There were times when the big ex-sergeant was willing to back his intuition in a split-second decision. This was one of those times.
“We’ll come visit you,” he promised, “just as soon as we’ve stabled our animals and checked into the hotel.”
The Territorial, it transpired, boasted a large yard and a corral, plus a coach-house, all at the rear. Transients staying at this hotel need not seek separate accommodation for their horses. Having established that the room adjoining Number Seven on the second floor was a double and vacant, Jim registered for himself and the Mex and paid a week’s rent in advance. The stallion and the burro were made comfortable out back, after which the big man and his runty shadow investigated their room and stowed their gear. Benito was still complaining of an empty interior, but Jim was adamant that they should listen to Sarina Hale’s proposition before venturing forth in search of lunch.
“Proposition?” Benito rolled his eyes, flashed his buckteeth in a lecherous leer. “This is a fine word for what the senora has in mind, eh amigo?”
Raising his dripping face from the washbasin, grimacing from the sting of soap in his eyes, Jim demanded to be told, “Just what the hell do you mean by that?”
“Is plain enough, I think,” sniggered Benito. “You have made—how you call it—the conquest. This senora is a widow, or maybe she is married, but her husband does not please her, eh—Amigo Jim?”
Jim toweled his face dry and then stared hard at the little Mex—who promptly retreated to the far side of the room. He flung the towel aside, stood with arms akimbo and declared, “You can still surprise me. I thought I had you figured out, cucaracha, but every so often you still surprise me.” He shook his head in wonderment. “If you ever met a respectable woman, you wouldn’t recognize her for what she is.”
“All women need a caballero magnifico—such as you,” insisted Benito; this was his idea of diplomacy.
“Hogwash,” growled Jim. “The world is full of women with other problems.”
“This Senora Hale ...” began Benito.
“I’m betting she’s a widow,” muttered Jim. “I don’t know for sure. It’s just a hunch. But one thing I am sure of. She isn’t hunting for another husband. She talked of a valid business proposition, and that’s what it’ll be. We’ll talk business—savvy? As for you—you mind your manners and treat her with respect.”
“Si,” shrugged Benito.
“A loco skirt-chaser that’s been climbing through the wrong windows most of his life,” Jim chided, “oughtn’t jump to conclusions.”
“One million pardons,” grinned Benito.
“Come on,” said Jim, crooking a finger. “Let’s go talk to her.”
They quit their room, moved along to the next door and knocked. When Sarina admitted them, Jim noted that she still wore the same gown. She hadn’t changed since her arrival in Cadiz City, and this suggested her wardrobe was small; Mrs. Sarina Hale wasn’t exactly one of the idle rich. She sank into the upholstered chair, gestured for them to seat themselves on the sofa. Then, patting the large book on the table beside her, she told Jim, “This book is the core of the whole situation—the chief reason why I’ll need to hire you.”
“To hire me?” he prodded. “That’s the business proposition you spoke of?”
“I expect to be in need of protection,” she told him, “any time from tomorrow morning onward.”
“A bodyguard is what you want? Well—are you absolutely sure about that? I’m not completely at liberty, ma’am. I came to Cadiz City to handle a mighty special chore of my own.”
“I’m sure I’ll need protection,” she declared.
“What about the local law?” he suggested. “I wouldn’t give ten cents for the sheriff, but his deputy seems like a reliable man. I was talking to him just a little while ago.”
“I could hardly expect a regular lawman to take a room in this hotel,” she countered, “and stay within earshot of this room. The truth is, Mr. Rand, I’ll feel much safer if you’ll agree to my proposition.”
He glanced at the book. It was a sizable tome, handsomely bound. Morocco—or imitation morocco? He was no expert, so he couldn’t judge. One detail he did notice. The book was sealed. String and a paper band had been tied around it, and the band was secured by a blob of sealing wax about three inches wide.
“You expect to be in danger—because of that book?” he asked. “Why? Is it all that valuable?”
