by J. T. Edson
‘What d’ye say, me bucko?’ the man quavered, in an Irish brogue redolent of a long life, lifting the ear trumpet.
‘The young gentleman asked us to sit down, Billy,’ the woman put in, before the detective could reply, her tones equally suggestive of antiquity if with a less definable accent.
‘I said that—’ Ballinger began, raising his voice, as the couple started to take the seats.
‘Why, Rem,’ the woman interrupted quietly. ‘I do declare our company’s not welcome, for shame!’
‘That’s the worst of these colonial chappies, dear girl,’ the man went on, also sotto voce and, similarly, with a tone that was much younger although his had now lost its Irish accent. ‘They tend to forget invitations.’
‘Blast you both!’ Ballinger ejaculated, only just managing to hold his voice down to the same level and sinking back on to the chair from which he had been on the point of rising. ‘What the hell do you think this is, a masquerade ball?’
‘Do you think we’d take a prize if it was?’ the Rebel Spy inquired.
‘Actually, old boy, it was easier for Belle to look this o—’ the Kid began, but the words were brought to a sudden halt as the Rebel Spy kicked him on the shin under the table. ‘Steady on, old thing, I’ve only got two of them. Can’t you take a joke?’
‘I thought breaking your leg would be a barrel of laughs,’ Belle answered, then became more serious. ‘We didn’t think it would be advisable for you to be seen meeting two people who are supposed to be on their way to Detroit, Ed. “Father Devlin” might be having you watched. How did the meeting go?’
‘Pretty well, I reckon,’ the detective replied, impressed by the effectiveness of his companions’ disguises. In spite of their voices, he found it difficult to believe the elderly couple were the same people with whom he had spent several eventful hours the previous night. Nor was his respect diminished by the display they put on when a waitress arrived to take their orders. After the woman had left, he continued with a description of the interview at the presbytery and concluded, ‘I’m still not sure just where he stands, but my conscience doesn’t take to the way I’ve been lying to a priest.’
‘Are you sure he is one, Ed?’ Belle inquired.
‘He’d have to be to get away with it for this long,’ Ballinger answered. ‘I’ve sent a letter to his old parish’s chief of police asking about him, but it’ll be a week at least before I get an answer.’
‘A week may be too long,’ the Kid warned. ‘It’s a pity we can’t find a way of learning the truth more quickly.’
Fifteen – He’ll Know I’m Not Devlin
‘Come in!’ “Father Matthew Devlin” called, dropping the letter to which he had just affixed a stamp into the right hand drawer of his desk.
‘Excuse me, “Father”,’ Mrs. Galloway requested, darting an anything but approving glance at Vera Gorr-Kauphin—who was clad as was expected of a person in mourning and sitting on the chairs Lieutenant Edward Ballinger had occupied two days earlier—as she entered the presbytery’s study carrying an envelope. ‘But this just came for you.’
‘Who brought it?’ the impostor inquired, accepting the missive and noticing that it did not have a stamp, nor could he recognize the writing as he read the inscription.
‘He didn’t give me his name,’ the housekeeper replied. ‘Just said he was asked to fetch it from Green Bay and to apologies for not having got it here sooner, but the boat he came down on was held up for three days in Milwaukee with engine trouble.’
‘Has he waited for an answer?’ “Devlin” asked, starting to tear open the flap of the envelope.
Although some of the steamboats which plied Lake Michigan carried mail, the impostor knew that people with friends in the crew or traveling as passengers often sent letters in their care as being quicker than by the official method. It was apparent that somebody had arranged for a message to be delivered to the genuine Father Devlin in this fashion. So he realized that the man from Green Bay in all probability knew the dead priest and would expose him if they met.
‘He said he’d been told there wouldn’t be one when I asked,’ Mrs. Galloway answered and swung her gaze to the actress. ‘Maybe it’ll be something private and confidential, Father?’
‘It could be,’ “Devlin” admitted, having extracted and opened the single sheet of paper, speaking almost without thinking as he began to read the message on it.
‘Sure and I thought it might be!’ the housekeeper stated, still looking in a pointed manner at Vera. ‘So maybe the—lady—might like a cup of coffee in the sitting room while you’re reading it?’
