Mouthpiece (7 page)

Tony's jaw dropped. “A
squad car! Maybe they know where to look for us!” He was tense with fear.

“Two blocks from here,
eh?” Tascori's face was a calm mask. “Maybe you're right, Giovanni.” He walked
to the chair which had held Collins and tapped his fingers on its back. “All
right. We'll get our stuff together and leave. We can cruise down the back
alley out of sight. We can't afford to fight any cops right now.” He started
toward the stairs.

The shortwave receiver
crackled.

“Huh!” said Tony. “I
must have left it on this afternoon.” He started toward the table, his hand
outstretched to snap the button. His fingers touched the metal. At that
instant, the receiver spoke.

“Calling Squad Car
Sixty-five. Calling Squad Car Sixty-five. Calling Squad Car Sixty-five.”

The voice was somewhat
muffled but very crisp. It held a nasal twang.

“New announcer,”
stated Tascori as he paused at the foot of the stairs. “Let's see what he says.
That's probably the one you saw outside, Giovanni.”

Giovanni nodded his
head in affirmation.

“Calling Squad Car
Sixty-five,” intoned the loudspeaker. “Proceed immediately to 622 South Hanover
Street. Six, two, two, South Hanover Street. Proceed to six, two, two, South
Hanover Street. Prowler reported nearby. Prowler reported nearby. Proceed
immediately.”

The radio fell silent
and Tony was reaching for the button when it spoke again.

“Calling all squad
cars in north of city. Calling all squad cars in north of city.” The voice was
monotonous. “Calling all squad cars in north of city. Proceed in general
direction of northern city limits.

“Proceed immediately
north to intercept Tascori mob. Attention all squad cars in north of city.
‘One-Eye' Tascori has been sighted at Dickerson and Spring Streets proceeding
in general direction of Butler Square.”

The radio droned on,
assigning streets to cars, laying down a perfect net to trap the reported
gangster.

Tascori laughed
shortly. “Dumb cops! I guess we'll stay right here tonight. Safe enough with
them chasing us all over the other side of town. Leave it on. I want another
good laugh like that one!”

He
tugged at the patch over his sightless eye and came back into the room. Picking
up a paper, he once more read the story of Collins' downfall. Then, lying back in
an upholstered chair, he lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply.

F
or a good half hour he stared
ahead of him, plans passing back and forth behind his narrowed eye. Suddenly he
snapped out of his reverie.

The front door had
slammed! Feet were heard running through the house! In the other room the
gangsters threw back their chairs and jerked at their automatics. Tascori
sprang up, balanced for an instant on the balls of his feet and then ran for
the door.

But a drawling voice
stopped him. He glanced about him and then stared at the receiving set.

“You'd better stay
where you are, Tascori!” It was the voice of Collins! “Police are all around
the house and in the surrounding rooms. You're trapped! You and the rest of
your mob better surrender quietly if you want to live a few weeks longer!”

Tony and Giovanni had
run to the door at the sound of the voice. They stared for a moment at the
receiving set. Their guns fell from nerveless fingers and clattered to the
floor.

Tascori swayed
slightly and then insanely he sent a bullet crashing through the closed door of
the closet. He remembered where he had left Collins.

A cold voice above him
jerked him upright. A
Thompson submachine gun
was covering him. “Drop that gun,
Tascori!” The light glinted from a metal badge.

With a hoarse scream,
Tascori threw up his gun and fired wildly at the upper landing.

Flame spurted from the
machine gun. The impact of bullets hurled the gangster's body to the floor. The
crash of a pistol burst from the other room, and was followed by a fusillade.

The three remaining
gangsters cowered against the walls, whipped.

The police chief
walked down the stairs followed by two officers with the submachine gun. Four
policemen stepped through the doorway and looked around. The chief glanced into
the other room and then back at the stairs.

“Collins!” he called.
“Where are you?”

The torn loudspeaker
crackled for a moment and then was still. The chief stared at it, and then his
keen eyes caught the almost invisible strands of wire which led from its back
along the wall and under the closet door. He stepped to the place where they
disappeared and threw back the door.

Motioning one of the
officers to follow him, he entered and lifted Collins by the shoulders. The
policemen picked up the limp legs and together they carried him to the
upholstered chair.

