Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 8, No. 11, November 1963

To Stop a Fire by Elijah Ellis

Obscure transactions, even though they may effect massive changes in our lives, are rarely publicized, and for very good reason.

In a section of the state as small and out-at-the-elbow as Pokochobee County, the elected officials at the courthouse, of necessity, work closely together, especially the county attorney and the sheriff.

So I wasn’t too surprised, just irritated, when the phone rang late Friday night, waking me up. Many a time since I got the county attorney’s job last year, Ed Carson, the sheriff, had rousted me out of bed in the middle of the night, usually to take a ride out into the backwoods to view the remains left after a knife fight or shooting scrape at one of the juke-joints.

Now, muttering curses, I fumbled in the dark for the phone. I told my sleeping wife, “I’m going to have this thing disconnected.” But Martha snored on, uncaring.

Half-asleep myself, I growled into the phone, “Yar?”

“Is this Mr. Gates?” a voice asked. It was not a voice I recognized.

“Mmm,” I agreed, and yawned. “Who’s this?”

“My name is Gerald Waner. Sorry to disturb you so late, but it’s necessary.”

Waner! That woke me up in a hurry, and brought beads of sweat popping out on my face. “What can I do for you?” I responded.

“It’s more what I can do for you, Mr. Gates.” A chuckle. Then, “Be out to see you in half an hour.”

“Wait a minute—”

But the line was dead. I jiggled the hook. When the operator answered, I said, “Daisy, where’d that call I just had come from?”

“From the lobby of the La Grande Hotel.”

“Thanks.” I hung up quickly.

I sat on the edge of the bed in the warm June night and lit a cigarette. I needed it. We — the sheriff, myself, and other interested people around the courthouse — had been expecting Mr. Gerald Waner.

But we hadn’t expected him to arrive in the middle of the night. I didn’t like any part of it. There was a good chance that Waner and his associates had committed a murder a couple of days before, over at Thomasville in the adjoining county.

Gathering up my clothes, I tiptoed out of the bedroom, pulled the door shut behind me. I went along the hall. I stopped long enough to look in on my two sleeping boys. Then I went on into the kitchen. I switched on the light and got dressed. It looked like a long night ahead, and I wasn’t expecting to enjoy any of it.

After washing my face at the sink, I picked up the extension phone and called Ed Carson. When the sheriff came on I told him bluntly, “Waner’s in town. Must have got in this evening.”

Ed whistled softly. “So it’s finally our turn, huh? What’s the deal?”

“He’s supposed to come out here to my place in the next half hour or so. Listen, have you heard any more about the killing over in Thomasville?”

“Nope. Nothing new. Just Frank Davis’ body full of bullet holes. They found him lying beside the highway, like you already know. Hands tied behind his back. Real pro job.”

I laughed without humor. “Yeah. Real professional. Listen, I’ll call you back soon as I hear Waner’s pitch.”

“I’ll be waiting. Meanwhile, I’ll get things lined up — just in case.”

I agreed reluctantly. “But Jet’s hope it doesn’t become necessary.”

“You know it’s up to us,” Ed told me. “The other counties arc depending on us to show Waner and his boys a good time...”

We hung up. I lit a fresh cigarette, went through the house to the livingroom. I switched lights on in there and on the front porch. I stood by the open front windows, looking through the rusty screens at the dark night.

There was nothing to do but wait for Waner to arrive.

As I said, we’d been expecting him. Reports had drifted in down at the courthouse, during the last couple of weeks, ugly and disturbing reports.

All concerning the doings of a Mr. Gerald Waner, who was making what he called a “business trip” through the State, accompanied by a collection of prize goons.

Waner had a mouthful of glowing promises, a pocket full of hard cash and, in the goons, the threat of force. What Waner wanted was simple: he wanted to buy the political structure of the entire State — county courthouse by county courthouse. Now, as Ed Carson had said on the phone, it was Pokochobee County’s turn.

I thought about a letter that had arrived in my office that day, from the county attorney in the adjoining Thomas County. Old K. L. Johnson had written me: “... I can’t remember when the people here have been as stirred up as they are about the murder of Officer Davis. Of course, the public knows nothing about Waner, which is just as well. I only wish Officer Davis hadn’t found out what Waner is trying to do — at least not before the situation could be explained to him. I am morally certain that Waner is responsible for the killing, but there is not one iota of proof... So the final burden of disposing of the matter must rest on you people over there. From Waner’s cocksure attitude, I feel sure he suspects nothing...”

