Virgil Earp, Private Detective

by J. R. Roberts

  The inspector was in his forties, tall, wide-shouldered, with graying hair at his temples. He was more respectful than the two younger policemen had been.

  “Murdered girl, Inspector,” Sheriff Evans said. “Kinda gruesome.”

  “Who found her?”

  “The two gents inside. Your men are holdin’ them at gunpoint.”

  “Who are they?”

  “Virgil Earp and Clint Adams. They’re—”

  “I know who they are,” James said. “Mr. Earp is well known, and I know he has a private detective office. And Mr. Adams is also well known. Are they working together?”

  “They’re friends,” Evans said. “Far as I know Adams is just passin’ through.”

  “Okay,” the inspector said. “Why are you out here?”

  “Your men kicked me out.”

  The inspector shook his head.

  “My apologies, sir.”

  “Like they said,” Evans replied, “they’re just doin’ their jobs.”

  “Would you like to come back in with me?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  The two men entered the room, and found an odd tableau waiting for them, as if posed. The two policemen still had their guns out. Clint and Virgil were standing in the middle of the room.

  “Officers,” James said, “give these gentlemen back their guns, please.”

  “But, sir—”

  “Do as I say,” the inspector said, “and then go out into the hall and start knocking on doors, see if anyone heard anything.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The two policemen gave Clint and Virgil back their guns and left.

  “Gentlemen, my apologies,” the inspector said. “The sheriff has told me who you are and, of course, I know you both my reputation.”

  He shook hands with both of them after they hol stered their guns.

  “Mind telling me about it?” he asked.

  Virgil gave him the story of Sally Quest hiring him to find her older sister, carrying a lot of cash on her.

  “And you checked on her story?”

  “I checked on her story about owning a silver mine in Nevada,” Virgil said. “That checked out.”

  “And does she, in fact, have a sister?”

  “We’re still checking on that,” Clint said, to keep Virgil from admitting that he hadn’t asked that question, or thought of it.

  “I see. And the money. Is it still here?”

  “We don’t see it,” Virgil said, “or the small purse it was in.”

  “If she was carrying cash and paying for things in town with it, someone might have seen her, followed her back here, killed her, and stolen it. That sound right to you?”

  “I saw her last night, in the lobby,” Clint said. “She was alone, and was going up to her room.”

  The inspector turned and looked at the door.

  “Doesn’t look like it was forced.”

  “And it was unlocked when we got here,” Virgil said.

  “Then she let the killer in,” James said.

  “Looks like it,” Virgil agreed.

  “All right, gents,” the inspector said. “You can go. Please come to police headquarters later this afternoon and I’ll have someone take down a written statement from you both.”

  “All right, Inspector,” Virgil said.

  “Mr. Adams,” James said as they started to leave.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “You said you were still checking on her story about a sister,” James said.

  “Yeah?”

  “Does that mean that you’re working with Mr. Earp in his capacity as a private detective?”

  “Well, I guess it does,” Clint said, “at least, on this one matter.”

  “Well,” James said, “the matter seems to be over. She’s my responsibility now. I hope you understand what I’m getting at?”

  “We understand, Sheriff,” Virgil assured him.

  “Good,” James said. “I respect both your reputations, and I hope we won’t have any difficulties from here on out.”

  “I don’t anticipate any, Inspector,” Virgil said, then looked at Clint. “Do you?”

  “Not a one,” Clint said.

  “Excellent news,” James said. “I’ll be seeing you both this afternoon, then?”

  “Yes, sir,” Virgil said.

  “Sheriff,” the inspector said, “why don’t you walk them out?”

  Clint thought the man had thought up the nicest way he could to dismiss the older lawman.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Outside the hotel Virgil said to Clint, “How about we head over to the Gem? I could use a drink.”

  “So could I,” the sheriff said, “but will they serve this early?”

  “They will when your father owns the saloon,” Virgil said.

  “Let’s go,” Clint said.

  They walked over to the Gem and knocked. The bartender, Billy, unlocked the door, saw Virgil, and let them all in. Nick Earp was sitting at a table eating breakfast. The other tables all had the chairs sitting upside down on them.

  “Well, what bring you three here this early?” Nick asked.

  “Murder,” Virgil said. “Billy, whiskey.”

  “Me, too,” the sheriff said.

  “I’ll take one,” Clint said.

  “Have a seat, gents,” Nick said.

  Virgil took three chairs down and set them upright on the floor. They all sat with Nick while he finished his bacon and eggs.

  “Who got murdered?” he asked.

  “My client,” Virgil said.

  “Your only client?” Nick asked. “The one with all the money? Hope you got paid first.”

  “I did,” Virgil said, “that’s why I’m gonna find who killed her.”

  “The inspector wants you out of it,” Sheriff Evans said.

  “Yeah, I heard him,” Virgil said.

  Billy came over with three whiskeys, set them down, and then went about the room righting chairs.

  “How did it happen?” Nick asked.

  “Apparently,” Virgil said, “she let somebody into her room and they cut her throat.”

