Shadow Man

by James D. Doss

  Moon blinked. Not once but twice. “Excuse me?”

  Her smile got bigger. Toothier. “I already know where Blinkoe’s holed up. I just want you to tell me. So that we may remain on friendly terms.” She added quickly: “Professionally.”

  “You’re bluffing.”

  “I never bluff.”

  “Then you’re not a poker player.” He watched for a tell, saw nothing. “How would you know where Dr. Blinkoe is hanging his beret?”

  Her expression could only be described as smug. “The FBI has its methods.”

  “I don’t like the sound of this, Agent McTeague. If you’ve tapped my phone or planted bugs on my private property, you’d better have a warrant signed by a judge.”

  “If you find evidence of an unwarranted intrusion, Mr. Moon, I suggest you file a formal complaint.”

  “If it’s not bugs, then you’ve got yourself an informer.” He looked very sad. “What’d you do, dig up an old charge on one of my cowboys—tell him to either play ball with the FBI or look at umpteen years in a federal jug?”

  “I refuse to continue this pointless conversation.” McTeague pitched her napkin aside, got up from her chair. “I wish to talk to your chef.”

  “Cap?”

  “Do you have another one?”

  Moon admitted that he did not. And inquired why she wished to exchange words with his kitchen employee. Was Cap the informer?

  McTeague tried to look appalled by this suggestion. “You mentioned that he was not feeling well. This is not meant to be a reflection on the breakfast you prepared—I’m sure you did your best. But I wish to determine for myself the state of his health—and inquire about when he might be attending to his kitchen duties again.”

  The rancher got up, stomped across the kitchen, rapped on a knotty-pine door. “Cap, d’you feel up to having some company?”

  The ranch cook, who had been listening at a knot-hole, backed several paces away, called out in a feeble voice: “Who is it?”

  Moon told him.

  “Sure, boss. I guess that’ll be all right.”

  The Ute opened the door, stood aside.

  Special Agent McTeague entered the room.

  Moon looked over her shoulder at the pitiful-looking man. “You want me to come in and be a witness?”

  The hireling, who was sitting on his bed, shook his head. “Oh, no sir. That won’t be necessary.”

  “Okay. But just holler if you need me.” Moon shut the door, went to the cookstove to get the pot. “You fellas need some fresh coffee?”

  Scott Parris did not, Forrest Wakefield asked for half a cup.

  When his duty was done, Moon seated himself across from his guests.

  Parris regarded his friend with a suspicious look. “Why’s McTeague so interested in your cook?”

  Moon shrugged. “I guess we’ll have to wait and see.”

  61

  The Informer

  McTeague found a straight-back chair, pulled it up to face the sickly-looking man.

  Cap, aka Scarf, had grown a bushy little beard. He was also wearing a glum expression and a black armband.

  She whispered: “How are you?”

  The Big Hat cook looked back through bleary eyes. “I’ve been better.”

  McTeague pointed at the black strip of silk encircling his biceps. “What’s that for?”

  He exhaled a long, melancholy sigh. “There’s been a death in the family.”

  “I’m very sorry. Someone close to you?”

  He nodded. “But I don’t feel like talking about it right now.”

  She leaned closer. “I regret the necessity to approach you so directly, but I was concerned that Charlie Moon had learned that you were informing on him. I’m going to take you into protective custody.”

  “You won’t be taking me anywhere—not unless you’ve got a warrant with my John Henry on it.” There was a momentary glint of amusement in the sad eyes. “Anything else on your mind?”

  She got right to the point. “Cap, I appreciate your tipping me off that Dr. Blinkoe is in hiding on Moon’s property. But now I need to talk to him.”

  “You intend to put the cuffs on ol’ Blinky?”

  “Not unless he confesses to a felony. He’s more like—a material witness. Do you know precisely where he’s hiding?”

  “Well, he moves around a lot.” The ranch cook rubbed his eyes. “But I think I can put the finger on the slippery bugger for you.”

  She glanced at the closed door. “Will Charlie Moon try to stop you?”

  “Oh, I doubt it. I think the boss knows the jig is about up.”

