He then went to the men's toilet, tore into small pieces the letter he had prepared, and flushed it down a water closet.

He went to the Missouri Savings Bank, drew out his account, went next to the downtown office of the Santa Fe Railroad and bought a ticket for Los Angeles with thirty-day stopover privilege at Flagstaff, Arizona, stopped at a stationer's, then on to the Commonwealth Bank and got at his lockbox, removed from it a smaller box heavy with gold. He asked to use the bank's washroom; his status as a lockbox client got him this favor.

With gold pieces distributed among thirteen pockets of his coat, vest, and trousers Lazarus no longer looked smart-he tended to sag here and there-but if he walked carefully, he did not jingle. So he walked most carefully, had his nickel ready on boarding a streetcar, then stood on the rear platform rather than sit down. He was not easy until he was locked and bolted into his apartment.

He stopped to make and eat a sandwich, then got to work on tailoring, sewing the yellow coins into one-coin pockets of the chamois-skin vest he had made earlier, then covered it with the vest from which it had been patterned. Lazarus forced himself to work slowly, restoring seams so neatly that the nature of the garment could not be detected by anyone not wearing it.

About midnight he had another sandwich, got back to work.

When he was satisfied with fit and appearance, he put the money vest aside, placed a folded blanket on the table where he had been working, placed on it a heavy, tall Oliver typewriter. He attacked the clanking monster with two fingers:

"At Kansas City, Gregorian 5 April 1917

"Dearest Lor, and Laz,

"EMERGENCY. I need to be picked up. I hope to be at the impact crater by Monday 9 April 1917 repeat nine April nineteen seventeen. I may be one or two days late. I will wait there ten days, if possible. If not picked up, I will try to keep the 1926 (nineteen twenty-six) rendezvous.

"Thanks!

"Lazarus"

Lazarus typed two originals of this, then addressed two sets of nesting envelopes, using different choices on each and addressing the outermost envelopes one to his local contact and the other to a Chicago address. He then wrote a bill of sale:

"For one dollar in hand and other good and valuable considerations I sell and convey all my interest, right, and title to one Ford Model-T automobile, body style 'Landaulet,' engine number 1290408, to Ira Johnson, and warrant to him and his successors that this chattel is unencumbered and that I am sole owner with lull right to convey title.

(s) Theodore Bronson

"April 6, 1917 AD."

He placed this in a plain envelope, put it with the others, drank a glass of milk, went to bed.

He slept ten hours, undisturbed by cries, of "Extra! Extra!" along the boulevard; he had expected them, his subconscious discounted them and let him rest-he expected to be very busy the next several days.

When his inner clock called him, he got up, quickly bathed and shaved, cooked and ate a large breakfast, cleaned his kitchen, removed all perishables from his icebox and emptied them into the garbage can on the rear service porch and turned the ice card around to read "NO ICE TODAY" and left fifteen cents on top of the icebox, emptied the drip pan.

There was a fresh quart of milk by the ice. He had not ordered it, but he had not specifically not ordered it. So he put six cents in an empty bottle, with a note telling the milkman not to leave milk until the next time he left money out.

He packed a grip-toilet articles, socks, underwear, shirts, and collars (to Lazarus, those high starched collars symbolized all the tightminded taboos of this otherwise pleasant age), then rapidly searched the apartment for everything of a personal nature. The rent was paid till the end of April; with good luck he expected to be in the Dora long before then. With bad luck he would be in South America-but with worse luck he would be somewhere else-anywhere- and under another name; he wanted "Ted Bronson" to disappear without a trace.

Shortly he had waiting at the front door a grip, an overcoat, a winter suit, a set of chessmen in ivory and ebony, and a typewriter. He finished dressing, being careful to place three envelopes and his ticket in an inner pocket of his suit coat. The money vest was too warm but not uncomfortable; the distributed weight was not bad.

He piled it all into the tonneau of the landaulet, drove to the southside postal substation, registered two letters, went from there to the pawnshop next to the Idle Hour Billiard Parlor. He noted with wry amusement that "The Swiss Garden" had its blinds down and a sign "CLOSED."

Mr. Dattelbaum was willing to accept the typewriter against a gun but wanted five dollars to boot for the little Colt pistol Lazarus selected. Lazarus let the pawnbroker conduct both sides of the dicker.

Lazarus sold the typewriter and the suit, left his overcoat and took back a pawn ticket, received the handgun and a box of cartridges. He was in fact giving Mr. Dattelbaum the overcoat since he had no intention of redeeming it-but Lazarus got what he wanted plus three dollars cash, had unloaded chattels he no longer needed, and had given his friend the pleasure of one last dicker.

The gun fitted into a left-side vest pocket Lazarus had retailored into a makeshift holster. Short of being frisked- most unlikely for so obviously respectable a citizen-it would not be noticed. A kilt was better both for concealment and for quick access-but it was the best he could manage with the clothes he had to wear, and this gun had had its front sight filed off by some practical-minded former owner.

He was now through with Kansas City save for saying good-bye to his first family-then grab the first Santa Fe rattler west. It distressed him that Gramp had gone to St. Louis, but that could not be helped, and this one time he would bull his way in, with a convincing cover story: The chess set as a present for Woodie was reason enough to show up in person, the bill of sale gave an excuse to speak to his father-No, sir, this is not exactly a present...but somebody might as well drive it until this war is over...and if by any chance I don't come back-well, this makes things simpler-you understand me, sir?-your father-in-law being my best friend and sort of my next of kin since I don't have any.

Yes, that would work and result in a chance to say goodbye to all the family, including Maureen. (Especially Maureen!) Without quite lying. Best way to lie.

Just one thing- If his father wanted to enlist him into his own outfit, then one lie must be used: Lazarus was dead set on joining the Navy. No offense intended, sir; I know you're just back from Plattsburg, but the Navy needs men, too.

But he would not tell that lie unless forced to.

He left his car hack of the pawnship, crossed the street to a drugstore, and telephoned:

"Is this the Brian Smith residence?"

'Yes, it is."

"Mrs. Smith, this is Mr. Bronson. May I speak to Mr. Smith?"

"This isn't Mama, Mr. Bronson; this is Nancy. Oh, isn't it terrible!"

"Yes, it is, Miss Nancy."

"You want to speak to Papa? But he's not here, he's gone to Fort Leavenworth. To report in-and we don't know when we'll see him again!"

"There, there-please don't cry. Please!"

"I was not crying. I'm just a teensy bit upset. Do you want to speak to Mama? She's here...but she's lying down."

Lazarus thought fast. Of course he wanted to speak to Maureen. But- Confound it, this was a complication. "Please don't disturb her. Can you tell me when your grandfather will be back in town?" (Could he afford to wait? Oh, damn!)