Porter's breath began to come faster. "You've found another one?"
"It's not too difficult. The hardest part is making sure that Henrietta knows nothing about it. She loves a dollar, that woman does, but I'm afraid even she has some standards — unlike you and I, Colonel."
"Enough talking," Porter snapped impatiently. "Let's see her."
Roland nodded and got up. He went over to another door and opened it. "Come in here, my dear," he said.
A girl appeared in the doorway and stepped shyly, tentatively, into the room. She wore a bright red dress with a great deal of lace and a neckline low enough to reveal most of her budding breasts. She kept her eyes downcast, the silky blond hair falling in waves around her face. She was not very far out of adolescence.
"Excellent," Colonel Matthias Porter breathed. His face was rapt as he stared at the young girl.
"We guarantee that she's in the condition you require, Colonel," Roland said. He gestured at the long, overstuffed sofa on one wall. "Feel free to use the office. I'll step out for a time and lock the door behind me. And Colonel — enjoy yourself."
As Porter gazed at the girl and saw how she was quivering slightly in nervousness, he knew he would enjoy himself very much.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Fox didn't recognize the doorman at Madam Henrietta's this afternoon. As the man stared suspiciously at him, he said, "Good day. My name is Preston Fox, and I'm here to see Roland."
The doorman frowned. "You're not here for one of the young ladies?"
"I've come to see Roland on a business matter," Fox replied, allowing some impatience to creep into his voice.
The doorman considered, then stepped back. "Come on in. He may be busy right now, but I'll check."
Fox went into the foyer, grateful to be out of the cold wind. He was not wearing an overcoat, and the chill was slowly creeping into his bones. Now perhaps he would have a chance to warm up.
The doorman disappeared into the parlor for a few minutes, in search of Roland no doubt, Fox thought. He stepped over to the double doors that led into the parlor. At this time of day, the place was almost deserted, although some of the rooms upstairs were probably being put to good use. Fox spotted the bartender and was just about to start in that direction, anticipating a brandy to warm him up, when Roland appeared on the staircase.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Fox," Henrietta's right-hand man said. The doorman was following along behind him. Roland went on, "What can I do for you today?"
Fox moved closer to Roland while the doorman went back to his post. In a low voice, Fox said, "I have some business to conduct with you, sir. Could we perhaps go up to the office?"
"I'm afraid the office is being used at the moment."
That was strange. Judson had implied that Madam Henrietta would be asleep at this time of day. What was she doing in the office?'
That was none of Fox's business, though. He had his orders to carry out. Tapping the pouch through his jacket, he whispered, "Mr. Judson sent me over with something for you."
Roland nodded. "Ah, yes. Perhaps we should go upstairs." He turned and started up the stairs without waiting to see if Fox was following him.
Fox was. He followed Roland to a much smaller office, where he handed over the pouch. Roland took it and opened it, tearing the wax seal loose. He seemed unconcerned that Fox was still in the room, so Fox took the opportunity to try to sneak a look inside the bag.
As he had suspected, he saw not only papers but several packets of currency also. "Very good," Roland muttered to himself as he thumbed through the contents of the pouch. He extracted one of the bills and extended it to Fox. "I don't know if Judson has already paid you for this errand, Fox, but a little extra loyalty won't hurt."
"Indeed not." Fox grinned. He took the money and put it in his pocket, looking for all the world like a greedy sycophant anxious only to advance himself.
It wasn't much of an acting job, he thought wryly. Not too long ago, that was exactly what he had been.
"I have a feeling we'll be seeing a great deal of you around here, Mr. Fox," Roland said.
"I hope so," Fox replied sincerely. "I could grow to like this place."
Roland made a small noise.
Fox realized half an hour later, when he was back at his duties at the bank, that the man had been laughing.
* * *
Night came early at this time of year in Denver, but it couldn't have come too soon to suit Preston Fox.
The afternoon had been a long one. He could barely keep his mind on his work for thinking about the daring mission that night would bring.
In the middle of the afternoon, old Boswell, the head teller, had taken a break just as Fox had expected him to. Boswell had a set of the bank's keys, and despite all his earlier talk about efficiency, he also had a fondness for the whiskey he carried in a small flask in his pocket. While Boswell slipped out the back door to take a nip, it was simple for Fox to step around the partition between windows and take the keys from BoswelPs drawer.
Fox had been prepared. The guard at the back door couldn't see anything from his post. Nerves made Fox's hand shake somewhat, but he was able to take impressions of the keys using the wax he had purchased after his visit to Madam Henrietta's. Then he had returned the keys to their proper place and stepped back to his window just as Boswell came in the back door.
Finding a locksmith to file copies of the keys had been a bit more difficult, but Fox had managed that, too, after his day's work at the bank was over. He had finally located a small locksmith shop whose owner was willing to engage in dubious activities as long as several bills crossed his palm.
Now, armed with his illicit keys, Fox was crouched at the back door of the bank, trying to make one of them work on the lock.
