Point of Contact

by J. T. Edson

  Even knowing that they were in a crooked game, with no element of chance for the operators or victims, they saw nothing that they could identify as dishonest. While making—their bets, the deputies studied their surroundings. Apart from the light over the table, much of the room lay in shadowy gloom. They could still see enough to make out its furnishings. A divan, probably pushed back to make way for the portable break-down table, stood before the window’s drapes. On the side-piece, to the right of the deputies, was a tray with a fancy whiskey decanter and matched set of glasses on it and a glass bowl piled with decorative fruit. At the left of the room, a long cocktail cabinet shared the wall with a television set large enough to excite the envy of the neighbors even in that part of town.

  By careful manipulation of the dice and electric current, the mob induced their victims to bet larger and larger amounts. Many crap-shooters increased the size of their bets when losing, so Alice and Brad exhibited that trait the first time the dice went against them. In fifteen minutes Brad had lost almost eight thousand dollars, but showed only a reckless eagerness to go on. The same thoughts ran through his and Alice’s heads as they made the bets they knew that they could not hope to win; had the transmitter worked, had the tracking trucks managed to guide the posse to the house and how soon could they expect Jack Tragg’s party to arrive?

  That latter part soon became of considerable importance, for the door opened and two men came in. One wore a tuxedo and might have been a newly-arrived player, except that a steer-gang’s crap game did not cater for the drop-in trade, but Alice knew the same did not apply to the other. Short, lean, clad in a dirty grey suit, he was a Mexican with a vicious, knife-scarred face.

  The game came to a halt at the unexpected appearance of the men and every eye turned in their direction. Glancing around, Alice saw the plump woman showing signs of concern and Rutland scowling as the ‘boss’ went to join the newcomers. Going by the way the Mexican nodded to Rutland, he had brought news of some importance for the real head of the mob.

  Seeing the Mexican turn his eyes towards her, Alice started to look away. She recognized him and figured that it would be mutual. On their last meeting she had also been a blonde and had kicked him hard in a place which caused him to forget his intention of marking her face with a broken bottle. Her attempts at evasion came a moment too late. Staring at her as if he doubted the evidence of his eyes, the man rapidly decided that he really saw an old enemy before him.

  ‘What’s she doing here?’ he screeched, stabbing a forefinger in Alice’s direction. ‘She’s a cop!’

  Working with Alice as a team, Brad had learned to read her expressions and responses to various situations. He had noticed her reactions to the Mexican’s arrival and sensed danger. At the first hint that the man identified his partner, Brad followed the old military axiom of attack being the best form of defense. With so much at stake, Rutland’s mob would not yield mildly to arrest. Even if the local shills, who had to go on living in Gusher City, did not take a hand, the odds were heavily in the gang’s favor.

  So Brad did not bother to ask them to surrender. Even as the stickman started to raise his dice-stick and turn, Brad threw his left arm around in a power-packed backhand swing. His fist caught the lanky man in the face. Sent reeling by the force of the blow, Brad’s victim crashed into the glass front of a cabinet holding a serving set of china plates. Glass and pottery broke under the impact, bringing a horrified screech from the plump woman.

  Pandemonium flared up at Brad’s action. In addition to the woman’s screech, Rutland yelled, ‘Butch!’ and the other shills raised their voices while preparing to dash from the room.

  Alice turned to help her partner, but did not forget about the ‘banker’. Moving around the end of the table, he opened his arms to enfold her from the rear. That was not the way to deal with a trained female peace officer, as he rapidly discovered. Letting the man draw close, Alice propelled her right elbow as hard as she could into his solar plexus. With a grunt of pain, he retreated and started to double over. Spinning around, Alice bunched her hand and drove it up. She did not make the wild swing of a scared inexperienced woman, but a calculated, trained attack. Caught in the center of the face, the man lifted erect again. Across drove Alice’s other fist, colliding with the side of his jaw. He spun around and fell against the side-piece. His flailing hands swept the tray off it and the decanter and glasses shattered on the floors

  Turning with the blow at the stickman, Brad took a long pace forward as his victim went reeling. Already the dealer had swung to face the deputy, right hand dipping into his jacket pocket. Brad did not know what the man had there, but felt disinclined to let him take it out. With the same deadly speed that he could show when drawing a gun, he reached for the man. Taking hold of the lapels of the dealer’s jacket in his hands, Brad jerked them open and over his shoulders. With his upper arms trapped in the jacket’s sleeves, the man could neither get his hand out of the pocket nor free himself.

