Bullets & Lies (Talbot Roper 01)

by Randisi, Robert J.

  “I’ll tell him, sir.”

  “If he wants, he can send you to pick me up again, at my hotel,” Roper said. “I expect to be there the whole time.”

  “Not interested in seeing Washington, sir?” Prince asked.

  “Corporal, I’ve seen all of Washington I ever want to see.”

  “It’s changed, sir.”

  “Not enough,” Roper said. “Not nearly enough.”

  Roper was reading the Twain novel when there was a knock on his door. He expected to see Corporal Prince there, but the man standing in the doorway was a captain. He was over six feet tall, about forty-five years old, and wore his uniform—and the collection of medals that adorned his chest—proudly. He had slate gray eyes that stared coldly through Roper.

  “Mr. Roper?”

  “That’s right.”

  “My name is Captain Morressy.”

  “I figured.”

  “I hope you don’t mind that I came here,” Morressy said. “I wanted our meeting to be in private.”

  Roper deciphered that to mean the captain did not want to be seen in public with him.

  “Doesn’t bother me if it doesn’t bother you, Captain,” Roper said. “Come on in.”

  The captain came in and closed the door behind him.

  “I’ve got nothing to offer you in the way of a drink,” Roper said.

  “That’s all right,” the Captain said. “I don’t plan to be here long, Mr. Roper. We can dispense with any polite pleasantries.”

  “Just long enough to say your piece, huh?”

  “Precisely.”

  There was one armchair in the room, and Roper sat in it.

  “All right, then,” he said. “Have at it.”

  “You saw Colonel Sanderson today.”

  “I did.”

  “Then you know.”

  “Know what? That he’s mellowed? That he’s lost some of his sharpness?”

  “The colonel is ill, sir.”

  “I thought as much,” Roper said. “He doesn’t look good at all.”

  “That’s physically,” the captain said, “and he has become somewhat…frail. But I refer to his mental state.”

  “Yes, I saw that, too.”

  The captain paced while he spoke. The shine on his boots was almost painful. As he stared at Roper, his face remained expressionless, as if carved from granite.

  “I am generally able to shield the colonel from contact with others,” Morressy said, “but somehow, he slipped away today.”

  “He seemed to have had a pretty good guard dog in Corporal Prince,” Roper commented.

  “Yes, Prince is a good lad,” Morressy agreed. “It was he who told me you were to see the colonel today.”

  “I figured that, too. Do you want to know what else I figure?”

  “Yes, I do,” the captain said. He stopped pacing and faced Roper. “Tell me what the country’s greatest detective has deduced.”

  “I figure you’re worried I’ll talk about what I saw today,” Roper said. “I figure you came here to warn me, or threaten, or cajole, or whatever, not to talk about the condition I saw the colonel in.”

  “He needs to stay in the service long enough to get his third bird,” Morressy said. “That’s all. It’s probably only a matter of months.”

  “Well, Captain,” Roper said. “I’m not about to ruin the man’s chances. That’s not what I came to Washington to do.”

  “But you and he…he’s told me about you, that you weren’t friends.”

  “We were never friends,” Roper said, “and we never will be.”

  The captain seemed surprised, the first crack in his countenance. “But…he’s a great man.”

  “I respect him,” Roper said, “but he’s not a great man. Never was, never will be. On that, you and I disagree.”

  “How can you—”

  “However,” Roper said, cutting the man off, “I pledge not to say anything.”

  “Can I depend on that?”

  “Yes, you can.”

  The captain stared at him.

  “Depend on it, or kill me to shut me up, Captain. Your choice,” Roper said. “I assume you wouldn’t hesitate to kill for Colonel Sanderson.”

  “No, I would not,” the man said. “But in this instance, I don’t believe I’ll have to.”

  “I’m glad to hear that.”

  “I think we are done here,” the captain said, and headed for the door.

  As the door closed behind him, Roper said, “Yep, I think we are.”

  15

  Roper had a leisurely breakfast the next morning, once again in the hotel dining room. He hadn’t been kidding when he told Corporal Prince he’d seen enough of Washington D.C. He was only there to find out what he needed to, and then he’d be gone, and he didn’t intend to come back. Roper had never liked brass—respected some of them, but never liked them—and he detested politicians and their backroom deals.

  After breakfast he took his book outside to the front of the hotel and read it sitting in a chair.

  At lunchtime he went back into the dining room. After that he sent a telegram to his office, on the off chance that Lola—or someone else from Mrs. Batchelder’s school—would read it. After that he went back to the porch to read.

  Around 3 p.m. he’d put the book down and was watching the people walk and ride by. The clerk came out and handed a telegram to him.

  “Thanks.”

  He unfolded it. It was Lola, telling him it was nice to know where he was and that no one was looking for him. That was fine with him. He wasn’t losing any other business while being in Washington. That would have just been adding insult to injury.

  He went back to his book but was interrupted when a shadow fell across the pages. He looked up and saw Corporal Prince standing there, in uniform.

  “Corporal,” he said, putting the book down in his lap, “who wants to see me now?”

