The Gunsmith 418, page 4
. . . and he wasn’t.
He felt naked without a gun, but it was only a three-block walk to the hotel. Surely, on the deserted, dark streets of Manhattan he’d be able to make it there without somebody trying to kill him.
He hoped.
Chapter Twelve
Luck held.
He woke the next morning, went into the water closet and started the water running for a bath. When he’d gotten back the night before—without anyone trying to shoot, stab or club him—he’d simple washed off in the sink and gone to bed. He was too tired to bathe then, but now he was ready to soak in a hot tub.
He thought about the works of art he had seen the day before, in the hotel, in the gallery, in the storeroom of the gallery as they uncrated them—and the most memorable work of art of all, the naked Nadine Jensen. He was looking forward to seeing her again, but it was about more than sex. He was interested in her gallery, and whether the paintings they had uncrated together were going to bring her any success. He hoped so. Over the years he’d invested in saloons, hotels, mines and stores, so why not an art gallery in New York? He wouldn’t mind being partners—even a percentage of partners—with Nadine.
He wondered if Emory Bates would be at the party? He was looking forward to meeting the man, and letting him know that to get to Nadine Jensen, he would now have to go through Clint.
He took his Colt from its holster, tucked it into his belt, then put on a jacket to cover it before leaving the room.
~*~
He went down to the dining room for breakfast, then left the hotel, stopped by the doorman—the same one from the night before.
“Did you find the gallery last night, sir?”
“I did.”
“What did you think?”
“It was all it was built up to be.”
“Ah,” the doorman said, with a knowing smile.
“And now I need your help, again,” Clint said, handing the man some money.
The doorman didn’t look in his hand, he just tucked the tip away.
“What can I do for you?”
“I need to buy a gun. I know of some shops downtown, but I need something closer,” Clint said, “so I can get it done quicker.”
“That’s no problem,” the doorman said. “I can direct you.”
“I thought you might be able to . . .”
~*~
Clint entered the gun shop. It was a small store with a small, wizened old man behind the counter.
“Can I help you, sir?”
“I’m looking for a gun,” Clint said, “for a lady.”
“Ah, I have many lady’s guns, sir,” the man said. “I can show you—”
“A derringer,” Clint said. “I need a two shot derringer.”
“Small enough for a lady’s handbag,” the man said, “but not really a lady’s gun. It’s more of a gambler’s gun.”
“I understand the history of the weapon,” Clint said. “I just want to buy one.”
“Of course, sir,” the man said. “I have several you can choose from.”
“Lay them out for me and I’ll pick.”
“As you wish, sir . . .”
~*~
By the time Clint reached the gallery it was afternoon. As he walked in he saw Nadine talking with two men in a corner, in front of a painting of a city street. She saw him, sent a glance his way, and since she didn’t look distressed in any way, he strolled the room and waited for her conversation to end.
Abruptly, the two men put their hats on, said goodbye, and left the gallery. Nadine walked over to him.
“Am I always walking in when you have a problem?” he asked.
“A different kind of problem, this time,” she said. “They were from my bank.”
“Ah.”
“I have a payment coming up,” she said. “They wanted to . . . remind me.”
“Nice of them.”
“Yes, well, Mr. Hilliard, the banker, is like most men, I’m afraid.”
“Meaning he not only wants the payment,” Clint said, “he wants you.”
She looked embarrassed. “I’m afraid so.”
“Well, that’s a problem you’re going to have to deal with for a long time to come, Nadine,” he told her. “I mean, look at you.”
She was wearing an emerald green business suit that made her appear very professional, but did nothing to hide her beauty. Her hair was up once again, but there was nothing she could do to disguise the loveliness of her face, the allure of her full body.
“Maybe I should start wearing glasses,” she said, touching her face.
“Believe me,” he laughed, “that wouldn’t make much of a difference. Not with that face.”
She blushed for a moment, looked away, then recovered her composure.
“I’m glad to see you,” she said.
“More paintings to uncrate?” he asked.
“Not exactly.”
He looked around.
“I don’t see any of them hanging.”
“I’ll be hanging them tonight, after closing,” she said. “You might come and help me.”
“You’re right,” he said. “I might, if you’ll let me buy you supper again.”
“At your hotel?” she asked. “I understand they have a wonderful dining room.”
“We could do that,” he said. “Or we could eat in my room and come here after.”
“Oh, no,” she said, “If I let you take me to your room, we’ll never get here. So, supper in a restaurant, and then back here for work.”
“For work,” he said. “Agreed. But now, I have something for you.”
She looked around. The gallery was empty at the moment.
“Let’s go to the office, then.” She led the way.
Chapter Thirteen
Outside the building, across the street, standing in a second floor window above an abandoned storefront, George and Griff had watched Clint enter the gallery.
“There’s the bastard,” George said.
Griff produced a gun, which he hadn’t been carrying the day before.
