“I should have,” Denim said. “But it’s too late now.”
“So you kill him this time.”
“I will,” Denim said. “But you keep watch and see when they change the guard.”
“And what are you gonna do?”
“Don’t worry,” Denim said. “I’ll be back.”
* * *
After Clint left the Lulu Belle, he went back to his hotel, then to the hospital to see Pike. The same policeman was seated by the door, and let him in with a nod.
“Back so soon?” Pike asked.
“Just a couple of questions,” Clint said. “I found out that Aurora Lane owns the Lulu Belle.”
“The woman who warned you?”
“That’s right,” Clint said. “If she owns that place, then she is a big business owner, just like Tom Colby is. Could she be involved?”
“With the counterfeiting?”
“Yes.”
Pike shrugged.
“I suppose she could,” Pike said. “Why? What did you tell her?”
“Nothing,” Clint said. “I did ask her to point out Colby tonight, if he came into the Lulu Belle.”
“There are three men in the Lulu Belle planning to kill you, and you’re going to go there?”
“I’ll have to take care of them,” Clint said, “just so I don’t have to worry about them.”
“Well, good luck.”
“Oh, yeah,” Clint said. “Here.” He took his Colt New Line from the back of his belt and held it out to Pike. “It’s not very big, but it will do the job.”
“Thanks.” Pike put the gun under his pillow.
“I’ll see you tomorrow.” Clint started for the door, then stopped. “Do you know a girl named Izzy? Young? Pretty under a layer of dirt?”
“Izzy?” Pike thought. “No, never heard of her.”
“Okay,” Clint said. “Tomorrow.”
* * *
Roburt saw Clint go into the hospital, but he saw a lot of people go in. He didn’t know him so he didn’t pay any attention to him. He was looking for a policeman in uniform who was coming to change places with the other one. So as Clint came out, he just lit a cigarette and ignored him.
TWENTY
When Clint came out of the hospital room, he saw Detective Donnelly standing there. The man in the uniform looked at Clint and shrugged.
“Mr. Adams,” Donnelly said, “I hear you’ve been visiting our . . . friend.”
“I’m trying to jog my memory,” Clint said. “Also, he doesn’t know anybody in town, so I’m just trying to help him out.”
“I see. Do you think you’d have some time for me?”
“When?”
“Right now,” Donnelly said. “I’ll buy you a slice of pie or something.”
“Coffee and pie sound good.”
Donnelly exchanged a nod with the policeman, then said to Clint, “Let’s go.”
* * *
The detective took Clint to a café around the corner, another place that catered to the medical staff of the hospital.
“Good pie here?” Clint asked as they sat.
“I don’t know,” Donnelly said. “I’ve never had it here before.”
A pretty young waitress came over and gave Donnelly a special smile.
“My friend wants to know if the pie is good here,” Donnelly said to her.
“Pie’s not very good here,” she said, “except for the blueberry.”
“What’s so special about that one?” Donnelly asked.
She smiled at him broadly and said, “It’s my favorite. I just can’t eat it while I’m working ’cause it turns my teeth blue.”
“I think you’d look real cute with blue teeth,” Donnelly said. “Why don’t you bring us two hunks of that blueberry pie, and a pot of coffee.”
“Comin’ right up, handsome.”
She flounced away.
“Never had the pie here?” Clint asked.
“I’ve eaten here once or twice,” Donnelly admitted, “just no pie.”
“So what’s this all about?”
“I’ve got something to tell you,” Donnelly said. “And after I tell you, I’m hoping maybe you’ll confide in me, as well.”
“About what?”
“Just listen first.”
“Okay.”
They waited until the waitress served the two pieces of pie and coffee, and gave Donnelly a little hip bump before she left.
“She was right,” Clint said. “The blueberry is pretty good.”
Donnelly ignored his.
“Okay,” he said, “I know that there are some factions inside my department who are . . . let’s say, not exactly operating under the law.”
“Is that right?”
“Yes, it is.”
“How do you know that?”
“There’s a little bit of a story behind that,” Donnelly said.
“I guess we’ve got time.”
Donnelly picked up his fork and cut off a hunk of pie. He put it in his mouth and chewed.
“Okay,” he said. “Here it is.”
TWENTY-ONE
“When I was a young policeman—five years ago, although it seems a lot longer—I discovered that many of the men I worked with were taking money from . . . outside influences.”
“Influences?”
“Rich men, like Tom Colby,” he said. “And others.”
“But you didn’t take money?”
“No,” Donnelly said, “I did take it, but I did it because it was the only way I could remain a policeman.”
“Why would you want to stay a policeman in that kind of a department?”
“I figured it was the only way I could effect change inside,” Donnelly said, “by staying inside.”
