Bullets & Lies (Talbot Roper 01)

by Randisi, Robert J.

  “That was a nice shot, by the way,” Tilghman said, “but why did you decide to just shoot the gun out of his hand? If you’d missed, he mighta killed me.”

  “I didn’t have a choice,” Roper said. “That was all I could see from the window.”

  “Jesus,” Tilghman said, “if I knew my life depended on you makin’ a shot like that, I mighta been nervous. I guess I’m just lucky you’re a good detective and a fair shot.”

  1

  Denver, Colorado, months later…

  Talbot Roper’s office was on West Colfax Street that year.

  Roper entered his office, mindful of the fact that the door had not been locked. Only one other person had a key to the office, and the door did not bear any of the earmarks of a door being forced. He entered with his cut-down Colt still in his shoulder holster.

  He had two rooms: a reception area, and his office. The outer area had a desk and chair, file cabinets, and several extra chairs for clients to wait—if he happened to have that many. And often, he had a girl sitting at the desk.

  This time, a girl he’d never seen before was seated at his reception desk. She had brown hair pinned up on top of her head and a pretty face only lightly touched with makeup. She appeared to be in her early twenties but was wearing a very businesslike suit that you would usually see on an older woman. Someone had tried to dress her for business, but she had the face and body of a girl who was made for some…well, friskier activity.

  “Good morning,” he said.

  “Oh!” He’d startled her. “Can I—are you…Mr. Roper?” She stared at him through a pair of wire-rimmed glasses with wide, liquid eyes.

  “I am,” he said. “Who are you?”

  “I’m Lola,” she said. “Mrs. Batchelder sent me over this morning?” He hoped most of her sentences were not going to end with question marks. He hated that.

  Mrs. Batchelder was the other person who had a key to his office. She had a business down the street where she trained young girls to give the businessmen in Denver what they wanted—capable office workers. Roper usually allowed her to have a key for just this reason, so her girls could let themselves in and get to work. He thought Mrs. Batchelder probably started her day earlier than anyone in Denver.

  “Are you one of her star students?” he asked.

  Lola frowned prettily and said, “I don’t—well, I don’t know…I think so.” Pinpricks of color appeared in her cheeks, as if the question had embarrassed her. Mrs. Batchelder didn’t like her girls looking like saloon girls, so she kept their makeup to a minimum.

  “Has she explained your duties?”

  “Oh yes,” Lola said. “I know exactly what to do.”

  Roper didn’t smell coffee, so obviously the girl didn’t know everything she had to do.

  “Can you make coffee?”

  She looked crestfallen. “I’m not very good at cooking.”

  “Coffee isn’t cooking,” he said.

  She looked even sadder.

  “All right, never mind,” he said. “Never mind. Let’s just hope you’re better at office work.”

  “I can file,” she said brightly.

  “That’s good, but I don’t have any filing for you right now.”

  “Well…”

  “Just handle any clients that come in the front door,” he said.

  “Handle them?”

  “Yes,” Roper said. “Find out what they want, then come in and tell me. I’ll let you know whether to bring them in or not. Got it?”

  “Oh, yes, sir!”

  “Good.”

  Roper went into his office, closing the door behind him. This room was almost three times the size of the reception area. Roper liked to be comfortable, and space was part of that. One part of the room was set up as a sitting area, with a sofa and two armchairs surrounding a cherry wood coffee table. There ware paintings on the cherry wood paneled walls, which he had bought because he liked them, not because they had any particular value.

  He had a large cherry wood desk, with a large, ornate green-and-gold lamp, a wide green blotter, and an expensive gold pen and letter opener set. Behind it was a large, deep leather armchair, and on either side, metal file cabinets. Behind the desk was a large window that looked out onto the street.

  He liked Lola well enough. He did have some paperwork to do, which would lead to filing, but in his experience, Mrs. Batchelder’s girls were not expert at filing things, especially not in alphabetical order. The reason he allowed her to keep sending him girls was that they worked for free for the experience—when they did get some work done.

  He seated himself behind his big cherry wood desk and proceeded to fill out his reports on his last two cases.

  After about an hour there was a tentative knock at his door.

  “Come in.”

  Lola opened the door and stuck her head in.

  “Mr. Roper, there’s a man here to see you.”

  “Who is it?”

  “He says he’s a lawyer named Harwick.”

  Roper knew a lot of Denver lawyers, but he’d never heard of one named Harwick.

  “He says he has a job for you…and a check.”

  “A check? Well, send him in, then.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  She opened the door and allowed a man in a gray suit to enter.

  “Mr. Harwick?” Roper said, standing.

  “Yes,” the man said. “Edward Harwick. Are you Mr. Roper?”

  “I am.”

  The two men shook hands. Harwick was as tall as Roper’s six-one, but about forty pounds heavier, most of it in the gut. He wore a blue three-piece suit, a gold chain hanging from what Roper assumed would be a gold pocket watch in the vest pocket. He had a matching bowler hat, which he was holding in his hands. There were gold rings on each finger, with stones that reflected the light from the windows. Mentally, Roper’s fee went up even higher than usual.

