F. B. I. Showdown

by Gordon Landsborough

  Sorensen said, “Humble wasn’t going back there. He was heading west, last seen.”

  “And the Humble & Dryway chemical factory isn’t west either, it’s down river,” said the captain. So then they all stared at each other until Lief Sorensen got up and said. “This isn’t getting us any place. Get to thinking again, captain. Humble is on his way westwards out of town; I’ve a suspicion he’s going to where a couple of killers are in hiding. That means, from Humble’s point of view, it must be some safe place—you wouldn’t, in any event, call a busy factory or a man’s private home safe, would you? So...what other places has Humble got?’”

  The captain was shaking his head slowly. So Sorensen tried again. “Is he in any other kind of business?” But then the chief started snapping his fingers in excitement.

  “You give me an idea, Sorensen.” He wheeled on the captain. “Humble came into partnership with Dryway only a few years ago, and before that he had a small soap-making plant out on the Sand Lot, didn’t he? And that place has been derelict and a damn’ nuisance to everybody for a couple of years....”

  Sorensen said, “If that’s west of Warren Bridge, it sounds the place.”

  The chief picked up his hat. “It is westwards, and I’m coming along with you. You F.B.I. men get all the fun. The hell, someone else can answer the phone.”

  Three cars went out in convoy. The first contained Ben Arcota, driving, the chief, Bronya, and Sorensen; the other two bulged with hefty G-men, just returned with indignant, expostulating prisoners. The chief, directing the vehicle, said, “It’s queer that trails seem to be crossing. What I mean is, the only men on our lynch mob list that we haven’t picked up are Tom Dryway and Geordie Humble. And now we are on their trail for quite another case.”

  Ben looked into the eyes of his superior through the driving mirror and said. “Now someone else is trying to make one nice big case out of all this.”

  So Sorensen said, “Can you think of a better place in which to dispose of a partially burnt corpse than a chemical factory? And who’d be better men to employ to do the dirty work than a couple of killer convicts on the run?”

  The chief said, “Now fit Joe Guestler and Jud Corbeta into the picture and I’ll die happy.”

  They were running out on to the dreary Sand Lot now—a desolate wilderness of scrub growing precariously out of poor, stony soil. The chief told them that because of the smell Humble had had to build his first soap factory out here in the wastes, but it had been a bad choice of site because of the difficulty of getting labour to come so far out of town. Now it was derelict.

  They rode on. Sorensen could feel that Bronya wasn’t at ease beside him, and he didn’t like it. With a girl as pretty as Bronya Karkoff a man likes to have everything in his favour.

  So Sorensen thought things out in his own, patient, thorough way and he said, “You’re feeling somehow ashamed of yesterday still, aren’t you? It seemed all right at the time, but now your cheeks burn when you think of it. It now seems the corniest thing to do, doesn’t it?”

  She nodded, and her cheeks were red and burning. But he said it in such a way that it didn’t seem quite so bad, after all.

  He was laughing. “Oh, come out of it, Bronya. You had a frightening time, and it made you behave just a little hysterically. Just forget it.”

  She said, “For a tough policeman, you’re a charming man.”

  And then he crowned it by leaning over her and saying, “Anyway. I’d hate to be your daddy,” and there was no mistaking the meaning behind the words.

  He settled back, saying rather loudly, “And now I’ll tell you the story of a G-man who takes ballet lessons in his spare time. The result of it all is that within the F.B.I. he is known as—”

  “You’re a heel,” said the driver nastily. “You always do this with a girl because you’re afraid of my competition.” His hair looked more like old straw than ever.

  Then they stopped on the old stone track that wound between wind-eroded dunes. The chief said, “We’ll hide off the road. The factory is just over the hill. We’ve got to reconnoitre the place first, because we can’t just go bustin’ in on suspicion caused because a fellar buys a coupla pairs of shoes too big for himself.”

  They bumped behind a rock screen and then piled out. The chief trudged up the soft, shifting sand, and the others followed. On top of the hill he sprawled face down and removed his hat before peering over the skyline. The others were equally as circumspect.

