Suppose she led him to believe she did have stock, she could be vague about what and where, as she indeed was. Suppose she dangled the bait?
She got up, bathed and dressed, thinking about Albert Hesketh. What was it about him that made her uneasy? Was it his eyes, which were cold as steel marbles? Was it his features, that had too little mobility? Or that he so rarely smiled, and when he did it was stiff and artificial? She admitted, at last, that she had never felt comfortable in his presence.
Yet he was always the gentleman, if a little too precise, a little too perfect. He did and said all the right things, but somehow she doubted if he felt any of them. He puzzled her, but now she was angry, too. If he had, indeed, been responsible for the forced entry into her flat, she would be furious.
It was not that far, she decided. Today she would walk to the theater. She put the .44 in her handbag, closed and locked the door behind her.
She smiled ruefully as she turned the key in the door. A lot of good that would do!
It was cool and dark in the theater. The stagedoor entrance was unlocked and she went in, pausing for a moment, listening for sound. There was none.
She was early, but not much. They should be here by now. It was unreasonable that not even one was here. She crossed the stage in the dim light, glancing out over the rows of empty seats. Thank God she’d never had them empty like that for a performance!
Backstage she hesitated and looked around. It was eerie. For the first time she realized that never before had she been in a theater alone.
From behind her she heard a faint creak, as of a footstep. She turned sharply.
Nothing, only the vague half-light that filtered in from far-off windows, somewhere on the second story behind the balcony.
Opening her purse, she took the derringer into her hand. Its weight was reassuring, yet the silence was there.
Something stirred.
She looked back. Her dressing room door was behind her. If she got in there, closed the door, but what if the something was there? Waiting for her?
She was being a fool. There were always sounds in an empty building. Changing temperatures could make boards creak and groan, even pop.
She took a step back, reaching for the doorknob, her purse hanging over her wrist. Her hand felt for the knob and there was a sudden movement from behind. Her wrist was grasped by a strong, bony-fingered hand and jerked sharply, the handbag was jerked from her arm and she was shoved violently. She staggered forward, heard running steps, and she toppled and fell to her knees.
She looked up. For one instant she saw the running man on the stage, almost at the other end.
She fired.
He staggered, cried out, and dropped her purse, clutching his hand. She lifted the derringer for another shot, but he was gone.
She got up, staggered, and stood erect. Her purse lay on the stage and she walked to it, holding the gun in her hand.
From outside she heard running feet and then they were crowding in, her friends, the cast—even Dane Clyde. How long since she had seen him?
“Grita!” Rosie shrilled. “What happened?”
“A man tried to snatch my purse. I shot at him.”
“You hit him, too.” Clyde pointed at a drop of blood on the stage. Then he saw the derringer. “You mean you hit him with that? At that distance?”
Stunned, she put the gun into her purse. She must remember to reload it. That was her only thought. The gun, her only protection, was half-empty.
They were all around her, chattering, asking questions, saying how awful it must have been.
“He was waiting in my dressing room,” she said. “He was waiting there, and there was no one around.”
“We stopped to have a drink,” Sophie said. “I’m sorry, but when someone is buying—”
“It’s all right. I wasn’t hurt. Just frightened, that’s all.”
“If you can shoot like that when you’re frightened,” Dane Clyde commented, “I’d not like you to shoot at me when you’re calm!”
“It was luck, an accident. Just an accident.”
The stage manager, Richard Manfred, crossed over to them. “All right, it’s all over. Let’s get down to business.”
Later, when they stopped for tea, Dane Clyde walked over to her. “If you’d like, I’ll reload your derringer. I’ve just come over from Virginia City and have my own gun in my carpetbag with some extra powder and shot.”
“Oh, would you?”
He went for his bag, returned, and she watched him load the gun. “You’re very good,” she said.
“When you travel that road, you’d better know what you’re doing. Besides, there’s been some trouble over there. It hasn’t actually come to shooting yet, but—”
“Shooting? In the theater?”
He chuckled. “No, it hasn’t gotten that bad, but I’ve some friends in the mining business, and sometimes things get a bit sticky.”
Sophie and Rosie came over. “Are you all right, Grita?” Sophie asked. “You must have had a scare.”
“If we just hadn’t stopped!” Rosie complained. “But that nice Mr. Hesketh—”
“Who?” Dane turned sharply around. “Did you say ‘Hesketh’?”
“Of course. He’s a friend of Grita’s and when he offered to buy—”
Hesketh, Grita thought….last night and now.
CHAPTER 28
Grita turned to Dane. “Do you know him?”
“I know who he is. Albert Hesketh is a mining man from Virginia City, and he recently got control of the Solomon, one of the best of the mines. Be careful of him.”
“What do you know about him?”
“When it comes to that, I know next to nothing. He has been in Virginia City for some time, and they say he came there from California. He was keeping books at the Solomon, and then all of a sudden he simply took over.
“Will Crockett trusted him and all the while Hesketh had been plotting to take the mine away from him. He did just that, and Will Crockett disappeared.”
