The Trailsman

by Jon Sharpe

  The woman at the desk raised a pair of skeptical blue eyes, made her decision about Fargo in less than two seconds, and said, in a voice she reserved for all human beings who barely qualified as such, ‘‘Yes, may I help you, sir?’’ Fargo imagined that it took everything she had to get the word ‘‘sir’’ pushed from between those thin lips.

  She was actually a pretty if somewhat overweight middle-aged woman. Her frilly white collar and wine-colored dress made her even more attractive. Too bad about those cold, wary blue eyes.

  ‘‘I’d like to see Mr. Holmes, please.’’

  ‘‘May I ask what this is about, sir?’’

  ‘‘It’s personal.’’

  ‘‘I see. Do you know Mr. Holmes, sir?’’

  ‘‘I don’t. But my employer does. Mr. Andrew Lund.’’

  He’d just had the only satisfaction he was going to get from this woman. That little head jerk of hers when he mentioned the name Lund. Yesterday the name Lund had meant power and obeisance. Today the name meant something else—murder and scandal. She was confused about how to react. And this was a woman who did not appreciate being confused about anything.

  ‘‘I see.’’ She seemed momentarily paralyzed.

  ‘‘So I’d appreciate it if you’d go tell Mr. Holmes I’d like to see him.’’

  The thin lips grew thinner, the eyes warier. She half whispered something Fargo didn’t quite hear. She rose, pushing her dress down at the hips, and walked back to one of two offices at the rear of the bank.

  While he waited, Fargo looked around. Dime novels were filled with the derring-do of bank robbers. Most of them were cast as villains but a few of them became heroes to some of the more cynical journalists and writers. Robin Hoods. That was how they were always portrayed. The trouble was, Fargo had never seen any evidence that they gave any of the loot to the needy. And even worse, the people they killed were common people just putting in their hours at the bank.

  The woman came only halfway back to her desk. She raised an imperious hand and summoned him to her. When he got there, she said, ‘‘He’s very busy. He can only see you for five minutes.’’

  ‘‘How about six?’’ His light tone displeased her even more than his mere presence. Not that he gave a damn. ‘‘The name’s Fargo, by the way.’’

  She led him to the door, knocked lightly with a single knuckle. A man’s voice said, ‘‘Come in.’’

  She stood aside and let Fargo go in.

  In a nervous, apprehensive way, Holmes was a dapper little man, Fargo supposed. The gray suit coat, black vest, and white shirt with the paisley cravat were stylish enough. The slightly graying hair gave him an air of maturity. But you always came back to that sense that he was uncertain, too eager to please, like a puppy begging for time with the master. Not the sort of qualities you wanted in your banker.

  Fargo closed the door behind him. Holmes pointed to a chair in front of his desk. He’d neither stood up nor offered his hand. His walls were filled with framed citations and awards, all of them meant to convince the world—and probably Holmes himself—that he really was an important man.

  ‘‘I don’t have much time.’’

  ‘‘That’s what your secretary said. My name’s Fargo.’’

  ‘‘So what can I do for you?’’ A weak man sounding brisk in order to make himself sound strong.

  ‘‘Tell me if you were in Alexis Lund’s hotel room last night.’’

  ‘‘That’s ridiculous. Why would I have been in her room last night?’’

  Another lie. Fargo was getting good at this. ‘‘Because somebody saw you sneaking up the back steps.’’

  ‘‘Then they saw somebody else because it certainly wasn’t me.’’ He sat back, steepling his fingers. Now he was going to pretend to relax, assess Fargo, and find him, as his secretary did, lacking. ‘‘You work for Andrew—isn’t that right?’’

  Fargo nodded.

  ‘‘Then it makes sense.’’

  ‘‘What makes sense?’’

  ‘‘That he’d try to make somebody else look guilty.’’

  ‘‘So you had no interest in Alexis?’’

  ‘‘Not any more interest than I have in the wives of my other friends.’’ He leaned forward. He was feeling more self-confident. ‘‘Andrew Lund is one of my best friends. I’m not saying that I didn’t find Alexis attractive, but what man didn’t? I’ll even admit to a passing crush on her a while back.

