Jack The Roper (Axel Hatchett Mystery Book 6)

by Steven Nelson

  Jack The

  Roper

  Axel Hatchett Mystery Vol. 6

  Steven LeRoy Nelson

  BLOOD AND THUNDER PRESS

  Copyright © 2015 Steven LeRoy Nelson

  All rights reserved.

  BLOOD AND THUNDER PRESS

  3612 Sheffield Lane

  Colorado Springs, CO 80907

  www.bloodandthunderpress.com

  ISBN-10: 1940469058

  ISBN-13: 978-1-94046905-8

  To my little tongue and cheese sandwich.

  1

  I hate stakeouts. You can’t drink, smoke, show a light, or even make any noise. It’s kind of like being dead, I guess, except you still know what’s going on around you. But stakeouts are a big part of being a gumshoe. Sometimes I wish I had a more interesting job, like being a hotdog vender.

  This particular night I was earning a hundred bucks by sitting under a railroad bridge, eight o’clock on a nice mid-summer night. It was hard to believe that 1956 was more than half over already. I’d been hired to catch a kidnapper who would be showing up at ten to grab an envelope full of dough. Five-thousand smackers, to be exact. I’d wanted to get under the bridge early in case the punk who was picking up the money showed early to check the place out. Likely he’d show up right on time. All I had for company were a couple of dim streetlights, a trickling stream about a quarter of an inch deep, and the concrete pillar I was crouched behind.

  The hours crawled by. I got cramps in all my muscles. The sky grew gradually darker and a cool breeze blew under the bridge and threatened to get chilly. I checked the gun in my pocket more than once to make sure I could get to it in a hurry. The moon was behind some clouds, and I had only the dim yellow streetlights to see by. The gurgle of the tiny stream was just loud enough to make it hard to hear anything else.

  Around nine, a late passenger train passed over the bridge above me. If another one came along at ten, I wouldn’t be able to hear a damned thing. Fortunately, that didn’t happen. I kept looking at the luminous dial of my wristwatch. At almost exactly ten, I heard car tires crunching on the cinders that bordered the railroad tracks, but I couldn’t see headlights or hear the car’s engine. A minute later, I heard tentative footsteps and saw the beam of a flashlight.

  I peeked around my pillar. Old Miss Agnes Weatherby, my client, dressed in some kind of slacks and a sweater, was headed right for the rock. She pushed it aside with one foot, found the note, and read it by the glow of her flashlight. The bunny-napper’s ransom note had insisted that Miss Weatherby deliver the cash herself. She was paying out five-thousand clams for her kidnapped rabbit. You heard right, a bunny named Percy. I heard paper rustle, and figured Agnes was pushing the envelope full of money under the rock.

  “Mr. Hatchett!” she whispered, a little too loudly. “Mr. Hatchett, are you here?”

  Damn her, she was going to give me away.

  “Quiet!” I whispered back. “I’m right here. Go back to your car and drive home.”

  “Yes, yes, of course.”

  She made her way back up the steep bank and in a while I heard her car tires crunching on the cinders again. I had my gun in my hand now, and I was all ears, just like a bunny. It seemed like a good twenty minutes later that I heard footsteps again, much heavier than Agnes’s. The beam of a flashlight came on. I waited a moment then peered around my pillar again.

  Someone wearing dark clothes and a ski mask was fussing with the rock. I crept up behind him. When I was only a couple of feet away, damned if some drunken yokel in a noisy jalopy didn’t drive by on the road above. He let out some kind of cackle and the rabbit-napper in front of me straightened up and turned around. He saw me and I raised my gun. Too late; he was fast for a big guy. He swung his flashlight at my head and connected. It struck me just above my right ear, stunning me a little. Before I could recover, I got hit a second time, then a third.

  I fell to my knees and tried to keep from passing out. I succeeded, but the guy who’d hit me was already clambering up the bank. I was dizzy, and when I tried to give chase, I fell down again and landed in the stream. I got up and followed him up the bank, reaching the top just in time to see one taillight of a dark vehicle disappear into the night. Like a sap, I’d parked my car near a warehouse a couple of blocks from the bridge; I hadn’t wanted Percy’s abductor to see it. I climbed bank down the bank and checked out the rock where Miss Weatherby had left the money. The envelope was gone.

