Comstock Lode (1981)

by L'amour, Louis

  She changed the cool cloths on Crockett's brow, then came to stand beside him. "This isn't a play," she said, "this is real."

  "It is," he agreed, "but you're playing it as though you had rehearsed it all your life."

  She took hold of his left arm, very gently. "I have," she said.

  Chapter XLVII

  Albert Hesketh ate his breakfast at the International and then walked the few blocks to the offices of the Solomon.

  Santley had the reports from the mine on his desk, all neatly laid out. He must, Hesketh was thinking, buy another mill. There was money to be saved, and he suspected the mill operators were not as honest as they should be.

  He had been a fool to enter Margrita's rooms at the hotel, but time was running short and he needed those shares. Every bit of evidence he had accumulated indicated they were in her possession. Knowing she was coming here, she surely would not have come without them. Yet a moment later and he would have been caught going through her desk.

  Trevallion, now he had seen the man. He was different than he had suspected, much sharper, cool, and there was something about the man's eyes that disturbed him. It was Hesketh's nature that he despised all men and held them in contempt, yet this man, this Trevallion, was dangerous.

  The coolness displayed at the killing of Kip Hauser was not what he would have suspected. From first to last, by all reports, Trevallion had been in command of the situation, quick to perceive danger, and acting with deliberation and no sign of panic. Such a man, who lived with awareness, would be difficult to kill as Waggoner had already discovered.

  There was a knock on the door, and at his call, Santley entered. "We've opened Number Three, sir, and the men have begun stoping it out. The vein at that point is thirty-five feet wide and very rich, the best yet."

  "Thank you, Santley. That's good news."

  Santley lingered, and Hesketh looked up. "Was there something else, Santley?"

  "Yes, sir. There's a rumor in town, sir, that Will Crockett has turned up. He's been badly hurt, but he's said to be alive."

  For a moment his heart seemed to stop but his face showed nothing. "That's very fortunate," he said, "now we can get down to business."

  "Yes, sir."

  Santley turned to go. Obviously, Hesketh thought, Santley had expected more reaction.

  "Where is he staying, Santley? Do you know?"

  "No, sir. I believe it's your own hotel, sir. It was Miss Redaway and Trevallion who brought him in, in one of Jim Ledbetter's wagons."

  "Thank you, Santley. If you hear any more of this you might let me know."

  When the office door closed he got to his feet and walked to the window, looking out over the mountainside. He fought down the panic that surged up inside him. There was more than sixty thousand dollars in this safe and his private safe at the International. Why not take it and run?

  It was a fleeting thought, quickly pushed aside. What he wanted was here, power and position. So far he had won, and now at this setback he must not weaken.

  If Margrita Redaway did have the missing shares, and if she was with Will Crockett, then they had the power to unseat him, to take over. He still would have income from the mine and he had other claims, although nothing like the Solomon.

  He had been so sure that Crockett was dead, although he had never stopped worrying. Waggoner had his instructions, and Waggoner would know that Crockett was back in town.

  Badly hurt, Santley said. Wounded probably, maybe dying. That would be of no use if he made some arrangement with Margrita Redaway.

  The situation was desperate, and it was a time for desperate measures.

  Everything he had worked for, connived for, all of it was at stake. Whatever was done must be done now.

  All three of them must die, and when they were killed he himself must be much in public view, totally unconnected with whatever happened. It had to be quick, it had to be decisive, and it had to be immediate.

  How?

  The first thought was Waggoner, of course. He was close, he was convenient, he could be had. He had failed in the past, but in other cases he had succeeded. He had to reach Waggoner, and some means must be set up to dispose of all three.

  Somehow he had to get them out of the International, at least two of them. If Crockett was in such shape that he could not be moved, he would have to be disposed of right where he was.

  It was then he thought of Mousel.

  Hesketh did not remember when he had first heard of the trouble in Placerville. It was one of countless items he heard and filed away in his memory for future reference. Mousel had been about to kill somebody and Trevallion had stopped it. Mousel, it was said, carried a grudge against Melissa Turney, the man she had recently married, and Trevallion.

