“I’ll see you rot in the Tombs, you son of a bitch, she was already dead!” Liam’s face was pale as paper and set in a frozen snarl as he pushed the gun harder and deeper into his enemy’s throat, so that McPherson could barely move his tongue as he choked out:
“I went there on Mr. P.’s orders!”
Liam’s anger deflated abruptly; he twisted the pistol out of McPherson’s fingers, let the hammer back down and dropped it into his own pocket.
“The Old Man gave you orders to visit Maggie.” Liam’s voice was as flat as a gravestone.
McPherson had to massage his throat before he could answer. “Not that it’s any of your damn business,” McPherson croaked, “but yeah. She was an Eye, didn’t you know?” He sneered as he said it but thanks to Barlow Liam did know, and McPherson’s gibe fell flat. “She reported to me on a regular schedule. It was her as collected all the doings of the Mollies for me after I left, and once you got here Old Pilkington kept her at it so we’d have a double-check on you.”
“Never mind they’ve already got ten Mollies heading for the gallows next week.” Liam snorted in disgust. “Once you put the collar on the lads in the dynamite tunnel there’s no more harm left in the Mollie Magees than there is in a handful of Shriners.”
“There’s more to national security than stopping dynamiters.” The venom dripped from McPherson’s words: “Mr. P. heard as how your darling Maggie was about to spill her guts to that hoor scribbler Becky Fox and the DPS wanted her put on warning. Not dead,” he added hastily, “warned.”
Liam looked at him for several long seconds, his eyes boring like gimlets. Finally he nodded and shrugged. “I don’t have to paint you a picture of what’ll happen if I learn you’ve more to do with it than that.”
The older man flushed darkly and started to raise a hand as if to punch Liam, but an instant later he overcame the impulse and lowered his hand.
“I ought to loosen a few teeth for you, McCool, but I don’t expect a tarted-up gutter rat like you to fight fair and square so let’s get down to business. The old man sent me a telegram about you wanting to go on leave, so go ahead and speak your piece. Then get out of here so I can open the windows and fumigate the place.”
Liam was only half listening, wondering instead just what Mr. P. had said in his telegram to McPherson that he hadn’t written to Inspector Barlow earlier. Had he mentioned the information Liam had given Barlow about Boylan’s people spotting the Great Detective at large in Pottville? Maybe he’d just hang onto that morsel as a hole card …
“I guess the Old Man must have told you the same thing he told Barlow,” Liam said. “I’m getting ready to head for New York, but I’m supposed to clear it with you first.”
McPherson gave Liam a sour little smile. “Well, that makes it easy then, because I’m not clearing it—you’re needed here.”
“I know you don’t want me around for my company, so where’s the problem?”
“I’ll tell you the problem,” McPherson grated out. “I don’t like to see jail birds walking around free amidst decent people. I promise you, McCool, I mean to see you back in the Tombs if it’s the last thing I ever do.”
Liam forced himself to keep a level tone: “As far as I know, whether or not I end up back in choky depends strictly on the Old Man, so if you won’t tell him it’s all right for me to leave I guess I’ll just have to go talk to him myself. But I’m not going to spend another day in the coalfields if the moving finger of God Himself writes the order on that wall over there.”
The Great Detective’s face had been flushing darker and darker until it looked like he was on the verge of apoplexy.
“Who the Devil do you think you are?” he roared. “You little dog-puke, it’s not up to you to be telling me what you will do and what you won’t do, I’m in charge here and I’m telling you I need you to take over Schuylkill County for the Agency as soon as the hangings are done.”
He moved closer to Liam, getting right up in front of him the way coppers do when they’re about to give someone the collar. He poked Liam in the chest as he continued:
“Mr. P. needs me in Chicago to run the operation there. I’m only here until this Mollies business is cleaned up, and then I’m heading west on the next express.”
Liam smiled. So that was the story. The Chicago office was second only to New York, and Bill Henkel—who’d been sent out there by the Old Man to pull things together after the Great Fire in ’71—had been ailing for the past few months while every senior operative in the Agency waited in the wings for a chance to pounce on this plum assignment.
