Edge: Slaughter Road (Edge series Book 22)

by George G. Gilman

  Another change of plan had been insisted upon by the San Francisco company with which Grover had insured his valuable purchase. A condition of the policy issued was that two company detectives should supplement Grover’s privately hired guards. But their best operatives had just completed a job in Sacramento and would not board the train until it reached the depot in that city.

  The interview had ended then and Drew Grover had replaced the furled canvas in the box and given it to Edge.

  ‘Something you oughta know, Mr. Grover,’ Spade had said from the office doorway.

  ‘Fisk?’ Madeline asked, multicolored gems sparkling in the lamplight as she patted her hair. ‘We know. I saw it happen. Drew will take care of things.’

  She smiled coyly at Edge, who raked his curious gaze towards Grover. The rich man from New Orleans refused to meet the eyes of the half-breed.

  ‘He and Pearce were extremely close. Unhealthily so, I always thought. My apologies, Edge. I had no way of knowing … but no matter. It’s happened and I feel duty-bound to ensure the authorities attach no blame to you.’

  The half-breed and Spade had left then: Edge to spend some of his advance money on a meal and the detective to attend to the funeral arrangements for his two former associates. But not before Spade had said:

  ‘You used too many fingers back at the hotel, Edge. I’ll fill you in later.’

  It was for fulfillment of this promise that Edge waited now, as the train swayed and juddered over the roadbed stretching north along the night-shrouded, rain-lashed Sacramento River Valley.

  ‘I ain’t denyin’ that you scare the hell outta me, mister!’ Spade muttered vehemently after a long pause. Then he sighed and softened his tone. ‘But I want you to know it ain’t because of that I’m gonna tell you what I said I would. It’s because you’re a man who knows his business - which is doin’ whatever it is you set out to do come what may.’

  ‘Grant gave me a citation when he was still just a general and before they made him president,’ Edge growled. That one never made me—’

  It was Spade’s turn to cut in. ‘You listen, for a change! You’re every thin’ I hate in a man, Edge. You’re mean and you’re vicious and only one cut above a hundred like you who me and Lou Archer and Phil Marlow hunted down and put behind bars. But you’re right for this kind of job - and you’ve already proved I couldn’t handle it without you.’

  That what makes me a cut above the others?’ the half-breed asked evenly.

  Spade shook his head. ‘No, mister. That’s just somethin’ for me that you don’t believe in. A stroke of luck that you happened to be around when me and my partners loused up the job almost before it was started. What makes you different is somethin’ else you don’t believe in. You called it a soft centre in Marlow. My word for it is humanity. Maybe you don’t believe you got it, Edge, but you have.’

  The half-breed said nothing. But he set his mouth in a new line and inclined his head slightly to the side.

  ‘I wasn’t around to see it,’ Spade responded to the quizzical posture. ‘But that bastard Grover was and he had the perception to spot it for what it was.’

  Now the thin mouth line of the taciturn man facing Spade expressed wry humor. That Joe Pearce didn’t suffer?’

  ‘You didn’t give a damn for Pearce - so long as he died. But he forced you to kill him on a crowded street - with a rifle at close range. So you weren’t just playin’ to the gallery by tossin’ him up in the air before you killed him, Edge. You did it because you knew a rifle bullet would go clean through him - and maybe hit an innocent bystander.’

  ‘Grover said all that?’ Edge asked blandly.

  ‘Yeah, he said all that, Edge.’ It was obvious the grimace on the pale, thin face was directed at the absent Grover. ‘He’s a self-made millionaire. And I’ve always said that kind’s gotta have two things goin’ for them. They gotta be bastards, and they gotta be smart.’

  ‘And students of human nature?’

  The grimace became a sardonic grin - an expression that robbed the thin face of its new-found lines of harshness. That’s optional. And even if it’s added to bein’ smart, it ain’t no use without being a bastard.’

