The Floating Outfit 18

by J. T. Edson

  “Or the Russian Embassy,” Darren supplemented, knowing the layout of the city better than his companion. “Which I’m relieved about if she should have something about the new-model Gatling’s modification, or the way to get hold of one, in the case. We wouldn’t have a chance of getting whatever it might be out of there.”

  “I’ll go with you on that,” the Rebel Spy admitted, and started to tell what she had learned from Higgins.

  “Hmm, looks like she’s there,” Darren exclaimed before the explanation was completed. “Although it’s the last place I would have expected her to be going.”

  “It doesn’t look so bad a place she wouldn’t deign to call in,” Belle remarked, studying the front of Hoffmeister’s Hauf Brau and noticing that it was in a most respectable part of the city.

  “It’s not,” Darren confirmed. “In fact, I’d go there myself if I could pay the tab on expenses. But she’ll be more likely to meet Germans than Russians here.”

  “I’d say she seems to be expected,” the Rebel Spy estimated, watching through the window as a fat and Germanic man dressed in a better fashion than the waiters was taking the Countess through a door at the rear. “Shall we go in?”

  “We may as well,” Darren agreed, having removed the spectacles as being no longer necessary. However, glancing at his garments, he went on, “Only, I don’t look like what a customer for a place like this is known to be.”

  “Then it’s right lucky you-all’re with a rich li’l ole Texas gal who’ll pick up the tab for you,” Belle replied. “Only, we’ve got to try to see where she’s gone and who she’s meeting. Do you know what’s back there?”

  “Sure,” Darren replied. “Some private dining rooms.”

  “Then we’ll just have to make out like we want to use one,” the Rebel Spy stated. “Come on, as my good friend Dusty Fog says, let’s get her done.” viii

  “By all means,” Darren agreed, and took out money to pay the driver.

  “Me ’n’ my sweetie here wants to use one of them fancy back rooms of your’n I’ve heard tell of so much ‘round the Grand Republic Hotel, which’s where I’m staying while in town,” Belle informed the burly man who had shown the Countess from the main dining area on entering the Hauf Brau, waving a handful of currency.

  “Don’t waste our time, Otto!” Darren barked when the maitre de began what was intended as a refusal. He produced an official-looking card with his photographs on it and alleging he was a captain in the Provost Marshal’s Department and continued, “That woman who just went in the back’s a known confidence trickster and wanted for rooking one of our generals. So, unless you want more trouble than your bosses will stand for, you’d best let me and this lady operative of the Pinkerton’s go to her.”

  “Very well,” Otto Dieterle said sullenly. “But I don’t think the Col—gentleman she has come to meet will be any too pleased.”

  “I’ll take a chance on that and see there’s no comeback for you,” Darren promised. “Let’s go and get her done, Miss Smith.”

  “You might at least have made me a ‘Smythe’ for shame,” Belle said sotto voce as she and her companion went through the door into the appropriate rear portion of the restaurant. “ ‘Smith’ indeed.”

  Even while speaking, on entering a wide passage the Rebel Spy and Darren found that, with one exception, all the doors on either side were open to show small and intimate-looking rooms. What was more, they were not alone. Two large men with close-cropped blond hair and a Teutonic cast of features was standing almost at attention on either side of the closed door. Despite being in plain clothes of a quality suggesting they were not paying customers, they had the bearing frequently acquired by German soldiers, especially those of one particular part of that country.

  “What you want?” demanded the taller of the men in an accent giving further support to his place of origin. “We told him in there nobody was allowed to enter.”

  “Could be he’s hard of hearing,” Darren replied, although he did not know how he could enforce his will upon the pair and felt sure no display of his supposed status would suffice to do so. “But we have to see in that room.”

  “And you can’t do it!” claimed the shorter man, which still made him larger than the male agent. Watching the pair moving forward, Darren wished he were carrying a revolver with which to make them halt.

  But the matter was resolved before there was a need for any form of masculine action to be taken.

  Sending her left hand to its specially adapted waistband, Belle caused it to open and the skirt slid rapidly downwards. Coming to a halt, the two burly man watched its descent with a lascivious interest. However, what came into view was not any kind of feminine undergarments. Instead, they found themselves gazing without comprehension at the riding breeches and boots that came into view. Nor was either granted an opportunity to recover from the surprise.

  Gliding forward while her left hand joined the right on the parasol and subjected it to a twisting motion, the slender young woman sent her right leg upward in a swift yet clearly power-packed kind of kick only the very skilled exponent of savate she had become before commencing her career as a spy could have employed. Passing between the thighs of the taller man with the same kind of precision employed when she was dealing with “Frenchie” at the hotel—except this time she did not make it miss—the toe of her boot took him full in the base of his trousers. Such was the potent effect of the attack upon the most vulnerable portion of his masculine anatomy, he was sent back a couple of paces and, with hands clasping at the stricken area, collapsed to his knees.

