by Len Levinson
A clerk appeared at his door. ‘Lady to see you, sir.’
Inspector Richardson examined the shapely widow in black as she sat on the chair opposite him. A veil covered her face.
‘How may I help you?’
‘I’d like to receive information about a certain person.’
She couldn’t hide her voice. Richardson pegged her age at mid-to-late twenties. ‘His or her name?’
‘John Stone. Lives at Miss Rosie Donahue’s on Russian Hill. He’s been injured, and I want daily reports of his progress. I especially want to know when he’s up and around. Can you take the assignment?’
‘Your name, please?’
‘You don’t need to know my name.’
‘Then we’ll require payment in advance.’
~*~
Dr. Terry finished sewing a knife wound on the pectoral muscle of a bearded man who’d just won a fight downstairs in the saloon. ‘Next! ’
A neat young gentleman in a plaid suit entered the doctor’s office, closed the door, showed his Pinkerton badge. ‘Wonder if I could ask you a few questions about one of your patients, Captain John Stone.’
The doctor made his warm crinkly smile. ‘Sorry, but patient information is privileged. You’ll need a court order.’
The private detective placed fifty dollars on the desk. Dr. Terry covered it with his delicate surgeon’s hand.
‘What exactly would you like to know?’
~*~
The private detective took a carriage to Russian Hill, rode past Joint Stone’s hotel, then got out on the next block. Ahead was the Pickwick Arms. He entered the lobby and found a buxom fortyish woman behind the desk.
‘I wonder if I could rent a room with a northern exposure.’
‘We happen to have two available.’
She led him to the second floor and unlocked a door. He walked to the window and viewed John Stone’s hotel, plus his front and back yards. An ideal observation post.
‘Like it?’ the hotelkeeper asked, an insinuating tone in her voice.
The intent of her smile was unmistakable, but a Pinkerton man never deviates from his path. ‘I’ll take this one, and I’d like to be alone.’
‘If you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask.’ With a twinkle of her eyes, she left the room.
~*~
Amanda received repents of Stone’s progress every morning. Growing stronger. Left arm improving. Generally cheerful of disposition. Should be outdoors in a week. Visited by a cowboy named Slim Simpson and the gambler Derek Canfield.
Amanda lay the report on her coffee table. Derek Canfield. She remembered him at Stone’s side the night of the shootout. Evidently he warned John Stone about Frankie Bendigo.
She chafed at inactivity, couldn’t concentrate on reading, had no (me to write to, nothing interested her except revenge.
She paced the door back and forth, hands behind her back, wearing her black dress, hair in a bun.
Randy practiced before every assignment. Left nothing to chance. Neither had Frankie Bendigo. Is there anything I should do to prepare myself? Might not be easy to stick a knife into a man ’s back. Maybe I should try with somebody else, to make sure.
~*~
John Stone sat propped against a pillow, feeding himself beef stew. Derek Canfield, cheroot sticking out his yellowed teeth, lounged on a chair next to the bed.
‘Thought I’d stop by to see how you’re doing. Was here a few other times but you were asleep.’ The gambler blew smoke rings into the air. ‘Amanda LaFollette (hopped out of sight Did you get a good look at her?’
‘Couldn’t see much through the veil.’
‘Nice figure.’
‘Maybe she’s looking for another gunfighter.’
‘She’ll have to go to Denver or Abilene to find someone of your ability. By the time she gets back, you’ll be gone.’
‘The Pinkertons can find anybody.’
‘In a town or city, maybe. But if you go to the mountains, they’ll never run you down. By the way, I have one of Marie’s blouses in my dresser. She left it behind by mistake. Next time I come over, I’ll bring it.’
‘Ever been to the Comstock Saloon?’
‘A stinking dive, but not without its charm.’
‘Feller named Tommy lives upstairs. Know who he is? Shaved head, tattoos, ugly as sin.’
‘That’s Tommy Cullen. He owns the Comstock, and they say he’s the top man in the Sydney Ducks. Wouldn’t get on his bad side, I was you.’
~*~
Derek Canfield moved over the boarded sidewalk in long strides. He thought about John Stone, whom he just visited. Marie described him accurately. Steady under pressure, brave as hell. Maybe someday I’ll tell him the truth about Marie and me.
