by Edson, J. T.
While Woman Deputy Alice Fayde could not quite compete with Sheila for out and out eye-catching beauty, she was far from unattractive and was equally well endowed as far as curves were concerned. There was an aura of friendly self-assurance, rather than sullen arrogance, about her good-looking features. They also suggested, truthfully, that she had been matured yet not embittered, or rendered uncaring, by seeing much of life—and death—in the course of her career as a peace officer. xxii She had had her red hair cut and trimmed in a shortish flip style which had the advantage of looking and staying neat, without requiring constant attention to keep it that way. At five foot seven in height, her thirty-seven, twenty-eight, thirty-six inch figure filled the lightweight pale blue blouse and slacks she had on in a manner calculated—although not deliberately intended—to draw glances from men in almost any company.
‘I say, Brad,’ Brenda remarked, her tone and demeanor indicating she considered enough had been said upon the subject under discussion and the matter was now closed. ‘Did your Uncle Beau ever tell you about what happened to himself and my Uncle Stanley one night towards the end of the Battle of Britain?’
‘That depends, ma’am,’ the blond giant replied, with a grin and a similar attitude, the uncle in question having served with distinction as a fighter pilot in the Royal Air Force all through World War II. All too willing to support the wishes of his hostess, he continued, ‘Would it be something you can tell about in mixed company?’
‘This incident is, strange as it might strike you, knowing them,’ Brenda declared, also smiling. ‘They, Ian Smith from Southern Rhodesia—long before he was forced to take high office in its Government—a couple of Afrikaaners who had joined in ’39 and David Ramage—he was on temporary loan from the Fleet Air Arm at the time— xxiii had been sent on rest after flying four or five sorties a day throughout the Battle to a town where there had never been any enemy action. Well, they were walking home after a session in a pub the first evening and, understandably, they were somewhat less than quiet.’
‘Was I asked, I’d say real rowdy would be closer to it, ma’am,’ Brad suggested. ‘At least, that’s what I’d expect from what I’ve seen of Uncle Beau, Lord Stanley and those good old boys who flew with the Eagle Squadrons xxiv when they get together with the Confederate States’ Air Force down to Arlington Field for a reunion. xxv They whoop things up the way I’ve always read Great-Grandpappy Mark and the rest of Ole Devil’s floating outfit used to when they hit town at the end of a trail drive.’
‘Very well then, “real rowdy”, if you will, and with good cause to be that way after all they had gone through,’ Brenda corrected. ‘Anyway, they were passing this house singing Dixie when its front door was thrown open. A grubby little fat man wearing a mackintosh and smoking a pipe came out and said, “I wish you soldiers would stop making all that noise. I was up all last night fire watching and my wife Mary is trying to write a poem.”’
‘What did they say to that?’ the big blond inquired.
‘Uncle Stanley is always a bit—vague, shall we say—on the point,’ Brenda answered. ‘But he claims it couldn’t have improved relations to any great extent when Ian and the grubby little man met in later years on H—.’ The ringing from the telephone in the corner of the room interrupted the story. Crossing to lift the receiver, she said, ‘Mrs. Tragg—No, Ric, I’m afraid he isn’t here. Can I help?’
Although Alice and Brad were too polite to let their interest be obvious, they once again exchanged glances when they heard the name used by their hostess. Looking at her with greater attention, they saw her stiffen a trifle as she listened to what was being said by the man at the other end of the line. The movement was only slight and would have escaped the notice of most people. However, the redhead and the blond giant were trained observers. Each was aware that, for the normally composed woman to display even so much emotion, the incoming message must be something out of the ordinary at the very least.
‘That was Ric Alvarez,’ Brenda said, although the identification was unnecessary as she was directing the words to her husband’s two deputies rather than the rest of the guests, as she hung up the receiver. ‘He says a report has just come in that the body of an informer has been found.’
‘Murdered?’ Brad asked, although—knowing the message had come from the Night Watch Commander, First Deputy Ricardo Alvarez xxvi —the words were more of a statement.
‘Yes,’ Brenda replied.
