The Sixteen Dollar Shooter (A Rockabye County Western Book 1)

by Edson, J. T.

  ‘There’s one good thing,’ Torrensen remarked to Brad. ‘At this hour, there’s not likely to be too many vehicles on the streets that’d be big enough to carry off their loot. Could be somebody else’ll pick them up.’

  ‘Could be,’ the big deputy conceded. ‘Shall I go and take the owner’s statement?’

  ‘You can if you like,’ Torrensen answered. ‘But I wouldn’t go raising any sweat over it. Would you, Pedro ?’

  ‘Not me,’ Torino confirmed, hanging the microphone on its hook. ‘The fuzz’ll be coming from the house and Headquarters’ll be sending a team down from Robbery. They’ll not be wanting any help from us harness bulls.’

  ‘Not with the easy work, anyways,’ Torrensen supplemented.

  While the conversation was taking place, a Detective Bureau car had been approaching. It came to a halt across the street and two men emerged.

  ‘Damn the luck!’ Tocino growled sotto voce. ‘It would be Shayne and Stratford.’

  Watching the two detectives approaching, Brad shared the Mexican’s sentiments. Big, burly and capable, Sergeant Shayne was also arrogant, sarcastic and heartily disliked by the patrolmen with whom he came into contact. Under the circumstances, Brad would have preferred any other of the local detectives to have arrived.

  ‘What gives?’ the sergeant demanded, without wasting time in greetings.

  ‘A 1397,’ Torrensen answered.

  ‘I didn’t think it was the Fourteenth Annual Rockabye County Chicken-Plucking Festival,’ Shayne grunted. ‘Who knows that?’

  ‘Patrolman Proven caught the squeal,’ Torrensen replied, forcing himself to sound polite. ‘He can tell you.’

  ‘Go inside and make a start, Augie,’ Shayne requested, but his tone changed as he went on, ‘Let’s hear about it.’

  At first, the sergeant listened in silence. Then he gave an explosive, angry snort when Brad explained how he had burst into the storeroom to investigate the noises which the cat had been making.

  ‘And while you were doing it, the gang got away,’ Shayne finished for the big deputy. That’s—’

  ‘How was he to know what was making the noise?’ Torino interrupted. ‘Hell, he’s only a rookie, Sh— sergeant.’

  If anything, the Mexican’s intervention made Brad feel worse. While he was new to the work of a patrolman, he graduated with honors in the Police Science and Administration Class at the University of Southern Texas and had been among the leaders on the course at Quantico. In addition, since joining the Sheriff’s Office, he had been involved in two difficult and dangerous, but successful, assignments. So he felt that he ought to have made a much better showing. Certainly he did not want a patrolman, even with the best of motives, to defend him on the grounds of inexperience.

  ‘That doesn’t need telling,’ Shayne sniffed. ‘Cat, huh!’

  Everything about the sergeant’s attitude rankled with Brad. As a deputy sheriff, he was Shayne’s equal in rank and had even greater jurisdictional powers.

  ‘As a deputy sheriff,’ Brad repeated silently.

  What the deputy had to remember was, for the time being, he had no higher status than patrolman and Shayne out-ranked him. So Brad held his temper in check, even when the sergeant dismissed him to his duty with a sarcastic suggestion that he should watch out for inspectors of the American Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals as they objected to police harassment of cats.

  ~*~

  Having collected a package of cigarettes from a coin-machine, as a favor to the security guard at the Leander Central Bank who had forgotten to purchase any before going on duty, Deputy Sheriff Bradford Counter was on his way to deliver them. He had decided that he would return via Yancy Boulevard and check in with the station house as he went by the official telephone booth.

  Four days had passed since the burglary at Braxted’s shop and Brad was still pretending to be Patrolman Terry Proven.

