Fraternity of the Gun

by J. R. Roberts

  She glared at him.

  “So you do not think he’s after us to kill us?” Irving asked. “What about the attempt in front of the hotel in New York?”

  “If that person was any good, you or I would be dead now,” Clint said, “whichever of us was the intended target.

  “I think that if we’re being followed now, it’s probably just to keep track of us. The next attempt will probably be made by a real pro.”

  “So we have no chance?” Terry demanded. “Is that what you’re saying? We are as good as dead?”

  “Not at all,” Clint said. “I’ll do my job, Miss Terry.”

  “I should hope so!”

  She dropped her cloth napkin on the table, stood up, and stormed out, presumably to go back to her compartment.

  “She has been very agitated since we left England,” Irving said. “Even taking into account how high-strung actresses are, I cannot quite explain it.”

  “Maybe it’s just something about me,” Clint said.

  “Perhaps, although I myself do not find anything about you annoying. I’m very pleased to have you accompanying us on this tour, and have every confidence that you will do your best to keep us safe.”

  “Thank you, Henry,” Clint said. “When we get to Philadelphia, I’ll send out some telegrams and try to find out if anyone I know has been hired for this job.”

  “Do you mean to say that you are acquainted with the kind of men who might take a job of killing someone?”

  “I’m acquainted with some of them, yes,” Clint said. “Some I know by reputation, others personally.”

  “Remarkable,” Irving said.

  “You’re personally acquainted with other actors, aren’t you?” Clint asked.

  “Yes, but the only killing any of them do is when they critique someone else’s performance.”

  “Well, there you go, we sometimes critique each other’s performances. If someone I know has been hired to kill you, then you can be sure I’ll give him my ‘critique.’ I’ll also try to find out who employed him. Like actors, gunmen are usually paid by someone else to perform. And they often know one another.”

  “Ah, you’re speaking of a fraternity of the gun, then?” Irving asked. “Men who share a similar expertise in marksmanship.”

  “Exactly.”

  “I see,” Irving said. “Well then, hopefully someone in your fraternity will know something.”

  “That’s the hope,” Clint said.

  “Why don’t we get some more coffee?” Irving suggested, and looked around for a waiter.

  * * *

  Mr. Gray watched from between the cars as Clint Adams and Henry Irving ordered more coffee. He was hungry, and waiting for them to leave the dining car so he could go in and have something to eat. He did not want to take the chance of Adams seeing him, and possibly remembering him later. He was starting to think he needed at least one more person to be able to keep watch properly, and safely. When he got to Philadelphia, he’d send a telegram to ask for Mr. Green or Mr. Gold to meet them in Washington D.C. before they headed west.

  He pressed his forehead to the glass window while watching Adams and Irving drink their fresh coffee. Perhaps when they were done, they’d leave the car and he could get something to quiet the hunger pangs in his stomach.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Philadelphia was as successful as Boston had been, if not more so. A standing ovation again, including several members of local government. From there they rode the train to Washington D.C. It was the shorter of the three train trips.

  When they arrived, they took a cab to the Georgetown Hotel. It was one of the best hotels in the city, and satisfied Ellen Terry much more than the hotels in New York, Boston, or Philadelphia.

  “Now this is more like it,” she said as they entered her opulent suite. “This is a room befitting my status.”

  “I’m glad you’re satisfied,” Clint said. “Come on, Henry. Your turn.”

  Irving looked at Terry and said, “We will be back to pick you up for the performance.”

  “What about eating?” she asked.

  Irving looked at his watch and said, “That will have to wait until after.”

  At that moment a bellman appeared carrying a basket of fruit.

  “Compliments of the house for Miss Terry,” he said.

  “Put it down over there,” Terry said. “At least I won’t starve.”

  “Come on, Henry.”

  Clint hustled the bellman out of Terry’s room, then walked Irving down the hall to his own. It was a suite that matched Terry’s.

  “Thank you,” Irving said. “I guess I don’t rate the same basket of fruit Ellen received.”

  “I can have one sent up.”

  “Not necessary,” Irving said. “I’m going to take a bath and get ready for tonight’s performance.”

  “All right,” Clint said. “I’ll be in my room further down the hall.”

  Clint left and walked to his room. He entered and saw that his was more conventional, containing a bed, a chest of drawers, some chairs, and a writing desk. As with the suites Irving and Terry had, there was running water.

  He dropped his carpetbag on the bed and walked to his window to look out. He was in the rear of the hotel, so his view was of the street behind the hotel.

  He was about to open his bag when there was a knock at the door. He expected either Irving or Terry with a complaint. Still he answered the door with his hand on the Colt New Line behind his back. The gun and holster were in his bag.

  When he opened the door, he saw neither the actor nor the actress. It was Allan Trehearn.

  “Mr. Adams,” Trehearn said. “May I come in?”

  “Why not?” Clint asked. “After all, you’re paying for the rooms.”

