Rockabye County 4

by J. T. Edson

  After hooking on his badge, Brad brought the M.G. to a halt. From what he had seen, the patrolman knew enough about guns not to panic or shoot without making sure he threw lead at an enemy. So Brad thrust open the door of his car. The imported vehicle’s right hand drive brought him onto the sidewalk as he quit the steering wheel. He stepped out and into trouble.

  A movement in the bushes beyond the wall caught his eye. Turning to check on whatever attracted his attention, he saw a splash of white where no such color should be. Swiftly Brad straightened up, yet even so it seemed he might be too late.

  Wearing a black leather jacket, open to show the white T-shirt which gave his position away, a tall, slim young man bounded the garden wall. He landed not twenty feet from where Brad stood, the short barreled revolver in his hand slanting towards the deputy, belching flame as he fired at the big blond—and missed.

  Brad heard the flat ‘splat’ of a close-passing bullet. Instantly his brain snapped an order that put his trained reactions into operation. In one smoothly coordinated blur of movement, Brad’s left hand gripped and drew open the side of his jacket to leave the way clear for his right hand which already rose and went across towards the butt of his automatic. At the same time he threw his weight forward onto the balls of his feet, facing the man on slightly bent legs and with his spine slanting forward. The Colt pivoted from the spring clips of the holster, swinging around until Brad’s right elbow was about eight inches ahead of his right hip, pointing the automatic’s bore straight towards the man. Even in the emotional strain of being under fire, Brad did not thumb down the manual safety catch or place his finger upon the trigger until the gun’s muzzle lined away from him.

  For all that, the instant the Colt lined on the man—one sixth of a second after Brad’s brain gave its order—the deputy fired his first shot.

  With the young man facing and shooting at him, Brad did not have time to adopt any fancy shoulder-high, sideways to the target position. Nor did he need to do so at close range. Instead he went into the instinctive-alignment combat crouch devised by the F.B.I. for use on such occasions. It was the short-range, maximum speed fighting position, useless when an enemy beyond about seven yards, but deadly effective up to that range when performed by a master.

  The young man from the garden stood just within the seven yards range. After his first shot missed, he triggered off a second which came so close that Brad felt a quick tug at his jacket sleeve. Although the man was swinging his gun towards Brad in an attempt to correct his aim, he touched off the shot an instant too soon. He fired his second shot almost as a reflex action to the first. Brad knew from the way the revolver moved, the next shot would hit him.

  Only the next shot fired came from Brad’s gun. The big automatic roared, its slide kicked back, ejecting an empty case and rode forward to feed another bullet into the chamber. Again Brad’s finger squeezed the trigger, but not as a wild reflex action. He checked the recoil’s kick, wrist locked rigid and acting as an extension of his eyes, keeping the automatic’s barrel pointed at the target and sending off another aimed shot.

  Struck in the chest by two .45 bullets, the young man was thrown backwards. His revolver fell from his hand as his legs struck the wall and he fell back into the garden. Even as the man started to go down, Brad saw two spreading dark stains on the white of the T-shirt’s left breast.

  Brad stood still for a moment, fighting down the revulsion which rose at his having to shoot at another human being. Yet he kept his automatic lined and ready for use, aimed at where a pair of motorcycle boots rose into the air from beyond the garden wall.

  A television western or detective hero faced with Brad’s problem would have blown the revolver out of the man’s hand with a well-placed shot; but Brad knew that such shooting did not exist beyond the walls of a film production lot. No man, even a master like Brad, could shoot the gun out of an enemy’s hand in the heat of a fight except by pure blind luck. Under the circumstances Brad had no choice but to shoot for effect, to knock the other man down before he could fire again, for the next shot would have hit him.

  If Brad had been using a lesser weapon than the .45 Colt Government Model automatic pistol, say a .38 Special snub-nosed revolver such as many a detective was forced by his departmental regulations to carry, the young man would have kept his feet long enough to send out another bullet. Brad’s insistence on putting up with carrying the automatic’s thirty-nine ounce weight on his person had been completely justified in that the gun saved his life.

  Although aware of the shooting along the street, Brad had seen nothing of it, for his full attention had centered on his own affairs.

