“How about voices?” asked Larry. “Did you hear any voices you’ve heard before?”
“I have no recollection of hearing a voice,” muttered The Professor, “until the others arrived. Those miners—the marshal and his deputy—all the other people.” He shook his head sadly. “It seems they found me with the pistol in my hand. My good-luck piece. How ironic! Some months ago, you remarked about that pistol—remember, Dora? You said—as long as it was only a keepsake—I shouldn’t keep it loaded.”
“I remember,” nodded Dora.
“Had I taken your advice …” He smiled wryly.
“I would not be in this predicament. They couldn’t shoot Everard with an empty pistol.”
“I guess you can’t recall how much time passed, after they hit you?” frowned Larry.
“No,” said the old man.
Larry scowled at the glowing tip of his cigarette. Quietly, the big woman asked:
“You got any more questions?”
“Only one,” he shrugged. “And I feel plumb foolish—askin’ him such a thing.” He stared hard at the musician. “Professor, it looks like you’ve been set up. Dora don’t believe you killed Everard, and neither do we, but somebody went to a heap of trouble to make you look guilty as hell. What I’m askin’ is do you have any enemies? Can you think of anybody who’d want to treat you this way?”
“I can answer for him,” murmured Dora. “You could ask that question of every livin’ soul in New Strike, and you’d never find anybody that hated The Professor. He just ain’t the kind of man that gets hated. He’s too gentle, too kindly. A lot of folks scarce know he’s alive, because he’s always so quiet. But them that know him—they admire him. Enemies?” She reached over, damped a pudgy hand to the man’s shoulder. “Men of his caliber just never make enemies.”
“All right.” Abruptly, Larry got to his feet. Stretch followed his example.
“So what’s your next move?” she demanded.
“Well …”. He shrugged his broad shoulders, “Stretch and me—we’ll just start nosin’ around, askin’ questions here and there, and maybe we’ll get lucky. You comin’ along?”
“I’ll stay with him a mite longer,” she decided. “You’ll know where to find me, if you need me.”
Stretch sauntered to the cell-door and called to the lawmen, while his partner thoughtfully studied the prisoner, and said, “Hang onto your nerve, old-timer.”
“I’m too old for panic, Larry,” said The Professor. “I’m resigned to my fate. At my age, it’s easy to become resigned.”
Leemoy came striding along the corridor to unlock the door.
Back in the office, Larry and Stretch retrieved their hardware. The marshal’s expression was wistful, as he watched them strap the gunbelts about their loins and thong the holsters down.
“I said it before,” he sighed, “and I’ll say it again. I could sure use you hombres. With you sidin’ Rufe and me, I know we could keep all them skirt-chasin’ fools under control.”
“Thanks a lot,” grinned Stretch, “but no thanks—and no badges.”
They quit the law office, flicked their cigarette butts into the dust of Main Street and automatically steered a course for the nearest saloon. Trudging along with his brow wrinkled in deep thought. Stretch asked:
“If The Professor is all that popular, how come somebody set him up thisaway?”
“Maybe there’s no answer to that,” muttered Larry. “Maybe The Professor ain’t all that important. He’s a likeable old jasper and I sure admire him—but Everard is the hombre that interests me most. Why did somebody want Everard dead? If I find the answer to that question …”
“Yeah, sure,” grunted Stretch. “The Professor had no enemies—but Everard sure did. So we start askin’ around, huh, runt?”
“That’s it,” nodded Larry. “We start askin’ around.”
In the home of New Strike’s mayor, a tense scene was being enacted. Bessie Marriot, the mayor’s wife, was thin, sharp-featured and unattractive. She was also greedy, ambitious, inquisitive and downright unscrupulous. Marriot said as much, upon discovering that she had been reading his mail, but his accusations and heated rebukes troubled her not at all. The evidence was all too clear, because Bessie hadn’t bothered to conceal it. On the table in the parlor, the mayor had spotted several letters—minus their envelopes.
“At it again!” he raged. “Damn it all, woman, am I to have no privacy at all? As mayor of this fair city …!”
“Stop bellowing, Herbert,” she Chided. “You sound like a sick bull.”
