Cap Fog 5 Page 2

  All of which, both sergeants realized, pointed to there having been a special significance behind what the pickpocket had hoped was nothing more than a distraction and irritant for the way they were treating him!

  It was a thought no peace officer worth his salt would ignore!

  The first problem was how to elicit whatever scraps of information Kretzmer had gathered!

  Although the pickpocket had never been a regular ‘stool pigeon’ motivated by monetary gain, more through fear of the consequences of discovery than out of any loyalty to his fellow law breakers, Branch and Soehnen had the experience to apply a persuasion calculated to make him tell what he knew.

  ‘How many of ’em are still around, Dutchy?’ the older sergeant inquired, nodding towards the street in a pointed fashion.

  ‘Most all of them,’ the blond peace officer reported, after having stepped away far enough to be able to see the front of the theatre.

  ‘I thought they might be, in the “circum-stanticals”,’ Branch claimed. ‘What say we take good ole Fingers out there all friendly-like and, making good ’n’ sure they can hear, thank him right kindly for telling us all we wanted to know?’

  ‘Why sure. And I’ve got a ten spot here to give him for doing it,’ Soehnen assented, taking out his wallet and extracting a bill of that denomination from it. ‘Like they say, the laborer is worthy of getting paid.’

  ‘Paid!’ Kretzmer yelped in alarm. ‘I didn’t tell you nothing!’

  ‘You know that and we know that,’ Branch pointed out, seemingly with commiseration. ‘Trouble being, will those jaspers out there know it?’

  ‘Or the Chopper, comes down to a real sharp point,’ the younger sergeant supplemented, ‘when word gets to him—as you know’s well we do it will—as how we was heard to say we didn’t even know he—even if we don’t name names—was in Texas.’

  While Kretzmer could not by any stretch of the imagination be termed intelligent, he was able to appreciate the full ramifications of the conversation. Even when he was under the influence of marijuana, which he was not at that moment—the interrupted foray to pick pockets having been intended to procure the wherewithal to purchase a supply—he was never courageous. Being ‘cold turkey’, he was even less inclined to valor. Therefore, realizing how a course of action such as had been suggested by the sergeants could be misinterpreted, he felt as if an ice cold hand was running up and down his spine. On hearing of what would appear to have been a betrayal for financial gain, which was sure to happen, the Chopper would take reprisals of a most painful and, eventually, a fatal nature. He had done so on three previous occasions when he had considered he had been endangered in a similar way by stool pigeons.

  However, the little pickpocket knew all too well how he could avoid being placed in such dire peril!

  Should Kretzmer supply the little information he possessed, the code by which the two sergeants operated would ensure he was allowed to go on his way without having been seen in their company.

  ‘Time’s a-wasting!’ Soehnen briskly, when satisfied the pickpocket had thought over the situation to its full, ‘Let’s get going!’

  ‘Hold hard!’ Kretzmer gasped, backing further into the doorway. ‘I can’t tell you much, but you can have all I know. The word is that the Chopper’s got hisself a contract here in Cowtown and you know him. He allus lets the biggies know when he’s going to make a hit on their range.’

  ‘And he let you know?’ the blond sergeant inquired dryly, aware the man he was addressing had never by any stretch of the imagination qualified as a ‘biggie’ in criminal circles.

  ‘You know he didn’t!’ the pickpocket asserted, deciding this was no time for self-aggrandizement, especially as it would not have been accepted by his well-informed audience. ‘But I know one of Tobe O’Reilly’s boys real good and he told me’s the word’d come.’

  ‘Has Tobe got any notions on who-all’s going down?’ Branch inquired.

  ‘Billy didn’t say so,’ Kretzmer replied, then realized what could have been implied by the question. ‘Hell, you don’t reckon’s how Hogan Turtle’d need to bring in the Chopper should he need anybody taking out, do you?’

  Before either sergeant could reply to the question, there was an interruption!

  Two shots from a heavy caliber weapon cracked somewhere on the other side of the street!

