"No!" broke out Thornberry, staring at Bennington.
"Turn them on," said Bennington.
Thornberry hesitated for a heartbeat, obeyed the order. Then, moving with deliberation, he seated himself beside the general.
"This is Musto," came from the intercom. "I'm boss over here. You've got guts, Bennington, I've read about you. But don't forget, two of my boys have you and the other guy on line down the sights of their rifles. Any sign of something screwy, and you two get it first."
"There has to be mutual trust for any kind of bargaining," Bennington replied. "This is mine, right out where you can see it."
"O.K. Now, first, get that copter off the top of this building."
Musto spoke with the assurance that his order would be obeyed.
"Go to hell," said Bennington easily.
"WHAT!"
"That copter above you, and the Army battalion that will be here in a few minutes, are for me what those rifles you have aimed are for you. You can knock me off, sure. But how long are you going to live to enjoy the thrill?"
"Well, I'll be—" and Musto described his relationship to a female dog.
"I can't confirm or deny your opinion of yourself," Bennington said, and forced himself to chuckle. "Now, let's get down to business. What do you want?"
"Pardons. For all of us. For all crimes."
Bennington whistled. "That's a big order. And in return?"
"Your staff stays alive."
Flatly. There was no question Musto meant what he said.
"That means I'll have to talk with the governors of six states," Bennington temporized.
"That's your worry."
The general sighed. "All right, you've got Message Center. Connect this phone with the outside. Remember, this is going to take a while."
"That don't worry us, general. Add up how much time we've got coming due over here. It's all you need and then some."
Bennington lifted the phone on the desk and waited. He could see an irregular flickering, like a cigarette lighter, in the Message Center Room. Then the familiar buzzing sounded in his ears.
Once more he dialed "0". "Operator? This is Warden Bennington of Duncannon Prison. Please arrange, with top priority, a person-to-person conference line with this prison and the governors of Pennsylvania, Delaware, New York, Maryland, New Jersey and Connecticut. Yes, call me, when the connection is completed."
"And don't forget, we'll be listening," came simultaneously from the intercom and the telephone.
"I expect you to," Bennington said promptly and hung up. At the same time, he switched off the intercom.
He leaned back in his chair and, for the first time in years, found himself aware of a long-forgotten feeling. The center of his forehead tingled as if it were being brushed by a silky feather.
He knew the sensation, had felt it before. Someone had a gun on him. And that someone was a mere thirty yards away.
The general turned his chair toward Thornberry, felt that feather tingle along the nerves of his scalp. The psychologist was sitting stiffly erect, his hands firmly clenched together in his lap.
"Tell me what happened after I left you," Bennington said. He kept a wary eye on his assistant warden. The man seemed in the civilian equivalent of battle shock.
Thornberry sat at attention, as if he were delivering a formal report. "The guards lined up the prisoners in columns of twos and marched them to the mess hall. There they split the column. The left half went to the south door, the right half went to the north door. I followed the line to the north door. They seemed to be piled in fast. When most of them were in on my side, I squeezed by the rest and went to the back of the hall. Rayburne and Householder, of course, stayed outside."
Thornberry's hands were slowly unclenching. Telling what happened seemed to relieve his tension.
"Both lines moved quickly, except for the last man in the south line. I thought he seemed to be dragging deliberately so. And for some reason or the other, all the prisoners—even those at the tables, except the drugged ones, hadn't started eating—watched him. But I could see no reason for alarm.
"I was at the back and the two guards, with their guns, were at each door. There was a counter between the prisoners and the kitchen, and, most important, these men had been conditioned or drugged. Then the one who was dragging got to the coffee urn with his tray."
Thornberry shivered and then slumped in his chair. "It was the most shocking thing I have ever experienced because what happened was against everything that I have ever learned. Those conditioned men in the mess hall went mad. Before the guards could fire more than a couple of shots, all the conditioned ones had thrown their trays at me, at the guards, or the people behind the counter, and then started scrambling across the counter. In a moment they were so mixed up with our kitchen personnel that the guards didn't dare do any more shooting. And just as suddenly as it had started, they were gone. Except for me and two guards, everyone else in the mess hall was either dead or dying, or one of the drugged men."
Bennington lit a cigarette and wished that he had one of Ferguson's stout drinks.
"Let me get this straight. They threw trays at you and the guards, right? But nothing more. That is, they didn't run toward you?"
"No, first the trays and then directly over the counter into the kitchen and out its two back doors."
"In other words, they knew where they were going."
Thornberry's face showed sharp surprise. "Why, yes, they did. They did seem to have a purpose, a definite sense of direction in the way they left the mess hall."