  By the time I got back to my car it was too late to give chase to Percy’s kidnapper. I’d thoroughly messed things up. I hadn’t caught whoever had taken the bunny; I’d let him get away with the five-thousand bucks, and I’d revealed that Agnes had hired a detective. That might make somebody mad. And Agnes might never see her rabbit again, which was my fault. On top of that, my head felt like a watermelon spiked with whiskey, and I had a fine collection of scrapes and bruises.

  I drove until I found a payphone and gave Tracy, my wife, a quick call. I always try to keep Tracy apprised of my activities. Well, most of the time anyway. She answered on the first ring.

  “Axe?”

  “Yeah, it’s me.”

  “Tell me you’re all right. You didn’t get shot again, did you?”

  “No, just sapped with a big flashlight a few times, and I’ve got some bruises to show you.”

  “Oh, no! A rabbit did that to you?”

  “Not a chance. I’m tougher than any rabbit. I’m even tougher than squirrels. The guy who came to pick up the ransom money roughed me up. I let him get away with Miss Weatherby’s money, and I didn’t even see what the guy looked like. He was wearing a ski mask. I just want you to know I’ll be on this case a little longer, but we’ll start our honeymoon on time. I promise.”

  “I believe you. Are you coming home?”

  “I want to call the old lady and tell her what’s up. She might want me to come over and talk to her. I’ll bet she’ll be mad.”

  “Don’t worry. Old ladies aren’t any tougher than squirrels.”

  “I hope that proves to be true. Listen, I’ve got to go. Don’t wait up for me.”

  “I will if I want to. Me and the kittens. Get some ice for your head when you get a chance. I love you, you clumsy gumshoe.”

  “Love you, too, my little tongue and cheese sandwich.”

  I hung up and dialed Agnes’s number.

  “Weatherby residence.”

  It was Agnes herself. She must have just got home.

  “Yeah, this is Axe Hatchett. I’ve got some bad news for you.”

  “You’ve found Percy? He’s dead?”

  She sounded frantic.

  “No, no, no! I haven’t seen hide nor hair of Percy. But whoever picked up the ransom money got away with it. He socked me with a flashlight. I didn’t even get a decent look at him. I made a hash of everything. Listen, I’m not through with this case. I’ll get the money back for you, and I’ll find your rabbit-napper. It’s going to take me some time, though. It might have to wait until I get back from my honeymoon.”

  She didn’t say anything for several seconds, and when she did, her voice was the temperature of dry ice.

  “Mr. Hatchett, do you mean to inform me that my money is gone and so is Percy’s abductor? You’ve been very careless. It would seem I should have hired someone else. Someone competent.”

  “It was just rotten luck, that’s all. I know what I’m doing. Trust me, everything will be fine.”

  “I doubt that. By the time your charming honeymoon is over, there will be no chance of getting to the bottom of things.”

  “I’ve still got a little time. Maybe tomorrow I can drop by your plac
e and grill your relatives. I might be able to figure out who took Percy and the money.”

  “Why don’t you come over now?”

  “It’s eleven o’clock at night.”

  “Everyone’s still awake here. They’re all night owls, I’m sorry to say.”

  “Don’t a couple of them work?”

  “Yes. Daisy and Margot, but they work the late shift at Sunny Sundown Rest Home.”

  “OK, I guess I can come over now.”

  “Do so, Mr. Hatchett. However, no one will want to talk to a detective. I’ll introduce you as my cousin, Miles. Can you remember that name? I’ll say you’re one of Geneva’s illegitimate children. She had several. Would that be all right?”

  “I guess. Just call me Miles. Won’t they catch on?”

  “Probably not. They drink a good deal at night.”

  “Swell. I’m on my way.”

  While I drove over to Miss Weatherby’s part of town, I thought about how this whole mess had gotten started. I’d been sitting in my office minding my own business for a change. I didn’t have anybody else’s business to mind. I looked out my dusty front window and saw a spanking new red convertible, a DeSoto, pull up to the curb. I smelled money. A tall old lady got out of the car and damned if she didn’t walk right in my door.

