by J. T. Edson
‘I should think so, too!’ the woman squawked. Having no intention of releasing his weapon at such a crucial moment, Branigan reached with his left hand only to assist her. In spite of his support, she stumbled as she alighted and her empty right hand flew up to clutch at her hat as she protested, ‘You clumsy lout!’
‘Go through the small door there, Father,’ Branigan requested, ignoring the woman and turning to point to the main entrance of the warehouse.
‘Certainly,’ the priest replied and set off without hesitation followed by the still complaining woman.
Throwing a look and satisfied nod to O’Toole, who was descending from the coach’s box, Branigan slipped the Remington from his pocket. He gave no thought to the complete lack of concern or caution being shown by a man he believed was an English spy sent to investigate the activities of Irish Republican supporters. Instead, he congratulated himself upon the ease with which he had lured his victim into the trap. He also considered that, as he had not anticipated the woman’s presence, he had been fortunate in the way he had arranged for the spy to be received.
‘You’ll be finding Father Devlin through the back there, Father,’ Branigan directed, having followed the couple through the small door which offered admittance to the building without needing to open the whole of the main entrance and, after glancing to where O’Toole was remaining to keep watch by the coach, closing it behind them.
Still displaying no evidence of suspicion, the man in the black suit started to walk along the alley between stacks of boxes and tarpaulin-covered piles of goods. Muttering and grumbling semi audibly, the woman stalked by his side. However, as they entered a small clear area in the middle of the large room, they were brought to a halt. Two burly, well dressed, if somewhat flashily, hard-faced men emerged from behind boxes in front of them and a third, slightly slimmer but with a rat-like features slid from the top of a tarpaulin draped mound to alight alongside Madam Ramel. Although none of them was holding a weapon, each had a revolver thrust into his trouser waistband. What was more, while they all were clearly puzzled by the woman’s presence, they showed no sign of allowing themselves to be swayed from their purpose because she was there.
‘One move and your wife’s a widow, you English bastard!’ Branigan warned, thrusting his Remington’s twin superposed barrels against the center of the priest’s back.
‘Mother of God!’ the man in the black suit gasped in French. ‘What’s this?’
‘We know who you are and what you’ve come for!’ Branigan declared, surprised by the response as he had felt sure any reply startled from the spy would be made in English. Reaching with his left hand, he felt for and failed to find any weapons on the other man’s person. Shoving him forward a few steps, he growled, ‘So it’s no use you trying—’
‘How dare you treat the Father like that?’ Madam Ramel protested, making as if to move forward and attack Branigan as her companion halted and turned. ‘I’ll—’
‘Grab the old besom, Barber!’ Branigan growled.
‘That I will!’ the smallest of the men replied, catching hold of the woman’s left arm and right shoulder. ‘But why in God’s name did you bring her here?’
‘I didn’t have no other choice!’ Branigan snarled, stepping forward and thrusting the Remington into the priest’s stomach. ‘You’re going to wish you’d never come to spy on us, you English son-of-a-bitch.’
‘M’sieur!’ the victim gasped and his French accent became more pronounced. ‘You’re making a terrible mist—’
‘Like hell I am!’ Branigan answered, lashing the back of his left hand across the brown bearded face.
‘Sacrilege!’ Madam Ramel shrieked, as Father Duchamp was knocked backwards into the hands of the waiting men with blood starting to run from the corner of his mouth. ‘You’ll all go to Hell for attacking a priest.’
‘Shut your mouth, you old witch!’ Barber ordered, seeing nothing out of the ordinary in the woman speaking English. ‘Or you’ll get some of the same and worse.’
‘Holy Mother!’ the woman croaked, staring from one man to the others in turn. ‘I don’t know why you should, but you’re going to kill us!’
Even as Madam Ramel was speaking, the small door in the main entrance was thrown open and O’Toole came through hurriedly.
‘Phineas!’ the burly man bellowed, closing and locking the door. ‘Ballinger and his men are coming!’
