Jack The Roper (Axel Hatchett Mystery Book 6) Read online

  We got into Quartz Quarry about twelve-thirty, and I drove to Miss Weatherby’s place. Her DeSoto was no longer parked at the curb.

  “My goodness, what’s become of it?” she asked. Her eyes narrowed and she got a prim look on her face. “It’s that scoundrel, Billy, I’ll bet. Job interview indeed! You know what he’s done?”

  “Let me guess. He removed your car battery while everyone was asleep, and then as soon as we drove out of sight, he put it back. He’s off joyriding someplace.”

  “I think you are entirely correct. He’s stolen my car! Oh, Mr. Hatchet, could you track him down for me? I’ll have Ned give you a list of Billy’s favorite bars and haunts.”

  I shook my head so hard I could feel the sponge I use for a brain sloshing around.

  “No. I’ve done enough. Recovered your money, identified the rabbit-napper, and helped you get back Percy. I’m done. I’m ready for a week in the high lonesome, with no detective work whatsoever. That’s my final word.”

  “Of course, if you insist. Tell your blushing bride hello for me. Perhaps I can send Daisy out to look for Billy. She’s fairly reliable, when she’s sober.”

  4

  By the time I got back home, close to one, I was beat. The cut on my head was throbbing and the burgers I’d had for lunch were fighting it out in my belly. All I wanted was a hot shower and a long, long, nap. I was glad we didn’t have to drive up to the dude ranch until tomorrow morning. I parked the Chevy in front of my office and then ducked inside. I was carrying too much cash on me. My office had previously been inhabited by a lawyer, now retired. He’d left a wall safe — I guess he couldn’t figure out how to take it with him — behind a big picture of George Washington. I guess the painting was supposed to put the shyster lawyer’s clients at ease. He’d chop down cherry trees, but he wouldn’t lie about it.

  The blinds on my front window were pulled down. The place was dim. I shut the door and flipped on the light switch. The ceiling light came on and then went out with a popping noise. Damn! I started over to my desk where there was one of those lamps with a neck like a crane’s. Before I’d taken more than two steps, there were a couple of flashes of bright light and the sound of two shots. I hit the floor.

  Before I got my snub-nosed thirty-eight in my hand, the shooter was making for the side door of my office. He fired one more shot in my direction and slipped out the door, banging it behind him. I was up off the floor in a second, but by the time I got the side door open, the guy was gone. He’d headed down the little alleyway that runs along the side of the building. I considered chasing him, but — what the hell? — he’d just shoot me.

  My front door opened and Tracy came in, shouting: “Axe! Are you all right? I heard shots!”

  “I’m fine, princess,” I said, dusting off my clothes. My office floor isn’t as clean as it could be. Who has time for sweeping?

  “What happened?” Tracy asked, almost jumping into my arms.

  “Some mug with a gun broke into my office and threw a few slugs at me. I’m OK.” I checked myself to make sure that was true. I didn’t find any bullet holes or blood. I was damned lucky my light bulb had gone out when it did. I pointed at the ceiling light. “I’m keeping that bulb. It saved my life.”

  “We’ll have it stuffed and put it on the mantel.”

  “We don’t even have a fireplace.”

  “Well, let’s have one put in. You sure you’re OK?”

  “Never better.”

  “Why was the guy shooting at you?” Tracy was trying to lead me to the front door.

  “I’m not sure, but I have an idea. I think my new cousin Ned might be the shooter. He’s kind of crazy.”

  “Let’s call the cops.”

  “Let’s not. They’ll waste time and we don’t want to be late for our honeymoon. I’ll take care of this business when we get back home, believe me.”

  “No. We’ll call the cops. What if the guy comes back for a second try? Did one of those bullets hit your head?”

  “We’ll leave it for later,” I said.

  I started looking around for bullet holes. Two of the slugs had buried themselves in the doorframe. The third one had punched a hole in the ceiling.

  “Some marksman,” I said.

  “Don’t complain.”

  I went over and checked the side door. It looked like my would-be assassin had jimmied it open with a crowbar. There was no time to call a locksmith. I pushed a big bookcase over in front of it.

