Ablistering midday sun beat down on Chicago’s Loop district. The noon hour was drawing to a close and Washington Street was crowded with office workers returning from lunch. A hansom cab pulled to curbside and stopped.
Tallman stepped down from the cab. He was attired in a powder gray single-breasted suit, with a charcoal gray tie and a matching pocket handkerchief. The brim of his fedora was sloped at a roguish curve and added a certain panache to his appearance. He looked rested and relaxed, and his expression was one of high good humor. He slipped the driver a ten spot and entered the office building at a brisk stride.
Upstairs, Tallman walked directly to the door of the Pinkerton Agency. The receptionist looked up as he moved into the outer office. Her eyes went big and round, and her mouth ovaled in a silent gasp. He swept his fedora off with an eloquent gesture.
“Good afternoon, Myrna.”
“Mr. Tallman!”
“Were you expecting someone else?”
“No, it’s just—” Myrna stammered, then went on in a rush. “You were reported missing almost a week ago. Mr. Pinkerton’s absolutely beside himself!”
Tallman smiled. “I was delayed en route.”
“Watch yourself,” Myrna whispered softly. “He’s hopping mad.”
“I appreciate the tip. And allow me to say you’ve never looked more ravishing.”
Myrna’s Kewpie-doll features turned scarlet. “Anytime you have a free evening . . .”
“I’ll treasure the thought.”
Tallman gave her a sly wink and hooked his fedora on a halltree. Before she could move, he swiftly crossed the room. He opened the door to Pinkerton’s office and walked in with an air of hearty good cheer.
“The prodigal returns! How are you, boss?”
Pinkerton’s look could have drawn blood. He slowly replaced his pen in an inkwell and pushed a stack of papers aside. Then he waited while Tallman approached the desk and seated himself in an armchair. Neither of them offered to shake hands.
“You might have wired me,” Pinkerton said stiffly. “I’ve had agents turning California upside down searching for you.”
“I’m flattered you went to so much trouble.”
“Where have you been?”
“Chinatown.”
“Chinatown?” Pinkerton eyed him narrowly. “Is that some sort of joke?”
“Like the fly walking across the mirror said”—Tallman paused and spread his hands—“it all depends on how you look at it.”
“Your humor escapes me.”
“Nobody’s perfect.”
“Very amusing,” Pinkerton grunted. “I want some answers, Ash. And I won’t be fobbed off with wisecracks!”
“Fire away.”
“Why did you leave California?” Pinkerton demanded. “Your orders were to report to Otis Blackburn.”
“I have nothing to say to Blackburn.”
“Well, he had a great deal to say about you.”
Tallman chuckled. “I wouldn’t be at all surprised.”
“I received a five-page telegram from Blackburn. Among other things, he accuses you of purposely aborting your assignment.”
“No truth to it, boss.”
“Indeed?” Pinkerton huffed. “I understand you killed a man by the name of McQuade?”
“Guilty as charged.”
“May I inquire the reason?”
“A personal idiosyncrasy,” Tallman said genially. “When someone points a gun at me, I have an overpowering urge to shoot first. It’s a hard habit to break.”
Pinkerton stared at him. “I am reliably informed that you goaded the man into pulling his gun.”
“Don’t believe everything Blackburn says.”
“He also informs that McQuade was the key witness in the case.”
“I won’t deny that.”
“So it’s true!” Pinkerton snorted. “You killed the one man who could have exposed the conspirators. The only man we might reasonably have expected to turn state’s evidence!”
“Not so,” Tallman said equably. “McQuade was no canary. He’d have cut his own tongue out before he turned songbird.”
“Is that why you killed him?”
“I’ve already explained—”
“Please!” Pinkerton interrupted. “I would appreciate a candid answer. Your real reason.”
Tallman’s mouth hardened and he was silent for a time. When at last he spoke, the words were clipped and brittle. “Forget about Blackburn and McQuade being on opposite sides of the fence. For all practical purposes, they were working toward the same end. Both of them were determined to provoke a showdown and somehow use it to fuel the fire. As you know, they finally got their wish. And the upshot was that four good men died needless deaths.”
“Four?” Pinkerton repeated. “The number I heard was seven.”
“The sheriff and those two gunmen don’t count. Whatever they got was less than they deserved.”
“You’re a hard man, Ash.”
“I don’t approve of hired assassins.”
“Nor do I,” Pinkerton said in a resonant voice. “However, to return to McQuade. You killed him because he led those farmers to their deaths. Is that correct?”
“I found it reason enough.” Tallman permitted himself a grim smile. “In fact, if Blackburn had been there that day, I might have killed him too. He was just as culpable as McQuade.”
“Perhaps you’re overly harsh in your judgment of Blackburn.”
“Harsh but not unfair,” Tallman said coolly. “Any man who hires assassins is by definition an assassin himself.”
Pinkerton tried another tack. “I understand you acquired certain evidence on the major conspirator, Harlan Ordway?”
