Entities: The Selected Novels of Eric Frank Russell (57 page)

“Well, then?”

“Two hours ago we picked up the girl. Her story doesn’t jibe with yours. Somebody’s a liar.”

Lying back in his seat, Harper eyed him meditatively, said, “So you’ve got the girl. Is her version a trade secret?”

Ledsom thought it over, decided that there was nothing to lose. “She missed her bus, thumbed a lift. Three fellows picked her up in that green Thunderbug. They were in a humorous mood, took her a long, roundabout way, kidded her she was being kidnapped. At that filling station she really was scared, but after a bit more fooling around they dumped her where she wanted to go. It was all a rib.”

“And what about Alderson?”

“She saw nothing of him, knows nothing about him.”

“But he chased that car.”

“I know. The girl says the blond fellow drove like a maniac for no reason other than the hell of it, so maybe Alderson never caught up with them.”

“You believe that yarn?”

“I don’t believe any story without satisfactory evidence in support. But hers casts grave doubt upon yours.”

“All right. I know you’re going to check on mine. Check on hers too and see if it stands up.”

“We’ve already made a partial check on both of you and were going to finish the job as soon as possible. The girl doesn’t know the names of the three fellows or anything else about them other than what we’ve already got. She didn’t notice the number of the car. Having suffered nothing, she had no reason to grab that number.”

“That’s a big help.”

“But the rest looks convincing,” said Ledsom. “She is a girl of excellent reputation coming from a highly respected family. She left home when she says she did, missed the bus she says she missed, was seen by two witnesses being offered a lift. She arrived at her destination at the time she states and can prove it.”

“Those fellows took her a long way round?”

“Yes. They were feeling their oats.”

“Nice way of accounting for lost time such as that involved in stopping, shooting, starting and running every mile of seventeen around a loop-road.”

“Look, Mr. Harper, it’s almost twenty-four hours since Alderson was shot down. All we’ve got are you and this girl. All I know is that somebody used a gun and somebody’s telling lies.”

“If that girl is telling the truth, which I beg leave to doubt,” ventured Harper, “there’s only one solution. A third party is wandering loose, untraced, unsuspected and laughing up his sleeve.”

“There’s not the slightest evidence of it.” Ledsom hesitated, went on, “I wouldn’t dream of chewing the fat with you in this manner if it wasn’t that your hometown law gave you a very big hand. That sort of thing counts with me.”

“I suppose so.”

“Therefore I’ll tell you something more. The three fellows don’t tally with any trio released or escaped from prison this year.”

“How about the military prisons? That old bird at the filling station thought they might be wearing altered uniforms.”

“There is no military, naval or air force uniform corresponding with that description.”

“Not in this country. Maybe they were foreigners.”

“The girl says not. They spoke the language as only we can speak it and knew the country like the backs of their hands.”

“Have you asked the authorities whether they know of
any
uniform that does correspond?”

“No. The girl agrees that their clothes had a sort of official look and thinks they were wearing army disposal stuff dyed green. If so, we’ve poor chance of tracing it. Ex-army jackets have been thrown on the market by the thousands.”

“How about their car? You thought it might be stolen.”

“To date we’ve pulled in reports of ten missing in various parts of the country. Four of them are green. We have urgent calls out for those four numbers. No luck so far.” He gazed morbidly through an adjacent window. “Anyway, they may have resprayed it and changed the tags. Or it may be legitimately owned. Or it may be a rented car. The Thunderbug is a popular make. It would take months to check all sales and rentals from coast to coast.”

Harper thought it over and said, “Well, you’ll know it if ever you lay hands on it. You have a tire-cast and that’s something.”

“Doesn’t follow it’s one of theirs. Anybody could have gone up that lane any time the same day. All we’ve discovered is that it doesn’t belong to any logging vehicle. Neither do those three fellows answer the descriptions of any logging company’s employees, past or present.”

“No matter what that girl says, I still think they’re the boys you want.”

“The girl was an unwilling witness in that event. She wasn’t a guilty party. So why should she cover up for a bunch of strangers?”

“Maybe they weren’t strangers,” Harper offered.

“What d’you mean?”

“Doesn’t follow that because they gave her a lift they must have been unknown to her.”

