by Matt Braun
Giuseppina screamed as they grabbed her. But she was overpowered, lifted off her feet, one of the men clamping a hand over her mouth. They quickly wrestled her into the cab, forcing her onto the floorboard, and slammed the door. Several passersby watched helplessly, frozen by the swift and brutal efficiency of the attack. The carriage rounded the corner onto Sansom Street.
Some ten minutes later the carriage rolled through the doors of a warehouse on the Delaware River. One of the thugs closed and barred the doors, and Giuseppina was unloaded from inside the cab. Richter walked forward as she shook free, straightening her coat, and looked at him with a terrified expression. His mouth crooked in an evil grin.
He had his hostage.
* * *
Hickok entered the hotel shortly before eleven o’clock that morning. Upstairs, he proceeded to the suite that he shared with Cody and the children. He unlocked the door and stopped dead in the entryway. His eyes swept the room.
Cody stood at the window, staring out over the city. Buntline was seated on the sofa, his gaze fixed on the crackling flames in the fireplace. Omohundro was hunched forward in a chair, head in his hands, his eyes hollow. They looked like three men at a wake.
Hickok closed the door. “What’s going on here?”
“Jim!” Cody turned from the window, rushed forward. “God, I’m glad you’re back.”
“That makes two of us. Why the long faces?”
“They’ve got Giuseppina!”
“Who’s got Giuseppina?”
“We don’t know.” Cody snatched a sheet of paper off the table by the sofa. “Here, read this.”
We have Mrs. Omohundro. She is safe for now, but dead unless you follow orders. Bring the children to Penn’s Landing at midnight, the park by the river. We will exchange Mrs. Omohundro for the children. Try anything smart and she dies.
Hickok looked up. “Where’d you get this?”
“A bellman delivered it,” Cody replied. “He said a man walked in and gave him a dollar to bring it up. He couldn’t tell us much about the man.”
“Let’s hear it, anyway.”
“Stoutly built, medium height, rough-looking. Wearing a cheap suit.”
“You called in the police?”
“We talked it over and decided it’s not a good move. Jack’s afraid it’d hurt Giuseppina’s chances.”
“How do we know somebody’s actually got her? You’re sure she’s missing?”
Cody explained about Giuseppina’s morning trip to the bakery. When she failed to return, Omohundro went looking for her and discovered that she’d been abducted off the street. The note had arrived shortly after his return to the hotel.
“No question they’ve got her,” Cody said at length. “The question is who’s ‘they’?”
“Probably the kids’ uncle,” Hickok said. “If we’re right, he’s the one that Richter feller was workin’ for. Like as not, he hired somebody to replace Richter.”
Omohundro rose from his chair. His features were a mask of tightly constrained fury. “Whoever the hell it is, I’d like to get my hands on him. What sort of slimy bastard steals women and kids?”
“Don’t worry, Jack,” Cody said, trying to calm his fear. “We’ll get Giuseppina back.”
“Damn sure will,” Hickok said, nodding agreement. “Where are the kids, anyway?”
“In their bedroom,” Cody said. “They’re pretty upset about Giuseppina. Got it in their heads it’s their fault.”
Omohundro grimaced. “I tried to tell ’em it wasn’t so. Guess they’re too young to understand.”
“Not anybody’s fault,” Hickok said tersely. “We’re dealin’ with the sorriest sonsabitches I ever run across.”
Cody pulled at his goatee. “You find out anything in New York?”
“Hired us a private investigator.”
Hickok related how he’d come to retain Charlie Phelan. The political situation, he noted, made it difficult, for the Stanleys were one of the most influential families in New York. He was nonetheless confident.
“Got a good feelin’ about this Charlie Phelan. Whatever’s to be found, he’ll root it out.”
A knock sounded at the door. Buntline scooted off the sofa and hurried across the room. When he opened the door, two midgets stood in the hallway. He greeted them effusively.
The midgets were in their late thirties. They were dressed in pint-sized business suits, and appeared to be somewhere around three feet tall. Buntline ushered them into the suite.
