The Great West Detective Agency (19 page)

Getting rich was proving more deadly by the minute.

L
ucas almost drew his pistol. He had fired it a couple times already. What did it matter if he fired it again into the belly of the man lurking across the street from his boardinghouse? It had been too long since he had stretched out on the too small bed and gotten even a rocky night's sleep on the hard mattress. Dunbar kept a constant watch on the room. A single shot could eliminate that. Lucas was tired enough to consider committing cold-blooded murder, although that wasn't his style.

Forming what words to say to the watcher got him nowhere. Nothing he could say would be adequate. This was a trap he would never talk himself out of. The smallish man did not know what he looked like—Lucas had never seen the man before. Even if he decoyed the man away, it would be only minutes before he realized he had been tricked and return to find his quarry asleep on the bed in the room at the rear of the house.

All such notions fled when a second man came up and spoke with the man lounging across the street. Lucas remembered seeing this one before. The first man left, turning over his watch to one who knew better than to be duped by the very man he sought.

Lucas's shoulders sagged as he retraced his steps and mingled with the crowds going about their daily business. Gallatin might provide him with a stall where he could sleep, but that held dangers to both of them if Clifford's men spied on the stable hand. Lucas had no illusions about how good an actor Gallatin was. The filibusters had to suspect he wasn't a down-and-out guerrilla hunting for a new army.

“Actors,” Lucas said to himself. Returning to the Emerald City held a certain appeal, especially since Carmela's departure was imminent.

But Lefty avoided trouble at all costs. Just by asking for a place to curl up and sleep screamed danger to the saloon and everyone in it. Lucas wished he had slept there when he wasn't in such dire straits. That would make such a request now seem more innocent.

Hardly knowing it, he wound through the streets and came into the alley behind the Great West Detective Agency. Opening the door faster now than if he'd used a key, he slipped into the back room. He looked into the office. Finding Amanda there would have given him a real surprise. She had lost the dog again and needed help finding it, if she had dodged Dunbar's henchmen.

But she wasn't there.

Lucas spread out the blanket on the back room floor and lay down. Before he had stared at the cracked ceiling, imagining all manner of things. This time he slept like a dead man, awakening sometime in the afternoon with his belly grumbling for food. He stretched and felt better for the few hours of sleep.

A rattling of the front door sent him scuttling on hands and knees to look out. A ragamuffin tapped insistently on the glass and held up a paper.

The boy had spotted him. Rather than send the newsy away with possible gossip on his lips, Lucas went to the door, fumbled it open, and found a paper thrust into his hands.

“You ain't the usual guy.” The dirty boy, all of ten, spoke accusingly. He tugged at his ratty checkered cap and thrust out his chin.

“Mr. Runyon's not here right now.”

“He always buys a paper. You're gonna buy a paper, ain't ya, mister? When he gets back, he'll want to know all the news. He always does. He's a detective and keeps a close eye on goings-on in town.” The boy winked broadly. “I keep a sharp eye out for him, and he pays me if I see anything he might make a dollar off. You a new detective?”

The determined look and the peppering of questions further convinced Lucas the only way to rid himself of the capitalistic brat was to pay him off. He fished about in his pocket and found a quarter.

The coin disappeared along with the boy. Lucas sighed and closed the door. Before he could toss the paper into a corner, an article below the fold caught his eye. He sat at the desk with the newspaper spread out before him so he could read the smeary print one line at a time and not miss a single word.

When he'd finished the article about a train wreck down in Durango, he read it again. He rocked back and shook his head sadly.

“Our paths will never cross now, Mr. Runyon.” He glanced a final time at the article detailing how a Mr. Jacoby Runyon of Denver had been one of seven killed when a narrow gauge train derailed, the act of road agents intent on robbing the mail car.

Lucas went to the file cabinet and leafed through the folders until he found one with the railroad's name on it. On the top of the papers in the file lay a contract hiring the Great West Detective Agency, Jacoby Runyon primary detective, to bring to justice a gang of outlaws terrorizing the entire region of southwestern Colorado. Lucas let out a low whistle when he saw how much the detective was to be paid for his work, whether he brought the outlaws to justice or simply drove them off. Being a detective paid better than he would have thought.

He closed the file and leafed through other papers, stopping at one that had
BILL OF SALE
bannered across the top. Holding it up so the sunlight made the fine print easier to read, he quickly saw this was proof that Runyon had purchased the company from one Lawrence Duckworth. Lucas ran his finger over the signatures and smiled. At the desk he pushed aside the newspaper and carefully examined the way the bill of sale had been written.

Only a fool signed a legal document in pencil. He used his lock pick to open the desk drawer and took out a pencil. Next to it a spirit gum eraser begged to be applied to the bill of sale. Lucas had watched the Preacher forge documents of various kinds, but none of the techniques he had witnessed were needed here. A quick swipe of the eraser removed Duckworth's name. He signed his own in ink, with a flourish, then realized more had to be done. As it stood, the sold to and bought by were reversed.

Correcting this required the used of a straight razor he found in the back room, a few minutes application of the steel to the printed words, and then a careful replication of the print style by hand. The ink didn't match well and his hand was a trifle shaky, but at first glance, he had just become the owner of the Great West Detective Agency, as sold to him by a deceased man.

