The Case of the Courteous Killer

Chapter XI

Ever since the Courteous Killer had walked into the apartment, I had been subconsciously memorizing his description. Not because I thought I’d ever have the chance to relay it to anyone. It was merely the automatic reaction of long training. None of his victims had seen him for more than a few moments, and always at night. The look Harriet and I had gotten of him wasn’t much better.

But tonight I was able to study him for a considerable length of time under good lighting conditions. I could see now that the composite drawing of him that had been circulated was only slightly similar to his actual appearance. Now, taking my time, I could make an accurate estimate of his weight and height, and fix the shape of his body and the contours of his face in my mind. If I somehow managed to get out of the situation alive, I would be able to sit down with Garcia of S.I.D. and help him create a drawing that would be an almost photographic likeness.

It seemed unlikely that I’d ever have the chance, but I went on memorizing him, anyway.

I even got a look at his hair when we left the apartment. The composite we had circulated showed him wearing a hat, because that’s the way all witnesses had seen him. When he followed me from the apartment, he took off his hat and dropped it over his gun hand in order to conceal the gun in case we ran into anyone in the hall. Glancing back over my shoulder, I saw that he had medium-brown hair, receding slightly at the temples and beginning to gray. I filed the information in my mind along with the rest of his description.

Ray Pinker’s deduction that he favored his right leg proved correct. I hadn’t noticed any limp in the apartment, but he showed a slight but obvious stiffness in the leg when we went down the stairs.

We didn’t encounter anyone, either, in the building or outdoors. We made my Ford without incident. He had me get in from the right-hand side, then slide over under the wheel, so that he could more easily keep me covered while we were getting in the car. Once settled, he put his hat back on and kept the gun leveled at me at belt height.

Before starting the engine, I glanced up and down the street and asked, “What did you get here in?”

“Stolen car,” he said.

I thought my smile of satisfaction was suppressed, but something of my thoughts must have shown on my face, because he said indulgently, “It’s parked ten blocks from here. I walked the rest of the way. Did you think I’d park it right in front of your place, so some cop would drop in to say hello when it was found, and maybe get to wondering why you didn’t answer the door?”

I started the engine.

“Don’t get any heroic ideas,” he said. “Like driving without lights, or speeding so we’ll get stopped by some cop. If we do get stopped, you get a slug in the guts. That goes for trying to crack up the car, too. You’ll be dead before we crash, if you try it.”

I believed him. Both ideas he mentioned had occurred to me, but I decided neither would work. I switched on my lights.

He had me cross town to San Fernando Road, then follow it northwest out of town. San Fernando Road is both U.S. Highways 6 and 99. Where the two separate beyond San Fernando, he had me bear right on Route 6.

The fastest route out of the state would have been straight east on 60 toward Arizona. I guessed he was taking the northern route because it passed through the Mojave Desert, and later through the eastern edge of the Sierra Nevada Mountains. Either place would be excellent to dispose of a body.

Neither of us spoke until we were past San Fernando. Then I said in a casual tone, “Must not have been hit very bad that night, Gig.”

I felt him stiffen in the seat. “What?”

“I said you must not have been hit very bad.”

“Couple of flesh wounds. I mean, what did you call me?”

“Gig. It’s your name, isn’t it?”

He didn’t answer. After a moment I said, “What’s your full name?”

“The Courteous Killer, according to the papers.”

He wasn’t going to tumble, so I tried another tack. “How’d you manage to stay out of the way of four thousand cops looking for you?”

“Disguise,” he said laconically.

I glanced sidewise at him. “Yeah?”

“Simple one,” he said. “In the first place, that drawing you published wasn’t much good. And it stressed the glasses They’re only reading glasses, you know. I see just as well without them. I deliberately wear them on jobs, because ordinarily nobody ever sees me on the street with them. Just taking them off was a perfect disguise. I’ve walked right past a hundred cops in the past three weeks.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Rather clever idea, huh?”

Instead of answering, I said, “You’re not as illiterate as that letter you wrote, are you?”

I could almost feel his ego inflate. “That was a disguise, too. I’m pretty well educated.”

“College?” I asked.

