“Yes, he was a paid assassin and well known to law enforcement in Louisiana and Texas. He was hung for a murderer.”
“Lucian Carter is his son,” Red said.
Ogden was silent for a while, then shook his head and said, “Damn me for a shortsighted fool, I never made the connection.”
“Well, here’s the nub of it, Ogden . . . a few years back I was told by a truth-telling feller that Lucian Carter learned the murder-for-hire trade at his daddy’s knee, and when he grew old enough to use a gun, he did some killing for profit his ownself.”
“Stella Morgan and Lucian Carter are the reason I’m here in El Paso,” Ogden said. “The police doctor said Martha Morgan died of natural causes. I didn’t believe it then, and I don’t believe it now. She was a suspicious, distrustful old biddy who was said to be very rich, but she didn’t trust banks. The thing was, when I searched the house I found no money, not a red cent, no jewelry, nothing of value. The place had been picked clean. I believe Lucian Carter smothered Martha with one of her own feather pillows, and he and Stella Morgan then stole everything they could lay their hands on. Then they sold the old lady’s house for a tidy sum and lit a shuck for El Paso.”
“And on my stage,” Red said.
“Did Stella ever mention—”
“That she carried a large sum of money? No, she didn’t, and neither did Carter, though he held onto a carpetbag that seemed important to him. But Stella did take up with an outlaw and gunman by the name of Seth Roper and on the trail here they became real cozy, if you get my meaning.”
“What about Carter?” Ogden said.
“I don’t know what Carter thinks about Roper, but I do know that he’s still with Stella.”
Ogden looked at his watch, snapped the case shut, and said, “It’s about time for lunch.” And then, “Ryan, a shotgun guard is paid to keep his eyes open, now think about this . . . did you ever see inside the carpetbag that Lucian Carter kept close to him on the journey here from Fort Concho?”
Red smiled. “Ogden, most of the time I was too busy fighting off Apaches, but I did notice that Lucian Carter didn’t let much space get between him and the bag.”
“A large carpetbag?”
“Large enough.”
“Then I must see what’s inside that bag, and you’re going to help me.”
“Help you, how?” Red said.
Ogden told him . . . and Red Ryan’s hair stood on end.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Red Ryan and Pip Ogden’s conversation over lunch centered on the murder of Major Morgan and the subsequent lynching of the innocent Apache. They were drinking coffee when Buttons Muldoon walked into Ma’s Kitchen with Rachel Tyler in tow. “I thought I might find you here,” Buttons said. “Miss Tyler has something to say to you, Mr. Ogden.”
Red and Ogden had both stood, and now Red directed the girl to a chair. “Please sit. Rachel.”
“No, thank you, I must be getting back to the ranch.” Rachel said. “I’d just like to thank you again for what you did for me this morning. Mr. Ogden, you must come out to the Rafter-T one day and meet my father.”
Ogden bowed and smiled. “It will be a great pleasure, Miss Tyler. And there’s no need to thank me. I was merely doing my duty as a concerned citizen.”
Red smiled and said, “It was nice seeing you again, Rachel. But next time I hope we meet in happier circumstances.”
“Me too, Red,” the girl said. “I think I’ve had enough excitement to last me a while.”
“Miss Tyler, just before you go, may I compliment you on the cameo you’re wearing,” Ogden said.
Rachel touched the brooch. “It was my deceased mother’s. She wore it on her wedding day.”
“I see,” Ogden said. “Then she had exquisite taste.”
“Thank you,” Rachel said. “Now I really must go, and do take me up on my invitation to the ranch, Mr. Ogden.”
“You can depend on it,” the little detective said.
After the girl left, Red said, “Damn it, Ogden, do you have to suspect everybody?”
“Yes, I had to ask,” Ogden said. “It’s a detective’s duty to ask questions. Ninety-nine percent of the answers lead nowhere, but there’s always that one percent that does. You’ll learn that as a detective, Ryan.”
“I’m not a detective,” Red said. “I’m a shotgun guard.”
“And speaking of that, I have news,” Muldoon said. He sat, called over a waiter, ordered the beef stew, bread rolls, and a wedge of apple pie and said, “Send the bill to Sheriff Lyons.”
