by J. T. Edson
Which left a whole lot unexplained, although Brad knew better than go into the matter further. Bergen sold information to more than the police, as Brad knew, and had contacts in every major city of Texas. Just how much he knew about the killing would never come out. Possibly the man behind the killers made use of Bergen’s specialized talents to locate Farson. Then the informer decided to increase his take by fingering the two killers to the law. Maybe the organization had decided that Sleath and ‘Jackson’ were slipping and used Bergen to have the killers removed in a manner which would not arouse suspicion among others of their class in the mob.
Whatever the reason, no matter how Bergen came by his knowledge, Brad did not care. All that mattered was Bergen’s information leading Brad to the men who killed his partner.
‘Anything on Tom?’ Brad asked, watching Bergen’s face.
‘If anybody knows anything, they’re not talking.’
Nothing in the informer’s voice or attitude hinted that he lied. Brad felt willing to bet that Bergen had not connected the two killings.
‘Can we get inside?’ Alice asked.
‘Side door’s still open, I saw to that,’ answered Bergen. ‘Did I do all right by you, Mr. Counter?’
‘I’ll tell you better when we come out,’ Brad answered and slipped two ten dollar bills into the man’s hand. ‘See you, Izzy.’
‘You know where to find me,’ Bergen replied and faded off into the darkness.
Brad guessed he had gauged the right amount for the information. Of course, if Alice and he picked up the two men, and they proved to be worthwhile, Bergen would expect and receive a bonus for his services.
After Bergen left, Alice took up the car’s microphone, changed frequencies and called Central Control. Her call was relayed directly to McCall’s office and Alice quickly explained the situation to the watch commander.
‘Tell him I’m going in,’ Brad growled.
‘We’re going in, Mac,’ Alice corrected.
‘Give me five minutes if you can,’ McCall answered. ‘I’ll move in what cars I can from around you.’
‘Tell them no “Code Three”,’ Alice requested. ‘We want to bottle them in the warehouse, not take after them on the streets.’
‘I had thought of that,’ McCall replied dryly.
‘Sorry, Mac, I always talk too much when I’m scared.’
A low chuckle reached Alice’s ears. ‘My wife doesna need to be scared, lass. Five minutes if you can.’
‘Yo! Have the cars cover the entrances, but tell the crews not to come busting in if they hear shooting.’
‘I’ll tend to it and come down myself. Good luck. Over and out.’
The call had been overheard by the dispatcher and already she sent out messages which started four cars moving towards the warehouse, speeding in silence as Alice requested.
Leaving the car, Alice and Brad walked along a side street and halted by the warehouse’s glass-paneled door. While Alice checked on the time, Brad looked through the panel into the building. At that moment Brad blessed the Fire Department regulations which insisted that all such buildings be kept illuminated internally as an aid in case of fire. Although not well lit, the lights gave him a clear view of the inside of the building. Rows of stacked boxes covered the floor, split by lanes along which forklift trucks could maneuver. The door at which Brad stood lay about three-quarters of the way along the building and from where he stood, he could see a flight of iron stairs leading up to what appeared to be a checker’s office that overlooked the entire warehouse. A stronger light than the rest glowed in the office and a shape passed before its opaque window.
‘Let’s go,’ Alice breathed, checking that the five minutes had elapsed.
Gently Brad turned the door handle with his left hand; his right drew the big Colt as soon as she spoke. Easing the door open, he stepped inside and Alice, Cobra in hand, followed on his heels. Their plan of campaign was to move through the lanes of boxes and take cover where they could watch the stairs. Then when the two killers came down, get the drop on them with as little chance of retaliation as possible.
Only things went wrong.
Even as the deputies entered, the checking office’s door opened. Alice had closed the door and was just turning when she heard Brad’s low hiss and raised her eyes to the stairs.
Alice and Brad studied the two men who emerged from the office, comparing what they saw with the composite drawing produced by the police artist. The man they knew as ‘Jackson’ led the way, a suitcase in his hand, his topcoat over a suit and a fedora hat on his head; the artist had not done a bad job from the witnesses’ impression of ‘Jackson’. However, Sleath drew most of the deputies’ attention. A peaked uniform cap sat on his head and he wore a poorly fitting cadet-gray chauffeur’s uniform, the tunic open.
