“Things are piling up downtown,” I said. “Maybe we should go in. You and me. Want to give it a try?”
Canelli knew what the book said, too. He knew that I wasn’t giving an order. I was asking for a volunteer.
“Well — sure.” He shrugged. “Why not? Should I—” He cleared his throat. “Should I get a shotgun, or what?”
“No. Let’s do it slow and easy.”
“Yeah. Okay, Lieutenant. Slow and easy.”
“Where’s the burglar alarm van in relation to the house? How far away?”
“About two, three houses away. It’s on the opposite side of the street, though.”
“I’m going to order them to wait until we ring the doorbell. Then I’ll tell them to approach the house slowly. When we get inside — if we do — they can double-park directly in front of the house, ready to come in behind us. Is that all right with you?”
“Well, sure, Lieutenant. Anything you say.”
I gave the orders, handed Canelli the walkie-talkie and swung the car door open.
As we mounted the four steps to the porch, I took my last chance to scan the windows. In an upstairs window, a curtain moved.
“Did you see that?” Canelli whispered.
“Yes.” Under cover of the porch now, I unbuttoned my jacket and loosened my revolver in its holster. I gestured for Canelli to stand to my right, slightly behind.
“Ready?”
“Yeah.”
The old-fashioned door was heavily built, with a pane of beveled Victorian frosted glass set in the upper half. Gently, I tried the knob. The door was locked. As I pressed the bell button, I glanced over my shoulder. The van was inching out of the parking place. Inside the house, chimes were melodiously ringing.
“Pretty fancy,” Canelli muttered. “Chimes.”
A half minute passed. I rang the bell again, and waited another half minute. Now I could hear a soft scuffling on the other side of the door. I glanced at Canelli. He’d heard it, too.
As the door came open on a chain, I had my shield case in my left hand. My right hand was inside my coat, gripping the butt of my revolver. In the crack of the door I saw a spectacled eye, a large pimply nose and a dark, ragged mustache.
“Police,” I said. “Lieutenant Hastings and Inspector Canelli. We want to talk with Mal Howard. Open the door.”
“You got a warrant?” The voice was deep and rough.
“We aren’t searching the premises. And we aren’t making an arrest,” I lied. “Mal Howard is a material witness in a homicide investigation. He’s also a felon on parole. Which means that we don’t need a warrant. Now open the goddamn door.”
“Homicide investigation?”
“That’s what I said. Open it.”
“He’s not here.”
“Open the door, asshole. Now.” As I said it, I heard Canelli’s walkie-talkie come alive. To hear it better, Canelli drew back the flap of his jacket.
“…someone coming out on the roof in back,” a metallic voice was saying.
At the same moment, the door began to close. Quickly I stepped back, extended my arms straight in front of me and hit the door with the heels of both hands. The door flew open. I was inside, standing over the man with the dark mustache. He sat splay-legged on the polished parquet floor. With one lens broken, his aviator glasses were cocked askew on his forehead. His nose was bleeding heavily. He was slowly shaking his head. His eyes were blank.
“Sorry,” I said. “But you should have opened it.” Through the open door I called for two detectives to come inside, and one to stay in the van, with the radio. The van’s front doors came open; two detectives dressed in coveralls climbed the four stairs, fast. The first man carried a shotgun. At a gesture from me, he pointed the shotgun at the fallen man’s head. Eyes wide, the man began scrabbling across the floor. The gun barrel followed him, the muzzle inches from his eyes. His mouth was open, but he couldn’t speak. His hands came up before his face, fingers delicately touching the muzzle, as if to gently push it away. Suddenly he closed his eyes tight. Tears streaked his stubbled chin. He thought he was going to die.
“Where’s Mal Howard?” I asked.
He began to shake his head. “H... h... h—”
I kicked him in the thigh, hard. “He’s on the roof, isn’t he?” I kicked him again. “Isn’t he?”
“No. I swear to God, no. He... h... h—”
“Hold on to him,” I ordered the two detectives. “And shut that door.” I took the walkie-talkie from Canelli and called position two.
“Is he still there, Marsten? On the roof?”
“Yessir.”
“What’s the access to the roof? How’d he get out?”
“There’s a window at the back of the building that opens on the roof. It’s a flat roof, shed-style. The window’s wide open.”
“What’s his exact position?”
“He’s standing to the right — my right — of the window. Your left. Repeat, your left.”
“Our left. Roger. We’re coming up and try to collar him.”
“Roger, Lieutenant. Watch it, though. He’s got a gun. An automatic. Repeat, he’s got a gun. Do you read me?”
“I read you. Out.”
With Canelli close behind me, I turned to the stairway. Holding my revolver in my right hand, I went slowly up the staircase, one cautious step at a time. As my head came even with the floor of the upstairs hallway, I saw curtains billowing out from the open window at the end of the hall. I pointed to the window, and Canelli nodded — just as his walkie-talkie crackled to life.
“This is position two. Can you read me?” Marsten was speaking softly. His voice was static-blurred.
Crouching against the wall of the staircase, Canelli spoke cautiously into his own walkie-talkie. “I read you, Marsten. What is it?”
“He just tried to get off the roof. He went to the edge, and tried to jump off the roof, into a big redwood tree, back here. But he couldn’t make it. So he’s coming back toward the window. Do you read me?”
“I read you,” Canelli repeated.
Motioning for Canelli to keep his position on the staircase, I quickly ran back down the stairs, holstering my revolver. I gestured for the detective to give me his shotgun.
“Is there a round in the chamber?” I whispered.
“Yessir.”
I checked the safety catch as I went back up the stairs. Exposing only his head, Canelli was watching the open window.
“Anything?” I whispered.
“No. Marsten says he’s still just to the right — Marsten’s right — of the window, flattened against the side of the building. He’s got a big automatic, Marsten says. Maybe a Colt .45, for God’s sake. And he’s just standing there. Waiting, maybe.”
“Christ.” I was suddenly aware that my shirt and jacket were sweat-soaked. Perspiration covered my forehead, ran into my eyes. Cautiously, I surrendered my grip on the shotgun’s fore-stock, drew the arm of my jacket across my forehead, then gripped the forestock again. The open window was about twenty-five feet from our position — perfect range for buckshot.
“We going to wait him out?” Canelli whispered.
“Do you want to get a shotgun?”
“No, that’s all right.” Under pressure, Canelli was good with a handgun.
“Let’s get closer,” I said. I pointed to an open bedroom door, ten feet from the window. “You get in that doorway. I’ll cover you. Then I’ll put myself beside the window, against the wall, on the left side. Our left side. If he comes through the window, you challenge him. That’ll distract him. Then I’ll try to take him. Clear?”