The Reluctant Pinkerton (18 page)

“If she’s home,” Orton said. “Lately, I don’t know where the hell she goes.”

“You mean, if she’s not coming by the office asking for money?”

“Yeah,” Orton said, “right. Look, I’ll see you in the morning. I’ll try to get in before the money man shows up, so you won’t have the responsibility.”

“I’d put the money in the safe, but I don’t know the combination…” Roper said, then quickly added, “and I don’t want to.”

“Well,” Orton said, “if you stay on long enough, that may change. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Night,” Roper said.

He watched Orton walk away. The man made no move to find a cab, and Roper suddenly doubted he was actually going back home.

He decided to follow him.

Orton obviously had no inkling that anyone would want to follow him. He never looked behind him as he strode purposefully down the street.

Just to be safe, however, Roper tailed him with care, keeping to the darkened side of the street.

Orton led the way to a neighborhood that was halfway between Hell’s Half Acre and the Cattleman’s Club. Finally, he turned down a side street, and soon they were walking with small homes on either side of them.

Orton finally reached his destination, a small, A-frame house with a white fence in front of it. He opened the gate and walked to the front door, where he knocked. Roper rushed to get into position but the door closed again before he could see who was inside.

He waited a few moments for the people inside the house to get settled, then crossed the street. He went through the same gate, then around to one side of the house. He found a window and peered in, saw no one. He moved on to another window, but had to go to a third before he saw two people in a clinch. As he watched, they kissed each other,
their hands roaming all over. They were in a bedroom, and before long the clothes started coming off and then they were on the bed.

So Pete Orton was cheating on his wife. So what? That had nothing to do with sabotage, did it?

As he watched, they began to make love. Roper had watched many people do many things over the years, including having sex. It didn’t faze him. He wasn’t particularly interested in it—not as an activity anyway. No, what he wanted to see was who the woman was. He still had not been able to get a look at her face.

On the bed Orton was on top of the woman, and her face was turned away from the window. Roper waited, but she never turned his way. They continued their amorous activity, and before long rolled over so that the woman was on top, straddling him. She had beautiful skin, excellent breasts, and long hair, and as she rode him, she tossed her head back, then shook it from side to side. Finally she stopped long enough for Roper to see her face. He knew her. Here was a perfect example of the coincidences Roper hated so much.

The woman was Nancy Ransom.

*   *   *

Roper waited across the street.

He didn’t know whose house they were in. Orton had his own home with his wife, while Nancy had a room above the Bullshead Saloon. That meant this house had to belong to someone else, and finding out who that was might shed some light on things.

So he waited, and eventually, two hours later, Orton left the house. Roper watched him walk away until he was out of sight, then settled back to wait some more. He was on the porch of a house that seemed to be vacant, and he was in the shadows so that no one could see him.

An hour later Nancy Ransom opened the front door and stepped out. She looked around, as if making sure no one
could see her, then closed the door and walked to the gate. She looked again, and at one moment she stared across the street and Roper wondered if she knew she was looking right at him.

Finally, she opened the gate, stepped out, closed it behind her, and walked down the street in the same direction Orton had gone. He gave her time to fade from sight, then left his perch and crossed the street again. The neighborhood had seemed quiet when they arrived, and Roper now knew it was because many of the homes were vacant.

To be on the safe side, though, he went to the rear of the house and found the back door.

He let himself in.

*   *   *

Back at the Cattleman’s Club, after Roper and Orton left, the other men shared an after-dinner brandy before three of them—Arnold and the two older gentlemen—left the room. Brewster and Kalish remained.

“Harold,” Brewster said, “don’t you think it’s time for you to let me in on the secret?”

“What secret is that, Cullen?”

“You know,” Brewster said. “The identity of the Pinkerton agent?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Good God, why not?” the other man demanded.

“I told you,” Kalish answered, “Pinkerton’s condition was that only one person know who their operative was.”

“I don’t see why—”

“If anyone else became aware of his identity,” Kalish went on, “I was told he would cease and desist immediately, and return to Chicago.”

