by Ron Goulart
“Get off of her, mister!” he ordered from the darkness.
Things happened very fast after that.
The man jumped to his feet, breathing hard and startled by the intrusion. Marvin saw the knife coming up in a sweeping arc as the dark figure stumbled silently towards the sound of his voice. In the dim light Marvin could not aim the gun, but at essentially zero range pointing was good enough. He held the gun with both hands, and pulled the trigger.
The explosion was deafening in the darkened room. The man spun around and backwards, crashing into the wall just below the window. Marvin fired coldly, again and again, hammering his target into the wall both times. The man fell stiffly forward on his face and was still. Marvin went to Susan, who stared up at him with wide eyes. Her face was beginning to swell on one side. He touched it tenderly, and then pulled the rag from her mouth. She began to cry. Her arms had been bound to her sides by two turns of rough rope, and he was fumbling with a knot when Susan was suddenly bathed in bright light. He turned to see a large flashlight, and hear a rough voice in the darkness beyond.
“What’n hell’s going on here?”
* * * *
The police questioned Marvin for over four hours that night. He didn’t resent it; the circumstances of his involvement had to look strange to them. They were particularly concerned with citizens who carried concealed weapons and shot real or imagined criminals before bothering to call the police, and they wondered why he had been following Susan in the first place. He told them the truth: being a writer, walking through scenes in his stories, seeing the man following Susan, feeling the compulsion to protect her, and then details of the attack itself. In another room, Susan sat with an ice pack pressed to one side of her face and verified the important parts of his story.
The dead man had a history of sex offenses and was a principle suspect in the recent series of assaults on women in the neighborhood. There was no question that Marvin had saved Susan’s life, but he had also broken the law. Apologetically, the police charged him with carrying a concealed weapon without a permit and confiscated his father’s gun. The court, they said, would likely be lenient in view of the circumstances.
Marvin wasn’t bothered by the charge against him. Susan was safe. But killing a man was not part of his nature, and he was inwardly shaken by it. A priest was called at his request. They talked until late in the morning about feelings of guilt, and suppressed desires, and the necessity of establishing clear boundaries between fantasy and reality. When he finally left the police station it was nearly dawn, and his true feelings about Susan had become very clear to him.
He waited patiently for two days until Susan returned to work, and then marched boldly to the circulation desk and asked her for a date. To his surprise, she accepted immediately, saying there was much for them to talk about.
They began to see a lot of each other after that day.
THE MASKED ALIBI, by John Gregory
Somewhere in the gathering gloom of the Adirondack forest, a twig snapped sharply. Corporal Hal Robberts, New York state trooper, halted, his body tensing beneath the trim gray-and-black uniform. For a moment he listened, his gloved hand sliding back to the comforting assurance of the big .45 Colt belted around the sheepskin coat.
Then he pushed slowly forward. A snow-covered branch caught the toe of his snowshoe, tripping him. Simultaneously came the whiplike crack of a rifle. Something tugged sharply at the trooper’s fur cap, whined off the darkness.
Before the echoes of the shot died, Robberts was wriggling his way to the shelter of a nearby spruce.
“Some crazy poacher,” he muttered. There was no one else it could be, for on this particular assignment the lean-faced trooper carried no warrant in his pocket. But knowing the peculiar breed of men in the mountains. Robberts slid the .45 into his hand and waited.
Only a fool would charge that hidden rifle with only a revolver. And Robberts was no fool. There were plenty of men in this remote section of the Adirondacks—men who had lived alone until their minds had slightly cracked—who would shoot down an officer if they feared arrest for some petty poaching offense.
Stealthily, foot by foot, the trooper wormed his way from the shelter of the pine. Taking advantage of every available bit of cover, ears keenly alert, eyes striving to pierce the gathering gloom, Robberts began a tortuous circle that should bring him to the rear of the spot which he had marked as the origin of the ambusher’s shot. Suddenly, he stood erect with a muttered exclamation of disgust.
