by Paul Colt
“Psssst!”
A hand appeared, reaching below the sill. The fingers wiggled expectantly. I handed up the bottle. No sooner than he had it in his grip, panic set in.
“Time for supper, Colonel.”
He dropped the bottle. The telltale shatter should surely have exposed me were I not somehow miraculously able to catch it.
“Can’t you give me a moment here to enjoy the night air?”
I flattened against the wall below the window.
“Now, now, Colonel, you very well know the importance of maintaining a punctual schedule.”
“At my age nothing could be of less import than a punctual schedule. I have my bladder and bowels to attest to that. Now, do indulge me a few moments. It’s the night air for heaven’s sake.”
“It will still be night when you return from supper. Now, come along.”
I heard the creak of the colonel’s chair propelled by purposeful footfalls. Now what? I couldn’t possibly wait here until he returned from supper. Penny would be waiting. The best I could do was to return the following afternoon. He’d be salty for missing his daily ration of grog, though it seemed a small price for preserving the secrecy of our little arrangement. That settled it, at least for my part. I tucked the bottle away in my coat and started back to the front gate only to be confronted by a new unforeseen development.
A monstrous full moon appeared over the treetops flooding the yard in bright light. I had no shadow to cling to in making my way to the gate. I’d just as well cross the yard in full view of the house. I paused at the corner, staring across the manicured lawn like a no-man’s-land surrounding a place of imprisonment. The moon was certain to draw attention. I was certain to be seen. Now what? Of course, a thespian to play the part.
I crouched behind the shrubbery backing the flower beds along the front of the home, taking care to stay below the windows until I reached the walkway to the front door. I studied the doors and windows. I couldn’t see anyone. I fished my lost watch out of my pocket and closed it in my fist where it could easily be found at just the right moment. I stepped onto the walkway and bent low, studying the grass as I slowly followed the path to the gate.
“You there! Is something the matter?”
I bent down and recovered my watch. I turned to the challenger and recognized the gardener silhouetted in overalls and slouch hat.
“No, nothing now. It’s Robert Brentwood. I lost my watch on my earlier visit with Colonel Crook. I’ve just found it.” I held it up to the light.
“Ah, Mr. Brentwood, glad you found it.”
“Thank you. Have a pleasant evening.”
I turned out the gate and started for home. I glanced at my watch. Just enough time to stash the colonel’s bottle and pick up Penny without being terribly late. It might be wise to apologize for being a little late, having gone back to Shady Grove to look for my watch.
It wasn’t my habit to visit Colonel Crook on Sunday. Penny had the day off and we’d taken to spending those free days together. I made allowance for needing to have him clarify a point in the story I was unable to decipher from my notes. We agreed to meet for an early supper. I arrived at Shady Grove soon after lunch much to the colonel’s surprise.
“Robert,” he beamed as the attendant wheeled him out to the veranda. “I hadn’t expected to see you today.”
I rose from my seat in greeting. “I wasn’t quite finished with where we left off yesterday. I thought I might impose on you to finish our business today.”
“Imposition, nothing of the sort, I’m delighted to see you.”
“I’m sure.” I winked as the attendant, a dour stocky old thing, strode away.
He smiled, hand out for the bottle. “Now, where were we?”
“Cane wired you concerning the surveillance in Omaha.”
“Ah, yes. Two points there. The first rather brilliant.”
“You mean about knowing where the forgers were headed.”
“Indeed. Cane deduced that much of their advantage had to do with the time it took for the bonds to be redeemed. He spotted a weakness in their scheme.”
“What was that?”
“Continental Express cashed the bonds. All we needed to do was enlist their cooperation and the losses would cease.”
“And did you?”
“After a fashion. Continental Express responded to my query. They were willing to assist us, but were somewhat limited in their ability to do so. It seems Continental Express money orders were sold by sales agents. They agreed to notify their agents by letter to be on the lookout for letters of credit in large denominations, but couldn’t commit to any more than that.”
“That seems as though it might have helped.”
“Too slow I’m afraid, by letter I mean.”
“And the second point?”
“They’d further concluded the woman wasn’t coming back. I instructed them to return to Denver. Somewhat later we learned she went straight to the depot following her encounter with the first Omaha banker and surreptitiously decamped for parts unknown.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Denver
Longstreet walked the quiet, tree-lined street to the wrought-iron gate. He’d spent so little time at Maddie O’Rourke’s rooming house it didn’t yet feel like home. He climbed the steps to the front porch and paused at the door. He did have a room. Then again he’d been away long enough to feel the need of an introduction. He tapped on the knocker. Moments later heels clicked toward the door. She smiled at the sight of him.
“Beau, I’d all but given up and re-rented your room.”
“It’s been a long and rather involved assignment.”
“Come in, come in. You know you live here. You don’t have to knock.”
“It’s been so long I didn’t want to startle anyone.”
“Very considerate of you, welcome back.”
Her greeting and the familiar smell of freshly baked bread and wax floor polish did have the feeling of home after all.
