of
heights, is one  of the commonest. Carl is afraid of  cats. Al Grainger is a
pyrophobiac, morbidly afraid of fire.
     Smiley said, "You know. Doc?"
     "What?" I asked him.
     "I was thinking of Pete having to write that newspaper. Whyn't you come
back and help him. Ain't there such things as ghost writers?"
     I groaned. After all these years, Smiley had picked a time like this to
come up with the only funny thing I'd ever heard him say.
     We were  up  high now, about  as high as  the  road went;  ahead was  a
hairpin turn  as it started downhill again. Masters  stopped the car. "Okay,
you mugs," he said. "Get out and start walking back."
     Start, he'd  said;  he hadn't made  any mention of finishing.  The tail
lights of  the car would give them  enough illumination to shoot us down by.
And  he'd  probably picked this  spot  because it  would be easy to roll our
bodies off the edge of the road, down  the slope, so they  wouldn't be found
right away. Both of them were already getting out of the car.
     Smiley's big hand gave my arm a quick squeeze; I didn't know whether it
was a farewell gesture  or a signal. He said, "Go ahead, Doc,"  as calmly as
though he was collecting for drinks back of his bar.
     I opened the door on my side, but I was afraid to step out. Not because
I knew I was going to be shot ­  that would happen anyway, even if I  didn't
get out. They'd either drag me  out or else shoot me where I sat  and bloody
up the back seat of their  car. No, I  was afraid to get out because the car
was on the outside edge of the road and the slope started only  a yard  from
the  open door of the car. My damned acrophobia. It was dark out there and I
could  see the edge of the road and no  farther and  I pictured a  precipice
beyond. I hesitated, half in the door and half out of it.
     Smiley said again, "Go ahead, Doc," and I heard him moving behind me.
     Then  suddenly  there was  a click  ­ and complete and utter  darkness.
Smiley  had reached a long arm  across the back of the seat to the dashboard
and had turned the light switch off. All the car lights went out.
     There was a shove in the middle of my back that sent me out of that car
door  like  a cork popping out of a champagne  bottle; I don't think my feet
touched that yard-wide strip  of road at all. As I went  over the  edge into
darkness  and the unknown I heard  swearing and  a shot  behind me. I was so
scared of falling that I'd gladly  have been  back up  on the road trying to
outrun a  bullet back toward town. At  least I'd have been dead before  they
rolled me over the edge.
     I hit and fell and  rolled. It wasn't really steep, after  all;  it was
about a forty-five degree slope, and it  was grassy. I flattened a couple of
bushes before one stopped me. I could hear  Smiley coming after me, sliding,
and I scrambled on as fast as I could. All of my arms and legs  seemed to be
working, so I couldn't be seriously hurt.
     And I  could see a little now that  my  eyes  were getting used  to the
darkness. I could  see  trees ahead, and I scrambled toward  them  down  the
slope, sometimes running,  sometimes  sliding and sometimes  simply falling,
which is the simplest if not the most comfortable way to go down a hill.
     I made the trees, and heard Smiley make them, just as the lights of the
car flashed on, on the road above us. Some shots  snapped our way and then I
heard George  say,  "Don't  waste it. Let's get going," and Bat's, "You mean
we're gonna­"
     George growled, "Hell, yes. That's woods down  there. We could waste an
hour playing hide and seek. Let's get going."
     They were the sweetest words I'd heard in a long time.
     I heard car doors slam, and the car started.
     Smiley's voice, about two yards to my left, said, "Doc? You okay?"
     "I think so," I said. "Smart work, Smiley. Thanks."
     He came around a tree toward me and I could see him now. He said, "Save
it, Doc. Come on, quick.  We  got a chance ­  a  little chance, anyway ­  of
stopping them."
     "Stopping them?" I  said. My voice went shrill  and  sounded strange to
me. I wondered if Smiley had gone crazy. I couldn't think of anything in the
whole wide world that I wanted to do less than stop Bat Masters and George.
     But he had hold of my arm and was starting down-hill, through the dimly
seen trees and away from the road, taking me with him.
     He said,  "Listen, Doc, I  know this country like the  palm of my foot.
I've hunted here, often."
     "For bank robbers?" I asked him.
     "Listen,  that  road makes a hairpin and  goes by  right below  us, not
forty yards from here.  If we  can  get just above the  road before they get
there and if I can find a big boulder to roll down as the car goes by­"
     I wasn't  crazy about  it,  but  he was pulling me  along  and  we were
through the  trees  already. My  eyes were used to the darkness by now and I
could see the road dimly,  a dozen yards  ahead and a dozen  yards below. In
the  distance, around a curve, I could hear the sound of the car; I couldn't
see it yet. It was a long way off, but coming fast.
