by Jerry eBooks
The staccato putt-putt of a motor cycle beat loudly on the morning air. Topping a small hill, the speeding machine came roaring down the gray sweep of concrete highway, suddenly opening up its siren.
When he heard that, Trigger Haines didn’t need to see the State trooper’s uniform to know it was a police motor cycle.
At the well, the pretty young woman put down the water bucket and waved her hand. The motor cycle slackened speed, turned off the highway and into the path which led up to the shabby house. It did not stop until State Trooper Fowler braked to a halt beside the kitchen door.
Trigger Haines watched warily, his eyes squeezed almost shut, a deadly light glittering through the fleshy slits, and his fingers tightened about the butt of the gun.
“O.K., copper, get off your bike and have a look around!” he said under his breath. “You’re pickin’ the quickest way I know of gettin’ yourself a ticket straight to hell.”
State Trooper Fowler didn’t have his mind on the man hunt which had kept the police on the jump through the night. He was not, as Trigger Haines supposed, carrying out orders to search all buildings up and down the highway.
Bert Fowler was grinning as he pushed up his goggles, shut off the engine, and parked his machine.
“Good morning, Mrs. Fowler!” he sang out.
“And good morning to you, Mr. Fowler!” the girl at the well answered him, with a happy laugh. “Aren’t you getting through a little early this morning?”
Bert Fowler drew off his gauntlets, walked over to the well, and kissed her. They had been married exactly one month and two days.
“Got to check in at headquarters before I can officially call it a night,” Bert told her. “They pulled me off my regular patrol to join in the man hunt. Guess maybe you heard Trigger Haines crashed out of jail last night?”
Milly Fowler nodded. “Yes, I heard it over the radio. Have they caught him yet?”
Bert shook his head. “Nope. Looks like he was smart enough to stay off the highways. Some of the boys think he’s got away clean, but I believe he’s crawled in somewhere and will try to keep under cover until the search wears itself out.”
“Somebody must have been terribly careless—to let a gun be smuggled into a condemned man,” said Milly.
“That was done pretty smart,” explained Bert. “Trigger Haines has got a girl, a tough moll by the name of Tessie. The cops over at Bensonville picked her up last night and put on the pressure.
“Trigger’s cell was on the second floor of the county prison, and it had an outside window, as these dinky local jails are likely to have. Well, this Tessie wasn’t fool enough to try and smuggle in the gun; she knew she couldn’t get away with that.
“Know what she done? She sent him the present of a necktie which she took the trouble to knit herself. You’re wondering how that hooks up with a gun, eh?”
“I wouldn’t have any idea,” admitted Milly Fowler.
“Well, listen—this is good! That tie was knitted of very special material—strong silk cord. Trigger Haines unraveled it and he had a stout string long enough to reach the street.
“He drops it out the window, Tessie is waiting down there with the gun, she ties it onto the end of the string, and Trigger hauls it up into his cell.
“A gun with a silencer on it, mind you! That’s how he could kill Charley Fay, who was on the death watch, without the shot being heard in the front office.
Fay and Trigger were playing checkers through the locked cell door. Death cells should have tight wire screens on ’em, as they do in the big prisons, but this one didn’t. Trigger reaches through, gets Fay’s keys and lets himself out. He plugged two other guys in the front office, but I hear they’re going to be all right. It just goes to show how big a mistake it is for every county to execute its own prisoners. They’ll probably change the law after this.”
Bert picked up the water bucket and walked with Milly back to the house.
“No more of this water toting after next month’s pay check, honey,” he told her. “We’ll have an electric pump and running water in Mrs. Fowler’s kitchen in no time at all now. Next step—electric lights. The place is a wreck, but we’ll get it fixed up.”
Milly gave her husband’s arm a squeeze.
“It’s fun doing things like this—a little at a time,” she told him. “Everything’s being paid for as we go, and I like that.”
Bert put the water pail on the kitchen stoop.
“Well, I’ve got to be shoving along to make the roll call at headquarters. Back in half an hour—with an appetite.”