  A silence dropped over the luxuriously furnished car with its padded seats, ornate lamps, framed prints of scenes along the Omaha - San Francisco route, carpeted floor and carved roof. But the wheels clattered incessantly underneath it. Wind-driven raindrops rattled on the windows in a muted counterpoint. Now and then the engineer gave a blast on the whistle - maybe for the hell of it or perhaps as the train thundered towards a trail crossing. The detective waited expectantly for a response from Edge. When it did not come, he stood up and began to pace the aisle over a six yard beat.

  ‘Zane Yancy’s the only loser at the sale who’ll try to steal the picture, Edge,’ he said, in the manner of a lecturer. ‘Maybe it was him hired those four back in Oakland. I’ve got no way of knowin’ that. But Yancy and Grover are old enemies as far as their art collections are concerned. No one knows which man’s the richer, but it’s for certain the da Vinci gives Grover the best private gallery in the country. And Yancy bein’ a Texan from Houston, that doesn’t sit well with him.

  ‘Plummer represents a Chicago gallery and Kirby’s on the staff of a Boston museum. Those kind of institutions don’t go in for skullduggery. Not this kind, anyway. There were a few other private collectors and a couple more public galleries represented at the sale, but we can put them in the same category as Plummer and Kirby.’

  ‘A good student always does his homework,’ Edge allowed.

  Spade learned nothing from the tone of voice and, when he shot a glance at Edge, he saw no hint of an expression that the tall, lean man lounging on the chair was ribbing him.

  ‘Diggin’ into people’s background was always the specialty of Spade, Marlow and Archer. And I collected myself a reputation for art cases a while back when I found a valuable piece that was stolen. Statue of a black bird from the Mediterranean. It was my most famous—’

  ‘A man’s only as good as what he did last, feller,’ the half-breed cut in.

  Spade scowled, then nodded his acknowledgement that he was wandering away from the point. ‘Okay. I wasn’t able to trace the fur-trapper and the Blackfeet Indian who had the paintin’ one time. So I guess we have to consider they could still be around and could’ve heard how much the picture’s worth. But the family that brought it from the East we can strike out. They took off for Australia. The Indian agent’s in jail for liquor runnin’ on a reservation.’

  He paused, in both talking and pacing. Edge grinned bleakly.

  ‘I’ve been listening, teacher. But you don’t want me to show you how many fingers are left. The major from Fort Laramie and the trail hand who sold the pictures to Munro Kane for ten bucks.’

  Spade nodded. ‘Major Kelso went absent without leave the day he heard what valuation had been put on the paintin’. The cowboy - Colby Kerwin - got into a fight with his boss. Took a shot at him and hasn’t been seen since.’

  The detective sat down. He looked weary, as if the talk had drained most of what was left of his reserves of energy after a hard day. But he sprang into fast if ham-fisted action when the door at the front end of the Pullman banged open. He had his back to the door and he turned as he rose, dragging the Remington from the holster. He turned too fast and the. gun raked too far to the left and had to be jerked back on to the target - the newcomer could have killed Spade with ease if that had been his intention.

  Edge had to turn only his head as he dropped a hand from the arm of the chair to drape his holstered Colt. As the door closed behind the man, the half-breed snapped his head around to glance at the far end of the coach. The man laughed.

  ‘I was gettin’ around to tellin’ you who was aboard, Edge,’ Spade snapped.

  ‘Name’s Zane Yancy,’ the newcomer announced with a broad, relaxed grin as he advanced along the aisle. Despite the aimed Remington of the detective, Yancy was under
less tension than during the auction, and his Texan drawl had lost its gruffness.

  ‘Saw you at the hotel,’ Edge answered. ‘Put the gun away, Spade. This feller doesn’t have to do any hard work. His money does that for him.’

  Yancy was in his early sixties. He was only five and a half feet tall and probably weighed less than a hundred and twenty pounds. But he had the dark-stained, deeply lined, leather-textured skin of a man who had accepted more than his fair share of a heavy work load during his life. His eyes were dark and sharp looking - the same as his teeth. His hair was still thick, black streaked with grey. He was dressed in the same expensive city style as Grover had been but wore no jewelry. He carried a smoking cigar in one hand and a white ten gallon hat in the other.

  ‘Precisely, Mr. Edge,’ he said as he dropped into a chair facing both the half-breed and Spade - after the detective had holstered the gun and resumed his seat. ‘But I saw you had a moment of doubt.’

