Robert Randisi - Bullets & Lies

“Too bad about what’s happened to him, though, isn’t it?”

“Indeed, sir. He was a hero in the war, and he has had to pay for it the rest of his life, just…deteriorating.”

“Mrs. Westover is quite a woman,” Roper said. “Some wives would have left rather than face years of caring for an invalid.”

“He has not always been an invalid, sir,” the waiter said, “but you are quite correct. She’s a strong woman. We in Hurricane are quite proud to have them living here.”

“Thank you, Andrew.”

“Yes, sir.”

As the waiter withdrew, Roper wondered if his opinion was held by others in Hurricane. He decided to take another walk around town, performing his own survey as he went.

He paid his bill and took to the streets.

Roper stopped in the shops—hardware, gunsmith, tanners, mercantile—and talked to the shopkeepers about their town. They all seemed to love it, as well as their neighbors. He stopped in a couple of saloons, but even men in their cups had nothing but good things to say about Hurricane, and about the Westovers.

He stopped in a café for coffee and a slice of pie and listened to the others talk about their families, their businesses, their lives. Hurricane seemed to be populated by people who were happy with their lot in life. In other words, a very strange place, indeed.

When he returned a couple of hours later, he found Harwick sitting on the front porch, waiting for him.

“You missed breakfast,” Roper pointed out.

“Yes, I’m sorry about that,” Harwick said. “I had some work to finish and thought I would give you some more time to think.”

“Well, I appreciate that,” Roper said. “I actually put that time to good use, took another walk around your fair town.”

“Have you come to a decision?”

There was another chair on the porch so Roper pulled it over and sat.

“The folks in this town think very highly of Howard Westover.”

“Yes, they do.”

“They like having a Medal of Honor winner as one of their citizens.”

“I suppose they do.”

“And they quite admire Victoria.”

“As they should,” the lawyer said. “She’s a fine woman.”

“Harwick, is there something else going on here?” Roper asked.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“I’m just wondering if there’s anything else I should be aware of.”

“I believe you are in full possession of all the facts you need to make your decision.”

“You’re probably right.”

Harwick waited a beat, then said, “And?”

“You can tell your employer that I’ll go to D.C., see what I can find out.”

“And beyond that?”

“Beyond that, we’ll see. It depends on what I find out while I’m there.”

“You’ll need to know who to see while you’re there,” Harwick said.

“That’s all right,” Roper said. “I have my own connections in D.C.”

“When will you leave?”

“I’ll catch the next train,” Roper said.

“Would you like me to purchase that ticket for you?” Harwick asked.

“No, I can take care of that myself. It’s not a long or expensive trip.”

“I’ll tell Mrs. Westover your decision,” the lawyer said.

“And tell her I’ll come back here with whatever I find out,” Roper said.

“I’ll inform her.”

“And if you don’t mind, I’ll keep my room here.”

“That is no problem,” Harwick said.

“I’ll let you know when I get back,” Roper said. “We’ll talk again, Harwick.”

“Yes, sir,” Harwick said. “I’ll look forward to it.”

Roper thought that was a lie, and probably not the first one he’d been told by the lawyer.

11

The train ride to D.C. was much shorter than the ride from Denver. In fact, Roper could have rented a horse and ridden to D.C., but he wanted to get there more quickly. His curiosity was getting the better of him.

When he reached Washington, he went to the Georgetown Hotel and got himself a room at his own expense. The Georgetown was one of the finest hotels in D.C. He got himself a simple room with the usual furniture, but it was all well made with good wood, though not the best. Had he gotten a suite, he would have been ensconced in opulence. He knew opulence, but was not always comfortable with it. And since he was paying for his own room, a simple one would do.

He had dinner in the hotel dining room, a thick steak with all the trimmings. The tables were covered with good white tablecloths, and the silverware was old, but kept clean. The room served the locals as well as the guests. Some of them were regulars there. He could tell by the way they looked at him, wondering who he was. In turn, he did not wonder who they were. He was satisfied that he could see them. He sat so he could see everyone in the room, knew where they all were. And he could tell who was armed, and who was not.

After dinner he went to the front desk and said he wanted to send a telegram.

“Our telegraph key opens at eight in the morning, sir,” the clerk said.

“That’s fine,” Roper said. “I can write it out now, and you can send it first thing.”

“Yes, sir, we can do that.”

The clerk supplied Roper with a pencil and paper, and the detective wrote out a brief telegram.

The clerk read it and said, “Sir, you’re sending this telegram right—”

“Yes,” Roper said, cutting him off, “right here in town. I should get a quicker response that way, don’t you think?”

“Well…yes, sir.”

“Fine,” Roper said. “Send it. If a reply comes in before I come down to breakfast, have it brought to my room.”

“Yes, sir.”

Roper went to his room, read some more Twain, and went to bed early.

He came down the next morning early for breakfast, wearing a suit, sans vest. He nodded to the clerk as he passed.

The dining room was full, but he managed to appropriate the same table as the night before. The diners eating breakfast were a different lot from those who had been having dinner. There had been more men the night before. This morning the men had women with them. Some of the tables held two or three women eating breakfast together. The women looked at him in a different way than the men had the night before. Still with interest, curiosity, but a different kind. When he caught them looking, he smiled, and they turned away, but did so with small smiles of their own.

While he was eating breakfast, a bellman came in with the reply to his telegram.

“When did it come?” he asked.

“Minutes ago, sir.”

“Thank you,” Roper said and tipped the man.

“Yes, sir, thank you, sir.”

He unfolded the telegram and read it. He had a ten o’clock appointment at a building on Dupont Circle. He poured himself some more coffee.

He presented himself at Dupont Circle at exactly 10 a.m. He stood in front of a large stone building four stories high, with no symbols on the building to indicate what—or whom—it housed.

“Talbot Roper,” he said to the soldier in the lobby.

“Yes, sir,” the soldier told him. “You’re expected. Please follow me.”

The building appeared to have been constructed only a few years before, and was equipped with one of Mr. Otis’s new steam-operated elevators. An operator took them to the third floor. Roper had been in elevators before, but still found himself holding his breath until the doors opened again.

Roper followed the soldier down a long hallway, past doors with names and titles on them, to a blank door.

“Inside, sir.”

“Do I knock?” Roper asked.

“No need, sir.”

“Thank you.”

The soldier positioned himself to the left of the door, and Roper was sure he would still be there when he came out.