Jack The Roper (Axel Hatchett Mystery Book 6)

by Steven Nelson

  We all got out of the truck and went up some flagstone steps and across a broad porch. There was a big pine door with a bronze knocker shaped like a cow skull. Breedlaw hammered at the knocker. In no more than a minute the door swung inward and revealed a pudgy, middle-aged woman wearing a dark dress, a white apron, and a silly maid’s cap.

  “Mr. Breedlaw,” she said, smiling. “We’ve been expecting you. Do come in. Is this the detective?”

  “And his partner,” said Tracy.

  We were shown into a big, high-ceilinged, entry hall. It was paneled in knotty pine, and a few deer heads sneered down on us from the walls. A wide, open, doorway gave us a view of a living room with a rock fireplace that was a little smaller than a train tunnel. A big pile of pine logs was burning in it. A buffalo head was mounted above it. On the walls on each side were big oil paintings depicting cowboys doing cowboy stuff: branding cattle, roping mustangs, sitting by an open fire with plates of beans in their laps. A gigantic hooked rug covered a fair portion of the pine floor. There was a wheelchair in front of the fire. It’s occupant wheeled to face us as we entered the room.

  At first I only had eyes for the chair. It was impressive — massive, with wooden-spoked wheels like a chuck wagon, tooled leather upholstery, and arms that ended in silver horse heads. The guy driving it was less impressive. For some reason I’d expected Roan to be a big guy. He wasn’t, and never had been. In the big chair, the shriveled old white-haired cowboy looked no bigger than a ventriloquist’s dummy.

  He was dressed up in fancy boots, whipcord pants with a knife-edge crease, a gaudy rodeo shirt and a bolo tie featuring an agate the size of a Clydesdale’s hoof. The little buckaroo sported a white handlebar mustache and his face was as wrinkled and bronzed as tanned alligator hide. I kind of liked him. He wheeled forward a few feet and nodded at us.

  “Thank you, Mr. Breedlaw, for bringing me this detective, and his — girl Friday?”

  “My wife and partner, Tracy,” I said. I stepped forward and shook hands with the old fellow. He clearly made an effort to put a lot of manliness into the gesture, but he was too feeble to manage it. It was like shaking hands with a brook trout.

  “My pleasure,” said Roan, to Tracy. “You’re a charming young woman. And your husband is a famous detective?”

  “Not so famous,” I said. “I try to keep a low profile. What can we do for you, Mr. Roan?”

  He waved an impatient hand. “Call me Prime. My brother’s name was Roundwell. Prime and Round, both steaks.” He laughed in a cackling way. “Welcome to the Twin Roan’s Ranch.”

  “I thought we were on the Carefree Buckaroo Ranch,” I said.

  He waved his hand again. “That is the name of the dude ranch, a mere fragment of the real ranch. My brother and I inherited a good deal of land and cattle, but we were interested in horses. Of course, we started out breeding roans — the name, you know. However, it wasn’t until we’d captured and broken a bay mustang stallion that we found the stud we needed. Magnificent horse! His name was Sparkle, and he sired many a fine riding horse, and more than a few racehorses. He was the foundation of our successful horse ranch. Of course he’s been dead these many years, as has Round, but his descendants still graze and propagate on Twin Roans Ranch.”

  The guy was as well-spoken as a Limey blue blood. I wondered where he’d been sent off to school.

  “Forgive my lack of manners,” the old man continued. “Can I offer you some refreshment? Coffee? Iced tea?”

  “Nothing for me, thanks,” I said.

  “I’m fine,” said Tracy.

  “Well! Sit down, please. Breedlaw, you may return to the dude ranch. I’ll have Sadie drive these people down when we’re finished.”

  Breedlaw bobbed his head and left. Me and Tracy found big wing chairs, upholstered in spotted cowhide, near the fire. Roan swung his wheelchair around and parked it in front of us.

  “About these murders,” I started. I wanted to get right to the point.

  “Excuse me,” said Prime, “there has been only one murder.”

  “How do you figure?” I asked.

  “I’m afraid Brice Holcombe took his own life. He hanged himself.”

  “Are you serious? I understood he was attacked and strangled.”

