by Edson, J. T.
By giving Brad the dummy round, Childers had expected to confuse him or so delay him that he would run out of time and be unable to complete the stage. While Tom had known what was going on, he had kept quiet. However, he had not been entirely surprised when his partner had turned the tables on them.
Nor, if Tom’s attitude was anything to go on, was he averse to his partner having spoiled the Range Master’s trick. His next words assured the big blond of his approval.
‘Talking of shooting, did I tell you about the hunting trip I had up in Alaska?’
‘No,’ Brad admitted cheerfully, knowing that when satisfied with the way things were going his partner always started to tell jokes. ‘I can’t say that you did.’
‘Well, I’d shot this elk and while me and my Indian guide was loading it on the sledge, we saw this pack of thirty wolves coming. They sure’s hell looked hungry, so I asked the guide what we should do and he said, “Throw them the elk, then get the hell out of it.” That’s what we did and damned if those wolves didn’t cat the elk and come after us. So the guide shot one of the four horses we’d got pulling the sledge and the wolves ate that. Anyways, we dropped another horse, they ate him and kept a-coming, so we shot the next and the last one. And the wolves ate them, then come after us again as we were running.
‘Anyways, quite by accident, my foot got between the guide’s legs and he tripped over. But he shouted, “You’re more value to society than me, so save yourself.” Well, him being so kind and all, that’s what I did. The wolves ate him and come after me and, damned if I didn’t have but twenty-nine bullets on me. So I shot the first wolf and his amigos ate him. Then I downed another and the same thing happened. In fact, I shot all but the last one and the rest kept on eating them and coming after me. Well sir, there I was with an empty gun and all tuckered out from running and shooting and that mean old wolf was coming closer.’
‘What happened?’ Brad wanted to know as his companion paused.
‘It dropped dead two feet away,’ Tom replied. ‘Well, I suppose you could expect that. After all, it’d eaten an elk, four horses, an Indian and twenty-nine wolves.’
‘Cen-Con general call!’ the car’s radio announced just after the story had come to an end. ‘Cen-Con general call. Any Unit in vicinity of Sandford Street, Gusher City South please inform.’
‘That’s us,’ Tom drawled, all the levity leaving his voice as he picked the microphone from its hook. ‘Unit SO 12 answering general call. Just leaving open air range.’
‘Proceed immediately to 1218 Sandford Street, Unit SO 12,’ ordered the Central Control’s dispatcher. ‘R.P. 38 went off watch on house check fifteen minutes ago and has not checked in yet. “Code One”?’
‘“Code One”,’ Tom acknowledged. ‘We’re on our way.’
‘“Ten-Four”,’ answered the dispatcher. ‘Will have two more Units standing by if required.’
‘Roger, over and out!’ Tom answered, clicking off the microphone and hanging it back on its hook. ‘Go, boy.’
‘“Code Two’,” [xxii] Brad inquired, gunning the motor and increasing speed.
‘“Code Three”!’ Tom corrected grimly and glanced at the Winchester riot gun which was hanging on the clips attached to the roof just above the windscreen.
‘What’s up, amigo ?’ Brad asked quietly, after switching on the red light and siren, for the older man’s tone had warned him that there was something wrong.
‘R.P. 38’s crewed by Gus Enright and Mano Segovia,’ Tom replied. ‘They’re a pair of old timers, close to retirement. If they haven’t checked in, it could mean real bad trouble.’
With the red light flashing and the siren wailing its warning, the Oldsmobile sped towards its destination. Although much of Gusher City South was given over to industrial development, the section into which the deputies were heading was a pleasant, semi-rural upper-middle income residential area. The properties had been erected in woodland, so that each was practically hidden from the view of its neighbors. When the owners went on vacation, they often requested that officers from the Division’s station house kept an eye on their homes. Particularly in the daytime, making house checks was regarded as a pleasant, leisurely and far from hazardous duty. As such, it was frequently awarded to older patrolmen.
