The Great West Detective Agency (6 page)

“Yes, sir, his partners thought Glue Bottom had ridden his last trail. They fanned out along the base of the cliff, hunting for his body. They didn't find a danged thing.”

“The river,” the cowboy said. “A horse what leaps like that's gonna carry outwards quite a way.”

“It wasn't the river where they found him. There was a huge cottonwood tree on the riverbank. One of his buddies looked up and there was Glue Bottom, still astride that horse. He held up his smoke and asked, ‘Anybody got a light?'”

For a moment only silence greeted Lucas, then laughter rippled around.

“That there's a good story, gambler man.”

This sentiment was echoed by others. They drifted away, but Lucas ran his knowing fingers over the stacks of coins won for the house. More than a hundred dollars had been bet and lost by the crowd as he spun his tale. Claudette winked broadly at him. Sale of whiskey had been good, too. He might not have Jenny's attributes, but he had other talents.

“I entertained you boys,” Lucas said, “so now you can do me a favor. I'm looking for a puppy dog stolen a couple days ago.”

“Is there a reward?”

“For the right dog, I'll pay . . . five dollars.”

“I seen a dog out back 'fore I came in.”

“Warn't no dog. That was a mangy coyote.”

The argument between the men grew and took them away from the faro table. Claudette followed to capitalize on spilled liquor and emptied glasses. For a moment, Lucas found himself alone at the table, giving him a chance to catch his breath. He knew any number of ways of sweet-talking a crowd to keep them interested while they gambled, but it always sapped his energy.

He looked toward the back of the Emerald City, where the stage stretched empty, almost forlorn. The curtains billowed and moved, sometimes hinting at stagehands moving about to prepare the set for Carmela. He shifted in the direction of the stage but caught Lefty's eye. The barkeep sternly shook his head, then pointed at the faro table. Lucas shot him an insincere smile and went back to plying his trade.

More than a half hour passed. A cowboy walked away three dollars to the good, bragging on his luck. Lucas waited for the rush to the table when word got around that the cards favored the bettor. Luck meant everything to a dyed-in-the-wool gambler—and even more to a superstitious cowboy.

A loud yelp followed by fierce barking made him reach for his pistol. He paused when he saw a man as mangy as the dog he wrestled coming toward him.

“This here's yer dog, mister. Where's my money?”

“He's only got one eye and that back leg's all twisted around,” Lucas said.

“So?”

“This isn't a puppy. It's five years old if it's a day.” Lucas looked askance at the animal as it struggled, trying to escape the death grip the man had on it.

“You never said the dog you wanted wasn't all busted up.”

“I said it was a puppy. I can't even tell what breed this is.”

“What breed you want it to be? Looks like a bit of ever'thing's been mixed in.”

“Get it out of here.” Lucas edged back as the man tried to force the animal into his arms. He didn't want fleas when he intended to renew his acquaintance with Carmela Thompson.

“You ain't gonna pay me? You thinkin' on cheatin' me when I brung you yer dog?”

“Not mine,” Lucas said. He realized now the error of even asking a drunken crowd in the Emerald City to find Tovarich.

A pair of high-stepping dancers came onstage, kicking their knees up high enough to give a quick glimpse of ankle, calf, and even higher. They danced without music; none was needed. A hush fell over the dance hall as their heels clicked on the stage and they exposed more and more. Flouncing about, they held the crowd in silent rapture. Then the piano player started. Lucas had to give him his due. He was not a bad player, but often he was too drunk to do more than bang on the keys.

Tonight his tinny piano sounded as if it had been moved into a grand concert hall and he were playing for the crowned heads of Europe. Lucas covered the faro table. No one would gamble now. He slid the stack of coins into his pocket. As they slipped between his fingers, he counted, stopped when he got to the usual percentage, then went to the bar and left the neat stack for Lefty. The barkeep had said he could keep everything until the crowd came in, but Lucas knew his credibility as an honest gambler would go up if he paid up. This was a good place to call home, and Lucas wanted to stay on good terms with the management.

In spite of the buildup for Carmela and the increasingly naughty dancers, Lefty came the length of the bar and counted the coins. He nodded, smiled in appreciation, pocketed the money, and left Lucas to his own devices.

Moving along the back of the crowd, Lucas found his special spot by a pillar. It took him a few seconds of fumbling, but he pulled out a two-by-two crate almost two feet high and stepped up onto it to give a view of the stage over the heads of the crowd. He wrapped his arms around the pillar and rested his cheek against the splintery wood.