She was seated on the sofa, intently studying a recent edition of the San Francisco Bulletin’. Her tone was casual, unruffled. If she felt any remorse, she certainly didn’t show it. Marriot glowered at her, and asserted:
“I hold a position of great responsibility! What in thunder do you suppose the voters would say, if they knew my wife was poking her damn-blasted nose into my private correspondence—private and official correspondence?”
“For the most part,” shrugged Bessie, “I find your letters dreary and boring.” She smiled complacently. “But I must say Mrs. Dexter’s letter was an exception. Imagine, Herbert! You—receiving mail from Mrs. Vernon Dexter the Third—written by her own hand.”
He had turned red, upon discovering that his mail had been opened. Now he went one better; he turned purple.
“You …!” He eyed her aghast: “You read—that letter?”
“That letter,” she chuckled, “is the one that matters, Herbert. I’d call it the most important letter you have ever received. Of course, you’re too dull-witted to appreciate such a golden opportunity.”
“Wh-what’re you—talking about …?” he panted, as he flopped into a chair.
“Come now, Herbert,” she sniffed. “You can’t be all that dense. You must know that Mrs. Dexter’s mother is right here in New Strike. Everybody knows Dora Keen.”
“Bessie!” he breathed. “I’m warning you …!”
“Who’d have suspected it?” she mused. “It seems incredible but, of course, it’s true. There can be no doubt. The description fits her like a glove. And, speaking of gloves, haven’t you ever noticed that Dora Keen has no little finger on her left hand?” She turned a page of the newspaper and avidly examined a recent photograph of the elegant and beautiful Leona Dexter. “So lovely, Herbert. And so wealthy.”
“Now—uh—see here, Bessie …” he began.
“A golden opportunity,” drawled Bessie, “and you’d have let it slip through your fingers. Yes, Herbert, you’d have written her. You’d have told her there is no Dora Nadine Green living in New Strike. So typical of you. Dora Keen—and Dora Nadine Green—one and the same woman, mark my words.”
“Just exactly what’re you getting at?” he demanded. “What is it you want?”
“Money—you fool!” snapped Bessie. “More money than we ever had before. Two thousand dollars. Enough to take us away from this filthy, godforsaken place—away to some decent town where we can make a fresh start.”
“Two thousand dollars?” He blinked perplexedly. “Who—how—how are we ever gonna get two thousand …?”
“From Leona Dexter—who else?” she snorted. “She has it to burn, Herbert. More money than she can ever use. A woman so wealthy—why—she’d be glad to pay for the information. My only regret is that I didn’t ask for more.” She shrugged philosophically. “Still, two thousand isn’t to be sneezed at.”
“Great suffering-snakes!” he gasped. “Tell me, woman! What have you done?”
“Only what any enterprising person would do, under such circumstances,” she smiled. “I have sent Mrs. Dexter a wire …”
“Oh, no!” he groaned.
“… advising her,” Bessie airily continued, “that I will be only too pleased to introduce her to the woman who is obviously her mother, if she is willing to meet my price—two thousand dollars. Also, I have suggested that she come to New Strike as quickly as possible.” She rubbed
her palms together and chuckled. “So that we may finalize our little business arrangement.”
This was certainly Marriot’s day for changing color. First red, then purple. Now, he turned white.
“Bessie Marriot,” he groaned, as he lurched to his feet, “you don’t know what you’ve done!”
He would have to report this to Kurt Osmond—and at once. No point in postponing it. Kurt had ordered him to hold Leona Dexter’s letter and to take no action until it suited Kurt’s pleasure. Damn that interfering, itching-fingered shrew! She had put him in one helluva spot.
Hat in hand, and with his pulse pounding, he made his way to the Gold Queen. He was temporarily boosted by the genial demeanor of the partners, when he entered their office. Osmond personally poured him a drink and gave him a cigar, saying:
“Sit down, Herb. Take a load off your feet.”
“You fellers,” frowned Marriot, as he accepted the whiskey, the cigar and the chair, “are looking mighty happy. I—I just hope you stay that way.”
“Well,” grinned Birell, “it’s just that we haven’t given up hope. We still think we can persuade Big Dora to sell out.”
