Death in Gold

by John J. McLaglen

  They reopened the top crates. Thursby was slippery enough to have removed some of the stuff and stashed it away somewhere. But everything seemed to be as before.

  The other crates had not been tampered with.

  “Let’s get ’em back on.”

  Coburn bent over and took something in his hand.

  “Jed!”

  His shout was urgent and Herne whirled round fast, Colt coming up as he did so. He saw the statue flying towards him and threw up his left hand at the last moment, catching and holding it at the second attempt

  Coburn was squatting on his thin haunches, laughing loudly and slapping his knee. “Damn me, Jed, you surely did look worried.”

  Herne let his gun fall back into place and looked at the small, heavy statue, weighing it in both hands. “You stupid bastard! We just risked our necks tryin’ to keep this stuff and you go and throw it around.”

  Coburn slapped his leg again and laughed all the more.

  Pretty soon, Herne was laughing along with him.

  Chapter Eleven

  The sun glowed from the mid-morning sky like a ball of slow-burning gold. Molten light reflected down on to the rooftops, turning the white of the still-lingering frost to a warm orange.

  Here, close to the center of New Orleans, the buildings were of brick, the sidewalk paved. Men and women went about their business smartly dressed, ignoring the two men passing through with their battered and dirty wagon. They were well used to trade: it was the foundation of die wealth of their city.

  Herne edged his horse to the side of the street and leant down from the saddle. A man wearing a light grey suit and a dark grey hat looked up at him in surprise.

  “We’re lookin’ for a place called Lacey Street. You know where that is?”

  The man looked away from Herne and stroked his chin thoughtfully. “It seems familiar. In name only. It is not a section of the city that I frequent.”

  “All we want to know is how to get there and make a delivery,” Herne nodded back towards Coburn and the wagon.

  “Well, sir, if you go down here for another two blocks, then left for another three. That will bring you to Canal Street. Left again on Canal Street and proceed right to the end. Lacey Street is thereabouts. At least, as far as I recall it is,”

  Herne went over the directions again, while the man backed slowly away, anxious to be about his business.

  “Thanks, anyway,” Herne finished and moved back to the wagon.

  “Friendly sort, ain’t they,” Whitey observed.

  “Reckon they’re friendly enough if’n you got money to spend. You an’ me, we don’t look like we got too much of nothin’.”

  Coburn shook his head in agreement. “Seems to me that’s the way it’s mostly been.” He looked up at Jed. “Happen after today things’ll be different.”

  “Maybe you’re right. Let’s go and find Toomey and get rid of this stuff an’ get us the rest of our money. I sure ain’t anxious to stick around New Orleans a sight longer than I can help.”

  “That’s right.”

  As they moved their load along the street a small boy wearing a clean blue and white sailor suit stared at them from the sidewalk. He pulled at his mother’s skirts and when she inclined her elegant head towards him his voice was both excited and mystified.

  “Mama! Mama! Who are those two old men with guns? Who are they?”

  “Ssh, Daniel,” said his mother hastily, “they’re nobody.”

  And she hurried him on his way.

  The brick had given way to wood and broken glass. The streets were littered with rubbish and pitted with holes. In the corner of an old wagon that had been upended and abandoned, a mangy black cat licked at some anonymous pool of liquid. The knots of its spine showed clearly through the fur of its arched back.

  From the open doors of warehouse buildings, the stink of routed vegetables and fruit reached out to them and assailed their nostrils. By one of the cracked doors a large, fat rat feasted itself on a pile of decomposing garbage.

  In that part of New Orleans, the rats lived better than the cats.

  “God damn it, Jed I If this ain’t the most stinkin’ hole I ever bin in!”

  “Damned right, Whitey.”

  “I can’t wait to get me out of this rotten city an’ back into some fresh air, somewheres a man can breathe decent Not this festerin’…”

  “There she is,” interrupted Herne.

  The street sign had fallen away and in its place someone had untidily daubed the name in paints: Lacy Street, it read.

