“So that’s how that license plate got loose,” he said.
“Yes,” I said. “He sideswiped me as he went past.”
“Why didn’t you say something about it?”
“I didn’t think any damage was done.”
He pulled out his notebook and thumbed the pages.
“I think,” he said, “the name was Watson. Yes, here it is — Carol P. Watson. And the address is seven four nine three Ridgeway Drive.”
I passed him the ten-dollar bill.
“That’s all right,” he said. “Just a matter of accommodation. I’m glad to do it for you.”
I didn’t say anything, but kept the ten-dollar bill poked at him, and he took it without making any further protestations. I climbed into my cab.
“Seven four nine three Ridgeway Drive,” I said, “and drive like the devil.”
It wasn’t a long run out there — not over fifteen blocks from the place where George Ringley’s car had been forced into the ditch. There was a black Cadillac sedan parked in front of the place, and I saw there was a bullet hole in the fender.
“This the place?” asked the driver.
“Just keep on going,” I said, “until you come to the corner. Stop there for a little while and wait.”
I figured that, knowing the cop had the address which was on the driver’s license, the men probably wouldn’t keep George Ringley there. It was too dangerous. There was always the chance that Pete might notify the police after all, and the traffic officer might have been observant. On the other hand, they’d made all of their plans to use the place as headquarters, and it would take them a little while to get some other place ready.
I waited in the cab for fifteen minutes. Then a man came out of the place on Ridgeway Drive, opened the door of the sedan, got in behind the wheel and started the motor.
A minute later two men came out of the door, waited for a moment and took the arms of a third man. They kept the third man between them. They walked down the driveway and bundled the man into the sedan. The car purred into motion.
I had a glimpse of the man who sat between the two in the rear seat as the sedan went by. The man was George Ringley.
“Follow that Cadillac sedan,” I told the cabdriver. “If you get a chance run alongside of it. I want to talk with some men in there.”
He looked at me curiously, but snapped the car into motion. We ran four blocks before we got a chance to run alongside. The Cadillac was moving slowly, keeping within the traffic regulations. Evidently the men didn’t want to chance being arrested for some minor traffic violation. They’d had a taste of that and didn’t like it.
The taxicab rattled alongside.
“Get over to the curb,” I said. “I want to talk with you.”
The Cadillac speeded up.
As it shot into fast motion, I squinted down the sights of my big six-shooter and pulled the trigger.
The right rear tire went out with a bang. The big car rose and then settled. It skidded around and suddenly came to a stop. The driver opened up on me with a big automatic. One of the men in the back stuck a gun out through the rear of the car.
The automatics were pumping like firecrackers. My big range gun thundered. The driver of the car jerked, twisted and slumped down over the steering wheel. A bullet from the gun in the hands of the man in the rear struck the frame of the door within an inch of my head. I thumbed the hammer of my big .45, and he caught the slug right in the chest.
The taxi driver had jumped to the ground and was sprinting like a deer. The man who sat on the other side of the seat, with a gun on George Ringley, suddenly started to fumble with the catch on the door. George sat motionless. His face was white. The man reached the sidewalk, ran two steps, turned and fired. My bullet caught him in the side of the shoulder, spun him half around. He dropped to the sidewalk, got up to his knees, swayed for a moment, then dropped forward on his face.
George Ringley recognized me. His eyes were as big as teacups. He floundered out of the car.
“Can you drive this cab?” I asked him.
He nodded.
“Get started,” I said, “and make it snappy.”
Windows were up in some of the houses. Some one was screaming for the police. A big fellow, with a bald head and a close-cropped white mustache, appeared in a window with a short-barreled, nickel-plated revolver in his hand. He held it out at arm’s length and emptied the gun. One of the bullets struck the sidewalk in front of the cab; none of them came nearer than ten feet.
“Get started,” I told George Ringley. “You haven’t got all day, you know.”
The cab shot into motion and swayed over as it took the corner. I leaned forward where I could watch George Ringley drive.
“A top-heavy old bus,” he said.
“Take it easy,” I told him, “after you get away from here. We want to escape attention.”
“How did you know?” he asked.
“Never mind that now,” I said, “just keep moving, and watch what you’re doing.”
“Don’t worry,” he said, “I can pilot this crate. It’s top-heavy, but I can make it all right.”
“Don’t go home,” I said.
“No?” he asked.
“No,” I said, “there are some other members of the gang between us and the house. Go up to the Union Depot.”
“Why the Union Depot?” he asked.
“Don’t argue,” I said. “Get started.”
He swung the car toward the Union Depot. I looked at my watch. It was too late to catch my train.
We came to a boulevard stop.
“Better leave the cab here,” I said. “They’ll be tracing it directly.”
He stopped the car.
“But listen,” he said, “I want to know what it’s all about. Why shouldn’t I telephone—”
“You’re going to do exactly as I tell you,” I said.
“But I want to telephone father.”
“You poor simp!” I said. “Don’t you suppose I telephoned your father?”
His face showed relief.
“When?” he asked.
“Just before I went out and picked you up,” I told him. “Now come on and get busy.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Help in trapping the kidnapers.”
“I’ll sure as hell do that,” he said. “The devils crowded me off the road, then sideswiped me as I went into the ditch. It’s a wonder I wasn’t hurt. They wanted fifty thousand dollars from the guv’nor. Think of it! Fifty thousand dollars!”
I signaled a passing cab which was running along the boulevard.
“Union Depot,” I told him.
I picked up my bag at the Union Depot, chartered another car which took us to the airport.
Half an hour later we were seated in a cabin plane, with the motors warming up.
“I don’t understand,” George Ringley said. “Father couldn’t have known just what you were going to do.”
“Shut up,” I told him. “Don’t ask so many questions. This is all a scheme to bring the kidnapers to justice.”
“It looked to me as though they got plenty of justice,” he said. “My God! You never missed a shot! They fired half a dozen shots to your three, but every one of your three counted.”
“Never mind that,” I said. “Quit talking about it.”
The pilot gunned the motors. We ran down a cement runway. The plane tilted as it took off, swayed slightly in a gust of wind, then zoomed upward in a sharp banking turn.
“Where are we headed?” George Ringley shouted.
“Straight west,” I said. “Your father wants you to do a job for him while you’re hiding.”