  Below, set in the drab weed-grown, bush-infested wasteland, was the silent, tumbling factory. From this height they could look into it. They could see a long, high factory with a falling, galvanized iron roof, a loading bay, and an open yard or compound. There was a big wooden gate leading into the compound, but it was shut just now.

  The chief pointed to the gates, saying, “That seems to be the way in. The wall’s too high to scale.”

  Then Sorensen pointed and said, “And there’s someone inside, too.” He was pointing into a deep shadow thrown by the cover at the far end of the loading bay. He could just make out two vehicles standing there.

  And one was a private car, and the other a truck.

  Sorensen said, “It could mean anything, that truck. Most firms have trucks, I reckon. But it answers the description of the vehicle the gunmen used when they met up with the Conscience of America.”

  Then they all sat around and had a talk about things—Sorensen, for the first time, was feeling blue. He said, “I guess we’ve arrived a bit late, if these are the boys we are after. If they’ve got the body of Konkonscwi and the film inside there, I reckon they’ll have had time to destroy both. I can’t see them hanging on to either, having gone to the trouble of collecting ’em.”

  At that everybody felt blue, until the chief said, harshly, “Harbouring criminals will be something to hold against Dryway and Humble, if the convicts are in there. Let’s get ’em for that, anyway!” But the thrill had gone out of the chase, all the same. It felt bad, getting here just too late to secure that vital evidence....

  Sorensen said, “Okay, but what’s the first move, chief? We’re still working on surmise, and as you said, we’ve no evidence yet to permit us to go busting in there. And an even stronger argument, there might be some very desperate killers inside, men who won’t hesitate to open up with guns.”

  They went back to the cars to talk, so that the sound of their voices wouldn’t carry over to the derelict factory. Bronya had come out of the car and was listening. Perhaps she wanted to acquit herself because of the weakness she had shown the previous day; for she suddenly said, “I don’t look like a policeman. I could go to the gates and knock and make some excuse like wanting to know how far it is to town. And if anyone came to the gate, I could describe them to you later. Don’t forget that I know what two of them look like!”

  Sorensen said, “And don’t forget that two of them know what you look like, Bronya.”

  Bronya gave thought to that and then said, “They won’t recognize me. I had a cap on and greasy white monkey-suit. They won’t know me.” She patted her hair confidently.

  Sorensen thought that she did look a whole lot different—better.

  The chief said, “There’s an idea in that. Maybe it would be better for this girl to make a closer reconnaissance for us. Just one thing. Stay outside on the roadway. Under no circumstances go inside that factory, understand?”

  Bronya’s eyes were bright. She nodded, then set off towards the road. Everyone else went ploughing back to the top of the dune. They saw her come out into the sun-bleached open and start to go across to the factory gates. Then Ben Arcota gripped Sorensen’s arm and pointed silently far away over the top of the factory.

  “A car,” whispered the G-man. “I’ll swear that wasn’t there the last time we looked.” He called for some glasses—and trained them on it, found he could read the number plate, though the car was well-hidden among some bushes.

  He slowly read out the registration number,
and the chief went looking into his notebook.

  “That,” he said, “is a car that was reported stolen outside Warren Bridge late last night. Now, who could have used that?”

  But no one was interested in the car now. Every eye was fixed on the girl who had been approaching the gate, but had now suddenly stopped. Then they saw her start to move forward again; saw the gate open slightly. And the girl just walked in and disappeared from sight.

  Startled, the chief rapped, “What—” And then froze.

  For someone was lurking on the far side of the factory wall, was trying to force an entry by way of a little side gate. Had succeeded and got in. Two men. And now they were dropping a bar across the gate, so that no one else could get through the way they had come.

  Then the yard was empty. Everyone must have gone inside that big rotting face on with its rusty, derelict machinery. Some men, one girl, a can of film...and a corpse.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  F.B.I. SHOWDOWN

  When the truck came swinging into the old factory yard Egghead saw an automobile already parked far under the cover of the loading bay. He demanded, suspiciously, “Whose car is that?”