“I wired Blackburn to that effect.”
“May I ask you how you came into possession of the evidence?”
Tallman’s wooden expression cracked with a slight smile. “Let’s just say I obtained it. How doesn’t really matter.”
“Very well.” Pinkerton watched him intently. “What form does this evidence take?”
“Documents,” Tallman replied. “Solid proof that Ordway and the Santa Fe were involved in a covert railroad scheme.”
“Do these documents implicate the Santa Fe in the conspiracy?”
“You mean the bombings and the farmers’ revolt?”
“Yes.”
“Not really,” Tallman commented. “I tend to believe Ordway organized all that on his own. Whether or not the Santa Fe was aware of it . . . we’ll probably never know.”
Pinkerton studied him a moment, then finally nodded. “How damaging are the documents? Would public disclosure of their contents stop the Santa Fe from extending track into California?”
“No question about it.”
“And Ordway?” Pinkerton persisted. “Would the documents secure a criminal indictment against him?”
“Indictment and conviction,” Tallman elaborated. “At the very least, he’d spend the rest of his life in prison.”
“Where are these documents now?”
“I have them in safekeeping.”
“Which means you have no intention of surrendering them voluntarily?”
“None at all.”
Pinkerton raised his leonine head and glowered across the desk. “I won’t bore you with threats. You’re aware that I could ruin you professionally. A word dropped here and there and you would be unemployable as a detective.” He paused, let the tension build. “In short, I could quite easily transform you into a pariah. An outcast.”
“Perhaps,” Tallman observed dryly. “But that wouldn’t serve the best interests of your client. And with all due modesty, it would also rob you of my indispensable services. Are you willing to go that far?”
“Confound you, Ash!” Pinkerton let go a wheezy sort of chuckle. “You’re a brazen scoundrel. And one of these days—”
“But not today.”
“No, not today,” Pinkerton conceded. “As an alternative to booting you out, what would you suggest?”
“We negotiate.” Tallman grinned broadly. “I suspect Blackburn’s already authorized you to act on behalf of the Southern Pacific?”
“What are your terms?”
“Quite simple.” Tallman busied himself lighting a cigar. “I’ll surrender the documents and provide a sworn deposition for the grand jury. Ordway goes to prison and the Santa Fe gets left in the lurch.”
“And in return?”
“The Southern Pacific deeds the land over to the settlers. No strings, no tricks—a clear, unencumbered deed.”
“I’m not sure Blackburn will bend that far.”
“I am,” Tallman said with conviction. “Otherwise he’ll lose all of southern California to the Santa Fe. By comparison, the farmers in Hanford are small potatoes.”
Pinkerton deliberated briefly, then shrugged. “Very well, your terms are acceptable. How soon can you produce the documents?”
“The minute I see a transfer agreement—signed and duly executed—awarding deed to the settlers.”
“Aren’t you being a tad too cynical?”
“Not where Otis Blackburn’s concerned.”
“It’s an imperfect world,” Pinkerton noted. “Only a fine line separates saints from sinners.”
“So where does that leave us?”
“Certainly not on the side of the sinners!”
“I’ll take your word for it, chief.”
Tallman stuck the cigar in his mouth and stood. He waved with a chipper grin and walked out the door, trailing a laugh and a cloud of smoke. Pinkerton stared at the door, wondering not for the first time why the unruly ones always made the best detectives. He shook his head and went back to work.
The house was on the outskirts of Chicago. A stone dwelling secluded in a grove of trees, it was Tallman’s private hideaway. His associates, Allan Pinkerton included, were unaware of its existence. He shared the secret with only one other person.
Tallman entered the foyer and walked toward the parlor door. Without warning, Vivian slithered around the corner and greeted him with a seductive smile. She was scantily clad in a garter belt and black net stockings and high-topped red leather boots. Her breasts were bare and her auburn hair hung long and unbound. She laughed and held out a bottle of champagne.
“Merry Christmas!”
Tallman grinned. “Saint Nick isn’t due for six months or so.”
“Happy birthday?” she giggled. “Trick or treat? Any excuse will do for me.”
“What’s the occasion?”
“We’re celebrating!” She raised the bottle overhead. “Here’s to our first case together . . . and whatever the future may bring!”
Tallman inspected her costume. “Where’s your whip?”
“Who needs a whip?” She vamped him with a look. “You’ve got something better to flog me with, lover!”
“Well, then,” Tallman nodded archly, “prepare to be flogged.”
“You devil!” She struck a pose. “Like my surprise?”
“A good deal more than I expected,” he said, eyeing her hungrily.
“Ooooh!” she purred. “You look good enough to eat.”
“Come to think of it, I’m getting hungry myself.”
Tallman laughed and spread his arms wide. Her breasts jiggled and her auburn muff wig-wagged beneath the garter belt as she hurried across the foyer. He swept her up in a tight embrace and kissed her long and tenderly. Then he led her toward the bedroom.
The champagne was gone in an hour. The meal lasted all night.