Louisiana Stalker Read online

  From the accounts he had read in the newspapers of the business dealings of both Simon Devereaux and Jacques Pivot, he’d discovered that both men were ruthless in their practices. Their selfishness also came across on the page. And then, in the end, their rivalry stood out. At one time or another, each had been known as the wealthiest man in Louisiana. But who held that distinction at the moment he didn’t know.

  With a full belly, Clint headed back to his hotel.

  • • •

  Keller left the saloon an hour after Simmons had gone. Now that he knew the name of the man working for Capucine Devereaux, it would be easy for him to find out what hotel Clint Adams was staying in. Keller had enough contacts around Baton Rouge to accomplish that without much difficulty.

  Once he had the Gunsmith’s location, he would show Capucine which man was the most dangerous, which one was most worth her time.

  Clint Adams may have been a legend of the Old West, but he was in Baton Rouge now, and in Louisiana, it was Lee Keller who ruled the roost.

  • • •

  The rain came to Baton Rouge.

  But it had been raining to the north for days and even weeks. And the excess water fed into the Mississippi, flowing down to the Gulf of Mexico. And the river’s levels rose, flooding places like Vicksburg and Natchez.

  And now the river was rising in Baton Rouge . . .

  • • •

  The mayor looked over the levee and the river. Standing next to him were the members of the town council, and the engineer, Ed Pearson.

  There were men down at the river’s edge, working on reinforcing the levee.

  “This doesn’t look good, Ed.”

  “Sir,” Pearson said, “the river is rising faster than we can build.”

  “Then get more men, Ed,” the mayor said. “The last thing we need is for our city to flood. If that happens, I’m not taking the blame, do you understand?”

  “I understand, sir,” Pearson said.

  “Gentlemen,” the mayor said to the others, “let’s get back to City Hall.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  By morning the rain had not stopped. In fact, it had increased. It kept Clint inside, once again having breakfast in the hotel dining room.

  “It’s really pouring out there,” he said as the waiter brought his steak and eggs.

  “They are saying the city might flood,” the waiter said. “They are working on the levees, but the river is rising too quickly.”

  “Has it happened before?”

  “Yes, sir,” the waiter said. “Both New Orleans and Baton Rouge have flooded before. It’s devastating to the city.”

  “Well,” Clint said, “I suppose the city has men working on it.”

  “Yes, sir,” the waiter said. “That’s what we hope.” But the waiter’s tone did not seem very hopeful.

  The man walked away and Clint started on his breakfast.

  • • •

  Outside, across the street, standing in the rain, Lee Keller watched the hotel. He was waiting for Clint Adams to come out. His intention was to follow the man and wait for his opportunity.

  • • •

  Capucine looked out the front window of her house, the house she shared with her husband. The driving rain made it hard to see, but she thought there was a man across the street, watching.

  “What is it?” Simon Devereaux asked from behind her. “Do you see someone out there?”

  “I’m not sure,” she said.

  “Well,” Devereaux said, “you have a man who is supposed to be taking care of this for you, don’t you? Clint Adams?”

  “Yes.” They had discussed her hiring of the Gunsmith the night before.

  “Then let him handle it,” Devereaux said. “What about your girls?”

  She turned and looked at him.

  “What about them?” she asked.

  “Anybody following them?”

  “Not that they’ve mentioned.”

  “So it’s only you.”

  “I suppose.”

  Devereaux shrugged into his overcoat.

  “You’re going out in this rain?”

  “I have to go to the office,” he said. “Why don’t you just stay inside?”

  “Maybe I will.”

  “And why not let your girls stay in?”

  She folded her arms and said, “They have work to do.”

  “Well, so have I,” Devereaux said. “I will see you tonight.”

  She just nodded and watched him go out the door.

  • • •

  Across the street the man stood in the rain and watched as Simon Devereaux got into his carriage and instructed his driver to move on.

  This left Capucine Devereaux in her house, alone.

  But he wasn’t ready to take advantage of that.

  Not quite yet.

  So he remained where he was, the sky raining down on him, watching, and allowing himself to be watched—if she could even see him through the driving rain.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Clint found Henri waiting outside, sitting beneath his own half roof.

  “Just getting an idea of how the passenger feels,” he told Clint. He hopped down, noticed that today Clint was wearing his gun and holster, but he didn’t comment on it. “Where are we off to today?”

  “We’re going to visit a lady at home,” Clint said. “Let’s get moving and I’ll give you the address.”

  Clint got in and Henri climbed up top.

  “Sorry to make you drive in the rain,” Clint said.

  “It’s my job, boss.”

  Clint gave him the address and Henri flicked the reins. His horse shied, but the driver quickly got him under control, and they were off.

  • • •

  When the cab pulled to a stop in front of the house, the man watching backed into a doorway, out of the rain, out of sight.