A trampled spot in the snow behind the bole of a huge spruce marked the ambusher’s waiting place. Robberts picked a spent cartridge from the ground. But that meant nothing, for the cartridge was a .32-40, which would fit a third of the woodsmen’s rifles. For a moment he stared at the webbed tracks of snowshoes that led off into the gloom, debating. Then he shrugged; no use swinging out on the trail tonight; in ten minutes, pitch darkness would envelop the mountains. But he could camp nearby, and in the morning trail down the maker of those crisscrossed tracks.
* * * *
For fifteen minutes the trooper slogged on through the snow and increasing cold. Suddenly he halted, staring at a steady gleam of light that flickered from the darkness a few hundred yards ahead of him. A cabin?
He made his way forward, silent as a ghost, stealthy as an Indian scout. Ten minutes later, he stood before a rude cabin from which light streamed through dingy window panes. He paused a moment to strike a match and examining a pair of snowshoes hanging from a peg in the outside wall.
But these were not the webs worn by that would-be killer back in the timber. Robberts knocked, then pushed open the door.
A bulky man, face covered with a heavy growth of beard, arose and peered at the trooper through thick-lensed spectacles.
“Howdy, officer,” the man said pleasantly, glancing at Robberts’ black-striped breeches protruding from beneath the sheepskin coat. “Cold, ain’t it?”
“Plenty,” agreed Robberts, throwing cap and coat upon the bunk. “I’m looking for a place to hole up for the night.”
“You’ve hit it,” the bearded man returned cordially. “My name’s Fred Dorgan. Been trapping some here, tryin’ to make out the winter.”
“Any luck?” asked Robberts idly.
Dorgan pointed with pride to several rows of furs hanging across the walls of the cabin. “Not bad. Average catch, I’d say. Take it easy while I rustle up a little grub. What takes you out this weather, if it ain’t an official secret?”
“No secret,” the trooper said easily, “in fact, you may be able to help me. I’m Corporal Robberts, state trooper, from the Malone barracks. A bunch of us have been busy the past week searching for that big transport plane that crashed somewhere in the mountains. I happened to be assigned this territory. Haven’t heard or seen anything of a crash around here, have you?”
Dorgan shook his head as he sliced bacon into a frying pan. “Nope, but that don’t mean that the plane couldn’t have cracked up not far away. Here in the cabin, with the wind howling outside, sounds don’t carry from very far. Any passengers in the plane?”
Robberts shook his head. “No, just the pilot and co-pilot. The ship was carrying a bank shipment of currency, though, and there’s been a great row raised about it.” He fished a paper from his pocket and opened it. “Pilot Walter Amsden, thirty-two, slender, brown hair. Copilot Frank Monroe, twenty-six, tall, redheaded. That’s their description.”
“Tell you what,” Dorgan volunteered, “I’ll make the rounds of my line early in the morning, then go out with you. We might stumble on something. Grub’s ready. Dig in.”
* * * *
A short time later, Robberts pushed back from the crude table and reached for his pipe.
“Someone took a pop-shot at me with a rifle, back in the timber tonight,” he said casually. He tamped tobacco into the bowl, struck a match, and sucked the pipe to life.
“That’s too bad,” Dorgan said. “Did you get a look at him?”
<
br /> “No. But I did get this.”
The trooper fished the cartridge from his pocket and held it up.
“What is that? A .32-40?”
“Yes.”
“My rifle’s on the wall.” Dorgan nodded to the back of the cabin. “Have a look.”
Robberts rose adn crossed to where a Winchester hung on wooden pegs. But the weapon was a .30-30. He nodded; Dorgan didn’t seem the type to ambush anyone.
“Know anyone who’s got a grudge against troopers up here?” he asked.
Dorgan hesitated. “No one I know of, unless—”
“Unless what?” barked the trooper.
“I don’t want to get any innocent party in trouble,” Dorgan said uneasily, “but there’s a queer old nut a few miles north of here that’s apt to do most anything. Took a crack at me one day.”
