At last something was starting to happen. Sprague had begun to fear he might just end up rotting in this hick town.
Sprague’s contact at Stonewycke had just passed on an interesting report. Early that afternoon Macintyre had gone off alone. Although that was not altogether unusual in the context of his job, this time he had ridden by horse to a lonely, uninhabited spot called Ramsey Head—hardly a likely place for the services of a mechanic. The field hand from the estate said Macintyre had returned empty-handed except for a piece of wood he was carrying. Curious, Sprague had concluded that this excursion must have ended with the same result as the one Macintyre had taken several days ago to Braenock Ridge. Perhaps they were both wild goose chases. But the piece of wood was interesting; obviously Macintyre bore continued watching. It certainly indicated that he had not abandoned the hunt. If he was sticking to it after all this time, possibly he was on to something.
But sitting idly about was getting to him. For a diversion, after hearing what the man had to say, Sprague decided to have a walk out to the promontory himself. By the time he arrived dusk was approaching; he had no time for a thorough appraisal, but it looked as likely as any place to hide a treasure. But with no map or specific instructions, it might as well have been a needle in a haystack. Therefore, there remained no alternative but to watch Macintyre. He was still the one with the clues—whatever they might be.
Following his afternoon trek, Sprague returned to the Bluster ’N Blow. When Logan had moved up the hill to Stonewycke, Sprague saw no further reason to remain at Roy Hamilton’s dingy place. The Bluster ’N Blow was only a step or two above it, but at least it was clean and the food was edible. He now sat at one of the rough tables in the common room stirring his coffee and waiting for his dinner to be served. He was also anxiously awaiting the arrival of the inn’s two new guests. They had checked in while he was out. But sneaking a look at Cobden’s register, he had learned their names: Frank Lombardo and Willie Cabot.
Sprague’s boss had mentioned Morgan’s interest in Macintyre. He definitely recognized Lombardo’s name as one of Morgan’s transplants from the Chicago crowd. It was only too bad they had found Macintyre before Sprague had finished his business with the London con man. If they got to him first, it would be the end of Macintyre, and the end of Sprague’s mission. And his boss didn’t like excuses. His motto had always been, “Get it done. Whatever you have to do—just get it done.” Even if Morgan’s men put an end to Logan, his boss would blame Sprague. “If you want to work for me, Sprague,” he would say, “getting it done is the only thing I care about.”
So he would have to try to handle these two somehow.
Sprague lifted his cup to his lips and drank deeply of the strong black brew. They never could make good coffee on this island.
But he quickly forgot the bitter taste in his mouth when, peering over the rim of his earthenware cup, he saw the two newcomers enter the room. Both were veritable hulks, typical of the thugs Morgan liked to surround himself with.
“Evening, gentlemen,” said Sprague in an easygoing, friendly tone.
The two stopped cold, and a flicker of recognition crossed Lombardo’s swarthy face. Sprague had met him some years ago, but he had not thought the younger man would remember. Not that it mattered.
“You talkin’ to us?” answered Lombardo with an accent that combined Bronx, Sicilian, and a touch of cockney with a most curious result.
“None other,” replied Sprague, though an answer was academic since there were no others in the place.
“Do we know you?”
“It’s possible. Have you ever been to Chicago?”
“What’d you want?” Lombardo’s voice grew menacing and his eyes grew wary. Sprague had never been mistaken for a cop before, but Lombardo appeared more blessed with muscles than with brains.
“Come on, Lombardo, do I look like a Fed?”
At that moment Sandy Cobden burst into the common room bearing a tray laden with Sprague’s dinner.
“Here ye go, Mr. Sprague,” said the innkeeper, setting the heavy tray down with a deep sigh. “Hope I didna keep ye waitin’ too long. Ne’er hae acquired the knack fer kitchen work. My missus used t’ do all that in years past. Noo that she’s gone I jist dinna get much chance t’ practice. We can go fer months wi’oot a single guest. It picks up a wee in summer, but here tis April an’ sich a foul one at that, an’ I’ve more guests at one time than . . . than I dinna ken when.”
He turned to his other guests as he emptied the tray of its burden, setting plates and bowls before Sprague. “I’ll be bringin’ yer supper in directly,” he said. “Jist hae yersel’s a seat.”
He paused in his steady chatter, perhaps expecting a thank you, but since none was immediately forthcoming, he swept up his tray and bustled away.
“Sprague?” ruminated Lombardo thoughtfully.
“Five years ago,” prompted Sprague, “Leighton Club, Chicago.”
“That place was only open to a very special clientele.”
“That’s right.”
“Well, if you really was there, then you’ll know the maitre d’.”
Sprague shook his head as if he were placating a child. “Benny Margolis. Do you want a description, too?”
“No, I guess you’re on the level.”
