by J. T. Edson
Stepping to the rear without taking his eyes from Belle, still gripping the Remington in a threatening manner, Opal hooked his rump daintily on to the edge of the table. Belle could sense the wavering of his attitude. If she guessed correctly, he was debating which line of action would be most advantageous to him.
Should he remain loyal to his employers, or would he be safer and better off if he accepted Belle’s offer?
Belle knew that her fate, in fact her very life, hung on the answer.
Almost two minutes dragged by in silence, with Belle allowing Opal to stew in his own juice and draw his own conclusions. She had done all she could to lead him in the right direction. Playing upon his obvious greed, she had also reminded him of the contempt with which O’Reilly—and probably others—had regarded his homosexual tendencies. She had also established a bond with him by pretending to be a lesbian and, as such, understanding his problems.
Now everything rested in Opal’s hands. Belle sensed that any further prompting from a woman, even one he assumed to be a lesbian, might turn him from the proposal. On the other hand, her hint that Darren might not be the dupe Opal imagined and the comment on the Secret Service’s interest in the organization were definitely weighing heavily in his considerations.
As clearly as if Belle had read the words on his face, she knew that Opal had reached his decision.
Even as the juggler rose from his seat on the table, the door of the dressing room opened!
Due to the door swinging inwards, Belle could not see the new arrival from where she was sitting. With a cold, sickening feeling assailing her, she assumed that O’Reilly, or another member of the organization, had appeared on the scene. Confronted by another conspirator, Opal might decide that discretion was the better part of valor. Especially as he could, if he had decided on the financial benefits of a betrayal, contact another member of the Secret Service without any great difficulty.
Then Belle became aware of how Opal was reacting.
‘That didn’t ta—’ the juggler began, glancing at the doorway. Starting to bring his gaze back in Belle’s direction, he snapped it rapidly towards the door once more, in what would one day be called a ‘double-take’. ‘Wha—Where !’
The man framed in the doorway was not O’Reilly. Tilted at a jaunty angle, a black stovepipe hat topped a thatch of longish, flaming red hair. He was tall, well built. Almost V-shaped rufus brows grew thickly above deep-set eyes, a hooked nose, tight lips and a sharp chin. There was something sinisterly Mephistophelian about him, accentuated by his scarlet-lined black opera cloak, matching broadcloth coat, vest and trousers. His white shirt had wide, hard-starched detachable cuffs, a celluloid collar and a black silk cravat knotted in the manner of a bow tie.
‘Hello, Dexter,’ the newcomer greeted. ‘They said at your rooming-house that I’d find you here. I’ve been waiting all day to get a chance to talk with you in private. I suppose you remember me?’
‘M-Mephisto!’ Opal croaked, staring in fascination at the speaker. ‘I—I heard you were d-dead.’
‘The report was premature,’ the man replied, having glanced about him as if to make sure that they were alone in the theater. He advanced into the room. ‘Although I was close—’
Realizing that the newcomer was not O’Reilly, nor—if Opal’s reactions were anything to go on—another member of the organization, Belle twisted on her rump and kicked the door closed. That achieved the desired effect of bringing the man’s attention in her direction. At first he seemed to be on the point of defending himself. Then, as his eyes roamed over her and took in her bound wrists, a smile of understanding flickered to his lips.
‘What’s this, Dexter?’ the man inquired sardonically, returning his gaze to the juggler. Taking off his hat with the left hand, he held it so that the right was just inside its mouth. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve started playing your little games with girls now?’
‘What do you want here, Mephisto?’ Opal challenged.
‘Information,’ the man replied. ‘I’m looking for good old Simmy Lampart. Where is he?’
‘How would I know?’ Opal demanded, then went on just a shade too quickly. ‘I did hear that he’s gone to Mexico.’
‘He’s not there, and you know it,’ Mephisto growled. ‘Come on, Dexter, tell me where I can find him and I’ll leave you to go on playing bound-and-gagged with the lady.’
‘I don’t know how true it is,’ Opal said, spitting out the words like an alley cat faced by a hound dog. ‘But I did hear he’s founded a town for outlaws somewhere in the wilds of Texas.’
