Three to Conquer

1. The Voice Within

He was a squat man with immense breadth of shoulder, hairy hands and bushy eyebrows. Wade Harper maintained constant, unblinking attention on the road as he drove into trouble at sixty miles an hour.

It was April 1, 1980—All Fools' Day, he thought wryly. They had two or three moving roadways in Los Angeles, Chicago and New York; there were also six airtight stations up on the Moon. But except for rear engines and doped-alcohol fuel, motorcars were little different from those of thirty years ago.

For the past ten years there had been talk of mass-produced helicopters at two thousand dollars apiece. Nothing had ever come of it. Maybe it was just as well, considering the likely death-roll when drunks, halfwits and hot-rod enthusiasts took to the skies.

For the same ten years popular science articles-had been forecasting a landing upon Mars within the next five; nothing had come of that, either.

His train of thought snapped when an unknown voice sounded within his peculiar mind, saying, "It hurts! Oh, God, it… hurts!"

The road was wide, straight and thickly wooded on both sides. The only other vehicle in sight was a lumbering tanker, mounting a slight slope, two miles ahead. A glance in the rearview mirror confirmed that there was nothing behind. Despite this, the squat man registered no surprise.

"Hurts!" repeated the voice, weakening rapidly. "Didn't give me a chance!"

The squat man slowed until his speedometer needle fell below twenty. He made a dexterous U-tum and drove back to a rutted dirt road, knowing that the voice had come from that direction.

In the first five hundred yards there were two sharp bends, one to the right, one to the left. Around the second bend a car stood squarely in the middle of the road, effectively blocking to all comers. The squat man braked hard, and swerved over the grass verge to avoid a collision.

He got out, leaving his door open; he stood still and listened with his mind, rather than with his ears.

"Betty…" whispered the eerie voice. "Three fellows and a pain in the guts. Darkness. Can't get up. Ought to tell Forst. Where are you, Forst?"

Turning, the squat man ran heavily along the verge, clambered down a short bank and found the man in the ditch. He did not look long, not more than two seconds. Mounting the bank with furious hate, he dug a flask out of his car-pocket and took it down to him.

Raising the other's head, Harper poured a thin trickle of spirit between pale lips. He did not say anything; he asked no questions, uttered no words of comfort and encouragement. Cradling the head on his forearm, he tried only to maintain the fading spark of life. And while he did it, he listened — not with his ears.

"Tall, blond guy," murmured the other's mind, coming from a vast distance. "Blasted at me… others got out… slung me off the road. Betty, I'm…"

The mental stream cut off. The squat man dropped his flask, lowered the other's head and examined him without touching. Dead beyond doubt. He made note of the number on the badge fixed to the uniform jacket.

Leaving the body in the ditch, he went to the stalled car and sat in the driver's seat. He found a hand-microphone and held it while he fumbled with switches.

"Hello!" he called, working a likely looking lever. "Hello!"

Immediately a voice responded, "State police barracks. Sergeant Forst."

"My name is Wade Harper. Can you hear me?"

"Barracks," repeated the voice, a trifle impatiently. "Forst speaking."

Evidently, Forst couldn't hear. Harper tried again, with a different adjustment. "Hello! Can you hear me?"

"Yes. What goes on there?"

"I'm calling from Car Seventeen. One of your officers is dead in a ditch nearby." He gave the badge number.

There sounded a quick intake of breath, then, "That's Bob Alderson. Where are you now?"

Harper gave detailed directions, and added, "He's been shot twice, once in the belly and once through the neck. It must have happened recently because he was still living when I got to him. He died in my arms."

"Did he tell anything?"

"Yes, a tall, fair-haired fellow did it. There were others with him — no number stated, no descriptions."

"Were they in a car?"

"He didn't say, but you can bet on that."

"Stay where you are, Mr. Harper. We'll be right out."

A sharp click sounded and a new voice broke in with, "Car Nine, Lee and Bates. We picked that up, Sarge, and are on our way. We're two miles off."

Replacing the microphone, Harper returned to the top of the bank and gazed down upon the body. Somebody named Betty was going to know heartbreak this night.

Within a few minutes, heavy tires squealed on the main artery; a car came into the dirt road. Harper raced round the bend and signalled the car down, lest it hit the block. Two state troopers piled out. They had a bitter air…

They went down into the ditch, came up, said, "He's gone all right. Some louse is going to be sorry."

"I hope so," said Harper.

The taller of the two surveyed him curiously and asked, "How did you happen to find him way up here?"

Harper was prepared for that; he had practiced the art of concealment since childhood. At the ripe age of nine, he had learned that knowledge can be resented, and that certain means of acquiring it can be feared.

