Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 19, No. 99, February 1952
- Автор: Грубер Фрэнк, Кемельман Гарри
- Год: 1952
- Язык: английский
- Год: American Mercury
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 19, No. 99, February 1952». Краткое содержание книги:
“Attention everybody!” the radio warned. “Three armed men stole black sedan near Karlin forty minutes ago. Headed north.”
“What’d I tell you?” Casey demanded. He grunted and lighted his pipe.
The radio was directing: “Car 14, join Car 106 at Fife Lake corner. Car 72, go to Betsie bridge on Highway 115. Car 46, meet Sheriff White at Maple City. Car 19, go to filling station at Buckley. See the man. Information. Cadillac sheriff, please hold your bridge guards, and thanks. Car 88...”
“That’s us!” Jim shouted.
“Shut up an’ listen,” Casey barked.
“Car 88, go to M22 and County Road 76 in town of Empire. Shake down everybody...”
“Empire!” Jim exclaimed.
“What about it?”
“Why, he’s got... I got... a cousin lives there,” Jim said. “That’s all.”
His voice dwindled off, but it wasn’t all. Charley went up to Empire every summer to pick cherries on the cousin’s farm, knew the country like his own barnyard. If Charley, trying to get away...
“Empire’s to hell an’ gone from here,” Casey grumbled. “Twenty-thirty miles.”
Jim tramped the accelerator and headed north. Scattered farmhouses showed only dark windows on the wet empty road. Bandits or no bandits, most folks were staying home in such weather and going to bed early. At the crossroad in Benzonia, another patrol car stood with bomb flares burning and a sign that ordered, “Halt. Police Blockade.”
Jim touched his siren and slowed momentarily, till the trooper beside the other car lowered his shotgun and waved him on. Jim recognized him, a fellow from Manistee post. Looked like he needed a cup of coffee. Jim roared down the hill into Beulah.
“Hey,” Casey said. “Eighty’s too fast.”
“Too fast?”
“Slow down,” Casey said, and then he remarked, for no reason, “Me, I’m sorry for their family.”
“Family!” Jim exclaimed. He looked at Casey quickly, then back at the dark wet road. Hang it all, why didn’t Casey come out and say what he thought? Why didn’t he ask where Charley was supposed to be right now? Why didn’t he...
“Take no chances!” the dispatcher was warning. “These men are desperate!”
“Something comin’ up now,” Casey said quietly. “Look. Parked car ahead.”
Jim slowed. He hadn’t seen it. Eyes right on the road, and he hadn’t seen it. But there it was, standing on the shoulder without lights.
“Pull in behind ’em,” Casey directed. “I’ll shake ’em down. You stay at the wheel.” He reached for the shotgun and jerked it from its clamps against the roof. “Keep your shirt on, kid.”
As their lights picked out the wet details of the machine ahead, Jim suddenly wanted to yell. Wanted to shout that it was all a mistake. That there wasn’t any need checking that car. That they’d better go on patroling. For if this wasn’t his kid brother’s jalopv... same make and model, same dirty color, same bent fenders, same empty spare tire rack, same...
“Keep your shirt on,” Casey repeated. Patting his pocket to make sure the extra shells were there, he climbed out. Jim took a long breath, gripped his pistol, lifted it slowly, and took aim through the windshield. He waited while Casey splashed for ward, the shotgun cradled in his arm... waited while the sergeant jerked open the door of the jalopy.
Casey’s lips were moving. Jim could see that much, even though the storm wiped out the voice. He could see, too... he took a long breath, and his fingers shook. Why, he could see the license now! Of all the dumb recruits he was dumbest! He’d been staring all the time at the license. It wasn’t Charley’s number. This was a Kent County plate. It wasn’t Charley...
And Casey had slammed the door. He was tramping back.
“Now, ain’t young love wonderful?” he asked.
A deputy sheriff with a small badge pinned to his wet overcoat and three drenched men in Legion caps waited at the crossroad in Empire. Two of them carried deer rifles, one a stout club, the fourth a flashlight. They signaled the patrol car to halt.
“Better stop quick,” Casey warned. “Posse can get awful enthusiastic. When it does, it starts shootin’.” He leaned hurriedly from the window and yelled, “Hiya, sheriff. It’s us. State police.” He made his voice jovial for once.
The deputy advanced cautiously on soggy shoes. With his flashlight full in Casey’s face he halted. Then he came on and put one wet foot on the running board.
“Three hours and ain’t nary a cat tried to get past!” he said glumly. “I got chores to do at home...”
Jim reached for a cigarette, nervously offered one to the deputy. Chores. Charley hadn’t done his chores. Not at seven o’clock. But there might be a chance now... he might be home by now. If he were, it would mean he wasn’t running from cops...
“Listen, Sarge,” Jim said. “I got to ’phone! I’ll be just a minute!”
“ ’Phone?” Casey yelled. “Now? Right in the middle of a chase? Good Lord, no!”
“ ’Phone right there in the filling station.” The deputy was pointing across the road, and Jim seized the chance.
“Take me only a minute, Sarge...”
Casey turned and stared at him. Then he chuckled suddenly. “That’s a new one,” he said. “Ree-cruit havin’ to ’phone! Well, go on. Get it over with. Tell her it breaks your heart these here bandits spoiled your date.” He chuckled again.
Jim was pressing the door handle as the radio bell struck. The deputy quickly thrust his head into the car window and his hat brim dripped on Jim’s knees. There was excitement this time in the dispatcher’s voice. He bit off his words and spit them at the microphone.
“Attention, all cars! Special attention, Car 88! Machine with one headlight believed to be bandits went north through Lake Ann five minutes ago. Eluded posse at crossroads there. Traveling fast...”
“Get going, kid,” Casey said.
“... Car 88, go east on county road 76 for three miles. Head ’em off.” The dispatcher’s voice still was excited. The deputy sheriff jerked back his head. “Sheriff at Maple City, hold your crossroad. Car 92, start west on county line road. We’ve got these babies cornered... hold on...” the radio paused, then added, “That’s right. Car is positively identified as belonging to bandits!”
“Step on it,” Casey said. His voice was calm. He leaned out and shouted back, “Thank you kindly, men, thank you kindly.”
“... took a shot just now at a farmer begging a lift. Car 91, hold your post. Car 18, take bridge at Cedar. Traverse City police, send your car west on Long Lake road. Car 164... wait a minute, here’s something else... bandit car is headed for Empire...”
“What’s that you say?” Casey demanded.
“Nothing,” Jim answered. He hadn’t meant to say anything, didn’t believe he had said anything. Empire. Couldn’t it have been any car but this one dispatched tonight to Empire...?
The dispatcher was continuing: “Remember, 88, bandit car has one light. You’ll meet it, 88. Bound to, if they keep on coming...”
Jim’s foot went down to the floorboard. They were climbing a hill. Beyond it, this hill or another, they’d meet a jalopy. Jalopy or something better. It didn’t matter what. Didn’t matter one light or two, Charley Smith would be in it. And they’d shoot it out. Sergeant Casey and he himself, Charley Smith’s brother, would take their guns and shoot it out with a green kid who didn’t know any better... who did know better... who didn’t...
They were swinging a curve into a down-grade. Jim saw the sergeant reach for the shotgun. Straight ahead, beyond the next rise, there it came... a blur of white light soaking upward in the rain...