Lawless (89 page)

He passed through the main doors to a reception area and was directed down a hall to a similar but smaller area which could only be reached by the route he was taking; thus it had a certain privacy. The small anteroom held two cluttered desks at which a pair of clerks—one in his thirties, one bald and much older—faced one another. On a bench against the far wall lounged a burly young fellow in a garish plaid suit. He had a derby perched on his knee and a
Police Gazette
in hands covered with an assortment of cheap, bright rings. The lump of a bolstered pistol was unmistakable on his left side.

Gideon gave his name to the senior clerk. He said he wished to see the president.

There was no response to the name, and a dubious one to his request. Would Mr. Kent state his business? He would not. Well, the bald man would take a card into the sanctum—he pointed to the heavy scrolled doors of dark wood—but he didn’t hold out much hope.

Gideon produced a card, and the clerk’s reaction was pronounced. Evidently the New York
Union
was well known at W & P headquarters, even if Gideon was not.

The clerk handled the card as if it were soiled. “You’ll have to allow Mr. Freeman to search you,” he told Gideon while starting for the double doors. “It’s a policy we have been forced to institute since demonstrators broke in here—no doubt encouraged by radicals like you.”

With that parting shot, the clerk vanished. The burly young man stepped to Gideon’s side. “Raise your arms over your head.”

Growing tense, Gideon obeyed. The bodyguard patted him here and there while speaking to the other clerk. “When’s Kane coming back? I haven’t had breakfast yet.”

“He’ll be back soon, I’m sure.”

“Where the hell is he, coughing his guts out again? I don’t like working around a man who’s that sick.” He finished the search and stepped back. “Nothing on him.”

Gideon made an effort to keep his breathing calm. One of the heavy doors opened. The bald clerk emerged, looking astonished.

“Mr. Courtleigh will see you immediately.”

Gideon smiled, but there was no mirth in the bright blue eye. Its cool ferocity made the bald clerk step aside.

“I thought he would,” Gideon murmured, and reached for the ornate gold doorknob.

The office was huge and impressive. It occupied more than half of the frontage of the top floor. The view was splendid from the row of tall windows to the left of the massive walnut desk where Thomas Courtleigh sat. The sun sparkled on the whitecapped lake. There were scraps of sail visible near the shore—pleasure craft—and a dozen or more lake steamers spread out from the mouth of the Chicago River to the horizon.

Yet the office itself seemed incapable of absorbing much of the outside light, and the moment Gideon heard the doors click shut behind him, the subterranean feeling only increased. The place was joyless and dark. Perhaps because of the heavy wood tones of the ponderous furniture, the wainscoting, the ornately carved fireplace and the chimney piece. The walls were hung with idealized oil paintings of W. & P rolling stock, and with trophies of hunting expeditions. Directly behind Courtleigh, huge stuffed heads of a bison and a big-horned buck deer jutted out. Glassy eyes lent the heads an aura of sinister life.

The furnishings definitely contributed to the cheerless atmosphere but so did the two unsmiling men staring at Gideon. One was an obese young fellow, a stranger. Gideon had anticipated at least one bodyguard outside, but he’d hoped the president would be alone in his private office, though of course he’d known there was no way to assure it.

Well, even with all the restrictions, he would do what he’d planned. The fat employee would be no problem. He looked soft and weak.

Thomas Courtleigh tented his fingers. “I’m genuinely astonished, Kent. I never imagined you’d have the audacity to call here.”

Courtleigh’s auburn hair showed gray streaks now. Wrinkles radiated from the corners of his eyes. A pronounced paunch bulged the front of his waistcoat and trousers. He’d been working in his shirtsleeves when Gideon came in, and somehow he looked as old and tired as Gideon felt.

“To what do I owe this dubious pleasure?” Courtleigh’s hazel eyes were unreadable. “Surely you didn’t travel all the way to Chicago merely to speak to me.”

“But I did.”

“Oh?” That one syllable carried an edge of mild surprise, the beginnings of worry, alarm. Gideon laughed silently as he stood before the desk strewn with ledgers and memoranda.

“I’m a little surprised you’d admit me to this office, Courtleigh.”

“Mr. Courtleigh thought it might be amusing.”

The wheezy voice brought Gideon’s head around. He’d turned his back on the obese young man who overflowed a chair between two windows. Now he gave the man a closer inspection.

