Wilde West Page 14

  “It surely was,” Grigsby said cheerfully. “I was demonstratin’ my iron to Mr. O’Conner here, and the damn thing went off.” He grinned. “No fool like an old fool, eh, Wally?”

  The clerk glanced again at O’Conner. O’Conner smiled weakly.

  “Appears I did some damage to the wall there,” Grigsby said, nodding toward the ragged hollow in the plaster. “You have Lonny Laidlaw send the bill over to the office and I’ll take care of it. Thanks, Wally. Sorry ’bout all the commotion.”

  The clerk nodded, his face still uncertain, and then ducked back behind the door, pulling it shut.

  “Now,” said Grigsby, turning to O’Conner. “Let’s talk. S’pose we start with where you were last night.”

  A half an hour later, down in the bar, Grigsby sipped at his bourbon and went over O’Conner’s story.

  Played poker at the Mad Dog Casino from eight o’clock till twelve. Lost twenty dollars. Came back to the hotel at one, didn’t leave again. Went to sleep at two.

  Easy enough to check on, most of it.

  The problem was, the hotel had a service entrance that opened onto the back hallway, near the kitchen. The door was kept locked at night, to stop riffraff from stumbling in and pinching the salt shakers, but anyone inside could open it by turning the latch below the knob.

  A round mirror above the hotel’s entry way, visible from the front desk, was supposed to let the desk clerk know when one of the guests forgot to settle his bill and wandered off, luggage tucked under his arms, down the rear hall and out the service entrance. But Grigsby had already talked to Ned Winters, the night clerk, and knew that Ned had slept away most of his shift.

  So O’Conner—or Vail, or Henry, for that matter—could’ve snuck down the stairs, snuck past the rear of the front desk, snuck into the hallway, unbolted the door, gone out into the night, found Molly Woods, cut her up, and come back to his room the same way he’d left it. No one the wiser.

  The only one of them, so far, who admitted being outside the hotel that night was Wilde.

  Got to remember, Grigsby told himself, to ask Doc Boynton if he could figure out what time Molly Woods got killed.

  He took another sip of bourbon.

  O’Conner, talking about the others, hadn’t been any more helpful than Wilde or Vail, or Henry. He’d turned real cooperative after he got shot at—in the mirror behind the bar, a duplicate Grigsby shared an evil grin with the original—but he’d dismissed all of them with an easy scorn, first as human beings, and then as suspects. Wilde was “a second-rate poet and a first-rate charlatan.” But he’d probably keel over at the sight of blood. Vail was “a grubby little New York hustler.” But too shrewd to threaten the tour by killing hookers along its route. Von Hesse was “a stiff-necked Bible-banger.” But too sanctimonious, probably, to talk to a hooker, let along kill one. Ruddick was “a pimply little pansy.” But too lah-di-dah to have any truck with women, hookers or not. Henry, of course, was just “a dumb nigger.” Which in O’Conner’s opinion removed him from any kind of consideration altogether.

  Which left, when you got right down to it, O’Conner himself.

  Just because a man’s an asshole doesn’t mean he’s guilty of anything, except being an asshole. (A truth that upon many occasions Grigsby had sadly remarked before.)

  But O’Conner’s dismissal of the others was different somehow from their dismissals. Wilde and Vail (and Henry, too, in his way)—each of them had seemed convinced that none of the men on the tour could’ve been the killer. (Although Vail, probably for reasons of his own, had badmouthed Ruddick, the poet.) O’Conner, on the other hand, had seemed more concerned with convincing Grigsby.

  He wanted to get the Law off his back so he could write up the story, maybe.

  Or maybe he wanted to get the Law off his back so he could keep on killing hookers.

  If he was the killer and he wrote up the story, wouldn’t he be drawing attention to himself?

  Nope. What he’d be doing, he’d be drawing attention to all the rest of them. Who’d believe that the fella who wrote about dead hookers was the same fella who was killing them off?

  And O’Conner, from what he’d said, didn’t much care for hookers.

  Right, Grigsby told himself. Keep an eye on O’Conner.

  The decision pleased him. He’d already been inclined to keep an eye on O’Conner. Fella was an asshole.

  Now. Time to talk to this Ruddick.