‘Is it the news we’ve been expecting, Father?’ the actress put in, seeing the bogus priest stiffen and, concluding that he found something in the letter disturbing, having no intention of leaving until she heard what it might be.
‘What?’ “Devlin” growled, looking up, his normally impassive face showing alarm.
‘I said is it the news we’ve been expecting?’ Vera repeated, aware that only a matter of considerable importance could have produced such a reaction.
‘Huh?’ the impostor grunted uncomprehendingly, then his features composed themselves into their normal hard mask and he nodded. ‘Oh yes. It is. That’ll be all, thank you, Mrs. Galloway.’
‘Yes, Father,’ the housekeeper assented and, favoring the actress with a baleful glance and disapproving sniff, turned to leave.
‘What’s wrong?’ Vera demanded, as the door of the study closed with a bang, so curious that she made no complaint about the other woman’s lack of respect.
‘It’s from a blasted priest up in Green Bay!’ “Devlin” gritted. Although he would normally have been amused by the housekeeper’s disapprobation of one she considered, by virtue of being a member of the theatrical profession, an unsuitable associate for a priest, he was not amused at that moment. The message he had just read was an effective barrier against levity. ‘He’s on his way to Chicago and says he hopes that I’ll be able to offer him accommodation while he’s here.’
‘Is that all?’ Vera began.
‘All?’ the impostor spat out, then made an obvious effort and held his voice down. ‘All, you say? Goddamn it, woman, he’ll know I’m not Devlin!’
‘So?’ Vera queried, thinking of the plans they had made and failing to see why her companion was in such a state of anxiety.
‘So he’ll be arriving tomorrow!’ “Devlin” explained, finding it increasingly difficult to control his temper.
‘Tomorrow?’ the actress echoed in a startled squeak, being all too aware of what was causing the impostor’s consternation.
In spite of all that had happened on the night of the fire at O’Malley’s Grand Emerald Isle Theater, the couple had considered that their affairs were once more progressing in a satisfactory manner. Until the arrival of the letter, in fact, they had been regarding the incident as more beneficial than distressing.
Vera’s interview with Ballinger had strengthened “Devlin”s’ opinion that they had thrown him off the track completely. Following the impostor’s advice, she had used her knowledge of make-up to create the impression that she had been weeping copiously. She had also displayed more ‘grief’ over her brother’s death than she had shown concern during her meeting with the detective in her dressing-room. Continuing with her histrionics, she had ‘bravely’ visited the morgue and ‘suggested’ that Colin’s killer might be Raoul Fourmies with his hair cut short and beard removed. From all appearances, Ballinger had accepted her summation and suggestion that, as the artist and Marcel Tinville were close friends, they might have been involved together in an attempt to rob her.
Although they had renounced their Catholic upbringing on adopting the anarchist philosophy, Vera had agreed to a wake being held over her brother’s body. At “Devlin”s’ instigation, it was paid for by their local political supporters and it had presented him with an opportunity to explain something of the situation to the men who were financing the prop
osed Irish invasion of Canada. The result had been more successful than either he or the actress had dared to hope. Having notified each of the backers individually, they had obtained sufficient extra funds to cover the deficit caused by the fire and to pay the bonus. In addition, being unaware that the others had already contributed, the last man to be consulted had promised to supply the full sum personally. Unfortunately, he could not produce his donation until two days after Ernst Kramer had stipulated the payment must be made. Seeing an opportunity of adding to his and—as she was present when the offer was made—Vera’s acquisitions from the funds already collected, “Devlin” had not mentioned the gift was unnecessary and too late to be of use. Instead, he had declared that he would persuade the arms salesman to wait until the money was available. He had also prevented the man from mentioning the donation to the other backers by warning that a reference to the delay might cause them to withdraw their support. Seeing a chance to make political capital out of his generosity at a later date, the man had taken the “priest’s” advice.
‘Tomorrow!’ “Devlin” confirmed.
‘Can’t you get Fitzgerald’s money before he arrives?’ Vera suggested.
