Let It Bleed

by J. R. Roberts

  “What kind of cases?”

  “He kills women, strangles them,” Temple said. “But by the time I get there, he’s always moved on.” He shook his head, finally put a piece of meat in his mouth, but it didn’t look like he was tasting anything. “He kills more women, and every one he kills is my fault.”

  Clint remembered dealing with stranglers in Oregon, New York, and London, England.

  “I have some experience with those kinds of killers,” he said.

  Temple chewed more enthusiastically, but only so he could swallow and talk.

  “Well, then,” he said, “maybe you can help.”

  “How?”

  “Come with me,” Temple said. “Help me hunt him down.”

  Clint put another hunk of meat in his mouth and chewed thoughtfully.

  “What brought you to Abilene?”

  Temple took something out of his pocket. He unfolded it and showed it to Clint. It was a clipping from the Abilene Reporter-News, the local paper. The story was about a woman being strangled.

  “That was two weeks ago,” Clint said.

  “Took me two weeks to get here.”

  Clint handed it back.

  “I’ve been here three days,” he said, “haven’t heard anything about it.”

  “You can help me, though,” Temple said. “You have contacts here, and you can track.”

  “Contacts?”

  “That rancher friend of yours.”

  “He’s the only person I know in town.”

  “That’s one more than I do,” Temple pointed out. “I was just going to talk to the local editor.”

  “You can still do that.”

  “Yes, while you talk to your friend.”

  Clint chewed thoughtfully.

  “Mr. Adams?”

  “I can talk to my friend,” Clint said, “but as far as tracking the killer . . .”

  “Look,” Temple said, “I’ll take whatever help you can give me at this point.”

  “Yeah, okay,” Clint said. “I’ll do what I can—now eat that steak before it gets cold.”

  FOUR

  They finished their steaks, had pie and coffee for dessert. When it came time to pay, they both dug into their pockets for money and paid for their own meals.

  Out in front of the steakhouse, Clint said, “I’ve got to say you don’t dress like a journalist.”

  “This?” Temple said. “Soon after I came to the West, I realized I needed to change everything about myself, including the way I dressed and traveled. So I bought these clothes, found somebody who would sell me their horse and saddle and gun belt.”

  “Yes,” Clint said, “I noticed your rig was worn.”

  “I also did it because I needed to blend in, not stand out,” Temple said.

  “Well, you’ve done that,” Clint said. “You don’t look anything like a journalist.”

  Temple rubbed his hand over the stubble on his cheeks and said, “You think I can get a shave without ruining the look?”

  “Sure, why not?” Clint asked. “Many a saddle tramp is clean shaven.”

  “Good,” Temple said. This time he scratched his cheeks. “This was getting kind of itchy.”

  “Where are you headed now?”

  “The newspaper office to talk to the editor,” Temple said. “His name’s Pete Tanner.”

  “Okay,” Clint said, “you do that. I have a standing invitation out at Abe Corman’s ranch, so I guess I’ll take a ride out there and see what he knows about this murder of yours.”

  “It’s not my murder,” Temple said testily.

  “Okay, sorry,” Clint said. “I didn’t mean anything by that.”

  “Yeah, okay,” Temple said. “I don’t have a hotel room yet, so I think I’ll take care of that first.”

  “I’m staying at the Oak Tree Hotel down the street,” Clint said. “I’m sure they have rooms.”

  “I’ll try them.”

  “I’ll check later to see if you got a room, and we can compare notes.”

  “See you then.”

  Temple headed down the street to the hotel, while Clint went the other way, toward the livery.

  * * *

  Clint collected Eclipse from the stable, welcoming the chance to have the big Darley Arabian stretch his legs.

  He let the big horse gallop all the way from town to Abraham Corman’s ranch, reining in the animal in front of Corman’s house.

  “Boss said you wasn’t comin’ out today,” Ed Halston, the foreman, said as he walked over to greet Clint.

  The two men shook hands and Clint said, “I didn’t think I was, but something came up. Boss inside?”

  “Yeah, he’s at his desk,” Halston said. “You want me to have your horse taken care of?”

  “No, you can just leave him here,” Clint said. “I don’t think I’ll be long.”

  “You want me to tie him off?” Halston asked as Clint dropped Eclipse’s reins to the ground. “So maybe he don’t wander away?”

  “No,” Clint said, “that’s good enough. He won’t be going anywhere.”

  “Suit yourself,” Halston said. “Come on, I’ll take you inside.”

  “Lead the way.”

  They went up the white steps to the front door of the two-story house Abe Corman had built himself.

  FIVE

  Before they could get to Corman’s office, they encountered his wife, Brenda, coming down the stairs from the second floor.

  “Clint! How nice.” She was a lovely woman in her early fifties, with a beautiful head of silver hair. “Abe told me you weren’t coming out tonight.”

  “I wasn’t, Brenda, but something has come up and I need to speak with him.”

  “Of course. I believe he’s in his office . . . is that right, Ed?”

  “Last place I saw him, ma’am.”

