101 Mystery Stories

67 The Art of Deduction Robert L. Fish

We had just come back from having some food in a greasy spoon when the call came through, or at least that’s when we first heard it. The dispatcher sounded irked, but he usually sounded irked.

“Car 63! Car 63!”

“That’s us,” I said.

“Too true,” Joe Rouse said — he’s my partner — and pushed a button. “Car 63,” he said.

The dispatcher came on, querulous. “Where you guys been?”

“Having lunch,” Joe said. “We always do. Why?”

“We got a bank job here,” the dispatcher said. “City Farmers Trust. They got away with eighteen thousand and change in an overnight bag. We think they may be heading your way.”

Joe was busy scribbling notes while I started the engine and got ready to roll. Joe paused and looked at the car speaker. “How long ago?”

“Roughly thirty minutes,” the dispatcher said. “Tune to get to your area if they’re headed that way.”

Joe jerked his thumb at me; I knew what he meant and headed for the nearest entrance to the turnpike. Joe nodded his agreement and went back to the car speaker. “What kind of car?”

This time the dispatcher’s voice was more disgusted then irked.

“We got three witnesses, so of course we got three descriptions. One says it was a dark green Ford, practically new; another says it was dark blue, not green, and he’s almost positive it was a Pontiac four, five years old, because his brother-in-law’s got one just like it; while the third simply says it was black and he has no notion as to what make or year. About all they agree on,” the dispatcher added sourly, “is that it wasn’t a polkadot striped station wagon.”

“Normal,” Joe said. “Did anyone at least notice was it a two-door or a four?”

“One guy said two, one said four, and the third didn’t notice.”

“I’m beginning to like the third guy best,” Joe said. “Did anyone bother to notice how many guys were in on the job?”

“Witnesses say they couldn’t tell if there were two or three in the car; it was too far away. People in the bank say only one guy did the stickup there, and there was the driver, but there could have been others inside the car.”

“That’s fine,” Joe said, and sighed. “With witnesses like you got, they could drop people off, pick ’em up, switch cars, anything. With witnesses like you got, they could even park the car, take a bus, split the dough, and give the bus driver a cut.”

“What do you want from me?” the dispatcher asked.

“Sympathy,” I said, leaning over and getting into the act.

“Who’s that, Fenner? You got it,” the dispatcher said, and for the first time he sounded happy. “The captain says you guys got to stay on patrol until further notice. Or until the bank robbers are caught, whichever comes first. I think maybe he’s got stock in the bank. Heh, heh!” And the speaker went dead.

“That four-letter word!” I said bitterly, “or a couple of them! And I got a heavy date for tonight!” I jammed on the accelerator in frustration, angled into the turnpike entrance with a squeal, speeded up, and managed to edge into traffic without being sideswiped. “Of all times!”

“Don’t worry about it,” Joe said, not impressed, and jerked his thumb toward the shoulder of the highway. “You trying to race them to the border, Fenner? Pull over!”

“Oh! Yeah,” I said a bit shamefacedly, and pulled from the turnpike, bumping to a halt on the shoulder, but keeping the car engine running. I stared out at the hundreds of cars that flashed by, trying to pick out a blue one, or a green one, or a black one, or the two-door or four-door ones, or the ones with two guys or maybe three guys or maybe more guys in them, and I wondered what we were doing here when we had no idea if the bank robbers were even heading our way, or what color car they were driving, or the make or model, or how many passengers were in it. And if I knew the captain, we’d still be sitting here at midnight if the guys weren’t picked up somewhere before then, or if they didn’t just drive into some station and confess!

Suddenly Joe leaned forward, his eyes narrowing almost to slits as they do when he gets to thinking hard. His big hand came out, squeezing my leg above the knee painfully.

“Let’s go, Fenner! Move!”

I stepped on the gas, as much out of reflex to that painful grip as to his yell, spurting onto the road between a semi-trailer and a big truck, barely missing being squished, buffeted by the backlash of the wind from the semi and the blast of an outraged horn from the truck, swaying wildly a moment to get control, and finally settling down between the two monsters speeding along just under 70. I glanced over at Joe.

“Where we going?”

“Just stay behind that semi!” he said grimly.

“Right!” I said, mystified, and then suddenly had to touch my brakes as the trailer’s directional lights flashed on and the huge semi pulled to the left to pass a car.

“There!” Joe said, pointing. “That dark sedan! Let’s get them!”

I put on the flasher and siren and at the same time cut sharply in front of the sedan, forcing it to brake and spin onto the shoulder, twisting, almost into the guard-rail before it came to a shuddering stop, the truck shooting by us, its horn blaring, almost taking off my tail. I wondered what on earth had come over Joe, but he was already out of the car and had his gun on the men in the sedan before they could begin to recover from the shock of being stopped so suddenly. And when they did I was there on the other side of the car and the three were climbing down and lining up, leaning against the side of the sedan while Joe frisked them.

We found the money wedged under the back seat, 518,000 plus in an overnight bag, and we brought it in with our three prisoners. But I still couldn’t understand how Joe had spotted the car. Joe explained when we went out for a shot and a beer, which he properly felt we had earned.

“Man!” he said wonderingly. “Who goes 55 miles per hour on a highway today? You go 55 and you better have a ramp on top of your car so they can go over you, because otherwise they’ll go right through you!”

“True,” I said, still puzzled, “but—”

“The only guys going 55 are guys who don’t want to be stopped, can’t afford to be stopped, can’t take a chance of being stopped,” Joe said. “So when I see this car just ambling along, staying inside the limit—”

He shrugged. “And you notice the car was gray, not green or blue or black? And it was a Chevy? Witnesses!” he said with a grimace, and raised his glass.