"Lock the front door," he said again. "Then go over with the shoeshine boy—"
That was as far as he got.
Because by this time Leroy had come catfooting up behind him. And in the next second Leroy had one arm curled around his neck, his head jerked back, and the muzzle of a .44 Magnum pressed against his temple.
"Take the gun out and drop it," Leroy said. "Slow and careful, just use your thumb and forefinger."
The big man didn't have much choice. Asa watched him do what he'd been told. The look on his face was something to see—all popeyed and scrunched up with disbelief. He hadn't hardly paid any mind to Leroy since he walked in, and sure never once considered him to be listening and watching, much less to be a threat.
Leroy backed the two of them up a few paces. Then he said, "Asa, take charge of his gun. And then go ring up my office."
"Yes, sir, you bet."
The stranger said, "Office?"
"Why, sure. This fella's been pretending to work here for the past couple days, bodyguarding me ever since the capital police got wind Rawles had hired himself a professional gunman. Name's Leroy Heavens—Sheriff Leroy Heavens. First black sheriff in the history of Hallam County."
The big man just gawped at him.
Asa grinned as he bent to pick up the gun. "Looks like I was right and you were wrong, mister," he said. "Sometimes things change for the better, all right. Sometimes they surely do."
THE STORM TUNNEL
The two boys stood on the grassy creek bank, peering down through the darkness at the gaping mouth of the storm tunnel.
Raymond shivered. "It looks kind of spooky at night."
"Sure," Timmie said. "That's what makes it such a swell place to explore."
"You've really been inside before?"
"Lots of times."
"Alone?"
"Sure."
"Weren't you scared?"
"Not me," Timmie said.
"How far inside have you been?"
"Pretty far."
"What's it like?"
"Neat," Timmie said. "You can hear the water dripping down from the walls. And the river, too, farther inside."
Raymond shivered again. "You didn't . . . see anything, did you?"
"Like what?"
"You know."
Timmie laughed. "It's just an old storm tunnel."
"Rats and animals and . . . things live in old storm tunnels."
"Nothing lives in this one. You don't believe that junk?"
". . . I guess not."
"Come on, then." Timmie started down the bank.
Raymond didn't move. "My folks would skin me if they knew I was here."
"Well, they don't know, do they?"
"No. I snuck out my bedroom window like we said."
"Then it's okay."
"I don't know."
"You're not scared?"
"Who, me?"
"There's nothing to be afraid of," Timmie said.
"It's just spooky, that's all."
"Are you coming or not?"
Raymond took a long breath. "Yes," he said. "I'm coming."
The boys climbed down the steep, slippery bank, holding onto bushes and shrubs, digging their feet into the spongy earth.
Soon they were standing on the sharp stones of the creek bed.
In its center a thin stream of water flowed, disappearing into the tunnel.
It was very dark. There was no moon, and the trees and shrubs were shadows made quivery by the night breeze. The gurgle of water was the only sound.
Timmie said, "Follow me, Ray," and moved ahead along the stones. When he reached the tunnel opening he stopped again and took a flashlight from his pocket.
"Maybe I should have brought a flashlight too," Raymond said.
"One is all we need."
"I guess so."
They stepped into the storm tunnel.
The blackness was murky and damp. Timmie switched on his flashlight and played the beam along the concrete walls.
They were dry and smooth at this point, but the floor was wet and littered with leaves, twigs, various bits of garbage. In the middle the stream flowed, slowly here, dying.
"I don't like this place," Raymond said.
"Oh, come on. You're not going to chicken out now?"
"No, but . . ."
"But what?"
"Nothing," Raymond said. "I'm ready."
"I'll lead the way."
They set off, Raymond hanging onto Timmie's jacket. The footing was treacherous, but Timmie moved with catlike sureness. The flickering light from his flash cast grotesque shadows on the walls. Outside the beam the blackness was absolute.
They had gone several hundred yards when Timmie halted.
"What's the matter?" Raymond asked, alarmed. The sound of his voice echoed hollowly off the thick concrete surrounding them.
"The tunnel curves around up ahead," Timmie said. "That's where it turns toward the river. The water gets deeper there, so you've got to watch your step. Stay close to the wall on your right."
". . . Okay."
Timmie led them around the gradual curve of the tunnel.
Here, the dampness was pervasive. The walls were covered with a thin slime; water dripped from them, making tiny splashes on the floor like gently falling rain. The only other sounds were the shuffle of their sneakers and their raspy breathing.
When they had gone another hundred yards, the tunnel hooked sharply to the right. At that point they could hear a different sound in the blackness ahead.
"What's that?" Raymond asked, stopping.
"The river."
"Sounds like water boiling in a kettle."
"It does, kind of. Come on."
"We're not going up there, are we?"
"Sure."
"Is it safe?"
"How many times do I have to tell you? Just stay close to the wall on your right."
"Timmie . . . I think we ought to go back."
"What for?"
"I'm not going to pretend anymore," Raymond said. "I'm scared, really scared."
"You're acting like a little kid."
"I don't care. I can't help it."
"Come on, Ray. We won't go far."
"You promise? Not far?"
"I promise," Timmie said.
