F. B. I. Showdown Read online

  He walked along the tops of the rows of seats to the back of the hall; after a short struggle he got out of the mad mass of fighting people and went up the stairs to the projection room. The door opened to his touch. Two men lay on the floor.

  Luke went across to the men. They were bound and gagged, adhesive tape having been used for both purposes. He pulled out a knife and slit through the gags, then pulled them off. Both men came out swearing at the loss of hair from their cheeks. Then there was more swearing as the tape was unwound from their wrists. They went on swearing a long time after they were free and on their feet. They were youngish men, and full of heat at the discomfort and indignity of their recent position.

  Luke gave them half a minute and then said, “Okay, this is where I came in. Now let’s be knowing what happened to you.”

  One said, “Nothing much, Suddenly a lot of fellars came in and grabbed us and tied us up. Then they put a film on, and one of the guys with a neck like a turkey’s started spieling into the mike.”

  “You heard what he said?”

  “You can’t hear, not lying where we were on the floor. The shutter drowned the noise.”

  Campion told them what he’d heard and what had happened in the hall. Then he went out and for a while gave a hand at carrying out injured and fainted people. When he saw the flood of relief workers come pouring in, he left off and went in search of the chief. He found him with a couple of big men and a very pretty girl across on the grass verge where the injured were lying.

  Campion saluted automatically, though he was off duty and in civvies. He said, “I was inside, sir. Do you want my report?”

  The chief grabbed him. He knew Campion for a dependable witness, and said, “Start talking. All I can get out of these people is something about the Conscience of America. I never knew we had one.”

  Campion looked at the big men and the girl. The chief said, “That’s all right, talk. This is the F.B.I.”

  Campion gulped. “You do get here fast!” he murmured admiringly, and then told his story.

  When he’d finished the chief said, “Now we’ve got to find out several things. One, who the so-called Conscience of America is—and I reckon that’s something for the F.B.I. to get their teeth into. Two, what is the meaning of this film you saw? Three, where is the corpse, if there is a corpse?”

  Big Lief Sorensen said, “Finding your corpse is the most important thing, I reckon, chief. Without a corpse you can’t do a thing. But there’s another thing you should do—grab that film!”

  Patrolman Luke Campion said, “Someone grabbed it before you, sir. It was removed from the projector.”

  The chief looked at the Feds and said, gruffly, “Looks like I got my hands full. Escaped convicts, lynchings and the Conscience of America all facing me. Reckon the F.B.I. had better cooperate right from the start, eh?”

  Sorensen turned to his gangling companion. “You know as much as I do, Pav. Get through to the office and ask for more men to be sent down. I need a lot for tomorrow morning, apart from what the chief requires. Oh, and see if we know anything about this Conscience of America.”

  He was briskly efficient now, and it encompassed the quiet girl at his side. He smiled at her. “You’d better get home, Bronya. But I’d like you to keep in contact with me—I shall want you to identify the men when we pick them up.”

  Not “if we pick them up,” the girl noticed. She smiled but looked away quickly and said, “Goodnight,” rather uncertainly, and went away into the crowd. Sorensen quickly explained to the chief who she was. The chief said he knew her father, a good, decent man in a fair way of business.

  Then the chief asked, “Now, what do we do first?”

  Without hesitation Sorensen said, “I want a plain-clothes man posted in every shoe shop in town the moment they open tomorrow morning.”

  The chief gulped. He said, vaguely, “Sure, sure. But maybe you’ll tell me why?”

  “The trail I’m following has brought me here to Warren Bridge,” Sorensen explained slowly. They were moving across to the chief’s car, so as to avoid the relief workers who were now all over the grass with their unfortunate patients.

  “Maybe it links up with that other clue—that the second pair of escaping convicts were also heading for Warren Bridge. Okay. Now my guess is they’ll lie low here, probably with friends, until the heat goes off. You’ll have all roads watched, I guess?” The chief nodded emphatically. “That means it’ll be risky for ’em to try and leave this town. So, if they’ve got friends here, they won’t try it.”

  The chief said, “What’s that got to do with shoe shops?”