  Nor was the second man any better able to avoid what befell him. Already surprised by the unexpected turn of events, his discipline-dulled wits were unable to keep pace with what followed. Nor was the equally startled Darren any better able to realize what was taking place, it happened with such rapidity. The parasol held by the Rebel Spy came into two portions and, knowing what kind of person she was up against, she did not hesitate in taking steps to halt the threat he posed. Swinging the handle segment around in a slightly upward arc, she caused its concealed secret to come into play. Sliding out, a steel ball on a telescoping coil spring whipped around to strike the man at the side of the jaw. There was a crack of breaking bone and he crumpled across his retching, helpless companion like a rag doll from which the stuffing had suddenly been removed.

  “I’ve heard about your savate and that!” Darren gasped, staring from the men to the dismembered parasol as if unable to believe the evidence of his eyes. “Now I see everything about them both was true.”

  “I’ve always found it pays to be prepared,” Belle answered, stepping forward and thrusting open the door. As she stepped across the threshold closely followed by her companion, she took in the sight awaiting them and said, “Bad luck, Countess. We’ve caught you being a very naughty lady.”

  “What the—!” snarled a militarily smart-dressed, big cropped-haired man, whose hard features bore the dueling scars de rigueur with members of his class in Germany, starting to rise from where he was sharing the table with the Russian woman. Although startled into employing his native tongue, he went on in accent-free English. “And what the devil are you doing?”

  “Coming to take those documents back where they belong, Colonel von Diegelmann,” Darren answered, recognizing the speaker as the senior military attaché at the German Embassy, a man suspected of running its Secret Service organization.

  “And I’d advise you to give them up peacefully,” Belle went on, bringing a Remington Double Derringer from where it had been concealed in the lower segment of the parasol. “I doubt whether your government would approve of your being accused of buying them knowing they must have been stolen. And as for you, Countess, I don’t think Colonel Riabouchinska will be enamored of your trying to sell them instead of turning them over to him. I’ve heard he’s had people sent to Siberia for less.”

  A look of horror came to the beautiful yet suddenly haggard face of the Ru
ssian woman. All her hopes of acquiring a sufficient sum of money to pay off some heavy and pressing gambling debts had come to nothing. What was more, she was all too aware of the power wielded by the man named by Belle and how he had had members of the aristocracy placed far higher than herself sent into exile or worse. Therefore, she did not feel the slender woman she still failed to recognize as “Betty Hardin” was exaggerating what her fate would be when word of her attempted betrayal reached his ears.

  Seven – Stick ’Em Up, Gents!

  “The Countess was most cooperative after Colonel von Diegelmann left in what my poppa always used to call high dudgeon,” Belle Boyd reported to General Philo Handiman about two hours after she and Horatio A. Darren had returned from their productive visit to the private dining room at Hoffmeister’s Hauf Brau.

  “In what way?” the head of the United States Secret Service inquired, his almost always seemingly bland face giving not the slightest suggestion of how he was receiving the information. “And why?”

  “I felt sure—!” the Rebel Spy began.

  “We both felt sure, sir!” Darren put in quickly, having allowed the beautiful Southron girl to do the talking so far and knowing she was seeking to take full responsibility if the decision did not meet with official approval, not merely trying to claim all the credit for the successful conclusion of their assignment.

  “I stand corrected, Rache,” Belle drawled, using the abbreviation of her fellow agent’s given name for the first time in their acquaintance and, despite the gravity of the situation, humorously comparing him with an earlier associate with the same sobriquet. ix “We decided official policy would prefer the matter not to be made public. So on our promising not to have any legal action taken against her provided she told us the name of the man who provided her with the copy of the documents she was going to sell—and went to join her husband on his hunting expedition—she was only too eager to oblige.”

  “I’m pleased young Whitehead wasn’t the one,” Handiman said after having heard the name of the man responsible. “His father is a friend of mine of long standing, and he’s had a rough enough time, being permanently seconded away from the Cavalry because of his injury.”

  “Yes, sir,” the Rebel Spy agreed, concluding that what she had just heard was yet another example of the humanity that always lay beneath the seemingly uncompromising exterior of her superior. “She only played up to Captain Whitehead to help divert attention from her man if it was found out he’d copied all the information. The trouble is, even if their policy would want it kept out of public notice, going by what I know of the system, doing anything to the goddamned bureaucrat who pulled the deal with her will be practically impossible.”

  “It always is when one of them betrays his trust,” Handiman concurred.

  As was the case with the way in which much of the United States was organized, despite having split away from Great—as it was then—Britain back in 1776, Congress had adopted the system that their former parent country used—what it termed “civil servants,” a means of ensuring a continuance of running for the government, albeit from behind the scenes, when the sway of electoral results brought about a change of the political parties in office. Because of the power that was given to the bureaucrats, as was—and still is—the case in England, it rendered them practically immune from punishment even when, as was the case under discussion, one was willing to make the most of his, or later her, position of trust by betraying it.

  “There isn’t anything we can do about von Diegelmann either,” Darren said, showing annoyance.

  “And no reason why we should if there was,” Handiman stated firmly. “He was only doing his duty, and what I’d have expected any of you to do under similar circumstances. I’ll send him an unofficial apology for what happened to his men.”

  “Then we can say the assignment is over, sir?” Belle asked, displaying what appeared to be convincing innocence as her superior turned a quick glance redolent of understanding, if not entirely approving of how she had gained entrance to the dining room, in her direction.

