Cold Poison (24 page)

“Well, you’ve heard of the bounty hunters of the old days in the West, haven’t you? Guys that made a gig out of tracking down outlaws for the rewards that had been put on their heads? They’re just the same now, except they don’t track down outlaws. They track down hippies.”

“Are you saying that there are men who make a job of this sort of thing?”

“Sure. That’s what I said. A gig. Lots of kids run away from home nowadays to come out here to LA or San Francisco to join the hippies, just like this chick we’re looking for. The old folks at home get uptight about the whole thing, naturally, and sometimes they’ll hire one of these bounty hunters to find the kid for them. Sometimes he lets them know, but sometimes, if the hippie’s got any bread, he works both ends and doubles the take by agreeing to keep what he knows to himself.”

“I’ve never before heard of anything so despicable. How does one go about contacting a bounty hunter?”

“They don’t advertise, you know. You can see why. They’re in a kind of a sensitive position, I mean. Undercover. They’re not hippies, but they fake it because there’s a lot more to be learned inside than outside. It would be rough if anyone got hep to them. I mean, hippies are all for love and peace and all that, but some of them might lose their cool if they found an informer in the nest. Besides, there are the motorcycle clubs like Hell’s Angels to look out for. Those cats don’t object to any violence, not at all, and they’ve taken the hippies to raise.”

“Well, I have no intention of running about to evil-smelling and depressing places asking perfect strangers with long hair and beards if they happen to be bounty hunters, or if they could please direct me to one. I’ve had quite enough of that sort of thing. If the bounty hunter can’t advertise, there is no reason why I can’t. The problem is, I am committed to discretion. How does one advertise without attracting the publicity we wish to avoid?”

“You might try the
Free Press
. It circulates mainly among the beats and the hippies and people like that. The straights and the squares hardly know it exists, and they wouldn’t read it if they did.”

“It sounds a disgraceful sort of newspaper, if you ask me. However, in a matter of this kind, it will probably suit our purpose exactly. As a precaution, I shall try to be deceptive. My advertisement must avoid proper names, and it must be couched in terms which will make it fully understood only by someone with reason to understand.”

“I don’t dig.”

“Never mind. You’ll dig in a moment.”

Miss Withers got up and left the kitchen, returning shortly with paper and pencil. Meanwhile, Al had cut his third slice of cake and poured his second glass of milk. Miss Withers sat down, nibbled the eraser of her pencil in concentration, and then wrote rapidly and briefly.

“There,” she said, reversing the paper and pushing it across the table toward Al. “That should do nicely.”

Al leaned forward to read:
Wanted
—
1967 blue Volkswagen sedan decorated with daffodils. Urgent. Will pay well.
This message was followed by Miss Withers’ home phone number. Nothing more. If it was intended to be cryptic, as it apparently was, it was too cryptic for Al. It was late, of course, and he was tired and stuffed with cake and milk, and so it was perhaps understandable and excusable if his mind was not working at peak efficiency.

“You were wrong,” he said. “I still don’t dig.”

“It’s really quite clear,” Miss Withers said. “Who, wanting to buy a second-hand Volkswagen, would specify a blue one decorated with daffodils? One buys what the market offers and paints it afterward as one wishes. The point is, Lenore Gregory, as I have told you, was driving just such a vehicle. It was surely noticed and remembered wherever she went. I submit that any person except a UCLA drop-out would understand immediately that I am not interested in the car, but the driver. Let us hope that our bait brings up a proper fish.”

“Meaning someone who knows where she is and is willing to sell her out?”

“Precisely. The use of stool pigeons, Aloysius, is common practice in police procedure. The end justifies the means. And now, if you have finally had sufficient milk and cake, you had better go home to bed. Your brain, I fear, clearly needs restoration.”

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

A version of this novel has appeared in
The American Magazine
for February, 1954 under the title of “A Valentine for the Victim.”

Copyright © 1954 by Stuart Palmer

Cover design by Mimi Bark

978-1-4804-1892-9

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