The Governor's Gun

by J. R. Roberts

  “It’s wonderful!” Adrienne said.

  “Great!” Clint raved. “I’ve never had steak this way. I love it.”

  “That’s-a good. I can get-a you somethin’ else?”

  “Well,” Clint said, “we’d like to ask you a question.”

  “Sure,” the man said, “go, ask.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Angelo.”

  “Angelo, my name’s Clint, and this is Adrienne. We’re looking for her sister.”

  “She’s-a lost?”

  “We don’t know,” Clint said. “We came to town yesterday. Her sister was supposed to meet her at the train station, but she wasn’t there. And she’s not home.”

  “Then what-a you ask me?”

  “We heard that she eats here a lot,” Clint said.

  “Oh, well, what’s-a her name?”

  “Eve,” Adrienne said, “Eve Hancock.”

  “Eve-a Hancock,” Angelo repeated, thinking. “We don’t-a know too many customers’ last-a names.”

  “She would look something like me,” Adrienne said, “but a few years younger.”

  “As beautiful as you, signorina?”

  “Yes,” Adrienne said, “even prettier.”

  “That’s-a no possible,” Angelo said. “But you wait. I ask the others.”

  He went to the kitchen, came back with the other two waiters, and the cook. There were no other customers in the place this early.

  The men all stood there, talking in Italian, looking at Adrienne, discussing the situation for a long time before Angelo spoke again in English.

  “This is-a Rocco,” he said, pointing to one of the waiters, a young one. “He says-a he know-a you sister.”

  “By name?” Adrienne asked.

  “He says a girl come in, pretty as you, her name is-a Eve,” Angelo said. “He says she’s-a come in a lot.”

  “What’s a lot?” Clint asked.

  “Coupla times a week. He says she’s a very nice-a lady.”

  “Ask him when he saw her last,” Clint said.

  Angelo turned and translated to Rocco. The others went back into the kitchen.

  “He’s-a say he see her last-a week.”

  “Today’s Friday,” Clint said. “He hasn’t seen her this week?”

  Angelo translated, then listened.

  “He’s-a say no, and he’s-a think that’s-a strange.”

  “Is he able to talk to her?”

  “Sì, he’s-a say she’s-a very nice. He’s not have so good English like me, so he’s-a embarrass to talk, but not-a to her. Because she’s-a so nice.”

  “Has she ever come here with a man?” Clint asked.

  They waited.

  “Sì, she’s-a come with many men,” Angelo said. “Some-a-times alone, but other times with-a men.”

  “What kind of men?” Clint asked.

  “All-a kinds,” Angelo said. “Fat, thin, young, old, all-a kinds.”

  Clint looked at Adrienne, who seemed to take that as bad news.

  Clint didn’t like it so much either.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Danny drove Clint and Adrienne back to Eve’s house. All the way there Adrienne was quiet, just staring.

  When they reached their destination, Clint helped Adrienne down and she went directly into the house.

  “You guys get bad news?” Danny asked.

  “Might be,” Clint said. “Why don’t you wait for me here?”

  “Sure thing.”

  Clint went into the house, found Adrienne in the kitchen making tea. She was making a lot of noise while she did it, slamming things around, dropping a teacup, which shattered on impact.

  She started to bend down to clean it up, but Clint caught her by the arms and pulled her to her feet.

  “Stop it, Adrienne.”

  She pushed away from him.

  “I know what you’re thinking!” she shouted.

  “Adrienne—”

  “My sister is not a whore!”

  “I never said she was.”

  “Those waiters,” she said, “the looks on their faces—she is not a whore!”

  She buried her face in his chest, and her tears began to fall. He held her and let her cry. She sobbed and sobbed until she had no more tears to give.

  Wearily, she pushed away from him.

  “I’m all right,” she said. “I want some tea.”

  “Then make it,” Clint said. “I’ll pick up these pieces.”

  “Why don’t you tell Danny to come in for some tea?” she suggested.

  “He’s fine out there, don’t worry.”

  She prepared tea for both of them while he swept up the shattered pieces. Eventually, they were seated at the table with their tea.

  “What do we do now?” she asked.

  “I’m going to go back to that restaurant,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “I didn’t ask about the men they said they saw with your sister,” he said. “Maybe they’ve come back since then. If I can find even one of them, I can ask about Eve.”

  “I’ll go with you,” she said.

  “No,” he said, “You’re upset. I want you to stay here and calm down.”

  “But—”

  “Also you should be here if Eve comes back.”

  “Clint . . . do you think she’s alive?”

  “There’s no reason to think she’s not,” he said.

  “I guess I’ll have to hold on to that.”

  He finished his tea, pushed the cup away, and took her hands.

  “Just give me and the police some time,” he said.

  “But . . . what about the job you’re supposed to be doing for the governor?”

  “Don’t worry about that,” he said. “I’ll take care of both.”

