‘Young Duprez had been knifed,’ Dusty Fog told Emma Nene as they stood away from other ears in the Honest Man saloon. ‘Rosie Wilson had been shot outside the back door, but I think she’d run into the killer not that she killed him?
‘Had he been robbed?’ the blonde inquired, glancing at the ceiling.
‘There wasn’t any sign of it,’ Dusty admitted. ‘Why’d you think he might have been?’
‘There doesn’t seem to be any other reason for him to be killed,’ Emma answered, just a shade too emphatically. ‘He wasn’t a prominent citizen, or an important asset to any of the cliques. Nobody else, that I know of, can handle the barbering. So he wasn’t killed to let somebody else take over the business. That doesn’t leave much else but robbery, does it?’
‘Was he a ladies’ man? They do say those French fellers mostly are.’
‘I don’t think Paul Duprez could even speak French. His folks were born in Brooklyn. Anyways, when he used to come in here, I’ve never seen any of the girls trampling over each other to get to him. I’ll ask around for you.’
‘Gracias,’ Dusty drawled.
‘Es nada,’ Emma answered, forcing a smile to her lips. ‘It could have been one of Rosie’s girls, though. Her being outside and all.’
‘Like you say,’ Dusty replied. ‘It could be.’
Watching the blonde, the small Texan could sense that she was deeply disturbed by the news. Her eyes repeatedly flickered towards the first floor and, in a controlled way, she was agitated by what she had just heard.
Then Dusty remembered something which he had been told about Duprez’s late employer. Jean le Blanc had been a society barber in the East, until he had been persuaded by a woman he had thought loved him to murder her millionaire husband. Too late, he had learned that she was merely using him to open the way for herself and her real lover. He had killed the couple and carried off a large sum of money and a valuable collection of jewelry they had been meaning to use in their life together.
Emma Nene and Giselle Lampart had known le Blanc’s life story—and the reason for their return to Hell had been to lay hands on a fortune in jewelry.
‘Where’s Giselle?’ Dusty asked, watching carefully for reactions.
‘Upstairs, of course,’ the blonde replied, a hint of alarm dancing in eyes which were a whole heap more expressive than she imagined. ‘Why?’
‘She went to the bath-house. Maybe she saw or heard something.’
‘It’s not likely. She was there as soon as the baths were ready.’
‘Did you see her come back?’
‘Yes,’ Emma lied. ‘When I went out to check on the liquor supply. She came in the back way and went straight upstairs.’
‘Huh huh!’ Dusty grunted noncommittally.
‘Where’s Wa ... Matt?’ the blonde inquired in an obvious attempt to change the subject.
‘He went with Goldberg and Connolly to the cathouse.’
‘I didn’t think Manny or the esteemed doctor went in for that kind of entertainment.’
‘I wouldn’t know,’ Dusty admitted. ‘We found a couple of keys in Rosie’s pocket and I want to know what locks they fit. She was away from her place and I don’t see her as the kind who’d take a walk just for the good of her complexion.’
‘I suppose not,’ the blonde smiled.
‘Maybe I’d best go and talk to Giselle, anyways,’ Dusty remarked.
‘You’re the boss,’ Emma declared, hoping that the sinking sensation in her stomach was not openly obvious. ‘But I don’t think you’ll learn anything from her.’
At the brothel, Waco, Goldberg and Connolly were being confronted by the big, brawny bouncer. Half a dozen Chinese, Mexican and white girls hovered nervously in the background. One of the latter was staring at the blond youngster with a puzzled expression on her face.
‘Where’s Mr. Youseman?’ Goldberg demanded pompously.
‘Who says he’s here?’ countered the bouncer.
‘We know he is,’ the hotel-keeper declared. ‘And we want to see him immediately.’
‘Rosie said that she don’t take to the marks being disturbed,’ the bouncer answered. ‘It’s bad for the girls, getting stopped half-way through. So you can’t go and see him.’
‘Now me,’ Waco drawled. ‘I don’t rightly see any way you-all can stop us. These gents’re mighty important citizens and members of the Civic Regulators and, top of that, there’s me—’
‘You?’ the bouncer said, showing his puzzlement.
‘Me,’ confirmed Waco, right hand Colt flashing from its holster and its hammer going back to full cock. ‘And this.’
