Finger Man

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The big man with the saddle-leather complexion stepped back into a shadowed doorway as the touring car slewed around the corner and slowed down. It was more a matter of habit than reflection; most of the men who might have been expected to poke Tommy-guns through curtained tonneaus in his direction were safely located in institutions which do not provide automobiles for the inmates.

Nevertheless, he watched with wary eyes while the car pulled up in front of a store which bore a sign:

He watched more closely as a figure in a loose topcoat, its face well hidden by a low-pulled felt, slid from the front seat to the sidewalk, glanced up and down the empty street, and vanished into the store.

Mike Hansard shrugged, eased out of his dark hallway. The license number was not on the missing car list; he had no interest in cleaning and dyeing establishments further than a daily trouser-press. But a match flared suddenly between cupped palms in the driver’s seat; and the plainclothesman stopped abruptly.

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