  He jerked the cigar towards the door at the rear of the car. then put it between his tobacco stained teeth.

  ‘Secret of survival in my business, feller,’ Edge answered. ‘Knowing just how far to take things for granted.’

  ‘And what precisely is your business?’

  ‘Survival.’

  Yancy gave another short laugh. ‘I suppose we are all in that line.’

  ‘What, precisely, do you want here, Yancy?’ Spade demanded.

  The Texan’s expression hardened. ‘What I’m damn well entitled to, son!’ he snapped. ‘Which is to ride first class when I’ve got a first class ticket.’

  The anger went as fast as it had erupted and Yancy arranged his small frame more comfortably in the deep chair, drawing in easy contentment against the cigar.

  ‘Let’s take a walk, Edge,’ Spade growled. ‘We’d be fools to talk in front of a guy that’s—’

  ‘Got no interest in what you boys have to say to each other, son,’ Yancy interrupted around his cigar. Then he swung his sharp eyes towards Edge. ‘You’re right. I got the money to get done what I figure wants doing. And every man between here and New Orleans that’s a mind to steal that picture knows I want it. So I don’t have to make a try myself - or even go looking for men willing to make a try. I just have to sit and wait until I get the offer to buy.’

  ‘Way I figured it, feller,’ the half-breed said evenly.

  ‘Without worryin’ that six men have already died because of something you want?’ Spade snarled. ‘Or about any others that are headin’ for the same end?’

  The little Texan was not provoked to anger this time. ‘Didn’t know one of them boys that got blasted in the gun-fight back at the depot. So why should I worry about them, son?’

  Spade seemed about to drive home his point harder. But then he vented a grunt of disgust. ‘Go to hell, Yancy!’

  ‘Where I’m headed, sure as God created greed,’ the Texan answered with relish, rolling the cigar between his fingers. ‘But I won’t be there alone on that account, I reckon. Drew Grover pays well, I bet?’

  Spade jerked to his feet and treated Edge and Yancy to the same brand of glare. ‘Well, I’m gonna take a walk! Make sure I didn’t miss out on any passengers that came aboard.’

  He hesitated for just a moment, to see if the half-breed intended to join him. When he received no response, he whirled and strode down the swaying Pullman. He slammed the door violently behind him.

  There goes a young man who takes life real serious, I’d say,’ Yancy muttered pensively, and glanced at Edge as the half-breed got lazily to his feet. ‘Wouldn’t you say that as well, son?’

  ‘Not so serious as death, feller.’

  Chapter Six

  Edge left the Pullman day car through the rear door, stepping out on the platform and ducking his head against the drenching rain. For half a minute he endured the discomfort of cold and damp, clinging one-handed to the guard rail as he peered back into the car through the door’s glass panel. But Zane Yancy showed no sign of moving from the warmth and comfort of the armchair as he continued to enjoy the cigar.

  Then the half-breed stepped across the swaying gap to the platform of the baggage car. This door had no glass panel and he did not even bother to press his ear against the timber. For, short of an explosion, there was hardly any sound that would penetrate the constant barrage created by the headlong progress of the train.

  Certainly it was not the squeak of the catch and creak of hinges that alerted the brakeman and conductor to the fact of the opening door; it was the sudden rush of bitterly cold and damp air that attacked the stove-heated atmosphere inside the car.

  ‘Lose something?’ Edge asked as he stepped across the threshold, banged the door closed and leaned against it. His voice was even and the Winchester hung low, barrel angled down at the floor. It was the unblinking intensity of his blue-eyed gaze as he shifted it back and forth between the two rail men that triggered fear.

  ‘Freight shifted on the curve a couple of miles back,’ the brakeman blurted out, after an exchange of anxious glances with the squint-eyed conductor. ‘Mr. Craig asked me to lend a hand to restack it. He ain’t as young as he used to be.’

  ‘Saxby’s right,’ the conductor said hurriedly. ‘Engineers always takin’ the curve too fast. This happens more often than not. And I get the rheumatics these damp nights. Makes heavy liftin’ a real hard chore.’

