Larry and Stretch 7 Read online

  “A fine piece of architecture, Mr. Baldwin,” he drawled.

  “Well ...” The bank manager shrugged self-consciously. “Just another Colorado bank—stoutly constructed, but badly designed.”

  “My compliments, Mr. Baldwin,” said Brayner, “and my thanks for your courtesy. You’ve been most patient.”

  They strolled through to the street doorway. There, the visitor politely stood aside and doffed his beaver hat. A strikingly attractive young woman was making her entrance and winning admiring glances from Baldwin’s staff of cashiers and clerks. Brayner couldn’t remember when he had last seen a woman so beautiful. She was raven-haired and dark-eyed, fashionably attired in a gown that enhanced her fine figure. A furled parasol and a flimsy chapeau completed the ensemble. She addressed the bank manager, and her voice was a warm, husky contralto.

  “Good morning, Dad. Am I intruding?”

  “Usually,” sighed Baldwin. “Usually, my dear, but not at this moment. Mr. Brayner was just leaving.”

  “Ah—Mr. Brayner?” She flashed Brayner a radiant smile. “Our illustrious visitor from the big city.”

  “My daughter ...” offered Baldwin, somewhat hesitantly.

  “You are fortunate, Mr. Baldwin,” declared Brayner, “to be blessed with such a beautiful daughter. Your servant, Miss Baldwin.”

  She extended her hand. He bowed over it, while her father fidgeted uneasily. Then, redonning his hat, he bade them a courteous farewell and strode away towards the Republican.

  “Beth,” sighed Baldwin. “For pity’s sake, Beth, don’t ogle him!”

  “Horton,” said Beth Baldwin, “is lamentably short of handsome and presentable men.” She winked roguishly. “And I’m an eligible spinster, Dad. A gal has to keep her wits about her, doesn’t she—and her eyes peeled?”

  “I wish you wouldn’t use that kind of language,” frowned Baldwin. He shook his head worriedly. “Sometimes, Beth, I wonder what is to become of you. You’re so infernally determined to be unconventional.”

  “To be normal ” she warmly contradicted. “To be normal, dear father, rather than to conform to the standards of middle-class frontier morality—the rules laid down by stuffy, psalm-singing hypocrites ...”

  “Not so loud, child!” he begged, with an apprehensive glance at his grinning staff. “Confound it, must you repeat this same speech every time ...?”

  “Every time you call me unconventional,” she chuckled, as she kissed his cheek. “Resign yourself, Dad. You sired a rebel.”

  “I try to understand,” he muttered, “but I’m at a loss. You certainly don’t inherit these instincts from my side of the family. As for your mother—rest her soul—she was the gentlest woman I ever knew.”

  “Stop fretting,” she soothed. “I’m not here for a loan. At least, not this time.”

  “I should hope not,” he chided, “considering the size of your allowance.”

  “Only stopped by to say ‘howdy’.” She smoothed his gray hair, patted his cheek. “On my way downtown to Brennan’s.”

  “Brennan’s,” he blinked, “is a hardware store.”

  “Of course,” she nodded. “Kit Brennan had to repair my Winchester. I damaged the mechanism last week, while I was hunting that cougar in the mountains.”

  “Good grief!” He grimaced in anguish. “You aren’t going hunting again—all by yourself ...?”

  “Would you prefer that I hire a guide?” she challenged. “A handsome six-footer, maybe? With muscles ...?”

  “Have you no shame?” he gasped.

  “Go count your profits,” she chuckled, as she unfurled her parasol and went her jaunty way.

  What, her father wondered, is to become of her? She ignores my advice. She’s affectionate, but defiant. Other Horton men have daughters who do them proud—sedate young ladies who sing in the chapel choir, attend respectable functions and look to their embroidery. But I had to sire a rebel—who’d rather go fishing than attend a social. A rebel who can ride and shoot and—heaven help her—swear like a cowhand!

  Upon his return to the hotel, Philo Brayner climbed the stairs to his handsomely-furnished suite on the second floor. There, seated about a mahogany-topped table, his four associates impatiently awaited him. He came in smiling, secured the door and took his place at the head of the table. Then, coolly, he announced, “I’m satisfied, boys. We can go ahead with our plans.”