  “Not me,” Trehearn said, entering, “the government.”

  “At the moment, it’s the same thing to me,” Clint said, closing the door. “What’s on your mind?”

  “We understand there was an attempt on Henry Irving’s life in New York.”

  “That was days ago,” Clint said, “and it might just as well have been an attempt on me. We don’t know for sure.”

  “What about Boston and Philadelphia?” Trehearn asked. “How did it go there?”

  “No problems,” Clint said.

  “Are you being followed? Watched?”

  “I don’t doubt it, but I haven’t been able to spot anyone.”

  Trehearn rubbed his jaw thoughtfully.

  “Maybe you need help.”

  “If I do,” Clint said, “I’ll get it. I’m going to be sending telegrams to friends to try and get some information.”

  “About what?”

  “About who might have been hired for this job,” Clint said.

  “If you know someone who can tell you that, it’s a pretty good contact to have.”

  “And what about your contacts?” Clint asked. “What do they tell you? Has anyone else come across from England, maybe with an eye toward harming the two national treasures?”

  “As far as we’ve discovered, no,” Trehearn said. “Of course, that doesn’t mean someone didn’t manage to come over on a boat—we just don’t know about it.”

  “Very encouraging.”

  “How are you getting along with them?”

  “Fine, with Irving,” Clint said. “The woman, Terry, is very hard to satisfy.”

  “Is there anything I can do for you?”

  “Yes,” Clint said. “I need a Boston newspaper and a Philadelphia newspaper for the days following the performances.”

  “Looking for reviews?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Okay, I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Try to have them here tonigh
t when we get back from the theater.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  Clint let Trehearn out and closed the door behind him. He had tried to keep an eye on Irving while they were in Boston and Philadelphia, but he couldn’t sit awake all night. The actor could have gotten out of the hotel at night to go for a walk, like the one he’d taken in New York.

  Of course, that didn’t make him a killer, but it would be real interesting if there were murders in Boston and Philadelphia similar to the one in New York.

  Clint wondered if there were any similar murders in London before Irving and Terry left. He’d have to ask Trehearn to get him a London newspaper as well.

  Clint didn’t really think Henry Irving was a killer, but it was an odd coincidence that he’d taken a walk in New York in the same area as the murder.

  And of all the coincidences he hated, he hated the odd ones the most.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Clint watched the performance from backstage again. As with the other stops, Washington D.C. appreciated everything Henry Irving and Ellen Terry had to offer. The audience gave them a standing ovation, and demanded an encore. Luckily, Irving and Terry had plenty of material.

  Before leaving for the theater, Clint went to a telegraph office and sent off his questions. He knew a few people around the country—Rick Hartman in Texas, Talbot Roper in Denver, Duke Farrell in San Francisco—who would be able to answer him. If they knew anything. He hoped to have replies by morning, before they were scheduled to leave Washington.

  Afterward Clint watched the house empty out while Irving and Terry changed into their street clothes. As in Boston and Philadelphia, he did not see anyone paying any special attention from the back of the theater, but he still had the feeling somebody was out there.

  “Clint?”

  He turned, saw Irving standing there in his suit. He was carrying his walking stick, and wearing his top hot.

  “Do you always dress like this?” Clint asked.

  Irving looked down at himself.

  “Well,” he said, “on performance night, usually. Why?” Irving looked again. “Don’t you like it?”

  “It’s nice,” Clint said. “Real nice.”

  “Well,” Irving said, “Ellen is ready to go to dinner.”

  “Okay. Hotel dining room okay?”

  “For once, yes,” Irving said. “She thinks it will be very good, if the quality matches her suite.”

  “Good,” Clint said. “I certainly want Miss Terry to be satisfied.”

  He took one last look at the empty house, then turned and walked with Irving.

  * * *

  “They’re very good,” Mr. Green said.

  “Yes, they are,” Mr. Gray said.

  “Was that Adams backstage? Kept peering out?” Mr. Green asked.

  “Yes,” Mr. Gray said. “He watches all the performances from there.”

  “Has he seen you yet?”

  “I think he saw me in New York,” Mr. Gray said, “but not since we left there.”

  “Where do they usually go after the theater?” Mr. Green asked.

  “To dinner,” Mr. Gray said. “They’ll probably go to the hotel dining room.”

  “How do you usually play it?”

  “I usually follow behind them,” Mr. Gray said. “If we both do it, though, they’ll spot us.”

  “So what do you suggest?”

  “You go ahead to the hotel and wait there.”

  “What if they don’t go there?”

  “Then I will follow them whenever they go,” Mr. Gray said. “Eventually, they will return to the hotel.”

  Mr. Green shrugged and said, “Okay, it’s your call.”

  Mr. Gray chose not to read anything into his colleague’s tone. After all, it was his call.

  * * *

  Clint and Irving ordered steak dinners; Terry went with her usual chicken. Henry Irving ordered a bottle of wine for them.

