The Executioners

by Nick Carter

  I was already on my way to the car. Dawsey hadn't waited around for the results of Judy's phone call, which meant he expected to make contact somewhere else — home, probably. I turned the little Anglia back toward number 12 Chester Lane. I found myself frowning as I drove past the house. It was completely dark and I remembered Dawsey had left the living room light on as he dashed out.

  Parking around the corner again, I walked back to the house. Moving carefully, I saw the door was ajar. I pushed it open slowly, listening. I heard nothing. Stepping into the doorway, I reached my hand around the door to grope for the light switch. My fingers had just touched the metal plate around it when the blow struck me, glancing but plenty hard. My head rang, but I twisted and dived to the floor, in the direction the blow had come from. I got my arms around a leg and pulled. A body came down, hard, on my back and a foot smashed into my ribs. I kicked out, fighting more by instinct than anything else, my head still spinning. It stopped as the second blow landed, this time full on the back of my skull. Groggy as I was, I knew a lead-weighted sap when I felt one. Then everything stopped and the blackness grew blacker until there was nothing.

  I had no way of even estimating how much time had gone by before I started to come around. I only knew that I was alive by the sensation of heat against my cheeks. Dead men don't feel anything. I kept my eyes closed and let my mind start to work. Long ago I'd mastered the art of staying apparently unconscious while I came around. It was a matter of control, of holding back all the normal reactions of groaning, stretching, opening the eyes, moving. I was being dragged along a metal flooring by both my arms and I heard an occasional loud hiss of steam and the clank of metal. I was in some kind of factory or plant. My mouth felt funny — I realized I was gagged. My ankles were bound together, too. I opened my eyes, just slits, but enough to see through. Two pairs of legs were walking in front of me, dragging me along on my belly. Suddenly, they halted and I was dropped onto the floor. I heard voices call to a third man, who answered from a distance.

  "Put the gun back in his pocket," I heard one of them say. "Nothing is to be left around. Hell just disappear and they'll spend time and effort hunting him down."

  I felt myself being turned on my side and I let my body roll limply. One of them leaned down and put Wilhelmina into my pocket. Through slitted eyes I saw that my arms, still stretched over my head, were tied at the wrists with handkerchiefs. And I saw something else. I was on some sort of catwalk — beyond it I could see the orange glow of a huge, fiery smelting oven. I was inside one of Townsville's copper-smelting refineries. A foot turned me over on my stomach again, and I could see down over the edge of the catwalk. A long, wide conveyer belt paralleled the catwalk, about four feet below it, carrying ore to the mouth of the huge furnace. The plant was obviously on half-shift, perhaps even less, with maybe a few workmen on call through the night. Many of these plants were automated and ran by themselves. I suddenly knew what they intended to do. I heard one man call again to the third one, and I saw his figure at the far end of the conveyor belt. They were going to make me into a copper teapot.

  "Now," the third man called. I was grabbed by rough hands and pushed off the edge of the catwalk. I twisted my body and managed to land on the rough, sharp ore on my side. My ribs felt as though a hundred spears had been plunged into them, and I lay there, fighting down the waves of pain. I rolled over and felt the speed with which the conveyer belt was moving. Glancing back over my shoulder, the furnace looked hotter and bigger with every passing second.

  "Look! He's come to," I heard one of the men shout. The other one laughed. I looked up quickly. The laughing one was the tallest; he had a hard face and was dressed in rancher's clothes, as was the other one.

  I lay there, my ribs still paining me sharply, as I felt myself moving along the conveyer belt with the helpless feeling of a man facing inexorable death. The tall man was laughing again, obviously enjoying the sight of his victim being alive and conscious as he went into the furnace. I drew my legs up and tried to move forward along the conveyer belt, but with my ankles bound together it was a pitiful, wasted effort. In seconds, my knees were torn and bleeding from the sharp edges of the ore which was mostly cuprite and chrysocolla, edged with quartz. I glanced down the conveyer and saw the orange glow of the furnace drawing nearer, the roar of its bowels a terrible cry of welcome. I drew my knees up again and crawled forward, recapturing perhaps sixty seconds of life before my bound ankles made me fall to the side.

