The Shopkeeper Page 14

  He studied it a minute and then said, “I didn’t know she could write.”

  Jansen sounded wary, so his comment made me nervous. “John had hired a tutor for her, partly to keep her occupied and partly to put her in a room away from his mother.”

  I hoped Jansen had not spent a lot of time with Jenny when she had accompanied Bolton to Carson City. I felt the risk was low, because Bolton seemed to hang Jenny off his arm but exclude her from his business.

  Jansen pulled on his chin. “Bolton sure hated his mother. I sometimes felt sorry for him, trying to keep peace in that house. Suppose that’s why he spent so much time here.”

  “He was here a lot?”

  “Far beyond what was necessary for his business interests … or senate duties. He told me his mother had pretty much run the ranch since his marriage. She must have been a strong woman.”

  “She is a strong woman.”

  “Yes, ’spose so.” He pulled on his chin again. “I’ve never seen you in Carson City. Heard about you, of course, but in association with the Cutlers … and that nasty piece of business this morning.” He looked up at me. “You say you had business interests with John?”

  “Yes. Banking. But our stronger tie was political. I supported him for governor.” I pretended to consider how much to divulge. “There was a bad incident with the Cutlers. I, uh, kind of helped John make things right.”

  Jansen sat straight up and bellowed, “That story ’bout Jenny was true? My god!”

  “I prefer not to discuss it further, only to say that the Cutlers were under orders from Washburn.”

  “Goddamn that bastard.” Jansen threw down the letter and then looked at me hard. “Were you a friend of John Bolton’s?”

  I felt this was a test. “I told you, I was a business and political ally of John’s. I wouldn’t characterize it as friendship.”

  “Jenny?”

  “I barely know Jennifer Bolton, although I saw her at the ranch yesterday. She knows John trusted me with sensitive matters.”

  “I get your gist.” Jansen seemed to be coming to a conclusion about me. “They were sensitive matters for Jenny as well. She must have appreciated your dispatching the Cutlers.”

  “We never discussed it, nor do I intend to.”

  Jansen leaned back and spoke in a friendlier manner. “Tell me something about yourself.”

  “I’m not the issue here. Jenny is.”

  “Are you here with Jeff Sharp?”

  “Yes.”

  “And did you make a large deposit at Commerce Bank?”

  “That is none of your business.” I was peeved. “And further, I’m highly disappointed that you’re aware of my business affairs. I may need to reconsider my relationship with Commerce.”

  “But it is my business. I’m on the board of directors. The size of your transaction did not go unnoticed.”

  I relaxed. I had made the deposit to gain credibility with the bank but had gotten the added benefit of increasing my stature with this lawyer. “Then you must know Bradshaw?”

  “Of course.”

  “Last night he agreed to run for governor.”

  “I know. We had breakfast. He made me curious about you; otherwise you’d never have been admitted to my office.” He smiled. “Peter isn’t such a very good assistant. If you’d broken his neck, I’d have found another.”

  “I was joking.”

  Again the smile. “Peter does not have a sense of humor.” With that he pushed back in his swivel chair and extracted two envelopes from one of the cubbyholes. “Please deliver these to Jennifer Bolton and her mother-in-law.”

  I accepted the envelopes. One was thick. “Any surprises?”

  “For her? No. She gets the ranch and John’s other assets. His mother, on the other hand, will fume. She gets ten thousand dollars and a one-way ticket to San Francisco.” Jansen’s smile now enlivened his entire face. “It’s all in the envelopes.”

  “Thank you. I’ll handle the mother.”

  “Jenny’s hardly more than a child. John didn’t expect this to be executed for years.” The next question seemed to reflect honest concern. “Can she manage the biggest cattle ranch in Nevada?”

  “I’ve met her foreman, and he seems a capable man. I also believe that there’s more depth to Jenny than is obvious from the surface.”

  “I hope so. Ranch hands tend to be a hard lot.”

  I didn’t know how to respond, so I put the envelopes in my pocket and asked, “Would you accept a retainer to handle my legal affairs?”

