The Loner: Trail Of Blood

by J. A. Johnstone

  One of the men at the table was smoking, too. He said around the cigarette between his lips, “Thanks, Serrano.”

  The tavern owner lifted a finger. “No trouble.”

  “No trouble,” the man at the table promised. His voice was soft … but so was the hiss of a snake, Conrad thought. As the door closed behind Serrano, the man looked at the two visitors and asked, “What can I do for you lads?”

  “Dr. Futrelle sent us.” Conrad moved a step closer to the table.

  The gaunt man who had let them into the room slid a hand out from under his coat, revealing a big revolver. It looked heavy enough that the weight seemed to be more than his spindly arms ought to be able to support, but he handled the weapon like it was a toy.

  Conrad was close enough to see the eyes of the man at the table. They were a very pale bluish-gray, like chips of ice. And the man’s hair, which was brushed back thickly from his forehead, was as black as midnight. He was Eddie Murtagh, Conrad thought.

  And Murtagh was the man who had been with Pamela when she left the sanitarium with the children.

  His children, Conrad thought, putting more steel in his spine.

  “Who’s Futrelle?” Murtagh asked.

  “You know who he is,” Conrad answered confidently. “And you have something that belongs to him. He wants those records back that Miss Tarleton took with her.”

  Slowly, Murtagh shook his head. “What makes you think I know anything about any records? And who’s Miss Tarleton?”

  “You know perfectly well who she is. She’s the one who paid you, three years ago, to get rid of anyone who showed up looking for her, especially her ex-fiancé, Conrad Browning.”

  “I still don’t know what you’re talking about,” Murtagh insisted, “and you’re beginning to bore me. Not to mention you’ve worried my friend Serrano. I think you should leave now.”

  “Not without those records you took from Futrelle’s sanitarium. Unless Miss Tarleton destroyed them …?”

  Murtagh didn’t respond to that. He poured wine from the bottle into his glass and said to the other man at the table, “Get them out of here. If they give you any trouble, kill them.”

  The man put his hands on the table and started to heave himself to his feet. Mallory was starting to look pretty worried.

  He was about to get even more worried, Conrad thought. Before Murtagh’s companion could get up, Conrad’s hand swept his coat back, pulled the .38 from behind his belt, and lined it up on Eddie Murtagh’s face. “Those were my children, you bastard, and unless you tell me what happened to them, I don’t care if I walk out of here alive.”

  Chapter 13

  “So that was your plan?” Mallory said bitterly into the stunned silence that followed Conrad’s pronouncement. “Walk in here, behave like a total lunatic, and get us both killed?”

  Conrad smiled. “He’s not going to have us killed. He can see my finger on the trigger. Those gunmen of his can’t shoot me fast enough to keep me from blowing his brains out.”

  Ever so slowly and carefully, Murtagh raised his hand and took the cigarette out of his mouth. “Liam, Patrick, put them guns away.”

  “But, Eddie, this is him!” the man on the sofa protested. He had sat up and swung his feet to the floor. The heavy revolver in his hand pointed toward Conrad. “This is the fella from the carriage last night. Ask him what happened to Dennis!”

  That would be the unfortunate fellow who had wound up with the pitchfork in his belly, Conrad thought.

  “Dennis got himself caught, so whatever happened to him is on his own head,” Murtagh said with a snarl in his voice. “But is it true, mister? You’re Conrad Browning?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You don’t handle a gun like any rich man I ever saw.”

  “I’m not like any rich man you ever saw.”

  Murtagh leaned back slightly in his chair and smiled to himself. “She told me you were just a weak-kneed pansy. I see the bitch lied about that, too.”

  “What do you mean?” Conrad snapped.

  “Just that she made promises she never delivered on.”

  “Then why are you still honoring the bargain you made with her years ago?”

  Murtagh gave a lazy shrug. “She paid well, and besides, she’s dead. It’s a good thing to honor the wishes of the dead, innit?”

  Conrad didn’t answer. “Where did she take the children?”

