THE GREASE SPOT

THE battered phonograph horn which served as a loudspeaker on the grimed wall rasped out the police message.

“Calling Car Seventy-five. Calling Car Seventy-five. Proceed to Tenth and Lynch Boulevard and investigate report of wreck.”

Bill Milan uncoiled an incredible pair of long legs and stood up, reaching for his hat. His fat mechanic, Joe Pagett, scowled.

“You ain’t going, are you, Bill?” growled Pagett.

“Sure I am. Don’t think I’m scared, do you?”

“No. Sure you ain’t scared, Bill. But just the same, when the bulls tell us that it means a year in the can, I’m thinkin’ it ain’t such a shiny idea to answer those wreck calls.”

“Well, we’ve got to keep in business, haven’t we?”

Joe Pagett nodded. “Yeah. We’ve got to keep in business, but just the same, I don’t think the cops were fooling when they told us to lay off their private radio system. The chief sounded pretty sore.”

Bill Milan slapped his hat on a head of tangled blond hair and grinned.

“It’s worth the chance anyway, isn’t it? If we don’t pick up all the wreck business we can get, Bill Milan’s Wrecker, Inc., is going to go all-fired broke. And if the cops are willing to shoot all the dope into the night air that way, what’s the law against us going out after the business? Did you ever hear of any?”

Joe Pagett pursed his dubious lips and rubbed his palms against greasy coverall legs and sighed. “I know there ain’t no laws about it, Bill, and I’m just the mechanic around here, but I’d hate like the very devil to see you cooling your heels in that bug-infested jail they’ve got in this town. Maybe it’d be different if they was a good calaboose here.”

Bill Milan went to the door, paused, looking out into the rain which skittered across the black pavement. “Aw, those cops give me a pain. They’re jealous, that’s all.”

“Okay, Bill,” said Pagett. “It won’t be me in the jail. But the least you can do is to drive slow and give those coppers a chance to get there first. And don’t use that siren. They don’t like that either.”

Bill Milan shoved the garage door back and climbed into the ancient Fiat. The onetime limousine had been converted into a fast truck, and though its cab sat twice as high as any ordinary car, under Bill’s competent hands the speed of the contrivance was astonishing.

He shot it out of the garage and skidded it to a stop in front of the door. The great cylinders scattered sparks down the exhaust stacks, but above their bellow, the loudspeaker, still bringing in the police broadcast, was easily heard.

“All cars. All cars,” crackled the radio. “Drop search for Carbonelli and companion. They have been reported crossing the state line fifteen minutes ago and are now outside our jurisdiction. This is radio station PXQ.”

The Fiat’s cylinders blasted out a throaty roar. Bill Milan stamped on the accelerator and rocketed out to the black, shining pavement. His windshield wiper was going across his line of vision, and through the clear arc, the street lights began to lope past. The tires sang over the wet asphalt. His fingers sought for and found the string which led to the siren under the cowl. The rising scream of the nickel barrel began to clear the traffic for a swaying, yowling truck. Bill Milan was headed for Tenth and Lynch Boulevard.

The deftness of Bill’s saber-swift driving was not without its reason. Only two years before, Bill Milan had taken the Indianapolis track for a record. He had barreled and bent his streaking bus five hundred miles to a new low time. But now, Bill Milan’s long right leg sometimes refused to move when he wanted it worst. That had come from a badly mended break. The track doctors had told Bill his racing career was done. That had been that. But there was still a thrill in lashing the lurching Fiat out across the streets of the city. Especially through the battering rain.

For a while after the finish of his high-speed career, Bill Milan’s fast driving had been profitable. He had found that the police always broadcast wreck locations to their squad cars, and Bill had used that fact to the limit. The loudspeaker on his wall always told him where to go and when to go, and as a consequence, he had minted money. Always the first wrecker there, he got the business.

But the phenomenon of Bill’s presence at the scene of every wreck had begun to cause not a little comment. It had gone too far to be accredited to mere luck. And the rival towing companies had ferreted out the secret. Even then, however, they stood little chance. The first man on the scene was the man hired. And Bill’s racing tactics, even when applied to a rumbling, bellowing tow truck, were something to be reckoned with.

