Three to Conquer

11. The Elusive One

The man with the dripping ear bent over the agent who lay supine by the stairs, slid a hand under his vest, felt around and rasped, “He’s dead.” He stood up, patted a crimson-spotted handkerchief to the side of his head. “If he hadn’t beaten me to the top, he mightn’t have got it. And if I hadn’t been four steps lower, I’d have got it all over and right through.”

“We soared past him in that other box,” explained the one with the riot gun to Harper. “When he stopped so suddenly, we overshot him and had to back down. It was just then that he got out and tossed an egg at the other pair. A splinter went right through the floor and between my feet. We jerked open the gate, saw him running down there, and gave him a burst before he could throw any more.”

A horde came charging up the stairs, Norris and Rausch in the lead. Loud murmurings came from the street far below. Harper realized that he was still gripping his gun, and tucked it away.

Norris glanced around, thinned his lips, examined the agent lying by the stairs. “He looks gone to me. Rush him down to the ambulance, just in case.” He turned to the others. “What happened?”

They told him, finishing, “Fat chance we had of taking him alive.”

One of the onlookers opened a penknife, picked at the wall, dug out a ragged piece of metal. He studied it closely and said, “Army grenade by the looks of it.” He gave the fragment to Norris. “What do you think?”

“Yes, you may be right. We’ll have to start checking the armories. Frisk him, and let’s see what else he’s got.”

They made a thorough search of the plump man’s clothes. The grenade was all he had carried in the way of lethal objects. He had an expensive watch, a diamond stickpin, and a well-filled wallet. His clothes were of top quality, and his shoes were also expensive.

They laid him flat on his back, revealing a double-chinned and amiable face, close-shaven and well cared-for. Even now, his features wore the expression of one who would not harm a fly—unless it tried to make off with his stickpin. His hands were clean and soft, with pink, almond-shaped nails expertly manicured.

Apart from the watch, pin, wallet and two fine linen hand- kerchiefs, there wasn’t another thing in his pockets: no driving permit, business card or identity card; no pen, cigarette case, lighter or keys. His clothes were devoid of a tailor’s label; his shoes bore no maker’s mark other than that indicating the size. There wasn’t a thing by means of which he could be identified quickly.

“More delay,” remarked Norris bitterly. “It’s going to use up valuable time finding out who he is.” He became momentarily hopeful. “I don’t suppose you can tell us anything about him?”

“Sorry,” said Harper, genuinely regretful. It was beyond his power to dig data out of a dead brain. Although he had not had a chance to put it to the test, he suspected that a Venusian, involuntarily identifies himself as a Venusian, and not as the entity he has usurped. That was the cause of all the trouble, the reason why one exceptional man could recognize them.

“We’ll have to do the best we can, and do it quickly, too.” Norris handed the wallet to an agent. “Make a list of those numbers and have them circulated to the banks fifty miles around. See if anyone has them recorded as paid out and, if so, to whom.”

Rausch had opened the watch and examined its insides. He snapped it shut, gave it to another of his men. “This ought to tell us something. It’s one of those newfangled jobs drawing power from variations in barometric pressure. There shouldn’t be a million of them around, considering what they cost. Find the local distributor. He’ll have the movement number on his books, and be able to say where it went. Follow it through until you learn who bought it.”

The agent took the watch, hastened downstairs.

Studying the stickpin, Rausch said to Norris, “It’s a poorer bet, but we’ll have to take it.” He beckoned another agent. “Show it to the leading jewelers. Phone us at once if you trace a sale.”

“If his prints are on record, we’ll know him in a few hours’ time,” commented Norris, inwardly doubting that they were recorded. “We’ll roll a copy and let Washington have a look. Let’s hope they’ve got him on their files. Somebody had better tote those shoes around town. Any good shoeshop should be able to tell us who makes jobs like those.”

“May I see them?” asked Harper. He took them, turned them over and over, doubled them toe to heel, and felt their softness and pliability. He handed them back. “Made to measure for him.”

