Stop This Man! - By Peter Rabe Page 0,1
as far as you could tell?”
Smith, the pale man in the blue overcoat, hadn’t been sick as far as any of them knew, but the hot, sore color of Mrs. Tucker’s face wasn’t a simple rash, as the old woman was trying to say, and Dr. Junta couldn’t decide just what it might mean. That night, playing it safe, he committed Mrs. Tucker to the Hamilton City Hospital.
Jack Herron threw his cigarette on the floor and stepped on it. Then he picked it up and put it in the ashtray on his desk. He looked at his watch, then at the phone next to his elbow. He had been doing this all day, but nothing had happened. No news.
Stiff from sitting, Herron walked up to the dark window and looked at his reflection in the glass. He looked properly nondescript. An FBI man looks like anybody else and makes an effort to stay that way. He patted his thin hair into place self-consciously, wishing the early balding didn’t show so much.
Herron smoked another cigarette and then he couldn’t stand the waiting any longer. He grabbed his hat off the hook, clicked the safety lock, and slammed the door behind him. Lettering on the door said, “Federal Bureau of Investigation, District Office, St. Louis, Mo.”
A few blocks from the office Herron turned up a broad flight of stairs and walked into the Central Police Station. Maybe something had come through since he left the office.
There was a little room right off Communications smelling of varnish and sweeping compound. Herron walked in and said hello to the two men at the table. They were sitting in shirtsleeves and the older of the two was pouring black coffee into paper cups. The young one was wearing a shoulder holster.
“Hello, yourself,” said the one with the holster. “If you want coffee, we got. If you want news, we ain’t got.”
The old one who worked in the next room put a cup before Herron and poured from a tin percolator. “I know what he wants,” said the old one, “but he’s going to get coffee.”
Herron sat down, sipped from his cup, and said, “That’s too bad, Starkey.”
“He don’t like your coffee,” said the young cop who was wearing the shoulder holster. “He thinks it’s just too bad for words. Myself, I drink Starkey’s coffee because I like the flavor of the paper cups. Eh, Starkey?”
“Shuddup,” said Starkey.
Herron knew there was no point in asking whether anything had come through. Starkey would have told him.
“Listen, Herron,” Starkey said. “Why all this mummery with a message? If it’s got to be coded, why don’t you guys receive it yourselves? Why have us receive it?”
“That’s because the FBI is federal,” said the young cop. “They do things different. They have the local police receive their messages so the police can phone it in and waste a little time getting it through. It’s more complicated that way.”
Starkey laughed, but Jack Herron didn’t think it was so funny.
“First of all, the message isn’t coded. Secondly, we got no night operator. And why aren’t you watching your ticker?”
“I got Jones watching,” Starkey said. “And Jones knows as much about it as I do: ‘Upon receipt of the following convey immediately to local office Federal Bureau of Investigation, viz. Diagnosis probable. Admitted time such and such, place such and such, patient’s residence such and such.’ And after me watching those crazy tickers for ten years, the bright Mr. Herron from the FBI tells me that this ain’t no code!”
“Have you tried reading it backward?” said the cop with the holster.
“I have,” said Starkey. “By God, I have.”
At that moment the buzzing and ticking from the next room stopped dead. Communications was quiet as a library. The three men in the little room held their breaths. Herron slopped some coffee. Suddenly the clatter exploded again. They looked at each other and the cop with the holster made a noise in his throat.
“As I was saying…” he said.
That’s when the door from Communications flew open and Jones looked in.
“Your message, Starkey. It’s on the ticker.”
Herron and Starkey ran to the teletype. It was still hammering with a nervous beat and the message read: “Diagnosis probable. Admitted 10:15 p.m., Hamilton City Hospital, Hamilton City. Patient’s residence, 24 Chester Street, Hamilton City.” When Starkey tore off the sheet, Herron was already halfway out of the door. He’d got his message. A hundred miles away they’d found the first victim. Finally the trail was hot. Real hot.