As he sank back into
the cushions, Collins opened his eyes. “I see you got my message.” He smiled up
at the gruff chief's face which was creased with wonder.

Flame spurted from the machine gun. The impact
of bullets hurled the gangster's body to the floor.

“Yes!” returned the
chief. “You bet I did. How you got it to me I don't know, but I do know that
you've done a wonderful night's work.”

Collins opened his
clutched hand. In it lay the two tiny microphones, and away from it ran the
small strands of copper wire.

“It was just luck,” he
said weakly. “I finished these yesterday. Meant to have some fun with them at
home by hooking them to our receiving set there. And when I came away from
headquarters I took everything that belonged to me. Mainly these and some of
this coil wire.”

“Yes!” stammered the
chief. “But how in the name of blazes did you get them hooked up?”

“Got loose while I was
alone in the room, snapped them onto the sets. Meant to send the message right
then, but I didn't have time. Why I attached this to the receiving set I don't
know. Guess it was just because it was built for a receiving set.

“When I woke up in the
closet I heard them talking and discovered these things in my pocket.” He
looked up at the chief, his drawn face was full of expectancy. “Listen. See
that squad car map and that broadcasting set? There's your mystery of the
unrecorded calls. They came from that set, and Tascori,” he jerked his thumb at
the prostrate body, “imitated my voice and gave out orders in the lull of
headquarters' announcements. That's the answer. Listen, Chief, do I get my old
job back?”

“Do you get your job
back!” The chief started to slap Collins on the shoulder and then recalled that
the man was injured. He changed the slap to a gentle pat.

“My boy, you can have
the whole police force for this night's work! Come on, now we've got to get you
to a doctor.”

The Grease Spot

THE GREASE SPOT

T
HE
battered phonograph horn which served as a loudspeaker on the
grimed wall rasped out the police message.

“Calling Car Seventy-five. Calling Car Seventy-five.
Proceed to Tenth and Lynch Boulevard and investigate report of wreck.”

Bill Milan uncoiled an incredible pair of long legs and
stood up, reaching for his hat. His fat mechanic, Joe Pagett, scowled.

“You ain't going, are you, Bill?” growled Pagett.

“Sure I am. Don't think I'm scared, do you?”

“No. Sure you ain't scared, Bill. But just the same,
when the bulls tell us that it means a year in the can, I'm thinkin' it ain't
such a shiny idea to answer those wreck calls.”

“Well, we've got to keep in business, haven't we?”

Joe Pagett nodded. “Yeah. We've got to keep in business,
but just the same, I don't think the cops were fooling when they told us to lay
off their private radio system. The chief sounded pretty sore.”

Bill Milan slapped his hat on a head of tangled blond
hair and grinned.

“It's worth the chance anyway, isn't it? If we don't
pick up all the wreck business we can get, Bill Milan's Wrecker, Inc., is going
to go all-fired broke. And if the cops are willing to shoot all the dope into
the night air that way, what's the law against us going out after the business?
Did you ever hear of any?”

Joe Pagett pursed his dubious lips and rubbed his palms
against greasy coverall legs and sighed. “I know there ain't no laws about it,
Bill, and I'm just the mechanic around here, but I'd hate like the very devil
to see you cooling your heels in that bug-infested jail they've got in this
town. Maybe it'd be different if they was a good
calaboose
here.”

Bill Milan went to the door, paused, looking out into
the rain which skittered across the black pavement. “Aw, those cops give me a
pain. They're jealous, that's all.”

“Okay, Bill,” said Pagett. “It
won't be me in the jail. But the least you can do is to drive slow and give
those coppers a chance to get there first. And don't use that siren. They don't
like that either.”

B
ill Milan shoved the garage door back and climbed into the ancient
Fiat. The onetime limousine had been converted into a fast truck, and though
its cab sat twice as high as any ordinary car, under Bill's competent hands the
speed of the contrivance was astonishing.

He shot it out of the garage and skidded it to a stop in
front of the door. The great cylinders scattered sparks down the exhaust
stacks, but above their bellow, the loudspeaker, still bringing in the police
broadcast, was easily heard.

