The Bullwhip Breed

by J. T. Edson

  “You—You’re hurting, Calam!” Jacqueline gasped.

  Only with an effort could Calamity open her fingers. She realised that she lay on her back, her head resting on Jacqueline’s knees. Beyond Jacqueline stood Redon and another of the policemen—and to one side, stretched out upon the ground with his wrists secured by handcuffs, even though he would not be going anywhere for a spell, lay Cope.

  Calamity stiffened, then fought down a momentary panic and hint of hysteria as she looked at the man and remembered his hate-filled face with the mad eyes glaring at her. Determined not to go ‘woman’, have hysterics in front of her friends, Calamity fought for and gained control of herself.

  “I’m sorry, Jackie,” she said and raised a hand to touch her throat.

  Stepping forward, Redon helped Calamity to her feet, keeping a hand on her arm and steadying her. Something of the old Calamity grin came to her face as she watched Jacqueline rise and saw the worried expressions on the two policemen’s faces.

  “Danged if that coloured water we’ve been drinking wasn’t stronger’n I thought,” she said. “It’s sure rough on a lil country gal like me, that’s not used to drinking it.”

  “It sure is,” grinned the second policeman. “Why, anybody’d think you’d fainted had they seen you.”

  More feet approached, but again it proved to be friends who arrived. Redon nodded to the remainder of the escort as they came up.

  “You got him!” one said.

  “Yeah. Did the noise attract any attention?”

  “None as we noticed, Raoul,” the other policeman replied and glanced at the groaning man on the ground. “Did he say anything, Calam?”

  “Let us not stand discussing it,” Redon put in before Calamity could reply. “Let’s get this feller to the station house. If folks hear we’ve nailed the Strangler, we’ll have bad trouble on our hands. Feelings are high about him.”

  “You’re right about that,” Calamity agreed. “I saw a lynch mob one time in Butte. It grew from nothing to—well, I don’t never want to see another.”

  She did not mention that the lynching was prevented by prompt action taken by a bunch of really efficient lawmen, but doubted if the New Orleans police would have the equipment or ability to halt a mob. Sure St. Andre and his boys were tough and real handy in their own way, but it took gun-skill to handle a mob filled with hate and the desire to shed the blood of a killer.

  “Are you sure he didn’t hurt you, Calam?” asked Jacqueline gently.

  “Not as much as you did last night, gal.”

  “You didn’t give him enough time,” remarked Redon dryly. “Get him on his feet. The Chief of Police’ll be pleased to see the Strangler.”

  “If it’s the Strangler we caught,” said Calamity.

  All eyes turned first to Calamity, then swung in the direction of the groaning man on the ground. One of the escort swung back to face Calamity and nodded to her as she reached up to touch her throat with delicate fingers.

  “How’d you mean, Calamity?” the man asked. “This feller tried to strangle you, didn’t he?”

  “Sure he did. With his bare hands,” she answered. “Way I heard it, the others were all killed with a rope.”

  “Maybe he didn’t have the cord with him tonight,” Redon suggested.

  “Could b—,” began Calamity, then stopped talldng as her range-trained ears caught some sounds the others missed. “Quick, somebody’s coming. Get him on his feet and hid among you. Then make like you’re all drunk.”

  Without arguing or wasting time, two of Redon’s men grabbed the groaning Cope and hoisted him to his feet. Calamity, Jac4ueline and the remaining pair of detectives bunched around Cope, hiding him from view. Two men and two street-girls came into sight, walking arm in arm along the path.

  “Poor ole Charlie,” Calamity said, in a fair impersonation of a whisky-loaded voice. “Reckon that last drink was too much for him.”

  “We’d best get him home,” Redon answered, sounding just as convincing. “He sure sounds awful.”

  Suddenly Cope recovered enough to stop groaning and begin struggling, letting out a mouthful of curses and trying to free himself from the handcuffs. The detectives gripped his arms, but could do little or nothing about his voice. However, they did not need to worry about the passing party interfering. Taking a look at the apparently drunken group, one of the street-girls gave a warning.

