Novel 1981 - Comstock Lode (v5.0) (26 page)

She had no reason at all to suspect Albert Hesketh, except that he had somehow been involved, or seemed to have been, but she did not suspect him and she would not. He had simply taken her to the theater, and later had bought drinks for the company. It was merely coincidence that the thief had been around on both occasions.

Once more she put the back of the chair under the doorknob.

Whoever the thief had been, the same man would not come tonight, not with only one hand to use.

M
ARCUS ZETSEV LOOKED across his desk at the thin, sallow-faced man. His right hand was bound in a bloody cloth.

“It was your idea, Mr. Zetsev. I didn’t know the man. The way he told it sounded very simple, and of course, getting into that flat, it was nothing.

“I went through it, believe me, I did! I hunted every place where people would be apt to hide anything—they all use the same places—and came up with nothing.

“At the theater I had her purse and was getting away. Who’d think a woman like that would have a gun? Or could shoot like that?”

“What were you looking for?”

The slim man glanced at him slyly out of bloodshot eyes. “He made me promise—”

“Don’t be a fool! You will never see him again. I am the one you will be seeing, and I want to know.”

“I was hunting for a packet, a long envelope, something like that with some stock shares. If I found anything else, I could keep it. Hell, there wasn’t anything else! I break in, then I lay for her and knock her down and get winged, all for nothing!”

Marcus took a twenty-dollar gold piece from his pocket. “There, I wouldn’t want you to lose on the deal. If he ever gets in touch again, let me know.”

“Are you crazy? I was fifty feet away and runnin’ when she winged me! I want nothin’ to do with her!”

When the thief had gone, Marcus tipped back in his chair. Hesketh had recently taken control of the Solomon, and the Solomon was worth millions. Hesketh wanted that stock and he wanted it bad; there had to be a reason.

Within the hour a friend from the exchange told him the reason. Those shares of stock meant control, and Hesketh had to have control. Just holding the stock would mean a lot of money, but handled just right—

Marcus Zetsev clutched the edge of his desk. Buying stolen goods was a petty business, after all, but to own a silver mine! And he could do it. His somewhat protruding eyes watered as he thought of that. Hesketh had failed so far.
He
would not fail.

Teem, the thief he had sent to Hesketh, was a veteran. Hence, if he had not found the shares in the flat, they were simply not there.

There had been no chance for Teem to examine the purse, but that was where they must be. Either in her purse or on her person.

Now she would be aware, she would be on her guard, and she could shoot. Marcus thought about it, playing solitaire meanwhile. He would have to get hold of that purse and, if need be, of her. And the place to do that was some night after the theater or, in a last resort, take her from the stage as she went to Virginia City. It was common knowledge that her next play dates would be there.

For two weeks the play had a successful run, but for two weeks there was absolutely no chance to get close to her. One or more of the actors was always about, and they were armed. His people were shrewd enough to perceive that.

Marcus had no desire to get anyone shot who might be taken by the police and forced to talk.

The show closed suddenly, and the newspapers reported that Miss Redaway’s Company would be going to Virginia City, to Washoe.

Hesketh came by to order materials, and Marcus, his eyes guileless, asked if he needed another thief. “I do not,” Hesketh said sharply. “It will not be necessary.”

G
RITA REDAWAY MET Albert Hesketh for dinner. It was an excellent dinner, and she enjoyed it, yet during the course of the evening she became sure of one thing, if no more. Hesketh, in one way or another, was not quite right mentally. The feeling came to her suddenly, and for the first time she was frightened.

“You must let me show you the Washoe, Miss Redaway,” he said. “You must see them actually take silver and gold from the earth. In fact, I shall give you some on the day you come to the Solomon. I shall find a fine bit of high-grade for you.”

“High-grade?”

“Very rich ore. In high-grade you can usually see the gold. The real, actual
gold,
right there in your hand.

“Although,” he added, “I have seen high-grade that showed no gold at all, and one could tell only by the weight. Gold is heavy, you know.”

“We will be going soon. I’d be honored, Mr. Hesketh.” Suddenly she felt a vicious prompting, and she could not resist. “Isn’t the mine actually owned by a Mr. Crockett?”

