“Too bad.” Garret’s mouth twisted wryly. “The United States Marshal’ll have to impound your files then.”
Her chin tilted up. “Who are you to threaten the Bender Corporation like this?”
“Name’s Bruce Garret. I was sent here by the O.P.M. to find if there’s anything rotten at the mine. It’s taken me less than an hour to learn there is. Plenty. How long it’ll take to clean it up depends on whether your brother is holding out on me, or whether you’re covering up for him.”
She reddened. “I’m not hiding anything. Neither is Ken. If you realized how hard he’s been fighting to keep Ajax over its quota output, you’d be more considerate.”
“Sorry I left my kid gloves back East,” he said drily. “From the reception I’ve had in Stope City so far, they wouldn’t be of much use here. As far as your brother goes, I don’t know anything about him, except he has a nice sister.”
Shirley tried a small smile.
“But he hasn’t been playing ball,” Garret went on. “I came to his office to find out about Darcy, so he tried to sidetrack me. He didn’t bother to ask what made me suspicious of your timber boss, and yet all the time he knew Darcy was up to some sort of crookedness. Even had your company guard captain watching him. Yet now, when evidence turns up against Darcy, your brother does his best to shunt me away from it. Suggests it’s really a trivial matter. I don’t like it. I don’t understand it.”
Her eyes were troubled. “I don’t understand what Ken’s been doing about Darcy, either. But I’m certain whatever Ken does is best for Ajax, in his judgment. You might at least give him credit for knowing more about the mine, after ten years running it, than you do after being in town only a couple of hours.” She turned on her heel, marched with head high into the outer office.
Garret was right behind her, in time to hear the super say to the operator, “Ask C. J. to meet us in five minutes at Darcy’s place, will you?”
The uniformed man who stood at Brann’s side scrutinized Garret with insolent blue eyes. Captain Bill Narriver had no need of the tightly fitted tunic, the flaring olive-drab breeches, polished puttees and jaunty Sam Browne belt to stamp him as a company guard.
He swung around and headed for the street as Ken Brann hung up. Garret kept step beside the super. On the threshold, the captain pivoted, his eyes narrowed.
“Where you think you’re going, mister?”
“To Darcy’s,” Garret said mildly. “Know anyone that wants to stop me?”
Narriver’s gaze shifted quickly to the super. But Brann merely gestured impatiently “It’s a free country, Bill. Darcy’s shack isn’t on company property. You can’t stop him from coming.”
They walked the quarter-mile to Darcy’s place, Brann and the captain ahead, Garret in the rear.
Garret watched the dump piles which rose on either side of the street like ramparts. It would be hard to find a better spot for a lurking assassin to hide. Garret had no illusions about the dangers of his assignment. One man already had died in connection with this business — two, if Yault’s decease should turn out to have been more than a mere accident. But it wasn’t the snuffing out of these lives that keyed the government man up to fighting pitch. There were many men who might die, for want of cartridges or shells that couldn’t be produced because copper was lacking.
“You find Sam Proctor with the truck, Bill?” Brann asked.
“Sure. He was asleep, full of hootch.”
“What’d you do with him?”
“Scared hell out of him. I left him to watch the truck. Sam claims he was acting under Darcy’s orders when he helped load the rails on the truck.”
“Probably,” Brann growled. “He wouldn’t have any way of knowing Darcy was intending to steal the stuff.”
Garret wasn’t so sure about that. For when the grey-haired man they called Sam Proctor climbed down from the cab of the truck, Garret had to catch himself to keep from saying:
“Well, well! Scat Prodger! When did they turn you loose!”
Liquor was strong on the man’s breath and his eyes were bloodshot, but there was nothing wrong with his vision. He recognized Garret instantly, and signaled a mute appeal for silence.
Garret walked past without appearing to give him a glance.
There had been a time when the name Scat Prodger was as familiar on police flyers as that of any ‘Wanted’ man in the country. But the safe blower must have come down considerably in the criminal scale if he was reduced to stealing old iron. In his prime, Scat would have disdained anything less than gold or greenbacks. Moreover, though Garret was familiar with his record, he failed to recall that Scat had ever been involved in any killings. So, unless the leopard had changed his spots considerably, this wasn’t the man who had blasted at Garret from that speeding car.
In that case — until Garret could actually connect Scat Prodger with the business in hand — there was no point in disclosing the old crook’s identity.
They stood at the rear of the big timber truck. A score of rust-reddened rail sections were piled on the floor. The steel derrick and block-and-tackle which had been used to hoist the heavy metal up on the truck were still rigged for use.
Brann snapped, “Sam?”
“Yes sir?”
“Darcy must have told you where to unload the stuff.”
“No, sir! He didn’t say. I s’pose he was going to dump it up by the hoist house.”
Narriver caught him by the back of the neck. “Don’t lie, you rat!” He shook the ex-con until his teeth chattered.
“That’s the truth,” Prodger muttered sullenly. “Jig parks the truck and goes in the house a minute. When he comes out, he says he has a hurry-up job to do, and I should stick around till he gets back. So I grab forty winks. When I snap outa it, I find I’ve been pounding my ear for an hour, and you’re here.”
Narriver released him, spun him around and slugged him in the mouth. Blood trickled down Prodger’s chin. His red-rimmed eyes glared fiercely, “Lay offa me, or some night I’ll cut you proper!”
The guard smashed at him again. Garret stepped in swiftly. “Take it easy, tough guy. Stick him in jail if you want to. But that uniform doesn’t give you any license to put him in the hospital.”
Prodger wiped his lips with the back of his sleeve. “He’s got no call to book me, neither.”
Brann put a restraining hand on the captain’s arm. “You’re involved in a theft of company property, Sam.”
“I ain’t stole nothing! I ain’t done a thing except obey orders my boss give me. If Jig was pulling anything, I wasn’t in on it.”
Narriver shook off Brann’s grasp, lunged for Prodger. “I caught you, mugg. Right with the rails you stole!” He jerked the smaller man’s wrist up back of his shoulder-blade.
Garret cut in sharply. “You’ll have one hell of a time establishing criminal intent, Captain. The iron is still on company property, as long as it’s in that truck.”
Narriver snarled, “I’ll worry about that after I take him in. And I can do without any more lip from you, mister.”
“Used to shutting people up whenever you don’t like what they have to say, aren’t you?” Garret put a palm, suddenly, on the guard’s chest and pushed him back. “Here’s once you don’t get away with it.”
The captain made an ugly sound deep in his throat. He let go of Prodger and swung a punch at Garret. Garret seized the flailing arm, yanked on it, and stuck out his foot. Pulled off balance, Narriver tripped and sprawled on all fours.
“You’re under arrest!” he roared. “Interfering with an officer in the performance—” He broke off, snatched at the leather holster buckled to his belt. Scat Prodger was scuttling off in the darkness, over the mounds of slag.