Larry and Stretch 17

by Marshall Grover

  “It means that you and I are about to sever our connection with Quinton Everard,” drawled Osmond. “He has served his purpose, and now he must be disposed of. What’s more …” He helped himself to a cigar, threw a thoughtful glance towards the window, “it has to be done quickly—as soon as possible. Two hundred dollars will trickle through Everard’s fingers in no time at all. When that happens, he’ll do either of two things.”

  “Yeah,” grunted Birell. “He’ll come bellyaching to us again—or he’ll peddle his information, offer it to some mining company that can afford to pay a fat price.” He nodded grimly. “You’re right, Kurt. We’ll just have to shut his mouth.”

  “Got any ideas?” smiled Osmond.

  “Just one,” said Birell.

  He took his hat from its peg and started for the door, but Osmond halted him in his tracks with a derisive chuckle and a softly-voiced reprimand.

  “Stay put, Ranee. Don’t go off half-cocked.”

  “I know his room at the hotel,” muttered Birell.

  “Leave it to me. He won’t know what hit him.”

  “There’s a better way,” said Osmond. “Relax, Ranee. Fix yourself a drink. Sit down—and listen …”

  By 11 o’clock of their first night in New Strike, the Texas Nomads had forgotten their brief set-to with the nimble-fingered Quint Everard.

  Unlike the poker dealer, the man in charge of the roulette table was obviously operating an honest gamble. Larry had decided that the wheel wasn’t rigged, so did not hesitate to try his luck. With Stretch at his shoulder, and with a half-dozen or so other optimists crowding him, his fortunes fluctuated. His bankroll was depleted, then swelled again, then decreased again. When, finally, they abandoned roulette for the night, Larry calculated they had won exactly $83.

  “That’s no fortune,” Stretch nonchalantly conceded, “but better’n a kick in the face, huh, runt?”

  “Sure,” shrugged Larry. “Better than gettin’ skinned by that fish-eyed poker dealer. C’mon—we’re thirsty again.” They found leaning space at the bar and caught the attentive eye of Curly Beck, who promptly performed with bottle and glasses. Only then did Larry observe:

  “She still ain’t come down.”

  “Big Dora?” Curly nodded, heaved a sigh. “Yeah. It ain’t like her to stay away from the customers so long.” Stretch propped an elbow on the bar and cocked an ear to the piano music.

  “Ain’t that purty?” Stretch heaved a sentimental sigh.

  “In all of Nevada,” declared Curly, “you’ll never hear such fine music. A mighty special kind of feller is the old Professor.”

  “Professor who?” prodded Larry.

  “It’s funny I don’t know his real moniker,” grinned Curly. “We always call him ‘Professor’, and that’s all. Even the boss—and he’s the best friend she ever had.” It now occurred to him to remark, “Come to think of it, I don’t know your names.”

  “Valentine,” said Larry.

  “Emerson,” said Stretch.

  “I guess you fellers have been ridin’ together a long time,” prodded Curly.

  “It seems like a million years,” drawled Stretch.

  “So you’d know how it is with Big Dora and The Professor,” said Curly. “He was near dead when she first run into him.” He patted his chest. “The lungs, you know?”

  “That’s rough,” Larry commented.

  “Well,” shrugged Curly, “she nursed him good, paid all his doctor’s bills, and they’ve stuck together ever since. A regular gentleman is The Professor.”

  “The inside of a saloon,” opined Larry, “is no place for a man with weak lungs.”

  “That’s a fact,” Curly agreed. “But The Professor takes a little walk around midnight, and that helps. As soon as you walk outside, you find the air is fresher.”

  “I’ll bet,” grinned Stretch. He finished his drink, eyed his partner enquiringly. “Well? Speakin’ of fresh air …”

  “We’ll hang around a mite longer,” decided Larry.

  “Why’s that?” queried Stretch.

  “Lucky enough to risk a few dollars at that dice table,” said Larry.

  “All right,” shrugged Stretch. “What’re we waitin’ for? Be seein’ you, Curly.”

  They made their way to the dice layout while, a short distance downtown, two men furtively entered a dark alley and stared up towards a lighted window.

  “That’s his room?” Osmond asked Birell. “You’re sure?”

