F. B. I. Showdown Page 5

  He was saying, “Maybe they won’t think about us. I mean, how’n hades can they connect us? We wiped down the coupé so there wouldn’t be no fingerprints, an’ we croaked the dame because she was the only one saw us. I mean, how’n hell can the cops wise up to us?”

  Egghead said, “Lord knows, but cops do things you don’t expect. As for the Feds....” And then he said, sourly, “Look where you’re goin’. You’re travellin’ fast fer an old car.”

  At which moment a spanking new sedan came shooting out of a side road, and Johnny ran slap into it because he found the brakes were suddenly not working so good.

  Nobody got hurt, but there was an awful lot of glass and bent metal around the place, and the owner of the new car looked fit to cry any moment. He was trying to blame Johnny and Egghead, but for once they were virtuously free from error, and were able to snarl back at him better than he gave.

  But the pair were jumpy. This put an end to the idea of burning the farmer’s car and so abruptly hiding their tracks. Johnny hadn’t time for that, and that meant they would have to leave it and the cops would come along in time and know that the killers of the farm couple were heading southwest again.

  Johnny started swearing, but Egghead snarled for him to shut his mouth. The gink in the new car might hear too much. At which moment a powerful sedan came pulling up at sight of an interesting smash.

  Egghead ran across and got in the way so that the fellow had to stop completely. He didn’t look pleased. He wore a loud tie and had a voice to match. Egghead thought he might be some local big shot who didn’t like rough farm-working types to tell him what to do.

  Egghead began, “We need your car.”

  The tie looked at Egghead’s dirty jeans and said, “You can need. This car don’t carry tramps, and I’m in a hurry.”

  Egghead said, dispassionately, “I ain’t no tramp, and something here says you’d better not try movin’.”

  The tie looked up and saw a gun in Egghead’s hand. For a moment he seemed too startled to understand. In that moment the gink in the wrecked car saw the gun and let out a squawk. Johnny promptly pulled a gun on him.

  Egghead called, “Climb in, Johnny,” and covered the driver until Johnny had backed into the big car. Johnny would have liked to have gone through the gink’s pockets, but they were afraid every minute that other traffic would come along.

  Egghead got in beside the driver and ordered, “Get up that road, fast,” and obediently the man with the tie that was loud (even in a land of loud ties) stepped on the gas.

  Five miles along they stopped an approaching car—a fast Buick—took the clothes off both drivers, tied them and shoved them into the back of the powerful sedan. This they drove into some bushes. If the gink back in his battered auto had had the sense to take the number of the sedan, this manoeuvre would break the trail.

  But not for long.

  Johnny voiced the thought. Egghead was driving this time, and Johnny was trying to put on a loud, hand-painted tie in a swaying, fast-speeding auto. The clothes didn’t fit either of them, but there had been plenty of money in the pockets.

  Johnny said, “They’ll find that sedan with them guys before dark, you bet. The cops move fast when they’re told there’s guys around totin’ guns at motorists.”

  Egghead grunted. Johnny went on, “They’ll have roadblocks everywhere, then, knowing we’ll have taken another car. Maybe we should have croaked the fellar that owned this, so’s to keep his mouth shut about the registration number.”

  Egghead started to slow down. What Johnny was saying seemed good guesswork. He pulled up. “Looks like we’ll never make Kentucky, you reckon, Johnny?”

  Johnny kept watch back up the road. “I figger we should hide out now, Eggy. Hittin’ that blasted car’s upset everything. If they put roadblocks out everywhere, it doesn’t matter how many cars you swap, they’re bound to stop you sometime.” He looked at his companion’s head, hidden under a hat that was too small for him. “And you’re conspicuous, Eggy.” He said “conspishus,” but Egghead knew what he meant.

  Egghead was touchy about his lack of hair and scowled. All the same, there was no arguing against what Johnny was saying. Their plans hadn’t worked out right, and now they must make others quickly.

  Egghead said, “I don’t know this country.”

  Johnny said, “Neither do I. Reckon we can’t be far from Tennessee.” He was looking at the sign at a fork, The light wasn’t too good in this wooded defile, with the sun already down behind the hill. “But I guess we gotta find some place, someone who’ll look after us.”