  Chapter Two – All Hell’ll Break Loose

  Losing their interest in Hurbert ‘Fingers’ Kretzmer, Sergeants Jubal Branch and Hans ‘Dutchy’ Soehnen, without needing to consciously think of what they were doing, reacted instantly to the sound of the shots. As they were swinging around, each was instinctively reaching with his right hand towards where he carried a weapon in concealment. Nor did they require an extensive search to locate part of what they needed to know. On the opposite sidewalk, almost facing their position, although his equally prosperous looking companion showed no sign of being injured, a well-dressed man clearly had been hit by at least one of the bullets and was going down.

  Each of the sergeants was already starting to arm himself by the time they emerged from the recessed doorway of the store into which they had taken the pickpocket to be interviewed. Reaching swiftly beneath the rear of his ancient looking and loosely fitting open brown jacket, the elder brought an obviously well used ivory handled Colt Civilian Model Peacemaker revolver from its holster inside the waistband of his Levi’s trousers. 8 Almost as quickly, Branch having moved with a rapidity which was vastly different from his leisurely speech and actions in normal times, Soehnen extracted from a shoulder rig on the left side a big black Government Model of 1911 automatic pistol manufactured by the same company.

  While crossing the sidewalk, Branch and his companion allowed the weapons to dangle by their right legs so as to be less conspicuous. Working with the swift and unflurried speed which told of long practice, each took out his silver ‘star in a circle’ badge of office and suspended it from the breast pocket of his jacket in plain view. Sprinting across the street, having taken the precaution of letting themselves be identifiable as Texas Rangers and, therefore, legally entitled to be armed in public, they sought for and received the information they desired about from where the shots had originated.

  ‘Down that alley there, Rangers!’ yelled the companion of the victim, clearly recognizing the official insignia they were displaying.

  While going in the direction indicated, Branch and Soehnen were not too surprised by the number of uniformed and well-armed officers belonging to the Fort Worth Police Department they saw converging from both ends of the street. If a hint of the Chopper being in town had reached the municipal law enforcement agency, even though it had not been passed on to their Company of the Texas Rangers before they left headquarters that evening, there were sure to be patrols out in strength to try and catch him. Knowing the shots would be heard and attract attention from more than just themselves, this was one reason they had considered it most advisable to exhibit their own official status by wearing their badges in plain view.

  Regardless of the presence of reinforcements and the danger that some of these might misinterpret their actions, in spite of the precaution they had taken to indicate they too were peace officers, the sergeants did not slow down. This was not because they doubted the ability of the local lawmen to handle the situation, or because they resented the possibility that their Company might have been left in ignorance of the information. Nor were they motivated by a desire to steal the credit which would certainly accrue to whoever apprehended such a notorious criminal. Instead, they were acting as their considerable experience in such matters suggested was for the best. All the uniformed officers were still some distance away and they were well aware how quickly the Chopper, if indeed it was him, was credited with being able to effect an escape after having brought off a kill. Therefore, they intended to commence the pursuit more promptly than would otherwise have been the case.

  Arriving at the mouth of the alley, Branch and Soehnen
saw a vague figure moving through the gloom towards the other end!

  Realizing the danger and aware of the kind of man they might be up against, the sergeants skidded to a halt. However, although they brought their weapons into alignment, they did not immediately open fire. Being conscientious and experienced peace officers, despite adding to their peril, they wanted to be sure it was the Chopper—or whoever else might have done the shooting—before taking offensive action of any kind. Having estimated from what they had heard that a handgun of some kind was used, with the distance separating them, they considered the risk was justified.

  ‘Peace officers he—!’ Branch yelled, beginning the traditional command for a fleeing person to halt by indicating his official status.

  Before the announcement could be completed, or either sergeant was able to take any kind of action, the figure swung around. However, it soon became apparent they had made a terrible error with regards to the way in which he was armed. There was the harsh chatter of a heavy caliber automatic firearm being discharged. Coming so close together, the red spurts of the muzzle blasts appeared to be a single long flare. From what happened, it was obvious the muzzle of the weapon was being turned in a horizontal arc while the firing was taking place.

