The Night of Death for Sale - Part 1

[California gal]

THE NIGHT OF DEATH FOR SALE

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Chapter One

Sometimes there are accidents in our lives the skillful extraction from which
demands a little folly. – La Rochefoucauld (1613-1680), French author

Artemus Gordon made his way through the crowded saloon toward the bar, aiming for that spot primarily because the gleaming mirror behind the bar would give him a good view of the patrons, whom he could then surreptitiously survey. He noticed a few curious glances cast in his direction. These kinds of places generally had a set clientele, the same patrons coming in week after week, if not night after night. A stranger would be noticed, and they were noticing him.

Which was why he had selected his disguise carefully. He and his partner had worked frequently in San Francisco, and the odds he could be recognized as an agent would have been high if he had not donned the dark whiskers and overshadowing eyebrows. He had pasted sideburns that needed trimming on either side of his face, and mussed his hair, which also could have used the services of a barber. He had deliberately not availed himself of that amenity upon arriving in the city by the bay. Cotton stuffed in his cheeks not only puffed his jaw out, but helped him change his manner of speaking. He was wearing an old jacket picked up at a second-hand store, a size too large, his trousers were mended, and old boots run down at the heel.

Funny, no matter how long I’ve been doing this, how many times I’ve looked in a mirror to see a stranger looking back at me, knowing that it’s me I’m looking at, it’s always startling. I suppose that means it’s a good disguise if it fools even me!

Sipping the beer the bartender had served after his nod, Artie allowed his gaze to idly roam over the reflection in the mirror. Almost every table was occupied by several men, with a few women interspersed here and there. A man was playing a piano in the far corner, but the hum of conversation, along with some occasional loud laughter, pretty much covered the musical sounds. He did not see any faces he recognized.

Artemus did notice four men at the table against the far wall staring at him, and he made a point of keeping his own gaze away from them. Did they recognize him despite the disguise? One of the men, with flyaway red hair sticking out from under a knit watch cap, seemed to be angry. If this fellow was looking for a fight and had decided a newcomer, a stranger, would be a target, perhaps it was time to end tonight’s perambulations. Jim would be waiting at the police station for a report, and the hour was late anyway. Or probably early. He had not brought a watch with him, but Artie suspected the time was well past midnight, heading toward dawn.

At almost the same moment he made the decision to leave, taking one last long swallow of his beer, Artemus saw the four men rising from their chairs. Their hard gazes were still on him. They must somehow recognize me! I sure don’t know them. Time to skedaddle out of here.

However, just as he had had to push his way among the crowded tables to get in, so was he hampered in retreating. In fact, the situation was worse because several men had decided to end their poker game, and as they stood up, they blocked his passageway. Thus he had barely reached the outer door when the four men, who had taken a different route, caught up with him.

Two grabbed his arms on either side and hurtled him out through the door. The redhead took the lead, turning left to head for the alley. Artie struggled against the grip, and began to protest aloud, until he suddenly felt the hard end of a pistol jammed against his spine.

“You were warned, Theo,” one of the men pushing him toward the alley growled. “Didn’t know you to be so stupid. What the hell did you come back for?”

“My name’s not Theo,” Artie protested, the words barely escaping from his lips when the pair shoved him hard into the alley. Losing his footing, Artemus went to his hands and knees, but was immediately jerked erect. The glow from the gas lamps on the street scarcely illuminated the alley, but the light was enough for Artie to see the rage on the face of the redhead facing him.

“Like Al said,” the redheaded man growled, “you were warned. Stay out of Frisco. Why did you come back, Gaskin?”

“Listen, you’ve got me mixed up with someone else…”

The hard fist to his mouth cut off his words, and the next one slammed into his midsection, driving the breath from his body. He gasped for air, hearing the growling voice as if coming from some far distance.

“You’re lucky this time, Theo.” Another blow to the stomach. “We got orders to rough you up if we ever saw you again. The boss is soft on you. But you get out of Frisco and don’t you come back! Ever!”

W*W*W*W*W

Jim West stretched his arms above his head, arching his back against the chair. “Hope Artie gets here soon.” The clock sitting on the filing cabinet in the corner of the room revealed the hour to be close to three a.m.

Sergeant Lloyd Morris of the San Francisco Police Department chuckled. “Tired of our company, Jim?”

“Tired of going through these records. I think we’re in a blind alley, Lloyd. Nothing here is going to lead us to the smugglers.”

Morris shrugged. “Well, we can tell the Navy we tried.” The two men had been going through files of crimes and criminals dating back several years, attempting to find information on some smugglers of illegal whiskey that had been finding its way into the city recently.

“Well, maybe Artemus had some luck. He’s pretty good at ferreting information, especially when he’s in some outlandish disguise.” Jim looked around expectantly as the office door opened, but the man who entered was not Artemus Gordon.

“Sergeant,” the young police officer said, “fellow just delivered a note for Mr. West.”

Jim got to his feet to reach out for the paper the man held. “Might be from Artie.” He unfolded it and read it quickly.

“What is it, Jim?” Lloyd Morris demanded, seeing the stricken expression on the agent’s handsome countenance.

“It’s from San Francisco General Hospital. Artie was brought in, badly injured.” Jim brushed by the man in the doorway, heading for the stairs that would take him down to the building’s entrance.

Morris raced after him. “Jim! I can get a police wagon sooner than you’ll find a hack this time of night. And we can also travel faster.”

When the two men entered the hospital a half hour later, Morris had to grab Jim West’s arm to stop him, reminding him of the necessity to find out where Artemus was. Though he knew his friend was correct, Jim still hated any moment’s delay. He had been ready to race down the halls, peering into every room. Stepping over to the information desk, he posed the question to the young man on duty who directed them to the second floor. Jim set off in a run, forcing the sergeant to keep up.

A doctor was standing outside the closed door, a spare man with sharp features and graying dark hair. Jim compelled himself to stop, taking a deep breath. “Doctor, I’m looking for my partner, Artemus Gordon.”

The physician nodded. “He’s inside.”

“What happened to him.”

“He was severely beaten.”

“Beaten!” Jim glanced at Morris, saw the policeman was as startled as he was. “Who did it?”

“I don't know. I didn’t ask any questions. That’s the police’s job. But he was able to tell us to send for you.”

“Can I talk to him?”

The doctor frowned. “Perhaps. I just gave him a strong sedative. He needs rest and quiet. He has a cracked rib, but it’s not severe. Worse are the contusions on his body and face. Go on in. He may still be conscious.”

Jim pushed through the door, and halted again, thoroughly appalled. His partner lay on the bed, eyes closed, his face swollen and livid with bruises. A blanket was pulled up almost to his chin, but the bulk of the bandages on his chest was visible under the coverings. After a moment, Jim moved forward, going to the side of the bed.

“Artie… can you hear me?”

The brown eyes flickered open. “Jim…” Artemus lifted his hand, and Jim gripped it.

“I’m here, pal. What happened? Who did this? Why?”

“They said… thought I was… someone else. My disguise… Theo… Gaskin. Wouldn’t… listen. Said I wasn’t… wasn’t supposed to be… in Frisco... warned to stay… away. Red-haired man.” His eyes closed again.

“Artie?”

The doctor had come in behind them. “The sedative has taken effect. He should sleep for about twelve hours. As I say, it’s the best thing for him right now. Breathing is very painful.”

“Theo Gaskin,” Sergeant Morris murmured.

Jim looked at him. “You know the name?”

“Yeah, but I’m not sure why. Nothing recent, I know that.”

Jim gazed at his unconscious, battered partner again. “His disguise must have made him look like this Gaskin, and someone thought he had come back to San Francisco, against previous warnings. Lloyd, if the name means something to you, chances are this Gaskin has a record.”

“True. In the morning…”

“Right now,” Jim West snapped. “Finding out who Gaskin is could lead me to the men who did this to Artie. Let’s go.”

W*W*W*W*W

“Thanks, Lloyd,” Jim West said, accepting the steaming mug of coffee from the sergeant. “And I apologize.”

Lloyd Morris’s dark brows rose. “For what?”

“I should not have expected you to stay here at the station all night with me. You’re a married man. You should have been home with Betty.”

Morris grinned, sitting down at his desk. “Betty has been a policeman’s wife long enough to know that I don’t always keep regular hours. We have visitors, my cousin and his wife, so she has company. Besides, I asked Tom Dirkson to stop by the house on his way home after his shift to tell her.” His gaze dropped to the papers that were spread out in front of Jim at the table where he had been working. “What do you think?”

“Not sure. Theo Gaskin, thief. Not much more… except that he was questioned in connection with two murders.”

Lloyd nodded. “That’s where I remember him from. I was assigned to the Moffitt case. At the time, it was pretty much agreed that Gaskin’s connections with that and the Kingston murder were pure coincidence. He had an unbreakable alibi in each case. It’s funny, when I saw Artemus in disguise last night, I didn’t think of Gaskin at all. Yet now that I am remembering him, I can see where someone might see a strong resemblance. Gaskin is about Artemus’s size, dark hair, beard, sideburns… another coincidence I guess.”

“Seems so. I want those men, Lloyd.”

“I know you do, Jim. But all we have to go on so far is that one is redheaded.”

“Yeah.” Jim glanced up at the clock on the wall. “According to the doctor’s prediction, Artie won’t be waking for at least another four hours.” His eyes dropped to the top folder on the table, and he opened it. “What about the Moffitt murder, Lloyd? Unsolved, it seems.”

“Yeah. Apparently he was accosted late one night as he left his office. Must have put up a struggle, and was killed. All his money and valuables were taken. No witnesses.”

“He had a partner…”

“Irving Condit. Even though we heard stories that the two men were at odds, nothing indicated he was involved in the murder. In fact, Condit was in Reno that week.”

“What was the problem?”

“Apparently Condit was in personal financial trouble. Their real estate business was doing well, but Condit had gotten himself deeply in debt.”

“Gambling?”

“No, speculation in some wild get-rich-quick schemes. The deeper he got, the more he speculated. Both men were bachelors at the time, and the terms of their partnership were that the survivor inherited. Which of course made us extremely suspicious, but we found nothing to connect Condit to the killing.”

“And this Theo Gaskin was working for Abel Moffitt at the time.”

“Yep. As a handyman at Moffitt’s home. He had been there several weeks at the time of the death. He held the same position at the Kingston home when Gerald Kingston was murdered.”

“Kingston actually lived in Daly City?”

“Yes, and kept offices here in the city. Very wealthy man. Apparently he also speculated, but with far more success than Condit did.”

“Did the two men know each other?”

Lloyd frowned. “Don't know. Never heard that they did. They were killed two years apart. Different situations as far as their deaths were concerned too. Moffitt was killed in the street, Kingston in his office. He had a habit of working late, after everyone else had left the building. Someone went into his office, shot him at his desk. No witnesses. No motive that was ever discovered, though some objects were taken from the office. We couldn’t determine if that was an afterthought or a motive. Nothing extremely valuable. Seemed strange that someone would enter an office building, even after hours, to commit a robbery… unless they thought Kingston had something valuable. Kingston was shot by someone standing in front of his desk.”

