Tip From A Lady Magician
Over her shimmering, beaded gown, she wore a voluminous cloak of fire-red. The room seemed to become brighter, aglow with dazzling lights, as she strutted back and forth, trading quips with Stretch, producing a dummy rattlesnake from the bedclothes, whisking an ace of clubs from Larry’s holster.
“The hand is quicker than the eye, gentlemen,” she gaily chanted. “Observe me closely, if you please …”
“If my fool sidekick observes you any closer,” countered Larry, “his eyes are gonna pop clear out of his head.”
“Voila!” she chuckled, as she sidled to the washbasin. “Margo the Amazing will now perform the seemingly-impossible.” She lifted the water-pitcher, peered into it. “A transformation! Margo will change this water. This—ugh! Soapy water! This water now becomes ...” Triumphantly, she thrust a hand into the pitcher, withdrew it to exhibit a wrapped bottle. “Champagne—for the gentlemen from Texas!”
“Is that stuff real?” Stretch eagerly enquired.
“You’ll believe it,” she promised, “when the bubbles tickle your nose.” She brought the bottle to Larry, eyed him gravely. “A peace offering, Larry. I broke my promise—couldn’t stay away from you. Can you forgive me?”
Larry accepted the bottle, placed it on the table.
“All right,” he nodded. “I won’t bawl you out, long as you only stay a couple minutes.”
“That’s as much time as I have,” she told him. “I’m due back at the Lucky Lil for another performance.” Her worried eyes fastened, on his forehead. “Buffalo told me all about it. You were almost killed tonight. It’s happened again.”
“Them Hashknife hombres treatin’ you proper?” demanded Larry.
“Reformed characters,” she smiled. “They keep apologizing for molesting me at the livery stable—and they’re so darned humble about it.” She darted a glance at Stretch, who promptly tugged the bedsheets up to his chin. “I just wanted to—stop by and make sure you weren’t badly hurt.”
“You don’t have to fret about us,” growled Larry.
“Still as tough as ever,” she observed. “Still belligerent—because your enemies are hiding from you.”
“I’m bettin’ they’ll make another try,” muttered Larry.
“Hoping for it,” she accused.
“Un-huh.” He nodded vehemently. “Hopin’ for it. Next time, they’re gonna get plumb unlucky.” He forced himself to relax, gestured nonchalantly to the champagne bottle. “You thirsty?”
“No, thanks,” she murmured. “It’s a present for you and Stretch.” She sank into a chair. “Larry, how did it happen?”
He didn’t mind recounting it again, because the repetition enabled him to consider each point again, to view every aspect with the detachment of a spectator. She hung on his every word. Then, when he had finished, “I can hardly remember that blind Mexican,” she mused.
“Two things I’m sure of now,” said Larry. “He’s no blind man—and somebody had a hideout all ready for him. When he got busted out of that burnin’ shack, he knew just where to run, and he made it fast.”
“I’d admire to know,” drawled Stretch, “who that somebody is. The party that gave him a place to hide, I mean.”
“You and me both, amigo,” nodded Larry. “If we find that party, we find the Mex. And, somehow, I got a hunch he could tell us plenty.”
“Well ...” Margo shrugged gracefully, “… cherchez la femme!”
Larry looked at Stretch. Stretch looked at Larry, then at Margo, and asked, “How’s that again?”
“Meaning,” she explained, “find the woman.”
“Hey now ...’’ began Stretch.
Pensively, Larry reflected, “That old Mex has to have a sidekick somewhere in Tyson City. Why couldn’t it be a woman?”
“It’s not impossible,” opined Margo. She smiled again. “Of course, I’m incurably romantic. But one thing I’m sure of. When a woman loves a man, she’ll stop at nothing to protect him, to shelter him when he needs shelter.”
“Why wouldn’t it be a woman?” Larry repeated.
“Don’t let me confuse you with my theories,” she frowned. “It’s only supposition, Larry. Just a wild idea out of thin air.”
“Sure,” grunted Larry. “But maybe it ain’t so wild.”
“Look how he squints.” Stretch grinned at her. “You done planted a notion in ol’ Larry’s head, and now he’s chewin’ on it.”
“What is it, Larry?” she demanded.