Norris nodded, let go a yell of, “Where’s the cameraman?”

That worthy appeared, his apparatus dangling from one shoulder. He glanced at the deceased with the professional air of one who had yet to see a corpse with a new shape, size, expression or attitude.

“Tidy his pan and make him look sweet,” Norris ordered. “I want a good head and shoulders stereo-study; someone might recognize him on video. Give me the pic just as soon as you can have it ready.” He turned to Harper. “That’s all we can do for the moment. We’ll escort you back to your office.”

Harper rubbed his chin, looked hesitant, said, “I’m so overawed by surrounding talent that I’m reluctant to offer a suggestion.”

“Let’s have it,” urged Norris.

“Well, then,” said Harper, “how many grown men go round without even a solitary key in their pockets?”

“That’s right. I think he stripped himself of anything he thought likely to give us a lead, but he made a sloppy job of it. Or maybe he knew that if anything happened to him, it would be enough for him to cause a little delay.”

“I also noticed that his right shoe is worn in the center of the sole,” Harper went on. “More so than is the left shoe.” He paused thoughtfully, continued, “And he has the general appearance of a man who has enjoyed prosperity for many years. If he’s ever been without a thick bankroll, it was a long, long time ago. Yet he walked down the street.”

“What are you getting at?”

“He has a car and uses it. His type almost invariably goes in for big, powerful cars the size of an ocean liner. But he didn’t employ it this time. Why? Answer: for reasons best known to himself, he parked it somewhere and did the rest on foot. But he did not leave it locked, otherwise he’d have the keys. Why didn’t he lock it? Because somebody’s sitting in it waiting for him, with the missing keys dangling from the instrument board. Is that someone still sitting and waiting? Answer: he probably is, unless parked near enough to have seen or heard the ruckus.”

“Let’s go down to the cruiser and put out a radio call. I have enough prowlers to rake the whole area, and—’

“Now, now!” Harper chided. “More space, less heed. There are hundreds of parked cars standing around, and dozens have people sitting in them. Unless Fatty’s playmate happens to be Langley, McDonald or Gould, how are you going to spot him?”

“He may be one of those three,” said Norris, bursting to start the search. “Probably that’s why this dead boy walked part of the way. None, of those three would risk exhibiting himself near your place; he would keep out of sight, and let a stooge do his dirty work.”

“All right. Then I suggest you have all cars make a comb-out for Langley and company, paying special attention to parked jobs with waiting occupants. If the accomplice is not one of those three, then he’s Mr. Anonymous and your men are out of luck.”

“But you could identify him?”

“Provided I manage to get near enough. You’d better take me on a personal tour of all the parking places within, say, half an hour’s walk. Within a two-mile radius. Fatty wasn’t running merely for exercise. He scooted in the hope of losing himself a short while, until he could make a fast getaway.”

“I think you may be right,” agreed Norris. “Let’s go!”

They piled into one of the several cruisers now lined up outside the building. Norris took the wheel, Rausch sat by his side, Harper slumped in the back with another agent. About to start, Norris was struck with a thought; he looked over his shoulder at the agent in rear.

“We don’t know this area too well. You’d better get out and make room for a local cop who can show us around.”

“I can direct you to all the likeliest places,” said Harper. “Get going. Take the second turn on the right.”

At once they moved off, made the turn and reached a lot holding some two hundred cars. Seven had people sitting inside, or lounging nearby. Harper made a mental dig at each, picked up no vicious reactions.

“Turn left,” he ordered. “There are a couple of small dumps on that road and a big one about a mile up.”

They trundled along at moderate pace, examining all machines en route; nothing was seen to arouse suspicion, and no alarm was sprung.

A mile farther on, they reached an underground hiding place holding more than a thousand cars. Rolling down one of the half-dozen wide entrance-ramps, they entered a brightly lit cavern in which concrete pillars soared at intervals from a mass of silent vehicles. An attendant came toward them, his curiosity aroused by sight of a police prowler. Norris lowered the window and stuck his head out.