“Gentlemen,” he said, turning to the others. “This is Orville Beatty and Noah Foster. They’re headliners over at the Orphieum Vaudeville Theater.”
Hickok looked baffled. Cody laughed and slapped him on the shoulder. “Orville and Noah have agreed to help us rescue Giuseppina. They’re gonna impersonate Katherine and Augustus.”
“Yeah?” Hickok said hesitantly. “How you figure to pull that off?”
“We’re actors,” Beatty said in a piping voice. “Noah will wear a dress and I’ll wear boy’s clothes. We’ll look—and act—the part of children.”
Cody nodded. “Nobody’ll be able to tell the difference in the dark. We’ll fool ’em pretty as you please.”
“Might just work,” Hickok said, studying the midgets more closely. “Whose idea was it?”
“Ned come up with it,” Cody said, grinning. “Leave it to a showman when you need a little magic.”
Hickok thought he might revise his opinion of Buntline. His gaze shifted to the midgets. “What is it you gents do in vaudeville?”
“Song and dance men.” Noah Foster straightened to his full height. “We’re the best in the business.”
“Well, I have to hand it to you, you’ve got guts. There’s liable to be some fireworks tonight.”
Foster proudly cocked his chin. “Giuseppina Morlacchi is a fellow actor. How could we not help her?”
“Exactly!” Beatty chimed in. “One for all and all for one in the show business. It’s a matter of honor.”
Hickok thought the midgets were taller than they looked.
* * *
A brisk wind whipped in off the river. The indigo sky glittered with stars, flooding the park grounds in a spectral light. The eerie moan of the wind echoed through the trees.
Penn’s Landing fronted the shoreline of the Delaware River. There, in 1682, William Penn first stepped ashore to claim his land grant. The park, named in his honor, comprised nearly forty acres of trees, with a broad meadow in the center. From north to south, the park stretched almost a half mile.
Not long before midnight a carriage halted along Delaware Avenue. The wide thoroughfare bordered Penn’s Landing on the west, and the carriage stopped almost midpoint with the park. The door opened and Hickok stepped out, the brace of ivory-handled Colts wedged in his sash. Cody was next, followed by Omohundro and Buntline, and the two midgets. They stood scanning the expanse of trees.
Cody and Omohundro wore gun belts with holstered pistols. Buntline, game for a fight and armed with a bulldog revolver, tried to keep his hands from shaking. Orville Beatty was attired in a knee-length coat and a slouch hat, which obscured his features. Noah Foster was tricked out in a dress and shawl, and a long, black wig taken from the theater. In the dark, without close inspection, they would pass for the children.
North of Penn’s Landing, the masts of ships moored at wharves were framed against the sky. The men waited a moment longer, wary of trickery, alert to any movement in the trees. Earlier that evening Cody, Hickok and Omohundro had managed a stilted performance in The Scouts of the Plains. Beatty and Foster, their minds elsewhere, had mechanically plodded through their act at the vaudeville theater. But now, waiting by the carriage, their focus was on the show ahead. They were about to give the performance of their lives.
Hickok led the way. He walked along a pathway through the trees, followed by Cody and the costumed midgets. Omohundro and Buntline, their guns drawn and leery of every shadow, brought up the rear. The pathway en
ded at the edge of the treeline, opening onto a grassy meadow dimly lighted by the stars. The men paused on the verge of the meadow, where Hickok, Omohundro, and Buntline melted into the trees. Cody stepped forward.
“This is Bill Cody!” he shouted. “Anybody out there?”
“We’re here,” a voice called back. “Do you have the kids?”
“Look for yourself.” Cody put his arms around the midgets. “Do you have Mrs. Omohundro?”
“Here she is.” A man stepped from the trees across the way, holding Giuseppina’s arm. “We’ll meet in the middle and make the trade.”
“I warn you, don’t try any dumb stunts. I have men covering me with guns.”
“That goes both ways, Cody. My boys have got you in their sights right now.”
“Then we’ve got ourselves a standoff. Let’s get this business done.”
