What the Dead Men Say

by Ed Gorman

  His uncle. James looked across at the empty bed. Apparently Septemus had gotten dressed and gone downstairs for breakfast. James thought about last night. It was pretty sad, really, Septemus getting so drunk and sort of shooting up the place and then starting to cry. James thought about what his mother had said of Septemus ever since Clarice had died. How his uncle wasn’t quite right somehow…

  For the twenty minutes James had been awake, shoes and boots and bare feet could be heard passing by on the other side of the door. Every time he’d think it was his uncle, the sound would move on down the hall. So, lying there now, he held out no hope that the sounds of leather squeaking would actually be his uncle. But the door opened abruptly and in came Septemus.

  “Good morning, James!” Septemus said, striding in and shutting the door behind him. “Are you ready for a big breakfast? I certainly am.”

  James rolled off the bed and started getting into his clothes. He kept looking at Septemus. Despite the good cheer of his booming voice, there was something wrong with Septemus. He couldn’t look James in the face.

  “Then we’ll go for a ride,” Septemus said, rummaging for something in his carpetbag.

  James saw Septemus take his Navy Colt from the bag, open his coat, and put the weapon inside his belt. Then he closed the coat again.

  “You ready, son?”

  “Mind if I wash up?”

  “Of course not, James.”

  Septemus slapped James on the back. He would still not let his eyes meet James’s.

  “Uncle Septemus?”

  “Yes, James?”

  “Is something wrong?”

  “Wrong? Why would you say a thing like that? Look out the window. It’s a fine morning. And listen to all the wagons in the street below. It’s not only a fine morning, it’s a busy morning. The sounds of commerce, that’s what you hear in the street below. The sound of commerce.” His voice was good-naturedly booming again. But then why were his eyes filled with tears?

  Something was terribly wrong. James wondered what it could be.

  “I’ll be right back,” James said, and went down the hall.

  A man was coming out of the bathroom just as James was ready to go in. The smell the man had left behind was so sour James had to hold his breath while he poured fresh water into the basin and got himself all scrubbed up.

  When he was all through, he stared at himself in the mirror with his hair combed and a clean collar on.

  Yes, he definitely looked older. Seventeen, maybe; or even eighteen. He had to thank Uncle Septemus for taking him along last night.

  But when he thought of Uncle Septemus, he thought of his strange mood this morning. Where had Septemus gone so early in the day? And why was he putting on this blustery act of being so happy? Septemus hadn’t been a happy man even before the murder of his daughter; afterward, he’d been inconsolable.

  When he got back to the room he saw Septemus sitting on the edge of the bed staring at the rotogravure of Clarice he carried everywhere with him.

  “She was a fine girl,” his uncle said.

  “She sure was.”

  Septemus looked up at him. “You miss her a lot, don’t you, James?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  Septemus continued to stare at him. “It changed all our lives, didn’t it, when she was killed, I mean?”

  James thought a moment. He felt guilty that he could not answer honestly. Sure, he was sad when Clarice had died, and he did indeed think about her pretty often. But change his life? Not really; not in the way his uncle meant. “Yes; yes it did.”

  “You’re a good boy, James.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Or excuse me. After last night, you’re a boy no longer. You’re half a man.”

  “Half?”

  Septemus’s troubled brown eyes remained on his. “There’s one more thing you need to learn. You know firsthand about carnality, and the pleasures only a woman can render a man, but now you need to learn about the opposite of pleasure.”

  “The opposite of pleasure?”

  “Responsibility. You have to pay for the pleasures of being a man by taking on the responsibilities of a man.”

  James noticed how Septemus had gone back to staring at the picture.

  “What responsibilities?”

  Septemus put the picture back in his carpetbag then stood up, putting on the good mood again. “Come on now, young man, we’re going down to the restaurant and have the finest breakfast they’ve ever served.”

  James couldn’t quell his appetite, even while he was beginning to worry about what Septemus must have in mind for them today.

  “Bacon and eggs and hash browns,” Septemus said as they strolled down the hall. “How does that sound?”

  “It sounds great.”

  “And with lots of strawberry marmalade spread all over hot bread.”

  James could barely keep himself from salivating. In the onslaught of such food, he gradually forgot about Septemus’s ominous talk of responsibility.

  4

  She had sat at the kitchen table rehearsing what she would say to him. How easy it was when it was words spoken only to herself, only in her mind.

  Be honest with me, Mike. Whatever you’ve done, tell me, and I’ll stand by you. I know you couldn’t have killed that young girl, so tell me your side of things, Mike. Let me hear the honest truth from you.

  Then she saw him coming up the walk, the girls hurling themselves at him so he’d pick them up in his strong callused hands and strong muscular arms and carry them inside.

  The three of them came bursting through the door, the girls laughing because he was tickling them. He set them down and Tess said, “He said I was five years old, Daddy.”

  “Who said?” Griff said, tickling her again.

  “The sheriff.”

  “The sheriff?” Griff said, fluffing her blond hair. “Was he trying to arrest you?”

  Tess nodded to her mother. “He came here to see Mommy.”

  Griff’s face tightened. “Dodds came here?”