  Caught in the veritable torrent of flying lead dispatched along the fairly narrow confines of the alley, neither Branch nor Soehnen was able to get off a shot in reply. Instead, feeling the savage impacts as more than one bullet struck each of them, their weapons flew from their hands unfired. Blundering backwards helplessly, they fell on to the street.

  By the time Sergeant Brendon O’Toole of the Fort Worth Police Department arrived with a half dozen dark blue uniformed patrolmen where Jubal Branch and Hans Soehnen were lying, another five had come from the opposite direction. Shrilling loudly from the surrounding streets, police whistles announced that more officers would be converging as quickly as they could.

  If either of the Texas Rangers had been able to see, they would have known their summations were correct with regards to the municipal law enforcement agency having heard that the Chopper—or some other, almost equally dangerous, criminal—could be in town. While O’Toole was armed only with a big Colt Model of 1917 revolver in his massive right fist, there were two Winchester Model of 1912 riot guns and three Winchester Model of 1894 carbines 9 in the hands of the patrolmen. Because of Fort Worth’s history, which had included more than a few gun fights between peace officers and outlaws, the Police Department wisely based its policy upon that of its predecessors in the—as it was then called—office of the town marshal. Any time it was suspected officers might be up against a criminal known to be armed and who would not hesitate to shoot, they were instructed to supplement their mandatory and basically defensive handguns with weapons offering a greater range and fire power.

  Pausing briefly, having already recognized the two Texas Rangers and warned the patrolmen who were with him not to open fire, O’Toole needed only a single glance to tell him the worst. Each had been hit in the torso by four bullets of comparatively heavy caliber. While Soehnen was still just alive, the experienced sergeant knew it would be a matter of minutes rather than hours before he joined Branch in death.

  ‘Stay with ’em, Jones, Ramairez!’ O’Toole barked, forcing himself to put aside thoughts of grief and concern for the two men who were his old and trusted friends. For all that, some trace of his emotions showed in the timbre of his Irish brogue. ‘Have somebody call for an ambulance. The rest of you, come with me and come careful. The bastard we’re after’s got a Tommy gun, or I’ve never heard one!’

  Followed by the patrolmen, with the exception of the two he had named, the sergeant made for the mouth of the alley. In spite of the sound having been distorted by the walls of the buildings on each side of the alley, he was sure he was correct in his assessment that the Texas Rangers were shot by a Thompson submachine gun. Therefore, he knew—particularly if it should be the Chopper they were after—he and his party might soon be going up against a cold blooded killer armed with a weapon capable of rapid fire far beyond the capacity of any firearm they were carrying. Against this, the burst he had heard directed against Branch and Soehnen suggested that even if a fifty round drum magazine had been used instead of the more common twenty cartridge ‘box’ type, a good many of the load had been expended. Therefore, unless they allowed time for an exchange of magazines to be carried out, they would have the advantage of numbers and fire power.

  Passing swiftly through the alley, O’Toole glanced in each direction along the street he had reached. Two more patrolmen were hurrying from the right and one pointed, yelling they had seen somebody making for the gap between two buildings at the other side and to the left. Without waiting for them to come up and give further information, he strode rapidly in the direction indicated.

  Caution dictated that O’Toole looked before committing himself and the harness bulls to going around the corner. Peering beyond the end of the building, he found the light from the street lamps on either side barely entered the area. In spite of this, his first impression was that the open space between it and its neighbor was completely devoid of human life. However, he was too experienced a peace officer to rely upon this being the case, Instead, he decided to make another inspection with the aid of portable artificial illumination.

  ‘Get ready to go in shooting!’ the sergeant ordered and his left hand lifted free the powerful electric torch which was suspended from his black Sam Browne belt. 10

  Having given the order, even though his big Colt was equipped with a double action mechanism which normally precluded the need for it to be cocked manually, O’Toole drew back the hammer with his thumb as an aid to accuracy and speeding up firing the first shot if necessary. With that precaution taken, he switched on the torch and directed its beam in a sweep of the alley. For a moment, he thought the area was deserted. Then there was a movement and slight rustling sound from between two of a row of trash cans put outside by the occupants of the building on the left.

