Post by California gal on Feb 9, 2009 17:12:44 GMT -8
Originally posted August 2007
The streets were quiet at this late hour. Or was it actually an early hour? Artemus Gordon stifled a yawn as he dug into his pocket for his watch. One a.m. He was sure the silence and lack of people on the street in this part of San Francisco were due to the neighborhood through which he was currently traversing. No cafes, no saloons. Things would change when he got a little further on, nearer to the hotel, where other establishments encouraging nightlife were also available.
The hotel. The yawn came then, unstoppable. Thinking about that big soft bed with the down mattress was almost overwhelming. He had not expected to be so late getting back to the city, but such were the vagaries of weather. The parlor car drawn by the special train had been held up by an early snowstorm in the Sierras. Otherwise, he would have been in the city by mid afternoon. Jim was probably going crazy about now. His partner’s state of mind was the primary reason Artemus had decided to head on into the city right away instead of waiting until morning. If Jim was in bed, he could tap on the door to apprise him of his return. Likely Jim would sleep all the better for it.
Artemus had seriously considered leaving Mesa with the train, taking a hack into town, but decided to ride for two reasons. One was that the horse had not had much exercise of late. She had been virtually ignored while he attended to family business in Michigan. As well, Artemus knew that Jim West had his own horse, the gleaming Blackjack, with him at the hotel. They could ride together back to the siding and the train once the reports for the Grand Jury were completed.
He pulled back on the reins, halting the brown horse. What was that? As if in response to his mental query, he heard it again. A woman’s voice, a woman crying out for help. The sound emanated from a narrow alley he was almost abreast of. He jumped off the horse, reaching inside his coat for the small pistol secreted there. Almost at the same moment, a shade went up on a window of the building bordering the alley, and light from the lamp inside illuminated the alley scene.
“You there!” Gordon thundered. “Stop! Let her alone!” He saw the man bending over, his back to the alley mouth. Almost hidden, only her skirt hem and feet visible, was a woman, obviously struggling and kicking mightily against her assailant.
The woman cried out again as her attacker released her and spun around. Artemus Gordon froze. He saw a face contorted with rage and hatred. The man took advantage of Artie’s astonishment to grab a large rock, hurling it toward the alley mouth. Artie threw himself to one side as the missile flew by his head and crashed on the pavement behind him. The woman’s attacker dashed by him and sprinted down the darkened street.
Artie recovered somewhat. “Stop! Jim! Stop!” he yelled. “Jim!”
“What’s going on? What happened?” A man in a nightshirt and robe emerged through the front door of the shop where the light had appeared, a sawed-off shotgun gripped in both hands.
That and the whimpering of the woman lying in a crumpled heap deep in the alley brought Gordon back to the moment. He hurried to her, kneeling down. In the light through the window, he saw she was young, attractive, with curly blonde hair, and attired in rather common clothes. Her apron suggested she might be a waitress of some sort. Going home late at night after her shift ended?
“It’s all right,” Artemus soothed, carefully putting his arm under her shoulder. “You’ll be all right now.”
“What happened?” the storekeeper demanded again. “Another one? Did he try to get another one?”
The woman recovered to some extent now. At least enough climb to her feet with Gordon’s assistance, and to cry out in a tremulous voice, “Send for the police! Get the police! He tried to kill me!”
Artemus Gordon attempted to make sense of what he had just witnessed, torn between chasing after the man he had seen and remaining to assist the victim. In the end, he remained, only partially because he knew that the assailant was well out of reach. Besides… I know where to find him… My God! Jim!
When the police arrived, the young woman was ensconced in the living quarters behind the tobacco shop, with the owner’s wife serving her tea and words of comfort. She had refused the offer to send for a physician, insisting she was fine now. No broken bones, only some bruises suffered in the assault. She had told Artie her name, Betty Blake, and indeed, she was employed as a waitress in the restaurant of the very hotel that had been Artemus Gordon’s destination. Her evening’s work finished, she had been on her way home, when a man grabbed her from the alley, putting a hand over her face to keep her from crying out. He had then tried to throttle her, but she had managed to scream.
“Same as the others,” the storekeeper growled. “You’re a lucky young lady, miss. Lucky indeed.” He looked at Gordon. “You know the fellow?”
Artie was saved from answering immediately because the police got there. He was unsure whether to be relieved to see that the sergeant in charge was a man known to both him and Jim West. Lloyd Morris greeted him affably, then spoke to the woman. She repeated the portion of the story concerning what had happened, and then added what Artie had hoped she would not.
“He knows him. Mr. Gordon, I mean. He called him by name.”
Morris looked at Artie questioningly, and the agent shrugged. “Well… I’m not exactly sure…”
“Who did you think it might be?” Morris inquired. He was a stocky man with curly black hair and clear blue eyes, in his middle thirties.
“Jim,” the storekeeper supplied as Artie hesitated. “He yelled, ‘stop, Jim.’ I’m sure of that.”
The uniformed sergeant’s eyes widened, aghast. “Jim? Artemus… you don’t mean…”
Artie held out a pleading hand. “It was dark, Lloyd. I’m… he was… he looked something like… Jim.” Something! The man was an identical twin, even to the short-jacketed blue suit and shiny black boots! But it couldn’t be.
“Where is Jim West?”
“He… he should be at the Avalon Hotel.” Artie was careful not to look at Betty Blake.
“Oh my goodness! Yes! Sergeant! I know him! He eats in the restaurant sometimes! I didn’t realize… I didn’t think… he’s always so nice…” The young woman put her hands up to her bruised throat.
A uniformed patrolman entered from the store to report that the men sent out to search for the attacker were unsuccessful, although they did talk to two people who indicated a man had run by on foot… in the direction of the Avalon Hotel. Morris took the information, his frown growing ever more serious.
“Artie, have you been staying there too?”
“No. I mean, I have a room there, but I had to go east to attend to some family business before I had an opportunity to spend a night there. Jim and I were supposed to be in the city together, working on a report to the Grand Jury.”
Morris nodded. “The opium ring.”
“Yes. However, when this personal stuff came up, Jim volunteered to stay and get it done. I took the train back home—and thought I would be just a couple of days. However, I’ve been gone ten days. Just arrived back this evening. Lloyd… there’s been other murders?”
“Three,” the sergeant confirmed grimly. “All within the last week. Young women who were out alone, late at night, like Miss Blake. The other three were not so fortunate as she was. They were strangled… with the man’s bare hands. Until now, there has not been a witness, let alone a survivor. Artie… Jim?”
“No. There’s some rational explanation, Lloyd. I’m very tired. My… my vision probably isn’t what it should be.”
“I’d recognize him,” Betty Blake said staunchly. “In fact, I’m sure it was Mr. West. He’s not a man a girl easily forgets.”
But you did, until I reminded you, Artie thought miserably. Likely she would have remembered eventually. “I’ll go talk to Jim,” he said hopefully.
Morris shook his head. “We’ll both go. And Miss Blake, if you feel up to it…”
“Oh, I do! I surely do! He’s a bloodthirsty murderer! He needs to be arrested and hung! And I’m the girl to see to it! Imagine him flirting with me like he did, then trying to murder me!” She jumped up off the sofa, newly invigorated with rage and righteousness. Artemus could not blame her. She had come to close to losing her life. But… Jim West? That wasn’t possible!
He had absolutely no choice. Artemus Gordon rode alongside the police wagon, with the sergeant and Miss Blake on the seat, and two patrolmen inside. He kept reliving the moment in his mind, the instant when the man had turned, fully illuminated by the lamplight, at least illuminated enough to be seen clearly. You know his face better than you know your own. Artemus. It was him. Or a doppelganger! But how could that be? Jim West was not a murderer. He would not attack and strangle young women…
Artemus hated the other thoughts that kept trying to creep insidiously into his head. Jim had been tired and under stress. They both had come off an arduous trek during which they tracked down some opium smugglers from San Francisco to Reno, then brought those men back to be charged. Two men had been killed in the process, one of the smugglers, and the other a Washoe County deputy sheriff who had been a long-time friend of Jim West’s. Artemus knew his partner experienced some guilt that Toby had been along on the hunt; Toby Walsh had volunteered because of Jim’s presence in the investigation.
The San Francisco judge in charge had then contacted Colonel Richmond and requested that the two agents be assigned to report all their findings to the Grand Jury. Several prominent, if not completely respectable, citizens were suspected of being involved in the smuggling, and the judge wanted an indictment.
For two days, the two men had testified, after which they were asked to put all their information in writing. That was when Artemus received word from Michigan that his presence was needed to help settle some family matters, having been appointed executor of the estate of an uncle who passed away several months ago. Jim had immediately insisted his partner answer the summons, taking their special train while he booked rooms for them in the hotel. Although he himself hated the report writing, he could handle it. The judge had given them a pretty fair deadline. More than likely, Jim would have the bare-bones written out by the time Artemus returned, and Gordon could then, in his inimitable style, flesh it out.
When Gordon realized that matters in Michigan were not going to be cleared up as swiftly as he had hoped—two cousins were battling—he had wired Jim West and received the response that all was well. Jim said he was coping. Don’t rush. Artemus knew his partner well enough to have read between the lines. Jim West had been damn tired of reading and writing and wanted some help!
The night clerk’s sleepy eyes popped open when three uniformed police officers entered the lobby. Yes, he said, as far as he knew, Mr. West was in his room. He had not been seen since dinner. What was the problem? His queries were ignored as the party headed up the stairs to the second floor.
Artie knew he had no choice but to lead Morris directly the door of the room next to the one that was still reserved as his own. The hallway was dim, with only a small lamp burning on a wall sconce, but light glowed from under the door of Jim’s room. Artie was unsure whether that was good or bad. Ordinarily, he might have simply walked in. This night he knocked. Then knocked again.
“I heard someone,” Morris said, putting his head to the door. Artie knew the sergeant had been close to ordering his men to break in.
The door opened, and Jim West stood there, surprise and confusion on his face. He was in his shirtsleeves, his hair tousled, darkened jaws revealing the need for a shave, which would ordinarily take place in a few hours. He looked as though he had just awakened from a deep sleep, though apparently had not gone to bed.
“Artie…” he said, looking from his partner to the policeman at Gordon’s shoulder. “Hello, Lloyd. What’s going on?” Jim spotted the young woman, then, and turned to grab his jacket from the back of a nearby chair. “Excuse me. I wasn’t expecting guests.”
“Jim,” Sergeant Morris spoke levelly, “where have you been this evening?”
West’s astonishment increased. “Right here. Why? What’s going on? Artie?”
Gordon wished he could respond, but he knew better. This was a police matter. A serious police matter. He found himself staring at his partner’s handsome face. Yes, that was the face he had seen in the alley. Even the light shadow of whiskers…
Morris looked around at the woman. “Miss Blake? Is this the man?”
She took a step forward, anger and some hurt in her expression. “Yes. I’d know him anywhere. Mr. West, how could you? You always seemed so nice…”
“What the hell is going on?” Jim West demanded, the expressions of the countenances of the people facing him, even that of his partner, causing a ripple of fear in his gut, so much so that he momentarily forgot his manners.
“James West,” Morris spoke evenly, though Artemus detected a note of strain in the voice, “I place you under arrest for attempted murder, with the possibility of further charges.” He produced a set of handcuffs.
Jim took a step back, his eyes on Artemus Gordon, waiting for more explanation, waiting for help. Artie stood like a statue, his face almost expressionless, except for the agony in his brown eyes.
“Attempted murder,” Jim echoed then. “What are you talking about? Who did I try to murder?”
“Me!” Betty cried. “I recognized your face, Mr. West! And you killed those other poor girls!”
It hit Jim West then. Although he had been spending a great deal of time—way too much time as far as he was concerned—closed up in this hotel room, he had read the newspapers. “You think… Artie!”
