Post by California gal on Apr 3, 2013 10:16:44 GMT -8
THE NIGHT OF THE MASTER OF DISGUISE
The play is done; the curtain drops,
Slow falling to the prompter's bell;
A moment yet the actor stops,
And looks around, to say farewell.
It is an irksome work and task;
And, when he's laughed and said his say,
He shows, as he removes the mask,
A face that's anything but gay.
—The End of the Play, William Makepeace Thackeray (1811-1863), English novelist, satirist, and critic
The play is done; the curtain drops,
Slow falling to the prompter's bell;
A moment yet the actor stops,
And looks around, to say farewell.
It is an irksome work and task;
And, when he's laughed and said his say,
He shows, as he removes the mask,
A face that's anything but gay.
—The End of the Play, William Makepeace Thackeray (1811-1863), English novelist, satirist, and critic
Homer Benson closed the cash drawer and lifted his head to smile at the man on the opposite side of his teller’s cage. “Yes, sir? What can I do for you?”
“Is the head of this bank in? I’d like to open an account and make a rather substantial deposit.”
Behind his gold-rimmed spectacles, Homer’s eyes widened slightly. “Yes, sir. That would be Mr. Eads. I’ll see if he is available. Do you wish to give me your name, sir?”
“Gordon, Artemus Gordon.”
“Yes, sir! One moment. I’ll be right back.” Homer hurried out of his cage and toward the door at the back of the small bank’s interior, glancing back once. He had thought he recognized that face from pictures he had seen in newspapers and other periodicals. Imagine! Artemus Gordon as a client of Dayton Federal Bank!
He rapped on Mr. Eads’s door and opened it when he heard the call from inside. Knowing Mr. Eads liked directness, Homer quickly informed him of the prospective customer and, above all, his identity. Eads jumped to his feet, smoothing his vest over his ample frame. “Send him in! Send him in!”
He waited behind the desk, glancing around the office nervously to make sure everything was in place. How amazing! The famous government agent Artemus Gordon coming to Dayton to open a bank account. But of course, he must have heard about the efficient service this bank had given to the federal government over time.
Homer opened the door and stepped back to allow the new customer to precede him, wishing with all his might he could remain to witness the procedure. But he still had customers at his queue, even if Mr. Eads approved such a request—which was most unlikely.
“Mr. Gordon! This is a great honor, as well as a pleasure. Please sit down. May I take that for you?” The bank manager motioned to the black leather satchel Gordon carried. If he had the sum he wished to deposit in such a large bag…
“No, thank you. I wonder if you would answer a question or two before we proceed, Mr. Eads.”
“Certainly. Certainly. What do you wish to know?” Eads took his own chair again, leaning forward, but careful not to make the gauche move of putting his elbows on his desktop.
“I’m told you handle money being transferred by the federal government.”
“Indeed we do, and we are proud to be entrusted with such transactions. The treasury sends money to various outposts, as you undoubtedly know, and we are one of the stops along the way. As a matter of fact, in this safe behind me right now is a sum of money awaiting pickup by the military tomorrow to be taken to Cincinnati. We have never failed to protect the funds.” Eads beamed.
“Excellent, Mr. Eads, that is exactly what I wanted to know. I don’t think I have any further questions.” The customer snapped open the satchel he had put on his lap and reached inside. Eads’s eyes widened in anticipation to see the amount of cash Mr. Gordon planned to entrust with them. His eyes opened even wider when Mr. Gordon’s hand came out, not holding bundles of cash, but a pistol.
“What…?”
The customer stood up, pointing the weapon at the bank manager. “You will open the safe promptly, Mr. Eads. If you do not, I will step through that door and shoot everyone I see. Do you want that on your conscience?”
“N-no! No, no! I don’t believe this. Is it a joke, Mr. Gordon?”
“I am not a joking man. Open the safe, Mr. Eads. Now!”
The iciness in the brown eyes and the sharpness of the voice convinced Eads to accede to the demands. He turned and knelt by the heavy safe, twisting the dial until it clicked, wondering all the while how he managed to remember the combination at this horrible moment. As soon as he started to open the door, the pseudo-customer stepped forward and shoved him aside. Eads sprawled on the floor as the door was opened wider and the large, heavy canvas bag was pulled out.
