Bad Business

by J. R. Roberts

  “That’s interesting,” he said.

  “You think there’s a connection?”

  Clint hesitated.

  “Clint, we can talk about this,” she said.

  “All right,” Clint said, “how soon after Paul was killed did you start getting offers for the hotel?”

  “The following week.”

  “Who from?”

  “Peter Forrest,” she said. “He said he was willing to take it off my hands to help me out.”

  “And then the others?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you turned them down.”

  “Right,” she said, “and they’ve come back from time to time over the past two years.”

  “With better offers each time?”

  “Yes.”

  He stopped to think.

  “You can’t think that Paul’s death two years ago . . .”

  “What if that’s when it all started?” he asked.

  “And now,” she asked, “after two years they’ve decided to kill each other off?”

  “Well, Forrest is dead,” he said. “The other two murders may not be connected.”

  “Other two?”

  He told her about Eddie MacDonald on Market Street and Walter Trench in the street not far from where they were now.

  “How would those be connected?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, “but coincidences just don’t sit right with me.”

  “So one of these bastards—or that bitch—killed my husband?”

  “It’s possible.”

  A single tear made its way down her cheek. She wiped it away angrily with her palm.

  “I thought I was over this.”

  “And how do you get over something like that?” he asked.

  She wiped away another tear.

  “I guess you don’t.”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Clint left Lily with her tears still flowing. He felt bad about it, but he decided to give her some time alone.

  Outside he looked across the street and saw Inspectors Burn and Logan standing in front of another hotel. He crossed over to them.

  “You fellows waiting for me to follow me?” he asked.

  “No,” Burns said, “we were told that we’re gonna be workin’ together.”

  “We just thought we’d wait out here for you,” Logan said.

  “Good,” Clint said, “because I have some questions.”

  “Why don’t we go have a drink and you can ask them,” Burns suggested.

  Logan said, “There’s a little place down the street that doesn’t have any of that annoying gambling noise.”

  “I suspect you’re not a gambler,” Clint said.

  “I got other things to do with my money,” Logan said, “not that I’ve got any.”

  “Come on,” Burns said, “Adams is buyin’.”

  It was a small saloon—no gambling, no hotel. A few tables, a small, intimate bar, empty this time of the day.

  They got three beers and walked to a back table.

  “What can you tell me about the murder of Paul Kingsforth?” Clint asked.

  “Who?” Logan asked.

  “Lillian Kingsforth’s husband,” Burns said. “He was murdered on the street two years ago.” Burns looked at Clint. “Logan wasn’t here, then.”

  “Okay,” Clint said, “what can you tell me?”

  “Not much,” Burns said. “He was attacked on the street, pulled into an alley, stabbed to death, and robbed.”

  “By more than one person?”

  “That’s the way it looked.”

  “What’d they take?”

  “His wallet.”

  “What about his watch? Or other jewelry?”

  “He still had a watch and a ring.”

  “Why would someone rob him and leave the jewelry?” Clint asked.

  Burns shrugged.

  “Maybe they just wanted the cash,” Logan said. “Maybe he was gambling, he won, and somebody followed him to take his cash.”

  “Or maybe somebody followed him,” Clint said, “killed him, and grabbed the wallet to make it look like a robbery.”

  “And didn’t think to take the jewelry?” Burns asked.

  Clint nodded.

  “Are you trying to connect Paul Kingsforth’s murder with Peter Forrest’s?” Burns asked.

  “Kingsforth owned the Diamond Palace, and Forrest is one of the people who wanted it.”

  “Why kill them two years apart?” Burns asked.

  “Somebody’s been patient,” Clint said. “Lily says she has continued to get offers over the past two years.”

  “So why suddenly become impatient?” Logan asked.

  “And how does killing Forrest help anybody get the Diamond Palace if Lily Kingsforth is still not willing to sell it?” Burns asked.

  “His wife told me that you were trying to blame her for the murder,” Clint said.

  “We looked into the possibility that she hired it done,” Burns said. “After all, she ended up with all his money and the hotel.”

  “But?”

  Burns shrugged. “In the end we couldn’t connect her to it. All that means is if she hired it done, we couldn’t find the man she hired.”

  “What about the other two murders?” Logan asked. “Any connection?”

  “I have an idea,” Clint said.

  “What?” Burns said.

  “Let’s split up,” he said. “I’ll work on the Forrest killing. Burns, you can work on Eddie MacDonald, and young Logan here can work on Trench.”

  “How does splitting up benefit us?” Burns asked.

  “Maybe,” Clint said, “we can catch a killer before somebody else dies.”

  They discussed the logistics of Clint’s idea for a three-part investigation.

  “We just have to get together each evening and compare notes,” Clint said.

  “How many evenings?” Logan asked.

  “Hopefully, it won’t take that many,” Clint said.

  “And what about the Paul Kingsforth killing?” Burns asked.

  “Well, it happened two years ago,” Clint said. “Hopefully, if it is related, we’ll be able to find out.”