“Nothin’.” He shook his head. “Best you forget about it, Margo.”
“Well,” said Margo, “enjoy the champagne.” She flashed them a farewell smile, sauntered to the door. Larry opened it for her.
After she had gone, he closed and locked the door, traded grins with Stretch.
“Gotta hand it to her,” drawled Stretch. “She sure is sociable.” He gestured to the bottle. “I’m thirsty.”
Larry found glasses popped the cork of the champagne bottle. In a matter of minutes, they had disposed of the contents, and Stretch was sleepy again. It was getting late, but sleep was the furthest thought from Larry’s mind. He extinguished the lamp, opened the window to catch the cooling night breeze and seated himself there. While Stretch snored, he stared out into the gloom, thinking.
The hotel became quiet. As a rule, the Downeys didn’t cater to a rowdy clientele. New suspicions were stirring in Larry’s brain. He was considering a few inconsistencies—one in particular. The noticeable change in Fran Downey’s demeanor. In less than twenty-four hours, that grief-stricken young lady had rallied—and then some. Could any woman forget so quickly, overcome grief so completely? Something was wrong. Something just didn’t add up.
A few minutes before midnight, he became conscious of movement in the rear yard, directly below the window. He stared downward, probing the gloom. A dim figure crossed the yard. Female—but who? It wasn’t Liza. Too slim. Fran? Yes. It was Fran. And toting something. Something bulky. At the far end of the yard, she paused to pick up a spade.
Quickly, but quietly, he quit the room and hustled downstairs to the deserted lobby. Out into the street and along to the side alley he hurried. When he reached the yard, she was still visible, a moving blur in the gloom. He followed her at a safe distance, and she led him away from the residential area, across a vacant lot towards a strip of mesquite.
He waited a full ten minutes before crossing to the brush. Sounds were carried to him on the night air, not loud, but familiar enough. She was using the spade. He took his time approaching the mesquite and went to pains to prevent her hearing him. There was, within the brush, a small clearing. Here she labored, shifting dirt back into a small excavation. When she had finished, the bulky bundle had disappeared. She straightened up, breathing heavily. Then, humming to herself and toting the spade, she came back towards the vacant lot.
Not until she was out of sight did he break cover and move into the clearing. There wasn’t much moonlight, but enough of it to reveal the disturbed earth. He dropped to his knees and began scooping it away with his hands. She hadn’t buried the bundle deep. Only a foot below the surface, he found the sack, the neck of it secured by a length of twine. He hauled it out, unknotted the twine and delved inside.
Right away his questing hand found the floppy straw sombrero. He didn’t even wait to pull it from the sack. All doubts were erased. He knew, with certainty, what else the sack contained. A cold grin creased his suntanned features, as he trudged back towards the hotel’s rear yard, hefting the sack on his shoulder.
No light showed in the kitchen. He checked the back door, found it unlocked. As silently as a marauding Comanche, he moved through the kitchen and along the passage to the lobby. It was still deserted. He climbed the stairs, let himself into the bedroom, locked the door behind him and lit the lamp.
Stretch awoke, opened one eye and surveyed him enquiringly. “What you got there, runt?”
Larry flopped into a chair, dumped the sa
ck at his feet.
“First,” he frowned, “I’ll tell you where I found it.”
“All right,” said Stretch. “Where?”
“Buried,” growled Larry. “A ways back of the hotel, in the brush. Buried by Fran Downey.”
“Well, doggone!” Stretch shook his head uncomprehendingly. “How come a purty little gal like her should bury a sack—this time of night?”
“I’ll show you why,” scowled Larry.
He upended the sack. Onto the floor tumbled the all-too-familiar articles. The guitar. The straw sombrero. A pair of smoked eyeglasses. Pantalones. A camisa. Sandalias. The tin cup.
Stretch’s eyes bulged.
“Seen this stuff before, haven’t you?” challenged Larry.
“Ol’ blind Mex!” breathed Stretch. “Them’s his duds!”
“He ain’t so old,” muttered Larry. “He ain’t blind—and he’s no Mex.”
“What in tarnation are you talkin’ about?” demanded Stretch.
