Calamity Jane 10

by J. T. Edson

  ‘Let me help you, sonny!’ Belle requested, as the man turned to retrieve the letters he had dropped.

  ‘That’s all right, la—’ the mailman began.

  ‘I insist!’ Belle declared.

  Ignoring the man’s second declaration that her assistance was unnecessary, the Rebel Spy bent to start picking up the letters. When suggesting she should try to discover to whom “Devlin” had written, she had been aware of the difficulties she would be facing. In addition to having to make an opportunity to see the contents of the mailbox, she was not familiar with the impostor’s handwriting. She had been gambling upon there only being a few letters in the box and that she might see a name, or address even, she could connect with a known anarchist.

  The first hope had materialized.

  There was also a chance that the second had done so.

  Belle doubted whether anybody else in the neighborhood would have had cause to address a letter to, ‘The Governor, State Capital, OTTAWA, Southern Ontario, Canada’.

  Much as the Rebel Spy would have liked to find out whether her assumption was correct, she was not granted an opportunity. Watching the letter being placed with the others in the mailman’s bag, she wondered what possible reason “Devlin” could have for communicating with the Governor of Canada.

  ‘An English spy, you say?’ Phineas Branigan growled, looking from “Father Devlin” to Vera Gorr-Kauphin and back. ‘But how the hell did he find out what we’re up to?’

  ‘My colleague didn’t say,’ the impostor replied, glancing around the small office at the rear of the saloon owned by the other man. ‘All he learned was that one is on his way from Canada and would be arriving tomorrow some time on the General Sheridan.’

  ‘Cap’n McKinnon’s boat, huh?’ Branigan injected.

  ‘I don’t know about that,’ “Devlin” said shortly, inadvertently making a potentially incautious comment. It was most unlikely that a priest whose previous parish had been in the port of Green Bay would not have heard of Captain McKinnon by reputation if not personally. ‘All my colleague told me was that he would be arriving on the General Sheridan and is traveling under the name of “Father Henri Duchamp”.’

  ‘Father!’ Branigan repeated, too engrossed in the information he had just received to spare a thought for the impostor’s lack of knowledge where the captain of the General Sheridan was concerned. ‘Do you mean the spalpeen’ll be traveling as a priest?’

  ‘That he will, the English heathen!’ “Devlin” confirmed, exuding a similar if less genuine righteous indignation.

  ‘It will make identifying him easy,’ Vera put in. ‘There aren’t likely to be all that many priests on board.’

  ‘You’re right about that, ma’am,’ Branigan admitted. ‘What do you want done about him, Father?’

  ‘I’d say that’s up to you,’ the impostor replied. ‘But I wouldn’t be too hard on anybody for anything they did to a spy who is sacrilegious enough to dress as a priest.’

  ‘There’ll be no scaring him off,’ Branigan warned. ‘He’ll have to be killed.’

  ‘As you say, he’ll have to be killed,’ “Devlin” agreed. ‘But make sure that nobody sees it happen.’

  ‘Count on me for that? Branigan declared. ‘I’ll have him met when the boat docks and brought somewhere it’ll be safe to get rid of him.’

  ‘Like I said, that’s up to you’ “Devlin” answered. ‘It’s a pity we don’t know what time the boat will be arriving. That would save your men hanging around and maybe being recognized, then remembered by the police if anything goes wrong.’

  ‘There’s one thing you can count on Cap’n McKinnon for,’ Branigan stated, again failing to draw any conclusion from the ‘priest’s’ surprising lack of knowledge. ‘He’s never more than an hour late coming in. By one o’clock tomorrow, we’ll have that English spalpeen and make him sorry he got sent to spy on us. I hear you got the extra money, Father.’

  ‘I did,’ “Devlin” confirmed, hoping that the reference was not to the donation promised by the wealthy businessman, Fitzgerald.

  ‘Sure and I knew they’d fork out when you asked them,’ Branigan stated with a grin. ‘The word’d been passed it’d be an unlucky day for somebody if you didn’t get the money. How soon can we have the guns?’