“Quick!” yelped Harper, sitting up and staring ahead. “There he goes—out the middle exit!”

Norris jumped the car forward, narrowly escaped knocking down the attendant. The car roared along the mainway between packed ranks of its fellows. Overhead lights flashed faster and faster, receded into the rear distance. Supporting pillars zipped past with enough speed to make them resemble a paled fence. The car’s hood lifted as they hit the exit ramp. The last light fled by; they shot into daylight and the street.

From the left Harper could still pick up the rapidly fading gobble-gobble-gobble of an agitated brain intent on escaping with what it had learned—namely, that gobblings can be heard.

The siren commenced wailing as they spun off the ramp and started down the middle of the broad street. Traffic scattered to the sides, leaving a clear road far along which a big .black car was hurtling as if driven by a maniac. Holding grimly to the wheel, Norris pressed the accelerator to the floorboard. Rausch felt around under a panel, took out a hand-mike, held it near to his mouth.

“Black Roadking escaping southward on Bailey Avenue. All cars in region of Bailey Avenue South, Greer Avenue South and Mason Turnpike intercept black Roadking.”

“If this loaded heap catches a Roadking, it’ll be a miracle,” Harper observed.

They took no notice. The agent beside him leaned over, tugged a gun from a pocket, held it on his knees.

“Car Forty-one making for Bailey Avenue South,” said an impassive cop, speaking out of the instrument board.

Harper squinted ahead, decided they’d lost a couple of hundred yards in less than a mile. He held on as they rocked around a halted bus.

“Car Eleven on Mason,” announced another voice.

“Car Four on Mason at Perkins Comer,” said a third.

The fleeing Roadking, now visibly diminished by its increased lead, made a sudden swerve, as if about to dive up a side road, but at the last moment swerved back, cut the comer and continued down Bailey.

A moment later, the reason became evident when a cruiser rocked out of the side road, set after it in hot pursuit. The newcomer was about halfway between Harper’s car and the Roadking; it made better time because of its lesser load, but still could not gain an inch on the excessively high-powered fugitive.

“What did I tell you?” griped Harper. “Fat men with fat wallets buy fat engines that guzzle a gallon of alk to the mile.” He sniffed in disgust, added by Way of comfort, “You can’t bust his balloons either; those Roadkings run on sorbo-centered solids.”

“Car Twenty-eight at junction of Mason and Bailey.”

“That’s the spot,” gritted Norris. “They’ll stop him.”

“They’ll have to crash him, and it’ll be a hell of a wallop by the way he’s going,” said Rausch, holding his mike to one side as he gazed anxiously ahead. “There’s no safe way to halt him unless we follow until—”

Taking advantage of the other’s preoccupation, Harper leaned forward and bawled into the conveniently held mike:

“No half measures! Shoot the bastard!”

“Hey, you!” Rausch snatched the mike away, turned his head to throw a scowl.

In that instant the listening Car Twenty-eight opened fire. The cruiser ahead of Harper’s car promptly swung in to the curb, crawled cautiously forward and gave full view of the second cruiser parked half a mile farther along.

The Roadking whizzed hell for leather past Car Twenty-eight, covered a hundred and fifty yards, yawed wildly twice, made a violent turn that took it over the sidewalk and into a shopfront. The sound of the crash was like an explosion. Haberdashery sprayed the avenue on flapping arms. Two police officers scrambled out of Car Twenty-eight, raced toward the wreckage.

“That’s done it,” growled Norris, easing pressure on the pedal and reducing pace. He snapped over his shoulder at Harper, “Who’s running this show?”

“I am. And if you didn’t know it before, you know it now.”

“Our orders are—”

“To blue blazes with your orders,” said Harper toughly. “I appreciate your co-operation, and sometime or other you’re going to appreciate mine.”