“And have you been able to?”
“No,” Donnelly said, “and now a lot of the older men I looked up to ascended into power. Even the chief of police is . . . crooked.”
“Why are you telling me this?” Clint asked. “Do you want me to help you clean up your department?”
“No, that’s not it,” Donnelly said. “See, I think that man in the hospital is a Secret Service agent. I think my chief knows he is, and passed that information on. That’s why he was shot.”
“And if he’s a Secret Service agent,” Clint asked, “why is he here?”
“The word inside my department is that there’s a counterfeiter at work,” Donnelly said. “Only they’re not doing anything to find him.”
“Why not?”
“Why else?” Donnelly asked. “They’re all getting their piece . . . of the pie.”
“And you?”
“Not a cent,” Donnelly said. “Not since I was made detective two years ago.”
“But?”
“But I’ve been doing my job, and not getting in anyone’s way . . . until now.”
“Why now?”
“Because if that man is a Secret Service agent, then this is the government we’re talking about. I’m not going to take sides against my own country.”
“And what do you want from me?”
“The truth,” Donnelly said.
“And if I told you that Jones really is a government man?” Clint asked. “Then what?”
“I could help him,” Donnelly said, “work with him, and you.”
“Hey,” Clint said, “I only came to Saint Louis to relax, play some poker. I’m not involved in anything more than that.”
“Maybe you weren’t,” Donnelly said, “but he asked for you. My guess is he recruited you.”
Clint didn’t reply. He ate the last bite of his pie, and sat back.
“I’m not asking you to tell me anything now,” Donnelly said. “Think about it. Maybe talk it over with . . . whoever.”
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“I’ll think about what you’ve said, Detective.”
“I think you’ll make the right decision, Mr. Adams,” Donnelly said, “so you better start calling me Edward.”
“Well, Edward,” Clint said, standing, “I’ll be in touch.”
“I’m going to stay here a few more minutes,” Donnelly said.
Clint looked over at the waitress, who was standing off to the side watching Donnelly.
“Good luck,” Clint said, and left.
* * *
Clint stopped briefly outside the café, then continued walking. He had the feeling somebody was watching him, but as he walked away, he realized they were not watching him, they were watching the café.
Or maybe they were watching Detective Edward Donnelly.
* * *
“There goes Adams,” one of the watchers said.
“Let’s wait until he gets good and far away,” the other man said.
“What if Donnelly comes right out?”
“He won’t,” the other man said. “He’s sweet on a waitress inside.”
“I wish we didn’t have to do this,” the first man said.
“Look, we got our orders,” the other man said. “Let’s just get it done.”
They took out their guns and waited.
* * *
In front of the hospital, Cole Roburt was looking around, waiting for Denim to return. Another uniformed policeman had gone inside, and the first one had come out. He had seen others go in and out, but when Donnelly and Clint came out, Roburt didn’t know either one of them.
* * *
Clint went around the corner, then stopped. He pressed his back against the wall and peered back around the corner. There were definitely two men across the street from the café. He had the feeling that Edward Donnelly was going to come walking out straight into an ambush.
TWENTY-TWO
Donnelly talked with the waitress for a few minutes, until she agreed to see him again later that night. He promised to come back at 8 p.m., when she’d finished work.
She smiled and waved at him, and he headed for the door.
* * *
The two men across the street saw him appear in the doorway.
“Now,” the first man said.
“Why don’t we wait ’til he comes—”
“Now, now!” the other man yelled.
“Wait—” the second man said, and that moment’s hesitation cost them.
* * *
Clint came around the corner on the run toward the café. He saw the two men across the street shouting at each other, and knew he had a chance.
He pulled his gun and began firing . . .
* * *
Donnelly came out the front door, and before he knew it, lead was flying and Clint Adams was running down the street toward him.
And then the plate glass windows on either side of him shattered.
* * *
Clint’s shots were pinpoint in their accuracy.
The bullets from his gun struck both men as they fired, and their shots went wild. He heard the glass shattering as he started across the street.
And then it got quiet . . .
* * *
Roburt didn’t know what to do.
He heard the shots from around the corner, the commotion, didn’t know what the hell was happening, and so he did the only thing he could think of.
He ran.
* * *
When Clint reached the other side of the street, the two gunmen were dead. He kicked their guns away, just to be sure.
He heard someone behind him, turned, and saw Donnelly running toward him with his gun out.
“What the hell—” Donnelly said.
“It was an ambush,” Clint said.
“For me?”
“Well,” Clint said, “they let me walk down the block without a shot.”
“You saw them when you came out?”
“I did,” Clint said, “and once I knew they weren’t here for me . . .”
“You saved my life,” Donnelly said.