  ‘Hold it!’ yelled a voice as Brad started to move towards the wall. Turning, the deputy saw that the patrolman faced towards him, still in the braced kneeling position and covering him while continuing, ‘Turn it and shout!’

  Brad did not blame the man for taking such a precaution. Allowing his automatic to pivot around on his trigger finger, so that the slide hung downwards and the muzzle pointed away from the R.P., he turned slowly so that the patrolman could see the badge on his lapel.

  ‘Counter, deputy sheriff!’ he called back.

  The sight of the badge and the fact that Brad clearly understood the order convinced the patrolman that he dealt with a bona fide member of the sheriff’s office, so he could relax and leave the handling of that part of the affair in capable hands.

  ‘Check that one, sir,’ the patrolman called. ‘I hit the other, but he winged my partner.’

  ‘Get him bad?’ asked Brad.

  ‘Not if his language’s anything to go on.’

  With that the patrolman swung away from Brad, rose and walked into the Beverly Arms’ grounds. Brad returned his automatic to the firing position and moved cautiously towards the wall. All the time he kept his attention on the pair of boots which rose so incongruously into view. Lights began to appear at windows in the Beverly Arms and surrounding buildings, and Brad wanted to make sure the man he shot could not make trouble should people begin to gather.

  Even as Brad swung himself over the wall, he heard the wail of sirens from four different directions and knew cars would be speeding towards George Terrace in answer either to a call from the driver of the R.P., or telephoned complaints from people in the vicinity.

  Brad ignored the sound and stood for a moment looking down at the body. Taking out his lighter, he flicked the wheel and used its flame to examine the man he shot. On being struck by the bullets and thrown backwards, the man had dropped his gun and lay with empty hands. Brad needed only one quick glance to know his attacker was dead.

  Shaking out the lighter, Brad returned it to his pocket, then holstered the Colt. Then he stood still for a moment. Taking another human being’s life did not come easy, nor was it a thing lightly cast off. The shape on the ground looked to be around twenty, with a sallow face, long hair and the dress of a motorcycle set member, one of the kind who hovered on the fringe of the underworld and did not work. Maybe he might have developed into a useful citizen, although few of his kind ever did. More likely that still shape on the ground would have gone on even deeper into a life of crime; and not brilliantly thought-out crime, but the type which relied upon brute force and violence to carry it through. Probably Brad had done no more than bring forward the young man’s death at the hands of the law—but the thought made the deputy feel no better.

  Seeing he could do nothing, Brad left the body lie as it fell. He turned, stepped over the wall and walked along the street towards the R.P. car. On his arrival, he found the driver leaning against the car’s door, seated using the microphone to send out a request for an ambulance.

  ‘How is it?’ Brad asked, waiting for the man to finish.

  ‘Hurts like hell,’ the driver replied. ‘Nicked the back of my neck. Just my lousy luck, I was due to start vacation next week. You’ll get plenty of help here soon. This’s a quiet division, we don’t get much excitement. Everybody’ll want to get into
the act.’

  The patrolman guessed correctly. Even as he finished speaking, the first of a quartet of supporting R.P. cars arrived on the scene. Brad left the wounded man to give his orders to the newcomers. First he sent the shotgun to attend to the wounded driver, then told the other member of the crew to keep everybody back from where his victim lay on the ground. As each car arrived, Brad set its crew to work, having the patrolman attend to holding back such citizens as chose to come out and investigate the cause of the shooting.

  With the basic duties attended to, Brad walked along the path. He ignored the questions thrown his way by various residents and left one of his men to prevent the people following him. Going to the side of the garage, he switched on the light over its doors. The patrolman knelt by a bleeding, still form which sprawled on its back among the bushes. Although shorter and stockier than Brad’s attacker, this one also bore the signs of belonging to the motorcycle set and a Webley revolver lay just ahead of him.

  ‘Can’t do much for him,’ the patrolman said, looking over his shoulder and trying to stop the bleeding, then he recognized the big deputy. ‘Hi, Brad. Clean forgot you cut in.’

  Recognition was mutual. Brad knew the patrolman to be another combat shooting enthusiast.

  ‘The meat wagon’s coming, Dex,’ he said. ‘What happened?’