     Smiley said, "Look for a boulder, Doc. If you can't find one big enough
to  roll, then  something we can  throw.  If we  can hit their windshield or
something­"
     He was bending over,  groping  around. I did the same; but the bank was
smooth and grassy. If there were stones, I couldn't find any.
     Apparently Smiley wasn't having any luck either. He swore. He said, "If
I only had a gun­"
     I remembered something. "I've got one," I said.
     He straightened up and looked at me  ­ and  I'm glad it was dark enough
that he couldn't see my face and that I couldn't see his.
     I handed him the  gun.  The headlights of the car were coming in  sight
now around the curve. Smiley pushed me back into the trees and  stood behind
one himself, leaning out to expose only his head and his gun hand.
     The  car came  like a bat out of hell, but  Smiley took aim calmly.  He
fired his  first  shot when the car  was about forty yards away,  the second
when it was only twenty. The  first shot  went into the radiator  ­ I  don't
mean we could tell that then, but that's where it was found  afterwards. The
second went through the windshield, almost dead center but, of course, at an
angle. It plowed a  furrow along the side of Masters' neck. The car careened
and then went off the road  on the downhill  side, away  from us. It  turned
over once, end for end, the headlight beams stabbing the night  with drunken
arcs, and then it banged into a tree with a noise like the  end of the world
and stopped.
     For just a  second after all  that noise there was a  silence  that was
almost deafening. And then the gas tank exploded.
     The car caught fire  and  there was plenty of light. We saw, as we  ran
toward it, that one  of  the  men had been thrown  clear; when  we got close
enough we could see that it was Masters. George was still in the car, but we
couldn't  do a thing  for him.  And  in that roaring inferno  there wasn't a
chance on earth that  he  could have lived even the minute it took us to get
to the scene of the wreck.
     We dragged Masters farther away from the fire before we checked  to see
whether or  not  he was alive. Amazingly, he was. His face  looked as though
he'd  held it  in a meat  grinder and both of  his arms were broken. Whether
there was  anything  wrong with him beyond that we couldn't tell, but he was
still breathing and his heart was still beating.
     Smiley  was  staring  at the flaming wreck. He said, "A  perfectly good
Buick shot to hell. A fifty model at that." He shook his head sadly and then
jumped back, as I did, when there was another explosion in  the car; it must
have been the cartridges in George's pistol going off all at once.
     I told Smiley, "One of us  will have  to walk back. One had better stay
here, on account of Masters' still being alive."
     "I  guess  so," he said. "Don't know what either of us can  do for him,
but  we  can't both  just walk  off and leave  him. Say, look, that's  a car
coming."
     I looked where he was pointing,  toward the upper stretch of road where
we'd got out of the car before it made  the hairpin turn, and there were the
headlights of a coming car all right.
     We got  out on the  road ready  to hail it, but  it  would have stopped
anyway. It was a  state police  car with two coppers in it. Luckily,  I knew
one of  them ­ Willie Peeble ­ and Smiley knew the other  one, so they  took
our word for what had happened. Especially  as Peeble knew about Masters and
was able to identify him in spite of the way his face was cut up.
     Masters was still alive and his heartbeat and breathing were as good as
they'd been when we'd got to him. Peeble decided he'd better not try to move
him.  He went back to the police car and used the two-way  radio to  get  an
ambulance  started  our  way  and  to report  in  to headquarters  what  had
happened.
     Peeble  came back and said, "We'll give you and your friend a lift into
town as soon as  the  ambulance gets  here.  You'll have  to  make and  sign
statements and stuff,  but the chief says you can do that tomorrow; he knows
both of you and says it's all right that way."
     "That's swell," I said. "I've got to get back  to the office as soon as
I can. And as for Smiley here, his place  is open and nobody there." I had a
sudden thought and said, "Say, Smiley,  you don't by  any chance  still have
that pint we had a nip out of in the car, do you?"
     He  shook  his head. "What with turning off the lights  and pushing you
out and getting out myself­"
     I sighed at the waste  of good liquor. The  other pint bottle, the  one
that had been in Bat Masters' left coat pocket,  hadn't survived the  crash.
Still,  Smiley had saved our  lives, so I  had to forgive him for abandoning
the bottle he'd been holding.
     The fire was dying down now, and  I was getting  a little  sick  at the
barbecue odor and  wished the ambulance would come so we could get away from
there.
     I suddenly remembered Carl and asked Peeble if there'd  been any report
on  the police radio  about a Carl Trenholm.  He  shook  his head.  He said,
"There was a looney loose, though. Escaped from the  county asylum.  Must've
been caught, though; we had a cancellation on it later."
     That was good news, in a way. It meant that  Yehudi hadn't waited at my
place  after  all. And somehow I'd hated the thought  of having  to sick the
guards on him while he was  there. Insane or not,  it didn't seem like  real
hospitality to a guest.
