Stop This Man! (6 page)

“Why’d you let ‘em go?” The detective was still picking his teeth.

“I got all the information I need at the moment,” Herron said. He was shuffling through the stenographer’s notes,

“Coffee, anyone?” The fourth man stuck his head in the door.

“Not for me.” Herron lit himself a cigarette and shuffled through the notes again.

“Bring me one, Charlie, black,” the detective said.

The detective walked from the door to the window, looked down into the dark street, and walked back again. “I got all night yet,” he said.

“Yeah?”

He walked again. The stenographer had put his overcoat on and gone out.

“What you learn, Jack?” the detective asked. He spat out a little piece of toothpick and sat down opposite Herron.

“Well, for one thing, that Catell didn’t go to New York.”

“Yeah, that Paar sure was anxious for you to think so.”

“Where’s the phone?”

“Next room. Wish Charlie’d hurry up with that coffee.”

Herron went next door and dialed a number. “Hello? Herron here. Who’s on duty?…O.K., give me Agent Polnik.” Herron waited, scribbling in his notebook. “Polnik? Listen. Have somebody check if there was a train for
New York at one
A.M.
Get the New York office to have a man wait for the train, if there was one…What? Not till five
A.M.
? O.K., then skip that angle. Now, listen. We’re looking for Anthony Catell. Look him up in the file I left in the office…Yes, one of the files I got there. Next, cover the station, airport, bus terminals for the next twenty-four hours…Yes, same man. Pay special attention to anything leaving for Los Angeles…No, I’m not sure. We have one informant to go by, but she was drunk. But Catell might fit into the picture because of other information…Uh-huh, he knew Schumacher. One more thing, and this is important. Have the men carry Geiger counters. And check baggage rooms…Yeah. O.K., ‘bye.”

Herron hung up and went back to the other room. The detective was drinking black coffee and chewing a fresh toothpick. Charlie was spooning a milk shake out of a paper carton.

“How you can eat that stuff is beyond me,” the detective was saying.

“Makes more sense than eating toothpicks.”

“Well, Jack, what next?” The detective looked up when Herron came in.

“We’re covering the usual. Probably useless. Catell is no greenhorn. Lemme have a sip.” Herron took the coffee cup and drank.

“Whyn’t you buy one? Charlie asked you if you wanted one.”

“I don’t want a whole cup, just a sip. Coffee keeps me awake.”

“So let’s have my cup back.”

Herron stacked his notes together and got up to leave. “Does Paar have any connections in L.A.?”

“Yeah,” Charlie said. “Some syndicate tie-up. You can find out downstairs.”

“O.K., I will. Anybody here to take the teletype?”

“Try three doors down the hall, you can’t miss the racket.”

“Thanks. Night, all.”

“Night.”

“Lucky bastard.”

Three doors down Herron dictated his message. In St. Louis, Chief Jones watched the teletype as it hammered out: “Herron to Jones. Circumstantial evidence of association with deceased O. Schumacher and former girlfriend of same make T. Catell definite suspect. Screening of Detroit exits ordered. No present trace of stolen object. Presumably in suspect’s possession. Am proceeding Los Angeles via plane to cover suspect’s connections and possible arrival there. Details follow. Communicate L.A. district office.”

At ten-thirty-five
A.M.
the next day, Herron boarded a through plane to Los Angeles. He arrived late that evening, checked into the district office, then got himself a hotel room. He slept for nine hours and then went back to work. He checked leads, covered angles, made reports, waited. He did this for days without finding a trace of Tony Catell.

On a hot stretch of road in Arizona, Catell stopped the car and wiped the sweat off his neck. He listened to the gurgling of the radiator, watching the steam hiss out from under the hood. He pulled out a cigarette. Before he got it lit the thought of the smoke made him feel sick and he threw the thing away. He got out of the car. For a moment he fought nausea that rose in his throat like wet cotton. The feeling passed.

It had started a few days after he’d left Detroit, and now it came every day, at odd times, first a vague dizziness,
later sick waves of nausea and knots of pain, till the car would swerve and he’d pull himself together again. Then it would pass away. Sometimes he wondered whether Schumacher had been right about the gold. He’d called it rotten. But there was a better reason. Catell looked at his watch and pulled a sticky candy bar out of his pocket. Two o’clock. Time.

Every two hours Catell ate a candy bar, whether he was hungry or not. By the time he reached Los Angeles he would have gained ten, fifteen pounds, maybe. Already he looked like a different man, with more bulk, the lines of his face less deep. He had a tan, and his hair, black and straight, was getting longer.

