“Can’t be all that bad,” I offered. “I noticed your sign below where folks couldn’t miss. Wills contested, no up front fee.”
“It does bring in some business,” Leakey agreed. He’d missed the dryness in my voice, and taken my comment as encouragement. I wasn’t surprised. Nothing about this man suggested intelligence. “I’d like the sign bigger, but Morgan says not. As if he should care. The best move he made was buying land for a cemetery. The way Denver‘s busting at the seams, it now costs as much for a grave as it cost five years ago for a house plot. It galls me to no end, sitting in my office, smelling his pickle juices, and knowing he’s making so much money that —”
“Bob Nichols,” I said. “Mining papers that belonged to his brother. Remember him?”
Leakey’s mouth snapped shut and his lips disappeared in a tight line. “Yes, I do. And he’s long past making a claim now. He signed everything a month ago, and legally it makes no difference what’s been found since. So if you’re here to —”
“Nichols is dead.”
“Oh.” Leakey brightened. “Oh.”
Leakey smiled and extended his hand. “Who’d you say you were?”
I hadn’t. Leakey’d done all the talking since I’d walked into his office.
“Samuel Keaton.” I had an urge to wash my hand after Leakey released his grip — and I could recall not having that same urge once after being elbow deep in a cow to pull loose a calf.
I smiled through my distaste, reminding myself how I’d learned with Crawford that honey works better than vinegar. I spoke through that smile. “I’m here to ask you about when you saw Nichols last.”
“Because…” Leakey’s smile turned into a frown of suspicion.
Because I’ve got time to kill, have no real idea of what to do next, and I prefer to grasp at straws, even if the straw is a third-rate lawyer with no clients. But I didn’t say that.
“Because,” I said, “his wife said he learned something in this office that got him killed.”
That wasn’t true, of course, but I had a suspicision Leakey wouldn’t tell me anything unless he saw something in it for him. Since I wasn’t offering money, maybe he’d be willing to help if he thought it could avoid him trouble.
He stared at me. Evidently, I was wrong to think that the prospect of trouble would worry him at all.
“Look,” I said, “I’ll give you half of what she’s paying me.” Which, with a copper piece, would buy him no more than a cup of coffee.
He smiled a Congressman’s smile. I felt dirty.
“I can’t recall that anything unusual was said here,” Leakey said. He shook his head several times for emphasis. “Nothing at all. We spent maybe ten minutes together here.”
“Ten minutes? That’s it.”
“Ten minutes here. Going over his brother’s papers.”
“Where else did you spend time together?” I couldn’t see Nichols anywhere else with Leakey.
“The bank,” Leakey said. “To get his brother’s papers from a safety deposit box. I told him it would be best to have a witness when he did it.”
“So you went with him.”
Leakey nodded. “He didn’t seem nervous, or anything. Not like something would get him killed.”
“That was all?” I asked. “You saw him here and at the bank. Nothing seemed unusual.”
“Here and at Denver First,” Leakey agreed. “Nothing unusual.”
“Denver First.” I wanted to make sure I’d heard right. It could not be coincidence. Not when I knew that Dehlia knew the killer. Not when Dehlia was linked to that bank through David Girard.
“Sure. Three-storey, brick building. Couple streets over — where Larimer crosses E Street.”
“Obliged,” I said. I put my hat on and turned back to the door.
“Was that worth anything?” Leakey asked. “I mean, money-wise.”
“If I find out later that it was, I promise I’ll get you your half.” I tried to return his slimy, politican’s grin. The effort hurt. “You look like you know a thing or two. ’Specially about working angles that a lot of those mealy-mouthed do-gooders can’t understand.”
He shrugged pride.
“And I‘m not saying I might be on the wrong side of the law,” I continued. “You understand that. Right? I’m just asking a what-if kind of question.”
“Sure,” Leakey said with a broad wink. Were I closer, he probably would have nudged me in the ribs at the same time.