     And  the fact that nothing had been on  the police radio about  Carl at
least wasn't discouraging.
     A car came along  from  the opposite  direction  and  stopped when  its
driver saw the smoldering wreckage and  the state police car. It turned  out
to be a break for Smiley and me.  The driver was a Watertown man whom Willie
Peeble knew and who was on his way to Carmel City. When Peeble introduced us
and vouched for  us, he said he'd be glad to take Smiley and  me into Carmel
City with him.
     I didn't believe it  at  first  when  I  saw  by the  clock dial on the
instrument panel of the car that it was only a few minutes after ten o'clock
as we entered Carmel City; it seemed incredible that so much had happened in
the few hours ­ less than four ­ since I'd left the Clarion. But we passed a
lighted  clock  in a store window and I saw that  the clock  in  the car was
right  after all, within a  few minutes, anyway. It was only a quarter after
ten.
     We were let off in front of Smiley's.  Across the  street I  could  see
lights were on at the Clarion, so Pete would be there. I  thought I'd take a
quick drink with Smiley, though, before I went to the  office, so  I went in
with him.
     The place  was as we'd left it.  If any customer had come  in, he'd got
tired of waiting and bad left.
     Smiley went around back of the bar and poured us drinks while I went to
the phone. I was going to call the hospital to find out about Carl Trenholm;
then I decided to  call Pete instead. He'd  surely  have called the hospital
already. So I gave the Clarion number.
     When Pete recognized my voice, he  said, "Doc, where  the hell have you
been?"
     "Tell you in a minute, Pete. First, have you got anything about Carl?"
     "He's  all  right. I  don't  know yet what  happened, but  he's okay. I
called the hospital and they said he'd been treated and released. I tried to
find out what  the injuries had been and how they'd happened,  but they said
they couldn't  give out that information. I tried  his  home, but I guess he
hadn't got there yet; nobody answered."
     "Thanks, Pete," I  said.  "That's swell.  Listen,  there's going  to be
plenty to write up. Carl's accident, when we get in touch with him, and  the
escape  and capture of the lunatic, and ­ something even  bigger than either
of those. So I guess we might as well do it tonight, if that's okay by you."
     "Sure, Doc. I'd rather get it over with tonight. Where are you?"
     "Over at Smiley's. Come on  over  for a quick one ­ to celebrate Carl's
being okay. He can't even be badly hurt if they released him that quickly."
     "Okay,  Doc, I'll  have one.  But  where were you? And Smiley, too, for
that matter? I looked  in  there  on my way to  the office ­ saw  the lights
weren't on here, so I knew you  weren't here yet ­ and you  and Smiley  were
both  gone. I waited five or ten minutes and then I  decided I'd better come
across here in  case of any phone calls and to start melting  metal  in  the
Linotype."
     I said, "Smiley and I had a little ride. I'll tell you about it."
     "Okay, Doc. See you in a couple of minutes."
     I  went back  to the  bar and when  I  reached for  the shot Smiley had
poured for me, my hand was shaking.
     Smiley grinned and said, "Me too,  Doc." He held out his hand and I saw
it wasn't much steadier than mine.
     "Well," he  said,  "you  got  your story, Doc. What  you were squawking
about.  Say,  here's   your  gun  back."  He  took  out  the  short-barreled
thirty-eight and put  it on the bar. "Good as  new, except two  bullets gone
out of it. How'd you happen to have it with you, Doc?"
     For some reason I didn't want to tell  him, or anyone, that the escaped
lunatic had  made such a sap out of me and  had been a guest at my house. So
I, said, "I had to walk down here,  and Pete had  just phoned me there was a
lunatic loose, so I stuck that in my pocket. Jittery, I guess."
     He looked at me and shook his head slowly. I know he was thinking about
my having had that gun in  my pocket  all along, during what  we thought was
our  last  ride,  and never having  even tried to use it. I'd been so scared
that  I'd  completely forgotten  about it until Smiley had said he wished he
had a gun.
     I grinned and said, "Smiley, you're right in what you're thinking. I've
got no more business with a gun  than  a  snake has with roller skates. Keep
it."
     "Huh? You mean it, Doc? I've  been thinking  about getting one to  keep
under the bar."
     "Sure,  I mean  it," I told him. "I'm afraid of the damn things and I'm
safer without one."
     He hefted it appraisingly. "Nice gun. It's worth something."
     I said, "So's my life, Smiley. To me, anyway. And you saved it when you
pushed me out of that car and over the edge tonight."
     "Forget it, Doc.  I couldn't have  got out that door  myself  with  you
asleep  in it. And  getting out of the  other side of the  car wouldn't have
been such a hot idea. Well, if you really mean it, thanks for the gun."
