The Bullwhip Breed

by J. T. Edson

  “I’d surely be disappointed if there was,” Calamity replied. “Now go get my hat while I plaster all this muck on my face. Darn it, Sherry, why do gals wear all that paint and powder?”

  “To beautify themselves and attract men.”

  Calamity made a wry face. “Hell, I done all right without it all these years.”

  Before St. Andre could make any reply, a knock on the door heralded the arrival of Jackie and Redon. Both were dressed for the decoy assignment and tactfully overlooked the fact that Calamity still wore only one stocking.

  “It’s this boss of your’s keeping me talking, Raoul,” lied the unabashed Miss Canary. “You and him wait in the ball and leave a gal some privacy.”

  Within ten minutes a blonde Calamity, dressed as the previous night, came from her apartment with the ballet-dancing savate expert. Despite knowing, even more so than the previous night, the dangers facing them, the girls looked unworried and cheerful.

  “Let’s go,” Calamity said, hooking her hand into St. Andre’s arm. “Maybe we’ll be lucky tonight.”

  Calamity proved to be a mighty poor prophetess. Although they made the rounds of the Latour Street district until past midnight, neither girl received an offer from any man resembling the Strangler’s build and height. However, the night was not entirely wasted. Using her ability to make friends, Calamity started to gain the confidence of the street girls they met in the various places. While waiting for customers on one side and hoping to be selected as the Strangler’s next victim in the other case, Calamity bought a few drinks, made jokes, lent a sympathetic ear to problems, and in general won over several girls. She worked for one purpose, to find out the names of possible Strangler victims.

  While Calamity had never been trained for such work, she knew instinctively that she must not rush matters. One hint of suspicion would not only prevent the street-walkers taking her into their confidence, but almost might end her usefulness as a decoy. So, for the first evening, she confined herself to getting to know the other girls and persuading them that she followed their trade but did not regard them as business rivals or enemies. Buying a couple of rounds of drinks, and boasting how she had made a good sale that evening to explain where the money came from, started the thaw. From then on, once her bridge-head had been established, Calamity consolidated her position in a manner which any general would have admired. Always good company at such times, she soon had the girls laughing at her raw, unprintable jokes. In addition, she listened to the other girls’ troubles, agreed that all men were lousy beasts and generally made herself agreeable. For the first time, while talking with the street-girls, Calamity learned just how rough company she had been in that afternoon. Already the story of the capture of Gravitch’s gang had gone the rounds, and Calamity found that her alter ego stood high in the street girls’ favour with only one complaint levelled at her head, that she had not treated Jules far rougher than she did. Not that the girls recognised this blonde obvious member of their profession as the famous Calamity Jane, but it made Calamity feel good to hear their comments and receive their unconscious approbation.

  However, apart from a boost to her ego, and making a lot of friends, Calamity achieved nothing that evening. No man even vaguely resembling the Strangler’s height and build approached her, and shortly after midnight Redon attracted Calamity’s attention with a jerk of his head.

  “Well,” Calamity said, shoving back her chair. “That’s me for the night.”

  “And me,” Jacqueline agreed. “If my man doesn’t like it, he can do the other. What do you say, Jane?”

  “Don’t let him hear you say it,” Calamity replied, winking at the others, “or the reds of your eyes’ll be turning black. See you tomorrow, girls.”

  Calamity and Jacqueline left to the accompaniment of cheerful laughs and waves. Not until they were clear of the Latour Street district did they wait for their escort to catch up with them.

  “You pair’ve been having fun,” Redon remarked after sending one of the men to find a cab. “Did you learn anything?”

  “Nothing much,” Calamity admitted. “I didn’t reckon rushing around asking if any of them was shy a pard or two’d get me any place. So I played it steady and maybe tomorrow I’ll get me a few names.”

  “One of those gals, that big black-haired one, goes around with a couple of fellers we’d like to lay hands on,” Redon said. “Why not—?”

