Treasure Mountain (1972) (3 page)

"Just that? No written message?"

"Of course. We would never give a guest's baggage to anyone without an order. In fact, we have it on file." He got out the message. It was written on ordinary tablet paper, and the handwriting was nothing like my brother's excellent script.

Opening the register to my brother's entry I laid the two signatures side by side. There was no resemblance.

The clerk's face grew flushed. "I am sorry, sir. I think I had better call the manager."

Chapter
III

Up in my room, I sat down to do some figuring. Orrin was surely in trouble, and it was serious trouble by the look of it. He was not a man to seek difficulties, and he had a smooth tongue for them when they came, so what could have happened?

He had not returned to his room. Somebody else had picked up his luggage, using a forged note to do it. Whoever came for the valise hadn't dreamed there'd be a rifle and saddle locked up at the hotel. Folks visiting in New Orleans rarely came equipped like that.

Looked to me like the only lead I had was that woman he'd spoken to in the coffee shop--Mrs. LaCroix--the name was not uncommon.

She had been in the dining room of the Saint Charles, and Orrin had helped her with some difficulty. Now that would be like Orrin. No Sackett ever stood by with a woman needing help. Looked to me like the dining room was the place to start inquiries.

Missing two days ... I was scared.

Orrin could be just one of many to be robbed or killed. The only lead I had was what took place in the dining room and that might be nothing at all. Of course, there was that time, years back, when we came downriver with a raft of logs and had that shindig on the river front, but more than likely nobody remembered that. Still, a look along the dance-saloon route might turn up something.

Come to think of it, I had a friend down yonder. There was a woman down there, a mighty notorious woman now, from what I heard. She'd been a hard case even as a youngster when I helped her out a couple of times. Bricktop Jackson was now figured to be as tough as they come, a mighty handsome woman with a figure like nothing you ever saw, but a woman who could, and would, fight like the dirtiest waterfront brawler you ever did see. Bricktop was a thief, a murderer, and a lot of other things, but she would know what was happening along the mean streets, and maybe she would tell me.

There was a tap on the door. I took up my Colt and shoved it down behind my waistband, then opened the door. It was that Negro bell man that I'd given the dollar to.

"Mr. Sackett?" He stepped in and closed the door behind him. "I have some information, suh."

Well, I went down into my pocket for a dollar, but he wasn't hungry. He said, "Your brother had an altercation, suh. He exchanged a few words with Mr. Baston, suh."

"Baston?" Where had I heard that name?

"Andre Baston, suh."

He said it like it was a name I should know. When I looked puzzled he said, "Andre Baston is thought by some to be the most dangerous man in New Orleans, suh. He has killed twelve men ... in duels, suh; with pistol, knife, or rapier he is considered the best."

In some places that might not have meant so much, but New Orleans was no ordinary town.

"What happened?"

Briefly, he explained what had happened in the dining room, but it did not come to much. There had been some words, but it was purely a small matter, and, had anybody but this here Baston been involved, nobody would have paid it much mind.

"Those people he was talking to? Was their name LaCroix?"

"Yes, suh. It was. They are fine people, very fine people, suh."

"And the Bastons?"

This Negro was a fine-looking man of fifty or so, with an inborn dignity and obviously some education. His distaste for gossip was evident, but there was something more here, too. Now I ain't given to second sight, but feelings show through, and it was right plain that this man liked the LaCroix people, but not the Bastons.

"There are many Bastons, suh. Some of them fine people. Most of them, in fact.

Old Mr. Philip, suh ... before the war, suh, I was one of his people. He was a fine man, a fine man."

"What about Andre?"

He hesitated. "Mr. Sackett, I would have no dealings with him, suh."

"You did say he had killed twelve men."

"I said he had killed twelve men in duels, suh. There have been others, suh, when the arrangements were less formal."

Well, that didn't get me anywhere. Orrin had exchanged a few words with Baston and they had parted. If I could talk to the LaCroix people they could tell me what was said, but the lead did not look promising. It looked to me like Orrin had just dropped off the world.

Two days more of hunting and inquiring left me exactly where I was when I arrived. Now Orrin had been missing four days. And then I located the LaCroix family.

When I was shown into the library where they were sitting they seemed surprised.

Mr. LaCroix got up quickly, but he was a mite stiff, I could see. He was a fine-looking man, well up in years. "Mr. Sackett? I am sorry. I was expecting--"

"My brother, I guess. Orrin's a sight better looking than me."

"You are--"

"William Tell Sackett, ma'am. Fact is, I came to see if you had seen my brother?"

"Seen him? Of course. He sat beside us at dinner one night, and I believe Mrs.

LaCroix saw him at the coffee shop one day."

"Yes, I did. It was. A chance meeting but a fortunate one as I wished to thank him again."

"Sir? What happened that night? I mean, if you don't mind. You see, Orrin's been missing for four days."

Well, they exchanged a look, and it was a scared look.

"If you could tell me just what happened, it might help," I suggested. "I've heard a good deal as far as Baston is concerned, but what happened there in the dining room?"

Betwixt them, they laid it out for me, and all of it made sense except that last question about what happened to Pierre. When I brought that up they told me Orrin said he was interested in some mining claims out in the San Juans, which is about what Orrin would say to cover his reasons for asking questions. It might give him a lead on somebody who left New Orleans for the wild lands to the west, as it seemed likely to have done.

It began to look like Orrin had thrown that Pierre question in there on chance.

It was one of his lawyer's tricks, and it had taken Andre Baston off guard ... but it might have gotten Orrin killed, too. A body just didn't play games with a man like Baston.

