She laughed and slid her arm into his.
FORTY
Clint unlocked the door to his room and allowed Ingrid to enter ahead of him. He looked both ways in the hall before following her in.
He closed the door and locked it.
“Beautiful room,” she said, turning to face him. “I haven’t been in this hotel before.”
“Yes,” he said, “it’s very nice. What can I do for you, Mrs. Colby? Did your husband send you?”
“Oh no,” she said, walking around, touching tables and chairs, “he has no idea I’m here.”
“Okay.”
She continued to roam about the room, touching things—like the bedpost.
“Mrs. Colby?”
She looked at him, as if he’d drawn her out of some reverie.
“Hmm? Oh, please, call me Ingrid.”
“Do you think that’s wise?”
“Why?” she asked. “Do you think something will happen if we call each other by our first names . . . Clint?”
“I don’t think anything will happen,” Clint said. “It just may not be . . . proper.”
“You’ll find I’m not overly concerned with what’s proper.”
She removed her jacket.
* * *
Downstairs in the dining room, Pike wanted another slice of pie, so Donnelly joined him.
“What do you think that was about?” Donnelly asked.
“An attempt to split us up maybe?” Pike asked.
Donnelly looked around.
“I don’t see any men with guns.”
“Did you see them before they started shooting at you last time?”
“No.”
“Neither did I.” He ate his last chunk of the second piece of rhubarb pie. “Maybe they won’t try anything inside the hotel.”
“Or at least, not in here or the lobby,” Donnelly said. “They might be waiting outside.”
Pike looked toward the front windows.
“But what does Ingrid Colby want with Clint?” Donnelly asked.
“Are you aware of his reputation with women?” Pike asked.
“I heard something about—you don’t think he’d take a married woman to his room . . . for that?”
Pike stared across the table at Donnelly and said, “You’re very young, aren’t you?”
* * *
Ingrid dropped her jacket on a chair. She was wearing a white silk blouse beneath it.
“It’s hot in here,” she said.
“I can open a window—”
“Don’t bother.” She touched the collar of her blouse.
“Ingrid,” Clint said, “what do you want?”
“Just to get to know you a little better.”
“But we don’t know each other at all.”
“Well,” she said, “we can fix that, can’t we?”
Clint was listening for footsteps in the hall. Was she trying to keep him occupied, in preparation for an attack?
“Are you nervous?” she asked. “I thought you had a reputation with the ladies.”
“Not nervous,” he said, “just aware. You might say . . . suspicious.”
“About what?”
“About why a married lady I hardly know would want to come to my room.”
“Really?” she asked. “You can’t imagine the answer?”
“Ingrid—Mrs. Colby—you’re a beautiful woman, there’s no doubt, but this . . . this is beneath you.”
She reacted as if she had been slapped.
“If you think I can be this easily distracted, you’re mistaken.”
Her face suffused with blood and she grabbed her jacket off the chair.
“You’ll regret treating me this way,” she told him.
“Please,” he said, “the woman scorned act is even older than the attempted seduction bit. What were you hoping to gain by this?”
“I fear you’ll never know the answer to that, Mr. Adams,” she said, and stormed from the room.
* * *
Donnelly and Pike were in the lobby when the lady came charging past them and out the front door.
“Apparently that meeting did not go well,” Pike said.
“Let’s see what’s going on,” Donnelly said.
They walked to the door and looked out. Ingrid Colby walked across the street with determined strides and stopped in front of a group of men.
“Uh-oh,” Donnelly said.
“Yes,” Pike said. “Let’s go upstairs.”
* * *
As Clint let them into his room, Pike said, “She went across the street—”
“I know,” he said. “I watched from the window.”
“What happened?” Donnelly asked.
“She tried to seduce me.”
“And failed?” Pike asked.
“Does that surprise you?”
“Well,” Pike said, “Jim West once told me you could find a woman to lie with in a leper colony.”
“I’ll have to have a talk with Jim about that sometime,” Clint said, “but yes, she failed. And I guess she’s not used to that. She got kind of upset.”
“Upset enough to go across the street to a group of men and . . . what?” Donnelly asked.
“My guess is,” Clint said, “she told them to kill me.”
* * *
Ingrid Colby stormed across the street to where her husband’s men were waiting.
“Mrs. Colby—” one of them said.
“Kill them!” she said.
FORTY-ONE
Tom Colby entered the building, his nose assailed by the strong smells of chemicals and ink.
“Sir,” one of his two men said.
“How is he, Pete?” he asked.
“Fine.”
“Are the two of you keeping him happy?”
The other guard, Ben, looked at his boss and said, “We’re letting him have whatever he wants. I don’t know if he’s happy.”
“He kinda wants to go outside,” Pete said.
