Some Avenger, Rise!

by Dell Shannon

Genres: Mystery; Police Procedurals; Traditional Mysteries

Synopsis

Sergeant Andrew Clock of Homicide is an honest policeman, but now there's a very grave charge against him: concealing evidence in a murder investigation in return for a bribe. The evidence seems damning, but Clock's friends, including Jesse Falkenstein, cannot believe it of him. Falkenstein sets out to prove Clock's innocence, and is quickly entrenched in a battle between Clock's allies and his superior officers. The only other explanation is a set-up, but who has enough of a grudge against the sergeant to destroy him? 'My favourite American crime-writer' New York Herald Tribune

Release date: July 28, 2014

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 240

Sample

The man had a great deal of money, and the man had an obsession. The man had been and in most ways still was a very shrewd man: a judge of men, a judge of business affairs, and
on the surface he was the same man, a sane man. But a conviction and an idea had taken possession of him.

He conceived that he had a vengeance to bring upon nine persons, and it mattered nothing to him at all how much of his wealth he spent to bring about that vengeance.

He had already spent a great deal, in this way and that. Some of the revenge was easy to attain, but then for others of the nine he had had to hire secret spies, and wait and plan for a long
while before he found the way to reach them with his vengeance.

He had waited years, planning and brooding long, to start the doom moving, irrevocable and sudden as an avalanche, against one of the nine. This plan, unlike some of the others, did not demand
of him personal violence; it had needed money to set up; and then it had needed the exact opportunity before the doom could be begun, before the first stone could be rolled, bringing the avalanche
down.

The man had waited years for this. He had not minded the waiting, for he knew the day would come; it was sweet to brood on that. And the day had come.

And while he waited to bring down the doom on that one of the nine, he had planned and acted on others, so he had not minded the waiting. The man was seventy-two years old but he came of tough,
long-lived stock; he knew he would live long enough—still shrewd and active—to accomplish his vengeance. And he had. This was the last one.

Smiling, he sat thinking about it, slowly sipping his afternoon highball. The first revenge taken—after it had come to him that the vengeance was due—that had been the crude, obvious
thing. But it had been given to him to understand the better vengeance, and that was what he had brought to the others also.

Once it was finished, perhaps he could find peace.

It was April fourteenth, a Wednesday, a bright golden day, but the day of doom for the ninth one on the plotter’s list.

He should be realizing it about now. It was five-thirty in the afternoon.

“They’ve got kind of resigned about it now, I guess,” said old Mr. Walters cheerfully, swallowing the last of his replenished drink. “After all, they
can’t keep me locked up. Way they talk, you’d think I stopped having any sense when I hit seventy-five. But they’ve been a mite easier about my going out lately.” Mr.
Walters, ruddy and cheerful at eighty-one, was talking about his family.

Jesse Falkenstein grinned at him across his desk. “Couple of times,” he said dryly, “you’ve made me feel I didn’t have much sense.”

“Tosh, you’re still young, boy. Got any to start, you keep addin’ to it, you know. You sure I’m not interruptin’ anything?”

“Wish you were,” said Jesse gloomily. It was getting on toward six o’clock, and he’d had a single appointment all day. “I could bear to pick up a few new clients.
Just so long—” he knocked on the desk hastily—“as they aren’t criminal cases. Often thought I’d have been a lot smarter to go in for the corporation side like my
father.”

“Business bad, hey?”

“What with the house payments and feeding the Monster,” said Jesse, “I could do with—” And the office door opened and Miss Williams looked in agitatedly.

“Oh, Mr. Falkenstein—”

“Yes?”

“I was just about to leave when— I didn’t know if you’d want—”

A man brushed by her in the doorway and came heavily into the office. He was a big man with heavy shoulders, rather untidily dressed in a mediocre dark suit; his dark tie looked as if he’d
been pulling at it, hanging loose and crooked. He was not a good-looking man; he had big craggy features, a long prognathous jaw which bore a stubble of dark beard, and his dark eyes were
bloodshot. He stood in the center of the room and looked at Jesse, and slowly Jesse unfolded his lank seventy-four inches and got to his feet.

“I didn’t know if you’d want—”

“It’s all right, Miss Williams,” said Jesse. “You can go.”

