Rockabye County 4

by J. T. Edson

  ‘The cops are jumping, pally,’ Jordan remarked, setting down a grip and a case of the type used by sportsmen to transport firearms. ‘Tie that for us.’

  ‘I don’t dig you,’ answered the owner, flicking nervous glances first at Sleath then back to Jordan.

  ‘At the airport, buddy-buddy,’ Sleath put in, placing his suitcase upon a workbench. ‘That hack driver who picked us up was real hip. He drove by instead of pulling straight in. The law stopped two guys carrying gun-cases as we passed. Now that’s moving, man, to be covering the airport so quickly.’

  Somehow Sleath scared the garage-owner far more than did Jordan. One did not expect such a man to be a cold-blooded professional killer.

  ‘They always jump when a badge’s been killed,’ the owner said.

  Sleath and Jordan exchanged glances.

  ‘I told you so,’ Sleath announced, almost with satisfaction. ‘Just like that Chicago contract.’

  ‘You told me,’ agreed Jordan. ‘Thing is, what do we do now?’

  ‘We make a call to the man, that’s what we do. You stay here and keep buddy-buddy company. He looks like he needs company, just so he don’t feel lonesome and neglected.’

  ‘Yeah. He looks that way.’

  Time dragged by. Twice the owner picked up his spray gun and set it down, aware all the time that Jordan’s eyes never left him. At last the man felt he must say something.

  ‘This heap’s hot,’ he got out. ‘Too hot now. The mob won’t dare move a Fury for months.’

  ‘Won’t, huh?’ grunted Jordan.

  ‘I should take it out and dump it.’

  ‘Should, huh?’

  ‘S-sure.’

  At that moment Sleath returned from making his telephone call in the rear of the building. Leaning on the workbench with a hand on his case, he studied the scared face of the garage-owner.

  ‘How’d you know it was a badge we burned, buddy-buddy?’

  ‘There was a newsflash on the radio.’

  ‘And now you’re scared?’

  Something in Sleath’s voice gave the man a warning and caused him to try to put on a bold front.

  ‘M-me! Naw! I’m not scared I—’

  ‘Not, huh?’ asked Jordan.

  ‘No, I’m not,’ answered the owner, but he did not sound convincing.

  ‘That’s good, buddy-buddy,’ purred Sleath, turning his back on the man and opening his case. ‘A scared guy makes bad mistakes.’

  ‘Like wanting to take this heap out of here and dump it,’ Jordan went on. ‘A heap that’s red-hot and only half-painted. A scared guy’d want to take that heap and drive around the streets crawling with cops looking for it. A guy who’s scared draws attention to himself and gets picked up. He might even be scared enough to talk.’

  ‘I—I don’t dig you,’ whispered the owner. ‘All I know is that I had to deliver this heap and collect it later.’

  ‘You know something else, buddy-buddy,’ Sleath stated, still with his back to the man and doing something in his case.

  ‘What else?’ gasped the man, growing more terrified by the second.

  ‘The hack-driver followed orders. He never looked at us. You did. You know what we look like.’

  And with that Sleath swung to face the man, a revolver with a bulging silencer fitted to its barrel in his hand. A look of shocked terror etched itself on the man’s face. He froze, standing rigid and speechless. Even as he opened his mouth to say something, he died. The revolver kicked in Sleath’s hand, making only a low hiss as the silencer’s baffle-plates killed the noise of the muzzle-blast. Jerking up on to his toes under the impact of the bullet—a silencer does not reduce velocity or striking power to any noticeable degree—the garage-owner spun around and fell against the side of the car. Three times more Sleath fired, sending the bullets into the man’s back.

  Jordan stood very still. Long experience had taught him never to make a move when Sleath handled a gun. He watched the body slide down, its fingers scrabbling at the car’s side, the clothing wiping away some of the paint so recently applied.

  Slowly the mask of savage pleasure left Sleath’s face and he removed the gun’s silencer. ‘That’s what the man said,’ he told Jordan. ‘He said wash the guy if he looked like running scared. Then we’re to lay low in town until the man gives the word. He says this county’s sewed up tighter than a widow’s purse-strings, so we stay on here until it’s safe to move.’

