by J. T. Edson
Even before Brad and Alice had returned to the D.P.S. Building that morning, Jack Tragg had been making his preparations. The sheriff of Rockabye County did not believe in half-measures when dealing with a man as dangerous as the Owlhoot had become. So he had called on the services of every deputy who could be spared from the Sub-Offices scattered about the county, in addition to his officers based in Gusher City. On being asked, Chief of Police Phineas Hagen had placed the whole of the G.C.P.D.’s personnel at Jack’s disposal. Contacted at their homes or offices, the sheriffs of the neighboring counties had been no less willing to send help.
By the time Jack had finished, he possessed the officers and means to scatter decoys over the whole of the Owlhoot’s three areas of operations. Patrolmen and policewomen from the morning and night watches were called in. Detectives who should have been off watch arrived at their station house squad-rooms to be given their orders. Peace officers who normally spent their duty hours typing and filing reports, examining pieces of scientific evidence, riding switchboards or on other comparatively sedentary yet necessary duties sat in pairs in private or undercover cars on the turn-offs. Each pair nursed hand-guns, ready to deal with the Owlhoot if he took the bait. With its entire force, less those sick, on vacation or watch, the Bureau of Women Officers could not supply a female for each of the cars. So many a vehicle held two males; one wearing a hat borrowed from his wife, girlfriend or other source, as a disguise which, they hoped, would fool the masked man for long enough to bring him in close.
In addition to the decoy cars, other vehicles cruised the turn-offs and men placed in strategic positions listened for the sound of a trail motorcycle passing through the woods.
Only by working practically non-stop all day had Jack Tragg managed to set up the complicated operation. Helped by Hagen and his First Deputies, he had arranged for the positions of the decoys and routes to be taken by the rolling stake-out vehicles. There had been equipment to issue, with the Communications Bureau producing every available radio so that most of the cars could contact a central mobile-control truck in each area. Call signs had to be allocated and precautions thought out for the decoys’ safety. Jack Tragg wanted to capture, or kill, the Owlhoot without losing any of the peace officers if he possibly could do so.
Wishing to keep private citizens out of the danger areas, Jack had asked the Public Relations Bureau to pass out statements to the news-media. All day the local television and radio networks had been interrupting programs to warn their listeners of the dangers of necking on the turnoffs. No mention had been made of the massive decoy operation, but the sheriff had hoped that the public would take notice of the announcements and stay away.
Going by the lack of a signal flash from the parked car’s rear lights, the warnings had gone unheeded in at least one case.
Alice and Brad did not feel in the mood for displaying too much tact and diplomacy at that moment. Leaving the Sheriff’s Office at three-fifteen that morning, they had logged on watch again at 10 a.m. From then on, with only short breaks to snatch a meal, they had been constantly on the go.
First there had been the reports to read. I.C.R.’s state-wide records had failed to produce anything of assistance, which did not entirely surprise either deputy. The M.E.’s necropsy report stated that the dead girl had not been raped and confirmed Brad’s belief that the Owlhoot used black powder in his cartridges. Although generally negative, S.I.B.’s search reports supplied an answer to the mystery of the second female victim’s missing garment. The specialists had found the brunette’s clothing, except for her tights, where the Owlhoot had discarded it. So the deputies had decided that the masked man must be collecting trophies from his robberies. The Central Receiving Hospital had sent word that the first male victim would live; but the doctors refused to even guess how he would be affected mentally. Neither he nor the brunette would be available for questioning that day.
While the deputies were still in the D.P.S. Building, the victims’ fathers had arrived to make the formal identification. Under Alice’s gentle questioning, the soldier’s father had said that his son knew too much about guns to chance tackling an armed man merely to stop himself being robbed of a few dollars. The information had increased Alice’s and Brad’s belief that the Owlhoot had either pretended to be off guard, or deliberately provoked attacks by his victims.