  “Have a seat, please,” Roper said. “I understand you have a check for me? I don’t recall ever having done business with you before.”

  “We haven’t,” Harwick said. “I’m not from Denver, sir. I practice in West Virginia.”

  “Well, then, what brings you all this way?”

  “I’ve come all this way to see you, sir, on behalf of my client. Howard Westover.”

  “Westover,” Roper said, frowning. “I’m afraid I don’t know that name either.”

  “You wouldn’t,” Harwick said. “Sir, I’m here to hand you a check and ask you to come back to West Virginia with me.”

  “For what reason?”

  “To meet with my client.”

  “And the check?”

  “It is yours, whether you come or not.” To illustrate, Harwick took a brown envelope from his pocket and set it on Roper’s desk. Roper left it there for the moment.

  “What does your client want with me?” he asked.

  “He will tell you that in West Virginia.”

  Roper picked up the envelope but did not look inside.

  “Why me? I’m sure there are private detectives in West Virginia—or at least, closer than Denver.”

  “I’ve done research on you, sir,” Harwick said. “You worked with Allan Pinkerton, both during and after the war, struck out on your own some years ago. As of today, you are generally considered to be the best private detective in the country.”

  “Well, that’s nice to hear, but—”

  “If you come back with me, there will be considerably more money than what’s in that envelope.”

  “Well,” Roper said, “I’m not usually that impressed by money, Mr. Harwick.”

  He opened the envelope, slid the check out, and looked at the amount written on it. Then he slid it back in.

  “When do we leave?” he asked.

  2

  Harwick had secured them sleeping compartments on the train. The trip to West Virginia, with water stops, would take over twenty-five hours.

  As the train pulled out of the station, Roper stop
ped by Harwick’s compartment to see if he wanted to get a drink together. The lawyer looked surprised when he opened the door to Roper’s knock.

  “Why?”

  “We still have things to talk about.”

  “Like what?” Harwick seemed genuinely surprised that Roper would want to have a drink with him.

  “Come and have a drink, and I’ll tell you.”

  Harwick shrugged and said, “Very well.”

  They went to the dining car together, got a table with ease since the kitchen was not yet serving a meal. When a white-coated waiter came over, Roper ordered a beer, and Harwick asked for a brandy.

  “What is it you think we have to talk about?” Harwick asked. His eyes were on another table, where three men were playing poker.

  “Well, your boss, for one,” Roper said. “What’s he like?”

  “He’s ill.”

  “How ill?”

  Harwick blinked, tore his eyes away from the poker game, and looked at Roper with a slightly startled expression.

  “I’ve already said more than I was supposed to,” he said. “My client will fill you in on everything when we arrive.”

  “All right,” Roper said with a sigh. His attempt to squeeze more information out of the lawyer had yielded little. Perhaps the man was actually good at his job. “Tell me about yourself, then.”

  “What would you like to know?”

  Both men paused while the waiter set down their drinks before continuing.

  “How long have you worked for Mr. Westover?”

  “Almost twelve years.”

  “Are you from West Virginia?”

  “Yes, but I practice there and in Washington, D.C.”

  “I’ll bet that comes in handy—for your client’s business, I mean.”

  Harwick sipped his brandy and did not reply. Instead, he looked over at the poker players again. Roper turned to take a look as well, then looked back at the lawyer.

  “Don’t even think about it,” he said.

  “What?” Harwick looked startled again.

  “Don’t think about getting into that game.”

  “Why not?” Harwick asked. “It would just be a way to pass the time.”

  “Not for them,” Roper said. “The reason there are three of them is that they’re waiting for a fourth, like you, to sit down so they can skin him—you.”

  “Skin?”

  “Take,” Roper said, “cheat.”

  “What makes you think they cheat?”

  “I’ve ridden a lot of trains, Mr. Harwick,” Roper said. “I’ve seen a lot of traveling poker games like that one. Maybe they won’t out-and-out cheat you, but they’ll work together against you. You wouldn’t have a chance.”

  “I happen to be a very good poker player,” Harwick said stiffly.

  Roper could see he wasn’t going to get anything out of Harwick, and he probably wasn’t going to be able to talk any sense into him either. He pushed his barely touched beer away and got up.

  “Thanks for having a drink with me, Harwick. If you’d like to have a meal together later, stop by my compartment.”

  “Fine,” Harwick said, his attention already back on the poker game.

  Roper left the car.

  Harwick did not stop by, and when Roper got hungry, he went to the dining car and saw that the lawyer had, indeed, joined the poker game. He barely acknowledged Roper when he went by. There were others there now, dining, some together, some alone.

  Roper found himself a table and ordered a steak. He sat facing the poker players so he could watch the game. It became evident while he ate his meal that the three men had found themselves a pigeon in Edward Harwick.

  The three men were laughing and jostling each other, drinking—or pretending to drink—while Harwick himself was very serious about the cards in his hand. To anyone watching, it would seem he was the only one taking the game seriously, but Roper could clearly see he was being whipsawed. The lawyer should have heeded his advice. He did not, and now he was going to pay.

  Roper finished his meal and returned to his compartment.

