The Bullwhip Breed

PHILIPPE St. Andre was said to be the youngest and most handsome man ever to reach the rank of lieutenant on the New Orleans police force. Only he did not seem likely to remain the most handsome for much longer. The four bulky, burly men who came from the shadows of the dark, narrow street intended to alter the shape of his face, or St. Andre missed his guess. While a bright moon shone in the sky, very little of its light filtered down into the area between the houses; which might be ideal for lovers, or even people who merely wished to act in the manner of lovers, but was surely hell for a handsome young detective lieutenant faced with the possibility of a savage beating. He could neither see their faces nor enough of their clothing to be able to recognise them at a later date—should they leave him alive to do so.

“Are you St. Andre?” asked the biggest man in a muffled, disguised voice.

“I am.”

“Then you get after Vivian Vanderlyne and don’t go poking your nose into things that don’t concern you.”

Instantly St. Andre clenched his fists and prepared to fight for his life.

While St. Andre had been born into one of the oldest, richest and proudest New Orleans families, and dressed, now he was a member of the newly-formed detective bureau of the police department, to the height of fashion, he was also a trained and very smart peace officer who knew his way around.

Following a lead in his current case brought him to the dark side-street and he knew the four hard-cases had not stopped him merely to pass the time of day. Ever since starting his investigation into the murder of Vance Cornwall, a prominently rising young lawyer, St. Andre’s lawman instincts told him that the affair cut much deeper than a lovers’ quarrel which went too far. Cornwall had been a married man, with a very rich, if much older, woman for his wife; an ill-tempered shrew, if all rumours be true, so Cornwall sought solace by taking an
amie
. Most of the evidence pointed to Cornwall’s
amie
having done the killing, but the blonde, beautiful and talented young actress, Vivian Vanderlyne, appeared to have done the opposite, disappeared, for no trace of her could be found.*

The murder appeared to be an open-and-shut case, a trifle sordid maybe, but ordinary. Yet St. Andre felt that certain facts did not fit into the picture of a lovers’ quarrel ending in violent death. Why had the murdered man’s rooms been thoroughly searched? From whence came the faint smell of expensive perfume which mingled and clashed with a slightly cheaper brand used by Vivian Vanderlyne?

Being a conscientious lawman, St. Andre tried to find the answers to his questions. While following up the most obvious suspect, he also went to visit the dead man’s wife and brother, asking questions and finding both to have perfect alibis for the time of the killing. So St. Andre looked elsewhere and a tip from an informer brought him to the side road and the waiting quartet. Somebody clearly did not want too close an investigation into the young lawyer’s private life. It would seem that St. Andre’s lawman instincts were correct—only he did not appear to be likely to stay alive long enough to solve the mystery.

“And if I don’t?” he asked, measuring his distances.

The first blow hissed over his head as he ducked. Coming up inside the striker’s guard, St. Andre threw his well-manicured, but rock-hard fist under a bristle-covered, bandana-masked jaw with enough power to send the first attacker staggering backwards. In almost the same movement, as the man he hit went away spluttering curses, St. Andre pivoted around and delivered a stamping kick to the pit of the second man’s belly. Continuing his turn with the fluid grace of a ballet dancer, St. Andre shifted his weight to his rear foot, drew his raised right leg up and in front of the left and lifted his body slightly on the ball of the left foot. The crossing of the right leg gave it greater distance to move and provide extra momentum and kicking power. How effective the
chasse croise
, or front lateral kick of
savate
, proved showed in the way the second man went down as St. Andre lashed up and sideways with his right foot, leaning his body away from the recipient and delivering a slashing, stabbing kick at the jaw.

After which the ball ended and the piper requested payment. The third man’s fist came driving into St. Andre’s cheek as the detective returned to his fighting stance and before he could take any further action. Caught by the blow, St. Andre shot across the street and collided with the left side wall. Before he could recover, the fourth man sank a fist into his stomach and jack-knifed him over. Bringing up his left knee, the man smashed it into St. Andre’s face, jerking the detective erect again with blood gushing from his nostrils.

“Fix him!” roared a voice.