  “That’s out!” Calamity snapped. “I’m in this thing to help you boys catch the Strangler, not go bounty hunting.”

  “No offence,” grinned the detective, and strangely did not think any the worse of Calamity for her refusal. “Maybe we’ll have a taker for you tomorrow.”

  “Maybe,” answered Calamity. “I only hope that he hasn’t got another gal tonight.”

  The Strangler had not struck again that evening, which did not surprise any of the decoy party. Next morning Calamity slept in late and on rising had barely finished breakfast when a messenger from St. Andre brought word that her presence was required at Headquarters. Calamity paused only long enough to collect her hat and whip before taking the cab St. Andre sent for her and driving across town. On her arrival, she found Jacqueline waiting and noticed that the slim girl wore black tights and a blouse. St. Andre sat at his desk and waved a buff-coloured telegraph message form as Calamity entered.

  “This is from the Rio Hondo,” he said. “It may give us the answer we need.”

  “Good for old Dusty,” replied Calamity. “I knew he’d find the way and be only too pleased to help out.”

  “I have read the message and Lieutenant St. Andre showed me how the Strangler works, Calam,” Jacqueline remarked. “We waited for you before trying, but I think it will work.”

  “Now me,” grinned Calamity. “I’d be more surprised if it didn’t work, knowing Dusty Fog like I do.”

  Taking the sheet of paper, Calamity read it, mouthing the words in the manner of one who spent but little time at such a pursuit. Within the limitations of using the telegraph services, Dusty Fog appeared to have done a fine job in explaining how he figured the Strangler’s noose attack could be defeated. After reading the message, Calamity felt that her confidence in the Rio Hondo gun wizard had been more than justified.

  “Danged if it don’t look so easy you’d wonder how we missed it,” she said and laid down the telegraph message form. “Let’s give her a whirl, Sherry.”

  However, reading how to perform the counter to the attack and actually performing it, proved to be two entirely different things. Calamity’s first two tries proved no more successful than her previous attempts at escaping from the constriction of the strangling cord. Much to Calamity’s annoyance, Jacqueline was first to make a successful counter. With her fast dancer’s reactions, she managed to perform the counter on her fifth attempt.

  “It works!” she said delightedly. “I think if you did it slightly faster, Sherry, we would have a better chance.”

  On following the dancer’s suggestion when trying the killer’s hold with Calamity, St. Andre found that the counter worked much better. Previously he had been slow moving and braced for the counter. When working faster, he found less opportu~iity to prevent the girl escaping. The Strangler would be working fast and unprepared for resistance after so many easy kills.

  “Reckon we’ve got the hang of it now,” Calamity stated as she picked herself up from the floor after a successful counter to St. Andre’s attack.

  “Now that’s what I call a poor choice of words,” smiled the detective, also rising. “But I feel a whole lot happier now we know you’ve a chance of escape.”

  “Know something, Sherry?” said Calamity. “So do I.”

  That evening found Calamity and Jacqueline out on the streets again. At ten o’clock Jacqueline had a likely taker. A well dressed young man of the right height and size, slightly drunk, made the usual advances and she departed with him. Redon followed with one of the men, while Calamity spent a quarter of an hour worry
ing over her friend’s safety. At last Jacqueline returned, unmarked and unflustered, to take a seat at Calamity’s side.

  “No?” asked Calamity.

  “No,” agreed Jacqueline. “I thought it might be when he suggested we take a walk down towards the Park. But when we got to the outside, he wanted to go to my room instead of walking. Raoul and Vic came up then, explained matters and saw him on his way.”

  “Could have been the Strangler playing cagey,” Calamity remarked.

  “They searched him thoroughly and he didn’t have as much as a piece of string in his pockets. He’s a clerk in a riverboat company’s office and wouldn’t want word of his escapade to slip out. Where now?”

  “Let’s try the Blue Cat, shall we?” Calamity suggested.

  “Suits me,” answered Jacqueline. “I wonder if we’ll learn anything there?”

