Frame Angel! (A Frank Angel Western) #7 (12 page)

‘
Unless,’ the big man had told him, ‘you fail to do exactly
as I say. Should that happen, Herlow, I would of course feel it
necessary to come back to Santa Fe and kill you.’

He had said this so coldly, his
words such a calm and unemotional statement of deadly intent, that
Herlow had devoutly believed him and signaled his agreement. Then
the man had gone down the corridor and into
Hainin
’s
room. There had been no noise, no sound of a struggle, nothing. He
had not, truly, seen the man leave the hotel. But of course, he had
gone across the street for a couple of drinks to celebrate his
windfall.

‘
Brother,’ the sheriff said when Herlow had finished
talking. ‘If that don’t muddy the water, I don’t know what
does!’

Angel stifled his disappointment
and chagrin. Once again the Easterner had outthought him, setting
Herlow up with a story which he had told so patently
and blatantly that
Herlow had swallowed it hook, line and sinker. It was just right,
contrived so artfully that no matter what evidence he produced to
the contrary, the sheriff was going to have to check with Folsom
before he could release Angel.

And that would take time, and
time was all that Angel
’s quarry needed.

He had the two halves of the claim check
now. All he had to do was get to Trinidad and collect the
suitcase.

‘
Hogben,
what trains are there to Trinidad?’ he asked
unexpectedly.

‘
One a
day, but you ain’t takin’ it,’ Hogben said.

‘
What
time?’ Angel asked impatiently. ‘What time does it pull
out?’

Sheriff Hogben delved into the
bulging waistcoat pocket with his left hand
– all this time he had kept his drawn
six-gun more or less generally pointing in Angel’s direction – and
pressed the lid of his watch.

‘
Leaves
at midday,’ he said, as if reading it from the face of the
watch.

‘
About
four hours ago.’

‘
That’s
right,’ Hogben confirmed. ‘She gets up there, oh, ’bout nine or
nine-thirty, dependin’ on how things go.’

He looked levelly at Angel, then glared at
Herlow again.

‘
Damn if
I know what to make of all this,’ he muttered. ‘You say you’re some
kind of investigator for the Department of Justice. This other
feller said you was an escaped felon.’

‘
This
other fellow killed Hainin,’ Angel pointed out. ‘Didn’t
he?’

‘
As to
that,’ Hogben said, cocking his head to one side wryly, ‘that’s how
it looks on the face of it. But you ain’t said why.’

Angel picked up his badge, folded the
Justice Department commission, and stowed them in his pocket.

‘
Is John
Sherman in town?’ he asked.

The sheriff looked startled. John T. Sherman
was the United States Marshal for the territory.

‘
You
know him?’

‘
No,’
Angel said. ‘But we’ve got mutual friends. And he’s got priority
call on the telegraph if he needs it. Maybe we can clear this up
that way.’

Hogben pursed his lips.
‘Well,’ he
said.

‘
Sheriff,’ Angel said levelly. ‘You could be right. I might
be Briggs, I might be wanted by Folsom. In which case, you’ve got
me anyway. But if you’re wrong – and you are – you’re going to get
the biggest black mark in your copybook anyone’s ever seen. You’ll
be lucky if they let you run for dog-catcher. Now don’t you figure
it’s worth the trouble to check?’

‘
Well,’
Hogben hesitated.

‘
Sheriff,’ Angel said, and there was no pleading in his
voice any more, no anxiety, nothing but a flat certainty. ‘I don’t
want to have to kill you to get out of here now, but if I have to,
I will.’

Hogben looked at
Angel
’s eyes,
then down at the gun in his own hand, and then back at Angel with a
new expression. He damned well thinks he could do it, he thought to
himself. He thinks he could come at a man with a gun in his hand
three feet away and kill him. And in the same moment he realized
that this was no ordinary fugitive cane-breaker.

‘
All
right,’ he said, thrusting his six-gun into its holster. ‘Herlow,
lock this place up. Nobody in or out, understand? I’ll likely want
to talk to you again!’ The way he said it made Herlow cringe, but
the hotel keeper nodded, rubbing his hands together
anxiously.