"For once I must completely agree with one of your statements, Thornberry. As soon as we can, we've got to get hold of Judkins, but we can't do it from here, dammit."
"Tell me who he is and we'll get him for you," a voice whispered from the floor.
Though educated in different professions, both Bennington and Thornberry had been well trained in the value of not showing astonishment. Out of the corner of his eyes, the general could see a uniformed State trooper lying flat on the floor. The head lifted, Bennington recognized Trooper Forester.
"This is your party," the corporal continued. "How does the entertainment shape up?"
"We've got to keep the customers happy," the general said, "by making them think that the main show is just about to start."
"While you figure out some way to take them before they start throwing rocks at your supporting cast. Right? Well, Life Can Be Beautiful and I wish it would start right now. What can I do?"
"Get in touch with the governors. All of them. New York and Pennsylvania and the rest. Tell them that when they talk to me, they have to pull a good legitimate stall. Maybe they can refer to the laws they operate under. They might have to get an opinion from their attorneys general. Anything, as long as it sounds good."
"Can do. Will do. And after that?"
"A good question, Corporal Forester. We'll discuss that after the break."
From the floor, a low laugh. "I had a year at the Fort Benning School for Infantry Boys, sir. Oh, how about this Judkins?"
Thornberry took over with an exceedingly accurate description of the wanted Judkins and his probable habits.
The corporal gave a low appreciative whistle. "With that we'll have him in a couple of hours, sir."
"I'll let a man outside this door on his belly like I am. By the way, wearein touch with the army. We're set to guide them in. Good luck, sir."
Bennington and Thornberry looked at each other.
We'll need more than luck, Bennington thought.
In the middle of his next cigarette, Bennington heard a familiar voice speaking outside the office door.
"When can I start shooting, Jim?"
"Mossback!"
"In person." A low laugh. "Wish the men you taught cover and concealment could take a look at you now.
"Here's the situation, Jim. I'm deployed in a looping L around the Administration Building. Your prisoners in One and Two have been moved out under guard into the open space beside Number Four where my copters dropped.
"The short end of my L touches the moat near your house. And by the way, Ferguson is all right. We relieved him. He says three prisoners tried to get out, but he thinks he got one of the three.
"The long end of my L goes just far enough toward Barracks One so that we won't be shooting each other."
"For a change, I didn't hear your copters come in, Mossback."
Another laugh, touched with pride. "Jim, for once, the Army is ahead of the civilian population. Our new jobs are even quieter than the night mail delivery for the suburbs. I put a squad on the roof of the building."
"You did?"
"No hopes, Jim. Doesn't mean a thing. I've had the report. But listen, I've got a civilian here who may be able to help."
With Mosby's words Bennington had felt his hopes rise, fall, and rise again. "Tell him to start talking."
"Slater, sir."
Bennington choked down his first words.
"I know what you were going to say, sir, and I deserve it, but this time I think I can help."
"How did you find out about this?"
"I was in a squad car on a drunk and disorderly charge. The story came over their radio. They brought me here."
"All right, go ahead."
"General Mosby was smart, sir. He brought along some sleep gas."
"So? Not surprising." Bennington knew sleep gas was standard precaution for riot control.
"The mess hall is the center of the compound. Because of that, in its cellar are the furnaces which heat the other buildings."
"What does that mean?"
"You have a forced-draft, hot-air system here, sir—"
The telephone rang, the intercom spoke. "Warden, those governors are on the line."
"Our only chance," Bennington said, "and now is the time. They'll all be listening to this phone call over there."
He hoped the man with the rifle trained on him was very susceptible to sleep gas.
"Jim, you haven't lost your touch with a pistol." General Mosby pointed to his meaning with the toe of his boot. "But you'll need a new carpet in your office here."
Bennington glanced at the three dead men, the broken window, and added them to his mental list of things to be done. But he put them among the minor problems; he had enough major ones already.
The news services were besieging The Cage. A couple of ambitious photographers had been caught attempting to cross the moat. The civilian dead in the mess hall had to be identified and the next of kin notified. His entire staff was disorganized: imprisoned as hostages, knocked out along with the rioters by sleep-gas, brusquely revived by Mosby's aid-men—Well, he might be able to get some work out of them tomorrow.
The rioters still slept, but what to do about those supposedly conditioned men when the gas wore off ... a new hypno-tech, from somewhere, by tomorrow morning.
Add six governors who think I have nothing to do but tell them every detail, he thought grimly.
"You had better eat, sir."
Ferguson, with a gigantic sandwich and a mug of coffee.
Bennington abruptly realized that he had not eaten since noon. Then, in the middle of his second bite, he was aware of still another problem.
