St. Louis itself was worth the trip.
Starbuck arrived on a blustery January evening. From Union Station, he took a hansom cab to one of the fashionable hotels on Olive Street. There he registered under an assumed name and gave San Antonio as his hometown. To all appearances, he was a well-to-do Texan visiting the big city on business.
A precautionary measure, the deception had by now become second nature. Only a couple of months past, the Police Gazette had done an article that labelled Starbuck the foremost mankiller of the day. He had no idea whether his notoriety extended as far eastward as Missouri. Yet he was a man who played the odds, and assumed nothing. Outside Denver, he always travelled under an alias.
After supper in the hotel dining room, he went for a stroll. St. Louis, with a population exceeding the half-million mark, was the largest city he’d ever visited. The downtown district was a hub of culture and commerce. Theatres and swank hotels, office buildings and banks and business establishments occupied several square blocks between Market Street and Delmar Boulevard. A
sprawling industrial section, which had gravitated early to the riverfront, lay stretched along the levee. Steamboats were rapidly losing ground to railroads, and the city had developed into a manufacturing centre for clothing, shoes, and various kinds of machinery. Still, for all its advancement, St. Louis remained a major market for hides and wool, horses and mules, and a wide assortment of farm produce. However cosmopolitan, it had not yet fully made the transition from its frontier origins.
On the waterfront, Starbuck stood for a long while staring out across the Mississippi. The Eads Bridge, completed only eight years before, spanned the great river like a steel monolith. Far in the distance, he saw the lights of towns ranged along the Illinois shoreline. Not easily impressed, he was nonetheless taken with the sight. He had travelled the West from the Gulf of Mexico to the Pacific Coast, but he’d never had occasion to look upon the Mississippi. The breadth of the river, with girded steel linking one bank to the other, seemed to him a marvel almost beyond comprehension. He thought back to his days on the Rio Grande, and slowly shook his head. Age and experience, he told himself, altered a man’s perception of things.
A nomadic westerner, Starbuck had grown to manhood in Texas. The Civil War, which had left him without family or roots, taught him that killing was a matter of expediency. Thereafter, he accepted abuse from no man, and quickly accommodated those who overstepped themselves. For a time he drifted from ranch to ranch, a saddletramp beckoned onward by wanderlust. Then, all within a period of a few years, he went from trailhand to ranch foreman to range detective. Quite by coincidence, one job leading to another, he discovered his niche in life.
Once his reputation as a manhunter spread, Starbuck
branched out from chasing horse thieves and common rustlers. Offers from stagelines and railroads afforded greater challenge, and there he came into his own as a detective. Despite his renown, however, he was never really satisfied with yesterday’s accomplishments. He enjoyed what he did for a livelihood, and he took pride in his work. Yet something of the old wanderlust still remained. He forever sought greater challenges, and he was cursed with an itch to move on to the next case. A blooded hunter, his quarry was man. And only when the chase was joined was he truly content.
Now, his gaze fixed on the Mississippi, he wondered what tomorrow would bring. His wire had confirmed the time and place for the meeting. Otis Tilford, president of the International Bankers Association, was expecting him first thing in the morning. An assessment would be made, and assuming he passed muster, an assignment would be offered. The only imponderable was whether or not he would accept. He was looking for tomorrows, not yesterdays, and nothing else would turn the trick. Nothing and no-damn-body.
He turned from the wharves and walked towards his hotel.
The Merchants & Farmers Bank Building stood on the corner of Fourth and Delmar. Starbuck entered the lobby shortly before nine o’clock and took an elevator to the third floor. At the end of the hall, he spotted a door with frosted glass and gilt lettering. He moved directly along the corridor, observant and suddenly alert. The lettering on the door was sparkling fresh.
Inside the waiting room he closed the door and doffed his hat. A mousy-looking woman, with grey hair and granny glasses, sat behind a reception desk. She looked him over, stern as a drill sergeant, and nodded.
“May I help you?”
“I’m Luke Starbuck. I have an appointment with Mr. Tilford.”
“Yes, of course.” She rose, bustling around the desk. “Please have a seat, Mr. Starbuck. I’ll inform Mr. Tilford you’re here.”
Starbuck watched as she hurried down a hallway. Then, still standing, he slowly inspected the waiting room. All the furniture, including the receptionist’s desk and a couple of wingbacked chairs, looked as though it had been delivered only that morning. A door on the opposite side of the room was open, and through it he saw several clerks in what appeared to be a general office. Their desks and a row of file cabinets along the far wall also looked fresh off a showroom floor. Whatever he’d expected, something about the layout put him on guard. He made mental note to do lots of listening, play it close to the vest. And volunteer nothing.
The receptionist reappeared, motioning him forward. “Will you come this way? Mr. Tilford can see you now.”