“He saw you!” Betty cried. “He saw you too!”
“Jim,” Artie spoke for the first time, his voice tense, face anxious, “can you prove you’ve been in this room for… oh, the last hour, hour and a half?”
“Only my word,” Jim replied stiffly.
Artemus Gordon saw the anger in his friend, and he noticed how Sergeant Morris hesitated, then seemed to grit his teeth, stepping forward with the manacles. Artie held his breath for an instant, waiting for Jim to make a move. He was not sure he was relieved as he watched Jim lift his arms quietly to receive the handcuffs.
“I’m sorry, Jim,” Lloyd Morris said. “I’m sure this will all be cleared up in short order. But… I have witnesses.”
“Yeah,” Jim snapped. “So I understand.” His green eyes fastened hard on his partner.
Artemus Gordon knew some rules were bent to allow him to sit in on the questioning. He was also aware that because of James West’s official status, as well as his reputation, he was being treated somewhat differently than another suspect might have been. Morris and his superior, Captain Tim Cullen, conducted the interrogation. Cullen was another officer the two agents had worked with in the past, a man who knew and admired Jim West.
Artie had been certain that once the situation was discussed and the questions asked, all would be cleared up. He did not know how to explain his own circumstances, that of recognizing the man in the alley, but he was certain an explanation was there. Jim would clarify it. Artie knew that.
Thus his heart sunk further and further as he listened and heard Jim West state he was not only unable to provide a solid alibi for tonight’s assault, but not for the other three either. In each instance, he stated, he had been in his hotel room, alone. No, he had not seen, or had been seen by, any hotel staff or guest to his knowledge at the late hours the crimes had been committed. As far as he could remember, those other nights had been the same as tonight. He had worked on the reports, and fallen asleep, his head on the desk. That was where he had been when the police—and his partner—knocked on the door.
Jim admitted that he knew Betty Blake from the hotel’s dining area. Yes, he had talked to her, even flirted with her, when she waited his table. Worse, when shown photographs of the other victims, he had to reveal he had spoken to at least one of them, and correctly remembered she had been a clerk in a store where he had purchased some pencils and paper… the day before her death.
What bothered Artemus as much, if not more, than anything else was his partner’s behavior. Jim answered the questions quietly, even dispassionately. He sat on the chair between the captain and the sergeant, arms folded tightly across his chest, with three uniformed officers in the background, and barely moved other than to turn his head slightly toward whichever man spoke. Not once did he look over to where Artemus Gordon was sitting.
He feels betrayed. And who can blame him? I’m his partner, his friend… yet, I cannot discount what I saw. I was tired, but not that tired. I saw James West in that alley. The man who rose and turned toward me after attempting to strangle that young woman was James West. I would have to swear to that in court. Jim knows that.
Captain Cullen got to his feet, and the sergeant and prisoner followed suit. Artie saw how the uniformed guards tensed. They were quite aware of the reputation of the prisoner. Cullen cleared his throat. His face and voice registered his misery. “James West, I have no choice but to place you under formal arrest, charged with attempted murder on the basis of the sworn statement of Miss Elizabeth Blake.” He cleared his throat again. “I expect to receive the statement of another witness as well. The charge may be increased to murder, pending further investigation.”
“You have to do your duty, Tim,” Jim West said softly. He could not bring himself to look at Artemus. He needed desperately to talk to Artie, to find out exactly what he saw, or thought he saw. Artemus Gordon would not take this situation lightly. He knew his responsibility as a law officer and a citizen. Friendship could not enter into it. Artemus would have to swear to what he saw. Right at this moment, however, James West could not face his partner.
WWWWWW
Artemus Gordon felt the tension growing inside him as he followed the guard down the long corridor. Most of the cells in this section were vacant. Lloyd had confided that they thought it best to separate Jim West as far as possible from other prisoners. He was too well known to many of the incarcerated felons. The atmosphere was all that one expected of a jail: dim and dank, with foul odors and scant fresh air. The only light came from narrow gaps at the top of certain cell’s outer wall, and not every cell had a window.
“Around here,” the guard said, turning a corner with a swift stride.
Just one cell was in this niche. Not that it was any better accommodations than others, simply more isolated. It did possess a window at least. Jim West was seated on the lone bunk. He barely glanced up as the keys jangled in the lock. “Give me a holler when you’re ready to leave, Mr. Gordon,” the guard said. “Captain says you’re to have all the time you want.”
“Thank you,” Artie murmured stepping inside. The barred door clanged shut behind him.
Jim did not move. He had his elbows on his knees, and appeared to be staring at a particular spot on the floor. He still had not shaved, his strong jaw even more shadowed, and his usually immaculately groomed hair was still awry. The two-toned gray jail garb was not exactly his accustomed sartorial splendor.
“Jim.”
Only now did Jim West shift his gaze, though he barely moved, only lifting his chin slightly. “Hello, Artie. Nice to see you. Get everything taken care of back home?”
“Jim!” Artemus sat down beside him, put a hand on West’s arm. “Jim, I had to. I had no choice. I yelled your name and the girl and the storekeeper heard me. Then she remembered you from the hotel.”
Jim West expelled a long sigh and finally looked directly at Artie. He was not being fair, he knew. “I know, Artie. I know. I just… don’t understand it.”
“I don’t either, partner, but we’re going to get to the bottom of it. Think of all the things that have happened to us in the past. Loveless tried it. Dr. Faustina had me believing you were dead, blown up in the same explosion that killed the cabinet members.”
“Another double?” Jim said, doubt on his face and in his voice. “Dr. Faustina is probably dead.” She at least had dropped out of sight. He did not want to venture a guess about Loveless. The little professor had fooled them into believing in his demise too many times.
“I know. All I know, Jim, and I’ll put it to you straight, is that I got a damn good look at the man attacking Betty Blake. That man had your face, your body, your clothes…. The only reason he escaped was because I was so flabbergasted. I couldn’t move.”
“Sounds like a double,” Jim said after a moment. “But…”
Artie did not like that word. “But what?”
Jim abruptly got up, walked to the bars, and turned back. “Four times, Artie. Four times, I really have no conclusive memory, and no proof, of where I was.”
“You were sleeping…” Artie stood up as well.
“Yes, so it seems. That’s not all though.”
“Go on.”
“I kept… losing things. Losing time.”
“Jim, for God’s sake, what are you talking about?”
Jim did not answer, turning toward the bars again, head thingyed. Artie heard it too: footsteps. Someone was coming. Several people by the sounds. They waited, and after a moment Captain Cullen, Sergeant Morris, the jailer, and another man appeared. Jim stepped back toward the bunk as the jailer unlocked the door to admit the other three before he closed it again. At a nod from Cullen, the jailer disappeared.
“How are you doing, Jim?” the captain inquired.
“Oh, terrific, Tim. Great accommodations here. I don’t know when I’ve had a more luxurious suite, or better food.” Jim’s tone was dry; his eyes were on the civilian who had accompanied the two officers. Cullen saw that.
“Jim, Artie, this is Dr. Webster Raleigh. He has been of invaluable service to us in the investigation of these murders. In fact, he was quite correct in his prediction of who the culprit would be.”
“What does that mean?” Artemus demanded. He stared at the rather slender middle-aged man. Dr. Webster sported a neatly trimmed beard, mostly gray now, as was his slicked back hair. He wore gold-rimmed glasses. His attire was that of a professional man, a superbly tailored brown suit with striped trousers and snowy-white shirt and collar, a diamond stickpin in the perfectly folded ascot.
“That means, Mr. Gordon,” Raleigh spoke smoothly, “I envisaged the murderer as a young man with an impeccable reputation, but one who was accustomed to a life of violence. He gives the impression of being fond of, and popular with, the ladies, while in fact a deep hatred of women is buried within him. I predicted that a latent insanity dwelt in him, one that was just now coming to the fore, perhaps brought on by a stress of some form. I predicted that he might deny the murders on the basis of the fact that he does not remember committing them… yet he would have no memory of his activities during the times the killings were perpetrated.”
Artemus Gordon tried to find something to say, but his throat seemed paralyzed. He saw that Jim West was equally stunned. The doctor’s description fit James West perfectly, at least the part about the reputation and the life that involved violence. Artie finally asked, somewhat inanely, “What kind of doctor are you?”
Raleigh turned pale gray eyes on him. “I am what is known as a psychiatrist, or possibly you could call me an alienist. I study the human mind, human behavior. I’ve done a great deal of research on criminals, and I’ve come to the conclusion that I can describe the perpetrator of a crime—and, in particular, a series of crimes—by using a program, if you will, that I’ve developed. I must admit that this is the first time I’ve gone public with my hypothesis. I felt I had to help find the killer before any more young women were killed. I have a daughter myself.”
“You’re saying,” Jim spoke slowly, in a low, even tone, “that I… that the killer blacked out during the crimes?”
“Yes, in essence. Chances are the blackout occurred in his home—or in your case, your hotel room—and upon awakening in the same place, you believed you had simply fallen asleep, with no recollection of having left your room, the hotel… or of what you did.”
“That… that can’t be admissible in any court!” Artemus protested.
The doctor shrugged. “Perhaps not. Not in this day and age. Too much ignorance abounds. But it doesn’t really matter, does it? Two witnesses saw Mr. West attacking the young woman last evening.” His gaze fastened on Artemus Gordon. “Even if it’s never proven he murdered the others, he certainly faces a prison term. And the end of an illustrious career.”
“Doctor Raleigh,” Captain Cullen put his hand on the man’s arm. “Perhaps we should go.”
Artemus saw that the policeman was uncomfortable with the doctor’s statements, perhaps especially because Raleigh’s tone had been rising in vehemence. Raleigh looked around, and suddenly seemed chagrined.
“Forgive me, gentlemen. And you, Mr. West. I’m afraid I got caught up in my own rhetoric. As I mentioned, I have a daughter, only slightly older than the poor victims of this savagery. But this is America, is it not? You are innocent until proven guilty. I shall follow the case with interest.”
Artemus remained as the other three departed. He stood by the cell bars for a long moment, then turned. Jim had his back to the bars, facing the cot, arms folded across his chest, head down. “Jim…”
“Did I do it, Artie?”
Artemus Gordon very nearly answered in platitudes, expressing his faith in his partner. He suddenly realized, however, that was not what Jim West was asking. He heard the tension and anguish in the voice, and he saw the fear in the hunch of the shoulders. Artie put a hand on one of those shoulders.
“No, Jim. That’s not the kind of man you are. I don't know who this Raleigh is, but he’s dead wrong where you are concerned.”
Jim West took strength from his partner’s touch and voice. He turned around. “I can’t figure it out. Why those particular nights? I mean, I worked late other nights but didn’t fall asleep.”
Artie sat down on the bunk, looking up. “Jim, did you meet or talk to any people—especially strangers—while I was gone?”
Jim had to laugh, sitting down as well. “No, mama, I didn’t talk to strangers.” Then he sobered, and shook his head. “I probably said hello to people in the hotel, conversed briefly with the staff. You know, the weather, what was fresh on the menu in the restaurant. The only people I talked to at any length were Judge Anderson and Mr. Wright from the District Attorney’s office. We discussed what was going into the report.”
“You didn’t stay in the hotel room the entire time I was gone.”
“No, of course not. I had supper at the Anderson home twice, and attended the opera with Mr. and Mrs. Wright and their lovely daughter. Went for a few walks. Had a drink or two in the hotel bar and elsewhere. Took a ride out to the ocean, near Stinson Beach, one day to clear my head. I also worked hard on the reports. But Artie…”
Gordon gazed at his friend’s troubled expression. “What is it?”
“I lost some of it.”
“Lost what?”
