The Reluctant Pinkerton (26 page)

“You’re right,” Roper said. “I can’t prove that you’ve been behind all the sabotage, the fire, the murder of Walt Henderson—who, by the way, was a stock detective. But I’m here to tell you that doesn’t matter.”

“Is that a fact?” Brewster said. “And why is that?”

“Because I don’t have to prove it to the law,” Roper said. “That wasn’t my job.”

Now Brewster frowned, a bit confused.

“What was you job, then?”

“Just to find out who was behind it all,” Roper said, “and I have. You.”

“So what are you going to do now?” Louise asked.

“I’m going to leave,” Roper said. “I just wanted you to know that I knew.”

“That’s it?” Louise asked. “Who are you going to tell?”

“Do you mean am I going to tell your husband about you and Brewster?”

“She doesn’t care about that,” Brewster said. “She’s done with that loser anyway. No, she wants to know who you intend to tell about me.”

“Just the people who hired me.”

“And who was that?” Louise asked.

“The Pinkertons,” Roper said. “What they do with the information is their business.”

“Cullen,” Louise gasped, dropping her cigarette, “kill him! You can’t let him leave!”

Roper looked at Brewster, knew he had a gun beneath his arm.

“Go ahead, Brewster,” Roper said, “pull that hogleg. Let’s do it like the Old West.”

There was a tense moment, and then Brewster slowly raised his hands and said, “Uh-uh. I’m not going to let you kill me.”

“Kill him!” Louise yelled.

“Shut up, Louise!” Brewster shouted. “He can’t prove a thing.”

Roper backed toward the door so that Brewster was not tempted to shoot him in the back. As he went down the steps outside, a smile played about his mouth, because he knew all he had to do was tell the Pinkertons what he knew. They had their own bully boys for the rest of the job. Taking care of Brewster didn’t have to be legal. It just had to be done.

Roper lied.

He didn’t just tell the Pinkertons.

He told Harold Kalish at the Cattleman’s Club.

“Sonofabitch,” Kalish said.

It was early the next morning and Lester the doorman had shown Roper right in to see Kalish. He had already sent a telegram to William Pinkerton.

“Can we prove it?” Kalish asked.

“Not legally,” Roper said, “and he knows that. Oh, I could probably work on it a lot longer, but I’m already on to something else.”

“What’s more important?” Kalish asked.

“Murder.”

Kalish frowned. “Yes, I suppose it is.”

“The Pinkertons will take care of Brewster,” he said. “Or you could do it yourself.”

“How?”

“Take away all his power,” Roper said. “Get together with the others, and kick him out.”

“That would…that would kill him,” Kalish said.

“Yes, I know,” Roper said. “With men like that, it’s
always about power. Not having power, that’s the worst thing for them.”

“By God,” Kalish said, “we’ll do it.” He extended his hand to Roper. “Thank you, sir.”

Roper shook his hand and said, “Believe me, it was my pleasure.”

“So I suppose you’ll be leaving town?”

“In a couple of days,” Roper said. “I still have a loose end or two to tie up.”

*   *   *

His next stop was the law office of William Catlin.

“It’s good to see you,” Catlin said as Roper sat. The office was modest, to say the least, but that was okay. “You’re looking prosperous, Andy.”

“Not Andy,” Roper said. “My name is Talbot Roper, and I’m about to do something that may lead me to need a lawyer. If I get caught.”

“Then you came to the right place,” Catlin said. “Tell me about it.”

*   *   *

And he also told one other person.

Detective Cole joined Roper at the table in the small café where they’d last had coffee together.

“We’ve got nothing on Bonner for the murder of Nancy and the other girl,” Cole said.

“What about Jessup?” Roper asked.

“Even less.”

“Can’t touch them, huh?”

“Nope. What about you. How’s your case going?”

“I solved it.”

“You did? Who’s the guy?”

“Cullen Brewster.”

Cole sat back in his chair and said, “The Cattleman’s Club guy?”

“That’s right.”

“Sabotage, arson…”

“…and murder.”

“Just tell me what proof you got and I’ll arrest him,” Cole said.

“No legal proof,” Roper said. “I just know he did it.”

“Not by himself.”

“No, I’m sure he used Bonner, and probably Jessup.”

“But you’ve got nothing legal.”

“Nope.”

“Then I can’t act.”

“That’s okay,” Roper said. “Like I told Brewster, it wasn’t my job to get him arrested, just to find out who was behind it all. And I did.”

“And told the others at the Club?”

“I did.”

“And the Pinkertons?”

“Yes.”

“But…they’ll kill him,” Cole said. “The Pinkertons, I mean. They’re not above…murder.”

“No, they’re not,” Roper said, “but nobody can prove that.”

“No, they can’t,” Cole said. “I guess nobody can prove anything.”

“No.”

“But somehow,” Cole said, “I think it’ll all get taken care of.”

“Yes,” Roper said. “It will.”

*   *   *

Aaron Bonner closed the safe in his office and spun the dial. It had been a long day. The saloon was empty and everyone had gone home. As soon as he got his payoff from Brewster—and he, in turn, paid off Jessup—he’d have the money to open his new place, and it would put the White Elephant to shame.

He stood up, turned, and stopped short when he saw Roper.

“Wha—What the hell are you doing here?” he demanded.
He eyed the top drawer of his desk, where he’d just put his gun.

