Manhunter / Deadwood

by Matt Braun

  “I have just now,” Starbuck remarked stiffly, “come from the Grubstake mine. Or perhaps I should say—what’s left of the mine!”

  “You have some connection with the Grubstake?”

  “I do indeed!” Starbuck thundered. “To the tune of a hundred thousand dollars.”

  “A hundred—”

  “Precisely!” Starbuck assumed a wrathful stance. “An Olympic smelter—Model ZB10—ordered by Grubstake and due to arrive here tomorrow morning!”

  “Oh!” Urschel nodded sagely. “Grubstake ordered the smelter and promised payment on delivery. That the idea?”

  “Scoundrels!” Starbuck stumped to the window and back again, puffing clouds of smoke. “Sheriff, I desperately need your assistance! Otherwise I am in dire jeopardy of losing my job. Where might I find the Grubstake’s owner, Mr. Ira Lloyd?”

  “Don’t know any Lloyd,” Urschel advised him. “The owner of record is a man named William Dexter. He’s headquartered in Denver.”

  “I—” Starbuck was genuinely astounded. “How did you come by that information?”

  Urschel nervously drummed his fingers on the desktop. “Guess there’s no harm in telling you that. I was asked to contact all the mine owners and coordinate things when this strike blows. I wrote Dexter about six weeks ago.” He paused, wiped his nose. “The only reply I got was the one you’ve seen for yourself. He closed down the mine.”

  “And you’ve never heard of Ira Lloyd?”

  “Not till you mentioned the name.”

  “Have you ever met Dexter?”

  “No, I haven’t,” Urschel admitted. “Course, that’s neither here nor there. Most of the mines are owned by syndicates or fronts—”

  “Fronts?”

  “Dummy corporations,” Urschel explained. “So it’s not surprising we never see the individuals themselves.”

  “Sheriff, just between us …” Starbuck winked and munched his cigar. “Would you say Dexter is a front man?”

  Urschel gave him a hard, wise look. “That’d be my educated guess.”

  “Do you recall when he bought the Grubstake?”

  “Well, as I recollect, it was about three years ago. Sometime the spring or early summer of ’79.”

  “Uh-huh!” Starbuck deliberated a moment. “What about the manager, George Horwell? Any idea where I might locate him?”

  “Wouldn’t have the least notion.”

  “Out of curiosity”—Starbuck made an offhand gesture with his cigar—“what does he look like … his general appearance?”

  “Let’s see,” Urschel said in a mild, abstracted way. “Early thirties, brown hair, medium height, slim build; pretty average. Why do you ask?”

  “No reason.”

  Starbuck thought the reason was best kept to himself. He now knew what had happened to the Grubstake manager. George Horwell had died on a barroom floor at Cheever’s Flats. Which partially explained his disappearance from Butte, and raised yet another intriguing question.

  Was Horwell otherwise known as Ira Lloyd? Or, carrying it a step further … was there an Ira Lloyd?

  Chapter Twelve

  Starbuck pulled into Union Station three mornings later. From Butte he had traveled to Salt Lake City, and there he’d caught the overnight train to Denver. He looked worn and hollow-eyed from the long trip, and his mood was one of quiet steel fury. He planned to brace William Dexter.

  All the way from Butte he’d brooded on his next step. There were no easy answers, only hard questions. The man he’d killed at Cheever’s Flats was undoubtedly George Horwell, the Grubstake manager. Whether or not Horwell and Ira Lloyd were one and the same was less certain. Try as he might, he had thought of no way to establish a connection. Nor was there any practical way to determine Horwell’s link to Dutch Henry Horn. As for the knottier question—did Ira Lloyd actually exist?—he was in a complete quandary. Key pieces to a very convoluted puzzle were still missing.

  Yet certain factors were beyond question. By whatever name, someone had organized an elaborate assassination plot. There was a direct link between that someone and a ghost from his past, Dutch Henry Horn. Which meant there had been a concerted effort to keep tabs on him over the last seven years. His reputation as a detective was known, and someone had skillfully employed it as a device to lure him into a trap. Further, though the reason was unclear, there was obviously some reluctance to assassinate him in Denver. Otherwise there was no need to rig such a complex scheme, one that enticed him out of the city. He could easily have been killed on homeground.

