Howdy folks, and welcome back. It’s time for another chapter in the adventures of Matt Slade, Private Eye, and the lovely Claire Brazelton.
Episode 14
“Who’d you tell, lady?” The heavy meaty sound of flesh striking flesh echoed out the open window of the Swanmere estate’s library as the sun rose through carved up bushes in the garden. There’s a two-dollar word for ‘em, but I couldn’t remember it.
I stood outside, listening. Trying to learn. But could I really just stand there while the heavies inside beat answers out of Claire Brazelton? Even if she was a “person of interest” in the slow motion murder of her father. Even if I really wanted to hear those answers for myself? I sighed. I was packing a fair amount of artillery, a Thompson I’d taken off a dead goon earlier, my own Government .45 automatic, and a little cut-down .32 Iver Johnson in my pocket.
“I didn’t tell him anything! I told you already!” The blustockinged lady’s voice was cultured and smooth, even through her obvious pain and fear.
Thwack.
I imagined the scene inside. Two men, maybe more, gathered around the dame. That meant the chopper was practically useless. If I went in with that, I couldn’t use it for fear of hitting the dame. The goons would know it, too. I laid it on the stones behind the bush trimmed up like a deer. Topiary! That was the fancy word. Feeling silly, I pulled the little .32 with my left hand, and the big Colt with my right. I got ready to crawl through the open window, when a gun cocked in my ear.
This garden party was sure filling up with iron.
“Put ‘em down, Seamus.”
“Name’s not Seamus. I’m Matt Slade, a private det—”
“I don’t care what you call yourself, drop them heaters! Who do you think you are, wavin’ them Roscoes, Tom Mix?”
“Both the hammers are cocked. If I drop ‘em, it’s apt to get noisy…”
“You tricky dick. Well, put ‘em slow-like, very careful on the ground. If you make noise, I’ll make noise, and you won’t like it.”
“Fine, fine.” I crouched slowly, as instructed. My bum leg howled as I went down, but I didn’t listen. It howled even louder when I came up, hard and fast. I didn’t get turned much before hit him. It was a chance, but I got past the gun before it barked. He went over backwards, me on my back on top of him. Then the heavy and me, we was rollin’ over and over in the gravel. He didn’t fire again, but got me in a bear hug. I couldn’t get either gun around, wrapped up like that. Just about all I had free was legs. I found his shin with my heel and went to work. I pounded it good, two or three times, then raked the sharp edge down it.
He cussed and cussed, but low, like he was still trying to be quiet. I didn’t have any friends out here, so makin’ noise didn’t help me none, either. We fought, well, alright, wrestled and flopped, in silence for a desperate minute, before a voice spoke from over top of us.
“All right, Frankie, let him up, we’ve got this. You, whoever you are, feel real free with those little toys. Just take a look around, first.”
I took his advice. Three men, two with more Thompsons, and one with the big Browning Auto Rifle. All pointed at me. “You want I should put ‘em down?” I asked carefully.
“I don’t care what you do with ‘em. Put ‘em down, put ‘em away, suck on ‘em like a lollypop. Get cute, get blasted.”
“Fair enough.” I slid the Iver Johnson back into its leather lined pocket, then holstered the .45. The hammer was back on the Colt, but the safety catch was still on, like always. The .32 never had been. I struggled to my feet and saw why the mook behind me hadn’t shot, he’d dropped his piece in the dirt.
“Frankie, pick that up. Try to hold onto it next time, all right?” The leader, the one with the BAR, was a tiny little guy for a heavy.
I was surprised he could even lift that twenty pound baby machine gun, but he handled it easily. I made a note to handle with care.
“Alright, smart guy. Into the house.” He nodded that direction, never taking the BAR off me.
I didn’t have a lot of choice, so into the house I went. I gaped in awe and envy at the rank on rank of leatherbound books, but a sharp word recalled me.
“Stop there. You can leave the irons in the drawer.” I looked down, and found I was standing next to one of the big, heavy old reading tables, with an open drawer peeking at me. I laid both guns inside, not without a pang.
When I did, the BAR gestured for me to step back. He handed the big rifle to Assistant Goon Number One, and turned a small key in the drawer’s lock. The little man fished a pair of black leather gloves from his pocket and pulled them on. The way they dangled was wrong, they were heavier than ordinary leather.
Sap gloves. Loaded with lead dust around the knuckles.
“Over there. Sit by the lady.”
Matt's in deep now. Loving it, Jesse. 👍