The Big Showdown Read online

  The janitor pointed. “Mr. Carter is seated over at his desk.”

  Charley’s Adam’s apple was prominent and moved up and down when he spoke.

  “Yes, I can see that, Charley,” York said pleasantly. “Say, you aren’t usually here in the mornings, are you?”

  “No, sir. I work in the afternoons and into the evening. When they’s no customers around.”

  “Did you work yesterday evening?”

  “No, sir. They’s a church meeting Mr. Carter lets me off so’s I can attend. Every Wednesday night, it is.”

  “That’s kind of him.”

  “He is a God-fearing man, Mr. Carter is. He’s over at his desk, Sheriff.”

  “Yes, Charley. Are you going to be around for a while?”

  “Gotta finish up some cleaning back of the cashier cages, then I can go. We could talk then, iffen you like.”

  York patted him on a bony shoulder. “Maybe I could buy you a cup of coffee at the café, Charley.”

  The janitor smiled, eyes lighting up. “Or maybe a drink at the Victory? Beer maybe? People say I do some of my best talkin’ after a beer at the Victory.”

  “Little early for that.”

  “Well, they’s open!”

  “I guess they are. You finish up and then wait till I’ve spoken to Mr. Carter, okay? And we’ll have a beer at the Victory. A beer for breakfast.”

  “I already et my breakfast, Sheriff. But I can have a beer while you take sustenance.”

  “Great, Charley. Don’t forget.”

  Charley grinned and shook his head. “I surely won’t. Anyway, I got to get back to my mop and bucket.”

  The janitor ambled off. York wished everyone could be as happy with their lot in life as Charley. He wished he could.

  The big, well-dressed banker was behind his desk but on his feet, waiting for York, who walked to the waiting visitor’s chair. The two men shook hands and exchanged perfunctory smiles, then took their seats. York set his hat on the banker’s desk.

  “My apologies, Sheriff,” Carter said with a flip of the hand. “I meant to send Charley around to talk to you, as you requested. It just slipped my mind. Fortunately, he happens to be here now.”

  “Rarely works mornings, I understand.”

  “Right. But he had some cleaning to tend to. Of course, I don’t know how much you can hope to get out of Charley. He’s rather a simple soul, as I’m sure you know.”

  “Well, out of the mouth of babes.”

  Carter twitched a smile at the biblical homily, then asked, “Is there, uh, anything else I can do for you, Sheriff? Is there any progress to report on your inquiry into the missing funds?”

  “No progress, sir. I’m here on something unrelated. Something very sad. For this institution, even tragic.”

  Carter sat forward. “What is it, man?”

  “Your clerk . . . your recently promoted chief cashier . . . was found shot to death, last night. In the alley behind the Victory Saloon.”

  “Oh, my God, no.” Carter sighed heavily, shook his head, then alert eyes flew to York. “What were the circumstances? Robbery?”

  “Possibly. When Doctor Miller finished up his post-mortem examination, I went through Mr. Upton’s clothing. He had no money on him. Did he carry a watch and chain?”

  The banker nodded. “He did. He was rather proud of that, actually. Gold. And a Swiss watch, inscribed by his father on the occasion of Herbert’s twenty-first birthday.”

  “Well, watch and chain weren’t on him. I haven’t had a chance to check his lodgings yet.”

  Carter was shaking his head again, staring past York into nothing. “The Victory. I warned Herbert many times about that den of iniquity. He was seeing one of the girls there, you know.”

  “Right. Pearl Kenner. They were engaged, I understand.”

  A bitter laugh rumbled out of him. “That was Mr. Upton’s belief, but I fear . . . I don’t mean to speak out of turn. . . . ”

  “Please.”

  He raised an eyebrow and lowered his voice. “Rumor has it that this Pearl still works at the Victory. That while she told Herbert that she had quit—they were of late living together at his rooming house, in sin, you know—she continued working afternoons, when he was otherwise engaged here at the bank. Making a fool of him.” A deep sigh. “And I’m afraid . . . I should leave it there.”

  “Please, go on.”

