Andy sighed. ``Seems like we're never going to see eye to eye, Lieutenant. Didn't they tell you what I wanted the p. a. system for?''

``Sure, I know. But it's such a long shot'' --

``No longer than yours. What do you expect to get tonight, anyway? You think somebody is going to stand up in the audience and make guilty faces? Or have a sign on his car that says,' Here Comes the Paxton Kidnapper'?'' Andy crumbled the script in his fist. ``I cann't stop you from doing what you think is right. But don't try to stop me, either.''

``Someday,'' Bonner said, ``you're going to ask us for help. I can hardly wait.''

``What you don't understand is that I'm asking for it now.''

But Bonner departed, still full of ill will. He had gotten stuck with a job too big for his imagination; he had to cling to routine, tested procedures. To act otherwise would be to admit his helplessness. But, admit or not, Bonner was helpless. The crime showed too much planning, the kidnappers appeared too proficient to be caught by a checklist.

Andy's performance was scheduled for eleven o'clock. He stalled for a half-hour longer, hoping to hear something from Vecchio about the ransom money. Bake and Shirl Winter, on separate telephones, could not reach him at any conceivable location in Los Angeles, nor could they secure any clear-cut information regarding his efforts.

Bake cursed. ``The sweaty bastard's probably halfway to Peru with our money by now.'' When no one smiled, he felt constrained to add, ``Just kidding, natch.''