“We have unfinished business.”

“We—what business do we have?”

“Nancy Ransom,” Roper said, “and a girl named Dol.”

“Dol?”

“You killed one or both of them. Whichever one you didn’t kill, your man Jessup did.”

Roper took out his gun.

“Wait, wait,” Bonner said, “Jessup did it. He killed ’em both.”

“On your order.”

“Never,” Bonner said, “I never—it was Brewster. See, he owns this place, not me. I’m just a front for him.”

“But a man like you always has his own plans,” Roper said. “At some point you’d double-cross Brewster, if you got the chance. Well, you’re not going to get that chance.”

Bonner was breathing so hard he was starting to hyperventilate. He clutched his chest, staggered, grabbed the edge of his desk, and then went for the drawer with the gun in it. He got it open, got his hand on the gun, and Roper—glad Bonner had made the attempt—shot him.

“No, no,” Bonner said, slumping to the floor. “Not fair…not…I was gonna open a place…a new place…”

Roper stood over him and said, “No new place for you, Bonner,” and shot him again.

Socorro, Mexico

Three months later…

Roper rode into Socorro on his rented horse. His saddle and horse were still back in Denver, where he had not yet returned. He had left Fort Worth when he realized Hoke Jessup had fled, for whatever reason. Maybe he thought the law would be after him after what happened to Bonner and Brewster.

Roper took to the trail, tracking Jessup, always a step or two behind him. But he finally got the word that Jessup was in Socorro. He only hoped he would still be there when he arrived.

It took him two days since the word had reached him. He had ridden day and night, because Dol Bennett deserved no less. The girl should never have died.

Socorro was like most border towns, with adobe buildings, dusty streets, both American and Mexican citizens. And people passing through, on the way from or to the United States.

He felt years older when he got off his horse in Socorro
in front of a cantina. He tied the horse off and went inside, ordered a cold
cerveza
.

He was halfway through the beer when a man wearing a badge sidled up next to him. He had a sombrero hanging behind his back and a badge on his chest that had no writing or etching on it. He was a portly man with a quick, ready smile which revealed teeth of silver, gold, and yellow.

“Welcome to Socorro,
señor
,” the man said.

“Thank you.”

“I am
el jefe
here,
señor
—how you say in your country—the sheriff.”

“Good for you.”

“May I ask,
señor
, why you are here?”

“Sure,” Roper said, having no reason to lie, “I’m looking for a man. I’ve been looking for him for three months.”

“Ah,” the sheriff said, “
Señor
Jessup.”

“That’s right. Is he still here?”

“Still here,
señor
,” the man said, “and very, very tired of running. He had been running from you, no?”

“I hope so.”

“Well, he will run no more,” the sheriff said.

“You have him in your jail?”

“Oh, no,
señor
,” the sheriff said, “he has broken no law here. But he and I, we have become
simpatico
, we have talked.”

“You made friends with him?” Roper asked, surprised.

“Well, I am a friendly man,
señor
,” the lawman said. “What can I tell you?”

“You can tell me where he is.”

“He is waiting,
señor
,” the sheriff said. “He has been here waiting for perhaps a week.”

“Where is he…exactly?”

“I will take you.”

“And I will let you take me,” Roper said, “but if this is an ambush—”

“
Señor
,” the sheriff said reproachfully, “I would not take part in such a thing. And I do not take sides in the disputes of others. I am simply delivering a message,”

“All, right,” Roper said, putting his beer mug on the bar. “Lead the way.”

“Sí, señor,”
the sheriff said. “Come with me. I will take you to him.”

*   *   *

Roper left his horse in front of the cantina and followed the sheriff on foot. The portly man led him to the end of town, perhaps the very last building.

“He is in there,
señor
.”

“Doing what?”

“Drinking,” the sheriff said, “preparing to kill, or be killed.”

“Just like that?”

“Señor,”
the sheriff said, “you have chased him for many months. A man, he becomes tired of running, no?”

“He becomes tired, yes,” Roper said. “Now you deliver a message for me. Tell him I’m out here.”

“Sí, señor,”
the man said, “that was my intention.”

The portly man hurried into the small, run-down building. Roper didn’t know if it was a cantina, or somebody’s house—he just cared that Jessup was inside. And that he was coming out. He was still wary, though, of a possible ambush.

The sheriff came hurrying out and said to Roper, “He is coming,
señor
. I wish you luck. I, uh, will stand aside, if you do not mind.”

“I don’t mind.”

The sheriff hurried off to one side just as Jessup appeared in the doorway. He was a bleary-eyed, disheveled mess, and Roper knew he looked much the same.

“Roper,” Jessup said.

“Jessup.”

The killer stepped out into the open. He wore his gun low on his right hip. He had long arms.

“All this for some little saloon girl?” he asked. “You been doggin’ me all this time—”

Roper drew and fired. His bullet hit Jessup in the chest
and the man’s eyes went wide. His mouth opened, but no sound came out, and then he slumped to the ground. Roper was not a gunfighter; he wasn’t a fast draw. Jessup might have been. Roper couldn’t take the chance.

As he holstered his gun, the sheriff ran to Jessup, checked his body, then walked to Roper.

“You gave him no chance,
señor
.”

“No,” Roper said, “no chance at all.”

He walked back to his horse.

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