Curry circled the fetid attic uneasily. Etta Place had been his unwilling guest for more than three hours and had yet to show signs of anything save defiance.
“Your bravado is admirable, bitch. But now I have you at my disposal and at least some of the goods you stole from me. At any moment it pleases me I can separate you from this world or cut patterns in your pretty face and leave you alive, a living horror for children to run from. Do you believe Harry Longbaugh will want you then?”
Etta swallowed. The terror she felt was as deep as the canyons of Hole-in-the-Wall. But she knew that to betray even a trace of fear would be like feeding Kid Curry his favorite dish. He would smell fear as surely as the scent of food. And then he would dine on her.
“You don't scare me, but you do disgust me. As always, Mr. Curry, you are short in stature but long on words.”
Curry smiled, pretending that her scorn held no meaning for him. “Perhaps, Etta, I am making this too complicated. Perhaps we will simply become lovers at long last and then I'll kill you. Neat, quick, everybody happy.”
Etta sighed as if he bored her. Talk and keep him talking. “You are a miserable coward, Curry.” She laughed. “Untie me, and we shall see who is the better man. Win, and I am yours to ravish, murder if you please. Lose, and I shall spit on you before binding you like a suckling pig and leaving you for the Pinks to find.”
Curry made no answer. The darkness in his eyes had become impenetrable, as if they were twin planets of a matter so dense as to swallow all light in their universe. Had she gone too far? Was this, as she had feared, the sign of a madness so complete that he would abandon the pleasures he had sought, leaving only her slaughter to be accomplished?
A pearl of spittle formed in the corner of his mouth. He raised the Colt even with her head.
Etta did not give Curry even a second to cock the iron. Before he could squeeze off a shot, she flew from the box. Her long leg kicked high, aiming for his manhood but catching him just under the chin and sending the .45 flying.
He fell but was up quickly. With a roar one would expect from someone twice his size, he leaped upon her, crashing her back into the wall, hoping to witness through her tears the naked fear for which he had been waiting.
“Ah, hellcat, I can smell you,” he murmured, as his lips moved closer to hers.
With all her strength, she pushed against him, her height providing the leverage needed to separate their bodies. Again she kicked at him, missing at first but then connecting with his ribs. She felt a rush of sour air leave his lungs as she kicked the pistol under a rotting chest.
“Come, little man!” She panted. “I am only a woman, and perfect for you. My hands are tied at my back.” She skittered sideways across the room, taunting him, urging him forward and away from the gun.
With the speed that the small have always needed, Logan was suddenly behind her. He jumped up on the box and began to strangle her, his short but strong arms forming a vise beneath her throat. Etta fought the panic inside her as she dragged him from the box, but his weight dangling from her neck only added to the pressure on her windpipe. In desperation, she opened the hands tied behind her and, fighting nausea, clutched at his groin, squeezing until, in his agony, he released his hold.
Howling, he fell hard to the floor while Etta struggled to regain her breath.
At that second he read her eyes. In them he could see the beginnings of the horror he so craved, but it was crowded out by loathing and a flicker of pity that he could not abide. Would further battle now lessen his humiliation at her hands? No. All that was left was to retrieve what remained of his honor, and only the death of Etta Place could achieve that end.
Kid Curry dived for the Colt, coming up with it handle-forward. As he cocked the pistol and aimed at her head, a rusted lock, its knob and plate still attached, flew past his head, and Charles A. Siringo burst through the door.
5
he Pinkerton cell had been made sufficient to the needs of Etta Place. The jailers had been instructed to make certain accommodations reflecting the unique needs and privacy concerns of a female prisoner. They had carried in a small table to serve as both vanity and writing desk. The inmate had been provided with a dressing screen and even a mirror, an amenity male prisoners never enjoyed. Charles A. Siringo himself had ordered that cheerful prints of trees and flowers be hung upon the dingy green walls so that a pleasant atmosphere might be provided for his celebrated guest. Etta had no idea if she had been extended these courtesies out of respect for a gallant adversary or because Siringo believed that her tongue could be loosened by luxury.