“She swears she didn’t know them from Adam.”

“You could bet on her saying that—if one of them happened to be a crazy boyfriend or a shiftless relative.”

“H’m!” Ledsom viewed this as remotely possible but rather unlikely. He made a note on a pad. “Her local police gave us a report on her character, home conditions, status of parents and that’s all. Might be worth probing more deeply into her background.”

“If she’s telling lies about a murder she must have a very strong reason. Perhaps she’s been intimidated. Perhaps they have convinced her that they’ll be back to cut her throat if she dares speak out of turn.”

“Wrong guess,” snapped Ledsom, positively. “I’ve been in this game a long time and I can tell when a suspect is secretly afraid. She wasn’t. She was frankly bewildered at being dragged into something she didn’t know a damn thing about.”

“I’m a suspect too. A bigger and better one, to judge by what’s happening right now. Think I’m scared?”

“No,” admitted Ledsom.

“I ought to be—if I did it. But I didn’t.”

“Somebody did. We know that much.” Ledsom studied him levelly. “I can hold you for twenty-four hours, and I’d do it if I’d a fair chance of pinning something on you by then. But it’s going to take that long to empty the pond. So you can go. God help you if we salvage a gun traceable to you.”

“I should worry.”

Harper departed feeling distinctly surly, made the long drive home in ruminating silence. He passed at least fifty Thunderbugs in those seven hundred miles, saw no persons resembling the missing trio.

He had a small plant employing six myopic but deft-fingered men. Also an office barely large enough to hold his desk and that of a secretary cum stenographer cum telephone operator. This person, name of Moira, was three inches taller than himself and about half the width. Cupid couldn’t lug a ladder into the room and that fact suited Harper top-notch.

Sitting at his desk, he was examining a set of miniscule glass forceps under a powerful magnifier when Riley opened the door and took the two steps necessary to reach the middle. His plainclothes effectively advertised him as a cop in disguise.

“Morning, Lieutenant,” greeted Harper, glancing up momentarily before returning attention to the task in hand.

“Morning, Neanderthal.” There being no extra chair or space for one, Riley hooked a thick leg over a desk corner, rested himself as best he could. He bent forward to stare through the magnifier. “Beats me how paws so thick and hairy can fiddle with stuff that size.”

“Why not? You pick your teeth, don’t you?”

“Leave my personal habits out of this.” His eyes became accusing. “Let’s discuss some of yours. ”

Harper sighed, fitted the forceps into a velvet-lined case, placed it in a drawer. He shoved the magnifier to one side, looked up.

“Such as what?”

“Being around when things happen.”

“Can I help it?”

“I don’t know. Sometimes I wonder. It’s mighty queer the way you latch on to this and that.”

“Be specific,” Harper invited.

“We’ve had a call. Fellow wants to know if you’re still around. And if not, why not.

“All right, I’m still around. Go tell him.”

“I wanted to know
why
he wanted to know,” said Riley pointedly.

“And he told you. He said it isn’t in the mud.”

“Mud? What mud?”

“At the bottom of the pond.” Harper grinned up at him. “He also asked whether I’m known to own a .32.”

“You’re right. It was Captain Ledsom. He gave me the details from first to last.”

“Whereupon you solved the whole case for him,” suggested Harper. “Two minds being better than one.”

“You
are going to solve it,” said Riley.

“Am I?” Harper rubbed a chin and produced rasping noises. “Moira, throw this bum out.”

“Do your own dirty work,” ordered Riley. “You aren’t paying her to act as bouncer as well, are you?” He turned to Moira. “How much are you making, Sylph?” Moira giggled and said, “Not enough.”

“Disgraceful,” opined Riley, “I don’t know why you stick with this hirsute curmudgeon.”

“Such words,” put in Harper. “I’ll bet you can read too.”

“And without moving my lips,” Riley boasted. “So let’s get down to basics. You’re going to let business go to pot while you play Sherlock.”

“Why?”

“Firstly because I told Ledsom you could clear up the matter if continuously kicked in the buttocks. So he wants me to kick.”

“Secondly?”

“Because there’s now a reward for information leading to apprehension and conviction of the killer or killers. Being human and in old shoes and wearing a tie obviously given with a gallon of alk, you could use the dough.”

