Manly Wade Wellman - Novel 1947

by The Sleuth Patrol (v1. 1)

  “Have that peashooter of yours ready, Hefty,” Sherlock heard the command of Corey Jarnes. “He’s turned on the light in the basement.”

  “I’m ready,” grunted Hefty. “Ready, willing and anxious.”

  Heart racing and lip caught between his teeth, Sherlock tiptoed swiftly to the door and placed himself against the wall beside it, at the place where it was hinged to its jamb. There was a moment of sickening suspense as the two pairs of feet tramped down to basement level. Then a hand found the door knob on the other side, rattled it, and turned it. The door was thrown quickly open, almost upon Sherlock, screening him behind it from the rest of the cellar.

  “There he is, flashing that light on us!” yelled Corey Jarnes furiously. “Slap him full of lead!”

  Revolver shots rang in the old cellar like a bombardment. Both Corey Jarnes and Hefty were snarling and shouting as they charged like mad buffalo behind the volley of shots their weapons spat out. As they moved clear of the door’s threshold, Sherlock whipped himself from behind the shelter of the back-flung panel, spun around it like a halfback reversing his field, and got through the doorway and was darting up the stairs.

  A voice behind him roared out a command to halt, but it only quickened the scamper of his feet. He tripped on the top step and almost fell, but recovered and stayed on his feet, running into the front room. Four inspired leaps carried him across the floor to the front door. It was still closed, but he found it, got hold of the knob, and with a wrench had the door open. Another mighty spring carried him clear across and past the porch, and he landed in the yard. Next moment he was running as Max and Doc had run, making for the trail that led through the hollow to the road.

  He had the presence of mind to feel thankful as he gained the shadows of the trees. More by instinct than otherwise he kept his galloping feet on the trail. He remembered, too, Hefty’s stumbling fall on that trail, and so he was able to watch out for the log that Doc had pulled across, and leaped over it when he came to it. Beyond he gained the footing of loose stones that showed how near the road was, and spurned them behind him in a fresh burst of speed. But then he came to a sudden halt, his heart going cold and sick and desperate within him.

  For a car had been parked squarely across the head of the trail where it joined the road, and from that car figures were moving toward him. Were they allies of Corey Jarnes and Hefty, cutting off his escape? Sherlock tried to turn and leap into the woods, but bumped hard against a tree, filling his eyes with stars. Despite himself, he cried out.

  “That’s Sherlock!” said the excited voice of Doc Watson. “Sherlock, it’s all right. We—”

  “Take it easy there, and keep that voice down,” said someone else, more calmly than Doc. A tall figure came to the front, and Sherlock, still dizzy from his impact against the tree and trembling with tense, worried emotion, recognized his Scoutmaster. Mr. Palmer was Sergeant Palmer now, dressed in his uniform with the three stripes on its sleeves. He pushed close, his normally pleasant face wearing a grim expression in the dim filtered wash of moonlight through the foliage.

  “Yes,” Sherlock managed to say, though his breath seemed to be drained clear out of him, as by a double hare-and-hounds race, “keep your voices down. There’s a couple of criminals back there in the hollow. They’ll be along in a minute.”

  Others were gathering around, peering at Sherlock eagerly. He could see Mr. Brimmer, and with him a broadbodied stranger who wore on the front of his shirt a bright badge, shaped like a star, that identified him as the township constable. Max and Doc were there, too, looking wide-eyed at their friend.

  “Say, we’ve been worried silly about you,” said Max. “When that big gorilla tore loose with his gun from the porch, we made it back here to camp in about eight jumps. Mr. Brimmer was there, and so were Mr. Palmer and the constable here. We all drove back down to find out if—”

  “It’s all solved,” Sherlock interrupted hurriedly, and again his triumph overshadowed his worry and fatigue. “I’ve been down in the cellar of the haunted house and found out everything.”

  “You got by that giant with the gun?” demanded Max.

  “There are two of them,” Sherlock elaborated. “The other one’s Corey Jarnes, remember, Mr. Palmer? The man who tried to swindle that bean-guessing contest at Sig Poison’s? And they’re stealing cars in this neighborhood.”