  Despite Central Control having alerted all units in the Leander Division, neither the various radio patrol cars nor the patrolmen walking the beats had reported seeing a vehicle which might have been used by the criminals. That had puzzled Brad. In view of the amount of goods they had stolen, the gang must have been using something the size of a panel truck. Such a vehicle ought to have been noticeable at that hour of the night, when there were few of them on the streets. However, with Sergeant Shayne in charge of the investigation, Brad had received little encouragement when he had tried to find out how it was progressing.

  On the morning after the incident, before being allowed to log off watch, the deputy had listened with reddened cheeks and burning ears to Desk Sergeant Mulcachy’s comments on what had happened. Although Mulcachy had conceded that Brad had had a good reason for inspecting the storeroom and so was not responsible for the gang getting away, he had made it plain that he believed a member of the Patrol Bureau should have given a better showing. Much of Mulcachy’s annoyance had stemmed from the fact that his greatest rival, Sergeant Shayne of the Detective Bureau, was involved. Returning from carrying out the preliminary investigations, Shayne had passed a number of remarks which—coming from any detective—were calculated to arouse the desk sergeant’s ire.

  While Brad had been given to understand that no disciplinary action would be taken against him, Mulcachy had implied that the incident might have a detrimental effect upon his future career with the G.C.P.D., especially where promotion was concerned. That had not particularly worried the deputy. In fact, he had turned it to his advantage on the assignment which was causing him to pose as a patrolman. He had used mentions of it to convey, or increase, the impression that he was creating of being an over-ambitious, eager-for-success-at-any-cost, young officer.

  From another aspect, Brad had not been so pleased by what had happened.

  By the time the deputy had logged on watch on Tuesday night, it had appeared that the whole of the Division had heard the story of his actions at the burgled shop. His arrival in the patrolmen’s locker-room had been greeted by numerous cries of ‘Miaow!’ or ‘Here, pussy, pussy!’

  Since then, the jokes had continued. For the most part, they had been made in a friendly manner. However, on the two occasions that they had met, Sergeant Shayne’s comments had come close to provoking trouble. Brad had not minded too much when the patrolmen had pretended to require his advice upon which kind of handcuffs to use when arresting a ferocious cat, or to be interested in his views on the most suitable methods of dealing with a rampaging Persian as opposed to handling a violent Siamese. He had taken grave exception to and was hard pressed to control his temper when Shayne had labeled him the ‘cat-catching cop’. Fortunately their paths had not often crossed.

  Although Mulcachy’s attitude had suggested that he believed it was a mistake, Brad had been allowed to continue walking his beat alone. Naturally he had taken an interest in the case, but it had been pointed out to him that he was no longer considered to be involved in it and would be advised to attend to his duties.

  There was, Brad had learned, that major difference between the work of a patrolman and a deputy. In his true capacity, he would have continued to be actively concerned with the investigation. As a member of the Patrol Bureau, his part in it had ended when the detectives had come on the scene and had sent him back to his beat. Having experienced the kind of frustrations such a situation could cause, he found himself able to sympathize with those patrolmen he met who had ambitions to become detectives.

  Each night, as he had been setting off on his beat, Brad had hoped in vain for an opportunity to redeem himself in the eyes of his companions. While his assignment might be benefiting from the incident, he hated being regarded by them as an over-eager, inexperienced rookie and being made the butt for jokes.

  ‘One thing’s for sure,’ Brad told himself, as he walked by the front of Braxted’s Electrical House, ‘This’s the last place where anything will happ—’

  Even as that thought came, a flicker of movement inside the shop caught the
corner of his eye. Carefully, without making the action obvious, he swiveled his head a little to look through the window. What he saw almost brought him to a halt. His surreptitious glance revealed a man’s head, topped by a black fedora hat, sinking hurriedly out of sight behind the counter.

  Improbable as it seemed, Braxted was being robbed for a second time. Maybe by the same gang. Yet there would be method in their apparent madness. The shop’s stock had been replenished and it held many small items which found a ready sale on the crooked market. It was also one of the last places which the police would expect them to raid.