“All cars. All cars,” crackled the radio. “Drop search
for Carbonelli and companion. They have been reported crossing the state line
fifteen minutes ago and are now outside our jurisdiction. This is radio station
PXQ.”

The Fiat's cylinders blasted out a throaty roar. Bill
Milan stamped on the accelerator and rocketed out to the black, shining
pavement. His windshield wiper was going across his line of vision, and through
the clear arc, the street lights began to lope past. The tires sang over the
wet asphalt. His fingers sought for and found the string which led to the siren
under the
cowl
. The rising scream of the
nickel barrel
began to clear the
traffic for a swaying, yowling truck. Bill Milan was headed for Tenth and Lynch Boulevard.

The deftness of Bill's saber-swift driving was not without
its reason. Only two years before, Bill Milan had taken the Indianapolis track
for a record. He had barreled and bent his streaking bus five hundred miles to
a new low time. But now, Bill Milan's long right leg sometimes refused to move
when he wanted it worst. That had come from a badly mended break. The track
doctors had told Bill his racing career was done. That had been that. But there
was still a thrill in lashing the lurching Fiat out across the streets of the
city. Especially through the battering rain.

For a while after the finish of his high-speed career,
Bill Milan's fast driving had been profitable. He had found that the police
always broadcast wreck locations to their squad cars, and Bill had used that
fact to the limit. The loudspeaker on his wall always told him where to go and
when to go, and as a consequence, he had minted money. Always the first wrecker
there, he got the business.

But the phenomenon of Bill's presence at the scene of
every wreck had begun to cause not a little comment. It had gone too far to be
accredited to mere luck. And the rival towing companies had ferreted out the
secret. Even then, however, they stood little chance. The first man on the
scene was the man hired. And Bill's racing tactics, even when applied to a rumbling,
bellowing tow truck, were something to be reckoned with.

Up to that point, the police had
not cared. But as Bill progressed, it seemed that he had acquired the habit of
beating the squad cars to the scene. And that, because it directly reflected
upon the ability and efficiency of the department, was bad. Bill had been
summarily forbidden to utilize the radio to locate his wrecks upon the pain of
a severe fine and even more severe sentence.

T
enth and Lynch Boulevard met at an angle near the city limits. Only
street lights gleamed. The ghosts of darkened houses haunted the background of
the highway. It was from one of those that the call had come, for certainly no
one stood about the wrecked machine.

Bill skidded to a stop and looked down into the ditch. The
car's nose was crumpled against the far bank. Segments of the white rail jutted
out through the motor's base. The front wheels had torn loose from the inverted
body and lay alone and smashed fifty feet away. The taillight shone like a wet
ruby.

“They must be dead,” murmured Bill and climbed down. Out
of the odds and ends in the back of the truck he took a heavy-duty lamp, and
with this swinging at his side, he stumbled down the slippery bank and peered
through the gaping rear window.

But no bodies were in sight. Bill scratched his head and
looked up at the highway. He grinned a little when he realized that he had
beaten the squad car again. Perhaps he had better drive off and wait for them
to come up. Otherwise he'd be arrested probably.

He knew better than to move the wrecked car. There was
something mysterious about it. A man didn't leave so flashy a machine even
though it was wrecked badly.

Bill started to turn back, but something stopped him. A
round, hard something which bruised his lean ribs. A thin, bitter face hovered
over his shoulder, the black eyes hard. The face seemed to be suspended in
midair, completely without support. The man's black topcoat finished the
illusion.

“Just stand there!” rattled the man. “Put your hands up
a little.” He ran his fingers over Bill's pockets, frisking him for a gun. The
sensation was like that of a snake crawling.

Another face came up on Bill's left. “I got him covered,
Carbonelli. Get the stuff out of the bus and let's go.”

“What's this?” inquired Bill.

“We're playing tag,” snarled Carbonelli. “You're it. You
made good time getting here, and I'll see to it that you make better time
getting away. Bumping one more guy won't make no difference to us.”

The other's voice was like the bite of acid. “Yeah,
he'll drive us all right. And I'm glad, for one.”

Carbonelli bristled. “You didn't help matters any by
grabbing the emergency, you dumbhead.”

