The Reluctant Pinkerton

by Robert J. Randisi

  Roper walked over and examined it. The man had been shot through the heart, killed with one shot.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” the driver said. “You some kind of a detective, or somethin’?”

  Roper looked up at the driver and said, “Or somethin’.”

  46

  Roper stayed with the body and sent the driver—whose name was Jamie—for the police. When they arrived, he was surprised to see Detectives Cole and Carradine.

  “Well, well, Mr. Blake,” Carradine said. “What do we have here?”

  “I think it’s a man named Mark Vaughn,” Roper said. “He’s been shot.”

  Carradine leaned down over the body and said, “He sure has, right through the heart.” He straightened up. “What’s your connection?”

  “I’m just tryin’ to help out, Detective.”

  “Help who?”

  “Mr. Brewster, at the Cattleman’s Club. You see, this man was a messenger for him, and was carryin’ a lot of money this mornin’.”

  “Is that a fact? And where was he taking that money?”

  “To Mr. Orton, at the stockyards.”

  “Orton? Your boss?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And how is it you’re the one who found the body?” Cole asked.

  “Like I said,” Roper replied. “I’m just tryin’ to help.”

  “Well,” Carradine said, “maybe you can help us.”

  “How can I do that?”

  “Accompany us to the police station, where we can have a nice private talk.”

  “I’m supposed to go back to work—”

  “We’ll send Mr. Orton a message,” Carradine promised, “so you don’t get fired.”

  “I really appreciate that,” Roper said.

  “Comin’ with us, then?” Cole asked.

  “Why would I not?” Roper asked.

  “No reason,” Carradine said. “I just think my partner was hoping you’d resist.”

  Roper looked at Cole and said, “Sorry to disappoint you.”

  * * *

  They took Roper to the police station on West Belknap Street. They walked him to a small room and left him to sit by himself at a narrow table for a while. He knew they were softening him up. As Talbot Roper, this was something he was used to. But Andy Blake wouldn’t be so calm.

  “Hey, come on!” he shouted, banging on the locked door. “I got to get back to work!”

  He heard the lock click, and the door opened. A man wearing a marshal’s badge walked in. He was a large man, barrel-chested and ham-handed, with a full head of gray hair and wrinkles he’d earned over the course of about sixty years.

  “Mr. Blake. My name’s Marshal Ben Gates.”

  “Marshal,” Roper said. “I was expecting the detectives.”

  “I’m here to take you to the detectives,” the marshal said. “I think they made a mistake locking you in this room. After all, you’re only here to help us, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, the detectives have been reprimanded for the way they’ve treated you. However, I’m going to ask you to submit to their questions, as they know what to ask and I do not.”

  “I understand, Marshal.”

  “Thank you, sir. Now, if you’ll follow me?”

  Marshal Gates led Roper back along the same hallway the detectives had brought him in by, but ducked into an open doorway halfway along. This time instead of being in a bare room meant for interrogation, he found himself in a small office with two little desks. They were made to look even smaller with Carradine and Cole sitting behind them.

  “Mr. Blake has agreed to help,” the marshal said, “even though you two have mistreated him.”

  “Marshal—” Cole started.

  “Shut up, Cole!” Gates said. He turned to Roper. “Sir, again my thanks for your cooperation. If these two detectives give you a hard time, please let me know.”

  “Thank you, Marshal.”

  Marshal Gates left the room and Roper turned to face the two detectives. He was sure that all three law enforcement officials thought he had bought the act they’d just put on for him. Or for “Andy Blake” anyway. Talbot Roper had seen that kind of dog-and-pony show too many times before to be fooled.

  Roper looked around the small room for a chair, but there wasn’t one.

  “Don’t worry about sitting down,” Cole said. “You won’t be here that long.”

  “That sounds good to me.”

  “Just fill us in on your actions today, Blake,” Carradine said. “Start from this morning and take us through to finding the body.”

