Out of the Past Read online

  “Ask Charlie Rosen, over there,” Roscoe chimed in from behind the bar. “He’s still feelin’ the effects.”

  “Charlie Rosen is always feelin’ the effects of somethin’, ” Turner said. “I tell you what, Clint. I’ll have Roscoe walk her home, and he’ll carry his scattergun. How’s that?”

  “Look, I don’t need—”

  “It’d be my pleasure, ma’am,” Roscoe said. “And I could sure use the air.”

  “Well . . . fine.”

  Roscoe grabbed his shotgun from beneath the bar, came around and said, “Lead the way, ma’am.”

  “Stop callin’ me ma’am,” Sandy said. “My name is Sandy.” She looked at Clint. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Good night, Sandy.”

  “Let’s go, barkeep,” she said. “See if you can keep up.”

  “Let me get you another beer,” Turner said as Sandy and Roscoe went out the door. Turner obviously had a well-trained staff, because there was already another man behind the bar.

  “That’s okay, Tommy,” Clint said. “I was thinking we’d go to your office and have a talk.”

  “This sounds serious. Follow me.”

  Turner led Clint through the Red Garter, glad-handing as he went, fielding some questions from staff, until they finally reached a door in the back of the room. Turner used a key to open it and they stepped into a small but very well-appointed office.

  “Back here I can offer you brandy or whiskey,” Turner said.

  “Nothing, thanks.”

  “Then have a seat and tell me what’s on your mind, Clint.”

  They sat across from each other with Turner’s mahogany desk between them.

  “There’s a family named Cameron in town,” Clint said.

  “You mean there’s a family named Cameron who owns the town,” Turner said.

  “How can somebody own Kansas City?” Clint asked. “And why didn’t I hear about this last time I was here?”

  “Last time you were here you were involved in a three-day poker game,” Turner said. “You didn’t notice anything else—except, maybe, Irene, my best girl.”

  “Oh, yeah, Irene,” Clint said. “She still here?”

  Turner shook his head.

  “Left a short time after you did. To answer your other question, you have to have a big reputation, a lot of money and unlimited power. And it doesn’t hurt to have a sheriff, a marshal, a judge and some U.S. senators in your pocket.”

  Clint rubbed his jaw.

  “I don’t know that I’ve ever come up against somebody with that much power.”

  “Probably not,” Turner said. “Some folks think he’s more powerful than the president.”

  Clint frowned.

  “That’s not a happy look,” Turner said. “What’s your interest?”

  “I think this family may have killed a friend of mine.”

  “Who? And when?”

  “Her name was Anne Archer, and it happened earlier this month.”

  “Oh, that woman,” Turner said. “I read about that. Rumor has it she was seeing Bill Cameron.”

  “What else do the rumors say?”

  “Not much,” Turner said. “It was good for one day in the papers, and a couple of days of rumors, and then it faded. She wasn’t really . . .”

  “Anybody?” Clint asked. “Is that what you were about to say?”

  “Look, I’m sorry your friend was killed,” Turner said. “If there’s anything I can do . . .”

  “What if I told you I’m going to find out who did it and make them pay?” Clint asked. “What if I said I don’t care which member of the family it was? Would you want to help me then?”

  “Look, Clint,” Turner said, squirming, “I’ve got to make a living in this city—and we are a city, we’re not really a town anymore. And the Camerons are a big reason for that.”

  “Okay,” Clint said, “I’m not going to ask you to help, just answer a few questions.”

  Turner looked relieved.

  “I’ll do what I can.”

  “Who’s the law around here?”

  “We’ve got Sheriff Hardesty,” Turner said. “He’s firmly in Cameron’s pocket.”

  “And?”

  “We’ve got a modern police force now, headed up by Chief of Police Dan Fortune.”

  “And is Fortune in Cameron’s pocket?”

  “I don’t think so,” Turner said. “But I’m sure a few key members of his department are.”

