“But why would he—you mean, you think he’s having me followed?”
“I won’t know until I talk to him,” Clint said. “The address?”
She gave it to him.
NINETEEN
Simon Devereaux’s office was in a business section of Baton Rouge. Cappy may not have wanted him to talk to her husband because he didn’t believe her, but Clint needed to eliminate the man for his own benefit.
When he came out of Cappy’s place, he found young Henri waiting there with his carriage.
“Lift, sir?”
“Where have you been?”
“Keeping out of sight, like you said,” the young man answered.
“You did a good job of it,” Clint said. “I didn’t see any sign of you when I came out before.”
“I saw the lady’s driver head off, so I thought you’d be needing me.”
“Good guess.” Clint climbed into the carriage.
“Where to?” Henri asked.
Clint gave him the address Cappy had given him for her husband.
• • •
After a short drive, they arrived at a three-story building. Clint entered and presented himself to an attractive, middle-aged woman seated behind a desk.
“I’m here to see Mr. Devereaux,” he said.
“Do you have an appointment?”
“I don’t,” Clint said, “but I think he’ll see me.”
“Why do you think that?” she asked, arching her eyebrows at him.
“Because it’s about his wife.”
For a moment a look of disapproval crossed the woman’s face.
“I’ll tell him you’re here. What is your name?”
“Clint Adams. Just out of curiosity, what floor is he on?” Clint asked.
She stood and said, “It doesn’t matter. Mr. Devereaux owns the whole building. But his office is on the floor above us, so if you’ll just wait?”
“Yes, of course.”
She disappeared through a door. Clint looked around. The reception area of the building was better furnished than many high-class hotels he’d been in. Simon Devereaux must have had a lot of money.
The woman came back and said, “Will you follow me, please?”
“Yes, thank you.”
She took him through that doorway and up a flight of steps to the second floor, then led him to a closed door. She knocked then opened it.
“Mr. Devereaux, this is Clint Adams,” she said. “Mr. Adams, Simon Devereaux.”
“That’s fine, Maddy,” Devereaux said. “Thank you.”
“Yes, thank you, Maddy,” Clint said.
She stared at him then turned and walked away. He watched. She had a nice shape on her, and might not have been as old as he’d originally thought.
“Mr. Adams?” Devereaux said. “Would you have a seat, please?”
“Sure.”
Clint closed the door, then walked to the desk. The two men shook hands, and then Clint sat.
Simon Devereaux was in his sixties, a well-kept man, six feet tall and fit. The office was expensively furnished in burgundy and gold.
“You told Maddy this is about my wife?” Devereaux asked. “What has she done now?”
“It’s not what she’s done, sir,” Clint said, “it’s what’s being done to her.”
“Oh,” Devereaux said, “is this about that business of her being followed?”
“Yes, sir, it is.”
“How did she convince you to work for her on this?” her husband asked. “It’s a figment of her imagination.”
“With all due respect, sir, I don’t think so.”
“Why?’
“I’ve seen the man.”
“You’ve seen the man following her?”
“Watching her.”
The man studied him.
“Wait a minute,” Devereaux said. “Clint Adams. I know that name.”
Clint didn’t say anything.
“The Gunsmith, right?” Devereaux was suddenly very animated. “Cappy’s got the Gunsmith working for her?”
“I suppose so.”
“And you believe she really does have somebody watching her, following her?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve seen him.”
“I have.”
“And you’re going to try to help her?”
“I am.”
“And just what is Cappy giving you to do this?” Devereaux asked suspiciously.
“The fact is, I don’t like the idea of a man stalking a woman,” Clint said. “It’s a matter of principle.”
“I see.”
The man stared at Clint, who simply stared back.
“What do you think I can do to help you?” Simon Devereaux asked.
“Well, you can tell me if you’re having your wife followed for any reason.”
Devereaux folded his hands on his desktop and studied Clint a bit longer.
“Do you know what my wife does?”
“You mean, for a living?”
“A living?” Devereaux asked. “She doesn’t need to do anything for a living. I’m very rich, Mr. Adams.”
“I know that, sir.”
“What she does, she doesn’t do for a living,” the man went on. “She does it because she likes it. Damn her, she likes it.”
TWENTY
“How do you feel about her running whores, then?” Clint asked, figuring they might as well get it out in the open.
“I detest it.”
“Then maybe you’d have somebody watching her.”
“And waiting for a chance to do what?” Devereaux asked. “Kill her?”
Clint shrugged.
“Whoever he is,” the man said, “he’s not working for me. I can assure you of that.”
“What about an enemy?”
“Of Cappy’s?” He laughed. “One thing about her is she’s got no enemies. Everybody likes Capucine—including me, God help me. Did you know I gave her that name? Capucine?”
“No, I didn’t know that.”
“Do you know what her real name is?”
