by J. T. Edson
On reaching 281, a four bedroom job with all the fittings and in darkness, Alice led the way to the front door. Despite their belief that the lead would prove a dud, Alice opened her shoulder bag and the men removed the retaining straps from their guns. Precautions cost nothing and kept the one who took them alive.
Alice and one patrolman went to the right of the door, Brad and the other moving to the left. Neither pair stood before the door, but ranged alongside the wall. Reaching around, Alice thumbed the bell push. Inside the house, a set of chimes raised a racket; that figured, a house on Dorcas Crescent would have a set of chimes instead of a lowly buzzer.
Although the chimes made a considerable noise, nothing happened for some three minutes. Then they heard it! A gentle thud at the rear of the building, as if somebody made a goof while stealthily closing a door. An instant later the listening party heard a low, muffled yelp of pain from the back of the house.
‘I’ll take it, Alice!’ Brad snapped, and even as he spoke the automatic came into his hand.
Brad beat the others to it by a good quarter of a second, although neither patrolman could be termed slow and Alice fetched out her Cobra with surprising speed.
With one of the patrolmen on his heels, Brad sprinted along the front of the house. Light glowed in a bedroom window, but he left the dealing with that to Alice and the other man. Rounding the corner, Brad made a fast but cautious way along the side of the building, keeping to the grass verge of the rough concrete path. At the rear of the house was a large patio surrounded by a high wooden fence. Brad ignored the sun-furniture and barbecue pit which graced the patio, his full attention being reserved for the man who tried to open the fence’s gate.
The patrolman held an electric torch in his left hand, keeping it extended shoulder high and at arm’s length from his body as he directed the beam at the gate. Framed in the light, a tall, slim young man dropped the coat, shoes and socks he carried, but did not halt his attempt to open the gate.
‘Police officers here!’ Brad snapped in a clear voice which left no chance of doubt in the hearer’s mind. ‘Turn around slowly.’
Although the man released the handle of the gate, he neither turned nor showed any sign of relief at hearing peace officers stood behind him. From his appearance, he had good cause for the agitation he showed. His shirt’s tail stuck hit-and-miss into his pants, his hair was untidy and his feet bare. The patio’s surface felt rough and jagged, which probably accounted for the yelp of pain which attracted the law’s attention. A man could not move barefoot upon such a surface with impunity, nor would he without good cause. Of course the man’s state of undress gave a hint that he had a good reason for taking a hurried departure—but did it also mean he possessed a guilty secret?
‘G-get that light off me!’ the man yelped, still not turning. ‘Somebody might see me!’
‘Yes, sir,’ Brad agreed, ‘somebody might at that. Lean forward against the gate, assume the posture!’
‘D-do you know who I am?’ asked the man, without obeying Brad’s order.
‘Mr. Greer lives here. I assume you’re him.’
Actually Brad assumed no such thing, but did not express his view.
‘I’m Tony Vassel!’ squeaked the man in a tone which suggested that the mere mention of his name should satisfy the law of his bona fides.
‘Yes, sir?’ Brad answered, sounding as if he had never heard of Tony Vassel and did not give a damn who the other might be.
Brad’s attitude was only half-correct. While he did not give a damn for the other man’s social position, he knew full well who Tony Vassel was. Vassel worked as reporter, literary, theatrical and cinema critic for the Gusher City Mirror. Although the Mirror was a liberal-intellectual tabloid and Vassel one of its ‘brighter’ employees, the young man’s appearance and attitude said he could not assert his superiority over the humble peace officers behind him.
‘You don’t know—’ Vassel began.
‘And you don’t appear to realize how serious your position is, Mr. Vassel,’ Brad interrupted. ‘Make with the hands. This’s the last time I’m saying it.’
At that moment a light appeared in the upper window of the neighboring house. Vassel let out a strangled croak and hurriedly assumed the posture, placing the palms of his hands against the gate, spreading his feet apart and leaning forward. Coming up behind the reporter, Brad reached around and made a quick, but thorough hand-search for weapons. All he learned was that Vassel had not even taken the time to fasten his shirt before fleeing from the house.