The instantaneous response robbed the bouncer of any further inclination to resist. Not only—as the blond Texan had pointed out—was he dealing with two mighty influential members of the community, but he was facing ‘Matt Caxton’; younger brother of the most deadly pistolero ever to arrive in Hell and no slouch with a gun on his own account. With Rosie absent—the man still did not know of her death—he lacked guidance and figured that he had better cooperate. If only to save his own life.
‘Aw, I didn’t mean nothing!’ the bouncer stated, with an ingratiating grin. ‘You’ll find him in the third back room. Only, way he is, he’ll not be any use for undertaking tonight.’
Going to the third of the rooms used by the girls and their clients, Waco’s party discovered the truth of the bouncer’s words. Youseman lay in his drunken stupor, but Peggy was awake and talkative. On learning the reason for the visit, she admitted that her late employer had taken Youseman’s keys with the intention of visiting and searching his premises.
Waco had already guessed that the doctor had recognized the keys. Anger showed on Connolly’s miserable face, mingled with considerable alarm. Going by the other’s reactions, Waco figured that he had made a smart and correct guess.
‘Why would Rosie want to search the funeral parlor?’ Goldberg demanded.
‘I dunno,’ Peggy lied, holding back the full extent of her knowledge in the hope that it might later be turned to her advantage. ‘She just wanted to is all she told me. You don’t argue with Rosie when she tells you to do something.’
‘What did she tell you to do?’ Connolly gritted.
‘Get him drunk, is all,’ Peggy replied.
Watching the girl, Waco sensed that she was not speaking the whole truth. He also decided that he would let her reasons for lying go unquestioned for the moment. Dusty’s purposes were better served right then by preventing an exposure of the undertaker’s and doctor’s second line of business.
‘Yousemen always had plenty of money around the place,’ Connolly remarked, as Goldberg seemed to be on the verge of asking another question. He had no desire for the investigation to dig further into the brothel-keeper’s motives. ‘She probably planned to rob him.’
‘By cracky, doc,’ Waco enthused. ‘I reckon you’ve hit it. We’d best go see if she got in and took anything.’
‘I’ll attend to that, Manny!’ Connolly declared hastily. ‘There’s no need for us all to go.’
‘I think it would be better if we all went,’ Goldberg answered. ‘Let’s get going now. There’s nothing more to be learned here.’
‘It’d be best if we all went, doc,’ Waco agreed, knowing that a refusal would increase any suspicions Goldberg might be harboring.
Although agreement entailed some risk, Waco felt that they were justified in taking it. Rosie Wilson had been a shrewd, smart woman. She would have removed all the evidence of her visit to the funeral parlor. She had not made it in the interests of public duty and would not wish for a prior exposure of her knowledge. So it was unlikely that the hotelkeeper would see anything that might tell of the undertaker’s and doctor’s dealings in human bodies.
‘I think that we should send for Crouch to come and help us,’ Goldberg stated, as the trio left the brothel.
Since their clash of interests over who should run the town, a distinct coldness had risen between the former partners. So the words had been provoked by nothing more than Goldberg’s objections to having to work while Crouch was doing nothing.
‘There’s no call for that,’ Connolly replied hurriedly. ‘We three ought to be able to handle things.’
‘Why sure,’ Waco agreed.
‘Huh!’ Goldberg sniffed. ‘I dare say my wife was alarmed by the shooting. But I didn’t have to dash off and comfort her while other people do the work. Some of us have a sense of duty.’
‘He’s got him a right pretty lil wife,’ Waco commented soothingly, but without displaying too much tact.
‘Wife!’ Goldberg snorted. ‘I’d like to see the synagogue they were married in—’
Anything more the hotel-keeper might have felt like saying was stopped by the sight of a man running towards them. Coming up, he proved to be one of Emma’s waiters and in a state of considerable excitement.
‘Señor Caxton says come pronto,’ the man gasped. ‘Señor and Señora Crouch have been attacked and murdered.’
Having reached his decision to visit Giselle, Dusty turned towards the stairs. Before he could leave Emma’s side, there was an interruption. The bat-wing doors burst open and Crouch staggered in. Agony contorted his face and blood smeared his hands as they clasped on the gore-saturated front of his shirt at belly level. Reeling forward a few steps, he stood swaying and glaring around.
Racing across the barroom, Dusty caught Crouch as his legs buckled and he started to collapse. Gently easing the man into a sitting position, Dusty supported him against his bent knee. Pain-glazed eyes stared at the small Texan and he knew there would not be much time in which he could gather information.