  “No one, sir,” Prince said. “I’m here for me. On my own time.”

  “Is that a fact? And what’s on your mind?”

  “Sir, I’ve heard stories about you, during the war, working for Mr. Pinkerton. And some of the things you’ve done since the war.”

  “I’m sure everything you’ve heard about me in Washington has not been good.”

  “No, sir,” Prince said, “but I know when people are speaking Washington.”

  “ ‘Speaking Washington,’ ” Roper repeated. “I like that. “Do you want to get a drink, Corporal?”

  “I would like to, sir, but I am due back on duty soon,” Prince said. “I just wanted to stop by and say…well, if there’s anything I can do to help—”

  “With what, Corporal?”

  “With…whatever you’re working on,” Prince said, “whatever brought you here. If I can help, I’d be available.”

  “Would you be?”

  “Yes, sir, I would.”

  “Well, that’s good to know, Corporal,” Roper said. “Good to know.”

  “You can contact me through the captain,” Prince said, then left, having had his say.

  Roper had the feeling he knew a better way to contact the corporal if he needed to than through the captain.

  At five o’clock, he went to his room to change for supper.

  * * *

  At five fifty-five, an open carriage pulled up in front. Donald White was sitting in it, and a young man was driving. Roper had no doubt the man was a soldier, but he was not in uniform. He reminded Roper of young Prince, but it was not him.

  “Well,” White yelled, “you gonna just sit there?”

  Roper stood up from his chair and walked to the carriage.

  “You’ve had a busy day,” White said.

  “Just been sitting in that chair,” Roper said.

  “I mean yesterday,” White said. “Come on, get in.”

  Roper climbed in and the carriage started forward.

  “Have you been watching me?” Roper asked.

  “Not exactly,” White
said, “but I’ve got eyes everywhere.”

  “So you know—”

  “I don’t know shit for sure, Tal,” White said. “You can tell me all about it over a nice thick steak.”

  They sat quietly for the next few miles and listened to the sound of the wheels on the cobblestone streets.

  White took him to a steak house called The Texas Steer. It was a large room with high ceilings, hardwood floors, and rough-hewn wooden tables and chairs.

  At the door a man wearing a suit greeted them.

  “Mr. White. Nice to see you back.”

  “Thank you, Winston. A quiet table, please?”

  “Yes, sir, of course.”

  They followed Winston across the large expanse of the room. Along the way several men greeted White, and a few of them even stuck their hands out to shake.

  “Thank you, Winston,” White said to the man when they reached a table in the back from where they’d be able to see the entire room.

  “Maxwell will be with you shortly, sir.”

  The man walked away and Roper looked across the table at White.

  “Winston? Maxwell?”

  “I doubt those are their real names,” White said. “But they make sure I have an excellent dining experience every time I come here.”

  Roper looked around. There were still some diners looking at them, no doubt wondering who White was to receive such preferential treatment.

  “Who do they think you are?”

  “Some bullshit government bureaucrat,” White said. “They don’t know what I do, just that I do it for the government. For that reason, they want to think they’re my friends.”

  The waiter came over and White ordered two steak dinners and beer. The beer came first, in thick glass mugs with stems.

  “To your health,” White said, raising his glass.

  “And yours.”

  White drank and set the glass down lightly.

  “You saw the colonel yesterday.”

  “I did.” Then Roper realized. “Prince is yours, isn’t he?”

  White didn’t answer.

  “You’ve got your men in the Army,” Roper said. “Probably the Navy, too. Captain Morressy thinks the boy is his.”

  “You saw Morressy, too?”

  “You don’t know that?” Roper asked. “He came to the hotel, bold as brass, out in the open.”

  “I told you,” White said. “I haven’t been watching you.”

  Roper drank some beer and wiped his mouth on a cloth napkin.

  “What’d the colonel want?” White asked.

  “He wanted to know what I was doing in Washington,” Roper said. “Who I was seeing at Dupont Circle.”

  “What’d you tell him?”

  “That it was confidential.”

  “Did he buy that?”

  “He did.”

  “He’s slipping, you know,” White said. “Losing it. But Morressy covers up for him.”

  “He can’t be the only one.”

  “No, he’s not,” White said. “But nobody really lets him make any important decisions.”

  “That third bird.”

  “Yeah, that’s it. The third bird.”

  “Why don’t they just give it to him, then?” Roper asked. “Why make him wait?”

  “The Army doesn’t give anything away,” White said. “The word ‘give’ isn’t in their vocabulary. I think that’s what’s behind this recall of Medals of Honor. They feel they gave away too many of them, which weren’t earned.”

  Maxwell the waiter came and set their plates in front of them. White told him to bring two more cold beers.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “These are cooked perfectly,” White told Roper. “You’ll see.”

  And they were, along with the potatoes, onions, and other vegetables.

  “So, did you find out about my man?”

  “Westover.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Howard.”

  Roper stared at White.

  “Oddly,” the man said, “your man’s service record is…missing at the moment.”