For Etta, none of it made a difference. If Siringo had expected gratitude for her rescue, she quickly disabused him of the notion. This was a copper, and as with any representative of the police, Etta Place would always be Wild Bunch to the bone. As they met for her first interview, she addressed him with the calm disdain Hole-in-the-Wall reserved for the law.
“If you believe that you have rescued a damsel in distress,” she told Siringo, “you are very much mistaken, for I am perfectly capable of taking excellent care of myself. You say I am a criminal, a woman who shoots guns and rides black horses, yet if your files contain arrest records you haven't produced them. You don't have so much as a drawing or photograph of this woman you claim has caused so much trouble. Clearly, you have confused me with some other statuesque person. The motto of your company is We Never Sleep, n'est-ce pas? Well, perhaps you should allow your operatives a little shut-eye every month or two. Then they might actually be able to find a woman nearly a head taller than most of them.”
Siringo nodded and shifted in his chair. “I don't need a photograph of you, Etta,” he said. “There are plenty of reports. And may I say that they do not exaggerate either your looks or your keen sense of fashion.”
Etta's eyes narrowed. “Your familiarity, Detective Siringo, only betrays your bad breeding. I would prefer that you please refrain from personal comments and address me as Mrs. Place, as is proper between relative strangers.”
“I apologize,” Siringo said. “I am afraid that in this line of work one gets used to the dregs of society, and they care little about the niceties of social convention. Still, Mrs. Place, polite or no, manners won't deter me from eventually getting what I want. I've spent too many years tracking you down. I'm not about to lose patience now.”
Etta sighed. “For the sake of argument,” she said, “let us assume for the moment that I am, as you say, this bold associate of outlaws. If I wouldn't talk to a madman intent on rape, do you honestly believe I would tell any secrets to you? And if I were an outlaw, would it not naturally follow that I would hold to what I believe is referred to as the outlaw creed? And if I held to this creed I would have only three choices: prison as provided by you, silence, or death by my former compatriots if I break that silence. No, Mr. Siringo, under such circumstances, I would be obliged—no, obligated—to tell you, quite simply and in a far less friendly tone than I use now, to go to hell.”
She smiled sweetly at Siringo and then turned to grin to his two lieutenants, one of whom was now stifling a laugh behind his hand.
“That's if I were an outlaw.”
Siringo was silent for a long moment. He had to admit, she lied with style. “We'll go with Miss Place, for now,” he said. “I can't apply Mrs., as you've never been married to Longbaugh or anyone else. Still, I must say that it is truly a privilege finally to meet you. Anyone who could have stood up to Kid Curry like you did deserves admiration. It's no wonder you've done so well at your chosen profession.”
“Thank you, Mr. Siringo. But one needn't be a bandit to show a little grit. I am only sorry that your Mr. Cathcart took the bullet seemingly reserved for me.”
“Those are the risks we take,” Siringo said. “What makes Cathcart's injury more difficult for me is that, in my seeing to his wound, Curry made his escape. It only took that second's distraction for him to make his way through the window and over the rooftops.”
“He'll live. And Curry won't get far. Now, if you will please accompany me and our Mr. Armbrister to our processing station, we will take your photograph and fingerprints. At that time, I'm afraid, the laying on of hands will become an unfortunate necessity, but we have obtained a matron for you and we shall keep all contact within the bounds of propriety.”
The procedures were carried out with utmost efficiency. After years of anonymity, Etta Place would now be added to the gigantic pile of data the agency kept on the country's lawbreakers. Had the Pinkertons been ordinary police, it would have been Etta's constitutional right to have official charges brought against her. She would have been allowed visitation and legal counsel. But as day became night and then day again, no such charges had been laid and no official record of her capture had yet been prepared. Records could later become defense exhibits; that wasn't the Pinkerton way.