“It’s crazy. When I told Judge Anderson, he said I’d probably dreamed it. A couple of times I was certain I’d written several pages… but the next morning, they weren’t there. I… I realize now that that happened the nights… of the murders.”
“It’s possible you did dream writing it, Jim. You were under a lot of stress. I apologize again for leaving you alone so long.”
Jim gazed at his friend a moment. “Artie. It’s not your fault. Even if… it’s not your fault.”
“You are not a murderer, James West. I know that. There’s an explanation for this. Always is. We’ve been through some strange situations, some that seemed inexplicable to begin with.”
“But we always explained them,” Jim nodded. He wanted to feel encouraged. Listening to that doctor describe the man behind the murders… He described me, yet not me. But why do I have this sense, this shadowy feeling, that he could be right? This was something Jim was not ready to mention to his partner yet. The dreamlike memories, fleeting bits that were real but unreal at the same time.
“And we’ll explain this,” Artemus said firmly. “Notice I said ‘we’.”
Jim smiled briefly. “Not sure how much help I’m going to be.” He nodded toward the strong bars that enclosed the cell. This particular city jail had a reputation for being escape-proof. Buried deep under the large building that housed city offices, including the police department, getting in was far easier than getting out.
Artie got to his feet. “I’ve got an idea about that. I am going need your help figuring this out, Jim. I can’t do it alone. We always worked better in tandem.”
Jim West looked up at him. “I agree. But… hell, Artie, you try blowing this door and a hundred cops would be down here before we could get ten feet!”
Artemus chuckled. “I know. That’s why I’m thinking of looking for Jailhouse Joe.”
“Jail… why?”
“Leave it to me. I think he’s perfect for the situation. Just hang tight, James. Get some rest if you can, hard as it may be. Don’t worry too much. Oh, by the way, I think I should send a lawyer to see you. Today if possible.”
Jim was baffled. “Pal, you are talking in riddles.”
“Chances are I won’t be back until tomorrow. Take me that long to get things lined up. Cullen will wonder why the best lawyer in the city hasn’t been hired. So I’ll see if Patricia Blackstone is available.”
“Now you’ve brightened my day considerably.”
“I thought it would. Just remember, she’s going to be here officially. And this jail cell is not exactly a dimly lit café.” Artie winked.
Now Jim West had to laugh. “I’ll remember.” Patricia was a very lovely, highly intelligent woman who was devoted to her profession. Not so much so, however, that she had not had time for a brief fling with Jim a couple of years ago. They had remained close friends.
Artemus went to the bars to yell for the jailer, then turned back to Jim, his face sober now. “Something tells me you aren’t revealing all, Jim. I hope it’s not because you don’t trust me.”
Jim got to his feet quickly, stricken. “Artemus, no. It’s more…it’s some things I have to sort out in my head. I think it’ll be easier to talk about them away from this establishment.”
“Then we’d better see that that happens soon. Ah, here is the fine turnkey. I’ll be taking my leave. Be sure to take good care of my friend, jailer.”
“I already got them orders,” the man scowled. Obviously he was not in favor of special treatment for any prisoner, regardless of friendships and past reputations.
Thus Artemus Gordon was delighted, the following morning, when he found a different guard on duty, one who had evinced a bit more sympathy toward Jim West the night Jim was incarcerated. The man gazed at the shriveled, white-haired man clinging to Gordon’s arm and Artie smiled gently.
“This is Mr. West’s grandfather. Imagine his horror last night when he arrived in town to learn that his beloved grandson was in jail, and on such a heinous charge. I was afraid he was going to suffer apoplexy. But he’s bucked up, haven’t you, Grandpa West?”
“Wanna see my Jimmy,” the old man muttered, his words being almost swallowed by the heavy knit scarf wrapped around his neck and into which his chin was buried almost to his nose. “My poor boy, my poor boy…” His voice broke off in a choking sob.
Artie saw the expression on the guard’s face. Indeed, here was a sensitive man. “It’s really heart-wrenching, isn’t it? The only way I could get him to rest last night was to promise he could see Jimmy… Jim… this morning. It’s all right isn’t it?”
“Oh, yes, Mr. Gordon. I got me an old grandpappy too. I know the old fellow would just about keel over and die if something like this happened to me. Come on. Come on, Granddad. You can see your boy. It ain’t a pleasant place to be, but we’re taking care of him, best we can. Come on. Don’t trip on the sill there.” He gently took the old man’s other arm.
Jim heard the voices approaching and wondered a little, because he did not notice the usual crisp steps, the clicking of hard heels on the stone floor, as usually occurred, even when merely a guard bringing his meal or coming to look in on him. The voices were approaching at a very slow pace, as well.
As they neared, he was sure he recognized Artemus’s voice, and was puzzled further. Was he having a leisurely stroll and conversation with someone. No feminine voice, so Patricia was not in the party. The lovely attorney’s visit late yesterday had been a welcome diversion, but also a reminder of the difficulty he was in. Patricia had talked to not only Artemus but also Captain Cullen and Sergeant Morris, so she knew the particulars. She had not been able to offer a great deal of hope.
Jim West came to his feet slowly, gaping with an open mouth as the three men appeared around the corner, the two younger, taller men appearing to support the frail, hunched over man with the masses of white hair under a derby hat, bearded face buried in a muffler.
“Jim!” Artie cried cheerfully, “look who’s come to see you, all the way from Boise! Your dear Grandpa West!”
All Jim’s willpower was required to prevent himself from bursting out laughing, despite realizing the seriousness of the situation. What in the world was Artemus Gordon up to? All he could do was play along. He moved quickly to the bars, gripping them with tight fists. “Grandpa! Oh Grandpa! I don’t want you to see me like this!”
The old man mumbled something, Artie patted his shoulder as the guard opened the door. “We know, grandpa, we know. There now. There’s your boy that you came all this way to see. How about a big hug, Jim!”
“Careful, West,” Jailhouse Joe muttered, “you’ll break my ribs!”
Jim West buried his face in the scarf as well, needing to disguise his own laughter. His shoulders must have been shaking, for Artie spoke up with deep solicitation in his voice, “Oh dear, this is so emotional, isn’t it? Guard, you can go back to your post. I’ll wait out here, to give them some time alone. I’ll call when you’re needed.”
The guard unashamedly wiped moisture from his face, smiled weakly, then locked the cell door behind the old man before hurrying back to his post. Perhaps a half hour later he heard Gordon’s call echoing down the hallways, and strode back, determined this time to retain his composure. He was unsure just why the thought of this poor old man visiting his grandson had affected him so. Perhaps it had been just remembering his own grandpa, who was so proud of his jailer grandson. Imagine having a grandson with the reputation of James West, and then learning the beloved lad was a murderer!
When he reached the cell, Gordon was standing out side the cell, at the bars, apparently trying to convince the old man the time to leave was nigh. The prisoner was laying on the bunk, his face buried in his arms, and obviously weeping, while his grandparent stood over him, patting his shoulder, talking softly.
“It’s been awful,” Artemus said in a choked voice. “Awful. The poor old man doesn’t really understand… I’d better get him back to the hotel. I should have stayed in there with them…” He wiped his sleeve across his eyes.
As soon as the door was opened, Artie slipped inside, going to put his arm around the old man’s shoulders. “Come along, Grandpa West. It’s time to go now. You can come back and see your Jimmy later. He…he needs to rest.”
The old man muttered something, obviously a protest, as he resisted being pulled away. Gordon cajoled him with his voice and urged him with his arms. The jailer found himself coming close to losing control again. To see the great Jim West sobbing on the bunk was almost too much, and the grief of the old man… He locked the door as soon as Artemus Gordon propelled the shriveled old fellow through the door.
“I’ve got to get back to my post, Mr. Gordon. You can manage?” He knew that if he remained in the company of the old fellow, he would lose it entirely.
“Surely, surely. We’ll be along. I’d appreciate if you’d make certain my hack is still waiting at the alley door. I want to get him back to his hotel room as soon as possible. Might even summon a doctor. This has been… I never should have allowed him to talk me into it!”
“Artemus, my admiration for your fortitude grows deeper every day,” Jim West said, settling back in the hack. “This damn thing itches!” He reached for the mass of white whiskers cemented to his chin.
Artie grabbed his arm. “Not yet. You should wear them awhile longer. I booked us a room in a boarding house down near the docks.”
“Sheila Casey?”
“Sheila Casey. The soul of discretion and absolutely devoted to you after what you did for Liam. She’s all ready for both of us.”
Jim took a deep breath. Good to breathe free air again, away from the stench of those cells. “How the hell did you talk Jailhouse Joe into it? He’s going to serve some time for aiding and abetting!”
Gordon laughed. “That’s the whole point, Jim. You know why he’s called Jailhouse Joe.”
“Yeah, I guess I do.” Jim shook his head. They had encountered the lowlife on several previous occasions, and he had usually been a damn nuisance because Joe did everything possible to get arrested. The agents knew that the San Francisco Police Department ignored Joe as much as possible, quite aware that he was extremely fond of living at the taxpayer’s expense. “How far can he be trusted?”
“A hundred bucks far. He knows it’s waiting for him in a specific hiding place, but if I hear he’s betrayed us in any way, shape, or form, that little cache will disappear before he’s released. He’s got five bucks in his pocket right now, and he’ll tell the cops that that was what he was paid for his impersonation and participation.”
“You know that you could be arrested as well now.”
“I know. I’ve had worse threats hanging over my head. All that’s important is that you are out of there, and we can work together. And I got some other information.”
“Artie, before we go into that, there’s something I need to tell you. You might want to take me back to jail.”
Gordon gazed at his friend’s somber face. “All right. Spill.”
“I told you how I fell asleep in the evenings, how I seemed to have lost work that I completed.”
“Yeah, go on.”
“Also… I can remember snatches of… I thought they were dreams. I have memories of walking, alone, on darkened streets.”
“That’s all they were, Jim. Dreams. Stop thinking like that. You did not murder those women.” Artie thought a moment. “Jim, I talked to the hotel staff. I was told that you had a standing order for coffee to delivered to you around 9 o’clock every night you were working.”
“Yeah. I needed it. Why… you’re thinking it was drugged?” Jim West absently scratched at the pasted-on beard. “As though…”
“As though someone wanted to make sure not only that you did not have any memory of a specific few hours, but perhaps also that you did not leave your room. I understand the same steward delivered the coffee every time.”
“True,” Jim responded thoughtfully. “Nice young fellow. Named Billy. Good lord! And I never suspected!”
“Billy no longer works at the Avalon Hotel,” Artemus said. “He quit last night after you were arrested.”
“What a surprise. Next question: who is behind it? The opium lords?”
Artie sighed, shaking his head. “That’s my first and best guess. Not entirely in their style though. Murder is in their repertoire, but they don’t usually rely on something so iffy as having you convicted and hanged for murder.”
“Yeah, I agree. Still, it could be that they are attempting to divert suspicion from themselves. If either of us was assassinated, the law would head straight for them.”
“But here’s something else, and I don’t know how much weight to give it. While I was searching for Jailhouse Joe, I talked to a few people, asked some questions. No one, absolutely no one, has heard of a plot to frame you for murder.”
Jim looked toward the window at the passing scene. He did not want his partner to see how that information disturbed him. Few secrets were kept on the street. Someone was always talking, either for payment or simply to display the power of knowledge. Of course, a few of those talkers were punished for being too garrulous, but somehow that never stopped all the talk. If the leaders of the opium trade had a plot afoot, someone would know about it. Artemus knew as well as he did that many of those snitches had no qualms about talking to the law under the proper circumstances, that is, for payment.
“Of course,” Artemus went on after a moment, “I didn’t talk to everyone. I think that’s what you and I need to do, hit all the saloons and dives around the docks. I was able to get my makeup bag and a few of your clothes out of the hotel, plus I picked up a few items at second-hand stores, so I can work up other disguises. We’re both going to need them.”