     He put it out  of  sight under the bar and then poured us each a second
drink. "Make it short," I told him. "I've got a lot of work to do."
     He  glanced at his clock  and  it was  only ten thirty. He said, "Hell,
Doc, the evenin's only a pup."
     I thought, but didn't say, what a pup!
     I wonder what I'd have thought if I'd even guessed that the  pup hadn't
even been weaned yet.
     Pete came in.

        CHAPTER SEVEN

          "It seems a shame," the Walrus said
                 "To play them such a trick.
          After we've brought them out so far,
                 And made them trot so quick!"

     Neither Smiley nor I had touched,  as yet, the second drink he'd poured
us, so there was time for Pete Corey to get in on the round; Smiley poured a
drink for him.
     He said, "Okay, Doc, now what's this gag about Smiley and you going for
a ride? You told me your car was laid up and Smiley doesn't drive one."
     "Pete," I said, "Smiley doesn't have to be able to drive a  car. He's a
gentleman of  genius. He  kills  or captures killers.  That's what  we  were
doing. Anyway, that's what Smiley  was doing.  I went  along,  just for  the
ride."
     "Doc, you're kidding me."
     I said, "If you don't believe me, read tomorrow's Clarion. Ever hear of
Bat Masters?"
     Pete shook his head. He reached for his drink.
     "You will," I told him. "In tomorrow's Clarion. Ever hear of George?"
     "George Who?"
     I opened my mouth to say I didn't know, but Smiley beat me to the punch
by saying, "George Kramer."
     I stared at Smiley. "How'd you know his last name?"
     "Saw  it in a  fact  detective magazine. And his picture, too,  and Bat
Masters'. They're members of the Gene Kelley mob."
     I stared harder at Smiley.  "You recognized them? I mean, before I even
came in here?"
     "Sure,"  Smiley said. "But it  wouldn't have been a good idea to  phone
the cops while they  were here, so  I was going to wait till  they left, and
then  phone the state cops to  pick 'em up between here  and Chicago. That's
where they  were heading. I listened to what they said, and it wasn't  much,
but I did get that much out of it.  Chicago. They had a date  there tomorrow
afternoon."
     "You're not kidding, Smiley?" I asked him. "You really had them spotted
before I came in here?"
     "I'll show  you the magazine, Doc, with their pictures in it.  Pictures
of all the Gene Kelley mob."
     "Why didn't you tell me?"
     Smiley shrugged his big shoulders. "You didn't ask. Why didn't you tell
me you had a gun in your pocket? If you coulda  slipped it to me in the car,
we'd  have polished 'em off sooner. It would  have been a cinch;  it  was so
dark in that back  seat after we  got out of town, George Kramer wouldn't of
seen you pass it."
     He laughed as though he'd said something funny. Maybe he had.
     Pete was looking from one to the other of us. He said, "Listen, if this
is a gag, you guys are going a long way for it. What the hell happened?"
     Neither of us paid any  attention  to Pete. I  said, "Smiley,  where is
that fact detective magazine? Can you get it?"
     "Sure, it's upstairs. Why? Don't you believe me?"
     "Smiley," I  said, "I'd believe you if you told me  you were lying. No,
what I had in mind is  that that magazine will save me a lot of grief. It'll
have background  stuff  on the boys  we  were playing cops and  robbers with
tonight. I  thought  I'd have  to phone to Chicago and get it  from the cops
there. But  if there's  a whole article on the Gene Kelley mob  in that mag,
I'll have enough without that."
     "Get  it  right  away,  Doc."  Smiley went  through  the  door that led
upstairs.
     I took pity on Pete and gave him a  quick sketch of our experience with
the gangsters. It was fun to watch his mouth drop open and to think  that  a
lot  of other mouths in Carmel  City would do that same  thing tomorrow when
the Clarion was distributed.
     Smiley came back  down with the magazine and I put  it in my pocket and
went  to the  phone again. I still  had  to have the  details about what had
happened to Carl,  for the paper. I still wanted  it for my  own information
too, but that wasn't so important as long as he wasn't seriously hurt.
     I  tried the hospital first but they gave me  the same runaround they'd
given  Pete; sorry, but since Mr.  Trenholm had been  discharged, they could
give out no information. I thanked them. I tried Carl's own phone and got no
answer, so I went back to Pete and Smiley.
     Smiley  happened to be staring out the window.  He said, "Somebody just
went in your office, Doc. Looked like Clyde Andrews."
     Pete turned to look, too, but was too late. He said,  "Guess that's who
it must've been. Forgot to tell you, Doc; he phoned about twenty minutes ago
while I was waiting for  you  over at the office. I told  him I expected you
any minute."
     "You didn't lock the door, did you, Pete?" I asked. He shook his head.
     I waited a minute to give the banker time to get up the stairs and into
the office and  then I went back to the phone and called the Clarion number.