  Another sigh seemed to signal a decision to hold nothing back. “I’m afraid that I only encouraged this foolish adventure by giving Herbert a raise and that promotion. But he was a good man, a reliable man, and deserved as much. I’ll be lost here, until I can find a suitable replacement.”

  Wouldn’t that make a fine eulogy at the services, York thought.

  The banker put a hand over his face and breathed hard. His other hand dug out a handkerchief and he touched it to his eyes.

  “Forgive me,” he said, choking up a little. “Herbert was . . . well, he was like a brother to me. Or rather . . . a son. My wife, rest her soul, and I, we never had any children, and I’m afraid I grew rather too fond of the young man over the years. He had a lovely manner.”

  “I didn’t know him that well,” York said. “Actually, I wonder if he wasn’t less of a friend to this bank than you might think.”

  The handkerchief came away from eyes that looked pretty dry to York. “What is it you mean? Are you implying something . . . untoward, Sheriff?”

  York didn’t mince words: “I think Mr. Upton may have been the inside man on the bank robbery.”

  Carter’s eyes showed plenty of white now. “What? Why, that’s patently ridiculous. That’s absurd, man!”

  York shrugged. “Someone had to tell the robbers about that bagged-up money you were preparing to ship to Wells Fargo. Those boys knew just what to ask for, and just when to make their armed withdrawal. Your clerk was armed, too, but did nothing about the robbery, while it was under way.”

  Carter was puffing up with indignation. “Well, that was at my direction!”

  “Perhaps. But as your highest-ranking clerk, Upton was in a position to either use his weapon, which he did not, or to discourage the other clerks from using theirs, which he did.”

  The banker was shaking his head so much, so hard, the air was stirring. “Sheriff, this doesn’t sound like Herbert Upton at all. He was levelheaded, and this bank . . . and having a prominent position here . . . meant the world to him.”

  York turned a palm up. “But you said it yourself, Mr. Carter. He was on an adventure of love with a trained courtesan. Mr. Upton did not strike me as a Romeo or a Casanova. He was a rather homely man . . . meaning the deceased no disrespect. He might prove easy prey for a vampire female.”

  Carter was still shaking his head, but more slowly, as if York’s words held that much weight. “If Herbert was one of them, as you say . . . and I find that preposterous . . . why did he wind up as . . . as he did?”

  “I think the robbers, or another accomplice of theirs, considered Mr. Upton a loose end . . . and tied him off.”

  The banker frowned, leaning forward. “One of these Gauge men?” he offered, tentatively.

  “Very likely. I’m already keeping a close watch on the rabble Harry Gauge brought into the area—we’ve established that the three who took down this bank were indeed our former sheriff’s associates.”

  “And of course you’ll be investigating the trollop,” Carter said, tapping his desk with a fist, “this Pearl woman.”

  “I will.” York stood. “You’re the first I’ve told about Mr. Upton’s murder, sir. Other than Doc Miller, of course. I figured you would want to break it, gentle, to those who worked with Mr. Upton.”

  Carter got to his feet. “Yes. Yes, I will. Thank you for that consideration.... You haven’t interviewed my janitor yet. Would you like to borrow my desk again . . . ?”

  “No, thank you, though,” York said with an easy smile, tugging on his hat. “I’ll take Charley somewhere for a talk . . . not t
he jail, I assure you. We wouldn’t want to give the wrong appearance.”

  “No! Certainly not.”

  York checked on Charley, who was just finishing mopping up the area in back of the cashier windows. The janitor put his tools away and joined York, who walked him out of the bank and down the street to the Victory.

  Hardly anyone was in there, and no one was drinking. But a bartender—not Hub, a stout fellow the sheriff didn’t know by name—was behind the counter, sitting on a stool, having a cup of coffee, reading a dime novel about Buffalo Bill.

  York leaned on the counter. “Could you rustle me up some of that Arbuckle’s?” That was the brand of coffee everybody in town served. “And my friend here a beer?”

  The bartender nodded, climbed off his stool, and went into the room in back of the counter. He returned with York’s cup of coffee and then drew a beer for a grinning Charley, whose Adam’s apple was bobbing in anticipation.

