Doctor, Lawyer . . . (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

  “Yes. I’ve used one before.”

  “Then you know enough not to jar it, or drop it. Because it could go off. That’s the trouble with an action like that.”

  “I know.”

  “And they’re hard to cock, too. They’re hard to cock, and slow to cock. And that could be a problem, if you have to use it in a hurry.”

  “I know that too.”

  “Carry it on half cock. That’ll give you an edge.”

  “I know. Quit fussing, will you?”

  Friedman shrugged diffidently, then glanced at the clock with an air of reluctant finality. “Well,” he said, “you’d better be going. Let’s meet in front of the Hall, to make sure we’re receiving you.”

  “All right. What about the surveillance teams? Anything new?”

  Friedman grimaced. “Nothing. Irving Meyer is still missing. His mother is still under sedation. By all reports, Dwyer needs sedation. Dave Vicente is also still missing, obviously. Laura Farley is downtown shopping. Both Jamison and Mobley are on their way home. They’re all under very, very loose surveillance. If one of them is the Masked Man, I don’t want him—or her—spooked. I’d rather have him commit himself. After all, that’s supposedly the purpose of the exercise—to catch him with the money.” He reached in his desk drawer again, withdrawing another transmitter. At the same time he lifted the flight bag from the door. “Incidentally, what do you think about putting this in with the money?” I shook my head. “That’s the first thing he’ll look for.”

  “I suppose you’re right.” Regretfully, he handed the bag back to me, rising to his feet. He held out his hand. “Good luck.”

  As I slowly walked up the broad marble stairs of the library’s rococo central hall, waiting for the final three minutes to pass, I was aware that I was an incongruous figure: a big, muscular cop with an establishment haircut, crammed into counterculture blue jeans and a skintight Macy’s double-knit polo shirt. The jeans contradicted the shirt and my haircut cancelled out both the jeans and the shirt. The flight bag, too, was an improbable note, and the absence of a jacket made me even more conspicuous. The day had been warm, but the night was chilly, with an unseasonable fog blowing in through the Golden Gate.

  Yet the Masked Man had been right to prohibit a jacket. He must make sure that I wasn’t armed.

  As I reached the upper arcade, I glanced again at the huge Romanesque wall clock. Two minutes remained. My watch confirmed it. I sat on a stone bench beside the archway marked “Literature.” I’d already been inside the literature reading room, five minutes ago. I’d already found the poetry section, already verified that the Whittier book was on the shelves. Then, with my eyes straight to the front, I’d returned to the hallway, and walked restlessly downstairs—then up again, constantly in motion. I’d been unconsciously hoping that the Masked Man would reveal himself—that I’d spot someone whose movements matched my own. Yet, consciously, I realized that it was a forlorn hope. The Masked Man had consistently outsmarted us. There was no reason to think he’d lost his cunning.

  Yet, even as I thought about it, I couldn’t keep my eyes from searching the passing faces and figures, looking for a familiar face, or a telltale gesture of tension.

  Was the Masked Man expecting me?

  I glanced again at the clock. The minute hand was straight up.

  I got to my feet and walked through the archway marked “Literature.” A turn to the left, a short walk past the double row of massive carved tables and I was among the shelves. The poetry section was just ahead. I placed the flight bag on the floor and withdrew The Selected Poems of John Greenleaf Whittier. A small piece of yellow foolscap was neatly scotch-taped to page twenty-one; a ticket stub was taped to the paper. Two sentences were typed beneath the ticket. The Masked Man signature was typed in capitals—as always. It was the same paper, the same neat typing, the same characteristic signature, low on the right side of the page.

  I glanced up and down the aisle. I saw only one other person: a teen-age girl leaning gracefully against the shelves, absorbed in her book. Quickly I pulled the slip of paper free, palming it. Moments later, I was again in the arcade outside, sitting on the same marble bench I’d vacated little more than a minute before.

  As I unfolded the slip of paper, I allowed my gaze to wander around the arcade. No one was watching.

