Bounty Hunter, page 17
That had been the last barbaric outrage perpetrated on the body, after he’d lost his ears, eyes and tongue.
Tone remembered the small plaster figurine that had stood on the mantel of the cottage where he’d been raised. Three monkeys sitting in a row, one covering its eyes, another its ears, the last its mouth.
See no evil. . . . Hear no evil. . . . Speak no evil. . . . Langford stepped past him and picked up the note that had been left on Willie’s chest. Without a word he passed it to Tone.
Death to traitors
“Sprague?” Tone asked.
“What do you think?”
“I think it was his doing.”
“Willie was followed here and Sprague knew what he had to tell us,” Langford said. “While we were at the hospital, they were cutting him.”
He looked at Tone. “I was wrong. That street ambush wasn’t aimed at us. Willie Sullivan was the target.”
“Not like Sprague to bungle it so badly.”
“They didn’t bungle it. The cab tipped over and they didn’t expect that. If it had stayed on its wheels, they would have had clear shots at us.”
“Then we were lucky.”
Langford nodded. “Lucky, yes.” He smiled slightly. “Maybe talking to the nuns put God in our corner. I should try to get back on speaking terms with him after this.”
He looked at Willie, a wizened wax figure who had died more horribly than any man deserves.
“My damned bed is ruined. I’ll never sleep in it again.”
Tone said, “Sprague sure spoiled Willie’s wedding plans, didn’t he?”
“Yeah,” Langford said. “Dago May will be heart-broken.”
An hour later, summoned by Langford, detectives arrived, stayed for a while, then left. Willie’s body was taken away and some profane scavengers dragged out the sergeant’s bedding, declaring that it could be washed and reused.
Through all this, Langford was unusually quiet and seemed lost in thought, his normally good-humored face fixed in a troubled scowl.
After feeding the complaining Evans, who demanded, but didn’t get, custard, Tone sat at the kitchen table with Langford. They had opened all the windows in the house, but the smell of Willie’s death still lingered.
Neither man felt like eating, so they settled for coffee and cigars.
Langford studied Tone’s face and it took him a long time to speak. Finally he did something strangely dramatic. He unpinned the silver star from his coat and laid it on the table. Beside it he placed his revolver and bowie knife.
“This has got to stop, Tone,” he said. “And the only way to stop it is to kill Lambert Sprague.”
“You’ll get no arguments from me,” Tone said.
His eyes dropped to the items on the table and Langford read the puzzlement in his eyes, because he said, “I’m not speaking to you as a representative of the San Francisco Police Department. Right now, sitting here, I’m a private citizen.”
Tone smiled slightly and said, “I’m not catching your drift, Mr. Langford.”
But Langford decided not to explain himself, at least not then. “Earlier I spoke to one of the detectives and told him I wish to have a meeting with Inspector Muldoon. I asked that Muldoon be here tonight around midnight. I’ll make sure I’m present.”
“To witness Bandy’s statement, huh?”
“Yes, just that. And now I have a statement of my own to make, bounty hunter.”
That last surprised Tone. It was not unfriendly; rather, Langford said it in a very matter-of-fact voice.
“All right, let’s hear it,” he said.
“Tomorrow night I want you to go to Sprague’s house, before, during or after the meeting, and I want you to kill him. The same for as many of the other five as your guns can reach.” Langford managed a thin smile. “How you manage it is up to you, but it’s in your line of work.”
“That’s why you called me bounty hunter.”
“Yes. Only there will be no bounty, unless you count my sincere thanks.”
Tone’s eyes dropped to the star again. “Mr. Langford, you’re asking me to commit suicide. Sprague’s house will be heavily guarded.”
“Yes, it will.”
After a silence that lasted a slow minute, Tone said, “I guess it could be done. I don’t know exactly how, but it’s possible.”
“I’ll leave that up to you, Tone. But stop Sprague and it’s over.”
“What about Bandy’s testimony?”
“A court case, an expensive lawyer, a not guilty verdict. That’s also possible. Sprague walks free and resumes his old criminal ways.”