  So all roads led back to Denver. The case had begun with William Dexter, and he was clearly the key to the missing pieces. There was, moreover, the very real possibility that he alone had orchestrated the assassination plot. If true, that would explain his ownership of the Grubstake mine and unravel, at last, the mystery of Ira Lloyd. For if William Dexter had invented Ira Lloyd, the case was closed. With the exception of one final question.

  What was his link to Dutch Henry Horn?

  Starbuck was determined to have an answer. He’d been shot at and beaten to a pulp, and conned so thoroughly he felt like the greenest of rubes. He was in no mood for polite conversation or civilized tactics. His plan was simple and direct, versed in terms even a hotshot Denver lawyer would understand. He intended to put a gun to Dexter’s head.

  From the train depot, Starbuck took a hansom cab uptown. He got off at the corner of Eighteenth and Larimer, and walked directly to the Barclay Building. An elevator deposited him on the fifth floor, and he proceeded along the hallway to a suite of offices. Entering the waiting room, he found a male secretary seated behind a desk. The man was slightly built, somewhat bookish in appearance. He glanced up from a stack of paperwork, nodded pleasantly.

  “Good morning.”

  Starbuck halted before the desk. “Tell Dexter I want to see him. The name’s Luke Starbuck.”

  The man’s smile faltered. “Apparently you haven’t heard, Mr. Starbuck.”

  “Heard what?”

  “About Mr. Dexter,” the man stammered. “He—he’s dead.”

  “Dead!” Starbuck stopped, as though he’d walked into a wall. His mouth hardened, and when he spoke the words were clipped, brittle. “How’d it happen?”

  “He was shot … murdered.”

  “By who?”

  “No one knows.” The man swallowed, eyes grim. “He worked late one night, and the next morning—it was awful—I found him myself.”

  Starbuck’s tone was inquisitorial. “Any signs of a struggle?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Was he robbed?”

  “Oh, no!” the man blurted. “There was considerable cash in his wallet and he was wearing a very valuable timepiece. His person was … undisturbed.”

  “Anything missing from the office files—records or correspondence?”

  “Nothing insofar as we’ve been able to determine. The police were here and went through everything very thoroughly. His safe was open—that’s where he kept confidential records—and they even inspected that. Everything appeared in order.”

  “When was he killed?”

  “Yesterday,” the man said miserably. “Or to be more precise, night before last. I found him yesterday morning.”

  Starbuck’s expression was wooden. Yet any doubt was blown from his mind like jackstraws in a wind. Ira Lloyd did exist!

  The timing told the tale. The lawyer had been murdered one day before Starbuck returned to Denver. As for a motive, it was patently clear he’d been silenced. Forced to talk, he could have revealed the whereabouts of Ira Lloyd. Or more important—since the name was probably phony—the true identity of Ira Lloyd. The sequence of events was not difficult to piece together.

  Some ten days ago, Starbuck had killed Horwell. Then he’d appeared in Butte and begun asking questions. Somehow word had reached Lloyd, and he had correctly anticipated Starbuck’s next move. With Butte a washout, Starbuck would return to Denver and put the screws on Dexter.
Having failed to kill Starbuck—and unwilling to risk exposure—Lloyd had taken the only remaining countermove. He’d killed Dexter.

  Starbuck pondered it at length. His eyes narrowed in concentration and he mentally shifted the pieces on the chess board once more. Then he nodded to himself, satisfied with the result. Finally, his gaze shifted to the man behind the desk.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Frank Huggins.”

  “Do you know me, Mr. Huggins?”

  “Yessir,” Huggins murmured. “That is to say, I know who are you are, Mr. Starbuck.”

  “Suppose I took you into my confidence?” Starbuck arched one eyebrow in question. “Would I be safe in assuming you’d keep it to yourself?”

  “Oh, yessir!” Huggins said with a catch in his voice. “I would never betray a confidence!”

  “I’d want your word,” Starbuck warned him. “And I can’t abide a man who breaks his word.”

  Huggins bobbed his head. “You have my solemn oath, Mr. Starbuck.”

