Dressed to Killed Read Online Free PDF

of a powerful engine roaring into life.
    I leaped for the door, clawed at the lock, got it open. The yellow Caddy, veiled in a film of protesting dust, was shooting into the driveway. A thin-faced guy, wearing horn-rimmed glasses, was behind the wheel. I shouted and ran toward the car. He braked viciously, then flipped the shift and spun the wheel in unison. He grinned pleasantly at me and waved a hand in farewell. The Caddy went into a swift crouch and then leaped away down the driveway.
    I said a one-syllabled word.
 
    THREE. A Very Busy Man
    I SAID the word a second time, with even more vehemence.
    What had happened was pretty obvious. I wasn't the only name on the mailing list of the A. R. A. The thin-faced guy was probably a shoe-string investigator, located in one of the small towns nearby, who made a practice of keeping a finger on the pulse of the motels. He must have eased the Caddy's hood open, checked the serial number, and teased it down without actually snapping it shut. And while I'd been yakking away at the blonde, he'd been making hey-hey with the ignition. Slick of him—and stupid of me. I felt like heading for the nearest latrine and shoveling myself under.
    I stormed into the cabin.
    "What happened?" she asked expectantly.
    "The Caddy went bye-bye," I told her bitterly.
    "What!"
    "You heard me." I gave her a smile like dry ice. "Let's get out of here."
    "But—"
    I cut her short. "No buts. I'm moving." I turned and stalked out. Her shoes clattered on the floor, following me.
    I still had the Pontiac, thank God. I got in and jabbed the key into the ignition. I kicked at the gas. She got the door open and flung herself in. I gunned the car out into the driveway.
    "You could at least—" she began angrily.
    "Shut up," I gritted.
    I was sore as hell, sore at myself, principally, but I had to let off steam somehow, so I took it out on her and the car. I drove like mad for twenty miles, ignoring highway warnings and trying to overtake everything on the road. I kept seeing the yellow Caddy pulling away from me, leaving me with a surplus blonde and no fee. Worse than that. It left me tagged as a guy who stopped at a roadside motel to frolic with a pick-up, thereby diluting business with pleasure, while a dead stiff sweated outside in the trunk of the car I'd repossessed. I could vision the thin-faced guy parking the Caddy, walking around it triumphantly, and his horn-rimmed spectacles bobbing with shock when he opened the trunk—if he opened it. Sure, he'd open it. With half an eye, he'd spot the stains, just as I did. Then he'd run for the cops. The cops would run for the motel. The fat boy would be questioned. My description would be broadcast. And from that point on I'd be eligible for the services of a mixed quartet, the kind which sings at funerals.
    How long would it be before they got enough dope for a general alarm? An hour? Two hours? Not any longer. With luck, I'd have two hours to scram around before the roof fell in. How should I use that precious time?
    No matter what I did, it would look bad. It would be idiotic to tell my story to the cops. Even if they didn't laugh themselves sick, I'd become persona non grata to the A. R .A. and might even get my state license revoked. That would be better than burning, of course, but not much better. The only possible thing in my favor was the fact that I had a thin edge of knowledge: I knew that Arnold J. Richmond was behind the deal and that a girl named Virginia Evans had Addled a distracting obbligato while Eddie Sands' body was being loaded for transit. It wasn't a hell of a lot to work on. But it was better than nothing.
    "Look, kid." The rasp of my voice surprised me; nerves had made my larynx tighter than a rusty screw. "I'm going to drop you off at Bellevue Place. I want you to call on your pal Ginny and see if you can get your hooks into her for some information. Pump all the facts you can out of her. If necessary, give her the whole story. It's only