Entities: The Selected Novels of Eric Frank Russell (68 page)

“I also noticed that his right shoe is worn in the center of the sole,” Harper went on. “More worn than is the left shoe.” He paused thoughtfully, continued, “And he has the general appearance of a man who had enjoyed prosperity for many years. If he’s ever been without a thick wad it was a long, long time ago. Yet he
walked
down the street.”

“What are you getting at?”

“Fatty has a car and uses it. His type almost invariably goes in for a big, powerful car the size of an ocean liner. But he didn’t employ it this time. Why? Answer: for reasons best known to himself he parked it some place and did the rest on foot. But he did not leave it locked, otherwise he’d have the keys. Why didn’t he lock it? Because somebody’s sitting in it waiting for him, with the missing keys dangling from the instrument-board. Is that someone still sitting and waiting? Answer: unless he has parked near enough to have seen or heard the ruckus he’ll be blissfully ignorant of it.”

“Let’s go down to the cruiser and put out a radio call. I have enough prowlers to rake the whole area and—”

“Now, now!” Harper chided. “More space, less heed. There are hundreds of parked cars standing around and dozens have people sitting in them. Unless Fatty’s playmate happens to be Langley, McDonald or Gould how are you going to spot him?”

“He
may
be one of those three,” said Norris, bursting to start the search. “Probably that’s why this dead boy walked part of the way. None of those three would risk exhibiting himself near your place in case it was well-covered and he was recognized. He would have to squat out of sight and let a stooge do his dirty work.”

“All right. Then I suggest you have all cars search for Langley and company, paying special attention to parked jobs with waiting occupants. If the accomplice is not one of those three then he’s Mr. Anonymous and your men are out of luck. They wouldn’t be able to tell him from Joe Soap even if he were cavorting in his naked pelt.”

“But
you
could identify him?”

“Providing I manage to get near enough. You’d better take me on a personal tour of all the parking places within, say, half an hour’s walk. Within two miles radius. Fatty wasn’t running merely for exercise. He scooted in hope of losing himself a short while until he could make a fast getaway. Ten to one that means he had a car stalled some place.”

“I think you may be right,” agreed Norris. “Let’s go!”

They piled into one of the several cruisers now lined up outside the building. Norris took the wheel, Rausch sat by his side, Harper slumped in the back with another agent. About to start, Norris was struck with a thought, looked over his shoulder at the agent in rear.

“We don’t know this area too well. You’d better get out and make room for a local cop who can show us around.”

“I can direct you to all the likeliest places,” said Harper. “Get going. Take the second turn on the right.”

At once they moved off, made the turn, reached a park holding some two hundred cars. The machines stood in neat rows like a parade of hardback beetles. Seven had people sitting inside or lounging near by. Harper made a mental dig at each, picked up no vicious reactions.

“Turn left,” he ordered. “There are a couple of small dumps on that road and a big one about a mile up on our nearside.”

They trundled along at moderate pace while examining all machines
en route.
Nothing was seen to arouse suspicion and no alarm was sprung.

A mile farther on they reached an underground hiding-place holding more than a thousand cars. Rolling down one of the half-dozen wide entrance-ramps they entered a brightly lit cavern in which concrete pillars soared at intervals from a mass of silent vehicles. An attendant came toward them, his curiosity aroused by sight of a police prowler. Norris dropped his window and stuck a head out to speak.

“Quick!” yelped Harper, sitting up and staring ahead. “There he goes—out the middle exit!”

Norris jumped the car forward, narrowly escaped knocking down the attendant. The car roared along the mainway between packed ranks of its fellows. Overhead lights flashed by faster and faster, receded into the rear distance. Supporting pillars zipped past with enough speed to make them resemble a paled fence. The car’s hood lifted as they hit the exit ramp. The last light fled by, they shot into daylight and the street.

From the left Harper could still pick up the rapidly fading gobble-gobble-gobble of an agitated brain intent on escaping with what it had learned, namely, that gobblings can be heard.

The siren commenced wailing as they spun off the ramp and started down the middle of the broad street. Traffic scattered, fled to the sides and left a clear road far along which a big black car was hurtling as if driven by a maniac. Holding grimly to the wheel, Norris pressed the accelerator to the floorboard. Rausch felt around under a panel, took out a handmike, held it near to his mouth.

