by J. T. Edson
‘Frankie and Paco called this other guy “Mick” and he said he’d called his boss, and that the boss said for them to hit Grantley’s wife.’
‘Then what?’ asked Brad.
‘They argued price, then talked about the route they’d use from Grantley’s pad to dumping their heap in a vacant lot down in Gusher City South.’
‘And this guy they called Mick said he’d spoken to his boss?’
That was the question which scooped up the sixty-four thousand dollar prize. It was also one question to which Brad hoped to hear ‘no’ for an answer.
‘Called, talked, one or the other,’ agreed Schenk. ‘I’m not sure which.’
‘What happened then?’ inquired Bulpin.
‘I saw they’d be finished soon and tippy-toed out of it.’
‘Did, huh?’ grunted Brad. ‘Now tippy-toe into the bedroom and open up the fireplace.’
‘But you said—’
‘All the saying was on your part, Willie,’ Bulpin pointed out. ‘And if we let you go, word might reach Colismides that you got ambitious and fingered one of his boys.’
‘Th—Then it was Mikos Papas?’ croaked the little crook.
‘Yeah, Willie,’ Brad said quietly. ‘It sure as spitting was.’
A moment of decision loomed ahead of Willie Schenk. Without needing to be a men tab giant, he could picture the fate of any cheap grifter rash enough to inform on the Colismides gang. Schenk made a good living renting out his secret cupboard, and it contained enough of his own loot to send him to jail for several years. However he had a good name when in stir and could be sure of a sedentary occupation at whichever prison farm the fates sent him to. More than that, the State of Texas hired armed guards who would serve to keep vengeance-seeking Colismides men out as well as holding Schenk inside.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘Let’s go and open the door.’
Things moved fast after Schenk opened up his fireplace’s front. Leaving Rachel and Bulpin to watch over the hotel, Alice and Brad escorted three prisoners to the Hogarth Station House. Almost before the Goldbergs and Schenk reached their cells, the deputies sat in conference with the Division’s top brass. As a result, a large force of male and female police officers descended on the Shaftesbury and went through it like a swarm of locusts. The desk clerk had managed to alert a number of his roomers, but they remained, secure in the belief that no damning evidence could be found. Too late it became apparent that the law knew the secret of the fireplaces, and the hotel lost a good number of valuable clients, as well as one of its most highly-prized assets.
All in all, the raid proved a considerable success. Rachel and Bulpin would be promoted to sergeant on the strength of their part in bringing it off. For the deputies whose investigations sparked off the whole affair, there was little recognition. A word of thanks from Hogarth’s inspector and they took to Unit S.O. 12, driving back across town in the direction of the Sheriff’s Office.
The case now had such urgency that a ‘Code Three’ run seemed called for. No longer could there be any doubt, any hope that nothing more than a normal grudge against an arresting officer’s family lay behind the attempted killing. At last the deputies knew for certain that Mikos Papas was in town and was trying to carry out his boss’s threat. Further than that; if Schenk told the truth—and there had been no reason for him to lie—Papas had contacted his boss the previous night to be given orders that sent him out to kill a deputy’s wife. Which meant that the whole of the murderous Colismides bunch, most blood-thirsty and callous mob since the days of John Dillinger or Machine-gun Kelly, were in Rockabye County.
Small wonder that Alice Fayde switched on the roof’s red light and the siren, while Brad Counter gathered every bit of speed possible as they raced across Gusher City to take the news of their findings, to Sheriff Jack Tragg.
Nine
‘So they’ve chosen here to make the jump into Mexico,’ said Jack Tragg, rising from his desk and facing the two deputies.
Six foot one in height, lean as a greasewood-fed steer, with close-cropped black hair and a tanned, outdoorsman’s face, Jack Tragg gave the impression of wearing range clothes ready to hit the saddle, even though clad in a gray lounge suit of stylish cut.
By Jack’s side stood First Deputy McCall; an inch taller, gaunt and craggy as a painting of a Highland shepherd, his Stetson, as always, perched on his head. Whether he approved or disapproved of his deputies’ activities could not be read from his facial expression.
‘Everything points that way,’ Alice agreed. ‘Is there anything on the Rambler or our other queries?’
