Collected Fiction (1940-1963)

by William P. McGivern

  The radio in Trask’s black, unmarked car cracked a signal sharply. Trask slipped into the front seat and picked up the receiver. He listened for a few seconds, a frown shading his somber features, and then said, “Check. We’ll get at it.” He dropped the receiver back on its hook and looked sharply at O’Leary. “You called it, Dan. He’s off and running. There’s a dead man up at Howard Johnson’s, and an empty space where his car was parked. Come on.”

  V

  THE body of the dead man had been discovered by a young couple returning to their car after dinner. The woman almost fell over his legs. Her husband flicked his cigarette lighter to see what was wrong. She began to scream then, and her husband ran back toward the bright lights of the restaurant, shouting for help.

  Sergeant Tonelli received the report of the murder from the manager of the Howard Johnson’s and relayed it immediately to Lieutenant Trask. He dispatched Trask and O’Leary to the restaurant and then flashed the information to the communications center at State Police Headquarters in Darmouth.

  This was the nerve center of a communications web which embraced every patrol car, station and substation within the state-police organization. In addition it was linked in a master net with the facilities of sin nearby states; under emergency priorities Darmouth could alert the full resources of police departments from Maine to South Carolina, throw its signals across the entire North Atlantic seaboard.

  Lieutenant Biersby was on duty in Communications when Sergeant Tonelli’s message was brought to his desk. Biersby, short, plump and methodical, walked with no evidence of haste into an outer room where a dozen civilian clerks under the supervision of state troopers worked at batteries of teletypewriters and radio transmitters.

  Lieutenant Biersby’s special talent was judgment; each message Hashed from his office required a priority, and it was his responsibility to establish the order of precedence to be given the thousands of alerts and reports which clattered into the office on every eight-hour shift. A smooth flow, based on relative importance, was essential; lapses in judgment could jam the mechanical facilities and burden already overworked police departments with trivial details and reports.

  As Lieutenant Biersby walked toward a teletypewriter operator, he considered the facts: A killer was loose on the pike, a sketchily identified man who had murdered two persons in New York City and another in the parking lot at Howard Johnson’s No. 1 south. It was a reasonable inference that he had killed the third time to get possession of another car. But there was another possibility which didn’t escape the lieutenant; the killer might have left the turnpike on foot. This would be difficult, since the pike was guarded by a nine-foot fence designed in part to keep hitchhikers from getting onto the highway between interchanges. But a strong and agile man might manage it.

  It was Biersby’s decision—reached as he walked the twenty feet from his desk to the teletypewriter machine—to alert every police officer fifty miles from the spot the Buick had been abandoned; if the killer had left the pike on foot, he’d be within that circle. All hitchhikers, prowlers and suspicious persons would be picked up for investigation. This was a routine and probably fruitless precaution, Biersby thought; because his judgment, which was blended of experience, instinct and vague promptings he had never succeeded in analyzing, told him that the killer was still on the pike. Speeding safely through the night, an anonymous man in an anonymous car, lost in the brilliant streams or traffic.

  He said to the teletypewriter operator, “This is a Special. Get it moving.”

  THE dead man was in his sixties, small, gray-haired, seemingly respectable; his clothes were of good quality, and a Masonic emblem gleamed in the lapel button-hole of his suite coat. He had been strangled; his face was hideous. He lay in an empty parking space that gaped like an empty tooth in the row of night-black cars. Near one outflung hand was an empty coffee container and one of the small cardboard cradles that were used Tor take-out orders of French fries or frankfurters. There was no identification in his clothes; his pockets had been stripped.

  An ambulance had arrived, and the two interns were examining the body in the light from Lieutenant Trask’s flashlight. Three white-and-blue patrol cars blocked off the immediate area, their red beacons swinging against the darkness, and troopers were posted about the parking lot to keep traffic moving. A crowd had gathered in front of the restaurant to watch the police activity.