Darting cautious glances around, Sleath started to follow ‘Jackson’ down the stairs. Brad and Alice, fifty yards away, tried to get out of sight, but their movement caught the slim killer’s eye. Swinging around, Sleath sent his right hand stabbing under the tunic and fetched out the Smith & Wesson. The gun no longer bore its silencer and bellowed loud in the confines of the warehouse. Taken from a pointed fire position, the bullet passed between the two deputies.
Instantly Brad moved, left hand thrusting Alice to safety behind the nearest row of boxes, right raising his automatic Only Brad knew better than rely on a one-handed pointed fire aim at a distance of fifty yards. From shoving Alice to safety, the left hand carried on up, joining the right as it extended shoulder high. Using the double-handed technique devised by Sheriff Jack Weaver of Lancaster, California, Brad prepared to shoot. The Weaver stance had been perfected for just such a situation that Brad now faced and a trained man could take it fast.
Legs apart, body erect, arms extended, left hand supporting the right wrist, Brad took sight along the Colt’s barrel and touched off a shot. Fifty yards away, Sleath rocked under the impact of the bullet and a second, following on the speeding heels of the first, ripped into him. The powerful bullets flung Sleath backwards, his body striking the stairs’ guardrail and falling over, the gun dropping from his hand.
Dropping the suitcase he carried, ‘Jackson’ sprang down the stairs. Twice the big automatic crashed and each time the gunman felt the wind of the passing shots. Only luck and the speed with which he moved saved ‘Jackson’ during the short time he stayed in Brad’s sight. Then he passed from view behind the boxes, reached the foot of the stairs and hurled himself across the open space to the nearest cover. Halting by a stack of boxes on the edge of the wide central lane, ‘Jackson’ looked around him. Escape had been cut off from one door, but each side possessed a way out.
Even as ‘Jackson’ turned his eyes to the west entrance, he heard the hideous banshee wail of a police siren from outside. Before he could tear his eyes to the north wall, a similar sound rose there, and at south and east. Hearing the shots, the waiting cars gave notice of their presence, warning the criminal that he was surrounded. ‘Jackson’ glanced at the stairs and shook his head. A warped sense of chivalry prevented him from making use of the avenue of escape offered him in the office, even if he made it to the top of the stairs alive.
Almost before ‘Jackson’ went out of sight, Brad sprang into action. The big deputy bounded down the nearest lane, forgetting that he did not have the backing of Tom Cord. However, Alice showed her grasp of the situation. Swiftly she ran along the line of boxes and on reaching the last one peered around. No sign of ‘Jackson’, but she prepared to handle his appearance by taking up the barricade stance. Placing her left hand flat against the edge of the box, she allowed her thumb to extend beyond it. Swiftly she rested her right wrist in the shallow V the thumb and box formed. By moving her left foot until it almost touched the wall, and swinging her right leg back, Alice twisted her torso behind the cover, yet stood easily while exposing only the Cobra-filled right hand, left thumb and small portion of the right side of her head. While Alice had never fired
her gun at a human being, she knew just what to do and was prepared to do it.
Sprinting down the narrow lane, eyes alert for the first sign of danger, Brad felt a cold satisfaction. Ever since killing the young man outside the Beverly Arms, doubts had nagged at Brad. Could he have taken time for a more careful aim and wounded the punk instead of killing? Ought he to have challenged, given the other a chance to surrender? Although he knew the answer to both questions was ‘no’, the doubts remained. Going up against ‘Jackson’, a professional killer not a gun-crazy doped-up punk, ought to satisfy Brad’s misgivings.
Brad reached the central lane, stopping and peering around the corner. First he saw Sleath lying sprawled on the ground by the side of the stairs and knew he could discount the slim killer as a factor. Then Brad caught a glimpse of ‘Jackson’ as the man moved out to cross the lane at the stairs end.