On their return, Alice and Brad had barely parked the Oldsmobile in the official lot behind the building before McCall arrived and escorted them straight to the sheriff’s private office.
‘The lab crew are still working on it,’ McCall replied. ‘No prints that concern us. It’d been stolen the previous night and not missed. The shot-shells in it are Remington Shur-Shot, F.I.L. tell me.’
‘We found a carton in the apartment where Angers and Sanchez had been rooming,’ Alice answered. ‘I’ll have the cases taken to the lab—’
‘That’s already tended to,’ Jack Tragg put in.
‘Covacs’ clean here, but we’ve asked I.C.R. and the F.B.I. to try to make him,’ McCall continued. ‘A green Plymouth went over the Juarez bridge shortly before midnight, but so far we’ve heard nothing from the Mexican authorities.’
‘Anything from the bar, sir?’ asked Brad.
‘It looks like the bartender could get into the liquor store,’ McCall replied. ‘Latent Prints found a handprint on the inner side of the door. Might have been made by a man leaning up close to hear what was said outside. The prints’ve been Speed-Photoed to I.C.R. for a make.’
‘Five will get you ten it’s Papas,’ Alice offered, but found no takers.
‘Schenk said how he had heard Papas mention calling his boss. Not speaking, calling,’ Brad remarked. ‘That could mean the gang’s split up and contact each other by phone.’
‘Or that Papas is in town looking for a contact,’ Alice answered. ‘The rest of the crowd could be holed up outside.’
‘Which covers a helluva piece of country, even if they’re only in our county,’ Jack drawled. ‘The way I see it, Papas isn’t staying in any of the usual crook hang-outs. Some stoolie would have sung before now if he’d showed.’
‘The Greek Syndicate have passed word for maximum assistance,’ Alice pointed out. ‘Not that that would stop every stoolie. At least one would inform to us.’
‘But Papas is living in town,’ Brad stated.
‘That’s what I like about my partner,’ Alice smiled. ‘He’s with it.’
‘He may be ahead of it,’ Jack commented. ‘What’s your idea, Brad?’
‘That somebody is hiding him out, helping him.’
‘Who, except maybe a professional hot-handler would hide out a red-hot like Mikos Papas?’ McCall inquired.
‘Nobody—as a red-hot. But how about as an ex-EOKA patriot being persecuted by the neo-Fascist police?’
‘You’re way past me, Brad,’ grunted McCall, although guessing what he meant.
‘Colismides and all his bunch were killers in the EOKA terrorist movement in Cyprus, and jumped the country when things got too hot,’ Brad explained. ‘I remember at the time of his trial, some of the liberal-intellectual tabloids made a big thing of it. You know; persecution of a man forced to flee his country by fear of imperialist vindictiveness, like that—’
‘We’ve all read some,’ interrupted McCall dryly.
‘Then suppose Papas found a Greek, maybe even a Greek Cypriot, living in Gusher City. One dumb enough to fall for the EOKA-patriot guff.’
‘There are around two thousand Greek families living here, Brad,’ Alice said. ‘Most of them never saw Greece, much less Cyprus.’
‘And there’re at least that many Negroes here. None of them’ve been nearer to Africa than watching a Tarzan movie, but a
fair bunch of them went on protest marches supporting the Mau Mau in Kenya.’
‘I buy that, Brad,’ Jack remarked and McCall, never one to waste words, nodded agreement. ‘What do you suggest, that we make a search of every Greek’s house in the county?’
‘We’d soon have the Mirror screaming racial discrimination if we tried,’ Brad admitted wryly.
‘We may not have to go that far,’ Alice put in. ‘I remember about eight years back, when the EOKA were at the peak of their activities, a protest march with a lot of intellectual crud waving banners demanding that Britain should end its colonial oppression and give Cyprus self-government.’
‘Sure,’ agreed Jack. ‘They held a march. But that kind have nothing to do but draw Social Security, duck classes at college, and march about making nuisances. Protesting’s the only thing that gets some of them out in the daylight.’
‘If we could get a few names, it might give us a starting point,’ Alice insisted.
