by J. T. Edson
‘And did Mr. Stenhouse know of these rumors?’ Belle said icily.
‘Well—Er—Yes,’ Stenhouse spluttered. ‘I had heard of them.’
‘Then why didn’t you mention them to me?’ the girl blazed. ‘If I’d known, it might have opened up a whole new line of thought.’
‘I didn’t think that it had any connection—’ Stenhouse commenced.
‘The hell you didn’t!’ Belle shouted, springing from her chair with such velocity that it went flying backwards across the room. ‘You didn’t trust me enough to mention it, if it might involve Southrons. I’m the Rebel Spy.’
‘That’s nothing to do with !’ Stenhouse yelped, also rising and registering alarm before the girl’s barely controlled fury.
‘You’re a rotten, stinking liar, Stenhouse!’ Belle yelled, tensing as if to fling herself in a savage attack at the cringing, pallid man. ‘You didn’t mind General Handiman bringing me into it to cover your nephew’s inadequacies, as long as only Irish nationalists were involved—’
‘Really, General Handiman!’ Stenhouse spluttered. ‘This is intolerable—’
‘What happened to Jim Bludso and the Prairie Belle was intolerable too!’ the girl thundered, making an almost visible mental effort to restrain herself from taking violent physical action.
‘That’s enough, both of you!’ Handiman barked, slapping a big hand hard on the top of the table. ‘Bickering between ourselves—’
‘Bickering!’ Belle spat out the word viciously. ‘God! If I’d only known—!’
‘You’d have seen everything in a flash, Colonel Boyd?’ Handiman challenged, for the first time using the rank which Belle had been given to enhance her official standing and to help when dealing with military or civil authorities.
‘Perhaps not,’ the girl admitted. ‘But I might have suspected—’
‘There are some who might say that you ought to have suspected what was going to happen as soon as you heard that the “coal torpedoes” had been stolen from “O’Reilly’s” carpetbag,’ Handiman pointed out, glaring the other man into silence and anticipating his comment. ‘It’s all too easy to say what one should, or could, or ought to have done, after the event.’
‘It is,’ Belle conceded, ‘but, if I had been told—’
‘Perhaps things would have been different,’ Handiman finished for her. ‘Nobody could have conceived that they would take such an extreme step, endangering hundreds of lives, to destroy a fake cargo and throw us off their trail.’
‘I believe that they were counting on a large loss of life, so that we wouldn’t believe they would have done such a thing,’ Belle said bitterly. ‘That’s why they had the snake left in Jim Bludso’s cabin. They’d heard of his claim that, if the Prairie Belle caught fire, he would hold the bows against the bank until everybody got ashore. That wouldn’t have suited their ends. So they wanted him out of the way.’
‘Which you can see now, after the event,’ Handiman pointed out gently. ‘Our present concern is not to lay the blame, but to decide on what action we must take against these people.’
‘I’m going after whoever’s responsible,’ Belle declared.
‘Even if they are Southrons?’ asked the co-coordinator, stung into indiscretion by the challenging glare which the girl had directed his way.
‘Mister!’ Belle hissed. ‘I swore the oath of allegiance to the Union before I joined the Secret Service. Since then I’ve been in the field, carrying out dangerous assignments, not sitting behind a desk co-coordinating. There has never been any question against my loyalty. If that doesn’t satisfy you, I’ll resign right now.’
‘It satisfies me,’ Handiman stated and gave added strength to the words by crossing the room to collect the girl’s chair.
‘Apart from realizing that no good could come from another attempt at secession,’ Belle went on, sitting down. ‘I’ve personal reasons for getting them, whoever they are.’
‘Personal reasons?’ queried Handiman.
‘When I went to Jim Bludso for help, he agreed to give it without even asking what I wanted. Despite the fact that he suspected what I was doing and how helping me could be dangerous. Helping me caused his death. That’s all the reason I need for avenging him. There’s no way you can stop me going after them.’
‘You can’t conduct a private vendetta, no matter what was between you—’ Stenhouse put in.
‘Don’t you even finish that!’ Belle warned the co-coordinator. ‘Even if Jim and I had bedded down together every night, it wouldn’t have been any of your damned concern. But we didn’t, although we slept in the same cabin. To satisfy your filthy little mind, Jim slept on the floor.’