‘Well, that’s that,’ “Father Matthew Devlin” remarked, looking through the grime-covered window of the deserted and derelict building opposite the warehouse into which—although the rockaway coach had hidden them from his view—Branigan had taken his victims. ‘It’s a pity we won’t be around when they find out they’ve murdered a real priest. I’d like to be the one who takes their confessions.’
‘I wonder who the old woman was?’ Vera Gorr-Kauphin asked, having seen Madam Ramel through the coach’s window when it drew up.
‘I don’t know, or care,’ the impostor stated. ‘It’ll make things all the worse for them when the truth comes out.’
Having been kept busy all the previous afternoon gathering the promised donations to complete the purchase of the arms, “Devlin” had not discovered the letter from Father Henri Duchamp was missing until he had been changing before going to visit Ernst Kramer. The idea that it might have been stolen had not occurred to him. Neither had he informed the actress of the loss. He had felt sure that, even if somebody had found it, the sight of his name and address would cause it to be returned to the presbytery.
On receipt of the balance of payment and bonus, Kramer had explained where and how the firearms and ammunition would be handed over. Having given the address from which they could be collected the following afternoon, he had torn a ten dollar bill in half and handed over one portion to serve as a means of identification between his men and those who went to pick them up.
Turning his attention to the second consignment, Kramer had promised everything would be as arranged and supplied half of another ten dollar bill as an aid to recognition. He had not been told that it was to be Vera and the impostor who would accept and accompany the arms which would await onwards transportation at Stokeley, Montana. Nor had any of them referred to the incident of the Agar Coffee-Mill gun. In fact, they had parted on amicable terms and with mutual—if only sincere on one side—expressions of the hope that they could do further business in the future.
In spite of possessing all the information required to supply the Irish contingent with their arms, “Devlin” had not passed it on. He had told Branigan the previous day that he would do so after the English spy was removed so that, if anything should go wrong, the weapons would not be lost. Having learned where the assassination was to be carried out, he and the actress—dressed in attire suitable for the area—had found a hiding place from which they could ensure that all went well.
The precaution proved to be justified and worthwhile!
‘Look!’ Vera gasped, her attention diverted by noticing O’Toole staring along the street and then dashing behind the coach towards the warehouse’s door.
‘It’s Ballinger!’ the impostor snarled, recognizing the foremost of the half a dozen armed men who were coming from the side street into which the pantechnicon had turned a short while before. ‘He must know—’
‘But how could he?’ the actress gasped.
‘How the hell do I know?’ “Devlin” spat back furiously and wondering if perhaps the letter had reached the detective, arousing his suspicions. ‘One thing’s for sure. I’m not staying around to try to find out.’
‘What are you doing?’ Vera demanded, watching the impostor take a piece of paper with an address written on it and a half of a ten dollar bill from his pocket.
‘They’ll not be needing these, I’m thinking, even if I could get them to them,’ “Devlin” answered, tearing both items into pieces and dropping them. ‘Come on. We’re through here and I mean to be on the train traveling west with Cavallier before
Ballinger can lay hands on me.’
Seventeen – It’s Not Over Yet
Hearing Shamus O’Toole’s announcement, Belle Boyd realized that the time was at hand for her to dispense with being “Madam Ramel.” Nor was she sorry that she could stop playing the demanding and exacting role. Walking with knees bent to reduce her height by some three inches and add to the suggestion of dumpiness was anything but easy. She also appreciated that the lives of Captain Patrick Reeder and herself were dependent upon their own efforts until Lieutenant Edward Ballinger and his men arrived to support them. Having anticipated that the need to do so might arise, they had made preparations which would help them cope if it happened. What she had learned over the past couple of days warned her that, the precautions notwithstanding, their position was anything but a sinecure.