“Much obliged,” Starbuck said pleasantly. “I was just admiring your offices. Got a real handsome setup.”
“Thank you.”
“Been here long?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Well, everything looks so new and all. I thought maybe you’d just opened for business?”
“No.” She did not elaborate. “This way, Mr. Starbuck.”
Starbuck followed her down the hall. She ushered him into a spacious office and stepped aside. The room was panelled in dark wood, with ornately carved furniture and a plush carpet underfoot. A coal-burning fireplace glowed cherry red, and directly opposite was an imposing walnut desk. Behind it, seated in a tall judge’s chair,
was a man who looked like a frog perched on a toadstool. He was completely bald, with a wattled neck and beady eyes, and his oval face was peppered with liver spots. When he rose, extending his hand, his posture was shrunken and stooped. Yet, oddly enough, his voice was firm and lordly.
“Welcome to St. Louis, Mr. Starbuck.”
“Pleasure’s all mine, Mr. Tilford.”
“Please be seated.” Tilford let go his hand, and dropped into the judge’s chair. “I trust your trip was without incident.”
“More or less.” Starbuck took an armchair before the desk. “One train ride’s pretty much like another.”
“No doubt.” Tilford appeared to lose interest in the subject. “I appreciate your quick response to our request.”
“When a man says ‘urgent,’ I take him at his word.”
“Commendable,” Tilford said, no irony in his tone. “All the more so since your services are much in demand these days.”
“Don’t believe everything you read in the Police Gazette .”
Tilford’s laugh was as false as an old maid’s giggle. “On the contrary, Mr. Starbuck! I. found the article most informative. Few men have your zeal.”
“Oh?” Starbuck asked casually. “How so?”
“Once you accept a case, you display a remarkable tendency to see it through to a conclusion. Would you consider that a fair statement?”
“I generally finish what I start.”
“Precisely.” Tilford gave him an evaluating glance. “And more often than not you finish it permanently. Correct?”
Starbuck regarded him thoughtfully, “Why do I get
the feeling you know the answer before you ask the question?”
“I too am a man of zeal,” Tilford replied loftily. “I had you checked out thoroughly before sending that wire.”
“Sounds reasonable.” Starbuck smiled humourlessly. “Hope you got your money’s worth.”
“The queries were of a personal nature. A man in my position develops certain alliances, and we often exchange information. All on a confidential basis, of course.”
“Anyone I know?”
“What’s in a name?” Tilford spread his hands in a bland gesture. “Suffice it to say you come highly recommended by the Central Pacific and Wells Fargo.”
“I reckon they had no room for complaint.”
“Indeed!” Tilford wagged his head. “You are too modest by far, Mr. Starbuck. I am reliably informed that you have no equal when it comes to meting out justice to outlaws.”
“There’s all kinds of justice.”
“True.” Tilford pursed his lips and nodded solemnly. “But only one kind of any lasting value. Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Starbuck?”
Starbuck took out the makings and rolled himself a smoke. He struck a match, all the while watching Tilford, and lit the cigarette. Then, inhaling deeply, he settled back in his chair.
“Suppose we get down to cases?”
“By all means.” Tilford leaned forward, stared earnestly at him. “I presume you are familiar with the James-Younger gang?”
Starbuck looked at him without expression. “Jesse James?”
Tilford made a small nod of acknowledgement. “Over
the last seventeen years James and his gang have robbed dozens of banks and trains—”
“So I’ve heard.”
“—and killed at least a score of innocent people.”
“I wouldn’t argue the figure.”
“And yet,” Tilford said in an aggrieved tone, “they are free to come and go as they please throughout Missouri.”
“I understood,” Starbuck observed neutrally, “that the Pinkertons had been brought in on the case.”
“Quite true.” Tilford’s eyelids drooped scornfully. “Some eight years ago the Pinkerton Agency was retained for the express purpose of putting a halt to these depredations.”
“That long?” Starbuck blew a plume of smoke into the air. “Guess they’ve had a run of bad luck.”
“You’re too charitable,” Tilford said, not without bitterness. “To put it bluntly, Allan Pinkerton has accomplished nothing—absolutely nothing!—and he has been paid very handsomely for doing it.”
“Nobody’s perfect,” Starbuck commented dryly. “Maybe it’s time for the worm to turn.”
“I seriously doubt it.” Tilford shook his head in exasperation. “A coalition of banks and railroads still has Pinkerton under retainer. In my view, however, it’s a waste of money. Given another eight years, he would be no closer than he is today.”
“Sounds like you hold the Pinkertons in pretty low opinion.”
“Unless I’m mistaken”—Tilford watched him carefully—“that is an opinion we share, Mr. Starbuck.”
Starbuck flipped a hand back and forth. “Let’s just say I think they’re a little bit overrated.”
