by J. T. Edson
Mary Anne was used to buildings like the Reed-Astoria and led the way into the hotel. Inside she saw people looking her over and was conscious that she was not as well dressed as she would like to be, when entering a place like this. The fat desk-clerk studied her and Waco with a frown as they walked to the desk, then glanced at Ed Ballinger, nodded a greeting and turned a frigid face to the girl. ‘I want two adjoining rooms.’
‘You wish a room here, madam?’
‘Miss. And I want two rooms, here, right now.’
The clerk gulped. He’d seen some of these Texas people before. They were inclined to get rowdy if they did not receive attention and firm handling. He hoped they would not cause a scene for there were the other guests to consider, including the Earl of Hawksden and his wife. In fact the Earl was coming now, striding along the hall, his monocle gleaming in his eye. He stopped and looked at the tall young man. The clerk gulped, hoping this rough-looking young man did not offend the Earl’s susceptibilities for the British aristocrats were known for their dislike of democratic ways. The Earl was advancing now, screwing his monocle more firmly in his eye.
‘Waco, you damned old hell twister. Gad! It’s good to see you.’
Waco turned. For a moment he did not recognise this elegant and stylishly attired young man, then he grinned and gripped hands with a whoop of: ‘Brit! What the hell are you doing in that get-up?
The two men shook hands and Mary Anne stared at them, then at the clerk whose eyes were bulging out like two balloons. She did not know this elegant-talking dude, but apparently the clerk did, so did Ballinger from the look on his face.
‘Say Mary Anne, this’s Brit. We met down in Azul Rio Country when we was helping Mark’s cousin.’
‘Pleased to meet you.’ Brit held out his hand to the girl. ‘Are you Mrs. Waco?’
‘Not under any circumstances. I’m his big sister,’ Mary Anne turned to the clerk again. ‘About those rooms?’
‘There is the suite, next to mine, Jules,’ Brit remarked. He could guess what was going on.
‘Yes sir, my lord.’ Jules grabbed up the pen and turned the register. ‘Of courses sir. Front!’ A page darted forward. ‘Take this lady’s bags to her room.’
‘Shucks, ain’t no call for that.’ Waco scooped up the bag. ‘I’ll take it.’
‘This is annoying.’ Brit sounded exasperated. ‘Gloria and I have to leave on the train tonight. If I’d known you were coming I’d have stayed on a few days. You’ll have to come and see Gloria before we leave, Waco. She’d never forgive me if you didn’t.’
Jules looked at the book after Mary Anne filled it in, noting the address was a Texas ranch. His eyes met Ballinger’s inquiringly as the Earl of Hawksden talked to Mary Anne and Waco, Ballinger leaned forward across the desk and dropped his voice in a confidential whisper. ‘You’re, lucky, Jules. If you’d offended them you’d have been looking for a new job. He’d likely have bought the hotel and tossed you out of it.’
Jules gulped and held his voice down. ‘Are they rich, then?’
‘Just about the richest in Texas. The chief asked me personally to take care of them.’
Jules’ face showed his worry now. Ballinger was head of the Chicago murder division of the police and an important man in his own right. For so important a man to have been given the task of shepherding this couple must mean they were important also. Of course, many of the Texas new-rich people were likely to turn up dressed below themselves. It was just their democratic way of doing things. They were good natured, if a trifle rowdy. The Reed-Astoria was used to a certain amount of rowdiness, the amount depending on the bankroll of the person involved. The Texans were the worst, boisterous, inclined to shoot out the fittings. They were also more generous in their repayment for any damage they might cause and would give out large sums on leaving.
He handed the girl the key to the suite and waved the page forward to take them to their rooms. Mary Anne turned to the man again. ‘Is Miss Molly Wilmont here?’
‘No madam.’ There was a respectful note in Jules’ voice now. Miss Wilmont was a respected customer. ‘She is attending a music afternoon at the home of her fiancé.’
‘Who might be be?’
‘Mr. Keith Wellington. Of the Streeterville Wellingtons.’
‘Thanks.’ Mary Anne followed the others.
