Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 27, No. 1, September 17, 1927
- Автор: Valentine, Corley H. W.
- Год: 1927
- Язык: английский
- Год: The Red Star News Company
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 27, No. 1, September 17, 1927». Краткое содержание книги:
The old judge, his face very grave, arose, went to the younger man, put an arm around his shoulders and, although they were alone, spoke to him in a whisper:
“John,” he said soberly, “I’m not thinking about politics, I’m thinking about you. Arrest Bill Wacker, and he’ll fight back with every weapon he can lay his hands on. You’re happily married, but Anne doesn’t know about Flossie Nicholas. Bill Wacker does — and he’ll tell.”
Young Barrett’s eyes were those of one who looks upon a ghost. “That all happened before I knew Anne,” he managed to say.
“It never should have happened at all.”
“I’m only human — we thought we loved each other.”
“Bill Wacker’s human, too. He’s so human he’ll no more be able to resist revenge than you and Flossie were able to resist what you thought was love. Think of Anne.”
This piece of advice was unneeded. The prosecuting attorney’s unhappy eyes were staring fixedly at a silver-framed portrait on his desk, the portrait of a cool, sweet girl in wedding finery.
After a long moment, the prosecuting attorney roused himself from his reverie, threw back his shoulders, drove his clenched right fist against his open left hand and said doggedly: “I’m going to arrest Bill Wacker and indict him and convict him. Please make out the warrant.”
Regret and admiration fought in the old judge’s face as he seated himself at the desk and drew toward him a sheaf of legal blanks. For a moment or so, the only sound in the room was the scratching of his pen.
Young Barrett, who had returned to the window where he stood looking into the night, broke the tense silence. As if speaking to himself more than to his companion, he muttered: “My father used to tell me that his idea of a man was Admiral Farragut. ‘Damn the torpedoes! Go ahead!’ ”
“Your father was right,” announced the judge, in the voice of one who is inwardly amused. “But I don’t remember that Farragut ever lashed himself to the rigging and led his fleet through Merida County. You’re starting something that’ll keep you busy damning torpedoes and going ahead. Here’s your warrant.”
The prosecuting attorney, with the document in his hand, searched the other’s face. “Between ourselves,” he asked, “you don’t think I’ll convict Bill Wacker?”
The old judge lighted a stogy before he replied. “Between ourselves,” said he, “I know Bill Wacker’ll get a fair trial in the court room. Which is more than you’ll get outside. If you’re going home. I’ll give you a lift.”
“I’m not going home just now,” Barrett told him. “I’m going down to the Bella Union Hotel and serve this warrant on Bill.”
His old eyes shining with pride, the judge bit hard into his stogy. “Damn the torpedoes!” he chuckled. “Go ahead!”
As the young prosecuting attorney walked slowly through the sleeping street toward the Bella Union Hotel — the only civic institution in Merida City, except the railroad station and the jail, that stayed open all night — he could not free his mind from the thought that he had invited himself into a game where the percentage was all against him.
More than a week had passed since the drunken and turbulent sheep man, Pedro Alvarado, had tried to drive a flock of thirty ewes into the office of Bill Wacker’s hotel, and had been killed for his pains. During that week, a coroner’s jury had decided that “said deceased had come to his death from a gunshot wound inflicted by a party or parties to this jury unknown.”
This verdict seemed to have met with the general approbation of the community; and nobody knew better than the native-born prosecuting attorney that public sentiment would be dead against his attempt to go back of the verdict.
Yet he, working alone, had discovered concerning the killing of the unpopular sheep man certain facts about which the public knew nothing; and it was his discovery of those facts which had made him say to himself: “The trail leads straight to Bill Wacker’s door. It’s my duty to follow it.”
To no one, not even to the wise and honest old Judge Oglesby, had he said anything about the new evidence he had unearthed; to no one, except his wife and Judge Oglesby, had he said anything about his decision to proceed against the popular politician.
And neither of the only two persons who knew he had taken the trail against the man, with whom he had been upon friendly terms since the days when he was punching cattle and studying law at the same time, had received the knowledge with much enthusiasm.
“Don’t be a persecutor,” had been the old judge’s first advice. “Don’t be a fool,” had been the young wife’s first and last; “I just know if you fight Mr. Wacker you’ll never be elected Congressman, or Governor, or anything. So, don’t be a fool.”
Curiously enough, it was neither his ambitious wife, nor his conservative friend, nor even the influential Bill Wacker, that now was in the front of the mind of the slow-walking prosecuting attorney, whose obstinacy was more or less hinted at in the nickname by which he formerly was known among his fellow cow-punchers.
When Knot-Headed Barrett was within a few yards of the stronghold of Bill Wacker, what was in the front of his mind was the image of his sweetheart of other days — the Flossie Nicholas, who had been called, among other things, generous, and loyal — but never ambitious or influential or conservative. The image of this raven-haired, sultry-eyed dance hall girl — her own intrepid little self long gone no one knew whither — persisted even after the hand she had held so often had closed round the china knob on Bill Wacker’s door.
“Well,” the prosecuting attorney of Merida County said to himself, a far-away look in his eyes, “I’m happily married, just like Judge Oglesby says, and I love my wife. But Floss was a square-shooter, and, wherever she is, I wish her luck. Only I hope she don’t need it quite as much as I need all the luck I can get right now.”
He turned the china knob of the door that never had known a key, and walked into the office of an all-night establishment which was going full blast.
On his right, as he entered, was the double doorway leading into the big combination barroom and gambling hall whence came loud talk and laughter, the rattle of glasses and of poker chips, the hum of the roulette wheel and the tinny music of a mechanical piano.
He started toward that doorway, but halted when he heard his name called from behind the desk in the smoke-filled office.
“Hello, Jack!” boomed a friendly voice, and from behind the desk, where at first he had not seen him, there lounged out a big, breezy, hearty man in shirt sleeves, his broad, tanned face, even his bald, pink head, seeming to shine with welcome.
“Hello, Bill!” answered the prosecuting attorney, as Bill Wacker advanced with outstretched hand to greet him. “But before we shake hands, I’ve got to tell you you’re under arrest.”
“I’m what?” demanded the big man in amazement, staying his hand.
“You’re under arrest for the murder of Pedro Alvarado,” said the other quietly. “Here’s the warrant.”
But not so quietly did big Bill Wacker receive it. As soon as his angry, gray eyes had swiftly scanned the document, he let out a roar of rage that stifled all the talk and laughter in the adjoing room, and brought round him and Knot-Headed Barrett a circle of interested, silent faces.
“You damn fool!” he clamored. “You think you’re goin’ to arrest me because a drunk comes in my hotel an’ gets killed in a fight? An’ me not even here till it’s all over? Well, you ain’t! Here’s what I think of you an’ your warrant! Now, get out of here an’ don’t come back!”