“Yes, may I help you?” Boots asked.
“Actually, I was wondering if I could help you,” the man said in a strong mid-western accent, possibly Chicago, which would also fit with his attire. “What are you doing in this berth, it was sealed, by me as a matter of fact.”
Boots shrugged, slightly irritated. “Forgiving me for not recognizing you.” He made a show of brushing his jacket with his hand, then asked, “Who are you?”
The man pushed by Boots with the same irritation, and entered the room. He nodded at Persi, then at Johnny, then turned back to Boots and handed him a card. The card was one he had seen before and told Boots that he should immediately place himself between the poor mustached man and Persi before the volcano erupted, but when he glanced at Persi, she stood calmly and actually smiled.
That’s my girl. He nodded approvingly.
Persi narrowed her eyes and cautiously nodded back.
“As I asked before, what gives you the right to be in this berth while an investigation is still active?”
Johnny spoke before Boots could answer, channeling the nobility of both his Sioux and Scottish heritage. “First, we were told the investigation was complete and had yielded nothing that looked like foul play, and second, I am the young man’s uncle, Chief Walkingcrane McKensie, of the Sioux nation.” Johnny pulled a calling card from a vest pocket, complete with tribal symbol and Scottish crest.
The man shifted feet and turned. “Foul play had not been ruled out until a few minutes ago, but I will stand by that conclusion, and since you’re the uncle, I will let the Senior Conductor Washington know I am okay with your presence here.” Looking directly at Johnny he said, “I am sorry for your loss, if there is anything I can do, please let me know.” He pulled a card from his own waistcoat and handed it to Johnny. He tipped his hat to Persi and left the room quickly, as if he had a pressing engagement.
Johnny looked at the card, “Ahh, Pinkertons,” he said, “Well, if he has determined there has been no crime, perhaps you have misread the facts,” He looked at Persi and Boots, a soft smile creasing his face, “or perhaps you have been caught up in the drama of the moment.”
Though Boots knew this was not the case, he did not correct him. He turned to Persi and lifted her hand to his lips. “My Dear, your self-control was magnificent. I was sure there would be bloodshed.”
She smiled, “Boots, I do not hold the sins of one man against his entire organization. That agent was doing his job and I would only encourage him to do it better, because he has obviously failed to investigate this case properly.”
“Persi, I do not get this joke,” Boots said with lifted eyebrows.
“No joke, Dear Heart. That agent, what was his name?”
Boots handed her the man’s calling card. She read it and tensed briefly before handing the card back. “Boots, I had the misfortune to meet Robert Pinkerton several times, as you might be aware.”
“Yes, I know, which is why ...”
“That man is not Robert Pinkerton,” she said.
Chapter 8 – A Question of Pinkertons
Boots stood, unmoving, a frown moving across his face. “Not Robert ...”
Persi shook her head.
“Very interesting,” Boots said.
Persi smiled, “Oh my yes, quite interesting.”
Johnny shifted his stance to face them. “Perhaps we could retire to your berth and discuss just how interesting this is?”
They jumped, so into their analysis they actually forgot he was there.
“I’m finding this situation less and less interesting and more and more irritating.” Johnny finished as the Senior Conductor Washington returned and handed them a large mailbag.
“I hope this will do,” he said.
“It should be fine, thank you,” Boots said. “By the way, how did the Pinkerton agents happen to be aboard this train?”
“I’m not one hundred percent sure, sir, but I think they were working on a case in the Dakotas.” The conductor said.
“Ahh, well, not important,” Boots said quickly. “I think we both agree it was lucky to have them aboard. We will pack as many of Master Moonshadow’s things as we can and be away from here in a few minutes.”
The conductor nodded and left.
The three picked up the strewn clothes, packed as much as they could fit in the bag, and searched the room from top to bottom, they adjourned to Persi and Boots berth. After Persi had ordered coffee and scones, she sat next to Boots on the low brocade upholstered bench in their cabin and placed her hands on her lap. “I am overwhelmed by the sheer number of hijinks taking place on this one train,” she said. “Attempted train robbery, man overboard, missing ceramic ball, searched room, fake Pinkerton agent... honestly, it is too ...” She slapped her knees, “too unorderly.”
