He rocked around another bend and momentarily lost the lights in the mirror, which by now were less than a mile to the rear. His own beams swung briefly across the end of a track through thick timber. He swung into it so suddenly and recklessly that, for a second or two, he feared an overturn.
Switching off all lights, he ploughed another fifty yards into complete blackness, meanwhile praying that he would not hit an invisible tree or dive into a hidden ditch. Twigs crackled and snapped under rolling wheels but luck remained with him. He braked, dropped a window, watched and listened.
The siren could be heard now — a prowl car, sure enough; by this time, it was on top of the bend. Headlights slewed across the night as it came round, and the next moment it thundered past, wailing as it went. Its passing was far too swift to enable Harper to see how many were inside, or to pick up a random thought.
He sat in darkness until he could see faint, diminished beams racing up a slope four miles away. Then he reversed, got back onto the road, and made off in the way he had come. Reaching the crossroads over which he had recently blundered, he turned to the right and continued along this new route.
Without further incident, he reached Washington late in the morning, planted the car in a park on the outskirts and took a bus into the city. There he found a phone and called his office.
Either the office visiscreen was out of order, or had been switched off; his own' screen remained blank, and Moira's response was equally blank.
"Harper plant. Can I help you?"
"Only God can help me," he said. "This is your boss."
She let out a distinct gasp.
"What's so soul-shaking about that?" he demanded. "You've spoken to me many times before."
"Yes, Mr. Harper. Of course, Mr. Harper." she sought desperately for words. "I didn't expect you just yet."
"Tsk!" He grinned wolfishly at the dead screen. "Why not? I told you I'd call, didn't I?"
"Certainly, Mr. Harper, but—"
"But what?"
She hadn't the vaguest idea what. She was tongue-tied, and in a tangle.
"You've been reading the papers," he observed grimly. "But no matter. Has anything turned up?"
"Turned. up?"
"Look, Moira, pay no attention to those fat-butted dicks sitting on my desk. Listen to me: has anything come along in the mail that requires my personal handling?"
"N-n-no, Mr. Harper."
"Any complications I'm needed to clear up?"
"N-n-no."
"All right. Put one of those guys on the phone."
She got into a worse tangle. "I don't understand, Mr. Harper. There isn't—"
"Now, now, no lies!" he ordered.
At that point, she gave up; he heard her say weakly to somebody else, "He knows you're here and insists on speaking to you."
He heard a deep grunt that somehow conveyed disgust. Harper's screen suddenly cleared and showed a beefy face scowling at him.
Before the other could speak, Harper said, "When I can't see a thing in my own office I know that somebody doesn't want me to look. I also know Moira's been told to keep me on as long as she can, while this call is being traced. Well, you're wasting time for which suffering taxpayers are paying; better pack up and get busy on the local sinners. Tell Riley I love him, despite all his faults."
The face scowled more deeply. "Now, see here, Harper—"
"Listen to me, for once," continued Harper impatiently. "I'm calling from Washington, and I'm making for F.B.I. headquarters to give myself up."
Incredulity expressed itself on the distant features. "You mean that?"
"Check with the F.B.I, in about fifteen minutes' time; they'll tell you they've got me. And don't celebrate by pawing Moira around. She draws her pay from me, not from you!"
He pronged the phone, walked out and joined the crowds on the sidewalk. He had covered two blocks when a tall, dark-haired, neatly dressed young man threw him a brief but penetrating glance in passing; the man did a swift double-take, continued a few yards beyond, then turned and followed.
Harper strolled steadily on, smiling to himself as he filched data out of the shadower's mind. Robert Slade, thirty-two, F.B.I. agent, was obsessed by the notion that Harper bore a very close resemblance to Wade Harper. The encounter was purely accidental, but the boy intended to stick to the opportunity until he was sure enough to make a pinch.
Turning down a side street, Harper covered three more blocks and became a mite uncertain of his whereabouts. He was not very familiar with Washington. He stopped on a comer, lit a cigarette, gazed furtively over cupped hands and found Slade studiously examining a shop window.
Ambling back, he touched Slade's elbow and said, "Pardon me; I'm looking for F.B.I, headquarters. Can you direct me?"
It shook Slade more than if Harper had stuck a gun in his belly.
"Why… er… yes, of course." His mind was saying, "Hell of a coincidence!"
"You're Robert Slade, aren't you?" inquired Harper, pleasantly conversational.
The other rocked back. "I am. You have the advantage of me, though; I don't recall knowing you."
"Would it do you any good to make an arrest?"
"What d'you mean?"
"I'm seeking your H.Q. You can show me the way. If you would like to call it a pinch, it's all right with me. I'm Wade Harper."
Slade took in a deep breath. "You're not kidding?"
"Why should I? Don't I look like Harper?"
"You sure do — maybe you're fed up being mistaken for him. If so, there's little we can do about it."
"That can soon be settled. You have my prints on file." He felt under an arm. "Here's my gun. Don't let the comparison boys in the ballistics department lose it — I hope to get it back someday."
"Thanks." Openly baffled, Slade shoved it into a pocket and pointed down the street. "This way."
They moved along, side by side. Slade made no suggestion of using his handcuffs, nor was he particularly wary. Harper's attitude had put him into a state of skepticism; he was inclined to think that this capture would gain him no credit, because the captive was too self-possessed to be other than innocent.
Reaching the big building, they went inside. Slade showed Harper into a small room, said, "Wait there a minute," and departed. The exit and the open street were within easy reach. There was no obstacle to an escape other than that provided by a hard-looking character on duty at the door.
Taking his ease. in a pneumatic chair, Harper amused himself tracking Slade's mind. The agent went along a short corridor, entered an office, spoke to somebody there.
"I've just picked up Wade Harper. He's in room number four."
"By himself?"
"Are you cracked? He can make a dive, and—"
"He was on his way here when I found him," interjected Slade, honestly refusing the credit for the grab. "He wanted to come."
"Holy smoke! There's something mighty funny about this." A pause, then, "Bring him in here."
Harper got up, walked along the passage, and arrived at the door just as Slade opened it. For the third successive time, Slade was taken aback. He stood aside, silent and puzzled, while Harper marched boldly in, took a seat and gazed at the lean-faced man behind the desk. The latter returned his gaze and gave himself away without knowing it. William Pritchard, thirty-nine, area supervisor.
" 'Morning, Mr. Pritchard," said Harper, with the cheerful air of one who has not a worry in the world.
Pritchard blinked, marshalled his wits and said, "There's a call out for you. You're wanted for the murder of Jocelyn Whittingham."
"Yes, I know. I read the papers."
"Somebody's blundered," thought Pritchard, impressed by this coolness. "He's got an alibi." Clearing his throat, he asked, "Well, do you wish to say anything about it?"