Manhunt. Volume 2, Number 10, December, 1954

“I offer to arrange a quiet payment of damages to the owners of the other two cars, so you don’t have to worry about eventual suits if they ever find out who side-swiped them. With a bonus tossed in to keep them from telling the cops there’d been a contact. And to make the same kind of arrangement with John Lischer. I warn you in advance that part will cost plenty, because on top of whatever I can get him to agree to for damages, he’ll have to be paid to keep it from the cops that there’s been a settlement. I’ll also take care of having your car repaired safely.”

“Why can’t you do just the last part?” she asked. “If no one ever discovers it was my car, why should we risk contacting the other people?”

“I’m thinking of your interest,” I said. “Once there’s a settlement, even a secret one, none of the other parties will press charges in the event the police ever catch up with you. Because I’ll get quitclaim agreements from all of them. Then if you do get caught, the probability is the cops won’t press charges on their own. And even if they do, proof that you made cash settlements with all the injured parties will be an extenuating circumstance. I doubt that any judge would give you more than a token fine and suspend your driver’s license for six months. But without settling, you’re in for a jail sentence if you ever get caught.”

“I see.” Her brow puckered in a slight frown. “And you say you can get my car repaired safely?”

“Safely,” I assured her.

“How? I wouldn’t care to have some shady repairman work on it. All he’d have to do is check the license plate like you did, and be all set for a little blackmail.”

“I said safely. Does your husband ever go out of town?”

“He flies to New York this coming Monday. A banker’s convention. He’ll be gone a full week.”

“What time’s he leave?”

“Six P.M. from the airport.”

“Fine,” I said. “As soon as it’s dark Monday night, I’ll pick up the car and drive it to Kansas City. I’ll switch plates and take it to a garage where I can get fast service. By the time your husband gets back from New York, your car will be back in the garage as good as new. Meantime, between now and Monday, I’ll arrange settlements with John Lischer and the other two car owners.”

She thought it over. Finally she said, “What is your fee?”

“Five thousand dollars,” I said.

She didn’t even blink. “I see. You’re a rather expensive man, Mr. Calhoun.”

I shrugged.

“And if I refuse to engage you?”

I said, “I have my duty as a citizen.”

“How would you explain to the police keeping silent thirty-seven hours?”

“I’d phone and ask why they haven’t acknowledged my letter,” I said blandly. “I was quite drunk that night. Too drunk for it to occur to me I ought to tell the police at the scene I had seen your license number. But the very next morning I wrote them a letter. Letters can get lost in the mail.”

She nodded slightly. “I guess you’re in a pretty good bargaining position, Mr. Calhoun. But I have one more question. Suppose this John Lischer insists on as much as a five-thousand-dollar settlement? With your fee, that would run the amount up to ten thousand. Where do you suggest I get that much money?”

I looked at her in surprise. “With this home and with three cars in the garage, I assume you’re not exactly a pauper.”

“No,” she admitted. “My husband is quite wealthy. And I can have all the money I want for any purpose I want just by asking. The only catch is I have to tell what it’s for. I haven’t a cent of my own except a checking account which currently contains about five hundred dollars. I could get the money by telling my husband what it’s for, but if I did that I wouldn’t need your services. I’m not afraid of the police. The sole reason I’m willing to engage you is to prevent my husband from finding out I wasn’t home in bed at the time of the accident.”

“Think up some other excuse. A charity donation, for instance.”

She shook her head. “My husband handles all our charity donations personally. There simply isn’t any excuse I could give him. If I told him I wanted a ten-thousand-dollar launch, he’d tell me to order it and have the company bill him. He wouldn’t give me the money for it. I’ve never in my life asked him for more than a couple of hundred dollars in cash.”

I said, “Then hit your boy friend. Harry Cushman’s got a couple of odd million lying around, last I heard, and nothing to spend it on except alimony and nightclubbing.”

She looked thoughtful. “Yes, I suppose that would work. Harry wouldn’t want publicity any more than I would. Shall I ask him for a check?”

“Cash,” I said.

“I’ll phone him as soon as you leave. Suppose you come back about this same time tomorrow?”

“Fine,” I said. It sounded like a dismissal, so I got to my feet.

She gave me an impersonal nod of good-by. She was leaning forward and reaching behind her back to untie my square knot when I walked out of the room.

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