  The building they were looking for lay close to the end of the street. Floyd Toomey and Partner, Importers and Exporters. Coburn hauled in the horses and tied the rein ends around the long brake handle. Herne got down from his grey and stood outside, looking at the flaking green paint on doors and walls. It sure didn’t give the same impression that Toomey’s clothes had.

  Coburn pointed upwards: “That there where it says ‘and Partner’, you reckon that meant Thursby?”

  “Could be.”

  “Maybe someone ought to climb up there and put a line through that last part. A thick black line.”

  Herne went to the sagging double doors and pushed at their center. They swung back with a groan, the bottom of one scraping against the stone floor.

  Herne’s own faint shadow fell across the opening.

  “Anyone around?” he called into the space.

  No answer.

  He unbuttoned his coat and pulled the right flap back behind the butt of his gun.

  “Cover me,” he said to Coburn. “I ain’t about to take no chances at this stage.”

  “Right.”

  Herne stepped between the doors and into comparative darkness. Coburn came slowly up behind.

  “Toomey! You there?”

  Nothing.

  Herne took another two steps forward and waited, allowing his eyes to become accustomed to the light. Soon he was able to make out the shape of steps going up to the left of what was a cavernous space. Above him and to the right, there appeared to be a kind of loft which ran along two sides. Opposite, at ground level, there were a few large packing cases randomly stacked. What looked like straw was strewn over the floor by the foot of the stairs. The place stank of disuse…and something worse, something indefinable.

  There was a sudden scampering of movement from the midst of the straw and Herne’s hand went to his gun. Whatever it was scurried across the warehouse and disappeared into the furthest comer.

  The outlines of the place were thickening out. Above the flight of wooden steps, there was a square box-like room, from which a cat-walk led to the loft.

  “It don’t look like anyone’s home,” said Coburn.

  As the last word was uttered both men heard clearly the sound of a rifle being levered ready for action. Coburn ducked back against one side of the door. Herne moved fast to the wall opposite the steps, his body ducked low. They both had their guns drawn and cocked.

  “Whoever it is up there, you better let that rifle alone and get where we can see you,” said Herne clearly and firmly.

  All the two men could see was a shadow at the head of the steps.

  “Why don’t you drop your own weapons and show your asses to the daylight?” replied the shadow.

  Herne made no answer, but kept his Colt trained on the shape above him. Coburn moved stealthily sideways, heading for the steps. The stink of the warehouse seemed worse each time he breathed.

  “You hear what I said?” came the voice. “You drop them guns and get out of here before I blow your damned heads off!”

  From underneath die steps, Coburn could see the man’s legs through a gap between the planking. He raised his pistol slowly.

  “I ain’t foolin’ now. You shrift yourselves or I’ll let you have it where you stand.”

  Coburn’s voice came slow, but it came with an edge like the blade of a well-honed knife. “That ain’t nothin’ to what you’ll get if’n I squeeze down on this t
rigger a mite more. Reckon I’ll blow your balls right off and ruin your digestion all in the same shot.”

  They heard the man gulp, in air.

  “Throw down the rifle!” called Herne. “Now!”

  There was only a second’s hesitation before the weapon rose up from the shadows and landed noisily on the stone floor.

  “Now get yourself down them steps – and keep your hands high where we can both see ‘em.”

  The man who stepped gingerly down towards where Herne and Coburn were waiting was of medium height and build. He had sandy hair and was wearing a patch over his left eye. He could have been any age between thirty and fifty. The good eye blinked at Herne and blinked several times more when he saw Coburn.

  “Who the hell are you? What you want round here anyways?”

  “We’re lookin’ for Toomey.”

  The man shook his head, “Won’t find him here. You’d better try some place else,”

  Coburn moved towards him. “What’s his name doin’ up outside then?”

  “That. Well, he owns the place right enough. Never comes down here, though. Ain’t seen him for weeks, months even.”