He opened the door as the car stopped, got out, made for the Roadking, knowing in advance that yet again an alien spark had become extinguished within a broken body. But at least no normal human being had been killed—that was one consolation.

In the rear of the shopfront a broken show-robot sprawled over the Roadking’s hood, and leered inanely at the dead driver. The robot wore a tartan hat, tilted drunkenly over one eye, and the force of the impact had filled its pants with broken parts. The driver sat bowed forward, his face rammed into the wheel, a pair of lurid socks, complete with price-tag, draped across his neck.

Two police officers waded through smashed glass, torn handkerchiefs and tattered pajamas, dragged at the car’s door. They knocked display stands out of the way the better to get at it.

Harper was about to join them when a slender individual pranced out of the shop, picked on him with much gesturing of white hands and indignant fluttering of long eyelashes.

“Look at that!” shrilly insisted this apparition. “Just look at it! What am I going to do now?”

“Sue the corpse in the car,” Harper told him. “He did it.” Joining the police, he helped lug out the body.

The protestor shifted attention to Norris, who was following close upon Harper’s heels. “Only last night I dressed that window. It’s really sickening. It makes me so mad I could spit. I don’t know what—” He broke off, and his large eyes went a size larger as they saw the corpse being carried past and laid on the sidewalk. “Why, Mr. Baum!”

“You know this one?” demanded Norris swiftly.

“Yes, indeed. He’s Mr. Baum. Mr. Philip Baum. Only last week I sold him a most fetching line in—”

Staring down at the plump and slightly familiar features, Harper interjected, “Has he a brother?”

“Yes,” said the slender man, working his eyelashes and gazing fascinatedly at the dead face. “Mr. Ambrose Baum. A little older. Three or four years, perhaps. Isn’t it awful?”

“Where do the Baums live?” asked Norris.

“In Reevesboro. I’d—” He stopped, let his mouth hang open while he looked with horror at the shattered show-robot which slowly slid down from the hood and onto its knees, belched loudly, emitted a whirr and two clicks, then went cross-eyed. He shuddered at the sight. “Alexander is ruined, completely ruined. I’d like to know who’s going to compensate for all this.”

“Pick on your insurance company,” said Norris. “Where in Reevesboro is the Baum house?”

“Somewhere on Pinewalk Avenue, I believe. I can’t recall the number. It should be in the phone book.”

“Bring out your phone book and let’s have a look at it.”

“There’s no need,” put in one of the police officers, searching the body. He straightened up, holding a card. “He’s carrying identification. It says he is Philip Kalman Baum of 408 Pinewalk Avenue, Reevesboro. The car is registered in the name of Ambrose Baum of same address.”

The other officer added, “This one is deader than a mackerel. His chest is shoved right in. The wheel did it.”

Norris turned to the agent who had accompanied them from the beginning. “You take charge here. You know how to handle it. Tell the pressmen nothing. Let ’em yawp—and refer them to our field office.” He beckoned to Harper. “We need you along.”

Entering the cruiser, the three hustled away from the scene around which pedestrians had gathered in a murmuring semicircle.

“We may want more help than we’ve got,” remarked Norris, driving at high speed. “You’d better cancel that Road-king call and see who’s still on the turnpike. Tell them to follow us into Reevesboro.”

Rausch found the mike, sent out the message and a voice came back saying, “Car Four on Mason Turnpike at Perkins Corner.”

“Pick us up and tail us to Reevesboro,” Rausch ordered.

After four miles, a prowl car shot off the verge and raced behind them. Another six miles and they side-tracked from the turnpike, ran into Reevesboro and found the address they were seeking. It was a small but attractive house standing in a half-acre plot.

Driving a short distance past, Norris stopped and signalled the following car to close up behind. He got out, went to the other car in which were two police and two agents.

He said to the police, “You fellows stay here in case some escapee takes a fancy to an official auto.” Then to the agents, “You two get around to the back of that house. If anyone beats it that way as we go in through the front, he’s your meat.”

