Mayhem, Mystery and Murder

by John A. Broussard

  “I’m on my way.”

  ***

  Fred wasn’t overjoyed to see them. “I’m surprised you two are still loose on the streets.”

  “Aw, c’mon Fred. We were even talking about quitting the racket.”

  “That I’ll have to see. But what brings you here? At least you aren’t after me for bail money.”

  “Nothing like that. Just thought you might be able to tell us what’s on this thing.” Marcus held out the disc.

  “Where’d you get it?”

  “Tell us what’s on it, and we’ll tell you where we got it.”

  Fred was looking skeptical as he led them off to the spare bedroom he had set up as an office. Slipping the disc into the drive, he tried to open the files. The screen filled with garbage. “It’s a foreign language, one without the Latin alphabet. Any hints? I can at least get it up in its original form if I know.”

  “Try Chinese.”

  Bringing down a menu and hitting a few keys, he said, “Right on. That’s what it is. Now what? You don’t expect me to be able to read Chinese, do you?”

  Marcus and Sil were peering over his shoulder. “Nah,” Marcus said, “Now that we know that much, maybe we can find someone to read it for us.”

  ***

  The Korean store clerk seemed to be enjoying the attention he was getting from the CIA man, the Chief of the DCPD, a sergeant who was bringing photo after photo up on the big computer screen and a black patrolman whose long experience on the streets of the nation’s capital often proved helpful in finding local criminals.

  The search went on for more than half an hour before the clerk spotted someone he was almost certain was one of the holdup men. “Silvester Cutbert,” the sergeant said. “String of robberies. Two-time loser. And he does have a limp. It fits.”

  “Know him?” the Chief asked, turning to the patrolman.

  The patrolman nodded. “Yes, sir. I brought him in his last time around. But I wouldn’t know where to even start looking for him, now. No, wait a minute. He had a girlfriend who put up bail for him. Sheila something or other. It would be on the court record. She might know where he’s living now. Maybe with her.”

  “Run her down.” Turning to Leo, the Chief added, “It’s all yours. If you need backup, we’ll provide it.”

  Leo shook his head. “No. We’ll handle it ourselves, just as soon as we find out where these guys are holed up.”

  ***

  Marcus and Sil were so engrossed in what they had learned from Fred, that neither noticed the two figures coming up quietly behind them in the hall outside of Sil’s apartment.

  They did notice the guns as each felt one pressed against his ribs. “Move it. In you go.” The language was American, the accent wasn’t. Marcus was quick to realize that he and Sil had stumbled into something way beyond their depth. The silencers on the automatics, the distinctly professional air of the two Asian men, and the fact that they hadn’t bothered to cover their faces, convinced Marcus that neither he nor Sil would be around much longer to ponder the problem.

  “Hands in the air, put them against the wall and lean. Spread your legs and keep them that way. Now where’s the dispatch case?”

  Marcus heard the other intruder say something in a language he assumed was Chinese. Obviously, he had seen the case on the couch. In a moment Marcus felt hands searching and finding the disc. “Is this all there was in the case?”

  Marcus nodded. Sil, watching out of the corner of his eye, nodded too. A further conversation in Chinese. Some quick searching movements around the room.

  “Down on the floor. Count to fifty before you look up.”

  Silence. Marcus was prepared for the inevitable bullet crashing through his skull. Still, he started counting. Long before he reached fifty, he realized the intruders had slipped out just as quietly as they had come up behind them in the hall.

  Sil’s usual bronze coloring was now a ghastly mixture of green and yellow. “Jeez! How come they didn’t do us?”

  Marcus didn’t have to think much to realize the answer. “Why bother? You going to file a complaint? Maybe diplomatic immunity doesn’t include putting a bullet in the back of someone’s head. And, sure as hell, I’m not going to go chasing them. They can have their atom bomb back.”

  Wiping the sweat off his forehead, Marcus barely had time to sit down on the couch when the door burst open. Four white men with drawn guns poured into the room.

