Comstock Lode (1981)

by L'amour, Louis

  "That's not true."

  "Perhaps not, but it appears so. But the thing you must decide, my dear, is what doyou wish to do? If you are not to be an actress, then what? A mistress? That's a play where one never knows how long the run will be, so save your jewels. Put your diamonds away for a rainy day, or a lonely night."

  Rachel glanced at herself in the mirror, frowned, touching her lips with a fingernail. "But you don't want that, either.

  "A rich husband? Why not? There are many of them, married and unmarried, although the best ones are always married.

  "America! I think you should go to America! Run off with one of those dashing cowboys one reads about! Or a handsome man who has his own gold mine!"

  "I am going to America."

  "Of course. We spoke of it, and I, too, shall go. To New York, at least. That woman, that Swedish singer. She has done very well over there."

  "Jenny Lind? Yes, she did, but she's a type, Rachel. She'sdifferent. And then that man who took her over there, that P.T. Barnum, they say he is someone special."

  "Barnum? But he is not even in thetheater! Not really. He deals in fat ladies, dwarfs, and giants. Even elephants. Is that theater?"

  "He has a skill, Rachel. He knows how to get the people to pay to see what he has. It is a skill."

  She brushed it aside. "So? But what of you, Grita? I do not mean Grita the actress, but Grita the person! The woman! What will you do?"

  "Long ago, when I was a very little girl, we started for California. We never got there. Now I shall go."

  "But why?Why?"

  "I really don't know. It's just, well, it's something unfinished. It was a dream we had then. Maybe I just want to see if the dream conforms to the reality."

  "And then?"

  She shrugged a shoulder. "I will come back. Take up my career-oh, I don't know!"

  "There's a man in it somewhere. I just know there is."

  "How could there be? I was achild!"

  "I still say there is a man in it," Rachel insisted. "There just has to be."

  So, after so long a time, she was here. She was in California, in San Francisco, and this was Winn's Branch.

  The man walking toward her table was lean. He wore a gray suit, his light brown hair was parted at the side and had just a slight wave. His beard was neatly trimmed in the Van Dyke fashion. His eyes were gray-blue.

  He bowed slightly. "Miss Redaway? I am Albert Hesketh."

  "How do you do? Will you sit down?"

  He sat down. "I want to thank you for agreeing to meet me. When I heard you were in the city I just had to meet you."

  "Mr. Maguire said you were a friend?"

  "Well, sort of. I am a mining man, actually, but I come here often on business." He glanced at her. There was something disconcerting about his eyes. "Have you been to America before?"

  "It is an amazing country. I really knew nothing about it before I came over, and of course, everyone was talking about California."

  "Of course, and its mines."

  He gave the line a bad reading. Why the emphasis on "mines"? Or was it her imagination?

  "Mines?" Her eyes were wide. "I thought, well, I understood there were no mines, that they just washed the gold out of streams with pans or something."

  "There is that, too. The richest gold is, I believe, underground. They dig for it."

  "I wouldn't like that. It must be very hard work."

  He puzzled her. Accustomed to the attentions of men, she had become quite skilled in reading them, but there was something about this one she did not understand. A skilled actress, she had learned much about the use of the body in revealing or concealing what one was thinking.

  "You should play Virginia City," he said. "We are all hungry for theater there, and as yet we have had very little. You could see some of our mines at first hand."

  "I know nothing of mining." A memory returned. "I did hear some stories about tommy-knockers once."

  He smiled. "All rubbish. There's no such thing. Some of the more superstitious miners believe in them."

  He tasted his wine. She did not believe he liked it. "I am afraid my own approach is more prosaic. When I think of mines I think of investments, of mining stock. Of course," he added, "much of that old stock isn't worth the paper it is printed on. It is different now when we have some solidly established companies."

  Deliberately she guided the conversation away from mines and mining to the theater, San Francisco, Paris, and life in Virginia City. Several times he seemed to want to get back to mining, but she avoided the topic.