“Uh—about Big Dora.” Marriot took a stiff pull at his drink. “How did she …?”
“She still denies any knowledge of the Dexter girl,” shrugged Osmond. “Why?”
“It’s Bessie,” gulped Marriot.
“What do you mean—’it’s Bessie’?” challenged Birell. “Who the hell is Bessie?”
“His wife,” smiled Osmond. “What’s the matter, Herb? She giving you a bad time?”
“When I tell you what she’s done,” mumbled Marriot, “you’ll want to cut my throat. Please, Kurt, you got to understand. It wasn’t my fault. She’s sneaky. She—does things behind my back. If I’d thought she was gonna snoop into my mail ...”
“Are you telling us she read the Dexter girl’s letter?” frowned Osmond.
“She sure as hell did,” sighed Marriot. “But—worse than that—she wired an answer.”
“The hell she did!” breathed Birell.
“So now …” Marriot shrugged helplessly, “Mrs. Dexter is just bound to come to New Strike and—for two thousand dollars—Bessie’ll take her straight to Big Dora.” His spirits rose a little. Birell was scowling, but Osmond was chuckling good-humoredly.
“Quite a woman,” he remarked, “that wife of yours.”
“You aren’t sore?” blinked Marriot.
“Of course not,” drawled Osmond. “No fault of yours. Herb.”
“It means,” Marriot nervously reminded him, “you can’t threaten Big Dora any more—I mean—you can’t threaten to pass the word to her daughter, because the daughter is coming anyway. You can bet your boots Mrs, Dexter’ll hit New Strike inside a couple days.”
“That’s so,” nodded Osmond. “But, as I said before. Ranee and I haven’t despaired. If we can’t bully Dora, we’ll simply change our tactics. Don’t worry, Herb. We’ll think of something.”
Grateful—not to mention puzzled—at Osmond’s reaction to his news, the mayor finished his drink and beat a hasty retreat. When the door closed behind him, Osmond chuckled mirthlessly and winked at Birell.
“So the Dexter woman comes to New Strike—what do we care? We have Big Dora where we want her.”
“You’re feeling mighty sure of yourself,” frowned Birell.
“It’s only a matter of time,” Osmond assured him. “She’ll fret about her old friend for twenty-four—maybe forty-eight hours. He’s a consumptive, and apt to die in jail, and she knows it. Sure, Ranee, she’ll surrender. You can make book on it.”
“That’s your opinion,” countered Birell. “Me, I’m not so sure, and I’ll tell you why. That fat old sow is gonna be hopping mad when the Dexter woman shows up. She’ll figure you went back on your word.”
“I must admit that hadn’t occurred to me,” muttered Osmond.
“Well,” said Birell, “it’s something you’d better think about. If Big Dora thinks you’ve double-crossed her, she might forget all about the other deal you offered her. She’ll say she can’t trust you the second time, if she couldn’t trust you the first time. Even with The Professor stuck in jail, and you offering to bribe a witness, she’s apt to throw you out on your ear.”
“You could be right,” breathed Osmond. “Yes, by Godfrey, I’d better pay her another visit.”
“That’s the idea,” nodded Birell. “Tell her what Marriot’s wife has done—and make her understand it was no fault of yours.”
“Exactly,” mused Osmond. “I’ll—uh—make it sound as though I’m trying to do her a favor. One friend helping another.”
“Only you’ll have to wait awhile,” said Birell. “She’s at the jailhouse, visiting with the old man. I saw her go in.”
“All right,” frowned Osmond. “I’ll give her another thirty minutes.”
Big Dora returned to her place of business twenty minutes later and, at that time, Larry and Stretch were in the barroom, waiting for her. Larry had been meditating on all he had learned so far about the late, unlamented Quint Everard. He was still questing for a lead, and ready to clutch at straws.
“That tinhorn,” he had reminded his partner, “was snoopin’ in Big Dora’s cellar. When Curly challenged him, he claimed he only went down there because he was thirsty.”
“If you’re thirsty,” Stretch had opined, “a liquor-cellar is one helluva handy place to be.”