Up to that point, the police had not cared. But as Bill progressed, it seemed that he had acquired the habit of beating the squad cars to the scene. And that, because it directly reflected upon the ability and efficiency of the department, was bad. Bill had been summarily forbidden to utilize the radio to locate his wrecks upon the pain of a severe fine and even more severe sentence.

Tenth and Lynch Boulevard met at an angle near the city limits. Only street lights gleamed. The ghosts of darkened houses haunted the background of the highway. It was from one of those that the call had come, for certainly no one stood about the wrecked machine.

Bill skidded to a stop and looked down into the ditch. The car’s nose was crumpled against the far bank. Segments of the white rail jutted out through the motor’s base. The front wheels had torn loose from the inverted body and lay alone and smashed fifty feet away. The taillight shone like a wet ruby.

“They must be dead,” murmured Bill and climbed down. Out of the odds and ends in the back of the truck he took a heavy-duty lamp, and with this swinging at his side, he stumbled down the slippery bank and peered through the gaping rear window.

But no bodies were in sight. Bill scratched his head and looked up at the highway. He grinned a little when he realized that he had beaten the squad car again. Perhaps he had better drive off and wait for them to come up. Otherwise he’d be arrested probably.

He knew better than to move the wrecked car. There was something mysterious about it. A man didn’t leave so flashy a machine even though it was wrecked badly.

Bill started to turn back, but something stopped him. A round, hard something which bruised his lean ribs. A thin, bitter face hovered over his shoulder, the black eyes hard. The face seemed to be suspended in midair, completely without support. The man’s black topcoat finished the illusion.

“Just stand there!” rattled the man. “Put your hands up a little.” He ran his fingers over Bill’s pockets, frisking him for a gun. The sensation was like that of a snake crawling.

Another face came up on Bill’s left. “I got him covered, Carbonelli. Get the stuff out of the bus and let’s go.”

“What’s this?” inquired Bill.

“We’re playing tag,” snarled Carbonelli. “You’re it. You made good time getting here, and I’ll see to it that you make better time getting away. Bumping one more guy won’t make no difference to us.”

The other’s voice was like the bite of acid. “Yeah, he’ll drive us all right. And I’m glad, for one.”

Carbonelli bristled. “You didn’t help matters any by grabbing the emergency, you dumbhead.”

“Yeah, but you put us in the ditch, didn’t you? And right before the bulls cracked wise that we’d left the state. We had a clean chance to hide out right here.”

Bill Milan could hear the radio still going in the wrecked car. It was faint and sputtering, but the words were distinct. Something about a woman thinking she’d heard a burglar in the house and would the police come up and investigate. Bill wondered that the radio still worked.

The two men were scowling at each other through the rain, their faces lighted by the beam from the wrecker. Their nerves were raw and their working jaw muscles were tight.

“Okay, Krone,” grated Carbonelli. “Okay. When we get out of this we’ll split up, get me? I’m sick of your face and sick of your lip. You bumped those guys and you didn’t need to!”

Krone leaned forward as though about to strike. His gun shifted away from Milan and covered Carbonelli. “I ain’t in the bank business for my health, pally. Get that and get it right. We got the stuff, didn’t we? And we got it because I bumped those guards. All right, shut up!”

Bill Milan, unobserved, swayed back a little. His hands came slowly down to shoulder height. His fists were hard knots. Standing as he was between the pair and the headlights of the wrecker, his movements passed unobserved. With the sudden intensity of lightning, he struck. Krone took it on the side of the jaw and went down, crying out.

Carbonelli brought up a glittering gun. Bill kicked it away and waded in. His fists sought Carbonelli’s chest. They rocked the hard-faced bandit like a sledgehammer rocks a thin stake. Years of battling a fighting wheel had given Bill Milan such muscles.

Carbonelli backed up. His fists were futile, useless things. His eyes were no longer hard. They were lit with a fear of physical pain.

