“I didn’t say that.”
“I don’t want to know about it,” barked Darrow. “But, as the Federation’s attorney, I’m telling you, if Swain succeeds, then the Federation must immediately sever all ties with him.”
“Should we recall him?”
“That’s management’s decision,” Darrow said, nodding once at George. “But if you want my counsel, I’d say let Captain Swain be. See what happens. Meanwhile, we still need the additional men, so I suggest you wire Thiel headquarters in Spokane. See if they can send us some smart men to work undercover. Men who know this area.” Darrow looked out the window. “It won’t be long before we’re in voir dire, picking a jury from among these people. So I’ll need to know everything about them. And about this judge too.”
“We already have one spy here,” said George. “Miss Carla Capone—who you know.”
“Yes. She was my secretary. She’s clever, but she’s known to McParland too. She can be useful, but not as a spy for us any more. Besides, she killed our actual spy, Farrington, right?”
“I’ve been assured it was self-defense,” said George.
“Maybe so. Maybe not. It doesn’t matter,” murmured Darrow, lighting his pipe. “That must’ve been difficult though. She’s a good egg. I know who her father was.” Placing two fingers over the pipe’s lit tobacco, he sucked the flame, making sure the bowl fully ignited. “Can you find her?”
“I imagine so,” said George. “She works at the Idanha Hotel.”
“At the Idanha?” Darrow chuckled. “I’ll be. Right in the den of snakes. Well, I’d like to speak with her. Tonight if possible. But first, I’m heading to see Bill.”
***
After Darrow entered the Idaho State Penitentiary through its imposing, double oak doors, a three-toothed guard ushered him through the building, out the rear, across the high-stone-walled yard, into the first building on the right under a sign reading CELL HOUSE TWO, and then inside, through the noise of men and their cages. Finally they came to an empty cell on the first floor.
“This is his?” barked Darrow. “Where is he?”
“Told to bring ya here.” The guard gave an indignant glance.
“Is this a joke, young man? Where is my client?”
“The prisoner was moved.”
“So, why in God’s name am I standing here!” Darrow fumed.
“No reason yellin. I was t’get you brung here. ‘N here y’are.”
“Yes. Here I am.” Darrow took a breath. “Where did they move him? Can you tell me that?”
“Judge Wood ordered him moved,” replied the guard.
“That’s not what I asked. I asked, where— Where is my client?”
“Listen, city law, don’t be gettin all cocked-up at me.”
Darrow checked himself. “I apologize. I’m not—”
“I know how to deal with your high-flutin sort.”
“Yes. I know. You’re just doing your—”
“Been working fifteen damn years here! Every sort of vermin, I seen em. They raise their voice only on pain of a beatin.”
“Alright, but could you—”
“Ya hearin me?”
Darrow gave a grimace that he hoped appeared more of a smile, then added a slight nod. “Yes. So ... where is he?”
“Your man’s in the courthouse jail. Sheriff’s office.”
Darrow turned and walked quickly toward the front building, muttering to himself, “Mary and Joseph, I swear.”
<><><>
– 43 –
WEDNESDAY
March 20, 1907
They entered the Lone Star Saloon in Truckee, California, at 11:15 at night, after two arduous days. During their ride down from Blue Tent, Iain’s horse broke its leg and had to be shot. They camped there, and then continued on foot the next day, leading Jack’s horse to Alta. That afternoon, when they returned Jack’s horse to the guide, they found the man pacing, worried. Though his agitation put to rest their theory that he might have helped Adams, it raised new concerns.
“You boys wanted by the law?”
“No,” replied Jack.
“Should we be?” quipped Iain.
“A man asked after you. Said you were accomplices to a murder.”
“Accomplices?”
“A detective, he said. Was eyeballin for your man, Adams. I told him true—I don’t know Adams. Then he asked on two fellers with your particulars.”
Jack stepped forward. “What did you tell him?”
