Larry and Stretch 7

by Marshall Grover

  “It’s Mr. Brayner!” gasped one man.

  Larry rid himself of the duster and was rejoined by his partner, who laconically reported:

  “Three dead. Two of ’em still alive. Brayner’s a goner—and ain’t that a shame?”

  “Ain’t it though?” said Larry, and his grin was as mirthless as Stretch’s.

  Law and order was present in the person of Mitch Hamilton. The senior deputy, it transpired, just wasn’t a dancing man. His home was located within earshot of the bank. Now, he had arrived to investigate, his nightshirt tucked into his pants, his tin star affixed to his suspenders.

  “Take a look in those bags,” Larry suggested, in reply to the lawman’s heated challenge.

  “Are you tryin’ to say ...?” began Hamilton.

  “I’m sayin’ it plain and simple,” muttered Larry. “I tagged Brayner and his pards all the way from City Hall. Me and my pardner. We saw ’em bust into the bank, so we waited for ’em to come out. When I braced ’em—well— you can guess the rest, can’t you?”

  “But it don’t make sense!” protested Hamilton.

  “Check the bags,” shrugged Larry.

  Mentally, he was preparing the explanation he would offer Hamilton’s superior. It would have to be, he assured himself, one hundred per cent convincing—however incredible—and his brain was busy with it, as he watched the deputy checking the bags. Underwood was still conscious, groaning from the agony of his shoulder-wound and demanding that somebody fetch a doctor. After examining the contents of two bags, Hamilton hustled to the bank’s rear door and inspected the damaged panel. Then, briskly, he barked orders to his fellow-citizens.

  “Hustle along to City Hall. Fetch the sheriff and Felix Baldwin and Doc Linaker.”

  By the time the trio descended upon the scene of carnage, Larry was ready with his answers. A startled Felix Baldwin supervised the tallying of the bank’s funds, a chore that necessitated his summoning his tellers, both of whom were attending the ball. The lock of the safe was subjected to a careful examination and found to be undamaged.

  “Nothing wrong with the lock,” mumbled Underwood. By lamplight, the doctor was dressing Underwood’s wound. “I don’t have to break locks.”

  “It’s a combination lock,” Baldwin sternly reminded him.

  “And an easy chore,” sneered Underwood, “for an old professional like me.”

  “Shuddup!” growled Hamilton. He traded glances with his confused chief. “Hell, Max, this is a lousy situation.”

  “I’m still tryin’ to make sense of it,” muttered Lovett. “How could they be thieves?”

  “How can you doubt it, Sheriff?” scowled the doctor. “The facts are clear enough, I’d say. Brayner and his men had us fooled.”

  “Valentine,” frowned Lovett, “how in blazes did you catch onto ’em?”

  “Brayner looked kind of familiar to me, first time I saw him,” drawled Larry. “Reminded me of an owlhoot I once ran into—name of Phil Brandon. So I was suspicious, that’s all.”

  “But ...!” began Lovett.

  “I saw him sneak away from the shindig,” Larry continued. “Him and his sidekicks. All I had was a hunch, you know? I got curious. Stretch and me tagged ’em a ways and—uh—when four of ’em started workin’ on that door, Stretch circled around and climbed up to the roof.

  “One of ’em ...” He nodded to Innes, “this one—was waitin’ in the rig. I put him to sleep and waited for the others to come out. We’d have taken all of ’em alive, but they went to shootin’.”

  “That was a mistake,” sighed Underwood. He traded rueful stares with Innes. “We almost had it made, huh, Luke?”

  “You’d never have gotten away with it,” asserted Lovett. “I’d have headed you off long before you could reach the county line.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, lawman,” scowled Innes. “We had it all fixed to travel in style. We were gonna join the governor and his party—travel in that special car ...”

  “I never heard such a crazy lie in my whole life,” said Lovett.

  “Brayner set it up,” Innes said vehemently. He was jailbait and a sore loser, eager to implicate the unnamed member of the governor’s staff blackmailed by the boss-thief. “One of the governor’s sidekicks. Brayner was blackmailing him.”

  And Larry was ready with an answer.

  “That was Brayner’s big mistake,” he grinned. “The man Brayner tried to blackmail was Calhoun—the Pinkerton—and Calhoun passed me the word. Matter of fact, Calhoun wanted to side me, when I followed you jaspers from the ball. But the governor is Calhoun’s personal responsibility, twenty-four hours a day.”

  “Hold on now,” frowned Lovett. “How could Brayner blackmail Mr. Calhoun?”

  “It just happens,” said Larry, “Calhoun is a dead ringer for a certain party—the same party Brayner aimed to blackmail. And Calhoun is a good poker-player. When Brayner braced him, he kept his mouth shut and pretended he’d go along with Brayner’s plan.”

  “He should’ve told me,” argued Lovett.

  “The only way to settle Brayner’s hash,” countered Larry, “was to jump him after the robbery. That’s why Calhoun passed me the word.”

  “But you’re no lawman,” protested Hamilton.

