The Ballad of Emma O'Toole (18 page)

“No.” Barton leaned forward across the desk, his voice dropping. “Since you told me the truth, I owe you the same—in strictest confidence, of course. Four years ago I fathered a child by a Chinese girl who worked in our home. I don’t see her anymore, or the child, but I do feel responsible. Every month, through my lawyer, I send them enough money to live on. My wife doesn’t know, of course. She’d leave me if she did. My children would never speak to me again, and I wouldn’t have a friend in this town. Now do you understand what’s at stake?”

Logan sighed. Phineas Barton had been his
best hope. Now time was running out and he had nothing. “I understand,” He said. “Given your reasons, I know I can’t ask for your help. I won’t take any more of your time.” He rose to go.

“Wait, there’s one thing,” Barton said. “Armitage keeps records in a ledger, a black book, small enough to fit in his pocket. I’ve seen him jot notes in it. If you can get your hands on it, you might find the evidence you need to turn the tables on him.” He rummaged in his desk drawer. “Here’s the card for my lawyer, Andrew Clegg. If you find the ledger, take it straight to him. He’ll know what to do with it, and I can trust him to protect my secret. You can trust him with yours, too. Good luck, Devereaux.”

Logan shook the banker’s hand. Barton, he sensed, had told him the truth. Armitage had trapped the banker in an impossible situation. But how had the reporter come to discover such an intimate personal detail? Did he even have contacts among the Chinese?

The question troubled Logan, but he had little chance to consider it. Time was running out. He had to find that ledger.

L
ogan left the bank with the lawyer’s card tucked into his vest pocket. By now the sun was blazing down on Main Street. The day was racing along at a fearful pace.

He glanced across the street toward the
Record
office. Armitage had just taken a week’s vacation. He would likely be back at work today. The question was, if the little crook really had a ledger, where would he keep it? Barton had said that it would fit in a pocket. If that was the case, there was a strong chance that Armitage kept it on his person. Logan would have to hope that the man had it tucked away somewhere instead—somewhere where it could be found.

A discreet inquiry at the post office gave
Logan the reporter’s home address. He lived on the upper floor of a newer frame building that housed accounting and land sale offices below. A back stair opened into a hallway. Armitage’s business card was tucked into a framed slot next to one of the doors.

When no one answered Logan’s careful knock, he tried the door. It was locked, but he found the spare key on a ledge above the door frame. So far this had been almost too easy.

The modest apartment was what one might expect of a busy bachelor, the bed unmade, clothes draped over the back of a chair and dirty dishes piled on the kitchen counter. A cluttered desk with a typewriter sat in one corner. Logan searched every inch of the desk, even pulling out the drawers to look beneath and behind them. There was no sign of a small black book.

He scoured every room, even going through the shoes and clothes in the wardrobe. The rest of his thorough search proved equally fruitless. The only incriminating evidence he found was a large stash of bills, arranged in flat pillowcases under the mattress. He estimated at least twenty thousand dollars, maybe more. But the money itself was proof of nothing. He left it alone.

By the time he’d locked the apartment and replaced the key, more than an hour had passed. The midday sky was blazing blue, the sun so sweltering hot that Logan slipped off his jacket, draping it over his arm as he made his way back to Main Street. Most other men, he noticed, had done the same. Parasols bobbed above women’s heads like bright summer flowers.

What now? Logan wondered. Time was running out, and he’d found nothing he could use to stop Hector Armitage from ruining his life.

Emma had agreed to meet Armitage at four o’clock in the Chinese café. Logan planned to keep the appointment himself, but he couldn’t show up empty-handed. If he didn’t find any evidence to bring against the reporter, he’d have little choice except to hand over five thousand dollars to silence him for another month. The money would be no problem, but the idea of giving in to the blackmailer galled Logan to the marrow of his bones.

Too bad he couldn’t just beat the man to a bloody pulp and threaten him with worse. Lay a finger on Armitage, and the assault charge would put him behind bars to serve out his manslaughter sentence and more.

He was approaching the bank when he happened to glance across the street toward the
Park Record
office. Hector Armitage was coming outside through the open door with a skinny fellow Logan recognized as another reporter. Deep in conversation, the two of them headed down the street toward the hotel, most likely going to lunch there. Both men were coatless, Armitage in shirtsleeves with his vest hanging open. It was the first time Logan had seen the man without his ugly checkered jacket.

Logan was about to move on when the alarm bells clanged in his head. Thoughts racing, he stared after Armitage’s departing figure. Time was running out. If there was the slightest chance…

Decision made, he turned and strode through the front door of the bank.