  His wife said, “Yes.”

  “When?”

  “Not long after you walked overtown.”

  “What did he want?”

  She scooched the girls outdoors.

  “How come we have to go outside, Mommy?” Tess said.

  “Because it’s summer and that’s where little girls are supposed to be. Outside.”

  She closed the door and turned around. Griff was pouring himself a cup of coffee from the pot on the stove. No matter how hot it got, Griff always liked steaming coffee.

  He went over and sat at the kitchen table. “What did he say?”

  She decided against any sort of coyness or hesitation. “He said you were in trouble.”

  “He say what kind?”

  “There was a bank robbery. A young girl was killed.”

  He stared at her a long time. “You believe that?”

  “I’m not sure. Not about the girl, I mean. I know you well enough to know you could never hurt a child.”

  “How about the bank?”

  She came over and sat down across from him at the table. The oilcloth smelled pleasant. “He said it was right after the wagon works closed. I remember what you were like in those days. Desperate. You thought we might lose the house and everything.”

  “What if I told you that I did help rob that bank?”

  “I’d do my best to understand.”

  “What if I told you that the girl dying was a pure accident?”

  “I’d believe that, too.”

  “Dodds tell you that the girl’s father is here?”

  “Yes. He says the man means to kill you.”

  He met her gaze. He looked sad and tense. “Can’t say I blame him, can you?”

  “It was an accident.”

  “What if it was Eloise or Tess? Would you be so forgiving just because it was an accident?”

  “I reckon not.”

  “Dodds going to come and arre
st me?”

  “He wants you to turn yourself in.”

  “How do you feel about that?”

  “I wish you would.”

  “It’d mean prison.”

  “I’ve thought about that, Mike.”

  “Not all women want to wait for their men.”

  She touched his coarse strong hand. “I love you, Mike. You made a mistake but that doesn’t take away any of my feelings for you.”

  “I don’t think I could tolerate prison. I’m too old. Too used to my freedom.”

  “What’s the alternative?”

  “Let this man Ryan try something. Then Dodds will have to run him in.”

  “Won’t Dodds turn on you then?”

  “He doesn’t have any evidence. He just has the word of this ex-Pinkerton man who was through here a while back.”

  She put her head down and said a quick prayer for guidance. Then she raised her head and smiled at him. “The girls and I’ll come see you. Every week if they’ll let us.”

  “It’d be a terrible life for you.”

  “We’d get by.”

  He stared out the back window at the barn where his buggies were. She could tell he was thinking about them. Next to the girls and herself, the buggies were his abiding pride. He picked up his steaming coffee and blew on the hot liquid and said, “Let me think about it a little while.”

  She touched his hand again. “I love you, Mike. And so do the girls. Just remember that.”

  His eyes left the window and turned back to her. “I don’t know what the hell I ever did to deserve you, but I sure am a lucky man.” She laughed and there were tears in her laugh. “You expect me to disagree with that?”

  Then he laughed, too, and went back to staring out the window at the buggies.

  5

  “Your father coming back?”

  James smiled up at the waiter. “Oh, he’s not my father.”

  “Well, I certainly noticed a resemblance, young man.”

  “I suppose it’s because he’s my uncle.”

  “Uncle, is it?” the waiter asked. He had a gray walrus mustache and a thick head of wavy gray hair. His short black jacket was spotless and the serving tray he bore was shiny stainless steel. He also had a heavy brogue. “Uncle would explain it.”

  “He left this,” James said, and slid the bill and several greenbacks to the edge of the table.

  The waiter fingered the money with the skill of a pickpocket. “I’ll be bringin’ you your change,” he said, though given the slight hesitation in his voice, James knew that the man hoped there would be no change.

  “He said it was all for you.”

  The waiter laughed hoarsely. “Well, now, isn’t that a way to gladden a man’s day?” He offered James a small bow. “And I hope your day is gladdened, too, young one.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And thank you,” the waiter said, and left.

  ***

  In half an hour a rented wagon was to pull up in front of the restaurant and James was to go out and meet it. Septemus said he would be driving. He said that James should come out fast and jump up and ask no questions. His appetite sated, his hangover waning, he had started wondering again exactly what his uncle was doing.

  Why the wagon? Why come out fast? Why ask no questions?

  He put his chin in the palm of his hand and stared out the window at the dusty street filled with pedestrians walking from one side to the other. He started thinking again of last night, of what he’d done with the girl, and he decided that the first thing he was going to do when he got back to Council Bluffs was get himself a good friend so he’d have somebody to tell about his experiences.

  Then he started thinking of Uncle Septemus’s comment that James was only half a man, that only when he took “responsibility” would he be a full man.

  James started wondering where Uncle Septemus was right then.

  6

  In the lobby, Dodds went over to the desk and asked if Septemus Ryan was in his room.

  The clerk shook his head. “Saw both him and his nephew go out a while ago.” The clerk wore a drummer’s striped shirt and a pitiful scruffy little mustache and had a lot of slick goop on his rust-colored hair. He was the Hames’s eldest, nineteen years old or so, and this was his first job in town. As far as Dodds was concerned he took it far too seriously. The only law and order the kid respected was that of Mel Lutz who owned the hotel and two other businesses.

