by J. T. Edson
‘Let me get rid of this skirt,’ Belle requested, unfastening the garment which she had donned before leaving Madame Lucienne’s apartment. She stepped out of it, leaving her paletot jacket on. Then she drew the pick from its sheath and went on, ‘I may be able to open the lock.’
Inserting the end of the pick, Belle felt it come into contact with an obstruction. She pushed gingerly, causing the key to move through the lock. It fell out and clinked softly as it hit the floor. Instantly Belle froze, alert for any hint that the sound had disturbed the man sleeping in the room. Nothing happened and she assumed that the faint noise had been insufficient to waken Brunel. So she tested for and located the master-lever.
’You’d make a good hotel thief,’ St. Andre praised sotto voce, as the lock clicked. ‘Now it’s my turn.’
Although she was wearing the gunbelt and the Dance rode in its low cavalry-twist draw holster, Belle did not argue the point. From the way he handled the Colt, St. Andre was more than competent in its use. So she stepped aside, leaving him unimpeded as he took her place at the door.
Cocking his Colt, St. Andre turned the handle. Flinging the door wide open, he sprang into the un-illuminated room—and came very close to getting killed.
Always a light sleeper, Brunel had been even more so since his escape from the levee at the Baton Royale Glide. He had known that the Secret Service and the police were hunting for him, which had not tended to lend itself to a deep, untroubled slumber.
When the key had fallen, its collision with the floor had wakened him. He had not stirred, but his every faculty had been working to assess the danger. From the other faint noises, including the unmistakable ‘click-click-click’ of a Colt’s hammer being drawn to full cock, he had concluded that somebody was planning to enter his room. It might be no more than a thief, but Brunel felt disinclined to take the chance that it was anything so innocuous. Unlike de Bracy, he had not been misled by the lack of comment in the newspapers. The police and the Secret Service would be using every means available to them in an effort to trace him. Once they had found him, they would be unwilling to risk letting him escape or make a fight. Besides which, there was no reason why a thief would cock a gun at his door. If a robbery was planned, the thief would have tried a more easily accessible room and have held his weapon ready for use ever since entering the building.
Slipping the Starr Navy revolver from under his pillow, Brunel prepared to deal with the intruders. To his way of thinking, it was the ideal weapon for his purposes. Unlike the gun held by the intruder, the Starr had a double-action mechanism. It did not require cocking manually before it could fire, squeezing the trigger performed that function.
Raising the Starr, Brunel lined it along the bed, through the darkness, in the direction of the door. His right forefinger depressed the trigger gently, sensing the rearwards movement of the hammer and halting it before reaching the point where it would be liberated to return to its original position.
Two things combined to save St. Andre that night.
On opening the door, the detective plunged through it at an angle which was calculated to carry him out of the line of fire if the suspect was ready for him. That alone would not have sufficed to keep him alive. As he prepared to enter, he had allowed the light from the passage’s lamps to flood in ahead of him.
The sudden glare, coming on top of complete darkness, dazzled Brunel at exactly the right second. Involuntarily, and slightly, he flinched just as he completed the withdrawal the trigger. Down lashed the hammer, to impact on the cylinder’s uppermost percussion cap. A tiny spurt of flame passed into the powder charge in the chamber and the gun roared. Muzzle-blast blazed brilliantly ahead of Brunel, reducing his vision still further, but he heard a sharp cry of pain and knew that his lead had struck its mark.
Caught high in the left shoulder, with his left foot off the ground, St. Andre was spun around. Pain and shock caused him to yell out. Then he collided with Belle as she followed him.
Brunel had not been under the sheets, but was lying fully dressed on top of them. Swinging his feet sideways, he bounded off the bed to land facing the door. He squinted against the glare and could see well enough to lay his sights at the two figures on the threshold.
Entangled with the bewildered peace officer, Belle could not raise and use the Dance in an attempt to protect them. She felt herself and St. Andre shoved violently aside, Leaping by them, Willie hurled himself across the room. Staggering, Belle saw the light glinting on the blade of the Ames knife held low in the Negro’s right hand. Then Brunel’s revolver cracked. As its bullet did not come anywhere near her, or strike another part of the room, Belle knew that Willie had been hit.
