Black Orchids

I hotfooted it to the corner. It was Marble Avenue. Riverdale is like that. The bus was too far away to read its number, and no taxi was in sight in either direction. I stepped into the street, into the path of the first car coming, and held up a commanding palm. By bad luck it was occupied by the two women that Helen Hokinson used for models, but there was no time to pick and choose. I hopped into the back seat, gave the driver a fleeting glimpse of my detective license, and said briskly:

"Police business. Step on it and catch up with a bus that's ahead."

The one driving emitted a baby scream. The other one said, "You don't look like a policeman. You get out. If you don't we'll drive to a police station."

"Suit yourself, madam. While we sit and talk the most dangerous gangster in New York is escaping. He's on the bus."

"Oh! He'll shoot at us."

"No. He isn't armed."

"Then why is he dangerous?"

"For God's sake," I reached for the door latch, "I'll take a car with a man in it!"

But the car started forward. "You will not," the driver said fiercely. "I'm as good a driver as any man. My husband says so."

She was okay at that. Within a block she had it up to fifty, and she was good at passing, and it wasn't long before we caught up with the bus. At least, a bus. When it stopped at a corner I told her to get alongside, which she did neatly, and with my hand over my face I looked for him and there he was.

"I'm shadowing him," I told the ladies. "I think he's on his way to meet a crooked politician. The first empty taxi we see you can let me out if you want to, but of course he might suspect a taxi, whereas he never would suspect a car like this with two good-looking well-dressed women in it."

The driver looked grim. "In that case," she declared, "it is our duty."