  The ticket stub was marked Greyhound Baggage Claim. I read the brief instructions:

  Walk down Fulton to Market. Take your time. Turn left on Market, then right on Seventh Street. Enter the Greyhound Station. Pick up a package at precisely 7:30 P.M.

  THE MASKED MAN

  As I waited for the baggage attendant, I realized that my hand was straying unconsciously toward the tiny derringer resting between my upper shoulder blades. Its touch was small comfort. It was wildly inaccurate, and as Friedman had warned, it was dangerously slow cocking. The derringer was a primitive pistol: a weapon designed for a gambler’s boot, or the cuff of a dandy’s sleeve. In the hundred years since its conception, the derringer’s design had gone unchanged; only the metals had been improved, and the loads made more powerful. Its twin over-and-under barrels were only three inches long. The trigger was unguarded: a stump that adjoined the two-inch handle. Just above the trigger was a button that selected which barrel would fire. The spurred hammer was of the old-fashioned six-gun style, with two positions: half cock or full cock, ready to fire. I carried it now at half cock, supposedly the safety position. But, as Friedman had also warned, a blow could cause the gun to fire—shattering my spine.

  “Help you?” It was the baggage clerk, a Mexican man with a massive stomach overhanging his tightly cinched belt. Silently, I handed over the claim check, at the same time looking around me. In the lofty marble-arched institutional hush of the library, I hadn’t felt observed, or endangered. Here, in this gritty, noisy bus station, I felt violence drawing closer. I was on the edge of the veldt.

  As I watched the clerk walk toward me, I tucked down my chin and whistled “That Old Black Magic.” When the clerk put a small parcel before me, I thanked him loudly, still with my chin lowered.

  The package was wrapped in heavy brown paper, carefully tied with double-knotted white twine. I walked quickly to a nearby TV viewing chair with an “Out of Order” sign taped across the tiny TV screen. As I sat down, I felt my polo shirt draw across my shoulders. Hastily, I raised my hand to the collar of the shirt, pulling it up over the cocked derringer. Had the gun been exposed? I didn’t know.

  With my penknife, I cut the twine and stripped the paper from a portable Panasonic tape recorder. The machine measured perhaps three inches by six inches by eight inches. An ordinary brown paper grocer’s sack was enclosed, folded to the size of the recorder. A plastic-covered wire with a tiny earphone attached was wrapped around the recorder. The wire secured another sheet of yellow paper. As I slipped the paper free, I saw that the point where the earphone cord was plugged into the recorder was scabbed over with a hardened glob of amber glue.

  I placed the tape recorder carefully on a small plastic tray beneath the TV set, placed the folded sack on top of the recorder and read the typed instructions, brief and businesslike:

  Walk to the sidewalk in front of the station. At 7:35, press the “on” button. Put the earphone in your right ear. Put the recorder in the brown paper sack. Carry the recorder in your right hand. Carry the flight bag in your left hand. Don’t try to remove the earphone. Follow the instructions you will get. You are watched right now. You will be watched every foot of the way.

  THE MASKED MAN

  I dropped the wrapping paper on the floor and got to my feet. I walked through the crowded lobby toward the street. As I walked, I whistled “That Old Black Magic.” The clock on the wall read thirty-six minutes after seven.

  On the sidewalk I stopped, unwound the cord from the body of the tape recorder and fitted the small plastic earphone into my ear. As I was slipping the recorder into the grocer’s sack, I saw a burly, long-haired teen-a
ge thug avidly eyeing the recorder. I recognized the look in his eye. He was weighing his chances of snatching the recorder and running with it. If he was fast enough, he could do it. The dark, dangerous alley across the street led directly to the beginning of skid row, only a block away.

  I half pivoted to face him, tightening my grip purposefully on the recorder, now inside the paper sack. He turned away—plainly on the prowl for easier game as he made his way toward Mission Street, passing the first of the cheap hotels that flanked the Greyhound station.

  Another minute had gone. As I pressed the ON button, my watch read 7:37. I was running late.

  “This is the Masked Man speaking,” came a disembodied voice in my ear. “You are to follow instructions very carefully.”

