Let It Bleed

by J. R. Roberts

  “So?” Clint asked. “What’s his name?”

  Temple put his beer mug down and said, “His name’s Daniel Mulligan.” He stood up. “I’m getting another beer.”

  Clint didn’t bother to remind him that he was already over his limit.

  EIGHT

  When Temple came back and sat across from Clint, he said, “Of course, that wasn’t his real name.”

  “But it was the name he was known by in Boston.”

  “Yes.”

  “So you don’t know what names he’s been using during the past two years.”

  “I’ve actually gotten close to him a few times,” Temple said. “There’s one thing he can’t seem to change.”

  “What’s that?”

  “His method,” Temple said, “and the thing he leaves behind.”

  “Which is what?”

  “I haven’t told this to anyone but Pete Tanner, the editor,” Temple said. “The killer uses an orange neckerchief to strangle his victims, and leaves it behind.”

  “Did you put that in the newspaper, as well?”

  “No,” Temple said, “but it didn’t matter.”

  “What about the newspaper here?”

  “No, they kept that out,” Temple said. “Tanner said the chief of police threatened him if he put that in the story.”

  “Well,” Clint said, “I’ve arranged for you and me to talk with the chief of police and the mayor tomorrow. And by that, I mean that Abe Corman arranged it.”

  “That’s fine,” Temple said, “but if you don’t mind, I’d like to keep my background to myself for now.”

  “I don’t blame you,” Clint said. “They don’t need to know the real reason you left Boston. But they do need to know that you’ve been tracking this guy for two years.”

  “‘Tracking’ is a grandiose word for it,” Temple said. “I’ve been following a trail of bodies that he leaves behind him.”

  “What about the cities and towns you’ve been to where he took a victim?” Clint asked. “How did they treat you?”

  “Nobody listens to what I say,” Temple said. “For one thing, the murder has already happened. And if the killer has left town, that’s all they care about. This will be the first time I get to actually sit down and talk to someone in authority.”

  “Well, then, we better make the most of it,” Clint said.

  “What time is this meeting?”

  “We’ll find out in the morning,” Clint said, “but we’ll have to be ready. It might be first thing in the morning.”

  “Suits me,” Temple said. “I’m about ready to turn in right now.”

  “I could do that, too,” Clint agreed.

  They stood up, left the saloon together, and headed for their hotel.

  The shot came from out of nowhere . . .

  * * *

  Temple felt Clint’s hands on him, and then he was rolling on the ground.

  “What the—” he said, trying to get up. Only then did he realize there had been a shot.

  “Stay down!”

  “What the hell happened?”

  “Someone took a shot at us.”

  “Us?”

  “Me,” Clint said. “You. Come here.”

  He pulled Temple across the street, where they took cover behind a horse trough.

  “Where did it come from?”

  “I don’t know,” Clint said. “It’s too dark.”

  “Why don’t you have your gun out?” Temple asked. “Isn’t that what gunfighters do at the first sign of trouble? Draw their gun?”

  “Not if they don’t know what to shoot at,” Clint said.

  “Well,” Temple said, “there hasn’t been a second shot. Maybe the shooter is gone.”

  “One way to find out,” Clint said. “Stay here.”

  Clint stood up warily, walked out to the center of the street they had been crossing when the shot came. He looked around on the ground, but it was too dark.

  “What are you looking for?” Temple asked, coming up alongside him.

  “I told you to stay put.”

  “There wasn’t another shot,” Temple said. “He’s gone, right?”

  “Looks like it.”

  “So what are you looking for?”

  “A bullet,” Clint said, “but it’ll have to wait until daylight.” He looked at Temple. “We’d better get off the street. Come on.”

  “Shouldn’t we go to the police?” Temple asked, following along.

  “We will,” Clint said, “in the morning.”

  * * *

  Clint left Temple in his room and went down the hall to his own. His window overlooked the street, and he stared out, wondering if the shooter was watching the hotel from the shadows.

  NINE

  Clint met Temple in the lobby the next morning.

  “Any word on the meeting?” the ex-journalist asked.

  “Nothing,” Clint said. “Let’s have breakfast here in the dining room, where they can find us.”

  “Suits me.”

  They went in, got a table, and ordered—steak and eggs for Clint, ham and eggs for Temple.

  “Any thoughts about what happened last night?” Temple asked.

  “Not really.”

  “Well, somebody took a shot at you.”

  “Or you.”

  “Now why would anyone shoot at me?” Temple asked. “You’re the Gunsmith. Aren’t you a more likely target?”

  “What about the killer you’re tracking?”

  “I doubt he even knows I’m on his trail.”

  The waiter came with their plates, and they waited until he had set them down and withdrawn to continue their conversation.

  “It had to be somebody shooting at you,” Temple insisted.

  “Maybe,” Clint said. “I just don’t like coincidences. I mean, you’re looking for a killer, and somebody takes a shot at us.”

  Temple was about to say something when he realized he’d lost Clint’s attention.

