"More likely I'd appreciate that some guys know how," Riley retorted. "And that's the trouble with you — so go to it!"
He faded off the screen. Harper sighed for the third time, tucked the slip of paper with its addresses into a vest pocket, spoke to Moira.
"I'll phone each day to see what's doing. If you can't handle something urgent and important, you'll have to nurse it until I ring through."
"Yes, Mr. Harper."
"And if anyone turns up to pinch me, tell them they're too late — I'm on the lam."
"Oh, Mr. Harper."
4. The Witness
Ruth Alderson proved to be a pretty blonde with sad eyes. Obviously she was still in much of a mental whirl.
Sitting opposite her, and idly turning his hat in his hands, Harper said, "I hate to trouble you at such a time, Mrs. Alderson, but it is necessary. I have a special interest in this case. I found your husband and was the last speak to him."
"Did he—?" She swallowed hard, stared at him pathetically. "Did he… suffer much?"
"It was all very quick. He was too dazed to feel pain; he talked of you, then kind of faded away. 'Betty,' he said, 'Betty.' Then he was gone." Harper frowned in puzzlement, added, "But your name is Ruth."
"He always called me Betty. Said it suited me. He made a pet name of it."
She covered her face with her hands, but made no sound. He watched her quietly.
When she had recovered, he said, "There's a slight chance that you might be able to help find the rat who did it."
"How?"
"Tell me, did Bob have any enemies?"
She considered the question, gathering her thoughts with difficulty. "He arrested a number of people. Some went to jail. I don't suppose they loved him for that."
"Did any of them promise to get him when they came out?"
"If they did, he never mentioned it to me. It isn't the sort of thing he would tell." She paused, went on, "Four years ago, he caught a man named Josef Grundoff. Bob said that, when he was sentenced, Grundoff swore to kill the judge."
"But he did not threaten your husband?"
"Not to my knowledge."
"You cannot recall any occasion on which somebody has menaced your husband specifically?"
"No, I can't."
"Nor any time when extraordinary resentment has been shown as a result of him doing his duty?"
"He had wordy arguments twice a week," she said wearily. "He often came home riled about someone. But so far as I can tell, it was the normal give and take between the police and the public. I know of nobody who hated him enough to kill him."
"Only this Grundoff?"
"Grundoff only threatened the judge."
"I don't like pestering you this way, Mrs. Alderson, but can you recall any incident that seemed to worry your husband, even if only temporarily? Any small happening, no matter how insignificant, at any time in the past?"
"Not in connection with his police duties," she replied. A faint smile came to her face. "All his bothers were domestic ones. He was a bag of nerves when my babies were due."
Harper nodded understanding and continued with questions relating to a possible jealousy motive. None could be found.
Finally, he asked, "When you first met Bob, did you leave anybody for his sake?"
"I did not. I was free and unattached."
"Thank you, Mrs. Alderson." He stood up, glad to be at the end of the matter. "I apologize most sincerely for subjecting you to all this, and I really do appreciate your cooperation." He followed her to the front door, paused there, patted her gently on the shoulder. "Nothing anyone can say is adequate. Actions speak louder than words. You have my card. Any time I can help, please call on me. I shall consider it a privilege."
"You are very kind," she murmured.
He got into his car, watched her close the door, said to himself savagely, "Damn! Damn!"
A mile down the road he stopped beside a phone booth and called Ledsom.
"So it's you," said the police captain, not visibly overjoyed. "What d'you want this time?"
"Some information."
"About what?"
"A character named Josef Grundoff."
"You're doing fine, digging up that hoodlum," Ledsom commented. "I wouldn't have thought of him myself."
"Why not?"
"He got twenty years for second-degree murder. It will be a long, long time before he's out."
"Is that all?" asked Harper.
"How much more do you want?"
"Official reassurance that he's still inside; maybe he has escaped."
"We'd have been advised of it. They'd send out fliers within twenty-four hours."
"Do you think it worth checking?" Harper persisted. "Just in case some notice has gone astray?"
"I can do that in five minutes. How did you get hold of Grundoff's name anyway?"
"From Mrs. Alderson."
The other registered surprise. "Surely she hasn't told you that Grundoff—?"
"She said only that he'd sworn to get the judge," Harper chipped in. "So it seemed to me possible that he might have had Alderson's name on his list as well."
"He had no list; he was merely making tough talk. The judge said twenty years, and Grundoff went nuts. That sort of thing happens often." He was silent a moment then continued, "I'll check, all the same. It's one chance in a million but we can't overlook it. Call me back later."
* * *
Harper phoned him from a diner twenty miles farther on.
"No luck," Ledsom informed him. "Grundoff is still in the jug. And he was a lone wolf."
"Do you think he may have made friends in the clink who've been released and started tending his affairs?'
"Not on your life," scoffed Ledsom. "No ex-con is going to shoot up a cop merely to please some lug still inside. There would have to be money in it, big money; Grundoff couldn't dig up ten bucks."
"Thanks," said Harper glumly. "So that's another wrong tree up which I've barked. Oh, well, press on regardless."
"To where?"
