by J. T. Edson
‘I’ll get it, Brad,’ she said, going to the table by the door and lifting the receiver. ‘Deputy Fayde speaking.’ ,
Expecting the caller to be a member of the Business Office, or a deputy, she was almost relieved when a deep, guttural, somehow alien voice replied, ‘This’s the post office, Miss Fayde. We’ve a special delivery registered letter come in for you. Can we send it over?’
‘Sure,’ Alice replied. ‘Who—’
‘Our feller’ll have it there in about ten minutes,’ the voice interrupted and the line went dead before Alice could finish her question.
Seventeen
At the time Alice and Brad entered the steergang’s temporary premises, Sheriff Wyldeck of Coke County surprised his deputies by walking into their office at the town of Robert Lee. On his return that evening from vacation, he had read the latest news of the ‘Dumdum Killer’ in the local newspaper. Ignoring his wife’s plea to leave it until morning, he set out immediately to check on a thought sparked off by the news item. A search of the office’s records produced the required piece of information. If might be unconnected with the ‘Dumdum Killer’, a mere coincidence, but he knew that Jack Tragg would report it to him if their positions had been reversed. Anyways, what the hell, the Coke County tax-payers would cover the cost of the call. With that satisfying thought in mind, the sheriff took up his telephone’s receiver and asked to be put through to the Department of Public Safety Building in Gusher City.
‘Sheriff’s Office, Woman Deputy Hilton speaking,’ Joan Hilton announced as she answered the telephone on her desk. ‘He’s out with a posse, sheriff, and the watch commander.’ She drew a sheet of paper towards her and accepted the ball-point pen her partner offered. ‘Go ahead, I’ll see he gets it as soon as he comes in.’ Listening to the message, Joan moved the pen in rapid shorthand symbols. At last she said, ‘I’ve got it, sheriff. Thanks for your help. We’ll let you know how it pans out.’
‘What was that?’ Cuchilo asked as she hung up.
‘Sheriff Wyldeck from Coke County. Seems he’s just back from vacation and has something he reckons might help us. About two months back a rancher up that way was robbed by an—if you’ll pardon the expression—Indian cowhand.’
Cuchilo shrugged philosophically and grinned. ‘There’re a few bad guys even among us noble red men. Why’d he call us?’
The Indian, a Kiowa called Harry Blackhorse, aged about twenty, height around five eleven, slim built, took a .30 Luger and a hundred rounds of ammunition. Nothing else. The rancher’s son had brought the gun and bullets from Europe when he came home last year. Which means the bullets would be European-made 7.65 mm.’
‘Whooee, Joan! We’d best have R. and I. see if they’ve got anything on him.’
‘Sam!’ Joan ejaculated, after her partner had made the request to R. and I. ‘Do you remember the president of the Bela Lugosi fan club?’
‘Sure,’ Cuchilo began, then nodded his head vehemently. ‘She reckoned that the feller she’d seen was an Indian.’
‘Way the red varmints are popping up around the county,’ Joan growled, ‘they must be trying to take over.’
‘Yah!’ Cuchilo scoffed. ‘My great-grandpappy could scalp your great-grandpappy.’
‘He probably did,’ Joan replied. ‘Let’s go ask her what kind of uniform this Indian was wearing.’
When making up the posse, Jack had decided to leave one team behind to handle any urgent business that came up. The choice fell, not without protest, on Joan and Cuchilo as they had spent most of the afternoon talking to two women who had only one thing in common, their husband. With the bigamy case in hand, the two deputies reluctantly held the fort for their companions. However, they were permitted to make any inquiries which might prove fruitful. While not averse to leaving the paper-work that had occupied them since the posse’s departure, Cuchilo gave a warning:
‘Her son-in-law won’t like it. Mac allowed this Sylvestre hombre doesn’t want her harassed by us uncouth peace officers.’
‘Speak for yourself and the other fellers,’ Joan protested. ‘Alice and I are as couth as anybody.’
‘You’ve been listening to Rowan and Martin’s Laughing Cuchilo accused.
‘Only because there’re no decent Westerns showing now. Call the Business Office and have them send somebody up to guard the happy home.’