  “Dead sure,” nodded Birell.

  “Fine,” grunted Osmond. “I make it eleven-thirty. Let him know we’re here, Ranee.”

  Birell bent, scooped up a handful of tiny pebbles and, with unerring accuracy, hurled them up to the lighted window. The clattering sound alerted the man sprawled on the bed. Down below, Osmond glanced cautiously to right and left. The alley remained deserted, and he hoped it would stay that way.

  Quitting the bed, Everard strode to the window, opened it and thrust his head out.

  “Come on down,” Osmond softly called To him.

  “What’s the big idea?” demanded Everard.

  “Just get dressed and come on down,” ordered Osmond. “It’s important.”

  Everard nodded curtly, as he withdrew his head. He had only partially undressed before flopping onto the bed. It took him only a few moments to don boots, hat and coat and to strap the gold-butted Colt about his loins. He quit the room, hurried along the corridor and downstairs to the hotel lobby. Out into Main Street he walked, to turn left into the alley.

  After a muttered exchange of greetings, the gambler demanded to be told:

  “What this all about?”

  “Just a little caper we dreamed up,” drawled Osmond. “Remember what I told you earlier? Our hands are tied, unless we can force Big Dora to sell out. Well, we’ve thought of a way.”

  “But we’ll need help,” Birell pointed out, “so it’s only fair you should lend a hand.”

  “All right,” frowned Everard. “Just what are you planning?”

  “A little pressure on Big Dora,” said Osmond. “A

  trade, kind of. She does something for us—such as sellout. We do something for her—such as returning something she values. Did I say something? I should have said somebody.”

  “I don’t savvy …” began Everard.

  “The piano-player,” grunted Birell.

  “The Professor?” Everard’s eyebrows shot up. “What about him?”

  “He’s about to disappear,” Osmond explained, “temporarily.”

  “Are you saying …” Everard eyed him incredulously, “we’re gonna kidnap him?”

  “It’s all figured out, Everard,” muttered Birell. “Nothing to it. An easy chore. He’s a man of regular habits. At twelve midnight, he’ll sashay out of Big Dora’s for his nightly constitutional.”

  “And he’ll walk to the quiet part of town,” said Osmond, “where we’ll be waiting for him. That’s all there is to it, Everard. Ranee and I have already arranged a hiding place. You and Ranee will keep him there, while I talk a deal with Big Dora. By tomorrow morning, I guarantee she’ll be agreeing to my terms.”

  Cunning though he was, there were times when Quint Everard was inclined to be impulsive—and this was one of those times. Had he paused to consider all the implications of Osmond’s plan, he might have detected the obvious flaws. As thirds stood, he didn’t feel entitled to refuse his co-operation.

  “She sure admires the old man,” he mused. “I guess you’re, right, Osmond.”

  “I knew you’d see it our way,” grinned Osmond. “All right, friends, we’ll get started now.”

  “Which way?” demanded Birell.

  “The back alley,” said Osmond, “on this side of Main. He always starts on this side, walking down from the saloon to the edge of town, then crossing Main and walking up the other side. I can think of several quiet places Where we could make our move.”

  Thus, a venal tinhorn was led away to his death, while ot
her potential actors in the impending drama unwittingly prepared to play out their roles. At Big Dora’s, at exactly 11.48, Larry and Stretch saw the fat woman descending to the crowded barroom. She had roused from her bitter reverie and had made adjustments to her makeup. Business was business and her admirers were demanding to be entertained.

  As she passed the bar, Curly called to her. She paused to listen.

  “Make it a Lone Star song, boss. Somethin’ special for Valentine and Emerson.”

  “Valentine and Emerson?” She frowned, wondering where she had heard those names before.

  “Your friends from Texas,” grinned Curly. He gestured towards the dice table.

  “Oh, sure.”

  She waved to the Texans. They responded by doffing their Stetsons and flashing broad grins. Up to the dais she waddled, to position herself beside the old upright. The Professor eyed her expectantly.

  “Let’s give ’em ‘Lone Star Lulu’,” she suggested. “And then it’ll be time for your constitutional.”

  “They’re bound to demand an encore,” he smiled.

