Tallman shaved with dulled concentration. He stared at himself in the mirror. He’d dipped his wick once too often last night and it showed. His eyes were bloodshot and scratchy and felt curiously like burnt-out holes. The mirror told the story in vivid detail.
Groggy from the long night, he wielded the razor with a careful hand. He’d had no sleep and nothing that faintly resembled rest. Between hopping about from bed to bed, he’d traveled almost a hundred miles. Only an hour ago, with false dawn lighting the sky, he had returned the horse and buggy to the stable. Now, after a bird bath and a shave, it was apparent there would be no immediate restorative effects. His head pounded like an ore crusher and the mere thought of pussy made his rod throb like a toothache. He toyed with the idea of quitting Pinkerton and entering another line of work. The detective business was sometimes a ballbreaker—literally.
A knock sounded at the door as he wiped lather from his face. He dropped the towel on the washstand and padded barefoot to the bed. He was in his undershorts and hardly expecting company, particularly with the sun only an hour high. His shoulder rig hung draped on the headboard and he slipped the Colt clear. Then he moved to the door.
“Yes?”
“It’s me, Mr. Fitzhugh. Bob Simpson, from the desk.”
Tallman cracked open the door. The hotel owner peered through the slit with a silly grin. He jerked a thumb down the hallway.
“Major McQuade sent me up with a message.”
“A message?”
“He wants to know if you’ll join him for breakfast.”
“Of course,” Tallman said automatically. “Is he waiting downstairs?”
“No, he went on to the café. Told me to tell you to meet him there.”
“Thanks, Bob,” Tallman said with a bogus smile. “I’ll be along shortly.”
“No trouble, Mr. Fitzhugh. Always glad to oblige the major.”
Tallman waved and closed the door. He marked again that McQuade spent an inordinate amount of time in town for a farmer. As for the breakfast invitation, the purpose was all too transparent. McQuade clearly wanted to grill him about the Southern Pacific sales contract. How much he’d learned would be a matter of vital interest to the League leader. And his answers might very well affect McQuade’s future plans.
While he dressed, Tallman mulled on it further. He decided it would be a mistake to try second-guessing McQuade. The better approach was to play it straight, without guile or pretense. His qualms about the contract itself should be expressed openly and with the proper degree of amazement. Even his opinion regarding Ambrose Sloan should be broached frankly, with just a dash of professional outrage. Only on the subject of McQuade’s farm—purchased without a deed—would he avoid any direct reply. He mustn’t let on that Angela Pryor had talked too much. Or risk letting slip what he now suspected.
A few minutes later Tallman entered the café. McQuade was seated at a window table, nursing a mug of coffee. He rose with a smile and an outstretched hand.
“Good morning, Alex.”
“Morning, Major.” Tallman returned his handshake with a slow grin. “You must get up with the chickens.”
“Old army habits,” McQuade said, motioning him to a chair. “Are you hungry?”
“Famished would be more like it.”
“No doubt.” McQuade chortled out loud. “I understand you had a long night.”
“Oh?” Tallman lifted an eyebrow. “Somebody carrying tales?”
“Hanford’s too small for secrets. Bob Simpson almost burst his britches the minute I walked in the hotel. Told me you’d come dragging in with the sunrise.”
“Dragging?” Tallman parroted with amusement. “Well, I suppose it’s a fair description. I’ve certainly felt peppier.”
A waitress appeared and took their orders. Tallman opted for ham and eggs with a stack of flapjacks. McQuade, sticking to simpler fare, asked for biscuits covered with red-eye gravy. The girl brought Tallman a mug of coffee, which did wonders for his fuzzy vision. He expected the conversation to shift to the Southern Pacific; but for once his instincts failed him. McQuade hunched forward with a faintly lascivious grin.
“How was it?”
“Beg pardon?”
“Angela,” McQuade said eagerly. “I know you spent the night with her. Is she as hot as she looks?”
“Why . . .” Tallman faltered, never more amazed. “You surprise me, Major. I thought we agreed a gentleman never tells.”