  “Good enough.” Starbuck paused, let him hang a moment. “I was working on a case for Mr. Dexter. Unless I’m wrong, the subject of that investigation is the man who killed him.”

  “You really mean it?”

  “I’d bet on it,” Starbuck said with conviction. “But I’ll need your help to prove it.”

  “Anything!” Huggins offered. “Anything at all!”

  “I need a look at Mr. Dexter’s confidential files—the ones in the safe.”

  “Oh, my!” Huggins said doubtfully. “The police wouldn’t like that, Mr. Starbuck. Chief Kelsey himself ordered me not to touch anything until they’ve finished their investigation.”

  “Who’s to know?” Starbuck smiled. “I won’t tell him if you don’t.”

  “Well—”

  “You want to help catch the killer, don’t you?”

  “Yes, of course!”

  “Then here’s your chance,” Starbuck urged. “I’ll be in and out before you know it.”

  “I …” Huggins hesitated, then suddenly squared himself up. “I’ll do it! I owe that much to Mr. Dexter.”

  “That’s the ticket!”

  Starbuck quickly crossed the room. He entered Dexter’s private office and stopped just inside the door. The office was richly appointed, with a carved walnut desk, several wingback chairs, and plush carpeting. Someone had carefully washed the desktop, but the outline of bloodstains was still visible. A cursory inspection indicated the lawyer had been shot while seated in the judge’s chair behind the desk. From the pattern of the bloodstains, he had then slumped forward on the desk, apparently shot in the head. All signs pointed to a swift and efficient job. An execution, and not the work of a stranger.

  After a look around, Starbuck began with the desk. He spent the next half hour rummaging through Dexter’s personal effects. He was searching for anything that might provide a lead to either Ira Lloyd or the Grubstake Mining Company. Curiously, there was no correspondence from George Horwell, the mine manager. Odder still, there was no file pertaining to the mine itself. It was as though all traces of the Grubstake had been expunged from Dexter’s records.

  The squat wall safe was a trove of information. The contents revealed that Dexter’s business interests had been varied and immensely profitable. A large bookkeeping ledger was particularly enlightening. There, page by page, was a detailed record of the lawyer’s financial dealings. His association with men of power and wealth ranged from Denver to San Francisco, with notable emphasis on mining investments. The pages were in chronological order, providing a calendar with dates and company names and dollar figures. Between April, 1879, and May, 1879, Starbuck made a startling discovery. A page had been neatly razored from the ledger.

  The missing page was proof in itself. He recalled an item gleaned from his conversation with the sheriff in Butte. Three years ago—which translated to the spring of 1879—William Dexter had purchased the Grubstake mine. The time frame fit perfectly, and the missing page, by its very absence, was strong testimony. All transactions relating to the Grubstake had been removed from the ledger. Which meant Dexter was, in the end, a mere front man.

  The motive behind the killing was now corroborated. No record existed connecting Dexter to Ira Lloyd. Nor was there any fear of the lawyer’s talking.

  A dead man was indeed a silent partner.

  Starbuck paused at the corner of Fourteenth and Larimer. He lit a cigarette and stood looking at the police station. He was thinking without any charity of Chief Elwood Kelsey. Their dislike was mutual and of long duration. Yet he saw no alternative to requesting the chief’s cooperation. He desperately needed a lead.

  A dull and grinding weariness had fallen over him on his walk from the Barclay Building. Any trace of Ira Lloyd had ended at the lawyer’s office. There was no next step, for the missing page from the ledger had effectively erased the trail. His investigation was blunted, and with nowhere left to turn, his only option was the police. He would attempt, however briefly, to resurrect William Dexter. A voice from the grave might yet be made to speak.

  Inside the police station, Starbuck was left to cool his heels for nearly an hour. He understood the slight was intentional, a low form of insult meant to embarrass him. Denver’s chief of police was contemptuous of private detectives in general, and he reserved a particularly virulent animosity for Starbuck. Based in part on envy, his attitude blackened in direct proportion to Starbuck’s reputation. A quote in a newspaper interview had revealed the sum and substance of his spite. He had publicly labeled the manhunter a licensed killer.

