That left only one option: physical force.
Sam marveled at the size of his partner. Having the hulking presence of Chet Martin on your side was a great intimidator to all the crooks they encountered. But actually having to go up against the big man? This was not going to end well.
He started running at Chet. Sam’s sole focus was on Chet’s gun hand. Get the gun out of Chet’s hand so he didn’t start shooting. From somewhere in the back of Sam’s mind, he heard more sirens. The silent alarm must have already been tripped.
The closer Sam got to Chet, the larger his partner became. Sam was no athlete. He was in good shape, but he preferred the pastoral sport of golf to the physically demanding football or baseball. Now he was like a football kicker trying to tackle one of the linemen for the Chicago Bears.
Sam leapt and flew through the air. He timed the jump just right and slammed into Chet’s gun hand. The force sent both men spinning away from each other. Sam landed hard on the marble floor and slid over its polished surface. Chet spun around, lost his balance, and fell to his knees. The gun skittered across the floor and slid under the desk of a frightened bank employee.
“The hell you think you’re doing?” Chet roared.
At that very moment, Sam wondered the same thing. But then he saw the frightened bank customers and knew he had to get them out of harm’s way. He rose and put up his fists. “Everyone outta here!”
No one moved.
“C'mon, people, move it!”
They started exiting the building.
Chet stood to his full height. He cracked his knuckles and made fists. The beefy mitts looked like barbells.
Sam gulped. He had seen those fists in action. Now, the action was coming to him. No time like the present.
With fists still raised, Sam dashed toward Chet. He knew his partner always started with two left jabs and then a swinging right. Sam feinted and Chet’s first jab caught air, throwing the big man off balance. Sam slammed his fists, one after the other, in quick succession into Chet’s bread basket. He was rewarded with the whoosh of air escaping the big man’s lung.
Sam ducked the hard swinging right fist he knew was coming and scooted away a few feet. He stood again, his heart pounding. Adrenaline coursed through his veins like white-water rapids.
Since all of his swings hadn’t connected, Chet grew only angrier. Fire lanced through his eyes and Sam was downright scared. He was an Imperial City police detective, ten years on the job, and he was scared like a green recruit. Why was Chet doing this?
Sam had no idea.
Chet rushed Sam. He closed the distance fast, too fast for Sam to react in any other way other than desperation. Sam dove to the floor, rolled under a table, and scrambled to his feet.
Chet was already there. He gripped the table and shoved. The wooden structure caught Sam in the chest, sending him flailing. His arms pinwheeled but to no avail. Sam landed hard on the floor. Chet pulled the table back toward him then shoved it aside, leaving the area between them uncluttered.
Sam lay on the ground, panting. There was something digging into his side. What was it?
His gun. Still in its holster.
Something crossed his mind. There was one way to end this.
From deep within his mind, a command, a suggestion, spoke. It told him to take his gun and shoot.
Sam looked up at Chet. The big man’s frame filled his vision. There was no way to get out of a beating.
He reached for his gun.
The sound of footsteps, lots of them, filled the lobby. Chet and Sam both looked for the source.
Cops, about six of them, were charging toward to dueling detectives. The sight so astounded Sam and Chet that they remained frozen in place for a moment. The next instant, the wave of cops crashed over Sam and Chet, subduing them, and forcing them to the ground.
Chapter XI
“Y'all were hypnotized,” Lester Gibson, the county coroner, said.
Chat sat in Interrogation Room #1. He held an ice pack to his head and sipped whiskey from a paper coffee cup. Sam was next to him, his arm in a sling. His insides were warmed by whiskey as well.
“How'd you know?” Chet asked.
“The shoe shine guy,” Gibson said. “There was a little prick on his hand that started bleeding. I asked him what happened. Said one of his clients accidentally stuck him with a pen knife.”
“Um, how do you ‘accidentally’ stick someone with a pen knife?” Sam asked.
