Reilly's Luck (Louis L'Amour's Lost Treasures) Page 15

  “Would five hundred dollars help? I mean, five hundred dollars and clothes? I’ll stake you, Van. I think it’s a good gamble.”

  “Damn it, Val, I couldn’t. I just couldn’t. And what would I say to them? My parents are alive. I have two sisters. I—”

  “Just go back and don’t say anything. They will make up better stories than you ever could. You’ve been traveling, seeing the West…you’ve come home to settle down. I’ll give you the money. I’ve done well, Van. I can afford it.”

  Actually he could not—not that much. But he was young, and the way looked bright ahead.

  “All right,” Van said at last, “I’ll take it. If you will let me pay it back.”

  “Whenever you can…but go home. Go back to your own people.”

  CHAPTER 15

  THE BUTLER PAUSED before the portly man in the dark suit. “Mrs. Fossett will see you now, Mr. Pinkerton.”

  He got up and followed the butler over the deep carpets, through the tall oak doors, and into the library. He rarely entered this room, and was always astonished when he did. As the guiding hand of the largest and most successful detective agency in the United States, if not in the world, he had met all manner of men, and women. This was the only one who made him uneasy, and a little frightened.

  Yes, that was the word. There was something about her cold, matter-of-fact mind that disturbed him. He had the sensation that she was always at least one jump ahead of him, and that whatever he said she already knew.

  She sat behind the long desk, only a few papers before her, including, he noticed, several newspapers that he recognized as coming from various cities.

  “You said you had news for me?”

  “Yes.” He paused. “I have found him.”

  “Well…that’s something, at least. Where is he? On the Bowery?”

  “No, ma’am. He has gone home. He is with his family.”

  Myra Fossett felt a cold thrill of anger go through her. Was it, as Van himself had once said, that she never liked to have anyone to escape her?

  “You have made a mistake. He is a proud man, whatever else he may be. I am sure he would not go home without money.”

  “He has money. A little, at least. He paid his bills. He bought new clothes—an excellent wardrobe, by the way—and he went home in some style.”

  “There must be some mistake. How could he get the money? Nobody would lend him money any longer, and he was always a rotten gambler.”

  “That we do not know, except that—”

  “What?”

  “Well, he was seen to meet a man—a young man—and they dined together. They talked for several hours. It was after that that he bought clothes and returned home.”

  She pondered, considering all the possibilities. Van knew too much; and a sober, serious Van who had gone home to his family might prove more dangerous than a casual drifter and drunk whom nobody would believe. Moreover, he had run away from her, and that she could not forgive.

  “What sort of young man?”

  “A gentleman, ma’am. Handsome, athletic, well-dressed, well-groomed. He was young…perhaps twenty-five….”

  “What was he doing on the Bowery? Is he a bum?”

  “No. Nothing like that,” he said. “We made inquiries…nobody would tell us anything, if they knew. He comes to the Bowery to train. To box and to wrestle. Incidentally, he is very good, they say.”

  “A professional?”

  “No. I do not believe so. He is a gentleman.”

  Myra Fossett gave him a glacial look. “Sometime you must define the term for me, Mr. Pinkerton. I am not sure I know what a gentleman is, or how one becomes one. I doubt if I have ever met one.”

  “Present company excepted?”

  “No,” she replied shortly. “A man in your business, Mr. Pinkerton, is certainly no gentleman. In any event, I am not paying you for your moral standards. Rather,” she added, “for your lack of them.”

  He got to his feet. “I resent that, madam—”

  “Resent it and be damned,” she said. “Now sit down and listen, or get out of here and send me your bill.”

  He hesitated, his face flushed. He knew suddenly that he hated this woman, hated everything about her, but she paid him well, and she seemed to have an unlimited amount of work to be done. He stifled his anger and sat down.

  “You do not have a name for this young man? They must call him something around that gymnasium.”

  “Well, we do have a first name, but that is all. One of my men heard him called Val.”

  Val…

  Myra Fossett sat very still. Pinkerton, who had watched the emotions of many people, had the sensation that the name had struck her a body blow.

  After a moment she said, “Mr. Pinkerton, if Van Clevern has returned to his people I am no longer interested in his actions. As of this moment, you may recall your investigators.

  “However, I am interested in this young man. This Val, as you say he was called—I shall want a full report on him, his associates, his actions.”

  “It is going to be very difficult—”

  “If that means you will want more money, the answer is no. If you believe the task will be beyond your scope, Mr. Pinkerton, I believe I can find somebody who will find it less difficult. Surely, the investigation of one unsuspecting young man cannot be such a problem.”

  “We have no idea who he is, or where he lives.”

  “But he goes to the gymnasium to box, doesn’t he? Have him followed. Ask questions of those with whom he boxes….I do not need to tell you your business, I hope.”

