Compliments Of The Author

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"IF YOU KNOW what's good for you," said the cat, "you'll get the hell out of here. But quick!"

Sam Tracy thoughtfully patted the bottle in his topcoat pocket. The gesture was only a momentary confession of weakness, for the Journal reporter wasn't drunk. He had several vices, including a profitable side line of blackmail, but dipsomania wasn't one of them. No, there was a simpler explanation-ventriloquism.

Tracy's gaze went past the cat to where Baldwin Gwinn's house loomed darkly above him, a big, ramshackle place in an isolated section of Laurel Canyon. There were no cars in the driveway. Good. Tracy didn't want witnesses during his impending interview with Gwinn. Gwinn would pay off, of course; the evidence against the man was overwhelming. And, since Tracy was the only one who possessed that evidence in its entirety, an attempt to collect hush money was clearly indicated. The principle was nothing new, either in Hollywood or to Sam Tracy. He was a lank, dark, saturnine man of forty-odd, with a permanent sneer of cynicism on his aquiline face, and a profound trust in his own ability to come out on top. Till tonight, however, he had not had occasion to cross swords with a magician. But that didn't matter: Gwinn had made a mistake, and the result should mean cash in the bank for Tracy. He could always use money. A succession of very interesting blondes, to which he was partial, the Santa Anita track, the casinos along the Sunset Strip, and zombies, minks, and melodious bowlings-the Hollywood equivalent of wine, women, and song-combined to keep the bank account overdrawn. But Tracy had excellent connections, and was always willing to suppress a scandal, C.O.D. He never put the squeeze on widows or orphans, either. They seldom had money.

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