Ability Quotient Page 5
Bert was intrigued, in spite of himself. “Well, now that the war’s over, how come you’re here in school on a lousy Guaranteed Annual Income set-up?”
Jim nodded “My old man’s teed off, sort of like I was betraying the family traditions, but the fact in crime doesn’t pay any more. Not enough, at least. The flatfeet.”
“The who?”
“The fuzz, the coppers, the police. My grandfather used to call ’em flatfeet. Anyway, they’re so advanced today it’s a hazard. Besides, with the Universal Credit Identity Card and the cashless-checkless exchange system, you can’t gloam, uh, swipe, uh, put the snatch on.”
“Kay, kay. I get the import.”
“Cash money. And with the computers and the National Data Banks it’s practically impossible to fence jewelry or any other items of much value.” A slightly indignant element came into Jim Hawkins’ voice. “They’ve automated us right out of business. ”
Bert Alshuler closed the door of the arms cache with a sigh. He said, “So you’re a retired apprentice burglar. Just take it easy from now on keeping your hand in practice around my digs, old buddy, old buddy.”
“I’ll try to remember,” Jim said penitently. “Listen, this booze is beginning to work on me. What do you say we look up Jill and get her to dig up a friend and we’ll go out on the town tonight. You haven’t been shown the entertainment spots the area offers. I got all checked out last year.”
Bert led the way back to the bar, saying, “Dig up a friend? What kind of corpses does Jill associate with?”
“Aw, they’re not as bad as all that,” Jim protested.
Bert Alshuler thought about it as he made them a final drink for the road. Why not? He had spent so much time the past two days sitting at the auto-teacher that he felt a little relaxation was in order. Besides, admit it, he wouldn’t mind seeing a little more of Jill, even though she would be Jim’s date rather than his own. He had the feeling that his attraction to her was reciprocated.
The drinks down, they made their way to the suite’s door, talking about army acquaintances they had lost track of in the short time that had elapsed since they had been in Asia.
Jim Hawkins was saying, “What the devil ever happened to Dick Ruhling and Pirtle?” as they emerged into the corridor and came to an abrupt halt.
Down the hall, a dozen yards or so, another group was emerging from the neighboring suite. There were four men and a girl and she was putting up a worthy fight considering that she was only pint-sized and had a man on each arm and a tape over her mouth.
The girl was Jill Masterson.
Jim Hawkins blurted, “Come on!” and his lanky, always lazy-like body exploded forward, his arms extended in a karate attack readiness, a Kiai yell blasting from his throat.
Bert was immediately behind, fading slightly to the left to give operating room. But they skidded to a halt. One of the four had come up with a handgun.
He snarled, “Get out of here, you two. This is a private matter.”
“You ain’t just a whistlin’ Dixie,” Jim Hawkins snapped, his right hand blurring for his belt, his legs spread and slightly crouched in a practiced gunman’s stance, his left arm extended to the left and forward for balance.
The eyes of the armed kidnapper widened and he fired, went far off aim, fired again, and Jim Hawkins’ gun arm went limp.
He grunted pain and snapped, “Killer! Catch!” and obviously with a supreme effort flicked the gun in Bert’s direction.
Bert Alshuler, in much the same stance as his wartime comrade had assumed, caught it in mid-air There was no need to flick off the safety, nor to depress the range stud, Jim would have already done that automatically.
The gunman was swinging his gyro-jet pistol around to bring it to bear on his new foe.
Bert muttered, “Tyro,” even as he burnt the man’s face off. The other’s last act in life was to scream agony.
The elevator door was open and the others, dragging Jill with them, were backing into it, their faces in full alarm.
He couldn’t fire, not with anything as sweeping as a laser beam. Inadequately, Bert yelled, “Halt!” dashing forward.
The elevator door slammed shut, just as Bert crashed against it. He made two steps back, in frustration, yelling over his shoulder, “How bad?”
Jim Hawkins, leaning against a wall, his face pale, said, “Not too bad. Double entry, side and right arm. I’m okay… get them!”
Bert snatched his pocket phone from his jacket pocket, nipped the lid open with his thumb, pressed the activating stud and snapped, “Emergency! Building Security Four men have just kidnapped a girl from the top floor of the Administration…”
He came to a halt and glared down at the instrument The screen was a blur. He ran over to his companion. “Where’s your phone?”
“In my right pocket. I can’t get at it.”
Bert grabbed at the pocket, brought forth the other’s phone and opened it. He flicked the stud, flicked it again. The screen remained a blur.
Jim groaned, “They’ve got some kind of a musher around.”
The other’s eyes darted up and down the corridor “It has to be a portable. It can’t be too…”
Jim was pointing with his left hand at the crumpled corpse. “It has to be on him. It can’t be anywhere else, unless it’s in that apartment they just came out of.”
Bert bent over the body, frisking it rapidly, ignoring the mess that was the former gunman’s head. Bert Alshuler had seen blood and gore before. He came up finally with an electronic device, slammed it to the floor and ground his heel down on it.
He brought his pocket phone out again and opened it, but then looked up at the elevator and shook his head in despair. “They’re already gone.”
Jim said urgently, “Try it anyway.”