  ‘That figures,’ Jordan grunted. ‘Did we get sold, or did somebody goof?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Sleath admitted, jerking a thumb towards the body. ‘How about buddy-buddy there?’

  For a moment Jordan did not reply, then he looked around the workshop and saw an answer to their problem.

  ‘I hope cremation’s not against his religious beliefs.’

  ‘Huh?’ grunted Sleath.

  ‘I once worked as cover for a torch mob and know how to fire a joint like this so it’ll burn up good.’

  Sleath ran the tip of his tongue over his lips and interest sparked in his eyes. ‘When do we do it?’ he asked eagerly.

  ‘What say we hide out here until morning? Then we’ll set the torch and slip out. We’d be less conspicuous in daylight than prowling the streets at night.’

  ‘Be best,’ agreed Sleath and looked at the gun-case. ‘You’d best leave that scatter behind.’

  Jordan nodded his head sadly. Since buying the Brushmaster, he had come to look upon it as a lucky gun. Jordan was a superstitious man: if he lost his first taker during a day’s fishing, he expected to do badly; should he miss his first shot on the opening day of a bird-shooting season, he looked forward to poor results in the future. He had never run into any trouble before while using the Brushmaster and did not care to lose his lucky piece. However, he knew he could not take the gun with him. Its one defect in his line of work had finally come up. The forty-and-a-half inch length of the gun prevented it from being easily concealed and any man seen carrying a gun-case in Gusher City would surely be questioned by the law. Extra attention would be given to a man owning a gun such as the Brushmaster, designed specifically for accurate shooting with a buckshot load.

  'I’ll leave it in the car with this creep,’ he announced. ‘It’s a pity though, this’s a real good gun.’

  ‘Make the man spring for a new one,’ Sleath suggested. ‘Douse the lights and let’s get some sleep. I hope buddy-buddy there has an electric razor so I can shave before I leave in the morning.’

  Eight

  Wishing to form a better impression of how Alice and Brad worked as a team, Jack Tragg rode back to Gusher City in their car. He left Larsen and Valenca to hold the prisoners until a wagon arrived for them, dismissed the helicopter and took the rear seat of the Oldsmobile. Although Alice and Brad had been responsible for Goole’s capture, their other case took priority; so the other team of deputies would handle the tying up of the slow-elking.

  ‘I told Lars and Tony to go over the place with a fine-tooth comb to see if Goole has another shotgun,’ Jack remarked.

  ‘He might have, but I don’t think he’s involved with our case,’ Alice answered and threw a glance at Brad. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Huh?’ Brad grunted, taking his eyes from the road for a moment. Clearly he had not been listening to a word.

  ‘All right, Brad,’ Jack said, knowing the blond deputy pretty well. ‘Spit it out.’

  ‘Sure,’ Alice agreed. ‘Something’s bugging you, has been ever since we left Goole’s spread.’

  ‘No more poker games for me,’ Brad sighed, then became serious. ‘I’ve been thinking of the way Tom was killed.’

  ‘What aspect of it?’ Alice asked.

  ‘The way the whole thing was handled. First they park their heap in just the right place …’

  ‘Had the side of the street to pick from, being Sunday night,’ Jack pointed out. ‘Naturally they’d park there.’

  ‘Sure. But they paid the parking meter so that if a cop came a
long he wouldn’t bother them any in passing. The average punk wouldn’t think of a thing like that. And I don’t reckon Goole’s smart enough to have thought of it either.’

  ‘I’ll buy that, Floyd’s not bright,’ agreed Jack. ‘But how about the Fury’s license plates?’

  ‘Maybe the patrolman made a mistake,’ Alice suggested. ‘It has been known to happen—even in the Bureau of Women Officers.’

  ‘I’d have said particularly in B.W.O.,’ smiled Jack. ‘Only for a mistake he hit well, picking the number of another dark blue Plymouth Fury to send in.’

  ‘Did Schuster make a mistake, Brad?’ asked Alice.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Brad replied. ‘I reckon that Fury was the stolen two-tone. A hot-car mob can repaint a heap and have it ready to roll in under forty-eight hours. But the killers didn’t want to take any chances. They arranged for copies of a genuine set of plates from a matching car be fitted. If a cop became suspicious and called in a make, he’d learn that such a car existed in town and hadn’t been reported missing.’

