Actually, he knew nothing about him except that he had taken advantage of his position to cut the ground from under his employer, who was a decent man.
Nevertheless, he was worried. Hesketh did nothing without reason, and he was, apparently, a man who knew just what he was about, all the time. So why to San Francisco just when an important addition to his property had been lost?
It made no sense. Only, it did make sense to Albert Hesketh. If he was leaving town at such a time, he had a reason, a very adequate reason.
The guard at the Solomon merely glanced at them, then turned his back and ignored them. Trevallion had no idea of exploring at any depth or of opening any ore body. Unless he was quite mistaken, such an effort would entail many man-hours of hard labor and much equipment. He wished to do only enough to establish ownership of the claim. The rich ore, if any, would lie several hundred feet down unless all his knowledge went for nothing. The ore on the Solomon, as with several other mines, had gotten consistently richer as it went deeper, one of the few western mining areas where he knew this to be true.
As he worked he turned over every possible reason for Hesketh’s sudden trip to San Francisco, and came up with nothing.
He talked it over with Tapley, while leaning on his shovel. “You can bet he’s got somethin’ in mind. He’s canny, that Hesketh is.”
“Will Crockett worries me,” Trevallion said. “I wish he’d show up. I can’t believe he just up and quit.”
“He wouldn’t. Not owning the stock he has.” Tapley looked up suddenly. “D’ you suppose that’s it? That he’s gone lookin’ for more stock? There’s some outstanding, they say.”
“Nobody seems to know who’s got it,” Trevallion said, “although Will should know if anybody does.”
“Some of it was sold back east, or to people who lived there. No telling what became of it.”
A rider was coming up the slope, coming fast. He pulled up sharply as he came abreast of them. “War!” he shouted. “Fort Sumter’s been fired on!”
Trevallion put down his shovel. “Where’s Fort Sumter?” he asked.
“Somewhere’s over by Charleston, I reckon.” Tapley spat. “Well, when they elected Lincoln, I figured somethin’ like this was in the wind.”
Tapley glanced at the hole. “You’ve got your work started. That’ll stand in any Virginia City court. Let’s go down an’ get the news. The Pony must’ve come in.”
He looked around. “You know, Trev? Back home I was all het up about all that there, but it seems mighty far off when a body gets out here. Seems like another world.”
“Not to Terry,” Trevallion said. “He’ll be breathing smoke and fire.”
“Be careful. He’s a dead shot and meaner than Langford Peel, some say. He’s killed a man or two, so be careful.”
“Why? I’m not in this. I scarcely know what it’s about.”
“We’re all in it,” Tapley replied. “You, too.”
PART THREE
CHAPTER 25
In the cool elegance of Winn’s Branch at the corner of Washington and Montgomery, Grita Redaway was quite the coolest and most elegant. She was also very beautiful, and at the moment, very alert and very curious.
The man across the table was a stranger, introduced by Tom Maguire, and Tom Maguire was the power in San Francisco theater.
“Look, Miss Redaway,” Maguire had said, “this man wants to meet you. Not any actress, but you. He is a friend of a man who is an occasional investor. Frankly, I don’t like the man, and don’t trust him, but of his friend, this Hesketh who wants to meet you, I know nothing at all.
“All I ask is that you meet him, have tea with him, something. Then get rid of him. Anything you like. It would be a favor to me. He’s a mining man—”
“A mining man?”
“From Virginia City, actually. That’s a coming place, you know. We’re opening a theater there ourselves.”
“And he asked to meet me?”
“You, only you. We knew how you felt about such things and suggested some other actresses. At least one of them might have been more, more agreeable, shall we say? The reply was a positive no. It was you he wished to speak to, you, and nobody else.”
“Very well, I shall see him. For tea only, at Winn’s Branch.”
“Thank you. I appreciate it.” He shrugged. “You’ve gotten me off the hook very nicely. There’s one thing, though. This investor, I mentioned. He occasionally puts a little money in a show, but I’ve done other business with him. Canvas, rope, backstage gear of all kinds; he can let me have them much cheaper than anywhere else in town. Such things are often the margin of profit, so I do business with him.”
He paused. “Between us, and just between us, I sometimes wonder how he can afford to sell so cheap.”
“Thank you, Mr. Maguire.”
It was a warning, or perhaps just a suggestion, but she appreciated it and intended to be a little wary. Anyway, she would see the man but once.
She was curious, but more than that she was, for the moment, willing to allow herself to drift with the current. From earliest childhood it had been in her mind to come to San Francisco and now she was here. There was a feeling she had that coming here was somehow important to her.
She had been thinking lately of a conversation with Rachel, in Paris. “You are very good, you know,” Rachel had said. “You are in some ways the best of us, but you don’t really want to be an actress. You handle each role so naturally, with such ease, almost without thinking.”
“That’s not true.”
