by J. T. Edson
Still no sound.
Brad eased himself into the room, halting with his back to the wall and alongside the telephone table. Swiftly his eyes raked the living-room, taking in every detail. No sign of forced entry; not that there would be if the pass key had been used. A slight stirring of the curtains brought his attention to the window. It was open a couple of inches at the bottom and outside lay a fire-escape.
For the first time Brad saw concrete proof that all was not well. As a trained peace officer, Alice would never leave open a window which offered such easy access to her apartment. A man wanting an avenue of escape might do so. The problem being, where was he hidden?
Not in the living room, that was for sure. Not even the divan would offer sufficient cover behind which he might hide. That left the kitchen, bath and bedroom. A glance told him the doors to the first two were fully closed. Not so the bedroom, it stood open just a shade. Alice had a tidy, orderly mind and would be unlikely to leave her apartment without closing all its doors. Furthermore, Brad figured that the bedroom might be the most likely place for a man to conceal himself when faced with an indefinite wait for Alice to come home.
About twenty feet to the bedroom door; well within range for—
At which point Brad remembered the sawed-off shotgun missing from the Ford Rambler, most probably taken by the departing Papas. If the gun matched the one left in the car, its butt and barrel had been cut to a length which would fit into an average-sized briefcase.
Facing Papas with the other holding a handgun did not worry Brad, for he felt confident in his ability to out-shoot the killer. The sawed-off shotgun threw an entirely different complexion on the affair.
Yet Papas must not be allowed to escape.
Rushing the bedroom was out. Papas might be playing tricky, leaving the door open a crack to draw attention and hidden in one of the other rooms. Even with him in the bedroom, bursting through its door just asked for a belly full of buckshot.
‘Make the bastard come out!’ Brad decided.
His eyes strayed to the telephone. At the other end of it help could be raised, reinforcements called upon. Still working at lightning speed, Brad’s brain analyzed further. The man in the bedroom could not see him. Picking up the telephone and dialing would pin-point his position.
It sure would. The man coming through that door was going to aim right at where he expected the phone’s user to be standing.
Swiftly, moving in silence, Brad stepped around the small table. Halting at arm’s length, he lifted the receiver and, using the tip of a finger, twisted the face of the dial.
Once the dial whirred back to its original position without result. Again Brad turned it; then dropped the receiver and prepared for action.
The bedroom door burst open and Papas lunged through, raising the deadly sawed-off shotgun and aiming at a point between the main entrance and the telephone’s table. A look of shock came to his face as he saw a big blond man instead of the expected girl. For an instant he hesitated before trying to correct his aim.
‘Draw!’ snapped Brad’s brain.
Instantly his trained reactions took over, without the need for conscious thought.
Throwing his weight on to his heels, he inclined his body backwards and brought up his left arm, bent at the elbow, to keep control of his balance. Like a flash his right hand reached towards the gun, forefinger sliding under the long tang of the fly-off strap and flicking free the press-stud. Once released, being held against tension, the strap flew straight into the air and clear of the gun.
Such was the design of the combat holster that it presented the butt just right for easy withdrawal and allowed the barrel to come into line with the absolute minimum of movement. Having no time to lift the gun and use its sights, Brad aimed his entire being at the menacing shape before him, making himself an extension of the pointing barrel. The gun was barely higher than , the level of the holster, although with Brad’s wrist locked rock-steady behind it, when it fired.
One quarter of a second after Brad’s brain gave the command to draw, a .45 bullet ripped into Papas’ shoulder and knocked him backwards. There would not have been another instant to spare. Using his shoulder holster instead of the combat rig, Brad could not have drawn and shot in time.
Flame lashed from the barrels of the shotgun. Due to their sawn down condition, the powder was not fully burned into gas before the charge left the barrels, and they gave forth an awesome muzzle-blast. At such short range the load had not spread sufficiently to catch Brad in its pattern; although it would if his bullet had missed Papas. He heard the charge strike the wall close by with a solid ‘whump!’ and saw chips fly, even as he followed through from the speed-rock clearance and brought the automatic up into the Weaver Stance.