“Now, now, dear. Do not overly excite yourself, we shall get to the bottom of it all.” Boots said, gazing out the window into the vastness of the open spaces through which they traveled. Silence filled the room until Boots said, “The Pinkertons.”
“The Pinkertons?” Persi questioned.
“Yes, dear, if the Pinkertons are false, then any interaction we have had with them, or they with us, is suspect, including their “investigation” of Moonstone’s death.”
She nodded.
“So we must take their findings with a grain of salt,” Boots said.
“You know my feelings concerning them, husband. I would take them with nothing less than a pound of salt.” She nodded again.
He looked at Johnny, “We must find and track the movements of these Pinkertons. I don’t know if they are the key, or just one of several on the same ring.”
Johnny nodded, “Though I still have had no explanation of what your role is in all this, let me know what you need and I won’t hesitate to apply myself.”
“Thank you,” Boots said, patting his shoulder. “As I remember, the Captain used you for reconnaissance on several occasions.”
“He did. In fact, on one of those missions I saved the life of a friend,” Johnny replied, then frowned. “But, Boots, they have seen me.”
Boots bowed his head. “And so they did. Perhaps, if we changed your clothes ...”
“And perhaps added a mustache?” Persi offered.
“Yes, an excellent notion,” Boots agreed. “With a little creativity focused towards camouflage, perhaps you could find the Pinkerton camp and keep an eye on them without their notice.”
Johnny smiled, “It would be my pleasure, especially if it can shed some light on the murder of my nephew.”
An hour later, Johnny had been transfigured into a heavy set, mustachioed businessman, complete with baggy pants, frayed at the bottoms, and a bright waistcoat. Using several of Boots’ cravats, Persi added twenty pounds to the chief’s middle. A weathered greatcoat and leather portfolio completed the look. Persi produced a small hatbox containing stage makeup and in several minutes, had added both pounds and age to his face.
“Well,” Johnny said, looking into the mirror Persi handed him. “I have become my father, Lord of the Manner. It is very ... disconcerting.”
“Act the part and all will go well,” Boots said. “Once you have found the Pinkertons gathering place, send word of your location through a conductor.” He handed Johnny a card. It read, Mr. Horatio Abercrombie. Dealer of fine horse feed. Hartford, Connecticut. “Say, ‘Mr. Abercrombie would like the pleasure of your company.’ Then tell the conductor your location and Persi and I will come as soon as possible.”
Johnny turned the card over and back and smiled. “Between the two of you, who would you say plays this part most often?”
“I do,” Persi said without hesitation, while repacking her makeup box.
He looked at Boots who confirmed it with a shrug and nod.
“Well, perhaps I should go. Please check the way so I can exit cleanly.”
Boots opened the door and stuck his head out. A young woman entered her berth three doors down, then the
passage was empty. “Go now. If you find nothing, return here at the first call to Downingville and we shall re-establish Chief Walkingcrane before the train pulls in.”
Boots noticed Johnny shift his gait as he passed into the passageway, and changed his posture to that of a rotund man in his 40s. Tipping his shoulders forward, he rolled his weight back and forth across his hips in a quick shuffle.
Boots closed the door and turned to Persi, who was once again sitting in her chair near the window and sipping coffee. “I pray he finds them before our next stop. I would like some resolution to these shenanigans before then,” Boots said.
“As do I, husband, as do I.” Persi agreed.
****
Persi had just replaced the shine on her boots and was repacking her cloth and wax when a knock sounded on the door. She had removed her dress and loosened the corset herself, glad she had switched to her front laced torture device. Normally, in this state of dress, she would have assigned Boots to doorman duties but he was fast asleep on the couch so she threw her robe around her and answered the door. A conductor in his mid-thirties, stood in the wood paneled hall aiming a pistol at her midsection. Through the door, he noticed Boots asleep and smiled, then motioned her out of the room.
