The Governor's Gun Page 5

  “Looks like you’re doing okay for yourself,” Clint said.

  “I’m makin’ a livin’,” Danny said. “How are you doin’ with the folks at the Capitol?”

  “Okay,” Clint said. “I’m making a gun for them.”

  “Making a gun? Is that what you do?”

  “It’s what I used to do,” Clint said. “I still know how, though.”

  “So you really are a gunsmith?”

  “Yep, I really am a gunsmith.”

  “Where are you gonna be workin’?”

  “They gave me a shop,” Clint said. “You’ll see it tomorrow. We’ll be going there first thing in the morning.”

  “Okay with me.” Danny put the last hunk of meat in his mouth and pushed his plate away.

  “How about some pie?” Clint asked.

  “Sure thing!” Danny said happily.

  * * *

  After dinner they walked out to Danny’s cab.

  “That’s the best meal I had in a long while, Mr. Adams. Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome,” Clint said. “We’re going to go visit my friend now.”

  “The pretty lady?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hop on,” Danny said. “I remember the way.”

  “I’ll only be there for a little while, then back here.”

  “Whatever you say,” Danny said. “You’re the boss.”

  * * *

  Clint knocked on Adrienne’s door. The look on her face when she opened it hurt him.

  “Oh,” she said, “I thought maybe . . .”

  “No, I’m sorry,” Clint said. “Look, came to tell you that a policeman will be coming by here later, if he hasn’t already been here.”

  “N-No, no one has been here. Will you come in, Clint?” she asked.

  “Just for a minute,” he said. “I have a cab waiting.”

  “I won’t keep you long,” she promised.

  He went inside, closing the door behind him, and followed her to the living room.

  “What is it, Adrienne?”

  “It’s the money.” She pointed to the metal box that was still on the table in front of the sofa. “I counted it.”

  “How much is there?”

  “Five thousand, eight hundred, and seventy-five dollars,” she said.

  “That’s a lot of money,” he said.

  “Yes, it is,” she said. “I—I don’t know any way my sister could have earned that money honestly, do you, Clint?”

  “Well . . . have you ever known your sister to be dishonest?”

  “No, never,” she said. “But . . . I haven’t seen her in several years. How do we know what she’s been doing?”

  “We don’t,” Clint said.

  “Maybe,” Adrienne said, “she met a man who took advantage of her.”

  “And made her fifty-eight hundred dollars in the process?”

  “It doesn’t seem—” she said, but she was cut off by a knock at the door. She looked at Clint with wide eyes.

  “I’ll get it,” he said.

  He went to the door and opened it. A man wearing a three-piece brown suit was standing there. He was about forty years old, tall and clean shaven.

  “You must be Mr. Adams,” he said.

  “That’s right.”

  “And that’s your driver?”

  “Yes. Who are you?”

  “I’m Detective Sam Taylor,” the man said. “The chief of police instructed me to come here and inquire about a missing person.”

  “You’re in the right place, Detective,” Clint said, “but before I let you in, I’d like to see your badge, if you don’t mind.”

  “Certainly.” Taylor drew aside his jacket, showed his badge, pinned to his vest.

  “That’s good enough for me,” Clint said. “Come on in.”

  SEVENTEEN

  He took Detective Taylor into the living room and introduced him to Adrienne.

  “Miss Hancock, I’m here to find your sister. If I could ask you some questions?”

  “Of course. Shall I make some coffee or tea?”

  “Not for me, thank you,” Taylor said.

  She looked at Clint, and he shook his head.

  “Then let’s sit,” she said to Taylor.

  The detective sat down, looked up at Clint. “Will you be staying, Mr. Adams?”

  “Just to observe,” Clint assured him. “I won’t interfere.”

  Taylor took out a notebook and started asking questions. As Adrienne answered, he wrote in his book. Finally, he sat back and observed her.

  “You don’t seem to know very much about your own sister, Miss Hancock.”

  “I’m afraid you’re right,” she said. “We haven’t seen each other for several years, and have only exchanged letters.”

  “And she didn’t tell you much in those letters?” the policeman asked.

  “I’m afraid not,” she said.

  “Is there anything else you can tell me?”

  She looked at Clint, and he nodded for her to tell the man everything.

  “Well,” she said, “there’s the money.”

  “What money?”

  She pointed to the metal box. He reached over and opened it, then sat back.

  “How much is there?”

  She told him.

  “That’s a lot of money,” he said. “Do you have any idea how your sister might have come by it?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Well,” Taylor said, standing up, “I’ll begin by questioning the neighbors, then canvassing the area. Do you know anywhere your sister went frequently? The theater, restaurants, shops?”

  “I’m afraid I’m not much help,” she said.

  “I’ll do my best, ma’am,” he promised her, standing up.

  “I’ll see you to the door,” Clint said.

  The two men walked to the front door, and stepped outside.

  “What’s your part in this, Mr. Adams?”