  Dan O’Leary stood behind Trask, frowning faintly at the empty parking space. When Trask turned away from the body, O’Leary touched his arm. “I’ve got an idea,” he said. “The killer took the car that was parked here, that’s obvious. Well, we might get a line on what kind of a car it was from the people who parked beside it. They arrived after he did probably, since their cars are still here. Maybe they can—”

  “Yes,” Trask said, cutting him off. “Get those people out here. Fast.”

  O’Leary look down the license numbers from the cars on either side of the empty parking space and ran toward the restaurant.

  The car on the left was a Plymouth sedan owned by a thin young man with horn-rimmed glasses and a nervous stammer. The owner of the car on the right was a middle-aged woman, a peaceful, padded sort of person, with the kind of composure that seemed to deepen under tension.

  Lieutenant Trask, realizing that their memories might be short-circuited by haste or pressure, squandered a few seconds in lighting a cigarette. Then he said quietly, “We’re trying to get a description of the car that was stolen from this space about fifteen minutes ago. It was here when you arrived. You parked alongside it. Now take your time; do you remember anything about it? Any detail?”

  “I wa—was in a hurry,” the young man said shrilly. “I’m supposed to be in Cantonville by eight-thirty. I just ra—ran for a cup of coffee. I wa—wasn’t thinking about anything else.”

  “Well, it was big,” the woman said, nodding with impeccable assurance. “Its tail stuck out of the line. I had to make two tries before I could get in beside it.”

  Their recollections came slowly, haltingly. The young man recovered a remnant of poise and mentioned details of the bumper; the woman remembered something about the lights and fenders. They agreed it was a station wagon, and finally, after what seemed interminable indecision, settled on the color—either white or light yellow. Trask glanced at O’Leary. “Well?”

  “If they’re right, it’s an Edsel station wagon,” O’Leary said. “Can’t be anything else.”

  “How far is the next interchange?”

  “Twenty-eight miles,” O’Leary said sharply. “And he’s only been gone twenty minutes. He can’t possibly make it. And he’ll be easy to spot in a white Edsel station wagon A Ford, Chevy or Plymouth would be another matter.”

  “Flash your dispatcher,” Trask said, but O’Leary was already running to his car.

  VI

  AT headquarters Captain Royce, senior officer of the turnpike command, stood behind Sergeant Tonelli checking the reports coming in from interchanges and patrols. The tempo of the office had picked up a sharp, insistent beat in the last half hour; every available off-duty trooper had been ordered back to the pike, and riot squads had been dispatched to substations Central and South. Royce was in his fifties, tall and sparely built, and with a look of seasoned toughness about his sharply chiseled features. As a rule there was little suggestion of tension or impatience in his manner, but now, as he filled a pipe and struck a match, a tight, anxious frown was shadowing his hard gray eyes.

  Trooper O’Leary’s report had come in a half hour ago. Within minutes the turnpike had been transformed into a hundred-mile trap; every patrol had been alerted, every interchange had been instructed to watch for the white Edsel station wagon. But so far there was no trace of the killer. Patrols had stopped three Edsels, but in each case the passengers were above suspicion—a carload of college girls, a Texan with a wife and four children, and four Carmelite nuns being transported at a stately speed by an elderly Negro chauffeur.
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br />   Royce looked at the big clock on the wall above the dispatcher’s desk. It was eight-ten. The Presidential convoy would swing onto the pike at nine-forty. In just ninety minutes . . .

  SERGEANT TONELLI looked up lit him and said, “Trooper O’Leary asks permission to speak to you, sir,”

  “Where is he?”

  “At Interchange Twelve.”

  This was twenty-eight miles from Howard Johnson’s No. 1. The killer might be miles beyond that now; he’d beer gone from the Howard Johnson’s more than forty-five minutes. “I’ll take it in my office,” Royce said, and went with long strides to his desk. As he lifted the receiver he saw that it had begun to rain; the turnpike flashed below his windows, and he could see the slick gleam of water on the concrete and the distorted glare from long columns of headlights.

  “This is Captain Royce. What is it, O’Leary?”

  “Just this, sir. He’s had time to make Exits Twelve or Eleven by now—if he’s thinking about getting off the pike.”

