Trial by Fury

by Craig Rice

  “I tell ya, I saw sumpin’ move,” a voice said

  Malone held his breath, his face half buried in the ditch He recalled, for the first time in years, a similar moment when he’d lain face down in a ditch in the Argonne forest, while a light played back and forth across him, missed him, and finally moved away.

  “Wait a minute,” another voice said. An instant later a horrible clatter broke out as a tin can full of pebbles was thrown across the ditch to land in the field beyond. Malone cupped a hand over Hercules’ nose and waited. There was something reminiscent about that, too. Except that on that other occasion the things that were thrown over his head had exploded somewhere just beyond him.

  “What’re we doing here?” a voice muttered. “He ain’t anywhere around here, we know where he is.”

  “We was told to watch the roads on the way,” the first voice said.

  There was still another detail in which this occason differed from that other one of years ago, Malone lamented. That other time he’d been hugging a quart of cognac stolen the day before from the captain’s orderly. He’d gotten away with most of it, too, before he collapsed in a mudhole, to wake hours later in another mudhole hugging two machine guns and sitting on a recumbent prisoner. He hadn’t figured out how he, the machine guns, or the prisoner got there, or what he’d done with the rest of the bottle of cognac, but he had silently accepted the young lieutenant’s recommendation for a citation. It had given him a memorable five days’ leave.

  He pinched himself as a sharp reminder of where he was. The car had started moving slowly again. He waited until it had gone a hundred feet or so, and then began slowly creeping along the edge of a ditch. Hercules at his heels.

  The occupants of the car knew where they were going. Someone knew where Jake was, and had tipped them off. It wasn’t Hercules who was going to lead him to Jake, it was the carful of drunken young ruffians inspired by the Citizens’ Committee. Just the same, he was glad to have Hercules with him. It was a comforting kind of moral support.

  The road curved sharply, went down a steep little hill, and curved again. Suddenly, ahead of him, Malone could see a cluster of buildings, most of them large. A high-arched wooden gate stood at one side of the road. The car he had been following suddenly turned off its lights, slid past the gate, and stopped. Malone again put a hand over Hercules’ nose and waited in the shadows, while the three men piled out of the car and slipped inconspicuously through the gate. Through the darkness he could see other cars parked along the road.

  He stood there until all was quiet again, then went slowly and cautiously up the side of the road until he stood directly below the arch. Through it the buildings seemed vast and mysterious; only a few lights showed here and there. He looked up at the lettering on the wooden arch: JACKSON COUNTY FARM AND INSANE ASYLUM

  Malone sank down on the grass by the side of the road, pulling Hercules after him. The county asylum. That was where old Doc somebody-or-other was, the one who had some theory about blows on the head. Maybe a good quick blow on the head was what he needed right now.

  Another car drove up the road, its lights turned off, and parked near the arch. Two men walked within striking distance of Malone. As they passed, one of them said, “He’s here all right. We’ll get him out if we have to tear the place down.”

  Malone looked desperately up and down the road. Inside the gates everything was very quiet and peaceful, yet a group of angry, drunken men, their minds intent on that thousand-dollar reward, were gathered somewhere in the shadows. And, for some reasons he could not understand, Jake was somewhere in that enclosure, too.

  On the other side of the road, nestled in its next curve, was a farmhouse. Malone spotted it, grabbed Hercules by the leash, and raced for it. The farmer might be one of the Citizens’ Committee, or he might not. It was a chance that had to be taken. The little lawyer dived up the two, rickety front steps and pounded noisily on the door. Hercules howled.

  There was an agonizingly long pause before footsteps sounded and the door opened. A plump, grayhaired woman in curlpapers looked out.

  “—use your phone—” Malone panted.

  The woman didn’t ask any questions. She lighted the hall lamp and pointed. “There it is.” As Malone stared at it dumbly she added, “One ring for Jackson central.”

  Malone turned the crank, picked up the receiver, and said, “The sheriff and Jerry Luckstone. Well, dammit, can’t you give me both at once? All right then, Jerry Luckstone.”

