Longarm #396 : Longarm and the Castle of the Damned (9781101545249) (3 page)

“Willoughby hired you?”

“I don't know who hired me, Custis, and that is the truth. I was contacted . . . never mind by who. Whom? Who? I always get those mixed up.”

“Never mind the English lesson. What are you supposed to do?”

“All I am required to do is to keep you from testifying. How I do it, whether I have to kill you or not, was left up to me.” The girl began to cry. “I don't want to do that, Custis. Please don't make me.”

Lenore reached under the bed again.

Longarm did not intend to wait and see what she brought out this time. He punched her again. Harder and square in the face.

Lenore's nose broke with an audible crunch. Her upper lip split open and spilled bright blood down over her tits, and she toppled over onto the floor at his feet, out cold this time.

If he'd had more time, he would have dragged the damn woman over to the Cheyenne city jail and booked her in on a charge of assault on a peace officer, but if he took time to do that he would surely miss the start of court. Lenore would have earned her pay after all.

Instead he hurriedly dressed, scowled at the sight of the naked girl on the floor—she was just beginning to stir with the return of groggy consciousness—and strode out of the empty house.

Whoever hired Lenore Bailey had a backup plan. Two men were waiting on the courthouse steps, one as far as he could get on either side of the doorway.

The men wore matching dusters. That was not particularly unusual, but the bulges that showed in the front of the dusters were. Either those two had the world's biggest hardons or they were hiding something else beneath the tan linen. And Longarm had a good idea what.

He shifted direction before he mounted the steps and walked nonchalantly to his right, as if unsuspecting and innocent.

The man closer to him pretended not to notice, although Longarm was sure the fellow would have a crawling sensation on the back of his neck, knowing that if he had to shoot he would have to swing the gun to his left, a difficult shift of aim for most men.

The other, of course, could confront Longarm face-on. Which meant he would have to be taken out first and his partner afterward.

Longarm drew his Colt, deliberately and with no hurry about it. Both gents in the linen dusters saw and reacted.

The one to the left of the doorway pointed something under his duster—a sawed-off shotgun as it turned out—but had no time to fire before Longarm's bullet smashed into his breastbone, taking first the breath away from him and then his life as he was launched backward against the stone building blocks.

The man on the right, much closer to Longarm, tried to swivel around before the lawman could get a second shot off.

He was late, and he damn well knew it. Instead of standing his ground to fire at the deputy who had already killed his partner, this one turned ghost pale and bolted for the wide open spaces.

Longarm thought about putting a bullet in the bastard's back, but there seemed no point to that. Instead he aimed a foot or so over the man's head and triggered a .45 slug. He would not have thought it possible, but the fellow managed to run even faster after that sizzler pinked the crown of his hat, sending the hat flying and the man flying even faster.

City police and sheriff's deputies came boiling out of the courthouse in response to the sudden gunfire, but Longarm's two shots had ended the conflict.

“What the hell . . . ?”

Longarm shrugged and reloaded his revolver. “I think somebody didn't want me to testify this morning. You boys want to take charge here? I'll give you my statement this afternoon, but right now I got me a date inside a certain courtroom.”

James Willoughby, he noticed, looked almighty worried when he saw Longarm walk in unscathed. Had damn good reason to be worried too. It took no great powers of deduction to understand that Willoughby, or someone acting on his behalf, was behind these assaults.

Six hours later, with Longarm's testimony on the record and James Willoughby's jury deliberating the man's fate, Longarm returned to the house where he had left Lenore.

The front door was locked and no one answered his knock, so Longarm unfolded his pocketknife and jimmied the lock tongue.

There was no sign of Lenore—or whoever the hell she was—not that he'd really expected any. The narrow bed was there and the empty keg, but that was all that remained anywhere in the place.

Longarm went next door and rapped lightly on that door. After a minute or so and a repeat of the knocking, a man wearing bib overalls and a sleeveless shirt answered. He had a cup of coffee in one hand and a rather annoyed look on his face. Longarm guessed he'd interrupted the fellow's lunch.