“So Henkel finally croaked, did he?”
“Mister Henkel to you, trash.”
“Whatever you say, Mister McPherson, but I’m not going to sit here in Pottsville holding your coat while you go do battle with all the other big bugs for a chance to land in Henkel’s chair. Ask the old man to send down some other stooge from the Union Square office, I’ll apologize to him in person when I get to town.”
McPherson closed his eyes for a moment, then blew out a big, pent-up breath and shook his head disgustedly. Turning away from Liam, he walked across the room with a heavy step until he reached the curtained windows, where he parted the drapes just enough to peer down into the street.
“Three months I’ve been sitting in this dump,” he muttered, “just waiting to see if there’s any way I can help strengthen the case against the Mollies. Once they sentenced them to death you’d think they’d let me out of here, but no, suddenly they’re afraid the gang will stage a raid and spring the lot of them. So I ask them for someone on the spot to keep an eye on Boylan, and sure enough, you show up like Young Lochinvar and discover the great tunnel conspiracy. OK, I sez, that’s covered, can I go now? But no again, they want me to supervise you.”
He turned back towards Liam and his voice went up an angry notch:
“Does Mr. P. offer me any extra pay for sitting here like the Man in the Iron Mask? No, of course he doesn’t, he’s so damn tight he’d make an Ulster Scotsman look like a drunken sailor. So I have to sit here counting my pennies while Mr. Gowen pours money into the Agency’s coffers, and every last one of those dollars is on me, McCool. If it wasn’t for the memo I wrote about the Molly Magees, Mr. P.’s outfit would have bust like an empty pot once the banks started going under. The reason there is a Pilkington’s office in Chicago now is because of me, and you can tell the Old Man I said so!”
With that, he dropped into an armchair like a marionette with its strings cut and stared dejectedly at the ceiling. After a moment he added in a sarcastic tone:
“Is there anything else I can do for you, McCool? If not, get out before I decide to shoot you after all.”
Liam hesitated, tempted to let the Great Detective find out the hard way. Then he shrugged the thought aside. All that old bastard Pilkington would need to justify breaking his word was for anything to happen to McPherson that Liam should have warned him about.
“As a matter of fact, there is something else: I had it from Boylan himself that you’ve been spotted in Pottsville and it probably won’t be long till they figure out where you’ve been holed up. Sounds to me like you’ve let your cover slip.”
The big beefy map of Boylan’s face abruptly went from a boiled pink to a fish-belly white. He licked his lips a couple of times as if he couldn’t swallow, then waved his hand sharply at Liam:
“Get out!”
Liam nodded, started to answer and then thought better of it; he didn’t actually wish McPherson any harm, but he for damned sure didn’t wish him well, either.
“Good luck,” he said in an ambiguous tone.
Then he opened the door, checked the hallway in both directions, and left.
Chapter Eleven
Heading down the hall towards the central stairway Liam felt relief surge through him like a tumbler of whiskey on an empty stomach. He knew it was foolish, in fact he was pretty sure McPherson meant him real harm and that they’d be locking
horns again soon. The Great Detective was known to colleagues and crooks alike as a vindictive enemy who clung to his grudges like a barnacle and savored the prospect of revenge like a Sicilian.
But Liam wasn’t in the mood for dark thoughts. Tomorrow could look after itself and right now he felt like Sinbad the Sailor after he’d got the Old Man of the Sea off his back. All he had to do was kill an hour or so until the Pennsy’s New York Express steamed in and then he’d be on his way to the promised land.
Lost in a pleasant daydream of the places he’d visit on his first day back home, Liam was snapped out of it instantly by the sight of a gorgeous redhead marching down the hall towards him like she was trampling out the Grapes of Wrath plus anything else that might get in her way. She was wearing a light Spring frock that did nothing much to hide ample curves rivaling Maggie’s and she had that same translucent redhead’s pallor. The face was different—more of an Irish country girl than Maggie had been—but she surely had that same go-to-hell look. As she drew level with him he tipped his hat appreciatively:
“Morning, Miss.”
