“How would she know that?”
“Said she took a trip there last year. Said she’d never forget that accent.”
"New York. ”
“So you headin’ for New York?” Delaney asked.
“I just took a big case today,” Roper said. “If this was yesterday, I’d be on the first train.”
“You feel like you owed this lady something?”
“No, nothing like that,” Roper said. “I’d just like to help is all.”
“Farm the other case out.”
“Can’t,” Roper said.
“What is it?”
“Can’t talk about it.”
“Oh,” Delaney said, “one of your top-secret government things, huh?”
Roper didn’t respond.
“Okay, so farm this one out, then,” Delaney said. “How hard can it be to track this stuff? They’ll need wagons to get it to New York. Might switch to a train along the way, ship the stuff.”
“No,” Roper said. “I’d go to New York and wait for them.”
“So, get somebody to go for you,” Delaney said.
“Captain?” somebody called.
“I gotta go to work, Tal,” Delaney said. “I just wanted you to know about this.”
“Thanks, Leo.”
“I hope you get somebody to help you with this.”
“I think,” Roper said, “I have just the man.”
EIGHT
Clint had done very well at Bat’s poker game. The politicians and bankers had been only too glad to give him their money. They were rich men who played bad poker. Those were Clint’s favorite kind of wealthy men.
As he entered the hotel lobby, he immediately saw Talbot Roper sitting on one of the lobby sofas.
“Looking for a drink?” Clint asked. “Or a drinking companion?”
“I could use both.”
“Come on.”
They went into the bar. Clint bought two beers and they went to a table, sitting among the guests and few businessmen who had not yet gone home to their wives.
“What’s on your mind?” Clint asked.
Roper told Clint about meeting Libby Wellington, and trying to help her.
“Couldn’t find a soul,” he finished. “I had to tell her she was all alone in the world.”
“Husband?”
“Died ten years ago,” Roper said. “Left her fixed well, real well.”
“So what’s the problem?” Clint asked. “She wants you to look again?”
“She’s dead,” Roper said. “Somebody killed her tonight. ”
“How?”
“Bashed her over the head when she walked in on them robbing her house. Then they cleaned her out.”
“How bad?”
“Just about everything,” Roper said. “Furniture, silverware, whatever they could carry.”
“That’s a lot of merchandise,” Clint said. “What are they going to do with it?”
“Fence it.”
“Where do you figure?”
"New York. ”
“That’s a long way to come for some merchandise,” Clint said. “Long way to go to fence it.”
“It’ll fetch a lot, make it worth it.”
“So? You going?”
“Can’t,” Roper said. “I’d like to, but I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Took a job earlier today,” Roper said. “I have to leave tomorrow.”
“Heading?”
“West.”
Clint studied his friend for a few minutes, then said, “Oh.”
“When’s the last time you were in New York?”
“Couple of years, I guess,” Clint said, “maybe a little less.”
“Maybe it’s time for another visit.”
“You’ll have to tell me what I’m looking for.”
“You’ll do it?”
“Sure.”
“I don’t have to try to convince you?”
“You did already.”
“How?”
“You asked.”
Roper sat back.
“I appreciate it, Clint.”
“What are friends for?”
Roper spent the next hour telling Clint what to look for, and how.
“I’ll send a telegram tomorrow,” he said when he was done. “It’ll introduce you to Tom Byrnes.”
“Ah, your police detective friend,” Clint said. “I’ve never run across him in New York. He might not be happy to see me.”
“Don’t worry,” Roper said. “He’ll talk to you.”
“May not like me.”
“But he’ll talk to you.”
They sat and talked for another hour and then walked out to the lobby together.
“Where will you be?” Clint asked. “If I want to get ahold of you.”
“Send a telegram to general delivery in San Francisco, ” Roper said. “It’ll get to me.”
“All right.”
They shook hands.
“Thanks again, Clint.”
“Good luck with your job. We’ll talk soon.”
Roper nodded and left the hotel. Clint turned and went to the desk.
“Is Miss Bedford in her room?”
“Miss Bedford checked out, sir,” the clerk said.
“When?”
“This morning.”
Clint nodded.
“Thanks.”
One night. That was as much as he had expected. He decided to turn in. He had to catch a train to New York tomorrow.
NINE
Clint met Bat Masterson in the dining room for breakfast in the morning.
“Where’s your lady?”
“Checked out.”
“Too bad.”
Clint sat opposite his friend and poured himself some coffee from the pot already on the table.
“How’d you do last night?”
“It was worth the effort.”
“Good. They’re playin’ again tonight. Maybe I’ll even join you.”
“Not tonight,” Clint said. “Not tomorrow night. I’m leaving today.”
“That’s kind of sudden.”
“Something came up kind of sudden.”
“Must’ve been somethin’ important.”
The waiter came over and they both ordered steak and eggs. As they ate, Clint told Bat about Tal Roper’s request.
“That’s too bad about the lady,” Bat said, “but why is it your business?”
“Roper needed help,” Clint said. “He took a job he can’t get out of.”
