The Adventures of Johnny Vermillion (27 page)

“Dear old fellow.” Johnny set down his glass. “What exactly do you think is in it?”

“Empty ink bottles, or I've misjudged my source.”

This was a new voice, coming from the opposite end of the room. The company turned in a body to look at the stranger who'd appeared from behind the hanging blanket. He was an ugly toad of a man with a polished bald head, wearing a suit that needed a press and a brush.

“Good Lord, it's Ruskin! What are you doing so far from—Barbary?”

The Major's voice trailed off on the last word. Lizzie had placed a hand on his arm, silencing him.

“Philip Rittenhouse. I represent the Pinkerton National Detective Agency.” With the air of a man somewhat ashamed of its gaudiness, the stranger opened a leather folder to which was pinned a golden orb engraved on a shield.

No one moved. Rittenhouse pocketed the badge and stepped forward to seize Johnny's hand. “I can't tell you what a pleasure it is to meet you. I've followed your career with keen interest ever since Nebraska. I'm sorry I missed both performances here. Last night I was busy, but I did manage to catch a piece of your act this afternoon; from the back row, as it were. You were in and out of the bank so fast I almost missed you.”

When he let go of Johnny's hand, it fell to his side like an empty sleeve. Rittenhouse walked around the silent half circle as if it were a reception line, shaking masculine hands and bowing crisply over feminine ones. “Miss Clay: Brava. Major Davies: I apologize for misrepresenting myself in San Francisco, but thank you for the splendid review. I'd hardly hoped to impress so experienced a pair of thespians as you and Madame Mort-Davies. Madame. Mr. Ragland: Perhaps when Mr. Pinkerton publishes his account of his investigation you'll consent to look at the galley proof and provide comment. The reading public responds favorably to endorsements by other famous writers.”

Johnny cleared his throat. The Pinkerton looked at him. There was something beyond amusement in the reptilian face. It was almost the proprietary pride of a sincere admirer watching him step back into character after a profound shock.

“Mr. Rusthouse—”

“Rittenhouse; but I think you knew that. You've a reputation for committing pages of dialogue to memory swiftly. Floor plans as well.”

“Rittenhouse. You've made an honest blunder. You overheard us rehearsing Mr. Ragland's new play and drawn the obvious conclusion.”

“Please pardon the interruption.” Rittenhouse raised his voice. “Come in, Marshal. You have the key.”

No one but the Pinkerton appeared to have noticed the knock at the door. It opened and Marshal Meager entered, carrying a short-barreled shotgun.

“I doubt you'll need that.” Rittenhouse took a step past the chair where the oilcloth sack rested, lifted the Forehand & Wadsworth from the table, and inspected the chambers. “Empty. Stage pistols usually are, unless the script requires blanks to be fired. But then there are no revolvers in Shakespeare.” He slid it into his right side pocket. From the left he drew April's Remington derringer, balanced it on his palm a moment, then returned it. “Two rounds there, but a lady needs protection. All the more reason not to leave her reticule lying around.”

April stepped up to Rittenhouse and slapped his cheek. Meagher said, “Hey!” and palmed back the shotgun's hammers.

The Pinkerton raised a hand to calm him, then used it to rub the red patch on his sallow skin. “I'll cherish that, Miss Clay. No woman's even kissed me, let alone struck me for a cad.”

“You're worse than a cad. You're a detective.”

“Haw-haw!” barked the Major. “If I had my stick, I'd give him another memory to press between his pages.”

Rittenhouse picked up the sack suddenly and shook out its contents. They clattered to the floor with a noise that rattled eardrums, but none of the hundred or so squat ink bottles shattered. They were made of thick glass, and although many had no stoppers, no ink spilled out.

“LaVern Munn, the Longhorn manager, is a frugal man,” he said. “The bank goes through a lot of ink in six months' time, but
he saves the bottles and returns them to a man who comes through twice a year to collect them for the ink company to refill. The company pays him ten cents a pound for the service.” He looked around. “I can tell by your expressions that Mr. Vermillion didn't take you into his confidence. He seems to enjoy surprising people.”

“Who told
you
?” demanded Cornelius.