  “Come on, Tracy, let’s leave this dump.”

  Outside, we met Ben and Allie coming from the sandwich shop. Their eyes looked as big as saucers. They’re a round little couple from Romania or some damned place. They’re nice folks.

  “What happened?” asked Ben.

  “Nothing,” I said. “Some idiot got his dates mixed up. He thought it was the fourth of July. No harm done.”

  “Did someone shoot at your head?” asked Allie. She pointed at the hat I was holding in my hand. I looked at it. Damned if there wasn’t another couple of holes through it. That made four. A few months earlier, somebody had shot at me and Tracy while we stood in front of this same building. I was beginning to think we lived in the wrong neighborhood.

  “We will call the police,” said Ben.

  “Not now,” I said. “I’ll handle this when me and Tracy get back from our honeymoon. There’s no need to bother the boys in blue yet. This can wait.”

  “Of this you are sure?” asked Allie.

  “Everything’s fine,” I said.

  “You could have been killed,” said Tracy. “I wish you’d find a safer line of work.”

  “But there’s nothing as exciting! I like my job. Let’s step into the sandwich shop. I could use a cup of coffee.”

  We all piled into the place and Ben brought me a big cup of coffee.

  “Would you like a sandwich?” Ben asked me.

  “No thanks. I ate on the road. I had a couple of lively hamburgers. Too bad the gunman didn’t shoot me in the belly, maybe that would have made the burgers stop fighting each other.”

  “Don’t even say that, mister,” said Tracy. “You’re lucky you didn’t catch your death of lead poisoning.”

  “The guy was a lousy shot.”

  “He shot your hat. Good thing the slug bounced off your thick skull,” said Tracy. “How’d you make out with the bunny?”

  “Swell. I got the furry little guy back in one piece. I recovered the ransom money, and pegged the guy who swiped the rabbit. And we’ve got two-hundred smackers to show for it. All’s well that ends well.”

  “You look pretty worn-out, spud gut. Better take a nap.” Tracy smiled big. “I’ve got great news.”

  “You invented a new sandwich?”

  “Better than that, buster. I called the Carefree Buckaroo to make sure everything was all set for our stay.”

  “You called the dude ranch? That’s a long distance call. We ain’t made of money, cherry lips.”

  “You just made two-hundred dollars!”

  “Yeah, you’ve got a point. What’s the news?”

  “The folks who were staying in the cabin we’re going to have left early. We can go up today. They won’t charge us extra.”

  “Why’d they leave early?” I’m always suspicious. “Did the horses bite them, or was it the food that drove them away?”

  “I didn’t ask. What difference does it make? Hurry and take your nap. Ben and Allie are letting me off early. One of their daughters is coming in to work the rest of my shift. I’ll pack while you sleep. OK?”

  I didn’t think a short nap was going to do much for me. It would take several hours to drive up to the dude ranch. We’d be taking our truck, a 1937 Studebaker. It’d been Ben and Allies. They’d bought a new panel truck and had the name of their sandwich shop painted on the sides. They offered to sell the older truck to me and Tracy for a song, so I sang them one. I get detective work up in the mountains sometimes, and I knew a truck would come in handy. Tracy ha
ted driving it, so that would leave me to drive to the Carefree Buckaroo.

  I wanted to tell Tracy that I wouldn’t be up to traveling until the morning, but I can’t say no to the kid.

  “Swell,” I said. “That’s great news.”

  I climbed the stairs to our apartment. There seemed to be a whole lot of them. The kittens ran to greet me and I put my shower off long enough to play with them. I still call them kittens, but they’re mostly grown. Great big toms with a natural viciousness you usually have to pay extra for. I got out of my dirty clothes and limped to the shower while the cats tore the place apart. By the time Tracy came up, I was in bed asleep. I woke up just long enough to hear her come in. It seemed like only five minutes later that my wife shook me awake.

  “What?” I said, sleepily. “Is the place on fire?”

  “No. We’ll save the fire for our honeymoon nights. Speaking of which, we’d better get going. I know you don’t like driving in the mountains after dark. I’ve got the packing done. You’ve been asleep for hours.”

  “You kidding me?”