  The voice was unrecognizable: a slow, low-pitched sepulchral growl: an electronic joke. It was a re-recording made originally at fast speed, then recorded at slow speed. The Masked Man still held the advantage.

  “The time is now seven thirty-five,” came the ghostly mechanical grumble. “You are to turn south on Seventh Street. You are to walk slowly. You will keep the tape recorder in your right hand, and the flight bag in your left hand. You are to keep your eyes to the front. You are to make no effort to see me. I will see you, every minute. If you disobey my instructions, contact will be broken off. Others will die before contact is made. Many others.”

  The distorted voice was unclear, difficult to understand. All my attention was required to make out the words. I could do no more than whistle spasmodically, to give Friedman his radio fix.

  Should I walk faster, to compensate for the two minutes lost? Should I—?

  “You are now approaching the intersection of Seventh and Mission,” the voice continued. “On the corner is a restaurant. The restaurant is closed. You are to step into the doorway. There are trash cans in the doorway.”

  I obeyed, slipping between two overflowing cans of garbage. Something scurried between my legs. From the shadows that surrounded me, I strained to discover someone who might be following, either friend or enemy. Friedman, I knew, would be in a car—Friedman, and a dozen others. But would the Masked Man be on foot? Would he be alone? Would he—

  “It is known,” the slow-motion voice droned on, “that you have a hidden microphone.”

  Known? By whom, except Friedman and me?

  “You are to place the flight bag on the pavement. You are to use your free hand to remove the microphone from your person.”

  Not from my chest, but from my person.

  “You are to hold both the microphone and transmitter up at chest level, so it can be seen.”

  “I’ve got to get rid of it, Pete,” I said into the microphone. “I’m at the corner of Seventh and Mission.” Hastily I ripped the microphone free of its cord.

  “You are then to place the microphone and transmitter on top of one of the trash cans.”

  Muttering an obscenity, I obeyed.

  “Now you are to pick up the flight bag and step out onto the sidewalk. You are to cross Mission Street. Be sure and wait for the traffic light. Do not make yourself conspicuous in any way.”

  As I listened, I tried to identify some telltale speech habit—some clue to my tormentor’s identity. But it was useless, possibly because the Masked Man had originally spoken in a deliberate, automated cadence. I couldn’t even determine whether the voice was male or female, young or old.

  “On the southwest corner of Mission, you are to cross Seventh Street.”

  The traffic light was green. I was crossing the street with the light. On the far corner, in a darkened doorway, two derelicts were propped against each other, blearily sharing a bottle of wine.

  “You are now walking east on Mission Street, toward Sixth Street. Continue walking at a steady pace. Wait at the corner of Sixth Street for instructions.”

  As I passed the two winos, one of them mumbled something as he turned toward me, staggering. I stepped quickly around him. Ahead, the sidewalk was deserted; only a few cars were parked at the metered spaces. This block of Mission Street was a commercial area—a random collection of buildings with retail stores and sales offices on the ground floor and loft space or light manufacturing above. During the day, the district was bustling, secure. At night, Mission Street could turn ugly, with human flotsam overflowing skid row. As I walked, I looked constantly over my shoulder, on guard. I tensed with the sound of each car that approached from behind. At any moment, the Masked Man could pull up beside me, gun me down and pick up the flight bag before I’d quit twitching. He could—

  “Turn right at Sixth Street. You will then be walking south on Sixth, on the west side of the street. Remember, you are to carry the flight bag in your left hand, the recorder in your right hand. You are to communicate with no one. You are to look straight ahead.”

  With a hundred feet separating me from the corner, I quickened my pace. I was lagging behind. Across Mission Street, I saw the same long-haired tough I’d seen in front of the Greyhound station. He was still on the prowl.

  What would have happened if he’d snatched the recorder and run?

  I’d already heard the answer. Without the payoff, the Masked Man would kill again—and again.

  At the corner, I turned right. I was now walking south toward Howard Street—toward the heart of skid row. Instead of storefronts and commercial houses, I was passing abandoned boarded-up buildings and small hotels with hopeless men slumped in lobbies lit by dim, naked light bulbs. In almost every doorway, furtive shadows stirred.

