The Floating Outfit 18

by J. T. Edson

  While speaking, the fence began to scoop up as much of the larger pile as he could hold in his two cupped hands. Crossing to and deftly opening the lid of the stove with his foot, he tossed the jewelry inside. Remembering what had happened on previous occasions when he had behaved in such a fashion, he had expected some response from the woman at his desk. Yet he heard nothing. What was more, on turning around, he could see no indication on her face or in her attitude to suggest she was alarmed, or even surprised, by what he had done. Rather, her face had a cold and grim expression that did not change as he walked across to gather up the remainder of the pile.

  “Don’t try to pull that old game on me” Libby commanded in the most harsh and menacing tone she could produce. “It’s just about the most ancient fence’s trick in history. I know a few minutes in a slow coal fire doesn’t harm good stones like they all are in the least, and, as you’ll have them taken out of their settings then melt down the gold from them, it won’t be too damaged to be salable.”

  “Is that so,” Lachlan said quietly, and dropped his right arm to his side. “Don’t try anything rash, Mrs. Katy Smith. This room is soundproof, except for in the office next door, and I can rely upon Beagle’s discretion and assistance in anything I need doing.”

  “Mine’s bigger than yours!” the reddish-brunette warned, bringing her right hand into view from the muff for the first time. “And, if I need it, I can kill you, then do the same to that man of yours when he comes in here.”

  Even as the fence was pressing the inside of his forearm against his jacket to cause the spring-loaded mechanism of the device resembling the card hold-out employed by some gamblers to activate and put the Remington Double Derringer it held out of his sleeve, he discovered its presence had either been detected or suspected by his visitor. On making the comment, she had produced a pearl-handled and fancily decorated nickel-plated Smith & Wesson No. 3 American revolver with a six-inch-long barrel and was pointing its muzzle—which seemed much larger than its .44-caliber to him under the circumstances—in a disconcertingly steady fashion directly at the center of his chest. Although the double-action mechanism precluded the need, the hammer was drawn back as an aid to even more rapid discharge, with a reduction in the chance that the lesser trigger pressure required would have an adverse effect upon the aim.

  Although neither of the office’s occupants realized it, the weapon could have supplied a clue to Libby’s true identity. It was one of the matched pair she had had converted, including having the rifling grooves of the barrels removed to allow her to use shot instead of a single solid bullet, for use when she was being “Daring Donna, Trick Shot Extraordinaire,” at the circus. However, the hold-out never having failed to produce the desired effect before, Lachlan was so disconcerted to find that his own—as he had believed unsuspected—weapon was countered before it could even be aligned to pay that much attention to the one with which he was being covered.

  “Not that you can count on that runt in there,” Libby continued, after giving a piercing whistle without allowing her gun to waver away from its aiming point. It was followed immediately by a yelp of alarm from Beagle and a quick scuffling sound. “I’ve a man with him who’s big and strong enough to break him and you in half if I give the word. So put that stingy gun on the desk and go fetch the jewelry out of the stove. When that’s done, we’re going to talk real business without any more arseholing around, and you might as well get it into your head right now that I know for sure how much they’re worth at fence’s prices. So don’t try to offer me a thin dime less after what you tried to pull.”

  “Do you know something, Mrs. Katy Smith?” Lachlan said after the deal was concluded and a sum that met with his visitor’s satisfaction had disappeared into her bulky bag. He had had time to think while doing so and draw the previously unnoticed conclusion from her physical appearance and the weapon she handled with competent skill. “I can use somebody with your talents if you are what I feel sure you’d have to be, the way you took the Grand Republic.”

  “And what do you feel sure I am?” the reddish-brunette inquired, halting instead of carrying out her intention to leave now that the deal was concluded in a way she desired.

  “One of the people from the circus that’s in town,” the fence replied. “And so are the rest of your gang. You’re leaving for the West in three days, aren’t you?”

  “We are,” Libby admitted, neither confirming nor denying the supposition.

  “By train?”

  “Yes, we’re having a special for the whole show.”

  “Do you and your gang have to travel with it?”

  “We’re not forced to. Why?”

  “Because if you go by the main westbound two days from now instead,” Lachlan said with a quiet, serious demeanor that was impressive, “I can put you in the way of making some money that will be far more than you’ve just taken from me.”

  Six – Bad Luck, Countess

  “We all liked what you did to Frenchie,” a perky-faced and dainty hotel maid with an attractive Southern accent told Belle Boyd as they met on the stairs leading to the second floor of the Grand Republic Hotel as she was making for her suite. “He’s been asking for it for a long time, him and his wandering hands.”

  “And I won’t miss with the kick if he tries anything like it again,” the Rebel Spy stated with a smile. “You can tell him that from me if you’re so minded.”

  “That’s real good of you-all, and I’ll do it first time I see him!” the Southern maid enthused, then looked harder at Belle and went on. “Hey, I don’t remember seeing you around here before—what did you say your name is?”

