by J. T. Edson
‘The thing now being what will Colismides do,’ Ricardo said, then the telephone rang and he picked up the receiver, listened and covered the mouthpiece with his palm. ‘It’s P.R., Jack. They’ve the Mirror and Lightning screaming for a story about the shooting.’
‘Tell them to stick to the prowler story for now,’ Jack answered. ‘No positive identification yet, until the man recovers sufficiently to be fingerprinted. That always goes down well with the Mirror, shows them that we’re humane and take care of the misunderstood victim of circumstances, or a broken home. P.R. know the kind of guff I want.’
After passing on Jack’s message, Ricardo returned to his original subject. ‘We haven’t let it out that we’ve picked up Colismides’ radio contact, but he knows we have. Will he make a run for the border, or out of the county?’
‘Or has he already made it?’ McCall continued.
‘I’d say no to that,’ Jack answered. ‘Take it this way. He’s got a good set-up wherever he is. Maybe food’s running low, but they can knock off rabbits, maybe a whitetail even, to keep them going. Then somebody in Gusher City’s organizing for them, fixing it for them to jump the border. If they leave, they’ll have to chance crossing and getting through Mexico without a guide, or wait until the Syndicate can fix up another deal for them somewhere else. And all the time the law’ll be hunting them. Don’t forget, he’s not been able to make good his threat to hit the family of the officers hunting him here. It won’t have the impact when, or if, he tries it in some other area. No, I reckon he’ll sit tight at least until he hears from Papas.’
‘We’ve blocked their communications,’ Brad pointed out.
‘We’ve stopped one way,’ agreed Jack. ‘They may have another. Most likely have something fixed up in case we got young Kartides.’
‘And we haven’t a way of tracing them as long as they don’t use their radio,’ Ricardo went on. ‘Kartides’ set could cover thousands of miles, it’s not a short range job, so that doesn’t help us pin them down.’
‘Let us not forget they lost one car when you nailed Plytas, Brad,’ Jack drawled.
‘How many more cars have they?’ Alice inquired, trying to fight off the sleep which threatened to engulf her.
‘Not more than two, at a guess, most likely only one,’ Jack replied. ‘No matter where they’re hiding out, they won’t want a lot of cars around so as to draw attention to them. Cars take a fair amount of hiding.’
‘If they’re all together, Colismides should have at least seven men at his hideout,’ McCall said. ‘Which same’s a tolerable number to chance taking in one heap.’
‘Enough to make them conspicuous even at night,’ agreed Jack. ‘Any Highway Patrol unit that saw them’d stop them for overcrowding. And I don’t reckon any of them trust the rest enough to stay behind while some of the others drive off in their only transport. How about it, Brad?’
‘I’d say they’ll stick,’ Brad replied. ‘At least until they’ve heard something from Papas.’
‘Alice?’
‘I’ll go with Brad.’
Ricardo and McCall made the decision unanimous and the Scot brought up another point.
‘We’ll have to tie them down, if they’re still in hiding. If they once start running and get among the folks in the county—’
There was no need for him to finish, the others could picture the dangers of the situation.
‘There’s just one way we might be able to make them stick,’ Jack said and reached for the telephone. Then he looked to where Alice slumped in a chair. ‘You go to my office, I’ve had a cot set up ready.’
‘I’m fi—’ Alice started to protest.
‘That’s an order, Alice,’ Jack warned her. ‘I want you around in the morning as a deputy, not a washed-out dish-rag.’
‘So much for Southern chivalry,’ Alice sighed, rising from the chair.
‘Like you always say,’ Jack pointed out, ‘when you log on here, you stop being a woman. Southern chivalry doesn’t go for deputies.’
‘I always reckon that if you say a thing long enough, it bounces right back on your head,’ grinned Brad, watching his partner leave the room.
‘And you go hit the hay in the locker-room,’ Jack growled, taking up the telephone.
Twenty
The late-late being shown over Rockabye County’s local channel cut off just as a monster from outer space picked up the heroine in one of its multiple arms.
