The Reluctant Pinkerton (3 page)

“Jesus,” Stu said, “it stinks in here. Open that door and let’s air it out.”

“I don’t smell nothin’,” Ned said.

“That’s cause most of the smell is comin’ from your feet.”

Ned didn’t reply, but got up and walked to the door.

*   *   *

Roper decided to go straight in.

He and Sheriff Howard reached the outskirts of the grounds around the house, where the sheriff could remain hidden behind some trees while Roper approached the house.

Just as Roper was reaching the house, the front door suddenly opened and one man appeared there. Roper stopped, caught with no place to go, and the two men stared at each other.

Damn
, he thought.

Roper heard the man call to his brother Stu, which made this Ned. He was mindful of what the sheriff had told him, that it was Ned who was the gunman.

Talbot Roper was not a gunman, he was a detective. He knew how to use a gun, but he was not a fast draw. He left that to the Hickoks and Mastersons. But he had something else that served him well against faster men—he was cool, and he was accurate.

The second man joined the first at the door, and they stared at Roper.

“Hey, boys,” Roper said. “Did you get the news?”

“What news?” Stu asked.

“Your brother’s in jail, along with his two friends,” Roper said.

“In jail?” Ned asked. “What are you talkin’ about?”

“They’re under arrest.”

“What for?”

“Bank robbery and murder, in Wyoming.”

“Frank wouldn’t dare,” Stu said.

“Who?” Roper asked.

“The sheriff,” Stu said. “He wouldn’t dare arrest them. He’s got no jurisdiction.”

“He didn’t arrest them.”

“Then who did?”

“I did.”

“Who the hell are you?”

“The name’s Talbot Roper.”

“What the—” Ned started, but Stu stopped him, said something in his ear. Roper had the feeling Stu Milligan knew his name. After all, he was supposed to be the brains.

“Whaddaya want here?” Ned asked.

“I’m taking you two in, as well,” Roper said.

“You ain’t a lawman,” Ned said.

“I don’t have to be,” Roper said. “I was hired by the town of Rockwell to bring you boys back.”

“The whole town?” Stu asked.

“The whole town.”

The Milligans stepped out of the doorway onto the porch and moved apart so they wouldn’t be in each other’s way. There had been one moment when Roper could have taken them in the doorway, when they were standing too close together, but the moment had passed.

“You got one chance, Roper,” Stu said. “Right here. And after we kill you, we’ll go get Terry out of the jail.”

Roper kept his eyes on Ned. He would move first.

“Hold it, boys,” Sheriff Howard said. “I can’t let you do this.”

All three men looked over at Howard, who had come from Roper’s right with his gun out. He had the Milligans covered.

“Stay outta this, Frank,” Stu said.

There it was again, Roper thought. Stu Milligan called the sheriff “Frank.” He now knew where he had seen the man before.

“Can’t do that, Stu,” the lawman said. “You boys are gonna have to drop your guns.”

“Let us do this,” Ned said. “Us against him. It’s only fair.”

Sheriff “Howard” looked at Roper.

“I’m no fool,” Roper said. “You’ve got the drop on them, Sheriff.”

“We ain’t droppin’ our guns,” Stu said, “so you’re gonna have to shoot…Sheriff.”

Roper still kept his eyes on Ned. He knew they meant what they said. They weren’t giving up. The sheriff might take Stu—who was between the lawman and Ned—but Roper was going to have to take Ned.

“All right,” Roper said. “Now you’ve got one chance, boys.”

“No chance—” Ned said, and went for his gun.

Roper drew, but knew Ned had him beat. He heard the shot, felt a bullet tug at his shirtsleeve. When he fired, it was with a steady hand and great confidence. He put a bullet right in Ned’s chest before the man could fire again.

He was aware of the other shots, but dared not take his eyes from Ned until the man hit the ground. When he did look, Stu Milligan was also facedown on the porch.

The sheriff walked over and stood next to him.

“You got nicked,” the man said, looking at Roper’s arm.

“It’s not bad,” Roper said. He replaced the spent shell in his gun and holstered it.

“I’d better get somebody out here to collect the bodies,” the sheriff said. “You gonna want to take them back?”

“The live ones will be good enough,” Roper said. “You got a potter’s field?”