“Murdered?”
“I doubt it. We think he’s looking for some missing shares of Solomon stock which, if he could get them, would return control to him.”
“Unless Hesketh got them first?”
“Exactly.”
After rehearsal Manfred joined her at the door. “Wait, and we’ll walk home with you. You seem to be a target for this sort of thing.” He gave her a searching glance. “Where did you learn to shoot like that?”
“I don’t know how to shoot. I just fired.”
“Sometimes instinctive shots are the most accurate. After all, it’s just like pointing your finger and you have been doing that all your life.
“You hit him in the hand or arm, I think. That’s just a guess, but he dropped your purse, which I am sure was not his intention.
“Back in East Texas, where I come from, we have a man named Cullen Baker who always shoots like that. He’s very good.”
Dane Clyde joined them and they started up the street. “Are you still planning to come to Virginia City?”
“Oh, yes! Mr. Maguire has scheduled us to play there for at least two weeks. We will do four different plays, two the first week and two the second, and then probably a repeat, depending on how they do.”
“The War doesn’t seem to have affected business.”
“Are many leaving from Virginia City? I mean, to go into the Army?”
“Quite a few, although President Lincoln is not pushing it. After all, the government needs the silver we produce. There’s a lot of hard feeling, though, on both sides.”
“We hear a lot of talk about it in Paris, but nobody I know really knows anything about it.”
“There’s too much loose talk over here, too. Actually, it is more a matter of States’ rights than sla
very. The importation of slaves has been against the law since 1820. Of course, there’s some smuggling going on, principally through the bayous near New Orleans.”
Clyde turned to Grita. “Sophie told me somebody tried to break into your flat?”
“He did not try. He did break in. He sprung the lock somehow and went through everything.”
“ ‘Went through’? You mean he searched everything? What was he looking for?”
She shrugged. “I have no idea. He may have thought I have a lot of jewelry. From the audience some of the junk I wear looks very real.”
“Last night and again today?” Manfred was skeptical. “That can’t be coincidence. Somebody thinks you have something.”
At the door, they paused. “Maybe,” Manfred suggested, “we should come in with you.”
“Please, would you?”
The lock on the door had been simply sprung by using a lever of some kind, a jimmy or a screwdriver or a pinchbar. The flat was one of many, hastily built to handle the rush of people in the 1850s.
They made a quick search of the flat. It was empty.
Manfred paused at the door. “You’re not afraid? I know Sophie would come to stay if you wished, and she’s not afraid of anything. I saw her throw a drunk out of a theater once—bodily. I mean she just threw him into the street.”
“I’ll be all right.”
Clyde did not wish to leave. He lingered. “Grita?” he spoke softly so that none but Manfred could hear. “Do you own any mining stock? In the Solomon, for instance?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Look at it. Hesketh has control, but Crockett has a lot of stock, too. If Hesketh can pick up those missing shares he will have control, he will keep control. If Crockett should buy them first, then Crockett could oust Hesketh and take over again. It’s no small thing, Grita. There’s millions involved.”
“If anyone believes I have stock in the Solomon,” she said flatly, “they are mistaken. I know I have no such stock, and let’s face it. I have never been out here before nor have any of my family.”
She closed the door and locked it, then checked the windows, one by one. The one window which was impossible to reach, she left open slightly. The others she left locked. She went from room to room, carefully looking at everything. There was no evidence that anyone had been in the flat since she left.
Suddenly, she was angry. Someone had actually invaded and searched her flat, someone then had awaited her in the theater, had shoved her down and tried to get away with her purse.
She had no reason at all to suspect Albert Hesketh, except that he had somehow been involved, or seemed to have been, but she did not suspect him and she would not. He had simply taken her to the theater, and later had bought drinks for the company. It was merely coincidence that the thief had been around on both occasions.
Once more she put the back of the chair under the doorknob.
Whoever the thief had been, the same man would not come tonight, not with only one hand to use.
* * *
—
Marcus Zetsev looked across his desk at the thin, sallow-faced man. His right hand was bound in a bloody cloth.
“It was your idea, Mr. Zetsev. I didn’t know the man. The way he told it sounded very simple, and of course, getting into that flat, it was nothing.
“I went through it, believe me, I did! I hunted every place where people would be apt to hide anything—they all use the same places—and came up with nothing.
“At the theater I had her purse and was getting away. Who’d think a woman like that would have a gun? Or could shoot like that?”
“What were you looking for?”
The slim man glanced at him slyly out of bloodshot eyes. “He made me promise—”
“Don’t be a fool! You will never see him again. I am the one you will be seeing, and I want to know.”
“I was hunting for a packet, a long envelope, something like that with some stock shares. If I found anything else, I could keep it. Hell, there wasn’t anything else! I break in, then I lay for her and knock her down and get winged, all for nothing!”
Marcus took a twenty-dollar gold piece from his pocket. “There, I wouldn’t want you to lose on the deal. If he ever gets in touch again, let me know.”
