by J. T. Edson
Although many of the emigrants had frequently discussed ‘liberating’ Ireland from British domination, only some of the wealthier and better educated—who may have been motivated by thoughts of great opportunities for social, business or political advancement as ‘saviors’ of their native land—had turned their attention to actively achieving that end.
So far, however, the efforts of the Irish-American ‘loyalists’ had not reached noticeable proportions, Politicians of Irish descent had frequently attempted to invoke official action by the United States against British rule. For one reason or another, every session of Congress had refused to sanction such measures.
With the commencement of the ‘Alabama’ Arbitration Tribunal, there had been a growing awareness of the danger to chances of a satisfactory decision if even unofficial intervention in Irish affairs should be launched from the United States. So General Philo Handiman, head of the Secret Service, had been ordered to stay alert for, and to prevent, such incidents.
‘Marshal Cole telegraphed the story to General Handiman,’ Stenhouse went on. ‘He also instituted inquiries in Salem. The Oregon Legislature had not commissioned the two men. Nor, Cole learned, had the consignment been sent west. It was taken to Kansas City and sent down the Missouri to St. Louis. One of our agents was waiting for its arrival and travelled on the same boat to Memphis. Once here, the consignment was disembarked and placed into a warehouse owned by Phineas Molloy, who is Irish.’
‘He certainly doesn’t sound French,’ Belle could not resist remarking.
‘My agent—’ Stenhouse continued stiffly.
‘Does he have a name?’ Belle interrupted.
‘It’s Horatio A. Darren. Do you know him?’
‘We haven’t met,’ Belle replied, tactfully refraining from mentioning that she had heard of Horatio A. Darren and was aware of his relationship to Stenhouse. ‘What has he been doing?’
‘He kept watch on the warehouse for two days, but the boxes carrying the consignment weren’t brought out again. So, last night after it was closed, he broke in and examined them.’
‘What did he learn?’
‘That they are still sealed and are marked, “To Await Collection”.’
‘Nothing else?’
‘What else could he learn?’ Stenhouse demanded. ‘He didn’t want them to know he’d been there and he could hardly have made a more detailed examination without leaving traces of his presence.’
‘I should have seen that,’ Belle drawled. ‘But where do I come in?’
‘Hora—Agent Darren may need assistance,’ Stenhouse explained, looking evasive but sounding as if he doubted that such a need could ever arise. ‘So General Handiman suggested, as you were in the vicinity, that I should make use of your services.’
‘Why, I just hope that I can live up to your trust, sir,’ Belle said, with such humble sincerity that she might have been speaking the truth.
‘Shall we go and make a start?’ Stenhouse asked.
‘There’s one problem,’ Belle objected. ‘When I came aboard, my trunk was placed in the hold. I wasn’t expecting to need it and getting it out again before New Orleans will be inconvenient for the captain.’
‘Is it imperative that you have it?’
‘Most of my equipment is in it, wigs, special clothing, things I need for disguises—’
‘You won’t need any of them,’ Stenhouse assured her. ‘All I need is for you to assist Hor—Agent Darren. In all probability you’ll be able to continue your journey on the next boat. We, of course, will defray any expenses this puts you to—within reason.’
‘Why thank you ’most to death,’ Belle said sardonically. ‘You can start by paying for a telegraph message I’m going to send.’
‘To whom?’
‘A friend in New Orleans. She can collect and hold my trunk when the Elegant Lady arrives. I’ll arrange with the captain for it to be handed over.’
‘Is your friend trustworthy?’ Stenhouse wanted to know.
‘If she isn’t, somebody’s made a bad mistake,’ Belle replied. ‘It’s Madame Lucienne and she’s with the Secret Service, just like us. Where do I meet Hora—Agent Darren, Mr. Stenhouse?’
