Eric Russell - Three to Conquer

“We’ll have to do the best we can, and do it quickly, too.” Norris handed the wallet to an agent. “Make a list of those numbers and have them circulated to the banks fifty miles around. See if anyone has them recorded as paid out and, if so, to whom.”

Rausch had opened the watch and examined its insides. He snapped it shut, gave it to another of his men. “This ought to tell us something. It’s one of those newfangled jobs drawing power from variations in barometric pressure. There shouldn’t be a million of them around, considering what they cost. Find the local distributor. He’ll have the movement number on his books, and be able to say where it went. Follow it through until you learn who bought it.”

The agent took the watch, hastened downstairs.

Studying the stickpin, Rausch said to Norris, “It’s a poorer bet, but we’ll have to take it.” He beckoned another agent. “Show it to the leading jewelers. Phone us at once if you trace a sale.”

“If his prints are on record, we’ll know him in a few hours’ time,” commented Norris, inwardly doubting that they were recorded. “We’ll roll a copy and let Washington have a look. Let’s hope they’ve got him on their files. Somebody had better tote those shoes around town. Any good shoeshop should be able to tell us who makes jobs like those.”

“May I see them?” asked Harper. He took them, turned them over and over, doubled them toe to heel, and felt their softness and pliability. He handed them back. “Made to measure for him.”

Norris nodded, let go a yell of, “Where’s the cameraman?”

That worthy appeared, his apparatus dangling from one shoulder. He glanced at the deceased with the professional air of one who had yet to see a corpse with a new shape, size, expression or attitude.

“Tidy his pan and make him look sweet,” Norris ordered. “I want a good head and shoulders stereo-study; someone might recognize him on video. Give me the pic just as soon as you can have it ready.” He turned to Harper. “That’s all we can do for the moment. We’ll escort you back to your office.”

Harper rubbed his chin, looked hesitant, said, “I’m so overawed by surrounding talent that I’m reluctant to offer a suggestion.”

“Let’s have it,” urged Norris.

“Well, then,” said Harper, “how many grown men go round without even a solitary key in their pockets?”

“That’s right. I think he stripped himself of anything he thought likely to give us a lead, but he made a sloppy job of it. Or maybe he knew that if anything happened to him, it would be enough for him to cause a little delay.”

“I also noticed that his right shoe is worn in the center of the sole,” Harper went on. “More so than is the left shoe.” He paused thoughtfully, continued, “And he has the general appearance of a man who has enjoyed prosperity for many years. If he’s ever been without a thick bankroll, it was a long, long time ago. Yet he walked down the street.”

“What are you getting at?”

“He has a car and uses it. His type almost invariably goes in for big, powerful cars the size of an ocean liner. But he didn’t employ it this time. Why? Answer: for reasons best known to himself, he parked it somewhere and did the rest on foot. But he did not leave it locked, otherwise he’d have the keys. Why didn’t he lock it? Because somebody’s sitting in it waiting for him, with the missing keys dangling from the instrument board. Is that someone still sitting and waiting? Answer: he probably is, unless parked near enough to have seen or heard the ruckus.”

“Let’s go down to the cruiser and put out a radio call. I have enough prowlers to rake the whole area, and—’

“Now, now!” Harper chided. “More space, less heed. There are hundreds of parked cars standing around, and dozens have people sitting in them. Unless Fatty’s playmate happens to be Langley, McDonald or Gould, how are you going to spot him?”

“He may be one of those three,” said Norris, bursting to start the search. “Probably that’s why this dead boy walked part of the way. None, of those three would risk exhibiting himself near your place; he would keep out of sight, and let a stooge do his dirty work.”

“All right. Then I suggest you have all cars make a comb-out for Langley and company, paying special attention to parked jobs with waiting occupants. If the accomplice is not one of those three, then he’s Mr. Anonymous and your men are out of luck.”

“But you could identify him?”

“Provided I manage to get near enough. You’d better take me on a personal tour of all the parking places within, say, half an hour’s walk. Within a two-mile radius. Fatty wasn’t running merely for exercise. He scooted in the hope of losing himself a short while, until he could make a fast getaway.”

“I think you may be right,” agreed Norris. “Let’s go!”

They piled into one of the several cruisers now lined up outside the building. Norris took the wheel, Rausch sat by his side, Harper slumped in the back with another agent. About to start, Norris was struck with a thought; he looked over his shoulder at the agent in rear.

“We don’t know this area too well. You’d better get out and make room for a local cop who can show us around.”

“I can direct you to all the likeliest places,” said Harper. “Get going. Take the second turn on the right.”

At once they moved off, made the turn and reached a lot holding some two hundred cars. Seven had people sitting inside, or lounging nearby. Harper made a mental dig at each, picked up no vicious reactions.

“Turn left,” he ordered. “There are a couple of small dumps on that road and a big one about a mile up.”

They trundled along at moderate pace, examining all machines en route; nothing was seen to arouse suspicion, and no alarm was sprung.

A mile farther on, they reached an underground hiding place holding more than a thousand cars. Rolling down one of the half-dozen wide entrance-ramps, they entered a brightly lit cavern in which concrete pillars soared at intervals from a mass of silent vehicles. An attendant came toward them, his curiosity aroused by sight of a police prowler. Norris lowered the window and stuck his head out.

“Quick!” yelped Harper, sitting up and staring ahead. “There he goes—out the middle exit!”

Norris jumped the car forward, narrowly escaped knocking down the attendant. The car roared along the mainway between packed ranks of its fellows. Overhead lights flashed faster and faster, receded into the rear distance. Supporting pillars zipped past with enough speed to make them resemble a paled fence. The car’s hood lifted as they hit the exit ramp. The last light fled by; they shot into daylight and the street.

From the left Harper could still pick up the rapidly fading gobble-gobble-gobble of an agitated brain intent on escaping with what it had learned—namely, that gobblings can be heard.

The siren commenced wailing as they spun off the ramp and started down the middle of the broad street. Traffic scattered to the sides, leaving a clear road far along which a big .black car was hurtling as if driven by a maniac. Holding grimly to the wheel, Norris pressed the accelerator to the floorboard. Rausch felt around under a panel, took out a hand-mike, held it near to his mouth.

“Black Roadking escaping southward on Bailey Avenue. All cars in region of Bailey Avenue South, Greer Avenue South and Mason Turnpike intercept black Roadking.”

“If this loaded heap catches a Roadking, it’ll be a miracle,” Harper observed.

They took no notice. The agent beside him leaned over, tugged a gun from a pocket, held it on his knees.