The Quest of Brady Kenton / Kenton's Challenge

by Cameron Judd

  Kenton smirked at him. “I’m glad to see I’m in the hands of an unbiased lawman. And since you’re so close to me, pardon the smoky smell of my clothing, Mr. Turner. I’ve been busy rescuing men from a smoky building. Saving lives. What have you been doing?”

  “You think you’re truly something fine, don’t you, Brady Kenton! You think you hung the moon in the sky! Well, let me tell you what you are to me: you’re a damned blue-belly Yank who betrayed his own to spy for the Lincolnites, and I’ve resented you ever since I heard my own dear, late father tell how you betrayed the Confederate cause, then went around wallowing in your fame thereafter. I’m going to see you jailed, Brady Kenton. I’m going to see you prosecuted for breaking and entering, arson, and theft, if I can find anything that you took from that publishing office.”

  Brady Kenton had taken only one thing: that stray sheet of paper he’d found under Darian’s desk. It was now wadded into the toe of his shoe. If it was found and taken from him, it didn’t much matter: he knew what it said, and that what it said was more than significant in his search for Victoria.

  “If this is to be your attitude, sir, then I have nothing more to say to you outside the presence of my lawyer.”

  “And where might your lawyer be?”

  “St. Louis.”

  “Bah! You think I’m going to wait on you to haul in some lawyer all the way from Missouri before I deal with you?”

  “I do expect that. But be aware he might be delayed … he’s involved in suing the trousers off ignorant policemen across America who think they can make up the law as they go along.”

  Someone knocked on the door. Without breaking his stare from Kenton’s, Turner yelled, “What is it?”

  “Joe Keen is here. They let him out of the hospital.”

  Kenton hated to hear it. Keen—the watchman at the Popular Library building—would no doubt reveal Kenton’s alibi for the improvisation it was. And Turner would then have a good basis for locking up Brady Kenton.

  Turner grinned wickedly at his prey. “Let’s see what Mr. Keen has to say about the evening’s events,” he said.

  Kenton smiled back. “Let’s do. Shall I leave first?”

  “Uh-uh. You stay put. Don’t think of leaving this room. Me and you got more talking to do.”

  “Am I under arrest?”

  “You will be.”

  * * *

  Kenton paced the room a few minutes, wondering what Keen was saying to Turner.

  Kenton wanted a cigar, a drink, a breath of fresh air, a nap, a walk—anything but this sitting and waiting in this closed-up room. But he could go nowhere.

  He glanced at the door. It had been left open. Couldn’t go anywhere with permission, anyway. He could, however, just walk out …

  Normally, Kenton would even consider such a thing, but one factor made the idea unusually tempting this time, that being the remarkable thing he’d learned from the scrap of paper he’d found on Jason Bell’s floor. He longed to get out and away from here, so he could begin trying to make some use of this new lead. He wasn’t sure just how to use it, but he sure as blazes could not make any use of it sitting here.

  He actually thought about running. There was a fair amount of activity in this station tonight, several arrests having been made at a time the police force was depleted, three officers home with a fever. Kenton had heard the officer at the desk complaining about it when he’d been brought in.

  Kenton meandered idly to the door and looked out. No one was paying attention to him. A look to the right showed him a door leading right out onto a side street. It was propped open to let a breeze blow through. He could be out that door in moments …

  But then what? They’d come after him. He’d be a fugitive. Running would be seen as some sort of silent admission he had something to run from. Henry Turner had made it obvious that he intended to pin the blame for the fire on Kenton if he could … and probably that wouldn’t be too hard, under the circumstances.

  Ironic, Kenton thought. If he’d not broken into that building, he’d not be under questioning regarding an unexplained fire. But he’d also not know the name of the author of The Grand Deception.

  “Thinking about making a run for it?”

  Kenton jerked his head around. A smiling man with a notepad in his hand was approaching. The fellow glanced from side to side in a way that let Kenton know that this contact was being made without permission.

