The Great West Detective Agency (3 page)

The deafened cowboy and his partner set out down the street, leaving the rancher and his whining conscience behind. Lucas considered a shot to put the rancher out of his misery, when he heard the scrawny ranch hand's complaints.

“Boss, what you gonna tell the missus? She's not gonna take it good you lost the Rolling J in a poker game.”

“I didn't lose it. He cheated me out of it. He was dealing off the bottom of the deck. You saw him. You saw that, didn't you, Justin?”

The rancher thrust out his belly and bumped against the skinny man, shoving him into the middle of the street. A distant gas lamp provided enough illumination for Lucas to get a good shot at the rancher. He lifted his Colt New Line, steadied his hand against the door frame, and put his thumb on the hammer to draw it back for the shot. Just as he would have taken the shot, the other cowboy, Relf, stepped around and provided inadvertent cover for his employer. Lucas relaxed his trigger finger because this situation was handled by a better tactic than gunning down the rancher's hired hands. Cut the head off a snake and the body dies. If he took out the rancher, his wranglers would light out running and never stop.

Lucas wasn't a cold-blooded killer, but circumstances sometimes dictated the way he had to behave. Odds were better shooting the rancher than letting him go on his merry way.

He swallowed hard. The rancher's idea of merry entailed a necktie party if he didn't get his deed back. Since Lucas had lost it to someone he hardly remembered—the cards were vivid in his mind, the other gambler less so—he was in no position to turn over the deed. He couldn't even tell the rancher where to find the man who now boasted of owning the Rolling J.

The way the cards had turned that night, the deed might have changed hands a half dozen more times.

“Jist tell her you don't know how that fella got the paper,” Justin said.

“He's not likely to ride up all alone. He'll have Sheriff Gonzales with him.”

“Gonzales hates your guts after you—”

“Shut up. You're not telling me anything I don't know. That's the reason that gambler'll take possession of the ranch with the law backing him up.”

“Well, if we jist kill him, that'll be all right, won't it?”

The rancher muttered and paced about, casting a long, dancing shadow from the distant streetlamp.

“Hell, I don't know. Why'd you let me do a damned fool thing like betting the ranch? You know how I get when I've been drinking.”

“You said you couldn't lose.”

“He cheated me. That's the only explanation. I can get Judge Setrakian to swear out an arrest warrant. That'll hammer a bung into his hole for sure.”

“The judge is on the far side of the Front Range. It's two days back, maybe three if we haul our supplies, too.”

“I'll haul something and it won't be supplies.”

Lucas lowered his pistol and tried to will himself invisible. The rancher peered straight at him. The heavy shadows hid him from all but an owl's eyesight.

“He must have gone down this alley. Where else could he have gone?”

“I don't know, boss. He—”

“Down this alley. Shoot anything that moves.”

To emphasize his point, the rancher triggered another round. The slug struck brick and whined away into the darkness. Lucas couldn't keep from flinching. He straightened and hoped that he hadn't been spotted. The rancher left him no choice but to shoot his way out.

As he raised his Colt, a shout came from the far end of the alley.

“Ain't down here, boss.”

Lucas almost choked as his gorge rose and clogged his throat. The other two cowboys were coming from the opposite end of the alley. He was caught between the two pairs of men. He suddenly knew how a walnut in a nutcracker felt. They had him boxed in, and shooting his way out with such a puny pistol gave him terrible odds.

Footsteps from both directions came closer to his hiding place.

B
ullets or edged words weren't going to save him. Lucas looked up and saw no chance of getting to the roof of the building or the one on the other side of the alley. He spun and tried the doorknob. Locked. With the sounds of footsteps coming toward him from each end of the alley, he dropped to his knees and pressed his face close to the lock. Deftly taking two slender steel strips from his collar—no need for collar stays if he ended up in a coffin—he probed about inside the lock.

If it had been more complex, he would have been caught. As the rancher came within a few paces of the door, Lucas slipped the lock, spun about, and leaned heavily on the door. Lifting one foot, he pressed it against the door. Every screech of unoiled hinges and feel of air from inside the building gusting past caused him to cringe. The door clicked shut as the four in the alley converged.

Lucas spun about, not caring if he ruined his pants, and pressed his back against the door. He reached up in time to grab the doorknob as someone outside checked to see if it was locked. Lucas's palm was sweaty, and hanging on to the knob caused a strain all the way up into his shoulder, but he hung on for dear life.

Muffled words came to him through the thick wood door.

“He didn't go inside. The door's locked. You idiots sure he didn't get past you?”

