“I’m Mrs. Foster,” Helen said. “And that’s my husband over there. Would you mind telling me—”

“Got a pickup order for Michael Foster,” the cop said. “Suspicion of murder.”

“You’re mad!” I snarled, trying to wriggle loose. “Me—a murderer?”

“I don’t know anything, friend. But you’re accused of the murder of a Miss Peggy Armour. Pickup order just came through, and we have to bring you in. I’m sorry about this, Mrs. Foster. Just doin’ a job.”

The handcuffs appeared magically and slipped around my wrists. In panic I said, “Helen! Stu! Get a lawyer, fast! This is serious business!”

“I know, Mike,” Helen said. “We got a little package in the afternoon mail. But we’ll do our best to help you out. Won’t we, Stu?”

“Of course,” Berril said soapily.

“Come along, now,” the cop ordered.

They started to half-drag me toward the door. The web was complete, now. Peggy and her Harrison, Helen and Berril— and me, scraped off on the ragged edge in between.

“I didn’t do it!” I shouted, but it was the desperate automatic protest of a man who knows he’s doomed. As I left the mansion for the last time, I squirmed round and caught one last glimpse of my wife and Berril.

They were watching my departure with keen interest. They were holding hands. And laughing.

Blood on the Mink

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One

ONE

It was cold out at Chicago International Airport. A chill, nasty wind was rolling in off the lake. I puffed on a butt and watched the big DC-8 come taxiing in. The three Chicago detectives grew tense.

“There she is,” one of them murmured. “Flight 180, out of L.A. With Vic Lowney on board.”

“Not for long,” another chuckled.

I didn’t say anything. It wasn’t my place to make small talk. Leave that for the locals. I had a job to do, and the job began with my getting on that plane wearing Vic Lowney’s name and Vic Lowney’s identity. I only hoped the three locals didn’t mess things up getting Lowney off the plane. One fumble, one bit of gunplay, and the whole job would be bollixed.

The DC-8 was slowing to a halt now. The ground crew went bustling out. They shoved the ramp up under the plane’s door, and a moment later the passengers started getting off. A stewardess was reminding everybody, “Back in your seats in twenty minutes, please. This is only a brief stopover.”

Two by two they came out. Los Angeles to Philly, via Chicago. I clicked off each face as it appeared. The twelfth man out of the plane was our man.