Dressed to Killed

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IT WAS a blistering August morning and before I'd been behind my desk ten minutes my shirt was plastered to my back by a layer of sweat as sticky as maple syrup. I wriggled in my chair, eyed the pile of mail disgustedly, and thought of the cool breezes which soon would be soothing the suckers at Arlington Park. Such was not for me, alas. The checkbook indicated an urgent need for funds. Unless some sterling client had come through with a pretty piece of negotiable paper—a circumstance which I had reason to doubt—I had no alternative but to go out and start digging. Even a private eye has to eat once in a while.

I went through the mail anxiously, tossing the second-class stuff into the wastebasket unopened and pursing my lips over the rest. Bills from the utilities. A bill from the landlord. A reminder from the Blue Cross. I snorted something one-syllabled, snatched the familiar blue envelope of the Automobile Recovery Association's weekly flyer from the pile, and kicked back my chair. I got out of the office.

Five minutes later I was sipping iced tea and basking in the air-conditioned comfort of the Thompson's restaurant downstairs. My number one problem was still: dough. Remembering the A. R. A. flyer, I got it out of my pocket and ripped it open.

It was meaty, very meaty—containing the engine number, year of manufacture, color, "body style, license number and state of origin of every insured car lost, stolen or missing during the previous week. I went through it critically, paying particular attention to the Cadillacs, Lincolns and Packards listed as missing in the midwest. Not that I'm a snob. I was merely using my head. The bigger cars cost more dough and the insurance companies scream louder when one is missing —which means that my end of any deal would be a lot juicier.

After playing optical leapfrog with the statistics, I pencil-checked three Cadillacs, two Lincolns and one of the Packards as having some potentiality of being routed into Chicago. I pondered the matter. There was no use stalling. I needed money worse than the world needs penicillin. But where to start? Mentally I reviewed the various possibilities and recalled that the Cadillac agency's garage on Wabash Avenue was air-conditioned. That settled it. I cast my vote for the Caddies.

In case you're wondering how the set-up works, here's the gimmick: A guy owns a brand-new Lincoln convertible and, while he's getting a haircut or snatching an indoor smootch from a girlfriend, somebody admires the car and drives it away. Okay, right away the guy does two things: He screams to the cops and he notifies the insurance company which stands to get stuck for several thousand bucks if the car isn't retrieved pronto. The cops, of course, are highly abashed at the theft and run right out, get on their horses and chase after the thief. Theoretically. In actual practice, a car owner sometimes has a hard time even convincing the cops that his car has been stolen and, for reasons which should be obvious, the insurance company is not going to wait for the local gendarmes to get the lead out. So as soon as the report comes in, the company notifies the Automobile Recovery Association, which maintains offices in New York, Kansas City and Los Angeles. The A. R. A. screens the data and dispatches it to myriad private detective agencies throughout the country. The agencies, when things are slack in their divorce and dead-beat departments, put their idle operatives to checking local cars. You'd be surprised how often an agency picks up a quick hundred bucks this way.

Now here's the trick which makes the clock tick for yours truly: In a big city like Chicago, an operative can't go walking around the streets checking license plates and serial numbers. Not unless he's nuts, anyway. So I play it this way: Sooner or later every car needs servicing, and that stolen Lincoln convertible may show up at an authorized Lincoln garage. There the mechanic will list the engine number on his work sheet, and if I happen to drop around, I can spot said number—and everybody starts sighing with relief, except the guy who thought he'd gotten away clean with a snazzy convertible. Result: the insurance company gets the car, the A. R. A. gets a fee—and so do I. My end of the deal ranges from $50 to $500, depending upon the insured value of the car.

In actual practice, of course, it isn't as simple or as frequent as it sounds. With most agencies it's just a way of keeping otherwise idle operatives on the go; with me, it's a possible method of jacking up the bank account in an emergency.

I strolled into the Cadillac agency's building and sighed with relief as cool filtered air embraced my damp shirt. A salesman, engaged in extolling the merits of a shiny blue sedan to a bald-headed old geezer in a natty silk suit, nodded to me slightly and gave me a banker's smile of, understanding. I returned the nod casually and walked to the rear, where the office and garage were located. Scotty Harris, the chief mechanic, was standing outside the office, energetically swabbing his grease-filmed arms with a grimy towel. He raised one eyebrow and said sourly: "How're things, Rusty?"

