David said into the phone. “You might tell Dr. Pater to look up the operation performed on a man named Francis. Francis Ferdinand. Give him an idea what we may be up against in surgery.”
“Francis,” Maggie repeated flatly obediently, as if she were writing this down. “Ferdinand.”
By David’s side the gun twitched. “It’s a moot question whether we can save it,” he said. “But we can try.”
“Yes, Doctor.” Maggie’s voice was crisp.
“Right.” The doctor put the phone down safely. He wanted to grin. How many times had he and Maggie, when one friendly argument or another had come to an impasse, said to each other, “Well, it’s a moot question.” And how many times had he or Maggie said to the other, “Let’s look it up in the moot.” So for the big unabridged dictionary on the high table in Chief Fowler’s den they had their private name. The dictionary was the “moot.” Maggie would catch on. The thin man was watching him.
The impulse to grin was wiped away from David’s mind. He had taken an enormous risk, trying to be so clever. What was he doing, playing word games? He had a mask handy and he pulled it on—the trained control of a doctor’s face.
“I’ll get the patient into my car,” he said.
The man said, “I’ll be going along with you, Doc. Maybe I can
help, eh?”
“As you wish,” said David. He walked past the thin man, past the gun, seemingly preoccupied, going toward his patient. He swung into the back bedroom. The thing to do now was to stall until the police came.
On the bed the patient lay with bright eyes. David marched to him. On the back of his neck rode the anticipation of the gunman’s breath. But he sensed no such thing. He glanced behind. The gunman had not followed him. This was odd. Yet it was something to be grateful for, and to be used.
David slipped the stethoscope around his neck. It was what the layman always sees a doctor do in the movies. He did not put the earpieces into his ears. He bent and said softly, “Buck up, Mike. We’ll get you to the hospital pretty soon now.”
“John’s back.” The patient was lucid.
“Right. I’ll get you out of this somehow.”
“Never make it.”
David fussed with the stethoscope.
“Not if John goes,” Mike March said. “I could hear. He wants your fast car that can get past the cops. He wants it to get away in.”
“Maybe.” David glanced behind. “But I’ll stall. The police are on their way. The Chief’s been notified.”
“Chief Fowler?” Mike March’s green eyes with the brown flecks in them showed a flicker of bitter amusement. “Chief Fowler won’t get out of his house alive,” Mike said.
“What do you mean?”
“There’s a booby trap wired to his back door and another one to his front door. He won’t get out alive through any door.”
“Fowler!” David’s heart took a swing. He heard Mike’s mutter going on.
“That’s John Barca in there. Been in prison for armed robbery. What happened—while he was in prison his kid brother’s gang robbed a tailor shop. The kid got shot, running away. Fowler did the shooting. The kid died. So Barca is after Fowler.”
David stared into the green eyes.
“The kid’s gang beat up the tailor so he’s paralyzed for life. But John isn’t worrying about that. He wants to revenge his brother. I guess he’s crazy.”
“You knew this!”
“I took a job,” Mike said, “before I knew this. John’s got money. Pay was fine. By the time I found out, I was a prisoner. Didn’t have the guts to—to take a crack at getting out.”
The bright green eyes made no excuses. The bright green eyes accepted guilt and folly. Knew what the score was. “Connie shouldn’t have called you,” Mike said. “Too bad. You’re in it now—up to your neck.”
“I’ve got to let them know,” David said.
It was perfectly possible to think of two things at once. Part of his brain had continued to listen to Mike’s low mutter. Another part considered what was happening in town.
Chief Fowler had been roused. Maggie had said so. What would he do? He’d dress. He’d start to leave. If he had already gone out his back door toward his car—.
David looked at his wrist watch. Then he felt something hit him in a mental buffet that was staggering.
There was worse—if worse was possible.
It was 5:22 in the morning.
Maggie—good clever fine dear Maggie Fowler—got off the switchboard at 5:30. After work she always went directly home. Home was only a few blocks from the hospital. Maggie walked there.