“Do you know them?” Clint asked.
“Let’s turn them over.”
Both men were lying facedown. Clint turned one and Donnelly turned the other one.
“Shit!” he said.
“What?” Clint asked. “Do you know them?”
“They’re both police,” Donnelly said. “They’re both from my department.” He looked at Clint. “Why would they try to kill me in broad daylight?”
“Somebody’s worried about you, Edward,” Clint said. “Could your chief have sent them?”
“I suppose . . .” Donnelly was looking lost.
And then there was a scream from across the street.
“Now what?” Donnelly said.
They both ran back across the street to the café. The interior was strewn with broken glass, and in the center, somebody was lying on the floor.
“Aw damn . . .” Donnelly said.
It was the waitress. A bullet had caught her in the forehead, and her body had been further cut up by the flying glass. Some other customers were bleeding from cuts, as well. A doctor and two nurses were there from the hospital, and they were tending to the injured.
The doctor looked up at Clint and said, “We’ve sent for some proper equipment so we can treat them, but there was nothing we could do for her.”
Clint nodded, looked over to where Donnelly was crouching by the dead girl.
“Her name was Lucy,” he said.
Clint put his hand on the young man’s shoulder.
“Come on, Edward,” he said. “We have to go.”
“Wha—”
“There’s going to be more police here,” Clint said, “and we don’t know what they’ll do when they get here.”
“You mean—”
“You don’t know who you can trust.”
Donnelly stood up, glassy-eyed, and looked at Clint.
“Can I trust you, Mr. Adams?”
“Son,” Clint said, “I have the feeling that right now, in this city, I’m the only one you can trust.”
TWENTY-THREE
Clint pushed Donnelly along the street, the young man still slightly dazed.
“I’ve—I’ve never been shot at before,” he confessed.
“You never get used to it,” Clint told him.
“That poor girl.”
“That’s not your fault.”
After leaving the café, Clint had run back across the street and gone through the pockets of the dead men. There was nothing there to indicate who might have sent them after Donnelly.
“Where—where are we going?” Donnelly asked.
“The hospital,” Clint said.
“Why?”
“We’ve got to get Pi—Jones out of there before somebody tries to kill him.”
“But . . . why—wha—”
“We can’t think about that now,” Clint said. “We just have to get you and Jones somewhere safe, so we can think.”
“I can go back to Headquarters—”
“Not a good idea, son,” Clint said. “If they tried to kill you in public like this, what do you think would stop them from killing you inside that building?”
“B-But . . . not all of them are—are crooked.”
“The problem is,” Clint said, “we don’t know which is which. Until we can figure that out, you have to stay away from the police.”
“B-But . . . I am the police.”
“Maybe not so much anymore,” Clint said.
* * *
When they reached the hospital, Clint checked out the street, didn’t see anyone watching the building. He shoved the young detective up the steps to the front door and inside.
“What about the man on the d
oor?” he asked as they went to the second floor.
“We’ll have to see if he tries to stop us,” Clint said.
“We—we can’t kill him.”
“Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it,” Clint suggested.
They reached the second floor and made their way down the hall. The policeman seated by the door looked up at them and just smiled. It was the same man Clint had given the sandwich to.
“What’s going on, Detective?” he asked.
“We’re just going to take Jones out for a meeting,” Clint told him.
“Should I come along?”
“No,” Clint said, “just stay here and watch the room. Make sure nobody goes in to hide there. We don’t want to find a man with a gun in there when we get back.”
“Okay.”
They went into the room.
“Wha—” Pike started.
“Edward Donnelly,” Clint said, “meet Jeremy Pike.”
“Clint,” Pike said, alarmed, “what are you do—”
“Two policemen just tried to kill Detective Donnelly,” Clint said. “I’m thinking they might come for you next.”
“Yes, but . . . my cover—”
“I think we three are in a position to trust each other, and nobody else,” Clint said. “Donnelly suspected that you were a Secret Service agent, says he thinks somebody in his department gave him away.”
“What can we—”
“Pike,” Clint said, “we have to get you out of here. Where are your clothes?”
“In that closet.”
“Get out of bed!” Clint ordered.
Pike got himself upright while Clint tossed his clothes onto the bed. Donnelly stood in the corner, still looking dazed.
“What’s wrong with him?”
“He’s never been shot at before,” Clint said. “Plus, an innocent girl, a waitress, caught a stray bullet.”
“Dead?” Pike asked while dressing.
“Yes.”
The Secret Service man winced as he put his arm into his shirt, then buttoned it. He pulled on his trousers, then his suit jacket. When it came time to pull on his boots, he looked at Clint.
“I’m going to need help.”
“Sit on the bed.”
The Counterfeit Gunsmith Page 6