  “You know, my dear,” Irving said to her, “when we travel out West, you might have to eat steak. It’s what they eat in the West.”

  “I will deal with that situation when it arises,” Terry said.

  “Isn’t that true?” Irving asked Clint.

  “Pretty much,” Clint said. “Steak, beef, but I’ll bet she can get some chicken. Maybe even some fish.”

  “Freshwater fish, correct?” Irving asked.

  “Oh, yeah,” Clint said. “Not much ocean fish between here and California.”

  “Trout?” Irving asked.

  “Lots of them.”

  “Catfish?”

  “What do you know of catfish, Henry?” Terry asked.

  “Not much,” Henry said, “but I’d like to taste it.”

  “When we get to Saint Louis,” Clint said, “you will.”

  “Excellent.”

  “But we have a couple of stops before that.”

  “Small stops,” Henry said.

  “Nothing small about Chicago, Henry,” Clint said.

  “I am looking forward to Chicago,” Ellen Terry said. “I’ve heard a lot about it. I hope it’s all true.”

  “We will see,” Henry Irving said.

  * * *

  After dinner they all went to their rooms. Clint was reading when there was a knock at his door. A bellman, perhaps with a message. Or maybe Henry Irving.

  When he opened the door, it was Trehearn again. The government man held out the newspapers in his hand.

  “The papers you requested,” he said.

  “Thank you.”

  “Run out of books to read?”

  “Just wanted some light reading as well,” Clint said. “Thank you.”

  “Is there anything else you need while you’re in Washington?” Trehearn asked.

  “No, nothing.”

  “Stay in touch, then.”

  “I will.”

  He closed the door, heard Trehearn’s footsteps receding down the hall. He turned, walked back to the chair he had been sitting in, moved the book he’d been reading, and sat down. He read the Boston newspaper first, then the Philadelphia. In the Boston paper there was a story on page five about a street whore being killed—stabbed. In the Philadelphia paper a similar story appeared on page one. That was a good example of the differences between the two cities.

  Three U.S. cities visited by Henry Irving, three dead women. Had Irving gone for walks in all three cities? Or just New York?

  He put the newspapers down and left his room. He walked down the hall and knocked on Irving’s door. The actor answered.

  “Ah, Clint. What brings you to my door this late?” the actor asked.

  “I was just checking on you,” Clint said. “To make sure you’re all right.”

  “I’m quite fine,” Irving said. “Would you like to come in for a drink?”

  “No, thanks,” Clint said. “I’m going to turn in. Good night.”

  “Good night, then.”

  Irving closed his door, and Clint started walking back to his room. But as he passed Ellen Terry’s door, it opened. She appeared in the doorway, wearing a silk dressing gown that molded itself to her body. It was obvious she was wearing nothing beneath it.

  “What’s happening out here?”

  “Nothing,” Clint said. “I was just checking to see if Henry was in for the night.”

  “And is he?”

  “He is.”

  “And were you going to check on me?”

  “I was.”

  “But you were walking past my door, were you not?” she asked.

  “Was I?”

  “I believe you were.”

  “Well, if I was, it was only because I didn’t want to disturb you.”

 
“What if I want to be disturbed?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I want to have a nightcap, Mr. Adams,” she said, “and I don’t want to have it alone. Will you have one with me?”

  “If that’s what you want, Miss Terry.”

  “Come in, then,” she said. “And close the door behind you.”

  She turned and went into the room. Clint entered and closed the door, as instructed.

  “The wine is over there,” she said, pointing.

  Clint walked to the far end of her suite and poured two glasses of wine. He walked back to where she was standing, and handed one to her.

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Have a seat,” she said. “Let’s talk.”

  “About what?”

  “Anything,” she said. “I am not sleepy, and I need to talk.”

  “All right,” he said, taking a seat, “let’s talk.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  “Tell me about Henry,” Clint said.

  She sat across from him, in the plush armchair that was the twin to his.

  “That’s what you want to talk about?”

  “Yes.”

  She sipped her wine and shrugged.

  “Very well. What do you want to know?”

  “What does he do when he’s not on stage?”

  “He manages the theater, reads plays. He plans what he will do when he is on stage.”

  “That’s all?”

  “What else is there?”

  “For instance. Does he have any hobbies?”

  “Hobbies?” Terry laughed. “Like what?”

  “Does he . . . take walks? At night?”

  “Walks?”

  “Yes,” Clint said. “Some people like to walk. It clears their head.”

  “Henry’s head is always clear.”

  “So he always knows what he’s doing?”

  “Oh, yes,” she said. “He is always very clear on what he is doing.”

  “What about you, Miss Terry?” Clint asked. “Are you always clear on what you’re doing?”

  “Usually.”

  “What is it about me that upsets you so much?” Clint asked.

  “You know,” she said, “I’ve been wondering about that myself. What is it about you that irritates me?”