  Roper gave them an account of his day, telling the truth as much as he could. He wanted it to sound like he’d pretty much stumbled over the body, rather than found it through detective footwork.

  When he was finished, both detectives stared at him.

  “You know we’ll be checking your story with Brewster, the doorman, and the driver, right?” Carradine said.

  “I do,” Roper said. “You wanted the truth, though, and I gave it to you. Can I go back to work now?”

  “What do you think, Cole?” Carradine asked.

  “I think he knows more than he’s saying,” Cole answered, “but hell, let him go back to work. We know where to find him.”

  “Yeah, we do,” Carradine said. “So go ahead, Blake. Get back to work.”

  “You’ll let me know if the money he was carrying shows up, won’t you?”

  “Why would I do that?” Carradine asked. “It was Brewster who sent the money out. We find anything, we’ll let him know.”

  “Good enough,” Roper said. “Tell Marshal Gates for me you fellas were perfect gentlemen.”

  “Get outta here!” Cole growled.

  * * *

  Instead of going back to the stockyards, Roper went to see the sheriff. The man looked up at him as he entered the shoebox-sized office.

  “Mr. Blake, isn’t it?” Reynolds said. “What can I do for you?”

  “I was just wondering,” Roper said. “You said you were going to be keeping an eye on me, but I ain’t seen you since. And I’ve been having some problems.”

  “So I’ve heard,” Reyolds said.

  “So then the detectives have talked to you.”

  “Carradine and Cole, yeah,” Reynolds said. “Charming pair.”

  “They tell you what to do? Is that it?”

  “Fort Worth is leaning heavily toward having a police department, and no sheriff,” Reynolds said. “You can tell that from my new office here. So I’m tryin’ to get myself as many paychecks as possible before they make me scarce. If that means lettin’ the detectives investigate whatever they want, then so be it. And they seem to want you.”

  “I get it,” Roper said.

  “Maybe you do, and maybe you don’t,” Reynolds said. “But this town—this city—doesn’t have much use for me, and the feeling is pretty mutual.”

  “Okay, then,” Roper said. “Now I know.”

  “Now you know,” Reynolds said. “Good luck to you.”

  47

  When Roper entered the stockyard office, Orton looked up from his desk and said, “Where the hell have you been?”

  “The law said they were gonna let you know,” Roper told him.

  “Well, they didn’t,” Orton said. “Let me know what?”

  Roper filled him in, just the way he had told it to the police.

  “Jesus Christ!” Orton exploded. “I knew Mark Vaughn. Dead, you say?”

  “Shot dead.”

  “Have you told Brewster?”

  “No,” Roper said. “I came here first so you wouldn’t fire me.”

  “Well, you’re not fired,” Orton said. “Get your ass over to the Cattleman’s and let Brewster know what’s going on.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  As Roper headed for the door, Orton said, “Hey, Andy.”

  “Yeah?” Roper asked at the door.

  “Good work.”

  �
��Thanks.”

  * * *

  Back at the Cattleman’s Club, Lester was still on duty.

  “I’ve spoken with several of the drivers, sir,” he said. “Nobody knows anything about a strange driver.”

  “Okay, Lester,” he said. “Thanks. Can I get in to see Mr. Brewster?”

  “Yes, sir,” the doorman said. “I’ve been instructed to take you right to him when you arrived. Follow me.”

  Roper followed the man’s broad back into the club, but this time not to Brewster’s office. They went to one of the sitting rooms, where Brewster was talking with several well-dressed gentlemen. When he spotted Lester and Roper, he excused himself and walked over.

  “I hope this is important,” he said to them.

  “I found Mark Vaughn,” Roper said. “He’s been shot and killed. That important enough for you?”

  “All right, Lester,” Brewster said, dismissing the doorman. “Mr. Blake, can we talk over here, please?”

  Brewster took Roper’s arm and pulled him aside, away from prying eyes and ears.

  “Tell me.”

