Collected Fiction (1940-1963)

by William P. McGivern

  “And what about the girl?”

  Royce turned from the map and stared at the windows; outside the weather had worsened, and the rain rolled in waves down the wide panes. He could see the flash of the turnpike traffic moving sluggishly through the storm.

  “We’ll try to keep him so busy he won’t have time to worry about her,” he said slowly. “It’s all we can do. And it isn’t much. Right now he’s dangerous. He lost the convoy, and if he’s not a complete madman he’ll know he can’t catch it. His plans have gone wrong, and he’ll be expecting trouble.” He rubbed his forehead. “If we could just calm him down a bit, make him feel confident. Then we could . . .” Royce paused, still staring at the windows. A grim smile touched his hard, seasoned features. “He’s looking for a convoy, isn’t he, sergeant? Supposing we arrange one for him?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Listen, then get hustling. Flash Interchange Two, and Sergeant Brannon at Substation South. We’re going to put a convoy on the pike ahead of the killer. Our convoy. With escort patrols at the front and rear. We’ll let him into it. Then we’ll spring the trap.”

  XVIII

  THE eight black sedans were commandeered from the municipal administrations of townships at the southern end of the pike. They were assembled in convoy column fifteen minutes after Royce’s order was transmitted to Sergeant Brannon, and at one minute after ten o’clock they rolled smoothly through Interchange 2 and merged with the southbound traffic on the pike. The convoy moved into the right-hand lane, with the escorting patrols clearing a path with their sirens. Al the head of the column was Trooper Frank Sulkowski, a seasoned veteran who kept the convoy speed down to fifty miles an hour. At the rear was Dan O’Leary. He was watching his rear-vision mirror for any glimpse of the killer’s Ford. The eight sedans herded between them were manned by troopers and detectives in civilian clothes, and the drivers were purposely allowing an inviting interval between each car. The convoy was a moving trap, with seven holes baited to tempt the killer.

  O’Leary lifted his receiver and spoke to Sulkowski. “I think we’re too fast, Frank. Let’s drop it a bit.”

  “Check.”

  Their exchange was monitored by the dispatcher at headquarters, who relayed it to Captain Royce. “Convoy’s in lane three, milepost eighteen. Reducing speed below fifty.”

  Royce nodded and checked the position of the killer’s car on the map. Standing beside him was Major Townsend, the state-police commandant’s chief of staff. He had arrived a few minutes before, a wiry man in his late fifties, for a personal report from Royce on the situation.

  “Milepost eighteen,” Townsend said. “And where’s the Ford?”

  “A quarter of a mile behind. We’ve got it under surveillance. He’s coming up steadily.”

  “And if he bites? What then?”

  “The convoy will close up its intervals and swing over onto the middle lane. Unmarked cars in lanes one and three will come up on each side of him. He’ll be in a four-car box.”

  “And supposing he doesn’t bite? Is there anything about the look of our convoy that might make him suspicious?”

  “I don’t think so, major. Not unless he’s a mind reader. There’s nothing about our convoy to distinguish it from the President’s. Particularly on a dark, rainy night like this one. Its rate of speed is consistent, and it’s moving along right where the killer will expect it to be—in the right-hand lane, same number and type of cars as the President’s, with patrols at the front and rear, beacon lights flashing.”

  “All right,” the major said. “Assume he sticks his head into the noose. Where do you intend to take him into custody?” Royce moved closer to the map and pointed to Exit 1, the last interchange on the pike. “Right here, sir.”

  XIX

  O’LEARY didn’t identify the Ford until pulled up alongside him in the middle lane; until that instant it had been nothing but a blur of approaching brightness in his rear-vision mirror. Now he saw the driver’s bulky silhouette and, as the sedan crept past him, the license number. He picked up his receiver and spoke to Sulkowski. “He’s just passing me. Frank.”

  Other voices cracked from O’Leary’s radio phone—the dispatcher at headquarters, and then the troopers in the unmarked cars tailing the Ford.

