The Floor of Heaven (45 page)

It was from McParland. The superintendent, never a man to waste words, was particularly terse even for him: Schell escaped. Apprehend.

Standing by the front desk, Charlie studied the message, poring over the three words as if they contained a hidden clue. But no further information was revealed; only a string of questions took shape.

There was no explanation of how Schell had gotten away. Or when. Or where he’d fled. Charlie had no idea if the fugitive was hiding out in Alaska or had run off to the States. For all Charlie knew, Schell might even be in Vancouver at this very moment. And what was Charlie supposed to do about the case in which he was presently engaged? Abandon it, and chase after Schell? Or would it make more sense, since he was so close, to continue on to Alberni, nab his man, and then proceed to locate Schell? Of course, by then there’d be no telling where Schell might’ve gone. Whatever trail he’d left would’ve surely grown cold. McParland’s instructions were infuriatingly vague. The more Charlie thought it through, the more he began to suspect that this was deliberate. The superintendent was leaving it up to him to decide what to do next.

Charlie mulled the situation. As he did, a series of recollections passed through his memory in a flash: his elation at finally solving the puzzle behind the missing Treadwell gold; the long hunt up and down the Alaska coast in the rainbow canoe; the camp at Chieke Bay where he’d won the confidence of the two thieves; and Schell in handcuffs, the hulking bear of a man surly and defiant, vowing to break out of jail and even the score. And without Charlie’s summoning it, in that same instant another image intruded: Mamie. He’d traveled through a despairing time, but in Alaska he’d managed to reach a reconciliation of sorts with all he had lost. As much as any of the events that had shaped the long case, that struggle, too, had been an indelible part.

There was no point in lingering any longer with these memories, Charlie decided as if jolted. A course of action had become clear. He turned his gaze back toward the hotel clerk. Book me a ticket to Juneau, he ordered. I want to leave as soon as possible.

TWO DAYS later, as a thin drizzle fell and the air held a warmth that confirmed the spring thaw had arrived, Charlie disembarked in Juneau. Walking down the wharf, he recognized that his predicament was troublingly similar to the one he had faced when he’d first arrived in Alaska more than three years ago. Back then he’d come to solve a theft on a island where a robbery was impossible and there were hundreds of suspects. He’d had neither a clue nor a plan. Now he had to find a resourceful escaped convict who could’ve vanished into the deep northern wilderness or, no less likely, hopped a steamer for Seattle. Either way, it’d be a daunting manhunt without a single lead to point him in any direction. And once again, Charlie had no well-thought-out strategy to guide him.

All he’d come up with in the course of the voyage from Vancouver was a notion to start off at the U.S. marshal’s office. He knew that government lawmen dismissed private detectives as nothing but an interfering bunch of amateurs. Even if the marshal had any information, he’d likely be too wary to share it. But it was the only way Charlie could think of getting started. It’d have to do until he came up with a better idea.

As the detective trudged through the mud that covered Front Street, he couldn’t help noticing how much Juneau had changed since his last visit. It was bustling with crowded restaurants and busy supply stores, the good-time music from saloons and dance halls carrying out into the streets, and everywhere he looked there were beaming stampeders, the world their oyster because they were going off to strike it rich in the Yukon gold fields. Charlie had been in Denver when he’d read with interest the first report that a ship carrying a ton of gold had arrived in Seattle. But it was while he was on his way to Gazelle, the sleepy little town in northern California where the sister of the con man who had sold the phony Mexican mine lived, that he’d read the dispatch that had left him truly stunned. It stated that a prospector by the name of George Carmack had started the stampede with his strike on the Klondike River.

Charlie read it through twice and still had trouble believing it. The last time he’d seen Carmack had been on the beach by the Dyea inlet, and the man had been dressed like some ragtag Chinook. Now the paper was saying that Siwash George was a millionaire! Well, if it was true, Charlie reckoned he wouldn’t be one to begrudge Carmack his good fortune. The man had shown up in the nick of time in the stamp room at the Treadwell mine. Wasn’t for Carmack, he wouldn’t be able to draw his old Colt with his right hand. He still owed the man a sizable debt, only there’d be nothing he’d ever be able to do for Carmack now. It seemed that these days the squawman had everything he needed. Well, more power to him, Charlie had silently cheered after reading the news. Since then he hadn’t given Carmack another thought. But being in boomtown Juneau, with the silhouettes of the Treadwell mine buildings looming across the channel, brought the whole episode racing back into his mind. Once again, Charlie felt only a surge of happiness at the thought of Carmack’s incredible success.

