‘Your stoolie was right, Ben,’ Lieutenant Victorio Bianco said, looking through the window of the Packard Super Eight sedan which had been selected by the man behind the steering wheel as being sufficiently in keeping with the surroundings to pass unnoticed amongst the other vehicles in the parking lot of the North Dallas Golf and Country Club. ‘It is Big Frankie Wright from out of Philly. I’m sorry we couldn’t send you a mug-sheet with photographs and fingerprints, but we’ve never been able to get him on anything to let us set one up.’

There was nothing about the outer appearance of the vehicle or its two occupants to suggest they were peace officers engaged upon a surveillance intended to allow the speaker to identify the man indicated by the driver.

About five foot nine and slim, Bianco had glossy black hair slicked straight back above handsome olive-skinned features and he wore dapper attire in the latest Eastern fashion. Despite looking like a gigolo from a high class dance hall, he was a Lieutenant of the Philadelphia Police Department with a reputation for tough and incorruptible competence.

About three inches taller, with the lean build of one still engaged in strenuous activities, Major Benson Tragg might have been a prosperous rancher in town on business. In fact, although he owned a ranch and spent what time he could there, he was a Major of the Texas Rangers. His lightweight brown suit was Western in cut and the calf-high brown riding boots, which he wore inside the legs of his trousers, had the high heels and sharp toes still favored by cowhands. However, excellent though the fit otherwise was, his tailor had not been entirely successful when making the jacket in concealing the bulge of a short barreled and heavy caliber Colt revolver holstered butt forward on the left side of his waist belt.

‘It happens,’ Tragg drawled philosophically, his accent that of a native born Texan. Knowing the information had come indirectly from Hogan Turtle, the current head of a family whose connections with law breaking in Texas went back to the days before independence was won from Mexican domination, ⁸ he contrived to refrain from showing the amusement he felt over hearing its source described as a “stoolie”. ‘Only I think “Shorty” would be closer to it if he didn’t have those built up heels and soles on his shoes. How come the “Big Frankie”?’

‘You know the blown up ego all his kind have,’ Bianco replied, also eyeing the man under discussion in a less than flattering fashion. ‘He likes to think nobody notices how short he is and folks who know him go along with it if they want to keep a safe skin. We wondered where he and some of his boys had gone when they disappeared after Chief Ballinger started the big clean-up in Philly. Then you sent word they’d all moved down here to Big D.’

‘I figured Sam would like to know,’ Tragg admitted, having been in contact by telephone with Chief of Police Samuel Ballinger—a friend of long standing—in Philadelphia as soon as he received the news from Turtle.

‘The D.P.D.’ve located the Talker, Dirty Kev Bradshaw and some of the others, but they’ve been so well behaved since they hit town there’s nothing to pull them in for. What’s more, so far as the local badges know, except for the Talker meeting up with him a couple of times and Bradshaw dogging him around at a distance ‘most everywhere he goes, the rest haven’t been near him and he’s living all clean and respectable among the rich folks.’

‘He always did,’ Bianco asserted grimly. ‘Even though we know how close he came to running Philly the way the mobs have got Chicago sown up, we haven’t been able to nail him for so much as a parking ticket. No matter what his game is and I’m certain he has one, it’ll be the same down here.’

‘That’s why we’re taking a hand,’ Tragg stated, being in command of the elite—albeit unknown outside a very small circle of high ranking officials in the State Legislature—Company “Z” of the Texas Rangers. ‘We’re going to find some way we can say, “Mr. Philo Anstruther, we know that’s just a summer name and you’re Big Frankie Wright from Philadelphia, so you and your boys’re persona non grata hereabouts, which means we’ve got enough home grown owlhoots and you’d best get the hell out of Texas.” ’

‘I was hoping you’d be able to do more than just that.’

‘We’ll surely try. Don’t you have anything at all on Wright?’

‘Not a thing, like I said,’ the Lieutenant confessed. ‘He’s always covered his tracks too well. But we’ve got plenty on some of the other members of his mob. Tongues started wagging when word got out that Big Frankie and his top boys had left town. That’s why I’m here, to put the arm on them and have them extradited back to Philly for trial. Even if we can’t get their boss, we’ll have them.’

‘Why sure,’ Tragg said. ‘But, happen you go along with us, we might be able to do a mite more than that.’

‘I’d be all for it!’ Bianco enthused, hoping against hope that the “mite more” would include some way of arresting and convicting Wright. ‘What do you have in mind?’

‘Stirring things up a mite for his boys,’ Tragg replied. ‘Get them wondering what the hell’s going on. I’ve told Sam something of what we have in mind and he agrees there’s no rush for you to start putting the arm on them, so you can relax and take yourself a vacation.’

‘I won’t argue about that,’ the Lieutenant said with a grin. ‘What I’ve seen so far, Dallas looks like it could be an interesting place.’

‘It could be,’ the Major conceded. ‘Except you’ll be staying on a friend’s ranch out of town and won’t be coming in until you’re needed.’

‘I should’ve known the Chief wouldn’t be handing out vacations that easy,’ Bianco sighed. ‘When do you start with whatever we’ve got in mind?’

‘It’s started already,’ the Major declared.

 

‘You look annoyed, Talker,’ Francis Wright remarked in his cultured Chicago accent, having glanced around to make sure there was nobody else in the locker room of the North Dallas Golf and Country Club to hear what he was saying.

Although they were the two leading members of the same gang, there was a great contrast in the appearances of the speaker and the man to whom the words were directed.

As Major Benson Tragg had intimated, even with the assistance of his two-toned shoes’ extra thick soles and heels, Wright was of no more than middle height. What had formerly been a stocky and powerful body had run to fat as the result of over indulgence in luxurious living. Black-haired, albeit going bald, his sallow and somewhat porcine features were suggestive of a libertine, in spite of a shrewd glint in his deep set eyes. However, although he had been just that in his younger days, since rising to power in Philadelphia, his life had been far more innocent than that of his companion.