  3

  Roper was reading Mark Twain’s The Prince and the Pauper, resting on his berth, when there was a knock on his door. As he slid the door open, one hand behind him holding his gun, he was surprised to see the waiter who had served him his dinner.

  “Yes?”

  “Your friend, sir,” the black waiter said.

  “My friend?”

  “The man you had a drink with? The one playing poker?”

  “Oh, him. What about him?”

  “I believe him to be in danger.”

  “In danger of losing his money, and it serves him right,” Roper said. “I told him not to play with them.”

  “No, sir,” the waiter said. “That’s not it.”

  “What is it, then?” Roper asked.

  “Well, sir…he’s winning.”

  “What?”

  “Yes, sir,” the waiter said. “And the other men are not happy.”

  “I guess not,” Roper said. “The three of them are working together. For him to be winning, they’d have to think that he was—”

  “Cheating, yes, sir.”

  Roper stepped back, put his gun down, donned his shoulder holster, replaced the gun in it, then put his jacket on over it.

  “Let’s go,” he said, stepping into the hallway.

  As Roper entered the dining car, he knew they were right on the verge of trouble. Other diners in the car had taken up positions around the game and were watching intently. He had to push his way through the crowd in order to get a clear view himself. Harwick was sitting with a lot of paper bills in front of him, more money than the other three men had, combined. He watched a couple of hands—which the lawyer won—and could not detect any cheating on the man’s part.

  “Jesus Christ!” one of the other three said, slapping his useless cards down on the table. “How is he doin’ it?”

  “I told you,” Harwick replied. “I’m a very good poker player. I did warn you.”

  “Yeah,” one of the other men said, “but you didn’t warn us that you would cheat.”

  Harwick paused in his collecting of the money and stared at the men.

  “I assure you, gents, I am not cheating.”

  The third man leaned forward. His jacket gaped and Roper saw the gun inside. “It’s the only way you can be beating us.”

  “You all assumed that by working together you could beat me,” Harwick said. “In reality, all you could control was the way the hands were bet. None of you was good enough to deal seconds. I simply played the cards I was dealt.”

  The tension grew and the crowd drew back, giving the four players space to settle their argument. Some of them even rushed from the car, not wanting to be around when lead began to fly.

  Roper, on the other hand, stepped forward.

  “He’s right.”

  The three men looked at Roper.

  “He’s better than you are,” Roper said. “There’s no shame in losing to a better player.”

  “You better mind your own business, friend,” one of them said.

  “This is my business, friend,” Roper said. “This man and I are traveling together on business. If you kill him, I don’t get paid. I can’t allow that.”

  “You can’t allow?”

  “That’s right.”

  “What do you intend to do about it?”

  “That depends,” Roper said, “on what you three intend to do.”

  “We aim to make this cheater give us back our money,” one said.

  “And then we’re gonna teach him a lesson,” a second said.

  The remaining onlookers hurriedly left the car. Some remained just outside the doors at either end to peer in the windows.

  “Not a chance,” Roper said.

  Roper knew Harwick was not armed, and yet he didn’t seem overly concerned about his safety.

  “Collect your winnings, Harwick,” Roper said. “We’
re leaving.”

  The three men tensed, and Roper spoke quickly.

  “I’ll kill the first man who pulls a gun.”

  “There’s three of us,” one said.

  “I know,” Roper said, “and soon there’ll be two…then one…and finally…” He shrugged.

  Harwick gathered his money into his hands in a wrinkled bundle and stood up slowly. The three men watched, all straining, itching to make a move. But Roper was an unknown to them.

  “Out, Harwick,” Roper said.

  “And you?”

  “I’ll be right behind you.”

  “Gentlemen,” Harwick said, “thank you for a very interesting, and lucrative, game.”

  “Harwick,” Roper said between clenched teeth, “go!”

  The lawyer left the car.

  “And now, gents, you can go back to your game.”

  “This ain’t over,” one of them said.

  “What’s your name, friend?” another asked.

  “Roper,” the detective said. He backed toward the door that Harwick had gone through. “For all our sakes, I hope this is over, but…until we meet again.”

  He turned and went out the door.

  “We can’t let them get away with this,” Eugene Cummings said.

  “Don’t worry,” Arthur Carl said, “we won’t.”

  “I wanna kill that Roper, whoever he is,” the third man, Ben Landau, said, “but before we kill the lawyer, I wanna know how he did it. How he cheated us.”

  “He didn’t cheat us, you idiot,” Carl said. “He beat us fair and square with better cards.”

  “But…we still can’t let him get away with it,” Cummings said.

  “We won’t. The lawyer said he was going all the way to West Virginia. We have plenty of time.”

  “To do what?” Landau asked.

  “To get our money back.”

  “But Roper…he must be some kind of gunman. We can’t hope to beat a gunhand.”

  “Not face-to-face anyway,” Carl said.

  “You mean—”

  “I mean there are other ways to kill a man like that,” Carl said.

  “How?” Landau asked.

  “Yes, how?” Cummings echoed.

  “Just give me a little time,” Carl said, “and I’ll come up with an answer.”