The Night Visitor (35 page)

Except for his ostrich-skin cowboy boots, the horseman's
outfit was… different. The bareheaded man wore a crisp black tuxedo. Spiffy white boutonniere. Pale yellow silk shirt, with standing collar and French cuffs. Spotless white tie. Dark glasses.

And a very ill-tempered expression.

“Cripes,” Square Head said, “looks like he stepped offa a weddin' cake.”

Soames—in spite of this surprise—remembered where he was. This was America. A former colony, populated with quite peculiar folk. The Brit's mouth twisted into a bitter smile. “I assume, Mr. Briggs, that this nattily attired fellow is your fashion consultant?”

“Dude,” the antiquarian said, “is somewhat eccentric. He insists on dressing formally for any business meeting. I have protested, of course—but he will have his own way.” He sighed wearily. “So I make allowances. Really good accountants are hard to find.”

The Brit raised a querulous eyebrow. “Accountant… you don't say? Keeps your books, does he?”

Briggs shook his head. “Not that kind of accountant. Dude… he
settles
accounts for me.”

Square Head's hand had slipped under his jacket.

“Don't,” Briggs warned.

Too late.

Simultaneously, two things happened.

A short-barreled .38 caliber pistol materialized in Dude's hand. He didn't have time to fire it.

A rifle cracked… A 30-30 slug hummed like a bumblebee barely three inches over Square Head's bald head and did a zinging ricochet off a slab of black stone.

Another man had appeared a few yards to Briggs' right. This one wore a broad-brimmed felt hat and scuffed leather jacket. He stood behind a juniper snag, casually resting a Winchester hunting rifle in its crotch.

“That,” Briggs said, “was Cowboy's warning shot. He is also my accountant. You may wish to know that he can shoot the hind legs off a grasshopper at two hundred yards. I have seen him do it.” This was understood by all to be an exaggeration. But from where Cowboy stood, a quite ordinary
marksman could have put a lead slug into the thug's ear.

Square Head, being not nearly as dumb as he looked, allowed his empty gun hand to drop to his side. “Sheesh,” he grumbled.

Dude dismounted from the chestnut and holstered the .38. Even through the dark glasses, he was staring holes through Square Head.

Square Head, unable to do much else, stared back.

Tony Soames had not expected such thorough preparations from his American counterpart. He had, he admitted to himself, underestimated the vulgar little man. And the value Briggs placed on the Paleolithic blade.

The antiquarian spoke in a consoling tone. “Sorry about this, Mr. Soames. But I did attempt to warn your associate not to make any threatening move.”

The Brit was worse than angry. He was embarrassed. He'd hired the bodyguard from a very reputable family in Philadelphia—mainly as protection for the cash he transported in the briefcase. He had enough—he thought—to buy the McFain blade. And several other artifacts and works of art. But he'd overplayed his hand by bringing along this gun for hire. And threatening Ralph Briggs. So it was the American's party now. “Where do we go from here?”

“Do you wish to take part in the auction?”

Soames hesitated, then nodded.

Briggs adopted a conciliatory tone. “Then I suggest that we forget the recent unpleasantness—call it a communications problem. Seeing that you wish to participate in the auction of this unique and fabulous artifact, you may do so. But I must make a firm condition.”

“Which is?”

“To avoid any repetition of this unfortunate misunderstanding, you must dismiss your enthusiastic employee from these proceedings. I suggest that he return to your automobile. It is hard to concentrate with bullets flying—and one can never quite predict the outcome of violent acts. I am a man of some standing in my community; it would be inconvenient for me to explain the violent demise of your associate. Or… of yourself.”

“I do see your point, Mr. Briggs.” At a nod from the Brit, Square Head ground his teeth. And growled. But he departed.

Briggs popped a delicious Mexican strawberry into his mouth. “You will be able to contact your client by telephone?”

Tony Soames nodded. The prince—who knew when the meeting was scheduled—would be on hand for a call. Just in case something came up. Something had. He nodded to indicate the Town Car. “I have a telephone in the automobile.”

“You need not trek back to your car; Dude has already made arrangements for communications.”

Soames glanced without malice at the rifleman in the cowboy hat, then at the man in the tuxedo. “I was wondering whether you had another armed cowboy …” he glanced at Dude's spotless tuxedo, “… or perhaps another head-waiter… skulking out there somewhere behind a rock.”