  Clint saw Abe Corman come through the door, look around, spot him, and head over. Even though he was already crossing the room toward them, Clint waved.

  Clint stood and said, “Good morning. You remember Harry Temple?”

  “Yes,” Corman said, sitting, “he watched you beat my ass at poker.”

  “Yes, he did.”

  “Good morning,” Temple said. “Thank you for agreeing to help us.”

  “I hope it’s helpful to you,” Corman said, “but I got you your meeting with Chief Landry and Mayor Stanley.”

  “Stanley?” Clint asked.

  “Theodore Stanley,” Corman said.

  “Teddy,” Clint said. “Last night you called him Teddy.”

  “Right,” Corman said. “At the poker table, he’s Teddy. Also, Ned Beaumont will be there.”

  “Ned,” Clint said. “The district attorney.” He poured Corman a cup of coffee, then went back to his breakfast.

  “Right again.”

  “Anybody else?” Temple asked.

  “Me.”

  “That’s fine.”

  “Anybody else you want?”

  “I only know one other person in town.”

  “Who?” Corman asked, sipping his coffee.

  “Pete Tanner.”

  “The editor?”

  Temple nodded and chewed.

  “Not a good idea for him to be there.”

  “Agreed,” Temple said.

  “Where’s the meeting?” Clint asked.

  “City Hall.”

  “When?”

  “As soon as you finish eating,” Corman said, “I’ll walk you over there.”

  “Something happened last night,” Temple said.

  “What?” Corman asked.


  “Somebody took a shot at Clint.”

  “Or Harry,” Clint said.

  “Where?”

  “On the street,” Temple said.

  Corman put down his coffee cup and looked at Clint.

  “Who?”

  “We don’t know,” Clint said. “It was dark.”

  “Well,” Corman said, “it’s not unusual for somebody to shoot at you, is it?”

  “No,” Clint said, “but it would be unusual if they shot at him.”

  “Who would shoot at you?” Corman asked Temple.

  “Nobody.”

  “A killer,” Clint said. “He followed a killer here.”

  “A killer? Who?”

  “A man whose name used to be Mulligan.”

  “And what’s his name now?”

  “We don’t know.”

  “And did he kill the girl?”

  “That’s what we want to find out,” Clint said. He looked across the table at Temple. “Finished?”

  Temple put the last bite of ham into his mouth and said, “Finished.”

  Clint ate his last chunk of steak and said to Corman, “Okay, we’re ready. Lead the way.”

  “There’s something you should know about the men you’ll be meeting.”

  “What’s that?” Clint asked.

  “They’re all very ambitious,” the rancher said. “The mayor and the district attorney are politicians. The mayor wants to move up to the governor’s mansion. The district attorney wants to be mayor.”

  “And the chief of police?” Clint asked. “What’s he want to be?”

  “Chief of police,” Corman said, “for now.”

  “What’s Landry’s story?”

  “Winston Landry,” Corman said. “Every calls him Chief. A few people call with W.T.”

  “W.T.?” Temple asked.

  “Wins-Ton,” Corman said.

  “Hmm,” Temple said.

  “He’s tough, used to be a policeman in the East.”

  “Where?” Temple asked.

  “New York.”

  “I’m from Philadelphia originally,” Temple said. “I’ve probably known people like him.”

  “Well, then, maybe that’ll help you get along,” Corman said, “but I kinda doubt it.”

  “Why’s that?” Clint asked.

  “Because he’s got his own way of doing things,” Corman said, “and sometimes he rubs people the wrong way.”

  They all stood up.

  “How did he get to be chief of police?”

  “I think,” Corman said as they headed for the door, “it’s because he has his own way of doing things.”

  TEN

  Clint and Temple followed Corman down to City Hall. They entered and he took them down a hallway to a closed door.

  “This is the room where the town council meets,” he told them. He knocked, opened the door, and led them in.

  There was a long table that the council sat at during their meetings. It was long enough to seat eight men on either side, but on this day there were only three men in the room.

  “Theodore Stanley, our mayor,” Corman said, indicating the man seated at the head of the table.

  The mayor nodded.

  “Ned Beaumont, our esteemed district attorney.”

  Beaumont was seated at Stanley’s right, as he had been at the poker table. Clint thought the DA was the mayor’s right-hand man in more ways than one.

  “Good morning, gentlemen,” Beaumont said.

  The third man in the room was standing, staring out the window to the alley. He turned slowly to face them. He had a sharp-nosed face with a scar down one cheek, a tall, fit, hard-looking man, to say the least.

  “And this is our chief of police, Chief Landry.”

  Landry simply stared at the two men, then looked at Abe Corman.

  “You’re late,” he said. “When I agreed to this meeting, we said nine. It’s now five after.”

  “Well, I’m sorry about that, Chief,” Corman said.

  Clint knew Abe Corman pretty well. He knew that most people—men and women—ended up liking him after only a few minutes. The fact that he called the man “Chief” meant they weren’t friends. Or he was just showing him respect in front of other people.

