The Gangster

It went like clockwork. Up the knotted ropes, over thick folds of canvas to cover the broken glass, drop the rope ladders, then down the inside and running along a mowed inspection track that paralleled the wall. There were no lights in the gymnasium, the barracks, or the boathouse. The main house was dark upstairs, but the ground floor was lit up like Christmas.

“Dinner in the dining room,” said Bell.

Bell sent two men to capture the prizefighters and another man down to the river to rendezvous with the boat. Then he and Archie Abbott led squads to the house. Bell took the back door, Archie the front.

* * *

“They’re here,” said Branco.

“This should be great fun,” said Culp. “Too bad you can’t observe in person. I’ll fill you in later.”

Branco was not convinced that it was a good idea, much less “great fun.” But they were on Culp’s home turf and it was up to Culp to call the shots. “Vamoose!” Culp told him. “While the going’s good.”

Branco opened a servants’ door hidden in the dining room paneling.

“Branco.”

“What is it?”

“I’m impressed that you came back, knowing the raid was coming. You could have disappeared and left me to it.”

“I need you,” said Branco. “No less, no more, than you need me.” He closed the door. A narrow, twisting staircase went down to the silver vault, which had been originally a slave hidey-hole. Branco unlocked it, let himself inside, and locked it again.

J. B. Culp snatched a heavy pistol from the sideboard, strode to his front door, and flung it open, shouting, “Mr. Bell, you are trespassing.”

35

“Detective Bell is at your back door,” said Archie Abbott. “I’m Detective Abbott. Put that gun down before you get hurt.”

J. B. Culp lowered his pistol and backed into his foyer, a large entryway flanked by twin reception rooms. “Judging by your red hair, I’d have recognized you anywhere, Detective Abbott. Even on my private property.”

Abbott said, “Judging by your ruddy complexion, blond hair, and blue eyes, you are not the fugitive Antonio Branco, but John Butler Culp, the man who is harboring him. Put your gun on the table.”

Culp said, “There are people here anxious to meet you and your”—he looked over the burly detectives crowding in behind Abbott—“gang.” Then he raised his voice.

“Sheriff!”

A big bruiser with an Orange County sheriff’s star on his coat stepped from one of the reception rooms. “You’re under arrest, Detective Abbott.”

“I am not,” said Archie Abbott.

“Boys,” the Sheriff called.

Six deputies entered from the other reception room carrying shotguns.

The Sheriff said, “You’re all under arrest.”

“For what?”

“We’ll start with trespassing.”

“We are not trespassing.”

“Drop your weapons and reach for the sky.”

“We are not trespassing,” Abbott repeated. “We are pursuing a fugitive Black Hand gangster named Antonio Branco.”

The Sheriff turned to Culp, who had a small smile playing on his face.

“Mr. Culp, sir, have you seen any fugitives on your property?”

“No.”

The Sheriff turned his attention back to Archie Abbott. “Do you have permits to carry those guns?”

“Of course. We’re Van Dorns.”

“Orange County permits?”

“Now, hold on, Sheriff.”

“You’re trespassing in Orange County. You’re carrying illegal weapons in Orange County. You are endangering public safety in Orange County. And if you are the Detective Abbott I heard Mr. Culp greet, the Orange County District Attorney has received reports about your radical tendencies.”

“Are you nuts? I’m a Princeton man.”

“Last chance: Raise your hands before we start shooting. My boys’ twelve-gauges don’t leave much for the surgeon.”

Isaac Bell walked into the foyer with his hands in the air, trailed by his squad similarly elevated. He saw Culp smirking ear to ear. Archie looked poleaxed. But the out-of-town Van Dorns were tough customers, and Bell intervened quickly before it turned bloody.

“Guns down, gents. Hands up. We’ll settle this later.”

Archie said, “He says he’s the Sheriff.”

Bell said, “The men at the back door are New York Army National Guard officers. And there’s a fellow eating a sandwich in the kitchen who represents the Governor. We’re skunked.”

“Sheriff!” said J. B. Culp.

“Yes, sir, Mr. Culp?”

“Get these trespassers off my property.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Culp.”

“Lock ’em up. I’ll send someone to the jailhouse to press charges in the morning.”

* * *

Nine arrested Van Dorns were crammed into a cell in the county lockup that smelled like it was reserved for drunks. The other three had escaped on the boat.

“I want to know how they knew we were coming,” said Isaac Bell.

“They knew we were coming, didn’t they?” said Archie.

“Unless by amazing coincidence the Sheriff, the Army Guard, and the Governor’s man all dropped in on the same night,” said Isaac Bell.