  “I met Adrienne on the train yesterday,” Clint said. “We ate together, sat together, and when we arrived, I made sure she got here safely. I’m just trying to help her find her sister.”

  “And while I’m looking, will you still be looking?” he asked.

  “Why not?” Clint said. “The more the merrier.”

  Detective Taylor didn’t seem thrilled with the idea but he didn’t object either. Clint watched the man walk away. He didn’t stop at any of the neighbors, and he didn’t seem to have a carriage waiting for him.

  Clint waved to Danny, just to let him know he hadn’t forgotten him, and then went back inside.

  When he got back inside, Adrienne seemed excited.

  “Clint! I just remembered something.”

  “What?”

  “In one letter Eve told me the name of a restaurant she liked,” she said. “She said she ate there several times a week.”

  “Do you remember the name?”

  “I almost have it,” she said. “Di-something. DiSanto’s? DiStella’s? Wait! Di—I have it. DiVolo’s? Oh, maybe not.”

  “That sounds Italian.”

  “Are there many restaurants in Texas that serve Italian food?”

  “Not many in the West, period,” he said. “It shouldn’t be hard to find one in Austin.”

  “I’m coming with you!” she said.

  “Good,” he said, “but it’s getting late. We’ll look for it tomorrow.”

  “But—”

  “I’ll ask around at my hotel,” he said. “By tomorrow morning, I’ll probably know the name of it. We can find it and have lunch. I’ll have my driver pick you up.”

  “Your driver?”

 
“Danny,” he said. “I’ve ended up with my own cab. Come outside and I’ll introduce you.”

  * * *

  He introduced Adrienne and Danny to each other, then walked Adrienne back up onto the porch.

  “Can’t you stay?” she asked, gripping his arm. “We have . . . a lot to talk about.”

  “I wish I could,” he said. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Adrienne. Maybe somebody at the restaurant will know something about your sister.”

  She kissed him on the cheek, pressed herself against him.

  “Until tomorrow,” she said.

  He walked back to the cab, climbed in, and waved to her.

  “Nice lady,” Danny said. “Pretty.”

  “Yes,” Clint said, “very pretty.”

  * * *

  They rode in silence for a while and then Clint said, “Danny, do you know of any restaurants in Austin that serve Italian food?”

  “Eye-talian. What’s that, foreign?”

  “Yes,” Clint said, “it’s foreign. From Italy.”

  “I don’t know much about foreign stuff, but I can find out.”

  “Good.”

  “You got a hankering for this Eye-talian stuff?” Danny asked.

  “I do, actually,” Clint said. It was easier to agree than try to explain.

  When they got to the hotel, Clint said, “Pick Adrienne up tomorrow at eleven, Danny, and bring her here. Hopefully, you’ll have the name of the restaurant by then, or somebody here at the hotel will know it.”

  “Don’t worry,” Danny said. “I’ll have it. I won’t let ya down.”

  Clint watched Danny drive away, then went inside the hotel.

  EIGHTEEN

  Clint asked the desk clerk about the Italian restaurant and got the same reaction he’d gotten from Danny.

  He thought that one of the waiters in the dining room would be more knowledgeable, but that didn’t work.

  There were late diners in the room, though, and one of them put his hand on Clint’s arm as he was walking by his table. It was an older man, sitting with a woman who was almost certainly his wife.

  “Excuse me, sir,” the white-haired man said, “I couldn’t help but overhear that you are looking for an Italian restaurant in town.”

  “Yes, that’s right,” Clint said. “Someone told me there was one here, but I can’t recall the name.”

  “Well,” the man said, “as far as I know, there’s only one in Austin. It’s called DiGuardi’s.”

  “That just might be it,” Clint said. “Where is it located?”

  “It’s downtown, right near the river,” the man said.

  “We ate there once,” the woman said. “It was wonderful. And romantic. Your wife will love it.”

  “I don’t have a wife,” Clint said, “but there is a young lady, and I’m sure she’ll like it. Thank you very much. Both of you.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  Clint bade them both good night and left the dining room. In the lobby the clerk started waving at him and he walked over.

  “I asked the manager if he knew about an Italian restaurant. He says he can help you.”

  “Good. Where is he?”

  “Back there. Just knock on that door, it’s his office.”

  “Thank you.”

  Clint walked to the door and knocked.

  “Come in.”

  He opened the door and walked in. There was a dapper man seated behind a desk, and he stood when Clint walked in.

  “Mr. Adams?”

  “That’s right.”

  “My name is Alan Drew,” the man said, extending his hand. Clint shook it. “My clerk tells me you’re looking for an Italian restaurant in town.”

  “I am,” Clint said. “Do you know if there are any? Or many?”

  “Only one that I know of,” Drew said. “DiGuardi’s, down on the river.”

  “Is it any good?”

  “If you like the sauce, and the spices, it’s very good.”

  “Glad to hear it,” Clint said. “I’m going to go over and take a look tomorrow. Do you know if they’re open at lunchtime?”