"This Andre Baston now? Was he alone?"

"He was joining his niece, Fanny, and nephew at a table near your brother."

"And this Pierre they spoke of?"

"Pierre Bontemps. He was Andre's brother-in-law. He went west on some wild venture. Pierre was that way, always going off somewhere at the least excuse. He was killed out there, by Indians, it was said. Andre got back."

It still didn't shape up to much. Orrin had exchanged a few words with a man with a reputation as a duelist, and he had said something to which I gathered Baston's reaction was mighty strong.

A few more questions, and it began to look like when pa went west it was with Pierre Bontemps, Andre Baston, and some others. I had no idea how many others and who they were.

After a little more talk I got into a carriage and returned to the Saint Charles. When I stepped down from the carriage, Hippo Swan was standing on the curb opposite the hotel. And when I saw him I remembered where I'd heard the name Baston before. The girl in the coffee shop had said he had once worked for someone named Baston.

When I reached the door, I glanced back. Hippo Swan was lighting a cigar, but he was holding the match up higher than necessary, or so it seemed to me.

A signal? If so, to whom?

Well, now. Chances were I was just seeing shadows where none existed, but it costs nothing to play if safe. Nobody had left any messages at the desk for me so I started on up to my room.

The window, I recalled, looked over the street out front. A body standing in that window could easily see a match struck down there on the street. Turning around on the stairs I went back down to the desk. The clerk was gone, but the Negro I'd talked to earlier was standing there.

"Is there anyone in the room adjoining mine? The one with the door opening into mine?"

He consulted the register. "Not at present, suh."

I put a silver dollar on the desk. "Could you let me have it for a few minutes?"

He looked straight into my eyes. "What seems to be the trouble, Mr. Sackett?"

"Well, now. I'm kind of a cautious man. It seems to me that one Sackett disappearing is enough, and if somebody was inside my room now, somebody who was waiting for me, he'd be likely to be waiting beside the hall door."

"It is likely, suh." He pushed the key toward me and my dollar as well. "Would you like me to call the hotel officer, suh?"

"Thank you ... no."

Turning away I started for the steps. He spoke after me. "Good hunting, suh."

I walked softly down the carpeted hall and opened the room next to mine, then ever so gently I put the key into the lock, careful to make no sound. I ran quickly around to my own door, fumbled with the knob, then swore softly, muttering something about the key.

I ran back to the door in the adjoining room and opened it suddenly.

There was a little light from the window, and the bulk of a man waiting by the door. A shadow moved as the door swung wide ... there was another man!

They came for me, both of them. They were big men and were probably considered quite tough. They came for me, one from each direction. I had my knife and I had my Colt, but the Colt seemed an unfair advantage, and no doubt there was folks asleep upstairs or around me. I stepped in to meet them as they came at me from two sides, but I hooked a toe behind a chair and kicked it in front of the one coming from the right, and, as he fell over it, I lowered the boom on the second one with a good right fist.

He was ambitious, that gent was, and he was coming in fast, so when he met my right fist halfway he was driving right into it with all the thrust of his legs.

There was a splat, then a crunch, as his nose folded like an accordion under my fist. As he hit the floor I kicked him in the side of the head.

The first man was starting to get up, but I was through fooling around. I put the point of my knife against his throat right over the jugular vein, and I said, "I don't care if I do or I don't. What d' you think?"

He was sure of one thing, and he didn't need to be sure of anything else. One twist of that blade and tomorrow morning they'd be throwing dirt over him.

He held right still. "For God's sake, mister! Don't kill me! I didn't mean nothin'!"

"Who set you up to this?"

"I don't--"

That knife point dug a mite deeper. A tiny push now and he'd be bleeding on the carpet. "You tell me. You tell me who sent you and what you were to do with me."

"Swan sent me. The Hippo. We was to lay you out and pack you out the back way and down to the swamp."

"Get up, then." I took a step back and let him up, and I didn't much care if he wanted to open the ball or not, but he'd had all he wanted. There was a trickle of blood down his neck and it scared him. He was only scratched, but he didn't know how much and he was so scared he was ready to cry.

"Take that," I pointed my foot at the other man, "and clear out of here. Next time you tackle a Sackett, you be sure his hands are tied."

He backed away from me. "I had nothin' to do with that. It was him," he gestured to the man on the floor, "an' Hippo. They done it."

For a moment I looked at him, then, the edge of my blade up, I stepped toward him. "Where did they take him?"

His voice was a whisper. "To the swamp. To a houseboat on the bayou. I don't know which one."

"Get out!"

He stooped, lifting the other man with an effort, and staggered out. Closing the door after him I lit the light, then I closed and locked the door to the adjoining room. There was a spot of blood on the point of my knife and I wiped it clean.

There was a light tap on the door. It was the Negro again. "The key, suh? I supposed you might be through with it."

"Thanks--I am. But I believe I've broken a chair."

He glanced at it. "I hope that wasn't all," he said quietly. He gathered the pieces. "A chair can be replaced."

"What's your name?" I asked him, suddenly aware that I wanted to know.

He did not smile. "Judas, suh. Judas Priest."

"Thank you, Judas."

The Negro turned at the door. "Two of them, suh? That's doing very well, suh."

"You saw them?"

"Oh, yes, suh! Of course." He slipped his hand into his pocket, and it came out wearing a very formidable set of brass knuckles. "We couldn't allow anything to happen to a guest! Not at the Saint Charles, suh!"

"Much obliged. That's what I'd call service. I'd better put in a good word for you to the management."