  Mousel, for the past several weeks, had been a mucker in the Solomon, a sullen, disagreeable man and a lazy one. Several times the shift boss had wanted to fire him, but Hesketh suggested keeping him on. Now he knew why.

  Dismissing all else from his mind, he worked on plans for the Solomon, the new developments, shipping of ore, and assembling some of the figures pertinent to construction of a mill. All the while at the back of his mind was the problem of Crockett, Trevallion, and Margrita Redaway.

  When Santley came in, Hesketh asked, "How much ore do we have that is ready for milling?"

  "A hundred and fifty tons or so, and we will take out almost that much today."

  Hesketh sat back in his chair. There was cash on hand, unbanked. He would move that to his safe at the hotel, just in case. He would reduce all the ore to cash as quickly as possible. He had no intention of losing the Solomon, but if he didHe thought of Mousel. He knew the type, a man who nursed grudges, who lived by his hatreds and through his hatreds. Such a man could be useful.

  For a time he sat quietly, thinking of what might be done, fighting down the panic that kept creeping up on him.

  All he wanted was here. For a brief time he had held the Solomon, even if by the thinnest of threads, and now they would try to take it from him.

  How long did he have? A day? A week? A month?

  Put on another shift, he told himself, work around the clock, mill the ore at once, and ship the metal. If he lost the Solomon he could take the money and disappear.

  To leave the Solomon? Bitterness was an ugly taste in his mouth. He lunged to his feet, half in panic, half in fury. He would kill them all!

  To leave meant that he would lose not only the Solomon but also Margrita Redaway.

  But he did not have Margrita, and he had a feeling she despised him. Yet, how could she?He owned the Solomon! Women loved power and they loved money, so how could she not admirehim?

  As long as he held the Solomon.

  Why did Crockett have to returnnow? He had been so sure he would not come back. Couldn't they do anything right?

  Santley had been gone for an hour when Hesketh locked the office door and walked down the hill, down along the street to the International. To leave would be unthinkable. Somehow, he must find a way.

  Crockett was in the International, they said. He must find out where. If necessary he would kill him. No knife, a pillow. They would believe he had simply died.

  But he must be careful, very careful, indeed.

  He must have some more men. He must find a man who could recruit for him, who could gather a tough, hardbitten bunch who would be ready to act when he needed them.

  Santley? No. Santley knew little, let him know no more. Never let the left hand know what the right is doing. Let things seem to happen, and be surprised when they do.

  When he entered the hotel it was being decorated for a party. He paused, irritated. "What is it? What's happening?" he asked.

  "A party, sir." The clerk was respectful. "Sandy and Eilley Bowers are back from Europe."

  Hesketh lifted an eyebrow, a faint expression of distaste on his face. He glanced quickly around the lobby. Jacob Teale was nowhere in sight, and he considered that. Had she disposed of his services? W
as he off upon some other task? A chilling thought came: perhaps he was guarding Will Crockett?

  He went to his floor on the elevator. One of two elevators west of Chicago, of which the hotel was inordinately proud.

  He had brought some money from the Solomon, and he opened his own safe, and stored it carefully away. From the safe he took a derringer and a sleeve-holster. From now on he would wear it wherever he went, and he had always carried a boot-knife ready for instant use.

  Again he thought of Margrita. She must be killed, too. Reason argued with his desire to possess her as a showpiece, to parade her as his wife. Physical desire had nothing to do with it. He had never felt such things nor cared. He wanted power and power only, not secret power but obvious power. He wanted people to fear him, to obey him, to step aside for him. He wanted not only power but the trappings of power. A palatial home, a beautiful wife, but above all the power to crush, to destroy.

  And now he was on the verge of losing it all. If the Solomon was taken from him, he must build it all over again, if he could.

  Yet he had no patience for building from the ground up. The basic work, the hard work on the Solomon had been done before he seized it.

