Not Now (1936)

Dean Franklin (Literature)

Short Fiction

 

"Who Killed Walter Neilson?" by Dean Franklin

It took a remarkable bit of detective work to discover who killed Walter Neilson. Actually, Fate betrayed Neilson's murderer as you will see by the facts in the case. Neilson was the kind of a man everyone likes. His death was a blow to the pleasant little community of Manhasset, New York.

But even the weather was unpleasant on the Saturday morning that Neilson was murdered. Big, wet snowflakes were falling as Neilson wriggled into his bulky overcoat and started to leave his gasoline station. He had one hundred dollars in his pocket, and was on his way to pay the rent for a destitute family that was facing eviction. Yes, Walter Neilson was a big-hearted guy.

A few minutes later when Tom Jenkins drew up in his gasoline truck to Neilson's filling station he sensed that something was wrong. He discovered that the door was locked and there was no attendant.

Tom Jenkins knew that Mrs. Marion Munion whose house was next door to Neilson's station often lent him a hand, so he rang her doorbell to ask if Neilson had left word about the amount of gasoline he needed.

Mrs. Munion answered the door and told Tom Jenkins that since it was after lunchtime, Neilson should be there. She knew her neighbor needed gasoline, so she offered to go over and open the station so the tanks could be filled.

Walter Neilson trusted Mrs. Munion, and had given her a key to the filling station. Tom Jenkins followed her to the back door near the grease pit, and waited while she opened it. Mrs. Munion pushed the door back and started to step inside. But suddenly a scream tore from her throat, and Tom Jenkins stepped in close to support her in case she fainted. Inside, Walter Neilson lay on his back. Without feeling his pulse, Mrs. Munion and Tom Jenkins knew that Neilson was dead.

The police were summoned immediately, but it wasn't until suppertime that the medical examiner issued a report on the autopsy declaring that Neilson had been murdered. His findings were that the filling station operator had been killed by a blow on the head, delivered from behind. The blow had caused a depressed skull fracture. Strangely enough, the wound had not bled.

The chief of police was faced with many more perplexing angles as the investigation got under way. In the first place it was definitely established that both the front and rear door of the filling station were locked at the time Mrs. Munion went over and discovered the body.

Secondly, the motive was a mystery. It wasn't robbery, for the police found over $160 in the cash drawer. Or was that the motive? The police learned from Mrs. Munion that Neilson had one hundred dollars in his pocket, and there was no trace of the money on the body.

But the police were not positive about the robbery motive, so they began an investigation around town and turned up a suspect who was reported to have threatened Neilson with bodily harm. He was a tavern keeper, husky and big-fisted, but he was cleverly evasive when the police began to question him.

Then the officers turned a ruse. "What do you mean by telling us you've heard of Neilson? Didn't you tell him that you'd beat him up if he tried to close down your tavern by making a complaint?"

Faced with the facts, the tavern keeper lost his nerve. "Yeah, but I didn't knock Neilson over the head," he pleaded.

"How did you know he was struck on the head?" one of the officers snapped back.

The tavern keeper realized that he had made a slip of the tongue, and couldn't take back what he had said. He tried to make the best of it. "But I didn't murder him—honest I didn't. When one of the boys told me that Neilson had been talkin' again about closin' me up, I went over to his gas station. The front door was closed but unlocked, so I walked in and snapped the catch on the lock because I didn't want anybody comin' in when I was talkin' with Neilson.

"But the moment after I stepped inside I saw Neilson, layin' there in the back room. An' I knew by the way he was stretched out on his back that he was dead. Naturally, I knew I was on a spot, so I turned on my heels and ran out, slamming the door behind me."

While the police were weighing the tavern keeper's alibi, the technical laboratory men were busy at the murder scene. Recalling that Neilson's fatal wound had not bled, they were interested to discover bloodstains in the washroom on a work bench and around the cash register.

The bloodstains were fresh, and there was a likely possibility that they had been left by the killer. But would the laboratory sleuths be able to detect the killer by the blood?

Tests were made to determine if the bloodstains were the same type blood of the victim. But almost as soon as the slides were put under the microscope it was discovered that the blood was infected with malaria microbes.

Neilson had never had malaria. A check with the board of health revealed that no one in or near Manhasset had been recently infected with the disease. Who, then, could have left the bloodstains at the murder scene?

It was logical to assume that the killer was a recently discharged soldier or sailor who had contracted the ailment in the South Pacific.

So the police immediately began going through the files of the local Selective Service Board to learn if any veteran in the locality had been discharged with a case of malaria. The patient examination of the draft board records required more than sixt days; when completed, the police found that their efforts had been in vain. None of the soldiers and sailors who had reported back to the local board upon discharge had been a victim of malaria.

But this set-back did not discourage the detectives. Who else might be infected with malaria, they asked themselves. They began a check on the file of 4-F's and hospitals and doctors in nearby towns. Still no lead turned up.

Then one of the detectives who had been calling frequently at the tavern operated by the first suspect, overheard someone mention that a fellow named John Ranford, a merchant seaman, had been to the South Pacific and returned to Manhasset with a case of malaria.

The person who dropped this vital piece of information was a teenage girl.

"You'd better tell me all you know about John Ranford," the detective said sternly.

The girl turned white and her hands were trembling as she spoke. "Well, I did see him loafing around Neilson's station on the day he was killed. I suspected John murdered him because I knew he had a grudge against him. But I was afraid to say anything about it because I knew if John heard that I'd been talking, he'd fix me somehow."

But the girl's remarks and the malaria-infected bloodstains were not enough evidence to book Ranford for murder. The police arrested him in his furnished room, and held him as a material witness.

The investigation was resolving at a whirlwind pace again. Detectives literally turned Ranford's room upside down in their search for evidence that would link him to the murder. Then one of the sleuths suddenly recalled that Neilson had been found wearing an overcoat but there was no hat belonging to him in the gas station. Attention was immediately focused on Ranford's closet.

Yes, they found a gray hat—and the initials on the sweatband were W. N.—which stood for Walter Neilson!

Faced with this evidence, Ranford admitted that he had slugged Neilson with a tire iron but had not meant to kill him. Realizing that the blow was fatal, he had become jittery and took only the money on Neilson's person. In his haste, he had scratched his hand, which accounted for the malaria-infected bloodstains.

When he was tried for first degree murder, Ranford denied his confession and pleaded not guilty. But the girl's testimony and the evidence of the bloodstains and the hat did not leave any doubt in the minds of the jury. Ranford was found guilty and was sentenced to die in the electric chair. On May 25, 1944, the sentence was fulfilled in the death house at Sing Sing Prison.

"Mask of the Swahili Terror" by Dean Franklin

"The natives just become wild-eyed and speechless when I ask them to describe the monster," Larry Kincaid, the American big game hunter told his host, District Commissioner Fleming on the latter's verandah overlooking the headwaters of the Nile.