“Yes,” she nodded. “For reasons which I can’t divulge at this time, I’m obliged to keep the book here in my room. I believe somebody may try to steal it. Of course I’ve already chosen a good hiding place for it, and I’m glad to say there’s no balcony outside my window—but somebody may make the attempt. I feel so much better—so secure—knowing you’ll be close by. As to paying for your services ...”
“I don’t know the going rate for bodyguards,” said Jim.
“In any case, I wouldn’t be able to pay you immediately,” she frowned. “I’d have to wait until I’ve sold the book …”
“It’s for sale?”
“Yes. It’s really quite valuable, Mr. Rand, and I hope to be paid handsomely for it.”
“And that’s all you aim to tell me?” he challenged.
She eyed him blankly. “Isn’t it enough?”
“All right,” he shrugged. “You’ve said your piece—now hear me out. I’d never stand by and see a lady threatened ...”
“Ah, si!” grinned Benito. “My Amigo Jim, he is one grand caballero, Senora …”
His voice trailed off as Jim glowered at him. Then, looking at Sarina again, Jim said, “If I happen to be on hand when you’re in danger, you can bet I’ll help you out, but I can’t promise to be squatting in my room twenty-four hours of the day—waiting for you to holler for me. I came to Cadiz City for a very special purpose, and ...”
“A personal matter?” she interjected.
“Personal enough,” he assured her, “but it isn’t a deep secret. There’s a man I’m trying to find. He killed my brother, and not in an open fight. It was murder.”
“I’m sorry,” she murmured.
“Save your sympathy for the killer,” he countered, “when I catch up with him.”
“You’ll be spending a lot of time away from the hotel then,” she reflected.
“A lot of time,” he nodded. “But, while I’m here, I’ll try and keep an eye on you—and that’s the most I can promise.”
“I’ll settle for that,” she decided. “Now—about your fee ...”
“Let’s wait and see if you really do need protection,” he suggested. “No protection—no payment. How about that?”
“That’s very reasonable,” she acknowledged.
“Fine,” he grunted, rising to his feet. “And now we’ll have to ask you to excuse us. It’s a mite past our lunchtime.”
“Maybe the senora ...?” began Benito.
“How about that?” Jim asked her. “If you can scare up an appetite—and if you don’t mind being seen in public with the likes of us ...”
“You’re very kind.” She was thinking of her reduced financial condition, wondering if she had the price of a substantial meal. “As for being seen in public with you, I’d be only too happy.”
“I noticed a likely looking restaurant close by, a place called Duval’s,” offered Jim. “How does that sound?”
“I’ll come with you at once,” she murmured, as she stood up and reached for her hat. “If you don’t mind waiting outside—while I put this book away ...”
“That’s okay,” he assured her.
A few moments later, when she rejoined him in the corridor, the little Mex was nowhere to be seen.
“I figured we could do our searching a mite faster,” Jim explained, “if we split up. Benito will ask a few questions in some Mexican diner while he’s catching up on his eating.”
Duval’s proved to be somewhat more ornate than he had anticipated, an expensively-appointed restaurant catering to
Cadiz City’s more affluent citizens and transients. The menu looked promising. The prices were high, but he didn’t mind. A short time back, in a town called Moredo, he had accepted the useful sum of one thousand dollars as a reward for retrieving the loot from a train robbery.
During the meal, he questioned Sarina Hale, but politely, without prying. The details she volunteered had the ring of truth, and now it was easy for him to understand her austere demeanor, the fact that she had forgotten how to smile. In the telling of it, she had the good taste to refrain from laboring the more harrowing details; he got the impression she wasn’t fishing for sympathy.
When he escorted her back to the hotel, she confided her intention of locking herself in her room and catching up on some much-needed sleep, so he didn’t hesitate to spend the remainder of that afternoon in canvassing some of the houses of entertainment lining Main Street, showing the sketch of his quarry to a fine cross-section of bartenders, poker-dealers and percentage-women.