  She walked him to the door.

  “After I leave, I want you to get some rest,” he said, “and don’t think badly of your sister until you have some kind of proof.”

  “I don’t think badly of her,” she said. “I just don’t want other people to.”

  “I understand,” he said. “I’ll get back to you as soon as I know something—and I know the police detective will do the same.”

  “I hope so.”

  He left the house and walked down the path to the cab.

  “Ready to go?” Danny asked.

  “Yeah,” Clint said, “back to that same restaurant.”

  “You still hungry?” the driver asked.

  “Yeah,” Clint said, “for information.”

  * * *

  When Clint walked into DiGuardi’s again, the waiters were busy with customers, but when Angelo saw him, he acted nervous and went into the kitchen. Clint followed.

  In the kitchen he saw Angelo going out the back door, very quickly. It was clear the man was running from him. The two cooks and one waiter in the kitchen ignored Clint as he rushed through to the back door. He came out in an alley and looked both ways. It was open on both ends, which was bad. He had no way of knowing which way Angelo had gone.

  He walked one way, came out on the street, didn’t see the waiter, and then went back into the restaurant by the front door. Now he had to suspect everything Angelo had told him, including the translations from other waiters. He needed to find someone in the place who could translate all his original questions again, and then ask his new ones. He was convinced that there was something important he should know about Eve Hancock, and he was going to find out what it was.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Eve was a whore!

  At least, that’s what two of the waiters in the restaurant said. The men who came to the restaurant with her always paid for dinner and—
both men said they knew for a fact—they also paid her. When Clint asked about the men, the waiters said they didn’t know them.

  It was a little different when it came to the owner of the place. His name was Antonio DiGuardi, and he took the time to invite Clint into his office and talk to him.

  “I am very sorry, signore, to hear that the lovely Miss Hancock is missing,” he said. “I will do anything I can to help you find her.”

  DiGuardi was a handsome, dark-haired man in his forties, and Clint couldn’t help wondering if he had ever been a customer of Eve’s.

  “I need to hear anything you might know about the men she brought here.”

  “Those men are customers of mine, as well,” DiGuardi said.

  “I understand that,” Clint said, “but one of those men might be responsible for her disappearance. And I think you’d probably rather talk to me than the law.”

  “The police?” he said. “No, no . . . very well. I will tell you what I know—but it is not much.”

  “Anything will be helpful. And I’ll also need Angelo’s address. He knows something he hasn’t told me, and I’m going to find out what it is.”

  “Of course.”

  * * *

  DiGuardi knew two of the men by name. It seemed possible that they had brought Eve there, not the other way around. Angelo had waited on them each time.

  One was Hamilton Kane, a local banker. The other’s name was Arnold Van Eyck, and he worked for a local politician. Clint didn’t like that, because that could connect the man to the governor, and he didn’t like coincidences. Didn’t believe in them.

  He left the restaurant and first went to Angelo’s home address. His last name was Campisi, and he had two rooms above a ladies’ clothing store.

  Clint climbed the stairs and knocked on the door. There was no answer, which was no surprise. He wondered if he could force the door without making too much noise and alerting the people down below. He decided to give it a try.

  He turned the knob, just to check first, then pressed his shoulder to the flimsy door and snapped the lock without much sound. He slipped in and closed the door behind him.

  The place was two rooms, and he found Angelo in the bedroom. He must have returned there as soon as he ran out of the restaurant. He was lying on the bed, dead.

  Clint took a quick look around the place before he left to notify the police.

  * * *

  Detective Taylor arrived half an hour later. Clint had actually been able to find a uniformed policeman on the street, and eventually, Taylor was sent for.

  “Tell me about it,” Taylor said.

  Clint told the detective who Angelo was, and how and why he had found the body.

  “I’m going to have to go up and take a look,” Taylor said. “Wait here, will you?”

  “I’ll wait.”

  Taylor went up, and came down in about ten minutes.

  “Somebody cut his throat,” Taylor said. “Are you saying he’s the reason Eve Hancock disappeared?”

  “I’m saying he knew something about it,” Clint said. “I came here to find out what it was.”

  “Never got a chance to talk to him?”

  “No.”

  “So you didn’t kill him?”

  “No,” Clint said. “I don’t even carry a knife. You want to check?”

  Taylor shook his head. “I’ll take your word for it.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  “Oh, I’m satisfied you didn’t kill him,” Taylor said, “but now I’ve got a missing person and a murder on my hands. I can’t say I’m satisfied with that.”

  “I don’t blame you.”

  “Does this mean you’ve been working on the disappearance?”

  “That’s no secret,” Clint said. “I said I’d be looking for her.”

  “Uh-huh,” Taylor said. “Where you going now?”

  “I’m not sure,” Clint said. “I didn’t get anything useful here.”

