"Still and all, it's nutty. They're free and clear, barrelling out
Rockaway toward the Belt, and all at once their tires melt, the tubes
blow out and there they are." Stevenson shook his head. "I can't figure
it."
"Don't look a gift horse in the mouth," suggested Pauling. "They picked
the wrong car to steal."
"And _that_ doesn't make sense, either," said Stevenson. "Why steal a
car that could be identified as easily as that one?"
"Why? What was it, a foreign make?"
"No, it was a Chevvy, two-tone, three years old, looked just like half
the cars on the streets. Except that in the trunk lid the owner had
burned in 'The Scorpion' in big black letters you could see half a
block away."
"Maybe they didn't notice it when they stole the car," said Pauling.
"For a well-planned operation like this one," said Stevenson, "they
made a couple of really idiotic boners. It doesn't make any sense."
"What do they have to say about it?" Pauling demanded.
"Nothing, what do you expect? They'll make no statement at all."
The squad-room door opened, and a uniformed patrolman stuck his head
in. "The owner of that Chevvy's here," he said.
"Right," said Stevenson. He followed the patrolman down the hall to the
front desk.
The owner of the Chevvy was an angry-looking man of middle age, tall
and paunchy. "John Hastings," he said. "They say you have my car here."
"I believe so, yes," said Stevenson. "I'm afraid it's in pretty bad
shape."
"So I was told over the phone," said Hastings grimly. "I've contacted
my insurance company."
"Good. The car's in the police garage, around the corner. If you'd come
with me?"
* * * * *
On the way around, Stevenson said, "I believe you reported the car
stolen almost immediately after it happened."
"That's right," said Hastings. "I stepped into a bar on my route. I'm
a wine and liquor salesman. When I came out five minutes later, my car
was gone."
"You left the keys in it?"
"Well, why not?" demanded Hastings belligerently. "If I'm making just
a quick stop--I never spend more than five minutes with any one
customer--I always leave the keys in the car. Why not?"
"The car was stolen," Stevenson reminded him.
Hastings grumbled and glared. "It's always been perfectly safe up till
now."
"Yes, sir. In here."
Hastings took one look at his car and hit the ceiling. "It's ruined!"
he cried. "What did you do to the tires?"
"Not a thing, sir. That happened to them in the holdup."
Hastings leaned down over one of the front tires. "Look at that!
There's melted rubber all over the rims. Those rims are ruined! What
did you use, incendiary bullets?"
Stevenson shook his head. "No, sir. When that happened they were two
blocks away from the nearest policeman."
"Hmph." Hastings moved on around the car, stopping short to exclaim,
"What in the name of God is that? You didn't tell me a bunch of _kids_
had stolen the car."
"It wasn't a bunch of kids," Stevenson told him. "It was four
professional criminals, I thought you knew that. They were using it in
a bank holdup."
"Then why did they do _that_?"
Stevenson followed Hastings' pointing finger, and saw again the
crudely-lettered words, "The Scorpion" burned black into the paint of
the trunk lid. "I really don't know," he said. "It wasn't there before
the car was stolen?"
"Of course not!"