by J. T. Edson
“What if they hadn’t been in the drawer?” Tragg inquired, although he conceded that there was nothing improbable about the theory.
“Then she’d likely’ve decided that itty-bitty lock didn’t look strong enough to guard her valuables and would the marshal put them in his big old iron safe?” Waco deduced, then darted a challenging glare at the Kid. “And, afore this smart-assed yahoo says it, she didn’t need to walk in knitting one sock. But there wouldn’t look to be anything unusual, or suspicious, about a woman taking a knitting needle—not even two—out of her handbag when she was looking for something in it.”8
“That makes sense to me,” Tragg declared and there was a muted rumble of agreement from the other men, in which even the Kid joined. “You’d make a pretty fair lawman, young feller.”
“I tried it one time and didn’t take to it, there’s too much walking,” Waco replied, embarrassed by the response his theory had evoked. “So I’m staying clear from now on.”9
“Hey though,” the Kid drawled, knowing his young amigo well enough to decide a change of subject would not be unwelcome. “Seeing you’re doing all this fancy figuring, how about telling us what this gal of Beguinage’s looks like?”
“If she features you she’d be an ugly—!” Waco began.
“Which means you don’t have a notion,” the Kid scoffed. “How about you, Dusty?”
“The feller at the saloon allowed she was a foreigner of some sort, but couldn’t guess which country she hailed from except it didn’t seem like she was Spanish or Italian,” the small Texan replied. “Said she’d mousey brown hair and was a mite prettier than he usually got to work for him. But, having seen the rest of his girls, that doesn’t necessarily mean she’s out and out beautiful.”
“How about her height and build?” Tragg inquired, realizing that in a port like Corpus Christie the fact that the woman might be a foreigner would only be of minimal assistance in locating her unless there was more information.
“About average and nothing special either way,” Dusty answered.
“Now that’s going to make finding her a whole heap easier,” the Kid said sardonically. “I get the feeling good ole Beguinage didn’t want to help us any too much.”
Before the matter could be discussed further, there was a knock on the door. It was opened at once and Senator Blaby came in followed by a thickset, crop-haired man of Teutonic appearance. Although it had been announced that the reception would be informal because of the prevailing conditions, both wore the correct formal evening attire. It was clear from their expressions that something was wrong. Furthermore, despite knowing that the Governor had wanted to keep the meeting in the study from the other guests’ attention, in their haste neither of them thought to close the door behind them.
“I’m sorry to burst in like this, gentlemen,” announced Blaby, whose cadaverous face and gaunt build seemed better suited to an undertaker than a politician. “But this is urgent!”
“It’s my nephews, Colonel Liebenfrau,” the second man went on, his accent that of a well-educated Texan for all of his Germanic cast of features. He was Ludwig von Farlenheim, a successful Brownsville businessman, who had played a prominent part in arranging for Crown Prince Rudloph’s visit. “They’ve had a quarrel and it ended with Fritz challenging Alex to a duel.”
“I’ll come straight away!” the Personal Attendant barked, almost springing to his feet and advancing with purposeful steps.
“And me!” Tragg declared, having no need for the suggestive glance directed his way by the Governor. “Duelling’s against the law in the United States, Colonel. So I’m not having any of it in my bailiwick.”
“We may as well go out and join the other guests, gentlemen,” Howard suggested, watching the four men passing through a small knot of people who had been looking into the study. “Or do you want to stay out of sight, Captain Fog?”
“There’s no point in doing it now I’ve been seen,” Dusty answered, having noticed that Charlene, Comtesse de Petain was at the forefront of the group and eyeing him in a speculative fashion. “So I may as well go out and see what’s doing.”
“If you meet anybody you know,” the Governor remarked, standing up, “they might think it’s odd that you’ve changed the color of your hair.”