  “Not much to tell,” Roper said. “Looks like a phony cab driver picked him up, shot him through the heart, and dumped him in an empty lot just this side of Hell’s Half Acre.”

  “And the money?”

  “Gone.”

  “What about the police?”

  “They’re on it,” Roper said. “The marshal has these two detectives, Carradine and Cole, working on it.”

  “Are they good men?”

  Roper started to answer, then stopped himself and went another way. “How would I know?”

  “I don’t know,” Brewster said, “but I get the feeling you would.”

  “I have to get back to work, Mr. Brewster,” Roper said. “Mr. Orton wants to know about the money you promised.”

  “Well, it’s gone—” Brewster started, then stopped and calmed himself. “Okay, tell him…tell him I’ll have it replaced. I should be able to get it to him tomorrow morning.”

  “I’ll tell him.”

  Roper started away, and Brewster called after him.

  “And tell him to send you for it this time,” the man said. “No more messengers.”

  “Sure,” Roper said, “no more messengers.”

  * * *

  Roper left, decided to walk most of the way back, try to get everything straight in his head. Pete Orton was having an affair with Nancy Ransom, using a house that used to be owned by Mannerly, but was now owned by Brewster, who was one of the men—apparently one of five men—who had hired the Pinkertons.

  Kalish was supposed to be the only one of the five who knew who and what Roper really was. Although Brewster seemed to suspect that “Andy Blake” was something other than what he seemed to be, he had given no indication he knew the truth.

  But Brewster seemed to be the head honcho, running the Cattleman’s Club, spearheading the group of five who seemed in control of the cattle business in Fort Worth. He was also the man who had sent the messenger out with the money—the messenger who had then been killed. Who besides Brewster knew what Mark Vaughn had been carrying? Damn it, he should have asked that question, but he didn’t want to come off too much like a detective with Brewster—not yet anyway.

  But it might be getting close to the time when Talbot Roper had to come out from behind the mask.

  48

  When Roper got back to the office, he gave Orton the message about the money.

  “You mean he’s going to replace it himself?”

  “I don’t know how he’s gonna do it, boss, but he’s gonna do it,” Roper said. “You should have it tomorrow, only…”

  “Only what?”

  “Well, he wants me to come and pick it up,” Roper said. “Doesn’t want to take the chance of another messenger, I guess.”

  “Are you willing to do that?”

  “If you’re willing to trust me with the money,” Roper said. “And you don’t want to go and pick it up yourself.”

  “No,” Orton said, “I’ll trust you with it.”

  “We don’t know exactly how much it’s liable to be,” Roper said. “Sure you want to trust me with that much temptation?”

  “I can trust you, Andy,” Orton said.

  “What makes you say that?”

  “I got a feeling about you,” the other man said. “I have ever since I met you.”

  “Well, I don’t know why that is,” Roper said, “but I guess I appreciate it.”

  “Now that you’re here, though,” Orton said, “how about getting some work done?”

  “Sure,” Roper said. “What do you need?”

  “Go on out to the east pens and get me a count, will you?” Orton said. “I’ve got all the rest already.”

  “Use my boots,” Orton said. “They’re in the water closet.”

  “Thanks.”

  * * *

  The boots didn’t fit exactly, but they stayed on well enough. When Roper got to the pens, he saw the Fixx brothers there.

  “Hey, Andy!” they greeted him, Stan slapping him on the back. “What’re you doin’ out here in the crap with the peons?”

  “The boss sent me out for a count.” The smell of manure was making his eyes water. “How do you stand this?”

  “Just takes some gettin’ used to, pal,” Larry said. “Come on, we’ll help you with that count.”

  Roper climbed up onto the corral so he could see, got himself comfortable on his perch. The cattle were standing easy as they began the count, but suddenly—after a few minutes—the beeves got agitated. Roper didn’t know why until he heard it. It was probably the second shot he heard. The cows had heard the first one, and the third plucked at the left sleeve of his shirt. It surprised him, and as a result he fell into the pens.

