The Intruders

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  Bookman was not sure anything short of a bullet to the head would remind Adam Hagen of anything, but he kept that opinion to himself. He figured Mr. Hagen must have his reasons for wanting to keep his nephew alive. Reasons that were none of his concern. Mr. Hagen did not pay him to think. He paid him to do what he was told.

  Bookman figured their conversation had come to an end, so he stood as he said, “I’ll go pick out three of the new men and we’ll be ready to ride as soon as it’s full-on dark. That way, no one will see us riding into town and no one will see us leave.”

  “You’re a good man, John Bookman,” Mr. Hagen called after him. “And you’re doing good work this evening. For us and for the town.”

  Bookman thought it would be nice if it was only that simple.

  CHAPTER 11

  Frederick Montague was deep in thought, examining the bank’s ledger for the day, when he heard a familiar voice say, “Afternoon, Fred.”

  The banker almost jumped out of his skin, fearing he was being haunted by a ghost. He quickly calmed down when he saw it was not a ghost, but a demon instead.

  “How in the world did you get in here, Adam?”

  Hagen grinned and held up a set of keys. “My father left these to all the buildings in town at the Clifford. Now that I own it, I have the key to your back door. Don’t worry. No one saw me come in.”

  Montague gestured toward his office door, and Hagen went over and locked it. “Now we can conduct our business in private.”

  The thought of being forced to betray Charles Hagen had been a tough one to swallow. He cursed himself for putting himself in a position in which Adam could use his failings against him. Being blackmailed for his indiscretions was bad enough, but knowing his fate and good name rested in Adam Hagen’s hands was almost too much to bear.

  “I want to repeat, once again, how much I loathe and despise you for doing this to me, Adam.”

  Hagen opened the humidor on Montague’s desk and helped himself to one of his Havana cigars. “Nonsense, Fred. No one’s holding a gun to your head. Why, if you order me out of your office right now, I’ll gladly go out the way I came in and we’ll never have to do business again. Just keep in mind that we won’t be in the position to do business again because you’ll no longer have a job. My father isn’t a very forgiving man, even in the best of circumstances, and you may rest assured that he will frown upon the knowledge that you corrupted the morals of a young lady from such a prominent family. A Southern member of Congress, no less. He was always uncomfortable with the gaggle of ‘nieces’ you traipsed in and out of here from time to time, but when confronted with the letter the poor young woman’s father wrote you? Well, that may be the straw that breaks the camel’s back.”

  Montague had wanted to ask him how he had gotten hold of that letter from the girl’s father many times but had refused to give Hagen the satisfaction. He had it and that was all there was to it. “I was only one in a long list of corruptors, I assure you.”

  Hagen used the cutter to snip off the end of a cigar and did not trouble himself when the end missed the ashtray. “I know, but Father won’t care about that. Especially when he reads it in the Bugle. Those newspapermen can never refuse a story like that. It’ll be in all of the Laramie papers, too. Who knows, they might even write about it back East. Wouldn’t that be a fitting end to your career? An entire life spent as my father’s lapdog only to be booted out into the cold like a common cur. Oh, I’m sure you’d find work eventually. You’re a survivor. Your type always finds a way to live. You’re an attorney, so you could probably get work in a couple of years, once the scandal dies down. Perhaps as a clerk in a land claims office somewhere small, where they’d welcome a man of your talents.”

  He grinned as he thumbed a match alive and lit his cigar. The dancing flame cast nasty shadows on his face as the tobacco was lit. “Curse me all you want, but never say you don’t have a choice, because we both know you do.”

  Montague never thought he would see the day when the smell of one of his own cigars would turn his stomach, but it did. And so did the man smoking it. He had only one weapon to use against his tormentor and he used it now, whatever the cost. “Please stop referring to that great man as your father. We both know he isn’t. He’s barely even your uncle.”

  Hagen waved the match dead and tossed it into the general direction of the ashtray. It fell short and skittered onto his desk. “I may forget many things, old friend, but I’ll never forget that. It’s the whole reason why we’re doing business today, isn’t it? Speaking of which, I trust you enjoyed my conversation with Clay? I hope it was enough to satisfy any lingering questions you might have about our partnership.”

  Hagen had told Montague to be in the Gilded Lily so he could see that he and Clay were, indeed, in league with each other. “Yes, it did. I also saw what Trammel did to Clay afterward. And I saw you two almost shoot it out over the matter.”

  Hagen blew a smoke ring up toward the ceiling. “From the safety of the back door of the saloon, no doubt.”

  Montague hated the fact that Adam Hagen was as smart as he thought he was. “I know you think you can handle him, but you can’t. One day you’ll get too arrogant and push him too far. You’ll have to kill him then, but not before he takes another piece out of you.”

  “I sincerely hope that day never comes,” Hagen said, “but today was not that day.” He looked at the banker. “Have you prepared the document we discussed? You said you’d have it done by today. I hope you didn’t forget.”

  Montague cursed Hagen as he fumbled to get the keys from his pocket and unlocked the bottom drawer of his desk. He unlocked the drawer and jerked it open. He found the two documents and tossed them on the desk in disgust. “There they are, just as you ordered. It’s an exact copy of your father’s—I mean your uncle’s—last will and testament.”

