It was as involuted and twisted as a Chinese puzzle. The police were looking for the Canaday killer. A group of professional bandits was also looking for the Canaday killer. And the police, to round it off, were looking for the professional bandits.
If the Canaday killer were looking for either the police or the bandits, then everything would be tied in the ultimate knot.
Well, they all had to start bumping into each other pretty soon. Too many people were milling around in the same restricted area; sooner or later they had to start making contact.
It began shortly after noon, and then it came twice in rapid succession. Two men were picked up when they came to apartments of people on the list Dougherty had given Joe. It had been Dougherty’s idea to put men on duty inside the apartments instead of merely on watch outside. How would they know what they were watching for if the fake polltakers were people other than Joe?
Well, it paid off. Two of the pollsters were nabbed within ten minutes of each other.
But the news was as bad as it was good. Both men had tried immediately, and disastrously, to escape, and both had been shot down. One of them had apparently had some idea of shooting it out, but had died with a gun in his hand that he hadn’t had a chance to use. The other had had an accomplice in a white Chevy II with red upholstery, and had almost succeeded in getting into the car and away. One of the arresting officers fired at his legs, but did so just as the suspect was ducking, and the bullet struck him in the back instead. He was still alive when he reached the hospital, but in a coma and not expected to regain consciousness. The accomplice and the white Chevy II were being searched for.
Also, the ambulance the gang had used in the robbery had finally been found. And, downtown, a truck with a Renault hidden inside it had drawn the attention of a patrolman after it had remained parked in one spot for nearly a week; it seemed certain the truck and Renault had had something to do with the robbery. None of the three vehicles bore a single useful fingerprint.
The new composite drawing of Joe, done by the police artist with Dougherty’s directions, had been identified by a cashier at the stadium as one of the men engaged in the robbery, if they needed any confirmation of that.
Then, at four-thirty, the phone on Dougherty’s desk rang, and when he picked it up it was Engel, the detective who’d taken over on the Canaday case.
Engel said, ‘I think I’ve got something for both of us, Bill. Checking out a report on an old boyfriend of the Canaday woman’s, fresh back in town from Mexico, and the boyfriend’s gone, but he left behind a guy who just might be part of the robbery gang.’
‘Where is this? Is it Joe?’
‘No, it doesn’t look like the drawing. From the looks of things, this guy was doing the poll routine and the boyfriend tumbled and then beat the crap out of him to find out where the rest of the gang was hiding.’
‘The boyfriend’s the killer?’
‘It looks that way.’
‘And he’s after the gang?’
‘Yeah, I know. They’re supposed to be after him.’
Dougherty said, ‘This one’s a lulu.’
‘Yeah. Anyway, this guy, he’s got identification says his name is Peter Rudd, he got beat up pretty bad before he decided to talk, and now all he wants to do is just keep talking. He keeps telling us where the gang is, over and over.’
‘He does? Where?’
‘Some place called Vimorama, out on —’
‘I know where it is. I’ll meet you there.’
‘Check.’
Dougherty put in a quick call for two cars and a riot squad and ran downstairs as fast as he could go. He got to the street before the cars did and stood there fidgeting back and forth from foot to foot, quivering with impatience.
It occurred to him he’d forgotten to ask the name of the boyfriend, the one who’d killed Ellen Canaday. But it didn’t matter. Who cared what that guy’s name was?
The two cars came up out of the basement garage and paused for Dougherty to slip in beside the driver of the first car. ‘Vimorama,’ he said. ‘Out 12N.’
‘Siren?’
‘No. Yes, till we get to the city line. Then cut it off.’
City line. He wasn’t even sure he had jurisdiction out at Vimorama.
Well, the hell with that.
The two cars screamed through the city and took the last couple of miles in silence, tearing along with the red lights flashing but no sirens sounding.
When they got there they saw it hadn’t made any difference how much noise they made. There was no one around anymore to be disturbed by them.
There’d been a fight out here, but it was over now. A tall long-armed guy lay sprawled out on the driveway that went in among the cabins. He’d been shot three limes, twice in the chest and once in the head, all from fifteen or twenty yards in front of him.
Over to the right a ways, there was a scene for Debussy to write a ballet around. A huge cheated blond giant as nude as the day he was born was lying dead on the grass, his head cradled in the lap of a cute little blonde girl wearing nothing but a pink half-slip. She wasn’t crying or anything, just sitting there on the ground with her feet