  ‘I’m completing the payment tonight and they’ll be ready tomorrow.’

  ‘Where’ll they be?’

  ‘I haven’t been told yet. That’s not the way arms dealers do business.’

  ‘Doesn’t he trust you?’ Branigan growled.

  ‘His kind don’t trust anybody ‘ “Devlin” pointed out, without mentioning he had not worn his priest’s raiment when visiting Kramer. ‘I’ll tell you where they can be collected after you’ve seen to that English spy.’

  ‘I’ve got to hand it to you,’ the actress remarked in tones of grudging admiration, as she and the impostor were walking along the alley towards the front of Branigan’s saloon at the conclusion of the meeting. They had used the side entrance to his office to avoid attracting attention by going in via the front door and bar room. T couldn’t imagine how you’d persuade them to kill a priest.’

  ‘They’ll probably suffer eternal damnation for it,’ “Devlin” answered and his face took on the savagely bitter, yet somehow exultant, lines Vera had noticed while he was writing the letter to the Governor of Canada betraying the proposed Irish invasion he had helped to organize. 51 ‘And I hope they do. Every last goddamned priest-ridden one of the bastards.’

  Wondering what had caused her companion’s bitter hatred for his own people and the Catholic faith in general, Vera was too wise to try and satisfy her curiosity. Instead, she asked about their future plans. Engrossed in discussing the matter, they turned at the end of the alley and “Devlin” bumped into a man who was approaching along the sidewalk. There appeared to be a good reason for the accident. Tall, wearing a black hat with a V-shaped groove across its crown, wrapped in a black cloak-coat, the brown bearded man had on dark glasses and was employing the thick stick in his left hand as if he was blind, or very close to it. For a moment, he and the impostor were entangled. Then, mumbling an apology, he went on with his stick tapping and feeling the way.

  ‘Awkward bastard!’ “Devlin” snarled, as he and Vera resumed their briefly interrupted journey. ‘They shouldn’t let the likes of him on the streets.’

  If the impostor had been able to watch as the man turned into the alley at the other end of the saloon, he would have been more than just annoyed over the collision.

  Having followed the couple from the presbytery, the Remittance Kid had gambled upon them being with Branigan for long enough to let him make a few changes to his appearance which would be necessary if he was to carry out the next part of his plans. Going around to the back of the building, he had found a place which offered him the necessary privacy. First he had pressed the groove into the top of his hat, which had been specially made to permit such treatment. Then he had exchanged the white wig and beard for a set of brown whiskers he had brought along to be used if such a need arose. He had next replaced the tinted glasses with a much darker pair. Lastly, he had buttoned the cloak-coat and, by straightening up, altered his height slightly and removed the suggestion of extreme age.

  With his appearance so altered that he could come to close quarters without being recognized as the ‘old’ man from the wake, the Kid had taken up a position at the front of the saloon from which he could see the side entrance reflected in the window of a store at the opposite side of the street. When the actress and “Devlin” came out, he had advanced with such careful timing that he engineered the collision. Despite the brief contact between them, he had been successful in picking the impostor’s inside jacket pocket. Slipping the letter he had acquired into his own jacket’s inside pocket, he walked on with a feeling that the risk he had taken had been worthwhile.

  Sixteen – You’re Going to Kill Us

  ‘Father Duchamp?’ Phineas Branigan
inquired, walking up to the only passenger to have left the newly arrived steamboat who was suitably dressed to be the person he had been sent to meet and kill.

  ‘That is my name,’ admitted the man “Father Matthew Devlin” had claimed was an English spy, speaking with a noticeable French accent. ‘And what can I do for you, my son?’

  Upholding his reputation for greater punctuality than any of his competitors, Captain Alexander McKinnon had brought the General Sheridan to its dock in Chicago at a quarter after twelve.

  Having arrived and taken up a point of vantage shortly before noon, Branigan had watched the passengers disembarking. As there had been no other members of the clergy coming ashore, he had had no difficulty in making his selection. What was more, even if there had been others, he would still have felt sure he was making the correct choice.