The normally even-tempered Brad had cursed long and bitterly after seeing the grieving parents into the police car which would take them home. Then he and Alice had taken to the streets on an abortive round of visits. They had interviewed all the owners of fake Berns-Martin ‘Speed’ rigs, without finding one who remotely fitted the Owlhoot’s description. Nor had their call on the man who made the holsters been more productive. Travelling from man to man, the deputies had contacted various stool-pigeons. All had told the same story. While the Owlhoot had aroused considerable interest in criminal circles, nobody was talking even if they knew his identity.
By 7 p.m., Alice and Brad felt sure that their only hope of catching the Owlhoot lay in taking him red-handed during the commission of a hold-up. After a meal at the Badge diner, they had collected Unit S.O. 12 and made their way to the area in which the masked man had struck on his second night’s depredations. Finding a private car on their patrol line did not please them.
Pulling the Oldsmobile on to the edge of the track, Alice nodded to Brad. For ease of identification while riding the rolling stake-out, they were both wearing their uniforms. That meant Brad carried his automatic in a skimpy, high-riding, forward-raked, steel-lined Bianchi Cooper-Combat ‘bikini’ holster fitted with an Elden Carl long-tanged, fly-off safety strap for added security, on his Sam Browne belt. In addition to the automatic, he held his Winchester Model 12 riot gun between his knees. Doubting if the Owlhoot would surrender when caught, Brad followed the old, but very practical, peace officer way of carrying a more powerful offensive weapon than his defensive hand-gun.
Leaving the riot gun on the front seat of the deputy car, Brad joined Alice at the edge of the track. Without making any attempt to be silent or keep out of sight, they approached the sleek imported Italian car. Its occupants, locked in a passionate embrace, gave no hint of realizing that they might not be alone. Letting out a low hiss of annoyance, Alice motioned Brad to take the right side. Once again the female occupant was behind the wheel, so Alice stepped to the driver’s door. Even with a deputy on either side of the car, the couple in it remained face to face and tangled in each other’s arms.
The car’s interior lights came on automatically as Alice opened the left side door. Instantly the man and woman broke away from each other. Fear twisted momentarily at the girl’s face as she swung towards the door, to be replaced by annoyance as she recognized Alice’s uniform and status in society. Well-dressed, stylishly coiffured, the girl had the superior air of a senior, or recently graduated, college student, aware of her intellectual supremacy over the masses.
On the door opening, the young man snatched his arms from about the girl. His right hand darted into the dashboard’s glove compartment, closing on the butt of the snub-nosed revolver it held. Well-groomed and trendily attired, he looked like a junior executive on his way up the promotion ladder fast. While reaching for the revolver, he turned his eyes Alice’s way and did not see Brad. Jerking open the right door, the big blond reached inside. With the same devastating speed he could display when drawing a gun, he clamped his powerful fingers around the young man’s wrist and prevented the revolver from emerging.
‘What the he—?’ began the girl indignantly, glaring at Alice.
‘Don’t you listen to the newscasts?’ Alice demanded, ignoring the man and concentrating on his companion. ‘We’ve been warning folks to stay away from these turn-offs all day!’
‘Since when did we start living in a police state?’ the girl snapped back, her intellectual hackles rising at the thought of a humble woman peace officer daring to address her in other than tones of servile respect.
‘We’ve heard!’ sniffed the girl, so annoyed by Alice’s lack of respect that she did not look at her boyfriend. ‘So we came prepared for him.’
‘It sure looks that way,’ Alice said dryly and stared in a pointed manner across the car.
‘Get your damned hand off me!’ the young man snarled viciously at Brad, feeling as if his wrist had been caught in a bear trap and unable to remove the revolver from its place of concealment.
‘Leave the piece where it is then,’ Brad ordered. ‘You don’t need it against us. We’re deputies from the Sheriff’s Office.’
‘So what do you want?’ the man spat, releasing his hold on the gun’s butt.
‘You folks would be safer if you find some place away from these turn-offs to neck.’ Brad answered, opening his fingers. ‘This’s the Owlhoot’s stamping ground.’
Instead of being grateful for the warning, the couple exchanged glares of indignation. The young man scowled at Brad, rubbing his aching wrist. In addition to the pain, he felt a sense of humiliation resulting from the casual ease with which the big blond had prevented him from drawing his revolver.