His eyes were momentarily ugly, then bland. He smiled with his too thin lips. “Mr. Crockett? Oh, he owns some stock, quite a bit of it, in fact, but he no longer has anything to do with the Solomon.”

He glanced at her warily. “How did you happen to hear of him?”

“Oh? How did I know? It was that man, the one from the market. The exchange or whatever they call it. Mr. Maguire was asking him about the Solomon stock, and he mentioned him. He said that the
real
owner was Will Crockett.”

“That’s ridiculous!” Hesketh replied stiffly. “He no longer has anything to do with the mine. He’s out of it, completely!”

“Will you be on the stage with us, Mr. Hesketh?”

“As a matter of fact, I probably shall. Yes, of course.”

Later, as he was leaving the International, he heard a voice at his elbow. “Turn the next corner, Mr. Hesketh, and go into that saloon. There’s a body wishes to speak with you.”

He looked across the scarred redwood table at the sallow-faced young man. “For fifty dollars? What information can you possibly have that is worth fifty dollars to me?”

The sallow-faced man grinned, revealing a broken yellow tooth. “Maybe nothin’. But I got an idea that there Marcus—”

“What about him?”

“For fifty dollars?”

Hesketh hesitated, then irritably put the coins on the table.

“Marcus was curious, almighty curious, Mr. Hesketh. I seen him later, talkin’ to a man from the exchange, and then to Pottawattomie Joe.”

“Who is he?”

“Why, he’s a sort of ridin’ man, hangs out along the trail east of Sacramento. Stops stages, and the like. Seemed Marcus was almighty curious about that actress woman, asked a lot of questions.

“Then he had a long talk with Pottawattomie Joe. I sort of had an idea something was in the wind that maybe was worth fifty dollars to you.”

Teem picked up the coins. “Another time, Mr. Hesketh. But you be careful, you hear me? You be careful. There’s to be another man along with Joe, a man who sort of eliminates, if you get what I mean.

“Now what does Marcus need him for? You know he’s not going to kill that actress-woman, now is he? But if they have Jacob along.”

“Jacob?”

“Just Jacob. Whenever Jacob goes anywhere, somebody gets killed. Now, I wonder, Mr. Hesketh, who is to get killed this time?”

Chapter 29

A
LBERT HESKETH SAT very still, his hands resting on the table. After a moment, he spoke. “Thank you. Yes, indeed, thank you very much.”

The young man with the fifty dollars disappeared, and the waiter came over, a burly man with a bulging stomach and a mustache. “Here! Where’d he go? That one never paid his bit!”

Hesketh put a coin on the table. Beside it he put a twenty-dollar gold piece, but on this he kept one hand. “I need a man with a fast horse. I’ve twenty dollars that says you can find one.”

“I know the man. Give me the twenty.”

“When I have spoken to him. Have him here, now.”

“To hell with you! I’ll do no such a damn—” The waiter stopped. “All right, then.”

He sipped his wine, ignoring the loud talk and bustle around him, trying to ignore the body odors and the coarse talk. His wine was half-finished when a slovenly, bearded man in a slouch hat dropped down at the table.

Hesketh looked at him with cool distaste. “I want a man who can beat the Pony’s time to Virginia City.”

“Can’t be done.”

“I have one hundred dollars that says it can.”

“Cost me half that for horses. I can get Pony horses but I’ll have to pay station-tenders.”

“All right. I will pay fifty expense money now. You will get your hundred when the message is delivered.”

The man in the slouch hat rubbed his nose, looked at Hesketh, obviously a prosperous man. “Who do I say the message is from?”

“You will say nothing. You will answer no questions and ask none. I like,” he added, “a man who knows how to keep his mouth shut.” He paused a moment. “I do not recall anyone who talked of my affairs on more than one occasion.”

On a sheet of paper from a notebook he drew a rough diagram. “You will find the man at this cabin. His name is Waggoner. It is possible he will not have your money in his cabin, but he knows where to get it.”

When the man had gone, he finished his wine. Marcus Zetsev had put up part of the money for Hesketh to gain control of the Solomon. If something happened to Hesketh, Marcus would get that stock, and evidently Marcus had been doing some thinking. It was easy to deal with crooks, because you knew they would always try to steal from you, unless they were afraid of you.