  Burns and Logan exchanged a glance, and then the older inspector said, “What do we have to lose?”

  “I’m going over to the Lucky Lady now,” Clint said. “I want to find out who’s running the place now that Forrest is dead.”

  “Okay,” Burns said, “I’ll go over to Eddie MacDonald’s and nose around.”

  “Do you have a home address for Trench?” Clint asked Logan.

  “Yeah, we do.”

  Clint made a spur-of-the-moment decision.

  “Okay, well, I’ve got something to tell you that I only found out yesterday.”

  “What’s that?” Logan asked.

  “Trench was a Pinkerton.”

  “What?”

  “He was working something on the Barbary Coast.”

  “How did you find that out?” Burns asked. “Or did you just recognize him because you’re a Pinkerton, too?”

  “No,” Clint said. “I didn’t lie about that. I’m not a Pinkerton and I didn’t recognize him, but I do know the Pinkertons. I knew Allan, and I know his sons, Robert and William. Trench’s partner knew that and came to me with the information.”

  “Why you and not us?” Burns asked.

  “She’s young and didn’t know what to do.”

  “What did you tell her to do?” Logan asked.

  “I told her to contact her boss, William Pinkerton in Chicago, and get instructions. If I know him, he’ll tell her to go to the police.”

  “Okay,” Burns said, “I’ll leave word that if she does come to us, we should be notified.”

  “So you think Trench’s death may be connected to these others?” Logan asked.

  “I wouldn’t say that,” Clint said. “Some of these people own property on the Barbary Coast—especially the Garvins.

  “Okay,” Logan said,
“so I’ll check them out.”

  “Harold and Chris,” Clint said. “Chris is Christine. They’re husband and wife.”

  Logan nodded. They finished their beers and walked outside.

  “So when do we meet?” Logan asked. “And where?”

  “How about here?” Clint asked. “Nine p.m. tonight?”

  “Works for me,” Burns said.

  Logan nodded.

  “I hope this works,” Burns said. “The boss told us we should cooperate but . . .”

  “If you have another idea,” Clint said, “I’m open to it.”

  “Nope,” Burns said, “no other ideas. I’m just hoping this one pans out.”

  “Believe me,” Clint said, “so am I.”

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Clint liked the changed situation. He only had to concentrate on one murder, Peter Forrest. If only one of them was connected to the attempt on Lily, Clint’s money was on that one. Also, it might be the one connected to her husband’s death.

  He walked over to the Lucky Lady, which, like all the Portsmouth Square gaming halls, was in full swing despite the hour. All that would happen after dark is that it would get even more crowded.

  Clint walked up to the bar and saw a different bartender than the last time he was there.

  “Where’s the bartender who was here last night?” he asked.

  “Home, I guess,” the man said. “He’ll be here later.”

  “Who’s taking over now that your boss is dead?” Clint asked.

  “Why are you interested?”

  “My name’s Clint Adams,” Clint said. “I’m working with the law on this.”

  The man became cooperative. Clint didn’t know if it was his name or mention of the law.

  “Barry, the other bartender, he’ll be here at seven,” the man said. “As far as who runs the place, the manager’s name is Otis Corbin. I—I guess he’ll be running it for a while.”

  “Where is he?”

  “He’s up in Mr. Forrest’s office right now.”

  “Okay, thanks,” Clint said. “I’m going up there.”

  “Sure.”

  Clint went up the stairs to Forrest’s office, almost knocked, but decided to enter without doing so. There was a man behind the desk, going through the drawers. He was a short, rotund man in his fifties, with a bald head that gleamed in the light from the lamp on the desk. There were no windows in the room.

  As Clint entered, the man straightened quickly and stared at Clint, wide-eyed.

  “Who are you?” he asked. “Whaddaya want?”

  “My name’s Clint Adams,” Clint said, “and I’m interested in who killed your boss.”

  “Are you with the law?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where’s your badge?”

  “I don’t have a badge,” he said. “I’m working with them.”

  “Clint Adams, you said?”

  “That’s right.”

  The man’s eyes went wide.

  “You’re the one who hurt Peter, messed up his face,” Corbin said. “Y-you didn’t come back and kill him?”

  “No.”

  “H-how do I know that?”

  “I’m not in jail,” Clint said. “Instead I’m working with the police.”

  “H-how do I know that?”

  “Because I’m telling you,” Clint said. “That’s going to have to be good enough, for now. What are you doing going through your bosses desk?”

  “Huh? Somebody has to run things until . . .”

  “Until what?”

  Corbin shrugged.

  “I don’t know. Until we find out who’s in charge.”

  “Did your boss have family?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Partners?”

  “That’s what I’m tryin’ to find out now,” Corbin said. “If he had partners, there should be some papers here.”

  “I see.”

  “I—I have to keep lookin’.”

  “I know,” Clint said, “but I’m going to help you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because if he had partners,” Clint answered, “I want to talk to them.”

  “If he had partners, you think that’s who killed him?” Otis Corbin asked.

