"No."
"And how am I going to tell?"
"Call Miller. I happen to know that the moving picture star died not more than a few days ago."
"That," said the policeman, closing his book, "is something that we can check but quickly. You'll come along while we check it, though."
"I'll come," said Foster cheerfully.
He went. The policeman called. Miller gave him the right answer, that the wanted man, Harry Foster, had been buried within the week. No, there was no mistake. The dead man's identity had been established to the satisfaction of every interested agency. The F.B.I. and the local police had seen to it that the dental work checked, fingerprints, everything including visual identification by friends, enemies, wife, and business associates.
Harry Foster left a short time later with an internal grin. He—was dead. Ergo—he could not be punished!
He laughed wildly as he resumed his driving, but his driving was less wild. There was a thoughtful quality about it.
At the Mexican Border, Harry Foster stopped for rest and while resting he read the newspaper. It carried the usual run of gossip columns, and in one of them Harry Foster saw—and read with growing interest:
The widow of Harry Foster, whose body was found on the evening before the authorities were to have closed in on his nefarious activities, is finding solace in the company of Tim Woodart, who is the inventor of Hammer Productions' new play technique. No one would deny Jenny Foster her right to happiness, and we'll cheer her on—