These reminiscences quickly receded, however, as the detective approached the marshal’s office. He located the small wood-frame building and strode up to the door. On the steamer, he’d prepared his speech. He’d explain that he was the Pinkerton who had originally arrested Schell and that he was determined to bring him in again. Any information the marshal had on the fugitive’s whereabouts would be much appreciated. That was it, short and sweet. He’d deliver it with a brisk authority, though he was perceptive enough to know that it wouldn’t serve him well if he sounded as if he were making demands. U.S. marshals were as a rule proud, even prickly sorts. If he had to talk taffy to get what he needed, he was prepared to do that, too. The only thing that mattered, he reminded himself, was seeing Schell back behind bars.

But when Charlie walked into the office, he immediately discovered that all his preparations had been unnecessary. Seated behind the desk was Deputy U.S. Marshal Jim Collins, the very man who had been present with him at Chieke Bay to make the arrests.

Was wondering if I’d ever be seeing you again, the old lawman said with a friendly grin as he shook Charlie’s hand.

Gotta say, didn’t expect you here, Charlie replied, silently congratulating himself on this bit of luck. In the course of the Treadwell case, he’d earned the marshal’s respect. He knew he could count on his cooperation in the hunt for Schell.

Charlie pulled up a chair and Collins started in explaining how he’d come to be sitting in this office. With the whole world, or so it seemed, coming north to look for gold, he said, Washington had decided there should be four full-time deputy marshals to watch over things in the Alaska Territory. They’d pulled him off the traveling man-of-war, and he was now assigned to Juneau. Flocks of newcomers are coming off boats every day and getting into all kinds of trouble, the marshal declared. I’ve plenty to keep me busy.

Charlie got the marshal’s drift and put a quick end to the small talk. Without further preliminaries, he asked, What can you tell me about our old friend Hiram Schell?

Not much, the marshal conceded. One day he was in the Sitka pen, the next day he was gone. Best we can figure, he bribed one of the guards. He was always bragging to the prisoners that we’d never recovered all the gold he’d taken from the mine. We know that wasn’t the case, but people down in Sitka had no way of knowing he was gaffing them. Maybe he promised to make some guard rich once he got on the outside. All the guard had to do was leave the cell door open. Or maybe he just walked off when no one was looking. Could be as simple as that. We just don’t know.

Which was damn unhelpful, Charlie thought. Could mean Schell had accomplices on the outside who were hiding him. Or he might be on his own. But Charlie reckoned there was no sense in guessing. All that really mattered was that Schell was at large. Until he found Schell, the details of his escape would remain a mystery.

So Charlie tried another tack. How long has he been on the loose? he asked.

The marshal thought for a moment. Must be more than three weeks by now, he said finally.

That was not what Charlie wanted to hear. With nearly a month’s head start, Schell could be sitting in an igloo up by the Arctic Circle. Or he could be on his way to New York. Or he could still be in Sitka and just keeping his head down.

Got any idea where he might’ve gone? Charlie asked, hoping he didn’t sound too desperate.

The marshal hesitated. No, he said at last.

But, Charlie pressed.

Well, this is just a guess, mind you. But I was a crook on the run, first thing I’d want to do is get some money. And the second thing I’d want is to make sure I was among friends. That no one was gonna come sneaking up to arrest me. Only one place this part of the world where a thief could earn the cash he’d need to buy a steamer ticket, if that was what he was of a mind to do, and not have to worry about the law. It’s no mystery. Seems like every cutthroat and desperado in the West has made a beeline to the same place. All Schell needed to do was join the party.

Charlie had a dozen questions, but now that the marshal was talking he figured he’d do best by not interrupting. So he was surprised when Collins paused in the midst of his monologue to throw out a question.

Ever hear of Soapy Smith? he asked.

