Хал Эллсон - Masters of Noir - Volume 3

Car 751 came in. Kurowski said, “Nothing at the Silver Moon with front-end damage. What’s the dope on it?”

“Code 4,” Judith Barrows said. “The Ford was last seen going north on Pennsylvania at Third Avenue.”

Code 4, hit and run. Crestone obeyed the .38.

Kurowski said, “10-4. We’ll swing up that way.”

She was keeping 751 north, sure enough. The phone exploded. Judith Barrows went around the counter again to the extension. She nodded.

From the background of a noisy party a man said, “Somebody swiped my car.” A woman shouted. “Tell ’em it’s even paid for!”

Crestone wrote down the information. A ‘52 cream Cadillac sedan, R607, taken sometime between 12:30 A.M. and 1:30 A.M. “It was right in the damned driveway,” the owner complained. “We’re having a little party here and—”

“Keys in it?” Crestone asked.

“Sure! It was in my own driveway.”

“We’ll get on it right away.” Crestone hung up.

The woman said, “You won’t put that one out, Buster.”

So he was guessing right. They had a cream Cad waiting. If they planned to use State 7, the quick run for the crew at the Wampum was up the county road past the country club and then on out Canal to where it intersected across the river with State 7 near the old brick plant. Barrows could shoot straight north on Meredith to Glencoe, turn east— Why hell, she would strike State 7 just a hundred yards from the old brick works. The Cad was waiting out there now!

She was behind him once more. As if she had read his thoughts she asked, “What’s in your little round head now, Buster?”

“I’m wishing you’d beat it.”

She laughed but there were little knots of tension in the sound. The deal must be on at the Wampum now. Before she left she would have to level him. She would swing lower and harder then. The thought made Crestone’s headache worse. He hoped she knew the bones on the side of a man’s skull couldn’t take it like the thick sloping top. She might stretch him so he never got up. He could smell his own sweat.

Before the clincher came he would have to run a test on her. The next time she was in the chair.

One of the side doors made a whushing sound and then a voice boomed across the lobby. “Hey there, Bill, how’s the peace and dignity of the community?” It was old Fritz Hood on his way home from the power company’s sub station. He always stopped to bellow at Bill Walters.

“Hello, Fritz!”

“You, Joey! Where’s Bill tonight?”

“Sick.”

“The old bastard! I’ll go see him before he dies.” The door rocked back to center. Hood was gone.

Judith Barrows was in the chair, with her jacket across her lap and the code sheets on the desk. Crestone rose slowly. The fur jacket slid away and showed the .38. Something dropped out of one of the jacket sleeves. He made another step. She tilted the muzzle, resting the edge of her hand on her knee. She cocked the gun then. Her face was white.

Crestone tried to talk himself into it; but he knew she was too scared. An excited or scared dame with a gun. Murder. He backed up and sat down. His head was pounding. On the floor at her feet lay a piece of doubled wire, the raw ends covered with white tape.

The phone sang like a rattlesnake. The woman made a nervous stab at it before she gained control and nodded at Crestone. Mrs. John Slenko, 3648 Locust, had just seen a man in her back yard. She wanted the police.

Judith Barrows’ vigilance wavered while she was fumbling her phone back into the cradle. Crestone used his phone to push the Gain dial of the radio down to One while he was putting the instrument away. He dispatched 750 to Mrs. Slenko’s home.

The big dame was in a knot now and Crestone was coming out of it. She had grabbed at the phone because she was expecting a call to tell her that the job at the Wampum was done. She was staying in the chair to be near the phone.

When York and Shannon began to talk about a revoked driver’s license, the sounds came faintly.

“What did you do to the radio!”

“Nothing.”

The .38 was on his stomach. “What did you do?”

“Nothing, damn it! We get a split-phase power lag on the standby tower every night.” He hoped she knew as little of radio as he did. “The reception fades, that’s all.”

“You’re lying! You did something, didn’t you?”

“No! You’ve been watching me every second.”

“You’re going to get it, Crestone, if anything goes wrong.” She was wound-up but the gun was easy.

Car 752 came in, so faint that only “seven-fift’ “ was audible, but Crestone knew Purcell’s voice and he could guess the message. Purcell had sulked in the Sunset Drive Inn, dwelling on the inequalities of traffic code enforcement, but now he and Old McGlone were on their way again.

The woman’s voice was a whip crack. “What was it?”

“I’ll have to get it on the other mike.”

“What other mike?”

Crestone kept his finger close to his chest when he pointed. “On a hook around at the side of the radio.”

The faint call came again.

“All right,” Judith Barrows said.

There was dust on the curled lead of the hand mike. Crestone said, “Car 750, I read you 10-1. The standby trouble again, as usual.” 10-1 meant: receiving poorly. From the corner of his eye he saw the woman grab the code sheet to check on him.

Car 750, which had not called, now tried to answer at the same time 752 came in. Crestone said, “Standby, 751. 10-6.” Busy. Now he had them all confused. He called for a repeat from Car 750 to make it more confused. During the instant Judith Barrows was checking the code number he had used, he turned transmitting power to almost nothing.

Faint murmurs came from the radio as the three local cars asked questions Crestone could not hear. The woman did not like her loss of contact. She got out of her chair. “Where’s 751?” she demanded.

Into a dead mike Crestone asked the location of the car. He pretended to hear the answer from the receiver against his ear. “He’s trailing a green Ford toward the Wampum Club.”

“Get him away from there!” She was panicked for a moment and then she got hold of herself. She grabbed the local code sheet. “Code 9 him to the Silver Moon.”

Code 9 was a disturbance. Crestone went through the pretense of calling 751. There was still enough flow of power to light the purple eye.

“Tell him to disregard the Ford,” she ordered.

“10–22 previous assignment, 751. Code 9 at the Silver Moon.”

When the next small scratch of sound came from the speaker, he said, “Midway, Car 55. Go ahead.” He began to write as if he were taking a message: ’52 cream Cadillac sedan, R607, State 7 near old brick plant. Driver resisted arrest.

She came out of her chair. “What’s that message?”

“Car 55 just picked up a guy in a stolen car near the brick works.”

It struck her like death. “Give me that paper!”

He tossed it toward her. She raked it in with her heel, and picked it up without taking her eyes off him. She read it at a glance and cursed.

The phone rang. She had it with out making her signal to Crestone. He lifted his receiver. A tense voice said, “All set here.”

“No!” she cried. “The state patrol just got Brownie and the car!”

“You sure?”

“It just came in on the radio.”

“The other way then. You’re on your own, kid, till you know where.” The man hung up.

Crestone said into the hand mike, “10-4, Car 750.” He swung to face the woman when she went around the counter. “Car 750 is four blocks away, coming in.”

She raised the gun. “They’re coming in,” he said. A man might have done it. She broke. It was her own safety now. Her heels made quick taps on the steel steps, a hard scurrying on the lobby tiles.