Larry and Stretch 6

by Marshall Grover

  “Just stay quiet,” ordered Larry.

  Stretch made short work of searching the room, and thought to check the balcony outside the open window.

  “Who …” She swallowed a lump in her throat, flushed. “Who are you—looking for?”

  “I reckon you know, Miss Fran,” growled Larry. “But we got no time to argue about it. C’mon, big feller.”

  As he turned towards the door, Fran whirled, dashed to the side wall and pounded with her tiny fists.

  “Next room along!” snapped Stretch.

  “Let’s go!” Larry was already in the corridor and hustling along to the next door in line. Freak luck ruled that the first key he tried fitted the lock. He turned it, shoved the door open and barged in with Stretch close behind. The room was in darkness, except for the glow of moonlight through the window. For a fleeting moment, he saw the would-be escapee silhouetted there, clambering through to the balcony beyond. He charged across the room, stumbled over a chair, regained his balance and made it to the window-ledge just as the marauder was about to vault the balcony-rail. His hand closed over a shirt-collar. He hauled backward, saying: “Not this time, amigo!”

  Stretch had found a lamp and was scratching a match to get it working. The open doorway was now occupied by the half-dressed, bug-eyed Downeys and their weeping daughter. Larry’s prisoner jabbed at him with an elbow, missed. Larry cussed him vehemently, wrapped both arms about his torso and swung him round. His lashing kick sent the man plummeting back into the room. He collapsed on all fours, struggled to his feet to find himself blinking into the muzzle of Stretch’s .45, and Stretch drawled, “Well, well, well! If you ain’t the liveliest dead man I ever did see!”

  “Oh, hell ...” groaned Gil Briskin.

  He stood with his shoulders slumped in defeat, submitting to the astounded gaze of Marv and Liza Downey. Liza covered her face with her hands, and mumbled, “I don’t believe it!”

  “Your eyes ain’t playin’ tricks,” growled her husband. “It’s him all right. Gil Briskin.”

  “Gil!” gasped Fran. “I tried …”

  “Say nothing, my dear,” sighed Briskin. “I didn’t want to involve you in ...”

  “He’s rigged in my clothes!” complained Downey. “My shirt—my new boots—my best Sunday pants!”

  “Marv,” frowned Larry, “take Fran back to her room. Talk to her if you want, but keep it quiet. And don’t budge out of there till I give you the word. I have to get a few answers from this hombre. Until 1 do, I don’t want anybody else to know we’ve found him.”

  “Mr. Downey,” said Briskin, “I suggest you do as Larry asks.”

  “Get goin’ now,” begged Larry. “No more hollerin’. No more questions. You got my word I’ll tell you the whole score—just as soon as I know it. Fair enough?” Downey hesitated, but only for a moment. With a last resentful glare at Briskin, he took his daughter’s arm and hustled her away, with Liza following. Stretch shoved the door shut, placed a chair against it and seated himself. There was another chair. Larry took it, gestured for Briskin to sit on the bed. And, truculently, he vowed:

  “If you make another run for the window, I’ll break every bone in your body.”

  “Don’t worry,” frowned Briskin, as he perched on the edge of the mattress. “I want to run. Hell, how I want to run. But maybe it’s as well you found me. I sure owe you an explanation.”

  “That,” said Larry, “is puttin’ it mild.”

  “And an apology,” muttered Briskin. “A sincere, fervent apology. You have to believe me when I say I’d never have involved you in this deal—had I realized I’d be endangering your lives. I’ve been a cheat and a liar most of my life, Larry, but I’m not lying now. There aren’t enough words to express my regret for what I’ve done to you—and to Fran.” He smiled wistfully towards the closed door. “Funny. I played fast and loose with so many Tyson City women. Fran was no better than the others—or so I thought. And then I came to understand that she’s the one woman for me. I’m in love with her, damn it all, and it’s too late.”

  “I’m all choked up inside,” said Stretch.

  “He’s breakin’ my heart,” jeered Larry.

  “I mean what I say,” declared Briskin. “Every word of it.”

  “So far,” countered Larry, “you ain’t sayin’ what I’m waitin’ to hear. Get on with it, boy. Start makin’ sense.”

  “Where,” asked Briskin, “do you want me to start?”