Close to six foot, despite having a bulky body clearly gone to seed as a result of his licentious habits, Michael ‘the Talker’ Buffong was a far more imposing physical specimen. Also in his late forties, he had a full head of white hair framing a still good looking face. A former attorney disbarred for malpractice, even dressed casually for the golf game he had just concluded, he gave the impression of being very wealthy and distinguished which was a most useful asset to him in his capacity of contact man for the gang. There were several women who had discovered too late his true unsavory nature and the realization had cost one of them her life.

‘I’ll say I’m annoyed!’ the Talker agreed in his Back Bay Bostonian tones, slamming down his right spiked golf shoe and starting to unlace the other. ‘I’ve just been rooked!’

‘You!’ Wright grunted, knowing his associate to be something of an expert where taking an unfair advantage when playing golf was concerned. ‘How come?’

‘I took on a young man who looked rich enough to make it worth my while,’ Buffong replied. ‘He looked like a pigeon and said he played off a ten handicap. God damn it, if he was more than a five, then I’m a-.’

‘What did you say you played off?’ the gang leader asked, as the words died away due to an inability to think of a suitable simile.

‘I said I was ten as well,’ the Talker replied sullenly, having been warned by his boss against being too blatant over cheating. ‘We were playing for a hundred bucks nassau, with an automatic press on the back. ⁹ I’d taken the front nine by a hole, but he pulled back when he found out I’d been playing the wrong ball by mistake and we were all square on the seventeenth with only the long par five left to play. He said we should have a hundred dollars on it as well as the nassau to make the game interesting. When I pretended to hesitate, he told me he’d give me two shots on the hole if I’d give him a free throw and, even though I didn’t know what he meant, I agreed.’

‘So how come you lost?’ the gang leader inquired, realizing the advantage offered by the terms despite also being ignorant of what a ‘free throw’ entailed.

‘We were both on the green in three,’ the Talker explained, his tone and expression bitter. ‘And I said, “Well, I’ve two shots up on you to get her in the cup for game.” He said, “Sure, but I still have to have my free throw.” And damned if he didn’t pick up my ball and throw it into that son-of-a-bitching deep sand trap to the left of the green!’

‘What’d you do about that?’ Wright inquired, after laughing and deciding to use the ploy some time.

‘What the hell could I do?’ Buffong snarled. ‘It took me four to get out of the sand and three putts. He went down in two. So I paid him off, but I’ll be damned if he’s going to get away with it. I’ll have the check stopp—’

‘The hell you will!’ the gang leader interrupted coldly. ‘I’ve told you before that I don’t want you or any of the other boys doing anything to draw attention to yourselves. If you stop it, he’ll complain to the Committee and, if he’s as smart as I reckon he must be, he could tell them about the tricks you pulled. So let it ride.’

‘Whatever you say,’ the Talker acceded with bad grace, knowing there was no point in denying he had employed unfair tactics during the game. ‘Are you playing today?’

‘Sure,’ Wright confirmed and his voice took on a smug timbre. ‘With Judge Robespierre.’

‘Hell,’ Buffong grunted, giving no indication of being impressed. ‘By all accounts, he’s the straightest and most incorruptible Judge in Texas.’

‘Don’t I know it?’ Wright answered. ‘And that’s the reason I’m playing with him. I figure knowing law abiding folks like him and the others I mix with could come in real useful in a pinch.’ Then, adopting the air of considering the matter closed and wanting to deal with more important issues, he inquired, ‘How’re you getting on?’

‘There’s no change. I can’t get to anybody.’

‘Don’t tell me everybody in this god-damned burg is honest!’

‘No, but the ones who aren’t have already tied up with Hogan Turtle and they aren’t willing to run the risk of breaking with him.’

‘I knew there was always that chance,’ Wright asserted.

‘But you said we’d only need one on the take from us and there’d soon be more of them come running.’

‘That’s the way it was in Philly,’ Buffong reminded, refraining from pointing out that the suppositions with regards to Dallas had been drawn by his boss. ‘Only I’m damned if I’ve been able to connect with him so far.’

‘Keep trying,’ Wright ordered. ‘And there’s another thing. Dirty Kev keeps following me every place. Tell him this isn’t Philly and I don’t need a torpedo riding around after me.’

‘You know Dirty,’ the Talker answered. ‘He always followed you in Philly and once he gets an idea in his head, it’s hard to move. Anyway, I’ll pass him the word.’

‘Don’t just pass him the word!’ Wright corrected, making it a policy never to address any other member of his gang personally and only meeting his second in command for short periods in places like the locker room where they were unlikely to attract attention if seen together. All other communication between them was over the telephone. ‘You see he quits!’

‘Whatever you say, Frankie,’ Buffong assented.

Despite the assurance, the Talker, had no intention of carrying it out. He had never been particularly enamored of the way in which his leader ran things. It had been sufficiently annoying when everything was going well in Philadelphia, but he considered the situation had changed radically since they arrived in Texas. He never forgot that, in addition to living in a very expensive and luxurious apartment—while the rest of the gang, Buffong included, occupied less lavish accommodation on the grounds of there being a need to economize until taking over the town—Wright alone had access to the nine hundred thousand dollars salvaged from their loot when they were compelled to flee from their previous haunts. Therefore, instead of doing as he was ordered, he intended to warn Kevin ‘Dirty Kev’ Bradshaw—the enforcer for the gang—to be more circumspect while continuing the surveillance.

‘That’s him just coming in!’ the Talker snarled, glancing towards the door leading to the course.

‘Don’t let him see us together!’ Wright ordered. ‘I might have a chance to play him and get your money back!’

Paying no attention to the bitter scowl directed his way by Michael Buffong before stalking angrily towards the entrance to the showers, Francis Wright looked with interest at the man who entered the locker room. One glance was all he needed to know about why the Talker had not raised any physical objection to the trick that had been played on him. He was willing to admit that he would have shown similar restraint under the circumstances.