  “That possibility existed. The sheriff of course had to investigate. Sheriff Fish has been a friend of mine for years. I was friends with his older brother. Let me tell you a thing or two about Brice. Fine man, fine wrangler. He wasn’t yet forty years old, but he’d been thrown by a bronc more than once. He developed arthritis. I have the same affliction, as do many folks my age. However, Brice’s people were prone to a defect of the joints, as I understand it. His own father was a helpless cripple before he reached fifty. Brice could not abide the idea of ending up like his father. He was an outdoorsman and a spectacular horseman. In the last year or so, his arthritis grew quite bad. His days as a wrangler were almost over. He took some sort of pain medicine for his condition. In the end, I think it made him a bit addled. And, so, the other night, he took his horse, Skylark, and a rope, out into the woods. He slung the rope over a tree limb, tied it off to the tree trunk, placed a noose around his neck, mounted his horse, and applied the spurs. Of course, because of the actions of a killer now called Jack the Roper — you’ve heard of him? — Brice’s death was at first considered a murder.”

  “Are you sure about all this?” I asked. “What about the knot in the rope? It wasn’t the kind cowboys use.”

  “Not the kind of knot used for wrangling, but an appropriate one for hanging himself. A note was eventually found among Brice’s affects, in the bunkhouse. It was found by Sheepy. You’ve met Sheepy?”

  “We talked to him this morning,” said Tracy. “He didn’t say anything about your wrangler’s death being a suicide.”

  “He was following my instructions. I wanted this whole matter of Brice’s death cleared up by the sheriff and the coroner before I allowed any announcement to the dudes concerning his tragic end. If Dr. Rumdab hadn’t been murdered last night, Brice’s suicide would have been acknowledged to the dudes this morning.”

  “You mean that’s changed?” asked Tracy.

  “Yes. Look at the situation. We have two apparent murders. We then announce that the first murder was actually a suicide. What do we say next, that Dr. Rumdab took his own life?”

  “Did he?” I asked.

  “Sheriff Fish and the coroner say otherwise. We haven’t yet decided what to tell the dudes. We want you people to trust and believe us. Would any of you now believe that Brice killed himself?”

  “I see what you mean,” I said, “but I think that’s what you better do.”

  “You’re likely right. Anyway, we have now an actual murder on our hands. It wasn’t committed by Jack the Roper. He’s dead.”

  “Does the sheriff know that?” asked Tracy.

  “Yes, ma’am, he does, but he’s keeping it to himself at my request. Out of respect for the Roper’s widow, a fine woman.”

  “Was the Roper really a guy named Ezra Juniper?” I asked.

  Prime raised his white eyebrows. “Yes. Have you been talking to my nephew, William? Perhaps you know him as Panhandle.”

  “I knew him at first as Billy,” I said.

  “Ah, yes.” Prime licked his lips, looked at a fancy watch on his thin wrist. “If you’ll excuse me, it’s time for my medicine.” He rang a little bell on a table by his elbow. In a half a minute, Sadie came into the room.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “It’s time for my medicine.”

  I watched Sadie go over to a rustic sideboard with decanters on it and a pitcher of what I guessed was water. She poured some water into a tumbler, stirred in a teaspoon of sugar, and topped it off with what looked like whiskey. She carried the mixture over to Prime.

  “Thank you, Sadie,” said Prime. “In a few minutes I’ll be wanting you to drive these fine folks back to the dude ranch. Have the car ready.”

  “Yes, sir.�
�� She curtsied and left the room.

  Prime winked at me and Tracy. “Forgive an old man for his vices. There’s nothing like a cold toddy to warm the bones. I’m afraid I had a bad night. The murder, you know.” He took a long drink, his gullet bobbing up and down like a bucking bronco. “Where was I? Oh, yes, Dr. Rumdab. He was struck on the back of the head before being hanged. It was definitely murder. And the killer had apparently heard of Jack the Roper, knew that Brice had died by being strangled with a rope, and chose to imitate the Roper’s methods.”

  “You said that you knew for a fact that Juniper was the Roper,” I said. “How do you know that?”

  “Ezra died of a stroke. On his deathbed he scribbled a note with his left hand. He confessed to his wife that he was the Roper. His widow passed the confession on to me.”