"No wonder!" Fleming snorted. "None of Giganto's victims has ever lived long enough to talk. But some of the natives swear that the devil is not a gorilla but a man. Others declare that it must be part man and part beast. Whichever the case, the monster is the worst scourge that has attacked my district since I've held the post."

Larry Kincaid rose from the wicker chair and flexed his sun-bronzed arms. There was a trace of a grin in the corners of his mouth. "I've heard many stories about the monster. That's why I came up here in my amphibian. With the horns or head of every African game animal among my trophies, I thought this monster would give me an opportunity to bag something unique. Get your Mauser and we'll fly up to the pool and see if we can spot the Swahili Terror."

Commissioner Fleming boosted himself from his chair. His eyes were icy as they met Larry's. "I'm afraid you haven't taken the reports seriously," he said. "The best hunters in my district have hunted this gorilla. Those who didn't find his tracks came back. The hunters who picked up the monster's trail were later found—horribly mangled. Are you still game?"

"You bet!" Larry exclaimed. "I'm all the more anxious to meet Giganto."

Larry Kincaid ran down the stringer to where his plane was moored, and he got the engine purring by the time Fleming showed up with his Mauser rifle. But Fleming didn't utter a word while Larry taxied to midstream for the takeoff, and it wasn't until the plane was winging over the dense jungle until Larry broke the silence.

"You'll have to tell me where to set her down." Larry told the commissioner. "There's quicksand along the shores of the pool, and we want to get out on hard ground."

"There's a ledge by a cluster of thorn trees," Fleming told him. "You can tie up there."

Larry brought his ship down on the surface of the long, algae-coated pool and coasted her over to the ledge. Grabbing his double-barreled magnum rifle he hopped from the amphibian's bow and made a line fast to the nearest thorn trunk. Fleming followed him up the dusty bank.

Fleming pointed across a sun-baked veldt. "We'll have to cut across here to reach the thickets. Sometimes there are lions in this grass, so keep your eyes open."

There was a sparkle in Larry Kincaid's eyes as he fell in step behind the commissioner. It was rough going through the saw-toothed grass and both hunters were out of breath when they reached the dense growth of thorns that bordered the far side of the veldt.

They sat down and lighted cigarettes, their rifles resting across their knees. The sun was already dipping in the west.

A scuffling sound in the thorns behind them made Larry turn suddenly. He grasped his rifle, snapped off the safety and lunged to his feet. Larry was swinging his rifle around to take aim at the huge shape which had parted the thorn bushes when a large rock struck his forehead a glancing blow. Stunned for an instant, Larry tripped and fell over Fleming who was starting to get up.

For several seconds both men were helpless as the huge gorilla lumbered out of the thorns behind them. Larry pulled his rifle to his shoulder and squeezed the trigger. But his gun failed to fire!

Cold sweat beaded Larry's forehead. He knew that when he had dropped the rifle the trigger spring must have been jarred loose. Fleming's Mauser had fallen out of reach, and there was no way to halt the gorilla's charge!

The monster was within three strides of the commissioner as Larry's hands tightened around the end of his gun barrel. Larry swung the rifle in a wide arc, and the walnut stock struck with a sickening thud against the gorilla's skull. For an instant the huge ape swayed on his heels, then he crashed at Fleming's feet.

Fleming swung the sights of his Mauser down, firing as he stepped back. The mushroom bullet tore a wide hole in the back of the gorilla's head.

As Larry bent over the hairy body he let out a short yell. "The natives were right!" he exclaimed. "This thing isn't a gorilla. It's a man—a human in a cleverly fashioned gorilla skin!"

Larry stuck his hunting knife into the black hide below the neck and pulled the blade down. The leathery gorilla skin spread apart, revealing a sweat-drenched human back. "Who the deuce would pull a stunt like this?" Larry Kincaid demanded.

Commissioner Fleming was already loosening the gorilla mask from the head. As he pulled it free he gasped out: "Bongalu—Chief Bongalu! The natives thought he had vanished over a year ago!"

Fleming handed Larry the gorilla mask and rose to his feet. "I can't understand this," the commissioner said. "The only thing we can do now is cover the body so the vultures won't devour it, and go back and ask the Swahili witch doctor what was behind Chief Bongalu's disappearance.

They covered the body quickly with stones and dead thorn branches. When they were ready to leave, Larry picked up his rifle and discovered that there was a deep dent in the wallnut stock. "I must have given him a terrific wallop," he told Fleming. The commissioner examined the stock of Harry's rifle, nodded his head and grinned.

"My bullet didn't kill him," Fleming said. "He was dead before he fell. You showed a lot of courage, Kincaid. If your blow had missed, we'd both be dead now."

Larry Kincaid picked up the gorilla mask and they started back across the veldt. Crocodiles slithered down the bank as they approached the amphibian, and across the pool a lion roared.

It was growing dark by the time they came down on the river in front of the commissioner's bungalow. A small group of natives were waiting on the stringer, and when Larry stepped out with the gorilla mask under his arm, the natives began chattering wildly.

Larry held up the mask for them to see. "Giganto is dead, boys. Bwana Fleming and I killed him. Call your witch doctor. There's something very important we want to ask him."

Muttering happily, the natives backed off the stringer and were off at a run toward the nearby village. In ten minutes they were back, trailing behind their grotesquely masked witch doctor who hobbled on two canes.

The witch doctor came up to Fleming's verandah alone. When he saw the gorilla mask Larry held in his lap he made a hissing sound, nodding his head and swaying on his gnarled feet.

Fleming addressed him. "It was Chief Bongalu. How can you explain his actions? When he disappeared, all the natives thought he had fallen into a crocodile pool."

The witch doctor made a sign with his bony fingers to ward off evil spirits. "Bongalu have crazy ideas — you remember? He big fella, an' very proud. He think he too big to be just chief. He want to be god — gorilla god. But me an' elders—we say no! In few days Bongalu he go an' we never see him again."

Larry spoke up. "You wouldn't let him become a god, so he disguised himself as a huge gorilla and turned against everyone."

"You keep him mask," the witch doctor told Larry. "My people thank you."

"Thank your people for me," Larry said. "This gorilla mask will be the prize trophy in my collection!"

Talkartoons

   

These episodes are presented in order.

"The Dead Man Plays" by Anonymous

The Dead Man Plays

Anonymous/Unknown

"The judge let you off because of insufficient evidence," Patrolman Dick Stevens addressed the sneering racketeer, Pete Beers. "I'm positive you murdered him—and someday I'll find the evidence that'll get you a trip to the hot seat."

"Pipe down, flatfoot." Pete grinned as he spoke. "Your pal Morris disappeared and you're trying to pin a murder on me. But it won't work!"