  Central found the district attorney in his office at the courthouse.

  “There’s a mob,” Malone said, without explanation. “They’re tearing down the county farm. Jake’s here.” He caught his breath and said. “For Pete’s sake bring the police.” He almost said “the marines.”

  He found his hostess in the act of giving Hercules a hambone, offered to pay for the call, thanked her, and started back toward the wooden gate. Hercules followed him, carrying the bone.

  The group of buildings inside the arch clustered around a central brick structure with a high, decorative tower. Two low houses stood on each side of it; to the left was a collection of barns and shed, and to the right, a long, two-story wooden building. Malone paused in the shadow of a hedge and considered the situation. Only two lights showed anywhere; one was in the entrance hall of the main structure, and the other was in the wooden building. He thought it over for a minute. If Jake were, indeed, in one of those houses, he probably was not quietly sleeping in some dark room. Therefore, the light in that wooden building was the best chance.

  He went on cautiously toward its entrance. Suddenly Hercules, close behind him, let loose a low-pitched, warning growl. Malone froze in his tracks and stood in the shadow of a bush, looking around him.

  Just inside the high wall that ended at the arched gate, a group of men had gathered, almost hidden by the shadows Malone looked closely; it seemed to him that a few of the heads were turned toward the wooden building.

  If Jake was in there, it would be Jake, himself, and Hercules against the Citizens’ Committee, until Jerry Luck-stone and the sheriff arrived. That is, unless there was another way of getting out of the enclosure besides passing through the gate.

  He took a long breath and began working his way up to the door, staying close to the bushes. There was a small patch of moonlit lawn between the last bush and the steps; he paused an instant, then covered it in a single leap, Hercules landing on the step beside him.

  The door was open. Inside, he found himself in a long hall, from which innumerable doors seemed to open. If he once got lost in here, he warned himself, he would never find his way out again.

  But Hercules suddenly showed a renewed and frantic excitement. Malone caught a faint, almost inaudible whine, looked down, and saw the big bloodhound sniffing at the floor.

  “Come on, Hercules,” he whispered, “good old Hercules. Find Jake.”

  Hercules was already padding silently up the long hall. He went around a corner, paused for a moment of anxious sniffing, went on again for a few feet, and finally stopped in front of the one door under which a tiny line of light showed.

  Malone shut his eyes, counted to ten, opened them again, grasped the doorknob with a hand that trembled only a a trifle, threw open the door, and walked in.

  There was a little table, with a lamp on it. There was a benevolent-looking white-haired man sitting on one side of it. But Malone was looking at the other side of the table. And so was Hercules.

  “Well for the love of Mike,” Jake said, looking up from his game of checkers. “It’s about time you got here. Where the hell have you been?”

  Malone looked at him for a good thirty seconds and said nothing.

  Jake blinked. “Where did you pick up the pooch?”

  Malone shut the door. “Turn off that light, or else pull down the blind,” he said. There was an edge to his voice. “And don’t call Hercules a pooch.”

  The white-haired man rose, pulled down the blinds, and sat do
wn again. Hercules walked over and rested one paw on his knee.

  “How did you get here?” Malone managed to ask at last. Jake scowled. “Don’t you know? Didn’t you get my message?”

  Malone rolled his eyes upward and talked vehemently for twenty seconds about matters that concerned no one but Jake.

  “But,” Jake said, “but—” He caught his breath. “Wait a minute.”

  “I’m waiting,” Malone said acidly.

  The white-haired man looked up at him amiably. “I assume you’re Mr. Malone. I’m Dr. Goudge.”

  Automatically Malone said, “I’m pleased to meet you,” and held out his hand. In the same instant, the flesh froze on his bones, not all in one piece, but in little hunks. As though things weren’t bad enough now, he and Jake were shut in the same room with a madman. He repeated, “I’m pleased to meet you,” with a heartiness that would have done grace to a political convention, and almost shook the white-haired man’s arm off.

  “Look here,” Jake said, “didn’t you get a message from me?”

  Malone shook his head. “Not unless you mean the necktie you dropped on the stairs.”