Angrily, Brewster stood up and pointed at Kalish.

“This had better work,” he said. “If we incur any more damage or expense, I’m holding you personally responsible.”

As Brewster left the room, leaving Kalish alone, the man took out a cigar and lit it. The only thing that ever calmed him down when he was agitated was a good cigar.

This one, he thought, had better be real good.

Roper went through the house methodically.

As he entered through the back door, he found himself in the kitchen, so he decided to start there. There was nothing there to indicate who owned the house, or that it was even occupied.

He moved on to the house’s living and dining rooms. The search there was easy, as there was no furniture in either room.

The house was very small, and had only one bedroom. Roper went in there and found that the only furniture was the bed. No tables or chest of drawers, no clothing in the closet. This house was obviously meant for just one thing, and that was as a place for Orton and Nancy to have their clandestine meetings.

But somebody owned it. Somebody had to.

Roper went through the house one last time to satisfy himself that he hadn’t missed anything. Then he went back out the rear door.

When he got back to the rooming house, nobody was around, and the downstairs was dark. He went up to his room, passed a couple of doors showing light beneath them.

He didn’t know who they belonged to, and didn’t give it much thought.

In his room he got ready for bed, reflecting on the events of the day. Could Pete Orton’s infidelity be connected in some way to the acts of sabotage? He thought maybe finding out who owned the house they were using might be helpful.

He went to sleep on that thought.

*   *   *

Early the following morning a man left the Cattleman’s Club carrying a package. The doorman got him a cab. He settled back in his seat while the driver waved the reins at the horse.

The man watched the streets go by until he realized they weren’t heading for the stockyards.

“Hey, driver?” he called.

No reply.

“Driver!”

The cab was an open one, so he could see the back of the driver, but the man didn’t seem to be hearing him.

He leaned forward and started to reach to tap the man on the shoulder. At that point the man turned, pointed a gun at the messenger, and shot him through the heart. As his victim slumped to the floor of the cab, the driver returned his attention to his driving.

Ten minutes later the cab pulled to a stop before a vacant lot between two vacant buildings. Right across the street was the line of demarcation to Hell’s Half Acre.

The driver got down and rolled the body of the messenger out of the cab and into the lot, then bent over and retrieved the package he was delivering from his pocket. He looked inside, found that it was filled with cash, as expected. He smiled, because this was his payment for a job well done.

*   *   *

When Roper got to work that day, Orton was already there and already agitated.

“What’s goin’ on?” Roper asked.

“I’m waiting for the messenger to come with the money Brewster promised us,” Orton said. “He was supposed to be here early.”

“You thinkin’ Brewster changed his mind?”

“He better not have.”

“Maybe somethin’ happened to the messenger.”

“Yeah, maybe…”

“Why don’t I go and find out?” Roper suggested.

“How?”

“I’ll go to the Cattleman’s Club and see Brewster. Find out if and when the messenger left. If he did, then maybe I can find out what happened to him. It’s better than just sittin’ here waitin’.”

“Yeah, you’re right about that,” Orton said. “I’d go myself, but I’ve got a hell of a lot of work here because of the fire.”

“That’s okay,” Roper said, “I can take care of it.”

“Yeah, okay,” Orton said, “you do that. But hey—”

“Yeah?”

“Watch your back,” Orton said, “just in case something did happen to the messenger.”

“Okay, sure,” Roper said.

“You’re not wearing a gun,” Orton said. “Here.” He opened a drawer and brought out a .32 Colt. “Stick this in your belt.”

Roper crossed the room, accepted the gun, and tucked it into his belt. “Thanks.”

Roper had been trying to think all morning of a way to get away from the stockyards. He wanted to go and check on the ownership of the house he had followed Orton to. In order to do that, he needed to check on the deed. That meant a trip to the county clerk’s office. But before that, he needed to check on the messenger.

He went directly to the Cattleman’s Club and presented himself at the front door.