  “No. You’ve been snoring like a drunken sailor.”

  “Jeez, maybe that’s why I feel seasick. Let me get up and make some coffee.”

  “I already did. I’ll bring you a cup, just the way you like it, with a dead fly in it.”

  “Just like at Rocko’s. You ever miss the place?”

  “Don’t be a sap. My only good memory of working there was the day you walked in.”

  “The day I walked in you were mean to me.”

  “I was just playing hard to get, like the sappy dames in the movies. You weren’t exactly a sweetheart yourself.”

  “I was just being shy. Actually, I thought you were about as appetizing as Rocko’s greasy chili.”

  “So why’d you keep coming back?”

  “I was hoping the chow would toughen up my gut.”

  “You’re lying. You couldn’t get enough of me.”

  “And I never will, my little slushy snow cone.”

  I drank my coffee — two cups — and then we loaded up the truck with our suitcases, the litter box, and some sandwiches to eat on the road. We carried down Eben and Mayhew and put them in the truck cab with us. They climbed onto the back of the seat and looked out the window and started making zoo noises.

  “They’re excited,” said Tracy. “Wait until they see their first horses.”

  “You seem pretty excited yourself.”

  “Of course I am! And so are you, you big faker.”

  Tracy was right when she’d said I hate driving in the mountains at night, but we still had plenty of daylight when we started out. The roads were decent until we reached the small town of Quail Eye, then the blacktop turned to dirt, and the roads got narrow, crooked, and rutted. I was glad we’d taken the truck. The whole time I was driving, I’d been checking the rearview mirror for Ned’s Model A truck. He must have driven it when he visited me at my office. It’d be just like the idiot to follow me for a second try at ventilating my hide. However, I didn’t see any sign of an old pickup truck behind us.

  “Why do you keep looking in the mirror?” Tracy asked. “Just admiring your broken nose?”

  “I’m making sure the guy who shot at me isn’t following us. I don’t trust him.”

  “No? You’re an awfully suspicious guy. I’ll keep an eye out too. What kind of a jalopy are we looking for?”

  “A dark Model A pickup. It’s hard to say what color it is. It might have started out as blue or brown, but the years haven’t been good to it.”

  It was full dark and the sky was showing a million stars by the time our headlights lit up the Carefree Buckaroo sign. It featured a goofy-looking cowpoke with a toothy smile. Some gun-happy galoot had shot a few holes through the sign, peppering the cowboy’s nose and ruining his smile something awful.

  “That’s mean,” said Tracy.

  “I guess cowboys will be cowboys.”

  I turned into the driveway, clattered across a cattle guard and through an open gate, and followed the rutted road up to the ranch. It looked like a cramped ghost town squatting in the starlight. All of the structures were made of logs with the bark still on. They included a barn, a long low structure that was probably the chow house, a quaint two-storied house, and half a dozen pint-sized cabins. The roofs were swaybacked, and some of the latticed windows had been patched up with oiled paper. A big light on a pole lit up the buildings and the graveled parking area. I parked next to a DeSoto that looked awfully damned familiar. It couldn’t be. What the hell would Billy — or Miss Weatherby — be doing up here? I grunted something under my breath.

  “What’d you say?” asked Tracy.

  “Nothing. Happy honeymoon.”

  There were lights in some of the cabin windows, and one in the chow house. The present batch of dudes were scheduled to leave early in the morning. The new dudes would show up a little later.

  “Our cabin is number six,” said Tracy.

  “End of the row, huh? Listen, I’ll carry our suitcases over to the cabin if you want to go to the long building with the light on in it and fetch the key. Then we’ll unload our winsome boys. I don’t want them getting loose. They might kill an elk or something.”

  “I love elk, especially with gravy. Tell the cats to kill two. I’ll go get the key.”

  I got our suitcases out of the back of the truck — they were covered with road dust — and lugged them down to number six. A little yellow porch light was on. The porch was about the size of a doormat. I lit up a cigar and headed for the chow house. Tracy met me about halfway there. She had a big smile on her face.

  “Our very own cozy mountain cabin,” she said, handing me an old key with a wooden tag attached. “It’s so romantic.”

