“Hmm,” the doctor said. Unscrewing the cap, he sniffed at the bottle’s contents, then recapped it. “I really can’t tell, and I’m not about to taste it to find out. We’ll take it along to the hospital and have it analyzed.”
He dropped the bottle into his pocket, then added, “There are a number of poisons that cause the same symptoms as coronary thrombosis. If it were a suicide attempt, I couldn’t possibly guess which one until we can get the contents of this bottle analyzed. But if he’s been in custody, where would he have gotten hold of any poison?”
Sergeant Copeland said, “Until recently he hasn’t been in custody for weeks. He escaped from Sing Sing six weeks ago, and was arrested on the West Coast only about a week back. He may have decided to carry a suicide potion around just in case he was caught. And he would know what to get. He’s been an aide in the prison medical dispensary for the past five years.”
“What was he in prison for?” the doctor asked.
“About three dozen bank robberies. Don’t you remember Willie the Parrot Doyle?”
After considering, the doctor said, “Vaguely. A number of years back, wasn’t it?”
“About a dozen. He’s been in stir for ten. He was head of the Doyle Gang, which once consisted of eight or nine gunmen. All but two, aside from Willie himself, are now either in prison or dead. Willie’s younger brother Jim and Smooth Eddie Greene, who is a cousin of Willie’s, are both at large. As a matter of fact, Greene has never even been arrested, so we don’t have mug shots of him. Jim Doyle has a record, though, and I’ve seen his mugs. Looks like a younger version of Willie.”
I had been standing there silent all this time, but now I put in, “How did Doyle get his nickname of Willie the Parrot?”
“He used to talk a lot when pulling bank jobs,” the sergeant explained. “Kept up a steady flow of banter with the bank employees and customers as he directed them to lie on the floor on their stomachs, or herded them into vaults. Apologized to the ladies for inconveniencing them, told the ugly ones they were beautiful, cracked a lot of jokes. Just kept up a steady stream of chatter.”
“How about Smooth Eddie Greene?” I asked.
“He’s called that because he’s actually more con man than bank robber. He used to case banks by representing himself as an industrialist who was planning to open a branch factory in town. He would ask to see the manager in order to discuss whether the bank would be capable of handling a million-dollar-a-month payroll. Bank managers have been known to explain their alarm systems in detail in order to convince him his company funds would be safe in their banks.”
The stewardess came along with a blanket, which she handed to the doctor. She said, “The pilot radioed your message. An ambulance from City Hospital will be there. He told them no attendants other than the driver will be needed.”
“Good,” Dr. Smith acknowledged.
After tucking the blanket around the patient, he bent to listen to his breathing. When he straightened again, the stewardess asked, “Is he all right?”
“He’s far from all right,” Dr. Smith told her. “But he’s still alive.”
The stewardess went away again. The doctor turned to the detective. “Will you be wanting to ride along in the ambulance with us, Sergeant?”
“Naturally.”
“In his condition he won’t be running off. And there is a prison ward at City Hospital he couldn’t escape from even if he fully recovered. But it’s up to you.”
“Thanks, I’ll stick with my prisoner,” the detective said in a definite tone.
Dr. Smith shrugged. “If it is a heart attack instead of a poisoning, he probably won’t be able to be moved for at least a month. You won’t wait around all that time, will you?”
“Oh, no. I’ll leave him in the custody of the Buffalo police and come back for him when he’s again able to travel. Why are we still standing here in the aisle? Let’s sit down.”
He slid over against the window in the seat across the aisle from the unconscious man. The doctor took the aisle seat, leaving me the only one standing.
“He’ll probably be assigned as one of my patients, since I’m taking him in,” Dr. Smith said. “If you’ll give me your card, I’ll keep you abreast of his condition.”
The detective took out a wallet, searched through it and said apologetically, “I seem to be out of cards. Do you have a piece of paper?”
Searching his pockets, the doctor came up with his flight-reservation envelope and handed it to the detective. Sergeant Copeland laid it on his knee, took out a pen and began to write on it. I turned away and returned to my seat.
