He worked the dim flash along the wall of dirt and rock. Near the top, he found a small opening which appeared to pass through to the other side. He dug carefully at the opening, enlarging it, working as silently as possible. Finally, he was able to see through clearly. He stared down a long incline at a widened grotto in the main shaft of the old mine.
The still was there.
The boiler and distillation column jutted upward, disappearing into the rock, probably to another tunnel. Steam rose lightly in the murky, floodlit cavern. He could see five large vats clustered at one end, with piping to carry the mash to the column. Even as near as he was, he could not smell much of the fermentation process; the vats were well covered. An underground stream no doubt supplied the water and carried off the waste, which would be well filtered by the time it reached the ground level. There were half a dozen men around a control panel full of gauges and valves, and another group near one of the vats. Flagg, watching, gave grudging admiration to the builder. This still was a thoroughly professional job.
He continued to peer down into the grotto for another full minute. Then he headed back. He had seen enough. Now that he knew the exact location of the still, his job was almost finished.
He made his way to the tunnel opening, made sure the area was still free of guards, and then moved out. It was dusk now, and the long shadows of gathering darkness afforded him a good deal of protective cover. He followed the spur tracks to the main rail line, and then to where he had left his camper, without incident.
He drove back to Barney’s Oasis and went into the public telephone booth at one end of the parking lot. He dialed a number from memory. On the fourth ring, a man’s voice answered. “Alcohol and Tobacco Unit, Northern California. Adamson.”
Flagg gave it to him fast, talking through interruptions until Adamson was listening intently. He outlined the entire shine operation, and then went back and detailed it, missing nothing. When he had finished, he asked, “Have you got it all? Clear?”
“I’ve got it,” Adamson said. “But listen, who is this? Who’s calling?”
Flagg smiled. “You don’t know me,” he said. “I’m just a concerned citizen. A teetotaler.”
He rang off and stepped out of the booth. Churlak would be pleased, he thought. Churlak was a progressive, a member of the new breed, a big business executive. These damned independents deserve to get busted, he had told Flagg. They never learn. There’s just no way they can buck the Organization and make out, no way at all. But why waste time and manpower and invite undue publicity by putting them out of business ourselves? Why not let the feds do it — legally?
And so Flagg, the troubleshooter, had gone to work.
He put another dime in the slot and dialed Churlak’s private number in San Francisco. While it was ringing, he thought about Terry Kenyon. He hoped he wouldn’t have to report to Churlak in person until sometime tomorrow.
He stood waiting in the doorway of the cabin and he seemed even to welcome us.
His eyes went over both Harry and me and he smiled. “Neat dark suits, conservative ties, black shoes. I expected as much.”
“Would your name be James C. Wheeler?” I asked.
He nodded and still smiled.
Harry held up the wallet. “Did you lose this?”
“No,” Wheeler said. “I did not
Harry and I looked at each other.
“But come in,” Wheeler invited.
We followed him inside. The cabin was clean and equipped only with basic furniture.
Wheeler reached for the coffee pot and removed the lid. “When did you find the body?”
“About noon,” I said.
He spooned fresh coffee into the basket. “By the way, just out of curiosity, what was her name?”
“Carol Wisniewski,” Harry said.
Wheeler shrugged. “Even the name means nothing at all to me.”
I picked up the rifle lying on the cot and pulled back the bolt. A spent cartridge popped out onto the floor. “So you wanted to be caught?”
“Of course,” Wheeler said. He put the pot on the small stove and turned on the bottled gas. “I am now forty years old, and I have lived, by choice, in this cabin for almost my entire adult life.” He blew out the match. “Do you think it has been a dull life?”
Harry shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. Maybe you hunt and fish.”
Wheeler shook his head. “No. I do not hunt, and I do not fish. I indulge in the greatest adventure of all. I think.”
He reached for his pipe and pouch. “I was just past twenty-one when my father died. He left me a small inheritance. Anyone else might have run through the money within a year or so, but I chose to come here. It has always been my natural predisposition to avoid the world. By living simply, I made the money last for almost twenty years. But now there is nothing left — nothing at all.”
“What has that got to do with killing the girl?” I asked.