  CHAPTER 24

  “J. B. Haddockson,” the man said, sticking out his hand. “The Denver Signpost.”

  “Ah, yes. I’m fond of your paper. It works very well in the outhouse—the ink doesn’t even smear!”

  Haddockson forced a chuckle and dropped the hand. “Not all that witty, I have to say, Mr. Kenton. I thought you were renowned for your fast wit.”

  “Even more so for my disdain for sensationalized journalism. You’re the one who wrote the story about me breaking out the barroom window, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “A factual story.”

  “Partly.”

  “Journalist to journalist, I hope you won’t hold any exaggerations or missteps in that story against me. I did what I could with what I had.”

  “I believe in printing the truth.”

  “It helps to have the truth if you’re expected to print it.” Haddockson glanced back; from his angle of view he could see Henry Turner interviewing a rather wobbly-looking Joe Keen. From the looks of things, Turner was not pleased to hear what Keen was telling him. Haddockson looked back at Kenton, who could not see Turner and Keen from his angle of view. “Can we step back inside a moment, have a little talk? Maybe you can give me the truth about that fire, and what you had to do with it.”

  “I had nothing to do with it beyond keeping it from killing two men.”

  “That’s a story in itself. Want to share it? Save your reputation from the tarnishing it took the last time you graced our pages?”

  “Aren’t you thoughtful! Does Turner know you’re in here?”

  “Nope. So talking fast would be advisable.”

  “I have no desire to talk with you at any speed.”

  “Why were you in that building?”

  “I’ve got nothing to say.”

  “Then respond to our first story. Why have you avoided the police? I know they’ve been wanting to question you about that assault and the broken window.”

  “I’ve been busy. And I’ve already told Turner that the damage will be paid for.”

  “Why didn’t you say that before?”

  “I wasn’t eager to visit with good Policeman Turner. I didn’t need the interference with the things I’m up to.”

  “Smart thinking. Turner intends to have you locked up. I heard him bellowing that very salient fact to Joe Keen when I walked past.”

  Kenton pictured himself in jail and found the image intolerable. He’d not sit in some jail cell, falsely accused of arson, unable to act on his newly acquired information.

  “What else did you hear Turner say?” Kenton asked Haddockson.

  “You want to interview me, maybe you should agree to let me interview you.”

  “Fine, then. Just hurry.”

  “Tell me the details. Of the barroom incident, and of the fire.”

  Kenton spat it out as quickly as he could. Of the barroom matter he simply told the truth: he’d made the mistake of drinking too much, had let himself get out of control, and that was that. He was sorry and would make all the necessary restitution. As for the fire, he quickly repeated the same story he’d given to Turner.

  All the while, his heart was racing and his conscience was screaming at him. How far had Brady Kenton fallen? Public drunkenness, assault, lying to the police, and now lying to the press. Too late to back out now, though. He told his story as convincingly as he could, and secretly admired the speed with which Haddockson could take notes.

  “Your turn now,” Kenton said. “What did you hear Turner say?”

  “He was complaining. A
pparently the editor you dragged out of there has come around, and is saying he thinks he may have left a cigar burning in his office. Further, I’ve talked to the firemen, and they confirm that the fire started on the third floor, apparently in the editor’s office.”

  “Then Turner has no grounds to hold me.”

  “Oh, but he will. I know Turner. He’s a corrupt lawman, Mr. Kenton. When he takes a dislike to someone, truth doesn’t matter. He’ll hound someone until he makes them wish they’d never been born. And he’s got it in for you, Mr. Kenton. Others here tell me he’s been out to get you ever since the barroom incident.”

  “Don’t take this wrong, Mr. Haddockson, but why should I take your word for this? It seems to me you’d be quite glad for me to walk out of here. Your story would be that much better if I make a jailbreak.”

  “I won’t deny that. But I can tell you that isn’t my motive. I’m telling you the truth. Turner is out to get you.”

