by Tony Masero
‘These tricksters so often are, I’m afraid. But have no fear, Mister Alberplas, we’ll do our very best to find the scoundrel. We have the services of an excellent detective agency in Denver equal to that of Mister Pinkerton’s and I shall call on them this instant.’
‘Well what shall I do?’
‘You can make representation to the police. We shall ourselves, of course, but it’s possible that it may quicken things along if you advise them of the case yourself at your earliest convenience. Unfortunately, we have no Chief of Police elected at present but I have personal knowledge of a fine man I can recommend. General Cook served bravely during the war and is now our City Marshal with a fine record behind him. It is he who runs the Rocky Mountain Detective Association that I spoke of earlier. If you will visit with him I’m sure you will have success. Here, I shall write a letter of introduction outlining the case.’
He set to immediately, scribbling out the letter on a sheet of headed notepaper.
‘I would strongly advise you see Mister Cook poste haste,’ he said, handing over the signed sheet.
Marshal Dave Cook was not an attractive man at first sight. A scrawny looking figure with a high domed forehead, a large nose from under which sprouted a waxed-tipped mustache and a chin wiggler under his lower lip. Joe considered that if his high hairline and large head was anything to go by then there was a big brain busy underneath. The intensity of his eyes though told a whole other story, they were keen and missed little and they locked onto Joe with acuteness the minute he stepped into the outer office of the Rocky Mountain Detective Association.
Cook was alone in the office and dressed in a fine suit and waistcoat and had a shiny elastic-sided boot up on the edge of his desk when Joe arrived. He had been a farmer before the Civil War and like so many men during the conflict the exigencies of the war had set him on the path he was to follow for the rest of his life. As an investigator tracking down Confederate spies he had served out his time and left the military with the rank of Major General and a taste for detective work. Arriving in Denver at first as a prospector looking for gold he had better luck serving as a law officer and had then started up his successful agency.
Cook read the letter Joe presented, whilst levering himself backwards and forwards on his chair by using the booted foot on his desk edge. He set the letter down, pulled out his vest watch on its chain and looked at the time. Joe noted the tasteful small silver City Marshal’s badge dangling from the chain like a fob fancy and he approved of the man’s tactful underplaying of his office in such a way.
‘Let’s go get us some lunch, Mister Alberplas,’ he said. ‘I reckon you could use something to eat. Must have been a real shock to discover you’d lost your inheritance like that.’
‘Sure was,’ agreed Joe.
‘Look here, Joe, you mind if I call you that? I’m going to need a real thorough description of this fellow who came up to see you. Can you do that?’
‘You betcha,’ Joe agreed hastily. ‘I ain’t about to forget that son-of-a-bitch in a hurry.’
‘Well then, lets along to Millie Tucker’s place and get us a bite.’
Joe already felt confident in Cook’s company, the man displayed an aura of self-assurance and although appearing casual on the surface Joe was convinced that below the exterior lay a lawman both able and determined.
They sat together in the dining room of Tucker’s Pantry and for the first time in days Joe enjoyed a full and satisfactory meal.
‘Guess you ain’t eaten in a while, the way you cleaned that plate, Joe.’
‘It’s a fact. Been a tiresome four weeks I can tell you and then to find at the end of it you’ve fallen foul of a conman leaves you feeling kinda hollow.’
Cook chuckled, ‘So tell me, just what did this boy look like.’
Joe sipped his coffee and gave out with a comprehensive description of the little Scot that had come calling on him.
‘Sounds like a disguise to me,’ Cook advised when he had finished. ‘Fellow dressing up like one of them Scotchmen. I reckon he’ll look a mite different now.’
‘Then we’ll never find him.’
Cook shook his head, ‘Don’t be so sure. These boys have a pattern to their behavior. I reckon I have an inkling who this might be.’
‘You know him?’ Joe gasped eagerly.
‘Hold your horses, I ain’t dead certain. It’ll need do some checking out first.’