“My name’s Andy Blake,” he said. “Pete Orton sent me over to talk to Mr. Brewster.”

“Please wait here,” the doorman said.

Roper waited. The man returned moments later and said, “Follow me, sir.”

Roper followed the doorman to an office, which he found odd. Was it possible that Brewster actually ran the Cattleman’s Club and was not just a member?

Brewster was behind the desk as he entered and stood up. The office was expensively furnished, with wood and gold-plated surfaces gleaming. Brewster was once again wearing an expensive three-piece suit, this one charcoal gray, and his hair had so much pomade in it that it gleamed,
almost outshining the other surfaces. And the scent he was wearing almost made Roper’s eyes water.

“Mr. Blake, isn’t it?”

“That’s right,” Roper said as the doorman withdrew. “Pete Orton sent me to check and see if you were sending the money you promised over by messenger.”

“I don’t understand,” Brewster said. “The messenger left here early this morning.”

“He never arrived,” Roper said. “Was he trustworthy?”

“Very trustworthy,” Brewster said. “I have used him before for larger sums of money. If he was going to steal from me, it would not be this particular package.”

“Then somethin’ must’ve happened to him,” Roper said.

“Excuse me,” Brewster said, coming around the desk. “I want to get the doorman back in here.”

He was gone a few minutes and returned with the man who had shown Roper in.

“This is Lester,” Brewster said to Roper. “Lester, tell Mr. Blake what you told me.”

“The messenger left here at seven thirty this morning,” Lester said.

“Left how?” Roper asked.

“Sir?”

“Was he walking? Riding?”

“Oh, I see,” Lester said. “No, sir, I got him a cab.”

“Did you know the driver?”

“Now that you mention it, no, sir.”

“Do you usually know the drivers?”

“Yes, sir,” Lester said, “usually.”

“Could it be he was just a new driver?”

“New drivers usually introduce themselves,” Lester said.

“And this one didn’t.”

“No, sir.”

“What direction did the cab go when it left?” Roper asked.

“It pulled away and went down the street,” the doorman said.

“Did you see if it turned when it reached the corner,” Roper asked, “or continued on?”

“No, sir,” the doorman said. “I didn’t notice.”

Roper looked at Brewster.

“All right, Lester,” the man said. “Thank you. You can go back to the door.”

“Yes, sir.

Brewster sat down.

“Do you think something happened to my man?” he asked Roper.

“If he didn’t steal the money,” Roper said, “then yes. What’s his name?”

“Mark Vaughn,” Brewster said. “This is his business, making deliveries. And sometimes those deliveries include lots of money.”

“And you trust him.”

“Implicitly.”

“Then something must have happened.”

Brewster put his head in his hands.

“More sabotage,” he said.

“I’m going to look for him,” Roper said.

“I should call for the police,” Brewster said.

“Yes, you probably should.”

The man raised his head and looked at Roper, who suddenly realized he’d been acting like himself, and not like Andy Blake.

“Why did Orton send you over here?” he asked.

“He has a lot of work because of the fire,” Roper said. “I offered to come over and check on the messenger.”

Brewster studied him for a moment, then said, “Who are you?”

Roper had a decision to make. He could reveal himself to Brewster, who was, after all, one of the people paying the Pinkertons for his services. Or he could remain Andy Blake, maintain his cover, which would be the professional thing to do.

Roper always went by his instinct, though. If his instinct
was telling him to step out from behind the mask, he would. But it wasn’t doing that. Not yet.

“I’m just Andy Blake, Mr. Brewster,” he said. “I’m just tryin’ to do my job.”

“Seems to me you’re going a little beyond your job, Andy,” Brewster said, “and I appreciate it. I’ll send for the police while you get started. Maybe you can find Mark before the police need to act.”

“Maybe I can,” Roper said. “I’ll let you know, sir.”

“Can I walk you out?” Brewster offered.

“No need, sir,” Roper said, “I can find my way back out. I might have another word with the doorman on the way.”

“Yes, of course,” Brewster said. “Lester is at your disposal.”