The Death List

by J. R. Roberts

  Even if the killer caught him sending a telegram to Roper and started mixing up his order of kills, he might still be able to save the life of some of the men on the list.

  And the one woman.

  In his room he studied the list again. There was only one woman on it, and she was last. Her name was Amanda Tolliver, and she lived in San Francisco. If he continued to follow the order of the list, that would be his last stop. And no doubt, if he continued to follow the list, he’d arrive there to find her already dead.

  That was unacceptable.

  It was time for him to take a chance, and make a change in his approach. When he arrived in Denver, he could also press Roper into service, pick the man’s superior brain to see what he had to offer in the way of a solution to the problem.

  Maybe it was time to stop chasing the victims, and start chasing the killer.

  SEVENTEEN

  Talbot Roper opened the door to his Denver office and entered. Seated at the reception desk was a girl he’d never seen before.

  “Mr. Roper?” she asked.

  “That’s right.”

  She smiled brightly and stood up—all five foot two and twenty years of her.

  “I’m here for the receptionist job.”

  “How did you get in?”

  “The door was open.”

  “What?”

  “It was open. I knocked and it opened, so I thought I’d come in and sit down and wait for you.”

  “There’s no way that door should have been open,” Roper said. “Where’s Justine?”

  “Who?”

  “The woman who was working here.”

  “As far as I know,” she said, “you need a receptionist.”

  Justine had been working there three months. The night before, when they had their latest fight, he didn’t believe that it would be their last, as she had said. But if she left the door open behind her when she left, it looked like this time it was for real.

  “How did you find out so soon I needed a new girl?” he asked.

  “Um, my mother is friends with Mrs. Batchelder and she heard you were looking for someone.”

  That explained it. Mrs. Batchelder had an employment agency down the street, and she had sent him Justine three months ago. Justine must have told her that she was leaving.

  “Okay,” he said, “what’s your name?”

  “Wendy.”

  “Did Mrs. Batchelder tell you what the job is?” he asked.

  “Yes. Screening people who come in to see you, taking messages, some filing…basically doing anything you need me to do.”

  “And what did she tell you about me personally?”

  “Oh,” Wendy said, looking down. “She said you were a good man, very handsome, but hard to get along with.”

  “We’ll see about that,” he said. “I’m going into my office. I’ll have some work for you in a little while.”

  “Those files on your desk?”

  He’d started into his office, stopped in the doorway. He had left a stack of files on his desk that Justine had not put away. They were gone.

  “What about them?” he asked.

  “I assumed you wanted them filed, so I put them away.”

  “You did.”

  She nodded and said, “Was that all right?”

  “Sure,” he said, “that’s perfect.”

  He walked into his office and sat behind his desk. She came in behind him.

  “Was there something else?” he asked.

  “Yessir,” she said. “This came for you about half an hour ago.”

  He reached out and took what she was offering him. It was a telegram.

  “Did you read this?”

  “Just enough to make sure it was for you.”

  “Okay, Wendy,” he said. “Thank you.”

  “Yessir.”

  She turned and went out, closing his office door behind her. He wondered how long it would be before he drove her away?

  He turned his attention to the telegram. It was from Clint Adams, his closest friend.

  WILL BE IN TOWN THIS THURS STOP PLEASE CHECK ON A MAN NAMED DANIEL DOLAN FOR ME STOP WILL NEED INFORMATION AS SOON AS I ARRIVE STOP

  It was Thursday. The telegram didn’t say what time Clint would arrive, or where he was coming from, but Roper knew one thing. When he did arrive, he’d be staying at the Denver House Hotel. It was where he always stayed when he was in town.

  Roper looked at the man’s name again—Daniel Dolan. It didn’t mean anything to him, but if Clint needed information on the man, that’s what Roper would get for his friend.

  He stood up, straightened his jacket, and went out to reception. Wendy was sitting behind her desk with her hands in her lap. She brightened when she saw him.

  “Wendy, I have to go out,” he said. “If Mr. Adams gets here before I get back, keep him here. Make him comfortable.”

  “Yessir.”

  He started for the door, then came back.

  “If you go out for lunch, leave a note.”

  “For you, or for Mr. Adams?” she asked.

  “Both.”

  “Yessir.”

  He was about to tell her to stop saying “Yessir,” to him, but he decided he liked it.

  “If I go for lunch, I will bring it back here and eat it,” she said. “Don’t worry. I will be here to greet Mr. Adams.”

  “Okay,” Roper said, “just remember that he’s my friend. Treat him with respect.”

  “Yessir. What’s his full name?”

  “Clint Adams.”

  He waited to see if she knew the name, but there was no recognition whatsoever on her face.

  She was young.

  Very young.

  After Roper left, Wendy went into his office and began going through his desk drawers. She had been told he was handsome, and that was true, but she had a job to do, and she intended to do it.

  Maybe later there would be time for some fun.

  Much later.