Fortunately for Papas, the impact of Brad’s bullet staggered him and caused him to drop the gun. Had the man retained his hold, Brad intended to follow the old peace officer’s practice of shooting him again. Brad’s bullet did not strike the shoulder as a result of conscious aim. No man, except on a western movie lot, could make such an accurate placing of a shot taken by instinctive alignment, at waist level and on the end of a blindingly fast draw. Adopting the Weaver Stance, Brad threw down on the man’s reeling body and knew he could send home an aimed shot where it would do most good, should it become necessary.
‘No!’ Papas screamed, uninjured hand clawing at the wounded shoulder as his body crashed into the wall. ‘Don’t shoot!’
Fear warred with the agony on the killer’s face and he sank, whimpering and croaking pleas for mercy in English and Greek, to the floor. Coming down from the Weaver Stance, but keeping the Colt ready for instant use, Brad approached the wounded man warily. Before the deputy reached him, Papas lapsed into a faint.
First Brad kicked the shotgun away from Papas’ side and then, covering his palm with a handkerchief, removed the Luger from its holster and thrust it into his waistband. Satisfied that the man could do no further harm, the deputy walked back across the room and took up the telephone. His eyes went to the mark left by the shotgun’s charge and he saw just how narrow his escape had been. One small piece of relief came from seeing the shots had not passed through the wall. More than once Brad had heard Alice mention the thickness and sound-proof qualities of the Chadwick Building’s interior walls. Alice had reason to feel a touch bitter about the point, since three women had once jumped her in the passage, intending to work her over, and the sound of the fight which followed had not penetrated to where Deputy Joan Holton was sitting in their shared apartment. x From what Brad could see, his partner had not exaggerated her claims.
Though Alice was probably fretting herself into a muck-sweat in the lobby, the priorities must be remembered. Papas needed medical attention and so Brad dialed the Central Receiving Hospital’s emergency number and asked for an ambulance to be sent to the Chadwick Building.
On dialing the number Alice had given to him, Brad received only a ringing buzz where he expected almost an immediate answer from his partner. He lowered the receiver, meaning to dash downstairs and find out why Alice failed to answer. Before he could move, the apartment door burst open and two of the escort entered, using the technique followed by Brad and Alice when entering Covacs’ room—was it only the previous morning?
‘Heard the shot and saw the muzzle-blast through the window,’ one of the men said. ‘We came fast.’
At that moment Alice dashed in, her face working with apprehension. From the passage came the sound of voices raised in anger, query and surprise as other occupants of the floor disturbed by the shots—which sounded through the window if not the walls—made their appearance. Skidding to a halt, Alice stared at Brad and made an effort to regain her composure.
‘He didn’t get you?’ she asked.
‘He missed,’ Brad replied, eyes straying to the wall. Following the direction of her partner’s gaze, Alice stared at the sizeable chunk blasted out of the wall.
‘Oh my God!’ she gasped,
realizing just what it meant. ‘Brad—’
‘It was the sawed-off he took from Sanchez,’ Brad explained. ‘Say, I never got around to mixing you that drink.’
‘Do it now!’ Alice ordered in a husky voice. ‘And make it a strong one.’
Nineteen
While Alice took a stiff drink—one of the few times in her life when she felt the need of one—Brad helped one of the escort to give Papas first aid. Between them, the men removed his jacket, cutting it away where necessary and worked on the shirt. Through the window came the sound of an ambulance siren and Brad called off their efforts, preferring to leave dealing with the wound to more qualified hands.
‘Make a list of his property,’ Brad told the officer and started to search the tattered, bloodstained jacket.
A knock on the apartment’s front door took Alice to it. On opening, she found a young doctor and two stretcher bearers outside. The remainder of her escort kept back the groups of Alice’s neighbors who stood talking and pointing in her direction. Studying the other occupants of the floor, Alice read interest, annoyance at being disturbed, but little hostility. At least two of her neighbors frequently gave rowdy parties, so she felt that they at least could not object to a certain amount of noise.