  “I’m going up to their room.” He put out his hand. “I’d appreciate the key.”

  “Sheriff, now you know what Judge Mason said. He said you shouldn’t ought to do that unless you check with him first. ’Bout how people had rights and all. And anyway Mel says I shouldn’t ought to do it unless I check with him first.”

  “He in his office?”

  “Yup.”

  “Then go check an’ I’ll wait here.”

  “What about the judge?”

  “The judge’ll be my concern. Now you go talk to Mel.”

  “Who’ll watch the desk?”

  “I’ll watch the desk.”

  “I ain’t sure that’d be right.”

  “What the hell you think I’m gonna do, boy-kid, steal somethin’?”

  “No offense, Sheriff, but you ain’t one of Mel’s employees. And Mel’s rule is that only a bona fide employee can be behind the desk.”

  “Boy, I just happen to be sheriff of this here burg. Now if that don’t qualify me to be behind that desk, what does?”

  “Guess that’s a fair point.”

  “Now you go tell Mel I want the key.”

  “Can I tell him why you want the key?”

  Dodds sighed. “’Cause I want to go up there and look around.”

  “Can I tell him why you want to go up there and look around?”

  “Kid, you’re lucky I don’t punch you right on the nose.”

  “I’m just askin’ the questions Mel’s gonna ask me.”

  “I think Ryan’s up to somethin’ and I want to see if I can get some kind of evidence on him.”

  The kid leaned forward on his elbow and said, “What’s he up to?”

  “Git, now. Go ask Mel. That’s all I’m gonna say.”

  The kid stood up, frowning. Obviously disappointed. Like most desk clerks, the kid was a gold-plated gossip.

  “Git,” the sheriff said.

  The kid got.

  ***

  In all, Dodds leaned on the desk for ten minutes while the kid was away. He said hello to maybe twenty people, sent icy stares at a couple of others he suspected of being confidence men working the area, and helped three different ladies out the front door with their packages.

  Dodds liked the hotel’s lobby, the leather furnishings, the ferns, the hazy air of cigar and pipe smoke, the bright brass cuspidors, the seemingly endless pinochle game that went on over in the corner. This was where the town’s men spent their retirement years. Didn’t matter if they were married or not, they always came down there. It was almost like working a shift at a factory. The missus made breakfast and then one took a morning walk and ended up at the hotel. The first thing to do was sit in one of the plump leather chairs and read the paper and then discuss any pressing politics and any pressing town gossip and then help oneself to the pinochle game. Dodds was a piss-poor pinochle player. He would have to get one hell of a lot better before he retired.

  “Here’s the key, Sheriff,” the kid said when he came back. “Mel said five minutes.”

  “So he’s setting time limits now, is he?”

  “I’m only tellin’ you what he tole me, Sheriff.”

  Dodds took the key. “Thanks, kid.”

  The kid held up the five fingers of his left hand and pointed to them with the index finger of his right hand. “Remember, Mel said five minutes.”

  Dodds restrained himself from telling the kid what an aggravating bastard he could be.

  ***

  Dodds had always liked hotels. He liked the idea o
f all the different kinds of people and different kinds of lives being led in them. After his wife died, he’d thought of giving up the small house they’d lived in and moving in to the hotel. He still thought about it, about taking three meals downstairs at a long table covered with a fresh white linen cloth every time, sitting up in his room with a cigar and a magazine and a rocker and watching the sunset and listening to people on their way into the festive night, just sitting there smelling of shaving soap and hair oil, clean as a whistle and without a care.

  He thought of all these things as he moved along the corridor to Ryan’s room. Taking no chances, he pulled out his revolver, put an ear to the door, and listened. That kid desk clerk could easily have missed Ryan coming back up to his room. Or hell, maybe for some reason Ryan snuck up the back way.

  He tried the door knob. Locked. He took out the key, fit it into the lock, and turned it.

  He’d been in these rooms many times. In the daylight they looked somewhat shabby. The paint had faded, some of the wallpaper had worked free, the brass beds were getting a little rusty, and the linoleum was pretty scuffed up.

  The first carpetbag he tried belonged to the kid. Or at least he assumed it did, unless a grown man carried a slingshot and a Buffalo Bill novel.

  In the second carpetbag he found the newspaper stories. There were ten in all, clipped carefully from the front pages of newspapers around the state, some with pictures, some not. It was the same terrible story again and again, the thirteen-year-old girl slain during the bank robbery, the huge rewards offered for the capture of the men, the grieving father and the outrage of the townspeople.

  Dodds also found the letter.

  The thing ran three pages on a fancy buff blue stock and it was written in a fine, clear longhand that managed to be both attractive and masculine. It said just about what one would expect such a letter to say. While reading it, Dodds kept thinking of Ryan’s brown eyes, forlorn and angry and mad all at the same time.

  Dodds had to smile about who the letter was addressed to-it was addressed to him. Ryan had thought of everything. He would come to Myles and do what he wanted and, when it was done, Dodds would have the letter for explanation as to who had done it and why it had been done and what was to be made of it in the common mind.