Gibson shrugged. “Cranston said the customer was supposedly cleaning his nails. Knife slipped.”
“What’s the big deal with a knife prick?” Sam asked.
“I think it’s the means by which Bartholomew Cranston was drugged and then hypnotized. How else can you explain someone hypnotizing the shoe shiner on the corner of a busy street in downtown Imperial City?”
“Sounds fishy to me,” Chet grumbled. He downed the last of the whiskey and poured another finger full in the paper cup from the slim flask on the table.
“Me, too. Especially when we started getting numerous reports of bank robberies.”
“There’s been more?” Sam said. He also poured more liquid encouragement into his cup.
“Yup. About a half dozen. Plus the two of y’all. I happened to be on the ground floor when the calls started coming in. That’s when I saw Cranston and started asking the questions. Most of the cop muscle left to go chase down the robbers. That meant I had a little time to reflect.”
Gibson stood fully erect and pushed his glasses to the top of his head. His eyes squinted with the new light.
“The robberies had to be organized. All of them. A gang could do it, of course. Plenty to choose from in this town. But Cranston and the dead guy both exhibited symptoms of amnesia.” He waved a finger between the two detectives. “Y’all, too? You remember anything about y’all’s fight?”
Chet and Sam looked at each other and shook their heads.
“Naturally. That’s a result of the hypnosis y’all were put under. The hypnotizer has the option of implanting a memory into your brains or to remove the memory of any action. That’s what happened to y’all and Cranston. Mickey Judd, the dead man who thought the cars were ghosts, had a different suggestion implanted.” Gibson paused and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Word on the street is that there’s another corpse, same M. O. as Judd. Y’all got lucky.”
The two detectives sipped their whiskey.
Chet said, “The goons, the ones Judd gave the money to. We identified them?”
“Virgil Pollard’s crew.”
“Pollard?” Sam exploded. “When’d they get all organized enough to pull something like this?”
“They didn’t,” Gibson said. “They had help.”
“Who?”
“I think you already know that answer.”
Chapter XII
The setting sun shone yellow light on the front of the offices of Sylvester and Calliope Jones. The interior was dark. A slight breeze rustled the small trees in the front yard.
“What do you think?” Chet said.
“They know their goose is cooked and scrammed,” Sam replied.
Lester Gibson, who had insisted on accompanying them, said, “Perhaps they reckoned someone would figure out their game.”
Chet said, “C'mon. Let's have a look.”
They walked up to the door and knocked. As expected, they heard no sound. Chet tried the knob. The door opened.
“Think the secretary's in on it?” Sam asked.
“We'll see.” He raised his voice. “I.C.P.D. Anyone here?”
No answer.
Together they moved through the house. First they inspected Calliope's office.
“What's that smell?” Sam asked.
“The same smell as before,” Chet said.
“Perhaps Calliope Jones uses an air-based chemical to get into the minds of her subjects,” Lester suggested. “Including you.”
Chet replied, “Should be harmless without one
of them yammering in our ears.”
On the top of the pristine desk sat an envelope. The words written on it were “Detective Chet Martin.”
Chet picked it up and used his pocketknife to slit open the top. A single piece of paper was inside. He unfolded it and read:
“Detective Martin, If you are reading this, then you are not dead. Can't say I didn't try. Only a fool thinks he can outwit someone like me. I played you so easily.”
Chet's blood boiled. He stifled his embarrassment and showed the note to the others.
“Quite a cheeky one,” Lester commented.
“And a knock-out,” Sam commented. “Next time, I interview the girl.”
“And have you pull a gun on me in a bank?” Chet said. “I don't think so.”
A quick search revealed no clues as to the whereabouts of the sinister doctors. The office was cleaned out. They traversed the rest of the house and found themselves in Sylvester's office. Like with Calliope, there was an envelope on the desk. This one had Sam's name. He smirked and walked behind the desk. Lester followed close behind. Chet kept looking around the room.