  Clint stepped down from the cab, asked Henri, “Would you like me to ask the lady to let you wait inside?”

  Henri looked at the two-story house, standing on a block filled with similar, large, blocky shapes in the rain well beyond what his means were or ever would be.

  “I’ll sit in the back and wait,” Henri said. “It’ll be dry.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  “I always do,” Henri said with a smile. In that moment the young man looked no more than eighteen, although Clint figured him to be at least twenty-five.

  Clint walked up to the door and knocked.

  Cappy opened the door and came into his arms.

  “I’m so glad you’re here.”

  “I’m all wet,” he said, pushing her away, but not hard. Only at arm’s length.

  “Come inside,” she said, grabbing his arm and pulling.

  He entered and closed the door behind him.

  “I think he’s out there,” she said.

  “Who? Keller?”

  “No,” she said, “him. The one.”

  “Where?”

  “Come.”

  She brought him to the front window.

  “Across the street.”

  He looked out the window. It was hard to see anything in the rain. He could, however, see Henri’s cab, with the young man sitting in back.

  “Are you going to go out after him?” she asked.

  “No,” he said. “I’m going to play it differently this time.”

  “How differently?”

  “Let him watch,” Clint said. “Come on, I could use some hot coffee.”

  “Coffee?”

  “Yes, coffee. You can make coffee, can’t you?”

  “I have someone who can make it, yes.”

  “Well, all right,” he said. “let’s have some.”

  Puzzled, she said, “Come with me.”

&
nbsp; • • •

  She left him in the dining room at a long teakwood table and went into what he assumed was the kitchen. She came out alone and said, “Coffee will be here soon.”

  He shivered a bit.

  “You need an overcoat.”

  “I’ll have to buy one if this rain continues.”

  “Nonsense,” she said. “Wait here.”

  This time she did not go into the kitchen. She went back into the entry hall and then he heard her going upstairs.

  An older woman came out of the kitchen, carrying a tray with a pot of coffee and two cups.

  “Where is madam?” she asked.

  “She’ll be back,” Clint said. “My name is Clint.”

  “Sir?”

  “Clint Adams.”

  “Mr. Adams,” she said, setting the tray down. “Shall I pour?”

  “Please.”

  She poured a cup for him, and one for Cappy. She executed a small curtsy and returned to the kitchen.

  When Cappy reappeared, she was carrying a coat.

  “Take this.”

  “That’s your husband’s,” he said, “and it’s expensive.”

  “Don’t worry,” she said, setting it down on the chair next to him. “He won’t miss it. He has many. And it will keep you—and your gun—dry.”

  She walked around and sat across from him, added sugar to her coffee.

  “What have you been up to?” she asked.

  “I talked to your husband.”

  “How did that go?” she asked. “Did he accuse you of sleeping with me?”

  “Not exactly,” Clint said. “But I told him that ours is a business relationship.”

  “Did he believe you?”

  “I’m not sure. But he insisted that he hasn’t hired anyone to follow you, and I believe him.”

  “What else have you done?”

  “What can you tell me about Jacques Pivot?”

  “Pivot?” She laughed. “He is what my husband will become in ten years’ time.”

  “But they’re rivals now, right?”

  “Jacques may be Simon’s rival,” she said, “but he is also his idol. Can you understand that?”

  “I can.”

  “What do you think Jacques’s part in this is?” she asked him.

  “I thought he might be having you followed,” Clint said, “maybe waiting for a chance to kidnap you, or worse.”

  “To get at Simon?”

  “Why else?”

  She sipped her coffee thoughtfully.

  “That thought had never occurred to me.”

  “And now that I’ve brought it up?”

  “Well,” she said, “I always thought Jacques liked me.”

  “Liked you . . . how?”

  “He’s rather old,” she said, “so I thought, perhaps, like a . . . daughter? Or a niece?”

  “So you don’t think he’d hurt you?”

  “To get at Simon? Or to make a profit? Jacques would sell his mother for that.”

  “So you do think he could be behind this.”

  “He could,” she said, “but I doubt it.”

  “Well,” he said, “that doesn’t help me decide whether or not I should go and see him.”

  “I doubt that he would see you, unless . . .”

  “Unless what?”

  “Unless I go with you.”

  Clint’s first instinct was to say no, but then he thought better of it. If he went to the bayou to see Pivot, that would leave Cappy unprotected. Taking her with him would protect her, and give him a better chance of seeing the man.

  “That’s a possibility,” he said. “When I make up my mind to go and see him, I’ll let you know.”

  “But . . . who else in town would you suspect?” she asked.

  “Well, we’ve talked about your husband’s biggest rival,” he said. “Who is yours?”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Stalkers had come not in pairs, but in threes.

  If not for the driving rain and gray weather, the stalkers might have seen one another.