  Sandy and Eilley Bowers were giving a party. The thought returned to him suddenly. He liked neither of them. They were strong, hearty people of little taste, warmhearted and generous, but they were boors-in his estimation, they were boors.

  Yet they had friends, and they were generally well-liked, even loved. Hesketh understood that without accepting the reasons why. Their party would be attended by everyone, or almost everyone. The hotel would be crowded, champagne would be flowing like water, and there would be much drunkenness. It would be a night when anything might happen, when anythingcould happen.

  Perfect.

  Waggoner might come but he would not stay, for Waggoner was unsocial. He preferred his own company to that of anyone else. He would enjoy the free food and drinks and then go back to his cabin; so for a time he would be gone.

  Hesketh knew what he would do. The details of the plan fell neatly into place. The panic was gone now, and the blinding rage. He was still, he was cold, he was sure.

  He would pick up a newspaper and he would speak to the headwaiter.

  For a moment he hesitated, thinking it all over carefully. Yes, it was the way. It all depended on timing and a certain amount of chance. But he could gamble. He had gambled before this.

  Albert Hesketh bought a newspaper at the cigarstand and turned toward the dining room. The hotel was already beginning to fill with the Bowerses' guests.

  "I shall be down," he glanced at his watch, "in thirty minutes. I shall want my usual table."

  "But, Mr. Hesketh, Sandy Bowers has taken over the dining room. He is paying for everything. He will arrange-"

  "My usual table," Hesketh replied coolly, "nothing but that. What goes on here tonight is no concern of mine. I shall dine as usual, and I shall return to my rooms. I shall want my usual dinner for Friday nights. No more, no less. And I shall pay for my own dinner."

  "Yes, sir. Of course, sir."

  When he returned, he left his door open just a crack to listen to the movements in the hall outside. There was almost no sound as most of the patrons of the hotel were already down on the lower levels sharing the Bowerses' hospitality. He waited an instant then stepped out, shut his door carefully, and walked down the hall to the stairway. He glanced back. The hall was empty. Swiftly he went down the stairs. He'd had no trouble discovering what room Crockett had been given.

  The lower hall was empty, too, so he walked along briskly and tapped lightly at the door. He waited a moment and tapped again, no answer.

  He tried the knob and it turned easily in his hand. He opened the door and stepped inside. If anyone found him here, he had just come to see if there was anything he could do for his former employer. After all, he'd say, we had our troubles but I really liked the cantankerous old--

  The shades were drawn. A dim light burned at the far side of the room, but other than the man lying on the bed, propped up by pillows, the room was empty.

  There was an empty chair near the light and a newspaper folded beside it, as well as a half-empty cup. The nurse, or whoever had been here, must have just stepped out. He had very little time.

  A spare pillow lay on the floor near the bed. He picked it up and stood for a moment, looking down at Will Crockett.

  The trouble was, he wanted Will to know. He wanted Will Crockett to see him in that last, flickering moment. To see the man he would order around no longer.

  Smiling, he touched Will on the chest, shook him gently.

  "Will? It's Al Hesketh, Will."

  Chapter XLVIII

  The dining room was crowded with men and women clad in all their tawdry best, most of them standing. At an improvised bar champagne was being poured, and men were three deep, awaiting their turn.

  Easing through the crowd, speaking to no one, Hesketh went to his usual table and sat down, opening hisTerritorial Enterprise to the inside. As a harried waiter passed he spoke quickly, "Waiter? How much longer must I wait?"

  "Oh? Sorry, sir. We've been busy with the party. Right away, sir. I'll see to it."

  "You might bring me some more coffee. A fresh cup, if you don't mind." He handed the waiter a cup, left standing on the table by some passerby at the party.

  He straightened around in his chair and took up the newspaper, yet his eyes did not focus.

  Will Crockett was dead. One of the three was gone. One more, at least, must go. He doubted whether anyone in the constantly shifting group in the room had noticed when he had arrived. In any event, they would not be noticing the time.

