Rockabye County 11, page 13
“The name Paradise Apartments mean anything to anybody?” the sergeant said in a deliberately casual fashion.
“Sure,” Harvey answered. “It’s back of the Willet’s parking 1—”
“That’s what I figured,” Parrish drawled. “And now we know why Mr. Dubois was where he was last night.”
Chapter Twelve – That’s Moonshine You’re Holding
“You called it right, Jay,” Claude Moreas declared, watching the vehicles that were passing the panel truck he was driving with the skill—albeit not the high speed frequently called for—that made his services as a wheelman on various kinds of robbery much sought after. “That’s seven heaps of the same make and color’ve gone by since we left the hideout.”
“That’s why I picked the other son of a bitch in the first place,” Jay Wilsher replied, sounding more amiable than had often been the case earlier at receiving praise for his acumen from the man he regarded as second to himself in importance to the successful outcome of the robbery. “The motor mags reckon it’s the most popular make and color they’ve put on the market in years.” He paused, then jerked his head toward the rear of the vehicle, which was obscured from view of those in the driving cab. “What do you reckon about Lumley, Wheels?”
“He’s running scared for sure,” the driver assessed, taking notice of the way in which his sobriquet had been used for the first time since the other vehicle had developed a mechanical fault beyond his ability to fix. “Only, I’d say he’s more scared of you than what’s coming. Do you need him so bad that we couldn’t dump him?”
“He’s an extra piece to wave around and can help tote the money we’ll get,” Wilsher replied. “We could do without him at a pinch, though. Vic and Atch’re steady enough, so he wouldn’t be missed too much.”
“You figure on dumping him?”
“Not so he’d be around to squeal when he found out we had, only I’d as soon not waste him. We’d have to make good and sure his stiff wouldn’t be found, and there’s not enough time for that.”
“We’ll just have to wait and see how he makes out, then,” Moreas said quietly, agreeing with Wilsher. “Only, it won’t make me lose any sleep if there’s one less to share in the pot. It’s going to be short enough when the cut for the Stout Feller comes out, and there’s no way we can duck duking that over.”
If Damon Lumley had been able to hear the conversation in the cab of the truck, it would have increased the growing sense of perturbation that was assailing him. Glancing to see whether his feelings of alarm were being noticed by Vic Brownlow and Baxter Atchinson, he found nothing to suggest that they realized anything was wrong. They were engrossed in discussing their plans for having fun with their share of the loot. Wanting to try to soothe his nerves, he extracted a cigarette charged with marijuana from the case he took out of his jacket pocket and lit it. For once, being a sign that his senses were developing a resistance to effects of the—according to many liberals—harmless and even beneficial narcotic, inhaling the pungent smoke did not offer its usual uplift for his spirits.
Sensing the likelihood of painful and possibly even fatal repercussions if he had declined to accompany the other members of the gang, Lumley had been far from enamored of the prospect of continuing the heist as he was joining them in the panel truck. Like all of them, in accordance with the orders given by Wilsher, he was wearing sober attire so as to avoid attracting attention when entering the bank and, as were the pair who joined him in the back, had a sawed-off shotgun in the briefcase on his knees.
The feeling of discomfort did not depart as Lumley left the panel truck when it reached the garage in which the stolen car was waiting with the license plates from its predecessor in place. While not usually susceptible to atmosphere, he found the way in which Wilsher and Moreas looked at him distinctly frightening when added to his previous misgivings. What is more, he found that a change in the arrangements made by Wilsher did nothing to relieve his anxieties. Instead of being allowed to go to the bank alone so they would arrive separately, Atchinson was told to accompany him until they came in sight of the bank and then return to the original arrangement. Nor was Lumley made to feel any better by the explanation that “Atch” was not sufficiently acquainted with the city, and so needed a guide.