Suppose she walked home this morning? She would be on her way in a matter of minutes. Or suppose her father had already met one bomb and disaster? Maggie would be called home now. Maggie might be running home, at this moment going in the front door.
The Chief couldn’t get out alive. Maggie couldn’t get in!
Maggie! Mangled and bleeding! No, he cried in his head.
“Got to get word,” he said.
“How?” asked the sick man. In his eyes, brightly, ruin and tragedy and defeat were accepted.
But David thought furiously. Get to the phone, of course. Quickest. But how? Against a man with a gun who even now was in the very act
of murder? Get to the phone and tell the police in his hearing? Not
likely.
Overpower him? How?
Stall until the cops came, if indeed they were coming? No, not now. No good. No time to stall.
Go out on the highway with a sick man and a woman so frantic as to have been stricken stupid, and a gunman who wanted the doctor’s car? Would David get to another telephone? Not likely. To town in time? No, never make it. Would he get to town at all?
If he could only make an excuse to call the hospital once more, save Maggie anyhow. Yes, try. Must.
The patient said in a whiny voice, “You think I got to lose my hand, Doc?”
David glanced behind him. The gunman was standing there. The gun was not in sight.
“We’ll do our best to save it,” said the doctor soothingly. He straightened up. “I’m going to bring him out,” he said as casually as he could. “You came in a car, did you? Will you get it out of the way of mine, please?” Orders. Firm and polite. But doctor’s orders.
“Guess I better do that,” the gunman said meekly. He actually turned. He went around a part of the bedroom wall and into the long hall. David actually heard the front door.
Chance! Telephone!
He brushed past Connie who was standing in the way with a blanket on her arm, helpless, passive, dazed and dependent. The lights were off in the sitting room and he did not turn them on. He snatched up the phone. It came up with a strange lightness. David looked down and saw how the phone had been cut from its moorings.
Ah, yes, this was why the gunman had not followed David into the bedroom. The gunman had had something he wanted to do in here.
He had done it. The phone was useless.
No way to send any warning from here.
Chief Fowler had his shoes laced and had started through the house toward the back door when his phone rang again. He turned in his tracks, put on the living-room light once more, and went to answer.
“Dad? Dave called again.”
“What happened?”
“I don’t know,” said Maggie. “Somebody was listening. I could tell that by the way he spoke. I think he’s managed to fool somebody. I told him you were on the job and he had a message.”
“Go ahead.”
“He said to tell you to look up Francis Ferdinand.”
“Who?”
“A man named Francis. Ferdinand. That’s what he said. Dad, it’s got to mean something.”
“What does it mean?” the Chief asked grumpily.
“Dave was there with some criminal. Dad, he wouldn’t have said a single word that didn’t mean something.”
“Well, I don’t get it. I got to move, Maggie
, if I’m going to make it out there in time.”
“Wait. Dad, you better look it up in the dictionary.”
“Dictionary?”
“Dave wants you to. I know that. David wants you to look it up in the dictionary.”
“Look what up, for the love of Pete?”
“He meant something,” she insisted. “I’m telling you what he said and everything he said must mean something. Dad, is anybody getting out there?”
“On their way, right now.”
“Will they—?”
“If Dave’s okay so far,” the Chief said, “you don’t need to worry too much, honey. You come along home.”
Maggie said, “Yes.” The Chief could almost hear her swallow her fear. She’s a good kid, he thought proudly. “But the message,” she said. “Francis. Ferdinand. Look it up, Dad. Please.”
“Some message,” the Chief grumbled. “Okay, Maggie.” He hung up.
He started to put off the living-room lamp. Sounded ridiculous, that message. Was Dave trying to tip him to the identity of this criminal? Was there a case in the police files—somebody named Francis? Or Ferdinand? “Look it up in the dictionary.” Now that was ridiculous.