  “Where’s Fortune from?”

  “San Francisco,” Turner said. “He was a policeman there, a lieutenant, I think. Interviewed for this job and got it. A lot of people are not happy with him, specifically the Camerons.”

  “Because he doesn’t fit in their pocket?”

  “Doesn’t, or won’t.”

  Clint stood up.

  “He sounds like the man I want to see. Thanks, Tommy.”

  “No hard feelings, huh, Clint?” Turner asked, also standing.

  “No, Tommy,” Clint said, “but if I find out you went to the Camerons, there will be.”

  “Hey,” Turner said, “why would I do that?”

  “Power makes people do funny things,” Clint said, “especially the people who don’t have it. I’ll be seeing you, Tommy.”

  SIXTEEN

  It was too late to visit the chief of police, so Clint went across the street to his hotel and to his room to get some sleep. He was in his room five minutes when there was a knock on the door. Since he hadn’t had time to take his gun off, he palmed it and went to the door.

  “Who is it?”

  “Porter, suh.”

  “I didn’t ask for anything.”

  “I got somethin’ for ya anyway, suh. Please open the door.”

  Clint cracked the door, saw the black porter standing in the hall, then opened it.

  “Quick, let me in,” the man said, ducking in.

  “Is there something I can do for you?” Clint asked.

  “Yes, close the door,” the man said in perfect English. “Quickly.”

  Clint closed the door, then turned to face the man.

  “Look, I know you don’t know me,” the man said. “Around here I go by the name Leon.”

  “That’s not your real name?”

  “No,” Leon said, “but it will do.”

  “Okay, Leon, why the act? Your English is obviously better than you used out in the hall . . . suh.”

  “You don’t need that gun.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that.”

  Leon was wearing a waistcoat, tight trousers and shoes with a high black shine.

  “This is what they make me wear here,” he said, “and there’s no place to hide a gun.”

  “Keep talking,” Clint said, maintaining hold of his gun.

  “Mr. Adams, I know who you are, and you should know that not ten minutes after you checked in, the desk clerk—his name is Rawlins, by the way—sent me over to Mr. Cameron with a message.”

  “What kind of message?”

  “Just that you were here, checked into this hotel.”

  “Why would that interest Mr. Cameron?”

  “Everything interests Mr. Cameron.”

  “We talking about Louis Cameron?”

  “He’s the only one who counts.”

  “And why are you telling me this?”

  “I’m warning you, that’s all.”

  “You could’ve kept up your mush-mouthed act for that,” Clint said.

  “I guess I just wanted you to know that’s not who I am.”

  “And if it’s not, then why are you pretending that’s who you are.”

  “That’s too complicated for now, and I’ve got to get back downstairs. I just thought you should know.”

  “Well, I’m obliged, I guess, but I’d like to talk about it a little more.”

  “I’ll leave you a note, tell you where to meet me tomorrow. We can talk then.”

  “Maybe you can help me—”

  �
��And maybe you can help me,” Leon said, “but we’ll have to talk about it tomorrow.”

  Leon moved quickly to the door, opened it, stuck his head out, then slipped away, leaving Clint standing there holding his gun, wondering what had just happened.

  He holstered the gun, removed the holster and hung it on the bedpost, where it always resided when he was in a hotel. He walked to the window and looked down at the street. Somebody had tried to bushwhack him on the way here. He’d assumed it was someone who recognized him in St. Jo, but now he wasn’t so sure. Had Sandy been right? Had they been after her? Or both of them? And was the point to keep him from Kansas City?

  And who but the Cameron family would want that?

  SEVENTEEN

  Clint slept fitfully, which was odd because the bed was one of the best he’d ever slept in. He dreamt all night about Anne Archer, and about Little Sandy, and how they were a family living on a ranch somewhere, only to have men invade their home to make a try at the Gunsmith’s reputation. Every dream ended up with Clint alive, standing over the bodies of the invaders and his family. All dead but him.