The customer backed up then, stuffing the bag into his valise. He looked down at the man still on the floor. “Now. You will remain in the bank for two minutes. I suggest you ensure that no one else leaves the building. One hundred and twenty seconds. You should count them off. I will be doing so. If anyone emerges from the bank during that time, my waiting associates will kill that person. Do you understand?”
“I do! I do! I won’t move! I swear!”
W*W*W*W*W
“Artemus, all I can say is it is very fortunate you were with Jim and several other reliable witnesses at the time.”
Artemus Gordon smiled wryly. “I am extremely grateful.”
James Richmond settled back in his chair, picking up the photograph and staring at it again. “It is simply incredible that every witness looked at this picture and swore it was of the man who robbed the Dayton bank.”
Jim had been standing at a window of the colonel’s office, staring out. Now he turned around. “Has to be the same man as the others.”
“I agree,” Artie said quickly. “And I’m beginning to have a suspicion about who he might be—although I thought Seymour Fanning was dead.”
“Who was—is Seymour Fanning?” Richmond asked.
Artie sat down now, and after a moment, Jim took the other chair. Over the last six months, a series of very strange robberies had taken place, from a small military outpost in Georgia all the way west, so far, to a post office in Reno, Nevada. The thefts occurred at various times of day, always involving just one man, although he claimed to have confederates. The main aspect in common was that in every instance, the robber wore a disguise.
Not just a mask, or simply whiskers. He made himself up to look like a very well known person. The first time he was taken for General Jubal Early. The personnel at the post in Georgia thought that the former Confederate officer was calling on them—until he pulled a weapon and demanded the payroll funds that had just been delivered. Other times he looked like well-known actors, or a local politician, and once more by another military officer, this time William Tecumseh Sherman. In all cases, federal funds were involved, so that the government was involved in investigations.
The robbery in a Dayton, Ohio bank that had occurred ten days ago had not immediately been connected to the others until the claim that the culprit was one Artemus Gordon was made. The initial descriptions given by witnesses seemed to indicate that Secret Service Agent was indeed involved, so much so that the department sent an agent out with a recent photograph. Every witness verified that the man who robbed the bank looked exactly like the man in the picture.
At the time of the event, Artie and Jim had been in Arizona investigating some counterfeit bonds that had appeared in a bank there. The fact that Artemus had been hundreds of miles away from Dayton, confirmed not only by his partner but by two army officers and the bank president, prevented a great deal of confusion, not to mention embarrassment for the agent.
“Seymour Fanning was an actor, but not a very accomplished one,” Artie said, staring toward something on the wall behind the colonel’s chair. “He was a member of the first troupe I joined, and while he taught me a great deal, it was not purposeful on his part, but because the troupe manager and owner ordered him to. He was very jealous of me and any other actor in the troupe… and actually any actor anywhere. He considered himself the greatest thespian in the world. He was only fair in drama, better in comedies. However, he thought of himself as a superb Shakespearean actor, which he definitely was not. But he was a master with disguises and costumes. The troupe manager kept him on under the condition he helped other actors with their makeup and costumes.
“Fanning pushed limits in his makeup. Audiences loved it when we appeared for our bows and removed portions of our disguises to reveal our true selves. As time went on, Seymour became more and more arrogant and demanding. He changed lines in his dialogue onstage, which naturally disconcerted his co-performers, including me. I was pretty young and new at that time so it caused me to flub a line or two. That was when I came to be aware that Fanning was extremely jealous of me.
“He started going to the manager to demand that I be fired. Mr. Gates, the manager, constantly refused, pointing out that my problems were caused by Fanning’s behavior. That infuriated Fanning, and he continued to create disruptions. He had a very good contract with the troupe that prevented his dismissal. But that contract expired and he was let go.
“On the day that occurred, I happened to be standing backstage with two or three fellow actors. Fanning stormed out of the manager’s office, saw me, stomped right up and punched me in the jaw before I could react, yelling that I was to blame for his dismissal, that I was jealous of him and he was going to get even. I don't know what he would have done if the others had not grabbed him. Mr. Gates came out, hearing the commotion, and told them to usher Fanning out the door.
“I—ah—I took over most of his roles, and got excellent responses from the audiences as well as newspapers. Fanning became aware of course, and was further infuriated. He wrote letters to newspapers and tried to intimidate reviewers—all to no avail because he had treated those writers badly in the past, refusing interviews, writing to their editors complaining, etc.
