Suddenly he thought of the man he had found in Grita’s rooms. Could that have been Hesketh? And if so, what was he doing there? Looking for the shares?
He stropped the razor for a fresh edge, lathered his chin again. That could have been Hesketh, he had looked like a businessman. Carefully dressed, freshly shaven—odd eyes, very piercing.
He paused, razor poised; those eyes, where had he seen them before? Or had he? He rinsed his razor, wiped it dry, his mind empty, receptive, waiting.
Footsteps sounded outside, then a brief rap on the door. Putting down the razor, Trevallion turned to face the door, the gun-butt within inches of his right hand. “Come in,” he said.
Manfred stepped in. “Sorry,” he apologized. “I don’t mean to interrupt.”
“Sit down. I was just finishing.”
“I’ve been thinking about Hesketh. There’s no way we can get at him. Legally, I mean. I know he looted those wagons and it wouldn’t sound good. Like you pointed out, many of those people planned to go back for their belongings. We all knew that and they were left alone. The fact that he looted wagons that were seemingly abandoned, there’s nothing we can do about that.
“As for killing—and I’m dead sure he killed at least two men who weren’t dead and might have been saved…there’s nothing anybody can prove. I know what I know, but a good lawyer would tear that evidence to shreds. We’d get nowhere.
“Nor is there any evidence he killed Crockett. He’s been involved in some shady dealings and has taken advantage of people, but that’s about all, and you can’t arrest a man for that.”
Trevallion placed the razor in its case and closed it, then tossed the pan of water out the door. It would help to keep down the dust at the approach to the tunnel.
“Have you talked to Grita?” he asked.
Manfred shook his head. “I’m worried,” he admitted. “Albert Hesketh is dangerous. He’s like a sidewinder, vicious, poisonous, and always poised to strike. By now he probably knows that Grita inherited everything from Will Crockett. That leaves her in possession when she wishes to take over. She can throw him off the premises, and she should. He’ll steal her blind, otherwise.”
“And if something should happen to her, he will be left in possession until her heirs can decide what to do.”
“Nothing will happen to her,” he spoke positively. Then he turned sharply. “Who is with her now?”
“Clyde. But Teale is in the lobby.”
Trevallion was thinking as he put on his shirt. Word would have gotten around and by now Hesketh would know. Furthermore, he would be moving to change the situation. Which meant both Grita and himself were targets of the first opportunity; of course, that had been his position for some time.
“Manfred,” he said slowly, “you’re in this of your own choice, so go back to the hotel and stay close to Grita. He will surely try to kill her, not he himself, but somebody sent by him.”
“I’ll go.” Manfred got up. “And you?”
“I’ll be along,” he said, “but be careful.”
“I shall,” Manfred said. “Remember, I know the man. He hasn’t an iota of mercy in him. He is absolutely cold. He has no respect for human life or anything that stands in his way.”
“What will he do if he’s backed into a corner? As he is now?”
“He will fight, I think, in his own way. The man’s uncommonly shrewd.”
When Manfred had gone, Trevallion buckled on his gun-belt. Uncommonly shrewd? No. Possibly not shrewd at all. Perhaps only a man who moved into whatever opening appeared, taking every advantage. Often the man appears shrewd who is only ruthless and without scruples.
The day was pleasantly warm. Trevallion walked outside and looked down the street toward the main part of town and the International. He could see people along the streets, miners going to work, and huge wagons hauling ore from the mines to the mills. A gentle breeze rustled the leaves on some coarse brush close by. The sky was blue with only a few remote clouds.
Had all his days led but to this one? In the mine behind him men worked, digging out ore for him. Somewhere a tin-panny piano-like sound came from the town below. What awaited him down there, he did not know, but he had an uncomfortable feeling that he faced some sort of a culmination.
He remembered the look on Waggoner’s face when he had interrupted him in his meeting with Margrita. There was some brutal, indomitable force in the man, a man who could envision no defeat, no failure.
Turning, Trevallion looked again at the mine, at the cabin. Then he started down the slope. He went first to the International.
Teale was in the lobby, and he arose from his chair and crossed the room to intercept him.
“Trevallion? You can’t see her. Not now.”
“Is she busy? It’s quite important.”
His features were without expression. “She’s up there with him, with Hesketh. She asked not to be disturbed.”
Hesketh? Alone with Albert Hesketh?
Trevallion started forward but Teale laid his rifle across in front of him. “Like I said, Trevallion. She asked not to be disturbed.”
CHAPTER 50
When she returned to the sitting room of her suite, Albert Hesketh was seated on the edge of a chair, his hat on his knees.
“You wished to see me?”
He stood up. “I do, of course. You are an uncommonly beautiful woman, Margrita.”
It was the first time he had addressed her by her given name, and she did not like it. If he was aware of her reaction, he indicated no evidence of it. “Thank you,” she acknowledged.
The man who called himself Albert Hesketh had never in his life had time for the social graces. He had rarely talked to women and, generally speaking, despised them. He thought about them rarely and had in his mind several opinions of what they were like. His own fight had been for money and position, and he was quite sure that was what any intelligent person wanted, and women most of all.
