“Take San Jose back under the freeway—” Gilchrist began, and then pointed. “That way, for Christ’s sake!”
“How the hell should I know?” Glass said, but he was turning the wheel as he spoke. Two blocks after the freeway underpass he saw a street phone booth; Gilchrist pointed, but Glass was already slowing down. He pulled the car to the curb beside it; Gilchrist climbed out. He glanced in both directions and then bent down, leaning in the open window.
Gilchrist said, “This is a busy street, so parking here shouldn’t attract any unnecessary attention. But if anyone looks curious for any reason at all, take off, go around the block, and come back for me. And keep your eyes open. And don’t take all day doing it; I want you here when I come out. If this gimmick is going to work, we’ll be doing some pretty fancy driving in the next few minutes.”
He turned and walked into the telephone booth, closing the door behind him. He dropped a dime into the slot and dialed the operator. As he waited he planned his words, his attitude, his tone of voice, staring through the glass of the booth as he did so. Where in hell was the operator? Traffic passed the car at the curb; a patrol car swung about it and continued slowly down the street; Gilchrist could imagine the two in the car sweating out the police car, and then the ringing was finally answered. The cool impersonal voice of the operator was in his ear.
“May I help you?”
Gilchrist swung back to the phone, cupping the mouthpiece so he could raise his voice above normal without undue notice from the street. He added the proper touch of horror to his voice.
“Operator? Do you have the number of Mary’s Help Hospital? The one here in Daly City, not Frisco? This is an emergency! There’s been an awful accident! This woman must have been speeding—”
“I’ll connect you,” the operator said evenly. Gilchrist might have been giving her the noonday stock quotations for all of her reaction. In the booth, Gilchrist grinned to himself humorlessly. If he ever got involved in anything like this again—which was doubtful—he’d remember to recruit telephone operators instead of friends. They never seemed to panic. There was a brief ring and then a second voice was on the line, also female and as impersonal as the first.
“Mary’s Help Hospital.”
Gilchrist returned to his horror-stricken tone of voice.
“Mary’s Help? Thank God! Do you have ambulance service? I mean, do you have one there now? There’s been a terrible accident, a woman and two kids, one of them can’t be more than four years—”
“One moment.” The operator’s cold voice chided him for wasting time with people dying. Gilchrist found himself cut off one moment and back on the line the next. He reached up to wipe sweat from his brow; the booth was stifling, but he didn’t want to open the door. Suddenly a cheerful male voice was addressing him.
“Ambulance service.”
“Ambulance service? Thank God! There’s been this awful accident up in the San Brunos, up on Crocker Avenue! Get here as quick as you can! This woman must of lost control of her car—that’s a lousy road up there—and they’re all smashed up! Blood? My God! I didn’t want to move them, so I stopped at the first house—”
The voice at the other end remained cheerful, as if getting serious could prove a handicap in his line of work, but there was an added touch of a businesslike manner.
“What number are you calling from?”
It was a routine question and one Gilchrist had been expecting. “One-one-two—one-eight-five-four.” It was the first and last numbers of Gilchrist’s social security number. “How long till you get here?”
“How far up Crocker did it happen?”
“On that stretch just before South Hill cuts off. You just keep on Crocker and you can’t miss it. It’s maybe a mile or so past Bellevue. That’s the direction I was coming in. They were—”
“Gotcha! We’ll be right there! Stick around.”
“I—I’m not much good at that sort of thing, but if you think I should …” Gilchrist realized he was listening to the dial tone, and hung up, grinning. Would he be there? Believe it! With guns on …
Jimmy, the ambulance driver, dropped the phone into its cradle and swung around to the young intern who had been listening to one side of the conversation expectantly.
“Let’s go, Doc. Looks like a bad one.”
“Where are we going? And what number did the call come from? I’ll put it in the log.”
“Guys die while other guys fill out papers,” Jimmy said, and dragged open the door to the driveway. “Let’s go!”