  ‘Which implies local knowledge,’ Alice remarked.

  ‘Or good organization—by professionals brought in for the job.’

  For a time none of the trio spoke, then Jack asked, ‘Do you buy that, Brad?’

  ‘Maybe more than a couple of local punks with a grudge.’

  ‘How would they know where to find Tom?’ Jack went on, but not in a tone of derision.

  ‘That we don’t know,’ Brad admitted. ‘It was pretty common knowledge around the House that Tom went to San Antonio on business and would be back tonight, and that he went by train. Maybe somebody found out …’

  ‘One thing’s for sure,’ Alice said as Brad’s words trailed off. ‘They were waiting and didn’t make their hit on chance. It would be too much of a coincidence for them to be there, waiting, with a shotgun on hand, on the off chance.’

  ‘Coincidences do happen,’ Jack remarked.

  ‘Sure, but suppose they hit the wrong man?’

  ‘That’s not likely, Alice,’ Brad objected. ‘We know that Tom was the last man out of the depot. He came out alone, so they couldn’t have mistaken him for anybody among the crowd.’

  ‘We’ll put it over the air and television news services that we’d like to interview passengers from the train, question the hack-drivers, see if anybody resembling Tom in height and build left the train. If there was, well run a check.’

  ‘If the killers were imported professionals,’ Brad said slowly, clearly thinking out his words, ‘they’d have an escape route planned.’

  ‘Not in the Fury,’ Alice answered. ‘They’d need to change cars and even then two men travelling together would attract attention. Professionals would know how fast we’d move when we heard one of our own had been hit. I don’t think they’d chance a car.’

  ‘Which leaves train, bus or fly out,’ Jack commented. ‘And they’d know we would be watching all three. Call Cen-Con, Alice, arrange to have a check made with the airport and bus depot to find out if anybody booked a trip and failed to show for it.’

  ‘Yo!’ Alice replied, and took up the transmission microphone. It was a long chance, but all they had at the moment.

  On returning to the sheriff’s office, Alice found an answer to her request for information. Sitting at Brad’s desk, she read the sheet of paper left by the dispatch clerk who took the message.

  ‘Negative from the bus depot,’ she said. ‘A Mr. Sudwick cancelled reservations for himself and his wife on the ten forty-five eastbound flight. He called in to cancel at nine-thirty.’

  ‘Which lets him out,’ grunted Jack.

  ‘Sure. But there were two more cancellations—well, not cancellations, but non-arrivals for bookings. Both bookings were male, made within fifteen minutes of each other this afternoon, or yesterday afternoon seeing that it’s Monday morning. Otis B. Jackson, address given was the Newnes Hotel in Leander.’

  ‘Know the place,’ Jack interrupted. ‘Respectable, middle-rent district, not a crook hang-out. How about the other?’

  ‘Frederick Sloane. He called from the Bestwick Temperance House in Evans Hill.’

  ‘Apart from the temperance side, the same type of place as the Newnes,’ Jack breathed. ‘And neither of them showed to collect their reservations?’

  ‘That’s what the paper says,’ Alice replied, meeting Jack’s eyes.

  ‘It’s worth checking out,’ the sheriff stated. ‘Go after Brad fetches up the coffee.’

  As if hearing his name, Brad entered the squad room, carrying a tray with a large pot of coffee on it, and followed by Grantley and Melnick.

  ‘Nothing, Jack,’ Grantley announced. ‘We've prowled every inch of the Hardin Street area, stopped pedestrians, called at gas-stations, bars, every place, but nobody seems to have seen a dark blue Plymouth.’

  ‘The damned thing just couldn’t disappear,’ Alice objected.

  ‘You know it, I know it,’ grunted Grantley, ‘the trouble being that the car doesn’t seem to know it.’

  He knew Alice well, for she had been his wife’s best friend and one-time beat partner. In fact Grantley had been one of the men who recommended Alice as the best candidate for promotion to woman deputy; and he did not do it to placate his now-retired wife.

  ‘Once out of the immediate area, they’d slow down and drive normally,’ the girl guessed. ‘Who notices a car as long as it doesn’t do anything unusual?’

  ‘Not enough folks, and that’s for sure,’ Jack said, and took a cup from the tray Brad set on the desk. ‘Brad reckons we’re dealing with professionals and the hit was a well-organized contract.’

