Bogus Bondsman

by Paul Colt

  He felt his way through the gloom to the stove and poured the bitter dregs from his coffee pot. He took a swallow. Two weeks into the assignment and the plate was less than half complete. It must be finished in two weeks time to allow for washing, printing, and drying. He drained his cup. Another hour or two he resolved. It did no good to work to exhaustion. A man could not retain his concentration. He might become careless. The coffee must give him another hour or two. The work could not be finished any other way.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Great Western Detective League

  Denver, 1878

  Cane arrived at my office the next morning accompanied by a handsome brute of a fellow I didn’t know, though deduction preceded his introduction.

  “Colonel, may I present Beau Longstreet. You may recall I mentioned him following the Sam Bass case.”

  “Why, yes, I do. Pinkerton, wasn’t he? My pleasure, Mr. Longstreet.”

  “Please, call me Beau.”

  Firm grip. “How may I be of assistance?”

  “Briscoe has been telling me about your Great Western Detective League. He tells me I’d be more profitably employed in your service than that of my current employer. I’ve come to see for myself.”

  “Splendid. Please have a seat. Briscoe?”

  “Thanks all the same, Colonel. I’ve heard the story. I’ve some things to take care of so I’ll leave you two to discuss Beau’s future. Beau, I’ll meet you at the Palace for lunch.”

  “See you then.”

  Cane took his leave.

  “Now then, Beau, Cane tells me you are a competent investigator. Perhaps you would tell me something of yourself. Do I suppose from your name and accent you fought for the other side in the war?”

  “True, though my cousin received most of the notoriety for that. I hope you’ll not hold that against me on top of my Pinkerton station.”

  “Nonsense, the war is over. How did you come to join Pinkerton?”

  “My family lost the plantation following the war. I drifted west. Took a guard job with Pinkerton in St. Louis to make ends meet. One thing led to another. I worked my way up from there.”

  “I see. How much has Cane told you about the Great Western Detective League?”

  “Enough to know he’s pleased with his arrangement. I’ve seen the league at work in the Bass case. Briscoe profited handsomely by his involvement with you. I drew my salary from Pinkerton along with my next assignment.”

  “What was that?”

  “Minor case of railroad agent fraud.”

  “We don’t handle many cases like that. We prefer to spend our time on higher profile cases. The pursuits are more lucrative.”

  “How does that work?”

  “The Great Western Detective League is an association of law enforcement professionals across the west. We take on cases where substantial rewards or retainers are offered. Most often we are retained by those who have suffered a loss to recover their property. We offer an advantage over local law enforcement whose jurisdictions are limited. We, on the other hand, are able to cross jurisdictions.”

  “Pinkerton crosses jurisdiction. That’s the reason businesses like railroads that cross jurisdictions hire us to protect their interests.”

  “I understand. We, on the other hand, are able to facilitate cooperation with local law enforcement in almost any jurisdiction.”

  “I saw that down in Texas.”

  “How much cooperation does Pinkerton enjoy?”

  “Very little.”

  “Precisely. We are able to gain cooperation because law enforcement officials are eligible to become members of the Great Western Detective League and participate in the rewards of our work. As a field operative, you would receive sixty percent of the proceeds from your cases.”

  “What happens to the rest?”

  “I take twenty-five percent to fund operation of the league. Fifteen percent is reserved and used to pay an annual bonus in equal shares to all league members. Those bonuses can add up to a tidy sum over the course of a year. They ensure that we keep everyone interested in cooperating. Cooperation consists of providing information and assistance in a local jurisdiction. We get superior results because we give and receive the best information. Superior results assure us the most lucrative opportunities.”

  “Impressive, Colonel, it truly is impressive. It’s simple and I’ve seen it work. Have you a place in your organization for a man like me?”

  “According to Cane, I must. Will you join us?”

  “I will.”

  “Excellent. When will you notify our friend, Lord Kingsley?”

  “Lord Kingsley?”

  “Not really landed gentry. We sometimes call him that for all his English starch.”

  “I see. Well, I’ve got time before I meet Cane for lunch.”

  “Good. Then we shall expect you to start as soon as you put your affairs in order. Where would you like to take up your place?”

  “Where?”

  “Our operatives span the west. You can live anywhere you like.”

  Longstreet glanced around. “It looks like Denver is where the action is.”

  “A wise observation, my boy.”

  “I shall need to find a place to stay. The Palace is a fine hotel, but it is a little expensive.”

  “Widow O’Rourke operates a respectable boarding house two blocks from here.”

  Pinkerton Office

  Longstreet found Kingsley in his cluttered office seated at a desk mounded in paper. Reginald Kingsley lacked the look of a Pinkerton operative, much less master detective and managing director of the Denver office. He had the pinched appearance of a librarian or college professor with alert blue eyes, delicate features, and a full mustache tinged in the barest hint of gray. He favored wool jackets in subdued hues of herringbone or tweed. When called for, he topped himself off in a stylish bowler, properly square to his head. He carried a silver-tipped cane he might wield as a baton or break into a rapier-like blade. In the field, he carried a short-barreled .44 Colt pocket pistol cradled in a shoulder holster. He could disappear in a crowd, or turn himself out in a chameleon array of disguises selected to suit his purposes. He dripped comfortable British charm that easily insinuated itself into the trust of the unsuspecting criminal.

