F. B. I. Showdown Page 9

  He was. The chief came in after a few hours’ sleep just as a call came through from Signals Branch. Sorensen took the message.

  “A call just came in from Patrol Car V5. They report they can see a column of fire like from gasoline in the Crombie foothills. The patrol car’s heading up there right away. They say they looked through glasses and it seemed like a fellar was burning in the middle of that fire.”

  Sorensen rapped, “Tell that car to keep in close touch with H.Q. and to report all their findings to me immediately.”

  He turned and told the chief what had been seen. The chief said, “For a small town we sure do see life, don’t we?” Then the bell was ringing, and again it was Washington on the line for Sorensen.

  “A fellar’s just been in. He’s boss of a corporation that takes news-films. He says he knows all about that film that caused the bother; says he saw it a few days ago, but thought there was some hocus about it so he just left it lyin’ around and someone must have walked off with it. That’s his story, anyway He says his film editor, a mischief-maker with a record called G. Rudolf Reimer, hasn’t shown up today, so he reckons he’s the fellar that walked off with the film.”

  Sorensen said, “Who took the film, and where was it shot?” Because they had to get hold of that body before anyone else got around to it.

  Washington said, “An operator named Hyman Kolfinkle took the film. He’s been interviewed and says it was some place off the road that leads from Warren Bridge out to the Crombie Range.”

  Sorensen nodded with sudden satisfaction. “I guess we’re on to the place right now.”

  Then Washington F.B.I. asked a question.

  “How’s the search for your convicts going, and for the killers of that farmer and his wife?”

  “Could be they’re all the same,” returned Sorensen. “We think they’re hiding out here in Warren Bridge. We’re following an idea that might lead us to them in the next few hours.”

  Washington was affable. “They’ve got nothing to do with the Southern Star business, I suppose?”

  Sorensen was surprised. “I wouldn’t think so. It’s just coincidence that a lot of things have happened around this town all at once. No, I guess they’re not linked in any way.”

  Which proves even the F.B.I. cannot know everything.

  Things continued to happen within the next hour. The radio car came through with a description of the scene within a glade of oaks. The place had taken a bit of finding.

  They’d found the charred corpse of a man lying across a burnt gasoline can. All around was a blackened patch, as though gasoline had burned in a flaming pool, and the man had died within it. No, there was nothing they could see to identify the corpse.

  Sorensen said, “But do they think that this corpse has been burnt in the last hour or so, or could it be the corpse of the man burnt when the Southern Star film was taken, some time ago?”

  The radio car came back to say. “We couldn’t tell. It’ll need a doctor.”

  Sorensen said, “He’s on his way. He was sent twenty minutes ago.” And then he sat back to await the next development.

  It came just about the time that plain-clothes men were reporting to various shoe shops around the town. The chief was in with Sorensen again when it happened—Sorensen was directing the search, but the chief couldn’t keep out of it. Sorensen liked the old boy and didn’t mind his frequent bobbing-in for information,

  Sorensen was pinpointing a position on a wall map when the next remarkable event occurred. The chief saw that it was in the foothills of the Crombie Range, where the burnt body had been found.

  The door was opened by an incredulous cop, and six elderly men walked in. They were all thin men, stringy, with corded old neck and bleak white faces. They were pretty well-dressed, and most wore glasses. Just a bunch of guys, Sorensen was thinking, when one of the men cleared his throat and said, raspingly, “We are the Conscience of America.”

  Sorensen didn’t show the shock he felt at the announcement. He crossed to his chair and sat down. The chief wheeled away from the wall map and stood, legs astraddle, with the morning sun warm as it came through the window at his back. He spoke first. He said, “Maybe after last night you’ve got something on your conscience, too.”

  The spokesman just ignored that remark. Watching him, Sorensen thought: The foxy old devil, he’s thinking of ways out for himself!