He moved ahead into the sharp curve. After a few moments Raymond followed. The rushing whisper of the river grew louder. Raymond hugged the slimy wall on the right; Timmie, playing the flashlight beam ahead of them, walked a pace to his left.
Just before they reached the end of the curve, the narrow cone of light suddenly winked out.
"Timmie!" Raymond cried.
"Damn batteries must've died," Timmie said.
"Oh no! What'll we do?"
"Don't panic, Ray. Up ahead the tunnel straightens out again and there's a branch that leads to Orchard Street."
Raymond was trembling. "Let's just go back the way we came."
"It's shorter to Orchard Street," Timmie said. "We won't have so far to go in the dark."
"Can't you make the flashlight work?"
"It's no use. The batteries are dead."
"Timmie . . . I've never been this scared."
"There's nothing to be scared of."
"The river sounds awfully close."
"Just stay against the wall."
"How far is it?"
"Not more than fifty yards," Timmie said. "Let's go."
Raymond slid one foot forward, cautiously; brought the other one ahead to meet it. The deepening water saturated the thin canvas of his sneakers. The hissing rush of the river was close now; its dank odor filled the tunnel.
"Timmie?"
"I'm right here, Ray."
But Timmie's voice came from behind him. Raymond had raised his foot for another step, was already bringing it down. There was nothing to step on, no more floor.
In the blackness, Raymond's scream created a chaos of echoes. Then the scream ended abruptly in a heavy splash. Tim
mie stood motionless, listening, but now there was nothing to hear except the fading echoes and the voice of the river.
After a time Timmie raised the flashlight, touched the button on its side, A bright beam cut through the dark, illuminating the jagged-edged hole in the floor that extended from the middle of the tunnel to the wall on the right. He eased forward, shone the light down inside the hole. Not far below, he could see the black, swift-moving river. There was no sign of Raymond.
"You shouldn't have snitched," Timmie said softly. "I knew all along it was you, you and Peter Davis. I don't like snitches."
He turned, then, and followed the light back through the tunnel.
"I don't think this is such a good idea."
"Why not?"
"We shouldn't be out this late. Not after the way Ray Wilson disappeared so funny last week."
"You want to explore the storm tunnel, don't you?" Timmie asked.
"Well . . . I guess so."
Timmie started down the grassy creek bank. Then he paused, swung around to smile up at Peter.
"Come on," he said. "There's nothing to be afraid of."
DEFECT
(**missing text**) glorious November morning, here on decadent island of Majorca if not in Mother Russia, and I am sitting on white-sand beach at Palma Nova. On many such mornings I am coming here from capital city, Palma, to mingle with unsavory tourists from Scandinavia, England, and other bourgeois Western countries; to observe, to listen, to gather information which may be useful. Is my duty as embassy officer.
I am observing from distance when Mikhail Pochenko finds me. He does not look happy, but this is nothing unusual. As good Russian and Party member, he seldom looks happy. He sits down in chair next to mine, and before he speaks he glances around to make certain we are not being observed.
"I have just communicated with Boris," he says. "There is problem, comrade."
"Problem?" I say. We are speaking English today. On other days away from embassy, we speak Spanish, German, and French. To become fluent in many of disagreeable Western languages is another of our duties. "What is nature of problem?"
"Kempinski is planning to defect."
I narrow my eyes at Pochenko. "If this is jest," I say, "it is in poor taste."
"I do not jest," Pochenko says. Which is truth. He does not even smile often. "Kempinski intends to defect."
"When?"
"Today. While he is in Madrid."
"Can he be stopped?"
"Boris has dispatched agents, but it may already be too late."
"Kempinski," I say, and shake my head. "But why? Why would he do such a thing?"
"He has left word he desires to live in freedom."
"Freedom?"
"In United States of America," Pochenko says.
I am shocked. I stare out at sparkly calmness of Mediterranean Sea before I speak again. "To desire capitalist way of life, to defect . . . he must have defect of brain."
"Ah!" Pochenko says.
"Ah?"
"That was pun, comrade."
"It was?"
"Da. You said, 'To defect, he must have defect of brain.' In English language that is pun."
"It was slip of tongue, comrade."
"Puns in English language are unacceptable," Pochenko says. "Traitors such as Kempinski make puns in English language—men who have secret desires to live in United States of America."
"I have no such desire," I say. "Is unthinkable desire, depraved desire."
"Then be careful to make no more slips of tongue, comrade. I would not enjoy reporting you to Boris. You would not enjoy it."
"It will not happen again," I assure him. Pochenko is even greater patriot than I, Alexei Dorchev, and for this I cannot fault him or his suspicious nature. "Are we to return to embassy now?"
"No. There is nothing we can do. Boris will notify us when he receives further word about Kempinski."
We lapse into silence. Is not long before blonde girl in disgustingly tiny bikini bathing suit walks by and smiles at me. This is third time she has smiled at me this no-longer-glorious morning; is obvious she is attracted to dark Russian males with superb physiques, and wishes to make of me her sexual plaything. Soon I must go and acquaint myself with her. Is probable she is Scandinavian and will speak English—or French or one of other disagreeable languages in which I am becoming fluent. Perhaps she has useful information which I will cleverly obtain from her. But in any event I will permit her to make of me her sexual plaything so I may again observe repulsive love habits of Western women at close quarters. This, too, is one of duties I and Pochenko and Boris and other embassy officials must perform for good of Party.
