GRAY LIGHT STREAKED the sky when the colonel came into Spyros Good Eats at six the next morning. He set down the cased light machine gun that Gatling had left with him for safekeeping. Gatling had been there for ten minutes and was eating ham and eggs and drinking coffee. The colonel ordered coffee, but when he got it and tasted it he pushed the mug away so he wouldn’t have to smell it. A special blend of Neapolitan was the colonel’s favorite brew. Gatling didn’t think Spyros would be likely to have it.
“This business of the blowgun,” the colonel started off. “If I didn’t know you better I’d think you were pulling my leg.”
Spyros was in the kitchen arguing with the cook. Gatling opened his coat so the colonel could see the telescoped blowgun stuck in his belt. “The dart missed me. I found it in the street after the killer ran. Came close to killing me.” He told the colonel about the mosquito, his tour through Bolivar Hill, the killing of the South American Indian. He put the blowgun in the carrying case and locked it. “A Brazilian Indian is what I figure. Nobody but Brazilian Indians use blowguns. I read that someplace. Is it true?”
“Bloody right it is.” The colonel was outraged by Gatling’s account of the night before. “What in hell is this country coming to when a filthy savage has the audacity to attempt to murder a white man on a city street? A blowgun in New York City, for Christ’s sake! Horrible weapon, so silent, so deadly. They smear the tip of the dart with curare, one of the deadliest poisons known to man. Last year, Mr. Maxim was experimenting with poisonous bullets, so naturally I became interested and read a great deal in the available literature. I don’t claim to be an expert, but I do know about curare. It’s fast acting and invariably fatal. It paralyzes the muscles and stops the breathing. Death occurs in less than a minute.”
Colonel Pritchett paused to take a cigar case from his inside pocket. His beloved pipe was for indoor smoking; preparing it was a ceremony with him. Through a cloud of cigar smoke he said, “What I don’t understand is why Coelho’s agents sent the Indian to kill you instead of Kilby. How did Coelho know you’d be going to Brazil with Kilby? It wasn’t even discussed till yesterday afternoon. Kilby knew because I forced you on him. Shawcross knew because I had to tell Mr. Maxim you would be protecting his credit investment. Shawcross is absolutely reliable. So how did Coelho find out?”
Gatling said, “It figures Coelho, if he’s behind all this, would have had Maxim USA investigated. If he did, the detective agency would be sure to come up with me. I do the big jobs for you. Coelho could’ve decided I’d be going with the guns to make sure they got there safely.”
The colonel savaged the wet end of the cigar with his false teeth. Finally he dropped it on the floor beside his stool and stepped on it. Spyros was back behind the counter, cutting an apple pie into slices. The colonel lowered his voice, though Spyros had no interest in what was being said.
“You’re probably right,” he said. “But how did they know what you looked like?”
“A few old photographs—very few—are kicking around,” Gatling said. “I haven’t had my picture taken since I worked for the Richard Gatling company in Cincinnati. The most recent picture of me was taken in San Francisco after we arrived there after the Panama. It was a very bad picture because the photographer got rattled when I threatened to break his neck.”
Colonel Pritchett studied Gatling’s leathery face. “I think we can forget about photographs. Somebody pointed you out to the blowgun man when you left my office. The greasy animal couldn’t very well kill you on a busy street in broad daylight, so he followed you to the Heidelberg and waited. It was dark and the street was deserted when you left.”
“God bless mosquitoes,” Gatling said.
“He ran away fast, but he didn’t run far. The little bastard followed you up and down Bolivar Hill, then somehow managed to get ahead of you when you turned into that street.”
Gatling ate the last of the hard-fried eggs and asked for another mug of coffee. The colonel stared at him in disbelief. “That wouldn’t have been hard, getting to the railroad bridge ahead of me. Over there vacant lots run through from one street to the other. I figure he came through one of the lots, then climbed out on the ledge behind the wall of the bridge. I was walking slow, he was running. He came over the wall as quick as an ape.”
The colonel looked at his watch and said it was 6:25. “We have loads of time. What say we get some fresh air?”
They walked south on Seventh Avenue; the sky was brighter and there were people about. A streetcar rattled past, carrying people going to or coming home from work. Below Thirtieth Street the saloons were open. A lonesome-looking streetwalker stood on a corner, searching for clients. She had one arm.
“It has to be Coelho’s work,” the colonel said. “As soon as Suarez learned of the weapons deal—how he found out about it is beyond me—he’s had Coelho all over me like crabs in a basket. I’ve had letters, telegrams, telephone calls. At first he tried the old banana oil, and when that didn’t work, he got nasty. Radley, the bum-sucking sod, works for the State Department. Coelho has him in his hip pocket. Radley sent telegrams that said selling guns to General Kilby would be against the best interest of the United States. Accused me of fostering a rebellion against the legitimate government of Parimba Province, namely Jorge Suarez. He said in no uncertain terms that, if I went ahead with the deal, the Maxim Company would find itself in serious trouble with the government. When he asked if he and Coelho could come to see me, I said come ahead. Why not? It’s easier to tick off a man if you meet him face to face. You were there, you saw them. What did you think of Coelho? Never mind Radley. He’s just another Washington crook.”