Milan followed him up. The bank was at Carbonelli’s heels, muddy and slick. The rain battered their faces, blinded them. Milan tensed himself for one last haymaker.

With dismaying abruptness, his weak leg caved in. Bill tottered to one side, off his balance, fighting to hold himself erect. He swore through gritted teeth.

Carbonelli’s eyes lighted with savage fire. He shot out his foot and smashed at Milan’s shoulder. Bill slipped and thudded into the oozing mud. An instant later Carbonelli dropped on him. Krone rolled over and caught Bill’s legs, holding them with both arms as a football player grabs a tackling dummy. Carbonelli’s fists spattered against Milan’s unprotected features.

“Okay,” rattled Krone. “Okay. He’ll drive now.”

“You bet he’ll drive,” agreed Carbonelli. “And when we get to the end of the road we’ll fix it so he’ll never leave a clue as to what finished him.” He smiled, a thin, evil twitch of his blackish lips. “If we put him out of the way so he can’t be identified, we won’t leave any trail and the first report will stand. Get me?”

“Yeah. But for God’s sake, get going. The bulls’ll be here in about two seconds.”

Carbonelli kicked Bill Milan awake. He dragged him to the top of the bank and made Bill stand up. “You’re going to drive us,” stated Carbonelli, “and no more monkey business.”

Bill’s face tightened. His blue eyes were watchful. “Okay with me.”

They climbed into the cab. Bill started the engine and shot the truck into gear. It rumbled forward, one wheel off the pavement. Its stiff springs let the body jolt. Bill threw out the clutch.

“I think I got a flat,” he said.

Carbonelli growled, “Get out there and see, Krone.”

“To hell with you!” snapped Krone. “I ain’t going back into that rain again. Not for anything. Let him go. He ain’t got the guts to try to take a powder on us.”

Bill climbed down gingerly because of his leg. He knew that the truck ran that way naturally, but the two bandits didn’t know it. They were used to easy passenger cars. He made his way around to the back, then limped up to the front. There he boosted himself up to the seat and slammed the door.

“I was wrong,” he stated.

“Yeah, a stall, huh?” Carbonelli lifted his retrieved gun. “Get going and get going fast. I hear a squad car coming.”

The Fiat rocketed away. The motor yammered and the tires howled over the wet asphalt. The last of the street lights disappeared with the white city limit sign.

Carbonelli kicked Bill Milan awake. He dragged him to the top of the bank and made Bill stand up. “You’re going to drive us,” stated Carbonelli, “and no more monkey business.”

Bill’s rugged face was etched by the slanted panel light. His hatless head was buffeted by the wind which blasted into his window. His strong hands handled the heavy wheel as though it were made of light paper. The speedometer went up to sixty and stopped. Beyond that it did not register.

“Want me to run without lights?” he asked.

“What you trying to do?” rasped Krone. “Get us picked up?”

“No—I was just trying to be helpful, that’s all.”

“I’ll bet!” snapped Krone from the far side of the cab. “You’re hoping some bicycle bull will spot us. If one does, and you don’t act right, both you and him will be kissing angels.”

A darkened farm slid by occasionally. The highway unwound like a black snake uncoiling. The rises were dark pits into which the headlights dipped. The white railings fluttered by, echoing the motor’s roar through the cuts.

Above the windshield an old alarm clock swung uneasily by a string, ticking faintly. The hands pointed to midnight and then crept on around to two o’clock.

Krone was nervous. Holding a satchel on his knees, he stared back down the road, watching for possible pursuit. He gave Carbonelli’s shoulder a convulsive grip.

“There’s a cop!” he grated. And to Bill, “Step on it, you!”

“No!” rapped Carbonelli. “Slow down and let him come up. If we keep on running, he’ll have us stopped in a town.”

Bill Milan slowed down. The motorcycle’s headlight lanced out in front of them, throwing their shadow. It swung close. Milan pulled over to the side and stopped. He could feel Carbonelli’s leg muscles tighten. The bandit’s gun was masked by his topcoat.

