Reilly's Luck (Louis L'Amour's Lost Treasures)

by Louis L'Amour

  Now Van was dead, and unless Val was much mistaken, his death had been anything but accidental. Did Myra know about this box? He did not see how she could know, but little escaped her attention if it concerned her. The thought made him uneasy. Too many had suffered because of her, and if she had the idea that Mr. Peck or anyone else had a box that contained incriminating evidence, whoever had the box was in danger.

  Suddenly he remembered the account of Henry Sonnenberg recruiting a safecracker…and hadn’t Will told him that Henry himself had been a yeggman?

  Could there be a connection? Even as he asked himself that question he realized there easily could be. If Myra knew of the box, and if it worried her, she would try to gain possession of it.

  All right, he told himself, it was a pretty flimsy case, filled with ifs, but the wise thing to do was to act as if it were a positive fact. In any event, he was going to Colorado, and this would be part of the business he would do there.

  Sonnenberg…Henry Sonnenberg! Val had thought of putting all that out of his mind, of avoiding the man and letting him come to his own bad end in his own time, but now they were pointed in the same direction just as if some fate was pulling the strings.

  He thought of Sonnenberg as he remembered him, heavy, powerful, a man who seemed a composite of rawhide and iron, a man who seemed indomitable. Even Billy the Kid had looked a bit wary when he mentioned him. Somewhere ahead he might meet Henry Sonnenberg, and when they met it would be the last meeting for one or both of them.

  Val Darrant had never wanted a gun battle. He had learned to use a gun just as he had learned to handle cards, or ride a horse, or swim. That he happened to be good with a gun was due to some natural dexterity, some inborn skill, and of course to practice.

  He listened to the long drawn-out whistle of the train, and got up with the others and went across to the railroad platform to pick up their tickets. The entire population—all six of them—was there to see them off.

  Val escorted Boston to one of the red-plush seats. “Val,” she said, “I’m kind of scared. I’ve never ridden the steam cars before.”

  “It isn’t that hard,” Val said. “You just hook your spurs in the bellyband, grab the horn with both hands, and hang on.”

  He sat down in the seat beside her, while Dube sat across the aisle, facing them. Tensleep, who had held up more trains than most people had ridden on, pulled his hat down over his eyes and went to sleep.

  The sun set over the prairie far ahead of them, the night came down, the stars appeared, the whistle echoed across the lonely buffalo lands. The coach rocked pleasantly, and they slept.

  CHAPTER 22

  PRINCE PAVEL WAS tall and straight, and the scars served to add a somewhat romantic and piratical aspect to his otherwise cold features. Born in St. Petersburg, he had visited the estate from which he drew his income on only three occasions, all of which he remembered with distaste.

  His father had been involved in the reform movement of Tsar Alexander II, but father and son had little in common, and disagreed violently on the subject. Pavel had spent most of his life outside of Russia, and like many other Russians of this period who were of the nobility, he spoke French almost exclusively.

  Prince Pavel’s inheritance was sufficient had he been content to devote part of his time to his estates, and had he not become an obsessive gambler. Unfortunately for him, he had utmost belief in his skill with cards, a faith that was unwarranted.

  Moreover, the reform movements of Alexander II had left the nobility politically emasculated; and Pavel, although he served briefly in the cavalry, had no taste for the military life. By one means or another he contrived to maintain himself in the style he preferred, but this had grown increasingly difficult, and nothing remained but to obtain an income somehow, or return to his estates to live the life of a provincial, and to Prince Pavel this was a fate worse than death.

  Myra Fossett had opened a way. Where it might lead he had no idea, but a still young woman, worth millions, was a chance not to be missed. And for the other barrel of his gun, there was the possibility of a rich marriage for Louise.

  Pavel’s belief in his own ability with women was equaled only by his contempt for them. Robert Fleury had warned him about Myra Fossett, but the warning merely amused him. If she had that much money, and needed him for some purpose, he intended to have some of that money. Americans, he had heard, were awed by titles, and he was prepared to awe them some more.

  “Be careful, cousin,” Louise warned him. “This Myra Fossett may cost you more than you can afford to pay.”

  For the meeting Prince Pavel wore his dress uniform, and the orders on his chest presented impressive array, especially to someone who did not know what they meant. Confident as he was, he was embarrassed by his position. He needed money, and in a very real way this might be his last chance.

  The library was dimly lit, which irritated him. One cannot make a dramatic entrance into a darkened room.

  He was announced, and he strode in. Myra Fossett looked at him, asked him to be seated, and returned to the papers on her desk.

  He was coldly furious, and was tempted to rise and walk out, but he restrained himself. “Madame—” he began.

  She looked up. “I am not called that. I am called Mrs. Fossett.”

  “You have invited me here to discuss business, I believe. I am here.” He glanced at his watch. “I have other engagements.”

  Myra sat back in her chair and studied him. “Prince Pavel,” she said “you are an attractive man. If you are also intelligent you can be of assistance to me. By being of assistance to me you can make yourself a lot of money, but first we have to understand each other.” Suddenly her voice changed. “So don’t give me any God-damned nonsense about other engagements!”