With the arrangements made, Joan and Cuchilo went downstairs and collected their car from the official parking lot. While she drove in the direction of Upton Heights, he reported their departure and destination to the Central Control dispatcher. Then he returned to the matter of the son-in-law objecting to further interviews.
‘He’ll need some convincing before he’ll let us do it. How do we handle him?’
‘Real tricky,’ Joan replied. ‘You write articles for the Lightning, don’t you, Sam?’
‘Sure. About Indian customs, legends, traditions, like that.’
In addition to being a capable peace officer, Cuchilo had made an extensive study of his people’s history. At the moment, however, the blonde was less interested in her partner’s off-watch knowledge than in how his connection with the Daily Lightning might help them deal with the recalcitrant son-in-law. When she told Cuchilo what she planned to do on their arrival, he agreed that it might work.
‘You’re one smart pale-face, lady,’ he complimented. ‘And more than that, you’re real sneaky.’
‘I never was until I got my new partner,’ Joan grinned.
‘Us Indians aren’t so smart,’ Cuchilo objected. ‘We let you land.’
On arrival at the witness’s address, Joan left Cuchilo in the car and went to the house’s front door. It was opened by a tall, lean man, slightly bald and wearing spectacles which added to the supercilious expression on his sharp features. He was the kind of man she had expected, so the annoyance that creased his face at the sight of her id. wallet came as no surprise.
‘Mr. Sylvestre?’ Joan said, returning the wallet to her shoulder bag.
‘Yes,’ the man replied. ‘I’ve warned your Office that I won’t have my mother-in-law disturbed in—’
‘This’s important,’ Joan put in. ‘We think it may help us get the Dumdum Killer.’
‘Huh!’ Sylvestre snorted. ‘I’d’ve thought that you deputies had better things to do on that case than chasing the figments of an old worn—lady’s imagination. My doctor says—’
‘We can’t make you let us see her,’ Joan interrupted calmly. ‘It’s like I was saying to Mr. Cuchilo there, if the public don’t want to co-operate we can’t force them to do it. He works for the Lightning and is thinking of writing an article on how the public react after hearing Sheriff Tragg speaking tonight. I’d better be going.’
‘Wait!’ Sylvestre yelped as Joan started to turn away from him. ‘Just a moment. Naturally I want to help you, if I can. What is it you want?’
Swinging back to the man, Joan hid the elation she felt at the success of her plan. ‘We want to know what kind of uniform the Indian was wearing.’
‘Is that all?’
‘It may be enough.’
‘I can tell you that! ’ Sylvestre sniffed, showing that he felt he was wasting his time. However he glanced at the car and continued, ‘It was a mailman’s uniform. Did you ever hear anything so era—unlikely?’
‘Can I see Mrs. Dajon, please?’ Joan inquired.
Again Sylvestre looked towards where Cuchilo sat watching from the car, then he nodded a grudging agreement. ‘If it’s necessary. I warn you, though, she’ll probably be calling your Office every night after this to say she’s seen some criminal or other.’
‘We get used to it,’ Joan assured him. ‘Can I see her, please?’
‘Come in,’ Sylvestre grunted.
Watching his partner enter the house, the Indian deputy grinned. It seemed that she had called the play right in her assumption that Sylvestre would not want a newspaper man to witness his refusal to co-operate with the law. On their way t
o the house, they had stopped long enough for Cuchilo to contact a friend on the Lightning and arrange for a cover story if Sylvestre checked up on him.
After a short time, Joan emerged with Sylvestre on her heels. Going by the man’s smug smirk and general ‘I told you so’ air, Cuchilo concluded that the interview with the president of the Bela Lugosi fan club had not been over-productive.
‘I didn’t think she could help you,’ Sylvestre was saying. ‘Short, stocky, elderly! What kind of description is that?’
‘About all we ever get,’ Joan answered, trying to hide the dislike she felt for the man. ‘It’s surprising how many times we get our man from nothing more than that much. Thanks for your help, Mr. Sylvestre.’
