Eric Russell: Three to Conquer

He joined Harper. “I’m Captain Ledsom. It was smart of you to use Alderson’s radio to get us.”

“Seemed the sensible thing to do.”

“People don’t always do the sensible thing, especially if they’re anxious not to be involved.” Ledsom surveyed him with cool authority. “How did you find Alderson?”

“I trundled up here to answer the call of nature—and there he was.”

“Came up quite a piece, didn’t you?”

“You know how it is. On a narrow track like this, you tend to look for a spot where you can turn the car to go back.”

“Yes, I guess so. You wouldn’t want to park on a bend, either.” He appeared satisfied with the explanation, but Harper could see into Ledsom’s mind with complete clarity. He suspected everyone within a fifty-mile radius. “Exactly what did Alderson say before he passed out?”

“He mumbled about Betty, and—”

“His wife,” interjected Ledsom, frowning. “I hate having to tell her about this.”

“He mentioned a big, blond fellow shooting at him, and that there were others who tossed him into the ditch. He gave no more details, unfortunately; he was on his last lap and his mind was rambling.”

“Too bad.” Ledsom shifted attention as a trooper came up. “Well?”

“Cap, the tracks show that a car turned up here with Alderson following. The car stopped by the verge. Alderson pulled up behind, but in the middle of the road. He got out, went toward the first car, was shot down. At least two men picked him up and dumped him out of sight.” He held out his hand. “Here’s the other shell.” He pointed. “It was lying right there.”

“.32 automatic,” said Ledsom, studying the small brass cylinders. “Any sign of Alderson’s car having been edged off the road and put back again?”

“No.”

“Then they must have pushed straight ahead. They couldn’t get out this way with that car stuck across the road.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, and went on, “This track meanders seventeen miles through forest, loops back and joins the main artery about ten miles farther along. So by now they’ve either got back on the main road or they’ve holed up somewhere in the woods.”

“Seventeen miles would take at least twenty minutes on a route like this one,” ventured Harper. “Even if they’re driving like crazy, they can’t be far off it yet.”

“Yes, I know. I’ll call the boys to put up roadblocks along the main run. We’ll search the loop, too. It’s used almost entirely by loggers. If those bums are familiar with it, the chances are they work, or once worked, for the logging outfits. We’ll follow that line later.”

Entering his car, Ledsom spoke awhile on the radio. He came back and said, “That’s fixed. Blocks will be established pretty soon. The local sheriff is on his way here with four deputies.” He gazed moodily at surrounding woods. “Just as well they’re coming. The fugitives may dump that car and take to their feet—in which case we’ll need an army to go through this lot.”

“Any way I can help?” asked Harper.

Ledsom looked him over for the third time, carefully, calculatingly, while his mind said to itself, “ Some crazy coot might think it incontrovertible proof of innocence to stick his head in the lions mouth. I’d like to know more about this guy. All we’ve got to go on so far is his story.”

“Well?” encouraged Harper.

“Finding the murder weapon could give us a lead,” remarked Ledsom, in the manner of one idly musing. “And we can’t afford to overlook any possibility no matter how remote.” Then his eyes stared straight into Harper’s and his voice became sharp, imperative. “Therefore we must search you and your car.”

“Naturally,” responded Harper with bland indifference.

“Wrong diagnosis,” decided Ledsom’s mind. “ He’s clean. We’ll frisk him all the same.”

They raked the car from end to end, ran hands over Harper and extracted a tiny blued automatic from his right-hand pocket. Ledsom grabbed the gun eagerly, ejected the magazine from the hand-grip, examined it, jerked his eyebrows a bit.

“Holy Smoke! What sort of rod is this supposed to be? Twenty in the mag with slugs the size of match-heads. Where did you get it?”

“Made it myself. Up to fifty yards, it is very effective.”

“I can imagine. You got a permit for it?”

“Yes.” Harper produced the permit and handed it over.

Ledsom glanced at it, registered more surprise. “Are you a Federal agent?”

“No, Captain. The F.B.I, issued that for reasons of their own. If you want the reasons you’ll have to ask them.”

“No business of mine,” said Ledsom, a little baffled. He handed back the permit and the gun. “That toy isn’t the weapon we want, anyway. Did you see or hear anything suspicious before or after finding Alderson?”

“Not a thing.”

“No sound of a car beating it, for instance?”

“No sound whatever.”

“You didn’t hear the shots before you arrived?”

“No.”

“Umph!” Ledsom was dissatisfied. “So they had at least two or three minutes’ headstart. You’re a material witness and we want a statement from you at the office. Sorry to put you to more trouble and delay but—”

“Only too glad to assist,” said Harper.

Ledsom directed two crews to explore the loop road, then led the way back to barracks. Reaching his office, he slumped behind his desk and sighed deeply.

“It’s a lousy business. I’ve yet to tell his wife. They hadn’t been married long, either. God knows how she’ll take it.” He sighed again, dug an official form out of a drawer. “Have to do some clerking myself, seeing all the boys are busy. You got a card on you, Mr. Harper?”

Harper slid one across to him.

It read: WADE HARPER—FORGER.

“So help me Mike,” said Ledsom, blinking at it. “That’s what I call advertising one’s sins. Next thing one of them will write me on a business sheet headed: Baldy O’Brien—Heistman.”

“I’m a microforger.”

“What sort of animal is that?”

“I make surgical and manipulatory instruments so tiny that they can be used to operate on a bacillus.”

“Oh, now, don’t give me that!” said Ledsom. “A fellow couldn’t see enough to use them.”

“He can—under a powerful microscope.”

“Every year they think up something new,” marvelled Ledsom. “You can’t keep up with it.”

“There’s nothing new about this,” Harper assured. “It started back in 1899, with a Dutchman named Dr. Schouten. Since then, the only considerable improvement on his technique has been gained by de Fonbrune’s one-hand pneumatic micromanipulator. I make variations on that gadget, too.”

“You must be kept busy,” remarked Ledsom, wondering how many or how few people wanted to dissect a germ.

“I get by. There aren’t more than a couple of dozen competent microforgers in the world. The demand is just enough to keep pace with the supply.”

“So the F.B.I, think they can’t afford to lose you?”

“You’re making guesses,” said Harper.

“This bacteriological warfare business, maybe?”

“You’re still guessing.”

“Okay; I know when to mind my own business.”

Ledsom got to work on the official form, put down the witness’s name, address and occupation, followed it with a dictated account of what had occurred and shoved it across for the other to read and sign.

When Harper had gone, Ledsom grabbed the phone, made a long-distance call. He’d just finished talking when Sergeant Forst entered the office and eyed him curiously.

“Something broken, Cap?”