The River Rose

by Gilbert, Morris

  "Jeanne? This gentleman needs to speak with you," she said curtly, and left.

  Jeanne stood still, her window-cleaning rag in hand, and studied him. He was a man of average height and build, nattily dressed in a gray suit. He had an unassuming air and countenance, with a neat, trim graying mustache and beard and sensitive long fingers grasping a top hat. But his eyes were dark and his gaze intense as he regarded Jeanne. "Good day, Mrs. Bettencourt," he said, nodding his head. "My name is Nathaniel Deshler. I apologize for the unorthodox manner of making your acquaintance, but under the circumstances it was all I could do."

  "Oh? And what circumstances are those?" Jeanne cautiously asked.

  "I am an attorney, and one of my clients has a legal matter that concerns you, Mrs. Bettencourt."

  Jeanne blanched. "What? Am I in some sort of trouble?"

  "No, no," he said, shaking his head and coming closer to her. "Not at all, ma'am. I am so sorry, this is a rather complicated situation, and I'm handling it badly. Please, could we sit down for just a moment?" He motioned toward the tea table and chairs.

  "Yes, I suppose," Jeanne said reluctantly.

  When they were seated Deshler said, "Mrs. Bettencourt, I will tell you plainly all that I can. My client is deceased, and I believe you are a distant relative of his. If this is true, then you are a beneficiary of his will. Understanding that, I need to ask you if you have any connection to a family named Hardin."

  "That was my mother's maiden name," she said slowly. "But I'm not aware of any other connection to the Hardin family, living or dead."

  He nodded. "It is a distant connection, to be sure, but I feel certain you are a legatee—a beneficiary of a legacy. Do you, by chance, have any documentation showing your mother's Hardin connection?"

  "Yes, I have a Certificate of Live Birth that shows my mother's maiden name," Jeanne answered. "But what exactly are you talking about, Mr. Deshler? Who is this deceased person, and what, exactly, is the legacy?"

  Regretfully, he answered, "I apologize, Mrs. Bettencourt, but that is another complication. There is another legatee with rights to the property, and I am in the very odd position of having to notify you both that you are beneficiaries, but until I can speak to you together I'm not free to discuss specifics. The other beneficiary has agreed to bring me his documentation and meet with us tomorrow at ten o'clock, at my office. Would it be possible for you to come, and bring your birth certificate?"

  Jeanne said with frustration, "Mr. Deshler, that places a hardship on me. I can't just ask to take off work, it's definitely frowned upon, and I need this job."

  He smiled, a tidy, close expression. "I'm afraid I have already taken a liberty concerning you, Mrs. Bettencourt. You see, my firm represents Gayoso House, and I'm acquainted with the owner, Mr. Topp, and the managing executives of the hotel. Before I came to speak with you I spoke to your general manager, Mr. Spivey, and explained that you might need to take the day off tomorrow to meet with me on a matter of importance. He was very understanding and said you may take whatever time you need to attend to it. So, here is my card. May I count on seeing you tomorrow at ten?"

  "Thank you, Mr. Deshler," Jeanne said gratefully. "I will be there."

  BUCK BUCKNER STUCK OUT his hand. Clint took it, and winced when Buckner shook it firmly. "I can't believe it, but you did it, Hardin. I can't believe how you did it, either. Where'll you be for us to settle up?" He was shouting to be heard over the blaring din in the warehouse.

  Clint said something, but Buckner couldn't hear him, both because of the noise and because now Clint had buried his head under a thick, wet, dirty towel. He was rubbing his head, hard, and wide bloodstains appeared under his six busted knuckles.

  "What?" Buckner yelled.

  Beside Clint, Vince Norville stood on tiptoe to holler into Buckner's ear, "We'll be at Cozen's Tonsorial Parlor!"

  "He's going to get a haircut?" Buck said blankly.

  "Naw, a bath," Vince said.

  "He's not going to celebrate his win? Clint the Flint Fist downed Mike the Hammer in four rounds?"

  "To him a bath is a celebration," Vince said with disgust. "Our buddy Duffy will join you for the tallying-up, Buck." He pointed to the short scowling Duffy Byrne who waited behind Clint, holding his water bottle.

  Buckner grinned a shark's smile. "You think I'm going to cheat you, Hardin?"

  Clint had surfaced from under the towel. "'Course not, Buck. I mean I don't, and Vinnie doesn't, but I don't know about Duffy. You take exception to him helping you out with counting the money, you'll have to take it up with him."