  Thoughts were racing through Brad’s head and he wondered what he should do for the best. According to the G.C.P.D.’s bulletins, the gang’s method of operation was to effect an entry through the rear door of the building. Their behavior on the previous occasion had verified the supposition. That meant the front door would still be locked and he could not get through it without alarming them. Yet as soon as he was out of sight, they would bolt. Before he could reach the back street, they would have boarded the waiting vehicle and made good their escape.

  Faced with the unpalatable possibility of having to report that he had once again failed to apprehend the gang, Brad almost acted in a reckless and foolhardy manner. He briefly contemplated crashing through the glass-paneled front door with the Colt in his hand. By doing so, he would almost certainly lose some of them but ought to be able to capture at least one. That would be better than nothing.

  Common sense and reasoning prevented Brad from making the attempt. There was no sign of movement inside the shop since the man had disappeared. For all that, Brad sensed he was being watched.

  An alternative plan sprang to Brad’s mind. If he could persuade the gang that he had not seen the man behind the counter, they might delay their departure for long enough to let him gather reinforcements, surround the block and have them arrested.

  The question was, how to do it.

  Feeling the security guard’s cigarettes in his trousers’ pocket, Brad had an inspiration. It was, however, one fraught with danger and he might easily be killed while attempting to carry it out.

  Stepping into the doorway with carefully assumed nonchalance, although ready to spring into instant motion if the need arose, Brad yawned. Reaching for the door’s handle with his right hand, he tested it in a bored and disinterested manner as if performing a piece of needless routine. Then, as if satisfied that all was well, he turned around.

  ‘This’s it!’ Brad told himself silently, as he stood still instead of walking away. ‘If they’re not fooled, I’ll know soon enough!’

  All too well, the big deputy knew the risk he was taking!

  Facing the street, there was no way in which Brad could discover what was happening behind him. Possible, almost certainly in fact, some of the gang were lining their weapons at him.

  At any moment, a bullet might pass through the glass panel and into his back!

  There would be no warning. By the time the sound of the shot reached Brad’s ears, it would be too late for him to save himself.

  Nothing happened!

  Concealing his anxiety and state of tense readiness, Brad took out and lit a cigarette. Although he did not smoke, he sucked in and expelled the fumes.

  Still the expected bullet did not come. The shop might have been empty, for the crooks remained silent and inactive.

  Acting as he had seen the patrolman who had taught him the ropes doing when taking a smoke in defiance of the Patrol Bureau’s regulations, Brad forced himself to stand perfectly still until he had finished the cigarette. Dropping and stubbing out the butt with his heel, he stepped forward. Exercising all his will-power to control an almost irresistible impulse to look back, he strolled leisurely away.

  Clearly the gang had not suspected that he was aware of their presence, but would they make a run for it immediately?

  If they did, there would not be sufficient time for the assistance that Brad was going to summon to move into position. The gang might once again slip away. In which case, he would be held responsible for their escape and have to face the wrath of Sergeants Mulcachy and Shayne. The former would almost certainly demand Brad’s transfer to another Division. After such a debacle, it would not be possible for him to be sent to a better, more responsible duty as an aid to his assignment.

  However, Brad was gambling on the gang—having been fooled by his behavior—staying until they had collected enough loot to make the burglary worthwhile. The fact that they had not started shooting at him suggested they were cool, experienced criminals. If the state of the shelves had been anything to go by, they had only been on the premises for a short time. With luck, they would be determined not to go away comparatively empty-handed.

  Once clear of the gang’s range of vision, Brad increased his pace and headed for the official telephone booth. Throwing a glance at the shop, he unlocked the door and entered. Making the call was simple. There was no need to dial. Lifting the receiver automatically put the caller in touch with the Leander Division’s Gamewell Board; a permanently-manned switchboard which was connected directly to the telephones on the beats.

  ‘Proven here!’ Brad announced, as soon as the connection had been made, remembering just in time to use his adopted name. ‘1397 in progress, Braxted’s Electrical House, Yancy Boulevard. Put out a “Code Nine”. [xxix] I’m going around the back to try to cut them off.’

