While the outside of the sheriff’s office was weathered, obviously one of the older buildings in town, the inside had recently been redone. The walls had a fresh coat of paint, the hardwood floors seemed to have been buffed, and the desk the sheriff was sitting behind was gleaming cherry wood, and huge.
“Evenin’, sir,” the lawman said, looking up at Clint. “What can I do for you?”
“Sheriff LeBlanc?”
“That’s what it says on the shingle,” the man replied, “but around here most folks just call me Beau.”
The sheriff seemed as new as the desk. He was barely thirty, and though the young man was seated, Clint could tell he was tall, with broad shoulders and a firm jaw. He had obviously not been wearing a badge long enough to become world-weary about it.
“I’ve just ridden into town and thought I’d check in with you,” Clint said.
“Well, that’s real nice of you,” LeBlanc said, “but is there any particular reason you felt the need to do that?”
“My name is Clint Adams.”
For a moment he thought the man didn’t recognize the name. He hated the thought that he might have to elaborate, but recognition finally dawned on the younger man’s face and he pointed his finger at Clint and said, “The Gunsmith, right?”
“That’s right.”
LeBlanc immediately stood, and Clint could see he was not wearing a gun. The man stuck his hand out and said, “Well, this is a great pleasure, sir, a great pleasure.”
Clint took the man’s hand, allowed him to pump his hand vigorously.
“What brings a legend to Baton Rouge?” LeBlanc asked.
“Haven’t been here in a while,” Clint said, retrieving his hand. “Thought I’d check the town out and see how it had grown.”
“Well,” LeBlanc said, “I’m sure you’ve seen that we’ve grown by leaps and bounds.”
“Yes, I can see that,” Clint said.
“And I don’t think you’ll have any worries while you’re here,” the sheriff said.
“How do you mean?”
“We’ve come about as far from the Old West as you could get,” LeBlanc said. “You won’t have anyone trying to push you into a gunfight on the street. We just don’t do that here.”
Clint had already found that to be true every time he went to New Orleans, but he was sure that challenging another man to a duel was still in fashion. Especially among the well-to-do denizens of the Garden District.
“That’s good to hear,” he said.
“And I appreciate you coming in to let me know you’re here,” LeBlanc said. “Perhaps we can even have a drink together at some point?”
“That’d be fine with me,” Clint said.
“Where are you staying?”
“The Cajun House.”
“A fine establishment,” LeBlanc said. “Will you be gambling while here? We can offer you every form of games of chance.”
“I might be persuaded to play some poker,” Clint admitted.
“Excellent,” LeBlanc said. “I hope you’ll enjoy your stay. Oh, uh, and how long would you be staying?”
“Not sure,” Clint said. “Probably a few days.”
“Hopefully more,” LeBlanc said with a wide smile. “And while you’re here, please let me know if I can do anything for you.”
“I’ll do that.”
FOUR
Clint left the sheriff’s office, wondering if Baton Rouge had become the kind of place where a man like Beau LeBlanc could be an effective lawman.
The mention of gambling had whet his appetite for some poker, but he decided to wait until the next day. He wanted to get a good night’s sleep, and that new suit, before he started touring the gambling houses.
He returned to his hotel, exchanged a friendly nod with the young desk clerk, and went to his room.
He moved his boots and sat on the firm mattress. It struck him how young both the desk clerk and the lawman had been. Thankfully, his waiter had been a bit older. He was afraid the men in this town were going to make him feel older than he was.
He read some Dickens, then doused the lamp, removed his clothes, and turned in for the night.
• • •
He awoke the next morning refreshed. He decided to try the Cajun House’s own restaurant for breakfast, thinking that maybe his new suit would arrive by the time he was done.
He ordered steak and eggs, which were prepared perfectly. The coffee could have been stronger, but was acceptable. The waiter told him he could charge the meal to his room, and pay for it all together when he checked out.
“That’s very civilized,” Clint said. “Thank you.”
“Yes, sir.”
Clint left two bits on the table for the waiter and went out to the lobby.
“Mr. Adams?” the clerk called.
He turned and looked at the man. “Yes?”
“I have a message for you.”
“Is that so?” He approached the desk. “From who?”
“I don’t know,” the man said. “It was left on the desk while I was . . . away.”
He handed Clint an envelope, which was sealed.
“Thank you.”
“Yes, sir.”
Clint carried the envelope with him away from the desk. He debated whether he should read the message there in the lobby, or in his room. He decided to open it right there. He sat on a sofa against one wall and opened the envelope. Immediately, a perfume smell rose from inside. The message was obviously from a lady, but who knew he was there?
He unfolded the perfumed note and read it. It was an invitation to have supper with a woman named Capucine Devereaux. He didn’t know the woman, but the perfume smelled expensive. The invitation was for 8 p.m. at a restaurant called Chez Louis.
He stood and walked back to the front desk.
“What’s your name?” he asked the clerk.
“Ronald, sir.”