  On her return from visiting Albert Higgins, without taking the time to change from the disguise she had adopted for doing so, the Rebel Spy had reported to General Philo Handiman what she had learned. He had said he would pass on what she told him, without of course disclosing the source from which it came, to the detective lieutenant of the Washington, D.C., Police Department assigned to the case. He had been successful in fending off suggestions from the Bureau of Foreign Affairs—passed to him through the usual channels employed to prevent his more important capacity from becoming too widely known—that his organization should take over the investigation of the crime, despite its already being in the hands of the civic authorities, as a means of assuaging possible complaints from the Russian government over what had happened to one of its extremely wealthy nationals while visiting the United States.

  After commenting that she was pleased that her superior had been able to prevent their department from being given extra work, on learning that Horatio A. Darren had not checked in from searching for the safe-deposit box to which the number of the key she had obtained belonged, Belle had said she would resume being “Betty Hardin,” then go and try to help locate it. However, arriving at the Grand Republic Hotel, she was still attired in a manner that would not allow her to go to the second floor in the elevator. Taking the servants’ stairs, she had met the Southern maid and a question she had hoped to avoid was directed at her.

  “I only got here this morning,” the Rebel Spy lied, having said her name was “Daisy” and being told to call the young woman she was addressing “Dixie.”

  “The agency sent me to work for Miss Hardin, and she told me to do an errand for her.”

  “What’s she like to work for, Daisy?” the hotel maid inquired, as she would to any other servant she met.

  “I think she’s the nicest lady I’ve ever took on with,” Belle claimed without hesitation, and although she spoke so as to be able to tell Darren about how highly she regarded her alter ego later, the words paid an immediate dividend. “I don’t think she’s ever had a maid afore and, well, you know how it is working for one like that.”

  “I do, and you’re lucky!” the genuine maid declared vehemently. “The Old Hag put me in for that foreign Countess or whatever she is. You know, I shouldn’t say this with her dead ’n’ all, but I bet that li’l ole Froggie g
al Michele as was murdered last night would think she’d had a merciful release getting away from Her high-toned High-Up-Iness.”

  “She’s a bit of a slave driver, then, huh?” the Rebel Spy inquired, considering a comment of that sort would be expected from her.

  “A bit’s only halfway there, Daisy, if that close,” Dixie answered. “She’s had me on the go ever since I got to her, and nothing’s ever done right enough for her. I bet she’ll say it’s my fault if the cab she said for me to have the doorman get waiting for her in three-quarters of an hour’s not there right on time.”

  “Then I’d best let you get to doing it,” Belle asserted. “And I want to let Miss Hardin know I’m back.”

  Parting from Dixie with a promise that they would try to get together for a night out later, the Rebel Spy hurried to her suite. Once there, she swiftly removed the attire suitable for a maid and, retaining the black blouse, riding breeches, and boots she had on instead of conventional underwear, she selected a specially adapted outfit she felt sure Countess Olga Simonouski had not seen “Betty Hardin” wearing. With the garments on, she added an elegantly coiffured wig of a red color suggestive of having been acquired through the use of henna and a style different from the blond one in which her alter ego always appeared.

  Keeping her eye on the wall clock, she next applied makeup to her face in a way that implied doing so was not a usual event. Satisfied with the difference she created, feeling thankful—and not for the first time—for having received an assignment allowing her to bring along a variety of items with which to alter her appearance, Belle collected a small and garishly embroidered reticule and a dainty-looking tightly rolled parasol that clashed with the rest of her costume.

  With everything ready, including a sum of money that she hoped would prove sufficient for her needs in the reticule, the Rebel Spy went to open the front door of the suite just wide enough to let her keep an unnoticeable watch on the passage from the gap. Her wait was not protracted to any great extent. Having been transferred to fresh accommodation, fortunately still on the same floor, the Countess emerged from it and walked in the direction of the elevator. On reaching it, she glanced around as the Rebel Spy came out of the suite and turned her way.

  “Well, ‘bye now, you-all, Betty honey!” Belle called in a strident voice to which she contrived to apply the accent of a Texan with less education and upbringing than the girl she was supposedly addressing. “I’m dashing off to spend some of that lovely money pappy gets for his cattle on buying up a whole swatch of fancy jewelry like your’n to go with these high-toned duds I’ve got on.”

  Entering the elevator before its attendant could close the doors, Belle had behaved as she felt was correct for the kind of person she was portraying by trying to engage the Countess in conversation. Watching carefully, she could detect no suggestion that the Russian woman had pierced her disguise and derived not a little satisfaction over the way in which her attempts to be “friendly” were received. Failing to have an opportunity to do more than inject a grudging “yes” or “no” into the flow of comments about life in such “a big and fancy city,” the Countess was obviously relieved when they reached the ground floor and she could emerge to hurry through the main entrance. On reaching the sidewalk, she discovered that—having come to be aware of her impatience and bad temper when things went wrong—the doorman had a cabriolet waiting. Helping her inside, knowing better than to expect the gratuity most people availing themselves of the service presented, he stood back with a less-than-amiable expression on his rugged face.

  “Hey, mister!” Belle said, coming from the hotel as the vehicle carrying the Russian woman was moving off.

  “Yes, ma’am?” the doorman queried, noticing that the “redhead” had taken a five-dollar bill from her reticule and held it forward.

