by Tim Champlin
“The Chicago police did locate Simpson, the man Brown’s note was addressed to. Fortunately, they got to him at his office just in time. Some Orientals had been asking for him at the Excelsior Hotel and were lounging around in the hallways near his suite that day. Simpson is president of the Mercantile Bank. He’s denied knowing anything about stolen gold. He admits knowing Brown and making two joint investments with him, but that’s all. The police will press the investigation, but my guess is they’ll never be able to prove any link or complicity, if there is any, unless they can come up with some letters, telegrams or written records.”
“I just thought of something else,” Jay said. “How can the government legally confiscate that gold if it can’t be identified as coming from the mint?”
Casey smiled. “They can’t, but they did. Technically, they are only holding it at the mint temporarily while the investigation is continuing.”
“What investigation?”
“They are attempting to find witnesses who may have seen the tong men at the estate, trying to find Otto Anderson, going over the records at Brown’s bank and home, looking for Brown’s body and trying to pick up the trail of Jacob Wright. The only information we have that Brown is dead is what you told us Jacob Wright said, and Wright eluded the posse. Several of his men were picked up, but they were apparently only hired hands and weren’t privy to all the inside information about the tong’s activities. Marvin Cutter gave a rather vague description of the Orientals he saw at Brown’s estate. He was too scared at the time to take a really good look.
“We’ve already had two men, who claim to be relatives of Brown’s from Chicago, putting in their bid for the gold and Brown’s estate. There was no will that can be found. This thing could be tied up in court for years, especially if Brown’s body isn’t found so he can be declared dead right away. It’s going to be a real mess, I’m afraid.” He paused to refill his coffee cup.
“You mentioned Marvin Cutter. Have you seen him lately?”
“As a matter of fact, I have. Would you believe he’s actually trying to go straight? Since the judge gave him a suspended sentence and probation, he’s been working hard.”
“Maybe he was inspired by Fletcher Hall,” Jay mused. “You know how slick a pickpocket he is. He’s one of the best I’ve ever seen. His hands have the talent to be a very good magician.”
“Wonders never cease,” Jay said, shaking his head. “I’m glad for him. He wasn’t really a bad man.”
“Too bad that Jacob Wright got away,” Fred said.
“Yeah, but he’s on the run and won’t cause any more trouble for a while. And Gorraiz can rest easier, too, since Wright was the one spearheading the drive, through the Cattlemen’s Association, to force the sheepmen out by violence.”
“Fletcher Hall’s probably making hay from all this,” Jay remarked.
“You’re right. I saw a piece in the newspaper yesterday where he was lecturing in St. Louis to raise money for construction of another balloon. According to the reporter, Hall was not only thrilling the audiences with all the details of his wild adventure, but was also billing himself as the main character in the drama.”
“Of course. What else could you expect from him?”
“Let me take another look at that watch you got,” Casey said. “Someday you can show it to your grandchildren to prove that you were a hero at least once.”
Jay pulled the gold-plated watch from his vest pocket, unhooked the chain and handed it across the table.
Casey popped open the back of the case and held it to the light. The ornate inscription read:
“From Wells Fargo & Company to Messenger Jay McGraw. In token of his courageous and successful defence of the Express Car against Highway Robbers near Burning Rock Cut, Wyoming Territory, October 3, 1883.”
