Out of the Past (12 page)

Sandy had been right. The woman was beautiful. She was just a little younger than Olivia, with red hair and pale skin. She was long and lean, with beautiful green eyes. In fact, she had the same general coloring that Anne Archer had.

“I assume you are Clint Adams?” the woman asked.

“That's right,” Clint said. “How did you—”

“My father-in-law warned me that you might come here,” she said. “He advised me not to see you.”

“And yet you agreed.”

“Yes,” she said. “I rarely do as my father-in-law . . . orders.”

She approached him and extended her hand.

“My name is Lorna Cameron.”

“I'm happy to meet you,” Clint said. “This is my colleague, Sandy Spillane.”

“How do you do.”

Lorna Cameron was definitely from the East, he could tell from her accent and her manner.

“You wanted to see Billy. He's not . . . feeling very well at the moment.”

“I saw him at your father-in-law's office this morning, ” Clint said.

“Then you know he's drunk, not sick.”

“Yes.”

“He's been drunk for . . . quite some time.”

“I think I know how long he's been drunk, Mrs. Cameron.”

“Yes,” she said, “since that . . . woman was killed.”

“We think someone in your family is responsible for killing her, Mrs. Cameron,” Sandy said.

“Yes, well, that wouldn't surprise me. My father-in-law is capable of anything.”

“You think it was him?” Clint asked.

“Oh, he'd have someone else do it for him,” she said. “He'd never get his own hands dirty.”

“But why would he have her killed?”

“That's simple,” she said. “She was corrupting his precious Billy.”

“Couldn't that also be a motive for you, Mrs. Cameron?” Sandy asked.

Lorna Cameron looked at Sandy Spillane and lifted her chin up.

“I suppose it could,” she said, “if I cared.”

“And you don't?” Clint asked.

“I did,” she said, “once, but that seems like a long time ago. I'm tired of being the only one who cares. The men in this family have turned me cold, I'm afraid.”

Icy cold
, Clint was thinking as he looked at her.

“Would you like to go upstairs and wake Billy up?” she asked. “I'm not sure you'll get very much out of him.”

“No, that's all right,” Clint said. “Tell him I was here, though.”

“I will,” she said. “I'll also tell my father-in-law, if that's all right with you.”

“That's fine,” Clint said. “Thank you for seeing us.”

As Clint turned to leave, Sandy stepped up and asked,

“Mrs. Cameron, do you think your husband could have killed Anne Archer?”

“I understand he was quite smitten with her,” she said. “However, my husband has the Cameron temper. If she rejected him at one point, I wouldn't be surprised if he killed her.”

“Thank you for being honest.”

“Mr. Adams,” she said, “I would watch my back if I were you. My father-in-law is almost certain to try to have you killed.”

“Mrs. Cameron,” Clint said, “I always watch my back. It's a way of life with me.”

She apparently wasn't sure what to say to that. Clint and Sandy turned and left.

Clint and Sandy walked back to the Plaza because he wanted her to get a look at the black porter he'd told her about.

“Hey, where's Leon?” Clint asked the clerk as he entered.

“W-who?” the clerk asked nervously.

“Leon, the black porter who took my things to my room when I checked in. I want to give him a dollar tip.”

“Um, Leon doesn't work here anymore,” the clerk said.

“What are you talking about?” Clint asked.

“He, uh, had to leave all of a sudden,” the man said.

Clint walked over to the desk to confront the man.

“Why?”

“I uh, don't know,” the clerk stammered. “F-family emergency, I guess.”

Clint looked at Sandy.

“This isn't right.” He reached out, grabbed the front of the clerk's shirt and pulled the man halfway across the desk.

“Now you listen good, because I'm not going to ask you again,” Clint said. “What happened to Leon?”

“I don't know, I swear,” the clerk said. “All I know is Mr. Walters came in and told me I had to fire him.”

“Do you know where Leon lives?”

“A small house, across the tracks,” the clerk said. “You know, in the black section.”

“What house?”

“I don't know!”

Clint released the man, pushed him so hard he banged into the key setup, knocking the entire thing over so that keys rang as they hit the floor.

He turned to Sandy and said, “We've got to find him. Something may have happened to him.”

They started for the door, but Clint stopped, turned and pointed his finger at the clerk.

“If you send a message about this to Louis Cameron, I'll come back and put a bullet in your ear. I swear!”

“Yes, sir! No, sir!”

“Come on,” he said to Sandy.

Outside, she said, “Wow, I really believed you would come back and shoot him.”

“I will,” Clint growled.

The section of the city where most of the blacks lived was quite a contrast to where Billy Cameron lived with his wife. The place was filled with run-down, if not falling down, shacks. There were woman outside doing laundry in tin basins, men just sitting outside smoking and drinking. Clint and Sandy drew looks—especially Sandy with her blond hair and full body.

Sandy wanted to start asking questions, but Clint waited until they came to one house where a man and a woman were outside with two small children before he asked, “Do you know where a man named Leon lives?”

“We gots lots of Leons,” the man said. “What's his last name?”

“I don't know,” Clint said, “but he works as a porter at the Plaza hotel.”

“Whatchoo wan' wit' him?” the man asked suspiciously.

“I want to make sure he's still alive,” Clint said.

“What make you t'ink he ain't?”

“Look,” Clint said, “I know he's not from here, I know he wasn't really working at the hotel because he had to.”

“You work for dat man Cameron?” the man asked.

“No, Leon did me a favor and warned me about Cameron. I just want to make sure he's okay.”

The man studied Clint, then got up out of his chair. He walked over to where his son and daughter were playing, grabbed the boy—who was about eight—and whispered something into his ear. The boy nodded and took off running.

