The Lock and the Key

Chapter Twenty-Two

He left the drugstore and walked quickly to his car, two blocks away. Climbing in, he headed back to Highway No. 66, but instead of turning right, he turned left. Highway No. 66 was the transcontinental road, that ran through the desert, into Arizona and the East. Upland was on Highway No. 66; anyone hunting Tommy, as a result of the phone call from Upland, would assume that he was heading for the desert, or the State line.

So Tommy doubled back on his trail. He drove discreetly, well within the State speed limit, to Monrovia and there found a secondary paved road, State Highway No. 35. It was a poor road and wound its way tortuously through a series of foothills, but at length brought him into the city of San Fernando only a few miles from his starting point that morning in Van Nuys. Here he got onto a better road, Highway No. 6, the main inland route to the north.

It was a well-traveled road and Tommy felt uneasy driving on it, yet it led in the general direction he wanted and he kept to it through Newhall and on toward Palmdale.

And then Tommy’s luck began to run out. Passing a road marker that read: Newhall, 3 miles, he saw ahead of him a truck slewed half across the road and ahead a sedan lying on its side in the shallow ditch that ran beside the road.

The accident had apparently occurred only moments before; the wheels of the sedan were still spinning and the truck driver was running from his vehicle to help whoever was in the automobile.

Tommy slowed down his coupe, shifted to second to pass the truck on the left side. The truck driver by then had reached the car and hearing Tommy’s motor looked over his shoulder.

“Hey, Mister!” he yelled. “Help me here — they’re bad off!”

Tommy groaned. Common decency would not permit him to ignore the summons, yet his own safety demanded obscurity and flight. But he stopped his car on the left side of the road and ran across to help the truck driver.

There were two people in the car, a middle-aged man behind the wheel and a girl of twelve or thirteen who was on the right side of the car — the side on which the car was resting.

The man was unconscious, the weight of his body holding down the girl, whose face was bleeding. The girl was conscious, however, conscious and whimpering.

The left car door had become jammed and the truck driver was unable to force it open. Tommy, coming up, gripped the door handle with his right hand and turning it with some effort, took hold of the window sill with his left.

“Grab hold,” he said to the truck driver, “and we’ll pull together. One, two... three!”

Steel grated against steel and the car door came up. Letting the truck driver hold it up, Tommy clambered to the top of the car and reaching down, caught hold of the unconscious man’s arm. He pulled up on it, raising the body from the girl underneath, hooked both hands under the man’s armpits and heaved. He brought the man’s head and shoulders up to the door and then the truck driver helped lift him out and lay him on the ground.

Tommy started to climb up to the door again, but the girl’s head and shoulders appeared in the opening and he was able to help her out without climbing up.

He steadied the girl on her feet and then she caught sight of the man on the ground.

“He’s dead!” she wailed.

“I didn’t hit them,” the truck driver declared. “I was coming along, around the curve and the car was just ahead of me. I was about to pass, when all of a sudden the car seemed to go out of control. I had a hard time handling the truck, but I didn’t hit them.”

“I know,” the girl sobbed, “it was — Dad. He... he had an attack — fell over against me and then...” She shuddered. “We turned over.”

Tommy released the girl and, dropping to his knees, felt the unconscious man’s heart. There was no beat.

He got to his feet. A car, coming from the direction of Palmdale, was pulling up on the opposite side of the road and behind it, still several hundred yards away, was a white sedan. Even as Tommy looked the police car sounded off with the siren.

Tommy gritted his teeth and patted the girl’s shoulder. “Take it easy, sis,” he said, “he may be only unconscious.” It was a lie, but Tommy’s brain was already concerned with his own problem.

The car had stopped across the road, disgorged three people, two men and a woman. They came running across. Tommy stepped away from the girl, started across the highway, then the police car came to a screeching halt in the middle of the road, its siren expiring in a final wail.

Two policemen piled out of the car. One of them ran for the group by the wrecked car, the other cut off Tommy’s escape,

“Just a minute, mister!” the policeman said.

“Better call for an ambulance,” Tommy said quickly. “The man’s unconscious.”

The policeman nodded and stepped back to his car, but before he could climb in and put in his radio call, the other policeman got up from examining the dead man and waved to his partner.

The policeman at the car nodded and drew his report book from his pocket. “Your name, please?”

“I wasn’t involved,” Tommy said. “I came up a couple of minutes after it happened.”

“You saw it happen, though?”

“No.”

The truck driver came forward, accompanied by the second policeman. “It wasn’t anybody’s fault; the girl said he had a heart attack while driving.”

“We’ve still got to make a report,” said the policeman with the book. He looked at Tommy. “Your name?”

“James Robertson.”

“Let me see your driver’s license.”

“I just told you I wasn’t involved in the accident.”

“I know, but it’s necessary to get the names and addresses of the witnesses.”

“I wasn’t a witness. I didn’t see it happen.”

The policeman hesitated and looked at his partner. The latter shrugged, “Okay, mister.”

Tommy nodded and crossed to his car. He got in behind the wheel, started the motor, then saw that the car that had brought up the two men and the woman had stopped so closely in front of his that he was blocked off. He put the gear lever in reverse, backed a few feet, then twisted the wheel all the way over to the right and inched forward.

He was just able to clear the car ahead of him and was worming out into the center of the road, when one of the policemen suddenly appeared in front of the car, his hand held up.