“In the theater world, regardless of where you do your acting—on Broadway, in a touring troupe, or wherever—word gets around. Others were unwilling to hire Fanning after that because of the trouble he had caused. I guess because he wasn’t getting any parts, he slowly faded away. About a year later, we heard that he had been killed in a train accident.”
“Was that confirmed?” Jim asked.
“About all I know is that a number of passengers were badly burned in a subsequent fire, to the point of being unidentifiable. Fanning’s papers were found near one male victim, and when matched up as best possible, that body was identified as his.”
Richmond slid a pad of paper toward him and picked up a pen, dipping it in ink. “I’ll order a more thorough investigation. Do you know what date that was, Artemus?”
Artie frowned. “Probably around late fifty-eight or early fifty-nine. I know it was winter. The accident occurred in Maine. A landslide had taken out portion of a bridge over a gorge, apparently just before the train approached, so that they had no warning. I shouldn’t think it would be difficult to find information.”
The colonel nodded, writing. “I agree. I also think we won’t learn too much at this late date. But it would be good to get as much information as possible.”
“Artie,” Jim said, “would you recognize Fanning—without makeup?”
“Probably. He actually resembled me in certain senses. Maybe a little taller, about ten years older. His hair wasn’t as dark as mine. But in general build, we were similar. Perhaps that is why we are both successful with disguise. Kind of average one might say.”
Jim’s brows lifted. “I’m surprised to hear you say you are average, Artemus.”
Artie sighed in exasperation. “James, I’m talking about the shape of face and body that permits me to don these various disguises, becoming other personages. If I was very short or very tall, it might not be as easy. Frank has that trouble.”
“I know.” Jim nodded, smiling a little now. He always liked to get in a gibe when he could. Artie would pay him back in kind eventually.
“An even more important question,” the colonel spoke, putting down his pen and blotting the note he had just written, “is whether you have any idea where to find Fanning—if he is indeed alive.”
“I’m afraid not, sir. I’m not even certain where he originated. I’m sure that information is available somewhere. I do know the whereabouts of a couple of fellow actors from that period, and I can contact them. One is right here in Washington.”
W*W*W*W*W
Where the mouth is sweet and the eyes intelligent, there is always the look of beauty, with a right heart.
Leigh Hunt (James Henry Leigh Hunt; 1784-1859), English poet and writer
Where the mouth is sweet and the eyes intelligent, there is always the look of beauty, with a right heart.
Leigh Hunt (James Henry Leigh Hunt; 1784-1859), English poet and writer
A maid opened the door when Artie dropped the brass knocker on the front door of the handsome, but rather modest house on the outskirts of Washington. She escorted the two agents into a parlor and departed to fetch her mistress. Artemus stepped over to the fireplace and gazed at the framed photographs on the mantel. He turned from the display of family pictures as the door opened.
The woman who entered was in her late thirties, rich brown hair done up neatly, her gown stylish but not overly expensive. She held out her hands, bluish-gray eyes gleaming. “Artemus!” She grasped his extended hands. “It’s always so wonderful to see you. How are you?”
Artie laughed, keeping one of her hands in his. “I’m fine, Vanessa. You are looking well. Lovely as ever. I’m sorry I haven’t been around. We haven’t spent much time in Washington of late.”
“Oh! You always were a flatterer.” Now she looked at Jim. “You must be an actor! You could not be so handsome and not be on the stage.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Piedmont, but no, I don’t have the talent Artemus has always possessed.”
“Vanessa, this is my partner, James West. Jim, Vanessa Brookline Piedmont, one of the finest actresses I ever knew, stolen from the stage by true love.”
“Don’t believe him, Mr. West. I was awful. Just ask Seymour Fanning. Well, if you could.” She looked at the surprised expressions on each of the agent’s faces. “What did I say?”
“An odd coincidence you should mention Fanning, Vanessa,” Artemus said, “we came here to ask you about him.”
Her eyes widened and she moved to sit on an upholstered chair, waving them to a sofa. “Whatever do you mean, Artemus? Seymour has been dead for years.”
“Do you have any information on his background, Mrs. Piedmont?” Jim inquired. “I mean, where he was born or if he had any family?”
“My goodness, I don't think so. Why do you ask?”
Tersely Artie explained the situation as the astonishment grew on her lovely face. “But it couldn’t be Seymour, Artemus! He’s dead!”