  “What type?”

  “Do you get involved in criminal cases?”

  “Are you in trouble?”

  I laughed. “Not yet. But we’re trying to build a case against Sprague and Washburn for Bolton’s murder.”

  “One hundred dollars. Retainer only—I charge by the hour. And, just for your information, I play poker with the attorney general.”

  I took one hundred dollars out of my wallet and handed it across. “I’ll be sending Captain McAllen of the Pinkertons to see you. Please consider him my agent in any dealings associated with Sprague or Washburn.”

  “Mrs. Bolton?”

  “No, he’ll represent my interests only for the criminal indictment.”

  “Very well. Anything else?”

  “Does Bradshaw need legal services for his candidacy?”

  “Already arranged. Bradshaw doesn’t need financial support.”

  “One other thing. Can you recommend an assistant bank manager that can leave immediately for Pickhandle Gulch? I left things in the lurch, and I need someone right away.”

  “You want Peter?”

  I laughed.

  “I’m serious. He’s better suited to banking than law.”

  I turned my head toward the closed door and thought about it. It was unlikely I would find someone with grit to run a bank, and with me in Carson City, the danger in Pickhandle should be minimal. Plus, I had promised Jeremiah. I turned back to Jansen. “Peter will do just fine. Sixty a month?”

  “That should prove more than adequate.”

  I got up to leave and extended my hand. “I’d appreciate your support for a correspondence relationship between my bank and Commerce.”

  Jansen ignored my proffered hand. “No problem. The board will approve the arrangement at its next meeting. Peter’s appointment will clinch it.”

  Jansen leaned back, as if the meeting were not over. “I have a question. I hope it’s not too personal, but do you have a will?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “A last will and testament. A man of your means should have one. Especially since rumor has it that the man who shot Bolton wants to level his sights at you next.”

  Nonplussed, I sat back down. I had no will and did not know why it had never occurred to me to write one. I certainly had sufficient motivation. My closest relatives were uncles and aunts, all in New York and well fixed. I did not have the slightest idea who I wanted my estate to go to, and at first I felt irritated that Jansen made me think about it. Finally, I said, “Do you have time to write one up now?”

  “I’ll make the time. Perhaps your associate would prefer to wait outside? I’m sure Peter will be safe now that he’s under your employ.”

  All three of us laughed, and then Sam said, “But Peter doesn’t know.”

  “Yes, a formality we need to dispense with. Please ask him to step in.”

  In a minute, Peter came through the door with a backward glance toward where Sam probably stood in the outer office. “Yes, sir?”

  “Peter, remember our discussion yesterday?”

  “Yes, sir.” He suddenly looked apprehensive instead of frightened.

  “Well, an opportunity has come up for you to start a career in banking.” Jansen stood for the first time. “I’d like you to meet Mr. Steve Dancy, president of the Pickhandle Gulch Bank.”

  Peter tentatively shook my extended hand. “I’ve heard about you.”

  “As has everyone el
se, I gather. But the stories you heard probably weren’t in association with my bank.”

  Peter looked apprehensively at Jansen. “The position is with Mr. Dancy?”

  “With Mr. Dancy and in Pickhandle Gulch. You shall be assistant bank manager.”

  “Oh no, sir. I want to stay in Carson City. I’m not fit for a mining encampment.”

  “Before you dismiss the idea, you should know that you’d be working with the Commerce Bank board to establish a correspondence relationship between the two banks. I’m sure that will be just the first step in a close working relationship.” He waited for Peter to digest the implications. “Mr. Dancy is offering sixty a month.”

  Peter’s eyes popped open. “In that case …”

  When he hesitated to finish the sentence, I said, “Jeff Sharp has his operations in Belleville. He’s promised to supply whatever assistance you may need.”

  I could see from his face that that clinched it. Sharp had a small army just a few miles away. After the briefest of moments, he shook my hand again, but this time with more purpose. “I would be honored to accept the position.”

  “Thank you. I would like you to leave immediately.”

  Peter looked shocked. “I don’t even own a horse.”