A good six foot three in height, with golden blond hair and exceptionally handsome features, the newcomer was in his early twenties and had a muscular development which was well beyond the average. What was more, despite his size and obvious strength, he carried himself lightly and looked capable of moving very fast should the need arise. Glancing at his expensive looking gold wrist-watch, he went and opened a locker. Having taken off his short sleeved sports shirt and shoes, instead of going to the shower-room, he picked up a towel from the bench and began to dry his massive torso. Then he donned a white

silk shirt, a yellow cravat of the same material, gray flannel slacks and high heeled, sharp toed black Western boots. However, what happened next caused the watching gang leader to take an even greater interest in him. Removing an open fronted spring-retention shoulder holster carrying a large revolver from the locker, he donned it without making any attempt to avoid being seen doing so. With it in position, he put on a black blazer with a badge of some kind attached to the left breast pocket and, placing the attire he had removed into the locker, strolled out of the room.

A pensive expression came to Wright’s face. Although Dallas was more lax about such matters than Philadelphia would have been, for the young man to be so blatant in strapping on a gun implied he must be a peace officer of some kind. The gang leader considered any ‘badge’ who wore such obviously costly attire and belonged to an expensive establishment like the North Dallas Golf and Country Club was worthy of closer study. What was more, the way he had taken the Talker for a fair sum of money suggested he was lacking in scruples and getting to know him better might prove beneficial.

‘’Scuse me, Mr. Anstruther,’ one of the club’s colored pages said, coming up as the gang leader was deciding to tell Buffong to renew the young man’s acquaintance. ‘Judge Robespierre’s done called on the telephone and says he powerful sorry, but he can’t make the game with you ‘count of something’s come up.’

Grunting noncommittally, Wright changed his mind. Instead of waiting for the Talker to return from the showers, he went into the dining-room. Pausing at the door, he saw the young man was sitting at a table and, wondering how he could begin a conversation, he walked forward. Before he arrived, he was forestalled by seeing Symonds, the head waiter, going to the blond giant holding a letter with a bank heading to which a check was attached.

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ Symonds said in a low voice which nevertheless reached Wright’s ears. ‘But I’ve been informed by the Management Committee that we can’t allow you to sign for any more meals or drinks until this check which came back from the bank has been cleared.’

‘Then I’ll pay cash,’ the blond giant stated, but he looked embarrassed as he reached towards his inside right breast pocket. ‘I don’t have the money with me, but you can cash this check I’ve been given and cover my tab.’

‘That’s against the Club’s rules, I’m afraid, sir,’ the head waiter replied.

‘Symonds,’ Wright called, realizing he was being given exactly the opportunity he desired and striding forward. A young peace officer living beyond his means could prove susceptible to bribery and provide the “rotten apple” necessary to persuade others to change their allegiance from Hogan Turtle to his gang. Normally, he would have left such negotiations to Buffong. However, he had noticed that a less respectful attitude had arisen from his second in command since their arrival in Dallas and he decided that a demonstration of success where the Talker had failed could prove sufficient to re-establish the status quo between them. ‘Judge Robespierre can’t keep our appointment and I hate eating alone. Perhaps this young gentlemen might care to join me.’

‘I’d be pleased to, sir,’ the blond giant declared without hesitation or embarrassment. His voice was that of a Texan from humbler circumstances than was suggested by his clothes and surroundings. ‘The name’s Longley, William A. Longley, but my amigos call me “Bad Bill”.’

‘I’m pleased to have your company, Mr. Longley,’ Wright asserted, after he had introduced himself by his alias to his guest and, having taken the order for their meal, the head waiter had departed. ‘And more so since I know how poorly you police officers are paid.’

‘Poor’s the word for it,’ the big young Texan drawled wryly. ‘But how’d you guess I was a badge?’

‘I saw you strapping on your gun in the locker room,’ the gang leader explained. ‘And, even though we’re in Texas, that suggested you were a lawman of some kind.’

‘The suggestion’s right, sir,’ the blond giant confirmed. ‘I’m a detective and work out of Headquarters.’

‘Have you been a member here for long?’ the gang leader asked, seeing the badge on the blazer was not that of the North Dallas Golf And Country Club.

‘I’m not a member,’ the Texan corrected. ‘But a gent who is lets me play as his guest because I did him a couple of favors.’

‘Was that who you were playing with this morning?’

‘Nope. Some jasper from up North tried to take me for a sucker, but got trimmed down a mite instead.’

The food arrived and, while eating it, Wright was given a description of the tricks pulled by Buffong in attempting to win the game and those used by the blond giant to counter them. The gang leader bellowed with genuinely appreciative laughter on learning how his guest had evened the score by having contrived to change the Talker’s ball when taking it from the cup on the sixteenth green and, this having gone unnoticed, had won the next hole by default. However, while amused by the thought of the Talker having been beaten by a better trickster, nothing Wright had heard caused him to revise his opinion that he had met a young peace officer whose honesty was questionable and who might be open to corruption where duty was concerned.

‘Didn’t I see you out at the race track a couple of days back?’ the gang leader inquired, noticing no mention was made of the trick which won the game for his guest and refraining from raising the matter. Receiving an answer in the affirmative, he went on, ‘That was quite a good looking girl you had with you.’

‘Good looking’s the word,’ the blond giant admitted. ‘And damned expensive.’

‘She looked as if she might be,’ the gang leader commented, then changed the subject. ‘By the lord, they serve good food here.’

The conversation became more general while the meal continued. However, so engrossed had Wright become in his guest and prospective candidate for the sought-after ‘rotten apple in the barrel’ that he did not notice Buffong was watching them from a table at the other side of the room. While having an after-lunch cocktail, served as ‘tea’ in a cup to avoid a too blatantly obvious flouting of the Prohibition laws, Wright mentioned he had received a traffic ticket on his way home from the race track and waited to see if the unspoken hint was accepted. However, nothing happened until he and the blond giant were walking towards the front entrance.

‘I’ll see to it for you, Mr. Anstruther,’ the young man drawled in a confidential fashion which nevertheless was just loud enough for Buffong to hear. ‘And don’t worry. Nobody’ll know you told me.’