“You want some shine while you wait?” the man asked. “I got some good shine.”

“No,” Clint said, “thanks. We'll just wait.”

“The lady can set,” the man said, pointing to his chair.

“Thank you,” Sandy said. She didn't want to sit, but didn't want to refuse the kindness.

“You ain't law,” the man observed.

“No,” Clint replied.

The man looked at Sandy.

“You ain't law.”

“No.”

The man nodded, satisfied that he had them figured right.

“What makes you think we're not law?” Sandy asked.

“If you was law, you wouldn't be askin',” the man said, “you'd be tellin'.”

Clint thought that was a good way to note the difference.

It only took fifteen minutes for the little boy to come back with Leon in tow.

“You know this feller, Leon?” the other man asked.

“Yes, I know him, Daniel. This is Mr. Clint Adams.”

Daniel's eyebrows shot up. Since meeting him, Clint had been trying to guess his age. He could have been anywhere between thirty and sixty.

“Mr. Gunsmith himself?” Daniel asked.

“That's right,” Leon said, “and this is Miss Sandy Spillane, late of the Pinkerton Agency.”

“Clint,” Sandy said, “this is Ken Leon, also from the Pinkerton Agency. Kenny, what the hell are you doing here?”

“Let's take a walk,” Kenny Leon said. “Daniel, excuse us.”

“Go ahead and have your secrets,” Daniel said. “I ain't want no part o' them.”

“Oh, Clint? Would you give young David here two bits? I promised him you would.”

“Why don't you give it to him?”

“He'd rather have it from the Gunsmith.”

Clint dug out two bits and flipped it to the boy, who caught it one-handed.

“Thank yuh, suh.”

“Anytime, David.”

“Now . . .” Leon said, taking both their elbows and leading them away while walking between them.

“First of all,” he said to Sandy, “Mr. Pinkerton just thought you might need some backup.”

“Because he didn't think a bunch of women could do the job?” Sandy demanded.

“Well, look at the way things have turned out, Sandy,” Leon said. “Anne is dead.”

“That means you weren't very good at your job of being backup, doesn't it, Leon?” Clint asked.

Leon looked at Clint, then looked away and said, “You got me there.”

“Look, Leon,” Sandy said, “we don't blame you for Annie' s death—”

“No, no, that's okay,” Leon said. “I think Mr. Pinkerton might be considering firing me because of it.”

“What happened at the hotel?” Clint asked. “Why did you get fired?”

“Oh, some white woman accused the black porter of staring at her,” he said. “At least, that's the story I got.”

“What do you think happened?”

“Not sure,” Leon said. “If they were suspicious of me, I probably would've ended up like Anne, so I don't know. All I know is I'm not in a position to do anybody any good.”

“Well,” Clint said, “we might need you if this goes to the street.”

Leon stopped short and looked at Clint.

“You mean gunplay?” he shook his head. “I'm an operative, I'm not a gunman. I wouldn't be any damn good to you.”

“If you can't handle a gun, Leon,” Clint asked, “then how exactly were you going to back these ladies up, when they're the ones who can handle a gun?”

“Hey,” Leon said, “I just did what I was told.”

Clint realized that Leon was right. He was no good to them at all.

“Okay, Leon,” Clint said, “I just wanted to make sure you didn't get killed for warning me.”

“Well, I'm fine,” he said, “and I can help if—”

“No, Leon,” Clint said, “I'm going to take you at your word. You probably are no damn good to us right now.”

Clint and Sandy had supper together in a café she knew. They both ordered steak platters and big glasses of cold beer.

“Where are you staying?” he asked her. “Still at the house?”

“Might as well,” she said. “It's empty. I'd invite you to stay there instead of the hotel, but you might have some company again.”

“I explained that to you.”

“I know you did,” she said. “I was teasing you. Still, it wouldn't be a bad idea. We could watch each other's back better.”

Clint pointed with his fork and said, “You know, that wouldn't be a bad idea. Louis Cameron would suddenly have no idea where I was.”

“Might make him nervous,” she said. “You'd have your own room, and I promise not to try to crawl into bed with you.”

“I'll take you at your word.”

“Besides, you might not have any energy left after . . .”

“I told you—”

But she was laughing too hard to listen to him.

At dinner that night in the Cameron house Louis looked across the table at his wife, Olivia, and said, “I understand you were at the Plaza today.”

“That's right, I was.”

“With Clint Adams?”

“Yes,” she said. “Is that a problem?”

“Not if you tell me everything the two of you talked about,” he said.

“That's no problem at all, dear,” she said. “In fact, that's the very reason I went to his room with him.”

“I'm sure.”

“He told me he's sure that you, or someone in this family, killed that Archer woman.”

“Is that right?” Cameron asked.

“What did he say to you today, dear?”

“Much the same thing,” the old man said.

“What are you going to do?” she asked. “You're not going to . . . damage him, are you?”

“I'm afraid you're going to have to find yourself a new lover, dear,” Cameron said. “I'm going to do much more than just damage him.”

“That's a shame,” she said, “but you're certainly not going to do it yourself, are you?”

“I wish I could,” Cameron said, “but no, I have the perfect person in mind for the job.”

“Who would that be, dear?”

“Never mind,” Cameron said. “Just eat your dinner. This conversation is over.”

“Of course it is, dear.”

Olivia's mind was racing. She had hoped to pry loose from her husband the name of the man her husband had hired to kill Clint Adams. He gave her nothing, though, except for the fact that he was, in fact, going to do it. She was going to have to figure out a way to get out of the house after dinner to go and warn Clint.