Blind tiger, p.6
Blind Tiger, page 6
One of his younger, greener deputies identified himself. “Hated to wake you, sir.”
“I hated you did, too. What’s happened?”
He hoped for nothing more major than rowdy boys being caught painting naughty words on a public building. But he mentally ran through the list of better likelihoods: A still had caught a cedar break on fire. Rival moonshiners had gotten into a skirmish with fists, firearms, or both. Lawmen in a neighboring county, tired of chasing a notable bootlegger, were officially dumping him into Bill’s jurisdiction.
Even before Prohibition had become federal law several months back, evangelicals had for generations voted in local laws that had kept many Texas counties dry. Thus the illegal making and selling of corn liquor was the second oldest profession in the state.
All the Volstead Act had accomplished so far was to turn the trade into an even more profitable enterprise. Demand was at an all-time high. Production was up. Competition was stiff. And the moonshiners in Bill Amos’s county were among the most industrious in Texas.
“We’ve got a situation, sir,” the deputy said.
“Something y’all can’t handle?”
“Thought so when we started out. But things has gone downhill fast.”
Bill heaved a sigh. “Somebody must’ve wound up dead.”
“Well, truth is, we don’t know yet.”
“What’s that mean? He’s either breathing or he isn’t. Is he a Johnson?”
“No, sir. It’s Mrs. Driscoll.”
With a start, Bill angled his head back and looked at the phone as though the deputy had started speaking in tongues. “Dr. Driscoll’s wife? Mila Driscoll?”
“Yes, sir. She’s gone missing.”
* * *
Ten minutes later, Bill entered the sheriff’s office, where Dr. Gabriel Driscoll was carrying on like a crazy person. Usually of an austere nature, the physician was clearly unhinged. His hair was standing on end, as though he’d been trying to tear it out. He was pacing in circles and aggressively warding off anyone who attempted to restrain or calm him down.
When he saw Bill, he lunged toward him. “Sheriff, do something! You’ve got to find her.”
Bill hung his hat on a wall rack. “Get us some coffee,” he said, addressing one of his deputies who looked relieved to be charged with something besides the physician.
“I don’t want any coffee!” Gabe made an arrow of his right arm, pointing to the door through which Bill had just entered. “Get out there and find my wife!”
“Gabe, I can’t help you if you don’t help me. First off, you’ve gotta get hold of yourself.” He pulled up a chair. “Sit down and tell me what’s happened.”
“I’ve told them.” The doctor indicated the several deputies watching him with a mix of pity and wariness, much like they would regard a wounded wild animal that hadn’t yet died.
“I need to hear everything for myself,” Bill said. “So take a breath and brief me on the situation.”
“He came and took her,” he shouted. “In brief, that’s the situation.” Then, as though feeling the impact of his own declaration, he collapsed into the chair, planted his elbows on his knees, cupped his bowed head with all ten fingers, and began to sob. “What if it was your wife, Bill? God knows what’s he doing to her.”
“Who’s he talking about?” Bill asked, addressing one of his most trusted men, Scotty Graves.
“I talked to the old lady who lives across the street from the Driscolls.”
“Ol’ Miss Wise?”
“Yes, sir. She said a man came to their house today, talked to Mrs. Driscoll up on the porch.”
“Miss Wise recognize him?”
“No, sir, and she said she knew a stranger when she saw one.”
The illogic of that statement caused Bill to run his hand over the top of his head. “Maybe this stranger was sick and looking for the doc.”
“The sign was out, saying the doctor was on a call, but Miss Wise said this man stayed for several minutes. He didn’t appear to be ailing, either.”
“He go inside the house?”
“No, sir. Didn’t go no farther than the porch. Mrs. Driscoll gave him something, but Miss Wise couldn’t tell what it was.”
“Something like what?”
“Something small enough to fit in his pocket.”
“A bottle of medicine, maybe? A jar of pills?”
“We thought of that, but the doctor checked his medicine cabinet. Everything’s accounted for. Besides, he keeps the cabinet locked when he’s away. Even Mrs. Driscoll doesn’t have a key.”