‘Mine,’ Alice said quietly, having followed departmental regulations by informing the Sheriff’s Office of where she would be spending the evening as—she did not doubt—had the blond giant. ‘Or Brad’s?’
‘Neither,’ Brenda answered, and only the keenest of observers could have detected the slight suggestion of concern in her voice. ‘It’s the man Jack has gone to meet and, according to all the signs, he was killed about five minutes after he’d called here to ask for the meeting.’
‘That soon, huh?’ Brad breathed, then he raised his voice slightly. ‘Where’s the meet at, ma’am?’
‘Somewhere on Beaumont,’ Brenda replied, reminded of two good hunting dogs scenting their quarry as she looked from the big blond to the redhead and back. ‘The trouble is, Ric tells me all his teams are out catching squeals—!’
‘We’ll find him!’ Alice stated, throwing a quick look at the other deputy.
‘You can bet on it,’ Brad seconded. ‘Your car or mine?’
‘Mine would be best,’ decided the redhead, the latter part of the blond giant’s comment having been directed at her. ‘I can put my gumball on the roof and run “Code Three”!’
‘Really, Brad!’ Helen almost squealed, as she realized what was portended by the exchange of comments. ‘Surely you don’t propose to just dash off and leave me wi—!’
‘I’ll be back as soon as we know the Sheriff is all right,’ the blond giant replied, in a tone which warned he would brook no argument on the issue. ‘Let’s get the show rolling, Alice!’
‘Sorry, Tom,’ the redhead apologized to the tall, good-looking young man with whom she had come to the party.
‘I know how it is, Alice,’ replied Dr. Thomas Harding. Being a pathologist for the Scientific Investigation Bureau of the Department of Public Safety had accustomed him to the loyalty and sense of duty displayed by the majority of the local peace officers. ‘And I hope everything is all right with the Sheriff.’
Despite hearing how the other guest most affected by the news was taking the separation from his partner, the anger did not leave the face of the beautiful blonde as she watched the big deputy crossing the room with the shapely redhead.
While Brad was opening the door, Alice collected the bulky black Pete Ludwig shoulder bag from the table near to it. Designed for use by female peace officers whether in or out of uniform—unless the latter called for something less sizeable and more in keeping with the dictates of fashion—this contained the items most generally needed when on duty. Held in a detachable holster was her Colt Cobra .38 Special revolver, there was also a small reserve of ammunition for it. Her ID wallet was inside, holding her badge, of office and a card with a passport type photograph and other details to help establish she was the person she claimed to be. A whistle, notepad, black, red, blue and green ballpoint pens, a small flashlight and a roll of plastic bags, with tags to be attached bearing details of the contents, were also included.
Swinging the bag’s strap on to her left shoulder, the redhead preceded the blond giant from the room.
‘Oh dear, I do hope they won’t be long,’ Brenda remarked, as the door closed behind the departing deputies’ showing no sign of the anxiety aroused by the call, regardless of being aware of how competently her husband could take care of himself. ‘Anyway, in case they are and with your permission, I’ll tell cook dinner will be a little later than expected. Does anybody want another drink before I go?’
‘I feel a headache coming on,’ Helen stated, seeing her hostess was looking at her while ask
ing the question. ‘If you’ll call me a cab, I think I will go home.’
‘I’m sorry to hear you aren’t feeling at your best, dear,’ Brenda replied, with what appeared to be genuine commiseration. However, she made no attempt to dissuade the blonde from leaving. Instead, she went on, ‘But we can’t let you go home by cab in that case. Tom, would you be a darling and drive Miss Hughes home?’
‘Why sure, Brenda,’ Harding assented.
‘Thank you,’ the blonde said shortly and without any suggestion of real gratitude. ‘Will you tell Brad I’ll be in touch?’
‘Of course, dear,’ Brenda promised, thinking that the way in which the request was made sounded like a theatrical producer uttering the ancient cliché, “Don’t call us, we’ll call you”, to a hopeful actor. ‘And I know I speak for all of us when I say how sorry I am to see you have to leave this way.’
‘Thank you!’ Helen replied.