  “No encore,” she frowned. “Just two choruses of ‘Lone Star Lulu’. Remember what the doctor said? You need fresh air, and you need it regular.”

  The Professor improvised an introduction. Then, full-throated and boisterous, the big woman began chanting the song so popular in all the hell-houses of the tone Star State.

  When that song ended, the applause was deafening. With a smile and a shake of her head, Big Dora indicated there would be no encore at this time. She descended from the dais to mingle with the customers, while her aged friend and mentor donned his beaver hat and made his way to the entrance. A few minutes later, having won an extra $50 at the dice table, the Texans decided to call it a night. They were some considerable distance uptown, retiring to their room at the Frazer boarding house, when The Professor walked unsuspectingly into the trap devised by Kurt Osmond.

  As was his habit, he sauntered towards the downtown area. Once clear of the congested heart of New Strike, one invariably experienced a cooling breeze, bracing, invigorating. He savored it, sniffing appreciatively, as he trod the boardwalk with slow, majestic gait, a gentle old man, serene, clear of conscience.

  He was about to move past the mouth of a side alley, when the familiar voice addressed him.

  “Professor—you got a minute?”

  Quint Everard was dimly visible in the alley mouth, crooking a finger. The old man turned towards him, his expression cold and disdainful. And then, with startling suddenness, his arms were seized.

  Chapter Four

  The Set-Up

  He was almost seventy years old. He was frail, and his eyesight was failing, but his assailants took no chances, went to pains to ensure that he could never identify them. They hauled him into the dark alley. Osmond held his arms behind his back, while Birell uncapped a bottle of whiskey and hurled some of the raw liquor into his face. It stung his eyes. He gasped and cursed his advancing years. In a hoarse whisper, Birell gave Everard an order.

  “Hustle down the rear end of the alley! Keep your eyes peeled, in case there’s anybody headed this way!”

  The gambler obeyed without question, whirling and starting off along the narrow alley. As soon as his back was turned, Osmond made his next treacherous move. From the side pocket of the old man’s Prince Albert coat, he tugged the small-caliber pistol. It was aimed at Everard’s back and the range was still short, when Osmond cocked and fired, cocked and fired three times. Simultaneous with Everard’s shocked cry and the sound of his falling, Birell struck at the old man with his bunched right, a cruel, well-timed blow to the back of the head. The Professor sagged in Osmond’s grasp. Birell recapped the bottle, slipped it into the old man’s left coat pocket, then hurried to where Everard lay.

  Osmond let the old man fall. As he bent to place the still smoking pistol into the nerveless hand, he cocked his ears to the sounds of urgent movement—the footsteps approaching from uptown, the swish and clatter of windows opening the shouted queries.

  “Have you got it?” he called to his partner.

  “Got it,” came Birell’s brisk reply. “Let’s get out of here.”

  They ran to the rear end of the alley, turned left and, for several minutes thereafter, gave Main Street a wide berth. By a circuitous route, they made their way to the rear door of the Gold Queen.

  Meanwhile, alerted by the excited voices of their fellow-citizens, Hobie Wedge and Rufe Leemoy hurried to the alley at the south end of town. A sizeable crowd had assembled at the street end. Lanterns had been fetched. With his deputy tagging him, Wedge shouldered his way through the throng and into the alley. A scrawny miner named Baldwin was on his knees beside the sprawled body of Quint Everard. The Professor was being helped to his feet. He was blinking dazedly at what he held in his right hand, his own pistol, one of the Colt pocket models. Leemoy sniffed suspiciously and said:

  “Hell, Professor, I always thought you were temperance.”

  “I—never drink …” mumbled the old man.

  “Marshal,” drawled Baldwin, “it looks like The Professor got in a little shootin’ practice—usin’ Quint Everard for a target;”

  “I don’t—understand,” panted The Professor. “It all happened so quickly. I’m confused …”

  “Take it easy, old-timer,” soothed Wedge.

  “Gonna handle him gentle, are you?” jibed Baldwin. “Hell, Marshal, you’re always complainin’ about how nobody respects the law in New Strike, yet you …”

  “Shuddup, Baldwin,” scowled Leemoy. “Any man commits a crime in New Strike, he has to stand trial for it—no matter who he is.”