  But when Grigsby knocked on the door to room 208, no one opened it.

  Colonal von Hesse then, decided Grigsby.

  But no one opened the door to room 210, either.

  So maybe he should talk to this French countess.

  Grigsby had never talked to a countess before, French or otherwise, and he knew that the opportunity wasn’t likely to present itself again.

  He knocked on the door to 211 and waited. Nothing happened.

  He turned, was starting back down the corridor, when the door opened a foot or so and a woman stood there. “Yes?”

  She was short, maybe five foot three, and she was blond, her hair falling in long bouncy curls to her shoulders. From her brown eyes—which looked like they’d seen a few things in their time, and enjoyed most of them—she was probably somewhere between thirty-five and forty years old, but her skin was as smooth and white as a baby’s. Pink cheeks, a small nose, a mouth that was just a shade or two more red than natural. (Brenda’s lipstick, when she worked the saloon, was the color of boiled beets.) She wore a silk dressing gown, pale blue, clinging, belted just below a pair of breasts whose upper curves peeked out at the top, as round and plump as peaches.

  “You’d be the Countess,” Grigsby said.

  “Yes?” Her lips went pouty as they moved around the word.

  He tapped the brim of his Stetson. “Marshal Bob Grigsby, ma’am. Wonder if I could talk to you for a few minutes.”

  She cocked her head slightly. “A marshal?”

  “Federal officer, ma’am. A lawman.”

  “Oh yes? There is some problem?”

  “No, ma’am, not for you. Just need to talk to you for a bit, is all.”

  “I see. Yes, then, please. Come in.”

  She took a step back and Grigsby moved forward into a warm pocket of scent, a perfume that was light and fresh and probably expensive, and all at once he realized that most likely he smelled, himself, like the bottom of a whiskey barrel.

  She smiled and held out a hand toward the pair of wooden chairs by the window. “Please. Sit.”

  Grigsby took off his hat, ran his fingers through the matted hair at his temples.

  “Here,” said the Countess, reaching for the hat. “May I take this?”

  Grigsby surrendered it, and noticed for the first time that it could stand a good cleaning.

  The woman turned it around, eyeing it appreciatively. “A most formidable headpiece,” she said, and smiled at Grigsby.

  “Yes ma’am,” he said. “It’s a Stetson. Out of St. Louis, Missouri.”

  “Admirable,” she said, and indicated the chairs again. “Please.”

  He crossed the room, turned one of the chairs to face the other, and sat down. He crossed his legs, booted ankle atop his knee, his spur suddenly lethal, and he wondered what to do with his big heavy hands. They seemed, right now, to be located a long way from his shoulders. He crossed his arms over his chest.

  The Countess set the Stetson on the dresser and then sat down opposite Grigsby. She leaned slightly toward him, her own small hands folded at her lap, and smiled again. “Now. How may I help?”

  “Well, ma’am,” said Grigsby, trying to keep his stare from sinking toward the soft swell of breasts, and mostly succeeding. “You been with this tour of Mr. Wilde’s since San Francisco, that right?”

  She nodded, waiting. “Yes?”

  “Well, ma’am, it looks like somebody on the tour—one of the fellas, I mean, I don’t know which one of ’em—it looks like maybe he’s killing people. In different tow
ns along the way,” he finished. He realized that he was sweating.

  Warm in here. The woodstove.

  The Countess frowned, her lips daintily bunching together. “I’m sorry?”

  Grigsby tugged at his collar. He slid his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “See, ma’am, it was a coincidence, like. I got these letters, is what happened, from people in these different towns. San Francisco. And El Paso. And Leavenworth, Kansas. And see, in all these towns, somebody killed off a woman. Killed her off and, well, what he did, he cut her up pretty bad. Now the thing of it is, all these women got killed off at the same time that Mr. Wilde was there, givin’ one of his talks. Hadna been for these letters, I wouldna figured it out. And now, what’s happened is, just last night one of them got killed off here in Denver.”

  “Killed?” said the Countess, her head bent forward, her arched eyebrows moving in puzzlement. “Who was killed?”

  “Ladies of the evening, ma’am. Women that were, well, no better than they had to be, if you follow me.”