“Yeah,” Jim concurred in a dull tone. “I suppose that’s a good idea.”
“Jim!” Artemus Gordon grabbed his partner’s arm. “Stop it! Stop doubting yourself. You are not a murderer.”
Jim turned his eyes away from the window, looked directly at Artemus. “You saw… me, Artie.”
Artie sighed. “I saw someone who looked like you. That means nothing. We both know that. We’re going to get to the bottom of it, Jim.”
“Yeah.”
Sheila Casey’s once fiery hair had faded with the years, but her green eyes were glowing and full of tears as she embraced the disguised young agent. “When I read the newspaper, James, I was so angry. How could they think that of you?”
Jim hugged her back. He may have saved her son’s life, but she had also done him and Artie a great favor at the same time, giving them a sanctuary for a completely different reason a few years ago. “Where’s Liam these days?”
She beamed. “At the university in Berkeley! He’ll be graduating next year. And then he’s going to be a doctor!”
“That’s wonderful!” Artie enthused. “I’m sure Jim and I will avail ourselves of his services one day, sooner or later.”
Sheila laughed. “You two! Artemus, you know where the rooms are. Get yourself settled then come down and I’ll have a hot meal ready. And James, do remove that horrible stuff so I can see your handsome face and green eyes.” She had long claimed Jim West as a surrogate son, partially based on the fact that he possessed the same green eyes as her own son.
By the time they came back downstairs, Jim was feeling quite a bit better. Partly that lift in his mood was due to getting the fake hair and gunk off his face, and changing into the clothing Artemus had brought, including his spare boots, complete with the hollowed heels in which special weapons could be secreted. His attire was not one of his natty suits, but rough denim trousers and knit shirt, similar to what was worn by men who hung around the docks, working on land or on the ships. But it was not a jail uniform.
The primary reason for his elevated frame of mind came from a small incident that just happened. He had been at the mirror hanging over the dresser, using the acetate Artemus provided to clean the adhesive off his face, when his partner came to the open door in the wall between their rooms. Artie made the simple request to borrow Jim’s shaving soap; he had somehow missed grabbing his own. When Jim turned and tossed the bar toward him, Artemus very nearly dropped it, his mouth and eyes gaping open in sudden revelation.
“James! He was left-handed!”
Jim was bemused. “Who was?”
“The fellow in the alley. He threw a rock at me… with his left hand! Accurately too. Barely missed my head. Would not have been fatal, but it surely would not have felt particularly good. You are right-handed.”
“Yeah, I am.” Jim West could not help but smile with this revelation and experience great relief. He had not been entirely aware of just how many self doubts had been hiding deep in his mind. While such information was not definite proof, because the man could have simply grabbed and hurled the rock with his left hand because it was nearest that hand, chances were very good that a lob with the “wrong hand” would have more likely been wild, well off the mark. Perhaps now he could finally get rid of the ugly thought that kept echoing in his brain: Like father, like son.
After a hearty meal in Sheila Casey’s kitchen, accompanied by the warm concern evinced by their landlady as well as more information on her scholar son, the pair returned to their rooms, where Artemus applied his special skill to transform their facial features. Jim strongly declined the beard his partner wanted to provide him with, settling for a dark mustache that trailed over his mouth, some padding to his eyebrows, and a couple of scars that distorted his features slightly.
“Wish I had a means to change eye color,” Artie fretted as he stepped back to appraise his handiwork. “I don’t think anyone would recognize you simply based on your eyes, but if anyone was suspicious…” He shook his head. “Don’t suppose you’d pose as a blind man and wear dark glasses.”
Jim laughed. “No, I don’t think that would work very well. It’ll be pretty dim in most of the dives. I’ll just make a habit of not looking anyone directly in the eyes.”
As they prepared to leave the Casey home, their landlady had fretful warnings for them. “I’m sure by now your escape has been noted, James. That poor Joe could not have lain on the bunk all day! It might even be in the papers by now.”
“I wouldn’t doubt that at all,” Artie confirmed. “But don’t worry, Sheila. We have a pretty good idea of what we’re doing. I have no doubt the authorities are watching our hotel to see if we come back for our horses, and also the railroad cars on the siding at the South Pacific depot. I don’t plan on going near either of those places at the moment.”
“We are going to need to try to find Billy,” Jim reminded his partner as they left the house and strolled toward the docks, trying to imitate the swagger of a seaman. Jim had donned a black knitted watchcap, pulling it down over his ears and forehead somewhat, while Artie wore a flat porkpie hat perched atop a wig of wildly curly reddish-brown hair that matched his equally out-of-control beard.
“I know,” Artemus concurred, jamming his hands into the large pockets of his pea jacket. The small gun also in one of those pockets was very comforting to the touch. “I have his last name—Burgins—but was not able to find out where he lived. I’m thinking of calling on the hotel again tomorrow, looking for my long-lost nephew.”
“I want to go back there.”
“Jim, that’s not a good idea!”
“In one of your incomparable disguises, of course. Artie, I didn’t pay a whole lot of attention to the people around me over this last week. I mean, I wasn’t looking for trouble. Stupid, in retrospect, but I was so damned tied up in that damned report…”
Artie patted his arm. “I understand. Believe me, I understand. I’m more sorry than ever that I was called away. Which is interesting, when you think about it. That was a sudden and unexpected summons I received. No one could have planned on you being alone for any length of time.”
“Hmm. Yes, I see what you mean. Sounds like someone has had their eyes on us for awhile. That’s the type of planning the opium lords are not particularly well-known for. They would leap on the moment, so to speak, not watch for weeks—perhaps months in this case—waiting for the right circumstances. We come to San Francisco fairly often, but not regularly. I would have thought that if Chang Lee and Big Jake were going to have done something, it would have been a few weeks back, when we were here digging into their business dealings and before we took off after the boys heading for Reno.”
“As well,” Artie put in, “seems to me he… they… whoever… wanted you to be alone. That does not occur often, and would not have had Uncle Borden had not chosen to put some very unusual conditions in his will, one being that his sons must accept the terms or lose their legacy. When both boys protested, it became a case for a Solomon, which I certainly am not. Uncle Borden didn’t provide for such a situation, though I suspect he suspected his sons would misbehave in some manner—they always have—and put me in the middle of it.”
“I still can’t believe that name,” Jim said in some wonderment. “Borden? Borden Gordon?”
Artie sighed noisily. “What do you expect in a family that bestows the name ‘Artemus’ on one of their own?”
“Yeah. I see what you mean. But getting back to the subject at hand, who would have had the ability, let alone the motive, to keep track of our appearances in this city?”
“Good question. We don’t always stay at the same hotel. Sometimes we don’t even use a hotel. So it has to be someone who was making a point to watch us. Someone very patient, obviously. Someone who had the means to create a double, and perhaps keep him under wraps until the right occasion.”
They paused on a street corner to allow a beer wagon to lumber by. Artie glanced around, then jabbed Jim in the side with his elbow. “We made the evening edition.”
Jim followed his gaze and saw the stack of newspapers on the sidewalk next to the lad doling them out for pennies. The headline was quite visible: Murderer Escapes City Jail! “So much for a fair trial,” he murmured.
Artemus casually wandered over to fetch one of the papers, tossing a coin to the boy. He tucked the folded edition under his arm, though he was dying to read what had been said about the brilliant breakout. He hoped the poor sympathetic jailer was not severely punished. With any luck, when this was all over, he could intercede for the fellow. After all, he had been duped by the best!
They entered the first tavern they came to, took a table and ordered beer. Jim saw how they were under surveillance by customers and employees alike, and he hoped that was due to them being strangers. The merchant marine community was a relatively small one, and a tight one. Everyone knew everyone else. They worked together on the docks, shipped out together. Newcomers were interlopers until they proved themselves. He and Artie had discussed the story they were going to tell.
Artie casually pored over the news story, hoping that any observers would not notice any extra interest on his part. “At least,” he said, “no reward offered yet. I’m thinking that in at least a few instances, we’re going to need to reveal our true selves to folks we know. Once a reward is in the picture, things might get a little touchy.” He noticed that little was written concerning the ruse used to free the prisoner, either because the police did not want anyone else to emulate it, or because of their own embarrassment. Jailhouse Joe was not mentioned.
The paper also, with great moral fervor, warned respectable young women to not be out after dark alone, if they valued their lives as well as their virtue. West and Gordon had discussed the prospect that, with the “murderer” at large, the perpetrator would be free to strike again, and probably would, to solidify the frame.
“Then we’d better cover a lot of ground tonight, and split up,” Jim stated.
“I don’t like that idea, Jim.”
“I’m a big boy, Artemus. I can look after myself.”
“Yeah? Look what happened last time I left you on your own.” Artie thingyed his head and gazed at his friend.
Jim winced. “Touché. But time is of the essence, as the old saying goes. We need information, and we need it fast. Before the cops get wind of a couple of nosy strangers asking questions about the opium lords and a frame-up. Lloyd Morris is a sharp cookie. He’ll add it up pronto.”
They finished their beers, shook hands like friends parting, and went their separate ways, after having determined which streets and dockside joints each would take so as not to duplicate efforts. Neither could make any specific plans or promises about whether or not to reveal their identities. As Artie had mentioned, doing so might be necessary when talking to persons they had past acquaintance with. All they could do was agree to meet on a specific corner at midnight.
Artemus was there first, feeling more than a little frustrated with the evening’s efforts. The fact that Jim was late did not help at all. He leaned against a wall, watching passersby, half expecting a police wagon to come flying around the corner at any moment. He had not noticed more than a usual police presence in the area, so it would seem that Captain Cullen and Sergeant Morris had not considered that the escapee and his accomplice would head for the waterfront area. Not yet at least.
He breathed a sigh of relief when he noted a familiar figure climbing the hill toward the corner. Jim was staggering a bit, and Artie hoped that was an act. He did not step out to meet his partner, waited until he had passed, and then strolled along behind. A half a block up, Jim ducked into an alley between a café and a hardware store. Artie followed.
Very little light crept in from the lamppost on the street. “Jim?”
“Right here,” a voice spoke almost beside him, causing Artemus to jump slightly.
“You all right?” Jim sounded normal; not inebriated at least.
“Yeah. But I gave the appearance of having downed quite a few during the course of the evening, so I thought I should act like I had… just in case.”
“Think someone was watching?” Artie’s eyes were beginning to adjust to the darkness, enough that he saw the grimace on his partner’s disguised face.
“I don't know,” Jim said. “Just… one of those feelings. You know? I never saw anyone, especially no one I knew, watching. But it was there. You learn anything?”
“Oh yeah. Lots.” Artemus’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “Especially that there’s still no information out there involving you, or me, for that matter. I even ran into Fat Maggie. Now if she doesn’t know, who does? You?”
“Same. I had to reveal myself twice, but all the other times I was able to just strike up a conversation, or I pretended to be a city cop working undercover, looking for the escaped murderer, James West. Pretty weird hearing what some of those nice folks had to say about me. Artie, did you know we’re not exactly popular down here?” Mock disbelief was in his tone.
Artie clapped him on the shoulder. “Bear up, old chap. I know it was difficult. I’m sure you had trouble biting back the tears.”
Jim West chuckled dryly. “Yeah. Well, shall we head for our suite at the Casa Casey? That bed is going to feel a whole lot better than the one I had last night.”
“And tomorrow we’ll see what we can learn about young Billy. I have a strong hunch he’s important in all of this.”
“Considering the fact that he likely knowingly served me drugged coffee, I’d venture to agree with you, Artemus.”
“Thus he will know who hired him to serve you that drugged coffee. He’s damned important, Jim. I have a feeling we’d better find him as soon as possible.”
