Robert B. Parker's Bull River

by Robert Knott

  “How long has he been with you at the bank?” Virgil said.

  Comstock looked to Ellsworth for the answer.

  “A little over five years,” Ellsworth said.

  “Where did he come from?” Virgil said.

  “He was from Saint Louis,” Ellsworth said.

  “How do you know that?”

  Ellsworth looked to Comstock.

  “Well,” Ellsworth said. “He showed up here in San Cristóbal, the husband of a woman who hails from a very wealthy family.”

  “Catherine,” Comstock said, looking down with his eyes fixed.

  There was lull that settled among the men at the mention of Catherine.

  “You care for this woman, Mr. Comstock?” I said.

  “Well, of course,” Comstock said.

  “Didn’t seem so before,” I said.

  “Well,” Comstock said with a scoff, “I was, for good reason, feeling she might have been part of this, but now, now with this situation, it seems there is much more to this than I’d previously believed.”

  “That it?” I said.

  Comstock looked to Ellsworth.

  “Look,” Comstock said. “Catherine comes with a pedigree and, well, she uses that to get what she wants.”

  “Like what?” Virgil said.

  “Let me put it this way,” Comstock said. “It’s rumored Catherine Wainwright gets around town.”

  André returned from the kitchen with a tray of glasses, followed by a man about half his size holding a tray with bottles of wine. André set glasses in front of each of us, then took the wine from the small fella’s tray and poured us each a glass. When he got done, he stepped back, snapped his heels together again, and followed the little fella back into the kitchen.

  “Catherine Wainwright,” I said. “Any relation to Jantz E. Wainwright from Saint Louis?”

  “Why, yes,” Comstock said, “she is. Catherine is Jantz’s daughter. Her and Strode were married in Saint Louis. They moved out here together, and Strode operated a securities office for Wainwright.”

  Virgil looked at me.

  “Jantz Wainwright,” I said. “Big-shot tycoon. Owns a good portion of Saint Louis.”

  Comstock nodded.

  “He goddamn does,” Comstock said. “He was responsible for the railway showing up here in San Cristóbal.”

  “Wainwright,” Ellsworth said, “is the most prominent business owner in San Cristóbal. He resides in Saint Louis but owns a lot of businesses here. Two hotels, a number of goods and service businesses, as well as a big cow-calf operation here that supplies beef back east.”

  “Wainwright responsible for Strode working at your bank?” Virgil said.

  “Yes, he was, so to speak,” Comstock said. “As Wainwright’s businesses here grew, he felt it better to have our bank handle his assets. He felt our bank was more secure, so we absorbed the Wainwright office and Strode came to work at the bank.”

  Ellsworth nodded.

  “But, like I mentioned,” Ellsworth said, “Henry Strode was an excellent banker and was extremely valuable to our organization.”

  Virgil nodded some, looking at the glass of wine sitting on the table in front of him.

  “How much of the money in the vault belonged to Wainwright,” Virgil said.

  Comstock and Ellsworth looked at each other.

  “The majority of the money in the vault belonged to Wainwright,” Comstock said.

  “He know about the robbery?” I said.

  “No,” Comstock said, shaking his head. “Least I hope he don’t.”

  15

  After finishing off the dinner with a creamy layered dessert named after the French general Napoleon, we left the bankers, and Constable Holly and Sheriff Hawkins rode with Virgil and me slowly back to our hotel.

  “What do you call those snails we ate?” Virgil said.

  “Escargot,” I said, spelling it out. “T is silent.”

  Virgil nodded a little.

  “Good,” Virgil said.

  “They were,” I said.

  Nobody said anything else as we clopped along, listening to our horses’ hooves echoing on the brick street.

  When we got to the hotel I got my horse and Virgil’s into the corral, then met Virgil and Hawkins on the front porch. They were sitting in chairs, smoking cigars and drinking whiskey near a sconce lantern that was getting attacked by bugs when I walked up. I pulled up a chair to the small table between them.