  “You think she shared all her plans with me? She hired me to convince that quack doctor to hand over all the records he had on her, and to make sure anyone who came lookin’ for her would run into a dead end … literally. Especially if it was you, Browning.”

  “Where did you last see her?”

  Murtagh took a drag on his cigarette. “At the train station. She and that maid of hers, who was more of a nanny by then, were boardin’ a train.”

  “Westbound?” Conrad asked tensely.

  “Bound for Chicago.” Murtagh’s shoulders rose and fell slightly again. “Where she was headed after that, I have no idea.”

  Conrad studied the man’s face for a second. “You’re lying.”

  “What would it profit me to do that now?”

  “I don’t know, but I’m convinced of it. You know more than you’re telling.”

  Murtagh laughed. “Why wouldn’t I tell you the truth? You’re going to be dead in a few minutes anyway.”

  “That won’t matter to you if you’re dead first.”

  The other man at the table said, “Eddie, you can’t let this son of a bitch talk to you like that!”

  Murtagh nodded slightly. “You’re right, Chris. But he says he’s going to shoot me.”

  “Then stop him!”

  “Aye. I think I should.”

  Murtagh’s hand flashed out, grabbed the other man’s collar, and dragged him across the table. Conrad held off on the trigger as he saw Murtagh throw himself behind his startled companion, using the man as a human shield.

  “Kill ’em!” Murtagh yelled as he hit the floor.

  Conrad pivoted toward the man standing in front of the sofa. He and the cadaverous gunman were clawing their guns out again with blinding speed. The Lightning in Conrad’s hand blasted as the killer’s revolver tipped toward him and roared. Flames licked from both barrels, so close they almost crossed.

  Conrad felt more than heard the hum of the slug pass his ear. The bullet from his .38 struck the man in the chest and knocked him back on the sofa but didn’t make him drop his gun.

  Conrad fired again, driving a .38 round into the man’s forehead. Blood and brains sprayed across the cushions behind him as he flopped back lifelessly.

  Mallory had gone into action as well, scooping the wine bottle from the table and flinging it at the tall, gaunt gunman. The bottle crashed into the man’s face as he pulled the trigger, the explosion adding to the deafening chaos in the room. One of the glasses on the table exploded into a million glittering shards as the bullet struck it.

  Mallory moved fast to seize the momentary advantage he had. Whipping out the sap he slammed it against the side of the gaunt gunman’s head before the man could fire again. The man went down with a shattered skull.

  Conrad dodged out of the way as the man Murtagh had grabbed upset the table and shoved it at him. Still loyal to his boss. The man tackled Conrad with an angry roar, sending them both to the floor. Landing on top of him, the man locked his fingers around Conrad’s throat. The thumbs dug in, trying to crush Conrad’s windpipe.

  Knowing he had only seconds left to live, Conrad jabbed the muzzle of his gun into the man’s body and pulled the trigger. The Lightning’s explosion was muffled. The man stiffened and fell away, rolling onto his back. A worm of blood crawled from the corner of his mouth.

  That left Murtagh. The gang leader grabbed one of the lamps and threw it at Conrad, who ducked out of the way. The lamp smashed against the wall, spreading flaming oil.

  Serrano kicked the door open then, still wearing his apron even thou
gh he had a big revolver clutched in each fist. The weapons spouted fire and noise. He swept the room with lead, not caring who he hit.

  Conrad and Mallory dived out of the way. As he hit the floor again, Conrad caught a glimpse of Murtagh ducking out through a narrow opening on the far side of the room and realized it must be a bolt-hole concealed by the wallpaper.

  The fire was spreading, and Murtagh was getting away. Conrad had nothing against Serrano, but the big Italian tavernkeeper was going to be responsible for their deaths if he kept throwing lead around. Tilting the Lightning’s barrel up Conrad squeezed off a shot. The bullet ripped through Serrano’s meaty thigh and dumped him off his feet with a pained yell.

  The Italian’s men could get him to safety and chase everybody else out of the building before it burned down.

  Conrad scrambled to his feet, grabbed Mallory, and hauled him toward the opening where Murtagh had escaped. “Come on!”