  “And you can’t find it?” Roper asked. “You?”

  “Well…there was a fire a few years ago,” White said. “Some of the records were lost. His might have been among them.”

  “How long will it take to find out?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “And what am I supposed to do in the meantime? I’m sure as hell not going to stay in Washington.”

  “I’m glad you asked me that.”

  Roper put his knife and fork down and sat back in his chair.

  “Why do I have the feeling this free meal is going to cost me more than I could have imagined?”

  “Now, just keep eating and hear me out,” White said. “We just want you to do a little job for us. It won’t even require you to stay in Washington.”

  Roper eyed the steak. It looked and tasted too good to make it suffer for whatever Donald White was about to say, so he picked up his utensils again.

  “All right, damn it,” he said to White. “Start talking.”

  16

  “The Army does not want to recall any medals that were well earned,” White said.

  “That’s nice of them.”

  “So you will need to prove that Howard Westover deserved his medal.”

  “And how am I supposed to do that?”

  “You’ll need to get affidavits signed by men who served with him stating he deserved his medal.”

  “After twenty years?”

  “We were around back then, Tal,” White said. “A lot of men still are. Just find them and get them to sign.”

  “How do I know who I’m looking for?” Roper asked. “You can’t find his records. You can’t tell me where he served, or who he served with.”

  “No,” White said, “but you can get that information.”

  “From where?”

  “From him. He’s your client, isn’t he?”

  Roper hesitated, then said, “Well, not exactly.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, his wife is my client,” Roper explained. “Westover is confined to a wheelchair. He needs to be fed, dressed, changed…”

  “Can he speak?”

  Roper thought back. He’d only heard the man say two words: “Mr. Roper.” Did that mean he was lucid? In possession of his faculties? That he’d be able to speak sentences that made sense?

  “He can speak…I’m just not sure how much sense he’ll make.”

  “Well, find out, man! I’m trying to help you here, Tal. You need those affidavits.”

  “What about his records?”

  “I’ll keep looking,” White said. “Stay in touch with me. When I find them, I can feed you information that will make your job much more doable.”

  “Yes,” Roper said, “yes, all right. I’ll go back and see what I can find out.”

  “Where is Westover living?”

  “West Virginia.”

  “You can catch the first train tomorrow, be back there in eight hours.”

  “Why do you want me to leave so soon?”

  White dropped his utensils to his plate and sat back, staring at Roper.

  “Aren’t you the one who wanted to get out of Washington as soon as you could?” he asked. “Don’t get suspicious on me, Tal. I’m telling you how to get this done. You wanted my help, and I’m giving it to you.”

  “Yes, yes, fine,” Roper said.

  “Jesus,” White said, picking up his fork, “I’m feeding you on Uncle Sam’s dime and this is the thanks I get…”

  “Okay, okay,” Roper said. “I’m sorry. This steak is very good.”

  “Wait until you have their pie.”

  * * *

  After their pie—apple for White but cherry for Roper—White paid the bill and they walked outside. Roper was the first to hear the shot. He slammed his shoulder into White’s, taking him to the ground. From there he drew his gun and got himself to one
knee. He heard someone running toward them and pointed his gun.

  “Easy,” White said. “That’s my driver.”

  “Are you all right, sir?”

  “Yes, I’m fine,” White said, “thanks to Mr. Roper.”

  “Did you see where the shot came from, son?” Roper asked.

  “No, sir,” the young man said, “I was down the street.”

  Roper and White got to their feet.

  “Come on,” White said, giving Roper a push, “let’s get to the carriage.”

  Roper turned around. He noticed that the bullet had missed the windows behind them and instead imbedded itself in the door of the restaurant. Inside, diners had hit the floor, and were now warily getting to their feet.

  “Come on!” White said. “Before somebody comes outside and starts asking questions.”

  The three of them hurried down the street, Roper and the driver with their guns out, keeping White between them. It seemed to be the general consensus of opinion that White had been the intended target.

  When they reached the carriage, they climbed in. The young soldier leaped into his seat and got the horse going at a gallop.

  Roper holstered his gun and asked, “Does this happen to you a lot?”

  “Once in a while.”

  “So not everyone in Washington thinks you’re a bullshit politician.”

  “Apparently not.”

  The man on the roof withdrew the rifle and his head, because he knew the men on the ground were the kind of men who would look up first. They’d look for a gunman on a rooftop. He needed to get himself off this roof as soon as possible.

  He ran to the back of the roof, dropped down through the open hatch to the floor below. From there he found the back staircase, made his way out the back door to the alley behind the building. He knew he was ahead of the other men. They’d need time—even if it was a matter of seconds—to be sure there wasn’t going to be a second shot, before they’d be able to move.

  He’d been instructed to take one shot, and one shot only. And miss. It went against the grain for him to miss deliberately, but he was being paid enough to take the sting out of it.

  And when he did take a second shot, he sure as hell wouldn’t miss.

  When they got back to the hotel, the young driver stopped right in front and drew his gun.

  “I don’t think anyone followed us, Hopkins,” White said.