There was not time to discuss the urgent business which brought them to Chicago yet. Brit fetched his wife, Gloria, and there was a happy reunion with inquiries about old friends. They lunched in Brit’s suite and afterwards they left the Earl and his wife to get on with their packing. Gloria and Brit would have liked to stay on with Waco for a few days but business was calling them back home to New Mexico and their reservations were booked on the train. Mary Anne was more amazed at her little brother than ever. He knew the most remarkable people and appeared to have a range of friends which extended from gunfighters and Chicago policemen to a scion of the British aristocracy.
In the dining-room of their suite, which Waco described as being bigger than one hotel he’d used in Texas, they settled down to talk.
Waco was making a study of his surroundings. He grinned at the other two and took a seat in the comfortable chair. ‘Man, this is really living. Ole Red Blaze never had it this good, he just wouldn’t appreciate it none. Beats all I’ve ever seen. Even the one in El Paso. That was some place in its way. I was in bed the first night and there was a knock on the door, a voice shouted, “This is the manager, have you got a woman in there?” I said, “No,” so they opened the door and threw one in.’
Ballinger laughed. ‘You didn’t come all the way to Chicago just to tell me windies like that, did you?’
‘Nope. This here’s what brought me.’ Waco extracted the letter which O’Dea received and which was reputed to have been sent by Molly Wilmont, then added to it one Mary Anne produced also from Molly.
Taking the two letters Ballinger glanced at them, read both, then looked up. ‘Well?’
‘Real nice, aren’t they?’
‘Sure, lady writes a good letter. What’s so interesting?’
‘She only wrote one of them.’
Ballinger took up the letters again. He went to the window and held them to the light. There was no change in his facial expression at first, then he turned and there was a glint in his eyes. He was more interested in this than he let on.
‘I’d near on swear they were written by the same hand. If one’s a forgery, it’s real good.’
‘Thought that. It’s why I asked you to come and meet me. I’d say no year-old beef handled the pen on that. It was written by a mossyhorn at the game, a real tophand. How many men in Chicago could handle a thing as good as this?’
Ballinger frowned. ‘Right now not more than two. And I doubt if they could handle it well enough. Not this much writing. Sure, they’d do your signature so that nobody could tell the difference, but not write as much as this and address the envelope. There’s not a man in all Chicago who’s that good. Not now.’
Something the way Ballinger said this made Waco suspicious. The Detective Lieutenant was more than just casually interested in this forgery. There was more to it than first met the eye. Ballinger knew criminals, knew them as Waco knew the cattle business, as only a tophand could know them. He knew who’d done the writing of this letter, but there was more to it than just that.
‘How about when the letter was written?’ Waco asked. ‘Which was afore that date there on the postmark stamp.’
‘There was one man who could handle it. He was the best of them all. I never heard of a forger who could touch him. His name was Doc Pilsener.’
‘Where at’s this here said Doc Pilsener now?’
‘That’s a real good question, boy. There’s only one of two places be could be and I wouldn’t want to guess which be’s at right now.’
‘Try real hard, just for me,’ Waco prompted.
‘It could be heaven, although knowing old Doc’s tastes on this earth I doubt
it. We found him the day after this letter was posted. He was laying down in the stockyards.’
‘Dead?’ Mary Anne asked innocently.
‘Never seen anybody deader. Shot three times in the back with a heavy calibre gun. Poor old Doc, must have mortified him being found dead down there. He was always fond of the elegant life and never went into the badlands if he could help it. Then gets killed down there, shot with a heavy calibre handgun.’
‘That’ll be a lot of help. There can’t be more’n a couple-of million revolvers in the country and maybe not more’n three or four million .45’s of different sorts. Unless there was more to it than that!’
‘There was. We got the bullets out of him. All three of them and holding their shape. They were interesting, real interesting. I don’t know if you hick lawmen know it but we’ve been making strides in this scientific crime detection. Got us systems of identification which are real good. We’ve also got a collection of bullets fired from Colt, Remington, Smith & Wesson, Merwin & Hulbert, Forehand & Wadsworth revolvers. We can compare most kinds of bullets we get with those in our files.’
‘And this one was?’ Waco asked, knowing there was something out of the ordinary. He was so interested that be did not make any comment on the subject of Eastern lawmen when confronted by an ordinary, everyday task which a Western lawman was accustomed.