Dick stepped forward and touched the shoulder of the departing racketeer as he whispered, "Beers, remember this. Morris said he'd keep playing his violin even after he was dead. Yep, all I'll have to do is follow the strains of the music and I'll find the murderer."

"Sez you," Pete barked as he walked away from the patrolman. "But dead men can't play."

Dick clenched his fists at the thought of the thousands of dollars Pete had extracted from small storekeepers for unwanted and unneeded protection. He also thought of his pal's investigation and sudden disappearance. More than ever he was out to get the haughty Peter Beers.

...It was dark and moonless that night. The huge house was ablaze with lights as Pete Beers shook hands with the last of his departing guests. Guests who had enjoyed a lavish party celebrating his release from prison. Pete turned to his butler and said, "I'm turning in, Mike. Wake me at noon. Most of the shops have been laying down on their protection payments since I was detained by them dumb cops. I'll have to get after them, this place can't be run on peanuts."

Pete climbed the huge stairway to his bedroom. It was a spacious room. He grinned as he glanced at the expensive furnishings. "Some different from that cell," he muttered aloud.

Resting on the soft bed, he dozed off but was soon awakened by the sound of music. He lay puzzled. It was violin music, soft and sweet.

He jumped slightly as the words of Patrolman Stevens ran through his mind. "All I have to do is follow the music to the murd..." Pete squirmed. He turned several times but the musical sound kept on. He could stand it no longer. Pete jumped out of bed, switched on the light and snatched his gun out of the holster.

"I'll settle this once and for all," he yelled aloud. "I'll have no dead man playing in my house."

Pete slipped down the stairs that led into the cellar. "Afraid? Bah, what could scare Peter Beers," he muttered aloud.

The violin played on and on. The music echoed throughout the long cellar. Pete's flesh was covered with goose pimples. He gripped his gun tightly and made his way to a corner of the stone wall.

Carefully, he felt the wall. "You can't play, you're dead, DEAD!" he screamed. "I put you there and you can't play."

The musical strains grew louder and louder. The notes imbedded themselves in Pete's tortured brain. "Dead men can't play," he screamed out loud.

Suddenly, the music stopped. A dark form stepped from behind a pillar to Pete's side and whispered, "Drop that gun or I'll..."

No, no—Morris, don't touch me, you're dead, you're dead, I know it, I killed you," Pete screamed hysterically as the gun fell from his fear-paralyzed fingers.

Swiftly, a pair of handcuffs closed on the frightened racketeer's wrists. "When that wall is pulled down," the voice of Patrolman Dick Stevens said softly, "I'll have the evidence needed to send you to the hot seat, Pete Beers."

Dick led the astonished racketeer to the staircase. At the foot of the stairs, Patrolman Stevens stooped down to pick up the violin. He turned to Pete and said, "I forgot to tell you that Morris taught me how to play."

".45 Caliber Kingdom" by Anonymous

.45 Caliber Kingdom

Anonymous/Unknown

Roger Metcalfe, captive rookie of the Jungle Police, tugged at his bonds in the prisoner hut of the blue-skinned natives as Schiller, the jungle outlaw, smiled at him.

"So you thought you would track me to my hide-out here in the jungle and bring back the white ruler of the Blue Men, eh?"

His voice was sneering as he planted his skinny, long legs apart triumphantly, and placed his fists on his hips.

"I never knew you resorted to murder," young Metcalfe said, "until I found Inspector Turner shot through the brain at the head waters of the Snake River."

Schiller threw back his close-cropped head and emitted a wild, maniacal laugh. At the same time he patted the .45 pistol resting in the hip holster.

"You fell into my trap when you went snooping for Inspector Turner!" he gloated. "And you learned the hard way that I have won mastery over the Blue Men through two powers—my pistol and my control of the lighted match."

Roger Metcalfe's eyes narrowed.

"I've seen you hypnotize those poor beggars with that cigarette lighter of yours. And I've seen you make them cower by firing that pistol at defenseless targets like Inspector Turner!" he said grimly. "But don't forget that a sword has two edges, Schiller!"

Once again Schiller laughed.

"Spoken like a high school idiot! Too bad you have to be the target in my demonstration tomorrow night. I'm calling all Blue Men tribes in the region to my coronation. By way of making myself king I'll prove I'm still the master with an exhibition of marksmanship."

Roger Metcalfe met his evil gaze unflinchingly.

"You'll never make it, Schiller! Somehow, I've got a feeling you're going to be the biggest flop the Blue Men ever saw!"

It was past midnight.

Roger Metcalfe craned his head toward the blue-skinned guards.

They were supposed to be guarding him, but now they were sound asleep. Earlier, his taunting had wheedled them into trying the white powder inside the small envelope he carried. That was the powder tht had helped him to sleep at night when the jungle had been too pestiferous with insects. And their curiosity about the sleeping powder had dealt them a knockout blow. Now he was ready for action.

Slipping out of the bonds, as he had learned from Jungle patrol training, he evaded the other sentries and glided toward Schiller's hut.

It would have been so easy to finish the snoring outlaw at that moment. But Metcalfe, the rookie, bided his time.

Instead of trussing up the jungle outlaw, he pulled out the .45 pistol from Schiller's holster and emptied the cartridges from the cylinders. Slipping the gun back into place, he glided out of the hut. Schiller was a tempting target, but Metcalfe had bigger plans for the man who had turned murderer.

Underneath the porch of Schiller's hut the rookie found a tin of gasoline. And with his precious container he stole down the path toward the Snake River.

He travelled all that night, until exhaustion overtook him. A nap refreshed him. When he opened his eyes, it was nearly sundown... nearly time for Schiller to proclaim his new, bloody domination over the jungle.

Metcalfe knew just where the dugout canoe was hidden because he had planted it there forty-eight hours earlier. In the stern of the canoe he stowed the tin of gasoline and a few other props. He had planned a showdown for Schiller, and it would be do or die!

As he paddled down the river in the gathering dusk he could hear the beat of the tom-toms and the weird chant of the Blue Men who had been his captors.

Schiller was about to assume his throne as the outlaw king of the jungle. He intended to use the Blue Men to kill every white intruder who dared challenge his power. And to all intents and purposes, nothing on earth could halt this egocentric fiend.

As he closed to within a half-mile of his goal, Metcalfe stopped poling, and reached for another tin in the forward section of the dugout. This can contained luminous paint. Stripping down to his shorts, Metcalfe covered his entire body with bold slashes of the phosphorescent stuff. Roger Metcalfe would either destroy the jungle dictator... or he would die in the attempt.

He had just finished adding the last luminous touches on his body when he paused to admire himself. What he had painted was the framework of a human skeleton.

And as he drifted closer to his objective, where Schiller had appeared on his front porch before the clamoring natives, he could already see the hated dictator standing proudly at the railing.