Lucas felt a glow of pride at his skill. Dealing cards required manual dexterity. Forgery pushed the limits of that ability and added in a steady hand and more than a touch of audacity. He had no desire to own the agency, but the forgery had taken his mind off other, deadlier matters. He pushed the fraudulent bill of sale aside and scoured the newspaper for any hint as to Jubal Dunbar's plans. The man wasn't even mentioned, although a lengthy article about the gala the night before graced the social column.

He had to laugh when a single line told of a disturbance at the dance when a vagrant had intruded, intent on a free meal and some booze. Without a more detailed description, he reckoned another might have crashed the festivities, but he doubted it. He was the vagrant and the mention of food reminded him that he had yet to eat.

As he stood to go find a decent meal, he saw two figures fill the doorway, vying to be the first inside. He touched his pocket, then continued the movement to smooth out his vest.

“The agency isn't open.”

“The door was unlocked,” the woman said sharply. “We have come in response to your ad.” She held up a newspaper turning yellow with age.

“The position is no longer open.”

“What? You've hired someone else? That's not possible. We have come by repeatedly and have seen no one in the office.” The man looked to his wife, as if he needed her approval for such a bold statement.

They were the couple Lucas had seen loitering about, arguing over whether to pursue this position or try something else.

“I am Mrs. Northcott,” the hatchet-faced woman said. Her left hand made a chopping motion, using her right palm as a cutting block. Lucas doubted she even realized she made the gesture. “This is my husband, Mr. Northcott.”

“Felicia and Raymond,” he said timidly. She silenced him with a harsh look. Her dark eyes bored into his very soul until he fell silent.

Lucas sized them up quickly. Felicia Northcott wore a plain gray dress. It might have been the same he had seen her wearing earlier, but small differences told him that an examination of her wardrobe would reveal nothing but this color. It fit her personality. Or rather, it dictated the personality of her husband. She stood for a moment and glared at Raymond, who finally realized she was waiting for him to hold the chair for her. She sank down and folded her bony fingers in her lap before fixing her death skull gaze on Lucas.

“This position has not been filled. As Mr. Northcott said, we would have seen other employees in here while we waited for you to open. You are Mr. Runyon?”

“I, uh, no,” Lucas said. “Mr. Runyon is unavailable.”

“Then you are his office manager?”

“Not exactly. I—” Lucas tried to take the forged bill of sale off the desktop, but Felicia Northcott made her chopping motion and her hand held it firmly. Her quick eyes scanned down the page and came to the signature line.

“You purchased the agency from Mr. Runyon.” She sniffed. “You need our assistance quite badly, it appears.”

“Why's that?” Lucas wanted nothing more than to be done with these two, but her statement sparked his curiosity.

“This is a poorly drawn legal document. The signature lines are reversed from the standard form, and the date, well, I doubt you bought the agency two years ago.”

“Why's that?”

“It was specifically stated in the advert for office help to report to Mr. Runyon. Why would a man who sold the company two years ago place such an ad?” She lifted her chin and looked superior.

“Because Jacoby continued to work for the Great West Detective Agency,” Lucas said. He felt torn between matching wits with the woman and her sharp-eyed observations and getting the hell out of there. Revolutions boiled all around him, dogs and lovely ladies were missing, and a mountain of gold needed to be found.

“See, dear, there is a reason for him not being Mr. Runyon.”

“Quiet, Raymond.” She pushed back the bogus bill of sale and looked hard at Lucas. “We are perfect for the job.”

“Both of you?”

“We will work for the price of one,” Raymond said quickly. Again his wife silenced him with a quick hand gesture.

“You require an office manager. From the condition of the building, you also need a handyman. Raymond is capable of such repairs, in addition to being a trustworthy errand boy and, should the need arise, an armed guard. This agency protects banks and stagecoach shipments, does it not?”

Lucas stared at Raymond, trying to picture him with a six-shooter in his hand, shooting it out with road agents. The timid, unassertive man would likely throw the money into the air and run. As that thought crossed his mind, Lucas had to smile grimly. He had done that very thing back at the rat arena when Makepeace had come for him.

“I am a skilled secretary, know filing, and can take dictation and draft letters of suitable legibility. I taught school for two years and know grammar.”

“She knows business, too. There's none better, which is why I married her.”

Felicia made no effort to quiet her husband when he uttered those words. Lucas wondered why Felicia had married Raymond because he had no doubt she was the one who had insisted on exchanging rings. If she hadn't wanted a personality clash in her marriage, that would explain a great deal. Raymond had almost no personality to clash with.

“The business isn't making a great deal of money right now,” Lucas started.

“Poor cash flow,” Felicia Northcott said primly. “I understand such things. We will work for one week without pay to prove our skills. At that time, we can negotiate salaries and—” She tried to brush off her husband's insistent hand on her shoulder, but he wouldn't budge. “What is it, Raymond?”

“There's a savage in the doorway.”

Lucas looked past the couple to where Good stood, arms crossed over his broad chest. Dirt smeared on one cheek looked like he had applied war paint. He had two six-guns, one on each hip, both with butts forward. A knife thrust into his belt turned him into a one-man army.