“Perish the thought, sir. With what I have to pay these very able fellows, a modest entrepreneur like myself can hardly afford a
third
accountant.” Briggs glanced worriedly at his pocket watch, then produced a pair of identical cell phones from the picnic basket. He offered one to his guest, which was graciously accepted. The antiquarian smiled sweetly at the Brit. “Now… do you wish to make a serious opening bid?”

Soames did not hesitate. “One hundred thousand.” Oddly, the figure warmed him. This was the big time.

The antiquarian stubbed out his imported cigar onto a pitted boulder. “That is, at least, a respectful beginning. I will make my call.” He pressed a series of buttons on the cellular telephone. There was a delay of perhaps twenty seconds. They seemed like as many minutes to Tony Soames.

Finally, Briggs spoke. “Oh, good day.” A pause. “Yes, that's right… no, it's not daytime there, is it? Ha Ha.” A shorter pause. “Certainly I have it. You've received the photos, I take it? Yes. Very good. Well—the thing is—I do have a competing proposition from another party. One hundred thousand. American dollars, of course.” He chuckled, as if embarrassed to report this paltry offer. “I mention this just to get the ball rolling, as we say. A representative of the other buyer is with me. I am awaiting your bid.”

There was a pause, while Briggs nodded at the unseen person. “Yes.” Another pause. “Yes, certainly.” He turned to Soames. “Two hundred thousand dollars.”

Soames wiped a clean linen handkerchief across his forehead, and sat down heavily on the basalt outcropping. The Brit dialed a long string of numbers. Within moments, he smiled weakly. “Hello. Yes, it's me.” A pause. “Yes sir. I'm here in the States… no, I have not yet finalized the transaction… well, it's a matter of price. I only learned of it a few minutes ago, but it seems that we must… ahhh… bid.” He listened to the Arab, and swallowed hard. “Two hundred thousand… yes sir… American dollars. Yes, I understand. Please hold, sir.” He turned to Briggs and cleared his throat. “We bid three hundred thousand.”
Stick that in your ear, Yank.

The antiquarian sighed, as if this was such a tedious business. He put his ear to the small telephone. “Hello… are you still there? Good. The bid is three hundred thousand. Do you have a response? Very good.” Briggs glanced at the Brit. “Three hundred and fifty thousand.”

Tony Soames shook his head in dismay. “I rather doubt that my client will …”

Briggs smiled a malicious smile. “Three hundred and fifty thousand, Mr. Soames. Going… going …”

Soames abruptly raised his hand; he spoke into the telephone receiver. “Sir… the bid is three hundred and fifty. I believe that four hundred thousand would probably… Yes sir. That will, of course, practically deplete the cash reserves I have on hand. It will be necessary for you to wire sufficient funds for our other business… yes, of course. Will you please hold the line?” Having recovered much of his dignity, he smirked at Ralph Briggs. “My client will go four hundred thousand. But not one dollar more. This is absolutely his final bid.”

Briggs nodded, and spoke into the telephone. “The other party has offered four hundred thousand. Would you wish to go… say four hundred and fifty?” He shook his head. “No, I'm also truly sorry. But I do understand. Yes, I agree… if the transaction based on the competing bid should not be consummated for any reason—I'll most certainly inform you.
And you'll have the item for your bid of three hundred and fifty. In any case, I'm sure we will do some very interesting business in the future. I have a newly-discovered piece of Mimbres pottery that is absolutely breathtaking. The bowl is sixteen inches across… a black lizard with red eyes curled up on the inside. Yes… of course I'll send photos along forthwith. Good-bye, old friend.” He pressed the OFF button and turned to Soames. “It seems,” he said, “you have purchased a most remarkable artifact for your client.”

Soames spoke into the telephone receiver. “The transaction is agreed upon. Shall I proceed with the exchange?” A brief pause, a useless nod to the man on the opposite side of the globe. “Very good, sir. Yes sir. I will. Good-bye.”

Soames returned the telephone to Briggs. He squatted, turned five discs on a combination lock, then opened the briefcase. He began to place bundles of greenbacks on the folding lid of the picnic basket.