I watched insects fluttering around the porch light.

I remembered something my father used to say: The best way to stop a fire, is to jump on it with both feet — while it’s still a spark.

A car stopped on the graveled street in front of the house. Two men got out, came along the path to the front porch. I unhooked the screen door and opened it. “Mr. Waner?”

“Right.”

The pair came up on the porch, brushed past me into the living-room. They didn’t wait for invitations.

One was a short, tough-looking guy who asked me, “Who’s here beside you?”

“My family. All asleep.”

“I’ll look around.”

“No you won’t,” I said.

Quickly, the other man, Waner himself, stepped in front of his friend and said, “Don’t be silly, Tom.” To me he said, “You’ll have to pardon our lack of manners, Mr. Gates. We’ve done a lot of traveling today and had car trouble to boot. That’s why we’re so late calling on you.”

Waner was a tall, solidly-built man with an earnest, friendly face, and a shock of white hair like spun glass. He made me think of a big-time salesman, the kind who sells yachts and country estates.

It figured, of course.

The other character had “gorilla” written all over him.

I motioned them to chairs, and when we were seated Waner looked me over, chuckled, and said, “I’d expected to find an older man. It’s amazing that a young fellow like you should already be such a power in state politics. Why, in the last few days my group has visited fourteen counties, and in all of them the officials have told us the same thing, ‘See Lon Gates. What he says goes in this part of the state.’ So... here I am.”

I tried to look flattered.

Waner went on, “It seems that you are the key man in this section of the state. If we can persuade you to join the organization we represent, the whole southern tier of counties will fall in line. You’re a big man, Mr. Gates.”

I’m big alright. Six feet tall by two-hundred pounds. But that’s the only way I’m big. Now I glanced at my watch. Waner took the hint.

“We can have a full discussion tomorrow,” he said. “Get into details For tonight, I’ll give you just a brief rundown. Alright?”

“Umm,” I said.

“As you know, there is a regrouping going on in your State. Old, corrupt political machines are being booted out to make way for new men with new, progressive ideas — men like yourself. This is a poor state. One of the poorest in the nation. But it doesn’t have to be that way. No indeed.”

Waner looked at me expectantly. His white hair glistened in the lamplight. His companion, Tom, or whatever his name was, just sat in his chair looking at nothing.

“What is this — er — organization you mentioned?” I asked.

“Businessmen,” Warner said in a reverent tone. “Big businessmen. From all over the country. All banded together for mutual progress.”

I yawned, watching Waner closely through half-shut eyes. “Uh huh. In other words, the syndicate.”

Waner’s bushy eyebrows climbed. “Why, ah...”

“How much?” I said. “For me.”

He obviously hadn’t expected it to be quite so easy. His mouth curved in a pleased smile. He relaxed, leaned back and lit a cigar.

But the other one, Tom, got up and prowled the room. He paid special attention to the few pictures on the walls, the lamp bases, and so on.

I told him sardonically, “The place isn’t bugged. I doubt if there’s a tape-recorder in this whole country.”

Tom turned, scowled down at me. “Wise guy.”

Waner waved him back to a chair.

“Okay, let’s talk business,” I said impatiently. “As I understand the situation from reports I’ve had, the national syndicate is ready to move on this state. Open it up. The works — gambling, dope, prostitution, everything. All under the protection of the syndicate’s own privately owned politicians. And you, Mr. Waner, are here on, shall we say, a buying trip. So, how much is in it for me?”

Waner laughed outright. “No wonder the people in the other counties kept telling me to come to you. You’re a businessman, Mr. Gates. Well, I’m not authorized to set exact figures, but I can promise you a basic minimum of a thousand dollars a month. As a starter. No ceiling on what you can take in, as time passes, and the wheels really start to turn.”

I pulled at my lower lip, and pretended to give it thought. I said, “I’ll think about it. But listen — why’d you knock off that deputy-sheriff over in Thomasville? Frank Davis.”