He swallowed hastily. "Mossback, did you bring the entire battalion? Are you completely set up for independent battalion operation?"
"Yes, of course. Why?"
"I've got a compound full of prisoners and a staff to feed."
Mosby turned to his aide, but the captain has already started for the door. Mosby swung back to Bennington, rubbed his hands together gleefully. "Better and better. Just as if we had captured and had to use an enemy installation. Prisoners to guard, dead men and a couple of wounded to take care of.... Jim, I can't thank you enough."
"You're welcome, but how long can I keep you?"
Mosby sobered. Like all good general officers, he was acutely sensitive to the political significance of his actions.
"We can get away with what we did tonight, Jim," he answered slowly. "But well, you know how the states have become the past couple of years, since they started forming regional groups.
"Wait a minute! You got prisoners from six states, don't you?"
"Yes."
"You can have the whole command. And if the AG's office can't dig up at least six good precedents for my decision, we can always let slip the story of the hula girl and the hot cigarette butt. I may do that, anyhow. I always did think he went too far to get good pictures."
"I may need more," Bennington said soberly.
"What you need, you get, Jim, but why?"
"Two of them got away."
"Yes?" Mosby was interested, but not especially so.
"One was a very good escape artist—guy call Dalton.Harry Dalton."
"Um, yes," Mosby interrupted, "I recall that name. If I were his commanding officer, I would call him 'Always AWOL'."
"The other was a fairly young man named Clarens."
A silence grew. At last Mosby spoke, "I've heard of him, too. How did they get through the road blocks?"
"We had to use everything." The tired man standing at the door was Corporal Forester. "We used even trainees from the Academy, and those two must have gotten out of here as soon as the riot started.
"There was only one checkpoint between here and Harrisburg and the truck looked legitimate, full of clothes picked up around the countryside. There seemed to be only one man in it and he was a sort of everyday-looking fellow."
Bennington remembered his own impression of Dalton.
"I can't blame the trainees. Dalton's gotten by better men than they are yet," the corporal continued. "And they were looking for desperate criminals, not for someone in a cleaning company's uniform who asked, when they stopped him, if they wanted some work done."
"Anybody been killed yet?" Thornberry asked.
Forester was a long time answering. "Not yet, doctor. But a man answering Clarens' description bought six steak knives near the railroad station tonight."
"Six steak knifes?" Mosby asked.
"Yes," Forester answered. "Clarens and Dalton split the money the cleaning man was carrying."
"How do you know this?" Bennington asked.
"Dalton gave himself up," Forester answered. "He wanted nothing to do with Clarens when the boy started eying the knives."
"We've got to get to Harrisburg," Bennington said, "and the first thing we've got to do is to find Judkins."
"If only our files had not been shot up when the cons took over Message Center," Thornberry worried, "we could have gotten in touch with his sister-in-law."
"No," said Bennington and Forester together.
"No," agreed General Mosby.
The two generals looked at each other, then at the corporal.
Forester took the cue. "I think it's a planned job. The riot, that is. Someone wanted to disgrace you the first day you took over, general. Or, listen! This may be it: they wanted to be sure that someone here in prison didn't talk. I mean—" The trooper rubbed his hand across his forehead. "Thought I had something there."
"I think you do," Bennington said, "but first things first. Let's find Judkins. Then Clarens."
"We'll fly down," Mosby decided. "And let's do something I always wanted to do. We'll land on the Capitol grounds. Give me your phone, Jim. We will need more than the battalion I brought with me."
"And it's upstairs, ready and waiting."
Considering Harrisburg from above, Bennington decided the town, as a tactical problem in setting up patrols, offered unique difficulties. The way those railroad yards stretched up and down each side of the river....
The riot-control copter had moved ahead of them and was their guide to a relatively clear spot among the trees dotting the Capitol grounds.
Three dignitaries awaited their arrival, Governor Willoughby, Mayor Jordan and Chief of Police Scott.
"This way, sir," said Scott, elbowing aside the other two. "Formalities can wait, we've got work to do."
Introductions were performed on the way to another grove lanced with searchlights. A photographer was busy over the body of a middle-aged man.
"Some folks you can't tell anything," Scott said, "and especially when they're in heat. We never had any complaints about this guy, but we knew what he was. I myself told him that someday he would pick up the wrong man.
"And he sure did this time," he added unnecessarily.
Corporal Forester squatted beside the body. "He was kneeling, grabbed by his long hair, head pulled back, one good slash did the rest."
"Real nice slash," General Mosby agreed professionally. "I'd like to show that to some of my men." He pushed the head back so that the cut across the throat was more clearly visible. "Just one swipe."
"Clarens was a pre-med student," Thornberry stated.