  “If I leave, I make the front page of your newspaper as an escapee.”

  “It’s my job to report the news. You understand.”

  “Then I’ll stay. I’ll endure whatever Turner has in store for me.”

  Haddockson looked disappointed; his story had just become less interesting. “I’ll make you a bargain, Mr. Kenton. I’ll help you get away from here, keep it out of the newspaper, help hide you, if you’ll do one thing for me.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Let me in on the bigger story. Your search for your lost wife.”

  Kenton stared at him. “Do you believe every rumor you hear, Mr. Haddockson?”

  “Come now, Mr. Kenton. Everyone knows about your quest. People find it romantic and tragic. Women cry over such things.”

  “I think you should leave, Mr. Haddockson.”

  “You’re taking offense? Why?”

  “My private life is my own. It is not your business.”

  “You’re a public man. You’ve exposed plenty of people to the public eye yourself. You understand the way the game is played.”

  “This is no game.”

  “It is for Turner. And he intends to see you lose.”

  “You’ll lose if he finds you here. I’ll tell him you attempted to persuade me to a crime to tell a more interesting story for the sake of your newspaper. I’ll tell him you called him corrupt and tried to encourage my escape. I’ll tell him you set the fire yourself. I’ll tell him you are the real murderer of Abe Lincoln. I’ll tell him whatever it takes to make things hot for you.”

  “He’d not believe a word.”

  “Get out.”

  “You’re making a mistake. You help me out and I can do a lot for reputation repair. I hear a rumor, by the way, that you were suspended by the Illustrated American. True?”

  “Out. Our conversation is through.”

  “And I thought we were getting along so well.”

  “Turner’s on his way back. Get out or I’ll tell him more lies about you than you could print in three editions of your rag.”

  Haddockson glanced out the door. “You’re telling lies already. He’s still questioning the security guard.”

  “Get out anyway.”

  “There’s more than one way to get a story, Mr. Kenton. I can write about you with or without your cooperation.”

  Turner’s voice boomed from the door. “Haddockson! Who the hell let you in here?”

  Haddockson turned. “Well, Turner! How goes the world for you? What did the guard have to say about the fire?”

  “Out of here, Haddockson. I ought to arrest you for interfering with a prisoner.”

  “So he’s been officially charged?”

  “Not yet.”

  “But he will be?”

  “You don’t know when to quit, do you, Haddockson? Get out of here.”

  “What will the charge be? Arson?”

  Turner grabbed Haddockson by the collar and shoved him out the door. Haddockson glanced back at Kenton. “See you in print!” he called.

  CHAPTER 25

  TURNER slammed the door shut behind Haddockson and wheeled to face Kenton. “What did he talk to you about?”

  “He tried to sell me a subscription.”

  “Answer me!”

  “He told me that the firemen say the fire started on the third floor. And that a cigar might have been involved. And that I had nothing to do with it. What does the security guard say?” Kenton braced for the answer. The odds were the guard had implicated him for breaking and entering at the least.

  Turner looked hatefully at Kenton. “He says you came in after the fire started. He says you saved his life.”

  Kenton was overjoyed, but tried to hide it. What a stroke of luck! Why would the guard have lied on his behalf?

  It made sense all at once: the guard would hardly have implicated Kenton. Not after Kenton saved his life—and paid him a bribe. Out of both gratitude and a desire to save his own skin, he’d paint Kenton as a full innocent in the matter.

  “I’ll leave now, then,” Kenton said.

  “Oh, no. Not yet. I’m locking you up, Mr. Kenton. I don’t believe we’ve gotten to the bottom of this even yet.”

  “Lock me up? On what charge?”

  “Assault. Destruction of property. Public drunkenness. You remember we’ve got more than one case involving you, don’t you?”

  “I demand my attorney.”

  “You can demand from a jail cell.”

  Another policeman came to the door. “Henry, need you here a minute.”

  Turner smiled wickedly at Kenton. “You stay put. I’ll be right back.”