“So we were told. In our work we have encountered situations where people faked their own deaths. I honestly cannot think of any other person with the talent and expertise to create these disguises—including one that looked enough like me to fool some very intelligent people.”
“I agree with you on that, Artemus. I’ve kept contact with a number of friends from my acting days, and also attend as many productions as I can. I simply cannot think of anyone other than Seymour—and you—with such a talent.”
“I remember that he held less animosity toward women than men,” Artie said.
“Because he considered us as the weaker sex,” Vanessa said sharply. “He did not consider any female a threat to him in his profession, at least. And yes, he did talk to me quite a bit. But it was mostly about himself. You know how he was, Artemus.”
“I do indeed. Somehow he always managed to steer any conversation to himself and his imagined accomplishments.”
Mrs. Piedmont lifted a finger to her chin. “Now that I’m thinking about it, I believe I recall one day he entered a tea room where Alice Frick and I had gone for lunch, and joined us without invitation. I often thought he had a bit of a crush on Alice, despite his oft-stated opinions about females. You remember Alice, Artemus?”
“A very pretty, very sweet young lady. I have to admit I had a small crush on her myself.” A small smile played on his face with the memory.
“I think most of the males in the troupe did. Anyway, Alice got him to talk about things other than his acting skills and the adulation he usually received. She asked him about how he got into the profession. Now what did he say?” Vanessa tapped that finger against her chin, as she thought about it. “I’m pretty certain he said he and his siblings put on plays when he was a boy.”
“Do you recall if he said how many siblings, and what gender?” Jim asked.
She made a pretty moue with her rosy lips, concentrating harder. “At least one brother, I’m certain. He mentioned that their plays usually involved action—sword fighting and the like. I’m trying to remember if the girls in their dramas were his sisters or neighborhood children. I’m not being much help am I?”
“Tremendous help,” Artie assured her. “We know more than we did when we came in. I have a recollection that he was from New England.”
“Yes, I’m sure of that. Not Massachusetts, I’m certain. I remember him expressing a disdain for Boston, although I never heard why he felt that way. I think it might have been Maine, actually. I believe I was not astonished that the train wreck that killed him was in Maine. I suppose I thought he was on his way home.”
“We have men investigating his background now,” Jim said, “and we can suggest they concentrate in those New England states. Might hasten matters.”
“Why in the world would Seymour—if it is Seymour—be committing these robberies?” She looked from one man to the other.
“That’s a very good question,” Artie smiled. “When we catch him, we’ll ask.”
“And why would he pose as you, Artemus? Granted you are well known, but it still seems strange.”
“Another question to ask,” Jim responded, getting to his feet.
“Oh, I hoped you would stay for dinner!” Vanessa cried, rising as well. “Frank will be here, as well as my daughters. I know Frank would like to see you again, Artemus.”
“I wish we could,” Artie shook his head ruefully. “We have too much work to do. Two men have been killed in those robberies. We want to catch him before anyone else is harmed. Sometimes minutes count.”
“I understand. But please remember, you have a standing invitation any time you are in Washington. You too, Mr. West. I would like to know how you avoided being on stage! I’m sure women would fill the theaters to overflowing just to see you stand on the stage and read newspaper columns!”
Jim laughed, a little chagrined. “Thank you, Mrs. Piedmont. I’m sorry I missed seeing you perform in the theater. I get to see Artie put on his act almost daily.”
Vanessa Piedmont joined his laughter, and Artie could only grin. They departed the home and walked to the still waiting cab they had hired. Upon giving the driver his next instructions and climbing inside, Jim commented, “Lovely woman. Bright too.”
“Right on both counts. I don't think she was any lovelier fifteen years ago than she is now. Frank Piedmont came to every performance we gave in Baltimore that summer, and by Christmas, Vanessa had left the theater world to marry him. I and several other males in the troupe were brokenhearted.”
“So you had more than one crush.”
Artie sighed. “In those days, James, I was in love with more women then I can count. If it was not for Lily, the same might be true today!”
W*W*W*W*W
The Wanderer pulled out of the Washington railroad yards early the following morning. Both agents wished they had more information to go on, but also both realized that speed was of the utmost importance. They had no knowledge of the whereabouts of Seymour Fanning, or whoever was committing the robberies, other than the last two had been committed west of Washington City.