"That girl in the Thunderbug. Did you learn any more about her?"
"Yes. Her boy friend is in the armed forces and serving overseas. She has no relative with a police record, no bad egg in the family. Helps us a lot, doesn't it?"
"How about her protecting a girl friend who, perhaps, is afflicted with a trigger-happy lover?"
"How about pigs taking wings? The follow-up has been good and thorough. Her entire circle of relatives, neighbors and friends is in the clear."
"All right, keep your hair on. I'm only a major suspect trying to establish my pristine purity."
Ledsom let go a loud snort and cut off. Evidently lack of progress was trying his patience.
* * *
The second address was that of the central house in an old-fashioned but still imposing terrace of substantially built property. The road was wide, quiet, tree-lined and had an air of stuffy respectability. Harper went up six steps and rang the doorbell.
A tall, good-looking youth of about eighteen answered the door, eyed him quizzically.
"Miss Jocelyn Whittingham in?" Harper asked, trying to sound official or at least semi-official.
"No." The other's mind confirmed the truth of that, but went on to whisper to itself, "Joyce doesn't want to see anybody. Who is this muscle-bound ape? Another nosy cop? Or a reporter? Joyce is fed up answering questions. Why don't they leave her alone?"
"Any idea when she'll be back?"
"No."
That was a lie; the girl had promised to return by six.
"H'm!" Harper glanced up and down the road in the manner of one idly wondering what to do next. In deceptively casual tones, he asked, "Ever plug a state trooper?"
No alarm-bell rang in the opposing brain. The. youth's thoughts swirled confusedly while he doubted his own ears.
"Have I ever what?"
"Sorry," said Harper. "I was thinking out loud about something else. When do you suppose I could see Miss Whittingh
am?"
"I don't know."
Same lie again.
"Too bad." Harper registered indecision.
"What d'you want to see her about?" inquired the youth.
"A personal matter."
"Well, she isn't in and I don't know when she'll be in."
"Suppose I call back between six and seven?"
"Please yourself." He showed facial indifference while his mind nursed the notion that the visitor could go jump in the lake.
"All right, I'll try again later."
The youth nodded, shut the door. He was not sufficiently interested even to ask Harper's name. He was devoid of guilt and bored by the affairs of his sister, Miss Jocelyn Whittingham.
Harper spent an hour strolling aimlessly around the town, while his car was greased and serviced in a central garage. At twenty to six he returned on foot to the road, stationed himself by a bus stop fifty yards from the house and kept watch for the girl's homecoming.
He had only a rough description of his quarry but needed no more than that. One question would serve to stimulate self-identification voluntarily or involuntarily. There is no way of preventing the brain from registering its negatives or affirmatives, no matter how great the desire to distort it.
Once the girl got inside that house, the puzzle would be how to gain an interview contrary to her wishes. If she flatly refused to see him, he had no power to compel her to do so.
A face-to-face interview was imperative. If she were indoors, he could stand there all night picking up her thoughts, and sorting them out from other nearby thoughts, with no difficulty whatsoever. He. could, if he wished, spy upon her mind for a week.
It would do him not the slightest bit of good so long as her mind, and its thinking processes, moved only in channels having nothing to do with the case in hand. Questions were necessary to force her brain onto the case and make it reveal any cogent evidence it might be hiding. A vocal stimulus was required. To provide it, he must ask her about this and that, drawing useful conclusions from all points where her thoughts contradicted her words.
Twice, while he waited, a girl walked past and momentarily captured his attention. So long as they did not mount the steps to the house, he made no attempt to identify them mentally. He merely watched those girls until they had gone beyond the house, out of sight.
A bus pulled up at the stop, discharged four passengers and rolled away. One of them, a tall, sallow man, eyed him curiously.
"It'll be half an hour before there's another."
"Yes, I know," Harper said.
The other shrugged, crossed the road, entered the house facing the stop. Harper moved some distance down the road, where he could keep watch without being snooped upon from the windows by the sallow man.
At five to six a girl entered the road from the end nearest his former post, walked hurriedly along with a sharp click-click of high heels. She was of medium height, fresh-featured, plump and about twenty. Without glancing around, or noticing Harper, she climbed the steps to the house and felt in her handbag for a key.
From seventy yards away Harper probed at her, seeking confirmation of her identity. The result was shocking. The precise instant his mind touched, hers, she became aware of the contact; he, in his turn, knew that she was aware. She dropped the handbag in her flurry, bent and grabbed for it as he started to run toward her.
Getting the bag, she fumbled inside it with frantic haste while his feet pounded heavily along the sidewalk. Her eyes' held a luminous glare as she found the key, stabbed it at the door. Perspiration beaded the running Harper's broad features, while his right hand pawed under his left arm and his legs continued to race.
The key slid in and turned. Harper stopped at ten yards' distance, levelled his gun and squeezed its butt. The thing went spat-spat-spat with such swiftness that it sounded like somebody tearing a foot of canvas. The noise was not loud. A stream of matchhead sized steel balls hit the target dead center.
Miss Jocelyn Whittingham let go the key, sank to her knees without a sound and Keeled over, her head against the door. Harper stood sweating, watched the blood run out of her hair and listened to her brain packing up for keeps.