  I thought quickly. “I’ll equip you with a buckboard, a horse, and gear for the trail. Tell the livery to charge it to me at the St. Charles.”

  Peter grabbed my hand again and shook it enthusiastically. “I’ll leave as soon as the gear is assembled.”

  “Great—and I apologize for my rudeness earlier.”

  “Think nothing of it, sir.” Peter started to leave the office with a bounce but then had a thought. “Are the buckboard and horse mine?”

  “No, but you may have them at your disposal as long as you remain in my employ. When you get to Pickhandle, have the bank name painted on both sides.”

  “I presume you mean the buckboard, not the horse.”

  I turned to Jansen. “I thought you said Peter didn’t have a sense of humor.”

  He grinned. “First I’ve seen of it.” Jansen also shook Peter’s hand. “This is a good move for you, Peter. You’ll do right well in banking.”

  “Thank you, sir. Well, I have a lot to do, so if you gentlemen will excuse me …” With that, my new assistant bank manager scurried out the door.

  “Now, let’s talk about that will of yours,” Jansen said.

  By the time I got up to leave, we had been working for over an hour. After explaining what I wanted to do, Jansen had been bewildered at first, then intrigued, and finally amused.

  As I opened the door to leave, he chuckled to himself and said, “Mr. Dancy, if Sprague kills you, I have an epitaph for your gravestone: “Here Lies Steve Dancy, Sore Loser.”

  Chapter 34

  “Well, hell, it appears our little charade is over. You might as well wear your own clothes on our return to Pickhandle Gulch.”

  I had just sat down with McAllen and Sharp for our afternoon rendezvous. Before I could even order a beer, McAllen had made this odd pronouncement. I looked at Sam and jokingly asked, “Weren’t you able to get that shirt laundered?”

  “Picked it up this morning. Got the suit brushed and pressed as well. But I believe the captain doesn’t think the precaution’ll do much good anymore.”

  This puzzled me because Sam and I had been together since breakfast. How would he know what the captain was thinking? Had I missed something? I didn’t want to appear stupid, so I resolved to remain silent until one of them volunteered to tell me what they were talking about.

  McAllen was the one to speak up. “Did you see that man on the hotel porch, reading a newspaper?”

  “Yes.” As instructed, I had kept alert when we walked from Jansen’s office to the hotel. The only person I spotted lingering had been reading a newspaper on the porch. He looked innocent enough, and the activity was certainly not unusual for a hotel guest.

  “That was Bill Sprague.”

  “What?” I hesitated, but after thinking about it, I was sure I had not seen another man. “That was Sprague? Are you sure? The man I saw looked like a bookkeeper.”

  Sharp said, “That’s him, all right.”

  Captain McAllen nodded and then added, “Rumor has it he once made his living totting up columns of numbers but changed professions when he discovered he had a natural knack for marksmanship. He brings a bookkeeper’s methodical manner to long-range shooting.”

  I looked toward the door, but he had not followed us into the hotel. “Must take more than marksmanship. I can’t image a man making his living by killing strangers for money. He must lack any conscience whatever.”

  Sharp actually looked worried. “When it comes to killin’, he’s about as detached a man as I’ve ever seen. Bet he thinks harder on killin’ time than killin’ a person.” He motioned for a waiter to bring us a round of drinks. After he got an acknowledging nod, he said to me, “Don’t let his looks fool ya—he’s a nasty character. Story’s told that he took a contract on a man’s adulterous wife an’ shot her twice, once through the heart an’ again in the head. A needless extravagance with a .44-100.”

  “Ever married?” I asked.

  “No … not to anyone’s recollection.” Sharp laughed. “But I get your drift. He might not like women much. Could be … but he’s killed lots of men too, so maybe he hates all humankind—or just doesn’t give a shit.”

  “Sounds like an odd man.”