“You’re wasting time,” advised Harper, near enough to the house to know that nothing alien lurked within.

“I’m the judge of that,” Norris retorted. He waited for the two agents to make their way round the back, then started toward the front door. “Come on!”

A gray-haired, motherly woman answered the bell. She was in her late fifties or early sixties, had toil-worn hands and meek features.

“This is the Baum house,” said Norris, making it a statement rather than a question.

“That’s right,” she agreed. “But Mr. Philip and Mr. Ambrose aren’t here just now. I don’t know when they’ll be back.”

“They’ll never be back,” Norris told her.

Her wrinkled hand went to her mouth while she gazed at him in a thoroughly startled manner. “Has… something happened?”

“Unfortunately, yes. Are you a relative?”

“I’m Mrs. Clague, their housekeeper,” she informed them a little dazedly. “Are they—?”

“Any relatives living here?” interrupted Norris.

“Oh, no. They’re confirmed, bachelors, and have nobody related to them nearby. In this house there’s only the maid and myself.” She swallowed hard. “Are they hurt?—badly?”

“They’re dead. We’re law officers. We’d like to have a look around.”

“Dead?” She whispered it as she stepped backward and let Norris enter, with Harper and Rausch following. Her mind had some difficulty in grasping the full import of the news. “Not both of them surely?”

“Both, Mrs. Clague. I’m sorry.” Norris extracted three photographs from his wallet, showed them to her. “Do you recognize any of these men?”

She blew her nose, wiped her eyes, studied the pictures bemusedly. “No, I don’t.”

“Sure you haven’t seen any of them recently?”

“I’m positive.”

“Where’s this maid you mentioned?”

“In the kitchen. Do you wish to speak with her?”

“Yes.”

She called, “Winnie! Winnie!”

Winnie slouched in, a plump, ungainly girl with the placid eyes of a ruminating cow.

“Know these?” demanded Norris.

She ogled the photographs. “No, sir.”

“If any of them had visited here recently, would you or Mrs. Clague have been sure to have seen them?”

“Uhu. I guess so.”

The housekeeper put in, “Mr. Ambrose and Mr. Philip seldom had visitors. They used this house only for relaxation and sleep. And they kept late hours. Two or three o’clock in the morning they’d come home, sometimes. But always sober, I’ll say that for them. I—”

“What did they do for a living?” Norris asked.

“They have three jewelry shops, somewhere or other. And a small wholesale warehouse in town. Their father started the business, I believe. He’s been gone a good many years. They were two nice gentlemen, and it’s terrible to think they’re—”

Norris cut the garrulity with an impatient gesture. “We want to look over any papers they’ve left lying around. Where did they keep their correspondence?”

“All their business files will be at the office,” said Mrs. Clague. “But their personal letters will be in that desk, or perhaps upstairs in their rooms.”

“All right, Mrs. Clague. We’re sorry to trouble you, but these things happen. If you’re not too busy, how about fixing some coffee?”

Still somewhat bewildered, she agreed, retreating to the kitchen as if glad to escape their questions. Winnie slopped along behind her, but turned twice to look back with a bovine smile before she too disappeared. Norris frowned after her.

“What was that slut smirking at?” he asked.

“You,” Harper informed. “She’s about I.Q. 70, but that doesn’t spoil her appetite for a tasty hunk of man. It’s what comes of being a handsome Fed.”

“Nuts!” growled Norris, looking sour. He spoke to Rausch. “We’ve no time for search-warrant formalities, and by the looks of it there’s nobody around to bawl about the matter. I’ll rake through this desk. You give the bedrooms a going-over. When we’ve finished we’ll run into town and frisk the office. We must compile a list of all contacts they’ve made these last few weeks.”

Rausch tramped upstairs, Norris spent five minutes trying to open the desk, failed, called in one of the two agents stationed at back.

“Finagle this lock for me, Yensen.”