Larry slumped low in his chair, rolled and lit a cigarette. “I’m talkin’,” he frowned, “about Gil Briskin. I’m sayin’ Briskin never cashed in at all.”
“That’s plain loco,” protested Stretch. “He’s dead and buried—up north at Childress.”
“How do we know?” countered Larry. “Did we see him die? Did we see him nailed into the pine box and planted in the Childress boot hill?”
“His head was all busted,” Stretch reminded him. “He got gun-whipped!”
“We don’t know how many times they batted him with a six-gun,” argued Larry. “It’s likely Grieves only hit him once, before we happened along. One hit would be enough to hurt him bad, start his head bleedin’ and all. One hit could kill him—but I’m sayin’ it didn’t.”
Stretch’s gaze dropped to the articles scattered on the floor.
“You figure Briskin came back here—all rigged out as a blind Mex beggar?”
“That’s how it looks to me,” nodded Larry.
“How’d you get such a notion?” demanded Stretch.
“The girl,” said Larry.
“Miss Fran?” blinked Stretch.
“Think back,” offered Larry. “When we first checked into this hotel, we found out she was Briskin’s girl—right?”
“Right,” grunted Stretch.
“Near out of her mind with grief,” Larry reminded him.
“And then some,” Stretch agreed.
“Next time I see her,” said Larry, “she’s smilin’ purty—happy as a cat with two tails. And I’m sayin’ it was a mite too early for her to forget her man, too early for her to act so all-fired sassy.”
“You call her on it?” asked Stretch.
“And she covered up fast,” nodded Larry.
“But too late,” guessed Stretch. “Them busy brains of yours was buzzin’ already. Got it all figured out, huh, runt?”
“There could only be one reason,” opined Larry, “why a gal like Fran Downey would suddenly quit mournin’ her man. She must’ve found out he’s still alive.”
“The thing I don’t savvy,” said Stretch, “is why would he do it?”
“I’ll ask him,” growled Larry, “after I find him.”
“Tall order,” suggested Stretch.
“No.” Larry shook his head emphatically. “For my money, he’s hid right here in the hotel.”
“Holy sufferin’ Hannah ...” breathed Stretch.
“When I spotted Fran,” said Larry, “she was totin’ this sack out of the hotel. That’s one thing. Tonight, after the fire, Briskin disappeared fast. That’s another thing. He had a hole to run to. He knew where he was goin’ and how to get there. It’s my hunch she’s been hidin’ him right here in the hotel.”
“Well,” frowned Stretch, “how do we find out which room Briskin’s hidin’ in—if it is Briskin?”
“Only one way,” shrugged Larry, as he got to his feet. “Check ’em all.”
“That’s too big a chore for you to handle all by yourself,” decided Stretch. “Wait for me.”
He threw back the covers, scrambled out of bed and began donning his clothes. Larry waited impatiently, and enlarged on his theory.
“She wouldn’t stash him in a pantry or a cellar. Her ma or pa would find him for sure. She helps out with the chores, doesn’t she? Cooks—helps clean the rooms—tends the desk downstairs? All she had to do was put him in a room that’s supposed to be empty.”
Stretch strapped on his guns, donned his Stetson somewhat gingerly because of his head-bandages. Then, nodding cheerfully, he said, “Let’s go.”
“Down to the lobby first,” decided Larry. “No use checkin’ the register—but we’ll sure need keys.”
They descended to the lobby. It was now forty minutes after midnight, and the area below was still deserted. Larry’s cursory examination of the register revealed that, the hotel wasn’t full to capacity. Two dozen rooms. Only eighteen occupied. Well, he couldn’t take it for granted that Briskin would be occupying a room marked vacant. It seemed entirely possible Fran may have entered an alias against the number of that particular room. They had no option, he figured, but to check all the rooms.
Under the counter, he found a large ring of keys.
“Key to every room, I’ll bet,” he triumphantly informed Stretch. “This’ll do fine.”
Larry and Stretch were inclined to be single-minded in an emergency. Necessity overrode convention. It didn’t occur to them to awaken Marv Downey, confide Larry’s suspicion and seek his cooperation. Downey might have argued, in which case they would have gone ahead with their search anyway.
