“That’s too bad,” Paul said, trying to keep his feelings out of his voice. “It’d make such an ideal birthday present for Jerry.”

“I sure am sorry, Mr. Neuser. Maybe there’s something else I might turn up. Got a nice World War Two Walther in the back room, practically mint condition, the old double-action P.38 model. …”

“No, Jerry really got excited over that forty-five Luger. Say, I’ll tell you what, Mr. Truett. Maybe the fellow who bought it from you wouldn’t mind turning a quick profit on it.”

“Well….”

Paul opened his wallet and counted out bills. “Of course you’d be. entitled to a finder’s fee and a commission.” He spread the fifty dollars on the glass. “Do you happen to have the name and address of the fellow you sold it to?”

“Well sure I do. Have to take down all that stuff for the Federal registration, don’t I.”

37

IT WAS a small house on Reba Place in Evanston, in the middle of a block of elderly detached houses on postage-stamp lots, each driveway forming the boundary with its neighbor’s property; the houses were narrow and old-fashioned and the trees along the curbs had attained towering heights. The carport alongside the house had no cars in it. Paul didn’t go up to the door but he sensed the house was empty.

He had a name—Orson Pyne—and this address. He sat in his car and studied the house and tried to form a picture of the man who lived in it. He had little success. But he had a strong feeling the house was empty and that meant either Pyne lived alone or his wife worked. The place wasn’t equipped for two cars but that didn’t mean much; it was only two or three blocks’ walk to Asbury where you could pick up a Western Avenue bus.

There was a filling station on the corner two and a half blocks away. It was worth a try. Before he started the car Paul opened his wallet and sorted through the ID’s and business cards. There was a lot of outdated junk, he saw—even a 1973 plastic calendar—and he was amazed it had been that long since he’d gone through the contents of the wallet. He decided on the card that identified him as a member of the West 71st Street Community Association. It had been sent to him when he’d made a financial contribution to the block association’s campaign to install high-intensity street lighting off West End Avenue. The lettering was too small to be read at a glance and beneath the lettering on the white card was imprinted a pale green shield. At a cursory glance it might pass for an official identification card. He put everything back in the wallet and slid the ID card in so that it was exposed in the Plexigas window. Then he drove to the filling station.

It was a small one-man station with a single lube rack; the proprietor was squirting grease up into the fittings of a Cadillac elevated on the lift. Paul stood just inside the stall and waited for the mechanic to notice him.

The mechanic lowered the grease gun and glanced at him. “Help you, mister?”

“I’m looking for a man named Orson Pyne. Lives a couple of blocks down here. Thought you might know him.”

“Well I might.”

Paul flashed the wallet, opening it to show the card inside the plastic window. “It’s official.”

The mechanic lowered the grease gun; his face changed. “What’s it about?”

“Just a routine inquiry. Pyne lives in that brown and white house in the middle of the third block down there, does he?”

“Aeah, he does.”

“He have his car serviced here?”

“Yes, he’s been a regular customer a long time now.”

“Is he a family man?”

“What is this, some kind of credit investigation?”

“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say.”

“Well he used to be a family man. Wife died a few years ago, lung cancer I think. He’s got a kid, just about grown up now I guess. Doesn’t live at home anyhow.”

“So Pyne lives alone.”

“Yes sir. He’s a quiet kind of guy.”

“Pays his bills regularly?”

“He’s real reliable, yes sir. Takes real good care of his car too. Sometimes that means something about a person, don’t it?”

“It does, yes. What kind of car does he drive?”

“Seventy-two Ambassador. A real cream puff.”

“You look after it for him, do you?”

“Well once in a while he takes it back to the American Motors place. You know, the big servicings, twenty-four thousand mile stuff. But I do all the routine work for him. He’s real conscientious about oil changes and all that stuff. I just wish more of my customers would—”

“Do you happen to know where Mr. Pyne works?”

“Sure, don’t you? He teaches college over at the university. Chemistry, biology, something like that.”

“What time does he usually get home?”

“Well I couldn’t tell you that, Mister. I don’t keep tabs on nobody. Sometimes I see him, he stops in here on his way home, it’s different times different days. You know how it is with teachers. But if you want to talk to him he ought to be home by suppertime I guess.”

“Thanks very much for your help. I’d appreciate it if you’d keep it under your hat. We wouldn’t want to upset him for no reason. I mean everything seems to check out, there’s no reason to worry Mr. Pyne.”

“No sir, I can see that all right.”

“Thanks again.” Paul went back to his car.

38

IN THE LIBRARY he looked up Orson Pyne in the university catalogue. Pyne was forty-seven, an assistant professor in the Physics Department. He had a B.S. from the University of Oklahoma, an M.S. from Cal Tech and a Ph.D. from Northwestern, the latter acquired in 1968. He was one of the five authors of a basic physics textbook used by freshmen. He had served in the Navy from 1947 to 1953. A four-year hitch extended by the Korean War, evidently. There wasn’t anything else about him. Paul tried various editions of Who’s Who but Pyne wasn’t listed in any of them.

He drove back to Reba Place and staked himself out a few doors away from Pyne’s house. He still didn’t know that he’d found his man; it seemed too easy; as the afternoon dragged by he thought of all the possibilities and was ready to conclude it was a blind alley. Truett’s .45 Luger hadn’t been the only one in the world. And it seemed too coincidental to be possible that both vigilantes had armed themselves from the same gun shop. Truett’s was one of a hundred gun shops beyond the state line and it didn’t advertise in the Chicago papers.

But the .45 Luger, if not unique, was very rare and he remembered something Truett had said that first time he’d been there: Far as I know this is the only one like it this side of Los Angeles. Even if he’d been exaggerating its rarity it still made Orson Pyne a possibility….

Factors for-and-against kept warring in his mind but in the end he knew it didn’t matter; Pyne was the only lead he had. If it turned out Pyne wasn’t the second vigilante then he had nothing else to try. He’d have to give it up. He’d had one piece of information the police hadn’t had—Truett and the Luger—and since it was the only advantage he had, he was pressing it. There was no point worrying now about whether it would pay off.

Five o’clock went by before the green Ambassador turned into the driveway. It stopped there, not proceeding back to the carport, and on that evidence Paul suspected Pyne intended to go out again. From his car he watched the man emerge from the car and walk up the porch steps. A tall man, lean with a scholar’s stoop; dark hair combed sidewise across the high forehead; a thin face, almost a satyr’s face. His appearance was hardly sinister.

But then neither is mine.

Full darkness came only a few minute later. Lights came on in the back of the house—the kitchen? The front windows remained dark. Paul slipped on his rubber gloves and opened the dimestore package of fluorescent red tape. He tore off two arm’s-length strips of it and quietly left his car trailing the gummed tape from his fingertips.