  “All right, then I’ll take Clint to him.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Halston said. “See you later.”

  “Thanks, Ed,” Clint said.

  “Come on, Clint. Follow me.”

  She led him down a hallway to Abe Corman’s office. The rancher was seated behind his desk, going over some paperwork.

  “There he is,” she said, “trying to cover the losses to you in poker.”

  “Quiet, woman!” Corman said with a grin. “Clint, what are you doing here?”

  “I just need to ask you a few questions, Abe,” Clint said. “I can’t stay.”

  “The cook is making her famous rosemary chicken,” Brenda said. “You sure I can’t tempt you?”

  “I’m sorry, Brenda,” Clint said.

  “All right, suit yourself,” she said. “I’ll leave you two to talk business, or whatever it is you’re going to talk.”

  As Brenda left the office, Abe Corman said, “Have a seat, Clint. Tell me what’s on your mind.”

  Clint sat across from his friend.

  “It’s about that young fellow who was watching us play earlier,” he said.

  “What was his name?”

  “Temple,” Clint said. “Harry Temple.”

  “Should that name mean something?” Corman asked. “I can’t place it.”

  “No,” Clint said, “it’s not a name you’d know. Let me tell you what this is about.”

  “Go ahead,” Corman said, “I’m listening . . .”

  * * *

  Several minutes later Corman nodded and sat back in his chair.

  “Yes, I know about that murder.”

  “Why haven’t I heard a thing about it since I got to town?” Clint asked.

  “Well, as you know, I sit on the town council,” Corman said. “It was the council’s decision to keep the murder quiet. Keep it from being discussed on the streets and in the saloons.”

  “What wil
l that accomplish?”

  “We’re thinking the killer might stay in town and try to strike again. Our police department is on alert.”

  “Who made this decision?”

  “The mayor and the chief of police proposed it,” Corman said. “The council approved it.”

  “Well,” Clint said, “this fellow Temple seems to thinks he knows who the killer is,” Clint said. “He’s been trying to track him for two years, and thinks he’s the one who killed this girl.”

  “Then I suppose he’d better compare notes with the police so they can determine if he really is the same man,” Corman said.

  “Can you set that up?” Clint asked. “A meeting with the chief of police?”

  “I can do that,” Corman said. “Tomorrow soon enough?”

  “That’s fine,” Clint said. “Temple and I will both meet with them.”

  “And if you don’t mind, I’ll be there.”

  “I don’t mind at all,” Clint said. “Now, can you tell me about the girl who was murdered?”

  * * *

  Clint left the Corman ranch after listening to everything his friend had to tell him. When he got back to town, he left Eclipse at the livery once again, went to his hotel to check and see if Temple had gotten a room. He had, but he wasn’t there at the moment.

  “Said he was going to the saloon,” the desk clerk said. “Bet you can find him still there.”

  “Thanks,” Clint said.

  He left the hotel, crossed the street, and headed for the Big Horn, the same saloon where he’d first met the journalist, figuring that was the one he meant.

  * * *

  When he entered the saloon, he spotted Harry Temple at the bar right away, despite the fact that the place was—as always—pretty busy. The journalist was bent over a mug of beer, staring into it, apparently lost in thought. There was a man standing on his right, but the space was open on his left.

  Clint bellied up next to Temple and said to the bartender, “Beer.”

  “That was a quick trip,” Temple said, momentarily startled. “Did you manage to find out anything?”

  “I did,” Clint said. “A few things, in fact. What about you?”

  “I did, too,” Temple said. “The editor of the newspaper was very willing to help. Why don’t we grab a table and compare notes?”

  “Hang on. I just need to wash down some dust first,” Clint said. He drank down the mug of beer and waved at the bartender for a refill.

  “You want another one?” he asked Temple while he waited for his fresh one.

  “No,” the younger man said, “this is my second. That’s usually my limit.”

  “Okay,” Clint said when he had the fresh mug in his hand, “now let’s sit and talk.”

  SIX

  “You go first,” Clint told him.

  “Well,” Temple said, anxious to talk, “when I left you, I went over to the paper . . .”

  * * *

  Temple entered the office of the Abilene-Reporter News and found it much larger than he had expected. The sounds of a printing press filled the air, and he could smell the ink. It immediately took him back to his time working on the Boston Herald.

  “Help ya?” the man running the printing press asked. He was holding a white rag that was mostly black with ink. His fingers were also black, and he had smudges of ink on his face. He was tall, thin, in his forties.

  “I’m looking for the editor, Pete Tanner,” Temple said. “Is he around?”

  “Pete expectin’ ya?”

  “I sent him a telegram.”

  “G’wan back, then,” the man said. “Down that hallway to the end you’ll find his office.”

  “Thanks.”

  Temple followed the hall back to an open door. Inside he saw a man writing at a desk, with his back to the door.

  He knocked and said, “Mr. Tanner?”

  The man turned. He was possibly the homeliest man Temple had ever seen, with buck teeth, freckles, and large ears. He was in his fifties, so his red hair was shot with gray.