“When that liquor-cellar is right under a doggone saloon? Hell! If Everard needed a drink, all he had to do was belly up to the bar!”
Larry put the question to Curly, a few moments before the big woman came waddling in. The barkeep cocked an attentive ear, nodded reminiscently and repeated the explanation offered by the tinhorn.
“Sure, Larry, that’s exactly what I said. If he was thirsty, why didn’t he come to the bar? Well, he came right back at me and said he was lookin’ for brandy, on account of he didn’t relish the brandy I was servin’ up here.”
“Sounds reasonable,” suggested Stretch.
“Like hell it does,” scowled Larry. “Soon as Big Dora gets back, I’m gonna ask her to …”
“Here she comes now,” announced Curly.
Dora nodded moodily to the Texans and made for the stairs. They fell in behind her, tagged her up the stairs and into her office. With a rueful sigh, she lowered her bulk into the chair behind her desk.
“It near tears my heart out,” she confided, “seein’ that sweet old man squattin’ in Hobie Wedge’s bug-house.”
“Well,” said Larry, “it sure don’t pleasure us.”
“Neither,” added Stretch.
“Dora, there’s somethin’ I’m gettin’ curious about,” frowned Larry. “Didn’t it strike you as mighty strange that Everard lied to Curly—about why he was snoopin’ in that cellar?”
“Every cardsharp is a liar,” she shrugged. “Of course, I didn’t have him pegged for a liar when that happened.”
“If he really was thirsty,” Larry pointed out, “he could have gotten a drink at the bar.”
“So he had some other reason for goin’ down there,” she mused, “but I can’t imagine what—and it likely ain’t important anymore.”
“Maybe, and maybe not,” said Larry. “But I’d admire to be sure, so how’s about we take a look for ourselves?”
“You’re welcome,” she frowned. “Just tell Curly I said it’s okay.”
The Texans returned to the barroom to consult Curly Beck, who then ushered them out back to the saloon kitchen. He was raising the cellar trapdoor and Stretch was readying a lamp, when Kurt Osmond entered the barroom and hurried to the stairs. His speech was well-rehearsed and, once again, he was ready to play the role of honest competitor.
In response to his knock, the big woman invited him to enter. He came in quietly, doffing his derby. As she gestured him to a chair, she murmured:
“Didn’t expect to see you again so soon, Osmond. You sure don’t gi
ve a lady much time to make up her mind.”
“I’m sorry, Dora,” he frowned. “As it happens, I’m not here to hustle you.”
“What then?” she demanded.
“Please understand,” he said, “that I’m only trying to help. You’ve denied that you’re related to Mrs. Dexter, and that’s okay by me.”
“So?” she prodded. “What’s this all about?”
“I told you I’d use my influence with the mayor,” he reminded her. “Well, Dora, he was only too willing to co-operate, but, unfortunately ...”
“Get it said, for Pete’s sakes,” She growled, “whatever it is!”
“This was no fault of mine,” he muttered. “Nor can you blame Mayor Marriot. It never occurred to us that his wife would take matters into her own hands.”
“Bessie Marriot,” said Dora, “is a hatchet-faced old busybody. What in tarnation has she done?”
“She was reading her husband’s mail,” said Osmond. “She—uh—read Mrs. Dexter’s letter, and saw an opportunity to cash in on it.”
“Damn interferin’ old …!” began Dora.
“She wired Mrs. Dexter,” he sighed, “urging her to come to New Strike, and offering to steer her straight to you. She put a price on that little favor, Dora. Two thousand dollars. I’m very sorry about it, very sorry indeed.”
The big woman bowed her head. Between clenched teeth, she mumbled a prediction.
“The Dexter gal won’t pay any mind to such an offer.”
“I think she will,” he retorted. “I believe Leona Dexter is arranging transportation at this very moment. She could make the journey to New Strike inside forty-eight hours. And, when she gets here, you’ll just have to face her.”
Chapter Seven
The Grief and the Fury
“Looks kinda dark down there, don’t it?” frowned Stretch.
“It won’t,” countered Larry, “after you get that doggone lantern lit.”
“Is there coal-oil in this thing?” Stretch asked the barkeep, as he fumbled with his matches.
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