  They ducked through the hidden door and found themselves in a dark, narrow passage. Using the flames behind them to see where they were going they raced through an open door at the far end and burst into an alley. Running feet slapped against the pavement to their left.

  Conrad went after Murtagh, trusting that Mallory would follow him. The clang of a streetcar bell caught Conrad’s attention. Looking in that direction, he saw Murtagh running toward the car and sprinted after him.

  Seeing the gun in Conrad’s hand, women screamed and men yelled, but they all got out of his way. He saw Murtagh swing up onto the streetcar and lunged after him, closing the gap just in time to reach up with his free hand and grab the railing next to the car’s steps. He let it pull him off his feet and clambered up.

  Murtagh was waiting on the platform and launched a kick that thudded into Conrad’s chest, nearly knocking him off the streetcar. Conrad dropped the revolver to grab hold of the railing and save himself. The fall from the streetcar wouldn’t have been fatal, but Murtagh would have gotten away.

  Conrad tackled him around the knees, and both of them sprawled on the tiny platform at the rear of the car.

  It was a desperate, wordless struggle as they fought. Conrad was bigger, but Murtagh was wiry and slippery—an experienced brawler, as well as a vicious killer.

  Spotting a knife coming at him Conrad grabbed Murtagh’s wrist, twisting it aside. His grip didn’t slacken when Murtagh’s knee dug into his belly, driving the air from his lungs. He hammered his other fist against Murtagh’s ear.

  “Where did she go?” he grated, his face only inches from Murtagh’s. His greater size and strength were beginning to give him a slight advantage. He twisted Murtagh’s wrist, so the knife was pointed toward the gang leader’s neck. With a heave, Conrad forced the point closer to Murtagh’s throat. He was yelling as he repeated, “Where did she go?”

  “K-Kansas City!” Murtagh said. “I heard her say that. Beyond that … I don’t know!”

  The point of the knife dug into Murtagh’s throat enough to make a drop of crimson well out around it.

  “The records she took from Futrelle’s sanitarium! Where are they? Did she take them with her?”

  “No! She burned them! She didn’t want anything … linking her to the kids …”

  “But she took them with her when she left? The children?”

  “Aye. Her and … the nanny! I never saw any of ’em … again!”

  The streetcar lurched to a halt. Shouts filled the night. People had seen the two men engaged in their life and death struggle and reported it. Conrad heard whistles blowing and knew the police were on their way.

  Suddenly, Murtagh grinned. “She told me … if I ever talked to you … to tell you that you’ll never find them, Browning. She said to tell you … that they’re lost to you, for all time!”

  Conrad suddenly went cold all over. Could Pamela have been threatening to kill the twins? Her own children? That would be a monstrous thing to do, even for her.

  And yet, if anyone was capable of such evil, simply to get the revenge she desired, it was Pamela Tarleton.

  Murtagh took advantage of Conrad’s stunned realization and exploded into action again, jerking his head one way and shoving the knife the other. He smashed his forehead against Conrad’s, and then, like one of the snakes Saint Patrick drove out of Ireland, Murtagh wriggled free. Dropping the knife, he leaped down and dashed away, pushing through the crowd that had gathered around the stalled streetcar.

  Shaking his head to clear the grogginess, Conrad grabbed the knife and forced himself up. He had only taken a couple steps to go after Murtagh when strong hands grabbed him from either side.

  “Look out!” a man shouted. “He’s got a knife!”

  Something hard smashed into the small of Conrad’s back. Pain shot through him. His hand opened involuntarily and the knife clattered to the cobblestones. He tried to pull free, and as he did, he saw the blue uniforms of the men surrounding him.

  “You’re not going anywhere, bucko!” The officer swung a club of some sort.

  Conrad tried to get out of the way, but they had him hemmed in. The club smashed against his head, and another drove into his belly. He folded up and fell to his knees. He felt his arms being jerked behind his back, then cold, hard steel closed around his wrists. He crumpled the rest of the way to the street and the angry shouting around him faded, washing away on a black tide of pain and then welcome oblivion.

