Too Many Crooks

by Richard S. Prather

  "Get on your feet," he said.

  I stood up. Carver slipped the bracelets on my wrists again, but I noticed he was manacling my hands in front of me. That made it easier for me to move them, even swing at somebody, and I wondered if he'd made a mistake. Just in case, I started talking to keep his mind occupied.

  "This about does it, right, Carver? You're practically in the chips. Especially if you count in the foundation property. You boys got that under control yet?"

  He frowned and blinked at me. "How the hell did you fall into that?"

  "Something Baron let slip started me thinking," I lied. "Then it tied in with all the rest of the mess here."

  He shook his head, then said, "Well, we got voting control, chum. Will have in a few days, anyway."

  "Uh-huh, when somebody takes over Dane's membership. I guess you figure that strip of beach is practically yours, huh?"

  He grinned. "Not exactly, chum, not like the stuff we bought ourselves, but we'll have control of it—legally. City may get it back eventually, but we'll make some bucks on the deal."

  He stepped back from me and moved my hands forward and up a little, only they didn't move very far. He'd slipped the handcuffs under my belt. He said, "Nope, it can't miss. We got no worries at all now. Come on, Scott."

  "Where we going?"

  He grinned again. "Let's say we're taking you to the county seat. Feeling's running high against you here, chum. Gonna transfer you."

  "Sure. So the howling mob doesn't break in and lynch me."

  We went out of the room, Mac and the chief ahead of me, and Carver right behind. The main entrance to the jail was on our left, but we turned right and walked down the hall. There was a door at the hall's end, which opened on the side street, Elm.

  Mac went out first and walked ahead of us to the black police sedan parked at the curb, opened both side doors, and stood by them like a chauffeur as we walked briskly down the sidewalk toward the car. For a moment I considered trying to run for it, but I pushed that thought out of my mind even before Carver said softly behind me, "Now, you just take off, Scott. Run a little way down the street so it looks good. Lots better if we got witnesses."

  I swallowed. That would make it nice. The innocent bystanders could testify that I'd been brought down by Dead-eye Carver when I was attempting to escape. There were a few men and women in sight, walking on the sidewalks. Half a dozen cars were parked nearby. There was something strange about one brown coupé parked across the street, but just as I started to take a good look at it we reached the police sedan and Carver pushed me inside and across to the far edge of the back seat. Mac crawled in behind me, and Carver slammed the door.

  I glanced at the brown coupé again. Hanging out the door on the driver's side was an object that was not standard equipment on brown Fords. It was a leather camera case, the straps held in a white hand. I wasn't able to see the driver's face, but there couldn't be much doubt, under the circumstances, that the case was the one that had been around my Leica. And I was suddenly sure that the car was Betty's brown Ford, and that her hand held the case's straps. As I looked, the leather case was pulled inside the car. I made myself face the front of the police car, kept my head turned away from the Ford. Carver slid inside the sedan up in front and Chief Thurmond walked around toward the driver's seat.

  Carver was looking back at me, and I was afraid he might look past me, see the car across the street. He might even recognize it as Betty's car. I tried to keep him looking at my face, kept talking to him. I said the first thing that popped into my mind, just to be saying words. "Carver, you know I'm onto the whole deal, or I wouldn't be taking this ride. I just want to know one thing more. Who killed Dane? I know Baron ordered it, but I mean who pulled the trigger?"

  He chuckled. "A dead man, Scott. He's dead now."

  "Zimmerman?"

  "Zimmerman. You'll get to meet him later today." He grinned at me. "Too bad we don't have your girlfriend along to keep you company."

  I had to swallow in the middle of my answer, but I got it out. "She's probably in Frisco by now."

  I heard the starter of the Ford across the street grinding, then the motor caught. Chief Thurmond started the police car and we pulled out from the curb. Three blocks ahead, he turned left. Up till that moment I had forced myself to keep my eyes front, but I glanced quickly back down the street as we turned. The brown Ford was back there, about half a block behind us.