  Cappy’s stalker was across the street, paying special attention only to her and her house. He didn’t even worry about the man who was inside.

  Lee Keller was also across the street but at the other end of the block, watching Clint Adams.

  But the man who had been stalking the Gunsmith for months, he saw everyone and everything. He found it all very interesting, and amusing. What had Clint Adams found himself involved in?

  He could have killed the other two men. It would have been fairly easy to slip up behind them and cut their throats, since they were concentrating only on their prey. But he decided to do what he had been doing for all these months—watch.

  He had managed to locate Clint Adams in his hotel by disregarding Baton Rouge’s flophouses and palaces. Clint Adams didn’t often go slumming, but neither did he try to live high.

  This was all very interesting.

  • • •

  “Where are you going now?” Cappy asked as she walked Clint to the door.

  “I’m going to see your friend, Monk Rathko.”

  “Not my friend,” she said with a shudder. “He’s a horrible man who treats his women horribly. They’re always bruised. What man wants to bed a girl who’s covered with bruises?”

  “I guess his prices are good.”

  “His prices are cheap, yes,” she said, “but so are his girls.”

  “Then how does he compete with you?”

  “Did you hear me say his prices are cheap?” she said. “My God, the man has nickel weekends.”

  He didn’t tell her that nickel whores were nothing new west of the Mississippi.

  “You’ll have to be careful,” she said. “Monk is a monstrous man. He’s killed men with his bare hands. And he has—what would you call them?—henchmen.”

  “Don’t they all?”

  “How will you find him?”

  “I’ll probably have to go back to my prime source of information in Baton Rouge.”

  “Who is that?”

  “The sheriff.”

  “Has he been helpful?”

  “He helped you, didn’t he?” Clint put his hand on the doorknob. “Keep this locked. Do you have a gun in the house?”

  “I do,” she said.

  “Can you use it?”

  “I can, but do you think I’ll need to?”

  “It seems to me your man is pretty content right now just to watch.” He knew what that was like. His own stalker had spent months doing just that.

  • • •

  When Clint got out to Henri’s cab, the young driver climbed onto his perch. Clint got in and was glad for the borrowed coat. Cappy had been right—it was keeping him and his gun dry, well, drier.

  “Hey, boss, there’s a fella across the street watching the house.”

  “I saw him.”

  “Both of ’em?”

  “Both?”

  “One behind us, one ahead of us,” Henri said. “But I think the one behind is watchin’ the house, and the one ahead of us is watchin’ you.”

  “You’ve got good eyes.”

  “I spend most of my time on the street, boss,” he said. “I gotta have good eyes.”

  That gave Clint a thought.

  “Hey, Henri, what do you know about Monk Rathko?” he asked.

  “I know enough to stay away from him,” Henri said. “He gets a piece of every crooked nickel in town.”

  “Do you know where to find him?”

  “Why would you want to find him?”

  “I’d like to talk to him.”

  “You’d have to go down by the river,” he said, “and right now there’s the danger of a flood.”

  “Maybe
we can get in and out before that happens.”

  Henri turned in his seat.

  “You sure about this?”

  “Positive.”

  “What about these two fellas?”

  “Well, if you’re right, one of them will come with us,” Clint said. “I think the other one will stay right where he is for a while.”

  “Gonna get pretty wet.”

  “I don’t think he could get much wetter.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  The engineer, Ed Pearson, had more men working on reinforcing the levee, but the rising water was still ahead of them. Most of them were ankle deep in the Mississippi waters. Pearson watched from a higher point, directing them as best he could. He knew his job depended on fighting back the big river, but it seemed to be a losing battle.

  • • •

  Henri drove Clint right to the edge of the docks, but stayed away from the river’s edge.

  “There’s a saloon about a hundred yards in,” he told Clint. “It’s called Blood ’n’ Guts.”

  Clint had been to many dock saloons with the word “Blood” in the name.

  He climbed down from the cab.

  “You got a problem with waiting here?” he asked the younger man.

  “I’m good,” Henri said. “They’re used to seein’ me down here.”

  “Okay,” Clint said, “wait here as long as you can.”

  “Sure, boss,” Henri said, “but watch your back.”

  “I usually do.”

  Clint left Henri there and walked onto the docks. He wondered if Cappy’s stalker, Keller, was watching.

  • • •

  Keller had managed to hear what Clint and Henri were saying, and knew they were heading for the docks. He wasn’t able to follow, but even in the driving rain he was able to find himself a cab eventually and had it take him to the docks.

  When he got there, he saw Clint Adams’s cab sitting there, waiting, so he knew he wasn’t far behind.

  He had his cab let him off down the street, paid the fare, and then made his way to the docks.

  • • •

  Cappy sat at her dining room table with the gun set down in front of her. She had never used a gun, but she thought she would be able to if it was in self-defense. She hoped it wouldn’t come to that.