It rang  several  times while Clyde,  apparently,  was  making  up his  mind
whether to answer it or not. Finally he did.
     "This is Doc, Clyde," I said. "How's the boy?"
     "He's all right, Doc. He's fine. And I want to thank you again for what
you did  and ­ I want to talk to you about  something. Are  you  on your way
here?"
     "I'm across the street at Smiley's. How about dropping over here if you
want to talk?"
     He hesitated. "Can't you come here?" he asked.
     I grinned  to myself. Clyde  Andrews  is not only  a strict  temperance
advocate; he's head of a  local chapter  (a small  one,  thank God)  of  the
Anti-Saloon League. He'd probably never been in a tavern in his life.
     I said, "I'm afraid  I can't, Clyde."  I made my voice very grave. "I'm
afraid if you want to talk to me, it will have to be here at Smiley's."
     He got me, all right. He said stiffly, "I'll be there."
     I sauntered  back to  the bar. I said, "Clyde  Andrews is  coming here,
Smiley. Chalk up a first."
     Smiled stared at me. "I don't believe it," he said. He laughed.
     "Watch," I told him.
     Solemnly I went  around behind the bar and got a bottle and two glasses
and took them to a table ­ the one in the  far corner farthest from the bar.
I liked the way Pete and Smiley stared at me.
     I  filled  both the glasses and sat down.  Pete  and Smiley stared some
more. Then they  turned and stared the  other way  as Clyde came in, walking
stiffly. He said, "Good evening, Mr. Corey,"  to Pete and "Good evening, Mr.
Wheeler" to Smiley, and then came back to where I was sitting.
     I said, "Sit down, Clyde," and he sat down.
     I looked at him. I said sternly, "Clyde, I don't like ­  in  advance  ­
what you're going to ask me."
     "But, Doc," he said earnestly, almost pleadingly, "must you print  what
happened? Harvey didn't mean to­"
     "That's what I meant," I said. "What makes  you think I'd even think of
printing a word about it?"
     He looked at me and his face changed. "Doc! You're not going to?"
     "Of course not." I leaned forward. "Listen, Clyde, I'll make you a  bet
­ or I would if you  were a betting man. I'll bet  I know exactly the amount
of money  the kid had  in his pocket when  he was leaving ­ and, no I didn't
look in his pockets. I'll  bet he had a savings  account ­ he's been working
summers several years now, hasn't he? ­ and he was running away. And he knew
damn well you wouldn't let  him draw his own money and that he couldn't draw
it without  your knowing it. Whether he  had twenty dollars  or  a thousand,
I'll bet you it was the exact amount of his own account."
     He took a deep  breath. "You're right. Exactly right. And ­  thanks for
thinking that, before you knew it. I was going to tell you."
     "For a fifteen-year-old, Harvey's a good kid, Clyde. Now listen, you'll
admit I  did  the right  thing  tonight calling  you instead  of calling the
sheriff? And in keeping the story out of the paper?"
     "Yes."
     "You're in a  saloon, Clyde. A  den  of iniquity. You should  have said
`Hell, yes.' But  I don't suppose it would sound natural  if you did,  so  I
won't insist on it. But, Clyde, how much thinking have you been doing  about
why the boy was running away? Has he told you that yet?"
     He  shook his  head  slowly. "He's all  right now, in  bed, asleep. Dr.
Minton gave him a sedative, but told me Harvey had better not do any talking
till tomorrow."
     "I'll  tell  you  right  now,"  I said,  "that he  won't have  any very
coherent story about  it.  Maybe he'll say  he was running away to join  the
army or to go on  the stage  or ­  or  almost anything. But it  won't be the
truth, even if he  thinks it  is. Clyde, whether he knows  it or not, he was
running away. Not toward."
     "Away from what?"
     "From you," I said.
     For  a second  I thought  he was going to get  angry  and I'm  glad  he
didn't, because then I might have got angry too and that  would have spoiled
the whole thing.
     Instead, he slumped a little. He said, "Go on, Doc.
     I hated to, then,  but I had to strike  while the striking was good.  I
said, "Listen, Clyde, get up and walk out any time you want to; I'm going to
give it to you straight. You've been a lousy father." At any other time he'd
have  walked out on me on that one. I could tell by his face that, even now,
he didn't like  it. But at any other time he wouldn't have been sitting at a
back table in Smiley's tavern, either.
     I said, "You're  a good man, Clyde, but you work at it too hard. You're
rigid, unyielding,  righteous.  Nobody  can love  a ramrod. There's  nothing
wrong  with  your being  religious,  if  you  want to.  Some  good  men  are
religious. But you've got to realize that everybody who doesn't think as you
do isn't necessarily wrong."