“Breakfast will be ready and waiting for you,” said Milly, and kissed him again.
Bert walked back to his motor cycle, pulling on his gauntlets. He swung the machine around, kicked the motor to life, and went zooming down the highway.
Up in the haymow, Trigger spat out a string of muffled profanities.
“Of all the barns there is in this damn country, I’d have to pick the one that belongs to a cop!” he snarled under his breath. “And I dasn’t stir outta here until it gets night again! I gotta stay put and take my chances—”
The muttered words mumbled to an open-mouthed pause as his narrow-set eyes popped wide with the impact of a sudden idea. The cunning brain which had concocted the clever scheme of the gun and the knitted necktie had leaped to still another triumph of ingenuity.
“Ah!” he breathed. “Maybe it ain’t such a bad break after all!”
Trigger Haines’s scheme began to take on form. He was thinking aloud as he swiftly arranged the details.
“Yeah! That’s one way to get clear—maybe the only way! The cop’s uniform and the motor bike will take me anywheres. Nobody stops a cop! And with them goggles to cover my pan—yeah, yeah! I’m just the same as in St. Louie right now!”
In the kitchen of the cottage, Milly Fowler hummed a bright, happy little tune as she mixed the batter for waffles. Bert was especially fond of waffles, done to a crisp brown, flooded with pure maple syrup, and garnished with three or four small sausages.
She gave a start of surprise when she heard the rear kitchen door open, and was a little bewildered that Bert could have got back so soon, or that he could have arrived without her hearing his motor cycle. As she swung around from the kitchen sink—the one which was soon to be equipped with running water—a strangled cry arose and clogged in her throat and the stirring spoon slipped from her hand, clattering on the floor.
This short, squat man with the evil face and narrow-set beady eyes—she knew it was Trigger Haines. The denim trousers and jacket, the gun in his hand with the knobbed protuberance at the end of the barrel told her beyond any possible doubt.
“If you start yappin’,” Trigger Haines warned her, “I’ll have to shut you up.”
“I mustn’t let myself scream!” Milly Fowler thought. “He’ll kill me if I do. No, I mustn’t let myself scream.”
She stood with the fingers of both hands pressed tightly across her mouth, staring at him. What did he want? Clothes? Money? Food?
Trigger Haines moved closer to the kitchen stove. The heat felt good, but there wasn’t enough of it to suit him. Keeping the gun pointed at the cop’s wife, he jerked one of the lids from the firebox, jammed in three fresh sticks of wood. Then he opened the dampers, kicked open the oven door, and pulled up a chair to soak up all the warmth he could.
Milly Fowler found the use of her voice.
“You—you’d better get out of here as quick as you can,” she told him. “My husband is a State trooper. He’ll be back almost any minute.”
Trigger Haines leered knowingly. “Sure. His name’s Fowler, and he’s a motor-cycle jockey. He’s gone to headquarters and he’s comin’ back in half an hour. I’ll wait for him.”
A fresh wave of terror swept over Milly. It left her limp and trembling.
“Wait for him?” she repeated in a dread whisper. “What—what do you mean?”
Trigger Haines thought himself a very clever
fellow, and, in his swaggering conceit, he could not resist the impulse to boast how clever he really was. Grinning spaciously, he rested the knobby end of the gun muzzle against his knee.
“Why, I got an idea that I’d try to make a little trade with your cop husband, lady. His uniform and the motor bike—I got use for ’em. Maybe I’ll trade him a nice bullet for ’em—if he gets foolish ideas about bein’ a hero.”
The walls of the kitchen swung crazily in front of Milly’s eyes; Trigger Haines’s hard, evil face became an almost indistinguishable blur, as she realized what was going to happen. She saw it as clearly as if it already had happened!
It wouldn’t be that Bert wanted to make himself a hero, but he would try to do his duty. A cop’s duty is to have courage.
“There’ll be shooting; there’ll be killing!” thought Milly. Bert won’t have a chance. He won’t be expecting anything like this.”
