Paul's mind was numb as he stood between the officers at the call box. He could not force his brain to function even normally, let alone execute any mental tricks discovered in the bottom of a martini glass. A squad car pulled up and he climbed docilely in the back seat and sat like a man in a trance between the two silent policemen. At the station there was the added chill of feeling like a man alone, a criminal involved in a terrible experience that was merely routine to the tormentors who walked by his side. It was one of the older stations with a well-worn floor marked by the scuffing footsteps of many an unhappy wrongdoer. The desk sergeant had a sagging disillusioned face and a pair of eyes that had given up all hope of Utopia. He turned them on Paul and grunted, "What's the gripe?" The senior officer did the talking. "We don't exactly know, Sergeant, but we got a lead on this character, found him sitting in a gin mill with enough dough in his ketch to pay off the national debt. It seemed a little out of line somehow." The desk sergeant stretched his scrawny neck and peered down at the offending briefcase. "The dough in there?" "Right." "Let's have a look." The younger officer lifted the bag as though it contained the secret to every unsolved crime on the books and deposited it triumphantly on the desk. "Pretty battered leather to lug around real dough in," the sergeant commented. He lifted the flap and reached inside. Then he scowled at the accusing cop and tipped the briefcase upside down. A sheaf of white papers fell out; a pack of new lead pencils Paul had lifted from the supply shelf that afternoon and a copy of _Lurid Sex_ he had bought at the corner newsstand. That was all. The desk sergeant slammed the briefcase down on the desk and glowered at the trio before him. "What kind of a rib is this? You jerks think I got nothing more to do than sit here and let you bounce your gags off me? Besides this isn't even a gag. It's got no point. Let's have the snapper, I'm listening." The elder cop turned pale with amazement. The younger one, obviously of different metabolism, had turned beet red. After a thick pause they found their voices simultaneously. "I'll swear on the Bible that there was money in that damn briefcase when we first looked into it...." * * * * * Paul passed up the bus, preferring to walk the ten blocks to his apartment. He needed the air and the sense of freedom was glorious. Thank heaven his mind had come unstuck that last moment and now the sheaf of money was back where it belonged--in the satchel of the armored car guard. Humbled, completely chastened and not a little scared, Paul hoped he had caused no one any inconvenience. And strong indeed were his resolutions: no more mental transference. In fact no more martinis. From now on he would get his money the hard way. In the end that would turn out to be by far the easiest. THE END