He stared around, saw no onlookers, no witnesses. The gunfire had attracted nobody's attention. He left her lying there and paced swiftly up the road. His face was strained and wet as he retrieved his car and raced out of town.
5. Not of the World
The police must have moved fast, and skillfully. Harper had covered a mere three hundred miles before he was advertised on the air and in the newspapers. He was having supper in a cheap hashery when he got an evening paper carrying the news. WANTED FOR MURDER, it said. There followed a fairly accurate description of himself and of his car, complete with tag number; he cursed under his breath as he read it. There were twenty customers in the place, most of them long-distance truckers. Half of them had read, or were reading, the same sheet. Some were unaware of his existence; the others glanced at him casually. He knew their lack of suspicion with absolute certainty, and that was about the only advantage he possessed.
Outside, in plain view, stood the car. Its numbers seemed to swell and grow enormous, even as he looked at them. Three big men in denims lumbered past its rear end, without giving it so much as a second look, got into an adjacent machine and pulled away. His luck might hold out like that for some time, but it just couldn't last forever.
He could leave the car where it was and help himself to another. When you're wanted for murder, theft can't make it worse. But the number of a stolen car would be broadcast in short time, leaving him no better off than before. Moreover, right now, the law did not know where he was heading. A car-swap would give away the direction of his escape and get every hick deputy on the lookout for him ahead. Also, it would reveal that he had crossed state lines to evade arrest — a federal offense that might bring in the F.B.I.
The F.B.I, needed bringing in; of that he was more than positive. He was in the most peculiar position of wanting to get to the F.B.I, before they could get to him.
The means by which the law had tagged him as the culprit could be guessed quite easily. Ledsom's knowledge that he was visiting the girl; her brother's description of the caller at the door, and the sallow man's evidence about the lounger at the bus stop. Above all, the missiles in the body which were like bullets from no other gun.
Stewing it over, Harper could not help wondering whether Ledsom now felt certain that he knew who had killed Alderson.
What he liked least about this sudden howl for a man named Harper was not that it boosted the official hunt for him, but that it might start an unofficial search. The forces of law and order should not be the only ones to take deep interest in the fact that he had killed Miss Jocelyn Whittingham. Certain others, undoubtedly, would be after him — those three fellows in the Thunderbug, for instance.
Swallowing the rest of his coffee, he got out of the place as quickly as he could, prudently, then drove at top speed into a dark, moonless night. He had more than five hundred miles yet to go.
At four-forty in the morning, with the pale halo of dawn beginning to show in the east, someone either read his plates or chased him on general principles.
Harper could not hear a siren, nor pick up following thoughts. He was too far ahead and too preoccupied with driving. He shoved the pedal down to the floorboards and let the machine leap ahead. If the pursuers were police, as their spotlight suggested, that alone would be enough to convince them that they were onto something worth running down.
With his needle trembling at over ninety, he tore through a crossroads, along a main artery darkened still more by large trees on both sides. The trees whizzed past like huge ghosts, arms out, transfixed by this night-time pursuit.
There was no traffic other than his own car and the one behind. Far ahead, and slightly to his right, he could see the sky-glow from street lights of a sizable city; he wondered whether he could make it that distance and, if so, what he'd do when he
got there.
He rocked around another bend and momentarily lost the lights in the mirror, which by now were less than a mile to the rear. His own beams swung briefly across the end of a track through thick timber. He swung into it so suddenly and recklessly that, for a second or two, he feared an overturn.
Switching off all lights, he ploughed another fifty yards into complete blackness, meanwhile praying that he would not hit an invisible tree or dive into a hidden ditch. Twigs crackled and snapped under rolling wheels but luck remained with him. He braked, dropped a window, watched and listened.
The siren could be heard now — a prowl car, sure enough; by this time, it was on top of the bend. Headlights slewed across the night as it came round, and the next moment it thundered past, wailing as it went. Its passing was far too swift to enable Harper to see how many were inside, or to pick up a random thought.
He sat in darkness until he could see faint, diminished beams racing up a slope four miles away. Then he reversed, got back onto the road, and made off in the way he had come. Reaching the crossroads over which he had recently blundered, he turned to the right and continued along this new route.
* * *
Without further incident, he reached Washington late in the morning, planted the car in a park on the outskirts and took a bus into the city. There he found a phone and called his office.
Either the office visiscreen was out of order, or had been switched off; his own' screen remained blank, and Moira's response was equally blank.
"Harper plant. Can I help you?"
"Only God can help me," he said. "This is your boss."
She let out a distinct gasp.
"What's so soul-shaking about that?" he demanded. "You've spoken to me many times before."
"Yes, Mr. Harper. Of course, Mr. Harper." she sought desperately for words. "I didn't expect you just yet."
"Tsk!" He grinned wolfishly at the dead screen. "Why not? I told you I'd call, didn't I?"
"Certainly, Mr. Harper, but—"
"But what?"
She hadn't the vaguest idea what. She was tongue-tied, and in a tangle.
Three to Conquer Page 4
