Texas Killers (12 page)

“
If
they heard?” the Lady repeated. “Do you mean that I could be held incommunicado?”

“Could be,” Dusty admitted.

“You wouldn't dare!” the Lady snapped, trying to sound more certain than she felt.

“Don't count on it,” Dusty replied. “Anyways, there wouldn't be the need for us to do it. Your own police'll likely be wanting to know why you tricked the Crown Prince into thinking you're Lady Winifred Besgrove-Woodstole and I'd be willing to bet that your Government are just as eager as Congress to make sure nothing happens to
him. So which is it to be, talk to me or stay in jail until we find out what they want us to do?”

“Wouldn't want you to take this into account one way or the other, ma'am,” the Kid put in, his voice seeming to change from point to point as the words continued. “But it'll be lil ole
me
who takes you to the pokey. I'm not all white like Dusty, Mark 'n' Waco, a fair piece of me's Comanche. Way us
Nemenuh
—which's Comanch' for ‘The People' and our name for us—figure it, a woman's only a mite more use than a feed-dog. Fact being, she's near's useful as a mule, but not close to's valuable as a good hoss or a repeating rifle. So we're not over-choosey how we treat you gals. Which
I'd
be real riled happen you-all didn't tell me everything Dusty wants to know.”

“What a charming outlook,” the Lady said, restraining a shudder at the gentle yet frightening way in which the unseen Texan had spoken. Wondering if the threat would be carried out, she decided it might be if necessary. So, considering that her only hope was to be at least acceptably frank, she yielded to the inevitable. Exerting all her willpower to speak confidently, she went on, “My name is Amelia Benkinsop and I assure you I wouldn't do anything to harm Crown Prince Rudolph. In fact, I came with him to try to prevent him from being killed.”

“No offense, ma'am,” Dusty said, wondering if the blonde's attitude of sincerity was genuine. “But I'd be obliged if you'd bring your right hand out where I can see it's empty. And, although I'm not from Missouri—”

“You have to be shown,” the Lady interrupted, doing as she was asked and leaving the Remington Double Derringer she had been grasping in its carefully concealed pocket at the rear of the gown. “I've heard the saying. Rudolph saved my life one night in Paris and I
never
forget a debt. Besides—”

“Go on,” Dusty prompted, detecting nothing to suggest the blonde was lying.

“I've another reason for coming to your country. As Waco undoubtedly told you, Beguinage killed my uncle. He meant a lot to me and had done a lot for me. As I said, I
always
honor my obligations.”

“So you figure on getting Beguinage to avenge him?”

“I suppose you think a mere woman wouldn't be capable of doing it?” the Lady demanded indignantly.

“Ma'am,” Dusty drawled. “Even afore I met Freddie Woods, who's a real remarkable lady happen you don't know it, I'd learned it
never
pays to sell a woman short. But you've had a long boat ride for nothing. Beguinage is dead.”

“Dead?”
Amelia gasped.

“I killed him this morning,” Dusty elaborated.

“I hadn't heard about it!”

“The marshal covered up for me by reckoning somebody else had done it.”

“You mean that he was one of the three men who died this morning?” Amelia asked. “But
none
of them could have been Beguinage!”

“Why not?” Dusty demanded.

“I told you that he murdered my uncle,” the Lady explained. “Hoffmeyer was killed in exactly the same way, even to having an identical hole in the side of his throat and the hideous expression on his face.”

“And so was the marshal,” Dusty pointed out.

“I've heard that he was kill—!” Amelia commenced, then realized the full import of the small Texan's words. “You mean that he died in the same way as Hoffmeyer?”

“I haven't seen Hoffmeyer's body,” Dusty confessed. “But from the way Waco described it, the same thing had killed them both.”

“You said the marshal had helped you to—cover up?—that it was you who killed Beguinage.”

“He did.”

“In that case,” the Lady asked. “How could he have been killed by Beguinage, who was already dead?”

“We figure it was his woman who killed the marshal and Hoffmeyer,” Dusty replied, wishing there was more light so that he could form a better impression of the reaction to his words.

“His
woman?
” Amelia breathed, slapping her right hand against her thigh in a gesture of exasperation. “Of
course!
That would explain so many things.”

