The Reluctant Pinkerton (19 page)

“Thank you, Mr. Brewster.”

“Andy?” Brewster called as Roper started out the door.

“Sir?”

“Do you need any money? I mean, for expenses?”

“No, sir,” Roper said, “I’m fine. Thanks.”

“No,” Brewster said, “thank
you
, Andy.”

Roper left the Cattleman’s Club with an odd feeling about Cullen Brewster. There was definitely something too…obsequious…about him. Especially that last “No, thank
you
, Andy.” During their meal the previous evening there had been no inkling of that side of the man. In fact, he had come across rather cold and stern.

No, the man had been putting on an act, but why?

Roper stopped outside the door to speak to Lester.

“Sir?”

“I wonder if you can talk to some of the cab drivers you know, see if any of them knows the man who picked up Mr. Vaughn.”

“I can do that, sir.”

“Thank you.”

“If it’s all right with Mr. Brewster.”

“It is,” Roper said. “In fact, he’s put you at my disposal. But you should ask him, just to satisfy yourself.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Tell me, Lester,” Roper said, “does Mr. Brewster own the Cattleman’s Club?”

“No, sir,” Lester said, “he simply manages it.”

“I see. Can you get me a cab?”

“Certainly, sir.”

Roper waited while Lester waved down a cab, then got in and told the driver, “The county clerk’s office.”

“Yes, sir.”

*   *   *

When they reached their destination, Roper got down but, before paying the driver, asked him some questions.

“Have you seen any strange drivers around lately?” he asked.

“Strange how?”

“New,” Roper said.

“Naw,” the man said. “No new drivers.” He took off his hat and a shock of gray hair fell down over his forehead. Prematurely so, though, as he seemed to be in his thirties.

“Ask around, will you?” Roper asked. “If anybody has seen someone strange, have them talk to Lester, at the Cattleman’s Club.”

“Yes, sir.”

Roper paid the fare, then handed the man an extra dollar.

“Wait for me,” he said. “I won’t be long, and I want you to help me find something.”

“Like what, sir?”

“A good place to dump a dead body.”

*   *   *

It didn’t take long for Roper to find the information he wanted. He had a clerk look up the deed to the address of the house Orton was using for his love nest.

“Yes, sir, here it is,” the clerk said. “It is owned by a Mr. Cullen Brewster.”

“Brewster?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Are you sure?”

The clerk looked again and said, “It’s right here, sir.” He showed Roper where the name was written.

“Yep,” Roper said, “that says Brewster.”

He had not expected the owner to be one of the men from the dinner table the night before.

“All right,” Roper said, “thanks.”

He turned to leave, then paused and looked back at the clerk.

“Can you tell me when Mr. Brewster bought the property?”

“Sure,” the clerk said. He checked the book, then said, “Last month, actually.”

“And who did he buy it from?”

The clerk lowered his head again. “A Mr. George Mannerly.” The man looked up. “Oh! Isn’t Brewster the man who runs—”

“Yes, he is. Thank you.”

*   *   *

Outside, the driver was still waiting but with a worried look on his face.

“Sir,” he said as Roper got into the back, “did you say…someplace to dump a body?”

“Yes, I did.”

“But…do you have a body?”

“No,” Roper said, “I’m looking for one. Let’s say you picked up a man in front of the Cattleman’s Club, but instead of taking him where he wanted to go, you decided to kill him, rob him, and dump his body. Where would you take him?”

“Well…I can think of a few places.”

“Let’s go and check them,” Roper said.

“Am I gettin’ paid, sir?”

“Oh yeah,” Roper said, “you’re gettin’ paid.”

“Okay, then.”

*   *   *

The driver took Roper to a building site, thinking the body might have been dumped in the excavation. Then he took
him to an empty lot. Finally, he drove to a lot between two abandoned buildings, just across from where Hell’s Half Acre started.

“What do you think?” Roper asked, stepping down. “Inside one of the buildings?”

“I guess,” the driver said, “or just in the lot.”

Roper figured it depended on whether or not the killer wanted to hide the body or not. Apparently, he didn’t, because as soon as Roper stepped into the lot, he saw the body.

Roper walked over and examined it. The man had been shot through the heart, killed with one shot.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” the driver said. “You some kind of a detective, or somethin’?”

Roper looked up at the driver and said, “Or somethin’.”