  “We know that two men, probably the murderers of a farmer and his wife, exchanged clothes with a couple of motorists. They didn’t fit very well, I guess, but they’d do for a while. But they didn’t take the shoes of those motorists, though they had a look at them. Most clothes fit at a pinch, but shoes are different.

  “Now, what’s the first thing our friends will do? They’ll try to get shoes, yes? Because heavy prison boots will attract attention along with smart town clothes. Most likely they’ll send a friend along to buy shoes the size they want. So, I want your men to watch out for anyone asking for several pairs of men’s shoes and not trying them on himself—or it might be a woman who comes, of course. It’s unusual for anyone to buy shoes like that, so there should be no trouble in spotting the customer.”

  The chief said, “You’ll have your men, G-man. And let me say I think that’s mighty smart reasoning.”

  They waited until the square had quieted, and the crowd was dispersing, and then they drove back to the police H.Q. Then, for the next three hours they sat in a room that grew foul with cigarette smoke, and collated all information as it came through.

  Almost at once they identified their victim. Someone said that even without his teeth and glasses they were sure it was Charlie Konkonscwi, and the man who came up with the information added, as an afterthought, “The Commie buzzard.”

  They got hold of a tired Luke Campion and asked him a question. He thought back. “Sure, I know old Charlie,” he said. “Old Mouthy, they’ve got to callin’ him lately. I wouldn’t be sure, but I guess it could be him.”

  Ben Arcota, briskly efficient in a manner that made his Pavlova nickname seem inappropriate, rounded on the chief. He was taking notes for transmission to the F.B.I. field office.

  “Chief, let’s have all you know on Konkonscwi.”

  The chief came out pat with the answers. “He’s well-known to us. We’ve run him in a few times for things like causing crowds to gather, for disturbing the peace by holding meetings when he shouldn’t, and so on.” Then the chief showed he was a very fair man. “He’s not very popular here just now, because he goes round supporting Russia. There are people who say he’s an agitator paid by Moscow, but we have no evidence of that.”

  Sorensen said, “How does he live?”

  “He’s an old man, a retired school teacher who lives on his pension. My opinion is he is—was?—a silly old man who liked to say things and cause a commotion. Looks like he went too far and antagonised some of our law-abiding citizens.”

  Sorensen said, “If he’s been killed by a mob, it doesn’t matter what politics Konkonscwi had, our job’s to see that justice is done.”

  The chief nodded, though he didn’t seem to be over-bothered by the demise of Charlie Konkonscwi, Old Mouthy and troublemaker. Maybe old Charlie had been a pain in the neck to the chief for a very long time.

  Then a call came in from the F.B.I. records department. Nobody had ever heard of an organisation called the Conscience of America.

  “So,” said Sorensen, “that’s some information we’ll have to dig up for ourselves.”

  He was called back to the phone immediately. For some reason Ben Arcota—Pavlova—lifted his head and watched him, as if suspecting the identity of the late caller.

  It was Bronya Karkoff. She was nervous, uncertain, spoke with confusion. “Mr. Sorensen?
I—I’m sorry, but I won’t be around tomorrow. I don’t feel so good, so I’m going to an aunt in Norfolk.”

  Sorensen looked at the phone for a few seconds and thought that one out. Then he said, “You will not go to Norfolk tomorrow, and you’ll be available when I want you. You are the only person positively able to identify two men believed to have murdered a farmer and his wife and gone off in their car. I need you, and I’ll have you arrested if you try to leave town. When I see you tomorrow I’ll add to that reason.” Then his voice changed, it became humorous, less official-sounding. “Now, be a good girl and go up to bed. And stop tormenting yourself with thoughts of dignity lost in the back of a car.”

  Bronya said, “Oh!” quickly, as if indignant and shocked, and immediately rang off.

  Ben Arcota, he who was named Pavlova, said sourly, “What have you got that I haven’t?” Then saw his own remarkably plain face in a mirror and decided to evade the question.

  Sorensen good-humouredly said, “It’s Bronya. She’s feeling ashamed of herself for getting weak and sentimental in the back of the car.”