  “They serve lunch and dinner.”

  “No breakfast?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Then I guess I’ll just have that here,” Clint said. “Your own kitchen is very good, by the way.”

  “Thanks,” Drew said. “That is good to hear from a guest.”

  “I’ll let you know how I like it.”

  “Excellent,” Drew said. “I’ll look forward to hearing.”

  “Thanks again,” Clint said, and left, satisfied now that he’d heard the same restaurant name from two people. This had to be the place Adrienne’s sister had written her about. Hopefully, someone there would know her.

  NINETEEN

  Early the next morning Clint caught a different cab over to the gunsmith shop. He wanted to spend a couple of hours there before Danny brought Adrienne to the hotel.

  Inside he needed to get his bearings, move things around to suit him, and check to make sure he had everything he needed. He even went into the back and tried out the shooting range, using his own gun.

  There were some guns in a glass case, which he examined. None of them were new, but they all seemed to be in working order. There were Colts, S&W’s, some Schofields, and a Remington.

  He took a look at the equipment the store had. He found frames, bars, rod, grips, engraving tools. The shop seemed to be really well stocked. He couldn’t help wondering about the owner, so he started going through the rolltop desk he found in the back.

  There was a lot of paperwork, most of it bearing the name McGruder Gunsmithing. Outside the shop, above the door, it only said, GUNSMITH SHOP.

  Most of what he found were bills, a lot of them unpaid. McGruder didn’t seem to be a very good businessman.

  Clint put everything back in the desk, saw that it was getting late, so he left and headed back to the hotel.

  * * *

  He got there before Danny’s cab, and was waiting in the lobby when Adrienne walked in.

  “Danny is waiting outside,” she said. “He’s a nice young man. He says he found that Italian restaurant for us.”

  “Did he tell you the name?”

  “No, but he says he knows where it is.”

  “I heard from two people here in the hotel that there’s a place called DiGuardi’s. Does that ring a bell with you?”

  “That’s it!” she said. “That’s the one Eve wrote me about.”

  “Okay, good,” he said. “We’ll head over there. They might not be open yet, though. They open for lunch.”

  “Not breakfast?”

  “Apparently Italian food isn’t good for breakfast,” he said.

  “Good point.”

  “You’ve had it?”

  “Once or twice in Saint Louis,” she said.

  “Well then, you’ll know if this place is any good.”

  “I’m not an expert,” she said.

  “Come on,” Clint said, “let’s see if Danny’s taking us to the right place.”

  * * *

  As it turned out, he was.

  Danny pulled his cab up in front of DiGuardi’s, which faced the Colorado River.

  “This is the place!” he announced. “Don’t look open, though.”

  “We’ll wait,” Clint said. “Danny, if you want to go and do something and come back in about an hour, that’s okay.”

  “Naw,” he said with a grin, “I can wait here. I brought an apple.”

  “Apples are good for you,” Adrienne said.

  Clint got down, and then helped Adrienne down. They walked to the door, which had a CLOSED sign in the window, then m
oved to the window and looked inside. There were three waiters, two taking chairs down off the tables, and a third sweeping the floor.

  “Looks like they’re getting ready to open,” Clint said.

  “It smells good,” she said.

  Clint sniffed the air. Sure enough, the air was filled with the aroma of spices.

  “I’m hoping if your sister ate here a lot, somebody will know her,” Clint said.

  “They might know her by sight, and not by name,” she pointed out.

  “That’s okay. Does your sister look anything like you?”

  “We used to look alike,” she said. “I don’t know if that’s true anymore.”

  “Well, we have some idea what she looks like. We’ll just describe her.”

  At that point they heard the lock click on the door and it opened. A middle-aged waiter stuck his head out and smiled.

  “Hey, good afternoon!” he shouted. “We are a-open! Welcome!”

  They went inside.

  TWENTY

  The waiter showed them to a table and gave them a menu.

  “We have-a wonderful vino, but not-a for lunch,” he told them.

  “That’s okay,” Clint said. “We’ll both have coffee.”

  “I bring-a,” he said, and hurried to the kitchen.

  “They have steak on the menu,” Clint said, “but what’s pizz-aye-ole?”

  “I guess we’ll have to find out.”

  The waiter returned with their coffee, and they both ordered the steak.

  “You ever have-a before?” the waiter asked.

  “No.”

  “You gon’ like,” he said, and kissed his fingertips. “I bring-a right out.”

  “It smells wonderful in here,” she said, “but when are you going to ask about Eve?”

  “Let’s just get settled in,” Clint said. “This waiter seems like a talker.”

  “Well,” she said, “it smells so good in here I don’t mind talking after we eat!”

  * * *

  Steak pizzaole turned out to be steak cooked in tomato sauce, with onions, green and red peppers, and olive oil. It was delicious.

  Clint and Adrienne were so taken by it that they ate in virtual silence, until the waiter came out.

  “How you like?” he asked.