The Floating Outfit 34

by J. T. Edson

  ‘Neatly done, Miss Boyd!’ Darren enthused, as the lock clicked and Belle eased open the door.

  ‘Thank you,’ the girl answered, stepping into the gloomy building.

  ‘The boxes are across this way,’ Darren advised, opening the front of his lantern as he followed Belle inside. ‘I’ll—’

  ‘Let me lock the door first!’ Belle ordered, closing it hurriedly. ‘Somebody just might happen by and try the handle.’

  Instead of debating the matter, as would have happened earlier in their acquaintance, Darren yielded to greater experience. Still grasping the Webley in his right hand, he waited until Belle had relocked the door. Then they crossed the room to the consignment.

  ‘There’s no hope of opening these,’ Belle commented, indicating the firmly nailed lids of the rifles’ and ammunition’s boxes. She took hold of an oblong box’s rope carrying-handle and lifted to test the weight. ‘But they seem to be all right.’

  ‘Why shouldn’t they be?’ Darren demanded.

  ‘No reason at all,’ Belle answered, although she could think of at least one very good reason. ‘Can you put the light on the bales, please?’

  ‘There’s no doubting what’s in them,’ the young man replied, doing as she had requested. He illuminated one of the bales. ‘This has uniforms in it. There’s a tear in the covering and you can see the buttons on a jacket. If you feel at the next, you can make out the shape of boots. The one with the hats has a rip in it, too. Not a big one, but it lets you see some of the brims. They’re tucked one into another, you know.’

  ‘Huh huh!’ Belle grunted, bending closer to scrutinize the tear and the brass military buttons on a dark blue background. From them, she made a close study of the bale’s edges.

  ‘All of them have been opened and stitched again,’ Darren informed her. ‘The two men would have had that done so they could examine the contents before making the purchase.’

  ‘Yes,’ Belle agreed. ‘Shall we go?’

  ‘We may as well,’ Darren affirmed, but his attitude stated that he believed they should never have bothered coming. ‘What did you expect to find?’

  ‘Not a thing,’ Belle sighed and returned towards the door through which they had made their entrance. ‘Kill that light!’

  ‘Wha—?’ Darren began, but obeyed. ‘What is it?’

  Aware of the necessity for unceasing alertness when on such a mission, Belle had constantly darted glances at the building’s various windows. So she had observed a light through the one nearest to the left hand door. People were approaching, one of them carrying a lantern. Faintly, the sound of the words still inaudible, voices reached the intruders’ ears. However, Belle did not notice any change in the timbre to suggest that they had seen the faint glow from Darren’s bull’s-eye lantern.

  ‘What’re we going to do?’ Darren hissed and Belle could sense that his gun hand was quivering with eagerness.

  ‘Stand one on each side of the door and wait,’ Belle replied. ‘If they come in, we’ll jump them. Don’t speak, crack your man on the head with your gun.’

  ‘No shooting?’ Darren whispered.

  ‘Only if there’s no other way of doing it,’ Belle replied. ‘There’re only two of them, but others might be close by.’

  ‘Or they could just be passing on their way home,’ Darren sniffed.

  Once again, the young man proved to be a poor judge of a situation. Nearer came the two men and their voices preceded them. By now, Belle and Darren could hear what was being said.

  ‘What do you reckon come off at the theater, Mick?’ one of the pair was saying in a deep, local accent.

  ‘Sure and Gaylorne must’ve been riling that swish 10 again,’ replied the other. He at least sounded Irish. ‘Opal never took to it. Maybe they had a fight, the lamp got knocked over and they shot each other.’

  ‘Opal wouldn’t’ve dared start anything,’ the first man protested.

  ‘Some of those swishes can get mean, you rile them enough,’ Mick insisted. ‘Way his body looked when they got the fire out, we’ll never know if I’m right.’

  ‘The Frenchman wasn’t any too pleased about it. I’m not sorry he’ll be going down the river tomorrow. He’s a bad bastard when anything crosses him.’

  ‘He got crossed tonight,’ Mick commented. ‘That fire ruined his meeting.’

  ‘You sound as if that pleases you.’

  ‘It does, Andy-darlin’. We’re not ready for anything as open as that yet.’