“Buttons, I swear, you’re going to weigh five hundred pounds before we leave here,” Red said.
“Don’t worry, we’re leaving soon,” Muldoon said. He reached under his sailor’s coat and with a flourish produced a telegram that he slapped on the table in front of Red so hard that it made the cutlery lying on his empty plate rattle. “I picked this up at the depot. It’s from Patterson and Son,” he said. “A passenger to be picked up at Fort Concho.”
“Fort Concho again?” Red said. “Another army wife?”
“Wrong sex. Wrong army. Read the wire.”
Red picked up the telegram and read:
PASSENGER PICKUP FORT CONCHO
SOONEST. BRITISH ARMY DESERTER AND
COWARD. TRANSPORT THIS OFFICER TO
GALVESTON FOR ARREST BY ROYAL NAVY
FRIGATE HMS HEPHAESTUS.
ABE PATTERSON
Red passed the wire to Ogden without comment. The little detective scanned the paper, his eyebrows crawling up his forehead like hairy caterpillars. After a while he said, “Ryan, you’ve already made a commitment to me and to Sheriff Lyons.”
“Hardly a commitment,” Red said. “More like following an order.”
Ogden opened his mouth to speak, but Red headed him off when he said, “When do you want to leave, Buttons?”
“Tomorrow morning, I guess.”
Now Red turned to Ogden and said, “You heard the man.”
“Leave tomorrow and some guilty parties could escape justice,” the little detective said.
“I know that,” Red said. “Buttons, what do you think?”
“According to what I hear at the stage depot, no trains will leave El Paso for points north until a bridge is repaired,” Muldoon said. “They say it will be another couple of days.”
“Can we delay picking up the Limey officer that long?” Red said.
“He’s in Fort Concho, so he’s not going anywhere,” Buttons said. “But I don’t know how long the navy ship intends to stay in port at Galveston.”
“Until they get their prisoner, I guess,” Red said. “Remaining in Galveston with its saloons and brothels is no hardship for sailors.”
“They must want the coward real bad to send a warship after him,” Buttons said.
“Seems like,” Red said. “But maybe it’s a small warship.” Then to Ogden, “All right, I can give you two more days.”
“Two days is enough if we make the most of them,” Ogden said.
“Since time is short, lay it out for me, Ogden,” Red said. “You came all the way from San Antonio through some rough country that could still have hostile Apaches roaming around. You must have had good reason to believe that Stella Morgan and Lucian Carter really are murderers.”
Pip Ogden nodded. “Here’s the bottom line, Ryan . . . yes, I firmly believe Stella Morgan and Lucian Carter killed Martha Morgan for her money and jewelry. I talked with the lawyer who drew up Martha’s will, and he said she left all her considerable fortune to her soldier son, Major Morgan. I believe Stella knew she’d be a rich widow one day, but she decided to hasten the process and have her husband murdered. In my opinion, the killer was Lucian Carter. Are the murders of Isak and Raisa Rabinovich somehow connected to Carter? I don’t know.”
Buttons said, “Hell, Ogden, haul T. C. Lyons out of his office and go arrest Stella Morgan and Carter. Seems simple enough to me.”
“Everything I’ve said is suspi
cion and conjecture, and it won’t stand up in a court of law. What I need is proof,” Ogden said. “Examining the contents of Stella Morgan’s carpetbag would be a good start.”
“And that’s not going to be easy,” Red said. “Lucian Carter never allows the damned thing out of his sight.”
“Nothing in a murder investigation is ever easy,” Ogden said. “Ryan, recovering the bag is of the utmost importance, so we have it to do. We’re lucky we already have a plan, aren’t we?”
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
“It’s him, I tell you. That little San Antonio detective with the big nose.”
“Lucian, we’re above suspicion,” Stella Morgan said. “The old girl’s death certificate said she died of natural causes, and as far as the law is concerned it ends right there.”
“I know, Stella, but he worries me. He’s only just arrived in town and already he was involved in a shooting scrape.”
“Was that the shooting we heard?” Stella said.
