“Does he own any other places?”
“Dunno.”
“What’s his name?”
“Is that who yer lookin’ fer?” the man asked. “You a debt collector?”
“Does he gamble?”
“Some.”
“Well, I’m not looking to collect for anybody,” Clint said. “I’ll just have my beer and be on my way.”
“Eddie MacDonald.”
“What?”
“The owner,” the bartender said. “His name’s Eddie MacDonald.”
“Don’t know him,” Clint said, “but thanks.”
FOUR
There was a knock on the door of Clint’s cheap hotel room. He’d been back from the saloon for a few hours and was thinking about getting some sleep so he could check out bright and early. He’d also need to send William Pinkerton a telegram telling him the meeting had not happened. Maybe whoever it was who had contacted Pinkerton had changed their mind.
He walked to the door with his gun held behind his back. When he opened it, two men showed him badges that said they were San Francisco police.
“I’m Inspector Burns; this is Inspector Logan,” the older of the two said. “What’s your name, sir?”
“What’s this about?” Clint asked. “Are you going door to door?” He hadn’t heard any knocking on any other doors.
“No, sir,” Logan said, “we’re lookin’ for you.”
“Me? You don’t know my name, but you’re looking for me?”
“Have you been drinkin’ down the street at the Paradise Cove Saloon?”
“Is that what it’s called?” Clint asked. “I never saw a sign.”
“Apparently, it fell off,” Burns said.
“Well, yes, I’ve been having a beer there the last two or three days.”
“Why?” Burns asked.
“I was thirsty?”
“Sir, can we come in and talk?”
Clint wondered if he could let them in and get his gun holstered without them seeing.
“Can I have a minute to clean up?” Clint asked.
“That’s okay,” Burns said, moving past Clint, “we don’t mind.” Clint had to move because the older inspector was stocky. Logan, tall and thin with black hair, followed. Clint closed the door.
“Don’t get nervous,” he said. “I’m going to take my hand from behind my back.”
He brought his hand out, holding his gun.
“You always answer the door holding your gun?” Burns asked, not looking nervous at all.
“Yes, I do.”
“Where you from, sir?” Logan asked.
“Texas.”
“You a rootin’, tootin’ cowboy?” Logan asked.
“I’ve never worked cows,” Clint said. “You mind if I holster my gun?”
“Don’t mind at all,” Burns said.
Clint walked to the bedpost where the holster was hanging and returned the gun.
“I’m gonna ask you again, sir,” Burns said. “Why’d you answer the door with your gun?”
“A man can’t be too careful,” Clint said.
“You got lots of enemies?” Logan asked.
“My fair share.”
“That because you collect debts?” Burns asked.
“I don’t collect,” Clint said. “Who told you that? The bartender?”
“He might’ve mentioned it,” Logan said.
“He said you weren’t lookin’ for a girl or a game. So he thought maybe you were lookin’ for his boss.”
“Well, I wasn’t.”
“But you asked about him?” Logan said. “Earlier this evenin’?”
“I was just makin’ conversation.”
“So you weren’t interested in Eddie MacDonald?” Burns asked.
“No.”
“What were you doin’ drinkin’ there?” Logan asked.
“They have good beer.”
“Why are you stayin’ here?” Burns said. “You don’t look like you’re doin’ bad for money.”
“Yeah,” Logan said, “you can afford a better place to stay, can’t ya? And a better place to drink?”
Both inspectors were looking the room over. Burns walked over to look at the gun.
“You mind?” he asked.
“No, go ahead.”
Burns picked up the gun, looked at it, sniffed it. He looked at Logan and shook his head.
“It hasn’t been fired,” Clint said. “Who’s been killed?”
“What makes you think somebody’s been killed?” Logan asked.
“Your partner is sniffing my gun,” Clint said. “You only do that to see if it’s been fired.”
“Eddie MacDonald,” Burns said. “He was found shot to death in his office in back of the saloon.”
“Sure you didn’t know him?” Logan asked.
“Didn’t know him; never saw him,” Clint said.
Burns holstered the gun.
“You never told us your name, sir.”
“No, I didn’t,” Clint said. “It’s Clint Adams.”
Logan looked disinterested, but Burns showed visible signs of recognizing the name.
“Clint . . . Adams?” he asked.
“That’s right.”
Burns looked at the gun again, then at Clint.
“What is it?” his partner asked.
“Holy Christ!” Burns said.
FIVE
Inspectors Burns and Logan asked Clint if he would accompany them to the police station. Clint, not wanting to get on the wrong side of the law, agreed.
They had a buggy out front, which fit all three of them snugly. They assured Clint that they would drive him back when they were done.
“If he’s not in a cell,” Logan added.
“He won’t be,” Burns said.
“I don’t get it,” Logan said to his partner. “Who is this guy?”
“You ain’t up on your legends of the West, Logan?” Burns asked. “Clint Adams?”
“Yeah, he said that in his room,” Logan said. “I still don’t get it.”
“Does the name ‘the Gunsmith’ ring a bell for you?” Burns asked.