“I can pick him off from here when he comes out.” It was an old Navy Colt, and George doubted that Griff could hit anything with it.
“No, stupid,” George said, “Uncle E. wants to know who he is. Put that away.”
Griff did.
“You stay here and keep watching the gallery,” George said. “I’m gonna go down and follow him when he leaves.”
“Don’t let him see you!” Griff warned.
“Jesus, Griff,” George said, turning away from the window and looking at his cousin. “Remember that you’re the stupid one, not me. Nobody in this city sees me following them if I don’t want them to.”
“So what do I do?”
“I told you,” George said. “Just sit here, watch and wait for me. Understand?”
Griff nodded, but muttered, “Still think I can pick him off.”
George relented, put his hand on his cousin’s shoulder and said, “Maybe next time.”
~*~
Clint put the derringer on the desk. She opened a small drawer, took out the New Line and set it down next to it. The derringer made the little .32 look huge.
“It’s so small,” she said.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “It’ll do the job.”
She picked it up.
“It’s light.”
“Gamblers use it, when they don’t want to wear a holster at the card table,” Clint said. He reached over and took it from her, broke it open. “It loads this way. I’ll leave you some extra bullets.” He snapped it shut and handed it back. “It’s no different from any other gun. You point and pull the trigger. Aim for the largest part of your target’s body.”
“The chest?” she said.
“Unless it’s a really fat man,” he said, and she laughed. She opened the desk drawer and put the gun inside. “Then I’d aim for his head. I mean, all that fat, and it’s a small gun.” Well, maybe it wasn’t so funny.
“Here.” He took a handful of extra bullets from his picket and set them in the drawer, as well, before she closed it. “It’ll fit in your purse, or in a pocket.”
“I can’t thank you enough.”
“You can keep trying, though,” he said. He picked up the New Line and tucked into the back of his belt. He had to open his jacket to do it, and she saw the modified Colt in the front of his belt.
“From no guns to two guns, huh?” she said.
“Just for a while,” he said. “I’ll leave one in my hotel room, later.”
“What are you going to do with the rest of the day?” she asked.
“Shop for some new clothes.”
“Shopping,” she said. “Wish I could go with you.”
“So close up and come,” he said.
“This is my business,” she said. “I can’t just close up on a whim. I’m not a rich woman, Clint. Not yet, anyway.”
“Well,” he said, “after my shopping I intend to help a friend of mine hang some paintings.”
“And I’ll be waiting for you,” she said.
They heard the front door open. Nadine walked out to see who it was, and Clint went with her, just in case it was Emory Bates or his nephews, coming back. It turned out to be two middle-aged ladies.
“They’re regular customers, Clint,” Nadine said. “I’ll be fine.”
“Okay, I’ll be back later,” he said. “I’d prefer that you try to find a way to keep that gun close to you.”
She touched her suit and said, “I guess I could put it in my pocket.”
“Or, when you wear a dress, maybe tuck it into a garter,” he suggested.
She swatted him on the arm and said, “Get out of here, Clint Adams. I have work to do.”
Clint tipped his hat to the two ladies as he went out the door.
~*~
As Clint Adams left the gallery, turned left and began walking, George stepped out from the doorway he was in across the street. He remained on that side as he started to follow. He grew up on the streets of Manhattan, had been speaking the truth when he told his cousin nobody would see him if he didn’t want them to.
He only hoped Griff was smart enough to stay put until he got back.
Chapter Fourteen
Clint stopped in his hotel long enough to drop off his modified Colt in the room. He put it back in the holster hanging on the bedpost and left.
Clint had made friends the other times he’d been in New York. Some of them had been famous, or gone on to become famous, like Annie Oakley, P.T. Barnum and Teddy Roosevelt. Others were just people he’d met, or had dealings with, like newspapermen and police detectives. But the thing about Manhattan was that people tended to move on. He’d known a private detective from Brooklyn named Delvecchio, worked with him once. He hadn’t intended to contact him, but maybe the man could be some help when it came to protecting Nadine and her gallery. But he’d know more after her party, and after he met Emory Bates. For now, he had a new friend in Nadine Jensen, and that was enough to keep his attention for a while.
In the lobby he stopped at the front desk.
“Yes sir,” the clerk said, hopping to, which led Clint to believe that the assistant manager had told the man to see to his needs.
“Louis, I’m in the market for some new clothes,” Clint said. “Is there a shop somewhere near here?”
“There are quite a few stores along Fifth Avenue, sir,” the clerk said. “Most are general stores that also deal in clothes, but you’ll find some fine shops that specialize in gentlemen’s attire.”
“Why don’t you point me toward one of the specialty stores?” Clint suggested.
“Right down the street here, sir, to the North you’ll find Hannigan’s. It’s a store that deals in very fine men’s wear.”
“I see,” Clint said. “Thanks.”
“Yes, sir.”
Outside he stopped by his other new friend, the doorman, Matthew.
