The manager had the tape machine open. He pressed buttons; spindles spun, a footage meter connected with a timer clicked along madly. The manager checked the timer, snipped, reeled, snipped again, and handed a spool of the wide tape to Reardon.
“Do you people have the proper equipment to replay this tape?” The manager sounded very dubious.
“If we don’t, we’ll try to get it,” Reardon said dryly.
Milligan sighed. “I just hope they do some good.”
“As do we all.” Reardon dropped the spool of tape into his pocket and edged his way past the others out of the office. He paused at the front door to explain to the officer there why everyone was so busy with penmanship and went out into the bright sunlight. He walked to the curb, reminding himself he would have to cancel his dinner date with Jan; in fact, it would probably be a long time before he would be able to have a leisurely meal, with or without Jan. He would also have to explain to Jan that the reason for the cancellation was that a cop had been killed, and then face a repetition of all her fears for him. He sighed and refused to think about it further. Time enough to think about it when he was actually listening to that reproachful voice.
And, of course, he would have to call Porky Oliver as soon as possible. On the way back to the Hall of Justice, he decided. Porky was one person he never called through the switchboard.
Dondero and the uniformed policeman were standing by the patrol car watching the remnants of the spectators, a few curious kids. The radio inside the car was scratching out its usual static-filled messages. Reardon wondered, as always, why we could put men on the moon—or develop instant-replay TV cameras for branch banks—but still were not able to make a patrol-car radio sound like anything except a worn 1916 label of an old Caruso recording. The brains in the sound lab kept talking about sunspots, but Reardon refused to believe them.
Dondero saw the inquiring look on the lieutenant’s face as he approached; he shook his head. “Nothing.”
Reardon shrugged and turned to the policeman. “Your partner’ll be out in a few minutes. He’ll have some papers I want. After you drop them off at the Hall, you can go back on patrol.”
“Yes, sir.”
Dondero gave the policeman a small wave and followed Reardon across the street. He climbed into the lieutenant’s Charger on the passenger side. He waited until Reardon had slid behind the wheel and closed the door.
“Anything inside, Jim?”
“TV camera with instant replay,” Reardon said. “I just saw a rerun of the whole thing.” Dondero stared. “About as useful as pockets on a shroud,” Reardon added, and swung the car into traffic.
CHAPTER 3
Thursday—3:35 P.M.
“Cracker looks bad,” Grube said. He was in the back of the car, his hat and mask out of sight behind the seat, his jacket serving as a pillow for Cracker Mullin, stretched unconscious on the car floor under a car robe. The suitcase from the bank was also under the robe, wedged between Mullin’s leg and the seat; Gilchrist had not permitted any stops to transfer it to the trunk. Grube straightened up from his cursory examination of the wounded man. He sounded worried. “I don’t like the way he’s breathing.”
The driver, Max Glass, and the fourth man, Will Gilchrist, were seated in the front of the car, hats and jackets also off, shirt collars open. To a casual observer the three men visible in the car might have been out for a leisurely drive, possibly headed for one of the golf courses in the area for an afternoon threesome.
“He’ll make it,” Glass said confidently. “He’s come out of worse.”
“Worse than what?” Grube asked, irked by the easy assurance in the other’s voice. “Cracker never even got scratched in the Nam! How soon do we get to your place, Gil?”
“If Cracker’s bad, then it’s too far,” Gilchrist said flatly. He turned his head, looking toward the back seat. “And don’t keep ducking down to look at him like that. Lean back and relax. There’re other cars on the road you know.”
“But, damn it, we’ve got to do something! Don’t you know any doctors around here? This is supposed to be your stamping ground!”
“I know at least six doctors near here,” Gilchrist said evenly, and looked back at Grube curiously. “What would you suggest? That we bust in ahead of the line-up in the waiting room? And then slaughter them all in making a getaway? Plus the doctor and the nurse and any witnesses we run into in the hall? Or would you rather we drive up to the nearest hospital and hand ourselves over to the cops who are undoubtedly waiting in every emergency room within fifty miles?” He turned back to watch the road. “It’s Cracker’s own damned fault. I said no shooting. If he hadn’t wasted time taking that potshot at that cop, we’d have been home free.”
“If that cop hadn’t shot all of us,” Glass pointed out.
Gilchrist said, “That cop wouldn’t have hit the side of a barn if you know how to drive. His first shot was in the air. We should have been long gone before he got off the others.”
“In the meantime,” Grube said desperately, “Cracker’s dying, I tell you. So what do we do? Let him die?”
“No,” Gilchrist said slowly, “but we use our heads, whatever we do. And we don’t panic. If we can’t take him to a doctor or a hospital, we’ll just bring a doctor and a hospital to us.”
Glass frowned over his shoulder. “And just how do we do that?”
Gilchrist paid no attention to the question. He stared out at the passing scenery, if the solid concrete walls of the underpass they were traversing could properly be called scenery. Under his direction they had taken the freeway from the Bay View section north toward the center of San Francisco, and then turned abruptly back onto Interstate 280, the Alemany. At the moment they had just passed the Ocean and Geneva Avenue off-ramps and were approaching the Daly City exit. Gilchrist ran through his plan once again in his mind and came to his decision, turning to the driver.
“Max, get off here and find us a phone booth.”
The car dutifully and immediately swung up the Mission Street ramp. Glass slowed at the top, looking at Gilchrist questioningly.
“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.
“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.
Bank Job Page 3