‘I’ll leave it to you,’ Jack drawled. ‘Right now, I want to straighten a few things out. First: we can assume that we’re dealing with the Colismides gang. Second: the try at Vera Grantley proves Colismides meant his boast about hitting at the family of any cop who gets close to him. Third: if he’s here, we can’t let even that stop us from nailing his hide to the wall.’
‘We’re with you on all three,’ Alice replied.
‘Only it could be rough on the investigating officer’s family,’ McCall stated, looking pointedly at the two deputies.
‘I’ve only got Aunt Mavis, and she’s on the world cruise Br—somebody paid for her to have after we buried Uncle Tom,’ Alice said.
‘My folks are in Kenya on safari right now,’ Brad went on. ‘I’ve only one uncle and grandpappy, and they’re up in Alaska after arctic char.’
‘Yeah,’ Jack said quietly. ‘I know. Let me tell you what I aim to do first. Then you can volunteer, or refuse. I’ll not think any the worse of you either way.’
Alice and Brad exchanged glances. Something in the sheriff’s manner warned them that his plan would be decidedly dangerous, one involving the officers engaged in it in some considerable risk of a painful, sudden death.
‘As long as nobody says “But Alice is a woman …”,’ the girl commented and let the rest trail off.
‘This’s my idea,’ Jack said. ‘I’m putting up a team as targets to draw the Colismides bunch out of hiding. They’ll appear on television and swear blind that they don’t believe his men’re involved and that his threat is nothing but punk talk. They’ll have to ram home the needle, stir him up and make him, or his boys, try to get them.’
‘Like I told the lady this morning,’ Brad drawled. ‘I work part-time as a target on a shooting-range.’
‘And I believe in togetherness,’ Alice smiled. ‘Which, I hope doesn’t raise any false hopes, Brad.’
‘Watch it, girl,’ Jack warned. ‘You know what these Counters are from way back in, his Great-Grandpappy Mark’s day.’
A grin creased even McCall’s leathery face, for, like the others, he had read Brad’s great grandfather’s book of memoirs. In his day, Mark Counter had been one of the top law-abiding gun fighters—and quite a man with the ladies. ix
‘They’ve not changed, from all I hear,’ Alice answered.
‘Lies, boss lady, all lies,’ Brad insisted.
After which the meeting became more serious. Alice and Brad knew that Jack would never have suggested the scheme unless he knew how it might best be put into operation.
‘You can grab a meal,’ he told them. ‘After that, I’ve arranged a news conference and television interview for you. Decide what you’re going to say and we’ll have the Public Relations Detail go through it, to tell you what they think. Then we’ll put you up as pigeons.’
‘Every precaution’ll be taken,’ McCall promised them. ‘But most of the time you’ll be working without cover. Still want to go through with it?’
‘You’ve had our answer,’ Alice replied calmly.
‘All right then,’ Jack said. ‘You’re on. Go eat, and good luck.’
On leaving Jack’s office, the deputies met Lieutenant Jed Cornelius, senior technician of the Firearms Investigation Laboratory, which shared the third floor of the Department of Public Safety Building with the Sheriff’s Office.
‘That piece of lead you sent in,’ he said. ‘It’s too battered for comparison tests, but I weighed it. Metal-cased, one hundred and twenty-four grains, allowing for loss during passage through the body and into the ground. That means a 9 mm automatic pistol, even though we didn’t find any empty case in the car.’
On the face of it, Cornelius’ information did not seem too helpful. At least six of the major firearms companies manufactured 9 mm automatic pistols for sale on the open market; not counting thousands of such weapons taken from the German and Italian armed forces during and at the end of World War II. However the information had definite uses.
Firstly, it gave the investigating officers an idea of what kind of weapon Papas used to kill Sanchez. With a death sentence awaiting him on arrest already, he would be unlikely to dispose of the weapon because it tied him in with another killing; especially as he had a source of ammunition for it and might not be able to obtain a gun of similar caliber at short notice.
