In a while he slid down an off-ramp to a main thoroughfare and went south again until he came upon the squat building of the mortuary. It was dark, but for a neon sign discreetly advertising death.
Kirk entered the driveway and drove to the rear, where he braked beside a separate building, doused his lights and left the limousine. He crossed to a door and jabbed a bell-button repeatedly, using a coded signal. The door opened narrowly with a dim splash of light, and then he was swallowed inside.
Another five minutes passed before Kirk returned with a man who toted a canvas stretcher. Kirk opened the trunk and the two men shared the burden of the body, lowering it, then carting it off on the stretcher, their movements outlined for a moment in the soft glow from the open doorway.
Just then, thrusting a .45 automatic, Fred Hammond stepped from the shadows into their path. “Hold it right there, gentlemen,” he said, as Stanford Tillman materialized abruptly at his side. “Now, ease the stretcher down, raise your hands and lean forward against that wall. C’mon, c’mon! You heard me!”
Hammond searched the pair but found no weapons; Tillman frantically unwound the blanket. Andrea seemed pale enough to be very dead — but wasn’t. There was a slow, steady pulse, and with a moan of relief, Stan gathered her into his arms.
It was nearly dawn; the Vanderhoffs and their accomplices were in custody. The police had gone, taking with them for evidence a tape recording of traffic and ship sounds used to deceive Tillman, and the sum of one million dollars paid in ransom. Andrea was lying on the sofa in the Tillman livingroom, Tillman and Fred Hammond sat in facing chairs.
Andrea took a sip of her coffee and said cheerfully, “Ahh, this is good! I like mine with cream and sugar, no drugs, thank you. Maybe it was something in Nita’s expression that warned me — or is it only that she makes rotten coffee? Anyway, it had a rather odd flavor, and after a swallow or two I was suspicious. So I poured the rest down the drain. Then I fell into a deep sleep. But not forever, as planned.”
“Thank God!” Stan Tillman sighed and solemnly shook his head.
“And now that there’s time for details, what’s your story, Fred?” asked Andrea. “Are you psychic? How in heaven did you figure that I was held here, right next door?”
Hammond smiled. “Well, I knew it couldn’t be done without inside information,” he answered, “and I was already thinking along those lines. But I’m afraid the rest was mostly luck, Mrs. Tillman. I was worried, had a feeling they would never let you go, and I couldn’t sleep. Near five yesterday morning I got up and began to wander over the grounds, thinking, thinking. I was right by the hedge on the Vanderhoff side when that creep, Kirk Pardo, drove in.
“I heard voices, soft but excited. So I peeked through the hedge. In the moonlight, I saw the Vanderhoffs and the maid, Nita. They were gathered around Kirk, who was taking a suitcase from the trunk of the limo. I got only a glimpse before the garage door closed. But I thought it was mighty strange for Mr. and Mrs. Vanderhoff to be dressed and about at that hour and cozy with the hired help, everyone fired up over a suitcase.
“I began to try it on for size, putting the pieces together in my mind. It was wild — but possible. I went to Mr. Tillman with it, and together we kept a constant watch on the Vanderhoff place through binoculars. When Kirk sneaked off in the limo at midnight, we tailed him, part of the way with fights out.
“And here we are, Mrs. Tillman, all safe and sound.”
Andrea said, “Dear Fred, I hope you know that you have all our love and gratitude. But I believe we owe you something more tangible. Don’t you, Stan?”
“Yes, indeed we do,” said Tillman, who was gazing fondly at Hammond. “Fred, I’d like to make you a present of some shares in each of the Tillman companies. You’ll have enough to make you independent for life.” He sighed. “And I suppose that means I’ll lose you.”
“No chance of that, Mr. Tillman.” Hammond grinned. “A Tillman stockholder is kinda like a member of the family. And families should stick together, don’t you think?”
The Dip and the Svengali
by Michael Zuroy
That welcome light at the end of the tunnel may turn out to be a mirage.
Stanley was shifting among the department store crowds. Dressed mod — tight, tan suit with flare pants, big lilac tie — elegant, lithe, he could have been a name singer, a boxer, a racing driver, or a steeplejack on a holiday.
He was, in fact, a dip; a pickpocket in camouflage, fingers quicker than a blink, lighter than air. Air, you could feel; not Stanley’s soapy fingers. This came from talent — from practice, years of it. He was proud of his trade. He had class; he’d never have to sink to a regular job.
He was prowling the store for a mark when he spotted the chick. It took him only minutes to figure out that she was working the territory too, shoplifting.
What caught him, Stanley never could say. She had dark-haired, liquid-eyed looks, and a body, sure; but it wasn’t only that. Class she had, like a little lady, palming that watch in style so no store-dick would have tumbled, but it was more than that. How’s a guy say what’s special for him in a chick? Whatever, there it was.
There was nothing to warn him she had a whammy on her.
“Nice work,” he told her quietly.
Her dark eyes didn’t scare. She kept them masked, but he got a feeling they liked what they saw; all that was needed was trust. They were meant to click, a matched couple with class, a sharp, talented couple.
“I beg your pardon?” she said.
“The watch.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She walked away.
He stepped right with her. “I’m in the fine myself. A dip.”
“Sure,” she said.
“Why would I say so?”
“You could be a bull.”
“Uh-uh. I’m a dip.”
“Prove it.”
“How?”
“Take somebody.”
“Okay,” Stanley said. He looked along the swarming aisle. “That fatty.”
The collision seemed entirely accidental. Stanley wove a quick tangle of words and motions, apologizing, steadying the stout, irritated man. They slipped on with the crowd afterward, quickly losing the man, angling and shifting among the aisles, Stanley steering for the exits.
“So?” the girl asked.
“Got it,” Stanley said.
“Oh, come on! I didn’t see you snatch anything.”
“That’s right. You don’t see it when I operate.” Stanley lifted his arm part way, showing her the billfold in his sleeve, then dropped his arm.
“Say, that was great,” the girl said. Her eyes were on him now with respect. The pupils had contracted to pinpoints of excitement. “That was slick. Smooth. That was like — like music.”
“Yeah,” Stanley said.
“Where was it?”
“His inside jacket pocket.”
“How’d you know? How’d you know it wouldn’t be in his pants?”
They went out the revolving doors. Outside, Stanley dropped the billfold into his pocket and headed her toward Fifth. “I can read clothes,” he told her. “Takes more than fingers, see? There’s not much sign, but there’s a little. You got to read drape, takes years to read right most of the time. You got to watch their minds, make sure their minds are off the snatch. It don’t work without the fingers, though. Altogether, it’s a specialty.”