Despite showing some surprise at the alteration to the plan and the reason given for it, Atchinson did not question it. However, he and Brownlow gave Lumley a brief study, which did nothing to quiet the young man’s feelings of alarm. Instead of debating the matter, or Wilsher elaborating on the reason for the revised arrangement, the men parted. Although the rest were going on foot by different routes, Moreas set off in the car that was to be used for the first part of the getaway. To make this possible, showing forethought, Wilsher had made them practice boarding the vehicle with speed—even though it was intended to accept a smaller number of passengers—so as to be able to take the departure from outside the bank with the minimum of delay.
The silence maintained by Atchinson as they were walking toward their destination did nothing to change Lumley’s disturbed frame of mind. To the younger man, it seemed the newsstand and the vending boxes for local papers had been deliberately arranged so as to draw his attention to the glaring and, to his way of thinking, unusually large headlines announcing the murder of the patrolman. Likewise, he felt that a harness-bull looked at them with great intensity while approaching along the sidewalk. Although they passed without being stopped and questioned, he had to fight down an inclination to take to his heels.
“All right, Dam,” Atchinson said as he and his companion came into sight of the bank. Never given to deep analysis of what was going on about him, he had concluded that Wilsher felt Lumley needed moral support due to his inexperience and had drawn no further conclusions beyond that. Nevertheless, he felt that encouragement might not come amiss and went on, “Stay put here and I’ll go along to come in from the other side. Don’t worry, boy, I know this’s your first big one, but everything’s going just like Jay said.”
Left to himself, Lumley gazed around with frightened eyes. Under different conditions, he might have been impressed by the way everything was progressing. Each of the gang’s other members was already in his assigned position. Looking like a husband waiting less than patiently for his wife to return from shopping, Moreas was sitting behind the steering wheel of the car by a parking meter into which he had fed sufficient money to cover a longer stay than was expected. That was a precaution in case a patrolman or meter maid should come by and ask if he had a valid right to be there. 34 Giving the impression of an ordinary businessman going about his affairs, Atchinson, after leaving Lumley, strolled leisurely to the position he had mentioned. By the time he got there, Brownlow was in place on the other side of the street and Wilsher stood against a lamppost near the entrance to the bank.
Having checked that the rest of the gang were in their designated positions and rested his gaze for a moment on Lumley, Wilsher stubbed out the cigarette he was smoking and tossed it into the trash can on the lamppost. This was the arranged signal, and with it made, he turned to walk into the bank. With the intention of lessening the chances of their association being suspected, in accordance with their instructions, the other three started to converge on the building.
Beginning to cross the street, Lumley began to feel more and more that he was involved in a situation fraught with peril far beyond anything he had ever envisioned. What he found most alarming was that the heist was happening in a town where the law had been aroused to a pitch of furious activity owing to one of their number having been killed by a member of the gang with which he was working. It was, he told himself, all right for Wilsher to claim that the pigs would never expect the vehicle responsible for his wasting the harness-bull to be used so soon as an aid to robbing a bank. However, under such circumstances he would far rather have had his suggestion of calling off the caper accepted.
With what struck Lumley as the hand of fate, a cab drew to a halt and disgorged its passenger as he was approaching. A quick glance around assured him that none of his companions were watching what he was doing. The three on foot were devoting their full attention to the front of the bank and a large delivery truck was shielding him from Moreas’s view. Making the most of an opportunity he realized could not be repeated, he darted around and boarded the vehicle as soon as it was left free and gave instructions to the driver.
About fifteen minutes later, Lumley entered the apartment of Lois Lane. Explaining that the deal upon which they were basing their hopes for the vacation in Mexico had blown over, he told her to go out and bring back a supply of food and drinks to last them for the next few days. Sure that she was completely under the spell of his masculine charm, he failed to notice that she was far from enamored of the news. However, she kept her thoughts to herself, and after she had taken her departure—although he thought momentarily of disposing of it under the trash in a garbage can in the cellar—he put the briefcase with its lethal contents in the top drawer of the dressing table and went to lie on the bed to await her return.
