by Paul Colt
THE BOGUS BONDSMAN
OTHER FIVE STAR TITLES BY PAUL COLT
A Great Western Detective League Case
Wanted: Sam Bass (2015)
Frontier Fiction
Boots and Saddles: A Call to Glory (2013)
A Question of Bounty: The Shadow of Doubt (2014)
Bounty of Vengeance: Ty’s Story (2016)
A GREAT WESTERN DETECTIVE LEAGUE CASE
THE BOGUS BONDSMAN
PAUL COLT
FIVE STAR
A part of Gale, Cengage Learning
Copyright © 2017 by Paul Colt
Five Star™ Publishing, a part of Cengage Learning, Inc.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously.
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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Names: Colt, Paul, author.
Title: The bogus bondsman / Paul Colt.
Description: Waterville, Maine : Five Star Publishing, 2017.
Identifiers: LCCN 2016037334 (print) | LCCN 2016048102 (ebook) | ISBN 9781432834036 (hardcover) | ISBN 1432834037 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781432837006 (ebook) | ISBN 1432837001 (ebook) | ISBN 9781432833992 (ebook) | ISBN 1432833995 (ebook)
eISBN-13: 978-1-4328-3399-2 eISBN-10: 1-43283399-5
Subjects: LCSH: Law enforcement—United States—History—19th century— Fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / Mystery & Detective / Historical. | FICTION / Westerns. | GSAFD: Western stories. | Mystery fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3603.O4673 B64 2017 (print) | LCC PS3603.O4673 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016037334
First Edition. First Printing: February 2017
This title is available as an e-book.
ISBN-13: 978-1-4328-3399-2 ISBN-10: 1-43283399-5
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Printed in the United States of America
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THE BOGUS BONDSMAN
PROLOGUE
New York
1878
Jay Gould had a habit of winning. He maintained it by making his own rules. Which is another way of saying rules didn’t apply to the diminutive financier. His style made enemies and detractors, mostly the victims of his ruthless schemes. He was a shadow to the law. A man removed from his deeds by cutouts, shell corporations, and a heavy veil of deniability. They hated him for it. One fellow speculator thought him wholly loathsome without redeeming humanity. Another characterized him as a “Ruthless predator, satanic in his manipulations.” Gould found their venom flattering. He bested them and they hated him for it. He thought it mildly amusing, but only mildly. The only thing that truly amused Gould was money, lots of money.
He sat at a neatly clean desk haloed in lamplight. He studied the security on his blotter, a ten thousand dollar Texas & Pacific Railroad bearer bond, maturing in 1878. One interest coupon remained attached, the others having been previously claimed. He’d purchased it and used it along with other instruments to secure a credit facility for purchase of the railroad’s deeply discounted stock. Using the railroad’s own debt to finance his takeover amused him. The gains had been handsome, but now it was time to cash out in favor of a more lucrative opportunity. His appetite had turned to the Missouri Pacific. Executing that plan would require cash, more than he could muster at the moment.
The bond gave him pause to reflect. The Texas & Pacific had served its useful purpose. He’d taken his profits on their stock. Their debt might yet provide the additional cash he needed to complete control of the Missouri Pacific. A single ten-thousand-dollar bond wouldn’t do. A ladder composed of larger denominations could. He held the blueprint in his hand. He knew of a reliable engraver whose skill might be up to the task. The Don could handle distribution. Gould resigned himself to the prospect. The old lecher would exact his exorbitant percentage. He always did. Of course the crime lord took risks he would never accept for himself. He would simply add a couple of bonds to the ladder to cover his cost.
Chicago
The dark-eyed stranger’s sodden shoes squeezed moisture on rain-slicked cobbles as he rounded the corner to a backstreet block of shabby storefronts. He turned his collar up against a sharp wind gust. He found the shop he sought in the middle of the block. He’d had some unusual assignments from his anonymous client over the years, but this one might take the prize. Prizes didn’t matter. The client paid him handsomely for his services. A disbarred lawyer, the Counselor, as his employer knew him, understood the role he played representing his client. He was an anonymous agent, a well-paid break in any chain of evidence that might link his client to the crimes or the less than ethical dealings he was paid to facilitate. Given his experience in such matters, he had proven himself able to evade detection, thereby providing his client and himself a further layer of protection.
He reached the soot-stained storefront in the middle of the block. A window sign painted in chipped gold letters proclaimed K. Gottschaft, Master Engraver. He glanced behind him. No one moved on the street. He opened the door to the jangle of a visitor bell. Inside gray light filtered through the grime-streaked front window. The place smelled of printers’ ink and harsh solvents. He paused, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dim light. A scarred wooden counter separated the entry from a dark-shadowed work area cluttered by a lamplit desk, ink-stained flatbed printing press, racks of storage cabinetry, and a long workbench at the back of the room. How did anyone work in such dingy surroundings? Of course the answer wouldn’t matter for long.