  “Start where it began,” ordered Larry, “for Stretch and me.”

  “You saved my life,” sighed Briskin. “There can’t be any doubt on that score. Grieves beat me almost unconscious with that first blow. It knocked my hat off, and I guess my hat softened the blow slightly. I’m lucky to be alive. Just a bad bump and a gash that covered my face with blood. He was all set to beat my brains out—that’s for sure. If you hadn’t happened along ...”

  “You’re ramblin’,” interjected Larry.

  Chapter Nine

  History of a Masquerade

  “It’s strange,” mused Briskin, “the way a plan can form in your mind—every detail of it crystal-clear—in a matter of seconds. It started coming to me right after you told me your names. That was the important part. The fact that my rescuers were a couple of famous trouble-shooters, enemies of all the lawless ...”

  “You can skip the compliments,” frowned Larry.

  “Well,” said Briskin, “I steered you to Childress on purpose. Nate Woodrow was an old acquaintance. As for the Childress marshal—Jubal Lukes—I knew him by reputation. Yes, I had it all figured out, long before you carried me into Nate’s surgery. Then, while you were gone, I told Nate what I wanted him to do. He agreed to cooperate of course. For a thin dime, Nate would sign a death certificate for anybody—even an unborn child!”

  “All right,” nodded Larry. “That explains how we got fooled into thinkin’ you were dead.”

  “Lukes had to be included in the deal,” Briskin continued, “but that was no problem. For men like Nate and Lukes, faking a funeral is an easy chore. Lukes even promised to fix a marker for my grave.” He grinned ruefully. “I have a fine eye for detail.”

  “Why,” demanded Larry, “did you have to play dead?”

  “It fitted in with my plan,” explained Briskin. “I wanted to negotiate with certain parties in absolute secrecy. They’d know I was well and truly alive but, as far as the other citizens were concerned, Gil Briskin would be dead and buried—and good riddance. I was never popular in this territory. I had to return to Tyson City. If I were believed dead, there’d be little danger of anybody seeing through my disguise. Nate equipped me with the Mexican rig-out. I speak Spanish fluently, so the rest was easy. I came back to Tyson City disguised as a blind troubadour, and well aware that you were already here.” He hesitated, shamefaced, and Larry was ready to believe that his shame was genuine. “Then—I began establishing my new identity—playing for dimes on street corners, singing Mexican songs and the like ...”

  “About the girl,” prodded Larry.

  “Believe me,” said Briskin, “I never intended involving her in this miserable conspiracy until she dropped a coin into my tin mug—Monday evening—up by the corner. She looked so damned sad. Lost. Sick with her grief. I felt guilty. I hadn’t fully appreciated her feeling for me. Also, it suddenly occurred to me that I’d need a roof over my head, a place to hide, in the event that I stirred up a hornet’s nest which, of course, I did.’’

  “So?” frowned Larry.

  “I spoke to Fran,” sighed Briskin. “We had quite a conference. One thing I could always rely upon was Fran’s ability to keep a secret. She insisted on helping me and, from then on, accommodation was no problem. I could come and go as I pleased, by way of the fire-stairs outside that window. Always under cover of darkness, naturally.”

  “Naturally,” scowled Larry.

  “I know what you think of me.” Briskin shrugged wearily. “You’re thinking I’m ten different ki
nds of skunk—for using poor Fran.”

  “There's more to tell,” Larry pointed out. “I want to know why the Grieves brothers chased you out of town, and why they bushwhacked you.”

  “They meant to kill me,” said Briskin, bluntly. “For them, it was a simple question of self-preservation. I had to be silenced, to prevent my exposing them to the law. It wasn’t until you rescued me that I decided to keep my mouth shut—for a price. Yes. It’s as bad as you’ve guessed.

  I knew who’d committed those robberies. I knew which one of them knifed poor Sam Fennister.”

  “Are you sayin’,” challenged Larry, “that you were in cahoots with those lousy killers?”

  “I told you before,” muttered Briskin. “I’m a card-sharp, a liar, a philanderer—and an unsuccessful blackmailer. But petty theft has been my limit. I’ve never been involved in anything as big as those robberies, and I never throw in with killers.”