  “You checked the whole layout?” one of his cronies demanded.

  “At the invitation,” drawled Brayner, “of the manager. Yes—old Felix Baldwin was a most attentive and obliging guide.”

  “How about that?” Reed Harmon, a saturnine, sleekly-groomed man in somber black, traded grins with his companions. “He walks in bold as brass—and the manager gives him the guided tour over the whole shebang.”

  “I always did say,” chuckled the blond, florid-complexioned Vinny Russell, “Philo is the sassiest thief this side of St. Louis.”

  The other “associates”, Luke Innes and Nat Underwood, eyed Brayner expectantly. Innes was a quiet mail with shrewd, hazy gray eyes. In a crowd and garbed in less expensive clothing, he might have passed as a ribbon clerk. Underwood was as tall as Brayner and of similar age, balding and suave, with a thickening girth. He wore the look of a successful financier, and that was an irony, since, along with his fellow-conspirators, he was planning an unofficial withdrawal of all funds from the First National Bank.

  Brayner grinned complacently, and told Underwood:

  “Nat, the safe is a big one. The brand is Koenig.”

  “Painted dark green?” prodded Underwood. “No legs? About seven feet high—kind of a standing oblong?” At Brayner’s nod, he shrugged and assured him, “I know the Koenig job. Solid—but not impregnable.”

  “Koenig safes,” frowned Harmon, “have a combination lock.”

  “For a professional of Nat’s experience,” drawled Brayner, “that’s an advantage. Combination locks are his specialty.”

  “Believe me, Reed,” said Underwood, “I’ll have that door open inside three minutes—four at most.” He exhibited his smooth fingers, nodded significantly. “Nothing to it, Reed.”

  “How about the rear door?” asked Innes.

  “It will be locked and barred, of course,” said Brayner. “Forcing the lock would be easy. That steel bar is the problem.”

  “It fits into brackets either side of the door—and lifts out?” prodded Underwood.

  “And the door isn’t unusual,” nodded Brayner. “The panels would be a half-inch thick.”

  “I have a special saw, ideal for that purpose,” grinned Underwood. “Designed and built it myself. So much for the rear door. All I have to do is cut an opening. We reach through, lift the bar, then force the lock—and the rest is easy.”

  “Which brings us to the next question, Philo,” frowned Innes. “Just when do we take that bank?”

  Chapter Two

  Reception Committee

  Brayner lit a cigar, puffed a blue cloud and smiled at his henchmen. For him, this would be the big one, the crowning success of twenty years of larceny. He had made his plans with great care, and had been just as cautious in his choice of accomplices. Russell, Innes, Harmon and Underwood had been chosen for their special talents. All had played a lone hand at various stages of their careers, as well as working in partnership, or as key-men of an organized group. They were seasoned and disciplined, and they had accepted him as their leader.

  “You’ve all read the latest edition of the Horton Clarion,” said Brayner, “so you know of the governor’s visit.”

  “Why, sure,” nodded Russell. “These rubes will treat him like royalty. Big reception. Speeches. A grand ball.”

  “His Excellency the Governor,” drawled Brayner, “will be here for only a short time—but long enough, my friends. Long enough for our purpose.”

  “I think I know what’s in your mind, Philo,” grinned Underwood. “The bank will be closed. We’ll make our move—under cover
of all the hullabaloo at the railroad depot, when his train arrives.”

  “In broad daylight?” Brayner shook his head emphatically. “Not a chance, Nat. I have a better idea.”

  “When then?” prodded Innes.

  “You’ve seen the timetable,” said Brayner. “The westbound train arrives at nine a.m., bringing the governor’s special carriage, which will remain at the depot until one-thirty of the following morning—when the next westbound will be passing through.”

  “The governor,” observed Harmon, “is in for a busy time.”