  “Wait until we get inside,” I warned. “The place could be full of barn owls and snakes.”

  “Naw. Maybe a packrat or two.”

  I stuck the key into a rusty lock and opened the door. It creaked. I felt around for a light switch and found one on the wall. A bare bulb lit up a tiny room that looked cozy in a derelict kind of way. There was a double bed with a crazy quilt spread on it, a tarnished brass horsehead lamp on a rickety nightstand, a hook rug on the pine floor, and a scarred cedar chest under the one window. There was a closet smelling of cedar, with some bent coat hangers in it. There was a big pickle jar with faded wild flowers on the cedar chest.

  “Home sweet home,” I said.

  Tracy threw herself into my arms and kissed me no more than a dozen times. Well, maybe a baker’s dozen.

  “Our very own honeymoon cottage!” she said. “And we can sleep in tomorrow because the new guests might check in late. Breakfast is at ten o’clock.”

  “Who’d you talk to in the big house?”

  “A buckaroo named Panhandle. Kind of pasty-faced for a cowboy, but he had the right kind of hat.”

  “Big guy? Soft around the middle? Stupid looking?”

  “How’d you know?” She gave me one of her suspicious squints.

  “I think I met him when he was still calling himself Billy. He’s one of the loons that was living with Miss Weatherby. He might have stolen her car. I saw it in the parking lot. His uncle is Miss Weatherby’s brother-in-law. I guess that means Billy is somehow related to Primus Roan.”

  “Axe, don’t go sticking your bloodhound nose into any more trouble.”

  “I won’t. I’m just wondering why Billy — Panhandle — is up here. He’s not much for working, I hear.”

  “He told me he just got here today.”

  “Swell. Let’s rescue the cats.”

  We went back out to the truck. I grabbed the litter box while Tracy corralled the cats and carried them, mewing, to our cabin. Tracy put them down on the floor and I put out their food, then looked around for a source of water for them.

  “Doesn’t this place have a bathroom?” I asked.

  “No. We’re roughing it, remember? Panhandle said there are outhouses in back of the
cabins, and a pump, and a shack to shower in.”

  “And for this we passed up Niagara Falls. Great. I guess I’ll go pump some water for Eben and Mayhew. I hope the well’s not poisoned.”

  Outside, the stars were still making a show, and it was getting pretty chilly. I pumped water into the cat dish and went back to the cabin. Tracy had already changed into a pink nightgown I’d never seen before. It did nice things to her curves.

  “Welcome back, cowboy,” she said. “The bed looks kind of lumpy, but I don’t think we’ll mind. We can massage it into shape.”

  “Sounds like fun.”

  I grabbed her and kissed her. The rest of the night went by pretty fast.

  The next morning, our tinny wind-up alarm clock went off at nine. I slapped it quiet and we stayed in bed a little longer. Then Eben and Mayhew got in the bed and wouldn’t leave us alone.

  “I think they like it in the mountains,” said Tracy.

  “Who doesn’t like the mountains?”

  We got dressed, visited the smelly privies out back, and moseyed over to the grub house. There were a bunch of cars in the parking lot. I looked at the license plates. Texas, Kansas, New Jersey, Illinois, and a couple of fellow Coloradans. Some of the cars no doubt belonged to the dudes who were leaving.

  “It’s a beautiful day,” said Tracy.

  I couldn’t argue with that. The sun was well up in the sky, the birds were making noise, and the air smelled like it was brand new.

  Four more greenhorns — two couples — joined us as we walked in the door of the chuck house. Inside there was a third couple, already cued up at a food-burdened buffet table, with tin plates in their hands. We all joined them.

  The room was big and featured knotty pine paneling and varnished logs for pillars and beams. We loaded our plates with scrambled eggs, bacon, toast, coaster-sized pancakes, and homemade doughnuts. We took our full plates over to a couple of long pine tables — like outsized picnic tables — and went to work on the grub. The whole gang — including me, I’m sorry to say — was dressed in spanking new Western apparel. Jeans, shiny new cowboy boots, fancy checked shirts with flap pockets and pearl buttons. Two of the men wore pristine cowboy hats. I wore my old fedora with the bullet holes through it.