“I don’t know that either,” Clint said. “We haven’t gotten that close, your wife and me.”
“Huh,” Devereaux said. “Give it time.”
“And what about you?”
“What about me?”
“Enemies?”
“Oh, hell,” the man said, “when you’re as rich as I am, you’ve got lots of enemies.”
“The kind who would go after your wife?”
“I doubt it.”
“Why not?”
“They know I’d have them killed if they did that.”
“What if they killed you first?” Clint asked. “Then would they go after her?”
“For what reason?” Devereaux asked. “If I were dead, they’d already have what they wanted.”
“Okay, so maybe they plan on killing her first, to make you suffer.”
Devereaux thought that over.
“You’ve got a name in your head right now,” Clint said. “You’re thinking of the one person in Louisiana who might try that.”
“What are you, some kind of mind reader?”
“I don’t have to be a mind reader,” Clint said. “That’s what I’d be thinking right now. Who is it? What’s the name?”
Devereaux hesitated, then said, “Jacques Pivot.”
“And who is he?”
“My biggest competitor.”
“And where does he live?”
“The bayou.”
“Not in town?”
“He never comes to town,” Devereaux said.
“How does he get things done?”
“He has people who do it for him.”
&n
bsp; “And how does he contact them?”
“He has a telegraph key at his house.”
Clint thought that over. There was no way he could leave Baton Rouge to check that out. Not with a man still stalking Cappy. And not when Keller was still around, the man she thought would be her protector, who was now her other stalker. He wondered then if she and Keller had gotten as far as her bedroom.
“Now what are you thinking?” Devereaux asked.
“I’m weighing my options.”
“So you don’t think it’s me?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I believe you.”
“What if it is me?”
Clint stood up.
“I didn’t come here to play games, Mr. Devereaux,” he said. “I’m convinced it’s not you. Let’s just leave it at that.”
As Clint walked to the door, Devereaux asked, “Are you going to be asking for my help?”
“I’m not going to ask you for anything.”
“No money?”
“I’m not for hire,” Clint said. “Your wife knows that, but she asked for my help as a favor. I’m satisfied with that.”
He went out and retraced his steps down to the first floor.
• • •
The woman looked up from her desk when Clint came out of the office.
“Maddy,” he said, “is that short for Madeline?”
“It is.”
“Madeline what?”
She hesitated, then said, “Ewing.”
“Can I call you Madeline?”
“If you like.”
“Madeline,” he said, “I get the feeling you don’t like Mr. Devereaux’s wife.”
“Does that matter?”
“Well, Devereaux told me there’s nobody who doesn’t like her. How do you feel about that?”
“He means men,” she said. “There are no men who don’t like her.”
“And is that why—”
“That’s all I’m going to say, Mr. Adams,” she said. “I have work to do.”
“All right,” he said, “I’ll respect your wishes. Thanks, anyway. But Mr. Devereaux said you could supply me with an address for a man named Jacques Pivot.”
“Yes, of course.” She proceeded to look up the address and write it down on a piece of paper for him.
“There,” she said, handing it to him.
“Thank you.”
She did not look up at him as he left the building
TWENTY-ONE
“Lemme buy you another one,” Keller said to Simmons.
“I’m afraid I’ve already had more than my limit,” Simmons said.
“Come on, come on,” Keller said, “us drivers got to stick together, don’t we?” He slapped Simmons on the back.
“Oh, very well,” Simmons said. “One more.”
“Attaboy!” Keller said to his new friend. “I’ll go get ’em.”
He went to the bar and told the bartender to draw two more beers.
“I don’t know how you did it,” the man said as he set the beers down on the bar, “but you got him talkin’.”
“You just have to find somethin’ that you have in common,” Keller said.
He carried the mugs of beer back to the table and set them down. He wasn’t as drunk as he appeared, but neither was Simmons as drunk as Keller thought he’d be by now.
“Thank you, mate,” Simmons said.
“So you got to pick your boss up soon,” Keller said. “What’s he like?”
“He’s a she,” Simmons said, “A lovely lady with a lot of class.”
“Well, lucky you,” Keller said. “And I guess she’s lucky to have you to protect her.”
“Oh, I don’t protect her,” Simmons said, “I just drive her. Being a bodyguard is not part of my job.”
“Oh, I see.”
Keller didn’t think Simmons was going to say more, but the man drank down half his beer and then started talking.
“She has herself a very special champion at the moment,” he said.
“Oh? Who would that be?” Keller asked.
Simmons glanced around and this was the first time Simmons looked even slightly drunk.
“His name is Clint Adams,” he said. “Does that ring a bell with you, my friend?”
“Clint Adams,” Keller said. “You don’t mean . . . the Gunsmith?”
“Exactly,” Simmons said. “I thought the man was just a Western legend, but he is actually here, and working for . . . my employer.” He wasn’t drunk enough to give up her name.