“Such as how Beguinage managed to get to your uncle?” Dusty suggested.

“How did you guess?” Amelia gasped.

“We figured it would've had to be a woman who could get close enough to the marshal,” Dusty replied. “He'd never have trusted a man.”

“Uncle Marcel always had an eye for the ladies,” Amelia said thoughtfully. “And, although I've never heard so much as a hint that Beguinage worked other than alone, I did wonder how he achieved some of his successes without help. Not that
anybody
would admit to knowing much more than that Beguinage existed, even those through whom he could be reached with offers of employment.”

“Did you reckon anybody would admit any more to you?” Dusty inquired, puzzled by the way in which the Lady had spoken. It conveyed the impression that she was surprised more positive information had failed to materialize.

“I did,” Amelia stated, realizing that she had said too much and, dealing with such a shrewd and discerning person, she could not hope to bluff her way clear. “Mostly there is little that goes on in criminal circles, especially at such a high level, that one can't learn at least some of the details if one knows who and where to ask.”

“And
you
know who 'n' where?” the Kid asked, from his still concealed location.

“I do,” Amelia declared. “My family have long had connections with many of Europe's leading international criminals.”
¹

“You're an owlhoot?” the Kid drawled, sounding disbelieving.

“Nothing has ever been proven,” Amelia answered primly.

“We had us a run in with one of them leading international criminals from Europe a piece back,” the Kid remarked, advancing to the Lady's side from the opposite direction to where she had thought him to be. “Can't just bring his name to mind, but he was so took by me that he gave me a right fancy pocketknife.”

“It was the Ox,” Amelia declared, knowing she
was being subjected to a test. “His full name is Octavius Xavier Guillemot
²
and he is, not to put too fine a point on it, very fat. He must have been taken with you to part with
that
knife. I'm surprised he didn't try to enlist you in his search for that Crusaders' bird he's always talking about.”
³

“Was some talk of it,” the Kid conceded, accepting that the beautiful Englishwoman was speaking the truth about her family connections. “But I didn't cotton to the notion of going riding on a boat.”

“How much do you know about Beguinage?” Dusty asked and the Lady decided that she had convinced the Texans of her veracity.

“Very little, as I said,” Amelia replied. “He has such a well-run system that it's impossible to follow the chain by which he receives requests to take employment. It was more of a guess, or hope that he had been hired, that caused me to renew my friendship with Prince Rudolph. That and wanting to help protect him.”

“You knew that somebody was after his hide?” Dusty inquired.

“Yes, that much I managed to find out,”
Amelia admitted. “And as I was told that Beguinage would not be available for three months at least, I assumed he was hired to assassinate His Highness.”

“I don't suppose you know who hired him?” Dusty said, more as a statement than a question.

“I'm afraid not,” the Lady sighed. “It could be either the Council of Noble Birth, or the anarchists. As you probably know, both factions are hoping to bring about His Highness' death. Until tonight, if I'd had to pick between them, I would have said the Council. They're all Bosgravnian nobles and would have sufficient money to meet Beguinage's fee.”

“What happened tonight to make you change your mind?” Dusty wanted to know.

“I found out that the
Comtesse de
Petain is here,” Amelia replied.

“Do you know her?” the small Texan inquired.

“We hadn't met until Mrs. Blaby introduced us,” the Lady answered, in a voice which suggested a deep dislike for the French aristocrat. “But I've heard about her and none of it was good.”

“And you reckon that she's here to assassinate His Highness?”

“You said
that
as if the idea hadn't already occurred to you, Captain Fog,” Amelia chided with a
smile. “She's either here to help assassinate His Highness, or to do it herself. Do you think she might be Beguinage's woman?”

“If she is, it wasn't her who killed the marshal, or Hoffmeyer,” Dusty replied. “She hasn't been out of somebody or other's sight since well before Digbry was killed. I've checked on that.”

“I thought you would have,” Amelia admitted. “However, the Council wouldn't have hired them both. One of the few things I learned was that Beguinage will not countenance any opposition when he's accepted an assignment. He's warned off, or killed, other assassins who have threatened to trespass upon his tasks.”

“Captain Fog!” called a feminine voice the Lady and the Texans recognized.