  ‘‘That would’ve been—oh, two, three years ago, I suppose. She was the belle of the ball, something new in Reliance. And I was hardly alone. When Andrew wasn’t around most of us talked about what she must be like as a lover. Again, who wouldn’t? How many times in your life—at least out here—do you see a woman who looks like Alexis?’’

  ‘‘Looked. She’s dead.’’

  ‘‘All right, looked. And I’m sorry she’s dead. Believe it or not, I got along with her very well. And before you read anything into that, what I mean to say is that she was nice enough to tell me that she considered me the most intelligent man in town. And that she enjoyed my company.’’

  Fargo would have been more impressed with the performance if the little man hadn’t developed a tic under his right eye; if his face wasn’t suddenly shiny with sweat; and if his right hand wasn’t twitching every thirty seconds or so.

  ‘‘So you weren’t in her room last night?’’

  ‘‘As I told you, that’s ridiculous.’’

  ‘‘You were home then?’’

  ‘‘I’m only answering these questions because Andrew is my friend—even if he did kill his wife. And it certainly looks as if he did.’’

  ‘‘Then you were at home last night?’’

  ‘‘Well, no. Not till later. I had other business.’’

  ‘‘Doesn’t sound like you want to tell me what it was.’’

  ‘‘Well, it wasn’t killing Alexis—that’s for sure.’’ The tic had become more pronounced. ‘‘The other business I had was here. But I don’t want anybody to know.’’

  ‘‘Why would that be a secret?’’

  ‘‘Because I suspect one of the tellers of embezzling. Not a great deal of money. But money’s money and embezzlers are embezzlers. I spent several hours here going over the books. Going over and over them, in fact. I want to make sure that I can prove my suspicions before I accuse him of anything.’’

  ‘‘And then you went straight home?’’

  Holmes pushed back in the chair and stood up. ‘‘I’ve given you more time than you deserve, Mr. Fargo. And as I say, I’m doing it only because Andrew’smy friend. On the off chance that he didn’t kill Alexis, I don’t blame him for wanting to know where his friends were. He obviously knew that we were all smitten with her at various times. He probably thinks it’s worth having us questioned. But now I need to get back to work. Good day, Mr. Fargo.’’

  Fargo bid him good day. Just before he left, he took one more look at the man. Unlikely as it seemed, Holmes being small and weak-looking, Fargo could easily imagine him stabbing Alexis Lund.

  They came for Lund a few minutes before two o’clock that afternoon.

  Accompanying Sheriff Tyndale were two of his deputies who were dispatched respectively to the side and the rear of the Lund mansion where there were exits. Tyndale, in his best blue suit, best white shirt, new white Stetson, and recently cleaned and oiled Peacemaker, approached the front door.

  The wind was still under the impression that it was March, fierce and cold, none of the soft warmth people could reasonably expect this late in April. While he waited for an answer, Tyndale noted the way the lodgepole pines were batted back and forth as if they were little more than toys. Then he turned back to the door and wondered idly what it would be like to live in a place like this. He was impatient now. He knocked again, much harder this time. And after using his hand to knock, he slid it into his pocket and withdrew the handcuffs. He decided to play a little game with Lund. See how long it took for Lund to say something about t
he cuffs. See how long it took him before he realized that he was going to be arrested.

  A lanky maid in a gray uniform and cap answered the door. She was properly shocked when she saw Tyndale standing there. She understood that the presence of a lawman at this time could not be good news for Mr. Lund. She’d been in town to the general store this morning, and already many of the people had decided that Mr. Lund had murdered his wife. Not that all of them blamed him; some even sympathized— her haughtiness had been a bitter joke to many townspeople—but still and all, whatever his reasons, he was in their eyes a murderer.

  ‘‘I’d like to see Mr. Lund.’’

  She was one of those liars who gulped a bit before she lied. Over his decades as a man who wore a badge, Tyndale had seen every kind of liar the good Lord had ever created, and he knew all the signs. This maid was among the worst. ‘‘I’m afraid he’s asleep.’’

  ‘‘At two o’clock in the afternoon?’’

  ‘‘It’s all the—excitement, Sheriff. It’s worn him out.’’