“So what I’m asking is this. Say a man — and you know it’s not me — saw some trouble headed his way, and had enough money to fight it with the best in Denver. Who would you pick as a partner to help me — I mean the man — beat any other lawyers in town?”
He didn’t think long. “Scott. Brian Scott. No one’s sharper, or more expensive.”
Leakey winked again. “Scott tends to play it too straight for my liking, but I’d be able to offer you — I mean ‘the man’ — proper kind of advice on the side, if Scott and I were working together.”
“Obliged again,” I said. I took another step, then stopped and turned once more.
“By the way.” I said it casual, but I had a feeling Leakey wouldn’t take it that way. “Those silver mines that Nichols signed away. What’d you say they were called?”
“Why are you asking?” Suspicion had clouded his face again.
“Get the papers together,” I advised. “All of them. On behalf of Helen Nichols, my lawyer will be going through them with a fine tooth comb.”
“Your lawyer?”
“Fella by the name of Scott,” I said. “Brian Scott. Maybe you’ve heard of him.”
Chapter 30
A couple of streets over barely took five minutes of walking, even with a stiffened leg.
I was impressed by the changes that had taken place in Denver. Some of the buildings were three, four stories tall. Brick or stone. Massive structures that reminded me of photographs I’d seen of New York or Boston.
People walked with purpose, the wood sidewalks filled with the hustle of men in suits and women in long dresses and carrying umbrellas they did not need. The streets, while still dirt in most places, were crowded with men on horses, and carriages of all sizes. I enjoyed the walk, mostly I think because it was so different from the memories of Denver that had held me captive since I’d left.
Along the way, I had to ask for directions once, and was pointed out the bank just ahead of me along the street.
Leakey had been correct in his description of the First Denver Bank. It was a big building. What Leakey had failed to mention, however, were the marble columns and marble steps that led up the the bank doors. Lesley Girard certainly knew how to spend the Boston family money that the Pinkerton man had mentioned.
The interior of the bank lived up to the promise of the marble columns.
Where the First National in Laramie had smooth planks — whitewashed and carefully nailed into place to serve as finished walls, the Denver First had plastered walls — gleaming white, with scrolled woodwork at the edgings of the ceiling.
Where the First National had room for a half dozen customers and as many spittoons, Denver First was a ball room, no spittoons in sight. Two, maybe three more First Nationals could have fit in the area behind the wickets.
The First National in Laramie had two wickets; this one seven. And each wicket had at least three customers in line — not many of them in old jeans, shirt and vest and dust hat like me. None, I was willing to bet, had limped into the bank because of a recent gunshot wound from an unseen and unknown sniper.
I tried to hide that limp as I walked to the nearest line.
When my turn arrived, I doffed my hat and grinned like I was Davy Crockett trying to scare a possum from a tree. “Morning, sir. Say a man had a pokeful of gold and wanted to keep it safe. Got a place you can rent in your vault?”
To his credit, he didn’t look me up and down. Maybe in Denver money wore any kind of clothing.
“
A deposit box, you mean,” the teller replied.
“Yes sir.” I leaned forward. “You don’t mind if I have a looksee first. A man can’t be too sure about hard-earned gold.”
“Not at all.” He pointed to the far end of the bank. “There’s a man in the office there. He’ll assist you.”
“Thank you kindly.” My grin was starting to hurt me.
From that office, I was assisted by a tall, thin man into a vault that dwarfed the First National’s. He explained how the deposit box system worked, informed me of the bank charges, and asked if I might care to open an account instead so that my goldpoke could gather earn interest for me.
I was tempted to ask him how much my gold would add to his fractional reserve system and to speculate on the deposit multiplier in a town this size, but I decided while he had been friendly enough, he showed little humor. I declined both the temptation and his offer, and requested an appointment with David Girard.
“Mr. Girard?” The teller’s eyebrows moved up slightly, something I gathered was an action of significance in this rarified air.
