An abandoned auto court in the San Berdoo foothills; Buzz Meeks checked in with ninety-four thousand dollars, eighteen pounds of high-grade heroin, a 10-guage pump, a .38 special, a .45 automatic and a switchblade he'd bought off a pachuco at the border - right before he spotted the car parked across the line: Mickey Cohen goons in an LAPD unmarked, Tijuana cops standing by to bootjack a piece of his goodies, dump his body in the San Ysidro River.

In the darkening shadows of an abandoned inn nestled in the lolling, verdant foothills of San Bernardino, California, Mr. Leland Meeks, policeman - known to his friends, relatives and acquaintances as "Buzz" - hid with ninety-four thousand pounds sterling; eighteen kiloliters of exquisite snuff; an alarmingly huge musket; a tiny derringer - that fit most delicately into the palm of his rough-hewn hand - a larger pistol that fit snugly into his waistcoat, and a rapier that he had purchased from a poor Mexican.

Right after completing the monetary exchange with the poverty-stricken Mestizo, he carefully studied the landscape, glancing up and down, right and left, hither, thither, and yon. Right there! Alas! Parked in a nearby meadow was a disguised sheriff's carriage containing two or more ruffians in the employ of that most dastardly of hooligans - Michael Cohen. Mr. Cohen was a distributor of snuff and narcotics, and a purveyor of gambling machines and other vices too horrible to mention in polite company. Mr. Meeks fought off the fantods.

Close by, hidden in a copse of elms, was the constabulary from the village of Tijuana - a municipality named in memory of a Spanish conquistador's Aunt Jane. These constables were little more than footpads; they intended to steal some of Meeks' treasure, kill him, and give his earthly remains a hurried burial in a nearby stream named the San Ysidro River.

However little known the feelings or views of such a man may be on his first entering a neighbourhood, this truth is so well fixed in the minds of the surrounding families, that he is considered the rightful property of some one or other of their daughters.

"My dear Mr. Bennet," said his lady to him one day, "have you heard that Netherfield Park is let at last?"

Mr. Bennet replied that he had not.

"But it is," returned she; "for Mrs. Long has just been here, and she told me all about it."

Mr. Bennet made no answer.

"Do you not want to know who has taken it?" cried his wife impatiently.

"You want to tell me, and I have no objection to hearing it."

This was invitation enough.

"Why, my dear, you must know, Mrs. Long says that Netherfield is taken by a young man of large fortune from the north of England; that he came down on Monday in a chaise and four to see the place, and was so much delighted with it, that he agreed with Mr. Morris immediately; that he is to take possession before Michaelmas, and some of his servants are to be in the house by the end of next week."

"What is his name?"

"Bingley."

Guys with lots of dough are always looking to score with some cute trick. Wine 'em. Dine 'em. Unrefine 'em.

Ask any anxious mother of a hot daughter.

Late morning. Mrs. Bennet puts down her cold coffee laced with Dewar's and says, "Mrs. Long, the lush in 3-B, says some guy has rented the Netherfield penthouse."

Her husband looks up from his copy of Hush-Hush and says:

"What's the guy's name?"

"Bingley."

White smiled - pure kamikaze. "I been tracking a string of hooker killings for years. It started with this girl Kathy Janeway. She got snuffed back in'53, right around the Nite Owl. She was Duke Cathart's girlfriend."

Ed nodded. "I know. I.A. ran a personal on you when you passed the sergeant's exam."

"Oh, yeah? What you don't know is that a few years ago my case broke. I thought my killer was Spade Cooley - his band was in all the hooker snuff cities on the DODs. I was wrong. Cooley ratted off the real killer - Burt Arthur Perkins."

Vincennes spoke up. "I buy Deuce as a woman killer. He's wrong to the core."

Detective White smiled in a most suicidal and Oriental fashion. "I have been interested in a series of murders of ladies of ill repute for many years. My curiosity was aroused when I learned of a woman named Katherine Janeway. She was foully murdered in a very upsetting way in 1953, around the time of the horrific and bloody killings in the Night Owl eating establishment. Miss Janeway was the consort of the Duke of Cathart."

Edmund Exely, as sure of himself as he had every right to be, nodded his head and agreed. "Quite. Internal Affairs ran a most exhaustive profile of your record when you were promoted to sergeant. It was most revealing."

"Oh, really? Perhaps. But, what may be unknown to you is that some time ago I was able to solve the puzzling case. Originally, I suspected the country and western singer 'Spade' Cooley. His orchestra had been in all the proper cities on the dates when the street walkers had been robbed of their lives. However, my suspicions were mistaken. Mr. Cooley, trapped like a rat, told me of the real killer of whom I was after. It was one Burt Arthur "Deuce" Perkins.

It was at this point in the conversation between the two men that the third - John Vincennes - decided to speak. He said, "I find it very easy to believe that 'Deuce' is the murderer. He is a most unpleasant man."

"Since writing the above, dearest Lizzy, something has occurred of a most unexpected and serious nature; but I am afraid of alarming you--be assured that we are all well. What I have to say relates to poor Lydia. An express came at twelve last night, just as we were all gone to bed, from Colonel Forster, to inform us that she was gone off to Scotland with one of his officers; to own the truth, with Wickham! Imagine our surprise.

To Kitty, however, it does not seem so wholly unexpected. I am very, very sorry. So imprudent a match on both sides! But I am willing to hope the best, and that his character has been misunderstood. Thoughtless and indiscreet I can easily believe
him, but this step (and let us rejoice over it) marks nothing bad at heart. His choice is disinterested at least, for he must know my father can give her nothing. Our poor mother is sadly grieved. My father bears it better. How thankful am I that we never let them know what has been said against him; we must forget it ourselves. They were off Saturday night about twelve, as is conjectured, but were not missed till yesterday morning at eight. The express was sent off directly.

My dear Lizzy, they must have passed within ten miles of us. Colonel Forster gives us reason to expect him here soon. Lydia left a few lines for his wife, informing her of their intention. I must conclude, forI cannot be long from my poor mother. I am afraid you will not be able to make it out, but I hardly know what I have written."

"Hey, Cats and Kittens, which brash, block-headed Bennet sister has run off to Scotland, (parish of penny-pinching patriarchs)with a frivolous, fortune-hunting foot soldier? Lydia "Supidia" Bennet has eloped with gorgeous George "Wicked" Wickham, an amorous adventurer with designs on the dumb doxie's diaphanous décolleté, not to mention her diminutive dowry. Her dotty dowager of a mother is delighted, but the disapproving daddy is disagreeably dyspeptic, and daddy's other daughters are disputatious. Lydia's contentious kinfolk are cross and cranky. Remember, you read it here first, kiddies. Off the record, on the QT, and very hush-hush."