  Across the room, the ‘boss’ produced a snub-nosed Smith & Wesson Bodyguard revolver from beneath his jacket. At his side, the Mexican turned to flee and the other new arrival was grabbing for a weapon of some kind. Seeing the gun, the shills flung themselves to the floor and the second woman added her screams to those of the other female decoy. Drawing back from the table, the Rutlands made no attempt to help their gang.

  Brad saw his danger. Even as the ‘boss’ brought up the revolver, the deputy swung the trapped dealer between them. He timed the move just right. Unable to stop himself, the ‘boss’ completed the pressure of the trigger and the revolver cracked. Brad felt the bullet strike his living shield, but it did not penetrate right through the dealer’s body. However the deputy knew that he was still far from being out of danger. Thrusting himself away from the wrecked cabinet, the stickman slid a switch-blade knife from his jacket and flicked it open. If Brad tried to deal with the knife, he would have to discard his shield and leave himself exposed to the boss’s gun.

  By the side-piece, the banker swung around. Blood ran from his nostrils and his face was almost black with rage. He saw Alice moving towards him and snatched up the bowl with its decorative fruit. Swinging it above his head, he hurled it at the girl. Alice swayed her torso aside, letting the missile fly by her. From behind came a crash of glass shattering, mingling with the crack of a shot. The plump woman’s shrieks rose to a crescendo as she stared at the ruined screen of the big television.

  Shoving himself from the side-piece, the man rushed at Alice. Almost sick with anxiety over the result of the shot, she did not allow it to distract her or slow her reactions. Deftly catching his left wrist in her hands, she side-stepped and heaved. Taken with his own momentum, the sudden tug threw the man off balance. Flashing by the girl, he went sprawling on to the table. Its side struck him in the stomach with enough force to wind him and the legs buckled under his weight. Then Alice spun around to see if the bullet had found her partner.

  Something disintegrated the windows, coming through in a shower of broken glass and frame-work. Brad hurled the wounded dealer at the stickman as he halted and stared in the direction of the latest commotion. Struck by the other man, the lanky crook tumbled backwards and did further damage to the cabinet. Spitting out curses, the ‘boss’ swung his revolver away from Brad.

  Jack Tragg burst through the drapes, Python in hand. Seeing the ‘boss’ he dived over the back of the divan. Lead from the Smith & Wesson tore into the upholstery above the sheriff as he landed on the seat. Rolling to the floor, Jack lined and sighted the six-inch barreled Colt. Flame sparked from its .357 Magnum barrel. Caught by the lead, the ‘boss’ spun around and dropped the snub-nosed revolver. The man who had brought the Mexican held a gun by that time. Staring to where Grantley and Melnick followed the sheriff into the room, he wisely threw his weapon aside. The two deputies held ‘maggies’ in their right hands and showed every sign of being capable of using the powerful revolvers.

  In the dimly-lit hall,
Butch the doorkeeper heard the start of the trouble and his name called. Knowing that it was his duty to handle the muscle, he started to make for the room. Then he heard feet thudding across the porch outside. Never the quickest of thinkers, he turned to face the sound and tried to decide what he should do. The decision did not stay in his hands for long.

  Brought to the house by the reports from the tracking trucks, the posse had arrived at its rear. Already the men knew the positions they would take to make their entrance. There had been an uneasy moment when the decoy Chevrolet arrived, but its driver and the Mexican failed to notice the peace officers crouching in the darkness. Larsen, Valenca, Rafferty and Chu had been assigned to take the front door. Hearing the shouting from inside, they wasted no time in following their orders. Ducking their shoulders, Larsen and Rafferty charged the door. Over four hundred pounds of solid muscle, bone and hard flesh struck it.