A black and white G.C.P.D. radio patrol car, its color scheme the opposite to that of Sheriff’s Office vehicles, was parked by the sidewalk in front of 1218. The house was a white split-level, with lawns which would normally have been well-tended, but showed signs of not having been mowed for a few days. A wide driveway led to the double-fronted garage that was connected to the left side of the building.
However, neither Brad nor Tom were particularly interest in the general condition of the property. Looking over the white-painted picket fence, their attention was on the officers who had been the R.P.’s crew. One was sprawled supine and motionless before the open front door and the other lay face down by the right front corner of the house.
The deputies saw all that while Brad was bringing the Oldsmobile to a halt behind the R.P. Almost before the vehicle had stopped, Tom was opening the front passenger door and he leapt out. Brad did not waste a second once he had applied the hand-brake, but quit his seat even faster than he had when firing the Combat Shotgun Qualification Course on the range.
However, on this occasion, the big blond did not take the Winchester with him. Being dressed in the black neck-tie, khaki shirt and slacks and black, rubber-soled, ankle-supporting ‘old man’s comforts’ shoes that was a deputy sheriff’s official uniform, he also had on a two and a half inch wide, basket-weave patterned Sam Browne belt without a shoulder strap. So he was carrying his Colt Government Model .45 automatic pistol in a skimpy, steel-lined, forward raked Bianchi Cooper-Combat holster with a long-tanged Elden Carl Safety Fly-Off strap to hold it secure. Such a rig allowed for a lightning fast draw and, at close quarters, the big handgun would be a more suitable weapon than the Winchester.
Drawing the four inch barreled Smith & Wesson Model 27 .357 Magnun revolver, which he used instead of the shorter weapon when in uniform, Tom ran through the gate and towards the front door. As the senior member of the team, it was his duty to lead the way and also to go towards the most dangerous region.
Knowing what was expected of him, Brad darted around the front of the Oldsmobile and vaulted the picket fence. As soon as he landed on the lawn, his right hand dipped. Hooking under the tang, his forefinger opened the press-stud and, having been held under tension, the Fly-Off strap sailed away from where the top of its 9-shaped loop had been around the cocked back hammer of the Colt. Closing the rest of his fingers and thumb about the butt, Brad swept the pistol from leather. He was already sprinting across the lawn, but did not push down the manual safety catch to the ‘Fire’ position. As he ran, he constantly scanned the front of the house and its surroundings and was ready to shoot if the need arose.
Coming to a halt, Tom stared down at the body of Patrolman Manolito Segovia. One glance was enough to tell the deputy that there was nothing he could do for the officer. He had been shot twice, in the right side of the chest and in the side of the head. From the appearance and position of the latter wound, it had been inflicted after Segovia was knocked down by the first bullet. There did not seem to have been any reason for the second shot. While the chest wound might not have been fatal, it was serious enough to have incapacitated him. What was more, his revolver was still in its holster with the retainer strap applied.
Tom had known both of the patrolmen since shortly after the end of World War II. They had all been part of the incorruptible band of veterans who had become peace officers to wrest control of Rockabye County from the criminal elements which had taken over while they were away in the armed forces. So their deaths hit him extra hard. For all that, he knew he had his duty to do. What was more, he realized that if he did it properly, there would be a far better chance of catching whoever had murdered them.
Fighting down the dull
sense of hurt which was causing him to think useless obscenities about the killer, the stocky deputy lifted his gaze from Segovia. Brad was approaching, clearly trying to avoid showing any emotion and with the big automatic dangling at his side.
‘He’s dead, Tom,’ the blond said quietly. ‘Gun’s still in leather, but the retainer strap’s been opened. He must have been trying to draw when—’
‘Mano didn’t have a chance to even try,’ Tom growled as Brad’s words died away. Then, wanting to divert his thoughts, he indicated the empty cases and went on, ‘.45 auto, I’d say.’
‘And me,’ the blond agreed. ‘What do you want doing?’
‘Hit the radio and get an ambulance, reinforcements and a lab crew,’ Tom ordered.
