by J. T. Edson
“Wives, not wife,” Derringer corrected. “There’s three of them.”
“Thr—!” Fir began, while Gilbert stood open-mouthed and silent. “If this’s a joke—”
“All you have to do is knock and ask,” Derringer told him.
“Damn it, that’s just what I’ll do!” Fir shouted. “And if it is a—”
“Whether the ladies are, or are not, Sultan’s wives is of no importance at the moment,” Gilbert put in, rallying from his shock with an almost visible effort. Clearly the news that three women claiming to be his deceased client’s wives hit him hard. However, he mastered his emotions and waved the sheet of paper. “This is a legally executed will and without a doubt genuine—”
“Thanks!” Fir snorted.
“You must admit that the terms are somewhat irregular, Doctor,” Gilbert answered with pompous calm. “I mean this part here: ‘And so, in view of the uncertainty of life, I leave my saloon to whoever is at my side when I die’! That clause alone might cause doubts as to the will’s authenticity.”
“Does that mean what I think it means?” Derringer inquired.
“It means, Mr. Derringer,” Gilbert intoned solemnly, “that you and Miss Canary here are the owners of the Harem Saloon.”
For a moment neither Calamity nor Derringer spoke as they let the surprising news sink in. Then Calamity turned an amazed face to the gambler and she gasped, “Tell me I’m dreaming!”
“If you are, I’m having the same dream,” he replied, and looked at Gilbert. “You mean that, just because we happened to be with Sultan when he died, we get to own the Harem?”
“Yes,” agreed the lawyer. “With certain provisos. Such as keeping certain employees—there are ten of them—employed at an increased salary for a period of at least five years. Or, in the event that they wish to quit, paying them a lump sum equal to the said five years’ salary. There is a sizeable bank balance as running expenses for the saloon, so you need not worry on the latter account.”
Ever a good-hearted, generous girl, Calamity gave little thought to how the will affected her. Instead she pointed to the door and said, “But if those gals’re Sultan’s wives, they should have the place; not a couple of strangers, which’s all me ’n’ Derry are.”
“The will was made of Sultan’s own free will and desire,” Gilbert replied. “Therefore it is legally binding. However, I think you need have no worries on the ladies’ behalf. If they should be his wives, I feel certain that he will have made adequate provision for their future.”
“Yeah, but—” Calamity began.
“As soon as Su—the body is brought into town and its personal effects released by the sheriff, we may know more about that,” Gilbert interrupted. “I am instructed in the will to open his office safe, take out, read and act on the letter it contains.”
“That’s swell!” Calamity snorted. “Only there’s three gals across the hall waiting for a husband who’ll not be coming back.”
“It would be best if the news was broken to them,” Gilbert admitted. “I’ll attend to it now.”
“Maybe I’d best come along,” Fir suggested. “Could be I’ll be needed in my professional capacity.”
“I’m coming!” Calamity stated flatly. “I want those gals to know I’m willing to hand ’em my share of the place. Hell, if I was partner in a saloon like the Harem, I’d be rich enough to marry and settle down—and I’d hate like hell for that to happen.”
Derringer looked at Calamity with a gentle smile. All the stories folks told of her generosity appeared to be true; also about her sense of humor. However, he said nothing and let the others out of the room. One thing puzzled Derringer. Why did a lawyer like Gilbert calmly accept the news that three women each claimed to be his deceased client’s wife?
Despite his air of arrogant pomposity, Gilbert proved himself remarkably tactful and adept at passing out bad news. After introducing himself as Banyan’s lawyer, he gained access for the party to Rachel’s room. The other two women sat inside, studying the newcomers with interest. Then Gilbert broke the news as gently as possible to them.
Watching the trio, Derringer read shock on each face. Yet none of them gave way to outbursts of grief. Clearly Rachel felt that the situation called for some explanation.
“You must excuse our lack of emotion,” she said. “However, Claude was not what could be termed an ideal husband.”
“I’d no complaints,” purred Velma, but nobody took any notice of the comment.