“What’s his name?”
“Amos Norton,” Dorgan answered, “he’s got a .32-40 rifle, too.”
“I’ve heard of him,” Robberts said grimly. “One of the patrols brought him in to the precinct one day for poaching. He swore then he’d kill the next trooper he met in the woods.”
An uneasy silence settled between the two men. Robberts considered Norton carefully. He seemed a likely suspect.
“Well, if we’re going to hunt for that crash in the morning, we’d better turn in,” said Dorgan. “There’s only one bunk, but there’s an extra bedroll you’re welcome to.”
“Thanks,” said Robberts.
* * * *
It was not yet dawn when Dorgan returned from his inspection of his trap line, and a short time later both men were slogging through deep snow into the timber.
“I’ve got only a few traps left out,” Dorgan explained his short absence before dawn. “Been thinkin’ of tryin’ a different part of the country. Old Man Norton ain’t what I call a desirable neighbor.”
A short distance from Dorgan’s cabin, Robberts called a halt. “We’ll separate here and cover as much ground as possible. If either of us finds anything, he can fire two quick shots to call the other.” He added grimly, “Tell me where Norton’s shack is, and we’ll meet near there. I’d like to pay the old boy a visit.”
After Dorgan had given detailed directions for finding Norton’s cabin, the two separated.
For an hour Robberts followed the course of a small winding river. Suddenly a small black object near the foot of a spruce caught his attention. Curiously the trooper strode to the spot and looked down at a fine pine marten, securely imprisoned in a steel trap. The little animal was frozen stiff by the intense cold. Robberts examined the trap staring for a long moment at the initials scratched in the steel. When he straightened a long whistle of satisfaction escaped his lips. Mind busy with a dozen thoughts he resumed his search.
The forenoon was half gone when Corporal Robberts broke through a protecting fringe of brush and gazed out over the frozen expanse of a tiny lake. And in the center of the lake lay a heap of blackened wreckage.
Hal drew his Colt and fired twice into the air before hurrying toward his find. When Dorgan came trotting across the little lake a short time late, Robberts was still examining the remains of what had once been a big tri-motored Douglas airship.
“What a way to die!” Dorgan whispered in horror.
He was pointing at the snow-covered figure of a man sprawled a few yards from the wreck. Nodding, Robberts turned the body over and gazed down into the features of a young man wearing the leather coat and goggles of a flyer.
“That’s Monroe, the co-pilot,” he muttered. “Must have been thrown clear and struck his head on the ice. See, there’s a bad wound there.”
“And the pilot?” asked Dorgan.
Robberts pointed to the ghastly little heap of bones, charred leather, and cloth that he had salvaged from the debris.
“Let’s hope the crash killed him,” Dorgan mumbled nervously. “Let’s get away from here. This mess gives me the creeps!”
“You’ve forgotten something,” Robberts retorted. “There’s supposed to be a box of currency around here somewhere!”
* * * *
At the end of fifteen minutes’ futile search, Robberts gazed at Dorgan with a queer light in his steel-gray eyes.
“Maybe it burned with the plane,” Dorgan ventured.
“Impossible,” snapped the trooper. “The box was fire-proof. Dorgan, there’s dirty’ work here. Someone salvaged $75,000 from this crash and made off with it!”
Dorgan said nothing, but his lips slowly framed a name. Robberts nodded, strapped the snowshoes again on his feet.
“We’re making a little call right now on your friend, Amos Norton!”
* * * *
Sunlight danced blindingly on dazzling white snow as the trooper and Dorgan cautiously approached Norton’s ramshackle cabin. A tenuous thread of smoke eddying from the crazy chimney was the only sign of life about the place.
Hand on holstered Colt and ready for instant action, Robberts boldly approached the cabin. A hard shove of his shoulder sent the rickety door flying wide open. Gun in hand, the state trooper sprang through the doorway, Dorgan at his heels. One brief look showed that the single-room cabin was empty. But a can of water simmered on the stove, and supplies and equipment were scattered carelessly everywhere.