‘Yo!’ Brad responded. ‘Shall I tell them to set up “Operation Close-Off”?’
‘Not until we can give them something to work on,’ Tom replied, after a few seconds’ thought.
‘Operation Close-Off’ was an effective and efficient method of throwing a cordon around Rockabye County, but it took a great many men and was very costly to maintain. Neither of those factors would have influenced Tom’s request to have it done, if he had believed that it would produce results. However, in his opinion, there was no point in utilizing a large number of men without being able to give them at least a suggestion of what they were looking for.
‘You’re right,’ Brad declared. ‘We can’t tell them anything—’
There was a dull thud from somewhere inside the house!
Chopping off his comment, the big blond glanced at his partner. Without saying a word, the stocky deputy sprang through the open front door. He went to the right, with his revolver making a sweeping arc that encompassed the whole of the entrance hall.
Once again, Brad showed a thorough appreciation of the situation and a complete understanding of what would be expected of him. Following his partner into the house, he leapt to the left and the automatic was extended before him in a position of instant readiness.
The hall was empty, but the doors leading from it were all open. Standing in the half crouching postures of trained gun fighters, which they both were, the deputies watched and waited for some hint of what—or who —had caused the sound.
Several seconds ticked by before the noise was repeated.
‘Upstairs!’ Tom snapped, as the bump was followed by a scuffling.
Bounding up the stairs ahead of his partner, Brad noticed that only one of the doors was closed. The bumping and scuffling was coming from behind it. Advancing on silent feet, the big blond faced the door. Just as silently, Tom flattened himself against the wall and nodded.
Pivoting on his slightly flexed left leg, Brad raised his right foot knee high and prepared to deliver a ‘mule kick’ Utilizing his full weight to back up the driving power of his gluteus muscles, he propelled the sole of his foot so that it struck alongside the handle to hurl the door open.
Passing his partner swiftly, Tom found himself in a bathroom and saw the cause of the noise. Bound hand and foot with what looked like lengths of electrical flex, gagged with a stocking, a small, slender, brown-haired woman clad in a sweater, slacks and pumps was lying in the bath.
‘Hit the other rooms. Brad!’ Tom ordered, holstering his revolver and advancing.
‘Yo!’ the big blond answered.
‘He’ll most likely be gone, but watch your step,’ Tom cautioned. ‘Call in for reinforcements as soon as you can.’
‘I’ll see to it,’ Brad promised and left.
Although Brad also felt certain that the killer had departed, he remained alert and watchful as he looked into the bedrooms. All had been ransacked, but the person who was responsible had departed. Glancing out of a back window, he found there was a garden with frontage on the shore of Lake Rockabye. Except for a power-boat towing a water-skier some distance away, there was nobody to be seen.
Going to tell Tom that the upper floor’s rooms were empty, Brad found that he had removed and set free the woman. There was a bruise on the left side of her jaw and she looked badly shaken by her ordeal as she sat crying on the edge of the bath. Delivering his information, the big blond returned to the ground floor and conducted another thorough search before replacing the Colt in its holster.
‘He’s split, Tom!’ Brad called from the foot of the stairs. ‘I’ll call in.’
As he went out of the front door, the big blond glanced at the empty cartridge cases. Two of them lay about a foot away from the wall and the other pair were alongside Segovia. Frowning, Brad turned his eyes from the Mexican patrolman to Enright. There was, the big blond sensed, something wrong. However, before he could decide what it might be, he saw another R.P. car approaching. Hurrying across the lawn, he scooped up and replaced the Fly-Off strap. With that done, he jumped the fence and went to the Oldsmobile. Taking out and switching on the microphone, he notified Central Control of what he and Tom had found.
~*~
‘In here, Brad!’
Hearing his partner’s voice as he came through the front door, Deputy Sheriff Bradford Counter walked over to the room from which it had originated. Entering, he found Tom Cord standing by a chaise-longue. Pallid, still showing signs of the strain she had been under, but reasonably composed, the woman was sitting on it.