Diane whispered to me in an embarrassed voice, “I thought I would die when you volunteered my services. I am not a registered nurse.”
I gave her a surprised look. “You said you were.”
“No, you said I was, and I just didn’t correct you. I hated to spoil your remarkable record of deductive reasoning.”
“Oh,” I said, somewhat deflated. After a moment of silence, I said, “Well, he doesn’t need your services anyway.” Then something suddenly struck me and I sat bolt upright.
“What’s the matter?” Diane asked.
“I just watched Sergeant Copeland use a pen,” I said in a low voice. “And guess what? He writes left-handed.”
She looked at me blankly. “So?”
“So why did he have his left wrist shackled to the prisoner?”
After considering this, she said, “That is odd.”
Still in a low voice I said, “Actually we have only Sergeant Copeland’s word that he is the police officer and the other man is the prisoner.”
Diane looked startled. “What are you getting at?”
I said, “The prisoner seems pretty suntanned for a convict who has been cooped up ten years. And the sergeant is remarkably pale. You might almost say he has a prison pallor.”
In a slightly unsteady voice Diane said, “The prisoner escaped weeks ago. He could have acquired a tan. And it’s not unusual for people who work in New York City to be pale.”
“In an outside job like a cop’s?”
After a period of silence she said, “If what you’re suggesting is right, how did he ever work it?”
I pursed my lips and stared out the window at the clouds below until I had my thoughts organized. Finally I said, “Let’s assume both men are left-handed. The real Sergeant Copeland would shackle the prisoner to his right wrist because his gun was strapped to his left side. My guess is that the liquid in that bottle labeled as a sweetener is some kind of poison and that Willie somehow managed to slip it into the sergeant’s coffee. Willie simply waited until the sergeant was unconscious, then switched wallets with him, removed the man’s holster from his belt and put it on his own, then dropped the bottle of poison into the sergeant’s pocket. He unlocked the cuff from his own wrist, but left the other ring still attached, pulled the man out into the aisle and called the stewardess.”
Diane said nothing for some time, merely thinking all of this over. Eventually she said, “Why would he deliberately call the doctor’s attention to the poison?”
“Because he intends to brazen it out just as though he were Sergeant Copeland. No one in Buffalo knows what the sergeant looks like. When the patient arrives at the hospital and it is discovered he did not suffer a heart attack, but was poisoned, no suspicion will be cast on the so-called sergeant because he has already supplied an explanation. He can arrange for the Buffalo police to watch the prisoner for him until he either recovers or dies, then walk off and be halfway to Australia before anyone discovers the patient is really Sergeant Copeland.”
“Unless the patient happens to regain consciousness en route to the hospital. Or even right after they pump him out.”
“Yes, there is that possibility,” I said thoughtfully. “Our pale friend may be insisting on riding along in the amb
ulance in order to make sure the patient doesn’t regain consciousness. I wonder if we could get ourselves invited to ride in that ambulance too.”
“Whatever for?” Diane asked in a startled tone.
“To make sure the so-called Sergeant Copeland doesn’t have a chance to shut up the patient permanently.”
“Wouldn’t it be simpler just to phone the police from the airport, tell them your suspicions and have them meet the ambulance at the hospital?”
“The patient could be dead by then,” I pointed out. “I really don’t think it will be dangerous to ride along. The man isn’t going to do anything to give himself away so long as he believes no one suspects him. And by the looks of the patient, he’s not going to wake up en route, if ever. I just think our presence would be likely to deter any lethal designs the fake sergeant has. Are you willing to go along?”
“I suppose,” she said reluctantly. “But how on earth will we get aboard the ambulance?”
“Leave that to me,” I said with confidence. “They think you’re a nurse, remember? And I never told them what I am.”
Rising, I went back to the rear. The doctor was again leaning over the unconscious man, listening to his heartbeat with his stethoscope. He put it away and resumed his seat as I approached.
