“What was that?” she finally gasped.
Her words bounced off departing backs as Calamity and the three men went racing away in the direction of the scream.
“It could be the answer to your question,” Calamity called back over her shoulder as she ran.
For a moment the blonde stood staring. Then she remembered the Strangler and realised why St. Andre and Calamity acted as they did on seeing her standing before her prospective client as he slipped the string of freshwater pearls around her neck. Suddenly she saw that the departure of the police left her alone and a feeling of terror hit her.
“Wait for me!” she screeched and fled after the others as fast as she could run.
CHAPTER FOUR
CROUCHING hidden among the bushes at the side of the track the Strangler let out a low hiss of annoyance as he watched the blonde’s hurried departure on the heels of the rest of the running group.
While making his way out of City Park after killing his eighth victim, the Strangler had come on the sight of the portly man and the blonde. Deciding it would be both interesting and amusing to watch what happened, the Strangler crouched in the bushes and awaited developments. The developments came swiftly with the arrival of that damned aristocratic St. Andre and the girl wearing men’s clothing of an outlandish cut and style such as one saw Westerners clad in. Much to the Strangler’s amusement, St. Andre took the portly man’s actions as being an attempt to strangle the blonde.
Then the Strangler’s amusement died as the girl with St. Andre swiftly—the move looked amazingly fast to the Strangler’s untutored eyes—drew a revolver from under her coat and shot the fleeing man’s hat from his head. The Strangler had often heard of Westerners drawing and shooting their weapons in lightning fast moves but as
he
could not do so, doubted if any less intelligent person would be able to perform the feat. Having seen the girl with St. Andre draw and shoot, the Strangler began to wonder if he might possibly have been wrong. If her clothes be anything to go by, the red haired girl came from the Western plains country, and the Strangler had never seen anything so fast as the way she moved.
Thinking of the girl’s speed made the Strangler freeze in his hiding place instead of sneaking off and escaping. If he tried to flee and made a noise, that girl might start shooting at him. To the Strangler’s way of thinking, his life’s work was too important for him to risk capture and hanging because he killed a few worthless girls with so little to offer the community. So he remained crouching in the bushes and watched the smooth manner in which St. Andre handled the righteous indignation of the portly citizen. Being born to riches, St. Andre ought not have shown such efficiency, but he invariably did as the Strangler well knew; and he Strangler hated the thought of his preconceived ideas of aristocratic behaviour being shattered.
The Strangler thought the affair must be over when the portly man departed, and that he would soon be able to leave the area in safety. On hearing the man’s scream, the Strangler knew his latest victim’s body had been found. As the Strangler watched the rapid departure of the three policemen and the Western girl, he had an idea. Why not kill that gaudily-dressed blonde? If word came out that he took a second victim in such a manner, St. Andre would be dismissed and the people’s faith in the police further diminish.
Even as he slid the cord from his pocket, the Strangler savoured the thought of what to do. Maybe the girl would hear him, but her kind never mistrusted him. She would think nothing of his presence; they never did. Then the cord would be around her throat from behind, tightening, driving the three knots into flesh and cutting off her voice, turning, he would carry the cord up over his shoulder until they stood back to back and he could use the extra leverage to speed her death.
Only before he could step from the bushes, the girl fled after the departing party. Giving a sigh, the Strangler coiled the length of cord and dropped it into the large pocket of his jacket. He threw a disappointed glance after the fleeing blonde, then walked on to the path and away. His route would take him out of City Park in the direction of the old French Quarter, the upper-crust section of the city.
Not knowing how close they had been to the Strangler, Calamity and the three policemen ran swiftly along the tracks. Despite his earlier beating, St. Andre made good time and he alone kept pace with Calamity as she sped along. The girl did not run with the exaggerated hip-wagglings and arm wavings of most of her sex, but strode out like a man and covered ground fast in her moccasined feet. Behind Calamity and St. Andre came the patrolmen, their uniforms and heavy boots not making for speed of foot; and in the rear staggered a scared, gasping blonde streetwalker, the least used to running of them all.
