Taking another sip, Daly added, "Donenfeld had a problem on his hands. One of the top Detective Comics writers had been complaining. To keep him happy, Donenfeld decided to take him out for supper and a few drinks. Accent on the drinks. During the evening, while under the influence, the writer whined that he wasn't receiving any credit for something that he helped to create. Donenfeld, who was further along in his cups, took this as some cue and all of the sudden tore open the front of his dress shirt—buttons were flying everywhere—and yelled at the top of his lungs, 'You think you have troubles. Because those fools took The Spider story, I could lose this!' Then Donenfeld pointed to his blue T-shirt with the red letter 'S' insignia."
Daly fixed his gaze on Page and said, "The next thing out of his mouth was, 'I'd pay $10,000 to anyone who kills Norvell Page!' Sobering up immediately, the writer ran out. Seems he's a fan of yours. On the other hand, the group of Nazi assassins must have overhead this and took it literally. They're not going to kill Donenfeld until they collect that $10,000. It's a fortune where they come from."
In any event, Daly was supposed to meet Susan Fleming some place where she was staying at over the weekend in Princeton, and had asked him to come by on Friday night around eight. Daly begged off, but said that he would appreciate her seeing a friend who was also a writer, instead. And that's how Norvell Page wound up meeting her.
Cursing the Sinclair gas station attendant in Newark who provided him with the road map and directions, and the arcane New Jersey highway system, too, Norvell Page eased his new black Chrysler sedan to the curb in front of the 112 Mercer Street house shortly after 9:30.
As he got out of the car, he took his black fedora from the passenger side of the front seat, and closed the car door. While placing the fedora on his head, he glimpsed a shadow on the porch vanishing through the front door.
The front gate off the sidewalk was open, and he headed down the walkway, and up the stairs to the porch. The front door was slightly ajar.
Hearing the sound of a lightly tread step inside, Page automatically entered, only to be greeted with darkness. As his eyes adjusted, he began to focus and saw someone slowly ascend the stairs. It was a man.
Always game, Page decided to silently observe. As the man neared the top of the stairs, Page carefully placed a foot on the first step and started up.
At the top of the stairs, the man started abruptly when someone turned on the landing light above him. Alert, he withdrew a Walther P-38 from inside his overcoat and brandished it about, covering the area in front of him. Page thought to himself as he advanced quietly up the stairs, "So, this must be the German."
Alighting on the landing, the man halted as Page was several steps from the top.
Approaching from the bedroom doorway, Susan Fleming was toweling her hair and wearing a man's bathrobe. She halted immediately when she spotted a pair of men's shoes from her downward angle of vision. She dropped the towel. Agape, the man dropped the pistol.
Just then, the ever ready Page started up the stairs, tripped, toppled, and skidded right into the middle of things, his black fedora flying off and landing near Susan's bare feet. Just as the man started to bend, Page recovered and grabbed the pistol. The man continued his bow and gallantly said, "Otto Skorzeny at your service!"
Now flipped over on his back, the writer without his trademark hat pointed the pistol at the assassin without his weapon and proclaimed, "Norvell Page at your service!"
Susan swooped down, plucked up the black fedora, rose as she placed it on her head, then angrily exclaimed, "I didn't ring for service!"
Skorzeny then leaped across the landing to, into, across the bedroom, and crashed through the window.
Suddenly, seven swarthy bearded men wielding Samurai swords came charging up the stairs.
Still flat on his back, Page aimed the Walther P-38 9mm Parabellum eight-shot double-action automatic pistol in their direction and pulled the trigger.
"Click!"
As the Nazi Moslems rushed furiously towards Page, Susan Fleming closed the front of her robe, grabbed the belt, and tied it firmly. Then, she reached into the weighted down pockets of the bathrobe, whipped out two .45 automatics and started blasting the thugs into the next world.
Before Page could start breathing normally, the slashing Samurai sword-wielding assassins had breathed their last. The aroma from burnt cordite fumes permeated the air. As he looked up, Susan Fleming looked down, and they both began to laugh as he bolted up from the floor to a standing position.
"What did the person who lives in this abode do to have those guys pay a visit?" Page asked.
Placing each .45 automatic back into its corresponding bathrobe pocket, she glanced at the now silent seven and responded, "They must have followed you here."
Then, approaching the corpses, she reached down, opened the suit jackets of two, then a third, retrieving two working Radom 9mm pistols and handing them to Page.
"They look like Brownings," observed Page. "Thanks. They make nice souvenirs."
All business, Susan started to run down the stairs as she ordered, "There's no time to waste! Follow me."
Dashing down the stairs, Page called out, "Can I have my hat back?"
Susan paused before the door, then turned to Page as he reached her, and said, "Yes, when I'm through with it!"
Then, she opened the door wide, quietly ran towards the street, the cold sidewalk stinging her bare feet. Not knowing what was going on, Page still followed her. When they came upon his new black Chrysler, Page saw that, on the street side of the vehicle, there was a four-door wood-paneled wagon doubled parked and hemming him in. Susan headed for it and got in, still wearing his black fedora. The key was still in place, and she started the ignition while she spoke to him through the open car door, "Take a walk around the block and see if there's anything suspicious. And, be careful!"
Susan silently drove off. He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw that the Woody Wagon did no damage to the Chrysler. Page began his walk with each hand in each overcoat pocket, gripping each respective pistol.
When he turned the corner, Page spotted a black Town Car parked in an unlighted area. As he approached the car, the rear door opened. Instantly, he realized that he was mistaken for Skorzeny. He got in, taking his hands slowly out of his overcoat pockets. The door remained open, because he was pointing one pistol at the person on the backseat and one at the driver.
Just then, the Woody Wagon screeched to a halt at an angle, blocking the front end of the Town Car. Done so expertly, behind the steering wheel, wearing that hat, Susan could easily be mistaken for a man, if she did not turn around.
Making sure that nothing would spoil the illusion, such as the driver turning on the Town Car headlights, Page threatened, "One move out of either of you and you both get it!"
The man next to him was wearing a gray three-piece business suit. From around his scrawny neck eerily hung that medal presented by Adolf Hitler.
Perplexed, the man quietly asked, "What happened to Mr. Skorzeny?"
"He's probably half-way to Canada," Page retorted, then, "What's a nice 'pacifist' like you doing in a place like this?"
"Do you know who you're talking to?" the elderly industrialist then asked indignantly.
Hefting the loaded pistols in his hands while spying Susan in the car ahead looking at the rear view mirror of the Woody Wagon for the approach of her backup team, Page finally had the chance to say it.
"Frankly, I don't give a damn." Then, he added, "I drive a Chrysler!"