Jim’s fingertips drummed on the folders. “There are some pretty long gaps in Gaskin’s police record. Any idea where he was during those times?”

“No… never even thought of it. Just meant that he wasn’t getting into trouble, I guess.”

“His actual criminal record ceased about four years ago… just before the Moffitt murder.”

“What are you getting at, Jim?”

Jim West sighed, shaking his head. “I don't know. I’m tired. You are too. I’m going to my hotel, get a couple hours of sleep, a shave and fresh clothes. Maybe a late breakfast. Then I’ll go talk to Artie. Go on home, Lloyd. You are probably due to start your next shift soon.”

Morris laughed. “I’ve got a whole six hours.” He got to his feet. “When I come back, I’ll look up some of the officers who were involved in the investigation in those two killings, and also ones who knew Gaskin to see what they have to say.”

“Thanks. I just have this strange feeling, Lloyd, that there’s something buried here. Why would Gaskin be ordered to stay out of the city? Does he know something? Something someone is afraid he’ll talk about?”

“Seems to me that that someone would have done more than just have Gaskin—or the man they thought was Gaskin—beat up.”

“Yeah. That occurred to me. Stranger still.”

W*W*W*W*W

Artemus Gordon thanked the nurse who had just helped him sit up against the pillows. Though the effort had been painful, he had been tired of laying flat, staring at the ceiling. He wished that this nurse had been the comely young blonde who had brought his meal awhile ago, but the matronly lady had a kind face and had been very gentle with him, so he could not complain too much.

“I’ll come back in a little while to see if you are weary and want to lay down again, Mr. Gordon,” the nurse said, pausing as she opened the door. She looked back over her shoulder at Artie. “Oh, you have a visitor. Come in, sir.”

“Hello, Artie,” Jim West said as he stepped inside and pushed the door closed. “How are you feeling?” The livid bruises on his partner’s face were still appalling, but Jim thought the swelling had gone down some, especially around the cut on Artemus’s mouth.

“Sore as hell. But I feel lucky to be alive.”

“More than you know,” Jim responded, moving a chair so he could sit alongside the bed.

Artie gazed at him. “You’d better explain, pal.”

“First you tell me the details of what happened to you last night. All you were able to say last night is that a redheaded man beat you, believing you to be a man named Theo Gaskin.”

“Not much more to tell. Four men accosted me in the bar, put a gun in my back, and forced me into the alley. I tried to tell them I was not this Gaskin, but ‘Red’ told me how lucky I was they were only going to beat me senseless. Seems this Gaskin had been warned out of the city for some reason. ‘Red’ did say that their boss said Gaskin wasn’t to be killed… yet.”

“So they were acting under orders from someone else.”

“Seems so. Oh, and the name Al was mentioned. One of the men who held me while ‘Red’ pummeled me.”

“Would you recognize them if you saw them again?”

“I’m pretty sure. In fact, I was thinking about asking for a sketch pad so I could draw what I remember. But that’s for when I feel a little stronger. Now tell me what you know.”

Tersely, Jim revealed to his partner the information he had gleaned from the police files. Artemus listened soberly, then finally shook his head. “Strange, indeed. What do you suppose this Gaskin did, and to whom, to get himself banished under threat of bodily harm?”

“I don't know. But I intend to find out.”

Now Artie’s brows lifted. “You do? Seems to me this is a police matter.”

“I went back to the police station before I came here and spoke to Lieutenant Wentworth, who had been in charge of the Kingston investigation. He told me of another unsolved murder in the city. Do you remember Alex Byram?”

“Yes, of course. The federal attorney who was shot down in the street, in broad daylight, little over a year ago. Didn’t they lay the blame on some vengeful person that Alex had prosecuted?”

“Yes, but no arrests were ever made. Here’s the thing. Although Gaskin was never connected to this particular murder in any way, the day after Byram’s death appears to be the day Gaskin left San Francisco.”

His partner shook his head. “Jim, I don’t see…”

“I don’t either. Not yet. I just have a gut feeling that there’s a lot more to this.”

“But again, it’s a police matter.”

“Byram was a federal attorney, Artie. Agents were involved in the original investigation. I’m going to ask Colonel Richmond to allow us to reopen the case.”

Artemus was still doubtful. “Richmond is going to be arriving in San Francisco any time now. He won’t be happy that we didn’t come up with anything on the smuggling ring.”

“We did our best, Artie. The Navy is going to have to handle it without our help.”

“Well, good luck to you in persuading the colonel to let us work on it. He’s going to say it’s a city police matter. Which it is.”

Jim’s jaw set stubbornly. “Then maybe I’ll take some leave that’s due me.”

Artemus gazed at his partner. He thought he knew what was really eating at Jim West. When they made the plans for Artie to roam the city’s bars trying to ferret out information about the smugglers, Jim had first insisted he needed to trail along. Artie had refused, saying it would compromise his disguise if someone happened to recognize Jim, or even just saw the two of them in the same watering holes at the same time. Particularly if that same someone saw them together in more than one saloon. Some celebrants often moved from bar to bar as well.

Jim had argued, but yielded. Now, Artemus was certain, Jim was experiencing some guilt that he had not been there to rescue his partner from the beating. No use to say anything. Jim would deny it vehemently.

“Well,” Artemus said then, “have your go at Richmond. I’ll be out of here by tomorrow…”

“Not hardly,” Jim broke in. “You can hardly take a breath without wincing.”

“I heal fast,” Artie retorted.

“Yeah, if you follow doctor’s orders. You stay in that bed, pal. I’ll keep you posted on what I learn.”

“What are you going to do first?” As much as he hated to admit it, and he never would aloud, Artemus knew Jim was right. He was going to be in this bed longer than another twenty-four hours.

“First, I’m going back to police headquarters. Lloyd is rounding up some officers who dealt with this Theo Gaskin, and I also want to talk to the detectives who worked on the three murder cases. Then I might go talk to the people involved, the friends and families of the victims.”

“Jim, you’d better wait until you get the colonel’s permission…”

Jim got to his feet. “Right now I’m just an interested bystander, Artemus. Don’t worry, I won’t do anything rash. Take care of yourself and obey the doctors… and nurses.”

“Jim!” His partner halted in the doorway. “I have a sketch pad in my valise, along with a pack of pencils. Bring them to me next time you visit—along with some fresh clothes.”

“You won’t need the clothes for awhile, pal.”

“Yeah, but I’d like to be prepared the moment the doc says I can get out of here.” He gazed at his friend in complete innocence.

“Will do,” Jim responded, nodding. With a wave, he strolled out of the door.

Artemus Gordon sighed deeply, and winced with the pang of discomfort it caused in his chest and abdomen. He’ll never change. He obeys the rules when it suits him. And dang it, he gets away with it when the rules don’t suit him. I suppose that’s why he’s the finest agent this country has ever known… well, maybe one of the two finest agents.

W*W*W*W*W

Colonel Richmond’s countenance was stony as he listened. Jim was not surprised. He knew as well as Artemus did that Richmond wanted his agents to deal with federal business, not local matters. For that reason, he completed his discourse with the alternative. “If you feel this is not something we should not be involved in, sir, I’ll take some leave and…”

Richmond held up a hand. “Hold on, hold on. Don’t be so hasty.” He got up from the chair where he had been ensconced in his hotel room, crossed to the small table and a coffee service that had been delivered a short while ago. “Coffee?”

“No, thank you,” Jim replied, rather automatically. Actually, a cup of coffee would not taste so bad right now. The hour was well into the afternoon, and he had not had any refreshments since the early hours of the day. He did not reverse his decision, however. He hoped to finish this conversation and get busy, and the coffee would go to waste.

The colonel poured himself a cup, added a cube of sugar, stirred it slowly. Jim remained silent. He knew his commander well. Richmond used these deliberate actions when he was thinking, considering. Despite his own anxiousness to get busy, Jim knew that working with the backing of the agency would be far preferable than striking out on his own. However, he also knew that one way or another, he was going to find the bastards who did this to Artemus.

“Alex Byram was a friend of mine,” Richmond said, turning slowly, still stirring the steaming liquid with the silver spoon. “My wife and his were—and are—friends. Nell Byram took the children back to Illinois after his death.”

“Yes, sir. That information is in the police report. I… I hoped to contact her to find out if the name Theo Gaskin is known to her.”

Now Richmond frowned as he started to remove the spoon from his cup. “You actually think that Byram’s murder is connected in some way to the other two?”

“I just want to be certain.”

“If it turns out to be true,” Richmond spoke deliberately, “it would seem to be more than coincidence.”

“Yes, sir.” Jim waited. Colonel Richmond was not always a quick thinker, but he was a sure one. His value during the war had been his ability to keep a cool head, to see and comprehend what was happening in the chaos that was battle, and to issue the proper orders. Grant had recognized that talent and appointed him head of the Service.

The colonel put the used spoon back on the tray, took a tentative sip of his coffee. He then looked at the young man standing before him. “Conditional.”

“Sir?”

“I’ll grant you conditional leave to investigate, Jim. Contact Nell Byram. I’ll give you her address. If she indeed is familiar with Gaskin’s name, then I want you to work with the San Francisco police. You have friends there. They’ll cooperate.”

“Yes, sir, they will.” Lloyd Morris had already offered his services. “I’m due back at headquarters to talk to some officers who investigated the murders.”

Now Richmond returned to his chair, his frown deepening. “You are aware that some city police are not the most honest of men.”

“Yes. But Lloyd Morris is not one of them. He’s a competent policeman, and he’s steered me to others who believe in upholding the law.” Jim had dealt with officers who expected to be bribed into “solving” crimes, or at least rewarded afterwards, here and in other towns and cities.

“All right. Go ahead with the investigation. I’ll be here at least a week, so keep me updated.”

“Thank you, sir. Are you going to visit Artemus today?”

“I thought I would.”

“Would you mind taking him a sketch pad and a change of clothes? He thinks he can draw portraits of the men who attacked him.”

“Absolutely. We’ll have the sketches photographed and distributed. Excellent idea.”

W*W*W*W*W

Artemus accepted the pad of paper from the colonel as the pretty blonde nurse took the satchel of clothing to the closet to hang them up. He was glad that no one suspected an ulterior motive in his request for clothes. Those he had been wearing at the time of the assault were not only unbecoming, they had become torn and bloodstained, hardly what he would want to be garbed in as he strolled out of the hospital after “visiting a friend,” an excuse he would give anyone who might accost him.

“You think you can give us a good likeness?” Richmond asked.

“Especially of the redhead,” Artie nodded, opening the pad to a clean page. “Where’s Jim?”

“Sending a telegram to Alex Byram’s widow, and then he’s going back to police headquarters to meet with detectives who had been assigned to the murders.”

“So you gave him permission?”

The colonel’s smile was wry. “Do you think it would have done any good to refuse him?”

Artemus quelled the urge to chuckle, conscious of the bruises on his body, and smiled instead. “Seems you are coming to know him almost as well as I do.”