Five – I’ll Protect You, Miss Boyd
Belle Boyd had not been impressed by Stenhouse and she found herself even less inspired by his nephew. Neatly dressed in a gray suit of the latest Eastern fashion, white shirt with one of the newfangled celluloid collars and a sober blue tie, Horatio A. Darren was tall, brown-haired, reasonably handsome—although dark lines under his eyes suggested that he had been losing sleep recently—and had an athletic build. A revolver raised a noticeable lump under the left side of his vest; being the more noticeable due to his habit of drawing attention to the protuberance by a variety of gestures. There was about him an air of smug, self-satisfied, complacent superiority that the girl found both amusing and irritating. Going by his response when his uncle had performed the introductions, Darren clearly considered that the affair was firmly under his control and it was obvious that he resented Belle’s intrusion.
For all that, Darren had struggled to prevent his feelings from showing. He was torn between the desire to impress his attractive visitor and his annoyance that anybody could believe he would require assistance on any assignment. Helped along by Belle’s appearance and attitude, the former emotion won.
All in all, Belle presented an attractive picture. She wore the normal travelling garb of a well-to-do, fashionable lady. The brown two-piece jacket and Balmoral skirt set off her slender, shapely figure, just as the small, neat hat and brown wig—the latter to prevent her short black hair from drawing attention—combined to accentuate the beautiful lines of her face. However, the garments concealed a dark blue shirt, black riding breeches and Hessian boots. These had all been available in her stateroom aboard the Elegant Lady. Having been made to her measure by a master cobbler, the boots were so comfortable that she preferred them to more conventional footwear and had had them on her feet when Stenhouse had arrived. Her gunbelt and the Dance Bros. Navy revolver had been in her trunk aboard the riverboat. So, if she should need a weapon, she would have to rely upon the Remington Double Derringer in her vanity bag or the specially designed parasol which dangled negligently in her right hand.
The meeting was taking place in a room hired by Darren, at a small hotel that stood across the street from Molloy’s warehouse.
After Belle had packed such of her belongings as were in the stateroom, and made arrangements for the disposal of the rest of her property, she had accompanied Stenhouse to the Traveler’s Hotel. An expensive, new establishment, the hotel had two advantages. One, it was close to the river and much used by travelers with money to meet its high tariff; two, neither Stenhouse nor his nephew resided there. Having settled in and, while an impatient Stenhouse waited in the foyer, changed into her male attire, Belle had been escorted by him to the rendezvous. With the introductions performed, Stenhouse had left the agents to their own devices.
‘Come to the window, Miss Boyd,’ Darren requested briskly, as the door closed on his departing uncle. The words came out as an order, for he wanted to establish who was running things. ‘You can see the consignment from it. I don’t need to tell you to make sure that you’re not seen looking, do I?’
‘Why I’m so pleased to have you remind me of that,’ the girl purred, dripping honey spiked with strychnine in every word. ‘I might have spoiled all your good word if you hadn’t.’
Eyeing Belle speculatively, Darren could read only what he took for an expression of respectful admiration. Being a young man with more than his fair share of ego, he preferred to accept that it was her true feeling about him. He felt certain that he was making a satisfactory impression on her, both as an expert in their mutual trade and as a masterful member of the stronger, dominant sex.
Ignoring Darren, except to follow his unnecessary advice regarding concealment, Belle stood alongside the window and looked cautiously across the stre
et. The double main doors of the warehouse were wide open. Through them, to the rear but in plain sight, she could see four oblong and two square wooden boxes of the kind used for transporting quantities of rifles and ammunition. Nearby were four large bales less easy to identify.
‘There they are!’ Darren announced dramatically, exposing himself far more than Belle did. ‘Four boxes, twenty-five rifles to the box. Five thousand .44 rimfire bullets in each of the square boxes. The hats, uniforms, boots and accoutrements are in the bales.’
‘Huh huh!’ Belle said, still studying the interior of the warehouse. ‘They’ve been there like that ever since they came from the boat?’
‘Yes. I’ve had them under observation all the time.’
‘Do they leave the doors open at night?’
‘Of course not!’ Darren snapped, scanning the beautiful features for traces of the faintly sarcastic undertones he had thought he detected in her voice. ‘But I keep watch at night and make patrols around the warehouse at intervals.’