  Chapter 14

  A balding, thick-bodied police inspector named McLaughlin glared across the desk at Conrad. “You’re lucky you got out of the place alive.”

  Conrad rubbed his wrists where the handcuffs had chafed his skin. “I know. I guess I wasn’t quite thinking straight.” His voice hardened. “A man gets that way when his children are stolen from him.”

  “We’ve only your word for that,” McLaughlin pointed out. “Dr. Vernon Futrelle is an important man in this town, and he claims you’re delusional. He says you showed up at his sanitarium this afternoon and tried to attack him like some sort of crackbrained brute. He had to summon his orderlies because he feared for his life.”

  “Futrelle is lying.”

  McLaughlin leaned back in his chair and spread his meaty hands. “Where’s the proof of that? He offered to let us go through his records. He swears we won’t find anything to indicate your fiancée was ever there, let alone gave birth to any children while a patient under his care.”

  Conrad’s jaw tightened. He would have honored the bargain he’d made with Futrelle, but after being arrested, he’d known that spilling the whole story was probably his best chance of getting out of there. He had found out everything in Boston he was going to find out.

  The trail now led to Kansas City.

  Unfortunately, as McLaughlin pointed out, he had no proof of anything. There were also dead men at Serrano’s to be accounted for, not to mention heavy damage from a fire.

  Conrad had kept his mouth shut about the dead men, but clearly there was a possible connection between him and them since he’d been seen fighting with Eddie Murtagh, their employer. Nor had he given away Jack Mallory’s identity. The private detective had been able to slip away from the scene without the police nabbing him. Mallory and Arturo represented Conrad’s best hope of getting out of that jam.

  “I’ve told you … I had reason to believe that Murtagh knew something about the whereabouts of my children. He got away from me at Serrano’s and I went after him. We argued on the streetcar—”

  “Tried to kill each other is more like it, according to the testimony of the witnesses,” McLaughlin put in.

  Conrad shrugged. “It was a heated argument.”

  “Speaking of heated, you still claim you don’t know anything about the fire at that dive of Serrano’s?”

  “Everything was fine there when I left to go after Murtagh,” Conrad lied. “Does Serrano say otherwise?”

  The beefy policeman scowled. “Serrano never says anything, good or bad. He never sees anything or hears anything, either. He’s a
ll three monkeys rolled up into one.”

  “Then you don’t have any proof that I did anything except get mixed up in an altercation on a streetcar. Charge me with disturbing the peace. I’ll pay the fine.”

  “How about assault and attempted murder?”

  It was Conrad’s turn to spread his hands. “Who did I try to kill? Has Murtagh or anyone else come forward to press charges against me?”

  “Eddie Murtagh talk to the coppers of his own free will?” McLaughlin gave a snort of disgust. “That’s not likely to happen, and you know it.”

  Conrad reached up and gingerly fingered the knot on his head where he’d been clouted with a billy club and knocked out. “When my attorney gets here, there’ll be more discussion about assault charges, but I’ll be the one bringing the complaint.”

  McLaughlin slapped a palm down on the desk. “My men were trying to put a suspect in custody. A suspect who had a knife, mind you. Nobody assaulted you. I know you’re a rich man and used to throwing your weight around, Browning, but that don’t mean shit to me.”

  “Suit yourself, Inspector.”

  McLaughlin’s scowl darkened. “Get out of here,” he growled.

  “You’re releasing me?”

  “I said get out, didn’t I? What more do you need to hear?”

  Conrad got to his feet. He thought about saying that an apology for the rough treatment would be nice, but he decided not to press his luck.

  “You might look into some of the things that go on at Futrelle’s sanitarium,” he said.

  “Nobody’s looking into the activities of a well-respected man like Dr. Futrelle,” McLaughlin snapped.

  Conrad knew it was useless to pursue that angle. Anyway, he’d found out what he wanted to know from Futrelle. Trying to cause more trouble for the doctor wouldn’t serve any useful purpose.

  He had just turned toward the door when it opened. A well-dressed man with graying hair and a neatly clipped Vandyke beard came in. Conrad smiled in recognition. “Hello, Charles.”