Several minutes later, a knock sounded on the door again. When Boots did not stir, the second knock was louder and he woke up with a start. Wiping his eyes, he opened the door to find a conductor smiling at him. “Yes?” Boots asked.
“Yes, sir,” the conductor said, handing him the card he had given Johnny earlier. “A Mr. Abercrombie asks you to meet him in Dining Car D as soon as possible.”
Johnny took the card and tipped the young man. He shut the door and yawned. “Persi, it’s time to ...” he said over his shoulder but suddenly noticed Persi was not in the room, which was not as disconcerting as the fact that her boots, now glowing with new polish, sat next to her chair. A quick check of her trunk revealed her other sets of footwear were safely stored, meaning Persi was walking about the train barefoot. Though being raised in the Aboriginal Territories meant she was prone to kicking off her footwear with more ease than he, her years at Ms. Emily Rorshach’s Finishing School for Women of Means, would have precluded her from doing the same on public transportation.
With an abnormally stoic face he drew his pistol, ensured it was loaded, then replaced it and donned his coat. He exited the room and walked quickly to the rendezvous with Johnny. When he arrived, he shook Johnny’s hand, continuing the charade, and sat across the table from him. “Mr. Abercrombie, how are you?” Boots asked.
“Fine, fine, Mr. Beacon, and you, sir?” Johnny answered in a close to perfect Georgian accent.
“I must admit I am not as well as I could be. I am out of sorts and feel that I have lost something. Something very precious to me.”
“Is that so?” Johnny said slowly. “Well, I might be able to help you. I believe your lost item is below us in a suite, a Pinkerton suite at that.”
“Interesting, and how do you know it is a Pinkerton suite?” Boots asked, raising an eyebrow.
“The Pinkerton Suite,” Johnny corrected. “And mostly because of the brass plaque outside the door labeled, The Pinkerton Suite.”
Johnny lowered his voice and leaned in. “However, as it is a berthing area, and there are no seats in the hallway, any hesitation appears to be loitering and draws the interest of the conductors.”
Boots looked at the table, his fists sat on top, clenching and unclenching.
“Look,” Johnny said, nearly a whisper, “I strongly suspect they will not hurt her and have decided they need leverage for some, yet unknown reason. Why else take her?”
Boots nodded. “Plausible.”
“So, perhaps we can simply wait for them to approach, and if they don’t before we pull into Downingville, we will take a more direct approach.”
Boots nodded, then stood. “My friend, thank you for your help, and I will look forward to a visit when things are not so complicated, however I think I will take the direct approach now and not wait. I cannot take the chance that Persi ...” he fought back the anger with clenched jaws. “Perhaps all is well, maybe a simple misunderstanding.”
Johnny smiled. “Probably so.”
Boots said no more, but turned quickly and strode to the down ladder. Upon reaching it, he looked back and saluted.
Johnny returned the salute before Boots descended to the next floor to face off with the most highly trained private security agents in the United States.
Chapter 9 – Persi is Rescued and Violence Avoided, Mostly
Boots, in no mood for pretense, knocked on the door and when it opened, punched the man in the face. The force of his fist knocked the man back, causing him to stumble over an ottoman and sprawl across the floor.
Boots stepped in, gun drawn, and covered the dark wood paneled room. The suite was arranged neatly with four rooms, each with a door opening into the central space in which he now stood. A large man was closing the door on one room containing large steamer trunks, while two other men reached into their coats. “Please keep your hands in plain sight or I shall guarantee these quarters will need a severe cleaning,” Boots said.
One of the four agents wore a bandage that covered the left side of his face. The right hand of a second man was splinted and wrapped in a bandage. Boots smiled, understanding that their kidnapping of his love did not go as easily as they assumed it would.
