by J. T. Edson
‘A very good reason,’ Belle declared, but was not allowed to continue with her explanation.
‘Excuse me, lieutenant,’ Sergeant Molloy said, having knocked and entering with the hotel porter on his heels. ‘Terry here says that Miss Gorr-Kauphin didn’t stay with her brother, but she sent a priest to be with him when he comes round.’
‘A priest,’ Ballinger repeated. ‘Isn’t it Father Devlin?’
‘No,’ replied the porter, the question having been directed at him. ‘I’ve never seen him before.’
‘What does he look like?’ Belle put in, remembering the Kid’s comments about the possibility of the anarchists attempting to silence the injured actor.
‘Fattish, maybe five foot eight,’ the porter answered and, such was the strength of the Rebel Spy’s personality, he had commenced the description even before glancing at and receiving a nod of authorization from Ballinger. ‘He sounded sort of French and his face was chapped liked he’d been out in a real cold wind.’
‘There hasn’t been one recently,’ the lieutenant growled.
‘That’s why I noticed it,’ the porter replied.
‘It would look that way if he’d just shaved off a beard,’ Belle pointed out, throwing the Kerry coat from her shoulders. ‘Come on. You were right, Rem!’
‘What do you mean?’ Ballinger demanded.
‘It’s Fourmies dressed as a priest!’ Belle answered, crossing the room. ‘And he’s been sent here to kill Colin Gorr-Kauphin!’
Eight – He Wanted You Dead
Raoul Fourmies’ hands were shaking a little as he straightened up and removed the pillow he had been pressing on Colin Gorr-Kauphin’s face, but not with fright or remorse over what he had done. Rather he was elated by the ease with which he had accomplished the assignment he now believed all his fellow conspirators had been afraid to tackle. He gave no thought, as he took his victim’s right wrist between his left thumb and forefinger, that his present euphoric state of mind had been created by the cocaine he had received from “Father Matthew Devlin”. Satisfied there was no longer even the weak pulse beat he had felt before, he released the wrist and made ready to take his departure.
Although the artist had not been enamored of the prospect of being sent to kill Gorr-Kauphin, he was too terrified by the bogus priest to make an outright refusal. He had hoped that the new arrivals announced by Phineas Branigan’s lookout in the alley of O’Malley’s Grand Emerald Isle Theater might relieve him of the unpleasant and perhaps dangerous duty. Unfortunately, while willing to act in a supportive role, their leader had declined to carry out the assassination. Nor had Fourmies’ belief that the removal of his hirsute adornment would mark his face to such an extent that he would be unsuitable as a candidate for the killing proved any more fruitful. One of Branigan’s men was a trained barber and produced everything that was required to remove his bushy black beard with no more than a reddening of the exposed skin. Preparing the rest of the disguise had posed no greater problems. During the entertainment which preceded Vera Gorr-Kauphin’s interrupted fund-raising speech, he had played the part of a priest. The attire he had worn was to be utilized as an aid to gaining admittance to her brother’s room at the hospital.
The actress’ return from the Streeterville Municipal Hospital, with the news that her brother was expected to live but had not yet regained consciousness, had ended any chance of Fourmies’ mission being considered unnecessary. Faced with the realization that Lieutenant Edward Ballinger was suspicious and almost certain to interview Gorr-Kauphin, Vera had raised no objections on being told what was being planned.
In spite of all the assurances he was given that nothing could go wrong, Fourmies had had to be supplied with a dose of cocaine before he was in a suitable mental condition to be sent on his mission. By the time he had arrived at the hospital, he was—although the term had not yet come into usage—sufficiently ‘high’ to have become convinced he was carrying out the necessary, even praiseworthy, execution of a traitor to the great cause for which he was working. Nor had his spirits deserted him when the three newcomers who had accompanied him and the driver of the fringe-top Surrey—another of Branigan’s men—in which they had been transported from the theater had insisted upon remaining outside when he had suggested they should go in with him. Rather he had been amused by what he had considered was an example of their timidity. The task of obtaining admittance to his victim’s presence had been ridiculously simple. Accepting him as a genuine priest sent by the injured actor’s sister, the porter at the reception desk had told him where to go and did not offer to check his bona-fides. As Colin Gorr-Kauphin was still unconscious and alone, he had been able to complete his assignment without the slightest interference.
