F. B. I. Showdown Page 8

  For some reason known only to himself, Arnold Whitwam lifted a mouth that was bleeding on to a big white handkerchief and said yet again, “Oh, a coupla friends, I guess.”

  So Frank said, “Friends? Yeah, yeah, friends. Well maybe your friends wouldn’t mind steppin’ into another room while we talk over some important business, Arnold.”

  Someone opened a door and Egghead and Johnny went across to it. Arnold Whitwam spoke from his chair “Maybe someone oughta keep a gun pointin’ at ’em while they’re in there.”

  Big Frank Descoign said again, vaguely, “A gun? Sure, some of the boys’ll oblige.” And half a dozen went out to mount guard, and no one thought it a curious way to treat friends.

  Johnny Delcros glowered and then exploded, “For Pete’s sake, this is one heck of a town!”

  First that cop car. It had shoved them into the side of the street, then a cop had come across and looked in on them. They’d had their guns ready, but out of sight. But all the cop had said was, “It’s against local ordinance to use headlights within the city limits. If this weren’t a courtesy week you’d get a ticket. As it is—keep those goddam lights off, can’t you?” and with that the courtesy cop had stamped away.

  And now a whole bunch of screwballs had risen up out of the ground and made them prisoner, and yet again nobody seemed to want to identify them as convicts on the run

  Egghead mused “Those guys sure got somep’n on their minds,” and watched for a momentary distraction that would enable him to spring across and grab his gun back.

  In the next room a lot of men with a whole lot on their minds were bringing Arnold Whitwam up to date with things. And as he listened a pallor came to his face and the ache of his bruises was forgotten.

  Big Frank Descoign threw another rage and shouted an explanation, “Some nosey guy went up with a camera an’ took a movie of Old Mouthy goin’ out. It got us all in the film. You too, Arnold. Then tonight a bunch callin’ themselves the Conscience of America went and screened that film publicly in the Southern Star—my movie house! Mine!” That thought made him blasphemous.

  It took minutes for the significance of all this to sink into Arnold Whitwam’s mind, and it wasn’t helped by the way the other men got to shouting at him to try to explain things quickly. Everybody was jumpy, nervy, with a feeling of urgency, yet not knowing what to do about it.

  So Stef Gowiddis, who cleaned most things for Warren Bridge citizens, shouted for some order. For a gathering of leading citizens, this meeting was a most disorderly affair. He was an incisive man, Gowiddis, able to see a point and explain it clearly. They gave him a hearing.

  “You won’t get anywhere, behaving like this.” He was bitingly sarcastic, and all at once the excitement drained from them and left them quiet and ashamed and ready to listen. “Don’t you realize, we’re in a hell of a mess, and it’s times like these that we should keep our heads?”

  He shoved his glasses up against his eyes in a characteristic gesture, and surveyed his audience before continuing. “Don’t you see what’s got to be done—quickly? There’s that body—it’s got to be taken and hidden away, that is, if the police haven’t already found it. And then there’s that film. That’s evidence sufficient to give some of us the gas chamber and others life.” He saw faces go suddenly pinched about the nostrils as fear gripped them.

  Frank Descoign butted in then. He had a habit of butting in when other people seemed to be taking the lead; for Frank Descoign couldn’t stand being second to anyone, couldn’t stand being ordered around at all.

  Descoign shouted, because that was his natural way of speaking: “Doggone it, Stef’s right on the nail. Without that corpse and film there’s not a thing can be done to us. We gotta go collect that body right now.”

  It had been a contemptuous gesture to leave Old Mouthy’s body up there in the lonely glade. They had felt arrogantly safe; for without witnesses how could the killing be pinned to them, even if the body were ever identified? And they had felt particularly safe, because of the numbers who had been complicit in the crime.

  But now, because someone had filmed the burning of Konkonscwi, that corpse if found by the police could be the most damning evidence against them.

  Everyone started saying, “Sure, we gotta get that corpse hid away, an’ we gotta find the buzzards with that film,” and then everyone went silent and didn’t look at each other.