  His gnarled hands were pushing and pulling at his belt as though frightened his pants might fall down at any moment.

  Herne nodded in the direction the man had come from. “Anyone else up there?”

  “No. Just me.”

  Coburn took the man’s nose between finger and thumb hand and squeezed it tightly, pressing through to the bone beneath. “You wouldn’t be lyin’ now, would you?”

  The man tried to shake his head from side to side. “Nope. Only me. Work here keepin’ things in order for Mr. Toomey.”

  Coburn sniffed. Don’t seem you work at it hard.”

  “You know where Toomey is?” Herne asked.

  Coburn let go his grip. The impression of his fingers was indented clearly oil the man’s nose. The man nodded.

  “Where?”

  “Got an office near center of the city. Lawyering. That’s what he does. Most the time. This is more like a sideline with him. I can tell you how to get there right enough.”

  He looked at Herne expectantly.

  “That ain’t the way I see it. We’ll wait here while you go and fetch Toomey here.”

  “But I can’t do that, I...”

  He cut himself short, seeing Jed Herne’s expression harden, knowing that Coburn might get hold of him again at any moment.

  “I’ll go get my coat an’...”

  “You get goin’ right now. We don’t want to stay in this stinkin’ hole no longer than we must.”

  The man turned to the doors. At the entrance he swung back. “Suppose Mr. Toomey says he ain’t coming? What then?”

  “Just tell him it’s Jed Herne who’s got some things all the way from Mexico for him. He’ll likely come then.”

  The man nodded and stepped through into the light of the street. They heard the sound of his footsteps shuffling away and then it was quiet again.

  “We sure don’t have to wait in here, do we?” asked Whitey.

  “Don’t see why. ‘Sides, I want to see Toomey as soon as he sees us – if not sooner.”

  It was less than three quarters of an hour before Floyd Toomey arrived at the top end of Lacey Street. He was being driven in a carriage drawn by two black horses whose coats shone in the golden light of the sun. Gold but lacking in warmth.

  The man who had been in the warehouse was driving the rig and two other men rode alongside. They wore guns at their hips and gave every impression of knowing how to use them.

  Herne and Coburn climbed down from the wagon and stood close to the sidewalk, watching for any sign of trouble.

  Toomey smile from his seat and waved a plump hand in their direction. He was as smartly dressed as at their previous meeting – and as fat. Whatever business he got his money from, it surely was treating him handsomely.

  “Gentlemen! Gentlemen!” The voice greeted them loudly as soon as the driver reined the black horses to a halt.

  He beamed down on them as though they were old friends. The men with him said and did nothing, apart from watch the two strangers with a mixture of apprehension and distaste. Without doubt the warehouse guard had told them what had happened earlier.

  Toomey climbed awkwardly down from the rig, his bulk obstructing his progress. He brushed his hands down the front of his blue suit and then offered one to Herne and Coburn in turn.

  They both looked at the large white hand and the inches of laced cuff on the wrist but did not move to shake it.

  “Er, well, well, gentlemen. It is good to clap eyes on you both, nonetheless. On the pair of you and the, er...”

  The eyes looked greedily past Herne and Coburn towards the wagon.

  “This is the shipment, I presume?”

  “Sure,” said Herne. “sure we got it. Just about.”

  His expression took on a look of troubled amazement. “You don’t mean to say that the transaction took place with – er – difficulty?”

  “’Pends what you call difficult.”

  “Well I…”

  Some men had come out of another warehouse higher on the street and were loitering nearby, openly listening to the conversation. Any activity in that run-down part of town attracted more than its fair share of attention.

  “Gentlemen,” said Toomey quickly, “let us step inside where others cannot overhear what we are saying. I have found it serves a man well to keep his affairs as close to his chest as possible.”

  “I’ll just bet you have, thought Herne as he followed the fat man into the warehouse, “I’ll bet you have.”