The man in the tuxedo came near, to watch the count. When it was done, and at a nod from Briggs, Dude picked up a bundle. He tore off the paper band, and selected several hundred-dollar bills at random. They looked quite new. He rubbed his thumb across the surface. No ink smudge. That was good. Holding the bills up to the sunlight, he inspected them with considerable care.

Soames—insulted by this precaution—was tight-lipped with rage.

“Nothing personal,” Briggs said in a consoling tone, “just normal business practice. My accountant,” he said like a proud father, “is an A-number-one expert in funny money. Dude once worked on a fake-twenties dodge in Oak Park. That's in Illinois.”

“The bills,” Soames said sourly, “are quite genuine.”

Dude grunted, and nodded his agreement with this statement.

Ralph Briggs placed the cash in the picnic basket and closed the lid. “That seems to complete our business.”

Tony Soames wrapped the beautiful flint blade in the silk cloth and placed it in the rosewood box. He gave Ralph Briggs an oddly suspicious look. “I have a feeling, old boy, that you've gotten the best of me on this transaction.”

“Not at all,” Briggs said in a consoling tone, “this is a win-win deal, Mr. Soames. Your client has got what he lusted after. I have my ten percent. And you will undoubtedly be well-paid for your successful effort.”

“Yes,” Soames said with a trace of bitterness, “so I shall.” Exactly half what this American toad had made on the deal.

Ralph Briggs waited until Tony Soames' Town Car was a black speck in the distance before he spoke. “Well, fellows—that was the most fun I've had since me and sister Tabitha put the tadpole in Aunt Tillie's mint tea.”

Dude scowled at the man called Cowboy. “Well, I'm glad it's done. I ain't slept two hours in the past two days. I had to ride out here on a horse,” he rubbed his sore butt, “and I don't much like riding horses.” He turned his frown on the antiquarian. “You sure played that one close to the edge, Briggs. Couple of times, I thought sure you'd blown it. Like when you turned your nose up at twenty-five thousand and told him to take a hike. But you sure had him figured right …”

“I am quite good at what I do,” the antiquarian said with disarming candor.

“And when you called that other rich buyer and started the auction …”

“Oh that,” Briggs said with a dismissive wave. “Merely a bluff.”

Dude's eyes narrowed to thin blue slits. “Bluff? You mean there wasn't any other buyer …”

“Certainly not. I dialed the Time and Temperature number. Twelve twenty-nine
P.M
., fifty-two degrees Fahrenheit.” Briggs lit a new cigar; the bachelor smiled his fatherly smile at the younger man. “If you are to succeed in your field of chosen endeavor, you must be prepared to take risks.”

Cowboy decided that he admired the dapper little man. This one had a peck of gravel in his craw.

A stiff breeze whipped up dust and bits of other stuff.

Dude flicked away a green inchworm who was busily occupied with the task of measuring the length of his tuxedo sleeve. “Well, it turned out okay.”

“Indeed. I'm forty thousand dollars richer than I was this
morning.” The antiquarian danced a light-footed little jig. “Whoever said that crime doesn't pay?”

“I'd like to be a fly on the wall,” Cowboy said slowly, “if the buyer ever wises up… That British fella's likely to be in deep trouble.”

Ralph Briggs chuckled. “Yes… isn't it just
delicious?”
What a grand day it had been!

And then Briggs' worry-genes kicked in. What if—against all odds—Tony Soames
did
find out he'd been had… and came back to town with a whole gang of Square Heads—armed with Winchester carbines… Colt Peacemakers… Arkansas toothpicks? And what if Dude and Cowboy were not at hand to back him up? The townsfolk would be of no help. Leave now with your new bride, Marshal—it's best for you and best for the town. Nosir, we don't want no more killins 'round these parts. Bad for business.

Well, he knew damn well what he'd do. At ten minutes before high noon, he'd kiss Grace Kelly good-bye. Put her pretty self on the buckboard
SEAT
, slap the horse's sweaty rump with his hat. Watch her leave… maybe for the last time.

Then he'd roll the cylinder on his well-oiled Colt and check each cartridge. Stick the cold eight-inch barrel under his belt And… all alone… walk down the dusty street.

Toward the train depot.

And
destiny.

“Let 'em come,” he said in a slow drawl.