by C. A. Asbrey
“It’s those instincts again.” Jake grinned. “You can’t teach that.”
“I need you people to come down to the station and make full statements, too.” The inspector looked at Jake and Nat who exchanged a glance.
“There ain’t no point in me comin’, Clay.” Jake shook his head. “I’m the muscle. I don’t know a thing about electric or bodies. You need Abi and Doc Prothero.”
Nat strolled over and stood beside his uncle. “Are you trying to stay behind with Maddie?” he muttered through his teeth.
Jake held his faux smile for appearances sake and hissed back. “Only now the drugs are kickin’ in. I’ve been in that damned station enough, and you’re in disguise. Have you forgotten that Bartholemew got released because there’s a Pinkerton there who could identify us? It has to be one of the ones from Everlastin’ when Abi got shot. I ain’t going near that place.”
“But it’s okay to send me?” Nat murmured, still maintaining an appearance of nonchalance.
“Get out of it if you can, but you’ve got a better chance than me. You’re in disguise” Jake shrugged. “I’m stayin’ put.”
Jake raised his tousled head and threw a lopsided smile at Abi who was descending the stairs. “She’s asleep.”
“The inspector wants us to go down to the station, Abi,” said Nat, with a meaningful glint in his eye. “Jake says there’s no point in going because he can’t tell them about any of the science.”
She reached the bottom where Jake whispered in her ear. “There’s a Pinkerton there who can identify us. That’s how Bartholemew got released. We can’t go.”
Abigail’s face didn’t move, betraying no concern. In fact, her smile widened. “They want us to go to the station. Certainly. I’ll get my coat and hat.” She paused. “Someone will have to stay with Mrs. Bartholemew, though. She’s been very upset and she’s drugged. She can’t be left alone in the house.”
Honeybun gestured with his head toward the gunman. “We don’t need Jake. He can stay with her.”
“Certainly not.” Abigail’s eyes widened. “A young man alone in the house with a drugged woman? That’s unacceptable. Think of propriety.”
“He’s a Pinkerton,” Honeybun protested.
“I don’t care if he’s the Moderator of the General Assembly of the Church of Scotland,” Abigail snorted. “It’s indecent.”
“Huh? What’s one of them?”
“The head of the church where I come from,” she replied. “A kind of a chief primate.”
“Ain’t that some kind of monkey?” the inspector demanded. “There’s no call for that. He’s a decent fella.”
“It’s from the word primus and it’s a bishop,” she retorted, “and I wouldn’t have one of them watching her, either.” Her jaw firmed. “There’s a good few of them I wouldn’t let near quite a few things now we come to mention it, but I’m not having her left alone with a man without a chaperone.”
“Fine, you stay and I’ll just take the doc, here,” answered Honeybun.
“I don’t know the medical side of it.” Nat’s eyes widened in regret. “Miss MacKay is the only one who knows both the electrical side and the medical aspects. She’s the one who spent time testing with the experts today, too, and they’ll give you a better account of what he did than I can. They know the subject better. Besides,” his shoulders slumped, “it’s getting late and I’m getting on in years. Why don’t I stay too? You can’t complain if there’s an elderly doctor in the house to make sure everything’s as it should be. Can you? It’s way past my bedtime.”
Honeybun threw up his hands in defeat. “Fine. We’ll expect you two at the station in the morning for your statements. I’ll make sure Miss MacKay is escorted back home when we’ve finished for the night. I only need enough to hold him for now, anyway.”
Chapter 20
The police station at Mission was back to its usual brisk bustle when the party entered the building. Night had brought out the usual denizens of darkness in the big city, and the local law enforcement were dragging as many of them off the streets as they could. Sergeant North was back behind the main desk, controlling the comings, goings, and ‘most-definitely-not-going-anywhere-but-court’ like a master mariner in the eye of the storm. His steel-gray hair caught the lamplight making it glow and adding a commanding air to an already intimidating figure. His hazel eyes rose from the ledger to stare at the battered face of the prisoner escorted on either side by a burly officer.