  The foxy old devil said, “I’m Alabaster Morgan. I am a man of high conscience. For years I have declaimed against the devil in men’s hearts, especially in the matter of lynching. To help me, I recruited men of like mind—” His hand jerked in an embracement of the old men with him. “But some of my followers were not without evil themselves, it seems, and in the last days I was deposed from leadership and became just a follower without influence to the movement.”

  Sorensen thought: brother, you’re trying to evade responsibility for what happened last night. But people died in that stampede.... He heard the chief sniff contemptuously.

  Alabaster Morgan moaned piously, “There was a man named Calvin Brodhunk, who claims descent from Lynch, the North Carolina farmer who long ago gave his name to punishment without trial by law. He believed in the Mosaic law—an eye for an eye. He said the way to stop lynching was to lynch the miscreants. I opposed the theory as long as I could.” He kept getting in phrases like that, over-emphasising them.

  “But Brodhunk secured the support of some of our brethren. He it was who spoke at the Southern Cross last night—”

  “But you were in approval of the showing of the film?” That was the chief, blunt and to the point.

  Alabaster looked bleak, then had the bright idea of ignoring the interruption. He went on, while the thin old men drooped dejectedly about him, “And it was Brodhunk’s idea, what happened this morning.”

  Sorensen said, “Tell us what happened this morning.”

  So Alabaster told them everything. Reimer had told Brodhunk where the film had been taken, how the body had been left in that lonely glade. Brodhunk was shrewd and had made a guess that after the showing of that sensational film the lynchers would at once go and dispose of the body—suddenly it would be too dangerous to be left for the police to find,

  “We went to lie in wait for whoever came along. Oh, yes, we found the body there, lying where it had fallen beneath the scorched branches of a solitary oak tree. We hid, and then a truck drove up at dawn. There were three men in it; one sat behind the wheel while the other two came up with a sack in their hands.”

  The Conscience of America had jumped out upon the men as they approached the corpse. Whereat the two men unexpectedly drew revolvers and told them to stand still if they wanted to go on living.

  Alabaster Morgan licked his lips painfully. That, curiously, was something they hadn’t expected—that two or three men should turn the tables on them so easily. They didn’t carry firearms themselves. “Until the last few days we were pledged to a policy of reform without violence,” Alabaster explained. And for some reason they hadn’t thought that their quarry might carry weapons.

  Sorensen asked, “What did you intend to do with the men who came to collect that corpse?”

  Alabaster said, “They were to have trial, and then sentence.”

  “And then you were going to burn them alive, just as they had burnt Konkonscwi, the agitator?”

  Alabaster threw up his skinny hands in horror. Oh, no, that wasn’t the idea. They were going to frighten the men, then leave them tied up against a tree until they were discovered by the police with that corpse right before them.

  And then he admitted that there had been talk of effecting retribution in that manner. Brodhunk, the descendant of the first lyncher, had wanted to burn the men when they came, and he had talked wildly and with great passion and had secured some support for his idea. The way some of the old men looked uneasy made Sorensen think that they had been among Brodhunk’s supporters.

  But the old men’s plans had gone all awry.
Those guns were an unexpected factor in the situation.

  One man covered the Conscience of America with a gun, while the other kicked the charred corpse into a sack and then carried it back to the truck. Alabaster Morgan said that there was so little corpse that the man carried it lightly in one hand.

  Alabaster had to think what happened next; everything had happened so quickly.

  He said that suddenly Brodhunk came charging round a car with a gasoline can in his hand. He was shouting wild things, and the gasoline was splashing out of the open neck. Alabaster said that one of the men let fly with a stream of shots, and old Brodhunk went staggering down on to his knees and then fell on to the spilling can. The next minute there was an explosion and the gasoline roared up into a pillar of fire, with Brodhunk dead and burning in the middle of it.

  They didn’t know what had caused the gasoline to fire, but Alabaster thought it might have been a shot that did it, or a spark as the can hit a stone.

  “But what did you do then?”

  Apparently everybody just went into a flat spin and ran for their cars, including the gunmen. The Conscience of America fled, then later got together to discuss the situation.