The newcomer just stood there, arms hanging, and Jesse and old Mr. Walters stared at him, for he was a man they knew. He was Sergeant Andrew Clock of Central Homicide, L.A.P.D.—but
they’d never seen him looking like that before.

And Jesse felt one sharp pang of alarm, and he said quickly, “Fran? Andrew, is it—” Because he could think of only one thing that might make Clock look like that, some hurt or
threat to slim, svelte Fran Falkenstein.

Clock shook his head. He went on shaking it, muzzily, as if trying to clear his mind. Then he said, “I thought— I could get you—but I don’t know if they’d let me
bring in a lawyer. Like the army. I don’t know. Only I thought— Because, my God, my God, I don’t understand it, it’s not real, it can’t be real, you know. It’s
just a nightmare, isn’t it? I’m sorry, I didn’t see you had somebody here. Oh, it’s you.” He looked at Mr. Walters. “Would they let me have a lawyer, do you
think? I never asked the captain. Should have asked.”

“You’re not making sense, Andrew,” said Jesse. “Sit down and let’s hear what’s wrong.” But he had to prod Clock into the second chair beside his desk.
Old Mr. Walters silently pulled out his bottle of bourbon and poured a hefty shot into his glass, shoved it over. He was watching Clock interestedly.

Jesse guided Clock’s hand to the glass. “For God’s sake, what’s hit you?” he asked. “What do you need a lawyer for? Finally lost your temper with some stupid
underling and clouted him over the head?”

Clock put the bourbon down in one gulp. “I needed that,” he said. His voice was dull but there was something wild in his eyes on Jesse. “I—just don’t understand any
of this. It’s like—it’s just a nightmare, that’s all. It’s got to be. I’m sitting here in your office telling you—trying to tell you—but in a minute
I’ll wake up, and it’ll have just been a nightmare. Because it’s nothing that could happen, you know.” He was asking them to tell him, reassure him, that it was just a
nightmare.

“Andrew—”

“Thirteen years,” said Clock. “I took the oath when I was twenty-one. A hell of a lot of times I’ve wondered why—thankless job to end all thankless jobs—but
it’s my job, you know. I never wanted to do anything else, and I’m a good cop, Jesse. You believe I’ve been a good cop, don’t you? God knows I’ve tried to be. I saved
that baby, that time—they gave me a medal for that: I told you that, didn’t I?” Clock was talking dully, compulsively, his eyes anxious on Jesse. “I made rank three years
after I joined the force, and that’s pretty good going on this force. I was twenty-four. I was the youngest cop ever made rank, you know that? I was only in uniform three years. And no marks
against me at all, you know that?”

“Andrew, what the hell’s this all about?” asked Jesse. Something very wrong with Clock; something—

“He’s had a pretty bad shock of some kind, boy,” said Mr. Walters quietly. “Get another shot down him, maybe—jolt him out of it, hey?”

“Andrew—”

“I’ve tried, I thought I was— I was only thirty-two when I made sergeant,” Clock was going on, earnestly. “And it’s just crazy to think Starbuck could have
had anything to do with that—with Skipper Arnold getting cooled, I mean— Starbuck’s not a killer, I only brought him in to question because he had had an argument with
Skipper, and you’ve got to be thorough. Just crazy. And I can’t understand where—how— Look,” he said. “Look, I get along with most of the boys just fine. We all
get along. They’re all good men—especially Pete Petrovsky. Oh, Dale’s a little slow on the uptake sometimes, and I didn’t recommend him for promotion, but, my God, Jesse,
Dale couldn’t—and besides, he wouldn’t. I don’t know who would. What?—oh, thanks.” Automatically he emptied the glass again. “What’s that
one you quoted at me once—every man’s enemy is within himself—enemies— But who could do it to me? My God, Jesse, my God, did I do it? Did I have amnesia or
something?”

“Andrew, simmer down and tell it straight,” said Jesse gently. “What’s happened?”

Clock suddenly drew a long, long breath and held it, and let it out. He looked haggard, and there was both pain and fright in his expression. He said, “And how often, my sweet Christ, have
I listened to them telling me—it’s a frame, Sergeant—somebody framed me. How often—”

“Some kind of private trouble, Sergeant, you’d maybe like me to take myself off?” said Mr. Walters delicately.

“No,” said Clock. “That’s all right. I think maybe—the more heads we get on this the better.” He sounded more rational. “And anyway, they’re good,
you know—and with no marks on my record, sure to God they won’t just— But the way it looks—damn it, it doesn’t make any sense!”

