The Case of the Crime King

Chapter 12

West Sixth and Bixel is only a dozen blocks from the Police Building. It took us two minutes to get from the third floor to the garage, and about another two and a half minutes to reach the scene with our siren wide open. I barely had time to report in by air that we were answering the call before we were there.

Radio cars, their sirens screaming, were converging from all sides when we braked to a halt in front of the supermarket. Usually sirens bring an avalanche of curious onlookers, but in this case the gun duel had driven bystanders to cover. There wasn’t a soul in sight on the street except for two uniformed policemen. One lay on the sidewalk on his stomach, the other knelt over him. The kneeling officer’s right arm hung limply at his side, and his shoulder was bright with blood.

His face was white with shock when he looked up as Frank and I leaped from the car with drawn guns.

“They headed south on Bixel not thirty seconds ago,” he said. “Two men. Black fifty-eight Mercury sedan. California license KXT-Two-Oh-Nine.”

We didn’t wait to hear any more. By now two other police cars had arrived, so there would be plenty of aid for the wounded men. Frank and I jumped back into the car and roared off down Bixel.

Lifting the microphone from its bracket, I said, “Nine-K-Two to KMA-Three-Six-Seven, Control One.”

A voice from the speaker immediately replied, “Go ahead, Nine-K-Two.”

“We are proceeding south on Bixel from Grammon’s Supermarket, at West Sixth and Bixel. A pair of two-eleven suspects drove from the scene about thirty seconds ago in a black fifty-eight Mercury sedan, California license KXT-Two-Oh-Nine. No description of suspects. We do not have car in sight. Two officers were wounded by suspects. Over.

“Control One to Nine-K-Two. Roger. Attention, all units. Two suspects in black fifty-eight Mercury sedan, California license KXT-Two-Oh-Nine, proceeding south on Bixel from Sixth. Suspects are armed and have wounded two officers. Code Three. All units not in pursuit maintain radio silence.”

Bixel ends at Seventh Street. We jogged left, then right again onto Golden Avenue, which is virtually a continuation of Bixel. By now we were nearly to Olympic. Frank cut the siren and began to brake as an accident scene appeared ahead. A low-slung sports car was crosswise in the center of the street, its left rear fender crushed and its left rear wheel broken, so that the car canted at an angle. A man wearing a loud sport coat was dazedly climbing from behind the driver’s wheel.

The left front fender of a black sedan rested against the rear of the sports car. The sedan’s right front wheel was up on the curb.

I peered ahead at the sedan’s license plate as Frank slowed. “That’s the car,” I said.

We were now less than a quarter block away, and I reached for the door handle to jump from the car as soon as Frank came to a full stop. Suddenly the sedan’s motor roared, and it backed from contact with the sports car. Then it surged forward over the curb and onto the sidewalk. After rolling along the sidewalk for a dozen yards, it shot out into the street again between two parked cars.

There wasn’t room to get past the sports car on either side. Frank followed the sedan’s route, bumping up over the curb, running along the sidewalk, and bumping down off the curb again between the two parked cars. The black sedan swung left on Olympic just as we reached the street.

I had been too busy keeping my head from slamming into the windshield to reach for the microphone. But as we reached an even keel, I grabbed it from its bracket.

“Nine-K-Two to Control One,” I said.

“Go ahead, Nine-K-Two.”

“Have sighted Mercury sedan. Just turned east on Olympic from Golden. Wanted car was just involved in an accident and is now damaged on left side. We are in pursuit.”

Our siren, and the screeching of tires as we rounded the corner, all but drowned out the acknowledgment of our message.

Hanging up the mike, I drew my gun and leaned from the window. Our siren had halted traffic, clearing the way for both us and the fleeing Mercury. The sedan had a half block lead on us when we turned onto Olympic. By the time we neared Figueroa, we had closed the gap to a quarter block. But there were too many cars pulled over to the curb on both sides of the street to risk a shot.

A block and a half ahead a police car appeared, coming toward us with its siren wide open. The Mercury did a dirt-track turn and roared south on Figueroa. Frank wheeled right after it in an equally perilous turn, and a moment later the other police car shot around the corner and joined the parade.