The chanting became louder as he approached, and he hadn't so much as a pocketknife for a weapon—only the can of gasoline behind him...

Peering through the haze, Metcalfe could see Schiller lifting his arm dramatically for attention. Now he would be giving his own coronation speech as self-appointed ruler of Snake River country.

However, as the outlaw opened his mouth to speak, an awesome sight presented itself out on the river. Hundreds of Blue Men craned their heads at the sound of a strange roar. A flame leaped out in several directions on the river. For the long, slim dugout canoe had suddenly became a dragon belching flames. The bow of the dugout, where Metcalfe had planted strips of bark to resemble a flaming tongue, resembled a dragon's mouth!

In the stern, there seemed to be a wagging dragon's tail. It was, indeed, as though some supernatural monster was coming upriver to devour them all. In an instant the assembled Blue Men were in panic.

Only Schiller, glaring from the front porch, knew what was taking place. Somehow, he acknowledged, grudgingly, that Jungle Patrol vermin Metcalfe must have slipped his bonds and dreamed up some mischief.

Now it was time to take steps!

Reaching slowly for his shoulder holster, where his deadly .45 pistol hung, he grasped the feared "fire-stick," as the Blue Men called it. Now they would see what he could do to such supernatural intruders. They eagerly looked forward to this show down of the magic-makers.

In his phosphorescent disguise, Roger Metcalfe was only a few feet from shore as his flaming dragon advanced. On every side, the natives were fleeing for their lives.

Slowly Schiller raised his .45. As the natives held their breaths he pressed the trigger. There were a series of sharp clicks. No explosions! Schiller's eyes started from their sockets. The natives halted in their tracks and stared. Roger Metcalfe climbed out of his flaming dugout and advanced on the cursing Schiller.

Ten feet away, the would-be jungle dictator made a frantic break for liberty.

But he wasn't fast enough. As he wheeled, the phosphorescent specter brought him down with a flying tackle. A bit of judo sent the pistol flying from Schiller's grasp.

A moment later, Metcalfe's fists were beating him into unconsciousness.

Now it was the natives' turn to close in on the fallen leader. But with a blast of fire from the tongue of his dragon-dugout, Metcalfe held them off. And then, as the natives backed away, he tossed the limp outlaw into the bottom of the boat and headed toward the middle of the stream.

The Blue Men may have been without a new leader... but the Jungle Patrol had the ruthless outlaw who would now pay the full penalty for the murders he had committed.

"Dynamite Dukes" by Anonymous

Dynamite Dukes

Anonymous/Unknown

Johnny Pastor danced around the ring and came back to tap Turk Brandt on the shoulder. Brandt rolled the blow.

"We're sparring now, Turk," Johnny gritted. "Like we use to at the Y, but it's only so I can talk to you. Pretty soon I'm going to batter you to a pulp, because I hate you for what you did to me."

Brandt ducked a stiff jab to the face. "Don't gripe, jailbird!" he snarled.

"I've got honest beef," Johnny snapped. "It doesn't matter that this is a state amateur championship."

Johnny sent a stiff right to Turk Brandt's middle. Turk swore under his breath. Johnny landed a left and right to Turk's head. As Turk reeled back, Johnny said: "Marcia Reed's rooting for you from the ringside. Too bad you're going to lose."

Turk rushed Johnny to the ropes. "Shut up and fight," he snarled. "If you're not yellow."

Johnny weaved away. "Because I was only a kid out of high school, driving for Excelsior Express and slated for traffic manager, you routed me off trail, where a load was stolen from my truck by a gang of hijackers. Then you lied about it and planted a wad of dough in my pocket."

The first round ended. Mike Tinan, Johnny's manager, said, "You look good, kid."

In the second, Johnny sprang to meet Brandt, landed a right that sent his head back, then a left that doubled him up and again a right uppercut. Brandt was dazed.

"Only a sample," Johnny said quietly. "Six month in the clink is behind these punches."

Johnny danced away and came back again. "You got the job, didn't you? And you hooked Marcia with your fast line. She doesn't like jailbirds."

Brandt was breathing hard. He kept grimly silent.

"Wait for the third round," Johnny whispered. "I'm keeping a promise."

Brandt came out fast in the third and landed a hard right to the jaw. But Johnny laughed and countered with a right and a left and another right to the midriff and an uppercut that sent Brandt to the ropes. Brandt worked out of it, but Johnny came in with rights and lefts again and Brandt went into a clinch. The referee broke them apart and Johnny landed a hard right to the jaw. Brandt's knees sagged. He sank to the canvas.

"...Seven, eight, nine," the referee counted. The bell rang and Brandt was saved.

Lightning struck Johnny in the fourth. Brandt's right landed like a pile driver against Johnny's mouth. As the canvas rushed up to meet him he had the presence of mind to spit out a tooth before all became black.

Mike Tinan handed Johnny the tooth he had lost. Johnny put it in his shirt pocket. "Drive you home?" Mike offered.

"I'll walk," Johnny replied. "I want to think."

The corridor led Johnny past Brandt's dressing room. Over the excited voices came the bellowing of Bat Rath, Turk's second. "I thought he'd kayo you before I could load your gloves!"

"Shut up," Turk barked. "These walls are thin. And get out, all of you."

Johnny eased into an empty dressing room and waited until Brandt was alone. Then he pushed open Brandt's door.

"I expected you," Brandt said calmly, leveling a small automatic. "You've got a record and even murder would pass for self defense."

Johnny sprang forward. The gun barked and he felt a thud at his ribs. But he closed in, knocking the gun across the room. Turk went down and Johnny's fingers found Brandt's throat.

"Admit it!" Johnny yelled. "Admit that you tricked me into a prison stretch and that you fought tonight with loaded gloves!"

As Johnny's grip relaxed, Brandt coughed out: "Okay, but let's see you prove it!"

Johnny turned. Standing silently in the doorway were Marcia Reed and Mike Tinan.

Johnny walked slowly down the corridor with his arm hooked in Marcia's. Suddenly Johnny stopped short. "Hey, I should be dead!" he exclaimed.

"Dead!" Marcia whitened. "Did Turk—?"

Johnny reached for his heart, then into his shirt pocket, drew out two pieces of tooth. He shook his head wonderingly.

"That was one tooth before Brandt fired," he mused. "Now there's two pieces. It deflected the bullet!"

They walked on silently for a few steps before Johnny spoke again. "Know a good dentist, Marcia? A guy can't expect a girl to go out with him if he's got a front tooth missing."

Marcia was smiling. "Let's go out first and worry about the dentist later, Johnny!"

"Death in Disguise" by Anonymous

Death in Disguise

Anonymous/Unknown

Jed Endicott opened the ranch house door and a bulky figure in a black suit and slouch hat entered, stamping his boots on the floor. "I'm Judge Bland," he said, extending a fleshy palm. "Black as pitch outside. Lost the trail and tumbled into a spring."

