“One might have thought they’d send an armored car for us,” Peter joked.
As it turned out, they had. Peter and Cronkite hadn’t gone more than a couple of hundred yards when Chief Olson pulled up beside them in an impressive vehicle he must have borrowed from somewhere. Olson was in police uniform and so was the driver.
“The very guys I was looking for!” the police chief called out. “Hop in the back seat, quick. Glad you could make it, Professor. I had my people try to call your house a couple of times, but couldn’t get an answer.”
“I was called out of town unexpectedly,” Peter explained. “Naturally, I had no idea ah this was going on. I just got back an hour or so ago.”
“Well, better late than never.”
Chief Olson appeared to be in a remarkably chipper mood. Peter couldn’t recall having seen the man smile before, not that he ever saw much of him anyway. He wondered whether Olson’s uniform was always this well pressed, and if the brass buttons always glittered like nuggets in a well-salted mine.
Now that he’d noticed, Peter wondered why the buttons were brass. He’d thought that sort of button was supplanted long ago by utilitarian chrome. Fred Ottermole, Balaclava Junction’s police chief, had silver-colored buttons on his uniform jacket, not that Fred ever wore it much. On a warm day like this, he’d be in blue shirt sleeves—clean ones, to be sure, for Fred’s wife Edna Mae was most particular about maintaining the dignity of his rank even if Fred wasn’t. Too bad he couldn’t be here, Peter thought. Ottermole liked a good scrap almost as much as Thorkjeld Svenson did.
And now Olson was showing himself pugnacious where Peter had always assumed him merely cantankerous. “We have to wait just below the ridge till the SWAT team moves up,” he was explaining, “then I take charge. I yell through this mouthpiece here, and it comes out good and loud through that bullhorn mounted on the roof. If they don’t surrender right away, the SWAT team proceeds forward and the National Guard guys start moving up on Woeful Ridge till they’ve got it completely encircled. Everybody holds their fire till I give the signal.”
“Glad to hear it,” said Peter. “Er—if the troops are in a circle, wouldn’t they be firing at each other if they did let fly?”
“Of course they wouldn’t!” That was the Olson he knew, mad as a wet hen at the merest hint of criticism. “What the hell do you think we are, a bunch of incompetent jackasses?”
“On the contrary,” Peter hastened to assure him, “this looks to me like a thoroughly professional operation. I marvel that you’ve been able to get it together in so short a time.”
Olson puffed himself up like a toad swallowing air, which in fact he somewhat resembled. “It took one hell of a lot of organization, let me tell you. So anyway, once we’ve got ‘em trapped, you, Swope, and I move up with the SWAT team and you show us where that ammo dump is. Don’t worry, Professor, we’ll make sure you’re well protected.”
“That’s heartening news, Chief Olson. I’m sure we’ll be—er—perfectly safe in your competent hands.”
That was hyperbole of the first water. The only thing Peter was sure of was that he wished he hadn’t been in such an all-fired hurry to leave Maine. However, he was too near the end of the tunnel to start backing up now. As they neared the ridge, he found himself experiencing the kind of euphoria Cronkite Swope had been showing a while back, but was failing to exhibit now.
“Er—Swope, why don’t you try a close-up shot of Chief Olson here in the armored car?” he suggested. “Can you do that?”
Cronkite brightened up a little. “I could try, though it’s kind of close quarters. I’ll have to use the flash.”
“No flash,” Olson barked. “We can’t risk alerting the enemy prematurely.”
The enemy, no less! If twelve truckloads of National Guardsmen and a dratted great big armored car hadn’t already alerted that handful of thugs, Peter hardly thought one tiny flash from Swope’s camera would make the difference. However, he decided not to say so. Olson was beginning to stick his jaw out like the late General Patton. This was his moment of glory, why try to spoil it?
A man in olive drab, using approved jungle tactics, sneaked up to the car and tapped lightly three times at the heavy plate-glass window on the chief’s side. Olson’s driver, who so far hadn’t said a word or even glanced back at Peter and Cronkite, touched a button that opened a little slide in the glass.