‘I just did my civic duty,’ he replied, then went on hurriedly, ‘Er—Miss Hilton—’
‘Yes?’
‘My name is spelled S-y-l-v-e-s-t-r-e. I own the jewelry store on the corner of Whitwell and Vargos—’
‘I’ll see that Mr. Cuchilo gets it right,’ Joan promised coldly.
‘I wasn’t—!’ Sylvestre yelped.
‘I’m sure you weren’t,’ Joan cut in. ‘Good night, and thanks again for your help.’
With that she turned and walked back to the car. Sylvestre watched her go, then he gave a sour sniff and reentered his house. Watching Joan, Cuchilo grinned and moved across into the driving seat.
‘Did you get anything?’ the deputy asked as his partner joined him.
‘Not much,’ Joan admitted and told Cuchilo what she had learned. ‘She saw him from her bedroom window at the back of the house. There’s a street lamp opposite, so she may have had a good look at him. The way he was coming, he could have been down by Hagmeyer’s place.’
‘Only he wasn’t Harry Blackhorse if her description’s right this time,’ Cuchilo pointed out. ‘What’d a mailman be doing around here at that hour?’
‘Maybe he works in the local office,’ Joan suggested. ‘Or it could be—’
‘Gen Con to Unit SO 6,’ interrupted the car’s radio. Scooping up the microphone, Joan replied, ‘Unit SO 6 by.’
‘1160,’ [xxiii] Tony’s Steak House, Terry Street, Jepson. Are you free to take it?’
‘We’re free. Any additional information?’
‘Customer knifed the bartender, then ran out, is all we know. Will advise if anything more comes in. Code One?’
‘Code One, over and out,’ Joan confirmed and returned the microphone to the hook. Then she clicked on the siren and Cuchilo sent the car forward fast.
‘How about what we’ve learned?’ he inquired as they sped through the streets. ‘Alice and Brad’ll read the note you left and might go to Sylvestre.’
‘We’ll phone in and tell them what we learned,’ Joan decided. ‘It’s not likely this feller’s tied in with Blackhorse and there’s nothing to connect either of them with the Dumdum Killer. Even if there was, we’ll have time to get a warning out. Mailmen don’t deliver mail this late at night.’
Eighteen
‘Who’d be sending me a special delivery registered letter, Brad?’ Alice asked as she returned the telephone’s receiver to its cradle.
‘Don’t ask me,’ her partner replied from the kitchen. ‘Mrs. Cord, maybe.’
‘It could be,’ Alice admitted. Instead of returning to Gusher City after completing the world cruise arranged for her by Brad, Tom Cord’s widow had decided to make her home in Austin. She still wrote regularly to her niece, but by the conventional methods of mailing. ‘But why did she send it special delivery?’
‘If you didn’t out-rank me, I’d say why don’t you wait and see,’ Brad drawled. ‘Do you want anything with your coffee?’
‘No thanks. I’ll take your advice, though.’
‘It’s time you did for once, boss-lady. I’m going to make me an omelet and fry up some bacon. A man has to keep up his strength.’
‘You don’t need to,’ Alice warned. ‘Not for tonight anyways.’
For all that, she felt a vague uneasiness as she went to the bathroom. Something about the post office’s message disturbed her, although she could not imagine what it might be. There was no reason why her aunt, or some other person, should not send her a registered special delivery letter. Possibly it contained a piece of news too lengthy to send in a telegram. Yet if the item was of such importance and urgency, why had not Aunt Mavis, or whoever sent it, used the telephone to pass it on?
When, about ten minutes later, the door bell purred Alice still had not reached any conclusion. Drawing on her bathrobe, she emerged from the bathroom fastening the cord.
‘I’ll do it, Brad,’ she called, for her partner was busy cooking his supper.
Alice had to look by the side-piece to see the kitchen’s door and her attention was caught by the Pete Ludwig shoulder bag. For a moment she hesitated then, as the door bell sounded again, went over and took the Colt Commander from the bag. Like any peace officer who performed his, or her, duty conscientiously Alice had made enemies. While it seemed unlikely that one of them would try such a subterfuge to make her open the door, she decided to take no chances.