“They do say if you talk of the devil, he shows up,” the Kid commented, looking in the speaker's direction.

“We're here,
Comtesse,
” Dusty replied, making a gesture with his head that caused his
amigo
to disappear silently. Taking Amelia's arm, he walked with her to meet the other woman. “Do you know Lady Winifred?”

“We've been introduced,” Charlene answered, trying to sound disinterested. “Rud—His Highness has joined the company. So Mark and I came
to look for you as we felt you would wish to be presented.”

“Trust good old Mark to think of that,” Dusty drawled, although he was confident the suggestion had not come from the blond giant. “Have
you-all
been presented to His Highness, ma'am?”

“It is hardly necessary,” Charlene replied with a touch of hauteur, the question having been directed at her.

“Well I'll swan, that's right. You have!” Dusty declared. “How'd I ever come to forget when I was telling you that Lady Winifred's coming on the hunt with you?”

“Forget what?” Charlene demanded.

“When His Highness heard you were in Corpus Christie,” the small Texan answered, “he straight off told Mark that he is going to ask you if you'd like to go along with us as well.”

“Y
OU ARE PUNCTUAL,
M
R.
C
LINT,” COMMENTED
the anarchist who had called himself “Gotz,” holding open the front door of the house he had nominated for the meeting and standing aside to allow the small Texan to enter. “Please come in quickly to make sure that nobody knows we are here.”

In Dusty Fog's opinion, most of the day's events had been progressing in a generally satisfactory manner.

On returning to the ballroom of Senator Blaby's mansion, accompanied by Amelia Benkinsop and Charlene,
Comtesse de
Petain, Dusty had had his first meeting with Crown Prince Rudolph of
Bosgravnia. They had taken an instant liking to one another. In the small Texan's case, it had been enhanced by the way in which the royal visitor had reacted when the
Comtesse
thanked him for the invitation to join the hunting party. Nothing in his response had suggested that this was the first he had heard of the matter. Nora and she learned differently when speaking with the other men who would be involved.

Moving swiftly and unnoticed by either of the women, the Ysabel Kid had been in the ballroom before they arrived and had warned Mark Counter and Waco what to expect. Colonel Wilhelm Liebenfrau, Major the Baron von Goeringwald and Captain Fritz von Farlenheim were absent until later. By the time they were available for Charlene to speak with them, they had been informed that she and Amelia would be accompanying them and received the Crown Prince's orders to confirm that it had been his decision if questioned by anybody.

Another pleasing facet of Rudolph's character had been displayed shortly after Dusty was presented to him. Claiming that they felt out of place in such “fancy” company, the Kid and Waco had asked permission to leave. They had said that they preferred to spend their leisure time in the part of
Corpus Christie resembling the areas in which they usually found their entertainment and relaxation. When the small Texan had displayed reluctance over giving permission, the Crown Prince had interceded on their behalf. Pointing out that the Kid had already helped him to acquire a fine trophy, he had used his influence to produce a change of mind on Dusty's part. What was more, he had insisted, against the small Texan's advice, in rewarding the Kid handsomely. The two OD Connected hands had taken their departure with a warning from their
segundo
to stay sober and keep out of trouble. It had been clear to the onlookers that neither had been pleased by the restrictions which were being placed on their activities. Also that Dusty did not approve of them going.

On Liebenfrau's orders, Fritz and Alex von Farlenheim had been kept separated while the cause of the quarrel was investigated. All the evidence had indicated that the latter was to blame and had provoked his cousin. It had been decided by the Personal Attendant and their uncle that Alex should leave Corpus Christie in the interest of avoiding any repetition of the incident. There had been no delay in putting the decision into effect. Ludwig von Farlenheim had known the captain of a ship which was leaving for Brownsville that night and
Alex, who had clearly bitterly resented the order, was instructed to be aboard when it sailed. Sheriff Elvis Tragg had accompanied Ludwig to ensure that the young man did not disobey, then had gone to take charge of investigating the murders of Town Marshal Benjamin Digbry and Liebenfrau's orderly.

Throughout the evening, it had been obvious to Dusty that Charlene did not intend missing anything, nor would she allow Amelia an opportunity to be alone with the Crown Prince. Although the two beautiful women had been icily polite to each other, there was clearly no love lost between them.