  “That’s right,” he said. “Pete Tanner. Can I help you?”

  It was as if God had felt sorry for making him so plain looking, so he gave him a beautiful baritone voice.

  “Yes, I’m Harry Temple.” He saw no trace of recognition on the man’s face. “I sent you a telegram? About the girl who was murdered?”

  “Oh, yes!” the man said, slapping his hands together. “Sorry. I’ve got a lot on my mind.” He stood up and shook hands. “You’re the reporter from Boston.”

  “I was a reporter in Boston,” Temple said, “but not for two years now.”

  “Wouldn’t be lookin’ for a job, would you?” Tanner asked. “I could use an experienced man like you around here.”

  “I’m sorry,” Temple said, “I’m a little involved in something right now, so I’m not really looking for a job.”

  “Too bad,” Tanner said. He sat back down, keeping his back to his desk. He folded his arms and regarded Temple quizzically. “What’s on your mind?”

  “You had a murder here a couple of weeks ago. A girl. She was strangled.”

  “What do you know about that?” Tanner asked, frowning.

  “Not as much as I’d like,” Temple said. “We had some stranglings in Boston. I’m trying to track down the man who did it, and I’m wondering if he’s the same man who committed the murder here in Abilene.”

  Tanner hesitated, then said, “That what you meant by you haven’t been a reporter for two years? You’ve been tracking him that long?”

  “I have.”

  Tanner stroked his chin for a few moments, then stood up.

  “You hungry?”

  “I just ate.”

  “Me, too, but I could use a piece of pie. I know where the best pie in town is. You interested?”

  “If I have pie with you, will you talk to me?”

  “Pie and coffee,” Tanner said, “and sure I will.”

  “Well, then,” Temple said, “I’d love some pie.”

  “Come on,” Tanner said, “we’ll slip out the back way. It really annoys Billy out there when I disappear on him.”

  “Then why do you do it?” Temple asked.

  “Didn’t you hear what I said?” Tanner replied with a grin. “It annoys him!”

  SEVEN

  “He was right,” Temple told Clint. “He took me to have the best pie I’ve ever had.”

  “You’ll have to take me there,” Clint said, “but finish telling me your story.”

  “Well,” Temple went on, “like I said, we went for pie . . .”

  * * *

  “Laurie Wilson was just about the prettiest girl in town,” Pete Tanner told Temple. “Had all the boys in town chasing after her with their tongues hanging out—half the grown men, too. At least, the ones under forty.”

  “Your story said she was eighteen.”

  “Just turned eighteen,” Tanner said, nodding his head.

  He had a piece of peach and blueberry pie in front of him. He tried to get Temple to try it. “Specialty of the house,” he said, but Temple didn’t like his peaches purple. He had a hunk of apple pie with his coffee.

  “You know,” Tanner said, pointing with his fork, “that apple pie tells a lot about you.”

  “Is that so? What’s it say?”

  “No imagination,” Tanner said. “No adventure.”

  “If you knew what I’ve been through these past two years, you wouldn’t say no adventure,” Temple told him.

  “No, you’re probably right,” Tanner said. “I’m sorry I said that.”

  “Forget it. The paper didn’t say how she was killed.”

  “Sure it did,” Tanner said. “It said she was strangled.”

  “It didn’t say how,” Temple said, “or with what.”


  “What makes you think it was with something other than a man’s hands?”

  “My guy uses an orange neckerchief,” Temple said. “Leaves it behind, like a . . . a trademark.”

  Tanner put down his fork and sat back.

  “Nobody in Abilene knows that except the police—and me,” he said.

  “So it was there?”

  “Sure was,” the editor said. “Right around her neck.”

  “Damn,” Temple said, setting his own fork down.

  * * *

  But the two men didn’t lose their appetites for long. They’d both been in the business long enough not to let that happen. They finished their pie and coffee and walked back to the office, going in the same way they’d come out—the back door.

  They’d talked more, but the editor didn’t have anything else to tell Temple beyond where the girl worked and lived.

  “She worked at the general store,” Temple told Clint, “right on Main Street. Lived above it.”

  “With anybody?”

  “Nope, she lived alone.”

  “But she was eighteen.”

  “That’s a grown woman, Clint,” Temple said. “Both her parents died in an accident when she was twelve. She went to live with the family who owns the general store. When she turned eighteen, they gave her a room upstairs.”

  “How long had she been living there on her own?”

  Temple looked at Clint and said sourly, “A week.”

  “Okay, well, look,” Clint said, “nobody in this town talks about it because the word went out to keep it quiet. And apparently when the chief of police and the mayor send out the word, folks listen.”

  “They’re trying not to scare the killer off,” Temple said.

  “You got it,” Clint said. “They want him to try again.”

  “Clint,” Temple said, “it’s been two weeks. He may already be gone.”

  “Well, you know,” Clint said, “there’s something you neglected to tell me.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You said you knew who this killer was,” Clint said, “that you wrote it in your paper and that’s the reason he left Boston.”

  “That’s right.”