  Marcus was the first to stand up saying, “I know, I know. Hands over my head, put them against the wall, spread my legs. We’ve got the routine down pat.”

  ***

  Fred kept shaking his head. As he drove the pair back to his apartment, he kept saying, “I can’t believe it. I can’t believe it. How could you two be so lucky? Picked up for knocking over a store, and now the CIA is going to cover for you because they don’t want the two of you blabbing about that disc and the fact the Chinese got it back.”

  Marcus, who was sitting in the front passenger seat, shrugged and said, “Not so lucky. Just think if we could have gotten to the Feds with that disc. It must be important for them to be so worried. Too bad we didn’t have sense enough to go right to them with it in the first place.”

  Fred grinned. “But we do have the disc. I made a copy, and I’ve got a pretty good idea what’s on it. I checked it against a Chinese-English dictionary, and it’s a numbered list of people. Not too hard to guess who they might be since everyone seems to think the list is so important.”

  “I thought you didn’t read Chinese.” This from Sil in the rear seat.

  Fred looked at him in the rear view mirror. “ I can’t. But I can still figure out some of it. Chinese isn’t like English. No alphabet. Every one of those characters stands for a word, so with the help of a Chinese-English dictionary I can at least make out most of the words. I’d just begun working on it when I heard you two had been picked up.”

  “Hey,” said Marcus. “That’s really something. If the information is that big a deal, maybe the Feds will pay us something for it. Maybe plenty.”

  “Down, boy. All I want out of it is a story. I’ve got a good contact in the CIA, and if this looks like pay dirt they’ll give me an exclusive on it. I’ll call him as soon as we get home.”

  “There’s got to be something in it for us. We found the disc. Maybe we could negotiate something.”

  “Marcus, you’re too much. You should be celebrating the fact that you aren’t behind bars right now.”

  “Great idea. Let’s celebrate,” Sil said. “You getting a big story and Marcus and me going straight, that calls for a celebration.”

  “Fair enough,” Fred replied, as he pulled up and double-parked in front of his apartment house. “Get two six-packs and pizzas. Make mine with anchovies. Lots of anchovies.”

  Marcus started searching around in his pockets. “Those damn Chinese took my wallet. Sil, you got anything?” Sil shook his head as they got out of the car.

  Marcus pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket as Fred handed him a couple of bills. “Hey. As long as you’re a Chinese expert, maybe you can figure this out. It was in that Chinaman’s wallet.”

  “Probably a new recipe for chow mein,” Sil commented.

  As the two of them drove away, they heard Fred muttering, “It looks like part of the list.”

  ***

  “Jeezus, Marcus, I still can’t figure out why it took so long just to get one large pizza.” Sil was already sampling a bottle of Steinlager out of the two six-packs he was carrying as they climbed the stairs to Fred’s apartment.

  “It was getting them to put anchovies on just a third of the pizza that took so long. It was like trying to get money out of a bank without proper identification or a gun.”

  “Why didn’t you just get three small ones? That way they could have put Fred’s anchovies on just as thick as he likes them.”

  Marcus made a face as he carefully balanced the large cardboard container while making his way up the nar
row stairway. “I ran out of money. I barely had enough as it is.

  “Knock,” he added, when they approached the door.

  “No need,” Sil commented as he tried the knob. Fred knew we’d be back soon. He’s probably got his head buried in the computer.”

  The two slipped in and heard voices from the computer room.

  “Shit,” Marcus said, “sounds like he’s got company. There ain’t going to be enough pizza to go around. And anyone with any taste ain’t going to want to eat the part with the anchovies.”

  The two of them quietly approached the doorway and overheard Fred say, “I just figured out the first two characters on this paper. The first is the Chinese character for trees and the second one is for lion.”

  The voice of the tall stoop-shouldered white man standing behind Fred had a deadly dry quality to it. “It’s too bad you figured that out, Fred. My colleagues wouldn’t appreciate knowing that I’ve been working for the Chinese.” A small silver automatic appeared in his hand, inches away from Fred’s head.