  “My dear Percy has been abducted,” she told me. She had a prim way of talking, almost like a limey.

  “Are you sure?” I asked. “Maybe Percy just got restless. Have you checked the nightclubs and the bowling alleys?”

  “No. Percy is an angora rabbit, black and white.”

  “I guess that lets out the nightclubs. Have you checked your hedges?”

  “Young man, you’re impertinent.”

  “Sorry.” Young man? I’m thirty-six, and I look and feel every year of it. Still. Miss Weatherby — that’s the name she gave me — must have been eighty.

  “I received a ransom note. The handwriting is atrocious, as is the grammar. I meant to bring the note with me, but I accidently left it at home. I am understandably flustered.”

  “Of course. My pet painted turtle once got lost under our calliope and I was a hopeless mess for a week.”

  She didn’t like that. I got the impression there wasn’t a whole lot she did like.

  “Listen,” I told her, “this doesn’t sound like it’s really in my line. Did you talk to the cops, or the dog catcher?”

  “I do not want the police involved. I wasn’t even going to hire a detective, but I talked with my brother-in-law, Primus Roan. I call him whenever I need good advice. He owns the dude ranch where you and your wife will be spending your honeymoon.”

  I was shocked. How the hell did this old lady know about me and Tracy’s honeymoon plans? Miss Weatherby must have noticed the sappy look on my mug.

  “Primus informed me that one of his clients — you — worked as a detective. Apparently, when you registered for reservations, you provided that information.”

  “Sure, the Carefree Buckaroo likes to know their guests have paying jobs.”

  “That’s only prudent. Anyway, he suggested I look you up.”

  “Even though he knew I’d be heading up to his ranch to start my honeymoon? He must think I can wrap this case up in a hurry.”

  “You mean you think otherwise? I have reason to fear that one of my own relatives has taken Percy. Most of them don’t work, and the ones who do are always wanting more money.”

  “I see. These blood-suckers live with you?”

  “Yes. Billy, Ned, Margot, Daisy, and Hester. They all live in my house.”

  “Cozy. So what exactly do you want me to do?”

  “Apprehend the kidnapper, and make certain I don’t lose my five-thousand dollars. Of course, Percy’s safety must come first.”

  Five thousand clams! For a bunny. I would have choked on my cigar if I’d been smoking one. The only reason I wasn’t puffing on a stogie was because my wife’s been giving me gentleman lessons. That’s what happens when you get married — the leash gets tighter and shorter.

  “You’re telling me that whichever of your deadbeat relatives swiped Percy is asking for five-thousand bucks for his return? Rita Hayworth isn’t worth that much. Well, maybe, if she’s wearing red.”

  “That is the amount named in the ransom note. I stopped off at the bank on my way here. I have the money in my purse. I want to make certain Percy is not harmed. It would be just like Margot to chop off Percy’s tail and mail it to me if I failed to cooperate.”

  “Margot sounds like a swell dame.”

  “Sometimes she forgets to take her medication. Margot and Daisy both work at the Sunny Sunset Retirement Home, but Margot has been talking about buying her own house, and Daisy wants a new car.”

  “Maybe they’re in it together.”

  “Possibly. Then there is Hester. She’s a clothes horse. She lives of off her boyfriends, who are legion. But Hester, poor girl, inherited the Weatherby nose, as well as the tendency towards rashes. Her gentlemen friends tend to be indigent.”

  I took a good gander at Miss Weatherby’s honker. It was — to put it nicely, which a softhearted mug like me is apt to do — built along generous and showy lines. There was also a purple rash on her cheeks showing through the face powder.

  “OK,” I said, “what about these Ned and Billy characters? Possible suspects?”

  “Oh, certainly. Ned has a war wound, he claims, and never works except for mowing my lawn. Billy gambles away the money I give him on horse and dog races.”

  “You mean races between a horse and a dog? I’d put my money on the horse.”

  “You are most facetious, Mr. Hatchett.”