Examining it, Yensen went out to the garage, returned with a length of wire. “Another Roadking is stashed in there. Same model and one number higher. They must have bought them together.” He fiddled with the wire, turned the lock, rolled up the lid which automatically released the drawers.

Avidly Norris pounced on the contents, pulling documents from pigeonholes, scanning them rapidly, putting them aside.-He lugged out the drawers one by one, found a dull black gun concealed in a camera carton, handed it to Yensen. “Hang onto that. The ballistics boys may be able to dig some data out of it.”

After a while he finished reading the last of a bunch of letters, shoved them back, grunted discontentedly. “Go ask Mrs. Clague when the Baums were last here.”

Yensen departed, came back. “She says they had breakfast this morning.”

“That’s peculiar.” He turned to Harper. “All this stuff is chitchat, mostly from friends in the trade. It averages a letter a day. But there’s nothing filed for the last five days. If the average was maintained, there are five letters missing.”

“They may be at the office,” Harper suggested. “Or—”

“Or what?”

“Maybe they destroyed them on receipt.”

“Why should they do that?”

“Because the messages were devoid of interest, having become alien to the readers.”

“We’ll check at their office before we jump to any conclusions,” Norris decided. “Either they kept them, or they didn’t.”

“If a search elsewhere fails to produce them, we can bet on two things,” said Harper. “First, that the Baums were taken over about five days ago. Secondly, that the enemy is no longer so desperate to get established in number, and is starting to be choosy.”

“How d’you make that out?”

“The Baums have been in daily contact with Mrs. Clague and Winnie; we know that much. But neither of the women were touched. They’ve lived with the Devil but retained their souls. Aren’t they the luckiest people?”

“You give me the creeps,” Norris complained. He turned to Yensen. “Make a list of names and addresses from this correspondence and bring it to H.Q. We’ll have to follow up every one of them.”

Rausch reappeared saying, “Nothing of any significance up there, except a couple of telephone numbers scribbled on a pad by the phone in Ambrose’s room.”

“We’ll look into those later.” Norris had a final, dissatisfied glance around, saw nothing of fresh interest. “If the fate of the Baums isn’t yet known to those we’re seeking, you can see what’s likely to happen. Somebody’s going to come along wanting to know how the brothers made out. If all of us go to their office, there’ll be nobody here to make a grab. We’ll have to stake this place until the news gets out and warns off possible visitors.”

“I’ll stay with Yensen,” Rausch volunteered. “If anybody—”

Something went whirr-whirr above them.

“The phone!” yelped Norris.

He charged upstairs, taking two steps at a time. The others crowded behind him. Entering Ambrose’s room, he eyed the bedside phone warily.

“Notice any other telephone here?”

They shook their heads.

“Too bad. No chance of holding the caller while we trace him.” Extracting his pocket handkerchief, he draped it over the tiny scanner, then lifted the earpiece. The small visiscreen at once lit up but revealed no picture. That meant a similarly obscured scanner at the other end. “Hello!” he said.

“Var silvin, Wend?” demanded a voice bearing the sharpness of deep suspicion.

“Baum residence,” said Norris frowning. “Can I help you?”

Click! The line went dead. Norris rattled the instrument, raised the operator, identified himself. “Where did that call originate? Let me know quickly—it’s urgent!” He hung on for most of a minute, listened again, snorted, racked the phone and told the others, “The Baum warehouse. Evidently they had a rendezvous there with somebody who got worried and called, after they’d failed to turn up. We missed a trick by not finding out about the place and going there first.”

“Get along right now,” urged Rausch. “I’ll stay with Yensen, just in case.”

Norris nodded, signed to Harper and they hastened to the car. Ordering one of the waiting police to join them, he drove away at top speed.

“You might as well take it easy,” advised Harper, with unconcealed pessimism. “There’ll be nobody at the place; whoever hangs up on a call isn’t going to sit around.”

“That’s what I think,” agreed Norris, maintaining speed. “But if we fail to catch somebody, it won’t be for lack of trying.”