“Matthew, Louis tells me I can find some good new clothes at Hannigan’s.”
“Begging your pardon, Mr. Adams, but that place is for dudes,” Matthew said. “If I was you, I’d go to Robert’s. It’s right across the street from Hannigan’s, but the prices ain’t as steep.”
“Well, I’m in the market for clothes I can wear to a gallery party,” Clint said, “so maybe I’ll check both places. Thanks, Matthew.”
He tried to tip the man again, but the big doorman waved it away and said, “My pleasure, sir.”
Clint appreciated the man even more for that, and started off down the street.
~*~
Sure that Clint Adams was out of sight, George approached the doorman
“Hey, I’m lookin’ for a friend of mine,” he said, “and I think that was him.”
“Really?” Matthew asked.
“Yeah, what’s his name?”
“He’s your friend and you don’t know his name?”
“Well, I ain’t seen him in a while,” George said. “I was just wonderin’ . . .”
“Well,” Matthew said, “you can still catch him and find out. He’s just up the street, there.”
“Yeah, yeah . . .” George said, frustrated. He didn’t want to press the doorman, because he didn’t want the man to remember him. “Thanks.”
“Sure.”
George started up the street, figuring he’d just continue to follow the man . . .
~*~
Clint did hit both stores. He bought one expensive suit at Hannigan’s—complete with modifications while he waited—and then went across to Robert’s and bought some shirts and a pair of trousers, still not spending what he had dropped on the suit.
He carried his packages back to the hotel, thinking he’d have a quick supper in the dining room before dressing and walking to the gallery for Nadine’s party.
“Made a few purchases, I see,” Matthew commented.
“Just a few.”
“Which store?”
“Both, actually.”
Matthew reached out and touched a package, but when he spoke it was on another subject.
“You should know there was a man here asking about you,” the doorman said.
“When?”
“Just after you started up the street.”
Neither of them looked around. Clint took out a package, so it would look like they were talking about it.
“What did he want?”
“Your name.”
“Did you give it to him?”
“No,” Matthew said, “I told him to run after you and ask you.”
“Good. Did he say who he was?”
“No, he just said he thought you were a friend of his he hadn’t seen in a long time.”
“So he was fishing for information.”
“Yup.”
“Okay, then,” Clint said, “I’m going inside to eat and change. I’ll be out again later. Keep a sharp eye for me, will you?”
“I sure will.”
“Thanks, buddy.” Clint started in, but stopped. “Do you ever get any time off?”
“Now what would I do with time off?” the big doorman asked.
“I don’t know,” Clint said. “Maybe we should find out some time. I’ll buy you a beer.”
“We can do that,” Matthew said, with a grin.
Clint went into the lobby, and up to the desk.
“I see you found your store, sir,” the clerk said.
“Yes, I did, Louis, thank you. Now I need one other favor.”
“Name it, sir.”
“If anyone comes in asking questions about me,” Clint said, “Don’t give them any answers.”
“Uh, what should I say, sir?”
“Whatever you say,” Clint said, “make it not the truth.”
“You mean . . . lie, sir?”
“That’s what I mean, Louis.” He passed some folded paper money over to the man, who snatched it. “Lie.”
Chapter Fifteen
Clint decided to leave his packages at the desk, eat in the dining room, and then pick them up before going to his room to change.
He found the same waiter and was taken to the same table, and ordered the same meal—the steak plate. He was still determined to eat outside of the hotel, where he knew he’d find even better steaks, but for now this was convenient, since he wanted to end up at the gallery, only a few blocks away.
~*~
After his meal, as he dressed in his new suit in his room, he walked to the window and looked out. The problem with city streets like these was that they were pretty much always busy. Somebody following him could very easily blend in, especially if he knew what he was doing. Clint could spot somebody following him on the trail, but he wasn’t as good at it on a city street. He was going to have to rely on his instincts, and so far they hadn’t helped him. If not for the doorman, he wouldn’t even have known somebody was trailing him. That made him very unhappy.
He finished dressing, figuring that hanging paintings would not be as dirty as uncrating them had been. He tucked the New Line behind his back, put on the new jacket he’d bought, and left the room.
~*~
He walked to the gallery, without looking behind him once. But now that he knew what the doorman had told him, he felt there was somebody behind him. Hopefully, their only aim was to keep following him.
Nobody he could think of had a motive for following him, except perhaps for Emory Bates. Since he had rousted Bates’ men—his nephews—the man would probably want to know who he was.
He tried the door to the gallery, found it locked, and knocked loudly. Nadine appeared from the rear, waved, hurried to the door and let him in. She gave him a short hug.
“I was thinking you might not come,” she said.
“Why not? I said I would.”
“Look at your new clothes,” she said. “This is how you dress to hang paintings?”
“I thought we did the dirty work already,” he said, “the uncrating. I thought after we finished hanging maybe we’d go and have a late meal.”