In the early afternoon, Karl Dreisser arrived in town and, until the Southwest Security closed its doors, filled in time with a leisurely inspection of his Cadiz City holdings—the Duval Restaurant, the Hotel Imperial, etc. While strolling past the law office, he was greeted with great respect by Sheriff Murch, who had returned to town after a futile search for tracks of the defeated stage-robbers. And, while Murch greeted the KD boss so respectfully, Deputy Fred Tarrant stayed inside the office, chain-smoking, brooding, keeping his disgust in check.
When the bank closed, Dreisser was lounging in the entrance of a nearby alley, a strategic position. From there, he could keep a goodly section of the street under observation and be ready to cut short his conversation with a certain nervous traitor, should any local pass within earshot.
One of the men emerging from the street entrance of the bank, a cashier named Leon Rodney, caught sight of Dreisser at once. He offered his employer, Neil Jannis, a mumbled farewell and came hustling along the boardwalk to where Dreisser awaited him.
“Smile,” grunted Dreisser, as the cashier joined him. “Wipe that nervous frown off your face, Leon, for pity’s sake. You’re supposed to be a man of clear conscience, without a care in the world. Here—have a cigar—and stop sweating.”
Rodney, a thin, weedy specimen of masculinity, accepted the cigar and a light, puffed and coughed. In a voice barely above a whisper, he vowed, “The information I sold you was genuine, Mr. Dreisser. You should know I’d never let you down but, if you aren’t satisfied, I’ll return the money. I don’t want to quarrel with you.”
“Keep the money,” drawled Dreisser. “I know the information was genuine. No fault of yours that a couple of Johnny-Come-Latelys rode in out of nowhere and fouled up the whole deal. We must expect an occasional reversal, Leon.”
“You aren’t—angry—at me?”
“What would be the point? The only guarantee I ask of you is accurate information. I don’t expect you to underwrite the success of a raid. Rawson and the boys ran into a little trouble and had to abandon the chase. It’s as simple as that. Stop fretting, Leon.”
“I was thinking ...” began Rodney.
“Don’t,” said Dreisser, curtly. “The thinking and planning is my chore. You’re paid to advise me of all transfers of cash bound to or from the bank. I don’t look to you for suggestions, Leon.”
“Please,” begged the cashier. “Let me make just this one suggestion. Shouldn’t we—uh—suspend operations for a while? The authorities are bound to increase their efforts—the Kiley & Ogden line may employ extra guards ...”
“When I consider it necessary to suspend operations, I’ll do so. The decision will be mine,” declared Dreisser. “In the meantime, I’ll expect to hear from you in the usual way—on the very next occasion that the Southwest Security is shipping cash out, or when Jannis is arranging to take delivery of another shipment from your head office. Nothing has changed, Leon. One setback doesn’t have to mean the end of the entire organization.” He put a hand on Rodney’s shoulder. “You’re trembling, my friend. I don’t like that. No siree, boy, I don’t like that at all.”
“I’ll—I’ll be all right,” Rodney hastened to assure him.
“I certainly hope so,” said Dreisser, with a genial grin. “Always bear this in mind, Leon. If you get nervous—we all get nervous. Some of my men—somebody like Rio Purdew, for instance—might decide that you can no longer be trusted.”
“You can depend on me, Mr. Dreisser!” panted Rodney.
“Not so loud,” cautioned Dreisser.
“I swear to you!” breathed Rodney. “I—I’d never let you down. Please—tell your men they have nothing to fear from me.”
“Prove it,” Dreisser smilingly advised, “by hanging onto your nerve and passing me some useful information in the very near future. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes—yes—I undersand,” mumbled Rodney.
“Hasta la vista,” said Dreisser.
The thoroughly scared traitor adjusted his derby, glanced warily along the street and then quit the alley-mouth, heading for the boarding house that was his Cadiz City home.
Karl Dreisser decided to remain in town that night. A suite at the Hotel Imperial was always reserved for him, and he was feeling the urge to relax at one of the gambling houses in which he owned the controlling interest. It was, as subsequent events would prove, an unwise decision. He was destined to be shaken out of his complacency; his hand would be forced—and his hand would not be the only one.
