Louisiana Stalker Page 12

  • • •

  It took several hours, but they finally came within sight of a large, two-story house with pillars all along the front. The house must have cost a fortune to build—but why would someone build such a house all the way out here?

  He posed his question out loud and Cappy said, “Jacques is Cajun. He was born in the bayou, and he loves it.”

  “Well,” Clint said, “I suppose there’s something to be said for loving your home.”

  They drove up to the front of the house. It could have been the gray rain, or the moss clinging to the walls, but up close the house looked to have fallen on hard times.

  Henri stopped the carriage directly in front of the door. Clint stepped down and looked around. He was surprised that they had not attracted any attention.

  He turned and helped Cappy down. Henri stayed right where he was.

  “Do you want to come in?” Clint asked him.

  “I think I’ll be safer right here,” Henri said. “Wetter, but safer.”

  “I don’t blame you,” Clint said. “We’ll be back soon—I hope.”

  Clint and Cappy approached the front steps and walked up. Clint might have thought the house was deserted, but for the light in a couple of windows.

  They reached the front door and Clint knocked. He was about to knock again when suddenly he heard a lock click, and the door opened.

  “Capucine,” an old gent said. “What a surprise—and in this weather? Come in, come in, my dear, and introduce me to your friend.”

  Several people had referred to Jacques Pivot as an old man. If this man was, indeed, Pivot, they were understating the point. This man was so old his skin seemed like translucent parchment paper. There was a map of blue lines beneath his skin, where they weren’t obscured by wrinkles.

  He closed the door and turned to face Capucine.

  “Hello, Jacques,” she said. “Allow me to introduce my friend, Clint Adams.”

  “Ah, the infamous Gunsmith,” the man said. “How wonderful to have someone of your import in my house. Excuse me if I don’t shake hands, but my bones are very brittle these days. A handshake could actually break my hand.”

  “I understand,” Clint said.

  But the old gent’s hands weren’t too flimsy to lift one of Capucine’s to his mouth so he could kiss it.

  “Come with me,” he said. “We’ll get you some coffee—or brandy—to warm you up.”

  They followed him into a large, opulently furnished living room. He walked to a pull rope against the wall and yanked on it. In seconds a man who looked even older than Pivot appeared.

  “Ah, Charles, my guests need to warm up.” He looked at them.

  “Hot tea for me,” Capucine said.

  “Of course. And you, sir?”

  “Coffee.”

  “Please,” Pivot said, “the brandy. Allow me the pleasure of watching you drink it, as I can’t imbibe myself.”

  “All right,” Clint said, and to Charles, “Brandy.”

  “Yes, sir,” Charles said.

  “Please, sit,” Pivot said.

  The chairs were overstuffed, and dusty. Capucine gingerly lowered herself onto the sofa, while Clint chose one of the armchairs.

  “What brings you here in such horrible weather, my dear?” he asked.

  “Well . . . I’ll let Clint explain it, Jacques.”

  “Sir?” Pivot said, looking at Clint.

  Clint was having his doubts, except for the fact that Cooper confessed to working for Pivot.

  “Well . . . Capucine had been having a problem with someone stalking her, following her everywhere, and asked me to see what I could do about it.”

  “And how does this bring you to me?”

  “We thought the man behind it might be someone who was, uh, in business with her husband. I’ve been told you are his closest competitor.”

  “And why would this lead to having her followed?” he asked.

  Clint was surprised the man had not taken a seat, and had chosen to remain standing.

  “Perhaps in an attempt to distract her husband from his business practices?” Clint asked.

  “Nonsense,” Pivot said, waving a skeletal hand. He didn’t offer anything further.

  “Why is that, sir?” Clint asked.

  “I don’t have any need to distract Simon Devereaux. I have outfoxed him at every turn whenever we have done business. And I prefer to have him at his best when I do beat him—such as his best may be.”

  “Sir, do you know a man named Cooper?”

  “I do,” he said. “He and his wife run an inn in Lexington.”

  “Do they work for you?”

  “Certainly not,” Pivot said. “Why would I need an inn? Ah, here are the drinks.”

  Charles carried a tray to Capucine, who claimed her tea, and then Clint, who took his brandy. He then tucked the silver tray beneath his arm and left. He walked painfully slow, and they waited for him to leave the room before continuing.

  “Mr. Pivot, Cooper told me he works for you.”

  “Doing what? Running the inn?”

  “And keeping people away from your house.”

  “How?”

  “Pretty much by killing them,” Clint said. “Do you know a man named Keller?”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “And you didn’t send anyone to follow Capucine?”

  “I did not,” Pivot said. “I do not, however, know how to prove that to you.”

  Clint studied the man, then said, “You don’t have to. I believe you.”

  “Then we drove all the way out here, and went through all of those things at the inn, for nothing?” Capucine complained.

  “No, not for nothing,” Clint said. “Now we know Mr. Pivot, here, is innocent.”

  “I am a little too old to be considered innocent,” Pivot said, “but I appreciate the sentiment.”

  “So now what?” she asked.