Except that its driver had waved away four would-be passengers prior to Armond Dubois approaching, there was nothing to distinguish the cab from the others waiting in the rank outside the DPS Building. Short and thickset, with a cheerful cast of features, the man behind the steering wheel was of obvious Hispanic roots. However, as with many who plied the same trade around Gusher City, this was not a matter to arouse curiosity. Furthermore, that he was effectively separated from whoever occupied the rear seat by a sheet of sturdy glass through which communication was possible only via the simple-to-operate “speech box” in it was nothing out of the ordinary. Such a protection against being robbed or assaulted by a passenger was mandatory in the rules governing the operation of cabs throughout the municipality.
Stating that his destination was the airport with some haste in passing the driver’s window, the undertaker had the instruction acted upon with alacrity. He was barely inside and the door closed when the vehicle was set in motion with a jerk that caused him to twist hurriedly before descending onto the seat. He was about to complain when he noticed something tucked in the compartment for storing small items of baggage attached to the rear of the driver’s seat. Reaching forward to draw it out, he discovered that it was a large plastic bag of the kind offered by supermarkets for carrying purchases and that it gave a chink like glass banging against glass while it was being lifted. Looking inside, he could not resist the temptation to draw out one of the three bottles—filled with a brownish liquid but bearing no indication of what this might be—that it held.
Even as Dubois returned the bottle and was about to call to tell the driver of his find, he heard the sound of a siren. Glancing through the rear window, he saw a khaki-colored Jeep bearing the insignia of the Rockabye County Sheriff’s Office approaching. It was carrying three men: Two wore uniforms indicating that they were deputies, and the other was in civilian clothes, but he had a badge of office the undertaker did not recognize hooked onto the breast pocket of his sports jacket. The driver was waving for the vehicle in which he was traveling to pull over.
Once the signal was obeyed, the Jeep drew to a halt in front of the cab and all three occupants sprang out. Drawing their handguns, the civilian’s coming from beneath his jacket, they converged swiftly on the vehicle in which the undertaker was riding and the passenger doors on each side were snatched open. To his amazement and horror, in a scene of a kind he had watched portrayed in television cop shows, he found himself covered by their revolvers.
“All right, hombre,” snapped the thickset and medium-height deputy closest to Dubois, his deeply bronzed skin and somewhat Mongoloid features suggesting that he was a purebred Indian despite his Texas drawl. “Come out pronto and with your hands in view all the time.”
“Wha—Wha—?” the undertaker croaked, nevertheless setting down the bag and obeying. His hands were deftly secured behind his back with the handcuffs produced by the second deputy as he continued no more coherently, “Wh—Why?”
“What you’d got in your hand’s the answer to that,” replied the officer whose name tag bore the name “Samuel J. Cuchilo.” He was a Comanche. “Or are you going to try to make us believe you don’t know that’s moonshine you’re holding.”
“Bu—But it doesn’t belong to me!” Dubois wailed. “It was in the cab. Ask the driver if I brought it with me.”
“I wouldn’t know anything about it,” the Hispanic declared in accent-free English, as all eyes turned his way. “Hell, I’m so busy switching on the meter that I never look at their faces when they get in. All I know is this gent wanted me to get him out to the airport in a hurry.”
“I tell you I found it in here!” the undertaker protested. It was a squeak of consternation rather than a note of righteous indignation.
“And I tell you that our man from the Bomber Boys here came with word that there was a sample stash of moonshine going to be left in a hack for somebody from the combine to come and collect it,” Cuchilo replied, indicating the man in civilian clothes by a jerk of his left thumb.
“Hey, now!” the driver of the cab said excitedly. “The hombre I fetched here slipped me a five-spot to wait for an amigo he said would be coming and would ask to go to the airport.”
“But—But—But—!” Dubois spluttered, still too flabbergasted by the unanticipated turn of events to be able to speak coherently.
“Looks like we’ve got one of them, even if your amigo loses the other,” Cuchilo remarked to the man in plain clothes. “Which happens, it was your notion to let him get clear and pick him up when he reached wherever the stuff came from. Let’s take this jasper down to the squad room and book him, Wilkie.”
