by J. T. Edson
Even knowing the city as well as she did, Alice could not remember the name of every middle-rent place; and Brad, a comparative newcomer, knew only a few, none of them of temperance persuasion. However, Rockabye County maintained a highly efficient department to supply the law-enforcement officers with such information.
Taking up the car’s microphone, Alice called Central Control and requested that Records and Identification be asked to send a list of middle-rent hotels and rooming houses. Normally she would have telephoned for the details, but time did not allow her to follow normal channels.
‘Jack told me he couldn’t hold the stake-outs much longer,’ she explained. ‘So we’d best hurry and come up with some lead, Brad, or he’ll have to cancel the close-off and put the men back on normal duty.’
‘Sure, Alice. Let’s hope we get a lead.’
‘Know something, Brad? I think they’re still in the city.’ After studying Sleath’s record card—from the F.B.I. files, Speedphoto’ed to I.C.R. in Austin and flown to Gusher City—Alice felt even more certain that Brad called the play right when he claimed that professional killers shot her uncle. Such men worked from an efficient criminal organization which covered every aspect and detail when sending men out on a contract.
Having reached her decision, a thought began to nag at Alice. With such an organization behind them, why had Sleath and ‘Jackson’ committed the blunder of booking seats on a flight out of the city? The killers would know how quickly the law moved when a peace officer was killed, yet they made for the airport; one of the first places to be covered by the law. Of course Alice knew that sooner or later every criminal made a slip, but she felt curious as to why two obviously experienced men would make such an elementary mistake.
For almost three hours they combed the city, following the list sent out by R. and I., visiting hotels and rooming houses and showing the composite drawing and mug shots of the wanted men, but without results. A shooting was reported in Evans Hill, but on calling in to Central Control Alice learned that Rafferty and Chu had gone to handle the investigation.
‘And that’s the last of the list,’ Brad remarked as they left a rooming house soon after the shooting call. ‘What now, the flea-belt?’
‘I’d go for the more expensive places,’ Alice answered. ‘We could—’
‘Cen-Con to Unit SO 12,’ interrupted the dispatcher’s voice.
Taking up the microphone, Alice replied, ‘Unit SO 12 by.’
‘Go “Code Three” to 79A Dannert Street, Evans Hill Division. “Code One”?’
‘Roger, over and out.’
Even before Alice finished speaking, Brad reached out a hand to switch on the car’s red light, then he jabbed the siren button and the Oldsmobile picked up speed, following the dispatcher’s orders to treat the call as an emergency.
Racing across town, with siren screaming and red light flashing its warning, Brad slid through the traffic towards the address given by the dispatcher. Situated on the fringe of Evans Hill, 79A Dannert Street proved to be an apartment house of the cheaper type. The usual crowd stood around outside and several official vehicles parked along the street before the building.
Alice and Brad left the Oldsmobile with the other cars, identified themselves to the patrolman on the door and entered the building. A small knot of people who lived in the house, a couple of reporters and a pair of patrolmen stood around in the hall, but the deputies ignored them. Going up to the first floor, Alice and Brad went along the passage and were admitted to the death room.
Nothing had been moved and a photographer worked at recording the scene of the crime. The victim lay just inside the door; a medium-sized, stocky man in his early thirties, wearing a pair of dark blue slacks and a white shirt. There were three holes in the front of the shirt; large holes from which the blood had now ceased to pump.
‘Alice, Brad,’ Rafferty greeted, coming forward. ‘Thought you’d want to be in on this.’
‘Why, Mick?’ Alice asked.
‘It sounds like the two you want did the killing.’
Alice and Brad exchanged glances, then turned their attention back to Rafferty. However, from the bulky deputy, Brad dropped his gaze to the holes in the shirt. Even with the clotting of blood, the size of the holes was plainly apparent. Brad knew plenty about firearms, including enough of the damage a bullet inflicted to know that no small or medium caliber weapon—from .22 up to .38 Special—inflicted the wounds. No sir, the big, angry holes came as a result of the passage of a large caliber bullet. Three large caliber bullets, any one of which would have been fatal.