She threw her head back as she passed and gave him an angry “hmph!” for his pains, which tickled him so much that he had to turn around and watch her as she strode away.
He heard a chuckle behind him: “I wouldn’t bother, sir.”
He turned to see one of the Excelsior’s liveried bellmen, a plump middle-aged man with a red face and a redder nose, grinning at him widely.
“She’s a corker, all right, but just now I think she’s taken.”
Liam returned the smile, adding a touch of male complicity. “Too bad. Who’s the lucky fellow?”
“Would you believe it, sir? He’s some kind of preacher!” With an ironic snort he pointed down the hall and Liam turned just in time to catch the redhead rapping smartly on the door he had just exited from.
“Come out of there this instant!” she yelled, “I know yer in there, ye lying blarney-monger!”
Her accent was fresh off the boat, and her voice was so loud and shrill that McPherson—clearly hoping to shut her up—opened the door quickly and dragged her inside.
The bellman shook his head disapprovingly. “What’s the world coming to, sir, I ask you? First we get that fancy-pants Reverend Beecher that was tried for adultery last year, him preaching the Holy Writ on Sundays and diddling the chippies on weekdays, and now here’s another randy old goat chasing the young quim—probably doesn’t even take off his backwards collar when he climbs aboard!”
“He’s got more than one girl, then, does he?”
“Why, bless you sir, he’s built up a regular harem! He goes out most nights after it’s dark drinking and tom-catting around, but he has his special sweeties. Eileen, there, she’s one of Mrs. Olliphant’s girls and pretty much his favorite. But I think he’s taken to sparking somebody else on the side—Miss Eileen flounced in yesterday fuming and fussing and asking where he’d been keeping himself the last few days.”
There was the secret of the Great Detective’s broken cover right there, Liam mused. He wasn’t the only skirt-chaser in town who resorted to Mrs. Olliphant’s girls; in fact, it was even money that Mrs. Olliphant’s was where Morrison had first seen McPherson. Liam smiled wryly and shook his head in pretended wonderment. He couldn’t help thinking of the little book that Mr. P. made every new operative memorize from cover to cover: Fundamental Tenets of Pilkington’s International Detective Agency.
The old hypocrite had figured from the beginning that his business would never grow if people thought of the Agency the way they did of the regular police, which was pretty much: “set a thief to catch a thief.” There wasn’t a city in the U.S. where coppers were paid enough to live on, so they made up the difference any way they could and only greenhorns believed the police were honest. Mr. P.’s answer was to insist that his operatives set shining examples of honesty, sobriety, and probity—that way the big-money customers he liked best would feel easy in their minds about putting their problems in the hands of a Pilkington operative. Poor Mr. P.! If he knew that his precious Great Detective “improved the shining hour” by boozing and lifting petticoats he’d have a seizure.
“Well,” Liam said aloud, “let’s hope the parson mends his wicked ways before someone tells his Bishop about it.” He gave the bellman a wink, tipped his hat, and headed off down the stairs.
Once he was back on the street Liam could scarcely restrain himself from breaking into song. A beautiful day, his hated Mollies disguise consigned to the trash bin, McPherson done with for now and the gold for a ticket to New York in his money belt. Filling his lungs with the insipid country air, he grinned as he thought how good it would be to be back in the city, breathing in the familiar fug of steam engines, horse droppings, factory smoke, and the dank vapors of two rivers and an ocean.
“You seem awfully cheerful, Mr. McCool.”
Liam almost jumped out of his skin as the musical voice came from behind him.
“Sorry! Did I startle you?”
Becky Fox’s merry grin gave the lie to her apology as she cocked her head and examined the new (and somewhat flustered) Liam.
“You could give a fellow a heart attack, Miss Fox.”
Her grin widened: “I should have thought you were much too young and healthy for that, Mr. McCool. Unless—like Samson—your haircut has enfeebled you.”