  That settled it. I knew for sure that it was Betty. I got a kind of panicky feeling and my heart kicked up inside my chest. There wasn't a thing she could do except get herself killed. Why the hell had she stuck around? Why hadn't she run while she had a chance?

  I let my manacled hands rest against my stomach, over my belt. I could feel the small metal buckle against my index finger. Mac leaned against the side of the car on my right, his gun pointed at my chest.

  Hairs wiggled at the back of my neck. I had assumed they'd planned to stop in some deserted spot, take me out of the car and put a bullet or two into my skull. But looking at Mac's gun, and at his face, I wondered now why I'd thought it would have to be like that.

  There wasn't really any reason for them to wait till I was out of the car.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Suddenly chief Thurmond spoke. "Looks pretty good along here, huh?"

  We were a couple of miles from Seacliff, on a two-lane highway bordered by trees and grass. It was pretty country, and it looked cool in among the trees.

  Carver was partly twisted around in the front seat, and now he looked out the rear window. "Good enough," he said. "Road's clear, too, except for one car. Let him pass."

  I looked behind us as if in natural response to Carver's words. Mac, on my right, glanced out the window too, then fixed his eyes on me again. The brown Ford was still about half a block behind, but even as I watched, it seemed to draw closer.

  There wasn't a trace of saliva in my mouth or throat. In the hope that I could keep attention centered on me, and not on the Ford, I said, "Carver, it looks like the party's almost over. It would be a little satisfaction, at least, to know I was right all the way. Where does Norris fit in? Just muscle?"

  Carver laughed, as if my question were silly. "Your party's over, all right, chum." He pursed his lips. "Yeah, you figured it all pretty good. But you had to be lucky to figure out the boss was Baron. Hell of a lot of good it's gonna do you. You're curious about Norris, huh? Well, chum, that's what you're supposed to be, see? Norris works for Baron, and if anybody tumbles to part of the play, then naturally they think Norris is responsible for everything, Norris and his pro boys, some syndicate men. Of course, Norris put up plenty of the dough for the operation, and he'll get a lot of the profits. But Baron? It costs him a little money, but he's clean as a hound's tooth. Smart, huh?"

  "Yeah, smart." I was dying to look again at the road behind us but I kept my eyes on Carver's face. I wondered what the hell Betty was planning to do, if anything. If she just kept tagging along behind, these guys would tumble.

  I turned to Mac and said, "Do you have to point that thing at me?"

  That almost broke him up, it was so funny, but it gave me an excuse to turn my head just a little farther to my right. I glanced out the back window. The Ford was only about thirty yards away now, going much faster than we were. My pulse quickened and I pressed my hand against my belt, feeling for the buckle again, hoping Mac's finger wasn't too tight on that trigger. Because she wasn't swinging out to pass us, not an inch; and I suddenly knew what she must be going to do. She was going to ram us.

  I spoke to Carver, but at the same time I tried to count off the seconds, estimate the moment of impact.

  "Carver," I said, "I know Dorothy Craig got hot with the Star's publisher, then later with Baron. And Josephson never lets anything be printed that might foul up Baron's operation here. Is that Miss Craig's contribution?"

  I had mentally counted off five seconds. I pulled my feet back against the seat, tensed the muscles in my l
egs, and looped a finger through my belt buckle.

  Carver said, "She had some letters from the old guy. Real hot stuff, chum. Baron's got them now."

  I saw the chief looking into the rearview mirror. He shouted something and his hands tightened on the wheel. I dug for the buckle on my belt, felt it slide free. My hands jerked up in front of me as Mac yelled, "Hey!" and snapped his gun toward my face.

  I jerked my head aside, eyes fixed on the bore of Mac's revolver, but I could still see his lips pulled apart and his teeth pressed together behind them as he started to squeeze the trigger. From the corner of my eye I saw the brown blur of the Ford right upon us—and then it hit.

