Now he had to decide what he was going to do about it.
When Clint entered the sheriff’s office, the man looked up from his desk at him.
“What brings you back?” he asked without a smile.
“Sheriff, I’ve determined to my satisfaction that my friend, Joe Bags, was one of the five men killed while working for Andrew Powell.”
“Well, I’m sorry to hear that, Mr. Adams,” Sheriff Doby said. “But what does that mean for you exactly? Will you be stayin’ on in Brigham?”
“I still haven’t decided,” Clint said. “I’m supposed to have dinner out at Mr. Powell’s place tonight to discuss it with him.”
“But,” Doby said with a frown, “you’ve got some questions for me first, right?”
“Well, the only information I’ve got about Powell comes from his lawyer,” Clint said, “and he’s not about to bad-mouth his client.”
Doby scratched his head.
“So you think I’ll bad-mouth him? Is that it?”
“No,” Clint said. “I was hoping you’d be an impartial voice and tell me what you really think and know about the man.”
It occurred to Clint that he should have sent telegrams to Hartman and Roper about Powell as well, but there was no time for that now. He was supposed to give the man his decision at dinner.
“I just need to know the kind of man I’d be working for if I took the job he’s offering.”
“Well . . . he’s rich, we all know that.”
“Westin told me he doesn’t have much in the way of holdings in town. Is that true?”
“True enough. Mr. Powell seems to like to do his business elsewhere.”
“Like where?”
“I don’t know,” the sheriff said. “Big towns, cities. Probably Phoenix and Denver, maybe San Francisco? He don’t tell me his business.”
“Do you know what business he’s in?”
“He makes money,” the sheriff said. “That’s all I know.”
“I see.”
“Why don’t you talk to Mr. McMillan, over at the bank?” the lawman suggested. “That’s where Mr. Powell keeps his money. Maybe the bank manager knows how he makes it.”
“That’s actually a good idea,” Clint said. He checked the clock on the wall. He had about an hour before the bank closed. He didn’t know when he was supposed to go to Powell’s for dinner. He’d have to depend on Westin for that.
“Thanks for your help, Sheriff.”
“I didn’t do much,” the lawman said, “but you’re welcome.”
Clint nodded, turned, and left the office. He walked directly to the bank, which he had spotted earlier during his walk. It said BANK OF ARIZONA on it, which meant it was more than just a local bank.
As he entered, he saw that there were five tellers’ windows—all manned—and off to one side, about four desks with people working at them. He decided to approach an attractive woman at one of the desks.
“Can I help you?” she asked as he approached. She was blond, her hair pinned tightly behind her head. She had big, beautiful eyes and a long, lovely neck. A name plate on her desk said MISS IVY.
“Yes, I’d like to speak to the bank manager, please.”
“Our manager is Mr. McMillan.”
“Yes, I know that,” Clint said. “That’s who I’d like to talk to.”
“Are you sure there isn’t something I could do? Or one of the tellers?”
“No,” Clint said, “I need to speak with Mr. McMillan. Sheriff Doby sent me over.”
“Oh!” She looked surprised. “Well, let me go and tell Mr. McMillan that you’re here. What’s your name?”
“Clint Adams.”
Miss Ivy stood up and walked to a door just behind the tellers’ windows. The suit she wore was cut severely, but did little to hide the fact that she had a long, lean, attractive body.
Clint waited, aware that the other desk workers were now looking at him. The tellers were all busy with customers. Maybe the workers thought he was going to rob the bank.
Miss Ivy came back and said, “Mr. McMillan will see you, Mr. Adams.”
“Thank you, Miss Ivy.”
“This way.”
He followed her to the office door. She knocked, and then opened it.
“Mr. Adams, sir.”
“Thank you, Miss Ivy,” the man behind the desk said. “That’ll be all. Will you please close the door?”
“Yes, sir.”
She gave Clint a look, then backed out and closed the door.
“Mr. Adams?” McMillan stood. He was a tall man, balding, with a fringe of gray hair. He seemed to be a contemporary of Andrew Powell’s. Clint wondered if they were just banker and client, or if they were friends.
“You’re not one of our depositors, are you?” McMillan asked as they shook hands.
“No, I’m not.”
“Please, have a seat. I understand the sheriff sent you to see me?”
“I was asking him some questions, and he suggested that you might be the man with the answers.”
“Oh? What kind of questions?”
“I’ve been asked to work for Andrew Powell,” Clint said. “I’d like to know something about the man before I agree.”
“Mr. Powell is a depositor,” McMillan said. “I don’t think it would be appropriate for me to discuss his business.”
“What about his personality?” Clint asked. “Can you discuss that?”
“Well . . . I suppose so. What do you want to know?” McMillan asked.
“What kind of man is he?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“I understand he has no holdings in town,” Clint said. “I find that odd for a rich man who lives near here.”
“That would be talking about his business,” McMillan said, “but I will tell you this. Mr. Powell does not want to do business where he lives. He keeps his life separate from his business.”
“But he has an office in his house,” Clint observed.