  “It is, except for one unofficial thing,” Handiman replied, and having explained what it was, went on. “You’re both on furlough for an indefinite period effective upon leaving this office, and officially unofficially I don’t want to know where you can be found, even if it should be at the Grand Republic Hotel, Miss Boyd, Mr. Darren, although I don’t know what Accounts are going to say when they get the bill for the two of you staying there.”

  “Thank you, sir,” the Rebel Spy replied, pleased by the latest example of her superior’s generosity and regarding it as a sign of his approbation for a task well done, but deciding against mentioning the comments that would greet the amount of money she had put down on her expenses for the cabriolet she had used to follow Countess Olga Simonouski.

  ~*~

  “Stick ’em up, gents!”

  Seeing who had uttered the words in a high-pitched boyish treble, neither Charlton Forbes nor Archibald Fine felt concern for their safety or property.

  Despite being aware of the importance of the mission they were carrying out, even though they were traveling without the usual escort provided in the interests of avoiding attracting unwanted attention their way, neither of the pair considered their latest assignment on behalf of the Treasury Department to be anywhere nearly so potentially dangerous as others they had undertaken successfully.

  Not only were the Treasury agents satisfied that the way in which they were transporting a set of plates for printing currency to a new mint that was to be opened in San Francisco was a carefully kept secret, they were more than pleased with the means by which it had been arranged for them to make the journey. As would be the case when they reached the transcontinental railroad at Chicago, they were traveling through the first night of the trip in a luxurious private car and had attire and a suitable expense account to give credence to the pose of being wealthy men headed for California on business. There was nothing to suggest their charge was in a seemingly innocuous suitcase resting on the baggage rack. Yet each was highly skilled at his work and very competent with the Colt Storekeeper Model Peacemaker revolver in a spring-retention shoulder holster concealed beneath his jacket.

  Looking at the speaker as he was advancing toward them, the agents were sufficiently at ease that they cheerfully complied with the words he had spoken. Not much over four feet six, he was clad in the kind of attire purporting to be that of a cowboy, which was much favored by boys of the age he gave the impression of being. Although there had been no sign of his parents’ being nearby, the men had seen him at the depot dressed in the same way and with a bandanna drawn up in the fashion of a mask, which prevented all of his features below the wide-brimmed and high-crowned hat from being discernible. While there, he had repeatedly approached and pretended to menace people with a toy revolver fitted with a rolled strip of paper holding small detonating charges of the kind once used to avoid the need to fit a single percussion cap to a firearm before each successive shot could be fired. On being fired to enforce the “demand,” it gave off a sharp crack but was otherwise completely harmless.

  “Don’t shoot, mister!” Forbes requested in what seemed to be a pleading tone.

  “By cracky, Charlie,” the other agent boomed jovially. “It must be that desperate outlaw, Jesse James!”

  “You’re wrong!” the masked figure stated, but the tone of his voice had taken on the timber of a much older person than he appeared to be.

  Even as the intruder was speaking, Fine began to grow aware that something was different about his appearance.

  Just an instant too late, as a similar feeling was beginning to assail his companion, the agent realized what was wrong.

  Instead of the thing pointed toward the two men being a harmless toy, it was a short-barreled Webley’s Bulldog Model revolver.

  Before either agent could recover sufficiently from his surprise and take defensive measures for his protection, the already cocke
d weapon crashed and sent a .44 Webley—caliber bullet between Fine’s eyes. Then, deftly using the recoil kick as a means to cocking the action once more with his thumb in a way that implied he possessed strength beyond what might have been expected for one of his diminutive size, the masked figure turned the barrel and fired again. Swiftly though the move was made, the second piece of lead plowed into Forbes’s left breast and brought his belated attempt to arm himself to an immediate halt.

  Showing either a lack of precaution or evidence of faith in his ability with the gun, the masked figure returned it to the holster on his gunbelt. Then, turning, he hurried over to lock the door through which he had gained admittance—it having imprudently been left unfastened so a waiter could bring food and drinks from the club car—and went to ensure that the one at the other end was also secured. Having done so, he went to draw down a window as far as it would go and leaned over to wave several times while looking upward.

  Receiving the awaited signal from below, Giovanni Martinelli and Stanilaus Padoubny sank until lying face down on the roof of the private car, and splayed their feet apart for added support as they made ready to carry out the instructions they had received. With the younger twin lying across his sibling’s thighs and rump to give further assistance in what they all—even the massive professional strong man—knew would be a demanding task, the other two contrived to lower Libby Craddock by the wrists over the side of the compartment. Like them, she was dressed in the attire used during the descent from the roof to carry out the robbery at the Grand Republic Hotel.

  Having heard what Lachlan Lachlan of the McLachlans wanted her to do and the maximum price he claimed his principals—he had stressed that he was merely acting as a go-between for them, which she had believed, and not unexpectedly declined to supply their identities—were willing to pay, the reddish-brunette had said she would give it her consideration. Based upon what he had told her about the way in which the printing plates were to be transported to California, taking into account the specialized services of two of her companions in particular, she had come up with what she had considered to be the solution most likely to succeed.