The Counterfeit Gunsmith

by J. R. Roberts

  He gathered up his money and left the saloon.

  * * *

  Jack Denim and Cole Roburt stood outside Police Headquarters.

  “I don’t like this Eastern crap,” Roburt said. “I liked it better when there was just a sheriff.”

  “You like sheriffs?” Denim asked.

  “No,” Roburt said, “that ain’t what I meant. Look, we gotta go in there?”

  “No,” Denim said, “we’ll just wait here until our man comes out.”

  “And then what?”

  “And then we’ll take it from there,” Denim said. “Just relax.”

  “How am I supposed to relax?” Roburt asked. “We don’t get this done and Colby will kill us.”

  “He can’t kill us both,” Denim said. “In fact, he won’t kill us at all. He gets other people to do his killin’ for him—like us.”

  “So he’ll have somebody else kill us, is that what you’re sayin’?” Roburt asked. “That don’t make me feel much better.”

  “Cole,” Denim said, “just do what I tell you, and we’ll be fine. You’ll see.”

  “Yeah,” Roburt muttered, “I’ll see.”

  THIRTY-SIX

  Back at Clint’s Hotel, the Mayflower, they found Pike sitting up in bed.

  “How are you doing?” Clint asked.

  “I’m okay,” Pike said. “Feeling a bit stronger. You fellas find out anything?”

  “I’ll let Detective Donnelly fill you in,” Clint said.

  He sat at the foot of the bed while Donnelly told Pike about their meeting with the police chief.

  “And you believe him?” Pike asked afterward.

  “Yeah,” Donnelly said.

  “We both do,” Clint said.

  “So nobody’s looking for you,” Pike said to Donnelly. “You can move around.”

  “Not exactly,” Clint said. “Those two crooked lawmen did try to kill him. There’s no telling when somebody might try again.”

  “So what’s on your minds now?”

  “Tom Colby,” Clint said, “unless you have a better idea.”

  “You plan on bracing Colby?”

  “Maybe shake him up a bit,” Clint said, “see what he does.”

  “What do you think?” Donnelly asked.

  “Sounds like a plan,” Pike said. “Maybe I can come along.”

  “First let’s see how fast you can get off the bed,” Clint said.

  Pike was still inching his way to the edge of the mattress when Clint said, “I think you better just stay there, Pike.”

  “Maybe I do need a few more days,” Pike agreed.

  “You got a gun?” Donnelly asked.

  “Yes, Clint gave me one.”

  “Okay, then,” the detective said. He looked at Clint. “Let’s see if we can catch Colby at home.”

  “Does he have an office?”

  Donnelly nodded.

  “On Market Street,” he said, “but he’s hardly ever there. We’re most likely to find him at home, with his wife.”

  “Do you know his wife?” Clint asked.

  “I’ve seen her,” Donnelly said, “which is how I know he’ll probably be home. If I had a wife who looked like her, I’d stay home, too.”

  “Attractive?” Pike asked.

  “Beautiful,” Donnelly said, “and younger than him by about ten years.”

  “Let’s go and see.”

  * * *

  They caught a cab, and Donnelly directed the driver to Tom Colby’s house, which was on a tree-lined residential street near Forest Park.

  “This is serious money,” Clint said.

  “I told you,” Donnelly said, “everybody’s saying he’s going to be the next mayor.”

  “Maybe we can put a crimp in his plans.”

  They approached the front door and Donnelly knocked. They had agreed that since he was the man with the badge, he would do the talking.

  The door was opened by a middle-aged woman wearing an apron and a frown.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “My name is Detective Donnelly, of the Saint Louis Police Department,” the young detective said. “Are you the housekeeper?”

  She shook her head and said, “Cook.”

  “Is Mr. Colby home?”

  “He is,” she said, but she didn’t move.

  “Could we see him, please?”

  She looked at Clint, sniffed and said, “Wait here,” then closed the door.

  “I don’t think she likes you,” Donnelly said.

  “I don’t think she likes anybody.”

  When the door opened, the woman was standing there again.

  “I would like to see your badge.”

  Donnelly took it out and showed it to her.

  “And his?”

  “He’s not a policeman,” Donnelly said, “but he’s my colleague.”

  “I see.” She seemed unsure about what to do, but finally said, “Well, come in.”

  They entered and waited while she closed the door and locked it.

  “Mr. Colby will see you in his study. Follow me, please.”

  Clint wondered why all rich men had to have a room in their house, usually filled with books, that they either called their “office,” their “library,” or their “study.”

  They followed the cook down a hall to an open door, and into the study. It was larger than what most men would call an “office.” The word “study” fit it much better. Three of the walls were covered with books. In the center of the room stood a large, oak desk with Tom Colby behind it.

  “Mr. Colby, these are Detective Donnelly and . . .” She stopped, because she didn’t know Clint’s name.

  “Clint Adams,” Colby said, standing. “Welcome, gentlemen.”