  “Webb and me were talking about the time I shot him,” Virgil said as he poured me a whiskey.

  Hawkins nodded slowly, looking at his whiskey glass resting on the small table. He turned the glass and turned it again before he looked up at me.

  “I was a dumbass kid,” Hawkins said.

  “You were,” Virgil said with a smile.

  “I was lucky, too.”

  “Luck didn’t have nothing to do with it,” Virgil said.

  Hawkins threw back his whiskey and looked at Virgil.

  “I know,” Hawkins said.

  “If I wanted to kill you, Webb, I’d ’a done it.”

  “I know,” Hawkins said.

  “I didn’t want to,” Virgil said.

  “I’m glad,” Hawkins said.

  Virgil nodded and poured us all a splash of whiskey.

  “I remember what you said to me when you came to see me in jail,” Hawkins said.

  We looked at Hawkins. He stared at his glass again. He turned it again and turned it yet another time.

  “You said . . . make memories you can live with, son,” Hawkins said as he looked to Virgil.

  Virgil nodded some.

  “Now look at you,” Virgil said. “A bona fide lawman.”

  “By God,” Hawkins said with firm conviction. “That I am.”

  Virgil dropped his chin, offering a sharp nod, then took a long, deliberate pull on his cigar.

  “So what are your thoughts on the Strode business,” Hawkins said to both Virgil and me.

  “You know him?” Virgil said.

  “Nope,” Hawkins said. “I mean, I said hello a few times, but I didn’t know him.”

  “His wife?” Virgil said.

  “No,” Hawkins said. “Pretty as a picture, though.”

  “Comstock said she got around town,” Virgil said. “Know anything about that?”

  Hawkins shook his head.

  “Don’t,” Hawkins said.

  Virgil blew out a roll of smoke that drifted up and mixed with the bugs swarming the sconce.

  “Tell me about Slingshot,” Virgil said.

  “I’ve not had my way with her,” Hawkins said, “if that’s what you mean.”

  Virgil shook his head.

  “Don’t think she’s showed her cards,” Virgil said.

  “What are you thinking?” Hawkins said.

  “Don’t know for certain,” Virgil said. “Everett?”

  “Well,” I said, “it does seem kind of suspect Strode just showing up on her porch like that.”

  “Does,” Virgil said.

  “Makes better sense,” I said, “that someone must have left him there.”

  Virgil nodded a bit.

  “That’d be my thinking, too,” Virgil said.

  “Why would she be holding cards?” Hawkins said.

  “Don’t know,” Virgil said, “but whoever whipped the hell outta Strode is gonna have a few wounds himself.”

  “What makes you think that?” Hawkins said.

  “Both of Strode’s hands were buggered up,” Virgil said.

  “Maybe you and me ought to ride out there, just ask her if she knows more than she’s let on,” I said.

  “Maybe just,” Virgil said. “Webb, why don’t you see what you can find out about Strode?”<
br />
  “Like what?”

  “Send a wire,” Virgil said. “See if you can dig up anything on him that might help us know something we don’t know.”

  16

  In the morning Virgil and I rode out to the Cottonwood Springs to have a talk with Slingshot Clark. She greeted us wearing a long gown that was kind of flimsy and open. One side of it slipped off her shoulder, and it was clear she wore nothing underneath.

  “Well, goodness, what a pleasant surprise. If it’s not Marshal Cole, Deputy Hitch,” Slingshot said as she held open the door. “So nice to see you again.”

  “Nice to see you again, too,” Virgil said.

  “I like early customers,” she said. “Nothing like starting the day off with a proper bang.”

  “Like to ask you a few questions,” Virgil said.

  “Shucks,” Slingshot said. “Is that all you’d like?”

  “For the time being,” Virgil said.

  “That’s a crying shame,” Slingshot said.

  “Need to get at something,” Virgil said.

  “Most men do,” Slingshot said.