  “Ah, Longstreet, old boy, welcome to Denver. I thought you might have taken up permanent residence in, what was it again?”

  “Buffalo Station.”

  “Oh, yes. Quite right. She must have been a most disarming attraction to hold onto the likes of you this long. Well, you’re here now; that’s all that matters. I shall have to check the blotter to see what’s up for your next assignment.”

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  “Oh? What do you mean?”

  “I’m leaving the agency.”

  “Oh, dear, my boy, whatever for?”

  “I’ve accepted another position.”

  “What sort of position, may I ask?”

  “With the Great Western Detective League.”

  “Good heavens, you’d leave the employ of ‘The Eye That Never Sleeps,’ the most prestigious private detective agency in the world, for that loose confederation?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you’re a Pinkerton. That means something. It’s steady, secure work.”

  “The league pays better.”

  “I see. Well, of course, I’m not at liberty to promise anything, but perhaps we could review the matter of your remuneration.”

  “My what?”

  “Your salary.”

  “That won’t be necessary, Mr. Kingsley. I’ve already accepted the position.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Beau. Very well then, I’m sure we shall see one another in the field. I wish you the best of luck. You’ll need it.”

  Shady Grove

  I was so engrossed in the colonel’s tale I must confess I failed to notice her approach.

  “Time for lunch, Colonel.”

  Penny O’Ma
lley was the colonel’s nurse. I’d admired her from the beginning of my association with Colonel Crook. I saw her for the first time as a vision in a pale blue dress with a clean white apron. The soft form of a woman’s figure could not be denied by the severity of an institutional uniform. She had a kind face, pert lips, and short, curled dark hair crowned by a nurse’s cap. Her eyes were as soft as melted chocolates filled with caramel. She composed her pretty lips in the hint of a smile reminiscent of Mona Lisa. She had a velvety voice with a smidgen of Irish brogue. A sprinkle of angel-kiss freckles graced the bridge of her turned-up nose. A light scent of vanilla ice cream flavored her presence. I’d been smitten from the first, speechless and tongue-tied until the colonel inserted himself to introduce us. We’d been seeing each other ever since, providing endless opportunities to indulge the old gentleman’s penchant for teasing. I recovered with a smile she returned.

  “You hear that, Robert? She calls it lunch. Thin soup to soften day-old bread served with a cup of dishwater they call coffee. The only appeal is that most often it induces a satisfying afternoon nap.”

  “A silver lining for every cloud,” Penny said.

  She could put a sweet point on anything where I was concerned.

  “I expect you two have plans for this evening.”

  “You’d rather not know.”

  “Not know? Robert, you must understand I live vicariously through your romantic exploits. Whatever else is there to give me pleasure?”

  I lifted an eyebrow to the bulge in his lap robe where he’d concealed his bottle of contraband whiskey, the gesture alone sufficient to silence the old curmudgeon’s incessant teasing.

  “All right then, don’t tell me. Leave it to my imagination. The rumors only become juicier for the speculation.”

  She threw up her hands. “We plan to see a motion picture show if you must know.”

  He smiled. “And top it off with a hot fudge sundae, I’ll wager.”

  “I hadn’t thought about that, Colonel, but it seems a capital idea. What do you say, Penny?”

  She smiled her Mona Lisa and turned his chair.

  “Until next week then, Robert; and remember, you owe all of this to me.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Chicago

  Predawn gray light seeped into the workshop through streaked window grime. The smell of freshly brewed coffee bubbling on the stove mingled with the scents of paper, ink, and strong chemicals. The engraver lit the workbench lamp. He fixed the jeweler’s loop to his eye and bent over the last of his work from the previous evening. He studied the pattern etched to the plate. Jah, dis vill do nicely.

  He stood, dropped the loop from his eye, and shuffled to the stove. He poured a cup of coffee and blew into the fragrant steam. He had one more week to complete his commission. This day would determine the result of four weeks of painstaking work. Today he would bite the plate.

  He crossed the workshop to a bench, took a sip of coffee, and set the cup beside the acid bath. This part of the process was beyond his skilled hands. The acid would do its work on the exposed copper, etching his engraving into the surface of the metal. If he’d done his work skillfully, the acid would expose it. Once the biting was complete, he had only to wash away the wax coating and prepare to make the printing impressions.

  The stock rested, neatly stacked beside the printing press. A pot of the precise shade of ink sat safely on the opposite side of the press. Twelve impressions, one million two hundred thousand dollars in perfectly counterfeit bearer bonds. He rubbed his chin, somehow five thousand dollars seemed a paltry commission for such extravagant work. He’d created a masterpiece. The client would take the plate. Indeed the plate could produce many more impressions than twelve. The value of his crowning achievement might prove priceless at a compensation of five thousand dollars to the master.

  Palace Hotel

  Denver

  Longstreet left Kingsley and walked the few short blocks to his hotel. He found Cane, looking out of place in the opulent Victorian elegance of the hotel lobby.