“Ain’t that—” He pointed with his pen as his features rearranged themselves from a stern to furrowed-curiosity. “—the man we just let go? He’s the one we all thought was Nat Quinn. What happened to him?”
“That’s where I know you from.” Honeybun grinned in relief. “It’s been drivin’ me mad. You’ve gotta admit he’s had a few features rearranged for him, so I couldn’t spot it. You should see the fella who did it, too. He has to be nearly seventy if he’s a day. Some kinda scientist. You wouldn’t think he had it in him.”
“Why isn’t he here, too, if they’ve been fighting?” asked North.
“Because this here’s the man those Pinkertons were hanging around town for. They’ve been lookin’ for a Bluebeard who murders his wives for money. We let him out and they were lying in wait. Caught him red-handed—just about to fry her alive in the bath.”
“That’s a bit of a melodramatic way of describing his modus operandi, Inspector Honeybun,” smiled Abigail. “I think we’d have caught him before now if that’s all he’d been doing.”
“That lady Pinkerton is here again.” Honeybun gestured toward Abigail. “She wore a wig last time. Have you ever seen the like?”
Sergeant North held open the wooden gate to the open plan back office for her with a nod of courtesy. “Evenin’, ma’am. We’ve got one of your colleagues here. He came all the way from Denver to identify Nat Quinn.” He glanced over at the dark-haired man with a roman nose bowed over a desk in the corner. “That’s him.”
Abigail felt relief wash over her, glad she hadn’t turned up with Nat and Jake as he’d met them in Everlasting. The familiar face of Tom Bartlett turned toward her. “Oh, I know him. I must go and speak to him.”
She bustled over, her smile broad welcoming the man she worked with so often. “Tom? You came to identify Quinn?”
His darkening eyes hinted at his suspicions at the mention of Nat’s name but his smile broadened. He rose. “I didn’t know you were here. You could have saved me the trip. You could have identified that prisoner.”
“I didn’t know I was needed or I would have. I’ve been dealing with Maddie.” She cast a hand over to the disheveled prisoner. “I got him, Tom. That is my sister’s new husband. He tried to kill her tonight.”
He glanced over at Bartholemew’s smashed face and his eyes widened. “You certainly did get him. What did you hit him with?”
“No.” She giggled, embarking on the lie with as much effervescence as she could muster. “The doctor did it. He’s really quite elderly, too. I found the most wonderful people to help me at the teaching hospital. Not only that, but Father Joseph Neri at St. Ignatius College is an expert on electricity, and we’ve been experimenting on various ways to kill with electricity. That’s how he killed them, Tom. We can even prove it, because electricity changes cells in a way nothing else does. Father Neri has a lot of papers on the subject. You must come up there with me tomorrow. We need a lot of that information on record for the agency.”
His smile broadened, a shadow of relief flickering over his face. “You’ve been busy. I’ve got to admit, I was worried about you. I thought you might do something crazy like try to contact Quinn.”
“Crazy?” she shrugged. “I have been considering a big change. I just might do something impulsive, but not that. All this has made me realize how much my mother needs me at home. Madeleine has been a nightmare, Tom. I’m thinking of giving up and helping her a little. I need to take her back to New York, and there’s the trial and eve
rything to deal with. I’m needed.”
“You?” he snorted. “I give you six months before you come crawling back out of boredom.”
“We’ll see. The chance for boredom seems like a long way away.” She turned, “Anyway, I must get on. The inspector wants me to give a stateme—” Abigail froze, backing into her colleague. She reached out a hand and grasped his arm. “Tom, see that young police officer?” She stood side on as though still in casual conversation. “—the one with the brown hair? The slim fellow.”
“I see him. What of it?”
“That is Smitty. Cornelius Schmitts Dewees. The man wanted for setting up the fake Innocents who then killed. He also killed someone at a racecourse here.” She glanced at Tom’s hand dropping down to his gun and the questions flickering in a panoply of expressions.