Darting a glance around the small room, the artist decided with annoyance there was nothing worth the effort of taking away. Then he reached beneath his jacket and pulled the double-barreled shot pistol with which he had insisted upon arming himself from its place of concealment. Thrusting it once more into his trousers waistband, but at the front where it would be more readily accessible although hidden beneath his flowing cloak-coat, he swaggered away from the bed. Having the weapon in his possession had done much to bolster his narcotic-induced courage. He had already killed two people with it, unarmed members of the audience at an opera house in Paris which he and some of his fellow anarchists had raided shortly before his departure with the Gorr-Kauphins. So, supported by the effects of the cocaine, he was satisfied he could use it to defend himself should the need arise.
As Fourmies was opening the door and stepping into the passage, various sounds he heard from the entrance hall and the stairs leading up from it warned him that he might have need of the weapon.
‘Where is Gorr-Kauphin?’ Belle Boyd demanded, as she was passing between Sergeant Rory Molloy and the hotel porter, looking through the door neither had closed on their arrival.
‘Up on the second floor, ma’am,’ the porter replied. 26 ‘Room Twelve, on the right.’
‘I’ll come and show you, ma’am,’ Molloy offered, knowing his way around the hospital, showing a speed of movement that seemed at odds with his bulk, as he turned and followed the departing Rebel Spy.
Throwing a glance at Captain Patrick Reeder, Lieutenant Edward Ballinger noticed he had left his seat and was striding forward, reaching behind his back. Without waiting to confirm his suspicion over the reason for the latter action, the lieutenant drew his Webley Bulldog as he had been taught by Dusty Fog. Even as it was leaving its forward inclined holster, he saw a short barreled Webley Royal Irish Constabulary revolver emerging from beneath the Englishman’s jacket and knew his earlier conclusions had been correct. He also heard the rapid patter of heavy and lighter feet crossing the entrance hall.
‘Come on!’ Ballinger ordered, gambling upon Belle Boyd’s as well as his own judgment of character and accepting that the Remittance Kid could be trusted.
Leading the way past the hospital porter, who was stepping aside to let him pass, the lieutenant saw that the Rebel Spy was racing towards the staircase with Molloy close on her heels. As he was setting off after them, followed by the Englishman, he noticed that the girl was throwing aside what he assumed to be all of her parasol. However, he was not granted an opportunity to ponder on the reason for her actions.
No coward, the hotel porter was aware of his limitations. The injury to his left leg which had brought about his retirement from the Chicago Police Department precluded him from moving swiftly. So he was compelled to let the visitors conduct what he realized was an urgent investigation. However, curiosity and a sense of duty caused him to follow them from the office. Instinct rather than any other reason led him to glance at the main entrance. What he saw brought him to an instant halt.
The appearances and attire of the two men who were advancing menacingly through the open double doors would have attracted the porter’s attention even if it had not been for the long barreled Colt 1860 Army revolver each was carry
ing. Tall and lean in build, their features were more deeply tanned than was common with city dwellers and were also somewhat aquiline. They wore flat-topped brimless hats made from fur of some kind which hid most of their hair. Although they had on three-piece dark suits, red and blue check shirts with the collars fastened, but no ties, only the top button of each’s vest was fastened. Around their waists were wide sashes of multi-colored cloth. If the porter had troubled to look, he would have found that their footwear was of a kind very rarely seen in Chicago. What he did notice was that yet a third man, who appeared to be dressed in a similar fashion, was standing in the shadows outside and making no attempt to come after them.
