Fraternity of the Gun Page 4

“I think the men will like what she has to offer,” Clint said. “You might have to win them over with your talent, though.”

  Irving laughed. “That is usually the case. My beast to Ellen’s beauty.”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “I know what you meant,” Irving said. “I was handsome once, in my youth. These days I must rely heavily on my talent. Luckily, that has not waned.”

  Neither had the man’s ego, Clint noticed.

  THIRTEEN

  Clint sat in the empty Lyceum Theater and watched as Henry Irving put everyone through their paces—the theater owners, the director, the lighting people, the set design people . . . and Ellen Terry.

  He found it all very interesting, Irving telling everyone where to stand, what to do, and—in Ellen Terry’s case—what to say.

  Suddenly, Terry started to shout.

  “I know what to say, Henry!” she snapped. “I always know what to say.”

  “Calm down, dear girl—”

  “No,” she said, “you can tell all these people what to do, but you can’t tell me. I know what to do.” She dropped the papers she was holding. “I’ll leave you to work with them. I’ll be back when it’s time to go on.”

  With that, she stormed off the stage.

  Clint was confused. Was she leaving the stage, or the building? Should he stay with Henry or go with her? He got up from his seat and walked up to the stage.

  “Henry, is she leaving?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Irving said. “Clint, why don’t you make sure she gets back to the hotel all right. I still have a few hours of work here. You can come back and get me later.”

  “Okay, Henry,” Clint said.

  He climbed up onto the stage, then ran off in the same direction Ellen Terry had gone.

  Backstage he looked around for her, afraid she may have already left the building. Then suddenly, he caught sight of her.

  “Ellen!”

  She turned to see who had called out her name. She’d obviously gone back to her dressing room, as she was dressed for the street.

  “What is it?”

  He walked up to her.

  “You can’t leave by yourself.”

  “I’m a big girl, Mr. Adams,” she assured him. “I will be fine.”

  “That may be so, but I can’t let you go out in the streets of New York alone. If you want to go back to the hotel, I’ll take you.”

  She frowned at him, looked as if she was about to argue, then changed her mind.

  “Oh, all right,” she said. “Come along.”

  She headed for the stage door, and he followed.

  * * *

  Outside she hurried up the alley toward Fourth Avenue He ran after her and grabbed her arm, virtually yanking her to a stop.

  “Whoa!” he said.

  “Let me go!”

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “I want to walk before I go back to the hotel to change for the performance.”

  “Walk where?”

  “Just walk down the streets,” she said. “Can we do that?”

  “Well . . . sure,” he said. “Why not? But you can’t just walk anywhere. We can walk in the direction of the hotel, and eventually get a cab.”

  “Very well. Then show me which way to go,” she demanded.

  “This way . . .” Clint said.

  * * *

  When the man across the street saw Ellen Terry come out of the alley, he was elated. However, it faded the very next second when Clint Adams came out behind her.

  The woman looked like she wanted to run, but Adams grabbed her arm. When they finally decided to walk, the man made up his mind to wait and see if Henry Irving would come out alone.

  He decided to let Terry and Clint Adams go—for now.

  * * *

  Clint walked with Ellen Terry on Fourth Avenue for a while, then took her to Fifth Avenue. The architecture was different from London, which he had visited before. But if he was looking for her to be impressed, it didn’t happen. She did not seem the least bit interested in what she was seeing, and that made him wonder why she had wanted to walk at all.

  Abruptly, she turned to him and said, “I need to go back to the hotel and get ready for the performance.”

  “All right,” Clint said.

  He flagged down a passing cab and they rode to the hotel in silence.

  FOURTEEN

  When they got to the hotel, Clint walked Terry to her door.

  “I will need about two hours,” she said. “I assume you’ll be wanting to escort me back?”

  “I will.”

  “Well then, you had better go get Henry and bring him back so he can get cleaned up,” she suggested, “then you can escort both of us back.”

  Before he could say a word, she slammed the door in his face. He didn’t know if Terry disliked Americans, men, or just him.

  He went downstairs and had a beer before going back to the theater to get Irving. As the bartender handed him a beer, he said, “That fellow’s been waiting for you to get back.”

  “What fella?” Clint asked.

  “That one walking over here.”

  Clint turned his head to look. A man had just gotten up from a table and was walking toward him, carrying a beer of his own. He was wearing a black suit and a bowler hat.

  “Mr. Adams?” he asked. He was tall, not yet forty, moved with the ease of a man who could take care of himself.

  “That’s right.”

  “My name is Inspector Gibbons. I’m with the New York City Police.”

  Clint looked at the beer in the man’s left hand.

  “You got a badge that proves that?”

  Gibbons moved the beer to his right hand, moved his jacket aside with his left so Clint could see the badge pinned to his shirt.

  “You always wear it on your shirt?” Clint asked.

