Wilde West (21 page)

Seemed like everybody was handing out presidents today.

Grigsby ran his hand thoughtfully along his jaw. “I reckon maybe you're right. Maybe the lockup wouldn't work out. Reckon you don't leave me much choice.” He reached for the Colt, slid it from the holster, cocked it.

O'Conner's face twisted with scorn. “Yeah, sure—”

The sudden roar of the big Colt was deafening in the small room. Simultaneously—or so it seemed—a flurry of plaster dust sprayed from the wall beside O'Conner's neck, and O'Conner's body sprang up, twitching, from the bed. “Jesus
Christ!
” the reporter shrieked.

Grigsby stood and stalked over to the bed, the gun pointed at O'Conner, who scurried back along the mattress toward the wall, toes spading at the bedspread. His eyes were open, whites showing all around. His shirt front was wet with spilled bourbon (good couple of shots worth, Grigsby noted regretfully), and bits and flakes of plaster sprinkled his left shoulder like a nasty ease of dandruff. The hand that held the empty glass was trembling.

Grigsby said, “You listen to me, you dumb shit. I'm gonna get this sonovabitch. I'm gonna nail his pecker to the wall. You stand in my way, I'm gonna roll right over you. For all I know, the sonovabitch is you. Puttin' a bullet up your snout, that'd be one good way to find out, now wouldn't it? And I'll tell you this, it wouldn't fret me one little bit. I'm comin' to think that I might even enjoy it. So you write one word, just one word, about these hookers before I tell you it's okay, you talk to anybody else about this, anybody at all, and you'll be goin' back to the
New York Sun
at the bottom of the baggage compartment. Am I talkin' too fast for you?”

Frantically, O'Conner shook his head.

“You follow what I'm sayin' here?”

“Sure, sure,” said O'Conner, his voice a squeak. He cleared his throat. His Adam's apple, which resembled his ankle, dipped and bobbed. “Sure I do, Marshal. Absolutely.”

“Good,” said Grigsby. He holstered the Colt. “Now let's just start all over again. Let's just make like we never had this little squabble.” He strode back to the chair, turned, sat down. “I reckon, a couple of sensible hombres like you and me, we can come to some kinda agreement on this business. You don't write anything till I give you the go-ahead. And then later, after I nab this bastard, you get the exclusive. How's that sound to you?”

“Terrific,” said O'Conner, still backed against the wall. “Terrific, Marshal.”

Grigsby nodded. “Good. Now s'pose—”

A faint, tentative rapping came at the door to the room.

Grigsby turned. “Yeah?”

From behind the door, muffled (as though its owner were standing well away from the line of fire), a voice called out, “Everything all right in there?”

“That you, Wally?” Grigsby shouted. “Bob Grigsby here. Everything's hunky-dory. Come along in.”

After a moment, the door opened and the daytime desk clerk, tall and thin and bespectacled, poked his head around its edge. “You're sure, Marshal? Sounded like a gunshot.” His face uncertain, his glance darted to the bed and O'Conner.

“It surely was,” Grigsby said cheerfully. “I was demonstratin' my iron to Mr. O'Conner here, and the damn thing went off.” He grinned. “No fool like an old fool, eh, Wally?”

The clerk glanced again at O'Conner. O'Conner smiled weakly.

“Appears I did some damage to the wall there,” Grigsby said, nodding toward the ragged hollow in the plaster. “You have Lonny Laidlaw send the bill over to the office and I'll take care of it. Thanks, Wally. Sorry 'bout all the commotion.”

The clerk nodded, his face still uncertain, and then ducked back behind the door, pulling it shut.

“Now,” said Grigsby, turning to O'Conner. “Let's talk. S'pose we start with where you were last night.”

A half an hour later, down in the bar, Grigsby sipped at his bourbon and went over O'Conner's story.

Played poker at the Mad Dog Casino from eight o'clock till twelve. Lost twenty dollars. Came back to the hotel at one, didn't leave again. Went to sleep at two.

Easy enough to check on, most of it.

The problem was, the hotel had a service entrance that opened onto the back hallway, near the kitchen. The door was kept locked at night, to stop riffraff from stumbling in and pinching the salt shakers, but anyone inside could open it by turning the latch below the knob.

A round mirror above the hotel's entry way, visible from the front desk, was supposed to let the desk clerk know when one of the guests forgot to settle his bill and wandered off, luggage tucked under his arms, down the rear hall and out the service entrance. But Grigsby had already talked to Ned Winters, the night clerk, and knew that Ned had slept away most of his shift.

So O'Conner—or Vail, or Henry, for that matter—could've snuck down the stairs, snuck past the rear of the front desk, snuck into the hallway, unbolted the door, gone out into the night, found Molly Woods, cut her up, and come back to his room the same way he'd left it. No one the wiser.

The only one of them, so far, who admitted being outside the hotel that night was Wilde.

Got to remember, Grigsby told himself, to ask Doc Boynton if he could figure out what time Molly Woods got killed.

He took another sip of bourbon.

O'Conner, talking about the others, hadn't been any more helpful than Wilde or Vail, or Henry. He'd turned real cooperative after he got shot at—in the mirror behind the bar, a duplicate Grigsby shared an evil grin with the original—but he'd dismissed all of them with an easy scorn, first as human beings, and then as suspects. Wilde was “a second-rate poet and a first-rate charlatan.” But he'd probably keel over at the sight of blood. Vail was “a grubby little New York hustler.” But too shrewd to threaten the tour by killing hookers along its route. Von Hesse was “a stiff-necked Bible-banger.” But too sanctimonious, probably, to talk to a hooker, let along kill one. Ruddick was “a pimply little pansy.” But too lah-di-dah to have any truck with women, hookers or not. Henry, of course, was just “a dumb nigger.” Which in O'Conner's opinion removed him from any kind of consideration altogether.