“That all?”

“Not by a long shot. I’ve saved the best bit to the last.” He grinned, revealing big teeth. “An hour ago some hoarse-voiced character phoned Ledsom and said he’d seen Alderson having an argument with a compressed bruiser answering more or less to your description. Know what that makes you?”

“The sacrificial goat,” said Harper moodily.

Riley nodded. “We’d pick you up and sweat a confession out of you but for two things. One is that we know you too well to believe you did it. The other is that the witness is not available to identify you.”

“Why isn’t he?”

“He said his piece and cut off. So Ledsom doesn’t know who called.”

“That looks fishy.”

“Some folk hate to get involved,” observed Riley. “More’s the pity.”

“I’m not surprised. I became too public-spirited myself. See what it’s bought me.”

“You jumped into it. Get busy and wriggle out of it.”

“I can’t afford the time,” Harper complained.

“You can’t afford a spell in clink either,” Riley pointed out. “If Ledsom asks us to take you in we’ll have to do it.”

“Do you think that’s likely?”

“God knows. It depends on what they turn up in the way of further evidence.”

“If they find any pointing at me it will be purely circumstantial.”

“That’s a hell of a consolation when you’re sitting around awaiting trial,” said Riley. “The moment Ledsom believes he’s got enough to convince a jury he’ll make the pinch. He may then find he’s wrong because the jury proves difficult to satisfy. So even if you get away with it you’ll have been put through the mill, lost a lot of patience, time and money.”

Harper said flatly, “They haven’t the chance of a celluloid cat unless they find that witness and he identifies me. Even that won’t be proof. It will do no more than suggest a motive. And if the witness does identify me he’ll be a liar who knows something about the shooting and aims to divert attention. He can’t appear without becoming a suspect himself.”

“Could be. A way to find out would be to trace him and beat the truth out of him.”

“The state troopers can do that themselves.”

“Maybe,” said Riley. “And maybe they couldn’t.”

“Maybe I couldn’t either.”

“I’m not so sure. You’ve done some darned funny things these last few years.”

“Such as what?”

“That Grace Walterson murder. Twelve years old and unsolved—until you sit on a park bench and hear a boozy tramp muttering about it in his sleep. You tell us. We grab him and he confesses.”

“Sheer luck,” informed Harper.

“Was it? The Grace Walterson case had been long forgotten and wasn’t in our bailiwick anyway. We had to check across country to get details. That guy did it all right. He was drunk like you said. There was only one respect in which his story didn’t jibe with yours.”

“What was that?”

“He didn’t go to sleep and he didn’t mutter. He swears he sat there blurry-eyed but wide-awake and wordless while you slid away and brought back a patrolman.”

“He wrote his confession on paper and I ate it,” said Harper. “I just can’t resist paper.” He frowned at the other. “You must be nuts. The sot voiced the burden on his conscience and gave himself away.”

“All right.” Riley stared at him very hard. “But
you
had to be there when he did it. Then there was the Tony Giacomo case. He heists a bank, kills two, and 
you
have to be lounging near by two days later when he—”

“Oh, give it a rest,” suggested Harper wearily. “I’m thirty-seven years old, have rubbed shoulders with nine wanted men and you pretend it’s remarkable. How many have you sat next to in your half century of sin?”

“Plenty, I dare say. Not one of them told me he was wanted and begged me to take him in.”

“None begged me, either.”

“The entire bunch did the next best thing. They made the mistake of being someplace where you were too. You’ve upped our score of snatches by quite a piece and the Commissioner thinks you’re Jesus. Smacks more of the Devil to me. There’s something decidedly odd about it.”

“Name it, then.”

“I can’t,” confessed Riley. “I can’t so much as imagine an explanation.”

“Some folks are always there when accidents happen,” Harper pointed out. “They can’t help it. It’s the way things go. Take my Aunt Matilda—”

“Let somebody else take her—I’m married,” said Riley. “Are you going to break this case or do you prefer to squat on your fat tookus until I’m ordered to bring you in:

“How much is the reward?”

Riley looked prayerfully at the ceiling. “He weakens at the thought of money. Five thousand dollars.”