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely certain. I actually saw the killing from the back before he made off in the crowd. I was there with a lady friend, a Miss Atchinson, and her brother. Tibby Dunbar is here tracking Smitty down. He’s a journalist I’ve met before in the case in Bannen. You might know him as Dogberry? He gave me a photograph in case I saw him.”
Tom’s eyes glittered with reluctance. “Are you certain, Abi? He’s a police officer.”
“I’ve never been surer of anything in my life, Tom. Tibby gave me a picture of Dewees, and I’m taking it back to the agency with me. That is Smitty.”
“Fine. Your word is good enough for me. Let’s go.”
Tom Bartlett stepped forward, drawing his weapon. He strode over to the young officer who was dropping correspondence in the wire trays on the detective’s desks and grabbed his collar.
“Put your hands up and keep them up.” Tom thrust the muzzle into his back and laid a hand on his shoulder as the young man dropped his mail on the floor. “I’m going to take your weapon. Don’t move.”
An outraged Sergeant North called from the desk. “Here now! What’s goin’ on?”
“This man is wanted,” Tom explained. “His real name is Cornelius Schmitts Dewees. He’s wanted for murder and conspiracy to murder. We have a warrant for him issued in Wyoming.”
“Huh?” The young man rattled his head from side to side in denial. “My name is George Smith and I’ve worked here for over a year. They know me.”
A knot of angry officers circled the Pinkertons, muttering a mixture of disconcerting threats and confused enquiries. Abigail faced them down.
“I have a photograph of Cornelius Schmitts Dewees which a journalist gave to me. He’s been tracking him down for months. It’s him—Dewees. There’s no doubt, and we’ve been looking for him for a very long time.” She turned to their prisoner and looked him straight in the eye. “I know who you are.” Abigail stared at the man, examining his reaction. There was certainly shock, but that seemed to be replaced by anger—far too quickly for Abigail’s liking. A normal reaction transitioned through fear and confusion, but this man went straight to cold anger. Every instinct told her this was a very dangerous man. “Keep that gun on him, Tom. I’ll get his weapon.” She glared at the officer. “Keep those hands up.”
She unclipped the restraining strap on his holster and pulled out his pistol. She walked over to the hostile sergeant and laid the weapon on his desk. “Please look after this for me.”
“It’s George,” North barked. “He’s been working with me every day for eight months. Before that, he was on the beat with the boys, here.”
She held the sergeant’s eyes and shook her head. “No. It’s Smitty. He’s the man who slit a man’s throat at the racecourse and commissioned more murders. We’ve been looking for him for a long time. He’s been hiding here in plain sight.”
“Sarge, tell them. I’m a police officer. They’re wrong.” The man’s voice was tainted with desperation.
“If we’re wrong we’ll give you the biggest apology you ever got,” Tom Bartlett replied. “In the meantime, you’re going in a cell until we can get the picture to check your face against it.”
“There’s no need to put me in a cell.” The young man’s back rose and fell with his deep breaths. “I’ll wait here.”
“Yeah, right,” Tom snorted. “Smitty’s been as slippery as an eel. You’re going where we know you can’t get away.”
“They can’t lock me up with them bastards, Sarge. Tell them. They’ll eat me alive.”
“He’s right, we can’t lock up an officer in full uniform. What’ll it look like? We can put him in an interview room. They lock.” North took a key from the board and tossed it to Abigail. “Just do as they say, George. We’ll get this cleared up then we’ll make them eat crow.”
“But, Sarge—”
“No buts, George. The only way to deal with this is to prove ’em wrong, Just be patient, and cool your heels for a bit.” The sergeant nodded toward the corridor at the far end. “Room three. Lock him in there.”
Tom grabbed the man’s collar. “Right. Walk, and no tricks. Abi, you go fetch that photograph and I’ll be right outside the door of that interview room with a gun. We’ll soon get this sorted.”
The men marched toward the room, Abigail leading the way with the key. She counted along the doors numbered consecutively as Tom led the officer between the desks of the back office. In a flash, the police officer dropped like a stone. On the way down, he snatched at a detective’s holster which was slung casually over the back of his seat and grabbed the weapon.
