Mouthpiece (6 page)

Tascori jerked up with
an explosive oath. “Bungler! You've just creased him!”

“I'm sorry,” said
Tony, stepping back. “I shot in such a hurry.” He shrugged his shoulders and
fingered his automatic. Then an idea mirrored itself on his face. “But that's
easy to fix up.” He looked down at the sprawled body of the radioman. “That's
easy.”

Without hesitating he
kneeled beside Collins and pressed the still-smoking muzzle of the pistol
against the radioman's temple. Tascori grinned mirthlessly and said, “Go
ahead.”

Tony adjusted the
muzzle carefully and squeezed the butt safety into place. His finger started to
close down on the trigger. His face was expressionless. Then he drew the gun
away and grasped Collins by the hair, turning his head over so that light fell
on the unconscious features.

He glanced up at
Tascori. “I think I'll do it this way this time. It's more sure.” He laid a
piece of newspaper under the brown hair. “No use messing up the rug much more.”

Again he placed the
pistol against Collins' head, but this time, its black muzzle was held under
the throat. His palm came down on the butt safety again and his finger
tightened against the trigger.

“Wait a minute!”
blurted one of the men. “I know that guy!”

Tascori turned
languidly. “Friend of yours?”

“No, I'll say not!”
snapped the gangster. “He's the radio announcer at police headquarters! I saw
him in the broadcasting room last time they dragged me into the
bullpen
.”

“Are you sure?”
demanded Tascori. He was staring down at Collins with new interest.

“Sure! You can look
right through the glass as you come in the door to the desk.” The gangster
pointed down at the unconscious radioman with a bony finger. “I'd know him
anyplace.”

“Hm,” muttered
Tascori. “So this is our little friend the radio announcer we've been having so
much fun with. Well, well, well. And we were going to bump him off just like
that!”

He snapped his fingers
and turned over the sprawling body with a disdainful foot.

“I'm sure that we can
give him a much better time than that. Later this evening we'll take him for a
nice little ride.” He turned to the man who knew Collins. “Take that curtain
and lash him into that chair.”

The man whom Collins
had sent hurtling down the steps lurched to his feet, pressing a hand against
his bleeding nose. “I'll say we'll take him for a ride!” He planted a solid
kick in the radioman's ribs.

Tascori had lost
immediate interest in the proceedings. “Tony! Get out there and see if you can
find something to eat. I'm hungry.” He sat down in an upholstered chair and
picked up a newspaper.

“Huh! No wonder he's
here!” And he read the story which Collins had seen earlier in the evening. He
glanced across the room to where two of his men were binding the radioman with
strips torn from a
cretonne
curtain.

“Yes,
you'll have a very enjoyable ride, I'm sure.”

C
ollins awoke with the smell of
cooking food in his nostrils. Pain shot through his skull as he moved, but he
forced himself to lift his eyes so that he could stare about the room.

Suddenly the full
portent of his presence clicked and he stiffened. When he tried to move his
arms, he found that they were securely bound to the sides of the chair. He
attempted to shift his legs, but they too were lashed down. He gazed for a long
time at the ragged cretonne bonds, then he looked up and saw Tascori looking at
him.

“Well,” said Collins
thickly, “I guess you win. What are you going to do with me?” Though his voice
was hoarse, his southern drawl was apparent.

Tascori stretched out
his legs and smiled crookedly at his captive. “I'm going to take you for a nice
little ride, my boy.”

Collins tautened and
stared at the man. Those words had been spoken with a lazy southern inflection,
an exact imitation of his own drawling voice!

“Yes—a nice ride,”
Tascori laughed and fished a cigarette from his pocket. Lighting it, he tossed
the burning match into the ashtray which stood at Collins' elbow, where it
flickered fitfully among the heaped butts.

Tony thrust his head
through the door. “Okay, Chief, the grub's on the table.”

Tascori smiled at
Collins for a moment, his one eye cold and narrow. “Won't you have something to
eat with us? No?” He laughed and walked out of the room, leaving the radioman
alone.

His headache had
diminished somewhat and his mind was so filled with swift speculations that he
forgot the clotted bullet crease above his ear. Tascori could imitate his
voice! Perhaps—perhaps—

His eyes darted about
the room and came to rest on two boxes which were set on a table against the
wall. One he knew to be a small shortwave receiving set, very much like those
which were placed in each of the squad cars.

The other was much
larger. Its face was covered with meters and dials. An open switch stood beside
the box. A complete radio broadcasting set of the latest compact type. Collins
examined it narrowly. It was complete with the exception of the microphone. And
the leads to that were coiled before it on the table top.

He suddenly realized
the portent of his discovery. And a map of the city pinned above the radio
broadcaster confirmed the matter. For that map had pins bearing numbers thrust
into it. And the numbers corresponded to the squad cars, all in their proper
districts.

It was plain now.
Tascori's plan was simple. He would select the location of his next job, and
garner the numbers of the police cars in that and surrounding districts.

He would pull the
switch and give the official call in the exact imitation of Collins' voice. By
tapping the shortwave receiver at the broadcaster, he would know when Collins
would be at the police mike, and whether or not the police mike was silent.

Even if the police
mike went to work in the middle of Tascori's call, he would know by the sudden
crackle when to quit. After giving the call, he would race with his gang to the
scene of his next crime, certain of being unmolested.

Collins was suddenly
calm. A resolve stronger than he was throwing new strength into his battered
muscles. Coldly his brain seized upon facts and methodically placed them
together.