  Desperately, I looked back at the furnace again. Steeling myself against the pain, moving on the sudden burst of hope I'd found, I crawled forward on the conveyer to gain a little more precious time. Now I began to work the handkerchiefs around my wrists against the sharp edges of the ore. I muttered a prayer of gratitude that all they'd been able to find were handkerchiefs and not strong rope. The material began to shred and I renewed my efforts. There wasn't time to crawl forward again and I ran my bound wrists hard along the sharp edges of the ore. Glancing down the belt, I saw that I was perhaps seventy seconds from the furnace.

  The tall man was laughing harder now, as the inexorable conveyer continued to bring me to the edge of the furnace. The heat was scaring my body. Once I reached the edge of the conveyer, every bit of me would be consumed in the heat of the molten copper. There'd be some imperfections in the copper ore which would be filtered out in the system, but nothing else. The conveyer was beginning to edge downward, and the heat was unbearable as my wrist bonds shredded and tore apart I pulled myself up on the sharp ore, putting back fifteen seconds of my borrowed time. I swung around with a sharp lump of ore in my hand, hacked the handkerchiefs on my ankles off with frantic desperation. I rolled sideways, off the edge of the conveyer, just as I felt myself going over with the ore. My hands caught the moving edge, just for a second, just enough to give me a split-second to straighten out and drop to the floor below.

  I landed on my feet and sank to my haunches, drawing my breath in deep draughts in the shadows of the huge furnace. I could see the three men, the third one having come up to join his cohorts. They were scrambling down from the catwalk and would be after me at once. But I gathered myself. I'd come within a second of being burned to death, and I figured I owed myself the added moment's rest.

  The three men had reached the floor, and I saw them separate, two starting to go around the big furnace on one side, the tall one who had laughed so hard taking the other side. I started to move in the direction he'd taken. I intended doing something about his sense of humor. I raced around the furnace and saw that on the other side the plant widened into the molding area. There, rivers of molten copper flowed in steplike arrangement from one short length of iron funnel to another, forming waterfalls of brilliant orange as it flowed from funnel to funnel. At the base, a huge casting wheel slowly revolved, bordered all around its edges by the glowing, orange squares of molten copper that flowed into the molds from the iron tracks. Some of the large copper molds, when cooled, would be refined and remelted still further for use in various ways.

  I was starting to race around the outer perimeter of the right side of the huge casting wheel when the tall, hard-faced man came into view, running at an angle to block me off. He whirled to face me as I came toward him. He swung at me, but I'd figured that to be his first move and I dived low, catching him at the knees. I lifted him up and threw him up and out, the way a Scotsman tosses the caber. He arched through the air and landed in one of the molds of molten copper. His scream seemed to shake the very walls, a horrible paean to death. He didn't laugh once, and I continued to run around the outer edge of the huge iron wheel.

  The other two would have heard, of course, and know what had happened, so as I saw a doorway leading into another part of the refinery, I ran for it. I saw them appear just as I disappeared through the door and heard their footsteps chasing after me. I found myself in a narrow passageway of large pipes and conduits and raced for an exit at the far end. A shot echoed in the narrow passage, reverberati
ng from the tubes and pipes. I hit the floor and rolled out of the exit door, regaining my feet in what seemed to be a large storage area for fabricated material. I saw thin sheets of copper, heavy bars and thick slabs as I ran past them. The area was almost dark, one or two lone lightbulbs high in the ceiling casting a dim glow. I saw another doorway and ran through it to find myself in a room with one end filled with huge wooden spools of heavy copper wire, each spool standing eight feet high. The spools were held in place by wooden chocks under the forward edges of the first row of them. I ran forward and squeezed myself into the darkness of the spaces between the huge spools. Dropping to my knees, I braced my hands on the floor and, as the two men came into the room, I kicked hard against the chock holding the spool to my right, then the one to my left. The wooden chocks, knocked sideways, released the giant spools, and they started to roll, gathering momentum instantly. Another kick released the first of three more giant spools of copper wire on the left.

