The Loner: Killer Poker

by J. A. Johnstone

  He needed a pipe and one of those hats like Sherlock Holmes wore in the illustrations in the stories in The Strand magazine, he thought. But such a getup would just draw attention to him, he decided, so it probably wasn’t a good idea after all.

  The sidewalks were crowded. Arturo picked up his pace, thinking he should get a little closer to Rose, so he wouldn’t risk losing sight of her. The blue gown she wore was easy to see.

  Of course, he realized, it was possible she would just go back to the boarding house where she lived. In which case he would follow her again when she went to work in the morning, and trail her home in the afternoon, if he needed to. If she was going to plan another attempt on Conrad’s life, sooner or later she would have to get in touch with the men who would carry out the actual attack.

  Unless she had decided she couldn’t trust anyone else to do the job and planned to murder Conrad herself.

  Or unless she was totally innocent, which Arturo considered highly unlikely given everything that had happened so far.

  He wasn’t surprised when she turned down a side street and went into a small, rather dingy restaurant. A sign painted on one of the unwashed windows read LUIGI’S. Arturo’s mouth tightened when he saw that. Being Italian himself, he enjoyed his homeland’s fine cuisine, but doubted if a dirty little place called Luigi’s, in Denver, Colorado, would offer much in the way of good food.

  The smells coming from the place as he approached it were surprisingly appetizing. He went down a shadowy alley, grimacing at the thought of what he might be stepping on, and found a door at the back. A slender, balding, sharp-featured man with a soup-strainer mustache answered his knock. Arturo spoke to him in Italian. “Are you Luigi?”

  The man frowned at him in apparent puzzlement. Then his expression cleared as understanding dawned on him. He answered in English.

  “You just asked if I was Luigi, didn’t you, amigo? Nah, there ain’t no Luigi. Well, there was, but he died and I bought this place from his widow after a horse fell on me down in Raton and busted my leg so I couldn’t make a hand no more. Name’s Weaver, Bert Weaver. What do you want?” The man looked a startled Arturo up and down. “You’re too well dressed to be a bum lookin’ for a handout, that’s for damn sure.”

  Arturo struggled to make sense of the flood of words. “I’m sorry, I thought perhaps you were one of my countrymen.”

  “You’re Eye-talian? Could’a fooled me, ace. You sound more like one of them Limeys, or some dude from back east.”

  “Please,” Arturo said. “I’d like a table.”

  “Sure, just go around front.” Weaver grinned. “I’ll put on my waiter hat.”

  “No, you don’t understand. I’d like to slip into the dining room from the kitchen, if that’s possible.”

  “Oh! I get it now. You’re trailin’ somebody, ain’t you?”

  “I really can’t explain—”

  Weaver held up his hands. “That’s all right, you don’t have to. You got an honest face, amigo, so I’m gonna trust you. Who is it you don’t want to see you?”

  “There’s a young blond woman, very attractive, wearing a blue dress and hat.”

  Weaver nodded. “Yeah, I seen her come in. She’s been here before. She’s your ladyfriend, is she, and you think she’s steppin’ out on you?”

  “Hardly,” Arturo said, wondering what this former cowboy would think if he explained that Rose Sullivan might well be a professional assassin.

  “Well, it’s your business, not mine. Sure, I’ll help you out. The two of us bein’ close to countrymen and all. Leastways we would be if I was really named Luigi. Lemme take a look and see exactly where she’s sittin’.”

  Weaver motioned for Arturo to follow him into the kitchen, then went through a swinging door into the main room of the restaurant. Arturo indulged his curiosity and checked the pots on the stove. He was tempted to sample whatever was in them but put that idea aside when he saw a rat scurry across the floor.

  The scrawny proprietor came back, limping a little on the leg that horse down in Raton had fallen on. He crooked a knobby finger at Arturo. “The lady’s sittin’ in one of the booths up front. She can’t see the kitchen door from where she is. Go out through this door and turn to your left. There’s a table where you can sit and see part of the booth where she is.”

  “Will I be able to see if anyone joins her?”