  Marcus felt something flash by him, just as the tall man turned, suddenly aware of the newcomers. The bottle of Steinlager caught him in the middle of his forehead. Marcus dropped the pizza, and rushed to grapple with Leo Forest, who was crumbling to the floor.

  Sil guffawed. “Don’t bother, Marcus. He just got hit with one of Sil Cutbert’s famous fast balls.”

  “Shit!” Marcus said, looking down at the cardboard container. “I’ll bet those damn anchovies are scattered all over the pizza.”

  BIG-TIME SPENDER

  Sheriff Frank Lewison was proud of the town, and could see improvements going on all the time. What with the railroad coming through, a half-dozen street gaslights already in place and that nice, new white church now standing at the end of Front Street, things were looking up. The town fathers had even been inspecting the wagon wheel ruts in the road that were now full of water with thin sheets of ice forming on them. Talk of some of that special surfacing they used in East Coast cities was soon making the rounds.

  Not that there wasn’t still a lot of the frontier around, but “Law and Order” Lewison kept it under control. The big weekend had passed when the cowpokes stormed into town after the fall cattle drive, their pockets overflowing with a year’s salary. But the problems had been minimal. After they’d had their fun at the half-dozen saloons and the town’s one overworked brothel, Frank and his deputies supervised their departure—some on horse back, and those who had sold their horses or lost them at the card tables off on the westbound train.

  There were still a few strays to round up. Sheriff Frank was amused at one late leaver he’d propped up into his saddle. An onlooker had asked, “Hey Sheriff, do you think he’s going to make it home?”

  “No reason why not,” Frank answered, slapping the animal on the rump to give it encouragement. “The horse is sober.”

  The one blot on the week’s record had occurred after the mob had moved on. Halfbreed Jake had ridden into town that morning leading a horse with a corpse strapped on it. The Sheriff figured Jake was counting on a reward or he wouldn’t have bothered to bring in the body. The reward was one drink at the White Buffalo, but the crowd that gathered around Jake and Frank to listen to the former’s description of events soon became a source of additional drinks to keep the fountain well primed.

  “I was just coming up to the top of Sour Creek Ridge when I looked down and saw a campfire. This here fellow was sitting there when another fellow came up. Walked right up to him, pretty as you please, put his Colt to his head and pulled the trigger. After that he went through the saddle bags on the other horse and pulled out some sacks, put them in his own saddle bags and rode off—just like that.”

  Asking around, the Sheriff finally found someone to identify the corpse, a prospector—name unknown—who’d been to town once or twice with a partner. It wasn’t too hard to figure out what had happened. The partnership had dissolved the way more than one had in the relentless search for gold. In this case it sounded as though the search had been successful, at least for one of the prospectors. But there wasn’t much Frank could do about it except to tell Morty Schweitzer to cobble together a pine box.

  A killing, twenty miles away in Blaine County, wasn’t in the Sheriff’s jurisdiction and probably wouldn’t hold much interest for the Blaine County Sheriff either, though he’d have to be told. Civilization was closing in, and there were more and more chores like this. It was the last thing Frank reminded himself to do after finishing his rounds, pulling off his boots and getting ready for bed. Martha was already asleep and managed to stay that way right through the wild knocking at the door.

  The Sheriff couldn’t remember ever having seen dapper Tom Simms so disheveled. The owner of the town’s only hotel was out of breath but managed to convey the substance of the emergency. “Damn roomer’s got his door locked and I can smell gas coming out. I pounded and pounded on the door, but I can’t rouse him.”

  There wasn’t much point in trying to find out more. The Sheriff, with Tom in tow, stopped by the jail on the way and only long enough to pick up the night deputy, Tiny Reardon. The three then raced on to the hotel. The whole building reeked of gas. Frank and Tom ran through the bottom floor of the hotel throwing open windows while Tiny, with instructions from the Sheriff to get into the room one way or another, addressed his massive shoulder to the door Tom had pointed to.