Bennington noticed that his psych-expert had kept his gaze fixed on the trees after a glance at the body.
"No idea where he went from here, of course?" Mosby asked.
"None," Scott admitted, "but I've got patrols out."
"I've got another battalion upstairs," Mosby remarked, jabbing toward the stars with his thumb, "and the rest of the regiment on the way.
"You know this town. Tell me how you want them distributed."
"I'd like to." Scott meditated a moment. "But, I can't. I can't even swear them in. They're Federal troops."
"I've just declared martial law," Governor Willoughby emerged from the shadows.
"Thanks, sir." Scott looked like a man with a weight taken from his shoulders. "We'll need cars, of course."
"But we can stop them on the streets. Then have our men drive them home. With your help, General Mosby, we can cover this town like a blanket."
But the blanket was too late to stop the second murder.
The report came in after they had talked to Dalton.
"That's why I gave myself up," the convict said. "I wanted no part of that guy, so I figured my best alibi was a nice, quiet cell."
"How is Clarens dressed?" Scott demanded.
"He picked a double-breasted blue suit from the racks in the truck. Fitted him good, too."
Scott strode into the next room and through the open door Bennington saw the Chief of Police pick up a mike.
"This is important." Thornberry, intent, looking like a lean hound on a hot trail. "What were you told when you were conditioned?"
"I don't remember." Dalton was plainly baffled. "I just don't remember. Something about when a guy threw his tray.... You got me, I don't know."
"All right." The psychologist tried another tack. "What made you leave the others and take Clarens with you?"
"I didn't take him with me." Dalton's voice was weary, edged with anger. "I remember sitting down under the hypno-hood in The Cage. From there on, things are mixed up. I think there was running and yelling and that I ran and yelled, too.
"Then I came to and I was in a building with a lot of guys grabbing guns."
"I should have predicted it," the psychologist said, "that he would be commanded to forget what he had been told while under the hood."
"Can't you remove the block?" Chief Scott had returned in time to hear the last words.
Thornberry pursed his lips, then said, "It would take a very long time. Remember, I know Judkins, I interviewed him and watched him work before we hired him. He is a very, very good hypno-tech. And there's no machine anywhere near except at the prison.
"Let's hear the rest of his story. Go on, Dalton."
"You know my record, guns aren't for me. So I looked around and saw a busted window. This Clarens and another guy—a big fat one—had sort of stuck with me. I guess they didn't like guns either. When I went out the window, they were right behind. Clarens and I ran real fast. The fat guy behind us tried to run as fast, but he wheezed too much.
"Somebody lying on the edge of the moat cut loose with a subgun and Big Belly went down. Then Clarens and I were in the water. The other cons back in the building started shooting at the guy with the subgun. I guess he got too busy ducking to give us any more attention. Anyhow, he didn't swing any tracers after us.
"We ran across a couple of fields, toward Duncannon, and spotted a guy pulling a delivery truck into a farm lane. We sneaked in, found a wrench. When the driver came back, I gave him a gentle tap. Clarens and I stripped the fellow, tied him up and shoved him in one of the big baskets in the truck.
"In the uniform, it was a cinch to fool the troopers. They stopped us only once on the way into town. When we got there, I switched again from the driver's uniform into one of the suits from the racks. We had it made, hands down."
"Why didn't you turn Clarens in when you gave yourself up?" Scott demanded angrily.
"I tried to. Remember, I didn't know who the guy was until after we had looked in the railroad station and seen it full of cops. But when he started admiring the steak knives in the window, his name clicked with me. I said to him, 'I've got to go to the little boy's room—I'll be back in a minute'. I found the nearest cop and turned myself in, but I couldn't make that thickhead believe there was a worse one than me down the street. At least, not until Clarens had got the knives and taken off."
Bennington wondered if he had ever heard anyone speak with such deep disgust.
The call which took them to the Camp Hill area justified Dalton's condemnation.
The hysterical mother had been led away by a couple of consoling neighbors. Bennington, Scott and Thornberry stood looking down at the neatly dismembered body. Behind them General Mosby spoke to three of his soldiers.
"Good work, men. Keep it up and get back on your beats. You know now what you're hunting for. I'm sure you'll hunt even harder."
The slapping sounds of rifles saluting, the clicks of heels, the scrape of boots in an about-face and a scrap of conversation floated to Bennington. "Any mother who lets a kid out as late as this...."
Mosby joined them and picked up where the soldier had left off. "How did it happen, Scott?"
"It's hard to get anything out of the mother right now," Scott replied, "but I got this. They were waiting up for the father—he's on the swing shift—and the kid wanted ice cream. The store's just around the corner and the mother was busy ironing, so she gave the kid a quarter."