  Tom Dryway said, shortly, “Mine. I came out in it to pick up this truck.” It was a lie and he expected them to say, “You don’t keep trucks out in a place like this,” but they didn’t tumble to it and just got out wish a lot of grunting.

  Dryway opened up the old factory and walked inside, leaving the convicts to come in with the body. He had tried to pick up the can of film casually, but Egghead had taken it rather quickly, saying, “The hell, I c’n manage that.” So he hadn’t pressed the matter. He held the whip hand, he and his friends.

  No film—and corpse—no reward, and no assistance in keeping out of the hands of the police. That was the way he saw things at the moment. There was just one thing Tom Dryway had overlooked, and that came out later.

  They went inside the factory. It looked bigger inside than without—rows of oil-fired, metal rendering tanks, with crude steel agitators driven from overhead shafting, stretched as far as they could see. Steel gantries everywhere, forming floors of varying height, with steel steps leading up to them. And at one end even more massive, more intricate apparatus.

  It was towards this end that Tom Dryway was leading them. They climbed some steps and came out on to a narrow metal gangway set alongside some big, steel-domed pressure vessels, now rusted red with disuse

  Dryway started to unfasten the bolts attached to the heavy lid, and then turned for help to the two jail-breakers. They were just standing there, looking at him. The bulky sack was at Johnny Delcros’s feet; Egghead had the can under his arm.

  Dryway snapped, “Come an’ give a hand with this blasted bolt.” He was never a man for politeness, and just now he was in a boiling hurry to see the last of Konkonscwi the Red.

  Egghead, leaner, paler, more formidable than his lowering, brutish companion, said thinly, “We ain’t in no hurry. Just now we could do with something to eat an’ drink, I guess. You said there’d be food in the truck, but we ain’t had time to stop an’ eat yet.”

  They turned to go back, leaving the sack on the floor, but Dryway saw that Egghead was still hanging on to the can of film. Dryway swore a lot but went on wrestling with the bolts. In time he got them off, and then tried to use the tackle to lift the lid, but it was rusty, and he saw he’d need oil to get the wheels to move. He wiped his hands, looked at the sack, then hurried down after the convicts. He knew there’d be oil in the truck.

  Egghead was standing close against the big gates when he came to the factory door. Johnny Delcros was in the shadow and reached out and grabbed him. Dryway was startled and began to lash out, and then stood still as Johnny hissed, “Blast you fer a fool, keep quiet, can’t you! Something’s gone wrong somewhere!”

  Dryway allowed himself to be pulled to a broken window that let out into the shadows of the loading bay. Then Johnny’s growling voice said, “It was Eggy. We was eatin’ an’ he got to lookin’ around in the dust an’ he saw footprints that led through that door we went in by. Funny, they must have bin there all along an’ we never noticed ’em. For our tracks are on top of ’em.”

  Dryway was looking at the footprints, and his heart was chilled. He said, “You’re sure they’re none of ours?”

  Johnny swore and said, savagely, “The hell, you got eyes, ain’t you? Them prints came from some small guy’s feet wearin’ cissy pointed shoes. An’ we ain’t got shoes yet. An’ yours are much bigger.”

  Dryway looked hard at the footprints, then slowly raised his eyes in time to receive another, far bigger shock.

  Egghead was slowly swinging the gate open. Someone was walking through.

  It was a girl. Dark. Good-looking. Smartly dressed.

  Then he saw that Egghead had a gun in his hand, was giving the girl orders. The girl and her captor came walking round to the bay, keeping close under the high wall all the way. Egghead kept looking round, his green eyes vicious. He snarled, “There’s a lot I don’t like about this place. Get through that window, all of you.”

  The girl started to protest, but Johnny pulled her through. She kept saying, “I was just coming to ask the way to Warren Bridge—” Then she shut up as Johnny said, “I’ve seen your mug some place before. Now where, sister, where?”

  Egghead growled. “Shut up, everyone.” His eyes were darting down the lines of the rusting, collapsing plant. “There’s a guy still inside here, because he made only one-way footmarks. I want to know who he is and what he’s doin’ here.” And his mean eyes swung round to fasten on Dryway.