Then Trigger Haines’s harsh voice was saying: “And while we’re waitin’, what about gettin’ me some chow? Some bacon and eggs—that’ll be quickest.”
Milly Fowler’s brain cleared a little, but her mind still had a numb, dead feeling as she acquiesced to his suggestion about bacon and eggs.
“What am I to do?” she thought desperately. “I’ve got to do something! I can’t let Bert walk into a trap like this! I can’t let Bert be shot down without a chance!” There was no telephone in the house, but what difference did that make? Trigger Haines wouldn’t give her a chance to use it, anyhow.
“I can scream when Bert starts to come in the kitchen,” she told herself. Then when Haines fires his gun, Bert will know—”
But that was no good either. Trigger Haines’s gun had a silencer on it. There would be no explosion to warn Bert. If she screamed, that would only bring her husband a few seconds more quickly—straight into a death trap from which there was no possible escape.
The eggs and the bacon were done. Milly dished them onto a plate. Trigger Haines reached out one of his dirty paws and pulled the kitchen table across the floor so that he could still revel in the heat of the stove. He kept one hand on his gun.
“What about coffee?” he growled.
Milly moistened her lips. “I—I forgot about the coffee,” she stammered.
“You’re a hell of a cook!” rasped Trigger Haines. “Fix me some coffee.”
Milly Fowler turned around to the kitchen sink and reached to the shelf above it where the coffeepot was. Her fingers froze rigidly about the handle as her ears caught the sound—the shriek of the siren on Bert’s motor cycle. He always signaled her like that when he was nearing home. She had formed the habit of measuring the time which elapsed between the wail of the siren and the moment when he slammed his machine into the narrow driveway and shut off the motor outside the kitchen door after a last dramatic racing of the engine. Usually it took just about two minutes.
And then she saw a chance—just one possible chance. How the idea came to her, what had inspired it, she did not know. It just leaped into her mind—and there it was.
Trigger’s eyes never left her, even for an instant. He saw her take the lid from the coffeepot, pour in several heaping tablespoons of coffee from the coffee can. He saw her fill it from an earthenware jug.
He wondered, a little absently, why a good-looking jane like this would want to marry a cop and live in a run-down house where she had to carry water from out-of-doors.
“She must be dumb as hell,” thought Trigger. “A doll with her looks could write her own ticket.”
For just an instant he had a moment of regret that he was going to have to kill her. But, of course, that was necessary. He didn’t dare leave her behind alive, to send pursuit racing after him.
Milly Fowler turned away from the sink and stepped over to the hot stove. The lids glowed red from the heat of the extra fuel Trigger Haines had put in the firebox. Lifting a lid, she set the coffeepot directly over the flames.
“It—it ought to percolate in just—just a minute,” said Milly, and withdrew to the far corner of the kitchen. Her eyes had a bright, set look, and she seemed to be holding her breath.
Again Bert Fowler’s motor cycle screamed raucously—closer this time. So close that now Milly could hear the explosive spitting of the motor. Closer, closer.
Her eyes were fixed upon the coffeepot and the red-hot glow of the stove upon which it rested. Her lips moved mutely; she was praying silently—that the thing that must happen would happen in time.
Bert’s motor cycle had turned into the driveway. She heard it slacken pace, heard the tires make their crunching sound on the spot where there were gravel and ashes, just outside the kitchen door. Trigger Haines’s body straightened; his eyes glistened with a malevolent enjoyment. He hated cops, all cops; killing them was a pleasure. The gun lifted in his hand.
Then, without warning, a sheet of flame filled the room as the coffeepot exploded with a dull roar. Blazing liquid shot toward the ceiling, descended in a spatter of fire.
Trigger Haines got a lot of it over his head, on his shoulders. With a scream of agony he dropped the gun and started beating out the flames with his bare hands. The room became pungent with the smell of burned hair.
“Damn you!” he shouted. “What did you put in that coffeepot?”
The gun had struck the floor and slid five or six feet away from him. Milly Fowler made a leap for the weapon, scooped it up in her hand.