The previous robberies had taken place every four to six weeks, and thus far the total stolen came to nearly a quarter of a million dollars, some in gold coin, some in paper money, and a certain amount in government bearer bonds. Somehow the thief had gotten inside information on when and where those federal funds would be stored, temporarily or permanently.
Artie was studying a map spread out on the table in the parlor car when Jim entered. “What’s that?”
Artemus glanced up. “Oh, I was just trying to figure out if there is any pattern to the robberies. The locations I mean.”
“And?”
Artie grimaced. “Nothing. Here, there and everywhere. He went from Georgia to Minnesota, back down to Mississippi, then to Oklahoma Territory. Just wherever he learned the federal funds would be held.”
“And how did he learn about that?”
“I have no idea. Only thing I can think of is he has a confederate, a spy, in the government offices. And I know Colonel Richmond has already sent word to the Secretary of the Treasury to be on the alert.”
“We might need to set up a snare,” Jim commented, settling on the sofa that faced the back of the train car.
“I thought about that.” Artemus rolled up the map and replaced it in the cupboard by the table, then came around to take a chair facing Jim. He glanced toward the window. “We’re making good time.”
“I noticed. Artie, why did Fanning pose as you?”
“Revenge is the only thing I can come up with. I’m sure he knew I replaced him in all the parts he played in the troupe. In his mind, I had something to do with his dismissal.” Artie leaned forward, elbows on knees.
Jim waited, looking at his partner’s now thoughtful face. “And?”
“And he could be the one leading us into a trap.”
“Artie, he’s been at this for six months, and the Dayton robbery has been the fifth. Quite an elaborate plan to get vengeance on you.”
“It is. But Seymour Fanning was a complicated man.”
“Was.” Now Jim turned thoughtful. “You know, Artie, he could be actually dead. This might be someone else. His brother, for instance.”
“If he has a brother. The train accident was a dozen years ago, Jim. Why would Fanning’s brother suddenly decide to revenge Seymour?”
“Why would Seymour wait that long?”
Artie sighed heavily, pushing himself to his feet. “I don't think we’re going to know any of this until we catch—whoever it is.” He headed toward the door leading to the galley then paused. “I hope this trip to Dayton is fruitful.”
W*W*W*W*W
They had decided to go to Dayton, Ohio themselves to meet the witnesses of the robbery. Agent George Thomas Layton, known as G.T., was meeting them there to avoid a lot of possible confusion when “Artemus Gordon” entered the bank again. Having already interviewed the people in Dayton, he could assure them that this Gordon was the genuine article.
Layton was a competent if not spectacular Secret Service agent, always willing to help when asked. He was at the railroad station in Dayton to meet them, and had a cab ready to transport them to the bank. As expected, their entrance into the financial business caused a stir. Homer Benson, behind the teller’s cage, went white in the face.
Layton hurried to him to explain, relaxing the teller somewhat, but the young man still threw several backward glances as he led the three men into Mr. Eads’ office. That man jumped to his feet as Artemus followed Layton into the room.
“Mr. Benson,” Layton said, “we’d like you to stay a moment.” He then assured Mr. Eads that this was the real Artemus Gordon, not the disguised bandit, and introduced Agent West.
“My goodness!” the banker exclaimed, gaping at Artie. “That man certainly made himself look like you!”
“Exactly like me?” Artemus asked. “I request that both of you look at me closely to see if you can discern any differences you might remember.”
Long seconds elapsed as the banker and his teller gazed at Artie. Homer was the first one to speak. “Your eyes. His eyes were not as brown! I think they had some… some green in them.”
“That’s right,” Eads confirmed. “I know I stared at his eyes, and that’s where I saw that he meant what he said. Oh! You have a little scar. Right there!” He put a finger by his left eye.
Artemus nodded. “Did the bandit?”
“No. I’m sure of that. As I said, I looked at his face quite a lot. I was so stunned that Artemus Gordon could be robbing me. I think I was watching for a sign that he was joking.”
“That’s important,” Artemus said, glancing at his partner.
Jim frowned. “Why?”
“Because I didn’t have this scar back then. You know how I got it.”
His partner nodded then. “Yeah, I do.” He would never forget finding his partner in the brush after a surprise attack by Rebs in Virginia. By the amount of blood smeared on Artemus's face, Jim had been momentarily sure his friend was dead. A minié ball had barely skimmed his face, just under the eye. Artie had jerked back in surprise, tripped and fell, hitting his head on a rock, which stunned him. Only when Jim knelt down did he realize how minimal the wound was. But it had left this scar.