The officer stopped and threw his leg over the gas tank of his mount. With slow, deliberate movements, he leaned the motorcycle against the truck’s running board. He drew off his gloves without looking into the cab. Then he extracted his book from a breast pocket and fluttered the pages. Rain dripped down his slicker, running from the peak of his rubber-covered hat.

“Driver’s license, please,” he said.

Bill handed it over.

The officer began to copy the name down on a ticket. When he had finished making it out, he handed the license back. Bill took the ticket and examined it.

The officer took the number from the front license plate and wrote it down. Then he asked for the ticket back and put another check on it.

“One headlamp is out,” he announced. “And your taillight isn’t burning. You wrecking guys may get away with speeding, but you got to have lights, understand? Get ’em fixed up at the next service station and after this watch ’em.”

“Okay,” said Bill. He wiped his palm on the side of his leg and somehow lost the ticket. It fluttered down to the floor. Bill reached for it, feeling around the base of the gearshift lever, using his left hand, which was awkward.

“Where you headed for?” demanded the state policeman.

“Guy stuck in the ditch about ten miles up the road,” said Bill. “I’m on the . . . I’m . . .” He swallowed nervously. He put his left hand on the outside of the cab and lifted it in an expression of what’s-the-use. “I mean I’m on my way to get him out, see?”

The officer nodded. “Remember to get those headlights fixed, understand?” He kicked his motorcycle into life and turned it around, heading back down the road through the rain.

Bill Milan sighed and started up again.

“You shoulda seen that when you got out to look at the tire,” accused Krone. “I oughta bump you for that.”

“The rain shorted it out,” said Bill defensively.

Carbonelli snorted. “Well, you put on a pretty good act, anyway.”

The Fiat lurched ahead. The clock above the windshield swung back and forth, jerkily. The odds and ends in the back rattled and clanked in tune with the dripping chain hoist. Bill Milan’s hands were tense on the wheel. He eased off on the accelerator before they hit the curves, and then before their inertia could throw them off the poorly banked road, he shot the gas to the bellowing engine and blasted out into the straightaway. The wheels caressed the shoulders in repeated skids, but each time Bill brought the truck back with throttle and steering gear. He was driving as only a race driver is capable of driving.

Carbonelli’s face was white in the light of the panel. Krone, though he continued to look back occasionally, watched the road ahead with a strained expression. Krone held both satchel and door side. Each time they roared around a curve, Krone’s feet pressed hard against the floorboard as he put on the mental brakes.

“Hell!” cried Carbonelli. “I can’t stand it anymore. I can’t, I tell you! Stop this thing!”

Krone shook his head. “They’ll catch up with us if we stop now.”

“That’s all right. We’ll stop. There’s an old house down in the woods on the next hill. We’ll stop there. And don’t try nothing, guy, when we do, see?” he snarled at Milan.

“I can’t pull off into the mud!” said Bill. “We’ll get stuck.”

“Don’t worry none about that,” growled Krone. “Just pull off to the side of the road and park for a few minutes. That’s all.”

“And don’t forget to fix them lights,” warned Carbonelli, shifting his gun.

Bill slammed on the brakes. The heavy truck skidded to the right. He fed it the throttle and straightened it out. He slammed the brakes on again.

“What you trying to do?” screamed Carbonelli. “Kill us?”

For answer, Bill hit the muddy shoulder and clamped a hand around the emergency. The back of the truck slued around, making a long, wide gash in the muck. They stopped. Both Carbonelli and Krone sighed with relief.

“Don’t forget them lights,” again said Carbonelli.

Bill climbed down. “I’ll have to hook this flashlamp to the rear for a red light,” he said. “It’s got a red bulb in it.”

“Then snap into it,” growled Krone. And when Bill disappeared around to the end of the truck, he muttered to Carbonelli, “This guy is a pipe. Dumb as they make ’em. We won’t waste much time bumping him.”

“Naw,” said Carbonelli. “I got it all figured out.”

When Bill Milan had fixed the connection on the front headlamp, the two climbed down into the slanting drizzle and ordered him to walk down the narrow path toward the woods. But before he went, Bill reached back into the cab under the panel.