A bent figure shuffled out of the shadows. A pinched little man with an oily pate thatched in thin wisps of white hair. Wire-rimmed spectacles rode the bridge of a birdlike beak. Thin lips pressed a tight line over even rows of tobacco-stained yellow teeth.
“May I help you?”
“Are you Herr Gottschaft?”
He nodded. “Kurt Gottschaft at your service.”
“I’m told you may be able to help me.”
He cocked his head. “Help vith vhat?”
The Counselor laid a worn leather case on the counter and withdrew a single engraved sheet. He slid it across the counter.
The engraver ran a gnarled finger with a cracked nail over the finish. He picked up the sheet and turned, allowing the pale window light to illuminate the engraving. He lifted his spectacles to his forehead and fitted a jeweler’s loop to one eye. He moved the sheet left, then right. He tilted the sheet to a flat angle. In a practiced motion he allowed the loop to drop from his eye and replaced his spectacles. He laid the sheet on the counter.
“A fine piece of vork, vhat is it you require, Herr . . . ?”
“My name is unimportant. I need twelve of these. Can you reproduce the plate and print them?”
He lifted his bushy white brows above smudged spectacles. “You mean can I produce twelve counterfeit bonds?”
“They aren’t counterfeit unless
they are negotiated.”
“A fine point of law.”
“To you it is engraving and printing. Can you do it?”
“The engraving and printing? Of course. The risk is another matter. Twelve of these might fetch one hundred twenty thousand dollars. This is a good deal of money.”
The stranger shook his head and tapped the engraved amount. “You must add a zero.”
The engraver’s eyes bulged. He glanced again at the certificate.
“Can you do it?”
“Dis is expensive vork.”
“Five thousand, half now, the balance when I pick up the plate and the certificates.”
The engraver’s eyes bulged again.
“How long will it take?”
“A month, perhaps six weeks.”
“You have five.”
CHAPTER ONE
Shady Grove
Denver
May, 1908
My name is Robert Brentwood. I am employed as a reporter for the Denver Tribune, though, in this venture, I’ve come to compile a story of the Great Western Detective League for a second book I expect to pen. I stumbled on reports of this association of law enforcement officers and professionals in the archives of the Denver Tribune something over a year ago. Imagine my surprise when I discovered the following fall that the mastermind behind this storied network of crime fighters was alive and comfortably ensconced at the Shady Grove Rest Home and Convalescent Center. My nascent writing career seemed foreordained by the discovery. I introduced myself to the principal, one Colonel David J. Crook, and prevailed upon the irascible old gentleman to indulge me with his stories. Having little better to do, he agreed. That set in motion nothing less than the complete transformation of my life, which, as you shall see, continues with this writing.
The colonel began his tale with the pursuit and demise of the notorious outlaw train robber Sam Bass. The archived case that more recently caught my eye was one of a rather different nature. The news accounts were sufficiently vague so as to elicit more questions than answers. Curious, I meant for the colonel to supply those answers.
I arrived at Shady Grove that Saturday morning as had become my custom since embarking on these endeavors the previous year. The reception nurse smiled as I entered the solarium.
“The colonel is waiting on the veranda. Shall I tell her you’re here?”
The twinkle in her eye was meant to confound me. The her she referred to is the person of Miss Penny O’Malley, the nurse charged with the colonel’s care and the woman I’d been seeing since shortly after my introduction to this enterprise.
“That won’t be necessary.” I returned her smile. “I know where to find the colonel.”
She nodded ever so slightly, acknowledging the futility of my attempt at deception. Women, one moment they insist on the pretense of propriety and in the next fritter it away in girlish gabble.
Colonel Crook sat in his wheelchair with a ramrod straight air that denied the ravages of his advancing years. He preferred the sharp mountain air of early spring on the broad veranda to the stuffy, overly warm interior maintained for the residents. The only concession he permitted to the cold, a blanket wrapped about his legs. He had thick white hair, bushy muttonchops, and alert blue eyes that managed to retain the calm, cool measure of his younger years. He still possessed the keen, intuitive wit that distinguished his career as a master investigator and driving force behind the legendary Great Western Detective League. The daring deeds of that distinguished organization and the countless adventures recorded in their case files were etched like a map in the wrinkled features of the man who recalled them.
“Good afternoon, Robert.”
He never turned in his chair. “Good day to you, Colonel. How did you know it was me?”
“Your footfall was expected.”
“That transparent am I?”
“Most people are. And by that bulge in your jacket, I see our bargain remains intact.”
I made a careful circumspection of our surroundings to ensure no one was present to observe our weekly exchange of contraband. I handed him a bottle of whiskey in exchange for his empty one. Both were promptly concealed, the colonel’s in his lap robe, mine in a jacket pocket.
“So what’s on your mind now that we’ve properly dealt with Sam Bass?”
“I have come across another case that intrigues me, though I must say the reports are sketchy and scant in detail.”
“That would be the case of the Bogus Bondsman, I’m sure.”
I sat back stunned. “Why, yes. How did you know?”
“There’s a reason those reports are spare of detail.”