  ‘This’s the police!’ the sergeant yelled, his voice echoing hollowly from the walls on either side. ‘Come out with your hands empty and above your head!’

  ‘Don’t shoot sir!’ replied a voice which gave the impression of more than a quavering of alarm.

  ‘We won’t, so long’s you do what I said!’ O’Toole promised and, having drawn a conclusion from the accent of the speaker, he went on for the benefit of the patrolmen who had fanned out across the mouth of the alley with weapons held ready to take whatever action might prove necessary. ‘Hold your fire, all of you. It isn’t him we’re after, I’m thinking!’ Having delivered the warning, he raised his voice and directed it once more into the alley. ‘Show yourself the way I told you!’

  ‘Yes sir, boss!’ the voice assented, making the first two words run into one so they sounded as, ‘Yassuh’ and gave added strength to the sergeant’s supposition.

  As O’Toole had expected, on rising from his place of concealment with empty hands raised high above his head, the speaker proved to be a Negro. Of slightly more than medium height and slim, although black and with an understandably worried expression, his features were Nilotic rather than Bantu in their close to European lines. 11 Bare headed, with crinkly very short black hair, he appeared to be somewhere between twenty and forty years in age. Although many of his race tended to dress loudly, he was wearing a dark brown three-piece suit, a navy blue shirt, dark green necktie and black shoes.

  ‘Who’re you, boy?’ O’Toole asked, advancing followed by the patrolmen.

  ‘Billy … Sam Cornridge, from New Orleans, sir,’ the Negro replied, running his gaze from one to another of the peace officers and looking worried. ‘I ain’t done nothing, honest to the Good Lord. I was just passing through here looking for a crap game I’d heard was—!’

  ‘Did you see anybody coming through here?’ the sergeant interrupted.

  ‘I for certain sure did, sir,’ Cornridge confirmed with feeling. ‘
That’s why for I was hiding ’tween them trash cans!’

  ‘Pete, take the boys with the carbines and riot guns on through ’n’ see if there’s any sign of him. The rest of you stay with me,’ the sergeant ordered and, after he was obeyed, gave his attention to the Negro again. ‘What did the feller look like?’

  ‘I dunno, sir,’ Cornridge claimed, rolling his eyes until the whites showed starkly against the black of his face.

  ‘You dunno?’ the sergeant growled.

  ‘I for certain sure don’t, sir!’ Cornridge affirmed, politely and yet definitely. ‘Any time I sees somebody a-coming whose carrying a Tommy gun and with what looks like the hoods them gentlemen of the Ku Klux Klan wears over his head, that’s when I figures’s how it’s safer not to look even twice much less stand anywheres in this way. So I ducked down a-twixt them trash cans until I was certain sure he’d long gone on by.’

  ‘So you’d don’t know which way he went when he left the alley, huh?’ O’Toole stated rather than asked.

  ‘No, sir, I for sure don’t,’ the Negro replied. ‘Like I said, I just kept myself all scrunched up twixt ’n’ tween them trash cans while he went on by lickety-split like the Devil after a yearling. Then, just’s I was figuring I could get up ’n’ be long gone, I heard you police gentlemen a-coming and, not knowing it was you, I reckoned I’d best stay put until I found out who-all you might be.’

  ‘And you don’t know whether he took off right or left, huh?’ the sergeant asked, hearing the patrolmen moving restlessly to his rear.

  ‘No, sir,’ Cornridge answered. ‘I’m sorry I can’t be of mo—!’

  ‘That’s all right, it wasn’t your fault,’ O’Toole interrupted and, deciding the Negro could not supply any further information he went on, ‘Get his name and address, Burgherof, in case we should need to talk to him later. The rest of you, come with me.’