‘Douse the light,’ Brad ordered. ‘He’s clean.’
‘You won’t get away with this!’ hissed Vassel as the torch’s beam flicked out.
‘We haven’t done anything to get away with,’ Brad reminded him.
Before Vassel could start to threaten the officers with the full might and wrath of the Mirror, a head appeared at the lighted window next door.
‘Who-all’s down there?’ asked a deep, masculine voice.
‘The law, sir,’ Brad called back. ‘Everything’s under control, go back to bed, please.’
‘Sure, unless you need help,’ came the reply, and the head disappeared.
‘I’ll have you before the County Commissioners’ Disciplinary Board for this!’ Vassel spat out.
‘That’s your privilege,’ Brad told him calmly. ‘Say, won’t the Lightning have a ball with the story though?’
‘How do you mean?’ asked Vassel sullenly.
‘Prowler caught escaping from house proves to be the Mirror’s star news hawk, in a state of undress.’
A low, strangled chuckle from the patrolman followed Brad’s words. Apparently the cop appreciated the situation and knew that the Daily Lightning, the other local newspaper, would enjoy printing a story on the lines Brad suggested. Clearly Vassel caught the point of the remark too, but he tried to bluff his way out.
‘Y-you couldn’t make it stick.’
‘Stay right where you are!’ Brad barked as the reporter began to move. ‘Officer, go fetch that gent next door and ask him to step out here.’
Knowing he could never dress before the neighbor arrived and witnessed his lack of clothing, Vassel changed his tune.
‘W-wait a minute. There’s a simple explanation for all this.’
‘Let’s go around the front of the house and hear it then,’ Brad ordered. ‘Pick your clothes up, but don’t put them on.’
While Brad headed for the disturbance at the rear, Alice prepared to handle things out front. The lit window’s sash creaked as it lifted and a shape leaned out.
‘Who—Who is it?’ called a feminine voice.
‘Police!’ Alice answered, but both she and the patrolman stayed out of the patch of light thrown by the window. ‘Come down and open the door, please.’
For a moment there was silence, but when the woman spoke again Alice thought she detected a note of relief in the voice.
‘I can’t see you.’
Alice was about to step into the light and identify herself when the patrolman caught her arm and held her back.
‘Let me, ma’am.’
At another time Alice might have objected to a man taking a risk when it should fall on her, as senior officer present, to do so. However, she knew better than start debating women’s right to equal chances and duties at that moment.
‘Go ahead,’ she answered and hefted the Cobra. ‘I’ll cover you—and I shoot “Expert”.’
‘Now that’s a real comforting thought,’ grinned the man.
For all the levity in his tone, the patrolman advanced into the light with all the caution of a whitetail deer crossing a clearing in well-hunted country. He was prepared to make a flying dive for cover if the shape in the window made a hostile move, or should a second figure appear. Looking up, he saw only a pretty young woman with untidy blonde hair and wearing a quilted robe. Nothing happened to make him regret breaking a lifetime rule of never volunteering for a task a senior officer should perfor
m.
‘What do you want?’ asked the woman in the window, satisfied that a genuine Gusher City patrolman stood below.
Holstering her Cobra as she stepped into the light, Alice replied, ‘Come down and open the door, please. We don’t want to disturb the neighbors, Mrs. Greer.’
Mrs. Greer appeared to share Alice’s wish to avoid disturbing her neighbors, although probably for less altruistic reasons. Pulling in her head, she disappeared from sight. A few seconds later the hall lights came on and bare feet padded across the floor to the front door. Opening the front door on its chain, the woman peered out, studied Alice’s open ID wallet, then unfastened the chain and stood back.
‘Come in. What do you want?’
Still with her hand on the Cobra's butt, even though the gun lay hidden in her bag, Alice entered the hall. She saw nothing to arouse her suspicions. The woman proved to be Alice’s height, shapely; and nervous, if the glances she directed at the rear of the building be anything to go on. From glimpses Alice got through the front of the robe, Mrs. Greer either wore a very brief shortie nightdress, or nothing, underneath.