A woman bumped into him. Her purse fell to the sidewalk. He bent over and retrieved it. His eyes measured her as he arose. ‘Your purse, madam.’ He tipped his hat.
Lustrous black hair, dark green velvet coat. She accepted the purse. ‘Aren’t you Derek Canfield the gambler?’
‘Have we met?’
‘You were pointed out to me one night by a friend. She said you’re a very wicked man.’
‘I just play cards, and if any should sprout from my sleeve, I’m not to blame.’ He scratched his neck, the jack of hearts zipped into his hand. It disappeared quickly as it came.
‘Could you teach me the trick?’ she asked.
Is she a prostitute? But prostitutes don’t wear wedding rings. Another bored wife on the prowl? ‘How about right now?’
‘Have to meet my husband for dinner. Afterward he’s leaving for Palo Alto.’
‘Midnight? he handed her a key. ‘Black Swan Hotel. Room twenty-one.’
~*~
John Stone played with his knives, one given him by Apaches in Arizona, the other came from Black Wing, of the Lakota Sioux.
Both blades were approximately ten inches long, made of steel sharpened like razors, but there resemblance ended. The Apache knife had a plain wood handle, all business. The Sioux knife’s handle was bone, carved in the images of a turtle, horse, eagle, and lobo. He lay the Apache knife aside and wrapped his fingers around the Sioux knife.
He remembered Black Wing, son of a Sioux chief, who invited Stone to live with his tribe. Injuns have a majesty and decency we can’t touch Maybe, when I’m well, I’ll go to the Lakota Sioux. Might even find a nice unspoiled squaw.
Quarter to eleven, Derek Canfield rushed home through dark mysterious streets. The last pot substantial, an Army officer from the Presidio kept bucking him up. But the officer ran out of money, and Canfield walked away with the pot, nearly three hundred dollars. Hated, he entered the front door of his hotel.
Across the street, in a doorway, Amanda LaFollette watched through slitted eyes. Canfield disappeared into the lobby. She checked the silver dagger and Smith & Wesson in her purse. Hair combed, cosmetics perfect, latest Paris fashions, determined to commit murder for experience, she felt strangely disembodied, as though watching herself from above. A month ago she slept in her husband's arms, now haunted the streets of Frisco like a vampire, searching for blood. She felt tense and unsure. Can I kill him? He's an innocent man. But he warned John Stone, in the enemy camp.
She crossed the street, let herself into the lobby with the key he'd given her. She climbed to the second floor, knocked on his door. Derek Canfield opened it, smiling with pleasure. He loved to play the cavalier. ‘Let me take your coat.’
He peeled it away. Flames roared in the fireplace. He led her to two glasses, champagne in an ice bucket, one candle burning beside a single red rose in a tall, thin glass vase. The setting said seduction by a master. She casually dropped the shawl from her shoulders.
He measured her like an aesthetician. Excellent bone formation. Not deficient in the bosom. Wild look in her eyes. A stroke of good fortune, and about time. He popped the cork from the bottle of champagne, filial their glasses. ‘To us.’
They sipped bubbly fragrance. A log f
ell in the fireplace. He moved from his seat, rearranged wood with the poker. Embers crackled and exploded. She looked at his glass, while his back was to her. If I had poison...
He returned to his chair. Something strange about her. Smile a little false. ‘Are you visiting San Francisco or do you live here?’
‘Just passing through.’
‘What business is your husband in?’
‘The financial business.’ She glanced about the room. A painting of Robert E. Lee hung above the bedboard. ‘Gambling must be lucrative.’
‘Only when I treat it like business, but sometimes even I want to gamble, such as now with you. Your husband might shoot me, but I’d consider it a privilege to die for someone lovely as you.’
‘One shouldn’t tempt the gods.’
‘If they tempt me, why can’t I tempt them?’
She reached toward the purse at her feet, her fingers closed around the handle of the silver dagger, she drew it through the folds of her skirt. ‘Don’t worry about my husband. I don’t think he’d care. He’s probably got a mistress in Palo Alto.’
‘Does that bother you?’
‘Not as long as he lets me do the same thing.’