The Talker had not been able to listen to what was said while the pair were at their table, so he had no idea what caused the cryptic comment. Nor had his attempt to learn more proved successful. The waiter, asked for information, supplied the Texan’s name, but disclaimed all knowledge of what his occupation might be. Therefore, at that moment, Buffong suspected his boss of nothing more than having selected his opponent in the unsatisfactory golf game as a guest for lunch in order to antagonize him.

The belief continued until the Talker received a telephone call from Bradshaw at six o’clock that evening!

‘They’ve put the arm on Phil the Weasel!’ the enforcer announced without preamble.

‘What’s he been up to?’ Buffong demanded, sharing Wright’s desire to avoid having attention drawn to the presence of the gang in Dallas.

‘He’s not been up to anything here,’ Bradshaw stated. They’ve pulled him in for that fur heist in May and’re holding him until the cops in Philly can get papers for extradition.’

‘Do they have enough to hold him for that?’ the Talker asked.

‘I’ll say they do,’ the enforcer asserted. ‘The mouthpiece I sent down to try to get him sprung says they know where to find the truck the Weasel and his boys used, the route they took going to the warehouse and coming away, who else was in on it and enough more to make the nab stick. Hell, who could’ve spilled all that?’

‘There aren’t many,’ Buffong assessed pensively.

‘You’d best tell the boss what’s happened,’ Bradshaw suggested. ‘I reckon, even with all the fancy new friends he’s making, he’ll want to know.’

‘I suppose he will,’ the Talker agreed, sensing the enforcer was sharing his misgivings over the way things were going in Dallas. Hanging up, he dialed the number of Wright’s apartment and, having delivered the news, went on, ‘What shall we do?’

‘Tell the Weasel to keep his mouth shut while I figure out a way to get him turned loose,’ the gang leader ordered. ‘The first thing, though, is to find out who did the squealing.’

‘How can we do that?’ Buffong inquired, having been giving the same subject consideration and arrived at a worrying conclusion.

‘I’ll see if Longley can get to know for us.’

‘Longley!’

‘Sure. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten the young feller who took you in the golf game this morning?’

‘I’m not likely to forget him,’ Buffong said bitterly. ‘But he told me he was in the oil business. So how can he help?’

‘Because the only connection he’s got with the oil business is putting some on his gun,’ Wright explained and his voice took on a smugly self-satisfied timbre. ‘He’s a dick working out of Headquarters here in town. What’s more, he’s the rotten apple in the barrel you couldn’t find.’

 

Watching his boss approaching between the two lines of cars in the parking lot of the Banyan Club, accompanied by an attractive red-haired girl whose ‘flapper’ attire set off a much better developed figure than was currently considered the height of fashion, Kevin ‘Dirty Kev’ Bradshaw was filled with resentment and suspicion.

Just under six foot in height, thickset and powerfully built, the enforcer had a face with a muddy complexion—responsible for his sobriquet—which was not improved by a jagged scar down his left cheek. He was dressed in the snap-brimmed gray-fedora hat, three piece pin-striped suit—the jacket having extra wide lapels and well padded shoulders—and other attire made popular by gangsters in Chicago. However, already his expensive and formerly immaculate clothes were showing signs of much wear, indicative of his greatly changed circumstances.

Since arriving in Dallas, like the other eight members of the gang who had fled with Francis Wright, Bradshaw had been compelled to accept far less affluent conditions than those to which he had grown accustomed while they were running things around Philadelphia. Because the sum was far lower than he had grown used to receiving, it had become increasingly irksome to exist upon the money doled out to them through the Talker. Nor could they supplement it in their new location as they had been able to previously. No longer could they go into a bar, restaurant, or shop, and expect service without payment because they were known to be Big Frankie’s ‘top boys’. Instead, they were reduced to paying cash for every purchase and were barred from doing anything illegal to augment their finances. While they accepted that the Talker required a better standard of living, in order to acquire the opportunity to make the required contacts for them to start operating again, they were less enamored of their boss still indulging in his tastes for a luxurious existence and also his insistence on not dealing with them personally.

Nor was the situation improved by the latest news to have reached Bradshaw. For the fourth time in as many days, a member of the gang had been arrested for a crime committed before their enforced departure and was being held for extradition to Philadelphia. What was more, each of them was picked up within a couple of hours of the enforcer having seen his boss in conversation with the big blond peace officer. Despite having heard the explanation that the Texan was the ‘rotten apple in the barrel’ sought as a prelude to taking over the town, Bradshaw, prompted by hints from the Talker, was becoming increasingly suspicious of the reason for the meetings.

Like Michael Buffong and the rest of the gang, Bradshaw never forgot that Wright alone knew where the money brought from Philadelphia was located. That, rather than believing his services as a bodyguard might be needed, was the reason he had continued to follow his boss since coming to Dallas. Therefore, despite having been told he must quit, he had done as the Talker suggested and kept up the observation without letting himself be detected by Wright.

That evening, Big Frankie had collected the blond giant and the girl from an apartment in downtown Dallas and had brought them to this expensive night club. It was the sort of place Bradshaw had frequented in Philadelphia and he was annoyed that his financial condition was insufficient for him to follow them inside. Instead, he had been compelled to remain in his car and wait for them to come out. To help pass the time, he had smoked a succession of cigarettes made from marijuana and these always had an adverse effect upon his temper and judgment. By the time his boss and the girl put in their appearance, he had worked himself into a state of anger which overrode every other consideration. He did not even wonder where the big Texan might be. Instead, thrusting himself from the car, he lurched towards the couple.

‘Who’s it to be this time, Frankie?’ the enforcer snarled.

‘What the—?’ Wright began, as he and the girl came to a halt. Peering through the gloom he recognized the speaker and revised his first assumption that a hold up was contemplated. Starting to move forward and trying to prevent his seething anger from being noticed by his companion, he went on, ‘You’d best go ho—!’

‘Don’t try to brush me off, you bastard!’ Bradshaw warned, shooting out his left hand to catch his boss by the arm. ‘Every time you—!’

Before the words ended, there was a dramatic interruption!