‘So that’s what you heard, is it?’ Mephisto purred.
‘A dancing boy I know met an outlaw called Joey Pinter who’d been there,’ Opal elaborated, raising the Derringer to line it on his visitor’s chest. ‘He said Simmy and Giselle do their magic tricks to entertain the Indians. You know, their sawing-the-woman-in-half routine. Now get going!’
‘You’re sure it was them?’
‘The descriptions fitted them. Now go, I’ve done all I can for you.’
While the men had been talking, Belle had taken the opportunity to adopt a posture that would permit a great freedom of movement. Easing herself upwards, she halted kneeling on her bent right leg and with her left foot braced against the wall, to be used as a spring that would propel her erect in a hurry when the time came. She also studied the newcomer and drew certain conclusions. That mop of red hair was a wig and his face …
‘It’s not quite that easy.’ Mephisto explained with disarming pleasantness, ignoring the Derringer’s .41 caliber superposed tubes. He dropped the hat and his left hand rose to rub at the underside of his jaw. ‘You see, Simmy is another who thinks I’m dead—’
‘So?’ Opal challenged.
‘So you know I’m alive and you always were a blabbermouth,’ Mephisto replied. ‘I’d hate for anything to disillusion Simmy about me.’
With that, the man twisted his extended right arm and a bunch of brightly colored paper flowers materialized—apparently from thin air—in his hand. At the same instant, his left fingers hooked under and seemed to rip all the skin and hair from his head.
Removing what Belle had suspected was a cleverly constructed mask, the man exposed what lay underneath.
There was no face as such!
Only a hideous mass of cratered, seamed, dirty-gray flesh without any real semblance of a nose or lips; but from which glowed deep, burning, hate-filled eyes.
Seven – You’re Not Much Better Off
Letting out a strangled, horrified gasp, Opal swung his head away from the ghastly sight presented by Mephisto. Down whipped the scar-faced man’s left hand. Still clasping the mask and wig—which looked like a grotesque, bloodless scalp removed by an Indian warrior—he struck the top of Opal’s extended right wrist with some force. The Remington slipped from the juggler’s limp fingers and he involuntarily stumbled back a couple of steps.
Up and across whipped Mephisto’s right hand. The lamp’s light flickered briefly on something which gave off a metallic gleam amongst the paper blossoms. Their heads passed beneath Opal’s chin and jerked sideways. A momentary shocked and pained expression twisted at the juggler’s features. Blood gushed thickly from a gash, which laid open his throat almost to the bone, in the wake of the moving flowers. Gagging out strangled, meaningless words, Opal twisted around and stumbled blindly across the room. With hands clawing unavailingly at the terrible, mortal wound, he collapsed against the wall and slid to the floor.
Although the sight of Mephisto’s ravaged features, taken with the expression on Opal’s stricken face, almost nauseated Belle, she forced herself to remain calm. To give way to panic, or ‘go woman’—as the Rio Hondo gun wizard, Dusty Fog, [5] had once referred to becoming hysterical—might easily prove fatal. She would need every ounce of her courage, and to keep her wits about her, if she hoped to survive.
‘Th-Thanks, mister,’ she said, staying in her crouching posture and contriving to sound grateful. ‘I think he
was planning to kill me.’
‘Was he?’ Mephisto replied, moving forward with the bloody blade of the razor-sharp spear-pointed knife seeming almost incongruous in its surrounding of gore-sodden paper flowers. ‘Then you’re not much better off.’
Belle did not need an explanation of what he was implying. Having seen him commit a cold-blooded murder, she could make an excellent witness for the peace officers who would investigate his crime.
Studiously avoiding looking at Mephisto’s face, Belle concentrated upon watching his right hand. He lunged forward, directing his thrust towards her torso. It was the swift, deadly efficient attack of a trained knife fighter.
Instinctively, almost without the need for conscious thought, Belle’s savate training had supplied a possible solution to her predicament. Thrusting with her left foot and straightening her right knee, she rose swiftly. Using the momentum of her rising, she brought up her left leg and swung it in a circular motion. The inside edge of her left boot struck the man’s arm at the elbow before the knife reached her. Such was the power of the kick that it not only deflected the blade, but also caused his upper body to turn away from her.