Tone was thinking. Absently he said, “I can’t shoot my way in. If I could only get inside the house somehow. . . .”
“Will you try?”
Tone looked into Langford’s cold eyes, gray as winter mist. “Yes, I’ll try. But after I scout the lay of the land I may walk away from it.”
“That’s fairly spoken. I would ask no more of you.”
Langford holstered his gun, shoved the knife into the sheath built into the inside of his tunic and pinned on the badge. He looked at Tone. “What the hell were we just talking about? I’ve forgotten.”
“Me too, Sergeant Langford.” Tone grinned. “I guess it couldn’t have been too important.”
Chapter 32
Langford arrived back at the house in time to greet Inspector Muldoon, who was in a less than convivial mood.
“This better be important, Sergeant,” he snapped. “I’ve got a mountain of paperwork waiting for me back at the station, to say nothing of six—count ’em, six—know-nothing rookies out on patrol.”
Muldoon studied Langford’s face. “You’ve had an eventful day, Sergeant. And your nose seems like it’s broken. Lucky for you it doesn’t spoil your looks. I mean, you being so downright homely to begin with, and all.”
“Thank you for the kind words, Inspector,” Langford said. “My nose has been broke three times before. A man gets used to it.”
Muldoon smiled, removed his gloves and laid them on the table with his hat and swagger stick. “Now, why am I here?”
“I found a survivor from the Benton, the freighter pirated by Lambert Sprague.”
“We don’t know that was the case, Sergeant,” Muldoon said.
“A man named Bandy Evans says it was the case. I believe he can identify Sprague as the pirate leader.”
Muldoon was thoughtful for a few moments, then asked, “Is this so-called survivor in any way connected to the death of Wee Willie Winkie Sullivan, of hallowed memory?”
“Willie told me where Evans was located, a charity patient at St. Mary’s. Tone and me were bringing him back here when we were attacked in the street.”
The sergeant’s stare moved beyond Muldoon into the hallway. “Sprague’s men must have followed Sullivan here, then disemboweled him in my bedroom.”
Langford had carefully avoided any mention of the time and place of Sprague’s peace meeting, an omission Tone noted and understood.
“You were lucky today,” Muldoon offered. When Langford made no answer, he said, “And this Evans fellow, he’s here?”
“In my spare bed, Inspector. I want you to hear his statement.”
“Before I talk with him, tell me what you know about his miracle escape.”
“I don’t know much. He was in the water for several days before he was picked up by the whaling barque Derwent Hunter, Captain Saul Tanner commanding. It was Tanner who dropped Evans off at the hospital.”
Obviously feeling that he was expected to add more, Langford said, “Evans is in poor shape, but he’ll survive.” He sat back in his chair and looked at Muldoon expectantly.
“All right, let’s hear what he has to say,” the inspector said.
Tone decided to throw a chip into the pot. “Inspector, as far as I can tell, you don’t seem very excited about Bandy Evans.”
“I’m not. Again, I don’t think we can rely on one man’s say-so. How did he recognize Sprague though the smoke and flame of a ship that was sinking under him? Did his days in the water affect his recollection of what happened, and perhaps his sanity? Is he trying to railroad a respectable businessman for reasons of his own?”
Muldoon turned bleak eyes to Langford and then to Tone. “Maybe, when the word goes out that the police have a Benton survivor in protective custody, we can scare Sprague into making yet another stupid move.”
“Inspector, Sprague doesn’t scare worth a damn, and his move against Evans today wasn’t stupid. He was just unlucky.”
Muldoon smiled. “Good. Then maybe his luck is running out. Now, where do we interview Evans?”
“I’ll bring him out here,” Langford said.
The sergeant was gone for what seemed a very long while, time enough for Muldoon to comment on the unseasonably wet weather, the rambling roses in his backyard and how the oysters at the Tadich Grill were excellent this time of the year.
The heads of both men turned to look at Langford when he stepped slowly into the kitchen. The big cop’s battered face was stricken, his normally quiet hands trembling at his sides.