"I had to pay dog-respects to a tree, and found this car planted in the road. At first, I thought somebody else had the same idea; then I heard him moan in the ditch."

"Five hundred yards is a long way to come just for that," observed the tall one. "Fifty would have been enough, wouldn't it?"

"Maybe."

"How much farther would you have gone if the road hadn't been blocked?"

"Couldn't say." Harper shrugged indifferently. "A fellow just looks for a spot that strikes his fancy and stops there, doesn't he?"

"I wouldn't know," said the trooper.

The second trooper chipped in with, "Lay off, Bert. Ledsom will be here any minute. Let him handle this; it's what he's paid for."

Bert grunted, and the pair started hunting for evidence. In a short time they found fresh tire-tracks across a soft patch twenty yards higher up the road. Soon afterward, they discovered a shell in the grass. They were examining the shell when three more cars arrived.

A man with a bag got down into the ditch, came up after a while and said wearily, 'Two bullets, about.32 caliber. Either could have caused death. No burn marks. Fired from range of a few yards. The slugs aren't in him."

Another, with captain's chevrons, spoke to the two nearest troopers. "Here's the ambulance — lift him out of there." To several others, "You boys look for those slugs. We've got to find them." To Lee and Bates he said, "Put a plank over those tracks; we'll make moulage casts of them. See if you can pick up the other shell. Work up the road for the gun as well; the punk may have thrown it away."

He joined Harper. "I'm Captain Ledsom. It was smart of you to use Alderson's radio to get us."

"Seemed the sensible thing to do."

"People don't always do the sensible thing, especially if they're anxious not to be involved." Ledsom surveyed him with cool authority. "How did you find Alderson?"

"I trundled up here to answer the call of nature — and there he was."

"Came up quite a piece, didn't you?"

"You know how it is. On a narrow track like this, you tend to look for a spot where you can turn the car to go back."

"Yes, I guess so. You wouldn't want to park on a bend, either." He appeared satisfied with the explanation, but Harper could see into Ledsom's mind with complete clarity. He suspected everyone within a fifty-mile radius. "Exactly what did Alderson say before he passed out?"

"He mumbled about Betty, and—"

"His wife," interjected Ledsom, frowning. "I hate having to tell her about this."

"He mentioned a big, blond fellow shooting at him, and that there were others who tossed him into the ditch. He gave no more details, unfortunately; he was on his last lap and his mind was rambling."

"Too bad." Ledsom shifted attention as a trooper came up. "Well?"

"Cap, the tracks show that a car turned up here with Alderson following. The car stopped by the verge. Alderson pulled up behind, but in the middle of the road. He got out, went toward the first car, was shot down. At least two men picked him up and dumped him out of sight." He held out his hand. "Here's the other shell." He pointed. "It was lying right there."

".32 automatic," said Ledsom, studying the small brass cylinders. "Any sign of Alderson's car having been edged off the road and put back again?"

"No."

"Then they must have pushed straight ahead. They couldn't get out this way with that car stuck across the road." He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, and went on, "This track meanders seventeen miles through forest, loops back and joins the main artery about ten miles farther along. So by now they've either got back on the main road or they've holed up somewhere in the woods."

"Seventeen miles would take at least twenty minutes on a route like this one," ventured Harper. "Even if they're driving like crazy, they can't be far off it yet."

"Yes, I know. I'll call the boys to put up roadblocks along the main run. We'll search the loop, too. It's used almost entirely by loggers. If those bums are familiar with it, the chances are they work, or once worked, for the logging outfits. We'll follow that line later."

Entering his car, Ledsom spoke awhile on the radio. He came back and said, "That's fixed. Blocks will be established pretty soon. The local sheriff is on his way here with four deputies." He gazed moodily at surrounding woods. "Just as well they're coming. The fugitives may dump that car and take to their feet — in which case we'll need an army to go through this lot."

"Any way I can help?" asked Harper.

Ledsom looked him over for the third time, carefully, calculatingly, while his mind said to itself, "Some crazy coot might think it incontrovertible proof of innocence to stick his head in the lions mouth. I'd like to know more about this guy. All we've got to go on so far is his story."

"Well?" encouraged Harper.

"Finding the murder weapon could give us a lead," remarked Ledsom, in the manner of one idly musing. "And we can't afford to overlook any possibility no matter how remote." Then his eyes stared straight into Harper's and his voice became sharp, imperative. "Therefore we must search you and your car."

"Naturally," responded Harper with bland indifference.

"Wrong diagnosis," decided Ledsom's mind. "He's clean. We'll frisk him all the same."

