Read Online Three to Conquer by Eric Frank Russell - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Eric Frank Russell
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thirty-nine, area supervisor.
" 'Morning , Mr. Pritchard," said Harper, with the cheerful air of one who has not a worry in the world.
Pritchard blinked, marshalled his wits and said, "There's a cal l out for you. You're wanted for the murder of Jocelyn Whittingham."
"Yes, I know. I read the papers."
"Somebody's blundered," thought Pritchard, impressed by this coolness. "He's got an alibi." Clearing his throat, he asked, "Well, do you wish to say anything about it?"
"Plenty—but not to you."
"Why not to me?"
"No personal reason, I assure you. I'd like to talk to Sam Stevens."
"Go see where he is," Pritchard ordered, after a little hesitation.
Slade went away, came back and said, "Stevens is in Seattle."
The phone rang shrilly. Pritchard picked it off his desk, said, "Yes? How did you know? Oh, he told you himself, did he? No, he wasn't fooling; he's here all right. He's in front of me right now." He racked the phone, stared hard at Harper. "You can't see Stevens. He isn't available."
" A pity. He could have got me somebody high up. I want to talk as high as I can get. "
" Why?"
"I refuse to say."
Frowning disapproval, Pritchard leaned forward. "Did you or did you not shoot this Whittingham girl? "
" Yes, I did."
"All right. Are you willing to sign a confession to that effect? "
" No."
"You admit shooting her, but you refuse to sign a confession?"
"That's right."
"Care to offer a reason?" Pritchard invited, studying him carefully.
"I have a good reason. I didn't kill her. "
" But she's dead. She's as dead as mutton. Didn't you know that?"
Harper made two waves of his hand in a manner suggesting that this was a minor point.
"So you shot her, but didn't kill her?" Pritchard persisted. "You put a dozen steel beads through her skull, but somehow refrained from committing homicide?"
"Correct."
That did it. Pritchard's and Slade's minds reached a simultaneous verdict: not guilty of murder by reason of insanity.
Sighing deeply, Harper said, "Sam Stevens is the only one I know in this outfit. He made a check on my plant once, about two years ago. He entered it on some sort of national security list which you people keep on file. He gave me a gun-permit and a bunch of bureaucratic instructions, the chief of which says I'm federal property the moment war breaks out. I become confiscated lock, stock, and barrel."
"So?" prompted Pritchard, seeing no point in this.
"The Whittingham business has to do more or less with the same issue—namely, national security. Therefore, I can talk only to somebody who'll know what I'm talking about.
"That would be Jameson," promptly whispered Pritchard's thoughts.
"Such as Jameson," Harper added.
They reacted as though he had uttered a holy name in unholy precincts.
"Or whoever is his boss," said Harper, for good measure.
With a touch of severity, Pritchard demanded, "You just said that Stevens is the only member of the F.B.I, known to
" 'Morning , Mr. Pritchard," said Harper, with the cheerful air of one who has not a worry in the world.
Pritchard blinked, marshalled his wits and said, "There's a cal l out for you. You're wanted for the murder of Jocelyn Whittingham."
"Yes, I know. I read the papers."
"Somebody's blundered," thought Pritchard, impressed by this coolness. "He's got an alibi." Clearing his throat, he asked, "Well, do you wish to say anything about it?"
"Plenty—but not to you."
"Why not to me?"
"No personal reason, I assure you. I'd like to talk to Sam Stevens."
"Go see where he is," Pritchard ordered, after a little hesitation.
Slade went away, came back and said, "Stevens is in Seattle."
The phone rang shrilly. Pritchard picked it off his desk, said, "Yes? How did you know? Oh, he told you himself, did he? No, he wasn't fooling; he's here all right. He's in front of me right now." He racked the phone, stared hard at Harper. "You can't see Stevens. He isn't available."
" A pity. He could have got me somebody high up. I want to talk as high as I can get. "
" Why?"
"I refuse to say."
Frowning disapproval, Pritchard leaned forward. "Did you or did you not shoot this Whittingham girl? "
" Yes, I did."
"All right. Are you willing to sign a confession to that effect? "
" No."
"You admit shooting her, but you refuse to sign a confession?"
"That's right."
"Care to offer a reason?" Pritchard invited, studying him carefully.
"I have a good reason. I didn't kill her. "
" But she's dead. She's as dead as mutton. Didn't you know that?"
Harper made two waves of his hand in a manner suggesting that this was a minor point.
"So you shot her, but didn't kill her?" Pritchard persisted. "You put a dozen steel beads through her skull, but somehow refrained from committing homicide?"
"Correct."
That did it. Pritchard's and Slade's minds reached a simultaneous verdict: not guilty of murder by reason of insanity.
Sighing deeply, Harper said, "Sam Stevens is the only one I know in this outfit. He made a check on my plant once, about two years ago. He entered it on some sort of national security list which you people keep on file. He gave me a gun-permit and a bunch of bureaucratic instructions, the chief of which says I'm federal property the moment war breaks out. I become confiscated lock, stock, and barrel."
"So?" prompted Pritchard, seeing no point in this.
"The Whittingham business has to do more or less with the same issue—namely, national security. Therefore, I can talk only to somebody who'll know what I'm talking about.
"That would be Jameson," promptly whispered Pritchard's thoughts.
"Such as Jameson," Harper added.
They reacted as though he had uttered a holy name in unholy precincts.
"Or whoever is his boss," said Harper, for good measure.
With a touch of severity, Pritchard demanded, "You just said that Stevens is the only member of the F.B.I, known to
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