  "I see," Buck said, nodding knowingly. "Knife man, huh?"

  "That's right," Vince said expansively. "And I'm the Gun Man, and Clint's the Flint Fist Man. Hey—"

  Clint was making his way through the loud, raucous, shouting, shoving, rowdy bunch of men that surrounded him. "Ya did it, Flint! Made me my Satiddy night whiskey money! Busted him up good, Flint! When's the next fight? Hey, Flint, Mike looks like he done got hit wid a Hammer!" they catcalled, and other, coarser things.

  Clint grinned crookedly at all of them, raising his bloody fists up high, until he made it out the door. His hair was wet, his bare chest ran with perspiration, his hands were covered in blood, his face had blood and sweat on it. The cold air bit him all over, and he gulped in a great icy breath, but it refreshed him. Behind him Vince pushed through several men that were following Clint, cursing, and when he reached him he threw Clint's wool topcoat over his shoulders. "So. You're just going to walk around, naked and barefooted, in the snow. Real smart, Flint-brain."

  "You know, it stinks in there, Vinnie, and I'm thinking that a lot of that stench is coming from me. Need some fresh air." He took his heavy brogans out of Vince's hands, threw them down, and stepped into them. "Cozen's is only a couple of blocks. C'mon, it's freezing out here, whatsa matter with you?"

  In half an hour Clint was sitting in an enormous tub made of barrel staves. His long legs were fully stretched out, the steaming water came up to his neck, and he lay motionless, his head back, his eyes closed, a dead cigar clenched between his teeth. "Aw, man, what I wouldn't give to have a bath like this every day," he murmured.

  Sitting on a whiskey barrel, and sipping some of that very whiskey from a tin cup, Vince regarded him with a critical eye. "Guess you can afford it now, Clint the Flint. You made a big bunch of dollars tonight, buddy."

  "Did, didn't I?" Clint said with satisfaction.

  "Yeah. By the way, I liked your plan. Good plan, that. It was cold, but yeah, good plan."

  Clint opened his eyes—that is, he opened one eye, for the other was swollen shut. He reached up to tenderly feel it, and his rapidly swelling mouth. "Aw, man, how'd that happen? Anyway, what do you mean, cold? I fought fair, straight jabs, no gouging."

  "I know. It's just that you were kinda deliberate about it, like you were dissecting a dead frog or something. I've never seen you fight like that," Vince said soberly.

  Clint's plan had been simple. He allowed Mike to get close to him, which meant that Clint had to take a lot of gut and kidney punches. But this time, instead of hitting his opponent with professional right crosses and left uppercuts, Clint hit him again and again in the eyes. He had simply outlasted Mike. Clint took a beating in the belly and sides, but Mike's eyes had swollen up until he couldn't see. In the last round he had doggedly groped his way "up to scratch," the long dug-up streak in the dirt that the fighters had to step up to before beginning to fight, but Mike couldn't see anything at all by that time and couldn't block any punch. Clint had slowly and deliberately hit him twice in the solar plexus to knock the breath out of him, and then had hit him solidly in the chest to knock him down. Mike couldn't recover his breath to get up within the allotted thirty seconds, and Clint had won.

  Now he told Vince quietly, "No, and I don't ever want to fight like that again. It wasn't any fun at all. It might have been fair, but it was no sport."

  Vince nodded with understanding. "Yeah,
I get it, Clint. Now you don't have to fight Mike again, anyway. He's the only one that ever beat you. So, who's next?"

  Clint answered lazily, "Vinnie, my friend, there's a possibility that I might be a man of means, and won't have to fight any more. A lawyer fellow came to see me today. It seems like I've got an inheritance coming."

  "Huh? From who? What is it? Money? A lot of money?"

  "I don't know, don't know, don't know. I won't find out until ten o'clock tomorrow. But tonight," he said, sitting up and contemplating his dead cigar, "I got money to spend. Think I'll take a light, if you please, and see if old Cozens has another fancy shot glass like that one you have there. And you have yourself a cigar and another drink on me."

  "I'll do that," Vince said, striking a match to light Clint's cigar. "You know, Her Ladyship's not going to be happy that her favorite's face is all beat up. You might better hit one of those ladies' shops that sell cosmetics, see if you can get prettied up before Madam Maxfield sees you."