One of the things learned by the small Texan as the evening had progressed was what Fritz von Farlenheim's duties as “First Taster” entailed. Originally, the holder of the office had been required to eat a portion of every dish and test every drink presented to his ruler. Of recent years, it had come to be considered sufficient for him to open and serve the Crown Prince's liquid refreshments. When Dusty had remarked that such a situation could be exploited by would-be assassins, Liebenfrau had stated that the young captain's loyalty and devotion to their ruler was unquestioned. He had also declared that he was satisfied no harm would ever befall Rudolph as a result of drinks being tampered with as long as Fritz carried out
the von Farlenheim family's tradition by serving as First Taster.

Apart from having seen Alex von Farlenheim depart, there had been little positive news for the sheriff to report when he returned at ten o'clock. On his arrival at the town marshal's office, he had found it deserted. He had learned that, after the removal of Digbry's body, all the deputies had disappeared. Faced with the possibility of their various illicit activities being brought to light during an investigation into the murder, they had made the most of their opportunities and fled. Having no other assistance, Tragg had been unable to make any progress in the task of locating the killer.

The sheriff's final piece of news was such that Dusty might have preferred to hear it in private. Instead, it had been delivered where the royal visitor and the other guests could hear. Finding the Kid and Waco much the worse for drink as a result of Rudolph's largesse, Tragg stated that he had considered it advisable to take them to jail. As such behavior was far from uncommon when cowhands found themselves in similar conditions of affluence, few of the crowd had been surprised to hear what had happened. Dusty had expressed his annoyance. Nor was he noticeably mollified to learn
that the errant pair had done no damage and would be released in the morning.

Claiming that he was tired after the hurried journey he had made so as to arrive in time for the reception, the small Texan had asked for and been granted permission to retire at a quarter after ten. Leaving Mark to keep watch on Amelia and Charlene, he set off ostensibly to the hotel in which the other members of the floating outfit had taken rooms. His actual destination had been the house to which he had been directed by “Gotz's” letter.

Dusty had not forgotten that, assuming the theory formulated in Blaby's study was correct, Beguinage's female accomplice was still at liberty. Although the men who were hired to kill him at the Portside Hotel had failed, he felt sure that she had not abandoned her desire to be avenged. So he had put into practice the methods he had employed when walking the rounds as a peace officer in a less than law-abiding section of a town. By doing so, he had made himself a far from easy target should any ambush be planned. None had materialized, but he did not regret having taken the precautions.

As Dusty had guessed would be the case, the house to which he had been summoned had been carefully selected for its purpose. Small, one story
and dilapidated, it was situated in what was now a derelict part of town. There was no other building within at least a hundred yards on any side. Even on such a moderately dark night, it would be almost impossible to approach unseen provided the occupants were keeping a watch.

The house was in complete darkness and was, apparently, as deserted as the other buildings in the vicinity appeared to be. However, when “Gotz” opened the front door in answer to the small Texan's knock, he found why there was no outward signs of occupancy. A lantern glowed feebly on a rickety table in the center of the room, but its faint illumination was prevented from showing outside by thick blankets hanging over the windows.

“Why sure, just as soon's you've backed off toward the table,” Dusty replied to the invitation to enter, noticing that the bearded anarchist seemed to be the only other person present. “It's not that I don't trust you-all behind me, but like I told you at the hotel, I'm a cautious sort of a feller.”

“Whatever you wish,” “Gotz” answered, withdrawing as requested and watching his visitor advance across the threshold. “But hurry, please. You know it is best that
nobody
sees we are here.”

On entering, alert for any possible treachery al
though he had no reason to suspect such was “Gotz's” intention, Dusty's attention was distracted from the anarchist to a door at the other side of the room. It began to move, but the lantern's light was insufficient for him to see who was opening it.

Watching the dark shape taking form at the door across the room, Dusty sensed rather than saw or heard a movement to his left. Then the door through which he had entered began to close behind him and he realized that it was not of its own volition. Before he could look in either direction, two men converged upon him from the rear and seized him by the arms with powerful hands.

“Wha—?” the small Texan began, restraining his first impulse to struggle as he felt the strength by which he was grasped.

