by Paul Colt
“Yes, ma’am.”
She scowled. “If you’ll come this way, I’ll show you the room I have available.” She led the way to a broad staircase climbing out of the foyer. “It’s on the third floor, I’m afraid. I hope that’s not too inconvenient.”
“No, ma’am.” She plainly didn’t appreciate him calling her that. He smiled. It might break the ice. He followed her hips up the stairs. No fraternization indeed; rules were made to be broken.
The room was large and airy with windows on two sides. The furnishings were comfortably simple with a small writing desk, a wing chair, armoire, washbasin, and bed.
“The rent is twenty dollars a month with one month on deposit in advance. Is that acceptable?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Oh please, Mr. Longstreet, if you are going to live here I simply can’t abide you calling me that. It feels like a dried-up old husk. My friends call me Maddie.”
“Very well then, Maddie, you must call me Beau.” He topped it off with a charming southern smile.
Her cheeks warmed. “Very well then, Beau.”
I have a strict policy . . . I do.
CHAPTER FOUR
Chicago
Printing required skill and care. In more prosperous times the engraver hired skilled craftsmen to do the work. These days, times being what they were, he did it himself. He had two days left to fill the order, one to finish the printing and one to complete the drying. He’d worked through the morning and early afternoon to complete the last of the printing impressions. He counted eleven printed sheets hanging on the drying line, one million one hundred thousand dollars in railroad bearer bonds, every bit as valuable as cash.
He wiped ink onto the surface of the plate, pressing it into the incising with a soft cloth. He carefully wiped the residue clean. The twelfth sheet of paper soaked in a tray. He drew it out, shook off the excess moisture, and patted it damp. The fibers were dampened so they could be pressed into the etched grooves, thus acquiring the print. He set the plate on the bed of the rolling press and aligned the paper to the plate. He covered it with a heavy blanket that would distribute pressure evenly across the surface of the plate. He rolled the press, removed the blanket, and beheld the twelfth bond. Gently the engraver removed it from the plate and clipped it to the drying line. The order was complete, save the drying. He had only to wash the plate for delivery to the client with his order.
He bent to remove the plate from the press and set it on the workbench for washing. He paused. The idea had nibbled at the back of his consciousness for weeks. He was one printing impression away from retiring to a modest villa in Bavaria. Just one printing impression away, who would know? Who would complain? The criminal who hired him? Not likely. In fact, when the fraud came to light, as it must, the criminal would be blamed. Kurt Gottschaft vould haf long ago left the country. He set a fresh sheet of paper to soak.
Two Days Later
The visitor bell clanged near closing. The engraver expected it. The Counselor closed the door. Shoe leather and floorboard creaks followed him across the shop to the counter. The old man shuffled out of the workshop carrying a small bundle wrapped in brown paper.
“Guten abend.”
“Have you finished?”
He nodded, passing the bundle across the counter.
The visitor drew a pearl-handled pocket knife and slit the twine that was binding the bundle. He unfolded the wrapping. The package contained a folder and the plate wrapped in clean cloth. He drew a bond out of the folder and held it up to the feeble light. Satisfied, he replaced it and counted the others. He unwrapped the plate and examined the etching. He refolded the plate in its cloth wrapping and placed it inside a battered leather case along with the folder.
“Is everything in satisfactory order?”
“A fine piece of work, Herr Gottschaft. You are to be congratulated.”
The engraver smiled and nodded.
The Counselor reached into his coat as if for a wallet. He drew out a .41 Colt pocket pistol and leveled it at the old man, wide-eyed behind his spectacles. The muzzle flash exploded with a roar that fell on deaf ears. The old man pitched back, a dark stain spreading across his breast.
The Counselor gathered his battered case and crossed the workshop to a back door that opened onto an alley. He looked into dark silence left and right, then disappeared into the night.
Denver
Longstreet presented himself for dinner at precisely 6:30. He’d dressed in coat and forehand, intent on a good first impression. He was greeted by the appraising eye of a stout woman in a severe dark-blue dress whose white hair piled high on her head.
“You must be the new border. Abigail Fitzwalter.” She extended a firm sturdy hand.
“Beau Longstreet, Mrs. Fitzwalter, pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“Longstreet, now there’s a rather infamous ring to northern ears.”
“My cousin, ma’am. I hope you’ll not hold that against me.”
“Heavens no, the war is over and good riddance to it too. Have you recently arrived in Denver?”
“I have. I’ve accepted a position with the Great Western Detective League.”
“I must say, I’m not familiar with that. Are you a law officer then?”
“In a manner of speaking, the league acts as a private detective agency.”
“I see. That must be very exciting.”
“It can be at times.”
“Ah, there you are, Mr. Longstreet. Punctual, I like that.” Maddie stood at the door to the kitchen with a steaming platter of roast beef and stewed vegetables.
“I aim to please, ma’am.”
She set the platter on the table. “Ma’am? I thought we had an understanding?”
“That would make me, Beau, ma’am.”
“Yes, Beau, I, ah, forgot.”
“You wound me, my dear. I’ve only just arrived and already I’m forgotten.”