Like any good bandit, Etta knew the agency was a law unto itself, answerable to no one. It employed more operatives than there were members of the United States Army. The state legislature of Ohio had voted to outlaw it, for fear that the company would be hired as a private militia by wealthy clients; Pinkerton money and political connections allowed the firm to operate as a virtual secret police force for those rich enough to afford its services.
Government and local law enforcement had seen no reason to interfere with its activities, as it was often easier to have the agency do the hard work of extracting the confessions that duly appointed authorities later used in court. And if some wrongdoer lost a tooth or bore the mark of a truncheon, the cops needed only state that they were elsewhere at the time of the alleged beating to appear pure before a judge. Besides, Pinkerton needed to show their clients that it was their own efforts, not those of some local constable, that had brought to justice the offenders it had been paid to find. It would be embarrassing indeed if the vaunted Charles A. Siringo had been forced to admit that some beat walker named Clancy or O'Brien had captured Etta Place.
When the photographing and fingerprinting were completed, Etta was escorted to her cell. May they roast in hell, she thought. She would go there herself before she would allow any Pink the satisfaction of witnessing her worries or her tears. She reserved displays of emotion for the latest hours, when her captors would be asleep or prowling abroad for other fugitives. In those moments, Etta cried, not for herself but for Harry and what now seemed the incontrovertible fact that, after at last finding him, she would likely never see him again.
On her second morning in captivity, when Etta was served breakfast in her cell, she contemplated refusing the food but realized that she would need all her strength if she had to stand for a grilling or endure a beating. She had no illusions that, once the Pinks reached the point of desperation, they would not resort to the methods that had been so successful in the past. As Butch had often said, it is hard to argue with success.
When she had finished her meal, Siringo appeared. Etta put aside her tray and stood, the better to meet his eyes. Since last night he had bathed and put on clean linen. Etta envied him.
“Good morning, Miss Place,” he said. “Or should I say Miss Jameson? Please sit down.”
“Really, Mr. Siringo,” Etta said. “One would think such a famous man of action would be able to make up his mind. And no, thank you, I prefer to stand.”
Siringo chuckled and crossed to the small writing desk. He surveyed its surface for notes or letters. There were none. “At any rate, Miss Place, I would hope that a person as intelligent as yourself would begin to think more rationally of her future, especially as at this point your cooperation is no longer required.”
“Then I would assume this case of mistaken identity has been resolved and I am free to go. Perhaps I shall engage your company to locate the money this Curry person stole from me.”
“Not quite,” he said. “Since in time the Pinkerton Agency must deliver you to the authorities, any help you could provide us toward the capture of Longbaugh and Cassidy and others of your associates could shorten your sentence markedly.”
Etta stared at the detective, seemingly bewildered. “I know no ladies by those names,” she said. “Perhaps they are the wives of some poor miners or millworkers whose husbands have had their heads broken by your agents. In any case, I thank you for your offer, but as I am guilty of nothing and know no such people, I must refuse it.”
“That is a shame. Because four days from now, my operatives and I will be waiting at Union Station in Trenton, New Jersey, to take Kid Curry into custody. Our railroad contacts have told us that on Sunday morning a certain Father Seamus Halligan will be boarding the eleven forty-five Union Pacific at Pennsylvania Station, New York. During that train ride, our agents will be free to locate Curry's ill-gotten gains. We will then arrest him at Trenton, the first stop. Our intelligence further informs us that Longbaugh and Cassidy will try to accost him at some time during this journey. Apparently, the Sundance Kid is intent on avenging his former comrade's affront to your honor. So again, Miss Place, any aid you can give us between now and then will count heavily in your favor.”
The temperature of Siringo's voice suddenly dropped.
“Of course, once the capture is made, there will be little we can do for you. Then again, there is still much we can do to you.”
Etta felt a hollowness in her stomach. The detective's threats meant little, real or idle. But could Butch and Harry actually have been stupid enough to remain in New York, where by now every cop and Pink had their freshly printed photograph? Could those two fools be risking their necks for three bags of money or, even more ludicrous, revenge?