“Mr. Munn, when I confronted him with what I'd learned about him from my colleagues in Chicago. Before he emigrated West, our banker friend ran odd jobs there for the late Scipio Africanus McNear, principally delivering graft to the heads of various city departments. He failed to deliver some of it, and fled here to invest his new fortune. Would you care to provide the rest, Mr. McNear?”

“Vermillion,” Johnny corrected. “There's no law against being a politician's son. What's the penalty for stealing fifty dollars' worth of empty bottles?”

“I think we can persuade Marshal Meagher to waive that charge. That is, if his people caught the shipment?” Rittenhouse looked at the lawman.

“I just got the wire. Dodge City's got its hands full with a train robbery, but they took it off the nine-fifteen from Wichita. They're holding it.”

Johnny seemed to remember then he was still holding his glass of port. He drained it, but the color barely stained his pale cheeks before receding. It was the first time the company had seen him other than saturated with his own confidence. Cornelius turned his head away.

“Munn's agreed to testify in return for a shorter sentence,” Rittenhouse went on. “Vermillion threatened to expose his past if he didn't agree to turn over all the gold and silver in the vault. He
was reluctant to bring up the five percent fee Vermillion allowed him for the service, but when I suggested searching the bank and his home, he volunteered that information as well. Once all the figures are tabulated, the examiners will find that Munn has embezzled no small amount on his own from his depositors. That's why Vermillion staged the robbery, so the sum could be rolled into the loss.

“The ink bottles were supplied merely to weight the sack and convince any chance eyewitnesses that a robbery had taken place. Munn gave Vermillion the money before the bank opened this morning, and Vermillion put it on the first train, addressed to the Coronet Hotel in Denver, to be held for the Prairie Rose Repertory Company. I got that much from the station agent, who saw to it personally that the large parcel was placed aboard.”

“You're all under arrest,” Meagher said.

Major Davies said, “I fail to see why. I knew nothing about any stolen money being placed aboard a train. My wife did not, and you've given me no reason to suspect either Miss Clay or Mr. Ragland. Actions taken by Mr. Vermillion without the knowledge of the rest of us reflect only upon himself. We are actors, not thieves.”

“Oh, Evelyn,” said Lizzie. “You really are the most contemptible creature.”

Rittenhouse smiled at the Major. “I wasn't being untruthful when I told you in San Francisco I admired your talent. You'll have the opportunity to play before an appreciative audience when your case comes to trial; you all will. Just in case the witnesses I've established fail to identify each of you positively as a bandit in a series of robberies from Missouri to Utah, I have a preponderance of evidence that the Prairie Rose was performing in each of those
places at the time of the outrage and a stack of glowing reviews testifying to your ability to assume disparate roles at the drop of a hat. It shouldn't be hard for a competent prosecutor to prove the possibility of so talented a crew to appear in two places at once.”

“That won't be necessary in my case,” April said. “I helped plan the robbery of the Longhorn Bank.”

Johnny laughed his old laugh; once again he was back in character. “If you believe that, Rittenhouse, you belong to a legion. Miss Clay is a gifted actress.”

“I helped as well,” Cornelius said.

Lizzie said, “We all did. Stop spluttering, Evie. You know perfectly well you can't survive without me.”

“Oh, blast.” The Major dropped onto the dressing-table chair and emptied his glass. “I suppose I'll play Sidney Carton if I must. I despise Dickens.”

Rittenhouse rubbed his hands. “Since you're all so willing, I'll ask the marshal to manacle Vermillion only. I doubt he brought enough for the entire troupe.”

Meagher grunted and fell to the floor, sprawled facedown on top of his shotgun. Every eye in the room rose from the bloodied back of his head to the man standing in the open doorway behind him, holding a large yellow-handled revolver by its barrel. He spun it on his finger, palming the butt with a smack and thumbing back the hammer. His long granite face was burned as dark as his hat and his worn and faded clothes were streaked with lather. He stank of horse and spent powder. “Everybody stay put!” he barked. “This here's a snake that bites from both ends.”

“Who the devil are you?” said the Major.

“Black Jack Brixton.”

The newcomer swung his gaze on Rittenhouse. “Last man
called me that wound up right where your friend is. Put them hands high. I heard enough to know you're heeled.”

The Pinkerton raised his hands.