He also knew why Artemus felt it was important. Seymour Fanning had not known about the scar. He would not have included it in the disguise he created. Of course, others might not be aware of it either. The scar was not that distinct and possibly not noticeable until one was fairly close to Artemus Gordon.
W*W*W*W*W
Si fortuna juvat, caveto tolli; si fortuna tonat, caveto mergi.
[If fortune favors you do not be elated; if she frowns do not despond.]
—Septem Sapientum Sententioe Septenis Versibus Explicatoe (IV, 6), Decimus Magnus Ausonius (c. 310-395), Roman [Bordeaux resident) poet and teacher
Si fortuna juvat, caveto tolli; si fortuna tonat, caveto mergi.
[If fortune favors you do not be elated; if she frowns do not despond.]
—Septem Sapientum Sententioe Septenis Versibus Explicatoe (IV, 6), Decimus Magnus Ausonius (c. 310-395), Roman [Bordeaux resident) poet and teacher
Luck was not in their favor over the next ten or eleven days. The Wanderer continued westward, stopping periodically for fuel or water, or because a town was near the tracks, from where they connected with the wires that paralleled the tracks to send and receive messages. Nothing new was available. Washington had sent men to Maine to try to locate Fanning’s family, but the trek was unsuccessful. No one seemed to know the Fanning name.
That caused Artemus to speculate that the actor he had known as Seymour Fanning had taken on a stage name. “Sometimes families were so averse to a member becoming an actor, that a name change was made to prevent future conflict with the family, as well as sometimes to hide from those family members. Or perhaps the given name wasn’t glamorous enough.”
“Why didn’t you change your name?” Jim asked idly.
Artie’s chin came up. “There is nothing wrong with Artemus Gordon!”
His partner gazed at him a long moment, puzzlement on his face. “If you say so,” he commented finally, grinned quickly, and departed the parlor car to head for the stable car, once again leaving an exasperated Artemus.
He got me again!
W*W*W*W*W
Every lead turned into a dead end. Artemus had given the department all the names he could remember from his days with the troupe, and the department sent out men to try to find those people. Several were located, but could not offer any additional assistance. They remembered Fanning, but had no idea where he was now, if he was indeed alive. The manager of the troupe died some years ago; he might have been able to offer the most information.
The Wanderer arrived in San Francisco, its passengers without a single clue of where to go next or what to do to find the mysterious bandit. Jim and Artie decided to stay over a couple of days before heading east again, to enjoy the sights and entertainment available in that lively bayside city. However—and Artie commented afterwards, “It never fails”—an urgent telegram arrived at the Wanderer just minutes before they were about to wire Colonel Richmond of their plans.
Fort Laramie, Wyoming, had been robbed of a payroll by a man assuming the guise of the paymaster from Fort Steele, using a clever scheme that completely took in the officers at Fort Laramie. The two agents were to head for Wyoming immediately. No time for the theater, or dinner at a favorite restaurant.
They had, however, managed to visit a tavern on the outskirts of the Barbary Coast, now owned by the other member of the acting troupe that Artemus had been able to keep in touch with. Harvey Burton had stayed with the troupe until it finally dissolved in the midst of the late war; he had then brought his savings to San Francisco to buy the tavern, a successful venture for him.
He remembered Seymour Fanning vividly, and displayed the same distaste that Vanessa Piedmont had shown. “I’ll tell you what, Artemus. The stage was better off when he left it. I certainly didn’t grieve when I heard of his death, though I felt sorry that his talent had been so wasted. A better man would have made better use of that talent.”
But he knew very little concerning Fanning’s personal life, not where Fanning came from, nothing about his family, and definitely not whether he used his real name on the stage. He also could not come up with another actor with similar talent for makeup and disguise—other than Artemus Gordon.
The agents were grumbling about another dead end when they returned to the train and found the transmission regarding the robbery in Wyoming awaiting them. Two days later the Wanderer pulled onto a siding outside of Laramie. The remainder of the trek was made by horseback to the fort itself. The guard at the gate sent them directly to the commandant’s headquarters.
Colonel Richard Latham was a long-time regular army man. The agents had first met him in Tennessee during the battles around Chattanooga. They knew that while he was primarily a by-the-book officer, he also had a conscience and a heart. Men loved serving under him because they knew they would be treated well and fair.