Approaching the door, Alice noticed that Brad had connected the chain bolt when they came in. That offered a safe way of discovering who was standing outside before she opened up.
Then a thought struck her, driving an icy chill up her spine. Probably Cortez had believed the same thing as he went to meet his killer that morning at the Shaftesbury Hotel.
‘Come on now, Alice gal!’ she told herself silently. ‘This case’s sure got you all on edge, thinking like that.’
Keeping the Commander in her right hand hidden behind her, she used her left to unlock and open the door the length of the chain. Through the narrow gap, she saw a short, stocky, elderly man standing alone in the passage. He wore a mailman’s uniform and had grey hair, but his high cheek-boned brown face was that of a pure-blood Indian. In his right hand he held a large special delivery registered envelope. Alice could read her name and address on the label, but did not recognize the writing.
‘Miss Fayde?’ the postman asked in the same deep, guttural tones she had heard over the telephone.
‘That’s me,’ Alice agreed.
‘You’ll have to sign for this before I can hand it over,’ the postman told her, dipping his left hand into the bag which hung suspended from that shoulder. ‘I’ve got a pen here.’
From all appearances he had no intention of surrendering the letter until he received the signature. So Alice replied, ‘Let me unbolt the door and I’ll do it.’
Closing the door, Alice was about to free the chain bolt when she looked at the Commander. If she opened the door holding it, she would give the waiting man a shock. He might even figure that he had come to the wrong door and was about to be robbed. Of course she could explain her actions, but they might still cause him to complain to the County Commissioner’s Disciplinary Board. Wanting to avoid unnecessary trouble, she transferred the Commander to her left hand and laid it on the telephone table at the hinged-side of the door.
Even as she did so, Alice once more remembered Cortez. He too had laid aside a gun and opened a door. Which meant that he had known and trusted the person on the other side of it—or first looked through the gap allowed by the chain bolt and decided his visitor was harmless. There were few people who would come into that category with a dice-mechanic after he had recently double-crossed his companions. Yet he would open up to a mailman holding a registered special delivery letter addressed to him. So would Hagmeyer, Tap Morgan or anybody else.
A mailman!
The president of the Bela Lugosi fan club had claimed that she had seen an Indian wearing a uniform of some kind coming from the general direction of Hagmeyer’s house. Circumstances had prevented Alice and Brad from visiting the woman and asking what kind of uniform it had been.
Already Alice had straightened from placing her Commander on the table and her right hand reached towards the knob of the chain bolt. Glancing over
her shoulder, she found that she still had the room to herself and wondered if she ought to call Brad from the kitchen. Deciding against it, she started to free the bolt from its holder—and recalled her comment to Sergeant Bulpin at the Shaftesbury, after they had failed to find anybody who had seen the killer, along with his reply. The Vanishing American had been an Indian.
It was, however, her own description of the killer which now handed her the worst jolt. She had mentioned ‘the invisible man’. Since then the words had been nagging at her and forced into oblivion by more urgent matters. While letting the chain fall free, memory flooded back. The invisible man she had thought about was not the classic creation of H. G. Wells, nor of any of his Hollywood copyists.
Although Alice would never have admitted it to her peace officer colleagues, she had always been a fan of deductive detective fiction and had read works by most of the great writers in that field. Starting to pull open the door, she remembered the short story written by G. K. Chesterton in which the murderer had been a ‘mentally invisible man’—a mailman.
Fantastic? Sheer coincidence? Possibly. Yet three men had opened their doors in the early hours of the morning, something two of them would be unlikely to do unless satisfied that they could do it in safety.
‘Why me?’
The question sprang to Alice’s mind, followed by an answer. What if they had guessed correctly about the killings being a multiple contract? Then her name might easily be on the death list. After the sheriff’s announcement of the precautions which would be taken by the local law, the killer could have changed his modus operandi.
Drawing open the door, Alice saw the old Indian standing just as she had left him. No. Not quite just as she left him. While his left hand was still inside the bag, he had drawn back to the center of the passage. There had been time for him to take out his pen, if that was the reason his hand went inside.