  “Doesn’t sound like she had very good judgment,” Nick said.

  “I don’t know what this was about,” Virgil said. “Did someone follow her from home and kill her, or was this random? Somebody in town who saw her with all that money in her bag.”

  “Why would she let them in her room?” Clint asked.

  “Maybe it was somebody she made friends with since she got to town,” Nick offered. “A man?”

  “It didn’t seem to me she was really looking for a man,” Clint said.

  “And she was a skinny little thing,” Virgil said. “Not exactly the kind of woman who would attract attention on the street.”

  “Hey,” Nick said, “men like all kinds of women.”

  “What about the sister?” the sheriff asked.

  They all looked at him.

  “Maybe the sister heard she was lookin’ for her, sent somebody to take care of her.”

  Virgil looked at Clint.

  “Thanks for bailing me out with the inspector,” he said. “I never thought to check if there really was a sister.”

  “I didn’t think of it, either,” Clint said.

  “I’d better send another telegram to Nevada and find out what family, if any, Sally Quest actually had.”

  He stood up, after downing his whiskey.

  “And if she didn’t have a sister?” Nick asked.

  “Well, that’ll give us another mystery,” Virgil said. “What was she really after when she hired me to find a sister that doesn’t even exist?”

  TWENTY-SIX

  Clint remained in the Gem to follow his whiskey with a beer. The sheriff decided to stay with him. Nick Earp didn’t mind at all.

  “But I got some paperwork to do in the office, so I’ll leave you gents to it.”

  Billy brought them their drinks and went behind the bar to get it ready for business.

>   “Tell me about Inspector James,” Clint said to Sheriff Evans.

  “Ain’t much to tell,” Evans said. “Came from back East somewhere after they built the new police station.”

  “Who’s in charge?”

  “They got them a police chief,” Evans said, “fella named Patrick—or Saint Patrick. I forget.” He shrugged. “I ain’t met him.”

  “Why not?”

  Evans shrugged.

  “I guess I ain’t important enough for him ta meet,” Evans said.

  “The inspector seems to treat you with some respect,” Clint said.

  “Civil is what he is,” Evans said, “which is more than I can say for most of them young lawmen—police officers is what they call ‘em.”

  “So what are you going to do?” Clint asked.

  “About what?”

  “About this murder that took place in your town.”

  “Me? I ain’t gonna do nothin’. I ain’t a detective. Besides, that’s all I gotta do is stick my nose in there and the inspector will stop bein’ civil to me.”

  “You can just let it go?”

  “Mister,” Evans said, with another whiskey in his hand, “I been lettin’ a lot go since that police department came to Colton.”

  “Yeah, but murder?”

  Evans shrugged.

  “That’s Inspector James’s business, not mine,” he said, downing his drink. “I gotta go. Nice talkin’ to ya.”

  Evans stood up and left the saloon. Billy left the door unlocked after the lawman had gone.

  “I heard he used to be some kinda lawman,” Billy said to Clint.

  “Yeah, that’s what I heard, too.”

  “Guess you’ve known some real fine lawmen in your time,” the bartender said.

  “I’ve known a few.”

  “Like Wyatt Earp?” Billy asked, sitting across from Clint with an eager look on his face.

  “Look, Junior,” Clint said, “if you’re looking for me to tell you some war stories, forget it.”

  “I didn’t mean noth—”

  “I’ve got to go,” Clint said, standing up.

  Maybe Evans could sit on his hands while Sally Quest’s killer walked free, but he couldn’t.

  Virgil sent his telegram, then stepped outside and stopped, looking up and down the street. There was a killer here among these people who were walking back and forth or riding by. Whatever Sally Quest was after, she was a young woman who didn’t deserve to be killed that way. Nobody deserved it.

  Virgil knew Clint felt the same way he did. They weren’t about to leave this to Inspector James. They just had to figure out a way to find the killer without running afoul of the policeman.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Virgil and Clint met back at Virgil’s office, where Virgil pulled a bottle of whiskey and two glasses from his bottom drawer.

  “Someday I think all private detectives will keep this in their bottom drawer,” Virgil said. “Especially if they have days like today.”

  He poured two whiskeys and pushed one to Clint’s side of the desk.

  “Okay,” Virgil said, “I don’t mind tellin’ you I don’t know which way to turn.”

  “Seems to me we have to retrace Sally Quest’s steps, see who she met while she’s been in town. Also find out from the desk clerk who, if anyone, visited her in the hotel.”

  “We know for a fact he’s not always there,” Virgil said. “Maybe the killer came in while he was off doin’ whatever he does when he’s not behind the desk.”

  “Got to ask him anyway,” Clint said.

  “So how do we retrace her steps?” Virgil asked.

  “Leave the hotel, turn left or right,” Clint said, “and start asking questions.”

  “Sounds like a lot of legwork,” Virgil said, unhappily.

  “That’s what Talbot Roper has always told me detective work is,” Clint said.

  “Think we can get him to come here from Denver and solve this for us?”

  “We don’t need him, Virgil,” Clint said. “You and me, we can do it.”