Flame spurted from the gun ‘Jackson’ held, its lead kicking splinters from the box by Brad’s head. Following his training, Brad pumped two shots in return, driving ‘Jackson’ back into cover. In that brief moment Brad had seen ‘Jackson’s’ weapon and knew it to be an automatic similar in shape to his own, but, from its sound, of lighter caliber. Which meant the killer held either a Smith & Wesson 9-mm, a Colt Commander, a Browning P-35 or one of the other medium caliber models based on John Moses Browning’s design; most of which carried eight or nine bullets in the magazine, although the P-35 held thirteen. No matter which model automatic the man held, it gave him several more bullets than remained in Brad’s Government Model Colt.
With that in mind, Brad prepared to rectify the situation.
‘All right, Jackson!’ he shouted. ‘We’ve got you bottled in. Throw out the gun and come out with your hands raised.’
‘Come and get me!’ Jordan answered, the name ‘Jackson’ showing him where he made his first mistake.
‘We’ll do that too,’ Brad called back. ‘I’m asking for the last time. Come out with empty hands.’
‘Go to hell!’
Brad had never expected the man to surrender. With the electric chair waiting, unless his own organization silenced him before he could squeal on them, Jordan would not give up as long as a single chance of escape remained. However, the pause for conversation gave Brad his chance to make an adjustment in his armament.
Even as he called the first words, Brad took one of his spare magazines from the concealed pouch in his jacket. His right thumb pressed the automatic’s release stud and its magazine slid out into his waiting left hand. The instant the partially empty magazine slid clear, Brad thrust home the loaded reserve which had been gripped between thumb and forefinger of his left hand. Only a second elapsed, but at the end of that time Brad held a gun with eight bullets in it ready for use.
Suddenly Brad thrust himself into the open, darting across the lane towards the next higher gap at the far side, getting closer to where Jordan hid. Jordan’s pistol spat twice, the bullets missing Brad by inches and the big deputy fired once as he ran. Always a good scorer on the Mexican Defense Course—a test in which the shooter aimed at a line of six targets while running towards or parallel to them—Brad sent his lead close enough to prevent the killer taking a careful aim and so reached his next cover safety. However, Brad found that he still could not obtain a clear aim at Jordan.
Halting in his new position, Brad prepared to make another rush. While knowing how well Alice could handle a gun, he did not wish to leave her to face the killer; and at any moment Jordan might try to get by the girl as being safer than tangling with a man.
At the end of the lane, Jordan reached the same conclusion. Chivalry was all right in its place, but that place ended when one’s neck was at stake. He moved to the next box, hiding in a gap left by removing one stack, and cautiously advanced. Then he saw the little of Alice showing from her barricade stance position. His automatic cracked and the Cobra spat back, its bullet coming close enough to warn Jordan that the girl could handle her gun with some skill.
Swinging around, Jordan gave his thoughts to the main danger. With the big male deputy out of the way, he might be able to sneak around, grab the woman and use her as a hostage. The other cops would not burst in while the shooting went on, for they would be more hindrance than help to the two already inside.
Without his thinking about it, Jordan had counted Brad’s shots. Two cutting Sleath down, two more as he himself bounded for safety, a further pair on their first sight of each other along the lane, one more during his dash across the lane. Seven in all. The deputy used a Colt Government Model automatic, seven rounds in the magazine and one in the chamber. Which meant he had only one bullet left in his gun. Jordan figured the edge lay on his side.
Once more Brad burst into sight and Jordan exposed a little of himself to draw a shot, pumping a couple of bullets along the lane. The big automatic roared an answer to the challenge.
‘Eight!’ thought Jordan and sprang into the center of the lane.
Two things saved Brad at that moment: first, Jordan felt so sure he had the deputy at his mercy that he took his time; second, Brad’s superb speed of reaction. While Brad did not expect the man to appear, he could guess why Jordan took such a chance. However, Brad gave no thought to that. Skidding to a halt, he went into his combat crouch, the Colt lining and locking. Four times Brad squeezed the trigger, his bullets ripping into the chest of Tom Cord’s killer. The fourth bullet struck home before the first empty, ejected case landed on the floor.