“Aw, boss, nuthin' got by us. You're always bad-mouthin' me and Relf and we about had the most of it.”

Lucas heard inarticulate shouts that faded. The four men walked out of the alley, going back toward the street. He gave a huge shudder, then laughed in relief. He pulled off his bowler hat and tossed it onto the floor in front of him. Eyes closed, he banged his head against the door a few times to convince himself he had survived. After swiping sweat from his forehead, he got his legs under him and stood. Finding his knees unusually shaky, he braced himself for a moment until the last vestiges of panic disappeared. He lived by his wits. Avoiding shoot-outs with irate ranchers was a far superior course of action than shooting it out.

When his hands no longer shook, he bent over and used his two steel strips to lock the door. He felt safer with the bolt once more thrown. Any of the men on his trail could break the door down with a single kick, but it gave him a sense of safety nonetheless.

False security could be more dangerous than none at all, but Lucas willingly accepted whatever flimsy ward against confrontation he could find.

He edged through the darkness and found shelves with supplies. Working more with his nimble fingers than sight, he rummaged through some of the boxes. Lucas recoiled when he touched something big and hairy in one. He held the box at arm's length and moved to a doorway leading to a small office. Light from a gas lamp down the street filtered in to let him see what he had found.

He frowned as he held up a handful of hair. Instead of a scalp taken in battle, he held a theatrical wig. He had seen a fine production of
The Tempest
at the Broadway Theater with less expensive wigs. Poking through the box revealed tubes of theatrical makeup and things that would do Carmela Thompson proud. Sliding the box back onto a shelf, he looked around the storeroom, thinking he had broken into a theatrical agent's office.

The contents of the other boxes puzzled him. He found envelopes filled with dust. Running some between his thumb and forefinger told him it was grainier than ordinary sand, but not enough to be specially marked. Tapping out some into his palm and holding it up showed no telltale glitter as he would expect from gold. Whoever ran this office seemed to keep worthless dust. The other boxes contained nothing more than office supplies and several different styles of shirts.

Lucas examined the clothing with a jaundiced eye. For every expensive shirt, there were two work shirts. Checked flannel more in keeping with a miner's outfit was stuffed in with denim shirts he had seen worn by railroad workers. The one frilly-fronted starched dress shirt worthy of a high-society cotillion was two sizes too small for him. He left the clothing and other odds and ends and went into the main office.

Two desks almost filled the room to overflowing. A tall wooden file cabinet between them had a drawer partially opened. Lucas idly leafed through the files inside, not bothering to read any of them. Whatever went on here no longer interested him. He had spent enough time for the rancher and his hired hands to have retreated to a saloon to continue their bender. Or since dawn challenged the feeble gas lamps out in the street, they should be feeling hunger pangs and need breakfast. This was the situation Lucas found himself in.

A night of drinking, even moderately as he did, was no substitute for solid food. He went to the front door and tested the knob. It was securely locked. He pulled the slender steel strips out and began fiddling with the lock. More complicated than the back door, this lock finally yielded to his skill. He had apprenticed himself to a locksmith for almost eight months to get a steady income and a place to sleep as he gained experience gambling. This had worked out well for him on both counts. There were few locks he could not understand and open quickly. And he had learned odds and reading people over the long nights spent gambling.

The door opened and Lucas stepped out. He froze. Then he slowly backed into the office again and silently closed the door. When the rancher and his right-hand man marched past, Lucas sank down below the plate glass in the door. From this angle the rising sun caught gold letters and turned them into a flaming banner. He read backward.

GREAT WEST DETECTIVE AGENCY.

He had burgled the office of a detective. That explained the wig and the different styles of shirts. The operative fancied himself some kind of Allan Pinkerton, wearing disguises as he went about his investigation. From the simple furniture and sparsity of decorations, the detective—the Great West Detective Agency detective—wasn't rolling in the money.

Like a prairie dog, Lucas popped up, looked around, saw his enemy, and sank back. The rancher was nothing if not persistent. Lucas fancied himself to have that trait, but he saw how it could be difficult for others to endure. He wished the rancher would give up and go home.

Legs pulled up, he put his head on his knees for just a moment, then came awake with a start. He had dozed off. From the look of the sunlight causing the lettering to form a banner of shadows across the far wall over the desk, he had been asleep for a half hour. Another quick look outside showed more people stirring now. Denver was waking and commerce began.

He saw nothing of the rancher or his three cowboys. Heaving a sigh, he opened the door and stepped out to take a deep breath. It felt good to be alive. He pulled the door shut behind him, then froze when a sharp command pinned him to the spot.