But my heart will not be in it this time. Kempinski, the traitor, is too much heavy weight. His actions and motives are beyond comprehension of Alexei Dorchev, patriot.
Defect? Leave decadent island of Majorca, hotbed of capitalist corruption, when so much depends on workers in Soviet foreign service?
Kempinski must have defect of brain!
THE CLINCHER
They were forty-five minutes from the Oregon-California border when Cord noticed that the red needle on the fuel gauge hovered close to empty. He glanced over at Tyler. "Almost out of gas," he said.
Tyler grinned. "So am I. I could sure use some food."
In the backseat, Fallon and Brenner sat shackled close together with double cuffs. Fallon's eyes were cold and watchful—waiting.
"There you go," Tyler said suddenly, touching Cord's arm and pointing.
Cord squinted against the late afternoon sun. A couple of hundred yards to the right of the freeway was a small white building, across the front of which was a paved area and a single row of gasoline pumps. A sign lettered in faded red and mounted on a tall metal pole stood between the building and the highway. It read: ED'S SERVICE—OPEN 24 HOURS.
"Okay," Cord said. "Good as any."
A short distance ahead was an exit ramp. He turned there and doubled back along a blacktopped county road that paralleled the freeway, took the car in alongside the pumps. He shut off the engine and started to get out, but Tyler stopped him.
"This is Oregon, remember? No self-service here. It's a state law."
"Yeah, right," Cord said.
An old man with sparse white hair and a weather-eroded face came out of a cubbyhole office, around to the driver's window. "Help you?"
"Fill 'er up," Cord told him. "Unleaded."
"Yes, sir." Then the old man saw Fallon and Brenner. He moistened his lips, looking at them with bright blue eyes.
"Don't worry about them," Cord said. "They're not going anywhere."
"You fellas peace officers?"
Tyler smiled, nodding.
Cord said, "I'm a U.S. Marshal and this is my guard. We're transporting these two down to San Francisco for federal court appearances."
"They from McNeil Island, up in Washington?"
"That's right."
Fallon said from the back seat, "Say, pop—"
"Shut up, Fallon," Tyler said sharply.
"Where's the restrooms?" Fallon asked the old man.
"Never mind that now," Cord said. "Just keep quiet back there, if you know what's good for you."
Fallon seemed about to say something else, changed his mind, and sat silent.
The old man went to the rear of the car and busied himself with the gas cap and the unleaded hose. Then he came back with a squeegie, began to clean the windshield. In the front seat, Tyler yawned and Cord sat watching Fallon in the rearview mirror. The old man's eyes shifted over the four men as he worked on the glass, as if he were fascinated by what he saw.
There was a sharp click as the pump shut off automatically. The old man went to replace the hose and to screw the cap back on the tank. A few seconds later he was leaning down at the driver's window again.
"Check your oil?" he asked Cord.
"No, the oil's okay."
"That'll be twelve even, then. Credit card?"
Cord shook
his head. "Cash." He got the wallet from his pocket, poked inside, gave the old man a ten and a five.
"Be right back with your change and receipt."
"Never mind, pop. Keep it. We're in a hurry."
"Not that much of a hurry," Tyler said. Then, to the old man, "You got anything to eat here?"
"Sandwich machine in the garage."
"Where's the garage?"
"Around on the other side. I'll show you."
"Better than nothing, I guess." Tyler looked at Cord.
"What kind you want?"
"I don't care. Anything."
"I'll take ham on rye," Fallon said from the back.
Tyler said, "I thought we told you to shut up."
"Don't Brenner and I get anything to eat?"
"No."
"Come on, come on," Cord said. "Get the sandwiches, will you, Johnny? We've got a long way to go yet."
Tyler stepped out of the car and followed the old man around the side of the building. When they were out of sight Cord swiveled on the seat to stare back at Fallon. "Why don't you wise up?"
"I could ask you the same thing."
"Easy, Art," Brenner warned him.
"The hell with that," Fallon said. "This—"
"You keep pushing and pushing, don't you, Fallon?" Cord asked him. "You can't keep that smart mouth of yours closed."
Fallon's black eyes bored into Cord's; neither man blinked.
Before long Brenner began to fidget. "Art . . ."
"Listen to your pal here," Cord said to Fallon. "He knows what's good for him."
Fallon remained silent, but his big hands clenched and unclenched inside the steel handcuffs.
Cord slid around to face front again. Pretty soon the old man came ambling back across the paved area, alone, carrying a square of rough, grease-stained cloth over one hand. He moved around to the driver's window again, bent down.
"What's keeping my guard?" Cord asked him. "Like I said before, we're in kind of a hurry."
"I guess you are," the old man said, and flicked the cloth away with his left hand.
Cord froze. In the old man's right hand was a .44 Magnum, pointed at Cord's temple.
Small Felonies - Fifty Mystery Short Stories Page 10