Wilde West (22 page)

“Ladies of the evening, ma'am. Women that were, well, no better than they had to be, if you follow me.”

“Ladies of …?
Poules
? Prostitutes?”

“Yeah,” said Grigsby, relieved and grateful. “Yes, ma'am. Prostitutes.”

“In San Francisco? The other towns? In every town where Oscair spoke?”

“Well, ma'am, I don't rightly know about every town. I'll be lookin' into that. But the thing is, they were all killed off the same way, exactly. So it's pretty clear to me that it musta been the same guy, each time. Which means—”

“Which would mean,” said the Countess, “yes, that very possibly one of the people traveling with the tour, he is a murderer.” She sat back. “How horrible,” she said, and shook her head. “But this is ghastly.”

“Yes ma'am.”

Looking off, she said again, “How horrible.”

“So what I thought, ma'am, I thought I'd come and ask you, since you been on the tour all this time, if maybe you seen anything or heard anything that might help me get a bead on this fella.”

The Countess frowned again. “I'm sorry? My English. Sometimes it is inadequate.”

“Not a bit of it, ma'am. What I'm lookin' for, ya see, is anything that could help me figure out who this fella is. You were in all those towns, along with the rest of 'em. Maybe you saw somethin'. Maybe you heard somethin'.”

“But no. Nothing. This, today, what you tell me, this is the first I have heard of such a thing. If even for a moment I had thought—” She broke off, shook her head. She looked at Grigsby, leaned forward. “Are you quite certain, Mr. Greegsby—forgive me, it is Greegsby?”

“Yes ma'am. Grigsby.”

“Are you quite certain there is no possibility of error?”

“Well, ma'am, no,” Grigsby said. “I don't hardly think so.”

She sat slowly back again, looking worn and drawn, and suddenly she seemed to be years older than Grigsby had first thought she, was. And, strangely, this made him feel abruptly protective, almost paternal, as though by growing older, by allowing herself to grow older before his eyes, she had become vulnerable and frail, like a little girl.

He said, “Now listen, Countess. Don't you worry. I'm gonna find this fella. I'm gonna nail—I'm gonna nail him to the wall.”

The Countess had been bleakly staring off, out the window, where the sky had darkened and the streets had grayed. Now she turned to Grigsby and with a visible effort, inhaling deeply, straightening her back, she brought herself back to the room, and back down the years. She produced a small, tired smile. “Yes,” she said. “I am sure you will. But I am wondering whether it would be better for me if I left the tour.”

“Well now,” said Grigsby. “That'd be up to you, ma'am. So far, this fella, it seems like he only has it in for prostitutes, like I say.” But was this an actual fact? What about the woman in Leavenworth? That storekeeper's wife. She'd been hooking on the side, maybe? “And—Listen, Countess, if I told you some-thin', confidential-like, could you keep it between you and me? Not let the rest of 'em in on it?”

Once more, she cocked her head slightly. “Yes, of course. You have my word.” She leaned forward and softly touched Grigsby's knee with the tips of her fingers. “But please. Not Countess. My name is Mathilde.”

“Yes ma'am.” Grigsby was still trying, less successfully now, not to look at her breasts. “Well, the thing of it is, all these women so far, the women that got killed off, they were all redheads.”

“Redheads?” Pronouncing the word like she hadn't heard it before.

“They all had red hair, ma'am. All four of 'em. Now red hair, you don't see much of that, usually. So I figure, what with all four of 'em havin' it, I figure this fella's gotta have a special kinda interest in red hair.”

The Countess reached up, abstracted, and felt lightly at her own blonde curls. “And why would you not want the others to know of this?”

“Because the way I calculate it, ma'am, one of 'em is the killer. And I figure maybe it's better for me to know a little somethin' about him, about this fella, that he don't know that I know, if you follow me.”

She nodded. “Yes. I comprehend. I shall not mention it. And you think that because of this, I should be safe if I remained with the tour?”