They investigated the ground floor rooms first. Nothing to be gained by knocking, they reasoned. A knock might send their quarry scuttling to a window. They simply unlocked doors and entered rooms, and the consequences were varied. Some occupants vigorously protested this invasion of their privacy. Some said nothing at all, because they didn’t awaken. The investigators lit lamps, peered into the faces of slumbering drummers, local merchants and a fine assortment of females.
Their search of the ground floor availed them naught but indignant protests. They climbed to the second floor, unlocked the first door on their left, moved in and found the lamp, got it working. Gun in hand, Larry strode to the closet and opened it, while the occupant sat up in bed and mumbled a tale of woe. He was bald, pudgy and nondescript. Stretch listened with interest, and sympathetically.
“She sent you to fetch me back. I knew she would. What are you? Pinkertons? Special U.S. Marshals? I thought she’d never find me. You married? Don’t ever get married. I did. Worst mistake I ever made. Her ma and pa moved in with us, and then her unwed sister and her stumble-bum brother—and her cousin Julia that’s always whinin’ about her rheumatics. Whole damn passel of ’em. Gab, gab, gab! Day in—day out. It’s more than flesh and blood can abide. I had to go!”
“How far have you come, mister?” asked Stretch.
“That’s all,” announced Larry. “He ain’t hidin’ in here.”
“All the way from Purvisburg,” said the errant bridegroom.
“Where’s Purvisburg?” wondered Stretch.
“Tennessee,” said the bald man.
“Hell!” said Stretch.
As he followed his partner, to the door, the bald man blinked after him and asked, “Didn’t Lucy Mae send you?”
“Nope,” grunted Stretch.
“You got nothin’ to fear from us,” Larry assured him.
“But,” said Stretch, “if I was you I wouldn’t quit runnin’ till I reached ’Frisco.”
“That’s what I figure to do,” the bald man dolefully asserted.
In the next room along the corridor, they were spared the necessity of searching for the lamp. The room was lit, despite the late hour. Its occupant squatted on the bed, nursing an empty whisky-bottle. He was florid, bleary-eyed, middle-aged and skinny, and he hadn’t remembered to undress before going to bed. An empty bottle rolled away from Larry’s boot, as he c
rept towards the closet. Not surprisingly, the skinny man was much the worse for wear. He caught Stretch’s eye, raised a shaking finger to his lips and hissed a warning.
“Psst! You gotta get the drop on him. If he spots you first—and spits at you—you’re gone coons!”
Larry hammered back, put his left hand to the knob of the closet door, and quietly asked, “How long has he been in here?”
“First time I seen him,” mumbled the toper, “was right after the second bottle.”
“What kinda lookin’ feller is he?” demanded Stretch.
“He ain’t a feller at all!” panted the toper. “He ain’t human! He’s a thing—a varmint! Got horns shootin’ outa his head—and three eyes!”
Larry sighed heavily, opened the door. The closet was bare, but they could never convince the inebriate. He cringed against his pillows, pointed agitatedly to the window.
“There he goes! He’s flyin’ now! Sprouted wings!” Larry looked at Stretch.
Stretch looked at Larry, then at the man on the bed, and said, “Well—he’s gone.”
“He’ll come back for sure,” complained the toper.
“Not if we lock the window,” soothed Larry. He secured the window, and patiently explained, “Me and my pardner know all about that kind of varmint. Never knew one to fly through glass. You’ll be all right now, friend.” He added, sadly, “Until the next time you lean on a bottle.” They drew a blank in the other rooms on that side of the corridor, one of which was their own. The first room on the opposite side proved to be the private quarters of Marv and Liza Downey, but they didn’t realize this until they had lit the lamp and, by then, the Downeys were sitting up in their double-bed, blinking incredulously, and Liza was gasping, “Great day in the mornin’—they’re hungry again!”
“What in blazes …” began Downey.
“Sorry we woke you up,” frowned Larry. “Just go right back to sleep and forget you saw us.”
“Hey!” breathed Downey. “What’re you doin’ with those keys? You can’t …”
“We have to,” countered Larry. “But don’t you fret about it.”
The next room was occupied by Fran Downey. Aroused by their coming, she rose from her bed, wrapped a robe about her nightgown and asked, anxiously, “What is it?”
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