  He walked out again.

  Kenton walked out right after him. It was not a move anyone would expect, and therefore he got away with it. He strode out almost on Turner’s heels, cut to the right, and headed out that propped-open door. He headed for the rear alley, and would wind his way through a mazelike route before getting back to his rented quarters, where he hoped Gunnison would be waiting for him.

  He was not going to spend the night in jail. He was not going to be delayed by a fool like Turner or intimidated by a ratty journalist like Haddockson. This escapade probably had ended any hope of his retaining his position with the Illustrated American, but Kenton found he hardly cared. He was ready to devote himself fully to seeking the truth about Victoria. No more halfway commitment, no more trying to mix his quest with a full work schedule.

  It was time to go, time to get out of Denver, as fast as he could. And then to figure out what to do with the information now stuffed into the toe of his boot.

  * * *

  Five minutes later, Alex Gunnison walked up to the front door of the police station. He was irritated with himself, having gotten lost twice on the way here. Directions were something he had trouble with sometimes.

  Kenton was somewhere inside, he supposed. Being pumped about the fire. Would they let him talk to him? Was he under arrest? If what Gunnison had heard at the fire scene regarding a cigar as the cause of the fire was true, surely they’d have no grounds for holding Kenton.

  Gunnison was almost at the door when it burst open. Two officers rushed out, looking around wildly. One of them swore. The other faced Gunnison, grabbing him by the shoulders.

  “You! Have you seen a man walking away from here, big fellow, beard, salt-and-pepper kind of hair?”

  That sounded like a description of Brady Kenton. “No, I’ve not.”

  The officer swore and rushed away after the other one.

  Gunnison entered the door. The desk officer had a dour look.

  “Pardon me, sir, but I’m told that Brady Kenton might be here.”

  The officer rolled the stubby cigar on his lip from one side of his mouth to the other. “Brady Kenton, eh? We’d like to see him ourselves.”

  “What do you mean? He’s not already here?”

  “He was. Then he walked out the door while he was still under questioning. But they’ll drag his rump back here and then he’ll have plenty of music to
face.”

  “Kenton escaped?”

  “What do you know about him, young man? Just who are you?”

  “Good evening, Officer,” Gunnison said. He turned and was out the door in a flash.

  * * *

  The streets of Denver were dark and forbidding. Every shadow, every alley, every dark corner, potentially held a searching policeman, and the end of Brady Kenton’s freedom.

  Kenton found a place to hide across the street from the building that housed his rented room. So far he’d seen no sign the room was watched, and realized that the local police apparently never had detected that he was staying here. Taking a deep breath, he headed across the street and to the door of the building.

  No one stopped him, no one called his name. He slipped in the door, and began climbing the stairs. He paused at the landing and looked up into the dark hallway that led to the door of his room. He detected no evidence of anyone hiding there. Proceeding, he went toward the door, then froze in place.

  The door was ajar. There was no light inside.

  “Gunnison?” Kenton said softly. “Are you here?”

  No one replied. And Kenton, wishing he had his gun, pushed the door the rest of the way open and slipped inside.

  “Gunnison?” Still no answer.

  Kenton pulled matches from his pocket, struck one of them. Lighting a lamp, he looked about the empty room, checking for signs of burglary.

  He quickly found some. His drawing table was turned over, his art-supply bag dumped out onto the floor. Over near the window, a chair that had been intact when Kenton left was now broken and lying on its side.

  It appeared that there had been a struggle of some sort in this room.

  Kenton began to worry. Had Gunnison been assaulted?

  Taking the lamp in hand, Kenton began exploring. In seconds he halted, looking down at the floor.

  Blood. There was blood on the floor.

  Kenton instantly forgot his own danger. He cranked the lamp up brighter and began following the rather copious trail of blood. It led him back out the door into the hallway, and down the stairs.

  Whoever had left this trail had probably been shot or stabbed, and judging from the rate of blood loss, was in severe need of medical help.