The Floating Outfit 39, page 18
At the blond giant’s suggestion, although the small Texan did not know of this until later, Charlene, Comtesse de Petain and Alex von Farlenheim had been invited to accompany the Governor’s entourage. She had accepted, but the young Bosgravnian refused and said he would make his own way there later.
Shortly before noon, a vessel that was obviously a steam-sloop of the United States’ Navy had been sighted on the horizon. It had signaled that it would delay entering Corpus Christie Bay until four o’clock in the afternoon. That would allow the welcoming party to assemble and have all ready on the quay to greet the royal passenger. The news had passed around the town with the rapidity of a wind-driven prairie fire and the majority of the population were very excited by the prospect. The desk clerk’s response to the small Texan’s comment was typical of the general feeling prevalent among the better class of the community.
‘It sure would,’ Dusty admitted, as he extracted and opened the sheet of paper from the envelope. ‘I’ve never even seen an ordinary for-real prince, much less a crown prince. It should be quite a sight.’
‘That it should,’ agreed the clerk, less huffily as the small Texan had adopted a less bantering tone. He gave a sniff and, full of civic pride, went on, ‘So much for Brownsville now. It was to Corpus Christie he decided to come.’
On the point of continuing to extol the virtues of his home town over its rival, the man realized that his audience was no longer paying any attention. So, giving another sniff that registered disapproval of such inconsiderate behavior, he turned and stumped pompously into his office.
There was good cause for Dusty’s preoccupation!
‘Mr. Rapido Clint,’ the message ran. ‘If you would avoid having Oscar Schindler deprive you of your fee for assassinating Crown Prince Rudolph of Bosgravnia, go to the Edgehurst Warehouse shortly before the steam-sloop drops anchor. You should have no difficulty in finding it, as it is one of those in which you took such an interest when you were trying to decide from where he would strike. Schindler will be there and intends to kill His Royal Highness the moment He sets foot on American soil.’
There was no signature. However, despite the writing being different from that of the other notes Dusty had seen, he felt sure the letter had come from Beguinage.
In which case, the message was intended to lead ‘Rapido Clint’ into a trap!
The vital question was, what form would the trap take?
Thinking of the address he had been given, Dusty did not doubt that he would find Schindler there. It was a place which, after much consideration and study, he had selected as the sharpshooter’s most likely choice. The others might be closer, but it was still within the range of the Sharps ‘Buffalo’ rifle. In addition to the distance, there was another factor which would reduce the chance of it being suspected. At first sight, it had seemed that other buildings were in the line of fire. A closer and more careful examination, both on the ground and with the aid of the map supplied by the Governor had proved this was not so. There was a restricted view from an upstairs window, yet adequate for a man with Schindler’s ability, all the way to the point at which the Crown Prince was to come ashore.
Was Beguinage bringing his two rivals together in the hope that one, possibly both, would kill the other?
From what Dusty had seen of the European assassin’s work so far, he felt sure something more subtle was planned. Beguinage would never be content to rely upon a scheme that left so much to chance. Having caused ‘Rapido Clint’ and Schindler to meet, he would be determined to ensure that neither survived the encounter.
One thing above all else had been plain to Dusty’s way of thinking. No matter what Beguinage had in store for his alter ego, against such a capable antagonist, he would be forced to go alone to spring the trap. Even if any of the other members of the floating outfit were available, 55 unless they were following at such a distance that help could not arrive quickly enough to be of any use, the assassin was almost certain to see them and refuse to put in an appearance. Furthermore, the message had been timed to reach him too late for any elaborate precautions to be taken.
Accepting that he would have to take his chances alone, Dusty had set off from the hotel. Already the crowds were starting to assemble and the area in which the Edgehurst Warehouse was situated appeared completely deserted. There was nobody in sight as he approached the rear of the building. As Raffles had claimed Schindler always worked alone and having estimated that he would have taken up his firing position by now, Dusty had hoped for such conditions when selecting the route by which to reach his destination.
However, although there was no sign of human life and the rest of the entrances were closed, one small door stood slightly ajar.
And was being drawn open from inside!
On the point of commencing his draw, the small Texan refrained when he saw the person who was coming from the building. Having learned from Raffles what Schindler looked like, Dusty knew it was not him. Nor, if the other’s appearance and behavior was anything to go by, had the sharpshooter changed his methods and taken a confederate to act as a lookout.
Apart from the way in which the emerging man was dressed, Dusty decided that he had rarely seen anybody who struck him as so completely average and ordinary. About five foot ten, his height attracted no notice by being unusually tall or short. His build was neither so good nor so skinny as to draw attention to it. His face was devoid of any distinguishing features and gave no definite clue to his ethnic origins beyond that he was of European stock. Of a brownish tint, his hair was of a color it was impossible to describe exactly. Equally indeterminate, his age could have been anywhere from the late twenties to early fifties. Only his attire—the loose fitting brown robe, bare legs and sandal-covered feet of a mission padre—marked him as being describedly different. All else was completely average.