Twice more the Starr spat lead, but the .36 caliber bullets lacked the power to halt the charging Negro in his tracks. Around and upwards licked the Ames knife, with all the rage-induced strength of Willie’s powerful body behind it. Brunel started to scream as the spear-point found his lower belly. The sound ended in a strangled sob, for the blade had ripped his stomach open to the base of the breastbone. Stumbling back against the wall, he went down with Willie following him. Again and again the Ames knife tore through flesh. Any one of the blows would have been fatal.
Slowly the Negro lurched to his feet. The knife was red with blood from point to guard, hanging loosely in his big right fist. As Belle darted towards him, he staggered and held himself upright against the wall.
‘I—I’m real sorry, Miss Belle,’ Willie apologized weakly as she supported him and helped him to the bed. ‘I just couldn’t hold back when I saw him and recollected what he’d done to Massa Jim.
‘That’s all right, Willie,’ the girl replied. ‘You saved our lives. And a man like Brunel wouldn’t have talked, no matter what we’d done to him. Lie back until I can get help for you.’
‘I—I reckon I killed that feller,’ Willie groaned, complying with her suggestion. And you wanted ’special’ to have him took alive.’
‘That’s all right,’ Belle assured him gently. ‘I’m not sorry he’s dead.’
Which was true enough in one respect, Belle told herself. However, Brunel’s death had deprived her of a means of learning what the Frenchman looked like. And he, of all the Brotherhood, was the man she wanted most badly to apprehend.
Voices rose and doors slammed as people, disturbed by the shooting, came from their rooms. Repeating her advice to Willie, Belle turned and went to join St. Andre. Holding his left hand to his wounded shoulder, the detective was telling the first of the awakened guests that he was a peace officer.
‘Everything’s under control,’ St. Andre went on. ‘But we need a doctor.’
‘I’m one!’ announced a night-shirted, burly man. ‘Let me get my bag and I’ll be right with you.’
Heavy footsteps pounded on the stairs. Followed by a uniformed patrolman, General Handiman hurried along the passage.
‘Darren got word to me that Brunel was here and you’d come after him,’ the General announced, seeing the surprise on Belle’s face as he appeared in the doorway. Wanting to keep her presence a secret, if possible, he waved her to stay back beyond the range of vision of the onlookers in the passage. ‘Did you get him?’
‘He’s in here, by the wall,’ the girl replied. ‘Dead.’
‘You’d best put this on again,’ Handiman remarked, picking up the discarded skirt and handing it into the room. ‘Then keep out of sight until I can get rid of these people.’
Showing brisk efficiency and considerable diplomacy, the General set to work at his self-appointed task. First he calmed the crowd, telling them that a notorious train- and bank-robber had been trailed to the hotel. The man had resisted arrest, so was shot down by the peace officers. Then Handiman apologized on behalf of the New Orleans Police Department for the hotel’s guests having their sleep disturbed and requested that they should return to their rooms.
Something about the General’s attitude, respectful, apologetic, yet warning that he would brook no interfe
rence, had caused the men and women to accede to his wishes. Before the doctor had returned, the passage was empty except for Handiman, the patrolman and the manager. From the latter, the General had obtained permission to make use of an empty room on the same floor. Then, dismissing the man with further apologies, he had escorted Belle to it. So smoothly had he acted that not even the doctor had been granted a clear view of the girl.
‘What happened?’ Handiman asked, having lit the room’s lamp and closed the door to ensure their privacy.
‘We caught de Bracy, just as we planned, and made him talk. Then I came here with Lieutenant St. Andre and Willie. Either Brunel was suspicious and had stayed awake, or he was a light sleeper. Whichever it was he shot St. Andre as we burst in and would maybe have killed us both if Willie hadn’t tackled him. Willie was shot and hurt badly.’
‘The doctor will tend to him. Count on St. Andre to see to that. How much have you learned?’