To his left, on a purple upholstered couch, sat the mustached man they had met earlier, the one pretending to be Robert Pinkerton. His hand sat in his lap, holding a pistol, the barrel of which pointed to his right, where Persi sat, sipping tea.
“Oh, Boots, so lovely of you to drop by,” Persi said. “I told Mr. Pinkerton, you would want to meet them, and that nothing would keep you away.”
So, she is keeping up his charade. “My dear, I see your handiwork in these gentlemen. They have not injured you have they?” Boots asked.
She smiled, her eyes bright with tears, “Not more than a push, perhaps a grope or two,” she looked at the man with a bandaged face. “Nothing I could not handle.”
Boots looked at the man she indicated, and aimed his gun at the man’s head, who lost all evidence of bravado and stumbled back a step, bumping into the wall.
“Boots, dear, I said I handled it,” Persi said. “And the noise, it will be so terribly loud in this small space.”
When Boots hesitated, the man pretending to be Pinkerton, spoke, “Would you like to wager I can pull my trigger before you can shoot my associate and swing your gun towards me, Mr. Beacon?”
Boots eyes shifted to Pinkerton.
“And I suspect you would find the mess ‘I’ make will be heartbreaking.”
“Boots, darling, perhaps we should listen to what, Mr. Pinkerton, has to say?” Persi cooed.
Boots safed his trigger and lowered the gun. “Though I’m not sure I agree with my wife’s assessment of your status as gentlemen, please, tell us why the Pinkertons have acted so dastardly?”
“Dastardly? Why sir, you injure me,” he said with a smile. “I have simply invited you and your lovely wife to discuss further interaction with my men and me.”
“Interaction?” Boots asked.
“Why, yes sir, interaction. Have we not been interacting as of late?”
“Have we?” Persi looked at Boots and shrugged.
“Though I attended college, it did not take my training in higher mathematics to count the number of bullets in the young mail clerk’s gun the night we broke open the door of the mail car. And we eventually were able to extract the actual facts of the night of the robbery from Moonshadow.”
“Extract?” Persi asked.
The man smiled and focused on Boots. “We are on a case, sir, an important case of national importance, and in the course of our lawful investigation, you have injected yourselves, creating difficulties for us several times. Something tells me you are more than you seem, but regardless, I need you to
stop interfering. This should be relatively easy since we are disembarking at Downingville shortly.”
“So, all of this,” Boots swept arm around the room, “unnecessary mayhem, was to ask us to stop ... whatever it is you think we’ve been doing? Could you not simply have asked?”
The man chuffed. “Now, Mr. Beacon, we both know you would not have listened. I’ve been in this business long enough to judge personalities and yours is one, not unlike that of a bulldog. It is not likely to let go of something it wants once it has grabbed on to it.”
“He’s got you there,” Persi said, lifting her cup to him.
“Not helpful, dear.” Boots said, tipping his head to the side.
Persi cleared her throat before speaking. “I, for one, am appreciative of your directness Mr. Pinkerton. I will encourage my husband to let go to that of which he has grabbed and allow you to continue on your way.”
Persi sat her cup on the table near her and stood, “Now, if you will excuse us, we will return to our berth until after Downsville. Thank you for the tea and,” she looked at the two bandaged men, “the sport.”
Boots pulled the hammer back on his pistol but did not raise it as Persi passed him and exited through the door. The man pretending to be Robert Pinkerton, and the other four men, watched Boots back from their room, holstering his gun under his coat as he stepped back into the hallway and shut the door. Halfway through the next car, Boots looked behind them, saw no one following and relaxed a little.
Upon opening the door to their room he quickly pulled his gun again as a half-naked man wiggled out their window attempting to gain a handhold to the roof. Boots yelled, “John, no need to leave, we are here.”
The wriggling stopped the forward motion and shifted into reverse. Seconds later Chief Walkingcrane McKensie stood before them in his tribal attire. “Ah, there you are. When you left, Boots, I was unsure what to do so I thought I might ready myself to depart, then work my way up the cars and attempt assistance from the outside.”
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