The man’s clothing was rumpled and duty. His left lapel bore specks of food, and one or two were tangled in his silky mustache. His goatee needed combing. All the hair on the lower part of his face heightened the nakedness of his skull.

Though the young man had truculent eyes, Gideon still didn’t think he’d cause much trouble. The guard was the problem. He’d have to strike quickly, before the man could be summoned.

Sure enough, what he’d hoped for was right in front of him. A blade for opening correspondence. It lay within easy reach. The point wasn’t as sharp as that of a regular knife. But if driven with sufficient force, Gideon was sure it could pierce the skin, and kill.

Sweat began to gather on Gideon’s forehead. Courtleigh raised a hand. “No, no, Lorenzo—”

Lorenzo? Lorenzo Hubble?

“Those who oppose the formation of capital and the rights of property owners—the very foundations of this country—can’t be considered even remotely amusing. They’re dangerous. Mr. Kent is dangerous. He’s a radical. A Marxist—”

“Or so you’d like everyone to believe,” Gideon said.

“Yes, there you’ve hit it.” Courtleigh smiled. “It doesn’t really matter whether you are a Marxist—it only matters that the public is convinced you are. If the allegation’s repeated often enough, the public will eventually believe it. As you may have guessed, I and certain of my friends are dedicated to that process of repetition—”

He frowned because Gideon was ignoring his little speech, and staring at the obese man. Sounding pettish all at once, Courtleigh said, “Mr. Kent, Mr. Hubble. One of our attorneys.” Another smile, nasty. “And not in great favor around here at the moment.”

Gideon nodded. “I know the name.”

Hubble’s tiny eyes blinked. “You do?”

“My daughter heard it the night of July twenty-second. From one of the men who broke into my house and killed my wife. The man said he’d received his instructions from someone named Hubble.”

The obese man shot a worried look at his employer, then blustered, “What kind of ridiculous charge are you making, Kent? Do you think I’m the only man in America with that name? You said July twenty-second? The weekend of the strike? I was right here in—”

“Chicago,” Gideon finished. “I’ve already checked into that story. But I don’t believe it.” He swung back to the desk. “Because I know how Mr. Courtleigh has felt about me all these years. He destroyed my house. Endangered my children. Caused my wife’s death and probably the death of another mutual acquaintance who’s lying in a hospital in mortal danger right this moment. Oh—and we mustn’t forget the thugs sent to Pittsburgh. That’s quite a list, isn’t it? But it’s nothing more or less than what you promised six years ago. I never thought you’d carry through on those promises, but you did. Sick man that you are, you did—and you’ve covered your tracks so you can’t be touched. Not unless someone’s willing to settle with you on a personal basis.”

“Settle?” The word had a dry, papery sound.

“Settle,” Gideon said, pronouncing it very clearly. He was trembling now. “And pay the consequences afterward. I’m willing.”

Courtleigh seemed to lose confidence and shrink back against his chair. He tried to smile, but it was a mere twitching of the lips. “Surely this is a joke—”

“After all those things you did to me and my loved ones? Hardly.”

“Lorenzo, you’d better get Freeman or Kane—”

The fat man struggled out of his chair, took a step. “He can’t be armed, Mr. Courtleigh. They wouldn’t have permitted him to come in if—”

“That’s right,” Gideon broke in. “I’m not armed. I had a gun when I started out this morning. I took it back to my hotel and left it there. I wish I could say I did it because I was high minded. I wish I could say I did it because I came to my senses and realized violence only begets more of the same. Unfortunately none of that’s true. I just recalled that I’d heard you employ guards here, and I knew I’d never be allowed in this office if they discovered the revolver.”

He fought to keep his glance off the filigreed hilt of the letter opener. He judged the distance. If Courtleigh remained in his chair for a few seconds, he could reach him, drive that dull point into his throat.

Gideon’s head hurt. His right eye was blurring a little. He felt he was being swept down some long chute and couldn’t stop himself.

Hubble took another step. His left hand slipped up over his paunch to unbutton his stained coat. Gideon saw Courtleigh glance toward the lawyer, but because of the eye patch, he couldn’t see Hubble himself.

“And I wanted very much to meet you face-to-face,” he went on. “I wanted to see whether you’d hide behind your money and your authority even here, and deny you were responsible for all those things.”