  Tall and several years short of middle age, the priest was tanned, good looking and sported a neatly trimmed mustache and chin beard of Gallic appearance. Like many of the younger members of the priesthood, he was following the growing habit of traveling in a black soft felt hat with an indented crown, black suit and reversed white collar instead of a cassock. Despite being burdened with a suitcase in each hand, he walked with an athletic, almost military erectness and stride.

  Although Branigan had felt he was fortunate that his potential victim was one of the last passengers to come along the gangplank, he found less satisfaction in seeing the priest was escorting a woman. Of something under middle height and attired for mourning, her features were concealed by the veil of the black hat securely pinned to her grey hair. There was an ear trumpet suspended around her neck, adding to the suggestion that she was much older than her companion. She was carrying a vanity bag and a bulky furled umbrella, but had no other baggage in her possession. As the cases carried by the priest were not a pair, one being considerably older and more battered than the other, it seemed likely he was helping her by bringing it ashore.

  ‘Father Devlin sent me to take you to him,’ Branigan replied.

  ‘That’s very considerate of him,’ Father Duchamp declared. ‘Madam Ramel and I are very grateful.’

  ‘Madam Ramel?’ Branigan queried, although he could guess who was meant.

  ‘She has come to see Father Devlin on a matter of business,’ the priest explained, without lowering his voice. ‘She was one of his parishioners in Green Bay, you see. And, as she is somewhat hard of hearing, speaks little English and has never before been in such a large city, her family have asked me to ensure she arrives safely.’

  ‘But Father Devlin didn’t say anything about her—’ Branigan began, finding the news disconcerting.

  ‘What’s he saying, what’s he saying?’ the woman demanded in French, her voice expressing the querulous asperity which came with age, snapping the ear trumpet into use.

  ‘That he has been sent to meet us by Pére Mathieu,’ the priest answered, employing the same language. Then he reverted to English and continued, ‘I didn’t know she would be coming when I wrote to Father Devlin, so I couldn’t tell him.’

  ‘I reckon not,’ Branigan conceded, knowing sufficient French to have understood what had passed between the couple, but deciding the reference to the reason why “Father Devlin” was not aware of the woman’s pending arrival was nothing more than an example of fast thinking on the part of the English spy.

  ‘Now what’s he saying?’ the woman demanded, still plying her ear trumpet vigorously. Without troubling to discover whether Branigan could speak French, she went on, ‘I don’t like the look of him. He’s got an ugly face and might be the twin brother of that nasty M’sieur O’Ryan in Green Bay.’

  ‘He’s a friend of Pére Mathieu, Madam Ramel!’ the priest answered, with a tone of patience underlaid with annoyance. Then he addressed the other man, ‘I hope you don’t speak French, my son?’

  ‘I don’t,’ Branigan lied, turning his scowling face from the woman.

  ‘Shall we go then?’ the priest suggested. ‘I’m sorry to have to do this to Father Devlin. Is it far to his parish?’

  ‘A fair way,’ Branigan replied, starting to turn away. ‘I’ve brought a coach to take you there.’

  ‘Isn’t he going to carry our bags?’ Madam Ramel asked shrilly. ‘Nasty, common man. I wouldn’t be surprised if he isn’t M’sieur O’Ryan’s brother.’

  ‘Let me take the bags, Father,’ Branigan offered, swinging back and holding out his hands.

  ‘Thank you, my son,’ the priest assented, surrendering the cases.

  Darting another scowl at Madam Ramel, Branigan set off to where he had left Shamus O’Toole with a rockaway coach. As he walked, he told himself that he had no other choice but take the woman with them. If he tried to do otherwise, the English spy could become suspicious and might refuse to accompany him. On the other hand, once taken, she could not be allowed to live. Not only would she have seen far too much, she could describe him to the police as the person who had separated her from the ‘priest’. For a moment, although he had not the slightest qualms on the matter, he wondered how his men would react to learning she must be killed. Knowing them, he doubted whether they would raise any protests. Each had already taken life on at least one occasion and were unlikely to be deterred when dealing with an unpleasant old woman who was also, to their insular way of thinking, a foreigner.