‘We interrupt this program to bring you a newsflash,’ said a voice. ‘It has just been announced that earlier this evening deputies from the Sheriff’s City Office arrested a radio operator in the act of communicating with the Colismides gang. Sheriff Jack Tragg states that there is no cause for alarm. There is no evidence to show that the gang is in Rockabye County, the transmitter being of considerable range and power. However, in the interests of public safety, Operation Close-Off has been put into effect.
‘Operation Close-Off, used with such effect that it prevented the escape of the two professional killers who shot Deputy Sheriff Thomas Cord six weeks ago, is already in full force and has sealed off the county.
‘Further developments will be reported as they come in. And now, we return you to the late-late movie.’
‘That ought to pin them down,’ said Jack Tragg, with some satisfaction, switching off the television set brought to the Watch Commander’s office by a member of the Communications Bureau. ‘The studio handled it just right.’
‘We can thank Brad for that,’ grinned Ricardo.
Oh a previous occasion, shortly after Brad joined the Office, Jack had wanted cooperation from the local television studio and had his request refused. Brad heard of the incident and called three old friends of his family—who also happened to be the biggest advertisers on the local network. After hearing from Brad’s friends, the studio changed its mind and from that day the Sheriff’s Office found no trouble in obtaining cooperation.
From what Kartides had told them, Jack knew the gang had access to a television or radio set and so requested the announcement be made. Since its use in the Cord case, Operation Close-Off had achieved considerable fame in law enforcement and criminal circles. The threat it posed caused more than one crook to think twice and then choose a safer area for his activities.
While its citizens could proudly claim Rockabye County to be the biggest in Texas, they could not truthfully boast about the state of its roads. True, a good highway ran from north to south and another east to west across the center, but once away from the oil companies and Gusher City, the roads depreciated rapidly. There were comparatively few ways out over which a car could travel and all could be blocked or covered during Operation Close-Off. With the roads blocked and the Sheriff’s Air Patrol overhead, illegal movement about the county became dangerous and flight by car almost impossible.
If anything could make the gang stay put, it would be the threat of Operation Close-Off.
‘Is this private, or can I come in?’
If the man standing at the office door had been in Hollywood, he might have made a good living portraying the evil Mexican bandit leader in western movies. Short, stocky, with a face only a mother might be expected to love, Captain Ramon Cortez was chief of the S.I.B. and a police scientist with a national reputation.
‘Come on in, Ray,’ Jack replied. ‘How’s it going with the Chevy?’
‘We tried to break down the earth from under its mudguards, but they were too intermingled for accurate analysis,’ Cortez answered, but for a negative report his face showed a remarkable excitement. ‘Not a hope from them.’
‘Make with the good news, Ray,’ suggested Ricardo.
While Cortez could claim to have few equals in his line, he did tend to go in for high drama when delivering his findings.
‘I had Plytas’ clothing sent up from the M.E.’s office. The boots had traces of mud on them. Only one type of mud, too.’
‘And?’Jack asked.
‘My lab’s only equip
ped for making comparisons and I’d nothing to compare against. So I went to see a friend who’s with Euro-Tex Oil. He’s one of their geologists and you should see the set-up they give him. He’s got—’
‘A multi-million dollar combine backing him and paying for it,’ Jack pointed out unsympathetically. ‘You don’t have a bad layout for a local office run at the tax-payers’ expense.’
‘He must have Scotch blood, the way he always manages to run in a plug for more equipment,’ Ricardo drawled.
‘Tightwads!’ snorted Cortez. ‘I’m surrounded by cheapskates.’ Then he became serious. ‘We broke the samples down, studied clay, minerals, rock content. Euro-Tex have the whole county surveyed and we went through their charts. Plytas could have only picked up the mud in one of three places, each roughly five square miles around, scattered over the county.’
‘That narrows it down,’ Jack admitted.