Rising from behind and vaulting across the hood of the nearest car, the big Texan continued to move with a surprising speed for one of his size and bulk. Releasing Wright, the enforcer let out a profanity and sent his right hand under the left side of his jacket. The movement was duplicated at an even greater speed by the blond giant. Twisting the big British-made Webley-Fosbery .455 automatic-revolver from the spring retention shoulder holster with the deftness indicative of much practice, he did not use it as a firearm. Instead, continuing the swing which brought it clear, he slammed the six inch long hexagonal barrel against the side of Bradshaw’s jaw. Spun around with his weapon still not clear of leather, the rig being less suited for rapidity of withdrawal than that of his assailant, he pitched face down and unconscious to the ground.

‘I saw this yahoo dogging us all the way here,’ the Texan commented as he rolled the unresisting enforcer over and took handcuffs from a pouch at the back of his belt. ‘So I figured he might be planning a stick-up. Which being, I let you and Alicia come on down this way to smoke him out and snuck along the other side of the cars to take him when he did.’

‘I’m pleased you did,’ Wright replied, being so disturbed by the implications of what Bradshaw had said that he did not notice the girl had behaved in a remarkably calm way all through the incident. ‘What’re you going to do?’

‘Call a paddy wagon and have him hauled off to the pokey,’ the blond giant replied, having handcuffed the unconscious man.

‘Do you have to?’ the gang leader inquired, his words stemming from the thought that such a procedure might be unwise rather than from any sense of loyalty to his enforcer.

‘I thought you ‘d want it that way.’

‘I suppose I should, but that would lead to a trial and I’d rather not have the publicity there’s sure to be if I have to go to court as a witness.’

‘Have it your way, Mr. Anstruther,’ the blond giant assented. ‘Way you’ve treated Alicia and me so good, I reckon I owe you that favor. There’s one thing, though. You know that stuff you wanted me to find out?’

‘Yes,’ Wright agreed eagerly.

‘Well, I’ve just about got it all,’ the Texan announced. ‘I’ll know for sure tomorrow night. Only I reckon it’ll be worth something.’

‘Something!’ the gang leader queried and darted a glance at the girl who had drawn back a short distance.

‘Oh sure,’ the blond giant drawled, apparently taking the hint. ‘This isn’t the time and place to talk about it.’

‘How about my place after we’ve dropped her off?’ Wright suggested, wanting to get an idea of what the information entailed and discuss how much it would cost.

‘Not with the way she acts after a night like we’ve had,’ the Texan refused with a lecherous grin, looking briefly in the red head’ s direction. ‘It’ d be a mortal sin to waste that. Anyways, I can’t tell you anything until tomorrow evening.’

‘Very well,’ the gang leader conceded. ‘Come around to my place tomor—!’

‘Come around my ass!’ the blond giant refused bluntly. ‘My momma didn’t raise no stupid children. I’m not saying there would be mind, but I don’t talk any place where there could be folks near to hand listening in to what I say. We’ll do the talking where there’s no chance of that.’

‘And where would that be?’ Wright inquired, having meant to have the Talker listening in the next room so they would have something incriminating upon which they could blackmail the Texan into complying with future demands instead of requiring payment.

‘The house next door’s empty,’ the blond giant answered, gesturing towards the wall surrounding the grounds of the Banyan Club. ‘You be waiting just inside the front gate at half past eight tomorrow night and I’ll drop by to give you everything you want.’

 

‘What the hell was Dirty playing at?’ Francis Wright demanded in a furious tone. ‘I know he was hopped up on muggle, but, the way he talked, he’s blaming me for the boys getting picked up.’

‘The idea’s been getting around,’ Michael Buffong replied. ‘It’s been noticed that one of the boys gets the arm put on him not long after you’ve been seen talking to that big blond cop.’

‘Hell!’ the gang leader snapped, staring at the mouth-piece of the telephone. ‘I’ve told you why I’m seeing him. He got a traffic ticket squared for me and, even though he hasn’t been able to find anything out about the arrests, he went along with me when I said I didn’t want Dirty taken in.’

‘Sure, you told me,’ the Talker replied, but his voice indicated a lack of conviction. ‘Now get on to Headquarters and ask for him, then call me back.’

After the unconscious enforcer was sent home in a taxi procured by the blond giant, Wright had hardly been able to control his eagerness to contact Buffong. Saying the incident had had an unsteadying effect on his nerves, he had avoided having his guests accompany him to his apartment. On arriving there alone, he had made the telephone call to Buffong. Now, glaring furiously at the instrument as its line went dead, he decided to do what the Talker had demanded, rather than merely suggested before he had hung up on him.

‘I’d like to speak to Detective Longley,’ the gang leader requested, on making the connection he required.

‘ Who-all’re you wanting?’ the desk sergeant at the Headquarters of the Dallas Police Department asked in a Texan’s drawl.

‘Detective Longley,’ Wright repeated. ‘William A. Longley. You’d maybe know him better as “Bad Bill”.’

‘Somebody’s been greening you, mister,’ the desk sergeant declared. ‘The only Bad Bill Longley I’ve ever heard tell of was an old time gun fighter and he got hung back in the 1870’s. Who’s this calling?’

‘All right,’ the gang leader said, having hung up without supplying the requested information and having contacted Buffong again, ‘What’s it all about?’

‘Your “rotten apple” isn’t a detective, as you’ll know by now,’ the Talker replied. ‘And his name isn’t Longley. It’s Ranse Smith. He’s one of the Counter family and, even though he’s worth well over a million bucks, he’s a sergeant in the Texas Rangers. What’s more, it’s them and not the local law who’ve been putting the arm on the boys.’

‘How long have you known that!’

‘I only heard about it tonight and I’ll tell you one thing, Frankie, the boys don’t like what’s going on!’

‘And what is going on?’ Wright challenged, despite being able to guess at the conclusions drawn by his men.

‘They aren’t sure,’ Buffong answered, but his tone implied the opposite. ‘Only they reckon no cop like him would need to do favors just for money.’