“So you’re going to New York?”
“Right.”
“I kind of like New York,” Bat said, “but I’m a little tied up here.”
“I wasn’t asking.”
“Just in case.”
“All I have to do is find the killer,” Clint said. “I can do that alone.”
“What about the merchandise?”
“Roper doesn’t care about that,” Clint said. “Just the killer.”
“So,” Bat said, “you’re gonna play detective.”
“I had a quick lesson last night,” Clint said. “So I guess I’m going to do a little more than play at it. Plus, he’s sending a telegram to his friend Byrnes.”
“Ah,” Bat said, “the great police detective. So you won’t be so alone, after all.”
“I guess not.”
Bethany walked over to Ben and handed him his ticket. The train station was empty that early in the morning, not any people leaving Denver.
“Did you send Ma a telegram?” he asked.
“I decided not to,” she said. “We’ll just tell her when we get there.”
“She’s gonna be really mad,” Ben said.
“Yeah,” Bethany said. “At Willie. Come on, let’s wait on the platform.”
Bethany had been wearing pants and men’s shirts the whole time in Denver, but today she had on her traveling dress.
“You look real pretty today,” he told her.
She smile
d. “That’s a nice thing for a brother to say to a sister.”
“Half sister,” he reminded her.
“You don’t have to remind me of that,” she said.
“I guess that’s why you’re not afraid of Mama,” he said. “She’s not your mother.”
“Maybe not,” Bethany said, “but she’s pretty scary anyway.”
“Not to you,” Ben said. “You’re not afraid of anybody. Not Ma, not Willie . . . not the Gunsmith. Tell me, did you ever pick his pocket?”
“I never got the chance,” she said.
“Maybe you will someday.”
“No,” she said. “I’ll probably never get another chance.”
As Clint entered the station, a train pulled out. He knew he wouldn’t get the first train of the day. Now he had to hope there was another.
“This afternoon, at three,” the station clerk told him. “To Chicago.”
“Where was that one going?” Clint asked.
“To Saint Louis.”
“Okay,” Clint said. “I’ll take one ticket to Chicago.”
“One way?”
“Sure,” Clint said, “one way.”
Clint paid and collected the ticket. He had plenty of time to make arrangements for Eclipse, his Darley Arabian, to be cared for. Bat had told him what stable to put him up at, and promised to look in on him.
It had been on a trip to New York that P. T. Barnum had made Clint a gift of the stallion.
And last time in New York he’d made the acquaintance of Annie Oakley and had seen Buffalo Bill.
This time he was looking for a killer, and would meet the man Roper felt was the greatest living detective—police detective.
Captain Thomas J. Byrnes.
TEN
NEW YORK CITY
George Appo entered his apartment on Mott Street, closed the door, and locked it behind him. He poured himself a drink, then sat down at the table and emptied his pockets. When he’d left that morning, his pockets had been empty. Now what he emptied from them had once been in the pockets of others. Appo was a pickpocket. It was how he made his living. Sometimes pickings were good, and sometimes they weren’t. Today they had been good. He spread his booty out on the table. Coins, paper money in wallets, watches. As long as men carried their valuables in their coat pockets or their vest pockets, and as long as women swung their purses or hid them beneath heavy skirts, pickpockets would be able to make a living.
Fredericka Mandelbaum closed her shop and locked the doors. She went into the office in the back of the shop where she kept her ledgers. The dry goods store was a losing proposition. She had one ledger that showed that clearly. But from her desk she took another ledger. This was the one she made her living with. Not only was she the only female fence in town, but she was also one of the most successful fences of all. She was known to many, but by different names. “Old Woman,” “Mother Baum,” or just plain
“Mother.” But the one she liked the best was “Queen of Fences.” She didn’t know who had named her that, but she liked it.
She looked at the calendar on her wall. Ben and Bethany should be back in a few days. Willie and his men a few days after that. Once they had returned from their trip out West, there would be plenty more to put in the ledger.
Plenty.
Captain Thomas J. Byrnes sat at his desk on Mulberry Street and reread the telegram from his friend Talbot Roper. Talbot was sending his friend Clint Adams to New York, and wanted Byrnes to give him as much help as possible. Help with what, the telegram didn’t say. But Byrnes knew who the Gunsmith was, and he knew Roper wouldn’t ask for help unless it was something important.
Byrnes, who had started out as a fireman in Manhattan, had worked his way up to chief of detectives. It was by his hand that the New York City Police Department had become one of the greatest in the country— in the world. Manhattan was a city where there was no place for men like Clint Adams. The gunmen of the West needed to stay in the West and die there with it.
But Adams was coming here, and Byrnes owed it to Roper to help him.
He checked his watch, stood up, put on his gun and jacket, and left for the station.
When the knock came at the door, Fredericka Mandelbaum frowned. Who’d be banging on her door now? It was time for her lunch.
She walked to the door and opened it. When she saw Bethany and Ben standing there, she said, “Aw, hell.”