She squared her shoulders. As troubling as these thoughts were, Etta knew she must betray no trace of concern to Siringo. He would receive only what any Pink deserved: scorn and defiance.
“Ill-gotten gains?” She laughed. “It seems that every lout who captures me enjoys the same sort of reading material. As for what you may do to me, detective, I come from people who are not so easily intimidated. Good day.”
The detective sighed in mock resignation and, bowing slightly, left the cell. A door clanged shut at the end of the corridor.
She had told them nothing, admitted nothing, but still she was trapped while Curry walked free. Siringo had been right. She knew Harry would never allow the little man to flee with their treasure, never let Curry live as long as he remained a threat to her.
Etta waited for the guard to take his seat down the hall. Only then did she sit upon her cot, making certain she was not observed. She reached below her petticoat and felt for the long smooth sheath camouflaged by the fine tooling of her purple boot.
The slender blade was still there. If it should come to that, she knew she would use it to dispatch the greatest of the Pinkertons—or, if need be, herself.
n the third day of her captivity, Etta was awakened by a commotion in the prison corridor. She heard the sound of men's heavy footfalls and, cutting through this, the impatient and beautiful voice of a woman.
“Unless I have somehow not been informed,” the voice proclaimed, “this country, sir, remains a democracy!”
Now, despite her vow not to reveal emotion before her jailers, Etta's eyes filled with tears to see a tall, willow-like figure briskly approaching her cell, flanked by two well-dressed men in bowler hats. Her hands clasped the bars as Eleanor Roosevelt's green suede boots click-clacked down the long hallway. Etta's heart leaped at the sight.
Gaining the cell, Eleanor nodded to her friend as if she were an errant child and then turned to Charles A. Siringo. Despite what seemed a newfound bravado, Etta saw that her Little Nell was trembling.
“These two gentlemen,” Eleanor said to Siringo, “are Mr. Graham P Yardley and Mr. Israel Solis-Cohen. By now you will have surmised that they are my personal solicitors. Mr. Yardley holds in his hand a writ to release Miss Place into my personal custody signed by Mr. Justice Alois Kriter. As there are no legal charge
s against her in New York State, and Miss Place is an orphan under my lawyers' protection, you will release her to me immediately until such time as the district attorney and the police may make a legal case against her.”
Mr. Solis-Cohen, the shorter of the two attorneys, produced a sheaf of legal briefs from his large attaché case and spoke to Siringo as if the detective were already in the prisoner's dock. “I can assure you that any resistance to myself or to Mr. Yardley will end with your own person legally ensconced within a public jail and investigated for prisoner cruelty and possible unnatural improprieties. And be assured, sir, that Mr. Reid of the Herald awaits only a message from his friend Miss Roosevelt to reveal your methods of kidnap and torture in public print.”
Siringo was stunned. “With all due respect, Miss Roosevelt,” he said, “Mrs. Place is not an orphan but in the care of her husband, who, you may not know, is in reality a notorious highwayman and thief named Harry Longbaugh.”
Yardley spoke again. “Miss Place and your Mr. Longbaugh are not and have never been legally wed in any jurisdiction within this country, and any relations they may have had are not of such duration to be included in the definition of common law. As you will see from document number six, our firm is now sole legal guardian of Miss Place. You will see also that all signatures—that of counsel, of Miss Roosevelt, and of Miss Place—are present and in order.”
Etta was astonished to see, in Solis-Cohen's grasp, a sheet of paper that contained these signatures. Hers had been so expertly forged that Etta could not tell it from the genuine article. She had never seen the document before in her life.
“You may hold your cutpurses and pickpockets at your mercy, Mr. Siringo,” said Solis-Cohen, “but Miss Place is a gentlewoman from a fine family, as is obvious from her association with Miss Roosevelt. Further, we have legal documents, also signed by Mr. Justice Kriter, that any and all fingerprint records, photographs, and negatives of Miss Place are now the copyrighted property of Miss Place and are to be released to us, her representatives, forthwith.”
Etta: A Novel Page 21