  Hagen looked down at the documents but did not reach for them. “Not an exact copy, I trust.”

  Montague gritted his teeth. He never thought he was capable of hating any man as much as he hated Adam Hagen now. “It’s an exact copy that includes all of the revisions you wanted.”

  He waited until Hagen took the documents in hand before telling him, “But there’s been a slight difficulty.”

  Hagen’s eyes flicked to him. “Not too much of a difficulty, I hope. For your sake.”

  Montague thumbed a bead of sweat from his forehead. “A fairly substantial one. I was unable to successfully duplicate Charles’s signature. It’s fairly distinctive, as you know, and difficult to copy. That is by design. I tried to duplicate it dozens of times and none of my attempts even came close. I even tried to trace his signature from his actual will, but as you can see, the legal stock I use is not thin enough for easy tracing.”

  Hagen ran his fingers over the document. “I suppose that was by design, too.”

  Montague smiled. “You’re not the only unsavory character in this world, Adam. Many people have tried to do what you intend to do, and they almost always get caught.”

  He had hoped that concern might give his tormenter pause, but it did not. “Then I should count myself lucky that I have the cooperation of the man my family trusts most of all with their business affairs. And we should count ourselves especially lucky, because copying my uncle’s signature is child’s play.”

  Montague felt any hope he had of foiling Adam die in his chest. “It’s what?”

  “Child’s play,” Hagen repeated. “Don’t tell me your hearing is starting to go. You’re a bit too young for that malady to plague you. As for being unable to copy his signature, it’s to be expected. Spending all day in a saloon like you do. It’s a miracle you’re even awake. Best thing for the shakes is a bit of the hair of the dog, my friend. Trust me, I know.”

  Montague was about to protest the implication that he spent his days drinking when Hagen flipped to the last page of one of the copies, where the signature was to be placed. Montague knew all about Adam’s ruined right arm and d
oubted it was steady enough to hold a pen, much less forge such an elaborate, distinctive signature as that of Charles Hagen.

  But his right hand was perfectly steady as he took one of Montague’s pens, dipped it in the inkwell, and proceeded to create a perfect copy of the elaborate signature of Charles Hagen. Montague did not need to compare it to any of the other signed documents he had from King Charles. He knew the signature by heart and knew Adam had produced a perfect copy. Right down to the elaborate swirl of the C in his name.

  Montague let out an uneasy breath. “I don’t want to know how you came to learn how to do that, especially with your right arm in the state it’s in.”

  Hagen grinned as he blotted the signature and signed the second copy exactly the same way. “Necessity, old friend, necessity. You forget that my livelihood was often at the mercy of the king’s whims. I’ve lost count of how many times he cut me off over the years. Fortunately, I knew where he kept his accounts and was always able to find a way to finance my life.”

  He blotted the second signature as he had the first and blew on both documents to ensure the ink was dry and would not smudge. “As for your question about my right arm, I’m genuinely touched by your concern. But don’t worry. It’s getting stronger every day. And it’s just recently become strong enough for me to hold a pen and forge a signature I know as well as I know my own.”

  Hagen obviously saw the disappointed look on Montague’s face and laughed. “Oh, poor Freddy. You put all your chips on the hope that the signature would stop me, didn’t you? Well, sorry to disappoint you. Like I said, necessity and all that.”

  He surprised Montague by folding the documents and slipping them both into his pocket.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Montague asked. “I need one for the official record in my safe.”

  “Of course you do,” Hagen said. “And you’ll have it, too, after I’ve had the chance to read both copies. Unless you’d prefer me to stay here and do it. But I’m an awfully slow reader and I’m afraid you’d be stuck in here with me the entire time. We wouldn’t want anyone to see me here if you opened the door, now would we?”

  Montague ran his hand over his mouth and fought back the words he wanted to say.

  Hagen looked at him closely. “You haven’t tried to pull a fast one on me, have you? Maybe changed the wording of a clause here or there to weaken my claim? Something subtle that might cause my endeavor to fail? I won’t hold it against you if you tried, but now’s the time to tell me. Because if I get back to my room and find you’ve done anything like that, I’ll be mighty cross with you.”

  Montague could not hold on to his anger any longer and banged his desk in frustration. “No, damn you. You’ll find everything is exactly as you wanted it to be. But I’ll need one of those copies back before you do whatever it is you’re planning to do. And I’ll need that letter from the girl’s father, too.”

  “All in due time, Mr. Montague,” Hagen said as he picked up his cigar and headed for the back door. “You’ll get your letter after the will has been read and the estate is settled. It’ll help give you focus in the confusion that lies ahead. Make you remember that you work for me now.”

  Montague had never been cornered like this. He had always been able to find a way to get out of whatever trouble he or his clients found themselves in. Someone to pay off. Someone to kill. A threat of some kind.