“I only saw him for less than a minute, but I pegged him as a dangerous little rat. I remember what he said: ‘Of this you have not heard the last, Colonel.’ Better watch yourself. They probably don’t have another blowgun artist on tap, but you’re just as dead if they use a gun, a knife or a bomb.”
The colonel bristled with sudden anger. “Don’t you think I know that?” He held back the left side of his coat and displayed a .455 Webley five-shot in a shoulder holster. “As you see, I’m taking no chances. Usually I don’t carry a firearm, but ever since Coelho’s communications became more menacing... .”
Gatling didn’t think the colonel’s Webley Bulldog would be much protection if his enemies really wanted to kill him. But the old boy was a crack shot; the .455 was better than nothing.
“Have you told the police about these threats?” Gatling asked.
“Of course not. They’re too busy grafting to have any time left over for police work. Granted they do catch common criminals, murders, child molesters, safe blowers and the like, but this sort thing is beyond their experience and their interest. If I went to them, the story would surely get into the newspapers and I’d be the laughingstock of New York. Mr. Maxim wouldn’t like it, and neither would I.”
“You—Maxim—have some influence in Washington. Can’t you get Coelho kicked out of the country?”
The colonel gave a bitter laugh. “Can’t be done, I’m afraid. Coelho is attached to some Brazilian mission and has diplomatic status. Anyway, Radley would block any move I made.”
It was ten to seven by the colonel’s watch; they turned back and headed for the station.
“Want some advice?” Gatling asked, knowing how much the colonel hated advice. “After the train pulls out for New Orleans, I’d go down to the warehouse and lie low for a few days. You have quarters, bath and kitchen. There’s no way they can get at you at the warehouse. Coelho’s agents will be watching the train. Some of the bastards will be on the train. Coelho will lose interest in you after the train leaves.”
“Then why the enforced stay at the warehouse?”
“Just a precaution.”
“Coelho won’t lose interest in me if he’s out for revenge.” Colonel Pritchett didn’t like the idea that he wouldn’t be in much danger after the train headed south. Some old men who had lived with danger all their lives missed it when it wasn’t there.
“They could try to kidnap you, hold you for ransom,” Gatling said. He wasn’t fooling; the thought had just come to him. “Your life for the guns.”
“I’d never agree to that. They could torture me as much as they liked. I’d spit in their faces.” The colonel was enjoying himself.
“I’d make the deal. You’d have nothing to say about it,” Gatling said. “I wouldn’t let you die because of a crazy old Reb general down there in the jungle.”
Another few uptown blocks to the railroad station. The colonel smiled his bleak smile. “You mean you’d miss me?”
“Not that much. Just a little. We worked well together in the Zuni War and in Mexico, so I guess that counts for something. What I’d miss most with you dead is the fifty thousand you pay me for every job. The Zunis need money and that’s how I get it for them. Your replacement from England might cancel all special assignments.”
The colonel was miffed. “Well listen to me, my good fellow, you’re more likely to be killed than I am. This Indian made two attempts in a single night. That proves how much they want you dead.”
“That’s for sure, Colonel. A telephone call came for me at two o’clock this morning. The night clerk came upstairs and banged on my door. I didn’t answer his knock. I did nothing. The clerk was mad at having his sleep disturbed and hung up on them before they could say anything. They called back in a few minutes, but he didn’t go to the phone. The clerk told me all that this morning. He was still on duty when I left. I asked him what the caller said, what he sounded like, if he had a foreign accent. The clerk is an old man who drinks during the night. All he could tell me was a man called and asked for me. He didn’t know about an accent; just a man who spoke English. Nothing more than that.”
“Filthy swine! They were checking to see if you were dead.”
“Looks like it. I know nobody in New York but you. They were checking sure enough. I guess they got nervous when the Indian didn’t report back.”
As they were going up the steps to the station, the colonel stopped and said, “Will you tell Kilby about last night?”
Gatling said no.
“Why not?” the colonel asked.
“It might get him rattled. He’s rattled enough as he is. You saw the way he drinks. I don’t want him twitching and looking over his shoulder all the way to New Orleans.”
“A good point,” the colonel agreed, and they went into the station and down to the freight master’s office on the lower level. Kilby was already there, sipping a mug of coffee and fidgeting in his chair.
“Right on time,” he said, adding a pointless laugh. Gatling decided he didn’t look so good; the Brazilian Confederate must have made a night of it.