Inside the bank, Logan asked for and received a manila envelope and a few sheets of plain paper. Sealing the pages inside the envelope, he walked out of the bank and crossed the street to the offices of the
Record
. As he opened the front door and stepped inside, he mouthed a fervent wish that in this gamble, luck would be on his side.

It appeared that most of the staff, including Sam Raddon, had gone to lunch. Only a young proofreader remained on task, absorbed in a sheet of galleys. A middle-aged woman with
frizzy hair and a pencil behind one ear sat at the reception desk, nibbling a sandwich and reading a novel. She glanced up as Logan walked in the door.

“May I help you, sir?”

Logan held up the envelope. “Is Mr. Armitage in? He wanted this paperwork by noon.” He glanced at the wall clock behind her. “Regretfully, I’m late.”

The woman placed the sandwich on a napkin next to her book. “Mr. Armitage has gone to lunch. Leave your papers here and I’ll see that he gets them.”

“These are private papers, related to a story he’s working on. I was to leave them in his top drawer if I missed him.”

The woman rolled her eyes upward. “Very well, I’ll take them now.” She sighed.

“Please don’t interrupt your lunch.” Logan had already spotted the checkered coat hanging over the back of a chair. “I know where his desk is.”

“Fine.” She returned to her nibbling and reading.

Again, this had been almost too easy. Bracing himself for another disappointment, Logan made his way back through the newsroom to where the checkered coat hung. It didn’t make
sense that the ledger would be in the desk, where anybody could stumble onto it. Unless Armitage had it with him now, it would most likely be in his coat.

The woman wasn’t watching him. All the same, Logan turned his back toward her. His body hid the movement as his hands frisked the coat for the slight rectangular bulk.

There were three outside pockets, two empty, one holding a wadded handkerchief and a few loose coins. Logan had almost given up when his fingertips brushed something solid in the depths of an inside breast pocket. Heart pounding, he lifted it out and concealed it against the palm of his hand. He couldn’t risk a look, but his sense of touch told him it was a small, well-thumbed book with a leather cover. In one swift motion, he slipped it into his vest.

Straightening, he opened the top center drawer and laid the manila envelope inside. The woman’s description would tell Armitage who’d been here. When he realized his ledger was missing, Armitage would know exactly what had happened.

Logan’s mouth twitched in a hint of a smile. Too bad he couldn’t be here to see the little snot’s reaction.

Closing the drawer, he turned and walked
past the reception desk. “Thanks,” he said when the woman looked up.

“Not a problem. I’ll tell Mr. Armitage you came by.”

“Do that.” Logan stepped out the door onto the boardwalk. he suppressed the euphoria that threatened to sweep him away. Right now he couldn’t even be sure he had the right book. For all he knew, he could have lifted a pocket version of the New Testament or a Shakespearean play.

Walking swiftly now, he turned down a side street and stepped into the shadow of a quiet doorway. Only when he felt sure no one was watching did he draw the book out of his vest and thumb through the pages.

His pulse quickened. It was indeed the ledger, its pages filled past the midpoint with a record of names, dates, payments and money owed. The most recent entry was Emma’s payment of one thousand dollars. Two lines above that was the three thousand dollars Phineas Barton had given him earlier.

Logan whistled under his breath as his eyes scanned the pages. Most of the names were unfamiliar, but the sheer numbers boggled his mind. It appeared that Hector Armitage had
been blackmailing Park City’s residents for at least five years.

What had he done with the money? The cash Logan had found under his mattress was no more than a fraction of what was listed here. And Armitage didn’t appear to be spending more than his modest salary at the
Record
. The man probably had accounts in numerous banks, none of them so large as to draw attention.

With this kind of money Armitage could, if he chose, move to some foreign country and live like a rajah. So what was he doing here, in this backwater of a mining town, sleeping in a grubby two-room apartment and working for a local newspaper? And why should he keep this ledger—a potentially damning account of what he’d done?

As Logan pocketed the ledger and moved back into the sunlight the answer struck him. This wasn’t about money. It was about power.

He imagined Hector Armitage growing up somewhere back east, probably lower-class, certainly small and homely. Such a youth would have been tormented by his classmates, chosen last in sports and games, and rejected by any girl who caught his eye. The qualities he did possess—intelligence, ingenuity and a burning ambition—would have gone unappreciated.

Here, in this isolated mountain boom town, Armitage had come into his own. He was widely known and secretly feared. In this small pond he wasn’t just a big fish. He was a shark.