“Deny it?”
Slam.
Courtleigh’s fist struck the desk suddenly. Papers slipped to the carpet; a ledger thumped. He jumped to his feet. “I would never deny that in this office. You and I go all the way back to Sidney Florian. You cost me the life of a valuable man, and then you cost me the health and sanity of the woman I married, and finally you cost me Gwen herself. Deny what I did? Of course I won’t, you bastard. You deserved every bit of it. And more!”

The words hung echoing between them. Gideon dared not glance down at the letter opener for fear Courtleigh would sense his purpose, and snatch the weapon out of his reach. But pressure was building a terrible ache in his forehead. In his imagination he saw Theo Payne accusing him with his eyes.

Gideon tried to concentrate on his surroundings. Hubble was somewhere behind him—out of sight.

Courtleigh seemed to sense an advantage. He smoothed his hair with a palm, brought his strident breathing under control, continued.

“But of course, what you said earlier was entirely correct. You can’t touch me, or prove a single one of your allegations. Should you be foolish enough to print any of them in that rag you publish, no one would believe them—least of all anyone charged with enforcing the law.”

“Because you’re above it, aren’t you?”

Courtleigh smiled again. “So I like to think. I take your remark as a compliment, Kent. Since we’re being so frank, let me tell you one more thing. Hubble has botched several assignments for me, and he’ll be a long while regaining my full favor. One of the botches involved Miss Sedgwick. On my instructions, Mr. Hubble sent a man after her. The man followed her for several days before he found his opportunity. Now I understand she’s still alive. I presume she was the mutual acquaintance to whom you referred?”

No answer. Courtleigh shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. I hope she dies. But if she doesn’t, be assured of this. The next man I send will succeed.”

Gideon’s control broke. He shot his left hand out and caught Courtleigh’s throat, and with his right hand seized the blade on the desk.

Courtleigh was soft. Gideon had no trouble dragging him forward with one hand. Or perhaps the rage that he finally released lent him unexpected strength. Courtleigh’s thighs struck the edge of his desk. Gideon kept pulling, his face red. As he pulled, he pressed the point of the opener against Courtleigh’s neck and watched the man’s expression.

“Hubble!”
That was the one word Courtleigh managed to squeal as Gideon dragged him across the desk, spilling more papers and ledgers. With his right hand he dug the opener deeper into the skin. Another moment and he’d pierce it, draw the first blood. He’d keep pulling and pulling until he’d impaled Courtleigh’s throat on—

Remember the family you represent.

Don’t let one rash act eradicate everything—

“Help! Someone help in here!” Hubble was shouting while Gideon silently cried out for Payne to leave him alone and let him do what was deserved and long past due.

Hubble’s voice seemed far away: “Let go of him, Kent! I have a gun—”

It didn’t matter. Only Courtleigh’s huge, horrified eyes mattered, and his face bloating under Gideon’s constricting hand. The metal point went deeper.

Deeper—

Don’t let the Kents be accused—

Bellowing like some gored animal, Gideon jerked the opener back and flung it behind him. With the frustration pouring through him, he doubled his right hand and smashed it into Courtleigh’s face, which had somehow become his own.

All of it had taken no more than a few seconds. Hubble leaped forward to grab Gideon’s shoulder—“
Stop it, Kent!”
—as Courtleigh’s nose exploded with blood. Hubble’s fingers tore Gideon’s coat. He twisted his head to the left and saw a pistol in the lawyer’s hand, evidently drawn from a concealed holster.

Hubble’s face contorted as he aimed at point-blank range. Gideon released Courtleigh and flung himself to the right. He heard the office doors crash open an instant before the pistol thundered.

The bullet grazed the side of Gideon’s neck, or at least he thought so as he fell. His back was toward the desk and the reception area. He broke his fall with his hands. Dragging himself to his knees, he shook his head to try to clear it. He heard a pained cry.

Courtleigh was bracing himself on the desk with one hand. He had a sick, disbelieving expression on his face. So did the lawyer. Hubble’s fat fist all but hid the mechanism of his pistol. A curl of smoke climbed from the barrel.

“You stupid—stupid—” Courtleigh gasped. He couldn’t go on. There were tears in his eyes as he fell forward, his face striking the desk and sliding off. He struck the carpet and lay still. Hubble’s bullet had found the wrong victim.