“How should I know?”
“His office was ransacked and he’s missing,” Temple said. “Are you going to tell us you know nothing about that?”
“That’s exactly what I’m going to tell you.” For a big man he moved quickly across the room and snatched the envelope from Temple’s hand. “Now get out!”
“If you didn’t send men to wreck his office and grab him, who did?”
“How would I know?”
“Beaumont?” Clint asked. “Did you have your district attorney do it?”
“Mr. Beaumont has an agenda of his own,” Stanley said. “Why don’t you go and ask him?”
“We will,” Clint said, “and you’re coming with us.”
* * *
When the three of them entered Beaumont’s office, the mayor stopped short and said, “Oh my God.”
Clint moved to the desk, where Beaumont was slumped, and checked the body.
“He’s dead.”
“Strangled?” Temple asked.
Clint shook his head and looked down at the pool of blood on the floor. “Stabbed.”
“What the hell—” Mayor Stanley said. “Who did this?”
“The same man who killed the two girls and Ed Morgan.”
“The killer we’ve been looking for,” Temple said. “And it looks like he’s just getting warmed up.”
“But . . . why kill Beaumont?” the mayor asked.
“We’ll ask the killer when we find him,” Clint said.
“I think you might find your answer at the Red Queen Saloon,” the mayor said, staring at Beaumont’s body.
“Why there?” Clint asked.
“It’s over the deadline,” Stanley said. “Ned had a weakness for it. I can only think that the reason he’s dead has something to do with that place.”
Clint looked at Temple.
“Sounds like the kind of place our boy might like,” Clint said.
“I—I guess we better check it out, then,” Temple said, not sounding very sure.
Clint looked at the gun on Temple’s hip. They never did establish whether or not the man could use it.
“No,” Clint said, “I’ll check it out.”
“Alone?” Temple asked.
“No,” Clint said, “you go and find the sheriff.”
“But—”
“I’ll go to the Red Queen,” Clint said. “I have a feeling this all ties in together.”
“You might be right,” Mayor Stanley said. “I’ve long been aware that Ned was an ambitious man, with his eyes on my job. He may have gotten in way over his head.”
Clint looked at the man’s body and said, “I don’t think there’s much doubt about that, Mr. Mayor.”
FORTY-FOUR
The Red Queen was just what Clint thought it would be. From the street he could hear the loud voices, and the music—a bad piano player on a piano that had bad keys.
All he had to go on was the sketch that Leo from the livery had done. On the other hand, he knew the killer knew what he looked like. He probably should have waited for Temple to show up with the sheriff, but if all of this was connected—and he refused to accept any hint of coincidence—then Tanner might be inside, with the killer.
He mounted the boardwalk and went through the batwings.
* * *
The mayor was helpful, and told Temple where Sheriff Evans lived. He pounded on the door, which was answered by an older woman, who didn’t look happy.
“Why are you bangin’ on our door?” she demanded.
“I need the sheriff, ma’am.”
“What for? Ain’t Abilene’s police department good enough for you? You have to bother my husband after hours?”
“Who is it, Julia?” Evans’s voice shouted from inside.
“It’s Harry Temple, Sheriff!” Temple shouted. “Clint Adams is in trouble.”
Julia Evans stood aside as her husband charged out the door, fully dressed and wearing his gun.
“Well, lad, come on,” he said. “Let’s go get the man out of trouble.”
As they hurried from the house, Temple said, “Sorry I interrupted your dinner.”
“Son,” Evans said, “you probably saved my stomach . . .”
* * *
Clint entered the saloon. The commotion inside kept him from being noticed by many except those who were seated right near the door.
As the men turned to look at him, he studied their faces. None matched the sketch.
He walked to the bar.
* * *
The killer noticed Clint Adams through the commotion because he was watching for him. Seated across from him was the editor, Pete Tanner. Bruised and battered, but alive and afraid to move.
Tanner also saw Clint. The killer looked across at him over the shoulder of the saloon girl sitting in his lap.
“Relax, Mr. Tanner,” he said. “It’s almost over.”
He caressed the girl’s slim neck while he moved his gaze to a table of three men. He jerked his head toward the bar and nodded.
* * *
“Are we really gonna do this?” Lenny Copper asked.
Mick Lynch looked at him and said, “Fella says Beaumont is payin’. And when the district attorney is payin’, we’re doin’.”
“Yeah,” Eric Markey said, “it’s the Gunsmith.”
“They say this is the time to take him,” Lynch said. “They say he’s slowed down. Come on, boys. Let’s make a name for ourselves.”
They stood up.