Cody walked forward with the midgets. On the opposite treeline, the man moved out, still holding Giuseppina by the arm. They were on a direct line, and some moments later, they came together in the center of the meadow. Giuseppina looked terrified, and Cody, peering closer, was astounded by what he saw. The man before him was a man he’d thought dead—Richter!
Richter squinted in the pale starlight. He looked from one midget to the other, visibly startled. “What the hell—”
Their plan went off like clockwork. Cody tackled Giuseppina, throwing her down, and the midgets dropped to the ground. Hickok opened fire from the trees, followed an instant later by Omohundro and Buntline. The air sizzled with the whine of slugs.
Richter took off running. The opposite treeline blossomed with flame as the roar of four pistols split the night. Hickok sighted on a muzzle flash and lightly feathered the trigger. A man screamed, stumbling from the trees, and pitched to the ground. Omohundro, aiming at a streak of muzzle blast, wounded another man. Richter disappeared into the trees.
Cody opened fire. Hickok, along with Omohundro and Buntline, sprayed the opposite treeline with lead. Orville Beatty and Noah Foster pulled Giuseppina to her feet and scuttled back across the meadow. Cody retreated, firing as he moved, covered by a rattling volley from Hickok and the other men. He made it into the trees unscathed.
The meadow went silent. Giuseppina fell into Omohundro’s arms, and Hickok stood vigilant as the gunfire abruptly ceased from the opposite treeline. Omohundro led his wife back through the darkened pathway, trailed closely by Buntline and the midgets. Cody and Hickok acted as rearguard.
Cody huffed. “You’re not gonna believe it when I tell you.”
“Tell me what?”
“That jasper back in the meadow—it was Richter.”
“Richter!” Hickok parroted. “You know damn well I threw him off that train. I killed the bastard.”
“Well, Jim, he’s done riz from the dead.”
“Sonovabitch!”
CHAPTER 18
HICKOK HURRIED through Grand Central Station. His mind was focused on other matters, and he scarcely glanced at the colorful zodiac on the ceiling. He hopped into a cab on Forty Second Street.
The buildings of New York’s skyline rose stark against overcast clouds. Hickok had caught the milk-run train from Philadelphia, departing at three that morning. He was tired and still confounded by Cody, who had argued against his leaving. He decided he’d taught Cody more about scouting than about trailing desperadoes. He knew he was right about Richter.
The cab dropped him at Union Square. He hadn’t eaten since last night, and he stepped into a café, where he wolfed down a quick order of hash and eggs. Outside again, he felt somewhat restored, and took a moment to light a cheroot. He checked his pocket watch and saw that it was approaching two o’clock. He crossed the square to Sixteenth Street.
Charlie Phelan was seated at his desk. He looked up as Hickok came through the door. “You’re a regular gadabout, Mr. Hickok. I hadn’t expected to see you so soon.”
“Have to stay on the move,” Hickok said, taking a chair. “Things are happening fast.”
“Are you talking about Philadelphia?”
“You recollect me mentioning a feller named Richter?”
“Why sure, the one we thought was working for Stanley.”
“Appears he’s come back from the grave.”
“He’s alive?”
“’Fraid so.”
Hickok briefed him on the abduction and rescue of Giuseppina. Phelan appeared dumbstruck as he listened to the role played by the midgets, and openly impressed by the outcome of the shootout. He wagged his head.
“I see why they call you Wild Bill,” he said humorously. “That’s the damnedest story I ever heard.”
Hickok waved it off. “Thing is, I think Richter’s headed back to New York. Maybe he’s already here.”
“What leads you to believe that?”
“Well, he made his play in Philadelphia and he lost. I’ve got a hunch his next try will be on home ground. Just figures he’d know the show opens here in two days.”
“Let me understand,” Phelan said. “He botched the job there, and two days gives him time to hatch a plan for New York. Is that the idea?”
“Yep.” Hickok puffed his cheroot, sent eddies of smoke curling toward the ceiling. “Way I’ve got him pegged, he don’t do nothin’ on the spur of the moment. He plans it out first.”
“Sounds reasonable to me.”
