The Loner: Trail Of Blood

by J. A. Johnstone

  “Seems that way,” Conrad muttered. “It was just a coincidence those men attempted to hold up the train we’re on.”

  “Coincidence, sir … or the universe attempting to tell you something?”

  “Like I’m jinxed?”

  “I don’t believe in superstition. But you must admit, it seems as if you can’t go anywhere without someone shooting at you and trying to kill you.”

  Conrad chuckled. “Then I guess it’s a good thing I can afford plenty of bullets, too.”

  Chapter 4

  Three days later, Conrad and Arturo disembarked from a train in Boston. Arturo fussed around, supervising the unloading of their baggage, while Conrad leaned on the silver-headed walking stick he carried at times. His leg had been injured while dealing with the threat of the bounty hunters in New Mexico, and every now and then it twinged a little. The exertion of stopping the train robbery in Texas had left it aching.

  “I’ve engaged a carriage for us and a wagon for our bags, sir,” Arturo reported. “I just need to tell the drivers our destination.”

  Conrad nodded and gave him the address of the mansion on Beacon Hill. The big house had belonged to his mother Vivian and her husband, and later Conrad and Rebel had begun their married life there before moving to Carson City, Nevada. Since then the house had been closed up and vacant, dust settling on the covers over the furniture.

  Conrad wasn’t looking forward to returning to his childhood home. It contained a lot of memories, memories he didn’t necessarily want to stir up again. If it proved to be too much to deal with, he could always pack up and move to one of the opulent hotels downtown, he told himself.

  “Have you been to Boston before, Arturo?” he asked the valet as they left the train station in the rented carriage.

  “Yes, sir, on several occasions with Count Fortunato. It’s one of the more civilized cities here in America, isn’t it?”

  “I suppose so,” Conrad replied with a smile. “Of course, I’m not as fond of civilization as I once was. I’ve gotten used to the frontier. Life out there is more honest, more open, more direct.”

  “More dangerous and barbaric.”

  Conrad inclined his head. “Depends on how you look at it, I suppose.”

  Arturo regarded him shrewdly. “I must say, sir, you’ve changed a great deal since the first time I saw you. Back then, you were wearing that horrible fringed jacket and that big hat, carrying enough weapons to be a walking arsenal! Now you appear to be a fine gentleman of culture and breeding.”

  “But appearances are deceptive, eh?” Conrad asked, chuckling.

  “That’s not what I meant at all. But you must admit, sir, you are a rather complicated individual.”

  “Most folks are, when you get down to it.”

  “Not I, sir. I am exactly who I appear to be.”

  “Well, I suppose we need a few things in the world we can count on.”

  Conrad felt a twinge of apprehension when the carriage drew up in front of the mansion. It was a big house of red brick with a gabled roof, but it seemed to be some sort of monster, squatting there waiting for him to come close enough so it could spring on him and devour him. With his heart pounding, he said, “Wait, Arturo. Have the driver take us to a hotel instead.”

  “Are you sure, sir? This is your family home.”

  The only family he had left was Frank Morgan, and Frank had nothing to do with that monstrosity of a house. Frank was somewhere out west, roaming the high country, or the deserts, or the forests.

  The twins, he reminded himself. He didn’t know where they were, but it was a foregone conclusion they had never been at that house. “I’m certain,” he said firmly. “We’ll be more comfortable in a hotel suite.”

  “As you wish, sir.”

  Arturo swung the carriage door open and stepped out to talk to the driver. When he got back in, they started off again, leaving Beacon Hill behind.

  A short time later, they were ensconced in the best suite in the most expensive and luxurious hotel in Boston. Conrad said, “As soon as we’ve unpacked, I want you to put on your secretary’s hat, Arturo, and send notes to a list of people I’ll give you, letting them know I’m back in Boston. I expect that’ll generate a number of invitations to dinner and whatever parties are being held in the near future.”

  Arturo frowned. “But I don’t have a secretary’s hat, sir, only my bowler.”