“You're Brixton?” Johnny said. “I thought you'd be taller.”

“I'll look plenty tall when you're all bleeding out on the floor. This is the second time this herd of yours cost me a payroll train.”

“What train?” April stepped in front of Johnny, who grasped her shoulders to hold her back.

Brixton lunged and took her wrist in his free hand, tearing her out of Johnny's grip. Johnny stepped forward. A harsh metallic clack stopped him. Heads turned toward a tall man standing in front of the blanket that divided the room, holding a Winchester against his hip with the barrel level and a fresh round racked into the chamber. He was burned as deeply as Brixton, his clothes stained from the same hard ride.

“That there's Mysterious Bob.” Brixton spun April to face the others, twisting her arm behind her back. She cried out. “We call him that on account of nobody knows just when he'll cut loose with that repeater.”

“What do you want?” Rittenhouse asked.

“I want you to wire Dodge City and get me that bank money I heard you squawking about,” Brixton said. “But that can wait till we settle with these five.”

“Why do you want to kill us?” Lizzie sounded as calm as the chambermaid in
The Diplomat Deposes
. “You got back all the money from the safe in Salt Lake City.”

“That's spent. We had to quit Denver when you spotted Charlie Kettleman there. We was all fixed to hit the army train headed for the mint. Then we got ourselves shot to hell out by Fort Dodge on account of you seen Tom Riddle here and told the army. I
think maybe I'll shoot that fat husband of yours first so you know what's coming.”

“I don't know what you mean,” she said. “I don't know any Tom Riddle.”

Brixton made a movement that drew a gasp from April and rested the barrel of his revolver on her shoulder, pointing it at the Major, who sat holding up his empty glass as if waiting for a refill.

Johnny made a long stride to his right. As the revolver pivoted that way, he swept up a fencing foil leaning in the corner and swirled the blade in a lazy
S
. On the upstroke, the button point snagged the inside of the muzzle and tore the weapon from Brixton's grasp. It made a slow arc and struck the floor near the outside wall, jarring loose the hammer. The report rang like a huge iron bell. A piece of gilded wood jumped off the frame of the dressing table mirror.

“Bob!” Brixton's shout was muffled in the echo of the shot.

Mysterious Bob placed the muzzle of his carbine against the back of Johnny's head. The foil dropped to the floor with a clank.

Rittenhouse had his hand in the pocket where he'd put April's derringer.

Brixton gave April's arm a yank. She screamed. “Take it out and drop it or I'll snap her arm clean off.”

“Let her go first.”

She screamed again. The Pinkerton drew the pistol out slowly and let it fall.

“You, sir, are a knave,” said the Major.

Brixton let go of April's arm and shoved. She stumbled forward. Johnny caught her in his arms. Brixton went over and picked up his revolver. “I got five more in the cylinder. That's one for each of you and I'll let Bob finish this one.” He kicked Meagher
in the temple. The fallen marshal, who had begun to stir, groaned again and fell silent.

“What about me?” Rittenhouse said.

“I ain't got that far in my figuring. If you do a good job getting me that bank money maybe I'll let you see Chicago again.”

Johnny said, “Someone must have heard that shot. The sheriff is the marshal's brother. He's probably on his way here with deputies.”

Brixton grinned. “Well, then, I reckon I better get to it. Stand up, you.” He turned his barrel on the Major.

“No!” Lizzie took a step. The Major flung out an arm, stopping her. He placed his glass carefully on the dressing table and heaved himself to his feet with a grunt.

“Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,” he said. “I should have died hereafter.”

Brixton thumbed back the hammer and took aim at the Major's broad middle.

An explosion shuddered the room. The Major winced and fell back against the dressing table. He groped at himself, opened his eyes.

The impact of the bullet had slammed Black Jack Brixton into the wall behind him, jarring the revolver from his grasp. This time it struck the floor without discharging. He slid down the wall with a look of wonder on his face. Then his chin fell to his chest and his hat tilted forward over his eyes.

Mysterious Bob lowered his smoking carbine. His unreadable face turned toward Rittenhouse's. “You'll have to take my word on it,” he said. “I threw my badge away in sixty-five. You can't ride and camp with the same men for ten years and keep a thing like that hid.”