty of brass and courage, but George was the one of the two who had the more brains. George said, "Guess we'll have to take 'em along, Bat." I knew what that meant. I said, "Listen, there's a back room. Can't you just tie us up? If we're found a few hours from now, what does it matter? You'll be clear." "And you might be found in a few minutes. And you probably noticed what kind of a car we got, and you know which way we're heading." He shook his head, and it was definite. He said, "We're not sticking around, either, till somebody comes in. Bat, go look outside." Masters got up and started toward the front; then he hesitated and went back of the bar instead. He took two pint bottles of whisky and put one in either coat pocket. And he punched "No Sale" on the register and took out the bills; he didn't bother with the change. He folded the bills and stuck them in his trouser pocket. Then he came back around the bar and started for the door. Sometimes I think people are crazy. Smiley stuck out his hand. He said, "Five bucks. Two-fifty apiece for those pints." He could have got shot for it, then and there, but for some reason Masters liked it. He grinned and took the wadded paper money out of his pocket, peeled a five loose and put it in Smiley's hand. George said, "Bat, cut the horseplay. Look outside." I noticed that he watched very carefully and kept the gun trained smack in the middle of Smiley's chest while Smiley stuck the five dollar bill into his pocket. Masters opened the door and stepped outside, looked around casually and beckoned to us. Meanwhile George had stood up and walked around behind us, sliding his gun into a coat pocket out of sight but keeping his hand on it. He said, "All right, boys, get going." It was all very friendly. In a way. We went out the door into the cool pleasant evening that wasn't going to last much longer, the way things looked now. Yes, the Buick was parked right in front of Smiley's. If I'd only glanced at it before I went in, the whole mess wouldn't have happened. The Buick was a four-door sedan. George said, "Get in back," and we got in back. George got in front but sat sidewise, turned around facing us over the seat. Masters got in behind the wheel and started the engine. He said over his shoulder, "Well, Buster, where to?" I said, "About five miles out there are woods. If you take us back in them and tie us up, there isn't a chance on earth we'd be found before tomorrow." I didn't want to die, and I didn't want Smiley to die, and that idea was such a good one that for a moment I hoped. Then Masters said, "What town is this, Buster?" and I knew there wasn't any chance. Just because I'd given him a fresh answer to a fresh question half an hour ago, there wasn't any chance. The car pulled out from the curb and headed north. I was scared, and sober. There didn't seem to be any reason why I had to be both. I said, "How about a drink?" George reached into Masters' coat pocket and handed one of the pint bottles over the back of the seat. My hands shook a little while I got the cellophane off with my thumbnail and unscrewed the cap. I handed it to Smiley first and he took a short drink and passed it back. I took a long one and it put a warm spot where a very cold one had been. I don't mean to say it made me happy, but I felt a little better. I wondered what Smiley was thinking about and I remembered that he had a wife and three kids and I wished I hadn't remembered that. I handed him back the bottle and he took another quick nip. I said, "I'm sorry, Smiley," and he said, "That's all right, Doc." And he laughed. "One bad thing, Doc. There'll be a swell story for your Clarion, but can Pete write it?" I found myself wondering that, quite seriously. Pete's one of the best all-around printers in Illinois, but what kind of a job would he make of things tonight and tomorrow morning? He'd get the paper out all right, but he'd never done any news writing ­ at least as long as he'd worked for me ­ and handling all the news he was going to have tomorrow would be plenty tough. An escaped maniac, whatever had happened to Carl, and whatever ­ as if I really wondered ­ was going to happen to Smiley and me. I wondered if our bodies would be found in time to make the paper, or if it would be merely a double disappearance. We'd both be missed fairly soon. Smiley because his tavern was still open but no one behind the bar. I because I was due to meet Pete at the Clarion and about an hour from now, when I hadn't shown up yet, he'd start checking. We were just leaving town by then, and I noticed that we'd got off the main street which was part of the main highway. Burgoyne Street, which we were on, was turning into a road. Masters stopped the car as we came to a fork and turned around. "Where do these roads go?" he asked. "They both go to Watertown," I told him. "The one to the left goes along the river and the other one cuts through the hills; it's shorter, but it's trickier driving." Apparently Masters didn't mind tricky driving. He swung right and we started up into the hills. I wouldn't have done it myself, if I'd been driving. The hills are pretty hilly and the road through them is narrow and does plenty of winding, with a drop-off on one side or the other most of the time. Not the long precipitous drop-off you find on real mountain roads, but enough to wreck a car that goes over the edge, and enough to bother my touch of acrophobia. Phobias are ridiculous things, past reasoning. I felt mine coming back the moment there was that slight drop-off at the side of the road as we started up the first hill. Actually, I was for the moment more afraid of that than of George's gun. Yes, phobias are funny things. Mine, fear