  “Car theft is a serious charge to make against anyone,” said Mr. Brimmer. “I hope you aren’t drawing on your imagination, just because I lost my car.”

  “I’ve seen your car, Mr. Brimmer,” Sherlock told him. “I tell you that I’ve been in the cellar. It’s all fitted up as a shop. Some of the cars they plan to paint over and sell second-hand, to judge by what I heard them say, and they’ve been stripping down others to get parts to sell to garages.”

  “You’ve located my car?” exclaimed the Assistant Scoutmaster. “You’re sure it’s mine? But how, I still wonder, could they get it away from camp, without our hearing the motor start or finding the marks of my tires?”

  “I’ve figured that out, too,” said Sherlock. “They switched smooth-worn tires to your wheels, so that we couldn’t see any familiar tracks to follow, and they must have rolled the car downhill without trying to start it. That would make no noise at all. Your tires are on another car, the same one we followed to Oatville.”

  Sergeant Palmer moved past the group, and along the trail. “Save your explanations until later, Sherlock,” he said. “Just now I’m going to make a full investigation.”

  “Careful,” Sherlock warned him softly. “They both have guns. They shot at Max and Doc, and down in the cellar they shot at me, too, that is, they shot at the place where I made them think I was.”

  “I said, save the rest of your information until later,” the sergeant cautioned him again. “I want everybody to keep quiet. You three boys stay here with Mr. Brimmer. Constable, you and I are going to head up this trail, one of us on each side.”

  As he spoke he slid in among the trees to the right of the trail. The constable said nothing, but imitated him at the left, and both stole in the direction of the house, while their companions obediently stood still, watching. The two officers had not gone a score of paces before the sound of feet—one pair as heavy and slow as the hoofs of an ox, the other light and sure—came toward them from the hollow where the house stood.

  Sergeant Palmer stopped at once, behind a trunk that would turn any bullet, and from his holster drew a police revolver. His other hand flashed a light along the trail. Its ray fell upon two figures, and they stopped suddenly, blinking helplessly in the glare. The biggest of the two figures started to bring up a hand the size of an outfielder’s glove, a hand that dwarfed the revolver it held.

  “You’re under arrest,” snapped the sergeant at them. “Drop those guns.”

  Hefty fired with his revolver toward the sound of the voice, and his bullet thudded into the bark of the tree behind which Sergeant Palmer was sheltered. At once the sergeant’s gun replied, and its surer-aimed bullet went to the mark. Hefty yelled and dropped his weapon, wringing his hand.

  “I just skinned your knuckles,” called Sergeant Palmer, “but I could hit closer to center than that if I wanted to.”

  “And so could I,” chimed in the constable from across the trail. “Both of you are covered.”

  Corey Jarnes dropped his pistol, too, and both pairs of hands went up in token of surrender.

  “Okay, you win, copper,” snarled Corey Jarnes. “If you didn’t have us surrounded, we might make something out of it.”

  The constable and Sergeant Palmer stepped into sight and closed in. While Sergeant Palmer held his light on the two captives, the constable stooped and snatched up the revolvers they had dropped, then expertly patted their chests, flanks and hips to see if they had any other firearms. The others came closer to watch. Sherlock had a good look at his enemies for the first time since the adventure had begun. Corey Jarnes was much as Sherlock remembered him
from the attempted fraud at Sig Poison’s, scowling and showing big teeth. Now he was roughly dressed and unshaven. Hefty, seen close at hand in the light, proved to be a hulk of a man, taller even than Sergeant Palmer and so broad and beefy that he would have looked short and stubby at a distance. He had a flat, stupid face and his nose had been broken in some long-ago fight or accident. Both men gazed mournfully at their captors.

  “Surrounded?” Sergeant Palmer took time to repeat. “What do you mean ? Here, Mr. Brimmer, hold this flashlight for me.”

  “Sure, surrounded,” said Corey Jarnes. He looked up at the sergeant, so that the light gave them a good view of his unhappy face under the wide brim of the old black hat he wore. “Back there at the house, how in thunder did your pal manage to slip into the basement when we had it locked up? We could hear him down there, and we shot his flashlight full of holes, but we didn’t get him. If he’s still back there, coming up behind us, yell out to him that we’ve called it quits. I don’t want any perforations in my back.”

