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the cab to see what Bradshaw’s gonna do. Bradshaw reaches the other side of Park Avenue, and starts trying to hail a cab going back downtown. When he sees this, the second car runs up to 49th Street and pulls a U-turn too. By this time, Bradshaw has walked halfway up the block toward 49th Street, still looking for a cab. So when the second car pulls up, the first car passes Bradshaw and waits on the corner of 48th, so when he gets a cab they’ll have him bracketed again.
    “O.K. A cab comes along. Bradshaw gets in. The first car pulls out ahead of the cab. He’s right at the corner of 48th, so that takes him through the intersection. The cab cuts into the left hand lane and hangs a left onto 48th Street. That takes the first car out of the picture. His best bet is to beat it down to 46th, hang a left, run parallel, and try to spot the cab from two blocks away going through an intersection. That’s what he does.
    “Meanwhile, the second car is right on Bradshaw’s tail. He makes the left hand turn onto 48th right behind the cab. Now get this. The cab goes twenty yards down 48th and stops dead in the middle of the street. He’s blocking the whole street, there’s no room to get by, and two cars have followed my man into the turn so he can’t back up.”
    “So?”
    “So,” Taylor said, “Bradshaw gets out of the cab, walks calmly to the corner, hops back into the first cab that he’s left waiting there, and goes off free as air, leaving my man caught in a traffic jam.
    “I told you he was smart, Mark.”
    “Yeah.”
    Mark Taylor took a futile swig at his empty bourbon glass and lapsed into a moody silence.
    The waiter reappeared. “Everything all right?”
    “Just fine,” Steve told him.
    “Can I get you anything else?”
    “Just the check,” Steve said. “And you can give it to the gentleman who’s been getting the phone calls.”

8.
    M ARK T AYLOR SLUMPED INTO THE overstuffed chair, rubbed his bloodshot eyes, and said, “O.K., Steve, I’ve got the dope.”
    Steve Winslow, sitting at his desk, looked over to where Tracy Garvin sat with her shorthand book.
    “O.K., shoot,” he said.
    Taylor flipped open his notebook. “The girl is Marilyn Harding. She’s the daughter of Phillip T. Harding, the petroleum king. Harding passed away last month at the age of sixty-three. Harding married late. Marilyn is the daughter of his first wife, Martha. She died when Marilyn was born, twenty-five years ago. Ten years ago Harding remarried. His second wife was a woman named Gloria Conners. Rumor has it she married him for his money. She died three years ago. Gloria had a daughter by a previous marriage named Phyllis. Two years ago Phyllis married a young real estate broker named Douglas Kemper. Harding liked Kemper, wanted to take him into the business, but Kemper wanted to make it on his own, so he stuck with real estate. The Kempers have an apartment in Manhattan, but they also have a suite of rooms in the Harding mansion. They’re your couple, by the way. Last night all three of them left together and stayed in the mansion, which is a big estate out in Glen Cove. Harding’s will is yet to be probated, but the bulk of the estate should go to the natural daughter. She’s an independent sort, never done a stick of work in her life, doesn’t have to. She hangs around with the fast crowd, likes riding, swimming, tennis, golf, all that goes with being rich. She graduated from college three years ago, has several men on the line, nothing serious.”
    “What the hell would a girl like that want with the likes of Bradshaw?” Winslow said.
    “What indeed?” Taylor said. “Our friend, Bradshaw, is the other side of the coin. David C. Bradshaw is actually Donald Blake, arrested three times on burglary, twice on extortion, served two years on one of the burglary counts. He just got out two months ago, which is when he came here. His background is all in Chicago. I’ve been tracing his movements, trying to find a