Dressed to Killed by Milton Ozaki

at Matthews. "I'd be hotter than hell, wouldn't I?"
    "We'd have to broadcast a general alarm," Matthews admitted. "It'd be up to you to keep under the carpet."
    "Hell, I couldn't move without being jumped on by cops, or by Richmond's gang, or by—"
    "Sands' boys might take you into their arms," Trottmann suggested.
    "Nix." I spat the word. "I don't like anything about the deal. What's the alternative?"
    "The states' attorney's office is sending a man over. You're to be formally indicted for Sands' murder." Matthews flung his cigar toward a wastebasket. "We've orders to put you through the seven o'clock show-up. From there, you'll go to the county jail and the newspaper boys will take pictures of you. You ought to know the routine."
    I did. I thought about the show-up, where shabby characters shuffled beneath bright lights and obeyed the commands of a cop ringmaster while an audience of sensation-hungry citizens gloated over them. I thought about popping flashbulbs, picture-crazy press photographers, and front-page pictures of myself showing the kiss-bruises made by Fia Sprite. I thought of the endless questions, the stinking county jail, and the wheels of justice, which turned so slowly that it might be months before I got to face a jury. And I thought of the fact that I was broke, that I didn't have the dough to hire a decent lawyer, that I'd be fighting for my life on a legal sea with nothing beneath me except a leaking raft.
    I made up my mind. "How do I break out of here?"
    "Just beat it," Matthews growled. He pointed at the door. "We'll fix it at this end."
    "You'll have about five minutes," Trottmann added.
    I stared at them a moment, then I got up and jerked open the door. The corridor was clear. I closed the door decisively behind me.
    Where does a fox run when the hounds are after him? Into a hole—to suffocate? Up a tree—to be shaken down? Into a river— to drown? I was a fox, a desperate fox, fleeing so fast that my hind legs were almost around my neck—but I wasn't hauling down my tail, not yet. Maybe I didn't have anything else, but I still had my pride and I intended to go down fighting.
    I ran east on Chicago Avenue to State Street, then boarded a cab. There were still a few dollars in my pants, fortunately.
    I told the driver to let me off in the neighborhood where I'd dropped Giselle Kent. Then I remembered Ginny Evans' apartment was on Bellevue Place, a block south. I went back to the corner, headed south, and turned into Bellevue. The building was easy to spot. I walked past it slowly, trying to act like a casual stroller, and studied the windows. The entire third floor was dark. I walked all the way to Lake Shore Drive, then turned and came back. This time I turned into the driveway and followed it to the rear. The building had the usual wooden porches and zigzag stairs, designed to support garbage cans and provide a tradesman's entrance. I made like a tradesman. I went up the stairs briskly.
    Getting into the building was a cinch. A corridor ran straight through the center, servicing all of the apartments on the floor, and entrance was cut off by a mere screen door hooked on the inside. I jabbed two fingers through the screen, tripped the hook, and walked in. The Evans girl had the front apartment, the one to my left. That was more of a problem. The door was a single solid panel and had a tumbler lock. Without picks or tools, it posed quite a problem.
    I finally went back to the screen door and unscrewed the hook. On my way back, I listened for a moment at each door along the corridor and heard nothing. For good measure, I rapped lightly on the door across from hers. The raps echoed down the corridor but no one came running to find out what I wanted. That was fine with me. Using the hook as a miniature crowbar, I forced it into the stripping which edged the door on the side where the lock was located, and gradually pried it up. I was sweating like a June bride before I got it loose enough to get my