  “Calhoun’s an old pard of ours,” explained Larry. “He knew he could count on us.”

  “Well ...” Lovett shook his head incredulously, “I’ll be switched.”

  More questions seethed in his confused brain, and Baldwin was beginning a fervent speech of thanks, but Larry had an urgent need to return to City Hall. There was, he realized, a strong chance that Lovett would feel obliged to check with the Pinkerton. Larry didn’t mind—provided he first alerted Calhoun.

  Tagged by Stretch, he hustled back to the ball. The festivities would continue for several hours, maybe until daylight, but without the guest of honor. Very soon, Bell would be leaving. He was dancing with Reba Flake now. Over her plump shoulder, he caught Larry’s eye, and Larry’s reassuring nod told him all he needed to know. Larry then accosted Calhoun, drew him into a corner and offered him a brief explanation. There was no argument from the Pinkerton, but he felt entitled to some clarification.

  “I’ll support your story, if the sheriff asks me,” he muttered. “But, damn it all, Valentine, you have to tell me who Brayner tried to blackmail. Was it Griswold—or the governor?” He eyed Larry shrewdly. “You can be frank with me, bucko. I’m for Bell—all the way.”

  “All right,” said Larry. “Brayner had somethin’ on Bell. It doesn’t matter what, because it was all over years ago. Does that satisfy you?”

  “Uh-huh.” Calhoun nodded slowly. “It satisfies me. I've played nursemaid to many a politician, and I can tell you nine out of ten have a skeleton locked away in some old closet. It makes no difference to me, because I judge them by what they are now. I never care a damn what they used to be.”

  “So you’ll keep your mouth shut?” prodded Larry.

  “I’m a clam,” said Calhoun.

  They separated. Larry scanned the dancers, and the people seated by the side walls. Beth was whirling with Saul Gintz, who had arrived late. Annie was engaged in amiable conversation with a formidable quintet of gushing Horton matrons, and looking blissfully content. Cora Cotterell was looking somewhat perplexed—wondering, he supposed, what had become of her handsome escort. Stretch was dancing with a loudly protesting redhead and, for her, Larry felt genuine sympathy. As always, Stretch had neglected to remove his spurs, and the hem of the redhead’s skirt was being reduced to tatters.

  He had a few brief words with Lennox Bell, and that conversation was one-sided. The governor’s emotions got the better of him, leaving him almost speechless. He wrung Larry’s hand, and muttered:

  “Thank you—from the bottom of my heart. What else can I say—or do?”

  “Forget it,” grinned Larry. “You did plenty for our friend Annie.”

  ~*~

  From that moment on, Larr
y and Stretch were afflicted by the old ailment—an itching at their feet.

  “Hustle back to the Blue Belle,” Larry ordered his partner. “Pack our gear and get our horses saddled. I’ll meet you there—after I say adios to Beth and Annie.”

  He had one last waltz with Beth, during which he quietly but firmly announced his intentions.

  “Leaving?” She eyed him reproachfully. “Right away?”

  “Right away,” he assured her, “is better than waitin’—for the likes of us. Soon as things get peaceable, we always quit.”

  “Just when I was getting to know you,” she murmured.

  “I’ll be doin’ you a favor,” he told her, and he meant it.

  “You’ve become quite a hero,” she smiled. “I heard about the attempt to rob the bank. Everybody’s talking about it. Won’t you even wait to tell me your side of it?” He shook his head. She sighed resignedly. “All right, Larry. You aren’t the bragging kind. Just a rolling stone—reluctant to gather moss, or to become involved with an unpredictable woman.”

  “With any woman,” he ruefully admitted.

  His goodbye to Annie was less poignant. She thanked him with a kiss and a smile, wished him luck and, in a hoarse whisper, informed him:

  “You’ll find a couple bottles of you-know-what under the seat of my rig. Brought ’em in special for you and Stretch.”

  By sunrise, the drifters were moving northward in the general direction of the high country. It was their intention to ford Luna Creek by means of the bridge and press on through the mountains. At ease and unhurriedly, they approached the creek’s west bank. Smoke wafted over their shoulders, for they were puffing contentedly at the expensive cigars given them by the grateful Governor Bell.

  They were halfway across the bridge when they paused to inspect the apparition. Something sodden and spluttering, something possibly human, surfaced for their amused appraisal. Deputy Purdy Jarvis, it seemed, was still determined to locate the evidence. He spat creek water, scowled up at them and coldly enquired:

  “What the hell d’you want?”

  “Nothin’ from you, Deputy,” drawled Larry. “We just stopped to admire the view.”

  “How’s the fishin’?” asked Stretch.

  “I’ll find that body,” Jarvis sourly asserted, “if I have to keep lookin’ for it all week. Nobody gets away with murder in my territory!”

  “Well,” shrugged Larry, “the weather’s fine. It ain’t rainin’—so you oughtn’t get any wetter. Let’s go, big feller.”

  “Lotsa luck,” called Stretch, as he nudged the pinto to movement and followed his partner across the bridge.

  The Larry and Stretch Series by Marshall Grover

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