  ‘I dunno,’ Andy replied, halting at the door. ‘It wasn’t going to be like it will in Shreveport.’

  ‘What’ll happen there?’ Mick inquired. ‘Hey! What’re you doing?’

  ‘Like Molloy said. Going in to make sure everything’s all right.’

  ‘Why bother? That damned knobhead at the hotel couldn’t’ve gotten in. He only made it last time because we left the door in the hayloft unlocked. Anyway, if he gets in, there’s nothing for him to see.’

  ‘Nothing he hasn’t already seen,’ Andy admitted. ‘You know, Mick, there’s a feller who’s lucky to be alive. When the Frenchman heard he was following the stuff, his first thought was to kill the bastard, as painfully as possible. He’d have done it, too, but for Gaylorne saying we could make use of such a stupid son-of-a-bitch.’

  Standing in the darkness, Belle could hear Darren breathing more quickly. Clearly he knew that he was the ‘stupid son-of-a-bitch’ in question. Maybe he was even aware that, in range country parlance, a ‘knobhead’ was an exceptionally stupid, worthless mule. Certainly he must be boiling with rage and mortification at having his faults discussed in such detail. Belle hoped that he would control his temper and not disclose their position prematurely.

  There was a faint scrabbling sound close to Belle’s hand, then the lock clicked.

  Crouching slightly in the stygian blackness, Belle prepared to launch a devastatingly effective savate attack upon one of the men as they entered. She hoped that she could rely on Darren to deal with the other. Easing back silently, she avoided being caught in the pool of light which followed the opening of the door.

  ‘Aw, the hell with it, Andy,’ Mick said, before either of them had stepped inside. ‘Why bother? He couldn’t get in and won’t, anyway, after Gaylorne’s told him we’re moving the shipment this Saturday. I see more than enough of this place during the day, without going in on my own time.’

  ‘And me,’ Andy admitted, reversing the direction in which the door was moving. ‘Let’s go have a drink, then head back and say everything’s fine. Hey though! I wonder who’ll get to go now Gaylorne’s dead?’

  ‘So do I,’ Mick agreed, while Andy locked the door and removed the key. ‘If they was to ask for volunteers, ’tis myself who’d offer. I’d fancy a trip down to New Orleans.’

  ‘So would I,’ Andy drawled. ‘Even if I did have to finish it riding in Tully Bascoll’s boat. Come on. I’ll let you buy me a drink.’

  ‘Sure, and ’tis kindness itself you are to me, sir,’ Mick replied. ‘And I’m thinking it’s not the likes of us who’ll be getting that ride on the Prairie Belle.’

  ‘I’m with you on that,’ Andy was saying as they strolled away. ‘But it’d sure be a sight to see, when it happens.’

  Whatever Mick replied was lost as distance killed the sound of their voices.

  Nine – You Lousy Traitor

  Twirling her parasol jauntily, as it rested on her left shoulder, Belle Boyd strolled along the wooden dock towards the Prairie Belle. It was Friday afternoon and she was going to renew an acquaintance with an old and trusted friend. She was no longer the ‘Miss Winslow’, who had a stateroom on the Elegant Lady and patronized the expensive Traveler’s Hotel. In fact, a lady of ‘Miss Winslow’s’ class would probably have drawn aside rather than come into contact with a girl such as Belle appeared to be.

  After Andy and Mick had taken their departure from Molloy’s warehouse, Belle had faced the task of restoring at least a part of Darren’s shattered confiden
ce. Using tact, a little flattery and some good, sound common sense, she had convinced him that things were not so bad as they appeared. While he had made a few mistakes, Belle had insisted that he could redeem himself if he tried. Such had been her powers of persuasion that she had dragged him from the morass of self-criticism into which he was sinking.

  Satisfied that, with Belle’s guidance, he could make good, Darren had given her some interesting information. Clearly the organization had wondered if he might have been responsible for the incident at the Bijou Theater. That had been proven by the fact that they had checked up on him. Although Darren had neglected to mention it earlier, he had had a visitor before Belle had arrived. Dressed in the manner of a professional gambler, the man had claimed he was looking for a high-stake poker game and had come to the wrong address. Fortunately, Darren had been in the process of changing his clothes. So he had answered the door in his stocking-feet, gray trousers, no jacket and a collarless white shirt.

