George Roan sprang to one side as if a thousand volts of electricity had suddenly struck him. “Who’s that?” he cried hoarsely.
The face of the elderly caretaker twisted crookedly. “Just the police.”
“The police!” cried Roan. “How...?”
The voice outside bellowed: “Are you all right, Coggeshall?”
Coggeshall ignored the call outside for a moment. He said to Roan: “Why, it was that radio call, you know...” He looked down at Tommy who was kneeling on the floor, his right hand hanging limply at his side. “I neglected to tell you, Tommy, that WC33L was a lieutenant in the Burbank Police Department. In his spare time he’s a radio amateur...”
Outside the shack, a voice blared: “We open fire in ten seconds — with a Tommy gun...”
“On the other hand,” said George Roan, “I probably wouldn’t know how to spend that money anyway.” He stepped to the open doorway. “I’m coming,” he called out into the darkness. “I’m coming, shooting...”
He stepped out. A gun barked once — the sound of it was drowned by a roar of machine gun fire.
Coggeshall stepped to the doorway. “All right,” he said.
Policemen crowded into the shack. They found Tommy Dancer seated on the floor, with Betty Targ kneeling beside him, her arms around him.
“Dancer?” one of the policemen asked.
Tommy nodded. “I’m ready.”
Coggeshall came over and stooping, laid his hand on Tommy’s shoulder. “I hope you make it all right, Tommy.”
Betty looked up at him. There were tears in his eyes. “He’ll make it,” she said. “It won’t be forever and I’ll... I’ll be waiting.”