“Well, of course,” the banker said. “Most of his business is done in large towns and cities across the country. He can’t go to all of them. So he has an office at home, a lawyer here in town, and he uses the telegraph office. And that is about all I’m comfortable saying.”
“Is he trustworthy?”
“I have always thought him to be so. Why?”
“I have a feeling I’m not being told anything.”
“Well, Mr. Adams,” McMillan said, “if you’re any kind of businessman yourself, you won’t make your decision until you do have all the facts, will you?”
“You’re absolutely right, Mr. McMillan,” Clint said. “I’m having dinner at Mr. Powell’s home tonight, so that’s what I’m going to do.” He stood up, shook hands with the man again. “Thanks for talking with me.”
“Of course.”
As Clint headed for the door, McMillan said, “Uh, Mr. Adams?”
“Yes?”
“You are the man they call the Gunsmith, aren’t you?” the banker asked.
“Yes, Mr. McMillan, I am. Is that a problem?”
“No, no,” the man said. “I was just wondering what business Mr. Powell would have with a man . . . like you.”
“I’m afraid I can’t discuss that, Mr. McMillan,” Clint said. “Good day.”
TWELVE
Clint went to his hotel and found the lawyer, Westin, waiting for him. He had a bruise over his eyes, and his lip was swollen.
“How are you doing?” Clint asked.
“Okay,” Westin said. “Those men didn’t come back again.”
“Did you talk to the sheriff about them?”
“Uh, no, I didn’t. But we can talk about that later. We have to go.”
“What time are we supposed to be there?” Clint asked.
“Seven,” he said. “I think we’re going to be late.”
“So we’ll do without the buggy and go on horseback. Again,” Clint said.
“Are you ready?” Westin asked.
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“I assume Mrs. Powell will also be there?”
“Of course.”
“Then just give me a few minutes to wash up and change my shirt,” Clint said.
“I’ll meet you at the livery,” Westin said. “I’ll have my horse saddled by the time you get there.”
“Okay,” Clint said, “but don’t try to saddle mine or you’ll lose a finger.”
“Whatever you say,” Westin said. “See you there.”
Clint watched the lawyer leave the hotel lobby, wondering why he wouldn’t report a beating to the sheriff.
He definitely wasn’t being told everything he needed to know.
When he got to the livery, Westin was still cinching in his horse’s saddle. It was clear he didn’t saddle the animal often, and now he’d done it twice in two days. Clint quickly saddled Eclipse, and they rode out of town, heading for Andrew Powell’s house.
“It’ll be dark when we ride back,” Clint said.
“Don’t worry,” Westin said, “I know the way.”
“I spoke with the bank manager today,” Clint said.
“Oh? About what?”
“About your boss and his business practices,” Clint said.
“I didn’t think Mr. McMillan talked about his clients like that.”
“Don’t worry,” Clint said. “He doesn’t.”
When they reached the house, their horses were cared for by the same young man while they went inside. Clint was surprised when they were greeted by Chelsea, the cook, rather than Mr. or Mrs. Powell.
“Nice to see you again,” Chelsea said.
“And you,” Clint said.
“Where’s Mr. Powell?” Westin asked.
“Mr. Powell is in his office, and Mrs. Powell is in the kitchen.”
“Is she doing the cooking?” the lawyer asked.
Chelsea smiled. “She could, she’s a good cook, but she’s just supervising. I was on my way back there.”
“Will you tell her we’re here?” Westin asked.
“Sure.”
As she left them in the foyer, Westin said, “We better let Mr. Powell know, too.”
“Lead the way.”
They walked to the office, probably the same route Ben Randolph and his men had walked, carrying five dead bodies—including Joe Bags.
Andrew Powell was seated behind his big desk, doing paperwork. He looked up as they entered. Clint saw the man flinch toward the top drawer of his desk, where he was keeping a gun, then relax when he saw it was them.
“Welcome,” he said, standing. “I was afraid you weren’t going to make it.”
“My fault, sir,” Clint said. “I’m sorry we’re late.”
“That’s all right,” Powell said. “You’re just in time for a before-dinner drink. Brandy?”
“Sure.”
“Gordon?”
“Yes, sir.”
Westin moved to get the brandy, but Powell held a hand out and said, “I’ll get it. You’re both my dinner guests tonight.”
“Thank you, sir,” Westin said.
Powell poured three snifters of brandy and handed them out, keeping one for himself.
“Andrea—my wife—has been in the kitchen with Chelsea most of the afternoon. Between them I think they’ll whip up quite a meal.”
“I’m looking forward to it,” Clint said.
“I hope you’ve been giving my offer some thought,” Powell said.
“A lot of thought,” Clint said, “and research.”
“Research?”
“I needed to satisfy myself that Joe Bags was actually one of the dead men,” Clint said.
“And you have?”
“Yes,” Clint said. “I also needed to find out what kind of man I’d be working for if I took the job.”
“And have you done that?” Powell asked.
“To some extent, yes.”
“And when will you make up your mind?”
“Probably after dinner tonight,” Clint said.
“Well then,” Powell said, “maybe we better get to that dinner. I’ll let Andrea know you’re here.”
“We saw Chelsea on the way in and she was going to tell Mrs. Powell.”