Rounding a corner, Calamity and St. Andre came face to face with the portly, though no longer pompous man. Instead he looked almost on the verge of collapse, face white and drawn in an expression of extreme horror, eyes staring and mouth open, muttering incoherently as he pointed behind him.
“B—b—b—ba—there!” he gasped. “Its’—I—She—I—.”
Which told Calamity and the detective little or nothing, but all they needed to know. Thrusting by the portly man, Calamity started to move towards that crumpled heaped-up thing lying in the centre of the path. St. Andre also passed the portly man, who had never been more pleased to see human faces and police uniforms in all his life. Catching Calamity by the arm, St. Andre stopped her. Once again St. Andre tried to assert his inborn French superiority over a member of the weaker sex. After all, and despite her smooth efficiency in practical matters, Calamity was a woman—and St. Andre knew just how terrible a Strangler’s victim looked.
“Let me,” he said.
He went by Calamity and walked towards the shape on the path, fighting to keep his stomach from heaving at the thought of what he would see. Even as he dropped to one knee by the body, St. Andre heard a soft foot-fall beside him and a low feminine gasp. He realised that Calamity had ignored his advice.
In the course of her life as a freighter on the Great Plains, Calamity had seen a fair amount of death: from Indian arrow, war lance or scalping knife; by bullets; through illness and accident. She reckoned to have a stout stomach which no sight could trouble any more. Yet for all that Calamity felt sick as she looked down on the moon-light illuminated features of the Strangler’s eighth victim. She sucked in a deep breath and let it out in a slow hiss of revulsion and anger.
The cord which ended the victim’s life no longer coiled around her neck, but a livid mark on the pallid skin and indented deeply into the flesh showed where it passed around and tightened, choking off life-giving air and killing far more silently yet just as efficiently as any bullet. Maybe in life the victim had been a beautiful girl, there was no way of knowing from her hideously distorted features now purplish-black, the tongue protruding through open lips and the eyes bulging out of the head. The body, clad in the cheap finery of a Street girl, looked good, rich, full and inviting—unless one also looked at the face.
Even the two patrolmen, not sensitive, highly strung or easily moved by scenes of violence, showed nausea at the sight. One of them let out a low curse and the other, slightly younger, turned his head to look away from the hideous thing which had so recently been a living, breathing, happy and maybe good-looking girl.
“Is this the Strangler’s work?” asked Calamity, her voice hoarse and strained and her tanned face pale.
“His eighth victim,” answered St. Andre bitterly, looking at he three deeper indentations in the flesh, signs of the special type of cord the Strangler always used.
“Maybe he’s still around!” snarled the younger patrolman and started moving towards the bushes.
“Hold it, friend!” snapped Calamity, an idea coming to her.
The urgency in Calamity’s voice brought the man to a halt and he looked at her. So far nobody had got around to explaining who that girl in men’s clothing might be, but she appeared to be on amiable terms with St. Andre, and it did not pay a young patrolman to ignore or give offence to the friends, especially lady friends, of a lieutenant; particularly a lieutenant tipped to wind up as Chief of Police one day in the future.
“What’s up, ma’am?” asked the patrolman, sounding more polite than usual.
“He’s long gone and you couldn’t find him in the bushes at night, so don’t go tramping all over the sign. Comes morning I can get a feller here as can track a bird through the air—.”
“If you mean follow the Strangler’s tracks, Calam, it won’t work,” St. Andre interrupted. “We tried it with bloodhounds and got nowhere.”
“Which same don’t surprise me none,” the girl answered. “I bet every time a gal’s been found, your fellers started chasing around in the bushes looking for the jasper who done it, going every damned which-ways and getting no place ‘cept all over the Strangler’s tracks. Then there’s the folks who use the Park each day, they walk about in hell’s chance of laying nose to a trail and holding to it—more so when you wouldn’t know what tracks to lay ‘em to.”
“You sound as if you know what you’re talking about,” smiled St. Andre, thinking of how accurate Calamity’s description had been of what went on after the finding of other Strangler victims, and seeing why the bloodhounds failed to assist the police’s search for the killer.
