“Seems like those patients are gonna be well cared for, at least for a while.”
“Looks like it,” Clint said. “The doc has already saved one little girl’s leg.”
“That’s good.”
“How’s your new deputy working out?”
Boone made a face,
“He’s too young, but nobody else wants the job . . . unless . . . ?”
“No, not me,” Clint said. “My badge-wearing days are long behind me.”
“We could sure use you.”
“I’ll be around,” Clint said. “If you need help, let me know, but I’m not going to put on a badge.”
“Suit yourself,” Boone said with a shrug. “This kid ain’t gonna last too long. He’s already struttin’ too much behind that star we pinned on him.”
“Maybe he’ll learn.”
“Yeah, he’ll learn by gettin’ dead.”
“You and the sheriff seem to know what you’re doing,” Clint said.
“Yeah, well, we been at it for a while.”
“How long have you been his deputy?”
“Three years.”
“I would have thought it’d be the other way around, you being older and all.”
“It was the other way around,” Boone said. “He was my deputy until he beat me in the election three years ago.”
“And you stayed on as his deputy?”
“First order of business when he won was to ask me to be his deputy,” Boone said. “We had worked together well for two years before that. I like Veracruz, didn’t want to leave, don’t know nothin’ else but wearin’ a badge. I got to stay on, and he ended up with the headaches. It’s been a good deal for me.”
“No ego?” Clint asked.
“I got an ego, but that didn’t mean nothin’ in this case,” Boone said. “We work together about the same, ’cept like I said, the headaches are his. He has to play the political game, I don’t.”
“I get what you mean,” Clint said. “That was always my least favorite part of the job.”
“I’ll tell the sheriff you stopped by,” Boone promised.
“Okay,” Clint said. “I’ll stop by later, maybe catch him in.”
“Good talkin’ to ya,” Deputy Boone said.
“Same here.”
NINETEEN
Clint decided to talk to some of the people who had businesses around Dr. Graham’s office. His friend Talbot Roper was the best private detective he’d ever met, and it was he who told Clint that the only way to find the answers was “to ask the right people the right questions.”
So he spent the rest of the day talking to people, though there really wasn’t that much left of the day. Much of it had been spent retrieving Eclipse from the livery and then bringing him back there.
Basically, he wanted to know if anyone had seen somebody suspicious hanging around the doctor’s office. Or if anyone had seen the doctor’s wife in the company of somebody suspicious.
He stopped in a store across the street from the doctor’s office just as a woman was pulling the shade down on the front door.
“Can I just talk to you for a minute?” he asked the middle-aged woman. This would be his last stop of the day, because all the businesses were closing up.
She sighed, looked put-upon, then opened her door a crack.
“This is a hat shop, sir, not a hardware store,” she said. “I hardly think I have anything in here that would interest you.”
“I’m really not interested in shopping,” Clint said.
“Well, then, what do you think I can do for you?” she asked.
“I’d like to talk to you about the murder of Dr. Graham, across the street.”
Her eyes widened with interest and she immediately swung the door open.
“Come in, come in,” she said. “I suppose I can make time for a good cause. That poor man didn’t deserve to die like that.”
She shut the door after he’d entered, put her closed sign in the window, and pulled the shade down. The last thing she did was turn the lock. It was odd, but Clint suddenly felt trapped.
“Would you like some tea?” she asked. “I always have a cup of tea after I’ve closed.”
“That would be nice.”
“Come with me.”
The woman was about Lillian Graham’s age, late forties, pleasant-faced but a bit chubby, with wide hips and a large butt. Clint followed her through a curtained doorway and found himself in a small kitchen. Through another doorway he saw some furniture.
“Do you live here?”
“Yes, I do,” she said. “It’s difficult to run a business and maintain a home elsewhere. My name is Gloria Wells, by the way.”
“Miss Wells. I’m Clint Adams.”
“What is your interest in Dr. Graham’s death, Mr. Adams?” she asked.
“I’m just trying to help find out who killed him, ma’am.”
She said, “Humph,” and put the kettle on the stove. Clint suspected this woman had something she desperately wanted to talk about, which was probably the reason she had let him in. He decided to wait until they were sitting, having tea and cookies, before he gave her the chance.
“Miss Wells—”
“Missus,” she corrected. “I’m a widow.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” he said.
“That’s all right,” she said. “Mr. Wells went quickly two years ago. We had thirty wonderful years together.”
“Well, that’s good,” I said.
“Not like some people.”
“Some people?” he asked. “Which people are those?”
“Well,” she said, “I don’t like to speak ill of the dead, but the doctor and his wife did not have a very happy marriage.”
“How so?”
“Well, if you’ll pardon my French—”
“Of course.”
“She was always such a royal bitch to him.”
“I see. And that was obvious?”
“To anyone with eyes,” she said.
“So he mistreated her?” Clint asked, purposely turning it around.
“Hell no,” she said. Then she added, “Excuse me.”