“No change,” he said to his pale seatmate.
Halting, I said, “Doctor, I’m a medical student from U.C.L.A. and my companion is a registered nurse. We would be glad to ride along with you in the ambulance.”
The pale man said, “Make it a little crowded, wouldn’t it?”
“Not really,” the doctor said. “No one but the driver will be with the ambulance. There will be plenty of room.”
I don’t think the so-called Sergeant Copeland liked the idea, but he couldn’t very well overrule the doctor. He gave a resigned shrug.
The ambulance was waiting when we landed at Buffalo Airport. Over the intercom the stewardess asked all passengers to keep their seats until the patient could be unloaded. Someone brought a litter, and Dr. Smith, the pale pseudo-sergeant and I lifted the unconscious man onto it. I volunteered to take one end of the litter, the pale man whom I was convinced was Willie the Parrot Doyle took the other, the doctor went ahead and Diane trailed behind us.
A couple of uniformed airport police were standing beside the ambulance. The ambulance driver was sitting in the cab with his back to us, and didn’t even bother to get out. The rear door was already open. We loaded the litter, then the pale man introduced himself to the airport cops as Sergeant Copeland of the NYPD, introduced Dr. Smith and explained the situation. When the airport cops asked who Diane and I were, the doctor explained that we were his assistants and would be riding with him in the ambulance also.
One of the cops said, “Then I guess you’ve got a full house. One of us was going to offer to ride in with you.”
“It won’t be necessary,” Dr. Smith assured him.
We all climbed in, and the doctor pulled the door closed behind us. We all sat on an empty litter next to the patient’s, facing him, the pale man nearest the driver, then me, then Diane, and with Dr. Smith nearest the back door.
There was no partition between the cab and the rear of the ambulance, so that conversation could be carried on with the driver. Dr. Smith said, “All right, driver, we’re all in.”
The ambulance moved on, its red light blinking and its siren beginning to whine. Shortly after we pulled through the airport gate the siren cut off, though, and the reflection of the flashing red light suddenly stopped appearing alongside the road.
Diane said sharply, “Why are you turning north, driver?”
The driver made no answer. From the corners of my eyes I was conscious that Dr. Smith was unzipping his medical bag. My attention was primarily fixed on the pale man next to me, however, alert for any false move he might make.
He made one. He was staring past me at the doctor when suddenly his right hand disappeared beneath his coat, then reappeared gripping a snub-nosed .38 Detective Special.
My reaction was a hangover from hand-to-hand combat training in the army. My left hand snaked out to clamp around the cylinder, preventing the gun from firing because the cylinder could not rotate. The edge of my right palm sliced down on the man’s wrist. He emitted a yowl of pain and the gun came away in my hand.
“Thanks,” the doctor said sardonically. “I think he was beating me to the draw.”
I turned to look at him, and my jaw dropped. He was covering all of us with a .45 automatic he had taken from his bag. I gazed from it to the snub-nosed revolver I was uselessly gripping by the cylinder with my left hand. Then I looked back at the doctor.
“I don’t understand,” I said. Sergeant Copeland was flexing his right fingers and rubbing his wrist. “I do,” he growled. “I just tumbled when he started to pull that cannon from his medical bag. Dr. Smith is really Smooth Eddie Greene, and this fake heart attack was rigged as an escape plan.”
“Right,” the patient said, sitting up and removing the gun from my grip. “It was sparteine sulphate in that bottle, Sergeant. It has the temporary effect on the heart of making it beat slower, causing a slow, weak pulse. Probably wouldn’t fool a doctor, but it makes a convincing enough heart attack to fool a layman.” He looked at the fake doctor. “Why the devil did you bring along these two kids?”
“I thought some cops might be waiting to ride along, and there were. With them in tow, I had the excuse that there was no more room in the ambulance.”
Sergeant Copeland said to me, “Do you mind explaining why you disarmed me, young man?”