“Dobe and the boys are hound-running fools when they’re not on the trail,” Calamity explained. “They taught me some about it.”
“Is there any chance of your friend following the Strangler’s tracks?”
“As long as they haven’t been trampled under-foot and the feller stays off the paths, ole Tophet’ll follow him. I don’t want you to expect Tophet to trail the Strangler to his home, but he’ll point you the direction that bastard went off after killing the gal, and maybe tell you a mite more that could help.” For a moment St. Andre did not reply. As an avid student of the flood of Western fiction currently appearing in the popular press, he had read of Indians and a few white men who possessed the ability to follow a human trail by using their eyes. St. Andre had discounted the idea as being no more than another joke foisted on the stories’ authors by Westerners. Knowing Calamity would not joke at such a moment, St. Andre wondered if her friend could help the police by following the Strangler’s tracks.
There was one small detail to be remembered by St. Andre. The Strangler case had been assigned to Lieutenant Caiman, an older man, shrewd, tough and capable, but sadly lacking in imagination. Maybe Caiman would not care to have outsiders interfering in the investigation. Somehow St. Andre could not see Caiman taking to a newfangled notion like using a visual tracker.
“Why not bring on your tracker tonight?” he asked, deciding that what the eye did not see caused no worry to the heart of Lieutenant Caiman.
“Tophet’s good,” Calamity replied, “but he can’t track at night, even in moonlight this good, or when he’s all likkered up. Which same he’s likely to be by this time. Leave it until daylight and he’ll read you some sign.”
“We’ve nothing to lose. However, it’s Lieutenant Caiman’s case and it will have to be his decision.”
“Reckon Lou Caiman’s about ready to try anything, Lootenant,” put in one of the patrolmen. “The
Intelligencer’s
been roasting his hide over the killings.”
“What’s that?” asked Calamity.
“A newspaper,” St. Andre replied in a tone that suggested he did not care for the
New Orleans Intelligencer
. “We’ll leave it to Caiman to decide. One of you stay here and don’t let anybody touch the body, the other one take care of that man and the girl. Take them to the station house until Lieutenant Caiman’s seen them.”
Giving a distasteful grunt and a shrug, the older patrolman said he would stay on the spot and allow his partner to escort the witness to the station house. Long service had its privileges, but it also bore responsibilities. So the older man took the more unpleasant of the two assignments.
“Say, do either of you boys know her?” Calamity asked, not looking at the body again.
“It’s hard to say, ma’am,” the older patrolman answered. “From her clothes she worked the streets, but that covers a helluva an area. From Latour Street down to the river-front you’d find hundreds like her.”
“We’ve never managed to identify one of the victims yet,
cherie
,” St. Andre went on. “The girls don’t often live with their parents. In many cases only their mac would miss them. That’s their—.”
“I know. We call ‘em the same, or say they’re blacksmithing, out West,” Calamity interrupted.
“No mac would come near the police, he’d merely figure his girl ran out on him and go looking for another. Let’s get going, Calam, we can do no more here.”
Already the younger patrolman had joined the blonde and was helping a very pale, portly man rise. Calamity looked at the blonde for a long moment, then walked towards her.
“Look, blondie,” Calamity said. “Reckon you could face up to taking a peek at that gal.”
An expression of shock and fear came to the blonde’s face. While she had never seen one of the Strangler’s victims, her instinct told her the sight must be real unpleasant.
“N—No!” she gasped. “Why should I?”
“Because that gal’s the eighth to be killed. The man who killed her’s got to be stopped.”
“Then let the police stop him!” croaked the blonde, backing away a couple of steps and staring with horror at what she could see of the body.
“They want to,” answered Calamity. “Only they’ve no place to start looking. Maybe if they knew who the girl was, they could make a start at finding the Strangler. Only they don’t know who she is. You might.”
St. Andre looked first at Calamity, then turned his eyes to the blonde. While the Strangler was not his case, the detective wanted to see it solved. Yet he knew that girls like blonde would never volunteer to help the police once clear of the crime. If she did not try to identify the body right then, the blonde would most likely be nowhere to be found the following day, unless held as a prisoner which would not make her feel in a co-operative mood on her release.
