"To hell with the handkerchief," said Walter Mitty scornfully. He took one last drag on his cigarette and snapped it away. Then, with that faint, fleeting smile playing about his lips, he faced the firing squad; erect and motionless, proud and disdainful, Walter Mitty the Undefeated, inscrutable to the last.

The sun was setting as Mitty and his wife began to head home. The dying light cast flickering shadows over the dashboard, and the car's old, battered radio squealed and chittered as it fought to keep ahold of a signal.

"...from whole wheat raised by Norwegian bachelor farmers, so you know they're not only good for you, they're pure, mostly. Get 'em in the bright blue box with a picture of a biscuit on the front, or ready-made in the brown bag with the dark stains that..."

"Now, I really don't know what's gotten into you lately", said Mitty's wife. "You were doing so well." Mitty didn't reply. "I'll book you another session with Dr. Renshaw for when we…"

"...A dark night in a city that knows how to keep its secrets, but one man is still trying to find the answers to life's persistent questions..." — Walt Noir, Private Eye.

It was half past three in the morning, storming furiously, and for Walter Mitty, all was well in the world. He burrowed deeper into his shabby greatcoat, stained half a hundred times from half a hundred different, nasty adventures, and pulling his collar up, tried to keep the worst of the rain off of the half cigar dangling lamely from his weathered lips. It didn't help. Mitty spat out the soggy remains, and watched dispassionately as the last few embers fizzled out on the pavement. It was clear that his contact wouldn't be showing up.

Close by, a Webley-Vickers 50.80 sang out. Pocketa-pocketa-POCKETA-POCKETA-POCKETA. Mitty paused. A damn shame. He'd always liked McGilligan. Mitty bowed his head for a moment more, then turned and began the short walk back to the little flat he rented. He had been living there for near on twelve years, but it still wasn't really his home. The city was. Mitty knew every back alley, every winding, refuse-strewn side path, every criminal miscreant and every civic-minded officer. Greenville, New Jersey, where the average citizen would sell their grandmother if they thought they could make two extra bucks in the deal. Yes, Walter Mitty knew people, and that little funny feeling - as he turned the corner, he began to run - in the back of his mind told him that something important, something dangerous, something worthy of his attention had just happened.

He halted as he neared his lodgings. Mrs. Collardine, his landlady, came bursting out the front door. "Oh, Walter, thank goodness you're back. The-they've taken Anthony, a-and I…". She shuddered to a stop, and began crying quietly into her sleeve. "No worries ma'am", Mitty replied. He patted Mrs. Collardine on the arm reassuringly, and with his other hand, pulled his ragged grey fedora down in a jaunty angle. "I'll bring your boy back."

Under the cover of darkness, Walter Mitty smiled.