  “I’d advise you to go back to your hotel,” Taylor said. “Or to take care of whatever business brought you to Austin. This is a murder now. That’s for the law to handle.”

  “And you’re welcome to it,” Clint said.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Clint didn’t go back to his hotel.

  He had left Danny and his cab by the restaurant, so he went back there to pick them up.

  “What’s goin’ on?” Danny asked.

  “We’ve got to look into a couple of gents,” Clint said, boarding the cab. “I’ve written down the addresses.” He’d gotten them both from the manager, who seemed to know the two men fairly well.

  “Okay,” Danny said. “I don’t usually do business in those areas, but I know where they are.”

  “Then, let’s go.”

  * * *

  Danny drove Clint to the financial district, stopped in front of the First Citizen Bank.

  “Your guy work here?” Danny asked.

  “He’s the assistant manager,” Clint said, “or so I heard.”

  “I’ll wait here,” Danny said. “At least until somebody chases me off.”

  “If that happens, just come back and get me.”

  Danny saluted.

  Clint went into the bank, ignored the tellers’ windows, and approached a pretty girl seated at a desk.

  “Can I help you, sir?” she asked, smiling up at him.

  “I’m looking for Mr. Hamilton Kane.”

  “He is our assistant manager.”

  “I know that. Is he in?”

  “He is,” she said. “Do you have an appointment?”

  “No,” he said, “but tell him I’m here about Eve.”

  She frowned.

  “His wife’s name is Fiona.”

  Clint just smiled at her.

  “Please wait here.”

  She got up, walked across the long expanse of floor to a door, and entered, She was in there longer than it would take to say, “Someone’s here to see you.” When she came out, she didn’t look happy. Her footsteps were considerably heavier as she came back to him.

  “Come this way, please,” she said.

  “Thank you.” He followed her.

  She opened the door and said, “Go right in.”

  “Thanks.”

  He entered the office, saw the nervous-looking man at the desk. He was in his late forties, pudgy and pale.

  “Who are you?” he demanded.

  “My name is Clint Adams.”

  “Did—did Eve send you?”

  The sentence implied he didn’t know where she was. Maybe.

  Clint walked to the desk and sat down across from the banker. The name plate on the desk said, HAMILTON T. KANE.

  “Eve didn’t send me,” Clint said. “Eve’s missing.”

  “What?”

  “Her sister came to town to visit, and hasn’t seen her.”

  “When?”

  “Since yesterday. When did you see Eve last?”

  Kane frowned.

  “Look, Mr. Kane, we’ve already established that you know Eve. I know you’ve eaten with her at DiGuardi’s. And that you’re married. I also think you might be dallying with that pretty girl out in the lobby. I guess you can find girls your money appeals to. What I want to know is, what’s your relationship with her?”

  “Relationship? We—we don’t have a relationship.”

  “So you were just a customer?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Why did you go out to eat together?”

  “It was part of the process,” he said. “I had to take her out to eat before she’d go to a hotel with me.”

  “So you turned Eve into a whore? I’m sure her sister will
be interested to hear that.”

  “A whore? No, no, I didn’t—I didn’t turn her into anything. She’s not a whore.”

  “Then what is she?”

  “She—she referred to it as—as being ‘on call.’ She said she was a ‘call girl.’”

  Clint had never heard the term before. Eve must have made it up in order to keep from referring to herself as a prostitute, or whore.

  “How much did she charge?”

  “Two hundred dollars.”

  “For what? One day?”

  “One night—and supper.”

  “And you paid for supper?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did she have other customers, like you?”

  “I’m sure she did.”

  “Do you know any?”

  He hesitated, then said, “No.”

  “Aw, come on,” Clint said. “Was she good?”

  Nervously, Kane said, “She was very good.”

  “So you must have recommended her to some of your friends who also wanted to get some time away from their wives, right? Come on, Kane.”

  “Yes, yes, all right,” the man said. “I recommended her to someone.”

  That explained why both Kane and Van Eyck had taken her to the same restaurant.

  “Arnold Van Eyck?” Clint asked.

  “How did you—who are you?”

  “I’m a friend of Eve’s sister,” Clint said. He stood up. “If I find out you had anything to do with her disappearance, I’ll be back.”

  “I didn’t,” Kane insisted. “I don’t know where she went.”

  “When did you see her last?”

  “I—I don’t know, e-eight, maybe nine days ago.”

  “When did Van Eyck see her last?”

  “I don’t know,” Kane said. “After me, I think.”

  “Okay,” Clint said. “I’ll talk to Mr. Van Eyck next.” He started for the door, then turned back. “Oh, there might be a policeman here to talk to you.”

  “Police? W-Why?”

  “A waiter from the restaurant was killed,” Clint said. “His throat was cut. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

  “Wha—no, I don’t.”

  “Where have you been today?”

  “Today? He was killed today? Well then, I couldn’t’ve done it. I’ve been here all day.”