Beguinage, page 12
part #39 of The Floating Outfit Series
‘Not that it means anything, though,’ the youngster sighed. ‘I’d say a woman of any sort’d be apt to get herself noticed and remembered in that kind of holier-than-thou place.’
‘What’re you getting at, amigo?’ Dusty asked, the term ‘boy’ being reserved for when only the other members of the floating outfit were present.
‘Only that this whole damned game’s got me licked to a frazzle,’ Waco confessed. ‘He was killed in his room, with all the windows and doors fastened on his side. Which I know whoever gave him that poisoned wine didn’t need to be on hand when he drank it, but he’d have to be pretty damned sure he could trust ’em afore he’d pull the cork, or even get close enough to hand it over.’
‘Have your men found where the bottle came from, Tim?’ the local justice of the peace inquired, having no doubt that such a point had not escaped the sheriff’s notice.
‘Nope,’ Farron replied. ‘There wasn’t a label on the bottle, nor anything to even suggest where the wine came from. I’ve had a Chicano [34] friend look it over. He allows it could be a local brew, but without tasting it there’s no way he can tell for sure and he couldn’t do that’
‘Depends on how good a friend he is whether you’d tell him to or not,’ the Ysabel Kid remarked, then became serious. ‘This “Beguinage” must be one hell of a smart son-of-a-bitch, though. He goes through the barrio without anybody noticing him. Then he gets a hombre who likely wouldn’t trust his own mother to open up ’n’ take a bottle of wine from him. All I know is, that’s one jasper I’d hate like hell to have riled up at me.’
‘Maybe Beguinage is Spanish,’ von Farlenheim suggested. ‘If he is and was dressed in the right clothes, he could go through the barrio without attracting attention.’
‘Trouble being, the Comtesse de Petain allows the way he writes makes her think he’s French,’ Farron pointed out. ‘Of course, the Jesuits run schools in Spain. But my amigo’s looked over both messages and allows it’s not their style of script.’
‘Talking about the Comtesse,’ Dusty put in, grateful for the opportunity to satisfy his curiosity and not in the least surprised to have found out that his uncle had had the documents checked by somebody who would know the difference in styles between French and Spanish educational methods. ‘How’d she and Scargill get to be invited to the reception?’
‘Don’t tell me that you suspect her?’ von Farlenheim barked.
‘I’ve got no reason to,’ Dusty said, so blandly that he might have been speaking the truth. ‘It’s just that he didn’t strike me’s being the kind of man who she’d go around with.’
‘There’s no accounting for taste,’ von Farlenheim growled, having wondered about the same thing. ‘Anyway, she came over on the Atlantic Star with my nephew. At least, Alex got to know her on the boat. When my wife heard he had, she insisted that he invited her. When she said that she’d made arrangements to have dinner with Scargill, Frieda told her to bring him along.’
‘She couldn’t’ve been mixed up in it,’ the local justice of the peace protested. ‘Why she could’ve got killed along with Mark out in the garden.’
‘Huh huh!’ Dusty grunted, making use of a non-committal sound he had frequently found useful. Then, with the air of one who wants to change a subject, he looked at von Farlenheim and continued, ‘Has your nephew come over to help set up the hunting trip for the Prince?’
‘Not exactly,’ the burly man answered, looking embarrassed. Then he gave a shrug of resignation and went on, ‘This is confidential, of course, gentlemen, but Alex is here under something of a cloud. He got in some trouble. Not too serious, but it caused him to have to resign from the Bosgravnian Military Academy. His father sent him here in the hope that he might ingratiate himself with the Crown Prince, or that a successful hunt organized by me would persuade His Highness to have Alex reinstated.’
‘Let’s hope that we can give him one then,’ Dusty drawled. ‘Have you-all heard of a feller called Franz Zapt?’
‘I can’t say that I have off-hand,’ von Farlenheim replied, showing relief over the matter of his nephew having been shelved. ‘“Zapt” is a pretty common name in Bosgravnia, though, like “Smith” over here. In fact, as far as I can remember, that’s what it means in true Bosgrav, although the more generally used language spoken there is German. Does he say he knows me?’
‘He’s not doing any talking at all now,’ the Kid commented dryly.
‘That’s the name of the man who tried to hire Lon and Waco to kill me,’ Dusty elaborated.