Richmond sat down in the chair beside the bed, watching as his agent’s pencil moved deftly over the paper in front of him. “Solving Alex Byram’s murder would go a long way toward assuaging the grief his family and friends feel. He was a good man. An excellent prosecutor.”

“Which of course is why the police laid the blame on some unknown person seeking revenge.” Artie barely glanced up from his task. “He sent many men to jail or the gallows.”

“I was unable to be here at the time of the investigation,” Richmond stated, “but a couple of months later I read all the police reports. I was satisfied that they, and the federal agents assigned at the time, did all they could. They looked up numerous men who had been the subject of Alex’s investigation or prosecution, as well as friends and family of those men. No clear suspects were determined.”

Now Artemus raised his eyes. “No clear suspects?”

“One man, the father of a fellow hanged after Alex prosecuted, had been particularly vitriolic at the time of the sentencing, and for a long time afterwards, writing letters to Alex, to the department, and to newspapers. He had been living here in San Francisco, but he moved to Seattle a few weeks before the murder. He had an ironclad alibi. He was also gleeful when informed of the murder.”

“Any chance he hired someone to do the deed?”

“That was considered, but nothing was ever found. If he did, he did a bang-up job of doing it secretly.”

“Jim may be chasing shadows,” Artie said thoughtfully. “There may be no connection at all among the three murders. Gaskin’s involvement just…”

“Coincidence,” Richmond filled in. “A great deal will depend on Nell Byram’s response to Jim’s telegram. If Gaskin is known to her…”

“Then it seems to me it behooves us to find this fellow Theo Gaskin.”

W*W*W*W*W

“Jim, this is my cousin Wade Morris. Wade, Jim West. Wade is on the Sacramento police force, Jim.”

Jim reached out to shake the hand of the man standing beside Sergeant Morris. The resemblance was strong between the cousins, both being of stocky build, with curling dark hair. While Lloyd had blue eyes, Wade’s were brown. “Glad to meet you, Wade.” Jim waited, quite aware that Lloyd had a reason for bringing his cousin to the station. They were in Lloyd’s small office.

“When I went home,” Lloyd said, “I of course was explaining to Betty and Wade and his wife why I had been out all night. I mentioned the name Theo Gaskin.”

“Ah!” Jim looked at the cousin. “And you recognized it?”

“I did, sir,” Wade Morris replied. “Three years ago Theo Gaskin was in the employ of a man who was murdered in his home in Sacramento. Gaskin was cleared of any complicity. The murder is still unsolved.”

Jim West controlled his excitement. Even without hearing back from Nell Byram, this was getting more and more interesting. “Any idea where Gaskin is now?”

“No. He may well be in the Sacramento area, but we had no reason to keep tabs on him.”

“He had no criminal record there?”

“No, sir. I’m afraid we did not follow through at the time to check on any records in San Francisco or anywhere else.”

“You had no reason to,” Jim smiled.

“Is it still pure coincidence?” Lloyd wondered. “Is he just a jinx who happens to be present in the lives of three murdered men?”

“That remains to be seen. Tell me about the murder in Sacramento, Wade. Who was the victim?”

“Man named Thomas Prater. He was a very successful merchant, owned stores in Sacramento, Modesto, and a couple of other places. He was found shot to death in his home office, by his wife who had been away for a couple of days.”

“No servants?”

“Seems the missus gave the servants the time off, while she was away. Prater ate his meals in town. He was entirely alone in a rather large house. Neighbors not only didn’t see anything amiss, they did not hear the gunshot. Not too surprising, because it’s in a neighborhood of large homes with expansive yards. It was determined he was killed sometime late at night, so again no surprise that neighbors were not out and about to notice anyone lurking.”

Jim nodded, impressed. Seems being good policemen ran in the Morris family. Wade was not waiting to be asked for specific information.

“Suspects?”

“None at the time. From all accounts, the marriage—childless—was a good one. Mrs. Prater was grief-stricken. Prostrate I believe is the term.”

Jim cocked his head. “None at the time?”

“Well, about a year later, Mrs. Prater married her brother-in-law, her husband’s younger brother. I should have mentioned that Thomas Prater was some eighteen or so years older than his wife. She had inherited everything of course. The newlyweds sold it all and left the area. By the time we heard about the business, they were living in Europe.”

“But they both had solid alibis at the time of the murder.”

“Exactly. Mrs. Prater was with friends in Modesto. Half a dozen reputable people vouched for the fact that she was attending a theater performance at the time the murder was believed to have occurred. George Prater’s alibi was equally strong. He was in Denver on business. Again, lots of witnesses.”

“And Theo Gaskin worked for Prater at the time of the murder.”

“Yes. Like all the hired help, he was off the premises, and provided witnesses to prove he was in a downtown saloon that night.”

Jim West scrubbed his hand through his dark locks. “I’m not sure what to make of it. But I think I know something we need to do, and that’s contact other law enforcement agencies in the state to see if they have anything on Gaskin.”

“You expect to find him connected with more murders?” Lloyd asked in astonishment.

“I don't know, Lloyd. At this point I just want to cover everything. Let’s go talk to the officers you rounded up.”

W*W*W*W*W

“The detectives weren’t able to provide much of anything new,” Jim said, settling into the chair beside his partner’s bed. “But they did provide the sense of frustration they had experienced.”

“So what’s next? I gave Richmond my sketches and he’s going to have them duplicated. But San Francisco is getting to be a pretty good-sized city and tracking those four might not be easy. Especially if they learn about the mistake they made.”

“That’s something I forgot to mention,” Jim said. “I asked the police and hospital staff to keep the attack on you quiet.”

Artemus frowned. “Why?”

“I’m just playing a hunch.”

“You don’t want Red and his pals to know they roughed up the wrong man?” Artie nodded then. “Good thought. If they learned they assaulted an agent of the U.S. government, they might vamoose.”

“That’s part of it,” Jim admitted. “How are you feeling?”

The change of subject was obvious. “Still pretty damn sore. But better.” He put a hand on the heavy bandaging around his midsection. “I’m not sure which is worse, the bruises or this wrapping. Makes it difficult to move.”

“Which is the intent,” Jim smiled.

“What are you going to do next?”

“Talk to people.”

“What people?” Sometimes getting information from James West was infinitely harder than the proverbial pulling of teeth.

“Survivors. The partner of Abel Moffitt, and the widow of Gerald Kingston.”

“You expect to learn something from them that the police did not?”

“Artie, I don't know. I do know that the police didn’t ask many questions about Gaskin. They treated the Moffitt and Kingston murders as separate events. Gaskin is popping up too many places.” Briefly he told his partner of the information imparted by Wade Morris.

“This is getting too weird, James. What in the world could be Gaskin’s involvement in all these murders?” Artemus paused, gazing at his partner’s sober countenance. “Could he be a hired killer?”

Jim quickly shook his head. “His alibis are too strong. In every instance he was elsewhere. But I’m thinking…”

Artemus interrupted. “He has something to do with a hired killer, or killers. But who?”

“That’s the big question, pal. If there is a hired killer who is using this Gaskin as some sort of… of scout for his victims… who is he? The department certainly hasn’t heard of any such thing, nor has the San Francisco police. When I mentioned the possibility to Captain Cullen, he drew a blank.”

“If it is a hired killer,” Artemus mused, “that would explain why no connection has been apparent among the murders. But it also raises suspicion toward survivors, especially those who profit.”

“And that’s why I’m visiting Irving Condit first thing in the morning. He profited in a big way. His debts paid off, he seems to have started fresh and is a successful realtor.”

“No more speculation?”

“At least none that wiped him out financially.”

“And the widow Kingston?”

“I sent a note to her asking for a meeting. I hope to hear back today. She appears to still be residing at the family mansion in Daly City.”

“That’s a fair distance.”

“I know. Blackjack could use a good run.”

[California gal]

Chapter Two

Suspicion always haunts the guilty mind,
The thief doth fear each bush an officer.
Henry VI, Part V, vi, ii, William Shakespeare

Jim West entered the office building on Montgomery Street at midmorning, consulted a directory on the wall of the lobby, then took the elevator to the third floor. He knew that this was not the same building in which the murder of Abel Moffitt had been committed. Lloyd Morris had been able to tell him that shortly after assuming full control of the business, Irving Condit had not only moved to a newer, more swanky address, he had also married.

Gilt letters on a frosted door window proclaimed the location of the firm of Condit Real Estate, Inc., Irving Condit, President. Jim opened the door and stepped into a well-appointed anteroom, staffed by a bespectacled young man at a desk who looked up with an anticipatory smile.

“Good morning, sir. Looking to make a purchase in real estate?”

“Not exactly. My names is James West. I want to talk to Mr. Condit.”

The beaming welcome faded. “What is your business with Mr. Condit?”

“That’s between Mr. Condit and me. Is he in?”

The glance toward the door behind him revealed the truth as the secretary said, “No, he’s away on business.”

“Thank you,” Jim murmured, pushing through the swinging gate in the polished wooden rail that separated the secretary’s area from the chairs where visitors would wait.

“Wait a minute—!”

Jim shrugged off the hand that grasped at his sleeve and entered the inner office. Irving Condit looked up in surprise behind the broad polished desk. His office was even more impressive than the anteroom. Successful indeed.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Condit,” the secretary groveled. “He forced his way in…”

Jim reached inside his jacket to pull out the folder with his identification, extending it toward Condit. “My name is James West. I’m an agent of the federal government, investigating the murder of prosecuting attorney Alexander Byram.”

Irving Condit stared at the identification, looked at Jim, glanced at his hovering secretary, back at the card in the folder, and finally back to Jim West. “What do you want with me? I don't know anything about that.” He waved a hand and the secretary scooted out, closing the door.

Condit was a middle-aged man with thinning blond hair, an impressive mustache, and a girth that suggested he enjoyed food. When he stood up behind the desk, he proved to be rather short in height.

Uninvited, Jim moved a leather-upholstered chair closer to Condit’s desk and sat down. “Mr. Condit, in the past few years, several unsolved murders have occurred in San Francisco. One of them was that of your partner, Abel Moffitt.”

Condit sank back into his chair. “I don’t understand. You said you were investigating the murder of Byram. That has nothing to do with Abel’s death.”

“That remains to be seen,” Jim replied smoothly. He noticed how Condit’s hands were fidgeting on the desktop, picking up a pencil, putting it down, moving a sheet of paper, picking up the pencil again. “I am most interested in a man who was working for Mr. Moffitt at his home at the time of the murder, one Theo Gaskin.”

“Never heard of him.” The response was swift, and Condit’s expression revealed he belatedly realized that he had spoken too quickly. He cleared his throat. “Wait. I think I recall the police asking me about such a fellow. I’d never met him. Never. He worked for Abel at his home.”

“Then you haven’t seen Gaskin since the death of your partner.”

“I just told you, I never met him.” Condit pulled a handkerchief from inside his coat and wiped his hands on it.

“Did you know Gerald Kingston?”

Condit’s mouth open, then closed. He had been about to voice a denial. Instead he cleared his throat. “I believe I may have met him at some social event.”

“You once engaged in speculation. I understand that Kingston was also a speculator.”