The air blowing through the alley was still cold. Fox was worried that it might start to snow or sleet, although it was still a little early in the season for that. Still, at these elevations, almost anything was possible. Fox shivered as he tried another of the keys.
The lock clicked open.
He felt like cheering, but he restrained the impulse. There were no guards on duty in the bank at night — all the cash was locked up in the massive vault — but there was no point in risking drawing attention to himself.
It wasn't money he was after. All he wanted was a good look through Warren Judson's desk.
It was a good thing Landrum and Glidinghawk were being forced to lie low by their circumstances. If they had been able to operate openly right now, instead of having to pretend to be out of town, they would be here with him, prepared to steal any thunder that might arise.
Instead, he, Preston Kirkwood Fox, who had been ignored and banished to a squalid boarding-house at the beginning of this case, was going to be the one to crack it wide open. Coming on the heels of his successes in Montana, this was going to confirm his position as an important cog in the machine that was Powell's Army.
Soon, no one would ever be able to look down on him again.
Why, he might even get his uniform back.
Fox carefully closed the bank door behind him. A little light filtered into the building through the front windows, and he was familiar with its layout from his two days working here. Moving quickly but cautiously in the shadows, he made his way past the tellers' windows to the door that led into Judson's office.
The office door was locked. Fox worked by feel, trying one key after another until one worked. The door gave a creak as Fox opened it, and he flinched at the sound. But there was no one in the bank to hear it except him.
As he closed the office door behind him, he squinted into the darkness. There was only one window in this room, and it was heavily curtained. He decided he could take a chance on lighting the lamp on the desk.
Taking a match from his pocket, he felt around until he had the lamp located. Then he scratched the lucifer into life on the sole of his boot, as he had seen Landrum do many times. Fox gave a little laugh of jubilation as the matc
h flared.
He held the flame to the lamp's wick until it caught. As the warm glow spread through the room, Fox replaced the chimney and turned toward the desk's drawers. He hoped they weren't locked. It wasn't likely that Boswell would have had the keys to the drawers among his set of keys.
Again Fox's luck held. None of the drawers were locked, including the big one in the middle where he had seen the map earlier. Now, as he slid it open slowly to avoid any excess noise, he peered into it, hoping to see the parchment again.
There were no maps in the drawer.
Fox tried to swallow his disappointment. It would have been too much to hope for, he told himself, to find the map that easily. Perhaps it was in one of the other drawers. He bent over to open the bottom one.
"Just stay right where you are."
The voice came from the doorway. Fox had been so absorbed in his search that he hadn't heard it opening. He jerked upright, despite the command to be still, and stared into the muzzle of a pistol.
The weapon was in the hand of Warren Judson, and the banker's expression was colder than the Colorado night outside.
"Something told me I couldn't trust you, Fox," Judson went on. "I didn't really expect you to try something this soon, though."
The banker's usual joviality had vanished. He looked as if the only thing that would make him happy at this moment would be to blow a hole right through Preston Kirkwood Fox.
Fox tried to find his voice. "You . . . you d-don't understand, sir," he faltered. "This isn't what it looks like."
"It looks to me like you were rifling my desk," Judson grunted. "I'm glad I was passing by and decided to look in for a moment. Lucky for me. Unlucky for you." The banker frowned thoughtfully. "But why didn't you go for the vault? There's no money in here —"
He broke off suddenly, his eyes widening as another possibility obviously occurred to him.
Fox's hands were raised. He took a step back against the wall as Judson advanced toward him.
"Please, sir. You know you can trust me. I saved your money from those robbers . . . !"
"Shut up," Judson grated. "You're no simple thief, I'll give you that. You wormed your way into my confidence for a reason, though, and I think I know why."
Fox shook his head. "I don't know what you're talking about, Mr. Judson."
"We'll see."
Judson was close now, only a couple of feet away, and Fox frantically tried to decide whether he should try to jump the man. Maybe he could wrestle the gun away from him — but Judson was so big . . .
Judson didn't give Fox a chance to debate his course of action for long. He lashed out with the hand holding the gun. Fox tried to duck, but his reaction was too slow.
The gun barrel thudded into the side of Fox's head.
Fox's involuntary cry was cut short by the impact. He slumped back against the wall, his knees buckling, and then pitched forward onto his face. He was vaguely aware of his cheek hitting the rug on the floor of the office. The rug scraped his skin —
And then for a time, Fox felt nothing at all.
* * *
In addition to the front and side doors of Madam Henrietta's, there was also a back door. A path led from the alley behind the mansion to this entrance.
Not long after the disaster that had befallen Fox inside the bank, a bulky figure came up that rear walk carrying someone over his shoulders. It was quite dark back here, but the man hauling his human burden was very familiar with the path. He trudged up to the door and knocked sharply on it.
A few moments later, Roland opened the door, a gun in his hand, and then stepped back in surprise as light from inside spilled out on the newcomers. "What the hell?" he exclaimed.
"I caught this young bastard in my office," Warren Judson replied. "I think we'd better have a long talk with him and find out just how much he knows."
Roland nodded. "Yes, I think you're right. Bring him in."