  The inner thoughts of people were often revealed by the usage of words or by slips of the tongue. Why the sudden reference to "old" stock? Nothing had been said about it, so there must be something in his own mind.

  She glanced at her watch. "Oh! I didn't realize it was so late! Mr. Hesketh? Would you like to escort me back to the International?"

  "Yes, yes, of course."

  They started out, encountering James Stark and his wife. They paused, talking of his planned production ofRichelieu, a play in which he had enjoyed considerable success. Hesketh stood aside, listening but understanding very little.

  At the International she held out her hand to him. "It has been very pleasant, Mr. Hesketh. Thank you."

  "May I see you again?"

  She had started to turn away. Hesitating, she said, "We begin rehearsals soon. Perhaps. We will see."

  "But how am I-"

  "Just come by the hotel and ask for me. Or come by the theater, if you will. You see, Mr. Hesketh, my time is not my own. I am committed to play this part, and people are expecting me to do so."

  Albert Hesketh turned away, irritated. He walked a half block and stopped, suddenly swept by an almost blinding fury. He hated frustration of any kind, hated resistance or anything that did not bend to his wishes.

  From his room in the Virginia Hotel in Virginia City, it had seemed a simple thing to travel to San Francisco, meet Grita Redaway, and buy her stock from her. If she did, in fact, have the stock.

  All he had accomplished was to meet her. They had talked, and he had learned nothing. He did not even know if she had the stock. All he knew was from a few notes he had found scratched in a ledger to the effect that Will Crockett had sold a certain number of shares to a person who proved to have been related to Grita Redaway, and that Grita had inherited the estate.

  Did Grita Redaway still have the shares? Had she sold them? Thrown them away? And if she had them, did she have them with her? Actually in her possession?

  He swore bitterly. Now what? He should be back in Virginia City and yet he dared not leave here. Someone else might come to her with a flat-out offer.

  He could do that, himself. He would then know whether she had them or not, and if she would sell. At the same time he would be tipping his hand, and she would assume the shares had value and might even make inquiries. Remembering Grita, he thought she was very likely the type.

  The more he thought about her, the more worried he became. His big chance was now. He had control of the Solomon. He could become an extremely wealthy, powerful man, and he had planned it that way, planned every step.

  Yet those ten outstanding shares could destroy him. He would have the income, but not the control, not the power. What an exasperating woman!

  He had to control himself. He had to see her again. Somehow he had to get those shares, but if she refused to sell, what then?

  What, indeed?

  The trail to Virginia City was improved, but still rough. Stagecoaches went over it now, and stagecoaches were occasionally held up.

  If she had the shares, she might have them with her. If he could not buy them, he might at least keep them from the hands of anyone else.

  Suppose someone went through her room at the hotel? A quick search, if carefully handled, might extract the shares and leave all else undisturbed. It might be weeks before the shares were missed.

  He could not do it himself. There was too much risk i
nvolved. He needed a thief, a skilled thief.

  Marcus Zetsev. He would know a thief. He dealt with them.

  Hesketh shrank from taking anyone into his confidence, from permitting anyone to know what he was doing or planning. He trusted no one, yet there was no one else to whom he might go who would have the same kind of knowledge. Moreover, he and Zetsev were already allies.

  But suppose Zetsev got the shares for himself?

  Hesketh stopped at the corner and bought a newspaper. All the papers contained was talk of war. Now would be the time to make a pot of money, if a man had the capital to invest.

  Leather, wool, metals, foodstuffs-all would be in demand.

  He would see Marcus. He would know of someone. He had no need to tell him anything. Marcus could get one of those from whom he bought goods; he need only point him out to Hesketh. That would be the way.

  In the meantime he would make an effort to see Grita again. She was, after all, an extremely attractive woman.

  Marcus Zetsev was in his office when Albert Hesketh entered the ship chandlery. He could see him through the open door, and he sat watching him for several minutes.