  I turned to see the two men frantically trying to dodge the huge spools as they rolled at them with amazing speed. They were too busy dodging, trying not to be crushed to death, to pay attention to me. I pulled Wilhelmina from my pocket, rested myself on one knee and drew a bead on the dodging figures. I only needed to take care of one. I caught him with a clean shot as he halted between two of the spools. His friend, startled by the shot, turned to see what had happened. One of the spools hit him, knocking him down and running over him with a thousand pounds of crushing, killing weight. He didn't scream. Only a low, choking gasp escaped him.

  I saw a sign that said EXIT. It was over a steel firedoor. I took it and went out into the cool night air. The few night workmen had called the cops by now, and as I started away I could hear the sound of sirens approaching.

  I'd had a lucky break and I knew it. I also began to appreciate the code name of The Executioner. Well. I wasn't going to be a victim.

  I found myself a little pub that was just closing and asked directions. It turned out I was a good distance from the new suburban development, and transportation was damned hard to find at that hour. I fell back on man's oldest known transportation system — his own two feet — and started out, setting a steady, ground-consuming pace. But it still gave me plenty of time to go over what had happened. I was heading back to John Dawsey's place, but I had a strong feeling he wouldn't be talking to me. The three men hadn't been waiting for my appearance when I walked in on them. They had no way of knowing I would turn up.

  By the time I'd reached the suburban development I'd broken into a trot. At Dawsey's house, still pitch black, I went around to the back door. It was open and I entered, flicking on the kitchen light. The house was empty, or it seemed empty. I knew better.

  I started to go through the closets, and I'd reached the hall closet when I found what I thought I would. The late John Dawsey, recently with the Australian Army Tank Corps, fell out on me as I opened the door. He'd been neatly garotted and his eyes stared accusingly at me, as though if it weren't for me, he'd still be alive and kicking. He was probably right, at that, I admitted. Whoever they were, they'd taken the sure way of seeing to it that I didn't pull anything out of John Dawsey. Dead men don't talk, as someone found out a long, long time ago.

  I was beginning to feel grimly angry as I went out the back door. A good lead had blown up in my face. I'd damn near been immortalized in copper, and I hurt like hell all over, especially my cut knees. A little hostess named Judy loomed big in my mind. I was going to have a long and fruitful talk with her — right now.

  I retrieved the car and drove to The Ruddy Jug. It was, as I'd figured, closed by now, but there was a narrow alleyway alongside it with a small window on the alley. A garbage can stood beside it; I picked up the lid, waited till a passing truck filled the night with its roar, and smashed the window. Reaching in, I unlocked it and opened it carefully. I'd had enough of jagged objects for one night.

  Once inside, I found the office — a little cubbyhole at the rear of the place. A small desk lamp gave me all the light I needed. There had to be some employee files and finally I found them — too damned many of them in a dusty cabinet — small cards for apparently everyone who'd ever worked in the place. I didn't even have a last name, so the alphabetical filing didn't do me a bit of good. I had to go over every stinking card and look for the name Judy on it. Finally I found it — Judy Henniker, age twenty-four, born in Cloncurry, present address Twenty Wallaby Street. It was a street name I'd casually noted as I drove out there and not too far away. I put the file back in its place and left the way I'd come.

  Twenty Wallaby Street was an ordinary, brick building of six stories. Judy Henniker's name was on a neat card stuck in the doorbell name slot. It wasn't a proper hour for formal visiting, so I decided to make it a surprise party. Her apartment was on the second floor, 2E, obviously on the east side of the building. I saw a fire escape running conveniently up the outside wall and leaped up to catch the bottom rung of the ladder. The window of the apartment on the second floor was open, just enough for me to get through by flattening myself out.