“What is it?” the home owner growled. “Whatever it is, mister, I don't want to buy any.” The gentleman's expression changed when Longarm displayed his badge. “Mister, I done nothin'. You got to believe me about that.”

“I believe you,” Longarm assured him. “I got no beef with you. Just need to ask you a question or two.”

The man grunted his assent, took a sip of the coffee, and scratched his crotch with the other hand.

“It's about the woman who lives next door. Or is renting there, I suppose.”

“Woman? Mister, there ain't no woman over there. Hasn't been since Margarite died six, maybe seven years ago that was. Old Jules lived there by hisself until last October. His daughter came up from Omaha then and took Jules home with her to live. They sold off all his stuff. Auctioned it, they did. That was in December. I remember clear because I bought a right handsome thunder mug for my Mabel. Got it for fifteen cents and quite a bargain it was.” He chuckled. “I gave it to my woman for Christmas, which is why I remember it so plain. The place has set empty ever since then.”

“No one has had permission to live there?” Longarm withheld his opinion of a man who would give his wife a thunder mug for Christmas. And a used one at that.

“No.” The fellow took another drink of his coffee, which in fact smelled tantalizingly good as Longarm still had not had time to get so much as a sip of the stuff all day. “No one there, though I hear tell the daughter will be putting the house up for sale. Jules won't be coming back here, I'm pretty sure. He'll likely stay with his girl until he dies.”

“Thank you, sir. Sorry to have disturbed you, but you've been a big help.”

The man grunted and withdrew, closing the door in Longarm's face.

Longarm grunted too. With disgust. He had been taken in by the girl, likely a high-priced whore from some big city, who called herself Lenore Bailey. Whoever she was, he was betting he would never see her again. If he happened to, he would arrest her.

But damn, she was a prime piece of tail.

He walked back to the courthouse, and beyond it to the café on the corner nearby. His belly was growling, and he was hoping he could induce the cook there to serve him up a platter of eggs and crisp bacon. Or ham. Maybe both. And coffee. Lordy, he did want some coffee now.

His mouth was already watering as he stepped inside the café.

“Has the jury reached a verdict?”

“We have, Your Honor.”

The judge turned his attention to the prisoner. “You will rise, sir.”

“Fuck you,” Willoughby snarled.

The judge did not argue the point. He did, however, nod to the deputies who were stationed in his courtroom. Without further direction, the deputies, big men both of them, walked over to Willoughby, took him by the arms, and lifted him bodily out of the chair where he had been insolently slouching.

“You may publish your findings,” the judge said to the jury foreman.

“We find James Henry Willoughby guilty of the crime of murder,” announced the foreman, a lanky chap whose accent suggested he was from Texas.

“Thank you, jurors.” The judge turned his attention back to Willoughby, who still more or less dangled between the deputies. “James Willoughby, for the crime of murder, in which you shot down a man who was a far better person than yourself, I sentence you to be hanged by the neck until you are dead. A date for your execution will be determined by the prison warden. Jurors, you are excused now. Deputies, you will take that sorry son of a bitch back to his cell now, please.”

Longarm grunted. It was a right and proper outcome. He stood, reaching for a cheroot.

By habit he looked across the room for the girl with the light brown hair, but of course there was no sign of her. She likely would not be seen again, at least not by him. Perhaps oddly, he hoped she had been paid for her services in advance. Otherwise she would have gone to all that trouble for no purpose.

“Sir. Mister marshal, sir?” It was the old man again, without his broom this time but just as quietly insistent that he have a word with Longarm.

Longarm reached into his pocket and drew out a scant handful of coins, some of which gleamed the yellow of minted gold. He selected a quarter and held it out to the old fellow, but the man shook his head.

“I ain't here to beg from you, Marshal. I got . . . I got t'talk to you if you'd be so kind.”

“Oh?”

“I need help, Marshal. That is, my grandbaby needs your help. Can we talk, sir? Please?”