“Did Miss Wise describe this stranger? Was he young, old, what?”
“Young. No more’n thirty, she said. Tall, on the slender side, dressed in a dark suit. He had dark hair. He was wearing a fedora, but he took it off while talking to Mrs. Driscoll. He was carrying a bag that looked heavy.”
“Salesman’s wares?”
“Miss Wise didn’t think so. She said it looked like the kind of bag a soldier would have.”
“Soldier?”
“That’s what she said.”
“Yeah, but she’s more than half batty,” Bill muttered. “Anything else?”
“She said he was cocky.”
“How’d she get that? Did she talk to him?”
“No, but he tipped his hat to her.”
Bill hooked his thumb in his gun belt. “Maybe he was just being polite.”
“She was watching from behind the curtain in her side parlor.”
“Out of sight?”
“She thought so, but apparently not.”
So, aware of being watched by a nosy neighbor, the young man had mockingly tipped his hat, making himself certain to be remembered. If he’d brought harm to Mrs. Driscoll, he was either incredibly stupid, or he was cocky just like the old maid had said. Bill had rather him be stupid. Someone that cocky usually didn’t give a damn, and that was dangerous.
“You boys have scouted the neighborhood?” he asked his men at large.
Scotty answered for the group. “Questioned all the nearby neighbors, searched every outbuilding for blocks around. Mrs. Driscoll was well known. If anybody had seen her, it would’ve been noted.”
“Nobody heard anything suspicious? Shouting? Barking dogs, nothing like that?”
“Nothin’ out of the ordinary, no, sir.”
“What about Mrs. Driscoll’s friends? Have you checked with them?”
“The doc knew of only two people she might visit. One’s the preacher of the Lutheran church. He hasn’t seen her since last Sunday’s service.”
The other was the local librarian, who’d told the deputy she hadn’t seen Mila Driscoll in a while, but had reassured him that none of the books she’d checked out were overdue.
“What about her family?” Bill asked.
“None closer than down around New Braunfels. Stands to reason.”
Stood to reason because it was a predominantly German town. “Have you checked with them?”
“Her parents are deceased. Doc said her uncle is the designated head of the family. We’re waiting on a long distance call to go through.”
Bill nodded absently and turned back to the doctor, who was still holding his head between his hands and moaning disconsolately. “Gabe.” He waited until the distraught man looked up at him. “Do you have any idea who this man was?”
“No.”
“Based on the description of him—”
“It could fit a dozen men, Bill. A hundred.”
He was right, so Bill didn’t press him. “Mrs. Driscoll didn’t mention having a visitor today?”
“He came asking about lodging. We used to rent out a room.”
“Did she appear afraid, apprehensive, upset?”
Even before he finished the question, the doctor was saying, “No, no. She was her usual self. Maybe a little more subdued than usual, but I think she was sensitive to my mood.”
“You were in a mood?”
“Distracted. I ran a rural route today. One of my patients had gone into labor. The baby was breech. Her sister was with her. She told me she’d assisted in breech births before, that she could handle it. I had several other people to see, so I left them.
“But I was worried about the danger to both the mother and child that a difficult delivery like that could be. It wasn’t something I wanted to discuss with Mila, not with her being in her condition. As it is, she’s nervous, this being her first.”
“When’s the baby due?”
“Two more months.”
Bill took a deep breath. “So she read your mood and was a bit subdued. Anything else out of the ordinary?”
“No. We had supper. I went into my office and did some paperwork. She was crocheting.”
“When did you last see her?”
“Around ten o’clock. We were getting ready for bed. I got an emergency call.”
“The breech birth?”
“No.” He cast a nervous look around the room. “Lefty’s. One of the, uh, waitresses got worked over by a customer.”
Bill took a visual survey of his deputies, who gave him various versions of a shrug. One said, “First we’ve heard of it.”
“Gert wanted it kept quiet,” Gabe said.