  Conrad laughed. “It’s just an expression. I’m surprised you haven’t heard it before. Don’t be so literal-minded, Arturo.”

  “The mind is a literal thing, sir. At least mine is.”

  “I’ll keep that in, uh, mind,” Conrad said dryly.

  Not surprisingly, Arturo rolled his eyes.

  Conrad dined that evening in the hotel dining room. He wanted to be seen. Many people from the upper crust of Boston society went there, not just guests in the hotel. The word would get around quickly that he was back in Boston, and the notes sent out by Arturo would make it clear he wanted to resume his former place as one of the city’s elite.

  But as he ate the fine food and sipped the finer wine, surrounded by elegance, he compared it to meals of biscuits and bacon, washed down by a tin cup of Arbuckle’s, that he’d had in camps alongside many a lonely trail, and he knew he’d been happier on the trail than he was in the city. He hadn’t realized how much he had changed over the past few years until he’d come back to Boston.

  That was where Pamela would have given birth to his children, he told himself. It was where the trail had to begin. There was no way of knowing where it would lead.

  “Conrad?” a man’s voice asked as he was sipping an after-dinner brandy. “Conrad Browning? Is that really you?”

  Conrad turned with a smile and saw a well-dressed couple wearing expressions of surprise. He recognized them instantly, although it took him a second to recall their names.

  He stood up and extended a hand. “Joseph! So good to see you again.” After he had shaken hands with the man, he hugged the woman. Delicately, of course, because she was one of those elegant blondes who gave off an air of fragility. “And Celeste, as beautiful as ever! It’s wonderful to see you both again.”

  “What are you doing back in Boston?” Joseph Demarest asked. His father owned one of Boston’s oldest and most prestigious banks, and he was a vice-president of the institution. “I thought you had moved west for good.”

  His wife touched his arm and said in a soft, chiding tone, “Joseph.”

  Realization dawned on him. “Oh, that’s right.” Soberly, he put a hand on Conrad’s shoulder. “We were so sorry to hear about your loss, old man. Such a terrible, terrible tragedy.”

  “So sorry,” Celeste echoed.

  Conrad nodded. He was going to have to get used to that, he told himself.

  “Thank you,” he murmured. “It’s been more than a year now, but the wound is still very fresh.”

  “I’m sure it is,” she said.

  “You know,” Demarest said, “we heard this wild rumor that you … well, that you had passed away, too. Something about a fire at your house in Nevada or wherever it was …”

  “Carson City,” Conrad said. “Yes, I don’t know how those rumors got started, but as you can see, they were false. I’m standing here right in front of you, as hale and hearty as ever.”

  “Yes,” Celeste said, “I can see that.”

  Something in her voice and the way her pale blue eyes frankly appraised him reminded Conrad that on more than one occasion when he had lived there, Celeste Demarest had subtly let him know she might not be opposed to a little dalliance with him. Conrad had never pursued the matter, of course, because he’d been happily married to Rebel at the time and she was plenty of woman for him.

  He had no interest in Celeste, except for the fact that she was a notorious gossip and would help spread the word that he was back.

  All the people he had known in Boston had also known Pamela. The two of them had been a couple for several years and
had been engaged for part of that time. Her father had been a wealthy man. Someone in their mutual circle of acquaintances would have seen Pamela following the end of their engagement.

  Someone would know something about the children she had borne.

  That was Conrad’s hope, anyway. There were other ways of approaching the search, but he was going to start with his society friends.

  “What brings you back to Boston?” Demarest asked. “Business?” He had a slightly hopeful tone in his voice. If he could bring some of the deposits of the Browning business empire to his father’s bank, it would be a nice feather in his cap.

  Conrad shook his head and said, “Pleasure.” He noted the brief flash of disappointment in his old friend’s eyes. “I want to see everyone again and renew all my old acquaintances.”

  “You’ll have no trouble doing that!” Celeste said with a merry laugh. “There’s a round of parties and balls coming up. I’m sure once everyone knows you’re back, you’ll have more invitations than you can handle.”