  “Ladies of …? Poules? Prostitutes?”

  “Yeah,” said Grigsby, relieved and grateful. “Yes, ma’am. Prostitutes.”

  “In San Francisco? The other towns? In every town where Oscair spoke?”

  “Well, ma’am, I don’t rightly know about every town. I’ll be lookin’ into that. But the thing is, they were all killed off the same way, exactly. So it’s pretty clear to me that it musta been the same guy, each time. Which means—”

  “Which would mean,” said the Countess, “yes, that very possibly one of the people traveling with the tour, he is a murderer.” She sat back. “How horrible,” she said, and shook her head. “But this is ghastly.”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  Looking off, she said again, “How horrible.”

  “So what I thought, ma’am, I thought I’d come and ask you, since you been on the tour all this time, if maybe you seen anything or heard anything that might help me get a bead on this fella.”

  The Countess frowned again. “I’m sorry? My English. Sometimes it is inadequate.”

  “Not a bit of it, ma’am. What I’m lookin’ for, ya see, is anything that could help me figure out who this fella is. You were in all those towns, along with the rest of ’em. Maybe you saw somethin’. Maybe you heard somethin’.”

  “But no. Nothing. This, today, what you tell me, this is the first I have heard of such a thing. If even for a moment I had thought—” She broke off, shook her head. She looked at Grigsby, leaned forward. “Are you quite certain, Mr. Greegsby—forgive me, it is Greegsby?”

  “Yes ma’am. Grigsby.”

  “Are you quite certain there is no possibility of error?”

  “Well, ma’am, no,” Grigsby said. “I don’t hardly think so.”

  She sat slowly back again, looking worn and drawn, and suddenly she seemed to be years older than Grigsby had first thought she, was. And, strangely, this made him feel abruptly protective, almost paternal, as though by growing older, by allowing herself to grow older before his eyes, she had become vulnerable and frail, like a little girl.

  He said, “Now listen, Countess. Don’t you worry. I’m gonna find this fella. I’m gonna nail—I’m gonna nail him to the wall.”

  The Countess had been bleakly staring off, out the window, where the sky had darkened and the streets had grayed. Now she turned to Grigsby and with a visible effort, inhaling deeply, straightening her back, she brought herself back to the room, and back down the years. She produced a small, tired smile. “Yes,” she said. “I am sure you will. But I am wondering whether it would be better for me if I left the tour.”

  “Well now,” said Grigsby. “That’d be up to you, ma’am. So far, this fella, it seems like he only has it in for prostitutes, like I say.” But was this an actual fact? What about the woman in Leavenworth? That storekeeper’s wife. She’d been hooking on the side, maybe? “And—Listen, Countess, if I told you some-thin’, confidential-like, could you keep it between you and me? Not let the rest of ’em in on it?”

  Once more, she cocked her head slightly. “Yes, of course. You have my word.” She leaned forward and softly touched Grigsby’s knee with the tips of her fingers. “But please. Not Countess. My name is Mathilde.”

  “Yes ma’am.” Grigsby was still trying, less successfully now, not to look at her breasts. “Well, the thing of it is, all these women so far, the women that got killed off, they were all redheads.”

  “Redheads?” Pronouncing the word like she hadn’t heard it before.

  “They all had red hair, ma’am. All four of ’em. Now red hair, you don’t see much of that, usually. So I figure, what with all four of ’em havin’ it, I figure this fella’s gotta have a special kinda interest in red hair.”

  The Countess reached up, abstracted, and felt lightly at her own blonde curls. “And why would you not want the others to know of this?”

  “Because the way I calculate it, ma’am, one of ’em is the killer. And I figure maybe it’s better for me to know a little somethin’ about him, about this fella, that he don’t know that I know, if you follow me.”

  She nodded. “Yes. I comprehend. I shall not mention it. And you think that because of this, I should be safe if I remained with the tour?”

  Grigsby sat back. “Well now. Safe. I don’t know as I could put no guarantees on that, ma’am. But I reckon that if you kept an eye peeled, made certain sure that you didn’t get yourself alone with any one of ’em, you’d be okay, prob’ly. And the other thing is, like I been tellin’ all of ’em, I’m gonna be one step behind this here tour. Until I find this fella and nail him. What I mean is, I’m gonna be around. Close by. You figure you need yourself some help, all you gotta do is come to me and let me know.”