‘Well, damn me, anything you can do, Mister Cook.’
‘Call me Dave will you? Can’t abide all that society nonsense, lost all them ways back in the army.’
‘So how do you reckon this fellow got onto it all so quickly?’
‘My guess is he’s one of these men who keeps a careful eye on the obituary columns in the newspaper. It’ll be a full time job for him, checking folks out that are listed there. It must have bugged his eyes when he saw the money involved on your brother’s passing. I reckon he went right to it before the lawyers got off their asses, amazing how efficient the criminal mind is, ain’t it?’
‘Well, he sure beat the regular authorities off the mark. Had me signed and sealed before they even sent out a body to find me.’
‘This is one fly guy, he had to check out at a party at Gilcudy’s place who was absent and then dupe up those business cards. I’ll go ask in the printing shop below Gilcudy’s offices, be just like a sassy individual to pull a cheeky stunt like that and get the damned things made up right there. Could be we get a description of him if he pulled it off.’
‘But then how did he get to find me so quickly?’
‘It’s possible he bribed his way in with some clerk at the law office to get as much information as he could and put two-and-two together, then hangs on this red wig or paints his hair like he’s out of the Scotchman’s firm and off he goes.’
‘Pretty damned quick alright,’ Joe agreed.
‘With that kind of money involved, it’s a wonder he didn’t grow wings and fly.’
‘He was damned persuasive, I have to say. I wonder if he really was a Scot?’
‘Maybe or just maybe a good actor. We have a whole parcel of them employed here in Denver, there’s a whole set of theatres doing a booming trade, The Broadway, The Denver and The Apollo, to name a few. I’ll look into them all and see if anyone matches up to your description.
‘So what do you want me to do? I’ll help in any way I can.’
Cook eased out a cheroot from a case and lit up, ‘You just sit tight, I’ve got men I’ll put on the case soon as we’re back at the office. But don’t you worry none, we’ll get this fellow.’
‘Will we get the money back though?’
Cook nodded thoughtfully and studied the end of his cigar, ‘That’s the one I can’t guarantee,’ he allowed finally. ‘But he’ll pay for the privilege and if the cash is still around, we’ll get it for you. Look at it this way, it’ll take some time for him to get through a whole pile like that.’
Joe laid his napkin on the table, ‘One thing I’d like to do,’ he said.
Cook raised an inquisitive eyebrow.
Joe met his gaze, ‘I’d like to go see my brother’s grave even though we never did get on. We were like two strangers if the truth be told, but he done well. Made a place for himself and didn’t go throwing away all he found through a lucky draw on the lottery. Seems the decent thing to do.’
Cook nodded agreement, ‘He’ll be up at the new cemetery along the east bank.’
Three years before a certain Doctor John Morrison had offered to sell to the city authorities one hundred and fifty acres of land situated four miles down from the business district alongside the South Platte River and nominated it as a final resting place for the growing town’s inhabitants. So, the purchase was agreed and the Riverside Cemetery came into being.
It was a secluded, quiet place surrounded by shade trees and lush greenery and already some fine monuments marked the site.
Joe found the grave as part of a regular
eight-dollar plot and the headstone was as simple as the others around it. There was nothing ostentatious or remarkable about the marker, nothing to show it belonged to a one-time millionaire. It simply gave Wesley Alberplas’ name, date of birth and passing. Some kindly soul had placed a few flowers on the grave, they were withered now and Joe wondered who might have done such a thing. Perhaps Wes had found a few friends in this city and he was remembered by them even if not by his own family. It grieved Joe somewhat and he felt a tinge of guilt.
Hard to justify though, when you’re born into the same family and expected to behave with brotherly love for a body it was impossible to empathize with. For Joe it had been kind of like being told he had to show concern for a total stranger that he knew nothing about. It had always seemed that Wes had felt the same way and with him being the elder and obviously wanting to go his own way he had generally behaved as if his younger brother were a millstone he was expected to care for and watch over. A task he held no liking for and demonstrably did not want imposed on him.