  Frank Descoign said, “What the hell?” then understood, and suddenly, for all his guts, he shared their feelings.

  Gowiddis came in with a sneer. “It’s your stomach’s keepin’ you quiet, huh? There’s none of you want to go and handle that corpse, huh?”

  Someone from the back of that crowded, smoke-filled lounge said, uncertainly, “It kinda sticks to your hands, burnt flesh. And it don’t smell nice. Me, I couldn’t do it, I know I couldn’t.”

  There was a general growl from everyone present. Gowiddis said, “Well, someone’s got to do it.” And then someone else raised a good point.

  Old Hepburn said, “I guess by now the police know most of us who were on that film. Looks like it because they’re out waiting for us when we go home, we’ve been told. Okay, how’re we gonna play detectives an’ get aholt o’ that film? I wouldn’t know where to begin, and besides we got so much work to do I don’t see how I could give it the time.”

  Five minutes later Arnold Whitwam began to see a way of ridding himself of a lot of embarrassments and he spoke up.

  “Them two guys next door,” he began, when they’d hushed to listen to him. “Look, maybe they could do all this work for us.”

  Descoign’s eyes were big and round and hard as he said, “You say they’re friends of yours?”

  Whitwam came out with the truth now. It didn’t seem to matter at all compared with the major threat that had developed.

  “They’re from Halifax jail. They got away today—didn’t you see it in the papers? That fool brother of mine told them to come to me, and now they’re looking to me to hide them, God knows why.”

  Descoign said, “Why did you say they were friends?” because he trusted nobody.

  “I didn’t like to have ’em talking about my brother in front of you.” Whitwam had found some bottles, and now he started to pour himself a drink with a hand that shook a little. “I mean, would you want to start talking about a brother doing time in jail if you could help it? I know you all know he’s there, but it’s so long since it happened nobody ever speaks of it now.”

  Descoign said, “What’s your idea?”

  Whitwam pullcd out a cheque book. “I’ll pay a thousand dollars into a pool. If you all do that—even the comparative few here—it adds up to a fortune. It totals so big, those boys next door would do anything to get their hands around it—even handling burnt corpses, I reckon. Maybe even bumping off a few guys to get hold of that film for us!”

  Someone said, “Just you hold on about this bumpin’ off talk. We got ourselves in deep enough already.”

  Descoign snapped, “Whitty didn’t say there would be bumping off. But, hell if it came to the point, wouldn’t we all bump someone off if it saved our skins? For crissake, face up to it—we’re in a jake so much we might have to do a whole lot more to get ourselves in the clear.”

  There was an uneasy silence after that. Then someone else said, wearily, “Looks like we got ourselves on to a wheel an’ we can’t get off the blamed thing. Whether we want to or not, I guess we just gotta go round where it takes us.”

  They fetched Egghead Schiller and Johnny Delcros into the room. Big Frank Descoign took it upon himself to make the proposition. He was to the point about it.

  He said, “It was a long shot, thinking you’d be safe here with Arnold Whitwam. Only it didn’t come off, did it?” Neither Johnny nor his hairless companion spoke; both stood hunched, waiting suspiciously for what was to come. Descoign continued: “If we like, we can get the police in at you.”

  Johnny Delcros snarled, “The hell, Whitwam woul
dn’t dare. We know too much about him from his brother. He told us a lot, Whitwam.”

  Arnold Whitwam let a sigh trickle through his cracked lips. “Sure, I can guess what my brother had to say. He started sayin’ things at the trial, but nothing could be pinned to me because I hadn’t done anythin’ wrong.” The way he said it, nobody was quite convinced, but politely everyone let it by without comment.

  So Whitwam said, dispassionately, “You were too ready to believe. But I’ve got nothing to fear, and it wouldn’t worry me none to have to hand you over to the police. Guess I could live down the talk it’d start again about my erring brother.”

  So Egghead snarled, “Then give us this proposition you’re gonna cook up.” He wasn’t so dumb at times, and it was obvious that something was cooking up.

  Descoign said, “We’ll help you escape and we’ll set you up for life, if you’ll do a few things for us.”