“Hold hard!” the Bomber Boy barked. “This is our nab.”
“And your boss asked our boss for us to hold your hand on it,” Cuchilo answered in an equally hostile fashion, conveying the impression to Dubois that he was caught in the kind of jurisdictional dispute that so frequently was shown happening between federal and local peace officers—especially when the latter were members of acceptable ethnic minorities, as the Indian deputy undoubtedly would be classified—in cop shows. “So we’ll take him to the Big House and let the higher-ups sort out who gets the brownie points for doing it.”
“Do you know where Miss Lassiter might be, sir?” Lieutenant Steven Harvey asked, supplementing the question with a display of his badge. “I’ve tried the door of her apartment and there’s no answer.”
“What’s she done?” the superintendent of the building asked.
“Not a single thing,” Harvey replied, and went on in a confidential manner. “Seems like a relative died and left her a whole heap of money, so I’ve been sent to give her the good news.”
“They’ve sent a detective lieutenant for that?” the superintendent said in a disbelieving tone.
“Seems there’s some real urgent kind of need for her to be contacted,” Harvey answered, having hoped the man he was addressing would not realize the significance of his badge. He continued as blandly as if he were speaking the truth, “The shyster who’s handling the matter’s got pull uptown and her mother’s a cousin of Chief Hagen’s missus, so it has to be handled fast. You know how it is?”
Wanting to avoid wasting time in following up on what he knew could prove a vital development in the matter of obtaining information from Armond Dubois, the lieutenant had parted company with the officers who had helped him in his scheme to get information about Dubois. Leaving them to report what had happened to Sheriff Tragg and Chief Hagen, he had hurried to Paradise Apartments. Receiving no response to his knocking on the door he hoped would prove to belong to “Sweety Lamb,” he had gone in search of assistance.
“Yeah,” the superintendent admitted. He was a watcher of television cop shows in which such a state of affairs was often shown.
“Have you seen her go out?” Harvey asked.
“I’ve better things to do than check ’em in and out.”
“And you wouldn’t know where she might be if she’s out?”
“Nope,” the superintendent said. “She works in a women’s dress store down in the Bad Bit is all I know.”
“Do you reckon I could go into her apartment and see if I can find out exactly where to go look?” Harvey suggested.
“Well, I’m not sure …” the man began.
“Could be she’d feel real obliged to whoever helped get her found in time to collect what’s coming her way,” the lieutenant hinted. “And time’s running short, from what I was told. Which’s how come I got sent out to find her.”
“Aw, hell!” the superintendent said, clearly reaching his decision in view of the possibility of earning the gratitude of a young woman soon to be wealthy. He remembered how Ruby Lassiter had always been friendly and not nearly as parsimonious as some of her neighbors. “There can’t be any harm in letting you take a hinge around. Come on up and I’ll let you in with my passkey.”
On being admitted to the apartment and obtaining the privacy he required by using the pretense of having the superintendent remain outside to fend off any attempts by inquisitive neighbors to find out what was happening, Harvey conducted a quick search. In light of the first discovery he made, he felt there was no need for anything more protracted. When he left, having acquired the address of the store where Ruby was employed, he also had the photograph folder concealed beneath his jacket. He believed that the pictures, respectively inscribed for “Sweety Lamb” and “Armie honey” and accompanied by signatures, might prove sufficient to bring about a change in the attitude of the undertaker even if the girl could not be produced for some reason.
Chapter Thirteen – One Wrong Move and She’s Dead!
Even after becoming aware of Damon Lumley’s desertion, for which nevertheless he planned reprisals at some future date—as a matter of principle and to serve as a warning to others he might take on rather than through any feeling of betrayal—Jay Wilsher felt that his plans were going according to schedule. His gang had made their arrival at the First Cattlemen’s Bank in Evans Hill without any problem other than the absconding of their least useful member. What was more, because its type was so common and the change had been made to the registration plates, it was obvious that Claude Moreas had experienced no difficulty in driving the stolen car there. As he had anticipated would prove the case from his reconnaissance of the premises, there were only a few customers present when he and his companions entered.