  York guided Charley to a table among many empty ones, but as far from the counter as possible.

  The sheriff said, “Seems like you had a real mess to clean up this morning.”

  “I surely did.”

  “That’s unusual, isn’t it?”

  “Sometimes folks works late and brings food in and things gets spilt.”

  “Is that what happened last evening, you think?”

  Charley had some beer. “Maybe. Whatever if it was, it shore took some elbow grease gettin’ it offen that floor. It was sticky and where’s it wasn’t sticky, it was hard like peanut brittle. But I took enough soap and water after it, it’s all shiny new again, the flooring.”

  “Well, that’s good work, Charley. Did Mr. Carter call you in for that job?”

  Charley nodded, grinning, Adam’s apple bobbing. “He come to my room over the saddle shop and knocked. Early this morning. First time ever he come around hisself.”

  “Imagine that.”

  “Said there was a mess needs cleaned up before customers come round. And I said, shore.”

  Charley had some more beer.

  “Charley, can you tell me anything about the robbery?”

  Bony shoulders shrugged. “I wasn’t there.”

  “Did you know about the bags of money in the safe?”

  “What bags of money? Ain’t they always bags of money in the safe? It’s a bank safe.”

  “You didn’t hear about a shipment of money through Wells Fargo?”

  More beer as Charley thought that one over. “Wells and Fargo. That’s the stagecoaches.”

  “Right. That’s the stagecoaches. You hear anything about shipping money with them?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Mr. Upton was killed last night, Charley.”

  Charley’s mouth dropped. “Whaaat?”

  “Somebody shot him and his body was found right back there.” York pointed in the direction of the alley.

  The janitor shook his head and kept shaking it. “Oh, that’s terrible. That’s just plain terrible.”

  “Did you like Mr. Upton?”

  His head stopped shaking. “No, sir.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “He wasn’t a nice man. He would push me sometimes. Push me out of his way. I’m bigger than him and that was dumb. I coulda done something back to him. But I’m an easygoin’ feller. He called me slow! You think I’m slow, Sheriff?”

  “Slower than some. Faster than others, I’d reckon.”

  “That’s how I sees it. I hold down jobs all my life. Slow folk couldn’t do that. Ain’t no reason to push me out of the way and say mean things.”

  “How did the other bank employees feel about Upton?”

  “Oh, they just kinder put up with him. I heard one say he was a cold fish. But lately he was . . . I wouldn’t say nicer, but more easy to be around. He’s got a lady friend now. Men with lady friends is in better moods. Till they marry them, anyways.”

  Charley had some more beer.

  “How about Mr. Carter and Upton? Did they get along?”

  “Far as it goes.”

  “They weren’t close?”

  “Close to what?”

  “Friendly. Like father and son?”

  “My father whipped me.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Charley.”

  “My ma loved me, though. She kilt my old man, with a shovel, and they come took her away. I was raised by a aunt. I guess I was close to her, the way you mean.”

  “Were Carter and Upton that kind of close?”

  “No, sir. Just a boss and somebody worked for him. But . . . you know, lately, come to think—they been more friendly. I seen them smile and laugh together, just last week. Is that the kind of close you mean?”

  “Might be,” York said.

  Charley finished his beer.

  “You need me any more, Sheriff? I can make twenty cents this afternoon if I sweep out the saddle shop. Someday I’m gonna buy me one of them. I’m savin’ for one.”

  “A saddle?”

  “A horse. First things first, Sheriff.” Charley finished his beer, grinned, and said, “Thank you kindly,” and took his leave.

  York sat drinking his coffee for a while. The strong stuff had been very hot when the bartender gave it to him, but York hadn’t touched it during his conversation with Charley. Like Goldilocks said, now it was just right.

  He didn’t see her come over—not Goldilocks, but Rita Filley, who was suddenly just there, standing next to where he sat. She was wearing jeans and a yellow blouse and a red knotted kerchief at her slender neck, tooled cowboy boots too, a wardrobe right out of Willa Cullen’s closet. She looked very young, no paint on her at all. Lovely child.