  Arcota said, “Sure, I know.” Mimicked, “‘Please be my daddy, Lief’.”

  His superior said, coldly, “You were listening?”

  “I never missed a thing!” Arcota said, toughly, “You’re doin’ fine with the girl, but watch or I’ll cut you out, buddy. She’s a heck of a nice piece of homework.”

  Sorensen said, “So she is, and I saw her first.”

  And then a man was shown in to see them. A big, red-faced man in a fury of temper. A man who swung his legs in a curious manner, as though they were unusually heavy.

  Frank Descoign.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  UNHOLY BARGAIN

  Arnold Whitwam saw a movement of the heavy curtain across the long, riverside windows, and abruptly ceased to drink. Panic thoughts chased each other through his mind the way they had been doing these last two or three days, and the whisky he drank didn’t seem to help dissipate them.

  He fought back against the swift-uprising fear that clamoured into a brain that was just a bit fuddled; he tried to tell himself that it was just wind.

  But he it wasn’t. And a moment later knew for certain.

  For a hand came into view, to grasp the curtain preparatory to parting it.

  It was a lean, blue-veined hand, that could have belonged to an old man. And sight of it brought Whitwam stiff in his easy chair, the hair on his scalp rising, icy spasms cascading down his spine. The clamorous fear was back and riding riot in his veins, and a dry mouth croaked an exclamation that sounded so like—“Konkonscwi!”

  It was the drink he’d had that made him startle like that and mouth such an illogical thought. Because Konkonscwi was dead, and Arnold Whitwam had been there to watch him burn.

  Many times since Arthur Whitwam had wished that he hadn’t gone with the boys that afternoon, It had sounded so good, teaching the blasted Commies an example—something to make them think before opening their yapping mouths.

  And the excitement of that ride out, the contagious hysteria that develops when a crowd collects—especially a crowd with drink inside them—had made it seem a savagely hilarious thing to do, to burn Old Mouthy, who had talked so long about distributing the wealth and inciting disaffection among their employees...a man dangerous to their private interests.

  But it had been a sobering ride home, and an uneasy time since. For a man cannot stay with a crowd all the time; there must be moments when he is alone, and then fear comes crowding in, and a small voice says, “God, why’n hades did you do it? It’s all right Frank and the others saying no one will ever know who did it; what if someone does get to know?”

  The curtain came back. The man wasn’t Konkonscwi. He was as tall, though, and pretty near as lean. He wore a smart hat that seemed too small for him, and a suit that looked expensive, but was short and baggy on him. He carried an automatic in his hand. Behind him was a younger, heavier, more brutish face....

  But for one second Arnold Whitwam knew only relief because the dead hadn’t risen.

  They came into the room. The first man’s face was more clearly revealed. Somehow it was the kind of face you couldn’t ever remember; it was like all other faces you had ever seen...vague, sallow, thin. Just a face. Only the eyes might have been green, and just now they looked evil.

  The eyes fixed on the bottle. A hand came out and lifted it from the table, tilted it to a thin mouth, and drank. The green eyes never left Whitwam, the gun pointed at his guts all the time.

  Whitwam wetted his lips and framed the inevitable question. But the lean man spoke first. He handed the bottle to his companion, who drank, and he said, gratingly, “We came from your brother.” At that Whitwam thought he knew them.

  He put his glass down heavily and exclaimed, “My God, you’re from Halifax. You busted outa jail. Guestler and—and—” He couldn’t think of the other name.

  Egghead said, “Sure, sure.” What did it matter what names Whitwam ascribed to them? He crossed over and pushed the watchful Whitwam back into his chair. “We wanna talk to you—siddown,” he said. Whitwam looked at the gun and sat.

  Egghead said, “We’re on the run an’ we want to hide up some place. I guess this place looks good to us—no one’ll think of looking for us here.”

  Whitwam got back some of his courage and exploded, “My God, you’re not staying here. What the hell do you think I am?”

  Johnny came forward then and told him. Johnny hadn’t paid much attention to his cellmate’s rambling, but in a matter of years you find you can pick up a lot of interesting information, all the same.