  “Let’s have some light in here,” said Toomey and one of his men fetched a hurricane lamp from the upstairs room and lit it, hanging the metal handle from a hook set into the loft floor.

  The light spread round the room, casting long shadows on the wall.

  “Now, sir,” said Toomey to Herne, “you were mentioning difficulties.”

  “Seems the Mexicans thought you arranged to give ’em twice what you sent us down there with. We had to shoot our way out.”

  Toomey looked properly bewildered. “Gentlemen – er – I assure you my side of die bargain was fairly kept. The sellers of this merchandise were trying to get more than their agreed due. You have my word on that.”

  Herne nodded, wondering just how much that word was worth. He noted that the stench of the building was now threaded through with the sickly sweet smell of the lawyer’s perfume. How in hell’s name could you trust a man who put stuff like that on his hair and body?

  “That partner of yourn,” said Coburn from the edge of the circle of light, lie still workin’ with you?”

  Toomey didn’t even blink before answering. “Sir, that is one of the strangest things to have happened. Some days ago we were due to meet in my office. Antonio Thursby never showed up. No reason. No excuse. Nobody in New Orleans has seen hide nor hair of him since.”

  He finished the statement with a wide gesture of his hands, rings glinting dully and in strange contrast to the grease and filth now even more evident upon the floor.

  Coburn cleared his throat and spat through the partly open doors. Herne said quietly, “You ain’t about to see nothin’ of him, either.”

  Toomey appeared surprised. “What, sir, you know something of what has happened to the man?”

  Herne thought that one of Toomey’s hired men was starting to get restless, his hands fidgeting at his gun belt. He stared at the man for a moment before answering.

  “Not something. Everything. He’s dead. Bullet in his head.”

  Toomey took half a pace backwards and rested a hand ostentatiously on his spreading stomach.

  “How can you be sure of that, Mr. Herne?”

  Herne allowed his right hand to rest on the butt of his Colt; he did it slowly, clearly. It wasn’t a gesture he wanted any of them to miss.

  “I know ‘cause it was me put the bullet there.”

  T
he interior of the warehouse was suddenly very still. It was as if all six men were holding their breath. The only sound that of a scuffling in the rubbish outside the brightest light. The only sign of what Floyd Toomey might be thinking showing in the nerve that began to twitch underneath one cheek.

  Then that, too, was brought under control.

  Toomey’s voice had lost some of its former resonance. “I am sure, sir, that you had every good reason for taking such an action.”

  “Damn right I did! He tried to pay me off an’ take over the load. I didn’t take to that none. One thing, it wasn’t our agreement. For another, I reckoned as he might be cheatin’ on you.” Herne paused and looked Toomey straight in the fate. “You didn’t send him out to meet us, did you?”

  “No, sir, indeed I did not. This whole aspect of the affair comes as a great surprise to me. A very great surprise.”

  “That’s all right then. ‘Cause it was when he tried to get the stuff from us by force that we killed him – and most of them he had with him.”

  The last speaker was Whitey Coburn, his voice hard and flat, almost as though he were pushing the fat lawyer as far as he could. Urging a reaction. Knowing that if there were to be a showdown then the sooner it came the better.

  But there was nothing.

  Nothing but the foul smell of the building laced with Toomey’s expensive perfume. That and the man himself smiling and saying to the pair of them: “That being the case gentlemen, I am – er – more than grateful that you should have done me such a service. Thursby was obviously more wretched than I had even begun to suspect.”

  He clasped Herne’s shoulders and smiled widely. “When we are working out the bonus we spoke of before, the matter of Antonio Thursby will be taken into account.” He stepped away again and included Coburn in his glance. “Indeed it will.”

  Herne was anxious to take the lawyer at his word and get out as soon as possible. But the fat man insisted that they first examine the merchandise. He instructed two of his men to get the wagon into the warehouse so that it could be unloaded.

  “It will not take us long, gentlemen, after which we shall -er – terminate our little business together. Yes, very satisfactorily, too.”