  “Reception at the depot when his special car arrives,” nodded Brayner. “Grand parade from the depot to the hotel. To be precise—this hotel. He’ll occupy three adjoining suites on the top floor, along with his secretary and a Pinkerton agent. At two p.m., he will officially open the new City Hall. During the remainder of the afternoon, he can catch up on his sleep. In the evening, at eight sharp, he arrives at City Hall for the grand ball—arranged in his honor by Horton’s city fathers. A large function, my friends. The hall will be crowded and …” He grinned blandly, “… and it isn’t likely we’ll encounter any citizens in the alley behind the bank.”

  “We make our play,” frowned Innes, “during the ball? By thunder, you couldn’t choose a better time.”

  “We could be a long way from Horton,” mused Harmon, “before these hicks get wise. The ball won’t end until one a.m.—maybe later. By then, we’ll be ...”

  “We’ll be right here in Horton,” Brayner firmly assured him.

  “Still here?” frowned Harmon. “But—damnitall, Philo—!”

  “Let Philo finish,” Innes mildly suggested.

  “All right, Philo,” shrugged Harmon. “You’re bossing this deal.”

  “Bossing it,” said Brayner, “and covering every possible loophole, every last angle. Gentlemen ...” He leaned back in his chair, puffed another blue cloud and watched it waft to the ceiling, “none of us are amateurs. We’ve had our share of running from the law—the hectic getaway with the trigger-happy posse snapping at our heels and an even chance of stopping a wild bullet. I ask you now. Do we repeat all the old mistakes? Do we take the same chances? Or do we resort to a new angle—the unexpected?”

  “How unexpected?” challenged Russell.

  “That’s a good question,” muttered Harmon.

  “All right,” said Brayner. “Let’s assume that the robbery is discovered before the ball ends—or before the westbound train departs. Is the county sheriff apt to suspect that the thieves are still in town? I doubt it, boys. Is he apt to check the train? Possibly. But would he search the governor’s private car?”

  “Hell, no,” frowned Harmon.

  “So ...?” prodded Russell.

  “So,” shrugged Brayner, “that’s where we’ll be.”

  “Us?” blinked Harmon. “In the governor’s special car?”

  “Bag and baggage,” smiled Brayner, “and at the governor’s invitation.”

  “You couldn’t …” breathed Harmon. “I mean—we know how you work, Philo. You’ve got this burg eating out of your hand. But—hustling a State governor into helping our getaway ...!”

  “Too far-fetched?” challenged Brayner. “Is that what you’re thinking?”

  “Well ...” frowned Innes.

  “It just happens,” said Brayner, “that I am personally acquainted with a member of the governor’s staff—a certain party who owes me a favor. It can all be arranged, Luke. We’ll be emptying that bank safe while the ball is in full swing. All the cash will be packed into our bags. We will then take those bags to the depot, after which we’ll return to City Hall.” He raised a finger. “Remember, my friends, circumstances will be in our favor. The bank is situated a full four blocks from City Hall. That whole area—all the way to the railroad depot—will be damn-near deserted. City Hall will be the center of attention. Moreover there’s every possibility the robbery won’t be discovered until nine o’clock the following morning.”

  “Just who is this jasper you have to proposition?” demanded Russell. “You say he’s close to the governor ...”

  “Close enough,” grinned Brayner.

  “Who is he?” persisted Russell. “And what if he refuses to cooperate? You’ll have put all our cards in a busted basket, Philo. He’d probably spill to the local law, and ...”

  “Do I look like a fool?” scowled Brayner. “This party, whose name I’ll keep to myself, has to cooperate. I’ll have him over a barrel.”

  “Blackmail?” challenged Innes.

  “Exactly,” nodded Brayner. “And, believe me, he doesn’t dare refuse. He’d have too much to lose.”

  Some twenty-five minutes later, another conference was being held. The subject, from Mayor Flake’s point of view, was of sufficient importance to warrant the town council’s convening at the new City Hall. But old habits die hard, and this meeting, like so many others, was held on the front porch of the county law office.

  Sheriff Max Lovett, the county’s senior law officer, occupied his favorite chair—an old cane-back that creaked under his considerable weight. He was a big man, placidly good-humored, unashamedly lazy, too old for the more strenuous activities of law enforcement, but not yet old enough to be put out to pasture. His moon face showed a bulbous nose, mild brown eyes, three chins and a somewhat untidy moustache. He puffed on a bent-stemmed briar and bent a polite ear to the pompous demands of the mayor.