  “I thought you might ask for it,” Gibbons said, allowing his jacket to fall closed.

  “Well, Inspector,” Clint said, “why don’t I buy you a fresh cold beer to replace that flat one and then you can tell me what I can do for you.”

  “That sounds good,” the inspector said. He put the flat beer on the bar and the bartender gave him a cold one. “Thank you.”

  “Can we talk right here at the bar?” Clint asked. Not that the place was crowded; it wasn’t. Clint just wanted to get this over with as soon as possible.

  “Sure, why not?” Gibbons asked. “I received a telegram from a policeman I know in London. He told me they were sending two of their national treasures over here to perform. That’s what he said. National treasures. Do you know who that might be?”

  “I do,” Clint said, “but how did you know?”

  “Well, when I got that telegram, I sent off one of my own, to Washington. I figured if someone like that was coming to New York, I should know about it.”

  “And what did they tell you?”

  “Same thing,” Gibbons said. “National treasures. But they also told me you’d be here watching out for them.”

  “And they told you what hotel I was in?”

  “No, I found that out by myself.”

  “Well,” Clint said, “I guess you are a detective.”

  “That I am,” Gibbons said. “Now, do you mind telling me what these national treasures are?”

  “I don’t see why not,” Clint said, “since you are the police.”

  “I was hoping you’d feel that way.”

  “They’re people.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Actors,” Clint said. “Henry Irving and Ellen Terry. Apparently they’re very famous.”

  Gibbons frowned. “I never heard of them.”

 
; “Well, they’ll be performing at the Lyceum Theater tonight,” Clint said. “You can see for yourself, firsthand, why the British consider them to be national treasures.”

  “So, why would you concern yourself with them?”

  “I was asked by the Department of State to make sure nothing happens to them while they’re here,” Clint said.

  “In New York?”

  “In the country,” Clint said. “They’ll be touring here for quite a while.”

  “And you’ll be with them the whole time?”

  “Every step of the way,” Clint said.

  Gibbons sipped his beer while he gave the situation some thought.

  “I’m sure I could arrange to have a ticket for you at the box office,” Clint said. “Just say the word.”

  “I’m not much for the theater,” Gibbons said. “I’ll take your word for it that they’re actors.”

  “Well, I’ll try to make sure there’s no trouble while they’re in New York.”

  “I’d appreciate that.” Apparently, the inspector wasn’t much for beer either. He set this one down on the bar, virtually untouched. “Thanks for your time, Mr. Adams.”

  “No problem,” Clint said. “Always willing to assist the police.”

  Gibbons nodded, and strode out of the bar without further word. Clint thought the incident was odd, but set it aside and headed for the theater to pick up Irving.

  FIFTEEN

  When Clint arrived at the theater and entered, Henry Irving was right where he’d left him, on stage. Clint stood in the back of the theater and watched as Irving continued giving instructions for the night’s performance. When he couldn’t wait any longer, Clint walked to the front.

  “Ah, Clint,” Irving said, spotting him. “I was hoping you would come back for me. Where is Ellen?”

  “She’s at the hotel, getting herself ready.”

  “Well then, that is where I should be,” Irving said. He came down off the stage and took Clint by the arm. “Come along, then.”

  They walked outside together, and Clint flagged down a cab. They were easy to find in that district because of the theaters.

  As they rode back, Irving asked, “How was Ellen?”

  “How is she always around me?” Clint asked. “Ornery.”

  “That’s because she likes you.”

  Clint laughed.

  “That’s how she treats men she likes?”

  “How much do you know about women?”

  “A lot, actually.”

  “Well,” Irving said, “how much do you know about Englishwomen?”

  “Not that much,” Clint admitted.

  “Take it from me,” Irving said. “She likes you.”

  “If that’s how she treats a man she likes,” Clint said, “let’s hope she doesn’t fall in love with me. It might be the death of me.”

  * * *

  As the cab approached the hotel, Clint told Irving about his conversation with Inspector Gibbons.

  “A policeman?”

  “Yes. Apparently he got a telegram from one of your policemen. I suppose they want him to look out for you.”

  “But I have you to do that,” Irving said. “And I am quite satisfied with that.”

  “Thanks.”

  The cab stopped in front of the hotel and they got out. As it started to pull away, there was a shot. Clint heard it and moved immediately, tackling Irving and taking him to the ground.

  “What the blazes—”

  “Lie still!” Clint commanded him.

  He looked at the buildings across the street, the doorways and windows, and the rooftops, for a shooter. There was no one in sight. Apparently whoever it was had taken the one shot and run.

  “What the hell was that? A shot?” Irving asked from the ground.

  “Yes, it was.”

  Clint stood up then helped the actor to his feet.

  “Was it meant for you, or me?” Irving asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well,” Irving said, “luckily he missed.”