WWWWWW
THE NIGHT OF THE VENGEANCE MOON
The streets were quiet at this late hour. Or was it actually an early hour? Artemus Gordon stifled a yawn as he dug into his pocket for his watch. One a.m. He was sure the silence and lack of people on the street in this part of San Francisco were due to the neighborhood through which he was currently traversing. No cafes, no saloons. Things would change when he got a little further on, nearer to the hotel, where other establishments encouraging nightlife were also available.
The hotel. The yawn came then, unstoppable. Thinking about that big soft bed with the down mattress was almost overwhelming. He had not expected to be so late getting back to the city, but such were the vagaries of weather. The parlor car drawn by the special train had been held up by an early snowstorm in the Sierras. Otherwise, he would have been in the city by mid afternoon. Jim was probably going crazy about now. His partner’s state of mind was the primary reason Artemus had decided to head on into the city right away instead of waiting until morning. If Jim was in bed, he could tap on the door to apprise him of his return. Likely Jim would sleep all the better for it.
Artemus had seriously considered leaving Mesa with the train, taking a hack into town, but decided to ride for two reasons. One was that the horse had not had much exercise of late. She had been virtually ignored while he attended to family business in Michigan. As well, Artemus knew that Jim West had his own horse, the gleaming Blackjack, with him at the hotel. They could ride together back to the siding and the train once the reports for the Grand Jury were completed.
He pulled back on the reins, halting the brown horse. What was that? As if in response to his mental query, he heard it again. A woman’s voice, a woman crying out for help. The sound emanated from a narrow alley he was almost abreast of. He jumped off the horse, reaching inside his coat for the small pistol secreted there. Almost at the same moment, a shade went up on a window of the building bordering the alley, and light from the lamp inside illuminated the alley scene.
“You there!” Gordon thundered. “Stop! Let her alone!” He saw the man bending over, his back to the alley mouth. Almost hidden, only her skirt hem and feet visible, was a woman, obviously struggling and kicking mightily against her assailant.
The woman cried out again as her attacker released her and spun around. Artemus Gordon froze. He saw a face contorted with rage and hatred. The man took advantage of Artie’s astonishment to grab a large rock, hurling it toward the alley mouth. Artie threw himself to one side as the missile flew by his head and crashed on the pavement behind him. The woman’s attacker dashed by him and sprinted down the darkened street.
Artie recovered somewhat. “Stop! Jim! Stop!” he yelled. “Jim!”
“What’s going on? What happened?” A man in a nightshirt and robe emerged through the front door of the shop where the light had appeared, a sawed-off shotgun gripped in both hands.
That and the whimpering of the woman lying in a crumpled heap deep in the alley brought Gordon back to the moment. He hurried to her, kneeling down. In the light through the window, he saw she was young, attractive, with curly blonde hair, and attired in rather common clothes. Her apron suggested she might be a waitress of some sort. Going home late at night after her shift ended?
“It’s all right,” Artemus soothed, carefully putting his arm under her shoulder. “You’ll be all right now.”
“What happened?” the storekeeper demanded again. “Another one? Did he try to get another one?”
The woman recovered to some extent now. At least enough climb to her feet with Gordon’s assistance, and to cry out in a tremulous voice, “Send for the police! Get the police! He tried to kill me!”
Artemus Gordon attempted to make sense of what he had just witnessed, torn between chasing after the man he had seen and remaining to assist the victim. In the end, he remained, only partially because he knew that the assailant was well out of reach. Besides… I know where to find him… My God! Jim!
When the police arrived, the young woman was ensconced in the living quarters behind the tobacco shop, with the owner’s wife serving her tea and words of comfort. She had refused the offer to send for a physician, insisting she was fine now. No broken bones, only some bruises suffered in the assault. She had told Artie her name, Betty Blake, and indeed, she was employed as a waitress in the restaurant of the very hotel that had been Artemus Gordon’s destination. Her evening’s work finished, she had been on her way home, when a man grabbed her from the alley, putting a hand over her face to keep her from crying out. He had then tried to throttle her, but she had managed to scream.
“Same as the others,” the storekeeper growled. “You’re a lucky young lady, miss. Lucky indeed.” He looked at Gordon. “You know the fellow?”
Artie was saved from answering immediately because the police got there. He was unsure whether to be relieved to see that the sergeant in charge was a man known to both him and Jim West. Lloyd Morris greeted him affably, then spoke to the woman. She repeated the portion of the story concerning what had happened, and then added what Artie had hoped she would not.
“He knows him. Mr. Gordon, I mean. He called him by name.”
Morris looked at Artie questioningly, and the agent shrugged. “Well… I’m not exactly sure…”
“Who did you think it might be?” Morris inquired. He was a stocky man with curly black hair and clear blue eyes, in his middle thirties.
“Jim,” the storekeeper supplied as Artie hesitated. “He yelled, ‘stop, Jim.’ I’m sure of that.”
The uniformed sergeant’s eyes widened, aghast. “Jim? Artemus… you don’t mean…”
Artie held out a pleading hand. “It was dark, Lloyd. I’m… he was… he looked something like… Jim.” Something! The man was an identical twin, even to the short-jacketed blue suit and shiny black boots! But it couldn’t be.
“Where is Jim West?”
“He… he should be at the Avalon Hotel.” Artie was careful not to look at Betty Blake.
“Oh my goodness! Yes! Sergeant! I know him! He eats in the restaurant sometimes! I didn’t realize… I didn’t think… he’s always so nice…” The young woman put her hands up to her bruised throat.
A uniformed patrolman entered from the store to report that the men sent out to search for the attacker were unsuccessful, although they did talk to two people who indicated a man had run by on foot… in the direction of the Avalon Hotel. Morris took the information, his frown growing ever more serious.
“Artie, have you been staying there too?”
“No. I mean, I have a room there, but I had to go east to attend to some family business before I had an opportunity to spend a night there. Jim and I were supposed to be in the city together, working on a report to the Grand Jury.”
Morris nodded. “The opium ring.”
“Yes. However, when this personal stuff came up, Jim volunteered to stay and get it done. I took the train back home—and thought I would be just a couple of days. However, I’ve been gone ten days. Just arrived back this evening. Lloyd… there’s been other murders?”
“Three,” the sergeant confirmed grimly. “All within the last week. Young women who were out alone, late at night, like Miss Blake. The other three were not so fortunate as she was. They were strangled… with the man’s bare hands. Until now, there has not been a witness, let alone a survivor. Artie… Jim?”
“No. There’s some rational explanation, Lloyd. I’m very tired. My… my vision probably isn’t what it should be.”
“I’d recognize him,” Betty Blake said staunchly. “In fact, I’m sure it was Mr. West. He’s not a man a girl easily forgets.”
But you did, until I reminded you, Artie thought miserably. Likely she would have remembered eventually. “I’ll go talk to Jim,” he said hopefully.
Morris shook his head. “We’ll both go. And Miss Blake, if you feel up to it…”
“Oh, I do! I surely do! He’s a bloodthirsty murderer! He needs to be arrested and hung! And I’m the girl to see to it! Imagine him flirting with me like he did, then trying to murder me!” She jumped up off the sofa, newly invigorated with rage and righteousness. Artemus could not blame her. She had come to close to losing her life. But… Jim West? That wasn’t possible!
He had absolutely no choice. Artemus Gordon rode alongside the police wagon, with the sergeant and Miss Blake on the seat, and two patrolmen inside. He kept reliving the moment in his mind, the instant when the man had turned, fully illuminated by the lamplight, at least illuminated enough to be seen clearly. You know his face better than you know your own. Artemus. It was him. Or a doppelganger! But how could that be? Jim West was not a murderer. He would not attack and strangle young women…
Artemus hated the other thoughts that kept trying to creep insidiously into his head. Jim had been tired and under stress. They both had come off an arduous trek during which they tracked down some opium smugglers from San Francisco to Reno, then brought those men back to be charged. Two men had been killed in the process, one of the smugglers, and the other a Washoe County deputy sheriff who had been a long-time friend of Jim West’s. Artemus knew his partner experienced some guilt that Toby had been along on the hunt; Toby Walsh had volunteered because of Jim’s presence in the investigation.
The San Francisco judge in charge had then contacted Colonel Richmond and requested that the two agents be assigned to report all their findings to the Grand Jury. Several prominent, if not completely respectable, citizens were suspected of being involved in the smuggling, and the judge wanted an indictment.
For two days, the two men had testified, after which they were asked to put all their information in writing. That was when Artemus received word from Michigan that his presence was needed to help settle some family matters, having been appointed executor of the estate of an uncle who passed away several months ago. Jim had immediately insisted his partner answer the summons, taking their special train while he booked rooms for them in the hotel. Although he himself hated the report writing, he could handle it. The judge had given them a pretty fair deadline. More than likely, Jim would have the bare-bones written out by the time Artemus returned, and Gordon could then, in his inimitable style, flesh it out.
When Gordon realized that matters in Michigan were not going to be cleared up as swiftly as he had hoped—two cousins were battling—he had wired Jim West and received the response that all was well. Jim said he was coping. Don’t rush. Artemus knew his partner well enough to have read between the lines. Jim West had been damn tired of reading and writing and wanted some help!
The night clerk’s sleepy eyes popped open when three uniformed police officers entered the lobby. Yes, he said, as far as he knew, Mr. West was in his room. He had not been seen since dinner. What was the problem? His queries were ignored as the party headed up the stairs to the second floor.
Artie knew he had no choice but to lead Morris directly the door of the room next to the one that was still reserved as his own. The hallway was dim, with only a small lamp burning on a wall sconce, but light glowed from under the door of Jim’s room. Artie was unsure whether that was good or bad. Ordinarily, he might have simply walked in. This night he knocked. Then knocked again.
“I heard someone,” Morris said, putting his head to the door. Artie knew the sergeant had been close to ordering his men to break in.
The door opened, and Jim West stood there, surprise and confusion on his face. He was in his shirtsleeves, his hair tousled, darkened jaws revealing the need for a shave, which would ordinarily take place in a few hours. He looked as though he had just awakened from a deep sleep, though apparently had not gone to bed.
“Artie…” he said, looking from his partner to the policeman at Gordon’s shoulder. “Hello, Lloyd. What’s going on?” Jim spotted the young woman, then, and turned to grab his jacket from the back of a nearby chair. “Excuse me. I wasn’t expecting guests.”
“Jim,” Sergeant Morris spoke levelly, “where have you been this evening?”
West’s astonishment increased. “Right here. Why? What’s going on? Artie?”
Gordon wished he could respond, but he knew better. This was a police matter. A serious police matter. He found himself staring at his partner’s handsome face. Yes, that was the face he had seen in the alley. Even the light shadow of whiskers…
Morris looked around at the woman. “Miss Blake? Is this the man?”
She took a step forward, anger and some hurt in her expression. “Yes. I’d know him anywhere. Mr. West, how could you? You always seemed so nice…”
“What the hell is going on?” Jim West demanded, the expressions of the countenances of the people facing him, even that of his partner, causing a ripple of fear in his gut, so much so that he momentarily forgot his manners.
“James West,” Morris spoke evenly, though Artemus detected a note of strain in the voice, “I place you under arrest for attempted murder, with the possibility of further charges.” He produced a set of handcuffs.
Jim took a step back, his eyes on Artemus Gordon, waiting for more explanation, waiting for help. Artie stood like a statue, his face almost expressionless, except for the agony in his brown eyes.
“Attempted murder,” Jim echoed then. “What are you talking about? Who did I try to murder?”
“Me!” Betty cried. “I recognized your face, Mr. West! And you killed those other poor girls!”
It hit Jim West then. Although he had been spending a great deal of time—way too much time as far as he was concerned—closed up in this hotel room, he had read the newspapers. “You think… Artie!”
