by Cameron Judd
CHAPTER 17
His name was Bailey McCurden, and he sat in a dark corner of the saloon, nursing a beer and watching Billy Connery.
At least, he was relatively sure it was Billy Connery he was watching. The young man across the room didn’t look quite the same as Connery’s meager little picture in the rear section of the Illustrated American. This fellow looked a bit leaner and had hair a touch longer, and the feeble mustache sported by the young man in the magazine illustration was absent from this fellow.
Despite the differences, the more McCurden studied the young man, the more sure he was that it was Connery. The resemblances outweighed the differences. With any luck, young Connery would lead him straight to the man he really wanted to find.
The English physician who had hired him would be pleased. McCurden was on the verge of finding Brady Kenton. He could all but smell it.
It had been fairly easy so far. After being hired by one Dr. David Kevington in a very covert manner, McCurden had traveled to St. Louis with several other hired Kevington operatives to keep an eye on the offices and employees of the Illustrated American. A talk to a low-level staff member who was smoking his pipe on the doorstep had uncovered the news that one Billy Connery, an illustrator who was a relatively recent hire of the magazine, was making sudden preparations to travel, apparently at the behest of Kenton’s old partner, Alex Gunnison. And Connery was saying very little about the details—just enough to let his coworkers know that he was on to something very important.
Sensing a possible lead, McCurden had found Connery’s apartment, but without Connery present at the time. But he had found Connery’s neighbor, a baker named J. R. Randwick, who had proven to be a rich source of information once plied with a few beers. Connery was going to Culvertown, Colorado, on some secretive venture that would involve “bringing a certain somebody back from the dead.”
It was easy to figure out from there: Kenton was in Culvertown, and Connery was being sent to find him.
McCurden made the same journey only a day after Connery. He’d traveled quickly after disembarking the train and would have had a completely unimpeded journey if not for those two troublesome fools who had tried to rob him on the road.
They’d been only an annoyance, a momentary problem. Two quick shots, two slugs between the eyes, and they were out of consideration.
McCurden continued to sip his beer and watch Connery. The young fellow seemed nervous, McCurden thought. Interesting. Nerves implied that he was on to something important.
Maybe Connery had found Kenton. And where Kenton was, there would be the woman Kevington wanted back.
A very valuable woman. Kevington had made that clear, and McCurden hadn’t been able to keep his mind off it ever since. A very valuable woman.
He’d not let Connery notice him, if he could help it. But he’d also not let him slip out of his sight.
* * *
Connery finished his three beers and stared at the empty mug. He felt a little fuzzy but not any more courageous.
Devil with it. It was time to do what he’d come to do. What was there to knocking on a door, after all? If Livingston wasn’t hospitable, it wouldn’t be the first door slammed in his face.
But Connery had made one slight shift in his plans while drinking his beers. So instead of heading up the hill toward the Livingston mansion, he headed for the telegraph office.
Unnoticed by Connery, a man in the corner of the cafe also rose and left, scooping up a stray newspaper from a table as he did so.
Before they’d gone in their opposite directions, Gunnison and Connery had made communication arrangements. Telegrams would be worded in such a way as to be clear to their intended recipients but not to others who might read them. Brady Kenton, for example, was to be referred to by initials only, but reversed: “KB.” And because it was impossible for Gunnison and Connery to know exactly where each other were at any given moment, telegrams were to be sent to several predesignated stations, which would be checked regularly.
Connery rang the bell on the counter of the telegraph station and waited for the operator, a red-haired man with a wide, pale face and many lingering boyhood freckles. This was a different operator from the man who had been here when Connery telegraphed the Illustrated American morgue earlier.
“My name is Billy Connery. Have I by chance received any messages?”
“Let me check.” He shuffled papers. “No, nothing.”
“All right. I want to send some messages of my own. Five of them, all the same, all to different stations in New York.”
“Five different recipients?”
“All to the same person, Alexander Gunnison. Just five different stations.”
“Odd arrangement. What’s the message?”
“‘KB found in Culvertown. Livingston house. Please come.’ Sign it off with ‘Connery.’ That’ll be sufficient.”
“All righty.”
While the operator clicked out the message, Connery paced around the room, humming nervously, glancing out the windows, tapping his heels on the floors. The door leading out to the station porch stood ajar.
There was no one else in the station besides Connery and the key operator. There was, however, a man on the porch, seated by the open door, reading a newspaper. Connery didn’t even notice him until he meandered over to the door and happened to look out, and was slightly startled because he knew no one had been on the porch when he entered only two or three minutes earlier.
The man glanced up. Connery said, “Good day, sir,” and withdrew back inside.
“That all you need?” the operator asked.
“That’s all. I may get a reply to that. I’ll check back in with you to see.”
“I’ll be here.”
Connery stepped out onto the porch, walking past the seated man without a glance. He trotted down the steps and onto the dirt street and wondered if he’d just done the right thing. He’d just sent Alex Gunnison a message that would bring him straight to Culvertown … and the honest truth was that Connery really didn’t know for sure that Kenton was here. He’d yet to verify anything with his own eyes.