Accompanied by Sergeant Damon and dressed in an appropriate fashion, the Rebel Spy and the Remittance Kid had spent some time in the vicinity of Phineas Branigan’s saloon. The purpose of their reconnaissance had been to learn as much as they could about the proprietor and his buckoes. They had guessed that “Father Matthew Devlin’s” visit was to enlist aid, by some means which neither could envisage, in disposing of what he believed was a threat to expose him as an impostor, and they wanted to find out what they would be up against. From what Damon had told them, the men selected by Branigan as his assistants were the most ruthless he hired. All were suspected of having been involved in more than one killing. So they would not hesitate to kill again, even though one of the victims appeared to be a harmless, if obnoxious, old woman.
Following the example he had set from the beginning of their acquaintance, Ballinger had continued to give the couple his cooperation. When the Kid had suggested a way in which they might obtain confirmation of their suspicions regarding “Devlin”, while they were having lunch on the day after the fire, the detective had declared that he could help. Belle had soon acknowledged that the scheme was only possible by making use of his specialized knowledge and contacts.
It had been Ballinger who made the arrangements for “Madam Ramel” and “Father Henri Duchamp” to arrive in the appropriate fashion by calling upon the assistance of a friend, Lieutenant Charles Goldsmith of the Chicago Police Department’s Lake Michigan Patrol Division. Dressed in ordinary clothes and with their disguises in the two suitcases, the couple had been taken on Goldsmith’s steam launch to intercept the General Sheridan out of sight of the dock. Calling for the return of a favor, the lieutenant had persuaded Captain McKinnon to let them aboard without asking questions and to supply them with the privacy they would require while making the alterations to their appearances.
When meeting with Belle, the Kid and Ballinger prior to taking the couple to meet the steamboat, Goldsmith had inadvertently provided them with a new development. He had replied to the Englishman’s apology for taking up so much of his time by saying he had only one case and it did not seem likely to be successful. The body of an elderly man had been recovered, after its accidental discovery by two anglers, from a bay about a mile to the east of the city. Death had been caused by a knife thrust to the heart, after which the body had been stripped, wrapped in sacking, weighed with chains and dumped. There was only one possible clue to identifying the victim. A crucifix ring had either been ignored or overlooked by the murderer. On being removed by the medical examiner, an examination had disclosed what remained of an inscription around the inside. Even with the aid of the most powerful magnifying glass available, only the words, ‘For my son’, followed by the letters, ‘M, at, v,’ could be deciphered. As the doctor had estimated the body had been in the lake for about the same length of time that “Father Matthew Devlin” had held office in his parish, the trio had felt they could complete the inscription. They had also known that their only way of proving their suppositions was to go through with the scheme.
Having seen his friends off in the launch, Ballinger had joined five selected members of his squad aboard a furniture removal company’s pantechnicon which had been hired for the purpose. The hope that “Devlin” himself would be at the dock did not materialize. So, following Branigan’s coach at a distance, they had turned aside when certain it had reached its destination. When out of sight from the warehouse, they had set off on foot to effect the rescue.
Aware of the consequences of delay, Belle allowed the hatpin which she had removed while clutching at her headdress on leaving the coach to slip from her sleeve into her right hand. As she did so, she straightened her knees quickly. Feeling the ‘old’ woman’s height suddenly and inexplicably increasing, as she moved with a rapidity he would not have thought possible for one of her ‘age’, Barber inadvertently slackened his hold on her. Instantly, Belle’s right arm rose and thrust over her shoulder. The point of the pin drove into the man’s cheek, bringing a yell of pain. Twisting free from his grasp, she sent her hand downwards—leaving the pin stuck in him—to disappear into the umbrella.
Even without waiting to see how Belle responded to O’Toole’s arrival, being equally cognizant of the peril it presented and confident that she would behave in her usual competent manner, the Kid gave attention to ensuring his own salvation. His captors had grasped him by the wrists with both hands and were starting to twist at his arms when O’Toole entered. The warning he delivered caused them to pause.