  “Somebody already has,” Weaver said. “A couple of tough lookin’ hombres. Are they gonna recognize you?”

  “That’s doubtful.” Arturo’s pulse began to speed up. Rose was already meeting with two more hardcases, no doubt hiring them to try to kill Conrad. “Will I be close enough to hear what they’re saying?”

  Weaver shook his head. “Not from that table. You’ll have to get closer. If you do, there’s a chance she’ll spot you.”

  “That’s a chance I’ll have to take.” If Rose was plotting to kill Conrad, then he had to find out as much about her plans as he could. He took a deep breath and pushed through the swinging door into the main room of the restaurant.

  Chapter 17

  Arturo slipped into the booth Weaver had indicated first, so he could get a sense of the restaurant’s layout and where Rose and her companions were sitting. The space was long and narrow, with booths along each wall and others sitting back to back and side by side up the middle, forming two aisles. About a fourth of them were occupied by customers eating Weaver’s food.

  There were other booths along the front wall, and it was in one of those where Rose and two men sat, evidently holding an earnest, low-voiced conversation. Plates of food were on the table to make it look like they were there for a meal, but Arturo knew it was more than that.

  From his position, he could see Rose’s blue gown, and got a good look at the two men. Both were rough-faced, beard-stubbled individuals, one with a thatch of rusty red hair under a thumbed-back Stetson, the other man burlier and more ape-like with a derby crammed down on his head. He seemed to be doing more of the talking. The man with the cowboy hat leaned back against the booth’s seat with an indolent expression on his face.

  He also wore a revolver in a tied-down holster. Arturo had been around enough rough frontiersmen to know that meant the man fancied himself to be slick on the draw. Maybe he was. Arturo seriously doubted the man was as fast as Conrad.

  Not that he wanted to put it to the test.

  The booth closest to the front in the center section was empty. Arturo thought if he could reach it without Rose seeing him, he might be able to overhear part of their conversation.

  He pulled his hat down lower so it partially shielded his face, then stood up and moved quickly toward the first booth. But not so quickly it would draw attention to him, he hoped. He kept his head down, despite the urge to glance up and get a better look at Rose.

  When he reached the booth he slid into it and pressed his back against the seat. The top of his head showed over the seat, but not enough for her to recognize him. He leaned closer and strained his ears to hear what they were saying.

  Rose’s voice was too low for him to make out many of the words, but he suddenly heard her say something about the Palace, the theater and gambling hall where the poker tournament was taking place. He knew she had to be talking about Conrad.

  A deep, rumbling voice asked, “What time?” That had to be the man in the derby, Arturo thought.

  “. . . way of knowing,” Rose replied. “I’ll have to . . . him out.”

  Arturo’s pulse quickened as his mind filled in the blanks he hadn’t been able to hear. Rose had told the men there was no way of knowing when Conrad might leave the gambling hall. She would have to lure him out of the place.

  And when she did, Arturo had no doubt the two men would be waiting to gun him down.

  He had proof that Rose had been plotting against Conrad. They had been right to be suspicious of her. He needed to go to the police.

  His spirits fell as he realized the knowledge he had gained wasn’t e
xactly proof. If he went to the law, it would just be his word against Rose’s. She would deny everything.

  He would have to catch her in the act, which meant he would have to risk Conrad’s life. He wasn’t sure he could do that. Better to hurry to the Palace and warn Conrad, so he wouldn’t walk blindly into the trap Rose was setting for him.

  He would wait for them to leave, then go out the back way and hurry to the gambling hall as fast as he could. Conrad would be sequestered in the private room where the games were taking place, but Arturo would get word to him somehow. Bat Masterson was in charge of things, Arturo recalled. He needed to talk to the famous ex-lawman.

  His nerves drew tighter and tighter as the trio in the front booth continued their conversation. He couldn’t make out any of what they were saying, but he knew they were probably discussing exactly how they would go about carrying out the assassination they were planning.

  Finally, they stood up. Arturo heard them moving around. He hoped Rose wouldn’t walk past the booth where he was sitting, look into it, and recognize him.