The freight master came in with papers in his hand. “Good to see you again, Colonel.” He sat down behind his battered desk.
“Nice of you to say so, Mr. Duffy. This is Mr. Gatling, who will be traveling with Mr. Kilby.”
Gatling and Duffy shook hands. “Oh, pardon me, Colonel,” Duffy said, getting up. “I’ll fetch chairs for you two gentlemen. Be back in a jiffy.”
The colonel told him not to bother. “I take it everything is in order. The shipment loaded and so forth?”
“That was done last night per your instructions. A fast train with few stops leaves at eight o’clock sharp. Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“Not a blessed thing, Mr. Duffy. It’s a pleasure to meet a man who knows his job.” The freight master blushed and the colonel turned to go. Then he said, “There is one thing, Mr. Duffy. Will Mr. Kilby and Mr. Gatling have access to the baggage car where the guns are? Access at any time, night or day? This shipment is immensely valuable and will have to be checked periodically while the train is en route. I wouldn’t want some pompous conductor putting obstacles in my associates’ way.”
Duffy followed them out of his office, so eager was he to please the colonel, whose freight bills came to tens of thousands of dollars every year. A good word from the colonel could mean a promotion and a raise in salary.
“The conductor already has his instructions on that point. Actually, he got them from the station master. But I’ll go down this very minute and remind him.’’
Upstairs, Gatling and Kilby waited while the colonel placed a call from a telephone box. Then he suggested that they have a cup of coffee in the station restaurant. In the restaurant the colonel ordered coffee, but didn’t drink it. Kilby asked for a glass of ice water. Gatling was finishing his second cup of coffee when two bulky detectives came into the restaurant. Gatling knew they were detectives; he didn’t know what Kilby thought they were. Colonel Pritchett had no respect for the New York Police, but the chief of detectives, a literate Irishman, was sort of a friend. The chief did favors for the colonel; in return, the colonel gave him tips on the stock market.
“Be with you chaps in a moment,” the colonel called to the two detectives, who stood on either side of the revolving door. Both men nodded. “I must be off now.” The colonel shook hands with Kilby and Gatling. “Best of luck, chaps. Pleasant journey and all that. ’Fraid I can’t stay to see you off, but I have a nine o’clock appointment at the warehouse. Gatling, you’ll send me a telegram when you arrive in New Orleans?” Gatling nodded. “Incidentally, old man, your special weapons were crated separately. You’ll find the crate with your name clearly marked.”
The colonel went out with the two massive detectives trailing behind him. It was 7:15 and the station was bustling with travelers. Gatling didn’t see anybody hanging around, but if Coelho’s agents were any good they wouldn’t just hang around. And they didn’t have to look like South Americans; a man like Coelho would know how to recruit killers from the New York underworld. Naturally he wouldn’t do it himself; a trusted subordinate would take care of it.
“Who were those two men with Colonel Pritchett?” Kilby asked. “Company police?”
“That’s right. They keep an eye on him. A man in the arms business makes a lot of enemies. Last year a pacifist lady from Boston attacked him with a club. Lucky for him McGuire and Collins were right behind.”
Kilby’s laugh was as artificial as the colonel’s. “A pacifist with a club! Then the two bodyguards didn’t come to protect him from Coelho’s men?”
“Not specially. They guard him from anything that might crop up. Want to go down to the train and make ourselves comfortable?” Kilby carried a new-looking leather valise. Gatling’s bag was older and smaller.
“What would you say to a drink?” Kilby licked his lips; the glass of ice water hadn’t done much for his boozer’s morning-after thirst.
“Maybe one beer, then we’ll get settled in our compartment.” Gatling knew where the bar was; they went there and Kilby ordered a double sour mash, Gatling a bottle of beer. There were only two other drinkers at the bar, both travelers with bags at their feet.
Kilby perked up after he drank most of his drink. “You never drink anything stronger than beer?”
“Beer agrees with me. Hard liquor doesn’t.”
Kilby finished his drink and ordered another. “That’s too bad. I was hoping we’d have a good time on the train. Maybe you’ll change your mind. Good liquor never hurt anyone. Is it true you can find willing women on these trains?”
“Willing for a price. You have to talk to the Pullman porter, sometimes the head steward in the dining car. One or the other will make the arrangements. Do you plan to drink and screw all the way to New Orleans? We have to be sure the guns are safe.”
Kilby gave another of his strained laughs. “What can happen to crated guns on a moving train? There will be three railroad policemen guarding them in three shifts.” Gatling drank a little more beer. “One guard per shift.
“It’s not so hard to knock out or kill one man and throw the crates off the train.”
“Well, I do intend to drink a little, screw a little.” Half of Kilby’s second double was gone. “I must admit I needed a little hair of the dog. I don’t get away from New Columbia very often, and when I do I like to enjoy myself. Sometimes I have too good a time. You look well rested though.”
