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chance.
        Gerald Hanna flipped on the dashboard light and opened the door at his side of the car. He circled around the front of the car and opened the other door. The boy's body was surprisingly light. It took him only a minute or two to half lift and half drag the mortal remains of Vince Dunne from the front seat and over to the side of the road. He was almost gentle as he laid his burden into the pile of bushes, making only a slight effort to conceal it.
        That was the easy part of it. What was a thousand times harder was making the trip back to Roslyn and the house in which he lived; finding the house and opening the garage doors and putting the ear away and taking the jewels and the gun and wrapping them in his jacket and carrying them up to his room.
        He knew the chance he was taking; knew the percentages. He wasn't sure, of course, if the car had been identified. Wasn't sure that even now the pickup alarm wasn't out. He also knew the chance of a cruising policeman stopping a car with a broken windshield, on general suspicion. Of course, if it happened before he turned into his own street, it would be all right. He'd just tell the truth, tell them that he was on the way to find help.
        But it hadn't been necessary; there had been no one to tell. He'd made the house without passing a single car or person. That had been a break and the second break was one which already existed and made it possible for him to put his plan into operation. The second break was the fact that the family from whom he rented his rooms were away for a month's vacation in Bermuda. He had the house to himself and what was more important, he had the garage to himself.
        There were neighbors, of course, but no one ever came around and even the milkman had suspended service while the owners were absent.
        Sitting there in the small bedroom with the blinds carefully drawn and only the single dim desk light on for illumination, he was looking at more wealth, or potential wealth, than he would normally see if he worked for the rest of his life and saved up every cent he was ever to make.
        Until this moment, not once in his entire life had he ever considered doing anything dishonest.
        Very suddenly he laughed.
        Well, in the purest sense of the word, he still hadn't. A man with a gun in his hand had forced his way into his car. The man had later died, probably of a gunshot wound sustained in a battle with the police and had. conveniently, left a fortune in jewels scattered at his feet.
        Gerald had merely removed a body which had intruded on him. He had driven home. One life already had paid for the gems and if Gerald was any sort of judge and his eyes hadn't deceived him, several other lives had been forfeited. Certainly it was too late to do anything about that.
        As for the owners of the gems, Gerald was certain they were covered by insurance.
        Having spent some of the best years of his life slaving for a surety company which neglected to pay him enough money to get married and live decently, Gerald was not overly sympathetic. After all, that was why they were in business and why they charged very high premiums-to take care of just such losses as this.
        Before going to bed, he did two things. He returned to the garage and removed the fragments of glass from the broken windshield. Then he carefully checked the car for bloodstains, wiped it over with a damp rag.
        He placed the jewels in a brief case and put it into his bottom dresser drawer. He knew there would be no point in trying to hide the stuff; he must take a gamble that no one had taken the license number of his car.
        It was a calculated risk and one which, in view of the possible rewards, he was perfectly willing to assume.
        It was very much like the poker game; he'd already filled his inside straight. Now all he had to do was be sure no one else held a higher hand and he would