“Troops all deployed according to plan, Chief Olson. The captain says to tell you we’re ready when you are.”
“Good. Now where’s the SWAT leader?”
As if on cue, another man stepped out from behind a tree. At least Peter assumed it was a man. Head, body, arms, legs, hands, and feet were covered in protective gear of various sorts. Peter saw Cronkite brighten, and began to feel a bit easier himself. If this was what they’d be dressed like up on the ridge, that walk to the ammo dump might be clumsy going but it could hardly be dangerous unless they happened to step on a land mine. Peter studied him, her, or it in growing fascination as he, she, or again it reported that the SWAT team was also in position and on the qui vive.
“Then let’s move,” said Olson grimly. “Thirty seconds to take cover, then we smoke ‘em out.”
“Can I take a picture now?” whispered Cronkite.
“No,” barked Chief Olson. “Stay where you are and don’t move a muscle.”
He was listening for shots Peter assumed. There were none to be heard. Some bluejays were making a fuss and Peter did think he heard a Blackburnian warbler, but that was all.
“Stubborn buggers,” grunted Olson. “We’ll show ‘em. Gun ‘er, Bert.”
Peter stiffened, and not in fear. “This is what we’ve been waiting for, Swope! We’re heading down the home stretch.”
Cronkite flashed Peter a startled look but didn’t try to say anything in reply. He wouldn’t have been able to make himself heard. Chief Olson was proving to have a natural affinity with bullhorns.
“All right, you buggers, we’ve got you surrounded. Drop your weapons and come out with your hands up or you’ll damn well wish you had.”
The car was on the move. They were in full sight of Woeful Ridge now, heading straight up that natural escarpment Peter had noticed on his earlier visit. This car must have spiked tires, he thought, or else treads like an army tank. Swope was holding his camera up to the window, ready to start snapping at the crucial moment.
But there didn’t seem to be any crucial moment. The SWAT team was crouching there, ready to charge, but had nothing to charge at. Not a survivalist was in sight.
“They’re hiding, the crawling yellow-bellies,” snarled Olson. He yelled into the mouthpiece, “Come out, you lily-livered cowards, before we blow you out.”
They waited what seemed like an endless time, but nobody came.
“This is it, then! Ready, SWAT team? Go get ‘em. Ready, National Guard? Fire one!”
Howling ferociously, the SWAT team went over the top. From all around Woeful Ridge, rifle shots resounded. Olson turned around, all agrin.
“Don’t get your water hot, Professor. One means fire into the air.”
“Thank you for telling me,” Peter responded politely. “The—er—enemy don’t seem very responsive, do they?”
“They’ll respond, don’t you worry. They damned well better.”
Olson let forth another blast which Penrod Schofield would have recorded in a whole paragraph of dashes. That didn’t work, either. After a while, the SWAT team started walking toward the car. Furious, Olson flung open the door and stuck his head out.
“What the hell’s the matter with you stumblebums? What are you coming back here for?”
“We can’t find anybody,” whined the SWAT leader. “There’s no sign of them anywhere.”
“Are you crazy? Get me the National Guard captain.”
“They can’t find anybody, either. I already asked.”
Olson swiveled around in his seat and glared at the two in the back. “Swope,
are you sure we got the right place?”
“Of course I’m sure! How the heck many Woeful Ridges do you think there are around here? We didn’t see any sign of anybody the first time, either, till that guy caught us in the ammo dump. Then all of a sudden there was a whole swarm of them tearing the staff car apart. I told you right at the beginning how it happened. They must have an underground hideout or something.”
“Yeah, or something.” Olson was sneering. “Come on then, you two. Lead me to this ammo dump, pronto.”
“You mean just the way we are?” stammered Cronkite. “Without any riot gear or anything?”
“Without any riot gear or anything,” mocked the police chief. “Okay, Munch, give this little boy here your riot gear. You’ll have to button his buttons for him and tie his itsy-witsy shoelaces ‘cause he ain’t old enough to know how. Maybe you’d like to run home and get your teddy bear for company, Swope. Come on, you blubbering jellyfish, we haven’t got all afternoon. I’m not scared, why the hell should you be? Let’s get this farce over with.”