  ‘We were cruising our watch when we saw the light was out. There’s been a few muggings up this way with the punks waiting for somebody to come home, then jump the victim as he gets out to open the garage doors. So the supers leave the lights on and if we see one out, we investigate. Afore I reached the gate, this punk started to throw lead. Missed me, and caught Starkey. Say, is he all right?’

  ‘Just nicked.’

  ‘Thought so. I heard him cursing pretty rough, that Starkey’s sure got an educated tongue.’

  Relief showed in Dex’s voice for he and his partner were good friends.

  An ambulance and a black D car arrived almost at the same time. While the car joined the police vehicles on the street, the ambulance entered the grounds and cruised to where Brad and Dex stood waiting. A white-coated M.E. jumped out and went to the wounded man, dropping to a knee beside him. Down by the gates, three men in civilian clothes climbed from the D car, one of them carrying a couple of cameras.

  ‘That’s Catlan,’ Dex remarked, jerking a thumb towards the tall man who spoke to the cameraman, pointing along the street. ‘Best go see him.’

  ‘Reckon so,’ Brad agreed.

  ‘Hi, Brad,’ greeted Lieutenant Catlan as the deputy walked up. ‘I thought that was your heap down the street. How come you’re mixed up in this?’

  ‘Just fortunate, I reckon,’ Brad replied.

  ‘What happened, Dex?’ the lieutenant went on.

  Quickly Dex told Catlan the story he gave Brad, finishing with, ‘Then the punk cut loose. Must have been lucky, he caught old Starkey there first crack. Hey, Starkey, you was real lucky he was only using one of them imported Webley .38s, or he might have hurt you.’

  ‘I got news for you,’ Starkey replied. ‘He did hurt me.’

  ‘G’wan!’ scoffed Dex. ‘You can't hurt anybody with less than a .357 Magnum.’

  Like Brad, Dex was a firm believer in the value of a heavy caliber handgun for defense purposes, although Brad felt the patrolman could not reach his full potential as a combat shot while he insisted on carrying a Smith & Wesson Model 21 .44 Special revolver. However, in the face of the evidence just seen, Dex had no cause to complain about the effectiveness of his choice.

  ‘If that punk hadn’t been wearing a white T-shirt and his coat open, he’d’ve been harder to see,’ Dex went on. ‘I saw the splash of color in the muzzle-blast.’

  ‘Reckon their luck was out all the way through,’ Catlan answered. ‘Even if you hadn’t seen them, they’d’ve jumped Brad as their victim.’

  ‘Sure pleased you came along, Dex,’ Brad stated. ‘I’ve had a rough few hours and didn’t want to do anything but hit the sack. Say, Bill, reckon I can go on in now? I’ll turn my report in tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Sure, Brad,’ Catlan agreed. ‘Say, how’s it going about T—’

  The words trailed off as Catlan stared down at Brad’s left sleeve. Following the direction of the other’s startled gaze, Brad saw that the jacket’s material had a gash in it. The young crook’s second bullet came so close that it slashed through the underside of the sleeve, between Brad’s arm and side, in passing and without his being aware of just how close his escape from injury had been.

  ‘Ruined a genuine Harris tweed jacket,’ Brad said slowly.

  ‘You must live right,’ breathed Catlan. ‘We’ll get the photographer to take a couple of shots of that gash. Just in case the Mirror starts its trigger-happy cop bit over the shootings.’

  ‘Be best,’ Brad agreed. ‘Although I should’ve maybe let him hit me twice before I shot back, so’s to prove that my life might be in danger.’

  ‘Don’t sound all bitter, there’s folks worse off than you,’ Catlan grinned. ‘I’ve a cousin working in P.R. He has to deal with the Mirror staff. Office never smells the same for days after they’ve been.’

  After taking the elementary precautions against abuses by the liberal-intellectual press, Brad collected his car and drove to the garage. Already the photographer had done his work there and the wounded crook was placed in the ambulance. Once a way was cleared, Brad drove the M.G. into the basement garage and parked it. He rode the elevator to the second floor and went to his apartment. Inside he cleaned his gun, changed the loads in his magazines, leaving the ones used that day empty to prevent metal fatigue ruining the feed springs, and reloaded spares. While that might strike some people as a lot of trouble, Brad did not regard it as such. The extra few minutes taken to rotate magazines could mean the continuance or failure of correct operation of his gun—and that meant the difference between life and death when a peace officer needed his weapon to save himself.