  “And then you gave yourselves up.” That was the chief, and he was rough with his tongue. In a gentle roar he said, “You’re a lot of dozy old crackpots. You’ve been the means of killing several nice people and hurting a lot more in that stampede last night. Now you think that by putting all the blame on to the dead Brodhunk you will be allowed to get away with your stupidity.” He breathed heavily, then turned to Sorensen. “But they’re your men, Sorensen. What do you want with them?”

  Lief said, “A description of the corpse-gatherers; after that they’re yours.”

  The chief said, “Then the silly old donkeys’ll sit in the cooler for a week or two, and that’ll give ’em time to think on what they have done.”

  Sorensen got the descriptions. They could have been anybody; the old boys were so inexact and contradictory. The men were being led away when old Alabaster Morgan turned and said, uneasily, “There’s something else. That film was in my car. I forgot to tell you that one of the men crossed over and got it before Brodhunk got around with his gasoline can.”

  The Conscience of America could hear the chief’s voice roaring after them when they were yards on their way down to the cells. In time he quieted, and then he said. “What do we do now? No corpse, no film. That means no proof that there ever was a crime committed!”

  Sorensen said, slowly. “Get out and arrest Frank Descoign and other people named. We don’t have the film, hut we have the evidence of a lot of Southern Star patrons who saw it. And we also have a corpse—Brodhunk’s, according to the Conscience of America. But why should we believe them? Why shouldn’t it be Konkonscwi the Red?”

  The chief stared, and then he started chuckling. And then he said, “By God, that’s good. The patrol car said there was nothing left to identify.” He slapped his thigh in sudden good humour. “We got a corpse, right in the place where we were told to find it. That’s good enough for me just now.”

  And then that overworked telephone rang again.

  Someone had bought two pairs of footwear for men bigger than himself.

  CHAPTER TEN

  SOME MEN, ONE GIRL, A CAN OF FILM...AND A CORPSE

  The room was filling with big, intelligent-looking huskies, and the excitement seemed to mount so that the very air was alive with tension.

  For Sorensen had grabbed the police chief and was trying to make him understand. Trying, though he was still working out the idea himself.

  He said, “Don’t you see, it’s not just a smart trick. The corpse of Konkonscwi and the film are vital evidence. Especially that film. If it is destroyed, the lynch mob can sit back and laugh at any witnesses we might produce. Well, it looks like some members of the lynch mob have got hold of the film—and the body—and you can bet they’ll destroy both just as soon as they can. All right, ask yourself: how soon can that be?”

  The chief stared. The athletic young men stood around and waited. Even Sorensen was trying to work that one out for himself. “Those men got the film less than an hour ago, according to those old crackpots cooling in the cells. Maybe they’ll just go a mile or so, then hide both by burying them some place. But my guess is they won’t.”

  The chief asked a flat, “Why?”

  “Look,” said Sorensen. He’d got things taped now. “They won’t try to bury the charred corpse or that film, not within a hundred miles of the Crombie Range highway. Because they know that if need be we’ll dig up every square yard of earth to find them. They know that. Okay. They’ll try to perform a more thorough act of destruction on both, and that means taking them somewhere where it is safe to work on them.

  “That’s why I want every known member of that lynch mob to be brought in and jailed—because if we hold them in jail they can’t be destroying things. And that’s what I want you for.” Sorensen wheeled on the newly arrived bunch from the nearest F.B.I. field office. He rapped, “The chief will make out the warrants; I want you to pick up all suspects of that lynch mob and clap ’em behind bars. You, chief, must resist all attempts to bail ’em out until we know how we stand in regard to that corpse and film.”

  The chief said, “It’s a good plan, though it’s full of holes. We don’t know everyone connected with that lynching affair.”

  But Ben Arcota came in to argue for Sorensen. He said, “We know the ringleaders, the fellars whose skin is in danger. They’re the people who did the actual burning. My guess is it’s within that group we’ll find the men responsible for routing the Conscience of America this morning.”

