The phone sang like a rattlesnake. The woman made a nervous stab at it before she gained control and nodded at Crestone. Mrs. John Slenko, 3648 Locust, had just seen a man in her back yard. She wanted the police.
Judith Barrows’ vigilance wavered while she was fumbling her phone back into the cradle. Crestone used his phone to push the Gain dial of the radio down to One while he was putting the instrument away. He dispatched 750 to Mrs. Slenko’s home.
The big dame was in a knot now and Crestone was coming out of it. She had grabbed at the phone because she was expecting a call to tell her that the job at the Wampum was done. She was staying in the chair to be near the phone.
When York and Shannon began to talk about a revoked driver’s license, the sounds came faintly.
“What did you do to the radio!”
“Nothing.”
The .38 was on his stomach. “What did you do?”
“Nothing, damn it! We get a split-phase power lag on the standby tower every night.” He hoped she knew as little of radio as he did. “The reception fades, that’s all.”
“You’re lying! You did something, didn’t you?”
“No! You’ve been watching me every second.”
“You’re going to get it, Crestone, if anything goes wrong.” She was wound-up but the gun was easy.
Car 752 came in, so faint that only “seven-fift’ “ was audible, but Crestone knew Purcell’s voice and he could guess the message. Purcell had sulked in the Sunset Drive Inn, dwelling on the inequalities of traffic code enforcement, but now he and Old McGlone were on their way again.
The woman’s voice was a whip crack. “What was it?”
“I’ll have to get it on the other mike.”
“What other mike?”
Crestone kept his finger close to his chest when he pointed. “On a hook around at the side of the radio.”
The faint call came again.
“All right,” Judith Barrows said.
There was dust on the curled lead of the hand mike. Crestone said, “Car 750, I read you 10-1. The standby trouble again, as usual.” 10-1 meant: receiving poorly. From the corner of his eye he saw the woman grab the code sheet to check on him.
Car 750, which had not called, now tried to answer at the same time 752 came in. Crestone said, “Standby, 751. 10-6.” Busy. Now he had them all confused. He called for a repeat from Car 750 to make it more confused. During the instant Judith Barrows was checking the code number he had used, he turned transmitting power to almost nothing.
Faint murmurs came from the radio as the three local cars asked questions Crestone could not hear. The woman did not like her loss of contact. She got out of her chair. “Where’s 751?” she demanded.
Into a dead mike Crestone asked the location of the car. He pretended to hear the answer from the receiver against his ear. “He’s trailing a green Ford toward the Wampum Club.”
“Get him away from there!” She was panicked for a moment and then she got hold of herself. She grabbed the local code sheet. “Code 9 him to the Silver Moon.”
Code 9 was a disturbance. Crestone went through the pretense of calling 751. There was still enough flow of power to light the purple eye.
“Tell him to disregard the Ford,” she ordered.
“10–22 previous assignment, 751. Code 9 at the Silver Moon.”
When the next small scratch of sound came from the speaker, he said, “Midway, Car 55. Go ahead.” He began to write as if he were taking a message: ’52 cream Cadillac sedan, R607, State 7 near old brick plant. Driver resisted arrest.
She came out of her chair. “What’s that message?”
“Car 55 just picked up a guy in a stolen car near the brick works.”
It struck her like death. “Give me that paper!”
He tossed it toward her. She raked it in with her heel, and picked it up without taking her eyes off him. She read it at a glance and cursed.
The phone rang. She had it with out making her signal to Crestone. He lifted his receiver. A tense voice said, “All set here.”
“No!” she cried. “The state patrol just got Brownie and the car!”
“You sure?”
“It just came in on the radio.”
“The other way then. You’re on your own, kid, till you know where.” The man hung up.
Crestone said into the hand mike, “10-4, Car 750.” He swung to face the woman when she went around the counter. “Car 750 is four blocks away, coming in.”
She raised the gun. “They’re coming in,” he said. A man might have done it. She broke. It was her own safety now. Her heels made quick taps on the steel steps, a hard scurrying on the lobby tiles.
Crestone loaded the shotgun as he ran. The blue Mercury was at the first meter south of the police parking zone. She spun her wheels on the gutter ice and then the sedan lurched into the street. He put the muzzle on the right front window. Her face was a white blur turned toward him. He could not do it. He shot, instead, at the right rear tire and heard the shot rattle on the bumper.
He raced back to the radio and put the dials where they belonged. He poured it out then in crisp code. All cars, all stations. First, a ‘53 green Hudson sedan, K2066, possibly four men in car. Left Wampum Club, Midway, two minutes ago. Armed robbery. Dangerous. Second, a ‘52 blue Mercury sedan, K3109, last seen going north on Meredith one minute ago, possibly shotgun marks on right rear fender.
The phone blasted. “This is Sonny Belmont, Bill. We’ve had some trouble down here. Four men in a late Hudson tudor, a light color. They cut toward town on Market. The license was a K2 — something.”
“K2066, a green ‘53 Hornet, Belmont.”
“Who is this?”
“Crestone. What’d they look like?”
Belmont’s descriptions were sharp. “I slipped, Joey. They nailed me opening the safe.”
“How much?”
“About eighty grand.” Belmont said the amount reluctantly. It would be in the papers and he knew it. “How’d you boys get hot so quick, Joey?”
“Luck.” Crestone hung up. Car 750 reported that a speeding Hornet sedan had outrun the cruiser and was headed north on 315. Crestone sent that information to all cars north of Midway.
Car 752 came in. “We’re on the blue Mercury with the woman,” Purcell said. “She’s got a flat rear tire.”
“She’s got a .38 too,” Crestone said.
Three minutes later Purcell called from Glencoe and Pitt. “We got her. Car 751 is here with us.”
Crestone dispatched Car 751 to the old brick works with the dope on a cream Cadillac sedan. Car 55 came in from Highway 315. “The green Hudson got past me, Midway. I’m turning now to go north. Tell Shannon.”
The Shannon dispatcher said, “10-4 on that message, Midway.” A moment later he was talking to a sheriff, and then state patrol 54 came in.
When the channels were clear again Crestone called Steel City to cover State 7 from the east, just in case. He called the police chief and the sheriff by telephone. The chief said he would be down at once. Crestone was still talking to the sheriff when Car 751 reported. “We got the cream Cadillac sedan at the brick plant,” Kurowski said. “The guy scrammed into the weeds and took the keys with him.”
The message went into the mouthpiece of the telephone. The sheriff said, “I’ll be down there with a couple of boys in ten minutes.” Crestone hung the phone up. He told Car 751 to stand by at the brick works.
Everything was set now. There would be a tough road block at the Y on State 20 and Highway 315. If the Hudson got around that, there would be trouble on ahead, piling up higher as more cars converged.
Crestone lit a cigarette. The phone rang. A man asked, “You got my car yet?”
“What car?”
“My Cadillac! My God, man! I just called you.”