“He saw you!” Betty cried. “He saw you too!”
“Jim,” Artie spoke for the first time, his voice tense, face anxious, “can you prove you’ve been in this room for… oh, the last hour, hour and a half?”
“Only my word,” Jim replied stiffly.
Artemus Gordon saw the anger in his friend, and he noticed how Sergeant Morris hesitated, then seemed to grit his teeth, stepping forward with the manacles. Artie held his breath for an instant, waiting for Jim to make a move. He was not sure he was relieved as he watched Jim lift his arms quietly to receive the handcuffs.
“I’m sorry, Jim,” Lloyd Morris said. “I’m sure this will all be cleared up in short order. But… I have witnesses.”
“Yeah,” Jim snapped. “So I understand.” His green eyes fastened hard on his partner.
Artemus Gordon knew some rules were bent to allow him to sit in on the questioning. He was also aware that because of James West’s official status, as well as his reputation, he was being treated somewhat differently than another suspect might have been. Morris and his superior, Captain Tim Cullen, conducted the interrogation. Cullen was another officer the two agents had worked with in the past, a man who knew and admired Jim West.
Artie had been certain that once the situation was discussed and the questions asked, all would be cleared up. He did not know how to explain his own circumstances, that of recognizing the man in the alley, but he was certain an explanation was there. Jim would clarify it. Artie knew that.
Thus his heart sunk further and further as he listened and heard Jim West state he was not only unable to provide a solid alibi for tonight’s assault, but not for the other three either. In each instance, he stated, he had been in his hotel room, alone. No, he had not seen, or had been seen by, any hotel staff or guest to his knowledge at the late hours the crimes had been committed. As far as he could remember, those other nights had been the same as tonight. He had worked on the reports, and fallen asleep, his head on the desk. That was where he had been when the police—and his partner—knocked on the door.
Jim admitted that he knew Betty Blake from the hotel’s dining area. Yes, he had talked to her, even flirted with her, when she waited his table. Worse, when shown photographs of the other victims, he had to reveal he had spoken to at least one of them, and correctly remembered she had been a clerk in a store where he had purchased some pencils and paper… the day before her death.
What bothered Artemus as much, if not more, than anything else was his partner’s behavior. Jim answered the questions quietly, even dispassionately. He sat on the chair between the captain and the sergeant, arms folded tightly across his chest, with three uniformed officers in the background, and barely moved other than to turn his head slightly toward whichever man spoke. Not once did he look over to where Artemus Gordon was sitting.
He feels betrayed. And who can blame him? I’m his partner, his friend… yet, I cannot discount what I saw. I was tired, but not that tired. I saw James West in that alley. The man who rose and turned toward me after attempting to strangle that young woman was James West. I would have to swear to that in court. Jim knows that.
Captain Cullen got to his feet, and the sergeant and prisoner followed suit. Artie saw how the uniformed guards tensed. They were quite aware of the reputation of the prisoner. Cullen cleared his throat. His face and voice registered his misery. “James West, I have no choice but to place you under formal arrest, charged with attempted murder on the basis of the sworn statement of Miss Elizabeth Blake.” He cleared his throat again. “I expect to receive the statement of another witness as well. The charge may be increased to murder, pending further investigation.”
“You have to do your duty, Tim,” Jim West said softly. He could not bring himself to look at Artemus. He needed desperately to talk to Artie, to find out exactly what he saw, or thought he saw. Artemus Gordon would not take this situation lightly. He knew his responsibility as a law officer and a citizen. Friendship could not enter into it. Artemus would have to swear to what he saw. Right at this moment, however, James West could not face his partner.
WWWWWW
Artemus Gordon felt the tension growing inside him as he followed the guard down the long corridor. Most of the cells in this section were vacant. Lloyd had confided that they thought it best to separate Jim West as far as possible from other prisoners. He was too well known to many of the incarcerated felons. The atmosphere was all that one expected of a jail: dim and dank, with foul odors and scant fresh air. The only light came from narrow gaps at the top of certain cell’s outer wall, and not every cell had a window.
“Around here,” the guard said, turning a corner with a swift stride.
Just one cell was in this niche. Not that it was any better accommodations than others, simply more isolated. It did possess a window at least. Jim West was seated on the lone bunk. He barely glanced up as the keys jangled in the lock. “Give me a holler when you’re ready to leave, Mr. Gordon,” the guard said. “Captain says you’re to have all the time you want.”
“Thank you,” Artie murmured stepping inside. The barred door clanged shut behind him.
Jim did not move. He had his elbows on his knees, and appeared to be staring at a particular spot on the floor. He still had not shaved, his strong jaw even more shadowed, and his usually immaculately groomed hair was still awry. The two-toned gray jail garb was not exactly his accustomed sartorial splendor.
“Jim.”
Only now did Jim West shift his gaze, though he barely moved, only lifting his chin slightly. “Hello, Artie. Nice to see you. Get everything taken care of back home?”
“Jim!” Artemus sat down beside him, put a hand on West’s arm. “Jim, I had to. I had no choice. I yelled your name and the girl and the storekeeper heard me. Then she remembered you from the hotel.”
Jim West expelled a long sigh and finally looked directly at Artie. He was not being fair, he knew. “I know, Artie. I know. I just… don’t understand it.”
“I don’t either, partner, but we’re going to get to the bottom of it. Think of all the things that have happened to us in the past. Loveless tried it. Dr. Faustina had me believing you were dead, blown up in the same explosion that killed the cabinet members.”
“Another double?” Jim said, doubt on his face and in his voice. “Dr. Faustina is probably dead.” She at least had dropped out of sight. He did not want to venture a guess about Loveless. The little professor had fooled them into believing in his demise too many times.
“I know. All I know, Jim, and I’ll put it to you straight, is that I got a damn good look at the man attacking Betty Blake. That man had your face, your body, your clothes…. The only reason he escaped was because I was so flabbergasted. I couldn’t move.”
“Sounds like a double,” Jim said after a moment. “But…”
Artie did not like that word. “But what?”
Jim abruptly got up, walked to the bars, and turned back. “Four times, Artie. Four times, I really have no conclusive memory, and no proof, of where I was.”
“You were sleeping…” Artie stood up as well.
“Yes, so it seems. That’s not all though.”
“Go on.”
“I kept… losing things. Losing time.”
“Jim, for God’s sake, what are you talking about?”
Jim did not answer, turning toward the bars again, head thingyed. Artie heard it too: footsteps. Someone was coming. Several people by the sounds. They waited, and after a moment Captain Cullen, Sergeant Morris, the jailer, and another man appeared. Jim stepped back toward the bunk as the jailer unlocked the door to admit the other three before he closed it again. At a nod from Cullen, the jailer disappeared.
“How are you doing, Jim?” the captain inquired.
“Oh, terrific, Tim. Great accommodations here. I don’t know when I’ve had a more luxurious suite, or better food.” Jim’s tone was dry; his eyes were on the civilian who had accompanied the two officers. Cullen saw that.
“Jim, Artie, this is Dr. Webster Raleigh. He has been of invaluable service to us in the investigation of these murders. In fact, he was quite correct in his prediction of who the culprit would be.”
“What does that mean?” Artemus demanded. He stared at the rather slender middle-aged man. Dr. Webster sported a neatly trimmed beard, mostly gray now, as was his slicked back hair. He wore gold-rimmed glasses. His attire was that of a professional man, a superbly tailored brown suit with striped trousers and snowy-white shirt and collar, a diamond stickpin in the perfectly folded ascot.
“That means, Mr. Gordon,” Raleigh spoke smoothly, “I envisaged the murderer as a young man with an impeccable reputation, but one who was accustomed to a life of violence. He gives the impression of being fond of, and popular with, the ladies, while in fact a deep hatred of women is buried within him. I predicted that a latent insanity dwelt in him, one that was just now coming to the fore, perhaps brought on by a stress of some form. I predicted that he might deny the murders on the basis of the fact that he does not remember committing them… yet he would have no memory of his activities during the times the killings were perpetrated.”
Artemus Gordon tried to find something to say, but his throat seemed paralyzed. He saw that Jim West was equally stunned. The doctor’s description fit James West perfectly, at least the part about the reputation and the life that involved violence. Artie finally asked, somewhat inanely, “What kind of doctor are you?”
Raleigh turned pale gray eyes on him. “I am what is known as a psychiatrist, or possibly you could call me an alienist. I study the human mind, human behavior. I’ve done a great deal of research on criminals, and I’ve come to the conclusion that I can describe the perpetrator of a crime—and, in particular, a series of crimes—by using a program, if you will, that I’ve developed. I must admit that this is the first time I’ve gone public with my hypothesis. I felt I had to help find the killer before any more young women were killed. I have a daughter myself.”
“You’re saying,” Jim spoke slowly, in a low, even tone, “that I… that the killer blacked out during the crimes?”
“Yes, in essence. Chances are the blackout occurred in his home—or in your case, your hotel room—and upon awakening in the same place, you believed you had simply fallen asleep, with no recollection of having left your room, the hotel… or of what you did.”
“That… that can’t be admissible in any court!” Artemus protested.
The doctor shrugged. “Perhaps not. Not in this day and age. Too much ignorance abounds. But it doesn’t really matter, does it? Two witnesses saw Mr. West attacking the young woman last evening.” His gaze fastened on Artemus Gordon. “Even if it’s never proven he murdered the others, he certainly faces a prison term. And the end of an illustrious career.”
“Doctor Raleigh,” Captain Cullen put his hand on the man’s arm. “Perhaps we should go.”
Artemus saw that the policeman was uncomfortable with the doctor’s statements, perhaps especially because Raleigh’s tone had been rising in vehemence. Raleigh looked around, and suddenly seemed chagrined.
“Forgive me, gentlemen. And you, Mr. West. I’m afraid I got caught up in my own rhetoric. As I mentioned, I have a daughter, only slightly older than the poor victims of this savagery. But this is America, is it not? You are innocent until proven guilty. I shall follow the case with interest.”
Artemus remained as the other three departed. He stood by the cell bars for a long moment, then turned. Jim had his back to the bars, facing the cot, arms folded across his chest, head down. “Jim…”
“Did I do it, Artie?”
Artemus Gordon very nearly answered in platitudes, expressing his faith in his partner. He suddenly realized, however, that was not what Jim West was asking. He heard the tension and anguish in the voice, and he saw the fear in the hunch of the shoulders. Artie put a hand on one of those shoulders.
“No, Jim. That’s not the kind of man you are. I don't know who this Raleigh is, but he’s dead wrong where you are concerned.”
Jim West took strength from his partner’s touch and voice. He turned around. “I can’t figure it out. Why those particular nights? I mean, I worked late other nights but didn’t fall asleep.”
Artie sat down on the bunk, looking up. “Jim, did you meet or talk to any people—especially strangers—while I was gone?”
Jim had to laugh, sitting down as well. “No, mama, I didn’t talk to strangers.” Then he sobered, and shook his head. “I probably said hello to people in the hotel, conversed briefly with the staff. You know, the weather, what was fresh on the menu in the restaurant. The only people I talked to at any length were Judge Anderson and Mr. Wright from the District Attorney’s office. We discussed what was going into the report.”
“You didn’t stay in the hotel room the entire time I was gone.”
“No, of course not. I had supper at the Anderson home twice, and attended the opera with Mr. and Mrs. Wright and their lovely daughter. Went for a few walks. Had a drink or two in the hotel bar and elsewhere. Took a ride out to the ocean, near Stinson Beach, one day to clear my head. I also worked hard on the reports. But Artie…”
Gordon gazed at his friend’s troubled expression. “What is it?”
“I lost some of it.”
“Lost what?”