“Were you able to bring your assignment to a successful conclusion?”
“I’m afraid not. We’ve more work to do, but for the moment the trail’s gone cold.”
“You must be exhausted from your journey. Why don’t you freshen up and you can tell us all about it over supper.”
“Six-thirty sharp.”
“And you remember the rules. Splendid!”
Longstreet presented himself in the dining room, just as Maddie set out platters of fried chicken with biscuits, gravy, and sweet-sour stewed greens. Mrs. Fitzwalter greeted him with a nod.
“Welcome back, Mr. Longstreet.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Fitzwalter. Please call me Beau. I seem to have won over Maddie here, I wouldn’t want undue formality to set her back.”
She laughed girlishly. “Beau it is then and Abigail for me.”
With that a tall gaunt scarecrow of a man wearing a dark frock coat and gray pants came in. “Richard Brighton.” He extended a bony hand.
“Beau Longstreet.”
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Longstreet. I was beginning to wonder if these ladies had made you up out of whole cloth. I missed your arrival and that’s been the lot of it.”
“Occupational hazard, my comings and goings can be somewhat irregular.”
“Well, good to have you back at last. By my count, Maddie, that puts us one room away from a full house.”
“It does, Richard. Now if you’ll all be seated we should eat this before it gets cold.”
Conversation fell to passing, ladling, cutting, and such.
“Maddie tells us you’re a detective, Beau,” Brighton said. “That sounds like exciting and perhaps dangerous work.”
“It can be. It can also be tediously dull, waiting for events to develop. We’ve had plenty of that in this last assignment.”
Maddie tilted her chin, curious. “Are you at liberty to discuss the nature of the assignment?”
“I shan’t go into specifics, but in general it
is a rather sophisticated counterfeit scheme with substantial sums of money involved.”
“Oh, my, the criminal mind astounds with its capacity for nefarious shenanigans,” Abigail said.
“Are these people dangerous?” Maddie asked.
“We’ve had a couple of scrapes.”
“Scrapes?”
“An ambush. Oh, and my partner, Briscoe Cane, woke up to a dusty gray in his hotel room.”
“A snake!” Maddie gasped.
“The worst kind,” Brighton said. “Was he hurt?”
“Fortunately, no.”
“For a mercy, Beau, how do you manage it?” Maddie’s eyes held his wide.
“Part of the job.”
“Thank you no, not for me. We’ve peach pie for dessert.” She rose and began clearing the dishes.
Longstreet stood and stacked Brighton’s place setting with his.
“Beau, please sit. That’s my job.”
“I must have missed the rule that says I can’t help.”
She started for the kitchen; her eyes smiled.
Cane sat at his corner table in the Silver Slipper studying amber light filtered through a glass of whiskey. He couldn’t shake the feeling they were missing something. These people didn’t just disappear like so much smoke in the wind. They knew pursuit was on to them. They’d reversed their pattern the moment they felt pressured. Where did they go after Omaha? Neither north nor south seemed promising. Towns with banks followed the rails. It had to be east or west. What would he do? He tossed off his drink and poured another. The light remained amber.
Time, he’d put distance and time between passing a bond and the discovery it was a forgery. East would shorten the distance the bond had to travel and hasten discovery. West, of a surety they’d gone west. Would they resume their former pattern? Not likely, Crook had league members all along the Union Pacific line. They’d find no more success at that than they had in Omaha. They couldn’t know that. Or could they? They were clever. The league had no reports of attempts to negotiate bonds responding to the dodger. They hadn’t even attempted to pass one. More than likely they’d gone to ground somewhere to let things cool off. Time and distance, time and distance, that is the key, but the key to where? West he could say with some confidence. How far? Where would they next strike; or would they? They’d already made off with a handsome sum. Could it be the game was over? Could their adversaries have made off with a small fortune never to be seen again? Possible but his gut told him no. That argument had one flaw. Small didn’t satisfy fortune for this brand of criminal.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The stage rocked south, the monotony of chocking dust and heat broken occasionally by majestic coastal vistas blue and golden to the very rim of the earth. Cecile steeled herself against the pockmarked ferret dozing across the coach. The run south forced them into prolonged close contact, uncomfortably close. The shadow of their arrangement lurked behind those black darting eyes. Our terms are often final. She was a convenience to be discarded the moment her usefulness ceased. She held her purse in her lap, never far from her pearl-handled .32 caliber revolver. Should the need arise, she would require a fast well-placed shot.
Fortunately, at least for the trip to Los Angeles, they traveled with a drummer of somewhat cordial demeanor. The good fellow made no secret of his interest in an attractive companion. She used that casually at rest stops and the like to maintain some distance from Escobar who seemed mildly annoyed though not overly so. She suspected the intruder irritated his expectation of control over the situation. Should he decide to terminate their association, he would have to deal with the untidy matter of a witness. Perhaps she made too much of her discomfort with her employer’s intentions, but her instincts in the matter were quite keen. Better to be on edge and judge the risk in retrospect than find oneself fatally overconfident.