“The Gunsmith?” Logan repeated. He jerked his thumb at Clint. “You mean . . . he’s the Gunsmith?”
Burns looked at Clint.
“That’s who you are, right?”
“Right.”
Now Logan examined Clint from head to toe.
“He don’t look like no legend to me,” he said.
“Yeah, I know,” Clint said. “You thought I’d be bigger. I get that a lot.”
“It ain’t about size, kid,” Burns said.
Burns was sitting next to Clint, with Logan across from them. Logan leaned forward and lowered his voice, as if he thought Clint wouldn’t be able to hear him.
“So why are we takin’ him in if we’re not gonna put him in a cell?”
“The boss is gonna want to question him.”
“Your boss?” Clint asked. “Who would that be?”
“You wouldn’t know him,” Burns said. “Lieutenant Hargrove.”
“You’re right,” Clint said. “I don’t know him.”
“But he’s gonna know you,” Burns said. “You can bet he’s gonna know you.”
“Why’s that?”
“He’s a student of the old West,” Burns said. “Loves everythin’ about it.”
“That’s why we’re takin’ him in?” Logan asked. “You show him off to the lieutenant?”
“I told you,” Burns said, “the lieutenant is gonna want to question him.”
Logan sat back and assumed a look of disgust.
When they got to the police station, Burns and Logan took Clint inside and walked him past a front desk and down a hallway. Clint had been in police stations before, in New York, Chicago, Denver, and San Francisco. This was not new to him.
They walked him to their boss’s office. The door had the name Lieutenant David Hargrove on it. As they entered, the man behind the desk looked up. He
was in his fifties, with very broad shoulders and a barrel chest. His receding hair was plastered down with hair gel that made his black hair gleam.
“What the hell is this?” he asked. “Burns? Who is this man?”
“Someone we’re questioning about the MacDonald murder, Lieutenant.”
“So why bring him here?”
“I thought you’d like to be part of the questioning.”
“And why would I want to do that?”
“Maybe I should introduce the two of you,” Burns suggested.
“My name’s on the door, Burns,” Hargrove said. “I suspect this gentleman can read.”
“Well then,” Burns said, “I guess I should just tell you his name. Lieutenant, this is Clint Adams.”
The lieutenant hesitated, then looked Clint up and down, much the way Logan had done in the buggy.
“Adams?” the lieutenant repeated.
“Yes, sir.”
“The Gunsmith?”
“That’s right.”
Hargrove looked at Clint again.
“How do you know?” the lieutenant asked.
“Sir?”
“How do you know this man is really Clint Adams?” Hargrove asked.
“Why would he lie about his name?” Burns asked. “There’s no reason for it.”
Hargrove looked at Clint.
“You’re really the Gunsmith?”
“I really am,” Clint said.
“Can you prove it?”
“If I have to.”
“How?”
“I have some letters in my room,” Clint said. “They’re addressed to me.”
“Anything else?”
“Well, what would you like me to do?” Clint asked. “Shoot something?”
Hargrove looked at Burns.
“Does he have a gun on him?” he asked. “Did you check him for a gun?”
“He left his gun and holster in his room, sir,” Logan said.
“That doesn’t mean he’s not armed,” Hargrove said. “Search him.”
Burns turned to Clint.
“You mind?”
“Not at all.”
Clint lifted his hand. Burns searched him, came up with the New Line in his belt behind his back.
“Jesus, Burns,” the lieutenant said. “If he’s not the Gunsmith—even if he is—he could have shot any one of us.”
“Why’d you do this?” Burns asked.
“I’m not comfortable walking around unarmed,” Clint said. “I’m too big a target.”
“Let me see that,” Hargrove said.
Burns handed him the gun. The lieutenant examined it.
“Colt New Line, right?”
“That’s right,” Clint said.
“I read something—” the lieutenant started, then stopped. He put the gun down on his desk. “Have a seat, Mr. Adams, this shouldn’t take long. Inspectors, you can wait outside.”
SIX
Lieutenant Hargrove sat back in his chair and regarded Clint, who was sitting directly opposite him.
“What are you doing in San Francisco, Mr. Adams?” he asked.
“I often come to San Francisco, Lieutenant,” Clint said. “I like the city.”
“What are you doing staying and drinking in that neighborhood?”
Clint shrugged.
“Just a change.”
“Slumming?”
“I guess you could say that.”
“You’ve been there . . . how long?”
“Three days.”
“And I understand you’ve been drinking at the Paradise Cove all three days.”
“It’s walking distance from my hotel.”
“And you’ve never met the owner?”
“Never. All my conversations have been with the bartender.”
“Conversations about what?”
Clint shrugged.
“Whatever bartenders talk about.”
Answering the policeman’s questions were not hard. Clint was telling the truth. The only thing he was leaving out was the fact that he was waiting for someone to contact him.
“And you had no business with Eddie MacDonald?”
“I don’t know Eddie MacDonald,” Clint said. “Have never met him. And I’m willing to bet you don’t have anyone who can say otherwise.”
“No,” Hargrove said, “At the moment we have no witnesses who can say that you and MacDonald knew each other.”