“It’s crazy. When I told Judge Anderson, he said I’d probably dreamed it. A couple of times I was certain I’d written several pages… but the next morning, they weren’t there. I… I realize now that that happened the nights… of the murders.”
“It’s possible you did dream writing it, Jim. You were under a lot of stress. I apologize again for leaving you alone so long.”
Jim gazed at his friend a moment. “Artie. It’s not your fault. Even if… it’s not your fault.”
“You are not a murderer, James West. I know that. There’s an explanation for this. Always is. We’ve been through some strange situations, some that seemed inexplicable to begin with.”
“But we always explained them,” Jim nodded. He wanted to feel encouraged. Listening to that doctor describe the man behind the murders… He described me, yet not me. But why do I have this sense, this shadowy feeling, that he could be right? This was something Jim was not ready to mention to his partner yet. The dreamlike memories, fleeting bits that were real but unreal at the same time.
“And we’ll explain this,” Artemus said firmly. “Notice I said ‘we’.”
Jim smiled briefly. “Not sure how much help I’m going to be.” He nodded toward the strong bars that enclosed the cell. This particular city jail had a reputation for being escape-proof. Buried deep under the large building that housed city offices, including the police department, getting in was far easier than getting out.
Artie got to his feet. “I’ve got an idea about that. I am going need your help figuring this out, Jim. I can’t do it alone. We always worked better in tandem.”
Jim West looked up at him. “I agree. But… hell, Artie, you try blowing this door and a hundred cops would be down here before we could get ten feet!”
Artemus chuckled. “I know. That’s why I’m thinking of looking for Jailhouse Joe.”
“Jail… why?”
“Leave it to me. I think he’s perfect for the situation. Just hang tight, James. Get some rest if you can, hard as it may be. Don’t worry too much. Oh, by the way, I think I should send a lawyer to see you. Today if possible.”
Jim was baffled. “Pal, you are talking in riddles.”
“Chances are I won’t be back until tomorrow. Take me that long to get things lined up. Cullen will wonder why the best lawyer in the city hasn’t been hired. So I’ll see if Patricia Blackstone is available.”
“Now you’ve brightened my day considerably.”
“I thought it would. Just remember, she’s going to be here officially. And this jail cell is not exactly a dimly lit café.” Artie winked.
Now Jim West had to laugh. “I’ll remember.” Patricia was a very lovely, highly intelligent woman who was devoted to her profession. Not so much so, however, that she had not had time for a brief fling with Jim a couple of years ago. They had remained close friends.
Artemus went to the bars to yell for the jailer, then turned back to Jim, his face sober now. “Something tells me you aren’t revealing all, Jim. I hope it’s not because you don’t trust me.”
Jim got to his feet quickly, stricken. “Artemus, no. It’s more…it’s some things I have to sort out in my head. I think it’ll be easier to talk about them away from this establishment.”
“Then we’d better see that that happens soon. Ah, here is the fine turnkey. I’ll be taking my leave. Be sure to take good care of my friend, jailer.”
“I already got them orders,” the man scowled. Obviously he was not in favor of special treatment for any prisoner, regardless of friendships and past reputations.
Thus Artemus Gordon was delighted, the following morning, when he found a different guard on duty, one who had evinced a bit more sympathy toward Jim West the night Jim was incarcerated. The man gazed at the shriveled, white-haired man clinging to Gordon’s arm and Artie smiled gently.
“This is Mr. West’s grandfather. Imagine his horror last night when he arrived in town to learn that his beloved grandson was in jail, and on such a heinous charge. I was afraid he was going to suffer apoplexy. But he’s bucked up, haven’t you, Grandpa West?”
“Wanna see my Jimmy,” the old man muttered, his words being almost swallowed by the heavy knit scarf wrapped around his neck and into which his chin was buried almost to his nose. “My poor boy, my poor boy…” His voice broke off in a choking sob.
Artie saw the expression on the guard’s face. Indeed, here was a sensitive man. “It’s really heart-wrenching, isn’t it? The only way I could get him to rest last night was to promise he could see Jimmy… Jim… this morning. It’s all right isn’t it?”
“Oh, yes, Mr. Gordon. I got me an old grandpappy too. I know the old fellow would just about keel over and die if something like this happened to me. Come on. Come on, Granddad. You can see your boy. It ain’t a pleasant place to be, but we’re taking care of him, best we can. Come on. Don’t trip on the sill there.” He gently took the old man’s other arm.
Jim heard the voices approaching and wondered a little, because he did not notice the usual crisp steps, the clicking of hard heels on the stone floor, as usually occurred, even when merely a guard bringing his meal or coming to look in on him. The voices were approaching at a very slow pace, as well.
As they neared, he was sure he recognized Artemus’s voice, and was puzzled further. Was he having a leisurely stroll and conversation with someone. No feminine voice, so Patricia was not in the party. The lovely attorney’s visit late yesterday had been a welcome diversion, but also a reminder of the difficulty he was in. Patricia had talked to not only Artemus but also Captain Cullen and Sergeant Morris, so she knew the particulars. She had not been able to offer a great deal of hope.
Jim West came to his feet slowly, gaping with an open mouth as the three men appeared around the corner, the two younger, taller men appearing to support the frail, hunched over man with the masses of white hair under a derby hat, bearded face buried in a muffler.
“Jim!” Artie cried cheerfully, “look who’s come to see you, all the way from Boise! Your dear Grandpa West!”
All Jim’s willpower was required to prevent himself from bursting out laughing, despite realizing the seriousness of the situation. What in the world was Artemus Gordon up to? All he could do was play along. He moved quickly to the bars, gripping them with tight fists. “Grandpa! Oh Grandpa! I don’t want you to see me like this!”
The old man mumbled something, Artie patted his shoulder as the guard opened the door. “We know, grandpa, we know. There now. There’s your boy that you came all this way to see. How about a big hug, Jim!”
“Careful, West,” Jailhouse Joe muttered, “you’ll break my ribs!”
Jim West buried his face in the scarf as well, needing to disguise his own laughter. His shoulders must have been shaking, for Artie spoke up with deep solicitation in his voice, “Oh dear, this is so emotional, isn’t it? Guard, you can go back to your post. I’ll wait out here, to give them some time alone. I’ll call when you’re needed.”
The guard unashamedly wiped moisture from his face, smiled weakly, then locked the cell door behind the old man before hurrying back to his post. Perhaps a half hour later he heard Gordon’s call echoing down the hallways, and strode back, determined this time to retain his composure. He was unsure just why the thought of this poor old man visiting his grandson had affected him so. Perhaps it had been just remembering his own grandpa, who was so proud of his jailer grandson. Imagine having a grandson with the reputation of James West, and then learning the beloved lad was a murderer!
When he reached the cell, Gordon was standing out side the cell, at the bars, apparently trying to convince the old man the time to leave was nigh. The prisoner was laying on the bunk, his face buried in his arms, and obviously weeping, while his grandparent stood over him, patting his shoulder, talking softly.
“It’s been awful,” Artemus said in a choked voice. “Awful. The poor old man doesn’t really understand… I’d better get him back to the hotel. I should have stayed in there with them…” He wiped his sleeve across his eyes.
As soon as the door was opened, Artie slipped inside, going to put his arm around the old man’s shoulders. “Come along, Grandpa West. It’s time to go now. You can come back and see your Jimmy later. He…he needs to rest.”
The old man muttered something, obviously a protest, as he resisted being pulled away. Gordon cajoled him with his voice and urged him with his arms. The jailer found himself coming close to losing control again. To see the great Jim West sobbing on the bunk was almost too much, and the grief of the old man… He locked the door as soon as Artemus Gordon propelled the shriveled old fellow through the door.
“I’ve got to get back to my post, Mr. Gordon. You can manage?” He knew that if he remained in the company of the old fellow, he would lose it entirely.
“Surely, surely. We’ll be along. I’d appreciate if you’d make certain my hack is still waiting at the alley door. I want to get him back to his hotel room as soon as possible. Might even summon a doctor. This has been… I never should have allowed him to talk me into it!”
“Artemus, my admiration for your fortitude grows deeper every day,” Jim West said, settling back in the hack. “This damn thing itches!” He reached for the mass of white whiskers cemented to his chin.
Artie grabbed his arm. “Not yet. You should wear them awhile longer. I booked us a room in a boarding house down near the docks.”
“Sheila Casey?”
“Sheila Casey. The soul of discretion and absolutely devoted to you after what you did for Liam. She’s all ready for both of us.”
Jim took a deep breath. Good to breathe free air again, away from the stench of those cells. “How the hell did you talk Jailhouse Joe into it? He’s going to serve some time for aiding and abetting!”
Gordon laughed. “That’s the whole point, Jim. You know why he’s called Jailhouse Joe.”
“Yeah, I guess I do.” Jim shook his head. They had encountered the lowlife on several previous occasions, and he had usually been a damn nuisance because Joe did everything possible to get arrested. The agents knew that the San Francisco Police Department ignored Joe as much as possible, quite aware that he was extremely fond of living at the taxpayer’s expense. “How far can he be trusted?”
“A hundred bucks far. He knows it’s waiting for him in a specific hiding place, but if I hear he’s betrayed us in any way, shape, or form, that little cache will disappear before he’s released. He’s got five bucks in his pocket right now, and he’ll tell the cops that that was what he was paid for his impersonation and participation.”
“You know that you could be arrested as well now.”
“I know. I’ve had worse threats hanging over my head. All that’s important is that you are out of there, and we can work together. And I got some other information.”
“Artie, before we go into that, there’s something I need to tell you. You might want to take me back to jail.”
Gordon gazed at his friend’s somber face. “All right. Spill.”
“I told you how I fell asleep in the evenings, how I seemed to have lost work that I completed.”
“Yeah, go on.”
“Also… I can remember snatches of… I thought they were dreams. I have memories of walking, alone, on darkened streets.”
“That’s all they were, Jim. Dreams. Stop thinking like that. You did not murder those women.” Artie thought a moment. “Jim, I talked to the hotel staff. I was told that you had a standing order for coffee to delivered to you around 9 o’clock every night you were working.”
“Yeah. I needed it. Why… you’re thinking it was drugged?” Jim West absently scratched at the pasted-on beard. “As though…”
“As though someone wanted to make sure not only that you did not have any memory of a specific few hours, but perhaps also that you did not leave your room. I understand the same steward delivered the coffee every time.”
“True,” Jim responded thoughtfully. “Nice young fellow. Named Billy. Good lord! And I never suspected!”
“Billy no longer works at the Avalon Hotel,” Artemus said. “He quit last night after you were arrested.”
“What a surprise. Next question: who is behind it? The opium lords?”
Artie sighed, shaking his head. “That’s my first and best guess. Not entirely in their style though. Murder is in their repertoire, but they don’t usually rely on something so iffy as having you convicted and hanged for murder.”
“Yeah, I agree. Still, it could be that they are attempting to divert suspicion from themselves. If either of us was assassinated, the law would head straight for them.”
“But here’s something else, and I don’t know how much weight to give it. While I was searching for Jailhouse Joe, I talked to a few people, asked some questions. No one, absolutely no one, has heard of a plot to frame you for murder.”
Jim looked toward the window at the passing scene. He did not want his partner to see how that information disturbed him. Few secrets were kept on the street. Someone was always talking, either for payment or simply to display the power of knowledge. Of course, a few of those talkers were punished for being too garrulous, but somehow that never stopped all the talk. If the leaders of the opium trade had a plot afoot, someone would know about it. Artemus knew as well as he did that many of those snitches had no qualms about talking to the law under the proper circumstances, that is, for payment.
“Of course,” Artemus went on after a moment, “I didn’t talk to everyone. I think that’s what you and I need to do, hit all the saloons and dives around the docks. I was able to get my makeup bag and a few of your clothes out of the hotel, plus I picked up a few items at second-hand stores, so I can work up other disguises. We’re both going to need them.”