“Did he leave a will?” Rachel demanded bluntly.
“A rather strange one,” the lawyer admitted, then went into the details.
Still studying the women, Derringer could see nothing other than surprise on their faces as they listened to the contents of the will. He had hoped that one of them might reveal anger, or some such emotion, that might point to a motive for the attempt on Banyan’s life. If any of the three had tried to have her husband killed in the hope of inheriting a prosperous business and considerable wealth, she hid it carefully.
“The will is valid?” Rachel asked.
“Perfectly, as far as I can see,” Gilbert answered. “It was drawn up by a lawyer in Kansas City. Of course, it has yet to be probated.”
“If I knew Sultan, and I reckon I did,” Fir put in. “He’ll not’ve left his wi—you wanting for anything.”
“That’s probably correct,” Gilbert agreed soothingly. “Of course, we can’t examine his personal documents until the sheriff returns.”
“That is hardly the point!” Rachel snapped. “As Claude’s wife, I feel that I have a better claim to his property than two strangers.”
“I’m his wife too, you know!” Joan said grimly.
“And so am I!” Velma went on.
“I presume that each of you ladies can produce proof of your claims to being my client’s wife?” asked Gilbert.
“I can!” all three replied at the same moment as hands dipped into vanity bags to produce their evidence.
“Of course two of the marriages are illegal,” Rachel stated, with the confidence that came from knowing her own would not be one of them.
“I’m afraid that might not be true,” Gilbert told her, examining each woman’s marriage certificate and returning it to her. “Can you remember who married you, Mrs. Banyan?—The priest, I mean?”
“It was one Claude found,” Rachel, to whom the question had been directed, replied. “I would have preferred a more formal wedding, but we had to join a wagon-train headed west. So Claude brought a priest to perform the ceremony.”
“I didn’t pay much attention to the preacher,” Velma answered in her turn. “Sultan found him and that was good enough for me.”
“How about you, Mrs. Banyan?” asked Gilbert, looking at Joan.
“It was some preacher I had never seen before. I wanted the Reverend Hooper to officiate as I’d known him for years. He wasn’t available and Wallace brought along this young deacon.”
“And Su—my client never mentioned his religious beliefs to you?”
“Not to me,” Velma replied. “We didn’t waste time—”
“I fail to see what all this is leading up to, Counselor!” Rachel interrupted. “As Claude and I were never divorced, the other two marriages can’t be legal.”
“I’m afraid you’re wrong, Mrs. Banyan,” Gilbert told her. “You see, my client was of the Mormon faith; which practices polygamy. If, as now seems probable, a Mormon priest performed the ceremonies, all three marriages are legal.
Ten
“Derry and me aren’t in favor of this notion,” Calamity Jane told the group of people gathered in Banyan’s private office on the first floor of the Harem Saloon. “If he aimed to give the place away, it should’ve come to you folk who’ve been with him from the start and helped to make it pay.”
“If the boss’d’ve wanted it that way, he’d’ve said so,” Ward Sharp, the floor-manager, replied. “We allus did what he said while he was here and we’ll not go
against his dying wishes.”
A middle-sized man, Sharp made up his deficiencies in height with breadth and depth; and it was all hard flesh or solid muscle. Although wearing the dress-style of a professional gambler, his blunt-fingered hands looked more in keeping for a manual worker. From all the expression his face showed, hearing his boss had been murdered and willed the saloon to two complete strangers might be an everyday occurrence.
Behind the floor-manager stood four senior members of the staff. Goldie, the blonde, buxom, middle-aged but still good-looking boss girl; Buck Gitsen, supervisor of the gambling tables, tall, slim, elegant yet steel-spring tough; bald, stocky Harvey Cromer, the head bartender; big, burly, broken-nosed Sheb Cash, the top bouncer. None of them, not even Gitsen, kept such an impassive face as Sharp. All studied their new employers with calculating gaze, wondering what changes would be made. Goldie gave Calamity more attention than Derringer, sensing a possible threat to her position. As heads of their departments—although none of them regarded their work in such a manner—the quartet had been called upstairs to hear of the change of ownership and their increase in salary.