‘
Angel,’
Sheriff Hogben said. ‘Let’s go!’

The big man knew he was clear now.

He sat in the plushly upholstered Pullman
car of the Atchison Topeka & Sante Fe train laboring up the
long, rising incline across the flank of the Turkey Mountains,
satisfied that he had covered everything, delayed pursuit
sufficiently, and given himself more than enough time to do what
needed to be done. Each time the train swayed around a curve, he
could see the snowy peaks of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, some
of their peaks fourteen thousand feet high, the fresh snow pink in
the light of the sun sliding through the western sky. Up ahead lay
the Raton Pass, and twenty-five miles beyond that, Trinidad,
Colorado.

There was no one left now who
could connect him with the money; no one, that was, except Frank
Angel. He knew
the man well enough to know that the delaying tactics he
had spread in Angel’s path would slow his pursuit but not stop it.
Never stop it. He might get clear of Trinidad with the money, but
Angel would never stop looking for him and never forget. So Angel
must die. He did not want to kill Angel. Yet he could see no
alternative, and so he had arranged that, too. Angel knew where he
was heading – Trinidad. Therefore, he would come to Trinidad.
Probably on the next day’s train – he would get help in Santa Fe;
they would confirm who he was very quickly. Perhaps even a special
train? It was no matter. The three men would wait at the railway
station, and when Angel came, they would kill him. It would not be
a matter of stupid Anglo-Saxon manners, of ‘even breaks’ and facing
the man you were about to kill. The three killers were
ladrones,
who murdered for
gain, from cover, by stealth, at night, without warning, in ambush
– murdered only when it was safe for themselves, when no risk was
obtained, when the victim had no warning.

It was a pity; but if he was ever to know
peace, Angel must die.

He thought ahead, anticipating
his route. From Trinidad through Denver to Cheyenne, Wyoming. From
there by stagecoach to Salt Lake City, and from the Mormon capital
by easy stretches, sometimes on horseback, sometimes by buggy,
others by public transport, across the country to Portland, Oregon.
Then to Seattle and by ferry from there to Vancouver. He had been
there once when he was a very young man and had fallen in love with
the long, silent fjords, the majestic pine-clad mountains on their
sides. Across the bay from Vancouver was the very British
settlement of Victoria, its kaleidoscope of colored, wooden houses
sloping gently down to the water
’s edge, the snowy grandeur of the
mountains astonishing and ghostlike as they soared above the flat
gray clouds across the Gulf of Georgia.

There he would buy a house, hire
a housekeeper
– maybe after a decent interval marry her, if she were
pleasant enough – and live the life of a country squire amidst the
gossiping, inbred British settlers. A man could live very well on
the income from $250,000, very well indeed. Well enough to leave
the capital untouched for his sons. He was still young enough, man
enough, to spawn a litter of them if he felt the urge. He allowed
himself a thin smile at his own daydreams. All in good time, he
told himself, all in good time. And only when Angel is
dead.

The message came chattering back over the
wires, the key stuttering as the telegrapher scribbled furiously to
write it down. They read it over his shoulder:

SHERMAN MARSHAL SANTA FE STOP
GIVE INSTANT PRIORITY ASSISTING FRANK ANGEL STOP IDENTIFY
HIM
BY CODED
SIGNATURE RECEIVED FROM HIM THROUGH YOU CONFIDENTIAL THIS
DEPARTMENT STOP BUT IF STILL IN DOUBT ASK HIM NAME HIS LANDLADY
STOP WAITING.

It was signed by the attorney general.

‘
Mrs.
Rissick,’ Angel told them. ‘Mrs. Maureen Rissick.’

The telegrapher tapped out the reply and
then switched off. They waited, imagining the looping wires that
hummed in the moaning winds across the thousands of miles to the
ugly old building on Pennsylvania Avenue. They jumped, startled,
when the key began chattering again, as if it were angry. The
telegrapher began to scribble furiously.

