It was not a comfortable position. In addition, the motion of the car had a lulling effect, and I found it hard to keep from dropping off to sleep. By 11:30 p.m. I began to wonder if there wasn’t some simpler way to catch bandits.
I called up to Harriet, “Pull up somewhere for a minute. I’m about to freeze permanently into this shape.”
“All right,” she said, and started to slow. But immediately she picked up speed again. In a low voice she said, “Think we just got a taker.”
I forgot the necessity of getting out for a stretch. “Where are we?” I asked quickly.
“Going east on Wilshire. Witmer’s just ahead.”
Wilshire and Witmer was Frank and Emlet’s stakeout point. I said, “Signal the stakeout when you turn left, but keep going toward Third. If your tail turns left, too, pick a driveway just short of Third. That’ll give the stakeout at Third and Alvarado time to close in, too.”
“Roger,” Harriet said in a calm voice.
I felt the car turn left. “Still with us?” I asked.
“Uh-huh. The stakeout car just joined the parade.”
“Can you make out the suspect’s appearance in your rearview mirror?”
“No,” she said. “Just that it’s a lone man. He’s driving a Chevrolet coupe.”
We were driving at no more than twenty-five miles an hour. The convertible slowed to fifteen. “Third’s just ahead,” Harriet said. “I’ve spotted a driveway. Here we go.”
The car turned right into the driveway and stopped. “He’s slowing,” Harriet whispered. “Now he’s parking at the curb.” There was a long pause before she said, “He’s not getting out of the car. He’s just sitting there.”
“You sit, too,” I directed. “Let him make his play. What are Frank and Jack doing?”
“They’re parked fifty feet behind him. Here comes the other stakeout car, too. It’s parking across the street. The suspect doesn’t seem to be paying any attention to it.”
“Sit tight,” I said.
Five minutes passed without anything happening. I knew none of the stakeout men would move until the suspect did. We wanted to take him in the act.
“Think he’s waiting for me to get out of the car?” Harriet asked in a low voice.
“Let him wait,” I said. “We’ve got all night.”
Another five minutes passed before the man in the Chevrolet finally decided to move.
“He’s getting out of the car,” Harriet said softly. “He’s heading this way. The stakeouts are getting out and closing in, too.”
I gripped my gun and got my left hand underneath me, ready to push myself erect.
“Fifteen feet away,” Harriet whispered. “Ten now.”
A hesitant voice from a few feet away said, “Having trouble, lady?”
I came up from the floor like a jack-in-the-box, my gun leveled. “Police officer, mister. Hold it right there!”
He was a tall, gangling blond kid of about nineteen. Before he could even react, Frank was on him from behind and had his arms twisted behind his back. The youngster’s eyes bugged out when he found himself surrounded by three other detectives leveling guns at him.
Jack Emlet gave the suspect a fast shake and said, “He’s clean.”
Frank released his arms. I stepped from the car, and we all put our guns away, since it was pretty obvious this wasn’t the fish we’d been angling for.
“Wha... what is this?” the blond boy gasped.
“What’s your name, son?” I asked.
“Mar — Martel. Harry Martel.”
“Got a driver’s license?”
“Sure,” he said. He pulled out a wallet and thrust it toward me, eager to co-operate.
Without touching the wallet, I said, “Take out the license.”
He looked at me blankly for a moment, then withdrew the license and gave it to me. His name was listed as Harry Martel, and his address was on Hoover. I handed the license back, and he put it away.
“Why were you tailing this car, Harry?” I asked.
“Tailing it?” he said in a tone indicating such a thought had never occurred to him. “I just thought the lady was in some kind of trouble. She sat there without getting out of the car for so long. I was just offering to help.”
“Sure,” I said. “You weren’t trying to pick her up, were you?”
“Me?” he asked on a high note. “I was just being helpful. Honest, mister, I didn’t mean anything.”
Frank said, “Ever take a fall, Harry?”
“A what?”
“Ever been arrested?”
“Me? No, sir. Well, for speeding once.”
“Never been arrested for mashing?”
“Mashing?” he said in a shocked tone. “Not me, mister. You’ve got this all wrong. I wasn’t trying to pick up this lady.”
“You’ve got a lousy technique if you were,” I told him. “You wouldn’t score one time in a hundred.”
We took Harry Martel down to the Police Building and ran his name through R & I. There was no record on him. His description did not answer that of any recently reported mashers.
He was released with an admonition not to attempt to follow any more strange women.
For the next two nights we continued to dangle the bait without getting a rise from the convertible bandit. Harriet, being an attractive woman, drew the attention of several more mashers, but none went so far as to attempt to approach her. In all cases they merely drove slowly by when she parked, looking her over but apparently not having the courage to make an overt advance.
Tuesday, August 6th, at 11:42 p.m., we were cruising as usual. I was half dozing on the floor of the car when Harriet suddenly said, “Another taker, Joe.”
I came awake instantly. “Where are we?”
“We just passed the stakeout at Third and Alvarado. I won’t have a chance to signal again until we hit Eighth and Hoover.”
“That’s Marty Wynn and Vance Brasher,” I said. “Keep going straight on Eighth after you signal them, instead of turning right. He might get suspicious if you start circling.”
“Roger,” she said. Then, after a moment, “Joe, I have a feeling this one is our fish.”
“Yeah?” I asked.
“I got a glimpse of his face when we turned left at Alvarado. It was too late to signal the stakeout, but he answers the description.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Middle-aged, round face, rimless glasses. He’s driving a Buick sedan.”
A feeling of elation rose in me, only to be immediately replaced by one of consternation. There was a loud bang, and the convertible swerved to the right. Harriet wrenched it straight again, we bumped along for a few yards and slowed to a stop.
“A broken bottle in the street,” Harriet whispered. “I saw it just too late. He’s pulled past and is stopping just ahead of us, Joe.”
We couldn’t have picked a worse spot for a front-tire blowout. We were exactly halfway between two stakeout points. And we had no radio communication.
Chapter VIII
Harriet said, “He’s getting out of his car, Joe.”
My palm was sweating against the butt of my gun. If the man was the bandit, and decided to shoot it out, he was almost certain to get in the first shot. He could be the bandit, he could be another masher, or he could be an innocent citizen offering to help a damsel in distress. I couldn’t fire until I was sure, and about the only way to make sure was to give him a chance to shoot first.
“What’s he look like?” I asked.
“Forty-five, maybe,” she said in a barely audible tone. “Five nine, a hundred seventy to seventy-five. Pleasant face. Joe, it’s him. He answers the description to a T.”
I got my left hand braced beneath me.
“He’s getting close,” Harriet whispered. “He’s reaching into his pocket now.”
“Drop sidewise in the seat,” I said, and heaved myself upward into a crouch, my gun swinging forward. “Police officer, mister!” I snapped. “Hold it right there!”