  “So we’re definitely dealing with a new killer.”

  “Yes, and I want you find out who it is.”

  “Tell me about what the sheriff told you about Rumdab’s murder. Any clues?”

  “The doctor was no doubt lured into the woods by his assailant. He was struck on the head by a rock found at the scene. The only footprints found turned out to be Rumdab’s. A lady’s earring was found nearby. A noose was placed around the doctor’s neck and he was strung up on a tree branch. A cigarette end, complete with pink lipstick, was found on the trail. A lady’s handkerchief, heavily scented with perfume, was found in the doctor’s pocket. A perfume called Misty Passion. It’s the same brand Sheriff Fish’s wife uses. That is all I have to tell you.”

  “Betsy, one of our fellow dudes,” said Tracy, “wears pink lipstick. She also wears a lot of perfume.”

  “I think Betsy was set up for the murder,” I said. “The cigarette, the earring, the pink lipstick. I think they were all plants.”

  “The sheriff agrees with you,” said Prime.

  “Did they ever find a note written to Rumdab, asking for a midnight assignation?” I asked.

  “No. I have given you all the clues.”

  “Swell,” I said, but I didn’t really mean it.

  “I want you to find the killer,” said Prime. “I will pay whatever your usual fee is, and a generous bonus if you act quickly. You will of course be reimbursed for the money you paid for the dude ranch experience. All the remaining dudes will be refunded their money.”

  “Could I have you put all this in writing?” I asked.

  “My word should be enough, but, yes, you can have it in writing.”

  He rang for Sadie and he asked her for pen and paper. When she brought them, he set about writing a contract, and a pretty good one. His arthritic hands made it tough for him. Tracy and I both signed the paper.

  “I think we’re finished,” I said. “Do Tracy and I keep pretending we’re dudes, or do we work on this out in the open?”

  “I leave that decision up to you. Spend as much time with your fellow dudes — and the ranch hands — as possible. How else will you find out who committed the murder?”

  “What if it was one of your own employees?” Tracy asked.

  “Then I want them brought to justice.”

  Tracy and I stood up.

  “You have a beautiful home,” Tracy told Prime.

  “Thank you, young lady. You grace it with your presence.” He rang his bell again. Sadie appeared. “Drive our friends back to the dude ranch.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  12

  Sadie led us outside to a foreign-built station wagon about the size of a hearse. I gathered this boat was necessary to store Prime’s wheelchair when he was traveling. I hoped Sadie didn’t have to load that cannon carriage by herself. Tracy and I got into the back seat and Sadie drove us down to the grub house. I noticed the Rumdab’s and Halsey’s flivvers were no longer in the parking lot.

  “Thanks for the lift,” I told Sadie. I almost tipped her.

  “Yes, sir,” she said, and left.

  “Half the dudes are gone,” said Tracy.

  “Yeah, but it looks like the sun’s coming out. We’ll have our hayride after all.”

  “You seem awfully cheerful.”

  “Why not? I’ve got only one murder to solve instead of two. Trying to make a connection between Brice and the doc was giving me fits.”

  We went inside. Sissy Dell and Panhandle were still cleaning up the mess from breakfast.

  “Where’s the rest of the gang?” I asked.

  Panhandle was wiping down tables. He had a cheap-smelling cigar in his mouth. “The other dudes? They’re in their cabins, sulking. We told them the hayride might be off.”

  “The sun’s shining,” I said.

  “Right. So I figure Sheepy will bring the hay wagon over. What fun. Did Uncle Prime spill the beans?”

  “Don’t talk about that, Panhandle,” warned Sissy Dell. She had her ever-present smile on her face, but it looked worn out.

  “It’s OK,” said Panhandle. “Axe here is working for the ranch now.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me about Brice?” I asked Panhandle.

  He shrugged. “That was Uncle Prime’s orders. So, what did you think of the old man?”

  “I think he needs a V8 to power that chair of his. He seemed all right. Where’d he get the snooty education?”

  “Someplace in England. He’s a real cowboy, though. So, have you figured out who knocked off the little doctor?”

  “No, I need a couple of more minutes. Maybe it was you.”

  “I ain’t a killer.”

  “You swipe old lady’s bunnies, steal cars, and likely cheat at horseshoes. Why wouldn’t you be a killer?”