Through the roaring pain-mists which engulfed him, St. Andre saw the four men coming at him and his fighting instincts reacted to the situation faster than could his spinning brain. Like a flash St. Andre brought up his right foot in a kick which sent the toe to catch the closest of the quartet
real
low and in a manner which would have caused the detective’s instant disqualification if used in a sporting contest at Duval’s
Savate
Academy. However St. Andre was not indulging in a sporting contest, but fighting for his life. So he drove his toe into his nearest attacker’s stomach and sent the man stumbling from the fray in moaning, doubled-over agony.

Fists thudded into St. Andre’s face and body, savage blows that drove pain through him. While he hit and kicked back—
savate
permitted the use of the hands as well as the feet—St. Andre knew it to be merely a matter of time before the remaining trio reduced him to a bloody, battered, broken wreck. Fighting on through the beating, St. Andre tried to so mark his attackers that identifying them would be comparatively easy. Not that he was likely to be in any condition mentally or physically to do any identifying unless he received help quickly.

It may be that at that moment St. Andre became the first man to think, “There is never a policeman around when you need one,” for mister, he needed not one but a good dozen big, brawny policemen’s aid just about as badly as anybody in the whole United States at that moment—or five minutes earlier if it came to a point.

A passer-by walked along the street which intersected the one down which the trio of hard-cases practiced playing in the percussion section of an orchestra, using St. Andre’s body instead of a drum. While most people in a city like New Orleans might have glanced at the disturbance, they knew sufficient about the facts of life to show their interest in the welfare of others by walking away hurriedly. Not so the slim, somewhat boyish shape, for it came to a halt, then started heading along the street towards the struggling group of men.

Turning from St. Andre, one of the attacking trio let out a bellow of rage calculated to scare off even the most nosey citizen.

“Get the hell out of here!” he bellowed. “Shift it, or you’ll get some of the same.”

At that moment one of the men was landing a kick into St. Andre’s ribs, while the second gripped the detective’s hair, held his head back and smashed the other hand into a bloody face; St. Andre being on his knees and, although just about conscious, too far gone to defend himself. It was a sight, taken with the third hard-case’s warning, liable to scare off anybody with an interest in their own well-being, no matter how much they might wish to help the sufferer.

Only neither the warning nor the sight appeared to frighten and drive off the slim intruder. Taking in the boyish build of the newcomer, the tough who gave the warning started forward, intending to carry out his threat. Skidding to a halt, the newcomer shot a right hand under the left side of an open jacket and brought something, most likely a weapon thought the burly tough out from beneath the coat’s flap. Not a gun or a knife, the tough saw to his relief, but what at first glance appeared to be a two foot long police baton. Matched against a burly, six foot tall, one hundred and ninety pound rough-neck, that boyish shape, at the most five foot seven in height and not heavily built with it, did not appear to be showing good sense in relying on such a puny weapon. Which only went to show how wrong appearances sometimes are.

Even before the tough came within arm’s length, in fact while he was still several feet away, the newcomer’s arm raised and swung down again. For a moment the tough thought that the newcomer had panicked and tried to throw the club at him. It proved to be his last coherent thought for some time. Something hissed through the air towards the tough and cracked like a pistol shot. Instantly the burly man’s face felt as if it had burst into flames. Bright lights seemed to be exploding before the tough’s eyes and he reeled backwards, hands clawing at the blood which oozed from a mysterious gash that had suddenly appeared across his face, running from his right temple down to the lobe of his left ear.

Hearing their pard’s screech of agony, the other two men swung away from St. Andre and prepared to take retaliatory measures against the brash intruder who dared come between them and their prey. Being experts in their particular line of work, if complete and utter failures at any task requiring brains or finesse, the hard-cases liked to give good service when sent on a mission. So they figured working over an inquisitive interloper would give them just a little more of the practice all men know makes perfect.

Unfortunately for the men, that slim newcomer did not intend to take a brutal beating in the interests of helping them perfect their technique. Again and again the intruder’s right arm swung up and down, each time being followed by a hissing crack and a yell or howl of pain from one of the trio of attackers. All the time a flow of hide-blistering invective, in a voice raised by either fear or excitement to what sounded almost like a woman’s tones, flowed from the intruder.

Nor did St. Andre’s saviour remain content to stand back and use whatever weapon caused such consternation among the detective’s attackers, but moved forward step by step in an attempt to drive the hard-cases away. St. Andre tried to force himself to his feet so as to lend his rescuer a helping hand. However the pain and exhaustion spawned by his beating prevented him from rising, nor could his spinning senses give the order to draw out his police whistle and summon aid. While the newcomer seemed to be handling things quite satisfactorily, St. Andre wanted to capture his attackers if possible. A good peace officer always liked to know who sent men to attack and beat him up; and not entirely for personal reasons.

