The Floating Outfit 34: To Arms! To Arms! In Dixie! (A Floating Outfit Western)

by J. T. Edson

  ‘Fortune favors the fair,’ Belle mused, allowing O’Reilly to pass out of sight before stepping into the passage. ‘Twice in one day. It can’t last.’

  Belle waited until the man had reached the ground floor before starting down the stairs. Already she had decided to revise her plans. There would be ample time later to follow the original arrangements. In fact, the visit to the warehouse could not be undertaken until after midnight. So she considered that she would be more usefully employed in trying to learn more about O’Reilly.

  By the time Belle reached the foyer, her quarry had gone out of the front door. She followed as he strolled along the sidewalk. Using all her skill, she stayed close enough to make sure that she did not lose sight of O’Reilly, yet at a sufficient distance to prevent him detecting her presence. The night was warm and star-lit, but not many people were on the streets. For all that, Belle felt certain the man had not located her. She hoped that he would remain on foot. If he should take a carriage, she might have difficulty in obtaining one in which to continue her surveillance.

  Fortune still appeared to be favoring the fair. O’Reilly kept walking, passing into the business and entertainment section of the poorer part of the city. Then he turned down an alley by the Bijou Theater. If the darkened, deserted aspect of the building was anything to go on, there was no show that night. Belle arrived at the mouth of the alley in time to see him turn at the rear of the theater. Stepping quietly, she reached and peered around the corner. Unlocking what would probably be the stage door, O’Reilly paused. He struck a match, found and lit a lamp which had been hanging near the door. Going in, he drew the door closed behind him.

  Moving even more cautiously, Belle advanced to the door. A faint glow of light showed as she bent to the keyhole. Squinting through it, she watched the man enter one of the row of dressing-rooms. There was no other sign of life in the darkened building. So Belle decided that she would try to take O’Reilly prisoner. If she did, she felt sure that she could induce him to answer questions.

  Twisting at the door’s handle, she pushed gently. Nothing happened. A cluck of annoyance broke from the girl. Either the lock was one of the new-fangled variety that operated automatically, or O’Reilly had turned and taken away the key on entering.

  At least, Belle hoped that it was only the lock that held the door against her push. If O’Reilly had shot the bolts on the inside, she would not be able to effect an entrance at that point.

  On the other hand, providing that the lock was of the comparatively uncomplicated, standard variety—as seemed most likely in such an old building—Belle felt certain that she could accomplish something. One of the subjects in which she had taken training, in the South’s and the United States’ Secret Services, had been how to open locks for which she did not possess the formal key.

  Shoving firmly at first the top then the bottom of the door, Belle felt it yield a little on each occasion. That implied it was secured in the center, at the region of the lock. Wishing that she dare strike a match and make a closer examination, she ran the tip of her right forefinger over the surface of the keyhole.

  ‘It’s a lever, I’d say,’ she mused. ‘Let’s hope that I stay lucky and it’s been cut for a master key.’

  While Belle had proved a ready learner, when being instructed by an expert in the art of picking open locks, she was aware of her limitations in that line. Given time, she could probably manipulate the mechanism of an ordinary lever-lock. If it should have been equipped with the accessory she mentioned, her chances of success would be considerably improved.

  A ‘lever’ locked was operated by a series of small plates which fitted into the grooves of the bolt and prevented it from sliding. Each of the plates, or levers, had a notch in its end that corresponded with the notches of the key. When the key was turned, the pressure would raise all the levers to their correct positions and permit the bolt to function.

  What Belle hoped to find was the addition of a master key’s lever. Set beyond the reach of the ordinary key, the ‘master’ lever was adjusted to operate all the other plates. It was a device often used in public buildings, allowing the janitor, or other persons in possession of a master key, to enter several rooms without the necessity of carrying a bunch of individual keys.

  Reaching into the V-shaped notch at the front of her left boot with her thumb and the tip of her forefinger, Belle drew a useful little tool from its sheath. It was a piece of thick, stiff wire about four inches in length and shaped like a miniature hockey stick.