  “Then let’s get it done.” She had a damn-the-torpedoes full-speed-ahead look. “I am ready to confront Dr. Blinkoe!”

  “Okay, I’ll see what I can do.” Cap scratched at the scruffy hair sprouting from his chin, blinked the nearsighted eyes. “But I’ll need a couple a minutes to wash up, and put my glasses on so I’m not bumping into things.” He got off the bed with an old-man groan, toddled off into a small bathroom.

  McTeague got up from the uncomfortable chair, paced back and forth.

  Right on the mark at two minutes, the Big Hat cook appeared in the bathroom doorway. In the manner of one making a dramatic presentation, he spread his arms wide. “Ta-da!” Cap was wearing a pair of thick spectacles, had a small pillow stuffed under his shirt to simulate a belly. Moreover, he had trimmed a cleft into his beard—which gave it a distinctly forked appearance.

  Staggered at the sight, McTeague took two steps backward, bumped into the straight-back chair, sat down hard. She aimed a shaky finger at her informer. “You’re…you’re…” She could not make herself say it.

  With a slight bow, a foppish flourish of his hand, he said it for her. “Dr. Manfred Wilhelm Blinkoe at your service, m’lady.”

  M’lady felt a swirling surge of nausea and dizziness, was terrified that she might vomit or faint. Or both.

  Thumbs hooked under suspenders, Blinkoe smirked. “Yes ’tis true. Your trusted informer is actually the sly fellow you’ve been searching high and low for. Seeing me for who I truly am must come as a bit of a shock, eh?”

  He might as well have referred to the 1811 New Madrid earthquake as a minor tremor.

  She fought to regain a modicum of self-control. “But why…”

  “Why?” Dr. Blinkoe considered the question with a thoughtful cock of his head. “Why does the red-breasted robin sing on a warm June morn? Why does the speckled trout leap heavenward from the glistening waters—why, for the fun of it!”

  With a mind of its own and a single thought, McTeague’s hand was moving closer to her automatic weapon.

  Blinkoe paled. Women have such a poorly developed sense of humor. “You surely aren’t thinking of shooting me?”

  She glanced at the closed door, on the other side of which the Ute was hanging out with his pals. “Charlie Moon—he put you up to this…this Scarf business!”

  The impostor shook his head. “Certainly not. He was unaware that I have been occasionally posing as an informer to the FBI.” Blinkoe smiled. “Well, until late last night, when I told the big galoot about my devilish escapade. He showed a particularly keen interest in what transpired at our meeting at the Copper Street Deli. And even when he learned that you had paid a bribe of filthy lucre to his trusted cook to inform on him, Moon’s extreme chagrin was entirely reserved for me. In this gallant’s view, I have treated you quite unfairly—practically entrapped you, as it were. In short, Mr. Charles Moon is entirely innocent of the Scarf affair. I proudly claim the entire responsibility for my slyly conniving self.”

  “Is that so?” While he’s in the mood, I’d better keep him talking. “And did your sly, conniving self arrange the sinking of your houseboat—with the hope of being presumed dead?”

  “Sadly, no.” He sighed. “I am embarrassed to admit that such a clever ploy never occurred to me. For that singularly dramatic act, person or persons unknown must assume the entire credit.”

>   “Not that I’ll believe a single word of it, but I would like to hear your version of recent events.”

  “And so you shall.” Blinkoe seated himself on the edge of the bed, dangling his feet inches above the floor. “Ever since the shooting of that poor woman on the restaurant patio, I have been convinced that someone is out to murder me. On Mr. Moon’s recommendation, I decided to hire a pair of professional bodyguards, and lie low for a while. I believe you already know about our clandestine meeting on the lake, the hand of poker which led to a minor misunderstanding and the loss of my watch and ring, so I’ll skip over that. While the humorless cardplayer stayed behind on the Sweet Solitude—standing in for my honorable self—the other thug and yours truly paddled away in the little rubber boat. We’d barely gotten ashore when my lovely houseboat was utterly destroyed by the most dramatic explosion you can imagine. The surviving bodyguard was fairly rattled, and of course so was I. But we stayed with the original plan—which was to go into hiding.” He paused to gaze at the ceiling, where a tiny green wasp was buzzing around the light fixture.