Lowering her foot, Belle ducked her right shoulder and charged. She rammed into Mephisto’s back before he had recovered from her kick. Dropping his mask, wig and weapon, he went reeling away from her. Colliding with the dressing table, he sent the lamp flying and rebounded at an angle. His progress was halted when he ran up against the corner of Opal’s trunk. Falling to the floor, the lamp broke and its fuel burst into flames.
Staggering slightly from the impact, Belle managed to regain control of her movements. Then she made preparations to defend herself even more effectively. Darting to where the Remington pistol lay, she grabbed for it. Having her wrists lashed together did not prevent her from retrieving the weapon; although she moved more clumsily than would have been the case if she was free. Her fingers curled around the Derringer’s ‘bird’s head’ handle. Hooking her thumb over the hammer, she eased it back to full cock; a precaution that Opal had failed to take. Holding the weapon, she swiveled, dropping into a crouching position, ready to start shooting.
Having lost his disguised knife, and realizing that the girl was not acting in blind panic, Mephisto sought for some other means of protecting himself. His eyes flickered to where the flames were licking up the wall and spreading from the shattered lamp. Snatching up Belle’s cloak, he flung it at her. It landed over her head and shoulders, enveloping the Derringer as it slanted in his direction.
Belle flung herself to the wall, fighting to throw off the cloak. Instead of following her, Mephisto bounded to and snatched up his mask, wig and hat. He then darted to the door, ignoring the girl. Jerking it open, he plunged out of the room.
Although she dragged away the cloak, Belle continued to grasp it in her left hand. Following Mephisto from the dressing room, she found that he was already well on his way to making good his escape. Before she could do anything constructive, he had gone through the stage door and disappeared into the darkness. Belle did not attempt to follow, knowing that she must leave his capture to the local peace officers.
Turning back, she felt the heat of the growing fire beating at her and gave her attention to Opal. One glance, even across the width of the room, told her that he was beyond human help. Nor, with the way the flames were spreading, could she make a search of his property.
Still clutching the cloak, which she knew that she would need if she hoped to return to her hotel unnoticed, Belle quit the dressing room. She was on her way to the stage door, which Mephisto had left wide open, when a male figure appeared at it. For a moment, she wondered if the scarred man had returned. Then she realized that it was somebody just as dangerous to her well-being.
It was O’Reilly!
What was more, the recognition was mutual!
Letting out a snarling curse, the man sprang forward. His right hand dipped into his jacket pocket and emerged gripping a Colt Cloverleaf House Pistol. [6]
Encumbered by the cloak, Belle responded in the only way she dared under the circumstances. Raising the Derringer, she found the task easier in that her right hand was supported by the left wrist. Swiftly she took aim, remembering the old Texas’ axiom that ‘Speed’s fine—but accuracy is final’, and shot to kill. A .41 ball spiked between and just over the man’s eyes. Spinning around, he let his revolver fall and followed it down.
Running towards the stage door, Belle glanced at O’Reilly and went out. Behind her, the flames were roaring and throwing an eerie red glow from the dressing room’s door. She heard yells of alarm and shouts of ‘Fire!’ Remembering that her captors had spoken of other members of the organization being expected at the theater, she did not linger in the hope of obtaining assistance to free her hands. Holding the cloak out to one side, she darted as fast as she could towards an alley between two darkened, empty-looking buildings.
Standing in the shadows of the alley, Belle looked about her and strained her ears to detect any hint of Mephisto’s presence. Later she might find time to ponder on the reason for his visit to the theater and wonder if his search for ‘good old Simmy Lampart’ was connected with the hideous damage that had been inflicted upon his face. She would also remember to notify the appropriate authorities about the ‘town for outlaws’ which Lampart was alleged to have founded in the wilds of Texas. [7]
At that moment, however, Belle’s only concern with Mephisto was in locating and dealing with him if he should be lurking in the vicinity.
Satisfied that the strange, terribly scarred man had not lingered after fleeing from the theater, Belle dropped the cloak and tucked the Remington into her waistband. Gratefully, she turned her thoughts to finding the means of escaping from her bonds.