  O’Leary watched the killer’s car pull slowly abreast of the convoy, red tail-lights winking in the rainy darkness. Then the car picked up speed suddenly and swerved right, taillights disappearing abruptly. The killer had slipped in between the third and fourth sedans in the convoy.

  O’Leary said sharply, “He’s in, Frank!”

  “Check!” Sulkowski said. “Close up the intervals now and hang on.”

  The drivers of the third and fourth sedans in the convoy skillfully shortened the intervals between themselves and the Ford, and then the column of cars curved gracefully as Sulkowski swung into the middle lane. Unmarked patrols came-up swiftly in lanes one and three to position themselves alongside the killer’s car. The carefully timed mission was complete; the killer was boxed in on all sides, caught in a moving trap that rushed him along toward the last exit on the pike.

  Captain Royce’s plans to capture the killer were based on the fundamentals of simplicity and surprise; the police convoy would be escorted to the tollgate at the extreme right side of the interchange and kept well dear of normal turnpike traffic. The highway beyond the exit stretched a half mile to the Washington Bay Bridge, and this area was blocked off; all other traffic was being diverted to secondary roads.

  At headquarters Royce explained the final details to Major Townsend. “We’ll stop the convoy right here,” he said, turning to the map and pointing to the right-hand toll booth at Exit 1. “About fifty yards this side of the toll booth we’ve placed a traffic standard or red blinker lights. When the convoy stops, a trooper will salute the first car and point to these lights, indicating that he wants the driver to stay on the right of them. Then he’ll salute again and wave the car on past the toll station. He’ll repeat this performance at the next two cars. The killer’s car comes next. The killer will be watching, naturally, but all he’ll see is a respectful trooper waving the President’s convoy into its proper lane, expediting its departure from the pike.” Royce prodded the surface of the map with his finger. “Meanwhile, troopers will be coming up behind the killer with their guns drawn. Dan O’Leary, who’s the tail escort on the convoy, will leave his car and move up on the right. Troopers and detectives from the convoy cars will join him, covering the killer on both sides. They’ll take him from behind, and they’ll kill him if he makes a fight of it.” Royce glanced at Major Townsend. “See any bugs in it?”

  “No, it looks all right. I don’t like exposing the trooper in front of the killer. And I don’t like the fact that the girl’s probably in the car. But if things were as simple as I’d like them to be, we could go fishing and let a pack of Girl Scouts make the arrest.”

  “I know,” Royce said, and rubbed his forehead; the strain of the last three hours was evident in the lines about his mouth and eyes. “We’ll need a break.”

  The dispatcher left his station and strode into Royce’s office. “Captain, a trucker discovered the body of a young man at Howard Johnson’s Number One, In a ditch near the truckers’ parking lot, He’s not conscious, but they seem to think he’s in fair shape. His papers show he’s the owner of the Ford the killer’s driving.”

  “Ambulance on the way?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And the boy’s got a chance?”

  “Seems like it, sir. He’s lost some blood and has a nasty lump on his head, but he’s breathing pretty well.”

  “That’s one bit of good news,” Royce said. “Maybe we’ll get another break now.” He turned and frowned at the map. “We’ll know in a few minutes.”

  XX

  IN the speeding convoy Bogan was laughing softly with relief and excitement. He felt snug and confident in the smoothly rolling column of official cars; in front and
back of him, reassuringly close, were the privileged black sedans of the President’s convoy, and on either side of him, coincidentally and luckily, were cars that happened to be traveling at exactly his rate of speed. No one could get at him now; he was safe from everyone in this speeding steel cage, rushing to freedom behind an invincible shield of power and authority.

  He felt cunning and triumphant once more, all of his emotions raised to a thrilling pitch of excitement. He called to the girl, “We’ll be leaving the turnpike soon. Courtesy of the police.” He laughed softly, savoring the warm confidence running through him. “We’re very important people, did you realize that? We’re riding right along with the President. The police will salute and bow as we go by. It’s a pity you can’t sit up here with me and enjoy it.”

  Sheila had managed to unbuckle the belt about her ankles, but Bogan’s words destroyed her hopes; if they didn’t stop at the toll booth, what had she accomplished by freeing her legs?