Roper stayed with the body and sent the driver—whose name was Jamie—for the police. When they arrived, he was surprised to see Detectives Cole and Carradine.

“Well, well, Mr. Blake,” Carradine said. “What do we have here?”

“I think it’s a man named Mark Vaughn,” Roper said. “He’s been shot.”

Carradine leaned down over the body and said, “He sure has, right through the heart.” He straightened up. “What’s your connection?”

“I’m just tryin’ to help out, Detective.”

“Help who?”

“Mr. Brewster, at the Cattleman’s Club. You see, this man was a messenger for him, and was carryin’ a lot of money this mornin’.”

“Is that a fact? And where was he taking that money?”

“To Mr. Orton, at the stockyards.”

“Orton? Your boss?”

“That’s right.”

“And how is it you’re the one who found the body?” Cole asked.

“Like I said,” Roper replied. “I’m just tryin’ to help.”

“Well,” Carradine said, “maybe you can help us.”

“How can I do that?”

“Accompany us to the police station, where we can have a nice private talk.”

“I’m supposed to go back to work—”

“We’ll send Mr. Orton a message,” Carradine promised, “so you don’t get fired.”

“I really appreciate that,” Roper said.

“Comin’ with us, then?” Cole asked.

“Why would I not?” Roper asked.

“No reason,” Carradine said. “I just think my partner was hoping you’d resist.”

Roper looked at Cole and said, “Sorry to disappoint you.”

*   *   *

They took Roper to the police station on West Belknap Street. They walked him to a small room and left him to sit by himself at a narrow table for a while. He knew they were softening him up. As Talbot Roper, this was something he was used to. But Andy Blake wouldn’t be so calm.

“Hey, come on!” he shouted, banging on the locked door. “I got to get back to work!”

He heard the lock click, and the door opened. A man wearing a marshal’s badge walked in. He was a large man, barrel-chested and ham-handed, with a full head of gray hair and wrinkles he’d earned over the course of about sixty years.

“Mr. Blake. My name’s Marshal Ben Gates.”

“Marshal,” Roper said. “I was expecting the detectives.”

“I’m here to take you to the detectives,” the marshal said. “I think they made a mistake locking you in this room. After all, you’re only here to help us, right?”

“That’s right.”

“Well, the detectives have been reprimanded for the way they’ve treated you. However, I’m going to ask you to submit to their questions, as they know what to ask and I do not.”

“I understand, Marshal.”

“Thank you, sir. Now, if you’ll follow me?”

Marshal Gates led Roper back along the same hallway the detectives had brought him in by, but ducked into an open doorway halfway along. This time instead of being in a bare room meant for interrogation, he found himself in a small office with two little desks. They were made to look even smaller with Carradine and Cole sitting behind them.

“Mr. Blake has agreed to help,” the marshal said, “even though you two have mistreated him.”

“Marshal—” Cole started.

“Shut up, Cole!” Gates said. He turned to Roper. “Sir, again my thanks for your cooperation. If these two detectives give you a hard time, please let me know.”

“Thank you, Marshal.”

Marshal Gates left the room and Roper turned to face the two detectives. He was sure that all three law enforcement officials thought he had bought the act they’d just put on for him. Or for “Andy Blake” anyway. Talbot Roper had seen that kind of dog-and-pony show too many times before to be fooled.

Roper looked around the small room for a chair, but there wasn’t one.

“Don’t worry about sitting down,” Cole said. “You won’t be here that long.”

“That sounds good to me.”

“Just fill us in on your actions today, Blake,” Carradine said. “Start from this morning and take us through to finding the body.”

Roper gave them an account of his day, telling the truth as much as he could. He wanted it to sound like he’d pretty much stumbled over the body, rather than found it through detective footwork.

When he was finished, both detectives stared at him.

“You know we’ll be checking your story with Brewster, the doorman, and the driver, right?” Carradine said.

“I do,” Roper said. “You wanted the truth, though, and I gave it to you. Can I go back to work now?”

“What do you think, Cole?” Carradine asked.

“I think he knows more than he’s saying,” Cole answered, “but hell, let him go back to work. We know where to find him.”

“Yeah, we do,” Carradine said. “So go ahead, Blake. Get back to work.”

“You’ll let me know if the money he was carrying shows up, won’t you?”