  He said, suddenly, “I’m goin’ across to that sign. I’ve got an idea it says somethin’ interestin’.”

  He looked back again quickly, then got out and hurried over the road. He didn’t actually reach the sign, then turned and ran back.

  Egghead, curious, said, “What is it? You found somethin’?”

  Johnny got in, said, “Turn south down that fork road.”

  Egghead didn’t argue; he put the car in gear and pulled across the road. As they passed under the sign he read. “Warren Bridge—23 miles.”

  Egghead opened up, remarking, “You know someone in Warren Bridge?”

  “We both do.” The light was fading rapidly, and Egghead switched on the headlights. Johnny said, “I was tellin’ you, back by the gas chamber in Halifax. Old Rocky lived at Warren Bridge, once—his brother lives there now.”

  Egghead said, “So what?” but he was thinking of something that Rocky had said to Johnny, something about his brother sitting on a stolen million.

  “So,” said Johnny, grimly, “we look up this brother and we tell him we want to stay with him for a week or two, see? Maybe when he knows we’re from his brother in jail he’ll be helpful, huh? Maybe that guy’ll have a conscience because of what he’s done to old Rocky.”

  Egghead grunted a doubtful, “Maybe.”

  So Johnny turned and said, “He won’t want trouble if what Rocky told me is right—about both of them being in that big fraud racket, but only Rocky took the rap. Okay, so maybe he’ll be agreeable to us hiding out with him for a time.”

  Egghead said, “We ain’t got much option, Johnny. I guess we’d better get somewhere out of sight quick. An’ Rocky’s brother sounds something like a safe bet. But we gotta find that out.”

  He gave the car the gun and they rocked through the gathering dusk. After a while Johnny switched on the radio and dialled for music. Egghead spoke above it. “You said something about a million being stashed away?”

  Johnny said, “That might be an old man’s hokum. He used to say they’d cleaned up a million with company frauds, and it was all baked away. He said his brother was takin’ care of it until he’d served his sentence. But I wouldn’t know. These old men get to sayin’ big things and next is they’re believin’ them themselves. Maybe we’ll find there ain’t no million, only a coupla hundred bucks or so.”

  Egghead drove for a while in silence, and then he said what Johnny was thinking. “Old Rocky must have been near on seventy when they gave him his sentence. It was a ten-year rap, yeah?” Johnny nodded, his brow furrowing because he was pursuing the same thought.

  Egghead said, “Judges, they’re all buzzards, but they don’t give ten-year sentences to old men unless they’ve pulled off somethin’ really big.”

  They were approaching the outskirts of a fair-sized town now. They guessed it to be Warren Bridge. Egghead eased off, but still let the headlights slice into the darkness against the thickening oncoming traffic.

  He continued, “It could be that old Rocky ain’t dreamin’. Could be that he cleaned up a million an’ left it with his brother. That’s a good reason why we should call on Rocky’s brother.”

  Johnny said, “Sure, it’s a million good reasons. And maybe we c’n step in an’ protect old Rocky’s interests for him, huh?”

  Egghead let his tight face slip into an appreciative smile at that. “Maybe we might, Johnny,” he s
aid. And he was thinking that two into one million spoilt a nice round figure

  Johnny was grinning. “It might be a good hideout at that, Eggy,” he said, and he was watching his companion out of the corner of his eye. He had an idea what Egghead was thinking, so he switched his mind to the same thought. He had been backward at school and never seemed to learn how to make two go into anything—certainly not a million.

  The music stopped. Music always stops when you switch on a radio. It was a local station, and it came out with a news bulletin.

  So, being a local station, it put local news before the war at the other end of the world, the political racket in Washington, and a catastrophe in Northern India.

  Egghead and Johnny heard the cultivated excitement of the announcer as he raced through his opening spiel—“Today there was a daring double break from the jail at Halifax, N.C. Two prisoners got away in a laundry truck. Then, later, two more prisoners broke out over the wall.”