Condit laughed nervously. “Out of my league, I’m afraid. And as you are undoubtedly aware, much more successful that I was.”

Jim remained silent a long moment, gazing at the man across the desk. Condit cleared his throat again, picked up the pencil and moved it to the other side of the desk, gazed above Jim’s head toward the closed door. Finally Jim spoke in a casual tone.

“In a sense, one could say that your partner’s death came at a fortuitous time for you.”

“I was in Reno when Abel was murdered!”

Again Jim held his tongue for several seconds, keeping his gaze steady on Condit’s face. The handkerchief wiped at the realtor’s mouth, then forehead. “You were in Reno on business?” Jim finally inquired mildly.

“Yes. Yes. Looking at some property.” Condit chuckled uneasily. “Turned out to be worthless.”

“But you had witnesses to your presence there.”

“Yes! Several! The police have their names and statements. Why are you asking all this now?”

“As I mentioned,” Jim replied calmly, quite aware that the more serene he remained, the more nervous Condit was going to become, “the government is continuing the investigation of the unsolved murder of federal attorney Alexander Byram, with the cooperation of the San Francisco police. We are attempting to determine whether there is any connection among several unsolved murders.”

“I don’t understand,” Condit protested. “I remember Byram’s death. He was shot down on the street! My partner was killed in a robbery, and… er… I believe Kingston was murdered in his office. Uh… stabbed?”

Jim did not correct him. He was certain Irving Condit knew that Gerald Kingston had also been shot to death. “Still, we have found certain similarities. Enough that I decided to talk to you, and I appreciate your taking your valuable time to allow me to ask a few questions.”

“Uh, yes. Of course. I’m very anxious to have Abel’s murder solved. Very anxious.”

Before Jim could say anything further, the office’s door opened. When he looked around to see the woman who entered, he came to his feet, as did Condit, who was demonstrably relieved that the interruption occurred. The woman was young, middle twenties, with blonde hair stylishly coifed under an equally stylish chapeau, her garb perfectly fitting her well-endowed shape. Big brown eyes touched briefly on the man behind the desk, but then swept over the visitor with open approval.

“Lydia, dear!” Condit gushed. “I didn’t expect to see you in the city today.”

“I need some shopping money,” the young woman said, again barely glancing his way. “Introduce me to your guest, Irving.”

Condit cleared his throat. “This is Mr. James West, dear. He’s an agent of the government. Mr. West, my wife.”

Jim nodded, smiling as he met the woman’s openly admiring gaze. “My pleasure, Mrs. Condit.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” she simpered, extending a gloved hand. Jim took the hand, his smile remaining, warm gaze meet hers. She was not exactly the type of woman he preferred. Besides being married, her obvious interest in money and material things was overt. He knew, nonetheless, the value of keeping the interest alive. “Are you in town on business, Mr. West?”

Jim released the hand with obvious reluctance. “I’m afraid so. Among other things, I’m investigating the death of Abel Moffitt.”

“Oh dear!” The brown eyes widened. “That was such a tragedy. Of course I was not married to Mr. Condit at the time, but I know all about it. Such a tragedy! If I can help you in any way, Mr. West, any way at all, please feel free to call on me… at home. I’m nearly always there while Mr. Condit is here toiling away.” The eyelashes fluttered, the coy smile returned.

Jim did not need to look at Irving Condit to be aware the man was seething. “Thank you, Mrs. Condit. That’s very kind. I may take you up on your generous offer.”

“Here!” Condit came around the desk. “Here, Lydia. Here’s the money you need.” He had his wallet out, and handed her a wad of bills. He had welcomed her arrival, but now wanted to shoo her away and out of the presence of the younger man.

“Oh, gracious, Irving, dear. Thank you. He’s such a kind and generous husband, Mr. West.” Lydia tucked the money into her reticule. “He’s always here working so hard so that I can have the little pleasures in life. Sometimes I feel so guilty!”

“I’m sure your husband only wants you to be happy,” Jim smiled. He had received numerous “invitations” in his life, but few so blatant, and even fewer in the presence of the husband.

Irving Condit ushered his wife out the door, and when he returned, he was perspiring even more heavily, although perhaps for a different reason. Jim had not been surprised to realize that Condit’s bride was probably half her husband’s age. Condit would have to work very hard to keep his wife happy, earning enough to support her spending habits.

“Lovely lady,” Jim commented as they sat down again. “You’re a lucky man.”

Condit cleared his throat. “Yes. Yes, indeed. Mr. West, I have a great deal to do here. If you don’t have any further questions…”

Jim got to his feet, extending his hand across the desk. “Thank you again for your time, Mr. Condit. You’ve been most helpful. Probably more than you know.”

Whatever color that had remained in Condit’s complexion washed from his face as he obviously tried to remember what he had said that could be so “helpful.” With a nod, Jim left the office and took the elevator down. Leaving the building he crossed the street to a small restaurant where, fortunately, a table near the window was available. Ordering coffee, he waited and watched. About ten minutes later Condit’s male secretary hurried through the front door and walked swiftly up the street. He had a white envelope in his hand.

Jim threw some coins on the table and exited the restaurant, stopping just inside the alley next door to watch the secretary enter a doorway a block away. Less than a minute later, the bespectacled man emerged and headed back toward the building of his employment. Jim remained where he was, watching the doorway the secretary had used. Within minutes, a man emerged, stuffing a white envelope into his jacket pocket. The man started walking in the opposite direction the secretary had taken.

Jim West followed at a distance. Seeing his quarry turn a corner, he quickened his own steps, then cursed silently when he also reached that corner to find the man had vanished. He could have entered any number of doorways, or could be on the streetcar that was rolling down the hill. Perhaps he was in one of the two hacks Jim saw traveling down the street as well.

Retracing his steps, Jim paused at the doorway where the secretary had entered and the man afterwards emerged. A sign on the front listed the offices of dentists, lawyers, doctors, and sundry other professions. Jim stepped inside and walked down a narrow hallway, noticing the signs on the closed doors.

Nothing he saw prompted him to stop and enter any door. He could not spare the time right now to investigate every office, especially because that man who took the envelope could have simply been waiting here in the hall, though for what reason Jim could not hazard a guess. No one except Artemus knew he was going to be visiting Condit this morning. Plus the chance remained that the envelope may have had nothing to do with the situation he was investigating, though Jim would have put money on it being involved. Perhaps Lloyd would have information on the tenants of this building.

Returning to his hotel, Jim found a message waiting for him from Mrs. Kingston, agreeing to a meeting and suggesting he come to her home at mid afternoon. After asking the desk clerk to arrange for the stableman to have his black stallion saddled by two p.m., Jim hailed a hack to take him to the hospital. He found his partner looking and feeling better. Icepacks on his face had taken the swelling down and reduced the discoloration.

“But the doctor says I have to stay another couple of days,” Artemus groused.

Jim nodded. “Listen to the doctor, Artemus. Remember you have a cracked rib under all those bruises.”

“Yes, papa,” Artie muttered. He knew better than to even hint to Jim that he was planning to abscond from the hospital well before being officially discharged. Once out on the street, displaying his fitness, no one could send him back. “Now tell me what’s going on.”

“I visited the surviving partner of Abel Moffitt… and made him very, very nervous.”

“That right?”

“He was sweating buckets.”

“As though he had a guilty conscience, huh?”

“That’s the impression I got.”

Artie rubbed his chin, winced slightly as he touched a still sore spot. Though the livid coloration was going away, the tenderness was lingering. “So, I presume you are thinking that he arranged for the death of his partner.”

“You’re reading my mind.”

“I’m good at that. Especially when you’re so transparent.”

“Thanks. When I left the office, I hung around a few minutes. Condit’s secretary—a man, by the way—left the building, carrying an envelope. He went into a doorway a block or so away, was inside for a very short time before he came out and went back to work. After another couple minutes I saw a man with what looked like that envelope come out. I lost him about two blocks down.”

“Could be just office business.”

“Could be. Or he could be sending a message to… someone.”

“If that’s the case, you could make that ‘someone’ nervous.”

“I hope so.”

Artemus knew better than to voice a protest. Jim West thrived on putting himself in peril. “Anything else of note?”

“Irving Condit has a young, beautiful wife who likes to spend money… and flirt.”

“Figures.”

“I have a personal invitation to visit her, when her husband isn’t home.”

Artie’s dark brows lifted. “She said that in her husband’s presence?” Jim just grinned. “What about the poor Kingston widow?”

“I’m going to see her this afternoon. My primary hope where she is concerned is that she might be able to provide more information on friend Theo. I forgot to tell you about Lloyd’s cousin Wade.”

“Oh? Family reunion time?”

Succinctly, Jim related what the Sacramento policeman had told him. “Artie, I’ve got to believe that Gaskin was some kind of front man, a scout so to speak. Maybe provided information on the intended victim’s habits and movements.”

“Makes sense. But why was he banished from San Francisco if he was so valuable?”

“Lloyd is contacting other law enforcement agencies in the state to not only find out if Gaskin was involved in a murder in their area, and also trying to find out where he is now.”

“No word from Mrs. Byram yet?”

“No. Knowing whether Gaskin was involved in Byram’s death is a little less important now.”

“Except as a reason for Richmond to allow us… you… to continue on the case.”

“There is that, yes.” Jim got to his feet. “I’m going to get myself some lunch, go change clothes, and head out to Daly City and the old widow.”

“Well, good luck. I hope she has something interesting to tell you… something that she didn’t tell the police. By the way Jim, the copies of my sketches of my newfound friends should be available by now. Or perhaps I should say Theo’s friends. The colonel will have delivered them to the police to be distributed to the officers.”

“Good. I’ll get copies on my way to visit the widow. Don’t be surprised if I don’t get back to visit you again tonight, Artie. I don't know how long I’ll be out there.”

Artemus waved a forgiving hand. “I know. Don’t worry. The prettiest nurses here are the night nurses. I won’t be lonely.”

Jim winked as he exited. Artemus Gordon heaved a great sigh, winced, laying his head back on the pillow. I hate this. I should be out there helping Jim with this investigation. I will be, soon, but even I know I probably need one more good night of rest. I’m sure I’ll be able to get out of here tomorrow, regardless of what the doctor says. Or even Jim says. Jim shouldn’t have to deal with flirtatious young wives and old widows all by himself!

W*W*W*W*W

Beauty is a terrible and awful thing!
It is terrible because it has not been fathomed,
For God sets us nothing but riddles.
The Brothers Karamazov [1879-1880], bk. III, ch. 3
— Fëdor Mikhailovich Dostoevski (1821-1881)

At first Jim had to control the sleek black horse with a firm hand. After several days in the stable behind the hotel, with his only exercise in the small corral, the stallion wanted to run. In the city, keeping a steady pace was important. Once they reached the outer edges of the city, heading south, Jim allowed his steed to vent its energy for a short distance, then pulled him back to a ground-eating lope. For one thing, he did not want to arrive at the Kingston home on a lathered horse, with himself being dusty. The old widow might not appreciate him bringing road dust into her fine parlor.