I’d touched a sore spot. His tone was defensively short when he said, “Self-education sometimes beats a college degree. What you dig out yourself sticks better.”

I said, “Ever take a fall anywhere?”

He snorted. “Only suckers get caught in this racket.”

That told me that somewhere, sometime, he’d at least been questioned on suspicion. Maybe he’d even served a term somewhere. He wouldn’t have been so familiar with the term “take a fall,” otherwise.

“Where’d you take it?” I said.

He frowned at me. “Who told you I had?”

“You did,” I said. “Hurts your vanity, huh?”

His voice underwent a sudden change, turning as frigid as a deep-freeze. “You’re talking more and more like a cop... and less and less like a chauffeur. Just shut up and drive, unless you want your part of the trip to end sooner than I planned.”

I didn’t want to push my luck. Already I’d managed to get him to drop considerable information about himself. Information that might be invaluable in his apprehension if I ever got a chance to pass it on. I shut up and drove.

At Mojave I half expected him to order me to turn right toward Las Vegas. But when he didn’t say anything, I kept on 6 along the edge of the mountains. At 3:45 a.m. we passed through Big Pine, about two hundred and fifty miles from Los Angeles.

The road became more mountainous now. Periodically my kidnaper began to flick his gaze ahead, just long enough to get a quick glimpse of the terrain, then immediately bring it back to me again. I realized he was looking for landmarks, which probably meant we were nearing the spot he had picked for my murder. There wasn’t anything I could do about it. Never once did he leave his eyes off me long enough for me to make a break. The gun remained leveled at me steadily, and I knew that the slightest wrong move on my part would bring a bullet.

About halfway between Big Pine and Bishop, the road crossed a mountain stream. As we neared the bridge, he abruptly ordered me to stop.

I brought the car to a halt slowly. We were over the bridge and twenty yards beyond it before I drifted off on the shoulder and cut the ignition.

“Dim your lights,” he said.

I dimmed them.

He fumbled behind him for the door handle, pushed open the door and backed out. “Leave the keys in the ignition and get out,” he said.

He backed away as I obeyed, carefully keeping me covered. The early-morning mountain air was chilly, but I could feel sweat running down my sides beneath my shirt. Standing on the shoulder next to the car, I glanced up and down the road. Except for the bridge, there was no sign of civilization in sight. There were no lights of other cars, either. At that hour of the morning we had run into practically no traffic aside from trucks since we turned onto Highway 6. It had been ten miles since we’d even passed a truck.

With his gun he motioned me to walk ahead of him, back toward the bridge. The stream was perhaps a dozen feet across, and the bridge not more than three times that length. The stream ran in a gorge only about ten feet beneath the road. A concrete railing about hip high acted as a guard to keep cars from running into the gorge.

At the near end of the bridge, he halted me while he took a flashlight from his pocket and shone it on the banks on both sides. Apparently he decided it would be easier to get down to the water from the opposite side, for he urged me on again. His plan was obvious. He was going to force me to the water’s edge, shoot me in the back, and let me tumble into the water. By the beam of his flashlight, I had gotten a good look at the stream, and it appeared deep enough and swift enough to carry my body some distance from the road, where it probably wouldn’t be found for days or weeks, if ever.

I started across the bridge slowly, not eager to reach the other side. A third of the way across, the lights of a truck appeared over a rise a quarter mile in front of us.

“Snap it up!” he commanded, not wanting us to be caught in the headlights of the truck. “Run!”

It was the closest to a break I was likely to get from here on. I responded instantly. I took three running steps, heard his feet hit the road behind me, and suddenly dived headfirst over the low concrete railing.

It seemed to take forever to drop the ten or so feet to the water. Not knowing how deep the stream was, I launched myself in a long, shallow dive and hoped I wasn’t diving into six inches of water running over jagged rocks. As I fell, I braced myself for the shock of the water, for the crash of sharp rocks into my flesh, and for a bullet in the back.

Neither of the last two developed. The move had caught my kidnaper flat-footed. I heard him swear just as I entered the water in a flat dive. It was about four feet deep, and the bottom was gravel. My chest barely scraped against the gravel as I straightened out and shot downstream underwater.