  EIGHTEEN

  Clint arrived in Denver, arranged for Eclipse to be taken from the train to the stables of the Denver House Hotel. He did not want to ride Eclipse through the streets of Denver. A lot of them were cobblestoned, and too well traveled. The streets were not necessarily well cared for, and there were too many things that could go wrong.

  Once he’d made his arrangements, he took a cab to the Denver House. He checked in with a desk clerk he didn’t know and went to his two-room suite. The Denver House was one of the finest hotels in Denver, and—except for San Francisco and New York—the only time he splurged on a good hotel.

  He washed up, changed his shirt, and took his Colt New Line out of his saddlebags. When he was in Denver, he didn’t wear his holster. He preferred to wear his little hideaway .25 caliber.

  He tucked the little gun into his belt at the small of his back, put on his jacket, and left the room. Roper’s office was a short cab ride, or a long walk. He decided to grab a cab in front of the hotel. He hoped that the private detective would be able to help him with his problem.

  When he got to Roper’s office, he knocked on the door and entered. There was a young girl seated behind the desk when he walked in. He didn’t know her. Roper went through several girls a year. It was hard to understand, because Roper loved women and they loved him—but he couldn’t get along with the ones who worked for him.

  “Hello,” he said.

  “Hi,” she said brightly.

  “Is Roper in?”

  “He had to go out, but he’ll be back anytime now. Are you Mr. Adams?”

  “That’s right.”

  She stood up quickly.

  “I’ve been instructed to make you comfortable,” she said. “Can I get you anything?”

  “No, I’m fine,” he said. “I just need to talk to Roper.”

  “Well, he went out earlier today. I expect him back shortly.”

  “There’s a small saloon across the street,” Clint said. “I’ll wait there.”

  �
��Oh, but I can get you anything you—”

  “No, that’s fine,” he said. “What’s your name?”

  “Wendy.”

  “I’ll be fine in the saloon, Wendy. I’m just going to nurse a beer until he gets back. Will you tell him I’m there?”

  “Yessir, I’ll tell him that, but—”

  “Thank you.”

  He turned and left, and Wendy couldn’t think of anything to say to make him stay.

  The saloon across the street was new. It hadn’t been there the last time he was at Roper’s office. When he walked in, he saw that it was small and clean, with a few businessmen drinking at the bar, one or two seated at tables.

  He went to the bar and the businessmen nodded at him. He nodded back. Not exactly the greeting you got in most Western saloons.

  “What can I get you, sir?” the bartender asked. He was wearing a white shirt and a tie, and his hair was parted in the middle.

  “Beer,” Clint said.

  “Right away.”

  The bartender quickly brought Clint a beer. He thanked the man and then carried it to a table. Instead of his usual back table away from the windows, he chose one next to a stained glass window. He could see out through one of the panes, but no one could see in. He’d be able to see when Roper arrived.

  He had the papers in his pocket—the telegram, the letter, the list. He also had the note he’d received at the hotel after the first killing. Oddly, there had been no notes left after the second and third killings. What was the point of that first note, then?

  He knew he was taking a big chance bringing Roper in, but he didn’t feel he had any choice. And he knew he’d have to bring in some others, but from this point on—if he agreed—all future telegrams would come from Roper.

  Clint nursed the beer until it was warm and there was only half left. The bartender came over and asked, “Is the beer all right, sir? Can I get you a cold one?”

  “Yeah,” Clint said, “that’d be good. I’m just waiting for someone.”

  “I understand, sir.” He picked up the warm beer. “I’ll bring a cold beer for you while you wait for your lady friend.”

  “I’m not waiting for a woman. What made you think that?” Clint asked.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” the bartender said. “It’s just that a lot of gentlemen meet ladies here.”

  “Ladies?”

  “Yes, sir,” the man said. “I’ll be right back with your beer.”

  Clint looked around. He still saw several men seated at tables, waiting. At the bar the two men he took to be businessmen were still there, not speaking to each other. Apparently, all these men were waiting.

  “Here you go, sir,” the bartender said, putting a fresh beer down in front of him.

  “Thanks.”

  “I meant no offense, sir.”

  “None taken.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  The bartender went to check on his other customers.

  Clint looked out the clear pane and saw Roper entering his office. Moments later the private investigator came out again and started across the street toward the saloon.

  Clint heard the shot and saw Roper go down. In a flash, he was out of his chair.

  NINETEEN

  Clint’s feet hit the cobblestones and he had his gun out. Now he wished he had the Colt, and not his little .25.

  “Roper” he yelled. “Tal! Are you hit?”

  Roper looked up, saw Clint coming toward him. He held out his hand.

  “I’m okay, I’m not hit!” he shouted.

  Clint reached his friend and crouched down by him, hoping to shield him from any more bullets.

  “Did you see where the shot came from?” Clint asked.

  “No,” Roper said. “Clint, for Chrissake, get off the street!”

  “Come on,” Clint said, “back to your office.”

  “No,” Roper said, “the saloon. Come on.”

  Clint pulled Roper to his feet and they both ran to the saloon.