‘The Lord be praised!’ the man gasped, hurrying towards the small Texan. He pointed in the direction from which he had come, continuing in a voice that—except for holding just the slightest trace of some indefinable foreign accent—matched his wholly average and unnoticeable aspect. ‘Can you help me, my son? I fear there has been violence done inside.’
‘How do you mean, Father?’ Dusty inquired, relaxing a little at the evidence that he was dealing with a member of one of the holy orders.
‘I heard voices raised in anger from the upper floor as I was going by,’ the padre elaborated. ‘And, as a man of the cloth, I felt it was my duty to go and try to keep the peace. This door was open and I went in. As I was going across to the stairs, there were the sounds of struggling, blows and the cry of a man in mortal pain.’
‘Who was it?’ Dusty asked.
‘That I do not know,’ the padre admitted, lowering his head so his face could not be seen and shuffling his feet as if embarrassed by the confession. ‘While it is my duty to go and see, I realized that doing so could be very dangerous. If one man had done bodily harm, or worse, upon another, he would not want any witnesses. So my nerve failed me. As some of our order have discovered to our sorrow, not everybody in Texas is a Catholic with respect for our cloth. But you have the appearance of a man of action, my son. Could you come in with me?’
‘I’ve a better idea than that,’ the small Texan replied, glancing at the windows of the upper floor. ‘You-all stay here and let me go in to take a look around.’
‘I have no wish to put you into jeopardy, my son,’ the padre protested.
‘Don’t let that worry you, I’ve been there before,’ Dusty drawled. ‘Which I’ll be real careful. Wait here please, Father. Happen you-all hear shooting and I don’t yell or come out soon after, go fetch the marshal.’
‘I’ve got you, Mr. “Rapido Clint”!’ Beguinage breathed exultantly, watching the small Texan going to the open door of the warehouse. ‘You’re no cleverer than Schindler, or all the others who have let a priest’s attire bring about their deaths.’ With that, Europe’s ‘premier assassin’s’ right hand went into his loose left sleeve and emerged grasping the hilt of a wicked looking knife. The spear point 56 of its double edged blade had had the coating of curare 57 replaced after it had been wiped off while ending the life of the sharpshooter. Showing no more expression than he would if carrying out a normal, everyday function, he stepped silently after his next unsuspecting victim.
Sixteen – Beguinage Is Dead
Dusty Fog was half-way across the open floor of the Edgehurst Warehouse, making for the flight of wooden steps which gave access to the upper portion of the building, when the realization of exactly what he was doing struck home.
Ironically, it was a comment made by Beguinage in his eagerness to persuade ‘Rapido Clint’ to walk into the trap which supplied the vital clue and triggered off a warning bell in the small Texan’s head.
There was not the slightest sound from the upper floor and, as yet, Dusty had not drawn his guns. He was waiting for the first suggestion that he needed them before doing so. Yet for all his appreciation of the probable danger he was facing, he found he was unable to shake off a thought that kept nagging at him. Something had happened recently which was stirring a responsive note in his memory.
Or had been said!
The realization that it was the latter struck home!
Recollecting the ‘padre’s’ comment about how Catholics were inclined to show respect for members of their creed’s priesthood, Dusty began to find that various aspects of the affair which had puzzled himself and his companions were leaping into focus. The implications they aroused were alarming.
Only one kind of non-Mexican person could have passed through the Brownsville barrio after nightfall without being observed and remembered.
A man wearing the attire of a Catholic priest or padre!
Knowing that he was likely to have aroused the ire of two powerful criminal factions by his intrusion on their domain, Dink Sproxton would have had to have complete trust in whoever was outside before he would open his door—or believe that the caller was harmless. There could be only a very few strangers who would come into the latter category under the circumstances.
Of all the people in the world, Sproxton—a Catholic, according to the desk clerk at the Seamen’s Temperance Hotel—would consider it safe to give admission to a representative of the church in whose faith he had been raised. In all probability, the bottle of poisoned wine had been sold to him on the pretense that the money would be donated to one of the visitor’s charities.
Brought closer to home, Dusty took into consideration the way in which he personally was acting at present.
Having come into what he knew was almost certainly a trap set by a ruthless, efficient and exceptionally intelligent person, the clothing worn by the ‘padre’ had still prevented Dusty from suspecting the truth. Instead, he had turned his back on a complete stranger who had just emerged from the building to which he had been directed by a message he was convinced had come from Europe’s ‘premier assassin’. Nor had he given the slightest thought to how implausible some aspects of the ‘padre’s’ story had been.
All in all, Dusty told himself—while also thanking the foresight which had led him to don cowhand and not gambler’s attire that morning—he had not only walked into Beguinage’s trap, but he had done everything in his power to ensure that it was able to snap closed.
Unaware of the thoughts which were assailing the man who he intended to make his second victim of the day, Europe’s ‘premier assassin’ crept silently across the warehouse. He gave the impression of being some merciless predatory beast stalking his prey and, to all intents and purposes, that was exactly what he had become. While he preferred more subtle methods as a general rule, he was a skilled performer with the knife. He held it with the curare-coated spear point protruding ahead of his thumb and forefinger, a way which would allow it to be thrust to its best advantage. One blow was all he would need. Particularly if it went home on exposed flesh, death would be swift and inevitable.
