“Yes, there is that possibility,” I said thoughtfully. “Our pale friend may be insisting on riding along in the ambulance in order to make sure the patient doesn’t regain consciousness. I wonder if we could get ourselves invited to ride in that ambulance too.”
“Whatever for?” Diane asked in a startled tone.
“To make sure the so-called Sergeant Copeland doesn’t have a chance to shut up the patient permanently.”
“Wouldn’t it be simpler just to phone the police from the airport, tell them your suspicions and have them meet the ambulance at the hospital?”
“The patient could be dead by then,” I pointed out. “I really don’t think it will be dangerous to ride along. The man isn’t going to do anything to give himself away so long as he believes no one suspects him. And by the looks of the patient, he’s not going to wake up en route, if ever. I just think our presence would be likely to deter any lethal designs the fake sergeant has. Are you willing to go along?”
“I suppose,” she said reluctantly. “But how on earth will we get aboard the ambulance?”
“Leave that to me,” I said with confidence. “They think you’re a nurse, remember? And I never told them what I am.”
Rising, I went back to the rear. The doctor was again leaning over the unconscious man, listening to his heartbeat with his stethoscope. He put it away and resumed his seat as I approached.
“No change,” he said to his pale seatmate.
Halting, I said, “Doctor, I’m a medical student from U.C.L.A. and my companion is a registered nurse. We would be glad to ride along with you in the ambulance.”
The pale man said, “Make it a little crowded, wouldn’t it?”
“Not really,” the doctor said. “No one but the driver will be with the ambulance. There will be plenty of room.”
I don’t think the so-called Sergeant Copeland liked the idea, but he couldn’t very well overrule the doctor. He gave a resigned shrug.
The ambulance was waiting when we landed at Buffalo Airport. Over the intercom the stewardess asked all passengers to keep their seats until the patient could be unloaded. Someone brought a litter, and Dr. Smith, the pale pseudo-sergeant and I lifted the unconscious man onto it. I volunteered to take one end of the litter, the pale man whom I was convinced was Willie the Parrot Doyle took the other, the doctor went ahead and Diane trailed behind us.
A couple of uniformed airport police were standing beside the ambulance. The ambulance driver was sitting in the cab with his back to us, and didn’t even bother to get out. The rear door was already open. We loaded the litter, then the pale man introduced himself to the airport cops as Sergeant Copeland of the NYPD, introduced Dr. Smith and explained the situation. When the airport cops asked who Diane and I were, the doctor explained that we were his assistants and would be riding with him in the ambulance also.
One of the cops said, “Then I guess you’ve got a full house. One of us was going to offer to ride in with you.”
“It won’t be necessary,” Dr. Smith assured him.
We all climbed in, and the doctor pulled the door closed behind us. We all sat on an empty litter next to the patient’s, facing him, the pale man nearest the driver, then me, then Diane, and with Dr. Smith nearest the back door.
There was no partition between the cab and the rear of the ambulance, so that conversation could be carried on with the driver. Dr. Smith said, “All right, driver, we’re all in.”
The ambulance moved on, its red light blinking and its siren beginning to whine. Shortly after we pulled through the airport gate the siren cut off, though, and the reflection of the flashing red light suddenly stopped appearing alongside the road.
Diane said sharply, “Why are you turning north, driver?”
The driver made no answer. From the corners of my eyes I was conscious that Dr. Smith was unzipping his medical bag. My attention was primarily fixed on the pale man next to me, however, alert for any false move he might make.
He made one. He was staring past me at the doctor when suddenly his right hand disappeared beneath his coat, then reappeared gripping a snub-nosed.38 Detective Special.
My reaction was a hangover from hand-to-hand combat training in the army. My left hand snaked out to clamp around the cylinder, preventing the gun from firing because the cylinder could not rotate. The edge of my right palm sliced down on the man’s wrist. He emitted a yowl of pain and the gun came away in my hand.
“Thanks,” the doctor said sardonically. “I think he was beating me to the draw.”
I turned to look at him, and my jaw dropped. He was covering all of us with a.45 automatic he had taken from his bag. I gazed from it to the snub-nosed revolver I was uselessly gripping by the cylinder with my left hand. Then I looked back at the doctor.
“I don’t understand,” I said. Sergeant Copeland was flexing his right fingers and rubbing his wrist. “I do,” he growled. “I just tumbled when he started to pull that cannon from his medical bag. Dr. Smith is really Smooth Eddie Greene, and this fake heart attack was rigged as an escape plan.”
“Right,” the patient said, sitting up and removing the gun from my grip. “It was sparteine sulphate in that bottle, Sergeant. It has the temporary effect on the heart of making it beat slower, causing a slow, weak pulse. Probably wouldn’t fool a doctor, but it makes a convincing enough heart attack to fool a layman.” He looked at the fake doctor. “Why the devil did you bring along these two kids?”
“I thought some cops might be waiting to ride along, and there were. With them in tow, I had the excuse that there was no more room in the ambulance.”
Sergeant Copeland said to me, “Do you mind explaining why you disarmed me, young man?”
I said sheepishly, “I thought you were Willie the Parrot and had switched places with the real sergeant. I’m sorry.”
“What gave you that harebrained idea?” he asked curiously.
“Well, I saw you write left-handed, and you had been cuffed to the prisoner by your left wrist. Also you are so much paler than Willie. I thought it might be prison pallor.”
“I’m ambidextrous and I shoot with my right hand,” he informed me. “My pale complexion is because I’m on the homicide night trick.”
“Oh.” I said in a subdued voice.
Willie the Parrot said to the driver, “All okay back here, Jim. Have any trouble?”
“No,” the driver said. “The siren told me when the ambulance was getting close. I pulled out of the side-road and blocked the way with the panel truck just before he got there. When he stopped, I stuck a gun in his face. He’s tied up in the back of that hot panel truck. We should be switched to the sedan and be a couple of hundred miles into Canada before anybody finds him on that side-road.”
“Your kid brother Jim?” Sergeant Copeland asked Willie, jerking his head toward the driver.
“Uh-huh. We Doyles stick together.”
“What are your plans for us, Willie?”
“Well now, Sergeant, what would you do in our position?”
I felt a chill crawl along my spine. I gave Diane an apologetic look. She smiled back at me bravely, but her eyes were brimming with tears.
Willie the Parrot glanced at Smooth Eddie, saw his gun was effectively covering us, and dropped the revolver into his coat pocket. The fake doctor’s automatic rested on his knee, aimed past Diane in the general direction of me and the detective.
Diane made a sniffling noise. In a woeful voice she asked Smooth Eddie Greene, “May I get my handkerchief from my purse, please?”
“Sure, go ahead,” he said generously.
Unsnapping her purse, she dipped her hand into it and brought out a snub-nosed revolver similar to Sergeant Copeland’s. It was cocked and aimed at Smooth Eddie’s head before he could even start to react. He froze.