  “Like it?” she said, nodding to the coffee. “Made it myself.”

  “You have skills that don’t show,” he told her.

  “You don’t know the half of it.” She sat; she’d brought her own cup of coffee along. “You found a body behind my place, I hear.”

  “I did.”

  “You might have come in and told me about it. Last night. At the time?”

  “I’m here now.”

  “So you are. But like I said, you could have—”

  “I wanted to keep a lid on the murdered man’s name, for just a little while.”

  The big brown eyes studied him. “Why would you do that?”

  “To see how the dead man’s boss reacted when I told him about it this morning.”

  “How did he react?”

  “Oh, he was broke up about it. Even pretended to wipe away tears.”

  “Crocodile tears are the most common kind.” She sipped her coffee. “So, then—now I’m free to spread the sad word?”

  “Spread away. The dead man’s Herbert Upton. The banker—or bank clerk, anyway.”

  She frowned. “Oh dear.”

  “A favorite customer?”

  Staring into her coffee cup, she said, “No, he’d pretty much stopped coming here by the time I took over the place. But he used to be a regular, I understand. He and one of the girls here . . .”

  “Pearl. I know her. Nice kid. Is she still working for you?”

  Her eyes came up and met his. “That was . . . I guess it doesn’t hurt talking about it now. Pearl told Upton she stopped working here. But she’s still been coming in afternoons.”

  That much the bank president hadn’t lied about, anyway.

  Rita was saying, “Pearl’s a popular girl, and she wanted to put a little money away before they got married.”

  “Build a little nest egg. Sleepin’ with strangers.”

  “Not strangers. Regulars.”

  “What if it got back to Upton?”

  She shook her head. “It wouldn’t. It didn’t. Those men Pearl was still seeing, last thing they’d want was a fiancé to come steal her away, or shoot them or something. Damn.” She sighed. Shook her head. “I’ll have to tell her.”

  He looked at the young woman who right now appeared nothing like someone who might be running a place like the Vic
tory. “Would you do that?”

  “Sure.”

  York let out a relieved sigh. “Wasn’t lookin’ forward to that in the least.”

  “You think I am?”

  CHAPTER TEN

  The Purgatory River, a tributary of the Pecos, was a real godsend to Trinidad, not only a source of water and trout but of the most beautiful scenery for miles. The banks were lined with lush conifers, with splashes of orange and red from seasonal trees, and the water was cold and clear, flowing down from canyons in the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. Just above the rocky, sandy shore, where the river was around ten feet across, the grassy slope made a fine place for a picnic on a pleasant, sunny, not quite cool late morning.

  Willa had accepted Zachary Gauge’s request to go riding, and be shown “the sights” around Trinidad. Of course, in the immediate area, the sights were rather limited—range and cows, cows and range.

  Eventually, if he proved horseman enough, she might take him into the hills and, atop buttes, point out how the blue-purple line of horizon went on forever as spiny desert shrubs and stubborn small trees wiggled in the wind. Would he see the beauty of those grassy plains, or discern only dust, thorns, and rock?

  And if they made their way down, into those white-walled, blue-sky-ceilinged chambers, across a floor shared contradictorily by rock and green, would he see the stark majesty, or long for the man-made canyons of the city he left behind?

  But if she’d been expecting a dude, she was surprised. His clothing was new, possibly bought locally at Harris Mercantile, though nothing overly fancy—gray wool California-style tight-waist/loose-legged pants, black sateen shirt, and black work boots. The fanciest things about him were the black, flat-brimmed, raw-edged, round-crown Stetson (minus the usual flashy feather) and, of course, that snowflake Appaloosa of his.

  She had certainly not dressed up for him, not for a morning of riding, however easy she planned to take it on the Easterner—her usual ranch garb, red-and-black plaid shirt, jeans, work boots, her yellow hair braided up in a bun. The only thing approaching a fuss that she’d made was the picnic basket of food—cold fried chicken, pair of Mason jars filled with lemonade, some fresh biscuits (still warm when she packed them away), jars of honey, olives, pickles and jellies, and chocolate cupcakes.