‘Sure wanted him dead,’ Brad remarked.
‘That’s what they’re paid for,’ Alice pointed out.
‘Sure,’ agreed Brad. ‘Only three .45 bullets are a tolerable heap of lead to sink into a man, especially when one would kill him.’
‘Can I start work?’ Tom Chu asked from the bed, directing his question to the photographer.
‘Feel free,’ answered the technician. ‘I’m done here.’
Taking up the coat which lay on a chair, Tom started to empty its pockets and list the contents. On removing the wallet, he called Brad over to double check on it. Alice stood at the door with Rafferty and her eyes went around the room. It was a normally furnished place for its type. A belted trench coat and fedora hat hung on the outside pegs of the wardrobe and a brown suitcase rested on top.
‘How'd you know who killed him?’ she asked.
‘An old guy along the hall was coming out of his room when he saw two jaspers at this door. One of them, the taller, slimmer, had a revolver with a silencer on its barrel. Fanned three shots into the victim. Then the other, he fits ‘Jackson’s’ description, closed the door and they walked away! The old guy ducked back before they saw him, which’s lucky for him, then waited until he was well sure that they’d gone and came down to call us in. We’ve put a general call out for them and we thought we’d best get you over here.’
‘I’m pleased you did,’ Alice told him. ‘Who’s the victim?’
‘Registered under the name of Thomas Flowers, came in yesterday morning.’
‘Is he Thomas Flowers?’ asked Alice, noticing the emphasis Rafferty placed on the first word.
‘Not unless my eyes are going bad on me. I make him Tommy Farson, a high-power we put away for seven on an 1163. Thought he was safe in the Walls for another two years at least. I called the office and asked them to check on whether the governor of the Walls knows old Tommy’s out.’
‘We’d’ve heard if he’d broke out,’ Alice objected.
A knock at the door interrupted any further discussion and a patrolman looked into the room. ‘Cen-Con just called,’ he said. ‘They checked Farson, he was released from the Clemmens Unit on Sunday at noon and given a railroad ticket to Gusher City.’
Brad shot across the room, halting before the startled patrolman after almost knocking Rafferty and Alice over. ‘Say that again!’ he snapped.
‘Have you flipped, Brad?’ Rafferty growled.
‘Which unit did you say?’ Brad repeated to the patrolman, ignoring Rafferty’s question.
‘The Clemmens Unit,’ answered the patrolman. ‘He was paroled out ’
The words fell on deaf ears for Brad had already swung towards Alice. One look at her face told Brad she followed his line of thought. The Clemmens Unit was a prison farm based at Brazoria.
‘It’s coincidence,’ Alice breathed, in a tone which meant ‘it must be coincidence, it can’t be anything else’.
Turning, Brad crossed the room and pointed to the hat and coat, then at the suitcase. ‘Look at them, Alice. Tom was wearing a belted trench coat and a hat like that—’
‘And carrying a suitcase!’ Alice breathed. ‘If Farson left Brazoria on the westbound, he’d reach Gusher City at nine-fifty.’
‘Only he didn’t come out of the depot,’ Brad finished. ‘Tom walked out.’
‘And the killers cut down the wrong man,’ Rafferty growled. ‘
There’s no wonder we couldn’t find anybody with a motive.’
‘It explains everything,’ Alice said. ‘Why the killers chanced booking a flight out. They never expected us to move so quickly when it was an ex-con they hit, or thought they hit. But why didn’t Farson come off the train?’
‘He’s pretty flush with money,’ Brad answered. ‘And there’s a bus ticket in his wallet, it’s from Langtry. He must have dropped off there to pick up some cash before coming to town.’
Rafferty scratched his head. ‘Which don’t explain to me how the killers knew what train to wait for or how Farson was dressed.’
‘Somebody from Gusher City drove down to Brazoria, watched Farson come out and telephoned a description,’ Brad explained. ‘Only the description fitted two men and the wrong one walked out of the depot.’
‘Does that somebody have a name?’ Chu asked.