  With a screech of screws being ripped from wood and crackle of breaking timber, the whole door flew inwards. Standing behind it, Butch felt as if he was in the middle of a railroad collision. A big man, he could not withstand the impact of two deputies equally as big and heavy. Carried backwards across the hall, he was crashed into the opposite wall. Before he recovered, he was handcuffed and rendered harmless. When the Mexican dashed out of the room, he found himself looking into the muzzles of two revolvers and surrendered.

  McCall’s party kicked their way in at the side door and the whole posse converged on the room in which the steer-gang had been playing their game.

  Standing with their backs to the wall, the Rutlands exchanged glances then watched their gang and shills surrender. They knew that at last the law had tricked and caught them. Yet all might not be lost. At no time had there been any mention of their connection with the gang. Sure the peace officers might suspect it, but suspicions and proof in a court of law were vastly different things. A good lawyer could spring the Rutlands, leaving them free to make arrangements for the more obviously guilty members of the mob. Or, if the Mexican had brought the news Rutland suspected, for him and his wife to put a lot of miles between them and Gusher City.

  Things did not go as Rutland hoped they might. The deputies had switched oh all the room’s lights and the plump woman stood staring with open-mouthed horror at the wreckage.

  ‘You bastard, Sadie Rutland!’ she screeched, running across the room. You promised there’d be no trouble. Look what they’ve done to my house!’

  ‘Shut your mouth!’ Sadie howled back, furious at the knowledge of what the incautious words meant to her and her husband.

  Once more the woman glared around the room, wondering how she would explain the wreckage to her husband when he came back from his business-trip. Then she turned her gaze to the cause of her predicament.

  ‘You lousy bastard!’ the plump woman yelled and her hands dug savagely into Sadie’s hair.

  Next minute the two women were staggering across the room, fingers tearing at and ruining the other’s coiffure. Screeching obscenities at each other, they tripped and crashed to the floor. The force of their arrival jolted the wind from them. Rolling to their knees, they prepared to resume hostilities. Alice had walked across to the side of the women. Before they could grab hold of each other again, she swooped in. Taking hold of them by the scruffs of their necks, she propelled their heads hard together. On being released, they collapsed in a limp, unresisting pile and lay still.

  ‘Nice going, Alice,’ Jack complimented.

  ‘I hope I haven’t torn Mrs. Tragg’s dress,’ Alice replied. ‘Don’t worry if you have,’ the sheriff grinned. ‘She figured something might go wrong and made me promise that I’d buy her another no matter what happened.’

  Sixteen

  ‘You’re a tricky son-of-a-bitch, sheriff,’ Rutland declared, almost with admiration, as he watched the various members of his steer-gang being dealt with by the posse. ‘That was a damned neat plant. I’d never’ve figured those two deputies for badges, especially when you used Grayne and the night manager at the Beverly Arms to back their play.’

  ‘I reckoned we’d have to be well-organized to nail your hide to the wall,’ Jack Tragg replied. ‘We’ve got you dead to rights this time, Andy.’

  A point which Rutland did not need to have emphasized in any way. Looking around the room, he knew that the law finally had him trapped. From what she had said when helped out of the room by one of the policewomen brought on the raid, the wife of the house’s owner had left him in no doubt of what she planned to do. If she was to suffer for her habit of renting the house to steer-gangs or honest floating crap games in her husband’s absence, she meant to have company in her suffering. Possibly she hoped to lessen her own punishment by fully incriminating the cause of her misfortunes. Or it might be that she sought revenge for the damage to her property. Whatever the reason, Rutland knew that she intended to make his part in the affair known to the peace officers. Nor would the local shills show greater loyalty to their employer. All in all, as the sheriff claimed, the law had Rutland caught dead to rights and meant to make the most of the opportunity.