Lefty’s was a roadhouse that had the best burgers within fifty miles. Also the best whores. Sheriff Amos couldn’t vouch for that personally, but that was the general consensus known by everybody.
Lefty flipped burgers while his wife, Gert, oversaw the more lucrative side of the business. A ruckus of one sort or another was frequently incited by one of the “waitresses.” Inevitably those incidents resulted in somebody bleeding.
Bill reasoned that Gert wanted this incident kept quiet so not to draw the law’s attention to the place. Bill was well aware of the copious amount of bootleg liquor now being served in Lefty’s back room. He would need to get out there and deal with that, but it took a back burner to Mrs. Driscoll’s disappearance.
“You took care of the girl?” he asked Gabe.
“Yes.”
“Is she going to be all right?”
“In time. Can all this wait?”
The doctor’s patience was fraying. Bill had to keep him centered. “I’ve got to establish a time line, Gabe. What time did you get home and discover Mrs. Driscoll gone?”
“Late. On my way back into town, I stopped in to check on the breech birth. The baby had turned at the last minute. The delivery went fine. I checked out the mother and baby.” His voice hitched. “While my own wife and baby—”
“Gabe.” Bill spoke his name brusquely to keep him on track. “What time did you get home?”
“A little after one o’clock. I was exhausted, but hungry. I made a sandwich and ate it before going upstairs.” He looked down at his hands as though they held the answers. “Mila wasn’t in bed. Not in the bathroom. I turned the house upside down, searched the yard. When I couldn’t find her anywhere, I called here. That’s it.” When he looked up at Bill, his chin was quivering. “She wouldn’t have left on her own.”
“I don’t think so, either,” Bill said, briefly laying his hand on Gabe’s shoulder. “But let’s not panic. Backtrack a little. Was she in bed when you left for the roadhouse?”
“Yes. She wanted to get up and send me off with a thermos of coffee, but I wouldn’t let her. She needed the rest.”
“When you got home was there any sign of a disturbance? Broken latch? Anything like that?”
“No.”
Scotty chimed in. “We searched the house. Looked like nothing had been touched. No break-in. Led us to believe that Mrs. Driscoll let in whoever snatched her.”
Gabe Driscoll lunged to his feet. “Are you implying that my wife invited—”
“He’s not implying any such thing, Gabe,” Bill said. “Sit down.”
“I’m not going to sit down,” he shouted. “What’s wrong with all of you? Why are you just standing around? Why aren’t you out looking for her? She could be hurt. Dying. She could be—”
Suddenly the door was pushed open with a lot of impetus behind it. When Bill saw who filled the doorway, he thought, Shit! Drolly, he said, “Mayor.”
The Honorable Bernard Croft came inside and shut the door, bristling with self-importance. “Bill, what in hell is going on? Is it true? Mrs. Driscoll is missing?”
On a good day, Bill resented the city official’s meddling in the affairs of his department. The mayor had a way of creating a hullabaloo even when one wasn’t warranted, for his own aggrandizement.
Bill asked, “How’d you get wind of it?”
“Miss Eleanor Wise called me.”
“For what purpose?”
With condescension, Croft replied, “For the purpose of saving Mrs. Driscoll from the man who abducted her, Bill.”
“It hasn’t been established that—”
“Have you identified him yet?”
“Until you blazed in and interrupted, I was compiling the facts of the case.”
“How many facts do you need? Miss Wise described him to a tee.”
Everyone in the room gaped at him, Bill included. “What do you know about him?”
“I know I mistrusted him on sight,” he said. “I was reluctant to send him over there to your house,” he said, addressing Gabe. “But the ad was right there in Hancock’s window.”
Gabe placed his fingertips to his forehead. “Ad? For the room? I’d forgotten it was there.”
“He asked me for directions.” Then, in a defensive tone, the mayor added, “If I hadn’t told him, the next person he asked would have.”
“We stopped taking in a boarder a while ago,” Gabe said.