“That’s really something,” Keller said.
Simmons took a pocket watch from the vest pocket of his suit and said, “Oh, I must go. She needs to be picked up precisely on time.”
“Well, you go ahead, my friend,” Keller said. “It was good talking to you.”
Simmons stood, a bit unsteady, and said, “Thank you for the drinks, sir.”
“Don’t mention it,” Keller said. “It was my pleasure to buy drinks for another driver.”
Simmons nodded and walked a bit unsteadily out the door to his carriage.
So, Clint Adams. Capucine had herself a very impressive bodyguard. But Keller wasn’t worried. He was more than a match for some Old West legend who was getting long in the tooth.
He sat back in his chair and proceeded to finish his beer in a leisurely fashion.
• • •
There was a driving rain as Clint left the Devereaux building, looking at the piece of paper in his hand. Pivot had an address in a town called New Iberia, in Iberia Parish on the Bayou Teche. It meant nothing to Clint in terms of distance. He was going to have to find out from someone what he was dealing with. How far was Iberia Parish, and what was it like? Would it pay for him to go there?
He could think of only two people to ask—either Sheriff LeBlanc, or Cappy herself. He decided to try the sheriff first.
“Where are we headed, boss?” Henri asked as Clint once again got into the young man’s cab. Henri had raised a half roof on the cab to keep the rain off his passenger.
“Sheriff’s office.”
“Gotcha.”
Henri picked up the reins, but at that moment the horse reared.
“What’s the matter with him?” Clint asked after Henri got the animal under control.
“He’s been that way since the rain,” Henri said.
“He doesn’t like rain?”
“Not this rain,” Henri said. “There’s something different about it.”
Clint looked up at the sky, put out his hand, and looked at the rain as it landed on his skin. It looked like a normal rain to him.
“Let’s go!” he said.
“We’re going,” Henri assured him. This time when he flicked the reins, the horse simply started forward.
• • •
It seemed as if Sheriff LeBlanc never went out on rounds of his town. He was always behind his desk when Clint walked in.
“Well,” LeBlanc said, “don’t tell me I’m becoming your favorite person in Baton Rouge.”
“Hardly,” Clint said, “but you are my favorite source for information.”
“Well, pour yourself some coffee and take a seat.”
Clint poured some coffee, saw that LeBlanc already had a cup, so he just sat down across from the man.
“What’s on your mind?”
“Bayou Teche.”
“Don’t tell me you want to go there,” the lawman said.
“I don’t want to,” Clint said, “but I may have to. How far away is it?”
“Well, it’s probably about fifty miles from here to Bayou Teche, but what town do you want to go to?”
“New Iberia.”
“Ah,” LeBlanc said, “Iberia Pari
sh is more like ninety miles away.”
Clint frowned and sipped his coffee. That was not good.
“What do you know about a man named Jacques Pivot?” he asked.
Now it was LeBlanc’s turn to frown. “Does this have to do with Mrs. Devereaux’s problem?” he asked.
“It might.”
“Jacques Pivot is her husband’s biggest rival,” LeBlanc said. “I would say they’re the two richest men in Baton Rouge.”
“But Pivot doesn’t come to Baton Rouge.”
“Still, he conducts his business from a Baton Rouge address, even though he lives in Bayou Teche just outside of New Iberia. Ah, I see. You’re thinking of going to see him?”
“Only if I have to.”
“He doesn’t see many people,” LeBlanc said.
“I’ll deal with that when the time comes,” Clint said. “That is, if I decide to go and try to see him.”
“When will you make up your mind?” the lawman asked.
“Not sure,” Clint said. He wanted to tell LeBlanc as little as possible about Cappy’s business. He put his coffee cup down on the sheriff’s desk and stood up. “I still need some more information before I make up my mind.”
“Well,” LeBlanc said, “come on back if you think I can help further.”
“Appreciate that,” Clint said, and left.
TWENTY-TWO
Clint decided to find out from Cappy what she knew about Jacques Pivot, but he’d do it the next day. No point in going back to her place so soon. Maybe it would pay to stop in at a local newspaper and read some old issues about both Devereaux and Pivot. It might tell him who was the good guy and who was the bad guy in that relationship.
Clint found his way to the offices of The Baton Rouge Advocate, discovered that they also archived old copies of The New Orleans Times-Picayune, as well as The Daily Iberian from New Iberia.
He settled down in their morgue to leaf through old issues of the newspapers, spent hours going back several years until he thought he had an idea what kind of men Simon Devereaux and Jacques Pivot were.
He left the newspaper after finding a water closet in the building where he could wash the newspaper ink off his hand. He stopped at a small café to have supper alone and think about what he’d learned that day.
Luckily, the café he stopped in was not French and he was able to get himself a good ol’ steak and potatoes meal. He washed it down with beer, then had a slice of apple pie and some coffee for dessert.
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