“Inspector, I’ve brought you here on a wild-goose chase,” he said. “Bandy Evans won’t be giving us any testimony. He’s dead. I think every last bone in his body is broken.”
Tone jumped to his feet and rushed past Langford. The bedroom was dark and he lit the gas lamp above the fireplace.
Bandy Evans lay on his back, his bulging eyes staring at the ceiling but seeing nothing. His chest looked like it had been crushed by a force so tremendous that a couple of splintered rib bones were sticking through the skin. His head was arched back so far that his prominent Adam’s apple looked like it was going to pop out of his throat, and his mouth was black with blood. The unnatural twist to the body told Tone that Evans’ back was broken, probably in several places, and the outsides of his upper arms were covered in massive bruises.
“My God, what happened?”
Tone turned and looked at Muldoon. “Inspector, he was hugged to death,” he said. “Squeezed to a pulp.”
“But, who—”
“The man who came through that window, I’d guess,” Tone said. “It wasn’t open when we checked on Evans earlier.”
He crossed the room to the window and looked outside. “Inspector,” he said, “here’s how the killer got inside.”
A ladder was still propped against the wall, but outside in the shrouded darkness there was no sound and nothing moved but the wind.
Muldoon stepped back to the body. “Who could do that, Tone? I mean, have the strength to crush a man to death?”
“I can take a guess, Inspector. Lambert Sprague employs a giant of a man named Blind Jack. He acts as his personal bodyguard and—”
“Yes, I know,” Muldoon said. “Blind Jack is a pirate scoundrel and murderer who should have been hanged years ago.” He looked at the broken thing on the bed. “Yes, Jack would have had the strength to do this terrible thing, and he can find his way in the dark like a bat.”
Langford came into the room, and Muldoon said, “First Willie Sullivan, now your sailor. It would seem that Sprague is covering his tracks well.” He looked at the sergeant and said, without pushing too hard, “One might wish that you’d guarded Evans a little better.”
Langford nodded miserably but said nothing.
“Well, what’s done is done.” Muldoon sighed. “I’ll send a detective and later have the body picked up.” He smiled, unwilling to sting the sergeant again. “We’re making quite a habit of this, are we not? I must remember never to spend the night here.”
Langford was not to be cajoled, prodded or coaxed into a lighter mood. A perceptive man, the inspector put a hand on his sergeant’s shoulder. “Don’t feel bad, Thomas. We’re dealing with powerful enemies, and perhaps”—Muldoon struggled to find the right words—“with forces beyond our understanding.”
Seeing the confusion on Langford’s face, he said, “I walked on your bedroom floor, and every board of it creaks and groans. How could a man as heavy as Blind Jack walk on that noisy floor without alerting Mr. Tone?”
Langford shrugged. “He’s light on his feet, I guess.”
“Yes, that’s a possibility.” Muldoon frowned, carefully weighing his words. “Or like the rest of Sprague’s bunch, he’s in league with the devil.”
Tone smiled. “I believe I’ll go with light on his feet, Inspector.”
Muldoon nodded. “As you wish. But a man doesn’t serve twenty years as a police officer in San Francisco without seeing things, evil things, that he can’t explain. That creaking floor is one of them.”
“Maybe I’m in league with Blind Jack,” Tone said. “That would explain it. After all, I was here alone.”
“I’ve considered that already, Mr. Tone,” Muldoon said. “I sense recklessness in you, a distant, cold reserve, an inclination to violence certainly, but not evil.”
Tone made a little bow. “You flatter me, Inspector.”
“None of what I said was meant as a compliment, Mr. Tone.”
Muldoon stepped to the bedroom door. “I’ll be leaving now, Sergeant Langford,” he said. “I’m sure you wish to return to your duties. Tone can handle things here.”
After Muldoon left, Langford smiled at Tone. “Recklessness, violence . . . if only he knew what tomorrow night has in store.”
Tone returned the sergeant’s grin. “I wonder if I can drop the devil with a .38.”