A tall, thin man, his blond hair had long since turned to silver. Only a couple of shrapnel scars marred a still handsome face. He greeted Jim and Artemus warmly, served bourbon, and then sat down to explain what had happened.
“The pay for men here as well as at Fort Steele arrives here regularly. We notify the paymaster at Steele, Captain Lowell Schaffer, that the pay is here, and he either sends a patrol for it, or comes himself with a patrol. That’s what we did last week. Ordinarily Schaffer needs a couple of days to get things together so we did not expect him until, say, the next day.
“However, the day after our messenger returned, Captain Schaffer entered Fort Laramie. He had a bad cold and laryngitis, but he said he came personally because he was extremely worried. A scout had returned to Fort Steele with information that a gang of renegades planned to ambush the patrol when they returned to Steele with the payroll. He had come himself, alone, to throw things off schedule and fool the possible thieves.
“I wanted to send men back with him, but he refused. He said a lone rider was not expected. He had a duster on his saddle that he would don on the return trip to disguise his uniform. I know Schaffer to be a good man, and an honest one, as well as quite stubborn. In the end I acquiesced to his scheme and he left with the money. Two days later the real Captain Schaffer, with a patrol, arrived to collect the payroll.” Col. Latham sighed deeply. “I cannot believe I was so easily deluded!
“Don’t worry, Colonel,” Jim smiled wryly. “You aren’t the only one.”
“Yes, so I’ve heard in the communications I received from Washington. Who is this man?”
“We don't know for certain,” Artie replied. “We are trying to trace an actor I knew before the war, who seems to fit the description. However, he also supposedly died some years ago!”
“Tell me, Colonel,” Jim put in, “did this fake Schaffer sign a ledger?”
“He did. But because I knew the man, and everything was routine—so I thought—thus I did not even look at the signature until the genuine paymaster arrived. I’m sure this fellow counted on that. The signature was quite different.”
“May we see it?” Artie asked, experiencing a small thrill of excitement. I used to know Fanning’s handwriting. He wrote enough bitter notes to me, I should!
“Certainly. Let’s go to the paymaster’s office.”
The three men strode across the parade grounds to the wooden building that housed the paymaster’s office. The man at the desk inside came to his feet, saluting. He then smiled. “Mr. West, Mr. Gordon. Good to see you again, although I wish it was under different circumstances.”
“We know the feeling, Captain Mayhew.” Jim stepped forward to shake the stocky man’s hand.
Artie did the same. “Captain, we’d like to see the signature that the fake Schaffer signed.”
Mayhew immediately opened a drawer of his desk to retrieve a gray-backed book, and placed it open on the desk. Artie leaned forward to inspect the signature. “I take it this is nothing like the real Schaffer’s signature,” he commented.
“Not at all. I’m embarrassed that I did not check it immediately.”
“Nonsense, Captain,” his colonel said crisply. “We were all taken in. Don’t forget, he came to my quarters first, and I escorted him over here.” He glanced at the agents. “We really didn’t talk much because ‘Schaffer’ coughed a great deal when he attempted to speak. Otherwise, we normally have a nice chat about events at either installation.”
Artie was still peering at the signature as Jim said, “This man is extremely cunning, Colonel. No doubt the laryngitis was to prevent the chances of him betraying himself in small talk.”
“Yes, I agree. It certainly worked.”
“Artie?”
Artemus straightened, looking first at his partner, then the two officers. “I am reasonably sure this signature was written by Seymour Fanning. I would need to compare it to something Fanning wrote—if anything could be located—but I have a recollection of his handwriting, and I would say it is his.”
Of course the colonel wanted to know more about Fanning, so the four men sat down while Artemus explained what they knew. Both officers were frowning as he finished his recitation. “But if Fanning was killed in that train wreck…” The colonel gazed at each of the agents in turn.
Jim shook his head. “We don't know. He was believed to have had a brother. It’s possible this brother knew all of Seymour Fanning’s tricks with makeup and is—after a long lapse—looking for vengeance… or something else.”
“We just don't know,” Artie reiterated. “And may not until we catch him. Which is going to be devilishly difficult, I’m afraid!”
“Colonel,” Jim spoke thoughtfully, “did you have any visitors to the fort in the last couple of weeks? I mean visitors who were strangers.”