‘There’s not a hope of it!’ “Devlin” replied, anger suffusing his face as he duplicated the actress’s thoughts on the plans they had made. ‘Unless his boat’s late, that goddamned priest will be here by nightfall tomorrow at the latest.’
‘Damn it!’ Vera ejaculated bitterly, remembering that it had been arranged for Fitzgerald to fetch his contribution to the presbytery. ‘That means we won’t be able to wait and collect the money!’
‘Like hell we won’t!’ “Devlin” contradicted, throwing the letter on to the desk and standing up.
‘But the priest will know you’re not Father Devlin as soon as he sees you,’ the actress protested.
‘We’ll make damned sure he doesn’t see me,’ the impostor countered.
‘Do you mean we’ll leave and make arrangements to meet Fitzgerald somewhere else?’ Vera asked. For a moment, she looked relieved. Then her frown returned and she pointed out dolefully, ‘But even if you’re not here when the priest comes, that old hag Galloway might say enough to give the game away. After all, you’re not like Devlin in looks or manner.’
‘He’s not coming here to be made suspicious,’ “Devlin” said flatly.
‘You’re going to get rid of him the same way you did Devlin?’ Vera deduced and, while speaking, realized that the disposal of the body could not be accomplished as it had on the previous occasion. ‘But with Colin and Fourmies dead—’
‘I’m going to get rid of him all right,’ the impostor interrupted. ‘But not like last time.’
‘Then how—?’ Vera commenced.
‘Come on,’ “Devlin” commanded.
‘What about the letter you’ve written?’ the actress inquired. ‘You’re not going to leave it where that woman can see it are you?’
‘I’ll put it in the mail box along the street,’ “Devlin” answered, sharing Vera’s disinclination to let the housekeeper read to whom the letter was addressed. Opening the drawer, he removed and placed it in his jacket’s inside pocket. Then he put the message which had caused the consternation in its envelope and thrust it with the other. Pressing his left elbow against where the Smith & Wesson Russian Model revolver was tucked into his trouser waistband for greater concealment than was allowed by its holster, he went on, ‘Let’s get going.’
‘Where to?’ the actress demanded, as the bogus priest had not mentioned he intended to leave before the arrival of the letter.
‘We’re going to pay a visit to Phineas Branigan,’ “Devlin” replied and the smile that twisted at his hard mouth was anything except priestly. ‘Isn’t it him and his buckoes who’ve been hired to protect us?’
‘They’re coming out!’ Belle Boyd informed Captain Patrick Reeder, rising from the chair on which she had been sitting by the window and watching the presbytery’s front door.
‘It’s lucky I haven’t taken anything off then, old thing,’ the Remittance Kid replied, having returned to the room a short while before and refrained from removing any of his disguise. ‘Get ready while I keep an eye on them and hope that they don’t take a cab.’
While reconnoitering prior to joining Lieutenant Ballinger for lunch the previous day, the Rebel Spy and the Englishman had taken advantage of a sign advertising that a furnished apartment was vacant in a building on the opposite side of the street to the presbytery. Taking it and, later, moving in their belongings, they had been able to keep a watch upon “Devlin”s’ comings and goings. The owner of the building believed them to be an elderly couple who had recently lost their only daughter and son-in-law in an accident. Nor had the bogus priest suspected that they were other than they appeared to be when they had followed him to and spoken with him at the wake for Colin Gorr-Kauphin. However, while they had seen him go into a room with his financial backers individually and had correctly guessed why, they had not found an opportunity to eavesdrop. Studying his reaction after each successive reappearance, they had deduced his efforts were meeting with success.
‘There’s one blessing about being disguised this way,’ Belle commented, as she placed the black hat on her realistic wig and adjusted the veil. ‘Nobody will be suspicious if they see an old lady like me peeking out of the window.’
‘Age has its advantages,’ the Kid admitted, checking his appearance in the mirror on the sidepiece. ‘But I hope the “Father’s” housekeeper doesn’t see us going out. This costume is somewhat distinctive and she might remember me.’
‘We’ll have to chance it,’ Belle pointed out, impaling her headdress and wig with a villainous-looking hatpin.