“Well, Ronald, what can you tell me about a restaurant called Chez Louis?”
“Ah”—the young man’s eyes lit up—“one of the best restaurants in Baton Rouge, sir. But also, I’m afraid, one of the most expensive.”
“I see,” Clint said, “and do you know anything about the name ‘Devereaux’?”
“One of the finest families not in only Baton Rouge, but in all of Louisiana.”
“A rich family?”
“Oh, yes.”
“I see.”
“Is that who the note was from, sir?” Ronald asked. “The Devereaux family?”
“Thanks for the information, Ronald.”
“If the Devereaux family has summoned you, sir, you had best respond.”
“Is that so?”
“Simon Devereaux is a very powerful man.”
“Then why would he need me?”
“You’re the Gunsmith,” Ronald said as if that alone should explain it.
“I know who I am,” Clint said. “Okay, thanks.”
There was no way for him to acknowledge the invitation. He assumed that Capucine Devereaux, whoever she was—daughter? wife?—would wait for him at Chez Louis, in the hope that he would accept the invitation.
He had all day to decide.
• • •
Clint’s new suit was delivered to him before he left the hotel. He had the tailor hang it in his room. Then he waited for the saloons and gambling houses to open. He visited six of them, nursed half a beer in each, picking out the ones he would definitely visit later that night, while wearing his new suit, to do his gambling.
During the course of the day he thought about the note in his pocket. How had Capucine Devereaux known that he was in Baton Rouge, and at what hotel he was staying? There were only two people who knew that, Ronald the clerk and Sheriff LeBlanc. What motive could either of them have for telling
her? He could find out the answers to all those questions by accepting the lady’s invitation to supper. And he could do that while wearing his new suit. Of course, he’d also bring along his little friend, the Colt New Line, which would fit comfortably beneath his jacket without being seen.
He didn’t mind accepting a blind invitation like this, but he’d never think of doing it unarmed.
In fact, the Gunsmith never did anything unarmed. Even in bed—with or without a woman—his gun was always within arm’s reach.
He finished the last of his beer in the sixth gambling house—once again drinking only half—and went back to his hotel to get ready for his supper date.
FIVE
Resplendent in his new suit, with the Colt New Line comfortably nestled in the small of his back, Clint left the Cajun House and flagged down a cab.
“Do you know where Chez Louis is?” he asked the driver—again, a young man, like the clerk and the lawman.
“Everybody knows where Chez Louis is,” the driver said.
“Okay, well, take me there, then.”
“Hop in, sir.”
It was a mild night, so driving in the open-air cab was a pleasure. There were a lot more lights at night in Baton Rouge than there had been the last time he was there. He didn’t know who the mayor of the city was, but he was apparently doing a hell of a job.
The cab pulled to a stop in front of Chez Louis, which was not lit up. It had a classy, dark front with a large, stenciled plate glass window.
“Here ya go,” the driver said. “Hope you got a fat wallet.”
“I’m a guest,” Clint said, paying the man his fare.
“Lucky you! Wish I had somebody who’d buy me supper here.”
“Maybe you will someday.”
“Want me to wait for you and take you back?”
“Won’t be going right back,” Clint said. “I’ll be stopping to do some gambling first.”
“I can come back and get ya,” the man said. “I know all the places a gent like you should gamble.”
“Why not? Come back in an hour. I should be finished by then.”
“If you’re not, I’ll just wait,” the young man said.
“What’s your name?”
“Henri, sir.”
“Well, Henri,” Clint said, handing the young man some extra money, “maybe this will make it worth your while to wait.”
“Yes, sir!”
Clint left his jacket unbuttoned—easier access to the Colt—and entered the restaurant.
Inside was dark, mostly burgundy leather, with an occasional gleam of gold. The tuxedoed maître d’ greeted him. He was glad to see that the man was middle-aged.
“Good evening, sir. Can I help you?”
“Yes, I’m meeting Capucine Devereaux here.”
“Ah, then you would be Mr. Adams?”
“That’s right.”
“Excellent,” the man said. “How wonderful to have you with us, sir. Please follow me.”
The man led Clint through the crowded restaurant to a table in the back that seemed to have more room around it than the others, as if other tables near it had been removed.
He led Clint to a table where two ladies were seated, one slightly older than the other, but both beautiful. He assumed the older woman—in her thirties—was Capucine Devereaux, since she seemed to be dressed in the more expensive finery. The other woman was not yet thirty.
“Mrs. Devereaux,” the maître d’ said, bowing slightly at the waist, “your guest has arrived.”
“Thank you, André.”
André looked at Clint.
“Mr. Adams, Mrs. Devereaux.”
“Ma’am,” Clint said, “it’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Please, Mr. Adams,” Capucine Devereaux said, “take a seat.”
But Clint, whose hat was in his hands at this point, did not sit. Instead, he looked at the younger woman.
“Ah,” Mrs. Devereaux said, “I see we have a man with manners. Mr. Adams, please meet my assistant, Jeannie Bartlett.”