“Sure,” Harvey answered. “It’s back of the Willet’s parking 1—”
“That’s what I figured,” Parrish drawled. “And now we know why Mr. Dubois was where he was last night.”
Chapter Twelve – That’s Moonshine You’re Holding
“You called it right, Jay,” Claude Moreas declared, watching the vehicles that were passing the panel truck he was driving with the skill—albeit not the high speed frequently called for—that made his services as a wheelman on various kinds of robbery much sought after. “That’s seven heaps of the same make and color’ve gone by since we left the hideout.”
“That’s why I picked the other son of a bitch in the first place,” Jay Wilsher replied, sounding more amiable than had often been the case earlier at receiving praise for his acumen from the man he regarded as second to himself in importance to the successful outcome of the robbery. “The motor mags reckon it’s the most popular make and color they’ve put on the market in years.” He paused, then jerked his head toward the rear of the vehicle, which was obscured from view of those in the driving cab. “What do you reckon about Lumley, Wheels?”
“He’s running scared for sure,” the driver assessed, taking notice of the way in which his sobriquet had been used for the first time since the other vehicle had developed a mechanical fault beyond his ability to fix. “Only, I’d say he’s more scared of you than what’s coming. Do you need him so bad that we couldn’t dump him?”
“He’s an extra piece to wave around and can help tote the money we’ll get,” Wilsher replied. “We could do without him at a pinch, though. Vic and Atch’re steady enough, so he wouldn’t be missed too much.”
“You figure on dumping him?”
“Not so he’d be around to squeal when he found out we had, only I’d as soon not waste him. We’d have to make good and sure his stiff wouldn’t be found, and there’s not enough time for that.”
“We’ll just have to wait and see how he makes out, then,” Moreas said quietly, agreeing with Wilsher. “Only, it won’t make me lose any sleep if there’s one less to share in the pot. It’s going to be short enough when the cut for the Stout Feller comes out, and there’s no way we can duck duking that over.”
If Damon Lumley had been able to hear the conversation in the cab of the truck, it would have increased the growing sense of perturbation that was assailing him. Glancing to see whether his feelings of alarm were being noticed by Vic Brownlow and Baxter Atchinson, he found nothing to suggest that they realized anything was wrong. They were engrossed in discussing their plans for having fun with their share of the loot. Wanting to try to soothe his nerves, he extracted a cigarette charged with marijuana from the case he took out of his jacket pocket and lit it. For once, being a sign that his senses were developing a resistance to effects of the—according to many liberals—harmless and even beneficial narcotic, inhaling the pungent smoke did not offer its usual uplift for his spirits.
Sensing the likelihood of painful and possibly even fatal repercussions if he had declined to accompany the other members of the gang, Lumley had been far from enamored of the prospect of continuing the heist as he was joining them in the panel truck. Like all of them, in accordance with the orders given by Wilsher, he was wearing sober attire so as to avoid attracting attention when entering the bank and, as were the pair who joined him in the back, had a sawed-off shotgun in the briefcase on his knees.
The feeling of discomfort did not depart as Lumley left the panel truck when it reached the garage in which the stolen car was waiting with the license plates from its predecessor in place. While not usually susceptible to atmosphere, he found the way in which Wilsher and Moreas looked at him distinctly frightening when added to his previous misgivings. What is more, he found that a change in the arrangements made by Wilsher did nothing to relieve his anxieties. Instead of being allowed to go to the bank alone so they would arrive separately, Atchinson was told to accompany him until they came in sight of the bank and then return to the original arrangement. Nor was Lumley made to feel any better by the explanation that “Atch” was not sufficiently acquainted with the city, and so needed a guide.