  “The law’ll be here soon. Let’s get going.”

  Having no wish to be involved with the police, the girls’ escorts hurried them by the swaying, rowdy group and along a path. Not one of the quartet realised they passed a group of law enforcement officers and a prisoner—perhaps even the Strangler himself—but took the others as being drunks liable to attract the attention of the police. Without a backward glance, the party hurried off and Redon stepped clear of his men, letting out a sigh and wiping his brow.

  “All right,” he said. “Let’s get out of here. This’ll make me old afore my time.”

  Keeping around Cope so as to prevent the fact that he wore handcuffs showing, the policemen started to walk him along the path towards the Latour Street entrance to City Park. Calamity and Jacqueline went along, adding their voices to the drunken song raised by the men to drown the struggling, raving Cope’s tones.

  “If he keeps this up, he’ll bring the patrolman on the beat down on us,” Redon remarked. “I’ll have to quieten him.”

  “Do it easy,” Calamity replied. “I’m still not sure we got the right man.”

  “Know something, Calam,” Redon answered. “Neither am I.”

  On reaching the edge of the Park, Cope quietened down. Sending one of the men to find a couple of cabs, Redon kept the others in a group around their prisoner. Rowdy parties had never been so rare around the Latour Street district that they attracted any attention. Even the passing beat patrolmen gave the group no more than a glance before continuing on his way.

  “We’ll go straight to Headquarters,” Redon decided when the cabs arrived. “You girls go in the second cab with Pete, the rest of us’ll take Cope in the first. I won’t be sorry to get him clear of here.”

  “What was it like, Calam?” Jacqueline asked as they sat in the cab and were carried towards the Police Headquarters.

  “Bad, real bad!” Calarmity answered and reached for the dancer’s hands. “Let me handle it alone, Jackie gal.”

  “No!”

  “Know something, you awkward little cuss. That’s just what I thought you’d say. Only we’ll have to make sure the boys get there quicker next time.”

  “Next time?” Jackie gasped. “But I thought—.”

  “I don’t. This whole thing sits wrong with me,” Calamity interrupted. “If he is the Strangler, why’d he change the way killed? And why’d he chance making so much noise?”

  On arrival at Headquarters, St. Andre expressed the same sentiments. Cope had sunk into sullen silence and steadfastly refused to answer any questions.

  “Take him downstairs and keep him by himself,” St. Andre ordered. “Then go to the riverfront and ask around the ocean-going ships, see if you can find where he came from.”

  The interview had been held in the Captain of Detective’s office and St. Andre returned to his own room where Calamity and Jacqueline sat waiting for him.

  “I think you’re right, Calam,” he said, his voice showing disappointment. “He’s not the Strangler.”

  “Do you want us to try again tonight?” Calamity asked.

  “No.”

  “We’ll be out tomorrow then. And don’t trying arguing, me ‘n’ Jackie here’ve made up our minds.”

  “All right. Tomorrow night then. Only this time I’ll make sure the escort—.”

  “The boys did their best,” Calamity interrupted. “Let’s go, Jackie.”

  St. Andre escorted the girls to the front entrance of the building. After handing Jacqueline into the waiting cab, he turned to Calamity and took her hands in his.

&nbs
p; “You took a risk. I don’t know how I can ever thank you, cherie.”

  “Just come ‘round to my place some time and we’ll call each other liars,” Calamity replied. “Goodnight, Sherry. Maybe we’ll have better luck next time.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Miss Canary Learns How It Is Done

  CALAMITY attracted some considerable interest when she strolled into the Police Headquarters building on the morning after the attempt on her life. The usual bunch of loungers in the main hall cast glances in her direction, for none of them were used to seeing a young woman dressed in trousers—especially tight-fitting pants such as Calamity wore. One of the girl’s escort from the previous night came from where he had been sitting and nodded a greeting to her, then led her upstairs.

  “Who’s that?” asked one of the men to the desk sergeant.

  “One of St. Andre’s,” the sergeant answered. “Not as fancy as some who’ve come to see him, but I bet she’d be a whole heap more woman.”