I didn’t get the strong reaction I expected. The goon tensed a bit, but Waner didn’t turn a hair. He inhaled from his cigar, blew a couple of neat smoke-rings, and murmured, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. But let’s pose a hypothetical question. Let’s suppose that for the good of many, it was necessary to sacrifice one man, one who couldn’t or wouldn’t understand that the old days of political graft and corruption are over.”

I shrugged. “You mean you killed Davis to let people know you weren’t fooling.”

Waner managed to look shocked. “Why, Mr. Gates! I didn’t kill anyone. Perish the thought.”

“Ah, let’s quit horsing around,” the man called Tom said. “I’m tired and sleepy.”

“A thousand a month isn’t enough,” I said.

“Oh, that’s your’s, personally. And, as I said, it’s just a starter.”

I pretended to think some more. But there was no point in stalling. I knew what I wanted to know. That the syndicate was in fact trying to move in, as we’d thought. And that Waner and his boys had murdered Frank Davis.

I stood up. “You and your gang of thieves stay out of this state,” I said. “I’ll tell you just once. Get out. Go home and tell your bosses to look elsewhere for easy pickings. But stay out of this state.”

This time I’d really surprised Waner. The phoney gloss peeled off, exposing the vicious punk underneath. His voice got shrill as he yammered at me, “Listen, we need you. You’re the key to this whole section, and you’re coming in. The easy way, or the hard way—”

I aimed a thumb at the door. “Out.”

Waner jumped from his chair. He was shaking with rage. “Listen, you. I could snap my fingers and Tom would go kill your wife, your family, and never lose a minute’s sleep over it. Don’t fool around here. You’re way out of your depth.”

“So are you, punk,” I told him.

He paid no attention. “Listen, the syndicate owns half the country. Now it’s time for this two-bit state to fall in line. You chink you can stop us? Country-boy, you better grow up. I tell you what. Me and my boys will be here till about noon tomorrow. At the hotel downtown. You come see me there before noon. And you better come with the right answers. Or your wife is going to have a serious accident before this time tomorrow night, and I can’t promise—”

I started for him. He skipped back, yelling, “Tom!”

The goon came out of his chair in an easy rush. I got in one or two punches. That was all. He was a professional at brutality, and he did a workman-like job on me. He chopped me down like a woodsman felling a tree.

I landed flat on my face, my nose and mouth streaming blood over the rug. A big foot clamped down on the back of my neck. Dimly I heard Waner say, “That’s enough. I think he gets the idea. Don’t you, country-boy?”

I tried to curse, but blood choked me, and pain was moving in to flood the numb void of my body. I coughed weakly.

“Okay,” Waner said. “I’ll expect you by tomorrow noon.”

He and his goon left. Painfully I turned my head, watching them go. They didn’t say “Goodby.”

As soon as the screen-door banged shut, I heaved myself up, and by holding on to chair-backs, walls, whatever I could find, managed to stagger through the house to the kitchen. I got Ed Carson on the phone. I said, “Go.” And hung up.

The noise had finally awakened my wife, though the two boys slept on undisturbed. I heard Martha calling from the bedroom. I didn’t want her getting up, so I hurried to the closed bedroom door, opened it enough to say, “Go back to sleep, honey. I’ve got to go out for awhile. A case.”

Martha grumbled, “Will you be long? Where’re you going?”

“To put out a fire,” I said, and eased the door shut.

Back in the kitchen, I washed up, then found a bottle of bourbon in the cabinet over the sink and had a long drink. The whisky burned like fury on my split lips but, once it hit my stomach, I felt better, well enough to go out on the back porch. There I keyed open the little store-room, went inside and opened my old GI foot-locker. From it I took a mothball-smelling bundle of black cloth and my old .45.

Then I went on out to the garage, got my car, and left.

To get my mind off my aches and pains as I drove along the bumpy streets, I thought about Pokochobee County. It’s buried deep in the mountainous, sparsely-populated southern part of the state. A real backwater. We have radio, even television, and every Friday the weekly paper comes out, whether there’s any news to put in it or not.

But the important thing about Pokochobee County, just now, was that we could seal it off from the rest of the world as effectively as if it were on the moon. Which is why, of course, Gerald Waner and his crowd had been passed along to us.

Now I turned my car onto one of the county-seat’s two paved streets, and drove through the tiny business district. It’s a collection of crumbling brick buildings, housing shabby stores and shops with fly-specked display windows. There are large gaps here and there, where buildings have burned down, or simply fallen in from old age, and never been replaced. It’s an old town, an old county. But we like it.