“Likely they will,” the small Texan conceded, with just a suggestion of asperity. “But it’ll make a whole lot more talk should word get out that I’ve arrived and didn’t go to be introduced to the Crown Prince. We’ll make out I’ve just come in from the OD Connected and I had a message for you from Uncle Devil. So, when I heard you were in the study, I came straight there instead of to the ballroom.”
“He’s sneaky enough to be able to think up a real smart lie for why his hair’s gone black all of a sudden, too,” the Kid informed the shipowner, soberly and holding his voice at exactly the right pitch to sound as if he was imparting confidential information for the other’s ears only, yet making sure that the subject of the comment—who was walking toward the door with Howard—also heard. “Ain’t he, Waco?”
“No sir, he’s not!” the youngster asserted, adopting a self-righteous tone. “As a true and loyal hand’s don’t take kind to riding the blister end of a shovel ’cause I’ve riled up my generous ’n’ good-hearted boss, I have to state right out that he isn’t sneaky enough to tell a real smart lie about anything.”
“I don’t suppose you-all need a couple of hands for one of your boats, do you?” Dusty inquired, pausing and looking over his shoulder.
“Those two?” replied the shipowner, to whom the question was directed, falling into the spirit of the exchange. “I’d sooner sink my ships.”
“Blast!” Dusty groaned, resuming his interrupted departure. “I was hoping to do the spread a favor and get rid of them.”
“Why, Captain Fog,” Charlene greeted, as the small Texan left the study. She had let the Governor go by so that she could speak with him. “I see you haven’t done anything about your hair.”
“No, ma’am,” Dusty replied, watching Liebenfrau and the sheriff going through a door at the other side of the ballroom. Then he returned his gaze to the Comtesse. She was wearing a pale green ball gown which left little to be imagined about the rich contours of her figure and her bearing was regal. “I found that this double-dam—awful dye just wouldn’t wash away like I was promised. So I came along hoping nobody would notice I’m not a blond any more.” He paused as he glanced at the buffet table, then ejaculated, “Whooee! Man oh man! Who-all’s that right pretty lil gal talking to Mark?”
“An English wom—lady—who has attached her—been invited to come to the United States with Rud—His Highness,” Charlene answered and her antipathy would have been obvious even to a person less perceptive than the small Texan.
“So that’s her, huh?” Dusty drawled, showing nothing to suggest he had already had the Lady pointed out to him and shared his companions’ misgivings where she was concerned. “Old Liebenfrau’s not too taken with the notion, but I can see why the Prince has asked her to go on the hunt with us.
“Asked her?” the Comtesse repeated, glaring viciously at the blond and clearly far from pleased by the prospect. Then she shrugged and went on, “I shouldn’t think she accepted. These Englishwomen don’t do anything so strenuous as that.”
“So I’ve always heard,” Dusty drawled, thinking of the strenuous activities in which he had known one Englishwoman to indulge. “Excuse me, ma’am. I’d best go over and present myself to Her Ladyship. I know a couple of folks from England and I reckon she might too.”
A scowl flickered across Charlene’s face as the small Texan walked away. She had hoped to persuade the Crown Prince to include her in the party, the assassination plot required that she should go on it. Wondering if Dusty might have been misinformed, she decided to follow him and make a closer acquaintance with the blonde. Her intentions were frustrated by the Kid and Waco. Guessing what their amigo was going to do, they were determined that
nothing would stop him. So they converged upon the Comtesse and introduced her to the shipowner, employing such formality that it was impossible for her to walk away immediately without giving offense.
Chapter 11
I KNOW WHO YOU’RE NOT
“LADY WINIFRED, ALLOW ME TO PRESENT MY amigo, Captain Dusty Fog,” Mark Counter said, as the small Texan strolled up. “Dusty, this is Lady Winifred Amelia Besgrove-Woodstole.”
“My pleasure, ma’am,” Dusty drawled, deciding that he was addressing one of the two most beautiful women in the room and conceding that, even though he had grave doubts about her, she had a far greater appeal to his aesthetic tastes than Charlene, Comtesse de Petain.