  She smiled again, more warmly this time. “Thank you. It is kind of you to reassure me.”

  “My pleasure, ma’am.” He nodded to her. “And now, I reckon I’ll let you alone.” He stood up, and winced involuntarily as the old familiar twinge shot from his hip down his leg.

  The Countess looked up at him, concerned. “You are in pain?”

  “No, ma’am. Touch of rheumatism, is all. Well, I’m right sorry I gotta be the one who tells you all this. And I appreciate your help.”

  “Not at all,” she said, standing. “It is I who should be grateful.” She stepped over to the dresser, picked up Grigsby’s Stetson, returned and handed it to him. “And perhaps you will visit with me again one time? Perhaps, if I give thought to this, I will remember something that could help you.”

  “Yes ma’am. Thank you. Maybe I’ll just do that.” He started for the door, and then turned back to the Countess. “One other thing, ma’am. Just thought of it.” Later, after he learned the truth, he would ask himself why he had.

  The Countess raised her eyebrows. “Yes?”

  “The reporter. O’Conner. You ever read any of his articles?”

  “About the tour, you mean?”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  “But no. How should we find a New York newspaper out here?”

  Grigsby nodded. “Reckon that’s so.”

  WITH A BROAD BUOYANT GRIN, hugely pleased by the brilliance and ingenuity of his Plan, Oscar swept through the door and past Henry Villiers. When he reached the middle of the room—which took no more than a single, abruptly terminated step—the grin disappeared and he looked around him in shocked disbelief.

  “Good Lord, Henry. Are these the sort of accommodations that Vail’s been providing you?”

  Still standing by the door, Henry shrugged. “It’s fine with me, Mistuh Oscar.”

  “But Henry, it’s drab. It’s worse than drab. It’s, funereal. That wallpaper is grotesque. If you continue to stay here, you’ll become quite morbid. And I simply cannot tolerate morbid people—they become so involved with themselves that they ignore me altogether. I’ll speak with Vail, we’ll get you moved into a new room immediately.”

  “Really, Mistuh Oscar. No need for that. This
room’s jus’ fine.”

  “Nonsense. Now, please, close the door and come along. Sit down while I explain what I’ve come up with. I think you’ll find it extraordinary.”

  Henry did as ordered, stepped over and sat in one of the room’s two chairs, both of which looked cramped and hazardous. Oscar remained standing, his hands clasped behind his back.

  “Now,” he began. “This Marshal Grigsby person—big brutal chap with a silly hat and a colossal handgun—has he spoken with you yet?”

  “Yes suh.”

  “You know about the women being killed, then. The prostitutes. And you know that Grigsby believes one of us responsible.”

  “Yes suh. A terrible thing, Mistuh Oscar.”

  “Yes, yes, of course. Terrible. And I’m afraid that Grigsby may be right, that one of us is, in fact, the murderer. But it’s obvious to me, Henry, that Grigsby is entirely out of his element here. Oh, no doubt he can twirl a rustler and track down a lariat, or whatever it is these frontier stalwarts do, but the simple fact is, just now he’s confronted with an extremely cunning and resourceful killer. And Grigsby is hopelessly outclassed.”

  Oscar drew himself up to his full height. “So, what I propose to do, you see, is determine for myself just exactly which one of us is responsible.”

  Henry nodded. “Yes suh. How?”

  “Ah, Henry. Wonderful. You leap at once to the crux of the matter. How, indeed. And I answer—by bringing to bear on this problem a talent, a faculty, that poor Grigsby lacks, one which he would be utterly unable even to imagine.”

  Oscar leaned forward and intoned, “I speak now of the sensibility, the intuition, of a poet.”

  Henry nodded. “Yes suh.”

  Oscar smiled happily and spread his arms. “Do you see it, Henry? Of course you do. Really, it’s obvious, isn’t it? Who better than a poet, with his insight into the mind and the heart, who better than he to penetrate the mask behind which this villain has hidden himself? We will uncover this man, Henry, and we will do it by a systematic application of the poetic imagination.”