“What you doing?” demanded Krone.

“Fixing the light connection,” said Bill. “That’s what shorted those two lights out.”

“Okay. But snap it up.” Krone fidgeted, still clinging to the satchel.

Carbonelli searched through the back of the truck and finally brought forth some lengths of wire.

Bill started down the path, walking easily. The two followed him, glancing back, as watchful as a pair of jungle cats. Bill stopped before a low stone house and started to enter.

With a swift movement, Carbonelli darted up behind him. The gun butt swooped down, glittering in the light of Krone’s flash. Bill saw the shadow of the weapon. He dodged sideward. Carbonelli swore and struck again. Bill whirled on him and struck out. Krone swung the heavy satchel. It whistled down and caught Bill between the shoulder blades.

Bill’s breath sighed out of him. His knees buckled. He crunched down on his lame leg. Carbonelli followed up the satchel blow with a strike to the head with the gun. Bill sprawled in the mud.

“The damned fool thought we was just going to lock him up,” said Krone. “Didn’t he get the surprise of his life.”

Carbonelli knelt and went to work with the iron wire. He tied Bill’s wrists and ankles and then fastened them together down the back. “There’s a river over there about a hundred feet,” he said. “If we can find a log along the bank, nobody’ll be able to tell just where he was thrown in.”

“That’s smart stuff—that’s smart.” Krone eyed the road nervously. He could see the lights of the truck. “But let’s make it snappy.”

Carbonelli picked up Bill’s shoulders and dragged him down the sloping bank. The water was muttering along the banks, whipped by the rain. The stream was not large, but it was uniformly deep, deeper than a man’s head. It ran almost perpendicular to the road and south from it. A floating burden might not come to rest for some miles, possibly near an entirely different highway.

Krone found the log. It was high on the grass, its bark slimy with water. Krone threw his shoulders into it and rolled it down close to the water’s edge. With Carbonelli’s help he launched one end.

They tied Bill with his back against the log. Bill’s head lolled to one side, the blond hair streaming damply into the black water. With a grunt, Krone thrust the log out into the stream. Almost immediately, it rolled over, placing Bill’s face beneath the surface. The current caught at the wood and whirled it away beyond the range of Krone’s flashlight.

They turned and plodded up the bank toward the car. The lamp that Bill had placed at the rear made the mud glow red.

Bill Milan came alive at the first touch of the water. Instinctively, he drew in a long breath before his head rolled under. But before he could collect himself enough to hold the air in his lungs, he expelled it in a gasp of dismay. He fought to free his wrists, but the wire buried itself in his flesh.

The log rolled, allowing him to get another breath of air. His face was shoved under once more. This time he held his breath, waiting for the log to roll. After seconds, each one an hour long, the tree trunk shifted unsteadily. Bill caught his third gulp of air. But he knew that this could not last. Sooner or later the log would roll the wrong way and he would be under long enough to lose consciousness. After that—well, there wasn’t any use to worry about that.

Bill went to work on the wire. He wondered what kind it was. If it happened to be copper he stood but little chance of breaking it by bending. He made himself pull his wrists at different angles. The torture was unbearable, but he kept on. The log shifted, dragged back and forth by the stream, caught in eddies and released again. The rain ruffled the surface. The night was blacker than ink. Unseen, the bank went by slowly.

His wrists were bleeding, raw. His mind was whirling with the lack of oxygen. He gritted his teeth and tried to keep from getting panicky, working his wrists and trying to keep sane.

Abruptly his right hand came free. Immediately he stroked out and righted the tree trunk. After that he lay still, fanning the water to keep upright, thankful of the opportunity to breathe as much air as he wanted to breathe.

Bill Milan knew that he was not yet free. And besides that he had lost his only stock in trade, his wrecker. The last of the prize money he had won at Indianapolis had gone into his business and without the Fiat he was as good as ruined. But if he had figured right . . .

After a few minutes of rest, he was able to free his left hand. After that, he worked at his back until it too was unlashed. His ankles were easy. Silently, he slipped off the log and struck out for the shore he could not see.