For a large percentage of the county’s male citizenry, the tension began between nine and ten a.m. of the following day. The special edition of the Clarion began circulating at nine. By ten o’clock, a great many locals had lost interest in Editor Haggerty’s exaggerated account of the attempted hold-up and were devoting all their attention to the “For Sale” notice on the front page. This advertisement, coupled with the rumors so carefully begun by Bill Swann, had exactly the effect that the now-departed Jessie Kingston had anticipated. Many a man jumped to the obvious conclusion, taking it for granted that Jessie had mentioned him somewhere in her diary, assuming she had recorded some rash act committed during a too-enthusiastic assault on the Joyhouse’s liquor supply. It could have been a few moments of dalliance with one of Jessie’s painted percentage-girls, or an underhand business deal discussed within earshot of “good old Jessie”, or gambling losses so heavy that the losers had striven to hide the grim facts from their wives—perhaps claiming to have had their pockets picked. Guilty secrets—few of the Joyhouse’s old patrons could truly brag of a completely clear conscience.
So, now, the panic was beginning. The guilty construed Sarina’s “For Sale” ad as a broad hint, a thinly disguised threat.
At exactly nine-fifteen, the manager rapped at Sarina’s door.
Six – The Highest Bidders
Sarina wasn’t alone when she opened the door to admit Clyde Burbridge. Pensive and withdrawn, but alert, Bill Swann squatted on the sofa, gnawing on an unlit cigar and perusing the latest edition of the Clarion. He had arrived just a few moments ago to report, “This paper’s been on sale less than a half-hour and, already the whole town’s boilin’.”
He didn’t acknowledge Burbridge’s presence. Maybe he should have enjoyed the hotelkeeper’s obvious distress. Then again maybe he was becoming soft-hearted in his advanced years. He kept his eyes on the newspaper, while Burbridge came in smiling—or trying to smile.
“I’m here to apologize, ma’am,” Burbridge humbly announced. “I had no right to greet you impolitely yesterday, and ...”
“Your apology is accepted,” said Sarina.
“Let me make amends ...” he begged.
“That won’t be necessary,” she frowned.
“This accommodation ...” He gestured impatiently. “It just isn’t good enough for the daughter of my old friend Jessie Kingston. Oh, I know I’ve spoken harshly of Jessie at times, but those were words spoken in—uh—in foolish anger. Mrs. Hale, I’m arranging
for you to be transferred to the best rooms in the house—the bridal suite.”
“Thank you, but no,” said Sarina. “This room is quite satisfactory.”
She stood in the center of the room, hands clasped, a serene smile lighting her face. She wore her Sunday gown—her only Sunday gown. Her time had come, and she was ready. The proprietor of the Silver Bell, back in Amarillo, his girl-grabbing customers, and all the other men whose attentions she’d had to fight off—they would pay now, and dearly. Amarillo or Cadiz City, it made no difference. Weren’t men the same the world over?
“But ...” Burbridge licked his lips. “I couldn’t permit you to remain in one of our second-class rooms.”
“I’ll stay here,” she told him, firmly.
His nervous gaze switched to the book placed on the table beside her bed—placed strategically so that it would be in plain view of any visitor.
“That’s—it?” he asked.
“My mother’s diary,” she nodded. “For sale in just the condition you see it—sealed—all its secrets locked inside. Neither Mr. Swann nor I have any knowledge as to its contents. Only my mother knew.”
“Yes, of course.” He licked his lips again. “I noticed the ad in the paper.”
“I was sure you’d noticed the ad,” she smiled.
“I’m very sorry for the way I spoke to you yesterday,” he muttered.
“You’ve already apologized,” she reminded him.
“At least let me return your money,” he suggested, digging into his pants pocket. “There wasn’t any need for me to take a week’s rent in advance—not in your case.”
“Keep it,” grunted Bill, without raising his head.
He shrugged helplessly, darted another glance toward the diary.
“A beautiful book, Mrs. Hale …”
“It is—isn’t it?” Her smile broadened.
“I’d be glad to make you an offer,” he frowned. “It’s not that I want to pry, you understand. I wouldn’t be interested in anything Jessie wrote—but I’d like to have it as—uh—a keepsake—something to remember her by.”
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