For some miraculous reason there was no traffic at all on Figueroa at the moment, affording me my first chance for a clear shot since the chase had begun. I took careful aim and squeezed off two shots at the right rear tire.

Both missed.

I was aiming for a third shot when an arm reached out from the right front window of the car ahead. The companion of the driver was on his knees in the front seat, facing the rear, and there was a gun in his left hand. I saw his muzzle flash just before I squeezed the trigger.

There was a sound similar to that made by a cork being pulled from a bottle, and simultaneously something stung my cheek. It deflected my aim just enough to make me shoot high. I could see the mark made by the bullet as it plunked into the Mercury’s trunk.

The car ahead made another dirt-track left turn into Pico. As Frank spun us around the corner after it, I glanced at our windshield and saw what had made the popping sound. There was a neat hole in the center of the windshield. I touched my cheek and felt a drop of blood where a fragment of glass had hit my face.

We were right on the Mercury’s tail now. Aiming carefully, I squeezed off another shot. This time I was rewarded by seeing the car ahead swerve crazily, right itself, and swerve again. Frank nearly put me through the windshield as he slammed to a halt to avoid crashing into the Mercury’s rear.

There was a little more traffic on Pico than on Figueroa, but not much, and what little there was had stopped in obedience to our siren. The Mercury missed a motionless car facing us by a hair, barely missed a lamppost as it jolted up on the right-hand curb, careened along the sidewalk, and came to a halt with its right front fender crunched against the side of an office building.

Frank jerked on the emergency brake in the middle of the street, and we tumbled from either side of the car. Both front doors of the Mercury were flung open first, though. The two suspects were ducking into the areaway between two office buildings before our feet hit the street.

I got a bare glimpse of both from the back just before they disappeared. One was of average size, the other slim and only about five feet six or seven. Both wore tan jackets, tan slacks, and brown hats.

As the trailing police car screeched to a halt behind us, Frank and I headed for the area way at a dead run. I got there first, just in time to see the smaller suspect round the corner into the alley at the far end.

We made the alley in time to spot the smaller suspect astride an eight-foot board fence on its other side. I got a bare glimpse of his face. He had an oversized nose and wore horn-rimmed glasses. He dropped out of sight before either of us could snap a shot at him.

We both holstered our guns, ran toward the fence, leaped to grip the top and pull ourselves up. A bullet slammed into the boards immediately beneath me as I swung a leg over.

I didn’t take time to use the approved method of completing my trip across the fence. That would have left me a stationary target too long. Instead of reversing my handhold, throwing my legs over, and letting my grip cushion my fall, I dove off my perch head first. Fortunately my hands hit soft dirt, I tucked my head under and started a gymnasium roll.

Unfortunately, my angle of descent was too steep. I completed the roll, but the back of my head smacked sickeningly against the ground as I somersaulted. If I hadn’t been wearing a hat, I probably would have brained myself. As it was, I bounced erect just as you’re supposed to at the end of the roll, ran two steps, and fell heavily to my hands and knees. I dug my fingers into the dirt as the ground heaved back and forth under me like the deck of a small boat in a storm.

After a moment my giddiness passed enough for me to raise my head and take a groggy look around. Ahead of me was a driveway running alongside a house to the street. There was no sign of the suspects.

I had been conscious of Frank straddling the fence at the same time I did, but had lost track of him while doing my unsuccessful acrobatics. Now I glanced over my shoulder to see him lying on his back at the base of the fence.

Shaking my head to clear it, I lurched to my feet and reeled back to Frank. As I reached him, he pushed himself to a sitting position and groaned.

“Hit?” I asked.

He shook his head, but instead of speaking, merely gulped in air and wheezed it out again.

I said, “Hurt?”

He shook his head again, finally managed to gasp, “Landed flat on my back. Knocked the wind out of me.”

Apparently Frank, too, had decided not to remain a sitting target, and simply had let himself fall off the fence.

“Go on after them,” he said. “I’m not going to be able to move for a while.”

It was good advice, but I wasn’t in very good shape to take it. My rap on the head had left me so dizzy I was supporting myself against the fence with one hand.

I tried, though. Giving my head another shake, I drew my gun and started down the driveway at a staggering trot.

The drive came out at Cameron Lane. I looked in both directions.

There was no sign of the suspects.