Secondly, and perhaps of most importance, the knowledge that he carried an automatic could save lives if he made a fight when cornered. The Browning P-35 range of 9 mm automatics carried thirteen rounds in their magazines; the Mauser took ten; Swiss SIG and Neuhaussens, and the Smith & Wesson Model 39 each held eight bullets along with the Luger and Walther P-28, while the comparatively rare Colt Commanders of that caliber took nine. One might forget the Mauser because its size made carrying it concealed difficult, and one could discard the idea of ‘snail’ drum or twenty-shot extension magazines on the same score. That still left Papas armed with a weapon capable of holding between eight and thirteen bullets and offering all the automatic pistol’s speed of reloading. Two very important details to remember in the event of a fight.
‘It’s a start,’ Brad drawled.
‘The empty shot-shells are standard commercial-load Remington Shur-Shot 00 buckshot, sold nationally. Nothing to help you there.’
‘We found a box among Angers and Sanchez’s property,’ Alice replied.
‘Send them up. We’ll see if we can make them from the same batch as the empties, for all that’ll prove. Is it Colismides and Papas?’
‘Papas for sure,’ agreed Alice.
‘And you’re on the case?’
‘Yes!’
A hint of defiance came into her voice, but Cornelius ignored it.
‘It’s no case for a woman,’ he said.
‘I stop being one when I log on watch,’ Alice replied. ‘Then I start being a deputy sheriff.’
For all her stand on the subject of female equality, Alice looked decidedly feminine as she glared at the technician. A slow grin came to Cornelius’ face.
‘I’m damned if I ever noticed,’ he said. ‘No offence—deputy.’
His voice held no derision, for he remembered that he spoke to the girl who had helped crack the Tom Cord case and had previously proven herself capable in every aspect of law enforcement work. Accepting what, from Cornelius, amounted to an unqualified apology, Alice smiled and went on to the deputy’s squad room.
Entering the big room, with its double line of desks, notice boards bearing flyers for wanted men and other information, two big boxes containing the Office’s assault armament, files and other Office necessities, Alice found a member of the S.I.B. lab staff sitting at her team’s desk drinking coffee and chatting with one of the other Day Watch deputy teams.
‘We’ve learned a lot—all negative,’ he announced as the other two deputies drifted off to their interrupted duties. ‘No prints or anything to indicate that Papas ever went into Covacs’ pad. Same at the Goldbergs’. Plenty to tie in Angers and Sanchez, but not a thing belonging t
o Papas.’
‘And the car?’ Alice asked.
‘Whoever drove it must have worn gloves. Seat is adjusted for a man about five-ten, but unfortunately that’s the owner’s height. We did find one thing that might interest you though.’
‘What is it?’ asked Alice.
‘This,’ replied the technician, with the air of one who has just proved a debatable point. Taking an envelope from his pocket, he tipped its contents on the desk before Alice.
‘All right,’ she said, wondering what made the three battered .38 Special bullets so important. ‘I’ll buy it, what are they?’
‘Yours,’ replied the technician.
‘So? I threw three at the car and I do shoot “Expert”.’
‘Yeah,’ agreed the man. ‘And we found all three in the boot, hadn’t even penetrated the rear of the back seat.’
‘There!’ Brad whooped, the ring of justification in his voice as he slapped his big hand on the desk top. ‘I’ve told you so all along. Now do you believe me?’
‘I always have,’ smiled Alice, finding Brad, the vindicated martyr, an amusing spectacle. ‘But I’m not carrying a Colt Government Model around in my bag.’
Ever since they had teamed up, Brad had spent time trying to convince Alice that she needed a more powerful weapon than her Cobra. The subject of which type and caliber made the ideal peace officer’s weapon sometimes came up during the quiet hours of a slow night watch; with Brad firmly asserting that the big Colt automatic he carried had no equal as a fighting handgun, and damning the .38 Special as a pipsqueak load unsuited for serious combat use. The lab technician, also a gun-nut, subscribed to Brad’s views and showed satisfaction at having proven a point.
‘We still haven’t proved that Papas is in town, beyond Willie Schenk’s unsupported statement,’ Alice put in, wanting to change the subject. ‘At least, S.I.B. hasn’t. But we, the unscientific deputies of the Sheriff’s City Office, know that he’s here.’
‘So have your moment of triumph,’ chuckled the technician, knowing Alice’s motive. ‘Thanks for the coffee. Now back to the crime-solving treadmill at which we labor, unheard of and unsung, twenty-five hours a day, eight days a we—