  Not only had Darren given Belle a good description of his visitor, but—on meeting her at Stenhouse’s hotel suite the following morning—had presented her with a sketch of the ‘gambler’s’ face.

  On hearing of Belle’s single-handed visit to the Bijou Theater, Stenhouse had grudgingly admitted that she had acted in the only way possible under the circumstances. He had been less in favor of the Mephisto aspect of the affair. However, he had finally stated that Belle had been correct in her decisions. Promising that he would arrange delivery for the anonymous information, and try to learn from the police of any further developments, he had hinted that that side of their business was closed.

  Referring to the meeting which Belle had heard her captors discussing, Stenhouse had claimed that it was unlikely to have taken place. Nor, in his opinion, would it have been of any great significance. Probably, he had said, it was no more than a means of raising funds to finance the proposed rebellion. Having no evidence to the contrary, Belle had been inclined to agree with Stenhouse.

  There had been a variance of opinion regarding O’Reilly’s motives in informing Darren of the shipment’s departure. Taking the obvious line, Stenhouse had declared that it would be removed secretly before Saturday. Showing more imagination than previously, Darren had suggested that the organization—having discovered that they were under surveillance by the Secret Service—might be willing to sacrifice the consignment. In doing so, they could be hoping to divert attention from other supplies already in transit or awaiting shipment.

  Remembering the conversation which she had overheard at the warehouse, Belle had proposed that O’Reilly had been lying about the means of removal and destination. Perhaps the consignment would be placed on board the Prairie Belle, but unloaded at some point before New Orleans. After which, it would be transferred to some other, unsuspected boat to complete the delivery.

  Realizing the futility of continuing to debate the probabilities, they had turned to deciding what action they should take. For once, Belle had found herself in complete agreement with Stenhouse. There was insufficient evidence to arrest Molloy and his employees. Nor would anything of importance be gained by having the consignment confiscated. The organization would only obtain more arms and continue their operations. To prevent this, they must lay hands on the leaders and organizers. With that in mind, Stenhouse had ruled that the shipment must be allowed to depart. Then Belle and Darren could follow it and, it was hoped, bring about the desired result.

  They had also decided that Darren should, in fact must, continue with his established routine and behave as if he was unaware of O’Reilly’s death. So he would have to avoid displaying any interest, or surprise, over his ‘informer’s’ non-appearance until Friday at the earliest.

  With the possibility of the shipment being moved before Saturday, it had been considered advisable that Belle should move into a vacant room at Darren’s hotel. She would then be able to help him maintain a constant watch on the warehouse. That had meant she was compelled to purchase suitable clothing to let her blend into the neighborhood.

  Before concluding the meeting, they had examined the coverage given in Thursday’s copy of the Memphis Clarion to the previous night’s fire at the Bijou Theater. There had been a brief sketch of Opal’s career; the kind of thing he would probably have given to a reporter on his arrival. Mention had been made of the disappointment experienced by the Confederate veterans, who should have been his guests at the free performance he had arranged for them.

  Captain O’Shea of the Memphis Police Department had personally assumed control of the investigation. He had deduced that Opal had been attacked by an unknown man. During the struggle, the lamp in the dressing room had been broken and set on fire. Although the juggler had followed his assailant and killed the man, he had returned to the blazing room—presumably to save his property—and had been overcome by the smoke. The charred condition of Opal’s body, when it had been recovered, had precluded any hope of discovering if he had suffered injuries which had contributed to his death.

  There had then followed a comment which might have given Belle a clue if she had been in possession of other facts. Discussing motives for the ‘mystery man’s’ attack on Opal, O’Shea had ‘not ruled out the possibility of a pro-Union fanatic resenting the juggler giving a free performance to entertain ex-members of the Confederate States’ Navy and Army’.

  Having been working west of the Mississippi River for some months, the girl had lost touch with conditions in the Southern States. While Stenhouse might have enlightened her, he had failed to do so. In fact, when she had remarked upon O’Shea’s statement, he had dismissed it as ill advised but unimportant and had said pointedly that it was inadvisable to leave the warehouse unobserved for too great a length of time.

