McHugh, page 14
A car, its lights dark, moved from a parking area toward the plane. The radio’s metallic voice said, “Six to One…Orland’s moving up now.”
“We’ve got him in sight. You stay back and cover us with the rifles,” Foote said into the mike.
The man with the chopper worked the bolt and a shell rammed into the chamber.
“You know who’s right in the middle of this?” McHugh said in a taut voice. “Chapman. I guarantee there’ll be hell to pay if we lose him.” He chewed his lip. “I don’t like the idea of just driving up to this little party. Things will pop for sure then.”
“We’ll give them a chance to surrender,” Foote said.
McHugh snorted. His eyes moved around the flying field. Two hangars down, an airport tractor with a low trailer was drawing away from the cargo door of a four-engined plane. McHugh pointed and said curtly, “Catch that go-cart.”
“What?” Foote said, surprised.
“I said get that thing. We can trundle right up to them with that.”
Foote shrugged. He trod on the gas and the car shot ahead. It sped past the amphibian plane and the three men beside it. McHugh recognized Chapman, Stover and the Dutchman. A small hoist was rigged to the back of the panel truck and something was being swung from the truck to the plane. The little tractor turned off behind the hangars, and Foote pulled alongside and tapped his horn.
One of the men in back leaned out the window, flashed a badge and said, “Federal officers, bud. We want to borrow your machine a few minutes.”
The tractor driver slammed his brakes on, stared at them as they piled out of the car. “What you say you are?”
His eyes went wide at the sight of the guns. He scrambled from his seat, trembling.
“Calm down, man,” McHugh said. “You sit in this car here. How’s this go-cart drive?”
“There’s the gas and brake,” the man said, pointing. “Step on it. You use that wheel to steer with.”
McHugh grabbed the cap from the man’s head and jumped on the tractor. He thrust his gun down between his legs, where he could reach it with either hand.
“Well, what about us?” one of the agents demanded.
“Belly down in the trailer and each one pick his first target. I’ll take Stover.”
They nodded and scrambled into the trailer. It had wooden sides about two feet high, and there were spaces between the boards. McHugh let the clutch in, and the tractor went ahead with a jolt. He experimented with the wheel and found the thing would turn in its own length. When they came around the hangar, the second car was cutting across the front of the plane, squealing its tires with the sudden stop.
McHugh saw four men pile out. They moved fast, and they had guns. In the dim light he could recognize Dexter Orland, Howard Hale, and Jug Benich. The fourth man looked like Bulb-Nose, but McHugh couldn’t be sure.
He saw Johnny Stover freeze, then let go of the line that was rigged to the block and tackle on the hoist. Whatever was suspended from it broke loose and crashed to the ground. Slowly the blond man raised both hands shoulder high.
The Dutchman and Bud Chapman were backed up to the plane, hands high.
They were about fifty feet away and coming fast when Orland turned and looked. The tractor was directly in front of a floodlight at that instant, and McHugh saw the look of recognition in Orland’s face.
He thought Orland shouted something, because his mouth moved and he pointed, but his voice was covered by the rumble of the plane’s engines and the whine of the tractor.
Orland brought up his gun. McHugh grabbed the pistol from between his legs, fired once as he ducked as far as possible behind the protective bulk of the tractor’s hood.
Tractor and trailer cut violently to the right as he spun the wheel. There was a whang as a bullet hit metal and spun off into the darkness with a vicious whine. McHugh yanked the hand brake and jumped, firing a second time as his feet cleared the tractor.
Orland spun half around and grabbed at his right shoulder. His gun bounced on the concrete loading apron.
McHugh heard somebody shout, “Police. Throw down your guns!”
Bulb-Nose fired once at the trailer. A spray of bullets from the machine gun tore his neck apart He crumpled in a geyser of blood.
The Dutchman was scrambling on all fours, trying to get under the belly of the plane. Bud Chapman had dropped to the ground, rolling fast.
Howard Hale looked from Bulb-Nose’s body to Orland, who was sitting on the ground and holding his wounded shoulder in his good hand. He made a run for the car.
A rifle cracked, and Hale’s left leg went out from under him. He screamed and writhed in pain, and blood welled from a smashed knee.
McHugh had hit the ground running. He got his balance, spun around and saw a shape clamber from the rear seat of the car and squirm behind the wheel. The car’s motor roared and it wheeled away from the plane in a tight, tire-screaming circle.
There was the sound of a shot and a bullet plowed into the hood. The motor made a tortured noise and stopped.
Two agents converged on the car from either side. One carried a smoking pistol and the other a shotgun. The one with the pistol yanked open the door on the driver’s side.
Willie Waddle got out shaking. He put his hands on top of his head, and his mouth moved like a fish’s, but no sound came out.
“Hey! Stop or I’ll shoot!”
McHugh whirled. Johnny Stover was behind the wheel of the panel truck, gunning the motor. Nick Foote was drawing a bead on him with a stubby pistol.
“No!” McHugh knocked Foote’s arm up and the gun fired into the air. “He’s mine!”