  The constable had brought a pair of handcuffs from his hip pocket, and was shackling Hefty’s immense hairy wrists together. Sergeant Palmer, still standing guard over the glum Corey Jarnes, relaxed enough to emit a chuckle.

  “I have only half the story so far,” he told his prisoner, “but we didn’t have anybody there, no other police officers, at least. It was this boy,” and with the hand that did not hold his gun he reached out and clapped Sherlock on the shoulder, “who found out where you were, and what you were doing, and scared you into thinking you were surrounded.”

  Hefty and Corey Jarnes glared at Sherlock. “I know that kid,” grumbled the latter after a moment. “Let’s see, I met him at—”

  “You met him at Sig Poison’s in Hillwood,” finished Doc Watson for him. “He showed up your plan to swindle that prize bond for yourself, remember?”

  “I remember, all right.” Corey Jarnes kept his eyes fixed on Sherlock. “What’s his name?”

  “You can call him Sherlock for short,” said Max.

  “And in the meantime, hold out your wrists,” added Sergeant Palmer, bringing out his own handcuffs. “You’re going back to jail, Jarnes. You’re already convicted of one offense and out under parole. This second charge—” As he held out the open handcuffs toward Corey Jarnes, he momentarily let his revolver muzzle sway out of line. It was enough for Corey Jarnes. At mention of the double penalty waiting for him, he exploded into action.

  “Not me!” he yelled suddenly. Desperately he whirled and ran into the woods.

  Sergeant Palmer fired after him, and ran in pursuit, while Mr. Brimmer followed, flashing a light. After a moment the sergeant called out in angry chagrin.

  “I think I hit him,” he said, returning, “but not hard enough to stop him, or even slow him up much. It’s impossible to find him in these woods again at night, but I’m going to try. Constable, take this other man to jail. Watch that he doesn’t try to run, too.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Hefty, in a voice that seemed dead tired. “I haven’t got the wind left to run anywhere.”

  WHERE IS COREY JARNES?

  The constable marched his huge but docile captive away to jail in near-by Oatville. Sergeant Palmer continued to strain his eyes in the night for some clue to the vanished Corey Jarnes. And Mr. Brimmer shepherded the three adventuring Scouts, now sated with excitement, back to camp. Once there, he called Sherlock alone to his tent and spoke to him briefly and plainly.

  “You really ought to be penalized for leaving camp after the time for lights out,” said Mr. Brimmer. “While it wasn’t much of a defiance of rules, still, you’re a Patrol Leader, and we depend on you to be an example to the others. But I know you did it to expose a crime, and in particular you were trying to get back my stolen car for me.”

  “I did get it back,” Sherlock reminded him.

  “Besides which,” went on Mr. Brimmer, “you’re tired and shaken up by your experience. Any punishment Mr. Palmer or I might decree would be a sort of anticlimax, wouldn’t it? And so I’ll sentence you to—go to bed and get some sleep. You look as if you need it badly.”

  “Thank you,” said Sherlock, and returned to his own tent, where he was amazed to find out how weary he was. Not even the excitement of the afternoon and early night could keep his eyelids propped open. He and Doc crept out of their clothes, washed the streaky black of the burnt cork from their faces and hands, and fairly collapsed upon their cots.

  It seemed to them that they had lain down for only moments before the bright morning and the buzz of breakfast-preparation told them that they had slept the night through without so much as turning from one side to the other. Emerging into the open, Sherlock found himself the object of such hero-worshipping attention as would have thrilled and embarrassed any boy on earth. Even Max Hinkel shelved his usually sardonic manner to hail his Patrol Leader as worthy of the name of Sherlock, and described to the assembled audience of Hounds and Eagles the adventure of the previous evening, with heavy emphasis on Sherlock’s coolness, wit and courage. Mr. Brimmer, at his own corner of the camp, was gazing with almost rapt joy at his returned sedan, to the wheels of which the tires with the zigzag tread had been fitted once more.

  “For a while,” said the Assistant Scoutmaster, strolling over to Sherlock, “there was some talk of leaving me still afoot. They wanted my car to hold as evidence in the case. But that giant stooge of Corey Jarnes—”

  “You mean Hefty?”