  Brad slept late the following morning. Rising, he took a shower, shaved and then cooked breakfast. While reading an account of the gunfight in the Daily Lightning, a thought struck Brad. The same thought had nagged him the previous night but he was too tired to examine it fully. Putting aside the paper, he rose and went to the telephone, dialed the office’s number and asked to speak with Joan Hilton.

  ‘We heard about it last night,’ Joan said when he mentioned the shooting.

  ‘How come?’ Brad asked.

  ‘Looks like mugging the law was in favor,’ Joan explained. ‘There were three gals waiting at the Chadwick Building and they hit Alice. We nailed two and the third got away. Then when we brought our catch in, Alice heard about the shooting at the Beverly Arms and stayed on until she heard you were all right. Have you tried calling her?’

  ‘I don’t know her home number.’

  ‘It’s Lasher 7630.’

  Hanging up, Brad dialed Alice’s number and let the phone at the other end ring for a time without result. Knowing that the girl kept her telephone in whichever room she was using, Brad decided Alice could not be at her apartment. He hung up his receiver for a moment, then took it off the hook again and called the office.

  ‘She’s not at home, Joan,’ he said. ‘Any idea where she might be?’

  ‘No, she didn’t call in and tell us,’ Joan replied. ‘She may have gone out to try to find that blonde she kept asking about last night.’

  A cold sensation hit Brad as he stared down into the mouth of the receiver. ‘What blonde was that?’ he asked.

  Sensing the worry in Brad’s voice, Joan told him everything that happened the previous night, including Alice’s questions about the third member of the attacking party.

  ‘It sounded like Alice knew the third one,’ Joan continued. ‘Only before we could work on it, Caldicott arrived and queered our pitch.’

  After hearing about Caldicott’s intervention, Brad felt even more certain that the two punks had not been waiting outside the Beverly Arm
s by chance. The feeling, nagging him since he got out of bed, grew more and more as he realized the implications behind the two attacks. Neither of the shot men had been Rosenthal, but looked the kind of company he would keep.

  ‘Check on those two punks for me, Joan,’ he said. ‘Try for a tie-in with Benny Rosenthal. Ask Craddock at R. and I. for details of Rosenthal’s past.’

  ‘I’ll see to it, Brad,’ Joan promised. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Just a hunch, Joan. Don’t try to reach me here. I’m hitting the streets and don’t know when I’ll be back. I’ll call in as often as I can.’

  ‘Sure, Brad,’ Joan answered.

  Brad put down the telephone and crossed the room. Strapping on his holster, he took up the gun, fed a magazine into the butt slot, jerked the cocking-slide to load a bullet into the chamber, set on the manual safety and slid the weapon into the holster. At the wardrobe he took out an undamaged jacket. Placing two loaded magazines into the special pocket built into the left side lining of the jacket, he left his apartment and rode the elevator to the basement.

  Collecting his car, Brad drove through the streets of Upton. Heights, winding higher until he reached Buenavista Avenue. He hoped he would reach the Blumfeld house before Alice arrived and confronted Marla.

  Fourteen

  Alice Fayde slept restlessly and fitfully all night. Ever since hearing of the gunfight outside the Beverly Arms, she felt sure that Marla Blumfeld had been responsible for the attack on herself and the presence of the two punks at Brad’s place. Having met Rosenthal, Alice doubted if he had stayed on the straight since his last term in prison and guessed that he still retained his old contacts. Rosenthal could gather the necessary help to make a try at Brad, might even have known how to contact Inez and Kathie; and Marla’s money would meet Caldicott’s fees.

  Yet Alice wondered what prompted the attacks. Certainly Rosenthal met with rough handling when he hit Brad, but the young chauffeur would have more sense than jump a peace officer for that, especially so soon after the event, when he would be the first suspect for the attack. Nor did she think that Marla would go to such extremes merely because Alice caught and twisted her arm—even though Alice knew she did use more force than absolutely necessary. The old hate between them still existed, but Marla would not jeopardize her future merely to take revenge on an old rival.