  “Just a few questions,” I said.

  “Don’t know if I have any answers,” Slingshot said. “But come on in, and I’ll see what I can conjure up.”

  I looked down the hall as Slingshot led us into the parlor and saw three gals sitting at the kitchen table. They turned and looked at us.

  “Make yourselves comfortable,” Slingshot said.

  Virgil and I took a seat in the parlor. Slingshot sat across from us and crossed her thin legs. Her gown opened up, revealing her smooth thighs nearly to the folds where they disappeared. She pulled a cigarette from a small wooden box sitting on the table next to her and lit it with a cut-glass flint lighter.

  “What can I do you for?” Slingshot said.

  “Need to know about Henry Strode,” Virgil said.

  “What do you need to know?” Slingshot said.

  “Need to know how he got on your porch,” Virgil said.

  “I told you.”

  “What else?” Virgil said.

  “What do you mean?” Slingshot said.

  “What else ain’t you telling me?” Virgil said.

  She shook her head.

  “Why,” Slingshot said with a smile, “I’ve told you everything, Marshal Cole.”

  “You don’t seem like the kind of person that would ever need to lie about nothing,” Virgil said.

  “What kind of person do I seem like?” Slingshot said, with her eyes leveled seductively at Virgil.

  “How’d he end up here?” Virgil said.

  Slingshot smoked on the cigarette, looking all the time at Virgil. She did not even glance in my direction. She just looked at Virgil.

  “Like I told you,” Slingshot said. “I opened up the door and there he was.”

  “Don’t seem likely,” Virgil said.

  “Marshal, I appreciate your straightforward disposition, your tempered, hard resolve,” Slingshot said. “But I’m afraid you’re barking up the wrong tree.”

  “Don’t fuck with me,” Virgil said.

  “It would be a far better use of our time,” Slingshot said.

  Virgil didn’t say anything.

  Slingshot stared at him.

  “This is not just a brothel,” Slingshot said. “This is a home away from home for many men. I run this establishment outside of the city limits for one reason: discretion. Discretion is my business.”

  “Everett?” Virgil said.

  “Yep.”

  “In the interest of discretion,” Virgil said, “do me the good turn of letting me and Slingshot here have ourselves a discretion-like chat.”

  Virgil looked at her. He didn’t say anything.

  “I’ll be right outside,” I said.

  I left Virgil and Slingshot sitting in the parlor and walked outside onto the porch to the Cottonwood Springs. I glanced back through the window, and I could see the profile of Slingshot through the lace curtains. She took a pull off her cigarette and blew smoke back over her shoulder.

  I walked down the steps and out through the weeded scrub to where our horses were tied under the cottonwood. I sat in one of the folding chairs and waited for Virgil.

  After about ten minutes I looked back when I heard Virgil exit. I stayed seated as he crossed the yard, walking in my direction.

  “How was the discretion?” I said.

  “She opened up,” Virgil said.

  “Nothing like starting the day with a bang,” I said.

  Virgil shook his head some as he reached for his reins.

  “She opened up in a way,” Virgil said, “that had more to do with what I was interested in knowing than what she’s no doubt good at, and what at another time I’d be more than interested in partaking in.”

  I got out of the chair and undraped my horse’s reins from the low-hanging branch of the cottonwood.

  “So she was less discreet than previous?”

  “She was,” Virgil said. “It seems one of her customers had a hand in helping get Strode in the house, but she said he didn’t have a hand in Strode getting beat.”

  “How’s she know that?” I said.

  “’Cause he was with her,” Virgil said. “He left her in the morning and found Strode on the road.”

  “You believe her?” I said.

  Virgil nodded some, looking at the house, then swung up into the saddle.

  “I do,” Virgil said. “But we’ll have a better idea after we talk to him.”

  I put my foot in the stirrup, got up, got seated, and we moved on some.

  “Who is it?” I said.