“Enchanted,” the Lady replied and, in spite of her warm, friendly smile, there was a wary glint in her eyes. “This is a pleasure, Captain Fog. I’ve heard so much about you.”
Mark had arrived with Major the Baron von Goeringwald, Captain Fritz von Farlenheim and their men, while the examination of Hoffmeyer’s body was being carried out, having been directed to the scene by the Lady’s maid. At the blond giant’s suggestion, the First Taster and an orderly had remained with the body. Waco had been sent to inform the town marshal of what had happened, obtaining a similar reply to that given to the bell boy from the Portside Hotel, while the rest of the party continued to their destination.
In the absence of instructions to the contrary, the Lady’s baggage had been delivered from the U.S.S. Nantucket on its arrival along with that of Crown Prince Rudloph and his retinue. Despite already having Governor Stanton Howard, some of his staff and the Comtesse as guests at the mansion, Mrs. Blaby had shown no hesitation over providing accommodation for the beautiful young Englishwoman. Not only had she considered it a considerable boost socially to have yet another member of the European aristocracy on the premises, she found that she would have the services of a second trained maid to help at the reception.
Having learned from Florence Drakefield that she had a rival for the royal visitor’s favors, the Lady had made her preparations for attending the reception accordingly. The maid had shown how speedily a servant could obtain information. Not only had she heard something of the day’s events in Corpus Christie and passed them on to her employer, she had discovered what the Comtesse would be wearing and how it would be regarded by the other female guests. Using the latter as a guide, the Lady had selected an ensemble which she believed would serve as a perfect counterfoil. Her judgment had proved to be correct. Whereas Charlene’s attire bordered on the risqué, at least by local standards, her own decorous white ball gown and its accoutrements had clearly met with unanimous approval by Mrs. Blaby and the local ladies. Nor had its modest lines detracted from her beauty, or lessened the interest shown toward her by the male guests.
When the Lady had been told by her maid that there was a meeting taking place in her host’s study, and that the servants had received orders to stay out until it was over, she had made a shrewd guess what had brought it about. She had also wished that she could have heard what was being said. Although it was rumored that one of three would-be killers who had died earlier that day was a notorious European professional assassin, the way in which Hoffmeyer had been done to death convinced her it could not have been Beguinage. Accepting that eavesdropping by herself or Florence would be too risky, she had hoped to find out if Mark knew anything. The argument between the von Farlenheim cousins had prevented her from making any progress. And despite her being presented with what on the surface appeared to be an opportunity to obtain information from the small Texan—who had come from the study although there had been no mention that he was even in the mansion—it did not produce the result she required.
“Oh ho!” Mark drawled, glancing across the ballroom. “From the look of things, I’d best go and rescue the Comtesse from those two varmints. If you’ll excuse me, ma’am.”
“Of course,” the Lady authorized, having noticed that Charlene was glowering in her direction and was clearly annoyed at being held in conversation by the Ysabel Kid, Waco and the well-dressed man. As Mark walked away, she returned her gaze to the small Texan. “Have you met the Comtesse, Captain Fog?”
“Hey, it is you, Cap’n Fog!” a voice announced, before Dusty could reply. “Only I allus thought you’d got white hair!”
Looking around, the small Texan found that one of the cattlemen who had prevented him from following the anarchist “Gotz” from the Portside Hotel was approaching. From a slight unsteadiness in his gait and his tone, it appeared that he had drunk just a little too much and was in a convivial mood.
“I’m not that old,” Dusty answered, hoping the conversation would not be protracted.
“No offense,” the man apologized, teetering to a stop. “I didn’t know you was in Corpus Christie, or I’d’ve looked you up.”
“I’ve not long since come in,” Dusty replied. “Do you want to see me about anything special?”
“You might call it that,” the man stated, with a conspiratorial grin. “I’ve just come down from Mulrooney and Freddie Woods said I should tell you-all, ‘Howdy’ should I see you when I got back to Texas. Now there’s a for-real fine lady, Cap’n Fog. And isn’t that lil blonde gal of her’s, Babsy, a pistol?”