“We do.”

“Put them in there.”

The lawman nodded, and they started walking back.

*   *   *

The next morning Roper came into the sheriff’s office to collect his prisoners.

“Coffee?” the sheriff asked.

“Sure.”

They sat at the desk and had their coffee.

“I heard one of the Milligans call you Frank,” Roper finally said. “Twice.”

“I thought you might have.”

“I’ve seen you before, but I couldn’t place you until he called you Frank. What brought you here to wear a badge under the name ‘Howard’?”

“When Jesse was killed, I was lost,” Frank said. “I did my time and didn’t know what to do with myself.”

“I thought you were never convicted,” Roper said. “Never did any time in a penitentiary.”

“That’s true,” Frank said, “but I was in jail a year waitin’ for my trial. Believe me, don’t ever let anybody tell you that ain’t servin’ time.”

“So what happened when you got out?”

“I lived with my ma for a while, then didn’t know what to do with myself. I decided to come back to Missouri, but I came here to Festus, where nobody knew me.”

“And took the name ‘Howard’?”

Frank shrugged.

“My way of honoring Jesse’s memory, I guess.”

Jesse James had been living as “Thomas Howard” when he was shot in the back by Robert Ford.

“And the drinking?”

“I get depressed,” Frank said, “but thanks to you, I think I can come out of it.”

“What will you do now?”

“I guess the question is, what will you do?” Frank asked Roper.

“You mean, will I tell anyone that Frank James is the sheriff of Festus, Missouri?” Roper shook his head. “You
helped me out, Frank. If you want to stay here as Tom Howard, that’s up to you.”

“Thanks. The only others who knew who I was were the Milligans.”

“Terry?”

“No,” Frank said, “Stu and Ned. We had worked with them once.”

“And they never told anyone?”

“I guess not.”

“Because of some sort of outlaw code?”

“Who knows?” Frank asked. “Maybe that was their way of honoring Jesse’s memory.”

“Well,” Roper said, standing up. “I appreciate your help, Frank. Whatever you decide, I wish you luck.”

The two men shook hands and Frank James—one half of the most famous set of outlaw brothers—said, “Thanks. I’ll get your prisoners now.”

Denver, Colorado

Six weeks later…

When Roper entered his office on West Colfax, he was surprised to find it clean but empty. Apparently Mrs. Batchelder had been letting her girls in to clean but, from the look of the secretary’s desk, not to do actual work. Of course, with him gone for so long, there was not much in the way of work to do except some filing, and message taking.

Mrs. Batchelder’s school was only about a block or so away, but he decided not to drop in there. It was midday and he had literally just gotten back into town, so he went into his office to have a look at his own desk.

He found half a dozen telegrams stacked there. The first one shocked him, the subsequent ones surprised him. They had all come in over the past two days. He took off his jacket, hung it on the back of his chair, and sat down.

He was seated behind his desk, examining the messages for a second time, when he heard the outer door to the office open and close. He wondered if it was one of Mrs.
Batchelder’s girls, but it was a man who appeared in his doorway to peer in tentatively.

“Hello?”

“Come on in,” Roper said.

He stood up as the well-dressed man stepped into the office. His suit was expensive—more expensive than the three-piece suit Roper was wearing himself—and so was his haircut. He appeared to be in his early thirties, and ill at ease.

“Mr. Roper?”

“That’s right,” Roper said. “And you are?”

“Oh, yes, sorry,” the man said. He came toward the desk and handed Roper a business card. It had the name “Eric Masters” on it, and the name of the law firm “Hastings, Pierce and Block.” Roper knew they were a local firm with offices on Market Street. Since Masters’s name was not on the masthead of the firm, Roper assumed he was an associate.

Half of the clients Roper entertained were lawyers, so the man’s occupation did not surprise him.

“Have a seat, Mr. Masters, and tell me what brings you here.”

The man sat down, still looking uncomfortable. Roper sat, unhappy that someone had walked into his office just moments after his arrival. It made him feel as if his office was being watched.

“My firm represents the Pinkerton Agency here in Denver,” Masters said.

“Is that so?” Roper fingered the messages on his desk. He didn’t believe in coincidence, so now he was sure his office had been under observation. It annoyed him that he hadn’t seen it for himself when he arrived.