  McTeague could not bear the silence. “But after a few days, you became terribly lonely, and went home one night to get a glimpse of your lovely young wife—”

  “I will not deny that I thought about it.” He watched the winged insect with a painfully intense concentration. “But the fact of the matter is that I did not. I was nowhere near my residence when Pansy was frightened by that face she saw in the mirror.”

  “Do you actually expect me to believe that?”

  “What you choose to believe, Special Agent McTeague, is of little concern to me.” He smiled at the uptight fed. “Shall I continue with my gripping narrative?”

  “Please do. I am hanging on every word.”

  “Thank you kindly.” He effected another slight bow. “Let us slip back to a few days after my boat was destroyed. I had tired of my makeshift hideout and the mind-numbing company of the surviving bodyguard—I refer to my chum Curly, of course—whose entire vocabulary is barely twenty words. I decided to impose myself upon the hospitality of Charlie Moon, who was—in a manner of speaking—in my employ. And so I did. On the night when my wife saw the fearsome face, I was in this very house.”

  “And I bet you have witnesses to prove it.”

  “Yes, seven in all.”

  “Quite a crowd.”

  “It was the night of the monthly poker game.”

  “I hope you lost your shirt.”

  “As it happened, I was not to be counted among the happy participants.” Blinkoe’s expression reflected his pique at the hurtful memory. “On Mr. Moon’s real estate, I am barred from all games of chance. It is a most appalling form of discrimination. No doubt, several of my civil rights have been severely violated.”

  “Just for the sake of civil conversation, let’s say I believe you were here when some Peeping Tom frightened your wife. Do you have a theory about his identity?”

  “No theory is required, G-woman.” He removed a miniature Swiss Army folding knife from his vest pocket, opened the stainless-steel scissors, clipped away at a stray thread dangling from a shift button. “I know precisely who it was.”

  “A neighborhood pervert?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “The man who posed as your wife’s brother?”

  This produced a pained expression. “Please, let us not mention that scoundrel who so flagrantly abused my hospitality. Just imagine—posing to be someone who he was not!”

  McTeague almost smiled. “Then who was the face in the mirror?”

  He returned the knife to his pocket. “It was the Shadow Man.”

  “The what?”

  “My doppelgänger. Or if you prefer—my ghostly twin.”

  McTeague took a deep breath. “Excuse me for saying so. But if that is not the most absurd thing I have heard in my entire life, it’s got to be in the top two percent.”

  “Indeed?” Eyes bulging behind the thick spectacles, Blinkoe fixed her with a disdainful stare. “You are a strict materialist, then?”

  “If you’re asking whether I believe in phantoms and goblins, the answer is…is…” For a fleeting moment, it was as if the man had split into almost identical duplicates. Worse still, one of the faces winked at her. McTeague closed her eyes. This is not happening. Thankfully, when she opened them, it was not. Manfred Wilhelm Blinkoe was singular again. I don’t know how he did it, but he must have hypnotized me! It occurred to her that a few dentists use hypnotism in the practice of their craft.

  Blinkoe appeared to be genuinely puzzled by her startled expression. “Agent McTeague, are you all right?”

  “Of course I am.” Taking care not to look him directly in the eyes, she continued the interrogation. “When you showed up at the Big Hat, I expect Charlie Moon rolled out the red carpet for you.”

  “Being the charming person that I am, you would naturally think so. I thought the kindly Indian fellow would be only too happy to give me shelter from the storms and tumults of this wicked world. But believe it or not, while Mr. Moon was extremely pleased to learn that I was still alive, it was not his intention to conceal me on his property.”

  DUBIOUS was written all over her face. “It wasn’t?”

  “Sadly, no. Even though I had committed no crime, he suggested that I turn myself in to a legally constituted authority.” He gave her a tender look. “More particularly, to yourself.”

  What a fat pack of lies. “Why me?”

  “In my opinion, because he is inordinately fond of you. He evidently hoped your career would benefit by my unselfish act.”

  She blushed a pretty pink. “Then why didn’t you—turn yourself in to me, I mean?”