‘What happened?’ Dusty inquired, then scowled at the people as they came crowding around. ‘Back off, some of you damn it! Emma. Get them back to what they were doing, pronto. And send a man to fetch Doc Connolly.’
It said much for the strength of the big Texan’s personality that the onlookers drew away without Emma needing to do much prompting. Satisfied that his demands were being respected, Dusty raised no objections to the gang leaders and a couple of citizens hovering close by.
‘B ... Betty ...!’ Crouch gasped, clutching at Dusty’s right arm. ‘Be ... Bet... I found her d ... dead. M ... Mur ... murdered!’
‘How?’ Dusty asked, conscious of the mutters which arose from all around.
‘W ... With ... knife ... j ... just... like ... Duprez. M ... Man did ... it.’
‘Which man?’
‘Str ... Stranger t... to me. Ne... Never seen him be ... fore. He... knifed me as I turned to come... help.’
‘What did he look like?’
‘Tall,’ Crouch croaked, clearly making every effort to think straight and give helpful facts. ‘He wore ... top hat ... had long hair. Had an ... opera cloak on, couldn’t see his other clothes.’
‘How about his face?’ Dusty inquired gently.
‘I ... I ... don’t know,’ Crouch admitted. ‘L ... Light was behind him. Don’t think he was anybody I know.’
At that moment, Dusty saw O’Day come in through a side door. The man had not offered to continue the acquaintanceship they had struck up on the way to town. In fact, he had explained that he did not wish to become associated with any particular faction of Hell’s society. In view of Giselle’s obvious dislike of the Easterner, along with his own inclination, Dusty had not forced himself into O’Day’s company. With the situation so unsettled, O’Day had not yet been required to make his contribution to the Civic Improvement Fund. Although he had taken a room at the hotel, he apparently had not followed the usual outlaw trend of purchasing fancy ‘go-to-town’ clothes. Bare headed, showing short brown hair that was going thin on top, he was dressed as when the floating outfit had saved his life.
‘Did he say anything?’ Dusty asked, turning his attention back to Crouch.
‘N ... He ... didn’t spe ...!’ the jeweler began, then a fit of coughing sprayed blood from his mouth and he sagged limply against the small Texan’s supporting arm.
Gently laying Crouch on his back, Dusty rose and looked around. While the crowd had withdrawn in accordance with his demands, they watched with interest and muttered amongst themselves.
‘What happed, Ed?’ O’Day inquired, strolling up.
‘Crouch and his wife have been attacked,’ Dusty explained, eyes on the other’s smooth, hairless face. ‘He allows he’d know the man who did it.’
‘May I ask who it is?’
‘That he didn’t get around to telling me,’ Dusty admitted, alert for any hint of emotion. He had seen no sign of alarm at his first statement, nor did O’Day display relief over the second. ‘Maybe he will when he recovers. Until then, how about you coming with a few more of us to see what we can learn at his place?’
‘Why me?’ O’Day wanted to know.
‘Why not you?’ Dusty countered. ‘You’re as good as a gang leader and you’re intelligent enough to use your eyes and your head.’
‘After praise like that, how can I refuse?’ O’Day conceded with a smile.
‘Which of you gents wants to come?’ Dusty asked, looking at the nearest members of the crowd.
Before any volunteers could step forward, running footsteps pounded across the sidewalk. Followed by the two panting townsmen and the waiter Emma had sent to collect them, Waco entered. They listened as Dusty told them what had happened. Then, while Connolly went to attend to the jeweler, Goldberg stared at O’Day.
The hotel-keeper was a badly frightened man who did not care to contemplate the implications of the night’s happenings. Except for the combatants who had fallen during the recent struggle to determine which faction would control Hell, and Lampart’s demise, death had always steered clear of the citizens. Outlaws had been killed in quarrels, or while being robbed by others of their kind, but none of the town’s people had come to harm.
And now, in the course of a single evening three—probably four—of the citizens had met untimely, mysterious deaths.
While not concerned too much with who might have committed the crimes, Goldberg had no desire to become another victim. So he searched for a possible culprit. Every gang leader present was making a return visit. There did not appear to be any reason for one of the town’s inhabitants suddenly to go on the rampage. All had warrants out for them and would be arrested if they left the security of the Palo Duro. There was only one stranger in their midst.
‘Nothing like this ever happened before you came here!’ Goldberg shouted, pointing his right forefinger at O’Day.