‘I don’t underst—’ the woman began, then a look of shock came to her face as she stared past Alice to where Vassel came into sight followed by Brad. ‘Tony!’ she shrieked. ‘You said you could—’
‘Shut up!’ Vassel spat out, gaining courage now he was out of sight of independent witnesses. ‘They can’t hang a 502 rap on us.’
Instead of shutting up, Mrs. Greer let out another shriek, this time one of anger, for she did not know the various articles of the Texas Penal Code and drew her own conclusion what Article 502 covered. Like many law-abiding citizens, she assumed that women officers handled only three types of work, juvenile delinquency, traffic—and prostitution. Being too old to class as a juvenile delinquent, knowing the police would never arrive at that hour and in such numbers merely to query a traffic violation, only one alternative remained. Mrs. Greer did not care to think about that alternative.
‘How dare you?’ she screeched, facing Alice like a hound-treed alley-cat. ‘Do I look like a pros—Ooh! Just wait until my husb—’
For a second time in her angry tirade Mrs. Greer chopped short her words. A well-mannered lady did not ask people, even peace officers, if she looked like a prostitute; and, in view of the circumstances, she could hardly threaten the visitors with her husband’s righteous, tax-paying wrath.
‘We never mentioned prostitution, Mrs. Greer,’ Alice pointed out. ‘Article 502 of the Texas Penal Code covers adultery; which means voluntary sexual intercourse between a married person and a person other than the offender’s wife or husband. We have made no mention of that, either.’
‘Don’t worry, Vi,’ Vassel put in. ‘Article 502’s void these days.’
‘Mister,’ Brad drawled. ‘I’d hate like hell to depend on a judge thinking the same way.’
‘You’ve no right to censure our morals,’ Vassel stated, more in a whine than with his usual condescending manner when addressing a peace officer.
‘Nor wish to,’ snapped Alice. ‘Is he clean, Brad?’
‘We don’t want him for anything,’ Brad replied.
‘Then I’d suggest you dress and leave.’
‘You—you don’t want me?’ gasped Vassel, relief plain in his voice.
‘Not even gift-wrapped and with a brand-new Cadillac to boot,’ Brad answered, jerking a contemptuous thumb towards the door. ‘Screw.’
With all the courage and stand-fast spirit of a rat deserting a sinking ship, Vassel turned and darted from the room, not even waiting to do more than slip on his shoes.
Finding herself deserted, Mrs. Greer let out a wail. Her indignation had gone in the face of knowing what offence Article 502 covered. Such a charge, if made, would damage her socially far more than an accusation of prostitution—which was easily disproved and which nobody would believe of her. Alice studied the crying woman and made a sign which sent Brad and the two policemen from the house. Left alone with Mrs. Greer, and seeing the woman to be in a state verging on a suicide attempt, Alice soothed her before talking about the business which had brought the law to 281 Dorcas Crescent.
Punctuated by sniffs and tears, Mrs. Greer’s story came out. Apparently her husband insisted on taking their only car when he went to El Paso on business, causing a quarrel just before his departure. Then, although he left on Friday afternoon, he did not call his wife until late Saturday which did nothing to heal the breach. Still angry, Mrs. Greer had accepted an invitation to a party on Sunday night. She took a couple of drinks too many, met Vassel and before she had realized quite what was happening found herself at home, in bed with the reporter. On hearing the door’s chimes, they assumed it to be her husband returned unexpectedly. Vassel seemed to have experience in such situations, for he grabbed his clothes and told her to stall for a short time while he slipped out of the rear door.
Now Mrs. Greer wished she was dead.
Not wanting to spend the night coping with a potential suicide, Alice suggested a way out of Mrs. Greer’s difficulties. The neighbors would talk and Greer was certain to learn about the visit by the law. So Alice promised to arrange that the local station house claimed to have sent a car to investigate a prowler call and found a man, somewhat drunk but otherwise innocent, had taken the wrong turning on his way home and blundered into the Greer’s patio. The story left Mrs. Greer in the clear, with only her conscience to bother her. However, it served Alice’s purpose in calming the woman down.
