Ralph Compton - Bounty Hunter

Smiling without a trace of humor, Tone said, “It does have a ring to it.” He drained his glass. “When do you want to start?”

“Now. Right now. I don’t want to sit here at home any longer while big doings are happening all around me. Inspector Anderson isn’t stupid, but he’s not that clever either. We can do better.” He took his watch from his pocket. “Hell, it isn’t even midnight yet. Penman might be out looking for another victim, since you interrupted his fun.”

“That’s possible, I guess. Say, who am I addressing now?”

“Give me five minutes to climb into my uniform and I’ll be Sergeant Langford. In the meantime, help yourself to another drink. It could be a long night.”

This time Tone’s smile was genuine. “Thomas, I have a hunch you’ve just spoken with the voice of prophecy.”

The rain that had been teeming earlier had settled into a sullen drizzle as Tone and Langford reached Pacific Street.

It was now a few minutes after midnight, and all the respectable folks in San Francisco were already in bed. Only the cops and denizens of the waterfront were awake, prompting Langford to remark that, despite the rain, everything was “full up and rarin’ to go.”

Word of the latest Ripper slaying had gotten around, and the whores walking the streets seemed wary, their eyes less bold, and the more concerned pimps stood in the shadows, keeping a watchful eye on their meal tickets.

For two hours Tone and Langford patrolled the alleys and dark backstreets, but apart from the usual drunks and a few brawls, they saw nothing.

“Wild-goose chase, you think?” Langford asked as he and Tone stood in the meager shelter of a saloon front.

“Seems like.” Tone turned and looked at the sergeant, who seemed to be nursing a vague, unfocused anger. “We could try the Jolly Jack. It’s Penman’s favorite hangout when he’s on the coast.”

“Not a chance. Why would he go there in full view when every police officer on the waterfront has his description?” Langford was silent for a few moments, thinking. “Hell, we’ll give it a try,” he said finally. “Maybe make us feel like we’re doing some useful police work.”

Melody Cord’s welcome was even less warm than it had been the first time Tone entered her establishment. In fact her mustache positively bristled when she caught sight of Langford in his blue uniform.

“If you’re looking for Mr. Penman, he ain’t here,” she snapped. “I haven’t seen him all evening.” She struck a belligerent stance. “Now, be on your way, Thomas Langford, and leave decent Christian people alone.”

Looking around him, Tone decided that the crowd was considerably less than Christian. The whalers were gone, but they’d been replaced by what seemed like the entire crew of an English clipper ship, a weather-beaten, tough-looking bunch. A dozen whores were entertaining the sailors and over in one corner a young brunette had unbuttoned the front of her dress and two men were each fondling a breast, sharing.

“Melody, me darlin’, you keep a classy place and no mistake,” Langford said, his eyes on the preoccupied trio.

“Don’t you speak to me of class, Tom Langford,” the woman said. “You who has sent many a brisk sailor lad to an early grave, and never has a word of remorse escaped your lips.”

“Damn rozzers, they’re all the same,” a man growled. He looked around him. “You can lay to that, mates.”

“Aye,” said another, “ye have the right of it, Billy.” His eyes lifted to Melody. “Many a brisk sailor lad, says you?”

“What I say, I say,” replied the woman.

“Then throw him out, damn him. We want no blue-coats ’ere.”

Langford’s eyes sought out the man who had just spoken. Standing square and solid as a brick wall, his eyes blazing, he said, “Why don’t you come over here and do it yourself?”

The sailor was big, with a seamed, tough face that had seen its share of brawls, but he obviously wanted no part of the sergeant, that night or any other. He looked away, muttered under his breath and went back to his rum.

Langford showed his disappointment, his chance to work off some of his growing frustration gone. He turned to Melody. “Are all your girls accounted for?”

“You see them, all of them.”

“Then keep them close. I have reason to believe that Luther Penman is the Ripper.”

The sergeant was rewarded by the look of horror that crossed Melody Cord’s face. “That can’t be true,” she gasped.

Tone said, “I’m afraid it is. Earlier tonight I caught him in the act. Red-handed, you might say.”

“You saw him murder Pattie Johnson?”

“No, I saw him just after he murdered Pattie Johnson.”

Melody turned and said to the bartender. “Rum, and quick.”

She drained the glass and rubbed the back of her hand across her mouth. “He was here. Penman was here earlier this evening. The Ripper was right here at the Jolly Jack and I never knowed it.”

The bar had suddenly become hushed, and even the busy threesome in the corner were intently studying Melody’s stricken face, the delicious word “Ripper” capturing their undivided attention.

“What time was that?” Langford asked.

“Early, just after I opened around four. He had tea, then he told me I wouldn’t see him for a while, that he was going on a long sea voyage for his health.” The horror in the woman’s eyes grew. “He—he must have left here and then murdered Pattie.”

Tone and Langford exchanged glances. Did a long sea voyage mean that he was planning to fly the coop with Sprague?

“Who is this Ripper, then?” a sailor asked.

Langford answered. “He’s a monster who enjoys working on whores with a knife.”

“What’s ’e look like, then?”

“Small, thin, and he could be wearing a gray coat that may be bloodstained.”

The sailor looked around him, half rising to his feet. “What do you say, lads? Should we go hunt for him?”

“Aye,” said another. He winked at Melody. “If we find him, he’s as good as pork, lay to that.”

Except for the amorous pair in the corner, the sailors, bottles in hand, streamed out of the Jolly Jack. Langford stood back, a benign expression on his face, and let them go.

“They’ll be back soon enough,” he said to Tone. “But in the meantime they’ll charge around and make a lot of noise. If Penman is still about, three dozen drunken sailors on a rampage might change his mind about doing more business tonight.”

“Walk with me over to the inglenook,” Tone said. “I want to scout around.”

“I told you, he’s not here,” Melody protested.

“I know, but I still want to take a look.”

The woman sighed and led the way. She said over her shoulder, “Tom Langford, you’ve run out all my customers and now you’re going to scare the few that are left.”

Melody spotted the three in the corner and directed her irritation at them. “Hey, Lucy, you slut, button up and take it outside.”

“But it’s raining, Melody,” the girl whined.

“Yeah, well, give them two a quick knee-trembler and then come back inside. And when you do, make sure them cheap swabs buy rum. That’s what I’m selling in this place, not ass.”

Tone and Langford stopped and let the whore and her admirers pass. She led the way to the inglenook, but walked behind it to a narrow, recessed door. The girl fumbled in her purse, found a key and turned it in the lock. Then she and the two men walked outside, closing and locking the door behind them.

“Did Penman have a key for that door?” Tone asked Melody.

The woman nodded. “Yes, he did. I only give them out to my regulars. The rest who want to use the outhouse have to walk around the front. If the door is unlocked it’s too easy for bummers to sneak out without paying their score.”