  “But you knew who robbed Kerry and Fennister and Bourne,” said Larry.

  “Kerry and Fennister,” corrected Briskin. “Not Bourne. Bourne wasn’t robbed at all.”

  “Come again?” blinked Stretch.

  “I stumbled onto the truth by sheer accident,” said Briskin. “Early Sunday morning, I was still out and about. I saw Boyd Jennings and his deputies hurrying from the Lucky Lil to the Silver Spade. Naturally, I sensed there’d been trouble. And, because Jennings has never trusted me—”

  “Which ain’t to be surprised at,” taunted Stretch.

  “I decided to stay clear of him,” continued Briskin. “So I retreated to the east side of town.” He paused, licked his lips, squinted at the glowing tip of his cigarette.

  “I was in the back alley, not far from the rear of Bourne’s Palace. Light was shining through a slit in the window-shade—and I was born inquisitive.”

  “So you snuck along and peeked through that slit,” prodded Larry. “And what did you see?”

  “I saw—and heard,” said Briskin, “enough to put rope around their necks—all six of them. Bourne was counting money on the kitchen table. The others were with him. His own men—Curwood, Onslow and Ross—and the Grieves brothers. And they were talking.”

  “About,” guessed Larry, “what happened at Kerry’s place, and the Silver Spade.”

  Briskin dribbled smoke through his nostrils, and told them, “Eddie Ross was bragging about—about what he’d done to Sam Fennister. I damn near threw up! He laughed when he described the expression on Sam’s face—when he used his knife on him.”

  “What happened then?” asked Larry.

  “Bourne must have heard me out there,” frowned Briskin. “I saw him glance my way—and then he was rushing to the rear door—and I was taking to my heels. But he had time to recognize me, and I damn soon realized the Grieves boys were on my tail. I wanted to reach the jailhouse, but they cut me off. I panicked.”

  “All right, all right.” Larry gestured impatiently. “You were stiff-scared—but what did you do?”

  “Well,” said Briskin, “I found myself at the Circle D livery stable. Wes Deckart was only half-awake at that hour. I went in there, saddled a horse and took it out the back way. Burt Grieves was coming along the rear alley. I saw him—and he saw me—so I mounted that horse and rode out.”

  “He sure did panic, this boy,” Stretch commented. “Instead of hidin’, he lit out for the wide-open country—knowin’ they’d follow him.”

  “They did follow me,” sighed Briskin. “And you know the end of that story. I rode till my horse was winded. They caught up with me—and then you came along.” He rubbed his hands against his thighs and asked, “How about a drink?”

  “Later,” growled Larry. “I’m waitin’ to hear why you came back to Tyson City, all tricked out as a blind Mex.”

  “That was my worst mistake,” frowned Briskin. “When you saved my life, I should have counted my blessings. I should have told you exactly what had happened. Then—we’d have come back to town together and reported to the sheriff. Bourne and his men would have been rounded up—and that would have been the end of it.” He shook his head sadly. “But I had to get greedy—and ambitious. I wanted to capitalize on what I knew about Bourne.”

  “So?” prodded Larry.

  “I loitered about the Palace that night,” said Briskin. “Around curfew-time, I flicked a note through the rear window. Quite a note, Larry. I’d put a lot of thought into the writing of it. I was so damn sure Bourne would follow my orders.”

  “What orders?” demanded Larry.

  “I could almost quote it for you, word for word,” said Briskin. “I began by assuring him that I was still very much alive—thanks to you and Stretch. I told him you were ignorant of the true facts, and assured him his secret was safe with me, provided he agreed to my demands. Should he try to find me, I would pass all the information to you Texans—or to Jennings. You’d think such threats would pin a man down, wouldn’t you?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” scowled Larry. “Blackmail is somethin’ I’ve never tried.”

  “Well, I tried,” shrugged Briskin. “Out of greed and self-confidence, I actually tried to blackmail Karl Bourne. I demanded twenty thousand dollars for my silence.”

  “That’s a heap of dinero,” mused Stretch.

  “I nominated a time,” Briskin continued, “by which the money had to be cached for me.”

  “Whereabouts?” asked Larry.

