neglected to mention. When things quieted down, Billings took me aside. "That happened pretty fast," he said. "We didn't come out here for them." He pointed at Foster; Jason and Stone had been grabbed as they went out the back door. "We came out for you."
"How'd you find me? It wasn't that phone call?"
"What phone call?" He paused a moment, then went on. "You got me a little hot, you know, when you stole my car."
"I needed transportation, and I'd already used too many cabs."
"Shouldn't have stolen a police car. That baby belongs to the city. Come on, I'll show you something." As we went outside he said, "I usually drive it home. Looks like anybody else's buggy â a plainclothes car we call them. Microphone in the glove compartment, aerial under the frame, everything looks normal." We were at the car then and he opened the right-hand door, pointed a glowing flashlight at the seat. "Take a look."
S omething was stuffed down in back of the seat. "Transmission microphone," he said. "When you thought I was plugging in the lighter for my cigarette, I was turning on the radio. When you yanked me back by the collar, that gave me the chance to stuff the mike in there." He pulled the mike free. "Had to stuff it in so the button would stay down. You started transmitting to the police station before we even finished talking, and you drove off. You were transmitting all the time you were driving up here."
I swore, but happily.
He went on, "Didn't hear anything but the engine, since you didn't talk to yourself. Lost you for a while, but we finally got a fix on this transmitter and zeroed you in. Had all the radio cars in town out after you." He grunted heavily. "And we got three other live ones."
"You came close to getting a dead one," I said. "I guess you talked to Father Shanlon."
He shook his head. "No, but we will now. I've been too busy trying to catch up with you. And I didn't believe a word you said, anyway."
The ambulance attendants came out carrying Foster on a stretcher. Before they put him into the ambulance he started swearing at me. I leaned over the stretcher and said, "Foster, I've got a hunch you should have never bugged Shanlon's confessional. I'm not a very religious man myself, but it might be you were fooling around with some laws a little stronger than the city's."
His voice was weak, but he managed to swear filthily. "Don't give me that crap, Scott."
I shrugged. "Crap huh? I dunno myself, but maybe you will."
"What the hell do you mean?"
"You're gonna find out."
It seemed to me his face turned pale green, the color of Quentin's gas chamber, and that he held his breath. One thing was sure. Foster might never find out where he was going after that gas chamber, but he was going to go.
Billings drove me downtown in his police car. He was headed for the station, but I talked him into letting me out on Pepper Street. He said, "Listen, you've got to come down to Homicide, make a statement."
"Look, Billings, I'll come down. Hell, I want my money back. But there's somebody I've got to see first."
"Well, okay. But make it snappy. It's Thursday night; tomorrow's my day off, you know. Like to get everything cleaned up early."
"Don't worry about it."
He drove on toward town and I walked to the Essex. Two seconds after I pressed the buzzer, Gloria swung the door open, and her soft voice said, "Shell, honey!"
"Gloria," I cried. "Where's your towel?"
She pulled me inside and slammed the door. Some women take off their towel and they are merely nude; Gloria looked as if she'd just stepped out of a black-lace negligee. It was wondrous, it was tremendous, it was marvelous. It was Gloria's.
She grabbed me and said, "Oh, I was worried. But it's all right now."
"I can stay only a minute. Got to see Billings."
"Oh, honey, no."
"Got to get downtown . . . to police . . . headquarters . . ."
"Honey, honey, honey . . ."
Poor old Billings. I didn't get downtown until Saturday.
TROUBLE SHOOTER
I looked around
"How'd you find me? It wasn't that phone call?"
"What phone call?" He paused a moment, then went on. "You got me a little hot, you know, when you stole my car."
"I needed transportation, and I'd already used too many cabs."
"Shouldn't have stolen a police car. That baby belongs to the city. Come on, I'll show you something." As we went outside he said, "I usually drive it home. Looks like anybody else's buggy â a plainclothes car we call them. Microphone in the glove compartment, aerial under the frame, everything looks normal." We were at the car then and he opened the right-hand door, pointed a glowing flashlight at the seat. "Take a look."
S omething was stuffed down in back of the seat. "Transmission microphone," he said. "When you thought I was plugging in the lighter for my cigarette, I was turning on the radio. When you yanked me back by the collar, that gave me the chance to stuff the mike in there." He pulled the mike free. "Had to stuff it in so the button would stay down. You started transmitting to the police station before we even finished talking, and you drove off. You were transmitting all the time you were driving up here."
I swore, but happily.
He went on, "Didn't hear anything but the engine, since you didn't talk to yourself. Lost you for a while, but we finally got a fix on this transmitter and zeroed you in. Had all the radio cars in town out after you." He grunted heavily. "And we got three other live ones."
"You came close to getting a dead one," I said. "I guess you talked to Father Shanlon."
He shook his head. "No, but we will now. I've been too busy trying to catch up with you. And I didn't believe a word you said, anyway."
The ambulance attendants came out carrying Foster on a stretcher. Before they put him into the ambulance he started swearing at me. I leaned over the stretcher and said, "Foster, I've got a hunch you should have never bugged Shanlon's confessional. I'm not a very religious man myself, but it might be you were fooling around with some laws a little stronger than the city's."
His voice was weak, but he managed to swear filthily. "Don't give me that crap, Scott."
I shrugged. "Crap huh? I dunno myself, but maybe you will."
"What the hell do you mean?"
"You're gonna find out."
It seemed to me his face turned pale green, the color of Quentin's gas chamber, and that he held his breath. One thing was sure. Foster might never find out where he was going after that gas chamber, but he was going to go.
Billings drove me downtown in his police car. He was headed for the station, but I talked him into letting me out on Pepper Street. He said, "Listen, you've got to come down to Homicide, make a statement."
"Look, Billings, I'll come down. Hell, I want my money back. But there's somebody I've got to see first."
"Well, okay. But make it snappy. It's Thursday night; tomorrow's my day off, you know. Like to get everything cleaned up early."
"Don't worry about it."
He drove on toward town and I walked to the Essex. Two seconds after I pressed the buzzer, Gloria swung the door open, and her soft voice said, "Shell, honey!"
"Gloria," I cried. "Where's your towel?"
She pulled me inside and slammed the door. Some women take off their towel and they are merely nude; Gloria looked as if she'd just stepped out of a black-lace negligee. It was wondrous, it was tremendous, it was marvelous. It was Gloria's.
She grabbed me and said, "Oh, I was worried. But it's all right now."
"I can stay only a minute. Got to see Billings."
"Oh, honey, no."
"Got to get downtown . . . to police . . . headquarters . . ."
"Honey, honey, honey . . ."
Poor old Billings. I didn't get downtown until Saturday.
TROUBLE SHOOTER
I looked around
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