  Egghead’s bald head came round in astonishment. “What—?” he began, then shut up as the announcer rattled on.

  “The second jailbreak was a spectacular affair. Five members of the old Savannah mob that used to terrorise the western territory of our state made a break for it. Three were armed with guns, and the other two grabbed weapons from guards when the break began. Two men were shot down as they tried to get over the wall. Three escaped, but one broke an ankle in dropping from the wall, and is now in the hospital. Three guards were hurt in the fighting, one seriously.

  “The men who escaped are well-known mobsters. Their names? Jud Corbeta and Joe Guestler.”

  Johnny started swearing softly, but there was more to come.

  “The prisoners were last heard of heading west towards the Warren Bridge district. A watch is being kept on all roads....”

  Johnny snapped off the radio. “The hell,” he snarled. “Guestler and Corbeta. They musta got mad ’cause we beat ’em to it, and they went through with their old plan.”

  Egghead growled, “Yeah, but how come they’re heading right where we are now—Warren Bridge?”

  Johnny opened his mouth and then shut it. A powerful car had raced up from behind and was now forcing them to the side of the street. It was a shopping centre, and there were a lot of people about.

  Egghead started snarling, and then Johnny got what he was saying.

  It was a police car.

  CHAPTER SIX

  BRONYA KARKOFF

  The chief got Sorensen and his assistant up in his office. He was another of Edgar Hoover’s bright young men, full of ideas and energy. He said, “The F.B.I. have taken over this case, Sorensen. It’s yours to direct, so get out and direct it. First, though, there’s all the information we have to date to help you.

  “That stolen cream coupé that came from near Halifax, North Carolina. There are no fingerprints anywhere on it.”

  Lief said, “So we don’t know if it was Schiller and Delcros who took it. It could have been anyone.”

  The chief nodded. “Could be. We won’t think either way. Just go out and follow every clue. However, it’s still a good guess that whoever stole the coupé is connected with that double farmhouse killing.” He paused. “Killing that woman suggests very desperate men—you know what I mean: hungry. Could be men, for instance, who have been shut off for several years from contact with women.”

  “Which gives a hint that it might still be our escaped convict friends,” Sorensen nodded. Pavlova said nothing, but he was following everything alertly. The chief went on:

  “I received a phone call from Rime End just before you came in. The local police say there are no prints on that car, either—the murdered farmer’s sedan. So we don’t know if the murder connects up with the jailbreak.” The chief fingered a message form. “I don’t know whether this has any connection with the case. A report came in to say that just outside Rime End is a lonely filling station. A girl in charge was held up by a couple of—she calls them farm workers. They locked her in a room, took all the loose money, and went off after filling up their car with gas. I’d say you should call in on the girl as you go through, and see what leads she can give you. Her name’s Bronya Karkoff; she’s a medical student working her way through college.”

  Pavlova jotted the name down, along with the address of the filling station.

  The chief said, “Now, about the last thing to tell you. You may have heard that after Schiller and Delcros got away, later that day there was a very deliberate escape bid on the part of another group of prisoners, They are reported to be some of the old Savannah gang boys, who played hell up and down the coast towns for years, remember?”

  Sorensen did remember. “It was before my time in the F.B.I, but the papers gave them plenty of space and I could read. I guess they’re pretty tough, those boy.s... Who got away?”

  “Joe Guestler and Jud Corbeta. A nice pair of lice. Louie Savannah got over the wall, but bust his ankle when he made the drop. Those three had automatics, and they were using them. We still don’t know how they got them smuggled into jail. Guestler and Corbeta held up a car outside, hit the driver over the head and drove off. They swapped cars a few times, then we lost the trail. Last seen, though, they were heading in the general direction of Kansey Cross, Old Ford, Warren Bridge, and places west. The police threw a cordon out immediately, and they say it is unlikely that the pair could have got beyond Warren Bridge.”

  Sorensen studied for a moment. “You think maybe the two escape bids are related, and both pairs of convicts are rendezvousing at Warren Bridge?”

  The chief smiled. “I’m not making any suggestions. It is a possibility and one you should bear in mind, but remember not to start making evidence fit a theory—just go and dig up all the clues you can and see what answer they give.”