  “Jantz Wainwright,” Virgil said. “Strode’s daddy-in-law.”

  17

  When Virgil and I returned to San Cristóbal, Constable Holly was with Hawkins in front of the sheriff’s office. Hawkins was tightening the cinch on his saddle that was resting on a tall, dark bay.

  “Hell,” Hawkins said. “I was on my way out to meet y’all.”

  “For?” Virgil said.

  “For one thing. Strode stirred.”

  “He talk?” I said.

  “No,” Hawkins said. “Davy came and got me. I went over there early this morning before daylight. He mumbled a bit. Doc was able to get him drinking water, but that was it.”

  Holly nodded.

  “Dr. Mayfair,” Holly said. “Told us he’d let us know when he was cognizant.”

  “But that’s not all,” Hawkins said. “We found something important. Something we need to show you.”

  Hawkins pulled a telegram from his vest.

  “Did like you asked,” Hawkins said. “Went to the Western Union office this morning and checked up on Strode. Ellsworth told me Strode was college-educated. Graduated from a school in New York. A place called Saint John’s. I wired them and I got this telegram back right away.”

  Hawkins handed the telegram to Virgil.

  Virgil read the telegram, then handed it to me, and I read it.

  “Looks like Strode’s a smart fella,” Virgil said.

  “Top of his class,” I said. “Must be.”

  “That isn’t the totality of it,” Holly said.

  Hawkins’s bay was gnawing nonstop on the hitch. He slapped the bay’s nose with the tip of his reins as he pulled out another telegram and waved it in the air.

  “After that first wire, this came in,” Hawkins said as he handed the second telegram to Virgil.

  Hawkins and Holly looked to me.

  “It’s from the Saint John’s College, too,” Holly said. “Someone there who knew Strode personally.”

  Virgil read it. His eyes narrowed, and then he handed me the telegram.

  “You sure this is right?” Virgil said.

  Hawkins a
nd Holly nodded.

  “That telegram came less than an hour after the first,” Hawkins said.

  Virgil looked at me as I read the telegram.

  “What do you make of that?” Hawkins said, looking back and forth between Virgil and me.

  “Did you follow up with a responding telegram to this person?” I said, handing the telegram back to Hawkins.

  “No,” Hawkins said. “When I got the wire I figured I needed to find y’all, let y’all know right away.”

  Virgil looked at me a bit, then looked up the street, thinking.

  “This is by God something,” Hawkins said.

  Holly looked at his watch.

  “We can wire back, but better get to it ’fore it’s too late in the day. Might be too late already, being back east and all.”

  Virgil nodded slightly.

  “Do,” Virgil said. “Wire ’em back, find out when, what year, how, and what else they know.”

  Hawkins and Holly both nodded.

  “Any news from Slingshot?” Hawkins said as he mounted up.

  “Don’t know,” Virgil said. “Need to find Jantz Wainwright.”

  Holly looked at Hawkins.

  “Wainwright?” Holly said with a curious rise in his voice. “What does Mr. Wainwright got to do with this, other than losing a pot full of money?”

  “Don’t know,” Virgil said, and offered nothing more.

  “Well,” Holly said, looking at Hawkins, “I don’t know if he’s in town.”

  Hawkins shook his head.

  “He comes and goes,” Hawkins said. “He’s never here very long.”

  “Got any idea where he might be?” I said.

  Hawkins shook his head.

  “No,” Holly said. “I was at the bank this morning. Place was crowded with folks clamoring. Damn upset. Wanting to know about their money. Didn’t see Mr. Wainwright, though.”

  “Where does he stay when he’s here?” I said. “Where’s he hang his hat?”

  “The Harvey House Hotel on the tracks,” Hawkins said, pointing in the direction of the hotel. “He stays there some, or at his ranch near the river.”

  Holly nodded.

  “Good,” Virgil said. “Find out what you can about Strode, about who knew him and what. Everett and me will have ourselves a look-see elsewhere.”