  Mac's gun went off almost in my face, heat from the explosion searing my skin and fiery flecks of powder digging into my cheek. But the impact as Betty's Ford slammed into the sedan shoved us all against the seats and Mac's bullet zipped past my head and crashed through the side window.

  The car swerved in the road. All of us were off balance, but the others more than I, because I'd been prepared for the impact. And before Mac could straighten up, bring his gun around to bear on me again, I swung both manacled wrists toward his face, driving them toward him with all my strength, and he slumped when the heavy steel bands struck his forehead. The gun dropped from his hands and fell to the floor.

  Somebody shouted in the front of the car but I didn't even look up. I slid forward, letting my knees drop to the floor, and grabbed with both hands for the gun. I got one hand around it and thrust a finger through the trigger guard.

  I didn't wait. I didn't give a damn if Carver had a gun in his hand. Even before I looked up, as soon as the gun was in my fist, I angled it toward the back of the seat before me and started pulling the trigger. I fired three times through the seat, letting the natural kick of the gun bring its barrel higher each time, and only when I fired the fourth shot did I see Carver's face, see the gun in his hand.

  His gun was centered on my head, but even before I fired that fourth shot, Carver's finger was too weak to pull the trigger. There was a red stain against his chest and his hand was relaxing around the gun butt. Then my fourth shot hit him right at the hairline and he fell backward, slumped on the floorboards in front, jackknifed between the seat and the dashboard.

  The chief's head was jerked around toward me, one hand just coming up from his hip, where he carried his gun, and the sedan was slowed almost to a stop, brakes squealing.

  I stuck my revolver alongside the chief's nose and said, "Lift that heater and I'll lift your skull off."

  He made a squeaking noise in his throat, brought his hand up empty.

  "Grab the wheel," I said, "and watch the road. Park this crate."

  I just got the last word out when there was another enormous crashing sound and the sedan jumped forward five feet. I flew backward and wound up on the seat again. But I still held the gun in both hands, my right index finger curled around the trigger.

  Thurmond managed to get the car parked at the side of the road before we got clobbered by the Ford again, and I leaned forward, poked him alongside his ear with the gun, and said, "Look straight ahead and shove up the rearview mirror."

  He did. I grabbed the gun in both hands. I wanted the mirror up so he wouldn't see me when I swatted him in the middle of the skull. He didn't. Chief Thurmond slumped over on Carver. I got out of the car and looked behind it. Nothing. Then I saw the Ford a block away, turned half around in the street. Betty had as much cold nerve as a regiment of marines, but she wasn't completely out of her mind. She was ready to light out for the wilderness. I waved both arms over my head and yelled and yelled and not a sound came out. I was all right, I was dandy. Finally, I swallowed and gulped some air and yelled and managed to make a little noise. The Ford swung around and came up alongside me and Betty looked out the window at me with a white face.

  She said shakily, "Is . . . is . . . are you—"

  "It's all right," I said. She got out of the car as I said, "What on earth made you think of that? Where did you come from? How did you know—"

  She stopped me. "Oh, your poor face! Are you all right?"

  "Yeah, just banged up a little. I'm not shot. But if it hadn't been for you, I'd be leaking from many holes. Just scared, I guess." Reaction was setting in now; my hands were shaking like leaves.

  I said, "How come you were outside the jail?"

  She spoke in a rush. "I was outside the longest time, just waiting. I knew you must be in there, but I didn't even know if you were alive—and I couldn't go in and ask them. When you all came out, I put the camera case outside the window hoping you'd see it and know I was there. I followed you, even though I didn't know what I was going to do. On the way out of town I decided if they stopped to . . . do anything to you, I'd honk and yell so they'd know there was a witness and would maybe be afraid to go ahead. I was so scared I wasn't sure of anything. Then right at the end I decided to hit the car. I thought maybe you could do something."

  "Wait a minute. You've lost me. You forget I was in the clink all day." I stopped. She was still as white as a sheet. I said, "Are you OK, honey?" and she nodded, said, "Yes, I'm—" and fainted.