  On reaching the coach, Branigan scowled prohibitively as he saw O’Toole darting a startled look and was clearly about to ask a question. Then, realizing such a reaction was natural, he gave a hurried explanation of the woman’s presence. There was a patrolman ambling along the waterfront in their direction and he wanted his passengers inside the vehicle before they could be subjected to a closer scrutiny. Taking a hint from his employer’s attitude, O’Toole accepted the reason he had been given for the old woman being brought from the boat and did not prolong the conversation.

  Handing the cases to the burly man, who was still showing signs of being disconcerted by the unanticipated turn of events, Branigan opened the coach door. While the couple were entering and taking the seats which faced forward, he slipped his right hand into the outside pocket of his jacket and drew to fully cocked the hammer of the Remington Double Derringer it held. Still holding the weapon ready for use, he followed them and sat opposite the English spy. Having placed the two cases on the box, O’Toole climbed ponderously after them. Gathering up the reins, he set the two-horse team into motion.

  Once the journey commenced, there was little conversation except for one or the other man to make a noncommittal response to Madam Ramel’s comments about the bumpiness of the road and what she considered were O’Toole’s inadequacies as a driver. Beyond thinking that her long suffering family might not be too deeply grieved when hearing of her unexplained and mysterious disappearance, Branigan paid no attention to her. Instead, he concentrated upon watching for the first sign suggesting the English spy was growing alarmed or suspicious.

  Although there was neither reaction as the coach continued along the waterfront, Branigan did not think this was out of the ordinary. He considered it was highly unlikely that either of his victims would have sufficient knowledge of Chicago’s geography to realize they were not traveling in the direction of “Father Devlin”s’ parish. Of course when they arrived at their destination, which it would be instantly obvious was not a presbytery, the spy was certain to guess something was wrong. However, Branigan had thought up an excuse to persuade the passengers to leave the vehicle. If it failed, he was covering the other man with his Remington and at that range could not miss. Nor, once he had fired, did he anticipate any difficulty in dealing with the woman.

  ‘I hadn’t realized that Father Devlin’s parish was this close to the waterfront,’ the man dressed as a priest remarked, glancing out of the side window at the row of warehouses they were passing.

  ‘It’s not too close,’ Branigan replied, being uncertain whether the spy had checked on the location. ‘But he got called to a warehouse down h
ere. Some of the workers have had a bad accident and himself, being the good and kind man he is, went straight away to find out if he could do anything. He sent me to fetch you and asked if you’d go in and lend a hand if he wasn’t through when we got there.’

  ‘Of course I will,’ the man who might be an English spy promised.

  Satisfied that his victim had accepted the explanation, Branigan lapsed into silence. Nor did the other man make further comment as the coach passed through a progressively poorer and less occupied area. Glancing through the rear window shortly after the brief conversation, Branigan saw a pantechnicon furniture removal van following at a distance. However, as O’Toole brought the rockaway to a halt outside their destination, it turned and disappeared from view along a side street.

  ‘Here we are, Father,’ Branigan announced, opening the door and, retaining his hold on the butt of the Remington, jumping down. ‘It looks like Father Devlin’s inside.’

  ‘Where are you going?’ Madam Ramel demanded, as the priest followed their guide from the vehicle.

  ‘Inside to help Pére Mathieu,’ Father Duchamp replied, apparently failing to draw any conclusions from the deserted appearance of the warehouse. It was run down, but not derelict. Neither was there any sign of the ambulance which might have been expected at the scene of a serious accident. ‘Wait there, please.’

  ‘Certainly not!’ the woman contradicted cantankerously, doing what Branigan had hoped and saving him from having to think up a reason for taking her with them. Gathering up her umbrella, but leaving the vanity bag, she rose and continued, ‘I don’t trust these big city men. I’ve heard what they’re like when they get a defenseless woman with them. Help me down, man, where’re your manners?’

  ‘Here, ma’am!’ Branigan said, the last words having been directed at him in spite of his claim not to understand French. ‘Let me give you a hand.’