“I don’t talk about nobody. That’s what I said. But, you boys best keep movin. He looked to mean you some harm.”
“Did you get the man’s name?”
“Left this trade-card.” He presented a small card printed with:
Captain Wilson Swain
Chief Detective, Northeast Manager
THIEL DETECTIVE SERVICE CO.
Spokane, Wash.
Jack shook his head as he considered the card. “I’ve never heard of the man, so I don’t reckon he’s looking for us. Probably just a … coincidence.” The word stuck in Jack’s throat like a fishbone—he had to cough to dislodge it. He handed the card to Iain. “What do you think?”
“Aye. Coincidence,” said Iain, cutting his eyes at Jack before returning the card to the guide. “Don’t know him. Though I’ve heard of the Thiel Agency. Bunch of penny dobbers, ya ask me.”
“Did he say where he was heading?” asked Jack.
“No. But he inquired on the best card game in Truckee.”
Jack scratched an ear. “Did he?”
“You told him the tables at the Silver Mine, I bet,” said Iain.
“To hell with that place. Fella get hisself killed there,” said the guide. “No, told him the Lone Star.”
“Oh, aye,” said Iain, elbowing Jack. “The Lone Star.”
“Yes … right … the Lone Star,” replied Jack.
***
The Lone Star Saloon was full of life, even at 11:15 at night. Jack and Iain chose a table apart from the whooperups over at the poker and blackjack tables. They ordered beers, and soon Jack was laughing under the brim of his black hat.
“What’s got ya?” asked Iain.
“The Silver Mine? You’d never heard of this town, I’d wager.”
Iain chuckled. “Had to get him to tell us the real place he sent Swain to. And every one of these jerkwater, flea-bit towns has a Silver Mine Saloon.”
“That’s true,” said Jack, still grinning. “But, you could’ve just asked him directly.” Jack attempted a brogue: “What saloon did ya say that fella went off to?’”
“What accent was that?”
“Scottish.”
“The hell it was.”
Jack laughed. “Well, you got us here. That’s all that matters.” Still chuckling, Jack could tell Iain wasn’t seeing the humor in this, so he let it go, muttering, “Just funny to me.”
They scanned the room. “How are we gonna know?”
“Know what?” asked Jack.
“Who’s Captain Swain? You ever seen him?”
“Nope,” Jack replied.
“Didn’t you tell Chief you had?”
“I thought—”
“Guess I’ll go ask them fellas,” said Iain, starting to rise.
“Hold on,” Jack blurted. “Adams might be here in Truckee. No need to tip our hand just yet.”
“I don’t think he is. And Swain needs to meet me,” said Iain, standing. His towering frame seemed to fill that end of the room.
“He needs to?”
Iain looked down at Jack. “Any fella goin round saying I’m a murder accomplice—well, that’s a fella who needs to meet me.” He strolled toward the nearest table of men gambling.
“Damnit,” Jack muttered, standing to follow.
On the way, he touched his coat, confirming his revolver was beneath.
“Gentlemen,” Iain asked, his brogue applied liberally. “My humble apology for interrupting yar game there, Yar Majesties.”
The band of five men, ranging from middle-grizzled to heavy-grizzled, stopped talking, demonstrably unamused as they looked up at the Gaelic giant. Jack stood a bit behind and to the side of Iain—not so close as to be brought into the conversation, but close enough to react if needed.
“You see, I’m looking for a fella named Captain Swain. Calls himself a detective, but I don’t figure he’s more than a mutton-shuntin, blaggard copper, you ask me.”
Four of the men gave Iain variations of a head shake. Iain looked at the fifth who had resumed studying his cards. “You heard of him?” he asked, moving closer to the man. “The name Swain ring a bell to you?”
Without lifting his eyes from his palm-spread cards, the man said, “No. But I want nothing to do with no goddamned detectives—Pinkertons or others.”