‘Not a lot. Only where to find Brunel. And that the Frenchman has left New Orleans. He’s going to Shreveport. According to de Bracy, the Brotherhood For Southron Freedom are going to hold a special, important meeting there. Of course, he may have been lying.’
‘Do you think he was?’ Handiman wanted to know.
‘He was a very frightened man,’ Belle replied. ‘And he spoke the truth about where we would find Brunel. If it was any other town but Shreveport, ‘I’d be certain he hadn’t lied.’
‘Why the doubts about Shreveport?’
‘You know what’s happening up there between the Army and the civilian population. With a man like that Colonel Szigo in command, it’s not likely the Brotherhood would dare to make any public demonstration.’
‘Maybe they believe that would be the best town to make it in,’ Handiman suggested. ‘Lucienne told me they haven’t been having any great, or lasting success in stirring up the population so far. Oh, they pull in the usual rabble of malcontents and loafers. But the majority of the population don’t see any sense in trying to secede again. There’s not a lot of bitterness against the Union since Reconstruction has tailed off and folks are starting to get prosperous.’
‘So they want a town where there’s real bitterness in which to make their grandstand play?’ Belle drawled. ‘It’s possible, but it could be as risky as all hell. Szigo would be only too pleased to put down a Rebel rebellion, if all I’ve heard of him is true.’
‘Well—’ Handiman said, unwilling to make an open criticism of another serving officer.
‘He’s an embittered man,’ the girl elaborated. ‘Lieutenant Colonel is only his brevet rank. He knows that, at any time, he can be replaced with a substantive officer and be reduced to the rank and pay of captain. A man like that would leap at a chance to come to the attention of Washington, by any means. And there aren’t so many means of doing it in the East. All the glory’s being won out West.’
‘You seem to know plenty about Szigo,’ Handiman commented, neither confirming nor denying the statement. ‘Anyway, he’s being replaced.’
‘Replaced?’
‘We’re not exactly deaf, blind or stupid in Washington. Despite anything you agents in the field may believe, we do have some idea of what’s going on around us. Like you, we’ve heard of what’s happening in Shreveport and a full colonel, Manderley I believe it will be, is being sent to relieve him. With orders to make peace with the civil population.
‘I only hope that he arrives in time!’ Belle declared fervently. ‘The Brotherhood have proved that they don’t give a damn about shedding innocent blood. With those hundred Henry repeaters, they could raise hell around Shreveport and it would spread all along the Red River—and beyond.’
‘You’re right,’ Handiman conceded. ‘So, in the morning, I’m going to have all the people named by Lucienne visited and questioned.’
‘From what she said, few of them are deeply involved in the Brotherhood.’
‘That’s why I’m only having them visited. I’ve found that people who go in for joining these impressively named clandestine organizations soon drop out again when they find it’s not so secret after all.’
‘You might pick up a few details,’ Belle admitted, then looked at Handiman in a calculating manner. ‘You won’t need me for it, will you, sir?’
‘Have you something else in mind?’
‘The Frenchman has gone to Shreveport—’
‘And you want to go after him?’
‘I intend to kill him,’ Belle stated calmly.
Studying the beautiful face as he listened to the flat, impersonal words, Handiman felt as if an icy hand had touched his spine. That had not been a mere empty figure of speech. The Rebel Spy meant to do exactly what she had said.
‘He’ll be amongst friends—’ the General warned.
‘That won’t stop me.’
‘Some of them might be men you served with in the War.’
‘Any friendship, or loyalty, I might have felt for them ended on the night of the Prairie Belle,’ Belle answered. ‘General, I don’t want my country ripped apart by another civil war. God! The last was bad enough. Next time, if it happens, it will be to a finish. They have to be stopped.’
‘I trust you, Colonel Boyd,’ Handiman assured her. ‘But the Frenchman—’
‘He’s caused the deaths of two good friends,’ Belle interrupted. ‘So I’m going to avenge them—And if I have to smash the Brotherhood to do it, so much the better for everybody’s sake.’
Again there was no bombast, nor hysterical, unintended female threats; just a plain statement of facts.