An excited rumble of comment rose from the occupants of the room. The sound had an ominous, menacing ring to it. By nature the citizens and visitors were suspicious-minded. Most of the crowd, particularly the regular inhabitants, had been thinking along the same general lines as Goldberg. However, it had been left to the hotel-keeper to supply a suspect.
‘Just who are you, feller?’ demanded a burly gang leader, hand hovering over the butt of his low-tied Colt.
‘My name is O’Day,’ the Easterner replied. ‘And, like yourselves—or most of you—’ his eyes flickered towards Waco and Dusty, ‘I am a fugitive from justice who fled here for safety.’
‘I’ve never heard tell of you,’ the gang leader declared. ‘Has anybody here heard his name?’
Negative answers came from all sides. From his experiences as a peace officer, Dusty could see all the symptoms of a lynch mob. Alarmed by the murders, the customers and employees were wide open for suggestions of who the killer might be. Given just a hint, as they had been, they would strike blindly. Darting a glance at Waco, the small Texan prepared to intervene. O’Day beat him to it. Showing no sign of concern, the man looked around the circle of threatening people.
‘None of you had heard another name, either,’ O’Day pointed out. ‘Yet you accept the man who bears it.’
‘Who’d that be?’ Goldberg barked suspiciously, yet impressed by the man’s demeanor.
‘Ed Caxton,’ O’Day replied.
‘Ed—!’ the hotel-keeper yelped, then snorted. ‘Huh! We all know what he did so that he had to come to Hell.’
‘You know what you read in a newspaper,’ O’Day corrected. ‘And what he himself told you.’
‘Mister,’ Waco drawled, moving to Dusty’s side. ‘You’re asking to find all kinds of trouble.’
‘Ah! The younger of the “Caxton brothers”,’ O’Day answered. ‘I cast no aspersions on your mother’s reputation, but she did not throw a very good family likeness between her sons. You are remarkably unalike in other ways, too. “Ed” speaks like a man with education and breeding. “Matt” sounds like a common trail hand—’
‘Keep talking,’ Waco interrupted, wondering when Dusty would take cards. ‘And I’m going to—’
‘People are strange,’ O’Day went on and something about him held the attention of the whole room. ‘They have preconceived ideas about how others should look. Take Dusty Fog for example. Everybody assumes that he must be a veritable giant. Yet I have heard on very good authority that he is a small man, not more than five foot six in height. Yet, when trouble threatens, he seems taller than his fellows. He has companions, too. One is part Comanche, his name is the Ysabel Kid. Another is a man of gigantic stature and handsome to boot, who might be taken by the unknowing for Dusty Fog himself. Suppose, for example, it was wanted to appear that Dusty Fog was in—say San Antonio—instead of—say here in Hell—Mark Counter could go there and pretend to be him.’
‘What Mr. O’Day’s trying to get across to you,’ the small Texan drawled, ‘is that I’m Dusty Fog.’
‘He’s loco,’ Emma snapped, standing to one side of Dusty and with her right hand rested upon the butt of her Navy Colt. She had donned her working clothes, but wore the gun in a holster belted about her waist.
‘Am I, Ed?’ O’Day challenged. ‘Will you give me your word of honor that you are not who I say?’
‘No,’ Dusty answered, in a quiet voice that still reached every pair of ears. ‘My name is Dusty Fog.’
Half a second later, almost before the shock of the announcement had died away, before the exclamations of surprise, amazement and anger commenced, the big Texan held a cocked Colt in each hand.
Knowing his amigo, Waco had expected such a line of action. So, an instant behind the appearance of Dusty’s revolvers, the youngster’s Army Colts cleared leather to throw down on a section of the crowd.
‘Scatterguns!’ Emma yelled at her bartenders, almost as quickly as the Texans made their draws. Then she produced and aimed her Navy Colt.
Grabbing the twin barreled, sawed-off shotguns which lay beneath the counter readily available for use, the two drink dispensers lined them and drew back the exposed double hammers.
Long before any of the room’s occupants could think of making physical resistance, the chance to do so with any hope of success had departed. Under the threat of the assorted firearms, to have tried to fetch out a weapon would have been suicidal.
‘What do you want here, Fog?’ demanded one of the gang leaders, as the general conversation died away.
‘Do you reckon you can take us all in?’ another leader went on.
‘I don’t aim to try,’ Dusty replied. ‘My work here is done, but I’ve come back to help you save your scalps.’
‘I’d listen if I was you,’ Emma advised. ‘Because if you don’t, by this time tomorrow the whole bunch of you’ll be dead.’