  Already the deputies had removed the lesser lights of the gang and a photographer had recorded the evidence with his camera. Broken by the banker, the take-apart dice table showed the damning electro-magnet which had been fitted and concealed beneath the cloth. Having been prepared for physical resistance, Jack Tragg had included a medical examiner in the posse. So the wounded men were already receiving treatment. Across the room, Brad Counter had removed his jacket and was fitting on his Hardy-Cooper spring shoulder holster, brought for him by First Deputy McCall. Alice had tucked her handbag into the more bulky Pete Ludwig shoulder bag, then joined the sheriff. Before she could speak, Alvarez came back into the room.

  ‘Moreno says that Peraro sent him to tell Rutland to meet him,’ the First Deputy announced. ‘Peraro arrived this evening and is stopping with Jose Carrasco.’

  ‘You know why he’s here?’ Jack asked Rutland.

  ‘Yeah. He’s after whoever washed Tommy Cortez.’

  ‘Which could be you,’ Alvarez suggested.

  ‘Me!’ Rutland snorted. ‘Why’d I want to have him killed?’

  ‘For crossing you in San Antonio,’ Alvarez offered.

  For a moment Rutland stared at the peace officers, then he let out a long hissing sigh. ‘So that’s why the Sheriff’s Office pulled the plant instead of the “bluenoses”.’

  ‘We didn’t want you getting killed by Peraro, even if you did knock those three hombres off,’ Jack drawled.

  ‘I haven’t killed anybody!’ Rutland insisted. ‘Hell, I don’t even know the other two who’ve been killed.’

  ‘You knew Cortez,’ Alice pointed out. ‘And had reason to hate him.’

  ‘Maybe, but not reason enough to wash out Peraro’s nephew. Sure Tommy crossed me, but that didn’t make me want to kill him. If I’d put a beef about it to Peraro, he’d’ye covered my losses.’

  ‘So Peraro didn’t worry you?’ Jack asked.

  ‘Not if I could get a chance to talk to him. I’ve got an alibi for every one of them killings. What did scare me was that some punk might try to get an in with Peraro by gunning for me before I’d seen him. So I figured to go out West for a spell and drop out of sight until I could get in touch with him.’

  ‘Do you expect us to believe that?’ Alvarez sniffed.

  ‘It’s the truth! All right, so I was riled about Tommy crossing me. But not enough to knock him off, or have it done, in the town where—’

  ‘Where what?’ Jack prompted as Rutland’s words tapered off.

  ‘Nothing!’ the man grunted.

  ‘Where the New York Syndicate and Peraro were working out some kind of deal, Rutland?’ Alice guessed.

  ‘You know about it, huh?’ Rutland asked, sounding surprised.

  ‘We know,’ Jack agreed. ‘So you didn’t gun Cortez down?’

  ‘Am I loco?’ Rutland spat out. ‘Do I have rocks in my head? Do you rec
kon I’d chance doing something that would have Peraro and the Syndicate against me? How long could a guy in my racket go on operating against that kind of opposition?’

  Glancing at his deputies, Jack knew they agreed with his belief that Rutland was speaking the truth. However the matter needed more conclusive confirmation than mere instincts, good as they might be.

  ‘We’ll be holding your bunch under Article 1550, Swindling, Rutland,’ the sheriff warned. ‘Do you want to call a lawyer?’

  ‘I reckon we’ll be safer in the pokey until after you’ve seen Peraro,’ Rutland decided. ‘How about my alibi?’

  ‘Have it checked out, Ric,’ Jack suggested. ‘Use some of your watch to do it. I’ll take Alice and Brad along with me.’

  ‘You’re going to talk to Peraro?’ Alvarez said, making the words more of a statement than a question.

  ‘It’s be best done now, not later,’ Jack replied.

  ‘Is that all the help you’ll need?’ Alvarez wanted to know.

  ‘Sure,’ Jack replied. ‘Peraro’s too smart to make fuss for the law. See to things here, Ric. Have you got all your money back, Brad?’

  ‘Mac’s seeing to it for me,’ the blond deputy answered, drawing on his coat.

  Before leaving for the plant, Brad had had the contents of his wallet checked and money counted by a member of the District Attorney’s staff. That was to prevent allegations that he, or the posse, had helped themselves to the gang’s bank-roll. It was by attention to such small details that Jack tried to avoid the smear campaigns which plagued most big city law enforcement agencies.