‘Life is barren without love. I couldn’t live without it.’ Her eyes twinkled with mischief. ‘But what’s love? No one’s ever explained it. A meaningless word concocted by feeble minds.’
‘Not only a word.’ He touched his heart. ‘It’s a feeling that came the moment I saw you. Who cares about philosophers and fools? I know you felt it too.’
He took her hand. She arose, silver dagger concealed in her black velvet skirt. He grasped her waist, she carefully positioned the weapon opposite his kidney.
‘You’re ravishing,’ he whispered.
He bent his knees, moved his lips into position for the first tantalizing kiss. She raised her face toward him and showed her tongue. He moved closer, their lips touched. She moaned softly, right arm tense and poised, saw her beloved husband lying dead on a Lodestone street With a scream of outrage, she drove the knife into Derek Canfield. His knees buckled underneath the pain, an expression of surprise on his face. Vital organs hemorrhaged gouts of blood. Derek Canfield tried to understand. Blurred vision showed a woman with a bloody silver dagger in her white-knuckled hand. ‘Why?’ he whispered.
Feebly he raised his trembling hands to protect himself. Amanda swept his defense aside with her left arm, ripped his throat with the silver dagger. Canfield dropped to the floor.
Amanda wiped the dagger on the bedspread, made sure she left no personal belongings. Blood splattered her sleeves and the front of her dress. She extinguished the light and went out the door. Halfway down the stairs she caught herself. I didn’t make sure he was dead. But nobody can survive a severed jugular. Her head swam with blood. I know how to kill.
~*~
Slipchuck carried in a breakfast tray and the morning newspaper. ‘Guess what happened last night? Somebody knifed Derek Canfield!’
Stone picked up the paper.
GAMBLER KILLED
Mysterious Circumstances Derek Canfield, a gambler who arrived in San Francisco approximately a month ago, was found dead last night by a lady friend who come to visit at his hotel.
Canfield was brutally knifed by one or more assailants, according to police. Robbery apparently was not a motive. Police say no signs who lost heavily at of struggle were observed. Two avenues of speculation me being pursued: a jealous husband or someone cards.
Canfield was a notorious ladies’ man, and wasn’t above dealing from the bottom of the deck.
‘We found an ace of spades up his sleeve,’ said Officer O’Mally, first policeman on the scene. ‘But it couldn’t beat the knife his killer had.’
~*~
Stone devoured breakfast. Except for mild pain and weakness, he felt nearly normal. He could even use his left hand clumsily. Soon as I tie up loose ends, I’m out of this city.
He dressed, pulled on his boots, strapped on armament. In front of the mirror, he quick-drew. Slow. He made a list of things to do, put on his Confederate cavalry hat, glanced at himself in the mirror one last time. Pale, lost weight, he worked the fingers of his left hand. Another week, he’d be good as new.
Slipchuck waited at the bottom of the stairs. ‘Where the hell you goin’ this time?’
‘Canfield’s hotel.’
‘You’re in no condition to be alone, damn fool. Wait fer me.’
Stone sat in the parlor. Slipchuck returned with Rosie, holding each other’s hand. ‘Johnny, got something to tell you. Rosie and I have decided to sell the hotel. We’re a-goin’ into the cattle business in Texas, and want you to ramrod. Everything works out, you’ll git a piece of the place.’
Medication coursed through Stone’s veins. He saw an old man and woman bent with years, but also the young whip-snapping stagecoach driver and the pretty little prairie queen.
‘I’ll give you my answer when I feel better,’ he said, heading for the door. Slipchuck came after him. In the front yard, Muggs perked up his earn. He moved slowly toward Stone, additional weight on his bones.
‘Why do you feed him so much?’
‘Don’t feed him nawthin’,’ Slipchuck replied.
‘Why’s he so fat?’ Stone patted the dog’s head. ‘I’m not feeling so hot, Muggs. You’ll have to watch out for me more than usual.’
The strange trio walked side by side toward the center of town. Stone’s knees felt wobbly, tiny white dots danced before his eyes. He couldn’t swing the left arm backward and forward. Bur a man can’t lay in bed forever. Move around, get the blood going, recover your strength, figure out what to do with your life.