“Black Roadking escaping southward on Bailey Avenue. All cars in region of Bailey Avenue South, Greer Avenue South and Mason Turnpike intercept black Roadking.”

“If this loaded heap catches a Roadking it’ll be a miracle,” Harper observed.

They took no notice. The agent beside him leaned over, tugged a gun from a pocket, held it on his knees.

“Car Forty-One making for Bailey Avenue South,” said an impassive cop, speaking out of the instrument board.

Harper squinted ahead, decided they’d lost a couple of hundred yards in less than a mile. He held on as they rocked around a halted bus.

“Car Eleven on Mason,” announced another voice.

“Car Four on Mason at Perkins Corner,” said a third.

The fleeing Roadking, now visibly diminished by its increased lead, made a sudden swerve as if about to dive up a side road, but at the last moment swerved back, cut the corner and continued down Bailey.

A moment later the reason became evident when a cruiser rocked out of the side road, set after it in hot pursuit. The newcomer was about half-way between Harper’s car and the Roadking, made better pace because of its lesser load but still could not gain an inch on the excessively high-powered fugitive.

“What did I tell you?” griped Harper. “Fat men with fat wallets buy fat engines that guzzle a gallon of alk to the mile.” He sniffed in disgust, added by way of comfort, “You can’t bust his balloons either. Those Roadkings run on sorbo-centered solids.”

“Car Twenty-eight at junction of Mason and Bailey.”

“That’s the spot,” gritted Norris. “They’ll stop him.”

“They’ll have to crash him and it’ll be a hell of a wallop by the way he’s going,” said Rausch, holding his mike to one side as he gazed anxiously ahead. “There’s no safe way to halt him unless we follow until—”

Taking advantage of the other’s preoccupation, Harper leaned forward and bawled into the conveniently held mike, “No half measures! Shoot the bastard!”

“Hey, you!” Rausch snatched the mike away, turned his head to throw a scowl.

In that instant the listening Car Twenty-eight opened fire. The cruiser ahead of Harper’s car promptly swung in to the curb, crawled cautiously forward and gave full view of the second cruiser parked half a mile farther along.

The Roadking whizzed hell for leather past Car Twenty-eight, covered a hundred and fifty yards, yawed wildly twice, made a violent turn that took it over the sidewalk and into a shopfront. The sound of the crash was like an explosion. Haberdashery sprayed outward. An inflated shirt tried to soar across the avenue on flapping arms. Two police officers scrambled out of Car Twenty-eight, raced toward the wreckage.

“That’s done it,” growled Norris, easing pressure on the pedal and reducing pace. He snapped over his shoulder at Harper, “Who’s running this show?”

“I am. And if you didn’t know it before you know it now. ”

“Our orders are—”

“To blue blazes with your orders,” said Harper toughly. “I appreciate your cooperation and sometime or other you’re going to appreciate mine.”

He opened the door as the car stopped, got out, made for the Roadking knowing in advance that yet again an alien spark had become extinguished within a broken body. But at least no normal human being had been killed—that was one consolation.

In the rear of the shopfront a busted show-robot sprawled over the Roadking’s hood and leered inanely at the dead driver. The robot wore a tartan hat tilted drunkenly over one eye and the force of the impact had filled its pants with broken parts. The driver sat bowed forward, his face rammed into the wheel, a pair of lurid socks complete with pricetag draped across his neck.

Two police officers waded through smashed glass, torn handkerchiefs and tattered pajamas, dragged at the car’s door. They knocked display-stands out of the way the better to get at it.

Harper was about to join them when a slender individual pranced out of the shop, picked on him with much gesturing of white hands and indignant fluttering of long eyelashes.

“Look at that!” shrilly insisted this apparition. “Just
look
at it! What am I going to do
now!”

“I could make a suggestion,” said Harper, surveying him. “But I don’t care to be suggestive.”

“This is too bad,” insisted the other. “Simply too
too
bad. Somebody will have to pay for it. Somebody—”

“Sue the stiff in the car,” Harper told him. “He did it.” Joining the police, he helped lug out the body.