Having long experience of the way gangsters thought, Wright did not take the matter further. Promising he would rectify the situation to the satisfaction of his men on the following evening, he concluded the conversation. Then, sitting slumped in a chair by the telephone, he turned all his attention to thinking over everything that had happened since his first meeting with the blond giant.

Being possessed of considerable intelligence, everything soon became clear to the gang leader. It was obvious that Longley—or Smith—had deliberately set out to make his acquaintance. For some reason, he had failed to do so at the race track. However, he had been successful at the North Dallas Golf and Country Club. With the ploy accomplished, including a comment intended to arouse the Talker’s suspicions as they were leaving, the arrests of the other members of the gang were timed to coincide with later meetings. Although he had not considered such a possibility earlier, he realized now that—without the fear inspired by their presence—tongues would have started to wag once he and his men had taken their departure. The Philadelphia Police Department must have gathered all the information needed to make the arrests and would have applied to the authorities in Texas for assistance. Clearly the men were being picked up in accordance with a scheme to create suspicion and animosity, rendering them more susceptible to suggestions of betraying the others still at liberty—even himself—in return for personal amnesty.

A sense of fury bit into Wright as he thought of how he had fallen into the trap. It was, he told himself, all the fault of the Talker. If their relationship had continued the way it was while they were in Philadelphia, he would not have succumbed to the temptation to put one over on Buffong. However, he turned his thoughts from taking revenge on his contact man. Before he could do that, he had to reinstate himself with the rest of the gang. He knew there was only one way he could bring them back under his domination. Although it had been some time since he last needed to resort to such measures personally, in earlier years, he had built himself a reputation for being a ruthless killer which eventually elevated him above the rest of the gang and led them to accept him as their leader. Only by showing he was still ready, willing, and able to carry out his own executions, could he prove he had not become too soft to maintain his position as boss.

‘All right, you smart-assed son-of-a-bitch!’ the gang leader snarled and all trace of the urbanity he had acquired since his rise to power disappeared. ‘When you come to see me tomorrow with whatever faked up news you’ve got, I’m going to show you the only thing to do with a rotten apple in a barrel.’

 

Standing in the darkness concealed by a stone pillar at the side of the open gate leading to the obviously unoccupied colonial style mansion next door to the Banyan Club, Francis Wright looked at the luminous dial of his wrist-watch. Seeing the time was almost eight twenty-five, he pulled a heavy caliber Smith & Wesson revolver from his waistband. Although he had done so before leaving his apartment, he checked that its cylinder held six cartridges and was moving smoothly. Then, despite the mechanism being double-action, he set the hammer at fully cocked so as to be able to fire a split-second faster when the time came. He had not forgotten how swiftly the blond giant had drawn when striking Dirty Kev Bradshaw down and had no intention of offering an opportunity for it to happen again.

Satisfied with the precautions he had taken, the gang leader leaned forward to peer around the pillar at the generally well lit, but deserted, surrounding area. Just as he was about to withdraw and hide once more, he saw a big black limousine approaching. He expected it to enter one of the other properties which flanked the street, particularly the Banyan Club, but it kept moving until opposite his hiding place. Although the street lamps were working elsewhere, the one nearest to the gate was out and he was unable to see inside the vehicle. However, he felt sure it must be carrying the man for whom he was waiting.

‘Is that you, Smith?’ the gang-leader inquired, keeping the revolver concealed behind his back and stepping forward as the limousine stopped.

‘No, you god-damned double-crosser!’ replied a voice Wright recognized as belonging to Michael Buffong.

There was no time for the gang leader to realize the mistake he had made. It had been his intention to announce he had learned the young Texan’s true identity before opening fire. Instead, he had given the occupants of the limousine what they considered to be the final proof of his perfidy and proposed betrayal.

Already suspecting Wright was planning to get rid of all the gang, then head for somewhere safe with their money, the Talker had received what he regarded as proof that afternoon. He was visited at his apartment by a red-haired and Indian-dark young Texan. Giving the name, ‘Comanche Blood’, and saying he knew of the connection between Buffong and Big Frankie Wright, he had announced he had information for sale. Admitting he was there with robbery in mind, he had told how he was at the parking lot of the Banyan Club the previous night and, in addition to seeing what had happened to the enforcer, had overhead the subsequent conversation between the gang leader and Sergeant Ranse Smith of the Texas Rangers. In return for being given twenty-four hours in which to get away, Wright was going to turn over to the blond giant sufficient evidence to ensure the conviction of every member of the gang still at liberty in Dallas. Pressed for further details, in return for all the money Buffong had on the premises, the visitor had disclosed the time and place at which the betrayal was to take place. He had also claimed that Smith had said he was going to handle the whole deal personally and alone so as to be the sole beneficiary of the credit which would accrue from its success.

On being informed of their leader’s intentions, the remaining members of the gang were in agreement that he must be prevented from putting the betrayal into effect. They also concurred with the Talker’s supposition that Wright would have all their money somewhere safe so he could pick it up before his flight and, therefore, it was already lost to them. Even if he could be taken alive, when he failed to keep the appointment, Smith would suspect what had happened and would start the hunt for them too quickly for them to be able to induce Wright to tell them where they could collect it.

However, warning them that killing Wright earlier would allow the law to commence searching for them in daylight, the Talker had proposed that it was done just before the rendezvous was to take place. Then, with their revenge achieved, they would have a far better chance of escaping in the darkness. While they all agreed with this plan, he had been less successful with his other proposal. Although he had acquired a foul reputation for his mistreatment of women, albeit unproven as far as the law was concerned, it had always been his policy to avoid personal participation in the gang’s various illicit activities. But they were determined that he must become an accessory during the killing, so he could not betray them at some later date and they had insisted that he accompanied them. Because nobody would agree to anybody else being left behind, they were all in the limousine. However, once the killing was done, they intended to collect other vehicles and scatter.