“A splendid suggestion,” said Peter. “I’ll be happy to join you, Chief Olson, if your man there will kindly push whatever button opens this confounded door. Ah, thank you, sir. Coming, Swope?”
“Sure, Professor, if you are.”
Spurning the riot gear that the SWAT man was playfully holding out to him, Cronkite sprang over the top of the ridge. “Let me know if I’m going too fast for you, Chief Olson.”
“You go as fast as you’ve a mind to, sonny. I’ll keep up, never you fear.”
And, by George, he would, Peter thought. Those chunky little bowlegs of Olson’s could cover the ground at an amazing rate. This whole situation was pretty amazing. He ought to be scared stiff, he supposed.
“It’s right through here. See, there’s the cave opening.”
Cronkite paused for just a moment. Olson moved up. “Scared, sonny? Let me go first.”
“Wait a minute, Chief,” said the leader of the SWAT team. “We’d better go first, with the riot gear and all.”
He’d redonned the protective garments Cronkite had spurned. Without them, he’d have been an unimpressive character, Peter thought, the sort who might be found in any mob. With them on, he was formidable. Even his chief was willing to step aside.
“Okay, if you want,” Olson conceded. “I guess that’s what you’re getting paid for. So what’s the drill, Professor?”
“You’ll find the cave appears to end very quickly in a blank wall. On the right-hand side of that wall, you’ll see a darkish patch about chest high. Push on that patch, and the whole wall pivots.”
“I’ll be damned. Come on, men, let’s move!”
Holding their shield in front of them, half a dozen SWAT men moved cautiously toward the cave. They were not challenged. Inch by inch, they made their way inside. Then they erupted like a swarm of angry hornets.
“This guy’s nuttier than a fruitcake,” yowled the leader. “There’s nothing inside but a heap of fallen rock.”
“Let me take a look,” said Peter.
“Sure, look all you want. Take a few chunks home with you for souvenirs.” The National Guard captain was looking bewildered.
Olson was furious, and showing it. “Swope, I’m going to get you for this.”
“What are you jumping on Swope for?” Peter demanded. “It’s perfectly obvious what’s happened here. Those so-called survivalists got wind of your projected raid, evacuated their stores, and blew the place up. If you’re going to get anybody, get a demolition expert out here to show you how it was done.”
Olson explained in lurid physiological detail precisely what Peter Shandy could do with his demolition expert. “You’re damn right it’s obvious,” he added when he’d blown off enough steam to be coherent. “This young punk friend of yours got the bright idea of faking a raid to get a big story for his lousy paper and take the heat off his brother. And he conned you into backing him up, Shandy, because you’re a goddamn bleeding heart like all you college kooks. Maybe you can fool Shandy, Swope, but you’re not fooling me one bit. I’m taking you in on a charge of obstructing justice and committing a fraud, and I’m arresting your brother Brinkley as soon as I get back to Lumpkinton.”
Cronkite gritted his teeth. “On what charge, Chief Olson?”
“You know damned well what charge. On the charge of setting fire to the Lumpkin soap factory and killing Caspar Flum. Arson and manslaughter, that’s what charge. I ought to go for first-degree murder, but seeing Brink’s a local boy, I’ll try to get him off easy. Not that he deserves any clemency, and neither do you. I’ve known for the past fifteen minutes that you lied to me. And you want to know how I knew? Look what my boys found over here!”
Shooing Swope and Shandy in front of him like a couple of errant turkeys, Olson herded them to the byway where they’d last seen Swope’s 1974 Plymouth being pounded to pieces. “You told me last time you were here, your car was demolished by the survivalists, right?”
“I told you we’d seen it in the process of being demolished,” Cronkite amended. “They’d ripped off the doors, they were smashing the windows with clubs, denting the top and fenders. The trunk was sprung and hanging open, and they had the hood up, ripping out the wires.”
“Yeah, sure.” Olson gave the young reporter a shove that sent him stumbling forward. “Go take a good, close look.”