“Ate a good dinner, then went back to the hotel and went to bed. You staying or coming? It’s getting on for a quarter to eight.”
Kilby drained his glass and signaled for another double. “You go ahead. I’ll be right down.”
Once again Gatling decided the long journey with Kilby was going to be a pain in the ass. They’d be sharing a private compartment: two facing berths that could be turned into sofas by day, a fold-down table, a chair, a wash basin. If Kilby started drinking too much and bringing in whores, he would sleep in the baggage car with the guns.
A porter showed Gatling to the compartment; he left his bag there and made his way to the baggage car where a uniformed railroad bull sat on one of the crates. A sawed-off shotgun lay beside him. Gatling had to give the password Bibles before the guard unlocked the door. Colonel Pritchett had chosen the password as one of his sour jokes; he belonged to no church, believed in no god.
The guard was a thickset Irishman of forty or so. He had the same thick red hair on the back of his hands as he had on his head. Gatling pegged him for an ex-soldier, probably a sergeant. All the railroads hired ex-sergeants as company bulls, thinking them more reliable than other enlisted men; this man looked capable enough.
“My name is Gatling and I’m responsible for this shipment. Everything all right?”
“Right as rain, sir.” The Irishman got off the crate. “My name is Madigan. I’m told you and Mr. Kilby will be looking in from time to time.”
“So we will,” Gatling said. “But we’re counting on you men. You’re the professionals.”
Gatling didn’t know how professional the three railroad bulls were, but a little banana oil, as the colonel called it, couldn’t do any harm. He went back to the compartment and found Kilby lying in his berth. The train caller started bellowing as soon as Gatling slid the door shut. Kilby opened his eyes and said, “We’re off.”
Gatling made his sofa into a berth and stretched out on it. It was a lot better than sitting up. In the opposite berth Kilby began to snore. That was all right; maybe the son of a bitch would wake up with a clear head after a few hours’ sleep. That was what Gatling hoped for; he wasn’t counting on it. Fact was, he wasn’t counting on anything from Kilby. For a man of thirty-five or so, Kilby seemed to be as irresponsible as a light-headed schoolboy. Looking at Kilby, Gatling thought he could manage to put up with him as long as he kept out of the way. If he didn’t …
The train got to New Jersey and headed south; the door was locked and he could have slept, but he didn’t. He read that morning’s newspapers while Kilby snored, occasionally muttering in his sleep. Kilby had hung up his caped greatcoat, but slept in his sack suit. He hadn’t taken off his boots. His suit coat had fallen open and Gatling could see the double-action Colt Lightning .38 he carried. Gatling wondered how good he was with the shoulder-holstered pistol. Kilby said he had been fighting forest Indians and bandits since boyhood. Most likely he had—in a remote settlement every man and boy would have to turn out in time of danger—but that had been a long time ago. He hadn’t been a drunk then, trying to get along on his seedy charm. Gatling figured the old general wouldn’t have sent him to New York, with $80,000 in cash, if he hadn’t been his son. Maybe the old boy hoped to make a man of him yet; it was a bit late for that.
Gatling left Kilby snoring and took a walk through the train. The compartment door couldn’t be locked from the outside. Too bad if Kilby was murdered while he was gone, Gatling figured; he could still get the guns to New Columbia. It would be easier to do with Kilby dead. Gatling didn’t want Kilby dead, had no important reason for wanting him dead, but he wouldn’t cry in his beer if it happened.
He walked through the day coaches carrying the light gun, swaying with the motion of the train. It was just a walk; he didn’t expect anything to come out of it. The day coaches had a fair sprinkling of Latins, and the villainous-looking man with the scar on his face could be a harmless restaurant dishwasher who wanted to go home to Guatemala. A sample case hugged by a fat man as he dozed could have a sawed-off with a pistol grip in it. The backwoods preacher in rusty black, moving his lips as he plowed through the Good Book, could be a merciless killer.
Gatling smiled inwardly; soon he’d be suspecting the conductor, a genial red-faced man who probably had been with the railroad for thirty years. There was nobody of interest in the dining car, just a few travelers eating breakfast. If Coelho’s agents were on the train, and Gatling had no doubt they were, they could be in one or more private compartments. They could be right next door.
Kilby was sitting on the edge of his berth when Gatling came in with the locked carrying case. He put it close to his berth before he stretched out.
“What’ve you got in the sample case? The family jewels?” Kilby tried to make the question sound like a joke. “You even take it with you to the lavatory.”
“The family jewels, that’s it,” Gatling said.
“See anything suspicious?”
“Not a thing.”
“Here’s to an uneventful journey.” Kilby took a drink from his flask and stretched out and soon he was snoring.
Gatling stayed awake.