“Margrita, as you may know, I have become a very rich man, and I shall be even richer.” There was something in the way he spoke that irritated her, but she made no reply. “Since our first meeting I have come to know you, and you are just the wife I have been—”
“What?” She stared at him in total disbelief. “Are you proposing?”
He smiled. “Why, as a matter of fact, I am.” He was, as he had told her, a very wealthy man, and these actresses were—“Yes, of course. I plan to build a home here, the most beautiful home. Of course, I shall have one in San Francisco, too. We must entertain, you know. There will be financiers out from New York or London, and you are just the woman to preside in such a place.”
He sounded so smug she almost laughed. She was young in years, but in her few years she had seen more than most and had looked upon the actions of people with the eyes of one gifted in the analysis of character. Each one might be a part she would one day be called upon to play, and she had always felt there was more to be learned from observing the characteristics and motivations of people than in any other way.
“Why?” she asked.
He was startled. “Why…what?”
“Why do you wish to marry me?”
He smiled. “You are beautiful.”
She was amused. “Perhaps, Mr. Hesketh, but that is very little on which to build a marriage. There are many beautiful women.” She turned her head to look at him. “And why should I wish to marry you?”
Why? The question irritated him. Why? Why not? Of course, she would wish to marry him! He was a wealthy man. He was somebody. He was attractive, and he was a coming man. Yet when he sought for words to explain himself he found none, and that irritated him even more. He had assumed—
“You would have a beautiful home,” he persisted. “You would have position. You would be somebody.”
“But I am somebody,
Mr. Hesketh. I am me. I like being me, and I need nobody to make me somebody. I need no setting. As for a home, I can build my own. As for position, each of us finds his own.”
He smiled a tight little smile that could not quite hide the anger in his eyes. “To build a home, Margrita, is very expensive. It is not—”
He tightened his lips. Didn’t this little fool realize what marriage to him would mean? Couldn’t she see? He fought to maintain that icy control on which he prided himself. “Don’t you see? You wouldn’t have to parade yourself on the stage any more. You wouldn’t have to—”
“Mr. Hesketh? You don’t understand. I like the theater. It is exciting and interesting to me. If I leave, it will only be for love, and because I am very sure that I have found the right man. Whether he is wealthy or not would never be a consideration, just that he’s someone with whom I could be happy, someone I could respect.”
Margrita Redaway had known many men, most of them only in passing, but she sensed there was something here that was totally beyond her experience.
For the first time she realized that Albert Hesketh was not very bright. She had thought of him as intelligent, perhaps shrewd in a business way, but now she realized, quite suddenly, that he was so completely self-centered as to be obtuse, blind to the feelings of others, and concerned only with people as they affected his plans. Yet there was something else, too, some quality that made her uneasy, unsure of herself. There was something in the man—something—something that was wrong, that was out of kilter.
He was staring at her. Couldn’t this little fool understand? He was offering to marry her!
Underneath his impatience something else was stirring within him, something that held panic. He had to marry her. It was the only way out, unless—
“Perhaps I shall build a home of my own, Mr. Hesketh. Possibly in California. There are some beautiful places there.”
“If you like,” he said, “we could—”
“No, Mr. Hesketh. It is not ‘we.’ If what you have been doing is considered a proposal of marriage, my answer is no. Very positively no, Mr. Hesketh.”
He stared at her, shocked. Until a few days ago he had not seriously considered marriage at all, although in the back of his mind he realized it was a part of the total picture he wished to present. But to propose marriage to this, this actress, and to be refused—
“You’re being a fool!” he said sharply. “A complete fool! How long do you think you can continue this parading around? Far better to marry and have a home.”
“Perhaps, Mr. Hesketh, perhaps you are right. I may do just that; if the right man should ask me I might quit tomorrow, as much as I enjoy my work.
“As for money,” she added, “I have nothing to worry about.” She flashed him a smile. “Haven’t you heard, Mr. Hesketh? I own the Solomon!”
He stiffened sharply as if slapped across the mouth. His throat tightened so he felt as if he might strangle, clutched as he was by a blind fury. His face went white, and when he tried to speak the words would not come. Finally they did come, choking and stumbling.
“No! No, you do not own the Solomon! You will never own it! It is mine! Mine!”
She was very cool, very quiet. “When Mr. Crockett was found, wounded and sick, he willed his portion of the mine to me, Mr. Hesketh, as I am sure you are aware.” She looked up at him. “And I had ten shares of my own, you know. That leaves me in control, Mr. Hesketh, and I believe it was you who first put up a sign to keep others away. I am afraid that is just what I must do, Mr. Hesketh. I must ask you not to trespass on the premises.”
“You…you can’t do that.”
“If I am not mistaken, Mr. Hesketh, that sign is even now being put in place and my guards are replacing yours.”
It was a struggle to retain his composure, yet so much was at stake. “Don’t you see? If we were married we would own it all! Just you and I!”