He had gotten directions to the Kingston estate from Lloyd Morris, who had visited there with the lead detective on the case at the time of the murder a year ago. Jim noticed a number of large homes with expansive, well landscaped yards, most of them behind wrought-iron or stone fences. He had also learned that Kingston purchased the property in this upscale neighborhood just three years ago, after a successful investment.

They had had no reason to disbelieve anything the widow told them at the time. Although the police delved into Kingston’s financial dealings to some extent, they were hampered by the fact that few records existed. Mrs. Kingston had told the police that her husband kept figures in his head, wrote little down beyond his deposits and withdrawals from the bank where he kept his funds.

The Kingston estate was easy to spot. The gate was topped by an arc in which the words “Kingston Hall” were spelled out in wrought iron, with a crown at either end. Jim was not surprised to note an iron gate, but he was bemused to see the sentry waiting in a small guardhouse beside it. As he slowed his horse, a stocky man stepped out.

“My names is James West,” Jim said quietly. “Mrs. Kingston is expecting me.”

Wordless, the man went to the padlocked chain that secured the two sides of the gate, pulling a ring of keys from his belt. As he did so, Jim saw the shape of a holstered pistol under his heavy shirt. An armed guard. Was the old widow a nervous sort, perhaps now fearing that whoever killed her husband would come after her? Jim wished he had been able to talk to the detective who had been in charge of the Kingston case, but that man had taken ill and died a few months ago. Only his written reports, and the less exact memories of peripheral officers, like Morris, were available.

With a nod of thanks to the guard, Jim urged the black horse through the opened portal, up a stoned driveway toward the massive house. He did know that the Kingstons were childless. Just the two of them—with servants—in this huge building. And now the widow alone. He saw a turret on each of the four corners, gleaming windows and even stone gargoyles. The grounds were extensive, but did not seem to be well cared-for. Rose bushes were rambling over pathways. Trees, mostly oak and pine badly in need of trimming, had dropped leaves and needles, creating a covering that smothered most of what might have once been a lawn.

Jim dismounted and tied the black’s reins to an enameled iron post that needed painting, and stepped up onto the broad porch, noticing how boards creaked under his boots. The exterior certainly needed some upkeep. Perhaps the old lady had lost interest after the death of her husband. At the double doors, he lifted and dropped the bronze doorknocker in the shape of a stag’s head twice. After waiting what seemed like several minutes, he was about to knock again, when the door opened.

A man in smart butler’s livery stood there. “Mr. West?”

Jim pulled off his hat. “Yes.”

The butler stepped back to allow him to come inside. “Please wait here, sir. I’ll tell Mrs. Kingston of your arrival.” Closing the door, he took Jim’s hat, hung it on a nearby hall tree, then walked swiftly down the hall, disappearing through a doorway.

Jim glanced around. The dilapidated state of the exterior did not carry over to the interior. The parquet floor of the entryway gleamed, a bowl of fresh flowers was on a well polished table nearby. The brass fittings of wall sconces were equally polished.

The butler reappeared at the doorway, and bowed slightly toward Jim, who strode toward him. The servant moved to one side, and James West thought he had never been so surprised—or stunned—in his life. As he entered the room, a lovely well furnished and tastefully decorated small parlor, a woman rose from a sofa.

This can’t the widow! That thought rushed through his brain as he gazed upon perhaps the most beautiful woman he had ever encountered. She was in her mid to late twenties, he thought, with stylishly coifed jet black hair and eyes that were somewhere between blue and lavender. She wore a dark gray gown trimmed in soft lace, suitable for a widow in the latter stages of mourning. But this can’t be the widow!

She held out a slender, pale hand bedecked with an exquisite jade ring, the green stone carved to resemble a hibiscus. “Mr. West? Welcome to Kingston Hall. I am Beryl Kingston.”

Jim West gathered his aplomb. He had never seen such perfect features, graced with a clear alabaster complexion that enhanced the dark hair and eyes. Lips were sensuous, but not too much so. He saw tiny diamonds in the lobes of perfectly shaped ears. Many an actress or dancer would die for a figure like Beryl Kingston’s.

“How do you do, Mrs. Kingston. Please forgive this intrusion.”

“Not at all,” she smiled, and Jim saw her eyes sweep over him. He was accustomed to being admired by women, but somehow this was jarring. Different from the gaze he had received earlier today from Mrs. Condit. Beryl Kingston’s appraisal was somehow… singular. Unusual. Yet he could not quite decide what he saw in the lavender eyes. Or were they blue? The light from the French windows that appeared to open onto an overgrown garden was not quite sufficient to determine their shade.

Mrs. Kingston waved him to a chair as she took her seat on the sofa again. “Can I offer you refreshment? Coffee? Tea? Brandy?”

“A glass of cold water first would be much appreciated. It was a long dusty ride. Then perhaps coffee if it’s not too much trouble.” He thought it would be a good idea to keep his senses clear during this visit.

She reached over to pull a cord, and the butler appeared almost instantly, leading Jim to believe he had been lingering outside the door. Mrs. Kingston instructed him to bring coffee, and a tumbler of water. Then she turned to Jim. “I understand from your note that you are a government agent, Mr. West, and that you are investigating my husband’s murder. Can you tell me why a government man would become involved?” Her voice was silk and fog at the same time.

“We believe that your husband’s death may be connected with the murder of a federal attorney.”

“Oh! I remember reading about that incident in the newspaper sometime ago. But I recall that the police thought he was a victim of revenge.”

“That was the original belief,” Jim concurred, then paused as the butler appeared with a tray bearing a silver carafe, delicate cups, a plate of frosted cookies, and a wine goblet filled with water. The speed of the delivery also indicated it had been anticipated. Jim accepted the water, drank deeply, then took a cup of coffee, refusing the offer of cream and sugar, noticing that Mrs. Kingston added the supplements liberally.

“Go on, Mr. West,” she said then. “What caused the police… and you… to change your minds about the attorney’s death?”

“A number of things.” Jim took a sip of the coffee and put the cup back on the saucer resting on the polished table beside his chair. “Do you know the name Theo Gaskin?”

If the question startled her in any manner, she gave no sign, only frowning slightly. “Yes… but I can’t think of why. Who is he?”

Jim chose his words carefully. He did not entirely understand why, but he felt the need to be cautious. “He sometimes works as a handyman.”

The incredible eyes widened, long dark lashes arcing toward the perfect brows. “Why, of course! He was employed on the grounds here around the time of my husband’s… death.”

“Who hired him?”

“Why… my husband of course. He attended to such things.”

Was that the reason for the condition of the grounds? She had no interest in landscaping, but focused her attention on the beauty of the interior. “Do you remember what happened to Gaskin? Was he dismissed?”

Beryl Kingston shook her head slowly, her lovely mouth again forming a frown. “I’m afraid I have no idea. I can’t even remember what he looked like. I knew the name because I heard it mentioned once or twice, perhaps when my husband was giving instructions to the head gardener about the care of the grounds.”

“May I speak to the head gardener?”

She waved her hand, the green jade gleaming briefly. “I let him go ages ago. I just didn’t have time, while settling my husband’s affairs, to worry about the grounds.” Now she laughed. “I’m sure you noticed.”

“I did wonder.”

Beryl Kingston sighed. “My husband would be appalled. He was very proud of the gardens. But they never meant that much to me.”

“Were you married long before his death?” Odd that she never mentioned her husband by his given name, or even “Mr. Kingston.” Always “my husband.”

“Three years. Three very happy years. I’m sure you are aware he was a great deal older than me. But he was a wonderful, kind man and I loved him dearly.”

“I’m sure you did,” Jim murmured, picking up his coffee cup again. “Have you any idea where I might find the former head gardener?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“I thought perhaps he might have asked you for references when he applied for a new position.”

“No… I can’t remember that he did. Of course, I would have been a poor reference. I could have said ‘the grounds were lovely,’ but really nothing about his personal endeavors.”

“Do you recall his name?”

“I can tell you that. Hernando Perez. Mr. West, you still haven’t explained why you think my husband’s death is connected with that of the poor attorney. What did this Theo… what was his last name?”

“Gaskin.”

“Theo Gaskin. What did he have to do with it? Surely, he did not kill my husband! I believe the police talked to all the employees here and all could account for their time.”

“That’s very true,” Jim replied. “Are there any of your servants here now who were employed at the time of Mr. Kingston’s death?”

The flash in her eyes revealed her awareness of his evasiveness. “My butler, Chase. He was…”

Her words were interrupted by the opening of the door. The man who entered was probably in his late thirties, a handsome man of stocky build with a neatly trimmed brown beard and hair of a similar shade slicked back from his high forehead. Beryl Kingston came to her feet swiftly, Jim rose more slowly.

“Harry!” Mrs. Kingston exclaimed, going toward him with an extended hand. “I didn’t expect you today. I didn’t know you had returned.”

“And I didn’t know you had a guest, Beryl. Forgive my intrusion.” He took her hand, and Jim had the impression that if not for the presence a witness, he would have kissed it.

“Harry, this is Mr. James West, a government agent. He’s reopening the investigation of the murder of my husband. Isn’t that wonderful? Perhaps the culprit will finally be found. Mr. West, my attorney, Mr. Harrison Hazeltine.”

Jim held out his hand. “Mr. Hazeltine.”

The lawyer shook the hand. “James West. Your reputation precedes you. Beryl, if anyone can find Gerald’s killer, Mr. West can.”

“Thank you. I’ll do my best.” Jim turned to the lovely woman. “Mrs. Kingston, I won’t trouble you any further today, but I hope you don’t mind if I return. I may come up with more questions you can help me with.”

Her hand rested on his wrist. “I would be highly disappointed if you did not return, Mr. West. Please do. And it won’t be necessary to wait for an invitation. You will always be welcome.”

“Thank you.” Jim did not need to look at the lawyer to know that the man was annoyed. The widow’s invitation was as blatant as had been Mrs. Condit’s. “I’ll see myself out.” He left the room before either could speak.

W*W*W*W*W

“I didn’t expect to see you here tonight.” Artemus carefully pulled himself up against the pillows.

Jim West turned the single chair around and straddled it. “Don’t let this go to your head, but I’m finding I miss you.”

“Why, James!”

Jim grinned briefly. “As a sounding board, pal. I wanted to talk about a couple of things. One is that I picked up the copies of your sketches before I went to see the widow, but didn’t take time to look at them until on the way back to the city when I stopped at an inn for a meal. One of the men you sketched is the man I saw leaving the same door that Condit’s secretary entered with the envelope.”

“Interesting! You didn’t mention what that door led into.”

“Another office building. None of the names on the directory rang a bell, especially none on the first floor. The secretary was in and out so fast, he wouldn’t have had time to go to another floor. I’m going to ask Lloyd to tell me what he knows about the first floor tenants.”

“Brilliant deduction. Now tell me about the grieving old lady.”

Jim folded his arms over the back of the chair and rested his chin on them. “She’s neither grieving, nor old.”

“Indeed!”

“Artie, she’s probably the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

Artemus’s eyes widened. “That’s saying something, considering the women we’ve met over the years.”