‘The one who was killed outside the Running Iron Saloon?’ asked the justice of the peace. ‘How’d you find out who he was, Captain Fog?’
‘I didn’t,’ Dusty corrected. ‘Uncle Tim told me.’
‘I had my deputies start asking around town,’ the sheriff explained, as the others looked at him. ‘They traced him to the Seamen’s Temperance Hotel. The trouble was by the time they did, somebody—it might have been the feller from up North he’d checked in with and who’s lit a shuck [35] out of town—had gone through his room and taken everything that would’ve identified him, or told us what he was up to. We only found out who Zapt was because the day clerk’s German and, hailing from near Bosgravnia, had recognized his accent and got to talking with him, but not about anything that helped.’
‘Do you know anything about the other man, Tim?’ asked Howard.
‘Only that he signed the register as Gustav Breakast, of Newark, New Jersey,’ Farron answered. ‘I’ve telegraphed the police there to ask if anything’s known about him, but haven’t had a reply yet.’ His gaze flickered to his nephew and he grinned. ‘Which, afore it’s brought up by any of you smart-alicky young Rio Hondo varmints, I’ve seen what Ram Turtle had to tell. Allows he doesn’t know the name, but he’ll ask around and see what he can find out. That could maybe come out more than the Newark police’ll know. Had him along to look at those two pistoleros, too. Give me their names, for all the good it’ll do and said he’d try to learn who they was working for.’
‘From what I’ve heard, Ram Turtle isn’t usually this obliging to the law,’ the Governor remarked. ‘Don’t tell me he’s seen the light at long last.’
‘Not so much seen it, sir,’ Waco drawled, throwing a glance at the Kid. ‘He just doesn’t take to the notion of having it touched off—under where he’s sitting.’
‘I think I’d rather not know what that’s supposed to mean,’ Howard stated, having heard something of the tactics Ole Devil Hardin’s floating outfit had employed on occasion when dealing with recalcitrant or uncooperative malefactors. ‘The thing is, gentlemen, what can we do about preventing this Beguinage—whoever he is—from trying to carry out his assignment?’
‘We’ll have to find out who he is and where he is before we can do anything about stopping him,’ the justice of the peace declared. ‘Which shouldn’t be all that difficult. There can’t be all that many foreigners freshly arrived from Europe around town.’
‘Not too many,’ Dusty agreed, but with reservations. ‘Which’s why we’re likely too late to catch him.’
‘How do you mean?’ the justice of the peace demanded. ‘Happen we’re smart enough to have figured it out that way, you can bet he has too,’ the small Texan replied. ‘And, seeing’s how he’s done what he came here for, there’s no reason for him to stay on and take a chance of being found out.’
‘Hell, yes!’ Waco ejaculated, following his amigo’s train of thought and cursing himself silently for having failed to draw a similar conclusion.
‘But he hasn’t done what he came here for,’ the justice of the peace protested, puzzled by Dusty’s line of reasoning. A large, plump, capable man of staid appearance and demeanor, he did not approve of the Governor associating in such a free and easy manner with the OD Connected’s hired hands and hoped to show that they, the youngest in particular, were not infallible. ‘His Highness hasn’t even arrived here yet.’
‘No, sir, he hasn’t,’ Waco conceded, having deduced that he did not meet with civic official’s approval. ‘Fact being, from what I’ve been told, he isn’t coming to Brownsville at all.’
‘Hot damn, you’re right!’ von Farlenheim ejaculated, slapping a big hand against his thigh. ‘He’s landing at Corpus Christie and will be heading north after the hunting trip. It was never intended that he’d come here. All the arrangements, your official reception for him, Governor, and the rest, are to take place up at Corpus Christie.’
‘Probably Beguinage didn’t know that,’ the justice of the peace suggested.
‘If he didn’t,’ Waco drawled, refusing to be deterred by the official’s coldly disapproving glare. ‘He’s not as smart as he’s proved he is. Or the folks he’s working for haven’t told him all they know. Which they’re likely to have done. So, was I asked, I’d say he knew the Prince wasn’t coming here.’
‘Then why did he come?’ demanded the justice of the peace, intrigued despite his misgivings.
‘To warn, scare, or kill off anybody else who might have the same notion where the Prince was concerned,’ Mark Counter suggested, seeing the point his amigos had been making which was still—apparently—eluding the local man.