  “You know who I am,” Clint said.

  “You’re quite a famous man, Mr. Adams,” Colby said. “I make it my business to know important people.”

  “Well, I don’t know how important I am to anyone,” Clint said.

  “History, sir, history,” Tom Colby said. “You will have a firm place in history.”

  “That’s not what we’re here about,” Donnelly said, and Clint was glad he stepped in.

  “Then what are you here about, Detective?” Colby asked.

  “This.”

  Donnelly took one of the phony hundred-dollar bills out of his pocket.

  “A hundred-dollar bill?” Colby asked, laughing. “I have a lot of them.”

  “Not like this one.” Donnelly held it out.

  Colby hesitated, then frowned, leaned forward, and took it from the detective. He studied it, held it to the light, then looked at them.

  “This is counterfeit?”

  “It is.”

  “It looks real.”

  “It looks very real,” Donnelly said, “but I can tell.”

  “How?”

  Donnelly held out his hand and Colby gave the bill back. Instead of showing Colby what made it phony, he put it away.

  “I can tell,” Donnelly said. “That’s all that matters.”

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  “That still doesn’t explain what brought you here,” Colby said.

  “You’re an important man in this city,” Donnelly said. “As you just said, you make it your business to know everyone important.”

  “And?”

  “I don’t know how anyone could be counterfeiting,” Donnelly said, “and passing the bills without you knowing about it.”

  Colby sat back.

  “Normally, I would think you were right,” he said, “but I don’t know anything about this.”

  “But you could find out,” Donnelly said.

  “Are you asking me to help the police?” Colby asked. “To help you?”

>   “I am,” Donnelly said. “Everyone says you’re going to be the next mayor of Saint Louis. I would think you wouldn’t want anyone flooding it with funny money.”

  “You have a point,” Colby said. “What is it you think I can do?”

  “You know a lot of people,” Donnelly said. “Put the word out. Find out who’s passing bills. Or who’s making them. Just find out something that will help me.”

  Colby sat back in his chair and seemed to be considering the request.

  “All right,” he said. “I can do that much, I guess.”

  “Good,” Donnelly said. “We’d appreciate it.”

  “But I wonder,” Colby said. “If this is about counterfeiting, why isn’t someone from the government approaching me?”

  “There is a man here from the government,” Donnelly said, “but he’s been injured. We’re keeping him somewhere safe until he recovers.”

  “I see. And I don’t suppose you’d care to tell me who he is, or where he is?”

  “That’s not necessary for you to know, Mr. Colby,” Donnelly said.

  “I suppose not. Well, all right. First thing in the morning, I’ll get the word out.”

  Donnelly and Clint stood up. Colby followed, and shook hands with both of them.

  “What’s your part in all this?” Colby asked Clint.

  “I’m just here to keep Detective Donnelly alive,” Clint said.

  “Well,” Colby said, “I suppose he couldn’t have a better bodyguard than the Gunsmith, could he?”

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  As the cook was showing them to the door, another woman appeared. This one was tall, in her thirties, with honey-colored hair piled high on her head. She was beautiful. Obviously, this was Tom Colby’s wife.

  “That’s all right, Mrs. Preston,” she said. “I’ll show them out.”

  “But the mister told me—”

  “I’m telling you it’s all right,” the woman said. “Go back to the kitchen.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  The woman turned and walked away.

  “We’ve needed a new manservant for some time,” she told them. “Finding a good one is difficult.”

  “I’m sure,” Clint said.

  “Gentlemen,” she said. “I’m Ingrid Colby.”

  “Mrs. Colby,” Donnelly said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Detective Edward Donnelly.”

  She nodded to him, then looked at Clint.

  “And you?”

  “Clint Adams.”

  “Ah,” she said, “the Gunsmith.” He noticed her eyes were slate gray. He hadn’t seen that color very often in a woman. It made her eyes look cold. “My husband must have been very excited to meet you.”

  “If he was,” Clint said, “he hid it well.”

  She smiled.

  “He hides his emotions well,” she said. “It’s very helpful in business. Believe me, he was excited.”

  “All right,” Clint said. “I believe you.”

  “I must admit,” she went on, “I’m getting kind of excited myself.”

  Just for a moment it looked as if her gray eyes grew warmer.

  “I’m assuming you didn’t come here to arrest my husband, Detective.”

  “You assume correctly, ma’am,” he said. “We came to ask for his help.”

  “Well, since he’s going to be our next mayor, I’m sure he agreed.”

  “He did.”

  “Good,” she said. “I’ll show you both to the door, then.”

  At the front door she opened it, allowed Donnelly to go through. Before Clint could follow, she took hold of his left sleeve.

  “It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Adams,” she said. “Perhaps we’ll see each other again . . . soon.”

  He looked into her eyes.

  “Perhaps,” he said.

  Definitely hotter.

  * * *

  Outside of the house, Donnelly said to Clint, “How do you think I did?”

