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  “Oh, yes, sir.”

  “Are they here?”

  “I believe Mrs. Garvin is in the office,” the clerk said. “I’m not sure if Mr. Garvin is in the building.”

  “Well then, I’ll settle for Mrs. Garvin.”

  “Uh, well, Mrs. Garvin rarely sees anyone, sir. Mr. Garvin usually—”

  “But Mr. Garvin isn’t here,” Clint said. “Would you please tell Mrs. Garvin I’d like to see her?”

  “Well, yes, sir, but I can’t promise—”

  “Just tell her.”

  “Yes, well . . . what is your name?”

  “Clint Adams.”

  There was no hint of recognition on the young man’s face.

  “If you’ll wait here, I will tell her.”

  “I’ll be right here,” Clint promised.

  “Yes, well . . .” the clerk said and went through a curtained doorway behind him.

  Clint waited five minutes and then the young man returned, with a surprised look on his face.

  “Will you come with me?” he asked. “Mrs. Garvin will see you.”

  “Thank you.”

  Clint followed the man down a hallway to an open door, where he stopped and stepped aside.

  “Inside, sir.”

  “Thanks,” Clint said again.

  Clint entered the room and saw a beautiful woman in her thirties standing behind a desk. Just standing there she took his breath away. She was as tall as Lily Kingsforth, but blonde where Lily was red-haired. She had big, wide blue eyes and a luscious mouth, with an upper lip as full as her lower. She was also about ten years younger than Lily.

  “Mr. Adams?” she asked. “I’m Christine Garvin.”

  Clint found himself at a loss for a moment, then regained his voice.

  “I’m, uh, very pleased to meet you.”

  “I understood you wanted to talk to my husband?” she said.

  “Or you,” Clint said. “Either, or both.”

  “Well, my husband usually deals with . . . people, but since we’re here why don’t you have a seat and tell me what I can do for the Gunsmith?”

  TWENTY-ONE

  “Do you know Lily Kingsforth?” Clint asked, taking a seat.

  “Lillian Kingsforth?” Christine asked. “The owner of the Diamond Palace? Yes, we know her.”

  “You tried to buy her place.”

  “We made an offer,” Christine said. “She turned us down.”

  “How did you take that?”

  “Me?” Christine shrugged. “We have other properties.”

  “And how did your husband take it?”

  “Harold? He takes things a little harder than I do. He doesn’t like to be turned down.”

  “And how mad does he actually get?”

  “Well, mad . . . that’s a strong word.”

  “Angry, then. Disappointed. Would his feelings be strong enough to want to . . . kill?”

  “Kill? Kill who?”

  “Lily.”

  “Are you crazy?” she asked, laughing. “We don’t kill people if they don’t sell to us.”

  “Do you apply pressure?”

  “Of course not.”

  “And what about Adrian Webster and Peter Forrest?”

  “What about them?”

  “Do you know them?”

  “Of course,” she said. “They’re in business, we’re in business. We know them.”

  “They have also tried to buy the Diamond House,” Clint said. “Why are so many people interested in that place?”

  “It’s a prime piece of property,” she said.

  “Why?”

  “I’m not really sure,” she said, “but that’s what Harold says.”

  “Where is your husband, Mrs. Garvin?”

  “He’s out.”

  “Out where?”

  “On business,” she said. “He’ll be back later. I believe he’s at one of our other properties.”

  “And you,” Clint asked, “you never go out?”

  “Oh, I go out,” she said, “I just don’t go out on business. My husband handles all the, uh, meetings.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Oh,” she said, “I’m not very good at them. Would you like a drink?”

  “Why not?”

  She went to a sideboard and came back with two glasses of sherry. She was wearing an expressive dress that was cinched at the waist, accentuating her full bosom. She was as tall but not as slender as he had figured while she was seated.

  “Seems to me you do pretty well as a hostess,” he said to her as she handed him the glass.

  She planted her butt on her desk and looked down at him.

  “Oh, I’m a good hostess,” she said, “it’s business meetings I’m bad at.”

  “Why is that?”

  “I have no patience with idiots,” she said, “and it seems to me that’s all you deal with in business meetings. So I leave them to my husband.”

  “Is that wise?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Does your husband tell you everything that goes on at a meeting?”

  “Why wouldn’t he?”

  “Well,” Clint said, “he might only tell you what he thinks you need to know.”

  She stood up and walked back around her desk. It seemed like she didn’t like where the conversation was going.

  “What’s the difference?”

  “Well,” Clint said, “if you trust him, I guess there is no difference.”

  “Why wouldn’t I trust him?”

  “Look,” he said, standing, “I’m not here to give you any second thoughts. I, uh, might want to come back and talk to your husband. Would you tell him that?”

  “Of course,” she said. “Where are you staying?”

  “The Diamond Palace.”

  “Of course.”

  Clint headed for the door.

  “Mr. Adams.”

  “Yes.”

  “Lillian Kingsforth.”

  “What about her.”

  “She’s a little . . . skittish when it comes to business,” she said. “Her husband always handled everything. Once she took over, the hotel started going downhill. When we offered to buy, we were doing her a favor.”