  “You are approaching Minna Street. Stop on the north corner of the intersection while you listen to these instructions. You must listen carefully.” Like a conscientious teacher instructing a backward student, the Masked Man paused. “On the corner of Minna and Sixth there is the Tumbleweed Inn. You are to enter the Tumbleweed Inn. But remember: before you enter, you are to listen to all of these instructions.” Emphasizing the word “all,” the guttural, distorted electronic voice gargled and burbled. “Do not attract attention to yourself. In the back of the bar, on the wall, you will see a pay phone. Beside the phone is a door marked ‘storeroom.’ Quickly, enter the storeroom. It will be unlocked. There is a light switch inside the door, to the right. Turn on the light. Close the door behind you. There is a metal-covered door in the rear of the storeroom. This door is barred. Lift the bar, go through the door. Close the door behind you. Now you will be in a narrow passageway between two buildings. The passageway will be dark. Walk to your left until you come to another door. This door will also be barred. Swing the bar up, but do not go through the door until you hear further instructions. You will have two minutes, beginning now. Repeat, two minutes. You must be sure to—.”

  Close behind me, a foot scraped on the sidewalk. Whirling, I saw a figure with upraised arm. I glimpsed wide, wild eyes, a matted beard, a mouth with lips drawn back, broken teeth clenched. I saw the dull glitter of a pipe, slashing down at my head. I threw myself to the right, tripped on the curb. I was falling toward the gutter, instinctively rolling as I struck the pavement. Momentarily flat on my back, I felt the sharp, painful shape of the derringer between my shoulder blades. I was braced against the explosion—the pain—the black void that would follow. The pipe whispered above my head. My hands were free; I’d lost the flight bag, the recorder. Again the pipe flashed up; he was crouched over me, panting like an animal. I kicked for his legs. He was slumping, suddenly falling across me. Desperately, I rolled free—first on my side, then on my back.

  The derringer.

  It was a scream of silent terror. And again: the derringer, so dangerous.

  He was struggling to rise, crouched on all fours, groping frantically for the length of pipe. I was on my feet. As I balanced myself, drawing back my foot, I caught the strong odor of alcohol: the sweet, fetid scent of wine. I kicked him squarely in the head. Softly exhaling, he collapsed on his face.

  The flight bag lay on the sidewalk; a bit of brown paper sack protruded from beneath his torso.
Now he was stirring, struggling to rise. Instantly, I kicked him again. His body convulsed, twitched, then lay quiet. I gripped his tattered jacket, raised him and carefully withdrew the paper sack with the tape recorder inside, trailing the wire and earphone. I jammed the earphone in my ear.

  Was the machine broken?

  No. I could hear it humming. The Masked Man was allowing two minutes to pass—the two minutes I needed to enter the bar, go through the storeroom, find my way through the dark passageway. His murderer’s timetable was ticking away without me.

  I was on my feet, shouldering through a ring of silent, wraithlike men who’d come from nowhere. If I’d been injured or weakened, they would have fallen on me like jackals.

  With my heart still hammering, my breath coming in painful gasps, I crossed the narrow street and pushed open the door of the Tumbleweed Inn. It was a narrow, bad-smelling barroom with barely enough room for the formica bar, a desultory line of drinkers and a stack of beer cases along the wall. As I walked quickly toward the rear, I glanced once at the bartender: a large, balding man with an angry red scar across his forehead. I would be back to see him. The Tumbleweed was our first solid link to the Masked Man. Only the murderer or his accomplice could have arranged for my access to the unlocked storeroom and the passageway behind.

  As I stepped into the storeroom and flicked on the light, I realized that I was probably severing my visual connection with Friedman.

  Should I turn back—cancel out?

  Friedman would be furious if I continued. Breaking contact, I was going against the odds—against good police practice, good judgment.

  Yet if I turned back now, someone would die. I had the Masked Man’s promise for it.

  With my hand on the bar securing the steel-sheathed door, I hesitated. At that moment, the tape recorder came to life. “Open the door,” came the voice in my ear.