by Al Fray
Al Fray
Come Back For More
Chapter 1
I knelt in tall weeds bordering the highway and watched a black and white police car cruising toward me. It rolled along leisurely, just a routine check of the railroad yards at the edge of town, and when the sedan came a little closer I let myself down the embankment and stood under the arch of a concrete culvert.
The cop at the wheel was Mike Ewing. He wouldn’t know me now, of that I was certain; but there didn’t seem to be any point in letting them pick me up for a run through the mill on a vagrancy count. Much better to smoke a cigarette until the boys in blue drove back to town. The man riding with Mike I didn’t know but he had the eager look of a newly made long arm and was probably just one of several changes I would find in River City. For one thing the town had grown some; it was over the sixty thousand mark now.
And I expected things to be different; I’d made a few alterations myself in the last four years. I had lost a lot of weight and I was tan now. From a fat and contented bank employee I’d rendered down to a hard one-hundred-and-sixty-pound migratory worker, a drifter from job to job. The glasses I’d worn for close work at the bank had long ago been lost and I’d never bothered to replace them.
Grinding the match underfoot, I looked out across the freight yards and felt the freshness of spring in a breeze from the river beyond. The coolness of early morning was in the air. A dozen small fires marked the hobo jungle along the riverbank; and below me, shuttling busily over the maze of tracks, a switch engine rattled boxcars into line. Droplets of dew lay scattered lavishly over the black cinders like bright diamonds; and eastward the rails converged by twos until at last, bright in the first rays of sunlight, a single pair of steel ribbons rounded a bend and were lost. There was the smell of oil and smoke, the clatter of couplings, the squeal of brakeblocks, the hiss of steam. The yards and the jungle and the rumbling freights—I had seen the pattern many times since that night more than four years ago when, a roly-poly two-hundred-pound bank teller, I’d let myself down this same cinder embankment and caught a westbound freight.
I closed my eyes and saw again the town and the bank and the white marble floors—the nightmare that fell suddenly on an otherwise peaceful afternoon.
A Wednesday, it was, and almost closing time. I remember that I glanced past the three people still in line at my teller’s window and winked at Pop Walters as he went toward his usual post at the front entrance. Pop winked back; the River City National was strictly a friendly place in which to work. Exactly at three Pop set the lock, then stood by to let the remaining thirty or more customers out one by one as each finished his transaction.
Mine was the first window. With six years in the bank, I was considered a competent teller and made entries with deft precision, counted money with a rhythmic cadence that was part of my stock in trade. It becomes automatic after a while. It’s money but it isn’t yours and you handle those green bills with the same detached feeling a grocery clerk has for the tins of string beans he stacks on the market shelf. I was only vaguely aware that someone at a stand-up desk in the lobby had dropped a pen. Over by the escrow department some papers slid off the marble counter and the customer was trying to gather them up. People get nervous when they’re in a hurry and it was several minutes past closing. I looked toward the entrance where Pop Walters held the door for a man who had bent to tie a shoelace.
And suddenly the three bent figures jerked the rims of their hats down over their necks, the crown having been cut under the bands and an expanse of silk stocking sewn in to form simple but highly effective masks. My hand slipped toward the alarm button, then stopped as a gun jammed into Pop’s ribs and his own weapon was removed.
“Don’t touch those alarms!”
The order rang through the bank and when I glanced around, two more customers were brandishing guns and were covered by identical masks.
A five-man robbery—a big deal. One small slip could mean wholesale death and it would begin with Pop Walters. Wide-eyed and red of face, Pop marched toward the vault, a gun pressing into his back. Coming through the low gate Pop whirled and swung his big fist. A shot rang out and Pop fell, his hand catching the pants pocket of the bandit. Lunging backward to free himself, the masked man fired a second time; but Pop’s fingers held and the pants leg ripped all the way down, momentarily exposing a white thigh and a V-shaped scar just above the knee. It was a distinctive scar, one side of the V being perhaps three inches, the other slightly less. The point was straight down. A series of red cross-marks indicated recent stitches.
I turned away quickly and looking up I saw that two others in the escrow department had seen the telltale mark. Ada Hollingsworth’s teeth bit into her lower lip and her eyes were riveted on the exposed leg. Beyond Ada, Paul Hunt blinked and his mouth fell open as he half pointed to the torn pants.
The alarm was ringing now. There were hysterical shouts and warning shots slammed into the walls as four of the masked men bolted for the door. The bandit with a scarred leg whirled to join them, two feet of torn cloth streaming out behind as he sprinted for the exit. Almost as quickly as it had begun, the holdup was over, the attempted robbery aborted. But Pop Walters had died in the moment of his heroism. Firing point-blank, the bandit had not missed; our frantic call for a physician was no more than a gesture.
Later five of us were in the plush office of Morgan Harwell, the bank president. Harwell was there, and Captain Domms of the River City police, and the three of us who had seen the scar.
“This is going to make things a sight easier,” Domms said. He was heavy and not all of it was muscle. His thick neck sat close on his body and he leaned forward as he paced tight circles on Harwell’s expensive carpet, then stopped to nod his head.