  “That sounds good.” Conrad took her hand and squeezed it lightly. “Can I count on you to act as my ambassador, Celeste?”

  “Of course! Come to tea tomorrow, and we’ll discuss it.”

  “An excellent idea,” her husband agreed. “I’ll be at the bank, of course, but I’m sure Celeste will entertain you and take good care of you.”

  Conrad wondered if Demarest was really as thick as he sounded, or if the man simply didn’t mind if his wife hoisted her skirts for the Browning financial empire. Either way, it didn’t matter. Conrad didn’t intend to take advantage of the offer. “I’ll have to see what I can do.”

  “Of course,” Celeste said. “Telephone me and let me know.”

  Conrad nodded. Having spent so much time in the West, he tended to forget how prevalent telephone lines were in eastern cities. After all, Alexander Graham Bell had invented the contraption right there in Boston, a little more than twenty years earlier. Conrad owned a considerable amount of stock in a telephone company that had proven to be a good investment.

  The Demarests went on their way, and Conrad resumed his seat. He smiled to himself as he swirled the brandy in the snifter. He’d completed the first move in what might prove to be a long game, but so far it was looking like a successful one.

  Despite that, despite all the elegance and comfort surrounding him, for a moment he wished he could hear the lonely hoot of an owl in the night and look up to see the western stars spread across the sky.

  Chapter 5

  The next morning, Conrad telephoned the Demarest house and informed one of the servants that he wouldn’t be able to accept Mrs. Demarest’s kind invitation to tea. He asked the woman to tender his regrets to Celeste and had just hung up the instrument when a knock sounded on the door of the suite’s sitting room.

  He started to open it himself, but Arturo got there first. As the valet swung the door open, a man’s voice said, “I’m here to see Browning.”

  “Mister Browning may or may not be available,” Arturo replied archly. “I shall have to tell him who is calling.”

  The man looked over Arturo’s shoulder, pointed, and said, “He’s standing right there, and I can see he’s not doing anything but drinking coffee.”

  Arturo waited, his posture indicating he wouldn’t budge though the visitor outweighed him by at least a hundred pounds.

  “All right,” the man growled after a moment. “Tell him Jack Mallory is here.”

  “Very well.” Arturo turned toward Conrad. “Sir, a Mister Mallory to see you.”

  “Send him in.” Conrad tried not to smile.

  “Please come in,” Arturo told Mallory as he moved aside and gestured for the visitor to enter.

  With an impatient shake of his head, Mallory stepped into the room. He was tall and brawny, with heavy shoulders and long arms. He carried himself like a prizefighter, Conrad thought. His gray suit didn’t fit him very well. Rusty stubble sprouted on a belligerent jaw despite the early hour. His rumpled thatch of hair was the same shade. He carried a hat in one big-knuckled hand.

  “I’m Conrad Browning.” Conrad introduced himself and shook hands with Mallory. “Would you like some coffee?”

  “Sure. If you want to splash a little cognac in there, I wouldn’t complain.”

  Conrad raised an eyebrow in surprise. He would have figured Mallory for more of a straight whiskey drinker.

  “I’m afraid we don’t have any cognac.”

  Mallory shrugged. “Black will be fine, then.”

  Conrad nodded to Arturo, who poured coffee from the pot on the sideboard into a fine china cup. Mallory took it, handling the cup with more deftness than Conrad would have expected from such a big, rough-looking man.

  “I’m told you’re the best detective in Boston, Mr. Mallory,” Conrad said. “It’s strange. I used to live here, and I don’t recall ever hearing your name.”

  “Not that strange,” Mallory said with a shake of his head. “I’ve only been here about a year. If you’ve been gone longer than that, you never would have heard of me.”

  “Where were you before that?”

  “Down in Mexico, working for a mining company that was having trouble getting their ore shipments out. Before that I was in Central America, seeing to it that a bunch of guerrillas didn’t keep a railroad from getting built.”

  “And before that?”

  “Knocking around here and there. I worked for the Pinks, off and on.”

  “But you’re not a Pinkerton operative at the moment?”