  “Hey, wait!” the bartender shouted. “No shooting in here!”

  “Nobody’s going to shoot,” Clint said, putting his gun away.

  Clint looked around. The place was empty. All the “businessmen” were gone.

  Clint and Roper went to a back table this time, and Clint told the bartender, “Two whiskeys.”

  “Comin’ up.”

  Clint looked at Roper across the table.

  “You okay?”

  Roper looked down at his knee.

  “Scraped my knee, tore my pants, but that’s about it,” the detective said.

  “Where’d the shot come from?”

  “I don’t know,” Roper said. “It didn’t hit the ground, so it didn’t come from above.”

  “Are you working on something now?” Clint asked hopefully.

  “No, not really,” Roper said. “I’m between cases, which is why I went out as soon as I got your telegram.”

  “As soon as you got it?”

  “Yes,” Roper said. “This morning.”

  Clint sat back in his chair to allow the bartender to set down the whiskeys.

  “Two beers, also,” he told the man.

  “Right away.”

  “Tal,” Clint said, “I sent that telegram three days ago.”

  “I swear, Clint, I only got it today.”

  Clint sipped his whiskey.

  “What’s going on?” Roper asked. “Why did you need me to check on Daniel Dolan?”

  “Dolan,” Clint said. “What did you find out?”

  “Only that he was a businessman here in Denver,” Roper said.

  “Rich or poor?”

  “Well off,” Roper said. “Not what you’d call rich, by any means.”

  “And was he…shot in the back?”

  “How did you know that?”

  The bartender came, set down their beers, and went back to the bar.

  “Drink your whiskey,” Clint said, taking the papers from his pocket, “and then have a look at this.”

  Roper downed his whiskey, sipped his beer, then accepted the papers from Clint and read each one carefully while Clint sipped his own fresh beer.

  TWENTY

  “Is this on the level?”

  The papers were spread out on the table between them. Clint touched them.

  “It seems to be,” he said. “Four dead now.”

  “And what did they have in common?” Roper asked.

  “All shot in the back.”

  “Nothing else?” Roper asked. “What about their finances?”

  “None were rich,” Clint said, “two were ranchers, one was a drunk, Dolan was…a businessman.”

  “That’s right.”

  “What kind of business?”

  “He was a lawyer.”

  “So he’s the first one who was a professional man,” Clint said.

  “That doesn’t help,” Roper said. “We need similarities.”

  “Well,” Clint said, “the biggest similarity is that they’re all on this list.” He tapped it. “Nine men, and one woman.”

  “There’s got to be more,” Roper said. “Why don’t we go across the street to my office and discuss it further.”

  “Why not?” Clint said. “Hopefully, the shooter is long gone.”

  They walked across successfully, without anyone taking a shot at them.

  “Where’s your new girl?” Clint asked, looking around. The office was empty.

  “I don’t know,” Roper said. “She was here when I left.”

  “Before the shot?”

  Roper looked at Clint.

  “Yes.”

  “How long has she worked for you?”

  “Since this morning.”

  They both walked to her desk. There was no note on the clean desk top.

  “This one left even faster than usual,” Clint said.

  “Too fast,” Roper said. “Let’s take a look in my office.”

  “Nothing’s missing,” Roper said.

&nb
sp; “Did you expect that something would be?”

  “I don’t know,” Roper said. “Have a seat. Your problem takes precedence here.”

  Clint pulled a chair over and sat across from Roper, who seated himself behind his desk.

  “Tell me everything you’ve done, everything you’ve thought since this all started.”

  “That might take a while.”

  “We’ll take the time,” Roper said, “and then we’ll go get some dinner.”

  “Well, okay. I got the telegram while I was in Labyrinth…”

  “So you finally decided to take the chance and contact me,” Roper said.

  “Right.”

  “And you want to send telegrams to the six remaining people?”

  “To them, or someone that you might know, or I might know,” Clint said, “but I want the telegrams to come from you. That way I only took one chance, with my telegram to you.”

  “Which we already know was held up for three days,” Roper said.

  “It arrived today,” Clint said, “and today someone took a shot at you.”

  “And today,” Roper said, “Wendy showed up.”

  “Wendy, the new girl.”

  “Come on,” Roper said, standing.

  “Where to?”

  “Something to eat,” he said, “but first we’re going to visit Mrs. Batchelder.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  Roper walked Clint down the street to another building. On the outside there was a shingle that said, BATCHELDER EMPLOYMENT AGENCY.

  “Employment agency?” Clint asked.

  “She helps people find jobs,” Roper said. “Mostly young ladies.”

  “Like Wendy.”

  “That’s what I want to find out.”

  Roper opened the door and they entered.

  “Mr. Roper!” a pleasant-looking woman in her fifties cried out. “How nice to see you. Don’t tell me you need my talents once again.”

  “Since this morning, you mean?” he asked.

  “This morning?” she asked. “I sent Justine to you three months ago.”

  “What about Wendy?”