He stared at her.
“You mean this other thing you can’t tell me about?” she asked. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Clint.”
“That’s good, Aurora,” he said. “That’s very good. Because I wouldn’t want Colby to know I’m coming for him.”
“Well,” she said, “he’s not going to hear it from me.”
He hoped she was telling the truth.
* * *
When Clint got back to the flophouse hotel, he found Pike and Donnelly sitting quietly, one on a rickety chair, the other on the bed.
“We can’t stay here,” Donnelly said. “It’s too small and it stinks.”
“I forgot how much it stinks,” Pike said, “but after being in the hospital, where it smelled clean, this is pretty bad.”
“Okay,” Clint said, “I suppose we can move the two of you to my hotel. I’ll smuggle you in the back door.”
“Good,” Donnelly said, and both men stood up.
“Gather your things, Pike,” Clint said.
“I don’t have much,” Pike said.
“Don’t forget those bills.”
“Right.”
“What bills?” Donnelly asked.
“Might as well show him,” Clint said.
Pike pulled out the drawer and showed Detective Donnelly the funny-money hundred-dollar bills.
“Counterfeit?” Donnelly asked, picking one up.
“Yes.”
He held the bill up to the lamp on the wall.
“It’s a good job,” Donnelly said, “except for this green line.”
“You’ve got a good eye,” Pike said as Donnelly handed the bill back.
“Only hundreds?” Donnelly asked.
“No, whoever it is, he’s also doing fifties.”
“Do you know who’s making them?”
“We have an idea who’s passing them,” Pike said.
“And maybe who’s backing the play,” Clint said.
“But not exactly who’s making them.”
“Who’s the backer?” Donnelly asked.
“Looks like Tom Colby,” Pike said.
“You got proof?”
“Not yet,” Pike said. “I was working on that when I got attacked.”
“I see.”
“Ready?” Clint asked.
Pike held up a small carpetbag and said, “I’m ready. Let’s get out of here.”
THIRTY-TWO
Tom Colby came down the next morning and found breakfast on the dining room table. The cook, Mrs. Preston, was puttering around the kitchen. His wife, Ingrid, was seated at the table, drinking tea.
“Good morning,” he said.
“Morning. Who was that at the door last night?” Ingrid asked. “I was asleep by the time you came back up.”
He sat down, and Mrs. Preston appeared with a cup and a pot of coffee. She filled the cup and returned to the kitchen. Colby and his wife both had bacon and eggs in front of them.
“It was Denim and Roburt.”
“Did they do the job?”
“They did not.”
“My my,” she said, buttering a piece of toast. “You didn’t, uh—”
“Kill them? No, I didn’t,” he said, “but I still may have it done.”
“What happened?”
“They lost the Secret Service man.”
“But . . . he was in the hospital.”
“That’s right,” he said, “he was, but apparently he’s not anymore.”
“Good God,” she said, “what are you going to do?”
“Find him,” Colby said. “I’m going to find him right after breakfast.”
He picked up his fork, and they stopped talking.
* * *
Clint woke the next morning to the sound of snoring. Because Pike was injured, he had given the man his bed. He and Donnelly were sleeping on the floor, at opposite ends of the room.
He sat up and squinted at the sunlight coming in the window.
“I need food,” Donnelly said.
“Didn’t you fellas eat last night?”
“Yes,” Donnelly said, “but that was last night. I need some food this morning.”
“Well, let’s see what we can do about that.”
They both stood up and looked over at Pike. All the activity last night seemed to have taken a lot out of him. His pallor was bad, and he was sleeping soundly.
“We could go down to the dining room,” Clint said, “and bring something back for him. Will anyone there recognize you?”
“I’m not well known, Mr. Adams,” Donnelly said. “Unless a policeman walks in, I should be okay. Besides, if I’m correct, people will be looking at you, won’t they?”
“That’s true.”
“Then let’s go.”
They eased out of the room without waking Pike.
* * *
Despite his rumpled clothes—which he had slept in—Donnelly was able to go unnoticed in the dining room. Clint got them a small table off to one side, and they each ordered steak and eggs.
“See anybody you know?” Clint asked.
“No,” Donnelly said, “but I can’t afford to eat here, and most of the men I know can’t either.”
“What about your chief?”
“He might be the only one.”
“You got any thoughts about what to do today?”
“I was thinking of talking to my chief,” he said. “I know what you said yesterday, but I don’t really think they’d kill me right in the building.”
“You might be right.”
“By now, whoever sent those two after me knows they missed,” Donnelly said. “I’d like to see the chief’s face when I walk into his office.”
“That sounds like it might be a good idea,” Clint said, “but how about if I go with you?”
“Oh, they definitely wouldn’t kill me in front of you.”
“I think you’re right.”
“Unless . . .”
“Unless what?”
Donnelly shrugged and said, “Unless they kill you, too.”