But he’d decided over his beers to go ahead and send the message prematurely. By doing so he preempted a difficult situation for himself later on. If he did find Brady Kenton, Kenton might urge him not to contact Gunnison at all. And Connery frankly didn’t want to be put into a situation in which he had to choose his duties. Now the issue was predecided. The message was already sent.
The worst that could happen now was that he’d not find Kenton after all and Gunnison would come racing to Colorado all for nothing.
Maybe if Kenton proved not to be here, he’d be able to get a new wire sent out soon enough to counteract the last one. He told himself he’d done the right thing.
Now there were no more excuses. No more beers to be consumed, no more wires to be sent.
Time to go up the hill and do what needed to be done.
CHAPTER 18
“Beg your pardon, sir.”
Connery turned. The man who’d been reading the newspaper was behind him, smiling in that uncertain way of those who are approaching strangers. It was just the kind of smile Connery would probably have on his face when the door swung open at the Livingston mansion.
“Well, hello. What can I do for you, sir?”
The man laughed, almost a giggle. “You’ll have to pardon me, sir, but I was sitting back on the porch at the telegraph office, and I swear I think I heard you say your name is Billy Connery.”
“That’s right.”
“Oh! Oh, my! Well … that’s something. It is indeed. I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, you understand. It’s just that the door was open, and—”
“That’s all right. Do I know you, sir?”
“Oh, no. No. But I think I know you. My name is Jim, Jim Grant. And I’m quite a reader, you see, and my favorite reading has always been Gunnison’s Illustrated American. Me and a million other people, huh? And I have to ask y
ou if you might just happen to be the Billy Connery who works for the Illustrated American. And if you’re not, I’m going to be as embarrassed as a man can be.” The nervous giggle again.
Connery was astonished. Never before had he been recognized by anyone. Among the journalistic stars of the Illustrated American, he shone the dimmest.
“I am with the Illustrated American, yes.” Now it was Connery who wore a silly grin.
“Oh, my. My goodness. I thought it was you. When I heard your name, and heard you say the name of Alex Gunnison, I thought that it really might be you. Oh, my! This is exciting. You’re a talented man, Mr. Connery. I’ve admired your work.”
“I’m surprised you’ve even noticed it.”
“Well, I’ll tell you, sir—”
“Please, call me Billy.”
“Billy, yes. I’ll tell you, Billy, I’m not the average reader. When I get interested in something, or someone, I really get interested. A bit of a fanatic about things, I’m afraid. Get a little obsessed.”
“I see. I’m flattered that you like my work.”
“You know, I think I like your work better than Alex Gunnison’s. I wouldn’t want you to tell him that, though. Was that the Alex Gunnison you were sending a wire to?”
“That was the one.”
“Oh, my. That’s something! Alex Gunnison. I never got the chance to meet him. But I did meet my hero, the greatest one of all.…”
“Brady Kenton?”
“Yes. He even signed a copy of the magazine for me. I have it in a frame now.”
“When did you see him?”
“It was five years ago, in Chicago.”
“Oh.”
“I was so sorry to hear when he died.” The man paused, licking his lips and frowning strangely. “I … I didn’t want to say this … it sounds very foolish … but do you know that I think I’ve seen Brady Kenton … since he died? How’s that for strange?” The giggle was even more nervous-sounding this time.
“Wait.… When did you see him?”
“Well, day before yesterday.”
“Up there?” Connery pointed toward the Livingston mansion.
“No, no, not there. In a boardinghouse dining room, across town. I’d gone in to see if they had a room for my brother, who’s coming to visit week after next, and there he was, sitting at the table and eating. He looked a little different, and I had the impression he didn’t want to be recognized. But I swear it was him! Though I know it couldn’t be, because he’s dead.”
“Can you show me this boardinghouse?”
“Surely … but why?”
“I don’t want to say just now. Do you mind showing me the way?”
The man grinned widely. “It would be an honor!”
“Thank you, Mr. Grant.”
“Please call me Jim.” He stuck out his hand for Connery to shake.
And when he did so, his leather coat gapped open a little and Connery saw that he wore a gun belt. Surprised him; Grant just didn’t seem the kind to be carrying a hidden weapon. But Connery himself had a pistol, and he probably wouldn’t seem the kind to go armed, either. He dismissed the half-second of caution about going off with this stranger.
“What do you do for a living, Jim?” Connery asked as they walked off together.
“I’m a baker,” Grant replied. “Here, turn into this alley.”
The alley was narrow and shadowed. “What is this, some kind of shortcut?” Connery asked.
“That’s right, a shortcut.”
They went into the alley.
“A baker, you say. I’ve got a friend back in St. Louis who’s a baker.”
“Oh, yes. J. R. Randwick. I met him.”
Connery, who was just ahead of Grant, stopped and turned. “You met J. R.?”
“That’s right. But he didn’t know me as Jim Grant. I told him my real name. McCurden.”
“Who the devil are you?” Connery asked, reaching under his jacket for the shoulder-holstered pistol.
McCurden was ahead of him, though. His own pistol came out much more quickly, and he slammed Connery hard on the temple.