  Hunkered beside the sheriff’s chair was his senior deputy, Mitch Hamilton. Another ageing lawman growing old cheerfully and, in many ways, just as lazy as his chief. He was as lean as Lovett was fat; otherwise, they were birds of a feather.

  The second deputy stood in the open doorway of the office. His name was Purdy Jarvis. He was twenty-four, husky of build, short on patience and mighty ambitious. Charitable folk called him ambitious, while the realists sourly described him as “downright proddy”. Like many a youthful badge-toter, Deputy Jarvis itched to make his mark and establish a reputation. An important arrest was what Purdy Jarvis craved. A one-man attack on a large force of bandidos, with himself the victor and his name adorning the front page of the local newspaper. The morning was sultry and a light drizzle was falling. Out of deference to the dampness, Jarvis was donning his slicker.

  “... this great honor to our fair city,” the mayor was asserting, “this high compliment to an up and coming community ...”

  “Yep, Willoughby,” nodded the sheriff. He beamed genially at Flake, and at the five councilmen who had attended to lend weight to Flake’s petition. “I heard you the first time. A real honor—havin’ the governor pay us a visit.”

  “I haven’t finished,” chided the testy Mayor Flake.

  “Go on, Willoughby,” urged one of the mayor’s cronies, “get to the point.”

  “The point is,” frowned Flake, “we got to be sure there’s no—uh—violent incidents to mar the dignity of this great occasion. You know what I mean? No rowdyism. No fights. No shooting. Bound to be a big crowd turn out for the grand welcome. Well, by golly, you got to keep that crowd under tight control—savvy? We aim to make a good impression on the governor.”

  “Why, sure,” agreed Lovett.

  “And let’s not forget our other distinguished visitors,” stressed the mayor.

  “Meanin’ Mr. Brayner from the Hartigan Combine?” frowned Lovett. “Him and his free-spendin’ pards ...”

  “Men like Philo Brayner,” asserted Flake, “stand for progress and prosperity.”

  “No need to holler at me, Willoughby,” Lovett assured him. “Horton could use a big, fancy Hartigan hotel. You want it. I want it. Heck, I’m as progressive as the rest of you. I lift my hat to Mr. Brayner every time I run into him. That’s fair enough, ain’t it?”

  “Just so long as you remember your duty as sheriff,” said Flake.

  “Nobody,” shrugged Lovett, “needs to remind me of my duty. If I see some fool stompin’ on the governor’s boots, I’ll arrest him muy pronto.
Okay, Willoughby?”

  “Be serious, Max,” begged Flake.

  “Okay,” grinned Lovett. “I’m serious.”

  “We look to you and your deputies,” Flake told Lovett, “to keep a wary eye on the roughnecks and layabouts of this county—to make damn sure no likkered-up cowpokes raise a ruckus when the governor’s train arrives. And the grand ball, Max. That function has to proceed smooth, understand? Everything proper. We’re countin’ on you ...”

  “Don’t reckon you got any call to fret,” frowned Lovett. “Been a long time since we had any real trouble in Horton County.”

  “Trouble comes,” argued Flake, “when you least expect it.” His sallow, sharp-featured face darkened in a scowl of foreboding. “For instance, what about old Annie Stogie?”

  “Eagle-Eye Annie,” drawled Hamilton, “ain’t apt to show herself. She only rides in once in a blue moon.”

  “I reckon Mayor Flake’s got a point,” interjected Jarvis. “You can never tell just when that old biddy’ll hit town and raise a ruckus. She’s bad medicine.”

  “Beats me why everybody crowds old Annie,” complained Lovett. “No harm in her—just so long as you stay outa her way. She keeps herself to herself.”

  “She’s a disgrace to this fine community!” fumed Flake. “She ain’t fit to walk the streets of Horton along with respectable folk. That fool boy of hers ...!” He raised a finger in stern condemnation. “He was born out of wedlock, and we all know it. Annie Stogie never had a regular husband.”

  “That’s a matter of opinion,” suggested Lovett. He nodded, pensively. “It’s somethin’ I’ve never been real sure about.”