  “And you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If your husband died,” Clint said, “you’d be in the same position, right? He handles all the business? Would you sell?”

  She opened her mouth, but an answer didn’t come out.

  “Would you be a little . . . skittish about business?” he asked. “Or are you skittish already? And that’s why your husband handles everything.”

  “I—my husband tells me everything.”

  “Of course he does,” Clint said and left.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Clint went to see the Brit next, Adrian Webster. He had an office in a building in a section of Market Street that catered to businessmen. On the door it said WEBSTER HOLDINGS. The secretary seated behind a desk was in her fifties, very spinsterish in appearance—black hair streaked with gray and worn atop her head—and very British.

  “May I help you, sir?” she asked.

  “I’d like to see Mr. Webster, please.”

  She looked Clint up and down, disapprovingly.

  “Do you have an appointment?” she asked.

  “You know I don’t,” he said, “because you make all his appointments.”

  “I have that privilege, sir,” she said, “and Mr. Webster never sees anyone without an appointment.”

  “But I think he’ll see me.”

  “And why is that, sir?”

  “Because my name is Clint Adams.”

  No sign of recognition.

  “And . . . ?”

  “And I’m here representing Mrs. Lillian Kingsforth.”

  That name she did recognize.

  “Just a moment, please.”

  “Sure,” he said. “Take your time.”

  The woman got up, went through the door behind her. A
fter several minutes the door opened and she waved at him.

  “Please, come in.”

  “Thank you.”

  He entered, saw the man seated behind the desk, and smelled the pipe tobacco in the air. There was a large window behind Adrian Webster.

  “Mr. Webster, this is Clint Adams.”

  “Thank you, Sara Jane,” Webster said. “That’s all.”

  Clint could see the shine in the woman’s eyes as she said, “Yes, sir.” She was in love with her boss.

  She left and closed the door.

  “Have a seat, sir,” Webster said. “Sara Jane tells me you’re here representing Lillian Kingsforth. Extraordinary woman, that. Lovely.”

  Webster was in his mid-forties, with a full head of wavy black hair shiny with pomade. He had broad shoulders but small hands. Clint thought the man didn’t stand because he was probably shorter than he’d like to be. The pomade in his hair made it stand up, adding to his height.

  Clint walked to a chair in front of the man’s desk and sat. The man didn’t offer to shake hands. He was also self-conscious about their small size.

  “Yes, she is lovely,” Clint said, “and she was almost flattened.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Somebody tried to kill her,” Clint said. “She’s asked me to try to find out who.”

  “That’s awful,” Webster said. “How can I help you?”

  “Well, you’re one of the people who’s been trying to buy her property.”

  Webster stared at Clint for a moment, then grinned and said, “And you think I would kill her because she turned me down? You’re mad.”

  “Maybe.”

  “How was this attempt made?”

  “She was walking down the street and a crate fell from a building, just missing her.”

  Webster spread his hands. “And do I look like the kind of man who would climb up on top of a building and push a crate off?”

  Clint didn’t know if Webster was saying that he wasn’t physically able or that he was too well dressed to do it.

  “You could have had it done for you,” Clint said.

  “Are you serious?”

  “I’m just asking questions, Mr. Webster,” Clint said. “How badly do you want the Diamond Palace?”

  “Not badly enough to kill for it, I can tell you that, sir.”

  “What about Peter Forrest?”

  “What about him?”

  “Do you think he’d kill for a piece of property?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Or the Garvins?”

  “This is preposterous,” Webster said. “Do the police know you are annoying prominent citizens this way?”

  “I don’t know,” Clint said. “You’ll have to ask them.”

  “Perhaps I will,” Webster said, “because I don’t believe I want to continue this conversation, at all.”

  “That’s fine,” Clint said, standing. “Thanks for seeing me.”

  Clint left and found Sara Jane seated at her desk.

  “Sara Jane what?” he asked.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “What’s your last name?”

  She stared at him a moment, her eyes magnified slightly by her eyeglasses. Her eyes were brown, and probably her prettiest feature, even in her fifties.

  “Halligan,” she said.

  “Well, Miss—is it ‘Miss’?”

  “It is.”

  “Miss Halligan, I wonder if you’d have dinner with me tonight.”

  “I—what?”

  “Dinner? You do eat dinner, don’t you?”

  “Well, yes, but . . .”

  He didn’t know if she was taken aback by his invitation because of her age and appearance, or because she was insulted that he’d ask when they had just met.

  “I’m staying at the Diamond Palace hotel,” he said. “If you’d like to accept my invitation, we could meet in the lobby at seven. Afterward, I promise to see you safely home.”

  “Well, I don’t—I can’t—”

  “I hope to see you then,” he said and left the office.

  Outside he stopped for a moment on the street to see if she’d follow. She didn’t. What she’d probably do is tell her boss about the invitation. If she did show up, it might be because Webster told her to.

  It would be interesting to see what happened.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Clint left Peter Forrest for last, since his office was in Portsmouth Square, and that would put him closest to the Diamond Palace when he was done.