They raked the car from end to end, ran hands over Harper and extracted a tiny blued automatic from his right-hand pocket. Ledsom grabbed the gun eagerly, ejected the magazine from the hand-grip, examined it, jerked his eyebrows a bit.

"Holy Smoke! What sort of rod is this supposed to be? Twenty in the mag with slugs the size of match-heads. Where did you get it?"

"Made it myself. Up to fifty yards, it is very effective."

"I can imagine. You got a permit for it?"

"Yes." Harper produced the permit and handed it over.

Ledsom glanced at it, registered more surprise. "Are you a Federal agent?"

"No, Captain. The F.B.I, issued that for reasons of their own. If you want the reasons you'll have to ask them."

"No business of mine," said Ledsom, a little baffled. He handed back the permit and the gun. "That toy isn't the weapon we want, anyway. Did you see or hear anything suspicious before or after finding Alderson?"

"Not a thing."

"No sound of a car beating it, for instance?"

"No sound whatever."

"You didn't hear the shots before you arrived?"

"No."

"Umph!" Ledsom was dissatisfied. "So they had at least two or three minutes' headstart. You're a material witness and we want a statement from you at the office. Sorry to put you to more trouble and delay but—"

"Only too glad to assist," said Harper.

Ledsom directed two crews to explore the loop road, then led the way back to barracks. Reaching his office, he slumped behind his desk and sighed deeply.

"It's a lousy business. I've yet to tell his wife. They hadn't been married long, either. God knows how she'll take it." He sighed again, dug an official form out of a drawer. "Have to do some clerking myself, seeing all the boys are busy. You got a card on you, Mr. Harper?"

Harper slid one across to him.

It read: WADE HARPER — FORGER.

"So help me Mike," said Ledsom, blinking at it. "That's what I call advertising one's sins. Next thing one of them will write me on a business sheet headed: Baldy O'Brien — Heistman."

"I'm a microforger."

"What sort of animal is that?"

"I make surgical and manipulatory instruments so tiny that they can be used to operate on a bacillus."

"Oh, now, don't give me that!" said Ledsom. "A fellow couldn't see enough to use them."

"He can — under a powerful microscope."

"Every year they think up something new," marvelled Ledsom. "You can't keep up with it."

"There's nothing new about this," Harper assured. "It started back in 1899, with a Dutchman named Dr. Schouten. Since then, the only considerable improvement on his technique has been gained by de Fonbrune's one-hand pneumatic micromanipulator. I make variations on that gadget, too."

"You must be kept busy," remarked Ledsom, wondering how many or how few people wanted to dissect a germ.

"I get by. There aren't more than a couple of dozen competent microforgers in the world. The demand is just enough to keep pace with the supply."

"So the F.B.I, think they can't afford to lose you?"

"You're making guesses," said Harper.

"This bacteriological warfare business, maybe?"

"You're still guessing."

"Okay; I know when to mind my own business."

Ledsom got to work on the official form, put down the witness's name, address and occupation, followed it with a dictated account of what had occurred and shoved it across for the other to read and sign.

When Harper had gone, Ledsom grabbed the phone, made a long-distance call. He'd just finished talking when Sergeant Forst entered the office and eyed him curiously.

"Something broken, Cap?"

"That Harper guy fed me a line that would do credit to the best con man in the business. So I just called his home town to see if he has a record."

"And he has?"

"Yes."

"Jumping Judas!" said Forst, dropping a couple of books on the desk and making for the door. "I'll put out a pick-up call for him."

"No." Ledsom looked pensive. "His home-town cops send him love and kisses. He's helped them solve several tough cases, and he's shot down three culprits for good measure."

"What is he, a private dick?"

"Nothing like that. They say he has a habit of falling headlong over something that everybody else is looking for. They say he's done it time and again, and it's uncanny." He sought for a satisfactory theory, found it and ended, "Reckon he suffers from beginner's luck and makes a hobby of exploiting it."

If the subject of this conversation had been within half a mile, he'd have picked up that notion and smiled.

Driving at fast pace along the main road, Harper passed through three successive road-blocks without incident. His mind was working as he tooled along. If, he argued, a chased car switched into a side road, the odds would be at least fifty to one on the driver choosing a turn-off on his own side, rather than one across the artery and on the far side.

Since the loop-road was somewhere ahead of Harper, and on his wrong side, it was very likely that Alderson and the chased car had come from the opposite direction, or towards him.

He glanced at his watch. It said six-twenty. He had found Alderson at four-ten, a little over two hours ago. That could put the murderers the best part of a hundred miles away, if they'd kept going non-stop. Probably the police had been alerted over a huge area by an eight-state alarm.