“Wounded is it? I can’t imagine a man of your self-estimation would have much experience with such a thing. And I am not your dear. You do remember the rules I trust.”
“Now there’s the spirit I’d expect, Maddie girl.”
Mrs. Fitzwalter raised a curious brow.
“Maddie will do. I see you’ve met Mrs. Fitzwalter. Take a seat. T’will be only the three of us this evening. Mr. Brighton is away on business.” She took her seat at the head of the table.
Santa Fe
New Mexico
The walled hacienda sat on a low mesa surrounded by a broad plain. The Counselor had visited it and its mysterious Patron on two previous occasions. It had taken the personal recommendation of his client to arrange the meetings. Don Victor Carnicero, it seemed, was nearly as obsessed with his obscurity as the Counselor’s client. The Patron, as he was known to his shadowy network of operatives, provided a variety of services beyond the scale the Counselor could manage.
As instructed, he’d rented a carriage and driven to the hacienda from Santa Fe, arriving as the last rays of setting sun turned the distant mountain peaks orange and purple. Two of the Don’s men met him at the gate. He surrendered his weapon before being searched and was admitted to the compound. He was shown to a guest room where he could freshen up before meeting the Don for drinks and dinner.
An hour later, the Don’s man, a muscular mountain with an ugly scar who served as his bodyguard, showed him into a large formal library warmed in the glow of candlelight. The literary collection was truly impressive, though considering the Patron’s line of work, the Counselor wondered, as he had on a previous visit, how much the collection might owe to a passion for literature or the pretense of legitimate pursuit. An interesting question to which the Counselor reconciled he’d never know the answer.
Bootheels clicked the tile passage, approaching the library.
The Patron, Don Victor Carnicero, carried himself with a patrician bearing and an aura of power that suggested a larger stature than his average height. Handsome still in the
echo of youthful vigor, waves of white hair and a neatly trimmed mustache set off a swarthy complexion with the patina of polished leather. He filled the room with the presence of a benevolent grandfather were it not for his eyes. Deep-set and black, they glittered with an inner fire that smoldered in equanimity or enflamed in rage. Little ruffled his outward demeanor. Only his eyes gave light to a ruthless hard edge.
Patron presided over a shadowy network known to the very few as El Anillo (The Ring). His organization discreetly served the indelicate needs of the rich and powerful. His clients included crooked politicians, organized labor, robber-baron industrialists, affluent anarchists, and wealthy criminals. His specialties included murder for hire, protection, and liquidation of illegal merchandise, all performed in a manner designed to strictly assure client anonymity. All his services came at exorbitant fees as befitting the risk and his client’s means of payment.
He smiled broadly in greeting, showing even white teeth. “So, Counselor, we meet again.”
The man’s handshake was firm. It spoke of a bond, a trust that must never be broken.
“I was about to enjoy a tequila. Would you care to join me?”
“Whiskey, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course. You Americanos, so few of you have acquired the taste. Felipe, por favor.” He spoke to the shadows. “Please, sit down.” He indicated wing chairs drawn up around a low polished table.
A waiter in a starched white jacket appeared with drinks and a bowl of papitas.
Don Victor lifted his glass. “Salud.” He savored a swallow.
“Now, señor, how may I be of service to my friend?”
The Counselor opened his leather case, drew out a stack of bearer bonds, and passed them across the table to Don Victor.
He fanned the stack. Twelve at one hundred thousand each, he nodded.
“This is a great deal of money. Is there something I am to purchase with it?”
“Cash.”
“I see. These must not then be as they appear?”
The Counselor nodded. “Don Victor is very perceptive.”
“Our usual fee?”
“Twenty percent.”
He gave a mirthless smile. “How soon does my friend need the money?”
“How soon can it be done?”
“With denominations this large arrangements must be made, three, maybe four months.”
The Counselor nodded.
Shady Grove
Fading light in the solarium told me our session for the day had fairly flown by. I rested my notepad. “This has the makings of a complex case.”
The colonel nodded. “It was a complex case. And merely the first of its kind.”
“The bad actors went to great lengths to avoid detection.”
“They did and that’s what made it so devilishly difficult to bring to a successful conclusion.”
“How did you manage it then?”
He shook his white mane. “Robert, my boy, for a writer you have little sense of drama. If I tell you the end of the story at the beginning, what’s the point of the story?”
I had no answer for that. Fortunately my lovely Penny rescued me.
“Time for supper, Colonel.”
“Supper they call it, Robert. Supper indeed, a brown something and a green something I’d wager, but it wouldn’t be sporting to take your money like that. The truth of it is, supper is an excuse to put me back in my place so that the two of you may be off to your evening’s enjoyment. What will it be tonight?”
“A quiet dinner,” I said.
“Yes, and I’m sure the fare will be a good deal more tasty than what I’m about to be treated to.”
“You’ll not starve,” Penny said.
“And that’s the sad truth. Sustenance to see me through to yet another day of sustenance. See what you’ve to look forward to, boy.”
“I’m sure you’ll find a way to soothe your discomfort,” I said playfully eyeing the bulge under his blanket.
