A Gunman Close Behind

by A. A. Glynn

“Right in there. It’s kinda old-fashioned, but it works.”

  His wife sniffed again. I began to wonder if one of us smelled.

  When the meal was finished I crossed the room in which the telephone was. It was an old type of wall phone on which a handle had to be whirled furiously around before you got into touch with the exchange. The phone was close to the door, and I stood there, whirling the handle like a Las Vegas gambler trying to coax the jackpot out of a slot machine. I could see the larger room; Joanne’s back, as she was seated at the table, the buxom and prudish farm woman, and the farmer, who was fiddling with the knobs of a radio of about the same vintage as his truck out in the yard.

  The ear-piece of the phone crackled unrewardingly. Then I heard a voice, distant and ghostly, gabbling away somewhere in another world.

  The farmer found an early morning station on the radio dial, and a newsreader came in with a monologue on world events.

  The ear-piece went on crackling, and the ghost voice continued to gabble unintelligibly beyond the crackling.

  “It’s a party line,” drawled the farmer, who was standing by the radio, tamping shag into a corncob pipe. “Maybe you’ll have trouble getting through.”

  “He will have trouble getting through,” confirmed his wife, “that Mrs. Kunitz will be on—even at this time of day. She’s always on.”

  She sniffed again and cast another glance at Joanne. I stood there, leaning against the jamb of the door with the earpiece held to my ear. I noticed that the farm woman’s glance was directed at Joanne’s hands, and the cause of her concern hit me. She doubted we were married because the girl had no wedding ring.

  I snorted and listened to the buzzing and the ghost voice. Then I started in to revolve the handle again. Getting through to Chicago on that antiquated instrument seemed about as likely as getting through to Mars.

  In the next room the radio newsreader finished his recital of the world’s ills, and came in with a flash that caused a chill knife to slide into me.

  He said:

  “A concentrated search is going on throughout Indiana for Mike Lantry, head of World Wide Investigations, the New York detective agency. Lantry is wanted for questioning in connection with the shooting of Paul ‘Speedy’ Kornes at the South Bend home of Jack Kay, at noon yesterday. Word has been received from Uffotsberg that Lantry passed through that town yesterday, headed towards Rollinsville. Rollinsville police report that he was not seen in that vicinity.…”

  That was cute, I thought. If the Rollinsville police, those leather-jacketed Shelmerdine puppets, did not sight me, I wondered who the guy they clubbed on that country road was. The radio continued:

  “…considerable mystery surrounds the South Bend shooting. The dead man served a term in Illinois State Penitentiary some years ago and is known to have been no paragon of citizenship. Kay, at whose home the shooting occurred, is described as an exemplary citizen. He told police that Lantry, an old war-time companion, called at his home the previous night with a young woman.…”

  Standing there, with the crackling, ghost-gabbling ear-piece to my ear, I allowed myself a slight smile as the radio voice went on to reveal that Jack had told the South Bend cops only what I had wanted him to tell them.

  In the next room, Joanne was sitting stiffly at the table. The farm woman was still eyeing the girl’s hands slyly and disapprovingly. The farmer was building up power on his corncob, wreaths of blue smoke drifted around his white head.

  The radio went on to give the inevitable description of me. It was all there, the scar on my face, the notch on my ear, the colour of my hair and suit.

  I saw the old man’s back stiffen and his wife tore her attention away from Joanne’s ringless fingers and darted a quick glance in my direction.

  Slowly, I placed the ancient earpiece on the hook on the wall set. It was hopeless to continue trying to call Walt Toland on that relic. Anyway, it didn’t seem to matter anymore.

  I didn’t think the farmer could move that fast. He didn’t look the part, anyway.

  If anyone had told me that nice old guy could open the drawer in the table on which the radio stood, dip his hand into it, and bring out a fistful of Army Colt as fast as that, I would have laughed.

  Until I saw him do it.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I looked into the mouth of the old-timer’s Army Colt and felt like a kid who had been surprised while stealing apples.

