He had begun the tavern-by-tavern search then, drinking Old Pilgrim in each one, asking carefully veiled questions in the hopes of uncovering information about discounts and deals. Until he came to Barney’s Oasis, he had drawn a total blank. It was obvious that Riley Morgan was distributing most of the moon out of the county, and perhaps out of the state.
But Morgan had been selling shine to Barney, and that was his big mistake. It had given Flagg the lead he needed. He now knew almost everything he needed to know: that the fuel oil company stored and bottled and distributed the bootleg, and that it was being manufactured in the old abandoned mine. At least, he was almost positive that was where the still was located; logic told him that the tankers would drive through the gravel pit and inside the main shaft of the mine to load from the vats. Too, Terry had said the spur tracks led inside an auxiliary tunnel; that would undoubtedly connect with the main shaft, as would other passages. These would serve as the still’s ventilation system, explaining why he had seen nothing from the air. Nevertheless, he had to make absolutely certain; that was his job.
He rounded a slight curve in the tracks, moving silently and staying in the protective cover of a high growth of juniper. Suddenly, through the thicket, he saw a man dressed in a pair of Levi’s and an old plaid work shirt. The man was sitting on a high, flat-topped rock next to the tracks, his back to Flagg, throwing pebbles at a rotted log on the other side. A rifle rested beside him, propped against the rock.
Flagg backed off a few steps and made a wide circle around the guard, climbing over rocky ground. He could see the mine tower now, a crumbling wooden structure outlined against the sunset sky in gloomy emphasis.
Several minutes later, he stood hidden behind a large boulder at the entrance to the auxiliary tunnel. The timbers of the tower were ridden with termites and worms and dry rot, and the structure looked near collapse. The iron elevator wheel tilted where a support had fallen away. Debris cluttered the weed-choked ground. Off on one side was a crude stone fireplace and chimney, all that remained of a mine office.
Flagg left his concealment and approached the black mouth of the tunnel cautiously. When he was certain there was no one about, he swept aside vinelike weeds and slipped inside. The blackness was absolute, and he groped his way along one of the cold, damp walls until he had penetrated some fifty feet. Then he took the pen-glass from his pocket, shielded it in his handkerchief, and switched it on.
In its faint light, he could see that the tunnel was nearly a cave-in, with mounds of earth and shale and fallen timbers choking the passage. He moved forward carefully.
Five minutes passed. A collapsed section of the tunnel forced Flagg to crawl part of the way on his hands and knees. But as soon as he was able to stand again, he reached a dead end; the tunnel was completely blocked. At first, he thought it was another, final cave-in, but then he realized that the obstruction had been manmade. This must be where the tunnel connected with the main shaft.
He worked the dim flash along the wall of dirt and rock. Near the top, he found a small opening which appeared to pass through to the other side. He dug carefully at the opening, enlarging it, working as silently as possible. Finally, he was able to see through clearly. He stared down a long incline at a widened grotto in the main shaft of the old mine.
The still was there.
The boiler and distillation column jutted upward, disappearing into the rock, probably to another tunnel. Steam rose lightly in the murky, floodlit cavern. He could see five large vats clustered at one end, with piping to carry the mash to the column. Even as near as he was, he could not smell much of the fermentation process; the vats were well covered. An underground stream no doubt supplied the water and carried off the waste, which would be well filtered by the time it reached the ground level. There were half a dozen men around a control panel full of gauges and valves, and another group near one of the vats. Flagg, watching, gave grudging admiration to the builder. This still was a thoroughly professional job.
He continued to peer down into the grotto for another full minute. Then he headed back. He had seen enough. Now that he knew the exact location of the still, his job was almost finished.
He made his way to the tunnel opening, made sure the area was still free of guards, and then moved out. It was dusk now, and the long shadows of gathering darkness afforded him a good deal of protective cover. He followed the spur tracks to the main rail line, and then to where he had left his camper, without incident.
He drove back to Barney’s Oasis and went into the public telephone booth at one end of the parking lot. He dialed a number from memory. On the fourth ring, a man’s voice answered. “Alcohol and Tobacco Unit, Northern California. Adamson.”
Flagg gave it to him fast, talking through interruptions until Adamson was listening intently. He outlined the entire shine operation, and then went back and detailed it, missing nothing. When he had finished, he asked, “Have you got it all? Clear?”
“I’ve got it,” Adamson said. “But listen, who is this? Who’s calling?”
Flagg smiled. “You don’t know me,” he said. “I’m just a concerned citizen. A teetotaler.”
He rang off and stepped out of the booth. Churlak would be pleased, he thought. Churlak was a progressive, a member of the new breed, a big business executive. These damned independents deserve to get busted, he had told Flagg. They never learn. There’s just no way they can buck the Organization and make out, no way at all. But why waste time and manpower and invite undue publicity by putting them out of business ourselves? Why not let the feds do it — legally?
And so Flagg, the troubleshooter, had gone to work.
He put another dime in the slot and dialed Churlak’s private number in San Francisco. While it was ringing, he thought about Terry Kenyon. He hoped he wouldn’t have to report to Churlak in person until sometime tomorrow.
The Killing Philosopher
by Jack Ritchie
He stood waiting in the doorway of the cabin and he seemed even to welcome us.
His eyes went over both Harry and me and he smiled. “Neat dark suits, conservative ties, black shoes. I expected as much.”
“Would your name be James C. Wheeler?” I asked.
He nodded and still smiled.
Harry held up the wallet. “Did you lose this?”
“No,” Wheeler said. “I did not lose the wallet. I intentionally left it beside the body.”
Harry and I looked at each other.
“But come in,” Wheeler invited.
We followed him inside. The cabin was clean and equipped only with basic furniture.
Wheeler reached for the coffee pot and removed the lid. “When did you find the body?”
“About noon,” I said.
He spooned fresh coffee into the basket. “By the way, just out of curiosity, what was her name?”
“Carol Wisniewski,” Harry said.
Wheeler shrugged. “Even the name means nothing at all to me.”
I picked up the rifle lying on the cot and pulled back the bolt. A spent cartridge popped out onto the floor. “So you wanted to be caught?”
“Of course,” Wheeler said. He put the pot on the small stove and turned on the bottled gas. “I am now forty years old, and I have lived, by choice, in this cabin for almost my entire adult life.” He blew out the match. “Do you think it has been a dull life?”
Harry shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. Maybe you hunt and fish.”