Bogus Bondsman

by Paul Colt

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Texas & Pacific Westbound

  The train highballed through a starlit desert night, haunted by the mournful wail of the whistle. Cane stared into the darkness beyond the coach window. He couldn’t sleep. With luck, they were about to catch up with the counterfeiters, at least those who passed the paper on the street. Colonel Crook’s big fish challenge gnawed at the back of his mind. If the people passing the paper were in fact low-level operatives, how could they be played to expose those responsible for the scheme? It would be too much to think the people they were about to encounter would willingly reveal the identity of those responsible. Given the sophistication of the operation, it wouldn’t be surprising if the foot soldiers didn’t even know the identities of those behind it all. What did they have to go on?

  Banks got stuck with the paper. They issued letters of credit. Those documents were cashed in favor of Continental Express money orders. Those orders disappeared in anonymity. The field operatives must at least have a hand in that. That was a trail they might follow. How could they expose that part of the operation? He rubbed the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. Each thread he picked at, it seemed, led only to another unanswered question. They couldn’t simply apprehend the woman passing the paper. They’d have to follow her to the disposition of a letter and the purchase of a money order, but how?

  He listened to the rattle of the rails. The germ of an idea crept into his thoughts. They’d need the bank to cooperate. What banker in his right mind would put that kind of money at risk? A banker who wasn’t at risk, that’s who. A slow smile tugged at the corners of Cane’s mustache. That’s it. Perhaps two can play at this game. At last he allowed the rattle of the rails to weigh on his eyes.

  Tucson

  Early morning light chased the train across the Sonora desert. Ancient saguaro lifted powerful arms in victory over a harsh land as the train rumbled west. Cane mulled his plan against the light of day. Would it work? It might. Then again, could people this clever be that careless? They were criminals. Of course they could. Besides he couldn’t come up with another way to go fishing without risking the fish they had on the line.

  The rattle of the rails slowed. The scattered outskirts of Tucson rolled past the grime-stained window. The train turned northwest, swaying through an ever thickening clutch of adobe, stone, and frame construction, crosshatched along broad dusty avenues. The architectures tossed a mire of Spanish and Victorian design, adapted to desert surroundings by the presence of broad-shaded porches sheltering each floor from the blistering effects of the sun. Round, spired cupolas crowned two-and three-story structures, reminiscent of the widow’s walks common to seaside New England. The need to overlook the surrounding sea of sand gave vigilant reminder to past threats of hostile Indian attack.

  A whistle blast announced their arrival. The train slow rolled into the station, followed by the steel complaint of brakes and a rush of steam. Cane hauled his valise off the overhead rack and nudged Longstreet awake across the aisle.

  “Up and at ’em, prince charming, time to go to work.”

  Longstreet rubbed his eyes, stretched, and followed Cane to the car door.

  A blast of desert heat, blinding light, and gusty wind greeted Cane as he stepped out on the platform. Central Avenue beckoned west across the street from the depot. Longstreet fell in at his side.

  “Where we headed?”

  “Crook’s telegram said we should look up Sheriff Cole Hardy. He’s one of ours. Then we go to the bank and see if we can lay a trap for our paper hanger.”

  “You got something up your sleeve?”

  “I hope so.”

  “Mind filling me in?”

  “Patience is a virtue, Beau. I’m gonna chew that cabbage soon enough, no sense chewing it twice.”

  A west wind braced the walk up Central Avenue to the heart of the business district. A squat adobe with a weathered sign marked the sheriff’s office. Cole Hardy sat at a cluttered desk in a small office that fronted the jail. The weathered officer eyed his visitors with a flint-hued gaze. Cane handled the introductions.

  “I expect we should get right over to the bank. Russell Mason, the cashier, has about run out of reasons to stall that woman,” Hardy said.

  He led the way across Central Avenue and up the block to the bank. He introduced Longstreet and Cane to the banker. They pulled up chairs and sat around his desk. Cane came right to the point.

