Smoke could not believe what he had heard. “Are you saying that you are not even going to investigate this?”
“I see no real need.”
Ire bubbled up in Smoke Jensen as he rose and leaned menacingly over the captain’s desk. “I do,” he growled harshly. “If you are going to ignore this, then I’m sure not. I’ll look into it on my own.”
Steel glinted in the flinty gray eyes of the lawman. “You do and I’ll have you behind bars for obstructing justice, interfering in a police investigation, and everything short of mopery.”
“How could my investigation interfere with something that is obviously being so ill-served? Suppose you tell me, how can I interfere with an investigation that is not being made?” Smoke stopped suddenly, recalled an offer that had been made to him a year ago by another better lawman than this travesty. “I’ll be back here, right enough. Only not to go to jail, but to watch you eat a large helping of crow.” With that he swarmed out of the office.
Two hours later, a sheepish desk sergeant knocked on the door to the captain’s office. “Uh—Boss, there’s a United States Marshal out here, wants to talk to you. He’s—ah—been here before.”
“Oh, hell, I was about to leave for the day and head for Lulu’s place. Send him in,” he concluded, sighing.
Smoke Jensen entered the office and the captain’s jaw sagged. “Deputy United States Marshal, Kirby Jensen, Captain. I’m here to advise you that I will be conducting an investigation into the cause of death of Harrison Tate, and the attempted extortion and intimidation of a widowed woman by the name of Martha Tate. Neither you nor your men will be required to participate. But I will expect your complete cooperation. Which boils down to this,” Smoke added with a blooming smile. “Keep the hell out of my way.”
Smoke had left the precinct station and gone directly to the office of the district U.S. Marshal in Denver. An old friend, Marshal Slator, had first offered Smoke Jensen a permanent deputy’s badge some five years earlier when Smoke had aided the lawman in clearing out a nest of highwaymen who had plagued the gold fields and storage houses of Colorado. Smoke declined at the time. Slator made the offer again a year gone by. Smoke soon found that it didn’t take more than ten words to find the silver circle pinned on his vest under his suit coat. Grinning, he then returned to the police station.
Shaken, the captain began to babble. “How—where—what in the name of God did you do to get that badge?”
“Accepted an old offer from a friend,” Smoke answered factually. “Now, can we begin again? I want the names of any known arsonists believed to operate in this district. Also the names of animal haters. I also want a trace put on the carriage that ran down Harrison Tate. Where did it go? Who owns it? Where is it now? Who drove it the day Harry was killed?”
“You sure want a whole lot for a man who was in here not two hours ago begging me to look into some old lady’s cat being poisoned.”
Smoke gave him a nasty smile. “Why, Captain, I’ve only begun.”
That night, three window panes were shot out of the second-floor front of the Tate mansion. That proved an immediate mistake. Smoke Jensen seemed to appear out of nowhere while the two, laughing, drunken men who had fired the shots staggered off down the flagstone walk. Each felt a light touch on one side of their heads an instant before their noggins were painfully slammed together.
Although dazed, one of them had the forethought to go for his six-gun, only to feel the muzzle of a .45 Colt Peacemaker, jammed into his stomach, and fired. The hot gasses blew through his intestines and did more damage than the slug. It reduced him to a writhing ball of misery. Beside him, his stunned companion gaped.
“Aw, God, Petey—Petey,” he croaked brokenly. “What happened to you?”
A hard, square-jawed face swam into his view. “I happened to him,” Smoke Jensen informed the piece of riffraff. “If you are not ready for some of the same, you’ll be quick about answering some questions.”
“Li—like what?”
“Who hired you to shoot up that house back there?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the suddenly white-faced punk blurted.
Smoke Jensen showed the drunken lout the blood-spattered muzzle of his Peacemaker and tapped him on his belly. “Yes, you do.”
Eyes grown wide and white, the words tumbled out. “I don’t know. Some feller we ran into down at Mulrooney’s.”
“If you don’t have a name, what did he look like?”
Eyes fixed on the threatening barrel of Smoke’s revolver, the thug gave a description through trembling lips. It matched that of the discourteous lawyer at the funeral. Then he concluded with, “He offered a lot of money. A whole hundred dollars.”
