“Ask that office if they got the fingerprint reports from the G-men,” Van Duesen ordered. “Tell them the situation is under control here and you’re heading for Chicago. Ask them about the Carstairs woman.”
Briggs licked his lips and nodded.
“Are you there, W2ZXYZ?”
“Waiting on you, W5RPLS,” said Briggs.
“Here it comes... Reports from Washington. The bullets found in the Torrington body match the bullets out of the house wall. Same gun. Same man, evidently. A whiskey bottle sent in by Cohatchie sheriff from trailer camp had fingerprints of Daniel Van Drake, alias Buck Clark, alias Big Tom Carson, with record of four years, Atlanta, on narcotic conviction, and numerous previous arrests without convictions. Just a minute — I’ll get some more.”
Van Duesen cursed softly and scowled as he met Savage’s narrow look. The pointed, bloodless grin spread over Sam’s face.
“That’s what whiskey does for you, Buck. Why didn’t you heave that bottle into the water?”
“Dry up, you grinning ape! D’you know what it means?” Van Duesen asked.
“This Sunday School dick is wise to you.”
“T’hell with him! It means the G heat’ll be on me!”
“Better head over the border and work for Limey down south.”
“Yeah,” muttered Van Duesen, and snapped up his head as New Orleans came in again.
“Here it is, W2ZXYZ... Fingerprints taken out of the Bourbon Street house includes the prints of John Black, alias Bob Mutton, who did three years at Leavenworth for possession of counterfeit currency, and the prints of Rudolph Coston, alias Soapy Jones, alias Sam Jenkins, wanted by San Francisco police for murder of a detective four years ago. The office wants to know why you’re going to Chicago.”
“Tell him,” ordered Van Duesen, “that all the business leads to Chicago, and to hold everything until further orders. And ask about the Car-stairs woman.”
The report came back: “No word from the lady. The office wants to know if attempt shall be made to rearrest the two prisoners that were freed.”
Van Duesen said: “Tell them there’s nothing against those two, and to hold everything.”
The generator died. The silence of the desert night outside closed down. Van Duesen sneered at Sam.
“So you rubbed out a cop four years ago? I didn’t know you were that hot. I wouldn’t have touched you with a pole with that bent nose. Limey wouldn’t either.”
Sam’s face was a livid death’s head. He pushed Briggs’ head roughly with the gun muzzle and then stepped back, pocketing the gun. The gun looked to Savage like a thirty-two calibre Colt automatic. The same gun, probably, which had killed that man in Larnigan’s car.
Grinning, Sam said:
“Never mind how hot I am. I’ve gotten away for four years. I’ll do it for plenty years more. And don’t make cracks about my bent schnozzle. It suits me. Let’s get going. Bob ought to have his end cleaned up by now.”
“He’d better!” growled Van Duesen. “This starched shirt dick here has stirred up enough dust. We’ve got to work fast and fade. Savage, is there another pair of handcuffs in here?”
“I’m wearing the only pair we had,” said Savage, lifting his shackled wrists. “By the way, what is Larnigan doing?”
“You won’t have to worry about Larnigan,” said Van Duesen colorlessly. “Sam, stop cuddling that rod in your pocket and get something out of the other trailer to tie this fellow.”
“Why not leave him here?” suggested Sam.
“Damn you, no! He might be found. Get some cord. Tell Jessie to start driving.”
Sam came back with a coil of strong cord. Van Duesen tied Briggs’ wrists, jerking the knots so tight Briggs winced. The other trailer pulled out toward the highway. And with Van Duesen guarding Briggs and Savage, the bigger trailer followed some minutes later.
Savage noted that they turned north. The trailer began to lurch and sway as the speed rapidly increased. Van Duesen balanced with wide-spread legs and glanced in some of the cabinets. He found a bottle of the Chateauneuf-au-pape, knocked the neck off the wine bottle into the sink, slopped a glass full of wine, and drank half of it.
“No kick,” he decided.
From the couch, Savage inquired: “Where are we going?”
Van Duesen shrugged. “That won’t worry you two.”
Briggs licked his lips. “Chief,” said Briggs huskily, “these rats are going to kill us.”
“Of course,” said Savage thoughtfully. “I’m merely wondering where and when. And being glad Miss Car-stairs isn’t here.”
“She’s looking for trouble,” said Van Duesen surlily as he lifted the glass again.
The trailer was swaying more violently as it raced into the north. Savage recalled this road from the maps as a long empty stretch of some ninety miles to Alamagordo, New Mexico. The semi-desert behind was probably a fair sample. A vast, dry, empty country. No water, probably, except at an occasional windmill or ranch house out on the range. Mountains many miles to the east and west, and the mountains themselves barren, dry, devoid of life.
In such country murder could be casual, leisurely, undiscovered. There was law, of course. Law in El Paso. Law in Alamagordo ahead and the little towns scattered over the huge state of New Mexico. But they were all tiny spots on the map. Between them were vast stretches which rarely saw a sheriff. For a thousand miles to the north and a thousand miles to the west there was country in which crimes might never be discovered.
Anthony Savage reviewed the tangle of murder and mystery that had spun out two thousand miles from the low seacoast of Florida to this high, arid, wild country. Careful planning, rather than chance, seemed behind it.
But who had done the planning? James Larnigan? Young Goddard? Hardly! Van Duesen or the sharp-faced little killer in the car were more likely candidates. Van Duesen had been casual about fleeing down into Mexico. He spoke like a man at home in this barren border country.
The one outstanding fact was that death waited at the end of this trip. Another killing or so would not make much difference to these two. Sam would probably relish the incident.
Such thoughts brought their own fatalistic conclusions. Since death was certain, why wait passively for it? Nothing that could happen here along the road could be any worse than what was due to happen.
Life was behind you. Odds against you meant nothing. You were not brave. But you were dangerous; you were quietly, coolly dangerous and deadly.
Van Duesen tossed the empty wine bottle into the sink. Glass in hand, he explored further. He opened the gun cabinet, was immediately so interested he tossed the partly empty glass over into the sink.
He pulled a skeet gun halfway out, thrust it back and lifted out Savage’s particular pride and joy, the fine .280 Halger high velocity rifle.
Van Duesen moved closer to the light with the gun, handling it with respect.
“What’ll it do at three hundred yards?” questioned Van Duesen over the noises made by the rushing trailer and the car exhaust just ahead.
“Better than 2600 foot pounds, with the 180 grain bullet,” said Savage.
“Ha!” said Van Duesen. “This’ll be something to keep.”
Savage shrugged, watched Van Duesen carefully replace the gun in the rack. He marked that Van Duesen’s hand went immediately to the gun in his pocket. The man was watching them. He was taking no chances. He’d kill at the first move toward them. Handcuffed as he was, and with Briggs’ wrists tied, they didn’t have a chance of overpowering Van Duesen. His first shot would probably be heard in the car ahead. Sam would stop, dash back with another gun. No, they didn’t have a chance.