I said sheepishly, “I thought you were Willie the Parrot and had switched places with the real sergeant. I’m sorry.”
“What gave you that harebrained idea?” he asked curiously.
“Well, I saw you write left-handed, and you had been cuffed to the prisoner by your left wrist. Also you are so much paler than Willie. I thought it might be prison pallor.”
“I’m ambidextrous and I shoot with my right hand,” he informed me. “My pale complexion is because I’m on the homicide night trick.”
“Oh.” I said in a subdued voice.
Willie the Parrot said to the driver, “All okay back here, Jim. Have any trouble?”
“No,” the driver said. “The siren told me when the ambulance was getting close. I pulled out of the side-road and blocked the way with the panel truck just before he got there. When he stopped, I stuck a gun in his face. He’s tied up in the back of that hot panel truck. We should be switched to the sedan and be a couple of hundred miles into Canada before anybody finds him on that side-road.”
“Your kid brother Jim?” Sergeant Copeland asked Willie, jerking his head toward the driver.
“Uh-huh. We Doyles stick together.”
“What are your plans for us, Willie?”
“Well now, Sergeant, what would you do in our position?”
I felt a chill crawl along my spine. I gave Diane an apologetic look. She smiled back at me bravely, but her eyes were brimming with tears.
Willie the Parrot glanced at Smooth Eddie, saw his gun was effectively covering us, and dropped the revolver into his coat pocket. The fake doctor’s automatic rested on his knee, aimed past Diane in the general direction of me and the detective.
Diane made a sniffling noise. In a woeful voice she asked Smooth Eddie Greene, “May I get my handkerchief from my purse, please?”
“Sure, go ahead,” he said generously.
Unsnapping her purse, she dipped her hand into it and brought out a snub-nosed revolver similar to Sergeant Copeland’s. It was cocked and aimed at Smooth Eddie’s head before he could even start to react. He froze.
In a flat, matter-of-fact voice too low to be heard by the driver, she said, “If you reach for your gun, Willie, I will have to put a bullet through Eddie’s head, then shoot you. Eddi
e, set the safety, then very carefully hand your gun to me.”
Eddie did as directed, very carefully. Diane relayed his automatic to Sergeant Copeland, leaned over to lift the revolver from Willie the Parrot’s pocket and handed that to him also. The sergeant placed his own gun against the back of the driver’s head. “Pull over, Jim,” he ordered. “Then pass your gun back, butt first.”
Jim did as directed.
Neither Sergeant Copeland nor I made any attempt to solve the mystery of how Diane happened to be carrying a gun until all three bank robbers were thoroughly under control. The sergeant cuffed Willie the Parrot’s hands behind him, tied Smooth Eddie’s behind him with his necktie, and used Willie’s necktie on Jim, because the younger brother wasn’t wearing any. When they were all loaded into the back of the ambulance and we three were standing behind it, the detective finally looked at Diane.
“I didn’t know nurses carried guns, Miss Wharton,” he said. “Particularly on planes, where it happens to be a federal offense.”
“I’m not a nurse,” she said. “I’m a policewoman. And, as you know, the airlines encourage police officers to carry their guns on flights as an added precaution against hijackers.”
“A policewoman?” I said. “You’re a cop?”
“Yes,” she said in an oddly defensive tone. “Do you mind?”
“I think it’s wonderful,” I said. “It’s always an advantage for a confidential investigator to have a friend on the force, and I can’t think of a nicer friend to have.”
“You may not feel that way when you learn what I did to you,” she said ruefully.
“What’s that?”
“I’ll tell you later. We’d better get our prisoners down to police headquarters now.”
“Yeah,” Sergeant Copeland said. “This is all very interesting, but let’s get moving. Can you drive this thing, Shelton?”
“Of course,” I said.
“Then take the wheel and I’ll ride guard in back. You can sit up front with him, if you want, Miss Wharton.”
She took the offer. We rode in silence for some minutes before I finally said, “What was it you did to me?”
The Richard Deming Mystery Megapack Page 3