I pulled into the driveway of Jim Kimmon’s service station. It was closed. So was everything else in town. Jim himself would be with the others, over on the deep-shadowed courthouse lawn, under the oak trees around the ancient courthouse.

There were cars parked all along the block between where I sat and the courthouse. I could make out men headed that way on foot, one by one, and in small groups.

All were dressed as I would be in a minute — black robes topped by black, conical hoods. I got out of the car, put on robe and hood, and walked toward the courthouse.

There I found perhaps twenty-five men, standing around in silence. One of them beckoned to me. It was Ed Carson. I joined him. “Ready to go?” he muttered.

“Yeah. Let’s get it over with.”

We went along the deserted, dark street to the La Grande Hotel. The men fell in behind Ed and me. At the hotel Ed said, “Alright, six of you come with us. The rest wait here.”

We entered the lobby. The night-clerk was fast asleep on a couch near the desk. I shook him awake. He opened his eyes, turned white, and his teeth started to chatter.

“Take it easy, Charley,” I reassured him. “All we want to know is the room number of a Mr. Gerald Waner.”

A little color came back into the nightman’s face. “Oh. I see. Yeah. Well, Waner’s in room 25 along with another guy. Three more men are with his party. They’re in the adjoining room, number 26.”

I nodded. “Okay. Go back to sleep.”

I turned to Ed. “That’s five men altogether. Let’s get them.”

We trooped up the old, creaking staircase to the second floor, found the two rooms we wanted. Ed had brought along the clerk’s pass-key. He used it first on room 25, then 26. He and I went into Waner’s room, while two of the other men took care of the goons in 26.

We herded the five of them together in the dimly-lit corridor. They raised a brief row. But our costumes, and our guns aimed at their bellies quieted them in a hurry. Only Waner had anything to say after that.

His silky white hair was a tousled mess, and his eyes swollen with sleep. But he could still talk. “Listen, what the hell is this? What are you, a bunch of thieves? We haven’t got enough cash among us to make it worth your while. Take off now. Go rob a bank or something. You don’t know who you’re fooling with, hear? Take off, while you’re able.”

I had been examining the faces of the five men. I found the one I wanted. A young kid, years younger than any of the others, and lacking their patina of coarse, sneering confidence. Likely enough this was the kid’s first “job” with the syndicate.

From the way he was trembling, I had an idea it’d be his last, if he had anything to say about it. I decided to give him a chance. “You,” I said, pointing at him. “Step out.”

He did. He started a half-hearted protest. Carson backhanded him and he shut up. The other goons began to look worried. Even Waner.

“Get the rest of this trash out of here,” I said. “I’ll be down directly. Alright?”

Waner began to jabber, but the muzzle of Carson’s pistol jammed between Waner’s ribs put a sudden stop to that. A couple of goons whimpered. They didn’t know what was happening, but they didn’t like it. Where they came from, they were the ones who scared people, instead of the other way around.

Carson and our men herded them off down the hall and on down the stairs. When they were gone, I turned to the kid. Now that we were alone he got back a little confidence.

“Man, you don’t know what you’re doing,” he told me. “If you knew who we were—”

“I do know,” I said. “All about you.”

He hesitated. He looked pretty silly, standing there in his shorts and tee-shirt, shifting from one bare foot to the other. There was little of the big, bad hood about him.

“I want you to take a message back to your bosses,” I said. “Get ft straight, and tell them just what I tell you. Tell them not to send any more Gerald Waners down here. Tell them to keep out of this state.”

The kid’s mouth dropped open. He shook his head dazedly. “I don’t understand.”

“The syndicate will. Alright, get dressed. You have thirty minutes to be out of this town, and on your way out of the state. And don’t come back.”

“Bu... but what about Waner, and the others?”

“This is pretty wild country around here. It’s easy for four strangers to get lost in the hills, and never be found again. That’s all, Goodby.”

I left him standing there. I hurried downstairs, across the lobby, out of the hotel. There was a line of cars in the street, motors idling. I got into the first one and shut the door firmly behind me.

We moved out, slowly, through the dark deserted streets, like a midnight funeral procession. That’s just what we were.