‘One R.P.’s arrived,’ Brad reported. ‘Two more and a local D car are on their way. I’ve sent the crew to ask if any of the neighbors saw or heard anything.’
‘Bueno,’ Tom answered, then looked at the woman. ‘This’s my partner, Deputy Counter. Mrs. Coyle. I want you to tell him all you’ve told me.’
‘Well—’ the woman said worriedly.
‘It will help, ma’am,’ Brad said gently.
‘Yes, ma’am,’ Tom agreed. ‘You may think of something you forgot the first time. I’ll go and take over outside, Brad.’
After his partner had left the room, Brad produced his notepad and a ball-point pen. Looking inquiringly at the woman, he waited for her to start talking. In the three days he had been working with Tom, he had been present at other such interviews and had studied the stocky deputy’s technique. It had emphasized what he had been taught at Quantico, to allow the witness to tell the story in his, or her, own fashion.
According to Mrs. Coyle, her parents—who owned the house—were going on holiday to Europe. However, they had been compelled to delay their departure for two days. She had come over from her home to help them pack and had been doing so while they made some last minute purchases in the Business Division. Hearing the door-bell ring, she had thought it was her parents who had returned but forgotten to take their keys. On opening the door, she had been confronted by a man. He had knocked her unconscious with a blow from his fist and when she had recovered, she had been lying bound and gagged in the bath. There had been noises from the other rooms, then she had heard shooting. However, she was unable to guess how long had elapsed between them and the deputies’ arrival.
‘How tall was the man, ma’am?’ Brad inquired, when the story came to a halt. ‘My height?’
‘Not quite,’ Mrs. Coyle answered. ‘At least, I don’t think he was.’
‘Do you feel up to standing and seeing what you think?’ Brad suggested.
‘He was about your age, white, but about three inches shorter,’ the woman decided, after having made the experiment. ‘And slender; not thin, but not bulky either.’
‘What color hair?’
‘Brownish.’
‘Long or short?’
‘Long, but not too long. Not like a hippy, or anything like that.’
‘How about his face?’ Brad asked, taking down the details in shorthand.
‘It was horrible. A big, red nose and buckteeth,’ Mrs. Coyle answered with a shudder. ‘I’ll never forget it. I could pick it out of a hundred, even if he wasn’t wearing glasses.’
‘Sun-glasses?’
‘No. Ordinary, horn-rimmed spectacles.’
‘What color were his eyes?’
&n
bsp; ‘Light blue. Really light.’
While the conversation was taking place, Brad and the woman heard the sirens of other cars as they arrived. However, the big blond gave no sign of having done so. He did not wish to let the woman become distracted. So far, she had shown an admirable control over her emotions. However, she repeatedly glanced at the door and her face gave more than a hint of the strain she was under.
‘Did he say anything to you?’ Brad asked quietly.
‘No,’ Mrs. Coyle replied, frowning. ‘He seemed as if he was going to, then he hit me and that’s all I could remember until I recovered.’
‘How do you mean, he seemed as if he was going to say something?’ Brad inquired.
‘He—well, he sort of looked—surprised is the best way I could describe it. I’m a schoolteacher, you know, and I’ve some experience in reading expressions. It looked to me as if he wasn’t expecting anybody to be home. But if he didn’t, why would he ring the doorbell?’
Although the big blond could have guessed at the reason, he did not. There were other questions which he had to ask.
‘Can you remember how he was dressed?’
‘In a set of white cover-alls, like he was a repairman of some kind, with a dark roll-neck sweater under it and dark gloves of some kind. I saw them when he hit me.’
‘How about a gun?’ Brad wanted to know.
‘I didn’t see one,’ Mrs. Coyle admitted.
‘Or a vehicle of any kind?’
‘No. Everything happened so quickly. I’m sorry I can’t be any more help.’
‘You’ve done real well, ma’am,’ Brad praised, hearing footsteps in the entrance hall.