  “How’d it go?”

  “Just fine. We’re now on the same team.”

  “I thought as much. When will you tell Kingsley?”

  “Already have.”

  “How’d he take it?”

  “About what you’d expect. Couldn’t believe it at first. Closed the book on me once he figured out I was serious. Come on, I’ll buy you a beer and a bite to eat in the saloon.”

  They crossed the lobby to the deserted saloon and took a corner table. A portly bartender in a clean, crisp apron approached the table.

  “What’ll it be, gents?”

  “What’s for lunch?” Longstreet said.

  “Roast beef and mashed.”

  “Okay with you, Cane?”

  He nodded.

  “Make it two of those and two beers.”

  The waiter set off to fill their order.

  “So where do you figure to hang your hat?”

  “Here’s as good as anyplace.”

  “Hmm, I kind of thought you might go back to Buffalo Station. Seemed like you took quite a shine to the place.” His eye twinkled at the unspoken reference to an attractive hotel owner.

  “We ran our course. Might go back some time for a visit, but neither one of us wanted any more than what we had. Denver’s as good a place as any.”

  “What are you going to do about a place to live?”

  “Colonel Crook recommended Mrs. O’Rourke’s boarding house.”

  “Nice place, a little too civilized for my taste.”

  The waiter arrived with two frosty mugs.

  “I got a room upstairs at the Silver Slipper.”

  Longstreet shook his head. “I’d think those were all cribs for the doves.”

  “Probably were when business was better.”

  “Why stay there?”

  “Like I said, they leave me alone. I get my meals, drinks, and don’t have far to go to bed.”

  “I don’t get it, a man with your religious principles. I should think you’d be more comfortable in a parsonage somewhere.”

  “Folks at a parsonage ain’t much in need of righteous thinking. Sinners, now those folks can use a righteous word now and then.”

  The waiter arrived with lunch.

  “Never figured you for a preacher.”

  “I ain’t. Just God-fearin’ when I need to be.”

  Longstreet had little difficulty finding the boarding house Colonel Crook directed him to. A stately three-story whitewashed clapboard structure situated in the center of a tree-lined block. It sat behind a wrought-iron fence, fronted by carefully tended gardens. He swung through the gate and climbed the steps to a broad front porch. Frosted cut-glass windows with lace curtains bordered the polished front door. He tapped the brass knocker. Moments later light footfalls tatted the wood floor beyond.

  The door opened to something of a surprise. The colonel’s reference to “Widow O’Rourke’s” boarding house conjured up a rather different expectation to the vision that greeted him at the door.

  “Yes?”

  “I, ah, I’m told I might find a Mrs. O’Rourke here.”

  “You’ve found her. I’m Madeline O’Rourke. And you, sir?”

  “Beau, Beauregard Longstreet. Colonel Crook suggested I might find rooming accommodations here.”

  She eyed him up and down.

  He returned the favor. Madeline O’Rourke presented a fine figure of a woman, with wholesome good looks, waves of velvet auburn hair, and a flawless complexion splashed lightly across the bridge of an upturned nose with girlish golden freckles.

  “Won’t you come in, Mr. Longstreet?”

  She spoke the buttery brogue of her immigrant heritage. Longstreet imagined he noticed a mischievous twinkle at the back of her dark-green eyes. She stepped aside to let him in. The entry foyer floor and the hallway beyond shone off the smell of fresh wax. A scent of freshly baked bread hung in the air.

  “Come this way.”
She led him into a comfortably appointed parlor and showed him to the settee. “Please have a seat.” She took the facing wing chair.

  “Have you a room for me, ma’am?”

  She knit her brow. “We shall see. I must tell you I am particular about my tenants. I have a reputation to protect and I’m not yet persuaded you would be good for that.”

  “Was it something I said?”

  “Not yet, it’s just a feeling I have. Now tell me something of yourself, Mr. Longstreet. You’re from the south, I take it. Where are you from? What brings you to Denver?”

  “My family roots are in South Carolina. I came west after the war. For the past few years I’ve been employed by the Pinkerton Detective Agency. I’ve only this morning decided to accept a position with Colonel Crook’s Great Western Detective League.”

  “So you are a man of the law, then.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She winced.

  “What sort of work will you do for Colonel Crook?”

  “I expect to take field assignments.”

  “So you’ll travel then.”

  “Yes.” No ma’am, no wince.

  “Your residence here would be a place to hang your hat between assignments.”

  He nodded.

  “I suppose that might work, provided of course you agree to abide by the rules.”

  “Rules?”

  “My house rules. Breakfast is served at seven, dinner at six thirty. No female guests beyond the parlor. No gambling or late night carousing on the premises. Strong drink is permitted only in moderation and I am the sole judge of moderation.”

  “There’s a mercy.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “An Irish lass in charge of moderation where liquor is imbibed.”

  She flushed, caught a merry chuckle in her throat, and fixed him with a cool green reprimand. “I am indeed that judge. And to be perfectly clear on the point, I have a strict policy against fraternizing with my tenants. Is that understood?”