“Yeah, but you put us in the ditch, didn't you? And
right before the bulls cracked wise that we'd left the state. We had a clean chance
to hide out right here.”

Bill Milan could hear the radio still going in the
wrecked car. It was faint and sputtering, but the words were distinct.
Something about a woman thinking she'd heard a burglar in the house and would
the police come up and investigate. Bill wondered that the radio still worked.

The two men were scowling at each other through the
rain, their faces lighted by the beam from the wrecker. Their nerves were raw
and their working jaw muscles were tight.

“Okay, Krone,” grated Carbonelli. “Okay. When we get out
of this we'll split up, get me? I'm sick of your face and sick of your lip. You
bumped those guys and you didn't need to!”

Krone leaned forward as though about to strike. His gun
shifted away from Milan and covered Carbonelli. “I ain't in the bank business
for my health, pally. Get that and get it right. We got the stuff, didn't we?
And we got it because I bumped those guards. All right, shut up!”

Bill Milan, unobserved, swayed back a little. His hands
came slowly down to shoulder height. His fists were hard knots. Standing as he
was between the pair and the headlights of the wrecker, his movements passed
unobserved. With the sudden intensity of lightning, he struck. Krone took it on
the side of the jaw and went down, crying out.

Carbonelli brought up a glittering gun. Bill kicked it
away and waded in. His fists sought Carbonelli's chest. They rocked the
hard-faced bandit like a sledgehammer rocks a thin stake. Years of battling a
fighting wheel had given Bill Milan such muscles.

Carbonelli backed up. His fists were futile, useless
things. His eyes were no longer hard. They were lit with a fear of physical
pain.

Milan followed him up. The bank
was at Carbonelli's heels, muddy and slick. The rain battered their faces,
blinded them. Milan tensed himself for one last
haymaker
.

With dismaying abruptness, his weak leg caved in. Bill
tottered to one side, off his balance, fighting to hold himself erect. He swore
through gritted teeth.

Carbonelli's eyes lighted with savage fire. He shot out
his foot and smashed at Milan's shoulder. Bill slipped and thudded into the
oozing mud. An instant later Carbonelli dropped on him. Krone rolled over and
caught Bill's legs, holding them with both arms as a football player grabs a
tackling dummy. Carbonelli's fists spattered against Milan's unprotected
features.

“Okay,” rattled Krone. “Okay. He'll drive now.”

“You bet he'll drive,” agreed Carbonelli. “And when we
get to the end of the road we'll fix it so he'll never leave a clue as to what
finished him.” He smiled, a thin, evil twitch of his blackish lips. “If we put
him out of the way so he can't be identified, we won't leave any trail and the
first report will stand. Get me?”

“Yeah. But for God's sake, get going. The bulls'll be
here in about two seconds.”

Carbonelli kicked Bill Milan awake. He dragged him to
the top of the bank and made Bill stand up. “You're going to drive us,” stated
Carbonelli, “and no more monkey business.”

Bill's face tightened. His blue eyes were watchful.
“Okay with me.”

They climbed into the cab. Bill started the engine and
shot the truck into gear. It rumbled forward, one wheel off the pavement. Its
stiff springs let the body jolt. Bill threw out the clutch.

“I think I got a flat,” he said.

Carbonelli growled, “Get out there and see, Krone.”

“To hell with you!” snapped Krone. “I ain't going back
into that rain again. Not for anything. Let him go. He ain't got the guts to
try to
take a powder
on us.”

Bill climbed down gingerly because of his leg. He knew
that the truck ran that way naturally, but the two bandits didn't know it. They
were used to easy passenger cars. He made his way around to the back, then
limped up to the front. There he boosted himself up to the seat and slammed the
door.

“I was wrong,” he stated.

“Yeah, a stall, huh?” Carbonelli lifted his retrieved
gun. “Get going and get going fast. I hear a squad car coming.”

The Fiat rocketed away. The motor
yammered and the tires howled over the wet asphalt. The last of the street
lights disappeared with the white city limit sign.

Carbonelli kicked Bill Milan awake. He dragged him to the top
of the bank and made Bill stand up. “You're going to drive us,”
stated Carbonelli, “and no more monkey business.”