“Looks as if he’s coming back, anyway,” remarked Robberts. “Watch for him, Dorgan, while I take a look for that money.”
* * * *
A thorough search of the cabin revealed no trace of the missing currency. Robberts stepped outside and glanced keenly around the cabin walls. A sizable pile of firewood was stacked neatly against one end of the shack…firewood without even a trace of snow on top of it. The logs had been recently disturned.
Robberts began a systematic dismantling of the piled wood. Suddenly he straightened, a gleam of triumph in his eyes.
“Got you!” he muttered.
He hauled out a shiny metal box, a foot square. The missing money container! The latch had been broken, so he flipped back the lig and peered inside.
Crisp green bank notes, neatly packed in a small bundle, partially filled the box. Carefully Robberts counted them, whistling softly in satisfaction. Not the whole amount, but it was a start. He hurried back into the cabin.
“Found part of it,” he told Dorgan. “Enough to convict the old fox, anyway.”
“Where was it?”
“Hidden in the woodpile.”
“Good!” Dorgan smiled, then—“Look out! Norton’s coming!”
Robberts ducked down, then cautiously peered through the dirty window. A lanky old man was shuffling through the snow toward the cabin, rifle swinging from one hand. Dangling over one shoulder were the furry carcasses of a fox and several mink. As the trapper came closer, Robberts stared with interest at the crafty, lined face and small, glittering eyes.
Amos Norton suddenly stopped, his gaze falling to the tracks in the trampled snow. At the same moment, Robberts spranged through the doorway, his Colt ready.
“Drop your weapon, Norton!”
With an animal-like snarl Norton swung the rifle to his hip and fired.
The crashing report of the police .45 boomed upon the cold air just as Norton’s bullet whistled inches away from the trooper’s head. Robberts’ shot struck the rifle’s barrell with a clang. Giving a cry of pain, Norton dropped his rifle and leaped forward with a shrill cry, a long-bladed hunting knife springing like magic into his hand.
Robberts plunged forward, grimly shoving his gun back into the holster.
A shot cracked from the cabin door, missing Norton’s head narrowly.
“Stop it, Dorgan!” the trooper yelled over his shoulder. “I’ll handle this!”
Then the trapper closed in, eyes gleaming with maniacal rage. He slashed once, downward, as the trooper ducked. The blade sliced the sleeve of the sheepskin coat from shoulder to elbow, then Robberts had the man’s wrist in a grasp of iron.
For a moment the two men were locked in a m
otionless embrace of straining muscles. Norton’s strength was enormous for a man of his age, and for a moment Robberts was hard put to hold his own. Then with a lightning twist Robberts slid his left hip forward. Norton’s weight carried him across and over, landing hard, flat onto his back. Robberts kicked the knife from his hand, and the fight seemed to go out of the older man. Norton sagged visibly.
Robberts flipped him over, handcuffed him, and sank back, gasping for breath.
After a minute, he said, “Bad business, Norton, shooting at an officer, and robbing wrecked airplanes!”
“You dirty, interferin’ state cop!” Norton mouthed, spitting snow and invective from his snarling mouth. “I’m sorry I missed ye last night!”
“So you admit shooting at me, and robbing the mail plane?” Robberts snapped.
“What? What’s that about robbin’ a mail plane?” Astonishment spread over the trapper’s dirty face. “Sure I shot at ye, and I’m sorry I missed! But I don’t know what you’re talking about when ye speak of a plane. I ain’t seen no plane!”
Robberts rose, hauled Norton to his feet, and quick-marched him the cabin. Inside, he pointed to the box with the the packet of money. “Ever see that before?”
The look of bewilderment vanished from Norton’s crafty features, to be replaced by fear. Abruptly he shut his traplike mouth and refused to speak again.