“I am new to Nevada, Mr. Hesketh, and I may be mistaken, but in many states you, as my husband, would control it all. I have no doubt you have thought of that, but the answer is no.”
She glanced in the mirror, touched her hair lightly, and, looking at him in the mirror, she said, “I have no doubt you will do very well on your share, Mr. Hesketh. We shall work the mine with great care.”
She turned to face him. There was something, something about him…something not quite normal. Something about him had always left her uneasy.
The derringer was in her purse, across the room from where she stood.
She touched her hair one more time, then turned and took her wrap from the back of the chair. “I am afraid, Mr. Hesketh, that you must excuse me.” She crossed the room to her purse, feeling his eyes upon her. “I have people waiting.” She stooped and took up the purse and turned to face him, opening the purse as she did so and taking out a handkerchief. “Of course, if you wish to sell?”
“No!” His voice was hoarse with emotion. “I’ll not sell! It is mine! It is all mine! You will see! I shall have it all!”
He hesitated a moment, staring at her. She replaced her handkerchief in her purse and took hold of the derringer.
“My friends are waiting, Mr. Hesketh, and I believe we have concluded our business.”
He turned toward the door and when he reached it he turned to look back. “You have been very foolish,” he said, “but no doubt you believe you know what you are doing. I am sorry for you.”
He stepped out and pulled the door shut behind him. For a moment she stood very still, clutching the butt of the small gun. Then, slowly, she relaxed.
He had gone. It was over. What was it about him that bothered her?
He was insane. No, that was ridiculous. Yet the thought persisted. In any event he was strange. His smile never seemed natural; it seemed set, forced, as if he were telling himself to smile.
She shrugged. She would probably not see him again, nor was there reason for it. She snapped shut her purse and turned to the door.
Albert Hesketh walked directly to his suite and placed his hat on the table; then he sat down, knees together, feet side by side. His folded hands rested on his knees, and he started to think.
There was an answer. There had to be an answer. At this stage, with victory so close, he must not be defeated. He must think…think….
She must be killed. Killed, of course. He had decided upon that some time ago, even before he had thought of her as a possible wife. He would, he told himself, have killed her anyway, eventually. The thing was what to do now, for just killing her would do him nothing but harm, unless—
Unless the mine were left in his hands while her estate was settled. Seated, his hands folded in his lap, he considered that possibility. It could be done if there was no suggestion that he was responsible for her death, and of course, he would take precautions to see that nothing of the kind occurred.
The chances were that she had told nobody of her action here today, unless it was Trevallion. She might have told him, although he doubted that. One thing he had noticed about Margrita Redaway was that she was closemouthed. She did not tell her business to every comer.
Killing her was something he wanted done, yet it would do no good unless he were left in control of the mine. Even if he eventually lost control, there might be a year or more in the meantime, and during such a time he could siphon off much of its wealth. The machinery for that was already in operation while Crockett was still around.
He would not go near the mine, and therefore there would be no one to say he could not go there. He did not wish to be publicly turned away, for that would arouse talk and would be generally known. If not generally known he could, if anything happened to Margrita Redaway, brush it off as mere nonsense.
The problem was how, when, and where. There was also the problem of obtaining what papers she had and discovering just who had witnessed Will Crocket
t’s last testament. Yet, even that did not matter. Accept the fact that the mine was willed to Margrita, but that she had transferred it to him.
Trevallion would know better, but Trevallion would be dead.
He took out his watch and checked the time. It would soon be time for dinner, and he must be there, in his usual place.
A mine, perhaps the Solomon? Margrita Redaway had mentioned wanting to descend into a mine, and women were said to be bad luck in a mine. Suppose she was the one who had bad luck? Once in a mine there was so much that could be done.
Possibly she and Trevallion together? He smiled. That would be a fortunate coincidence. He could just hear the old miners commenting that he, of all people, should have known better.
That new Forty-Niner tunnel. They were having trouble with oozing mud there, anyway. It was a dangerous spot, but there was rich ore back where it ran close to the old workings. Crockett had always wanted to open up the old workings as he had seen samples that looked good. Albert Hesketh had deliberately talked him into delaying that project.
He smiled again, thinking of it. Albert Hesketh had done pretty well, up to now. Yet the fat was in the fire and he had to act.
Santley. He had never trusted Santley, although the man had worked faithfully. Santley was an apple-polisher, and once he realized, as he was sure to, that a new hand might be in control he would seek to curry favor. Santley had seen the samples from the new workings, and only last week Hesketh had found him examining old samples from the old workings.
None of them trusted him, so he would simply let it work for him. If this plan did not work, he had another. He sat down at his desk and wrote swiftly.
Mr. Santley:
If Miss Redaway suggests going into the mine, please advise her not to enter Forty-Nine. At all costs, keep her out of that area. Say nothing to arouse her curiosity.
Albert Hesketh
He smiled as he looked at the note. If that would not do it, nothing would.
And there was no better place.
Comstock Lode Page 37