Look at the Birdie (10 page)

“The State Police—call the State Police!” said Harve. The old man smiled foxily, shook his head. “They ain’t the ones offering the big reward,” he said.

The call went through. The Ilium Police were told where they could find Harve. The old man explained again and again where he lived. The Ilium Police would be coming out into unfamiliar territory. They had no jurisdiction there.

“He’s all quiet now,” said the old man. “I got him all calmed down.”

And that was a fact.

Harve was feeling the relaxation of a very hard game’s being over. The relaxation was a close relative of death.

“Funny thing to happen to an old man—right at the end of his days,” said the old man. “Now I get a thousand dollars, picture in the paper—God knows what all—”

“You want to hear my story?” said Harve.

“Pass the time?” said the old man amiably. “All right with me. Just don’t you budge from that chair.”

So Harve Elliot told his tale. He told it pretty well, listened to the story himself. He astonished himself with the
tale—and, with that astonishment, anger and terror began to seep into his being again.

“You’ve got to believe me!” said Harve. “You’ve got to let me call the State Police!”

The old man smiled indulgently. “Got to, you say?” he said.

“Don’t you know what kind of a town Ilium is?” said Harve.

“Expect I do,” said the old man. “I grew up there—and my father and grandfather, too.”

“Do you know what Ed Luby’s done to the town?” said Harve.

“Oh, I hear a few things now and then,” said the old man. “He gave a new wing for the hospital, I know. I know, on account of I was in that wing one time. Generous man, I’d say.”

“You can say that, even after what I’ve told you?” said Harve.

“Mr. Elliot,” said the old man, with very real sympathy, “I don’t think you’re in any condition to talk about who’s good and who’s bad. I know what I’m talking about when I say that, on account of I was crazy once myself.”

“I’m not crazy,” said Harve.

“That’s what I said, too,” said the old man. “But they took me off to the crazy house just the same. I had a big story, too—all about the things folks had done to me, all about things folks was ganging up to do to me.” He shook his head. “I believed that story, too. I mean, Mr. Elliot, I
believed
it.”

“I tell you, I’m
not
crazy,” said Harve.

“That’s for a doctor to say, now, ain’t it?” said the old man. “You know when they let me out of the crazy house, Mr. Elliot? You know when they let me out, said I could go home to my wife and family?”

“When?” said Harve. His muscles were tightening up. He knew he was going to have to rush past death again—to rush past death and into the night.

“They let me go home,” said the old man, “when I could finally see for myself that nobody was really trying to do me in, when I could see for myself it was all in my head.” He turned on the radio. “Let’s have some music while we wait,” he said. “Music always helps.”

Asinine music about teenage love came from the radio. And then there was this news bulletin:

“Units of the Ilium Police are now believed to be closing in on Harvey Elliot, escaped maniac, who killed a woman outside of the fashionable Key Club in Ilium tonight. Householders are warned, however, to continue to be on the lookout for this man, to keep all doors and windows locked, and to report at once any prowlers. Elliot is extremely dangerous and resourceful. The chief of police has characterized Elliot as a ‘mad dog,’ and he warns persons not to attempt to reason with him. The management of this station has offered a thousand-dollar reward for Elliot, dead or alive.

“This is WKLL,” said the announcer, “eight sixty on your dial, the friendly voice of Ilium, with news and music for your listening pleasure around the clock.”

It was then that Harve rushed the old man.

Harve knocked the gun aside. Both barrels roared.

The tremendous blast ripped a hole in the side of the house.

The old man held the gun limply, stupid with shock. He made no protest when Harve relieved him of the gun, went out the back door with it.

Sirens sobbed, far down the road.

• • •

Harve ran into the woods in back of the house. But then he understood that in the woods he could only provide a short and entertaining hunt for Captain Luby and his boys. Something more surprising was called for.

So Harve circled back to the road, lay down in a ditch.

Three Ilium police cars came to showy stops before the old man’s house. The front tire of one skidded to within a yard of Harve’s hand.

Captain Luby led his brave men up to the house. The blue flashers of the cars again created revolving islands of nightmare.

One policeman stayed outside. He sat at the wheel of the car nearest to Harve. He was intent on the raiders and the house.

Harve got out of the ditch quietly. He leveled the empty shotgun at the back of the policeman’s neck, said softly, politely, “Officer?”