  Joanne gave a little squeak and stood up from her seat at the table; the farmer’s wife clucked like an alarmed hen and also stood up. She glowered at me and I glowered back.

  The farmer stood quite still with the revolver levelled at me. His corncob was in his mouth and the mild blue eyes had become remarkably hard. The hand holding the gun didn’t quaver one little bit.

  “Better not move, young man,” he said. He spoke with that odd distortion of words, the way a man does when he holds a pipe clamped hard between his teeth. “I know you’re the fellow the man on the radio just spoke about. Don’t think I’m fooling with this gun—I can use it if I have to.”

  He ceased to be a nice old guy out of a soap opera. There was a hardness and a determination about him that told me he meant what he was saying. I figured I’d best attempt an appeal to reason.

  Looking into that Army Colt, I felt like I wanted a good night’s sleep.

  “You deserve praise for your public spirit, Dad,” I told him, “but there’s no need for waving firearms. Suppose you put that thing away and make the whole bunch of us feel more comfortable.”

  “And let you kill my wife and I the way you killed that man in South Bend? You two people stand right where you are. My hired man will show up in a few minutes and we’ll hand you over to the police.”

  “Now look, mister, that shooting in South Bend will be cleared up just as soon as I get in touch with the right authorities. That’s what I was trying to do with that old phone of yours—get in touch with friends of mine. I’m on the side of law and order, Dad, an investigator—savvy?”

  It was useless. The old man went right on giving me the fish-eye.

  “I know your kind. A private detective. Divorces and all them kind of sordid things. Your kind are no-account. I don’t wonder you get into trouble.”

  The Colt still remained on me without a waiver.

  I got to wishing I was an insurance salesman or a fence-painter once more.

  Joanne was darting alarmed glances at me and then at the farmer. The farmer’s wife just stood there glaring at Joanne. I guess she was still disgusted about her lack of a wedding-ring.

  I had another try.

  “You’re taking the wrong line, Dad—”

  “Shut up!” the old man snapped. He couldn’t have put more venom into it if he’d been some kin to Ike Tescachelli. “Emmaline, call up the police.”

  His wife started for the doorway in which I stood. I took a pace backwards so I was close to the telephone again.

  “That Mrs. Kunitz will probably be on the line yet,” I said.

  The farmer’s wife came on.

  “Get away from the phone,” said the old man.

  I reached out my hand, keeping my eyes on the gun in the farmer’s hand and feeling for the earpiece on its hook on the side of the wall-box. I found it, gripped it and yanked hard, snapping it from its wire.

  The farmer’s wife stopped in her tracks.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, “but I can’t have you calling the police, at least, not the kind of police you have in these parts.”

  The farmer’s hand wavered just a little. My putting the telephone out of commission that way put him on the thin edge of panic for a minute. I wondered how soon the hired man would show up and what kind of individual he would be.

  Out in the yard, just visible through a segment of window, was the ancient Ford truck. I could see the old horse, still viewing the world of men over the top of the stable door. The nose of the saloon was visible, projecting from one side of the gateway. It was standing out t
here on the dirt road in full view for any of the Shelmerdine crowd to see if they came this way.

  There was no sign of any hired man.

  And the minutes were ticking by.

  The farmer, his wife, and Joanne stood quite still, all three of them watching me. I tried a third attempt at reason.

  “You wouldn’t dare use that old hog-leg,” I said to the farmer. “I suggest you put it away and we talk reasonably.”

  He straightened his shoulders.

  “I’ll use it if I have to.”

  I measured up the distance between the old-timer and myself. Just a few yards of clear, carpet-covered floor. Behind the farmer was the table on which the radio stood. The radio was now churning out a breakfast-time commercial, but nobody was interested.

  I’d have to make sure the oldster didn’t crack his head on the table if I made a football tackle for his legs. Maybe I could do it; maybe I couldn’t. But I had to break this deadlock.

  So I dived.

  And grabbed his legs.

  The farmer’s wife screamed.

  I pulled the old man down.

  The Colt went off and put a slug in the ceiling.

  The farmer’s wife squawked. Joanne screamed.