The banker disappeared inside the house, and Roland shut the door.
Once again the small rear yard of the house was quiet and deserted. Several minutes passed, and then there was suddenly motion in the darkness. A darker patch of shadow moved away from the house and slowly made its way toward the alley.
The watcher had seen and recognized Judson and Fox in that brief moment of illumination. This was an unexpected disruption of his plans.
He had suspected Judson from the first of being involved in the mess that had brought him to Denver, but what the devil did Fox have to do with it all?
The shadowy figure reached the alley and moved more quickly now. The man's mind was working feverishly. He had no doubt that Roland and Judson would kill Fox if they had to.
He couldn't let an innocent man die — and he certainly had no knowledge that Fox was guilty of anything. But to act now would ruin his cover and possibly negate everything he had done.
He had no choice, he suddenly decided. But if he was going to throw caution to the winds, there was something he had to do first.
The hurrying figure passed under a streetlamp that was guttering in the sharp wind. The faint glow revealed a man in high black boots, pulled-down hat —
And the uniform of a major in the United States Army.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
When the sharp knocking came on her door, Celia expected to see Landrum or Glidinghawk or even Fox when she opened it.
She didn't expect to find Major Devlin Henry standing there in the hall, his handsome face set in tight, grim lines.
"Devlin!" Celia exclaimed. "Were we supposed to see each other tonight? I don't remember —"
Devlin shook his head and cut in, "We didn't have anything planned. But something important has come up, and I've got to talk to you, Celia."
"Of course. Come in."
Celia stepped back to admit him to the hotel room and didn't bother trying to hide her frown of puzzlement. Devlin was attached to the commission. Could something have happened that was going to take him away from Denver? His expression was certainly bleak, as if what he had to tell her was not good news.
As Celia closed the door, Devlin stood tensely in the center of the room, his hat clutched tightly in his hands. He swung to face her and said bluntly, "I've lied to you, Celia."
Her breath seemed to catch in her throat. "Lied to me? How could you have lied to me, Devlin? You mean . . . about us?"
"In a way. I've certainly lied to you about myself. I wasn't sent here just to be a minor functionary on the commission staff."
Celia's pulse began to speed up as she sensed the seriousness of what he was saying. "Are you trying to tell me you're not a major in the army?"
"Oh, I'm a major, all right. But I was sent to Denver by General Carruthers back in Washington City to investigate reports of corruption on the commission. I guess you could say I'm a kind of undercover operative."
Celia tried not to stare. There was a strange queasy feeling in the pit of her stomach.
And at the same time, there was a part of her that wanted to laugh and laugh . . .
Her mind was racing. So Devlin Henry was an agent working on the same case that had brought her here. That didn't mean he knew anything about Powell's Army. In fact, it was highly likely that he had no idea other operatives were already on the scene.
She forced down the impulse to tell him the truth — all the truth this time. Amos Powell had drummed the need for secrecy into them, especially when they were dealing with the military. Revealing her real identity to Devlin might ultimately mean the disbanding of the group. It was impossible to say what the long-term results might be.
"Why are you telling me this?" she asked.
"Because I couldn't keep it a secret any longer. I'm tired of having to lie to you, Celia, or at least hold back the whole truth. I started out keeping an eye on you not only because I was interested in you — but because I thought you might be involved in the case I'm working on."
"I was a suspect?" she said incredulously.
Devlin shr
ugged. "You were at Madam Henrietta's, and that seems to be the center of the plot I was investigating. It so happens that Henrietta really was married to me. That's why General Carruthers picked me for this job. I haven't always been a . . . a spy. The general knew I could get in to see her, though."
"So that's why you kept turning up. You were following me as part of your job." Celia couldn't keep a certain degree of coolness out of her voice.
Devlin tossed his hat on the bed and stepped closer. His hands reached out and grasped her upper arms. "It's worse than that. I even hired a man to search your room and try to find out if you were someone other than who you had told me. It was awful of me to do that, I know — especially when — I found myself — coming to care for you," he said intently. Staring into her eyes, he went on, "The things I told you when we were alone . . . those were the truth, Celia. I swear."
His mouth came down on hers, hot and insistent and urging, and Celia felt her anger and resistance fading. She sagged against him, letting his arms go around her and fold her tightly to him.
They stood that way in the center of the room for what seemed like a long time. The part of Celia's brain that was not carried away by passion was feverishly considering the implications of this development. There had to be something that Devlin hadn't told her yet.
When the kiss finally ended, she put her face against his chest and said softly, "Why now? Why tell me all this tonight?"
One of his hands lightly stroked her back and then reached up to brush her silky red hair. "Because I'm going to have to do something that will end my effectiveness as an agent. I'm going to have to come out into the open, and it may be dangerous."
Celia felt a cold fingertip edging along her spine. "You're going to confront Henrietta with your suspicions?"
"It's worse than that. They're holding a prisoner there at the house. I don't know what his connection is, but I overheard enough to know that they're planning to torture him. I can't let them do that. I've got to try to rescue him."
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