He shot me a warning look. “I’m pleased you can be so sure of my comfort.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Chicago
He’s gone. The gaunt young man with thinning sandy hair shook his head. Heinrich Gottschaft made the short journey from Milwaukee to Chicago after receiving word of his father’s murder. As Kurt’s only surviving heir, it fell to him to wind up his father’s affairs. He’d put the small house in Grant Park up for sale. An auction house had taken the furnishings. All that remained was the shop.
As he inspected the dingy premises, he wondered what might be done with it. Another engraver might see it for a business. Then again, even as a master craftsman his father barely eked out a living. He doubted it would fetch much. He’d place an advertisement for the equipment in the Tribune and offer the building for sale or rent. He crossed the gloomy ink-stained floor to the workbench, making a mental list of the salable equipment items.
He turned to his father’s old wooden desk situated near the service counter. He struck a match and lit the desk lamp. He trimmed the wick. Yellow light illuminated the desktop and pooled on the floor. Brown stain marked the place where his father had fallen. Why? Why would anyone shoot a harmless old man in such cold-blooded fashion? It made no sense. He drew back the desk chair and sat against the complaint of the springs. The bottom drawer contained a few unpaid bills. The second drawer, a ledger book with neat rows of numbers recorded in an even hand. The top drawer contained an order pad and pencils. The desk drawer opened to a folder of the sort that might contain a customer’s order. Inside he felt a single sheet of a fine linen paper. He drew it out and let his eyes wander over the printed image. It was a bond, a Texas & Pacific Railroad bond in the amount of one hundred thousand dollars. What on earth was his father doing with an instrument of such value? He couldn’t possibly have purchased it. His father’s jeweler’s loop lay beside the folder. He fitted it to his eye and studied the image. As a boy he’d worked in the shop. It had given him a rudimentary understanding of engraving. The magnified image enlarged his thinking. His father couldn’t have purchased an instrument of such value. He could have printed it. But why only one? No, there must have been more. An order printed for a customer, a customer who couldn’t risk leaving an engraver who knew them for counterfeits. That was the reason to kill a harmless old man. The question now, what to do?
Cheyenne
Wyoming Territory
Escobar took a room at the U.P. Hotel. It adjoined the Union Pacific Station. The rail line would be essential to Don Victor’s plan. Escobar would carry out the Patron’s instructions with meticulous care as he always did. Nothing would stop him. A slender man with a wiry build, he moved with the stealth of a scorpion. His features were lean and hard, pockmarked by childhood disease. His left cheek bore the scar of a knife fight that ended the worse for the Indio who cut him. Little was known of his shadowy existence beyond his intense loyalty to the Don. Some speculated privately he might be the Patron’s illegitimate son, though any resemblance ended with a violent temper. Ruthless in the extreme, he could be brutally sadistic as he carried out orders without question. Within the Don’s inner circle he was known as El Ejecutor, the enforcer.
He paced the small suite colored golden in late afternoon sun. Waiting annoyed him. He checked a silver pocket watch. His contact was late. The Don expected more of his minions. He had no experience in the assignment he’d been given. His part was to represent the Don in dealing with this contact. He would collect the proceeds and distribute them to the client, less the Patron’s fee. The transactions might seem confusing, but the amounts were staggering. That much he understood.
A knock at the door intruded on his brooding. He crossed to the door prepared to voice his displeasure. He opened the door. He wasn’t prepared for this particular contact. The Don hadn’t told him she was a beautiful woman. He would soon learn many things the Don might have mentioned.
“Señor Escobar?”
“Sí.”
“Cecil
e Antoine, may I come in?”
He stepped aside holding the door. The woman cloaked herself in understated Victorian prudence. She favored severe dark colors to the extreme of widow’s weeds, depending on the persona she might choose for her work. She wore her chestnut hair pulled back in a severe bun in keeping with the look of a librarian, schoolmarm, or church organist. Under this carefully constructed façade lurked lively hazel eyes, a flawless complexion, and stunning figure. When called to do so, she could advance her will on the unsuspecting with sensuous surprise or her own brand of ruthless abandon. He closed the door.
“Please, have a seat.”
She arranged her skirt on the offered settee. “Now, tell me about this engagement.”
Engagement? He shrugged, opened the leather case he’d been given, and drew out a bond. “You are to cash these.” He handed her the bond.
“How many?”
“Twelve.”
“That’s a good deal of money.”
“Sí.”
“It will take some time. That increases the risk.”
“You will be well paid.”
“How much?”
“Twelve thousand.”
“For taking all the risk? No thank you.” She handed him the bond and rose.
Patron had warned him of this. “How much do you require?”
She paused. “Twenty-four thousand.”
“I am not permitted to offer more than twenty.”
She pursed full lips, moistened by a tip of pink tongue. “Done.”
“How will you proceed?”
“This requires some thought. I must construct a scene.”
“A scene?”
“Think of me as an actress. I play a part. I must determine what part to play.”
“How long will this take?”
Impatient. “I should have an opening by tomorrow.”
“Opening?”
“We shall need several scenes and characters if we are to avoid detection long enough to complete this engagement.”