Clint put a hunk of steak in his mouth and chewed with gusto.
THIRTY-THREE
Clint and Donnelly decided to play it brazenly. The young detective insisted he’d be able to tell if the chief had sent the two men to kill him just by his reaction.
“Are you sure?” Clint asked.
“His face hides nothing,” Donnelly said. “He’d make a terrible poker player.”
Donnelly’s comment reminded Clint of his poker game at the Blue Owl. He wondered if Jack Denim was still playing. That should probably be the next stop for him and Donnelly. Grab Denim and squeeze something out of him. And then Tom Colby.
It promised to be a busy day.
* * *
They brought some food back for Pike, who was awake, and they told him the plan while he ate.
“I should go with you,” Pike said. “You could be walking into a den of vipers.”
“We could be,” Donnelly said, “but I know there are still a lot of honest men in the department.”
“Well,” Pike said, “I hope for your sakes, you’re right.”
* * *
When Clint and Donnelly reached the front steps of Police Headquarters, several policemen were coming down toward them. They all nodded to Donnelly, who returned the nod.
“See what I mean?” he asked.
“No hint of surprise.”
“Honest men.”
They went up the steps and entered the building. There was a different man behind the desk than the last time Clint was there, but this one also had three stripes.
“Hey, Sarge,” Donnelly said.
“Donnelly,” the man said. “Where the hell have you
been? The chief’s been lookin’ for you.”
“Well, that’s good, because I’m here to see him.”
“Who’s this?” the man asked.
“He’s with me,” Donnelly said.
“Hey, wait—” the sergeant started, but Donnelly hurriedly moved past the desk with Clint in tow.
“Let’s go straight to his office,” Donnelly said. “I don’t want to give anybody a chance to tell him I’m here.”
“I’m with you.”
They went down a hallway and Donnelly finally stopped in front of a door.
“Ready?” Donnelly asked Clint.
“As long as he doesn’t start shooting as soon as he sees you,” Clint said.
“He may be taking money,” Donnelly said, “and he may be involved with the counterfeiters, but I don’t think he’s a killer.”
He reached for the doorknob, turned it, and shoved the door open. A florid-faced man looked up, and his face got even redder.
“Donnelly! Goddamnit, don’t you knock?”
“I was told you wanted to see me right away, Chief.”
“I do,” the chief said. “Who’s this?”
“Chief, meet Clint Adams.”
“The Gunsmith?” the chief asked. “What the hell are you doin’ in Saint Louis?”
“I was playing poker,” Clint said.
“And?”
“The man in the hospital asked for him, Chief,” Donnelly said. “So I found him.”
“The man in the hospital is gone!” the chief snapped. “And two of our men were shot right around the corner from the hospital.”
“We know about that, Chief.”
“You know?” the chief asked. “What the hell are you talkin’ about, you know? And where’ve you been anyway? You never came back here last night.”
“We know,” Donnelly said, “because we shot them.”
“You mean—” the chief started, then stopped. He frowned, seemed to give the matter some thought, then said, “Maybe you better tell me what the hell you’re talkin’ about, from the beginning.”
“Can we sit?” Donnelly asked. “This may take a while . . .”
THIRTY-FOUR
Clint remained silent, allowed Donnelly to tell the chief whatever he felt entitled to. In Clint’s opinion, the chief didn’t know anything about the two dead policemen trying to kill Donnelly. In fact, the man’s face grew more and more perplexed as Donnelly spoke. Clint felt the young detective was right; this man would have made a lousy poker player.
When Donnelly had finished talking, the chief sat back in his chair and took the time to light a cigar.
“That is the craziest story I’ve heard in a long time,” the chief finally said.
“Well, it’s true,” Donnelly said.
The chief looked at Clint. The air was now almost blue with cigar smoke.
“And you corroborate this story, Mr. Adams?” the man asked.
“I do.”
The chief frowned.
“Shut that door!” he said to Donnelly.
Donnelly stood up and closed the door, wondering if the chief would have shot him in the back if Clint hadn’t been there. No, he was sure his boss didn’t know anything about the attempt on his life. That much he felt sure of.
He turned and sat back down.
“The two dead men were named Linwood and Downing. They worked as partners on foot patrol. I know they had their hands out to the merchants, but that kind of thing doesn’t bother me.”
“It doesn’t?” Clint asked.
“Not in the larger scheme of things,” the chief said. “See, I know there’s a counterfeiter at work in town, and I know he’s got somebody in my department.”
“Who?” Donnelly asked.
“That, I don’t know,” the chief said, “but I’m guessing he’s the one who sent Linwood and Downing after you.” He looked at Clint. “It’s too bad we can’t ask one of them.”
“Yes,” Clint said, “too bad.”
“Who do you have working on it?” Donnelly asked.
“As of today,” the chief said, “I have you.”