  He growled, “You’re a crook, like your brother, only he got caught and put in the can. They couldn’t nail you, so your brother kept his mouth shut. You were company promoters, but you did something with some old women who didn’t know what they were signing. The money went into building up the biggest canning factory in this district. Now you know what sort of a guy you are.”

  Whitwam blustered. A lot of people had said much the same about him before, and he had been quick to bring his lawyer in to help him. But now he didn’t have a lawyer handy, and that gun was disconcerting.

  Johnny cut through the bluster: “Your brother thinks you’re double-crossing him. You said for him to take his rap, and you would get lawyers to fight his case and try an’ spring him outa jail because he was an old man. Old Rocky—”

  “Rocky?”

  “Rockefeller Whitwam is how he’s known to us in Halifax jail. Old Rocky opines as how you don’t want him outa jail, ’cause while he’s there you handle the million yourself.”

  Whitwam snarled, “What million are you talking about?”

  Egghead came in at that. Egghead was morose, bad-tempered. He didn’t like a lot of talking. He snarled in turn: “The million old Rocky says you got stashed away from them old women.”

  Whitwam came to his feet, his face incredulous. “The hell, there never was no million! It’s the fool talk of a senile old man you’ve been listening to.”

  Egghead, watching him, said thinly, “Well, a part of a million could do for us now. We won’t argue about a coupla zeros.”

  Whitwam shouted, “You won’t argue about anything. I’m not gonna have a coupla convicts hidin’ up in my house. Get to hell outa here!”

  Egghead lost patience and hit him. It was a hard blow, delivered with a bony fist that split the cannery-owner’s lips wide open and sat him down on the thick pile carpet.

  Johnny shoved his gun out of sight and came across. He was snarling. Nothing had gone right since their breakout from jail. He felt like hitting somebody. Egghead picked Whitwam up. Johnny knocked him about the face. Then Egghead dropped him and started kicking into him. There was no purpose to it; they didn’t know what gain would come from it. But it felt good.

  Whitwam kept trying to shout, but the boys knew what they were doing. Every time he opened his mouth they hit him in the face or kicked him in the stoma
ch.

  They were just getting down to it when Egghead paused and lifted up his bald cranium to listen. Outside a car was drawing up...and another...and another. A lot of cars. Perhaps a dozen or so. Probably some had come seconds earlier without being heard, for even as Egghead turned to look at the curtained window, a man came striding through—a man with curiously heavy limbs, and a big, rough, red face.

  He was so excited that he didn’t seem to notice the curiousness of the situation—that the man he wanted should be bleeding about the face at the feet of two curiously dressed men.

  He was shouting, “For Pete’s sake, Arnold, you don’t know what’s happened! They’ve got my place watched, an’ Heppy’s, Gowiddis’, an’ nearly everybody’s. So we thought we’d all meet here—”

  Now he saw that something was wrong; perhaps for the first time saw a couple of guns levelled at him. He came back to earth abruptly, said, “What the hell! Who’re these guys, Arnold?”

  Whitwam climbed painfully to his feet and went across to a chair doubled up. He said, most curiously, “Just a coupla friends who called.” Perhaps the gun, pointing his way, brought out that inappropriate word.

  But things were happening. The room was getting crowded. Uneasy, nervous men were pouring in through that open window, not knowing what was going on inside that room. Frank Descoign leaned his weight against the press, but they just kept shoving him forward.

  Egghead shouted, “Stand back or you’ll get yours!” But it was useless against that uncomprehending tide. Ten seconds later everybody was standing close up against everybody else, and as a means of threat or of escape those guns were valueless. And the escaped prisoners knew it.

  Someone knocked the gun out of Egghead’s uncertain grasp; a hand quickly plucked the automatic from Johnny’s fingers. Then Frank Descoign lifted his bull voice to get everybody back against the walls. “Let’s see what’s going on,” he kept shouting.

  They pushed back, leaving a small, clear space in the centre of the room.

  Frank eyed the convict keenly and said, “We wanna talk, Arnold. Who’re these guys?”