  Will Crockett was dead. Actually, it had been remarkably easy, perhaps the easiest thing he had ever done. At his voice, Crockett's eyes had flared open and he seemed about to speak or cry out, but the pillow had descended, smothering any outcry, smothering life itself. He could still feel Crockett's clutching hands grabbing his arms. But he was strong in the hands and had always been.

  He had been in the room less than a minute, and then back to his own room, down to the main floor and the dining room.

  It was done, finished.

  He had hated Will Crockett as he hated anything that stood between him and what he wanted.

  Sandy and Eilley Bowers came into the room, glancing his way but neither came over. The fools! Running through their money like a couple of drunken sailors! Didn't they realize it wouldn't last forever?

  The waiter began to serve his dinner, and he folded his paper and placed it further over on the table. Uneasily, he felt his forearms. Those fingers, he could still feel them.

  "Cold, Mr. Hesketh?" the waiter asked.

  "No. No, certainly not. Why should I be cold?"

  Upstairs, in Will Crockett's bedroom, the nurse had returned to her station. All was quiet. Mr. Crockett seemed to be sleeping, and it was just as well. She had slipped out for a quick glass of champagne; she had never tasted the stuff before and was faintly disappointed, expecting something more. She opened her book and began to read. More than a half hour passed before she became disturbed. Pausing as she started to turn a page, she listened.

  Odd, he was sleeping so quietly she couldn't even hear him breathe. He ... she got up quickly and went to the bed.

  Deliberately, Albert Hesketh took his time over his meal, ignoring the bustle and stir around him. He wanted everybody to be aware of him, and that he had been there a long time. Nobody, he was sure, would remember just when he came in, only that he seemed to have been there forever.

  Finally, he took up his paper again, ordered another cup of coffee and a brandy, and sat back slowly, relaxing.

  Over an hour; by now they should know, by now they would have discovered that Will Crockett was dead.

  Hesketh finished his coffee and was about to rise when he saw Waggoner.

  The big man was across the room, standing alone, a glass of champagne in his hand. Waggoner's
eyes swept over the room, passed him, never even halting. Of course, Waggoner did not know him, and would not know him unless there had been some fleeting memory.

  The thought made him remember his brief meeting with Trevallion in Margrita Redaway's rooms. There had been a flicker of something in Trevallion's eyes, of doubt, the stirring of a memory, of suspicion.

  Trevallion had seemed on the verge of recalling something, of remembering.

  It did not matter. Trevallion must go. If Waggoner could not handle it, others could. He might even do it himself.

  But at once, for now, there was no more time.

  Trevallion wore his black suit and his gun. He met Margrita in the lobby where she was talking with Clyde and Manfred.

  "I am sorry," he said. "I am afraid I am late."

  "Will Crockett is dead." She turned to him as she spoke. "Mr. Manfred believes it is murder."

  "How did he die?"

  "He was smothered." Manfred's eyes were like ice. "I have seen the look before. No matter what the nurse says, she must have left the room."

  "She denies it?"

  "She does. I believe she came down to get a drink. In fact, one of the waiters remembers seeing her."

  "Where was Hesketh?"

  "In the dining room, in very plain sight, being served his dinner as always, in the same seat as always."

  "He wouldn't do it himself, anyway," Clyde said.

  Manfred glanced at him. "Of course he would. Have you ever reallylooked at him? I have. He would kill you without turning a hair."

  He turned slightly, looking from Margrita to Trevallion. "You two are next, believe me, I know. Look at it seriously. He now has possession of the Solomon. It represents a lot of money and if one wishes to use it, that money means power. Will Crockett's return threatened Hesketh's control. Crockett is conveniently dead. So who threatens him now?"

  "I suspect that I do," Margrita said, "or so somebody seems to believe."

  "And you do," Manfred said to Trevallion. "For some reason you worry him."

  "I've been worrying somebody," Trevallion replied mildly, "ever since I came to Virginia City."