“She’s… it’s difficult to describe. Black hair, blue… no maybe lavender… eyes, perfect complexion, exquisite figure, a voice that…” He stopped, lifting his head and staring toward the window.

Artemus was silent a long moment before he spoke. “Yet, you’ve discerned a flaw.”

Jim looked at his partner. “That’s just it. I feel… damn, I can’t explain it.”

“Don’t tell me she didn’t flirt with you!”

“Oh, she did. I have another invitation to visit anytime.”

“Of course. But…”

Jim West exhaled a noisy sigh. “I’m going to see what I can find out about Beryl Kingston. Maybe… maybe it’s simply her perfection that’s setting me on edge. Not to mention she has an armed sentry installed at her front gate, in a regular guardhouse.”

“Really! Nervous about intruders now that she lives alone?”

“That occurred to me… until I met her. Not sure what it means. Virtually all the estates there have fences and gates—probably locked—but I didn’t see a guard at any of them. I’d like to find out whether the guardhouse was present when Gerald Kingston was alive. I may look up the local constable next time I’m in that area.”

Artie decided to shift the subject a bit. “Did Mrs. Kingston offer much help regarding Theo?”

“No. She remembered the name but that was all. That’s another odd thing. The interior of the house is beautiful, well kept, expensive… but the grounds are a mess. She said her husband was very proud of his gardens, yet when he died, she let them go to seed… all the while avowing her love for him.”

“Well, that’s a little strange. One would think she’d keep them up in his memory if for no other reason.”

“That’s what I thought. Just before I left, a man named Harrison Hazeltine showed up. He was introduced as her attorney, but he most certainly did not like seeing me there with her.”

“Another name to check.”

“What does the doctor say about your situation, Artie? Any word on when you’ll be released?”

Aware that Jim might well speak to the physician, or the nurses, Artemus answered the question truthfully. “Maybe not for two-three days. My ribs are pretty sore.” No one except the pretty blonde nurse knew that he had been out of bed today, tentatively moving about the room. She scolded him but Artie was pretty sure he had persuaded her not to tell the doctor, lest he get into trouble.

“All right. Listen to the doctor, pal. You’ll be better off for it in the long run. You took a bad beating. At least you’re looking better.”

“Yeah, the ice packs on my face help. I want to be my normal handsome self when I present myself to the world.”

Jim chuckled, getting to his feet. “Yeah, you don’t want to scare the kiddies any more than usual.”

Artie made a face, then asked. “What’s on the docket next?”

“I’m pretty tired. I’m going to stop by the police station and if Lloyd has gone home, leave him a note to look up anything they have on the lovely Beryl and her jealous attorney. Also want to find a former gardener at the Kingston estate, name of Hernando Perez. He should have known Gaskin. Then I’m going to my hotel room and sleep for about twenty-four hours.”

His partner only smiled. “See you bright and early, James.”

[California gal]

Chapter Three

If the desire to kill and the opportunity to kill came
always together, who would escape hanging?
—Mark Twain, American author (1835-1910)

Jim was glad to find the hostler still available at the hotel’s stable. The burly black man liked to talk, and he also liked horses. Hector Smith knew horses as well and told Jim West over and over what a fine steed Blackjack was. Jim did not mind hearing the praise, for he shared the opinion, but tonight he was too tired to stay and chat for long.

The night was dark because the usual San Francisco summer fog had covered the moon. A lantern at the rear door of the hotel guided him as he strode the path away from the stable. That bed was sounding better and better, though Jim knew he was going to have to shut down his thoughts about the current situation, especially those about the strange but beautiful widow, in order to have a good night’s sleep.

A sharp intake of breath was the first and only warning he received. Spinning to his left, Jim threw up his left arm as the shadowy figure started to bring a club of some sort toward his head. With the right arm, he rammed his fist into the man’s midsection. Expelling a loud “oof!” his assailant stumbled backwards, dropping the bludgeon, which clattered on the stone covered pathway.

A muttered curse from the other side of the path alerted Jim that the club-wielder was not alone. He whirled to confront the second man, who appeared to be trying to withdraw a weapon or something from inside his coat. This fellow received a hard left to the chin and a similar right fist to his stomach. He too staggered backward.

Jim jumped back, his gaze darting around in the darkness in order to determine if these two were the only ones. The first man was getting to his feet, and appeared ready to rejoin the fray, but just then Hector Smith emerged from the stables, holding a lantern high and yelling out a query as to what was going on.

Both assailants took off then, running toward the alley that would lead them alongside the hotel and out to the street. Jim briefly considered pursuing, but held off. Just a couple of mugs, undoubtedly after his wallet.

“What’s going on, Mr. West?” Smith asked, coming nearer. “You all right, sir?”

“I’m fine,” Jim replied. If the one man had not drawn in a noisy breath prior to bringing the club down on his head, the story might be different.

“Want me to get a police officer?”

“No. It’s okay. What’s that?” Jim had been about to pick up the heavy wooden stick when he noticed something just out of the sphere of the lantern’s glow.

The hostler saw what he meant and stepped over, bending down to pick it up. “Why it’s some rope, Mr. West. They must have dropped it. Wasn’t here earlier, and it ain’t something I have in the stable. Too light.”

Jim took the coil of rope from him, a slight chill crawling down his spine. Too light to use on a horse, but perfect for binding a man’s wrists. Not just mugs after my money. They were after me! He handed the rope back. “Do me a favor, Mr. Smith, and don’t mention this to anyone. And put that rope in a safe place. I may want to look at it again.”

“Sure thing, Mr. West. You think they followed you here? I was outside just a while ago, and they wasn’t around then, I’d bet my bottom dollar.”

“Could be. Thanks for coming out and scaring them off.”

The stableman grinned. “Looked to me you were doing a pretty good job of that. Glad they didn’t hurt you. Good night.”

His room was on the third floor at the front, and before lighting the gas lamps, Jim went to the window to carefully survey the street down below. The hour was relatively early, though dark, and some foot and carriage traffic was still visible. The encounter with the two men had occurred so rapidly, and in such darkness, he knew he probably would not recognize either even if they walked up to him in full daylight.

After drawing the drapes over the window, Jim ignited one of the lamps in the wall sconce, keeping it burning low as he stripped and readied for bed, his movements automatic, mind filled not with the widow, as he had expected, but with this encounter. The possibility existed that despite what Hector Smith said, the rope had been there earlier, dropped by someone else. Jim knew, nevertheless, that that was not the case. The two men had brought the rope to use on him.

What did it mean? Laying in bed, arms behind his head, Jim stared at the ceiling. Pale slits of light from the lampposts on the street below slipped through the edges of the drapes and created patterns on the darkened ceiling, but he was not really seeing them.

Someone doesn’t like the idea that I’m investigating these murders. Or a murder. Which one? Thus far he had questioned people about two of them. Word could also have gotten out that he was also looking into others, but Jim sensed that the attack was related to either the Kingston or Moffitt murders… or both.

Condit had sent his secretary out with a message immediately after the agent had left his office. To warn that someone about the investigation? Had that someone instigated tonight’s attack? Why? Killing—or kidnapping—the man heading the investigation would not stop the query, and would probably intensify it.

This had all started, apparently, because Artemus Gordon, master of disguise, had inadvertently chosen a face that those four men who attacked him thought they recognized as Theo Gaskin. Theo Gaskin was somehow involved in several murders, even if he did not commit them himself. Was the surmise correct that Gaskin took employment with potential victims in order to help set up certain men for death?

If that was the case, who was Gaskin’s other employer, the one who sent him to obtain positions with these marked men? It truly sounded as though one man—or agency—was involved in all these murders. Four killings so far, including the one in Sacramento. How many more?

Jim West sat up, the coverings falling away from his chest and shoulders as he drew his legs up and rested his arms on his knees, again not truly seeing what his gaze appeared to be aimed toward. Murder for hire. Is that possible? I’ve heard of such organizations in the east, in bigger cities… never in San Francisco. Had Artie’s unintended ploy, meant to help him look inauspicious and unsuspected while he listened to saloon gossip, led them into an horrific situation, a crime ring responsible for untold murders? A cabal that not even the police suspected?

The three murders in San Francisco—at least the three he was currently looking into—had all been committed differently, though robbery was involved in two. Jim knew that such deaths were not that uncommon. A victim who resisted a theft attempt, such as was believed in the case of Abel Moffitt, might be injured or killed by a desperate thief. Gerald Kingston had been robbed in his office, but the police wondered if the theft of some small items had been after the fact, and he had been murdered for some other motive.

And of course, Alex Byram had been shot down in the street by assailant unknown. No robbery there, leading to the police believing the motive was vengeance. Maybe getting the information from Mrs. Byram about Gaskin was just as important now as he originally believed, to make certain there was a tie-in. What news would be coming in from other officials around the state regarding unsolved murders and Theo Gaskin?

W*W*W*W*W

“You don’t look like you got two hours of sleep, let alone twenty-four,” Artemus commented as his partner entered the hospital room.

Jim West tossed his hat on the foot of the bed and slouched in the chair, extending his legs. “Make it more like one hour.”

Artie straightened slightly. “What happened?”

Tersely, Jim told him of the assault, and of the theories and ideas that kept him awake for most of the night. “I couldn’t stop thinking about it,” he sighed.

“That settles it.” Artemus threw his blankets aside. “I’m getting out of here. You’re not doing this alone.” He had planned to abscond from the hospital today anyway.

Jim jumped to his feet. “Hold on. The doctor hasn’t released you. And you’re still hurting.”

Artie knew he had not disguised the sudden spasm of pain his quick movement had caused. “I can deal with it. Jim, this is a dangerous man—or gang—you’re dealing with.” He sat on the edge of the bed, bare legs dangling.

“I think I am aware of that, partner. But I can deal with them. It’s nothing new. And you wouldn’t be of much help to me in your condition. Besides, if the colonel heard you left the hospital before official dismissal…”

Artie sighed and carefully slid back onto the pillows, putting on a great show of resignation. Once I’m out of here and can prove to one and all I’m not an invalid, they won’t send me back. For now, Jim has enough his mind. “All right. What’s next?”

Jim reached into an inside coat pocket and withdrew a yellow envelope. “Forgot about this. It was waiting for me at the hotel desk this morning. Apparently came late yesterday, but I didn’t check in at the desk when I came in last night.”

Artemus extracted the folded paper, opened it. “No surprise there. So good friend Theo was doing some odd jobs at the Byram home just days before Alex’s murder.”

“He apparently was not there the day of the murder, and perhaps not a couple of days prior, so the police had no reason to question him.”

“Must have been able to get a good lead on Byram’s schedule and movements pretty easily. Have you shown this to Richmond?”

“No. The desk clerk said he hadn’t come down yet. I’m going back to the hotel now to try to talk to him, then to the police station to see if Lloyd came up with anything on Mrs. Kingston and Harry Hazeltine.”

“And then?” Artie could see that Jim had more to say, yet had hesitated.

“I think I’ll ride out to Daly City again to visit the lovely widow. She did invite me, after all.”

Artemus frowned. “You’re thinking she might have paid to have her husband murdered?”