  “If I had some idea—”

  “Of why I wanted the information?” Myra Fossett smiled. “Mr. Pinkerton, I have known for some time that you are eaten with curiosity as to the reason for my investigations. You might just tell yourself that in business matters I find the human element is always important. I like to know the manner of man with whom I deal, and what his associations are. You are valuable to me for that reason. Do your work and keep your mouth shut, and you will have a valuable client; make trouble for me, and I will ruin you….I believe we understand each other, Mr. Pinkerton.”

  He got to his feet, his features set and hard. “We do, Mrs. Fossett. I shall have a report for you within the week.”

  When he had gone, Myra Fossett sat staring straight before her into the darkening room. She had told the truth and she had lied, at one and the same time. Information she wanted, but only in part for business reasons, and in part only for the malicious satisfaction of knowing the secret lives of her associates. Knowledge was indeed power, but it was for her more than a weapon, for it fed her contempt for the men with whom she associated and for the sheep who were their wives.

  The information she required about Van was for an altogether different reason. For twenty years he had been a part of her life, and there was little in those twenty years that he did not know or suspect. When he had suddenly broken with her and run away, she had been furious, both with him and with herself for not recognizing the signs. The trouble was that he had threatened to leave so many times that she no longer believed him.

  He had become necessary to her, for exactly what reasons she did not venture to ask herself. He was, even yet, a fine-looking man, acceptable in any company; and although a drinker, he had never yet allowed it to show in company to any degree more than dozens of others whom they met at one time or another. She had no intention of letting him leave when he wished, but she had already recognized the fact that a time was coming when he would be more of a handicap than an asset. To be realistic, that time had arrived.

  Had he guessed her intentions? He might have suspected. Certainly, he knew enough about others who had gotten in her way. She remembered a day long ago when he had been just drunk enough to speak out, and he had told her in that curiously speculativ
e way he had of talking when drunk, “Myra, you are a moral cripple. I mean it. Just as some people are born with physical defects, you were born with a moral defect. You have no conception of right and wrong. Things are good or bad as they serve your purpose or do not serve it.”

  Val? It was impossible, of course. Val was dead. He had died out there in the night and the cold after Van had abandoned him…

  She had never believed Van would have the guts for it. She had been surprised when he returned without the boy, but when he had suggested they leave at once, she thought that he might really have done it. And Van had never referred to Val again, never mentioned him even once, so he must have left him to die.

  But supposing he had not? Where could he have taken the boy? Where might he have left him? All she had now was that twenty years later Van met somebody who might be twenty-five years old and called him Val…or perhaps something that sounded like that. This person, whoever he was, might have given Van money; might have talked him into going home.

  If so, what did it mean to her? It could mean everything, or nothing. Van close to her, under her thumb, frightened of her, was one thing. Van free of her, back with his own family…would he want to forget all that lay behind? Or would he have an attack of conscience?

  Myra Fossett, who now had wealth and power and was close to the position she craved, could not afford Van’s conscience. He simply knew too much. A Van Clevern who seemed to be headed down into the gutter was no danger, but a Van Clevern back with his family, that self-righteous family of which she had heard so much, was a very real danger. One minute or two of talking on his part could destroy everything she had so carefully built.

  He even knew about Everett Fossett, or suspected. And Everett had friends and perhaps relatives of whom she knew nothing who might start an investigation.

  She considered the question coolly and made her decision about Van Clevern. Of course, she admitted, that decision had really been made a long time ago, but then he had been useful to her.

  It would have to be an accident. There would be no chance for poison in this case.

  She considered the others. It had worked well with them. Seven men and two women, and each one had been a step toward the success she wanted. It had been poison with all but one, and that one was knocked on the head when he started to wake up, and was left out in the mule corral. Van still believed he was covering something that could be called an accident, that she had hit harder than she wished.

  Val…Could it be that she had a son still alive?

  She had never wanted the child, had planned it merely as a trap for Darrant, and he had gotten away from her before she could spring the trap. And then she was saddled with a child.

  But now she was curious…did he look like her? Or like…what was his name?

  Andy…that was it. For Andrew, she supposed, or possibly André, considering the fact that he was partly French.

  Val…suppose he really was alive? What then? What difference could it make?

  Van had always had a weakness for the child, and Van might talk too much…no, he wouldn’t. Not to Val. Yet Van might tell him where she was, who she was, and Val might come to her for money.

  Scarcely a week had gone by when Pinkerton’s report was on her desk.

  The young man’s name was Valentine Darrant…so her son was alive…he had read law with the firm of Lawton, Bryce & Kelly…a good firm…had been admitted to the bar. Seemed to have come from the West. Had worked for Steven Bricker…that tall young man she had passed in the doorway…a young man of very definite ability who seemed to know many people of doubtful reputation…maybe he did take after her…spent much time in shooting galleries, never played cards, rarely gambled except an occasional friendly wager on some fact of sports or history. Went often to the theater and the opera, well-educated, but nothing known as to his academic background.

  It was little enough, and left a number of questions unanswered. Where had he been during the intervening years? Who had reared him? Who had given him his education? How long had Van known him?