  “Get me one of them fancy buggies real fast!” the Rebel Spy instructed, deciding against saying “pronto”—although it would have been in keeping with the persona she was creating—because it might not be understood. “That painted foreign hussy’s been making sheep’s eyes at my wealthy pappy and’s headed to meet up with him now. I’m a-headed after her to make good ’n’ sure she don’t try to have her wicked ways with him.”

  One problem that Belle had envisaged about leaving the hotel looking as she did had failed to materialize. Although she had noticed the desk clerk and one of the house detectives glancing at her in the way they did everybody who went by, they had decided she was there on justifiable grounds—probably to meet a guest—and made no attempt to stop her for questioning. Nor did the doorman offer to make any inquiries. Instead, having deftly pocketed the bill—a larger sum than usually came his way so early in the day and for so simple a service—he had signaled to another cabriolet before the explanation was concluded. Climbing aboard and repeating her reason for what she wanted to do, along with the promise of a sizable tip if successful in keeping the other “buggy” in view without its occupant knowing, she was carried off at a reasonable pace.

  While traveling along and watching her request being carried out to her satisfaction, the Rebel Spy thought impishly of what whoever in the department of the Secret Service that monitored all aspects of its expenditure was checking the list of expenses she had incurred would say when he reached the item “Riding in cabriolet—” and the sum she intended to hand over at the successful conclusion of the journey. It was more than the mere cost of hiring the vehicle would warrant, and the bureaucrats without whom no government organization was permitted to function were noted for having a penny-pinching outlook that would have shamed the stereotype the supposedly parsimonious Scot pretended to be.

  After traveling for a short time, Belle found that the cabriolet was brought to a stop. Looking a short distance ahead, she discovered that the vehicle they had followed was halted in front of the First National Bank and its occupant was descending. Directing a knowing wink her way, the driver informed her that he reckoned she would not want to be too close in case the “foreign woman” should notice her and avoid going to the rendezvous with “her pappy.” Agreeing that the suggestion was correct, she handed the man ten dollars to ensure the bureaucrats had something to complain about when they heard of this. Just as surely, General Handiman would insist the full amount she claimed be refunded, even though he would probably chide her in an amused fashion over her extravagance.

  While moving forward, noticing that the cabriolet did not move away after the Countess emerged, Belle was ready to pretend to be looking into whichever window she was passing if the other should glance her way. Then the Rebel Spy saw a young man dressed after the fashion of a junior teller or something similar in the area coming from the bank. As he was approaching the Russian woman, having stiffened and paused for a moment as if receiving a surprise, he swept off his derby hat in a gesture closer to shielding his bespectacled face than merely doffing it to her. Nor, Belle realized when the Countess had gone by and the hat was replaced, was the impression she had formed regarding the gesture incorrect.

  “Why howdy, you-all,” the Rebel Spy said after advancing until close enough for the words to reach the ears of the man. “I just bet you’re a real good friend of my good friend, Betty Hardin.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned!” Horatio A. Darren exclaimed, staring at Belle.

  “I don’t doubt that in the least,” the Rebel Spy replied in her normal voice. “If it’s not an answer improper for a li’l ole Southron gal like me to hear, what brings you here?”

  “The same as you, most likely,” the male Secret Service agent answered. “Trying to find a safe-deposit box with the number you gave us.”

  “And you think it could be in there?” Belle asked in tones that implied she considered the contingency remote and noted the lens of the spectacles were made of plain glass.

  “I don’t just think,” Darren asserted. “I know it is!”

  “It’s nice to know,” the Rebel Spy drawled, with a well-simulated suggestion of cynicism. �
�So now we’ll have to wait and see whether my expenses for coming by a cab were justified.”

  “The moneymen will query them no matter how little and justified they might strike us as being,” Darren said dryly, yet successfully conveying the impression of being indifferent as he was not directly concerned. “You’ll just have to hope something worthwhile comes of this.”

  “Now that is what I call a piece of greatly deserved luck,” Belle stated after about five minutes. She and Darren were now seated in a cabriolet—which he had collected and kept waiting for the purpose—and were now watching the Countess coming from the front entrance to the bank carrying a black-leather document case with a coat of arms in gold on its front.

  “Nonsense,” the male secret agent denied in an apparently sober fashion as the statement was made. He continued in a mock modest tone, “It was all achieved by the three P’s—perseverance, persistence, and plodding attention to detail. And by the kind of coincidence you’d never believe if you read it in one of Ned Buntline’s books—having been in the same fraternity at college as one of the clerks. We Alpha Beta Kappa sworn brothers in blood are always willing to help one another, particularly when one is able to get the other an introduction to a lady of the theater upon whom he wished to devote his—he assures me—honorable intentions.”

  “I’ll believe you, although many wouldn’t,” the Rebel Spy declared when the vehicle was set into motion at her orders. “You can keep your promise to your friend, can’t you?”

  “One has one’s connections,” Darren declared, oozing false modesty. “But, knowing our luck, all she’s got are some indiscreet letters she wants to get rid of before her husband finds them.”

  “She’s not going to the Grand Republic to do the destroying,” Belle pointed out. “If that is all there is to it.”