When the car had stopped sizzling, Catell walked around to the front and lifted the hood.

“Troubles, Buddy?”

Catell jumped around and saw the police car. A lean man in uniform and cowboy hat looked at him.

“Jumpy, ain’t ya?”

“I didn’t hear you come up.”

“Stranger here, ain’t ya?” The man climbed out of his car and stretched his long legs. There was a sheriff’s badge on his blue shirt. “I said, you must be a stranger here, huh?”

Catell didn’t like the man. Not just because he was a cop, but because there was that grinning curiosity on his face, that eager prying of a lean dog scurrying around to find something, anything. The man stuck his neck out, red and wrinkled like a turkey’s, and spat.

“Speak up, stranger.”

“Yeah. I’m a stranger here.”

“Where from?”

“Look at the license.”

The sheriff looked without wanting to. It said Louisiana.

“I’m asking you.”

“New Orleans.”

“City fella, huh?” He stalked around the car and kicked at the loose fender in the rear. “You drive this junker all the way up from the Gulf?”

“Sure. And don’t kick it again.”

The man just laughed. “You know, city feller, we got an ordinance about junkers. We like people comin’ through here to drive a safe car. Don’t want folks around here to get endangered.”

“So stop kicking at it, hear?” Catell’s voice shook with rage and he suddenly felt cold under his wet shirt. That bastard was getting to him.

“How about pullin’ that heap off the pavement some more, city feller? We got an ordinance about highway parking.”

Catell got behind the wheel and kicked at the starter. The gears crashed and the car jumped ahead a few feet, off the paved strip of highway. That bastard, that lousy hick bastard. Catell took a deep breath. What he could do to that raw-necked, rat-faced—Better not think like this. Better think of the big things at stake here, better look like you’re taking it. Got to take it.

“One more thing, city feller. Don’t park where you’re parkin’ there. We got an ordinance.” He laughed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He jumped back in his car and pulled it up even with Catell’s.

“I’ll be by after a spell. Better not be here no more.” He shot away, the wheels spitting gravel at Catell’s windshield.

After a few minutes Catell got out of the car again and slammed the hood shut. It made a nasty sound and something
came loose, leaving the hood jammed at an angle. The damn car was corning apart at the seams. First he’d had a pretty good one, but it had Michigan license plates and the car had to be ditched. He hid it in a ravine somewhere in Indiana and buried the license plates. Then he hitchhiked for a hundred miles. Next he bought a prewar job in southern Indiana and drove it as far as Kentucky. That’s where he drove it into an abandoned mine after throwing away the plates. At night he walked to the nearest town, took a train for two hundred miles, and then bought the third car. He drove it to Terryville, Louisiana, left it in a vacant lot, and bought his last car. This was a real junker, but there wasn’t much choice. Selma’s two thousand was almost gone.

Catell started the car and headed it back on the hot pavement. There better be a town close by. The radiator was almost empty and there probably wasn’t much oil left. The old car gathered speed, whining down the white road and shooting thick black clouds out the tailpipe.

A sign flipped by, saying: “You are entering—” and it was gone. After a bend in the road a tree appeared, two trees; then Catell saw the houses. They were gray clapboard and looked old. Some were adobe. The only new-looking place was the filling station, rigged up like a fort, and Catell breathed easier.

When he pulled up to the pumps he heard the gravel crunch on the right. A car stopped sharply and the voice said, “City feller, don’t they got not ordinance about speeding where you come from?”

The sheriff got out of his car and grinned, crackly lips drawn back over his gums.

“Get out,” he said.

“What in hell do you want now?”

“Don’t get porky, stranger. I’m the law around here and you just broke one of our ordinances.”

“What goddamn ordinance?”

“The one about speedin’. You gonna pay up or you gonna spend some time in our jail?”

“How much will you take,
officer?
”

“Seeing it’s you, city feller, that’ll be seventy dollars.”

“Why, you stinking sonofabitch!” Catell jumped out of his car. His door hit the gas pump and slammed back into his chest. Before he could get free, the sheriff had come around the car, swinging a sap that came down hard and caught Catell on the shoulder. But the sheriff was slow; too slow for Catell, anyway. Twisting his injured shoulder back, Catell lashed out with one foot and caught the tall man in the groin. Before he had time to double over and groan, Catell’s hand caught the back of his neck and jerked it down, and a knee smashed up into the sheriff’s face. Then a sharp kick into the chest and the half-conscious man flew back, crashing hard into a pump. There wasn’t any time for Catell to enjoy the sight because a sharp blow from behind made him buckle and pitch, and then all turned black.