‘I always used to be fascinated when I saw my aunt, the Dowager Duchess of Brockley, do that,’ the Kid remarked. ‘I thought she was sticking the pin through her head and it wouldn’t have surprised me if she had been.’
‘Oh come on now!’ Belle objected with a smile. ‘Not even you would believe that?
‘You don’t know my aunt, old thing,’ the Englishman protested, leading the way to the door. ‘It’s common knowledge in the family that she eats iron cannonballs so she can spit rust at politicians she doesn’t approve of.’
The levity was put aside as the Rebel Spy and the Kid left the apartment and went along the corridor to the front door. Reaching the street, they set off without crossing in the direction taken by Vera Gorr-Kauphin and “Devlin”. Their ability in such work showed in the way that, without losing their pose of age and drawing unwanted attention to themselves, they managed to reduce the distance which separated them from their quarry. While doing so, they were helped by the number of people who stopped the actress and the impostor to offer condolences over her brother’s death.
‘Hello!’ the Kid remarked, sotto voce, watching the couple halt by a mailbox while “Devlin” took two letters from his jacket’s inside pocket. ‘I wonder who he’s been writing to, old thing?’
‘It’s not parochial business, I’ll bet,’ Belle answered. ‘He’s only posting one of them I see.’
‘So do I,’ the Kid went on, as the bogus priest dropped one of the letters into the box’s slot and returned the other to his pocket. ‘It mightn’t be important.’
‘On the other hand it might be,’ Belle replied and glanced over her shoulder. ‘It’s almost time for the collection. If you’ll follow them, I’ll see if I can satisfy your morbid curiosity.’
‘Very well, old thing,’ the Kid assented. ‘If that’s the way you want it, I can’t argue. You out rank me.’
‘And we’re working in my country too,’ Belle supplemented. ‘Anyway, one of us will be less noticeable than two. I’ll see you when—or if—you get back, old thing?’
‘There are times I wish Sir Francis Drake had sunk Columbus along with the Spanish Armada,’ the Kid declared, then raised his voice and adopted his elderly Irishman’s accent to go on, ‘All right then, Bridget, I’ll
see you when I come home.’
‘And don’t you be coming back drunk, neither!’ Belle warned, speaking louder than she had up to that point.
Turning as the Englishman continued to follow Vera and “Devlin”, the Rebel Spy stood for a moment looking into the window of a store. Then she crossed the street and went along the sidewalk towards the mailbox. Without allowing her scrutiny to be noticeable, she sought for something to help her carry out the task to which she had committed herself.
‘As Lon 49 would say!’ Belle thought, looking at an object which lay on the sidewalk a short distance from the round topped metal box. ‘Ka-Dih’s 50 sure looking favorable on lil ole me.’
A casual observer might have been puzzled by the Rebel Spy’s enigmatic comment, as there did not appear to be anything worthy of warranting it. Glancing over her shoulder, she discovered to her further satisfaction that a two-wheeled cart painted in red, white and blue horizontal stripes, and inscribed U.S.M.—the ‘M’ superimposed over the ‘U’ and ‘S’—in gold letters, was approaching. Satisfied, she kicked a piece of orange peel discarded outside a shop which sold fruit and vegetables so that it slid towards the mailbox.
Slowing down, Belle allowed the cart to pass her. On reaching the box, the mailman’s horse came to a halt without needing any signal and he descended from his seat. Unlocking and opening the door of the box, he reached in to remove the few letters which had been deposited since the previous collection.
Timing her movements carefully, Belle arrived at exactly the right moment. Stepping on the piece of orange peel, she produced a perfectly simulated slip. Letting out an equally realistic wail of alarm, she charged into the mailman. Taken unawares, he was thrown off balance and the letters were sent flying from his hands.
‘Land’s sakes a-mercy!’ the Rebel Spy yelped in her “old” voice, catching hold of the mail cart’s side apparently to prevent herself falling. ‘I’m sorry, sonny!’
‘That’s all right, granny!’ the mailman replied, although he had been on the point of uttering a more profane and less forgiving comment until he became aware of the sex and age of the person who had bumped into him. ‘There’s no harm done.’