Mayhew and Latham exchanged startled glances before the colonel spoke. “As a matter of fact, two of them. One of them was a grizzled old trapper who complained about people robbing his trap lines. We had to convince him that no one was stealing his furs, but the prey that used to be here are long gone. He seemed a little out of his head. Talked a lot and asked a lot of questions.”
“He seemed to think he was at some old fur trading post,” Mayhew said. “Kept wanting to know where he could sell his furs when he brought them in. I guess he spotted the paymaster sign on this office and came in, wanting to know if the safe was secure. I was rather amused and I guess I talked a lot.”
“Several men did,” Latham said. “The old fellow left about sundown promising to be back with his furs. Do you think…?”
“Who was the other stranger?” Artie asked.
“A businessman from Detroit, a well-dressed, well-spoken fellow. He was looking to make investments in the area and wanted to know about army protection and the like. Especially wanted information on how safe his money would be if he left it here rather than the bank. Are you saying…?”
Artie did not smile, realizing the flustered colonel had had two unfinished questions. “It’s entirely possible. Were the two men of the same height and build, maybe eye color? It’s the one thing we can’t change, eye color.”
“Same build, definitely,” the captain put in quickly. “I don't think I noticed the old trapper’s eyes. He was squinting most of the time. But I do recollect that Mr. Bates’ eyes were brownish. He had a way of staring that was rather uncomfortable.”
And to keep you from examining him too closely. Artie did not say this aloud. He had often used the same technique, along with the prattling behavior of the old trapper. “I presume Schaffer has brown eyes.”
“I’m not certain I ever really noticed,” the colonel answered. “He has dark hair, so it is likely.”
They talked to the two officers further, and decided a trip to Fort Steele would be futile, primarily because no one there had any knowledge of the robber. They had not seen him. They were, in essence, the victims of a robbery that they had not been aware of until two days after it occurred.
Bidding goodbye to Latham, they rode into the town of Laramie and entered one of the better restaurants. Jim noticed how Artie kept looking around at the other patrons. “Do you think you’d recognize him?”
Artie sighed, shaking his head, his face assuming a rueful expression. “Remember the time I told you I could spot makeup, false noses, and wigs anywhere? I did not spot ‘Miss Tyler’ of course, and I’m now wondering if I could detect Fanning if he was sitting here, with or without makeup. You realize, Jim, that we could have walked right by him any number of times.”
“I know. You’re sure about that signature?”
“It is very similar to what I remember of Seymour Fanning’s handwriting. That doesn’t mean a whole lot. Schoolchildren are taught a particular way of writing. The nuances occur later in life. I’d have to see a sample to be very certain. But it’s close enough to cause me to feel it is Fanning.”
“Then how do we explain his recorded death?”
“James, my boy, I haven’t the faintest idea at this point. What I’m wondering is where he’s going to strike next. And most of all, why? Is it some sort of revenge the troupe that cast him off, and me in particular? I can’t see any connections between any of the particular robberies and anyone I remember. Other than me, of course.”
“He’s hitting government installations, Artie, and he’s stealing government money.”
“Yeah, I thought of that. He wasn’t southern. One thing I do remember about him is that he hated slavery. One of his rare admirable qualities.”
They fell silent and Jim noticed that Artie was staring at his plate of food rather than eating. “Artie? Are you blaming yourself?”
Artemus lifted his gaze. “Not… not really. But Jim, I replaced Seymour in the troupe. He was let go because I was able to fill the roles he played—and if I must say so, fill them superiorly. One of his robberies was committed while disguised as me! Is he stealing from the federal government… because the federal government is my employer?”
“It can’t be that simple, pal. Don’t forget, over a dozen years elapsed from the time he was ousted from your acting troupe before he started these robberies. Who knows, perhaps he had some problem with taxes, or something else. He had to have been living under a different name all these years, so that would be difficult to track.”
“Yeah, of course you’re right, Jim. What really worries me is that it is just a matter of time before someone else is hurt or killed. Especially if he has henchmen as he’s hinted during a couple of the robberies.”
Jim shook his head. “They’ve never been seen, but we may not know for certain until we catch him—or them. Come on, let’s finish this meal and get back to the train. The colonel will be awaiting our report.”
“My report, you mean,” Artie said sarcastically as he picked up his fork.
Jim grinned. “How many times have I told you what a great writer you are, Artemus?”