“On top of that, he’d likely want to check in with Stanley. We might just catch ’em with their pants down.”
Phelan smiled. “Wouldn’t that make our case!”
“Damn tootin’,” Hickok said, almost jovial. “How’re you doing with your investigation?”
“Not to brag, but I’ve uncovered enough dirt to plant a garden.”
Phelan recounted the details. Leland Stanley was a wastrel and a spendthrift, heavily in debt to many of New York’s classier casinos. His livelihood was derived from a trust fund established by his long-deceased father, and the principle was badly depleted. Until his brother’s death, he had been living in a modest flat, and to all appearances, practically broke. To top it off, he reputation was that of a dissolute libertine.
“Never worked a day in his life,” Phelan said sardonically. “He’s what New Yorker’s call a playboy.”
“Playboy?” Hickok repeated. “What’s that mean?”
“A term coined by the social crowd. Someone who spends his time chasing after showgirls. Our Mr. Stanley is out on the town every night.”
“You work fast. How’d you find out all this?”
“Last night I tailed Stanley to John Morrissey’s casino. I’ve done Morrissey a favor here and there over the years. He gave me the lowdown on Stanley.”
“What about the bank?” Hickok asked. “Stanley spend any time there?”
“Not much,” Phelan said. “When his brother died, he took over as president of Guaranty Trust. But the rumor’s about that he’s little more than a figurehead. His work day is usually eleven to three.”
“So he’ll be leavin’ pretty quick, won’t he?”
“You can set your watch he’s out the door at three sharp.”
“Let’s go.” Hickok got to his feet. “We’ll just tag along and see what happens. We might get lucky.”
“How long do you plan to tail him?”
“Till he leads us to Richter.”
Twenty minutes later they were posted at the lower end of Fifth Avenue. A block south of their position was the tall marble archway that opened onto Washington Square. Directly across the street was the granite façade of the Guaranty Trust Bank. Everything about the building reeked of old money.
Leland Stanley emerged from the bank at two-fifty-nine. He was nattily attired in a chesterfield topcoat with a velvet collar and a silk stovepipe hat. A carriage waited at curbside, and the driver jumped down to open the door. Stanley tipped his hat to a lady as he crossed the sidewalk.
“Handsome devil, ain’t he?” Hickok joked. “Bet he’s hell with the women.”
&nbs
p; “God loves a sinner,” Phelan joked. “First time you’ve see him?”
“Yeah, but it won’t be the last time. We’re gonna stick to him like a burr under a saddle.”
“I take it that’s fairly tight.”
“Charlie, it don’t get no tighter.”
Phelan flagged a hackney cab. He held the door for Hickok, then ordered the driver to follow the carriage. As he stepped inside, he smiled to himself, struck by the vagaries of a detective’s life. He was actually on the chase with Wild Bill Hickok.
He wondered if he would earn his spurs tonight.
* * *
Gaslights flickered like fireflies around Gramercy Park. The overcast sky made the night dark as pitch, and there was a sharp bite to the air. Hickok and Phelan sat huddled in a hackney cab.
Their vigil was now into its fourth hour. After following Stanley from the bank, they had parked just off the corner of Twentieth Street and Irving Place. Their stomachs groaned with hunger and the collars of their coats were turned up against the chill of the night. They watched the mansion through the foggy cab window.
“Wish we’d got supper,” Hickok said, staring at the mansion. “You sure he’ll come out again?”
“Quite sure,” Phelan said with conviction. “Our Mr. Stanley is a night owl. He always goes out.”
“Guess a man in your line of work gets used to waitin’. How long you been a detective?”
“I worked with the Pinkertons during the war and a year or so after the peace. I finally decided to go on my own.”
The Pinkerton Detective Agency, operating out of Chicago, was the largest investigative agency in the world. Under the direction of founder Allan Pinkerton, the agency had organized a spy network for the Union during the Civil War. The Pinkertons were currently involved in tracking the Missouri bandit leader, Jesse James.
“I done a little spy work myself,” Hickok said. “’Course, out West, we wasn’t as organized as the Pinkertons.”