‘Or who had the know-how to get it done for somebody’s didn’t know this neck of the woods well enough to fix it themselves.’ Waco supplemented. ‘Which’s why he left the message at ’Cisco Castro’s cantina, it being a place where hired guns and such can be got to and taken on.’
‘You mean that he thought just giving the warning would frighten somebody like Castro off?’ the justice of the peace asked.
‘Maybe not scare ’em so bad they’d go hide in a dark corner,’ the youngster replied. ‘Could be’s he’d got word that Castro ’n’ Ram Turtle was meeting up and talking trade over the cantina. So he figured neither of ’em’d want a fuss that’d raise too much dust and, ’specially after they’d seen what he could do when he’d a mind, they’d take what he said to heart and do like he asked.’
‘And killing Scargill wouldn’t “raise too much dust”, as you put it?’ the justice of the peace challenged.
‘Not so’s it’d blow over them, sir,’ Waco answered, his voice taking on an edge even if it was only obvious to the other members of the floating outfit. ‘There wasn’t anything to tie the killing in with them, or so he figured. What he didn’t count on was Ram Turtle showing us the letter.’
‘I’ll tell a man that there Beguinage hombre’s one real lively son-of-a-bitch,’ drawled the Kid, wanting to turn some of the civic official’s attention away from the youngster. ‘Going around warning off Ram Turtle ’n’ good old ’Cisco Castro. Then after he’s made wolf bait [36] of that Zapt jasper who was—’
‘Hold hard there, amigo,’ Waco commanded. ‘Let’s us have some good old Texas fair play. We can’t go blaming Beguinage for that. Unless I’m wrong, I’d say it was Dink Sproxton who did it.’
‘You’ve likely got good reasons for saying it,’ Farron stated. ‘Why him?’
‘Somebody’d hired those two yahoos who tried to gun Mark down, thinking he was Dusty,’ the youngster explained. ‘Which doesn’t seem to be Beguinage’s way, he likes something with less chance to it. And, seeing’s how it wasn’t Ram Turtle or Castro’s did the hiring, that sort of sets Sproxton on top of the deck to be dealt. For one thing, he was living at the same place’s Zapt and that Breakast jasper. Then he’d likely recognize Lon and me when he saw us with Zapt and know that having us asked to gun Dusty down was going to blow the whole shebang apart at the seams. Which, being newly arrived from Europe ’n’ all, it’s not likely Beguinage would, smart’s he is.’
‘That sounds like pretty good figuring to me,’ the sheriff conceded, hoping that the justice of the peace would take the hint. ‘But why’d he kill Scargill. Not just to prove a point to Ram Turtle, surely? Wiping out Dink Sproxton’d’ve been a better way of doing that.’
‘The Comtesse allowed that Scargill was a liberal-intellectual suspected of being in cahoots with European anarchists,’ Dusty reminded his uncle, wanting to avoid having his own thoughts mentioned upon the subject of who the Englishman’s murder had been intended to warn. ‘Could be he was tied in with those soft-shells [37] who’re plotting to take over Bosgravnia. So Beguinage put him under to scare off the rest of them.’
‘It could be,’ Farron agreed. ‘His room’d been gone through and everything that might’ve told us anything taken. At least, the maid who went in to turn down his bed allowed somebody’d been in and tidied it up after she’d left, which makes it look that way. I’ll tell you, one way and another, that Beguinage’s a real bad hombre.’
‘He is,’ the Governor seconded, nodding grimly. ‘And, I don’t care how it’s done, I want him stopped—’
‘Dusty,’ Mrs. Farron said, entering the room with a buff-colored telegraph message form in her hand. ‘This has just come for you.’
‘Damn it!’ the small Texan ejaculated, after reading the message. ‘I was afraid this might happen. There’s some trouble come up back to home and Uncle Devil wants me to go help take care of it. You and the boys will have to handle things here, Mark, but I’ll have to head for home this afternoon.’
Eleven – You Boys Go and Stomp Him Good
‘Beguinage, Beguinage!’ Alex von Farlenheim snorted, glaring almost contemptuously at Charlene, Comtesse de Petain, as they were walking towards the open doors of the big stable at Kelly’s Livery Barn with the intention of hiring horses to go for a ride. ‘To hell with him and his warnings. I’m not afraid of him, no matter who—or what you say he is!’