To their folks who had both grown up in a different family atmosphere it was behavior outside their experience and so they could not understand the disparity between the two boys and chose to either not see it or just plain ignore it. They already had plenty to do as it was, just surviving.
That was how Joe understood it as he walked away from the grave. He had said his farewells and despite that small initial sense of responsibility, he believed that duty was done and he could now move on without the loss hanging over his head.
Joe was beginning to feel the same way about the million dollars his brother had left behind. He had felt no connection with the source and therefore by extension had no emotional right to such a mother lode. But that was his reckless heart talking and his head told him otherwise. If there was one thing he could do it was to show some respect for Wes’ legacy and do his best to recuperate it. What happened afterwards he would worry about later.
Meantime, there was the affront offered by the phony Alistair Maclean. Who, through his deviousness and cunning had walked away with a fortune. Maybe Joe had been pretty dumb in trusting the man but that didn’t excuse the fellow’s actions. If nothing else, Joe was determined to bring the man to book for what he had done. That, at least was something tangible he could do for his dead brother’s memory.
Four
The riots started in Hop Alley and were the reason Joe was left on his own with all the information Dave Cook had uncovered.
Over the few weeks he was in Denver, Joe had become acquainted with the rough district that existed just across the creek from his rooming house in Blake Street. So he was well aware of the enmity that many felt for the Chinese, or ‘Celestials’ as they were known. Nigh on every laundry in the city was run by the Chinese and they labored hard and lived in poor conditions. They came in as cheap labor and it was believed took work away from the residents, a fact encouraged by inflammatory articles reported in the news sheets.
‘Sucking bamboo’ in one of the seventeen opium dens did little to engage the upright sentiments of the town’s population and only added to the stink created by that part of town called Hop Alley, the Chinese enclave between Blake and Holladay and 19th and 22nd Street. So it was not much of a surprise when things went to the bad.
But we’re getting ahead here.
‘You got something for me?’ asked Joe eagerly, as he came into the detective agency. Cook had sent word that he was to come see him that evening and Joe was keen to hear what the Marshal had to say.
‘Sit yourself down and ease off,’ said Cook, noting the anticipation in Joe’s face.
‘But have you got something?’ asked an exasperated Joe, who felt he had spent long enough in this town doing nothing. He was on the brink of losing his job and the onward prospects weren’t looking too good as he had just about expired his entire poke.
‘We have something,’ Cook finally relented. ‘Appears an actor fellow name of Monty Dupree, might be our boy. Fits the bill alright, same height and coloring, except for the red hair. Apparently he’s a dark haired body in reality. Also a kind of specialist type of character actor, pretty damn good at mimicking people, by all accounts. Been working at The Apollo, taking on all kinds of roles. Sometimes plays three different parts a night he’s so good at disguising himself. Anyway, he’s lit out all of a sudden. Real sharp in the departure stakes. There’s whisper he came into money.’
‘Monty Dupree,’ whispered Joe, relieved at last to finally be able give a name to his nemesis.
So concentrated was he on what Cook was saying, he barely noticed the sounds of shouting and running feet outside, although it gave Cook a moment’s pause and he looked up curious as to what the uproar was all about. It went quiet for a while and Cook shrugged and turned his attention back to Joe.
‘Been having his way with an actress there. You know, most of them burlesque gals do a little trade on the side and this one here is a Miss Rose Chantrain, at least that’s what she calls herself. Old Dupree has gone and left her high and dry and she ain’t too well pleased. Told of how he come in bragging about this major coup he’s pulled off, wouldn’t tell her what it was but she smelt cash money. Next thing she knows he’s packed his bags and gone, left her fifty bucks on the pillow and no goodbye note. Pissed her off something awful.’
‘Where? Where’s he at?’
‘Seems he always had a liking for the south, he was raised in a place called Shallow Creek near Creede on the Rio Grande del Norte and it appears he could have lit out and headed down there. I’m going to get some men on the trail in the morning. We’ll find him, Joe, don’t you have no fear.’