“Yes. Good ole Dave,” I said. “A few of the boys have spoke highly of him. I figure its all the whiskey he gives them up at his mansion the boys are always telling me about, but if he’s good enough to drink with them, he’s good enough for me.”
The teller didn’t hesitate. He escorted me to an easy chair outside the vault, insisted I relax and wait for a cup of coffee, and promised to do the best he could.
Five minutes later, I was in David Girard’s office.
He stood behind his desk, and shook my hand with a firm grip.
“A pleasure, Mr…”
“Keaton, Samuel Keaton.”
“Please, sit down.”
He spoke warmly, as if we’d been friends for years, and managed to do it without sounding smarmy. If I hadn’t my suspicions — mainly because of his as yet undetermined involvement with Dehlia and because of the coincidence of Bob Nichols’ involvement with Denver First — he would have impressed me favorably.
David Girard was big, broad-shouldered, trim, fit, good-looking, well-dressed, and had a smile and deep blue eyes that would have done a choirboy proud. All this on a man easily ten years my senior, who in other light than the daylight that poured in through his office window, could have easily appeared ten years my junior.
And even in the few movements he’d made since I had entered his office, he’d shown an easy confidence and the relaxed strength of a panther in its prime.
I understood how Mrs. Lesley Girard would enjoy keeping this panther on the leash of matrimony and a vice-presidency at her bank.
He spoke as soon as I sat. “Samuel Keaton,” he mused. “I apologize. The name doesn’t ring any bells. And my assistant had spoken of mutual acquaintances and mining interests.”
“I lied about both,” I said.
He smiled the tolerant smile of a benevolent ruler enjoying the harmless prank of a favored subject. “You lied well, then.”
“I’m here on marshal business,” I said. “I didn’t think you’d appreciate it if I announced it that way. Banks are built on faith, I’ve heard.”
His smile didn’t waver. “You certainly heard correctly, Mr. Keaton. And I appreciate your concern.” The smile lessened somewhat as his eyebrows furrowed. “A misplaced concern, however. Rumor can only grow on fertile soil, and nothing at the Denver First would support that growth.”
I would have believed him, but it was too difficult to forget Dehlia.
I fished in my pocket for a photo of Bob Nichols. On my walk here, I had decided to be as blunt as possible, to beat the bushes with whatever sticks at hand. I had no idea of what was happening here, and barely any idea of the players involved. I wanted to see if I could flush anything loose.
“This man,” I said, “seen him before?”
David Girard took the photo and studied it.
I, in turn, studied David’s face. And learned nothing.
After enough time to show he’d been genuine in his his efforts, Girard returned my photo.
“I’m sorry,” he said, with a rueful shake of his head and a hint of that winning grin. “Can’t recall the face.”
Girard gave me another boyish grin. “And I’m sorry to have to ask you this. But what marshal business? And by who’s authority? I want to help as much as possible, but I hope you understand that an institution with our reputation can’t afford to discuss any confidential matters — if we get to that — with just anyone. And you have, um, shown the capacity to, um, deceive…”
He’d said it so apologetically, there was no way a reasonable man could have taken offence.
“Laramie,” I told him. I wondered if he knew that Dehlia was spending time in Laramie. I wondered if he knew why she was there, something I dearly wanted to know myself. “I’m marshaling in the town of Laramie, and this man was recently murdered.”
I held open my vest and showed him the badge. “Anyone can have a badge made. And you’d be welcome to have my position confirmed by wiring to Laramie. But it appears that there’s not much left I have to ask you. Not if you haven’t seen the man before.”
Girard gave me a thoughtful nod. “Why, Marshal, are you all the way here from Laramie?”
“I wish I knew,” I said.
He smiled. “And why Denver First?”
“Nichols was in to get his brother’s papers from a safety deposit box. It was a long shot, stopping here, but the best I had.”