"Sit down, Judge." Endicott held out a boot-scraped chair. Bland sat down heavily and Jed turned up the oil lamp.

"I got no reply to my letter," the judge offered, "so I reckon you plan to run the C-Bar ranch. I don't care, understand. Merely offered a thousand out of friendship for your uncle. Sentiment, I guess. Matt Endicott and I were good friends for six years."

"Yes, I'll run the C-Bar," Jed said firmly, then hesitated. "Maybe sentiment on my part, too."

Judge Bland rose to go. "Right foolish of you. It's nothin' but scrub land and you're from the East."

He paused at the door, glanced back at Jed hesitantly. "Trigger Mann's hidin' out in these parts. He's bad medicine. Watch out for him."

"Listen!" Endicott said suddenly. "What was that?" Judge Bland kicked the door open and jerked a pearl handled Colt from his gun belt. "You stand back!" he ordered, as he sprang outside. He had not gone five steps when Endicott heard the thud and thrashing of bodies on the hard ground. A masked man leaped into the doorway. "Get 'em up!" he barked at Jed.

There were three of them. They brought the judge in with a gun at his back.

"What'll we do, Trigger?" one of the bandits asked.

The leader was taller than the rest. "Search 'em," he ordered. One of them slapped his hands along Jed's body, searching for weapons. Trigger turned to the judge. "Yuh asked fer trouble when yuh come lookin' for us. Now yuh'll come along quiet if yuh don't want to get drilled."

Jed's hands were still raised as he edged toward Trigger. Suddenly he hammered down a fist that crushed Trigger Mann's nose. Howling in pain, the bandit lost his grip on the gun and it clattered on the rough-hewn planks.

"Get 'em!" Trigger yelled.

A gun belched and a bullet burned Jed's cheek as he swooped to grab Trigger's fallen gun. Still crouched, Jed snapped two rapid shots and one of the men fell, clutching his shoulder and yelling. Jed saw Judge Bland dive for the floor, climb under the table.

"Back against the wall!" Jed shouted. The outlaw trio lined up slowly, and Jed kicked their guns across the floor.

Jed went to the wall telephone and wound the crank. "Hello, Sheriff," he said. "This is Jed Endicott at the C-Bar. I've got three new boarders for your brick bungalow. Trigger Mann and his pistol packin' polecats."

It was not ten minutes later when the sheriff and two deputies strode up to the door. Ahead of them as they stepped over the threshold was Judge Bland, his arms raised in the air, his face white.

"Maybe I got four boarders," the sheriff growled. "Caught Judge Bland sneakin' off just as we come up here."

"He must have cleared out while I was telephoning you," Jed offered.

"But shucks," the sheriff said, squinting in the light of the lamp, "I thought yuh had Trigger Mann. These here men hang around the saloon doin' odd jobs."

"I figured something was queer about the set-up," Jed replied. "Anyway, the real criminal here is Judge Bland."

Bland puffed and his face swelled in anger. "Why, you!"

"A clever attempt on my life," Jed said calmly. "That mud on your boots isn't mud, Judge, and it isn't crude petroleum like you thought it was. It's road oil. I was having a road fixed and a drum rolled off the truck and burst."

"You can't prove a thing!" Bland stormed, "Sheriff, I won't stand for these insults!"

The sheriff turned to Jed. "What else yuh got to say, Endicott?"

"Just this. In the East I'm a practicing attorney. When I inherited this land from my uncle I took the trouble to search the title at the county courthouse. I found a forged deed from me to Bland on record and a lease from Bland to the United Oil Corporation. Naturally Bland wanted me out of the way."

The sheriff scratched his chin. "And it's only road oil?"

"That was just to give the judge a thrill," said Endicott.

The sheriff grinned. "For a tenderfoot yuh seem right able to use shootin' irons."

"A man needs to be handy with a gun in this territory," Jed chuckled. "I think I'm going to like it a lot out here."

"Bushwhacker's Bullet" by Anonymous

Bushwhacker's Bullet

Anonymous/Unknown

No one could prove that Bull Finley had killed Slim Harrington from ambush. Bull had laughed in the faces of his accusers, including Sheriff Ben Riggs. How could they pin the murder on him when they didn't have Harrington's body?

Jim Warren, the victim's closest neighbor, had left no stone unturned in his effort to find Harrington's body and any other evidence that might point to Bull Finley's guilt. But six months from the day Harrington had disappeared, Jim Warren had made no headway.

The tension became more than Jim could bear, so late one afternoon he left his ranch and rode to town. As he hitched his horse to the rail outside the sheriff's office, he turned to see Bull Finley striding toward him. The killer's thumbs were hooked on the wide belt from which two six-shooters hung in Mexican holsters.

A sneer twisted Bull Finley's beefy face. "Still wastin' yore time pokin' around the mesa an' askin' questions about Harrington?" he asked the rancher.

"That's my business," Warren growled. "It shouldn't concern you if yo're innocent."

Bull Finley took a menacing step closer, hate glowering in his dark eyes. "Do as yuh dern please, mister, but if yuh ever dare say agin that I shot Harrington in the back, watch out!"

A crowd was gathering around them, and Jim Warren spoke loud enough for all to hear. "Slim Harrington knew more than was good for you about yore band of rustlers. He told me so himself the day before he disappeared while riding back from town. When you wuz ridin' herd down on the Brazos you shot a man in the back. You killed another man the same way in a trail camp argument. You got away with both killings because there wasn't a man who dared to testify in court against you. It won't be that way here!"

Bull Finley shook a huge fist at his accuser. "Shut yore mouth, Warren, or I'll do it fer yuh!"

Two men in the crowd grabbed Bull Finley's arms, holding him as Jim Warren pushed through the others to make his way to the sheriff's office.

Sheriff Ben Riggs, a lean, rawbones man of fifty, stood in the doorway grinning. "You'll end up the same as Harrington if you keep on needling that hombre, Warren. I'd rather hang him for killing Harrington alone than for killing you, too."

"It's been six months since Slim dropped outta sight," Warren said, "and what have you done about it?"

Sheriff Ben Riggs stepped back in his office and went to a railroad calendar hanging on the far wall. "Six months to the day!" he exclaimed. "It's now the sixteenth of June. I think the evidence I'm looking fer will turn up shortly."

The sheriff explained his secret as he rode with Jim Warren along the trail across the mesa that Slim Harrington had taken on the day of December Slim had bought a packet of petunia seeds to plant in the small greenhouse he had built against the south wall of his big barn. The clerk in the hardware store had told the sheriff about it, and added that Slim had slipped the packet in one of the top pockets of his vest.

Jim Warren and the sheriff rode in the sage on opposite sides of the trail. Half way to Harrington's ranch the sheriff spotted a splash of red and blue some thirty yards to his left. At his signal, Jim Warren crossed the trail and followed him.