“Monterey station,” the driver called from the box. “Thirty-minute rest stop.” The coach slowed to a stop. The driver climbed down to open the coach door. He helped Cecile down to the dusty plaza fronting an adobe and tile-roofed station set against a panoramic ocean view. A fresh breeze cooled the day’s heat, lightening her mood.
“The view from the back patio is breathtaking,” the drummer said. “May I show you?”
“Why, that would be lovely.” She accepted his arm, noticing the cool. Was it the breeze or the glare at her back? She paid it no heed allowing him to lead her through the station’s tiled common room to a back patio overlooking the ocean. Thirty minutes reprieve from her constant companion was both welcome and brief.
“Oh, my yes, it’s lovely. Do you pass this way often?”
“Every couple of months. My business takes me to Los Angeles several times a year.”
“What sort of business are you in, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Export import. Primarily goods from the Orient.”
“That sounds exciting.”
“It can be. And you? What brings you here?”
“Family business. I’m settling my father’s estate.”
“I see. And your traveling companion?”
“The family attorney.” She glanced over her shoulder to make sure he hadn’t followed them. “Wretched little man, but quite good at what he does.”
“I see. Will you be staying in Los Angeles?”
“No. I’m afraid we are traveling on to San Diego.”
“Pity. I should have enjoyed the opportunity to have a more fulsome acquaintance.”
“Yes, that might have been nice. Perhaps on our return.”
“Perhaps.”
San Diego
The gold-lettered sign in the window read California Harbor Bank. The spacious lobby smelled new with that subtle hint of currency that said bank. A few early customers stood at teller windows conducting the routine business of banking. Her purpose would require somewhat more than routine. He was easy to find. There must be some unwritten rule about the organization of bank lobbies. The cashier’s desk invariably flanked the vault, which stood open when the bank opened for business. The cashiers always wore some dark suit with a bearing that bespoke reserved confidence and security. Mostly they were old, cashier being a position of responsibility and authority. It took a banker years to rise to such a position of trust. This one was not, old that is. Interesting.
She approached the railing separating the vault from the lobby. The railing must be another part of the code. As a barrier, it was useless. It did suffice to demark the inner sanctum of authority from simple depository transactions. He looked up. Clear gray eyes smiled. He rose, tall and handsome too.
“May I help you?”
“I’d like to speak with the cashier.”
He rounded the desk and swept the gate open with a slight bow of his head. “Myles Lamont, at your service, Miss.”
“St. James, Cecile St. James.” The head bow took her in head to toe.
“Please come in, Miss St. James. Have a seat.”
He showed her to a side chair and held it for her. The exaggerated courtesy saw her comfortably seated. He returned to his chair.
“Now, Miss St. James, it is miss, isn’t it?”
She nodded, suppressing a smile. Well this is a first.
“How may I be of service?”
She drew the folded bond from her purse and slid it across the desk. “I should like to pledge this as collateral against a letter of credit.”
He glanced at the bond, a brow lifted in surprise. “That’s a rather substantial sum. May I ask the purpose?”
“I intend to purchase some land.”
“Rather a lot of land I should think, unless you’ve discovered gold or something.”
She returned his gaze. “Let’s just say a large parcel for now.”
“In the area?”
“Nearby.”
“You’re new to San Diego.”
“I am.”
“Then on behalf of the bank let me welcome you to San Diego.”
�
��Thank you. Now, about the letter, a Texas & Pacific bond is as good as gold. How long will it take to secure it?”
“No more than a couple of days. I shall need to consult one or two of the directors before negotiating a sum this large. It’s Monday, shall we say Wednesday afternoon?”
“If you say so.”
“Should any questions arise, where may I contact you?”
“I’m staying at the Paradise Hotel.”
“Ah, of course, the very best. Their dining room is one of the finest restaurants in San Diego. Have you tried it?”
“Not yet.” She made it less a statement than an invitation.
“Would you care to join me this evening?”
“Why, Mr. Lamont, are you sure? We’ve only just met.”
“Of course I’m sure, that is, if you’d do me the honor.”
She colored a trifle. A useful skill she’d acquired for such situations. “This evening then.”
“Splendid. I shall call for you at seven.”
“Seven it is.”
Candlelit tables created islands glittering in cut crystal, fine china, and silver set against a subdued background of dark wood and green velvet. Here and there pastoral scenes painted in oil graced the walls flanked by trimmed sconces. The wait staff in starched white jackets floated among the tables serving the diners over the quiet hum of muted conversation. The chief steward, who greeted Lamont by name, showed them to a corner table. He seated Cecile, distributed menus, and summoned a waiter. She opened the menu. Hers had no prices.
“May I serve you an aperitif, Mr. Lamont?”
“Yes, Justin. Miss St. James?”
“Please call me Cecile. Dry sherry please.”
“I’ll have the same, Justin.”
“Very good, sir.”
He smiled. “Then you must call me Myles.”
“What do you recommend?”
“The fish is fresh and the steaks are also very good.”
“Fresh fish, one should take advantage of that.”