The chief of police turned away from the body, turned away from the lines written in blood on the wall—"PLEASE CATCH ME QUICK". He went to his car and switched its radio to one of the local stations.
"Stay off the streets. If you are in your car, do not stop for anything except—and listen carefully—at least three men in army or police uniforms. Do not stop for any man standing alone. Do not leave your home except on the most essential business. If you must leave do not go alone. Repeat: Do not leave the house alone...."
Scott switched back to the police band. "What we just heard is on every radio and TV station covering Harrisburg."
Another police car drifted into the alley, emptied men and equipment.
"We can go," Scott said. "My men will take care of the routine."
All of them were silent as they crossed the Market Street Bridge into the central section of town, deserted except for police and army patrols.
"Belton Hotel," the radio squawked. "Judkins has been picked up at the Belton."
"Now I'll find out what he has told them," Thornberry exulted, "and then we'll have no trouble finding Clarens."
"You know my name, you know my present address, and I'm not saying any more until I see my lawyer." Judkins had been saying that for half an hour and his words had not changed.
Mosby tugged at Bennington's sleeve. Together they moved to a corner of the hotel room, and at Mosby's nod, Scott and Thornberry joined them.
"Get out of here for five minutes. When you come back, he'll be glad to talk."
Mosby wasn't joking.
"I want to do the same thing," Scott said bitterly, "but I can't do it."
"You're under civil law," Mosby stated. "This town is under martial law. I might be able to get away with it."
"Not a chance," Governor Willoughby had joined them. "It would mean your career, general. Even the President couldn't protect you."
"Clarens is out there," Mosby argued, pointing out the window overlooking the city. "Did you see that little girl?"
"No, but I heard about it. And I saw the man," the governor answered.
"I was there," said Thornberry abruptly. "Will you gentlemen let me,justme, alone with Judkins for five minutes?"
All four of them, the two generals, the police chief, the governor, stared at the psychologist.
"Yes," Bennington decided for the group. "We will."
Doughboy....
Bennington stopped after his first step back into the room, was jostled by Mosby following closely behind. He moved forward to where he could see both Judkins and Thornberry.
The hypno-tech sat bolt upright, his face like that of a newly-conditioned prisoner, completely blank.
Thornberry's face radiated pride.
"These technicians are all alike," the psychologist sniffed. "Their work makes them especially sensitive to hypnosis."
Bennington looked at Judkins, then back to Thornberry. "You mean...."
"I mean that I can ask Judkins anything we want to know and he'll give a truthful answer." Another sniff. "I've forgotten more about hypnosis than he'll ever know."
"This won't hold in a court," Chief Scott warned.
"But it may save a life, maybe more than one," Bennington answered. "Thornberry, you did a good job of those guards. You question Judkins."
"Wait a minute," General Mosby said. "How fast can we get a tape recorder?"
"Why waste time?" asked Bennington. "You can't use this in court."
"Hell, Jim, stop thinking about courts-martial; there's more thanonecourt. Let's fry these boys in the court of public opinion. The news services aren't bound by the rules of evidence. We can worry about other courts later."
"I can get you a tape recorder in two minutes," Scott stated. "Our patrol boys always carry them to take statements at accidents, before the victims get over their shock enough to start lying. And we keep one in the office, too."
Thornberry looked at Judkins and a self-satisfied smirk crept over his face. "No need to worry about lies from this one."
Judkins spoke in a low monotone not much louder than the soft hiss of the machine recording his words. Question by question—in Judkins' condition, each query had to be specific, Thornberry said—the pattern emerged.
Basing his request on his position as a member of the prison commission, Senator Giles had invited Judkins to lunch with him. The senator, however, despite his statement that he wanted only to be sure that Duncannon was getting the best personnel, had not confined his questions to Judkins' background.
Was the hypno-tech alone when he conditioned the men? Any set statement to be made? Could Judkins add to the instructions given each convict without the knowledge of the prison authorities?
The following day, both Senator Giles and Representative Culpepper had called upon Judkins at his sister-in-law's home. Bluntly, they offered ten thousand dollars if the technician could guarantee that Rooney would never be able to talk about the income tax racket.
When Judkins had explained that any conditioning he could give would be as easily removed by another tech, the two men had gone into a corner and consulted in whispers.
They had emerged from the corner with this offer: First, they would bargain with the new warden to get Rooney a job as a trusty. If that failed they offered Judkins twenty thousand dollars and a hideout in New York—until they could set him up outside the country—if he would condition a group of prisoners to riot and discredit Bennington immediately.
"What Rooney must be sitting on!" Mosby murmured in Bennington's ear.