‘It wasn’t any of them. So we asked around the place after we measured up the bullet. It was .450 calibre and that helped Kitteridge, the firearms dealers; helped us in the end. The gun they reckon it was fired from is made in England, a Webley R.I.C., stands for Royal Irish Constabulary. They’d one in stock and we got a bullet from it. Now all we’ve got to do is find a man who’s got him a Webley R.I.C. revolver, was in Chicago, knew Doc Pilsener and had a good reason to kill him. It’s as easy as that.’
‘Like to see one of those Webley guns. I haven’t ever seen one,’ Waco remarked. ‘Reckon we could go to that place and take a look at the gun they’ve got?’
‘Sure, I’ll take you as soon as you’re ready.’
Waco paced the room for a time. Then he halted and said, ‘Look, Ed. This letter here,’ he indicated the forgery. ‘It was written on paper from this hotel. Who can get that paper?’
‘I don’t know. Reckon anybody could if they wanted. Hold it for a minute and we’ll find out.’ Ballinger left the room and returned soon after with Jules, the desk clerk. ‘Jules, who can get hold of the hotel notepaper, any of the staff?’
‘No sir.’ Jules sounded horrified at the thought. ‘The hotel stationery is not for use by any of the staff.’
‘Could the hired help get hold of it, happen they wanted? Waco inquired.
‘Hardly, sir. We take care that they do not. It leads to abuses. There is no paper in the writing room downstairs. If anyone wishes to use the hotel paper they send to me and I personally deliver it. I or one of the other desk clerks, whoever is on duty. I hope nothing is wrong, Lieutenant.’
‘Nothing at all, thanks, Jules. I want to have a look at the register on my way out.’
‘Register?’ Jules gulped. ‘I trust that there is nothing wrong which might reflect on the high standard of the hotel.’
‘Nothing at all, Jules. I just like reading hotel registers. It’s surprising how many Smiths there are in the world.’
Jules sniffed pompously. ‘Not at the Reed-Astoria.’
Waco closed the door on the slightly offended, little fat man and grinned. ‘Reckon he’s telling the truth. His kind live for the place they work for. I bet he counts out each sheet, just to make sure they don’t fall into the wrong hands. You know what that means, Ed, don’t you?’
‘Sure. It means the man who got the paper stayed here.’
‘Could it be Doc Pilsener?’ Mary Anne asked, then shook her head. ‘No, of course it couldn’t. He was a crook.’
‘You’d never have known it to see him. He always dressed to the height of fashion, was a real gentleman. His kind has to be. Can you see a bank clerk handing money over to a man who looks like he’s fresh from cow-prodding on a cattle-train?’
‘I suppose not,’ the girl answered. ‘It could have been him then!’
‘I doubt it. Jules there knows nearly every big-timer criminal in Chicago. He wouldn’t entertain the idea of having Doc Pilsener even in here.’
‘Let’s work the range this ways, then,’ Waco spoke up. ‘The man who killed Pilsener is the one who paid for this letter to be written. That means he’s the one who I want as well as you, Ed. He’s a man who’s been in Chicago and stayed on here as a guest. Likely not be under the name we know him, if we do. Is there any chance of my getting one of the bullets that killed Doc Pilsener to take back with me?’
‘I reckon we could fix it. The Chief’s being chased by the papers because of Pilsener’s killing. It came just at a time when the Chief was saying we’d cleaned up the town. He wants the man who did the killing. I’ll be able to get you one of the bullets if I tell him you’re still working as a deputy sheriff. Are you?’
‘Still hold the badge, although I haven’t done any work for the sheriff for a piece. I want to check the bullet against a man’s gun.’
‘Whose gun, boy?’ Mary Anne asked.
‘I’m not saying yet, big sister. Hondo Fog always told me never to name a name until I was real sure. When I am, I’ll name him. It might even come out I’m wrong.’
‘You usually are.’ Mary Anne smiled as she watched Waco.
‘You think Doc Pilsener’s killing is tied in with whatever brought you here, boy?’ Ballinger asked. ‘It’s a real long shot. Doc made him some enemies in his life.’
