Mouthpiece by L. Ron Hubbard Page B

message
in the mud in front of the lantern for you fellows to find. You found it and
that’s all there is to it.”
    â€œNot all,” said a captain of the city police, smiling.
“We’ve reconsidered your feat of beating squad cars to the scene. If you want,
you can do it anytime. And with the reward money the bank’s offering, you will
have enough to buy a fleet of cars. We’ll give you exclusive rights to that. A
sort of franchise.”
    â€œThanks,” said Bill through colorless lips. “That’s
mighty swell of you, Captain, but I want another favor.”
    â€œSure, what?”
    â€œFix up those squad cars, will you, so they’ll go
faster? And have the police broadcast announce it when the squad car is almost
on the scene. I tell you, Captain, I’m through with beating your boys to it.
I’m in the wrecking business all right, but I’m damned if that means that I’m
out to wreck myself!”

Story Preview
    N OW that you’ve just ventured through some of
the captivating tales in the Stories from the Golden Age collection by L. Ron
Hubbard, turn the page and enjoy a preview of Killer’s Law . Join Sheriff
Kyle of Deadeye, Nevada, a straight shooter who finds treachery in the heart of
Washington, DC when a senator is killed and he’s accused of the murder.

KILLER'S LAW
    W HEN Kyle stepped off the Capitol
Limited and into the confused fury of Washington, a headline caught his glance:
    SENATOR MORRAN BEGINS
COPPER QUIZ
    A few hours from now,
his own name would be blazing there, black as the ink in which it would be
printed. Kyle knew nothing of prophecy; his interest was in getting through
this stampede of people and completing his mission. Already he was creating a
mild sensation. Palo Alto hat , silver thong, scarlet kerchief , high-heeled
boots and his six feet three of gawky, bony height commanded attention.
    He stood for a moment
in the crowded, clanging dusk, looking toward the lighted dome of the Capitol,
trying without much success to savor the scene and feel patriotic. A redcap,
eyeing his huge bag now that Kyle had dragged it all the way through the
station from the train, swooped down with confidence born of the stranger’s
obvious confusion. The action met abruptly explosive resistance.
    Kyle said, “Hands
off.”
    The redcap retained
his hold as a legal right to a tip. Kyle gave the handle a twist which sent him
reeling. A few people paused to watch.
    A cop said, “What’s
the matter here? Keep moving, you.”
    Kyle said testily,
“Move along, hell. I’m Sheriff Kyle of Deadeye, Nevada, and I got an
appointment to meet Senator Morran—”
    â€œYeah?” the cop said.
    â€œCould I be of
assistance?” said a smooth-faced gentleman. “Your name, I think, is Kyle.
Senator Morran sent me down to meet you.” He laughed good-naturedly and nodded
to the cop. “That’s all right, Officer.”
    The cop was satisfied.
The redcap departed without tip.
    â€œMy name is Johnson,
Sheriff,” the smooth-faced man said. “John Johnson. Just call me Johnny.” He
laughed. “And now we’ll see about getting you to the senator.”
    â€œHold it,” Kyle said.
“How do I know who you are?” He had to bend over to look at Johnson. He did so
and said, “Why don’t you just run along and tell the senator I’ll be with him
soon. I’m taking a cab.”
    â€œWell—” Johnson turned
toward a waiting limousine and Kyle’s glance collided with the chauffeur’s. He
moved away while Johnson still hesitated, and hailed a cab.
    â€œSoreham Hotel,” he
told the driver.
    The Soreham Hotel was
lighted in every window, its walks aglitter with dinner gowns, its lobby thick
with political cigar smoke and the aura of martinis. Kyle asked the desk clerk
for the senator’s room number and a house phone.
    The phone didn’t
answer. He