It wouldn't do much good. There was no adequate description of the fugitives and none at all of their car. "A tall, blond fellow" just wasn't enough to go upon.

He let a few miles go by until he saw a service-station on the opposite side — the side that, in Harper's theory, Alderson and the killers had used. He crossed and pulled up near the pumps; two attendants came over.

"Were you fellows on duty around four o'clock?"

Both nodded.

"See anything of a prowl car driven by a trooper named Alderson? Car Seventeen, it was."

"I know Bob Alderson," said one. "He was around a couple of times this morning."

"Not between three and four?"

"No." He thought a bit. "Or if he was, I didn't see him."

"Me neither," said the other.

Their minds told that they spoke truth; Harper knew it with absolute sureness. So far as he was concerned, they need not have opened their mouths.

"Anyone else here who might have noticed him around that time?"

"Only Satterthwaite. Want me to ask him?''

"I'd appreciate it."

The attendant went out of sight around the back of the building. It made no difference. Harper could hear them mentally, though their voices were out of reach.

"Hey, Satty, a fellow here wants to know if you saw anything of Bob Alderson two or three hours back."

"Nary a sign."

He came back. "No luck, Satty didn't see him."

"Anyone now off-duty who was here at that time?"

"No, mister." He showed curiosity. "Like me to tell Bob you're looking for him, if he happens along?"

"He won't be along — ever," said Harper.

"What d'you mean?"

"Some hoodlum shot him down around four. He's dead."

"Lord!" said the attendant, going pale.

"You'll have the police here asking similar questions, sooner or later." Harper gazed up the road. "Know of any place on his patrol where Alderson was in the habit of stopping?"

"He'd often grab a coffee at the Star Café."

"Where's that?"

"Four miles along, on the crossroads."

"Thanks."

He pulled out, drove fast. Two miles farther on, he came to another filling station, this time on his own side of the road. Turning in, he put the same questions.

"Sure I saw him," said a laconic, sandy-haired youth. "Didn't notice the time but it must have been about three hours back."

"Was he chasing somebody?"

The other considered this and said, "Yes, now that I come to think of it, maybe he was."

"What happened?"

"One of those low-slung green Thunderbugs went past in a hell of a hurry, and Bob came half a mile behind — like he'd no time to waste, either."

"But you aren't positive that he was pursuing the Thunder-bug?"

"I didn't think so at the time. Most of the stuff on this road moves good and fast — but now that you mention it, I guess he may have been after that car."

"Did you notice who was in it?"

"Can't say that I did."

"Did anyone else see this? Was anyone with you at the time?"

"No."

Harper thanked him and pushed on. So far, he'd gained one item: a green Thunderbug. He didn't congratulate himself on that; the police would find it themselves before the night was through. He was one jump ahead of them solely because he was concentrating on one specific line of search, while they were coping with a hundred. Harper had great respect for the police.

At the Star Café, a pert waitress reported that Alderson had eaten a meal there and left about one-thirty. Yes, he'd been by himself. No, he hadn't shown particular interest in any other customers or departed coincidentally with anyone else. No, she hadn't seen a tall, blond fellow with a green Thunderbug.

One of the other girls had seen Alderson go up the left-hand crossroad.

Harper took that road and kept the accelerator pedal well down. Fifteen minutes later he found a tavern keeper who had seen Car Seventeen. Yes, he had thought at the time that Alderson was after someone, probably a kid in a hot-rod.

Seven miles farther on, Harper struck another filling station. An elderly man came out and handed him news worth having.

"Shortly after three, a Thunderbug hauled up to the pumps for ten gallons of alk. There were three fellows and a girl in it. The girl was sitting in the back with one of the fellows. She kept giving me sort of appealing looks; I had an idea that she wanted to scream, but didn't dare."

"What did you do about it?"

"Nothing, at that moment. I was by myself and I'm not as young as I used to be. Those three could have bounced me on my head until my brains fell out."

"So what then?"

"They paid and pushed off; as soon as they'd got up a bit of speed, I skipped into the road for a look at their plates."

"Did you get the number?" asked Harper.

"No. I waited a mite too long. I hadn't my glasses on, and the figures were too fuzzy to read." The oldster frowned, regretting the lost opportunity. "Couple of minutes later a prowl car came along. I flagged it down and told the trooper about this girl. He said he'd look into the matter, and went after the Thunderbug at a good clip." His rheumy eyes quested hopefully. "Did he latch on to something?"

"Yes — a coffin."

"Good God!" The oldster was visibly shaken. "And I sent him after them."

"It isn't your fault, Pop, you did the best thing in the circumstances." Harper waited a minute for the other to recover, then asked, "Did those fellows say anything to indicate where they'd come from or where they were going?"

