Eric Russell - Three to Conquer

“You’re Robert Slade, aren’t you?” inquired Harper, pleasantly conversational.

The other rocked back. “I am. You have the advantage of me, though; I don’t recall knowing you.”

“Would it do you any good to make an arrest?”

“What d’you mean?”

“I’m seeking your H.Q. You can show me the way. If you would like to call it a pinch, it’s all right with me. I’m Wade Harper.”

Slade took in a deep breath. “You’re not kidding?”

“Why should I? Don’t I look like Harper?”

“You sure do—maybe you’re fed up being mistaken for him. If so, there’s little we can do about it.”

“That can soon be settled. You have my prints on file.” He felt under an arm. “Here’s my gun. Don’t let the comparison boys in the ballistics department lose it—I hope to get it back someday.”

“Thanks.” Openly baffled, Slade shoved it into a pocket and pointed down the street. “This way.”

They moved along, side by side. Slade made no suggestion of using his handcuffs, nor was he particularly wary. Harper’s attitude had put him into a state of skepticism; he was inclined to think that this capture would gain him no credit, because the captive was too self-possessed to be other than innocent.

Reaching the big building, they went inside. Slade showed Harper into a small room, said, “Wait there a minute,” and departed. The exit and the open street were within easy reach. There was no obstacle to an escape other than that provided by a hard-looking character on duty at the door.

Taking his ease. in a pneumatic chair, Harper amused himself tracking Slade’s mind. The agent went along a short corridor, entered an office, spoke to somebody there.

“I’ve just picked up Wade Harper. He’s in room number four.”

“By himself?”

“Are you cracked? He can make a dive, and—”

“He was on his way here when I found him,” interjected Slade, honestly refusing the credit for the grab. “ He wanted to come.”

“Holy smoke! There’s something mighty funny about this.” A pause, then, “ Bring him in here.”

Harper got up, walked along the passage, and arrived at the door just as Slade opened it. For the third successive time, Slade was taken aback. He stood aside, silent and puzzled, while Harper marched boldly in, took a seat and gazed at the lean-faced man behind the desk. The latter returned his gaze and gave himself away without knowing it. William Pritchard, thirty-nine, area supervisor.

“’Morning, Mr. Pritchard,” said Harper, with the cheerful air of one who has not a worry in the world.

Pritchard blinked, marshalled his wits and said, “There’s a call out for you. You’re wanted for the murder of Jocelyn Whittingham.”

“Yes, I know. I read the papers.”

“Somebody’s blundered,” thought Pritchard, impressed by this coolness. “ He’s got an alibi.” Clearing his throat, he asked, “Well, do you wish to say anything about it?”

“Plenty—but not to you.”

“Why not to me?”

“No personal reason, I assure you. I’d like to talk to Sam Stevens.”

“Go see where he is,” Pritchard ordered, after a little hesitation.

Slade went away, came back and said, “Stevens is in Seattle.”

The phone rang shrilly. Pritchard picked it off his desk, said, “Yes? How did you know? Oh, he told you himself, did he? No, he wasn’t fooling; he’s here all right. He’s in front of me right now.” He racked the phone, stared hard at Harper. “You can’t see Stevens. He isn’t available.”

“A pity. He could have got me somebody high up. I want to talk as high as I can get.”

“Why?”

“I refuse to say.”

Frowning disapproval, Pritchard leaned forward. “Did you or did you not shoot this Whittingham girl?”

“Yes, I did.”

“All right. Are you willing to sign a confession to that effect?”

“No.”

“You admit shooting her, but you refuse to sign a confession?”

“That’s right.”

“Care to offer a reason?” Pritchard invited, studying him carefully.

“I have a good reason. I didn’t kill her.”

“But she’s dead. She’s as dead as mutton. Didn’t you know that?”

Harper made two waves of his hand in a manner suggesting that this was a minor point.

“So you shot her, but didn’t kill her?” Pritchard persisted. “You put a dozen steel beads through her skull, but somehow refrained from committing homicide?”

“Correct.”

That did it. Pritchard’s and Slade’s minds reached a simultaneous verdict: not guilty of murder by reason of insanity.

Sighing deeply, Harper said, “Sam Stevens is the only one I know in this outfit. He made a check on my plant once, about two years ago. He entered it on some sort of national security list which you people keep on file. He gave me a gun-permit and a bunch of bureaucratic instructions, the chief of which says I’m federal property the moment war breaks out. I become confiscated lock, stock, and barrel.”

“So?” prompted Pritchard, seeing no point in this.

“The Whittingham business has to do more or less with the same issue—namely, national security. Therefore, I can talk only to somebody who’ll know what I’m talking about.

“That would be Jameson,” promptly whispered Pritchard’s thoughts.

“Such as Jameson,” Harper added.

They reacted as though he had uttered a holy name in unholy precincts.

“Or whoever is his boss,” said Harper, for good measure.

With a touch of severity, Pritchard demanded, “You just said that Stevens is the only member of the F.B.I, known to you. So how do you know of Jameson? Come to that, how did you know my name?”

“He knew mine, too,” put in Slade.

“That’s a problem I’ll solve only in the presence of somebody way up top,” said “Harper. He smiled at Pritchard and inquired, “How’s your body?”

“Eh?”

Out of the other’s bafflement Harper extracted a clear, detailed picture, and said in helpful tones, “You have a fish-shaped birthmark on the inside of your left thigh.”

“That’s enough for me!” Pritchard stood up, badly worried. He said to Slade, “You keep an eye on this Houdini while I go see what Jameson says.” He departed hurriedly.

Harper asked Slade, “May I have a sheet of paper, please?”

Extracting one from the desk, Slade slipped it across. He watched Harper take out a pen and prepare to write. The confession after all, he thought. Definitely a nut who’d refuse a thing one moment and give it the next.

Ignoring these uncomplimentary ideas, Harper waited a few moments, then began to write. He scribbled with great rapidity, finishing a short time before Pritchard’s return.

“He won’t see you,” announced Pritchard with a that-is-that air.

“I know.” Harper gave him the paper.

Glancing over it, Pritchard popped his eyes and ran out full tilt. Slade stared after him, turning a questioning gaze upon Harper.

“That was a complete and accurate transcript of their conversation,” Harper informed. “Want to lay any bets against him seeing me now?”

“No,” said Slade, developing the willies. “I don’t care to throw away good money.”

Jameson proved to be a middle-aged bull of a man with a thick mop of curly, gray hair. His eyes were blue and cold, his manner that of one long accustomed to the exercising of authority. Sitting erect in his chair, he kept one strong forefinger firmly planted on the sheet of paper lying on the desk before him.

“How did you do it?”