‘I’ve never handled a gunshot wound before,’ the doctor admitted cheerfully as he entered the room and made for the unconscious shape.
Closing the door after the ambulance crew entered, Alice walked to where the doctor knelt at Papas’ side.
‘Will he live?’ she asked.
‘I’ll tell you better when I’ve made a thorough examination,’ the young man answered, just a shade pompously. ‘One thing’s for sure. He won’t be talking for some time. I’m going to make sure he stays under and rush him into Central Receiving before I try anything.’
‘Go ahead, doc. I’ll send two officers along with you.’
‘I watch cop shows on the television,’ he told her.
‘And I watch Doctor Kildare, but I don’t—’ Alice began hotly. ‘Sorry, doctor.’
‘That’s all right. I get that way too when I’ve been under a strain. Are you feeling all right?’
‘Sure.’
‘Will it be any use if I give you a sedative?’
Alice let out her breath in a long sigh. ‘It might, if I thought I’d get a chance to use it. Thanks anyway.’
‘Are these the pass keys, Alice?’ Brad asked, turning from where he and the policeman were searching and listing Papas’ property.
‘Sure,’ she replied.
‘This looks like it’s been used recently,’ remarked the policeman, holding Papas’ switch-blade knife between the tips of his thumb and forefinger so as to avoid leaving his prints on it and smearing those already there.
The significance of the statement struck Alice and Brad at the same moment.
‘You’d best stay on here for a spell, doc,’ Brad said. ‘We may have some more work for you.’
‘Don’t make it too long,’ warned the doctor.
‘We’ll try,’ Alice promised. ‘Let’s start in the basement.’
‘Why there?’ asked the policeman. ‘Papas could’ve jumped him in the street!’
‘Not that early in the evening, even if he knew Jube,’ Alice objected. ‘I don’t buy Papas having been following me long enough to learn that Jube worked as janitor here. Let’s go.’
Passing through the gap kept clear by the four remaining members of the escort, Alice, Brad and the policeman entered the elevator and rode it down to the basement. On their arrival, Brad went straight to the line of trunks, looked, then stepped behind. He dropped to one knee and the other two saw the flicker of his cigarette lighter.
‘You can tell the doctor we don’t need him, Alice,’ the big deputy said, standing up again. ‘It’s the M.E. and coroner that’s needed here.’
‘Poor Jube!’ Alice breathed. ‘I feel responsible—’
‘Drop that, Alice!’ Brad gritted. ‘It’s none of your doing. Go fasten the door up there, officer. We don’t want anybody poking around, or knowing too much until we hear how the sheriff intends to handle this killing.’
‘Yo!’ replied the policeman.
‘Then stay on here while Alice and I check in with the Office.’
‘Sure,’ agreed the man.
While everything pointed to Papas having killed the janitor, a peace officer only rarely accepted such an incident at its face value. It was just possible that somebody with a grudge against Jube did the killing, either before or after Papas took the pass keys. No matter how the Negro came to die, the D.A. always preferred to have as tight a case as possible when he took a murderer before a judge and jury.
On returning to the first floor, the deputies found the crowd increased by almost all the building’s residents, a few passers-by and a couple of reporters.
‘Is it one of the Colismides gang?’ demanded a lean young man with a pallid face and the unkempt, intense look Alice had come to expect from a Mirror reporter.
‘The man shot in my apartment was an armed prowler,’ Alice replied, picking her words deliberately.
‘One of the Colismides gang?’ repeated the reporter.
‘He is a white, male Caucasian, as yet unidentified,’ Alice answered. ‘Before coming up here, he murdered the Negro janitor to obtain pass keys to the building.’
If anything could distract a Mirror reporter from his questioning, it was the killing by a white man of a Negro, currently the liberal-intellectual’s supreme underdog.
‘Yes, but—’ the reporter began, uncertain, of how he could bring the racial and civil rights issue into the matter.