“Did he pay you in advance?”
“No. He said to look him u-up!”
“So you have an address. Give it.”
Twenty minutes later, Smoke Jensen had the punk locked up and the corpse on the way to the morgue. With that out of the way, he summoned a horse-drawn cab and returned to the Tate mansion. In the morning he would pay a visit at the address he had obtained.
Ten minutes past nine, the next morning, Smoke Jensen let himself into the reception area of an elegant office suite in a five-story brick building on Boyle Street. The view from the top-floor windows gave out onto San Francisco Bay. The calm waters, Smoke noticed, wore a plethora of steam ships, their funnels belching black streams, moved majestically through the gaggle of white dots from sail craft of varying size. Smoke knew that there existed rules of the road, so to speak, for vessels on the water, but to him all that bustle appeared to be some sort of mystical dance. At a desk, set behind a dividing rail and forbidding, low gate, sat a prim, pinched-faced young man.
He wore a high, celluloid collar, and an expression of disdain. He had removed his coat, to reveal a snowy shirt, off-set by a florid cravat that seemed to bloom up under his chin. The fellow peered at Smoke through the lenses of a pince-nez and further pursed his already puckered lips. A brass nameplate on the leading edge of the desk declared the individual to be Jerome Wimple.
“May I help you, sir?”
“Yes,” Smoke answered bluntly. “Who or what is Tinsdale Properties, Limited?” Smoke had obtained the name from the gold leaf letters on the frosted glass of the outer door.
The priggish secretary glanced around the outer room, at the potted plants, long burgundy drapes, dark wainscotting, and starkly white painted walls, as though to determine the answer to that question for himself. He sighed, as though loath to speak, and raised a narrow hand, with long, pallid fingers in a gesture of dismissal.
“We deal in real estate. Do you wish to list a property with us or are you looking to buy?”
“Neither one. I’m looking for a man who is supposed to work here.”
Wimple’s expression indicated that he had immediately lost interest, yet his position compelled him to continue this profitless course. “I am familiar with all of our employees. If you can give me his name, I’ll be able to direct you to him.”
Smoke hesitated a moment. “I don’t have a name. Only what he looks like. He’s about my height, heavier, maybe two hundred pounds, thick, black hair, a scar under his right eye, sort of red-faced, like a drinking man. Wears a large mustache, which he waxes and curves up the ends.”
Oh, dear heavens, Brian Trask! Jerome Wimple blanched for only a fraction of a second, duly recorded by Smoke Jensen.
“I can think of no one of that description working for Tinsdale Limited.”
Smoke Jensen took a menacing step toward the desk. “Oh, really? If I were to bounce you off a couple of walls, do you think it would improve your memory?”
Panic put a squeak in Wimple’s voice. “You can’t do that! Please leave or I shall be compelled to summon the police.”
Smoke had reached the desk. With one big, hard hand, he bunched the front of the starched white shirt of Wimple and yanked him off his swivel chair. With the other he delved into his
coat pocket and produced the U.S. Marshal’s badge.
“I am the police. United States Marshal. If I cannot get any satisfaction out of you, I’ll speak to Mr. Tinsdale.”
“M-Mr. Tinsdale is no—not in at the present time,” Wimple stammered, consumed with sudden fright. What would Bruce say about this? he wondered. This would never do. Jerome Wimple found himself suddenly released. His rump hit the seat of his chair with a soft splat.
“Then I’ll be back.” Smoke Jensen turned on one boot heel and stalked from the office.
Down on the ground floor, Smoke started out the tall front double doors when a man entering brushed him rudely aside and passed on for the stairs. Smoke caught only a quick glance. About his size, florid complexion, bulbous nose, black hair, a surly sneer on his face. Smoke had walked across the small stoop and down the five marble steps to street level before he realized who he had just seen.
At once, he swung about and started back into the tall, brick structure. Smoke took the stairs up to the fifth landing two at a time. Quickly, he strode down the carpeted hallway to the door of Tinsdale Properties, Limited. Without a pause, he yanked open the door and stormed down on the startled Jerome Wimple.