  I rolled on top of the gasping oldster.

  I gripped the gun and wrenched it.

  It came out of his hand.

  Then I stood up, flipped out the cylinder and shoved the cartridges out on to the floor, put the empty Colt on the table beside the jabbering radio and helped the old man up.

  “I’m sorry, but you wouldn’t listen to reason,” I told him. I seated him in a chair and turned off the radio. Joanne and the farm woman stood their ground, still alarmed by the gunshot.

  A little plume of acrid gun smoke drifted flatly across the room.

  “Go get him a glass of water, Joanne,” I said.

  The girl went into the kitchen and returned with a tumbler of water; the old man panted and drank it.

  His spouse was looking at me with two very wide eyes.

  “What’re you going to do to us?” she wanted to know.

  “Nothing,” I told her, “except talk some sense into you. It’s true that I’m the man the police are looking for because of that shooting in South Bend. Their radio flashes make me sound like a wanton killer, but that isn’t so. I’ll pay you for the breakfast. Just forget you saw us, huh?”

  I fished in my pocket and found my wallet. Surprisingly enough, those leather-jacketed hoodlums of the Rollinsville police force left my money intact when they frisked me after taking me prisoner. I put enough to pay for four breakfasts down on the table.

  Someone was whistling out in the yard. The hired man.

  I turned around to look out of the window and saw him, a gangling youth with plenty of the yokel about him and little to be scared of. His heavy boots came thumping up the porch steps, he opened the house door and came in.

  He stopped in his tracks, eyes flying to the Colt on the table and bugging out.

  “Hey, what goes on, Mr. Whitley?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” I said quickly. “Mr. and Mrs. Whitley were good enough to provide us with some breakfast, we’re passing through.”

  “Oh,” said the youth. “What for is the gun on the table?”

  “I was looking at it. I know a lot about guns. They’re my hobby,” I informed him.

  He looked at me. I looked at him.

  “Oh,” he said. The explanation seemed to satisfy him. He changed the subject. “There’s a lot of police around the top end of the road in cars. Rollinsville police. I didn’t know they was supposed to come over this way.”

  “Rollinsville police!” I echoed. I remembered that stolen saloon, standing outside the gate of the farmyard as a dead giveaway for anyone who came snooping around.

  “Mr. Whitley, I’ll make a bargain with you,” I told the farmer. “I’ll buy that old truck of yours, but I can’t pay you right now. I’ll send you a cheque just as soon as I get out of this fix, you’ll have to trust me. Shall we say seven hundred dollars?”

  “For that old ruin?” gurgled the farmer from his chair. “It ain’t worth—”

  “Seven hundred it is, then,” I said, then I raised the bid. “Make it a thousand for the load of hay and a set of farmer’s coveralls and an old hat.”

  The old man goggled. So did his wife and the hired hand.

  Whitley nodded. It was an effort for him to do so.

  “What goes on?” asked the youth again.

  “Nothing for you to worry about,” I told him. “Where can a man hide a saloon in these parts—I mean dump it good so nobody would ever find it?”

  “He could drive it into the old pond in the pasture up the road a small piece,” drawled the hired hand.

  “How do I get to it?”

  “First gate in the fence up the dirt road to the left,” the youth informed me.

  I told Joanne to stay in the house and went out the door, down the steps of the porch and across the yard to where the saloon was parked. Cautiously, I looked out of the yard gate. There was no sign of activity along the road. I jumped into the saloon, started it up and took it off to the left of the road.

  The gate in the white-painted fence was only a matter of yards along the road. I climbed out of the car, opened it, then drove the saloon into the fallow field on the other side of the gate.

  Before climbing back behind the wheel, I glanced along the road in both directions. Nothing in sight but a couple of crows walking along the dirt road. Maybe their wings were tired.

  I drove the car into the field, saw the pond shining in the sun with a cluster of trees around it, and headed for it.

  At the edge of the water, I braked.