“Agh!” howled the biggest man, following one of the cracking noises. “Do something, Max!”

His words appeared to be directed at the man St. Andre put out of the fight with a low kick. Holding his injured region with one hand, the man crawled painfully to his feet. However, on hearing his friend’s shout, the man dipped his free hand into a pocket and brought out a squat, heavy calibred Derringer Pocket Pistol. Before he could bring his weapon into line, the man saw the newcomer look, then swing the right arm in his direction. Something leathery-feeling curled around the man’s wrist, gripping it in a sudden, frightening, vice-like hold that crushed the bones and snapped them like rotten twigs. A scream burst from the man’s lips as a fresh pain almost made him forget his previous injury, and the Derringer clattered unfired to the ground.

“Let’s get out of here!” one of the quartet yelled.

Panic had always been infectious and so it proved in this case. Shaken by the inexplicable pain caused by whatever kind of weapon the intruder held, knowing that at any moment St. Andre might recover enough to start blowing his whistle to summon help, and having a fair idea of their fate if captured by the police after attacking and brutally beating a popular member of the legion of the blue, the four hard-cases decided enough to be sufficient for the day. Having reached that conclusion, they decided to chance their employer’s wrath at failing to do a real good job on St. Andre. So they turned and took to their heels, racing away down the street, leaving a sick and sorry police lieutenant and a slim boyish-looking shape in possession of the field.

After the sound of the quartet’s footsteps died away, the intruder turned and walked towards St. Andre. Coiling the lash of the long bull-whip handled with such deadly precision, the newcomer thrust it back under the jacket and bent to help a groaning St. Andre to rise.

At first the detective thought of asking his rescuer to take out his whistle and blow on it to summon aid. Then he realised that there would be little chance of catching the four men. If he knew their kind, and he reckoned he did, they would have a good escape route planned and be away before the police managed to surround the area.

Taking St. Andre by the arm, the newcomer started to lift as he struggled to get to his feet. Weakly he reached towards the other, wanting to get support for a pair of legs which hardly seemed capable of supporting his weight.

“Th—Thank you, young man,” he gasped as his rescuer eased him upwards.

“Mister,” replied a most unmasculine voice, “happen you think I’m a young
man
, they either damaged you real bad, or you’ve not been around very much.”

Even before the lack of masculinity in the voice registered on St. Andre’s pain-slowed mind, he rested his hand for support under the jacket and on the shirt below. He jerked the hand away much quicker than he placed it on, for, slowed by the beating or not, St. Andre’s faculties told him that what he touched, or what lay beneath the shirt he rested his hand on, most certainly did not belong to a young
man
.

“I should think so too,” said the voice, showing no embarassment. “You’re too stove up and feeble right now to get ideas like
that
.”

“I—I—assure you, young lady—,” St. Andre began, feeling the girl brace herself as his weight leaned against her. “I—had— no intention—.”

“If you had, you’re a tougher cuss than I expected to find in New Orleans,” the girl answered calmly. “Soon’s I’ve found that feller’s gun, we’ll get you some place where I can see how much face they’ve left you. Only I’d sure as hell hate to leave a loaded gun lying where some darned city kid could find it and likely blow his head off, not knowing any better than fool with it.”

Gently the girl leaned St. Andre against the wall. Then she turned and walked across the narrow street, scuffling her feet along. One of them struck something which moved and struck the wall with a metallic click. Taking out a match, the girl rasped it on the seat of her pants—for she appeared to be wearing trousers and not a skirt. Bending, her back to St. Andre so he could see little of her features in the faint glow of the burning match, the girl picked up the discarded Derringer. She lowered its hammer before dropping the deadly little single-shot pistol into her jacket pocket. Blowing out the match, the girl turned and walked back to where St. Andre leaned against the other wall.

“Derringer hide-out,” she said. “Don’t reckon he could’ve hit me with it. Only I sure as hell didn’t aim to stand around and wait to find out. How’re you feeling now? Any pain in your side when you breath?”