"Was sitting on," Bennington said bitterly. "He was the fat belly with Dalton and Clarens, the one who didn't make it."
The story flowed on under Thornberry's skillful questioning.
At noon yesterday, a frightened and angry Giles had called Judkins, had boosted the bribe to thirty thousand and demanded immediate action.
"What did you tell the prisoners?" Thornberry's voice was as even as Judkins'.
"I was their friend and their only friend; every one else was their enemy. I told them they must be quiet and obey all orders until the last man received his coffee in the mess hall. They were then to throw their trays at the people around them. I told them where to go for guns. I told them that then they would forget all that I had said, that they would know how to take care of their enemies."
"Gentlemen, do you realize what this means, in terms of the constitutional psychopathic inferior? I refer to Clarens, not Dalton. Dalton reacted as Judkins directed, including to forget that he had been told everyone was his enemy. Dalton, we know from his record, actually disliked to use weapons even as a threat.
"But we can be sure that Clarens has not forgotten."
"Why not?" Mosby demanded.
"Because the instructions he received only intensified what he himself believed before Judkins worked on him. As soon as he had a chance he looked for his kind of weapons. How he got her there, we won't know until we catch him, but note that he killed the little girl in the equivalent of a cavern.
"And the man in the park, that, too, took place in what was necessarily an almost secret spot.
"Those orders Judkins gave, weknowClarens is still responding to them...."
Thornberry hesitated a moment, then completed his thought. "And so we must intensify our patrols on the darker streets. With this poor boy believing that every man's hand is turned against him, he is now looking for some dark place in which to feel safe. He is in essence retreating to the foetus—"
"Sounds good, but tell me the rest later, Doc."
"General Mosby, you and I want to call our roving patrols," and Scott headed for the door, Mosby right behind him.
"By the way, Doc," the chief called back over his shoulder, "when you're done with that guy, just tell one of my men. We've got a special, reserved, very solitary cell for him."
More slowly, Bennington followed Scott and Mosby.
The area of the hunt had perhaps been narrowed. Their quarry—the beast with steel knives for talons—would be found in a dark, deserted place.
Bennington noted that Thornberry stayed with Judkins for about ten minutes before he joined the group around the map of Harrisburg in the Operations Office.
Personally, the warden was glad that his assistant was not present; the discussion would almost certainly have produced and explosion from the psychologist.
Scott began his gloomy analysis after both he and General Mosby had redirected their patrols to heavier concentrations in Harrisburg's dim-lit and winding side streets.
"I hate to hunt this kind," the chief said gloomily. "You just never know, never know anything, except that they're going to kill again.
"I just hope he has cooled off and that he wants to sleep a while."
Bennington noted with amused interest the startled glance General Mosby gave the Chief of Police. Mosby's greatest strength and greatest weakness, both in the field and garrison, was his complete refusal to accept or excuse aberration.
Scott had caught the glance, too, and continued. "I got a good lab, general, smart boys willing to pull extra duty. They've already told me that Clarens reached—after he killed the guy in the park—an emotional climax."
Bennington watched his former Division Commander's face harden as expected.
Scott continued: "That's why I said, I hope he's crawled off, wants to sleep a while. Every place he can get a bed in my town, I'll know the minute he wants to lie down.
"Then I'll take him, like this"—the big hand crushed upon itself—"dead or alive, and I hope I have to take him dead."
"Whydead?"
"General, sorry,warden—no, I'll go back to the way I know you best—General Bennington, Clarens simply isn't the business of any kind of normal living.
"You take a guy who cracked a safe, knocked off a payroll, robbed a bank, he's like any good business man taking a risk; he has insurance, he's got an out.
"He can buy me, he can talk to the D.A., he can get the court to go along if he's caught. He just says, I'll tell you where the stuff is if I get the minimum.
"O.K., we're wrong, we should go black-and-white, we should say no to any kind of deal, I shouldn't let a little guy go just because I'd rather grab the big one. Only, unconditional surrender doesn't work any better in my job than it does in yours on a battlefield."
"We've learned it doesn't work too well," Bennington agreed, "but what has this to do with Clarens?"
"General, you did the right thing up at Duncannon when you decided to talk to Musto. He was a man in business, with something to buy and something to sell. He could be dealt with.
"Now think this through: Suppose everybody in that Administration Building had been a Clarens. And I heard that you said this, General Bennington, that there has to be some sort of mutual trust for bargaining. You could deal with Musto because he is, and I'll make the point again, a sort of business man even though his business isn't legal.
"But Clarens...."
Chief Scott let the silence build while he lit a cigarette.
"But Clarens wants to be caught," Mosby said.