“Yeah. But the detective didn’t do the shooting. He buffaloed a man with his revolver, and another was shot by a cowboy. Apparently, the dead man and his friend were trying to spark a woman who objected to their advances.”
“And the detective and the cowboy rode to her rescue like good little knights in shining armor,” Stella said, smiling.
“Something like that,” Carter said. “I spoke to a man who saw the whole thing, and he said the little fellow in the bowler hat was real mean, laid into the man he’d downed with his gun and the boot.”
Stella shook her head. “Lucian, you get too worked up about things. If the detective gets to be too much of a nuisance, I’ll have Seth Roper take care of him.”
“I can take care of him myself, Stella,” Carter said. “You don’t need Roper.”
“No, I don’t want you involved in another killing, at least not until we’re in Washington.” Stella said. “Besides, Roper wouldn’t do it himself. Now he’s the big auger in El Paso he can hire a man to do his dirty work for fifty dollars.”
“Stella, you simplify things so well,” Carter said, his eyes shining.
“Life is simple because it’s so short, Lucian. You have to grab everything you can, while you can, and consider no one else but yourself.”
“You consider me, though, don’t you, Stella?”
“Yes, Lucian, I consider you. You’re my good right arm, and another hand to grab with. Together, we’ll take anything and everything we want, and we won’t spare a backward glance at the human wreckage we leave behind us. I want to die rich, and I want to die young. Can you think of a fate worse than growing old?”
“But not too young, huh?” Carter said, smiling.
“Come here, Lucian,” Stella said. She rose from her chair, took Carter’s hands, and placed them on her breasts. “Squeeze. Now do you like that?” she said.
“Of course, I do,” Carter said.
“When the time comes that a man no longer wants to squeeze my tits, I’ll have grown old enough and I’ll shoot myself,” Stella said. “It will be time for Miss Stella to leave the ball.”
Carter shook his head. “That will never happen.”
“Oh, yes it will. And when the time comes, I’ll be ready.”
Knuckles tapped on the hotel room door and Stella said, “I’ll answer it.”
A young man wearing a deputy’s badge on his vest and a Colt on his hip stared openmouthed at Stella in her sheer dressing grown and stammered, “Sh . . . Sheriff Lyons wishes to see you in his office at your earliest convenience, ma’am.”
Stella smiled. “Today?”
“Now, ma’am. And . . . he wants to see Mr. Carter as well.”
“Tell him we’ll be right over,” Stella said.
“Yes, ma’am.” After one last, lingering look at Stella’s breasts, the deputy turned on his heel and left.
As Stella closed the door, Carter said, “This doesn’t bode well, Stella. I told you the detective was a troublemaker.”
“We were invited . . . invited, mark you . . . to attend by Sheriff Lyons,” Stella said. “This may have nothing to do with the San Antonio detective. And if it does, I’ll handle it, Lucian. Let me do the talking.”
“I say we kill the detective tonight,” Carter said.
“It may come to that,” Stella said. “I really don’t think it will, but we’ll keep our options open.”
* * *
T. C. Lyons’s office smelled of the coffee simmering in the pot on the stove and the usual tang of gun oil, ancient vomit, and man sweat. He’d surrendered the chair behind his desk to Pip Ogden and had arranged three more, confiscated from a saloon, around the available floor space.
Ogden didn’t rise when Stella entered, his face unreadable, but Lyons ushered her into a chair with a considerable show of good manners, impressed by the black severity of the widow’s mourning dress with its tantalizing hint of cleavage.
After Stella and Carter were settled and had refused coffee, jailhouse brews justifiably reviled throughout the West, Ogden said, without much ceremony, “My name is Pip Ogden, and you’re both here today to discuss the manner of Martha Morgan’s death. Does that surprise you?”
Stella seemed to take what the detective said in stride. “Not really,” she said. “I thought the matter closed, but you obviously have questions about dear Martha’s passing.”
“Questions?” Ogden said. “No, I only have one . . . which of you murdered the old lady?”
That last hit Stella like a blow to the belly, and silenced her. But Carter stepped into the silence and said, “That is a very serious allegation and one I will not answer without the presence of my lawyer.”