The policeman turned his head, found himself staring down two rusty barrels the size of siege howitzers.

Harve recognized him. He was the sergeant who had arrested Harve and Claire, the one with the long scar that seamed his cheek and lips.

Harve got into the back of the car. “Let’s go,” he said evenly. “Pull away slowly, with your lights out. I’m insane—don’t forget that. If we get caught, I’ll kill you first. Let’s see how quietly you can pull away—and then let’s see how fast you can go after that.”

The Ilium police car streaked down a superhighway now. No one was in pursuit. Cars pulled over to let it by.

It was on its way to the nearest barracks of the State Police.

The sergeant at the wheel was a tough, realistic man. He did exactly what Harve told him to do. At the same time, he let Harve know that he wasn’t scared. He said what he pleased.

“What you think this is gonna get you, Elliot?” he said.

Harve had made himself comfortable in the backseat. “It’s going to get a lot of people a lot of things,” he said grimly.

“You figure the State Police will be softer on a murderer than we were?” said the sergeant.

“You know I’m not a murderer,” said Harve.

“Not a jailbreaker or a kidnapper, either, eh?” said the sergeant.

“We’ll see,” said Harve. “We’ll see what I am, and what I’m not. We’ll see what everybody is.”

“You want my advice, Elliot?” said the sergeant. “No,” said Harve.

“If I were you, I’d get clear the hell out of the country,” said the sergeant. “After all you’ve done, friend, you haven’t got a chance.”

Harve’s head was beginning to bother him again. It ached in a pulsing way. The wound on the back of his head stung, as though it were open again, and waves of wooziness came and went.

Speaking out of that wooziness, Harve said to the sergeant, “How many months out of the year do you spend in Florida? Your wife got a nice fur coat and a sixty-thousand-dollar house?”

“You really
are
nuts,” said the sergeant.

“You aren’t getting your share?” said Harve.

“Share of what?” said the sergeant. “I do my job. I get my pay.”

“In the rottenest city in the country,” said Harve. The sergeant laughed. “And you’re gonna change all that—right?”

The cruiser slowed down, swung into a turnout, came to a stop before a brand-new State Police barracks of garish, yellow brick.

The car was surrounded instantly by troopers with drawn guns.

The sergeant turned and grinned at Harve. “Here’s your idea of Heaven, buddy,” he said. “Go on—get out. Have a talk with the angels.”

Harve was hauled out of the car. Shackles were slammed on his wrists and ankles.

He was hoisted off his feet, was swept into the barracks, was set down hard on a cot in a cell.

The cell smelled of fresh paint.

Many people crowded around the cell door for a look at the desperado.

And then Harve passed out cold.

“No—he isn’t faking,” he heard someone say in a swirling mist. “He’s had a pretty bad blow on the back of his head.”

Harve opened his eyes. A very young man was standing over him.

“Hello,” said the young man, when he saw that Harve’s eyes were open.

“Who are you?” said Harve.

“Dr. Mitchell,” said the young man. He was a narrow-shouldered, grave, bespectacled young man. He looked very
insignificant in comparison with the two big men standing behind him. The two big men were Captain Luby and a uniformed sergeant of the State Police.

“How do you feel?” said Dr. Mitchell.

“Lousy,” said Harve.

“I’m not surprised,” said the doctor. He turned to Captain Luby. “You can’t take this man back to jail,” he said. “He’s got to go to Ilium Hospital. He’s got to have X-rays, got to be under observation for at least twenty-four hours.”

Captain Luby gave a wry laugh. “Now the taxpayers of Ilium gotta give him a nice rest, after the night he put in.”

Harve sat up. Nausea came and went. “My wife—how is my wife?”

“Half off her nut, after all the stuff you pulled,” said Captain Luby. “How the hell you expect her to be?”

“You’ve still got her locked up?” said Harve.

“Nah,” said Captain Luby. “Anybody who isn’t happy in our jail, we let ’em go right away—let ’em walk right out. You know that. You’re a big expert on that.”

“I want my wife brought out here,” said Harve. “That’s why I came here—” Grogginess came over him. “To get my wife out of Ilium,” he murmured.

“Why do you want to get your wife out of Ilium?” said Dr. Mitchell.

“Doc—” said the captain jocularly, “you go around asking jailbirds
how
come they want what they want, and you won’t have no time left over for medicine.”