‘I—I—I ’ Stenhouse spluttered.
‘There’s no need for you to go on, Colonel Boyd,’ Handiman announced, cutting off the other man’s protests. ‘Your morals are not being questioned and neither is your loyalty.’
‘Do you concur, Mr. Co-coordinator?’ Belle challenged.
‘I agree with General Handiman,’ Stenhouse confirmed, with humility. ‘Although I want to go on record as saying that you misinterpreted the comment I was going to make. I apologize, ma’am.’
‘Then I accept your apology, sir,’ Belle replied. ‘What do we know about these Southron agitators?’
‘Very little, beyond the fact that they do exist and have been very busy,’ Handiman replied. ‘Nothing important, or too dangerous, but active. So far, they have restricted their efforts to making inflammatory speeches, or appeals for funds—’
‘The fund-raising was one of the reasons I didn’t take them more seriously,’ Stenhouse announced, in hopeful self-exculpation. ‘I believed that they were no more than a bunch of confidence tricksters, duping the unwary.’
‘And, as long as they were only doing it to Southrons, that was all right,’ Belle drawled sardonically.
‘No!’ Stenhouse yelped. ‘Of course not. It just didn’t seem to come under our jurisdiction.’
‘Madame Lucienne thought that it could become serious,’ Handiman injected, directing a cold glare of remonstration at Belle. ‘That’s why I’m down here. As soon as I saw in which direction the consignment was heading, I wondered if we might have been deliberately misled by the purchasers.’
‘One hundred repeating rifles wouldn’t be a big factor in helping the South to secede,’ Belle remarked. ‘But it would be a start. It might even appeal to the agitators’ sense of humor to know that the first weapons of the new conflict had been purchased from a regiment that had been organized to fight us.’
‘That’s part of it,’ Handiman guessed. ‘Mainly, though, the purchase of so many arms would arouse interest. So they selected a way that would mislead us, if news of it should leak out.’
‘What do we do now?’ Stenhouse inquired.
‘Any ideas on that, Colonel Boyd?’ Handiman requested.
‘Not until I’ve seen Lucienne,’ the girl admitted, then a thought struck her. ‘Where is the Stream Queen now?’
‘She went north again on the morning after she arrived,’ Handiman replied. ‘There was no legal reason for holding her. I had her stopped and searched before she reached Baton Rouge. Brunel wasn’t on board.’
‘Then he must be in the city,’ Belle breathed.
‘That’s likely,’ Handiman agreed. ‘We can’t cover every exit, but we’re watching those he’s most likely to use if he wants to leave. And we’ve men alerted to watch for him all through Louisiana.’
Belle was less impressed by the information than Stenhouse seemed to be. There were too many ways by which Brunel could have escaped from New Orleans. Nor would the watchers, armed with no more than descriptions, be guaranteed to identify him. In a few days, they could be supplied with copies of Darren’s excellent sketch but by that time it might be too late.
‘Lord!’ the girl said fervently. ‘Let him still be in New Orleans. If he is, Willie might find him.’
‘Willie?’ Handiman questioned.
&nb
sp; ‘Jim Bludso’s Negro stoker.’ the girl elaborated. ‘If there’s nothing more, General, I’ll be going.’
‘What if you can’t find Brunel?’ Stenhouse asked as she stood up.
‘One of the men at the warehouse said that something was going to happen in Shreveport,’ Belle replied. ‘If I don’t find him, I’ll go and make another start from there.’
‘This time you can count on every cooperation,’ Handiman assured her.
‘Thank you for that,’ Belle answered and walked out of the room.
Leaving the suite, Belle went out of the hotel and found a cab. While riding to Madame Lucienne’s establishment, she started to think about the latest developments.
If she had only known about the Southron agitators!
That damned fool, Stenhouse, and his mistrust—
Yet there had been cause—if unjust and unfounded—for it. During the War, Belle had been a very successful spy and had given loyal, devoted service to the Confederate cause. She could hardly blame a man like the co-coordinator for being wary where Southron interests were concerned. In his place, she might have experienced similar misgivings.