‘Then you’re a bigger fool than I thought!’ the woman spat back, speaking the young man’s native tongue with considerable fluency. Although she was afraid of Beguinage, after the convincing demonstration given by Walter Scargill’s murder, she did not care to be reminded of her fear. ‘And do try to hold your voice down to less than its usual roar. There may be somebody inside who speaks German.’
Only an early riser when there was no other choice, Charlene had still been in bed when von Farlenheim arrived at the Lone Star Hotel shortly before noon. Disturbed by the events of the previous night, although she felt neither regret nor grief over the Englishman’s death, she had slept badly. In fact, she had only dropped off as the first light of dawn was creeping into the sky. So her first inclination had been to send word for the visitor to go away. However, wanting to find out if there had been any further developments, she had changed her mind. Deciding that she would prefer to hear of these in privacy, she had decided against asking the Bosgravnian to her rooms. Instead, she had suggested that they went for a ride and put themselves beyond the reach of possible eavesdroppers.
Having donned what she considered to be suitable raiment, after having the ravages of the previous night repaired by her maid’s ministrations, the Comtesse had joined von Farlenheim in the lobby of the hotel. Immediately she had revised her intention of taking lunch before leaving. Showing a complete lack of tact and common sense, he had started to discuss what had happened to Scargill in a loud and carrying voice. Realizing that Beguinage might be a guest in the hotel and within hearing distance, she had insisted that they set off immediately. Eager to gain whatever information he might have to supply, she refused his offer of collecting mounts from his uncle’s mansion and insisted that it would be quicker to hire horses at the nearest livery stable.
Listening to von Farlenheim as they were walking to the livery barn, Charlene had regarded what he was saying with mixed feelings. While pleased at having an opportunity to talk with him, she felt that he might have occupied his time more advantageously in accompanying his uncle to the meeting at the home of Sheriff Timothy Farron. Like her own, the young Bosgravnian’s sole sentiments over Scargill’s murder were that he might have left some incriminating documents in his room. However, from what her maid had said while attending to her make-up and hair, she had guessed that any he had had in his possession were found and carried off when—apparently tidying up the mess he had left while working—Beguinage had conducted a thorough search prior to leaving the lethal ‘present’.
‘He was right about one thing,’ von Farlenheim had remarked, when Charlene mentioned the contents of the note she had received as part of her description of the events preceding Scargill’s death. ‘He did get rid of the one who was least use to us.’
‘In one way,’ the Comtesse had replied. ‘But with him gone, we won’t have such a readily available scapegoat upon whom to lay the blame for the Prince’s assassination.’
‘We can still make it look like the work of his anarchist scum,’ von Farlenheim had stated. ‘After all, we know that they too want His Highness dead and are hoping to do it while he is hunting over here.’
If Walter Scargill had been alive to hear that part of the conversation, he would have been mortified and infuriated. Far from having won over the beautiful French aristocrat with his personal charm, he had been no more than a dupe she was leading on to take the blame for the assassination.
There had been a further irritation, although at the same time it was also some slight consolation for Charlene when she listened to what von Farlenheim had to tell her about the killing of Franz Zapt and Dink Sproxton. While she found it interesting, there were aspects which aroused her contempt and anger.
Showing more initiative than the Comtesse would have given him credit for, the young Bosgravnian had risen early that morning to conduct inquiries. He had visited the prearranged rendezvous to which the man they knew as ‘Gustav Breakast’ had been sent the night before by Sproxton. From ‘Breakast’, the representative of a criminal organization based in New York which had been hired by her associates to provide local assistance, he had found out what had led up to the shooting of his countryman.
Assigned by the leaders of the conspiracy to work as a go-between, Zapt had grown impatient on hearing that Sproxton was having difficulty in obtaining the men who were needed to kill Dusty Fog. He had announced to ‘Breakast’, after Sproxton had left to resume the search, that he would attend to the matter personally. Unable to dissuade him, or even to stop him dressing in a manner which would allow him to lurk in the grounds of the von Farlenheim family’s mansion without arousing suspicion, the New Englander had taken him to the Running Iron Saloon in the belief that he would be unable to achieve his purpose there. When it had seemed that he might, ‘Breakast’ had gone to fetch Sproxton. On the local man identifying the proposed ‘hired killers’, they had both considered it was vital that Zapt be silenced before he could say too much.