In the corner of his den on its stand was the huge book. Chief Fowler chewed on his mouth. Then he walked into the den, put the light on in that corner. Take only a minute. Francis. Ferdinand. Names.
Names wouldn’t be in the dictionary. Frowning, he turned away. Better get on out there, where the trouble was. Best thing for him to do. He started back through his house toward the kitchen door, to his car in the garage. He stopped. Wait a minute. Yes, there were names in the dictionary. A whole long list of them in the back. A Pronouncing Biographical . . .
He turned and went swiftly back. His thick forefinger turned pages.
Francis of Assisi . . . Francis I . . . Francis II . . . Francis Ferdinand. Archduke of Austria. Nephew of Francis Jos. I. Heir presumptive . . . Assassinated.
Was this the message? Why? What did it mean? To assassinate meant to kill somebody, like maybe an Archduke or some big shot. The Chief of Police stood still pushing his lips in and out.
Pretty soon he moved to the phone and called Nelson at headquarters. “Listen, I got reason to believe this bomber is trying to assassinate somebody. A big shot Better take a run out and cover the mayor. And how about Judge Fox? Who else, do you think?”
The Chief listened patiently while Nelson thought out loud about prominent men in town. He glanced at his watch. Wouldn’t catch up with the squad car any more. So they’d manage without him. He would simply go on down to headquarters in a minute. Take over there.
5:27.
Connie went numbly out of the farmhouse, carrying the blanket. After her came David, supporting most of the weight of a staggering man. It was getting light. The stubble in the fields made lines across the land. There was some traffic on the highway.
The gunman had moved his car, something dull and anonymous-looking, back against the side of the house. In the growing dawn Dave could see him leaning inside the doctor’s car, studying the dashboard.
“What are you doing?” David said.
“Just seeing if you got gas.”
Without the key turned in the ignition the gas gauge wasn’t registering. David surmised that the man was actually figuring out how to drive this car, when eventually he took it over. David said, “Open the rear door.”
The gunman did so. Waited. The gun, no doubt, was waiting in his pocket.
“Get around the other side and help me put him on the seat.”
The gunman obeyed the doctor’s orders. For now. But for how long?
David’s brain, scrambling, touching and leaving a hundred wild ideas, had settled on one.
5:29.
Maggie’s relief came sauntering along.
“Bad night?” she asked cheerfully.
Maggie said, “Kinda.” She got up and unhooked herself from duty.
“Go on home and get some sleep,” said Joan Dixon, yawning.
Maggie said, “Do something for me, Joan? Call this number?” It was the number of the old Benton place. “If anybody answers, just say you are calling to confirm Dr. Blair’s call.”
Joan looked up at her curiously but did as she was asked.
“The line is out of order,” sang the operator. Maggie sighed.
“You look terrible,” said Joan, disconnecting. “You won’t catch me taking night duty. Nights are for sleeping. Why don’t you join the human race?”
Maggie smiled feebly.
“Go on home, I said.” Joan went to work.
Maggie looked at the clock. Her eyes were large in her face. She had done all she could. There was no connection any more. She put her jacket over her arms and walked away.
David heaved and struggled to get the sick man into the car and on his back on the rear seat. Mike March was in pain and did not seem to care, one way or another, about place or time or anything. David, vividly aware of place and time, took the blanket from Connie and tucked it around her husband. “Now,” he said to her, “I want you to help me.”
She looked, in the faint light, as if all her brains were limp in her head. She went where she was told to go, did what she was told to do, and had no hope of anything.
“Can you sit on the floor?” asked David.
Connie got into the rear and sat on the floor.
“Put your back against the seat, that’s it. Now—” He took her flaccid left hand and put it against Mike’s hip. He put the lifeless right hand against Mike’s shoulder. He said, “I want you to hold hard. I’m going to make time and I don’t want him jounced off that seat. Brace yourself and hold hard. Can you do that?”