  “Well, seemingly having no viable long-term alternative, throwing myself on the mercy of the FBI was my earnest intention. Though Mr. Moon put no undue pressure on me to leave his protection—that would have violated his sentimental notions of cowboy hospitality—I decided to pay you a call. And I meant to do the right thing. Really I did. But wouldn’t you know it—just as I approached your threshold, I thought about how I had shaved off my beard and dropped sixteen pounds, and wondered whether you would believe that this sad little package could possibly be Dr. Manfred Wilhelm Blinkoe, well-known orthodontist, celebrated bon vivant and debonair man-about-town—and I was blessed with this absolutely wonderful inspiration. I transformed myself into an eccentric transient who—for a few paltry pieces of silver—was willing to provide the FBI with some sort of valuable information. I knew you’d think I was some kind of nut.” He paused to enjoy her anger.

  “So this Scarf business was just a stupid joke?”

  “Tut-tut, G-woman,” He shook a stubby finger at her. “You should never speak disparagingly about the sacred subject of jokes. What is this universe but a divinely stupendous jest? Besides,” he added, “it occurred to me that my cunning little prank might serve a useful purpose. You see, if I were to gradually work my way up to telling you that Dr. Manfred W. Blinkoe was enjoying room and board on the Big Hat, I would be informing on myself. This would effectively protect Mr. Moon—my most gracious host—from future charges of having given shelter to—”

  “To a felon!”

  “No-no-no.” He shook the finger again. “To a person suspected of having allegedly committed a few paltry felonies in connection with that unfortunate DC-3 hijacking incident. But more to the point, had the Federal Department of Injustice become aware of Mr. Moon’s having secretly given shelter to a person of interest to the FBI, why, that rabid pack of lawyers might have harassed my kindly Indian benefactor. But by my making an open admission to an FBI special agent that Dr. Manfred Blinkoe—which happened to be myself—was staying at the Big Hat, the FBI would be highly unlikely to lend its support to a legal complaint against either Mr. Moon or myself. Don’t you see?”

  McTeague did see. And she did not like what she saw.

  Blinkoe clasped his hands. “It is all just so delicious.”

 
The FBI agent had a bad taste in her mouth. “One way or another, Blinkoe, I’ll get you for this.”

  “Your professional animosity is understandable, and all things are possible—given sufficient time. But as the years pass—and you grow old and embittered in your impotence to wreak revenge—I shall remember this particular adventure with special relish. No doubt, Special Agent McTeague, comic songs will be written and a television movie made about how I came to be an ‘informer’ to the FBI on myself.” He leaped to his feet, struck a ludicrous flamenco pose. “No doubt, I will be asked to play the lead.” Full of himself, Blinkoe did a little heel-tapping jig on the oak floor. “There is nothing you can charge me with, FBI lady—I am a free spirit, immune to prosecution and persecution.” A disdainful snap of the fingers.

  Desperate for something to hang him with, McTeague raised clenched fists. “You—you have deliberately misled an official FBI investigation.”

  Blinkoe raised his nose for an arrogant sniff. “On the contrary, I have been entirely straight with you—everything I told you was absolutely true. I did know that Mr. Moon was hiding Dr. Manfred Blinkoe on his property, and I made it perfectly clear at our initial meeting that Scarf was not my real name. And just minutes ago, while I was still posing as Cap, I agreed to reveal Dr. Blinkoe’s precise whereabouts—which I have most certainly done.” He resumed the heel-tapping, wailed a few strained phrases from Solo por verte bailar.

  The man is certifiably insane. And I’m a bloody fool. Lila Mae McTeague knew she should not ask. It was so unprofessional. “What makes you believe that Charlie—that Mr. Moon is…ah…fond of me?” Inordinately fond.

  Mildly winded by his exertions, the dancer plopped onto the bed. “My dear lady, I may be nearsighted without my prescription spectacles, but I am not stone blind.” He added delicately: “And I’m certain that he must be very concerned—knowing the difficult position you find yourself in.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Well, it is obvious enough. How would your future with the FBI be affected if it became known that you were paying Manfred Blinkoe to inform on himself. The effect would certainly not be a positive one. I am sure that our mutual Indian friend would stop at nothing to protect you.”