Chapter 33
Bandy Evans’ body had been removed and Tone was alone in the house.
As the wind hustled around the eaves of the old building he closed his eyes and remembered a cleaner wind, in a more beautiful place. He saw a sea of long grass, swaying gracefully, first one way, then the other, a dance to commemorate the hushed stillness of a prairie that was never still. In the distance, where the lightning gathered, the blue mountains shouldered against the sky and the morning smelled fresh, coming in clean on the breeze, like the first day of creation.
Tone felt a sudden sharp pang of longing for the western lands, where a man could sit his horse and look out and see forever and wonder about his God, who had shaped indifferent matter into such glorious beauty.
His eyes blinked open and he returned to Langford’s shabby kitchen and the lingering smell of violent death and its somber handmaiden, the sense of evil that hung in the air like a foul mist.
Tone rose to his feet, coffee cup in hand, and pushed open the window, staring into a night as black as coal, spangled not with stars but with the distant lights of the waterfront.
He turned as three sharp raps beat on the front door. He laid down his cup and slid a revolver from the holsters hung on the back of a chair.
Gun in hand, he stood at the closed door and asked, “Who is there?”
“My name is Lizzie Granger, like that means anything to you.”
Without dropping his guard, Tone opened the door.
“Don’t look so surprised, Mr. Tone,” the woman said. “You’re not getting lucky. I’m here to deliver this.”
She was small and dark-haired, and possessed pretty brown eyes that peered out from under the brim of a straw boater that was perched atop her curls. She was holding out a long envelope.
Tone took the envelope and saw his name on the front, written in a woman’s hand. “Who gave you this?” he asked.
The girl had an impudent grin. “She didn’t tell me her name. She just gave me the envelope and told me where to deliver it. ‘Give it to Mr. Tone, and no one else,’ she said. I figure you have to be Mr. Tone. You look the kind who would know a fancy-got-up lady like her.”
The girl waved. “So long, Mr. Tone.” Then she turned and walked quickly into the night.
Tone waited until the click-clack of the girl’s heels faded before he closed and locked the door and stepped back to the kitchen.
He laid the envelope on the table, then poured himself more coffee. He sat and for a few moments turned the envelope over in his hands. It had probably come from Chastity Christian, perhaps a plea from a lady in distress, designed to lure him into a trap.
Well, there was one way to find out.
Tone opened the envelope.
It contained a single page torn from a Bible. Drawn in black ink on the page was a skull and crossbones, and under that, his name.
Sprague had passed sentence. It was John Tone’s time to die.
Tone rose, strapped on his shoulder holsters, and got himself a cigar. He sat at the table again and smoked, thinking.
Langford’s house was now a death trap. He couldn’t cover the door and every window and the idea of forting up inside a bedroom did not appeal to him. It would take away his freedom of movement.
How many would Sprague send? He knew the answer to that: enough.
And it was only a matter of time before they came calling.
Tone got to his feet and shrugged into his peacoat. He left the page on the table where Langford would see it, then stepped to the back door, a revolver in his hand. The door, badly in need of oil, opened with a loud creak and Tone froze, listening into the night.
He heard nothing but the wind prowling like a cougar among the trees. There were shadows everywhere, dark, mysterious and dangerous, that could suddenly band together and become the shapes of men.
His heartbeat thudding in his ears, Tone followed pavers toward a low picket fence at the rear of the yard.
Even in the gloom, he saw that the garden was well tended, planted with a large variety of desert blossoms and shrubs, bordered by yarrow, iris and red and yellow lupine.
Langford, a hard, unrelenting man who was exposed daily to the filth, degradation and violence of the waterfront, obviously spent time among the flowers for the good of his soul.
Stepping over the fence, Tone found himself in another yard. He melted into the shadows next to a garden shed as he heard roars of anger from the house, followed by the thud of boots and the crash of slamming doors.
Tone smiled slightly. Sprague’s gentlemen of fortune had left it too late and were now stumbling around in the dark house, palpitating in every pulse with rage, as they blamed each other for their tardiness.