But Bert said, “No No, they’re willing to shoot. Why, I wouldn’t know. They’re willing to shoot and they’ve got Jill. Besides, I doubt if whatever Security officers a building like this has ordinarily go around heeled.”
He stood, his face agonized, and tried to think. He looked at his friend. “How are you?”
“Dripping a little ink, but I’m better now. Those rocket slugs pack a wallop, but he didn’t nick me bad.”
Bert said, “Come on back into the suite. They must have some kind of a medical kit in the bathroom. They’ve got everything else.”
The door identity screen picked them up and opened.
Bert led his companion into the bath of the master bedroom and helped him strip off jacket and shirt. The double wound didn’t look too bad. He had seen Jim shot up considerably worse than this He fumbled around in the medical chest set into the wall and came up with iodine, bandages and tape.
Jim growled, “I can handle it. Get going on Jill.”
Bert went back into the living room and sat before the phone screen there. He flicked it on and said, “Professor Ralph Marsh. Restricted. I’m listed. Albert Alshuler.”
“Thank you.”
The professor’s face faded in after a moment. He was petulant. “What is it this time, confound it? I’d think…”
“Shut up and listen. I’m in Suite G. We’ve just had a shoot-out. One man’s dead and one wounded. Get up here soonest with a medical kit.”
The other’s eyes were bugging. “Are you jesting?”
“Do I look like a clown? Get up here, damn it. A friend and I jumped four men who were kidnapping Jill Masterson, a girl who—”
“Jill Masterson!”
Chapter Seven
“Oh, so you know her, eh?” Bert said grimly. “Get up here and bring some muscle along. We’ve got problems, Marsh, and you’d better have some answers” Bert slapped the phone off.
He leaned back in the chair, trying desperately to think.
Jim Hawkins came in, trying to button a clean white shirt he had evidently appropriated from those in the master bedroom that Bert had discovered that morning. Bert got up and helped him. The shirt was a poor fit.
Jim was aggrieved. “What if we hadn’t had it? I had a feeling that something was off-beat. You being in this suite with your fancy clothes and fancy hooch and all the rest of it. Besides, ever since I got out of the army I’ve felt half naked going around without being heeled I just thought I’d borrow it for a while.”
Bert growled, “Great. But now we’re up on the top floor of this building with a corpse on our hands, a corpse killed with a highly illegal laser gun. And we’ve got one whale of a suspicious story to explain it all.”
Out in the hall, he went over to the body, took it by the heels and dragged it back in the direction of Suite G. Jim Hawkins bent down and picked up the shattered electronic device. Frowning at it, he re-entered the apartment, closing the door behind him.
Bert Alshuler put a small throw rug under the head of the dead man so that the blood wouldn’t stain the foyer floor and bent over the body again, shaking it down more completely than he had before.
He finally came to his feet in disgust “No Identity Card, no wallet, no nothing.”
Jim had been inspecting the electronic device. He said, “Look at this, Bert. It’s jury-rigged.” He held forth the compact but awkward appearing musher.
“How do you mean?”
“Well, it’s obviously not government issue. They don’t have any this small. Dad and I used to use them in our business. But they don’t make mini-mushers in this country, so we had to get them illegally from Japan. You set one up when you’re on a job. It prevents anybody from calling for help in case you’re flushed while you’re stripping an apartment or whatever.”
“I don’t get it,” Bert said.
“It’s home-made. Looks like some amateur put it together in some little electronic shop, or maybe a basement hobby-room—or, better still an electronic lab in some school.”
Bert scowled. “I see your drift. Those guys weren’t pros, Jim. That one that nicked you didn’t know guns. He missed the first time, even at that range And if he’d been up on being a gunman he would have gotten me too. Besides that, pros wouldn’t have sent four men to pick up a girl no bigger than Jill. Makes it too conspicuous. One or two would have been plenty. And there’s one other thing.”
“What’s that?”
“They were all kids. Young fellows.” He dropped the subject. “Listen. Do you think you could get into that suite next to us? You haven’t got the use of your right mind.”
“Let’s give it a try.”
They left the apartment again and made their way to the door from which Jill had emerged with her abductors less than fifteen minutes before.
Jim said, “Stand to one side. Don’t let the identity screen pick you up. Devil only knows what kind of an alarm system they have rigged with a joint as classy as this.”
Bert Alshuler stood with his back to the wall, as Jim Hawkins, also taking care to keep out of the screen’s range, worked on it. He had brought a pocket knife forth which seemed to be a miniature tool kit.
He grinned over his shoulder at his companion. “Carry a burglar kit around with you and if somebody searches you, you’ve had it. But you can have one of these and everybody just figures you’re gadget-happy.”
Bert rolled his eyes upward, in a plea to the gods. “My old buddy,” he muttered.
The screen evidently disposed of, Jim went to work on the lock. He said, to nobody in particular, “If they’d automate doors completely, it’d be another thing, but they’ve got it half and half, on the off-chance of a breakdown.”
The door swung open and they both hurried inside and closed it after them.
The suite was considerably similar to that occupied by Bert Alshuler, with the difference that it had obviously been meant for female occupancy.