Handiman found himself blessing the providence which had persuaded him to show good sense and hire Belle Boyd after the War had ended. With such a woman on their side, the Brotherhood For Southron Freedom would have been an even more terrible menace to the peace of the nation.
Yet, such was his faith in the Rebel Spy, the General—whose post as head of the Secret Service was not calculated to leave him with exaggerated faith in human nature and honesty—did not for a moment question her loyalty, or doubt that she would remain true to the oath of allegiance she had sworn to the Union.
‘Go to Shreveport,’ Handiman confirmed. ‘You have your identification documents?’
‘In the secret pocket on my gunbelt,’ Belle replied.
‘I’ll give you letters of introduction to Manderley and Szigo, telling whichever’s in command to give you every cooperation. You outrank Szigo, but my name will make sure that he appreciates that fact.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Have you any plans for dealing with the situation?’
‘None,’ Belle admitted. ‘I’ll wait and see what develops. Or if it has developed, carry on from there. If I arrive before it happens, my uncle will do all he can to help me stop it. He’s Colonel Alburgh Winslow.’
‘A sensible and influential man,’ Handiman praised. ‘In fact, he, his newspaper and his group of moderate friends have done much to avert serious trouble between the Army and the town’s people.’
‘He’ll keep right on doing it, come what may,’ Belle promised and glanced at the door as somebody knocked. ‘Shall I?’
‘I will,’ Handiman corrected, opening up to admit St. Andre.
‘It’s only a flesh wound,’ the detective assured Belle when she had inquired about his injury. ‘But Willie’s hurt bad. He’s asking to see you, Belle.’
‘I’ll go right away,’ Belle said, coming to her feet. ‘Is he alone?’
‘The doctor’s still with him, but he’s an Army surgeon and won’t talk,’ St. Andre replied. ‘My man’s keeping the passage clear. By the way, I searched Brunel’s belongings.’
‘Is there anything of interest?’ Handiman asked.
‘I found this sheet of paper in his wallet,’ St. Andre answered, producing and handing it over. ‘It may not mean anything. All it gives is a name. “Sabot the Mysterious, last performance. Shreveport.” He’s a really good magician, I’ve seen his perfor—’
‘At Memphis, they were going to hold a meeting in a theater,’ Belle interrupted. ‘How soon can I start for Shreveport?’
‘The Elegant Lady leaves at dawn,’ St. Andre supplied the information. ‘You could ride her to Baton Rouge, or Natchez, and get another boat to Shreveport. There’s pretty sure to be one waiting to make a connection with the Lady.’
‘That’s what I’ll do,’ Belle declared. ‘As soon as I’ve seen Willie, I’ll go and gather my belongings. You’ll see that Willie—’
‘I’ll attend to it, Miss Boyd,’ St. Andre promised. ‘He saved my life, too.’
‘Miss Belle?’ Willie groaned, as the girl went to his bed. ‘You’s going to Shreveport after the Frenchman?’
‘Yes, Willie,’ the girl agreed.
‘Do me a lil favor.’
‘Anything.’
‘Take Massa Jim’s ole Ames knife along,’ Willie requested, gesturing weakly to the weapon on the dressing table. ‘When you gets to where the ole Belle was sunk, throw it in so’s he knows I done got that Brunel feller.’
Fifteen – You Shouldn’t Have Hit Her
Belle Boyd had carried out Willie’s request on her way north along the Mississippi River and had arrived in Shreveport in time to witness the Brotherhood For Southron Freedom’s special meeting. Unable to decide what lay behind the interruption to Sabot the Mysterious’ final performance, she was returning on foot to the theater with the intention of satisfying her curiosity.
Feeling certain that his presence was not suspected by the ‘gal wearing pants’, Hermy watched her disappear into an alley without any undue alarm. He saw nothing suspicious in her action. Shreveport had long since left behind the days when even an armed man could walk the streets without arousing curiosity. A girl, dressed in such an unconventional manner, would draw attention without the revolver hanging holstered on her right thigh. If she was headed to the theater for some clandestine purpose, she would wish to avoid being the source of interest or comment.