  “Yes, that’s what they call him. He spent most of the night dictating a full confession, and signed it. With his word in the matter, there’s no real need for evidence. All they have to do is catch the brains of the car-stealing firm, Corey Jarnes himself.”

  “And isn’t there any trace of him?” demanded Sherlock.

  “Trace enough,” replied Mr. Brimmer. “Mr. Palmer and deputies of the sheriff’s office combed the woods for hours. Finally one of them found something by the steps of the house. There was the mark where someone had fallen and lain for a while, bending the grass stems. They saw blood on the grass, and a big spot of it on the lowest step.”

  “In other words,” elaborated Sherlock, deductive as usual, “Mr. Palmer’s bullet wounded Corey Jarnes, and hurt him badly enough to make him fall down and shed blood.”

  “That’s right,” nodded Mr. Brimmer, “and right where the grassblades were bent by the fall, a pocketknife was found. Hefty, in jail at Oatville, identified it as belonging to his partner. Apparently it dropped out of the man’s pocket when he fell.”

  “But he got up again, didn’t he?” pursued Sherlock at once. “Where did he go from there?”

  “That’s just what the police and the sheriff’s deputies are trying their best to find out,” said Mr. Brimmer. “As for you, you’re already the hero of the case. Why don’t you rest from your crime-busting career? You’re lucky to have come out of it unhurt so far, and your luck may not hold up forever.”

  “I believe you’re right, sir,” agreed Sherlock. “Thank you,” and he went to breakfast.

  But he had barely finished eating, and was washing his dishes, when a buzz of excitement ran through the camp and made him glance toward the Scoutmasters' tents.

  At once he spied a familiar figure, his father, the police chief of Hillwood, getting out of an official car and speaking earnestly to Mr. Brimmer and Lew Sheehan.

  The two Troop Leaders listened to the chief's words with eager interest, and Sherlock could see the vigorous nodding of Mr. Brimmer's head, as if in agreement with some point. After several minutes of conversation, Chief Hamilton turned and combed the scene with his eyes, apparently looking for his son. Sherlock quickly stacked his dishes and hurried to join his father. The chief saw and recognized him and walked to meet him. As they came face to face, out came the chief's big hand, and Sherlock gripped it gladly.

  "You've been conducting yourself on the reckless side, son," began Chief Hamilton. "I agree with your Scoutmasters, you're fortunate that
you have a whole skin this morning. I've heard all about you and what you did, from Sergeant Palmer. You're also fortunate that you didn't live about fifty years ago, because in those days fathers were apt to teach caution and good sense with a shingle in the woodshed."

  "There aren't any shingles out in this wilderness," said Sherlock hastily, "and no woodsheds, either."

  "The least I should do is deliver a long lecture on the subject of safety first," continued the father, "one that would make your ears tingle and discourage you from any further detective work until you were big enough, and tough and experienced enough, to handle your end of whatever danger your investigations led you to stir up. But,” and a proud grin forced itself into view, “I can’t do that, when you’ve apparently done such a good job of investigation and of fooling your opposition. I’m vain enough to call you a chip of the old block. If you were any other boy in Hillwood and had done what you did, I’d recommend you for an honorary commission in the Hillwood Police Department. As it is, I can’t. I’d sound too much like a super-proud dad, which is what I am.”

  “I’d rather hear you say that, Dad, than get the Congressional Medal of Honor,” said Sherlock happily, and again the crime-fighting Hamiltons, father and son, clasped hands in comradely joy.

  “Don’t qualify for any Purple Heart medal, for being hurt in action,” warned Chief Hamilton. “However, I’m up here for more than visiting you. We, the law enforcement setup in this region, need you, and these Scouts, and lots of others. You see,” he paused, “your Assistant Scoutmaster is making a signal for an assembly. I’ll leave it to him to give you your instructions. Goodbye for now, son, and I’ll be seeing you before the hour is up.”

  He left and walked toward his car, while Sherlock joined others of the Hound Patrol, who moved wonderingly to obey Mr. Brimmer’s gesture for an immediate assembly.