‘The P.R. Bureau will put out a full statement,’ Alice promised and entered her apartment, followed by Brad, before the reporter could think up another question.
A few seconds later the ambulance party wheeled out their stretcher with an unconscious Papas lying on it, his face hidden under a sheet. Deftly blocking the reporters’ path, the policemen in the passage prevented any chance of a grab at the sheet exposing the wounded man. The doctor and his men entered the elevator, its doors closed and they had gone before the reporters realized what was happening. Nor could the Mirror’s representatives force their way through the crowd, go downstairs and reach the lobby before the ambulance, its load aboard, glided away in the direction of the Central Receiving Hospital.
‘Stick with the prowler line, Alice,’ Jack Tragg confirmed over the telephone. ‘We can cover you by saying it’s standard procedure.’
Which it was. Long experience led Jack and Chief of Police Hagen to rule that officers investigating a crime did not make statements that might be misunderstood—or even twisted and misquoted—by the press. If it came down to a bald fact, Alice could not state definitely that the man shot in her apartment was Mikos Papas. Agony twisted a face, already altered by the removal of a mustache, to a point where it in no way resembled the killer’s photographs as supplied to the Sheriff’s Office.
‘I’ll send Grantley and—No, Rogers and Almonte to handle things there,’ Jack continued. ‘Buck Rogers can deal with the victim’s family. You and Brad come straight back in.’
‘Yo!’ replied Alice.
Being a Negro, Deputy Sheriff Rogers could break the news to Jube’s parents better than having them hear it from a white man. A small point, but important, even in a county with such a good record for racial relations. Remembering the minor details as well as the major issues made Sheriff Jack Tragg the brilliant lawman and peace officer he was.
Taking up her shoulder bag, Alice nodded to Brad, told the policeman of Jack Tragg’s orders and opened the door to leave. Unable to follow the ambulance and see the wounded man, the reporter stood outside and tried to force the issue of identity.
‘Don’t you think it’s a mighty strange coincidence that the prowler picked your apartment out of all those in the building, Miss Fayde,’ he asked, ‘like with the Colismides threat and all?’
‘Not real
ly,’ Alice replied. ‘He had the pass keys, but most likely my apartment was the first he found unoccupied at this hour.’
With that she and Brad crossed to the elevator, entered it and rode down to the ground floor. Although the building super met them, spluttering indignation, in the lobby, he quietened down when Alice told him of the janitor’s murder. The man studied Alice’s face, read the lines of tension and weariness on it, and realized his complaints about the building’s reputation and disturbance of the guests were petty and trivial compared with what she was going through.
‘Poor Jube,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘You got the bastard who killed him?’
‘We reckon so,’ Brad agreed.
‘That’ll maybe make his folks feel better,’ the super said. ‘I’d best go make out my report for head office.’
Leaving by the rear entrance, Brad insisted that he drove them to the D.P.S. Building in the M.G. and Alice felt too spent to object. While driving across town, they saw a deputy car approaching from the other direction. Waving the official car down, Brad stopped the M.G. and crossed the street to give the other deputy team all the information he could on what lay ahead of them.
‘We’ll see to it, Brad,’ Deputy Rogers told the big blond. ‘You’re having quite a day.’
‘I didn’t think it showed,’ Brad replied and rejoined Alice in the M.G.
Instead of meeting in the squad room or the sheriff’s private office, Alice and Brad found Jack Tragg With Ricardo and McCall—the latter turned out from his home—in the Watch Commander’s room. After listening to Brad’s report of the incident in Alice’s apartment, the three senior men gave their approval to his handling of the affair. While Jack did not approve of ‘cowboying’, a lone officer going into danger in the hope of drawing favorable attention to himself, and stamped on it vigorously, he stated that Brad had acted correctly. Taking more men into the apartment might have led to the death of one or more and a prolonged siege before Papas could be removed. All the officers present knew the dangers of such a siege in a built-up, well-populated area, and realized that Brad had acted for the best.