“Yes,” she said listlessly. He was very sorry for her in a submerged part of himself. Connie was a pawn. Some people were pawns and some were not. He was not and he must help her. He did not judge her. He did not give her any hope, either. It was better if she stayed in that lethargy.
“Now,” he said to the gunman, “you don’t have to go.”
“Oh, I want to go,” the man said quickly. “Friends of mine. Listen, I’m going.”
The man was transparent. Concern for a friend was so obviously the last, the least likely, thought that would enter his mind.
“Get in front with me then,” said David. He was still giving the orders. But not for much longer.
David’s mind had gone well ahead and made its prognosis. He knew that the gunman would bring out the gun before they got to the end of the narrow side road. By the time they got to the end, the gunman would be giving the orders. The gun would be rammed into David. David would obey or die.
If he obeyed, the big fast car would be sent turning to the right, not to the left. The left was the way along which the police might be coming, the way to town, to the hospital, among people. Oh, no, the gunman, who wanted to get away free, would make David turn to the right and they would fly off into deep country and if the sick man died, what did the gunman care? Nor would David, under the gun’s threat, have any chance to stop for any telephoning. The bombs would go off. Nobody would have been warned.
Yet, if David defied the gun, it would simply go off. Then who would save the sick man’s hand or life? Or try—if it were not already too late—to save the Chief? Or Maggie?
David had to stay alive, stay intelligent.
He had to think ahead and he had done that—thought ahead.
He had chosen a plan.
Now he had a few more minutes—a part of the length of this side road.
“Hold on,” he said to his passengers, “because I’m not going to spare the horses.”
“Nice car,” the gunman said. His meekness was false. He exuded menace. He was biding his time, and his time was soon. He watched David touch buttons.
David reversed the car. Then the big beauty moved off, smooth as silk. David got her up to speed as if she had been a rocket. He was tearing down the narrow way. At this speed he could make no turn
into the highway traffic. But the gunman hadn’t thought of that yet.
Now? David wondered. He stepped her up, went even faster. NOW!
He pulled his elbows in across the wheel and made his two hands into a cup of flesh to receive his own skull.
Then he stepped hard on his power brakes.
The jolt was phenomenal. John Barca, the gunman, unwarned, unbraced, flew forward into the windshield. The windshield did not break but John’s head possibly had. The gunman was out. The danger of him was suddenly gone.
David took in a breath. “You all right, Connie?” He turned to see. He had placed her where she would be hurt the least. The jolt had only rammed her back into the upholstery. His patient, he saw over his shoulder, had slid off the seat on top of her. But she had broken the fall for him, just as David had planned it.
So far, so good. He didn’t even wait to reach back and unscramble them. Time. Time.
5:35.
Maggie would be on her way surely. Walking home. Going up the path. Feet on the porch.
There was nothing to do but ask his big beauty for speed again. The car responded. He skidded into the highway, turning left ahead of a truck’s indignant hood. What now? What was quickest? Telephone? Where was the first telephone?
Then he saw the police car. It was humming along fast, without
a siren, but he saw the red light on the roof.
He touched the brakes gingerly. He wrestled with the wheel. He swerved crossways into the path of the police car.
The police car screamed to a stop and men with cold angry faces tumbled out.
“I’m Dr. Blair. Here is your bomber.” David wouldn’t even let them speak. There wasn’t the time. “You got communication? Get on it, quick. Two bombs are planted at Chief Fowler’s house. Back door. Front door. Hurry. And stop his daughter. She’ll be just coming home. Right now!”
A man in uniform stared for the smallest fraction of a second, then ran back to his seat and picked up his communicator.
Two others stood beside David’s car, looking a thousand questions.
“Take this man out and hold him,” David said. “He’s had his head bashed, but he is no patient of mine. His name is John Barca. Fowler, in the line of duty, shot his brother. He planted the bombs at Fowler’s doors.”
Night Call and Other Stories of Suspense Page 16