  Clint smiled. "Good idea, Vinnie. I'll think about that."

  EVEN THOUGH JEANNE WAS horribly nervous, she grew amused at herself as she entered the offices of Deshler, Wayne & Beebe as the last stroke of ten sounded on the church bell. I'm not late, Mrs. Wiedemann, she thought crazily. The imposing structure was a large two-story building with a pillared front porch and a stalwart-looking front door of oak, respectably blackened with age. Inside was a large foyer leading to a grand marble staircase. Directly on one side was a mirrored hat stand, and Jeanne threw off her hood and unwound her new crimson headwrap, noting that her cheeks were colored a high rose, and not just from the cold. A young somber man with spectacles came out of a doorway on her left and said, "Mrs. Bettencourt?"

  "Yes, I have an appointment with Mr. Deshler," she said.

  "Of course. Please come this way." He led her into a room that looked like a parlor, with a sofa and spidery side chairs and a generous tea table, and a desk at the back of the room, and beckoned her to a door with frosted glass on the far wall. Opening it, he said, "Mrs. Bettencourt, Mr. Deshler." He held the door open for Jeanne, and she went into a large room with books lining the walls, heavy red velvet draperies framing the windows, and masculine leather armchairs grouped around a sizzling fire.

  Deshler rose from behind his desk and came around to hold a chair for Jeanne. "Good morning, Mrs. Bettencourt. Please, sit down. You're right on time." He returned to his seat.

  They exchanged pleasantries for a few moments, about the weather and the state of the streets. Then Jeanne said, "I brought my birth certificate, Mr. Deshler. Would you like to see it now?"

  "Yes, I would." She took it out of the pocket of her mantle and handed it to him. He gave it a cursory glance and handed it back to her. "Thank you, Mrs. Bettencourt, this is all the proof I need to substantiate your claim. I found you from the census records, you see, by tracing your mother, so I was already certain that I had the right person. Or rather, persons, for that's the way I traced the other claimant, too."

  "I believe you said he is coming here this morning?" Jeanne said politely.

  "Yes, he is. It seems he is late, which I don't find too surprising under the circumstances."

  "More circumstances," Jeanne said lightly. "I don't suppose I may know these, either."

  "Er—" Deshler began, but just then the door opened and Mr. Beebe's sonorous voice announced, "Mr. Hardin, Mr. Deshler."

  Jeanne was sitting with her back to the door, and she couldn't restrain herself from turning around to look at her co-beneficiary. She looked—she stared—her mouth opened and she blurted out, "You? The Singing Man?"

  He loomed over her, for he was very tall and broad-shouldered, and stared down at her with perplexity, and then astonishment. "You? I saw you! And your little sister! You had on the holly crowns!"

  Deshler, who had remained seated, frowned deeply. "Are you two already acquainted? Are you in some sort of theatrical production, maybe?"

  They both ignored him. Jeanne said indignantly, "She's not my little sister, she's my daughter."

  "Huh?" he said, his one-eyed gaze raking her up and down. "Your daughter? How'd that happen?"

  "What?" Jeanne said blankly.

  Mr. Deshler rose. "Pardon me for interrupting, but perhaps formal introductions are in order. Mr. Hardin, I have the honor of making known to you Mrs. Jeanne Bettencourt, who is a distant relation of my client's and, therefore, of yours. Mrs. Bettencourt, may I present to you Mr. Clinton Hardin, of the Memphis Hardins. Please, Mr. Hardin, won't you be seated?"

  Clint sat down in a chair next to Jeanne's, grimacing a little as he did so.

  Jeanne watched him with a mixture of exasperation and consternation. "What happened to your face?"

  "My—oh. Uh, accident. Had an accident on Boxing Day," he managed to reply, glancing with amusement at Nate Deshler, who was in on the joke. He had backed Clint.

  "You had an accident while boxing up the gifts for your servants?" Jeanne said sarcastically.

  Clint said with surprise, "How'd you know what Boxing Day really is?"

  "How did I know? Apparently you're the one who thought it was some sort of fistic competition, as in boxing," Jeanne replied smartly.

  "Well, yeah, but I really did know what it was," Clint said lamely.

  "Perhaps we might begin again?" Mr. Deshler said, giving Clint a dire glance.

  "Sorry, Mr. Deshler," Clint said quickly, and turned to Jeanne. "I beg your pardon, Mrs. Bettencourt, I've been very rude, I know. It's a great pleasure to make your acquaintance, ma'am."