Despite showing some surprise at the alteration to the plan and the reason given for it, Atchinson did not question it. However, he and Brownlow gave Lumley a brief study, which did nothing to quiet the young man’s feelings of alarm. Instead of debating the matter, or Wilsher elaborating on the reason for the revised arrangement, the men parted. Although the rest were going on foot by different routes, Moreas set off in the car that was to be used for the first part of the getaway. To make this possible, showing forethought, Wilsher had made them practice boarding the vehicle with speed—even though it was intended to accept a smaller number of passengers—so as to be able to take the departure from outside the bank with the minimum of delay.
The silence maintained by Atchinson as they were walking toward their destination did nothing to change Lumley’s disturbed frame of mind. To the younger man, it seemed the newsstand and the vending boxes for local papers had been deliberately arranged so as to draw his attention to the glaring and, to his way of thinking, unusually large headlines announcing the murder of the patrolman. Likewise, he felt that a harness-bull looked at them with great intensity while approaching along the sidewalk. Although they passed without being stopped and questioned, he had to fight down an inclination to take to his heels.
“All right, Dam,” Atchinson said as he and his companion came into sight of the bank. Never given to deep analysis of what was going on about him, he had concluded that Wilsher felt Lumley needed moral support due to his inexperience and had drawn no further conclusions beyond that. Nevertheless, he felt that encouragement might not come amiss and went on, “Stay put here and I’ll go along to come in from the other side. Don’t worry, boy, I know this’s your first big one, but everything’s going just like Jay said.”
Left to himself, Lumley gazed around with frightened eyes. Under different conditions, he might have been impressed by the way everything was progressing. Each of the gang’s other members was already in his assigned position. Looking like a husband waiting less than patiently for his wife to return from shopping, Moreas was sitting behind the steering wheel of the car by a parking meter into which he had fed sufficient money to cover a longer stay than was expected. That was a precaution in case a patrolman or meter maid should come by and ask if he had a valid right to be there. 34 Giving the impression of an ordinary businessman going about his affairs, Atchinson, after leaving Lumley, strolled leisurely to the position he had mentioned. By the time he got there, Brownlow was in place on the other side of the street and Wilsher stood against a lamppost near the entrance to the bank.
Having checked that the rest of the gang were in their designated positions and rested his gaze for a moment on Lumley, Wilsher stubbed out the cigarette he was smoking and tossed it into the trash can on the lamppost. This was the arranged signal, and with it made, he turned to walk into the bank. With the intention of lessening the chances of their association being suspected, in accordance with their instructions, the other three started to converge on the building.
Beginning to cross the street, Lumley began to feel more and more that he was involved in a situation fraught with peril far beyond anything he had ever envisioned. What he found most alarming was that the heist was happening in a town where the law had been aroused to a pitch of furious activity owing to one of their number having been killed by a member of the gang with which he was working. It was, he told himself, all right for Wilsher to claim that the pigs would never expect the vehicle responsible for his wasting the harness-bull to be used so soon as an aid to robbing a bank. However, under such circumstances he would far rather have had his suggestion of calling off the caper accepted.
With what struck Lumley as the hand of fate, a cab drew to a halt and disgorged its passenger as he was approaching. A quick glance around assured him that none of his companions were watching what he was doing. The three on foot were devoting their full attention to the front of the bank and a large delivery truck was shielding him from Moreas’s view. Making the most of an opportunity he realized could not be repeated, he darted around and boarded the vehicle as soon as it was left free and gave instructions to the driver.
About fifteen minutes later, Lumley entered the apartment of Lois Lane. Explaining that the deal upon which they were basing their hopes for the vacation in Mexico had blown over, he told her to go out and bring back a supply of food and drinks to last them for the next few days. Sure that she was completely under the spell of his masculine charm, he failed to notice that she was far from enamored of the news. However, she kept her thoughts to herself, and after she had taken her departure—although he thought momentarily of disposing of it under the trash in a garbage can in the cellar—he put the briefcase with its lethal contents in the top drawer of the dressing table and went to lie on the bed to await her return.