I’m based in Denver, Charlie explained. Can’t be a detective in that city without hearing tales of how Mr. Smith had things wrapped up nice and tight for a while. My boss, Superintendent McParland, told me on many occasions that Soapy was the shrewdest operator he’d ever run up against.

Well, the marshal went on, ol’ Soapy Smith and his gang have taken up residence in a little boomtown up the coast. Name of Skagway.

You reckon that’s where Schell is hiding out?

Might very well be, the marshal said. He’d fit in quite well with that pack of thieves. Hell, I’m sure he wouldn’t be the only fugitive in the bunch.

Just up the coast, you say? Charlie said, as if thinking out loud.

Yes, the marshal agreed.

Charlie was quiet for a moment, mulling all he’d just heard. Then he asked, Someone was to go looking for Mr. Schell in Skagway, where’d be a good place to start?

The marshal didn’t have to think to give an answer. Jeff’s Place, he announced in an instant. That’s Soapy’s saloon. You hang out there long enough, more than likely you’ll see every desperado west of the Mississippi come waltzing into the back room to pay homage to King Soapy.

Once again Charlie sat very still for a few moments. When he was satisfied with the plan that was forming in his mind, he spoke. I reckon I know where I’m heading then, Charlie said. Much obliged.

He got up and once again shook the marshal’s hand. He was walking to the door when he turned and asked, Supposing I do find Schell in Skagway. There a marshal in town I can hand him over to?

Yes, Collins answered. Then he hesitated, as if weighing whether to say what was on his mind. I was you, he said at last, I wouldn’t leave Schell in his custody.

Charlie didn’t understand.

You might as well assume any marshal in Skagway is not just employed by the government, Collins explained. He’s also most likely on Soapy Smith’s payroll.

Good to know, said Charlie. And then with a final wave he walked out the door.

THERE’S AN etiquette to standing at a bar. In a trail of cow towns from Dodge City to Tascosa, Charlie had come to learn how a cow-poke handles himself in a strange saloon. You plant your boots about a foot or so apart, lean forward a bit from the shoulders, and keep your eyes fixed on your glass of whiskey. You don’t go looking anybody in the face or striking up a conversation. A man who pays more attention to who’s in the room than to his liquor, or who starts in jawing with someone standing at the bar, is setting himself up for trouble. He’s letting it be known that he’s a lawman come noseying around, or maybe a flimflam artist looking for a mark. Either way, folks aren’t going to take too kindly to him, and that could have some dangerous consequences. In Dodge City one time, Charlie had seen a cowboy get shot just for asking why the lady outside was feeding a couple of doves.

So two nights after his meeting with Marshal Collins, Charlie stood at the mahogany bar in Jeff’s Place with his attention fixed on his glass of Canadian rye. He wasn’t asking any questions, and in case someone came over to say howdy, he was prepared to ignore them.

Charlie’s plan was simple enough, but it would take some time to unfold. Detective work, McParland had often lectured, requires patience, and Charlie was prepared to wait before making any inquiries about Schell. He’d hang out in the saloon for perhaps a week, keeping to himself but letting folks get used to his face. He’d worked out a cover story, the latest in a long list of fanciful biographies he’d adopted in the course of his job, and as the days passed he’d get around to sharing a bit. He’d tell people just enough so that they’d believe he was a Texas outlaw on the run. The name he’d use would be invented, too, another alias dusted off from some distant experience in his rambling life.

Once he was more or less a regular, Charlie predicted, it wouldn’t be long before someone would come up nice and casual and invite him into the back room. Soapy’s always looking for reliable hands, would be the pitch. So he’d share a drink with the great man himself, and if all went well, he’d maybe be offered an opportunity to do a bit of sly work. And by and by, once Charlie had won the confidence of his new friends, he’d happen to ask if anybody had seen his ol’ buddy Hiram Schell. Schell had lent him some money and now that he was flush, he’d like to pay his friend back. Things might get, Charlie knew, a bit scaly; after all, he was setting out to con a passel of con men. But Charlie had been jobbing outlaws for years without getting caught. No reason to think this script wouldn’t play out as written, too. And anyways, he didn’t have a better idea—or, for that matter, another clue other than the name of this saloon.