Grigsby sat back. “Well now. Safe. I don't know as I could put no guarantees on that, ma'am. But I reckon that if you kept an eye peeled, made certain sure that you didn't get yourself alone with any one of 'em, you'd be okay, prob'ly. And the other thing is, like I been tellin' all of 'em, I'm gonna be one step behind this here tour. Until I find this fella and nail him. What I mean is, I'm gonna be around. Close by. You figure you need yourself some help, all you gotta do is come to me and let me know.”

She smiled again, more warmly this time. “Thank you. It is kind of you to reassure me.”

“My pleasure, ma'am.” He nodded to her. “And now, I reckon I'll let you alone.” He stood up, and winced involuntarily as the old familiar twinge shot from his hip down his leg.

The Countess looked up at him, concerned. “You are in pain?”

“No, ma'am. Touch of rheumatism, is all. Well, I'm right sorry I gotta be the one who tells you all this. And I appreciate your help.”

“Not at all,” she said, standing. “It is I who should be grateful.” She stepped over to the dresser, picked up Grigsby's Stetson, returned and handed it to him. “And perhaps you will visit with me again one time? Perhaps, if I give thought to this, I will remember something that could help you.”

“Yes ma'am. Thank you. Maybe I'll just do that.” He started for the door, and then turned back to the Countess. “One other thing, ma'am. Just thought of it.” Later, after he learned the truth, he would ask himself why he had.

The Countess raised her eyebrows. “Yes?”

“The reporter. O'Conner. You ever read any of his articles?”

“About the tour, you mean?”

“Yes ma'am.”

“But no. How should we find a New York newspaper out here?”

Grigsby nodded. “Reckon that's so.”

W
ITH A BROAD BUOYANT GRIN
, hugely pleased by the brilliance and ingenuity of his Plan, Oscar swept through the door and past Henry Villiers. When he reached the middle of the room—which took no more than a single, abruptly terminated step—the grin disappeared and he looked around him in shocked disbelief.

“Good Lord, Henry. Are
these
the sort of accommodations that Vail's been providing you?”

Still standing by the door, Henry shrugged. “It's fine with me, Mistuh Oscar.”

“But Henry, it's drab. It's worse than drab. It'
s, funereal.
That wallpaper is
grotesque.
If you continue to stay here, you'll become quite morbid. And I simply cannot tolerate morbid people—they become so involved with themselves that they ignore me altogether. I'll speak with Vail, we'll get you moved into a new room immediately.”

“Really, Mistuh Oscar. No need for that. This room's jus' fine.”

“Nonsense. Now, please, close the door and come along. Sit down while I explain what I've come up with. I think you'll find it extraordinary.”

Henry did as ordered, stepped over and sat in one of the room's two chairs, both of which looked cramped and hazardous. Oscar remained standing, his hands clasped behind his back.

“Now,” he began. “This Marshal Grigsby person—big brutal chap with a silly hat and a colossal handgun—has he spoken with you yet?”

“Yes suh.”

“You know about the women being killed, then. The prostitutes. And you know that Grigsby believes one of us responsible.”

“Yes suh. A terrible thing, Mistuh Oscar.”

“Yes, yes, of course. Terrible. And I'm afraid that Grigsby may be right, that one of us is, in fact, the murderer. But it's obvious to me, Henry, that Grigsby is entirely out of his element here. Oh, no doubt he can twirl a rustler and track down a lariat, or whatever it is these frontier stalwarts do, but the simple fact is, just now he's confronted with an extremely cunning and resourceful killer. And Grigsby is hopelessly outclassed.”

Oscar drew himself up to his full height. “So, what I propose to do, you see, is determine for myself just exactly which one of us is responsible.”

Henry nodded. “Yes suh. How?”

“Ah, Henry. Wonderful. You leap at once to the crux of the matter. How, indeed. And I answer—by bringing to bear on this problem a talent, a faculty, that poor Grigsby lacks, one which he would be utterly unable even to imagine.”

Oscar leaned forward and intoned, “I speak now of the sensibility, the intuition, of a poet.”

Henry nodded. “Yes suh.”

