Eric Russell - Three to Conquer

“Why do you turn Moira into a nervous wreck the minute my back is turned?” Harper demanded.

“Me?” Riley fumed a bit. “I never touched her. I’m not that kind. I’m married, and happy at it. If she told you I touched her, she’s a liar. I don’t believe she did tell you. You’re inventing things in an effort to change the subject. But it won’t work, see? Why—”

“You looked at her and thought things,” asserted Harper.

Riley flushed. “All right; I get it. You refuse to talk. I know I can’t make you talk, and you’re enjoying the situation. It gratifies your simian ego.” He let his voice drop a couple of decibels, went on, “Would your lordship grant me the favor of one question? Just one little question, eh?”

“You may voice it,” said Harper, trying to be lordly.

“To Whom must I go to get the answers?”

“General Conway.”

“Jumping Jehoshaphat!” ejaculated Riley. He hitched his pants lest they fall down. “Is it that important?”

“Unfortunately, yes. And if they haven’t seen fit to give you the details, then I mustn’t do so, either. If I told you all, I’d usurp authority. It’s the unforgivable sin. It breeds anarchy, with all its attending features of godlessness, promiscuousness and every form of untaxable naughtiness. Compile your own list—you know more about the wicked.” He reached for another letter from the waiting pile. “Close the door gently as you go out. The glass won’t hold under more than another two of your assaults.”

“I could assault somebody right now,” Riley informed him, showing big teeth. “Two burglaries, one hold-up and one case of arson last night. I’m supposed to dismiss them with a light laugh. I’m supposed to concentrate exclusively on looking for three guys named McDonald, Langley and Gould, and do it while robbed of four prowl cars. Nothing else matters but finding a trio of toughies against whom no criminal charge has been entered.”

“Nothing else matters,” Harper agreed.

Riley leaned closer and whispered, “Be a pal and tell me—what have they done?”

“Ask Conway.”

“Thanks for nothing.” Riley rattled the glass as he departed.

“Director of Research, Swain Laboratories, Trenton, N. J.,” Harper recited while Moira snatched at her pencil. “In response to your inquiry for slowmotion pneumatic micromanipulators, suitable for use with type-Z electron microscopes, we have pleasure in quoting for our—” He glanced at the door which had opened. “Well?”

Agent Norris said, “We heard the conversation through the mike. What’s that police officer to you?”

“A friend. He thinks he’s entitled to my confidence.” He sniffed, rubbed his nose, and added, “I think so, too.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I know him of old. He’s to be trusted.”

“Make note of Harper’s friends and intimates” droned Norris’s mind, repeating orders in mistaken secrecy. “ They are to be thoroughly checked.” Vocally, he informed, “We let him through to you, being who he is. But we were wondering why he should come out with such peremptory demands for an explanation. What is good enough for the Commissioner ought to be plenty good enough for him, shouldn’t it?”

“He’s in a privileged position, so far as I’m concerned.”

“Are you sure he did not have an ulterior motive in cross-examining you?”

“I did not look to see; I don’t peer into everybody’s mind. Besides, I’m busy trying to rescue myself from imminent bankruptcy. What motive could he have?”

“You can guess as well as anyone else—except that you don’t have to guess,” said Norris. “In a situation such as this, it’s wise to suspect everyone, including your own mother.”

He went out, joined Rausch in the machine shop. Harper continued with his mail. When lunchtime arrived, and Moira had £one out to eat, Harper summoned Norris to the office.

“Moira is a nice girl. She tops me by three inches, because I’ve pulled both her legs so often that they’ve stretched. But we get along all right.”

“What’s that to me?” Norris asked.

“I wouldn’t like her to get hurt if she was around when a hatchet-man broke in. She’s another worm on the same hook, and I’m not paying her for taking those risks.”

“You’re the one who’s supposed to warn us of an attack,” Norris pointed out. “Without you, we’re working blind.”

“I know. But I’m not holding her hand twenty-four hours per day. Do you suppose it might be best to get rid of her for a while? How about me sending her on paid leave until this affair is over?”

“No. You can play your part only by sticking to normal routine. Make enough changes, and a trap starts looking like a trap.”

“They might jump her outside, hoping to use her to get at me. It wouldn’t work, thank God; I’d know what was coming before it got here. Yet I’d hate to turn the guns on her because she’d ceased to be Moira any more. What’s done can’t be undone; I’d like to prevent the doing in the first place.”

“She must take her chances, the same as everybody else,” said Norris impassively. “It’s no worse for one than for another.”

“It is worse,” Harper contradicted, “because one’s more likely to be picked on than another. I’d be happier if she had had a guard, day and night.”

“She has. We tied a couple of men onto her at the start. Same applies to your other employees. We’ve covered all your regular contacts as well. If anyone tries the tactic of approaching you in familiar form, they’re going to have a hard time finding one suitable and fancy free.”

“I could find one any minute,” Harper declared.

Norris jerked an eyebrow. “Somebody not under continual observation?”

“Yes.”

“Then it’s your duty to tell me.”

“An agent,” said Harper. “Any agent. Who is watching the watchers?”

“That problem is beyond solution. Our men are working in pairs. We could group them in threes, fours, tens or twenties and find it not enough. The line has to be drawn somewhere between the desirable and the performable. They’re operating in pairs, and that makes it impossible for one man to be taken by himself.”

“So they must be confiscated two at a time?”

“If that can be done.”

“The enemy can do anything that human beings can do. For all I know to the contrary, they can also do one or two things that we can’t.”

“We’ll see about that,” promised Norris.

The fourth successive day of ordinary, uneventful business routine found Harper bored with playing bait for fish that apparently had ceased to exist.

Meanwhile, he had become fed up with being followed wherever he went, finding G-men lounging at every street comer, occupying nearby tables in restaurants, standing beside him in comfort stations, breathing down his neck at the theatre, and standing sentry duty outside his bedroom. The price of human liberty was to sacrifice his own.

Monotony was broken, and faith in his purpose restored, when he arrived at the office early, spread the morning paper across his desk and found a news item tucked away at bottom of a column inside.

Savannah, Ga. A brief but bloody gun-battle took place near here at midnight when F.B.I, agents raided the Rankovic farm. Two men were killed, four taken into custody. Two more are believed to have escaped. Declining to reveal the purpose of the raid, Area Director Stephen Maddox states that the F.B.I, acted upon direct orders from Washington.

It was a most unusual report, in several respects. For one thing, it had been played down; for another, the precise location was not stated and no names were mentioned, other than that of Maddox. Lastly, this fight had occurred when all forces of law and order were engaged in one task and one only. Obviously, therefore, the incident had some bearing on the main issue.