Even as Michael Buffong replied to Francis Wright, Kevin Bradshaw, holding a Thompson submachine gun despite his face being swathed by bandages supporting his broken jaw, thrust its muzzle through the open rear passenger window and squeezed the trigger. Set for automatic fire, the heavy caliber weapon chattered harshly in the silence which followed the words. Spreading out like an invisible fan, the .45 caliber bullets engulfed the horrified gang leader. A scream burst from him as several of them tore into his body and flung him backwards through the gates. As he went, the Smith and Wesson crashed once to send lead harmlessly into the air before it was released by his lifeless hand.

‘Beat it!’ the Talker screeched, confident that Wright could not have survived the hail of bullets.

Needing no telling, the man at the steering wheel was already getting ready to set the limousine into motion. However, even as he was starting to release the clutch and operate the accelerator, a truck shot from the next gateway and halted blocking the street. To provide another source of alarm, a second big vehicle appeared from the entrance to the Banyan Club and behaved in the same fashion. Even if any of the gang had believed their appearance was accidental, the thought would have been dispelled by the spotlights which came on from the back of each truck to illuminate the whole area between them. Furthermore, armed men with the silver five-pointed ‘star in a circle’ badges of the Texas Rangers on their jackets, sprang over the open sides or from the cabs.

‘Peace officers here!’ boomed a voice clearly augmented by some form of speaking trumpet. ‘Toss out your guns, then follow them with your hands held high!’

Muttering what would have been, ‘Like hell!’ if the words were understandable, Bradshaw kicked open the rear door and thrust himself forward. Knowing he was certain to receive a capital sentence should he be taken alive, he was determined to try and fight his way clear. Alighting on the sidewalk, despite the tommy gun being turned in the other direction, he saw what he decided must be his first target. The blond giant who had broken his jaw the night before at the Banyan Club had leapt from the running board of the second truck and was running forward. Snarling unintelligible profanities, the enforcer started to swing the weapon around to take his revenge.

Riding on the running board as he had been, Sergeant Ranse Smith was unable to have the weapon he had selected for the operation in his hands. Once again proving to have had considerable training, the moment his feet arrived on the ground, he set about rectifying the situation. Starting to advance, he sent his right hand beneath his jacket. However, what he brought into view was more potent than the Webley-Fosbery automatic-revolver. Carried in an open fronted spring retention holster on a three inch wide belt around his waist, the Burgess Folding Riot Gun was designed for comparative ease of concealment combined with speed of operation. Although the barrel was turned beneath the operating section and butt in the manner which supplied its name, on being swung forward, it pivoted on a hinge until it snapped home and automatically locked with the receiver. Such was the excellence of the design, it was possible to have the tubular magazine beneath the barrel filled to its six shot capacity and ready for use when the weapon was folded for carrying.

Deftly catching the fore grip in his left hand as it rose and was locked into the operating position, the blond giant continued to tilt the barrel of the Burgess upwards. While doing this, his right hand was manipulating the longitudinally sliding pistol grip and trigger guard assembly. This served the same purpose as the ‘trombone’ type of fore grip fitted to similar, albeit more conventional, weapons of the same category manufactured by other companies. Having operated the mechanism in a split second, he saw what Bradshaw was doing and concluded he had been selected as the next target for some of the bullets left in the fifty-round drum magazine on the tommy gun. What was more, he realized there was a problem he must resolve before he could open fire with his own weapon. The shell which he had fed into the chamber held a charge of nine buckshot balls. At the distance they would have to fly, they would have spread apart to such an extent that those which missed the enforcer would put in jeopardy the lives of the other members of Company ‘Z’ who were beyond him.

 

Goaded by a realization that everything was going terribly wrong, the Talker responded with a speed he rarely employed. Shoving open the front passenger door, he dived out of the limousine almost as quickly as Bradshaw. However, it was not his intention to fight. Instead, hoping to escape in the confusion while his companions were resisting, he ran as fast as his legs could carry him across the street towards the open gateway of the mansion at the other side. Seeing Buffong was not holding a weapon of any kind, the oldest of the Texas Rangers snapped an order instead of raising the ancient looking Winchester Model of 1873 rifle in his hands.

Leaving his master’s side in a way far more indicative of the name ‘Lightning’ than was its behavior for much of the time, Sergeant Jubal Branch’s big bluetick coonhound sped after the fleeing man. Hearing its pattering feet as he was running along the path towards the mansion, the Talker looked back. Realizing he could not outrun the big dog, he spun around and launched a kick at it. Avoiding the attack, Lightning lunged upwards and his powerful jaws closed upon the most vulnerable point of the masculine anatomy. Sudden and nauseating agony ripped through Buffong and he toppled backwards. While doing so, and after he landed on the hard gravel, he struggled thereby inducing the hold to be continued. By the time pain caused him to lapse into an unconscious state, he was left in no condition to be able to carry out the rape which—frequently accompanied by a brutal beating -had been an all too regular part of his treatment of women in the past, even if he would still have been young enough to follow up such an inclination when he finished the lengthy prison sentence he was to receive.

 

Skidding to a halt, not for the first time in his comparatively short service as a peace officer, Ranse felt grateful for having acted upon advice given by a more experienced associate. During the preparations for the ambush of the criminals which he had helped to bring about, Sergeant Jubal Branch had suggested how he should load his Burgess. There was, warned the elderly veteran of law enforcement duties for almost as many years as the blond giant had been alive, the chance that the driver of the gang’s vehicle might try to crash past the truck blocking the road ahead. If this happened, a charge of buckshot would not be sufficient to stop it. Therefore, although he had a shell with such a load ready to feed into the chamber, the next in the magazine tube was more potent than required just to deal with a man.

While swinging the butt of the riot gun until it was cradled against his right shoulder, Ranse flicked the reloading mechanism back and forward to eject the buckshot and replace it with the next shell. Continuing to move with unflurried speed, despite watching the tommy gun being swung in his direction and being aware of its lethal potential at such close quarters, he squinted along the barrel. Unlike a shotgun used for purely sporting purposes such as hunting flying game birds, the Burgess was equipped with a rudimentary rear and front sight to allow more positive alignment. Completing his aim, even though he could see more members of Company ‘Z’ beyond his objective, he did not hesitate before squeezing the trigger. The gun crashed, but what passed through the barrel was not nine separate balls. Instead, a solid slug .729 of an inch in caliber was sent on its way.