  “You’re making a mistake taking me with you.” she said desperately. “The police will be searching for me. If you let me go, I promise I won’t—” She stopped, knowing the hopelessness of her appeal and despising the sound of animal fear and entreaty in her voice.

  “You won’t tell on me, is that what you were going to say? I’m sure you wouldn’t,” he said with heavy sarcasm. “But the police won’t find us. Don’t worry about that. Not before we have our little talk. We’ll go somewhere nice and quiet. And I’ll get some coffee and sweet rolls. I know just the kind you’ll like. They’re covered all over with sugar, and inside there’s a thick filling of jelly. I’ll untie you and you’ll be comfortable.” Bogan frowned and touched his forehead; there was a strange, confusing pain there. What was it he wanted to explain to her? It had something to do with the big trooper she wanted to marry. Yes. He had to tell her that wasn’t right. And there was the thing about his family, his father and brother, and the young couple in New York, the girl with the slim, bare legs she displayed so cruelly. They hadn’t been nice to him, he remembered, and he thought it would be interesting to talk to them too. But he couldn’t do that. Somehow they got away from him.

  With saving instinct, Bogan knew he shouldn’t be thinking about these things; they would confuse and anger him, and he needed all his cunning and strength to fight the forces ranged against him.

  “You shut up,” he said petulantly, sullenly. “You got me into this trouble. That’s what I’m going to talk to you about later. You wait.”

  “Please,” she said, and for the first lime her voice broke; she knew then he wanted to kill her. “Please don’t—”

  “Shut up!” he cried in a low, harsh voice, and hunched forward, eyes narrowing with tension.

  The convoy was slowing down. Ahead he saw the arched lights of Interchange No. 1 glowing brilliantly in the darkness. The streams of turnpike traffic were fanning out as they entered the broad approach to the last exit. The convoy swung past a line of troopers standing at attention and turned toward the blinker lights and the toll booth at the far right side of the interchange. They were coming to a stop, and Bogan felt his heart pounding with fear; this was all wrong, no one could stop the President’s convoy—unless they were looking for something. The thought was a lightning flash of terror in his mind. He pulled the gun from his pocket and rolled his window down halfway. A spray of cold rain struck his face. Beads of moisture collected on his glasses, and the traffic lights and police beacons splintered against them like threatening lances. In the silence he could hear the girl’s rapid breathing.

  “Don’t you move or make any noise,” he told her quietly. “If you do, you’ll be responsible for the men I’ll have to kill.”

  Bogan wiped his glasses with the tip of his index finger, clearing a small tunnel of visibility through the rain and lights and shadows. When he saw a trooper approaching the first car in the convoy, Bogan raised his gun and rested it on the edge of the rolled-down window. But the trooper stopped a good six feet from the first car, came to attention and saluted smartly. He pointed toward the standard of blinker lights, obviously directing the driver to the right of them, then saluted again as the car moved ahead slowly. The performance was repeated with the second car, and Bogan realized that this was simple routine, a respectful policeman directing the convoy into its appointed, privileged lane. He withdrew his gun from the window and let out his breath slowly. Everything was all right; the feeling of relief was so intense that he almost laughed aloud. Now the car immediately ahead of him was moving out, and the trooper was walking toward him with long, swinging strides, a tall black figure in the slashing rain.

  Bogan heard the girl stirring behind him and heard the metallic click as the lock of the rear door was released; then a thin edge of cold air touched the back of his neck. He twisted about desperately, fear leaping through him in sudden, shocking waves. The girl was free, he saw; the belt was gone from her ankles, her hands were clawing at the partially open door. He felt nothing then but a despairing ache of betrayal; she was worse than all the rest, tricking him in silence, cunningly plotting to frustrate all his plans.