“From the beginning, Andrew,” said Jesse. He sat down again. Whatever it was, it was something bad. He’d never seen the practical, efficient, dedicated-cop Clock like this.

Clock took another long breath. He said conversationally, “That liquor’s hit me. I haven’t had anything to eat since breakfast. I’m just not thinking. I should have asked
the captain if they let you have a lawyer. Maybe it wouldn’t look so good if I did bring a lawyer in. But surely to God it’d count for something, that I said right off, Look anywhere
you want to? But when they— I just don’t understand it.” He looked at Jesse and came out with it then, abruptly. “I’m suspended,” he said. “Pending fuller
investigation. I’m supposed to have taken a bribe to cover up evidence against Paul Starbuck in that homicide. And I’m supposed—supposed to have taken it because I wanted the
money for a— I told you it’s crazy, it’s just impossible—for this Helen Madden. I don’t know the woman, I’d never laid eyes on her, Jesse. Anybody who knows
me,” said Clock painfully, brutally, “knows I haven’t—seen another female—since I met Frances. I wouldn’t—look twice at that one anyway. Never laid
eyes on her. One of these rapacious little blondes—by request—with a beehive hairdo. Crazy. Her brother’s an ex-con, he’s been in Quentin. He did a one-to-five for
armed robbery. Joe Madden. A punk—just a punk. And the girl—”

“What the hell,” said Jesse stupidly. “But Andrew—”

“She said I gave her the money to buy a mink coat,” said Clock. “You know I.A.—or maybe you don’t. It was the editor of the Telegraph phoned Captain
Thatcher. Monday. He’d had an anonymous phone call—all this about me—you know it was in the papers on Friday, Thursday too, I guess—about our questioning Starbuck, on the
Arnold case. The editor wasn’t about to stick his neck out and print it without checking—even if the Telegraph always does love to get hold of something against a cop. But then
of course Thatcher and his I.A. boys went to work too. On me. Because Thatcher— Thatcher’s a good man. Drops on anybody a little out of line—like lightning. You know this force.
We’re the top force anywhere. Partly on account of I.A. playing watchdog.”

“Yes, but Andrew—how the hell could—”

“Hell, you keep the girl friend out past midnight, you’re apt to get a lecture about it. Take three drinks instead of two, out to dinner somewhere, you get lectured. That’s how
I.A. was set up—damn puritanical. Cops setting an example and so on. I’ve never had a mark against me,” said Clock. “But this—something one hell of a lot more
than— Well, I see of course they’d look. Even on an anonymous tip, but—” He stopped, and said, “I need another drink. . . . She had a photograph on the
mantel. In a frame. It was me. Me with her at some night club. She wouldn’t let the captain have it, but it was me. Only it couldn’t have been, could it? Unless I’ve grown a split
personality and don’t remember?”

“A photograph—”

“In a silver frame.” Clock nodded. “And this punk, this Madden, he said it was so too. Never laid eyes on either of them. And Starbuck was scared to
death—naturally—and he said, No, for God’s sake, he hadn’t given me any money, but my God, there’s no way to prove that, about him. A pro gambler, they all carry
around a lot of cash—and—”

“Slow down,” said Jesse. “Let me take this in. The editor tipped off Internal Affairs and they went looking. All right. Evidence—of course circumstantial evidence is
really the best kind. But, first thing strikes me, a pretty crude setup, isn’t it? All of a sudden a good cop with no black marks against him veering such a long way off the straight and
narrow? Didn’t this Thatcher think twice about that?”

Clock finished the bourbon and looked up at him. “You’re jumping in on my side blind, boy?” he asked softly. He looked, now, completely rational and sober. “You
haven’t heard—all they’ve got. You don’t know. That teller— You don’t ask me any questions at all, just take it on faith? My God, I’m asking
myself if I could have lost my mind—my normal mind.”

Jesse slid farther down in his desk chair. “Fellow named Bratzlav said a thing once. Where reason ends, faith begins. Man’s got to believe in something. Figure I know you
well enough to know you’d never turn crooked as a cop. There are things you’d do maybe puritans’d call wrong. Sure. But as cops go, I’d call you dedicated. As they say. Also
figure your Captain Thatcher ought to be smart enough to read you.”