  Taking the hint, Belle and Darren had left to continue their duties. The day and night had passed uneventfully and Friday morning had disclosed that the boxes were still in the warehouse. At noon, while Belle kept a watch from her room, Darren had visited the saloon in which he had made O’Reilly’s acquaintance. He had been told by a man—who he had suspected was ‘Mick’, from the night visit to the consignment—that O’Reilly was ill and would not be back at work until Monday morning.

  So, as there had been no further developments, Belle had decided to visit the Prairie Belle. Unless there had been a drastic change in the crew, she hoped to discover whether or not the consignment would be traveling on the boat.

  To conceal her hair, and avoid having to use the inappropriate wig, she wore a cheap white ‘spoon bonnet’, which covered her head and looked vaguely like the rear canopy on a Conestoga ‘prairie schooner’ wagon. Although old-fashioned, it was in keeping with her appearance of being a ‘lady of easy virtue’. So was the form-hugging, sleeveless white blouse’s extreme décolleté, the cheap, flashy jewelry she sported and the tight, glossy purple skirt which emphasized the contours of her hips.

  Passing amongst the inevitable crowd of loafers on the dock, Belle felt sure that she was creating the desired impression. Nor, unless the man she had come to meet had changed his ways considerably, would her visit appear to be out of the ordinary.

  Having come in at noon, the Prairie Belle was a hive of industry. The passengers had disembarked, but at the bows a steady stream of Negro roustabouts trotted along the stage planks carrying cargo or returning for further loads. They were urged on by a bull-voiced, burly white mate who exhorted, praised, insulted but never really abused them. In fact, one formed the impression that the roustabouts were enjoying his efforts as much as the listening onlookers. That figured, for the Prairie Belle had always had the reputation of being a happy ship.

  Reaching the front of the crowd, twirling her parasol and swinging a cheap vanity bag from her other wrist, Belle saw a familiar face. A tall, well-built, good-looking young Negro, better dressed than the roustabouts, stood watching them work with the air of one who had already completed his daily grind.

  ‘Hi there, Willie,’ Belle greeted, approachin
g the Negro and hoping that he would not betray her identity. ‘Where’d I find Mr. Bludso?’

  Before the Negro could reply, Belle sensed that somebody had moved to her side. A hand caught hold of her arm in a firm, hard grip.

  ‘Now what’d a pretty gal like you want with the likes of Jim Bludso?’ demanded a hard, tough, but—Belle noticed gratefully—male voice.

  Turning her head, the girl looked into a surly, bristle-covered face under a peaked dark blue hat. Her accoster was a big, thickset man, wearing a blue civilian uniform coat, black trousers and heavy Wellington leg boots. His appearance matched his voice, hard and tough. From his right wrist dangled a length of stout knotted rope, like the ‘starter’ once used as a means of inflicting punishment by petty officers aboard ships.

  ‘That’s my business, bucko,’ Belle answered, sounding as coarse as she looked. ‘So get your cotton-picking hands off me.’

  ‘I’d do it, was I you, Cap’n Bascoll,’ the Negro advised politely.

  ‘Who the hell asked you to bill in, shine-boy?’ Bascoll demanded, still holding Belle’s arm. ‘On the Stream Queen, we keeps the blacks in their place. Don’t we, Mr. Tyrone?’

  The man to whom the words had been directed moved forward. Big, burly, he had a typically Irish cast of features. Dressed in a similar, if cheaper, manner to Bascoll, he had a heavy riding quirt grasped in his right fist.

  ‘That we do, Cap’n,’ Tyrone confirmed. ‘Same as should be done on the Prairie Belle.’

  ‘I ain’t looking for fuss with you gentlemen,’ Willie said quietly, glancing from the Stream Queen’s captain to its mate.

  ‘You ain’t knowing your place, either,’ Tyrone warned, hefting his quirt and striding forward. ‘But we know how to treat uppy blacks on the Stream Queen.’

  Watching Willie clench his fists, Belle prepared to help him. To do so might draw unwanted attention her way, but she had no intention of allowing him to be assaulted on her behalf. The question was, how to do it without attracting too much notice by virtue of her fighting abilities. Luckily, a ‘lady of easy virtue’ could be expected to know a few defensive and offensive tricks.