  Half-a-dozen street girls sat around a table in the Blue Cat, a saloon much favoured by their class, when Calamity and Jacqueline entered. Apart from one, Calamity and Jacqueline had seen all the girls around the Latour Street district during their visits and five were among those Calamity befriended the previous evening. Clearly Calamity was now regarded as being all right, for cheerful greetings came her way as she and Jacqueline crossed the room.

  “This’s Nora, Jane,” one of the girls introduced, waving a hand to the only girl Calamity and Jacqueline had not seen around the district. “She’s making her debut tonight.”

  Looking at Nora, a small, pretty, young-looking girl wearing a blue dress and sporting a large blue ring on her right hand’s third finger, Calamity smiled. “Don’t know what that is, but I hope you enjoy it.”

  “I will,” answered Nora, touching her curly blonde hair and returning Calamity’s smile.

  From the way she spoke, Nora clearly imagined her new life would be one of leisure and pleasure. Watching Nora, Calamity wondered if she should break her habit of letting folks run their own lives and try to steer the blonde out of a dirty, unpleasant business.

  However, before Calamity could make any moves in that direction, or start to make a stab at learning the names of a few possible Strangler victims, she saw a man enter the room from Latour Street. From the way Jacqueline stiffened in her seat, Calamity guessed that the dancer also spotted the man and shared her interest. The man halted just inside the doorway and stood looking around him. Although he wore good quality clothing, the material showed signs of lack of care. His hair was long, not in the manner sported by Wild Bill Hickok and other plainsmen but merely long enough to hint at a needed visit to a barbershop. Some folk might have called him good looking, but Calamity took note of his pallid features with the intense expression and did not like what she saw. What interested Calamity and Jacqueline about the newcomer was the fact that he had a slim build and stood slightly over five foot ten in height.

  Glancing at the bar to check that Redon saw the new arrival, Calamity found that after one quick look the detective turned his back on the man as if wishing to avoid recognition. The newcomer left the door and strolled in the direction of the girls’ table.

  “Hi, girls,” he greeted.

  “Hello Browne,” chorused five of the table’s occupants.

  Calamity, a keen student of human nature and facial expressions, noticed a flicker of a scowl crease the young man’s eyes as the girls used his name, however, his mouth never lost the friendly smile. He nodded in Calamity’s direction.

  “And who are the new faces?” he asked.

  “This’s Jane and Jackie,” one of the girls introduced. “They’ve come down river from Memphis. And this is Nora, she’s just starting.”

  “It’s one way of supporting your family, Nora,” the young man remarked. “The kind of money they can earn isn’t enough to keep you in anything but poverty.”

  “You’re right,” Nora gasped, eyes shining in delight as she found a good excuse for turning to this kind of life instead of staying in her previous employment as a maid.

  “My dear child,” smiled the man, though Calamity thought it nearer a condescending sneer, “I always am.”

  With that he walked away, followed by several admiring, and one critical, gazes.

  “Who’s he?” asked Calamity.

  Shock and surprise showed on most of the other girls’ faces. ‘Why that’s Browne Crossman,” one gasped.

  “And who’s Browne Crossman?”

  “Just the greatest writer who ever lived,” the other girl explained. “He wrote a book, but the aristocrats won’t let it be published. Works for the Intelligencer. Even though he’s got plenty of money, he comes down here a lot. He prefers our company and he’s all for the workers.”

  Calamity was a poker player of some skill, so she concealed her feelings. However, she had met a few of the kind of politicians who were ‘all for the workers’ and, being a sensible girl, mistrusted them. From her study of Browne Crossman, she decided he would be like most of his kind, self-opinionated, despising the people he professed to be all for. There had been more than a hint of condescension about him as he spoke to the girls, a touch of annoyance during the familiar use of his Christian name.

