Rawhide Coffin

The Whistler. How the Whistler Strange Story. The Rawhide Coffin. The girl sitting alone at the Cow-Awee Bar paid for her drink, and then counted what little she had left.

A brown cross to attractive features. $19. $19.00 and a few cents. This at the moment was Marilyn Millington's sole fortune. Not a very comfortable back-lord for a girl alone in Honolulu. It had been almost two months now since she'd quit her job in Los Angeles, followed her boss straight to his Maui plantation, to shake him down for a cool ten thousand for

what she knew. But something had gone wrong, the authorities had gotten to him first, and Marilyn's dreams of blackmailing away to Easy Street went up a dead end. She sighed now and picked up her drink and sifted thoughtfully.

Her eyes wandered toward the entrance of the bar. She saw a woman there looking around nervously, anxiously, until her gaze met Marilyn. Almost immediately she started toward her, crossing the room and swift nervous strides.

You look like a decent kid. Here. I want you to do something for me. What are you talking about? Take it. Keep this for me till I get back. You're purring? I haven't time to explain what the person may have called and keep it out of sight.

Can I? I can't stay there. Be here any second. Hey there. I'll try to get away. Leave me alone. Just take it easy, lady. You're not going anyplace. The race is over now. No. Now let me go.

You haven't anything on me, not a thing. You'll just let the judge decide that. Come on. In the mirror, you watch as the policeman escorts the woman out of the bar. You wonder what it's all about, don't you, Marilyn?