  “When is the woman coming back for the letter?”

  “I expect she’ll be here in the morning.”

  “That doesn’t give us much time.”

  “Don’t take no time a’tall to arrange an arrest,” Hardy said.

  “We don’t plan to arrest her right off. She doesn’t work alone. We need her to lead us to her contact. This is a professional operation. I suspect the woman and likely her contact are low-level operatives. The big fish is whoever is behind the scheme.”

  “But won’t she cut and run when she doesn’t get her letter?”

  “We’re going to give her a letter.”

  That got the banker’s attention. “Surely you don’t expect me to put the bank at risk for one hundred thousand dollars.”

  “I didn’t say that. I said we are going to give her a letter.”

  “Sir, a bank letter of credit is a fiduciary instrument.”

  “That’s why you are going to give her a letter of credit acceptance.”

  “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

  “Neither have I. I just made it up. You’re going to give her a letter of credit for one hundred thousand dollars, subject to the bank’s acceptance when presented for payment. That last part is in the fine print at the bottom.”

  “An instrument such as that would be worthless. No one would accept that for cash.”

  “Exactly. I’m betting the woman doesn’t read the fine print and leads us to her contact and maybe the big fish.”

  “You’re asking this bank to participate in what amounts to a fraud. Most irregular.”

  “So is that bond. Now where is the Western Union office?”

  Samantha fought the desert breeze, managing her skirts on the walk up Central Avenue from the depot. She spotted them crossing the street. She might not have noticed the three of them except for the fact Cane and Longstreet made such an unlikely pair. Curious, she passed the hotel and continued on. They’d gone into the sheriff’s office. That explained the third man. A little farther up the block she came to Tucson Citizens Bank. That explained where they came from. She almost wouldn’t have to follow them. She hurried back to the hotel.

  The registration clerk ogled her across the lobby. She smiled to herself. This should be easy.

  “Good afternoon, madam. How may I assist you?”

  She smiled. “I need a room.”

  “My pleasure.” He spun the register.

  She found the entry, glanced at the board behind the counter, and signed. The clerk turned to the board to select a room key.

  “Do be a dear and put me in room 203.”

  He paused, uncertain.

  “Silly superstition, I know, but if you’d be so good as to indulge me, I’d be pleased.” She favored him with a smile and a flutter of lash.

  “Certainly, madam.” He slid the key across the counter. “We do aim to please. Do you need any help with your bag?”

  “Got it here from the depot, I believe I can manage.” She favored him with another smile and started up the stairs to room 203, next door to room 205 and Beau Longstreet.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Next Morning

  Waiting tried her patience. Escobar’s brooding over the delay didn’t help, though he had no answer for it. She was more than ready to shake out the dust of Tucson and move on to El Paso. She strolled down the boardwalk enjoying the warmth of a morning not yet heated to midday inferno. She arrived at the bank moments after opening. The lobby stood quiet as a church at midweek. The banker sat at his
desk, studying a ledger over his morning coffee. He watched her approach with one of those insincere half smiles bankers seem able to produce on sighting a customer.

  “Good morning, Miss Templar. You’re up and about your business bright and early this morning.”

  “Good morning, Mr. Mason. Is my letter ready?”

  “Yes, indeed. Please have a seat.” He opened a folder at his elbow and withdrew the necessary papers. He passed the bond across the desk along with his ink pot and pen. “Endorse the bond here.”

  She signed.

  He replaced the bond with a receipt. “Sign for the letter here.”

  He slid the letter across the desk.

  She checked the amount, folded the document, and placed it in her purse. She rose. “Thank you, Mr. Mason.”

  “If the bank may be of any further service, please do not hesitate to call on us.”

  “Good day, sir.”

  Longstreet and Cane waited and watched from a window table at a café across the street from the bank. Up the block across the street, a heavily veiled Samantha Maples had a similar station in a café where she could keep an eye on Longstreet and Cane. Cecile put the game in play when she entered the bank.

