by J. T. Edson
Almost an hour after the newscast, Papas stood in a phone booth and spoke to his sole contact with the gang. Already his decision had been relayed to Colismides and had received the Scar’s approval. At the other end of the line, the contact was saying that Papas should make the woman officer his prime objective. Suddenly a muffled crash sounded, as if a door had been thrown violently open. Then Papas heard the contact yell two words in English. Only two little words, but they caused the killer to hang up the receiver and sever all connections with the other end of the line.
The words had been, ‘Dirty cops!’
On the street, while walking away from the building in which he had made his call, Papas gave thought to his problem. The loss of his contact, though cutting off his communications with the rest of the gang, did not seriously bother Papas. Apart from a couple of meetings shortly after the escape, he and the contact had never seen each other, speaking only when Papas called the other on the telephone. Even should the contact wish to lighten his load by singing to the law, he had no information that might lead them to Papas or the gang.
What then should Papas do about making good the threat? By that time the law knew he had orders to do so; but also knew that he was aware of their knowledge. Possibly they would not expect any attempt so soon after picking up the contact.
Signaling to a passing taxi, Papas climbed in and told the driver to take him to Shale Street. He did not drive straight up to the doors of the Chadwick Building, but left the taxi while still some distance from it. As he walked along the street towards the building, Papas kept a constant watch.
In his time as an enforcer for the Greek Syndicate, he had earned the honorable title of ‘Lighthouse’, given to crooks with a special ability to detect lawmen no matter how well concealed or disguised. By the time he reached the front of the Chadwick Building, he felt sure that the law did not have it staked out. A quick study of the names alongside the bell pushes told him the number of Alice Fayde’s apartment.
Where to make his hit came up next. Not on the street or in the parking lot. He felt sure Fayde would be escorted home and he had no wish to die to help his companions make good their escape. Hanging around in the lobby or the first floor passage was out; his presence would attract too much comment and attention. That left her apartment. The last place, probably, where she would expect trouble. If he could once get into the apartment, he would be able to wait until she came home, make his kill and stand a reasonable chance of escaping.
Circling the building, he passed through its small parking lot and made for the rear entrance. Nobody saw him as he entered the building, but voices sounded from ahead. To Papas’ right, a door marked CELLAR, NO ADMITTANCE stood open. He stepped through the door and drew it to behind him, standing at the head of a flight of stairs leading into the cellar.
‘It’s too late!’ announced a voice from below. ‘Ah is going off now, no matter what you-all says. Here’s the pass keys.’
Turning and drawing his Luger, Papas darted down the stairs towards where light glowed through the open door of a room. Just as Papas reached the door and read the word JANITOR printed on it, a shadow fell in the pool of light and a tall, gangling Negro dressed in a tuxedo appeared. Even as the Negro’s mouth dropped open to ask questions, Papas raised the Luger and smashed its barrel down on to the black head and dropped him without more than a single muffled groan.
Darting back upstairs, Papas bolted the door and then gave thought to his moves. Before he had reached the foot of the stairs, he discarded the first thought of placing the Negro in the janitor’s room and closing its door. Clearly the man expected somebody, probably the building superintendent, to come looking for him. Seeing the janitor’s uniform hanging on a peg, but no sign of the Negro, the super might assume the other had gone home. So the room must be left open. The cellar offered numerous places where the Negro could be hidden, but even bound and gagged he might make a noise and attract attention when he recovered.
Papas knew a simple answer to that problem. Taking hold of the Negro’s feet, he dragged the still shape behind a line of steamer trunks stored for the occupants of the building. It would be highly unlikely that the super would search for the janitor after seeing the hanging uniform, as long as the other made no sound.
Drawing a switch-blade knife from his jacket pocket, Papas pressed its catch and the razor-sharp needle-pointed blade flicked open. Then he bent down and ensured the Negro’s complete and lasting silence.
