Three to Conquer (9 page)

             
Outside, in plain view, stood the car.
Its numbers seemed to swell and grow enormous, even as he looked at them. Three big men in denims lumbered past its rear end, without giving it so much as a second look, got into an adjacent machine and pulled away. His luck might hold out like that for some time, but it just couldn't last forever.

             
He could leave the car whe
r
e it was and help himself to another. When you're wanted for murder, theft can't make it worse. But the number of a stolen car would be broadcast in short time, leaving him no better off than before. Moreover, right now, the law did not know where he was heading. A car-swap would give away the direction of his escape and get every hick deputy on the lookout for him ahead. Also, it would reveal that he had crossed state lines to evade arrest—a federal offense that might bring in the F.B.I.

             
The
F.B.I,
needed bringing in; of that he was more than positive. He was in the most peculiar position of wanting to get to the F.B.I, before they could get to him.

             
The means by which the law had tagged him as the culprit could be guessed quite easily.
Ledsom's knowledge that he was visiting the girl; her brother's description of the caller at the door, and the sallow man's evidence about the lounger at the bus stop.
Above all, the missiles in the body which were like bullets from no other gun.

             
Stewing it over, Harper could not help wondering whether
Ledsom now felt certain that he knew who had killed Alderson.

             
What he liked least about this sudden howl for a man named Harper was not that it boosted the official hunt for him, but that it might start an unofficial search. The forces of law and order should not be the only ones to take deep interest in the fact that he had killed Miss Jocelyn Whittingham. Certain others, undoubtedly, would be after him
—
those three fellows in the Thunderbug, for instance.

             
Swallowing the rest of his coffee, he got out of the place as quickly as he could, prudently,
then
drove at top speed into a dark, moonless night. He had more than five hundred miles yet to go.

             
At four-forty in the morning, with the pale halo of dawn beginning to show in the east, someone either read his plates or chased him on general principles.

             
Harper could not hear a siren, nor pick up following thoughts. He was too far ahead and too preoccupied with driving. He shoved the pedal down to the floorboards and let the machine leap ahead. If the pursuers were police, as their spotlight suggested, that alone would be enough to convince them that they were onto something worth running down.

             
With his needle trembling at over ninety, he tore through a crossroads, along a main artery darkened still more by large trees on both sides. The trees whizzed past like huge ghosts, arms out, transfixed by this night-time pursuit.

             
There was no traffic other than
his own
car and the one behind. Far ahead, and slightly to his right, he could see the sky-glow from street lights of a sizable city; he wondered whether he could make it that distance and, if so, what he'd do when he got there.

             
He rocked around another bend and momentarily lost the lights in the mirror, which by now were less than a mile to the rear. H
i
s own beams swung briefly across the end of a track through thick timber. He swung into it so suddenly and recklessly that, for a second or two, he feared an overturn.

             
Switching off all lights, he ploughed another fifty yards into complete blackness, meanwhile praying that he would not hit an invisible tree or dive into a hidden ditch. Twigs crackled and snapped under rolling wheels but luck remained with him. He braked, dropped a window, watched and listened.

             
The siren could be heard now—a prowl car, sure enough; by this time, it was on top of the bend. Headlights slewed across the night as it came round, and the next moment it thundered past, wailing as it went. Its passing was far too swift to enable Harper to see how many were inside, or to pick up a random thought.

             
He sat in darkness until he could see faint, diminished beams racing up a slope four miles away. Then he reversed, got back onto the road, and made off in the way he had come. Reaching the crossroads over which he had recently blundered, he turned to the right and continued along this new route.

-

             
Without further incident, he reached Washington late in the morning, planted the car in a
park
on the outskirts and took a bus into the city. There he found a phone and called his office.

             
Either the office visiscreen was out of order, or had been switched off; his own' screen remained blank, and Moira's response was equally blank.

             
"Harper plant.
Can I help you?"

             
"Only God can help me," he said. "This is your boss."

             
She let out a distinct gasp.

             
"What's so soul-shaking about that?" he demanded. "You've spoken to me many times before."

             
"Yes, Mr. Harper. Of course, Mr. Harper." she sought desperately for words. "I didn't expect you just yet."

             
"Tsk!" He grinned wolfishly at the dead screen.
"Why not?
I told you I'd ca
ll
, didn't I?"