Tommy exclaimed softly. Keeping the car in gear, but jamming in the clutch, he waited for the policeman to come over to the side of the car.

The policeman said: “I’d like to see your driver’s license.”

“I told you,” Tommy began, but the policeman cut him off.

“I know you told me,” he snapped. “But I want to see it, just the same.”

He held out his hand.

“I knew it,” Tommy said bitterly. “The one day I forget it in my other clothes, I’ve got to stumble into something like this. If I’d just driven on instead of trying to help someone...”

“It’s a citizen’s duty to stop at an accident,” the policeman said. He looked through the windows, at his mate on the other side of the road. “I’m inclined to give you a break, so if you’ll just show me some other identification...”

Tommy pointed to the registration certificate, strapped about the steering wheel shaft.

The policeman opened the door at Tommy’s side and poking in his head, read from the certificate: “ ‘James Robertson,’ that’s what you said. But — the date’s today.”

“I just bought the car this morning.”

The policeman straightened. “You’ve got the bill of sale?”

Tommy reached into his breast pocket and produced it. The policeman studied it, folded it, then unfolded it again and scowled at it.

“You understand, Mr. Robertson,” he said, finally. “We work for the taxpayers of this state and it’s our job to be careful. There was a broadcast just a little while ago and... well, if you don’t mind...” He scowled again and stepped back. “Excuse me.”

He signaled to his partner. “Pat, d’you mind stepping over...?”

Tommy reached out, pulled shut the door and took his foot off the clutch. The car leaped forward and he jammed his right foot down on the accelerator.

Tommy shifted into second, swerved off the right road shoulder to miss a parked car, got back on the pavement and went into high. He looked into the rear vision mirror and saw the policemen just piling into the white police car.

This is it, Tommy thought. Well, there could be only one end to it, but he’d give them a run for their money. You had to do that. You had to play your cards as they were dealt; you just couldn’t throw them in.

A hundred yards from the scene of the accident he was doing forty. His foot jammed the accelerator down to the floorboards and the speedometer needle shot up to fifty, sixty, then seventy. It was eighty when the village of Palmdale appeared ahead.

The police car was full in his rear vision mirror, less than a quarter of a mile behind him. How would they follow him through Palmdale? At full speed, regardless of traffic and pedestrians? That would tell the tale.

Houses and stores whipped by. Tommy eased his foot off the gas pedal and the speedometer needle dropped down to seventy-five, then seventy. People stood on the sidewalks of Main Street, staring at the whizzing Buick as it shot by. The police siren was wailing thinly, warning motorists ahead.

The street was clear; a few cars were on it, but they were idling along. Grimly, Tommy pressed down again on the accelerator. He was through Palmdale safely. But the police car had not lost any ground. And now, out in the open, without another town ahead, it would cut down the distance between the two cars.

Tommy shot a glance at the instrument panel and a cry escaped his lips. The needle that showed the temperature of the water was at the very top; the 18,000-local-mile car had a flaw in its water pump. The motor was already dangerously overheated, only the speed at which he was traveling was keeping it cool enough to prevent its disintegration.

Eighty-eight. Ninety and ninety-two. Faster than Tommy had ever driven a car. Ahead, to the left, a ribbon of black cut across the sand — a secondary road, leading up into the hills.

Tommy shot a quick glance into the rear vision mirror, saw the pursuing white car an eighth of a mile behind him. Not more than that distance ahead was the secondary road.

He lifted his foot from the accelerator and his speed decreased to 90, 85, 80... 75!

Another glance into the mirror. The police car was out in the middle of the highway, easing to the left, to pass and force him off on the right. It was coming at terrific speed, the policeman evidently thinking their superior speed the cause of their gain.

Tommy gritted his teeth savagely, touched the brakes and made a wild left turn off the main highway onto the secondary road. His tires screeched and he fought wildly to keep control of the wheel. He finally straightened out the car and looked into the mirror.

The police car had been coming too fast; his turn had caught them by surprise and they had overshot the road. It would take them precious seconds to stop the car, turn and come back.

Disregarding the message of the little needle on his instrument panel, Tommy again gave the Buick everything. On the rough, secondary road he brought the speedometer needle up to 80, 88 and finally to 90. He slowed briefly for a rather sharp turn, then gunned the motor again to take a grade. He looked back and saw the police car almost a mile to the rear.

He made another sharp turn and there, a hundred yards ahead, was his salvation, a widened cut in a hillside and beyond it a narrow ravine.

He braked, almost overshot the cut, but skidded off it and hurtled into the rocky ravine, the car bounding and clanging as it hit rough ground. He brought it to a stop and began turning it furiously.

He had just completed the job when the police car shot by on the highway. Hoping that they had not seen him, Tommy waited a moment until the car had vanished around a turn, then came out upon the highway and going downhill toward Highway No. 6 again let out the Buick.

He slowed down for Highway No. 6, made the turn — to the right, toward Palmdale — and looked off up the secondary road.

The white police car was nowhere in sight.

Tommy eased his car down to a modest 65, drove into Palmdale and picked up Highway No. 138, that led to the east. Leaving the city limits of Palmdale he saw ahead of him a road entirely free of traffic and eased his speedometer up to 75, a speed too high for safety with the condition of his water pump or radiator, but fast enough to give him distance.