  “You did fine,” Clint said. “He’s guilty as sin.”

  “I think so, too,” the detective said. “What do you think he’ll do now?”

  “He’ll send somebody after you,” Clint said. “After us. When he does, they’ll lead us right back to him.”

  “If we survive,” Donnelly pointed out.

  “Well, yes, there is that.”

  Donnelly turned and looked over his shoulder at the house, then back at Clint.

  “What do we do now?”

  “We have to be somewhere they can find us,” Clint said. “Someplace picked by us.”

  “Where should that be?”

  “This is your city,” Clint said. “You decide.”

  “Do you think we can count on Pike to help?”

  “He’ll help all he can,” Clint said. “I’m sure of that. The question is, how much is he capable of?”

  * * *

  Ingrid Colby entered her husband’s study. He was still seated behind the desk, thinking.

  “How did that go?” she asked.

  He stroked his chin.

  “They asked for my help.”

  “That’s good.”

  He looked at her. “Is it?”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Something.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like maybe they know I’m involved.”

  “How would they know that?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “It’s just a feeling.”

  “Well,” she said, “maybe we should act on that.”

  “How?”

  “I might just know a way,” Ingrid said thoughtfully.

  THIRTY-NINE

  When they got back to the Mayflower, Clint got a second room for Pike to use.

  “What if they come after you?” Pike asked.

  “That’s what we want,” Clint said. “If somebody comes after me, it’s going to be because Colby sent them.”

  “We’ll be right down the hall,” Donnelly said. “This way you can continue to rest.”

  Clint and Donnelly offered to help Pike move down the hall, but the Secret Service man was able to walk on his own.

  “Get on that bed,” Clint said.

  “I’m fine—”

  “Just humor me,” Clint said. “If something happens, you can get off the bed.”

  “Fine.”

  Pike got on the bed, boots and all.

  “Okay,” Clint said. “I’m going back to my room.”

  “I’m kind of hungry,” Pike said.

  “Actually, me, too,” Donnelly said.

  “Okay,” Clint said, “we’ll go downstairs and get something to eat. Pike, we’ll bring you something.”

  “Why don’t I come?” he asked. “I mean, we want them to find us, right?”

  Clint and Donnelly exchanged a glance, and then Clint said, “Okay, but let’s go right now.”

  “Good,” Pike said, “because right now is when I’m hungry.”

  * * *

  They settled into a table in the hotel dining room, which was just starting to fill with diners. Clint and Pike ordered steaks, while Donnelly ordered beef stew.

  “You think this is going to work?” Pike asked. “Offering yourselves up as bait?”

  “It’ll work,” Donnelly said, “as long as Tom Colby is guilty.”

  “If he’s not,” Clint said, “then we have to start over.”

  “From the beginning,” Pike said, “which is where I started.”

  “You’re the one who came up with Colby’s name.”

  “I did,” Pike said, “and I still think he’s involved, but this is not the way we fulfill our assignments in the Secret Service, by becoming targets.”

  “Well, i
f this works,” Donnelly said, “maybe it should be.”

  When the waiter came with their food, they were all hungry enough to stop talking and dig in.

  * * *

  They were eating pie and having coffee when Donnelly looked up and said, “Uh-oh.”

  Clint looked up at the door and saw what he was talking about.

  “What is it?” Pike asked.

  “The woman at the door,” Donnelly said.

  “What about her?” Pike asked. “She’s beautiful.”

  “She’s also Ingrid Colby,” Clint explained. “Tom Colby’s wife.”

  Ingrid Colby was wearing a gray skirt and jacket, and calfskin boots.

  “I wonder what she wants here,” Pike asked.

  “I guess we’re about to find out,” Donnelly said. “She’s on her way over here.”

  All three men stood as she reached their table, Pike a little bent over.

  “Please, gentlemen,” she said. “Sit.”

  They all did.

  “And who is this?” she asked.

  “Mrs. Colby,” Clint introduced, “this is our friend Joshua Jones.”

  “Mrs. Colby,” Pike said.

  “Mr. Jones,” she replied. “I hope you and Detective Donnelly won’t hold it against me if I take Mr. Adams away for a while.”

  “Uh, no,” Donnelly said, wondering if this was the gambit Colby was going to use, separating them.

  “Not at all,” Pike said.

  “What is this about?” Clint asked.

  She turned her gray gaze on him fully.

  “I thought you and I should have a conversation, Mr. Adams.”

  “About what?”

  She looked at the other two men, and then back at him.

  “In private?”

  “Of course,” Clint said. Donnelly and Pike were both armed, if this was a ploy.

  “Are you finished with your pie?” she asked.

  He put the last bite into his mouth and said, “I am now.” He stood and looked at the other two. “Gentlemen.”

  “See you in a while,” Donnelly said.

  As Clint and Ingrid left the dining room, he said, “Where would you like to talk?”

  “Someplace private,” she said. “How about your room?”

  “If you think your reputation can survive that,” he pointed out.