“Where is he?” Smoke demanded.
“Where is who—er—whom?” Wimple bleated.
Smoke Jensen bent closer. “The man I just described to you passed me in the lobby downstairs. He had to be coming here. I want to see him now.”
“You must be mistaken, Marshal. There’s no one come in here since you left.”
“If you are lying to me, you’ll find yourself in a cell with some mighty tough customers. I guarantee you that you’ll not like it.”
Smoke Jensen let himself through the swinging gate and advanced on the closed doors of offices along an intersecting hallway. Colt fisted, he threw open each portal, one by one. The result turned out the same at each entry. At the far end, he found an outside exit. The panel stood open a crack. Beyond it, Smoke found an exterior iron stairway, a fire escape. From far below he heard the steady ring of leather boot soles on the metal treads. His anger mounting, he returned to the office.
His hot, stinging words lashed into Jerome Wimple. “You miserable piece of pond scum, you warned him off, didn’t you?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Oh, but you do. Here’s a little message for you, and for your boss. I’ll be back, and when I come, I will use whatever force is necessary to get straight answers.”
With that he stomped out of the office. It had been a mistake to show the badge. As a lawman, he was duty-bound not to use undue force or to beat suspects. At least not in public. Smoke Jensen consoled himself with one thing. He had not been kidding about returning.
Over the next three days, Smoke Jensen followed a twisting trail that led at last to a large, lavishly appointed brothel. His man, Smoke had been informed, would be spending the evening and night there. Smoke also had a name now—Brian Trask. From the dregs of Denver society, Smoke had learned that Trask and a crew of henchmen carried out the wishes of their boss, one Ralph Tinsdale. The same Tinsdale who dealt in real estate.
Smoke had questioned Martha Tate about the offers she had received. They had come through a lawyer, she insisted. But not the one at Harrison’s service, she added. The first before her husband’s unfortunate accident. Although the police had not been exactly forthcoming with information, Smoke privately believed that Harrison Tate’s death had not been an accident. Tonight he intended to verify that belief.
Brian Trask showed up at the parlor house a little after seven that evening. He was as loud and boisterous as he was crude. Smoke wondered how he had ever obtained a membership in one of the Bay Area’s most exclusive bordellos. The parlor houses, unlike the vulgar cribs and doss houses of the waterfront, boasted private membership, elite clientele and the most discreet of parties and private arrangements. It cost a considerable amount to join, and applicants usually underwent intensive scrutiny. Smoke reasoned, correctly, that someone had bought Trask’s membership for him. Smoke had shamelessly used a club card he found in the wallet of Harrison Tate, suitably altered to read “Junior,” to gain admission. He spent the next two hours observing his target.
Seated in a red leather banquette, with a lovely, young hoyden under one arm, Smoke Jensen watched while Brian Trask teased and fondled several of the inmates of the establishment, and drank prodigiously. Then he consumed a mountainous meal of boiled pig’s knuckles and ox tails, with a mound of sauerkraut, mashed potatoes, fried parsnips, and apple sauce. He downed it all with long quaffs of rich, amber beer. Afterward, Trask washed his fingers in a finger bowl as daintily as any Nob Hill fop. Then he took his pick from among the girls.
Smoke leaned toward the doxie he held in one arm and murmured into her ear. “The auburn-haired one there, what is her name?”
His hostess, who said her name was Vivian, peered across the room to where Smoke had nodded and saw Trask and the girl at the foot of a large, curving staircase. “Oh, that’s Danielle.”
“A lovely girl. But not so delightful as you.” Disliking himself for what he was about to do, Smoke Jensen ordered a bottle of champagne and two glasses be brought to a room upstairs and suggested to the sweet young Vivian, who had all but crawled into his lap, that they adjourn to above floors. The bartender and waiter knew which room she used, so the champagne was there, waiting, when they climbed the stairs to the third floor. Even though the wine was brought up by rope-pull dumbwaiter, a human one was there ahead of them, hand out for a gratuity.