‘And that is that,’ Brenda thought with satisfaction, watching the blonde stalking away accompanied by the doctor. ‘Now that dreadful young person has gone off the scene, how can I persuade Alice and Brad to take a more active interest in one another?’
Although the redhead and the blond giant were to become an investigatory team of some competence in the near future—and develop an even closer personal relationship—the reason for the union was far from being what the wife of the Sheriff of Rockabye County would have wished. xxvii
~*~
Missing Jack Tragg’s face by not more than a couple of inches, the bullet splattered him with chips of stone and lead as it shattered against the wall of the building he was passing. Acting upon instinct rather than conscious thought, he immediately dropped forwards and towards the sidewalk. However, while under fire from an unseen and unexpected assailant, he was not defenseless.
It was mandatory under the regulations of the Rockabye County Department of Public Safety that every peace officer in its employ must be armed at all times when ‘on the street’. As a result of this ruling, even if he had really been engaged upon the innocuous pursuit of walking his dog, the Sheriff would have had a weapon upon his person. Being in civilian clothing, he was carrying a Smith & Wesson Model 27 .357 Magnum revolver with a three and a half inch long barrel in a Bianchi Model 5 ‘Detective Special’ holster—designed for the fast Federal Bureau of Investigation type of draw—on the right side of his waist belt and concealed by the jacket. What was more, having expended many hours in training he was as competent in its use as he was with the weapon he carried when in uniform.
While Jack’s left hand was descending to help break his fall, the right disappeared beneath his jacket. Its forefinger broke apart the press-stud of the retaining strap to allow him to bring the revolver from the rearwards tilting holster. In spite of the speed with which he was moving, however, he realized his position was anything except safe. The ambush position clearly had been selected with care and he was illuminated by the light from a street lamp.
At that moment, having Cousin Ian along proved beneficial for more than lending a passable reason to be walking along Beaumont Street after the majority of its business premises were closed for the night!
Even before the Sheriff arrived on the sidewalk, the big Rhodesian ridgeback let out a roaring snarl and went racing across the street!
As always in such circumstances, events were moving with great rapidity!
On landing, the Smith & Wesson already drawn ready to be used, the night was so still that Jack could hear a clicking sound which was all too familiar. It was the noise made when a firearm with a bolt action was being operated to clear a spent cartridge case from the chamber and replace it by a loaded round. Knowing how well Cousin Ian was trained, he felt less disturbed by what he heard than would otherwise have been the case. He knew the speed at which the ridgeback was travelling, its evasive tactics—produced through instincts derived from generations of its breed having been used for hunting lions on the savannahs of East and Southern Africa—would make it a most difficult target at which to take aim. Whoever was handling the weapon in the areaway would need to take positive action to avoid being attacked by the dog while taking sight at him.
The still unseen assailant must have drawn an identical conclusion!
Or heard the wailing of a siren approaching rapidly from a distance!
Either way, whoever was responsible concluded discretion to be the better part of valor!
Instead of even completing the reloading sequence, much less attempting to shoot a second time, the would-be killer started the engine of a vehicle. Its lights flicked on, including a powerful spot. To the accompaniment of a screech from tires protesting at being set into motion with such violence, it shot from the areaway. Despite the illumination from the street lamp, caught in the sudden glare, Jack was momentarily blinded. While he was unable to see what was happening, he heard the attacking bay given by the ridgeback turn into a yelp of pain as there was a thud suggesting it had been struck by the car which swung on to the street from the blackness of the areaway and sped off in the opposite direction to the approaching official vehicle.
The route selected for the flight might be taking the car away from whoever was coming ‘code three’, but it was not without danger to the occupants as Jack could see it departing along the street. The dazzling effect of the head-and spotlights had cleared sufficiently for him to notice it was a dark blue Ford Mustang, but he could not make out its number. Bracing his elbows on the ground and adopting a double-handed grip as an aid to shooting fast and with as much accuracy as possible, he squeezed off three shots. Although the fleeing vehicle swerved, it righted itself and kept going, with no reduction of speed, to disappear around a corner before he could improve upon his aim.