‘Yeah, Tommy,’ Brad replied, an alum-bitter smile playing on his lips. ‘He has a name. I know—Hell fire! I clean forgot to—’
Without another word Brad turned and dashed from the room. Bounding down the stairs three at a time, he regained control of himself just before he came into sight of the hall. A place like 79A Dannert Street did not offer the luxury of a telephone in every apartment, instead a communal instrument hung on the wall by the door. Brad did not want to make his call in public, but guessed that the building’s superintendent had a private telephone in his room.
‘Who’s the super?’ he asked and a short, bald man stepped forward. ‘I’d like to use your telephone, sir.’
‘There’s one—’ the super began.
‘A private phone,’ Brad cut in.
Something in the big deputy’s voice warned the man not to make difficulties. Turning, the super led Brad to his apartment, opened the door and allowed the deputy to enter.
Taking up the telephone, Brad dialed D.M.V.’s number at Headquarters and said, ‘Deputy Counter. Make the license of a ’58 Dodge hardtop owned by Ben Rosenthal for me. He was working at the Blumfeld place on Beaunavista Avenue. R. and I. will have his home address. When you get the number, have it put out as a general and notify surrounding counties. Sure, I want him picked up. Can do it? Thanks.’
Hanging up the telephone, Brad cursed himself for not having made the call much earlier. Rosenthal’s flight proved his guilt in the matter of the abortive attempt to ambush Brad, but the deputy wanted the Blumfeld’s chauffeur for another reason. Unless Brad was sadly mistaken, Rosenthal’s description of the newly released Tommy Farson brought about Tom Cord’s death.
‘Did you know Farson?’ Brad asked the super.
‘Who?’ yelped the man.
‘Flowers.’
‘Naw! He come here ’cause we had an “Apartment Vacant” sign out. Paid the rent in advance, which’s all I ask.’
‘Did he have any visitors?’
‘None that I know about.’
‘Make any calls?’
A shifty glint came into the super’s eyes and he dropped his voice even though he had closed the door on entering the apartment. ‘Wouldn’t want it to get no further. Folks might think I snooped on ’em. Only this ain’t the best built place in town and—’
‘Get to it,’ Brad growled.
‘Well, I just happened to hear him talking on the phone to some doll.’
‘Did he mention her name?’
‘Naw.’
‘Then how—?’ asked Brad.
‘Easy enough. He said something like “You come on down here, honey-baby, and we’ll talk things out.” Now does that sound like he was talking to a man?’
‘Reckon not. When was this?’
‘Early this afternoon, maybe around three time,’ the super answered. ‘Say, there ain’t anything in this, is there? I mean like newspaper stories?’
‘There may be, only don’t try to peddle them your life story.’
‘Smart-alec cop—’ sniffed the super as Brad turned and walked out of the room. ‘Never even paid me for the use of the phone.’
Up in the death room Alice, Rafferty and Chu stared after the departing Brad. At last Rafferty gave a sigh.
‘He was never like that until he started working with a woman.’
‘Just for that, Mick Rafferty,’ Alice answered, ‘I won’t marry you ever.’
It had become a standing joke for Rafferty to ask Alice to marry him at least once a day, disregarding the fact that he already possessed a wife and three children to whom he was devoted.
‘Then there is hope for humble Oriental fuzz,’ grinned Tommy Chu, sounding and looking like a ‘B’ movie Chinese detective.
‘What’s this all about, Alice?’ asked Rafferty, becoming serious once more.
‘It’s the break we wanted,’ she replied. ‘I can’t go too far yet, Mick, but I know why Uncle Tom was killed. I don’t know why she wanted Farson dead though.’
‘She?’ prompted Rafferty.
‘Let’s give this room a good turn over,’ Alice suggested, ignoring the question. ‘We might be wasting our time, but it’s worth a try.’
Alice went to where the suitcase now lay open upon the bed. It was empty, but that did not stop her bending down and examining the bottom lining.
‘Something?’ asked Rafferty, seeing her tense slightly as she ducked her head down into the case.
‘I think so. Loan me a knife one of you guys.’