“Welcome, Mr. ‘
Rapido
Clint,' said the dark shape which was emerging out of the blackness of the other room, its voice feminine, mocking, and with a pronounced French accent. “Or should I say
‘Dusty Fog'?
”

“God damn it, ‘Gotz'!” the small Texan barked allowing himself to be hustled forward by his captors and watching the speaker walk into the light. Slightly taller than himself, as far as could be discovered, she was on the dumpy side under the
hooded cloak which covered her from head to foot. Her face was covered by a black veil and she carried a short-barrelled Webley Royal Irish Constabulary revolver in her right hand. “If this's supposed to try me out for your—!”

“It is no use,
Captain
Fog,” the woman stated, before the bearded anarchist could reply. “I know you, even if you don't know me.”

“Like hell I don't know you,” Dusty answered, as the men brought him to a halt by the table. “I just hope the
Comtesse
won't be riled over you sneaking off when you should be serving your
betters
at the reception.”

“Betters!”
the woman repeated, her whole bearing indicating that the word was one for which she did not care. “Those grasping capitalist—!” The words trailed away as she realized what the comment that had provoked them implied and her voice rose a trifle as she continued, “How did you know
me?
”

“Your
helper
there told me,” Dusty replied, nodding to where “Gotz” had retreated and was standing.

“I'm not her—!” the bearded anarchist protested, having the kind of mentality which revolted at the suggestion that he was inferior to anybody else, especially a woman.

“It was only a lucky guess,” the woman put in, drawing aside the veil to reveal she was Charlene's maid.

“Shucks no,” Dusty objected, the interruption having prevented “Gotz” from acting in the way he had hoped, “I can always recognize a
servant
.”

“Soon there will be no
servants!
” the maid spat out, but she too failed to respond in the manner that the small Texan needed. “You won't be alive to see the day, be assured of that!” Then, making an obvious effort, she regained control of herself and looked at “Gotz.” “I will go back now, before I'm missed.”

While the conversation had been taking place, Dusty had been studying the men who were holding his arms. They were big, well made, brutal-featured and, apart from each having a revolver thrust into his waist belt, dressed after the fashion of ordinary sailors from a merchant ship. A glance downward had informed him of how they had approached so quietly. Their feet were bare. However, his judgment of the situation warned him that the time was not yet ripe for an attempt to free himself.

“My hired help'll have something to say about
that,
” Dusty warned.

“Much
any
of them care what happens to
you,
”
the maid sniffed, as “Gotz” darted a challenging look at her. “Two of them have been arrested for being drunk and the other is besotted by that aristocratic bitch who treats
me
like a slave. See he doesn't die too quickly and throw his body into the sea, I wish it could be given to the pigs.”

“Whee-doggie!” Dusty ejaculated, watching the woman walking past in the direction of the front door. “Now there's one good reason I don't reckon I'd care for the brave new world you-all figuring to give the poor folks.”

“What is?” “Gotz” asked, puzzled in spite of himself.

“I'd sure hate to have to take orders from a
woman,
” the small Texan explained.

“No
woman
gives orders to
me!
” the anarchist spat out.

“It sure didn't sound like you-all was giving them to
her,
” Dusty scoffed and, watching the anger that suffused the bearded face, he pressed onward with his plan. “Not that I reckoned you'd have much truck with women, being what you are.”

“What I am?” “Gotz” came back, frowning with a lack of understanding.

“Way I've always heard it,” Dusty said slowly, “your kind would rather have boys than girls.”

“What do you mean?” the anarchist demanded, glancing to where the maid was starting to open the front door.

“Come on now,” the small Texan drawled, his voice oozing contempt. “I don't know what folks call your kind of scum where you-all come from, but over here the name's a ‘swish.'”

A snarl burst from “Gotz.” He had spent sufficient time in the United States to have discovered that the word “swish” was the derogatory name for homosexual. While aware that a number of his liberal intellectual associates qualified for the term, he felt nothing except revulsion for such an aberration. So he bitterly resented the implication that he indulged in such a practice, particularly when it came from a person of so insignificant an appearance.

“You'll soon find out whether I hit like a ‘swish'!” the anarchist bellowed, drawing back his right arm and stepping toward the cause of his wrath.