They found Slim Harrington's body beneath a few inches of soil a few feet from the spot where the petunias were blooming. The body was facedown, and when the sheriff had scooped away enough earth from the head both men could see a black hole in the back of Harrington's skull.

"Ride back and fetch the coroner," Sheriff Riggs told Warren. "If he finds a lead and silver alloy Mexican bullet in this skull, we've got our man. Nobody but Bull Finley shoots Mex bullets in a six-gun around these parts."

Warren brought back Doc Lambert whose probing turned up a Mexican bullet. After the trio rode back to town, Warren went with the sheriff to the Oriental Cafe. Bull Finley must have suspected they were coming for him, for his hands dropped to his guns.

Before he could draw, Warren put a slug through his right wrist and the sheriff's shot struck the badman's left shoulder. Bull Finley dropped both his guns.

Writhing in pain, Bull snarled: "How did you find the body? Grass wuz growing over the spot last time I passed there."

"If you rode out there now," the sheriff snapped, "you'd find something else growin' close to the spot. Something that fell from Slim's vest when you dragged his body off the trail. Warren, go back fer Doc Lambert. I don't want Bull to bleed to death. He's got to live to stand trial and get the noose!"

"Tough Luck Makes a Hero" by Anonymous

Tough Luck Makes a Hero

Anonymous/Unknown

"You can keep your medals!" Marine Sergeant Terry Powers growled in a deep voice as he carried a rusty two gallon pot toward the helicopter the Central Korean front. The rotors were turning slowly, stirring up a little breeze in the lifeless, humid air.

Marine Corporal Joey Delaney who had just finished servicing the 'copter, stared over at the rusty pot. "What you got there, Sergeant? That's too big for a good luck charm!"

The remark brought a dark red flush to the sergeant's face. Slipping the pot carefully into the cockpit, he turned to scowl at the mechanic. "You mind your end of the business, an' I'll mind mine! Next time you remove that horseshoe from the instrument panel, I'll hang it on your eye!"

"I just asked you if that rusty pot was another good luck gimmick," Delaney snapped back. "You don't have to get sore about it."

"Okay, Joey," the 'copter jockey sneered. "I'll tell you. That pot is full of oil saturated rags. It will make a nice smudge fire. Now go back and count your medals, hero. When this war is over, I hope I can be prouder of my horseshoe and rabbit's foot. They'll see me through without a scratch."

The mechanic shuffled back to his tool shed, and Jerry climbed into the cockpit of the windmill. In a few minutes a courier ran up and handed him a typed order. Jerry frowned as he read it. He was to fly and pick up a bazooka man who had been wounded in both legs. The place was a narrow, rock-strewn valley between two low hills, just out of reach of the Reds' new spearhead.

Jerry rubbed his horseshoe for good luck, signalled that he was taking off and slowly advanced the 'copter's throttle. At a sharper pitch the rotor blades pulled the weird looking craft off the ground. Jerry took his bearings from the air compass and leaned back in his seat to watch the sky through the plexiglas canopy.

On his last three missions he'd been threatened by Red MIG's. The smoke from an artillery duel had given him cover once. The other two escapes had been made through low-hanging fog. But the sky was clear this day and there wasn't enough smoke up front to make cover for a butterfly.

About twenty minutes later Jerry turned his windmill into a narrow valley between the two low hills. He caught a glimpse of scattered Red troops dug in along the crest of the hill to the north. Three mortar shells burst in and around the Reds' foxholes, and Jerry guessed the shells had been lobbed over from the Marines who were still holding the other hill.

Looking below he caught sight of a Marine waving a shirt from a pocket of large boulders. Jerry cut the throttle and let the 'copter drift down. He landed on a small patch of gravel, and before he crawled out he saw two marines moving swiftly toward him, carrying a casualty on a make-shift stretcher.

The wounded man was Sergeant Nick Curtis, an almost legendary hero of the corps.

"Get our Gunny out of here safely, can you?" one of the privates pleaded to Jerry. "He got hit in both legs last night when we made a charge up the hill. You know him, don't you?"

Jerry smiled down at the pain-wracked face of the man on the stretcher. "I make a specialty of rescuing the most decorated men in the corps. You've got nothing to worry about, Sergeant Curtis. I'll have you down at the base hospital in twenty minutes."

Nick curtis grinned weakly and said in a whisper, "If an MIG doesn't jump us en route! Red airmen have been criss-crossing this sector all afternoon. I didn't expect you'd come for me."

They slid the wounded man gently onto the flooring behind Jerry's seat, and Jerry didn't waste a moment taking off. Over the drone of the motor he shouted back to Curtis: "Take care if you move your arms not to knock over that rusty pot."

But suddenly a look of terror spread over Jerry's face. He hadn't seen an enemy plane, but he remembered that he'd forgotten to bring matches. "Got a match on you?" he shouted back, then he turned his head and saw that Curtis was shaking his head in a negative.

Jerry explained. "Without matches I can't light the oil-soaked rags in that smudge pot. I was going to do that to fake a hit in case we were shot at by an MIG. You see, if a Red leaves you smoking, he figures you're not worth a second pass so he doesn't come back."

Ten minutes out from the valley a speck in the sky disappeared behind a cloud but Jerry could make out a faint vapor trail that whipped in a curve behind it. "There's a jet fighter back of that big cloud," he shouted. "If it starts coming down, you can bet it's a Red. I'm dropping to treetop level."

The MIG streaked out of the cloud, leveled then banked into a steep dive. "He's coming for us!" Jerry told himself. "There isn't enough cover on the ground to hide an ant. Best I can do is scrape the rocks and play stop and go. We'll be a clear target when he comes out of that dive."

Jerry dropped the 'copter to less than ten feet above the rocky, shell-torn plain. The 'copter hovered almost motionless, then jerked forward like an erratic dragon fly. But Jerry wasn't sure this technique would make them a poor target for the Red jet fighter. Then he spotted a trough in the plain caused by soil erosion. The gravel had been washed away from the base of several large rocks in a cluster.

"I'm going to land," he called back to the wounded sergeant. "If you don't raise your head you won't be hit."

Nick Curtis didn't say anything after Jerry cut the motor and put the ship down in the sheltered spot. The roar was deafening as the jet tore down on them. Jerry slipped off his seat and went down on his elbows. His legs were drawn up halfway so he wouldn't hit the man on the litter behind the seat. "Here it comes!" Jerry groaned.

It came so quickly Jerry didn't know whether the MIG's guns had raked them or not. Terrific air pressure rocked the 'copter as the jet roared over it. Jerry turned to look behind him but he was blinded by puffs of black smoke. The Red's incendiary bullets had ignited the oil-soaked rags in the rusty pot! But if the pot had been hit, so had Curtis. Probably he was dead.