  “Call me Axe. You’ll have to forgive my attitude. I’m feeling kind of playful since I’m about to go on my belated honeymoon.”

  “Yes. Congratulations. I hope your new wife isn’t one of these silly things who’ll run off with the first door-to-door salesman who has a Clark Gable mustache.”

  I bridled at that. “Tracy wouldn’t do anything of the sort. She doesn’t even like my mustache.”

  “Will you consider helping me or not? There are other private investigators in Quartz Quarry.”

  “They’re bums. They couldn’t find a fresh egg in a hen house. I’m your man, Miss Weatherby.”

  “How much will this cost me? I so hate talking about money.”

  “Sure, I know what you mean. I never talk about money except when I don’t have any, which is most of the time. Let me make sure I understand what you want, Miss Weatherby. Your idea is to pretend to go along with the bunny-napper’s demands and deliver the ransom. But then you’re hoping I can figure a way to catch the guy — or the gal — when they come to pick up the money. You want Percy back in one piece, of course. And you want your five-thousand smackers back in your bank account. On top of that, you want me to collar the deadbeat relative who swiped Percy in the first place. Is all that correct?”

  “Yes. Will you be able to do all that?”

  “I’m your man. I generally charge thirty-five bucks an hour plus expenses. How about an even hundred? Nobody else will do it for less. I’ll even throw in a free cigar.”

  “I do not smoke. One hundred dollars seems reasonable, if you do all the things I ask. I don’t want the police involved, and I don’t want any of my family members harmed. Agreed?”

  “I might have to sock somebody in the jaw, but I’ll be gentle. I’ll use my padded brass knuckles.”

  “I won’t hear of it. No rough stuff, as you detectives like to say.”

  “We’ve got ourselves a deal.”

  2

  I thought the case would be no harder than a sunny stroll along a flower-bordered country lane. I forgot that sometimes bulls get loose on country lanes.

  Miss Weatherby had given me her address and I found the house. One dim streetlight lit it up, and there was an even dimmer porch light. I parked the car — Tracy’s plain-as-a-mud-fence Chevy — and walked along the broken brick path that le
d to the old two-storied Victorian house. I rang the bell and in less than a day the door was opened by a pudgy guy eating a pickle.

  “You must be cousin Miles,” he said, in a voice that a bullfrog would admire.

  “Miles it is,” I said.

  I shook the hand that wasn’t holding the pickle and stepped into an entry hall with an overburdened coat rack, a pie-crust table with a doily, and an old distorted mirror that made me look like I was swallowing my own ear.

  “Name’s Billy. Say, what happened to your face? You get in a bar fight? Happens to me all the time.”

  “Naw. I’ve been staying at the YMCA. I decided to give some guy a few boxing lessons. Turns out he didn’t need them.”

  ”Your mom, Geneva, is my Aunt Cora’s stepsister,” the guy told me. “The others are in the dining room. We was just having us some dessert, and some hooch. You like lumpy chocolate cake, or cheap gin?”

  “I’ll take a rain check. I’m trying to watch my chorus girl figure.”

  Billy showed me into a crowded room with a long table covered in a stained, yellowish cloth, too many chairs, a big glassed-in buffet thing, and a cobwebby chandelier with three of its bulbs burned out. My new kinfolk were seated at the table, with Agnes at the head. There was a collapsed-looking cake with brown frosting, and a cut-glass decanter that was half-filled with what was likely the promised gin.

  “Cousin Miles,” said Miss Weatherby, her dentures bared in a smile as big as a hippo’s, “it’s so good to see you. My, how you’ve grown!”

  “Yeah. I was quite the little shaver the last time we met. I’m sure you’re glad to see I finally grew into my ears.”

  “Your teeth look excellent,” said a gangly dame of around thirty-five. She had stringy dark hair and was wearing a red cocktail dress and lots of cheap jewelry. Her dress said pricey hooker, but her eyes said you could buy her for a beer. “I have fine teeth myself. I don’t even have to brush them. My mouth is naturally clean, like a dog’s.”

  “This is Hester,” said Agnes. “She’s one of Rose and Roswell’s children. You remember them?”

  “Vaguely. It’s been awhile.”