“Perhaps not, but it appears so. But the thing you must decide, my dear, is what do you wish to do? If you are not to be an actress, then what? A mistress? That’s a play where one never knows how long the run will be, so save your jewels. Put your diamonds away for a rainy day, or a lonely night.”
Rachel glanced at herself in the mirror, frowned, touching her lips with a fingernail. “But you don’t want that, either.
“A rich husband? Why not? There are many of them, married and unmarried, although the best ones are always married.
“America! I think you should go to America! Run off with one of those dashing cowboys one reads about! Or a handsome man who has his own gold mine!”
“I am going to America.”
“Of course. We spoke of it, and I, too, shall go. To New York, at least. That woman, that Swedish singer. She has done very well over there.”
“Jenny Lind? Yes, she did, but she’s a type, Rachel. She’s different. And then that man who took her over there, that P. T. Barnum, they say he is someone special.”
“Barnum? But he is not even in the theater! Not really. He deals in fat ladies, dwarfs, and giants. Even elephants. Is that theater?”
“He has a skill, Rachel. He knows how to get the people to pay to see what he has. It is a skill.”
She brushed it aside. “So? But what of you, Grita? I do not mean Grita the actress, but Grita the person! The woman! What will you do?”
“Long ago, when I was a very little girl, we started for California. We never got there. Now I shall go.”
“But why? Why?”
“I really don’t know. It’s just, well, it’s something unfinished. It was a dream we had then. Maybe I just want to see if the dream conforms to the reality.”
“And then?”
She shrugged a shoulder. “I will come back. Take up my career—oh, I don’t know!”
“There’s a man in it somewhere. I just know there is.”
“How could there be? I was a child!”
“I still say there is a man in it,” Rachel insisted. “There just has to be.”
So, after so long a time, she was here. She was in California, in San Francisco, and this was Winn’s Branch.
The man walking toward her table was lean. He wore a
gray suit, his light brown hair was parted at the side and had just a slight wave. His beard was neatly trimmed in the Van Dyke fashion. His eyes were gray-blue.
He bowed slightly. “Miss Redaway? I am Albert Hesketh.”
“How do you do? Will you sit down?”
He sat down. “I want to thank you for agreeing to meet me. When I heard you were in the city I just had to meet you.”
“Mr. Maguire said you were a friend?”
“Well, sort of. I am a mining man, actually, but I come here often on business.” He glanced at her. There was something disconcerting about his eyes. “Have you been to America before?”
“It is an amazing country. I really knew nothing about it before I came over, and of course, everyone was talking about California.”
“Of course, and its mines.”
He gave the line a bad reading. Why the emphasis on “mines”? Or was it her imagination?
“Mines?” Her eyes were wide. “I thought, well, I understood there were no mines, that they just washed the gold out of streams with pans or something.”
“There is that, too. The richest gold is, I believe, underground. They dig for it.”
“I wouldn’t like that. It must be very hard work.”
He puzzled her. Accustomed to the attentions of men, she had become quite skilled in reading them, but there was something about this one she did not understand. A skilled actress, she had learned much about the use of the body in revealing or concealing what one was thinking.
“You should play Virginia City,” he said. “We are all hungry for theater there, and as yet we have had very little. You could see some of our mines at first hand.”
“I know nothing of mining.” A memory returned. “I did hear some stories about tommy-knockers once.”
He smiled. “All rubbish. There’s no such thing. Some of the more superstitious miners believe in them.”
He tasted his wine. She did not believe he liked it. “I am afraid my own approach is more prosaic. When I think of mines I think of investments, of mining stock. Of course,” he added, “much of that old stock isn’t worth the paper it is printed on. It is different now when we have some solidly established companies.”
Deliberately she guided the conversation away from mines and mining to the theater, San Francisco, Paris, and life in Virginia City. Several times he seemed to want to get back to mining, but she avoided the topic.
The inner thoughts of people were often revealed by the usage of words or by slips of the tongue. Why the sudden reference to “old” stock? Nothing had been said about it, so there must be something in his own mind.
She glanced at her watch. “Oh! I didn’t realize it was so late! Mr. Hesketh? Would you like to escort me back to the International?”
“Yes, yes, of course.”
They started out, encountering James Stark and his wife. They paused, talking of his planned production of Richelieu, a play in which he had enjoyed considerable success. Hesketh stood aside, listening but understanding very little.
At the International she held out her hand to him. “It has been very pleasant, Mr. Hesketh. Thank you.”
“May I see you again?”
She had started to turn away. Hesitating, she said, “We begin rehearsals soon. Perhaps. We will see.”
“But how am I—”
“Just come by the hotel and ask for me. Or come by the theater, if you will. You see, Mr. Hesketh, my time is not my own. I am committed to play this part, and people are expecting me to do so.”
Albert Hesketh turned away, irritated. He walked a half block and stopped, suddenly swept by an almost blinding fury. He hated frustration of any kind, hated resistance or anything that did not bend to his wishes.
From his room in the Virginia Hotel in Virginia City, it had seemed a simple thing to travel to San Francisco, meet Grita Redaway, and buy her stock from her. If she did, in fact, have the stock.