Oscar smiled happily and spread his arms. “Do you see it, Henry? Of course you do. Really, it's obvious, isn't it? Who better than a poet, with his insight into the mind and the heart, who better than he to penetrate the mask behind which this villain has hidden himself? We will uncover this man, Henry, and we will do it by a systematic application of the poetic imagination.”

“Yes suh,” Henry said. “We, Mr. Oscar?”

Oscar put his hands into the pockets of his coat. “Well, yes, of course. I'll need your assistance, Henry. One of the first things we must do is learn as much as we can about these women, and specifically about the woman here in Denver. We shall enter into the mind of the killer by apprehending the nature of his victims. What particular quality, or combination of qualities, did these women possess, such that they were chosen? This we can learn only by talking to the locals. And, naturally, being an American, you'll be of tremendous help to me in dealing with them.”

“Yes suh. But Mr. Oscar—”

“And, too, bear in mind that three of the men under suspicion—Vail, O'Conner, and Ruddick—are also Americans. Here again, you'll be of enormous assistance. As distasteful as it is, we must study them, Henry. We must study not only their outward appearances and activities, but also, in so far as possible, the inner workings of their psyches. The hidden wellsprings of their lives. For I have a theory, Henry.”

Oscar began to pace. One step to the left, a turn, two steps to the right, a turn. “I believe it possible that this killer may be a kind of bifurcated personality. What do I mean by this? I mean that in some manner, for some reason, the mind of this person may have become split, divided. And, as a result, one part of his mind has become a sort of subterranean self—a separate and unsuspected semi-being, if you will—and it is this being, this creature, which is committing these terrible crimes.
Without
, and this is the salient point, Henry,
without
the man himself knowing of it.”

“He don' know he's killin' people,” Henry said.

“
Exactly.
You grasp my meaning perfectly. I—”

Someone knocked at the room's door.

Oscar turned, frowning impatiently. He strode over to the door and jerked it open.

“Oscar boy,” said Vail. “I been lookin' all over for you.” He scuttled into the room, nodded to Henry, turned back to Oscar, and said, “Lookit, this yokel marshal, he talked to you, right?”

“Yes, yes. A very colorful character.”

“Right. So you know about the hookers and all. Well, I just wanted to tell you not to worry. I got everything under control.”

“Under control?”

“I went and talked to Bill Greaves. He's the chief of police here, met him the other night at the lecture. Nice guy, kinda guy you can do business with. Anyway, I asked him about this hooker thing, and Grigsby and all. And you know what I found out?”

“I will in a moment, presumably.”

Vail chuckled, shook his head. “That wit you got. Okay, what I found out is, Greaves didn't know nothing at all about the other hookers. The ones in the other cities. It was a big surprise to him. And he told me that this Grigsby, he's a federal marshal, sure, but he don't have any kinda jurisdiction here in Denver. Not over this case here, the hooker who got killed down by the river, and not over the others neither. Grigsby's just an old rummy, Greaves says, who likes to stick his nose into other people's business.” Vail grinned. “Greaves is really burned up at the guy.”

Oscar frowned. “I'm not sure I understand. You mean that no other prostitutes were killed?”

“Who knows? Maybe they were, maybe they weren't. What's it got to do with us?
You
didn't kill 'em. I know
I
didn't.”

“And the others on the tour?”

“Come on, Oscar boy. Von Hesse? O'Conner? Can you picture either one of 'em as a guy kills hookers? And besides, I got the whole thing figured out.”

Oscar was frowning still. “Figured out,” he repeated.

“Right. We drop 'em. O'Conner, von Hesse, all of 'em. We tell 'em to hit the road. That way, later, if it comes out about the hookers, we put out a statement, see? We say, yeah, sure, there
were
some folks traveling with us, maybe it
was
one of them who did this horrible thing, but we don't know anything about any of it, and anyway they're all gone now.” Vail interrupted his explanation to frown thoughtfully. “Too bad about the Countess. She's got a lot of class.” He shrugged. “But sometimes in life you got to make sacrifices.”