             
"Certainly, Mr. Harper, but—"

             
"But
what?"

             
She hadn't the vaguest idea what. She was tongue-tied, and in a tangle.

             
"You've been reading the papers," he observed grimly.
"But no matter.
Has anything turned up?"

             
"Turned.
up
?"

             
"Look, Moira, pay no attention to those fat-butted dicks sitting on my desk. Listen to me: has anything come along in the mail that requires my personal handling?"

             
"N-n-no, Mr. Harper."

             
"Any complications I'm needed to clear up?"

             
"
N-n-no.
"

             
"All right.
Put one of those guys on the phone."

             
She got into a worse tangle. "I don't understand, Mr.
Harper. There isn't—"

             
"Now, now, no lies!" he ordered.

             
At that point, she gave up; he heard her say weakly to somebody else, "He knows you're here and insists on speaking to you."

             
He heard a deep grunt that somehow conveyed disgust. Harper's screen suddenly cleared and showed a beefy face scowling at him.

             
Before the other could speak, Harper said, "When I can't see a thing in my own office I know that somebody doesn't want me to look. I also know Moira's been told to keep me on as long as she can, while this call is being traced. Well, you're wasting time for which suffering taxpayers are paying;
better pack up and get busy on the local sinners. Tell Riley I
love him, despite all his faults."

             
The face scowled more deeply. "Now, see here, Harper—
"

             
"
Listen to me, for once," continued Harper impatiently.
"I'm calling from Washington, and I'm making for F.B.I.
headquarters to give myself up."

             
Incredulity expressed itself on the distant features. "You
mean that?"

             
"Check with the F.B.I, in about fifteen minutes' time; they'll tell you they've got me. And don't celebrate by pawing Moira around. She draws her pay from me, not from you!"

             
He pronged the phone, walked out and joined the crowds on the sidewalk. He had covered two blocks when a tall, dark-haired, neatly dressed young man threw him a brief but penetrating glance in passing; the man did a swift double-take, continued a few yards beyond, then turned and followed.

             
Harper strolled steadily on, smiling to himself as he filched data out of the shadower's mind. Robert Slade, thirty-two, F.B.I
.
agent, was obsessed by the notion that Harper bore a very close resemblance to Wade Harper. The encounter was purely accidental, but the boy intended to stick to the opportunity until he was sure enough to make a pinch.

             
Turning down a side street, Harper covered three more blocks and became a mite uncertain of his whereabouts. He was not very familiar with Washington. He stopped on a
comer, lit a cigarette, gazed furtively over cupped hands and found Slade studiously examining a shop window.

             
Ambling back, he touched Slade's elbow and said, "Pardon me; I'm looking for F.B.I, headquarters. Can you direct me?"

             
It shook Slade more than if Harper had stuck a gun in his belly.

             
"Why
...
er
...
yes, of course." His mind was saying,
"Hell of a coincidence!"

             
"You're Robert Slade, aren't you?" inquired Harper, pleasantly conversational.

             
The other rocked back. "I am. You have the advantage of me, though; I don't recall knowing you."

             
"Would it do you any good to make an arrest?"

             
"What d'you mean?"

             
"I'm seeking your H.Q. You can show me the way. If you would like to call it a pinch, it's all right with me. I'm Wade Harper."

             
Slade took in a deep breath. "You're not kidding?"

             
"Why should I? Don't I look like Harper?"

             
"You sure do—maybe you're fed up being mistaken for him. If so, there's little we can do about it."

             
"That can soon be settled. You have my prints on file." He felt under an arm. "Here's my gun. Don't let the comparison boys in the ballistics department lose it—I hope to get it back someday."

             
"Thanks." Openly baffled, Slade shoved it into a pocket and pointed down the street.
"This way."

             
They moved along, side by side. Slade made no suggestion of using his handcuffs, nor was he particularly wary. Harper's attitude had put him into a state of skepticism; he was inclined to think that this capture would gain him no credit, because the captive was too self-possessed to be other than innocent.

             
Reaching the big building, they went inside. Slade showed Harper into a small room, said, "Wait there a minute," and departed. The exit and the open street were within easy reach. There was no obstacle to an escape other than that provided by a hard-looking character on duty at the door.