ANSWER CORRECT
THAT
’S ANGEL
STOP ASK HIM WHERE THE HELL HE THINKS HE HAS BEEN QUESTION MARK NO
REPORT SINCE DEPARTURE STOP DOES HE THINK WE’RE TELEPATHIC QUESTION
MARK RENDER ALL NECESSARY ASSISTANCE ON MY PERSONAL AUTHORITY STOP
BY THIS I MEAN YOU WILL DO WHATEVER ANGEL SAYS YOU ARE TO DO STOP
TRUST MESSAGE CLEAR STOP AWAIT REPORT FROM ANGEL.

Frank Angel grinned. He could visualize the
attorney general in his office, puffing furiously on one of his
awful cigars as he stamped up and down dictating his message to his
personal private secretary, Amabel Rowe. He let his thoughts linger
on the memory of her honey-blonde hair spilling back in the
sunlight and her light laughter. But only for a moment.

Then he turned to Sherman.

‘
Happy?’
he asked.

‘
Hell,
Angel,’ Sheriff Hogben said. ‘We had to check. You understand, it
wasn’t anything personal.’

‘
Forget
it,’ Angel said brusquely. He didn’t have time for hurt feelings,
his own or anyone else’s. All he was conscious of now was the time
that had been wasted, the miles lost, the distance between him and
his quarry.

‘
I want
a telegraph sent to Trinidad,’ he said. ‘Whoever you know: deputy
US Marshal, local sheriff …?’

‘
Sheriff
up there’s a friend of mine,’ Hogben put in, eager now to make
amends. ‘Cecil Smith. Smithy, everyone calls him.’

‘
Good,
fine,’ Angel said. ‘I want the baggage office at the railway depot
covered by at least three men. They’re to watch for anyone like our
man coming in to claim a suitcase. I’ll write down a description
for you.’

‘
You
want him taken, or what?’ Sherman asked.

‘
Only if
he tries to leave Trinidad,’ Angel said. ‘I figure he probably
will, but I don’t know which way, so they’d better keep a damned
close eye on him.’

‘
I’ll
tell ’em,’ Sherman said grimly. ‘Don’t you worry none.’

‘
Something else,’ Angel continued. ‘I want the top local man
from the A. T & S. F. railway, and I want him fast!’

‘
Bob
Gray,’ Sheriff Hogben said. ‘I’ll go get him.’

He started out but was stopped by a word
from Angel.

‘
Tell
him I want a special train,’ Angel said. ‘Fastest engine he’s got,
the best engineer. We’re going to break the record for getting from
here to Trinidad, and I don’t want anything fouling me up. Tell him
I’ll want every inch of the track from here to there clean.
Understand me?
Clean!
I don’t even want to see a dead chicken on it. Tell him I
want the track cleared so we can run up there the whole way, no
stops, nothing.’

‘
You’ll
need to stop for water,’ Sherman pointed out. ‘Fuel,
maybe.’

‘
Tell
him to lay it on,’ Angel said. ‘He’ll know where, how much. But
fast. Faster than he’s ever done it before.’

‘
It’ll
take a bit of doing,’ Hogben said, dubiously.

‘
Then
you’d best not waste any more time,’ Angel told him. The sheriff
blinked and nodded, turning to almost run out of the marshal’s
office into the darkening plaza outside. Angel watched him weaving
between the idling walkers and disappear around the obelisk
commemorating the soldiers who had fallen in the battle of
Valverde.

‘
You
want to let me have that description now, Angel?’ Sherman called
from the telegrapher’s room. ‘We’re ready to send.’

Angel nodded and went in,
hitching his hip on the corner of the
telegrapher
’s
desk.

‘
Six
feet even,’ he said. ‘Dark blond hair, blue eyes. Wears a mustache,
also dark blond, but he may have shaved that off. Last seen wearing
dark suit, black cape. Like a matador’s,’ he said, remembering what
Abrana Gutierrez had said. ‘Which could mean it’s got a red silk
lining. He may also be disguising the fact that he has a limp,
favoring the right leg. Uses his left hand more than the right –
any gun will be on that side. And tell them to be very, very
careful if they go after him. He’s a crack shot, an expert knife
fighter. And he can kill men with his bare hands.’