  Marcus Zetsev had known and dealt with all kinds. He knew how to handle the tough ones, the tricky ones, the ones who might suddenly become deadly. And he was not at all sure about Albert Hesketh.

  Zetsev trusted no man or woman, and least of all those who dealt with him. Usually, within a few minutes, he had each one catalogued. It was not so with Hesketh.

  That the man was a thief he knew at once. That he was a plotter and a conniver he also knew. There were some other things he did not know. Hesketh might be harmless, but Zetsev suspected he was not.

  Getting up he walked to the door. "Al? Come on in!"

  Hesketh stiffened at the familiarity. Who was this upstart, this--

  Hesketh relaxed slowly.Don't be a fool! he warned himself.You need this man.

  When the door was closed, Hesketh sat down on the edge of his chair. "Marcus," he said, "I need a thief."

  Marcus Zetsev was not surprised.

  Chapter XXVI

  On the fourth day Grita moved from her room in the International to a small flat higher up on the hill with a lovely view of the harbor and the lower city. On that side of the house she had a small balcony, shielded from view, where she often sat in the morning. It was there she studied her lines.

  Her view from the balcony allowed her to look across the roof of the house next door, which was lower down the rather steep hill, and on the right side it looked down upon the street, and on that side the wall of the balcony was shoulder height with a few threadlike interstices that provided a limited view of the street.

  Thus she had the fresh sea air, occasionally the sunlight, yet privacy.

  Sophie Edwin, a longtime favorite of the San Francisco theater, came to see the flat. "You will be robbed. Perhaps killed. It is not for a woman to live alone in San Francisco."

  "Nonsense! I am not afraid." She gestured toward the bedroom. "I have my little friend."

  "What? You? We had always heard that you had no man. I will admit that with a woman as beautiful as you are, I doubted that, but-"

  "It is not a man." She stepped into the bedroom and returned with a derringer in her hand. It had twin barrels, one over the other. "See? It is a .44, and I should not hesitate to use it."

  "Put it away! Please! I'm afraid of the things. There were several shootings in Sacramento when I was there. That man Trevallion-"

  "Who?"

  "Trevallion. He was a miner, I think, or a prospector. He was said to have killed a man named Rory over a card game. Caught him cheating, or something. You'd never have thought it to see him, either. He looked the perfect gentleman, and handsome! Had I been a few years younger-"

  "You're young enough."

  "Maybe." She paused, sipping her tea. 'There was a story, though. Everybody was talking about it. There was some sort of conversation between them before the shooting, talk that had nothing to do with cards or the game. Something about some trouble back in Missouri. I never got the hang of it."

  "Trevallion, you say?"

  "It's an uncommon name. He was pointed out to me once, in the theater. He was always there, for every production. And always alone."

  "You seem to remember him well."

  "Who would not? He was a striking figure of a man, and then there was that night when Johnny Ferguson went up in his lines."

  "We've all done that."

  "Of course, and it was in an easy place. All he had to do was step off the stage, but the fool stood there gasping for words like a fish out of water."

  "What was the play?"

  "Francesca da Rimini,Boker's play. It was right at the end of the first act, and Johnny was playing Lanciotto. He got to the lines 'A neighing steed, a fiery onset, and a stubborn fight rouse my dull blood,' and he came up empty. He repeated it 'rouse my dull blood... rouse my dull blood...' and he stopped cold.

  "Then it happened. Trevallion leaned over the railing and said,

  '... tire my body down

  To quiet slumbers when the day is o'er,

  And night above me spreads her spangled tent,

  Lit by the dying cresset of the moon.

  Ay, that's it; I am homesick for the camp.'

  "I must say he read them damned well, too, and Johnny, thanks be to God, had the grace to turn, doff his plumed helmet, and give him as fine a bow as I've seen, and the crowd loved it. Johnny left the stage to the best round of applause he had all season."