  “What do you mean, if? What else could he be thinking about?”

  “He made a mistake taking a white Edsel. Maybe he’s realized it. Also he took it from the middle of a row of cars which gave us a lead on it. Maybe he’s realized that too. My guess is he won’t try to get off the pike in that car. I think he’ll try to ditch the Edsel before making a break.”

  “Hold on a minute.” Royce glanced quickly at the turnpike map which covered one wall of his office. The interchanges were marked and numbered in red, the Howard Johnson’s restaurants in green. Captain Royce saw instantly what O’Leary meant—before Exit 12 there was another Howard Johnson’s restaurant and service area. This was designated Howard Johnson’s No. 2; it was only twelve miles from No. 1. The killer might have driven only from No. 1 to No. 2; with the fifteen-minute head start he could have made it comfortably—and found another car.

  “O’Leary, get back to Number Two on the double. Tonelli will dispatch help.”

  VII

  HARRY BOGAN had done as O’Leary had guessed—driven the white Edsel station wagon only as far as Howard Johnson’s No. 2, then abandoned it in the parking lot. Now he stood in the shadows, watching the activity at the gas pumps, a slocky, powerful figure, with the light glinting on his thick glasses and the rainy wind brushing the wiry ends of his gray crew cut. He was smiling faintly, foil lips softly curved, large mild eyes bright with excitement. The police would be sniffing around the exits now, he knew, the long blue-and-white patrol cars lined up like hungry cats at a mousehole. Waiting to pounce.

  Bogan knew he had made a mistake in taking the white Edsel station wagon, but he hadn’t time to be choosy. The important thing was to get away from the area where he had left the Buick. But now he could be more discriminating. He had special requirements, and he was prepared to wail until they were satisfied. Time wasn’t important, and in that lay his safety. The police would think he was frantic, ready to bolt at the first whiff of danger. But that wasn’t the case. The feeling of power and control sent a heady flash of warmth through his body.

  He heard the thin cry of a siren on his right, the sound rising and Tailing like the howl of an animal. On the turnpike he saw the red beacon light of a police car sweeping with brilliant speed through the orderly lanes of traffic. And he heard other sirens approaching on his left. The first patrol car made a u-turn over the grass strip that divided the turnpike and swerved into the restaurant service area. An attendant coming from the gas-station office stopped within a few feet of Bogan to watch the patrol car flash past the pumps and pull to an expert stop at the parking area in front of the bright restaurant.

  Bogan was amused. He said, “Seems to be in a hurry, doesn’t he?”

  The attendant glanced toward Bogan’s voice, but saw only the suggestion of a bulky body in the shadow. “Looks like it,” he said.

  Bogan recognized the trooper; it was the one who had been simpering at the dark-haired waitress from whom he had bought his coffee and hot dog. Watching him stride along the row of parked cars gave Bogan a curious flick of pleasure. The attendant said, “Well, he’s safer driving at a hundred than most guys are at fifty. That’s Dan O’Leary, and he can really handle that heap.”

  The attendant returned to the gas pumps, and Bogan continued his patient examination of the cars lining up for service. He soon found what he wanted, an inconspicuous Ford sedan driven by a young man with horn-rimmed glasses. A college boy, Bogan guessed, noting a bow tie and crew-cut blond hair. This would do nicely. The car was like one of thousands rolling along the pike, and the boy looked intelligent. That was important. There was a lot to explain, and it would be tiresome explaining things to a fool.

  By then two more patrol cars had arrived. The troopers had joined the one called O’Leary. Bogan saw. And O’Leary was standing beside the white Edsel, inspecting it with his flashlight. Bogan laughed softly. They thought they were so clever; strutting pompous fools with their uniforms and guns. They’d learn nothing from the big white station wagon. He had parked it off by itself; no one had seen him leave it. They could rip it to pieces, and it would tell them nothing. They had no way to identify him, no way to know what kind of car he would presently ride off in.