The truck bore down on him. McHugh jumped aside and felt the front fender brush his hip. Stover hit the brake and turned sharply to the right, missing the prop of the idling right engine by inches. The rear door flapped open, and the arm of the hoist mounted in the track slammed against McHugh’s shoulder.
He grabbed it and felt himself being dragged over the rough concrete. He had a fragmentary glimpse of the FBI men, their guns ready, unable to shoot because he was in the way. His arms felt like they were being yanked from their sockets, and he realized he had dropped his gun.
With tremendous effort, he pulled himself up until his feet were free of the ground. He swung the weight of his body and the hoist arm pivoted. The truck slewed, and the motion catapulted him into the body. The rear door flapped and banged shut. He crashed on the metal floor, felt the right knee rip from his pants. He could see the silhouette of Johnny Stover hunched over the wheel. The truck was cutting straight across the field, bouncing over the grassy strips between runways and taxi strips.
“Quit, Stover!” he shouted. “You’ve had it.”
There was nothing but flat ground ahead for hundreds of feet. Stover rammed a knee against the wheel to hold the truck on course. He toned in the seat and shot twice at the interior of the truck.
McHugh felt something tug at his left shoulder. There was a sharp, burning sensation. The second bullet went high and punched through the back door.
“Last chance, Johnny,” he yelled. “You’ll never get off the field!”
There was another shot, and then the truck hit the berm of a taxi strip and swerved. Stover hunched over the wheel and fought the truck out of the skid.
McHugh gathered himself and leaped. His right fist crashed down on Johnny Stover’s neck.
Stover slumped over the wheel. McHugh scrambled over him, grabbing for the wheel and pawing around for the ignition switch with his other hand.
One of Stover’s arms had fallen between the spokes of the wheel. The truck began to turn to the left. The turn became more acute. McHugh wrestled the inert weight as the tires screamed on the pavement. He felt the truck sway and lift its left wheels from the ground.
The roll-over began slowly, then gathered momentum.
Metal screeched and tore. McHugh tried to hold onto the seat and Johnny Stover at the same time. He was slammed against the roof and lost his grip as the lefthand door sprung open.
Stover seemed to float from the cab, as if weightless.
The truck rolled four more times and stopped with its wheels in the air.
McHugh could hear the sirens and see the flashing lights of crash trucks and fire engines as he crawled out. He picked himself up and decided nothing had been broken. But a lot of things were bent to hell out of shape. He brushed himself off and trudged back to the point where Johnny Stover was a shapeless form on the ground.
Stover groaned and rolled over as McHugh squatted beside him. He opened a torn mouth and whispered, “I’m going to die.”
“It was your own choice, Johnny,” McHugh said, not unkindly. He ran his hands over Stover and guessed he might be nothing more than badly braised. He had landed in soft earth and could move his limbs. “We know all about the gold. Boy, you could never have made it.”
“Almost did,” Stover muttered.
“When did you find out about it? When you were working on the car?”
“Uh-uh. Not until Orland’s bunch wanted it so badly. I wondered why, and, when I looked into his background, I figured there was something special about that Pierce. I couldn’t think what it would be for a long time, because I had taken it all apart and knew every nut and bolt in it. One day I just happened to have it on a truck scale and I saw the weight was too high, ‘way too high. There was only one place to put that much extra weight.”
“Yeah.” McHugh looked up. “The others are almost here. Tell me about Nuss and Lowell.”
“Why not…” Stover groaned, caught his breath and managed a weak smile. “Got a smoke?”
McHugh found a bent cigarette, got it going and gave it to him. A car bumped across the ground and braked to a stop. Foote and the other FBI agents piled out. McHugh waved them back.
“Go ahead, Johnny.”
“Yeah. Well, with Nuss, I thought I had it rigged to get Nadine and myself out that night. I hadn’t called her because I knew the FBI was looking because I hadn’t shown up on the job, and I thought there could be a wire tap. It’s illegal as hell, but they do it.” He dragged deeply on the cigarette.
“I walked in, and there was Nuss tearing things apart. He started to tear me apart. I got a knife, and you know the rest”
“Yeah. I told you it shouldn’t be tough to beat that one. You didn’t believe me.”
“I believed you, Mac. But there was Lowell. He got coyote. I guess he finally figured how they worked it with the gold, and he came snooping around. He got under the car and spotted the switch. My usual great timing—I showed up about then. The bastard told me I could turn the stuff in and split the reward with him, or he’d grab me and take the whole thing himself.”
“Then you killed him.”
Stover strained, propped himself up on his elbows and shook his head. “Feeling a little better now. No. It wasn’t like that. Last thing I want to do is kill a guy. It’s no good. But he tried to put the arm on me, and, Mac, that guy was built like a bull. We wrestled all around and I really thought he’d kill me. I was able to grab a speed wrench and I banged on him with that. I still didn’t want to kill him, but he wouldn’t stop—he just kept coming. Finally I hit him too good.”
“Sounds reasonable,” McHugh said. “A good defense lawyer might get you off with manslaughter. You could be out in a year.”
“I’m dying, McHugh.”
“I’ve seen guys who were dying. I’m no medic, but I think all that’s wrong with you is you got the wind knocked out.” He stood, got a cigarette out. As the match flared, he said, “You sure as hell better not die. That kid’s going to need an old man.”