Old Mr. Walters had poured himself another drink. “I’ll go along with that,” he said interestedly.

“Thatcher,” said Clock dully, “doesn’t know me. This is a big city force, after all. Sure, there’s my record. But I guess among all your proverbs, Jesse, you could
think of a few about how females get us tangled in their nets.”

“So,” said Jesse, “we do anything to stay tangled? Um. I want some more details. I.A. went looking. When and how?”

“Yesterday. Today. I didn’t hear one damn thing about it until this morning. I was still working on the Arnold thing— I don’t think we’ll ever get anybody for it,
but— The captain called, told me to come up to his office. I thought maybe one of the boys in the office was in trouble. I know Dale’s a poker fiend, he might have— And then they
threw this at me. This. Questions. Like a nightmare. And when I got it through my head what they were saying—that it wasn’t some kind of damn fool joke—I blew up. I don’t
know if that was smart— I couldn’t help it, Jesse. Me. Taking a bribe—running around with a—this cheap blonde. I said, for Christ’s sake, look wherever you want to,
I’ve got nothing to hide! Only then—then they looked. Sure. We all looked,” said Clock tiredly. “And then they asked me a lot more questions. Thatcher and Lieutenant Clay. I
don’t know— I suppose they’re good men, but that office, it’s the watchdog, you know—it’s their job to be suspicious, to keep an eye on every man on the
force. And they don’t know me, Jesse. Personally. When I made rank I was assigned to Wilcox Street in Hollywood. The detective bureau there. I was there until I made sergeant and got
transferred downtown to Central. To Homicide. I never had a thing to do with I.A. before. I met Thatcher and Clay for the first time today. Seen them, heard about them. I guess they’re good
men. But what the hell could they think—all this evidence— I don’t understand it.”

“Tell me,” said Jesse, “about the evidence, Andrew. One thing I’m supposed to know a little something about.”

Clock looked down at his hands clasped tightly together across his lean stomach. They were big, capable, freckled hands. They had done this and that. They had saved that baby, so long ago. They
had subdued a lot of punks and drunks and berserk men. They had, like Andrew Clock’s body and brain and personality, been used—he had always liked to think—for good against evil.
He hadn’t any orthodox conviction about life except the blind conviction that there was this primal, eternal struggle between the forces of good and evil—between order and
chaos—and he had chosen the right side. He had also a blind faith that a man on the right side had, essentially, nothing to worry about in life or death; the battle he might lose, but not the
war. But today had shaken him, and shaken his faith. Since the moment the inside phone rang on his desk, and he picked it up and said, “Clock here,” and a curt businesslike voice had
replied, “This is Captain Thatcher in I.A. Will you please report to my office immediately, Sergeant”—not making a question of it.

He said, “They had seen that girl yesterday. They didn’t get me up there until they’d— I just blew up. I said, for God’s sake, they could look at whatever they
wanted to—my bank account, my apartment— And they said they’d like me to see the girl. This—Madden woman. I’d never laid eyes on her before. And there was that
photograph. I didn’t believe it. I didn’t— She called me Andy,” said Clock numbly. “Nobody calls me— She—she did a good job on it, the bitch—hemmed
and hawed and—you know—was arch at them. Word for it. Arch. What was wrong about her going around with a cop? Why shouldn’t he buy her presents if he wanted to? Like that. And
there was that photograph. I didn’t believe it but—”

“Ways,” said Jesse, “to make composites.”

“Jesse,” said Clock quietly, “it wasn’t a copy of any photograph I’ve ever had taken. I knew that when I saw it. I haven’t had many photographs
taken—you know my father died when I was ten, and we didn’t have money for things like that. I haven’t got any family since my mother died, and God knows I haven’t got the
kind of face for anybody to want pictures of. It was a—a new photograph. Of me.”

“There’s a thing called a telescopic lens,” said Mr. Walters.

“Oh, my God, tell it to Thatcher!” said Clock savagely. “So then we went to the bank. I was, Christ, being cooperative. I wasn’t mad any more. I mean, I was, I was good
and mad, but I was feeling kind of numb too, know what I mean—after that photograph. I said, whatever they wanted to look at—nothing to hide—”

His faith not shaken then. The honest man with nothing to fear, because in the end the man on the right side would always come out all right. This absurd, outrageous,
unexpected c. . .