  “That’s her,” Longstreet said.

  “You sure?”

  He nodded.

  “How can you be sure?”

  “I recognize the walk.”

  “I’d almost forgotten your chance encounter.”

  “Almost encounter.” Longstreet smiled.

  Minutes later the woman emerged from the bank and turned east toward the seedy side of town.

  “Hundred-thousand-dollar robbery don’t take no time at all,” Longstreet said.

  They watched her pass the café across the street.

  “Time to go.” Cane led the way to the door. They stepped into bright sunlight and paused on the boardwalk letting their quarry put some distance between them.

  “Think she’s headed for the depot?” Longstreet asked.

  “Could be. I’ll cross over and follow her from that side of the street. You follow along on this side so we get a good look wherever she goes.”

  Longstreet nodded. “Nice walk. You’ll see.”

  “I’m sure.” Cane crossed the dusty street and fell in behind the woman in the somber gray dress. Nice walk, leave it to Longstreet to notice such things.

  A block from the depot she turned south toward the red light district. Odd a woman like that headed for that part of town with a hundred-thousand-dollar paper in her purse, Cane thought.

  He slowed his pace and looked in a shop window, keeping his distance so as not to appear to show any interest should she glance his way. She didn’t. She continued on down the street with a purpose.

  Samantha lost sight of the woman. It didn’t matter. She still had Longstreet in view. He quickened his pace, crossing Central Avenue to the southeast corner. He continued south to the next corner. She reached the southwest corner behind them. Cane moved along smartly, his attention drawn down the next block to the east. She rounded the corner and picked up her pace, crossing to the east side of the street as Longstreet disappeared around the corner.

  Cecile stopped at the end of the block. She glanced around as if unsure of which way to go. As expected, there was almost no street traffic in this part of town at this hour of the morning. A man entered a cigar store, leaving the street deserted. She turned toward the depot, approaching her destination from the rear. As she approached the street a block south of the depot, she paused again. No customers stirring at this hour either. Good. She turned north to the gated walkway leading up the steps to Scarlet’s Red Rose. She shook her head at the ridiculous names given the houses Escobar preferred for his pleasure. She didn’t bother to knock.

  Inside, morning sun filtered through faded lace curtains turning the shabby parlor a dusty muted gold. The scantily clad trollop on duty eyed her suspiciously over the brim of a steaming cup of coffee.

  “What can we do for your Ladyship this morning?”

  The sarcasm came with a touch of Irish brogue.

  “I’m here to see Señor Escobar.”

  “He’s not to be disturbed.”

  “He’ll be disturbed for me. Tell him Cecile is here.”

  The girl blinked, started to object, shrugged, and climbed the creaking stairs to an upper floor.”

  Cecile waited. Moments later the stairs announced the girl’s return.

  “Come this way.”

  Cane stood at the corner, looking north to the depot. No sign of her. She didn’t simply vanish into thin air. He came back to the rundown three-story Victorian on the corner. A brothel? Hardly likely. Then again, perhaps perfectly so.

  Longstreet rounded the corner at the west end of the block and hurried toward him.

  “Where is she?”

  He tilted his chin. “In there, unless I miss my guess.”

  “All right, that sort of establishment is more my style than yours. I’ll see if I can find out what she’s doin’ in there. You cover the back, just in case.”

  Samantha turned the corner at the west end of the block and ducked back at the sight of Cane. He disappeared into an alley behind a shabby three story at the far end of the block. She checked both sides of the street, but saw no sign of Longstreet. The woman must have gone down the alley or maybe . . .

  Cecile followed the young whore down a narrow corridor dimly lit by grimy windows at either end of the hall. Muffled sound seeped under the doors to two of the cribs. The air was warm and damp with sweat-scented musk. The girl reached the end of the hall, rapped on the door to the right, and continued back down the hall to the stairs.

  “Come in.”