‘You’ve no right to come here man-handling tax-paying citizens. I’m not some oil-field jar-head for you to roust about. The County Commissioners’ Disciplinary Board will hear about this.’
Maybe such a threat had produced satisfying results when made against other peace officers, but Brad did not seem particularly impressed. Instead he studied the young man for a moment. The mention of oil-field jar-heads, drilling-rig crew-men, gave a clue to his employment and suggested a means for Brad to deal with him.
‘Do you work for Bonanza Oil?’ the big blond asked, taking out his I.D. wallet.
‘I’m one of the company’s advertising executives,’ the young man admitted.
‘One of Paul Heveren’s hired hands, huh?’ Brad said coldly.
‘I don’t care for your attitude!’ the man yelped.
‘I’m not sold on yours come to that,’ Brad drawled, holding his wallet so that the other could read his name. ‘My father’s Andrew M. Counter. Five minutes after I hear that the Disciplinary Board wants to talk to us about your complaint, I’ll be on the telephone to Uncle Paul, and you, hombre, will be one of his former hired hands.’
About to speak, the man closed his mouth hurriedly and in silence. Ready to blast the peace officers with her college-developed acid wit, the girl also kept her comments unsaid. Engaged to the young man, with both of them employed by the Bonanza Oil Corporation, she had no wish to jeopardize their careers. That casual mention of Heveren’s given-name by the big blond had rung a warning bell for the couple. Even without possible family connections to the powerful Counter clan, the managing director had strongly developed views on the matter of local law enforcement and was, in fact, a member of the County Commissioners. So Heveren would take a dim view of any employee who caused inconvenience for a peace officer over such a trivial matter. Maybe it would not result in dismissal, but Heveren held the ultimate key to promotion in the company.
‘That’s how it is, huh?’ said the young man, but his attempt at sounding truculent failed by a good country mile.
‘That’s just how it is,’ Brad agreed. ‘The Owlhoot killed twice last night, left another man near on dead and a girl naked and half out of her mind with fear. Mister, he’s a psycho. He’d let you think he was off guard, then bat your brains in when you tried to take him.’
‘After that it would be your turn, miss,’ Alice went on coldly. ‘Which’s why we came to ask you to leave.’
‘All right, you’ve made your point,’ the young man said. ‘We’ll get going.’
‘I think you’d be wise,’ Alice agreed and closed the driver’s door.
‘That gun would only have given him an excuse to shoot you,’ Brad finished. ‘When the Owlhoot opens the door, he’s holding his piece cocked ready to use it.’
After watching the car turn and depart, Alice looked quizzically at her partner. ‘You never told me that Paul Heveren is your uncle.’
‘He isn’t,’ Brad admitted with a grin. ‘Was one of my godfathers though. Anyways, I didn’t reckon that yahoo would chance calling my bet on it.’
At about the same time, over in the north-east sector, Joan Hilton and Sam Cuchilo found themselves facing a similar situation. Neither of them could claim kinship or even close ties with persons of importance.
Coming on a car which failed to give the required recognition signal, they studied it in passing. It appeared to be deserted, a suspicious circumstance on a narrow turn-off track.
‘Best check it out, Sam,’ Joan announced.
‘Might be as well,’ Cuchilo agreed. ‘There’d be room in the back for his trail-bike.’
With the possibility of the vehicle belonging to the Owlhoot, Cuchilo did not leave his assault armament in the deputy car. Carrying his Thompson submachine gun by its pistol grip, he led the way to the parked vehicle. When they drew closer, the deputies heard enough to tell them the car had occupants.
Opening the driver’s door, Joan illuminated the interior much to the embarrassment of the couple on the rear seat. Snatching his left hand from beneath the girl’s skirt, the middle-aged, thin-faced man jerked erect and just as hurriedly whipped his right out of her blouse. Much younger than her companion, plump and fairly pretty, the girl let out a squeal of fright. She continued to sprawl on the seat, blouse open, bra shoved up over her breasts and tights hanging around her knees.