  “But Mr. Adams and Mr. Temple are here now,” Corman added.

  “And they’re here to help, W.T.,” the mayor said. On the other hand, Clint knew that the mayor calling him W.T. was a politician’s way of showing his superiority. It said, We’re not friends, but I can call you by your first name.

  “Have a seat, gentlemen,” the mayor said. “We’re anxious to hear what you have to say.”

  Clint and Temple took seats at the farthest end of the table, across from each other. Corman took a chair that was not near them or the others. Clint had a feeling it was where he usually sat at meetings.

  The chief finally decided to sit down, across from Corman, staying separated from the mayor and his district attorney.

  The townsmen waited and Clint finally nodded to Temple to go ahead and start. Temple told them about the murders in Boston and other cities, and how since the killer left and headed west, he’d been trying to track him.

  “Why do you think you can catch this man when the law has not been able to?” the chief asked.

  “I mean no disrespect to the law,” Temple said. “I’m just trying to do my part.”

  “Bull!” the chief said.

  “Chief,” the mayor said warningly.

  “This man is not telling us everything,” the chief said. “He’s holding something back.” The chief looked at Temple. “Tell us the rest of it, or I’m done here.”

  Temple looked at Clint, who could only shrug. It was up to the younger man if he wanted to tell them the whole story.

  “I was working for the Boston Herald when this man was killing women there,” Temple said, “and . . . I broke the story when I shouldn’t have.”

  “Ha!” the chief said. “You alerted the killer and he left town, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “So you’re here out of guilt!” The chief sounded triumphant.

  “You’re right again.”

  “Ha!” the chief repeated.

  “Chief,” the district attorney said calmly, “I don’t much care why the man is here, as long as he can help.”

  “I agree,” the mayor said. “What do you think you have to offer us, Mr. Temple?”

  “I have an understanding of how this man works,” Temple said.

  “Does that mean you think you can tell us when and where he’ll strike again?” Ned Beaumont asked.

  “I can sure as hell make an educated guess.”

  “So it’s your belief the man is still in Abilene?” the mayor asked.

  “I don’t see why not,” Temple said. “Up to this point he’s seen no threat to himself.”

  “And that’s because you don’t work on our newspaper,” the chief said, “so you can’t write a piece that will warn him.”

  “Actually,” Temple said, “the editor of your paper has offered me a job.”

  “No!”

  “Don’t worry,” Temple said, “I didn’t take it, but I am here to offer whatever help I can to catch this man.”

  “And you, Mr. Adams?” Beaumont asked. “What do you bring to the table?”

  “Temple asked for my help,” Clint said. “Admittedly, I’d be more help if the killer leaves town and has to be tracked down. But I’m like Temple in that I’ll offer whatever help I can.”

  “I say we don’t need their help,” the chief said. “I can contact the police in Boston for whatever information they might have.”

  “And the police in Cleveland?” Temple asked. “And Chicago? And Saint Louis? And Oklahoma City?
I’ve been to all those places and more—after the fact. This is the closest I’ve come to the killer.”

  “I think we’d be fools to waste this man’s expertise,” Beaumont said, looking at the mayor.

  “I agree,” Mayor Stanley said. “Chief, I’d like you to take these fellows over to police headquarters and work with them on this. We need to catch this killer before he leaves town.”

  The chief grumbled, and finally said, “As you wish, Mayor Stanley.” He glared at Clint and Temple. “You fellas can come over in about a half hour. Just give me time to get settled in my office this morning.”

  “Whatever you say, Chief,” Clint said.

  The chief grumbled again, got up, and left the room.

  “He’s kind of ornery,” the mayor said, “but he’s good at his job.”

  “We’ll just do what we can to help,” Clint said.

  The mayor stood up and shook hands with both Clint and Temple.

  “We’ll appreciate whatever you gents can do.” He looked at Corman, who also stood. “Good to see you, Abe.”

  “Mayor.”

  The rancher left the room with Clint and Temple, leaving the mayor and the district attorney alone.

  * * *

  Outside in the hall Temple said, “The chief’s not going to be an easy man to work with.”

  “Just give him a chance,” Corman said. “He may come around.”

  “Abe, you’ll show us where the police department is?” Clint asked.

  “No problem,” Corman said. “Come on.”

  * * *

  Inside the room, Ned Beaumont looked at Mayor Stanley.

  “What do you think?” Beaumont asked.

  “I think what I’ve always thought,” Stanley said, “only more so now. If we can catch this killer before he moves on and kills again, it’ll be a feather in our caps—both yours and mine.”

  “I agree.”

  “So I think we should take whatever help comes our way.”

  “And,” Beaumont said, “maybe if the Gunsmith stays around, we can get some of our money back at the poker table.”

  ELEVEN

  When Clint and Temple entered the police station—a brand-new three-story brick building—they were immediately escorted by a policeman to a room much like the one they’d been in earlier, only with a smaller table. This one could have accommodated three men on either side.