Another thoughtful, manly nod. “If you like, Marshal, I can show this photograph to the tellers. They might recall the face.”
I thought that through. On one hand, if he was somehow involved, I’d wanted my presence here to alarm him and force his hand. If I told him not to bother now, he might well realize that he had been my target this visit. Extra pressure.
On the other hand, if he were involved and I played this as if I had no idea of that fact, he would be less on guard around me, and I might learn something new that way.
Staring me in the face was the third possibility. That David Girard had no involvement whatsoever, and that I was making as big a fool of myself as I deserved.
What decided it for me was realizing that one of the tellers might recognize Bob Nichols from the photograph. Any scrap that a teller might remember about Nichols’ visit might be a scrap to guide me to my next step here in Denver.
“I’d like that, Mr. Girard.”
He rose again, and let me walk ahead of him out of his office.
I moved to the waiting area and that easy chair while David Girard made his discrete way from teller to teller, pulling each man aside briefly, speaking in a low voice, and with his back turned to the wickets, taking a few seconds to show the photo of Bob Nichols.
Several minutes later, David Girard approached me across the open wideness of the bank’s interior.
When he stood close enough to speak in a low voice, he looked directly into my eyes, and favored me with the frankness of a long-time friend.
“I’m sorry, Samuel,” he said. “None of them remember this man, either.”
I tipped my hat. “You’ve been more than accommodating,” I said. “Especially to a man who lied his way into your office.”
“My pleasure.” He grinned and shook my hand.
He escorted me to the main doors of the Denver First, and shook my hand again, informing me to stop by again if he could help in any way.
I thanked him again, and told him he had been as much help as possible already.
And he had.
Because when he’d walked across the open wideness of the bank’s interior to let me know the results of his question among the clerks, I had seen something that I could not have noticed when he was sitting behind his desk, and something I had not noticed as I had been walking ahead of him earlier.
His boots.
Those snakeskins again.
Chapter 31
By evening, my confusion and frustration had lessene
d not at all.
I’d shown the photos of Calhoun and Nichols to every bartender within walking distance of the Denver train station. This in itself was a considerable feat; Denver had five times as many saloons as churches.
I had not hoped much from those efforts. Yet there seemed little else to attempt. There was an off chance that Calhoun or Nichols might be remembered somewhere, and short of saloons, I could not think of any other places where menfolk gathered so publicly, especially the type of menfolk who would lead to trouble, here or in Laramie.
The results of my attempt had been as meager as my hopes, save for a renewed throbbing of my overworked leg, a throbbing that not even a large mug of beer at the last saloon could ease. I had nothing left to do.
Doc had not been able to supply me with the reason for Lorne Calhoun’s visit to Denver, giving me no tracks to pursue for his half of the double murder. For Nichols, I’d already asked around at the Broadway Hotel. Visited his lawyer. Then the bank that his lawyer had mentioned.
What I’d learned at the bank added to my confusion and frustration. Yes, chances were high that David Girard was indeed the man who had been hidden behind the wardrobe at the Pacific Union in Laramie, the same man who had stepped down from the train here in Denver.
Knowing that, however, gave me no clue as to why. All I knew about David Girard was that he’d married into money, and had a doubtful relationship as father to Dehlia.
Neither that, nor Dehlia’s presence here seemed to have connection to the deaths of two men in a bank vault in Laramie.
I did believe something in Denver had caused either or both of those deaths. I was willing to believe further that something here in Denver had led Bob Nichols to the desperation that would force him to join Calhoun in Laramie’s First National Bank vault.
But what here could have driven Bob Nichols to such a thing? And was it something linked to Lorne’s visit here?
Yet even if I could somehow puzzle the answers to those questions, nothing seemed to bring me closer to the identity of the third man in the vault, the man who had shot Nichols and Calhoun in cold blood and tried to make it appear as a shootout between the two. And was that third man the man who had shot my leg?
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