Should he take the stage? Should he depend on Waggoner? Yet if he did not take it, Zetsev would have somebody to move against him, and this time he would not be warned.

He would take the stage, but he would take precautions, and he would be armed. Also, there would be women aboard, and road agents were notoriously shy about offending women. You could kill a man, but if one so much as made a too familiar remark to a woman, you could be hung.

Hesketh knew about Jacob. He was never around where thugs and outlaws might be found. When the Vigilantes started hunting for the bad ones, Jacob might well be one of the Vigilantes. Nobody seemed to know him or just what he looked like, but there were those who knew how to get in touch with him.

Albert Hesketh did not like killing when he had to do it himself, but there were times—

M
ARCUS ZETSEV KEPT a holster riveted to the side of his swivel chair. In that holster there was a .36-calibre Remington. The chair was always behind the desk, and very few of those who came and went in the office were aware of the holster and the pistol. A man had to stand close and look over the top of the roll-top desk to see it, and then only if the chair was turned just so.

The streets were dark and silent. Further north some of the rougher drinking establishments were filled with music and boisterous talk, and on the walks outside men gathered and talked.

Albert Hesketh, dressed in the rough clothes of a pioneer, walked down the street and turned toward the warehouse and office of the chandlery. The street was empty, as he had expected and hoped. There was the merest light from the office window, and he had to feel his way up the few steps. At the door he turned the knob. As expected, it was locked.

Now much would depend upon chance, and he did not like chance. He rapped very lightly. There was no response, so he rapped louder.

Inside something stirred, and he saw someone coming along the passage toward him, holding a lantern. He had not considered the lantern, and he did not want a fire, although—

“Who’s there?” It was Zetsev’s voice.

“Marcus? It’s Hesketh. Something has come up!”

There was a long moment of hesitation, then a rattle of the bar being taken down and the knob turned. Marcus lifted the lantern and peered into his face. “What’s happened?” he demanded, making no move to open the door. Obviously he was disturbed by Hesketh’s arrival.

“I’ve found where the shares are, but I need your help. Look, don’t hesitate. It means millions for us, but we’ve got to act quickly.”

He might have brought the gun from the chair or he might have another.

The door opened wider and Zetsev stepped back to let him come in. It was not at all what Hesketh wanted, but he stayed close to the door, hoping Marcus would precede him. He made no such move, and reluctantly Hesketh stepped in.

Zetsev walked rapidly toward the office, his coat hanging loosely from his shoulders. Hesketh let the knife he carried up his sleeve fall into his hand. Inside the office he spoke, “Marcus!” He glanced from side to side; then in a hoarse whisper, he said, “We’ve got them, Marcus! We’ve got the shares! Look—”

With his left hand he reached into his inside coat pocket and drew out a sheaf of papers. Inadvertently, expectantly, Marcus Zetsev stepped forward, and Hesketh stabbed sharply upward with the knife.

The point went in below the rib cage and drove to the hilt. Zetsev’s eyes bulged, and his mouth dropped open, but using the same hand that held the papers, Hesketh seized Zetsev’s right sleeve and jerked him closer. Then he stabbed him again, driving the blade in a little higher and harder.

Their eyes were only inches apart. Zetsev’s mouth worked as his lips tried to form a sound, but nothing came. Coolly, Hesketh shoved him against the desk and stabbed him twice in the throat, then dropped him to the floor.

The safe was open as he had expected, and he went to it, scarcely more than a large strongbox, and leafed through the contents. He found what he wanted, pocketed it, and glanced down once more at Marcus Zetsev. Bending down he wiped his knife clean on Marcus’s shirt. Then he went to the door.

He lifted the bar and stepped outside and came face to face with four men.

They were, he was sure, members of the Sydney Ducks or the “Hounds,” gangs of thugs who raided, robbed, and often set fires in the city to give themselves a chance to loot. Large sections of San Francisco had been burned in such fires on several occasions.

He paused, one hand still on the doorknob, half wishing he had taken the pistol from the chair inside. “If you’re looking for loot,” he said quietly, “help yourselves, the door is open.”