‘Mercy!’ Belle gasped, understanding the cause of the dark lines under his eyes. ‘When do you sleep?’
‘During the day. But I’ve got one of Molloy’s men working for me. He’s to let me know as soon as anybody comes to collect the consignment.’
‘I see,’ Belle drawled. Although she would have liked to go further into how Darren had made such a fortunate acquaintance, she decided against it. Her instincts warned that to do so would antagonize him and ruin all hope of willing cooperation. ‘So all we need to do is wait for whoever comes to make the collection.’
‘That’s all,’ Darren agreed. ‘There wasn’t any real need for Unc—them to delay your vacation, Miss Boyd. Not that I don’t appreciate your coming to he—to work with me.’
‘Why thank you, ’most to death,’ Belle purred. ‘I hope that I can be useful. Is there any way I could take a closer look at the consignment?’
‘I’ve already done that,’ Darren pointed out.
‘Couldn’t I take just a little peek, so I can feel I’m doing something worthwhile?’
‘You couldn’t get in my way. I used a ladder to reach the hayloft’s loading door, slipped its fastener and got in through it.’
‘Couldn’t I do that?’ Belle wanted to know. ‘With your help of course?’
When Belle Boyd put on her most appealing manner, she could charm even a less egoistical and susceptible man than Darren. Wanting to impress her, he felt that a visit to the warehouse would be a big step in the required direction.
‘I suppose you could, if you can climb the ladder,’ he conceded.
‘I think I could do that,’ Belle replied, sounding uncertain. ‘Isn’t there a watchman?’
‘No. Don’t worry. If there’s any trouble, I’ll protect you, Miss Boyd.’
At that moment, several men emerged from the warehouse. They swung the big doors shut and one of their number turned. Waving a hand, he crossed the street in the direction of the hotel. Tall, lean, with a tanned, heavily mustached face, he wore similar style clothing to the men he had left—that of a poorly paid worker.
‘That’s O’Reilly,’ Darren commented, indicating the man. ‘Now they’ve closed for the day, he’s coming to report.’
‘He comes straight over here—’ Belle began.
‘By the rear entrance,’ Darren elaborated. ‘It would arouse suspicions if he used the front door.’
‘I can see that it might,’ Belle conceded. ‘Perhaps it would be better if he didn’t see me.’
‘He’s quite trustworthy—!’
‘I don’t doubt it. But I don’t need to tell you how much of an advantage it will be if nobody other than ourselves learns I’m involved.’
‘That’s true,’ Darren agreed. ‘Perhaps you can hide in the wardrobe?’
‘It won’t be necessary,’ Belle replied. ‘I’ll leave now, before he arrives, and go back to my hotel. I’ll come later this evening and see the warehouse.’
‘That would be best,’ Darren confirmed, crossing to open the door.
Leaving the room, Belle hurried along the passage. She heard footsteps in the hall below, so went by the head of the stairs to halt at a door. Facing it, she bent her legs, bowed her shoulders and made as if she was searching for the key in her vanity bag. O’Reilly reached the top of the stairs, darted a glance in her direction and went to Darren’s door. Letting the man disappear inside, Belle straightened up and descended to the ground floor. Leaving the hotel, she crossed the street and halted so that she could see inside to the foot of the stairs.
Apparently O’Reilly had not brought an extensive report that afternoon. He soon came into view on the stairs. Despite his earlier precaution of making the visit via the rear door, he left through the front entrance. Belle followed him as he strode off along the street.
As she walked, Belle wondered if she might be wasting her time. Perhaps she was allowing first impressions to influence her against Darren. He could have been lucky—or shrewd—enough to find a corruptible member of Molloy’s warehouse staff. Yet, for all that, Belle could not throw off her feeling that all was far from being well. Everything seemed to be happening just too conveniently; the boxes being placed in plain view and Darren finding the right man to keep him informed. Belle was suspicious by nature and training. Of an active temperament, she always believed in taking the most direct means of satisfying her curiosity.