  “Actually,” Clint said, pointing, “he didn’t. Not completely.”

  He pointed to where the cab driver was lying. The bullet had taken him from his seat and tossed him to the ground. Clint could see that he was dead.

  “Poor fellow.”

  “He must have pulled away just as the shot was fired,” Clint said. “He got in the way.”

  “Saving one of us,” Irving said.

  Yes, Clint thought, but which one?

  “I think it’s time to send for Inspector Gibbons,” Clint said.

  SIXTEEN

  Clint had the doorman send someone for the police.

  “Shall I wait?” Irving said.

  “No,” Clint said. “Go to your room and get yourself ready. If Gibbons wants to talk to you, he can come up there.”

  “Very well.”

  Clint didn’t want Irving out where another shot could be attempted.

  He waited in the lobby for the police to arrive. Gibbons walked in the front door with two uniformed men.

  “What happened?” he asked. “The bellman said something about a shot.”

  “Henry Irving and I were getting out of a cab when someone took a shot at us. He missed, but hit the driver.”

  “Which one of you was the target?”

  “I don’t know,” Clint said. “I suppose there’s a good chance it was me.”

  “Because of your reputation, you mean.”

  “Yes.”

  “But it could have been the actor,” Gibbons said. “The national treasure.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “I’ve got men across the street, trying to find something,” Gibbons said. “And we’re removing the body.”

  “The driver was hit by accident. He got between us and the shooter.”

  “Who knows?” Gibbons asked. “Maybe he was the target. Maybe he owes somebody money, or was sleeping with somebody’s wife.”

  “Well,” Clint said, “I guess that’s your job to find out.”

  “I’ll find out,” Gibbons said. “When we talked earlier, I didn’t ask you how long you would be in New York with your actors.”

  “I’m pretty sure they only have this one performance tonight. I suppose we’ll leave tomorrow or the next day.”

  “For where?”

  “Boston next.”

  “And then?”

  “Philadelphia and Washington. After that, we’ll be heading west.”

  “I’d like to talk to Mr. Irving before I go,” Gibbons said.

  “He’s in his room, getting ready,” Clint said. “Come on.”

  * * *

  When Irving opened the door, he smiled and said to Clint, “This must be our friend the inspector.”

  “Gibbons,” the man said. “Inspector Gibbons. I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Irving.”

  “Come on in,” Irving said to them both. “I’m almost ready.”

  They entered and Clint closed the door. Irving was wearing a black suit and a white shirt.

  “What costume is this?” Clint asked.

  “No costume, I’m afraid,” he said. “Ellen and I are doing readings from several different plays, so we won’t be in costume for any particular characters.”

  “I see.”

  “Mr. Adams has told me what he saw downstairs after the shot was fired,” Gibbons said. “I’d like to know what you saw.”

  “I saw the sidewalk,” Irving said. “Clint pushed me down and shielded me with his body. Luckily, there was not a second shot.”

  “So you didn’t see anyone?”

  “I’m afraid not,” Irving said. “Not before or after the shot. Oh, except for
the poor driver. Do you know his name?”

  “Not yet.”

  “When you do, I’d like to send flowers to the family.”

  “I’ll let you know where you can send them.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Anything else?” Clint asked.

  “No,” Gibbons said, “that’s it.”

  “I’ll walk you back down,” Clint said.

  “I’ll get Ellen and meet you in the lobby, Clint,” Irving said.

  “No,” Clint said, “just wait up here in your rooms until I come to get you.”

  “All right.”

  Gibbons had already stepped into the hall when Clint said, “In fact, maybe I can convince you to cancel your performance tonight.”

  “Oh, no,” Irving said. “We did not come all this way to be frightened off by one shot. The show must go on, Clint.”

  “I was afraid you’d say that.”

  SEVENTEEN

  Clint walked Gibbons all the way out to the street. The body had been removed. There was blood on the sidewalk.

  “The hotel should have someone clean that off,” Gibbons said.

  “I’m sure they will.”

  “Mr. Adams,” the inspector said, “try not to get shot at again while you’re in New York. I would appreciate it.”

  “So would I, Inspector.” Clint said. “So would I.”

  * * *

  Clint went back upstairs, found Henry Irving and Ellen Terry in her room, waiting for him.

  “You’re supposed to be protecting us!” she snarled at him.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, but—”

  “How could you let Henry be shot at?”

  “You’re not being very fair, my dear,” Irving said. “How was he to know someone would take a shot at me?”

  “It’s his job to know.”

  “Besides,” Irving went on, “they could have been shooting at him.”

  “I don’t care—”

  “I think we should get going,” Clint said. “You can continue to berate me on the way, but it might distract me and that wouldn’t be good. You know, just in case someone takes a shot at you this time.”

  She closed her mouth and glared at him.