     I  said, "Take alcohol ­  literally,  if you  wish; there's  a glass of
whisky in front of you. But take it figuratively, anyway. It's been a solace
to the human race, one of  the things that can make life  tolerable, since ­
damn it, since before the human race was even human. True, there are  a  few
people  who can't  handle it ­ but that's no reason to try  to  legislate it
away  from the  people who can  handle it, and whose  enjoyment  of life  is
increased  by  its moderate use ­ or even by  its occasional immoderate use,
providing it doesn't make them pugnacious or otherwise objectionable.
     "But ­  let's skip  alcohol. My point is that a man can  be  a good man
without trying to interfere with  his neighbor's life too much. Or  with his
son's. Boys are human,  Clyde. People in  general are human; people are more
human than anybody."
     He didn't say  anything,  and that was a hopeful sign. Maybe a tenth of
it was sinking in.
     I said,  "Tomorrow, when you can talk with the kid, Clyde, what are you
going to say?"
     "I ­ I don't know, Doc."
     I said, "Don't say anything. Above all, don't ask him any question. Not
a damn question. And let  him keep that money,  in cash, so he can run  away
any time he decides to.  Then maybe he won't.  If you change  your  attitude
toward him.
     "But, damn it,  Clyde, you can't  change your attitude toward  him, and
unbend,  without unbending in  general  toward the  human race.  The kid's a
human being,  too. And you could be, if you wanted to.  Maybe you  think  it
will cost you your immortal soul to be one ­ I don't think so, myself, and I
think  there are a great  many  truly  religious people who  don't  think so
either ­ but if you persist in not being one, then you're going to lose your
son."
     I decided that that was it. There wasn't anything more that I could say
that couldn't weaken my case. I decided I'd better shut up. I did shut up.
     It seemed  like  a  long,  long  time before he  said  anything. He was
staring at the wall over my head. When he answered what I'd  said, he  still
didn't say anything. He did better, a lot better.
     He picked up the whisky  in front of him.  I got mine picked up in time
to down it as he took a sip of his. He made a face.
     "Tastes horrible," he said. "Doc, do you really like this stuff?"
     "No," I told him. "I hate  the taste of it. You're right,  Clyde, it is
horrible."
     He  looked  at the glass  in his hand and shuddered  a  little. I said,
"Don't drink it. That sip you took proved  your point. And don't try to toss
it off; you'll probably choke."
     He said,  "I suppose  you  have to learn to like it. Doc, I've drunk  a
little wine a few times, not recently, but I  didn't  dislike it  too  much.
Does Mr. Wheeler have any wine?"
     "The name is Smiley," I said, "and he does." I stood  up. I clapped him
on the back, and it  was the first time in my life I'd ever done so. I said,
"Come on, Clyde, let's see what the boys in the back room will have."
     I took him over to the bar, to Pete and Smiley. I told Smiley, "We want
a  round, and it's on Clyde. Wine  for him, and I'll take a short  beer this
time; I've got to rewrite a paper tonight."
     I frowned at Smiley because of the utterly amazed look on his face, and
he got  the hint and straightened it out. He said, "Sure,  Mr. Andrews. What
kind of wine?"
     "Do you have sherry, Mr. Wheeler?"
     I said, "Clyde, meet Smiley. Smiley, Clyde."
     Smiley laughed, and Clyde smiled. The smile was a bit stiff, and  would
take  practice, but I knew and knew damned  well that Harvey Andrews  wasn't
going to run away from home again.
     He was going, henceforth,  to have a father who  was human. Oh, I don't
mean that I  expected  Clyde  suddenly  to turn into Smiley's best customer.
Maybe he'd  never  come back to Smiley's again. But by ordering one drink  ­
even of wine  ­  across a bar,  he'd crossed  a Rubicon.  He wasn't  perfect
anymore.
     I  was  beginning to feel  my own drinks again and I didn't really want
the one Clyde bought for me, but it was an Occasion, so I took it. But I was
getting  in a hurry to get back across the street to the Clarion and get  to
work on all the stories  I  had to  write, so I downed it fairly quickly and
Pete and I  left.  Clyde left when we  did, because he wanted to get back to
his son; I didn't blame him for that.
     At the Clarion, Pete checked the pot  on the Linotype and  found it hat
enough ­ while I pulled up the typewriter stand beside  my  desk and started
abusing  the ancient  Underwood. I figured that, with the dope in  the  fact
detective  magazine  Smiley had given me for background, I could run  it  to
three  or four columns, so I  had  a lot  of work ahead of  me.  The escaped
looney and Carl could wait ­ now that the former was captured and now that I
knew Carl was safe ­ until I got the main story done.
     I told  Pete, while he  was  waiting for the  first take, to hand set a
banner head, "TAVERNKEEPER CAPTURES WANTED KILLERS," to see if it would fit.