"They spoke exactly one word and no more. The big blond one dropped his window and said, 'Ten!' I asked about oil and water, but he shook his head. The girl looked as if she'd talk plenty once she got started, but was too scared to begin."

"What did this bunch look like? Give me as complete and detailed a description as you can manage."

The other licked his lips and said, "The blond one was doing the driving. He was a husky guy in his late twenties-yellow hair, blue eyes, strong chin, clean-shaven, good looking and intelligent. You'd have called him a nice kind of fellow, if his eyes hadn't been meaner than a snake's."

"No facial scars or other identifying marks?"

"Not that I noticed. Tell you what, though — he was pale. So were the other two guys. You know, whitish — the way they get when they've been bottled up quite a piece." He gave Harper a significant glance.

Harper nodded. "As if they've just come out of jail. They've escaped or been paroled — more likely the former, by the way they were acting."

"That's how it looks to me."

"Had they been hitting the bottle?" inquired Harper, sensing a possible lead at wherever the stuff had been bought.

"Far as I could tell they were cold sober."

"What else can you add?"

"The fellow sitting alongside the driver was another husky, about the same age: Black hair, gray eyes, clean-shaven. He was just as pale-faced, just as mean-looking. I never got a proper look at the third one in the back."

"How about the girl?"

"Around twenty or twenty-one — brown eyes, brown hair, a bit on the plump side. Attractive, without being a stunner. Wearing a mustard-colored coat, yellow blouse and a string of amber beads. Her hand was up by the window and she had a birthday ring with an opal in it."

"Somebody born in October. You're doing top-notch, Pop."

"Like I told you, I noticed that girl," said the oldster.

"How were the fellows dressed?"

"All the same — dark green jackets, gray shirts and collars, dark green ties. Looked almost as if they wore uniforms, with buttons and insignia removed. Never seen anyone wearing that sort of rigout. Have you?"

"No," admitted Harper. "It doesn't resemble prison garb, either." He continued his cross-examination a few more minutes, then finished with, "Have you a telephone here?"

"Sure. Come round the back."

The voice in the earpiece growled, "State police barracks. Captain Ledsom."

"My lucky day," remarked Harper, unconsciously confirming theories at the other end. "You're the very man I want."

"Who's speaking?"

"Harper. Remember me?"

"Ah, so you've thought up something you forgot to tell us?"

"I gave you all I had at that time. I've since dug up a bit more."

"Such as what?"

"The car you want is a recent model green Thunderbug, carrying three fellows and a girl. I have descriptions of all but one of the men."

Ledsom exploded, "Where the blazes did you get all this?"

Grinning to himself, Harper told him where and how.

"Why don't you join the cops and have done with it, instead of fooling around with germ-chivvying gadgets?" Ledsom demanded.

"Because I'm a couple of inches too short, six inches too wide, detest discipline and want to go on living."

Giving a deep grunt, Ledsom said, "I'll send a car out there right away. Maybe the boys will pick up something else. Meanwhile, you'd better give me the dirt you've collected."

Harper recited it, finished, "Obviously there are now two leads I couldn't follow, even if I wanted. They are properly your work because you have the facilities. First, have any three fellows answering these descriptions been let out of prison or climbed the walls recently? Secondly, has any young girl answering this description been reported missing of late?"

A tolerant chuckle sounded before Ledsom replied, "We'll tend to those, and about six more angles you've missed."

"For example?"

"Where did they get the clothes they're wearing, the money they're spending, the car they're using, the gun they fired?" He was quiet a moment, then continued, "We'll send out a flier that may bring us the answers. With luck, we'll learn the tab-numbers on that Thunderbug. Ten to one it's stolen."

"I could push on along this route and perhaps learn more," said Harper. "They may have stopped for beer or a meal, and talked out of turn within somebody's hearing. But why should I bother? What do I pay taxes for? I have business of my own to do."

"You're arguing with yourself, not with me," Ledsom pointed out. "Nobody's asking or expecting you to do anything." He hurried on with, "Of course, we really do appreciate the part you've played so far. It shows fine public spirit. Things would be easier for us if everyone were as helpful."

Harper removed the phone from his ear, stared at it suspiciously, put it back and said, "Why can't they have visiscreens on these things in rural areas?"

"What has that to do with anything?"

"One could watch a guy's expression while he's plastering on the butter." He hooked the phone, turned, said to the oldster, "They're coming straight out. You'd better see if you can recall any item you may have overlooked. They'll need everything you can give them."

Returning to his car, Harper set about his normal affairs, confident that so far as he was concerned the episode was finished.