With ground under his feet again, Bill put his hand in the water to determine the current and struck out upstream toward the stone house. The way was dark. He ran into trees, tripped through windfalls. He made as good time as possible, but even that time was slow. He had no idea how far he had gone in the river.

After a year of hours, he struck a trail and followed it. The going was better but he was continually losing the edge and finding it necessary to locate the path once more. The rain was giving way to a gray light in the east. Bill knew that it must be close to dawn. If he could make it before the sun came, he could . . .

The stone house sat in the middle of a small clearing. The first thing Bill saw was the outline of his truck. It had been clumsily hidden by chopped brush, but even in the darkness it was recognizable. The rain had almost ceased.

Bill stopped, crouching in the bushes, waiting for something to happen. And that something was not long in coming. Carbonelli came to the window and thrust his head out.

“I guess it’s stopped raining,” said the thug in a disgruntled voice.

“Sure,” Krone’s voice snapped from inside. “You said that an hour ago.”

“Well, I can’t help it, can I? We’ll have to get that truck fixed as soon as it’s dry enough to work on. Damn this rain! It must have shorted all the wires.”

“That was a bright stunt of yours.” Krone’s voice growled nastily. “Some guy’ll find that dumb driver and they’ll trace back up this stream and nail us. I’m for clearing out of here on foot and trying to swipe a car in the next town.”

“Why swipe one?” asked Carbonelli. “We can buy one or take a train. The cops ain’t looking for us in this state now since they got a tip that we’d left here.”

“All right, let’s go.”

Bill’s heart was hammering. He had to keep these two here somehow. Under his hand lay a rock. He picked it up and heaved it at the window. The glass crashed out.

“What the hell?” shrieked Krone. “What was that?”

“A rock!” said Carbonelli in a high-pitched voice. “They’ve got us surrounded!”

Krone evidently regained some of his nerve. “Surrounded, my hat. They wouldn’t have thrown that rock. They’d have shot you.”

Neither of the two had quite the courage to go to the window again. Bill stood up and looked at the truck through the cold gray light. He gritted his teeth against the pain of his leg and raced across the clearing. He gained the cab before they heard him.

A bullet whined off a tree. The report was flat and dead. Bill shot a hand under the panel and turned the petcock he had closed earlier in the evening. Then he jammed his foot down on the starter. The Fiat’s engine roared away, plumes of blue smoke jumping from the exhaust stacks. Another bullet smashed through the side of the door, came all the way through.

Bill turned off the switch and turned it on again. The motor backfired. The sound was identical with that of exploding powder. He knew that the ruse would not last long. Soon they’d get over their first scare and they’d charge him.

Carbonelli threw open the door. His gun jumped. The windshield went out of the cab. Flying glass gashed Bill’s cheek. He scuttled back and tried to open the other side of the cab. But a branch held it shut. Suddenly Bill knew that he was trapped. He could not get out and he had no way of protecting himself. They might not try to get in the doors for fear he had a gun, but one could keep him busy from the front while the other came through the back. He glanced out and saw the dangling chain hoist. A slug ripped through a wood beam and he ducked.

Krone approached warily from the front, crouching, ready to shoot. Carbonelli had disappeared. He would be coming around from the back.

Krone weaved from side to side. His gun flamed. His eyes were jets of black fire. Bill heard someone scrambling up the tailgate. That would be Carbonelli.

The idling motor sputtered and coughed. Bill stared at the panel on the level with his face, waiting. A lever came into his line of vision. The lever which operated the chain hoist. Before he had time fully to think the plan out, Bill hauled back on the hand clutch.

The chain which hung over the back rattled. The winch screamed under the onslaught of the racing motor. A bellow of rage and dismay blasted through the dripping woods.

Carbonelli was caught. Caught like a fish on a hook. The hoist he had used to pull himself up had suddenly gone wild in his hands. The hook was through his coat collar. His feet danced on thin air.

Krone dodged. He started to charge and then stopped. A slow smile came over his twisted face. He lowered the gun and watched Carbonelli dance.