  “What stairs? Oh. I remember. That necktie.” Jake frowned again. “He came and woke me up and told me about the Citizens’ Committee, and helped me get out of the hotel without being seen, and told me where to go up the road to where a car would pick me up. It was a hell of a long walk. And he told me he’d tell you and Helene where I was, and all about it, and how to find me.”

  “Yes, yes, yes,” Malone howled, “but—”

  “And a car picked me up,” Jake went on doggedly, “and brought me out here, and Dr. Goudge has been making me very comfortable—he’s head of the place here, you know—”

  “He’s—” Malone stopped. “You’re—head of the— asylum—doctor?”

  Dr. Goudge nodded, a hint of surprise on his face. “I’ve been head of it since 1937. Why?”

  “Nothing,” Malone said. He had an idea it wouldn’t be tactful to add, “I’d thought you were an inmate here.”

  What had been said? Florence Peveley: He’s been in the county asylum for the past four years.” And Dr. Spain: “Wish old Doc Goudge weren’t out in the asylum.” No-body’d mentioned in what capacity Dr. Goudge had been there.

  But it was damned reassuring to know that there were three sane men in that room to cope with whatever might come. Not counting Hercules.

  “He—”

  Malone wheeled around suddenly to face Jake. It was the one thing he needed to know. “Jake. You said—he woke you up, he sent you here—who do you mean by—”

  Jake had started to answer when the rock came through the window, with an ear-shattering sound of crashing glass. A yell from outside followed it.

  “Don’t move,” Malone said very quietly.

  “Come out, or we’ll blow you out,” bellowed another voice from outside.

  Malone turned to the doctor. “How about this building. Is it full of people?”

  Doc Goudge shook his head. “It was condemned two years ago. That’s why it only has an oil lamp; there’s no wiring. There’s just the janitor has a room down at the end of the—”

  There was a drunken howl from outside, its words had something to do with rape and murder.

  “The quickest way out,” Doc Goudge said, halfway to the door, “is through the old bridge to the next building on the second—”

  There was a frantic howl from Hercules as the tarsoaked torch came hurtling in through the windows. Jake dived for Malone, throwing him and the old doctor toward the door, just as the table, with its oil lamp, overturned. Hercules leaped over them in the same instant that the whole room seemed to burst into flames.

  “You can’t get out that way,” Doc Goudge yelled. Malone spun around in his dive down the long hall, grabbed Jake by the arm in the same instant, just as the old doctor threw open a door. There was a little balcony outside it. Through a cloud of smoke Malone saw Hercules dive past them, over the balcony’s railing, and into the darkness; in the same instant he saw that the old building had been constructed on a hill and that the balcony hung a good twelve feet above the ground. The wall behind them was beginning to burn. Below, the mob was waiting for Jake.

  “Jump!” he screamed. “Never mind them. I’ll tell them—”

  Jake jumped. In the next breath Malone caught the old doctor around the waist and lifted him up to the balcony rail.

  In the moment that he poised there, a car, headlights and spotlights on, and horn going full blast, came screeching around the curve by the gate and stopped not fifty feet from the blazing building. He took a tighter grip on Doc Goudge.

  Both front doors of the car opened simultaneously. From one side the red-haired Florence Peveley dived out and ran in the direction of the crowd. The girl who appeared from the other door was Helene.

  Malone took a breath, shut his eyes, and jumped.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  There were men in nightshirts and overalls pouring water and dirt on the flames behind him. There was Hercules licking his face, there was Jake and Helene, and Florence Peveley, and a mob of men standing in the glare of the flames.

  John J. Malone struggled to his feet. For just an instant there was a whirligig of starred sky, black trees, white faces, and blazing timbers. His hands and face stung sharply, the breaths that he drew came painfully.

  He looked at Jake’s face, it was black and singed, and he realized that they must have leaped through the flames.

  “That’s the guy,” a voice screamed. “The red-haired one.”

  Malone roared, “Just—a—minute!” The crowd of men suddenly hushed.