“I’m thinking that someone did. I’d like to find out how long Hazeltine has been in the picture.”

“I wish you’d wait until I can go with you.”

“Artemus,” Jim responded dryly, “I think I can handle myself around the ladies.”

“Yeah. But sometimes they handle you!” Too many times a pretty face and shapely form had led James West into difficulty.

Jim just laughed, picking up his hat. “I’ll report back this evening. In the meantime, behave yourself with the nurses and listen to the doctor.”

Artemus Gordon sat still, staring at the closed door. That tears it. I’m getting out of here for certain. The doctor will be in to check on me in a couple of hours. Even if he says no, I’m leaving. This is too big for Jim to handle alone. A murder-for-hire cabal that had apparently been operating undetected for a number of years was nothing to sneeze at.

The part about the rope seemingly brought by the men who jumped Jim last night was bone-chilling. Even though Jim sloughed it off, saying that he was not convinced the rope belonged to the attackers despite what the hostler said, Artemus was all but certain that those men had intended to carry Jim West off, unconscious and trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey. But to where and why?

His room door opened and the pretty blonde nurse poked her head in. “Is there anything I can do for you, Mr. Gordon?”

He grinned and winked. “Yes, but I doubt the hospital would allow it.”

Her cheeks flushed. “Oh, Mr. Gordon!” It was not the first time he had teased her. Though the cheeks remained rosy, she regained some decorum. “Dr. Fifield is making his rounds and will be in to check you soon.”

“Thank you.” Artemus smiled as the door closed. In that case, one way or another, I’m going to get out of here earlier than I expected.

W*W*W*W*W

“This is bizarre, Jim.”

Jim West paused in his pacing around Colonel Richmond’s room. “I know it is. I’m going to talk to the police next. I’m sure they have no inkling that this has been occurring, or it would have been mentioned to me. But perhaps once the subject is broached, some officers will be prompted to remember things they thought unimportant at the time.”

“Possible. Very possible. But Jim, it’s obvious they are onto you and your investigations… and you have them worried.” Richmond was seated in the room’s sole chair, leaning forward, elbows on knees.

“Yes, sir. I’m aware of that, and I’ll be extra alert. But it’s not going to stop me from finding out who beat up Artie… and killed your friend Alex.” He added the last for effect, and saw that it registered. He also saw that his superior knew why he had appended the comment. Richmond was no fool.

“Not to mention several other men,” the colonel replied. “I wonder how far this goes. Just California? The entire West Coast? Further east…?”

Jim shook his head. “We won’t know until it’s cracked. I’m going to go talk to Sergeant Morris and other policemen, get them further involved. It’s possible they’ve received information on Theo Gaskin’s activities and whereabouts.”

Richmond rubbed his chin. “I wish I had other agents free to call in. Pike and Harper are still busy with that counterfeiting ring in the Arizona Territory, and I have half a dozen men assigned to them. Perhaps I should pull some of them away…”

Jim shook his head. “They wouldn’t be able to get here for nearly a week. I hope by then we are much closer to solving this. If we’re not, extra help probably won’t be much use.”

“True enough. Although if we haven’t closed this one by the time Pike is free, we could have him come in and noise it around that he has someone he wants assassinated.”

“Yeah. True. If Artie was well, he might be able to do that too.”

“But Artemus isn’t well. The doctor told me that that cracked rib is severe, not quite broken through, but could be if Gordon got into, say, a fracas.”

“Exactly. I warned him to stay in bed.” Yet there was something in Artie’s eyes this morning… “Maybe you should go visit and make it an order.”

“I’ll do just that. However, in my experience, both you and Mr. Gordon are not exactly sticklers for following orders.”

“We do get results.”

Richmond sighed. “Yes, you do get results.” He stood up. “I’ll go talk to Artemus, make sure he understands he has to stay in bed until the doctor releases him, or there will be consequences. Then I may contact Pike and Harper to see how their job is progressing and if either of them is available to help out here. I don’t want to jeopardize their work down there, but this is important. Lives are at stake.”

“Maybe mine,” Jim quipped, drawing a resigned shake of the head from his boss.

W*W*W*W*W

“What the devil do you think you’re doing?”

Artemus Gordon had heard the door to his hotel room open, but he kept his back to it, continuing to load the pistol he had taken from the bureau drawer. Now he looked around at his superior, who was standing with arms akimbo, glaring. “You didn’t bring any weapons with the change of clothing you dropped off at the hospital. I didn’t think it would be a good idea for me to go about unarmed.”

Richmond slammed the door shut, taking a few steps into the room. “I went to the hospital to visit you… and found your bed empty. The doctor did not dismiss you, Gordon.”

Artie carefully inserted the shiny pistol into his shoulder holster, then picked up the jacket he had tossed on the bed and began to put extra ammunition in the pockets. “I’m fine, Colonel. I can’t lay in bed while Jim is in danger.”

The colonel’s expression softened ever so slightly. “He told you about the attack on him last night.”

“Yes, sir.” Now Gordon gingerly pulled the jacket on, trying to not display any of the pangs the movement was causing in his ribs and stomach area. “The fact that they apparently planned to kidnap him is scarier than a straight attempt to kill him as far as I’m concerned.”

“I agree. It’s also very strange. Why would they want to capture him?”

Artemus could only shake his head. “We might not know that until we do some capturing ourselves. Which is why I have to be out there, Colonel. Jim told me that he hasn’t had time to delve into Kingston’s financial affairs. After what he told me about the widow, I have an idea that might be important.”

“You’re thinking she might have arranged to have her husband killed for his money?”

“If not for what he owned at the time, perhaps insurance money. Kingston was a speculator, as I understand it. A successful one… at least for awhile. Suppose his luck turned, and he was telling his lovely young wife that they were going to have to cut back, perhaps sell this mansion Jim visited. She might not have liked that idea. Suppose he held a substantial insurance policy. I think that’s worth investigating.”

The colonel heaved a resigned sigh. “All right, Artemus. Confine yourself to relatively sedentary pursuits and I won’t order you back to the hospital. I take it Jim is unaware that you are out of the hospital?”

Artie’s smile was embarrassed. “I think he would have raised a larger to-do than you have. And I do appreciate your understanding. But Jim… well, he’s like an old lady sometimes when it comes to worrying about me. At least now when he does find out, I’ll be able to tell him I have your approval.”

Richmond opened his mouth, closed it again. Somehow these two always outmaneuver me! And as for Artemus calling Jim an “old lady” for worrying about him, that’s like the pot calling the kettle black. I suppose that is part of what makes this pair such a fine team—they look out for each other.

“I might be able to get you some help in your investigation of Kingston’s financial dealings,” the colonel said then. “You undoubtedly remember Miss Collingwood.”

Artemus’s face brightened. “Indeed I do. A very… efficient young woman.”

“Yes.” Richmond’s comment was dry. “She’s in San Francisco to pick up some papers from the current federal attorney, but they aren’t ready yet. So she’s free. I can assign her to help you.”

“Excellent. I shall greatly enjoy… working with Ellen again.” Artemus forced his mind back to business. “Colonel, speaking of the federal attorney, you know, it’s possible that the police’s assumption that Alex Byram’s death was motivated by revenge was not far off the mark.”

Richmond nodded. “That occurred to me. In light of the suggestion that a murder-for-hire organization is active in all this, someone still could have arranged for Alex’s death, while providing an airtight alibi for himself. That’s going to need some further looking into.”

“But first,” Artie said grimly, “we have to get to the bottom of this cabal, find out who is running it, who are the participants. I’m thinking that the quartet who met me the other evening could be among them.”

“I hope that the sketches that have been distributed will do some good there. If we can pick up one or two of those men, apply a little pressure…”

“A little pressure is often useful,” Artie agreed. “Colonel, I think I’d better get busy. I’d like to have something to tell Jim when he returns from his visit with the poor widow today. I’m going to need to go talk to the police to get a little more information before I start making the rounds.”

“I’ll contact Ellen Collingwood and have her meet you at police headquarters.”

W*W*W*W*W

The guard immediately stepped out of his cubicle to open the gate as the rider on the black horse approached. Jim nodded to him as he rode through toward the house, reflecting that Mrs. Kingston must have given some very specific instructions, for this was not the same man who had challenged him yesterday. Dismounting and tying off the reins, Jim stepped up onto the porch, not entirely surprised when the door opened before he had a chance to touch the brass knocker.

“Good day, Mr. West,” the butler spoke formally as he accepted Jim’s black hat. “Mrs. Kingston left instructions that should you call, I should show you to her directly. This way.”

He led Jim to the same doorway as previously, tapped on it, opened it, then stepped aside. Beryl Kingston rose from the same sofa, a brilliant smile on her fabulously perfect countenance. “James! I mean, Mr. West. Forgive me.”

Jim stepped inside and accepted the hand she extended. “I don’t mind… if I may reciprocate.”

She laughed, a musical tone. “Of course. I insist on it.” She pulled him sit on the sofa alongside her, still keeping his hand in hers. Today she wore a deep lavender dress, again trimmed in lace, but displaying more of her collarbones than the previous one. The color of the gown all but confirmed that her eyes were the same shade. “What brings you back so soon?”

He smiled, going along with the coyness in her words and face. She was no stranger to flirting, though somehow the behavior had seemed alien to the personality he witnessed yesterday. “More questions, I’m afraid.”

Before she could respond, a tap sounded on the door, and when she called, the butler appeared. “Madam, you asked to be reminded when luncheon was ready.”

“Oh yes. I’m having a late meal today, James. I was very busy this morning. Chase, have another place set. I know Mr. West will join me.”

“I’d be delighted,” he responded in answer to the question in her eyes. “I would like to wash up after that long ride.”

“Oh, of course. Chase, take Mr. West up to the guest room and provide hot water. I’ll go instruct Georgia about the guest. I’ll see you in the dining room, James.” With a warm smile and a coquettish flutter of her dark lashes, she briefly lifted his hand, touched her lips to it, then released it as she departed.

“This way, sir.”

Jim followed the butler up the broad, curving staircase, to the second floor where he was escorted to a room at the end of the hall. Chase said he would return in a moment with water. Alone in the room, Jim took the opportunity to go look out the window, where the view was the rear of the house. He saw the same unkempt landscaping, but also several buildings, including what appeared to be a stable with an attached corral. Seven or eight horses were in the enclosure.

He had stopped in the town of Daly City, hoping to talk to the local law, only to be told that the constable had gone up to Oakland to testify at a trial, and would not be back until at least tomorrow, if not longer. The constable was the sole law officer, with not even a deputy. Maybe he could try to talk to a neighbor or two about the Kingston couple.

When Chase returned with a steaming pitcher of water, Jim was rolling up his sleeves, after removing his jacket, then the sleeve-gun harness, placing it on the bed and laying his jacket over it. The butler told him that the dining room was the door next to the parlor, and he should come down as soon as he was ready.

As he washed, Jim considered Beryl Kingston’s demeanor today. Much warmer than yesterday when, although her gaze had reflected admiration, she had not really flirted with him until he was preparing to leave, after the arrival of the attorney. He would have said she flirted as a ploy to make Hazeltine jealous, except that man was not present today.