  “Such as?”

  “Remove a burnt corpse and find some guys and part them from a can of film we don’t want them to have.”

  Egghead was suddenly at ease. It was a proposition both he and Johnny could appreciate. Johnny went across and helped himself to a drink, and then came in to do some bargaining.

  “And what do we get out of it?”

  “I’m not sure, but it should be well over thirty thousand dollars. Depends how many can afford the stake.” Johnny didn’t fully understand, but his eyes, narrowed by early years of slugging around the fight ring, took on a cunning look. He said, “Okay, give us the money and tell us where to find the stiff—”

  “Hold on,” said Descoign. When it came to bargaining, these convicts were up against experts. “You won’t get a cent until you come to us with that can of film.”

  Egghead started snarling bad-temperedly. Frank Descoign told him brutally, “The hell, d’you think we’re mugs to trust you? Look, we’ll provide you with a safe place to hide for as long as this job lasts, we’ll fix you with disguises so that you can travel anywhere without trouble, and when you’ve got that stiff outa the way and you’ve brought the film to us, we’ll give you thirty grand plus.”

  Egghead said, suspiciously, “How do we know you’ll keep your side of the bargain?”

  Big Frank Descoign told him the truth. “We’ve just got to do. It won’t be in our interests to let the police capture you in case you open your mouths and talk. We’ll complete our side of the contract, don’t you worry.”

  Egghead let his green eyes trail across to meet Johnny’s. There was satisfaction in them. Johnny nodded. Egghead said, “Okay, we’re on. What do we do first?”

  Descoign looked them over critically. “We’ll fix you with a wig, brother, and you’ll both need to grow moustaches. And then we’ll go out and get clothes for you that won’t attract attention like these do. And shoes to match.”

  * * * *

  Three minutes earlier Joe Guestler had suddenly abandoned all the flimsy plans he had previously made. He was on to something much better now—so much better he was willing to overlook such a little thing as a double-cross.

  CHAPTER NINE

  THE CONSCIENCE OF AMERICA

  It was in every paper in America next day. At first abbreviated accounts of the Warren Bridge tragedy only appeared, but later editions carried fuller stories, and then the Press began to divide in its views on the situation, as the press always does.

  Curiously, the fate of the victims in the Southern Cross didn’t seem to rank high in the editorial opinions. The glamour, if the word can be used, was all centred around the burning of the old ex-teacher in that glade among the oaks.

  The liberal and moderate Press deplored that in a land of justice men should take it unto themselves to behave so barbarously, as well as illegally. And they cried out that the lynch mob should be brought to trial and made to atone for their brutality.

  But there was another, probably even stronger section of the Press, that shouted a different opinion.

  This was America, the land of free men. Frank Descoign and the citizens who had lynched the preacher of a totalitarian and alien philosophy were patriots. There were decent people who would no longer tolerate subversive activity in their midst, permitted by a lax and too-liberal constitution.

  In a matter of hours the Warren Bridge lynching had become a major issue throughout the States, and occupied the premier position in any paper in the land.

  Warren Bridge was on the map. By midday the place was crowded with reporters and photographers, and then came representatives of various societies and organisations, some to do what they could to secure indictment of the lynchers, others to assure the Descoign party that they had strong support for their actions. A deputation even visited the movie-proprietor in an effort to get him to say something that would precipitate a trial even without that film or before the corpse had been found.

  But when they had gone, big, heavy Frank Descoign just looked at some of his friends who had dropped in and said, grimly: “It’s my neck they’re talkin’ about. The hell, I’m sayin’ nothin’. And I only hope that they find that Konkonscwi carcass an’ bury it away so’s no one’ll ever find it. Then I’ll sleep easier.”

  Geordie Humble said the convicts had gone oft at dawn—they’d gone out in a truck driven by Tom Dryway. The police weren’t likely to stop him and search his truck: so that should be safe enough.

  Descoign growled, “There ain’t nobody safe, not until we get rid of the blamed corpse an’ destroy that film. That’s why I risked things last night and went to see the police chief. Don’t think I wanted to go!”