Sam wasn't as delicate as Chet. He ripped the envelope and pulled out the sheet. He read it.
His face went slack. The skin around his eyes hardened. He reached in his suit and pulled out his gun.
“Chet, duck!” Lester yelled. He slammed into Sam's side just as the detective pulled the trigger. Both fell together, Lester landing on top of Sam.
The bullet shattered a framed photograph across the room. The trajectory of the flying chunk of lead missed Chet by mere inches.
Sam continued to pull the trigger until he clicked on empty. The bullets slammed harmlessly into the large wooden desk.
“What the hell was that?” Chet said. He stood, looked for his partner.
“The last gasp of those sinister doctors,” Lester declared. His glasses had fallen to the floor. He still lay across Sam's body. He knew full well had the detective had the use of both arms, his desperate gamble would not have paid off.
Sam looked up at Lester and Chet. “Why am I on the floor?” He realized he held his service revolver. The blood left his face. “What happened to me?”
Lester rolled off Sam and retrieved his glasses. Chet came around the desk and helped the grunting Sam to his feet. Chet also made sure to pocket Sam’s gun. They sat Sam down into the plush leather chair behind the desk.
“Effectively,” Lester said, “you were still hypnotized. I suspected that you both left here hypnotized but only Chet’s trigger went off.”
“Trigger?” Sam asked. The full pain of his injured arm weakened his voice.
“Yes, a trigger. Something the doctor implanted in your subconscious to make you do something. For Chet, it must have been immediate since y’all drove straight to the bank after leaving here. You, on the other hand,”—Lester reached over and grabbed the letter on the desk—“you were the backup plan.” He read the note then passed it to Chet.
The letter had a symbol on it: a skull and crossbones, like on a pirate ship in the movies. It was stamped with red ink. No words accompanied the image.
“Are you telling me that Sylvester Jones hypnotized me,” Sam said, “knowing that we’d eventually come back here and that once I saw this picture, I’d start shooting?”
Lester nodded. “Only if Chet didn’t shoot you both while he was under hypnosis at the bank. I think you were the back-up plan.”
“How do we know that’s all there is?” Chet asked.
“We don’t, but likely, y’all’re fine. One trigger per person. It would seem dicey to add any more than that.”
Sam looked at both men. “Fellas, I’m sorry about that.”
“That’s okay, partner.” Chet clapped him on the shoulders, a gesture that meant well, but the jostling sent more pain through Sam’s body. Chet quickly stopped.
“How’d you figure all this out?” Sam asked Lester.
Lester took a handkerchief out of his pocket and cleaned his glasses. “I am a coroner. It’s my job to know how people perish. Most of the time, it’s run-of-the-mill murder. Every now and then, it’s something like this. I started studying cases from other cities around the country. I also started keeping notes and categorizing them. When I heard what happened today, I reviewed my notes. Hypnotism seemed the most likely source.” Lester put his glasses back on. “Oh, and I read a lot of the pulps. Those authors can murder people like you wouldn’t believe.”
The two detectives marveled at Lester, seeing him in a new light.
“There’s another interesting fact you might like to know.”
“What’s that?” Chet asked.
“The other city where incidents like this took place.”
All pain in Sam’s face evaporated as he stood. “Name it.”
Chapter XIII
Chet Martin sat behind the wheel of his 1936 Model 48 Ford and listened to the V-8 engine roar. Affixed to the top of the car, the temporary siren screamed and the red lights flashed. He willed the vehicle to go faster.
Sam Malone sat in the passenger seat talking on the police radio. He coordinated the efforts to stop the train bound for New Orleans.
In the back seat, Lester Gibson had strapped himself in with the seat belt. His wide eyes clearly indicated today was the first time he had been in a car driving this fast.
When Lester had told Chet and Sam that additional unsolved bank robberies with similar circumstances took place in New Orleans, the three of them agreed that it was likely the work of the Joneses. Then again, Sam reminded them, there was also the chance that they'd flee somewhere else.