It was his turn to be mesmerized. The two cancan dancers had disappeared behind the curtains as they slid open to reveal Carmela Thompson. He caught his breath. There were women who were more beautiful—women who had favorably viewed him as a fascinating partner—but never had he seen one who held his attention so effortlessly. She moved with liquid grace, her long blond hair and emerald eyes adding to a pale beauty at odds with most women he knew. And Carmela's voice! She opened her bow-shaped lips and let escape a single clear, pure note.

His heart began to beat faster at that single sound.

When she began singing, not a sound in the house interrupted her. Carmela sang opera and bawdy songs and Stephen Foster ditties and even hymns. All held him captive until the final dying note left him drained emotionally. Lucas shook himself and stepped down from his perch, carefully replacing it for future need. The entire while silence gripped the saloon, then a roar of approval exploded that showed real appreciation.

Carmela took a bow and gave an encore. By the time she finished, Lucas had made his way around the perimeter of the crowd and spoke briefly to a bouncer positioned to keep well-wishers at bay. Lucas slid past, letting the burly man shove back a cowboy immediately behind him.

The stage was familiar territory for him. Lucas frequently romanced the singers coming through Denver who performed here, but he had not gotten a bouquet for Carmela or even some small, expensive gift. Hunting for Tovarich had distracted him to the point that even retrieving his patched coat from the laundry had almost gone by the wayside.

He went to the dressing room where Carmela's name had been crudely painted on the door above a more permanent gold star. A few scrapes at the paint had finally convinced someone it was paint and not real gold. With a deep breath and a quick brush of dust from his coat, he knocked.

“Come in, Lucas!”

He hesitated, then went in, flustered. Carmela always seemed a half pace ahead of him. That robbed him of his normal suave demeanor.

“Who's the biggest star in Denver?” he asked. “After that performance, who can doubt it is a fascinating young chanteuse named Carmela Thompson?”

“No roses? I am at a loss for words, Lucas darling.”

He went to her to plant a kiss on her lips. At the last instant, she turned so he hit a cheek instead. In true European fashion, he kissed her other cheek. This lacked the thrill of tasting her lips but kept him in the race, stealing a kiss she had not allowed him to bestow.

“Words, perhaps, but not lilting melodies. You held them all in thrall tonight, my dear.”

“And you, Lucas? Were you also smitten?”

“By your beauty, by your wit, and certainly by your talent.”

She turned from him to look into the mirror. The old, cracked one had been replaced with a newly silvered glass plate chased with delicate gold cobwebs.

A knock at the door irritated Lucas, but he left staring at Carmela long enough to see Claudette had a bottle of Grand Monopole and glasses. He blocked her entry and took them. She started to protest. Women as well as men wanted to hobnob with Carmela.

“Thanks for bringing the wine,” he said. Before Claudette could protest, he kicked the door shut with his heel and held out the bottle and glasses.

“For me, Lucas?”

“The finest champagne in all Denver.”

“How thoughtful.”

“I am sure it is not up to your usual standards, but we are on the frontier. I wanted to get you only the finest—for the town, this is it.” Lucas popped the cork and let the bubbles froth out before pouring the sparkling wine into the two glasses. He handed Carmela one and lifted the other in toast. “To the most beguiling songstress on either side of the Mississippi.”

“What? On either side? Not on the river, too?” Carmela laughed easily, touched glasses, and sipped. Her nose wrinkled slightly. When Lucas tried his, he knew why.

“I have an entire evening of sumptuous feasting planned,” he lied. “Oysters fresh from the Coast.”

“Again? I so tire of them. Why not something different? Buffalo jerky or pemmican perhaps?”

Words failed him again. Then she laughed. The magical sound reminded him of her humor.

“I know of a tiny café where only the toughest meat is served with plenty of water to wash it down.” He returned the joke but had to wonder as he saw her eyes change slightly. Before there had been mockery, but for that flash in her emerald eyes, there was something else. Respect? Surprise?

“I am so tired from my inaugural performance, Lucas. Another night.”

The woman's tone shut him out entirely. Whatever her plans for the evening, he was not part of them. He brushed off a dog hair from his coat, remembering the cur presented to him as a wolfhound by the drunk.