  Guiding the implement into the keyhole, Belle tested the interior of the lock. Under her gentle pressure, she felt something give a little. Twisting at the pick, she caused the master lever to perform its function. There was a faint click and the door moved in response to her push. Before opening it fully, she returned the pick to the sheath in the Hessian boot. That left her hands unencumbered and ready for use in her defense if the need arose. However, she wanted to have complete freedom of movement. So she reached up to unfasten her cloak.

  Then a thought struck Belle.

  If O’Reilly had locked the door behind him, why had he taken out the key?

  Most likely because somebody else was coming and would wish to gain admittance.

  The realization came just too late.

  Belle heard a faint sound close behind her. Then a hand caught hold of her left shoulder and swung her around. Something hard crashed into the side of her jaw before she could think of protecting herself. For a moment bright lights seemed to be bursting inside her skull. Then everything went dark and she crumpled limply to the ground.

  Six – You’re Going to Tell Us Everything

  ‘Who the hell is she and where did she come from?’ demanded a man’s voice, hard, rasping, yet educated Southron in its timbre.

  ‘Don’t ask me,’ replied a second set of male tones, higher pitched and less definable by accent. ‘It’s strange, but I’ve had a feeling all day that somebody was watching me.’

  ‘I know it’s not likely, but she could have come here looking for you,’ suggested the first speaker. ‘It’s pretty well known that you’re playing here tonight.’

  ‘She was following you, I tell you,’ protested the other man, sounding almost femininely petulant. ‘I saw you coming along the street and was just going to call out when I spotted her. There was something in the way she acted that made me keep quiet. Sure enough, she followed you down the alley. And she was just coming in here when I sneaked up and dealt with her.’

  ‘I locked the blasted door behind me!’

  ‘She had got it opened—some way.’

  Wishing they would stop, as the words seemed to be pounding like hammer-blows inside her head, Belle Boyd lay listening to the conversation. At first, the voices had seemed to be coming from a long way off; but they were rapidly drawing closer. Everything about her appeared to be sheltering in a swirling cloud of mist. Then a faint light pricked its way through, growing brighter until it started to hurt her eyes. Groaning a little, she tried to shield them from the glare. When she began to raise her right hand, the left stubbornly insisted on going with it for some reason.

  Dull pain, throbbing in the region of her jaw, brought Belle to a partial realization of her predicament. Then a fuller sense of understanding assailed her. Thoughts flooded through her disturbed senses, warning her that her situation might be desperate.

  Belle became aware that she was lying on her back upon a hard, bare, wooden floor. Raising her head slightly, she discovered why her hands had functioned in unison. While she had been unconscious, her captors had crossed her right wrist over the left and lashed them firmly together with a gaily-colored silk scarf. There was one bright aspect; her arms were bound at the front and not behind her back. An experiment told her that her legs were still free.

  The mists cleared completely and Belle gazed about her. What she saw, by the light of a lamp that stood on a table in what must be a dressing room of the Bijou Theater, was not calculated to l
essen her forebodings and perturbation. The speakers were standing, gazing down at her. One she identified as O’Reilly—or ‘Sheriff’—and he was scowling in a puzzled, menacing manner.

  Not quite as tall as his companion, the second man was slender, with a pallid, weakly handsome face. He was dressed tidily, even fussily, in a black frock coat, frilly bosomed and cuffed white silk shirt, multi-colored cravat, tight white trousers and highly polished town boots. His right hand toyed with a Remington Double Derringer that Belle recognized as being from her waistband.

  From studying her captors, Belle completed her examination of the room. It was meagerly furnished with the dressing table and two chairs. In the left rear corner, her cloak was hanging over a large trunk that bore the inscription, ‘DEXTER OPAL. Eccentric Tramp Juggler And Distinguished Comedian’.

  ‘Ah!’ said the slender man, his voice high with excitement. ‘Our mysterious visitor has awakened.’

  ‘I bet you was worrying in case you had to be Prince Charming and kiss her,’ O’Reilly answered dryly, then addressed Belle. ‘Why did you follow me here?’