“I guess they both ain’t gonna be much for a while,” said the thickset man who was holding a two-by-four in his hand.

“Reckon,” said the short one next to him. “What’ll we do now?”

“To the jailhouse. The stranger here has some explainin’ to do, and Harry—well, Harry just natcherly belongs in the jailhouse, seein’ he’s our sheriff.” They both laughed.

“Sure makes me feel good, seein’ our Harry get his for a change. Had it comin’ for a long time,” said the short one. “I just feel kinda sorry for that stranger here, once Harry starts feelin’ like himself again.”

They laughed again and then started to drag the two limp figures over the gravel.

A bottle fly kept buzzing around the cell. It hit the walls with a small flat sound. Every time it hit, fine yellow dust sifted down from the adobe. A few times it made for the light that came through the barred window, but even though there was no glass, the fly didn’t find its way out. Then it angled down into the shadow, hit the wall again, and landed on Catell’s face. It sat there for a long tune without Catell’s knowing it. When he came to, he did so with a start, slapping his hand over his forehead with a wide awkward swing. He jumped up, but weaved and doubled over. There was a blue ache in his left shoulder, and the pain in his head made red fire flash before his eyes.

After a moment he straightened up. His eyes ran over the adobe walls, the barred hole of a window, and the bars that made one wall of his cell. There was a room beyond, but Catell didn’t take it in because closer by, near the iron door, the sheriff sat hunched on a three-legged stool. His eyes and nose were puffed with a purple shimmer, and his lips were curled back, showing his long yellow teeth. Three teeth in front were missing, and his tongue was probing back and forth over the reddened hole.

“Sleep good, city feller?” He talked with a hiss. Catell walked up to the bars but didn’t answer.

“I’m askin’ because for a spell now that’s goin’ to be your last good sleep.”

The sheriff got up slowly and walked to a desk near the door beyond. He came back with a pencil and pad. After sitting down again he said, “What’s your name, stranger?”

“Jesse Weiss.”

“Age?”

“Forty-eight.”

“Where from?”

“New Orleans.”

The questions went on and Catell gave answers. He kept his voice even and his eyes down. There were going to be no more mistakes. In the time of a minute he had made all the bad ones: attracting attention, resisting arrest, assaulting an officer of the law, landing in jail. No more mistakes now. Don’t offend the man; do what he says; act small and a little scared. And wait for the breaks. This wasn’t the end. This was bad, but not the end. For God’s sake, this was not the end!

“Now listen close, city feller, because I want you to know what I got in mind. Like I tried to tell you once before, I’m the law around here, and you went ahead and broke that law more’n a couple of times. Now we can’t have that around here, city feller. You gotta learn how to stay on the right side of the law.”

Catell had his hands around the bars, listening with eyes down, when the sheriff stopped talking. Catell looked up and caught the blurred movement too late. The sap smacked down sharply, cracking across the back of his right hand.

“You listening to me, New Orleans? You paying attention to what I say?”

Catell didn’t hear him. He had jerked back, gasping with the pain that exploded in his hand. His knees buckled
and he groaned hoarsely, his good hand tightening around the wrist of the other arm. The sheriff had got off his chair, watching. His tongue was working the hole in his gums like a lazy snake.

“That’s just so you know who to pay attention to around here, New Orleans. Now, like I was saying, you gotta learn to respect the law, and I’m just the man what can teach you how.”

Catell sat on the floor, his breath making a harsh labored sound. The hand was puffing up fast.

“So I figure the best way of doing that, city feller, is for you to stay around here a little while. Then, when I see some real improvement, why, then we’ll start figuring on some kind of trial for you. The judge at the county seat is a friend of mine, so we’ll see what can be done in the case of the Law versus City Feller. Any questions? No? I didn’t figure so.”

The sheriff stood a while looking at Catell on the floor. Then he started to laugh. He laughed with a slow babbling sound that could have meant anything.

“I’m going to leave you for a spell now, seeing you’d rather be alone with your little aches and pains. And in case you crave company, there’s a deputy right beyond that door, sittin’ on the porch.”

The sheriff turned away and left, still shaking with his slow gobble of a laugh.

Catell stayed on the floor for a while, watching his hand. The swelling was dark red now, but the pain wasn’t so unbearable any more. Except when he moved his fingers.