Chet was having none of it. New Orleans was familiar ground, he reasoned. It would be easier to return there, especially if the sinister doctors didn't think the detectives were wise to their scheme.
Or were dead.
One train, bound for the east, was set to disembark at 7:30 p.m. One plane was set to take off at 7:15 p.m. bound for Beaumont, Baton Rouge, and New Orleans. What they couldn't bank on was automobiles. If the Joneses decided to drive out of town, they would escape easily.
Chet and Sam briefly considered calling in backup. The I.C.P.D. could easily delay either the train or the plane. The two detectives were having none of that. They now had a personal stake in the arrest. They both wanted to be there to cuff the doctors and see their faces as they were hauled off to jail.
The two detectives gambled that they could canvas both locations. They had already watched all passengers board the plane. Once the shining Douglas DC-3 aircraft had closed its doors and taxied to the runway, Chet and Sam had nodded once to each other and climbed back into the Ford and zoomed to the train station.
Travel time from the Imperial City Municipal Airport, just south of downtown, to Grand Central Station, in the heart of the city, normally took twenty minutes.
Chet Martin made it in nine.
A mile from the station, Sam reached over and killed the siren. “We don’t want them to hear us coming, right?”
Chet grinned. “Nope.”
Sam checked his service revolver and verified he had new rounds in the cylinders. He turned and gave Lester and extra pair of handcuffs and a blackjack. “Know how to use that?”
The medical examiner, more accustomed to working with criminals who didn’t fight back, gulped but nodded. “Swing for the head as hard as I can.”
“Yup,” Sam said.
“But any part of the body’ll do,” Chet put in.
The Ford fishtailed along the last road leading up to the station. Harried pedestrians scrambled out of the way, yelling curses at the speeding car.
“It’s drivers like this,” Lester commented, “that make me wish I carried a badge. I’d make so many arrests.”
Chet skidded the car to a halt just outside the main doors. Grand Central Station was a chunk of a structure. The off-white facade rose three stories above the ground in the middle before tapering off to a single story on the two ends. A low awni
ng spanned the entire front. Tall windows in the center let out the bright light from the inside. Red bricks adorned the top of each window, giving the modern structure a rustic, more western look.
Chet, Sam, and Lester boiled out of the car and broke into a dead run. One station employee shouted for them to move their car. Chet flashed his badge and grunted “Police,” never breaking stride.
The three police officers burst into the central foyer and slid to a halt. People milled about: talking to each other, reading newspapers, looking at the boards of departing trains, smoking and drinking coffee. It would be next to impossible to locate the Joneses in the throng.
Sam pointed to the clock up above the entrance. “Look. It's seven ten. We got five minutes.”
Chet looked around and found a uniformed terminal employee. “Which way to the east-bound track?”
The befuddled man pointed to the correct rail.
“C’mon, Sam, let’s go.” Chet whirled to Lester. “Go with this man. See if you can delay the train. Go, man, go!” He and Sam sprinted away.
The terminal worker turned, wide-eyed at Lester. “What’s going on?”
“We’re trying to catch a pair or murderers,” Lester replied. “Now, where’s the main switchboard?”
Chapter XIV
Chet and Sam bobbed and weaved through the lobby, avoiding just about every traveler they encountered. They burst out the rear entrance that led to the tracks and the trains loading passengers.
The two men paused long enough to form a plan. “You go to the front,” Chet said. “I’ll take the rear.”
Sam grabbed Chet’s sleeve. “Don’t forget what Lester said. They may have some other command buried in us.”
“Right.” Chet set his jaw.
Sam nodded.
The two detectives raced in opposite directions.
Chet ran to the end of the platform then turned right. The eastbound train sat on the far track. Onlookers and travelers stopped and watched the two men run among them. Chet welcomed the halt because it enabled him to make a beeline to the rear passenger car of the eastern train.
The Phantom Automobiles: A Gordon Gardner Investigation Page 14