by J. T. Edson
But the men had seen the cord, read its message and knew the truth. Out shot a big fist, smashing full into Crossman’s mouth and shattering his words half said. Crossman reeled backwards, more blows landed on him. No man could think of the nine dead victims of the Strangler without feeling an uncontrollable hatred for the one who killed them. Not even being ‘all for the workers’ could save Crossman from the fury of the men. He went down screaming, then a boot smashed into him and another came driving out to strike his temple with shattering force.
“No!” Calamity screamed, trying to walk on her kick-damaged leg.
Turning, one of the men came back and gently caught her by the arms. “Easy gal,” he said. “The bastard won’t harm you now.”
A policeman came racing up, blowing on his whistle as he ran. Skidding to a halt, he looked first at Calamity, then to where the men stood around the still shape on the ground.
“Just stay right where you are, boys,” he said, walking forward to kneel by Crossman’s side and examine the unmoving form.
“That’s the Strangler,” one of the men said. “We stopped him killing the girl there.”
“I sure hope you’re right about that,” answered the policeman. “He’s dead.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Miss Canary’s Departure
St. ANDRE sat by Calamity as she lay back on the bed in her appartment. It was the evening after Crossman’s death and St. Andre came to visit the girl to give her the latest details of the affair. He found Calamity wearing her usual style of dress and nursing her injured shin, but otherwise none the worse for her experience.
“We searched Crossman’s apartment last night,” he told Calamity. “Among other things we found his diary, quite a document I can tell you. In fact it gives us complete proof that he was the Strangler.”
“Does it tell you why he did it?”
“Patience, cherie,” grinned the detective, then became sober again. “From what he wrote, Crossman believed himself to be ordained to make the world a much better place for the rest of we weak mortals to live in. He intended to change everything, improve the lot of the poor folks. Only he found that they didn’t exactly fall over themselves with eagerness to let him improve their lot.”
“Figured all along he didn’t care for the folks down at the Blue Cat, no matter how he acted,” Calamity remarked.
“You figured right. One night while he was there, he slipped and spilled a drink over him, and the customers laughed. They had the audacity to laugh at the great Browne Crossman, and I quote from his diary. He had been reading about the thuggi and made up a cord, this was before he went to the Blue Cat that night. The cord was in his pocket. Apparently he had been seeing a girl in secret and while they walked in the Park, she started teasing him about his accident. In a rage, he killed her. After that, she being his first victim, every time anything went wrong for him, or he detected insolence in the attitude of the ‘workers’, he picked up another girl and killed her.”
“Why’d he pick on the gals, Sherry?”
“That he doesn’t explain, but I believe he found it safer, less dangerous than trying it with men. He says that the girls never suspected him and went willingly into the Park with him.”
“How’d you reckon he got that way?” asked Calamity.
“I don’t know,” St. Andre answered. “I’ve seen several of those young intellectuals in college and since. They’re all the same, hating anybody who possessed more than they, despising the poor and under-privileged they pretend to wish to help. Crossman was that kind. When he found that people didn’t regard him as their saviour he grew to hate them and took that way of getting revenge.”
“What’ll happen about the men who killed him?”
“That depends on the trial, cherie. But I can’t see any jury convicting them for killing the Strangler. And now, what would you like to do tonight?”
“Aren’t you guarding Butler?”
“He was recalled upriver this afternoon, and I have taken some much deserved vacation time. From now until you leave, I am at your service. Shall we go to the opera, or try gambling at one of the clubs on Bourbon Street?”
Calamity smiled. “Let’s sit and call each other liars instead.”
* * *
Standing on the river front, St. Andre watched the powerful paddleboat take up the strain and drew the trio of horse-loaded flat-boats from the quay. Suddenly a whip cracked by his ear and he looked to where Calamity stood at the stern of the last boat. The girl had been busy helping the horses and unable to speak to him before. Now she stood with one foot on the rail, the whip which saved St. Andre from a brutal beating held in her hand.
“Horray wah, Sherry!” she yelled.
“Au revoir, cherie!” he called back.
Not until the boats disappeared in the distance did St. Andre turn. His head throbbed from the previous night’s celebration party at the Cheval D’Or. While he boasted being able to take his liquor, he had to admit those Western freighters made him look like a beginner. The party lasted late and Jacqueline danced herself into exhaustion. She had cause to celebrate. The New Orleans authorities offered a thousand dollars reward for the apprehension of the Strangler and with typical generosity Calamity insisted on giving the dancer half. At last Jacqueline had enough money to take formal ballet lessons and St. Andre arranged for her to meet with the head of the visiting ballet group.
After the excitement and happiness came the sorrow of parting. Calamity had gone and he doubted if they would ever meet again.
“Philippe darling!” a voice said turning St. Andre found a beautiful young woman at his side. “I looked for you at the ballet last night, you naughty boy. Now I insist you buy me lunch to make up for my disappointment.”
At one time St. Andre would have been very pleased to escort the girl anywhere. Now he regarded her with cold eyes. How pallid and insipid she seemed after knowing Calamity Jane. Then the detective shrugged. Calamity had gone from his life for ever. He might just as well take what was left, for there would never be mother girl like Calamity.
oooOooo
Scanned and proofed by Amigo da Onça