  He snarled, “This ain’t no trap, I hope—” His gun was fixed menacingly in line with Dryway’s big stomach.

  Dryway had guts. He swallowed and then said, “Look, we came to an arrangement. We’ll keep our part, but you gotta keep yours. That stuff’s hot—you know what I mean....” His eyes looked significantly towards Bronya. “Help me fix it in a sulphonator with some waste sulphuric acid and you can collect your reward.”

  Egghead was red-raw with suspicion of a double-cross, and he went out snarling like a baited cat. “Sure, like hell we will. An’ what happens when the stuff’s inside that thing and rotting in the acid? You’ll say, ‘The hell with thirty grand; that job wasn’t worth it. Here’s a coupla bucks, now beat it else we’ll call a cop’. I wasn’t born yesterday, smart guy!”

  Johnny was catching on. He hadn’t been thinking so far ahead. He said, admiringly, “Eggy don’t need to grow hair; he gets by with brains.” His own gun was pointing more at the sweating chemical product manufacturer than at the girl now, and Bronya wasn’t missing a thing.

  Egghead said a bit more. “We’re gonna sit around an’ wait till your partner gets out here with the dough and the clothing you promised us. When that’s here, I’ll do a swap. Until then I’m holdin’ on to this can of film.”

  Unexpectedly a heavy voice said, “That’s what you think.” Then the voice said, as they were turning, “Drop your guns without another move or you’ll get drilled right through the back, the pair of you.”

  Bronya looked past the convicts and saw a small, plump man close against the side of a big metal tank. He looked very natty, a typical small-town businessman, Only, unusually for a businessman, there was a serviceable-looking Colt in his hand.

  And Bronya also decided that she’d seen more affectionate eyes in a snake than were back of this fellow’s rimless glasses.

  He spoke like a man who was used to giving orders, and when they heard his tough, rasping voice both convicts knew that he wasn’t bluffing. They froze, irresolute.

  Dryway seemed to relax, hearing that voice. He stepped forward, saying, “I knew you were somewhere around, Geordie, but I thought you were never going to show up!”

  Dryway took the guns from the convicts, and then they were permitted to turn. They glowered at the plump little man with the hard eyes. He said, “You palookas, do you think we’d trust men with your
reputation? The hell, how d’you think we’ve got on in business? I came on ahead to make sure you didn’t get up to any tricks when you arrived with the—er, stuff. You know what would have happened if I’d been here with the thirty grand? Sure as fate you’d have said it wasn’t enough and you’d have started in to blackmail for more.”

  The way Johnny and Egghead exchanged quick glances suggested that the plump little man hadn’t been far off the mark.

  But Egghead got worked up and snarled, “You dirty little cheat, I’ll stew you in your own pot for this.”

  The little man—Bronya guessed he’d be George Humble, Dryway’s partner—jumped forward aggressively. He shouted, “Call me names like that, you jailbird, and I’ll save the State a job.” He motioned impatiently. “For Pete’s sake, let’s get moving, I had a tail after me in town.”

  That startled them.

  Humble went on, “We’ve got to get that stuff into an acid bath. Tom, get down and start some oil burning under one of the sulphonators. You two eggs, get the lid off it and start pouring in waste acid from the carboys you’ll find outside.”

  Even then Egghead tried to bargain. He growled, “An’ ef we do this? You said there’d be thirty grand in it for us.”

  Geordie Humble, the tightest bargainer in Warren Bridge, looked coldly over the top of his glasses and said, “You were prepared to break your part of the bargain. Okay, that lets us out of our side of the contract. Thanks for collecting Old Mouthy and that can.”

  He was looking at Bronya and she didn’t like the way he stared at her. He said, “When this is over I’ll be wanting to know how you came in on this scene—and how you’re gonna leave.” Something in the way he said it chilled her. There was an ominous threat in the words.

  Tom Dryway went clambering out of sight under a staging, while small, firm Geordie Humble drove his prisoners before him. He showed them an old carboy carrier down one end of the shed, and a lot of straw-protected carboys of waste acid. He ordered, “Get ’em along and up to the staging.”