  “But not The Professor,” growled Wedge. “If he gunned Everard, you can bet it was self-defense.”

  “Self-defense be damned,” scowled Baldwin.

  “Come see for yourself, Marshal,” challenged another miner. “Everard ain’t armed. What’s more, the old feller shot him in the back.”

  Shocked to the core, Wedge strode forward to examine the dead man. There could be no mistake. The small caliber slugs had bored three red holes in the gambler’s back—and the gambler wore no gunbelt. Quickly, Wedge searched the body.

  “Everard’s fancy hardware,” he muttered. “The custom-made Colt with the gold-plated butt—where the hell is it?”

  “Griff and me must of been the first to arrive,” said Baldwin. “We didn’t touch nothin’, Marshal. You’re seein’ exactly what we saw. And what d’you make of it? Self-defense? That’s funny, Marshal. I could near laugh out loud!”

  The mood of the people was becoming ugly. They had ceased to be individuals with minds of their own. They were fast becoming a mob. Realizing this, Wedge emptied his holster. He didn’t point his Colt at the crowd but, as forcefully as he knew how, he said:

  “Don’t nobody get rash now. Just take it easy—understand?”

  “Lynchin’ is too good,” a local loudly opined, “for a back-shooter! We oughta tar and feather him first!”

  And now Leemoy filled his hand.

  “Hawkins,” he growled, “if I ever see you with a sack of feathers, I’ll shoot you down like you’re a mad dog.”

  “I’ll take charge of The Professor,” muttered Wedge. “Rufe, send for a stretcher and have Everard toted to the funeral parlor. Whatever you find in his pockets, bring it up to the office.”

  Less than fifteen minutes later, Osmond and Birell were back in their office at the Gold Queen. The holstered Colt taken from the dead man had been hidden away, and now the partners were swigging whiskey, trading triumphant grins.

  “Pretty damn slick, the way you had it all figured out,” Birell acknowledged.

  “This way,” Chuckled Osmond, “we kill two birds with the one stone. We get rid of Everard—and we give Big Dora something to fret about. She’ll be desperate, Ranee.”

  “You already gave her something to fret about,” Birell reminded him. “She was supposed to fall apart, when you told her about th
e Dexter woman. You were so almighty sure she’d talk turkey.”

  “I still claim the Dexter woman is Dora Keen’s daughter,” said Osmond. “You should have seen her face. She damn near swooned. But she’s a tough one, Ranee. She’d have nerve enough to confront Leona Dexter and deny the truth, and where would that leave us?”

  ‘“So,” mused Birell, “we’ve given her something extra—a burr under her hide. She won’t take kindly to the news about The Professor.”

  “She’ll need help,” drawled Osmond. He winked, as he added, “And help is going to be scarce—especially after you’ve passed the word to Crossley and McCade.”

  “Yeah,” nodded Birell. “I haven’t forgotten about Crossley and McCade.”

  “Better get it done rightaway,” decided Osmond, as he took money from his wallet and tossed it onto the desk. “That should be enough.”

  “Sure,” grinned Birell. He finished his drink, gathered up the banknotes and donned his hat. “After tonight,” he predicted, “Big Dora won’t feel so all-fired proddy. She’ll grab at any offer you make.”

  At this same time, Big Dora was beginning a hasty exit from her place of business. She had waited only long enough to drape a shawl over her ample shoulders, after a local had delivered the jarring news. Now, furious and apprehensive, she hustled across Main Street and made her way to the law office. A familiar figure appeared on the porch, as she drew closer to the marshal’s headquarters. The lean, soberly-garbed Dr. Roscoe Hibler descended the steps and politely doffed his stovepipe hat.

  “Doc …” She began,

  “I know what you’re going to ask,” he nodded. “Well, the deputy fetched me right after they arrested your old friend. Don’t ask to see him, Dora. He was over-excited, as you can imagine, so I administered a sedative. I doubt if he’ll open his eyes before ten in the morning—meaning this morning.”

  “All right,” said the big woman, with her eyes flashing. “I won’t try to see The Professor—but I’m sure gonna talk to those damn fool badgetoters!”

  She climbed the steps, barged across the porch and into the law office. Wedge was seated at his desk, gnawing on an unlit cigar and looking acutely uncomfortable.