  “Haven’t you guessed?” Briskin grinned ruefully. “In the middle of the dirt floor—of the old shack at the south edge of town. Of course, the money wasn’t there. Karl Bourne is a mighty obstinate man—uncommonly so. He wanted to shut my mouth, but he was determined to keep every dollar he’d stolen from Kerry and Fennister.”

  “Let me get one thing straight,” muttered Larry. “When you wrote that note for Bourne, you mentioned Stretch and me?”

  “Named you as my protectors,” nodded Briskin. “Warned him I’d tell you everything, if he tried to find me.” He sighed heavily. “A masterpiece of strategy—or so I thought. When I realized my mistake, it was too late.”

  “Hold on now.” A new thought had struck Larry. “What time of night did you say you threw that note into the Palace?”

  “Around curfew-time,” said Briskin. “One-fifteen, or thereabouts.”

  “You savvy what that means?” Larry challenged Stretch. “When Kerry propositioned us that night, along with Fennister and Bourne, Bourne hadn’t gotten Briskin’s note. He thought Briskin was dead. It wasn’t till later that he found out Briskin was alive, and ...”

  “And that you and Stretch were aiding and abetting me,” nodded Briskin. “Yes, Larry. That’s how it adds up. It was Bourne’s turn to panic, and I never guessed he’d react as he did. Instead of trying to find me, he turned his attention to you. Well, maybe he didn’t believe what I told him in the note. Maybe he thought you and Stretch were involved in the blackmail attempt. Whatever he thought, it’s obvious he decided to silence you.”

  “So now we know,” breathed Larry, “who ambushed us and started that avalanche—and tried to knife Stretch at the Horton house. Bourne’s sidekicks!”

  “Somebody was trying to kill you,” muttered Briskin. “You didn’t know who—or why. Well, now you have the answers. I heard about it, of course. Maybe you won’t believe me but, for the first time in my life, I was ashamed. You’d saved my life. In return, I was endangering yours, setting you up.”

  “Don’t forget Miss Margo,” scowled Stretch.

  “That made it even worse,” frowned Briskin. “It seemed unforgivable that I should be responsible for what—what almost happened to her. But I’d come so far, and I thought it was too late to turn back. At the appointed time, I went to the shack to collect the payment I’d demanded from Bourne, It wasn’t there.” He eyed Larry sadly. “And then you arrived.”

  “You spotted the hombre that gunned me?” challenged Larry.

  “Not right away.” Briskin shook his head. “I heard the sh
ot and saw you drop. Then I retreated into a dark corner. There was a second shot. I cried out and threw myself flat, hoping the killer would think he’d scored again. I was a witness, you see. Or maybe they’d guessed I was Gil Briskin in disguise. Anyway, they didn’t wait to take a closer look at me, and that’s what saved my life. They dragged you into the shack, went out and shut the door. They must’ve piled brush against the wails, set it alight and ...”

  “You said you didn’t spot ’em right away,” Larry reminded him. “How about when they dragged me in?”

  “I chanced a look at them that time,” said Briskin.

  “Who were they?” demanded Larry.

  “Bourne’s table hands,” said Briskin. “Ross and Onslow.”

  “Ross and Onslow ...” Larry repeated the names through clenched teeth. “I’ll remember them polecats.”

  “I thought we’d be burned alive,” muttered Briskin.

  “After Buffalo busted the wall down,” said Larry, “you got the hell out of there.”

  “Because,” said Briskin, “I’d had enough. More than enough. My plan had blown up in my face.”

  “So you wanted out,” jeered Stretch.

  “As a blackmailer,” declared Briskin, “I was a spectacular failure.” He stared wistfully towards the window. “I was going to quit Tyson City. I mean really quit, once and for all. 1 came back here, confessed everything to Fran, persuaded her to borrow some of her father’s clothes for me—and get rid of my Mexican disguise.” He got to his feet, tucked his thumbs in his pants belt and eyed Larry steadily. “There’s no reason why you should take my word, Larry, for anything.”

  “That’s for sure,” agreed Larry.

  “But, believe it or not,” said Briskin, “that’s what I intended doing. I was going to sneak out of town before sunrise and never come back. In some far-away town, I’d try to make a fresh start. Honest work.”

  “Honest work?” Stretch chuckled mirthlessly. “That’ll be the day!”