“Have a seat,” Sprague went on, confident that his estimation of Lombardo’s intelligence was not too far wrong. “Your silent friend, too.”
The two hoods took seats opposite Sprague, barely squeezing their brawny frames into the narrow, high-backed bench. Cobden returned with their meal and the three spent the next few minutes engrossed in their food.
At length Lombardo spoke, his words muffled as he continued to chew a large hunk of meat pasty.
“Prohibition . . . them were the days,” he said. “I took it on the lam right after the crash—figured they wouldn’t be able to afford it no more, and I was right—they repealed it lickity-split.”
“You should have stuck around. As I hear it the mob doesn’t need boot-legging to keep it going.”
“Yeah . . . well, I had other reasons too,” replied Lombardo cryptically.
“So,” Sprague went on, pushing back his empty plate and pouring himself another cup of coffee, “then you migrated to England and hooked up with Morgan—?”
“What about Morgan?” broke in Cabot sharply, breaking his long silence.
“Relax,” said Sprague, then turning to Lombardo, “tell your friend to take it easy. I’ve got a business proposition for you, but we won’t get anywhere if you keep jumping down my throat.”
“Okay,” replied Lombardo. “Put a lid on it, Willie.”
“Don’t tell me what to do,” growled Cabot. He was apparently beginning to feel the imbalance of being the odd man out as the only Britisher among these two Americans. “Don’t forget who we’re working for, Frank.”
“You got me wrong,” said Sprague, feeling the need to placate the Londoner. “I figured I might be able to help you out.”
“What’d you know about us?”
“Why don’t I begin at the beginning?” said Sprague, adopting his most congenial tone. “Here, have a cup of coffee.”
“Ain’t there nothin’ stronger?” put in Lombardo.
“Later; I’ll buy. In the meantime . . .” Without completing his sentence, Sprague poured out coffee for his companions. “Now,” he began again, “as it happens we all have the same interest here in Port Strathy. And that happens to be a third-rate con artist by the name of Macintyre—”
“Macintyre!” repeated Morgan’s men in unison.
“That’s right, boys. I’m afraid this is a small country and word gets around fast. Morgan wants Macintyre’s skin, and I know that’s what you’re doing here.”
“What’s your interest in him?”
“I want him, too. Only I need him alive and well.”
“So what’s this business proposition of yours?”
“Like I said, I need Macintyre in one piece. So it seems that at the moment, we are somewhat at cross purposes. When I’m through with him, you fellows can do what you please. Now, I’m willing to make it worth your while to hold off for a spell—say one thousand pounds apiece?
“What do you want with him?” asked Cabot, determined not to let his guard down so easily.
“The specifics aren’t important. Let’s just say he has some information I need—that is, he will have soon,” answered Sprague.
“Two thousand pounds . . . that must be some information he has!” said Lombardo, stuffing a thickly buttered bannock into his mouth.
“Not the sort of thing that would be of interest to you or me,” answered Sprague evasively, “but there are some highly placed individuals who are anxious to have it.”
“I don’t know,” said Cabot.
“Aw, com’on,” prodded Lombardo, “it ain’t like we’re not going to do Morgan’s job—we’ll just tell him we got delayed a few days.”
“Exactly how long?” asked Cabot.
“That’s the rub,” replied Sprague, “I can’t pin it down exactly.”
“Two days,” said Cabot, answering his own question, “then we move in.”
“I’m afraid if we pressure him, he’ll bolt. Then neither of us will get what we want—and you’ll be out a cool thousand.” Sprague directed this last remark to Lombardo, whom he judged as most sympathetic.
“We got Morgan to think of,” said Lombardo, almost apologetically. “He’s not a man you try to con. And if we don’t bring him Macintyre’s head, he’ll have ours.”
Sprague leaned back on the bench to ponder his dilemma.
Even if he withheld Macintyre’s whereabouts, this town was so small that they’d locate him in an hour if they put their minds to it, however vacant that part of their anatomy was. His only chance had been to deal with them, and that would have worked if it hadn’t been for that hardnose Cabot. There was no way of knowing how close Macintyre was to finding the loot, if it existed. He might even have already found it and was only sticking around to avert suspicion.
Sprague knew he now had no choice but to force Macintyre’s hand! If he had nothing, well, they were both out of luck. Sprague knew his boss would be none too pleased. But in part it was his fault, too. Hadn’t he said he would take care of Morgan? Obviously his slick manuevering had not worked too well in that arena, so he couldn’t blame Sprague.
“Give me three days,” bargained Sprague, “and you get two thousand each.” It wasn’t his money, Sprague reasoned to himself.
The two hoodlums looked at each other, then nodded toward Sprague. Lombardo appeared much more satisfied with the deal than his cohort, who looked as if three days was an interminably long wait for his sport.