“What’s that?”
He smiled. “All in good time, my impatient young friend. All in good time.”
“All right then, where do we begin?”
Crook let his gaze drift up the mountain. “The perpetration in this case was rather elaborate and well under way by the time we became involved. You may recall Briscoe Cane prevailed upon Beau Longstreet to leave the employ of the Pinkerton Agency and sign on with our Great Western Detective League.”
“I do recall that. Did Longstreet take Cane up on the offer?”
“He did. He took some time out to dally along the way as Longstreet was wont to do, but he did finally join us.”
“That widow?”
“That widow.”
Silver Slipper
Denver
1878
Silver Slipper my ass. Longstreet surveyed the saloon from the batwings. Why in hell would a man like Cane favor a dump like this? If the Great Western Detective League were as lucrative as he made out, he could surely afford a watering hole with something more by way of amenities. Beauregard Beau Longstreet stood tall, muscular, and handsome. His family roots ran deep in the old South. He came from the fringes of the more prominent Longstreet line best known for his famous cousin, who served on Robert E. Lee’s general staff. Beau had never been West Point material. He parlayed his family name into a junior officer’s appointment and rose to the rank of captain before the war ended. Humiliated in defeat, he drifted west, reaching St. Louis penniless. He signed on as a Pinkerton guard out of necessity. He soon demonstrated a knack for protection. They’d done a good deal of defending in the later stages of the war. His experience as a field commander distinguished his performance. He gained greater responsibility in his assignments as the company followed the railroads and goldfields west.
A devil-may-care ladies’ man by nature, on a case he was a circumspect investigator, logical and intuitive. He had a knack for the subtle clue, the overlooked fact, a cold trail, and human nature.
He spotted Briscoe Cane at a corner table with his back to the wall. The man had changed little since Round Rock. His lean weather-lined features might have been stitched out of old saddle leather. He had a hawk-sharp nose and cold gray eyes animated by some inner light. The only change Longstreet noticed was that his formerly shoulder-length hair, gray before its time, was better barbered. Undoubtedly a concession to his newfound prosperity. His angular, hickory-hard frame still had that deceptively awkward appearance. For the object of one of his pursuits, misestimating his appearance might prove fatal. Cane possessed cat-quick reflexes and deadly accuracy in the use of a veritable arsenal of weaponry concealed under a black frock coat.
He favored a pair of fine balanced bone blades, one sheathed behind the .44 holster rig on his right hip and the other in his left boot. He could draw and throw with either hand fast enough to defeat most men at their gun draw. He was equally fast with the Colt and a .41 caliber Forehand & Wadsworth Bull Dog rigged for cross draw at his back. Some might consider a spur-rigger pocket pistol a less than manly weapon. Such a notion would sadly misestimate Cane’s use of it. Those that harbored such foolish notions seldom did so for long. On the trail he carried a Henry rifle that could pluck out a man’s eye at a thousand paces. When called for, he possessed a master craftsman’s skill with explosives. Were it not for the stau
nch religious foundation afforded by his upbringing, he might have enjoyed a more lucrative career as an assassin than the pursuit he had as a bounty hunter.
Longstreet pushed through the batwings and crossed the stained plank floor through a smoky haze. Cane lifted one eye beneath a thick bush of brow. He pushed a chair from under the table with an unseen boot.
“Longstreet. About time you got here. She must have been one hell of a good time.”
“Nice to see you too, Briscoe. I’m not one to kiss and tell, but I wasn’t in any particular hurry to leave Buffalo Station.”
“But you did.”
“I did when the time came.”
“So are you still wasting your time workin’ for Pinkerton or are you here to join the league?”
“If the offer’s still open, I’d be pleased to meet your Colonel Crook.”
“It’s a bit late for that today. I’ll introduce you to him in the morning. In the meantime sit down and let’s have a drink.”
Longstreet looked around. “You really hang around here?”
He crooked a half smile. “You don’t approve? Not up to your Pinkerton standards?”
“You could do better.”
“Sure I could. What’s the point? People leave me alone here. Things get less complicated that way.” He waved the bartender over with a glass and poured.
Chicago
A single lamp spread an oily yellow sheen over the work table, creating an island of light in the darkened workshop. The engraver bent over his work shrouded in shadow. He worked with the aid of a jeweler’s loop fitted to his eye and an awl honed to a needle-fine point. He consulted the bond affixed to the workbench beside the emerging copy. He labored methodically, etching the image in a special wax-like coating to expose the bare copper plate beneath. Line by line, point by point, dash by dash, he drew with painstaking attention to detail.
He stretched. The bunched knots in his back and neck burned. He glanced at the calendar on his desk. So much work, so little time. He bent to his etching again. He began in the top right corner inspecting his work, comparing it to the image of the authentic bond he carried in his mind’s eye. Das ist gut. He drew a pocket watch from a vest pocket, flipped the cover open in a practiced motion, and noted the time. Ten thirty-three. He yawned and shook his head, another long day.