The protestor shifted attention to Norris who was following close upon Harper s heels. “Only last night I dressed that window. It’s really
sickening.
It makes me so mad I could
spit.
I don’t know what—” He broke off and his large eyes went next size larger as they saw the corpse being carried past and laid on the sidewalk. “Why, Mr. Baum!”

“You know this porker?” demanded Norris swiftly.

“Yes, indeed. He’s Mr. Baum. Mr. Philip Baum. Only last week I sold him a most fetching line in—”

Staring down at the plump and slightly familiar features, Harper interjected, “Has he a brother?”

“Yes,” said the slender man, working his eyelashes and gazing fascinatedly at the dead face. “Mr. Ambrose Baum. A little older. Three or four years, perhaps. Isn’t this
awful?
Mr. Baum! My window! Just
look
at it! It makes my stomach turn right over!”

“Where do the Baums live?” asked Norris.

“In Reevesboro. I’d—” He stopped, let his mouth hang open while he looked with horror at the shattered show-robot which slowly slid down from the hood and on to its knees, belched loudly, emitted a whirr and two clicks then went cross-eyed. He shuddered at the sight. “Alexander is ruined, completely
ruined.
I’d like to know who’s going to compensate for all this.”

“Pick on your insurance company,” said Norris. “Where in Reevesboro is the Baum house?”

“Somewhere on Pinewalk Avenue, I believe. I can’t recall the number. It should be in the phone book.”

“Bring out your phone book and let’s have a look at it.”

“There’s no need,” put in one of the police officers, searching the body. He straightened up, holding a card. “He’s carrying identification. It says he is Philip Kalman Baum of 408 Pinewalk Avenue, Reevesboro. The car is registered in name of Ambrose Baum of same address.”

The other officer added, “This one is deader than a mackerel. His chest is shoved right in. The wheel did it.”

Norris turned to the agent who had accompanied them from the beginning. “You take charge here. You know how to handle it. Tell the pressmen nothing. Let ’em yawp—and refer them to our field office.” He beckoned to Harper. “We need you along.”

Entering the cruiser the three hustled away from the scene around which pedestrians had gathered in a murmuring semicircle.

“We may want more help than we’ve got,” remarked Norris, driving at high speed. “You’d better cancel that Roadking call and see who’s still on the turnpike. Tell them to follow us into Reevesboro.”

Rausch found the mike, sent out the message and a voice came back saying, “Car Four on Mason Turnpike at Perkins Corner.”

“Pick us up and tail us to Reevesboro,” Rausch ordered.

They reached the big twelve-track artery, gained top pace. A green Thunderbug was running ahead of them. They overhauled it slowly, passed, moved ahead. The Thunderbug was being driven by a matronly blonde. Harper stared at her thoughtfully, picked his teeth and said nothing. He was tired of feeling around inside green Thunderbugs.

After four miles a prowl-car shot off the verge and raced behind them. Another six miles and they side-tracked from the turnpike, ran into Reevesboro, found the address they were seeking. It was a small but attractive house standing in a half acre plot.

Driving a short distance past, Norris stopped, signaled the following car to close up behind. He got out, went to the other car in which were two police and two agents.

He said to the police, “You fellows stay here in case some escapee takes a fancy to an official auto.” Then to the agents, “You two get around to the back of that house. If anyone beats it that way as we go in through the front, he’s your meat.”

“You’re wasting time,” advised Harper, near enough to the house to know that nothing alien lurked within.

“I’m the judge of that,” Norris retorted. He waited for the two agents to make their way round the back, then started toward the front door. “Come on!”

A gray-haired, motherly woman answered the bell. She was in her late fifties or early sixties, had toil-worn hands and meek features.

“This is the Baum house,” said Norris, making it a statement rather than a question.

“That’s right,” she agreed. “But Mr. Philip and Mr. Ambrose aren’t here just now. I don’t know when they’ll be back.”

“They’ll never be back,” Norris told her.

Her wrinkled hand went to her mouth while she gazed at him in thoroughly startled manner. “Has . . . something happened?”

“Unfortunately, yes. Are you a relative?”

“I’m Mrs. Clague, their housekeeper,” she informed a little dazedly. “Are they—?”

“Any relatives living here?” interrupted Norris.