  ‘I—I don’t know what you mean,’ Belle replied, wriggling into a sitting position with her back resting against the wall at the hinged side of the door. ‘Wh-Why have you brought me here?’

  ‘She doesn’t know, Opal,’ O’Reilly mocked.

  ‘It won’t work, girlie,’ Dexter Opal warned. ‘You know why we brought you here. Now we want to know why you came. You’re going to tell us everything we want to know. And it will be a whole lot less painful, if not as much fun for us, if you do it straight away.’

  ‘I—I don’t kn-know wh-what you mean,’ Belle bluffed; and was called.

  ‘And I hate to be lied to, girlie!’ Opal hissed, advancing to drive his right foot viciously in the direction of Belle’s body.

  Having seen the play of emotion on the juggler’s face, the girl had read his intentions. So she responded swiftly and with perfect timing. Flinging herself sideways, she avoided the kick. Grazing her shoulder in passing, Opal’s toes impacted against the wall. A tinny screech of pain burst from him. Hopping on his left leg, he grabbed at the right’s boot. Then fury distorted his features. Slamming his foot to the floor, he thrust forward the Remington.

  ‘Quit that, damn you!’ O’Reilly ordered, catching his companion by the shoulder roughly and jerking him away from the girl. ‘She’s got to answer some questions for us.’

  ‘I’ll make her answer, damn you!’ Opal promised almost hysterically, twisting his shoulder from the other’s grasp. ‘I’ll make her beg to answer.’

  ‘Not here, blast it!’ O’Reilly fumed, holding his arm across the other’s chest and restraining him. ‘She could have people looking out for her. Besides which, they’ll soon be arriving for the meeting.’

  ‘We could have the answers before they get here,’ Opal protested, glaring malevolently in Belle’s direction.

  ‘I wouldn’t want to bet on it,’ O’Reilly answered, watching Belle return to a sitting position. ‘She’s not as scared as she wants us to believe. I’ll bet she’d be a hard nut to crack.’

  ‘Just leave me at her,’ Opal suggested eagerly. ‘I’ll soon enough crack her for you.’

  ‘I’ll just bet you would, Tiger,’ O’Reilly grinned. ‘But not here. We’ll take her to a cabin I know in the woods and you can go do it after the meeting.’

  ‘You mean you’re going to leave her here until then?’

  ‘No. We’ll take her there now. It’ll be safer that way.’

  ‘How do we do it, walk?’

  ‘There’s a livery barn along the street,’ O’Reilly replied. ‘Go fetch a rig and we’ll take her in that.’

  ‘You go and fetch it,’ Opal snarled, showing his resentment at the other man’s disparaging attitude.

  ‘Why me?’ O’Reilly challenged.

  ‘Because I’ve a better reason than you have for being in here, if anybody belonging to this rat-trap comes.’

  ‘There’s that to it. Will you be all right until I get back?’

  ‘If you mean, can I handle her?’ Opal purred, studying Belle with cold, cruel eyes. ‘Just let her try anything on with me and she’ll soon enough learn the answer.’

  ‘I’ll fasten her ankles and gag her be—’ O’Reilly offered.

  Tensing, Belle prepared to make a desperate fight rather than submit to having her legs secured. During the conversation, she had studied her bonds and believed that—given a suitable opportunity—she could unfasten the knot with her teeth. However, she knew that the men might do a better job and, with her legs bound, she would have no hope of escape.

  ‘I can do that,’ Opal assured his companion, solving the problem for Belle. ‘You fetch the buggy. We don’t have that much time to spare. And, if she has friends who’ll be looking for her, the sooner she’s away from here the better.’

  ‘You’re right,’ O’Reilly admitted, reluctantly. ‘I’ll get back as quickly as I can.’

  ‘You don’t sound Irish,’ Belle commented, as they heard the man close and lock the stage door. She wanted to delay the gagging as long as possible, in the hope that she might raise the alarm. ‘If it comes to that, neither does O’Reilly.’

  ‘Hah!’ Opal ejaculated, slapping his thigh triumphantly as if he had made an important discovery. ‘You’re working with that fool who’s watching the warehouse.’

  ‘Do you know who he’s working for?’ Belle challenged.