“Well, then perhaps we should wait right here until we’re summoned.”
At that point Chelsea appeared in the doorway and announced, “Gentlemen, dinner is being served.”
“Thank you, Chelsea,” Powell said. “We’ll be right there.” He looked at Clint and Westin. “Well, that didn’t take long, did it? Bring your brandies, gents.”
THIRTEEN
The table in the dining room was long enough to accommodate a party of twenty people. It was, however, set for only four people, so only one end of the table was being used.
Powell sat down at the head of the table, instructing Clint to sit on his right and Westin on his left.
“But your wife—” Clint started.
“She’ll sit there, next to Gordon,” Powell said. “Don’t worry, Mr. Adams, you’re not taking anyone’s seat.”
As he said that, the door to the kitchen opened and a woman came out. Tall, slender, and extremely handsome, she looked to be in her mid- to late forties.
“Ah,” Powell said, turning in his chair and then standing, “Andrea, dear. Come in and join our guests.”
She approached the table and said, “Good evening, Gordon.”
“Mrs. Powell.”
Clint saw a look pass between the two that he was sure her husband had missed.
“Darling, this is Clint Adams, the man who is hopefully going to help us.”
“Mr. Adams,” she said. “Welcome.”
Clint stood and said, “Thank you for the hospitality, ma’am.”
Powell kissed his wife on the cheek and said, “Sit next to Gordon, my dear.”
Now Clint saw something on Powell’s face that he was sure his wife missed. He had the feeling he had walked into something else he didn’t know or understand.
Andrea walked around and sat next to the lawyer.
“I’ve told Chelsea it’s time—ah,” Andrea said as Chelsea came through the door carrying a soup tureen.
“Ah, Andrea,” Powell said. “It smells delightful, as usual.”
“Thank you, sir.”
They each had a soup bowl in front of them, sitting on a larger china plate. She walked around and filled each of their bowls with steaming soup.
It was just the beginning of a wonderful meal . . .
“That was an amazing meal,” Clint said, sitting back in his chair.
He had just consumed as much roast beef and vegetables as he could possibly hold.
“Still dessert to come,” Powell said.
“I don’t know if I can manage it,” Clint said, “but I’ll try.”
He glanced across the table at Gordon Westin and Andrea Powell, who looked extremely uncomfortable sitting next to each other.
Westin couldn’t meet his eyes, but Andrea Powell stared back at him boldly.
“I understand you still haven’t made your decision about working for my husband, Mr. Adams.”
“No, ma’am,” he said. “It’s actually the reason I’m here tonight.”
“Well, I wouldn’t expect that decision to turn on an exquisite meal.”
“It won’t,” he said, “but the meal certainly doesn’t hurt.”
“I would think not,” she said. “Chelsea is a wonderful cook.”
FOURTEEN
When dinner was over, Andrea stood and announced she was going to help Chelsea clean up.
“Darling,” Powell said, “Chelsea is very capable of cleaning up—”
“I know that, Andrew,” she said, “but what else is there for me to do? You gentlemen will now go to the den and have cigars and brandy, or whatever you want to serve. Maybe some of your wonderful scotch? What am I supposed to do? Go to my room?”
“Andrea—”
“Take your guests, Andrew,” she said, shooing the men away. “Do what you have
to do to get Mr. Adams to take the job you’re offering him. I just hope it has something to do with all those dead men who were dumped on our floor.”
“Very well,” Powell said with a sigh. “Gents, accompany me to the den?”
Clint stood and said, “Mrs. Powell, please thank Chelsea for a wonderful meal?”
“I’ll tell her.”
“And thank you,” he added. “Chelsea told us how you were helping her.”
“I’m not much help,” Andrea said, “but it gives me something to do.”
Clint and Westin followed Andrew Powell from the room, across the foyer, and into a smaller room—Powell’s den.
“Most men would have made this the office, and my office the den,” he said as they entered, “but I prefer it this way. Cognac? Or would you prefer scotch, now that my wife has let the cat out of the bag?”
“Cognac is fine,” Clint said.
“For me as well.”
“Good,” Powell said. “When it comes to my scotch, I’m an extremely selfish man.”
He poured out the cognac and handed each man a small glass.
“Well now, Mr. Adams,” he said, stepping back, “now that you’ve been well fed, what can I tell you that would help you make up your mind about this job?”
“Mr. Powell,” Clint said, “I need to know why Joe Bags and those other men were killed. And why they were dumped on your floor. I need to know who Ben Randolph is, and what he has against you. Can you tell me all that?”
Powell looked at Gordon Westin.
“Gordon, why don’t you go and help the ladies clear the table?” he said.
“Sir, with all due respect, that’s not my job.”
“With all due respect, Gordon,” Powell replied, “your job is whatever I tell you your job is. Do you understand?”
“Sure, Mr. Powell,” Westin said. “I understand.”
“Close the doors behind you.”
He left the room without meeting Clint’s eyes, pulling the double doors closed.
“Have a seat, Mr. Adams,” Powell said, “and I’ll tell you a story.”
Gunsmith #359 : 2 Guns for Vengeance (9781101545270) Page 4