  Captain McAllen said, “I heard a story about him. Don’t know if it’s true, but sounds ’bout right. Supposedly, Sprague once competed in a long-range shooting contest. Won it hands-down. But each time before he shot, he consulted this little notebook filled with numbers in tidy columns. The book contained his meticulous measurements for different ranges, wind conditions, and even different temperatures. This was years ago, when he supposedly still wore a green eyeshade to work. Not long after that contest, he put his talent out for hire. Now, I’m told, he carries those measurements in his head and uses his notebook to keep track of his money.” McAllen took a swig of beer. “Yep, I’d say he’s an odd duck.”

  I glance toward the front door again. “Is there nothing we can do?”

  McAllen shook his head. “He knows we can’t arrest him. Can’t do anything to him that won’t get us in trouble with the law ourselves. That’s why he can sit out there like a real gentleman, reading a newspaper.”

  “Captain’s right,” Sharp agreed. “The man’s tauntin’ us. If he wanted, he could keep an eye on us from inside any buildin’ across the street.”

  “Did you have any luck with the cigarette butt or the hoofprint?” I asked.

  Sharp explained that the tobacconist recognized the butt as the expensive tobacco brand that Sprague preferred, but they had found no one who had seen Washburn and Sprague together. McAllen said that his men’s questioning of the citizenry was causing a buzz in town, and he thought they had made a good start on kindling a big scandal around Carson City First.

  I told them how Sam and I had spent the morning. I relayed everything except my last will and testament. That, at least for the present, would remain my business and my business alone. One day, it might be their business, but I pushed that unpleasant possibility from my mind.

  “Sprague’s horse?” I asked.

  McAllen lifted his beer glass. “Now that we know he’s in town, we’ll go over to the livery right after we finish these beers. I’ll see if I can get the sheriff to go with us. I want another witness to see the missing nail in the right rear shoe.”

  “If you can’t get the law, take Jansen. I hired him to help with legal issues.”

  McAllen nodded. “Jansen’s better, anyway. People suspect the sheriff protects Sprague. Seems they like to eat dinner together.”

  “Even if the nail is missing, we’re going to need more evidence,” I mused.

  Sharp smiled. “Sprague’s’ right outside that door. Perhaps ya can ask him for a confession.”


  “The man doesn’t look to be the talkative sort.” I turned to Captain McAllen. “You still think he’s not a threat as long as we’re in Carson City?”

  “I don’t think he’ll do anything here … especially since he’s made himself so brazenly obvious in front of the hotel. Besides, to my knowledge, he’s never killed close-up.” McAllen nodded his head toward the entrance to the hotel. “No, Sprague’s here to get a good look at you.”

  “So we can’t fool him with a change of clothes.” I winked at Sam. “After my beer, I’m going to tell Chestnut the good news. He’ll be—” I bolted upright and strode toward the door. I pulled my Remington .38 from beneath my suit coat and swore at myself for not carrying my .45.

  Captain McAllen was quick at my heels. “Where are you going?”

  “To get that confession Sharp suggested.”

  I felt his hand pull on my arm. “Stop. Sit back down and explain.”

  I jerked my arm away and said, “No time. Just back me up.”

  I stepped out of the hotel and turned toward Sprague. He still sat in the same chair, looking as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

  I took a half-step toward him and started to raise my gun, but before I had gotten far, I heard shots and felt a hand in the small of my back shove me with enormous force. I went down hard and slammed into the boardwalk with my cheek and knees. More shots. Wood splintered, glass shattered, and men screamed above the roar of gunfire. I rolled as fast as I could and found myself falling off the wooden walkway onto the dirt street. The shots came from somewhere else, but my fear centered on Sprague, so I lifted my head and gun over the boardwalk to shoot him. He was nowhere in sight.

  Shots tore up the ground around me, and I realized they came from a building on the other side of the street. I twisted around prone and took aim but held my fire. My .38 probably wouldn’t penetrate the wood front of the building, so I waited for a head to pop up in a window or door frame. Whoever was firing above me had no such limitation, and bullets tore up the wood around the building windows. A flash appeared in one of the windows, and I pulled my trigger twice. I don’t know if I hit the man, but the shooting suddenly stopped, and everything grew still.