Jordan went hurling backwards, his Browning clattering to the floor. Any one of the bullets would have been fatal, for they patterned in a three-inch group on the left side of his body. He crashed to the floor at the foot of the stairs, his back a hideous mess of shattered, splintered bone, torn flesh and oozing blood.
Moving forward, gun ready for use, Brad approached the dead killer. Suddenly lead ripped by his head and he heard the flat slap of a bullet breaking the air by his ear. From above him came the crack of a light caliber pistol. Instantly Brad looked upwards, starting to bring his Colt to the Weaver Stance, but he did not open fire on his attacker.
She stood at the head of the stairs; a mink coat covered an expensive travelling suit, a dainty hat perched on her immaculately coiffured blonde hair, make-up hid most of the fight damage on her face. In her left hand she held a pair of sunglasses—the right gripped the butt of a Colt Woodsman .22 automatic in a manner which showed she had an idea how to use it.
Again the gun spat and Brad felt a .22 Long Rifle bullet stir his hair in passing. Yet even to save his life he could not open fire on a woman.
‘Marla!’
The word, almost screamed, brought the blonde’s eyes and gun swinging in the speaker’s direction. Alice sprang from cover as she shouted, going into the Weaver Stance but not shooting. Savagely Marla pressed her gun’s trigger. Three times she fired down at Alice without a shot coming in return. The fourth bullet struck just ahead of Alice, ricocheting up between her spread-apart legs and ripping her skirt without touching flesh. All the shots had come close to Alice, but the last warned her she must do something. Taking aim, she touched off two shots, riding the wicked kick of the lightweight Cobra and sighting the second bullet before releasing it.
Marla jerked as lead struck her, tried to re-align her gun, failed and let it sag towards the floor. Then her legs buckled, she staggered, went over the top step and pitched down the entire flight. Landing on the floor, she lay sprawled out, her blonde hair mingling with Jordan’s spreading blood.
‘Alice!’ Brad said, swinging towards her. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Sh-she never touched me,’ Alice replied, her legs feeling suddenly weak. ‘Get the men in, Brad. I—’
At which point Alice slipped to the floor in a faint.
Eighteen
Marla Blumfeld lived for two days, with doctors fighting to save her. On the second morning, she recovered enough to speak and asked for Alice to be brought to see her. It seemed that Marla wanted to try to strai
ghten out her tangled life and Alice found a pallid, haggard Blumfeld at the hospital when she arrived, Weems, as imperturbable as ever by his master’s side.
Lying on the bed, her face drawn and pale, Marla looked from Alice to the police stenographer who sat in the corner of the room.
‘Hello, Alice,’ she greeted weakly. ‘It’s strange how life goes. That it should be you who—’
‘I’d like to say I’m sorry, Marla,’ Alice replied. ‘But it was through you that Uncle Tom died.’
‘I know,’ Marla admitted. ‘Lord. What a stinking mess I made of my life. Marla Bixby, the girl who was going to be somebody, who would take Hollywood and shake it until it rattled.’
Slowly the story came out. Despite her mother’s hopes, Marla never made the grade in Hollywood. Her screen tests showed that she possessed little talent, and at that time a beautiful body was not a passport to film stardom. All her mother’s money went in a vain attempt to establish Marla, or even get her started, then a car crash left the girl alone and broke. Although the film industry had no use for Marla, she found her beautiful body opened the door into another branch of the entertainment business. Not a high-class branch at the level she joined, but one which at least kept her fed. Marla became a stripper on one of the cheaper circuits.
During one of her shows, she met Tommy Farson and married him. Not until after their wedding did she learn that he was a high-power, working with a stick-up mob. At that time Farson’s luck ran high and Marla lived well. Although she took no part in his criminal activities, she met many of his underworld contacts; including a man who proved useful in later years. The first rosy flush of the marriage had worn off when Farson’s luck ran out and a Texas judge sent him to the Walls for seven years—by a coincidence it had been in Gusher City where the law laid hands on him—and Marla had been pleased to see him out of her life.