  He woke for the final time when the sun streamed in his window and quit the bed. He didn’t want to take a chance on having another dream.

  A knock on the door sent him grabbing for his gun, but it was a porter—not Leon—with the water for the bath he’d forgotten he ordered.

  Once the bathtub was filled with hot water, he shaved, then soaked in the tub until the water was tepid. Next he dressed but quickly realized he had nothing with him that fit Kansas City and the company he was going to end up keeping. That meant some shopping—but not until after breakfast.

  Clint brought his new purchases back to the hotel and asked the desk clerk to have a porter take them up to his room.

  “Of course, sir.”

  The clerk waved and the porter who came over was Leon, the black man who had come to his room.

  “Yassuh?”

  “Take these things up to Mr. Adams’s room.”

  “Yassuh.”

  Leon never looked Clint’s way, so Clint did the man the courtesy of returning the favor. The black man picked up the packages and made his way up the stairs to the second floor.

  Clint started to leave, but decided to give the desk clerk something to think about—or rather, something to take back to Louis Cameron.

  “Can you give me directions to the police station, please?”

  “Sir?”

  “You do have a police department in town, don’t you?” Clint asked innocently.

  “Well, yes, sir, but if there’s a problem I’m sure the sheriff could help you.”

  “I think I’d rather take it to the chief of police,” Clint said. “Directions?”

  “Uh, yes, sir,” the clerk said and provided them in detail.

  “Thank you.”

  “Uh, sir?”

  “Yes.”

  “There’s no problem here—I mean, with the hotel? Nothing . . . missing from your room, or anything like that?”

  “No,” Clint said, “nothing like that. It’s a more . . . personal matter.”

  “I see.”

  “But thank you for the concern.”

  “Uh, yes, sir, we do, uh, try to keep our guests . . . happy.”

  “And you’re doing a bang up job of it, too.” Clint actually leaned over and patted the man on the shoulder. “Keep it up.”

  “Uh, yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  Clint nodded and left the hotel. Maybe that would give the desk clerk and Louis Cameron something to think about.

  EIGHTEEN

  The police station was a modern, two-story brick structure that dominated the block it was on. Clint entered the building and presented himself at the oversized front desk.

  “Yes, sir, what can I do for you this fine day?” the granite-jawed, gray-haired sergeant asked.

  “I’d like to see the chief of police, please.”

  “Well, the chief is a very busy man, sir,” the sergeant said. “Maybe there’s something I can help you with?”

  “Do you know anything about the murder of Anne Archer?” I asked.

  “Anne who?” The man screwed up his face. “Murder? ”

  “I really think I should speak to—”

  “Sergeant,” a man standing nearby said, “I’ll handle this.”

  “Very well, sir,” the sergeant said. “This is Lieutenant Abernathy, sir. He’ll take care—”

  “Yes, Sergeant O’ Connor,” Abernathy said, “I just said I’d do that. Please, sir. Over here.”

  Clint walked over and joined the man, who put his hand out.

  “Edgar Abernathy, detective lieutenant.”

  “Clint Adams.”

  The two men shook hands. Abernathy appeared to be in his mid-forties, a little taller than Clint, in good shape and wearing a suit that had once been expensive but had seen better days.

  “Adams? The Gunsmith? That Clint Adams?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And you’re here about the Anne Archer case?”

  “That’s right,” Clint said. “At least you know about it.”

  “I should, I’m working on it.”

  “Still?”

  “Well, I haven’t found a killer yet,” Abernathy said. “I don’t usually close a case until I do that.”

  “Well, that’s good to hear,” Clint said.

  “Why? Had you heard differently?”

  “In fact, yes,” Clint said.

  “Maybe we should take this to my office,” Abernathy said.

  “And what about seeing the chief?”

  “I’ll introduce you after we’ve talked. Is that all right?”

  “Sounds fair enough.”