  ‘‘Well, then I’ll have to ask you to wake him up.’’

  ‘‘Oh, I couldn’t do that.’’

  ‘‘I’ll bet you could if I ordered you to.”

  ‘‘But he’s asleep,’’ she said, as if that single word should end the conversation.

  He was done with niceties. ‘‘You go in there and wake him up or I will. And I’m betting that he’d rather wake up to you than me. And tell him don’t bother to try and run. I’ve got deputies on both doors. Now do you understand what I’m telling you to do?’’

  ‘‘Why, I don’t know why you’d say a thing like that. He’s a very respectable man. And you know it.’’

  ‘‘We believe he murdered his wife. How respectable is that?’’ Tyndale was never quite sure who he meant exactly when he said ‘‘we,’’ but it sounded more imposing than a mere ‘‘I.’’

  ‘‘Well, he most certainly didn’t. You mustn’t know anything about him. He loved her to the point of—’’

  ‘‘To the point of what?’’

  She was careful with her words now. ‘‘To the point of wanting to do everything to please her.’’

  ‘‘That’s probably true. Until he found out she had a few lovers around town.’’

  The maid blushed and started to protest again. But he stopped her. ‘‘Now you go in there and wake him up—if he really is asleep, which I doubt—and bring him down here so I can talk to him. And I want this to happen pronto. Or I come in and start looking for him myself.’’

  With that he took three long steps across the threshold, standing on the parquet floor of the vestibule, facing the winding staircase. ‘‘Now you go get him, miss. And I mean right now.’’

  He gave himself a tour of the front hall. There was a churchlike hush to the place that made him uncomfortable. Of the twenty or so framed paintings, the only two that interested him depicted the West, a chuck wagon surrounded by cowboys and a pair of ponies running in a meadow. The others were of the sort he considered snooty. Then he came to the final painting, the one of Lund and his wife. The painter had idealized Lund. He appeared young, slimmer, more heroic somehow than he was in real life. Standing next to him in a long blue gown was Alexis. No need to idealize her. She was already about as beautiful as a woman could get.

  Somewhere in the recesses of the mansion he heard Lund’s voice. It was an angry voice. And it was about to get even angrier. Just a glimpse of the handcuffs would do. A man of his standing—being shown handcuffs. Let alone having to stand still while they were snapped on his wrists. The son of a bitch sold me out, Tyndale thought. Didn’t have the nerve to fire me. Tricked up the election and worked behind my back for his opponent.

  It was going to be a real pleasure to put these handcuffs on Lund. A real pleasure.

  One minute passed. Two minutes. A silence. In a structure with such high ceilings and ornate walls, silence seemed to have echoes. No voices. No doors opening or closing. No footsteps.

  What the hell was he up to?

  ‘‘Lund! You’d better give yourself up!’’

  Echo upon echo.

  ‘‘Lund! Did you hear me?’’

  Still, the strange silence.

  ‘‘Lund!’’

  But he knew that shouting was useless. Lund was hiding, taunting him.

  Straight ahead, the endless marble floor gleaming, lay rooms and alcoves where a man could easily hide. The servant hadn’t climbed the stairs. And Lund’s voice had seemed to come from the main floor. So it seemed logical to start with this museumlike hall with its paintings and statuary.

  Tyndale smiled to himself when he saw the naked woman. Breasts and nipples plain to see, crotch discreetly covered with a delicate hand. In town a statue like this would incite a riot. Church ladies so old and infirm they could scarcely crawl, let alone walk, would use all their strength to take their walking sticks and smash this brazen pagan statue to jagged pieces.

  Alexis would have defended this in terms of ‘‘art.’’ Lund himself didn’t know any more about art than Tyndale did. Alexis’ influence. She had completely taken over the man, though Tyndale had to admit that if you had to be taken over, you might as well let it be in the arms of somebody as elegant and erotic as Alexis.

  More echoes, this time of his own boots as he began to slowly work his way down the hall, his Peacemaker leading the way. The sweat came first and then the acid in his stomach. This wasn’t his kind of situation. He was used to direct confrontation, not hide-and-seek.

  A sound.