  Smoking quietly, Starbuck waited on a bench in the hall. He’d learned long ago that the man who lost his temper generally lost the fight. The winner, inevitably, was the man who provoked his opponent into some heedless act. He took a tight grip on himself, and ruthlessly suppressed his anger. He couldn’t afford to lose today.

  At length, a uniformed officer ushered him into the chief’s office. Elwood Kelsey was a beefy man, with the bulbous nose of a heavy drinker and the girth of one who indulged himself in the good life. His eyes were small and mean, and he looked marvelously like a bright pig. He let Starbuck stand, hat in hand.

  “You wanted to see me?”

  “I’m working on a case.” Starbuck regarded him with great calmness. “I’d like your assistance.”

  “God’s blood!” Kelsey declared hotly. “Aren’t you the bold one! Do you really believe I’d give you the time of day?”

  “You will when you hear my client’s name.”

  “And who might that be?”

  “William Dexter.”

  Kelsey was visibly startled. “Why would Dexter hire a—someone like you?”

  “He retained me to find a man,” Starbuck lied easily. “I have reason to believe that same man killed him.”

  “What’s the man’s name?”

  Starbuck was alert to any reaction. “Ira Lloyd.”

  “Never heard of him.” Kelsey’s eyebrows drew together in a frown. “Who is he?”

  “A stock promoter,” Starbuck said guilelessly. “Works out of Butte … mostly mining stocks.”

  “What was his business with Dexter?”

  “Let’s trade.” Starbuck met his gaze with an amused look. “You tell me your secrets and I’ll tell you mine.”

  “Why should I help the likes of you?”

  “You’ve got no choice,” Starbuck bluffed. “I know something you don’t … and it might solve the case.”

  “Bastard!” Kelsey’s lips were tight and bloodless. “Go ahead, then! Ask your questions and be damned!”

  “What physical evidence did you turn up at Dexter’s office?”

  “None,” Kelsey answered with defensive gruffness. “Whoever murdered him left the place clean as a hound’s tooth.”

  “How about the coroner’s report?”

  “One shot,” Kelsey said in a resigned voice. “Powder burns on the right temple and no exit wound.”

 
“No exit wound,” Starbuck repeated slowly. “What caliber gun?”

  “A thirty-two,” Kelsey replied. “All the same, the autopsy showed death was instantaneous.”

  “So he knew the killer.” Starbuck was thoughtful a moment, then went on. “Any eyewitnesses? Someone who saw the man entering or leaving the building?”

  “Not so far.”

  “Was the door to Dexter’s office forced?”

  “No.” Kelsey’s tone was emphatic. “Either it wasn’t locked, or he admitted the killer without incident.”

  “Anything else?” Starbuck insisted. “Anything unusual or out of place … maybe something you confiscated as evidence?”

  “Nothing.” Kelsey halted, glaring at him. “Now it’s your turn! What was Dexter’s interest in this fellow Lloyd?”

  Starbuck embroidered on his original fairy tale. “Lloyd swindled one of his clients. Don’t ask which one, because Dexter never told me.”

  “Where’s Lloyd now?”

  “I lost his trail in Butte.”

  “Butte?” Kelsey gave him a dirty look. “Are you saying you can’t place Lloyd in Denver at the time of the murder?”

  “I can’t place him at all.” Starbuck stitched a smile across his face. “I’ve never laid eyes on the man.”

  “You tricked me!”

  “No, Chief,” Starbuck said without irony. “You tricked yourself.”

  “I’ll get you!” Kelsey’s fist crashed into the desktop. “By the sweet Jesus, I’ll run you out of Denver!”

  Starbuck stared him straight in the eye, challenging him. “You haven’t got the balls for it—or the clout.”

  Kelsey reddened with apoplectic rage. Starbuck flipped him a salute and walked to the door. Outside, however, the smile slipped and he admitted to himself it was a hollow victory. While he had won the game of wits, nothing of any value had been uncovered. He’d hopscotched his way back to square one.

  Late that afternoon Starbuck entered the First National Bank. An hour earlier he had called a political marker with Lou Blomger, the underworld czar of Denver. In his pocket was a court order, duly executed by a circuit judge. He thought it a shot in the dark, but nonetheless worth a try. He’d exhausted his options.