  “I’m telling you, I’m innocent. I didn’t do any of that. Just borrowed Auntie’s car, that’s all. I swear.”

  Tracy was talking to Sissy Dell. I went over and eavesdropped.

  “Dr. Rumdab could be kind of abrasive,” Tracy was saying. “He might have rubbed a few folks the wrong way. Who do you think killed him?”

  Sissy Dell got a frightened look in her blue eyes. “I’m sure I don’t know. Maybe it was a bear.”

  “A bear with a lasso,” I said. “Come on, you’ve got to have some ideas.”

  “I really don’t. It could have been anyone.”

  “Hawk?” I asked, just to stir the pot.

  “No, of course not.”

  “Audra?” asked Tracy.

  “No! None of the buckaroos would have done it.”

  “You saying it was one of us dudes?” I asked.

  “No,” said Sissy Dell. “I’m sure it wasn’t. A stranger. I’ll bet it was a stranger.”

  “Not likely,” I said. “You think the doc might have had a yen for one of the ladies?”

  “Why would he? He had such a pretty, young, wife.”

  “That wouldn’t stop him,” I said. “Were any of the husbands jealous of him?”

  “Not that I noticed. I’ve got to get back to work. Excuse me.” She grabbed a stack of dirty dishes and disappeared into the kitchen.

  Tracy buttonholed Panhandle.

  “Who’s your favorite suspect?” she asked him.

  “Your husband.”

  “Naw, he’s on vacation. He only kills folks when he’s working.”

  “He’s working now. Maybe he bumped off the croaker to drum up business.”

  “Cute,” said Tracy. “You’re a funny guy. You should be on the stage, or maybe on a gallows. What’d you have against the doc?”

  “I didn’t like the way he made eyes at you,” said Panhandle.

  “Cut it out, Panhandle,” I said. “You always seem to be around when nobody wants you. You must have overheard some interesting conversations.”

  He’d finished wiping tables and was leaning on a broom. “I noticed Betsy was making eyes at the doctor, and he didn’t exactly cut her dead. I noticed the doc heckling Walter about his inventions. I seen him laughing at Mabel. The doc didn’t like nobody except Betsy and your wife.”

  “You think Walter lured Rumdab into the woods and strung h
im up?” I asked.

  Panhandle shrugged. “You got a better idea?”

  “Sure. Curt killed him. He was wanting to make time with Betsy but she only had eyes for Rumdab. Or Lilly knocked off her husband because she’d finally had enough of his playing around. Or Audra killed the doc because she was carrying his baby and didn’t want the kid to have such a sourpuss for a dad. Maybe you’ll like this one. Sheepy killed Rumdab because he caught the doc feeding chewing gum to the horses. What do you think?”

  “I think you’re full of crap. I hope you get seasick on the hayride.”

  He took his broom and headed for the kitchen.

  “We got nothing,” Tracy told me.

  “The day is young. Wait until the hayride. We’ll pick up a clue or two.”

  “Or at least some ticks. Where’s that hay wagon anyway?”

  She’d scarcely spoken when we heard the jingling of harness out front.

  “I think it’s here,” I said.

  “It could be Santa.”

  We went out into the parking lot. The big hay wagon had seen better days and had a dry and weathered look like it was made of driftwood. It was being pulled by a brace of brown horses twice normal size. I wondered if the wagon was carrying so much hay just for the horse’s lunch. Sheepy was sitting on the box, the reins in his hands, and Audra was riding shotgun, literally. She held an old double-barreled twelve gauge between her knees. I guess the buckaroos wanted us dudes to feel safe. Audra climbed down off her high chair and ran to fetch Betsy and Walter.

  “Howdy folks!” Sheepy greeted us. He practically shouted with pretend joy.

  “How do we get into this thing?” Tracy asked. “Does it have an elevator?”

  “We got a ladder,” said Sheepy. “Hang on a minute and Audra will show you.”

  The curvy Audra returned with our fellow dudes in tow. Walter and Betsy looked as festive as a funeral. They were both dressed in dark cowboy clothes and their smiles weren’t on their faces.

  “Hi,” said Betsy. She batted her eyelashes at me in a dismal sort of way.