"Curtis!" Jerry shouted between coughs.

"I'm okay," came the reply. "I opened the astral hatch so the smoke will pour out. Let it burn a minute so that Red will think he got us good, then see if you can slide the pot out your door without burning yourself."

When he could stand the oily smoke no longer, Jerry found a length of heavy wire with a hooked end under his seat, fished behind for the pot and jerked it out through the door. As the smoke cleared from inside the plexiglas enclosed cabin he saw that the topside had been riddled by bullets. "If we hadn't kept our heads down, we'd have got it!" Jerry said. "It was just pure luck that one of the bullets fell low enough to hit the pot and not you."

Jerry credited his luck, too, when the motor started and the big rotor began turning. Luck was everything, Jerry thought. He'd proved it on fifty missions. Let the other guys be heroes and take the medals. Jerry wanted nothing but luck!

The last leg of the hop was uneventful. Nick Curtis didn't talk, so Jerry kept quiet, too. When the 'copter touched ground near the hospital, Jerry jumped out, grinned at the two medics who were standing by with a stretcher and headed for the canteen.

A half hour later as he was telling his experience for the fourth time to a new group of corpsmen who had come into the canteen, one of the medics who had taken Curtis in moved up to Jerry. "That wasn't exactly a lucky bullet that struck your smudge pot, Sergeant. Heroes don't rely only on luck, you know. Nick Curtis proved that."

Jerry frowned. "What are you trying to tell me?"

"Only what I can guess," the medic mused. "Curtis didn't say anything, but the bullet hole through his left hand tells the story. He held that pot up through the top of your canopy when the jet jockey opened his gun on you. It takes more than luck to be a real hero."

Jerry gulped. Across his mind flashed a picture of Nick Curtis, raising himself on wounded legs to hold the pot up through the topside. "Yes, I guess you're right about that, Medic. Good luck never made a hero."

"Phony Love Affair" by Anonymous

Phony Love Affair

Anonymous/Unknown

It all started at a dance that I'll never forget.

I suppose I fell madly and incurably in love with Chuck the very instant I saw him. It took all the nerve I had to get someone to introduce him to me. As we stood together with the music beating softly in the background, I was grateful that its sound drowned out the pounding of my heart.

"Hya," he said.

That was all. But it was plenty.

I took a deep breath and asked him if he'd like to dance. He hardly looked at me as he replied.

"I guess so," he mumbled.

Once in his arms on the dance floor I was more certain than ever that Chuck was the boy who could make me happy. I knew that the music would have to stop but I kept praying that it wouldn't. I tried to read Chuck's face to find out whether I had any effect on him at all. But there was no way of telling.

"Nice band, isn't it?" I said as calmly as I could.

"Uh-huh."

I tried another tack.

"You're from Rhinelander College, aren't you?"

"Uh-huh."

I was frantic and furious. The precious seconds of the dance were ticking away and I was getting absolutely nowhere. As if in desperation, I blurted out:

"I live only fifty miles from Rhinelander College!"

But Chuck kept right on dancing.

And then the dance was over.

My magic chance was gone forever. Chuck managed to say something about how nice it was to have met me and I replied with words equally meaningless. I was utterly miserable as I realized that my evening was a glorified nightmare: even worse, I had to confess to my inner self that I was a complete flop.

There was only one tiny bit of consolation. Some of my girl friends, particularly Lucy and Virginia, had noticed Chuck and me dancing together. There's precious little that girl friends don't notice. Secretly, it was pleasing to me to know that they had seen me with Chuck. But I dreaded the questions that I knew they would ask. Some of the questions were very embarrassing: some made me want to run away.

"Did he make another date with you?"

"When are you going to see him again?"

"Did he invite you out to the college for a weekend date?"

And so on and on.

But I had answers, plenty of answers. At least, I made them up.

"He's simply crazy about me," I lied bravely.

The girls wanted details, details and more details. So I made up my story as I went along.

"Chuck and I are very good friends. I made a real hit with him," I babbled on. "I've always been wild about college boys but Chuck is something special. What's more, he thinks I am, too."

That would show them, I thought.

Naturally, poor Chuck didn't know a thing about the way I was flaunting his name about with my girl friends. I got a swell kick out of watching Lucy and Virginia as I reeled off my fantasy. To say that they were getting spellbound would be putting it mildly. They were just plain flabbergasted.

"You don't mean it?" Lucy cried incredulously.

"I don't? Well, just listen to this!" And then I told them that Chuck said this and I said that. I kept it up until I was sure they were believing me. For a fleeting moment I felt ashamed of myself, ashamed that I had to lie to build myself up in my girl friends' eyes. As I talked I mentally pictured Chuck back at college. I was probably the farthest thing from his mind. At that very moment, perhaps, he was making a date with some other girl—maybe with that brassy blonde who had tried to glue herself to his arms the night of the dance. I wondered what he really thought of me. I wondered... oh, so many things.

All that week at school the girls kept asking me whether I had heard from Chuck. I tried to avoid a direct answer but they persisted. They wanted some proof—some token—that the story I had told them was true. Well, I resolved to myself to give it to them.

I decided that Chuck was going to write me a letter. Not just an ordinary letter—but a love letter! Now, they'd really have something to talk about. What was more a letter would be proof, written proof that Chuck was now my own personal property.

I planned everything as carefully as I could. On Saturday morning I got on the bus that would take me to Rhinelander. The bus rattled and shook for nearly two hours before we reached the outskirts of Rhinelander. I started to feel jittery and nervous as we slowly climbed the hill on which the college stood. The college was just as I had imagined it—picturesque and quiet.

I couldn't resist the temptation of scanning every face to see if it were Chuck's. Yet he was the last person in the world I would want to see. What excuse—what explanation—could I give for being in Rhinelander? He'd imagine that I was following him but that was far, far from the truth.

Luckily, there were few people on the campus. Mostly a cluster of college boys here and there. I opened the door briskly and tapped my foot impatiently to get the attention of the old man behind the counter.

"Yes, miss?" he asked.

"I want some stationery. Rhinelander College stationery," I managed to blurt out.

"Certainly. Any particular shade?"

"It's a gift for my brother. I'd like something very masculine, you know. With the college seal on it."

"I understand," he replied as he went off.

In a few seconds that seemed like centuries to me the old man returned with my stationery. I hardly looked at the packet. All I wanted to see was the seal of Rhinelander College. Now I had my equipment ready.

I carried my stationery to the railroad station. I knew this was the last place in town that Chuck migth be apt to be at. I sat down in the deserted waiting room and took my fountain pen from my handbag. Using the stationery box to lean upon I started to write my love letter.

Naturally, I disguised my handwriting so that absolutely no one in the entire world could ever even suspect that I had written the letter myself. By pressing very hard on the pen and holding it at a special angle I managed to create a very fine imitation of a boy's handwriting.