“Or that I was even looking for him.”
“The bartender said you and he talked about Eddie.”
“I just asked who owned the saloon, out of curiosity,” Clint said. “Like I said, the things you talk to a bartender about.”
“Are you planning to stay in San Francisco for a few days more?”
“Actually, I was planning to leave tomorrow,” Clint said.
“Well, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t leave, just yet.”
“How long do you want me to stay?”
“Unfortunately,” Hargrove said, “until we find out who killed MacDonald.”
“And I’m still a suspect?”
“I know who you are, Mr. Adams,” Hargrove said. “I’ve read about you for years, and I’ve admired you. But yes, you’re still a suspect.”
“But I can go?”
“Yes,” Hargrove said, “I’ll have Burns and Logan take you back to your hotel. You’ll be staying there?”
“No,” Clint said, “I’ll probably move to a hotel near or in Portsmouth Square.”
“Now that’s where I would’ve expected to find you, Mr. Adams. All right, if you’ll just let me know what hotel you’ll be moving to, you can go.”
“I’ll send word,” Clint promised, “as soon as I get situated.”
“Fine,” Hargrove said. He stood up and offered his hand for the first time. “It was a pleasure to meet you, sir.”
Clint stood up, shook the lieutenant’s hand, and left his office.
SEVEN
The next morning Clint chose a hotel that was just off Portsmouth Square—far enough away that the action and the cost of the room were far less than what they were in the square. Yet this was miles beyond Market Street.
Clint had been coming to San Francisco for years, to stay, to gamble for a while. He knew a lot of the people who owned the saloons and halls and hotels. Most of them had since gone on to other things, some of them stayed, but he didn’t like to always take advantage of the fact that they were his friends. So sometimes he came and stayed in a hotel where nobody knew him.
He got settled in his room, got himself a bath, then went out to hit some of the gaming palaces and saloons in Portsmouth Square.
But first he had to send a telegram.
His telegram to William Pinkerton in Chicago was short and sweet. “Three days,” it said, “no contact. Sorry.”
Clint departed the telegraph office on Kearny after leaving the name of his hotel, the Diamond Palace, with the clerk in case of a reply. Eventually, he reached the Parker House, which was flanked by Samuel Dennison’s Exchange and the El Dorado Gambling Saloon, owned by James McCabe and Thomas J. A. Chambers. He decided to spend some time moving from one to the other, having a drink, gambling a bit.
He was finding, as the day went by, that he was angrier and angrier with William Pinkerton for talking him into coming here. He had not met with the person he was supposed to meet, and he was mixed up in murder.
When Inspectors Burns and Logan had driven him back to his Market Street hotel, they had talked about the murder . . .
“Apparently,” Burns had said, “somebody met with him in his office and strangled him.”
“I would think I’d be a suspect if he’d been shot,” Clint said.
“Shootin’ him would’ve made noise,” Logan said. “That saloon ain’t usually crowded, but at least the bartender would’ve heard shots. Stranglin’ was quieter.”
“Who found him?” Clint asked.
“The bartender,” Burns said. “Hadn’t seen him all d
ay, went back there after he closed up, and found him sittin’ at his desk, dead.”
“Maybe the bartender did it.”
“That’s one possibility we’re lookin’ into,” Logan said.
“And are there others?”
“There’s you,” Logan said.
“I mean, besides me.”
“Sure,” Burns said. “Eddie wasn’t a nice man. There are lots of people who might’ve wanted him dead.”
“Sounds like it might take a while to solve his murder.”
“What does it matter to you, if you didn’t do it?” Logan asked.
“Your lieutenant told me not to leave town,” Clint answered. “I think he wants me to stay around until you find the killer. Or, at least, until you clear me.”
“Yeah,” Logan said, nodding his head, “I guess that could take a long time.”
“Or not,” Burns added.
Clint figured he should be comfortable if he was going to have to stay in San Francisco indefinitely. But he also left word with the clerk of the Market Street hotel in case somebody was looking for him. And he knew he needed to send word to the police about where he was staying.
Whatever happened, whatever needed to be done, the Diamond Palace was going to be his base of operations.
He spent most of the first day in the Parker House and the Exchange. He didn’t get to the El Dorado. He’d hit that the next day.
He went back to his hotel after midnight and stopped at the desk. The well-dressed young clerk was fresh and awake.
“Can I help you, sir?”
“I need to have a message hand delivered tomorrow morning.”
“I can have that done for you. Do you have it written down?”
“Not yet.”
The clerk pushed a pad of paper and a pencil at Clint.
“Thank you,” Clint said. He wrote a note to Inspector Burns, telling him where he was staying. He purposely sent the note to the inspector, not the lieutenant. He folded it, wrote Burns’s name and the location of the police station on the back, then pushed it back to the clerk.
“There you go.”
The clerk picked it up and said, “I’ll have it delivered first thing in the morning, sir.”
“Thank you.”
Clint took out two bits but the clerk waved his hand and said, “Not necessary, sir. Just part of the Diamond Palace service.”
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