“Hello, Ma—” Ben said, but she cut him off with a slap to the face.
“The only reason you’d be back early is if somethin’ went wrong,” she said.
“It wasn’t his fault, Ma,” Bethany said.
“You’re always tryin’ to stick up for him,” Fredericka said. “Come in here, both of you.”
She grabbed Ben by the front of the shirt and pulled him inside. Bethany followed.
“Where’s Willie?” Ma asked.
“He’s comin’ with the merchandise,” Ben said.
“So you got the merchandise?” his mother asked.
“Yeah.”
“Then what’s the problem?” she demanded. “Come on, why’d you come runnin’ back home so soon?”
“It was Willie,” Bethany said. “He killed the Wellington woman.”
“Killed her? Why?”
“She came home early, while he and his boys were still there.”
Fredericka narrowed her eyes at her stepdaughter, whom she had never liked.
“You’re always tryin’ to blame Willie for everything, ” she said.
“That’s because he is to blame for everything,” Bethany said. “Willie’s an idiot.”
Fredericka swung her hand at Bethany, who ducked away. She would not stand for being hit the way Ben did.
“Whose job was it to keep the woman away?” the older woman demanded.
“It was mine,” Ben said.
She slapped him.
“Willie didn’t have to kill the woman!” Bethany shouted. “Now the Denver police are looking for a murderer.”
“Well, they ain’t gonna look in New York, are they?” Fredericka asked.
“You’re always stickin’ up for Willie because he warms your bed,” Bethany said.
“You get out of here, girl,” Fredericka said. “You’re just mad because you twitch your little ass at Willie and he ain’t interested. He wants a real woman.”
“You mean an old woman, don’t you?” Bethany asked.
“Get her outta here, Ben,” Fredericka said. “I’ll talk to Willie when he gets back, find out what really happened, and then we’ll all talk again. Now get . . . her . . . outta here!”
“Come on, Ben,” Bethany said, grabbing her half brother’s arm.
“Bethany did good, Ma,” Ben said, “real good.”
“Ah,” Fredericka said, “you’re a sick boy, in love with your own sister!”
Bethany dragged Ben outside.
ELEVEN
Byrnes had two stops to make before he arrived at Grand Central Station to await Clint Adams’s arrival. While waiting, he recognized three different pickpockets in the crowd, all children. When they saw him, they all did a disappearing act. Byrnes was known to look upon pickpockets with grave disapproval.
He had done some research on Clint Adams, otherwise known as the Gunsmith. Most of what he’d read he took with a grain of salt. Of course the man had a reputation, but it was surely exaggerated, along with those of Billy the Kid and Jesse James. Surely, no one could live up to such a reputation. It was fodder for the dime novels of Ned Buntline and his ilk. He knew Adams had come to New York from time to time, but their paths had never crossed before.
Of course, since Adams was given Roper’s recommendation, the man had to have something to recommend him. Byrnes had agreed to meet him and talk to him, but beyond that he’d form his own opinion of the man, and only then would he decide whether or not to assist him.
He stayed off the train platform, preferring to wait instead inside the terminal building. During his time the
re very little, if any, pickpocket business was conducted.
When the train pulled into the station, Clint remained seated. The car was crowded, and he saw no reason to push out the doors with the rest of the passengers.
When there was some elbow room to move, he rose and stepped out onto the platform. He could not remember the platform being this crowded on any of his other trips to New York. Obviously, the city had continued to grow in his absence. He knew if he stayed away for another ten years and then returned, he would not recognize the place.
As he moved toward the terminal, he was bumped several times, but the last time he reached down and snatched a small hand from his pocket.
“Sorry, sir,” the boy said, smiling up at him.
“Yes, you are.”
The boy pulled, but Clint did not let go.
“Can I go now, sir?” the boy said. “I’m sorry. I needed money for my sick mother. I’ve never done something like this before.”
“Yes, you have,” Clint said. “Your touch was quite good.”
The boy studied him, then smiled genuinely.
“Yes, sir, I do have a good touch,” he said. “No one’s ever caught me before. You must be very good yourself.”
“I’m very good at keeping my property in my pockets,” Clint said.
Finally, he released the boy’s hand, but the youngster—probably ten or eleven—did not move.
“You’ve been to New York before, huh?”
“Yes, I have.”
“Then you don’t need a guide?”
“No.”
“I could get you a cab, sir.”
“I can get my own cab.”
“Then there’s nothin’ I can do for you?”
“You can keep your hands out of my pockets,” Clint said.
The boy grinned, revealing one missing tooth on the bottom.
“My name’s Red, sir,” he said.
“Your hair’s black,” Clint pointed out.
“Yes, sir, it’s not a nickname, it’s my real name,” the boy said. “Red. You need anythin’ at all while you’re in New York, you ask for Red.”
“Ask who?”
“Anyone, sir,” the boy said. “Everybody on the street knows Red.”
“Red, why are you working the platform when there are more pockets than you can shake a stick at out in the terminal?”
“Ah, but the top cop is in the terminal.”
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