“Pinkertons, you say?” Iain’s eyebrows lifted, his fists forming. “I didn’t ask you bout—”
“Damn Pinks!” Jack interjected quickly. “You’re right about that, Sir.” Then to Iain: “Let’s not trouble these men any more.”
Iain moved to the next table. “You men heard who I was asking on, over there? Come think of it—” Iain lifted his head and shouted to the room, “Pardon me, all you fine gentlemen and ladies, if ya kindly will.”
Jack figured it was due to Iain’s size, and the bravado of the interruption, that caused the room to fall silent. Not a single person challenged Iain to shut up.
Iain continued, “My friend here and I have been traveling. We’re a bit road weary, so I’ll just ask the lot of you, instead of one table at a time. Any you know a man named Captain Swain? Calls himself a chief detective?”
A rumbling of noes came from a few, while the rest let their juddering heads answer. Chairs creaked and scooted, and soon the room was back at its games. Iain and Jack returned to their table.
“A noble effort,” said Jack as they sat down.
“I saw him,” came a Scandinavian accent behind them. They turned to see a white-haired man, one of the blackjack dealers, having abandoned his table on the far side of the room.
“You know him?” asked Jack. “Captain Swain?”
“I don’t wise know the man, but he was at my table some hours ago. Heard the name, Swain, as I recall. One of those ridiculous patch mustaches?”
“I don’t know,” said Jack.
“Chief detectives all have ridiculous mustaches,” said Iain, giving a conclusive nod. “It’s required.”
Jack snorted a laugh. “Did he say he’s staying in town tonight?”
“Think so.”
“Hans, get back here!” came shouts from the blackjack table adrift without its helmsman.
The dealer added, “He asked on another man.”
“Steve Adams?” asked Jack.
“That’s right.”
Jack nodded. “Any luck? Had anyone heard of Adams?”
“One of my other players …” He pointed to a man across the room. “That gentlemen, in the black vest. He was at my table then. No, not him.” He scanned more faces. “I don’t see him here.”
“We’re gonna deal for you, Hans, if you don’t move your fat ass!”
“What was said about Adams?” asked Iain.
“They talked on a man named Lloyd. Last name: Lilly, or Lillard. Yeah, Lloyd Lillard. One of em said it sounded like Lizard.”
“Lilly-livered Lloyd?” asked Iain, pretending he knew the name.
Jack squinted. “What about Lloyd Lillard?”
“The man’s squatting in a castle near Austin.”
“Say again?” asked Iain.
“Something like a castle. Stokes, I think. Said the Lloyd fella had a son named Stephen Adams. No, a nephew—his sister’s boy. That’s what got em talking. The Swain fella said he’d go there.”
“Austin, Texas?” asked Jack.
“No, Nevada,” said the dealer. “Austin, Nevada. East of here.”
“That’s terrific,” said Jack, shaking the man’s hand. “Anything else you can recall?”
The man thought for a second. “No, don’t think so.”
“We appreciate you telling us,” said Jack, shaking the man’s hand. “Best you get back to your table, Hans. Again, thank you.”
After the man left earshot, Jack looked at Iain. “We need a map.” They approached the bar. “Excuse me, keep,” Jack asked the barman. “Do you have a map of this area?”
“Sure.”
“And Nevada,” added Iain.
The man turned to look in a cabinet. “Same one.” He produced a map and unrolled it on the bar. “California, Nevada, Oregon, and some of Utah.”
“May I?” Jack asked. He weighted the corners with shot glasses.
“Don’t spill nothing on it,” said the barman, walking away.
Iain scoured the map, muttering, “East … right there.” His stout index finger covered a spot near the middle of Nevada.
“Can’t see,” said Jack. Iain lifted his finger, revealing Austin, Nevada. “Southern Pacific up to, what’s that, Battle Mountain?” asked Jack. “Then that spur to Austin. I think that’s all desert.”
“How do we beat Swain there?” asked Iain. “If we don’t get ahead of him—” he clicked his tongue “—we’ll find one of em dead for sure. And the other, long gone.”