Ogden grinned like a Louisiana alligator. “Ah yes, Lucian Carter, good of you to speak up. Martha’s coroner’s report failed to mention the bruises I found on both her upper arms. Old people are easily bruised, and I believe the bruising occurred when you kneeled on Martha’s arms while you smothered her with a pillow. Or did you hold her down, Mrs. Morgan? After all, she was a frail old lady, and you are a strong, healthy young woman.”
Lyons said, “Ogden, don’t go too far, old fellow.” “He’s gone too far already,” Stella said. She jumped to her feet. “I will not listen to your vile, baseless accusations a moment longer. Good day to you, sir.”
Stella strode for the door, her high-heeled boots clacking on the wood floor.
“One thing, Mrs. Morgan, before you go,” Ogden said.
Stella stopped, her back stiff.
“I’m a good detective, Mrs. Morgan, and do you know what makes me good? I’ll tell you. I’m like a terrier with a rat, or in this case two rats, and once I sink my teeth in, I never let go, be it in El Paso . . . or Washington town.”
Without a word, Stella opened the door and stepped outside. Carter followed, but he stopped at the desk and said, “You’ve made enemies today, Ogden.”
“Is that so, Carter?” the detective said. “I make enemies very easily, and I see most of them hanged. Good day.”
* * *
“Ogden, that was mighty strong,” T. C. Lyons said.
“It may be a fault of mine, but I can’t be civil to murderers,” Ogden said.
“You’re convinced they murdered the old lady in San Antonio?”
“Yes, I am. Aren’t you?”
“I don’t know,” Lyons said. “Maybe.”
“What about Mrs. Morgan’s husband? Do you think the Apache killed him?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Do you think Stella Morgan killed him?”
“Had him killed . . . maybe. I don’t know.”
“Or you don’t want to know, Sheriff.”
“Ogden, you come to me with evidence that will stand up in court, and I’ll do my duty,” Lyons said.
“I will, and I’ll see Stella Morgan and Lucian Carter hang, and I’ll piss on their graves,” Ogden said.
Lyons shook his head. “Detective Ogden, you’re one mean son of a gun.”
“D
amn right, I am,” Ogden said. He smiled as he said that, but he was worried. He should have kept Carter and the woman longer, much longer. How the hell was Red Ryan doing? Did he have the carpetbag yet?
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
“I’m here to see Mrs. Stella Morgan,” Red Ryan said to the hotel desk clerk. “Is she to home?”
“Who wants to know?” the clerk said.
“I’m her brother.”
The clerk sneered. “Mrs. Morgan is the widow of an army officer. I doubt she could be sister to a man wearing a shirt made by a savage.” And then to drive home his distrust, “And a hat with bullet holes in it and a face that’s recently felt the knuckle side of a fist.”
The clerk was a medium-size man, possessed of a medium-size intellect, and he should have known better than antagonize a ranny with red hair and a Colt on his hip that had seen a considerable amount of wear. But he didn’t.
“I’ll ask you again,” Red said, holding on to his patience with both hands, “is Mrs. Morgan in her room?”
“And I’ll tell you again, Mrs. Morgan is not here, so she’s not receiving visitors,” the man said. “Now be off with you.”
Red held back his growing irritation and said, “I’d like to surprise Stella, so if you’ll just give me the key to her room, I’ll wait for her.”
“Mister, I told you to git. Go buy yourself a new shirt and a new hat, and come back when Mrs. Morgan is in residence. For your information, she’s in room twenty, but that won’t do you any good until you show up properly dressed. Oh, and bring flowers.”
“My name is Red Ryan, and I’m a representative of the Patterson and Son Stage and Express Company. Does that make a difference?”
To Red’s shock, the man said, “No, it doesn’t, mainly because I don’t give a damn.” He reached under his desk and Red tensed, but instead of a gun the clerk came up with a greasy bacon sandwich in a paper sack. “Now beat it, and let me finish my lunch in peace.”
Time was a-wasting, and Red was very conscious of the foyer clock striking noon. To the clerk he said, “What’s your name?”
“What’s it to you?”
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