For a few seconds the man stared in open-mouthed horror. Then hostility and resentment replaced the previous expression. He looked pompous, haughty; the kind of tax-paying citizen who would object to humble peace officers, whose salary he helped to pay, interrupting his pleasures.
‘How dare y—!’ he started to say, while the girl began to make adjustments to her garments.
‘If I were you, I’d go some other place to neck, mister,’ Cuchilo suggested politely. ‘These turn-offs are real dangerous just now.’
‘You’ve no right to come barging in on us like this!’ answered the tax-paying citizen, full of the wrath that only a guilty conscience could raise. ‘We’re not breaking any law.’
‘Is that your wife?’ Joan inquired, indicating the girl.
‘Wife?’ the man repeated. ‘No, she isn’t my wife!’
‘Then move off or we’ll book you for adultery!’
Going by the wedding ring worn by the man, Joan expected that the threat would prove sufficient. Instead, the tax-paying citizen merely sneered in a mocking manner.
‘I’m a widower,’ he stated triumphantly. ‘You couldn’t make it stick.’
The previous night Joan and Cuchilo had both come close to sudden and painful death. For a week before that they had worked almost eighteen hours a day on the Sandwich case. So the man could hardly have picked a worse time to flout his knowledge of the law.
‘All right, you paleface son-of-a-bitch, if that’s how you want to play it,’ Cuchilo thought, then went on audibly, ‘Then how about us making it Article 534. That’s contributing to the delinquency of a minor.’
When the girl did not contradict the suggestion that she was still classed as a minor, the deputies knew that they had the man—tax-payer or not—where they wanted him.
‘Or we could use Article 535d,’ Joan suggested viciously. ‘Which is handling and fondling a minor’s sexual organs, mister. It’s a felony, not a misdemeanor like 534, and it carries a penalty of up to twenty-five years in jail.’
‘Y-You wouldn’t charge me with that?’ the man croaked, all his pomp, arrogance and indignation departing in a flash.
‘Not unless we’re pushed into it,’ Joan admitted. ‘We’re hunting the Owlhoot, mister. And if it’d been him who opened the door, you’d both be dead—or wishing that you were. Take the girl back into town and, if I was you, I’d not stop until you find some place to drop her off.’
‘I—I’ll do that I’ the man stated, climbing out of the rear door and darting hurriedly behind the steering wheel.
‘It’d be best,’ Cuchilo growled. ‘And, if I were you, I’d start going with women closer to your own age. It’s safer.’
If the girl objected to the comment, she did not say so. Having recognized Joan, she decided to do nothing that might draw the blonde deputy’s attention her way. Wriggling her tights up, she sank on to the rear seat and kept her mouth shut while her escort turned the car and headed towards the Hoseville road.
‘Damned fools,’ Cuchilo grunted.
‘Sure,’ Joan agreed and led the way towards the waiting Oldsmobile.
Maybe Joan and Cuchilo did not have Brad’s social background, but they had achieved their end without it.
Sixteen
Shortly after ten-thirty, Deputies Rafferty and Chu drove towards a Pontiac sedan parked just off the winding track close to where the Owlhoot had made his third appearance. Seeing the rear lights flick on and off, they kept their Oldsmobile moving. Inside the stationary vehicle, each nursing a fully-loaded revolver, two more peace officers continued their part in the operation to catch the masked killer. They watched the deputy car go by then settled down as comfortably as they could on the sedan’s front seat.
‘It’s racial discrimination, nothing less,’ Sergeant Charlie Chan declared emphatically about a quarter of an hour after the rolling stake-out car had disappeared around a bend ahead of them.
‘How come?’ inquired Sergeant Doug Smith, seated behind the steering wheel. He glanced at his partner, grinning at the incongruous appearance Chan presented wearing a leather windcheater, Levis pants, hunting boots and a large-brimmed hat donated by Mrs. Smith as a disguise to make the Owlhoot believe a man and woman occupied the car.
‘Like this is how,’ Chan explained, ‘there were a dozen girls at the House, including that Chinese chick from the blue-noses. [xxiv] And who, I say who, do I get to share a car with?’