Connery collapsed, stunned but not unconscious. McCurden knelt and quickly removed Connery’s pistol from its holster and stuck it under his belt.
“Who am I, you ask? Well, starting right now, I’m you. I’m Mr. Billy Connery. Because you’re no longer going to be around to play that role in the little stage play we call life. I’m honored to be your understudy. You’ve never met Kenton, have you? You were hired after his supposed death. Which means Kenton doesn’t really know you.” He clicked back the hammer of his pistol and aimed it at Connery’s forehead.
But he didn’t fire. He frowned and shook his head. “Nah. Too loud. We’ll do it quietly.”
He put away the pistol and pulled out a long-bladed folding knife. It opened with a click and locked into place.
Connery’s consciousness faded as the knife went up. He was oblivious to it altogether when it descended swiftly toward his chest.
* * *
The telegraph operator was dozing in a chair leaned back against the wall when McCurden entered the station.
“Up at attention, Red!” McCurden bellowed, startling the moon faced operator out of his chair so fast he knocked it over. “Got a message to send.”
The operator ran a hand through his hair and tried to regather his dignity. He picked up the chair, dropped it, picked it up again.
“Yes, sir. A message.” He sat down at the key. “What is the name of the recipient?”
“Kevington. Dr. David Kevington. He’s in St. Louis at the moment.” McCurden grinned. “But when he gets this wire, I can assure you, he’ll cut a fast trail to dear old Culvertown.”
The operator had no notion of what any of this meant. He picked up his pad of paper and a pencil.
“You can dictate your message now, sir.”
* * *
The message, broken down into pulses of electricity, made its way across the wires to its destination in St. Louis.
Dr. David Kevington was not there to receive it. He had moved on already, following what had seemed a strong but ultimately proved to be a false lead indicating that Brady Kenton and Victoria were in Denver.
The message, though, was picked up by one of two hired investigators who had been instructed to remain behind in St. Louis and keep a close eye on the offices and personnel of the Illustrated American, just in case Brady Kenton decided to come home.
They’d also been instructed to maintain a close vigil on the telegraph wires, in case any other promising information came through from other hired agents such as McCurden, who was following his own leads elsewhere.
The other agents knew that their British employer, virtually a stranger to them, put much stock in McCurden. The man had a record of success as a manhunter and was known to be willing to do whatever it took to achieve his purposes.
McCurden’s wire from Culvertown was in the hand of one of the agents an hour after it arrived and forwarded on to Dr. David Kevington in Denver immediately afterward.
It was delivered to Kevington’s hand as soon as it arrived.
Kevington, a tall, lean, intense man with a thick and unmoving mass of gray hair atop his head and eyes that could cut holes through anyone he chose to glare at, began his preparations for travel as soon as he’d read the wire.
The arrival of this wire at this time and place was a sign, surely, an indication that fate was on his side. Kevington had made a fruitless trip to Denver, following a lead that had petered out to nothing. But now the journey had proven itself worthwhile after all. Being already in Colorado, Kevington would be able to reach Culvertown much more quickly than if he were starting from St. Louis.
And the quicker the better. McCurden’s wire said he had found Brady Kenton and Victoria, too.
CHAPTER 19
Jack Livingston poured another shot of whiskey into the cracked mug that Brady Kenton had just drained. They’d been talking for an hour
, and Kenton’s voice was tired.
Livingston, never a man to sit silent for long, had done so while Kenton told his story. It was just too intriguing to interrupt.
Kenton had just finished describing his harrowing encounter with the now-dead son of David Kevington, who had come to the United States in pursuit of Rachel Frye because she was witness to a murder he had committed in England. Rachel Frye was the daughter of Brady Kenton, though he did not know of her existence until she tracked him down.
It was from her that Kenton had at last learned that his missing wife was still alive, living now as the spouse—and virtual prisoner—of David Kevington.
“Please … go on with your story,” Livingston urged when he could stand the waiting no more.
Kenton swished the whiskey around in his mouth, then swallowed and wiped his lips on the back of his hand. “The circumstances that I found myself in after Rachel and I were finally united allowed me to fake my death with relative ease, and with the cooperation of Alex Gunnison. With me officially dead, Rachel and I were free to travel anonymously to England. Rachel guided me to the Kevington estate, then went into hiding, at my insistence, at the home of some former Kevington servants who agreed to protect her and keep her presence secret … and to help her get away if I sent word for her to flee.
“I’ll pass over the details and tell you simply that I did manage to get into David Kevington’s estate. I found Victoria.… She was as overwhelmed at our reunion as I was. She hadn’t known whether I was living or dead. She was eager to leave the prison of a home he had given her, and we tried to do it … but I was caught. Kevington locked me away, literally threw me in a cellar, and would have killed me right away had not Victoria begged him not to and told him she would take her own life if he killed me.
“A sympathetic servant in the household cooperated with me, and sneaked word from me out to Rachel that she should leave the country at once and come back to the United States. She did that, I was told … but now, God help me, I have no idea where she is or what happened to her. There was a boat accident off the coast, right about the time she would have been returning.… Dear God, I hope she wasn’t on that boat.” Kenton paused, poured himself another drink, and took two long sips before continuing.