‘To the right, lieutenant!’ the porter yelled, as the pair stopped on seeing their presence had been detected.
Taking in the basic details while skidding into a pivoting halt, Ballinger responded to the threat as he had been trained during his visit to Texas. He was not sure with what kind of men he was dealing, but his instincts warned they were possessed of a greater competence than the majority of the local population—who tended to rely upon more rudimentary means of attack and defense—where firearms were concerned. So, as he was turning, his left hand joined the right to give added support as he was raising the Webley at arms’ length to shoulder height. Furthermore, although the weapon had a double-action mechanism which rendered manual cocking unnecessary, he drew back the hammer with his thumb.
Sighting at the man on the right, who was reacting more rapidly than his companion, the detective squeezed the Webley’s trigger. The precaution of having cocked the hammer manually proved worthwhile by reducing the pressure required to cause its liberation from the sear. Driving forward, it struck and detonated the primer of the cartridge in the chamber’s uppermost cylinder. Even as the powder charge was being ignited and his shooter’s instincts suggested he was holding true on the target, he became aware of the third man’s presence beyond the pair. He realized that he could not hope to make a hit, then cope with two more assailants before one or the other opened fire at him.
Close behind Ballinger, the Kid duplicated his summations and employed an almost identical technique to help. Nor was he any less effective in his handling of the Webley R.I.C. revolver. Its deeper bark made an echo to the crack of the .41 caliber Bulldog. Showing that he had judged correctly how the detective was assessing the situation, he selected the second most dangerous of the newcomers. Hit in the center of the forehead, the man at the left of the leading pair spun around. As he was going down, his hat fell off and long brown hair cascaded from beneath it.
Ballinger had been less fortunate!
Backed by the knowledge of how certain liberal politicians in the city responded when a police officer was compelled to defend himself with a firearm, the lieutenant’s desire to take a living prisoner who could answer questions caused him to try to wound rather than kill. To a certain degree, he was successful. The bullet he had sent at the right side man’s leg merely inflicted a graze instead of striking bone and achieving the purpose for which it was intended. While its recipient staggered and his own shot missed Ballinger’s head by no more than three inches, he neither dropped the Colt nor lost his resolve to use it. What was more, the deft way in which he cocked the hammer on the recoil warned that he was extremely competent.
As well trained as any gun fighter from west of the Mississippi River, the Kid did not wait to find out what the detective meant to do. Nor did he have the other’s need to worry about how the city’s ‘liberal’ politicians might regard his actions. Swinging the R.I.C. while it was still at the height of its recoil kick, he cocked and brought it into a fresh alignment. As he was tightening his right forefinger on the trigger, he discovered that Ballinger was adopting a similar course. However, it was too late for him to stop what he was doing. Their weapons roared in unison. Either of the bullets which ripped into the man as he was trying to bring his Colt back into use would have been fatal. Combined, they knocked him backwards and it sent its second load harmlessly into the ceiling.
Although the shadowy figure outside the hospital’s front doors had been responsible for the other two’s participation, he made no attempt to continue the task upon which they were engaged or to avenge their deaths. Unlike them, he had been in Chicago for long enough to have recognized Ballinger. He was aware of the detective’s ability as a gun fighter and decided that the Kid, who he assumed to be another detective, was no less dangerous. So he concluded that discretion was the better part of velour. Instead of using the Colt Civilian Model Peacemaker he was holding, he turned and began to run in the direction from which he had come.
‘Go after him, old chap!’ the Kid suggested, watching the second intruder falling and the third retreating.
‘Upstairs is more important!’ Ballinger answered and started running again.
Side by side, the detective and the Englishman crossed the hall. They were ascending the stairs when they heard the thunderous blast of a shotgun. Knowing neither Belle nor Sergeant Molloy was armed with such a weapon, they exchanged alarmed glances.
The fringe-top Surrey 27 in which Raoul Fourmies and his companions had traveled from the theater had been left in an alley on the opposite side of the street and about a hundred yards away from the hospital. Instead of following the orders he had been given on their arrival the driver, having heard the shooting, had climbed down and was peering anxiously around the corner of the building.