  Something in the sheriff’s voice drew Alice’s eyes to him. Jack’s tones held none of the derision usually shown when a young, inexperienced officer made a suggestion based more on sensationalism than cold facts. The words showed that Jack regarded Brad as a member of his staff whose opinions were worthy of serious consideration.

  ‘It could be, at that,’ agreed Grantley. ‘Jake and me’re cutting back in the morning, Jack. If there’s nothing for us, we’ll go hit the sack.’

  ‘We’ve a lead we want running down. Could you go to the Bestwick and check out a Frederick Sloane?’

  ‘Sure,’ confirmed Grantley.

  While a deputy was on call twenty-four hours a day, Jack always asked if he wanted a man to stay on beyond the end of a watch. While the end result was the same, his men liked the touch of having it come as a request.

  ‘We’ll take the Newnes,’ Alice remarked, pouring a cup of coffee which Melnick appropriated. ‘A temperance hotel is more in Jake and Ian’s line.’

  ‘You’re just riled because you’ve had to pour our coffee for us,’ Grantley told her, having taken the first cup she filled.

  After finally gaining possession of and drinking a cup of coffee, Alice went with Brad to their car. This time she took the wheel and drove the Oldsmobile out into the sleeping city, taking the shortest route to the Newnes Hotel.

  ‘Let’s leave the heap out here,’ Brad suggested as the girl brought the Oldsmobile towards the front of the hotel. ‘Why bother with the parking lot?’

  ‘There’s a No-Parking sign out front,’ Alice pointed out.

  ‘We’re not likely to get a ticket at this hour of the night,’ Brad answered. ‘Anyways, I’ve a five in the back of my driver’s license.’

  ‘And you an officer of the law, duly appointed and sworn to keep the peace,’ Alice smiled. ‘Shame on you, Bradford Counter.’

  Even though they had suffered a personal loss that night and were tired from long hours of driving and work, life must go on. It helped to make the tired old peace officer jokes.

  Leaving the car parked, in defiance of the Traffic Bureau’s warning sign, before the doors of the Newnes, Alice and Brad crossed the sidewalk and entered the reception hall. Although the hall was lit by a couple of small bulbs, the desk stood unattended.

  ‘No register either,’ Brad remarked. ‘Well, if we
can’t sleep why should anybody else. Will you jab the bell, boss lady, or do I?’

  ‘Power hasn’t corrupted me yet,’ she replied, and jabbed her thumb on the desk’s bell push.

  The door behind the desk opened and a bleary-eyed man came out. While he wore a well-tailored, sober suit, his shirt’s neck was open and his tie drawn down.

  ‘Yes?’ he asked coldly, dropping suspicious eyes to Alice’s ring-less left hand.

  ‘No,’ she replied, and flipped open her ID wallet. ‘We’re deputies. Is Mr. Jackson still here?’

  ‘Jackson?’ repeated the young man, setting up a plaque announcing that Mr. S. Silverman held post as night manager. ‘Is he a resident?’

  ‘He booked an airline flight from here,’ Brad answered. ‘Maybe he only came in to use the phone.’

  ‘Check the register, please, Mr. Silverman,’ Alice went on. Taking the register from under the desk, Silverman flipped it open and ran a finger down the column of names on page.

  ‘Mr. Otis B. Jackson?’

  ‘The same,’ agreed Alice.

  ‘He checked out this evening.’

  ‘What time?’ Brad asked.

  ‘I came on at eight and he had gone by then.’

  ‘When did he check in?’ Alice inquired.

  ‘Friday afternoon. What’s he done?’

  ‘Should he have done anything?’ smiled Alice.

  Then Silverman got it. While the sheriff’s office personnel had countywide jurisdiction, they left most investigations in Gusher City to the Detective Bureau. Silverman owned a radio and listened to it, so he could guess at what brought the two deputies to disturb his sleep.

  ‘Was he a regular guest, sir?’ Brad asked.

  ‘This’s his first time here,’ Silverman replied.

  ‘What did he look like?’ Alice asked.

  ‘Tall, jovial, burly. He said he was a salesman, but didn’t mention what he sold. A bellhop told me about him, said Mr. Jackson had a gun-case along and was going on vacation after he finished his business in town.’