Gilchrist pushed open the door of the phone booth, welcoming the breeze, and trotted to the curb. He went around the front of the car and opened the door on Max’s side.
“Shove over,” he said, sliding in. “I’ll drive. I know the way.”
He put the car in gear and took it straight down San Jose. At Hillside he cut left, cut left again on Brunswick to Wellington, tilting his head over his shoulder as he turned right into Wellington.
“City Hall and the cops back there,” he said, as if in explanation for his erratic path.
“Also wrong-way traffic,” said Glass, who had seen the signs.
Gilchrist grinned, in good humor because of the success of his ploy. “That, too,” he said, and swung with the road around a looping curve. Crocker Avenue came and he cut into it sharply, straightening the wheel and then stepping on the gas, starting up the incline.
Below, as they climbed, San Francisco’s Ingleside District faded away in the mist; Mount Davidson and Twin Peaks were lost in the haze. Gilchrist smiled; it was as if even the weather had decided to co-operate, recognizing their escape as preordained. They shot past Templeton, passed the last few remaining houses on the deserted road, their clapboards in desperate need of paint, their shingles rotting, and then there was nothing ahead but the narrow macadam road, its surface pockmarked with concessions to the elements and poor maintenance, winding below the ridgetop to the north through intermittent brush. Gilchrist passed the narrow access road leading to the water tanks above to the south and slowed down, speaking to the others over his shoulder.
“Masks and hats. No jackets.” His voice was the voice of command. “Dig mine out, too. And see that Cracker has his on, too.”
“It’s still on,” Grube said, and added in worried tones; “What are we doing up here?”
“Going to hijack an ambulance,” Gilchrist said cheerfully. He grinned. “A first, maybe. If it catches on it could be rough on the hospital trade.” His grin disappeared as quickly as it had come. He veered the car crossways to the pitted road, jamming on the brakes; the ignition key was turned. The faint sound of a siren could be heard in the distance below, climbing with the road. “And check your guns. But this time, no shooting, and I mean no shooting! Hear me and believe me!”
The siren rose in volume, still far below. Gilchrist set the hand brake and dropped from the car.
“Let’s move out!”
He tugged his mask on, took his hat from Max and jammed it on his head, pulling it over his eyes. The wail of the siren came closer, climbing, cutting through the soughing of the wind, the barking of a far-off dog. A sudden horrible thought struck Grube. He had his mask half-on. He started to remove it to speak his mind, thought better of it, and dragged it on fully before facing Gilchrist.
“What if it’s the cops?”
Gilchrist answered succinctly. “Police have different sirens. Al, cover the plates and then get back of the car. Max, across the road. I’ll do the talking.”
The siren swelled in volume; the ambulance shot around the curve, the intern in the front seat hanging on. Jimmy, at the wheel, saw the black car blocking the road and stood straight up on the brakes, muffling a curse. The ambulance came to a shuddering stop, its bumper nudging the side of the sedan. Jimmy leaned forward, cutting the siren; after the racket, the silence seemed to have a truly physical presence. Jimmy, far from his usual cheerful self, leaned from the window, breaking that silence.
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br /> “What dumb son of a—?”
His mouth suddenly closed. Gilchrist was standing beside his door, the gun in his hand steady, his masked face looking upward impersonally. Across the street Max had his gun raised as well. Grube stood up behind the car, adding armament. None of them looked like amateurs in the use of their weapons.
“Out,” Gilchrist said evenly. “Both of you.”
The driver, dazed by the unexpected turn of events, stared at Gilchrist a moment and then switched off the ignition and climbed from the ambulance. The intern came down the other side and walked around the front of the vehicle to join Jimmy. The intern was a brash redheaded youngster, tall and skinny, with moxie to spare; none other could have ridden with Jimmy. The intern had never liked taking orders from anyone, let alone masked thugs with guns.
“If you’re looking for drugs,” he said with a touch of malice, “I’m happy to tell you you’re wasting your time.”