In view of the three wives’ behavior, Calamity had lost her feelings of generosity and decided to let them sweat for a spell. So she made no mention of handing control of the saloon to them. Derringer followed her lead, wanting to see what developed.
After some argument, the wives had grudgingly accepted that Derringer and Calamity could claim to run the saloon until the will was probated. Fir helped their agreement by stating he believed the employees who mattered in the continued operation of the business—those present and the others mentioned as beneficiaries under the will—would insist on carrying out their late boss’s instructions. Rather than see the saloon closed, the wives had given their consent to the arrangement. So Gilbert had brought Calamity and Derringer to the saloon to meet their staff.
“How’ll the other folks take it?” Calamity asked, looking at Goldie.
“They’ll do as they’re told,” the blonde answered, her face showing more grief than any of the wives had displayed over Banyan’s death. “I suppose you’ll be working the tables.”
Which meant, as both she and Calamity knew, “Will you be taking my job?”
“Dressed like this?” grinned Calamity. “And I’d sure as hell not want to get into them fancy do-dads. Nope. I’m going to be a real boss, sit on my butt-end and watch the hired help do all the work.”
If a touch weak due to grief, a corresponding grin came to Goldie’s face. Calamity knew that she had gained a valuable friend. Probably she would have to prove herself to some of the girls, but she preferred not to be in conflict with the blonde. Unless Calamity missed her guess, Goldie knew how to take care of herself.
“I’ll see they do it,” Goldie promised.
“That’s what you’re here for,” Calamity agreed. “Day I catch you driving my wagon, I’ll take over here.”
With harmony established between the distaff side, the men gave Derringer their attention. First Cash told Derringer of the bouncers’ work.
“We don’t get much trouble most times. Pay night’s wild, but we can handle it. The Provost Marshal’s boys help us with the soldiers. The boss didn’t go for no worse rough-handling than necessary.”
“I’ll go along with that,” Derringer answered.
“We’ve a good supply of liquor in,” Cromer continued. “Enough to last us until the next shipment. It’s stored down in the cellar if you’d like to take a look. Boss had us serve fair measure, good stuff and hand back the right change drunk or sober.”
“You’ll see it stays that way?” Derringer asked.
“That’s what I get paid for.”
“We run the usual games,” Gitsen said. “Faro, chuck-a-luck, black jack. There’s a big poker game held down here that the boss played in every Saturday he could. You’ll find everything the way you want it, Mr. Derringer.”
Accepting the tribute to his honesty, Derringer nodded. “Great. And I don’t go much on ‘mistering.’ The name’s ‘Frank.’”
While the men talked, Calamity looked around the office. Clearly Sultan Banyan had enjoyed his creature comforts. While the desk looked a plain, functional piece of equipment, the chairs offered more comfort and she could imagine the use to which he put the large, comfortable couch at the far side of the room. Paintings of women in various stages of undress decorated the walls and fancy vases stood about the room. Even the stoutly made safe looked decorative. So the two black objects standing on top of it struck Calamity as out of place in such opulent surroundings.
Curiosity aroused, Calamity walked over to the safe and picked up one of the objects. It had an oval-shaped body from which rose a wooden tail with cardboard fins, and stood on a flat metal base. Much to her surprise, she saw an open box of percussion caps by the wall at the rear of the safe. Then she heard Gilbert speak in a strained, frightened voice.
“D-Don’t knock it, Miss Canary. That’s a Ketchum hand-grenade.”
Although she had never seen a hand-grenade, Calamity remembered hearing soldiers mention them. Of the various types experimented with during the War between the States, the Ketchum proved to be the most safe and reliable. Yet she could not imagine why Banyan had kept such potentially dangerous devices on his safe.
“Don’t worry, Miss Calamity,” Sharp grinned as she gingerly set down the grenade. “They’re not primed.”