  Even as he fell, he thought, this must be how it happened to the other detective. He hit the ground and rolled, put his hands down to get to his feet, but slipped in the muck and manure. He reached for the gun Orton had given him, but it was gone. It must have fallen out of his belt when he landed, and was in the mud somewhere.

  He probably wouldn’t have been able to hold it anyway, his hands were so slick with manure.

  He heard somebody yelling, and the steers began to buffet him. Cows weighed about twelve hundred pounds, but these steers went closer to fourteen or fifteen hundred. If he wasn’t trampled, he could simply be crushed between two of them. He thought his best chance was to stay down. But that didn’t seem to be the case, as one hoof struck him, and then another. He was wondering what to do—had never found himself in quite this situation before—when he suddenly felt hands on him, hauling him up and completely out of the pens.

  The Fixx boys dumped him on the ground outside, where it was manure-free.

  “That was close,” Larry Fixx said with a big grin.

  “Lucky we was there,” Stan said.

  “Yeah,” Roper said, wringing his hands out to free them of some of the muck. “Lucky. How’d you happen to know where I was?”

  “Larry saw you fall in and yelled,” Stan said.

  “I didn’t fall in,” Roper said, looking at his left arm. There was blood on his sleeve. “I was shot.”

  “Shot?” Larry said, looking puzzled.

  “Somebody shot you?”

  “Shot me right off my perch,” Roper said. “You didn’t hear it? The shots got the steers all riled up.”

  “I didn’t hear nothin’,” Larry said.

  “Now that you mention it,” Stan said, “I thought I heard somethin’, but…”

  “Jesus,” Larry said as the blood started to trickle down Roper’s arm, “are you okay?”

  “Took a chunk of meat out of my arm,” Roper said, “but I think I’ll live.”

  “Come on, Larry,” Stan said, “we better get him to the office.”

  * * *

  Larry Fixx kicked the office door open and the brothers carried Roper in between them. Both Pete Orton and his wife looked at them,
surprise on their faces, which were flushed. They’d obviously been having an argument.

  “What happened?” Orton demanded.

  “Somebody shot ’im,” Larry said.

  “What?”

  “I told them I could walk,” Roper said.

  There was an old sofa against one wall that Roper had never sat on before. Too dirty.

  “Sit him over there,” Orton said, pointing to the sofa.

  The brothers took Roper over there and dumped him on it. As they backed away, everyone could see the blood on Roper’s arm.

  “I better take a look at that,” Louise Orton said.

  She walked to the sofa, rolled Roper’s sleeve up from the wound, and examined it.

  “I don’t see a bullet, but it needs to be cleaned,” she said. She walked over to the water closet.

  “Where did this happen?” Orton demanded.

  “The east pens,” Roper said.

  “How?”

  “Don’t know,” Roper said. “Somebody fired several shots. One hit me, knocked me into the pens. All the shots riled up the steers. I would have been crushed to death if not for these boys.”

  “Good thing we was there,” Larry said.

  “Same thing coulda happened to Andy that happened to that other fella,” Stan said.

  Louise returned with a basin of water, and a cloth. She sat next to Roper and began to clean his wound with firm, assured hands.

  “Blood doesn’t bother you?” Roper asked.

  “I’ve seen plenty of it.” She looked at her husband. “What are you going to do about this?”

  “Send for a doctor,” he said.

  “I don’t need one,” Roper said. “Mrs. Orton is taking care of it fine.”

  “Then we need the police,” Orton said.

  “You know who they’ll send,” Roper said.

  “I don’t like those two detectives any more than you do,” Orton said, “but we need to let the police know.” Orton looked at the brothers. “One of you go and do that.”

  “Now?” Larry asked.

  “Right now.”

  The two brothers exchanged a glance, and without another word, they decided which one would go. Stan turned and left.

  As Mrs. Orton got the wound cleaned, she said, “I think this might need some stitches.” Roper looked at her, and she met his eyes. “I can’t do that.”