“Stop!”

He moved his hand to the bulge where his Colt was stashed. Lucas half turned, then forgot the pistol and instead concentrated on getting his clothing in as good order as possible. The woman rushing toward him had a most delightful bustle. Raven-wing dark hair had been tucked under a wide-brimmed hat more suitable for a day in the country than business in the city, but the rest of her outfit had cost a pretty penny. The fine material flowed about her, hinting at the outline of the well-curved corset beneath, the skirts whispered sweet nothings, and her petite shoes clicked rapidly against the cobblestones.

“Don't go. I need to speak to you!”

Lucas made certain she spoke to him. He touched the brim of his bowler hat and bowed slightly.

“How may I be of service, miss?”

“Don't close your office. Not yet.” She pouted. A strand of black hair like delicately spun midnight drifted across her bright blue eyes. She brushed it away without noticing she did so. Lowering her chin, she looked up at him. “Please. I need your expertise.”

Lucas silently pushed the door open and ushered her into the office. He grabbed a chair and held it for her. A hint of perfume caused his nostrils to expand in appreciation.

“Spikenard,” she said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“My perfume. Men always notice it. It is made from a plant found only in Nepal, in the Himalayas.”

“A very rare scent, to be sure. It fits you.”

“How do you mean?” She looked at him and batted her eyes, the long dark lashes moving seductively.

“A rare perfume for a woman of rare beauty.” He flashed her a smile that melted feminine hearts. She smiled almost shyly, but a sadness tinged the woman's bow-shaped lips.

“I feared I would miss you when I saw you leaving.”

“For you, I will stay open around the clock.”

Lucas forced himself not to reach for his watch to check the time. The real detective and owner of the agency would show up anytime now. The streets showed the traffic expected in a thriving frontier town and the capital of a newly minted state. More riders went in the direction of the capitol building than otherwise, but heavily laden wagons began the daily deliveries necessary to feed thirty thousand residents. So much activity meant any self-respecting businessman would be out and about in it to rustle up the most revenue possible.

“You are so kind. I am sure I am keeping you from very important work.”

“Not at all,” Lucas said. “How can I assist you?”

“Well, sir—”

“Lucas Stanton,” he said, immediately realizing it wasn't smart to give her his real name. “Rather, you can call me that since, of course, I often use assumed names to solve my clients' cases.” He had learned to stop yammering when he realized how badly he floundered with a lie. He did so now. He leaned back and made a gesture that he hoped kept her talking so he didn't have to.

“I am Amanda Baldridge.” She sat primly, with her hands folded in her lap and eyes downcast.

“Miss Baldridge, I—”

“Please, call me Amanda. My needs are so . . . personal. Such familiarity—and may I call you Lucas?—puts me more at ease over a most disturbing matter.”

“Lucas is fine,” he said. “What is the nature of this problem?”

“He was kidnapped!”

Lucas sat up. He had not expected anything serious.

“A missing person is best dealt with by the Denver police. They have the manpower to conduct a real search.”

“I went to them immediately and a sergeant at the front desk was very rude to me. He laughed, then threatened to have me thrown out!”

Lucas understood a lawman wanting to wrap his arms around such a delightful package as presented by Amanda Baldridge. He frowned a little when he came to the quick conclusion there was more than the woman was telling.

“Who is this missing gentleman? How long has it been since the kidnapping?”

“Yesterday morning,” she said, taking a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbing at her eyes. For the life of him, Lucas saw no tears yet the woman sniffed and continued to brush her eyes, carefully avoiding any ruin to her makeup.

“Why don't you give me the full details?”

“Are you going to write all this down?” She looked at the bare desk. Not even pen and ink marred the vast expanse of polished wood.

Lucas tapped the side of his head and smiled in encouragement. Amanda nodded in understanding.

“When I awoke yesterday morning, he was gone. He is always beside me in bed, under the covers.”

Lucas listened less to what she said now and concentrated more on her lovely features. Although she didn't wear a wedding ring, that meant little in these modern times. What distressed him was the longing in her voice for her missing paramour.

“I thought he had gone outside for breakfast.”

“Outside?”

“If I haven't prepared something special for him, he goes out to kill something. He's so cute.”

“Your husband is cute when he is killing?”

Amanda looked up, startled. Then she smiled wanly and dabbed away some more nonexistent tears.

“He is not my husband, Lucas. I cannot imagine what you were thinking! He is my puppy. Tovarich is a Russian wolfhound.”