In the living room were half a dozen suitcases. Bert bent over them. He looked up. “Locked.”
Jim snorted at that and bent over each momentarily, his gadget pocketknife in hand. “There you are.”
Bert opened the largest and fumbled through it. There were various papers and documents among the feminine clothing and toilet articles.
Jim said, “It’s Jill’s stuff, all right. She was evidently just moving in. Hadn’t the time to unpack.” He paused. “She mentioned something about moving. But what in the hell would she be doing in a place like this? She was over in the Parthenon Building, watching her credits, just like the rest of us. She couldn’t afford to stay in a place like this for one day.” He looked suspiciously at Bert. “For that matter, what are you doing here?”
Bert Alshuler had been going through the rest of Jill’s things, trying to find some clue, but he drew a blank.
He stood and looked into his friend’s eyes “I can’t tell you.”
“The devil you can’t, old buddy. Start talking.”
“I didn’t say I wouldn’t, damn it, Jim. I said I can’t I don’t know what I’m doing here. It’s a madhouse. But I know one thing. I’m going to get a lot of explanations in the near future. Come on, let’s get back into the other suite. Our alleged friends should be turning up. How do you feel?”
They went on back to Suite G and to the bar in the living room. They had hardly poured a couple of straight drinks before the screen on the door pinged. Bert went to get it.
Professor Ralph Marsh bustled in, followed by two others who had been stamped from the same mold. That is, they were in their late fifties, or early sixties, were conservatively dressed and obviously from the professional class. The second two were on the nervous side, and very unhappy.
But Marsh snapped to Bert, “All right, all right, confound it. What is this, what is this?”
Bert closed the door behind them and indicated the body stretched out on the foyer floor. “You tell me, friend.”
The professor stared down at the dead man.
“Who is that?”
Bert was disgusted He said sarcastically, “How would I know? You people haven’t told me a damn thing. I can’t tell the good guys from the bad guys without some sort of program. Come on into the living room and start talking.” He led the way.
At the entry Professor Ralph Marsh pulled up short at the sight of Jim Hawkins, who leered at him from the bar upon which he leaned.
“Who is that?” Marsh blurted.
“That,” Bert said, “is Mr. James Hawkins. Late captain in the Asian War and my long time comrade in arms.”
“What have you told him?”
“What the hell could I tell him? I don’t know anything. Who are these jokers?” Bert indicated Marsh’s two companions with a thumb and they looked slightly apprehensive. “I told you to bring some muscle. This is muscle in your books?”
Marsh said testily, “It is not important who they are, as of the moment. And what do you mean, muscle?” He looked at Jim “You’ve been wounded?”
“Many times,” Jim Hawkins said laconically. “Most recently, this afternoon.”
Marsh said to his lead companion, who carried a doctor’s bag, “David, that is, Doctor Smith, take a look at him.”
Bert said, “You used Smith before. I’m beginning to suspect you haven’t much imagination, Marsh.”
The other ignored him and the new Doctor Smith led Jim into the bathroom.
Marsh said, “Where is Miss Masterson?”
“I told you,” Bert said. “As we were leaving this apartment, we ran into Jill in the corridor, coming from the next suite. Four young goons were hustling her along. We jumped them. One of them plugged Jim. I plugged him. The rest got away with Jill. We couldn’t call for help quickly enough since they had a musher on in the vicinity.”
“A musher?”
�
��As I said before, some cloak and dagger man you’ve turned out to be. A musher is an electronic device that smothers any bug, transceiver, or any other transmitter or receiver in its vicinity.”
“Bug?”
“Oh, shut up. Listen, Jim and I are in the soup. You’ve got to get rid of that stiff out in the foyer. Then you’re going to have to sit down and tell me a few things. Jill was in on the same deal I am, wasn’t she? Katz said there was another student acting as a control.”
Professor Marsh said stubbornly, “I can’t tell you.”
“The hell you can’t, friend.”
Marsh turned and said to his remaining companion, “Make arrangements for the disposal.”
“Now wait a minute,” Bert said. “What do you figure on doing? I can just see you parading through the lobby with…”
Marsh looked at him peevishly. “We are not without resources. The doctor is… that is, he has access to the Medical College of this university city.”
Bert looked at him blankly.
Marsh said, his voice impatient. “Your… victim, Alshuler, will be utilized in the dissecting room in the surgery department as a cadaver.”
The third of the trio said to Bert, in a somewhat timorous voice, “Give me a hand.”
Bert followed him into the foyer, mystified. The other opened the suite’s door. In the hall was a hospital cart of the type utilized to transport patients to and from surgery. Bert stood aside as the doctor—he assumed he was a doctor—pushed the wheeled stretcher into the foyer and then helped him to raise the corpse onto it. The other stretched a white sheet over the dead man. Bert picked up the bloodied rug he had put under the body’s head and stuck it under the sheet as well.
Something came to him and he picked up a hospital towel from the cart, went out into the corridor and swabbed up the blood there, to the best of his ability. He returned to the suite and stuck the towel under the sheet.
He looked at the doctor. “You really think you can get this over to your medical school?”
The man jittered unhappily but squeaked, “Yes.”