  The door opened to a small room, mostly taken up by a bed. A dark-eyed whore sat on the bed mostly covered by a brightly colored shawl. She smoked one of the Mexican’s vile cigarillos. He stood at the foot of the bed buttoning his britches.

  “Pardon the interruption.”

  “No trouble where money is involved. The letter, please.”

  Longstreet stepped into the parlor and looked around, allowing his eyes to adjust to the light. A stair creaked under the step of a young girl clad in a loose-fitting chemise. She smiled her most inviting customer smile. He smiled back.

  “Can I help?” Her eyelashes fluttered.

  “I’m looking for the woman in a gray gown who just came in.”

  She pulled a pout. “Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

  He drew a five dollar gold piece from his pocket. “This help?”

  She snatched the coin. “Third floor last room on the right. You didn’t hear it from me.” She smiled again. “When you’re finished, I could still be some help.”

  Longstreet tipped his hat and started up the stairs. He paused on the third floor landing. The hall was empty. He started down the corridor. By the sound of it two rooms were occupied as one might expect. As he reached the end of the hall he heard voices coming from the room on the right. One of them was clearly that of a man. He drew his pistol from its shoulder rig and listened. Normal conversation didn’t carry through the door. They’d be surprised. He threw the door open. The whore screamed.

  “Nobody move!” He trained his gun on the man.

  The man, Mexican by the look of him, lifted his hands. Alert black eyes flashed around the room.

  “Drop the gun.”

  Longstreet remembered the sound of her voice. “Evanston, wasn’t it?” He cut a sidelong glance. “You’re much prettier when you’re not pointing a gun at a man.”

  Click. She cocked the gun for emphasis.

  Nickel-plated pepper box, .41 caliber lethal at this range. He dropped his gun.

  The Mexican snatched it up and stuffed it in the waistband of his trousers.

  “Cover him,” Cecile said. She stuck her head around the open door. “No one’s coming yet, but his partner is likely nearby. What shall we do with him?”

  Escobar drew his knife.


  The whore stifled a scream. “You ain’t gonna cut him up here in my crib!”

  “Shut up or you’re next.” He turned to Longstreet. “You, on the floor, facedown, hands behind your head.”

  Longstreet turned around and lay facedown, as instructed. He spread his legs in position to take the man down with a scissors kick when the man got close enough. It would probably get him shot but somehow that seemed a better option to having his throat slit.

  “Drop your weapons, both of you!”

  “Samantha, darlin’, you’ve never looked lovelier, widow’s veil and all.”

  “Save it, Beau. Now, drop those weapons.”

  Escobar dropped his knife. Cecile let the derringer slip from her fingers. The cocked gun discharged a thunderous blast in the small room. The bullet imbedded harmlessly into the floor. Escobar leaped out the window to the fire escape and raced down the steps two at a time.

  “I got her, Beau. After him!”

  Longstreet stuck his head out the window. A shot from his own gun greeted him. He ducked back inside.

  The gunshot came from somewhere on the upper floors of the house. Cane couldn’t place it from his position in the back alley. He drew his gun and started for the street. A second shot exploded followed by the clump of boots. Cane reached the mouth of the alley just as a man reached the ground from the fire escape and disappeared around the corner. Cane ran after him. As he rounded the corner at the front of the building he saw the gunman running up the street toward the depot.

  “Stop!”

  The dark-skinned man turned and fired.

  Cane dropped to one knee and took aim. He fired. The fugitive disappeared behind the station onto the depot platform. A column of black smoke rising into a clear blue sky signaled the man’s intentions. Cane ran up the street to the depot.

  “All aboard!”

  He skidded to a stop at the platform and peeked around the corner. The conductor waved his lantern and stepped off the platform to the caboose. The whistle hooted. The engine belched smoke, brakes released. Couplings clattered as the train began its roll. Cane started across the platform drawing fire from the open door of a freight car. He ducked back behind the depot. The train picked up speed.