“You haven’t let him,” Colby said.
“No, sir,” Ben assured him.
“Good.”
Colby approached the third man in the room, who was bent over some bills, inspecting them with a thick lens. His name was Emanuel Ninger. He had arrived in the United States in 1882 from Germany and—as far as Tom Colby was concerned—the man was an artist. His counterfeit bills were almost undetectable.
Ninger, who was just over forty, looked up from his work as Colby approached.
“I should have remained back East with my family,” the man complained. His speech was thick with a German accent.
“Are you unhappy, Herr Ninger?” Colby asked.
“If I wanted to be a prisoner, I could have remained in my own country,” the man complained.
“But sir, you are getting everything you want,” Colby said. “The finest equipment, the best in inks and paper—”
“I would like some fresh air!”
“Ah, Herr Ninger,” Colby said, “that would be much too dangerous for you. Believe me, you are safer right here, doing your work.”
“My work is the only thing keeping me sane,” Ninger said, and went back to it.
Colby returned to his men.
“Make sure he doesn’t go outside.”
“Yessir,” Pete said.
Colby went outside, where he found Denim and Roburt waiting for him with another man.
“Boss, this is Sergeant Mitchell,” Denim said. “He’s our inside man.”
“What’s he doing here?” Colby demanded.
“He’s got something important to tell you,” Roburt said. He looked at the middle-aged policeman. “Tell him.”
“The chief knows about the counterfeiting,” the man said.
“He’s assigned a detective to work with the Secret Service man to find out who’s doing it.”
“The man who was in the hospital?”
“Yessir. And there’s something else.”
“What?”
“The detective—his name’s Donnelly—he’s working with the Gunsmith, too.”
“I met both of them last night,” Colby said. “They came to my home.”
“What for?” Denim asked.
“To ask for my help.”
Denim laughed, but stopped when Colby gave him a dirty look.
“Look, Roburt, you and this fella—”
“Sergeant Mitchell,” Roburt said.
“Get over to the Mayflower Hotel. You’ll find some of our men across the street. Join them and wait.”
“For what?”
“Instructions,” Colby said, “from my wife.”
“From your—”
“Move!”
Roburt jumped, and he and Mitchell scurried away.
“Whataya want me to do, boss?” Denim asked.
“You,” Colby said, “go and get me Crane.”
FORTY-TWO
Clint watched the men across the street from the window, didn’t see anyone he knew.
“Recognize anybody?” he asked Donnelly.
The detective moved to the window, peered out, and then said, “Damn it.”
“What?”
“I know one of them.”
“Who is he?”
Donnelly looked at Clint.
“His name’s Mitchell. He’s a sergeant in my department.”
“The inside man,” Pike said.
“I knew he took money, but this,” Donnelly said, shaking his head.
Pike looked out the window.
“Do you think they’ll wait, or come in?”
“They’ll wait awhile,” Clint said, “but if we don’t come out, they’ll have to come in.”
“We could go out the back,” Pike said.
“That defeats the purpose of this whole thing,” Clint said. “We wanted them to come after us.”
“We did,” Donnelly said, “but that many? I count . . . seven.”
“And we need to keep at least one alive,” Pike said. “To point to Colby.”
“Only legally,” Clint said. “We saw Mrs. Colby walk right up to them. I think it’s pretty clear they work for Colby.”
“What if it’s his wife?” Donnelly asked.
“What?” Pike said.
“What if his wife is behind it all, and Colby doesn’t know anything about it?”
Clint and Pike looked at each other, then looked back at the young detective.
“Naaaaaaw,” they both said, shaking their heads.
Donnelly shrugged and said, “It was just a thought.”
“She’s involved,” Clint said, “but she’s not the one in charge.”
“I agree,” Pike said.
“So what do we do now?” Donnelly asked.
“We settle down,” Clint said, “and we outwait them.”
“I’m not used to waiting,” Donnelly said.
Pike looked at the young man and said, “You better get used to it.”
“Fast,” Clint added.
* * *
Ingrid Colby slammed the front door of the house as she entered. Tom Colby knew this was not a good sign. He was seated on the sofa as she entered, fuming.
“It didn’t go well?”
“I want him dead!” she said.
“He turned you down?”
She glared at him. He let the question go.
“What about the German?” she asked.
“He’s hard at work.”
“I gave the order,” she said.
“Do we have enough men there to carry it out?” Colby asked his lady.
“We should.”
“Well,” he said, “I have a backup plan in place. It should all be over by morning.”
She tore off her jacket and her blouse. Her bare breasts bobbed into sight.
“I want to spend the night fucking,” she said.
Colby loved it when she talked like a whore. And he loved treating her like one even more.
