“Sure,” the cop replied promptly. “And that ain’t it.”
“State Police, that is,” Chester amended.
“State Police? Heck, I seen the State Police Commissioner at the race track just last week.”
“State Department Police, you nincompoop!” Chester bellowed. “Don’t you realize this is a matter of international import? Why,” he went on in a confidential tone, “I have it on good authority that the affair ties in with a scheduled interplanetary invasion.”
“Geez,” a cop said.
“Now,” Chester went on smoothly, “do you happen to recall the case of the unclothed young woman who was arrested in this vicinity some time ago?”
The cops looked at each other. One lifted his chrome-plated helmet and squinted upward.
“Well,” he said. “Ahhh . . . ”
“I think maybe I remember something about that,” another cop volunteered.
“Ah, fine. Can you tell me what disposition was made of the case? It seems to have slipped my memory.”
“Well, let’s see . . . ”
“Perhaps she served a brief sentence and was sent on her way,” Chester suggested. “She might even have gotten a job—somewhere nearby.”
“A job,” a cop repeated, staring at Chester.
“Why don’t you come on down to the station house . . . ah . . . Commissioner? Maybe we can fix you up down there.”
“Why, she may still be right there in the women’s cell block,” another cop spoke up. “Maybe you can have a nice little chat with her.”
“An excellent suggestion, men,” Chester said crisply. “You may drive me down at once.”
“Sure. Right this way.”
Chester followed two of the officers to their car. He rode along in silence, turning over ways and means. It was unlikely that after ten months Genie was still in the local lockup. Still, she might have compounded the original offense by assaulting members of the police force, damaging public property, attempting escape, resisting arrest and failing to produce a driver’s license. And, of course, she was penniless—always a disadvantage when reasoning with the law.
The car drew up to a side entrance to a red brick building with twin pillars surmounted by milky white globes lettered POLICE. Chester stepped out and followed the driver up the steps while his partner trailed. Inside, the cop motioned Chester along a short corridor and into an inner room where a thin man in a red uniform glanced up from behind a desk with an irritated expression.
“Okay, Buddy,” the lead cop said, looking at Chester. “Look who we got here—the International Commissioner of Police. Get a load of the outfit.”
“Now, I’d like to know—” Chester started, stepping forward.
“He shows up in the stakeout and wants to know do we remember the dame we picked up down there.”
“And by the way, the chairs and rug are back,” the other cop volunteered.
The man behind the desk jumped up. “Back, are they? Did you get whoever delivered them?”
“And he says it’s an invasion from Mars,” the cop finished. “Naw, they was too quick for us. They had this fast car, see—”
“You imbeciles! Kablitzki, I’ll have your stripes for this! Now get back down there and keep that area under surveillance—and that doesn’t mean sitting in your car listening to the latest jerk-and-twitch record!”
“But, Chief, what about our pinch here? He’s a dangerous nut case.”
The Chief threw a glance at Chester. “Probably an escapee from a TV commercial. Lock him up for obstructing justice.”
“Look here—” Chester began.
The two cops turned to him with expressions of relief, reaching out large square hands. Chester leaned aside, caught an outstretched arm, flipped the hand back and applied pressure. The cop yowled and leaped, landed in a heap.
“I simply want some information,” Chester declared. “The girl I asked about—is she still under confinement?”
The second cop growled and moved in. Chester stiff-handed him under the third button, clipped him on the side of the neck as he fell past.
“Here—” the Chief cried, reaching for a drawer. Chester was across the desk, his hands gripping the thin man’s collar.
“Listen, you confounded idiot!” Chester barked. “Where is the girl—the one you picked up for indecent exposure?”
The Chief struggled manfully; Chester rapped his head against the floor. One of the cops staggered into view. Chester hit him with the Chief.
“Now look,” he insisted, holding the unfortunate official in an awkward position over the back of his padded chair. “All I want is information on the young lady’s whereabouts. Why not cooperate in giving a little help to a law-abiding citizen?”