‘What the hell’s happened?’ the driver demanded as the man who had deserted his companions approached at a run.
‘Everything’s going wrong!’ the deserter answered, his accent suggestive of French origins although his English was excellent. ‘Go and warn Father Devlin!’
‘But what about Fourmies and your—’ the driver began, speaking over his shoulder as he started to board the vehicle.
‘They’re dead and he’ll have to take his chance,’ the deserter answered savagely, having halted at the entrance to the alley. ‘Do as I say, damn you! Tell him that Ballinger is here and I’m staying to see if I can learn anything and will join him later.’
Without the need for further urging, realizing that the commotion at the hospital was attracting attention and would soon be bringing people to investigate, the driver set his horse into motion. Watching him go, the deserter gave a sardonic grunt. Then, returning the Colt to his sash so it was hidden by the right side of his vest, he swung around and looked towards the hospital.
Wishing that she could dispense with her skirt, which was tailored so that it could be discarded rapidly if circumstances permitted, the Rebel Spy was approaching the top of the stairs when the sound of shooting reverberated from the entrance hall. She heard the thudding of heavy footsteps ascending close behind her, but did not try to discover which of the men from the office was following her.
Having no doubt that she had drawn the correct conclusion with regard to Colin Gorr-Kauphin’s visitor, Belle was pleased to know help was on hand. Although she was an excellent shot, she had not brought a firearm with her. However, that did not mean she was without a weapon of any kind. The handle section of her parasol, which she was still grasping in her right hand, supplied one of great effectiveness at close quarters. Yet, despite being confident that she could hold her own against the artist if necessary, she realized having assistance readily available would make the task both easier and safer.
Alarmed by the disturbance from below, Fourmies was staring towards the stairs as he left Room Twelve and started cocking the hammers of his shot pistol. He was surprised when the first person to come into view was a shapely and beautiful young woman. There was something purposefully grim and determined about her face which was alarming even without the sight of the burly detective sergeant following her. Snarling in mingled rage and fright, the artist began to back away along the passage. In spite of the narcotic-induced false courage, his hands were far from steady as he prepared to use his weapon.
Although Sergeant Molloy had hea
rd stories about the Rebel Spy during the War Between The States and had been aboard the United States Navy’s steam-sloop Waterbury when she had helped to damage it severely in Brownsville’s harbor, 28 he did not connect her with the young woman running ahead of him. So he was surprised at the way in which she was behaving and, realizing what the man dressed as a priest was doing—he failed to recognize Fourmies as the heavily bearded artist he had seen at the theater—he felt it was up to him to protect her.
Shooting forward his big right hand, the sergeant caught Belle by the shoulder and gave a jerking thrust that sent her sideways across the passage. Having pushed her into what he considered would be a place of safety, he strode onwards and his hand dipped to where he had a Colt Cloverleaf House Pistol—a revolver in spite of its name—tucked in the right side pocket of his trousers. It was not carried in a fashion conducive to a rapid withdrawal. Nor did he have the training, instincts and lightning fast reflexes of a gun fighter.
Born in an age long before the term male chauvinist came into being, Molloy had been motivated by more than just a belief that such a perilous situation could not be coped with by a woman. Seeing the weapon held by the man in front of them, his Catholic upbringing revolted at an impostor wearing the sacrosanct attire of a priest. So he continued to advance regardless of the danger.
Still backing away and gibbering frightened curses in his native tongue, Fourmies thrust out the shot pistol and jerked at its forward trigger. There was a bellow made even more thunderous by the confines of the passage and the muzzle blast glowed brilliantly in the comparatively poor light thrown by the two lamps supplied for illumination. Flung from the right side barrel by the gasses of the detonated black powder, all nine .32 caliber buckshot balls of the load ripped into Molloy’s torso and he was knocked backwards.