  Forrest’s place was unimaginatively called the Lucky Lady. It had it all—hotel, saloon, gaming. Clint wondered why they insisted on calling it “gaming” when everybody knew it was “gambling.”

  Rather than go to the hotel desk and ask for Forrest, he went to the bar in the saloon. Invariably the owners of these hotel gaming palaces left the running of the hotel to others. They were primarily interested in the gambling.

  He ordered a beer at the already crowded bar. Unlike other parts of the city, business started early in Portsmouth Square—the business of drinking as well as gambling.

  When the bartender brought the beer, Clint had to lean over the bar to be heard.

  “I’m looking for Peter Forrest.”

  The bartender nodded and said, “He owns this place.”

  Patiently, Clint said, “I know, that’s why I’m looking for him here. Where is he?”

  “He’s around, somewhere,” the barman said. “He likes to make the rounds, watch the games, talk to the people. If you stay right there he’ll eventually come to the bar.”

  “Okay,” Clint said, “let me know when he shows up.”

  Clint wanted to get back to his hotel to see if Sara Jane was actually going to meet him there. She probably knew all of her boss’s business, and maybe he could find out something from her. Meanwhile, Webster might tell to her to keep their date and try to find out something from him.

  Clint nursed the beer and watched the games he could see from the bar, as well as the girls working the floor. Forrest seemed to like to hire them young. He didn’t think there was a girl there older than twenty-one or twenty-two.

  Clint was about to turn around and ask for another beer when he felt a tap on his shoulder.

  “Here comes the boss now,” the bartender said, leaning over so he could say it in Clint’s ear. Clint looked at him and the man pointed with his chin. Clint looked, saw a man in his thirties, tall and slender, walking toward him—or toward the bar.

  “Introduce me,” Clint said.

  “Barry,” Forrest called, “a beer.”

  “Sure, Boss,” the bartender said. “This fella wants to see you.”

  “What about?” Peter Forrest asked, looking at Clint. “You got a complaint about a game? I’ve got a manager for that.”

  “Not about a game,” Clint said. “This is about Lily Kingsforth.”

  Forrest reached for his beer without taking his eyes off Clint.

  “What about her? Does she want to sell? She send you with an offer?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “That bitch is makin’ a big mistake, fella,” Forrest said. “You tell her that.”

  “I don’t think I like your mouth.”

  “Yeah, well, fuck you, too,” Forrest said. “How’s that?”

  “Not nice.”

  As Forrest started to lift the beer mug to his mouth, Clint drove the heel of his left hand into the bottom of the glass. The force drove the glass into Forrest’s face like a missile. If the mug hadn’t been so thick the glass might have broken. As it was, he heard some teeth break and stepped back to avoid blood spray.

  “Hey, Jesus!” the bartender said. “What the hell—”

  Clint clapped both hands over Peter Forrest’s ears and the man fell to the floor, holding his face. Ribbons of red flowed from between his fingers.

  “You better get your boss a doctor,” Clint said.

  “You’re in trouble, mister,” the bartender
said.

  “Well, your boss will want to know my name,” Clint said, as onlookers started to lean over to take a look at the injured man. “You tell him Clint Adams is staying at the Diamond Palace, if he wants to come over and do something about this. Got it?”

  “Clint Adams?” the bartender said. “I, uh, I didn’t know—”

  “You didn’t bother to ask,” Clint said, “and neither did he. Tell him I’ll be back to finish our conversation, and he better be ready to answer some questions.”

  “Jeez, sure, Mr. Adams, sure.”

  Clint took one last look at the foul-mouthed Peter Forrest. The man was still on the floor, trying to hold his jaw in place. If it was broken, he was going to have a hard time answering questions.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Clint went back to his hotel room, washed, and changed his clothes just in case Sara Jane did show up. He was going to pump her for information, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to act like a gentleman.

  When he got down to the lobby, he was surprised to find her already there. She had changed from her business attire into a dress and had let her hair down. She still appeared to be middle-aged, but she looked younger than she had at the office.

  “Sorry I’m late,” he said.

  “You’re not,” she said. “I was early. I’m a bit . . . nervous.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “It’s been a long time since a man invited me out.”

  “I can’t believe that.”

  “You’re sweet,” she said. “Where will we be going to eat?”

  “Well,” he said, “I didn’t expect you to get so dressed up, so for someone as lovely as you, it’ll have to be someplace special.”

  “Oh,” she said, “I’m going to have to be careful with you.”

  Of all the gambling houses in Portsmouth Square the Varsouvienne had one of the best kitchens and dining rooms. Clint took Sara Jane there, and she was suitably impressed.

  “Doesn’t your boss take you out to eat?” he asked.

  “Only for lunch, and only business luncheons,” she said.

  “You mean you and he aren’t . . .”

  “Oh, no,” she said.

  “Is he married?”

  “No, but he likes his women younger and more glamorous,” she said.

  “Then he’s a fool.”

  “There you go again,” she said. “Shouldn’t we order?”