Five minutes later Papas climbed the stairs to the first floor and walked along the deserted passage to Alice’s apartment. He wasted no time in selecting the right pass key. Unlocking the door, he stepped into the apartment and looked around, finding no need for the Luger he held. The sitting-room was empty. Closing and locking the door, he crossed the room and looked out of the window. A fire escape ran by it, offering an alternative route for escape.
After raising the lower section of the window a couple of inches, he gave thought to the ambush, dismissing the idea of remaining in the sitting-room. Neither the divan, dining table, chairs, side-piece, television set nor small telephone table by the door offered sufficient cover behind which he could hide during a long wait. The girl would be less likely to expect danger from the kitchen, bathroom or bedroom; and of the three, Papas preferred the last, in the expectation of an extended wait. Even if the girl brought home an escort, they would be unlikely to search the apartment, finding no signs of forced entry, and would not stay the night with her, although they would probably stake-out and surround the building. By timing his moves correctly, Papas believed he could make his hit on the girl and make his escape before the circle of stake-outs formed.
Satisfied with his arrangements, he crossed to the bedroom door and went inside. He drew the door so that only a narrow slit remained open, took the shotgun from the briefcase and settled down comfortably on Alice’s bed.
Time dragged by and Papas dropped off into a light sleep. So light that he awoke on hearing the click of the outside door’s lock. Sitting up in the darkness, he heard a switch thrown and a line of light glowed through the crack of the door. A glance at the clock on the bedside table told him the time was a quarter after eleven. Silently he rose, picking up the sawed-off. No sound of voices came to his ears, but he heard the telephone’s receiver lifted, then the whir as a number was dialed.
For an instant the sound chilled Papas, then he realized that the girl must be calling her Office to notify them of her safe arrival home. Which meant she did not have an escort. Maybe the local law believed Colismides’ threat to be no more than a harmless bluff.
Knowing something of the way even women officers in Rockabye County could handle their guns—and remembering that Alice Fayde had mentioned she shot ‘Expert’ on the County’s exacting qualification course—Papas knew he must take no chances. Given an opportunity, the girl might draw and start shooting; and Papas didn’t believe in the .38 Special’s lack of power to inflict serious injury.
Standing across the room by the main door, holding the telephone receiver and absorbed in the business of dialing, the girl would be at a disadvantage. Before she could make a move in her defense, the shotgun would blast and its nine .32 caliber buckshot balls rip into her body.
With that thought in mind, Papas thrust open the door and lunged through, the sawed-off shotgun lifting and starting to line in the direction of the telephone table.
Sixteen
Alice Fayde and Brad Counter had spent a busy afternoon. On returning to the Office wearing uniform, they found answers to two of their queries about possible hideouts for the gang. From the County Land Office came a list of unoccupied properties and those owned by people of Greek descent. The Department of Fish & Game listed fifty hunting lodges, but warned that many more existed. While Brad and another deputy marked the locations of the listed cabins on a big map of the county, Alice called the Sub-Officers involved and asked for checks to be made on the properties suggested by the Land Office.
No word on the amateur radio operators had arrived by the time Alice and Brad left to make their television appearances. I.C.R. had sent a make on Covacs, claiming him to be a known associate of criminals, but without a record. The F.B.I. sent mug-shots and fingerprints taken of the man on his arrival in the United States, but stated he had no known criminal record. After reading the reports, Jack Tragg advised the deputies not to waste any efforts on Covacs as he could probably tell them nothing more than they already knew.
With the television appearance over, Alice suggested that she and Brad should go along to the Badge Diner and grab a meal, it seeming likely that they would be working extra hours again that night.
On arriving at the Badge, they found its owner in something of a temper. A keen Western fan, Hank Seaborn took exception to anything spoiling his viewing when Laredo came on the screen. Just as the action commenced—Laredo being a show which catered for lovers of Westerns rather than students of psychology—the picture began to flicker and shimmer violently.
