Which Way to Die? Read Free Page A

with John M. Alstrom and Mrs. Grant. They’re using Mrs. Grant’s chauffeured limousine, I understand. You and the released men won’t be leaving Sing Sing in the limousine, however. You’ll be informed of how and in what you’re leaving when you get there.”
    Corrigan frowned. “If I’m to be responsible for keeping those two alive, I’d like a part in planning security.”
    â€œSorry.” The Inspector’s head-shake sent cigar ash cascading down his vest. “Orders from above are to let the boys’ attorneys handle everything. I’ve been assured by the Commissioner that security measures will be adequate.”
    â€œThen that’s that,” Corrigan said with a shrug. “At least they can’t blame us if something goes wrong.”
    â€œI asked the Commissioner to make that very clear to Narwald and Fellows. Since we have no part in the planning, the lawyers are being informed that the police will fully cooperate, but we accept no responsibility if anyone gets to the two men in spite of our best efforts.”
    Corrigan rose. “What time Thursday is this limousine leaving, Inspector?”
    â€œMrs. Grant is supposed to phone you. The Commissioner has already informed her that you’re to be the police officer on security.”
    Corrigan’s Dick Tracy face showed nothing. “Then I’ll wait till I hear from her.” He shut the door definitely behind him.
    While Tim Corrigan was reading the newspaper in his office, Chuck Baer was reading the newspaper in his.
    The private detective’s office was larger than Corrigan’s; it was furnished with good furniture and wall-to-wall carpeting. The building was air-conditioned, but in mid-May the system was not yet turned on. Unfortunately, the weather was paying no attention to the calendar; it was another hot day. Baer had both his window and the door open to coax what little breeze there was into the office.
    He had just finished the piece about the release of the young murderers when a man and a woman paused, in the hall and peered in. The man was about sixty, tall, lean, and distinguished-looking, and dressed to the nines. The woman was a desperate fifty, with a plump, well-girdled figure and fluffy blonde hair of the kind seen in does-she-or-doesn’t-she ads. Her skin had been labored over with superficial success. She might have been attractive if it had not been for the petulant lines drawing her mouth down. She wore a smart lavender suit Baer tabbed as a Paris original, a tiny gray hat, and white gloves. She reeked of money.
    The man said, “Mr. Baer?”
    The private detective rose. “Come on in.”
    The man motioned the woman to precede him, and carefully shut the door behind them.
    â€œIf you don’t mind, Mr. Baer,” he said abruptly. “We want this to be private.”
    â€œSure,” Baer said. He waved them to chairs, and waited, willing himself not to sniff at the fat-smelling fee in the air.
    â€œI am John M. Alstrom, Mr. Baer. This is Mrs. Elizabeth Grant. I presume you know who we are?”
    The big man sat down at his desk carefully.
    â€œUh-huh,” Baer said. “I’ve just been reading about your sons.”
    â€œI’ll get straight to the point,” John M. Alstrom said. “We’re very much concerned about our sons’ safety, as I’m sure you will understand. During their trial four years ago, a great many threatening letters were received by us, the police, the district attorney, and the judge. We’re naturally afraid some fanatic may attempt to assassinate them. And then, of course, there’s this Martello.”
    â€œThat horrible creature!” Mrs. Grant said. She had a sweet-cidery voice, with just a trace of fermentation. “He has no business being allowed to walk around among honest people. Everyone knows he’s responsible for dozens of murders. He’s a gangster