~*~
Two eyes watched his progress carefully. They belonged to the Pinkerton man, sitting patiently by the window, notebook on the table beside him. He checked his pocket watch, wrote the time on his notepad. Subject left hotel, accompanied by old man and dog.
~*~
The antique shop was filled with dusty statues, vases, furniture, oil paintings, stacks of rare old books, posters, everything smelling musty as a grave. Amanda LaFollette shuddered as she approached the bent old man behind the counter.
‘Chauncy Blaine suggested I come here,’ she said.
His shirt collar dirty, a stain on his vest, a sour odor animating from his mouth, he answered, ‘What would madam like?’
She glanced around the shop. No customers in sight, only a young Negro assistant. ‘The powder.’
He studied her with lecherous eyes. ‘Come to my office, please’
She followed him through a narrow corridor stacked with old magazines and carved wood figurines. They came to his roll top desk, more piles of printed materials, statues, paintings. A cobweb extended from the lamp to the wall.
She sat on a chair. He opened the top drawer of his desk and removed two vials. ‘I offer your choice. This works quickly and fairly painlessly. The other causes ten minutes of intense suffering before death. Price is the same for both.’
Amanda cast her eyes downward. ‘Are effects of the poison reversible in the one that takes longer?’
‘Once it’s swallowed, death inevitably follows. Comes from Haiti, where they know about such things.’ He held out the vial. ‘One hundred dollars.’
She handed him the money. He opened another drawer and removed a gold ring encrusted with a large ruby. He held the ruby in his fingers, twisted. A tiny compartment opened. ‘Enough to kill a horse will fit comfortably inside. The preferred method. Five hundred dollars. Satisfaction guaranteed.’
~*~
The desk clerk raised his eyes toward the big broad- shouldered cowboy walking toward him, accompanied by an old man.
‘Derek Canfield was a friend of mine,’ Stone explained. ‘He had something for me in his room. Can I get it?’
‘We can’t let anybody in until next of kin has been notified.’
‘Not going to steal anything. You can come up and watch.’
‘A
gainst the rules of the house.’
Slipchuck dropped five dollars onto the counter.
‘Well...’ said the clerk.
Stone flipped him another five.
‘Only a few minutes. My boss finds out, we’ll all go to jail.’
Stone climbed the stairs one at a time. At the top, his head spun. He strolled unsteadily down the hall. They came to the door. Stone inserted the key. Derek Canfield’s room.
The floor was covered with dried blood, a chair turned over, the table cleared. Slipchuck opened drawers in the dresser. ‘Here’s some women’s stuff over here.’
The bottom drawer contained underwear, stockings, two wrinkled dresses, one blouse. Stone pressed it against his face. Marie’s beautiful Irish face appeared before him. What have I done! Remorse poured over him like boiling oil.
I won't give up the search, Marie. Not now, not ever. The bond between us will never break. I swear it.
~*~
Amanda took the ring out of her purse. Beautiful bauble to deceive the minds of men. She turned the ruby. Smooth hand-tooled action. A deadly instrument, better than a Smith & Wesson, completely camouflaged.
She closed her eyes, shivering. The blood had been horrible, his face grotesque with pain. I've gone too far to stop now.
A boy arrived with an envelope marked PINKERTON agency.
John Stone left his residence at 10:08 A.M., headed for downtown San Francisco, accompanied by an old man and a dog.
~*~
She sat at the table, mindlessly playing with the ring. I'II bring him here. After he's dead, I don't care what happens to me.
Slipchuck grabbed Stone’s sleeve. ‘You’re not a-goin’ in another saloon, are you, Johnny?’
‘I need a drink.’
‘I think you’d better sit on this bench. Look a little green around the gills.’
‘I’ll sit in the saloon.’
Muggs didn’t like the smell of saloons. Once a drunk dumped a spittoon over his head, nearly blinded him for life. The dog overcame his inhibitions and followed them inside. He found a vacant stretch of wall and made himself small.
‘I believe that’s John Stone.’
Tumultuous conversation swirled around John Stone’s ears. At the bar he held up two fingers. The man with the apron. filled the glasses. Stone looked at Marie’s blouse. The label said MISS COLLETTE’S FASHIONS. I can find the store if I walk the streets systematically. But I’ve got to get out of Frisco before something bad happens.