All he had accomplished was to meet her. They had talked, and he had learned nothing. He did not even know if she had the stock. All he knew was from a few notes he had found scratched in a ledger to the effect that Will Crockett had sold a certain number of shares to a person who proved to have been related to Grita Redaway, and that Grita had inherited the estate.
Did Grita Redaway still have the shares? Had she sold them? Thrown them away? And if she had them, did she have them with her? Actually in her possession?
He swore bitterly. Now what? He should be back in Virginia City and yet he dared not leave here. Someone else might come to her with a flat-out offer.
He could do that, himself. He would then know whether she had them or not, and if she would sell. At the same time he would be tipping his hand, and she would assume the shares had value and might even make inquiries. Remembering Grita, he thought she was very likely the type.
The more he thought about her, the more worried he became. His big chance was now. He had control of the Solomon. He could become an extremely wealthy, powerful man, and he had planned it that way, planned every step. Yet those ten outstanding shares could destroy him. He would have the income, but not the control, not the power.
What an exasperating woman!
He had to control himself. He had to see her again. Somehow he had to get those shares, but if she refused to sell, what then?
What, indeed?
The trail to Virginia City was improved, but still rough. Stagecoaches went over it now, and stagecoaches were occasionally held up.
If she had the shares, she might have them with her. If he could not buy them, he might at least keep them from the hands of anyone else.
Suppose someone went through her room at the hotel? A quick search, if carefully handled, might extract the shares and leave all else undisturbed. It might be weeks before the shares were missed.
He could not do it himself. There was too much risk involved. He needed a thief, a skilled thief.
Marcus Zetsev. He would know a thief. He dealt with them.
Hesketh shrank from taking anyone into his confidence, from permitting anyone to know what he was doing or planning. He trusted no one, yet there was no one else to whom he might go who would have the same kind of knowledge. Moreover, he and Zetsev were already allies.
But suppose Zetsev got the shares for himself?
Hesketh stopped at the corner and bought a newspaper. All the papers contained was talk of war. Now would be the time to make a pot of money, if a man had the capital to invest.
Leather, wool, metals, foodstuffs—all would be in demand.
He would see Marcus. He would know of someone. He had no need to tell him anything. Marcus could get one of those from whom he bought goods; he need only point him out to Hesketh. That would be the way.
In the meantime he would make an effort to see Grita again. She was, after all, an extremely attractive woman.
Marcus Zetsev was in his office when Albert Hesketh entered the ship chandlery. He could see him through the open door, and he sat watching him for several minutes. Marcus Zetsev had known and dealt with all kinds. He knew how to handle the tough ones, the tricky ones, the ones who might suddenly become deadly. And he was not at all sure about Albert Hesketh.
Zetsev trusted no man or woman, and least of all those who dealt with him. Usually, within a few minutes, he had each one catalogued. It was not so with Hesketh.
That the man was a thief he knew at once. That he was a plotter and a conniver he also knew. There were some other things he did not know. Hesketh might be harmless, but Zetsev suspected he was not.
Getting up he walked to the door. “Al? Come on in!”
Hesketh stiffened at the familiarity. Who was this upstart, this—
Hesketh relaxed slowly. Don’t be a fool! he warned himself. You need this man.
When the door was closed, H
esketh sat down on the edge of his chair. “Marcus,” he said, “I need a thief.”
Marcus Zetsev was not surprised.
CHAPTER 26
On the fourth day Grita moved from her room in the International to a small flat higher up on the hill with a lovely view of the harbor and the lower city. On that side of the house she had a small balcony, shielded from view, where she often sat in the morning. It was there she studied her lines.
Her view from the balcony allowed her to look across the roof of the house next door, which was lower down the rather steep hill, and on the right side it looked down upon the street, and on that side the wall of the balcony was shoulder height with a few threadlike interstices that provided a limited view of the street.
Thus she had the fresh sea air, occasionally the sunlight, yet privacy.
Sophie Edwin, a longtime favorite of the San Francisco theater, came to see the flat. “You will be robbed. Perhaps killed. It is not for a woman to live alone in San Francisco.”
“Nonsense! I am not afraid.” She gestured toward the bedroom. “I have my little friend.”
“What? You? We had always heard that you had no man. I will admit that with a woman as beautiful as you are, I doubted that, but—”
“It is not a man.” She stepped into the bedroom and returned with a derringer in her hand. It had twin barrels, one over the other. “See? It is a .44, and I should not hesitate to use it.”
“Put it away! Please! I’m afraid of the things. There were several shootings in Sacramento when I was there. That man Trevallion—”
“Who?”
“Trevallion. He was a miner, I think, or a prospector. He was said to have killed a man named Rory over a card game. Caught him cheating, or something. You’d never have thought it to see him, either. He looked the perfect gentleman, and handsome! Had I been a few years younger—”
Comstock Lode Page 20