  It was a warning delivered time and again to field operators of the F.B.I,, but the chief didn’t think that Sorensen would need it. Lief Sorensen was a very level, very able man, and hadn’t fallen down on a case yet.

  Sorensen said, “It’ll be dark soon. I think we’ll start off for Rime End immediately. We’ll call in on that girl with the Russian name on our way.”

  “And then?” asked the chief.

  “I think we’ll go on to Warren Bridge. That is, unless something else turns up meanwhile. We’ll take a radio car.”

  The chief nodded, rising. “You’ll find the Warren Bridge chief of police to be a cooperative man. Unlike some police chiefs he doesn’t get jealous of the F.B.I. and become obstructive. Give him my regards, will you?”

  They went out.

  Nearly an hour later they pulled up at a small filling station just on the outskirts of Rime End. A girl in a white monkey suit stood and watched suspiciously as they got out of the car. Maybe she was allergic to bulky men who got out of sedans when there was no other car traffic about.

  Sorensen came up and said, humorously, “You can take your hand off that monkey-wrench; we wouldn’t like a monkey-wrench wrapped round our pretty heads, would we Pav?”

  The girl put the wrench on to an oil-soaked workbench. She sighed audibly, and her relief was apparent.

  She was a good-looker, with dark, glossy hair that picked up all the stray lights and reflected them, and a face that was high-cheek-boned, giving her a piquant, foreign expression. That was the Russian in her, Sorensen thought. He was young enough to appreciate a good-looking girl. He waited for her voice, and hoped he wouldn’t be disappointed. He wasn’t.

  When she spoke she had a good, level, educated way of speaking, and she sounded intelligent. Sorensen thought she would have to be intelligent, to be studying for a degree in medicine.

  “I’m glad to see you,” she said. “You’ll be the F.B.I, I suppose? I was warned to stay until you arrived.”

  She looked at the gathering darkness and shuddered. “I wasn’t going to stay much longer, though. I’ve had enough of this place—and not just for tonight, either!”

  “Quitting?”

  She n
odded emphatically. She had brown eyes, Sorensen saw; very dark, almost black in the fading light. “Yes, this place is too lonely. I’ll get a vacation job some place else, I guess.”

  They walked into the lighted office, the usual small place with tyre advertisements, cardboard plug cutouts, and greasy oil charts on the wall. One small desk under the window, a couple of uncertain chairs, and a spike for bills seemed to be the only furniture.

  The girl continued, “I’ve been here three weeks. It’s surprising how much trade this little place gets. But sometimes, when things are quiet, the odd he-man rolls up and makes a pass at me. That’s why I keep that monkey-wrench handy. It always works with wolves.”

  “But not farmhands?” said Sorensen gently.

  Bronya’s head shook vigorously. She shuddered, remembering. “They didn’t look like wolves. Wolves mostly drive around in big cars with tooting horns; these came in the sort of old wagon you’d expect with farm workers.”

  “What was it like?” Pavlova, taking down the details, came up with the question. Bronya looked at him, with his bony wrists and big red hands and straw thatch atop a red, freckled face. He didn’t look like a G-man, but all the same he seemed a good sort.

  She said, disappointingly, “I don’t remember. Just that it was a sedan and pretty shabby. I couldn’t say what colour it was, either. You see, you get into the habit of looking at your customers, not their car, first thing when they drive in.

  “Well, these didn’t give me much chance to look at them long. They came across to where I was standing at the pump. Both looked round quickly, then they grabbed me and shoved me inside this office. I shouted, and one of the pair gave me a backhander that knocked me down. I suppose I was dazed. When I began to get my wits together again, they’d helped themselves to the day’s takings. Then they shoved me into the closet there, and locked the door on me. It’s dark, and there’s no other way out of that place. I just stood quite quietly and heard them fill up and then drive off. Some time later I heard someone drive in, and I started hollering and banging on the door with my fists and feet. The driver heard me, and I shouted instructions to him, but he was a dumb cluck and didn’t seem to understand, for he drove away.”