Belle had not been following the man for long before she decided that her misgivings might have some foundation. Instead of making for the section of town in which one of his class might be expected to live, O’Reilly directed his steps towards the higher-rent district. Much to her surprise, Belle watched him pass through the portals of the Traveler’s Hotel. That was hardly the kind of establishment in which a poorly paid warehouse attendant would live. Yet he was clearly known there. The desk clerk handed over a room-key without question or comment. Allowing O’Reilly to disappear up the stairs, Belle entered and went to the desk.
‘Was that workman going near my room?’ she inquired. ‘If so, I hope he isn’t going to make a lot of noise.’
‘Workman?’ the clerk queried, then smiled. ‘You must mean Mr. Sheriff.’ He dropped his voice to a confidential whisper. ‘It’s all right, Miss Winslow, he’s not a workman. He’s a Pinkerton detective in disguise.’
‘Mercy!’ Belle gasped, sounding suitably impressed. ‘Who-all’s he after, somebody at the hotel?’
‘Certainly not!’ gasped the clerk. ‘He’s heard that the James gang is planning a robbery and is keeping watch for them down by the river.’
‘I just hope he catches them,’ Belle said and, wanting to avoid having her interest in ‘Sheriff’ mentioned, went on, ‘And I surely hope you-all don’t tell him about my foolish mistake. Why, I’d be right mortified if you did.’
‘I won’t say a word, Miss Winslow,’ the clerk promised.
Probably, Belle told herself as she crossed to the dining room, because he had realized that he might be regarded as having been indiscreet in discussing ‘Sheriff’s’ occupation with another guest.
Selecting a table which would allow her to see O’Reilly—or Sheriff—if he returned downstairs, Belle ordered a meal. She pondered upon the remarkable coincidence—which no author would dare to let happen in his stories—of O’Reilly using her hotel. Then she decided that the man had probably selected it, as she had, for its high standard of comfort and proximity to the docks. One thing was for sure. O’Reilly was no ordinary, if disloyal, warehouse employee. Belle could imagine that Darren’s surveillance had aroused somebody’s suspicions. So O’Reilly had made his acquaintance and was ensuring that he saw only what the conspirators wanted him to see.
The question, to Belle’s way of thinking, was why should they go to all that trouble?
Learning the reason struck the girl as being one of the things which must be done. Perhaps the visit to the warehouse would provide her with the answer.
O’Reilly had not m
ade an appearance by the time Belle had finished her meal. Noticing that the clerk was not behind the desk, she crossed to it and turned the register around. A quick examination told her the number of O’Reilly’s room and that he had come to the hotel on the same day that the consignment arrived in Memphis. Replacing the book, Belle went up to the first floor. In passing, she paused to listen at O’Reilly’s door and heard him moving about. Then she went to her own quarters.
Deciding that they must deal with O’Reilly the following day, Belle gave thought to her examination of the consignment. She had no intention, except as a last resort, of entering the warehouse by the route that Darren had suggested. However, she meant to conduct the investigation wearing suitable clothing.
Removing her hat and wig, Belle took them to the wardrobe. She placed them inside and brought out the long black cloak that hung there. With that on and the hood raised, she could dispense with the coat and skirt as covering for her male garments.
Having removed her feminine attire and placed it, with the vanity bag and parasol, in the wardrobe, she thrust the Remington Double Derringer into her waistband. Then she donned the cloak and raised its hood. A look in the wardrobe’s mirror satisfied her that she could get by in her unconventional attire, especially as night had fallen, and not arouse unwanted interest in her appearance.
Dressed and equipped for the work that lay ahead, Belle prepared to go and do it. Glancing along the passage as she emerged, she saw that the door of O’Reilly’s room was opening. A subconscious reflex action caused Belle to retreat into her room and almost close the door. Peering through the crack she had left, she was grateful that she had taken such a precaution. On coming out, O’Reilly proved to have changed his clothes. Now he was dressed more in keeping with a resident at an expensive hotel. Settling a bowler hat on his head, he made for the stairs. His appearance and attitude implied that he was leaving the building rather than merely going down to the dining room.