“I’m sure Mrs. Driscoll explained that to him, which means he had to look somewhere else for a place to stay.” Bill shouldered past the mayor and reached for his hat. “Scotty, stay with Dr. Driscoll. The rest of you, let’s go. Harold, bring a shotgun. Bernie, you can go on home.”
“You’ll need me to identify him.” Seeing that Bill was about to object, the mayor added, “Unless you’d rather take along Miss Eleanor Wise.”
Nine
When Thatcher had fallen asleep, it never crossed his mind that he would be awakened by having a gun barrel jammed against his cheekbone.
A German infantryman somehow had survived the no-man’s-land between his trench and the Americans’, and intended to chalk up at least one doughboy to his credit.
Thatcher flung up his hand and slammed the barrel of the shotgun into the soldier’s face. Flesh squished. Cartilage crunched. The man hollered.
Thatcher used that instant of the soldier’s shock and pain to come up out of the bed and leap over the foot rail, where he barreled into another of the enemy, previously unseen. This one was stocky and strong, but Thatcher had enough momentum to drive him back against a wall.
From behind, another wrapped his arms around Thatcher, pulled him off the stocky one, and wrestled him facedown onto the floor.
But there were more than just these three. Two others joined the melee. The five of them surrounded him, all shouting and grasping at him from every side, trying to secure his arms and legs. One had a hand on the back of his head, holding it down, his cheek against the floor.
He fought them with savage will. They may shoot him, bayonet him, but he was not going to be taken prisoner by these bastards.
He managed to throw off the hand holding his head down and escaped the others’ hold long enough to flip onto his back. Instinctually, he thrust his hands straight up into the face of the man straddling him. He had a thick mustache and a white cowboy hat.
Cowboy hat?
There was a five-pointed star badge pinned to his shirt. Engraved on it: Sheriff.
Jesus. The war was over. This wasn’t France. He was back in Texas. The men surrounding him weren’t German infantrymen. But he sure as hell had been in a life-or-death combat with them.
Before he could surrender himself, the backs of his hands were flattened to the floor on either side of his head. He took stock of the men encircling him. They were all breathing hard from having exerted themselves to restrain him. But even at that, he didn’t know what he’d done to warrant their judgmental bearing. They stared down at him with unsettling disdain.
All were strangers save one. Thatcher recognized the gold pocket watch chain strung across his vest. He was the most heavyset. Thatcher figured it had been him he’d crashed into and rammed into the wall.
He was the first to speak. “That’s him, all right.”
“You’re sure?” asked the one wearing the sheriff’s badge. He planted his hand on the center of Thatcher’s chest and pushed himself off him and to his feet. “What have you got to say for yourself, young man?”
“I woke up with a gun to my face. I was defending myself.”
“Or resisting arrest.”
“Arrest?”
The only light in the room spilled through the open doorway from the hall. These apparent lawmen cast long shadows across the bed and onto the ugly papered walls, enhancing the menace they conveyed. They meant business.
Thatcher repeated, “Arrest? What the hell for?”
“You’re sure this is him, Bernie?”
“Positive,” said the man with the gold watch fob. “I recognize him, and I recognize that bag. He had it with him.”
He motioned toward Thatcher’s army issue duffel bag, which he’d placed on the seat of the room’s one chair after deciding last night that he could delay unpacking till morning.
“Gather up all his belongings, put them in the bag, and bring it,” said the sheriff.
“You bet.” One of the uniformed men turned away to do his bidding.
The sheriff said to another, “Question everyone in the house. See if anybody knows anything about him.”
“Yes, sir.” That man edged past the footboard and left the room.
Another moved forward and bent over Thatcher. His nose was bleeding. It and his eyes were beginning to swell. He was holding a shotgun, no doubt the one Thatcher had smacked into his face.
The man grinned with malice. “Thought you’d just drift into our town and haul off with one of our women? Think again, hotshot.”
Then he flipped the shotgun and smacked the butt of it against Thatcher’s skull. The blow hurt like hell and made his vision go dark and sparkly for a moment, but it didn’t knock him out.