“A pity, since I wanted to introduce you to a rather important man in Denver. He is quite an admirer.”

“Important? How important?”

“Very,” Lucas said. If he built Little Otto up enough and he disappointed her, that opened opportunities to woo Carmela after she shooed the shaved-headed giant away. “In town, few are held in such esteem.”

“I am so worn out, dear Lucas, but as a favor to you, I will speak with this man. Is he here?” She perked up and looked past him toward the closed door.

Lucas had no idea but doubted Little Otto would allow anything short of Gabriel blowing the trump of doom—and maybe not even then—to keep him away from Carmela's opening performance. He had seen the man's expression, his determination, his willingness to make a deal.

“Let me see. If not, we can go somewhere for a bite to eat and wait for him.” Lucas saw this as a way to spend time with her while waiting for Otto to never arrive. His face fell when he opened the door and stared directly into the center of the man's chest.

Little Otto wore a tuxedo that barely fit him. That was to be expected, but Lucas had not believed diamond studs of such size could be used to hold a frilled dress shirt closed. The stones marched from the top of the vest all the way up to where a perfectly tied black silk bow tie circled Otto's thick neck.

“She wants to meet you,” Lucas said in a choked voice. “She thinks you're a force in Denver.”

Little Otto laughed.

“I
am
a force, not only in Denver but of nature.”

“My, aren't you a tall one?” Carmela came to Otto, who took one hand and bent deeply to kiss it. “You are one of the true gentlemen, sir.”

“I wish to perform a great service for you, miss,” Otto said.

“What is that?”

“To order breakfast in bed for us.”

Lucas was startled to see the calculating look on the woman's face.

“You are a bold one, sir.”

“Not half as bold as you are beautiful.”

Lucas backed to the door and slipped through it rather than listen to the banter between the two. That should have been him back there, not Little Otto. He had followed Carmela across the country, and they belonged together. They were of a kind, soul mates.

He left through the back door, followed by Carmela's delighted laughter. As the door closed behind him, a dog barked at him and jumped up, dirty paws on his pants.

“Get away,” he said, pushing away the mutt that had been offered to him as Tovarich. Nothing had gone right tonight. “Oh, the hell with it.” He bent and scratched the dog's ears. Somehow this wasn't quite the same as running his fingers through long, blond locks, but it had to do. For the time being.

“D
unbar.”

Lucas Stanton stared at Little Otto, then shook his head. He ran his fingers around the brim of the glass until it made a squealing noise. In New Orleans he had listened to a glass harp symphony once. The maestro had dozens of water glasses filled to various levels. Dipping his finger in water and running it around the rims had produced strange and lovely music. Lucas never quite got the knack of producing any uniform sound, but right now he wanted to generate a screech that would pierce Otto's eardrums.

He kept his best poker face.

“I know that already. His boys tried to rough me up. They even warned me away from hunting for the dog. It was as if someone had told them my interest in the hound. Otherwise, they might have thought I was up to any number of other nefarious schemes.”

“Jubal Dunbar is a dangerous man with many irons in the political fire. He wanted to be Colorado's first governor but ended up at the bottom of a very long list. A man with his self-importance does not take such an affront lightly. He has worked himself into a political appointment, doing who knows what, but he is always on the lookout to move up.”

“What did Dunbar want with Miss Baldridge's dog? More to the point, what did he do with the puppy?”

“He wants the dog but doesn't have it.”

“He knows who does?” Lucas sucked at his gums, thinking hard. “How do I find who has the dog?”

Little Otto shrugged.

“This isn't much information in return for what I gave you.” Lucas stood straighter when he saw the tiny smile come to the man's lips and the distant look.

“Breakfast was good.”

Lucas opened his mouth to speak, then clamped it shut. He had nothing to say. The implication destroyed his own confidence. For more than two years he had connived to get closer to Carmela and had failed. A single glance on the part of this mountain of a man had been all it took for Carmela's resolve to melt away? He found that impossible to believe.

“Why does Dunbar want the dog?”

“That,” Little Otto said, “is a matter of some dispute. I doubt companionship enters into it.”

Lucas scratched at a bite on his belly and growled like a dog. The mongrel he had petted in the alley the night before had divested itself of a few fleas. The more he tried to do the right thing, the more he was punished for it. He should have kicked the dog instead of buying it a pound of ground meat at the butcher shop.

