Robert Bloch - Michael Shayne Mystery Magazine. Vol. 1, No. 1. September 1956

The sound of a car in the distance brightened him with prospects of a lift at least partway back to civilization. Then another thought smote him — there was a possibility that Olive Fliegle might have awakened early. She didn’t look like the type of redhead who would awaken early, but you never could tell. If she did, if she came downstairs, she just might have set out after him, to bring him back. That would never do, Malone told himself. It would never, never do.

He looked around hopelessly for a place to hide. There was a slender fence running along the roadside, and one very small tree, the latter a considerable distance away. This left nothing but concealment offered by the ditch, and Malone was damned if he’d get back into that again. He decided to take his chances like a man. Besides, Olive looked reasonably frail. Frailly reasonable, too, which was even more comforting to think about. He giggled at the word switch.

The car, however, turned out to be no Olive vehicle, but a small pick-up truck, its rear covered by a dingy tarpaulin. It slowed down. The driver surveyed Malone and finally stopped for him.

Suddenly, Malone realized that he was in no condition, in appearance or otherwise, to meet the public. Especially not after his last tumble into the ditch. Most particularly, this was no time to encounter small town cops, or civic-minded citizens. But it was too late to do anything about such mischances now.

The truck driver, a thin, weatherworn man, leaned forward. “Had an accident?” He opened the car door encouragingly.

“You might call it that,” Malone said manfully. He didn’t need much encouragement to climb aboard and slam the door before the driver could take a closer look at him and, if he were sensible, change his mind about offering a lift.

“Going far?” the man asked.

Malone opened his mouth to say, “Chicago,” and then merely nodded. Finally, he said, “To the nearest cabstand.” Then remembering where he was, he decided the remark must have been the wrong thing.

His benefactor drove in silence for a while. Then he said, “You must have come from that Mr. Fliegle’s place.”

This time, Malone confined himself to nodding.

They turned into what appeared to be a main highway, and Malone felt a little better. He only hoped the truck was headed toward Chicago and not for some alien distance downstate. After a while, he reached into his pocket for cigars.

“Don’t smoke,” the truck driver said, shaking his head at the proffered perfecto.

Malone put his cigar away. They were quite damp and a little bent anyway.

Thereafter, the drive continued in silence that seemed, to Malone, to bear a mildly unfriendly overtone. Occasionally the truck driver glanced at his passenger out of the corner of an eye.

The little lawyer wondered just what his driver thought of Sam the Finder and his friends, then decided he’d probably be happier in the long run if he didn’t inquire.

Suddenly, a crossroads loomed ahead, complete with filling station and a roadside diner. The truck swerved into the filling station and braked to a stop beside a gas pump. The driver got out silently and went inside.

The little lawyer thought fast. He doubted that the pick-up truck was in need of gas this early in the day. He doubted, too, that the driver had stopped merely to pass the time of day with the gas-station attendant. Then instinct took over, and he slipped quickly out of the truck and looked around for a place to hide.

Malone realized almost at once that there was no cover except for the truck itself. Filling station and diner stood on a bare patch of ground, and there was nothing else, not even a tree in sight. He trotted hastily around the truck, keeping it between himself and the two men in the filling station. Then he climbed into the rear and under the tarpaulin. He was, he discovered, nesting among a sack of potatoes.

A few moments later, he heard voices, and lay very still.

“He’s beat it,” the truck driver said.

There was mild speculation as to Malone’s whereabouts, but not much excitement. For this, the little lawyer was grateful. Finally, the truck driver said, “Well, ’tain’t none of my business anyway. The cops have his description now, and I’ve done my duty. Guess he was just another bum.”

Malone valiantly resisted an impulse to leap out and beat the pair of them to a pulp. Only his promise to von Flanagan held him back. This was no time for delays of such frivolous nature, even though his honor was involved.

He settled down as comfortably as he could among the potatoes, and worried. Where was he? He had not the foggiest notion. More important, where was he being driven? He peered out from under the tarpaulin, but saw nothing save dreary looking fields and dirty, melting snow. He wondered what time it was. He sighed and wished he dared to smoke a cigar — also that he had one, dry and unbent. He longed for a number of things, putting a hot bath, a shave and a clean white bed close to the top of the list.

Breakfast, too, would be a joyous fulfillment at the moment. He envisioned, without trying, fluffy scrambled eggs, fried eggs with yolks like golden moons, rosy-pink ham, a mound of lavishly buttered toast — but, he made up his mind firmly, no potatoes. Not this morning — perhaps he would never like them again. His waistline would appreciate such an allergy.

Malone never did know just how long the journey lasted. Afterward, he was to proclaim the journey a matter of hours, and long hours at that. There came a time when the truck slowed down, and there were the sounds of traffic around him. Malone peeked out again, saw crowded cars and began to hope for the best.

Finally, the truck stopped altogether. Malone waited. He heard the door in front open and slam shut. He waited a discreet while longer, then lifted the tarpaulin a little. He was, he discovered, on some sort of business street. There were a few pedestrians strolling by, and he spotted a lunchroom, a drugstore, a shoe-repair shop and a dime store. No one noticed him.

I can see them, but they can’t see me, he thought. The concept seemed important, perhaps the most important idea he had ever had in his life. The only trouble was that he wasn’t entirely sure as to its application. However, it spurred him to immediate action. He slipped out from under the tarpaulin, jumped down from the truck and sped across the sidewalk to the security of the lunchroom. He perched, breathlessly, on the stool furthest from the front and ordered four cups of coffee and two cigars, fast.

The first cigar of the day, plus the coffee, improved not only his physical wellbeing but his wits. He pushed the thought of breakfast into the back of his mind, as something to be attended to later.

He walked back into the washroom and regarded himself thoughtfully in the mirror. True, his hair was hopelessly tangled, he was woefully unshaven, there was a slight bruise on one cheek, his swollen eyes were red-rimmed and his clothes were spotted with mud. Yet it was quite plain to see that John J. Malone was still a fine, upstanding figure of a man. Call him a bum, would they! It was too bad he didn’t have time to look up the truck driver and attend to settlement of his honor just then.

There were, however, more important matters to be attended to, and there was not time to waste on pure pleasure. He dug out a handful of coins, located a telephone and called von Flanagan.

The police officer’s voice had a thank heaven! quality, at sound of Malone. The little lawyer said, “I’m keeping my promise, chum. You might get hold of Sam the Finder and Mike Medinica, out at Sam the Finder’s country place, and have them waked up and brought into town. And meet me at...” he paused, added, “at Harry Brown’s apartment. Never mind where I am.” For that matter, he thought, where am I? Not, he hoped, in Milwaukee. Or somewhere in the Indiana flatlands.