  Even had he wished to, the desk sergeant could not have given out the true reason for Calamity’s visit. St. Andre insisted that only the people directly involved with the decoy job knew about it, for he did not wish word of his plan to leak out. Luckily for the scheme, young ladies visiting the handsome detective lieutenant had become common enough a sight not to attract any attention around Headquarters.

  From the expression on her escort’s face, Calamity guessed that their work of the previous night had not been entirely crowned with success. However, there were too many people on the stairs for a detailed discussion of the matter and Calamity reached the door of St. Andre’s office knowing no more than when she entered the building. She knocked on the door, opened it and entered, coming to a halt as she saw St. Andre had a visitor.

  “Sorry, Sh—Lootenant,” she said. “They didn’t say you had company.”

  “That’s all right, Calam,” St. Andre answered. “Come on in. This’s Captain Holgate of the China Star. Captain, this is Miss Canary, the young woman who helped capture Cope last night.”

  Calamity looked at Holgate. A peaked hat sat on the man’s head, his face had a weather-beaten look about it and bore an air of command. He wore a blue broadcloth uniform jacket of a kind Calamity had never seen before, white trousers and well-polished boots. In height Holgate would almost equal Dobe Killem, though not quite so heavily built. Calamity took a liking to the man on sight, figuring he would be a good friend, but a real bad enemy.

  “Howdy, Cap’n,” she greeted, then looked at St. Andre. “Is Cope the Strangler, Sherry?”

  “No,” replied St. Andre, his voice bitter.

  “Got to figuring that after he grabbed me,” the girl admitted, walking forward and perching herself on the edge of St. Andre’s desk. “He made too much noise and didn’t use that cord.”

  “He also only docked late yesterday afternoon after a two year trip on the China Star,” St. Andre went on, accepting a cigar from the case Holgate held out. “I wish it had been Cope. At least we would have the Strangler under lock and key now. But Cope hasn’t been in this country for two years.”

  “Which same couldn’t’ve been him that killed the other girls then,” Calamity remarked. “But why in hell did he jump me last night?”

  “I can answer that, Miss—,” Holgate said.

  “Make it Calam, like everybody does,” the girl told him, eyeing the cigar case as its owner extracted a weed and hoping he would offer her one.

  Captain Holgate proved irresponsive to thought suggestions, for he did not catch Calamity’s mental message and hand over his case for her to accept a cigar. Taking his seat, from which he rose when Calamity entered, the captain lit his cigar and looked at the girl through the smoke. Suddenly recalling his manners, he gave a guilty start and looked down at the smoking cigar between his fingers.

  “I’m sorry, Miss—Calam—,” he said. “Does the smoke bother you?”

  “Only when I’m the only one not doing it,” she answered.

  With a grin, and a knowing wink at St. Andre, Holgate passed his cigar-case to the girl. His entire attitude was one of male superiority as he prepared to call Calamity’s bluff. Knowing her better, St. Andre could have warned Holgate that any bluff Calamity put out was likely to be forced through to the end. Much to Holgate’s surprise, Calamity took a cigar from the case, bit off its tip in a professional manner, accepted the light the detective offered her and proceeded to draw smoke from the rolled tobacco with evident enjoyment.

  “What was you saying about that feller Cope, Cap’n?” she asked calmly, ignoring St. Andre’s broad grin and Holgate’s bug-eyed stare.

  “Who—Oh yes. Cope!” The words bounced out of the captain in disjointed flow as he wondered what kind of a woman sat before him. “He’s one of my hands. A good worker until the trouble. You see, he married in New York and while he was away on a ship his wife became friendly with a girl called Mavis. Apparently this Mavis was a bad one and she steered Cope’s wife astray. When Cope came in from the voyage, he found he no longer had a home and his wife had gone. He met her later, working in a waterfront hell on the New York docks. When he got the story out of her, he went hunting for Mavis. New York’s a big city and he never found her. After a time he went back to sea. The trouble was that when he came to port and took a few drinks, he went looking for Mavis. No matter where the ship happened to be, he looked for her. Twice he was jailed for attacking blonde girls, but was fined and released.”

