Well Now My Pretty

'Fine.' He appeared to relax. 'Now that's arranged, and we don't have to worry our heads further about it, perhaps I could go on watching the wrestling. It amuses me.' He got up and turned on the TV set. 'A wonderful invention, Mr. Whiteside . . . a great timepasser.'

Tom got up and walked stiffly into the kitchen.

As the strident, excited voice of the commentator began to fill the room, Maisky dismissed Sheila with a wave of his hand.

'Run along, my pretty,' he said. 'I am sure this must bore you.'

She stared at him, then got up and joined Tom in the kitchen.

* * *

'Any coffee left, Chief?' Beigler asked, lighting a cigarette from the stub of another. He leaned back in his chair, his heavy frame making the chair creak.

'There's a drop,' Terrell said and pushed the carton across the desk. 'You smoke too much, Joe.'

'Yeah.' Beigler poured coffee into the paper cup. 'That's always been my trouble.' He drank the coffee and then picked up the long typewritten report that had come from the road blocks. It contained a twenty-page list of car numbers and car owners who had passed through the road blocks on their way out of town. 'This is getting us nowhere fast.'

'Keep at it,' Terrell said. 'We're gaining some ground. We now know where he hired the truck and the trucker has a good description of him. When we catch up with him, we have him for sure.'

'We haven't caught . . .' Then Beigler paused, stared at the list he was holding and stiffened. 'Hey, Chief! Look at this!' He passed the sheet to Terrell, his thumbnail underscoring the typewritten line.

Terrell read Franklin Ludovick, Mon Repos, Sandy Lane, Paradise City. Lic. No. P.C. 6678.

'Whose report?'

'Fred O'Toole.'

'Get him here!'

Beigler called down to Charlie Tanner.

'We want Fred. Is he at the road block still?'

'Hold it.' There was a pause, then Tanner said, 'No. He's back home. Clocked off half an hour ago.'

'Get him. Send a car, Charlie . . . pronto.'

'Will do,' Tanner said and hung up.

Twenty minutes later, Patrolman Fred O'Toole walked into Terrell's office. He was out of uniform and showed signs of having scrambled into a pair of slacks and an open-neck shirt.

'Come in, Fred,' Terrell said, waving to a chair. 'Sorry . . . I guess you were putting your feet up.'

'That's okay, sir,' O'Toole said, stiffly at attention. It was all right for the Chief to be friendly, but Beigler was his boss.

'Sit down,' Terrell said. 'Don't we have any coffee in this place?'

Beigler grabbed the telephone. He told Tanner to send out for coffee.

'What again?' Tanner said wearily.

'You heard me,' Beigler said and hung up. 'Relax, Fred.'

Uneasily, O'Toole sat on the edge of a chair.

'Fred . . . this Buick coupe. Owner, Franklin Ludovick,' Terrell said, passing the typewritten sheet across the desk. 'What can you tell me about it?'

'It came through the road block as stated, sir. It was driven by Tom Whiteside, the G.M. agent.'

'Dr. Whiteside's son?'

'That's correct, sir.'

'Go on.'

'He said he had broken down and had borrowed the car from a client.'

Terrell and Beigler exchanged glances.

'Did you check the car, Fred?'

'Not on the inward trip, sir. We weren't checking incoming cars, but a couple of hours later, he came back. He said he was returning the car. I checked it then. It was clean.'

'Was he on his own?'

'His wife was with him.'

Terrell thought for a moment, then nodded.

'All right, Fred, you get back home. Have them drive you back.'

When O'Toole had gone, Terrell got to his feet. Beigler was already putting his .38 into its holster. He then snatched up the telephone receiver and told Tanner that Jacoby and Lepski were to report to the car pool