Which left, when you got right down to it, O'Conner himself.

Just because a man's an asshole doesn't mean he's guilty of anything, except being an asshole. (A truth that upon many occasions Grigsby had sadly remarked before.)

But O'Conner's dismissal of the others was different somehow from
their
dismissals. Wilde and Vail (and Henry, too, in his way)—each of them had seemed convinced that none of the men on the tour could've been the killer. (Although Vail, probably for reasons of his own, had badmouthed Ruddick, the poet.) O'Conner, on the other hand, had seemed more concerned with convincing Grigsby.

He wanted to get the Law off his back so he could write up the story, maybe.

Or maybe he wanted to get the Law off his back so he could keep on killing hookers.

If he was the killer and he wrote up the story, wouldn't he be drawing attention to himself?

Nope. What he'd be doing, he'd be drawing attention to all the rest of them. Who'd believe that the fella who wrote about dead hookers was the same fella who was killing them off?

And O'Conner, from what he'd said, didn't much care for hookers.

Right, Grigsby told himself. Keep an eye on O'Conner.

The decision pleased him. He'd already been inclined to keep an eye on O'Conner. Fella was an asshole.

Now. Time to talk to this Ruddick.

But when Grigsby knocked on the door to room 208, no one opened it.

Colonal von Hesse then, decided Grigsby.

But no one opened the door to room 210, either.

So maybe he should talk to this French countess.

Grigsby had never talked to a countess before, French or otherwise, and he knew that the opportunity wasn't likely to present itself again.

He knocked on the door to 211 and waited. Nothing happened.

He turned, was starting back down the corridor, when the door opened a foot or so and a woman stood there. “Yes?”

She was short, maybe five foot three, and she was blond, her hair falling in long bouncy curls to her shoulders. From her brown eyes—which looked like they'd seen a few things in their time, and enjoyed most of them—she was probably somewhere between thirty-five and forty years old, but her skin was as smooth and white as a baby's. Pink cheeks, a small nose, a mouth that was just a shade or two more red than natural. (Brenda's lipstick, when she worked the saloon, was the color of boiled beets.) She wore a silk dressing gown, pale blue, clinging, belted just below a pair of breasts whose upper curves peeked out at the top, as round and plump as peaches.

“You'd be the Countess,” Grigsby said.

“Yes?” Her lips went pouty as they moved around the word.

He tapped the brim of his Stetson. “Marshal Bob Grigsby, ma'am. Wonder if I could talk to you for a few minutes.”

She cocked her head slightly. “A marshal?”

“Federal officer, ma'am. A lawman.”

“Oh yes? There is some problem?”

“No, ma'am, not for you. Just need to talk to you for a bit, is all.”

“I see. Yes, then, please. Come in.”

She took a step back and Grigsby moved forward into a warm pocket of scent, a perfume that was light and fresh and probably expensive, and all at once he realized that most likely he smelled, himself, like the bottom of a whiskey barrel.

She smiled and held out a hand toward the pair of wooden chairs by the window. “Please. Sit.”

Grigsby took off his hat, ran his fingers through the matted hair at his temples.

“Here,” said the Countess, reaching for the hat. “May I take this?”

Grigsby surrendered it, and noticed for the first time that it could stand a good cleaning.

The woman turned it around, eyeing it appreciatively. “A most formidable headpiece,” she said, and smiled at Grigsby.

“Yes ma'am,” he said. “It's a Stetson. Out of St. Louis, Missouri.”

“Admirable,” she said, and indicated the chairs again. “Please.”

He crossed the room, turned one of the chairs to face the other, and sat down. He crossed his legs, booted ankle atop his knee, his spur suddenly lethal, and he wondered what to do with his big heavy hands. They seemed, right now, to be located a long way from his shoulders. He crossed his arms over his chest.

The Countess set the Stetson on the dresser and then sat down opposite Grigsby. She leaned slightly toward him, her own small hands folded at her lap, and smiled again. “Now. How may I help?”

“Well, ma'am,” said Grigsby, trying to keep his stare from sinking toward the soft swell of breasts, and mostly succeeding. “You been with this tour of Mr. Wilde's since San Francisco, that right?”

She nodded, waiting. “Yes?”

“Well, ma'am, it looks like somebody on the tour—one of the fellas, I mean, I don't know which one of 'em—it looks like maybe he's killing people. In different towns along the way,” he finished. He realized that he was sweating.

Warm in here. The woodstove.

The Countess frowned, her lips daintily bunching together. “I'm sorry?”

Grigsby tugged at his collar. He slid his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “See, ma'am, it was a coincidence, like. I got these letters, is what happened, from people in these different towns. San Francisco. And El Paso. And Leavenworth, Kansas. And see, in all these towns, somebody killed off a woman. Killed her off and, well, what he did, he cut her up pretty bad. Now the thing of it is, all these women got killed off at the same time that Mr. Wilde was there, givin' one of his talks. Hadna been for these letters, I wouldna figured it out. And now, what's happened is, just last night one of them got killed off here in Denver.”

“Killed?” said the Countess, her head bent forward, her arched eyebrows moving in puzzlement. “Who was killed?”