He looked down at his
side and saw the slight bulge which the two tiny microphones made in his
pocket. Earlier in the evening he had discovered that several coils of
uncovered wire were in his coat pocket. And his coat lay beside him on the
floor where the gangsters had thrown it.

If he could attach
that mike— He wrenched at his bonds. Looking down again, he saw that they were
of thin cloth. He tugged again. The cloth refused to give. Collins' heart began
to sink and his resolve started to ebb.

The cloth was
cretonne, almost impossible to tear. And its folds were wrapped so tightly that
circulation was dead in his hands and feet. A sob of disappointment welled up
in his throat. So near, yet so far, he was unable to reach that broadcasting
set.

He peered out through
the door. From where he sat he could see nothing of the gangsters. He could
hear the buzz of their voices and an occasional clatter of a plate, but that
was all.

Collins slumped
forward. It was useless to try. He gave way to the pain which was shooting
through his skull and the ugly ache which was creeping up his arms.

Something tugged at
his nostrils. An odor he had not before noticed. Absently he catalogued it.
Cigarette butts burning in an ashtray. Then he stiffened and glanced to the
left.

Not two feet from his
elbow stood a high ashtray. He suddenly recalled the burning match which
Tascori had thrown into it. The pile of butts was smoldering red coals, showing
through the gray ashes.

Hope leaped up in his
breast. Cautiously, lest his chair scrape loudly on the floor, he hitched the
chair toward the ashtray. Inch by inch he closed the gap. Finally, sweat
standing out on his brow from the exertion, he managed to touch one of the
strips to the smouldering heap.

A coal touched his
wrist and he flinched. Then, gritting his teeth, he shoved the cloth back into
the smoke. Gradually he could feel the cloth loosen. The burning fabric seared
up his wrist, but he bit his lip and held it there.

The next instant his
left hand was free! Feverishly, praying for time, he tore at the bonds of his
right hand.

At any minute Tascori
or one of his men might return to the room and discover him. The hand came
free. He twisted his numb hands together for an instant and then snatched at
his feet. The knots there were stubborn and held out for long, precious seconds
against his onslaught. He gave one last jerk and his feet were free.

Unsteadily he jumped
to his feet. Stinging pains shot up through his legs. He stepped gingerly
forward. Then there came an overwhelming impulse to run and he gave way to it.

A door stood in back
of the chair and he silently pulled it open, expecting to see another room or a
hall. He darted into the dark doorway and then stopped. He had entered a
closet.

Turning, he glanced
wildly about the room. But the door which led to the gangsters was the only
other entrance. And to cross the room to the stairs meant discovery.

Running a numb hand
across his forehead impatiently, he turned back to the radios. Again he caught
sight of the open switch, the unattached mike leads. On tiptoe he crossed the
room, and drew the two microphones from his pocket and laid them on the table.
He snatched up his coat and drew the coils of wire from it. His hands were
stiff and clumsy, but they quickly wrapped the leads together.

He cursed his lack of
pliers as he attempted to cut the excess wire which hung to the tiny
microphone, but even though the wire was small, it hung stubbornly together.

Failing in this, he
was forced to join the leads with the twenty-foot strips which composed the
coils. He was about to throw the switch down when a sudden hunch took hold of
him.

Taking the other small
mike, he lashed it to the receiving set beside the broadcaster. It was the work
of half a minute.

Then pulling out the
long wires so that they would not short, he laid the two mikes side by side on
the table top. Deftly he tuned the broadcasting set by its numbered dials. His
hand swept out toward the switch. At that instant he heard a chair scrape in
the outer room. His heart seemed to stop beating and his hand stopped in
midair. With a sob he threw on the switch. He whirled to the receiver and
clicked on its juice. A footstep rang against boards in the other room.

The footsteps were
coming closer. Collins swept the two small mikes into his pocket, and darted
back to his chair. With a jerk of his arm he threw all four wires back along
the wall, almost out of sight.

Just as his hand came
back alongside the chair, Tascori stepped through the open door. He noticed
nothing unusual at first. In fact he hardly glanced at the radioman. He paused
in the middle of the room to light a cigarette.

The slam of a door
crashed through the house. Tascori started violently and he stared with his one
eye fixed on the door he had just stepped through.

A heavy footfall
followed the slamming of the door.

The sound came from
the back of the house. Tascori spun about and whipped an automatic from his
pocket. Holding it by the barrel, he darted to Collins. It was not until then
that he noticed the absence of the bonds and the telltale cloth on the floor.

With an oath he
brought the butt of the automatic against the radioman's head with a terrific
smash. Collins tried to dodge, but too late, and he caught the full force of
the blow over his ear. Darkness crashed down upon him.

Tascori grabbed at the
radioman's shirtfront and half-dragged, half-pitched him through the open
closet door. Collins sank down, to all appearances dead. A new trickle of blood
was flowing onto the closet floor. Tascori closed the closet and thrust the gun
back in his pocket. Quickly assuming a nonchalant air, he walked to the
entrance of the room. A tall figure was approaching him.

Suddenly Tascori swore
and his eye kindled. “What do you mean bursting in here like that! Get this,
Giovanni, you'll walk softly while you're in my gang or you'll be taking a
little ride!”

Giovanni stopped and
looked down at the floor. “I'm sorry, Tascori. But I was in a hurry to tell you
the news.”

“All right,” snapped Tascori.
“What is it?”

Tony and the three
other gangsters came up beside him.

“Listen!” said
Giovanni. “It ain't healthy to stick around here no longer.”

Tascori stepped
forward. “What do you mean?”

“Just this,” Giovanni
replied, “I saw a squad car parked a block down the street and I don't like
it!”