  “I guess we should get back to Baton Rouge,” Clint said.

  “I wouldn’t do that,” Pivot said.

  “Why’s that?”

  “I have my own telegraph key in the house,” the man said. “Just a short while ago I received a message that the city is under water.”

  Clint immediately thought of Eclipse, who he had left behind in Baton Rouge.

  “The whole city?” he asked.

  “Well, a good part of it,” Pivot said. “You are both welcome to stay here—at least overnight.”

  “I was given to understand you don’t like guests,” Clint said.

  “Indeed, I do not,” the man said, “but rarely have I had a guest of your stature. And, of course, Capucine is always welcome.”

  “I have a driver outside.”

  A pained look passed over Pivot’s face, but he said, “He may stay, as well.”

  “Well,” Clint said, “I don’t think we have much of a choice.”

  “I will have Charles show you to your rooms. You will, of course, have dinner with me.”

  “Thank you, Jacques,” Cappy said.

  “Yes,” Clint said, “thank you.”

  Pivot pulled the rope again. As slowly as Charles moved, he was right there. Clint didn’t know how he did that.

  FORTY-FIVE

  Charles showed Clint, Capucine, and Henri each to their own room.

  “We have bath facilities,” he told them.

  “I would like a hot bath,” Capucine said.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Clint and Henri both declined the offer, but they had pitchers and basins in their rooms, and towels. Clint used his to clean up, then walked to the window to look out. He thought about Eclipse in Baton Rouge, and hoped the liveryman was looking after him.

  There was a knock on his door, and then the door opened
. Henri walked in.

  “Is there gonna be any shootin’ this time, boss?”

  “I hope not,” Clint said, “but I can’t promise.” He saw the disappointed look on his face. “Sorry,” he said.

  “I guess I’ll just have to keep my head down.”

  “Henri, how bad could the flooding be in Baton Rouge?” Clint asked.

  “Pretty bad,” Henri said.

  “How bad?”

  “Things floating down the street, that bad.”

  “What kinds of things?”

  “Lots of things,” Henri said. “Barrels, buggies, bodies—”

  “Bodies?”

  “Dead bodies from the cemeteries,” Henri said, “or people who have drowned. Sometimes you’ll see the bodies of animals—dogs, cows, horses.”

  “Horses?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “I left a horse back there, in one of the liveries.”

  “Oh, well, those guys are pretty good about caring for animals in their charge,” Henri said. “They’ll get them to high ground.”

  “They will?’

  “If they have enough warning.”

  “How about out here?” Clint asked. “How would we have any warning?”

  “We wouldn’t, I guess,” Henri said, “unless somebody came ridin’ out, or Mr. Pivot got a telegraph message.”

  “The telegraph still works in a flood?”

  “In a flood, yeah, I guess,” Henri said. “The wires are up kinda high.”

  “What about in a storm like this?”

  “More than likely,” Henri admitted, “the wires would be down.”

  “Then how would Pivot have gotten a telegraph message about Baton Rouge being flooded?”

  Henri shrugged and said, “He wouldn’t.”

  “Damn it!” Clint said, heading for the door.

  “What?” Henri asked.

  “He lied to us!”

  He was out the door before Henri got himself turned around to follow.

  FORTY-SIX

  Clint ran down the hall to the room Charles had put Cappy in, but when he burst in, she wasn’t there. Henri came running in behind him.

  “What’s happening?”

  “Pivot lied,” Clint said. “Now he has Cappy somewhere. We have to find her.”

  “B-But where?”

  “Downstairs. Come on.”

  They ran downstairs and the first thing they saw was water coming in from beneath the door.

  “Oh, no,” Henri said, pointing.

  “I see it.”

  “The levee must have broken.”

  “How deep will it get?”

  “There’s no tellin’,” Henri said. “It may take a boat to get out of the bayou.”

  “And this has happened before?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why do people live here?”

  Henri had no answer for that. Instead he said, “I’ll have to release my horse so he can find higher ground.”

  “Okay, you do that,” Clint said, “and I’ll keep looking.”

  When Henri opened the door, more water gushed into the house.

  “It’s already knee deep,” he called.

  “Be careful,” Clint said.

  He started to search through the house, but all the rooms seemed empty. He stopped in the large living room and looked around. Where else could he search?

  If Pivot was lying, then Cooper wasn’t lying. That meant that he had worked for the man. Did that also mean he was telling the truth about Pivot having six men?

  “Capucine!” he called out.

  He heard something. A muffled sound, and then a thump.

  “Cappy!”

  More thumping.

  “Keep it up,” he yelled. “I’ll find you.”

  The thumping continued until Clint reached the fireplace. He felt around it, and along the mantle, finally found a loose stone, and moved it. The fireplace moved, opened.

  Behind it was a space just large enough to hold Cappy, who was tied to a chair. She’d barely had room to bang her feet against the back of the fireplace.

  Clint pulled the chair out into the room and untied her.

  “Who put you in there?”

  “Jacques and his man, Charles.”

  “Just those two old men?”

  She glared at him and said, “They had guns.”