“Could it be that Dunbar wants to get the dog back to entice Miss Baldridge into a more intimate relationship?”

“Do you mean Dunbar or do you mean yourself?”

“I did you a favor. You owe me the information.”

“You can't take back the favor,” Otto said sensibly, “but I am beholden to you. Let me add one speck of gossip I have overheard. Dunbar is sorely pissed that he wasn't elected governor. He is willing to go to any lengths to gain that position.”

John Long Routt was well enough liked and had been elected after serving as territorial governor appointed by U. S. Grant. Even if Routt met an unexpectedly abrupt end, Lafayette Head was capable of taking over. Lucas followed politics only as much as it benefited him through laws and loopholes, but neither Routt nor Head generated much opposition. If Dunbar attempted an assassination, he would never be the one chosen to succeed either man. Whatever he planned went beyond the Colorado state borders.

But a man with such soaring ambitions wanted more than to lure a lovely woman, even one as fetching as Amanda Baldridge, into his bed by stealing her dog.

“You find out more and tell me,” Lucas said. He felt betrayed and angry now. Little Otto only laughed as he left the Emerald City.

Lucas ran his finger around the glass rim and produced a pure, clear note that cut through his ears and sliced up his brain.

“Now I do that.” He snorted and shoved the empty glass away.

Lucas started to follow Little Otto when Lefty called out to him from the stage.

“Miss Thompson wants to see you. Lord knows why.” The barkeep swung a beer keg around easily and balanced it on his left shoulder. “She said
now.
”

Lucas had half a mind to keep walking. He wasn't a servant to be ordered around, yet the woman asked to see him. Actually told Lefty she wanted to see him. Possibilities built like summer clouds over the Front Range. What had been pleasant for Little Otto might have been unendurable for Carmela. He had thought to rescue her from the big lout, and this was his chance.

He took the steps onto the stage two at a time and skipped across the boards to the singer's dressing room. The door stood ajar.

“Carmela? You hankering to see me?”

“Lucas darling, come in. Yes, I have a bone to pick with you.”

“Introducing you to Otto?” His heart almost missed a beat. He pushed into the dressing room and his heart came close to exploding like a keg of Giant powder.

The singer was half-dressed, with expanses of delicious skin never seen by an audience exposed. He moved closer, but Carmela pulled up a thin muslin dressing gown and settled it about her creamy shoulders to steal away any additional view. Her hair was a blond mist around her lovely face, and she glowed with an inner light unlike anything he had ever seen. Or rarely seen.

“You should have introduced us so much sooner. I am disappointed in you. Never have I met a man like him. And I do mean
man
.”

Lucas's spirits sank at such unexpected news. She and Otto had hit it off well, contrary to what he had expected.

“He's not the politically connected man he claims.”

“What's that? He never said he was in politics. He's in investments.” Carmela pouted a little. “I am not sure he meant money. He trades in information. What a curious concept, though if anyone can do it, Otto can.”

“Information,” Lucas repeated. That was exactly Little Otto's staple.

“So gentle for such a large man.”

“I've seen him tear a man's arm off and beat him with it.”

“Oh, Lucas dear, you exaggerate so. Otto is nothing like that. When he's with me, he's nothing like that at all.”

Telling her he had seen Little Otto vent a bull-throated roar and do that very thing—it had been the man's left arm—did nothing to advance his own worth in her eyes. Even if he found the cheating gambler and paraded him past her, she wouldn't notice. Her infatuation with the shaved-headed giant was too great.

Otto had better deliver the promised information.

Carmela stood and whirled about gracefully, giving him a light peck on the cheek.

“You are such a dear friend. Could you see to having a bottle of wine sent? Some food, also. Breakfast seemed so long ago.”

“I'm sure you were hungry soon after, too.”

“Ah, yes, yes we were,” she said, a dreamy look coming into her eyes that matched what Lucas had seen on Little Otto's face.

Lucas stepped back and gave the singer a long, longing look and then left, knowing his chance with her had passed. It was a waste of his time and honeyed words even to speak with Carmela until Little Otto had drifted out of her life, and he would. The worlds of each barely intersected, and he had been the one point of contact. Lucas doubted disappearing would be the reason the pair stopped seeing each other—he had served his role, but it had been one of contact, not one of renewing affection. Carmela would continue on her triumphant tour, and Otto would revert to his chair at the back of the Merry Widow, a spider in the center of a web, transmitting information from all over Denver to him.