  Luck was with him. The front door of the restaurant opened, and he heard a swish of skirts as she went out. The two men strolled past him, and the man in the derby actually glanced at him, but neither of them had ever seen him before so he wasn’t worried about them recognizing him. They walked to the back of the place and paid Weaver for the food they’d had.

  The men left the restaurant without looking at Arturo as they went by. As soon as the door swung closed behind them, he was on his feet. He hurried to the back and said to Weaver, “I’d like to go out through the kitchen, if that’s all right.”

  “Figured you might want to do that,” the former cowhand said, grinning again. “Find out what you wanted to know?”

  “I hope so.” Arturo paused long enough to slip a double eagle out of his pocket. As he pressed it into Weaver’s hand, he said, “This is for your trouble.”

  “Well, it wasn’t much trouble, but I’m mighty obliged to you, partner. Come back any time you want to. And tell your friends about Luigi’s!”

  Arturo thought that was highly unlikely, but he didn’t take the time to say so.

  Once he was in the alley again, he headed cautiously for the street. He knew he needed to be careful. It was possible Rose was still around where she might see him. He would have to check both ways along the street before he stepped out. If he knew his way around Denver better, he might try some other route, but he was afraid he would get lost and fail to reach the Palace in time to warn Conrad.

  A shape suddenly loomed out of the shadows in front of Arturo, a patch of deeper darkness that moved swiftly toward him and took on the dimensions of a man. The pistol Conrad had given him was tucked away under his coat, but as he reached for it a fist exploded against his jaw and sent him falling against the wall. Arturo struggled to remain conscious as two pairs of rough hands grabbed him and shoved him toward the street.

  A fog seemed to have descended over his eyes. He couldn’t see much except shifting patterns of light and darkness, but he heard a deep, gravelly voice ask, “Is this him?”

  “Yes, I thought so.” The reply was in the cool, measured tones of a woman.

  Arturo’s mind was stunned, but he recognized the voice of Rose Sullivan.

  “I told you I recognized his hat over the top of that booth. He had no reason to be there unless he was sneaking around, spying on me.”

  “What do you want us to do with him?”

  Rose didn’t answer for a moment as she pondered the question. Then she said, “Put him in the carriage and bring him with us. He might come in handy, especially if Browning gets suspicious and doesn’t want to cooperate.”

  It was amazing how much different she sounded, even though the voice was the same. The sweet young woman was gone, and in her place was a cold, calculating schemer. Arturo knew he had to get away, had to warn Conrad.

  “Just make sure he can’t interfere,” Rose went on.

  “Sure,” one of the men holding Arturo said. He grunted with effort, and the next instant something hard crashed against Arturo’s skull with blinding force.

  He suddenly felt like he was tumbling forward into a deep, dark well. The last thing he heard, echoing in that darkness, was, “Conrad Browning has to die tonight.”

  Conrad hadn’t stretched out to go to sleep yet when a soft knock sounded on the door of the little room. His boots were off, but he still wore his trousers and shirt. Yawning with weariness, he went over and asked, “Who is it?”

  “Bat.”

  Knowing that Masterson wouldn’t bother him unless it was for something important, Conrad opened the door.

  “Sorry to break in on you, Conrad,” Masterson said. “I see you hadn’t gone to sleep yet. Good.”

  “No, but I’m pretty tired, Bat. What’s going on?”

  “I got word there’s a lady looking for you.”

  Conrad grimaced. “Honestly, Bat, I’m too tired right now to be thinking about women—”

  “It’s not like that,” Masterson broke in. “Although I must say, Conrad, you’re too young to ever be too tired to think about women.” He noticed the look of impatience on Conrad’s face, and went on, “This is that Miss Sullivan you’re acquainted with from Ellery Hudson’s office.”

  “Rose?” Conrad couldn’t hold in his surprise. “What the hell is she doing here?”

  “She said something happened to your friend Vincenzo and she needs your help. She saw him on the street. A man had attacked him and robbed him. She says he’s hurt.”

