“What’s come up?”
“Just get in here. Make it fast.”
There was something funny in Officer Nieman’s voice, some sort of agitation. Officer Mason said, “Okay, Fred, here we come.” He hung up the microphone again and said to Officer Felder, “Something’s sure got him upset. You hear his voice?”
“I heard it.” Officer Felder had already made the turn into Caulkins Street, and was driving toward police headquarters.
“That’s a funny thing,” said Officer Mason.
“What is?”
“Kidding around one minute, then all upset the next.”
“Maybe he wasn’t kidding around. Maybe he got all formal and everything because he was upset already. Got rattled or something.”
“Well, let’s see what it is.”
The police station was a modern building. It, and the fire department building across the street, had both been built five years ago, both with the same architect. They were built of tan brick, broad low buildings one storey high, very similar in appearance except for the wide garage-type doors across half of the fire department building façade. Flanking the police station entrance were large modernistic faceted green lights, and across the street the fire department entrance was flanked by similar lights in red.
Officer Felder pulled to the curb in front of the building, in the No Parking zone, one of the few in town. They both got out of the car and went up the cement walk past the well-tended lawn into the building. They entered upon a hallway, and the Command Room as the architect had called it where Fred Nieman would be, was to the left. It was a large room, with desks along one wall, and a counter in front of the area where the radio and booking desk were located.
They went into the Command Room, and Fred Nieman looked at them from over by the radio. He didn’t stand up or say anything or do anything. He offered them a weak and sheepish smile, and just sat there.
A voice behind them said, quietly, “There’s seven guns on you. Either of you make a single solitary move, you’re dead seven times.”
The two officers froze. Both of them thought immediately that it was some sort of gag, and both looked at Officer Nieman to find a clue in his face. But Nieman’s face was pale and frightened and sheepish, slit by a nervous, ashamed smile.
Footsteps sounded on the black composition flooring, coming from behind them, going to right and to left. Two men came around in front of them, both in dark work clothing, both wearing black hoods, slit three times for eyes and mouth. One of the two was carrying a Thompson submachine gun and had what looked like a walkie-talkie strapped to his back. The other one had a walkie-talkie, too, and carried a rifle.
Mason thought, A war attack. Commies! But even while he was thinking it, he knew that wasn’t it. This was something else. It might even be something worse.
Another black-hooded man, this one with a rifle but no walkie-talkie, stood up from where he’d been crouched beside the radio, out of sight from the door, and said, “Okay, Fred boy, git on over there by your pals.”
Officer Nieman got shakily to his feet and went around the end of the counter and came across the floor toward Mason and Felder. His face was pale, and shone with sweat under the fluorescent lights. A look of apology and shame was all over his face. Mason, watching him, thought Fred might even faint.
A hand came from behind Mason and took the revolver out of his holster. Another hand unarmed Felder.
The one with the machine gun said, “Listen close. For the next few hours, you got nothing to do but sit. You just sit, and don’t get cute ideas, and you’ll be all right. You.” He pointed the machine gun at Mason. “What’s your name?”
“Officer Mason.”
“First name.”
“Jim. James.”
“All right, Jim. You, what’s your name? First name.”
“Albert.”
“They call you Al, or Bert?”
“Al.”
“Okay, Jim, Al, turn around, and do it slow.”
They turned around. There were four more of them back there, hooded, in work clothes, one with another Thompson submachine gun, one with another rifle, and two with revolvers. They were just standing there, pointing all that death at Mason and Felder.
The spokesman said, “All right, Jim, Al, you’ve seen enough. Turn around again.”
They turned around. Mason was trying to think, trying to figure out their game. What the hell was all this?
The spokesman was saying, “Who’s got the prowl car key?”
Felder said, “Me. I have.” Mason was gratified to hear a quaver in Felder’s voice; he didn’t want either of his brother officers to be less frightened than he was, and he was terrified.
“Bring it over here, Al. Hand it to me.”
Felder did as he was told.
“Now go back where you were, Al. The two of you, Al, Jim, get your handcuffs out. Reach them behind you. Don’t turn around, Jim, just reach back. Now put your hands together behind you.”
Mason put his hands behind his back, and felt the cold metal of the cuffs close around his wrists. He looked at Nieman’s face and suddenly realized why Nieman had been so formal when he’d called in; he was trying to warn them.
Mason said, softly, “I’m sorry, Fred, I didn’t get it.”
“Didn’t get what?” It was the one who’d been hidden behind the radio, stepping forward.
Mason closed his mouth. Now he’d done it!
The one with the rifle and the walkie-talkie said, “All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players. Fred’s seen too many movies. He tried to signal these two by calling them by their last names.”
“Son of a bitch!” The one who’d been hidden behind the radio came closer and raised the rifle and slashed at Fred Nieman’s head with the butt. Nieman ducked away, raising his arms, and the rifle butt thudded into his shoulder, knocking him down.
The spokesman said sharply, “Cut that out! We need him.”
“You hear what he tried to pull?”
“It didn’t work. It never does. Fred, how’s your shoulder?”
Nieman sat on the floor, holding his shoulder, and didn’t speak.
The one who’d hit him said, “You better answer, boy, double quick.”
“It’s all right.”
“Good,” said the spokesman. “All right, Al, Jim, come on over this way. Al, lie down between these two desks here. Face down, that’ll be more comfortable, with your hands behind you that way. Jim, you over here between these two desks.”
It was tough to get down without his hands to help him. He dropped to his knees and was stuck, until hands came along to lower him more or less gently the rest of the way. He felt his ankles being tied, and then a new voice said, “Open your mouth, Jim.”
He opened his mouth. A piece of sponge was stuck into it and then a cloth tied around his head, covering his mouth, to keep the sponge in.
He couldn’t see anyone now. All he could see was desk legs and chair legs and the wall. But his ear was pressed against the floor, and he could loudly hear them walking around.
A new voice said, “All right, Fred, get back to the radio. You just sit there, and if a call comes in from anywhere, you handle it like it was a normal night. And don’t try anything else cute. I’ll know if you do.”
It was a familiar voice to Mason, the first familiar voice to come out from one of those black hoods. It was an arrogant voice, and an angry voice, and a familiar voice. Who? Who the hell was it?
All at once he knew, and his terror doubled. He heard the footsteps receding and then the familiar voice saying, “Now we’re alone, boys. Just you three and me. And this Tommy gun.
Edgars! It was Edgars!
2
Chambers felt all right now, all the nervousness gone, all the jumpiness out of his system. All he’d needed was to get started, get intothis thing. From the second he’d clubbed that smart-ass cop, every bit of jitters just washed right on out of him.