"So—so. Thought I'd stop in and give the work sheets a shuffle."

"You know where they are. Just don't mix them up."

I found the work sheets on a shelf of Scotty's two-by-four office and sat down at his desk to check them. I went through them methodically, comparing the recorded serial numbers with those on the A. R. A. list. Suddenly I blinked and did a doubletake. One of the serial numbers matched the third one on my list! Almost holding my breath, I went over the work sheet with a pencil, checking off the items. Color—correct. Body and year—correct. License—Illinois, should have been Arizona. Mentally, I leaped into the air and kicked my heels together. This was my lucky day. A switch of license plates was to be expected and everything else checked. I'd stumbled into a hot baby!

I ran out of the office, waving the work sheet. "Hey, Scotty!" I shouted.

Scotty poked a grizzled head out from under a coupe de ville.

"Remember this job?" I bent down and shoved the work sheet in front of his eyes. "A yellow sedan. You fixed the carburetor and put in a new oil line three days ago."

"Yeah." Scotty nodded. "So what?"

"What happened to it?"

"How the hell do I know? All I do is fix 'em."

"Did you see the owner?"

"No, but I saw the owner's friend." His gray eyes softened and squinted a little, like an old man trying to remember his wedding night. "Some babe. Built like... you know!" One of his hands cut a series of curves in the air.

"Young?"

"Yeah. Blonde, too."

"When did she pick the car up?"

"She didn't."

"You mean it's still here?" I almost shouted the words.

"Naw, one of the guys delivered it to her hotel." He started to pull his head back under the coupe.

"Wait a minute, Scotty!" I pleaded. "Which hotel?"

"Crilton."

"When?'

"About an hour ago. Now leave me alone, for chrissake, I gotta get—"

An hour ago. My heart sank. The car might be sixty miles away by now!

"What was the blonde's name, Scotty?"

"Can't you read?" came from beneath the coupe. "It's on the receipt, ain't it?"

He was right. Giselle Kent, Crilton Hotel. I put the worksheet back on the pile in his office and got out of there like a cat who'd accidentally backed into a puddle of kerosene. The parking lot where I keep my car was five blocks away. I got there in about five seconds. The inside of my Pontiac was as hot as a baker's oven, but I hardly noticed. All I could think of was a possible $500 fee racing away from me with a blonde at the wheel.

The Crilton is at Rush and Ohio Streets. I came sailing south on Rush and braked my car to a stop in front of the hotel just in time to meet a yellow Cadillac sedan going north. It whizzed past too fast for me to catch its plates, but I did get a glimpse of a mass of blonde hair behind the wheel. With what I thought was considerable presence of mind, I goosed my car into motion again, circled the block and got back on Rush, headed in the right direction. The yellow Caddy was at least six blocks ahead of me, but still pointed north. I raced ahead, clipping the traffic lights and angling around other traffic, until the distance narrowed to two blocks. Then the Caddy caught a red light. I maneuvered around and got behind it. The plates were Illinois—and had all the right numbers! I exhaled slowly and settled down in my seat.

The Caddy went north to Lincoln Park, cut into the Inner Drive, cruised a mile or so at 35 m.p.h. then worked its way onto the express lane of the Outer Drive. The blonde began to lean on the gas, for the Caddy leaped ahead and the space between us widened rapidly into a chasm. The bright yellow of the Caddy made it stand out like a banana in a bowl of grapes, though, and I managed to keep it in sight all the way to the end of the Drive. She made a right turn and slowed down, then, evidently undecided whether to follow U. S. 41 or Illinois 42. While she was making up her mind, I narrowed the gap between us. She decided on 42 and continued into Evanston at a normal and conservative clip. I dropped behind a little so as not to become conspicuous, and stayed there while she cruised on through Wilmette, Winnetka, Highland Park, Lake Forest, Waukegan and Zion.

As we approached the Wisconsin state line, I began to worry. I hadn't had time to fill my tank and wasn't prepared for an extended chase. If she were headed for a spot in the wilds of northern Wisconsin the odds were in favor of my ending up at a gas station, stranded like a bride at the church —and even more frustrated. I toyed with the idea of overtaking the Caddy when it slowed down and forcing it to a stop. But the A. R. A. frowned upon such tactics. The blonde might get nervous and run the car up a tree. Worse, she might get wise to the pitch and give me the slip, but fast. No, I had to wangle a peaceful possession and my only hope was that her tank was low, too, and that she'd stop to refuel within the next hundred miles.