Dr. Mitchell looked vaguely annoyed with the captain, put his question to Harve again.

“Doc,” said Captain Luby, “what’s that disease called—where somebody thinks everybody’s against ’em?”

“Paranoia,” said Dr. Mitchell tautly.

“We saw Ed Luby murder a woman,” said Harve. “They blamed it on me. They said they’d kill us if we told.” He lay back. Consciousness was fading fast. “For the love of God,” he said thickly, “somebody help.”

Consciousness was gone.

Harve Elliot was taken to Ilium Hospital in an ambulance. The sun was coming up. He was aware of the trip—aware of the sun, too. He heard someone mention the sun’s coming up.

He opened his eyes. Two men rode on a bench that paralleled his cot in the ambulance. The two swayed as the ambulance swayed.

Harve made no great effort to identify the two. When hope died, so, too, had curiosity. Harve, moreover, had been somehow drugged. He remembered the young doctor’s having given him a shot—to ease his pain, the doctor said. It killed Harve’s worries along with his pain, gave him what comfort there was in the illusion that nothing mattered.

His two fellow passengers now identified themselves by speaking to each other.

“You new in town, Doc?” said one. “Don’t believe I’ve ever seen you around before.” That was Captain Luby.

“I started practice three months ago,” the doctor said. That was Dr. Mitchell.

“You ought to get to know my brother,” said the captain. “He could help you get started. He gets a lot of people started.”

“So I’ve heard,” said the doctor.

“A little boost from Ed never hurt anybody,” said the captain.

“I wouldn’t think so,” said the doctor. “This guy sure pulled a boner when he tried to pin the murder on Ed,” said the captain. “I can see that,” said the doctor.

“Practically everybody who’s anybody in town is a witness for Ed and against this jerk,” said the captain. “Uh-huh,” said the doctor.

“I’ll fix you up with an introduction to Ed sometime,” said the captain. “I think you two would hit it off just fine.”

“I’m very flattered,” said the doctor.

At the emergency door of Ilium Hospital, Harve Elliot was transferred from the ambulance to a rubber-wheeled cart.

There was a brief delay in the receiving room, for another case had arrived just ahead of Harve. The delay wasn’t long, because the other case was dead on arrival. The other case, on a cart exactly like Harve’s, was a man.

Harve knew him.

The dead man was the man who had brought his girl out to Ed Luby’s Key Club so long ago, who had seen his girl killed by Ed Luby.

He was Harve’s prize witness—dead.

“What happened to him?” Captain Luby asked a nurse.

“Nobody knows,” she said. “They found him shot in the back of the neck—in the alley behind the bus station.” She covered the dead man’s face.

“Too bad,” said Captain Luby. He turned to Harve. “You’re luckier than him, anyway, Elliot,” he said. “At least you’re not dead.”
Harve Elliot was wheeled all over Ilium Hospital—had his skull X-rayed, had an electroencephalogram taken, let doctors peer gravely into his eyes, his nose, his ears, his throat.

Captain Luby and Dr. Mitchell went with him wherever he was rolled. And Harve was bound to agree with Captain Luby when the captain said, “It’s crazy, you know? We’re up all night, looking for a clean shot at this guy. Now here we are, all day long, getting the same guy the best treatment money can buy. Crazy.”

Harve’s time sense was addled by the shot Dr. Mitchell had given him, but he did realize that the examinations and tests were going awfully slowly—and that more and more doctors were being called in.

Dr. Mitchell seemed to grow a lot tenser about his patient, too.

Two more doctors arrived, looked briefly at Harve, then stepped aside with Dr. Mitchell for a whispered conference.

A janitor, mopping the corridor, paused in his wet and hopeless work to take a good look at Harve. “This him?” he said.

“That’s him,” said Captain Luby.

“Don’t look very desperate, do he?” said the janitor.

“Kind of ran out of desperation,” said the captain.

“Like a car run out of gas,” said the janitor. He nodded. “He crazy?” he asked.

“He better be,” said the captain.

“What you mean by that?” said the janitor.

“If he isn’t,” said the captain, “he’s going to the electric chair.”

“My, my,” said the janitor. He shook his head. “Sure glad
I ain’t him.” He resumed his mopping, sent a little tidal wave of gray water down the corridor.