That had been the case with Oscar Schindler!
More successful than Buck Raffles’ men had been, Beguinage had kept the sharpshooter under observation. At first, he had intended to terminate his rival the same evening. Learning that there was yet another hired killer becoming involved, he had held off after the copperhead snake failed to remove the newcomer. Nor had there been another opportunity to reach Schindler until the impending arrival of Crown Prince Rudolph of Bosgravnia had offered the opportunity.
Engrossed in making preparations to carry out his assignment, Schindler had been oblivious of Beguinage’s approach until it was too late. As he had started to turn, the razor-sharp, needle tipped knife had flashed around and laid his throat open almost to the bone. He was dead in seconds, long before he could even attempt any reprisals against his murderer.
With the first rival removed, all the assassin had needed to do was await the coming of the other. He knew that the Mexican boy to whom he had entrusted the message had carried out his instructions and fled before any question could be put which would have supplied ‘Rapido Clint’ with the information that a ‘padre’ had sent it. So, although he was aware that the small Texan was not a Catholic, he had been confident his disguise would prevent his true identity from being suspected.
Not only had ‘Rapido Clint’ risen to the bait, he had done as Beguinage anticipated by approaching from the rear of the building. In that respect, the assassin had felt just a trifle cheated.
Until the small Texan had appeared upon the scene, nothing Beguinage had seen of them so far had given him any cause to respect the abilities of his American contemporaries. The way in which the insignificant seeming young man—whose appearance must usually serve him as did Beguinage’s own—had searched for and selected those places most likely to appeal to Schindler had been impressive. Nor had the knowledge that he had already escaped from the snake trap which had never failed in the past lessened the assassin’s appreciation of his potential.
Breaking the rule of a lifetime and hiring the three men to try and remove ‘Rapido Clint’ had been as much a test of the other’s abilities as a way of getting rid of him. Doubting whether the religious aspect would serve the purpose, Beguinage had decided to use the local hired killers. Guessing that his proposed victim had close associations with the only source of good quality men, he had been compelled to take what was available. Seeing how the small Texan coped with them had done nothing to change the assassin’s opinion of him.
In spite of the way in which he had apparently been drinking when Beguinage had seen him during the evening, ‘Rapido Clint’s’ inebriation had proved to be nothing more than a sham. Nor did the assassin’s attempts at exculpation by telling himself he had never been close enough to notice the deception make him any the less appreciative of how well the other had conveyed the impression of imbibing whiskey after whiskey. It had been a masterly performance.
Measuring the ever decreasing distance between himself and his victim, Beguinage found he was almost wishing that the small Texan had proven sufficiently astute to detect and avoid the trap.
At which point, involuntarily, Dusty began to grant the assassin’s wish!
Although the small Texan had heard nothing, his growing awareness of his danger demanded that he satisfy his curiosity. So he turned—
And discovered that the deductions were correct!
Seeing the way in which his proposed victim was behaving, a sensation of alarm bit through Beguinage. He was still well beyond reaching distance and realized that he must reach a range at which he could strike if he hoped to survive. With that thought uppermost, he changed his silent stalk into a savage charge.
Even as he was changing his pace, the assassin remembered the speed with which ‘Rapido Clint’ had reacted when caught between the three men on the darkened street. Thinking of the affair later, Beguinage was inclined to think he had been mistaken about the way in which the small Texan had coped with the first two assailants. Nobody, he had frequently declared when considering the matter, could produce a firearm from its holster in such a minute fraction of time, much less two almost simultaneously. While he could not imagine how it was done, he had convinced himself that some form of trickery was involved.
Beguinage was very soon to learn, but would never profit from the knowledge, just how great the misconception had been.
Startled by the discovery of how near his assailant had contrived to come undetected, Dusty did not let it impede his movements. Rather it gave an added urgency and produced an even great alacrity to the way he was already starting to react. Swinging around on the balls of his feet, his hands went to the butts of their respective weapons while he was still turning. By the time he was confronting the rapidly approaching assassin, the Colts were clear of leather and, with the barrels angling outwards, the hammers were at full-cock and the triggers depressed.
For all that, it was one of the closest brushes with death Dusty would ever have!
Detonated powder was expelling lead through the barrels as the curare-encrusted spear point of the knife lunged forward.
Once again forethought saved the small Texan’s life!
On his way to the rendezvous, Dusty had taken the precaution of exchanging the ‘town loads’ in his Colt’s cylinders for the far more potent fully charged variety he had had in the loops on the back of his gunbelt.
Under the impulsion of no less than thirty grains of prime du Pont black powder—two more than was considered the maximum load for the Winchester Model of 1866 rifle—the two hundred and fifty grain bullets packed considerable power. Hit in the center of the chest by two of them, Beguinage was knocked backwards an instant before the blade of his knife reached Dusty’s throat. Spinning from his grasp, it clattered to the floor and a moment later he was following it down.