  And then, through the rear window, Bogan saw the figure of a uniformed man running at a crouch toward his car. He cursed furiously and released the clutch; and at the same instant he turned and fired at the trooper approaching his car from the front. The thrust of the car under full power caused the rear door to close with a crash, and Bogan heard the girl scream in pain. Her fingers, he thought, as he swung the car to run down the trooper who had hurled himself to the roadway at Bogan’s shot. Slim white fingers, soft as velvet in a caress. Bogan twisted the wheel savagely, swerving clear of the trooper and rushing at the toll booth. Escape was important, not the fool lying there in the rain. Take care of him later, lake care of them all later.

  O’Leary was six feet from the rear of the Ford when Bogan fired at the trooper. He leaped forward, closing the distance in one stride, but the car was already lunging away from him, swerving off sharply to the left; but then it swung back crazily to the right, heading for the toll booth, and O’Leary hurled himself at the rear door, catching the handle in both hands. The speed of the car jerked him off his feet, swinging his body in a bruising arc along the turnpike, but he kept his grip for a precious second, and managed to release the catch and open the door.

  The Ford bucked spasmodically as Bogan shifted gears, and in that momentary halt O’Leary flung the upper part of his body into the back seat of the car. He wrapped his arms around Sheila’s knees and let his weight go limp; and when the car surged forward again, his legs dragged along the ground, and then he was free, slamming painfully against the wet concrete with Sheila’s light weight held desperately in his arms.

  O’Leary came to his knees and held her tightly against him for an instant, isolating her from the roar of cars, the flash of gunfire. She was crying hysterically, saying his name over and over, but there was no recognition in her eyes or face. The terror would not leave her for a long time, but she was clinging to someone who would be with her until it did.

  O’Leary left her with detectives who had poured from the convoy sedans and ran back to his own patrol car. The Ford had crashed past the loll booth and was racing down the half-mile stretch of highway that led to the bay bridge. But there was no escape now; three blue-and-white patrol cars were speeding after it, maneuvering for position with merciless precision. There were no other cars on the road; Bogan roared down a deserted tunnel, with patrol cars closing in behind him.

  O’Leary shot past the toll booth after the pursuing police cars, holding his microphone to his lips. “He’s all alone,” he said. “The girl’s out of the car, she’s safe.” His report sounded in the patrols ahead of him and at headquarters in Riverhead.

  Captain Royce said, “Don’t get careless now; don’t take any chances. He’s not going anywhere.” And he issued an order to the bridge police to open their span.

  The bridge barriers slid automatically into place, and the pow
erful cables at the four corners of the bridge began to turn on their drums, lifting the span slowly into the air. “Take him when he stops,” Royce said.

  XXI

  BOGAN saw water sparkling ahead of him, spreading away like a broad, calm meadow at dusk, with a soft wind stirring the leaves of grass so that they flashed with the last glancing rays of evening light. It was very lovely; quiet and peaceful. But he couldn’t stop crying. The tears streamed from his mild eyes and ran coldly down his cheeks. He needed someone to comfort him; someone he wasn’t afraid of.

  The patrol cars were racing up behind him, he saw; stalking him like great, dangerous animals.

  Brilliant red lights flashed in his eyes, and he saw a barrier, and beyond that a heavy chain swinging across the highway. And beyond that nothing but the wide, peaceful meadow that looked like water in the curious confusion of nighttime lights and shadows. He heard the crash of his car against the barrier and then the wrenching, snapping sound of the chain giving, and then he was free at last, soaring toward the dark, mild meadow, as effortlessly as a bird, or a child’s paper airplane.

  DAN O’LEARY swung his car about and snapped off his siren and beacon lights.

  He sat for half a moment with his arms crossed on the steering wheel, his forehead resting on the backs of his hands. It was all over; the Ford had plunged into Washington Bay, and after the noise of the crash and a plume of white spray, there was nothing left but the spreading ripples on the surface of the black, silent water.

  O’Leary said a prayer that Sheila was safe. Then he started back to Interchange 1, where she was waiting for him.

  He drove at less than the legal maximum speed, steadily and precisely, his big hands firm on the wheel, his eyes alert on the road ahead of him. There was no need to hurry this last half mile to Interchange 1, he thought gratefully; the important part of him was already there.