  “Somebody with a motive had to have killed him,” Clint said. “Did you have a motive?”

  “M-me?” Corbin looked appalled. “N-no, why would I kill him?”

  “I don’t know,” Clint said. “That’s what I’m asking.”

  “N-no,” Corbin said. “I didn’t have a motive. He gave me a job when nobody else would.”

  “Okay, then if he has partners, they had a motive,” Clint said.

  “I-I suppose.”

  Clint walked to the desk, then looked over at a file cabinet in the corner.

  “You keep going through the desk,” Clint said, “and I’ll go through the cabinet. What am I looking for?”

  “Partnership papers,” Corbin said, “signed by all the partners.”

  “Okay,” Clint said, “let’s get to work.”

  It took a few hours, but Clint finally came across the papers in the bottom drawer of the cabinet.

  “Is this what we’re looking for?” Clint asked, turning and holding them out.

  Corbin turned, squinted, then stumbled as he reached for the papers. He grabbed them and held them close to his face.

  “This is them,” he said. “Partnership papers.”

  “Okay,” Clint said. “Then who are the partners?”

  Corbin held the papers to his chest.

  “I don’t know if I should—”

  “We’re past that now, Otis,” Clint said. “Who are his partners?”

  “All right, all right,” Corbin said. “Let me look.”

  He took the papers to the light on the desk, leafed through them, and found what he wanted.

  “How many?” Clint asked.

  “Two,” Otis said. “But they have the same last name.”

  “Harold and Christine Garvin?”

  Corbin looked up at Clint in surprise and asked, “How did you know that?”

  THIRTY-SIX

  Clint told Otis Corbin to go ahead and keep running things.

  “I’ll let you know what happens,” Clint said.

  “But where are you going?”

  “To see the partners.”

  Back to the Barbary Coast address of Harold and Christine Garvin. Clint entered the Coast Hotel and presented himself to the same clerk.

  “Oh, hello.”

  “I’d like to see Mr. or Mrs. Garvin,” Clint said.

  “Oh, uh, well . . .”

  “Are they both here?”

  “Yes, sir, but—”

  “Tell them.”

  “Sir, I—”

  “Just tell them,” Clint said. “I’ll wait here.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The clerk went back to the office and returned in moments. He didn’t look confident as he got back behind the desk.

  “Um, Mr. Adams, sir,” he said, “Mr. and Mrs. Garvin don’t wish to speak with you.”

  “That a fact?”

  “Yes, sir,” the clerk said. “They said if you wish to talk to them you should come back with the police.”

  “We’ll see about that.”

  Clint started back to the office and the clerk made no effort to stop him. When Clint reached the office, he kicked the door open and rushed inside. He looked around and found it empty, but that was okay. The Garvins may have run out a back door, but he spent the next half hour ransacking the office, looking for paperwork similar to what he’d found in Peter Forrest’s office. For one thing they’d have to have a copy of their partnership agreement with Forrest. And for another they’d have partnership agreements with anyone they were in business with, and that’s what he wanted to find out.

  But after half an hour he found nothing, not even the agreement with Forrest. They must have had their paperwork stashed someplace else.

  To
make them pay for avoiding him he continued to destroy the office, including reducing their desk to splinters.

  After that he went back outside. He had to give the young clerk credit. He had stuck around, even though he could probably hear the destruction going on in the office.

  “Where do your bosses live?” he demanded.

  “Uh, they have a room upstairs.”

  “Do they have an office anywhere else?”

  “I don’t know, sir,” the clerk said, then added, “really.”

  “What room is theirs?”

  “Sir—”

  “Don’t make me ask you again, son.”

  The clerk swallowed hard.

  “It’s room one, sir,” he said, finally. “Room one, upstairs.”

  Clint looked around room one. It was a two-room suite, the largest in the hotel. It took him a long time to search it, and he wasn’t careful about it. In the end it was an even bigger mess than the office, but he still hadn’t found anything, not even an indication of what other properties they owned.

  He stood in the center of the carnage. He had succeeded in sending a message to the Garvins, but hadn’t succeeded in much more. They must have kept their records at some other location.

  He left the room and went back downstairs to the lobby. This time the clerk had gotten smart and had vacated the premises. Clint went behind the desk and searched, but there was nothing there. He considered destroying the desk completely, but figured he’d done enough damage to send a message.

  He turned and walked toward the door. At that moment a man and a woman came in together, carrying luggage. They stopped short when they saw Clint.

  “Help you?” Clint asked.

  “Uh, yes,” the man said, “we’d like a room.”

  “Sure thing,” Clint said, “why don’t you just take any room in the place. On the house.”

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Clint went back to the Diamond Palace and found Lily in her office.

  “We have to stop meeting like this,” she said. “What’s going on now?”

  “I found out that Peter Forrest was in business with the Garvins.”

  “What?”

  “They were his partners in the Lucky Lady,” Clint said. “Lily, is there any chance that your husband was in business with them?”