Alone in the jailhouse, Catell started to look around. Standing at the bars, he could glimpse a cell on either side of him. There was a door to the left, half open, with a
toilet visible. Beyond the corridor was the long room that served as an office. Through the two windows Catell could see a porch and a country street.

The bars of the window in his cell were solid. So were the ones that formed one wall of his cell. But the lock of the cell was nothing. A strong nail, bent, or perhaps a spoon, he thought, any simple thing like that would do it. Tonight? Tomorrow. Sitting down carefully on the cot, Catell thought about it. Why rush? That bastard hick of a sheriff wasn’t in any hurry to move to court. So wait. Wait for the breaks. And the longer the sheriff waited, the more he would get in the wrong. And the more he got in the wrong, the less of a leg he’d have to stand on. Catell felt better.

Suddenly he jumped up, fright in his eyes. The gold! Where was his car? In panicky confusion he ran to the bars, shaking them, rattling the door. He curled the fingers of his injured hand, not feeling the pain, with only one thought in his mind. The gold! Then he ran to the window, to shake the bars, to reach his arm far out of the yellow hole that faced nothing but hot dust and weeds. Then he saw it. His car was standing in back of the jail. One door was half open and nothing looked any different about the car than when he had bought it. He could see the back seat, undisturbed. Draped over the seat was the lead apron.

With a deep breath Catell stepped back from the window and sank down on his cot. He was tired. He stretched out carefully, with one arm over his eyes, the injured hand resting on his stomach. The dull heat of the cell lay like lead around him, but Catell hardly noticed it. He slept.

“Just look at him sweat,” said the deputy to the three ranchers. They stood outside the cell, watching Catell asleep on his cot.

“You think he’s sweating now, boys, just wait till I get through with him,” said the sheriff. “Ben, get me a bucket of water.”

The deputy went outside and came back with the bucket. “Whatcha gonna do, Harry?”

“Just step back and watch.”

Heaving the bucket in a wide arc, the sheriff tossed the water at Catell. It caught him full on the neck and face. The sleeping man jerked up with a wild gasp, dumb bewilderment in his face. There was a roar of laughter from the men who were peering through the bars, with stamping of feet and back-slapping.

“What’s his name?” one of them asked.

“Call him New Orleans,” said the sheriff. “He likes to be called New Orleans. It makes him think of the big city. Right, New Orleans?”

Catell stood up slowly but didn’t answer.

“He don’t answer,” said another rancher, and they all looked at the sheriff. “Harry, he don’t answer.”

“He will.” The sheriff pushed the men aside and stepped up to the door. He pulled out a large key and swung the door open. In the silence there was only the creak of the old floor and a soft swish as the sheriff unholstered his gun. Leveling the long revolver at Catell, he stood back with feet wide apart.

“Come out.”

They all stood still, waiting.

“Come out, city feller.”

Catell stepped forward slowly. His head was down and water dripped from his hair.

“Walk to that door.”

Catell walked. He walked out of his cell, past the staring men, past the sheriff with his gun. Suddenly the sheriff kicked out his foot and Catell was flung to the floor. Shaking his wet head, he heard the guffaws of the men behind him.

“It don’t pay being hasty, New Orleans.” The sheriff roared again. “Lemme give you a hand.”

Catell obeyed.

“The other hand, city feller.”

He reached up his swollen hand automatically but jerked it back, afraid of the pain.

“Your hand, city feller.”

Catell shrank back when the sheriff’s foot caught him under the chin. His head snapped back and hit the floor with a sharp thump. He lay limp and unconscious.

The sheriff doubled over with loud, dry laughter, slapping his thigh.

“Hey, New Orleans!” Then he noticed that he laughed alone. The young deputy stood by, snickering; the ranchers looked embarrassed.

“We’ll be goin’ now, Harry. We got things to do.”

“Sure, Harry. We’ll be seeing you. So long, Harry.”

They looked away and hurried out. They didn’t look at Harry, or at the limp wet man on the floor, and they closed the door softly behind them.

The sheriff holstered his gun and gave the young deputy a mean look.

“Throw him in the cell. And mind, you stay around an’ keep an eye on him. He bears watching.” Then he walked out, hitting the floor hard with his heels.

When it was getting dark outside, Catell woke up. He breathed carefully, feeling the aches in his body. He heard dim voices from the porch. The door opened and the sheriff came in, followed by a few other men. Catell stiffened. This time, he swore, this time he’d kill the bastard, no matter what the consequences. But they didn’t come his way. They stood talking in the front room and only the sheriff gave him a glance. He didn’t smile or make a crack, he just gave Catell a cold stare.