While Alice believed Mrs. Greer’s story, she was a trained peace officer and, as such, like the fabled character from Missouri, must be shown. On leaving the house, she found that Brad had checked out the garage, found it empty and dismissed the patrolmen. While walking back to their car, Alice filled Brad in on what she knew and said they would check with the El Paso law to make sure Greer was in town.
Once more Brad took the wheel of the car and Alice called in her report to Cen-Con. Her message arrived just as Sam Cuchilo entered the radio room.
‘Alice, Brad,’ he said, taking the microphone from the dispatcher. ‘We’ve a hot one for you. Floyd Goole. Tom put him away on a three-stretch for slow-elking. ii Goole made some threats at his trial. He’s been out for about three months—and he always used a pump-action shotgun for butchering the stolen cattle.’
Six
Alice and Brad exchanged glances as they heard Cuchilo’s message.
‘Where do we find him, Sam?’ she asked.
‘Runs a cap-and-ball spread about three miles past Hoseville, lies about a mile back off the right of the State Auto Road.’
Again the exchange of glances and Brad nodded to answer the girl’s unasked question.
‘Brad and I’ll go and check him out, Sam,’ Alice announced.
‘Tonight?’
‘Can you think of a better time?’
‘All right, Alice. I’ll call Buck Shields in Hoseville and ask him to join the party.’
‘Do that. Tell him to bring tea and fancy cakes. Over and out.’
Even while Alice spoke, Brad had been steering the car towards the edge of town. Once clear of the city limits and on the State Auto Road, he built up the Oldsmobile’s speed to keep the speedometer needle flickering beyond the seventy mark. Due to it being Sunday, the road carried little traffic and so Brad did not use the siren, although the red light flashed on the vehicle’s roof.
‘Cen-Con to SO is!’ The radio crackled alive before they had covered half of the thirty-mile run to Hoseville.
‘SO is by!’ Alice replied.
‘Bad news, Alice,’ it was Sam Cuchilo speaking. ‘Buck’s crew are out on the road-block and covering back-country trails. Jack doesn’t want to pull any of them in so he’s flying up to join you with the chopper. Wait for him before you move in. “Code One”?’
‘Roger and out.’
‘Code One’ meant acknowledge message and Alice’s reply told Cuchilo she both heard and understood. Her eyes
dropped to the riot gun in the clamps at the side of her seat. The weapon had not been needed at Dorcas Crescent, but might still be required.
The car sped along a road built for handling fast-moving traffic and Alice sat watching the open range drop behind them. Knowing Brad needed to concentrate on handling the Oldsmobile, she did not speak. She thought, however, and the nagging worry which had followed her since being accepted on the assignment returned. By the time the Hoseville turn-off had been passed, Alice came to a decision. The issue must be faced and settled, there was no point in putting it off any longer.
Ahead lay a signpost pointing along a dirt trail and announcing ‘F. GOOLE’. Sucking in her breath, she spoke and made the words come out as a direct order for the first time.
‘This’s it, Brad. Kill the lights and hold the noise down.’
‘You’re getting real bossy, ma’am,’ Brad replied, slowing the car.
‘I’m sorry, Brad, but—’
‘What is it John Wayne says?’ Brad interrupted. ‘Something about never apologizing, it being a sign of weakness.’ He stopped the car but made no move to climb out and open the gate. Instead he turned to look at the slightly defiant girl and a smile flickered on his lips. ‘We may as well thrash this thing out right now. One of us has to be boss of the team. Well, I’m taller and heavier than you, got bigger muscles—and a better gun.’ Even at such a moment Brad could not forget that he was an automatic pistol fan in the presence of somebody foolish enough to carry a revolver. ‘Got more hair on my chest if it comes to that. But on this case none of that counts. What’s needed to be boss is experience—and lady, you’ve got the experience!’