“I know,” McQuade said with a hangdog look. “But there are exceptions, Alex. After all, if it wasn’t for me you wouldn’t have met her.”
“And I appreciate—”
“Not only that,” McQuade hurried on. “You wouldn’t have been invited to her house . . . or allowed to sleep over.”
“True.”
“So you might say I’m your benefactor. And quite frankly, I’ve always been intrigued by Angela. Forbidden fruit and all that—normal curiosity.”
Tallman suddenly realized he was talking to a closet voyeur. McQuade had probably never had his pole greased outside the marriage bed. A strange piece of ass and a glass of ice water would doubtless give him a stroke. He got his kicks by the vicarious route, acting out his sexual fantasies through the escapades of others. Tallman decided to play on the weakness.
“You wouldn’t repeat anything I said, would you, Major?”
“Never!” McQuade swore. “On my word as an officer and a gentleman.”
Tallman let his gaze drift off, as though reliving some moment of profound ecstasy. “She’s all woman, Major. Hotter than a three dollar pistol. Would you believe it?—She actually copped my joint.”
“She what?”
“Went down on me.” Tallman said with a rolling laugh. “Sucked the lollipop to the very last drop.”
McQuade fairly drooled. “Then what?”
“Well . . .” Tallman baited him with a conspiratorial look. “You’re sure you wouldn’t talk out of school?”
“Not a word.”
“I’m straight arrow myself,” Tallman whispered, darting a glance at nearby diners. “But Angela’s a lady with very peculiar tastes. So we had ourselves an old-fashioned Roman circus. Head to toe, cunnilingus and fellatio—all we could eat and more.”
“You—” McQuade’s mouth went pasty. “You did that?”
“Surprised myself.” Tallman said with feigned wonder. “She turned me into a regular muff diver. And damned if I didn’t like it.”
McQuade’s eyes lighted up as though he’d heard a new verse in an old sermon. “What happened next?”
“Then we played stink finger and hide the wienie.”
“How’s that again?”
“I tickled her rosebud till she was about to explode.”
“Yes . . .?”
“Then I stuck it to her so deep her tonsils rattled.” McQuade cleared his throat. “How many times?”
“Not bragging,” Tallman said almost idly, “but I lost count somewhere around four or five.”
“Five.” McQuade swallowed hard. “Good God! No wonder her husband died an early death.”
“Tell you a secret, Major.” Tallman rocked his hand, fingers splayed. “I’ve been fucked in my day—from virgins to whores—but never like that. Angela Pryor’s in a class all by herself.”
The waitress materialized with their breakfast platters. McQuade fell silent and attacked his gravy-soaked biscuits like a ravenous dog. Watching him, Tallman thought the gambit had worked out rather well. Though highly exaggerated, his salacious account had distracted McQuade from the Southern Pacific. The major was clearly a man who got his jollies listening to dirty talk and clinical tales of fornication. It was a device not to be overlooked in the days ahead. A word here and there about Angela Pryor would serve to divert McQuade and keep his mind occupied. And all the while the investigation would go forward.
After breakfast, McQuade seemed to have recovered his composure. He swigged a second mug of coffee and made no further reference to things sexual. Instead, once more austere and overbearing, the turnabout in his character was startling. He studied Tallman with a kind of bemused objectivity.
“Now that you’ve examined the contract”—he let the thought dangle a moment—“how do you suggest we proceed?”
The question caught Tallman unprepared. He’d expected an interrogation about the settlers’ legal position, some test of his ethical code. Apparently McQuade had concluded that anyone with the morals of a tomcat was worthy of trust. So it was down to business, quid pro quo. A mutual scratching of backs.
“I’ll need a bit of time,” Tallman said with a shrug. “From a legal standpoint, that contract forecloses most of our options. So I’ll have to pull something out of a hat—fabricate new charges.”
“Do whatever needs doing.” McQuade’s tone was severe. “But have a plan worked out within the next couple of days.”
“Any special reason for the time limit?”
“I’m catching the morning train to Bakersfield. I expect to be back the day after tomorrow. See to it you’ve pulled something out of the hat by then.”