  “And we still do, too.”

  Clint turned, saw Pivot and Charles standing in the doorway, each holding a gun.

  “Where are your other men?” Clint asked.

  “I have no other men,” Pivot said. “Oh, Charles and I often use younger men to do our bidding, but apparently you killed the one I had watching Capucine.”

  “I didn’t kill him,” Clint said. “Keller did. And Cooper killed Keller.”

  “And Cooper?”

  “I killed him,” Capucine said, “and his wife.”

  “Too bad,” Pivot said, “she was a lovely little Cajun.”

  “So now what?” Clint asked. “The water’s rising outside, even as we speak.”

  “Charles and I know what to do,” Pivot said. “We’ve been through this before.”

  “And us?”

  “You’ll drown in the flood.”

  “Why?”

  The old man shrugged his bony shoulders.

  “Why not?” he said. “Losing Capucine will cripple Devereaux.”

  “And me?”

  “Wrong place, wrong time, Mr. Gunsmith,” Pivot said. “Although I do get a thrill from knowing that I will be killing a legend.”

  “How do you propose to drown us?”

  “Well, first you’ll put her back in that chair. Then we’ll find a chair for you.”

  “Really?” Clint asked. “The two of you will tie me to a chair?”

  Charles suddenly looked a bit nervous, and the gun in his hand wavered.

  “Drop your gun,” Pivot said.

  “If I take my gun from my holster, it will be to kill the two of you,” Clint said. “Why would you have a man follow Capucine and never make a move?”

  “He was supposed to make a move,” Pivot said. “The fool fell in love with her. All he wanted to do was watch her.”

  Clint looked at Capucine, then back at Pivot.

  “That happens to men,” Clint said.

  “Younger men,” Pivot said. “Everything happens to younger men.”

  “Is that it?” Clint asked. “You hate younger men?”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s not their fault,” Clint said, “our fault, that we’re young or that you’re old.”

  “Drop your gun.”

  “I can’t do that,” Clint said, “and I can draw and fire before you pull the trigger. Believe me.”

  Clint could see that neither of these men was used to holding a gun. Neither of them had their finger on the trigger yet. But they had no younger men around to do the job for them.

  “So? What do we do?” Clint asked.

  “Shoot him,” Pivot said.

  Clint saw Charles move his finger to the trigger. Clint drew and fired. The old man crumbled to the floor. Pivot jumped, startled. He tried to pull the trigger of his gun, but his hand wouldn’t cooperate.

  Clint walked across the room and took the gun from the man’s hand.

  “Goddamn hands!” Pivot swore.

  Henri came running in.

  “The water’s rising.” He was wet to his torso.

  Clint looked at Pivot.

  “You said you and Charles have been through this before. How were you going to get out?”

  “I hope you can swim,” Pivot said peevishly. He walked to the sofa and sat down painfully.

  “What do we do?” Capu
cine said. She was looking out the window. “It’s rising fast.”

  “Pivot,” Clint said, “is Baton Rouge really flooded?”

  Pivot didn’t answer. He was sitting on the sofa with his chin down on his chest.

  “Is he asleep?” Cappy asked.

  Clint walked to Pivot, touched his shoulder, then his back.

  “No,” he said, “he’s dead.”

  “And so are we,” Henri said.

  “There must be a boat around here,” Clint said. “That’s the only way Pivot could have figured getting out.”

  “By the time we find it, the water could be over our heads,” Cappy said.

  “We have no choice,” Clint said. “We have to start looking.”

  At that moment a window broke and water began to pour in. At the same time there was pounding on the front door.

  “See who that is!” Clint snapped. “Cappy, see if those sofa cushions will float.”

  “You really think these will save us?”

  “I don’t know,” Clint said. “I’ve never been through a flood before. Storms yes, but not floods.”

  “Boss,” Henri said, rushing back, “you better look at this.”

  Henri led the way to the door, Clint and Cappy behind him. Outside they saw a rowboat floating, tied to one of the pillars.

  “Who put that there?” Cappy asked.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Clint said. “Let’s get out of here!”

  FORTY-SEVEN

  Baton Rouge was not under water.

  The levee had held; the city—and Eclipse—were safe. Clint discovered this when he, Cappy, and Henri returned from the bayou. The boat had taken them only so far, and when the water level receded, they got out and walked. By the time they got back, Capucine was happy to return to her house, with her husband.

  “I’ve had enough excitement for one lifetime,” she told Clint. She kissed his cheek and they said good-bye.

  As for Henri, his cab was gone but his horse had found its way back to Baton Rouge. Clint decided to buy the young man a new cab. He felt he owed him that much.

  Clint went to the livery to check Eclipse. He checked the horse over and the big Arabian was no worse for the wear. He thanked the liveryman and left the horse there for one more day.

  He needed one night in his hotel to sleep in a bed and get some rest. He also wanted to think about the appearance of that boat outside Jacques Pivot’s house. Somebody had tied off the boat, pounded on the door, and then beat a hasty retreat. Who had that person been? And how had they gotten away from the flood?