“Get me off of here!” shrieked Carbonelli. “He’ll kill me! Get me off! I’m choking to death!”

Krone smiled again. He knew now that there was no danger from the front of the cab. He raised his gun slowly and sighted down the barrel. His intention was obvious. He was unwilling to share the contents of the satchel. Carbonelli was about to die.

But Krone had reckoned without the gun Carbonelli still clutched. Carbonelli’s terror departed as swiftly as it had come. He saw the revolver coming up and he knew he was about to be killed. His own weapon jumped into a level position. His hand convulsed.

Krone’s face was blank for an instant. He took a step forward, stumbling. Then a look of surprise swept over his features. He made one last movement and then, with the limpness of a falling sack, struck the ground.

Carbonelli’s gun swung toward the cab. “All right, you!” he cried. “Let me down from here or I’ll blast the back of the seat.”

Bill slipped sideward and out the door. His intention was to make the road unseen. But the game leg was wobbly after the run and the ground was oozy with rain. He swerved out an inch too far.

Carbonelli saw him and shot him in the same instant.

The sun climbed higher and higher. No clouds were up there now. Only glazed blue sky. Bill struggled feebly from time to time, but he had just enough energy left to keep his hand clamped on the severed shoulder artery. He could see Carbonelli’s dangling legs and he could hear Carbonelli’s vituperation.

Bill waited for the help he knew would come.

It was nine o’clock before the state and city officers arrived. They came with sirens and whistles open wide. They swarmed down the wood road like an avalanche. A dozen guns covered the swearing Carbonelli. A dozen hard faces stared at the earthly remains of Krone, the coldblooded killer.

When the police first-aid kit had been ransacked for tourniquets and probes and Merthiolate, and when Bill sat propped up against a tree, the reporters and photographers were there, bubbling with eager questions. They fortified Bill Milan with a drink, a big drink, because they suddenly remembered that, two years before, Bill Milan had been the hottest man on any track in the country.

A hard-boiled reporter with a cigarette dangling from his lips said, “All right. We know the police facts about the bank robbery and all. We want your story straight through.”

Bill smiled, took another drink and complied. “It was pretty simple. I knew they would try to get rid of me sooner or later and I had to use my head. So when we started out I said we had a flat and went around back and disconnected the rear light. I also turned out a headlight. I knew that their absence would pick up a cop because they’ve been pretty strict about it lately.

“Then, when the policeman turned up, I had to let him know I was in trouble. He was smart. He ought to get a promotion out of it. I wiped off my hand and reached down to the bottom of the gearshift. By rubbing my palm there, I made a perfect black circle. I said I was on the—and then didn’t finish it with words. I waved my hand and he caught on. That circle made a white spot on my hand. He got it. I was on—the spot, see? I knew then that the police would start to look for my truck.

“When they made me stop up there on the highway, I slued my wheels so they’d leave a big track, very noticeable in the mud. Then I turned off the gasoline so they could just start the truck and that was all. I knew then that they’d have to stay here. They didn’t like the rain and I was pretty sure they wouldn’t walk in it. Then I had to fix up the rear light according to their orders. So I took the heavy-duty lantern which had three bulbs—red, white and blue—and turned on the red bulb. I set the lantern on the ground, but they thought it was attached to the car. Then I wrote that message in the mud in front of the lantern for you fellows to find. You found it and that’s all there is to it.”

“Not all,” said a captain of the city police, smiling. “We’ve reconsidered your feat of beating squad cars to the scene. If you want, you can do it anytime. And with the reward money the bank’s offering, you will have enough to buy a fleet of cars. We’ll give you exclusive rights to that. A sort of franchise.”

“Thanks,” said Bill through colorless lips. “That’s mighty swell of you, Captain, but I want another favor.”

“Sure, what?”

“Fix up those squad cars, will you, so they’ll go faster? And have the police broadcast announce it when the squad car is almost on the scene. I tell you, Captain, I’m through with beating your boys to it. I’m in the wrecking business all right, but I’m damned if that means that I’m out to wreck myself!”