The Shadowers

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WHEN I came hurriedly out of the hotel, the car was waiting for me. It was white with letters in gold: REDONDO BEACH-CITY POLICE. They seem to be painting al] police cars white these days. I guess it makes them easier to keep clean. The uniformed man at the wheel threw the door open and leaned over.

"Mr. Corcoran?"

"I'm Corcoran," I said.

Well, I was, as far as Redondo Beach, Florida, was concerned. The fact that I might have other names elsewhere-in Washington, D. C., for instance-was nobody's business down here where I was spending a month's well-earned rest in the sun. At least I hoped it wasn't.

"Please get in, sir," the policeman said.

I got in and he had us going before the door had closed. He switched on his flasher and cut around the block sharply.

"Where did it happen?" I asked.

"South along the Miami highway a few miles. At least that's where they told me to take you."

"Is she badly hurt?"

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