Shifting his weight on to his slightly bent right leg, the Kid raised his left foot until the thigh was parallel to the ground. Allowing the tension on his arms to help retain his equilibrium, he snapped the left in a diagonal motion which delivered the edge of his boot against the shin of the man on that side. The sudden, unexpected pain made the recipient of the kick release him and stumble away. Instantly, he returned the foot to the floor and, shifting his balance to it, launched a similar and even more effective attack with the other leg. A howl of agony burst from the second ‘bucko’ as the foot met and snapped his knee cap, causing him to let loose. He dropped with his hands clutching the injured limb.
Having looked around on hearing O’Toole’s news, Branigan snapped his head to the front in response to the commotion. Giving a furious obscenity, he started to line the Remington Double Derringer in the Kid’s direction. Then other sounds diverted his attention to his left. What he saw warned him that he might be facing just as serious a threat from that quarter.
Although hurt and caught unawares, Barber had recovered his wits quickly. His right hand flew to clutch at and jerk the hatpin from his cheek, but the left shot forward. Grabbing his assailant by the bun of her grey ‘hair’, he jerked at it. To his amazement, it and the hat came away in his grasp. The effort he had put into the pull, meeting with none of the resistance he had anticipated, caused him to stagger back a few steps and trip. Going down, he landed on his rump with enough force to wind him.
The removal of Belle’s wig, hat and veil exposed her short-cropped black hair and beautiful features to Branigan’s astounded gaze. Realizing that he was not dealing with an ordinary woman, he found himself uncertain as to whether he should devote his attention to her or to the English spy. Tough and ruthless as he undoubtedly was, he had never been a practicing gunfighter. Nor did he comprehend just how swiftly one trained in such techniques could respond.
Belle had had such training and was highly competent.
Grasping the butt of the Kid’s Webley R.I.C. revolver, the girl jerked free the adhesive tape which had held it attached to her disguised parasol’s handle. Instead of wasting time bringing the weapon into view, she swung it and the parasol into alignment. Thumb cocking the hammer, she squeezed the trigger. Flame lanced through and ignited the bulky umbrella canopy and a bullet tore into Branigan’s chest while his Remington was still vacillating between her and the Englishman. Knocked backwards, the little firearm flying from his fingers, he measured his length on the floor.
Springing forward as rapidly as the pain-throbbing shin would permit, the Kid’s first victim tried to tackle him. Catching the man’s right wrist in both hands, h
e swiveled and brought off a wrestling throw which reminded Belle of a technique she had seen employed by Dusty Fog. 52 Passing over the Englishman’s shoulder, the ‘bucko’ descended with all his weight, and rendered his injured companion unconscious. Nor was he in a much better condition, due to the impact of the fall, as the Kid stepped forward and, jerking the revolver from his waistband, covered Barber with it
Pulling out the Webley, Belle tossed aside her smoldering disguised parasol. She recocked the hammer and, raising it in both hands, aimed at O’Toole as he lumbered towards them. When he continued to advance and began to drag out his revolver, after her second command for him to halt, she sent a bullet which broke his right leg and compelled him to comply.
By the time Ballinger and his men broke open the small door in the main entrance, they found that the couple they had rushed to rescue already had the situation under control. That Belle and the Kid had been able to do so was made possible because their ability at disguise and superb acting had lulled their would-be killers into a sense of false security which allowed them to bring their bare hand fighting skills into use.
‘ “Devlin”, or whatever his real name might be, and the actress have flown the coop,’ Ballinger said, rejoining the Rebel Spy and the Englishman in the room they had rented opposite the presbytery shortly after nightfall. ‘But the men who were backing them have decided to call off the invasion.’
‘So you managed to persuade them, old boy?’ the Kid asked, it having been agreed that the detective should handle the remaining aspects of the affair without Belle or himself becoming further involved.
‘They saw it my way,’ Ballinger corrected. ‘When I showed them that letter you sent to “Devlin” and took back, then told what he’d tricked Branigan into doing, they figured it was for the best. None of them would want it known they’d been taken in by an impostor who’d murdered one priest and tried to have another killed. Or that they’d let themselves be cheated out of money that was supposed to buy guns for their army.’