Except that its driver had waved away four would-be passengers prior to Armond Dubois approaching, there was nothing to distinguish the cab from the others waiting in the rank outside the DPS Building. Short and thickset, with a cheerful cast of features, the man behind the steering wheel was of obvious Hispanic roots. However, as with many who plied the same trade around Gusher City, this was not a matter to arouse curiosity. Furthermore, that he was effectively separated from whoever occupied the rear seat by a sheet of sturdy glass through which communication was possible only via the simple-to-operate “speech box” in it was nothing out of the ordinary. Such a protection against being robbed or assaulted by a passenger was mandatory in the rules governing the operation of cabs throughout the municipality.
Stating that his destination was the airport with some haste in passing the driver’s window, the undertaker had the instruction acted upon with alacrity. He was barely inside and the door closed when the vehicle was set in motion with a jerk that caused him to twist hurriedly before descending onto the seat. He was about to complain when he noticed something tucked in the compartment for storing small items of baggage attached to the rear of the driver’s seat. Reaching forward to draw it out, he discovered that it was a large plastic bag of the kind offered by supermarkets for carrying purchases and that it gave a chink like glass banging against glass while it was being lifted. Looking inside, he could not resist the temptation to draw out one of the three bottles—filled with a brownish liquid but bearing no indication of what this might be—that it held.
Even as Dubois returned the bottle and was about to call to tell the driver of his find, he heard the sound of a siren. Glancing through the rear window, he saw a khaki-colored Jeep bearing the insignia of the Rockabye County Sheriff’s Office approaching. It was carrying three men: Two wore uniforms indicating that they were deputies, and the other was in civilian clothes, but he had a badge of office the undertaker did not recognize hooked onto the breast pocket of his sports jacket. The driver was waving for the vehicle in which he was traveling to pull over.
Once the signal was obeyed, the Jeep drew to a halt in front of the cab and all three occupants sprang out. Drawing their handguns, the civilian’s coming from beneath his jacket, they converged swiftly on the vehicle in which the undertaker was riding and the passenger doors on each side were snatched open. To his amazement and horror, in a scene of a kind he had watched portrayed in television cop shows, he found himself covered by their revolvers.
“All right, hombre,” snapped the thickset and medium-height deputy closest to Dubois, his deeply bronzed skin and somewhat Mongoloid features suggesting that he was a purebred Indian despite his Texas drawl. “Come out pronto and with your hands in view all the time.”
“Wha—Wha—?” the undertaker croaked, nevertheless setting down the bag and obeying. His hands were deftly secured behind his back with the handcuffs produced by the second deputy as he continued no more coherently, “Wh—Why?”
“What you’d got in your hand’s the answer to that,” replied the officer whose name tag bore the name “Samuel J. Cuchilo.” He was a Comanche. “Or are you going to try to make us believe you don’t know that’s moonshine you’re holding.”
“Bu—But it doesn’t belong to me!” Dubois wailed. “It was in the cab. Ask the driver if I brought it with me.”
“I wouldn’t know anything about it,” the Hispanic declared in accent-free English, as all eyes turned his way. “Hell, I’m so busy switching on the meter that I never look at their faces when they get in. All I know is this gent wanted me to get him out to the airport in a hurry.”
“I tell you I found it in here!” the undertaker protested. It was a squeak of consternation rather than a note of righteous indignation.
“And I tell you that our man from the Bomber Boys here came with word that there was a sample stash of moonshine going to be left in a hack for somebody from the combine to come and collect it,” Cuchilo replied, indicating the man in civilian clothes by a jerk of his left thumb.
“Hey, now!” the driver of the cab said excitedly. “The hombre I fetched here slipped me a five-spot to wait for an amigo he said would be coming and would ask to go to the airport.”
“But—But—But—!” Dubois spluttered, still too flabbergasted by the unanticipated turn of events to be able to speak coherently.
“Looks like we’ve got one of them, even if your amigo loses the other,” Cuchilo remarked to the man in plain clothes. “Which happens, it was your notion to let him get clear and pick him up when he reached wherever the stuff came from. Let’s take this jasper down to the squad room and book him, Wilkie.”
“Hold hard!” the Bomber Boy barked. “This is our nab.”