  “Glad to hear you sound so confident.”

  Virgil leaned over to refill Clint’s glass, but Clint turned it upside down on the desk.

  “No more for me.”

  “Okay.”

  He started to fill his own glass, but Clint said, “I don’t think you should have any more, either.”

  Virgil looked at Clint, then sat back and stoppered the bottle.

  “You’re probably right.” He stowed it back in the bottom drawer. “If we’re gonna do some legwork, we might as well be steady on our legs.”

  “My thinking exactly.”

  “Then I guess there’s no point sittin’ around here mopin’,” Virgil said. “Sally Quest may be dead, but she’s still my client—at least until her money runs out.”

  Link Holman did not appreciate the fact that his brother Dave had gotten twice the amount of food on his plate at breakfast as he had.

  Derek Morrell felt the same way, but he’d rather have gotten less than sleep with a nigger to get more.

  After breakfast the three men went out on the front porch.

  “You find out anythin’ for us?” Link asked his brother.

  “Nothin’ much,” Dave said. “Regina says that Kate and Mr. James—that’s what she calls him—are both nice people to work for.”

  “Anythin’ goin’ on between them two?” Link asked.

  “I asked her that,” Dave said, seemingly proud that he had thought of it. “She says they’re just partners, that Mr. James is a happily married man.”

  “And Kate?”

  “Regina says she thinks Kate is keepin’ company—that’s what she called it—with Clint Adams.”

  “Well,” Link said, “you finally came up with somethin’ worth knowin’.”

  “I did?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What are we gonna do with that?” Morrell asked.

  “I don’t know yet,” Link said, “but I’ll think of somethin’.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Clint and Virgil decided to split Pennsylvania Street between them. They started at the hotel. Clint went left, Virgil went right. They were going to ask people—shopkeepers, restaurant owners—if anyone had seen or met Sally Quest during the past few days.

  Clint stopped into every store and restaurant he thought someone like Sally Quest would stop in—a dress shop, a hat store, a small café. He described Sally to the owners and employees, but nobody recognized her. However, one of the customers heard him talking and spoke up.

  “I saw that girl,” the man said.

  Clint turned away from the café owner and looked at the customer who had spoken. He was a man in his early forties, cheaply dressed, having a small meal, probably what he could afford.

  “Where did you see her?” Clint asked.

  “Well . . . it was in a little restaurant over on Poplar Street.”

  “A saloon?”

  “No, a café, I guess, but not the kind of place you think you’d see a lady,” the man said.

  “Why not?”

  “It’s not a very good section of town.”

  “When did you see her?”

  “Last night.”

  “Can you tell me how to get to this place?”

  “Sure, mister.”

  Clint listened to the man’s directions, then turned to the waiter and said, “Give this man anything he wants to eat,” and handed the waiter some money.

  “Thanks, mister!”

  As he left, he heard the man ordering a steak with all the trimmings.

  Clint followed the man’s directions and saw what he meant. As he got closer, the neighborhood changed drastically. Not the kind of area you’d expect to see a Sally Quest in. Run-down hotels, boarded up stores, and—despite what he’d been told about no bordellos—street prostitutes.

  He came to the restaurant and entered. The first thing he noticed was an outline on the floor of where a bar used to stand. Obvio
usly, this used to be a saloon, but they didn’t get a license to serve liquor, so now they called themselves a restaurant.

  “Somethin’ ta eat, mister?” a waitress asked. She was young, but when she smiled she had two teeth missing, and the others were yellow.

  “No, thanks,” he said. “I’m not hungry.”

  He looked around. Apparently, no one else was hungry, either. Some of the tables were taken, the people sitting with what looked like coffee cups in front of them.

  “Maybe you want . . . something else?” she asked.

  He looked at her, but she wasn’t being flirtatious. He looked around again. People were drinking their coffee with quiet relish.

  “I’ll take a table, and a . . . cup of coffee.”

  “This way.”

  She led him to a table, then disappeared into the kitchen—or what he assumed was the kitchen. When she returned she set a coffee cup in front of him.

  He stared down at the cup, then sniffed it. He’d been right. They were serving whiskey without a license, using coffee cups.

  “Anythin’ else?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he said, “I’m looking for anyone who saw a girl in here last night, a blond girl, very young, very thin—”

  “And snooty?”

  “That’s her.”

  “Yeah, she was here,” the waitress said. “She acted like we all smelled and she was the queen of . . . I dunno, somethin’.”

  Yep, he thought, that was Sally Quest.

  “Was she here alone?”

  “Well, she got here alone,” the waitress said, “took a table, ordered coffee—real coffee—and waited.”

  “And then?”

  “A man came in and sat with her.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “They talked awhile, and then they left together.”

  “Was she waiting for the man, or did he just sit down with her?”

  “No, I got the impression she came here to wait for him.”

  “Can you describe him?”

  She could, and she did.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Clint went back to the Hotel Colton and found the clerk behind the desk.

  “I have a question for you,” he said to the young man. “If you lie to me, I’ll drag you over this desk. You understand?”