“Yes,” Masters said, “I’ve been authorized to give you this.” He took an envelope from his pocket and set it on the desk. It was thick, unsealed. Roper picked it up and looked inside. Most of the thickness came from cash.

“There is also a train ticket in there, to Chicago,” Masters said.

Roper put the envelope back down.

“William and Robert would like you to attend their father’s funeral,” Masters said.

“Why?” Roper asked.

The first telegram he’d read had informed him that Allan Pinkerton had died. That was a shock. He knew Pinkerton, had worked for him both during the war and after. They had never gotten along, but he did learn from the man, and hearing that he had died at sixty-five years of age was a shock. The message was from William Pinkerton.

The other telegrams were from William and Robert, asking him to come to Chicago.

“I, uh, wasn’t given a reason,” he said. “I assume it’s to show respect?”

“I can show respect by sending flowers,” Roper said.

“Really?” Masters said, taken aback by the comment.

“Yes,” Roper said. “Robert and William want me there for another reason.”

“What would that be?”

“I don’t know,” Roper said.

“I am required to ask if you will be going,” the lawyer said.

“If I am, I’ll send a telegram to the Pinkertons,” Roper said.

“But sir,” the young lawyer said, “I’m supposed to—”

“You’ve done your job, Mr. Masters,” Roper said. He put his hand on the envelope. “I’ll keep this until I make up my mind. If I don’t make the trip, I’ll send this back to your offices by messenger.”

“Er—” Masters said, confused.

“Just go, Mr. Masters,” Roper said. “Go.”

“Um, yes sir,” Masters said. He stood, still looking confused. For a moment it seemed that he would speak again, but abruptly he turned and walked out. Roper waited for the outer door to open and close, then got up, walked into the outer office, and locked that door.

He went back to his desk, where he set the pile of telegrams next to the envelope containing the money and the
rail ticket. He took the ticket out, saw that it was for the next morning.

Abruptly, he got to his feet, took his jacket from the back of his chair, and donned it. It hid the Colt he wore in a shoulder rig. He folded the telegrams, stuck them in the envelope with the money and the ticket, and put the whole thing in his inner pocket.

Still concerned that his office might have an observer, he used the secret door that led to the alley next to the building, and then to the street behind it.

When he came out onto the street, he looked both ways, across and up on the rooftops. Satisfied that no one was watching, he turned right and headed up the street.

Roper paused to look again, behind him, above him, saw no one, and entered the building that housed Mrs. Batchelder’s School for Girls.

As he entered the office, a girl looked up at him and smiled. Mrs. Batchelder did not employ a receptionist. She used her own girls for that job. As usual, this one was pretty, even with her auburn hair pinned up over her head in what Roper thought was too old a style for her.

“Can I help you, sir?”

“Yes, I’d like to see Lily.” He saw the confused look on the girl’s face and beat her to the punch. “Mrs. Batchelder.”

“Oh, yes, sir,” she said. “Do you have an appointment?”

“I don’t,” he said, “but tell her Talbot Roper is here.”

“Oh, Mr. Roper!” the girl said. She colored from her neck up. “Of course. Um, go right in.”

The door to the left led to Lily Batchelder’s office. The other doors led to different rooms she used for training her girls.

“Thank you.”

He went to the door, knocked, and entered. Lily Batchelder looked up from her desk and smiled when she saw
him. Not old enough to be Roper’s mother, they had an older sister-younger brother type of relationship. It was an unlikely friendship that had served them both well over the past few years.

“Tal, you’re back. I assume you found your telegrams.”

“I did.”

“Odd that they’d come in just days before you got back.”

He approached her desk and sat across from her.

“Odder still that I’d have a visitor just minutes after I got back.”

She put her chin in her hand and eyed him. A lock of hair fell across her forehead from the same hairdo as the girl outside, only it fit her better.

“You think your office is being watched?”

“I do,” he said. “Have any of your girls commented on it?”

“There hasn’t been much for the girls to do, except collect those telegrams, but none of them said anything to me. But they’re not the most, uh, observant girls.”

“I know,” Roper said.

“Who came to see you?”

“A lawyer representing the Pinkertons,” he said, taking out the envelope and putting it on the desk. “He left me this.”