Oh, sure,  I was going to  put myself in the story, too, but I  was going to
make Smiley the hero of it, for one simple reason: he had been.
     Pete had the head set up ­ and it fitted ­ by the time I had a take for
him to start setting on the machine.
     In the middle of the second take I realized that I didn't know for sure
that  Bat Masters was still alive, although I'd put it that way in the lead.
I might as well find  out for sure that he really was, and what condition he
was in.
     I knew better than to call the hospital for anything more detailed than
whether  he was dead or not,  so  I picked up the phone and called the state
police office at Watertown. Willie Peeble answered.
     He said,  "Sure, Doc,  he's alive.  He's even been conscious and talked
some. Thinks he's dying, so he really opened up."
     "Is he dying?"
     "Sure, but  not the way he thinks. It'll cost the state some kilowatts.
And he can't beat the rap; they've got the whole gang  cold, once they catch
them. There  were  six people ­ two of 'em women  ­ killed in that bank  job
they pulled at Colby."
     "Was George in on that?"
     "Sure. He  was  the one that shot the women. One  was a  teller and the
other one was  a customer who was too  scared to move when they told  her to
lie flat."
     That made  me feel a  little better about  what had happened to George.
Not that it had worried me too much.
     I said, "Then I can put in the story that Bat Masters confesses?"
     "I dunno  about that, Doc. Captain Evans is at  the hospital talking to
him now,  and  we had one report here that  Masters is talking, but  not the
details. I  don't  think  the cap  would even  bother  asking him about that
stuff."
     "What would he ask him, then?"
     "The rest of the mob, where they are. There are two others besides Gene
Kelley, and it'd be a real break if the cap can get out of Masters something
that would  help  us  find the  others.  Especially Kelley.  The  two we got
tonight are peanuts compared to Kelley."
     I said, "Thanks a lot, Willie. Listen, if  anything more breaks  on the
story,  will  you give me a ring? I'll be  here at the Clarion  for a  while
yet."
     "Sure," he said. "So long."
     I hung up and went  back to the story.  It  went  sweetly. I was on the
fourth take  when  the phone  rang and  it  was Captain Evans  of  the state
police, calling from the  hospital where  they'd  taken Masters.  He'd  just
phoned Watertown and knew about my call there.
     He said, "Mr. Stoeger? You going to be  there another fifteen or twenty
minutes?"
     I was probably going to be working another several hours, I told him.
     "Fine," he said, "I'll drive right around."
     That was duck  soup; I'd have  my story about  his questioning  Masters
right  from the horse's mouth. So I didn't bother  asking him any  questions
over the phone.
     And I found myself, when I'd finished that take, up to the point in the
story where the questioning of Masters  should come, so I decided I might as
well wait until I'd talked to Evans, since he was going to be here so soon.
     Meanwhile I  might as  well  start checking on  the  other  two stories
again.  I called Carl  Trenholm, still got  no  answer. I called  the county
asylum.  Dr. Buchan,  the  superintendent, wasn't  there,  the girl  at  the
switchboard told  me; she asked if I  wanted to talk to his assistant and  I
said yes.
     She put him on and before I'd finished explaining who I was and what  I
wanted, he'd  interrupted  me. "He's  on his way  over  to see  you now, Mr.
Stoeger. You're at the Clarion office?"
     "Yes,"  I said, "I'm here now.  And you say Dr.  Buchan's  on  his way?
That's fine."
     My  stories were  coming to  me, I thought happily, as  I put the phone
back. Both Captain Evans and Dr. Buchan. Now if only  Carl would drop in too
and explain what had happened to him.
     He did. Not that exact second, but  only about  two minutes later.  I'd
wandered over to the stone and was looking  gloatingly at the horrible front
page with  no news on it  and thinking how lovely it  was going  to  look  a
couple of hours  from now  and listening with  pleasure to the click  of the
mats down the channels of the Linotype, when the door opened and Carl walked
in.
     His clothes were  a little dusty and disheveled; he had  a big patch of
adhesive tape on his forehead and  his eyes looked a little bleary. He had a
sheepish grin.
     He said, "Hi, Doc. How's everything?"
     "Wonderful," I told him. "What happened to you, Carl?"
     "That's  what I dropped  in  to tell you, Doc.  Thought you might get a
garbled version of it and be worried about me."
     "I couldn't even get a garbled version. No version at all; the hospital
wouldn't give. What happened?"
     "Got drunk. Went for a walk out the pike to sober up and got so woozy I
had to lie down a minute, so I headed for the grassy strip the other side of
the  ditch alongside the road and ­ well, my foot  slipped as I was stepping
across the ditch and the  ground, with a chunk  of rock in its hand, reached
up and slapped me in the face."
     "Who found you, Carl?" I asked him.