“I think that can be arranged,” he said, coming up off the sofa.
FORTY-THREE
They decided to douse the light in Clint’s room and take turns at the window.
“I’m getting hungry again,” Pike said.
“You’re healing,” Clint said. “But we can’t leave the room. Not just yet.”
“I also wish I had a bigger gun,” Pike added.
“My rifle’s in the corner,” Clint said. “It’s yours to use.”
Pike walked to the corner and picked it up.
“This is better.”
“Can I have that, then?” Donnelly asked, pointing to the New Line in Pike’s belt.
“Sure.” Pike handed it over. That actually gave Donnelly two .32-caliber pistols.
“I wish I had something bigger, too,” he said, “but at least two guns are better than one.”
Clint was at the window at that point, and now he squinted as dusk gave in to nightfall.
“Something’s happening,” he said.
“What?” Pike asked.
He and Donnelly came to the window.
“They’re moving.”
“Still seven of them?” Donnelly asked.
“I think so.”
“How do we play this?” he asked. “You fellas are more used to shoot-outs than I am.”
“That’s Clint’s bailiwick,” Pike said, “not mine.”
They both looked toward Clint.
* * *
Jack Denim took control.
“Four in the front,” he said, “three in the back.”
“What if they climb out a window or something?” one of the men asked.
“The Gunsmith ain’t gonna run,” Denim said. “And the Secret Service man is hurt. You, you, and you are goin’ in the front with me. One of you is gonna cover the lobby while the rest of us go upstairs.” He pointed to the police sergeant, Mitchell, and said, “You take the other two men to the back door and go up the stairway there.”
“We gotta talk,” Mitchell said.
Denim took the policeman’s arm and pulled him aside.
“What is it?”
“I can’t do this, Jack,” Mitchell said. “I’m the law.”
“You ain’t the law right now, Mitchell,” Denim said. “You’re workin’ for Tom Colby, and he’s gonna remember what you do tonight when he becomes mayor.”
“Jack—”
Denim grabbed the man’s arm again, but this time he squeezed hard.
“You better stand up and do this, Mitchell!” he snapped. “This is important.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Mitchell said, “okay, but . . . I don’t wanna be the one to kill Donnelly. I mean . . . he’s a police officer.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Denim said. “I’ll need most of you to focus on the Gunsmith. I’ll take care of Donnelly.”
“What about the Secret Service man?”
“He’s not gonna be a problem,” Denim said. “He’s already got holes in him. Now get into position with your men. In five minutes, we’re going in.”
“Yeah, okay . . .”
Mitchell waved at his two men, and they followed him across the street.
“Get your guns ready,” Denim said to his three. “I want you to shoot anybody you see with a gun, get it?”
They nodded that they understood.
Denim drew his own gun as he and his men crossed the street and entered the hotel.
* * *
“Okay,” Clint said, “they’ll be coming in five minute
s or so.”
“How can you tell that?” Donnelly asked.
“Four of them just went through the front door. The other three ran into the side alley,” Clint explained. “They’ll be going around back. The timing will have to be right for them all to come in at the same time. We’ve got at least five minutes to get into position.”
“Okay,” Donnelly said.
“Pike,” Clint said, “you’re in here. Just stay put and shoot anybody who comes through that door.”
“What if it’s you?” Pike asked.
“It won’t be me,” Clint assured him, “and it won’t be Donnelly.”
“All right.” Pike was used to running investigations, working undercover, but was not very experienced when it came to gunplay.
“And just relax,” Clint said. “Don’t tense up. Edward, come on,” he said, and they went out into the hall.
The same was true of Donnelly. Gunplay had not yet been a big part of his life.
“Go down to the other room and stay there,” Clint said. “Don’t come out until you hear gunshots.”
“Right.”
Donnelly started down the hall, then stopped and turned back.
“Clint?”
“Yeah?”
“Can we do this?” he asked. “I mean, there are seven of them.”
“We can do this, Edward,” Clint said, “but it’s a little late to ask that question, don’t you think?”
“Yeah,” Donnelly said. “I guess you’re right.” He started away and stopped again. “Hey, wait!”
“What?”
“If Pike’s in your room and I’m in the other room,” he asked, “where are you gonna be?”
“I’ll think of someplace.”
FORTY-FOUR
Denim and his men entered the lobby of the hotel. It was dark out, but not late, so there were people there—the desk clerk, some guests, and people going in and out of the dining room. Maybe they should have waited for the dining room to close, but it was too late for that.
“You stay here,” Denim said to one of the men. “Don’t even draw your weapon unless you see somebody running down those stairs. Understand?”
“Yeah, I got it.”
He looked at the other two men and said, “Follow me—and be quiet.”
The Counterfeit Gunsmith Page 11