“Yeah,” Jim concurred in a dull tone. “I suppose that’s a good idea.”
“Jim!” Artemus Gordon grabbed his partner’s arm. “Stop it! Stop doubting yourself. You are not a murderer.”
Jim turned his eyes away from the window, looked directly at Artemus. “You saw… me, Artie.”
Artie sighed. “I saw someone who looked like you. That means nothing. We both know that. We’re going to get to the bottom of it, Jim.”
“Yeah.”
Sheila Casey’s once fiery hair had faded with the years, but her green eyes were glowing and full of tears as she embraced the disguised young agent. “When I read the newspaper, James, I was so angry. How could they think that of you?”
Jim hugged her back. He may have saved her son’s life, but she had also done him and Artie a great favor at the same time, giving them a sanctuary for a completely different reason a few years ago. “Where’s Liam these days?”
She beamed. “At the university in Berkeley! He’ll be graduating next year. And then he’s going to be a doctor!”
“That’s wonderful!” Artie enthused. “I’m sure Jim and I will avail ourselves of his services one day, sooner or later.”
Sheila laughed. “You two! Artemus, you know where the rooms are. Get yourself settled then come down and I’ll have a hot meal ready. And James, do remove that horrible stuff so I can see your handsome face and green eyes.” She had long claimed Jim West as a surrogate son, partially based on the fact that he possessed the same green eyes as her own son.
By the time they came back downstairs, Jim was feeling quite a bit better. Partly that lift in his mood was due to getting the fake hair and gunk off his face, and changing into the clothing Artemus had brought, including his spare boots, complete with the hollowed heels in which special weapons could be secreted. His attire was not one of his natty suits, but rough denim trousers and knit shirt, similar to what was worn by men who hung around the docks, working on land or on the ships. But it was not a jail uniform.
The primary reason for his elevated frame of mind came from a small incident that just happened. He had been at the mirror hanging over the dresser, using the acetate Artemus provided to clean the adhesive off his face, when his partner came to the open door in the wall between their rooms. Artie made the simple request to borrow Jim’s shaving soap; he had somehow missed grabbing his own. When Jim turned and tossed the bar toward him, Artemus very nearly dropped it, his mouth and eyes gaping open in sudden revelation.
“James! He was left-handed!”
Jim was bemused. “Who was?”
“The fellow in the alley. He threw a rock at me… with his left hand! Accurately too. Barely missed my head. Would not have been fatal, but it surely would not have felt particularly good. You are right-handed.”
“Yeah, I am.” Jim West could not help but smile with this revelation and experience great relief. He had not been entirely aware of just how many self doubts had been hiding deep in his mind. While such information was not definite proof, because the man could have simply grabbed and hurled the rock with his left hand because it was nearest that hand, chances were very good that a lob with the “wrong hand” would have more likely been wild, well off the mark. Perhaps now he could finally get rid of the ugly thought that kept echoing in his brain: Like father, like son.
After a hearty meal in Sheila Casey’s kitchen, accompanied by the warm concern evinced by their landlady as well as more information on her scholar son, the pair returned to their rooms, where Artemus applied his special skill to transform their facial features. Jim strongly declined the beard his partner wanted to provide him with, settling for a dark mustache that trailed over his mouth, some padding to his eyebrows, and a couple of scars that distorted his features slightly.
“Wish I had a means to change eye color,” Artie fretted as he stepped back to appraise his handiwork. “I don’t think anyone would recognize you simply based on your eyes, but if anyone was suspicious…” He shook his head. “Don’t suppose you’d pose as a blind man and wear dark glasses.”
Jim laughed. “No, I don’t think that would work very well. It’ll be pretty dim in most of the dives. I’ll just make a habit of not looking anyone directly in the eyes.”
As they prepared to leave the Casey home, their landlady had fretful warnings for them. “I’m sure by now your escape has been noted, James. That poor Joe could not have lain on the bunk all day! It might even be in the papers by now.”
“I wouldn’t doubt that at all,” Artie confirmed. “But don’t worry, Sheila. We have a pretty good idea of what we’re doing. I have no doubt the authorities are watching our hotel to see if we come back for our horses, and also the railroad cars on the siding at the South Pacific depot. I don’t plan on going near either of those places at the moment.”
“We are going to need to try to find Billy,” Jim reminded his partner as they left the house and strolled toward the docks, trying to imitate the swagger of a seaman. Jim had donned a black knitted watchcap, pulling it down over his ears and forehead somewhat, while Artie wore a flat porkpie hat perched atop a wig of wildly curly reddish-brown hair that matched his equally out-of-control beard.
“I know,” Artemus concurred, jamming his hands into the large pockets of his pea jacket. The small gun also in one of those pockets was very comforting to the touch. “I have his last name—Burgins—but was not able to find out where he lived. I’m thinking of calling on the hotel again tomorrow, looking for my long-lost nephew.”
“I want to go back there.”
“Jim, that’s not a good idea!”
“In one of your incomparable disguises, of course. Artie, I didn’t pay a whole lot of attention to the people around me over this last week. I mean, I wasn’t looking for trouble. Stupid, in retrospect, but I was so damned tied up in that damned report…”
Artie patted his arm. “I understand. Believe me, I understand. I’m more sorry than ever that I was called away. Which is interesting, when you think about it. That was a sudden and unexpected summons I received. No one could have planned on you being alone for any length of time.”
“Hmm. Yes, I see what you mean. Sounds like someone has had their eyes on us for awhile. That’s the type of planning the opium lords are not particularly well-known for. They would leap on the moment, so to speak, not watch for weeks—perhaps months in this case—waiting for the right circumstances. We come to San Francisco fairly often, but not regularly. I would have thought that if Chang Lee and Big Jake were going to have done something, it would have been a few weeks back, when we were here digging into their business dealings and before we took off after the boys heading for Reno.”
“As well,” Artie put in, “seems to me he… they… whoever… wanted you to be alone. That does not occur often, and would not have had Uncle Borden had not chosen to put some very unusual conditions in his will, one being that his sons must accept the terms or lose their legacy. When both boys protested, it became a case for a Solomon, which I certainly am not. Uncle Borden didn’t provide for such a situation, though I suspect he suspected his sons would misbehave in some manner—they always have—and put me in the middle of it.”
“I still can’t believe that name,” Jim said in some wonderment. “Borden? Borden Gordon?”
Artie sighed noisily. “What do you expect in a family that bestows the name ‘Artemus’ on one of their own?”
“Yeah. I see what you mean. But getting back to the subject at hand, who would have had the ability, let alone the motive, to keep track of our appearances in this city?”
“Good question. We don’t always stay at the same hotel. Sometimes we don’t even use a hotel. So it has to be someone who was making a point to watch us. Someone very patient, obviously. Someone who had the means to create a double, and perhaps keep him under wraps until the right occasion.”
They paused on a street corner to allow a beer wagon to lumber by. Artie glanced around, then jabbed Jim in the side with his elbow. “We made the evening edition.”
Jim followed his gaze and saw the stack of newspapers on the sidewalk next to the lad doling them out for pennies. The headline was quite visible: Murderer Escapes City Jail! “So much for a fair trial,” he murmured.
Artemus casually wandered over to fetch one of the papers, tossing a coin to the boy. He tucked the folded edition under his arm, though he was dying to read what had been said about the brilliant breakout. He hoped the poor sympathetic jailer was not severely punished. With any luck, when this was all over, he could intercede for the fellow. After all, he had been duped by the best!
They entered the first tavern they came to, took a table and ordered beer. Jim saw how they were under surveillance by customers and employees alike, and he hoped that was due to them being strangers. The merchant marine community was a relatively small one, and a tight one. Everyone knew everyone else. They worked together on the docks, shipped out together. Newcomers were interlopers until they proved themselves. He and Artie had discussed the story they were going to tell.
Artie casually pored over the news story, hoping that any observers would not notice any extra interest on his part. “At least,” he said, “no reward offered yet. I’m thinking that in at least a few instances, we’re going to need to reveal our true selves to folks we know. Once a reward is in the picture, things might get a little touchy.” He noticed that little was written concerning the ruse used to free the prisoner, either because the police did not want anyone else to emulate it, or because of their own embarrassment. Jailhouse Joe was not mentioned.
The paper also, with great moral fervor, warned respectable young women to not be out after dark alone, if they valued their lives as well as their virtue. West and Gordon had discussed the prospect that, with the “murderer” at large, the perpetrator would be free to strike again, and probably would, to solidify the frame.
“Then we’d better cover a lot of ground tonight, and split up,” Jim stated.
“I don’t like that idea, Jim.”
“I’m a big boy, Artemus. I can look after myself.”
“Yeah? Look what happened last time I left you on your own.” Artie thingyed his head and gazed at his friend.
Jim winced. “Touché. But time is of the essence, as the old saying goes. We need information, and we need it fast. Before the cops get wind of a couple of nosy strangers asking questions about the opium lords and a frame-up. Lloyd Morris is a sharp cookie. He’ll add it up pronto.”
They finished their beers, shook hands like friends parting, and went their separate ways, after having determined which streets and dockside joints each would take so as not to duplicate efforts. Neither could make any specific plans or promises about whether or not to reveal their identities. As Artie had mentioned, doing so might be necessary when talking to persons they had past acquaintance with. All they could do was agree to meet on a specific corner at midnight.
Artemus was there first, feeling more than a little frustrated with the evening’s efforts. The fact that Jim was late did not help at all. He leaned against a wall, watching passersby, half expecting a police wagon to come flying around the corner at any moment. He had not noticed more than a usual police presence in the area, so it would seem that Captain Cullen and Sergeant Morris had not considered that the escapee and his accomplice would head for the waterfront area. Not yet at least.
He breathed a sigh of relief when he noted a familiar figure climbing the hill toward the corner. Jim was staggering a bit, and Artie hoped that was an act. He did not step out to meet his partner, waited until he had passed, and then strolled along behind. A half a block up, Jim ducked into an alley between a café and a hardware store. Artie followed.
Very little light crept in from the lamppost on the street. “Jim?”
“Right here,” a voice spoke almost beside him, causing Artemus to jump slightly.
“You all right?” Jim sounded normal; not inebriated at least.
“Yeah. But I gave the appearance of having downed quite a few during the course of the evening, so I thought I should act like I had… just in case.”
“Think someone was watching?” Artie’s eyes were beginning to adjust to the darkness, enough that he saw the grimace on his partner’s disguised face.
“I don't know,” Jim said. “Just… one of those feelings. You know? I never saw anyone, especially no one I knew, watching. But it was there. You learn anything?”
“Oh yeah. Lots.” Artemus’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “Especially that there’s still no information out there involving you, or me, for that matter. I even ran into Fat Maggie. Now if she doesn’t know, who does? You?”
“Same. I had to reveal myself twice, but all the other times I was able to just strike up a conversation, or I pretended to be a city cop working undercover, looking for the escaped murderer, James West. Pretty weird hearing what some of those nice folks had to say about me. Artie, did you know we’re not exactly popular down here?” Mock disbelief was in his tone.
Artie clapped him on the shoulder. “Bear up, old chap. I know it was difficult. I’m sure you had trouble biting back the tears.”
Jim West chuckled dryly. “Yeah. Well, shall we head for our suite at the Casa Casey? That bed is going to feel a whole lot better than the one I had last night.”
“And tomorrow we’ll see what we can learn about young Billy. I have a strong hunch he’s important in all of this.”
“Considering the fact that he likely knowingly served me drugged coffee, I’d venture to agree with you, Artemus.”
“Thus he will know who hired him to serve you that drugged coffee. He’s damned important, Jim. I have a feeling we’d better find him as soon as possible.”
WWWWWW