When we reached Kenosha, sure enough, the Caddy turned into a Sinclair station. I scooted past to the next block, where I could see the red crown of a Standard Oil station. While the attendant squirted gas into the Pontiac, I paced up and down, keeping an eye on the Caddy. As soon as it nosed into the road again, I flung money at the attendant and got the Pontiac moving.

I was right behind her as she went down Sheridan Road... and a good thing, too, for she abandoned the marked highway suddenly and went toward the center of town. Reaching the business section, the Caddy began idling along as though searching for something. Then, rounding a corner, it stopped. The blonde climbed out, giving me a glimpse of nylon-sheathed legs and a slender blue-suited figure as she high-heeled it into a store.

I went on to the next corner, made a U-turn and came back. She had gone into a drugstore. I parked and strolled across the street. I looked into the drugstore. There were several customers perched on stools at the soda fountain and a scattering of customers in the rear. The blonde was not visible. I deduced that she was somewhere in the rear of the store, probably making a phone call. No one was looking my way. Whistling tonelessly, I went around to the front of the Caddy and lifted its hood.

I rubbed the plate on the engine block with my thumb and stared at the numbers. They checked. I slapped the hood down and tried the door beside the driver's seat. It was unlocked. Luck was certainly knocking itself out for me today. I opened the door and climbed in.

She'd taken the ignition keys out, the smarty. Grinning, I got a ring of master keys out of my pocket and started jabbing them into the lock. The fourth one fitted. I stepped on the starter and the engine purred affectionately.

With considerable pleasure, I eased the clutch in and felt the Caddy move smoothly away from the curb. At the same instant, a screen door slammed violently and heels clattered frantically on the sidewalk. A girl's voice began to scream: "My car! Stop! Stop!"

Without bothering to look back, I drove to the end of the business section, made another U-turn, and came back. There was quite a crowd in front of the drugstore and the blonde was stamping one foot, waving her arms, and pointing in my direction. A tall cop in a blue uniform broke away from the group and ran into the street, pawing at his pistol holster as he did so. I wiped the grin off my face, but I didn't change my plans. I drove the Caddy to within a few feet of my Pontiac—and parked.

"All right, All right!" the cop hollered, gesturing authoritatively with his gun. "Climb outa that car, mister!"

"Why?" I asked, keeping one eye on the blonde. She had stopped waving her arms and was striding wrathfully toward me, obviously as mad as a ma-dog who'd just lost a pup.

"Because you're under arrest! I order you to climb out and surrender!"

At that instant, the blonde arrived. Her taut cheeks wore a flush. Her blue eyes were opaque with anger. "That's him!" she cried, jabbing a red-tipped finger at me. "I was in the drugstore. That's my car—and he stole it!"

"No kidding," I said mildly, admiring the ripe red of her lips and the way her white teeth flashed.

"I saw him!" she shrieked. She took a deep breath, making the front of her gray suit bulge dangerously. "It's my car! He's a thief!"

"Out!" the cop ordered ominously. "Come on, wise guy! Out of this lady's car!"

"No, thanks." I shook my head slowly. "I intend to stay right here." I eyed the gun and wondered if it were loaded.

"Why, you—!" The cop's neck began to get red and the gun rose an inch or two.

"Just a minute, officer," I said quickly. "Before you stick your neck out too far, it'd be a good idea for you to identify the parties involved and at least make a pretense of trying to ascertain ownership of this car. After all, you don't know either of us, do you?"

"Why, the idea!" the blonde gasped, looking as though she'd swallowed an egg. "The insolence! I saw him—"

The cop frowned. "You mean you deny that this lady owns this car and that you took it from in front of the drugstore where she had it parked?"

"That's the idea," I told him. "This car does not belong to her and because it doesn't, I suspect she's no lady. My name is Russell Forbes. I'm a licensed investigator, acting in behalf of the Automobile Recovery Association. This car was illegally removed from the state of Arizona and I am merely taking peaceful possession of it in a public thoroughfare, as required by law. If you'll lower the cannon for a minute, I'll show you my credentials."