"My Darling Diana," I began to write...

I breathed heavily as I plunged into the body of the letter.

"Knowing you," I wrote, "is the most wonderful thing that's ever happened to me. Since getting back to college after our never-to-be-forgotten dance I've been thinking of nothing else but you. How long must I wait for the next time we meet? Please have pity on a man desperately in love and let me see you soon."

Then I added a few paragraphs about how beautiful I was and how much I meant to him. I signed it with a flourish "Your ever loving—Chuck."

I sealed the letter carefully and wrote my name and address on the envelope. Across the back I boldly wrote out Chuck's full name and Rhinelander College beneath it. I dropped the letter into a mail box and took the bus back home.

I slept very happily that night. I knew that on Monday morning there would be a letter for me, a love letter that I could show to Lucy and Virginia and anyone else who doubted me.

Fortunately, the mail came to our house before I left for school. I was so excited on Monday morning that I could barely gulp down my breakfast. My mother asked me what was the matter.

"Not a thing," I said.

Then I heard the mail man's call. I rushed out and brought in all the mail. My eyes raced over the envelopes until I found the one that I was expecting. There it was. It was postmarked "Rhinelander", of course. I was almost as happy as if Chuck had actually written to me.

Lucy and Virginia waited a long time that day before they asked the question I knew was inevitable. Up to now I had wished that they wouldn't constantly heckle me about Chuck. Now I was impatient for their taunts. Finally, Virginia said sweetly:

"How's your boy friend?"

My answer was so satisfying. "Oh, fine," I said. And then I added calmly, "As a matter of fact, I just had a letter from him this very morning."

"A letter!" they chorused. Again, they wanted details.

"Yes. A very sweet letter."

For the next few minutes I puut on a great act about not wanting to show my personal mail to anyone.

"It's private," I insisted.

But they pressed on. I agreed to show them the envelope. They saw the post-mark, college seal and Chuck's name and address. This was the proof they needed, the written proof. But they wanted more. Couldn't I tell them what he had written?

I pretended that Chuck's words were much too sacred to be shown to strangers. "But Diana," Lucy pleaded, "We're not strangers. We're your best friends, aren't we?"

"Well———," I stammered.

Then I yielded. Seeming reluctant, I told them some of the things Chuck had written but not before I had sworn them to absolute secrecy.

"Chuck would be very angry," I pointed out, "if he knew that I discussed this with even my best friends." They understood but they were hungry to see the letter itself. Couldn't they just peek? Please?

I let them see part of the letter and the signature. It was better, I thought, that they guess about the parts that my hand kept hidden from their view. Finally, I carefully placed the letter in my bag and left.

My stock went way up as the days went on. I was proud yet secretly angry with myself. Yet there was nothing I could do except to continue the make-believe. That was but the first letter. Every Friday night I would write another letter on that same stationery which I kept hidden in a dark corner of our cellar. And on Saturday morning I would take the bus to Rhinelander and mail it.

As the letters went on they became more and more romantic. I found myself reciting poetry and quoting from great lovers. And every Monday morning the mail man would bring me the letter I had gone to so much trouble to write.

According to my girl friends I should have been the happiest girl in the world. Here I had a fine college boy like Chuck madly in love with me and practically at my feet. Actually, I was miserable about everything. How long could this go on?

"When is Chuck taking you out?"

I knew that everyone would soon be asking that question. A romance of letters alone may have been all right for certain people in history but not for the people I knew. There had to be "dates" and I had to do something about it—soon. I decided that Chuck and I would meet on Friday nights. He was through with school on Friday afternoon and could easily come over. Again I had to pretend.

On those Friday nights when I was supposed to be out on a heavenly date with Chuck, I'd complain to my mother about a headache and then go up to my room. I'd turn out the lights and pull down the shades and just lie in the dark silence. And then I'd wait for the long night to be over.

My letters would discuss our "dates" in glowing terms. If Chuck were to skip a "date," I'd simply write that he was busy studying for exams.

And so it went on. I had a stack of love letters, all of them faked. I had a string of dates, all of them just products of my own imagination.

Worst of all was the pretense of happiness I had to show in front of my friends. Here I was so utterly unhappy, so desperately tired from playing the absurd game I had started, and yet I had to act as though I were having a perfectly glorious time. There was no one to whom I could turn because there was no one to whom I'd dare admit that my romance with Chuck was nothing but a hoax.

What could I do?

After painting Chuck so glamorously, I could hardly come right out and say that I had given him up. Why? Why should any girl in her right mind give up a boy like Chuck?

To keep on with my myth was becoming more and more difficult. Bus rides cost money. I began to hate myself for spending hard earned cash just to mail a letter to myself, a letter that was dishonest at that. Besides, where would all this lead to? I was on a dead-end street and I knew it. How I wished that I had never taken the first bus ride to Rhinelander!

Poor Chuck, I thought. What about him? Little did he realize that he had a girl so wildly in love with him that she would write herself love letters and dream up imaginary dates.

That Saturday morning I reached Rhinelander as usual. I took a last glance at the letter I had written. I'll never forget the closing paragraph:

"And so, dearest Diana, I want you to know that I loved you, still do and always will. Your decision to give me up pains me very deeply and will leave a scar on my heart. If you should ever change your mind about me—please, please let me know—and I'll come running. With all my love now and forever, Chuck."

I walked slowly around the campus on this, my last trip to Rhinelander. The tears in my eyes blotted out a clear view of the buildings and the trees. I was burying a love that had been very precious to me and I couldn't help wondering how I would face life without the strength that my romance, however much a lie, had brought me. I realized that although the letters and the dates had all been false there was nothing about my love for Chuck that wasn't real and honest. No power could ever destroy that love. It was my only comfort in my gloom.

I stumbled on towards the mail box, my eyes barely open. I waited a brief second for one of the college boys to drop in the letter he was mailing. My letter—the final chapter in my romance—had to be mailed in complete privacy. I approached the box when suddenly I was electrified by a voice that rang out.

"Diana!"

I turned my head and looked.

It was Chuck. Yes, the real Chuck.

Despite all the words that I had been writing these many weeks, I couldn't find a single one now. I stood in silent awe.

"Gosh, it's good to see you," he said briskly.

"Chuck, I———." I couldn't complete the sentence.

I was too numb to say what I wanted to say. I smiled as best as I could. I can't remember exactly what we talked about. I know that Chuck took my arm and walked me around the campus. He pointed out the various buildings but I hardly listened. I was busily tearing my "final" letter to shreds.

"You know," Chuck said crisply, "I always did want to get your address the night of that dance."

"My address?" I asked in some amazement.

"Sure," he added, "I wanted to write you."

I nearly cried inside when he said that. But all I answered was simply:

"Chuck, I never did like receiving letters!"

And then we made our first "real" date.