  The chief said, “I’m with you.” He went out of that office as though suddenly charged with atomic energy, and the G-men who were to run in the lynch mob streamed after him.

  Ben Arcota said, “That call that came in about someone buying shoes?”

  Sorensen told him, “The customer is being trailed. The detective shadowing him phoned back to say that he was also buying clothes for two men. He also told me his name.”

  The way he paused, Ben Arcota knew there was something puzzling him. He said, “Finish it. Something’s biting you raw.”

  So Sorensen said, “The fellow’s a well-known industrialist. His name’s George Humble. He’s a director of Humble & Dryway, Inc., chemical manufacturers.” Then he leaned forward helplessly. “What I can’t get over is that we have his name down as a ringleader of this lynch mob.”

  Ben Arcota’s colourless features jerked up. “You’re not thinking that our convict friends might be mixed up in this lynching business?”

  Sorensen walked away from the desk and brooded out of the window. Then he said, “I don’t see how it can be. Just a coincidence, I suppose, But remember what the Conscience of America said—those dozy old donkeys. They said that two gunmen with automatics held them up when they interfered over that corpse. I’m thinking that lynch mobs generally consist of fairly ordinary citizens, and ordinary citizens don’t tote guns around like professional gunmen. And Alabaster Morgan gave the impression that they were professionals in the use of automatics.”

  Ben Arcota kept looking at him, trying to absorb all the implications that his chief put over. “My God,” he said, “you’re thinking that some of those escaped convicts, all of whom are professional gunmen, might be in on this lynching affair!”

  Sorensen said, firmly, “I’m thinking nothing of the sort. I’m just considering all the facts, and seeing where they lead. But I’m not going beyond them. We’ve two cases to crack while we’re down here, and we seem to be doing the only thing possible to solve them.”

  Then he told Ben to go fetch Bronya Karkoff. “I think the time’s come when we need her. I’m expecting a call through from the man who’s tailing Humble, the chemical manufacturer. When Humble ends this shopping expedition, we might know where the murderers of that farmer and his wife are hiding. Okay, Bronya’s needed in case we
have to identify the men. First charge will probably have to be one for robbing the filling station and assaulting Bronya.”

  Ben Arcota went out saying. “It’s Bronya now, huh?” but Sorensen was unperturbed. He knew that Pavlova was only kidding in pretending to be jealous.

  Ten minutes later came a call from the detective who’d been on Humble’s trail. His voice was a wail of mortification. “I got snagged up in some traffic down Bridgewater Street and I lost him. He went heading west, that’s all I know.”

  Sorensen put the receiver down with a crash. It had been a slender thread they had been following, but their only one. And now it had snapped.

  And in this race against time they couldn’t afford to waste minutes picking up a new trail.

  Suddenly he went racing down towards the chief’s room. He was crossing the head of the main stairway when he saw Bronya and Ben Arcota coming up. He paused, grabbed Bronya’s hand long enough to pat it, and say. “Good girl for coming,” then dived into the chief’s room.

  Ben said, gloomily, “That’s the sort of guy he is,” because she was looking bright-eyed at the sight of big Lief Sorensen.

  Bronya said, “I think he’s nice.” And when Ben started to argue, she shut him up by saying, innocently, “You still haven’t told me why they call you Pavlova.”

  The chief looked up when Sorensen came banging in. He said, nodding sagely, “Don’t tell me, something’s gone wrong!” and Lief nodded.

  “We’ve lost the trail. Your man got held up and George Humble went west. We’ve no time to lose. I want to know all about Humble, anything that might tell us where he might be going out of town.”

  A police captain swung round from a desk behind the chief’s. The chief nodded. “Go ahead, captain. You know George Humble better than I do. You tell him—quick.”

  “Humble’s a bad name for him,” said the captain. “He’s a belly-aching so-and-so. The fights we’ve had over one damn’ thing and another.... Anyway, he’s in business with Tom Dryway. They make soap, dyes, tanners’ solutions, and other chemical products. They’ve got houses in the swank riverside area—”