  It was a hair’s breadth, Malone thought, like the last sixty seconds before the jury went out. The mob inspired by the Citizens’ Committee had been momentarily taken aback, but, he knew, only momentarily. Until Jerry Luckstone and the sheriff came, there was only himself to stand between Jake and the mob. And his throat hurt.

  The fire was dying down a little. Malone struck a pose and instinctively reached for a cigar. He had none. He addressed the mob.

  “Has anybody out there got a cigar?”

  There was an instant’s pause, then a faint ripple of laughter. Someone in the middle of the crowd pushed forward and tossed something at Malone.

  “Here y’are!”

  “Thanks,” Malone said, catching it neatly. He paused for a deliberate length of time, biting off the end of the cigar, lighting it, and throwing the match away, always acutely conscious of Helene’s dead-white face and of Jake holding tight to her arm. It was a two-for-a-nickel cigar, and it tasted terrible.

  He puffed at it, re-posed himself, looked out over the crowd, and spoke in a low-pitched, passionate voice.

  “Listen, all you guys out there, who’ve got wives and kids. Do you want to go home and pat those little kids on the head with hands”—his voice dropped a good half octave—“stained with the blood”—he paused—“of an innocent man!”

  There was silence, and a faint, subdued crackling of flames.

  That’s the stuff, he told himself, pour it out to them as if they were a Cook County jury. That’s what they are, they’re a jury. Pour it out. He felt a strange, uncomfortable tingling all over, the stinging burns on his face and hands seemed to have eased a little, and he wondered if he were dying. The mob had begun to murmur again, a few of its leaders had stepped up a few feet closer. Malone tried to stand so that he would be between the men and Helene.

  He spoke quietly and persuasively. “There must be a hundred of you out there. A thousand dollars divided up between you would come to about ten bucks apiece.” He gathered in all the breath he could stand and let it out in a last, frantic appeal to the jury. “Do you want to go to your grave with the blood of an innocent man on your hands, for a lousy ten bucks apiece?”

  In the same instant Hercules, somewhere in the bushes beyond, sent up a heart-rending howl.

  An uneasy, frightened movement began in the
crowd, slowly men began pulling away in little groups and starting for their cars. A piece of loose tinder in the burning building behind Malone suddenly blazed up and sent an unearthly light over the scene, in the same instant Hercules let loose with another dreadful howl, and the movement toward the parked cars became a panicked rout.

  Malone spun around and threw the cigar into the smoldering flames. There wasn’t much difference, after all, between a lynch mob and a jury in the criminal court. You could convince ’em, or you could reason with ’em, or you could pray with ’em, but the simplest thing of all to do was to scare ’em. He wished he could take Hercules into a courtroom with him sometime.

  Helene said, “Malone, how did you get out here?”

  He looked at her. Her lovely silver-gilt hair was loose and flying in all directions, her face was smudged with smoke. Jake, beside her, had lost most of his eyebrows and a little of his skin. And Florence Peveley’s red hair, in the immediate background, looked like a Fourth of July sparkler just about to expire.

  “For that matter,” he said to Helene crossly, “how did you get here?” A fire came into his eyes that wasn’t a reflection of the half-burned building. “I thought I put you to sleep.”

  “Malone, forgive me. I poured that drink on the carpet when you weren’t looking. I had to know what was going on. Then Flo—Florence Peveley—came. She’d heard about the mob. Her gardener was part of it and he’d been tipped off as to where it was going. So we got in her car and came out here—”

  Malone said in a cracked, terrible voice, “I just need to know one thing. Who tipped off Flo Peveley’s gardener? Who told this mob to come out here?” He gasped for breath. “And Jake. Jake, who warned you? Because—”

  He was interrupted again. Another car screamed into the driveway, this one was blazing with official-looking lights, and its siren sounded a low whine as it came to a stop. From somewhere out of sight Hercules answered the whine, as Jerry Luckstone, Sheriff Kling, and the deputy sheriff climbed out of the front seat. Ed Skindingsrude, Mr. Goudge, and Phil Smith, the latter still holding his head very straight above the bandages, came out of the back seat and followed the sheriff up to where Malone was standing.