While watching the girl, St. Andre was feeling at his ribs and wondering just how much damage had been done. His face felt raw and his throat burned with the taste of swallowed blood. A sick fear crept through him as he realised he could not see through his left eye. Weakly he raised a hand to touch it, feeling something wet and sticky. Over the eye lay what felt like a two inch wide, one inch deep cut which trickled blood down. St. Andre hoped that blood from the cut and nothing more caused his left eye’s lack of sight. From the way his nose felt, swollen and blocked up, he guessed that it still ran blood and his jaw seemed to be enlarged to twice its normal size. However, while his ribs ached badly, he found he could breath without any of the pain which could spell a broken rib or two.

“I—don’t think so,” he replied to the girl’s question.

Taking the detective’s right arm, the girl eased it across her shoulders and braced herself under his weight. The street seemed to be spinning around before St. Andre’s eyes and his legs felt as if they had lost their bones. For a moment he thought he would fall, but the girl’s strength supported his weight and kept him on his feet.

Born to a society which expected its female side to be fragile, gentle and pampered creatures, St. Andre had seen sufficient of the rest of the world to know that some women had to be strong enough to handle a hard day’s work. For all that, the strength of the girl whose timely appearance saved him from serious injury, if not death, took the detective by surprise. If the way she stood up under him be anything to go by, St. Andre figured she must be about as strong a woman as he had ever met.

“How is it?” she asked, making no attempt to move or go down under his weight.

“A—A little better,” replied St. Andre as the dizzy feeling left him.

“Happen you’re up to it, we’d best get you off the street, Who was they, angry husbands?”

“I—I—.”

“Now don’t you pay me no mind, nor bothering answering, feller,” interrupted the girl. “I’m only doing it to take your mind offen your hurts. I’ve got me a room around here someplace. Leastways, I reckon it should be around here. Trouble being I didn’t blaze no trail and these city streets all look mighty alike to a half-smart lil country gal like me. Where-at’s the
Rue de la Paix
?”

While talking, the girl started to walk, assisting St. Andre’s still feeble legs to support and carry him. By the time she asked her question about the direction to her temporary home, they had reached the intersection. Although the girl pronounced her street ‘
Roo dee lah Packs
,’ St. Andre understood. Weakly he nodded in the direction the girl had been walking before she came to his aid.

“Next street—left,” he told her.

“Hell, I wasn’t so far wrong after all,” she said and stiffened him as he stumbled slightly. “Just keep your legs moving, friend, and lean on me. You can rest up a mite when we get to my room.”

Gritting his teeth, and promising himself that he would not throw any more strain than necessary on the girl, St. Andre forced his legs to move. His superb physical condition aided him and the dizziness began to wear off. They walked along the side of a slightly wider street, keeping to the shadows. This latter was the girl’s idea although one which St. Andre agreed with in principle.

“Them four riled-up husbands, or fathers, or whatever they was, might come back,” she said, steering him into the shadows instead of crossing to where the moon illuminated the other side of the street. “It’d be best if we saw them afore they saw us, I reckon.”

After walking for a time, coherent thoughts began to flow into St. Andre’s head. While he did not feel like throwing somersaults with joy, or even trying to walk without the girl’s aid, he could now think. Being a policeman who had just taken one hell of a beating, his first thoughts turned to his attackers.

The name ‘Max’ yelled by one of the quartet might possibly help in locating them, although St. Andre could not even try to guess how many hard-cases in New Orleans went under that name. It would be several decades before any police department maintained more than the most fragmentary records and in the early 1870’s the useful idea of keeping a ‘monicker’ file, which listed criminals by their nicknames had not been thought of, so St. Andre had no such aid to assist his search.

St. Andrew wanted those four men badly and ought to blow his whistle, bringing patrolmen to help him begin his search. Yet in his weakened condition the prospect of being able to get off his feet for a time and have his injuries treated prevented him from doing so. The four attackers would be well clear of the area and St. Andre did not feel up to the task of starting at that moment.

All four men bore marks from his fists and feet, of that he felt sure. From the way they yelled and howled as his rescuer tackled them, the quartet might carry other identifiable injuries too. St. Andre suddenly realised that he did not know just how the girl managed to drive off four burly rough-necks. If it came to a point he knew very little about his saviour. Who she might be; what she looked like; how she came to be on hand; where she came from; all those questions remained unasked as she helped him towards the
Rue de la Paix
.