There sat a green 1974 Plymouth sedan, not in the best of shape but with its doors and windows intact, its body undented, its hood in place, and its trunk properly shut. The painted words BALACLAVA COUNTY FANE AND PENON were clearly visible on both doors and across the back.
“That’s not my car!” Cronkite shouted. “It can’t be.”
“That so? You got the keys and registration on you, by any chance?”
“I certainly do. Check that car out for yourself.”
“Damned right, I will.” The chief took the keys Cronkite thrust at him and handed it over to the SWAT leader. “Here, Munch, like he says, check it out. Careful, there might be a few sticks of dynamite or something wired to the starter.”
“Sure, Chief, or a couple of live alligators in the driver’s seat.”
In great spirits, the team bounced over to the car. Peter and Cronkite followed. By now, Peter was firmly convinced that the registration and serial numbers would be found correct, and they were. He knew the key would fit, and it did. When Cronkite still insisted this couldn’t be the newspaper’s staff car, Peter squeezed his arm.
“You’d better let the matter drop, Swope. It would appear that Chief Olson has an airtight case here.”
“But can’t you see?”
“Certainly I can see. Can’t you see?”
Swope gaped at Peter in astonishment for a moment. Then, surprisingly, he grinned. “Yeah, I see. Sure I see! So now what do we do?”
“M’well, since Chief Olson was kind enough to offer us a lift on the way in, I believe I’ll invite him to ride back to Balaclava Junction with me. You can follow in the— er—staff car, Swope.”
“What the hell would I want to go with you for?” growled Olson.
Peter glanced around as if to make sure the SWAT personnel were out of earshot. “I thought that perhaps on the way you and I might have a little private chat about some of our mutual acquaintances.”
“Such as who?”
“Such as Roland Childe and his four trolls, for starters. I gather you haven’t yet seen today’s newspaper.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“All I can say to you, Shandy, is this had better be good.”
The mere fact that Olson was now sitting in the front seat of Peter Shandy’s car was all the assurance Peter needed that it would be. What he said was, “Read it for yourself.”
Peter passed over the Fane and Pennon he’d retrieved from the backseat. After one glance at the headlines, Olson gave a pretty good impression of having been struck with something other than a rubber bullet. He read the article through wi
thout making any comment, but his face was bright cerise by the time he got through.
“So? What’s this, another of those journalistic fairytales? They haven’t got any proof, have they?”
“Not unless you count the testimonies of two attempted murder victims and one eyewitness, plus the fact that the gang brought the stolen weather vanes on board with them when they came to hijack the boat. You may be interested to know that when they were being interrogated, they all put cyanide capsules in their mouths, except for Roland Childe. His turned out to be a lemon jellybean.”
“Why, that—” Olson tripped over his tongue and had to start again. “That’s a damned hard yarn to swallow, Shandy.”
“You may wish to check it out with Ensign Blaise and the crew of the Coast Guard boat that picked them up. I have the boat’s number written down somewhere. I’ll give it to you when we get to Balaclava Junction. You could also talk with Eustace Tilkey of Hocasquam, Maine, who owns the boat they hijacked and wrecked, and with those members of the gang who’ve turned state’s witnesses. They all spat out their cyanide capsules, I should explain, and seemed quite relieved to do so. Peru and Argentina were doing most of the talking when I last saw them.”
“Peru and Argentina? You trying to be funny or something?” Chief Olson was clearly not amused.
“Those are code names,” Peter explained. “I find them as absurd as you do. Childe is Brazil, and the ringleader of the operation is known to us so far as Paraguay. He wasn’t among those apprehended in Maine, but he’ll be easy enough to nab.”
“Oh yeah? You sound pretty damned sure of yourself, Shandy.”
“With reason, Chief Olson. For one thing, we’ve obtained an excellent description of him from—er—a reliable source. He’s said to be short, fat, bowlegged, and given to the wearing of ostentatious uniforms, among other things.”
“What other things?”
“I couldn’t begin to tell you at this point, but there’s a fairly comprehensive dossier in the diary.”
“Whose diary?” Olson was beginning to simmer.
“That of the woman who calls herself Elisa Alicia Quatrefages. She’s Paraguay’s—er—light of love.”
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