Drying off, Jim donned the gun harness again and his jacket, and made his way downstairs. Be nice to have an opportunity to nose around, but I don’t see how. Not right now anyway. Depending on how, and how far, the relationship developed, perhaps the opportunity would arise.

The dining room was small, although as well furnished as the parlor, with a blue and white crystal chandelier over the table. Jim suspected this was the “family” eating area and that the house contained a larger room suitable for entertaining numbers of guests. Beryl Kingston was there waiting for him, and she led him to the chair that put him alongside her as she seated herself—with Chase’s assistance—at the head of the oblong table.

A stony-faced middle-aged woman arrived moments later with a tray bearing two steaming bowls of soup, which she placed before each of them and left as silently as she entered. Beryl picked up her spoon. “Oh, Essie’s wonderful oyster soup. It… something wrong, James?”

He had deliberately frowned, now he looked at her with a rueful expression. “I can’t eat oysters, I’m afraid. They don’t agree with my… digestive system.”

“Oh dear! Then we’ll skip the soup.” Beryl reached over to pick up a small silver bell and ring it. Chase appeared instantly, and was instructed, without explanation, to remove the soup and bring the next course. “I have heard of people who have reactions against certain foods. I don’t think I’ve ever met one. I’m so sorry, James. The soup is really superb.”

“I’m sorry, too. It actually smelled quite good.” And it had. He had not eaten since an early breakfast, and had not expected to eat until he left here and headed back to the city. Oysters were actually one of his favorite seafood, but long experience dictated a certain caution.

Chase served the next course, bringing in a platter of veal chops, a bowl of boiled small potatoes, delicately herbed, and another bowl containing brilliant green beans. Because Beryl allowed him to serve himself, and to do so before she made her selections, Jim West relaxed to enjoy the meal. If one or more of the chops, say, was adulterated, she would have selected first, leaving the drugged meat for him.

Again, he could not explain, nor shake, the sense that he needed to be on guard in this house at all times. Not enough information was available yet. All could be exactly what it seemed, that Beryl Kingston was a young widow of an older man who had been cruelly murdered for reasons bearing no relation to her. His instincts told him otherwise. Perhaps her only involvement was that she paid to have her husband killed… and that would be bad enough. Still, he felt more was boiling under the surface.

The conversation during the meal was light. Beryl told him that she had been living with an elderly cousin in Seattle when she met Gerald Kingston. She had been instantly captivated, despite the variance in their ages, and soon came to realize he felt the same. “Of course, there were doubts and objections. But when you come to know me better, James, you’ll learn that I do not allow such obstacles to deter me from what I want.”

Jim smiled as he buttered a soft roll. “I can believe that.”

“And you, there must be a special woman waiting for you somewhere.”

“If there is, I haven’t met her yet.” Not entirely true, but I’m not going to tell her about Cinnia.

Beryl’s lustrous lashes fluttered. “Well, you’re young. It can still happen.”

He gazed directly at her. “I hope so.” Jim wondered if he was correct when he seemed to see triumph in her eyes at that moment, as though she felt she was winning something.

Jim refused dessert, a creamy flan, for the same reason he had rejected the soup: the servings were brought from the kitchen in separate bowls. As an excuse he simply told Beryl he had no room for more food. She seemed to accept it, and left hers on the table, taking his arm to guide him out to the broad front porch. At one end, shaded by a wildly overgrown rose on a lattice, were some tables and chairs. As they seated themselves, Chase appeared with coffee. He put the tray on a table and retreated.

“I love this time of the afternoon,” Beryl Kingston sighed as she poured the coffee. “See how the sun shines through the trees? When I was a child I was certain I could run out and seize the rays, and so disappointed when I could not.”

Jim accepted the cup of coffee, placed it on the arm of his chair. “I hate to break the mood, but I am here on official business.”

She laughed. “Of course. Ask your questions, James. I hope I can help you, though I don't know how.”

“Do you know much of your husband’s business matters?”

Beryl shook her head ruefully. “It wasn’t that I was not interested. But every time I attempted to discuss his business affairs, Gerald would pat my hand and tell me not to worry my pretty head. I so regret that I did not press him. It was quite confusing at first after he… died.”

So he’s “Gerald” today and not just “my husband.” “I presume you received some assistance in sorting things out.”

“Yes, Harry. Mr. Hazeltine. He had been Gerald’s friend and attorney for several years.” She laughed lightly. “Seems he did not entirely approve of Gerald’s methods of making money, but because Gerald was so successful, he could not protest too strongly. But he helped me divest myself of some of the shakier ventures, and invest the money much more safely. Then of course there was the insurance.”

“So Mr. Kingston was wise—and thoughtful—enough to buy a generous policy?”

“More than generous. He had told me that his life was insured, that he thought it only right due to the difference in our ages. But I had no idea! One hundred thousand dollars! Harry can tell you, I nearly fainted when I learned of it.”

“I imagine that with this house, you are pretty comfortable for the remainder of your life.”

“Yes. Harry has helped me there as well. He invested it, and I receive some nice dividends. Oh dear.” A frown shadowed her pretty face as she stared out off the porch. “I really should do something about the grounds. I just—I’ve never been much of a nature person. I enjoy sunbeams, but I can enjoy them while inside if they shine through a window!”

Considering her porcelain white complexion, I can believe that. “Back to Mr. Kingston’s murder, I’m certain the police asked you if he had any enemies.”

“Oh yes. I told them I’m sure he did. After all, what successful businessman doesn’t? Gerald was never devious, or crooked, but he was shrewd. If he had an investment that needed more funds than he could provide, he offered acquaintances the opportunity to join him. And of course, others, who did not receive the offer, were sometimes jealous, especially if the investment was successful, which it often was.”

Jim sipped his coffee. Everything she said sounded genuine, sincere. I’m not going to learn much from her, that’s obvious. Either it’s all true, or she has rehearsed it well. He decided to shift the subject again. “I was a little surprised when I encountered the guard at your gate.”

“Oh. Oh, yes, I know. You’re not the first visitor to say that. Gerald installed the guard shortly after we moved in. He said it was partly because of the valuables in the house—several of the paintings and other items are worth a great deal of money—but also due to those possible enemies we were just speaking about.”

Jim frowned. “So your husband feared for his safety?”

“I’m not sure it was that so much,” she said slowly. “I gave the police names that I knew, and they apparently checked them all. But I think Gerald feared… mischief.”

“Mischief?”

“I told you how proud he was of the landscaping, the gardens. He was terribly afraid that someone, someone he had offended in some way, would, well, try to damage his gardens. You know, perhaps poison the roses or some such.”

“I see.” It made sense, yet in this case Jim West was certain she was lying. Something in her demeanor, the way she stared down at her coffee cup rather than gazing at him directly as she had been doing.

She brought her eyes up. “Oh, I hate having to talk about this on such a lovely day. Do we have to, James? Can’t we just enjoy ourselves… enjoy each other?”

He sighed. “I’m a working man, Beryl. Business before pleasure, I’m afraid.” He got to his feet. “I have to get back to the city.”

She stood up, moving toward him. “Return later? For a late supper?”

“I’ll try.”

“Do try. Please.” Beryl reached up both hands to pull his face down to hers.

W*W*W*W*W

“Jim! You look tired.”

Jim pulled off his hat and sank into the chair opposite Lloyd Morris’s desk. “I am tired. It’s a long ride out to Daly City and back. Got any information for me?”

“Lots. Artemus picked up the folder. Said he’d meet you at the hotel later.”

Jim West shot to his feet. “Artie! He’s in the hospital.”

Morris grinned, shaking his head. “Seems he checked himself out this morning. Also seems he has Colonel Richmond’s blessing, because Richmond sent a young woman to meet Artemus here to help him.”

Jim raked his fingers through his hair in exasperation. “I should have known.” Artie could talk his way in or out of any situation. “Help him what?”

“He planned to look into Kingston’s financial affairs. This Miss Collingwood was to assist him.”

“Collingwood? Ellen Collingwood?”

“I think that was the name. Artemus knew her and was delighted to see her.”

“I’ll bet.” Jim sat down again. “Any luck in finding Hernando Perez?”

The sergeant’s face grew grim. “Hernando Perez was killed last night… apparently in a robbery attempt as he was on his way home from his job.”

“I wonder…” Jim began.

“I wondered that too,” Lloyd interjected. “Was he killed because the investigation has been reopened?”

“Damn,” Jim muttered. “This is getting way too convoluted. Was there anything more about Theo in the papers Artie picked up?”

“Yeah. He has been connected with two more murders so far, one in Santa Barbara and the other one in Eureka. I’ve asked both places to send me full reports, but it’ll take a few days.”

“Santa Barbara, Eureka… opposite ends of the state. So it’s not just a San Francisco operation.”

“Seems that way. We have no idea yet if it extends beyond California… or how long it’s been going on. How many unsolved murders—or even murders pinned on someone else—have occurred.” The sergeant shook his head. “By the way, Artemus said to tell you he’d meet you at the hotel dining room around supper time.”

“That was nice of him. He probably knows that in a public place I’ll be less apt to murder him.”

Morris chuckled. He knew the two agents well enough to be aware of the affection and camaraderie between them. Jim West was extremely concerned about his partner’s health. “I will say that he looked in pretty good shape when he was here, Jim. The bruises on his face are barely visible.”

“It’s not his face I’m worried about. It’s the cracked rib. Dr. Fifield said that any exertion, another blow, or a fall, say, could break it through… and it might pierce his lungs. He needed to remain quiet to allow it to heal more.” Jim sighed and shook his head. Useless to fret about Artie. “Lloyd, I’d like to talk to the officers involved in the Perez murder.”

Morris led him down a narrow dim hallway to a larger room where a number of lower-ranked detectives worked, and introduced him to the man who had been called to the scene, and who questioned witnesses. He did not have much to offer. The gardener had been found in an alley along the route he generally took on his way home. A widower, he had been living in a boarding house for the last couple of years. No one had seen or heard anything; or at least no one owned up to seeing or hearing anything.

Jim got the address of the boarding house, and rode his black horse to the clapboard house in the Mission district. The landlady was Mexican, with limited English. Jim wished Artemus was with him, but between his limited knowledge of Spanish and her English, he learned that Hernando Perez had been living in her home for a little over six months. She did not know anything about him other than he paid his rent on time and never complained about the meals. She had no idea where he had lived prior to coming there.

Jim decided that nearly half a year was missing between the time of Kingston’s death and Perez being let go from the Kingston estate. Apparently Perez did not hold a steady job these last months, not like the one in Daly City with Kingston where he had been head gardener. The landlady believed he worked for numerous homes, and possibly businesses, around the city.

It’s just getting more and more complicated, he mused as he mounted the black and headed back toward the hotel. Why kill the gardener? What did he know? Or what did someone fear he knew? According to police reports from the time of Kingston’s death, Perez had been at the estate in Daly City, far from the city. Perez, Gaskin, and another man who worked on the premises had been together playing poker.

Just how deeply is Beryl Kingston involved in her husband’s death?