Lifting her wrists, she felt for and gripped the knot with her teeth. The men had improvised, using the silk scarf as being the item most readily available and confident that she could not escape as long as they had kept her under surveillance. Free from such observation, she made short work of the knot and it yielded to her teeth’s tugging. Released from the scarf’s clutches, she dropped it with a sigh of relief and retrieved her cloak. Donning it and raising the hood, she peered back in the direction from which she had come.
Although a number of people had gathered at the theater, so far no fire-fighting appliances had arrived. Nor, by the lack of interest displayed in her position, had she been seen as she had taken her departure. Some attempt was being made to deal with the blaze, apparently. Even as Belle watched, two men emerged from the stage door, dragging O’Reilly’s lifeless body between them. She wondered what they had made of finding a dead man—shot in the head—inside the burning building.
Which raised the matter of what Belle should do next.
The most obvious answer was for her to notify the police of her part in the affair and give them a description of Mephisto.
Unfortunately, in Belle’s line of work, the obvious answer was only rarely acceptable.
If she told the authorities her story, they might possibly be able to find and arrest the hideously marked man. On the other hand, it was such an unlikely story that they might not believe her. In either event, time would be wasted while they checked up on her veracity. General Handiman would not be pleased if word leaked out that Belle Boyd, the Rebel Spy, was employed as a member of the United States’ Secret Service.
There was also another, more immediate aspect to consider before she reported to the civic authorities. A proportion of the police in every large city were Irishmen. Which meant that one of them, already involved in the plot, might hear what she had to say and inform his fellow-conspirators.
By returning to the Traveler’s Hotel immediately, Belle might find the opportunity to search O’Reilly’s room. If she should be held by the police and one of them happened to be in league with the conspirators, he could arrange for somebody to anticipate her, visit the dead man’s quarters and remove any evidence.
So Belle k
new that she must keep quiet for the time being. Perhaps by doing it, she might allow Mephisto to escape. Nothing she had seen of Opal caused her to regret delaying, possibly even ruining, the peace officers’ chances of arresting his murderer.
Having reached her conclusions, Belle put them into practice. Wrapping the cloak tightly about her, she stepped from the alley. If anybody outside the theater noticed her, they did not connect her with the fire. So she returned to the street without being interrupted. Walking along until she saw a one-horse cab, she hailed it and asked to be taken to the Traveler’s Hotel.
On her arrival at her temporary home, Belle paid off the cab. She entered and crossed the foyer. The desk clerk gave her a cursory glance, then resumed his scrutiny of the newspaper he had been reading. Meeting nobody on the stairs, the girl was delighted to find the first floor’s passage equally deserted. She knew the danger of passing up a good opportunity and figured that she had best cash in on it. Although she had not conducted any tests, she felt sure that the hotel’s locks would be fitted to handle a master key. If so, she would find no difficulty in gaining access to O’Reilly’s room.
Removing the pick from its sheath in her boot, Belle went to work. Her belief was justified by results. Finding the master lever, she unfastened the lock and entered the room. Bolting the door, to prevent anybody from coming in and catching her, she made other arrangements for her safety. Crossing to it, she opened the window and placed the rope—secured to a ring in the wall and supplied as a means of escape in case of a fire—ready for tossing out and use if the need arose. Then she increased the flame of the lamp on the dressing table.
Starting with O’Reilly’s working clothes, which were on the end of the bed, Belle went through every pocket. Making certain that she left no trace of her examination, she searched his other garments. There was not so much as a scrap of paper to help her. Nothing in the room hinted that O’Reilly, or Sheriff, belonged to an Irish nationalist movement.
Turning from the clothing, Belle extended her efforts to the room. The dressing table’s drawers and the bed proved to be as unproductive as his garments. Inside the wardrobe were two carpetbags. Taking one of them up, she was surprised by its weight. So she set it on the floor and opened it, to find it held what looked like two lumps of coal. Puzzled, Belle reached for the larger lump. As soon as she touched it, she sensed that it was something a whole lot more dangerous than coal.