  Mixed emotions shot through Conrad. First and foremost among them was genuine worry for Arturo. He had planned to investigate Rose’s background, and he could have been following her. It was entirely possible that a thief could have assaulted him.

  But Conrad also felt a nagging suspicion about Rose. Was this a trick of some sort, designed to lure him away from the poker tournament and out of the Palace so another attempt could be made on his life?

  That was possible, but if Arturo actually was hurt, Conrad had to give Rose the benefit of the doubt. He had to play along and see what was really happening, but there was no reason he couldn’t be careful. “Loan me a six-gun, Bat.”

  “I’ll do better than that,” Masterson said. “I’ll come along with you.”

  Conrad considered that for a second, then shook his head. “No, whatever’s going to happen, I want it to happen. I’m tired of not being sure about certain things.”

  “Yeah, but if you’re walking right into trouble—”

  “That’s why I asked for the gun.”

  Masterson reached under his coat and handed him one of the weapons from his shoulder holsters. It was a Smith & Wesson .38 caliber double action revolver with a four-inch barrel. Like most short-barreled guns, it wouldn’t be very accurate at more than twenty feet or so, but it packed a fairly lethal punch.

  Conrad checked to make sure the hammer was on an empty chamber, then tucked the gun into the waistband of his trousers. He pulled his boots on and shrugged into his coat, leaving off the tie and his hat. “I’ll be back by the time you’re ready for the next round to begin.”

  “Just be careful,” Masterson said. “You don’t know what you’re walking into out there.”

  Conrad nodded. He was well aware of the danger.

  Masterson came with him as he strode through the private room and into the main room of the gambling hall. “She’s waiting for you in the lobby.”

  Conrad spotted Rose as he started down the broad marble staircase. She saw him, too, and hurried to meet him with an anxious expression on her face. She was waiting for him when he reached the bottom of the stairs.

  “Oh, Conrad,” she said as one of her gloved hands clutched at his arm, “I’m so glad I was able to find you. Your friend Arturo has been hurt.”

  “What happened?” he asked curtly.

  “I was walking home a little while ago, and I heard someone cry out behind me. When I turned arou
nd to look, I saw Arturo fighting with a couple men. They must have been trying to rob him. I saw one of them reach under Arturo’s coat and yank something out.” She frowned. “What was he doing there, Conrad? Was he following me? Do . . . do you not trust me for some reason?”

  Before he could answer, she waved a hand, dismissing the question. “But there’s no time to worry about that now. They hit him in the head, and when he fell down they ran away. I tried to help him, but he wouldn’t wake up and I couldn’t find a policeman and . . . and . . .” She was starting to sound hysterical.

  Conrad said, “Settle down. Take a deep breath. Where’s Arturo now?”

  Rose took in a deep breath as he had said and let it out in a sigh. “There was a carriage passing by. I got the driver to stop and help me put Arturo inside. I was going to try to find a doctor, but then I realized we weren’t far from this place and I thought if I could talk to you, you’d know what to do.”

  Conrad nodded and took hold of her arm with his left hand. “Show me. We’ll get Arturo the help he needs.”

  “Oh, thank God.” Rose sounded sincere, and Conrad wanted to believe her, but he couldn’t take anything she said on faith.

  They left the Palace, and he saw a carriage parked at the curb a short distance away. A short, broad-shouldered man in a derby hat stood there holding the reins of the team. He called, “Did you find him, miss?”

  “Yes, this is Mr. Browning,” Rose said as she led Conrad toward the vehicle. “He—”

  Somebody inside the carriage howled in pain and the next instant its door burst open. Arturo tumbled out, shouting, “Conrad, it’s a trap! Run!”

  A redheaded man in a Stetson appeared in the doorway of the carriage holding a gun. Smoke and flame geysered from the weapon’s muzzle, and Arturo was thrown forward on the sidewalk as a slug slammed into him.

  Chapter 18

  Conrad’s hand streaked to the gun in his waistband. As it came out, the front sight caught for a second, slowing down his draw, giving the redheaded man in the carriage doorway time to swing his revolver toward him. The gun roared and spouted flame again.