“Sure.”
“She mistreated him,” Gloria said.
“I see.”
“In fact,” she said, “it wouldn’t surprise me if she had him killed.”
“Did you ever see her with another man?”
“Well . . .”
“You have?”
“I saw her, once, coming out of a hotel . . . with a man.”
“Really?” He found that very interesting. “Where was this hotel?”
“In a not very nice section of town.”
“Could you give me directions?”
“Of course,” she said, and did. She gave him very good directions.
“And what made you think that anything was . . . going on?” he asked.
“The man she was with was a big, younger, hulking brute of a man,” Gloria Wells said, “not at all like her husband.”
“I see.”
She sipped her tea.
“Gloria?”
“Yes?”
“What were you doing in that part of town?”
“I was . . . just passing by.”
Clint picked up his teacup. He looked at Gloria over the rim. He could certainly see where she might have been there with her own hulking brute.
It actually made more sense to him than Lillian Graham being there.
TWENTY
He left Gloria Wells’s store, wondering if she had been doing just what she’d accused Lillian Graham of doing—except that Gloria had no husband to answer to. Maybe Graham found out that his wife had a lover. Maybe they had a fight and it got out of hand. It was doubtful she had beaten him to death herself, so maybe she had her lover do it. And maybe the lover was in it for the money. He could certainly believe that a man would be carrying on with Lillian in order to get his hands on her husband’s money.
He stopped just in fron
t of the store and looked around. Closed signs were showing in all the windows. There were people on the streets, most of them probably heading home. Then he saw the man.
He was a big fellow, lots of black hair, sloping shoulders, thick through the middle. What had Gloria said about the man Lillian had been with? A brute? This man sure matched that description.
Clint moved sideways, then into the deep doorway of the shop next to Gloria’s. He watched the big man, who was showing interest in the building that housed Graham’s office.
The man walked back and forth in front of the building. Maybe he was trying to decide whether or not to go in and see the doctor. Or maybe it was something else entirely.
In the end, the man decided not to enter the building. Instead, he walked away down the street. Clint decided to follow him.
The man walked with giant strides, and Clint felt himself having to hurry to keep up. Ultimately, he took Clint right where he wanted to go—the docks. They even went past Clint’s hotel, the livery where Eclipse was staying, then finally to a hotel that—when he checked his directions—matched the description of the hotel Gloria Wells had described to him.
He looked across the street, where there was another fleabag hotel. Had Gloria been coming out of that one when she saw Lillian coming out of this one? Well, that was her business.
His business was this hotel in front of him, and the man who had gone inside.
He started into the hotel, stopped when he saw a woman coming out. She smiled at him, looked him up and down, and he knew the offer was coming.
“Lookin’ for me, sweetie?”
She had a lot of makeup on, including a drawn-on beauty mark above her upper lip. There might have been a pretty woman underneath, but he really couldn’t tell. Her dress was cut low enough to show her breasts, which didn’t have as much bounce to them as they probably once had.
“I wish I was, darling,” he said, “but I’ve got some business to attend to. Maybe later?”
“I’ll be around,” she said, “but what kind of business does a good-lookin’ man like you have in a sorry dump like this?”
“Not here, but I thought I just saw a friend of mine go in here,” he said. “Great big fella, lots of black hair—”
“You’re friends with Rufus?”
“Rufus . . . who?”
“Big ugly fella who just walked in here,” she said. “He has a room. Don’t know his last name.”
“One of your customers?”
She laughed. “He wishes. He don’t have enough money to afford me. He’s got him a woman.”
“Another, uh, lady of the evening like you?”
“Hell, no,” she said. “Hatchet-faced old biddy who probably likes it rough.”
“Rough?”
“I can hear her screamin’ through the walls when she’s with him,” she said. “I think them two probably deserve each other.”
“Doesn’t sound like the man I thought it was,” Clint said. “Thanks a lot.”
“Remember me, honey,” she said. “Name’s Wanda.”
“I won’t forget you, Wanda.”
She waggled the fingers of her right hand at him and flounced down the street, toward the docks.
Clint backed away from the hotel, walked across the street, and found a doorway. He needed some time to think.
He himself had thought of Lillian Graham as “hatchet-faced,” and that was exactly how Wanda had described Rufus’s woman. He supposed a woman married to a respectable doctor could have the urge for some rough sex with a man like Rufus.
He left his doorway and went back across the street to the hotel. This time he entered and approached the desk.
“Help ya?” a bored young clerk asked.
“I’m looking for a fella I met last night, played poker, and he owes me money. All I know is he lives in a hotel down here someplace.”
“I don’t know nothin’.”
Clint took a dollar from his pocket and laid it on the desk.
“All I know is his name’s Rufus,” Clint said. “I’m just looking for where he lives, and what his last name is.”
The man eyed Clint, then grabbed the dollar and closed his fist around it.
“We got a Rufus Holmes livin’ here.”