Tallman was instantly attentive. “What’s in Bakers-field?”
“Personal business.” An indirection came into McQuade’s eyes. “Nothing that concerns the Settlers’ League.”
“Need a good lawyer?” Tallman gave him a tired smile. “I work cheap and I’m not exactly overburdened with clients.”
McQuade sidestepped the question. “For the time being, concentrate on the Southern Pacific. Do the job right and you’ll have all the clients you can handle.”
On the spur of the moment Tallman decided to tail him to Bakersfield. Something in McQuade’s cryptic manner told him it was the smart move. There was, moreover, the fact that McQuade was originally from Bakersfield. Which lent added significance to the trip. A surveillance might easily uncover an old strand in the web of deception. And perhaps a motive.
Outside the café, Tallman took his leave. He hurried back to his hotel room and threw his suitcase on the bed. One side of the bag was equipped with a false bottom; within the compartment was all the paraphernalia for operating in disguise. He stripped to his undershorts and went to work before the washstand mirror. A vial of stage makeup and a bottle of spirit gum turned the trick. Within a matter of minutes, he was swarthy in appearance and a brushy mustache was pasted onto his upper lip. The transformation was complete when he donned a battered slouch hat, a baggy pair of trousers, and an oversized jacket. A final inspection in the mirror told the tale. Ash Tallman, otherwise known as Alex Fitzhugh, had ceased to exist. In his place stood a careworn bum who wouldn’t draw a second glance.
A half hour later Tallman boarded the train for Bakers-field. He’d slipped out of the hotel by the rear firestairs and made his way to the depot. There he’d loitered around until McQuade took a seat in the lead passenger coach. Then he mounted the steps to the rear coach and found himself a window seat. He settled back and tugged the slouch hat down over his eyes.
He was asleep when the morning southbound chugged out of Hanford.
Late that afternoon the train rumbled to a halt in Bakers-field. Tallman was rested and alert, revitalized by his extended nap. He watched out the window as McQuade crossed the platform and disappeared around the corner of the stationhouse. Then he quickly detrained and tagged along.
Tallman was an old hand at surveillance. He maintained a discreet distance from the subject, and regardless of the surroundings, he managed to make himself all but invisible. Sometimes he shadowed the man from the opposite side of the street and sometimes he tailed directly behind. He was never too close to be spotted and never too far to be ditched. He stuck like a leech, unshakable.
Within a block it became apparent McQuade was on no ordinary business trip. His every effort seemed directed at throwing off a tail. He ducked into a pool hall, only to reappear on the street not thirty seconds later. He stood for a moment, surveying passersby, and then walked away. A few blocks farther on he entered an emporium and slowly browsed through the store. Then he emerged by a side door and marched off at a rapid pace. Once in the downtown area, he mingled with shoppers and all but lost himself in the crowd. He appeared to have no fixed destination.
Tallman took it all in stride. Over the years, he’d seen every trick in the book, and nothing phased him for long. Yet he was quick to admit that McQuade was a cute piece of work, clearly versed in the more serious aspects of hide and seek. The game ended on the far side of town, a block from the central business district. McQuade rounded a corner, momentarily disappearing from view, and then abruptly reversed directions. Tallman veered into a saloon the instant McQuade reappeared around the corner. He waited by a flyblown window as the League leader passed the saloon and angled sharply across the street. He saw McQuade enter a building and somehow sensed the chase was over. A sign on the storefront window caught his eye.
KERN COUNTY LAND & DEVELOPMENT CO.
Harlan Ordway
President
Staring at the sign, Tallman considered a knotty problem. The land company, beyond any doubt, represented a strand in the web. Yet the longer he shadowed McQuade, the greater the risk of being recognized and blowing his cover. On sudden impulse, he decided to return to Hanford by the night train. There, once more in the guise of Alex Fitzhugh, he would make further inquiries into the League leader’s background. Then, when McQuade returned home, he would create some pretext to leave town. Trains were frequent and Bakersfield wasn’t that far away. His investigation of the land company could then be conducted with leisurely attention to details.
Not the least of which was the one named Harlan Ordway.