“Something definite, that scar,” Domms went on, “a mark which couldn’t have been expected to show and therefore certainly isn’t the work of a make-up artist. They had the job planned well, damn well, because nobody really notices the person in front of him in a line. Unless the guy has an extra ear or is wearing a three-cornered hat we pay no attention to details. These boys counted on that and of course they were masked before they went into action. Real smooth—but fate stuck out a foot and tripped them. With that scar we’ve got us a real break.”
“I shall be willing to put up a sizable reward,” Harwell said. “We all feel pretty deeply about Walters.”
“Sure you do. But a reward won’t make any difference; we don’t need outside help. They had no chance to make distance, the thing being broken up right at the start, and we’ve already brought in the getaway car. We’re closing in on the area now; we’ll make some kind of contact soon.”
Domms slowed his pacing and surveyed Ada Hollingsworth, Paul Hunt, and me. “Now you people,” Domms said, “will be asked to identify that scar when we make the arrest and again later at the trial. Until we collar our man you’re in no particular danger; after we’ve locked him up we’ll make arrangements for your safety. Meantime, all that’s necessary is that you say nothing to anyone about what you know. Got that?”
We understood all right. With the first flush of excitement and confusion wearing away I was beginning to see how vulnerable a witness could be. In silence the three of us left the bank and went our separate ways. My way included a late dinner which somehow didn’t hold my interest, and an attempt to read later which also proved not too absorbing. Finally I went to bed but sleep eluded me and I kept seeing Pop Walters on the white marble floor, the torn pants leg, five masked men, and a V-shaped scar.
Fatigue finally won the battle and I dropped off, but almost as soon as my eyes closed I was awake once more. It was breaking daylight and the phone was ringing, so I flipped a light switch and caught the rec
eiver off the hook.
“H’lo,” I mumbled.
“Swede Anderson? John A. Anderson?”
“That’s right,” I said sleepily, my elbow digging into the pillow as I propped myself up.
“The bank teller Anderson?”
I didn’t say anything in reply but sleepiness dropped away and my attention was riveted on the phone. I swallowed once and then the voice went on—low and insistent and serious.
“Listen carefully, Anderson. The cops, they picked up a buddy of ours last night, but they got the wrong man. We want you to make sure they realize it. Maybe you don’t remember about the scar on his leg. Maybe the one you saw—”
“Scar?” I hedged quickly. “You must have made a mistake. I didn’t see any—”
“The one you saw was lower on down the leg,” the voice went on patiently, “or maybe it ran the other way, because if you point the finger Bernie dies, and if he dies he’s going to have company. You!”
A sharp click terminated the call and then the phone buzzed in my ear. I cradled the receiver and sat on the edge of my bed, then got up again and went to the door. I didn’t take a paper but there was one on the front steps of the Nyquists’ house next door. I padded through the dawn, picked up the newspaper, unfolded it, and tipped it to get full benefit from the still lighted street lamp.
Headlines decried the murder of Pop Walters and lauded our police department for a fast start in apprehending the bandits. Bernard Miller, the thug whose gun had felled Walters was already in custody, the paper said, and it was hoped that the other four soon would be.
And evidently an enterprising reporter had gotten to one of the bank employees who had more lip than common sense because the paper “had it on good authority” that the teller at the first window as well as the two people in the escrow department would be able to make a unique and positive identification of the man who shot Pop Walters. I folded the paper, tossed it back on Nyquists’ porch, and went into the kitchen. But somehow I couldn’t work up any enthusiasm for my morning eggs and coffee.
Before I walked the length of the bank lobby I knew that both Ada and Paul had received early morning calls. Each gave me a hurried greeting and then found important work to do elsewhere and avoided meeting my eyes. I went to the vault to check out my money tray but the chief teller told me that Captain Domms was waiting to see me in Harwell’s office, I opened the door and walked in as Domms harangued our bank president on the citizens’ place in law enforcement.
“Everyone screams about crime,” Domms said sourly. “They yell incompetence and graft and negligence and about everything else they can think of; but comes the time to stand up in court and give one honest answer, they run for cover.” He stopped pacing and eyed me speculatively.” How many kids you got, Anderson?”
“I’m single,” I said, and took the seat that Harwell indicated. Domms pushed his fat face close to mine.
“But of course you’re supporting an invalid mother, Anderson.” There was a look of distaste in the captain’s eyes and I was getting uncomfortable.
“You’re a little confused,” I said evenly. “You aren’t supposed to be sore at me. I didn’t shoot anyone; I’m just a witness.”
“Are you now!” Domms took time out to strip the cellophane from a cigar, then stopped in front of me once more. “Seems a few memories have grown dim overnight around here. Miss Hollingsworth has been thinking about her aged mother and this morning the Hollingsworth woman can’t remember whether the scar was shaped like a V or an X. And your Mr. Hunt has weighed a phone call in the early hours against a pregnant wife and isn’t sure which leg the scar was on. What’s your out, Anderson?”
I knew well the threads of rationalization that Paul and Ada had gone through. Domms had one of the five bandits and would probably try to bargain with that one for information about the others. But the four still at large would also be in there bidding. If they could intimidate the witnesses, foul up the identification, Bernie Miller had a good chance to win an acquittal.