Taking a switchblade knife from his pocket, Chu flicked out the blade and passed it hilt-first to Alice. Working carefully, she started to cut through the lining at the bottom of the case. It took time and Brad returned before she finished opening up a false bottom to the case. Under the flap of leather she found a large envelope and took it out.
‘What’s that?’ Brad asked as she tipped out the envelope’s contents.
‘A marriage certificate and photograph,’ Alice replied, turning the items over. ‘Thomas James Farson and Martha Lar—’
Her voice died away as if she had been struck dumb. Even though she suspected what she would find, on seeing the certificate, it still came as a shock to have her suspicions proved correct. Taking the certificate from Alice’s limp and unresisting fingers, Brad turned them so he could take a closer look. The certificate covered the picture, obscuring the details on its surface.
‘Thomas Farson and Martha Larraine Bixby,’ he read, wondering why the names should affect Alice as they did.
Taking the certificate away, Brad looked down at the photograph and a low exclamation left his lips. It was a glossy print of the dead man when younger and clearly enjoying life. He stood facing the camera, a broad grin on his face and a beautiful girl on his arm.
Although the girl had shoulder long hair done in a peek-a-boo style over the left eye, and stood laughing as she pointed to a thin ring on her left hand’s third finger, Brad recognized her. Only now the hair was much shorter—and she wore another man’s wedding ring.
‘Let’s go pick her up, Brad,’ Alice said flatly.
‘You?’ he asked.
‘I can do it—now.’
Before they reached the door, the patrolman who brought the last message appeared again.
‘Deputy McCall’s on the phone. He wants to speak to Fayde and Counter.’
‘Now what?’ Alice asked.
‘Best way to find out’d be go and see,’ Brad replied.
On reaching the superintendent’s room, Alice took up the receiver and heard McCall’s Scottish burr over the wires. ‘Alice, tell Brad his Uncle Pete just called in and wants him to get over to the Tex-Mex Importing Company warehouse on Beale Street. Says there’s a couple of rats inside.’
‘Tell Mac we’re on our way and ask him to stand by with help,’ Brad said when Alice passed on the message.
He had no Uncle Pete, but Izzy Bergen always used that name when calling the office to contact Tom Cord and pass on information.
Seventeen
Despite the urgent nature of their business, Brad did not use the siren or red l
ight while driving the short distance from Dannert Street to the Beale Street business section. Bergen’s message implied that two badly wanted men were in the warehouse and they might be scared off if they heard a police car’s siren.
‘I wonder who they are,’ Alice said as Brad cut the speeding Oldsmobile through the traffic.
‘Maybe Bergen’s just trying me out,’ Brad replied. ‘They could be anybody.’
Alice nodded her agreement. An informer learning something he could sell looked for the most profitable market. If Bergen learned anything that came under the sheriff’s office jurisdiction, he would, with Tom Cord dead, contact Brad. Like all Tom’s informers, Bergen probably wondered what kind of remuneration he could expect from his new employer and took the first opportunity to find out.
Slowing down the car as he entered Beale Street, Brad saw Bergen step momentarily into the light of a street lamp, then fade off into the shadows again. Brad waited until his car passed through the light before stopping. Climbing out, he walked around and leaned on the right side of the car, waiting for Bergen to come to him.
‘Got a hot one, Mr. Counter,’ the informer said. ‘Two pistols fresh from a hit.’
Nothing Bergen could have said would arouse Brad’s interest as much as that short speech. There had only been one hit, killing, in Gusher City that day and Brad was very interested in finding the men who did it. However, he knew better than let his interest and eagerness show.
‘I need more than that,’ he commented.
In the car, Alice listened and smiled. Having seen her uncle handle an informer she recognized the technique. Brad appeared to have learned his lessons well.
‘Sure,’ Bergen answered. ‘I got word that there was a contract out on Tommy Farson, only thought it was a bum steer, him being in stir. Then damn me if I don’t hear he’s out and around town. So I go over there and stake out his pad. Saw the two pistols arrive. They’re from the East, I’ve heard of them although they’ve never worked this part of Texas before. Saw them go in and come out and tailed them. They split up, I went after the thin guy. He led me here and as far as I know they’re still inside.’