‘Finally,’ breathed Joe. ‘I’d like to go along of them, if that’s alright?’
Cook shook his head, ‘Wouldn’t recommend that, old fella. We ain’t even sure it’s him, sounds right but maybe he’s just had enough of sweet Rosie and Denver town and is hitting the road and heading back home. Could be quite innocent. Let my boys check it out first, huh?’
That’s about when the door burst open and a burly fellow forced his way in. Joe recognized him as one of the city officials and had met him in Cook’s company on a previous occasion but the fellow didn’t spend any time on the niceties.
‘Marshal!’ he cried, obviously flustered, as he was all red faced and shining with sweat. ‘We need your help desperately.’
‘What’s afoot?’ asked a frowning Cook, half rising from his chair.
‘There’s big trouble in Hop Alley. We got a war going on down there.’
‘With the Celestials?’ asked a surprised Cook.
‘Indeed it is. Seems like the whole towns on the march, must be nigh on three thousand folks out there in the streets. They’re wrecking every Chink laundry they can find, burning and looting. One Celestial’s already been lynched, it’s bad, Dave. Real bad.’
‘So what are the police doing?’
‘They’re way outnumbered and you know we ain’t got no Police Chief to tell ‘em what to do right now. City Council asked me to come see you, they’re prepared to give you temporary office as Chief if you’ll take it on.’
‘How the hell did all this get started?’ asked Cook, and Joe noted that as he was strapping on his gun it was pretty obvious that he intended to take on the job.
‘Couple of drunken railroad workers down in John Asmussen’s place. An argument started with some Chink pool players and the little fellows got beat up real bad. The whole thing went on from there and what with all that stuff in the papers it was like a match to blue touch paper, folks is wired up and ready to go. There’ll be mayhem following if you don’t take a hand, Dave.’
‘Okay, okay, calm down,’ said Cook, taking control in a steady voice. ‘Look here; I’ll bring in some men I know, boys that are good with the gun. You see if you can round up any auxiliary police and any of them that are off duty. We need armed men on the streets and we need them now!’
His mind was working fast and Joe could see
the Marshal’s eyes flashing as his brain panned out all the angles.
‘Joe, look, I’m sorry but I guess you can tell it’s one hell of a crisis,’ he said, coming down from his feverish scheming and noticing Joe sitting silently before his desk. ‘We’ll have to call this off for a while. You wait patient and I’ll get back to you as soon as all this has settled down. Okay?’
Joe nodded dumbly but Cook was already out of the door.
He sat for a moment with an empty feeling in his guts, he guessed he could have offered to help out but reckoned he had enough problems of his own to handle and damn it! He just didn’t like being ditched like that. It raised some anger in Joe and as he sat and listened to the distant sounds of riot he determined to take matters into his own hands.
He looked across at the map of the State fixed to the wall and getting to his feet Joe studied it, tracing a finger along the Denver and Rio Grande railroad line that ran down to the depot at Salida in The Rockies. Joe reckoned he could take a Harp Line Stage across the mountains and into the San Luis Valley where the booming silver town of Creede lay just across the Continental Divide.
With the small amount of money Joe had left it was his best option, to buy a pony and equipment in Denver was prohibitively expensive and anyway the ride across the mountains was a long haul by horse. There was maybe two hundred miles of travelling over mountainous country, maybe four to five days, seven at most, Joe reckoned and for the first part of his journey the train was a cheaper and quicker bet. Such were the blessings of modernization.
A week later Joe was in Creede.
The booming silver mining town stood on sloping ground beneath a looming rocky outcrop, part of the Las Carita Mountains that overshadowed the place, it’s rolling slopes were dotted with grim rock and scattered fir trees. Below, the Main Street, in the lower town, ran in a direct line towards the perpendicular walls of a gloomy gorge cut into the mountain wall, it ran in at such a straight line that the road seemed to indicate that maybe that was where the town was heading.