“And your boss asked our boss for us to hold your hand on it,” Cuchilo answered in an equally hostile fashion, conveying the impression to Dubois that he was caught in the kind of jurisdictional dispute that so frequently was shown happening between federal and local peace officers—especially when the latter were members of acceptable ethnic minorities, as the Indian deputy undoubtedly would be classified—in cop shows. “So we’ll take him to the Big House and let the higher-ups sort out who gets the brownie points for doing it.”
“Do you know where Miss Lassiter might be, sir?” Lieutenant Steven Harvey asked, supplementing the question with a display of his badge. “I’ve tried the door of her apartment and there’s no answer.”
“What’s she done?” the superintendent of the building asked.
“Not a single thing,” Harvey replied, and went on in a confidential manner. “Seems like a relative died and left her a whole heap of money, so I’ve been sent to give her the good news.”
“They’ve sent a detective lieutenant for that?” the superintendent said in a disbelieving tone.
“Seems there’s some real urgent kind of need for her to be contacted,” Harvey answered, having hoped the man he was addressing would not realize the significance of his badge. He continued as blandly as if he were speaking the truth, “The shyster who’s handling the matter’s got pull uptown and her mother’s a cousin of Chief Hagen’s missus, so it has to be handled fast. You know how it is?”
Wanting to avoid wasting time in following up on what he knew could prove a vital development in the matter of obtaining information from Armond Dubois, the lieutenant had parted company with the officers who had helped him in his scheme to get information about Dubois. Leaving them to report what had happened to Sheriff Tragg and Chief Hagen, he had hurried to Paradise Apartments. Receiving no response to his knocking on the door he hoped would prove to belong to “Sweety Lamb,” he had gone in search of assistance.
“Yeah,” the superintendent admitted. He was a watcher of television cop shows in which such a state of affairs was often shown.
“Have you seen her go out?” Harvey asked.
“I’ve better things to do than check ’em in and out.”
“And you wouldn’t know where she might be if she’s out?”
“Nope,” the superintendent said. “She works in a women’s dress store down in the Bad Bit is all I know.”
“Do you reckon I could go into her apartment and see if I can find out exactly where to go look?” Harvey suggested.
“Well, I’m not sure …” the man began.
“Could be she’d feel real obliged to whoever helped get her found in time to collect what’s coming her way,” the lieutenant hinted. “And time’s running short, from what I was told. Which’s how come I got sent out to find her.”
“Aw, hell!” the superintendent said, clearly reaching his decision in view of the possibility of earning the gratitude of a young woman soon to be wealthy. He remembered how Ruby Lassiter had always been friendly and not nearly as parsimonious as some of her neighbors. “There can’t be any harm in letting you take a hinge around. Come on up and I’ll let you in with my passkey.”
On being admitted to the apartment and obtaining the privacy he required by using the pretense of having the superintendent remain outside to fend off any attempts by inquisitive neighbors to find out what was happening, Harvey conducted a quick search. In light of the first discovery he made, he felt there was no need for anything more protracted. When he left, having acquired the address of the store where Ruby was employed, he also had the photograph folder concealed beneath his jacket. He believed that the pictures, respectively inscribed for “Sweety Lamb” and “Armie honey” and accompanied by signatures, might prove sufficient to bring about a change in the attitude of the undertaker even if the girl could not be produced for some reason.
Chapter Thirteen – One Wrong Move and She’s Dead!
Even after becoming aware of Damon Lumley’s desertion, for which nevertheless he planned reprisals at some future date—as a matter of principle and to serve as a warning to others he might take on rather than through any feeling of betrayal—Jay Wilsher felt that his plans were going according to schedule. His gang had made their arrival at the First Cattlemen’s Bank in Evans Hill without any problem other than the absconding of their least useful member. What was more, because its type was so common and the change had been made to the registration plates, it was obvious that Claude Moreas had experienced no difficulty in driving the stolen car there. As he had anticipated would prove the case from his reconnaissance of the premises, there were only a few customers present when he and his companions entered.