“We’ve gotta get there first,” said Jack, signaling the bartender.
“Yeah?”
Jack put a silver dollar on the bar. “Thank you for the use of your map. We’ve got one more question, then we’ll leave you be.”
The man pocketed the dollar.
“The train that comes through here—” Jack began.
“The Overland Limited,” said the barman.
“When’s the next one?”
“East?”
“Yes, east to Reno.”
“9:20 in the morning. Same as came today.”
“That’s the next one?”
“Un-huh,” replied the man.
Jack looked at Iain. “Swain will be on it too.”
“That’s no way to beat him,” Iain groused.
“Yeah, we’ll think of something.”
<><><>
“Darrow will get this to the Supreme Court within a month, tops,” said Senator Borah, standing in McParland’s office on the first floor of the Idanha Hotel. “But … it’ll be all right for us.”
McParland, the only other person in the room, creaked his chair forward, taking another bite of his sandwich. He chewed, watching the senator. Once he swallowed, he said, “I got him here. The rest is up to you.”
Borah sniffed and shook his head, eyes on McParland. “That was masterful work, Jim. If you could bring that kind of wizardry to the courtroom, I’d find myself out of work. Hell, come to Washington—let’s make a few of those fellows disappear.”
“That’s the problem with doing something so brazen—the next time they’d all see me coming. Same as after the Molly Maguires. I can’t go undercover anymore.”
“You were what, twenty-five then, sneaking around with that Hibernian gang? About the age of that agent, Pat Garrett junior, you had in here.”
“Jack Garrett? Aye.”
“Well, I hate to disappoint you, but you’re a long-toothed old mule, my friend,” said Borah with a bemused smile. “That’s what would give you away—not because you’ve done it before.”
McParland grinned, his mustache stretching wide. “Maybe so.” After a moment, he continued, “As I said, I got the fish in the boat, so you better clean and cook it before it flops back in the river.”
“Do I appear worried?”
“Not at all—which worries me,” said McParland. “I can tell you this: Haywood will not leave Idaho alive.”
“I imagine not,” said Borah.
“What will Darrow say to the Supreme Court?”
“He’s always wanted to go there. I suppose all of us lawyers do. Any lawyer who says otherwise is either a tin bit, or he’s lying. So now that Clarence has this, he’ll make a show of it. He’ll spin yarns for days—grind the old justices down.” Borah took a seat and selected a cigar from the humidor on the table. “He’ll claim unlawful extradition, violation of due cause hearings and the habeas corpus rule.” He clipped the end of the cigar with a cutter. “To cinch it, he’ll claim it was state-authorized kidnapping.”
“Any of that incorrect?”
Borah gave a half laugh. “It’s all accurate. But it won’t matter.”
“No?”
“Nope.” Borah struck a match and lit his cigar.
McParland frowned. “You have tricks up your sleeve, Senator?”
Borah nodded, considering the older man. “You’re the Great Detective. What do you think? Why am I not worried about the Supreme Court sending Haywood back to Denver?”
“Should I speculate?”
“Sure. I’d enjoy seeing your detective wheels spin.”
McParland gave a pinched smile, peering over his glasses. “You’ll give me honest answers? Is that possible for a politician?”
Borah grinned. “Sure. Why not? Tell you what, I’ll give you ten yes-no questions. See what you can do with that. But, I gotta warn you, you’ll not figure this one.”
“What if I do? Shall we wager?”
Borah looked at his cigar before answering. “Two dollars to you for each unused question, out of the ten. Or two to me for each question you need above ten, until you cry uncle.”
“Accepted,” said McParland. He studied Borah for a minute before speaking. “First question: Does your solution involve President Roosevelt?”
“Yes,” replied Borah with a slender grin.
“All right,” said McParland. “Number two: When you were in Washington last, a few months ago, being sworn in, did you meet his daughter, Alice—the troublemaker?”
American Red Page 36