"He does?" Chief Scott pointed to the map. "General Mosby, you and I both know that all he has to do is sit down on the curb underneath any street light.
"Let me change that. We would have him ten minutes faster if he sat down on the curb of any dark street.
"No, he doesn't want caught, except maybe those first couple of minutes when he's almost human, those first couple of minutes after he's killed somebody. And if you have to kill someone to have human feelings yourself—that's not for most of us and that's why I hope he fights back and I have to take him—dead."
Chief Scott turned back to the map of Harrisburg. His forefinger ran down the river, pausing at each of the many bridges. Then he turned to the generals.
"Maybe we've got him pinned. We've had the bridges sealed tight and if Dr. Thornberry is right, he won't chase west because Pennsylvania land, especially around here, is selling real high and that's still very open country.
"And that's not for Clarens, he wants back into our little city, back where things feel close and he feelsinside."
Bennington found himself looking at Mosby, with the glance returned.
Mosby spoke, reluctantly. "He could be through us, Chief Scott."
"How?"
"The same way my men come back to camp and it's a natural way that's rarely stopped."
"Clarens had no military experience!" Scott said.
"No, but he's read a lot—that came out at the trial—and he's under pressure, so he'll remember what he read," Bennington said.
"Tell me this way you can walk invisible across a lighted bridge," and Scott was still unconvinced.
"You don't walk over, you ride over," Mosby said. "I would work it this way.
"I would stop in a bar and buy a drink that made me smell five feet away. I would order and get rid of a couple more of them, very quickly, then I would tip the bartender to call me a cab.
"And by the way, of course I wouldn't be drinking any after the first one.
"But when the cabbie came, I'd offer him a drink, wave a big bill or two that meant a good tip, and give him a good address—for instance, the hotel that takes up the biggest space in the yellow pages of the telephone book.
"I would get into the back seat of the cab still holding on to the biggest bill or two out of those we took from the cleaning truck and I would pretend to fall asleep.
"With that cab driver convinced that he's hauling a drunk just aching to give away a big tip—and any normal human being perfectly sure that a wanted killer would never walk into a bar, get loaded and order a cab to take him to the biggest hotel in town—what are my chances, Chief Scott?"
The chief did not answer directly. Instead, "And I'll bet he wins that appeal he's got going, too."
"What did you say, Chief Scott?" Bennington asked.
"We got the word a while ago from Delaware by teletype. Clarens has three good lawyers fighting an appeal from the conviction on every grounds you can think of, including that the confession was beaten out of him.
"That's why I hope he wants to fight when I catch up with him, and that's what Delaware hopes, too.
"But here comes Dr. Thornberry, General Mosby. Let's ask him why Clarens hides so well when he says he wants to be caught."
Thornberry pursed his lips so tightly that his face became a skull's head, then he answered.
"In some areas of human behavior...." he began.
"Dalton," Bennington interrupted, "does he make a game out of getting away when he's caught?"
Thornberry's face became almost human with a big smile. "Oh, yes, obviously."
"Could that energy he puts into escaping be channeled, led, educated—in some way—to constructive thinking? Put it this way: could Dalton be led to thinking about making a jail escape-proof?"
"A most excellent therapy," and Thornberry was actually beaming. "General Bennington, I am beginning to have great hopes for our work together as we start to see more and more eye to eye."
"Let's go back to Clarens," Bennington said. "Son of wealthy parents, a good education, the only child in a family who seemed to have everything, including parents who loved both each other and the child—why does he kill, ask to be caught, and then hide so well?
"What therapy does your science have for him, Dr. Thornberry?"
Thornberry's lip-pursing again made his face a skeleton's.
"There are areas of human behavior—"
Bennington observed that Scott and Mosby had turned away from the conversation to the immediacies of patrol distribution. Scott was being eloquent on how lighting cut down crime and Mosby was analyzing the idea in terms of house-to-house combat at night under slow-dropping flares.
For further insurance of privacy, Bennington pulled Thornberry into the corner of the room most removed from the others.
"Doctor, let's forget about Clarens for a moment. I want to talk about Judkins."
"Yes, general."
"How did you hypnotize him? And don't hand me any of that stuff about him being sensitive because of his job."
Thornberry smiled. "You've seen too many conditioned men, and in a way I'm surprised that I got past Chief Scott with my ... General Mosby should have been more alert, too.
"You're right, it was his skin, not his job."
"I'm still puzzled."
"I won't go into the physical structure of the man, his character as revealed by his choice of profession, and so on. Briefly, he is hyper-sensitive to the thought of physical pain, that's all. So I gave him a simple choice. Talk to us in such a way that what he said could never be used against him, or go for a ride with you, Chief Scott, and General Mosby.