‘Sure, but it’s too much of a coincidence to think one of them killed him just after he’d finished a job like this. Was there any money on him when you found him?’
‘Pockets were empty, everything gone from them. I’ve got some pictures of his body at Headquarters. That’s another way we have of working out here now. Photograph the body so we’ve got proof of how it lay and everything.’
‘Did you search his room?’ Waco asked.
‘Sure. It’d been gone over real careful before we got there and there was a pile of charred-up paper in the fireplace. We didn’t find anything to help us except some blood. Looks like Doc was shot there and took out to the stockyards to be dumped.’
‘Looks like I’m right, too. Call it this way, Ed.’ Waco’s eyes were glowing with eagerness. ‘This man who killed Doc hired him to write this letter. He wrote it, then tried to blackmail the other man, or get more money out of him. That was why he was killed. Would that fit in with what you know of Pilsener?’
‘Sure it would.’ Ballinger could see the country boy in the city air was falling from Waco now there was a serious job on hand, a job the youngster was as good at as was Ballinger himself. ‘Doc was always a greedy cuss.’
‘Then the man killed him, he’d got what he wanted. Searched the room to make sure there was nothing to point to him. Destroyed all the papers. Then took Doc out to the stockyards and dumped him. But what I don’t know is how the man would know to contact Doc in the first place.’
‘I don’t follow you, boy,’ Mary Anne put in.
‘A man like Pilsener doesn’t put a note in a paper saying, “Doc Pilsener, Expert Forger, available for work”,’ Waco answered. ‘But this man knew how to find him. Let’s go take a look at the register, go to Kitteridge’s and see the revolver, then along and see Molly.’
They left the room and went to the desk. Ed Ballinger turned the register, flipping the pages until he came to the date of the letter. In the three days immediately before, during and after the killing only five people had left the Reed-Astoria. A man and his wife from New York, a Mr. Bannister whom Ballinger knew, a titled Englishman going west on a hunting trip and a Mr. Jackson who was marked as a businessman from Denver. Ballinger closed the book and handed it back to Jules, then turned to Waco. ‘Satisfied?’
‘What’s this here Mr. Jackson lo
ok like?’ Waco inquired.
‘Big, always well dressed. A gentleman.’
‘So’s Cole Younger,’ Waco answered. ‘Can’t you do better than that, friend?’
‘A rather distinguished-looking gentleman if I remember. I’m afraid I see so many people I rarely take much notice of them. He was acquainted with several members of the Streeterville Sporting Club.’
There was nothing more to be found out here so they left the hotel and took a Victoria to Kitteridge’s Hardware and Sporting store. The manager of the gun department greeted, Ballinger as a friend and took them to the gun showroom.
They were passing through the fishing department when Waco found something which brought him to a halt. He went to a counter and looked down at the thing which lay there. ‘What’s this?’ he asked.
It looked like a flattened out fish, was made of two pieces of rubber shaped like the wings of a grasshopper, a metal set of fins and swivel at front and three triangle hooks attached to it. ‘It’s an English fishing lure called a phantom. We received a consignment of them a few months ago. They’re deadly for bass fishing. We’re the sole suppliers in this country.’
Waco thought of the big old bass on the Ranse River and the time people spent in trying to catch him. ‘I’ll take one of them,’ he said.
With his purchase in his pocket he went on to the, gun showroom. Here he was at home, among the smells of gun oil and fine woodwork. He was shown the Webley Royal Irish Constabulary revolver. It looked a good enough gun but the butt was not as well made as that of the Colt Peacemaker, that was the finest grip ever used on a handgun. ‘Sell many of them?’ he asked.
‘Not too many. They’re hard to get ammunition for. Don’t take the normal .45 bullet, it’s too long for the R.I.C.’s cylinder. We’re not the sole agents, but I’ve given the Lieutenant a list of all we’ve sold.’
Waco was turning to leave when he saw a rifle on a rack. It was like a Winchester Model of ‘73 but looked heavier and longer. Always interested in weapons he went to the rifle. The manager followed him and, salesman at heart, said, ‘This is the latest model Winchester lever action. Centennial model of 1876. Calibre .45.75. Chamber capacity is cut down to twelve shots, but the range is greatly increased.’