“How would you like an opportunity to prove your point?”
“Try me and see.”
“Very well.” Tilford’s voice dropped. “We wish to retain your services, Mr. Starbuck. Within reasonable limits, you can name your own price.”
“Exactly what services did you have in mind?”
Tilford’s face took on a sudden hard cast. “We want Jesse James killed.”
Starbuck’s gaze was direct now, his ice-blue eyes alert. “Who is ‘we?’”
“Why, the International Bankers Association. I thought you understood—”
“Try another tune.” Starbuck fixed him with that same disquieting stare. “The lettering on your door looks like the paint’s hardly had time to dry. Every stick of furniture in your office is brand new, and unless I miss my guess, so’s your association.” He paused, his eyes cold and questioning. “I’ll ask you again, and this time I want some straight talk. Who is ‘we?’”
A shadow of irritation crossed Tilford’s features. “You are a very discerning man, Mr. Starbuck. I commend you on your powers of observation. However, I am not in the habit of being interrogated. Nor do I appreciate your rather cavalier manner.”
“That’s your problem,” Starbuck said woodenly. “Either I get an explanation or we don’t do business. Take your pick.”
Tilford reflected a moment. “Very well,” he answered at length. “A number of bankers around the Midwest deplore Pinkerton’s lack of results. We have severed our ties with the railroad and banking coalition, and formed our own organisation. Our purpose is legitimate and quite straightforward. We intend to eradicate Jesse James and those of a similar persuasion.”
“How do you fit into the picture?”
“I am president and chief stockholder of the Merchants
& Farmers Bank. In short, I own the bank downstairs and the building in which we are seated.”
Starbuck played a hunch. “From what I’ve heard, James normally concentrates on small-town banks. So that lets you out, unless you’ve got some personal score to settle. Suppose you tell me about it?”
“Are you a mind reader as well as a detective, Mr. Starbuck?”
“Tricks of the trade,” Starbuck said flatly. “I’m waiting for an answer.”
Tilford regarded him somberly. “Last July the evening train out of Kansas City was robbed. The conductor and a passenger by the name of McMillan were murdered in cold blood. Jesse James, and his brother Frank, were positively identified as the killers. Frank McMillan was my son-in-law.”
“Tough break.” Starbuck stubbed out his cigarette in an ashtray. “Any special reason you took it so personal?”
“I sent Frank to Kansas City on business. He was an officer of this bank, the husband of my only daughter, and the father of my grandchildren. As should be obvious, I feel responsible for his death.”
“In other words,” Starbuck ventured, “you want an eye for an eye. You formed the association—and gave it a high-sounding name—in order to put a legitimate front on personal vengeance.”
“Not altogether,” Tilford countered. “By ridding society of Jesse James, I am also performing a public service. I see those as compatible goals—a worthy endeavour!”
“Why kill him?” Starbuck inquired. “Why not bring him to trial and let him hang? That way the state executes him … instead of you.”
“He must be killed!” Tilford’s voice was heated and vindictive. “No jury in this state would convict Jesse
James. Nor would any court dare impose the death penalty.”
“What makes you so sure?”
Tilford rose and moved to the wall directly behind him. With some effort, he lifted a large leather satchel off the floor and dropped it on his desk. Then, his expression grim, he resumed his chair.
“Inside that satchel you will find the Pinkerton file—eight years of investigation and surveillance—on the James-Younger gang. I obtained a duplicate of the file in the hope it would speed your own investigation. Aside from that, it will also convince you that Jesse James can never be convicted in the state of Missouri.”
“Out of curiosity”—Starbuck gave him a quizzical look—“how did you come by it?”
“A friend,” Tilford explained. “One who owns a railroad and contributes large sums to the settlement of Allan Pinkerton’s fee.”
Starbuck studied the satchel, thoughtful. For most of his professional career he had lived in the shadow of the world’s most famous detective agency. The idea of going head to head with the Pinkertons—and beating them—was a challenge he found too tempting to resist. At last, with an overdrawn gesture, he looked up at Tilford.
“I don’t work cheap.”
“Ten thousand now,” Tilford said gravely, “and ten thousand more when the job is completed. With one added proviso.”
“Which is?”
“You are to kill Frank James as well.”
“Want your pound of flesh, don’t you?”
“I want them dead, Mr. Starbuck! Dead and buried—and forgotten.”
“Hell, why not?” Starbuck shrugged. “I reckon one deserves it as much as the other.”
“Then we have an agreement?”
“You ante up and we’re in business. Two for the price of one, delivery guaranteed.”
“Where will you start?”
Starbuck smiled cryptically. “Where Pinkerton should have started.”
“Oh?” Tilford appeared bemused. “Where might that be?”
“Let’s just say it won’t be out in the open.”