“Yes, I suppose so. Would you like some coffee while we talk? We can go over to the café and—”

“Oh, no, sir, I couldn't go there, me being the local drunk and you being a proper gentleman. There's folks who . . . wouldn't take real well to me putting on airs.”

“We could go to my room,” Longarm suggested.

“But . . .”

“It's all right. I'm a deputy United States marshal, don't forget. Nobody is going to stop me from talking to someone who needs my help. Come along now.” He smiled. “If you like, I can send a boy to fetch us coffee. Maybe some sandwiches.”

The old fellow's eyes lit up, and he tried to stifle a laugh but failed. “I'd like that just fine, Marshal sir. Me in that hotel being waited on. Oh, yes, sir, I'd like that just fine. But if you don't mind, sir, it'd sit better with . . . with them folks if I didn't do it quite that way.”

Longarm's eyebrows rose in inquiry. “Why not?”

“It would go hard on me afterward. I'll explain.”

“I wouldn't want to cause you troubles.”

“Tell you what I could do instead, Marshal. I could go fetch a tray with coffee on it. If anybody saw, they'd figure I was waiting on you an' that would be all right.”

Longarm nodded. “That sounds reasonable. Let me give you some money then for the coffee. A sandwich too if you'd like. And don't worry. Whatever I spend will be on my expense account. That means the government will end up paying for it.”

The old man grinned his appreciation of that idea and gladly accepted the fifty cents Longarm handed him.

Longarm started toward his hotel, then paused and turned to the old man. He extended his hand. “I'm Custis Long, but you can call me Longarm. All my friends do.”

The old man eagerly accepted Longarm's handshake. “My name is Moses Arthur, Marshal, and I am right honored to make your acquaintance, sir.”

“Let's go then, Mr. Arthur.” Longarm was very much aware of the hour. He was rapidly running out of daylight, and he still had to give a sworn statement to the Cheyenne police about those assholes that tried to shoot him earlier, and he had to wire Billy Vail to tell the marshal about the outcome of the trial. And about the fact that Longarm was available for another assignment now. He hoped this conversation with Moses Arthur about his grandchild would not take very long.

In fact, he had no idea how very long it would take.

Longarm entered his room and by habit looked around before he relaxed. After all, Lenore and the second gunman were somewhere out there. It was not inconceivable that they might still want a piece of his hide.

The hotel room was empty, so Longarm removed his coat and hung it on a hanger in the wardrobe, tugged his string tie down from his throat, and unbuttoned his vest and the collar button on his shirt. He felt a helluva lot better after he did that.

He crossed to the front of the room, to a window overlooking the street in front of the hotel. The window was closed, so he raised the sash as far as it would go and the roller blind also. A faint breeze coming off the prairie that surrounded Cheyenne was more than welcome, the smell of coal smoke from the nearby railroad less so.

Moses Arthur would be along in a few minutes, but while he was waiting Longarm pulled the .45 from its leather, flicked the loading gate open, and punched out all five fat .45 cartridges from the cylinder.

Longarm always carried cleaning tools in his carpetbag. He fetched it from the wardrobe and placed the bag on the bed so he could rummage inside for the cleaning rod, the two-ounce can of whale oil, and a greasy rag—carefully wrapped in oilcloth so it did not transfer any of the oil to his clothing—and proceed to clean the Colt, pulling the cylinder pin and dropping the cylinder out. He cleaned the bore first and held the revolver up to the light so he could see that the inside of the barrel was clean, then started working on the cylinder itself. He was midway through that familiar task when he heard a flurry of gunshots from the street below his window.

His Colt was inoperative at the moment, but his derringer was not. He palmed that, pulling it from his vest pocket, and hurried to the window. By the time he got there, the excitement was over except for the usual approach of pedestrians, shocked expressions on their faces. All of them seemed to be staring at something on the hotel steps. Longarm's view was blocked by the roof of the porch overhang, so he could not see exactly what the disturbance was all about.