Robert Randisi: Bullets & Lies

Mrs. Batchelder was the other person who had a key to his office. She had a business down the street where she trained young girls to give the businessmen in Denver what they wanted—capable office workers. Roper usually allowed her to have a key for just this reason, so her girls could let themselves in and get to work. He thought Mrs. Batchelder probably started her day earlier than anyone in Denver.

“Are you one of her star students?” he asked.

Lola frowned prettily and said, “I don’t—well, I don’t know…I think so.” Pinpricks of color appeared in her cheeks, as if the question had embarrassed her. Mrs. Batchelder didn’t like her girls looking like saloon girls, so she kept their makeup to a minimum.

“Has she explained your duties?”

“Oh yes,” Lola said. “I know exactly what to do.”

Roper didn’t smell coffee, so obviously the girl didn’t know everything she had to do.

“Can you make coffee?”

She looked crestfallen. “I’m not very good at cooking.”

“Coffee isn’t cooking,” he said.

She looked even sadder.

“All right, never mind,” he said. “Never mind. Let’s just hope you’re better at office work.”

“I can file,” she said brightly.

“That’s good, but I don’t have any filing for you right now.”

“Well…”

“Just handle any clients that come in the front door,” he said.

“Handle them?”

“Yes,” Roper said. “Find out what they want, then come in and tell me. I’ll let you know whether to bring them in or not. Got it?”

“Oh, yes, sir!”

“Good.”

Roper went into his office, closing the door behind him. This room was almost three times the size of the reception area. Roper liked to be comfortable, and space was part of that. One part of the room was set up as a sitting area, with a sofa and two armchairs surrounding a cherry wood coffee table. There ware paintings on the cherry wood paneled walls, which he had bought because he liked them, not because they had any particular value.

He had a large cherry wood desk, with a large, ornate green-and-gold lamp, a wide green blotter, and an expensive gold pen and letter opener set. Behind it was a large, deep leather armchair, and on either side, metal file cabinets. Behind the desk was a large window that looked out onto the street.

He liked Lola well enough. He did have some paperwork to do, which would lead to filing, but in his experience, Mrs. Batchelder’s girls were not expert at filing things, especially not in alphabetical order. The reason he allowed her to keep sending him girls was that they worked for free for the experience—when they did get some work done.

He seated himself behind his big cherry wood desk and proceeded to fill out his reports on his last two cases.

After about an hour there was a tentative knock at his door.

“Come in.”

Lola opened the door and stuck her head in.

“Mr. Roper, there’s a man here to see you.”

“Who is it?”

“He says he’s a lawyer named Harwick.”

Roper knew a lot of Denver lawyers, but he’d never heard of one named Harwick.

“He says he has a job for you…and a check.”

“A check? Well, send him in, then.”

“Yes, sir.”

She opened the door and allowed a man in a gray suit to enter.

“Mr. Harwick?” Roper said, standing.

“Yes,” the man said. “Edward Harwick. Are you Mr. Roper?”

“I am.”

The two men shook hands. Harwick was as tall as Roper’s six-one, but about forty pounds heavier, most of it in the gut. He wore a blue three-piece suit, a gold chain hanging from what Roper assumed would be a gold pocket watch in the vest pocket. He had a matching bowler hat, which he was holding in his hands. There were gold rings on each finger, with stones that reflected the light from the windows. Mentally, Roper’s fee went up even higher than usual.

“Have a seat, please,” Roper said. “I understand you have a check for me? I don’t recall ever having done business with you before.”

“We haven’t,” Harwick said. “I’m not from Denver, sir. I practice in West Virginia.”

“Well, then, what brings you all this way?”

“I’ve come all this way to see you, sir, on behalf of my client. Howard Westover.”

“Westover,” Roper said, frowning. “I’m afraid I don’t know that name either.”

“You wouldn’t,” Harwick said. “Sir, I’m here to hand you a check and ask you to come back to West Virginia with me.”

“For what reason?”

“To meet with my client.”

“And the check?”

“It is yours, whether you come or not.” To illustrate, Harwick took a brown envelope from his pocket and set it on Roper’s desk. Roper left it there for the moment.

“What does your client want with me?” he asked.

“He will tell you that in West Virginia.”

Roper picked up the envelope but did not look inside.

“Why me? I’m sure there are private detectives in West Virginia—or at least, closer than Denver.”

“I’ve done research on you, sir,” Harwick said. “You worked with Allan Pinkerton, both during and after the war, struck out on your own some years ago. As of today, you are generally considered to be the best private detective in the country.”

“Well, that’s nice to hear, but—”

“If you come back with me, there will be considerably more money than what’s in that envelope.”

“Well,” Roper said, “I’m not usually that impressed by money, Mr. Harwick.”

He opened the envelope, slid the check out, and looked at the amount written on it. Then he slid it back in.

“When do we leave?” he asked.

2

Harwick had secured them sleeping compartments on the train. The trip to West Virginia, with water stops, would take over twenty-five hours.

As the train pulled out of the station, Roper stopped by Harwick’s compartment to see if he wanted to get a drink together. The lawyer looked surprised when he opened the door to Roper’s knock.

“Why?”

“We still have things to talk about.”

“Like what?” Harwick seemed genuinely surprised that Roper would want to have a drink with him.

“Come and have a drink, and I’ll tell you.”

Harwick shrugged and said, “Very well.”

They went to the dining car together, got a table with ease since the kitchen was not yet serving a meal. When a white-coated waiter came over, Roper ordered a beer, and Harwick asked for a brandy.

“What is it you think we have to talk about?” Harwick asked. His eyes were on another table, where three men were playing poker.

“Well, your boss, for one,” Roper said. “What’s he like?”

“He’s ill.”

“How ill?”

Harwick blinked, tore his eyes away from the poker game, and looked at Roper with a slightly startled expression.

“I’ve already said more than I was supposed to,” he said. “My client will fill you in on everything when we arrive.”

“All right,” Roper said with a sigh. His attempt to squeeze more information out of the lawyer had yielded little. Perhaps the man was actually good at his job. “Tell me about yourself, then.”

“What would you like to know?”

Both men paused while the waiter set down their drinks before continuing.

“How long have you worked for Mr. Westover?”

“Almost twelve years.”

“Are you from West Virginia?”

“Yes, but I practice there and in Washington, D.C.”

“I’ll bet that comes in handy—for your client’s business, I mean.”

Harwick sipped his brandy and did not reply. Instead, he looked over at the poker players again. Roper turned to take a look as well, then looked back at the lawyer.