  Myra glanced at the report again. The last line told her that Val had left town. He had bought a ticket for St. Louis.

  Well, enough of that. Now there was the problem of what to do about Van Clevern.

  Nevertheless, she found herself beset by a nagging curiosity: What was her son like? Was he like her? Or like Darrant?

  For Darrant she had a grudging respect. He had had sense enough to get away while the getting was good, and not many had done that, not before she had bled them dry.

  Some people said a child took after his grandparents. She had no idea what Darrant’s family had been like, but for her own she had only contempt. They had been good, God-fearing people by contemporary standards, and her father had done well in a limited way. Well, no matter.

  * * *

  —

  VAN CLEVERN HAD indeed returned home. He had taken a little while to get himself looking presentable. He had stopped drinking, had eaten regular meals, had caught up on his sleep. And as Val had said, his family were glad to see him, and they asked few questions. If they did ask he had a story to tell them. He had been involved in mining deals out west. He had made money, lost it, and now was planning to find a local connection and stay home….Only at times did he think of Myra, and uneasily wondered what she would do.

  He shook off his doubts, doubts brought on by an all too clear memory of her fury at being thwarted, of her ruthless, relentless nature. But then, he told himself, she would be glad to be rid of him.

  Slowly, his manner changed. He became more confident, and began to pick up old associations. It was discovered that he had acquired a lot of information about mining and railroad stocks, and possessed a good deal of on-the-spot information. Three weeks after his return he was hired as a consultant by an investment house in which his father was a partner.

  By the time two months had gone by he had proved himself worthwhile to the firm. He met people easily, and his knowledge—much of it acquired from Myra—was proving of value.

  Another month passed, and Van Clevern had obtained several new accounts for the firm, so it was with a distinct shock and sorrow that they heard of his death.

  He had been riding in the park on a Sunday morning, and had evidently been thrown from his horse. His skull was badly shattered and he had been dead for at least an hour when they found him.

  Val Darrant, stopping at Knight’s ranch, in New Mexico, read a brief notice of the death in a newspaper somebody had left at the ranch. It was a Chicago paper, several weeks old, and the item was a small one, on an inside page; it gave only the barest details.

  Val put the paper down and sat back in his chair, a curious emptiness within him. Of all those whom he had known, next to Will Reilly himself, he had loved Van Clevern the most.

  A weak man, but one who had been kind, who had taken time to talk to a small boy when nobody else so much as noticed him, and who had saved him from death.

  And now he was dead. An accident, they said.

  As to that, Val was not so sure. Van had been an excellent horseman, often riding the half-broken mustangs of the western country. It seemed unlikely he would be thrown by any rented-out horse in an eastern state. It could be, but it was unlikely.

  CHAPTER 16

  VAL DARRANT HAD no liking for open country, and a good stretch of it lay before him. Beyond it the Burro Mountains bulked strong against the sky. He drew rein at the mouth of an arroyo and studied the terrain before him.

  He had a feeling that he had glimpsed a faint cloud of dust only minutes before, but now, with a full view of the plain, he saw nothing. He touched his Winchester to be sure it was not jammed too deeply into the scabbard, and then touched his heels to the buckskin.

  The gelding was a good horse with black mane and tail and just a suggestion of black spots on the left shoulder, as
if there might have been some appaloosa strain somewhere in the buckskin’s past. It was a strong horse with a good gait, mountain- and desert-bred.

  The country ahead looked innocent enough, but he stayed where he was, knowing that to trust innocence too much could lead to trouble.

  He had ridden the stage from the little village of Los Angeles to Yuma and thence to Tucson.

  He had believed he’d had enough of the West, but now he was singing a different song. He now knew this was the country for him. No matter how far he might travel, he would always come back here. He was riding now for Silver City, then across country to Tascosa and to the ranch below the caprock.

  Suddenly, he heard the soft beat of horse’s hoofs behind him.

  He turned his mount and waited. It was one rider, on a shod horse. This ride from Tucson had been enough to get his eyes and ears tuned to the western lands again. He waited….

  The horse was gray, with a black mane and tail, the rider a slender young man wearing a battered black hat, his hair down to his shoulders.

  “If you’re riding east,” Val said, “I’d be glad of the company.”

  He was a good-looking young man, almost too good-looking, except for two prominent teeth. They did not disfigure him, but did mark his appearance. He weighed not more than a compact one-fifty, and he was probably about five-eight. His hair was blond, his eyes gray.

  “Ridin’ east myself,” he said. “You alone?”

  “Yes.”

  Val looked at him. “Say, now I know you. You’re Billy Antrim.”

  The rider rolled a smoke and glanced at him quizzically. “It’s been a while since I been called that, but come to think of it, you do look familiar.”

  “Your mother ran the boarding house in Silver City. I came into town traveling with Will Reilly. Remember? You, Dobie, and I took a ride into the hills a couple of times. We swapped yarns, too.”

  “Sure, I recall. Where you been all the time?”