Liam returned the grin and decided to stop complaining. He crooked his elbow, inviting Becky to put her arm through his:
“May I accompany you to your destination, Miss Fox?”
She took his arm and moved close to his side, which he found a lot more disturbing than he had expected.
“I would be delighted,” she said. “As a matter of fact I believe we’re bound for the same place.”
He gave her quizzical look: “I’m not going back to Henderson’s Patch, you know?”
“Neither am I. That’s why I thought we might travel together.” She gave him a sidelong look, enjoying his mystification.
“That’s too many for me,” Liam said with a hint of exasperation. “I don’t know where you’re going, but you do know where I’m going. Are you a psychic too?”
Unable to restrain herself, she burst into a peal of laughter. “I am so sorry,” she said at last, “but you really are such fun to tease—even better than my brother, and I had thought he was very nearly perfect.”
Becky Fox was certainly full of surprises, Liam thought, not the least of which was how fresh and girlish she looked for a woman who had been locked up in the Leonard Street prison and chased across Mexico by a pack of moustached bandidos. Not to mention traveling on foot to Omsk with a convoy of Siberian prisoners and riding camelback across the deserts of Arabia with a band of Bedouins.
“As a matter of fact,” she added with a small touch of contrition, “Inspector Barlow knew I was leaving today so he sought me out this morning and asked me to bring you a message.”
Liam nodded slowly, wishing for a moment that he was a mentalist—could Barlow possibly have told her about his undercover work for Pilkington’s?
“Don’t worry, Mr. McCool, your secret is safe with me.” Liam struggled to suppress a wince and Becky pretended not to notice it. “Miss O’Shea and I had been corresponding before I came here and she had already told me a good deal about the Pilkington Agency’s involvement with the Mollies. That’s why I came here, hoping to interview her more fully and of course …” she spread her hands ruefully, “you know the rest.”
This was a lot more than Liam had been prepared for. He grasped at the nearest straw: “So what was Barlow’s message?”
“Apparently he’d had a telegram from Mr. Pilkington in New York saying that there had been ‘developments’ in the investigation of the mysterious Lukas, and that he wanted you there as fast as the railroad might bring you.”
Well, thought Liam, that’s torn it. Pilkington sucks me into his business by wrapping it up with mine—at this rate I’ll never be free of the
old bastard.
“Also,” Becky continued, “he said you would want to know that when the firemen finally put out the blaze he found footprints in Mr. Morrison’s room.”
Instantly Liam’s brain was racing: “Did he, now? Did he describe them?
She reached into her reticule: “He did better, he made a tracing.”
She handed Liam a strip of butcher’s paper on which the prints of a pair of small men’s shoes had been traced with a heavy pencil. Not the pointy-toed opera style this time, normal walking boots … but the size looked about the same to Liam.
“Inspector Barlow said that it looked like the killer had stepped in Morrison’s blood but hadn’t troubled to clean up the prints, probably expecting them to burn up along with everything else.”
Liam nodded. Then it couldn’t have been Lukas that actually pulled the trigger after all, nor Boylan either—as far as he knew they had both left town by the time of Morrison’s murder. Not that any of that was graven in stone: he was sure that it had been Morrison’s killer he’d shot at on the Stanley Flyer, and anybody with the money to keep one of those handy could have transferred to a big delta-wing somewhere outside of town and been in New York lickety-split.
Liam folded the paper carefully and stowed it away inside his jacket: when he had enough other evidence to be dead certain who the killer was he could fool around checking footprints. Till then they were just one more clue, and at this point he didn’t want more clues, he just wanted to get his hands on Lukas.
“My most sincere thanks, Miss Fox.” He laughed. “You’ve just helped Barlow make the whole business even more complicated.”
“That’s a woman’s mission, is it not, Mr. McCool?” She gave him a solemn look. “Now,” she said, tugging his arm in the direction of the hotel’s cab rank, “while we drive to the station you can explain to me how it is that you managed to learn Russian and French while becoming the King of New York’s Silk-Stocking Cracksmen.”
King of the Cracksmen Page 10