  I moved very slowly and quietly. It was a bedroom window and I could see the girl's sleeping form in the bed, the steady rhythmic sound of her breathing loud in the silence. I walked softly over to the bed and looked down at her. The make-up was off her face and her brown hair cascaded onto the pillow around her head. Her face, asleep, had taken on the softness that must once have been there, and she looked quite pretty, almost sweet. She was also sleeping in the nude and one breast, beautifully round and high, rosy-tipped with a small, neat point, had freed itself from the sheet that covered her. I placed my hand firmly over her mouth and held it there. Her eyes snapped open, took a moment to focus and then went wide with fright.

  "Don't start screaming and you won't get hurt," I said. "I just want to take up where we left off."

  She was just lying there, staring up at me, terror in her eyes. I reached over and snapped on a lamp by her bedside, still keeping one hand over her mouth.

  "Now, I'm going to take my hand away from your mouth," I said. "One scream and you've had it. Cooperate with me and well have a nice little visit.

  I stepped back and she sat up, instantly pulling the sheet up to cover herself. I smiled as I thought of how incongruous women were about modesty. There was a silk bathrobe across the back of an upholstered chair near the bed. I tossed it to her.

  "Put it on, Judy," I said. "I don't want anything to inhibit your memory."

  She managed to get the robe on while keeping the bedsheet up in front of her — then she swung herself out of the bed.

  "I told you before, Yank," she said, "I don't know anything about any John Dawsey." Her smoke-gray eyes had returned to their normal size now, and the fear was gone from them. Her figure, under the clinging folds of the silk robe, was firm and compact and her youth was somehow much more a part of her now than it had been at The Ruddy Jug. Only the smoldering eyes gave away her worldly wisdom. She had gone over to perch on the arm of the upholstered chair.

  "Now, listen, Judy," I began very quietly, with a deadliness in my voice that was not there for effect. "I was almost burned to death not very long ago. And your pal Dawsey won't be coming to you to make any more phone calls for him. He's dead. Very dead."

  I watched her eyes as they steadily widened. They began to protest before her lips did.

  "Now, wait a minute, Yank," she said. "I don't know anything about any killings. I'm not going to get caught up in any muck like that."

  "You're already caught up in it," I said. "Dawsey was killed by the same gents who tried to give me a course in copper smelting the hard way. Who were they, dammit? You made that call for Dawsey. Start talking or I'll wring your neck like a chicken's."

  I reached out and grabbed her by the front of the robe. I yanked her from the chair and dangled her with one hand, as the terror leaped into those smoky eyes.

  "I don't know their names," she stammered. "Only their first names."
r />   "You knew where to reach them," I said. "You had a phone number. Whose was it? Where was it, damn you."

  "It was just a number," she gasped out. "I called and a recording took down my message. Sometimes I left word to call someone, sometimes to call me back."

  "And tonight you left word that they were to contact Dawsey," I concluded. She nodded and I pushed her back into the chair. A phone stood on the end table beside the bed.

  "Make that call again," I said. She reached over and dialed, straightening her robe first. When she'd finished dialing. I grabbed the phone from her hand and put it to my ear. The voice on the other end, constricted and flat with the unmistakable tone of a recording, instructed me to leave my message when the buzzer sounded. I put the phone down. She'd been telling the truth about that much, anyway.

  "Now let's have the rest of it," I said. "Let's start with where and how you fit into this setup."

  "They started to talk to me a long time ago, at The Ruddy Jug," she said. "They said they were businessmen looking for people they could use. They were especially interested in servicemen who seemed to be unhappy or were having a hard time of it. They said they could do a lot of good for the right man. They asked me to let them know if I heard of a sailor or soldier who might like to talk to them."

  "And of course dissatisfied servicemen were y to come by at a place like The Ruddy Jug. And when you found one you contacted your friends, right?"

  She nodded.

  "You put them in contact with John Dawsey," I said, and again she nodded, her lips tightening.

  "Did you put them in contact with a lot of servicemen?" I asked and she nodded again. That much figured, too. They'd have to make numerous contacts until they found one that would do.

  "Do you remember the names of everybody you put in contact with them?" I questioned further.