  But here he sat, completely at the mercy of the vilest human being he had ever known. He could not allow this man to leave him without at least one last attempt to strike him where it hurt most. “I don’t know how you plan on getting that document in his safe up at the ranch and I don’t want to know. But even if you do, his sons will never stand for this. Or their sisters. They know how much he hates you and they’ll do everything in their power to contest this will. I won’t be held responsible if the courts are involved and this gambit of yours fails.”

  Hagen stopped just short of the door and stood completely still, as if he had been slapped. Montague knew that had gotten to him and took no small amount of pleasure that he had finally pierced Adam Hagen’s thick skin.

  “My sisters will never want for anything as long as they live,” Hagen said. “As for my brothers, they’re weak and stupid. I’ll find a way to buy them off. As for you, just keep doing what I tell you and all will be well. If not, the publication of an angry letter from an aggrieved father will be the least of your concerns.”

  Hagen opened the back door and left as quietly as he had come in. He even had the courtesy to lock it from the other side.

  Frederick Montague was left alone in his office, staring at the spot where Hagen had stood only moments before, wondering what he had done to deserve such a burden, especially at this point in his life.

  CHAPTER 12

  Adam Hagen was a happy man. He carried the means to destroy the man who had ruined his life in his coat pocket. A few strokes of the pen had been the key to opening an entirely new world for him. A world he hoped would bring him riches beyond his wildest dreams and a peace he had never known. If the copies of the will were as true as Montague said they were, all that was left was to do what needed to be done.

  He made a point of tipping his hat to everyone he passed, much to the giggling delight of the women and children. He did not mind their laughter. He was too happy to allow anything to spoil his mood now, not even the nasty conversation he was about to have with Trammel.

  If anything cast a shadow over his mood, it was the idea that his happiness depended on betraying his friend. He could not begrudge Trammel his resentment of him. Trammel was a fair man who believed in things like justice and the law. He had seen enough of the ugly side of life to know it was never that easy or that decisive, but he held those beliefs dear anyway. He truly believed in the notions of good and evil. He could not fault the man for that. If anything, he envied him.

  Which was why he had decided it was time to meet him at the jailhouse and take whatever medicine the sheriff decided to dish out. Montague had been right about one thing. One day he may push Trammel too far, and it would mean the end of one of them. Which one did not matter, because Hagen knew if one of them survived, a piece of him would die, too.

  As he crossed Main Street on his way to the jail, he saw the stagecoach from Laramie had arrived in front of Robertson’s store. That must mean it was close to five o’clock. A quick check of his pocket watch proved him right.

  During his convalescence on his balcony at the Clifford Hotel, Hagen had spent the time becoming familiar with the ways of the town. The comings and goings of people on their way to work or to the store.

  The arrival and departure of the stagecoach had held a particular fascination for him because it was, surprisingly, always on time. No matter the weather, the stage from Laramie always arrived promptly at five in the afternoon whenever a passenger was due.

  And given the magnitude of that day’s events, Adam Hagen had forgotten about the passenger he was expecting on that day’s stage. Had he not seen it arrive, he might have forgotten about him entirely, but fortune had intervened on his behalf.

  Hagen decided Trammel would have to wait a little while longer while he greeted the man he had sent for.

  The town’s new doctor, Jacob Moore, late of New Orleans.

  Hagen was glad the doctor had not changed much since their friendship along the mighty Mississippi. He was still skinny, and still wore the thick spectacles and a thatch of dark hair on his head.

  “Jacob!” Hagen called out when he got close enough to Robertson’s. “There you are. I was beginning to think you’d had the good sense to change your mind.”

  “Hello, Adam,” the doctor said as they shook hands. “Has it really been two years since we’ve seen each other?”

  “Seems like much longer if you ask me,” Hagen said. “Let me be the first to welcome you to Blackstone, your new home.”

  Moore looked around the place and frowned. “Not much to it, is there? Seems to be a f
ar cry from New Orleans, doesn’t it?”

  “Not yet, old friend, but I’m working night and day to change that,” Hagen confided. “But first, let’s get you settled. I’ll take you to your office. There’s also an entire floor upstairs for your own private rooms. I think you’ll find it all quite satisfactory. Where is your luggage?”

  Moore lifted the single bag he already had in his hand. “I’m afraid this is all I have.”

  “Which is why you’re here,” Hagen said as he took him by the arm and brought him across to New Main Street to where his office and living quarters were, between the Vic and the Brand Saloons. “I know you’ll think I’m mad for building a place for you between two raucous saloons, but there’s a purpose, I assure you.”

  “Only a fool would doubt you, Adam,” Moore said. “I’ve never gone wrong yet by following your lead.”

  As long as it stays that way, Hagen thought.

  He used his key to open the door of the vacant building between the two saloons and ushered Dr. Moore inside. He was glad to see the medical man was immediately impressed.

  “Adam, this place is enormous,” Moore said as he set down his bag and walked through the space. “You’ve already got a waiting room set up, two offices in the back for examining rooms.”

  Hagen called after Moore, who had already started looking at everything. “You’ll see the pump for the well is in the back room, so you won’t need to go outside to fetch water. You’ll find that mighty handy in the winter. The winters are more severe here than in New Orleans.”

  “I’m originally from Boston, remember?” he answered from the back. “I’m used to bad winters.”