“Me? I mean, who’s been working on it up to now?”
“Up to now,” the chief said, “I haven’t known who I can trust.”
“And now you can trust me?”
“Well,” the chief said, “somebody did try to kill you. You must be getting too close.”
“To what?”
“The counterfeiters.”
“If I am, I don’t know it.”
“You know the fella who was in the hospital is Secret Service. Work with him.”
“He’s in no condition to work on anything,” Donnelly said.
“How do you know that?”
“Well . . . he was shot.”
“And you know where he is?”
Donnelly didn’t answer.
“Okay, forget that,” the chief said, and pointed at Clint. “Work with him, then.”
“I’m not a policeman,” Clint said, “or a Secret Service man.”
“But you’re here with Donnelly,” the chief said, “so you must be involved.”
“Must I?”
“Look,” the chief said, “this has been very frustrating for me, and now I see a way out.”
“Me?” Donnelly said.
“You’re a good detective,” the chief said, “and you’re the Gunsmith.” As if that explained it all.
“Well,” Clint said, “we do have some ideas.”
“Don’t tell me!” the chief said quickly.
“Why not?” Donnelly asked.
“If what you know gets out to the wrong people, I don’t want you thinking they heard it from me. Got it?”
“I’ve got it,” Donnelly said.
“Look,” the chief said, “you’re off the clock for this. You don’t have any regular duties. Just work on this one case.” The chief looked pleased with himself. “I’ve been waiting for the chance to say that to somebody.”
“What’s happening with the two dead men?” Clint asked. “I mean, how are you explaining that?”
“Right now they’re at the undertaker’s,” the man said. “I’ve got another detective working on it.”
“Who?” Donnelly asked.
“Callahan.”
“He’s stupid.”
“I know,” the chief said, “but I had the feeling I didn’t want that case solved too quickly. Now I know why.”
“So then, I’m not . . . in trouble.”
“No,” the chief said, “but you will be if you don’t catch me a counterfeiter—and the traitor in my department.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“I know you will, son,” the chief said. “There’s a promotion in it for you.”
“What’s in it for me?” Clint asked.
The chief looked at him and said, “Satisfaction.”
* * *
When they got outside the building, they stopped at the base of the steps.
“What did you think of that?” Donnelly asked.
“I think you were right about him,” Clint said. “He’d make a terrible poker player, but maybe he’s a good chief of police.”
“What makes you say that?”
“He recognizes that you’re a good detective, doesn’t he?”
“Well, yeah.”
“And are you?” Clint asked. “A good detective, I mean.”
“I am.”
“Okay, then,” Clint said, “let’s prove it.”
“How?”
“I know where to find one of the men who shot Pike,” Clint said. “We can start with him. If he’ll tell us who he’s working for . . .”
“That would definitely be a step in the right direction.”
“And failing that, we can just go and talk to Colby.”
“They say he might be the next mayor.”
“Well,” Clint said, “not if he turns out to be a counterfeiter.”
THIRTY-FIVE
As they entered the Blue Owl Saloon, Clint saw Crane the gambler at the poker table, with three new faces. No sign of Jack Denim.
“Damn,” he said, “he’s not here.”
“Well, where is he?”
“I don’t know,” Clint said. “Let’s get a beer, and then I’ll ask.”
They went to the bar and ordered two beers.
“Haven’t seen you lately,” the bartender said.
“I’ve been busy,” Clint said. “Have you seen Jack Denim around?”
“Not for a while,” the bar dog said. “Crane’s had to find himself some new blood.”
“Still winning?”
“Oh, yeah,” the bartender said. “That hasn’t changed.”
Clint heard a chair scrape on the floor and looked over to see Crane standing up. He came walking over.
“Buy you a beer?” Clint asked.
“Sure,” Crane said. “Where’ve you been?”
“I got caught up in something.” The bartender handed the gambler a beer. “Have you seen Denim around?”
“No,” Crane said. “He hasn’t been back to the game either. Who’s this?”
“This is Detective Edward Donnelly of the Saint Louis Police Department,” Clint said.
“The police?” Crane said. “Are you under arrest?”
“No,” Clint said, “we’re working together.”
“Doing what?”
“Right now,” Clint said, “looking for Jack Denim.”
“Well,” Crane said, “he hasn’t been around.”
Clint exchanged a glance with Donnelly.
“Thanks for the beer,” Crane said, and carried it back to the table.
“Colby next?” Donnelly said.
“Let’s go and see Pike first,” Clint said. “Maybe he’s got some ideas.”
“Sure, why not? This all started out as his assignment anyway.”
They finished their beers, put down their mugs, and left the Blue Owl.
* * *
After Clint and Donnelly left the saloon, Henry Crane tossed his hand down and said, “Deal me out, boys. I got something to do.”
The Counterfeit Gunsmith Page 9