  It appeared that none of the other occupants of the room had any doubts about Crossman, for he was greeted cheerfully and familiarly as he walked towards the bar. On his arrival, Crossman saw and recognised Redon, guessed the detective must be on some duty which involved keeping his identity secret, so prepared to demonstrate his love of the down-trodden underdogs.

  “Well, fancy seeing you in here, Sergeant Redon,” Crossman said in a voice which carried around the room. “I thought the Police Department used you in the Bourbon Street district. Or isn’t that area profitable enough for you?”

  Anger glinted in Redon’s eyes as he turned. He knew that the young reporter deliberately identified him. “I just came in for a drink, Mr. Crossman.”

  “You aren’t dressed as well as the last time I saw you,” Cross. man went on. “Isn’t business as good as usual?”

  A nasty snigger rose from the crowd, for all knew Crossrnan hinted that the detective sergeant added to his pay by taking bribes. Under other conditions Redon would have taught some of the sniggerers a sharp lesson in respect for the law, but among its other activities the Intelligencer liked nothing better than to expose police ‘brutalities’. Such a report always meant trouble for the officer involved, so Redon held his temper, finished his drink and walked out of the room.

  At her table, Calamity sat squirming angrily. Only by exercising her willpower did she prevent herself rising, crossing the room and telling Crossman what she thought of him. Redon was an honest man who never took bribes, a brave man and one doing a thankless task. In Calamity’s opinion he deserved better than have to put up with the sneers of a man not fit to lick his boots.

  The other girls seemed both amused and pleased to see a policeman humiliated, so Calamity kept her thoughts to herself.

  Having proved himself once more ‘all for the workers’, Crossman dominated the conversation in the room. He spoke well, but with only one purpose, and the customers listened attentively. With skill Crossman played on the greed and envy of his audience, condemning everybody who owned more than the people in the room, hinting that under his political party the world would be a gloriously happy place where ‘the people owned everything’. To hear him talk, nobody would ever need to work if his party gained control of the country. While most of his audience drank this in eagerly, Calamity listened with a sceptical ear, wondering just what kind of world Crossman and his kind would make. Somehow she doubted if their world would be the pleasant, rosy place he painted it.

  Just as Crossman started a tirade against the police as oppressors of the poor and tools of the rich, with Calamity hoping the rest of her escort would not tip their hands, screams and scuffling sounded in the street. Then the main doors flew open and a wildly excited man looked briefly in.

  “Fight!” he yelled. “It’s Annie Goldtooth and Louisa Duval!” Inst
antly Crossman’s audience came to its combined feet and headed for the door and windows at a rush. While it might be pleasant to sit listening to what a fine place the world would be when the workers got their rights, the crowd would much rather watch the exciting battle long awaited between two prominent rivals at the street girl trade.

  Calamity went along with the others and saw as good a cat-fight as it had ever been her pleasure to witness from a spectator’s angle. Fifteen minutes later the crowd returned to toast Annie Goldtooth’s success, for she soundly defeated her rival. The first thing Calamity noticed was that Crossman had left the room. Next she glanced at where the intellectual young man had stood. A shattered glass lay on the ground; a glass which would not have broken by merely being dropped, and appeared to have been hurled furiously at the floor.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Miss Canary Meets The Strangler

  SOLEMN faces greeted Calamity as she entered the office to find St. Andre and Redon waiting. After the fight the previous night, Calamity and Jacqueline stayed on at the bar, but excitement over the sight of the battling women rode high and they found no opportunity to bring the talk around to possible victims of the Strangler. On leaving the bar, the girls and their escort found a fuming Redon waiting along the street. It took some pretty strong talk on Calamity’s part to prevent the furious detective from following his intention to find and hand Crossman the thrashing of his life. After cooling Redon down, they called off the decoy and returned to Headquarters. Calamity was called in from her bed the following morning and her every instinct told her something had gone badly wrong.

  “I’d like you to come to the morgue, cherie,” St. Andre told her. “The Strangler took another victim last night.”

  “Another?” she gasped.

  “Two youngsters found her body in the Park this morning.”