“Lefty,” he called on his way out. “She wants something to eat. Pigs knuckles or maybe the hard-boiled eggs.”

“She asked for those?”

“Not the three-month-old eggs. Something fresher.”

“There are some only a couple weeks old. For some reason, I can't get anyone at the bar to eat them.”

Lucas almost stopped to tell Lefty to fetch real food for Carmela, then contented himself with a jaunty wave as he passed through the front doors out into the increasingly cool fall weather. If the songstress had her sights set on Little Otto, so be it. Amanda Baldridge was hardly an ugly hag. Finding her puppy dog would garner some respect in her bright eyes, not to mention the possibility of real admiration for his cleverness. That she had already paid him well elevated her mien in his eyes.

He worked through the streets, touching the brim of his hat to the ladies and feeling better by the minute. By the time he reached Capitol Hill, his outlook was bright and confident. Even the flea bite had stopped itching.

Lucas looked around as he walked among the politically powerful. Finding who had power and who did not proved too easy for him. The “I have power” attitude was never put into words, because actions dealing with those around them conveyed it like a king's crown tipped at a jaunty angle. Anyone seeing the crown knew the power of whoever wore it. It wasn't clothing, since some of those he saw wore threadbare coats and scuffed shoes as a badge of distinction. They told their voters they had not been consumed by the trappings of power, yet Lucas recognized two of those men as regulars in the Emerald City, where Lefty made sure they received royal treatment.

Clothes did not make the man—or his power. It was something more and always came down to the men wielding the power wanting to be recognized as being in command no matter what they wore.

He stopped on the steps of the Capitol Building, judging everyone going inside and finding most wanting. Realizing he had never seen Jubal Dunbar and had no idea what he looked like prompted him to enter the rotunda. Workers labored everywhere he looked, hammering, plastering, trying to fix up a building that fell down faster than they could repair it. For a new state, this was only a start. In a few years a larger, more impressive building would be constructed to hold the corridors of power. But now? Vast emptiness, unadorned by even portraits of the territorial governors. The sense of space and power did not impress him. The sight of two men flanking a short, well-dressed man did.

He stepped away to let the bodyguards who had roughed him up in the alley continue on their way, moving this way and that as they tracked their employer. Lucas had not seen Dunbar before. He had now.

After Dunbar and his guards left, Lucas went to a guard standing with arms crossed and looking as if he wanted to be somewhere—anywhere—else.

“As I live and breathe, it's . . . Samuels, isn't it?” Lucas thrust out his hand. The guard stared at him, confused. Lucas grabbed the guard's hand and pumped it. “I haven't seen you in the Emerald City in a long time. Lost your taste for poker?”

Lucas had no idea if the guard ever went into the saloon, but chances were good that he had at some time. Lefty often boasted how many of the rich and powerful came incognito into the dance hall, not always coming for either the lavish shows or the liquor. Lefty ran the best string of soiled doves in town, and the reputation for pretty waiter girls was unparalleled.

“That's not my name, and I ain't been there in a while. Do I know you?”

“Of course you do. I'll buy you a drink. Come by for Carmela Thompson's show. It's even more exciting than the last time she graced the stage there.”

“A free drink?”

“On me. Guaranteed.” Lucas hesitated, then asked, “Have you seen Mr. Dunbar? I was supposed to meet him but got here a bit late for the appointment.”

“You just missed him. I heard him say he was headin' on home.”

“His house on Humboldt? I'd better see if I can catch him there. This is important.” Lucas gave a broad wink. He watched the man's face screw up in thought.

“He lives on York. Big white house, fancy garden with flowers in it along the street. Ain't never been in, but I escorted his missus home more 'n once.”

“York, of course. I was thinking of something else. Remember, that drink's on me.”

Lucas left quickly, intent on crossing York Street without actually going down it. He was glad for his caution. Not twenty paces to his right as he hurried along stood one of Dunbar's guards, arms crossed and chin down on his chest as he leaned against a fence post. The white house gleamed in the sunlight and contrasted vividly with the pure blue sky. If it had lifted off its foundations, it might have been mistaken for a cloud. The house had an airy, light appearance to it from the fine Italianate woodwork along the eaves. Hints of faces showed at the cornices, but Lucas allowed as to how that might only be his imagination and noonday shadows. He walked past to the next block, down it, and circled to come back at the far end of York.