Rockabye County covered an area of some nine hundred square miles, much of it rough, rugged range and hill country, with an area of swamp-land bordering the Rio Grande. Making a thorough search of such a large area would be impossible, even with the complete cooperation of the Gusher City Police Department, for the Sheriff’s Office; at least in a short enough time to make the search effective. Of course Jack had the authority to call in the National Guard if the situation warranted its use. Jack hesitated to take such extreme action, knowing that to do so might place a mantle of martyrdom on the gang. If possible he wanted to handle the affair within the county and at last, with the aid of modern scientific techniques, saw a chance of doing so. Three such small areas could be searched, if not with ease, at a reasonable speed, using all the county’s resources.
‘I can take it closer than that,’ Cortez, showman as always, continued.
‘How close?’ Jack breathed.
‘Found some seeds in the trouser turn-ups. Checked them, found they’re from a species of clover not common around here. In fact it only grows in one place—and that area matches the samples in one of the locations.’
‘Get the map out, Ric!’ Jack ordered and for once his face showed emotion.
Opening the cupboard of his desk, Ricardo produced a map of the county and spread it open. Cortez took up a pencil and studied the map, then drew a circle on it.
‘Right about there,’ he said.
The circle lay in the hill country to the northwest and close to the county line, but still within Jack’s jurisdiction.
‘Fifteen miles from the State Highway,’ Jack said, half to himself. ‘Go shake out all the male deputies from the locker room, Mac. Ric, call Chief Hagen. We’re going to have to move fast on this one.’
Stepping from the office, Ricardo saw Brad Counter coming from the elevator.
‘What’s with you?’ the First Deputy asked.
‘I couldn’t sleep and didn’t want to disturb the other boys. So I went down to the Business Office hunting a cup of coffee.’
‘Go up to Traffic Control, borrow one of their large-scale maps that covers the northwest section about level with Tapley over the county line.’
‘Yo!’ Brad answered. ‘What’s up?’
‘We might have them,’ Ricardo replied, but the faintly hidden excitement in his voice told Brad that the chance lay better than a ‘might’.
Returning to the elevator, Brad rode to the fifth floor and went along to the ever-open offices of D.M.V.’s Traffic Control Detail. A very pretty, blonde policewoman sat in the room Brad entered, and rose eyeing him speculatively.
‘Can I help you, sir?’ she asked.
‘I want a map, if you’ve got it,’ Brad replied.
‘I’ve got everything.’
Looking the girl over, the official uniform being stylish and designed to show its wearer off to her best advantage, Brad felt inclined to agree that, if not everything, she had most of it and right where it looked best. However he kept his mind on business and accompanied the girl into the Map Room. In addition to normal maps of the city and county, Traffic Control had extra large-scale jobs drawn up, showing great detail, including buildings, roads down to mere saddle-trails and other items of interest.
After hearing which section Brad required, the girl opened a large file and rummaged through its contents. She rose with one of the folded maps in her hand, walking back to place it on the desk before him.
‘Is this what you want?’ she asked.
‘This’s the one,’ agreed Brad, after checking.
‘And nothing else?’
‘Like what?’
‘My phone number might help.’
Before Brad could either accept or reject the offer, one of Traffic Control’s male detectives looked into the room. Being a combat-shooting fan, he recognized the big blond deputy.
‘Hi Brad,’ he greeted. ‘You and Alice’ve been having a ball.’
‘A real ball,’ agreed Brad and the detective walked on again.
Brad turned and found the blonde eyeing him with far less favor than on his arrival.
‘You’re Brad Counter, aren’t you,’ she said, in the tone of one making a shocking discovery.
‘That’s what the I.D. card says,’ Brad agreed.
Swiftly the girl filled out a form for Brad to sign before taking the map.
‘No telephone number?’ he asked.
‘First rule of the B.W.O.,’ the girl replied. ‘Rookie cop who wants to have a happy life and prosperous career does not date a woman deputy’s—partner. She out-ranks me, you know.’