For all that, if Stenhouse had been frank with her, she might have connected the ‘coal torpedoes’ with the shipment and the Prairie Belle. She had been aware of the possibility that they were on a wild-goose chase. Possibly she would have anticipated a means by which the Secret Service could be thrown completely off the trail. The purpose of ‘coal torpedoes’ was primarily to blow up and destroy ships. They would have an extremely limited use in the ‘liberation’ of Ireland. And, more to the point, they offered a solution that would be only too obvious to a Southron mind.
Of course, as General Handiman had said, it was hellishly easy to be wise after the event.
Who could have foreseen how the agitators would be so disdainful of human lives that they would deliberately wreck the riverboat?
Forcing herself to become calm, for she found her body shaking and trembling with the fury of her emotions, Belle settled more firmly on the seat. She accepted that she would gain nothing by mulling feverishly over the past. That could not be changed, whether it had been right or wrong. What mattered was the future. So she gave her thoughts to what lay ahead.
Nothing that Belle might have imagined could have equaled the shock of the next development.
Leaving and paying off the cab, the girl looked at the darkened display windows of Lucienne’s shop. The drapes had been drawn at the windows of the living quarters, but a glimmer of lamp’s light showed through. So Belle went to the right hand alley, knowing that there was a side entrance which she could use. Turning the corner, she came face to face with Darren.
Such was the shock and horror on the young man’s face that Belle slammed to a halt and felt a terrible sensation of foreboding. He hardly seemed to recognize her as she blocked his path.
‘What is it?’ Belle gasped.
‘Must—get—doctor!’ Darren croaked.
At that moment Belle became aware that the side door was open.
‘Lucienne!’ she ejaculated.
‘D-Don’t go up!’ the man warped, catching her left bicep as she started to brush by him.
Wrenching her arm free, Belle ran along the alley and entered the building. The Negro maid sprawled in the hall, dead, with her throat cut from ear to ear. Sobbing in anxiety, Belle raced up the stairs. Although she had known that something must be terribly wrong, she was unprepared for exactly what met her gaze.
Completely naked, her arms and ankles lashed to the posts, Lucienne was spread-eagled upon the bed. Her plump body bore numerous horrible abrasions, as if whole chunks of flesh had been plucked from it. A further horror was that each nipple had been ripped from its breast. There was a gag in her mouth. Despite the bloody stab-wound in her stomach, the movement of the bosom and feeble struggles showed that she was alive.
Slowly Lucienne’s head turned towards the door. Her eyes opened. Showing the torments she must be suffering, they held recognition too. Flinging herself across the room, Belle jerked free the gag with shaking hands.
‘Who did it?’ the girl demanded.
‘Paul de Bracy,’ Lucienne moaned, slurring her words yet making them audible. ‘One de Bracy called “the Frenchman”—and Alvin Brunel.’
Thirteen – You’ll Never Make Me Talk
Swinging his silver-capped walking stick jauntily, Paul de Bracy strolled from the house in which he was supposed to have remained hidden until arrangements could be made for him to join Alvin Brunel and leave New Orleans. The time was ten o’clock on the evening after he had helped to deal with the traitress Madame Lucienne. Against his orders, and in the face of common sense, he was going to visit a lady of his acquaintance.
Tall, slim, very handsome, every inch the proud, haughty Creole dandy, de Bracy was a recent enlistment in the ranks of the Brotherhood For Southron Freedom. However, he believed that his social standing—reduced as it might have been by the War—automatically rated him worthy of a high place in the organization. That was, indirectly, why he was acting in such a reckless manner.
If only the Frenchman—how he hated that name—had not been so all-fired uppy and had phrased his words as helpful advice to a social equal, instead of snapping them out like orders, de Bracy would have been more inclined to comply. In which case, he would have ignored the message, delivered by a tall, burly Negro, inviting him to go to Marie Larondel’s apartment and resume their intermittent, yet enjoyable amatory association.
Fancying himself as a veritable lady-killer and God’s answer to every woman’s dreams, de Bracy had not paused to ponder on the means by which Marie had learned of his present whereabouts. He had been brooding too heavily upon the Frenchman’s assumption of superiority and had seen Marie’s offer only as a way to regain his injured self-respect. Not only was her apartment more to his taste than his present accommodation, in a small, middle-rent district house, but by going there he would assert his independence and demonstrate a complete rejection of the Frenchman’s self-appointed authority.