Coming to his feet, allowing the revolver to dangle with its muzzle towards the ground and removing the left hand from the butt, the Sheriff turned his gaze to find out whether his dog had been badly injured. What he saw was a source of relief.
Although Cousin Ian had yelped when struck, the impact had been much less serious than might have proved the case. Going into the attack, the sight of the car rushing from the areaway had caused the generations-old instincts of the breed to assess and set about countering the danger.
Not even the enormous English or Tibetan mastiff—either of which might weigh more than double Cousin Ian’s eighty pounds—could have met the charge of a fully grown African lion head on and survived. Nor had such ever been the tactics employed by Rhodesian ridgebacks when engaged upon hunts for the species Felis Leo in their land of origin. Whether used in a pack, or as individuals, their purpose was to chase, halt and keep the quarry occupied and distracted until their master arrived to deal with it. To do so called for speed, agility, intelligence and discretion. Great courage was also needed, but not the ‘charge-in-regardless’ kind which a bull terrier particularly one of the Staffordshire variety—was prone to display. xxviii
Swerving aside to avoid the approaching vehicle, as would have happened when a lion charged, Cousin Ian was not quite quick enough. Caught a glancing blow in passing, his roaring bay was changed to the yelp of pain. As he was sent spinning, the breeze passing through the open windows of the vehicle carried the body odor of its occupant to his nostrils. Coming to a halt, winded without being more than slightly hurt and shaken, he was too intelligent to try pursuing the rapidly departing car even if uninjured in every way. Instead, limply slightly on the right foreleg, he walked slowly to where his master was rising.
‘Looks like you’re not too bad hurt, you fool old critter,’ Jack drawled, returning the Smith & Wesson to its holster and securing the retaining strap without the need to think what he was doing. ‘But I’d best take a look to make sure. The Boss Lady would peel my hide if I didn’t and you should be.’
Bending over while delivering the final sentiment, the Sheriff felt gently at the shoulder of the foreleg afflicted by the limp. Although the dog flinched a little at his touch, it neither moved away nor sh
owed any sign of experiencing additional suffering or discomfort from his attentions. Instead, it turned its intelligent head to look at him and wagged its tail a little as if expressing appreciation for his concern.
Satisfied his summation was correct, Jack straightened up to look to where a car was speeding his way. Although it had a siren wailing, it was not painted in the black and white livery—the colors being interchanged—of either the Sheriff’s Office or the G.C.P.D. official patrol vehicles. However, the flashing red gumball light on the roof indicated it was occupied by peace officers. As it slowed down, he identified its occupants and walked to meet them.
‘Alice, Brad!’ the Sheriff greeted, as the driver and passenger emerged from the respective doors of the Ford Mustang he recognized as being owned by Alice. ‘Was the party so boring without me you volunteered to catch a squeal?’
‘No, sir,’ Woman Deputy Alice Fayde replied, noticing that Deputy Sheriff Brad Counter allowed her to do so as the senior officer. ‘Your wife asked us to come. Your informer has been found murdered and it happened shortly after he’d called you.’
~*~
‘Poor Matteo Munez!’ Brenda Tragg sighed with genuine remorse, as she slipped into a diaphanous black shortie nightdress in the master bedroom of the condominium. ‘You’ve no idea who it was killed him, have you, darling?’
‘None at all, honey,’ the Sheriff of Rockabye County admitted, drawing on his pajama trousers. ‘Apart from him being way too street smart and tough for it to seem likely, everything points to him being wasted by somebody wanting to rob him.’
Having had the newly arrived deputies pass what little information he had to offer to Central Control, Jack Tragg had suggested they returned to the party. However, still acting as spokesman, without it producing any objection from the blond giant, Woman Deputy Alice Fayde had suggested they remained until some assistance was on the scene. Knowing this made good sense and was in accordance with procedures he had laid down, the Sheriff concurred. Prudence dictated he had some ‘back up’ readily available in case the foiled killer returned for a second try. This had not happened, but none of the peace officers resented the precaution having been taken.