“It’s possible you could help us a great deal, my pet,” he said gently.
Shaking her head, the blonde tried to turn away. “I don’t want to look!” she gasped, the fear of death strong on her.
“I could tell you that it’s not too bad,” Calamity said gently, “but I won’t. That gal there looks bad.” She laid her hand on the blonde’s arm, stopping the other girl backing away. “It’ll not be easy. Only she might be somebody you know. A pard, a kid you like.”
“I don—!” began the blonde.
“Listen to me, gal,” Calamity interrupted, still quietly. “The man who killed her has to be stopped. The law don’t know him. Maybe if they know who the girl is they could find out who she’s been with tonight, and that’ll take ‘em to the man who killed her.”
While Calamity had no idea of how a detective worked, she figured the method she outlined might be as good a way as any of finding the Strangler. Something in Calamity’s voice and touch reached the blonde, sank through her fear of what she would see and give her courage.
“I—I’ll take a look.”
“Good gal!” Calamity answered.
“You—You come with me,” the blonde went on.
There were many things Calamity would rather have done than taking another look at that hideous body, but she kept her hand on the girl’s arm and led her to the side of the corpse. The elder patrolman had covered the face with his bandana handkerchief and the sight did not look too bad. While it still retained the slightly awe-inspiring look that death always gives a human frame, the main horror stayed concealed.
“I don’t know the clothes,” the blonde stated, after sucking in a deep breath and looking down. “They’re the sort of thing a whole heap of us girls wear.”
“Try the face, Sherry,” Calamity said.
Throwing a look at Calamity, St. Andre bent down. His hand touched the bandana, then he looked at the pallid-faced blonde.
“Go ahead, Sherry,” Calamity ordered. “She’ll take it.”
With a pull, St. Andre exposed the face. He saw the blonde girl stagger and Calamity support her. For a moment St. Andre thought the blonde would faint, but a street-walker’s life made her tough and hard. She mastered her emotions and looked at the face.
“N—No!” she ejaculated in a strangled voice. “I—I don’t know her.”
St. Andre covered the face again and came to his feet. “You’re sure, my pet, that you don’t know her?”
“Can’t tell, the way her face is, not for sure. But I don’t think I know her,” answered the blonde, turning away.
“You’ve done well,” said St. Andre. “Go with the patrolman to the station house.”
Suspicion sprang to the blonde’s face. “Are you arresting me?”
“No. You’ll be given a cup of coffee, and sent home. See she goes by a hack and charge it to me.”
“Sure, lieutenant,” replied the younger patrolman. “Come on, Sally. And you, mister.”
Watching the patrolman assist the portly man and blonde away, Calamity gave a shrug. “It might’ve worked.”
“Certainly,
cherie
,” replied St. Andre. “Now I must take you to your friends and then go to make my report.”
“Does that feller allus jump gals?” asked Calamity as she and St. Andre walked along the path and away from the body.
“He does, if it is the same man,” the detective answered. “And the same method is used, so we believe it to be the work of one man.”
“I sure wish he’d try it on me,” remarked Calamity, her right hand stroking the butt of her Navy Colt.
Following the direction of the girl’s gesture, St. Andre remembered his duty as a policeman bound by the rules, ordinances and laws of the city.
“You’d best let me keep your gunbelt,
cherié
,” he said.
“Why?”
“It’s against the law to wear a gun in New Orleans—and it will give me an excuse to come and see you in the morning.”
“Land-sakes, do you need an excuse for that?” grinned Calamity, but she unbuckled the gunbelt and freed the pigging thong at the bottom of the holster. “See you get it back early in the morning, mind. I want to clean the gun.”
“How early is early?”
“Come as early as you like—as long as it’s not too early. Say by seven, I ought to be wake by then.”
“
Seven
? And you say that’s not too early!”
“Sure ain’t, back west of the Big Muddy. Ain’t it here?”