‘Damned interference!’ Seaborn bellowed, delivered a slap on the top of the set. ‘It never misses. There’s some guy comes by here every night in a car without a suppressor. Hey you guys are badges, why don’t you do something about it?’
Before Alice could make any reply, Brad slammed to a halt and caught her by the arm.
‘Let’s get back and grab our car!’ he said.
‘What’s wrong, Brad?’ Alice gasped, finding herself propelled towards the door.
‘You maybe don’t like my food?’ Seaborn added.
‘Stay open until later and we’ll try again,’ Brad replied and went out of the door still hustling a faintly protesting Alice ahead of him.
‘Lawmen!’ snorted Seaborn, but without rancor for he too had been a peace officer before catching a bullet which cost him a leg and sent him into retirement.
‘Just what’s this all about?’ Alice demanded, pulling her arm free from Brad’s grasp.
‘I think I know who the contact between Papas and Colismides is,’ he replied. ‘We’d best check it out—and in a way I hope to God that I’m wrong.’
Mrs. Kartides stared in surprise as the two deputies met her at the gate in front of her house.
‘Hello,’ she greeted. ‘What is it this time?’
‘We’d like to speak with your younger son, ma’am,’ Brad replied. ‘Where’ll we find him?’
‘Upstairs in his room, talking on the radio to one of his friends.’
‘Do you know the friend, Mrs. Kartides?’ asked Alice, holding her voice down and almost hoping that Brad’s hunch would prove wrong.
‘Somebody from the old country, I think. I’ve heard Pete talking Greek to him. They talk most nights around this time, and sometimes later in the evening. That old bat next door keeps saying his radio makes interference on her television set. “So spring for a few bucks and buy a new one,” I tell her. But no, she has to keep calling the police.’
While talking, the woman opened the front door and waved the deputies by her into the hall. Then she stopped and looked at Brad’s face.
‘Say,’ she ejaculated. ‘You’re the one who—’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ the big blond agreed quietly.
‘A man like that, you did the only thing you could. But surely after—after this morning they aren’t sending you out to see about a radio making interference?’
‘I’ve my job to do, ma’am,’ Brad answered.
Giving a sniff, Mrs. Kartides led the way towards the stairs. ‘Come on up. Pete’ll soon show you that his set is fixed properly.’
With Alice and Brad on her heels, the woman went upstairs. As they approached the top, a voice came to them through a partly opened door. Neither of the deputies could understand the words, but Mrs. Kartides did. Giving a gasp, she came to a halt and turned a haggard face towards Alice and Brad. Catching the woman’s arm, Alice steadied her.
‘What is it?’ the girl whispered.
‘No!’ Mrs. Kartides gasped. ‘No. It can’t be. Not my little Peter.’
‘What is it, Mrs. Kartides?’ Alice repeated, although she could guess.
‘He’s saying that the “Colonel” wants the woman deputy to be the first one hit in something called “Operation Scare-Off”.’
Without waiting to hear more, Brad flung himself up the remaining stairs, by the two women and at the door of the room from which the voice came.
Although he did not know it, and would have been most indignant if anyone suggested it to him, Peter Kartides was playing a game. Just as, when younger, he had imagined himself to be the good guy helping thwart the baddies—be they pirates, Red Indians or monsters from outer space—so he now thought of himself as a true patriot helping a noble group of freedom-fighters against the imperialist oppressors. The use of the title ‘Colonel’ and code names such as ‘Operation Scare-Off’ salved his conscience and he consoled himself that war always brought casualties; also that the brutal neo-Fascist police did not hesitate to open fire at the slightest provocation and so should expect to take risks in return.
Knowing his parents to be out of the house, he took no special precautions when the telephone in his room rang. He had seen the newscast and expected the call, so, dashing upstairs, he did not even trouble to fully close his door before lifting the receiver.