  The pond was wide and covered with a green scum. I cut the engine, released the brakes and climbed out. At the back of the car, I began to shove with my shoulder. The vehicle began to roll, slithered over the edge and descended into the pond with a mighty, far-flung splash.

  I watched it settle under the scum slowly, then made my way back to the house.

  There was still no sign of life on the dirt road. Even the crows were gone.

  Back in the farmhouse, I found that Whitley had rooted out a set of old coveralls and a battered, wide-brimmed hat. Maybe it was the fact that I hadn’t harmed him after pulling the gun from him, maybe it was the generous payment for the meal Joanne and I had been provided with, and maybe it was the promise of the thousand dollars, but something made the farmer and his spouse treat us in a more friendly fashion.

  “What goes on?” the hired man was still asking.

  “These coveralls go on, son,” I answered. “The young lady and I go off in that old heap in the yard and you don’t know anything about us. Compree?”

  The youth blinked.

  “I’ll see he doesn’t know anything about it,” promised the farmer. That cheque for a thousand must have been floating before his eyes like a rosy dream.

  “Good,” I said, then I pulled off my jacket, took off my tie and pulled on the coveralls. I slapped the farmer’s hat on my head. My light tan Oxfords didn’t go so well with the rustic get-up, but I figured on doing plenty of riding in the old truck, so no one would see my feet.

  “Okay,” I said to Joanne, “let’s take a hay-ride.”

  She joined me and we went out the door, across the yard towards the parked truck. I looked like someone on his way to a New Year’s Eve carnival, I guess. Joanne eyed me with humour reflected in her face.

  “What happens to me?” she asked. “I’m hardly dressed as a farmer’s girl.”

  “You go out of sight, until we are free of Shelmerdine’s territory, at least,” I told her. “I’m sorry, but you’ll have to ride under the hay bales.”

  “You know best,” she shrugged.

  “The Shelmerdine crowd are looking out for a man and a girl in a saloon. They’ll pay very little attention to a single farmer in a beat-up old truck like this,” I explained as I bundled her on to
the rear of the truck. She settled down on one of the bales and I shaped the remainder around her so she was completely hidden.

  Starting up the old truck was a groan-and-sweat chore. The motor rattled into life with a noise like an earthquake hitting a junkyard.

  I climbed up behind the wheel and took the relic off along the dirt road. The green scenery rolled slowly past as I kept the nose of the truck pointed north.

  More than anything else, I wanted a good night’s sleep. The pounding those Rollinsville cops handed me left me tender around the head, so tender, in fact, that I had left that old Army Colt and ammunition on the table in the Whitleys’ farmhouse. With one hand on the wheel, I transferred the package of papers to the pocket of the coveralls from the pocket of the jacket on the seat beside me. Also, I took the automatic from the jacket pocket.

  I flipped open the magazine of the gun. The clip was half-spent and I had no more ammunition, since the Rollinsville police relieved me of my spare clip of cartridges as well as my own gun.

  The shoulder holster was still strapped across my chest and I pushed the weapon into it. If only I had taken the Colt and its ammunition into the bargain I made with Whitley!

  I steered the truck around a gentle turn and saw the road ribboning away for some yards, then it was crossed by an interesting road.

  At the crossing stood a lone figure, leaning against a motorcycle. Even at that distance, I could see the determination on his face as he stood spreadlegged in the road watching the truck approach.

  He wore a peak cap, a leather jacket with a big badge, and blue riding-pants with a wide yellow stripe.

  A Rollinsville patrolman.

  There was nothing for it but to brazen it out.

  As I jockeyed the truck nearer to the cop, I saw that his face was new. He was not one of those who had been in on the clubbing party the previous day. Without making the move too obvious, I pulled the wide-brimmed hat over my eyes and braked close to the cop.

  Under the hood, the engine clattered and clanged like half a dozen tin-cans being kicked along a deserted alley.

  “What’s the matter?” I hailed, turning on my best hick accent.

  The policeman was a sharp-featured individual. He looked at me like a professor scrutinising a specimen of something or other. I remembered the precise descriptions of me that had been broadcast, detailing the scar and the notch in my ear.