  I didn't do a very good job of catching her, but I at least managed to ease her to the pavement. I left her there while I walked around to the other side of the police car, opened the door, and dug through pockets till I found the key to my handcuffs. In another minute, I had them off and had manacled Chief Thurmond to Mac. Then I picked Betty up and put her inside the Ford.

  Her eyes fluttered and, for a moment, her face was frightened, then she sighed and threw her arms around my neck. She pulled me close and, for a minute or two, we had a most enjoyable time of it. During that period I told her she'd kept me from being a dead man, and she could have my left arm if she wanted it—in fact, all my arms and legs and anything else she cared for—and she said, "Kiss me," and I kissed her, and she said, "Your mustache tickles," and I tickled her some more.

  Finally I disengaged myself and said, "Honey, there's still some unfinished business. First, though, how did you find the camera? How come you even knew where I was?"

  "Well, when you didn't come back this morning I knew something was wrong. I listened to the radio and heard what had happened. About six-thirty, I left the motel, got my car, and drove to Main Street. All the broadcast had said was that you'd been caught at the Red Cross stand—and you'd told me to meet you there if anything went wrong, that it was our base of operations. I thought maybe you'd been there for a while before they caught you, and I looked all around in case you'd left something there or dropped anything. I looked for the camera, too, but not very hard, because I supposed the police caught you with it. I even looked for blood."

  "They missed me."

  "I saw the bullet holes. Anyway, then I left and checked by phone with the paper. I talked to Martin, one of the reporters. He told me all he could, more than I'd heard on the radio. I'd already wondered if the police knew you'd broken into the lawyer's office, and if they really had caught you with the Leica. Martin checked for me and found out what personal belongings you'd had on you. There wasn't any camera. I had Martin ask that specifically, and he said the policeman seemed surprised. Well, I knew then that you'd got rid of it. I couldn't know where, but the logical place was the Red Cross stand. I went back and searched all around and in that little back room. Then I noticed the torn place in the cloth around the stand. I crawled through and looked around until I found the Leica."

  "Honey," I said dazedly, "how would you like to go into the detective business? We'll call the office Betty and Assistant."

  She smiled. "It wasn't much of a deduction, really. But I did get clever after that, I thought. I knew what you wanted the pictures for, so I phoned Martin again, then drove by the Star office and tossed the roll of film into his car; it was parked in front. Then I drove to the police station and waited there so I'd know if they took you out—you'd told me that they probably would. Martin took care of everything from th
en on. I mean, he had the films developed and then took them to a handwriting expert."

  I digested that and finally said, "I'll be damned. When can we check with him?"

  "I already have. Oh, I wrapped the film cartridge in that postcard from Emmett—the one you showed me last night. I still had it when I left the motel and it had Emmett's real signature, so I had Martin take it along." She frowned. "I talked to Mr. Bridges, the handwriting man, on the phone, and he said he could give me only a tentative answer, but he said it was almost positive that the only forged signature was the one on the postcard."

  Chapter Eighteen

  For a moment her words stunned me. That really hit me where I lived. I even wondered if Emmett could have left his property to Dorothy Craig, if the will was actually on the level and not a fake.

  I didn't see how it was possible I could have been wrong. Not when everything that had happened was considered. I said, "Betty, this expert didn't say the card signature was forged, did he? It was just different from that on the will, right?"

  "Well, he told me on the phone that it was difficult to be absolutely sure when he was working from photographs, but he had pictures of the will and half a dozen other signed documents. And he had the postcard. All the signatures were the same except the one on the postcard. It was only a little bit different, he said, but obviously a forgery."

  "Not quite. Just the opposite. Every signature except the one on Em's card was faked. That's the way it has to be. They planned this deal from way back, and all those papers in the safe were faked. Every damned one. If it was ever checked in court, the will signature would agree with Dane's normal signature on his papers. Naturally; they were all forged by the same guy. They drew this one up tight."