Tom stiffened in the face of a determined Smitty now lying on his back pointing a gun straight at him.
“Drop it,” Smitty demanded.
The Pinkerton shook his head. “Nope. This is a police station, and everyone here is armed. You shoot me, and you’re going nowhere.” His eyes narrowed. “You drop it.”
Smitty clambered to his feet, holding on to the gun. “They won’t shoot me. They know me. They won’t kill one of their own.” He backed off, darting a look behind him. “Will you, boys? You won’t shoot good old George.”
“Don’t be a damn fool, boy!” Sergeant North bellowed. “Put the gun down.”
“Go to hell,” Smitty yelled, thrusting the weapon higher to ward off the resolute Pinkerton advancing on him with a harsh stare. He glanced around, a muscle in his cheek twitching as he reached out and grasped at Abigail, pulling her in front of him as a human shield. She stood fuming with anger at being forced into this situation as Smitty pressed the muzzle against her temple. Tom sucked in a breath and hesitated, but kept his Colt trained on the target.
“Not so confident now, huh?” Smitty crowed. “If any one of you so much as moves in my direction she’ll get a bullet to the brain.” He dragged her up to the wall where he couldn’t be ambushed from behind, shaking her like a rag doll when she planted her feet on the ground and resisted. “Enough, you bitch. Get moving. Don’t push me.”
She looked up, reading her colleague’s worried eyes and his message not to do anything rash. She bit her tongue and steeled herself for action when the opportunity offered itself. The thumping of her heart throbbed in her chest and Abigail hoped Smitty would read this as fear—not the kind of sheer bloody-minded anger which focused her mind and sharpened her instincts.
Tom Bartlett knew her well enough to worry, though.
“Smitty, let her go and we’ll all lay down our guns.” Tom’s voice was smooth and even, trying to calm the erratic man in front of him. “Nobody else needs to get hurt.”
“You think I believe that?” snorted Smitty. “This slut is my way out of here and she’s coming with me.” He forced her over toward the wooden gate in the partition. “Sarge, get that. Wedge it open, then back off. If anyone comes near me, she’ll get a bullet in the brain.”
“George, don’t be an idiot,” the sergeant urged. “They’ll kill you for this.”
Smitty forced Abigail through the gate and into the front office, heading for the main door. He glanced over his shoulder to check the way was clear, but Abigail slumped on his arm as a dead weight,
her hands dangling to the floor. He shook her furiously. “Get up, you damned whore, or I’ll put a hole in your head right now for the sake of it! I’m not buying this crap.”
She gulped in a breath and straightened up. They were getting near the door and there was no way he was going to let her live to make it to the street. She’d only slow him down, and a mortally injured body lying across the threshold would delay pursuit as well as cut down on the number of people on his trail. Abigail needed to act fast.
His hot breath burned into the back of her neck. “That’s better. Try that again and you’re dead meat.”
Tom cursed under his breath. “I’m sorry, Abi. He bent with you. He was moving. I couldn’t get a clean shot.”
She stared into her colleague’s apologetic face and nodded. “No need to be sorry, Tom.” She pressed her head back, feeling Smitty’s chin around the top of her head. She had only one chance to find her target and she had removed her pistol from its ankle holster when she had slumped forward. Men never expected ladies to be armed.
Abigail steeled herself as she dropped her head, raised her right arm, and placed her Derringer right beneath the jaw of her captor. She fired. The explosive burst of black powder so near her ear deafened her until only a high ringing tone was all she could hear. The thud of Smitty’s crumpled body hitting the ground was something she missed entirely. She felt heat on the shell of her ear, and she passed the weapon to her left hand to investigate. Her palm was covered in blood, but she had no idea if it was her own or not.
The roar of the officers leaping into action and rushing toward her was initially mute, as silent as the dancing figures on zoetrope she’d had as a child. Then her hearing kicked in again, but it was muffled and distorted, like trying to listen from the bottom of a deep lake overset with the constant ringing. She could see Tom speaking to her before holding her in his arms, but she pulled back and indicated her ear. He yelled into the left one instead.