“Miss Bartlett.”
“Mr. Adams.”
“And now will you sit?” Mrs. Devereaux asked.
“Happy to.”
“Your waiter will be Pierre,” André said. “I will send him right over.”
“Send him with brandy, please, André.”
“Yes, madame.”
André withdrew and Mrs. Devereaux looked across the table at Clint. The other woman, Jeannie, kept her eyes down.
“I am very glad you decided to accept my invitation, Mr. Adams,” Mrs. Devereaux said, “especially since you have no idea who I am.”
“I asked around, Mrs. Devereaux.”
“And you learned something that made you come?”
“I did,” he said. “I learned that this is one of the best restaurants in Baton Rouge.”
“Indeed,” she said, “as far as I am concerned, it is the best, although my husband prefers the local fare to French.”
“I thought this was local.”
“This is a French restaurant,” she informed him, “but not a Cajun restaurant.”
“Ah.”
“Although if you’d prefer something Cajun, I’m sure the chef could handle it for you.”
“No, that’s fine,” he said.
Mrs. Devereaux was a redhead, with pale skin and just the requisite dusting of freckles being a redhead required. She wore a jade green gown that was low cut, revealing an impressive expanse of pale cleavage.
Jeannie Bartlett had dark hair, with pale skin and very large brown eyes—when he could see them. She was slender, and very pretty. One or both of them smelled very sweet.
“I’m sure you are wondering why I invited you—a perfect stranger—to have supper with me.”
“That’s one of the things I’m wondering about,” he said.
“Would you mind if we got to all your questions after supper?” she asked.
“I happen to be very hungry,” he said, “so no, I don’t mind, at all.”
SIX
They drank brandy before supper, and wine with it. Clint’s preference was beer, but he knew good liquor and wine when he tasted it. Mrs. Devereaux was ordering the best.
She did, however, allow Clint to order supper for himself, and he found a steak dish on the menu. He chose steak au poivre—steak seasoned with black pepper and adorned with a brandy and cream sauce. The meat was cooked to perfection, although he might have preferred it without the sauce. He did, however, enjoy all the accompanying vegetables.
Mrs. Devereaux explained throughout dinner that her husband was in the shipping business, and made good use of the Mississippi River, shipping items from Louisiana to Minnesota, and points in between. Also, the Devereaux family had a long history in Louisiana, had a home in Baton Rouge, a home in New Orleans, and a plantation on the bayou.
“I do a lot of charity work,” she went on, “and Jeannie is invaluable to me in keeping everything running smoothly. Are you enjoying your supper?”
“Very much.”
Both women had ordered seafood. Jeannie was eating filet of sole Veronique, while Mrs. Devereaux had ordered salmon en croute.
“Will you allow me to at least order dessert for us?” she asked.
“Of course.”
She proceeded to order a raspberry brûlée for all of them, as well as coffee—French roast, of course.
• • •
After dessert, Mrs. Devereaux ordered more coffee and then said to Clint, “Perhaps we should get down to business?”
“Is that what this is about? Business?”
“Well . . . perhaps,” she said.
“First,” he said, “my questions.”
“Ah, yes,” she replied, “I did say I’d answer them, didn’t I
?”
“Yes, you did.”
“Very well.” She slid her fingertips lightly across the slopes of her breasts. “Ask away.”
Clint looked at Jeannie, who lowered her eyes once again.
“How did you know I was in Baton Rouge? And at the Cajun House?”
“That is an easy question,” she said. “Sheriff LeBlanc sent word to me that you had visited him, and told me where you were staying.”
“Why did he do that?”
“Because he knew I needed a man,” she said, “a man capable of boldness.”
“And you assumed I was such a man?”
“I am aware of your reputation, Mr. Adams,” she said, “as the Gunsmith. But I am also aware that reputations can be . . . shall we say, inflated?”
“That’s more than most people seem to be aware of,” he said.
“I thought I would invite you dinner and find out for myself if you are the man I need.”
“The man you need for what?”
“A job.”
“I’m not for hire.”
“A favor, then.”
He hesitated, then said, “I have been known to do favors . . . for friends.”
“What about ladies in distress?” she asked.
“Then this job you need done,” he said, “is for you, not for your husband?”
“My husband doesn’t know anything about it,” she said. “And I desire to keep it that way.”
“Is that possible?” he asked. “As powerful a man as he appears to be? Can you keep things from him?”
“I believe I can,” she said, “though not many can say the same.”
He studied her across the table.
“You’re not French, are you?”
“No,” she said, “and neither am I Cajun.”
“I’d guess . . . Irish.”
She smiled.
“Very good. I am only a lady because my husband married me, Mr. Adams.”
“Clint,” he said, “please.”
“Clint,” she said. “And my friends call me . . . Cappy. Also you obviously realize by now that Capucine is not my real name.”
“Not very Irish, is it?”
“No.”
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