  He could only stare at her. Nobody had ever spoken to him like that in his life; nobody had dared to. But before he could reply, or even rise to walk out, she was speaking again.

  “I said you can be useful to me. When I talk about being useful, I mean, if you will do what I ask, useful to the tune of fifty or perhaps a hundred thousand dollars.”

  He looked at her. Fifty thousand…one hundred thousand dollars! What was that in rubles? In francs?

  She moved a sheet of paper under the light on her desk. “Prince Pavel, I have here a list of your debts.”

  “What!” He started to rise. “What kind of impertinence is this?”

  “Sit down,” she said coldly, “and shut up, or I’ll have you thrown out of here, and I’ll file charges against you for attempted assault. And”—she smiled—“I will produce witnesses.”

  He was appalled. He moved again to stand up, then sank back. She had to be joking! This could not be happening to him.

  “You are an amazing woman,” he said. “Just what was it you had in mind?”

  Even as he spoke, he was playing for time. He had to get out of here, he had to go somewhere and have a drink, he had to think this over.

  She took up the sheet from her desk and handed it to him. It was, indeed, what she had said—a list of his debts. And they were all there, some even that he had forgotten about, and it came to a very ugly sum. In fact, there were the names of a dozen men there who would sue him immediately if they dreamed he owed as much as this list showed.

  “It is rather complete,” he admitted, “but I still do not understand what you want of me.”

  “We are short of princes this season,” Myra said, “and the last one was potbellied, and his beard smelled of tobacco…cheap tobacco. There are a lot of people in this town, people otherwise quite intelligent, who are impressed by titles. I brought you over here to impress them.”

  Before he could speak, she shook her head. “I am not a social climber, Prince Pavel. Not, at least, in the sense you might think. I am interested in money. Many of the men who own industries or businesses wi
th whom I have no contact are people I do not meet socially. I need to know those people, and I know which ones I want to know, and I know what to do about it when I know them. And that is where you come in.”

  “Yes?”

  “I shall give a party to introduce you. I shall see that there is much in the public press about you, and everyone will come, including the men I wish to meet. Their wives are to come also, and we will in turn be invited to their homes. You can open doors for me that I cannot open by myself.”

  “And you will pay me for this?”

  There was contempt in his tone, but Myra ignored it. She could afford to ignore it because she knew so much more of what was going to happen than he did.

  “I will provide expense money,” she said quietly, “up to a point. Beyond that point you will have your commissions. I shall require your services for ninety days, no more, no less. If I have not done what I wish to do in that length of time it would be of no use to try any longer. I am prepared to give you five per cent on every deal I make through the meetings I arrange at the affairs where we go in company, or to which your name gives me access. And I will give you my word that such commissions will total not less than fifty thousand dollars, and perhaps several times that.”

  He searched for the flaw, and could see none. He had merely to pose as this woman’s friend…the only flaw he could see was the woman herself. She was too cold, too hard—and, he told himself, she was not a lady.

  “I might decide to leave,” he said. “I might decide simply to take your expense money and go back to Europe.”

  He looked at her to see what effect that had, but she merely shrugged. “Don’t be a fool. If you try that with me you’ll carry worse scars than you got from Will Reilly.”

  His face went white. He felt as if he had been struck in the stomach.

  “You were lucky that he only whipped you,” Myra said, “obviously you had no idea what kind of a man he was. Will Reilly had killed seven men in gun battles before he ever went to Europe. And they were tough men.

  “Of course,” she added, “that doesn’t count Indians. He survived a dozen Indian fights. I know of some very tough men who would sooner tackle a she grizzly with cubs than Will Reilly.”

  He was silent at first, hating every word she had said, but then he had his triumph. “You are right. I did know nothing of him.” He paused, then added ever so gently, “He is dead now, I believe?”

  “You should know. You arranged for his killing. Of course, you had more money then than now. Avery Simpson found the right men for you, didn’t he? I wonder if you know the sequel?”

  “What sequel?”

  “Two of the men who killed Will Reilly are dead…There were three.”

  He stared at her. This woman must be the devil in person. Did she know everything?

  “That’s another reason,” she said, smiling slightly, “why you had better be a nice boy. Avery Simpson, in turn for a lighter sentence, could give evidence against you. And they hang men for murder in this country.”

  “I think,” he said, “you do not understand my position. In my own country—”

  “But you are not in your country,” Myra interrupted, “and you will find little sympathy here. On the other hand, since we like titles over here, and with those scars and all those medals—oh, don’t worry! I’ll not tell anybody how you got the scars—that you were horsewhipped by a gambler.”

  She looked at him, still smiling. “And you may even find it amusing here. The women will idolize you, especially the older ones, or those with daughters who are single. You can make a lot of money; and if you are interested you might marry one of the daughters and get a substantial settlement.”

