“Lancelot, you worry too much.”
“But even if you find out who’s been causing all the trouble the police will still be looking for you, won’t they?”
“Perhaps not,” I laughed. “They’re going to be pretty fed up with me when I bust this case.”
The kid shuddered, his eyes closed tightly for a second. “I keep thinking of that night in the shack. The night you shot one of those men that kidnapped me. It was an awful fight.”
I felt as though a mule had kicked me in the stomach. “What did you say?”
“That night . . . you remember. When you shot that man and . . .”
I cut him off. “You can get off that target, Ruston,” I said softly. “I won’t need you for a decoy after all.”
Roxy twisted toward me, watching the expression in my eyes. “Why, Mike?”
“I just remembered that I shot a guy, that’s why. I had forgotten all about it.” I jammed on my hat and picked up a pack of Roxy’s butts from the dresser. “You two stay here and keep the door locked. I can get the killer, now, by damn, and I won’t have to make him come to me either. Roxy, turn that light off. Give me five minutes after I leave before you turn it on again. Forget you ever saw me up here or Dilwick will have your scalp.”
The urgency in my voice moved her to action. Without a word in reply she reached out for the light and snapped it off. Ruston gasped and moved toward the door, with the slightest tremor of excitement creeping into his breathing. I saw him silhouetted there for an instant, a floor lamp right in front of him. Before I could caution him the shade struck him in the face. His hand went out . . . hit the lamp and it toppled to the floor with the popping of the bulb and the crash of a fallen tree. Or so it seemed.
Downstairs a gruff voice barked out. Before it could call again I threw the window up and went out, groping for the vine. Someplace in the house a whistle shrilled and angry fists beat at the door. Half sliding, half climbing, I went down the side of the building. Another whistle and somebody got nervous and let a shot blast into the confusion. From every side came the shouts and the whistles. Just before I reached the ground a car raced up and two figures leaped out. But I was lucky. The racket was all centered on the inside of the house and the coppers were taking it for granted that I was trapped there.
As fast as I could go, I beat it across the drive to the lawn, then into the trees. Now I knew where I was. One tree ahead formed the perfect ladder over the wall. I had my gun out now in case that patrol was waiting. There would be no command to halt, just a volley of shots until one of us dropped. All right, I was ready. Behind me a window smashed and Roxy screamed. Then there was a loud “There he goes!” and a pair of pistols spit fire. With the trees in the way and the distance opening between us, I wasn’t concerned about getting hit.
The tree was a godsend. I went up its inclined trunk thanking whatever lightning bolt had split it in such a handy fashion, made the top of the wall and jumped for the grass. The sentries weren’t there anymore. Probably trying to be in on the kill.
A siren screamed inside the wall and the chase was on, but it would be a futile chase now. Once in the tree line on the other side of the road I took it easy. They’d be looking for a car and the search would be along the road. So long, suckers!
Chapter 11
I slept in my car all night. It wasn’t until noon that I was ready to roll. Now the streets would be packed with traffic and my buggy would be just another vehicle. There were hundreds like it on the road. Superficially it was a five-year-old heap that had seen plenty of service, but the souped-up motor under the hood came out of a limousine that had packed a lot of speed and power. Once on the road nothing the city cops had was going to catch me.
Good old Ruston. If my memory had been working right I wouldn’t have forgotten my little pal I plugged. Guys who are shot need doctors, and need them quick, and in Sidon there wouldn’t be that many medics that I couldn’t run them all down. A crooked doc, that’s what I wanted. If a gunshot had been treated Price would have known about it and told me, but none had been entered in the books. Either a crooked doc or a threatened doc. He was the one to find.
I stripped the branches from the fenders and cleared a path to the road, and then eased out onto the macadam. At the first crossroad a sign pointed to the highway and I took the turn. Two miles down I turned into a stream of traffic, picked out a guy going along at a medium clip and nosed in behind him.
We both turned off into the city, only I parked on a side street and went into a candy store that had a public phone. Fiddling through the Yellow Pages, I ripped out the sheet of doctors listed there, and went through the motions of making a phone call. Nobody bothered to so much as glance at me.
Back in the car I laid out my course and drove to the first on my list. It wasn’t an impressive list. Seven names. Dr. Griffin was stepping out of his car when I pulled in.
“Doctor . . .”
“Yes?”
His eyes went up and down the ruin of my suit. “Don’t mind me,” I said. “I’ve been out all night chasing down the dick that shot that cop. I’m a reporter.”
“Oh, yes, I heard about that. What can I do for you?”
“The police fired several shots at him. There’s a chance that he might have been hit. Have you treated any gunshot wounds lately?”
He drew himself up in indignant pride. “Certainly not! I would have reported it immediately had I done so.”
“Thank you, Doctor.”
The next one wasn’t home, but his housekeeper was. Yes, she knew all about the doctor’s affairs. No, there had been no gunshot wounds since Mr. Dillon shot himself in the foot like a silly fool when loading his shotgun. Yes, she was very glad to be of service.
Dr. Pierce ushered me into his very modern office personally. I pulled the same reporter routine on him. “A gunshot wound, you say?”
“Yes. It wasn’t likely that he’d treat it himself.”
He folded his hands across his paunch and leaned back in his chair. “There was one the day before yesterday, but I reported that. Certainly you know about it. A .22-caliber bullet. The man was hit while driving out in the country. Said he didn’t know where it came from.”
I covered up quickly. “Oh, that one. No, this would have been a larger shell. The cops don’t pack .22’s these days.”
“I expect not,” he laughed.
“Well, thanks anyway, Doctor.”
“Don’t mention it.”
Four names left. It was past three o’clock. The next two weren’t home, but the wife of one assured me that her husband would not have treated any wounds of the sort because he had been on a case in the hospital during the entire week.
The other one was in Florida on a vacation.
Dr. Clark had offices a block away from police headquarters, a very unhealthy place right now. Cars drove up and away in a constant procession, but I had to chance it. I parked pointing away from the area, making sure I had plenty of room to pull out, my wheels turned away from the curb. A woman came out of the office holding a baby. Then a man walking on a cane. I didn’t want to enter an office full of people if I could help it, but if he didn’t get rid of his patients in a hurry I was going to have to bust in anyway. A boy went in crying, holding his arm. Damn it, I was losing time!
As I went to reach for the ignition switch another guy came out, a four-inch wide bandage going from the corner of his mouth to his ear. The bells again. They went off all at once inside my skull until I wanted to scream. The bandage. The hell with the gunshot wound, he was probably dead. The bandage. My fingers hooking in a mouth and ripping the skin wide open. Of course, he’d need a doctor too! You wouldn’t find two freak accidents like that happening at once. He was a ratty-looking guy dressed in a sharp gray suit with eyes that were everywhere at once. He went down the steps easily and walked to a car a couple ahead of me. I felt my heart beginning to pound, beating like a heavy hammer, an incredible excitement that made my blood race in my veins like a river about to flood.