Everything went as usual—at first. He raised Colismides on the radio and relayed Papas’ message. Just as he was giving the ‘Colonel’s’ reply, he heard a rush of feet in the passage and the door of his room burst open. He saw the big blond man in deputy’s uniform, let the telephone’s receiver drop from his left hand and twirled the tuning dial of the radio with the right.
‘Dirty cops!’ he yelled and dived across the room, ripping the earphones of the radio from his head as he went.
Although Brad wanted to reach the telephone, in the hope of the man at the other end hanging on long enough for his position to be traced, he saw the butt of a revolver showing from under the pillow on the bed. If the young man once laid hands on the gun, his already serious position would be worsened. The Rockabye County courts very sensibly dealt severe sentences in cases where the accused had attempted to use a firearm while resisting arrest.
Even as Kartides’ hand approached the butt of the revolver, he felt powerful fingers and a thumb clamp hold of the back of his neck. Although six foot tall and with a wiry build, he could do nothing against the strength of the big deputy. His fingers scrabbled on the sheets, missed the gun’s butt and then he was plucked erect. A second hand gripped his right wrist and twisted it around, then up his back.
‘Don’t fuss me, boy!’ growled a voice that shocked Kartides in its savagery. ‘I’ll break your fool neck if you do.’
Shocked beyond thought by the unexpected turn of events and the pain of the bear-trap grip on him, Kartides made no reply. He saw Alice Fayde enter the room, followed by his mother, her face a torrent of bewilderment, anxiety and other emotions.
‘Hit the telephone, Alice!’ Brad gritted, his face a mask of fury as he thought of the agony his prisoner’s arrant stupidity was inflicting on Mrs. Kartides.
Darting across the room, Alice caught up the receiver and held it to her ear. Only the buzzing of the dialing tone greeted her. Whoever had been on the other end had hung up, leaving her without a hope of tracing his position.
Behind Alice, Brad slammed Kartides on to the bed and whipped out his handcuffs to clamp them about the young man’s wrists.
‘It’s dead,’ Alice said, hanging up the receiver. Then she turned and looked her contempt at Kartides. ‘You damned, stupid, crazy fool!’
Suddenly Kartides knew he was not involved in a game, that he had passed beyond the starry-eyed ideals of a college student and entered the hard, realistic world that lay outside the confines of Cardell University’s debating society. In that moment Peter Kartides became horribly aware of just how little first-hand knowledge he had of life or anything else important.
After the one
bitter comment to the son, Alice took his mother by the arm and led her gently to the table, lowering her into the chair. There the woman sat staring fixedly ahead, not yet able to think, to reason out what was happening in her home.
At such a moment Alice almost hated being a peace officer. Hated seeing a respectable mother learn that the son she loved—whom she boasted about and argued with the neighbors over—had become involved in a serious crime.
‘I think you’d better notify your husband, Mrs. Kartides,’ she said softly.
For long moments the woman remained staring at her son as he sat sullen and scared, although trying to look defiant, with handcuffs on his wrists. Then her eyes went to the revolver on the bed.
‘I—Is that your gun ?’ she asked Brad.
At any other time the suggestion that he would be foolish enough to use a revolver for anything but formal target shooting would have brought an angry tirade from the big deputy.
‘No, ma’am,’ was all he said and swung so that she could see the automatic in his holster.
‘But Peter never—Peter, why did you do these bad things?’
Her son made no reply. Brad sucked in a long breath and studied the woman with sympathy in his eyes.
‘We have to ask your son some questions, Mrs. Kartides. If you’d care to call in a lawyer, we’ll wait for him to come. Or we’ll wait until you contact his father—’
‘If the—they are going to try to kill the young lady, you’ve no time to waste. Ask your questions.’
‘Let me call your husband, Mrs. Kartides, please,’ Alice begged.
Brad waited until Alice had called the number given by the woman and arranged for Mr. Kartides to come home. Then he swung to face the young man.