While satisfied that he had held true, the blond giant did not rely upon his summation. Instead, his right hand pulled back and then thrust forward the sliding assembly twice. On the first occasion, the empty case was tossed into the air. However, because the next shell was loaded with buckshot, the second movement ejected and replaced it with its successor which held another solid ball. Before he had completed the precaution, he saw Bradshaw reel under the impact of the first chunk of lead. Jets of flame burst from the muzzle of the tommy gun, but the barrel had been deflected and the bullets did nothing more than send chips of adobe flying from the surrounding wall of the mansion to the right of the big Texan. The chatter of the deadly weapon ended as the enforcer crumpled backwards to go down with a hole in the center of his chest. However, being made of soft lead, the solid ball did not go through his body and endanger the peace officers behind him.

Taking in the sight of the well armed peace officers who had left the trucks at each end of the limousine, the surviving members of the gang knew resistance would be both futile and almost certainly fatal. First taking the precaution of throwing out their weapons, they yelled that they surrendered and emerged with raised hands as they had been instructed.

‘You’ve got them all, Ben,’ Lieutenant Victorio Bianco enthused, having been brought into town to take part in the ambush.

‘Every one,’ Major Benson Tragg agreed, holding the loud speaker with which he had delivered the orders. Then he turned his gaze to where one of his men had gone through the gate at which the rendezvous was to take place. ‘Did they get him?’

‘He’s cashed in his chips,’ was the reply.

‘Bueno,’ the commanding officer of Company ‘Z’ declared. ‘I’d have been real sorry happen this trick we played on good old Big Frankie had wound up with him being taken to hospital—alive.’

 

On hearing that Francis Wright and his gang were in Dallas, being a member of a family whose connections with law enforcement in Texas extended almost as far back did the Turtles on the other side, Major Benson Tragg had appreciated the danger created by their presence. He knew Hogan Turtle was not acting with the interests of justice at heart when reporting that they had arrived and intended to try and take over the town, but hoped to avert a situation neither of them wanted to arise. Being aware that any attempt to take over would be resisted by Turtle and the other local criminals, he had been determined to prevent gang warfare commencing.

As well as learning all he could about the newcomers from Chief of Police Samuel Ballinger, the Major had had a surveillance of them carried out by his own men. He had also availed himself of the assistance of a friend who was born deaf and, in addition to being able to read lips, was very competent at interpreting what was thought as well as said by studying facial expressions. Watching a meeting between Wright and Michael Buffong, the friend had stated a belief that there was animosity between them and the latter was concerned about a large sum of money belonging to the gang which the former claimed to be in safe keeping. Using the information he had accrued, Tragg had formulated a plan to deal with the unwanted visitors.

Selected as being the most suitable to play the part, even though it would be his first assignment without the support of a longer serving companion, Ranse Smith had posed as a dishonest peace officer. To help him with the deception, Rita Yarborough—accepted as an ‘unofficial official’ member of Company ‘Z’—pretended to be his girl friend whose extravagant tastes helped to cause him to live beyond his means. Although an attempt to make Wright’s acquaintance at the race track had failed, there had been an unanticipated bonus. Compelled by circumstances to act without the blond giant’s help, ‘Alicia’ had become involved with and brought to justice a trio of criminals engaged in an attempt to swindle the management of the Banyan Club. ¹⁰

Seeking another opportunity to meet the gang leader, Ranse had suggested he put to use his ability as a golfer. What was more, he had arranged this to take advantage of the ill feeling which had developed between Wright and the Talker. To help set the scene, knowing Buffong played every day at the North Dallas Golf and Country Club and had earned a reputation for being a ‘bandit’, Tragg had prevailed upon Judge Jules Robespierre to arrange to meet the gang leader there. Acting the part of a young man with more gullibility and money than skill, the blond giant had persuaded the Talker to challenge him to a round with a good sized bet at stake. In addition to being a four handicap player, he possessed a good knowledge of the tricks employed by ‘bandits’ like Buffong and countered them to such good effect that he won a considerable sum of money.

As had been anticipated, having heard about the game and informed that the Judge could not join him, Wright had taken what he considered to be a chance to get to know the young man who had made a sucker out of the Talker. Supplied with the letter from the bank and the ‘returned’ check, the head waiter had helped to establish that Ranse was a peace officer with financial difficulties and not over-burdened by scruples. Once more, the gang leader had reacted as was expected. Wanting to prove himself smarter and more capable than Buffong, he had changed his habit of keeping in the background and had begun to cultivate the ‘rotten apple in the barrel’ he had found.

Wright was correct in his assumption that one of his men had been arrested soon after each of the subsequent meetings with the blond giant which had been witnessed by Kevin Bradshaw. This had caused suspicion amongst the other members of his gang. On learning that Ranse was wealthy he had reacted exactly the way it had been hoped he would. He had realized, Ranse had no need to accept bribes and presumably was seeking personal aggrandizement for bringing about his downfall and he had come to the rendezvous they had arranged with revenge by murder in mind. Although it had not been anticipated, the behavior of the enforcer in the parking lot of the Banyan Club had been a worthwhile bonus for having given added credence to another part of the plan. Employing his favorite alias, ‘Comanche Blood’, ¹¹ Sergeant Mark Scrapton had paid the call on Buffong in the guise of a young criminal and had given the information which caused the gang to arrive with the intention of preventing Wright from betraying them.

Although the Philadelphia Police Department had sufficient evidence to convict all the other members of the gang, from the beginning of the operation Major Tragg had known there would be considerable difficulty in making charges against Wright hold up in court. However, the special force of Texas Rangers he commanded had been formed to cope with such situations. Guessing correctly how all of the gang would react, his plan had always been intended to achieve the ending which had, in fact, happened.

Francis ‘Big Frankie’ Wright might have avoided paying the penalty for his numerous crimes if he had been brought to trial!

However, the gang leader had met a well deserved fate and justice had been done at the hands of Company ‘Z’!