Intelligence suddenly struck the driver. “They ain’t looking for drugs!” he said. “I bet they’re the gang that hit that bank in Bay View this afternoon, the one they said a guy was shot.” He looked at the intern. “We was supposed to be on the lookout for them.”
“You found us,” Gilchrist said dryly. He raised his gun slightly. “We have a badly wounded man in the back seat of that car, Doctor. We want you to see what you can do for him.”
The intern glowered. Gilchrist looked apologetic behind his mask, but the red-haired youngster couldn’t see that. “Hippocratic oath and all that,” Gilchrist murmured, and took the intern’s silence for acceptance. He raised his voice. “Okay, boys. Get him out and into the ambulance.”
“Hold it!” One might possibly step on the redhead’s prerogatives as a person, but not as a physician. “Don’t touch him. I want to see him where he is.”
“You’re the doctor,” Gilchrist said affably, and stepped aside.
The red-haired intern walked around the car, pulled open the door on the far side, and looked down at the crumpled form locked in the restricted space between the two seats. He reached down, dragging the robe free and tossing it aside. He pitched the suitcase onto the back seat and bent closer to the wounded man, reaching for the mask. He felt the sudden pain of a pistol being jabbed into his spine, heard Gilchrist’s voice in his ear, dry.
“He wasn’t shot in the face.”
The intern glanced over his shoulder a moment and then bent back to his task. The wounded man was lying on his side, his knees bent to allow him to fit into the restricted space. The young intern didn’t waste time; he pulled a pair of scissors from his pocket and slit the jacket up the side seam without attempting for the moment to bring the wounded man to a more accessible position. He folded the jacket material back and applied the needle-nosed scissors to the shirt beneath. The thin cloth tore more than it cut, held back by the brownish hardened blood sticking it to the flesh. The red-haired doctor frowned at the sight of the bullet wound in the side; his hand went instantly to the neck, searching for a pulsebeat. He could find none. He stepped back, straightened the legs so they extended from the car, and rolled the man over. The shirt was unceremoniously ripped open, the stethoscope applied to the chest. The doctor listened intently for several moments before straightening up. His eyes considered Gilchrist’s masked face impersonally.
“If you’re the character who called the hospital to get us up here,” he said quietly, “you could have saved yourself a dime. Your friend here is dead.”
Gilchrist drew his breath in sharply. He had honestly not believed the Cracker was so seriously hurt. There hadn’t been a sound out of him that he could hear from the front seat. Gilchrist bent over the body in the car and leaned down, putting his ear against the tanned chest. He listened a moment and then straightened up. Max and Al Grube drew closer.
“That’s that, then,” Gilchrist said with finality, and added under his breath, “Dumb, goddam idiot. Him and his guns …” There was an odd combination of tenderness and irritation in his voice; he might have been speaking of a lost pet dead through his own ignorance. The others stood silent, watching. Gilchrist dragged the robe down, tucking it about the body, covering the face. He folded the knees, forcing the feet back into the car, closing the door. Cracker had started to stiffen; it took effort on Gilchrist’s part.
Jimmy, the ambulance driver, broke the silence. “So now what happens to us?” he asked, suddenly aware of the sinister possibilities. After all, these men were killers; if they could have saved the wounded man’s life, there might have been a chance for mercy, but as it was—
Gilchrist said wearily, “Nothing happens to you.” He turned to Glass and Grube. “Maybe they don’t have any drugs aboard, which I seriously doubt, but they sure as hell must have lots of adhesive tape. I want them wound up like mummies. Let’s go.”
He held the gun almost without interest as Max and Grube bound the two prisoners with adhesive tape and added a wide band across each mouth to prevent any outcry. The red-haired intern accepted the binding with a glare that made Gilchrist seriously hope he never found himself under the knife of that particular medic in the future, but other than the glare the young intern took it well. Jimmy, however, writhed furiously, his eyes wild. Gilchrist paid equally little attention to them both.