  If her estimation of Darren’s character was correct, the girl felt sure that he could not have resisted trying to impress O’Reilly by disclosing his official status.

  ‘The Secret Service, he says,’ Opal replied, confirming Belle’s supposition. ‘They must be short of men.’ He paused and eyed her in a speculative manner. ‘You’re a Southron, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes. But I’m also in the Secret Service. Your principals won’t like it if you kill me—’

  ‘Don’t count on it,’ the juggler jeered. ‘They’d probably call you a traitress.’

  ‘Why?’ Belle inquired, genuinely puzzled by the comment.

  ‘That’s for me to know and you to find out,’ Opal replied, with the air of one who had realized that he was on the verge of being indiscreet. ‘Not that you’ll get the chance to find anything out.’

  Watching the slender man, Belle decided against taking any action at that moment. She wanted to be sure that O’Reilly was out of hearing range before she made her bid to escape. Until then, she meant to do all she could to lull Opal into a sense of false security. She guessed that she could keep him talking and divert his thoughts from completing the binding and gagging.

  ‘Why are you involved in this business?’ Belle inquired. ‘You’re not Irish, so it can’t be for national reasons. Are you a Catholic?’

  ‘Like hell I am!’

  ‘Then that rules out religious motives. So it’s for money—’

  ‘Put your ankles together—’

  ‘If it’s for money,’ Belle said, obeying, ‘I can get you as much—in fact even more—than they’re paying you.’

  ‘You can?’ Opal asked, halting as he started to back away.

  ‘Certainly,’ Belle confirmed. ‘All you have to do is set me free—’

  ‘And trust you to fill my hands with gold?’ Opal sneered.

  ‘Why not?’ Belle countered. ‘I don’t want to die. And besides—’

  ‘Yes?’ Opal prompted, making no attempt to start tying her up.

  ‘We’re determined to break up this crowd you’re working for. So we’d pay well for any information you could give us. And even better if you could help to place one of our people in their organization.’

  Clearly Opal was interested in the idea. Belle watched his brows crease and knew that he was turning it over in his mind. Frowning, he closed the dressing room’s door. Much to her delight, he still made no attempt to carry out further bondage.

  ‘Stay where you are!’ Opal warned, jerking up the Remington as
the girl made as if to rise. ‘I don’t trust you.’

  ‘But you like my proposition,’ Belle guessed.

  ‘It’s a stupid idea,’ Opal complained. ‘How do I explain when Ga—O’Reilly tells them I’ve let you escape?’

  ‘We’ll make sure that he can’t tell them.’

  ‘You mean kill him?’

  ‘That won’t trouble you, the way he treats you,’ Belle drawled.

  ‘You’re right!’ Opal spat, mentally recalling all the insults and humiliation he had suffered at O’Reilly’s hands.

  ‘I know how you feel,’ Belle said sympathetically. ‘I like girls and I’ve had some of it.’

  ‘I knew you were!’ Opal breathed, eyes raking her from head to toe. ‘Your hair, those clothes … Can I trust you? Will your people do as you say?’

  ‘Of course. With fifteen and a half million dollars at stake, they can afford to be generous.’

  ‘Fifteen and a half million?’

  ‘I see they don’t trust you enough to tell you everything,’ Belle smiled. ‘They’re willing to use you, but they despise you because … Well, that’s what they could cost the United States if their plot succeeds. So we can afford to pay you handsomely.’

  ‘Shut up!’ Opal hissed, showing that her reference to the money had both puzzled and interested him. ‘I want to think this thing out.’

  ‘Go ahead, but think carefully,’ Belle advised. ‘We’re on to that crowd’s game. And we’re not all as stupid as Mr. Darren pretends to be. It’s only a matter of time before we lay our hands on everybody concerned in it.’

  ‘I said shut up!’ Opal snarled, menacing her with the Remington pistol. ‘Stay right where you are.’

  ‘Time’s running out, but I can wait,’ Belle drawled, settling down as if she felt sure that the result was a foregone conclusion. ‘Just so long as you’ve decided before O’Reilly comes back.’