“Why would I do that?” Carradine asked. “It was Brewster who sent the money out. We find anything, we’ll let him know.”

“Good enough,” Roper said. “Tell Marshal Gates for me you fellas were perfect gentlemen.”

“Get outta here!” Cole growled.

*   *   *

Instead of going back to the stockyards, Roper went to see the sheriff. The man looked up at him as he entered the shoebox-sized office.

“Mr. Blake, isn’t it?” Reynolds said. “What can I do for you?”

“I was just wondering,” Roper said. “You said you were going to be keeping an eye on me, but I ain’t seen you since. And I’ve been having some problems.”

“So I’ve heard,” Reyolds said.

“So then the detectives have talked to you.”

“Carradine and Cole, yeah,” Reynolds said. “Charming pair.”

“They tell you what to do? Is that it?”

“Fort Worth is leaning heavily toward having a police department, and no sheriff,” Reynolds said. “You can tell that from my new office here. So I’m tryin’ to get myself as many paychecks as possible before they make me scarce. If that means lettin’ the detectives investigate whatever they want, then so be it. And they seem to want you.”

“I get it,” Roper said.

“Maybe you do, and maybe you don’t,” Reynolds said. “But this town—this
city
—doesn’t have much use for me, and the feeling is pretty mutual.”

“Okay, then,” Roper said. “Now I know.”

“Now you know,” Reynolds said. “Good luck to you.”

When Roper entered the stockyard office, Orton looked up from his desk and said, “Where the hell have you been?”

“The law said they were gonna let you know,” Roper told him.

“Well, they didn’t,” Orton said. “Let me know what?”

Roper filled him in, just the way he had told it to the police.

“Jesus Christ!” Orton exploded. “I knew Mark Vaughn. Dead, you say?”

“Shot dead.”

“Have you told Brewster?”

“No,” Roper said. “I came here first so you wouldn’t fire me.”

“Well, you’re not fired,” Orton said. “Get your ass over to the Cattleman’s and let Brewster know what’s going on.”

“Yes, sir.”

As Roper headed for the door, Orton said, “Hey, Andy.”

“Yeah?” Roper asked at the door.

“Good work.”

“Thanks.”

*   *   *

Back at the Cattleman’s Club, Lester was still on duty.

“I’ve spoken with several of the drivers, sir,” he said. “Nobody knows anything about a strange driver.”

“Okay, Lester,” he said. “Thanks. Can I get in to see Mr. Brewster?”

“Yes, sir,” the doorman said. “I’ve been instructed to take you right to him when you arrived. Follow me.”

Roper followed the man’s broad back into the club, but this time not to Brewster’s office. They went to one of the sitting rooms, where Brewster was talking with several well-dressed gentlemen. When he spotted Lester and Roper, he excused himself and walked over.

“I hope this is important,” he said to them.

“I found Mark Vaughn,” Roper said. “He’s been shot and killed. That important enough for you?”

“All right, Lester,” Brewster said, dismissing the doorman. “Mr. Blake, can we talk over here, please?”

Brewster took Roper’s arm and pulled him aside, away from prying eyes and ears.

“Tell me.”

“Not much to tell,” Roper said. “Looks like a phony cab driver picked him up, shot him through the heart, and dumped him in an empty lot just this side of Hell’s Half Acre.”

“And the money?”

“Gone.”

“What about the police?”

“They’re on it,” Roper said. “The marshal has these two detectives, Carradine and Cole, working on it.”

“Are they good men?”

Roper started to answer, then stopped himself and went another way. “How would I know?”

“I don’t know,” Brewster said, “but I get the feeling you would.”

“I have to get back to work, Mr. Brewster,” Roper said. “Mr. Orton wants to know about the money you promised.”

“Well, it’s gone—” Brewster started, then stopped and calmed himself. “Okay, tell him…tell him I’ll have it replaced. I should be able to get it to him tomorrow morning.”

“I’ll tell him.”

Roper started away, and Brewster called after him.

“And tell him to send you for it this time,” the man said. “No more messengers.”

“Sure,” Roper said, “no more messengers.”

*   *   *

Roper left, decided to walk most of the way back, try to get everything straight in his head. Pete Orton was having an affair with Nancy Ransom, using a house that used to be owned by Mannerly, but was now owned by Brewster, who was one of the men—apparently one of five men—who had hired the Pinkertons.