  That was all the information his ears sent to his brain. Undifferentiated sound. Some vague resonance. It might even have come from outside.

  The sound had stopped him momentarily but now he continued his way down the hall. Eyes and Peacemaker shifting side to side as he approached each door, each shallow alcove that enshrined more fancy pieces of sculpture.

  The doors presented the most danger. He flung them inward, then stood aside in case Lund had decided to shoot him. So far he’d checked five doors. The rooms, each one furnished in a fashion that looked pretentious to Tyndale, showed no signs of Lund. But flinging back each door raised the acid level in Tyndale’s stomach. The acid now burned his throat. He was going to make the son of a bitch pay for this when he finally caught him.

  The door he approached now had a handle different from the others, an elaborate lengthwise piece in the shape of a wolf’s head. Cast in gold, of course.

  He had a bad feeling about the room that lay on the other side of this door. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was nothing more than an accumulation of his bad nerves and the searing pain of the stomach acid.

  He paused, took a deep breath that he hoped would steady him. He’d find out soon enough if this was the door Lund was hiding behind.

  Not until it was far too late did he become aware of a presence behind him. In a terrible second he understood two things—that Lund had been hiding in one of the rooms and that he had somehow missed finding him. And that Lund was behind him now.

  As he turned, Lund dove at him with such force that Tyndale felt the Peacemaker slip from his hand. Lund rode him to the marble floor, the way he would ride a calf he was roping. Before Tyndale had a chance to even protect himself, Lund had smashed him in the head five times with one of his huge fists. Between blows Tyndale saw Lund’s face. He looked insane, the eyes wild, spittle flying from the lips. He was muttering, too, curses that sounded more aggrieved than angry somehow. Insane, for sure.

  Tyndale gathered himself and began to push Lund off him. But Lund swung a wild punch at Tyndale’s face that managed to connect squarely on the lawman’s jaw. Tyndale hadn’t been knocked out in many years. But Lund had put him away long enough to disappear.

  12

  Two afternoons a week Serena Lund worked with the poor at Haven House, a shelter run by three nuns. Serena hadn’t wanted to even get close to a job like this but her father had insisted she do it for the sake of his standing in the community
. So she’d reluctantly showed up one morning six months ago to the great amusement of the sisters who worked in the four-room adobe building that the local gentry had built. They didn’t often get volunteers who pulled up in expensive surreys. Nor did many of their volunteers wear clothes—costumes, really—that would have attracted attention even in Chicago or St. Louis for being costly.

  Their amusement extended to watching Serena have to deal with shabbily clothed, unwashed, uneducated, and very needy men and women whose dreams and lives had gone bust when their gold prospecting had failed them. Her first afternoons at Haven House, Serena had been afraid to touch any of them. She dished their soup, she passed out their donated used clothing, she handed over the few greenbacks the nuns had been able to winnow from the wealthy—all without having any physical contact. She had turned up her very pretty nose at smells, sneezes, coughs, and other, ruder noises. She was in hell and she wasn’t even dead yet.

  But one afternoon the six-year-old daughter of a dead miner appeared and for the first time in her life Serena—Serena the spoiled brat—felt what mothers felt. She wanted to protect the little girl against a savage world. She became Serena’s ward. In the four weeks it took for the mother to travel from Missouri to pick up the girl, Serena took her to a doctor, a dentist, a clothing store, a book store, a gift shop, and a bank. She arranged for the girl to have a trust fund of three thousand dollars. No one could touch it but the girl, and the girl could touch it only when she turned seventeen. The mother, who had been in St. Louis recovering from tuberculosis, barely recognized her daughter when she saw her.

  From then on Serena Lund became the best volunteer Haven House had ever had.

  She gently took the man’s slender hand and turned it over so that she could see the underside of his wrist. His name was Con McKenzie and he’d left a wife and three children in Ohio a year ago to search for gold out here. Two nights ago they’d found him drunk and nearly dead in an alley.

  ‘‘How’re you feeling today, Con?’’

  He was a middle-aged man with the face of a sad hound. After a night spent in the doctor’s office where it was assumed he would die, the nuns had brought him fresh clothes and told him he could stay in Haven until he was ready to go back to Ohio and face his family.