Robert Randisi - Bullets & Lies

“Is that satisfactory?” Harwick asked.

“Thank you, it’s fine.”

“Will you be leaving today?”

“As soon as I finish my breakfast,” Roper said. “I’ll keep in contact through telegrams.”

“To me?”

“Yes, to you, and to Victoria.”

“That’s acceptable.”

“I’m glad.”

The lawyer nodded and started to get up.

“You love her, don’t you?”

Harwick stopped, sat back down.

“I wouldn’t bother denying it,” Roper said. “After all, I’m a detective.”

Harwick looked crestfallen.

“Is it that obvious?”

“To me, yes.”

“Do you think she knows?”

“Actually,” Roper said, “I think she probably does. Women seem to know those things.”

Harwick looked across the table, his expression hopeful, as if Roper might have some advice for him on how to handle his feelings.

“So what do I do?”

Roper studied the man for a few moments, then shrugged and said, “Wait it out.”

“You mean…just wait for her husband to die?” Harwick asked. “That seems…I don’t know…wrong somehow.”

“Would it be more right to tell her you love her while her husband’s still…around?” Roper asked him.

“I don’t know,” Harwick said, frowning, shaking his head. “Oh, none of this seems right.”

“No, I guess not,” Roper said, wondering if Harwick was still referring to his feelings for his employer’s wife.

Harwick finally stood up.

“I’ll await your reports, Mr. Roper.”

“I’ll send then along, Mr. Harwick.”

The lawyer nodded, turned, and left. Roper felt sorry for the man.

Roper arrived at the railroad station minutes before the train was to leave. He handed his saddle to a man in the baggage car, then got on board, carrying his one carpetbag. Most of what he needed for this job he would have to purchase along the way. Some of the trip would be made by rail, the rest of it on horseback. He could rent horses along the way, then return them. Or maybe what he ought to do was buy a good horse and keep it with him when he took the train each time. Horse and saddle could go in the stock car each time. He would have to consider that option.

He found himself a seat, stowed his bag in the compartment overhead, and sat down. The young couple across from him smiled and nodded their heads. They were so young they must have been newlyweds and not experienced travelers. He would not strike up a conversation with them. He preferred to keep to himself when he was traveling for a job. Of course, if they spoke to him, he’d respond politely. So for now he just smiled, nodded back, and then buried his nose in his book. Perhaps, during this train ride, he’d get a chance to finish it.

23

It was days later when Roper rode into the first town on his list, Saint Joseph, Missouri. Best known as the place the pony express had sprung from, Saint Joe had many of the trappings of a modern city, a place in the center of the country where East met West. That meant he saw—as he rode down the main street—a sheriff’s office and a police station, a saloon and a steak house, a general store and an apothecary. He was comfortably clad once again in Western clothes, with the gun more comfortably placed on his hip rather than beneath his shoulder.

The first things he needed to find for himself were a livery stable and a hotel, or perhaps a combination of the two, before he started looking for Vincent McCord. When he spotted the Harrison House Hotel, he felt sure he’d found what he was looking for. There was a stable right next to it. He reined in his horse in front of the hotel and dismounted.

When he’d gotten off the train in Saint Louis, he had decided to go ahead and use some of his expense money to buy a horse. He liked the rented Appaloosa he’d ridden in West Virginia, so when he saw one in Saint Louis, he bought it. The animal was small but surefooted. During the three-day ride from Saint Louis to Saint Joe, they had gotten to know each other a bit. Roper knew the animal’s idiosyncrasies, and the horse responded well to his touch on the reins.

While he enjoyed eating at a campfire, three days of his own cooking had Roper ready for a good meal. When he walked into the hotel, he was happy to see it had its own dining room.

“Good afternoon, sir,” the clerk said. “Just ride into town?”

“Yes, I did. I need a room, and this looked like the best place in town.”

“Thank you, sir,” the clerk said, “we like to think so.” He turned the register book so Roper could check in. “How long will you be staying?”

“I’m not sure. At least a couple of days. I’d like to put my horse up in your livery.”

“Of course, sir. I can have that taken care of for you.”

“The Appaloosa out front.”

“Does he need any special care?”

“Nope, just the usual.”

“Yes, sir. Our man is very good with horses.”

“That’s good to know.”

He could have asked the clerk if he knew Vincent McCord, but Roper had learned a long time ago to be cautious when searching for somebody, get the lay of the land before he started tossing a man’s name around. Some people didn’t like to be found.

The clerk, a middle-aged man with thinning, sandy hair, handed him a key and said, “Room Five, sir.”

“Thank you. How long does your dining room serve?”

“Until nine, sir.”

“Very good.”

“Do you need help with your bags?”

“No,” Roper said, “I just have the one, and my saddlebags and rifle. I can manage.”

“Very well, sir,” the clerk said. “Enjoy your stay.”

“Thank you.”

Roper went up to the second floor, found Room 5, and let himself in. It was a medium-sized room, clean from the look and smell of it. He dropped his gear on the bed, sat on it, and found it firm enough for his liking. He went to the window, mostly to see what was right outside. The curtains were old, but not threadbare. Satisfied that there was no access to him from that avenue, just a sheer drop, he looked down at the town. The street was busy at midday. There were a couple of buildings across from him that were of the same height, but at the moment nobody with a rifle was taking a bead on him from the roof or a window.

The shot in Washington was still weighing heavily on his mind. There was no good reason for it that he could see. And White’s comment that he was shot at “once in a while” didn’t ring true. No matter how many times you’ve been shot at, it’s not something you get used to. He wondered if White had sent men to examine the rooftops above.

Roper studied the street but didn’t see anyone who looked as if they were paying special attention to the hotel.

Satisfied that he had gone relatively unnoticed, he washed some of the trail dust off, then left the room to go down and see how the food was.

The dining room was midsized, enough tables so that he could not hear the conversations of people sitting across the room. There was no tablecloth on the table, but the tabletop was clean. The waiter recommended the lamb off the menu. Roper ordered it and found it gamy, but edible. He’d go back to steak next time.

After he finished his meal, he went for a bath and a shave at a place across the street, then stopped in the mercantile and bought a change of clothes. He’d had a suit with him in West Virginia, but left it behind in favor of trail clothes, because of the amount of traveling he was going to be doing. To add to his wardrobe, he bought a shirt and a fresh pair of jeans.

Carrying them wrapped and tied in brown paper, he decided to try the sheriff’s office first. Although he had lived in Denver for many years and had been dealing with a police department for much of that time, he still had a Westerner’s preference for a sheriff over a policeman. “Sheriff” was an elected position, so people got the man they wanted. Policemen were hired.