“Are you crazy? I was fifty feet away and runnin’ when she winged me! I want nothin’ to do with her!”
When the thief had gone, Marcus tipped back in his chair. Hesketh had recently taken control of the Solomon, and the Solomon was worth millions. Hesketh wanted that stock and he wanted it bad; there had to be a reason.
Within the hour a friend from the exchange told him the reason. Those shares of stock meant control, and Hesketh had to have control. Just holding the stock would mean a lot of money, but handled just right—
Marcus Zetsev clutched the edge of his desk. Buying stolen goods was a petty business, after all, but to own a silver mine! And he could do it. His somewhat protruding eyes watered as he thought of that. Hesketh had failed so far. He would not fail.
Teem, the thief he had sent to Hesketh, was a veteran. Hence, if he had not found the shares in the flat, they were simply not there.
There had been no chance for Teem to examine the purse, but that was where they must be. Either in her purse or on her person.
Now she would be aware, she would be on her guard, and she could shoot. Marcus thought about it, playing solitaire meanwhile. He would have to get hold of that purse and, if need be, of her. And the place to do that was some night after the theater or, in a last resort, take her from the stage as she went to Virginia City. It was common knowledge that her next play dates would be there.
For two weeks the play had a successful run, but for two weeks there was absolutely no chance to get close to her. One or more of the actors was always about, and they were armed. His people were shrewd enough to perceive that.
Marcus had no desire to get anyone shot who might be taken by the police and forced to talk.
The show closed suddenly, and the newspapers reported that Miss Redaway’s Company would be going to Virginia City, to Washoe.
Hesketh came by to order materials, and Marcus, his eyes guileless, asked if he needed another thief. “I do not,” Hesketh said sharply. “It will not be necessary.”
* * *
—
Grita Redaway met Albert Hesketh for dinner. It was an excellent dinner, and she enjoyed it, yet during the course of the evening she became sure of one thing, if no more. Hesketh, in one way or another, was not quite right mentally. The feeling came to her suddenly, and for the first time she was frightened.
“You must let me show you the Washoe, Miss Redaway,” he said. “You must see them actually take silver and gold from the earth. In fact, I shall give you some on the day you come to the Solomon. I shall find a fine bit of high-grade for you.”
“High-grade?”
“Very rich ore. In high-grade you can usually see the gold. The real, actual gold, right there in your hand.
“Although,” he added, “I have seen high-grade that showed no gold at all, and one could tell only by the weight. Gold is heavy, you know.”
“We will be going soon. I’d be honored, Mr. Hesketh.” Suddenly she felt a vicious prompting, and she could not resist. “Isn’t the mine actually owned by a Mr. Crockett?”
His eyes were momentarily ugly, then bland. He smiled with his too-thin lips. “Mr. Crockett? Oh, he owns some stock, quite a bit of it, in fact, but he no longer has anything to do with the Solomon.”
He glanced at her warily. “How did you happen to hear of him?”
“Oh? How did I know? It was that man, the one from the market. The exchange or whatever they call it. Mr. Maguire was asking him about the Solomon stock, and he mentioned him. He said that the real owner was Will Crockett.”<
br />
“That’s ridiculous!” Hesketh replied stiffly. “He no longer has anything to do with the mine. He’s out of it, completely!”
“Will you be on the stage with us, Mr. Hesketh?”
“As a matter of fact, I probably shall. Yes, of course.”
Later, as he was leaving the International, he heard a voice at his elbow. “Turn the next corner, Mr. Hesketh, and go into that saloon. There’s a body wishes to speak with you.”
He looked across the scarred redwood table at the sallow-faced young man. “For fifty dollars? What information can you possibly have that is worth fifty dollars to me?”
The sallow-faced man grinned, revealing a broken yellow tooth. “Maybe nothin’. But I got an idea that there Marcus—”
“What about him?”
“For fifty dollars?”
Hesketh hesitated, then irritably put the coins on the table.
“Marcus was curious, almighty curious, Mr. Hesketh. I seen him later, talkin’ to a man from the exchange, and then to Pottawattomie Joe.”
“Who is he?”
“Why, he’s a sort of ridin’ man, hangs out along the trail east of Sacramento. Stops stages, and the like. Seemed Marcus was almighty curious about that actress woman, asked a lot of questions.
“Then he had a long talk with Pottawattomie Joe. I sort of had an idea something was in the wind that maybe was worth fifty dollars to you.”
Teem picked up the coins. “Another time, Mr. Hesketh. But you be careful, you hear me? You be careful. There’s to be another man along with Joe, a man who sort of eliminates, if you get what I mean.
“Now what does Marcus need him for? You know he’s not going to kill that actress-woman, now is he? But if they have Jacob along.”
“Jacob?”
“Just Jacob. Whenever Jacob goes anywhere, somebody gets killed. Now, I wonder, Mr. Hesketh, who is to get killed this time?”
Comstock Lode Page 22