  "Is he living there? In Sacramento?"

  "Who knows? He's the type not to stay anywhere long. We all heard about him, of course, as we heard all those stories about shootings and knifings.

  "The Rory story stayed alive a lot longer because a friend of his was killed not long after. They were very bad characters and when the two were killed so close together the papers made a lot of it. This man Skinner and Rory had been friends in Missouri."

  As though it were no more than an hour ago Grita heard his voice, his small boy's voice, but it was suddenly stern, and she had been frightened. She heard him say it.I will kill them. I will kill every one of them. I will kill them or die trying. "Did Trevallion kill Skinner, too?"

  "Skinner? Oh, no! At least, I don't think he did. Nobody ever connected him with it that I know of."

  "Is he-I mean, have you heard of him since?"

  "No, it's like I said. He's a drifter. The chances are he's gone to the Comstock. That's where they will all be until there's a new boom somewhere."

  Sophie glanced at her curiously. "Since when did you become interested in gunfighters?"

  "I'm not, only-and please don't mention this, I think I knew him."

  "Rory?"

  "Trevallion. As you said, it's an unusual name. I think I knew him once when I was a very little girl. He sounds like a boy I knew. And that was his name. Only we called him Val."

  That evening she received a gift of roses from Hesketh. They were very beautiful and only a simple note:In admiration, and signed with his full name.

  Sunlight was dancing on the bay when she came out on her little balcony and settled down to go over her lines. After a few minutes she put the pages down and just sat, enjoying the mild warmth and the view over the bay, where several sailing craft were moving about.

  Occasionally someone passed along the street below, and she was aware of them without really noticing. One man turned the corner and started up the street on the opposite side. Twice he paused and he seemed to be looking up at the balcony where she was. There was no way he could see her, however, as she was hidden by the high side. On the corner he paused, a lean, blond-haired man, sunken in the chest and sallow of complexion.

  He lit a cigarette, continuing to watch. For the first time she really noticed him. There was no question about it, the man was watching her balcony, or at least her corner of the house. After a bit he went on up the street. Disturbed, she went inside and looked around quic
kly, for the first time realizing how vulnerable she was.

  True, there was the derringer. She had found it among some things of her father's in an old chest. She knew how to load it and how to use it. If someone broke in while she was there, she would not hesitate to fire.

  What if someone came when she was gone? She had very little jewelry that was of value and nothing worth stealing but that and what little money she had.

  There were, of course, some old letters and papers that had belonged to her father and mother, and someone might assume they were of value because they were in an old wallet of her father's.

  She had played too many melodramas not to know all the obvious hiding places under pillows, mattresses, or carpets, behind loose stones in a hearth or fireplace. The small dining area was separated from the rest of the room by colonnades made from yellow pine. The pedestal was four feet high, with leaded glass doors and a column about seven inches in diameter supporting a beam with a seven-inch drop. That beam was of panels, and when dusting on her first day, she discovered that the bottom panel in one of the beams would slide in its grooves.

  Taking her packet of papers and a few odds and ends of jewelry, she slid back the panel and placed them inside the beam, sliding the panel back into place. It was not the best hiding place but might defeat a hasty search.

  On her way to the theater she glanced back and saw the man standing on the street. He was not looking at her.

  Probably, she thought, somebody who works in the area. Nonetheless she was disturbed.

  The rehearsal went as they usually did; some of it went well, much did not. Nevertheless, the play was taking shape.

  She was preparing to leave the theater when the stage manager put his head in the door. "A gentleman to see you, Miss Redaway. A Mr. Hesketh."

  Later, in the foyer of the theater, he showed her some tickets. "For Tucker's Academy of Music," he said. "Lotta Crabtree is performing there tonight, and I thought you'd like to see her. I have three tickets," he added, "if you'd like to bring a friend."

  Everyone was talking about Lotta, the little girl who had been entertaining in the mining camps and was rapidly becoming California's most popular actress.