Not until Brad had reached the elevator did the full implication of the girl’s speech strike him, particularly the significance of the pause before calling him Alice’s partner. Giving his head a baffled shake, he opened the elevator doors.
‘Great Grandpappy Mark was right,’ he mused. ‘There’s nothing better—nor smarter—than women.’
Brad had discarded his thoughts on women by the time he reached the squad room. Judging by the activity inside, he figured that to be where to go, not the Watch Commander’s smaller room. All eyes turned his way as he entered. The seven male deputies of the Night Watch, who had been sleeping in the locker room, stood around and, from their expressions, Brad could see something of added interest had come up.
‘There’re three hunting cabins in that area,’ Jack Tragg was saying, stood by the map on which Brad and Deputy Rogers had marked places listed by the Department of Fish & Game. ‘Let’s look at it on the big map, Brad.’
Melnick and Grantley helped Brad spread out the large-scale map and pin it up. Drawing around, the other deputies stood watching as Jack Tragg tapped the first of the cabins with his finger.
‘Owned by Cyrus Ridgely, oil exec,’ he said. ‘On a ridge, luxury place, has its own air-strip. Too exposed and too likely to be used unexpectedly.’
Moving, Jack’s finger indicated the next cabin and he read the printing. ‘Belongs to Otis B. Fry. Anybody know him?’
‘He runs a delicatessen down on The Street,’ a deputy offered. ‘Word has it that he uses the cabin for peace and quiet while he and his accountant work on the books over the weekend. I should have such an accountant.’
‘Gould cancel that out then,’ Jack drawled and tracked across to the last cabin. Just before reaching its destination, Jack’s finger halted momentarily, then jabbed hard on to the outline of the final building. ‘Owned by Joseph Zelimos—and I think we all know him.’
Nightclub owner, respectable citizen by all reports, Joseph Zelimos was suspected by the Rockabye County law of being involved in a variety of illegal activities that could only be carried out with the goodwill of one of the national criminal syndicates.
‘It’s too obvious,’ McCall objected.
‘Sure it is,’ agreed Jack. ‘Now we know what we’re looking for. Look at the location, Mac. Wooded country, well clear of the other cabins, reasonably good trail from it down on to the State Highway. Installed telephone, power plant for electricity, which means it could run a television set and we know Colis
mides has been using one.’
‘And if Ian hadn’t seen Papas, we might never have known the gang were around,’ Ricardo went on. ‘But why would Zelimos take such a chance as letting that bunch of red-hots use his place?’
‘Wouldn’t you, in his place, if the Greek Syndicate passed the word to help Colismides?’ asked McCall. ‘And what could be proved against him? All he says is that he hasn’t been to the cabin in weeks, so didn’t know it was in use.’
Unconsciously the deputies moved closer in, studying the map and reading its physical features with regard to approaching the cabin. Not one of them needed to be told of the difficulties ahead and waited to hear what came next. ‘What do we do, Jack?’ asked McCall.
‘Throw up a posse and go get them,’ Jack replied.
Twenty-One
A posse in the days of the old West tended to be a casual, haphazard affair, with the sheriff passing word around town and temporarily swearing-in anybody who wished to go along.
A well-organized modern sheriff’s office did not work on such lines. When Jack Tragg took out a posse, it consisted of trained regular peace officers and excluded casual attendances by private citizens whose motivation might be a personal grudge, the desire to be in on some excitement, or wish to participate in the thrill of hunting the greatest game of all—man.
Studying the large scale map—with its details that could spell the difference between life and death in an emergency on the open range country or in the hills—Jack Tragg brought all his training and experience to bear in organizing the posse’s forthcoming raid. Relying on the threat of Operation Close-Off to pin the gang in its hideout, Jack did not intend to rush his men off without making sure they had every chance of success.
The map now hung in the Watch Commander’s office, for the bustle of the squad room was not conducive to careful thought. Sitting at the desk, Chief of Police Phineas Hagen, freshly arrived from his home after being called out of bed, watched and waited to see how close his summing-up of the situation agreed with the sheriff’s.