“Toss them in the back of the ambulance,” he said, “and take them—”
He looked around a moment. At this point on Crocker Avenue the ridgeline to the north hid the city. Scattered clumps of eucalyptus stood gaunt against the hazy skyline.
“Run them up there and hide the wagon as much as you can. It won’t be forever, but it’ll give us time to get away from here.” He sighed. “Jungles they don’t have around here.”
“For which, thank God!” Max said fervently.
“Then let the air out of the tires, in case that kid doctor knows something about adhesive tape I don’t,” Gilchrist added. “Cut the valve out completely; that’s the best way. And hurry it up. We’re lucky nobody’s been along so far.”
“Right,” Max said, and hopped into the driver’s seat.
“Hey!” Grube said angrily. “Who was your dog robber last week? Give me a hand with these two!”
“What? Oh, sorry,” Max said, and hopped out again. The intern and Jimmy were dumped into the back of the ambulance, with Jimmy squirming and fighting all the while.
“You keep that up,” Grube said, “you’ll end up with one hell of a sore throat.” He sounded truly concerned.
“That’s why they put doctors on these wagons,” Max said lightly. He was trying desperately to forget that Cracker was dead. He closed the doors and climbed back into the front seat, Grube beside him. “I always wanted to drive one of these,” he said, and took it up the hill.
The closest grove of eucalyptus was scarcely his idea of proper cover, but there wasn’t anything better in sight, and time was getting along. He braked the ambulance and looked around.
“Christ!” he said. “I’d hate to try and hold this hill against a gunship!” He climbed down, followed by Grube, reached back in for the ignition key, and threw it as far as he could in the direction of the ridge. This done, the two men tramped back down the hill to the waiting black car. They both climbed into the front seat beside Gilchrist. Grube slammed the door; Max turned and glanced into the back seat. He straightened up.
“Where’s the suitcase?”
Gilchrist said wearily, “I stashed it in the trunk while you boys were up the hill.”
“Then why not Cracker?”
“Because he’s getting too stiff and I’m not going to force him.”
“Oh,” Max said. He thought of something; worry crept into his voice. “You know, before all we had to worry about was eventually getting rid of the car, though I know damn well it could never be identified. But now we’ve got Cracker’s body to duck, as well. And Al and I have to get back to Arizona in a hurry. Some clown might just stumble on the cabin and find it empty. And remember.”
“Don’t worry about the car. Or Cracker either,” Gilchrist said. He was stripping off his mask. The face behind it was tired, angry at the way things had turned out. He waited while the others put their masks and hats away and then started the car, swinging the wheel, beginning the descent back to Daly City.
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About the Author
Robert L. Fish, the youngest of three children, was born on August 21, 1912, in Cleveland, Ohio. He attended the local schools in Cleveland and went to Case University (now Case Western Reserve), from which he graduated with a degree in mechanical engineering. He married Mamie Kates, also from Cleveland, and together they have two daughters. Fish worked as a civil engineer, traveling and moving throughout the United States. In 1953 he was asked to set up a plastics factory in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. He and his family moved to Brazil, where they remained for nine years. He played golf and bridge in the little spare time he had. One rainy weekend in the late 1950s, when the weather prohibited him from playing golf, he sat down and wrote a short story that he submitted to Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. When the story was accepted, Fish continued to write short stories. In 1962 he returned to the United States; he took one year to write full time and then returned to engineering and writing. His first novel, The Fugitive, won an Edgar Award for Best First Mystery. When his health prevented him from pursuing both careers, Fish retired from engineering and spent his time writing. His published works include more than forty books and countless short stories. Mute Witness was made into a movie starring Steve McQueen.
Fish died February 23, 1981, at his home in Connecticut. Each year at the annual Mystery Writers of America dinner, a memorial award is presented in his name for the best first short story. This is a fitting tribute, as Fish was always eager to assist young writers with their craft.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
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