* * *
Clint ordered a beer, but didn’t drink it. Aside from the fact that there was something floating in it, he saw in the mirror behind the bar that three men were rising from their table. And he saw Tanner. Across from the bruised editor sat a man with a girl in his lap. The girl hid his face—for the moment.
As the three men moved toward Clint, it quickly became apparent to the patrons of the Red Queen that something was up. They grew quiet and moved aside. Clint turned to face the men, and now it was dead quiet.
“You men getting paid enough for this?” Clint asked.
“We’re doin’ okay, Mr. Gunsmith,” Mick Lynch said. “How are you doin’ tonight?” He was standing between his partners.
“I’d be doing better if I wasn’t faced with the prospect of killing three fools.”
The man on either side of the middle one flinched, but not him.
“Who are you working for?” Clint asked.
“Now that don’t much matter, does it?”
Clint had an idea, decided to deal it out and see how it played.
“Wouldn’t happen to be the district attorney, would it?” Clint asked. “Did he send word with another man?”
One of the other men risked a glance over his shoulder at the table where Tanner was sitting, across from a man Clint still couldn’t see.
“Afraid you fellows are unemployed,” Clint said. “Your boss is dead. In fact, he was killed by the very fellow who brought you the job. So—”
“Fuck this,” Mick Lynch said, and drew.
At least, he tried to draw. But he was dead before he could even touch his gun. Clint drew cleanly and shot him once in the chest. Then he holstered his gun.
“He just died for free,” Clint told the other two. “How about you two?”
The two men stared down at their partner, then they both shook their heads and ran for the batwings, leaving them flapping in their wake.
Clint walked over to the table and said to the editor, “Take it easy, Mr. Tanner.”
Then he looked at the killer, who grinned at him over the young girl. She was now sure she was someplace she didn’t want to be. The man’s smile revealed yellowed teeth, probably from years of smoking. He appeared to be in his fifties, and who knew how long he’d been killing women?
“Stay where you are, darlin’,” he said with an Irish accent.
“Mulligan,” Clint said. “Is that your real name after all?”
“That it is, laddie,” Mulligan said.
“Well, Mr. Mulligan,” Clint said, “you might as well let the girl go. It’s all over.”
“Not quite,” Mulligan said. He brought his other hand around and pressed the blade of his knife to the girl’s throat.
“Come on now,” Clint said, “that’s the way you kill men, isn’t it?”
“Sometimes.”
“And sometimes you even shoot at men from a distance for sport. Like you shot at my friend and me?”
“Aye,” Mulligan said, grinning again.
“So this knife isn’t your style. You strangle women. You like killing them with an orange scarf for some reason.”
“You ain’t leavin’ me much choice here, lad,” Mulligan said. “Come on, girl, get up slow.”
They got to their feet, and the blade never left the tender flesh of her throat. Her eyes were wide with fright.
“We’re leavin’,” Mulligan said, and started backing away. “You better make sure we got a clear path to the door.”
“Clear out,” Clint said to the men behind the killer. “Give him room.”
Mulligan started backing toward the door, pulling the girl with him. Clint was waiting for any opening, and when Temple came through the batwings, Clint almost yelled at him to watch out, but instead kept quiet. The young reporter had waited two years for this.
As Mulligan pulled the girl back toward him, Temple drew his gun, reversed it, and slammed the butt down on the top of the killer’s head with as much force as he could muster. The man dropped the knife and slumped to the floor. The girl scampered away. Evans came in behind Temple and stared down at the man.
“Did I kill him?” Temple asked.
Evans checked.
“Nope, he’s still breathin’.”
“The arrest is yours, Sheriff,” Clint said. “Mr. Tanner will testify that he’s the killer.”
Evans looked at the other man on her floor.
“I killed him,” Clint said. “Fair fight.”
“I’ll bet,” Evans said. “Come on, I need a coupla fellas to carry this man—what’s his name?”
“Mulligan.”
“Really?” Temple asked.
Clint nodded.
“Some of you boys help me get Mr. Mulligan to my jail,” Evans said. He looked at Clint. “This ain’t gonna make the mayor and the chief happy.”
“Maybe the mayor won’t be mayor much longer, Sheriff,” Clint said.
Evans nodded his thanks as three men dragged Mulligan from the saloon.
“Gents,” Tanner said, coming up behind them, “drinks are on me.”
“Not here,” Clint said. “Let’s go to the Big Horn—if you’re feeling up to it.”
“Just a few bruises,” Tanner said. “Nothing a whiskey won’t cure. And then, boy,” he said to Temple, “we got a story to write—and I got a permanent job I wanna offer you.”
Clint looked at Temple, who smiled and said, “Why not?”
Watch for
DEADLY FORTUNE
398th novel in the exciting GUNSMITH series
from Jove
Coming in February!
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