"Well," said Pauling, "it was a stolen car. I suppose they just grabbed whatever was handiest."
"What I can't figure out," said Stevenson, "is exactly what made those tires do that. I mean, it was a hot day and all, but it wasn't that hot. And they weren't going that fast. I don't think you could go fast enough to melt your tires down."
Pauling shrugged again. "We got them. That's the important thing."
"Still and all, it's nutty. They're free and clear, barrelling out Rockaway toward the Belt, and all at once their tires melt, the tubes blow out and there they are." Stevenson shook his head. "I can't figure it."
"Don't look a gift horse in the mouth," suggested Pauling. "They picked the wrong car to steal."
"And that doesn't make sense, either," said Stevenson. "Why steal a car that could be identified as easily as that one?"
"Why? What was it, a foreign make?"
"No, it was a Chevvy, two-tone, three years old, looked just like half the cars on the streets. Except that in the trunk lid the owner had burned in 'The Scorpion' in big black letters you could see half a block away."
"Maybe they didn't notice it when they stole the car," said Pauling.
"For a well-planned operation like this one," said Stevenson, "they made a couple of really idiotic boners. It doesn't make any sense."