“I’m no goddam good.”
“You will be. Thing like this can straighten a guy out. Hang loose, kid.”
An ambulance was coming. McHugh went over to the FBI men and said, “He’ll make it. Better send someone in with him. He goes for the kills now.”
One of the agents detached himself from the group and walked over to where the ambulance crew was lifting Stover onto a stretcher.
McHugh got into an FBI car and said to Foote, “Let’s go-”
Foote was scowling at the blanketed form of Johnny Stover. “Go where?”
“Go get that damn gold.”
Chapter 14
There was a paddy wagon parked near the plane. McHugh looked inside and saw Willie Waddle sitting disconsolately in a corner, watched over by a grim-faced harness cop.
On the ground beside the wagon were Dexter Orland and Howard Hale. A man in whites was cutting the cloth away from the wound in Hale’s leg. Orland’s shoulder had already been bandaged.
Two stout wooden crates were in sight, one on the floor of the plane and the other on the ground beside it. The one which had dropped to the ground had split, and a piece of iron protruded from the end.
Bud Chapman was leaning against the hull of the plane, eying the box. His face and hands were scraped raw, and his clothes dirty and torn.
“You sure got the hell out of the way in a hurry,” McHugh said.
Chapman spat. “I feel worse than the guys who were shot. I thought about banging off a few for our side, but then I didn’t know if all the Federals knew me. No point to getting shot by mistake.”
“None at all,” McHugh agreed. “Got a pry bar or something like it aboard?”
Chapman got a piece of heavy strap iron, flattened at the ends, from a tool box. McHugh used it to rip the broken crate apart.
“It looks like a hunk of pipe,” Foote said. “A damn hunk of curved pipe.”
“It is a damn hunk of curved pipe,” McHugh said patiently. “I’d say there might be about four hundred pounds of gold inside it. Same with the other crate.”
He took a small knife from his pocket, bent over the pipe and dug at the end. He came up with a small chunk of bright metal with traces of black paint adhering to it. “Any Treasury men here?”
“That’s me.” A stocky, hatless man in a trench coat stepped up. McHugh gave him the fragment of metal. The man studied it, bit on it and carefully placed it in a small white envelope. “I’d say it was gold.”
“Good,” McHugh said. “Now I can go home. You guys can straighten out among yourselves who’s going to do what with which and to whom. Just keep my name out of it.” He looked around for a car to hitch a ride in.
“Hey!” Foote grabbed him. “This thing was all your party. You wouldn’t tell us anything, but you’ve had us running around like wild men. How about a little explanation?”
“Orland can tell you about it. Ask him.”
“The hell,” Foote retorted. “You tell me.”
“Okay.” McHugh kicked the pipe full of gold lightly. “This thing was originally a hunk of a Pierce-Arrow car. One of the chassis cross-members. The car belonged to the Allaires, and their chauffeur, a guy named Torres, was one of the bunch that pulled the gold heist back in thirty-six. Like almost everything that happened in Southern Cal in those days, Orland was behind it. I don’t know whose bright idea it was, and maybe Orland himself won’t remember, but they knew they had to have a good place to stash the gold.
“The Allaires didn’t even know Orland. But their car was handy, and it had these nice big hunks of hollow pipe. Easy to melt the loot down, pour it in and let it cool off for a couple of years. Orland probably planned to buy the car eventually. Or maybe just have it stolen. But he got in a jackpot and drew a long stretch in the state pen. Came the war, and all those years went by, and he must have thought the car was junked out. Until Stover got that magazine write-up. You know the rest of it.”
“The hell I do,” Foote said. “And you sure of yourself? That Pierce is still in one piece. I think if you look you’ll find it’s got its cross-members.”
“It’s got some,” McHugh agreed. “They came off another Pierce Stover bought down in Monterey County. That’s when I began to figure the thing. Until then I thought there was a map or something on that order involved. But Stover took this second machine completely apart and left the pieces behind—all but the crossmembers. Those he switched for the ones on his car, which he was ready to fly out of the country for the benefit of the Dutchman. Now you get it?”
“I get enough of it,” Foote said wearily. “By the way, the Dutchman got away in all the excitement.”
“Good. He’s worth more to our side loose than doing time as a spy.”
“Whatever you say.”
“I say good night, all.”
A police cruiser was pulling away from the scene. McHugh flagged it down and bummed a ride to The Door.
He wasn’t through. He would have to have a talk with Inspector Kline, and there was the problem of little sister. Tomorrow there would be time for these things.
Now the rain was beginning again, and he could hear the gutty piano and Loris singing what he called one of her belly-rubbing songs. He pulled the heavy door open and went in.
“Hey! Am I glad to see you, boss!”
McHugh looked up. Benny was alone behind the bar. There were about forty customers, and he was pouring liquor with both hands.
“You working nights now?” McHugh said glumly.
“Barkeep trouble again. You better believe I’m work-in’…double shift.”
McHugh sighed. He walked along the bar, waved to Loris and made a circle with his thumb and forefinger to let her know things had worked out as well as could be expected.
He took off his jacket, rolled his sleeves and began mixing drinks.
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