  The stove had not yet taken the chill of the briefly opened door out of the air. But Craig’s bald head was beaded with sweat. His squint was more pronounced and the words he spoke began to run into each other.

  Edge continued to move his cold gaze about the car, over many piles of cardboard cartons and wooden crates that had been neatly stacked when he was last here. Even his saddle and bedroll had been shifted from one corner to another.

  ‘Anyway, passengers ain’t supposed to be in the baggage car, mister,’ Saxby put into the vocal silence that followed the conductor’s too-fast explanation. His own voice was in a limbo between defensive and aggressive. He wasn’t wearing the sheep-skin coat now so that it could be seen his shirt and vest contoured a muscular frame. He was still on the right side of thirty, tall and good looking.

  Both men continued to straddle displaced pieces of freight, each of them still holding a package.

  ‘That why you haven’t been through attending to your business?’ the half-breed asked Craig.

  The shorter, fatter and older man nodded vigorously and showed a smile of relief. ‘Yes, sir. That’s it. I ought to have been through before now.’ He rested his package carefully on the floor. And his claim of suffering from stiff joints seemed to have some truth - for he winced as he straightened.

  ‘Then you better get to it, feller,’ Edge suggested. ‘Could be some passengers without tickets. Maybe some that want something.’

  The conductor looked anxiously at the brakeman and the younger man seemed about to protest. But then Edge strengthened his suggestion into a command - by stepping to the side and jerking open the door. Several of the lighter packages were lifted and hurled into greater disarray by the in-rush of rain-carrying wind and slipstream. The half-breed raised his voice above the noise which was also blasted into the car.

  ‘Ain’t the paying customer always right on the CP?’ he asked.

  Craig gulped, nodded vigorously, and started for the open door. Then he remembered he was hatless and detoured to a small desk bolted to the floor in one corner. He had to hold the livery cap on his head as he bent into the wind on the way out of the car.

  Edge closed the door as Saxby turned to start for the far end. ‘Finish what you set out to do, feller,’ the half-breed called.

  The brakeman halted. ‘I been away from my post for too long already, mister. Could be an emergency and if I ain’t where I’m supposed to be there’ll be bad trouble.’

  ‘Worse trouble than this?’

  Saxby had turned to head for the rear of the car again. But he had taken only a single step when he caught the menace in t
he quietly-spoken words. He froze - all but his head, which moved in slow motion so that he could look back over his shoulder.

  He saw the half-breed advancing on him, rifle still angled down at the floor as the long legs of the taller man stepped over the scattered freight.

  ‘You don’t believe what me and Craig said?’

  ‘When I get thrown a curve, I have to think about it, feller. So I’ve been thinking how my stuff got tossed from one end of the car to the other.’

  ‘We moved it to give us room to restack the other freight, that’s all.’

  The rigidity of fear left him and he turned flu idly. Initially with an easy nonchalance, showing a smile that poured mild scorn on the half-breed’s suspicion, then, when he had almost completed the about-face, he powered into speed.

  For a split second, he was certain he had caught Edge off guard. The half-breed was within arm’s reach, rifle still pointed at the floor as he stepped over another obstacle. One of Saxby’s clawed hands found a grip on the Winchester barrel while the other closed into a tight fist to launch a punch at the lean face.

  But, as soon as Edge wrenched his head out of the flight path of the blow, the brakeman realized his mistake: he had laid himself open to an attack that Edge was poised to counter.

  ‘Might have bought that,’ the half-breed growled, releasing his hold on the rifle and powering his leading foot higher above the crate he was stepping over.

  Saxby had one hand wrapped around the rifle barrel and was pulling the useless punch he had thrown with the other. Then his snarl of frustration changed key to a scream of agony - as the half-breed’s hard-driven knee slammed into his crotch.

  ‘Got to figure its balls now,’ Edge rasped through teeth clenched in a cruel grin.

  Saxby tried to swing the rifle stock in a crippling blow at his opponent’s legs. But his pain drained the strength out of him. He could not lift the Winchester high enough and the gun cracked into a crate. He was already starting to double over then, to ease the fires burning between his legs.