  "I am very pleased to meet you, Mr. Hardin," she said, still a little stiffly. They both turned to Deshler.

  He steepled his fingers and said, "First I'd like to explain the connection between the two of you, and my client, Mr. Ira Hardin. I first met him on November 7 of this year, at which time he gave me instructions concerning his last wishes. He died the next day, I'm sorry to say. He wished to leave his property to, and I'm quoting him, 'any Memphis Hardins' I could find. It has taken me almost two months, but through the census records I traced the two of you, who are the only remaining Memphis Hardins."

  "I understand Mr. Hardin's claim, for that's obvious," Jeanne said. "But you know that I'm not truly a Hardin, Mr. Deshler."

  Deshler said, "It's an odd point of law, but I am obliged to interpret it thus: when Mr. Ira Hardin instructed me the way he did, it meant any blood relation of any Hardin that lived in Memphis. You do have Hardin blood, Mrs. Bettencourt, and so you are entitled, as Mr. Clint Hardin is entitled.

  "But let me make it clear to you, my one conversation with Mr. Hardin was not of long duration, for he was extremely ill, and I had no time to press him for the finer points of law as I drew up his last will and testament. I've interpreted his dying wishes as best I could, and I believe that he meant for anyone of Memphis Hardin blood to share equally in his legacy. That, of course, could possibly be open to another interpretation, if either of you feel the need to contest the terms that I have defined."

  Jeanne and Clint exchanged furtive sidelong glances, and then both shook their heads.

  "I'm sure your interpretation of the will is knowledgeable and expert, Mr. Deshler," Jeanne said. "Whatever you say is just fine with me."

  "You've got a reputation as a fair man, sir," Clint said easily. "So I'm happy with whatever it is. By the way, I brought my mother's marriage certificate." He pulled a piece of parchment out of his pocket and handed it to Deshler.

  As he had done with Jeanne's birth certificate, he scanned it quickly, then handed it back. "That's fine, Mr. Hardin, thank you. Very well. Now I can tell you everything, because I know you must be monstrously curious, and I'm sorry I had to make you wait."

  Jeanne sat up a little straighter and Clint leaned forward, his hands clasped between his knees. Deshler said flatly, "You have both inherited a riverboat. A Mississippi steamboat named the Helena Rose."

  Jeanne stared at him; Clint stared at him. Deshler was enjoying himsel
f immensely. This was a most unusual will, a most unusual legacy, and two very unusual legatees. He sat back, steepled his fingers again, and waited.

  The heavy silence stretched on and on. Finally Jeanne said in a low voice, "A riverboat? I own a riverboat?"

  "Half of one," Deshler replied. "Mr. Clint Hardin owns the other half."

  Jeanne turned to Clint again. He was staring into space. Finally he turned and grinned at her. "Hello, partner."

  Jeanne said, "I'm not your partner. Oh. Oh, I am your partner. How very odd."

  "Ain't it?" Clint said flippantly, then turned to Deshler. "So, what kind of steamboat is the Helena Rose? Pretty name, by the way. Where is she? How big is she? Is she worth much?"

  "I have seen the Helena Rose, because that's where I was summoned when Mr. Hardin decided to consult me for his last will and testament. He wanted to die on the boat, you see. She's here, right down on the docks. Anyway, I'm afraid I'm no expert on steamboats. What I observed was that she seemed trim and river-ready, as they say. She is not a big boat at all and she is outfitted for cargo only, not passengers. However, I understand that Mr. Hardin was making a tidy profit with her. He did leave a sum of monies. After I settled his outstanding debts, and of course paid my fee, there was just a little more than five hundred dollars in cash remaining, so each of you will receive two hundred and fifty two dollars and some cents."

  "What?" Jeanne breathed.

  "Wow," Clint said.

  "Yes, Mr. Hardin had the cash on the boat, not in a bank. So I have it here, in his lockbox. You may have it now, if you wish."

  "No!" they said in unison, then looked at each other in surprise. Quickly Jeanne said, "No, I would really like to go see the Helena Rose, and I don't want to be carrying around such a great sum of money, that would be foolish."

  "My thoughts exactly, Mrs. Bettencourt," Clint agreed. "You know, I've got a whole bunch of questions about this Mr. Ira Hardin, but I'd kinda like to take some time, think it all over. I do want to see the Rose, though."