     He chuckled. "I don't  even know.  I woke up  ­  or  came to  ­  in the
sheriff's car on the way to the hospital. Tried to talk him out of taking me
there, but he insisted. They checked me for a concussion and let me go."
     "How do you feel now?"
     "Do you really want to know?"
     "Well," I said, "maybe not. Want a drink?"
     He  shuddered. I didn't insist.  Instead, I  asked  him where he'd been
since he'd left the hospital.
     "Drinking black  coffee at  the Greasy Spoon. Think I'm able to make it
home  by  now. In fact, I'm on my way. But I  knew you'd have heard about it
and thought you might as well have the ­ uh ­ facts straight in case ­ uh­"
     "Don't be  an ass, Carl," I told him. "You don't rate a  stick of type,
even if  you wanted  it. And, by the way, Smiley gave me  the inside dope on
Bonney's  divorce,  so I  cut  down the story to  essentials and cut out the
charges against Bonney."
     "That's swell of you, Doc."
     "Why didn't you  tell me  the truth about  it yourself?"  I  asked him.
"Afraid of interfering with the freedom of the press? Or of taking advantage
of a friendship?"
     "Well ­ somewhere in between, I guess. Anyway, thanks. Well, maybe I'll
see you tomorrow. If I live that long."
     He left and I  wandered back  to my desk. The Linotype was caught up to
the typewriter  by now, and I hoped Evans would show up soon ­ or Dr. Buchan
from the asylum ­ so I could get ahead with at least one of  the stories and
not keep Pete working any later than necessary.  For myself, I didn't give a
damn. I was too keyed up to have been able to sleep anyway.
     Well, there was one thing we could be doing to save time later. We went
over  to the stone and  started pulling all the filler items out of the back
pages so we  could move back the least important stories on page one to make
room  for the  two  big stories we still had coming. We'd need at least  two
full page one columns  ­ and more if we could manage it ­ for the capture of
the bank robbers and the escape of the maniac.
     We were just getting the pages unlocked, though, when Dr.  Buchan  came
in. An elderly lady ­ she looked vaguely familiar to me but I couldn't place
her ­ was with him.
     She smiled at me and said, "Do  you remember me, Mr. Stoeger?"  And the
smile did it;  I did remember her. She'd lived next door to  me when I was a
kid, forty-some years ago, and she'd given me  cookies. And I remembered now
that,  while I  was away at college, I'd heard that she had gone mildly, not
dangerously, insane  and had been taken to the asylum. That must have been ­
Good Lord ­ thirty-some years ago. She must be well over seventy by now. And
her name was­
     "Certainly,  Mrs. Griswald," I told  her.  "I even remember the cookies
and candy you used to give me."
     And I smiled back at her. She looked  so happy  that one  couldn't help
smiling back at her. She said, "I'm so glad you remember, Mr. Stoeger.  want
you to do me a big favor ­ and I'm so glad  you remember those days, because
maybe you'll do it for me. Dr. Buchan ­ he's so wonderful ­ offered to bring
me here so I could ask you. I ­ I really wasn't running away this evening. I
was just confused. The door was open and  I forgot. I  was thinking that  it
was forty years ago and I wondered what I  was doing  there and why I wasn't
home with Otto, and so I  just  started  home, that's all. And by the time I
remembered  that Otto was dead for  so long  and that  I was­" The smile was
tremulous  now, and there were tears in her eyes. "Well, by that time I  was
lost and couldn't find my way back,  until they  found me.  I  even tried to
find my way back, once I remembered and knew where I was supposed to be."
     I glanced over her head at tall Dr. Buchan, and  he nodded to me. But I
still  didn't know what  it  was all about. I didn't see, so I said, "I see,
Mrs. Griswald."
     Her  smile was back. She nodded brightly. "Then you won't put it in the
paper? About my wandering away, I  mean? Because  I didn't really mean to do
it. And Clara,  my  daughter,  lives  in  Springfield  now,  but  she  still
subscribes to your paper for news from home, and if she reads in the Clarion
that I ­ escaped ­ she'll think I'm not happy there and it'll worry her. And
I am happy, Mr. Stoeger ­ Dr. Buchan is wonderful to me ­  and I don't  want
to  make Clara unhappy or have  her worry about me, and ­ you won't write it
up, will you?"
     I patted her shoulder gently. I said, "Of course not, Mrs. Griswald."
     And  then  suddenly  she  was  against my  chest,  crying,  and  I  was
embarrassed as hell. Until Dr. Buchan pulled her gently away and started her
toward the door. He stepped back a second and said to me so quietly that she
couldn't hear, "It's straight, Stoeger. I mean, it  probably would worry her
daughter a lot and she really wasn't escaping ­  she just wandered off.  And
her daughter really does read your paper."
     "Don't worry," I said. "I won't mention it."
     Past him,  I  c