  As Clint walked away with Lieutenant Abernathy, Sergeant O’Connor called a young officer over and said, “I’ve got a message for you to deliver, laddie.”

  In the lieutenant’s office Abernathy closed the door and sat behind his desk. His office was cramped and his chair hit the wall as he pushed it back.

  “Sorry,” he said, “they put me in this closet in the hopes that I’d resign.”

  Clint couldn’t tell if the man was being funny or candid. He sat in the rickety chair across from the detective.

  “What’s your interest in this case, Mr. Adams?” the lieutenant asked.

  “The deceased was a friend of mine,” Clint said. “A very good friend.”

  “I see.”

  “Maybe you do, and maybe you don’t,” Clint said. “I heard about her murder and I’m here to find out who did it—no matter who it is.”

  “And what did you mean when you said you were glad to hear I was still working the case?”

  “Are we speaking frankly?” Clint asked.

  Abernathy smirked and said, “I always speak frankly, Mr. Adams. That’s why I’m in this closet.”

  “I heard that since the Cameron family was involved, there wasn’t much being done to solve the case.”

  Abernathy frowned.

  “I was afraid that might be the public’s perception, ” he said, “simply because I haven’t caught the killer yet. Believe me, sir, it hasn’t been for lack of trying. ”

  “I am going to believe you, Lieutenant,” Clint said, “since we’re speaking frankly.”

  “What are your intentions if you find the killer?” the lieutenant asked.

  “You know my reputation.”

  “I don’t believe everything I hear or read, sir,” Abernathy said.

  “I plan to see that Anne Archer’s death is avenged,” Clint said. “If not for me, then for her daughter’s sake.”

  Abernathy tapped his forefinger on the desk for a few moments as he regarded Clint.

  “I’m going to trust you with something, Mr. Adams,” he finally said, “if only because this case has frustrated me to no end.”

  “Okay.”

  “Of course we know that Miss Archer was seeing Bill Cameron,” he said. “I do believe that some
one in the family is responsible for her death. For that reason no one is talking to me.”

  “I’ve heard all about them since I came to town,” Clint commented, “so I can understand that.”

  “There isn’t anyone in this town who isn’t afraid of Louis Cameron.”

  “You’re not.”

  Abernathy smirked.

  “Actually, I am, but that won’t stop me from arresting him if he did it.”

  “Who would stop you?”

  “Maybe the chief.”

  “I heard he was his own man, not in Cameron’s pocket the way the sheriff is.”

  Abernathy frowned. “How long you been in town?”

  “Got here yesterday evening.”

  “You’re well informed, already.”

  “I’m going to be honest with you, Lieutenant, and show you just how well informed I am—and hope it goes no further than this.”

  “That would be refreshing.”

  “Anne Archer was a Pinkerton.”

  Abernathy sat straight up in his chair as if a bolt of lightning had gone through his body.

  NINETEEN

  “What?”

  “You didn’t know?”

  “Not a clue,” the lieutenant said, “and you don’t know how much that annoys me. I imagine I’m pretty good at this job.”

  “I’ll bet you’re right.”

  “Not if I didn’t know that,” he said. “How did you know about it?”

  “I told you, we were friends.”

  Abernathy studied Clint for a few moments.

  “Bullshit,” he said. “You’re not being totally honest with me.”

  “I’m being completely honest.”

  “Then you’re not being totally informative.”

  “There’s a difference.”

  “She has a partner here in Kansas City.”

  Clint remained silent.

  “You’re not working for Pinkerton, are you?”

  “No,” Clint said, “Ol’ Allan and I are not a good fit.”

  Abernathy laughed.

  “You turned him down,” he said. “He’d hate that.”

  “Then we have something in common. You turned him down, too, didn’t you?”

  Abernathy nodded.

  “I prefer to stay official.”

  “So where do we stand?” Clint asked. “I came over here to feel the chief out, see if I would be able to depend on him and his police department for some help.”