“Kerosene,” she said. “Stay where you are; I’ve got the gun!”
By something of a miracle, Trigger Haines had not been blinded. He made a lunge toward her.
“Gimme that gat!” he said between his teeth.
Milly’s finger found the trigger. She squeezed it—hard. A pinging sound, a little spurt of yellowish fire, and Trigger Haines reeled back, his blistered hands clawing at his chest—a wound not quite low enough to keep them from hanging him.
“I mustn’t faint; I mustn’t faint!” Milly kept telling herself. “A cop’s wife doesn’t faint!”
She was still standing very straight, with the gun almost steady in her hand, as Trooper Fowler flung open the kitchen door and pounded into the room.
NEVER TRUST A COP
W.T. Ballard
Here is Hank Lombard, a very tough member of the Law. Hank does not leave town when he is told to, but decides to hang around. He likes it where the bullets sing all day and a man can find himself some honest work.
DETECTIVE Sergeant Hank Lombard stared at the letter on his desk, his good-humored face twisting into a, frown. The note read:
Sam Clayton got out of San Quentin yesterday and is looking for you. Be smart and get out of town.
A Friend.
He tossed it back onto the desk and clamped a cigar between his teeth. Shoving the battered hat far back onto his dark head, he went out into the receiving room. He remembered Clayton. He’d helped to send the man to San Quentin on an extortion charge, five years before. They’d been after a gang, but they’d only managed to catch Clayton.
At the trial, Clayton had sworn to get Lombard. Hank hadn’t paid much attention. He was used to being threatened, but now someone was trying to get him to leave town and he was pretty sure that someone couldn’t be a friend.
He walked over to the switchboard, got the telephone book, looked up a number and had the girl call it. When a man’s voice answered, he said:
“Boyer? This is Hank Lombard down at headquarters. I suppose you know that Clayton’s getting out today?”
Boyer said, “Yes.”
“Where can I contact him?” He was chewing a match.
Boyer said, “I don’t know. I haven’t heard from him for five years. My part ended when he went to prison. But I do know that the conditions for his parole called for him to leave the state and stay out. That all?”
Lombard said, “That’s all,” and hung up.
Outside, the rain was making blurred streaks across the window. He went down to a cab, rode the cab to the corner of Sixth and
Normandie, paid the driver and walked into an entrance. He climbed the stairs to the rear door of apartment Fourteen, pulled his hat down over his eyes, and pressed the buzzer.
A girl with corn-colored hair answered the door.
He said, “Hello, Ruth,” and pushed his way in.
She stared at him. “I’ve seen you somewhere . . .”
He said, “Sure. Five years ago at your brother’s trial. Where’ll I find Sam?”
She said, “Didn’t you do enough to him? He’s served his time. Must you hound him?”
Lombard told her, “I want to see him about something.”
Her voice was brittle, her body tense. “You leave him alone.”
Lombard’s voice was cold. “Stop acting. Sam got into the racket himself. He went to prison for it and I helped put him there, but I was only doing my job. Now he’s out. I want to see him. Tell him to come down to headquarters.”
The girl said, flatly, “He can’t. According to his parole he has to leave the state at once. Sam isn’t hunting trouble. He’s going straight.” She tried to push him toward the door, but Lombard caught her wrist.
“Listen to me, Ruth. Someone sent me a note telling me that Sam was free—that he was going to get me.”
The girl said, “They’re crazy. He’s left the state already.”
“Stop lying.” Lombard released his grip and stepped back. “He hasn’t left the state yet. Evidently someone doesn’t want me to see him. I don’t know why, but it’ll be safer for Sam if he plays along with me.”
She said, “He can’t. He took the train for Reno this morning. He . . .” She broke off as the apartment bell rang sharply. For a moment she did not move, then she turned and jumped toward the door. But Lombard caught her by the shoulders, swung her around, locked his strong fingers across her mouth.
WITH his free hand he reached toward the button which released the door at the bottom of the stairs. “It might be Sam. We . . . Ouch!” Her white teeth made deep red marks along the side of his fingers.