As for the ledger, it was a tangible reminder of the people whose lives he controlled. When he held it in his hands and read the names, the rush of satisfaction would be worth the risk of keeping such a dangerous account.

Now the book was in enemy hands. How far would Armitage go to get it back?

Logan glanced at the card Phineas Barton had given him. Andrew Clegg’s office was around a corner from Main Street, not far from where he stood. The bank president had said that Clegg could be counted on to act discreetly and decisively. Right now the lawyer was the best option Logan had. Keeping the ledger in his pocket, with Armitage knowing he had it, was like carrying around a loaded bomb with a burning fuse.

What if Armitage came after him with a gun? Right now, Logan didn’t even have a weapon to defend himself. He’d given his derringer to Emma that morning when she’d left the mine. Little had he known then what awaited him in town.

With a backward glance, he turned the corner
and found Clegg’s office. Unlike much of Park City, the stone-faced building, which also contained offices for a dentist and an engineering firm, looked substantial enough to last into the next millennium. Hopefully a good sign of its stability and security, Logan thought as he opened the oak-framed glass door, crossed the tiled entry and climbed the stairs to Clegg’s second-floor office. A place like this would certainly have a safe where the ledger could be locked away until needed as evidence.

He would try to persuade Clegg to come to the meeting with Armitage. They could let the reporter know what he was facing and, one way or another, put an end to his blackmail. Feeling optimistic, Logan opened the door and walked into the oak-paneled waiting room.

“I need to speak with Mr. Clegg,” he told the young clerk at the desk. “The matter is urgent. Tell him I’m a friend of Phineas Barton’s.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” the clerk replied, “but Mr. Clegg is in Coalville, in county court. If you don’t mind having a seat, he should be back shortly.”

“Shortly?”

“His case was scheduled for eleven o’clock, but he didn’t expect it to take long. His buggy should be on the road by now.”

Logan glanced at the ornate wall clock. The time was coming up on one o’clock. With an impatient sigh, he sank into the rich softness of a leather settee. At least Armitage wouldn’t think to look for him here. But he felt as nervous as a cat on melting ice. He thought of Emma, alone in the house, knowing nothing about what had happened. By now she’d be getting worried. He’d told her not to leave home. But his Emma was a headstrong woman. If she decided to take matters into her own hands…

Too restless to sit still, Logan rose to his feet. “Does Mr. Clegg have a safe? I have something important to give him. If I could lock it up and come back later—”

“Mr. Clegg’s the only one who can open the safe. But if you need to leave, I’ll see that he gets whatever you brought him.”

“Never mind.” Logan shrugged and turned away. No doubt the young fellow would be tempted to peek inside The ledger. Those entries contained enough damning information to set the whole town ablaze. The fewer eyes saw them, the better.

Logan forced himself to take a deep breath and sit down again. His thoughts churned as he watched the hands of the clock crawl past two o’clock. Every instinct screamed the need
to get home to Emma. He wouldn’t put it past Armitage to keep a few hired thugs on call for his dirty work. If they were out there looking for him, she could be in danger, too.

He imagined her alone in the house with nothing but the tiny derringer for defense. If only he’d had a shotgun to give her. Emma wasn’t an expert shot, and the derringer was tricky at best. With a shotgun, even she could blast an intruder to kingdom come.

He would give Clegg another ten minutes. Then, if the lawyer wasn’t back, he’d leave and take the ledger with him. Maybe he could hide the damned thing someplace, or slip into the back of the bank and leave it with Phineas Barton before he headed home. Better yet, if he could get his hands on a gun…

He glanced at the clock again. The hands moved so slowly they appeared to be frozen.

On the far wall was the framed photograph of a tall, light-haired man he assumed to be Andrew Clegg. Dressed in tailored evening clothes, Clegg was holding a champagne glass and standing next to former U.S. President, Chester Arthur. The lawyer moved in powerful circles, Logan reflected. And if this lavishly furnished office was any indication, he had no shortage of money.

Power. Money
.

Logan’s gut clenched as the realization struck home.

Lord help him, it had to be true! The pieces fit too well
not
to be true! But was there any way to be sure?

Assuming a mask of boredom, he rose. “Is there a men’s room handy?” he asked the clerk.

The young man glanced up from his paperwork. “Out that door and down the hall to your right.”

“Thanks.” Heart pounding, Logan followed the directions, entered the gleaming chamber and locked the door behind him. Only then did he remove the ledger from his vest and thumb through the pages. As he’d noticed earlier, Armitage’s record of incoming payments ended near the middle of the book. But he had yet to check the remaining pages, which, until now, he’d assumed to be blank.