Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 12, No. 6, May 1963

I don’t know just what I’ll do when I get there. Maybe hitch another ride off to somewhere. East, west, north, south, it won’t matter to me. Or maybe I can ship out on a boat.

I know they’ll get me sometime but you have to run, that’s the way it is. And I had to do it. I couldn’t eat, I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t do anything. Except what I did.

The Pork Pie Hat by Bryan Edgar Wallace

Suddenly she had an almost irresistable desire to run from the boy in...

* * *

It was spring, and she had a new dress, new shoes, and a bubbling excitement which made her want to dance and skip along the pavement. No day had ever been so wonderful, no air so fresh, and even the colors of the old High Street seemed gay and bright. It was Spring and she was seventeen.

She was not very pretty, but the freshness and exhilaration of youth made her glow, and several of the elderly people smiled sympathetically as she passed, teetering along uncertainly on her new high heels.

Once she turned her head and, out of the corner of her eye, looked behind her. But she was disappointed, and a little of her excitement faded and some of the color went out of the day.

She stopped and looked in a shop window full of office safes, a remarkably dull choice for a young girl so proudly decked out in her new Spring dress. The truth was that she hardly knew the safes were there. She was anxiously watching the street behind in its reflection in the plate glass window.

Her heart sang again. There he was. The shy young man in the pork pie hat. He was loitering at another shop window not fifty feet behind her, and definitely, but definitely, he once looked in her direction.

She examined her reflection anxiously in the glass and for once she was not quite so disappointed, although if only she had long, slinky blonde hair like Brigitte Bardot, or something under her blouse that she did not have to buy in a shop, and who had ever heard of a real vamp type with soft brown eyes?

But all the same, she said to herself, she had obviously got something. Obviously the young man in the pork pie hat did not think that everything was hopeless. After all he had been following her for at least twenty minutes — regretfully she made a slight revision; even if she had crawled it would not have taken her more than five minutes to get from the point where she had first noticed him. But she was quite certain that he was following her, at least she was almost certain. No, she said firmly to herself, she was certain.

After all, when she had stopped to look in the flower shop (and what could have been more natural) he had given her a long look as he passed. And then he had stopped at a chemist’s shop, so that she could catch up, and what possible reason could he have had for looking in a chemist’s shop?

And he looked such a nice young man, a bit old, of course, all of twenty two, but he looked a serious kind of boy, rather solemn and sweet. She giggled. Mother would be furious, this was just the kind of thing she kept on saying she mustn’t do. But it was broad daylight, and there obviously wasn’t a thing to worry about.

She glanced at him surreptitiously again out of the corner of her eye. She thought his little pork pie hat was divine. He was so well dressed too, obviously a gentleman, this wasn’t the kind of person her mother meant. She knew what her mother had been worried about; that dreadful man who had been going round strangling young girls. But that man was obviously a monster, and not a nice, shy young man.

This young man was just the kind she could take home, and her mother would be delighted. After all, she was now rising eighteen. She knew someone nice when she saw him, she would never get caught by some horrible, mad, old man who murdered young girls. Besides, that type wouldn’t be seen in the middle of High Street when the sun hadn’t even set.

Yes, she said to herself firmly, Mr. Pork Pie Hat was just the kind of boy her mother would approve of. She giggled to herself again, gave her reflection a quick, bright, approving look and walked on — but not too fast.

Twice she stopped to look unseeing at shop window displays, and each time, she saw, he stopped as well, obviously too shy and nervous to come up and speak to her. He was a shy young man. Now she knew definitely that he was following her, and she knew that he knew that she knew.

She had read somewhere about girls dropping handkerchiefs or gloves to make things easy, and although she went as far as getting her handkerchief out of her bag, her nerve failed her. After all, it was up to him to do something.

At last, the moment she had dreaded came: she had arrived at the street where she had to turn off the High Street towards home. This would decide it. Would he turn and follow her, or would he go straight on?