  “But it turned out safe enough?”

  “Sure, sure.” Descoign nodded viciously. “I went as a man full of indignation because of what had been done in a movie-theatre owned by my company, and because of what was being said about me. They grilled me, but I denied everything and kept shouting I’d get a lawyer. When they let me go I knew what I’d gone there to find out—they hadn’t come across Konkonscwi, neither had they the film. So that gives me time in which to work, fellars, but—we gotta move fast. The Feds were already there when I reached the chief’s office.”

  Humble said, uneasily, “It’s uncanny, the way they pop up. They seem to smell things out....”

  * * * *

  Up in Washington a man opened a newspaper and at once ceased to pulp the end of a cigar with fat wet lips And when he had finished he said, “The double-crossin’, two-timin’ so and so, I hope his guts drop out!”

  Then he got through to Hymie Kolfinkle and asked a question. Hymie lied the first three times, then came up with the truth when his boss’s disbelief became too brutally expressed. He said, weakly, “Yeah, Reimer asked me, so I told him. I should have known, he asked me so nicely, not like his usual way of talkin’. He said, ‘Hymie, where from did you get them pictures?’ So I told him. But what does that matter? Or does it?”

  The boss said, “Maybe it does. The papers say the cops are tryin’ to locate the corpse. Only you knew where it was, Kolfinkle. Now that buzzard Reimer knows, and maybe by now a whole lot more people also know. You don’t know Reimer?”

  Kolfinkle said, “No.”

  The boss spoke viciously, bitterly. “He’s a born troublemaker, that guy. Whatever it is, he’s agen it. He was agen the war with Japan an’ Germany, him an’ a lotta friends, an’ he got a jail sentence which didn’t turn him any friendlier. He knows the Conscience of America.”

  He was about to switch off when he remembered something

  “About that raise, Kolfinkle.”

  Hymie said, “Yes?” quickly.

  The boss said, “You can forget it.”

  Hymie put down the phone feeling more than usually depressed, for last night, to get some relief from his wife, he had told her of the bigger pay cheques to come.

  But if he was depressed, his boss was much more so. Because it now seemed imperative that he go to the police and tell them what he knew.

  Well, he would tell them something, anyway
.

  * * * *

  Next morning, even before Warren Bridge was astir, information started coming in about the Southern Star episode. The first published reports about the Conscience of America produced results.

  Lief Sorensen, tired but not showing it, was there to collate the information. Washington F.B.I. came through. He heard a Records man ask, “You were wanting information about an organisation called ‘The Conscience of America’?”

  Sorensen said. “Yes,” so quickly, so eagerly, that the straw thatch of his assistant jerked up from out of a doze at the sound of it.

  ”It’s a crackpot affair with members living mostly in Virginia, the Carolinas, and Georgia,” Records said. “They’re an anti-lynching outfit. Whenever there’s a lynching, they go and raise hell here in Washington. They have always been law-abiding, and for that reason we have no record of them.”

  Sorensen said, “Who’s at the head? We want the bird, because he holds vital evidence in this Southern Cross tragedy.”

  Records came up pat with all the information. “Alabaster Morgan is head of the show; lives in New Bern, N.C.”

  Sorensen said, “Is that his real name?” Record confirmed it was. Sorensen said, “With a name like that you can’t blame the guy for going around digging up trouble.... Put a call through to the New Bern field office for them to pick up Alabaster Morgan and his associates.”

  Half an hour later, with the warm sun just rising, Records came through with an amendment.

  “We’ve just discovered that Alabaster Morgan isn’t the big white chief any more. Seems he got deposed recently for not pursuing a more aggressive policy. A new bunch have taken over, and they don’t seem as nice as Morgan. The new chief is a crackpot with a police record for violence. He’s called Calvin Brodhunk, and he gets mixed up with all sorts of extremist movements, only he’s the guy that makes ’em extreme.”

  Sorensen said, “Put out a general call for Calvin Brodhunk. I’ve an idea he might be getting into more mischief.”