“What in hell’re they for?” she asked. “They sure ain’t as fancy for looking at as them pictures.”
“Figured they might come in handy if we ever got held up,” the floor-manager explained. “This room looks down on the front of the place and there’s allus somebody up there. Idea is that if we should be stuck up, anybody who can gets into the office, primes the bombs and tosses them down on the gang when they leave.”
“That’s not a bad notion,” Derringer said.
“Boss used something like it in the War,” Cash put in.
“You’d best show me how to prime the damned things, whatever that is,” Calamity said.
“Not right now,” Derringer objected. “Let’s take a look around downstairs.”
“Sure,” Calamity agreed. “Say, where do you get the water you use in here from, a well?”
“No. Pump it up,” Goldie replied. “Why?”
“I was figuring on taking a bath later,” Calamity told her. “Come on, I’ve never seen a saloon ’cepting as a customer.”
Leaving the office, Calamity and Derringer stood with the others and looked over their inheritance. The balcony on which they stood stretched around both sides and the rear, with rooms on two of the sides and extra tables along the rear. Business appeared to be good enough, with plenty of customers at the tables and games. Going downstairs—one flight of which ran from the balcony at each side—they found the busy condition included the long bar.
“I’ll go help out,” Cromer said.
“Sure,” Derringer replied. “Reckon I’ll mosey around the games.”
Leaving Calamity with Goldie, Derringer accompanied Sharp and Gitsen to the nearest faro table. As far as he could see, the game was conducted fairly. Its dealing box had an open top, always a sign of a straight game, and held new cards.
“We’ve just had new decks come in,” Gitsen remarked. “I’d like to pick up at least another hundred of ’em from Werner. Last time his order to Bletchley’s was lost in the mail. I reckon damned near every place in town was using old cards until the new stock came in.”
“You’re running this end of it, Buck,” Derringer confirmed. “Do what you want on it.”
While talking, Derringer watched a few plays of the game. He felt satisfied with what he saw; the dealer made no attempt to alter the run of the cards to favor the house and the case-board—recording the cards played and whether they won or lost—was accurately maintained.
Not far away, at another table, Derringer saw a stud poker game in progress and moved across to watc
h it. While technically a four-handed private game, a dealer sat at the table to take the house cut from every pot and act as judge on any controversy. Cutting a game by the house, to help defray expenses, was common enough to need no comment. So Derringer might have moved on but for noticing something of interest.
At that moment all four players still remained in the game on the final round of betting. Peering owlishly at his cards, the dude who had attracted Calamity’s attention outside Werner’s store opened the betting for a hundred dollars. Already the pot held a large sum, showing the deal-bets had been stiff. However, the next man did no more than see and the third folded his hand. That left the last player, a burly miner by appearance, to make his move. Before him showed the queen, jack, nine, eight of diamonds; quite a spread and offering a wide variety of chances in the hole. From the way he saw the hundred and raised it by two hundred and fifty, he must hold a helpful card in the hole.
Despite the fact that he could have at the most three jacks, for his up-cards were only two jacks, a seven and three, the dude saw and raised. That made the other active player toss his cards on to the deadwood. Again the miner saw and raised, acting with complete confidence. Thinking of the cards exposed in the four hands, Derringer expected the dude to at most see the bet. Yet he did more, shoving a three hundred-dollar raise. Derringer frowned, wondering if the man knew how to play poker. Only two other diamonds had been in view and none of the tens. If the miner caught either a ten or diamond, he held a hand which licked the possible three jacks.
“I’ll see it,” the miner grunted.
“Three jacks,” replied the dude, turning his hole card face up.
“Damn it!” the miner spat out. “I thought I’d got you bluffed.”
While the dude raked in the pot, adding it to the money piled before him, the cutter gathered, shuffled and dealt the deck after a player had cut them.
“That’s the house rule, except in the big game on Saturday nights, Frank,” Gitsen explained in a low voice. “He doesn’t play hisself and nobody lays hands on the deck long enough to switch in a cold one.”