Roy Hamilton was not accustomed to taking in boarders.
His pub on New Town’s High Street was a drinking establishment, nothing else. He did have the spare room next to his living quarters upstairs. But he used it for storage and, to tell the truth, he’d just as soon have kept it that way. The minute you started letting in boarders, you had nothing but headaches. The profit was in drink, and that’s the way he intended to keep it.
He rinsed off another dish and dropped it in the drainer. It wasn’t washing the extra dishes that was so bad. After all, he had to do that anyway, although it was mostly only glasses. But now he’d have to sweep out that room occasionally and maybe even change the sheets, not to mention cooking the man’s meals. Hamilton was a bachelor, a thin man who ate only slightly more often than he washed himself, which was not three times a day by the remotest stretch of anyone’s imagination. But then his customers did not expect cleanliness, only liquor, and a pretty poor grade of spirits it was that he served.
He would have refused the man outright. Started to, in fact, with a wave of the hand before he had even completed his question. But then the stranger had unfolded a thick wad of banknotes, and Roy Hamilton would have been a fool to refuse them. Maybe he could reconsider, he had said. The man had begun to peel several notes off the stack and hand them across the counter, and the end of it all was that now he had a guest. A most peculiar guest, to be sure, a man who guarded his privacy and offered few words. About the only thing he had said was what almost sounded like a threat, that the innkeeper was to say nothing about either his presence or his bankroll. But for this man’s price, he could give him the room and keep his mouth shut.
Why he hadn’t gone to the Bluster ’N Blow where visitors usually stayed in Port Strathy, Hamilton did not know. He had asked at the first, but the man had been most uncommunicative on the subject. And he remained untalkative. Last night he had done his drinking off in a corner, alone. He hadn’t even been interested in giving the local folk a chance to relieve him of some of that cash he had stuffed in his pockets. At least that other stranger, the young fellow, had been free with his money—he lost a good deal the last time he was in Hamilton’s place, though the innkeeper heard he won a bundle at MacFarlane’s pub just down the street the other night.
Hamilton washed up the remainder of the dishes, flicked a cockroach off the drainboard, then dried his hands on his grimy apron. Well, with times being so bad, maybe he ought to give some more thought to this taking in of boarders. The man hadn’t really been that much trouble. The room was just sitting there, and if it meant a little more work, it might be worth it if his guests paid him half as much as this Sprague bloke had.
———
Ross Sprague puffed at his Cuban cigar, then downed the last drink of his rum-braced tea.
It was not his habit to imbibe alcoholic beverages so early in the morning, but it was the only way to kill the taste of that garbage the innkeeper had called breakfast. He should have expected a hick town like this to have only one decent hotel. He had grown up in a town no bigger than Port Strathy. And his childhood in the dusty prairie town had taught him the limitations of little one-horse watering holes like this. That town had had only one hotel, run by Mae Wadell, whose reputation was none too sterling in Aldo, Oklahoma. He had learned a few things at Wadell’s, but the most valuable lesson learned was the quickest way out of Aldo. When he left at seventeen, he swore he’d never go back—and he never did. He had come a long way since the Aldo days and Mae Wadell’s wild place. Now he was forty-five, and liked fine cigars, expensive Scotch, and hotels that weren’t crawling with vermin, like this fleabag.
Unfortunately, Macintyre had arrived first and procured the better establishment. Though when Sprague had looked in at the place called the Bluster ’N Blow upon arriving yesterday, it didn’t appear to be much of an improvement over this sleazy joint. He supposed he ought to consider himself lucky that Macintyre was still here. If he lost him, it would be his head! He hadn’t intended on giving Macintyre a four-day lead, but storms and a few other entanglements he’d just as soon forget had held him up. He hadn’t been too worried, however, for if this Macintyre was on some sort of a treasure hunt, it was bound to take him some time. He doubted the fellow had much to go on, and from what he had been able to learn of Macintyre’s activities since his arrival, he did not appear to have gotten much closer.
What puzzled Sprague more than anything was why his boss had been so adamant about his sticking to Macintyre. Sprague rubbed a hand over his thinning gray-blonde hair. Why would a successful man like his boss want to waste time on some rumors about a ridiculous ancient treasure—no doubt entirely mythical? Pure greed, he supposed. The man had nearly lost everything in the Wall Street crash, and that had made him more conscious than ever of retaining his old wealth and power. But he was already making his way back to the top, with a classy flat in London’s West End and a business that boasted branches not only in London but also Paris and Berlin. He was never satisfied, and no doubt that’s what would make him a success again. But the whole thing still seemed peculiarly out of his line, and Sprague could not help but think there was something personal involved, something more than business—revenge, perhaps. Or did his boss know something more than he was telling?
Sprague was being paid well for his services, well enough not to ask questions. But things were beginning to get puzzling, and he could hardly keep from being curious. First, he was sent to Glasgow to make discreet—very discreet!—inquiries into various property owners, specifically of Scottish coastal property, and even more specifically into the holdings of what had formerly been the vast Duncan estate. He had been told to get the names of every property owner in the valley and along the coast. He figured his boss was looking to buy some country place with a view and wanted to make a killing by closing in on someone who had been particularly hard hit by the crash. It was logical. Everyone with a few bucks these days was scouting around for the chance to benefit by picking up the pieces.
Then he was suddenly told to drop everything and follow this Macintyre fellow. Sure that this so-called treasure was supposed to be located on the Duncan property, Macintyre had come here. There was a connection. But why would an intelligent man like his boss fall for what could be no more than a con game by a petty, small-time crook?
The best move, he thought, would be to stop Macintyre before he clued anyone in about the treasure—pay him off, do whatever it took. If there was any validity to the treasure fairy tale, and the Duncans were tipped off, it would put the lid on any possible sale. As it was, it seemed that the Duncan clan was in bad enough shape financially that they might be more than willing to sell if the price was right. Why didn’t his boss just put Macintyre on ice for a while, move in smoothly and make the Duncans an offer they couldn’t refuse? Then he could find the treasure later, without any need to hide a thing. If there was no treasure, then at least he had his beach house—or castle, rather.
But his boss was just that—the boss. If he wanted him to tail Macintyre till doomsday, Sprague would do it. But he personally felt they were wasting their time.
Sprague inhaled the smoke from his cigar two or three more times. No, they sure didn’t have smokes like this in Aldo. Maybe in Muskogee, but even if they’d had them there, he hadn’t had the money in those days to buy them. Thanks to a generous boss, he now possessed an unlimited supply—so who was he to question the man’s judgment?
Stick to Macintyre. Keep a low profile.
Those were his orders. And Ross Sprague followed orders. That’s how he got to where he was today. And he’d keep following orders until eventually he was the one giving the orders.