And what does a witness stand to win? Or lose? For a few days or a week you’re a hero, if that’s worth anything, and then months or years of wondering and worrying and hoping that your next step won’t take you on to a spot marked for murder. Sleepless nights listening to every sound—the rattle of a window or the rustle of wind through treetops—and for what? Behind it all was one clear and undeniable truth. This was all a sort of legal revenge; you weren’t going to bring Pop Walters back to life.
But the emptiness of that argument surged through me and I met the captain’s eyes firmly. “The scar was on the right leg, a V-shaped cut with the point down. I’d recognize it anywhere. And anytime.”
Slowly Captain Domms pounded one balled fist into the palm of his other hand, his teeth biting into the unlit cigar and his cold blue eyes weighing me in the balance.
“All right, Anderson,” he said at last, “if you mean business, let’s get together on this.”
Domms kept me on ice during the weeks leading up to the trial, and he wept bitterly to the newspapers about his two witnesses who refused to testify and a yellow Swede who had taken to his heels. A statewide search was launched. I sat in the darkened living room of his own home and saw photographs of myself, blown-up snapshots, shown on the TV screen over the caption: Have you seen this man?
During my exile I formed some pretty definite opinions about Domms. He was honest, strictly a square john, but he didn’t seem to be overburdened with talent in his chosen profession. Scion of a prominent River City family and an All-American fullback during his college days, Domms had come on the force with a running start. He was popular and it was fairly obvious that his rise to Captain of Homicide was due to factors other than ability.
He worked long hours—in fact I hardly saw him around the house—but the dozen suspects he brought in yielded no real results and Bernie Miller alone went to trial. At the strategic moment I was brought into the courtroom and made positive identification of Miller’s leg. There was no possibility of an innocent man going to his death at my hands; the scar before me was the same mark I’d seen the afternoon Pop Walters was killed. It could have been no other. Tight-lipped, even belligerent, Bernie Miller went the last mile. Gradually the pressure of immediate events forced the bank killing out of the news, but exactly one month after the execution I received the first note. It arrived in the mail in a plain envelope, and the words were printed with a deliberate scrawl. The postmark was River City and the note said simply, Bernie is lonesome. I rated police protection for three days; then pressing business called the officers elsewhere. A month later the second note came. Again three terse words, Time is short.
“He’s probably trying to drive you nuts,” Domms said, when I took it to his office. “We’ve given you a permit to carry a gun. Carry it! And stop worrying!”
“Both notes were mailed in River City,” I pointed out.
“Sure. Probably it was partly a local job. Miller and the others came down from the city to do the work after somebody here did the planning but I can’t work forever on that bank holdup. There’s current cases to handle and routine calls to investigate and—”
“I know, but this note—”
“There is, of course, one simple answer.”
“And that is?”
“A change of scenery. Permanently,” Domms said, his eyes on something outside the window. He went on to point out some advantages a new climate might bring and tucked in the idea that a bank was, in his opinion, a hell of a place for a healthy young buck to work. There wasn’t much I could say in defense of my job, I’d more or less drifted into it anyway, and a few minutes later I left with the feeling that he was glad to see me out of his hair. But I didn’t get around to doing anything concrete about his suggestion and in less than two weeks I was back in his office once more.
This time we didn’t have a note; we had a body. Paul Hunt was dead and small fragments of a homemade bomb lay on the captain’s desk.
/> “It’s ironic,” Domms said. “Hunt was afraid to be a witness but he got it anyway. Ironic!”
“We all know the thing was meant for me,” I said, and swallowed hard. “No one could have known that Paul would borrow my car.”
“Hunt drive your hack often?” Domms asked. It was clear that his were mixed emotions: he was sorry for Paul Hunt’s widow and deeply concerned over the gang vendetta in River City; but Paul had reneged on a civic duty, had refused to testify, and Domms felt no great grief for the man personally. It was understandable.
“Paul never used my car before,” I explained. “He got a phone call that the baby was expected and would he come over to the hospital. He hurried out amid a lot of good-natured kidding, then dashed back in and said his car had a flat. I was nearest; I tossed him my keys, and seconds later we heard the blast.”
“I see.” Domms shook his graying head and poked at the twist of blackened wire and several bits of broken steel pipe on his desk. “We’re running an analysis but even before they finish I know we’ve had this man before. A cleaning establishment blast three years ago. Or was it four? And it’s an unsolved case, still on the books, but we’re looking at the same deal here.”
The captain pushed several larger pieces to one side. “This fellow takes a piece of pipe and some fittings and the powder from a carton of shotgun shells and he’s in business. Both ends of the pipe are capped, one end is drilled, and a wire leads out. Inside, the wire is coated with a sulphur compound like they use on matches, and it’s resting between some strips of fine sandpaper and the powder is packed in. That’s all there is to it. He simply fastens the bomb, hooks the wire over the door handle, and gets to hell out of there. When someone opens the door the wire scrapes along the sandpaper and sparks, and then she blows. The materials you can get in any one of a thousand places; how the hell are you going to trace a piece of pipe or a length of wire or a box of shells?”