“She sure is,” Dusty agreed coldly, having seen that the Lady stiffened slightly on hearing the name of the person who had sent the message from Mulrooney.
“Yes, sir, those two English gals aren’t nothing like I’ve always heard—” the cattleman continued, then began to realize that there was a lack of cordiality in the way the Lady and the small Texan were regarding him. Remembering what he had been told about her place of origin, he drew an erroneous conclusion over the cause of the chilly response. So, letting his words trail off, he finished apologetically, “Well, I reckon I’d best go and find the missus. It’s been nice talking with you-all, ma’am, Cap’n Fog.”
“I hope your friend’s wife doesn’t disapprove of him taking a drink or two,” the Lady remarked, as the man walked away more quickly than he had approached. For all her amiable exterior, she gave just a hint of uneasiness and concern. “For my part, I don’t care, unless it is done to the point where it makes a person obnoxious and he certainly wasn’t.”
“No, ma’am,” Dusty answered noncommittally. “Shall we go into the garden so that we can talk privately?”
“Why Captain Fog!” the Lady gasped, trying to sound shocked yet overtly pleased by the suggestion. She was aware that—despite the polite way in which the proposal had been uttered—it was a command rather than a request, but she believed that she might profit from it. “That might be considered very forward of you. Or would such a thing be considered proper in Texas so soon after we were introduced?”
“You said that very well, ma’am,” Dusty drawled, then his tone hardened as he went on, “But, even if you really cared, it’s ‘proper’ enough for what we have to talk about. Fact being, I reckon you’d prefer it that way.”
“Now you’ve intrigued me, although I can’t imagine what you mean,” the Lady answered, trying to sound more carefree than she was feeling. Impressed by the strength of the small Texan’s personality, she realized that he could not be judged by the criteria of mere feet and inches. Competent and intelligent as she had found his three companions, she sensed that he was even more so. Furthermore, she appreciated that—as the contingency she had dismissed earlier as inconceivable now appeared to be correct—she was in no position to ignore his wishes. Catching her maid’s eye as the latter was offering the only glass on a tray to another of the guests, she gave a slight motion with her head and received just as barely a perceptible nod to indicate her signal had been understood. Managing a smile, she went on, “Shall we go, Captain?”
“It’ll be my pleasure, ma’am,” the small Texan conceded, accepting the arm offered by the Englishwoman. “I reckon we’ll be through before His Highness comes down.”
“I hope so,” the Lady replied. “It really wasn’t ve
ry tactful of your friend to have allowed His Highness to go after that stag instead of coming straight here.”
“Tact’s never been a thing Lon was strong on,” Dusty admitted with a grin, although he had earlier expressed his own feelings on the Ysabel Kid’s behavior in allowing the royal visitor to hunt and collect an exceptionally fine buck whitetail deer they had come across on the way from the rendezvous. “But His Highness enjoyed it and took a better than fair trophy, even if doing it made them late in arriving.”
To all appearances, as they walked side by side across the room and through the open French windows, the Lady and the small Texan might have been on the best of terms. However, even before they had disappeared into the mansion’s grounds, Florence Drakefield was carrying her tray toward the door of the kitchen.
“All right, ma’am,” Dusty said, after he had allowed the blonde to guide him in silence until they were partially concealed among the decorative bushes at the right side of the mansion. “Just who are you?”
“You know who I am,” the Lady objected, although her voice held little conviction, disengaging her arm from the small Texan’s hand and moving until she stood in front of him. “So why—?”
“No, ma’am, I know who you’re not,” Dusty corrected. “So why don’t you quit wasting both our time and tell me who you really are?”
“I don’t understand!” the Lady protested, glancing around as if to make sure there was nobody close by and making nervous-seeming gestures with her hands until the right one was hidden behind her. “Would you care to explain before I go back inside and complain about your strange behavior to Senator Blaby?”