They shuffled around the room, moving chairs and hanging up their hats.

“One of you gimme a hand,” the sheriff said, and left the room with one of the men. Catell stood in his cell, suspicious, waiting for the next trick. That’s when he heard the noise.

Outside his window in the deserted space behind the jail there was a rustling and the sound of low voices. Catell moved to the window slowly and leaned his arm on the sill. The darkness outside was almost complete and a cold breeze made him shiver in his moist shirt.

There they were, beside his car. The rear door was open, one figure had crawled into the back, and the other was leaning in, straining, as if lifting a great weight. When they hauled out the rear seat, Catell grasped the bars of the window. A stiff, sharp fear tensed his body and he trembled violently. The taut skin on his swollen hand cracked, but he didn’t notice. He only saw the two figures carrying the rear seat of his car and then disappearing. In a few moments the door in the front of the jail opened and the two men came in, carrying the seat between them. They had removed the lead apron and presumably left it in the car. They put the seat on the floor. The
sheriff said something about the damn weight of the thing and somebody answered with a joke, but Catell hardly heard. He sank down on the cot, feeble and numb with lost hope. How did they know? How had they found the place so fast?

Head down, hands limp between his knees, he sat not caring, not hearing the voices. Only a while later did he start to wonder what they were waiting for. In the other room the men were sitting around a flat box, talking in low voices, playing cards. Some sat on chairs, others on a bench, and the sheriff on Catell’s car seat.

“Put up or shut up,” said one of the players.

The sheriff was chewing on a cigar. He threw his cards down and said, “Damn you, Shivers, I’m out.”

Catell threw his head back and started to laugh. He laughed loud, hard, and with a shrill fury. When he looked again the sheriff was standing by the iron door, fumbling with the lock.

“Come out, you bastard.” He flung the door open.

“Tell ‘im, Harry. Tell ‘im you don’t always lose.” The men laughed. They were looking toward the cell.

Catell got off his cot and walked to the open door with an arrogant swing, grinning. When the two men were face to face, the sheriff took one step backward. He crouched.

“All right, city feller, smile good. There won’t be nothin’ to smile at when I get through with you.”

His voice was low and hoarse, but Catell kept grinning. He stood easily, never taking his eyes off the sheriff’s face. Then he took one step closer to the sheriff. The sheriff hesitated a moment, shot a quick glance at the card players behind him, but he saw they weren’t looking. The sheriff straightened up, his voice loud now.

“Try something, hog face. Go ahead!”

Catell just stood still, fixing the raging man with his eyes.

“Go ahead, you bastard. Hit me!” The sheriff’s voice was cracking. His head was thrust out, the cords of his neck twitching, and slobber came through the hole in his teeth. Catell could feel the man’s breath.

“Hit me!”

One of the players turned around.

“Harry, for chrissakes, pipe down.”

“Come on, you yellow, no-good sonofabitch, hit me!”

“Harry, boy, stop that yelling.” They kept on with the cards.

Catell didn’t move a muscle. He stood still, a slight smile on his face, and his voice was even.

“Did you want something, Sheriff?”

“
Hit me!
” The sheriff’s voice was a screech.

“Do we deal you in this time, Harry?” One man was shuffling the cards; another was lighting his cigar; some were arguing about the game. Catell stepped back into his cell and pulled the door shut. Then he sat down on his cot and looked at the ceiling.

“You’re yellow, you bastard. You lousy, stinking sonofabitch of a bastard!” The sheriff was shaking the bars of the cell, his face red, his voice a harsh, rasping scream. “You no-good, chicken-livered bastard, you’re yellow!” he screamed.

One of the men came up and took the sheriff by the arm. “Stop that yellin’, Harry. We’re trying to get a game started.”

“Lemme at that bastard! I’ll kill ‘im, I tell ya, I’ll kill ‘im!”

“Now shut your mouth, damnit. Sit down over here and shut up. Else we take the game to Charlie’s.”

“Take your lousy game to hell for all I care. Leggo my arm. You’re interfering with the law.”

“Harry, for chrissakes—”

The men had stopped their playing and were standing around, undecided.

“Nobody interferes with the law around here, unnerstand? Nobody! I’m gonna teach that filthy jailbird a lesson he ain’t gonna forget any too soon. And you guys, stick around if you wanna have some fun. Stick around and I’ll show ya how to enforce the law around here.”