“Big fella?”
“Real big,” the kid said.
“How’s he make his living?” Clint asked.
Clint put four bits on the bar.
“That’s it,” he said to the kid, who snatched it up.
“He hurts people.”
“What?”
“He gets paid to hurt people,” the clerk said.
“I get it,” Clint said. “What do you know about a woman who comes here to see him?”
“What’s that got to do with him owin’ you money?” the kid asked. Clint just gave him a hard look. “Okay, okay, he’s got some highfalutin lady slummin’ down here with him. She goes to his room, does a lot of screamin’, then comes down and leaves.”
“Don’t know who she is?”
“No idea, but damn, she’s ugly. He’d do better with any of these whores.”
“But then he’d have to pay them.”
“Guess you’re right.” Then the kid’s eyes lit up. “Hey, you think she’s payin’ him?”
“Could be.”
Suddenly, the kid looked like he had more respect for Rufus.
“Okay, thanks,” Clint said.
“Sure.”
Clint started to leave.
“Hey, mister?” the kid called.
“Yeah?” Clint turned.
“You mind if I tell him you was lookin’ for him?” the clerk asked.
Clint knew the kid thought he might be able to sell Rufus the information.
“Why not?” Clint said. “Go ahead and make yourself some extra money.”
“Hey, thanks, mister.”
Clint said, “Don’t mention it,” and left the hotel.
TWENTY-ONE
“Buy you a drink?”
Boone looked up from his boss’s desk. This time he was sitting behind it.
“Still lookin’ for the sheriff?”
“No, looking for you this time. I want to buy you a drink and pick your brain.”
“Okay,” Boone said. “I never turn down a free drink.” He stood up, grabbed his hat and gun. “But I pick the place.”
“Sure,” Clint said. “You know the town better than I do. In fact, that’s why I want to talk to you.”
“Okay,” Boone said. “Drink first, talk after.”
“Lead the way.”
Clint expected Deputy Boone to take him to some noisy, smoke-filled saloon with girls and gambling, but he was surprised when the man led him to a small place with a bar and a few tables.
“My favorite place to drink,” he said as they entered, “and think.”
“Quiet.”
“That’s the point.”
They walked to the bar and the bartender smiled.
“Hey, Jim.”
“Tom,” Boone said. “Meet my friend, Clint Adams.”
“Hello, Mr. Adams. What’ll it be?”
“I’ll have a beer,” Clint said.
“Jim?”
“Since my friend’s paying, I’ll have a whiskey and a beer.”
“Comin’ up, gents.”
Clint looked around. There were others there, but no one was talking to anyone.
“Everyone who comes here keeps his own counsel,” Boone said.
“Are they going to be mad if we have a conversation?” Clint asked.
“It’s up to each individual whether they talk or not,” Boone said.
“Here ya go, gents,” the bartender said.
“Thanks, Tom.”
Boone downed the whiskey in one shot, then sipped his beer.
“What’s on your mind?” Boone asked.
Clint swallowed some beer.
“Do you know a man named Rufus Holmes?”
“Oh, yeah, I know Rufus,�
�� Boone said. “How did you meet him?”
“I haven’t met him,” Clint said, “but I’ve come across him.”
“How?”
“He’s Lillian Graham’s lover.”
Boone stared at him.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“But she’s so . . . and he’s so . . .”
“Ugly?”
Boone scratched his head.
“I don’t know,” the deputy said. “I guess that could make sense. And Rufus could be after her for the money.”
“Which means he killed her husband for her?” Clint suggested.
“Or on his own,” Boone said. “Or not at all. Is he your main suspect now?”
“I saw him in front of Graham’s office and followed him. He led me to his hotel. I talked to a clerk, and a whore there, and they both described Lillian Graham as having visited him there. On more than one occasion.”
“I see.”
“If they’re . . . involved, it makes sense to me that they planned the doctor’s death, and Rufus is the one who did it. After all, he was beaten to death.”
“And that’s pretty much Rufus Holmes’s trademark,” Boone said. “I don’t even think he carries a weapon.”
“What do you think the sheriff will think?”
“He’s still kind of sold on the lady doctor, but he’ll listen. He’s a reasonable man.”
“Is he getting any pressure?”
“Pressure?”
“You know what I mean.”
“Political pressure?”
Clint nodded.
“Well, he has been talkin’ to the mayor,” Boone said. “The town council would like a quick ending to the matter.”
“That figures.”
“But he won’t arrest the lady doctor just to make them happy,” Boone said. “He won’t make an arrest without evidence.”
“Well then,” Clint said, “I guess I’ll just have to find him some.”
TWENTY-TWO
They had another beer each before leaving the saloon. Clint made note of the place’s location, and the name: Tom’s Tavern.
“Tavern,” Clint said as they left. “That’s a British term, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know,” Boone said. “Never been out of North America myself.”
When they reached the sheriff’s office, the man had still not returned.
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