  “And you kept him on, knowing that?” Calamity said.

  “He was a good sailor and they’re hard to find. I thought it was just a drunken brawl and never troubled to go too deeply into the matter. On board he never made any trouble. Then last night, when the police came asking about him, I found two of his shipmates and got the full story out of them. Apparently he had been brooding about his wife for days and gave them the slip when he went ashore. He must have gone looking for that girl Mavis and picked on you—but why you I don’t know. Mavis was a blonde.”

  “So was I last night,” Calamity replied. “I feel sorta sorry for him. What’ll happen to him, Sherry?”

  “We’ll have to take him to trial,” the detective answered.

  “But if the Cap’n here takes him—.”

  “No, cherie. The next time he gets ashore and looks for Mavis, the girl he finds won’t have a police escort—or be Calamity Jane.”

  “I’m afraid Lieutenant St. Andre is right, Calam,” Holgate went on.

  “By the way, Calam, the captain had seen the Strangler’s last victim and thinks he knows how the killing is done.”

  “It’s hardly a thing to tell a lady,” Holgate objected.

  “Ain’t no ladies here that I know of,” Calamity remarked, sucking appreciatively at the cigar. “This’s a right good smoke, cap’n. How’d he do the killing?”

  Holgate did not answer immediately. Looking at the girl, he suddenly became aware that she did not try to prove anything, but really enjoyed the cigar. Here was a girl completely beyond his knowledge of women, one who lived by her own rules and neither accepted favours because of her sex, nor tried to out-do men despite it. He decided he could talk to Calamity with the same freedom that he discussed matters with his ship’s officers.

  “It’s an old Indian trick,” he explained. “One of my crew was killed in Bombay by the thuggi, they’re a religious cult who dabble in murder and robbery. The way the thuggi kill is with a cord slipped around the victim’s throat in a special manner. It is silent, quick and gives the victim little or no chance of escape or countering the hold. From the marks on the dead girl’s neck, I’d say the Strangler either knows about the thuggi, or has come up with a mighty close imitation of their methods.”

  “What the hell’s tribe do these thuggi belong to?” asked Calamity. “It don’t sound Cheyenne, Sioux or Comanche to me, nor any of the tamed tribes neither. And I never heard of no place called Bombay on the Great Plains.”

  “That’s not surprisin
g,” smiled Holgate. “Bombay is in India, and the thuggi are real Indians, not the kind you’re used to meeting.”

  “Cap’n,” grunted Calamity. “Happen you saw a bunch of them red varmints on the warpath, you’d reckon they was real enough.”

  “The captain offered to show us how thuggi works, Calam,” St. Andre remarked with a smile, wondering if he would ever cease to be amused by the girl’s unique female outlook on life.

  “Yeah,” replied Calamity suspiciously, putting a hand to her throat. “And who’s he going to do the showing on?”

  “On me, of course,” the detective answered. “Who else?”

  “Just thought you might want to see it done on me, just so’s you’d know how it was done. Seeing it’s you who gets it, Sherry, let’s take us a whirl.”

  Reaching into his jacket pocket, Holgate took out a length of stout whipcord. Doubling the cord to find its centre, Holgate tied a knot in the middle, then one more on either side and about three inches from the first. With the knots tied, Holgate gripped the cord at each end, allowing it to hang in a long loop before him.

  “Ready, lieutenant?” he asked.

  Standing up with his back to Holgate, St. Andre nodded. “Ready!”

  Holgate stepped forward and flipped the loop over St. Andre’s head, gripped both ends of the cord between his hands and pivoted so that he stood back to back with the detective. Now the cord passed from Holgate’s hands, up over his right shoulder and around St. Andre’s neck. Bending forward, Holgate drew the loop tight. Only for an instant did Holgate keep up the tension, but St. Andre felt the knots bite into the sides and centre of his throat, blocking the windpipe and stopping his breath.

  “That’s how they do it,” Holgate said, releasing the cord and turning fast. “Are you all right, lieutenant?”