“She’s . . . in the women’s wing—north side, first cell on the right.”
“Where are the keys?”
“It’s a . . . combination.”
“What’s the combination?”
The office door burst open. A fat cop goggled, tugged at a heavy pistol in a hip holster. Chester swung the Chief around as a shield. More cops appeared. In the corridor a bell clanged stridently. Feet pounded. Chester hurled the Chief from him, turned, crossed his arms over his face and dived through the wide double-hung window, landed on grass in a tinkle of glass shards, rolled and came up running. He leaped the hedge, heading for a dark alley mouth across the street. A man stepped into his path.
“Don’t let ’em get away,” Chester bawled. The man stepped aside, looking startled. Chester sprinted up the alley, emerged in a busy street, fell back to a brisk walk. The coup had been a failure, but at least he knew where Genie was. Poor girl! Almost a year in a cold, gray cell.
In the next block Chester skidded to a halt before a wide plate-glass window against which six-inch letters spelled out caterpillar motors. Beyond the glass crouched a giant yellow vehicle, aglitter with chrome, spotlights, aerials. A placard before the looming golden monster said:
THE NEW CATERPILLAR
CONVERTIBLE FOR ’67
(White Sidewall Tracks Extra)
There was an inconspicuous door beside the picture window. Chester pushed it open. Inside, a man with greased hair and a smile leaned against the polished flank of the mighty machine, talking to a paunchy customer of middle age.
” . . . convenient monthly payments,” he was saying. Chester eased behind the immense convertible, climbed softly up, opened the bubble canopy and settled himself in the yellow leather seat. Gleaming instruments winked up at him from a polished panel. Down below the salesman said, ” . . . heat and music, window washers, back-up lights, power seats, windows, top, steering, brakes, clasho-mesh transmission, triple tank-drain carburetion, luxurious cardboard interior, garbage disposal, foam-rubber mats, TV screen . . . ”
Chester looked over the panel, located the starter. ” . . . jet-blast mufflers,” the salesman was saying. “Not one but—get this—two, yes, two Last Trump air horns, a full complement of cheery flashing lights in place of tiresome dials . . . ” Chester switched on, pressed the starter. The engine caught with a roar. He shifted into low, moved toward the show window. The startled salesman yelled and leaped clear; the customer scuttled for safety. The great polished blade hit the glass, sent it clattering in jagged shards. The convertible rumbled through the opening, pivoted to the right, bounced a diminutive passenger car aside, took the center of the avenue. Chester sounded the Last Trump horns as the clasho-mesh shifted into high with a squeal of treads. The crowd scattered before the onrushing monster. An alert patrol car started up, gunned back into the car’s path. Chester swerved, felt the rear quarters of the smaller vehicle crunch as the treads mounted it. He swerved to avoid a Good Humor man, clipped a beer truck with the tip of the blade, dumping it on its side. A head formed in the street.
Chester rounded into the street where a scattering of excited office workers clustered on the courthouse lawn. The north wing, the Chief had said. Chester squinted at the sun, steering for the opening in the hedge. North was to the right.
People were staring, pointing, then turning to run as the giant machine clattered across the curb, trampled the hedge and struck out across the lawn. A petunia bed disappeared under the relentless treads. High in the red brick side of the building, narrow barred windows were set at ten-foot intervals. Beneath them, the caterpillar ground to a halt. Over the rumble of the engine Chester heard excited cries. Faces appeared at the cell windows.
Chester opened the cab door and leaned out. “Genie!” he called. “It’s I, Chester!”
There was a boom, and a bullet whined off the flank of the convertible. Chester ducked back inside. Above, he saw a familiar oval face appear at a window. He waved frantically. Genie waved back uncertainly. Chester threw the clasho-mesh in reverse and gunned back, pivoted, then moved forward. He set the corner of the blade against the brick wall and pressed the accelerator. The treads ground; the caterpillar bucked, then the treads spun helplessly as the turf gave way. A mighty stream of soil boiled out behind the machine.