  Pavel’s mind was reaching for a solution that would save him, but he was realizing that there was none. From now on, until he had money enough to escape from this situation, he was practically a prisoner.

  She was hard—he admired her for that even while resenting it that any woman could outgeneral him. He was, he admitted, a little afraid of her. She had told him a good deal. She had, as these Americans would say, “laid it on the line,” but what worried him were the things she had not told him, the further plans she preferred to keep to herself.

  “I shall need money,” he said, “as long as we are talking money. If this is to be your operation, it is only correct that you should finance it.”

  “Of course.” She opened a drawer and took out a packet of bills. “There are five thousand dollars.”

  Then she said, “There is to be a performance at the opera tonight. We will go…You and your cousin are to be house guests of mine. You are to accept no invitations that do not include me; however, I doubt if anyone would go to that extreme.

  “If anyone inquires as to how we met, say simply that we have mutual friends.” She took another list from a desk drawer. “I want you to memorize these names. The three men on the left are the men with whom I wish to do business. They operate on a very large scale, they make excellent profits, and no outsider has ever participated in their operations.

  “The names on the right are those of men who belong to clubs to which the men on the left also belong. They are occasional associates of yachting, gambling, hunting, and at social events. Any one of those on the right might introduce you to those on the left.

  “Don’t gamble with them. They are very shrewd, tough gamblers, and any one of them can win or lose enough in an evening to support you for a year—I mean that—and there is no sentiment in their gambling. It is all-out war.

  “If I succeed in what I have planned,” she added, “your share might even come to a quarter of a million dollars. You could return to Europe a modestly wealthy man.”

  “It seems simple enough,” he said at last. “Those people will be at the opera?”

  “They will. They will see you, and they will be curious. I shall see that they know who you are. The rest will follow.”

  He stood up now. “And my cousin, the Princess Louise?” he asked.

  Myra got to her feet also. She was almost as tall as he. “She need know nothing of all this. You have some land in Siberia, I believe?”

  He was no longer surprised, but he had almost forgotten that land himself.

  “You can tell her I am interested in hydraulic mining, and wanted to discuss a deal whereby one of my companies would dredge for gold there. In fact, you can mention this to anyone, if you like. The people with whom we are concerned know that I am a business woman.”

  “These arrangements…they will be here? In New York?”

  “Yes.” She hesitated. “There is a possibility we may have to travel to San Francisco. One of the men in whom I am most interested lives there.”

  When Prince Pavel was out on the street he stood on the curb for a moment, waiting for the carriage to come around.

  Ninety days, she had said. Three months—and then a rich man. He doubted many things about Myra Fossett, but he did not doubt the genuineness of her intentions. She wanted to make money and she would; and after all, was not that what he came over for?

  CHAPTER 23

  THE WINDSOR, IN Denver, opened in June of 1880, was the height of elegance, with three hundred rooms and sixty bathtubs, gaslights, and Brussels carpets. The backbone of its business was furnished by mining men and cattlemen, the latter coming from half a dozen states, for Denver was considered by many to be the only city worth visiting between Chicago and San Francisco.

  Denver had the name of being a wide-open sporting town, but Valentine Darrant had no desire to gamble or to visit any of the tough joints on Blake or Holliday streets. He was in town on business, and he was wary of trouble.

  It was a gun-toting town, but the guns were usually kept out of sight, worn in the waistband or elsewhere not visible to the immediate glance. Bat Masterson was in town, and so was Doc Holliday. They were only two o
f the best-known of the forty or fifty known gun-handlers in town.

  Val was in his room, dressed in a gray suit, with black tie. His black hat lay on the bed. Dube came in, uneasy in his store-bought clothes.

  “Where you goin’ to meet this gent?” he asked.

  “Peck? He should be here now…In Denver, I mean. He was coming down from Empire to meet me here.”

  “He the man you left your money with?”

  “His father, actually.”

  “Lot of eastern folks down in the lobby. Seems like some big mining deal is about to be pulled off. You know anything about it?”

  “No.”

  “Well, those eastern folks do. Come up all of a sudden, they say, and there’s a scramble on.”

  Val was concerned only with Peck. Once their business was completed, he could relax and show Boston some of the town. Dube and Tensleep probably had plans of their own, but there were several places in Denver noted for their good food. Although he had not been in the city for several years, he remembered the City Hotel where Charles Geleichman was chef, he who had been chef for the King of Denmark, or so it was said. There was also Charpiot’s.

  He was combing his hair before the mirror and debating whether he should wake Boston, if she was not awake, when there was a sudden tap on his door.

  His pistol lay on the table, and habit made him pick it up as he moved to the door. Opening it, the gun concealed but ready, he was surprised to see Stephen Bricker standing there.

  “Val!” Bricker stepped in quickly and closed the door. “Have you heard the news?”

  “What news?”

  Bricker glanced at the pistol. “Thank God, you’re armed!”

  Bricker was older, a little heavier, but still a fine-looking man. He looked at the lean, powerful-shouldered young man before him with pleasure. The boy he had known had become a man.