away, unseen, towards the lights of the City.
Sergeant Joe Beigler of the City Police was on night duty. The wall clock showed twenty minutes past four a.m. He sat at his desk, the inevitable carton of coffee at his elbow, the inevitable cigarette between his lips. He was a big, powerfully built man in his late thirties. His hard, fleshy face was freckled. He was wearing a short sleeved shirt and the collar was open: the black knotted tie, dragged down.
Across the room with its rows of empty desks, Detective 3rd Grade Max Jacoby shared the watch. He was young, tall, dark and enthusiastic. He was going through a mass of reports, humming contentedly.
“Would you lay off that buzzing noise?” Beigler said. “You’re not in Sinatra’s class although you may think you are.”
Jacoby leaned back in his chair and grinned.
“Sheer jealousy, Sarg,” he said. “You should hear me when I really cut loose.”
“Get on with the work,” Beigler growled. “Have you finished with those reports?”
“A few left.” Jacoby looked at the wall clock, shaking his head. “Man! Can I use my bed!”
The telephone bell rang. Beigler scooped up the receiver in a powerful, hairy hand. He listened to the agitated voice. Watching him curiously, Jacoby saw that Beigler’s face had become tense and he pushed back his chair, knowing it must be an emergency.
Beigler said into the mouthpiece, “Don’t touch anything. We’ll have men with you in a few minutes. Yes, okay. Just wait.” He hung up, grabbed another telephone receiver that connected him direct to Operations room. “Jack? Get four men out to the Harrison Wentworth Sanatorium pronto. There’s an emergency up there! They are to stand guard. Tell them not to touch a thing.” He slammed down the receiver, then snatched at another telephone. “Charlie . . . call Hess. Get him up to the Harrison Wentworth Asylum. Alert Homicide. We need the full treatment up there.” He hung up, then looked across at Jacoby who was listening to all this, he said, “One of the nuts has escaped. He’s killed his male nurse. Get road blocks set up. You handle it.”
“Description?” Jacoby asked as he reached for the telephone on his desk.
“We haven’t one right now. Get the road blocks set up. Tell them to check all identities. The man’s name is Paul Forrester. He won’t have any means of identifying himself.”
“Forrester!” Jacoby stiffened. “Judas! That’s . . .”
“I know who it is! Get on with it!” Beigler again grabbed the telephone receiver. “Charlie . . . you got Hess? Fine. Get me the Chief.”
Chief of Police Frank Terrell slept lightly. The first ring of the telephone bell by the side of the double bed brought him instantly awake. His wife, Carrie, sleeping at his side, moaned and came awake much more slowly.
Already sitting on the side of the bed, Terrell, a big man with sandy hair that stood on end and with a jutting aggressive jaw was saying, “Yes, Joe? What is it?”
“We have trouble at the Harrison Wentworth,” Beigler told him. “Paul Forrester has killed his nurse and has escaped.”
“Paul Forrester?” Terrell’s voice shot up.
“Yeah. I’m setting up road blocks. Hess is on his way out there. What else do you want me to do?”
“Send a car for me, Joe. I’ll be right with you.”
He hung up and began to scramble into his clothes.
Carrie, a large, comfortable looking woman, had got into her dressing-gown and had left the bedroom. By the time Terrell was dressed, she had a cup of coffee waiting for him.
He smiled affectionately at her.
“Thanks, honey. I couldn’t live without you.” He gulped down the coffee.
Then they heard a car pull up outside their modest bungalow.
“Is it serious?” Carrie asked, following her husband to the front door.
“Yes . . . don’t expect me back tonight. I’ll call you when I have time.” He gave her a quick kiss and then hurried down the short garden path to the waiting
Sergeant Joe Beigler of the City Police was on night duty. The wall clock showed twenty minutes past four a.m. He sat at his desk, the inevitable carton of coffee at his elbow, the inevitable cigarette between his lips. He was a big, powerfully built man in his late thirties. His hard, fleshy face was freckled. He was wearing a short sleeved shirt and the collar was open: the black knotted tie, dragged down.
Across the room with its rows of empty desks, Detective 3rd Grade Max Jacoby shared the watch. He was young, tall, dark and enthusiastic. He was going through a mass of reports, humming contentedly.
“Would you lay off that buzzing noise?” Beigler said. “You’re not in Sinatra’s class although you may think you are.”
Jacoby leaned back in his chair and grinned.
“Sheer jealousy, Sarg,” he said. “You should hear me when I really cut loose.”
“Get on with the work,” Beigler growled. “Have you finished with those reports?”
“A few left.” Jacoby looked at the wall clock, shaking his head. “Man! Can I use my bed!”
The telephone bell rang. Beigler scooped up the receiver in a powerful, hairy hand. He listened to the agitated voice. Watching him curiously, Jacoby saw that Beigler’s face had become tense and he pushed back his chair, knowing it must be an emergency.
Beigler said into the mouthpiece, “Don’t touch anything. We’ll have men with you in a few minutes. Yes, okay. Just wait.” He hung up, grabbed another telephone receiver that connected him direct to Operations room. “Jack? Get four men out to the Harrison Wentworth Sanatorium pronto. There’s an emergency up there! They are to stand guard. Tell them not to touch a thing.” He slammed down the receiver, then snatched at another telephone. “Charlie . . . call Hess. Get him up to the Harrison Wentworth Asylum. Alert Homicide. We need the full treatment up there.” He hung up, then looked across at Jacoby who was listening to all this, he said, “One of the nuts has escaped. He’s killed his male nurse. Get road blocks set up. You handle it.”
“Description?” Jacoby asked as he reached for the telephone on his desk.
“We haven’t one right now. Get the road blocks set up. Tell them to check all identities. The man’s name is Paul Forrester. He won’t have any means of identifying himself.”
“Forrester!” Jacoby stiffened. “Judas! That’s . . .”
“I know who it is! Get on with it!” Beigler again grabbed the telephone receiver. “Charlie . . . you got Hess? Fine. Get me the Chief.”
Chief of Police Frank Terrell slept lightly. The first ring of the telephone bell by the side of the double bed brought him instantly awake. His wife, Carrie, sleeping at his side, moaned and came awake much more slowly.
Already sitting on the side of the bed, Terrell, a big man with sandy hair that stood on end and with a jutting aggressive jaw was saying, “Yes, Joe? What is it?”
“We have trouble at the Harrison Wentworth,” Beigler told him. “Paul Forrester has killed his nurse and has escaped.”
“Paul Forrester?” Terrell’s voice shot up.
“Yeah. I’m setting up road blocks. Hess is on his way out there. What else do you want me to do?”
“Send a car for me, Joe. I’ll be right with you.”
He hung up and began to scramble into his clothes.
Carrie, a large, comfortable looking woman, had got into her dressing-gown and had left the bedroom. By the time Terrell was dressed, she had a cup of coffee waiting for him.
He smiled affectionately at her.
“Thanks, honey. I couldn’t live without you.” He gulped down the coffee.
Then they heard a car pull up outside their modest bungalow.
“Is it serious?” Carrie asked, following her husband to the front door.
“Yes . . . don’t expect me back tonight. I’ll call you when I have time.” He gave her a quick kiss and then hurried down the short garden path to the waiting
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