  Mallory shook his head. “I have my own office.”

  “You’ve spent time in some rough places. What made you decide to settle in Boston?”

  “I never said I was settling here. There are parts of Boston where you can get killed quicker than in any Central American jungle.”

  Conrad nodded. “I suppose that’s true.”

  Mallory drank some of the hot, strong coffee. “You sent word for me to come here and talk with you for a reason, Mr. Browning. Why don’t you tell me what that reason is, and we’ll see whether or not we can do business.”

  “Of course.” Conrad wasn’t comfortable with a lot of small talk, either. He appreciated the detective’s bluntness. “I want to hire you to find a woman.”

  Mallory frowned. “Let me guess. You want to be reunited with some long-lost love.”

  “Not hardly,” Conrad snapped. “This woman is dead, and if hate wasn’t such a useless emotion, I think I would probably hate her with every fiber of my being.”

  Mallory’s bushy red eyebrows rose a little as he tugged at his right earlobe. “That sounds a little more interesting. Why don’t you tell me about it?”

  Conrad explained about his history with Pamela Tarleton and the posthumous letter he had received from her a couple weeks earlier. He hated to open up and reveal his pain to the stranger, but if Mallory was going to help him, the detective had to know the background.

  The two of them had sat down while Conrad was talking. When he finished the story, Mallory asked, “What is it you want me to do?”

  “I think it’s quite likely Pamela gave birth to the children at some private hospital or sanitarium in this area. If she did, it’s possible she might have shared some of the details of her plan with someone there, a doctor or a nurse, maybe. I want you to find out if that’s true.” Conrad leaned forward in the comfortable armchair and clasped his hands together. “But that’s not all. To be completely honest with you, Mr. Mallory, I don’t believe Pamela Tarleton was quite sane. She blamed me not only for ending our engagement but also for her father’s death.”

  “It’s none of my business, but did you have anything to do with that?”

  Conrad shook his head. “Clark Tarleton was killed by an assassin hired by one of his crooked business partners. Pamela never really accepted that. I suppose it was easier for her to blame me.”

  “So she was loco, as they say down in Mexico,” Mallory replied. “What’s y
our point?”

  “I’ve been going on the assumption that what Pamela said in the letter about the twins is true, although I’m not fully convinced she’s hidden them somewhere on the frontier. It seems to me it would have been much easier for her to conceal them somewhere here in the East, where she’s more accustomed to things. However … everything Pamela said has to be doubted on some level.”

  Mallory tugged at his earlobe again and slowly nodded in understanding. “You don’t know for sure there really are any twins.”

  “That’s right.” Conrad stood up, put his hands behind his back, and began to pace. “It’s possible the entire thing is nothing but a vicious hoax, intended to cause me more pain.”

  “That would do it, all right,” the detective mused. “Tell a man he has children he doesn’t know about, send him on a wild goose chase looking for them, and then he’s crushed when he finally finds out they don’t exist.”

  Conrad stopped his pacing and jerked his head in a nod. “Exactly. That’s just the sort of warped cruelty that might have occurred to Pamela.”

  “So you want me to find out where she had the kids not just to help you locate them, but to prove that they actually exist.”

  “Yes. Will you do it? Your fee and expenses will be no object.”

  Mallory got to his feet and held out his hand. “I won’t soak you.” He gripped Conrad’s hand. “You strike me as a decent sort of gent, Browning. I’ll do what I can to help you.”

  “Thank you. I’ll have my secretary write you a bank draft before you leave. Just tell Arturo how much you need.”

  “What’ll you do in the meantime?” Mallory wanted to know. “You don’t seem to me like a man who sits back and waits for somebody else to do all his work for him.”

  Conrad smiled. “I have my own avenues of investigation to explore. Consider it a race if you like, Mr. Mallory … a race for the truth.”

  One of those avenues of investigation opened up that afternoon. A messenger arrived at the hotel with a note for Conrad. When he broke the seal on it and unfolded it, the scent of expensive perfume rose from the paper.