Not only had de Bracy objected to being given orders, but he felt that the Frenchman’s summation of the situation was wrong. Certainly, from what de Bracy could gather, things had not gone entirely to plan higher up the Mississippi River. However, he believed that the main object of the exercise had been achieved. The fake cargo had been destroyed, as planned, and—he felt sure—its going would have thrown the Secret Service off the genuine shipment’s trail. Only the—to de Bracy—unimportant side elements had misfired.
The cottonmouth snake which Brunel had contrived to conceal in Jim Bludso’s cabin had failed to do its work. So had an attempt by Bascoll and Tyrone to cripple him in a fight. In de Bracy’s opinion, there had been too much emphasis placed on removing the engineer of the Prairie Belle. Apparently the Frenchman and other senior members of the Brotherhood had been impressed by Bludso’s often-repeated vow that, in case of fire, he would stay at his post and hold the boat against the shore so that the passengers could escape. They had said, if he should succeed in doing this, there was a chance that an investigation of the remains would reveal that the arms and ammunition had not been on board. De Bracy considered that their selection of a point for the wrecking, along the Baton Royale Glide, would have rendered such an investigation impossible even if the boat went down by the bank. He did not know it, but there had been another reason for the attempted assassination.
In one way, Bludso staying alive had probably rendered Brunel’s work less risky. Instead of having to leap into the water and swim for the shore, he had been able to land dry-shod and get aboard the Stream Queen; which had halted at the foot of the Glide to collect him and such other passengers who had been willing to purchase a passage to New Orleans.
Fortunately, as it had proved, Brunel had kept his wits about him. The Secret Service agent, Darren, had seen him on the levee. More than that, Darren had apparently connected him with the destruction of the boat and t
elegraphed to New Orleans to arrange for him to be arrested. Alert for the possibility, Brunel had left the boat five miles clear of New Orleans. He had sent a message to the Frenchman, by Bascoll, and de Bracy had been assigned the task of collecting him.
During the ride to town, Brunel had bitterly cursed himself for not having followed the line of action planned by ‘O’Reilly’: keeping out of Darren’s sight on the Prairie Belle, then killing and dumping the agent overboard at the first opportunity. By failing to do so, Brunel had been compelled to remain in New Orleans while the Frenchman had set off to take part in some enterprise at Shreveport. Much as de Bracy would have liked to go along, the Frenchman had imperiously ordered him to stay in New Orleans.
Not that de Bracy had regretted the separation from the Frenchman. There was something cold-blooded and sadistic about him which repelled the young Creole. De Bracy thought that he was tough, but he had been almost sickened by the way in which the Frenchman had treated Madame Lucienne. Not that he had opposed her being killed, for she had come too close to the Brotherhood for comfort, or safety.
According to the Frenchman, somebody had been informing on their activities to Madame Lucienne and she was now a member of the Yankee Secret Service. So he, de Bracy and Brunel had set off to discover the identity of the informer and to silence the woman.
Arriving at the shop just as Madame Lucienne had been about to close, they had overpowered her. Knocking her out, they had locked the front door and taken her upstairs. Under the Frenchman’s guidance, they had stripped her and lashed her to the bed. They had just brought her back to consciousness when there had been a sound downstairs. While the Frenchman had gone to investigate, de Bracy—whom Lucienne had recognized—had given her a warning of her danger. He had not used the Frenchman’s real name, but she had clearly recognized his pseudonym. For all that, and despite being told that the Frenchman had slit her maid’s throat, she had refused to answer their questions.
Gagged, so that she could not scream, Lucienne had been put through purgatory as the Frenchman clutched, twisted and tore at her flesh with the jaws of a powerful pair of pincers he had brought along. Give the old woman her due, she had taken everything the Frenchman had done without yielding. Goaded to fury by his failure, he had finally hurled the pincers down and, drawing a knife, stabbed her in the stomach. Nor would he allow Brunel to finish her off, insisting that they should allow her to die in agony. Knowing the Frenchman’s temper when crossed or opposed in his desires, Brunel and de Bracy had acceded to his demands. Letting themselves out of and locking the front door, they had departed in the belief that Lucienne would be dead long before anybody missed her and investigated.