  ‘I’ll have the nearest R.P.’s on their way there pronto,’ the operator promised. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Their vehicle must be on the street behind the shop,’ Brad replied. ‘Can you have at least one unit come down there and another out front?’

  ‘Will do,’ the operator confirmed. ‘Watch how you go.’

  ‘I’ll do that,’ Brad assured him.

  Hanging up the receiver without saying any more, the big deputy stepped from the booth and closed its self-locking door. There was, he knew, the need for haste. Even if the gang believed that he had not seen their man, they were unlikely to delay their departure. So he wanted to be able to at least find out what kind of transport they were using and, if possible, hold them until help arrived.

  Striding out swiftly, the rubber soles and heels of his shoes holding down the sound of his footsteps to a minimum, Brad went along an alley between two buildings. He stopped before leaving it and peered cautiously around the corner.

  Much to Brad’s relief, he discovered that the gang had not left the shop. Their vehicle was still standing outside the open back gates. It said much for their cool nerves and confidence that, to facilitate the rapid loading of their loot, they had switched on the light in the yard. So he could see well enough to know why their means of transport had not been recognized as such by the officers who were looking for them.

  The gang were travelling to and from their burglaries in an ambulance!

  What was more, they were not merely relying on the vehicle as a means of camouflage. At least one of them was dressed for the part. Clad in the white clothing of an ambulance’s crew-man, he was leaning against it and looking through the gates.

  Before leaving the alley, Brad quickly considered what would be his best way of dealing with the situation. Offering little more than an access to the properties on Yancy Boulevard and the parallel Baines Avenue, the street was narrow, straight and, except in the area behind Braxted’s shop, unlit. It would be a simple matter for the back-up units to block both ends, provided that they arrived in time. For Brad to approach his objective would be a far more difficult proposition. In fact, it would be impossible for him to do so without being seen.

  Once again Brad elected to attempt a bluff. Stepping from the alley, he turned and sauntered towards the ambulance as if he was completely unaware of its real purpose. For all his apparent disinterest, he was fully cognizant of the risk he was taking. The vehicle was facing in his direction, with its engine running. If the look-out should decide to jump in and try to run him down, there would be little r
oom to take evasive action.

  Before Brad had reached the end of Braxted’s building, the man by the ambulance became aware of his presence. Clearly he was startled to see a peace officer approaching, but was also uncertain of what action he should take. He threw a startled glance through the gate and opened his mouth. Changing his mind, he swung around to confront Brad. While he did not make anything which could be construed as a hostile gesture, the man kept his right hand concealed behind his back.

  ‘Hey there,’ Brad greeted, sounding amiable despite having taken very careful note of the fact that the man’s hand was hidden from his view. ‘You’re working late.’

  ‘It goes with the white coat,’ the man answered. ‘The owner was here late and took sick. Managed to get a call through to Central Receiving and they sent us down. My partner’s gone in with the intern.’

  While the criminal was making his explanation, Brad had continued to walk nearer. He passed the front of the ambulance without incident. Suddenly the man realized just how close they were together. Suspicion and alarm flickered across his face. His right shoulder twitched, suggesting that he was preparing to bring the weapon he was holding into use. At the same time, his mouth opened.

  Having been watching for just such developments, Brad was ready and close enough to counter both of them.

  Coming to a halt, the big deputy set his weight on his spread-apart heels. Bending his knees slightly, he inclined his torso to the rear. His right elbow flexed, driving the hand towards the perfectly positioned butt of the automatic. Released by his forefinger, the safety-strap bounded into the air. Flowing from the lips of the skimpy holster, the Colt lined at waist level.

  When performed by an expert such as Brad, the ‘speed rock’ was the fastest known method of drawing a gun. Using it, he could produce the Colt, fire at and hit a man-sized target up to seven yards away in a quarter of a second. His objective was much closer than that. In fact, the man was only inches from the weapon.