  The young man was paying for his gas now, and Bogan moved slowly from the shadows. This would require nice timing, he realized. The attendant gave the young man his change and walked back to the next car in line. The young man rolled up his window and started the motor,

  Bogan opened the door just as the car began to move. He slid onto the front seat and showed the young man his gun. “Now let’s go,” he said quietly. “We’ve got a nice little ride ahead of us.”

  PART TWO

  Somewhere on the highway a maniac was loose with a beautiful hostage.

  Harry Bogan murdered a young couple in New York and drove to the Tri-State Turnpike. He abandoned his car to avoid identification by the police and started looking for an inconspicuous car to drive.

  At the service station near Howard Johnson’s No. 2 he found what he wanted: a Ford sedan driven by a young man with horn-rimmed glasses. The boy looked intelligent. That’s important, Bogan thought. There was a lot to explain, and it would be tiresome explaining things to a fool.

  After the young man paid for his gas, the attendant walked back to the next car in line. Bogan opened the door just as the car began to move. He slid onto the front seat and showed the young man his gun.

  VIII

  “I DIDN’T really mean to kill them,” Bogan said a few moments later as they were rolling smoothly along the pike. The young man’s name was Alan Perkins, and Bogan had instructed him to drive in the slow, right-hand lane at about forty-five miles an hour. It was dark and windy outside, with rain spattering through the headlights, but the interior of the car was snug and warm. Bogan felt grateful and at peace with himself as he studied the reflection of his teeth and glasses in the windshield. The young man, Perkins, would be pleasant company. He had a clean, immature face, and was dressed neatly in tweed jacket worn over a sweater. Very polite and obedient, Bogan thought, with his bow tie and glasses, and thin white hands grasping the steering wheel. He drove with care, hunched forward slightly, and never letting his eyes flick toward the gun gleaming in the dashboard light.

  In a careful voice the young man said, “If you didn’t mean to kill them, perhaps the best thing would be to tell the police about it.”

  Bogan smiled, admiring the sudden emerging brightness of his big, white teeth. “No, that wouldn’t be the best thing. There’s no need to tell the police anything.”

  Bogan touched his forehead with his fingertips. This wasn’t what he wanted to talk about; it was the other thing, the red heat of the summer, and watching them night after night from the humid darkness of his room. Yes, that had to be made crystal clear. “They hadn’t been married long,” he said, and was pleased at the low, judicial tone of his voice. “Naturally, they were selfish—it’s something young people can’t help, I know. But it�
�s evil of them to shut out everyone else,” He paused, aware that his breath was coming quickly. It was really so simple, so obvious, but when he tried to trap his thoughts with words, they skittered away like mice.

  The young couple operated a small furniture shop on Third Avenue near Forty-eighth Street. That was accurate, Bogan knew; he had watched them from his room across the street. She was slim and blonde; he was a tall redhead. They laughed a lot, but were serious about their business. They sold unpainted sections of tables and chairs and desks which could be fitted together with glue or a few nails. Frequently they worked at night, and the young man would bring in sandwiches and beer, and they would eat and drink, sitting on the counter, the girl in shorts, bare legs golden in the soft evening tight and the young man grinning up at her.

  Bogan felt his breath catch sharply in his throat: the memory of the couple he had killed reminded him of the trooper and the slim, dark-haired girl at the Howard Johnson restaurant. He was rigid with pain. They were the same sort, selfish and greedy, driving everyone else away from the radiance of their love. They drew a magic circle about themselves that no one could pass through.

  “Do you have a girl?” he said suddenly, and stared at Perkins’s clean, young profile.

  “No,” Perkins said. He groped for something to ease the tension he could feel in the man beside him, “Girls can be a big waste of time. There’s lime for all that later, I guess.”

  Bogan nodded approvingly. If they would all just wait a while instead of rushing together to lock themselves in the charmed circle That was the maddening thing about the couple in the furniture shop. Twice he had stopped to make a trifling purchase, and they had made him feel like an intruder, something gross and ugly profaning their happy isolation. They were polite enough on the surface, quick with a smile and a comment on the weather, but they gave him no warmth or affection. That was too precious to squander on anyone but themselves. He couldn’t remember when he had decided to kill them; the thought must have been there always.