Smoke tipped him a three-dollar gold piece and saw him to the door, every bit the ardent lover. He kept control of his desire by thinking of his beloved Sally, while Vivian removed her outer clothing and paraded before him in her foundation garment. It was a dangerous pink, trimmed in black lace, with long garter belts that suspended black, net stockings. It might be all hoity-toity downstairs, but in the privacy of a room, Smoke thought, a whore is a whore. He watched her with feigned appreciation—well, not all that feigned—and then turned away from her to pour the wine. Before popping the cork, he deposited in Vivian’s glass the powdered contents of a small envelope he had obtained from the doctor tending Martha Tate. The powerful, tasteless, odorless opiate derivative would induce sleep quickly.
He filled the glasses and watched the powder dissolve, then turned back and handed one to Vivian. They toasted a “night of bliss,” and drank deeply. Smoke poured more champagne and again they drank it off. Smoke removed his coat, unfastened the buttons of his vest and removed it. Then he stepped behind the willing young thing and untied the laces of her undergarment. Over her shoulder he kept close watch as Vivian’s eyelids began to droop.
“Your friend, Danielle? Which is her room?” he asked softly.
Vivian blinked sleepily. She could not understand why she was getting so drowsy so early in the evening. His question puzzled her also. “Wh-why do you want to know?”
“More champagne?”
“Ummm. I just want some happy times, Junior.”
They all knew Harrison Tate, whom they considered a harmless old roue, who came for the food and drinks and the chance to gaze upon lovely young flesh. The arrival of Tate, Junior had them all excited. Vivian considered herself to have made a fortunate catch. She smiled languidly at him, inviting him to the bed.
“Champagne makes for happy times,” Smoke Jensen suggested.
“Jis’ a little bit. I feel fun—funny.”
“Then laugh and enjoy. We have the whole night ahead of us.”
Smoke poured and asked his question again. Through dimming awareness, Vivian dredged up the required answer. “She’s in two-oh-seven. Tha’s right, two—uh—oh—seven. Why d’you want to know?”
“I thought…” Smoke told her, inventing, “that when her friend left, we could slip down and get happy together.”
“Really?” Vivian’s eyes rolled up and her lids closed over the exposed whites.
Sm
oke helped her to the edge of the bed, removed her clothes and put her under a sheet. He would give it an hour, then head for the room that held Brian Trask.
Brian Trask lay sprawled naked in the satin sheets of a thoroughly mussed bed. In his usual manner, he had rapidly thrust and ground his way to explosive release twice in one hour and promptly rolled onto one side and gone into a deep sleep. As instructed, Danielle had refreshed herself, dressed, and left the room. She had no need to extract her fee from the slumbering man’s pocket; such vulgar matters were handled on the members’ monthly billing. She had barely swayed her way to the stairs leading to the ground floor when Smoke Jensen appeared on the flight above her. He froze immediately and she went her way ignorant of his presence.
When Smoke reached Room 207, he crouched and tried the knob. The door was locked. From his boot top, Smoke took a slim-bladed knife and attacked the bolt. After a couple of tries, it slid back and the thin panel swung inward. Smoke went with it.
Moonlight filtered through the open window, and the curtains billowed inward on a light breeze. The zephyr smelled of sea tang and fog. Smoke Jensen crossed the floor silently to the large, four-poster bed. Silently, he looked down on the naked man who slept there. Silver shafts dappled the pale body, revealing slashes and circles of pink that denoted old wound scars. A tough, dangerous man, Smoke surmised. He turned away, went to the door, and relocked it.
Might as well get on with it, he thought as he returned to the bed. He bent down and roughly shook Brian Trask by one shoulder. The satiated man grunted and batted at Smoke’s arm as though at a fly. Smoke shook him harder.
“You want more, honey?” Trask muttered.
“Wake up, Trask.”
Smoke Jensen’s bass rumble shocked Brian Trask to muddled wakefulness. “Wha—who—how’d you get in here?”
“Say I am a magician,” Smoke told him. Trask reached for the sheet to cover himself. “No. Leave it.”
Spirit Of The Mountain Man/ordeal Of The Mountain Man (Pinnacle Westerns) Page 12