"This is very odd, a fact I must further check into, that your name frightened him most."
"Youthreatened someone with violence!"
Thornberry sniffed. "It was no threat. I knew the man and simply appealed to him in the proper way. Then with the spray of cannabis indica that I carry, I speeded his willingness—"
"Marihuana!"
"Please don't be so shocked!" and Thornberry was horrified that Bennington should be shocked. "The prescription I use is a carefully compounded medical dosage specifically prepared to promote suggestibility...."
"Doctor, I am not in the least suggesting that you would use any method or drug not thoroughly commended by your profession.
"In addition, I am delighted beyond expression that you found some way to learn what we needed from Judkins.
"But, just as I was surprised that your profession did find a use for a drug previously condemned, I now want to be surprised in another way:
"What can you do for someone like Clarens?"
Thornberry's lips came together and his cheeks began to pull in. Bennington resigned himself to hearing again the phrase, "There are some areas of human behavior—"
"Car 17, at M dash 9, Code Two Zero, times two. Standing by for instructions."
Bennington turned to watch Chief Scott's big fore-fingers travel a line from the side and a line from the top that brought them together on the big map. "Signs of breaking and entering, down on Hickory, where it's all big warehouses."
Thornberry leaped to the chief's side. "Lonely at this time of night? Dark? Not too many people?"
"Right on every count," Scott said. "Only a few night watchmen."
"This should be carefully checked," and Thornberry started for the door.
Scott turned to the dispatcher. "Tell them just to keep the place under observation until I get there."
There was an odd eagerness about the chief, odd until Bennington remembered Scott's grim analysis of Clarens' behavior, the chief's hope that Clarens would resist arrest.
And why do I now recall that time in Burma when I followed the wounded tiger into the cave?
What was I thinking of at the time?
Thornberry had disappeared into the corridor, but for once even the prospect of immediate action was not enough to get the impetuous Mosby out the door ahead of Scott.
Was I thinking of mercy, that I could not let a wounded beast which could not destroy itself live with continual pain? Thornberry would never agree, but Clarens is certainly both wounded and incapable of self-destruction.
Thornberry was already seated in the back of the car. Mosby was ready to seat himself in the front, Scott was opening the door to slide in behind the driver's wheel, but Bennington did not change his steady pace.
Retribution and punishment, because the tiger had killed human beings? No, no and never no, for these are worthless without understanding by the person upon whom they are visited. A baby understands not the reason why, but only the whack across its buttocks when its fingers or its life are in danger, and that action is thence forward "reject"; but Clarens is not a baby and a baby is not a tiger, with all three having only this in common, that 'don't do this' is a mystery....
Bennington seated himself beside Thornberry in the rear of Scott's sedan, more aware of his thoughts than his movements.
For a moment the whine of the turbine was high, the gleam of the headlights low, then they were on their way.
Hickory Street was a fast three-minute run from the police station.
"Nothing but warehouses," Scott said. "We're a big trans-shipment center."
The narrow, one-way streets and the broad-shouldered bulk of the big buildings emphasized what the chief had said. The railroads and the rivers were still the most economical way to ship the space-taking stuff, coal, steel, grain. Harrisburg was a crossroads where the east-west and north-south main lines met, with a natural growth of the long warehouses at the intersection.
Scott spun the driver's wheel to the left and cut the car lights. "Hickory Street."
It is a lonely place at night, Bennington decided.
Thornberry leaned forward from the back seat of the car, leaned forward so far between Scott and Mosby that his thin nose almost touched the front window.
"Ideal, ideal, just the way Clarens would be thinking."
"Thank God we found Judkins," Mosby said, "but say, that reminds me. Why didn't he take the first plane or train out of town? He had plenty of time before we knew we wanted him."
Thornberry pulled himself back, re-condensed his lean frame in the left corner of the back seat. "He was waiting for Senator Giles to pay him off and tell him where to hide out."
Chief Scott idled his car to a halt beside another dark-blue sedan almost invisible in the shadowed street.
A figure loomed large in the shadows, came forward and identified itself.
"Patrolman Whelton, sir, and Sergeant Kerr is in the back."
Somehow Scott managed to return the salute while at the same time disentangling himself from his seat-belt and from behind the driver's wheel.
"What did you spot?"
"According to orders, we were riding the alleys and we saw that the window had been broken since our last inspection."
They were in a tight group around the young patrolman because Whelton had spoken in a soft, church-going whisper. Now Mosby walked away from the group, thoughtfully fingering the ivory-handled butts of his revolvers, but returning to the group when Scott began speaking.
"Thanks, General Mosby. They couldn't have checked the alleys as often as they did without your men helping out on the streets. This way, we caught it fast."