  The six-foot-six deputy didn’t bother to try the knob, but simply hurled his two hundred and fifty pounds at the solid oak door. The first try was a test. The door creaked but held. The second try was in earnest, and one of the panels shattered. Reaching an arm through, Tiny tore a chair out from under the inside knob and shot back the bar bolt. Holding a bandana to his face, Frank swept into the room, found the gas outlet and turned it off. Between him and Tom, they managed to unlock the one window in the room to let in the icy-cold night air.

  The figure on the bed appeared to be sleeping peacefully… so much so that the revolver at his side seemed completely out of place. The Sheriff checked, more to see if there were signs of a gunshot wound than to determine if there were still any life in the rigid corpse.

  After sending off word to Morty that another pine box was in order, Frank searched through the dead man’s scant belongings. Twenty-one silver dollars and some small change was the only money he found. What else there was could have been the gear of any cowpoke. “What do you know about him, Tom?”

  “Not much. He came in about five or so. Wanted a room. Easy to provide this week, with the crowd gone. He could have had any room in the house cuz they’re all empty, but he wanted only the best, and had a pocket full of cartwheels. That’s why I let him have my room. Paid me three dollars up front, he did. We sat and gabbed awhile. He said he’d been prospecting over in the Pokeys and was in town for supplies. Decided he’d treat himself to a real bed while he was here. Turned in about eight or so.”

  “Did you warn him about the gas jet?”

  “I’m sure the houseboy did. That’s standard practice around here. Some of those old timers still think they’re dealing with kerosene lanterns and blow out the flame instead of turning it off. Guess he just didn’t listen.”

  “Well, I’ll be back first thing in the morning. Soon as Morty and Tiny have cleared out the body, I’ll seal up the room.”

  “What?”

  “Yup. Times have changed. We’re a state now, not a territory. Some official from up at the capital may be around asking questions, and I’ll have to wait until I clear with him. Shouldn’t be more than a couple of days.” Frank grinned. “It won’t kill you to sleep in one of the guest rooms. You’ve got a half-dozen to choose from. And, by the way, when the houseboy comes in in the morning, tell him to stick around. I want to talk to him.”

  ***

  Harry Wilkins was caught between excitement and nervousness. Being questioned by the sheriff was the biggest item in his life since he’d finished his eighth and last grade the year
before.

  Frank straddled one of the wooden lobby chairs, his arms folded on the back. “Tell me what happened from the time the prospector came in until you left for home.”

  “I was mopping the floors when he came in. Mr. Simms said I could do them early and go home because he figured there wouldn’t be anyone coming in to stay. Well, I’d just gotten to the front door when that man came in, muddy boots and all. Made me mad, because I knew I’d have to do everything all over. Left a track all the way up to the reception desk, he did.” Harry shook his head at the memory.

  “I went on and cleaned up the mud, then went upstairs to finish up there. When I came down, Mr. Simms told me to show the man to his room—Mr. Simms’ room that is. That kind of surprised me, him letting out his own room that way. But I went in and showed him where to put his saddle bags…”

  Tom, who’d been hovering nearby broke in. “And you told him about the gas light, didn’t you Harry?”

  “Sure. Like you told me to tell everyone when I show them their room. I showed him the valve you turn and told him to for sure turn it off, not just blow out the flame like with a kerosene lantern.”

  Frank leaned the chair forward on two legs. “What did he say to that?”

  “He just kinda grinned and said he’d been to St. Louis and knew about these newfangled gadgets. But he thanked me just the same and gave me this.” As he was speaking, Harry reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver dollar, his eyes almost matching in size the coin he held between thumb and forefinger. There was no question but that the hotel guest had made a profound impression on the boy.

  “He said he’d struck it rich prospecting. I wasn’t mad anymore about the mud tracks. I said to him that if he left his boots outside the door, I’d clean them off first thing in the morning. But he said he was going to leave real early. That’s when I told him I’d get here even earlier to do his boots. Guess I won’t need to do that now, huh, Sheriff?”

  “No, I guess you won’t son. So then you went home?”